#shackle and chain drabbles

[lirational]

Purity and Pretense

Fallen Angel!Shalom x Reader

Note: Drabble inspired from this post by @sinful-lanterns

Warnings: Religious themes, slight prayer-blasphemg that doesn’t come from existing religions, fingering, and oral.

—

Deprivation fuels desire, emboldens curiosity, and entices even the innocent to sink into the abyss.

Purity, said to be a gift left within each human soul as the Creator sculpts them from stardust and hopes, a mirror that reflects how their souls were infused with the Creator’s wishes. With it, each human was allowed the chance to shine, to chase the sun, the symbol of the Creator, and kneel in reverence, the chance to reflect Their radiance being the only promised reward.

A gift that allows access to a reward that may well be illusionary. Perhaps it would be more fitting to call it a curse, a shackle that deprives the human soul from possibilities hiding within the dark.

As you kneeled on the stone floor, once clean clothes now tattered and stained with evidence of the sins you chose to embrace, your eyes focus on the fallen angel sitting on the stone altar in front of you, her gaze chaining you to the floor. Even though she, your master, has fallen from grace, with her wings no longer pure white, stained in graying black and glowing blue, she was still the epitome of beauty and grace, refinement and power.

“Offer your prayer, little one, or have you fallen so far you lost your reason?”

“Please, Shalom, I can’t do this anymore. I need, I need–”

Your body quivered, desire permeating each word. No longer were you able to hold onto any shred of sanity, your body begging, begging, craving for a taste of the ambrosia she would allow you to indulge as you were pleasing her.

“Offer your prayer, then. Go on, call the Creator, let Them bless and witness the pleasure of life you were about to partake in.”

Her voice drips with promise, honeyed enticement and tainted radiance that pulls– no, spurs your body to crawl closer. You were close, so close, the scent and taste of her lingering in the air just beneath her robes. A dry swallow, all from the sweet fragrance that was so close, and there, you pressed your head to the floor in reverent prayer, then, you took the final step, before you fell into the abyss.

“Oh, our Creator, ruler of the skies above,”

Perhaps it was proof that the place was once a holy one meant to worship, as each word tumbled from your lips, it echoed through the ruined halls, and Shalom drank each word, eyes gleaming in desire at the sincere plea. Despite everything, despite how she saw the human kneeling before her had almost drowned, their purity clouded with unending, insatiable thirst, the power behind the belief to the Creator still fuels their prayer, power intertwined between each syllable.

“Thy name the most sacred– ah!” Shalom had moved from her seating position, and then, a sharp pain on your ass. She had moved away from her seat, and thanks to her strike, a stinging pain interrupted your thoughts.

“I don’t recall telling you to stop.”

“-may thy sovereign rule last forevermore. From the firmament above, to–” another strike, to your unmarred butt cheek this time, and you barely remembered to continue, “-to the lands below, thy will be done.”

A cold, almost loving caress of fingers to your stinging cheeks, and your words died in your throat. She punished you with another spank, and another as you opened your mouth. “Nourish our–”

The feeling of a slap to the aching bud between your legs almost caused you to lose all train of thoughts, tears streaming down your face and seeping into the stone floors below. Again, you stopped.

“Remember my order, pet, I won’t remind you again.”

“Nourish our souls, give the traces of our marred sins a thorough cleanse.”

Shalom licked your earlobe, giving it a quick nibble. With a whisper, she reminded you, “From today, as your soul and your purity sinks to the abyss, you belong to me.”

Selfish, selfish and full of want, such was the nature of fallen angels, creatures made of light created to serve, to praise and sing and echo the name of the Creator across everything Their will reaches. After the fall, their love of worship were twisted, corrupted, and mirrored into a void of want that will never be satisfied, perhaps a manifested dark side of always being the one to give, bend over, and praise a thing that could not even bother to truly cherish the beings They claimed to love most.

“Look at me, look at me like you would look at that Creator,” she hissed the last word, full of disdain that her refined visage would have never revealed before. “Praise me, love me, and call my name, and you will want for nothing.”

“Bestow us the will,” you continued, “to for–,” a finger slipped into your sopping wet folds, stopping in time as your breath hitched at the intrusion, “to forgive, and– mmh!” another joined in, scissoring motions causing your thighs to quiver, your will scattering everywhere as the hunger for Shalom’s touch felt sharper.

“Wrong, repeat the line,” She chided, her movements stopped, waiting for you to fulfill her order.

In that moment, you had surrendered your dignity, your place, your connection to a promise that might never have seen any fulfillment, all to the true, honest, and pure pleasure that you had seen, felt, and sensed with your very flesh.

“To forgive, the way I– no, the way we all shall be forgiven under–”

A gentle, sharp press at that sweet spot had you clenching, almost stumbling in your words as you barely hung on to the order she gave you, “forgiven under the eternal grace.”

“Excellent.” Shalom was still moving her fingers in and out, her lazy movements stimulating you all the same. The pad of her thumb pressed and rubbed circles onto your sensitive nub, eliciting noises that painted the pure prayer with tainted cries. “Come, just a little more, just a little more and you will be rewarded.”

You obey, with glee, not caring even as all traces of your devotion was subsumed, corrupted into a need to worship the beautiful angel in front of you. There was nothing more to desire than to follow your angel, your goddess, even as you both sunk into the endless dark, or would it be more accurate to soar to higher heights?

After all, the pleasure mounting in your veins, gathering in your lower belly, felt as pleasing, as free as soaring on the skies.

“When desires– ah, –lead us astray, we beg–”

Unbeknownst to you, Shalom allowed herself a small smile at the irony.

“We beg for the Creator’s deliverance, as–”

“Slow down.”

You were close, so close, and it took the skin of your teeth to take a deep, shuddering breath. Shalom was teasing you, that much was clear, but every attempt to press yourself closer, to finally break in sweet bliss, was denied, replaced by the inferior pleasure of her orders and praise. “Continue, properly this time.”

“For this is thy domain, thy glory and power–”

You shivered, she was brushing close to that sweet spot again. As each word left your trembling lips, the pleasure only heightens.

“That nothing shall eclipse.”

With that final word, you shattered, broken apart as your juices dripped down from your thighs, her fingers, and splattered into the floors. With a filthy, wet noise, Shalom withdrew her fingers and took her seat on the altar, exposing her clit. An invitation to partake while she licked her fingers, tongue swirling to savor your essence.

“Good girl, now, come, take your reward,” she said in-between licks.

As you lapped at her folds, her eyes held your attention, savoring the utter obedience once reserved for gods.

[lovesickeros]

☆ from gold, i am undone

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts {☆} word count 0.9k

You weren't meant to be here.

You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.

You are changed, and you are whole.

But you are so unbearably broken.

A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.

Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you��� that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.

All you see is a monster.

Something new, something old.

A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.

But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.

You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.

But you know it will not satisfy you.

Nothing does anymore.

You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.

And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.

There is nothing left but absolute authority.

You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?

Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.

Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.

You welcome it.

It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.

Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.

You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.

For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?

Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?

Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?

Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.

For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

heyo bro, it's been a bit since i requested anything, so, first off:

how are you? hope you're doing well ^^

secondly, could i possibly request a drabble about julian and mc getting arrested for something and portia (and/or mazelinka) having to come bail them out?

have a good day, my bro :D

~ @dumbfxck00 no idea if this is the direction you wanted this to go in, friend, but I hope you like it! ~

"She's going to kill us, isn't she."

It's phrased like a question, but the doleful words coming from the lanky redhead shackled next to you in the stone cell sound a lot more like a factual statement. A very depressed, slightly melodramatic, decently self-pitying statement. You draw your knees up with a slight shiver in the damp air as you weigh your options.

"I could always try calling Asra -"

"God, no -"

"You're right."

"At least Pasha could forgive me. She's a good sister, after all," He lets out a long-suffering groan and hangs his head, "and what a failure of an older brother I've been."

"Hey," You scoot in closer with another shiver, mainly in an effort to comfort him but also in the hopes of getting a little more warmth.

Julian lifts his head at your movement. You watch all the confidence and charisma rush back into his bearing as he notices your plight, reaching his not-chained hand up to whip his coat around your shoulders as he scoots closer to you. You end up glued to his side with his legs over yours, face pressed to his chest, as he wraps you up in the heavy black cloth and tucks you in tight.

"Rather chilly in here, isn't it?" He gazes down at you fondly, his warm grey eyes only a few inches from your face. "This is morbidly romantic ... seeking each other's warmth in a prison cell ... brought closer by our love than the shackles that bind us ... despite the crimes I've hardened my heart with ..." His expression falls. "and here you are, an innocent ... suffering alongside me, a murderer ..."

You huff against his shirt. "You're not a murderer, Julian. And your heart is still plenty warm."

He perks up again. "You can feel it, can you?" He leans in closer, his mood lifting once again as he leans in for a kiss. "Can you feel how it beats for you, even chained as the criminal I am now?"

"ILYA I SWEAR TO ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY -"

Julian winces and jumps. You snuggle smugly into the coat as Portia comes storming down the corridor with a concerned looking Nadia behind her. Portia slams her hands against the iron bars, rattling them with a ferocity that, really, you can't blame her for at all.

"WHY ARE YOU IN HERE?! TELL ME TO MY FACE!!"

Your lover cowers, grief-stricken. "Your brother's a murderer, Pasha, I've taken a life -"

Portia turns her gaze on you and you give a deadpan response, ready to leave the cell and not willing to risk her wrath. "He accidentally dropped a kid's new goldfish into a canal when they asked him to hold it, and an eel ate it before he could jump in."

Julian winces, his voice coming out much smaller as Portia turns her unimpressed stare back at him. "I failed them ... I'm supposed to save lives, not lose them -"

Portia groans. "And how did that lead to you and MC in a cell?"

"A mistake!" His melodramatics kick up again, the chain rattling as he springs to his feet. "They're innocent, I swear! Do with me as a murderer deserves, but don't let them suffer on my behalf!"

You snuggle further into the coat and idly wonder if there's any way she'd invite you to dinner at the cottage if you cooperated sweetly enough. "He felt so bad he turned himself in to the nearest guards on a murder confession and asked to be arrested."

Portia's eyes go dull. "And you?"

Now you start to feel a little silly. "And I didn't want him to go alone."

Behind her, the Countess is quietly laughing into her hand. Portia reaches her hand out for the keys to the cell and opens it with a loud squeal before storming in and yanking for the chains attached to the wall.

"I can't believe you two. You're really perfect for each other, you know that? Two idiots competing to see who's smarter and tieing for third place." She reaches a hand out to help you to your feet, ignoring her brother's feeble protest as he's left to follow on his own. You give her and Nadia a grateful smile.

"Thanks for getting us out."

"I knew when I was informed that a certain 'Dr Devorak and company' were arrested that there must have been some mistake," Nadia hums, "I'm grateful to Portia for responding so promptly, or I would have been forced to contact your honorary grandmother."

Julian audibly gulps behind you. You make your best effort at looking penitent, but your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Portia bursts into snorting giggles and turns away before you can apologize.

"I'm going to get dinner started. It's your choice if you stay behind."

[aquaquadrant]

Was rereading the first chapter, and: "Predictable, repeatable patterns he’s unconsciously memorized- even now, he’s absentmindedly counting down the seconds until the next potion is dispensed."

Do you think, even after ten years, Tango can still time exactly two minutes in his head? Do you think sometimes he finds himself tapping his fingers absently, and realizes there's exactly a second between each tap, stopwatch-perfect, like his hands are still expecting to feel the wither-cold pain of the roses? Do you think someone notices, and they jokingly call him a human metronome, and he has to laugh and pretend it's not because of the months he spent in constant agony?

"After that, his reflection showed that the tips of his ears had darkened- along with his feet and fingertips- and his wither-black tears left permanent stains under his eyes, persisting even after respawn."

Do you think his friends think the black marks are a blaze hybrid thing, but then they meet another blaze hybrid (maybe in MCC) and start to wonder? Do you think they ask? Do you think he makes an excuse about individual variation, or evades the question, or mumbles vaguely about the wither effect and changes the subject?

"He’s spent so much time with the wither effect- grown accustomed to it, even- that he can’t tell right away when it’s starting to overcome him."

Do you think that later, once he's out, he's fighting wither skeletons or even a wither (secret life?) and he nearly dies from the wither effect, because he didn't notice until it was almost too late? Do you think someone, a hermit or a teammate or even a soulmate, scolds him for being reckless with his health, but in his head he's back in Hels again, withering and healing and withering and healing and withering and healing for eternity?

"The chains- well, they seemed to have snapped when he respawned away from them, leaving just a few links attached to his shackles."

Clothes respawn with players. Do you think that's why the cuffs came with him, even though they were attached to the wall? Do you think that after the "training" mentioned in the comic, he considers them a part of him, to the point where his own code does, too?

"Tango inhales deeply; he hadn’t realized he missed the smell of fire so much."

Do you think that even now, he associates fire with freedom and relief and finally, no more pain? Do you think that after flashbacks and nightmares and panic attacks, he sits by a fire and reminds himself that it's not real, it's been years, he's free? Do you think someone finds him, and sits with him, and he realizes that free doesn't have to mean alone?

And in the most recent drabble: "what if the only thing stopping him from reverting back to his old ways is the illusion of control maintained by these shackles?"

Do you think that when he's in the nether, when he sees a fortress, he thinks of the wither skeletons? Do you think that just for a moment, he almost considers withering himself on purpose, another illusory layer of control, to make sure he stays good?

ohhhkay, ok i’m normal about this, i promise. HM. YEAH. suffice to say, this is an amazing ask, but to avoid making it too long or giving too much away i’ll provide very brief answers (to each respective question) below.

yes, yes, and yes. a lot of things from his time at hels tek have stuck with him even after all these years.

yes, yes, and the first one (“that’s just my own unique personal flair!”). luckily this came up at a time when he’d gotten better at lying.

yes and yes, for the first few times he encountered wither skeletons and/or the wither after escaping to hermitcraft. impulse was very concerned.

yes and yes. surely this won’t be relevant in the future…

yes, yes, and sorta- he’s still working on that.

yes, the presence of wither skeletons is one of the main reasons he dislikes the nether (aside from it reminding him of hels). and actually no; before now, the cuffs have been enough for him and he hates the thought of being withered again.

[help-i-lost-my-sock]

Nightmare Drabbles - Ace

Word count: 4 x 100

Dividers by @cafekitsune

Tags: @captainportgasdace

Voices ring around him in a cacophony of mockery and laughter. He looks up at the people - all of them older than him, and allegedly wiser. 

“If Roger had a child, they should be put to death too!” 

“A worthless brat like that should never have been born!” 

“Glad that bastard never had a kid. Imagine that filthy bloodline being passed on!” 

He doesn’t understand - what has he ever done? Why must they hate him? He didn’t even know why they hated his father, but surely they must have had their reasons… Right? So maybe his blood really was tainted…

The crew��s mood shifts. Laughter subsides. More and more eyes fall on Ace. He lets it slide, and tries to act as if he didn’t notice. He keeps talking, though he can never quite remember what about. 

The crew’s mood grows increasingly sour. Marco’s expression turns grim. Pops looks at him with veiled disgust. 

“What’s up, you guys? Something I said?” 

Marco grimaces and clicks his tongue. “You’re just like your father,” he sneers. 

Ace looks around - the rest just nod along. Pop’s voice cuts through. 

“I thought you’d be different, Ace, but I don’t think you belong here anymore.” 

Ace finds himself back in Impel Down - shackled to the wall in sea prism stone. 

The guards return yet again, slinging bats, maces, chains and whips. They come to exert their sadistic “justice”. They aim for his head, his face, his throat, guts, and groin. The blows seem endless. They jeer and mock him as they bludgeon him, the chains restraining his any attempt at retaliation. 

Though he didn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking him in Impel Down, his dreams betray him. Tears stream down his face, encouraging the savages, and try as he might, he cannot contain them. 

Ace is marched out to the scaffold. The war is in full swing. The Whitebeards and their allies are fighting tooth and nail for him. Many fall. He’s losing his mind, wishing that they hadn’t come. 

Through the chaos, a voice rings out to him - Luffy! Of all people, his crybaby little brother was the last person he wanted there. Yet, he sparks in Ace a newfound will to live. 

Just as Luffy reaches him, he’s struck down by Garp, who’s chosen the navy over his family… Luffy falls, bloody and lifeless. Ace is powerless as Luffy dies before him…

Sabo

Luffy

[withallthatisleftofmyheart]

ADAR & MAEDHROS!! ADAR & MAEDHROS!! ADAR & MAEDHROS!!

ilu OP for giving this option for drabble request 😭🫂 anything you come up with about these two will be my absolute mostest fav. ❤️‍🔥

Thank you @valar-did-me-wrong 🖤 I've been wanting to write this for weeks so I got this out very quick lol. I could honestly write so much more of this but here's a start.

Adar sneaks off to visit Maedhros on Thangorodrim (at this point in time, there is a ledge beneath Maedhros' feet).

No smut but dub-con hydration (?) and suggestive feeding of salted meat.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(One year since Maedhros was first chained)

“Drink,” Adar commanded as he proffered a waterskin to the flame-haired prince.

Maedhros slapped the waterskin from his hand. Adar did not attempt to keep hold of or catch it. If this was how the prisoner was going to behave, so be it. The open waterskin flopped onto the stony ledge. Adar’s lips pressed into a thin line. He thought of how freely he had accepted Mairon’s ‘gift’ of wine. A sharp exhale huffed through his nose. 

Maedhros swallowed as he watched the water trickle over the edge and down the mountainside. Adar noticed a slight wince as he did so. He thought the prince’s throat must be raw as flayed hide.

“I was not permitted to bring that to you,” Adar said, brow furrowed “I offered you a kindness at great risk to myself.”

“You are not capable of kindness,” Maedhros rasped, “Begone, foul beast.” 

Adar sighed. “Very well.” 

He bent down to retrieve the waterskin and had to roll out of the way of a ferocious kick that Maedhros aimed in his direction. There was not much room on the rocky ledge. He landed perilously close to the drop. Adar wobbled slightly but quickly regained his balance and got to his feet. 

“You were not so bold with Melkor,” Adar commented. Stomach-churning images of Maedhros’ very public torture flashed through his mind. 

“You are not Morgoth,” Maedhros hissed, “You are a mere underling. A snivelling coward. A traitor to your kin.”

Adar raised an eyebrow, rumors had reached Angband of what transpired at Alqualondë.

Maedhros turned his face away. 

“So it is true,” Adar muttered, “It would seem you and I more similar than you’d care to admit.”

“Hold your tongue, wretc-” Maedhros’ retort was cut off by a gravelly coughing fit. 

“I suggest you take advantage of my kindness the next time I visit,” Adar said coldly, before leaving to climb back down the mountain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(3 years since Maedhros was first chained)

Adar sat watching the prince from a safe distance. On his belt hung a waterskin and a pouch containing a strip of salted meat. Maedhros looked weaker than he had two years ago. The prince leaned against the cliff face with one arm hanging above him. His eyes were closed, and his knees bent as far as his shackle would allow.

When the prince first arrived, he had been draped in a red cloak made from the finest fabric Adar had ever seen. It was ever so light and delicate, giving the effect of a waterfall of blood plunging down around his shoulders. His long blaze of hair was knotted into intricate braids that dripped with jewels. His skin had a lustre to it that was different to the elves Adar had once lived amongst. Adar found himself instantly fascinated by the Noldor, who had crossed into the West and lived for a time under the light of the two trees, only to forsake paradise and take up arms. 

Cuiviénen was supposed to be a paradise, not as great as Aman, but a haven nonetheless. It had not seemed that way to Adar. Strange shadows had haunted his every step. There were terrible sounds in the woods, piercing horns of hunting and whispers of malice in the thickets. None would believe Adar's fears. At first, they just dismissed him, but after a time they grew suspicious of him. Adar watched others sing and dance, learn skills and crafts, fall in love... Start families. It was maddening how oblivious they were to the threat that surrounded them. 

Maedhros stirred. Adar watched his chest muscles shift beneath his skin. They were smaller now but he still appeared somewhat strong despite three years of starvation. Perhaps it had been four, Adar was unsure if Melkor allowed him to be fed during his year of continuous torture.

One shining silver eye opened and swivelled to Adar.

“Leave me be,” Maehdros croaked. 

Adar got to his feet and approached. He removed the waterskin from his belt, uncorked it, and took a swig. 

“See? It is safe,” he said.

“Poison courses through your veins. I imagine you are immune to its effects,” Maedhros bit back through gritted teeth.

The Noldo’s skin was weather-beaten and dull. His eyes were sunken and darkness hung beneath them. Adar moved in close and reached up to put a hand on the back of Maedhros’ neck. The prince was much taller than him but he was weakened, so it did not take much effort to pull his head down. Adar lifted the waterskin to Maedhros’ cracked and peeling lips. 

“Drink,” Adar urged.

Maedhros beat his free hand against Adar’s chest. It felt like the fist of a child. Adar let him continue his feeble resistance and tilted up the waterskin. Maedhros spluttered and tried to wrench his head away but as soon as the water passed his lips, he stilled and gulped it down greedily. 

“There you go,” Adar muttered as he watched the lump in Maedhros throat bob up and down. It was a satisfying sight.

Once Maedhros drained it, Adar removed the waterskin from his lips, affixed it to his belt, and stepped back. 

“What now?” the prince panted as he swayed on his chained arm. Water dribbled down his chin. Adar wiped it away with his thumb.

“I brought some meat,” Adar replied.

“No, what will happen to me now?” Maedhros asked, his face compressing into a spiteful glare.

“You will feel better because your thirst has been quenched,” Adar replied, exasperated.

 Maedhrdos just stared at him. 

Adar sighed. “I have been in your position,” he confessed, “I remember how it felt to be consumed by burning thirst. I pity you.” 

Maedhros continued to study Adar’s face. Adar took the opportunity to follow the ripple of the prince’s red hair down as it draped across his bare chest. Dishevelled and feeble as he was, Adar preferred him like this. It was more natural than the pompous finery he had arrived in. Perhaps, beneath their gaudy jewels, the Noldor were not so different from the Uruk.

Maedhros’ expression softened.

“You remind me of my cousin,” Maedros said, “Though his beauty greatly exceeds yours, I see a shadow of him in your features.”

Adar’s brow furrowed. He could not parse meaning from his words. Were they a compliment or a slight?

“You should eat,” Adar held out the salted meat.

“What is it?” Maedhros asked. His tongue slid along his lower lip.

“Warg,” Adar replied.

Meadhros sighed. “Give it to me,” he said, hand outstretched. 

Adar cupped the prince’s cheek in his palm. Maedhros flinched, and a soft gasp escaped his lips. Adar brought the salted meat up to his mouth. The prince tensed for a moment, then lowered his head to allow Adar to feed him. A tense silence hung between them as Maedhros ate. He held Adar’s gaze as he chewed and swallowed, but Adar's eyes drifted down to the prince's lips. A very inappropriate thought came into his mind, unbidden. Adar's hand recoiled from Maedhros' cheek, and he abruptly stepped back. Maedhros scrambled to catch the last morsel before it fell to the floor. He swiftly popped it in his mouth and devoured it.

“You will need all the strength you can muster if you are to survive Thangorodrim,” Adar said in an even tone, brushing over his brief fluster.

“Or you could free me,” Maedhros asserted.

“No,” Adar shook his head, “I will not disobey my master.”

Maedhros raised his brows. “Have you not already?” 

Adar's jaw clenched. He turned to leave.

[shywhumpauthor]

Lessons

Okay I know this is a very typical trope but I’m in a mood. This is the first long drabble I’ve written in a while woah

Cw: torture, kidnapping, captivity, restraints, collars (power inhibiting), blood, creepy/intimate whumper, multiple whumpees, there’s a character referred to as “Youngest”, but they are not a minor, noncon touching (nonsexual), noncon partial stripping (nonsexual, just a shirt), knife, references to past torture/abuse

“Well, Leader, how lovely it is to see you again,”

Heavy boots fell hard against the concrete floor, crossing the room in a few long strides. Leader glared up silently, shifting up straighter, trying to appear as sturdy and authoritative as they could in such a vulnerable position. Bound on their knees, their arms twisted above them with shackles biting into their wrists, shoulders straining with the stress of the position, there wasn’t much they could do to help themself except hold their chin up.

“Mm, not much to say? That’s alright, I’ll do the talking for now.” Whumper grinned, stopping just in front of them, their hands resting casually in their pockets.

Leader’s jaw clenched, their teeth gritting together. They couldn’t get mad. They couldn’t speak out. They couldn’t spit and curse and demand to be released or holy hell Whumper will regret this-

Their eyes flicked past Whumper, looking back to their team for just a moment. Against the opposite wall, Healer was restrained in a similar manner, blood dripping down from both their nostrils, staining the front of their shirt. Whumper’s henchmen hadn’t exactly been gentle when escorting them to the cell.

Leader was sure the setup was intentional. One of them against each wall. Teammate to Leader’s left, Youngest to their right. The door was against the corner between Teammate and Healer, shut and guarded by a henchman.

“Ah, ah Leader, eyes on me.” Whumper chided, snapping their fingers to draw Leader’s attention back to them. “We have some matters to discuss now, don’t you agree?”

When Leader didn’t answer, Whumper’s smirk didn’t falter. They crouched down in front of them, clasping their hands together as they rocked back onto their heels.

“I must say, you’re looking much better than when we were last together. Did you get your hair cut?”

Their hand lashed forwards, fingers raking roughly through Leader’s tangled hair, their fingers twisting in the locks and wrenching back their head. A small gasp of air passed through their teeth before they could stifle it, small sparks of pain lighting across their scalp. Whumper chuckled, their fist wounding a bit tighter as their other hand raised, their fingers brushing across Leader’s bared throat, dipping down to the base of their neck. Hooking under the metal contraption and tugging, making Leader hiss.

“You know where I got these beauties from?” Whumper murmured, their eyes sparkling with a cruel light as they admired the collar, tracing their thumb over the little red light that indicated the power inhibitor was functioning. “I got them from you, Leader. Your agency’s own creation. I must say, whoever came up with this is quite the genius.”

Whumper chuckled when Leader tried to twist their head away, wrenching their head back and leaning even closer. “Oh I’m sure you’re missing your phasing right about now. How easy it would be for you to just slip out of these chains and free your team.”

Whumper’s fingers danced to their chin, tracing a faded scar along their jaw, a reminiscent smile curling their lips.

“I remember this one,” They hummed, giving Leader’s cheek a light slap before standing back up straight. They stepped back to the center of the room, turning in a slow circle as they surveyed their captives.

“Teammate, stunning as ever,” they commented, and Leader felt something in them twist. Teammate didn’t respond, their head hanging forwards, slumped down. Blood matted the side of their hair, streaking all the way to their temple. A dark bruise crept across their cheekbone, the colors just beginning to set in. Their chest rose and fell in small dips of breath, the only indicator they were still alive.

“Healer, has anyone ever told you how dashing you look in red? It really is your color,”

Whumper turned, their hands falling to rest against their hips as they looked over Youngest. Aside from a few shallow looking scratches along their face, they thankfully looked unharmed. Leader had heard them cry earlier, right after Whumper’s henchmen initially attacked, and they had been scared the kid had been hurt. Just shock from the attack, Leader thought with a sigh, feeling some of the tension in their mind release.

“Hm, Youngest, I presume? I don’t think we’ve met before, but I’m honored you could join us today.” Whumper dipped their head, a twisted greeting. Youngest luckily had the sense to bite back their response.

Shit, they shouldn’t have even been there. Neither should Healer have. It was just supposed to be Teammate and them, a quick mission, in and out. Undetected, if they did it right. Healer had insisted on coming along because god forbid, either of them got hurt, and when Youngest heard that of course they didn’t want to be the only one left behind. The conditions were stay in the van, stay low and hidden. Healer was told explicitly that if something were to go wrong, to hit the gas and get the hell away.

They hadn’t even gotten that chance. It had been an ambush the moment Leader stepped out of the vehicle.

“You’re all so quiet, I’m sure Leader taught you well. Is that right, Youngest? Has Leader ever taught you how to act in a captive situation?”

No, they hadn’t. Why the hell would they have? Youngest had only joined the team a month ago, fresh out of the agency’s training course. The only missions they had been on were civilian cases, petty thefts and grocery store robberies. The only thing Leader had told them even remotely relating to such a topic was that if they were ever in trouble, call for help, don’t play the hero.

Whumper clicked their tongue after a moment, when Youngest remained silent. Their eyes met Leader’s, and the most the later could offer was a small shake of their head.

“Clearly not. That’s alright, I can teach you. It’s just not fair to put you in such a situation without any prior education. Don’t you agree, Leader? I’m sure you can sympathize.”

Whumper’s hand dipped into the pocket of their jacket, reappearing a moment later with something small clasped in their palm.

Leader didn’t miss the hitch in Youngest’s breath when Whumper flicked open the blade.

“I planned to have this talk with Teammate first, you know, cause they and Leader seem pretty close, but I don’t think they’re lucid enough to truly understand the lesson I’m trying to convey. Healer, I’m sure they already know, so that would just be redundant,” Whumper spoke with a light tone, their voice flowing and carefree, voice of any sort of urgency or fight. If anything, they seemed content, without a care in the world.

“Has Leader ever told you about our history?” Whumper asked, flipping the switch knife over in their palm with an experienced sort of comfort maneuvering the blade. “No? I’m not surprised—you should really ask them sometime, or maybe I’ll just tell you later, there’s some good stories buried down there.”

Whumper gave youngest a smile, one that may have been reassuring if not for the cruel glint in their gaze as they turned towards Leader, steadying their grip on the handle.

“For now, though, I’ll just show you.”

Whumper stepped towards them, and it took everything in Leader not to flinch as they knelt down in front of them, one hand tugging at the collar of their shirt while the other sliced away at the fabric with the blade. They had already been stripped of their jacket and their under armor, leaving them in only a long sleeve, similar to the rest of their team, which Whumper cut through with relative ease. They tore the shirt down the center and then ripped the sleeves, letting the tattered fabric fall discarded to the floor besides them.

Heat pricked at the base of Leader’s neck, but they refused to let any emotion other than stoic indifference betray their expression. Their chest, arms, abdomen, back, decorated with scars. Nothing their team hadn’t seen before. They’ve all seen it. Leader had never given them the details of the tortures so clearly displayed across their skin, and they had never pried. What they had once hid, indifferent as anything else.

But now with Whumper in front of them, grin full of sadistic pleasure, they felt their chest burn with a bitter humiliation they hadn’t felt in years.

“I always hated how messy this was,” Whumper commented, dragging the tip of the blade across a jagged line that split down Leader’s stomach, putting just enough pressure behind the knife for it to scratch but not draw blood. “Nothing to do about that now.“

They stood up and stepped away from Leader without another word, humming a single note as they returned to stand in front of Youngest.

“Don’t worry, I’ll save the worst of the lessons to deal between Healer and Teammate. As for you, well, I suppose we need to figure out where to start above anything else.”

“No,” Youngest grit out, the first words spoken by anyone other than Whumper since the capture. Their voice was small, raspy and cracking with fear they tried so hard not to let break into their expression.

“Well then, first—why don’t we call this ‘Lesson one’? Be sure to remember it, there might be a test later,” Whumper chuckled, lowering themself to one knee so they could reach the hem of Youngest’s shirt, taking their time as they cut away the fabric. “When you’re in a hostile environment, the best thing you can do is stay quiet and compliant. Follow the rules so you don’t put yourself in a worse position, keep your mouth shut so you don’t give anything away. Simple enough?”

Youngest’s shirt fell and they cringed away, the chains that bound their wrists clinking as they pressed back into the wall. A deep red bruise bloomed against their ribs, and Leader felt something in their chest wrench.

“I’ll make this really easy for you, Youngest. I won’t ask you to tell me anything confidential. We’re just going to practice being quiet, alright? It’s fine if you cry, but I don’t want you screaming. You can do that, can’t you? I’ve heard you were extremely gifted with your performance with the agency, so this should be easy,”

Leader’s blood boiled inside their veins, hands curling into fists above their head. Nails biting into their palms, if looked could kill Whumper would have already been buried. That was all they could do. Look. Make eye contact with Healer, shake their head to try and convey the message of be quiet, and bite their tongue.

They didn’t want to look. They didn’t want to watch, but they felt like they owed Youngest that much. The comfort of knowing they weren’t alone, that even though Leader couldn’t reach out and offer them the physical assurance, even though they couldn’t call over and tell them that it’ll be alright, they were still there.

A hot anger boiled in their chest as Whumper slowly, tauntingly brought the knife to Youngest’s chest, tracing from their collarbone to their sternum, smirking as Youngest flinched under the touch like it was burning hot.

“I’ve always had trouble deciding what to do with a new canvas. The pressure of it all, knowing that with one little mistake, it can all be ruined,” Whumper’s voice was airy, lips curling into a grin as they flicked the knife across Youngest’s abdomen, making a small cut just below the bottom of their ribs, shushing them when they gasped.

“Remember what I said,” was all Whumper warned, watching as a bead of blood welled from the scratch. “Now, what do you think would look better on you… some sort of pattern, maybe? Maybe a mandala? We’d have to do that in a few sessions though, I doubt you could take it in one. Leader, doll, what do you suggest? Perhaps something floral?”

Leader clenched their jaw, their neck burning with shame as Youngest’s wide, tearful eyes rose to them, terrified and pained.

“Leave them alone, Whumper,” Leader’s voice was tight, a bit ragged. “Do it to me. Hurt me, however you want, not my team.”

“Oh leader, it’s cute that you think I still want you. I’ve had my fun, and your screams just don’t… entertain me in the way I’m looking for. But none of that answers my question, so I guess you forfeit that choice. Hm… how about my symbol? Oh yeah, right here would look nice.”

Whumper grinned as they poked the knife against Youngest’s midriff, taking their cry as a yes.

“Isn’t it great, Youngest, you get to be special like this? Leader only ever got my initials.”

And so, the first lesson began.

[moodymisty]

hey! Just wanted to say I really enjoy reading your works! I’ve joined tumblr to put in a request, hope I’m doing this right lol. I was wondering if you’d have any headcanons for tech x female jedi general reader? It’s purely self indulgent for my self insert oc, lmao. But I’d love to hear what your thoughts are on how tech would be in a relationship with a general. Thanks so much!

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: You're doing just fine, and welcome to tumblr! It's a mess but it's ours. I love self indulgent OC's so hopefully these little HCs of mine (and a little drabble because it was cute) will tickle your fancy.

Relationships: Tech/Gn!Jedi General!Reader (it just so happened I wrote it without any specific pronouns used)

Warnings: None, unless you consider clone/jedi relationships something to warn about?

Tech would at first, probably be a little bit at odds with a Jedi; Not in a hostile way, but his very '1+1=2, logic is superior' sort of brain competes with someone who trusts in something so vague as the Force. He doesn't enjoy the lack of concrete answers when it comes to the Jedi.

It's an even more prevalent if you're the 99's official Jedi general.

Tech and the Batch are already grappling with the feelings of finally being shackled with a Jedi, after having avoided it for so long. They didn't feel like a Jedi would fit in their squad, no matter how you might be. It's not the easiest hurdle to jump for sure, especially with Tech.

He's cold at first; You can tell he's displeased by your presence, but is attempting to be amicable. It's when you try your best to mold into their group rather than change them, when Tech ends up realizing that maybe this wasn't as bad as he thought.

You both find a common ground, and Tech even comes to enjoy the more historical side of Jedi teachings, even if he doesn't really get all of it.

He often times finds himself tinkering in the same area you're meditating in; He finds it relaxing in a way he can't explain. He makes sure to be quiet and not disturb you.

But it's actually Tech that's the one to make a move in upgrading your relationship, surprisingly enough- once he realizes his own feelings for you go far beyond how his brothers think of you.

He's extremely blunt; He enjoys spending time with you and would like more, but he knows that clones aren't exactly the pick of the litter. You vehemently reassure him that you'd love nothing more. It's not as if he's the only one who's feelings had been morphing over time, as you'd very much grown to enjoy being around him.

I think that Tech would be the least likely, besides Wrecker, to treat you being a Jedi as a 'big deal' in a relationship. Hunter and Echo would probably hesitate due to a fear of chain of command issues and Echo being used to Jedi more, while Crosshair has a sort attitude towards everyone including Jedi. Tech knows that the Kaminoans cannot find out, but beyond that, you being a Jedi is nothing intimidating to him.

If you ever gave him permission, he would love to tinker with your lightsaber(s). Acts of service are Tech's way of showing he likes someone, and to improve something that means so much to you would make Tech extremely happy. He also would love to see the inner-workings of something so integral to the Jedi order. Lightsabers aren't exactly something you get to mess with every day.

Has a spare robe of yours he wears uses as a blanket sometimes. He got yanked at the collar by Hunter once, when he was wearing it and almost left their barracks without realizing.

You can hear out far to your left, outside the shell of the Marauder, that someone is working on one of the LA-AT's with a high powered drill. Someone else is pulling a fuel hose across the hanger, as it drags across the ground with a consistent, sliding noise. Somewhere else is the yelling of a captain disciplining his troopers. It all fades to the background relatively quickly. The metal of the Marauder is cool beneath you, piercing the rough fabric of your robes.

There isn't much room in here to meditate, especially without any interruption, but the Batch and you have come to a sort of solution. There may not be much space between the cockpit seats, but it's enough, and you can seal the door if you need an extra bit of quiet.

It works. If anything, you've come to enjoy it. There's a familiarity about it. In the way that the Jedi temple has a comfortable feeling of home, as does the Marauder.

-CLANK-

Something small and metal hits the ground; A screw, you think. Judging by the way it bounces a few times before it starts to roll across the floor. You pay it no mind, palms shifting ever so slightly as they rest on your thighs. The sudden sound took you out of your meditation for a moment and the noises outside the ship came flooding back into focus, but soon enough you manage to slowly push them out again. Back to a state of peace, each sound being filtered and muffled as if dunked in water as you once again fade away into-

-BANG-

"Tech..."

You open one eye, looking up to your left and watching him look over the arm of his seat trying to spot where his tool went.

"Apologies."

It hit your foot, and so you open both eyes and grab it- with a grunt getting up from your cross legged position and handing it to him. Once you do, both of your hands rest on the arm of the seat to support yourself.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not going to get anywhere with this noise anyways." His eyebrows raise behind his goggles and with both hands gripping his current project, he makes a motion as if going to get up from his seat.

"I could do my work elsewhere, if you require complete sile-" You quickly lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek, close enough that your lips brush against the corner of his mouth.

"It's not you. The noise in the hanger keeps throwing me off." Tech looks out the side viewport to see a groups of clones working on various starships, and he notes how loud the sounds actually are. He's just gotten used to it, he guesses. He's slept in far louder places.

"I like having you here when I meditate, actually." You see the way his eyes light up a bit, both from the loving nature of what you'd said, and the curiosity of wanting to know why.

"It's nice knowing you're here. And ok." You reach up and adjust the light on the side of his goggles so it isn't pointing upwards. Tech doesn't seem to even notice that you doing so.

"Nothing is going to happen on a Republic base," He says, before taking note of the way you roll your eyes at him.

"I know, I just like the feeling." You squeeze his hand that's holding his screwdriver, and while he can't hold yours back, you note the way his eyes watch the gesture keenly.

"Once I finish this, I can promise you complete silence." You smile before he kisses you on the lips, feeling the way you gently sigh against them.

"Take your time. I'm just going to watch."

Join the taglist here: @simp-legend @nekotaetae @chad-something @coffeyorky @merkitty49 @lokigirlszendaya @totesnothere04 @get-wr3ckered @rebel-finn @mandoloriancookie @therealnekomari @loverofclones @notthatfanfictionwriter @lucyysthings @jennrosefx @fxlsealarm @crosshairs-wife @sinfulsalutations @pb-jellybeans @jediknightjana @coraex @anxiouspineapple99 @bobaprint @wolffegirlsunite @sleepingsun501 @crosshairlovebot

[anony-man]

Chubformers extended drabble #2!

Based off of #60 for IDW Overlord, this is the drabble written into a 2k fic! Feel free to read it on ao3 or under the cut!

Original drabble: #60 for Overlord (IDW)

Word count: 2,046

(TW: vore, implied fatal vore)

It was bad manners to play with his food, he’d been told, but there was something so alluring about watching his freshly picked captives shiver and squirm in his presence. What could he say? Their palpable terror always added to the flavor to every dish, even before he swallowed them whole.

Speaking of swallowing them whole… Overlord was pretty sure tonight’s choice of a meal was one of the biggest to date. He was no prude when it came to size—the bigger the better is how he saw it. Still, the fat Decepticon could hardly wait to have such a hunk of a mech lodged in his throat. It was almost arousing, dare he say.

The poor, terrified thing had been quiet nearly the entire night. His fellow Decepticons swore the mech had been cursing up a storm, blaming Megatron for the failure of their kind and calling up gaping maws from Primus himself to break open the core of their world and swallow the nasty scum of a faction whole.

Oddly enough, there was no sign of the fiery, passionate spirit now, not even a drop… not even a word.

Well, Overlord couldn’t toy with everyone. Sometimes his food seemed to liked to sit pretty and wait for the inevitable as opposed to putting up a struggle, and he supposed that was just fine. The flavor was in the fear, after all, and oh, did tonight’s guest reek of it.

Painted blue lips curled into a cruel smile before opening wide for the next bite of his first course. The Autobot across from his was silent as ever, his optics wide as he quivered against the table.

This was always one of his favorite parts, just below getting to swallow up his prey. It was tradition for Overlord, forcing his evening’s captive to sit and watch as he prepared himself for the final dish. Struggling bots never felt so good in his tanks like they did following a big, hearty feast, and Overlord loved setting them up for a cushiony fall into his well-fed belly.

"Delicious," the fat Con said as he swallowed, reaching down to the table to grab a napkin.

The mech across the table flinched away, a gasp of fear escaping him. It was as if he expected those cruel talons to close around his throat at any moment, Overlord could tell. Lucky mech, getting to live for a few more minutes in the confines of the delightful dinner before them.

“Mm... I've truly outdone myself tonight,” Overlord continued, delicately wiping at the corners of his lips. “But I worry about you, you poor, poor soul. Aren’t you hungry?”

The mech didn’t respond, save for another shudder as Overlord dug his fork into the meat of his dish. Another delightful moan worked its way around the bountiful as he shoveled it past his lips, and this time Overlord did little to hide his satisfaction at the outcome of his meal.

Delicious as usual, he thought with a lick of his lips. Even so, it was nothing compared to the dessert that awaited him.

“Oh, forgive me,” he said between a few extra dabs at his lips with the napkin. “I never did ask if you wanted something to eat. Please, help yourself.”

The bot didn’t move, and he hardly breathed. The room fell silent for a time, save for the clink of chains and the tremble of the mech as they hid their face behind shackled servos.

Overlord frowned at the sight. The poor creature looked absolutely pitiful, all curled into on himself in a desperate attempt at appearing small against the grand display of foods laid out over the dinner table. Still, there was a script to follow if he wanted to enjoy every last second of his evening’s entertainment.

He waited patiently until the mech had gained the courage to glance up from the spaces between his fingers, his optics bright with fear. By then the air had begun to stink from their panic, and Overlord loved it. He took in a deep breath and sighed, a contented smile replacing the agitated frown he’d worn prior.

Oh, this was starting to become a positively scrumptious night.

"Enjoy yourself," Overlord pressed. "It would be selfish of me to keep you from having a bite, don’t you think?"

Overlord slid an empty plate across the table to where the mech sat. A small, delicate pastry was plucked up from its display between sharp fingers and dropped onto the porcelain platter. Overlord watched as the mech's gaze drifted to the offered treat, then to him, then back again.

It was risky, accepting the kind morsel. Without fail, though, his captives always accepted. It just took time is all.

“Go on,” he urged, plucking another bite off of his own plate as he waited for the mech to give in. “I’m playing nice tonight, I assure you.”

The mech hesitated, his servo outstretched. It certainly looked appetizing, and he couldn’t deny the way his tanks groaned for food…

"There you go," Overlord said, clapping his servos together as the shivering mech finally took the bait. "That’s a good mech."

One bite quickly turned into two as the mech eased into the flow of stuffing his face. No longer satisfied with the simple dishes available for snacking, Overlord settled for sipping at his glass of engex as he watched the mech gorge himself on as many foods as he could reach.

The frantic, desperate need to keep his mouth full and his belly fuller was almost as entertaining as the climax of the dinner’s final course. Overlord sneered behind the rim of his glass as the pathetic bot slurped and groaned, too caught up in the temporary bliss of a free-for-all feast made just for him—and for Overlord, of course.

“Eager thing, you are,” the Con mused, his frown twisting back into an amused smile at the way the mech stopped to scoff at the ridiculous statement. “Have I made enough to satisfy your appetite?”

It would be such a delightful reward to stuff his belly full with such an obnoxious Autobot. The cowardly terror that had kept him frozen in place was beginning to wane, and the more the bot ate the more he seemed to grow comfortable in his enemy’s presence.

“I’ll say,” the bot said between mouthfuls. He wiped at his face with the back of his servo. “Got enough here to feed a fraggin’ army if you ask me.”

“An army of two, perhaps,” Overlord said as he sipped at his engex.

His evening’s prisoner was getting far too comfortable for his own liking. A little snark was always welcome, but Overlord could hardly stand the shift from shivering fear to cocky and comfortable. The spread of cakes and dishes had been a good appetizer, but the entertainment was coming to an end, and Overlord's patience was running thin.

“I apologize for being so abrupt,” he said, slowly rising from his seat, “but I’m afraid it’s getting a bit late, and I’m dying for dessert.”

The mech’s optics practically bulged from his helm like an earthen creature once he finally looked up from his plate. Overlord was an imposing sight from the start, and the tons of mesh that hung in rolls from his frame merely added to the terror.

Beneath the rumbling purr in the background of Overlord's throat, his belly roared with hunger as he leaned across the table to pluck the terrified mech out from his seat. The dinner was nice, but he was still hungry—hungry for more than just a few little oil cakes.

There was only one solution to his ravenous appetite, and the shrieking mech that fought to flee from his grasp seemed to know it.

“No no no no no!” the mech squealed. “Please, no! I—I can help! I can… I can find a way!”

Playing with big prey meant dealing with a bigger struggle, and Overlord was almost straining to drag the Autobot across the table and into his lap. Dishes clashed and plates broke, the silverware and feast crashing to the floor as the mech sunk his claws into the bunched tablecloth in a feeble attempt at saving him from his fate.

It didn’t take experience to know exactly how this was going to end. Most Autobots who survived a visit with Overlord had heard plenty of horror stories about dining with the Con for the evening.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Overlord said as he held the struggling bot up in the air. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your meal just as much as I’ll be enjoying mine.”

The squirming, screaming mech kicked and flailed, but to no avail. Painted blue lips opened wide, revealing a gaping maw, pearly fangs, and the rumble of a needy gut. Before he could make any further attempts at an escape, Overlord was lowering him down atop his tongue and swallowing against the intrusion of kicking legs.

The mech was immediately engulfed by sticky, hot air and a saliva-coated tongue, his attempts at screaming for help and begging for release silenced by the threat of being chewed up and swallowed. Overlord toyed with the whimpering mech for some time, delighting in the wails that would escape every time his gentle nibbles became too much for the delicate shell of the bot’s chest.

There was no room for speaking when half of the bot was already bulging in his throat, the slick walls working to work him down into the starving, bubbly pits of his tanks, but Overlord did his best to moan his approval around the bot’s frame as it slid over his tongue. He took his time in swallowing, allowing his systems to do most of the work as he suckled against his fingers and licked at the trembling bots frame.

The scent of fear was palpable again, and almost intoxicating. The fat Con’s free servo immediately drifting down to grope and pinch at his rumbling belly, his frame growing hot from the mere thought of digesting another Autobot alongside the delicious meal. His engines purred and his tanks growled as the bot’s helm slid into his throat before quickly slipping past his bobbing throat and dropping into his bubbling tanks below.

The bot sat heavy amongst the spread of dishes Overlord had indulged in that night, but the stretch of overstuffed tanks around the struggle of an unwilling meal made his final course twice as delicious. He leaned back with a groan, both servos rubbing at his massive belly now as he felt for the firm outline of the bot inside of him around the half-digested foods.

He was unconscious now, Overlord could tell. The squirming and whimpers had ceased for the moment being. Still, digestion took time. If he was patient and waited for his prey to reawaken, then—

There was a gasp from across the room. The choked, startled sound caught Overlord by surprise. He wasn’t expecting any visitors tonight. Upon lifting his gaze from the swollen, stuffed dome that spilled out over his lap, the fat Con met the gaze of a small, terrified looking minibot.

He hardly had to look for the obviously placed Autobot insignia on the bot’s chest to know the scared thing was another one of their prisoners. How he’d managed to escape past the rest of the Decepticons was unclear to him, but Overlord was hardly about to let this prime opportunity go to waste.

“Oh, hello there,” Overlord said. “Fancy running into someone like you so late in the night.”

The minibot didn’t respond, his attention fixated on the mess of a dining table left from the previous victim’s struggle. Overlord made a dismissive gesture with one servo as he reached down to straighten out the table cloth, then beckoned the bot forward.

“Don’t mind the mess,” he said. “I’m quite known for my unruly table manners… you know how it is.”

The minibot seemed hesitant, but there was no backing out now. Not now that Overlord had seen him. The fat Con’s face split into an affectionate smile, and beneath the table he soothed the rumble of awakening prey with a servo against his belly.

“Come,” he said. “Have a seat.”

[no-shxme]

there's this one talsett premise i drabbled a lot in private and i still think about it bc its so fun. i'm gonna ramble about it at length under the cut bc... idk... its basically the full summary.

the basic premise was canon runeterra where sett learns about some sorta magical artifact from some dude at the pit that grants a wish. apparently its somewhere deep in the ixtali jungle. sett hates how sad his ma is about his pa leaving, so he decides to make a trip over to wish her pain away.

so he makes the trip over and gets pretty immediately captured by demacian soldiers that are camped out at the start of the jungle (south of piltover) for some reason.. sett doesn't get it, but either way he's interrogated bc demacians are going after this artifact too apparently, (it only becomes available once ever xyz years or smth, some sort of time crunch.) the demacians are led by lux's aunt, tianna crownguard, but sett doesn't know who any of these people are ofc. one of sett's arms is locked in a petricite handcuff and the other end is locked to another captive's arm. and of course it's talon.

talon has been sent to retrieve the artifact on his own, after failing another one of the general's errands. he also got captured (bc really who would expect a bunch of demacians all the way out here) and has tried and failed to escape twice now. then because sett's so big and hard to miss, they're handcuffed together to be each other's ball and chain. sett hates noxians, talon likes personal space, and they both want the same thing. this will be a problem.

they do escape with the help of sett's strength and talon's ability to lockpick doors one-handed and thus begins a mad scramble into the jungle, running from wild animals, demacian soldiers, and other hazards.

problems they encounter include:

the fact that petricite is notoriously impervious, and neither of them can get their cuff off short of cutting off somone's arm. (talon isn't opposed to this.)

the fact that talon can't MAKE sett go anywhere, even at knifepoint, because he dwarfs him in size, weight, and strength. But Sett can drag him wherever he wants, through tall grasses and uphill.

speaking of which, sett drags talon through a river at the end of day 1 of being together, in which talon nearly drowns bc he can't keep up and afterwards that's pretty much talons limit where he has a panic attack bc he just NEEDS some level of control like this is a fucking nightmare. this is also the first time sett feels pity for him.

sett and talon learning to compromise in some ways (also known as talon climbing a tree and hanging on until sett caves to his demands. (his arm is sore.) sett learns that talon has been assigned to steal the artifact on his own, which seems kinda crazy for one lil guy, and sett explains his own reason for finding it. he thinks that his reason is clearly 10x more just and noble but talon's not responsive and it pisses sett off.

they encounter random other champs. kayn (with scythe rhaast) are also looking for the wish, but they part ways more amicably. they also meet neeko just tooling around having a grand time.

sett asks neeko to transform into talon and she does, and then he asks her to smile and is immediately weirded out bc 'talon' smiling like that looks unnatural lol.

talon slowly reveals more information about his father and sett decides he sounds like a fucking asshole.

sett getting ticks on his ears that talon has to cut out bc he's freaking out.

sett carrying talon like a bag of sand over his shoulder.

eventually they reach qiyana's kingdom and i honestly can't remember why they get to live but they do, and they FINALLY get their shackles removed and also a bath. by now they've gotten pretty good at working together, though the problem of who gets the wish boils over. sett gets pissed off bc talon still wont concede the fact that he should totally get the wish for his ma. talon is still adamant that he needs it, and sett tells him he's stupid cause his dad's an asshole and talon snaps that he knows that. and sett realizes that talon actually just wants the wish for himself because he sees it as the only way to 100% escape his abusive circumstances. his dad just sent him to the jungle after his latest failure, basically dooming him to a wild goose chase with no real chance of success.

there's a little backstabbery at the end. a race between talon and sett (now uncuffed), and kayn and the demacians. (tiana crownguard wants to wish her niece's magic away, since she'd discovered lux's secret and wants to do it for her own safety). at the very end sett tries to make a deal with talon to help him get away from his father but talon doesn't trust him and instead sticks him with some natural paralytic (doesn't kill him) and goes on without him. sett recovers quickly due to size and natural resilience. by the time he gets to the spot, high up in a perilous cliff-side he's basically in the thick of it. the ending conflict forces him to make a choice between saving talon from falling to his death even though he betrayed him, or getting his wish. and ofc he ends up saving talon. he's learned to empathize with him. kayn gets the wish (and rhaast gets his own body.) and sett ends up taking talon home anyway like he'd offered to, even though he betrayed him. demacians just lose lol.

that's basically the whole thing. my god this was long sorry. i decided not to write it bc i dreaded writing the environments and i knew itd be long, though i did write some scenes from it. i just love the premise of sett and talon handcuffed together so bad. if i ever have the chance to sneak it into another fic i totally will.

[zapreportsblog]

Hi loveee! Can request a drabble where Taehyung is a mafia boss and he has an arranged marriage with reader? (can she please have freckles?🥲)

Oh why hello there! A Drabble? I’ve heard of it but I’m not necessarily sure what one is, is it like a one shot story? A short story or? Well whatever, I can definitely do this request but can someone explain what a Drabble is in the comments or in my inbox please, thank you lol

↱ an unwanted arrangement ↰

➘ summary : Taehyung as the next heir to his fathers mafia - soon to be his, must have a wife. It’s tradition after all

➘ taehyung x reader , bts x reader

The opulent office was shrouded in shadows, the air heavy with tension as Taehyung faced his father, the current head of the formidable mafia clan. His gaze was unyielding, his jaw clenched, as he listened to the words that threatened to reshape his future.

His father's stern voice broke the silence, delivering a decree that Taehyung had never expected. "Taehyung, you are to be wed to (Y/N), the daughter of the Park family—the alliance we've been nurturing for years."

Taehyung's fingers tightened around the armrest of the chair he occupied. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. An arranged marriage? The idea was archaic, an imposition on his autonomy and his aspirations.

He scoffed, his voice edged with defiance. "Father, you know I have no desire for a woman who'd be content as a housewife. I have ambitions, goals that extend beyond what you might envision."

His father's gaze remained unyielding, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument. "This is not a matter of desire, Taehyung. It's about the legacy of our clan, about ensuring our power endures. The alliance with the Parks is paramount."

Taehyung's nostrils flared as his temper simmered just beneath the surface. He knew the importance of alliances and maintaining the family's status within the criminal underworld. Yet, the thought of being shackled to a life that went against his very essence was suffocating.

"I won't be bound by an archaic tradition," he retorted, his voice dripping with a rebellion that refused to be quelled.

His father's eyes hardened, his tone colder. "You're bound by the responsibilities of our lineage. We've given you the best education, the finest training—everything you need to step into the role of the next head."

Taehyung rose from his seat, his chest heaving with a mixture of anger and frustration. "And I will step into that role, Father. But I won't be tethered to a woman who will be nothing more than a shadow in my life."

His father's gaze remained unflinching, his words slicing through the air like a blade. "You will marry (Y/N), Taehyung. It is a command."

Taehyung's fists clenched at his sides, his emotions warring within him. He knew his father's authority was not to be challenged, yet the weight of the decision felt like chains dragging him down.

"Or what?" he challenged, his voice a defiant growl. "What if I refuse?"

His father's eyes bore into him, a look of resolute determination that left no room for negotiation. "If you refuse, you will leave this family and never return. You will bring shame and disgrace to the Kim name."

The words hung in the air like a heavy cloud, Taehyung's heart torn between his own aspirations and the duty he owed to his family. As the silence enveloped them, he realized the gravity of his choice—whether to defy his father's command and forge his own path or to submit to tradition and accept the fate that had been handed to him.

In that moment, as the weight of his decision pressed upon him, Taehyung knew that his life was about to change in ways he could never have anticipated. The echoes of his rebellion reverberated within the walls of the office, a testament to the clash between tradition and the desires of a heart that longed for freedom and authenticity.

As the time for the wedding approached, Taehyung's agitation only grew. He had been thrust into an arrangement he had vehemently opposed, and the lack of control over his own life gnawed at him. The thought that he had never even met the woman he was supposed to marry, (Y/N), filled him with frustration.

He stood before the grand altar, his tailored suit a stark contrast to his simmering emotions. The weight of tradition hung heavily in the air as he awaited the moment he would lift the veil that hid his bride's face. The knowledge that this decision had been made for him, without his consent, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

As the music swelled, the murmurs of the gathered guests reverberating in the ornate hall, Taehyung clenched his fists. He reminded himself of his butler's cryptic words—that (Y/N) wasn't like his "typical housewife." What did that mean? Could there be more to her than he had initially assumed?

The moment arrived, and Taehyung stood facing the veiled figure that represented his future. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they curled around the delicate fabric. With a deep breath, he lifted the veil, his heart pounding in his chest.

And then he saw her.

His breath caught, his eyes widening in surprise as they met (Y/N)'s mesmerizing gaze. Her eyes held a depth that seemed to hold secrets of their own, and her hair, (long/short) and styled in an intricate traditional manner, framed her face like a work of art. But what captivated him the most were the tiny freckles that danced across her skin, creating a constellation of beauty that seemed to tell a story of its own.

For a moment, time stood still. Taehyung found himself lost in her gaze, his anger and frustration momentarily forgotten. There was a fire in her eyes, a sense of strength and individuality that defied the expectations he had placed upon her.

As they exchanged vows, Taehyung's gaze never wavered from (Y/N)'s. The words he spoke felt sincere, and he saw a flicker of something in her eyes—a vulnerability, a hint of defiance, and perhaps a touch of curiosity. He realized that he had underestimated her, that there was more to her than met the eye.

As the ceremony concluded and they were pronounced husband and wife, Taehyung held (Y/N)'s hand, his grip gentle yet possessive. As they turned to face their guests, he felt a surge of determination. He might not have chosen this path, but he was willing to uncover the layers of (Y/N)'s personality that defied convention, that set her apart from the typical housewife he had imagined.

After the wedding ceremony had concluded, Taehyung and (Y/N) found themselves in a private room, preparing to change into more comfortable attire for the wedding reception. The air was charged with a mix of tension and uncertainty, both aware that the life they were embarking upon was not of their own choosing.

Separated by a changing holder, Taehyung couldn't help but overhear (Y/N)'s voice, soft and tinged with regret. He listened as she spoke words that touched him deeply, words of self-doubt and an apology that resonated with his own feelings of being trapped in an unwanted situation.

"I'm sorry that you had to marry me," her voice reached him, laden with sorrow. "I'm not a good wife, Taehyung. I can't cook all that well, and my cleaning skills are decent, but not as good as my sisters'. They married me off to get rid of me, you know. They always said I was... lacking."

Taehyung's heart ached at her words, his own earlier frustrations melting away as he realized the weight of her situation. The realization that she had been married off as a burden rather than out of genuine affection struck a chord within him. He couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt for having judged her without truly knowing her.

With a sense of determination, he spoke up, his voice firm yet empathetic. "You're not lacking, (Y/N). And this isn't your fault. You deserve better than to be treated as a pawn in someone else's game."

There was a pause, a moment of silence that hung between them. And then, he continued, his words carrying a vulnerability he rarely showed. "And I... I wouldn't make a very good husband either. I've always been more focused on training, on preparing to take over as the head of the clan. I've never been involved with... females."

(Y/N)'s voice carried a mixture of surprise and understanding. "So, we're both in the same boat," she said softly.

Taehyung nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Yes, we are. But maybe we can try to be the best versions of ourselves together."

There was a moment of hesitation before (Y/N) spoke again, her voice tentative yet hopeful. "You really mean that?"

"Yes," Taehyung replied earnestly. "Let's not let our circumstances define us. We can navigate this path together."

He could almost hear her smile in her voice. "I'd like that."

As they changed into their wedding reception attire, separated by the changing holder yet connected by a newfound understanding, Taehyung felt a sense of relief. The barriers that had initially kept them apart were slowly crumbling, replaced by a shared determination to rise above their circumstances.

As they stepped out of the changing area, a hint of blush tinted (Y/N)'s cheeks, a sign of the newfound connection that was blossoming between them. And as they faced the world as husband and wife, they carried with them a promise—to be the best versions of themselves, to support each other, and to create a life together that defied the expectations placed upon them.

[crystalrabbit246912]

Random TWST Drabbles

I wanted to get a good writing flow, so I took a random word generator and did this.

detail~

Jamil always took care of all the details, down to smallest possible dangers. He always arranged rides ahead of time, prepared for the slightest possibility of harm coming to Kalim, and brought along precautions for everything. He made sure to keep an eye on everyone around them, looking out for threats and making sure that Kalim didn't run off.

Despite his hatred for the Asim heir for the chains he had been shackled to all his life, his shoulders still tensed and he got an uncomfortable feeling in his gut when he couldn't spot his carefree and oblivious charge.

He blamed it on the fact that he would get into trouble if he lost one of the most important people in his life, even though he knew that it was worry for his pseudo-brother that made him scan the area around him with worried eyes.

What else would it possibly be?

Jamil was a very detail oriented person, but he locked away that detail of himself much like he did his hatred and resentment for the chains that bound him for all his life.

wrong~

Riddle didn't like to think back on the time before his Overblot. His memories of the days leading up to it were somehow both clouded in murky black, like the blot that had tainted his magestone, and clear as day.

He didn't like to think about that fact that he had been wrong, that everything that had been ingrained into him from a young age was wrong. He didn't like to think about the fact that Mother was wrong and maybe both of them had always been wrong.

He didn't like to remember that the life he had lived before everything began to spiral and crash was wrong.

Where had he begun to go wrong?

When had Mother begun to go wrong?

If they had both been wrong the entire time, what was all of it for?

preference~

Cater didn't have a preference for who he loved liked. He knew that most people swung one way or another, but he didn't really care. If he thought that someone was cute, if he wanted to let his walls down around someone only to have his heart shattered again, that was up to him.

Other peoples' opinions didn't really matter here, like they did in every other part of his life.

He was good at seeing other people's preferences as well. He knew that Ace and Deuce both liked the same gender as themselves, he knew that the Prefect didn't care for romance (if only he could be that lucky), and he knew that Riddle didn't know his preference yet.

Trey was still a mystery to him, though.

appearance~

Azul cared a lot about his appearance.

While it may not appear that way to an outside observer, he knew that the Twins knew as well as he did that his appearance was one of the most important parts to his attitude.

And his attitude was what kept him from becoming the weak little octo-punk at the back of the class again, so he had to maintain it and keep it perfect so that he didn't become weak again, didn't get called names and beat up every day lost his reputation.

Having frazzled hair and wrinkled clothes was a far cry from the suave, confident Azul Ashengrotto the school knew, which was why he had to keep his appearance and reputation as perfect as possible.

(He ignored the fact that a lot of his reputation was from people speaking badly of him after they failed to meet the conditions of their deals.)

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

Whump Drabble

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester

Sam woke up half sprawled across a dank, cold floor, hands chained to the concrete wall above his head, shackles already cutting into his wrists, stinging and sticky with drying blood.

The rest of the room was dark and hard to pull into focus. He tried to blink but only one of his eyes would even open. Well, that at least shed some light on why that side of his face felt weirdly numb and prickly warm, it was swollen tight. His knees were scrapped up pretty bad, jeans torn and bloody. He shifted, testing, and pain radiated through his side from his lower ribs, not good, felt like something had cracked. There was blood in his mouth and a couple of his teeth felt a bit loose. But all of his fingers wiggled and both feet flexed when he tried them, nothing dislocated and nothing outside of his torso seemed broken. 

Taking a breath to steady himself, he grabbed the chains above him and pulled, they held fast. So he pulled again and pushed himself up with his legs. Everything hurt, he was going to be one giant bruise if he made it until tomorrow.

He’d fucked up, big time, he knew. He’d stormed off, muttering curses of being able to take care of himself over his shoulder on his way out the door and within 10 short hours had gotten himself fucking captured. Dean was going to explode and he was never going to hear the end of it… If he was lucky enough to ever hear Dean say anything to him again. If he was, then he would find a way to be grateful to get chewed out and teased for the rest of forever. 

He just had to get out of this.

Standing and facing the wall he examined, as well as he could through one eye, the shackles holding him. They were snug, no way he’d be able to slip them, even if he dislocated his thumbs. Shit. The chain itself was solid and shiny, no more than a couple years old. The chains were attached to a ring that was bolted into the wall, the concrete chipped and powdery, seemed the weakest point. He grabbed the chain with both hands and bracing one foot against the wall, pulled hard. Fire ignited in his side, definitely a broken rib, and he pressed his arm against that side, trying to brace it while he pulled again. The pain doubled him over, panting for breath, afraid to breathe too deeply. 

He thought about it while waiting for the pain to ebb back, willing his heart rate to slow down. He switched legs and shifted his stance, aiming for a better angle to brace against the wall without immediately tensing the wrong muscle groups, and pulled again. No give. He dropped his leg and sagged to the side, leaning against the wall on his less injured side. Maybe he could use the edge of the shackles to chip away around the ring? 

While he was catching his breath and trying to determine how to hit the wall with a protruding part of the tight metal cuffs, a loud bang from somewhere off in the building above him made him flinch. Looking around, he still couldn’t see much, it was too dark and his head was swimming with more than just labored breathing and exertion. Great, he thought and added head trauma to his catalog of injuries. But beyond the immediate stretch of wall here, he couldn’t make out any other details of the room he was in, just darkness lurking all around. 

Another bang, this one louder than the previous, a gunshot… shotgun seemed most likely. Sam listened. Faint noises from far off, footsteps then scuffling, another blast from the shotgun (he was sure of the sound now).

���Dea…” He had already forgotten about his ribs and the pain from filling his lungs to shout hit him by surprise. 

A splintering crash shook the air and light spilled in from across the room.

“Dean?” he managed to say, not nearly as loudly as he’d intended.

“Sam!” and a beam of light swept the room.

The relief that flooded him dropped him to his knees. Scraped raw already they complained but he was beyond caring. Dean had found him.

“Over here.” 

Light blinded him. Footsteps, heavy and sure, closed the distance between them.

“Sammy? Jesus, Sam.” His concern hit like a punch to Sam’s gut.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry, I fucked up.”

“Hey? Look at me.” The flashlight shone in his face as Dean’s hand lifted his chin. Sam knew he was being checked over, tried to keep his eye open, but the light was so bright, his head suddenly pounding. Then Dean was checking the rest of him, hands patting him down, looking for and taking stock of wounds, finding the chains and following them to the wall. Dean tucked his sawed off under his arm and reached behind himself, pulling out his handgun. “Watch out.”

Sam closed his eye and turned away. The gunshot sharply echoing in the cavernous room, making his ears ring.

“Son of a bitch. One more.” and another shot split Sam’s headache to a whole new level of horribleness. A rattling yank on the chains, “Come on!” Dean grunted as he pulled, swearing under his breath.

Sam’s legs were threatening to turn to jelly but he was able to get them under him and pushed back up. He gripped the chains too and added his weight to pulling, ignoring the sickening, crunchy grind in his ribcage.

“That’s it, come on, little more!” 

The metal ring twisted, broken ends where Dean had shot it, pried slowly apart until Dean stopped pulling. “Got it! Relax, Sammy.”

Sam slumped against the wall as Dean freed the chain from the wall. Then the light was back on him briefly.

“You okay?”

“Couple of broken ribs, left side. Probably a concussion.” Sam’s stomach gave a violent lurch which he swallowed down. “Definitely a concussion.”

“Ok, that’s ok. We can deal with that. Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” Sam stood up and took a step away from the wall only to get caught by Dean as gravity shifted sideways suddenly.

“Whoa, whoa. Easy.”

A floodgate seemed to open inside him, tears welled up in his good eye, stung like a bitch in his other. His legs started to give out again. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I should’ve listened to you.”

“No shit, dumbass.” But there was no venom in the words and Dean’s arms were around him, keeping him from falling, and he gave a gentle pat to the back of Sam’s head as he hugged him. “I’m just glad you’re ok. Now come on, don’t make me carry your gargantuan ass outta here. Here we go.” And he shifted so Sam’s arm was over his shoulders as he turned them both towards the door.

[help-i-lost-my-sock]

Nightmare Drabbles - Sabo

Word count: 4 x 100

Dividers by @cafekitsune

Sabo stares out a far window. The sun shines brightly, yet he cannot feel its warmth. He looks around himself. Tall curtains, a pristine room, and piles of books. He’s there again - back in his old room. 

His parents walk in. His mother’s voice is fake and shrill. She yaps about schoolwork. His father starts for the millionth time about Sabo’s future and the princess.

Sabo’s heart is racing. He shouts, but they don’t hear a thing. He tries to get up, to run away, but cannot lift his legs. Thick, cold, heavy chains shackle him to the immovable ground. 

Every time Sabo closes his eyes, Ace is there, in his mind’s eye - his lips twist in a cold sneer, brows furrowed deeply, eyes burning with anger and disgust. There is no sympathy in his face - only a hatred that could turn the sea itself to desert. There’s no brotherhood in his words as he speaks - only venom and spite. 

‘How could you forget?’ 

‘You left me for dead.’

‘You are no brother of mine.’ 

The words echo in his mind. They overlap - a visceral cacophony that drives him closer and closer to insanity. It’s just a matter of time… 

Sabo dreams of the news - sometimes it’s a paper, sometimes it’s rumours, or the transponder. Straw Hat Luffy’s been captured; sentenced to die in a few days. 

Sabo shrugs - he doesn’t know the guy; can’t tell if he should feel sorry or not. He’s only ever heard of him in the papers and wanted posters. 

The next paper comes, announcing his death. 

Sabo crumbles, just like he did with Ace. ‘Not again!’ Just like with Ace, he’d forgotten his own family, and just like with Ace, he was not there to save him. What kind of monster does that? Twice!

Sabo just finished his latest solo mission. Having made his report to headquarters, he decides to take some time off and explore a nearby island for a bit. 

His transponder rings again and again. He doesn’t bother to pick up. He’s worked hard, and he won’t let anyone interrupt his well-deserved time off. 

However, once he returns to headquarters the next day, he finds the place in shambles. Marines are swarming the island, escorting his comrades away in chains. 

Horrified, Sabo realises that they must have intercepted his latest report. The calls he’d been ignoring were, in fact, distress calls.

Ace

Luffy

[isamajor]

Whump drabbles : Taliesin

I – Torture

Taliesin's body, covered in bruises and wounds, writhed in pain from the new volley of blows. He enjoyed the pain, but to a certain point and in a certain context which unfortunately was not the latter. His former comrades from Thalmor were unleashed on him, setting an example. The sucid missions had not been enough, Taliesin had betrayed them and left Thalmor to travel with the Dragonborn. It was more than treason. He went through torture. But even when they had defiled and torn out his beautiful hair, he would not open his teeth. He would not betray the Dragonborn. (101)

•

II – Broken

More than any physical pain, Taliesin knew there was one thing in particular that would break him. From the person he feared most in the world. His own father. Should he be caught by the Thalmor, his alias would quickly be dispelled and he was certain that his own father would lead the interrogation and the torture session. His father would surely revel in inflicting pain on his degenerate son to match his disappointment and contempt. And Taliesin would endure it all without a word, staring blankly and body trembling in a cold sweat, so engulfed in the terror of his own father's wrath. (105)

•

III - « Let's have some fun »

When they arrived on the scene, it was already too late. Blood stained the feet of the statue of Talos and lifeless bodies littered the small square in front of the altar. Talos worshippers and Thalmor, who had killed each other. They heard a wheeze, then a black robe moved. One of the Thalmor was still alive. Eyes full of resentment, Kaidan unsheathed his nodachi. He approached the Altmer with an evil grin, ready to make him pay for his crimes, without trying to listen to the latter's defense.

"Let's have some fun..." he muttered, pointing his blade at the wounded Mer. (104)

•

IV – Breathe

Taliesin had never known how to swim and when the wave took him, he could only struggle against the black and icy immensity of the sea. The cold water had been unforgiving, dragging him down. With the help of his traveling companions, he had managed to reach the shore, but blocking his breath made him pass out. They laid him on the ground, breathed air into his lungs. He coughed. Throws up. Then took a his first deep breath, hands clutching the pebbles, feeling the weight of his soaked robes pressing down on him. Never had breathing felt so delectable. (100)

•

V – Alcohol

The bottle of Alto wine passed silently from one to the other. In the midst of the tranquility of the place, under teh stars, neither of them managed to find sleep. So there was alcohol. To forget the horrors of the past that jumped out at them as soon as their eyes closed. Nebarra grimaced. It wasn't strong enough for him. Taliesin cracked a smile. Of all their companions, Nebarra was ultimately the only one who could understand him. He too was haunted by the war. The mercenary often verbalized it, like a litany of the horrors he had seen and experienced. (103)

VI – Chains & Hanging

Taliesin was shackled and suspended by chains in a dimly lit chamber. In other circumstances, he would have found it nice.The cold metal bit into his wrists, his own weight pressing down on the chain cuffing his hands. The chains rattled with each movement and and the arms held well above his head forced him to stand on tiptoe. They were going to let him exhaust himself, hanging on these chains, before torturing him. He knew it, because not so long ago, he was part of a group that tortured people to extract information from them. (98)

•

VII – Struggle

Although he did not feel comfortable at sea, Taliesin had no choice but to obey his superiors and embark on this ship bound for the city of Solitude. The fainting light of the lighthouse had pushed the ship against rocks and already the hold was filling with water. Taliesin's long Thalmor robe was quickly waterlogged, and he began to wade with difficulty. The water was rising rapidly, and the Mer couldn't swim. He struggled, tangled up in his wet clothes and began to panic, hoping to reach the nearest ladder and not end up drowning. (97)

•

VIII – Wound Cleaning

Nebarra gritted his teeth as Taliesin poured the stinging liquid over his wound. The searing pain of the act made him curse and clench his fists. The smell of strong alcohold filled the air, mingling with the heavy scent of blood.

"It's a shame to waste such good alcohol in this way. You would have let me drink it, I would have forgotten my pain."

Taliesin carefully cleaned the deep gash that marked Nebarra's arm. With each pass of the soaked cloth, Nebarra flinched, his body instinctively tensing in discomfort. He glared at Taliesin, who replied with a jaded sigh. (102)

•

IX – Semi-conscious

Taliesin muttered weakly, trying to say something. Gore told him to stay calm, cradling the Mer's long body in his arms. Stubbornly, Taliesin tried to move, in vain. He felt too weak to move his limbs which seemed to weigh a ton. He could only squeeze Gore's hand. His eyes fluttered. He didn't remember what happened to him.

« ...Where am I ? »

It was the only thing his furred lips could articulate. The Altmer could hear around him the buzz of the bustle around him, without understanding what his companions were saying. He felt weary, so weary... (99)

•

X – Forgiven

"You will never be forgiven, I never can. You were a Thalmor bastard.", Kaidan threw at Taliesin, with a dark look. The Mer sighed, lowering his eyes. The barb hurt. He had a lot of blood on his hands. All for the ego of his father and the Aldmeri society, which were not afraid to break a young soul to fit the mold. But that, Kaidan probably couldn't hear. It certainly didn't erase his guilt. And besides, was that forgivable ? The bottom of his soul wasn't bad, Taliesin just hoped his time in the Thalmor hadn't tainted it too much. (104)

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XI – Brainwashing

His father relentlessly molded him to be shaped into the perfect Thalmor. Day after day, he was subjected to mental conditioning, his own thoughts twisted to align with Thalmor ideals. Taliesin was the first born son, he couldn't disappoint his father.

"You must rid yourself of weakness", his father would say, his voice like ice. "Embrace the rightfulness of our cause."

The brainwashing took its toll, leaving Taliesin questioning his own identity, hating is own body. The line between truth and manipulation blurred, and he found himself torn between loyalty to his homeland and the doubt in his heart. (100)

[alisdarkwrites]

Random yan! Oikawa Drabble

Implied non-con, yandere

Just imagine yan oikawa noticing his darling being stressed out

He start to flirt with her touch her shoulders, grabbing her waist, etc. then after about 2 weeks of this she starts to distance herself.he notices and decides to go to her house with flowers

He starts slowly convincing her to go upstairs to her room with him and he ends up on top of her.

Poor thing is so scared she doesn’t know what’s going on or what oikawa doing but then she hear the rattling of.. chains?

There sue sees iwazumi standing I the doorway holding shackles which they use to chain her to her own bed

“Don’t worry sweetie, we’ll help you get rid of all of your stress”