#the cult of the screaming blade

[swtorpadawan]

Notes for Mila Eacalus?

Thanks for the ask, @khrushchevs-corn-farm !

It didn't go great for poor Mila, running into Zu'fanda Pampya. Had she encountered one of my other Sith Inquisitors, like Ozibaumnu, Quoraah or Tufiiy, it would have been reasonably painless.

Zu'fanda was pissed Mila didn't have her lightsaber. If Andronikos hadn't been there, she might have killed her on the spot.

(Andronikos is pretty DS, but he draws the line at torturing and murdering innocent women.)

After retrieving the lightsaber, Zu'fanda told Mila she had to make it up to her for her father's mistakes: She ordered her to join Rylee and Destris and help them run the Cult of the Screaming Blade.

Despite the loss of autonomy, Mila was relatively okay with working for the cult. She was able to pay off her family's debts.

But when things went sideways after Zu'fanda's death, things got hairy. The trio kept things going for as long as they could, but eventually, a riot got out of control.

In all the confusion, Mila and Destris were tragically killed while Rylee mysteriously disappeared.

(Dun-dun-duuuun!)

[owlcomics101]

”New Master.” Demon!Taskforce 141 x Human!Reader

Warnings: 15+ (Slightly suggestive but nothing NSFW I’m a minor), Gore, blood, drinking, smoking, cult stuff, demons, (I do not condone any of these things), Reader is gender neutral

GIF credits: (All in order and on tumblr) ekscelsior, eurodynamic, collinnmckinley, deactivated account. (Some of these users are MDNI so please leave them alone if your under 18 like me I’m just crediting them)

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

You were trapped in a dark room. Your hands tied behind your back-ropes digging into your wrists almost to the bone. You body aches and burns, the back of your head throbs it felt like you were hit by a truck, though apart of wishes it was actually a truck. You hear whispering around you until a match ignites and lights a candle in front of you. You were then greeted to masked hooded figures with strange symbols on their clothes and body’s that you couldn’t quite make out.

“Are you ready little lamb?” The hooded figure in front of you asked that sent uncomfortable shivers down your spine. You began to weakly thrash as your eyes dart around the room-taking in all blood stained paintings among the walls, body parts on display for the world to see and were still dripping with blood. All the other hooded figure’s eyes were on you and that’s when you realized; you’re in a cult, but not as a member…you were being sacrificed.

“Come now, don’t be scared…” The hooded figure in-front of you said as they slowly pulled out a knife whose handle was coated in pure gold that seemed to have never been cleaned. You couldn’t help but wonder how many innocent people they sacrificed for whatever god or…creature they worship.

“You’re going to make the world so much better…” Another cult member said as they walked over with a book in hand, slowly opening up and trying to look for the right page. Other cult members circled you. The hooded figure in-front of you took the sacrificial knife and cut your thigh open. You let out muffled cries of pain through tape muffling your mouth. The other cult members one by one dipped their fingers into your open wound and used your blood to start drawing a pentagram on the ground. You squirmed and screamed in pure agony as they continued to use your blood as nothing but paint to aid them in their fucked up drawing. The hooded figure slowly licked your blood off the dagger with a smirk on their face. They watch tears stream down your face and dripping off your chin.

“Shhh…” The hooded figure was quick to hush you as they were given a strange book by another cult member.

“Quiet now and be still, it’ll all be over soon little lamb.” The hooded figure reassured you, but you weren’t reassured at all. No one sane was here to witness your death. No one outside could hear you scream. No one knew where you are. No one is going to come to save you. You closed your eyes as you began to hear the cult chant. Maybe if you closed your eyes hard enough, you’d wake up back in your bed. Back at your rundown apartment and hearing the rain hit the roof and drip into a bucket in the corner of your room, but that hope vanished as you felt the blade press against your neck-only bearly grazing your skin. This was it. You were going to die.

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

Then It was quiet…and cold. Was this it? Were you finally dead? No. You could still feel and hear your heart pounding in your chest, you could feel the blood still gushing out of your thigh, your limbs burning from the ropes rubbing against them, and your head was still throbbing, but you could no longer feel the blade-just the small graze on your neck from it. You were afraid to open your eyes at first. Would the cult still be there? Are they just waiting for you to open your eyes so they could see the life drain out of them? You were hesitant at first, but slowly opened one eye before opening the others. You immediately regretted it. You were met with dozens of mutilated corpses of the cult members. Some of their bodies were twisted in ways that made them look inhuman. While others were missing all kinds of body parts. Your breathing grew heavy, your skin went pale from both the blood loss and the horror of it all. Your lips parted as you were getting ready to scream again but all that came out was just a choked raspy sob. You then heard voices from afar. Was it the surviving cult members? Maybe the cops? You knew it was a risk but you squirmed around and let out muffled screams to get the voice’s attention, but you were met with figures that weren’t….human. Four demons stood before you. Their features coming to light as they stepped closer to the light of the candles. One demon had a strange short Mohawk with two large horns that curved backwards like a goat’s, two large wings flexing, pointed ears with small hooped earrings at the bottom of them, and a long forked tail that swayed back and forth.

“Och, looks lik' we forgot yin. Ah jalouse oor master left us a bawherr plaything…” The demon that the other demons called ‘Soap’ or Johnny said. His accent was so thick that you couldn’t quite make any of his words out.

“God are succubuses always this horny?” Another demon spoke up. This demon was wingless, and had more snake like features, he had ram-like horns that curved downwards and a tail with a snake’s head at the end of it. This demon goes by Gaz.

“Quiet ya muppets.” This demon’s voice was deep and booming. He had crackled horns that curled outwards like a bull, large wings that are torn at the webbing with the upper half of a human skull that coved his face. The skull wielded demon was only ever called Ghost.

“Ah, relax Ghost, we just havin’ a we bit of fun.” The succubus smirked. His words becoming a bit more clearer to your ears as he crouches down in front of you. You flinch and squirm as the demon licks at the deep cut in your thigh.

“Wheres our bloody master anywa-“ The succubus was cut off by getting yanked by the horns and shoved away. A low hiss escapes his lips as the fourth and final demon approaches and kneels down before you.

“Right here.” He says bluntly. His voice gruff and cold which sent shivers down your spine as he moves your head to the side-taking a look at a strange symbol that somehow appeared on the side of your neck. This demon didn’t really have as much demonic features as the others, he seemed the most..human looking besides a pair of horns, sharp fangs and…white feather patches here and there on his body. The three other demons call this one Price. He seemed like the head of the group. The leader.

”What? Them!?” Gaz shouts before scanning your form and looking back to Price. “No offense, but they seemed like they were supposed to be our sacrifice.

“Doesn’t matter.” Price says as he pulls the tape from your mouth and cutting through the rope with his clawed hands.

“This is the mark is it not?” Price says as he makes you tilt your head to the side and expose your neck for all the others to see. Their eyes widening at the strange symbol on your neck.*

“Dammit.” Gaz mutters.

“Fecking hell.” Ghost said with a growl, shoving past Soap and Gaz. His large frame towering over you as he watched Price pick you up and carry you bridal style.

“What would you like us to do Master?” Price whispered to you, his voice hushed and his warm breath hitting your ear.

“……M-Master….?” You finally spoke, your works slurring as every thing starts to blur for you. The four demons waited for orders but their eyes widened as you immediately slumped and leaned into Price’s shoulder-burying your face into the crook of his neck as exhaustion had finally taken over. Everything started to go dark from there. Your vision blurred, voices began to muffle. You were finally going to rest. Yes, maybe you can sleep all this away and everything will be back to normal in the morning.

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

You begin to stir from your slumber, your heavy eyes slowly scan your surroundings. You’re back in your room.

”…See? Just a dream.” You mumble to yourself with a sluggish smile of relief. It was more like a fucked nightmare but a dream nonetheless. You were about to sit up and stretch when you had a weird feeling washing over you. You felt like you were being watched. The thought of being watched gave you goosebumps along your skin but you tried to blame it on paranoia from the nightmare you just had. You forced yourself to sit up. Your right thigh feeling painfully sore for some reason. You pull the covers off to see what was going on only to find a large gash in your thigh, but it was now all healed and scarred. Your eyes widened as your face paled in horror. It wasn’t a dream, and if it wasn’t a dream then that means-

“No, no, no-“ Suddenly something large jumped onto your bed and slowly crawled on top of you with wings spread out wide and a devilish smirk on its face.

“Good morning Master!” Soap yelled out to you.

[inklore]

crucified

premise: when his fingers slip between your open thighs you know there’s no other god you’d give yourself over to. no other god who can feed you, starve you, with such a loving hand.

pairing: lestat de lioncourt x human!reader

word count: 852

contents: blood and blood drinking, cult au, scars, inflicted wounds and cuts mentioned, foreplay, ownership kink, religious undertones.

note: if there's a sign up sheet i'm at the top of it hehe.

haunted hoedown day seven.

The cuts no longer hurt. 

No longer give your flesh that rippling sting through your nervous system for longer than seconds before the euphoria hits. 

Before the reminder of why you’re cutting yourself open with a blade to begin with. Why your fingers and wrists stain with the smell of copper for days after because you’ve bled so much for him. 

Always for him. 

The scars on your flesh only grow the longer you stay here. Stay with him. Worship him the way a man like him thinks he should be worshiped. 

Except he’s not a man.

Inhuman. 

Monster. 

God. 

The titles mean less to you than the beauty of the magic that is him. 

Lestat. 

You have a backstory. Something sad and traumatic that explains how you got to be here. How you’re on your knees in front of him, blood spilling down your arm—a new scar for him to lick clean. To heal with his tongue as he drinks from the bounty you’ve presented for him. 

A symbol of your devotion.

A symbol of your love. 

But you can’t remember anything but Lestat. Can’t think of a thought that doesn’t have him wrapped up in it. That isn’t a chant screaming out his name or making your insides swell until you have no choice but to relieve the burning. 

Sometimes with your own hand.

Sometimes, when you’ve proven yourself, he'll help you. 

Rid you of an ache that he’s caused. Take pity and use your body for selfish needs that stick with someone even after they’re no longer human. 

“It’s what you were made for.” He’ll whisper in your ear as his hips roll slowly between your thighs. 

And you’ll eat it up. Cling to him like something small and fragile who doesn’t want to be weened off the poison that gives them their only comfort. 

It’s why you showed up here tonight. Why you’re in his room, at his alter, knees digging into the hard floor, blood dripping, hooded eyes looking up at his smiling face. 

His legs spread, back against the velvet covering of the chair he’s in. 

A throne for a god. 

A monster. 

There’s a plead on your dry lips, falling down to his feet, licking his ego. It makes his hips shift, makes something in his eyes turn from hunger to starvation—something worse than thirst, than want, than need.

He loves his pets, but he loves them even more when they're bleeding for him. 

When they need him.

Elation makes a weak smile pull up the corners of your mouth as you watch him move to his knees in front of you. Joining you on the floor, showing you that yes, he’s going to give you what you want, what you need, even if that means stooping down to your level of frailty, to show his mercy. To show the kindness of a good god. A god who loves his people just as long as they’re offering up their lives in his hands.

Their blood on a perfectly scarred wrist that he’s wrapping his lips around and sucking from. 

Gasps and whimpers, head pointed towards the sky, eyes fluttering, insides burning, as he feeds from you. As he takes your offering, your gift, what he’s owed, what you’ll always give him—what you’re made for. 

His lips parting from your flesh to run the tip of his tongue over the cut, wet mouth pressing against the rough skin of past cuts he’s had his mouth against—tongue inside, fingers scooping up your devotion and pressing to your lips so you can taste the sweetness for yourself. 

“Do you like it when I bleed for you?” Your vision no longer blurry as you murmur the words. As his mouth hangs open centimeters away from yours, blood drips from his bottom lip and onto your white nightgown. 

His hand coming to hold the side of your neck, nails skating across your sensitive skin, making your jaw twitch on a silent moan. “Yes, ma petite.” He whispers before pressing his mouth against yours.

Yes, little one.

Yes, darling.

Yes, meal.

“When you taste this sweet, how could I not?” His tongue licks into your mouth, coats your tastebuds in the coppery flavor of your own devotion. Of your own demise. “Swallow it. Swallow and see why I keep you around.” His palm presses against your throat, waiting, wanting, daring you to swallow against it. 

Waiting to feel your throat bob as you do what he says and take back what you’ve offered him. Replenishing your senses with the blood that already beats within your veins to keep you alive—that you’ve relinquished to the monster who only keeps you alive when you’re spilling yourself of that life.

But when his fingers slip between your open thighs—the skillful press and pull of them—you know there’s no other god you’d give yourself over to. No other god who can feed you, starve you, with such a loving hand as Lestat can. 

When you come on his fingers, you know that this is truly what you were made for. 

You were made for him.

[battymommastuff]

Of Songbirds and Phoenix

al Ghul!Batmom x Gotham Knights (CONTAINS SPOILERS FROM GOTHAM KNIGHTS!)

Prompt: After the death of Bruce Wayne, his wife had vanished from the city, and only returns when she knows her children are in danger.

When Wayne Manor blew up and Bruce Wayne had been pronounced dead, one of the biggest questions was the outcome of his wife. Y/n Wayne was at the manor the night it blew up, but her body had never been recovered. The wonderful investigators at GCPD brushed it off under the excuse that your body had been completely blown up. A bullshit reason, but they were too lazy to do an in depth investigation. Your family however, worried that your body had been buried under the rubble in the now destroyed batcave. 

Fortunately for them...everyone was wrong. Days leading up to your husband's death, he sent you away to investigate his latest case. The Court of Owls. A conspiracy theory that he believed to be true, and so he sent you overseas to investigate some other claims of this infamous cult. The conspiracy only detailed members from Gotham's wealthiest families, but he wanted to be thorough. Your investigation led you to your twin sister, Talia al Ghul. You figured out her plan at the same time that your children had, and you didn't hesitate on making your way back to Gotham. 

Talia's plan to take over Gotham had been foiled, all while you watched from a distance. It was Bruce's wish. He wanted his family to be able to take care of Gotham should he perish, and wanted them to have the chance to thrive. You granted that wish by watching your children from the shadows. They were trained well because several times they turned in your direction or almost caught you. 

Tonight, Bruce's wish wouldn't be met. You'd been stalking Robin since he left the Belfry. He was on a routine patrol. Take down the bad guys and protect the city. What he didn't notice were the several League of Shadow members tailing him. You noticed right away. They were using the same methods you were. Talia's doing no doubt. She wanted revenge, and would ambush your youngest son to get it. 

Robin had just finished the takedown of some Freaks when several puffs of smoke appeared all around him. He wasn't a stranger to an ambush from the league, but this was more than he was used to. Luckily he wasn't alone. Using his bo staff and sling shot, he quickly darted around taking down members of the League. However, it seemed that the more they took the...the more that appeared. 

"Get down, little bird!" A voice called out. Robin ducked down without hesitation and heard the sound of metal flying through the air then a scream of pain. Looking up, a shuriken was embedded in the chest of a league member. A female dropped down in front of Robin, wielding two beautiful katana's in her hands, "Talia?" He asked, in confusion. The figure turned towards him and he paled, "M-Mom?" 

"What the hell did you just say?" The voice of Red Hood spoke through the comms. Robin couldn't answer, all he could do was watch as you skillfully took down the League of Shadows members. When the last member went down, you sheathed your blades and made your way over to Robin, "Little bird? Are you injured?" You asked while kneeling down in front of him. His mask didn't have the white lenses so you saw how watery his eyes were, "M-Mom?" He whispered in disbelief. He'd been mouring you as well as Bruce for weeks now. Knowing that he wouldn't relax until you proved that he wasn't dreaming, you wrapped your arms around him. Robin collapsed against your chest with loud sobs escaping his chest. That was the confirmation that the rest of the team needed. You were alive. 

After calming down enough to drive, Robin drove you both back to the Belfry on the bike. He held your hand in a death grip from the moment you stepped off of the bike. Tim had been so torn up about losing his parental figures that he wasn't planning on letting you go anytime soon. The doors opened, and you hesitantly stepped in. There you saw what remained of your family. 

Dick looked like he wanted to cry and pass out at the same time

Alfred was holding back his tears behind a relieved smile

Barbara had a few tears slipping from her eyes, but kept trying to wipe them away. 

Jason was staring holes into the ground. He couldn't bring himself to look at you. 

Dick was the first one to walk towards you, "You're really here?" He asked so softly, you almost didn't hear him. He gently touched your face, hair and shoulders. If anyone had been mouring you harder than Tim, it was Dick. You'd raised him since he was eight years old. He dug through piles of rubble with his bare hands looking for you, and here you were. Completely unharmed. 

"I'm here, my songbird." Dick wrapped his arms around you, nearly crushing you against his chest. Tim let go of your hand to give you this moment with your oldest son. Dick was the leader of this team. Batman's chosen successor. The one who was supposed to be the strongest, and yet he fell apart once he hugged his mother. He didn't have to be the strongest with her. He could be that eight year old boy again. The one that ran to her whenever he had a nightmare. The one who would gush over him and mend all of his wounds from his time as Robin, "How are you here? We thought you died?" He asked, pulling away from you. 

"Bruce sent me away to investigate the Court. They originate here in Gotham, but he heard rumors of other sightings in the middle east as well as the UK. He wanted this to be as covert as possible. That's why he told Tim I left for a business trip for Wayne Enterprises. If the world thought I was dead, then I could continue my investigation from the shadows." You were an al Ghul by blood. You were raised as a killer and taught to use the shadows to your advantage. Before his death, Bruce made you swear to never take another life while with him. Now that he was gone...you had no one to keep the vow to. 

Alfred and Barbara joined Dick with several tear filled hugs and questions. Tim was glued to your side, only leaving to change out of his suit, "Why did you come back?" You turned away from Barbara to look over at Jason. His jaw was clenched, and his arms crossed over his chest, "You didn't bother to reach out after Bruce's death, so why bother now?" Everyone, but you had glares on their faces. 

"My phoenix, I wanted to reach out. The moment I heard of Bruce's death, I wanted nothing more than to be right here with you all. I stayed away as a promise to Bruce. I'm glad I did. You all did so much more than what I could have. I'm so proud of you all. Especially you, Jason." 

Watching this big brute of a man melt at the words from a woman much smaller than him was a funny sight. Jason visibly relaxed and you wrapped him up in a warm hug. He hugged you back tightly, and let out a shaky breath. 

"I missed you, Mom. So much."

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

!!!Author's Note!!

Sorry for going MIA for so long. I have been very busy, but I am hopefully going to be back in action soon. I've been working on a new series for this blog that I'm excited to present to you all! Enjoy this little imagine, and I hope to see you all very soon! <3 ~ Batty

[lovesickeros]

☆ de fontaine

{☆} characters furina {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings angst, suicidal thoughts, hurt / no comfort {☆} word count 1.4k

This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair!

She thought, for one moment, she could put the mask down and breathe – for one moment of daydreaming, she thought she could just be Furina. She thought she would finally get to live the live she should've had in the first place, the life she threw away to play God to an audience who saw her as nothing but a circus animal, dancing to their whims. Furina just wanted to be selfish for one brief and fleeting moment..and it was gone before she could even grasp it in her hand. A comet soaring past far out of her reach.

She can barely keep her hands from violently shaking as she looks down at them – broken and bloody and more a corpse then a person – and she feels so numb she can't even feel the rain pelting against her back. None of this is fair, she wants to scream, why is it always me? But her voice is silent beneath the torrent of rain. She wonders if the ocean would take her if she sank into it's depths – just for a moment, she wonders how it would feel to finally be able to sleep at ease.

Furina is tired.

But Furina is nothing if not useful, isn't she?

So she forces her feet to move, dragging against the stone beneath her heels, and drags their bloodied body into the nearest empty building, letting the rain do the work of washing away the smeared blood following her path. The smell makes her feel sick, the feeling of it sticking to her hands and gloves makes her lightheaded, but she persists. Because Furina is useful, because Furina won't let them die out in the rain, because Furina won't stand by and just let them rot on the streets like some..pest.

Furina wants to go home. She wants to sleep and she isn't she if she wants to wake up, this time. But she keeps going anyway.

Because it's all she's ever done, and the habit sticks.

An Archon she may not be, not anymore, but the expectations of five hundred years still linger like eyes on the inside of her skull. They watch her, pry and prod at her thoughts, mocking laughter and judging eyes following her as she forces herself to dance to the song they weave with glee. Furina never stepped off that stage – she's still there, she thinks, watching the crowd stare at her in disdain as the curtain call looms above her like a guillotine. She still hears Neuvillette deliver her damnation and salvation with a trembling voice, still feels her hair stand on end when electro crackled like the crack of the whip, Clorinde's blade aimed at her like a loaded gun.

She's trapped on that stage and she never left, not really.

She hates it. She thinks she hates them, but it's not their fault. They didn't ask for this, didn't ask for everyone to turn against them, didn't ask for her to save them. Neither did she..yet here they are, she thinks.

She tries to tell herself she's in control this time, though. She can stop performing her part in this horrible, bloody play any time she wants. It makes her feel better, just for a little while, if she convinces herself she's still Furina, painfully human.

And Furina has always been good at lying.

It's the believing that's the hard part.

There isn't time for her to wallow in her own self pity, though. They're still bleeding out onto the dusty, creaky floorboards of some random, broken down house and she's just standing there as the blood stains the wood. She can fix it – she's good at fixing things. She's done nothing but fix things – try to, anyway – for five hundred years. She can fix a little wound, how hard could it be? Her hands are clenched so tight they ache as she kneels down, wincing at the creak of the floorboards beneath her heels– she hesitates just long enough to wonder if she's making a mistake before she peels away just enough of the outer layer of their clothes to see the deep, bloody gash across their chest. She tries not to think about it – it's deep, too deep, and she feels dizzy just looking at it, but she's handled worse, right?

Furina can fix it. That's what she's good at.

She doesn't feel so confident when she tries to wrack her brain for..something. Five hundred years, and a little wound stumps her? No, she had to have learned something, right? She's decidedly not trying to buy time because she's panicking, parsing through hundreds of years of memories like flipping through a book. Furina isn't made for this, not really – she's running on nothing but adrenaline and she's really not sure what she's doing, but she's trying. And just like before, it won't be enough, will it?

She'll fall short again – she'll be too late to fix it before she's alone again.

Furina was an Archon..used to be. What use would she have for that sort of knowledge? Which makes her predicament all the more harrowing and bleak. What was she supposed to do?

Furina had heard it first hand, that vitriol in Neuvillette's voice. She isn't sure she's ever heard him that..angry before. She's not sure he would listen to her if she tried, either. And that scares her more then anything. All of Fontaine was up in arms about this..imposter, yet here she was, staring down at them bleeding out in front of her, and she was trying to save them.

Why? Why is she throwing away her only chance at normalcy for a fraud? Why didn't she just turn them in?

They were dying – that should've been a good thing, shouldn't it? So why didn't it feel like it?

"Why you?" Her voice breaks as she speaks in harsh tones, grabbing the front of their shirt in trembling, bloodied hands. "Why now?" She wants to scream, to demand answers they can't give, to claw back the reprieve she was promised after five hundred years of agony..and all she can do is sob into their chest, pleading for an answer that will not come. "Why me?"

Silence is their answer, and it hangs heavy on her trembling shoulders as she cries.

Of course they don't, she thinks bitterly, no one has ever answered her pleas spoken in hushed sobs. Not her other self and certainly not them.

Furina has always been alone. Furina will always be alone.

Because Furina never left that stage, never left that moment when she looked at herself in the mirror and took up a mantle too heavy for her to bear. She always finds her way back eventually. There's no one on the other side anymore – she stands alone on a stage, waiting for an inevitable end she isn't sure will come.

"Please," She pleads through tears and choked sobs, clinging to them like they are all that keeps her from sinking. "Please don't leave me, too." The words burn on her tongue – how pathetic is she that she craves companionship from the bloodied body of the imposter? Perhaps she's truly lost her mind after all these years..perhaps she's finally gone mad. She must have.

But their presence is like the first feeling of gentle warmth upon her skin as the sun crests the horizon, like the gentle lap of tides along her heels, the sway of branches and leaves as the wind blows through them like an instrument all it's own. They are the soothing sound of rain against the window as she watches the dreary skies in fond longing, the first bloom of spring as color blooms upon the landscape like paint had been spilled across the hills and valleys.

They are like the faint spark she carefully nurtures and stokes, so fragile even the smallest wind could blow it out like a candle. She cradles it within her palms, pleads with whoever will listen – prays that someone finally listens, because if not for her, then for them.

She's failed to protect too much already, let too many people with so much trust in her fall between the cracks of her fingers like grains of sand. She won't let them go – she can't.

If nothing else, if she couldn't be saved when she begged for salvation from that five hundred year long agony, even if she never got that chance..

Furina will make sure they do.

[sinnful-darling]

yandere! god hcs

tws: confining, implied stalking and keeping tabs, gore, religious themes, cult themes, blood drinking, death, loss of loved ones, reader tried to kill themself but they dont actually hurt themself, intimidation, forced immortality

— yan! god whose true name has been lost through the millennia he's been alive. he now goes by silthos, god of fantasies, fertility, and love. or at least that’s what the humans said.

— yan! God who is actually the god of infatuation, devotion, and obsession. silthos can’t believe that the humans has twisted it so badly throughout the centuries he’s been alive. it doesn’t matter to him though, so long as he has devoted followers and continues to receive worship, he will remain a powerful god

— yan! god who everyone worshipped, but longed for a connection of his own. he wanted a lover of his own; being by himself for centuries on end was damaging to his mental state, you know?

— yan! god who has never had a lover despite all the goddesses and demigods that throw themselves at him. none of them were worthy of his time or effort, nor were they worthy of bedding him. the lot of them were shallow and conceited anyway, not to mention the fact that he found none of them attractive.

— yan! god who actually inherited his title, or rather took his rightful place. though none of the humans knew, he killed his predecessor and inherited his powers through drinking the old man’s ichor.

— yan! god who decides to take a stroll down in the human realm to cure his boredom, and boy is he glad he did. standing in the midst of a crowded street was little ol’ you. lovely, innocent, jaded you. the only human in his territory that didn’t worship him is right in front of him. how amusing.

— yan! god who approaches you as a tourist, asking you questions about the local customs, feeling pride swell in his chest when he hears that starting tomorrow, the annual week-long festival in his name begins.

— yan! god who asks your opinion on the town’s god, eye twitching as your nose scrunches in distaste.

��i don’t like the old fuck. did some digging because something wasnt sitting right with me, and ended up finding some old scripts stating that silthos was not the god my town thinks he is, and is actually a god of obsession and infatuation. pretty fucked up guy if you ask me.”

— yan! god whose heart nearly beats out of his chest while he eagerly listens to your long winded rant about why no one sane would worship him. something clicks and snaps in his chest, an undeniable attraction to you beginning to form.

— yan! god who gets your number (he stole some poor victim’s phone smh) and asks you if you’d like to get coffee with him under the guise of wanting to hear more about how you found out the true nature of what he rules over. the two of you become rather close within a few days.

— yan! god who you stand up a few weeks later. he immediately goes to your home and finds that you’ve already left. it seems the cat and mouse game has started..

— yan! god who in a blind rage slaughters all of your friends and loved ones. tearing their viscera from their body and making crude shapes with them. on the walls of each home is a lovely note for you.

you can’t run. i know where you are.

— yan! god who finds you cursing his name in an empty parking lot, eyes red and puffy as you curl into yourself and your nails dig into the meat of your arms.

— yan! god who is quick to whisk you away to his domain, your home. he takes your screaming and pleading in stride, and he even puts up with each wound you inflict on him. but the moment you turn the blade on yourself is the moment he loses it.

— eyes glowing a bright pink, yan! god releases a fraction of his aura, causing your movements to come to an abrupt halt, the blade inches from your throat. he’s quick to snatch the blade from your hands and grip your chin.

“if you ever try to harm yourself again, you will not like the outcome. am i understood?”

— yan! god who descends with you to hold a ceremony amongst his people and announce you as both his spouse and mate. the people rejoice and congratulate the two of you, ignoring the pleading looks you send their way. they shower you in gifts and make plans to rebuild the statues and temples to fit the image of your newly announced marriage.

— yan! god who forces you to drink his ichor, reconstructing your genetic composition into a deity befitting your standing. now the two of you can be together forever.

[ellewritesalright]

Nine Long Years - Part 7

Nikolai Lantsov x Rietveld!reader, Kaz Brekker x sister!Rietveld!reader (platonic)

Part 6 --- Masterlist

Synopsis: After watching your brothers die, you found yourself working on the Volkvolny. In the many years since then, you somehow became the queen of Ravka while your brother somehow survived firepox and life in the Barrel, rising through its ranks. In disguise during a diplomatic trip with your husband Nikolai, you meet Kaz Brekker for what you think is the first time, only to find out that he is your long-thought-dead little brother.

Author's Note: Well... long time no see. I'm happy to finally share this part. it's been several months in the works since I have been very busy with college. So thank you to all who have stuck around. This part takes place around the start of the Ruin and Rising book, and is a fair bit shorter than the last few parts have been (btw I can't believe I've written over 40k words for this series) but I hope you all like it. I went a bit easier with the angst than I expected by giving these two a slight break

Warnings: mentions of death, angst and fluff, mentions of sickness, injury, panic attacks, firepox. If I'm missing something pls lmk

Word Count: 3,570

……….

SIXTH YEAR

Genya's handiwork stung. Though she was fixing your injuries, the nature of her Corporalki abilities was that she had to undo your injuries in a similar process as their infliction. You tried not to complain as she treated your fractured and cut shoulder, but you were still swallowing back a scream. Tamar ran a soothing hand along your head as she and Tolya held you down.

"Hold still for me." You could vaguely hear Genya say.

You gave a slight nod, all you could manage at the moment. The pain was excruciating. There was fire all along your shoulder blade and up and over to the corner of your collarbone where the Darlking's nichevo'ya had clawed at you. Like sticking a red hot iron to flesh. You were biting down so hard on the handle of Tamar's axe that you thought you might break a tooth. The Tailor's hands hovered over your shoulder and your body jolted but Tolya tightened his grip.

Everything was dark. It never occurred to you how musty and dank an underground tunnel system would be. You'd never considered a place like this could even exist. But here you were, below ground, in the darkest, dankest little "room" you'd ever been in. And no amount of candles or incense trays staved your new fear of the dark.

When you closed your eyes, you could see Nikolai. The way his eyes frantically found yours across the room. How he screamed when his brother was torn apart by the Darkling's shadow creatures. The silent nod of understanding as you guarded Alina while he helped his parents escape.

You wondered where he was now. With any luck, Nikolai escaped on the Kingfisher. He was safe and sound and able to fight the war while Alina and the rest of you were all underground. He had to be safe. Saints above and below, by the grace of Ghezen, and on the holiness of even the Fjerdan god, he had to be safe.

Because if he wasn't, you simply wouldn't know what to do. 

You felt the pain end, and you glanced back at the trio of corporalki behind you.

"There," Genya spoke softly, easing her hands away from your shoulder. "This is about all I can do. The scarring doesn't go away completely."

Her eyes dropped in shame, one of the scars on her cheek pulling as she frowned slightly. Tamar and Tolya had released you, and you sat up. You gently took Genya's hand, giving her a grateful smile.

"You've healed me to full strength, and that's all that matters," you said kindly. "Thank you."

She smiled back at you.

……….

Time blurred together underground. You were still guarding Alina, and you'd constantly accompany her through the elaborate tunnels. You didn't trust the Apparat running this little underground cult. He had come to Alina's aid, that was true enough. But there was no doubt in your mind that the snivelly, power-hungry little man had some ulterior motive. Nikolai had told you about him many years ago while at sea.

"The religious counsel to my father is a weasel of a fellow. That man would bite the head off a live snake if it meant he would gain control of a single chapel, let alone the whole of Ravka," Nikolai said of the Apparat. 

You could only hope Alina wasn't the snake in this case.

You worried for your sun summoner. It was no wonder that you all looked worn after your fight with the Darkling, but most of you had healed up despite your weariness. Yet Alina didn't seem to recover. She had lost use of her summoning in the past few months. It was difficult to say if that was because you were so far away from the sun, or because of the strain from her last fight with the Darkling; either way, you'd never seen her look so pale and sickly. 

"It doesn't seem like anything helps her," Mal worriedly whispered to you one evening as you two ate off to the side of the usual huddle your group maintained. "Not water, or food, or any sort of activity."

"She probably just needs sun," you said, trying to ease his mind. "Once we figure out how to escape this place, we'll get her above ground and she'll be better."

"What if that's not all? When she fought the Darkling--"

"Don't think on it, Oretsev." You cut him off. "That's no way to be, with your worrying. We'll get her out, and she'll get better. That's it."

Mal let out a long sigh and went back to eating.

Your words had carried conviction. You had no idea how your group would escape, but you didn't mention that. It was all you could do to lift your friends' spirits, even though you were as unsettled as you'd felt since you were a girl in a Ketterdam harbour.

In the evenings, you roomed with Tamar and Tolya. Often sleeping between them, their breathing--and Tolya's snoring--reminded you that you were alive and somehow safe, no matter how temporary.

But even so, the dank underground smelled like death. It was like you were back on the cobbles of Ketterdam, seeing your brothers in every corner of every dark cavern in this place. They haunted you, even here. And, with no one to distract you from them, no one to hold you and reassure you that you weren't at fault for their sickness, their ghosts dogged you all hours of the day.

There were a few children underground, and sometimes when they'd cry you could just feel the sobs your baby brother cried against your shoulder when Da had passed away. You could taste the sick you emptied into the harbour after you lost your brothers. 

It occurred to you that maybe this was your lot in life; maybe you were just meant to be haunted. You were plagued, for lack of a better word.

You couldn't count how many times a day your mind strayed to Nikolai. Worries or memories would surface, and you were unable to stave them just as you couldn't stave thoughts of your family. Truthfully, you didn't want to keep them at bay anymore. If you could die tomorrow and join your brothers, you would rather die with Nikolai in your thoughts than with nothing but fear and grief dogging your brain.

The anger you'd harboured for Nikolai had vanished. Your grudge seemed so insignificant now that you were separated like this. Everything seemed insignificant when you were trapped in a tomb.

At night the only reprieve you had from all the ghosts was when you'd finally fall asleep, your fingers clutching Nikolai's ring on the chain around your neck. 

���…….

When you and your friends finally surfaced again, it was a mad dash escape from that weasel and his cult. 

You were running through some forest with them. You had no idea where you surfaced, all you knew was that it wasn't just the Aparat's cult after you, but a sect of Vasily's old Grisha-hating First Army. The soldiers were hot on your tails as you dashed through the trees. Tolya and Tamar were on your right, Genya was to your left, and Alina and Mal were slightly ahead of you. Shots were being fired behind you, and you weaved and ducked to avoid bullets as you ran aimlessly. Some of the Grisha you were travelling with used their skills to take on those in pursuit of you, but there were too many of them. 

Just when it felt as though you would never make it out of this forest and away from the soldiers, you heard a familiar shouting of command. Repeat revolvers starting gunning from above, and you grabbed Genya and ducked to the side as the Kingfisher flew overhead, taking out your remaining foes. 

It was all a blur as the flying ship landed. Your mind was whirring as Genya helped you to your feet, guiding you to the ship. You watched the others climb aboard, then you took your turn as well. As you clutched the wooden rails, you remembered the last time you'd been on this vessel, how you fell asleep below deck, curled up against Nikolai.

Nikolai.

As soon as he reentered your mind, your head was whipping around to catch sight of him, for surely he was here. It didn't take you long to hone in on him. He was speaking with Mal, grim expressions on both of their faces. Alina was there too, guzzling down a water flask; she looked automatically healthier now that she was out of the dirt and into the sun, but still not at full strength. Your eyes went to Nikolai again, and he seemed to be glancing around as well. When his eyes locked on yours, you swore you almost started to cry. The tension in his brow loosened, his strong shoulders relaxing for a second before he quickly excused himself from Mal and Alina. He strode directly over to you, bracing you in a hug. You clutched him back, face bundled in his chest as he gripped you so tightly.

There was a long moment in his arms as you embraced, but you both needed it. You'd gone months without knowing if each other were alive, much less alright.

"Thank every Saint that ever was," Nikolai chuckled in relief as he held you. He leaned back, bracing your arms. He noticed the rip in your jacket where the nichevo’ya had cut up your shoulder in the chapel. While the cult was able to provide a new shirt and trousers for you, there'd been no replacement jacket for you underground. "That's no good. Here." 

He shed his military coat and slung it over you. He dusted off the sleeves as you just stood there watching him. You'd almost forgotten how warm his hazel eyes were.

"Are you alright?" He whispered, his hands still holding to your forearms almost as if reminding himself that you were really there in front of him.

There was no way to tell him about your time underground, about the scar on your shoulder and the feeling that maybe your whole life was just haunted. It took everything in you to reply with hope.

"Better now," you whispered back, nodding softly.

He smiled regretfully at you. You knew him well enough to know that he had something to say, but you weren't going to pressure it out of him. The last time you'd seen him you were still upset with him over his engagement–something that felt inconsequential now. Months away from him had turned your anger to dust, and now you just wanted to wipe clean and move on as best as you could--with or without him.

Nikolai looked at you for a moment, then hugged you again. He whispered something in Kerch, an old saying that you could remember your Ma and Da saying to one another when you were younger and your world was a farm and a family that was whole.

"My soul knows no richer than yours," he muttered into your ear, speaking your native tongue in his pretty lilt.

You teared up slightly. Your hand made a weak fist against his chest as you replied in Kerch. "You're infuriating."

"I know." 

He cupped your cheek, and you leaned into his palm, staring at his soft hazel eyes.

"Go below deck, and I'll join you in a moment, alright?" He whispered kindly.

You nodded and made your way below. It took Nikolai longer than expected to join. There were others below deck, a few injured Grisha and Nikolai's First Army soldiers being tended to. You watched bones being reset, blood being transferred, and breathing assisted. You flinched as one of the soldiers coughed up blood, making a hauntingly familiar noise. Just as you looked away for fear of nausea, a hand grabbed yours. Nikolai had sat down beside you, and he gave your hand a comforting squeeze.

He let you lean into his side as the two of you sat there in silence.

……….

The Kingfisher flew for nearly a half hour more, but Nikolai stayed with you below deck until they had to dock the flying ship. When you arrived at the Spinning Wheel, there were lots of Grisha-friendly First Army there to greet everyone. The rescued were all led to different rooms, and as someone approached you to get you settled, Nikolai murmured something to them. They nodded and helped you through the winding hallways. You were given a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom, and you wondered what you'd done to earn a private space like this. Surely many people at the Spinning Wheel had to share rooms. 

Once you were alone, you shed your dank, dirt-covered cult clothes and discarded them in the bedroom while you ran a bath for yourself. 

As you sank into the warm water you let your mind settle. It felt odd to feel safe again. After your time below ground, you didn’t know when you’d feel this way again, but you were grateful it was now.

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door, and you heard Nikolai's voice.

“I took your clothes to the washers and brought you clean trousers and a shirt. I'll leave them just outside the door here for when you're finished your bath," he said kindly.

"Thank you," you called out, your voice slightly unsteady. 

The thought of Nikolai on the other side of the door made your heart race. There was something about the moment that felt distinctly like your first trip to West Ravka back when you began to know him more as Nikolai than Sturmhond. The separation by only a door felt as excruciating as it used to feel watching him get into bed beside you without being able to reach for him. Prudence and politeness governed you both so strictly back them, and it had taken reign once again.

You shut your eyes and tried to relax some more in the bath, but your peace had shattered at the thought of Nikolai being so near yet so out of your reach.

You huffed to yourself as you got out of the bath and dried off. You took the clothes Nikolai had left for you and dressed yourself. The layers of soft white linen were slightly thin, but certainly not unappreciated. After months in the same clothes that you were rarely allowed to wash, you were overdue for something clean and fresh. 

Without realizing it, your feet carried you to your bedroom door. It wasn't as though you knew where anything was in this place, but you twisted the knob and stepped into the hallway anyways. You made it two steps before you realized he was there, leaning against the wall beside your door.

"Hi," he said, blushing slightly.

You nodded at him. "Hi."

"Can we talk?" He asked, his eyes earnest.

You nodded again, stepping back into your room and letting him follow.

There were no other chairs or seating in the room, so you sat on the edge of your bed.

Nikolai sat a respectable distance beside you. "I wanted to tell you that--what's this?" 

His eyes were on your shirt's wide collar, where the edge of your shoulder scar peeked out. You hooked a finger into your collar, pulling it to show a bit more of the scar as you angled your back to him too.

"Oh… it's from the nichevo’ya. One just barely nicked my shoulder as we first escaped into the tunnels." You felt a slight sting as he gently grazed his thumb along it. You relished his touch and the reminder that he was alive and with you so much so that you didn't even mind the sting. "Genya says it's permanent."

"I should have been there," he murmured.

You shook your head, turning back to look at him. "No, I'm glad you weren't. You needed to be above ground."

"I should have been with you." His eyes had that earnest look crossed with slight guilt.

"You had to get your parents to safety and rally what was left of the First Army, Nikolai."

"I wanted to be with you." He said as he held your hand, interlocking your fingers. "You're the woman I love, and I thought of you every second of every day I wasn't with you. Saints, I need you more than I need air."

You leaned closer to him, pressing your forehead against his collarbone. It wasn't meant in any romantic way, more just as a silent way to express that you loved him too, that you cared deeply for him. He brought his one arm around your shoulder as the other still held your hand.

"That's why I'm not going through with it," he said, and you could feel the rumble of his words against your head.

"With what?" You whispered.

"The engagement with Alina."

You leaned back slightly to look in his eyes. "What?"

He thumbed along your cheek. "Once the war is won, Alina and I will not be getting married. She and I have spoken already."

"But what about the unification of Ravka and the first and second army?"

"That can happen some other way." He looked deeply into your eyes. "But once we've won this war, I only want one thing."

You sighed and gave him a sad smile. "Niko–"

"Will you marry me?"

Your breath caught in your chest.

There was a time you thought he would ask you this, before you landed in Ravka more permanently, before you got launched into this war against the Darkling. But you knew he still had his ambitions.

"Is it because your brother's dead? Because you're guaranteed to be king now?" You asked.

He sighed and shook his head. It was hard to tell if he'd expected any apprehension from you. "It's because I love you. More than anything else I could ever think of. When I first arrived at the Spinning Wheel, everyone else whined about the cold of the mountains or the fact that they missed tea service and their evening kvas, but all I missed was you." He gently squeezed your hand. "Every day I spent not knowing if you were safe, if you were alive… I could barely sleep, barely eat… You're all I could ever want."

The look in his eyes was reminiscent of his soft yet resolute stare when he’d placed that crown on your head. It felt like a lifetime ago that he whispered honey in your ears and you listened without a shred of apprehension. But right now this wasn’t honey. This was raw. This was real. This was Nikolai in a state of total resolve. And you knew you wouldn’t be made a fool if you accepted him.

"I am all you want?" you whispered in response, your lips curling upwards slightly.

"You are. I want to spend my life with you," he smiled. "Will you marry me?"

“Yes." You nodded, a full smile forming on your lips. “I'll marry you. Of course I will.”

Nikolai broke into a grin. He cupped your cheeks and kept grinning at you, his eyes locked with yours. “Saints, I love you more than anything.” He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, then dipped down to capture your lips.

It was the first you’d kissed him in months and months. Truly, you hadn’t felt his lips on yours since before you’d crossed the fold. It ignited a forgotten hunger in you, and you kissed him back with a deep longing.

“I missed you,” he murmured as you pulled back for a moment. You noticed tears in his eyes. “I was so stupid, and I’m sorry for how I treated you. I never should have proposed to Alina, or made you feel like I only wanted you in secret. I want you, I’m proud to want you, and I never want my love for you to be a secret. I want you as my queen–my truest companion, as you have always been. I just… I want you.”

You kissed him again, wrapping your arms around him. You leaned so far against him that he rested his back against the headboard, bringing you with him. You missed the closeness with him, the intimacy of being pressed into his body as you kissed. Your fingers threaded into his golden hair as you sighed into his soft lips.

“Do you forgive me?” He whispered and you took in a breath.

Your fingers idly traced the skin right above his shirt collar. “I’ll forgive you once you get me a ring and make it official.”

“I gave you a ring years ago, my dear.” His finger went to the chain around your neck, and he pulled it loose from under your shirt, making his old silver ring dangle between you. “One could argue that we’ve been engaged all this time.”

“Then one could also argue that you were most definitely cheating on your fiance when you proposed to someone else,” you smirked at him.

“Ouch. I deserved that,” he chuckled.

He cupped your face again, his palms warm against your skin.

“I’ll get you a new ring. Something regal and fit for the most beautiful queen Ravka will ever know, moi tsaritsa.”

You smiled and leaned down to kiss him again. “Good.”

..........

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment on this new part--I really appreciate the feedback! If you want to be tagged in this series or to be added to the Nikolai taglist please comment on this part or send me an ask. Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)

Masterlist

Taglist: I will reblog this part with the tags because there's too many of you to tag and tumblr won't let me do it all at once :)

[nightcolorz]

I can’t stop thinking about how Anne Rice said that writing the devils minion chapter in qotd was what made her realize that Armand wasn’t the “bad guy” bcus like,,,,,yeah. Like, we meet him in iwtv, and he’s poised and seductive with an ominous undercurrent. We can’t prove he killed Claudia but there’s definitely more going on then meets the eye. He keeps humans like pets to drink from and discards them when they become inconvenient. Very much a puppet master with a pretty face. The we meet him again in tvl and he’s..Not as Poised certainly. He’s a wreck and he’s broken and lost and full of resentment. He has nothing to hide, he’s a cult leader who mass murders his followers and attacks Lestat like a beast begging him for dick screaming and crying and throwing up. Then we leave him like that and meet him again, and he’s iwtv Armand again! But now the mask in unveiled, he’s very explicitly evil, killing Claudia, manipulating Louis, torturing Lestat, etc. and that’s Armand. Antagonist Armand, until Queen of the damned. Queen of the damned Armand is iwtv and tvl Armand certainly. He’s manipulative and obsessive and monstrous for sure. But he also has an adorable laugh that makes him seem youthful and human. He loves humanity and technology, and watching the times change. He doesn’t understand why men are violent when they don’t have to be and he thinks Time Bandits is hilarious and Blade Runner is too bcus it reminds him of his friend Lestat. He thinks cameras are a marvel and film is a miracle bcus it allows him to see the sun after all these years. He gives money to children trick or treating bcus they charm him. He’s protective, he loves to nurture. He thinks vampirism is a fate worse then death and he would never ever want to inflict that on anyone. But he’s weak and emotional and he gives in bcus he can’t handle seeing Daniel die. And I just,, uuugh. Devils minion is so good it’s like the icing on the cake of Armand.

[meanbossart]

Sorry if you answered this, I did go through your asks a bit but didn't find an answer and I was just curious if you have any lore regarding the drow and Orin? Does he have, like, any thoughts regarding her as a pseudo-sister or she is just a henchmen that stabbed him in the back? Or like, regarding the fact it was her betrayal that got him out from the cult and eventually meeting Astarion and the gang? I feel a lot of people sanitize the Durge a little too much (which fair reaction, they are very fucked up in the game 😂) so I love hearing about people who have their durge lean on their violent weirdness

Huh! I guess it's been a minute since we've talked about Orin. Yes, their relationship was very significant and you should be able to find all that I've written and drawn with/about her here (save for anything I forgot to tag, which happens sometimes, lol.)

Also as a side note to everyone, please abstain from making comments about how other people choose to write their Durges (and Astarion for that matter) in my askbox, it is rarely (If ever) necessary.

Anyways, I guess this is a good opportunity to try and put it all down cohesively, so here we go:

DU drow came into the Bhaal temple at ages 17-19, he had lived a profoundly isolated life up until that point where his only constant companion would have been the lackey Sceleritas and, for a time, a horse. He had no friends, no companions, and killed the one woman he lost his virginity to the day after he met her. Sarevok and the rest of the Bhaalists taking him might have been a mockery of a family unit, but it was the closest he ever had to it nonetheless - and by far the one person in it that he felt the closest to was Orin, who was close to him in age and in that moment in time occupied a similar place in the temple's hierarchy as himself.

It's important to note here that when I say they were close, I'm talking about a closeness befitting of Bhaalspawn. They didn't share any good times; they had bad times together. And they enjoyed it to the extent that two profoundly dysfunctional young adults groomed to become murderous deities can. There was no tenderness here, feeling was expressed through violence and vulnerability wasn't only discouraged, it straight up wasn't practiced or even conceptualized in either of their heads. They killed together, mocked one-another, and hurt each other on the regular, and it's through those actions that they saw each other.

And yet, DU drow felt a burning limerence towards her from the moment he laid eyes on Orin, and this feeling never faltered, only grew. Orin cut off his matted hair in a careless, uneven slice of a blade, she pulled out his rotting molars with rusty pliers, she mocked his stink and resented his arrival (dare I say she was afraid, because she knew what it meant) but they had much more in common than they had in difference. This was a silent understanding, a screaming fact of life that led to them often gravitating towards each other in both packed and empty rooms, but never once discussed aloud.

I have no doubt that what would eventually become this Rabid, burning crush and later obsession of the drow's towards Orin is a result of their continous Isolation. The rest of the world was beneath them and temporary, and above was only Sarevok and Bhaal. Because of this, DU drow never once thought or desired to search for companionship and love anywhere besides for her, and so he started to see her not only as the vague concept of a sister, but also as his only option for a mate and wife, one which he embraced wholeheartedly (and that's putting it lightly).

Orin, on the other hand, had no such desires. Not to mention that her fear of being replaced and the implied consequences of it always spoke louder than any genuine feelings of comradery.

As DU drow ascended in the ranks and became head of the cult, those fears solidified in several ways. Not only did Sarevok favor him and she could feel herself being pushed aside, but DU drow's ego grew tenfold. What was once a quiet young man who saw himself as an equal to her became a self-righteous bhaalspawn who lavished in his role and all the boons that came with it. DU drow took everything he had acquired for granted, including her, whom he assumed would eventually succumb and become his romantic partner.

It didn't help that Sarevok subtly encouraged this partnership, thinking that through their children they could continue to produce bhaalspawn of a purer and more efficient pedigree.

Ironically, DU drow's disillusions went so far that he never once in his life thought Orin would turn against him, and as much of an egomaniac as he became, his love for her was always genuine - misguided, but genuine, and he never once wished for her death until she betrayed him. Realizing this, as well as that Bhaal would only accept one chosen, she struck, putting the tadpole in his head and sending him off to Kressa.

[disillusioneddanny]

The Savior, The Reaper, and The Champion

Today was a bad brain day. That was the first thing Danny had realized as he laid beside Tim and let the other man rest his head on Danny’s bicep. On the other side of the human, Conner laid down, wrapping his strong arm around the man’s waist and burying his face in between Tim’s shoulder blades. 

No one ever tells you that being a supervillain is so fucking hard. That there would be days where you struggled to even get out of bed. When they had each chosen this life, they knew it would be hard. That there would be days where they questioned if what they were doing really was for the greater good of the world–even if the Justice League didn’t see it that way. 

That was the biggest thing, Danny had mused. They weren’t really villains, not to anyone except for the Justice League and the eyes of the government. Most of the citizens in this world loved the duo.

“It’s okay, we’re here,” Danny whispered as Tim let out a sob. He ran his fingers through his hair as he and Conner held their little super genius close. Today was one of the harder days. It was the anniversary of the day Bruce Wayne had officially disowned Tim Drake. It was a bittersweet day considering how it had ended between them. On one hand, Tim had felt liberated, no longer under the thumb of Batman, the World’s Greatest Detective and Control Freak. But on the other hand, he had lost the only real father figure he had ever had. 

The day Tim had gone on his own, he had lost practically everyone. Danny wanted to hate Bruce for it, but it had also been the reason he had met Tim in the first place. It had been just five years ago now, the day that Tim had first summoned Danny. 

He pressed a kiss to Tim’s head as another sob wracked through his lithe frame and Conner’s arms tighten just a bit around Tim as the man buried his face in Danny’s chest. 

“We’re here, we love you,” Conner whispered in Tim’s ear, voice hushed, calming. 

They had met just a few days after Tim had gotten into a screaming match with Bruce–a fight that Conner and Danny still didn’t have all the details for. He had gone off on his own, determined to destroy the League of Assassins once and for all and to have Ra’s Al Ghul die by his hand. He had summoned the Ghost King to find out about the secrets of the Lazarus Waters. Upon learning about them and Ra’s, though, Danny had decided to help get rid of them for good. No one was meant to live forever, not the way Ra’s was doing it at least. It was easy to say that once Danny learned of how the assassin cult was using the corrupted ectoplasm, he was more than ready to help take them down.

Between the two of them, they had completely destroyed the League and Ra’s. Upon learning about it, Tim’s family had been horrified. Apparently they had been holding out hope that he wouldn’t go through with his plans, that he wouldn’t fall so far and fast from the pedestal he had once stood on as Red Robin. They had cut him off, decided that Tim had crossed a line and they were unwilling to forgive him for it. Surprisingly, the only one who had stayed in touch was Jason. 

“Family pariahs have to stick together,” he had said. It also hadn’t helped that Danny had managed to heal the pit rage inside of him and supplement it with a healthy ghost core. 

The others, though, had declared Tim a rogue for his actions. Dick had even gone as far as saying that Tim had hit supervillain status and was on the same level as Lex Luthor. Danny didn’t see it that way. In his opinion, all they had done was get rid of an organization that would never truly stop killing, no matter how many times Batman and co. fought them. 

“I just want to forget about it,” Tim whispered, his fingers bunched in Danny’s shirt. 

After they had destroyed the league, the couple had fallen in love, they had finally found someone who was at the same level. They were the perfect puzzle pieces for one another. And once Danny had felt close enough to Tim, he had told him his trauma, shared with him the pain he had never told another living soul. 

And Tim? Well he went out that very night and placed a few explosives in just the right spots. And they had done their jobs. The GIW and the Fentons would never harm Danny again. He had the vivisection scars to remind him of the pain that they had caused but he would never see them again. It was then that the young ghost king had decided that he would follow Tim to the ends of the earth, do whatever Tim wanted from him. 

He may have been the Ghost King but Tim was his monarch and he was prepared to worship him any time and any place, prepared to do whatever bidding he desired. And it was then that Savior and Reaper had made their names known far and wide. 

Tim had declared himself the savior, promising to destroy those that the Justice League were too cowardly to fight, and he had declared Danny his loyal right hand man, his knight to command, his reaper. 

The people saw them as heroes, finally doing what others wouldn’t. Everyone else saw them as supervllains. TIm liked to call themselves the necessary evils. Conner liked to say that they were just doing what the heroes were too cowardly to do. They were willing to darken their own souls if it meant saving others. 

They had run into Conner shortly after Reaper and Savior had killed the Joker and sent his soul to the Nightmare Realm where he would suffer for all of eternity. He had known Tim from his heroes days and knew that if anyone would help him, it would be Tim. Soon Savior, Reaper and their newest member,Champion, had made their move and Lex Luthor had become their newest target. For a man who had done so much damage, it had been laughable at how easy it was to kill him once and for all. Danny had made sure to give him a special place in the Nightmare Realms for the pain he had caused Conner.

The team had made a name for themselves, they hadn’t come up with a name but Danny had heard the whispers of stories and myths, of how others would reverently call them the world’s new furies. They had become gods of vengence. Tim had been likened to Alecto for being unceasing, Danny had been compared to Tisiphone for being avenging, and Conner had been dubbed Megaera for being grudging.

So they had taken it for themselves, the Furies of the New World they were called, or just Furies for short. 

“I know you do, baby,” Danny murmured. “But it’s a part of you, it’s who you are.”

“I miss them,” Tim said with a whimper, curling in on himself. Oh their fearless leader, Tim who had called himself Savior and swore to protect the world from injustice, who despite himself being powerless himself, kept two of the most powerful beings on tight leashes behind him, ready to unleash them into the world on his command. And yet he still was just so small, he trusted Danny and Conner so much that he allowed them to see through the facade, to force their way through the cracks and see the broken man he had become. 

Some say that you have to sell your soul to become a fighter for the people. Danny was pleased to say it wasn’t true, he saw Tim’s soul, saw his love to his bones and knew him better than anyone in the world.  

“I miss talking to Alfred, sparring with Bruce, late night Bat Burger with Dick–I miss my life. I just, was this all a mistake? Is Bruce right? Did we go too far in our mission? Did I lose my family for nothing?” Tim whispered, wracking his fingers through Danny’s hair, petting him slowly. The ghost nearly purred at his lover’s touch. 

“We can stop if you want,” Danny offered quietly. “I can get Clockwork to reset time, let us start all over, let you decide-”

“No,” Tim said sternly. “I don’t want to forget what we’ve done. We’ve helped too many people for that. I’m just being a baby,” he said softly, folding in on himself slightly. 

“We can have Danny take us to a completely different dimension,” Conner offered, his thumb rubbed along Tim’s hipbone. “We can make new lives, leave all of this behind. We’ll make you happy, Tim, happier than you can even imagine.”

“We’re still needed,” Tim said, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “We still have so much to make right, to fix. I just miss the life I had, it doesn’t mean I hate the new one. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be,” Danny told him seriously, moving to rest his head on his hand and looked down at Tim. “We all have our days. Timmy, my parents cut me apart limb from limb and there are still days I miss them, where I miss the life I had before all of this. It’s how the world goes.”

“The two of you make life so much easier,” Tim whispered, looking between his two lovers, tears collected in the corners of his eyes. Conner swiped a thumb across both, wiping them away. “I’m glad I have both of you here with me, I feel less insane, less out of control.”

“You’re not insane or out of control,” Danny murmured before he pressed forward and kissed Tim’s pouty lips softly. 

“Yeah,” Conner murmured, pushing Tim’s shirt up slowly so that he could tweak a nipple softly. “You’re our fearless leader.”

“And we’re your strong henchmen,” Danny finished, and nipped at Tim’s nose, making his precious lover giggle.

“You aren’t henchmen, we’re partners,” Tim argued, glaring at both of them. Danny and Conner just grinned at one another before they looked at Tim. 

“Nope,” Conner said. “You’re the brains and we’re the brawn.”

“We’ll follow you anywhere,” Danny said reverently. “Why do you think I call you my Northstar?”

[just-jordie-things]

satoru for kiss #17!!! 🤭

this one's popular!! let's do third year!gojo bc it just screams him 17: Needing To Kiss To Hide From The Bad Guys ___

"this is your fault by the way!"

you're running out of breath from how long you've been running, but you still find it in you to scold your designated partner for this assignment. it may have been childish of you to pass blame, especially when a group of curse users from the curse user group q were hot on your tail, but you can't help your irritation.

you'd come so close to success, the star plasma vessel had been safely picked up by you and satoru. but of course he had to stand around and gloat, gaining the attention of the entire block of people. and apparently those people weren't all non-sorcerers.

"my fault!?" satoru gasps, feigning offense. "need i remind you i could have taken on this mission alone?"

"you clearly couldn't have!" you fire back, and nod off to an alleyway just a few feet again that you could duck into to get the curse users off your back. satoru nods back in understanding, but it doesn't stop him from continuing your argument.

"had i been sent alone I wouldn't have to worry about covering for your ass!" he reminds you, but you roll your eyes, barely taking his words to heart, or even mind. "i could've gotten riko and teleported away! but no! because someone can't teleport!"

"well i'm sorry we can't all be you!" you hiss, just as you near the first hiding spot you could find.

you and satoru are quick to turn the corner between buildings, running just a little further to get behind a dumpster that barely hid both of your bodies. even as you pressed your backs against the brick as tightly as you could, you weren't sure this was the best of hiding spaces. and you hated to admit satoru was right, because you knew he'd hold it over your head for the rest of time, but had he been alone, he could've gotten out of this stitch in a blink of an eye. you were the dead weight here. you were the one that needed to run away.

you peeked through the slight opening behind the dumpster, keeping a watchful eye for the barrage of curse users currently hunting you down.

"apology accepted" satoru finally spoke, and when you whipped your head around you weren't surprised to see that smug grin on his face.

you rolled your eyes and ultimately decided to ignore this spat and focus on the task at hand.

"you're right," you admit begrudgingly. "you should teleport back to suguru and riko, make sure they got somewhere safe, and unseen"

"what? i'm not gonna ditch you here," satoru scoffs at the idea. "if these guys find you, you surely can't take them all on,"

you frown at the insinuation that you were so weak you couldn't knock down some measly cult followers. but rather than argue, you simply pulled your blade from it's sheath on your thigh, and raised a brow.

"i'm not leaving," satoru says decidedly. "the plan was you and i lead them the opposite direction. they'll assume i have riko- since I'm the strongest-" he doesn't hesitate to remind you of that fact. "and in the meantime her and suguru will be far, far from here"

"fine" you mutter, not needing the recap of the plan you'd come up with not ten minutes ago.

still, you feel antsy as you hear heavy footsteps of ten, no, twelve people approaching. not because you feared them, no, you were confident enough in yourself to know you could handle yourself against such a pitiful group of opponents.

but had they seen through your plan and realized the plasma star vessel wasn't with you, you worried they'd get word back to your leader and the hunt for gojo satoru would end, and the hunt for riko amanai would begin again.

"they're getting close," you whisper, your hand ghosting over the weapon on your leg. "if any of them look in this direction they're going to see us. this isn't enough to hide us"

satoru's eyes catch the way your grip tightens around the handle of your knife, ready to unsheathe it, and probably launch it in the direction of the first man you see. he comes up with a better plan before the curse users even come in sight.

with a hand on your shoulder he turns you around, and your training should have you reacting when he slides before you, pressing you between the wall and his body, but you're so distracted by the height difference between you to move a muscle. you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, which are completely focused and calm, while yours are wide and flickering between his wildly to try and figure out what he was doing.

"they'll see you-" you begin to warn him, but he doesn't seem to care.

"they're not going to want to look this way," he says, and with baited breath you watch the way his eyes fall to your lips. he wasn't seriously thinking about-? "trust me, okay?"

it's as though you're reading his mind, understanding his backup plan without spoken words. it has your heart fluttering madly in your chest, but somehow you give him a small nod, conveying all of your trust is in him.

the sound of quick footfall is drowned out as soon as his lips are against yours. your beating heart softens and relaxes at the feeling of his warm, soft lips sliding over yours, and you find your eyes fluttering shut as you give in to his kiss as though it were anything more than a cover.

and it seems he's happy to put on a show, his lips locking with yours in a sloppy but steady, fast motion. he kisses you like he's a man starved and you have just the sustenance he needs, he kisses you like he needs the air in your lungs- and you're happy to provide it for him.

his hands are firmly planted at your hips, and he has to focus to keep them there so he doesn't let himself get too carried away.

your hands, however, have taken on a mind of their own, and they're everywhere. you grip his shoulders at first, afraid of losing your balance even though there's nowhere for you to topple, with his chest to yours and your back against the brick wall, all that surrounded you was him. but as soon as you surrender yourself to him, your hands are on his neck, in his hair, gripping the front of his uniform, running across the broad expanse of his shoulders, you can't stop them, you can't help yourself.

distantly, you think if this is your only chance to have him like this, you may as well make the most of it.

it feels like an eternity when he's kissing you, hurriedly, messily, his teeth grazing your bottom lip and heavy pants falling into your mouth, but as soon as you pull apart from one another, it felt as though it was only a matter of seconds.

your chest is rising and falling so much with your quick gasps for breath that you're still close to him, pressing into him even if you'd wanted to put space between you again.

"they're gone?" you pant quietly, and satoru realizes he'd just been staring at you, at your dilated pupils and swollen lips, when he should've peeked around the corner to ensure the coast was clear.

he chuckles breathlessly before doing so, and nods back at you in confirmation.

"yeah," he huffs, just as winded as you were. "they're gone"

maybe it had been the sprinting beforehand. maybe it wasn't just that you'd completely sucked the life out of each other in the most magnificent way possible.

"okay" you nod your head, a bit shakily, your nerves beginning to eat away at your insides.

was that anxiety or was it butterflies? you weren't able to decipher just what the feeling was that satoru had left behind when he'd kissed you like that, but it has you frozen in place, still chest to chest with him.

your hands are still on his chest, you realize, and quickly you pull them away, a bashful shade of pink spreading across your cheeks.

satoru smirks, tilting his head at you.

"was that your first kiss?" he asks, leaning in close to your face again, admiring your blush

"shut up" you mutter back, trying to look away from him, but it was hard when he was so close to you.

satoru chuckles amusedly, before planting a kiss on your cheek and finally stepping out of your space.

"well, no time to get into it now!" he declares, grabbing your hand and tugging you along out of the alley. "we've got an assignment to finish don't we?"

you don't say anything as he tangles his fingers in yours and begins to lead you to the meet-up spot with suguru and riko. your tongue is tied, and you hope that satoru brushes it off as simple nerves, and not, like, feelings, or something.

"but then we can go back to that," he grins down at you, adoring the way your eyes go round like a lost puppy, and your loss of words is evident in your gaping mouth. "because that was fun"

if he doesn't get you killed during this assignment, he'll surely be the death of you. ___

a/n: he's so cocky i love him xoxo ~ jordie

[spicyraeman]

I mainly liked the three girls of bg3 first, Astarion is okay but I feel like generally a lil overrated and unreceptive to change or other opinions until he feels like it, and gale reminds me of my pre transition self so no thanks. But Wyll, the more I play with him in my party the more I love him and angrier I get at how dirty he’s been done. Honestly to me he’s a bard. Either multiclass or in a good world where he gets free of Mizora. He’s already a hybrid charisma caster, he likes to travel and help people, he has his whole blade of the frontiers pseudonym and the dorky ass salute, he SCREAMS swords or valour bard to me. He deserves to be a fully seen as a dashing Prince Charming with a heart of gold that just has some devils claws stuck in it. Imagine post game Wyll doing the same thing as before but instead of using Mizora’s power he’s inspiring and leading people to defend themselves with knowledge and tales of taking down the cult and the elder brain. Larian hire me I have pages I can send to Theo Solomon he’ll sound beautiful.

Wyll Ravengard really is the man of all time and his stans truly are god's strongest soldiers

He would make a fantastic bard, and that's always what i imagine he switches to post game if he breaks his pact

[anon-e-miss]

At Waiting's End - 7 Consequences

Camshaft was uneasy. Though Optimus Prime had been an ally in the evacuation, he was still a Prime and Camshaft had seen the degradation Cybertron had suffered under Zeta and Sentinel and he did not trust the Matrix of Leadership’s decision making at all. The mech would need to prove himself because carrying the Matrix was a mark against him and not a boon. It had been a long time since Camshaft had been in Iacon. He had never gained access to the Primal Palace from which the Autobot base had emerged. His handlers had been more concerned with technologies and trade secrets and not the cult of the Prime. One of ten thousand refugees, Camshaft did not go unnoticed, Autobots cast him a long look here and there as he explored the grounds. They left him be, which was exactly what he wanted.

“They’re treating that slut like a hero,” a voice sneered. Cocking his helm to the side, Camshaft approached. Fury quickly built in his spark. Was this the mech Prowl had mentioned? The mnemosurgeon.

“Didn’t he shoot down that trine?” Someone else asked.

“That’s his story,” the Tagonian sneered. “I can’t believe Jazz is buying that that’s his bitty. You’d think he’d be smarter than to get conned into raising someone Con’s bastard.”

“You think he was clanging with a Con?” The Seeker asked.

“How do you think the Cons got through Praxus’ legendary defences?” The mech asked. “Obviously that traitor was...”

Crack!

The smartmouth’s friends jumped back as Camshaft hit him with a vicious right hook. He fell to the ground, visor shattered. Angry flashed from yellow optics and he tried to lunge at Camshaft but the spy spun and kicked him in the chassis, sending him flying. Camshaft pinned him down with one ped. Revealing himself to be exactly who Camshaft had thought him to be, the mnemosurgeons needles slowly extended from his servo, meant to be used as a weapon of course. Glaring into his optics, Camshaft smashed his ped down on that servo, spearing his palm with the blade hidden in his heal. The mech screamed. As one of the mech’s friends approached, Camshaft cocked his helm.

“I have no quarrel with you,” he said. “On the surface. You do keep this cretin’s company and that is a point against you.”

“Uh... we aren’t actually friends or anything,” the Seeker said, raising his servos.

“Coward,” the mnemosurgeon growled.

“You would do well not to speak,” Camshaft warned him. “If I hear you have spoken my creation’s designation or eluded to him in slanderous conversation again I will rip out your glossa and then drive those needles you violated him with through your optics.”

“You are Prowl’s originator?” A mech with a scope on his shoulder asked. He had a refined accent that suggested he had been educated in the Towers.

“Yes,” Camshaft replied. He gave the mech a look of challenge. Camshaft knew his creation had not felt welcome among the Autobots.

“Well,” the Seeker said. “You’re terrifying.”

“That is a sensible reaction,” Camshaft replied. “Should your security forces wish to speak with me, I am staying with Jazz.”

They did not try to detain him, no doubt because they were terrified. If that cretin wanted to file a complaint against him, Camshaft would welcome it. Was it Chromedome that he called himself now? Prowl had told Camshaft two designations for the same mech and he could not remember which was current. It did not matter. He was the sludge beneath Camshaft’s peds. He had never suffered a consequence for his abuse of his needles and now he had. Camshaft did not mind facing the consequences of this small act of vengeance, if it suited the Prime to dispense them. It would have suited Camshaft well enough to kill the afthole but he was too well-practised to kill openly. Should Chromedome not abide his order, Camshaft would consider escalating his vengeance but it would not be public and it would not be traceable to him. He was far too professional to be caught out so easily.

“Cam?” Camshaft froze. His processor pinched not unlike Prowl’s did when he had a crash brewing but Camshaft’s never went so far. Slowly he turned. How could it be? “Holy Pit, it really is you.”

“Downshift,” Camshaft whispered the designation. How could it be? He had met this mech in Polyhex, spying on Straxus’ operations. How could he be here in front of him after so long?”

“It’s been a long time,” Downshift said, smiling. “I’ve been thinkin’ o’ ya since Megs hit Praxus, wonderin’ if ya was there.”

“I was in the catacombs,” Camshaft explained.

“I’m headin’ to a security call, can I buy ya a drink, this dark-cycle?” Downshift asked.

“I... sure... yes,” Camshaft replied.

“Great!” Downshift exclaimed. “Maccadam’s, 8 o’clock?”

“I will see you there,” Camshaft promised.

Downshift smiled again and disappeared around the corner, going to the security call Camshaft assumed actually involved him. It seemed like a good time to go home. What was he thinking? Maybe he would just... no, Camshaft could not lie to himself so easily, he knew damn well he would be going to that bar. What was he thinking? He had told Downshift had been called home on urgent business. That business had been the carrying Camshaft had uncovered. After Sideways had stolen Barricade from him, Camshaft had been unwilling to risk losing another bitlet and he had followed Praxian tradition and had gone home to emerge his creation. From then on, Camshaft had remained in Praxus, raising his creation, guarding him from those that considered his glitch a fatal flaw. He had never considered tracking Downshift down. That was not what Praxians did. Yet, Downshift was half Praxian. Smokescreen looked entirely Praxian but in reality, his code was made up of more Polyhexian code than it did Praxian. Prowl had no idea.

“Originator, are you alright?” Prowl asked when he returned home.

“The Autobot Security Forces may be calling,” Camshaft explained, though that was not the reason he no doubt looked ashen.

“Why?” Prowl asked. He held Smokescreen tightly. Oblivious, the little bitlet continued to nurse. Bluestreak, sitting on a pillow at Prowl’s peds, looked up from his book.

“I came across a loathsome mech speaking ill of you and my grandcreation,” Camshaft explained.

“Who?” Jazz asked, stepping from the kitchen. His originator, Punch, was with him.

“Chromedome was the glyph Prowl used once,” Camshaft replied.

“What was he sayin’?” Jazz asked.

“It is of no matter,” Prowl spoke up. Jazz canted his helm to Camshaft. He wanted his answer.

“He called him a slut and suggested Smokescreen had been sired by a Decepticon,” Camshaft explained. “That he aided the Decepticons in annihilating Praxus.”

“That piece of scrap,” Jazz growled. “I knew ya had issues but I ne’er knew it was that bad.”

“Prowl... you never told him?” Camshaft asked. “Now would be the time since I may have mentioned it when I was kicking his aft.”

“Jazz, Chromedome used his needles on me,” Prowl explained, as sparkling safely as he could. “It was not invited. It happened more than once.”

“‘M gonna kill ‘m,” Jazz growled.

“Do not,” Prowl ordered.

“If yer worried ‘bout Jazz gettin’ into trouble, what wit the bitty, I can take care o’ it,” Punch offered.

“No one is killing Chromedome,” Prowl said.

“Bitlet,” Camshaft said. “He is worth the paperwork.”

Prowl disagreed. It was not in his nature to fight bullies. He had learned to ignore them, they had just been too numerous in Praxus. But Chromedome had effected Prowl’s inclusion in the Autobots, having enlisted after him and he had effected Prowl’s sense of self and security and that was unforgivable. Feeling like an outsider, Prowl had fled the moment he had learned he was gravid, afraid somehow he would lose the bitlet, despite the fact that he had loved Jazz dearly. Vorns of bullying and harassment had made Prowl feel too vulnerable, especially with the onslaught of maternal code. Camshaft did not believe one beating was adequate punishment, only utter ruination or death would sate the originator’s wrath. He was, however a patient mech and he was willing to wait to sate his energon lust.

Jazz resolved the matter with the Autobot Security Forces. His glyphs, being the third in command, carried a great deal of wait and Chromedome was now finding himself the target of an investigation, instead of the victim of a crime. Camshaft showered but he did not polish. This was not a date and he did not wish to give Downshift the wrong impression. Prowl seemed worried as he readied himself to go but Camshaft reaffirmed his promise that he was not going to trouble Chromedome. His creation knew something was off and Camshaft did not believe he was terribly reassured. Camshaft brushed his crest against his creations as he snuggled with his bitlet and his mechling. Bluestreak was theirs, if not legally, in spark and that was what counted. He did not have the glyphs to tell Prowl that he the acquaintance he was meeting was his progenitor, so he did not. For the moment, Camshaft did not know if he would even tell Downshift. So much time had passed, what would even be the point?

“Oh frag,” Camshaft moaned loudly.

Downshift mouth was on his neck, his servos on his aft and his spike, buried deep in his core. His legs and arms were wrapped around the other mech as they moved together. Arching his back, Camshaft hooked his leg over Downshift’s hip and urged him deeper. Bowed over him, Downshift held Camshaft’s servos above his helm as he kissed his face, his neck, his wells. They were not even intoxicated. Downshift had bought a round of drinks and then invited Camshaft back to his habsuite to talk more, though they had not managed much talking. It was just like the first dark-cycle they had met. The attraction, physical and sexual, had been instantaneous and all encompassing.

“I never stopped thinkin’ bout ya,” Downshift told him when they rested later, intertwined.

“I as well,” Camshaft replied. He dimmed his optics. How was he going to dig himself out of this mess.

[paradlselost]

CRIMSON.

JOHN SEED X FEMALE DEPUTY

Sort of a dump, I was really debating on just publishing this as a WIP but I was halfway through the smut and decided to just finish it. Not my best, but I tried to go for a more canon accurate John, which means he’s a major freak in this sorry :/

I mentioned it in the fic but didn’t go too deep, I kinda love toying with the idea of a more selfish deputy - humanizing them. If I were to ever write a longer fic with more of an oc-ized version of the deputy would anyone read? Let me know.

I probably won’t post about John Seed or FC5 for a little while after this. I have ideas for a Black Noir (my bbg) fic and then a Father Paul Hill one from Midnight Mass cause I love religious trauma as y’all can tell. I do also like indoctrinated!deputy so maybe maybe eventually I write about that.

2.7k words

content warnings: mentions of cutting into flesh. smut — dubcon, choking, blood play (John being a freak sorry), dryhumping, oral (m receiving), fingering, debauchery in a house of God.

She should’ve known from the start, when the crackle of her radio sounded, interjecting her music with his voice; that this request was nothing but trouble. But rage had blinded her, wrath seeped into every pore in her body, selfishness.

It was never the Deputy’s plan to become the symbol for the resistance, even after the blades of the helicopter stopped, and smoke and fire billowed out from the engine. Even after Dutch saved her and enlisted her help, and despite the stories from countless other resistance members, she only really had one prerogative; save her friends. 

Hudson, Pratt, Whitehorse. Trapped in the claws of the cult, it was her duty to get them back, and despite the help she had been giving to the resistance, those were the only three people she cared about.

He knew this, stalking her like a cat preparing to pounce, he watched every facet of her life from the moment she ventured into Holland Valley that he could. A selfish little thing, ripe for his obsession.

John Seed was a proud man, bold and brave as he had so eloquently begged Jacob to put in his song. His pedestal as a Herald inflated his ego, the knowledge that without him Eden’s Gate wouldn’t have prospered nearly as much fueled his narcissism, which is why he surrounded himself with only the peggies who would do anything for him.

He isn’t sure whether new members are supposed to pledge their lives to him and the cult, but it sounds so sweet when the floor pools with the blood of their atonement and he coaxes those little words from his new followers' lips. His tongue is coated in silver, he loves this new power, and she threatens to take that from him.

He knew she wouldn’t be as proactive if he crooned to her that he had a resistance member or two, and she would swing in guns blazing if he claimed to have Hudson right beside him. So, instead he played on her curiosity, that little nudge in the back of her mind that forced her to seek him out whenever he called. Like a moth to a flame.

“Fuck you, Seed!” Voice so filled with venom it might’ve burned a hole in the floor, he tilted his head at her profanity, a sadistic grin playing on his face.

Hope County was filled with little white churches, chapels with steeples that attempted to reach to the heavens above. She assumed they were much more lively before, now most were barren except on Sundays, when the peggies who could not fit onto Joseph’s compound would listen to him under random roofs of God.

This. He chose to be under the white ceiling specifically, to call her into the thing she had been fighting against. To hear her screams echo against the chipped painting that decorated the walls, for her blood to be stained on the old wooden floorboards.

Curiosity killed the cat. She was stupid enough to venture into his trap, falling to the ground when hit hard enough over the head, and now she was stupid enough to attempt to fight off the peggies that held either arm.

“Such profanity. You’re in a house of God, Deputy, mind your tongue.” He scolded her as if she was a misbehaving child, as if everything she had ever done could be chalked up to that. A spoiled rotten brat.

His fingers danced over the tools he had brought with him, his trusty tattoo gun being at the top, but an assortment of knives he also deemed fit for this occasion. Oh, the blood she would spill for him, he became giddy at the thought.

“Get off of me-! Woah woah woah- hey stop!” Yelping, she still attempted to fight off the peggies that held her arms, she shied away when he advanced toward her, tattoo gun in his hands. He had tried this before, she knew what he was doing.

“No one here to help you now, Wrath. Don’t try and fight, your atonement will hurt much less if you cooperate.” He was too calm for this situation, a practiced art he had been through hundreds of times. It was a skill, making people spill their most intimate secrets, a skill he had perfected.

The Deputy was a fighter, through and through, though John could understand Jacobs words. She was weak without her companions, without pastor Jerome stealing her from her atonement, or Nick Rye strafing his armed convoy, she was nothing now - and it was almost endearing to him.

With her hands bound, she resorted to spitting that same venom that she held in her words, marking his perfect face with her saliva. He grimaced, wiping it off his cheek before it trailed down to his beard, pretty blue eyes flashing with that same bloodlust that dictated his every waking moment.

It was shocking to even the peggies that held her when he grabbed her by her throat, pinning her to the ground and straddling her hips. His hands shook with anger - the same wrath that he deemed consumed her now making an appearance in himself. Two sides of the same coin, two heads of a snake.

Her head ached now, body feeling as though it was echoing. A second blow to the back of her head that surely would’ve knocked her out if the pain of his tattoo gun wasn’t keeping her grounded. She didn’t know how fast he had ripped her shirt, or how long it would take for him to carve her skin, but she was reduced to pained whines and pleas for him to stop.

And he relished in the noises she made. The blood that covered his hands and trickled down her chest wasn’t an unusual sight for the herald - but her being the one under him made it all the more exciting. His Deputy, his wrath, his perfect rival. The peggies that stood above him now didn’t matter, and what are they to him anyways? Expendable followers he could use, the Deputy was everything.

“Yes yes, c’mon, keep pleading…” How could he help it? Her eyes half lidded as she looked up at him, hands no longer bound by the peggies now loosely grabbing the wrist that held the tattoo gun in an attempt to stop him. She looked so pathetic under him, so why shouldn’t he grind himself against her when his pants were so uncomfortably tight?

Her words didn’t quite reach his ears, not as he waved his followers out - who hurriedly scrambled in embarrassment. The old church was silent, save for her soft sobs and his intense breathing. His hand still placed over her neck made her choke on her words, which only fueled his desire. He could crush her windpipe, her life rested in his hands, and maybe he would’ve if the nagging reminder that she was the only way he was getting into New Eden wasn’t playing in the back of his head.

His ticket, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun with her.

He removed his hand from her neck as he finished carving into her pretty skin. WRATH, her own personal scarlet letters. He hummed, looking down at her with lustful eyes, fluttering between hers and the blood that pooled on her chest and trickled down her body to the wooden floor below.

She hated the feeling that bubbled in her chest as the pain subsided, now only a dull ache danced with the look he gave her, how he rubbed the tent made in his pants against her. No doubt, a mark had been left on her neck - his handprint, a reminder. The world felt silent at this moment, when she should've pushed him off.

Selfishness. Prioritizing that small ache he gave her over what she should be doing. Finding anything to act as a weapon against him.

But she didn’t, not as his head lowered and she was greeted with his perfectly slicked back hair, shaking hands reaching to play with a strand. A soft grumble came from his throat, tongue lapping at the blood that trickled down the valley of her chest, tasting what he had drawn out of her.

“What are you doing-?” Her voice was soft, he barely heard it over the ringing in his ears. Too long had he been subjected to resorting to his hand when he thought about her, or messing up his silk pillowcases with his pretty ropes when she teased him over the radio. He had her under him, he wasn’t going to let her go now.

“Shh.” His voice was more scolding then he meant it to be, his tongue traveling from the blood he lapped at down to her budding nipple. He wasn’t gentle, and why should he be? After everything she had messed up for him, he felt it justified to bite down on her pretty flesh, pulling at the bud as much as he wanted.

He relished in the pretty, pained moans that fell from her lips, how her back arched into it. Two sides of the same coin, both reveling in whatever pain was brought to them.

The Deputy’s head tilted back, allowing him a chance to latch onto her neck as a vampire would, smearing the blood on his lips all over her pretty skin. He bit, marking her with his teeth over the forming bruises from his handprint. His hands, decorated in the crimson from his hold on the tattoo gun traveled down her body, painting her in her own red.

He slipped his hand below the rough fabric of her jeans, being met with a contrast, soft and delicate and slightly damp. A soft grumble left his lips at the feeling; which were still pressed against her pretty neck. He felt the way her breath hitched as he ran digits over her most delicate areas. Being so close to her neck, he felt how her muscles tightened and how her breath hitched in her throat.

Lifting her hips to meet his tattooed fingers, a small admission of need. She bit her bottom lip to suppress the noises that tempted to fall from her lips - not wanting to give him the satisfaction. They were still enemies, still rivals, at least to her. 

John on the other hand seemed to be on cloud nine, relishing in how she moved against his hand, grinding herself through the fabric of her underwear. He bit down once more, slipping her out of her jeans and grabbing her hips, sitting up and pressing his pelvis against hers.

“John- John cmon…” Head thrown back, panting as she grabbed at the blue silk of his top. He tilted his head down at her, a sadistic smirk playing on his features.

He always took what he wanted, no matter who it was, and the Deputy was no exception to this. To him, it was God's Grace that placed them both here, that gave him the opportunity to rut his hips against hers.

The bulge in his covered jeans met her underwear, fucking himself against her covered cunt. He leaned down overtop of her, panting against her ear. Hot breath on her neck, the sounds of his soft moans mixing with his heavy breaths, and of course his restricted cock grazing just over her clit every couple of thrusts, it was enough to make any girl's eyes roll back.

He stopped, only for a moment, but long enough for her to let out a needy whine, lifting her head to see what he was doing. Tattooed fingers worked the EG belt off, letting his pants pool at his ankles. He wasted no time once they were off, underwear meeting underwear as the outline of his dick was much more pronounced.

“Fuck fuck, put your head back. Fucking-… good girl.” He groaned out, one hand leaving her hips and grabbing at her pretty hair, pulling her head back against the cold wooden floor of the church. She ached, head pounding and echoing from the injuries earlier - but the feeling of him fucking himself against her needy cunt kept her grounded.

In this moment, she needed him, needed this feeling to not pass out.

He tilted his own head back, sweat casting a slick sheen over his skin. A hand dipped against the drying blood on her chest, gathering what he could over his fingertips before bringing them to his lips, sucking on the bloodied digits. He groaned around his fingers, muffling the moans that threatened to fall.

The head of his cock strained against the blue fabric of his boxers, hips thrusting sloppily against her as his hand tightened on her hips, leaving pretty marks in his wake. One thrust, another thrust, and finally another before white pooled at the head, spurting out of the tiny holes in his underwear.

Panting, he finally moved his fingers out of his mouth, cleaned off the blood and tilted his head down at her almost mockingly; he got to finish, the cum that leaked from his underwear dripping down onto hers, and she didn’t get to. He relished in that, that power he had over her.

“H-hey! Not fair!”

“Oh, Deputy. Come here, maybe I’ll let you get off.”

He grinned as he stood up, fixing himself before moving back onto one of the pews, watching her scramble over to him. He had her eating out of the palm of his hand as she kneeled in front of him. Her head pounded harder, eyes a little woozy.

“Poor baby, rest your head, sweetheart.” He teased, a sadistic grin on his face as she nodded and rested against his thigh, looking up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. He couldn’t help himself, not if she looked so pretty right there in his grasp. 

He tangled his fingers in her hair, watching her confused expression as he moved the blue fabric off of his legs, dick springing up as it was freed from the confinement of his underwear. Guiding her head over it, watching her part her pretty lips to suck on his leaking tip.

Milking his cock, swallowing the spurts of salty seed that spilled onto her tongue. She drained him for all he’s worth, looking up at him as he ran his fingers through her hair. He was soft and gentle in this moment, noises falling from his lips that told her how good she was doing. She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be sucking off John Seed of all people.

He grinned as he watched her, once he was satisfied with the way she suckled on him, he grabbed her chin and pulled her off of him. Guiding her up to her feet, he let her loom over him. She wasn’t intimidating like this, he didn’t know if it was because he had just fucked her over their clothes or because she was relying on him for an orgasm, but she seemed almost adorable.

His lips found her neck once more as she leaned against him, nuzzling her head into his shoulder. He forced her to stand, to spread her legs to allow his fingers to feel the now wet fabric of her panties. He hummed in satisfaction, moving them aside and tracing a finger over her slick folds.

A soft gasp left her lips, grabbing onto his shoulder and attempting to move back to look him in the eye. He grumbled, forcing her in that same position as he bit down on her neck, pushing a finger inside of her at the same time. He loved the moans that fell from her lips as he pumped a digit deeper inside of her.

Another finger stretched her out, deep enough to hit those nerves that made her legs tremble. She whined, shaking against him and propping herself up as he continued to pump in and out of her. He pulled away from her neck for only a moment, watching the way she buried her face against him and laughing softly.

He added one more finger before her legs fully began to tremble, grabbing onto his shoulder. Pumping more, fully reaching those nerves, which caused her to spasm around him, her orgasm flooding around his fingers. She rocked against him once or twice, chasing her high.

“Look at you, Deputy, needing me. Did I make you feel good? Use your words.”

[waspsarebetterthanbeesanyways]

Only the Dead 1

Figured I’d post the first scene of my WIP here.

part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10

_____

There’s something wrong.

Bruce wakes up slowly, despite the icy frisson of dread that crawls up his spine. His head hurts. His muscles ache, knotted like stone, to the point where simply shifting position feels like a Herculean task.

There’d been an Arkham breakout again. He’d gone after the Joker -- there’d been a hostage -- and then..?

He can hear voices, murmuring quietly around him on all sides, none of them familiar. He can smell disinfectant, wax, something floral, and a hint of rot underneath it all. A hospital? he wonders, mind sluggish.

“He’s waking up.”

Bruce peels his eyelids open with difficulty; his eyelashes stick together.

It’s not a hospital. It’s a warehouse? Wherever he is, it’s lit dimly, by only candlelight.

“No matter. We are ready to commence with the ritual.”

Bruce rolls his head to the side. He can feel the velvet of an expensive tablecloth underneath his cheek -- he’s on some sort of table -- an altar? Below him he can dark, geometric lines -- a circle, and a diamond within -- and strange symbols drawn around the edges. Above him tower shadowy figures -- people, men and women dressed in dark grey robes, their faces obscured. Batman uses similar scare tactics to frighten criminals, but Bruce still feels frightened at the sight.

He jerks, trying to get upright. Sharp pain blooms in his throat, his wrists and his ankles. He’s tied up -- no, he’s chained and collared, tightly, to the altar.

One of the robed figures approaches him. Her robes are distinct from the others, the seams embroidered with pale silver thread, taking the shapes of cartoon ghosts, of all things. She clicks her tongue at him. “Batman, Bruce Wayne,” she murmurs. “It was a lot of trouble getting you. Don’t think we’ll let you escape.”

Bruce’s heart hammers in his chest as his situation sinks in. He’s trapped, unable to move, kidnapped by a cult he hadn’t even been aware existed.

“Everybody get into position.”

There’s four of them, not counting the vestal. Each of them takes a candle from the corner of the altar, cupping them between their palms. The vestal pulls a knife from her robes. The blade is pitch black, like obsidian, and it gleams in the candlelight.

Bruce squirms, feeling the chains, searching for a weakness. The vestal cards her fingers through his hair as if to calm him. “I am sorry,” she says. “I wouldn’t do this if there was another way. Know that we will honor your sacrifice. The Lord of Screams will follow your footsteps and bring salvation to this wretched city.”

“Don’t do this,” Bruce says.

The vestal tilts her head back and begins to chant. “O king, we beseech you; grace us with your presence.” The other cultists echo her words in Latin. “To you we gift you thus -- an offering of blood to bring you power, an offering of bone to anchor you to this plane -- a life for a life.”

“A life for a life,” the cultists chant.

The vestal lifts her blade, and with both hands, plunges it into Bruce’s chest.

The candle flames flicker out, then return a brilliant Lazarus green.

The vestal pulls her blade back out with a wet squelch and hastily backs out of the circle. The cultists back away at a slow, even pace. The lines of the circle begin to glow that same horrid, beautiful green, and they grow, expanding with each step the cultists take.

Bruce, still struggling, chokes on his own blood. It dribbles out his lips.

The lines of the circle thicken until the entire circle is filled in with that eerie green, and then it begins to swirl. A massive hand pulls itself out of the miasma, and then a flaming crown, a horned helmet, a scowling face. A giant, armored body, barely contained by the warehouse.

“Once again, I am freed,” the being says in a booming voice.

“Lord Phantom,” the vestal says. The glow has intensified enough for Bruce to make out her features -- her glistening eyes, her wide smile. “It really worked. You’re really here...”

“Phantom,” the being says. “Is that who you believe I am?”

“My lord?” the vestal asks, voice small.

“I am not Phantom,” the being spits, face twisting into a rictus of hatred. “I am none other than Pariah Dark, king of the Infinite Realms.”

The last Bruce sees of the vestal is the horror on her face before Pariah Dark slams down his fist, reducing her to a bloody smear. The remaining cultists flee, screaming.

“Cowards,” Pariah Dark sneers. “But they shall be my subjects soon enough.” He turns his gaze towards Bruce, and scoops him up into one of his massive hands, phase shifting him through the chains. “Now you, you must be one of those costumed warriors Phantom emulates so fondly.” He inspects the bat symbol on Bruce’s chest. The blood has spread so much it’s barely recognizable. “But a dying vessel has no use to me.”

With that, Pariah Dark carelessly tosses Bruce to the ground. Bruce shouts in pain, and dark splotches grow in his vision. They do not fade.

“Batman!”

“Dad!”

No. Bruce’s vision is fading quickly, but he can still tell. Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl -- his sons, and the girl who is like a daughter to him. They can’t be here.

“Run,” Bruce croaks, but Nightwing still approaches. The other two attack Pariah Dark. trying to distract him. Bruce can’t move, can’t run with them, can’t fight with them, can’t protect them. “Run away!”

Steph screams. Dick reaches Bruce and curls an arm around his shoulders. “We’re not leaving you,” Dick says. He sounds close to tears.

Bruce doesn’t hear him. He is already lost.

[lovesickeros]

☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, violence {☆} word count 0.8k

You are dying.

Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.

It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.

You will die.

"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."

A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.

"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."

They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.

"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."

Silence.

You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.

It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.

In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.

They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.

And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.

And alone, the cold remains.

Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.

But the cold remains, bathed in gold.

It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.

It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.

Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.

But you are yourself.

And you are where you belong.

They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.

All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.

One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.

Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.