#this one was clawing screaming at the inside of my skull for three days begging me to post it

[florenceandtheinkmachine]

alice angel: hey bestie 🙏😔i am once again asking 🥺 for a favor🥺🥺 i NEED you 🥶🥶🥶to take this EMPTY toilet paper tube 🧻to thr 420th 💕floor and KILL 🔪🩸 three thicc 🥵gushing squelchers with it🤩👍and give me their organs 🥺🙏bestie boo please ✨and also you can’t die 😞👹👹i killed your dog btw😫

henry: i thought about killing you last cycle

[offical-dystopiantale]

Sneak peek :3

I'm not ready to post the next dt chapter (the recent election really. Threw me for a loop, and I needed time to cope, without working on my uh... au with an evil dictator ruler.) BUT to make up for it,,, here's a small section from the next chapter:

Guns were not at all necessary for monsters to own. For any situation, be it hunting or protection, they were redundant since a monster’s magic could do the exact same task, if not do it more efficiently.

Still, having one during this shit show made Error feel safer in an odd way. Perhaps it was the physicality of the thing, having something solid to grip, to use, something that couldn’t be shattered if struck right.

Or maybe it was the fact that he knew, deep down, he was scared to trust himself. To rely solely on his abilities, on his magic, on himself. How could he, when he’d always found a way to disappoint himself, disappoint people around him, all his life?

His jaw tensed, a dull ache forming behind his teeth. He set down the last piece of his pistol, now wiped down and clean, dropping his hands into his lap. The old cloth gripped between his fingers felt somewhat coarse, the corner frayed from age, loose threads hanging from the hole, weaved between the individual bones of his fingers.

The Dreemurr’s kitchen was thankfully quiet, besides the pattering of rain outside and Error’s own breathing, though that was probably because it was 4 in the goddamn morning. An ungodly hour Error would much prefer to be spending in bed, next to his husband, fast asleep and warm under their covers.

But instead here he was, sitting on one of the wooden dining chairs, his gun pulled apart and resting spread out on towels on the table in front of him. His mind too active, practically generating full length feature films of all the things that could go wrong. Thunder rumbled outside, low and rolling, and a minute later there was a flash behind the kitchen blinds.

In three days, this would be over. One way or another.

Error hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t think like that, he just couldn’t. He had kids now, a family, he had to make it back. He would.

He slowly exhaled, unclenching his fist and tossing the cloth onto the chair next to him. He moved closer to the table, the chair legs dragging across the tile. His hands worked mindlessly, putting the pistol back together, checking for anything out of the ordinary. He set it down on the table, then moved to fold up the towels. He knew he should go back to his and Ink’s room, and try to get some sleep. As soon as everyone was up and fed, his day would be filled with plan making. Maps, and strategies, and an endless amount of what ifs to consider. Already he could feel the exhaustion seeping into his bones, a headache beginning to pulse behind his temple.

He was so sick of headaches.

He ran a hand over his skull, another rumble echoing outdoors. There was a deep gnawing in his chest, uncertainty making him feel nauseous, like he was sitting on a rocking, swaying, boat. He had agreed to this, to this plan. He had agreed to ending this. But what else was he supposed to do? When Dream was practically begging Error, his magic fighting against his body, how was error supposed to say no? Not to mention that Cross knew this shit, was trained for battle like this, and Error had relied on him for guidance on what to do next.

His gut was screaming, clawing at the inside of his bones, begging Error to not do this. To retract, to change the plan and push the attack date out, to run, but how could he trust it when the brains of this operation was saying that was a bad idea? Didn’t he trust dream, or at least Cross? His future kings?

“You’re up early.”

Error jerked up, his chair clattering to the ground from how fast he stood up. The sound seemed to echo around them in the quiet air of the house, amplified. Sans stood behind him, leaning against the entryway of the dining room. There were circles under his eyes, his body seeming to sag under his weight.

His eyelights flickered down, the corners of his smile twitching downward. Error followed his gaze, his soul sinking like an anchor.

He released his gun, dropping his hands to his sides.

Thunder shook the cabin, so low it felt like it came from below their feet, clawing up from the depths of the planet.

[bchanslvr]

☁️ Hi I love your writing! Especially your Harry fics, I read them all most every night. So I was wondering if you can do nswf blurb of the reader having a crying kink with sub!harry. Thank you so much!

Ty! ☁️ - Nswf Blurb:

word count - 2k

warnings - mommy kink, sub!harry, anal fingering, pegging, dacryphilia and i think that’s it.

-

Harry Potter. Never in your life did you think that you’d have Harry Potter on your bed. Let alone crying.

You had told him that you wanted to try something new during sex. He agreed of course, ever the brave Gryffindor. Though he wasn’t expecting you to turn up to his dorm with a strap? Is that what it was? He’d heard about it before but he didn’t know much. It was shaped like a dick, but pink. He was curious on what this thing was but didn’t say anything because he wasn’t allowed to.

You started off gently by kissing him, taking control by pining his hands on both the sides of his head as your tongue invaded his mouth, trying to get him into the mood. And soon enough his dick was rock hard, and he was squirming underneath you.

You smirked as you finally broke the kiss for air. Conjuring some lube wandlessly. You put it to the side and started undressing, ordering him to do the same.

You were both completely nude by the time you were on him again, a wolfish grin adoring your face sending shivers down Harry’s spine. You pecked his lips once more and began uncapping the bottle, pouring a generous amount on your fingers.

You’ve done this once before when Harry had suggested it. He’d seen the way your fingers moved in and out of your cunt, your back arching as your fingers found your g-spot. And he wondered how it felt. Seeing the way that your were completely in pleasure as you bucked your hips.

He was kneeing in anticipation, waiting for you to fuck him with your fingers. You saw that and decided to play with him a little. Show him who’s the superior. You took your slicked up index finger, placing it hear his jawline and proceeding to drag the cold lube down his nipples.

Circling the bud with the lube covered finger as you watched with satisfaction at the way it hardened, and the tiny wimper that fell from his lips. Other hand pinching and pulling the other bud as you looked down at him. He was squirming again, panting and desperately trying not to reach your finger and shove it up his ass where he wanted it.

You decided you’ve teased him enough, your own arousal threatening to overcome you. You slicked up your fingers once more, moving yourself down to where he wanted you to be.

You lifted one of his legs and put it on your shoulder, admiring the view of Harry’s pink pucker. You kissed his inner thigh, gently sucking on the soft skin as you rubbed against his hole. He tensed up immediately, but soon relaxed at your gentle motions, and your mouth sucking a hickey on him.

You pushed merely a fingertip into his tight heat, hand on his hips rubbing soothing circles. You pushed more of the finger, stopping at the first joint. He moved sightly edging more of the finger inside. He let out a sharp inhale as you pushed the remainder of the finger. Remembering to be gentle as you pumped your finger in him slowly, in and out, in and out. Over and over till he was begging for another.

You complied, sticking another long digit in him slowly. Thrusting them into his hole. You added another as he begged for more. Thrusting three digits in his slick pucker. Over and over, your fingertips occasionally grazing his prostate driving him mad.

“Oh please, oh please. PLEASE,“ he begged as your fingers never stopping plunged into him. His hips bucking forward for more friction.

“What do you want mhm?,“ you questioned as you watched with heated eyes at how his hole sucked you fingers in greedily.

“Need you please, please mommy need you, nee-AHH,“ he nearly screamed as your fingers slammed straight into his prostate, and once you found the right angle, you found yourself fucking him with your fingers, constantly abusing his prostate. And by now he was writhing and begging for you.

Your own wetness was running down your thighs, mind fogged in lust for the man below you. You couldn’t keep dragging this on forever. You knew that it would only be matter of minutes before Harry would cum. But you would have none of that.

You suddenly pulled your fingers from his hole. He whined as he felt the cold air, the emptiness in his ass making him squirm, trying to get the fingers back inside him.

“Hush now. You’ll get what you get,“ you said quite sternly. He stopped almost instantly, not wanting to get on your bad side tonight.

You smirked before reaching over to were you put the strap and fastened it around you. It was a good 7 and a half inches. You would have done a 5 or a 6 but today you weren’t having it and decided instead to start off my big, even though this was his first time. You lubed it up with the reminder of the container and tossed it aside.

You watched as Harry’s eyes widened slightly, taking in the sight of you wearing something like this. He unconsciously licked his lips at the thought of the monster fake cock going into him, stretching him wide, filling him to the brim.

You noticed of course, smirking at him as you positioned the tip near his entrance. You rubbed it teasingly around his hole and watched in delight as it twitched in excited.

You sneaked a look at him; he was biting his bottom lips, eyes shut tightly and hands clutching onto the bed sheets like a life-line.

You grinned at the scene before you placed your hands on his hip, one leg still on top of your shoulder the other pushed up to his chest. You pushed in the head of the cock, pleased in the gasp that escaped his red lips.

You pushed a bit more, staying still for a few minutes for him to adjust. You pushed in more when you realized he was warming up and could take it.

About an inch into him and he's already moaning out like a bitch in heat. Merlin you couldn't wait to fully be submerged in him and to see how good he'd look stretched around your cock.

You pushed another quarter of the cock into him before you heard him let out a strangled cry.

You pushed on the spot again, electing another loud moan from his spit-licked lips. Oh, there it was. You purposely pushed on the spot again, another centimeter of the cock entering his body. The pressure on his sweet spot making his eyes roll back into his skull.

You let a smirk form on your face. Getting impatient to be gentle and slow. And so you pushed the rest of the cock into him without a warning.

He let out a high pitched scream as the rest of the cock pushed into his tight heat, the fullness of it all, and the tip brushing on his prostate so lightly, so teasingly, almost making him cry. Almost.

Your impatience was getting low, really low. You'd taken far too long to get into him, and now that you have, the feeling was overwhelming. And all you wanted to do was pound into him mercilessly and just take what you want from him.

And as much as you needed wanted that, you had to go slow in the beginning as to not overwhelm him too much.

"Good baby? Feel nice?," you asked. Rubbing soft circles on his hips once more.

"Mhmm, feels so nice mommy," his eyes were still closed, but a small smile appeared on his face at the feeling of it all and how you were making him feel even though you had just started.

"Yeah? My good boy feels so nice? How does he feel?," you questioned, beginning to gently rock your hips back and forth.

"Feel so full, so big, so nice," he murmured as he too began pushing against the rocking.

"Yeah? My baby feels so full of 'm cock? Mhm?," your pace seemed to increase of its own, the sense of going slow for his needs seeming to disappear into the back of your mind.

"Yes mommy, yes," he cried out as your rockings' turned into full-blown thrusts within seconds.

You lost all self-control the minute his hands came up to claw on your back, his nails leaving angry red crescent moons visible for days to come.

You started fucking him with long short thrust for him to get used to the pace and now that he had, you lost all sense and started pounding into him mercilessly. Hand tightly gripped on his hip, sure to leave bruises, the other free hand coming up to hold onto Harry's leg on your shoulder tighter.

He was crying out for every thrust, mouth open in a perfect 'O', eyes screwed shut, and hands clutching onto the crinkled sheets for dear life.

You found that spot again. Pleased in his cried-out sob as you aimed your strap on the bundle of nerves over and over again. Cock abusing his prostate.

You were so gone, mind only fogged in lust, and greed that you hadn't noticed that Harry had started outright crying. Not of pain, but pure pleasure. Well you noticed as soon as you heard him sniff.

Your eyes immediately darting to his face and oh merlin was it a sight for sore eyes.

You could have swore you would have been able to come from that image alone; glazed emerald green eyes are wet with unhushed tears, the thick black lashes clumped and glossy, his nose adorably red and leaking, knuckles turned white at the tight grip of them on his blankets, glasses askew, panting and moaning with each thrust and his face scrunched-up as you continued to molest his hole.

Fuck. He looks stunning. You wished you brought a camera to capture this moment forever.

His nails tug harder into your back as he sobbed from the pleasure. He makes these little irresistible little hurt sounds that you're pretty sure are the soundtrack to heaven. His hands coming up to your gorgeous y/h/c and tugging on them as he nearly breaks.

“Look at you,” you whisper, “So pretty for me when you cry.”

Oh but he was, face wet with tears and puffy from crying, so red and open, and still he wants more. You can't resist him like this and keep your steady thrusting. Faster and Faster as your climax started enveloping you.

Harry's own cock, red and leaking pre-come was ready to spill his seeds.

"Go on baby, touch yourself," you panted, as you watched him let out a cry as he began pumping his cock back and forth.

Your own climax fast approaching, thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier till you let out a loud moan as you came.

Hips stuttering and head thrown back as your cum spilled down your thighs. Body trembling and out of breath as you came to your senses.

Harry rapidly wanked himself, the image of you being undone on top you bringing him to his own orgasm.

He all but let out a whine as hot white cum spurted in between your chests. Breath stolen and body numb.

He let out a wince as you pulled out of his abused and over sensitive hole. Throwing the strap aside to clean tomorrow and flopping onto the bed next to him.

You both stayed there, catching your breaths and raveling in the mind-blowing experience in a comfortable silence.

Harry was the first to move, pushing himself closer to your sides. He was always cuddly and soft in the aftermaths of sex so you gently turned on your side. Hands enveloping him in your arms, his head resting in the junction where your shoulder and neck meet. His soft breath tickling you.

"You okay baby?," you murmured breaking the silence. He simply hummed, voice soft from all the screaming and moaning.

You felt the soft-sated smile on his lips beginning to form, and felt a one of your beginning to grow.

You let out a chuckle, "Someone enjoyed that huh?", he simply hummed again but asked "Can we do it again?".

It was your turn to hum as you snuggled your head in his soft black hair. His legs tossed on top of you as you wandlessly pulled the blanket over you two and tucked the both of you in.

You decided you both could take a shower tomorrow, and let yourself completely relax in his arms.

And that's how the night ended. Limbs tangled, the smell of sweat, tears and sex in the air, and pure bliss

tags: @hey-there-angels @dracomalfoys-wh0re

[oneofthosesimps]

Hey, just wanted to say that I love your fic “the Animal in Him”! Hope there will be a part two soon, but no pressure! Have a great day!

The Animal in Him (Part Two)

pairing: levi x fem!reader I nsfw

word count: 1790

summary: after levi got you all dirty, it's time he got you clean again, but your asshole is just too tempting

warnings: anal, rough sex, dirtytalk, swearing, semi-public sex, sub x dom, double penetration (fingers and dick)

authors note: every time i write another story about levi, it feels like i'm coming home. i love this man, best husbando forever and i wish he would do all these things to me. anyway, i hope you like part 2 of "The Animal in Him" (and i'm glad you like the fanfic so much <3)

all credits to the artist of this pic:

unfortunately i do not know who it is from

-----

"Spread them wider, pet".

You moan softly as your hands dig deeper into the fat of your butt and you spread your ass cheeks. The warm water puddles on your back and runs along your curves. Single drops make their way through the mounds you're pulling apart, mixing with the rest of Levi's juice still running out of your asshole.

"Mmm, that looks so good," Levi murmurs behind you, licking his lips. You look down over your shoulders at him. Crouching behind you, his wet hair sticking to his forehead, he eyes the most intimate corners of your body, surveying the rest of his work from a moment ago. His silver eyes sparkle up at you before one of his fingers finds its way to your little hole. Goosebumps overtake your body as he gently massages the brim and you bite your lip to stifle your moan. You lean your head back against the cold tiles and press your cheek against them. A long moan comes from between your lips as his finger penetrates you, starting at the first knuckle and then continuing. "Still stretched so nice for me, pet". Your tight walls twitch at his words, causing Levi to moan as well, "Fuck." His finger strokes along your insides, pushing his remaining cum deep inside you again. With an ease he slides a second finger to the other. Your legs start to shake and you try to hold onto the wall so you don't collapse. With slow movements, Levi fucks your asshole, occasionally spreading his fingers to massage your core. His hard cock drips at the sight of it and he swallows hard.

"Please ... Please fuck me." His fingers inside you feel so incredibly good, but you need more pressure. Your cunt is still swollen from the fuck a moment ago and your clit is begging for touch so your body can finally come. Your limbs tingle and your lower body throbs uncomfortably. The desire to finally be filled by him again grows and makes your head buzz.

"So you want me to fuck you, huh? Such a good pet," at these words he pulls out of you, making you moan. His big body straightens up behind you and your back pushes through. You claw into the wet wall beneath you as you present your ass to him. His eyes meet yours briefly and you see how dark they have become again. His pupils have exploded like they did earlier in the stall, making him look animalistic. His fat cock stands from him and twitches slightly, the head glistening like a pearl. He grips it and steps closer to you, rubbing along between the lips of your cunt and smearing your juice.

Just as he is about to enter you, the door to the men's washroom opens. You freeze in your movements and look at him in shock. You freeze in your movements and look at him in shock. Actually, Levi's plan had been to finish with you before the rest of the cadets got back from training, but someone threw a wrench in his works. He strains, trying to make out who it is over the splashing of your shower water, to tell them to fuck off. He meets your gaze and panic overcomes you as a smirk settles on his lips. It's convenient, of course. Footsteps move across the tiles before the curtain of the booth next to you is pulled closed and the water starts up there.

Levi leans over to you and puts his lips to your ears, "Guess who this is." A soft laugh comes from him before he pushes forward at the sound of the other shower and penetrates you, splitting you open. Your cunt sucks him up greedily and it feels like he's being sucked forward. You whimper softly and squeeze your eyes shut.

"Fuck, how can you be so tight again?" You press your hand over your mouth and moan into it as he digs forward, finally arriving at your cervix. He fits into you so perfectly, as always, as if he was made to fuck you. His thick cock fills you completely, each of his veins laying perfectly into the spongy structure inside you, and as he moves, his heavy, full balls slap against your clit at just the right angle. Each thrust from him, leaves you jerking up and moaning. Your voice and soft whimpers mix with the splashing of the shower water, forming a symphony in his ears. His big hands grip your waist to keep you in place in front of him and he increases his speed and strength. Inwardly, you hope the neighbour next door doesn't hear. Fortunately, he starts humming softly, which further overshadows your noises.

Each of Levi's thrusts is deep and hits every spot with relish. He fucks you against the cold tile wall while the blonde man showers on the other side. A knot slowly builds in your stomach and you shamelessly press against him to create more friction.

All at once, the nice feeling is gone and the familiar emptiness spreads through you. Just as you're about to complain, you feel a pressure on your asshole. Levi's cock presses into that hole, stretching it open nicely as well. "You didn't really think I wasn't going to fuck it again. Especially with Erwin on the other side of this wall," he moans in your ear, clawing into your flesh. "Fuck, it feels so good. I regret that we didn't do this sooner." His balls tighten and he clenches his teeth. So nice and tight, he's about to cum again. The still unfamiliar feeling spreads back inside you. The mixture of pleasure and the uncomfortable feeling of having to relieve form a diabolical mix that leaves your cunt dripping with envy.

"Please fuck my other hole again. Please fuck my pussy," you whisper under him, squirming back and forth. Tears form in your eyes. You desperately need to cum, your body is driving you crazy. But Levi wouldn't dream of letting your asshole go. Instead, he bends over your back and lets one of his hands wander between your legs. His long fingers find your warm hole and he presses three of his fingers into you at once. You moan loudly and roll your eyes. They dig deep into your skull as Levi finds a good rhythm to fuck both of your holes at the same time.

"Mmm, you like it when I fuck your cunt at the same time?" he murmurs behind you, watching the change in your face. Wrinkles form between your closed eyes as saliva runs from your slightly parted lips. The sight makes him moan and he hopes Erwin heard him. He presses deeper into you, "You're so dirty, no shower will help."

Your legs soften and you drop all your weight against the now warm shower wall. Again, a knot appears in your lower stomach area. The feeling of being filled like this is sinful. The stretching of your asshole blends beautifully with the massaging of your soft walls by his fingers. They keep pressing against the point below your navel and you lose your last connection to the earth.

"What were you thinking just now when we came back and my cum was squeezing out of you with every move you made?" vibrates Levi's dark voice behind you. His jaw tenses as he worships you like you're his goddess. He has to pull himself together hard to keep from cumming at the sight of you and the sounds you make because of him. "The others must have seen what a whore you are". You get a little louder at the word and squirm under him again. Once more, you hope that the shower drowns out your noises and that no one hears you. "How I wish I had told Erwin that your asshole was filled to the top with my cum. He probably would have wanted to fuck you anyway and you probably would have still let him." That thought drives you crazy. The knot inside you tightens and tightens, and the tears that have been pooling in the corners of your eyes begin to roll down your cheeks. They mix with the wetness of the water wetting your body. "Maybe I should just tell him now".

"No, you shouldn't?" you whisper, your lips trembling, your voice shaking.

"What is that supposed to be, a question?" He hit the nail on the head. In truth, you would never let Erwin touch you, but the thought brings you closer and closer to your climax. Again, your walls tighten, making Levi curse, "Fuck, tighten up even more, pet. Your walls are milking me at the thought of him shooting his cum to mine. You like that thought?" You moan under him and sob, "Should we just pull the curtain away and go to him? Should I show him what a good whore you are?"

"I'm so close to cumming, Levi." He ignores your statement and your crying and a brutal thrust hits the inside of your ass, "Look at me, pet."

Your tired body starts to move and you turn so that your eyes meet. Both of your holes flutter as you see his half-closed eyes. Deep black hits your soul and you seem to lose yourself in him. Fittingly, his dark strands spread wildly across his forehead, water dripping down from some of the tips and hitting your body. A deep sound comes from his throat as he feels your insides pulsing, "Come".

With that little word, your body explodes beneath him. He clings to your petite body beneath him and fucks you for as long as he can, through your orgasm before your hot body brings him to release as well. His cock pumps itself empty in your asshole and fills it to the brim again. Your bodies work against each other. Your voice is way too loud and Levi purposely pulls your hand away from your mouth so you can echo around the room. The humming in the booth next to you stops, but you can't stop screaming your head off. Again and again Levi's name resounds through the washroom and it fires him with pride to make you come like this next to his commander. This continues until you come down from your high. Levi pulls out of you and takes you in his arms, slithering down the wet tiles with you like this before you sit on the floor. His full lips settle on yours for a brief moment before moving to your jaw, "I'm looking forward to the next time Erwin looks at your ass." If that's the consequence, so are you.

[subbing-for-clones]

Stranded Part 4

Savage x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

WARNINGS: Gore, Blood, Death, All around violence, Oof fucking angst. Don’t read if you have a weak stomach.

A/N: So I haven’t written anything this graphic before and I’m positive there’s A LOT worse out there but I did push my personal limits. I kept this chapter short so if anyone needs to skip it, they can. It’s probably not as bad as I’m hyping it up to be but if gore bothers you badly you can absolutely skip this chapter and it won’t hurt the overall story. I’ll be sure to mention the important parts in the next chapter so if you do skip you won’t miss anything too important.

PREVIOUS          NEXT          MASTERLIST

  NO!

    Savage watched through moonlit woods, aided by his night vision. The gangly creatures dragged his princess away by her legs. She clawed at the dirt, tearing at anything she could grasp, raking at roots and soil as she was pulled deeper. Overwhelmed with terror, she let out a scream, “Savage!” Giving chase immediately with his saber-staff in an iron grip; his body tore through the underbrush. Running as quickly as his feet would carry him. These beasts were fast; their bodies whipped through the air around over growth and thick tree trunks. He lost sight of them but could still hear the guttural shrieks of the monsters and the terrified howls of his princess rip through the freezing night air.

Why now? Why had they breached the bounds of their territory tonight after all these years? What changed?

    He could feel them through the force. Cold, slippery signatures surrounded her bright flourishing light, attempting to violate what was pure. As he pushed forward, ignoring the branches and thorns scraping his flesh, their numbers grew. His mind wasn’t working fast enough to realize he was running into an ambush. Even if he did realize it, he would continue towards her anyway. Glowing putrid green eyes shone through dead branches, the occasional snarl tearing through the atmosphere.  

Her signature was fading into the distance.

He had fallen too far behind.

Her screams had stopped.

He regretted leaving her alone in the first place.

Panic began flaring in his chest, lighting his nerves on fire and boiling his blood.

But he was a hunter; as was his brother and his father before him.

This is what he had been bred for.

Fight for and protect the woman that had not only chosen him, but he had also chosen.

He stopped and closed his eyes, focusing on her scent and her fluttering force signature.

There.

He knew what path to follow.

He lit his saber and spun on the ball of his foot, cutting down one of the creatures that dared to leap out at him from the canopy. When its body dropped limply into a smoking heap the seal had been broken and chaos rained down on the golden Zabrak.

Dozens of the snarling beings dropped out of the branches swiping sharpened claws at his throat and his legs. He was born, lived and hunted in the night on Dathomir. Growing and training until he was the most fearsome thing that stalked through the forests once the sun had set. His roar tore from his throat as the red of his blade cut down any living nightmare that dared to stand in the way of his princess.

One of the creatures latched onto his back and before he could bite into Savage’s throat the Zabrak reached behind him, sank his claws into his shoulder blades and swung the monster over his head onto the rocky ground below him. An almost deafening crack of the monster’s spine rang out, killing it instantly. Igniting both sides of his saber-staff he twirled it in his hands and turned, gutting the three closest to him. The cauterization not stopping their entrails from dropping out of their now hollow bellies.

Savage leapt at the next one nearest him and tore out its esophagus with his fangs, blackened blood dripped down his chin as he stretched his arms out and gripped two more in a steely force choke. He squeezed until their heads sprang from their necks. He kicked another in its sunken chest, propelling it into the trunk of a tree. He made quick work of the remaining creatures with his saber in a barrage of quick and brutal moves.

Just before her signature gave out the last of the beasts dropped into a crumpled heap at his feet hissing out the last of their breaths. Taking off towards the flickering light he ran; ignoring the blood that seeped from the deep lacerations from the beasts’ claws.

He came upon a break in the tree line that opened into a large circular clearing. Moonlight shone on a tree that towered higher than any of the others growing in the center of the clearing. Its trunk thicker than the ship he had crashed here on. He could feel the dark side of the force ebbing and flowing from deep within it. He could smell her blood on the breeze. He could see her claw marks in the soil leading to a hollow within the trunk; sparse bloodied handprints dragged across the dead bark of the great tree. Her light was slowly being snuffed out by darkness.

He stepped inside and nearly stumbled over broken roots. With no moonlight to reflect off of his surroundings for his eyes to pick up he had to see by the light of his saber. His stomach lurched at the sight before him.

Bathed in a red glow, her body lay in the center of the hollow, barely moving. Her eyes were foggy and her chest was hardly rising or falling as they tore into her legs, her arms and her stomach.

One lifted its gaunt face from her neck, pulling a chunk of flesh away with its teeth, to shriek a warning at him. Grabbing it by its throat, he smashed its head into the ground, skull crashing under his palm and spurting black blood across the floor. He reached out with the force and pulled the other three off of her and sheathed his saber inside their chests in succession.

He looked upon his princess, bitten, bloodied, broken.

Her limbs were bent incorrectly, chunks of missing flesh revealed the muscles and tendons that lay beneath the skin.  

She lay limp on the earth.

Wet tear tracks ran from her eyes down her cheeks and pooled on the soil below, mixing with the blood that had poured out of her neck wound.

Her breath came out in rasping wheezes as she raised a trembling hand out to his face.

She didn’t have the strength to close the distance between them and when her conviction ran out, her hand fell to the earth.

He dropped to his knees beside her and lifted her into his arms, pulling her into his chest as tears pricked at his eyes. She opened her mouth and tried to speak but only a quiet gurgling left her lips, followed by droplets of blood that leaked out of the corners of her mouth. He watched her eyes cloud over as her pupils dilated from the loss of blood and she lost consciousness, going limp in his embrace.

Her pulse fluttered sporadically, weakly in his ears.  

A sob escaped him as he lay her back down on the ground and gently as he could, placed one hand on her chest and the other on her legs. Letting out one last wavering breath he closed his eyes and imagined his life force flowing from his hearts, through his arms and into her. Through the force he reached out to her, pleading for her not to leave him. Begging the gods for the strength to heal the only other love he has ever known, to allow him to repent for his brother’s murder.

He could feel his body weakening as hers started to mend itself. Flesh regrew over wounds before his very eyes, her pulse beat stronger with each passing second. Just before it became too much for him her eyes snapped open and a loud gasp left her lips. She force pushed herself away from the center of the hollow until her back thud agianst the inner wall of the tree. Glancing around the small space frantically before realizing that she and Savage were the only living beings in proximity.

“P-princess. I’m sorry I.. wasn’t… fast enough..” Savage toppled over from his knees onto his back and lost consciousness.

      When he woke, the first thing he saw was the familiar wooden ceiling of their small cabin. He groaned and raised his hand to rub his throbbing head. He had tried to sit up but two small warm hands pressed lightly agianst his chest, softly pushing him back to a laying down position.

“You must rest my love.”

He turned his head to look into your eyes and a thankful smile graced his lips before turning into a grimace.

“I did not fail…” he whispered.

“No, my sweet darling,” you cupped his cheeks in your hands and placed a lingering kiss on his lips, “you saved my life. I owe you for every breath I take now.”

“You owe me.. nothing,” his brows creased in effort, “I only returned what you have given me,” he allowed his eyes to close as you peppered his face in kisses and massaged his scalp; eliciting a rumbling purr.

“H-how did we get back here..?”

“Mira found us. You killed them all. There are no more beasts in the trees, the valley is free of them. She must have sensed it and came to our aid.”

“Mmm, remind me to save the best cuts of my next few hunts for her.”

You smiled, utterly grateful for the brave warrior that both saved your life and survived the ordeal himself.

“Please my love, rest now. You expelled much of your life force into me when you healed me. The sun will return soon, sleep.”

And so he did. Safe back home with the love of his life, he slept for days. Thanking the gods every minute for granting him what he required to vanquish the monsters that had haunted your nightmares and feasted upon your body.

While your love rested you rubbed the muscles in your arms. The creatures; bite must have been venomous. The veins in your arms and legs had blacked just under your skin and you could feel the subtle burn. Right now, all you wanted was to lay and rest with your Zabrak. Force healing could cure infections, mend bone and flesh, but toxins had to be treated appropriately. Not now, now you needed rest as much as Savage.

 Taglist :) let me know if you’d like to be tagged 

@thundersheild​ 

[randombtsprincessa]

Belladonna || 1

All Rights Reserved. © RandomBTSPrincessa, Tulips98.

Author: Randombtsprincessa

Characters: Min Yoongi x Reader, Past Lovers! AU

Words: 3k

Genre: Heavy Angst, Smut 

Rating: This chapter is General up to NC-17, rating might go up as story progresses.

Summary: Your life has finally settled into a routine; keeping you far away from your home, friends, family and the man who broke your heart. Coming back home means facing him again and maybe you’re not as over him as you’d like to believe.

Warnings: (in-chap) Heavy Angst, mentions of a toxic relationship.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The idol used as the Muse for the lead is not in anyway affiliated with the work. The characterisation is a work of mine. Any asks or accusations against the work on the grounds of inability to keep fact and fiction seperate on the part of the reader, will not be entertained. 

A/N: Its’s rather sad that the disclaimer has to be added but eh, it’s a bad time for tumblr writing fandom and people are being very mean. Brush past that if you’re sane. Anyway, a very very huge hug to my best friends for screaming at me about this fic. A bunch of thanks to @softyoongiionly​ for hyping up the chapter! And a round of applause for @kithtaehyung​ for beta-ing the chappie!!

Happy Birthday Yoonfie baby!!

It was cold inside the cabin, the air conditioner turned extreme while the outer windows fogged with condensation. Your head leaned against the pane, the thudding and rolling of the train wheels under you jarring your brain in your skull as you watched the world outside flash speedily by.

Trees, small gravelly roads, sign boards, sparse traffic here and there…and then rolling grasslands before the pattern repeated itself…redundant, normal, and soothing.

You sighed, a puff of white exhale clouding around your mouth while your eyes drifted back to the interior of the cabin. This sight was a lot more different, with different people having different lives, problems, worries…

A woman tended to her sniffling child, holding a handkerchief up to the girl’s running nose…a man spoke into his phone; harried and rushed as he more likely than not slurred a few words together…

It was when your eyes caught a girl laying her head on the boy next to hers’ shoulder, smiling serenely when the boy ran a hand through her locks that you turned around again, eyes back to watching the redundant.

There was nothing soothing about people watching.

Or maybe there was and it required some form of inner peace to find the charm in it.

You didn’t have that sort of inner peace; neither did you have the patience for it.

People watching for people like you was anxiety inducing…and you really didn’t want that burden on your shoulders right now. There would be enough anxiety waiting for you when you set your foot home.

“____?”

You turned coffee worn, blue light sunken eyes towards your boss, standing over you with his files clutched to his chest nervously. The sight was enough to make you chuckle. For all his genius, Kim Namjoon was just a giant fumbling through life. It made him a stellar boss and manager, but it also made him a wonderful friend.

“Yes?”

“I just got your email for the leave application.”

You blinked up at your boss expectantly, face calm and relaxed. Of course, your brain had shot straight to overdrive, praying, wishing, and begging for a miracle that would allow your boss to refute the application.

A large red denied would do nothing to hamper your mood; at least it would stamp down the very intrusive tendril of panic that was already gripping around you.

You waited until Namjoon was done rustling inside of the folder in the crook of his arm. The white print out was placed in front of you, green letterings spelling ACCEPTED AND FORWARDED, scrawled on the top screaming obscenities at you.

You looked back at Namjoon.

“We don’t have a lot of work load right now plus you look dead on your feet. Some time away with your folks will be nice, won’t it?”

You very nearly grimaced at his words.

He was sincere, of course he was. Namjoon didn’t have a conniving bone in his body, but right now, you couldn’t help but resent his kindness, his mushy brain that railed against exploiting his workers. You hated the fact that he looked into your eyes and saw past the stubborn energy and caught onto the exhausted person underneath.

So you offered him a tiny smile, just in case the flicker of your crushing despair was made clear onto your traitor face.

“Thank you, Namjoon.”

He placed a heavy, tight hand on your shoulder as he passed by.

“Have a nice vacation, ____.”

Usually, someone who was away from home, working their ass off, making something of themselves away from their family should ideally jump at the chance to take a vacation, to go home and see the family and friends they had.

Ideally…one should be happy at the prospect of going home.

So many times, however, situations were rarely ideal. Sometimes there were complications, convolutions, obstacles…

Sometimes people had no love in their hearts; sometimes there was nothing at all.

Sometimes, there was dread.

Right then, in the rattling carriage that carried you to the small town which had spawned your existence, you could sense the dread carving a pit into your stomach, roiling and curling like a wretched cat kept too long from sunshine.

There was no relief for the upcoming long sleepy times, no joy at the prospect of home food…of warm embraces…

There was just that god awful dread.

You hoped you wouldn’t throw up; though there was nothing in your stomach to hurl but for the coffee you’d pumped in you from the station café. You couldn’t keep anything else down.

You had upped and left your home right after the end of your college life. Many things had come to an end with that particular period in your life. You had scampered and scrapped together enough courage to exit the hole that still robbed you of breath sometimes when you twisted and turned in your bed – sleepless.

You had left shattered pieces of your heart in your whirling escape of the town, the space that you had now the only light that shone at the end of the tunnel back then. Your family and friends, as supportive as they were, had never truly understood why you had nearly clawed away from that world.

To them, it had been the job opportunity.

And it was understandable…

The town, as well-knit and seemingly lovable as it was, was used to being self sufficient. The people there didn’t ever need to leave, they knew everything, helped everyone, and any problem one of them had was a problem for them all.

You couldn’t fit yourself in that mold anymore.

You had left – knowingly cut yourself away from that community.

Your friends had remained; some spreading out of course but they were still as much a part of that bunch as they had been when born.

You didn’t expect anything from them.

Not when he was also still a part of that community.

Your mind jerked away moments before conjuring his likeness behind your eyes, the ticket collector bearing down to save you from the torture of it.

Your fingers fumbled with the pockets of your bag, slipping the stub into his patient hands as he clipped and handed it back to you.

You accepted it meekly, folding into yourself again, eyes drifting back out the window and firmly tugging your thoughts away from your past. You had to prepare for what was going to come now.

Nobody expected you to come, you knew. It was a surprise to you yourself that you had found enough guts in you to pull this off.

Namjoon’s words came back to you.

Some time away with your folks will be nice, won’t it?

You weren’t going to hold out much hope for that.

You found a cab almost immediately out of the station, the many cruisers that stood to one side eager to free you of your luggage and take you off to your destination. You gave your address shakily, hoping this particular driver wasn’t one of the townspeople. Luckily, the man didn’t bat an eye, instead nodding and quietly switching on the radio for the drive over.

You leaned back into the seats, arms grasping the strap of your handbag tight as the moment to face your family and close ones drew closer.

Objectively, your little hometown was very pretty.

Trees lined the major roads, small clusters of buildings interjecting the greenery to spread business to the good people. And as tense as you were, your mind couldn’t help but pick out the differences.

Boutiques were newer and flashier, the diners you remembered now expanded to add cafes or banquets. The town hall was an imposing as ever, only a new marble fountain added to the square in front of it now.

By the time your cab entered the section of the suburbs where you had grown up; your back was straight, neatly aligned with the window. If you had been dreading the homecoming before, it was all gone; replaced with an odd form of resignation.

You lugged your bags out and paid the taxi driver with cold hands, winding bloodless fingers around the handles to pull them up the drive way towards your open door.

The house was full, open and bustling – a normal day for when your mother threw one of her success parties. She was one of the famous people in the town, her career as a landscaper and home decorator for big names making her in turn the man source of revenue and attraction for the town.

It had been both a source of pride and embarrassment to you in your teens. Mainly because your mother insisted on these parties each and every time one of her projects turned out well. But then, as you grew you realized that this is why your mother was important to the town.

She was more than half the money earned and the social events of the calendar.

Inside the house, small clusters of people gathered here and there, in the living room, the kitchen, the dining space. You stood at the door; feeling more exposed than you ever had here but moved in quickly, lest one of them notice you in the doorway and start blabbering about it.

Of course, the three big bags that you carried more than made up for it.

One of the groups of women nearest you turned their heads in synchrony, taking double looks as you passed by before the murmurs began.

How could you tell?

Well because, gossip usually lowers ones’ volume. And each group you passed stopped conversing before muttering arose in its place.

You cut across the living room to your father’s den. Here, there were all men, hands cupping your dad’s cut glasses of scotch but thankfully no one mentioned you dumping your bags right by the door and walking back out.

Your hands fiddled with your scarf, wondering where your family was in their own party but you were loathing asking one of the guests.

Even as you convinced yourself to walk over to one of the ladies by the window sofa, a figure walked past opposite you, a handful of trays of cocktail bites and glasses on them. You jumped, watching as the woman placed the trays on the coffee table, smiling at the people before she turned…and spotted you.

Your sister’s eyes widened, eyelashes fluttering before quick steps led her closer to you.

“____?” She asked, almost checking if it really was you.

You smiled wryly, hand still tangled with your scarf. “Hi Sana, yes it’s me.”

“Oh my god!” She threw herself at you, arms wrapping around your neck to draw you into a warm and nearly forgotten embrace. You stood in her hold for a few seconds, managing to pat her back before she was pulling away, eyes glistening at you.

“Oh god, don’t cry,” you whispered immediately.

“Shut up, these are happy tears; my little sister is home! Hang on; I’ll go get Mom and Dad.” She turned on her heel before you got another word out, mouth parted as she disappeared into the house.

You stood rooted to the spot, hoping against hope she brought your dad first. You just knew your mom would start bawling and then all the neighbors and her social circle would start hovering like the pack of vultures you had the low opinion of them as.

It was unfair and very rude of you, yes, but you couldn’t help but remember half the rumors and gossip that had come from none other than these same people when you had first left. Sympathy or well wishes from them now, would only make you more disgusted.

It had made you keep your own mother at a distance, seeing as she was probably the source of their information.

Thankfully, you knew you could always depend on your dad.

A no-nonsense and rational person, he was only guilty of being extremely in love with your mother. You knew he only bore these parties for her sake and of course your sister, Sana’s.

So when you saw Sana come back, with both your parents you still heaved a relived sigh.

“____, my god, you’re really here.” Your mother was the second to hug you, your father following.

“We didn’t think you would make it this year too.” Your dad said.

“Yeah, it’s been hectic…a lot…for the last couple years.” You repeated the same lies you’d been spouting for two years now. You had spoken the same lines into your phone, in your emails over months and it came much easier while speaking them to their faces.

“Very hectic for a well-established firm, ____, you could’ve asked for a leave, I’m sure office policy allows that.” Your dad said in that logical baritone that rendered most arguments moot.

“That is actually how I got away, Namjoon insisted.” You said; not completely untrue.

“Well, I for one am very happy my little girl is back to me. You’ll stay for a bit, won’t you?” Your mother stroked your hair back from your face.

You smiled tightly at her, thinking of the weeks Namjoon had generously piled on you out of respect for your relentless working for two years under him.

“Yes.”

You caught Sana try and push in, her eyes seeking yours even as your mother squealed in jubilation. “Perfect, we are going to have to throw you a coming home party.”

“Y/M/N,” Your father said lightly. “We are at a party now.”

“Yes, but ____ deserves her own night.” Sana put in before grabbing your hand. “Come on,” she dragged you away from your debating parents.

“Not a lot has changed I guess.” You spoke drily.

“Yeah, maybe, listen I think we need to –”

Sana was cut off by a gasp of your name, your head swiveling to see Park Jimin, one of your old friends gaping at you.

It was a whirlwind of reunions and emotions as people gathered around you, astonished that you’d come back without any mention of it.

“Yeah, I – I guess, it’s a surprise.” You scratched the back of your neck awkwardly, going over the faces of your childhood to college friends.

Many things had changed while you were gone, true – to the town, to the people and even to your friends but one thing you were glad to see…they hadn’t cut you away completely. Yes, your interaction with them had been reduced to the odd Facebook and Twitter chats and the occasional emails and texts here and there but they still looked…happy to see you.

Park Jimin and his twin, Jihyo had been the first ones to come to you, Jihyo hugging you tightly enough to make you wince. She had been your roommate in college; she probably knew you as well as Sana did – maybe even better. She had introduced you to Jimin and the three of you had been inseparable throughout your college life.

Jimin had apparently been friends with one of your childhood friends, Kim Taehyung.

You were not so shocked to know he was now married, living next door to you with his wife, Nayeon. Sweet and charming, she hugged you like her husband.

“It’s almost like I already know you,” she explained to your unsure smile, “they talk about you so much.”

“Ugh, I’m already worried.” You cringed.

“They were all nice things don’t worry. We had to put down a couple old gossips down here and there, though.” Jimin came to defend his friend.

You glanced at them curiously.

“Oh yeah, it was just old gossipy hags around the town, don’t worry about it. People moved on from you pretty soon to a Miss Mina. She’s a spinster, which apparently is a sin.” Taehyung rolled his eyes. “She lives a few houses from us.”

“Also, I think your mom told that friend of hers, Dahyun to stop people gossiping about you. They were task-forcing the town. It was fun to watch.” Jimin added.

A sudden wave of affection for your mother rose up in you, before being quelled by the reminder that she must have done it to protect her own image.

You shrugged then, picking up a glass from one of the trays to take a sip of your mother’s homemade cocktail – fruity and simple on your tongue.

“Enough about me, what about you all?” you pointed at Tae and Nayeon, “Married with a house,” your finger moved to Jimin, “Sports coach,” then Jihyo, “Choreographer,” you stopped.

“What about the others, any news?”

“Not really, we are the ones who still live here you know. Plus, no offense to your mom, but I doubt folks would leave their city jobs to come to her parties.” Jihyo muttered; exchanging a glance of solidarity with you before her eyes widened suddenly.

“What?” you asked.

Her eyes quickly went to her brother, Jimin’s eyes a little more slow on the uptake but they widened too…before repeating the process – albeit comically – with Taehyung.

“What is wrong with you all?” You asked again.

“Um, ____, did Sana tell you -?”

Jimin paused nervously, refusing to look at you as he fiddled with the rim of his glass.

“Tell me what?”

He looked helplessly at his sister. Jihyo hesitated before placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Listen, ____, while you were gone” -

She broke off, her eyes darting over your shoulder and stuttering to a stop.

In that moment of her silence, the conversation behind you was clearer.

Or rather, one particular voice was…

Low and deep – soft morning grumbles came back to you – muffled conversations from behind you made you turn around.

It was a voice you would know anywhere. It was one that haunted your dreams, one that crested the ache in your heart on particularly bad days…

It was one you would know beyond a void.

Min Yoongi stood directly across from you, in your home, undoing his coat and removing his scarf, conversing lowly with your sister.

Something she quickly muttered to him had him freezing, long nimble fingers stopping in the unknotting of his scarf.

And then as if he could feel your gaze, could feel your presence, the reason why you left everything behind looked straight up at you, eyes locking across a room…just like the day you had first seen him.

[kuuderekweenfics]

Dabi is Not a Liar

Hello everyone,

This is it. I’ve fallen off the precipice of...what exactly? Sanity? Or, perhaps, lack of shame? Who knows. But this was a fun little piece I wrote about a month ago. I put it up on AO3, but I thought I’d create a Tumblr for future fics since this is a bit more social.

Please keep in mind that I am shaking the dust off my writing and so it may not be the most polished piece of work. Go easy on me. But I hope you enjoy it regardless!

Explicit Warning: non consent or extremely dubious consent.

Fingernails carve into the the filthy brick of the abandoned building nestled by the sea. The pier moaned, it’s cold breath wrapping around your body and reeking sourly of fish and decay. 

Your head hangs low between your hollow arms. How you got yourself into this position is due to several reasons, of course. One, your brain is swollen twofold in your skull, pounding with the weight of lead. Two, shame caresses every part of your body far more thoroughly than the man who currently has you trapped between him and the wall. Three, and most likely the most crucial reason, Dabi, ‘the Cremator’ as he was so often called, has been railing you senseless for the past hour.

You cried yourself dry after about ten minutes. He came quickly the first time, unabashedly getting off on your whimpers and pleas. Where he dug up the stamina to keep his cock hard for another three rounds was a dull ache for your mind, and pussy, to ponder over. 

The strength in your knees escaped long ago. His fingers gripping your bare ass as he currently pounds himself into you, deeper and deeper each time, is the only support you have against gravity. 

He attempts some foreplay occasionally, killing the space between the two of you as he whispers into your ear threats of what is to come and reaches under you to thrash at your clit rough and carelessly. This is, you figured out, more to his benefit than yours; he had to get you more motivated to continue the little game he set for the both of you somehow. You mewl softly when he does, cursing your needy body for betraying your wants.

Because this isn’t what you want. No, no, no. Not even if his thick, veiny cock fills you to the brim and sometimes hits a spot in your core that makes you see stars and silently beg, much to your humiliation, for more.

What you want is to go pro. You just started working for a small agency start up only a week ago. You’ve dedicated to becoming a top ten hero, even if your quirk isn’t the most convenient. But if a guy who’s power was to do laundry could make it to the top, so can you and your absurdly comical gacha quirk. You are able to generate capsules from your hands, ranging anywhere between the size of a tennis ball to a beach ball, but the contents inside are always random. This little inconvenience made your quirk almost entirely useless. Despite it all, you trained hard and got a once in a lifetime opportunity at this agency. Your task today was to survey the pier for any suspicious activity called in by a concerned citizen. You were strictly told not to engage and call for back up as soon as you surveyed something worthwhile. But you immediately ran in, all too confident in your ability at hand-to-hand combat, as if you had something to prove. You crouched behind stacked crates and fumbled through your creations: a teddy bear, a toaster, a tennis racket. Before you could generate another capsule, you heard his whistle behind you. He was crouched, hands lazily in his pockets and looking over your shoulder with a deadpan expression that plainly said you were in over your head. 

But you knew you were quick. The tennis racket sped toward its target only to be crumbled to ash as his hand stopped it an inch from the side of his head. He smiled at you then, not quite reaching his eyes but eerie and menacing all the same. And before you could even fathom throwing the toaster, he pinned your neck to the wall. Your feet kicked helplessly against the brick, unable to find purchase on the floor a inches below. One of your hands pried at his arm while the other reached for his face or his neck or anything you could grab hold of that could cause enough pain to lot weaken his grip. Your breaths came up short, your lungs screamed for a sip of air. 

“It looks like a little mousy lost her way,” he chuckled. “Now whatever am I going to do with you?”

Drool leaked from your mouth as you fought against your restraint and blurred vision. Your mind clawed for consciousness, your body begged for survival. You had come to terms that one day you could potentially meet your end at the hands of a villain, as does any hero in this field of work, but you hadn’t expected it to be so soon. 

You felt the obstruction in your mouth before you saw it. The thumb of his free hand pressed on your dancing tongue, drool pooling where he held it down firm. If the look in his eyes scared you before, now they were wild and carnal and more terrifying. 

He first has his way with you with his hand still around your throat. He let up on his grip and was so gracious enough to let you wrap your legs around him while he impales you without a second thought. 

He grunts. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

You are no longer a virgin, but you’re sure you never experienced cock of this size, all the while without some form of foreplay. Granted, he used your drool to lubricate himself before sheathing himself deep in your gummy walls, the friction elicits a gasp of pain while from you as he moans and nips at your neck. Not long after he begins to thrust do you start sobbing, and soon after that he shoots inside of you, his cock twitching to unload what feels like everything he had. You hope it is over then. He would either kill you or leave you there broken physically and mentally. You find out soon enough it is neither.

“I’m gonna fuck you until your voice is gone from screaming my name, little mousy,” He gasps into your shoulder as the twitching finally ebbs and his release oozes down your thigh. “I’m gonna fill you with my cum until I am sure that when I leave you in this shithole, you will have a little part of me with you for the rest of your miserable life.”

And if there is one thing you can call Dabi, among the million curses and names you can conjure, you aren’t sure if you can call him a liar. For true to his word, albeit only partially, he comes into you, hard and relentless, two more times before starting once more. You are absolutely positive this goes against all modern male biology. But you guess, in a world with bizarre quirks, anything is possible.

Halfway through round four, you feels his fingers weave into your hair and, for a moment, you think Dabi just may capable of being passionate. Or, at the very minimum, maybe he thinks more of you than just a bucket for him to shoot his load in. This moment, you find, is fleeting as he yanks your head back and pulls you up until your back lies flat against his chest. He slowly pulls the zipper of your shirt down and grabs your breast callously, pinching your nipple hard until you cry out. 

You can only imagine that he’s grown bored of your silence and complacency because his other hand reaches around until his fingers find your clit, exposed and hungry for some well-deserved stimulation. His fingers rub small circles against it, and you feel nauseated as you let out a moan, your pussy clenching desperately around him in newly kindled desire.

He hisses at your reaction, an obvious stamp of approval and continues flicking your bundle of nerves as he pumps in and out of you. “Say my name.”

Your mind, which, up until this point, had been lost in a sea of fog, finally breaks the surface. And it is pleading with you to not give in. He speeds up, each thrust hitting the right spot and oh no, oh no, it feels so fucking good.

“Say my name, little mouse.”

Your core coils tight with stimulation, the spring on the precipice of release with the pressure of his calloused fingers. The ache you had felt up until then is replaced with an immense pleasure that you haven’t felt in, let’s face it, ever. You stand on your toes to give him a better angle. Your hands searched for something to anchor onto. One mindlessly reaches above to grab onto his hair as he licks you, hot breath warming your already flush neck, the other latches onto your ignored breast.

“Say it.”

You bucked against him, almost there, almost there, so very close....

Until he becomes utterly and completely still. 

“No, no. Please, Dabi! I need it. Fuck me, please Dabi!” You sob. 

And with that, you feel a smirk form against your neck. He pulls out of you and before you can so much as whimper, he shoves you back onto a large crate. He grabs one leg and forces it up and over his shoulder as he penetrates you, holding your waist to keep you steady as he pumps in fast and hard. His hip bumps into your overstimulated clit with each thrusts and it nearly obliterates you. In this new position, his cock kisses your cervix and, if you ever had any semblance of control since being pounded into, it has all but disappeared.

“Dabi! I’m going to...Ah, shit, I’m gonna...”

As you begin convulsing, you hear his name, loud, hot and heavy, escape from your lips. Your release sends him over the edge, and he ruts into you. 

Just as quickly, he slides out of you, places himself back into his pants and walks out with his hands in his pockets without a word before the cum can so much as leak out of you. You lay still and let the world refocus before you get up and go home. You come to realize that he didn’t so much as care if you came or not, and that the fact that you had was a happy coincidence on your part. What he was really aiming for was you to scream his name, just as he said you would. How little regard villains had felt about others left you in awe. Can you really go head to head against him or any other villain again? 

You submit your resignation the next day.

And two months later, as you stand wide-eyed and frozen over the test exposing itself to you on the bathroom sink, you can finally confirm that Dabi is, in no way shape or form, a liar.

[wingsofhcpe]

whumptober day 4- taken hostage/pushed

fandom: shadow & bone

pairing: fivan [ivan x fedyor kaminsky]

rating: T+

additional warnings: blood & injury, torture (implied?)

you can also read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34208404/chapters/85114393

[tagging @camilleisback upon request <3]

Fedyor clung to the roof with all his might; and yet he knew there was no meaning in any of it. No matter how hard he tried, he’d eventually fall. To the shadows that awaited below, to his death.

‘You should have known it would end like that.’ The nichevo’ya that held him over the edge by the collar of his torn and bloodied kefta spoke with the voice of a man he once knew. The voice of a man he once trusted, he once followed, he once believed could save Ravka and the Grisha.

Oh, how wrong he’d been.

The creature pushed him further from the roof until his fingers lost what little purchase they had on the jagged, broken stones. The ground loomed below him, dark and swirling with darkness and death. The gaping wound on his shoulder, where the nichevo’ya’s claws had pierced and torn his skin, throbbed with a burning, merciless kind of pain.

‘But I have use of you yet.’ The creature drawled in a manner that was terrifyingly expressive for the whirling mass of shadow and hatred that it was. ‘You will not yet be killed, Fedyor Kaminsky. But you will suffer for your betrayal.’

The creature’s grip loosened before Fedyor had even registered the words; and then he was falling, the air rushing around him, the stars glaring down at him as he glimpsed them between plumes of smoke and shadowy wings. He heard a Grisha scream, he heard Alina’s voice barking orders, he heard Zoya ordering a retreat. He heard his own heart, thumping loudly against his ears.

Then his body hit the ground, and the world exploded in a flash of pain and darkness.

-

His own scream woke him up.

Fedyor’s eyes snapped open, his chest rising and falling erratically as he breathed in deep gulps of oxygen. He was drowning, he was suffocating in the darkness- but the worst was the pain. Oh Saints, how everything hurt. Everything -his legs, arms, his back- felt broken, his wounds raw and bleeding and burning. He cried out again, his body instinctively straining against the agony- but he was met with resistance, thick coils of rope digging into his skin and causing a million explosions of fire across his ravaged body. He fell still in a desperate effort to minimise the pain, and focused on the pattern the red, white and black tiles formed at the ceiling above him. He forced himself to count the black ones; one, two, three…

Belatedly, Fedyor recognised a familiarity in the pattern; he soon realised the room he was being held in, was none other than the infirmary wing of the Little Palace. But- that couldn’t be. They’d been running away from Kirigan. They’d been fighting, knowing that the battle had been lost-

‘But I have use of you yet. You will not yet be killed, Fedyor Kaminsky.’

Kirigan’s words, delivered to him through one of his shadow soldiers, rang through Fedyor’s mind. So, then, this was his punishment. To be taken away from his allies, his friends, to suffer at the hands of the enemy, and finally, to be killed as an example of what happened to all those who dared oppose the mighty Black General. Well, then, so be it. He was ready to die for what he believed in; he had been ready to die for what he believed in, from the moment he first joined the Second Army. Such was the life of a Grisha- none of them lived long enough. Their best hope was for their death to mean something. And if Fedyor’s could buy the Resistance some time to regroup, he would die happy. He would die knowing he had helped save Ravka and the Grisha.

But oh- why , why did it have to hurt so much? Was it too much to ask, that he would just be allowed a painless death? He had never been scared of death (not his own, anyway; he had been afraid for others) but pain- he feared it. It wasn’t something he could see or even fight. It wasn’t an enemy facing down at him. It was something within him, something that he could not retaliate against, something he could not protect himself and others from. It made him feel trapped, caged, the walls of the room pressing in, his body shivering against the rope that held him tied down to the cot, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t even move his hand to wipe them off.

An image flashed in his addled mind; Ivan, sitting next to him in this same infirmary, if not in this very bed. He recalled how Ivan had held his hand while he was recovering from a particularly serious injury. How he had whispered words of comfort, how he’d used his powers to ease Fedyor’s pain and slow his heartbeat, lulling him into sleep, where nothing more could hurt him. Where was his Vanya now? Was he even alive? It had been so long since Alina’s spies had heard word of his whereabouts. Had he even been present during the attack at the Little Palace? Did he know Fedyor was there, suffering, silently begging for his presence? Would he care? Would he try to stop Kirigan from torturing him further? Did Fedyor even mean anything to him, at this point?

He did not know. He didn’t even know if he wanted to learn the answer to all these questions. All he knew was that he was tired, that it hurt, that he just wanted to sleep. Forever, if possible.

For all his anguish, the Saints must have decided to show kindness just this once. Slowly, Fedyor’s strength abandoned him. His eyelids drooped and darkness closed in, reclaiming him once again.

He submitted willingly to it, and prayed to never again wake up.

-

Darkness. Pain. Screaming. He didn’t know where he was.

A familiar heartbeat amongst the shadows. A voice so familiar, so treasured.

Someone yelling. The unmistakable sound of bodies thudding to the floor.

And then darkness again, a reprieve. Relief. The pain seemed to stop.

The darkness beckoned, and he followed.

-

When he next woke up, it felt as if he had been asleep for an eternity. His throat was parched, his joints so stiff he felt as if he’d been trapped in ice. Memories and fragments of dreams or nightmares mixed within his mind, to the point where he didn’t know what was real, and what had only been a figment of his imagination.

“Fedya?”

Oh- that was real. Or at least, Fedyor prayed it was. Because…

“V-Vanya…?” he croaked, wincing at the scraping sound of his voice. Saints, what wouldn’t he give for even a single sip of water. He forced his tired eyes to open, only so he could confirm for himself that this was real, this was not a dream, and Ivan was really there.

As a matter of fact, Ivan was there, in all his gruff, grumpy glory. But he was rumpled in a way Fedyor had never seen before; he was unshaven, rough beard covering his sharp, angular features. There were dark circles under his hazel eyes, that now seemed to have sunk into his skull, and a fresh scar ran across the right side of his face, from his forehead to the tip of his jaw. His clothes were tattered, and, perhaps the thing most shocking to Fedyor, he was no longer wearing his kefta. As soon as Fedyor’s eyes had focused enough, he realised Ivan’s eyes were brimming with tears.

“Fedya- oh, thank the Saints. Thank the Saints.”

His large, calloused hand rested on the side of Fedyor’s face, and he leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m sorry.” Ivan whispered, his voice breaking at the end. Fedyor was positive he had never seen him so distressed before. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

“Vanya- what?” Fedyor still felt disoriented, as if he’d been stuck inside a jar of honey and was just now beginning to resurface, the world still sticky and muddled around him. He didn’t know what was happening, where he was, he could barely remember the last time he’d woken up…

…ah. Right, the battle at the Little Palace. Falling. Pain. Kirigan. Darkness, despair. Crying out for Ivan as pain consumed his every fibre.

Ivan drew back after a few moments and swiped furiously at his eyes, erasing every trace of the tears that had been there only seconds earlier. But his clear hazel eyes were still heavy with sorrow and guilt. He settled next to Fedyor on what the latter realised was a cot, but his hand found his partner’s and laced their fingers together.

“I… I imagine you have a lot of questions.” Ivan said after a short, tense silence. When Fedyor nodded, he let out a tired, regretful side. “Let me start by saying I don’t expect you to forgive me. I will not ask you for it. But I want you to know the truth. And the truth is I had no idea what Kirigan was planning to do. He promised he wouldn’t kill you, but I- I was stupid. I didn’t realise what he had in mind. That he would keep you alive, but he’d make you suffer at his hands. It was only after I saw how many Grisha he killed that I truly realised why you had turned away. You were right, Fedyor. You were right as always. I followed a monster. And you, and so many of our friends, paid the price.”

Ivan’s gaze slid away, as if he were unable to look Fedyor in the eye. Fedyor was seized with the sudden desire to grab Ivan by the chin and turn his head towards him. To make him look. Not because of some stupid, petty kind of “I-told-you-so” moment of vindication. But because he could hardly believe Ivan was there, with him. That they were safe and that they were together. That they were both alive. Still, he could detect the turmoil his lover was going through; so he waited, unwilling to force Ivan into something he was not yet ready for. After a few heartbeats, Ivan continued his narration.

“He told me he had a gift for me. I… I was confused. I didn’t know what he meant. He talked about you like you were an object, Fedya. I only started to realise what he meant when he led me towards the infirmary. Saints, my love, I’ve never been as scared as when I saw you tied down on that bed. When I saw just how hurt you were, that your wounds had been left untreated… Kirigan said it was what you deserved for betraying him. But he assured me that he would keep you alive. He planned to use you as a bargaining chip against Alina, so he didn’t plan on killing you. Not yet. He said I could do with you anything I wanted, other than heal you. I could stay with you, but I was not allowed to help you. I wasn’t allowed to use my powers on you, or heal or bring you painkillers, or anything. I couldn’t bear it, Fedyor. I had- I had to get you out. So that’s what I did. I stole a horse, and I killed as many of Kirigan’s oprichniki as I could. I took you, and I ran away. It was all I could think about. We had nowhere else to go… but he cannot seek us here. He holds no power over us so long as we remain beyond the borders.”

Beyond the borders… that had never stopped Kirigan before. Unless-

Cold fear slithered down Fedyor’s spine, paralysing his limbs. “V-Vanya… where… where are we…?”

He watched Ivan’s throat bob as the other man swallowed. His eyes still didn’t meet Fedyor’s.

“We… I took us to Fjerda. To the village where I was born.” He whispered, voice so broken and quiet that for a moment, Fedyor neglected the fact they were in fucking Fjerda.

“Ivan-“ his voice shook, his heart kicking violently against his chest. “Ivan, if anyone finds out what we are, they will burn us alive-“

“You think I don’t know that?” Ivan removed his hand from Fedyor’s, only so he could hide his face in both of his. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? But I would rather put a bullet at both our heads if a group of druskelle finds us, than let Kirigan anywhere near you again. I would rather I was burned at the stake over and over and over, for all eternity, if it meant you’d be safe from him.”

His voice was raw and breaking with emotion, and Fedyor realised he was close to tears again. His Vanya, who never cried. It grounded him enough to put aside the raging terror that had sprang inside of him at the mention of their location, at least temporarily.

“Vanyusha… I do not blame you-“

“Well, you should.”

“Sush!” Fedyor mustered his most threatening glare, although he was aware the effect was diminished by the fact he was lying in a broken cot, swaddled in a nest of Fjerdan-style woven blankets. “Listen. You didn’t throw me off the roof. You didn’t control the nichevo’ya that nearly tore me apart. And as soon as you found out, you didn’t let Kirigan torture me any further. You saved me, Ivan.”

“After I put you in danger, in the first place.” Ivan muttered dejectedly, and Fedyor groaned.

“Do you think the attack wouldn’t have happened if you had sided with Alina instead? You think Kirigan would stop his entire warmongering plan just because of you? Ivan, you’re important to him, but you’re not that important.”

Ivan snorted quietly, and it sounded a bit like a bitter laugh. “Can’t argue with that. But…”

“No ‘buts’.” Fedyor carefully untangled himself from the blankets and sat up, wincing at the stiffness of his body and the lingering pain of his wounds. However, it was nowhere near comparable to what he remembered from the last time he woke up. He could grit his teeth through it. “Ivan- you might not be important to Kirigan, but you are to me. You’re the most important person in my life. I would never, ever hate you. Not since you came back to me.”

He reached out and took one of Ivan’s hands, pressing his own palm against Ivan’s. Ivan’s eyes slowly slid down to look at their hands, and something in his expression softened, his straining heartbeat uncoiling into a smoother, calmer pace.

“I know I said earlier that I wouldn’t ask you to forgive me, but…” his lips twitched into a bitter smile. “Will it be too much if I ask for it, after all?”

Fedyor’s face broke into a beaming grin at the words. He cupped Ivan’s hands with both his own and squeezed gently.

“All is forgiven, Vanya.” He said softly. Ivan finally got up from the floor, and perched next to Fedyor on the narrow cot. Slowly, he wrapped both arms around the other Grisha and pulled him close- and Fedyor could swear that he melted in relief, as he clung to Ivan’s solid warmth, praying to never have to let go of again. How he’d missed this; the safety, the undisturbed knowing that flowed between them, their synching heartbeats. Nothing else mattered; it didn’t matter that they were in Fjerda; it didn’t matter that he was still in a considerable amount of paint. It didn’t matter they would have to run, at least until Kirigan was defeated. It didn’t matter that they were at war.

“Ya lubyuu tebya.” Fedyor murmured in Old Ravkan, his voice breaking with longing and affection. ‘I love you.’ He wanted to say the words to Ivan over and over again, until there was nothing in the world but their beating hearts, their love, their hushed breaths and stolen kisses.

“And I, you.” Ivan answered reassuringly, one hand tangling itself between Fedyor’s tussled hair and caressing his head. Fedyor melted into the affections, closing his eyes and leaning against Ivan. They stayed like that for a moment, lost within the most peaceful kind of quiet Fedyor had ever known. Then, Ivan withdrew slowly. Fedyor whined, already missing his warmth, but the other Grisha shook his head sternly.

“You need to lie down.” He said matter-of-factly. “I’ve healed whatever I could of your wounds, but your body is still weak. You need to rest, and I’m going to have to keep an eye on that nichevo’ya wound on your shoulder. Your fever only broke yesterday.”

Fedyor sighed; he couldn’t exactly argue with that. He felt weak, his body shaking from the effort of simply sitting up. Slowly, he eased himself back against the mattress and let Ivan wrap him up in Saints knew how many quilts again. At least the previous occupants of this house had been considerate enough to leave a bunch of those behind.

Ivan moved away for a few minutes, then returned with a wooden cup in one hand. It was filled with some kind of a fragrant herbal beverage.

“Here, drink.” He said. He slid one hand under Fedyor’s head and lifted it slowly, putting the brim of the cup against his lover’s cracked, dry lips so he could drink. Fedyor all but groaned with gratitude as he felt the cold liquid wash down his parched throat. He gulped another generous sip, before Ivan pulled away.

“Not too fast, or you’ll get sick.” He warned, and Fedyor huffed childishly, but didn’t complain further. Ivan rolled his eyes and placed the cup on the floorboards by the bed, then settled back into his original position. He lifted a hand and brushed a strand of brown hair from Fedyor’s forehead.

“I like your hair like that.” Ivan said absentmindedly, and Fedyor hummed.

“Like what?”

“Longer.” Ivan said simply. Ah, yeah- he hadn’t had much time to cut it during the weeks before the attack, and if he wanted to be perfectly honest, he’d kind of given up on taking care of himself whatsoever. Genya had called it an effect of depression- maybe she’d been right. But hey, at least Ivan liked the results.

“Hm…” Fedyor winked. “Alright. Maybe I’m going to keep it like that.”

Ivan chuckled. “Yeah, alright. We can talk about it later. For now, can you promise me you’ll rest?”

“Fine, fine. I’m not a child, you know.” Fedyor complained.

“I know.” Ivan sighed. “But you need to rest. You’re hurt.”

“Alright, I get that, but…” Fedyor looked away, colour blooming against his pale cheeks, “can you promise you’ll stay?”

At that, Ivan smiled tenderly. He leaned in, pressing a soft, loving kiss on Fedyor’s lips.

“I promise, my love. I’m not leaving you again.”

[lightsinthedistancee]

City Midnights, Chapter 2: Poe Dameron x Reader

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader 

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: “There is always something missing in his headspace. Something vaguely shaped like you.”

Poe reflects on past times with Reader while he hopes for their survival.

Warnings: Violence

Read the first chapter here.

A/N: This work is 3 chapters long, and this is the last one in this sort of “group-of-one-shots” format. The last chapter will be super short and sweet. Hope you enjoy!

If you wish to be tagged on future works, just drop a reply/comment.

He cannot sleep. Worry and distress are consuming him, wrenching his insides around, tampering with the portions of his brain that allow him to relax. When he’d heard you’d been taken, he had returned to his quarters, laid on the bed, and unashamedly sobbed. The captured often never returned.

He wakes during the night. Sometimes because he believes that he can hear you. Sometimes because he is missing the familiar weight of you on his chest. Sometimes because he has nightmares, and there are only empty sheets beside him.

It’s a month after your disappearance that he finally gains the courage to enter your quarters. It screams familiarity, and that is the worst part. Your shoes are still casually strewn by the door. The bed is still messed up from when the two of you had woken up, made love, and then gotten ready two weeks past. It feels like a lifetime ago to him.

Your pillow still smells like you. Something subtly sweet and distinctly citrusy.

He ensures that he is the only one to suffer from his grief. Poe Dameron is not one to fail to get the job done. But he goes about the day with a numbness to his actions. In some ways, it’s a good thing. He is hyper-efficient, immune to distractions, for that is what numbness does to him.

But there’s always something missing in his headspace. Something vaguely shaped like you.

He lies in his bed that night, staring at the ceiling, eyes tracing the bright stripes that the light from the moon reflects onto the surface. He replays memories in his head. Good and bad. Hopeful and hopeless. Tragic and beautiful.

He watches you. You’re on your stomach, in the grass, your hands wrapped around a sniper rifle. You mutter numbers under your breath, running them in your head with an extraordinary speed, something he knows he’ll never be able to do.

You handle the rifle with a delicacy, like it’s a work of art that you love dearly. You treat it as such, and he knows that he cannot possibly count the number of times he has seen you polishing it, oiling the trigger.

You’d always loved your job. Why you did, exactly, was revealed to him one night years ago, in the early hours, whispered beneath covers that felt like they could protect the two of you from anything.

You were on the side of the Light. You’d grown up on the side of the Light. And the Light did not believe in death. Death was cruel, unnecessary in many situations. It had the potential to be the ultimate act of barbarism. And the both of you had been raised on that idea like it was religion.

And that night, you’d shamefully admitted that you loved your weapon for the cleanliness in which it got the job done. One shot, and it was over. One shot with the capacity to end someone’s world, someone’s life, someone’s love.

That memory is what he recalls as he listens to you take deep breaths, your figure relaxing. By now, he’s seen you work enough to know that that means you’re about to take the shot. He watched the target through binoculars.

Bang.

A yell. A thud. A burst of red like a blossoming rose.

It is done. Just like that. He grins immediately. “That’s my girl,” he says, too soft for you to hear.

You remove your focus from the scope and meet him with a smile. You stand, slinging the rifle over your shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Another shot in the distance sounds off, and his head is instantly on a swivel, looking for a perpetrator. “What the hell?”

He looks to you, and his eyes widen.

You’re on the ground.

You’re bleeding.

You’re gasping.

That had been a blaster bolt with your name on it.

He’s in shock for a moment. He just stares. But then, he’s at your side, pulling you into his arms, muttering profanities under his breath in distress. He activates the comm in his ear. “I need a medical team to….” He rattles off coordinates, and all he can do is wait.

His world is freezing, leaving just you and him and your agonizing pain that he can seemingly feel too. Your distress sizzles through the air, clutching at his heart, clawing at it, begging for him to help. And he can do nothing. Nothing to aid you clinging to life in his lap.

Your breathing is ragged, your eyes are blank. The only sign that you are still alive is the painful sound coming from your lips. “Stay with me, baby,” he begs, pleading to any higher power that may exist. “Stay with me.”

In short, once everything had run its course, you’d been fine. Fine after hours of surgery and a nasty scar, that is. He supposed that he should’ve been grateful that your attacker had not possessed the same precision that you had. If they had, it would’ve been a shot clean through your skull, and it would’ve truly been over.

But regardless, that did nothing to stop the feeling he’d felt from returning to him every night. He still feels it: in his dreams, in his fears. He feels it right now. It’s not as strong. It’s dull, like something that doesn’t cause him blatant pain, but won’t allow him to relax either.

And as he lies on his bed, unable to sleep, all he wants is you. You by his side, you in his arms, your presence gracing his. You are always there: after particularly long days, after lost battles, after deaths, after hard missions….

He paces down the halls of base, his hair disheveled, bags under his eyes. One pilot down, two damaged ships, three civilian casualties, and no information whatsoever. All under his command.

He pushes open the door to his quarters. The room emanates a soft, warm glow, alighted by lamps and candles, matching the feeling that you give him. You sit at the desk, working away at some logistics for an upcoming mission.

When you catch sight of him, you jump, for he’d been silent coming in. He watches your happy face fade as you see his state.

He almost feels guilty that he has brought his gloom with him upon his return. But you don’t seem to mind, like always.

You walk up to him, simply wrapping your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He presses a kiss to your hair and relishes your warmth, breathing you in.

You pull away, fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt to pull it over his head. A smattering of bruises lines his ribs, your eyes quickly flicking to his. “Don’t worry about it,” he says softly.

He glances at the clock, alarmed at the fact that it is nearly midnight. Wordlessly, you grasp his hand, leading him through the room, into the refresher.

“What happened?” You ask tentatively as your hands run tenderly along his body, soaping him up.

“Can I tell you tomorrow?”

You nod, moments of silence passing.

“Tell me about your day,” he says quietly. The sight of you washes over him, relaxes him in a way only you can achieve.

You raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t really do much—“

“Please,” he pleads, cutting you off, desperation in his voice. “I just want to hear you speak about something…anything…”

“Okay.” You smile warmly, standing on your toes to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Well I got to sleep in this morning actually, till around 9. I worked on some mission logistics—oh, and I watched Leia chew some colonel out…”

As you speak, he zones out, just letting the sound of you comfort him. It is euphoric compared to the sense of failure he’s endured the past two weeks.

When he goes to wash his hair, you stop him, instead turning him around and running your hands through his curls, washing them thoroughly. It is almost sinful how good your hands feel, tenderly running along his scalp, gently working out any knots. The water around the drain circles slightly gray from fallout ash.

When he goes to return the favor, you refuse. “Go to bed,” you insist, able to tell that he is very tired.

“But…,” he objects. There is some arguing back and forth before you practically push him out of the shower.

“Why are you so difficult?” you question, laughing softly.

He smiles, opening up the curtain slightly so that you can see his smirk. “You wouldn’t want me any other way, sweetheart, and you know it.”

You merely roll your eyes, tugging the curtain closed.

He gets in bed, waiting for you before he falls asleep. You walk out when you’re done and dressed, and he watches as you go about turning off lights and blowing out candles. The softness and tranquility that you exude challenges his sadness and desperation that he is sure is rolling about the room in waves, consuming everything. The two of you are opposites when you need to be, the same when it is beneficial, the perfect complement to the other.

Once you’re settled in, he rolls towards you, resting his head on your shoulder. Your fingers calmingly comb through his hair as he breaths softly, savoring the feeling of your warm skin against his.

He is falling prey to sleep quicker and quicker as the seconds pass. When he hears you speak, your voice is barely a whisper. “Good night, love.”

He’s been with you for years. Loved you for years. He’d met you at nineteen. Spent some time together. Then you’d separated to lead different lives. Him to the New Republic, you following your own path.

A reunion had occurred years down the line, leading to the moment right now, where he lies in bed, fingers twisting in the sheets. The future has been in consideration with the two of you. A plan to tie the knot once the war was over, get a place in the city, adopt a few dogs perhaps.

The idea, once bright, currently seems so far out of reach to him. Like a light in the distance that he is so desperately grasping for, his attempts only pushing it further and further away.

He thinks of all his proclamations of love to you, all of his hopeful thoughts he’d infused in you. All of the promises he’d made to you…

It is well past midnight. The two of you lie on his X-Wing, near the back on the thrust engines. It is as far off the ground as the both of you can get for now. You head is on his chest, his jacket around your shoulders as you look up at the stars. Although you don’t notice, he is looking at you, a fondness spreading a warm feeling throughout his body.

Your eyes seem to reflect the light of the stars as you stare off into the abyss of space. A ship streaks by, and a small chuckle escapes your lips.

He raises an eyebrow in confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” you tell him, drawing your hands into the sleeves of his jacket to keep warm. “Just a memory.”

He pushes a strand of hair from your face, the corners of his lips twitching. “Wanna tell me?”

You pause a moment, tilting your head thoughtfully as if unsure. “Back home,” you begin, “I’d always find buildings with fire escapes so that I could sit on the roof and watch ships.”

He threads his fingers with yours as your attention shifts to another ship.

“I had one of those compasses you could get from the store—maybe a credit or two—and, based on the direction, I’d just imagine where the ships were going….”

You laugh softly, a small smile on your lips. “There was really no logic to it…it was just fun.

“Sometimes I’d bring a holopad and take virtual ‘walks’ down the streets of some old Naboolian city, or some foreign Deep Core metropolis, or some bustling Corellian bazaar.

“And all of that would just turn into long nights of dreaming about leaving home and traveling the galaxy. I could spend hours doing that, just seeing endless visions of fantasies and my wildest dreams, thoughts of wanderlust and yearning to see and feel…to experience…the entire galaxy.”

He finds himself enamored by the way you speak, the way your eyes seem to cloud over as you relive the past.

“Well you get to travel in this job now, right?” he asks.

You hum in agreement, the smallest frown appearing. “Yes, but not everywhere I’d want to go.”

“Where do you want to go?”

You rattle off city and planet names, sometimes entire systems. He smiles at your childlike excitement as mentions of certain places make your entire face light up. The way you jolt slightly as you enthusiastically remember a crucial place you’d forgotten. The way your hands move as you speak.

The list is long, but Maker knows that the both of you have your entire life ahead.

“We’ll go some day,” he tells you as you finish. “Once the war is over. Once we’ve won.”

You smile. “Yeah?”

He nods. “One day, sweetheart. I promise,” he murmurs. “One day.”

Poe is now not so sure that that one day will ever come.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

He wakes hours later to a frantic banging on his door. He resists the urge to ignore it. He’d miraculously fallen asleep fairly quickly, and getting out of bed would spoil that.

A warbling sounds at the door, followed by a series of beeps. His droid.

He groans, rubbing his eyes and stumbling out of bed before flinging open the entrance to his quarters.

BB-8 is there, already speaking at a million miles per hour. Poe pleads with the droid to slow down as the pilot’s brain slowly comprehends and translates the binary in his sleepy state.

But when Poe is through with his understanding, his eyes widen at the single sentence.

“They’ve found her.”

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Taglist: @paper-in-ashes-fanfiction​ @imaginecrushes​ @no-shit-sherl0ck​ @castiel-barnes​ @starryeyedstories​

“City Midnights” Chapter 2 originally posted on AO3 on 12/11/20.

[oneletteredwondered]

Siren Song

Sum: Pirate Remus hears a song on the water and needs to find out what it is. Nothing can console me, but my sailor bold.

Written for @dukexietyweek Day 3: Pirates

Warning: possible manipulation, referring to a creature of unknown origin as ‘it’, mild descriptions of drowning, kisses.

--

Salt isn’t the only thing in the air. The crew can feel it. Anticipation or dread. There’s something dangerous lurking in the water they know. Of course none of them have seen the thing, but it’s in the hit against the hull of the ship, the scratching they can hear late at night, the sound of a song that permeates through the waves. There’s something down there they know, and the captain is eager to find it.

“Simple really,” Mad Captain Remus says to them, securely tying their longest length of rope around his torso. The crew shifts from foot to foot unsure if they should allow this to really happen.

“Pull me up if I scream,” The captain says and falls backwards off the edge of the ship. The crew rushes to the edge and looks over into the water, seeing the line of rope down into the sea foam but none of their captain. They whisper to themselves and take positions near the rope, waiting and waiting for the tug to signal pulling their captain back to deck.

--

It’s cold. The water presses on his chest and constricts his breathing. Remus has a chance to catch another gulp of air then lets the water drag him down. His fingers are already numb but he keeps his body moving to ward off most of the chill. It does little but Remus isn’t one to give in so easily.

Which is mostly true. He’s heard the siren song on the water for weeks now, getting closer to his ship. At first he wanted to destroy the thing, protect his crew from their trickery and potential death. Perhaps sell the hide and teeth for a pretty penny to treat the crew a day of relaxation and well deserved pillaging.

Then he started listening to the song, which is probably his first mistake, part of the trickery involved. He listened, and the song sounded sad, more sad than any he’s ever heard before. Desperation, sorrow, despair. Remus felt it burn inside him and fester till he felt like his flesh would rot due to the emotions whirling inside him. None of the rest of the crew could hear it as well as he could, could feel what he could, it drove him more mad than he already was.

Perhaps that’s what the siren wanted, to make him feel, and give in. Remus doesn’t much feel like he’s giving in even as he breaks the surface of the water to breathe again. He feels dangerous, challenging even, wanting to play the siren at their own game. He takes another deep breath and dives back under the water.

It’s so dark he can barely see through the murk, but he can see enough though it stings his eyes. He spins weightlessly in circles, trying to figure out where the sound of the siren is coming from. Their voice echos through the water and bounces in every direction he can’t directly pinpoint where the singer is. As soon as he thinks he knows where the siren is, the song is behind him, making him spin dizzy in circles.

He pops over the surface of the water again. Refusing to go back to the deck without seeing the siren if it kills him. Which may very well be what the siren wants. He inhales slowly and gathers as much as air as he can, and sinks back down to a song closer than it was before.

His eyes burn with the strain of searching, turning this way and that, trying to catch merely a glimpse of the creature that has been haunting his nightmares. The song is vibrating in his skull now, loud enough to block out the waves above him. He closes his eyes tight and clamps his hands over his water logged ears to block the sound out.

Suddenly it stops. Silence besides the rush of waves. Carefully Remus lowers his hands and opens his eyes to the water around him, coming face to face with rows of sharp jagged teeth.

He blows out a puff of bubbles, clamping a hand over his mouth to not waste any more air as the siren tilts it’s head back and forth at him. His lungs are already burning with a need to breathe but he’ll be Davey Jones himself if he lets this moment pass him.

The siren is there, floating in the water not a foot apart from him. Dangerous points of teeth stick out of their mouth and their eyes are solid glowing purple. Their color marking are hard to pick out in the dark water surrounding them but Remus supposes that’s the point. He can detect hints of grey, black, and that brilliant purple, but nothing definitive.

The siren lets out a coo, trill and sharp and it sends a shiver down Remus’s spine. The siren reacts positively to that, smiling wickedly at him and swimming in a circle around him that causes the length of their body to curl around him possessively. Whatever emotion Remus is feeling at the action he can barely focus on it as his chest begins to spasm.

He lets out the last of a puff of bubbles and thrashes for the surface. He doesn’t quite make it, a hand, cold and quick, wraps around his ankle and yanks him farther downward. He wants to scream or fight, hand reaching for the dagger strapped his side but the siren is faster, hands gripping him and body coiling around him as much as the shark like body will allow.

Remus tries to inhale once, body desperate for something to breathe, and expects to swallow down salt water but that doesn’t happen. Just as he opens his mouth, lips cover his and air, warm and hot, enters his lungs instead. He nearly gasps and ruins the whole thing, watching as the siren’s gills work to breathe water in and air out for him.

Once he feels able to hold his breath he pulls back, surprised the siren lets him. Their hands on his face are colder than the water, eye shimmering with subtle movements. Remus can’t help it. A grin begins to spread across his face, an expression that gets wider when the siren returns it fully showing off their sharp teeth.

Morbid curiosity consumes him and Remus touch the teeth boldly, feeling the point and nearly pricking his finger on it. The siren lets him touch, another trill of noise curling out of their throat. Remus shivers again at the noise. It draws him in, something deep and longing calling him closer to it.

The siren makes another noise, more pointed and direct this time. Despite the water threatening to bring him to his grave, Remus opens his mouth and repeats the noise as best he can. The siren spins around him again, kissing air back into his lungs.

This time Remus knows he has to pull away or he’ll stay down there forever. As tempting as it is. He points up to the surface and siren glares at him, letting out a hissing noise. Still it helps him up. Remus inhales hard once he breaches, coughing up the water that infiltrated his lungs. He can feel the creature curling between his legs as best it can with it’s size, reminding him it’s there.

And Remus wants to stay there, wants to float in the water forever staring at the creature and their hypnotic eyes. He only wishes he could tell if the want is because it wants him, or wants to kill him. He’s scared and excited by both options, which is how he knows he needs to get out fast.

So Remus screams, a strangled sound from his salt water wrecked throat. The reaction is instant. The rope around his torso tugs hard, dragging him upwards, as the siren lurches up, a pained noise escaping them as Remus clambers up the side of his ship. He can hear it crying as he hits the deck, covering his ears with his hands to block out the noise. He wants to dive back down and console the creature, let it keep him forever. It burns his soul and the only thing to stop him from doing so is his crew, using the rope around him to tie him to the mast and hoist the anchor to get the ship moving.

The crying follows them for three days, a wailing noise that has the crew miserable but none as much as Remus. It affects him so much more it seems, able to hear the sound clearer than the others, hear the sorrow in the song that makes him scream and cry. Still he does not return to the water or look over the edge of his ship for three days.

It’s on the evening of the fourth night that something changes. The song is softer this time, more subdued, begging now instead of demanding. That’s not what gets Remus to stand from his chamber and stumble his way out to the deck to lean over the edge of his ship looking for purple scales. It’s the fact he can understand the words being sung to him.

“My heart is pierced by cupid, my disdain all glitter and gold, there is nothing can console me.. but my sailor bold.” The song stings right through him, his soul vibrating with knowing he is the sailor being sung about and the words leave his mouth before he can think.

“His hair hangs in ringlets, his eyes black as coal, my happiness attend him, wherever he may go.” He’s lucky, or perhaps unlucky, none of the rest of the crew is around to hear him or see him. He scans the water, nearly desperate as the song, when the siren surfaces, letting out a coo to him. Relief floods Remus’s system at seeing them, something settling his frayed nerves at being apart. He mimics the noise back and siren smiles. They open up their arms to him and coo again. Come down here.

The urge to jump is commanding. Remus holds fast and instead repeats the noise with a gesture up. Come this way. The siren grimaces at him and coos again, more forcefully. Come down, please. Remus does not. He shakes his head and siren lets out a cry that hurts. Please.

Remus wants to. He wants to jump over the edge and follow the siren wherever they may lead him. He can’t. Not knowing their intentions with him.

“How can I understand you now?” He finds himself asking, clawing at the banister of his ship, anything to ground him to where he is. He debates tying himself down if it’ll help his urge. The siren tilts their head at him and smiles with their teeth, letting out a trill of a noise.

You belong to the sea, to me. The siren says. Remus knows this. Seven seas save him he knows this.

“What do you want with me?” He asks then. The siren smiles more genuinely at that and disappears under the water. Remus nearly does jump then, not wanting this to be over, but the siren appears again, shooting up out of the water claw their way up the boat. Once they’re close enough, Remus leans over and helps them settle on the edge. 

He can see all the patterning of their body now, swirls of purple and black and grey, blending into one another it’s hard to say where one color ends and another begins. Their eyes now have a ring of black around the edges of the purple, adjusting to being out of the water. They coo and drag a finger across Remus’s cheeks softly and he melts into the cold touch.

I want everything, you are mine. The siren says and Remus kisses them. He cuts his lip on their teeth but it’s nothing compared to the feel of their scaled skin under his hands.

“Stay with me,” Remus finds himself asking. The siren coos happily and Remus echoes the noise. The night is wiled away cooing at each other until the first of the crew wakes. They catches Remus curled in the arms of the siren, both sleeping on the deck. The creature leaps over the edge of the boat as quick as it can and Remus jumps to watch them fall into the water until they can’t be seen any more.

Whatever questions the crew has he can not answer. He is unsure of the nature of what just happened himself. But come next night, he’s tying a rope to his torso and jumping overboard. The siren catches him and trills and teaches Remus it’s language.

Despite the concern, the pattern continues, a night above, a night below. Perhaps worrying when Remus begins to grow gills on the side of his neck, but he’s the same reckless captain the crew knows. Reckless as anything when he spends his nights with a deadly sea creature.

Word spreads when another ship threatens to attack, half the crew jumping overboard with a glossy look in their eyes and the sounds of a siren’s feast follow after. The crew wasn’t sure to be fearful or thankful considering the siren had not done the same to them. Remus couldn’t have been more besotted.

The rumors spread and when the crew docks, Remus stays on the ship with his siren. The crew tells hims tales of what everyone says and he laughs with them and they laugh when the siren trills from over the edge. They are feared even more now on the waters than ever before and they take full advantage of so.

Davey Jones prays for those who come across Mad Captain Remus and siren song for a lover.

[oliviaischillin1204]

good night

Pairings: Romantic Moxiety

Word Count: 1,278 words

this is not the only thing i wanted to accomplish when i had two full days off from work but such is life ya know

He didn’t see this side of Virgil often-- his playful, teasy side. It was only on those rare occasions when Virgil was feeling particularly confident-- not just cocky, but secure and confident. It was a really good look on him, Patton always thought. Doesn’t mean it’s not still flustering as all get out, though.

Case in point: Virgil came to find Patton late at night as the moral side was snuggled in his bed. Patton smiled at him, pulling aside the blankets and greeting him with a warm, “Time for bed, honey?”

And then Virgil grabbed Patton’s wrists and straddled his waist in one swift motion, and Patton caught the look in Virgil’s eyes and-- oh. Oh. So that’s the game they’re playing.

Patton let a small giggle slip out. “Um, Virgil--?”

Virgil didn’t blink. Patton squirmed.

“Oh, gosh, I hate when you get all quiet!”

Virgil quirked his head, still giving him that oh-so-innocent look. Like he was waiting for something.

The two stayed there in a silent staring contest. Patton couldn’t help the giddy, nervous smile on his face, even as he attempted to look everywhere except for Virgil’s eyes.

In the next second, Virgil's face abruptly dove in to Patton's neck, and Patton gave a short yell of shock that immediately gave way to hysterical giggles.

"No no no nohohoho! Virgil!"

Again, Virgil didn't say anything, but he shifted on top of Patton to brush his nose and mouth back and forth against his skin, over and over and over again. Patton's laughter was incessant, his legs kicking out as much as he could under Virgil's weight.

“Not there! Not-- ahahaha!” he managed through his laughter. “It tickles! Plehehehease! You’re sohoho mean!”

Virgil exhaled loudly, practically giving a tickle-monster growl as he blew a stream of warm air over Patton’s neck. It sent a wave of tingles across Patton’s skin, and Patton gasped at the new feeling before his squirming began anew.

“No, no! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he begged as Virgil sniffed and sighed in a cruel cycle, keeping him in a fit of giggles as his vulnerable tickle spots were ruthlessly targeted. He pulled at his arms, but he couldn’t get enough leverage to knock Virgil away, so he settled for whipping his head back and forth as much as he could without knocking skulls with Virgil.

A particularly tickly breath made Patton snort, his head falling backwards to the pillow in a weak fit of giggles. Virgil laughed lowly, breaking his silence as he leaned his mouth close to Patton’s exposed ear.

“Isn’t it cute that I don’t even have to lift a finger to tickle you?”

His words made Patton feel like he was being tickled from the inside, and he writhed on the bed from the teasing.

“Sh-- shush!”

Virgil chuckled at the rising blush on Patton’s cheeks. He pressed a soft kiss to his temple before trailing feather light kisses down his face until he reached his target spot again.

“You smell sweet,” he murmured. His nose snuffled even closer to Patton’s neck, the tingling sensation growing further.

"It's my shampoo," Patton giggled, fighting the urge to drop his jaw against his chest. Virgil hummed in approval.

"Kinda smells like berries.” 

Virgil froze, and after a moment Patton felt him smile against his neck.

“Virgil...” he started. The other’s silence did not calm him. “Virgil, don’t you dare--”

Virgil dared. Without preamble he blew a giant raspberry against Patton’s neck, right underneath his ear. 

“Na-ahahahahaha!” Patton’s giggles spiked, his feet drumming against the mattress as he writhed under Virgil’s weight. “You-- ahahaha! You jerk!”

Virgil scoffed. “I’m not a jerk. If I were a jerk, I’d do this.”

This time, when he dove back in to raspberry Patton’s neck, he also released one of Patton’s wrists in order to scratch and wiggle his fingers all over the other side of Patton’s exposed throat. Patton gave a choked-off scream as he desperately tried to scrunch his neck and fight off the tickles that were coming from all sides.

“Not fair!” he wheezed, eyes screwed shut in ticklish agony. He beat his free hand against Virgil’s shoulder, but he couldn’t gather enough strength to push him off. “Not fair!”

Virgil hummed against Patton’s neck, mouthing along the skin without a care in the world.

“What?” he asked innocently, but there was an undercurrent of teasiness to his voice that made Patton want to die. “What’s not fair?”

Patton groaned as he furiously attempted to wriggle out from beneath his gangly boyfriend yet again.

“I’m trapped! I’m stuck!” he managed through his giddy giggles. His feet continued kicking out as he squealed, “You’re being mean!”

Honestly, he knew it was an impressively dumb idea to continue to insult Virgil while in this position, but he still wasn’t expecting the feeling of Virgil releasing his other wrist, grabbing his torso, and flipping them both over in one swift move.

“There,” Virgil said triumphantly. “Happy?”

And now Virgil was on his back, holding Patton captive on his chest in a vice-like grip as he pressed fluttery kisses all over his jaw and neck.

Patton’s laughter burst out of him like music, bright and happy, filling the space with the warmth of his love. For a moment, he managed to (almost) forget about the tickly sensation as he just focused on the feeling of his boyfriend’s lips against his skin. He’d loved Virgil, and it was moments like this, these playful, private moments, that made him know without a doubt that Virgil loved him back.

And then Virgil wrapped his arms around his back and dug his fingers into Patton’s sides, and all of those lovey-dovey feelings evaporated in his newfound panic.

“Ah-hahahaha!” he screamed, wriggling around like a fish out of water. He weakly clawed at Virgil’s grip around his torso, but Virgil merely moved one of his hands so he was squeezing Patton’s hip at the same time, and the moral side broke.

“Cheheheating! Cheat–”

His protests trailed off into wordless peals of laughter. Virgil made a noise of faux sympathy.

“Two spots at once is cheating?”

Patton nodded, turning his head to hide his burning face in his shoulder.

Virgil’s eyes gleamed. “What about three spots?” And he pressed his face back into Patton’s exposed neck, not even given him time to react before blowing a noisy raspberry along the skin.

“Naha-ahahaha!” Patton absolutely shrieked. His body gave one more desperate escape attempt before he finally went limp, cradled against Virgil’s body as his three worst tickle spots where assaulted with a terrible accuracy.

It didn’t take long for Virgil to ease up on the tickles-- he knew when Patton had reached his limit, and it was barely a minute later before he had completely released Patton from his grip.

He laughed slightly as Patton didn’t bother to move from his position laying on Virgil’s chest.

“Comfy?”

Patton nodded, giving a wide yawn. He jumped when he felt one of Virgil’s hands touch down on his back again, but after a few moments of Virgil merely rubbing small circles with the palm of his hand, he gradually relaxed into the soothing touch.

“You’re goofy,” he mumbled, reaching blindly behind him until he caught Virgil’s other hand in his own. Virgil smiled as he intertwined their fingers.

“You’re goofy.”

“You’re goofier.”

“You’re the goofiest.”

Patton giggled, and after a beat Virgil joined him, their adrenaline dropping and leaving them both sleepy and content. Virgil leaned his head forward and pressed a kiss onto Patton’s forehead.

“Good night,” he whispered into Patton’s hair, and all Patton could think in response was, it certainly was.

[vicegrips-fr]

Stress Relief

Holland had a bad day and takes it out the only way he knows how- on someone else.

------------------- I really haven’t written anything for the Blight Touched in a while and I don’t think I’ve ever written a scene for their resident cowboy serial killer. Holland is a bad man whose lived an awful life and has ended up in Mordecai’s outlaw gang. His murderous tendencies are mostly kept under wraps, so the gang knows him as their incredibly unfriendly bartender.  Warnings: Violence, blood, gore, some language, and unpleasantness.

Pings: @fusefr @kattafr @stimmy-dragons

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

He’s a large man.

Six foot four, muscular, nearly three hundred pounds, and broad in the shoulders. His skin is bleached white, the same as his hair and his eyelashes. Albino is what he is and it’s why he prefers to hunt at night; the sun hurts his pale red eyes and burns his delicate skin. He’s with prey now and he’s been toying with them for hours. What their name is doesn’t matter because here inside his secret shack of horrors they are nothing but meat and bone anyway.

It’s as much a stress reliever as it is a pain in the ass sometimes, this hobby of his. The relief comes from the violence, but having to put up with all of that pathetic whining? It’s only good if they beg and plead in the right way.

That hurts! Make it stop! Please! I can’t take it anymore! That’s nice and all but would it kill them to make it more interesting once in a while? Sheesh.

Holland’s hand shoots out like a whip, gripping the man’s skull like a baseball as he slams his face into the wood floor. The man lets out a strangled scream, a plea for his attacker to stop that gets lost in the sound of bones cracking when Holland squeezes. Blood weeps down the little prick’s face as Holland’s claws bite into his flesh. 

“What was that?” Holland growls, leaning down, “You want me to stop? Is that it? That all you can say?”

Another scream pierces the air as Holland brings one of his knees down on the man’s back so hard that his spine breaks like a twig. 

“My legs! I can’t feel my legs!” 

Holland tuts, presses his knee down harder just to hear the aftermath of splintered bones being rearranged in flesh. Crack. Pop. Snap.

“That’s too bad,” he purrs back, his grip on the man’s head loosening a tad as his other hand comes down to stroke the poor fuck’s hair back. “There, there. It’ll be over soon. It’s not as much fun if you can’t feel all your parts.”

His victim’s whimpering and gibbering only pisses him off more. This isn’t having the effect it was supposed to. This was supposed to make him feel better, not worse. Not this...

Empty. He feels empty.

Holland closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of iron and fear like a drug. 

“Nighty, night,” he coos, devilish eyes snapping open. 

With all of his might he squeezes again, gnarled claws puncturing the poor son of bitch’s face like a hot knife through butter. To add insult to injury Holland digs his fingers into his victim’s eyes until there’s a satisfying pop. The man’s mouth opens again but he has no breath left in his lungs to scream as his face is ripped apart, reducing him to nothing but what lies beneath the skin. He’s already dead, long gone, but Holland doesn’t stop until his head pops like a watermelon.

Pieces of bone, blood, and brain matter splatter the floor and the ceiling like silly string, what’s left of the man’s head a mushy pulp as Holland stands to look over his handiwork. Bone sticks out of the meat, sharp and jagged like the teeth of a monster. 

Speaking of...

Holland leans down, digging into the gore in search of his trophy. He finds it jammed into one of the floorboards, sticking out like a rusty nail. 

“This’ll do,” he mutters to himself, pocketing the canine tooth with a grimace. This was supposed to make me feel better, he thinks again, but it’s no substitute for the real thing. It’s not the same satisfaction he’d get from-

Leave it alone, his mind hisses, a warning to himself not to touch that with a barge-pole. “Fuckin’ baby,” he murmurs, disgusted by the bastard splattered all over his floor, “Didn’t even try to put up a fight.”

He spits, kicking what’s left of the meatbag away with a grunt. “Time for work,” Holland sighs to himself, absentmindedly reopening the self-inflicted wounds on his neck to lick the blood off of his fingers, “I’ll deal with cleaning you up later."

With that he leaves to clean himself up. Can’t exactly work the bar covered in blood and bits of bone. Outlaws or not, it tends to turn people off of their drink.

[florenceisfalling]

11 with orchestra?

bro i want u to know that when i first got this prompt i went "oh my gosh i love you" out loud

11. whumper torturing whumpee with their biggest fear

warnings: drowning (harlow's worst fear babeyy!), brief descriptions of other hypothetical violences, just violence in general, big physical and emotional harm to a teenager

Harlow knows that they're in trouble as soon as the dented van they're in pulls into the hotel parking lot.

Between every single place they've stayed, from broken-in houses to shitty motel rooms to overpriced hotel suites, none of them ever even had a hot tub, much less a pool. The most you could get submerged in was a bathtub at best. But this particular establishment is immediately stamped into Harlow's mind as a threat, because the closest thing to the car's parking spot is a wide pool with a sign at the very end that says "10 FT."

Their heart leaps inside their chest, a chill runs up their spine, their eyes trail over the waves that stretch from shallow to shadowed. "That's new," they mumble, in a weak attempt at a casual tone.

Orchestra looks upon them with a smile, pulling the key from the car and reaching over to tousle their hair, just a little too rough. "We should go for a swim, hm?"

"Ha, good joke," Harlow barely says; cautiously, they turn to it with a fake smirk that tears further at a cut on their lips.

The forced happiness on their face doesn't last long.

"No, no, we really should go for a swim, my little Harlow," Orchestra insists. Layered in different tones, menacing and deep, it's voice scatters into static at the last three words.

They both stare into each other's eyes for a few seconds. Grey and technicolor clash in fear and simmering violence. Maybe there's even betrayal in the monster's eyes, though neither of them are even sure it can feel such a thing.

As their gaze suddenly breaks away, Harlow softly breathes out their confession. "I - I told Lilith where we were, um, told her wh-what you were... planning."

Orchestra doesn't stop staring while it nods. "I know."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, yes, we'll make sure you are."

Before they even have time to flinch, an army of mismatch hands snatches at Harlow's arms and shirt and drags them up, across the vehicle and out the driver door, clutched in Orchestra's arms like a scrappy puppy carried in the teeth of it's mother.

"You don't have to do this!" Harlow chokes out. Their hair hangs in their eyes, their glasses still sit in the glovebox of the car, and they see nothing but the blurry lights of town smeared across the sky. "Promise, p-promise I won't tell again!"

Usually docile and yielding, Harlow is now panicked enough to bare their teeth. While they claw and sob into Orchestra's sleeve, it just sighs, lets them kick and scrape themselves up on the sidewalk. "I give you all the love in the world and you spend it on someone who hates me like Lilith does - I wanted you two to get along, but not like that, Harlow."

On another day, one less urgent, those words would hit them like a hammer, and they would wonder in silence why Orchestra always sounds like it's winning a bet when it says the word "love." But they are far too lost in terror to even breathe, much less think about anything beyond the pool that lies ahead. They start to scream in a guttural shriek like a wounded rabbit, but the monster just presses it's gloved hand against their mouth.

Past the fence and past the bushes, onto a tile floor that doesn't scratch at Harlow's freckles but instead makes them gasp in fear of slipping and cracking their skull open on the ground. They hear the lapping of the water and see the teal glow cast from the waves, and they half-expect Orchestra to just shove them down to their knees and dunk their head in the pool until they stop thrashing.

Instead, the shapeshifter's body disappears entirely and it possesses Harlow's as it's own. Their shared body rises to their feet, turns away from the pool, and stretches their arms out like a crucifixion, head held high.

Harlow still begs and pleads as Orchestra smiles and lets the body fall backwards into the water.

The sudden slam of cold against their back, knocking their head forward and trying to rip the air from their lungs, dredges up dizziness that rises higher and higher in their throat as the kid holds back a sob. The water is a claustrophobic coffin that presses deeper and more fervently against Harlow's bones the more they try to take back control of their own muscles and tissue. Growing more and more lost in the bubbles and unshakeable taste of chlorine, they focus every ounce of energy into the hope of swimming back to the surface, but the tiles are changing color the deeper they sink - they're now at six feet under.

Still too powerfully possessed to fight, the only thing they manage to do is whimper "please don't kill me" - and fuck, now there's water in their mouth, tainting their tongue with who-knows-what and threatening to spill over into their breath. The burning in their nose feels like it's spreading up behind their eyes, but Orchestra just laughs, pouring more down their throat.

"I won't kill you! No, no. Not yet, little one."

Nothing even needs to pull Harlow down. Orchestra's wasting the last bit of breath they share, and keeping their body stiff enough to keep sinking in the process. Their vision is getting dark at the edges, and they can't quite tell if it's just the deeper shadows of the pool or something worse.

Their chest hurts like oxygen is building up from trying not to drown. Their chest hurts like their heart is splintering into pieces and piercing through their lungs.

Orchestra will soon swim up to the surface, but for now it just keeps laughing, and laughing, and laughing.

[my-brothers-corrupted]

Jackie, he won't stop. Even now, at his weakest, he's taking advantage of your emotions and the love you have for each other. Killing for vengeance is one thing, (and we could talk morality all day and still not come to a proper conclusion on mercy vs consequence but I digress) but killing out of self defense might be a necessity if all of this is to truly stop for good.

Anti pulls out a knife and throws, but his aim is shot and his hand is unsteady. The blade goes flying past Jackie and clatters to the ground.

“You’re really done for, huh?” asks Jackie softly, staring at him.

Anti drags himself to his knees, reaching for another knife. He’s shape-shifting wildly - losing control, Jackie can see - and he looks like a different version of Jack or of them with every moment that passes. The rapid shifting only seems to make him feel more ill. He struggles to get up, but then dandelions and creepvine are exploding from the earth, wrapping him up so tight Jackie hears him begin to wheeze, splitting the wound on his throat and crawling inside. Jackie closes his eyes, nauseated. It’s not a sensory issue this time - Anti just sounds like one of his brothers, choking and crying in pain.

“Fuck, fuck,” whispers Jackie. Blue comes to stand beside him, staring down at Anti.

Anti lets out a fragile scream, and then another, fighting clumsily against the plants that pin him down, trying so hard to glitch that Jackie is scared he will burst into pixels and fall apart completely. His energy is drained and his face has gone shock-white, but still he writhes, looking up at the pair of them with something like terror in his eyes. For a moment, he is a snake, a dog, a bird, a person again. He keens in pain, blood slicking his face from the wound Trick put in his skull.

“This is horrible,” cries Trick, getting to his feet and coming to stand beside his brothers, putting hands on both their shoulders. “Please, make it stop.”

Something flickers behind Anti. Blue grabs Trick, ready to shield him from one last battle as something appears on the ground in front of them, but nothing attacks.

“Jack, Jack,” cries a weak, warbling, glitch-broken voice. A shadowy version of Anti sits behind the imprisoned one of the ground, his hands reaching out. “Sean, help me, I’m sorry, don’t go.”

His throat is wrapped up in bandages. He’s clutching a pumpkin in his lap, a knife sticking out the side, and as they watch, his form begins to sprout feathers, clawing their way out of his skin. The other Anti cries out in pain, pulling on his soft green hair.

On the ground, Anti has gone frighteningly still, his eyes dropping as the blood lists out of him. His fingers twitch around his last blade.

“He’s passing out,” mumbles Trick.

“He didn’t mean to manifest that,” says Blue. “He just doesn’t have control over his magic anymore. Look at him. It’s all his fear and insecurity brought to the surface at last. Not that he was ever very good at hiding it.”

“Jack?” The other Anti is staring up at Trick. He coughs and there’s blood on his throat and fear in his eyes. “Why won’t you help me? Please, please. I’m scared. Don’t let me get stuck again! I don’t want to be an animal! I can’t move!”

Feathers tear his face apart and he howls, scraping at his skin. Trick’s chest heaves and he moves forward, but Blue grabs him and holds him away.

“I’m sorry, Tricky,” he says quietly, keeping him back. “You know we gotta do this. Ro?”

Jackie stares down at hands full of fire. He looks back at both Anti’s. His chest shakes.

Clapping draws their attention and all three of them turn to see JJ shaking his head and signing at them.

“Don’t hurt him anymore,” he begs. “Let him go with Dark. He promised Red this would be the last time he tried to make us his servants.”

“He will never stop following us!” shouts Blue. “He will never stop trying to hurt us! You know that!”

“I can’t watch this,” weeps Dapper. “My brother.”

They have been together since the day he was born.

[greatshell-rider]

SKELETAL ESCAPADES: CHAPTER EIGHT

[Chapter Index] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

“Are you done yet?” BS1 (Banescale One) said, not for the first time.

“No,” BS3 (Banescale Three), the mage, answered shortly. “I could swear it’s around here somewhere. I sensed something.”

CS2 had its necro-animation puppet—the gecko—crouch lower behind the snow drift it had ordered it to go to. The skeleton’s pale bones were nearly imperceivable against the snow, but its purple aura of magic could still give it away. Especially with the banescale mage sniffing around for it.

“Still seems deserted to me,” BS1 said doubtfully, looking around him at the barren white field. “You’re sure the scout said their den is here.”

“Yes, and the magic I detected confirms it. If you would just give me the space to think—”

“Enough of this,” BS2 (Banescale Two) snapped, with a lash of her tail. “Snow must be confusing your senses, mage. And it’s freezing my scales. Deserted or not, we’re going in.”

“I’m not ready—” BS3 began to say.

“Then stay out here,” BS2 said harshly. “Do your silly little tests that please you so much. Danyr and I will take care of this.” The mage opened their mouth again, and BS2 sneered, “We’ll call you if we need back-up, alright?”

BS1 laughed, and BS3 snapped their jaws shut. They looked nervous and upset, but didn’t object as their clanmates turned towards the hill. Realizing their next move was imminent, CS2 called its sentinel back, the gecko scuttling lightly atop the snow the two banescale warriors had to slog through towards the lair. Once reunited with its fellow, CS2 had both necro-animations burrow back into the snow to avoid being seen, and pulled its awareness back to its own bones, to think.

But it didn’t have much time to do so. Before long, its outside sentinels sent another mental signal, and CS2 itself heard the sound of the two warriors blasting fire and using claws and wings to excavate the snow from the lair entrance.

It had hoped the dragons would keep flying past.

It had hoped they would fall to arguing and fail to finish their task.

It had hoped, even, that the conversation it had overheard would tell it that they were friendly dragons, that somehow news of Atomic confronting the clan chieftain-heir had reached the banescales already and they no longer had reason to attack. Though maybe such news had come, along with an order: make sure Atomic and Tibia had no home to return to.

But its hope had failed. Desperate wishes of the what-ifs and the could’ve-beens—CS2 was done with those. No more. No more of sitting around in its broken bones waiting for others, for dragons, to tell it what to do, how to react, when to hide under the shadows. The commands Tibia had left CS2 with screamed at its bones, a constant pressure on its mind that only grew to the point of pain. Obey, now.

Oh, CS2 would obey.

First situational command: Upon a creature of ill intent crossing the proximity ward and finding the lair, signal your master.

CS2 obeyed, shooting the message down its link to Tibia with all the force and urgency it could muster. The fae was almost a halfmoon away, still in the Ashfall Wastes, but by stretching its awareness far, far, it felt the alert arrive, felt Tibia’s shock and alarm at the signal.

It heard its creator say, “CS2? Tell me what’s—” But before she could finish the order, CS2, using the same stretchy nature of its tattered, magic-saturated, almost-independent soul, did something it had never been able to do before.

It closed off their mental communication, and for the first time in many days, its awareness was centered solely in its own mind and bones. The link to Tibia was still there, the magic that kept CS2 animated still leaking quietly to it, but for all intents and purposes, it was alone now. Just it, its servants, and the invaders.

CS2 received a signal from its lair sentinels the same moment it heard the exclaims of success as the banescales broke through the last of the hard-packed snow covering the lair entrance, and stepped into the tunnel.

“Hello?” BS2 called, a growl edging the greeting. “Anyone home?”

BS1 laughed. “I don’t care what Biaw sensed, let’s find it!”

“Let’s find you,” BS2 snarled, and by the weak moonlight streaming in through the open entrance, CS2 caught its first sight of her with its own skull as the banescale entered the den, wings raised, fangs bared, talons flexed. BS1 kept his back to hers, facing into the cave that now served as the hoard.

Second situational command: Should the creatures breach the lair, do all in your power to defend.

From the shadowy corners of the two dens, CS2 called its sentinels. The squirrel skeleton in the hoard darted down the tunnel into the nesting den, causing BS1 to startle and jump back, almost falling on BS2. The latter snarled and shoved BS1 off, yelling, “Watch it!”

As her shove sent BS1 stumbling, CS2 detached the bird skeleton from the tunnel ceiling and sent it in a dive at BS2’s head. The banescale’s figure blurred, then CS2 heard and felt a sickening SNAP and realized the warrior had smashed her tail into the necro-animation, grinding it into dust against the floor. Shock jolted through CS2—one sentinel down already?

But at the same time, BS1 staggered into the tunnel wall—activating the first of Tibia’s traps.

The dragon cried out as long ribs of elk and moose sprang out of the wall, lengthening and curling inward as more bone buried in wells into the dirt walls funneled into the ribs until they grew into a cage around the warrior, pinning him to the wall. BS1 gasped and yelled, beating his wings and tail in a panic, his legs kicking futilely as the bone cage had lifted him off of the ground. “Keud!” he called. “Help!”

“Shades,” BS2 swore, backing away from the trap and into the den, then jumped around, hissing, eyes sweeping the dark cave. “Someone is in here,” she growled, whether to her clanmate or to herself CS2 didn’t know. “Come out, trickster, if you want to play so badly.” She moved in deeper, but stayed away from the walls. “Show yourself!” She stepped into the center of the den.

Another bone trap activated, snapping upward from the floor like jaws, but again BS2 moved faster almost than CS2 could see, jumping up in a spin and lashing out with her tail, slamming through each protruding rib and snapping them like pine needles.

“Too slow,” BS2 sneered, turning another wary circle. “You’re going to have to try—”

Calling the two from outside, CS2 sent its three available sentinels—the last two still trapped inside the hibernal den, out of reach—darting at the banescale from different directions. One scampering around her feet, to distract her. One falling onto her face and scratching at her eyes, to confuse her. And the third leaping onto her sweeping tail to climb up and look for a loose scale, a patch of bare skin, any flaw in the armor CS2 could dig claws into and at least try to make the dragon bleed a little before she killed it.

The banescale flinched and roared at the skeletons’ attack, but recovered quicker, and CS2 felt the pain of yet more bones breaking and crunching into splinters as she stomped her clawed foot at the bird skeleton, bit down and flung away the gecko skeleton with her jaws, and slapped a wing at the squirrel skeleton on her shoulder, stepping back to let it fall to the ground.

No, CS2 thought, reaching out more of its magic to the skeletons. The bones quivered, but the pain it felt through them was starting to fade as the connections began to die.

“You done yet?” BS2 roared, jerking her head at BS1 still caged to the wall. “We’re dealing with a necromancer here!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying!” he said around a mouthful of rib. “Their Highness didn’t say anything about one of those!”

With no further attacks coming, BS2 stomped over to help break her clanmate free.

NO, CS2 thought, and strained to reach its fellows. It couldn’t do anything without them, its bones too broken to move itself, couldn’t trick the dragons into traps, couldn’t lure them away, couldn’t distract them long enough to keep Lamp and the eggs safe, it just wasn’t enough.

“There’s nothing alive here, like Biaw said,” she growled, digging at the base of a rib anchored into the wall. “It’s all pre-set traps, puppets. Nothing can actually hurt us if you weren’t such an idiot—”

CS2 poured magic into the shattered necro-animations, down the thinning links, begging them to keep going for just a little longer. It wasn’t enough. Little bones, tiny skeletons of prey creatures, stripped of flesh and hide, were nothing but flies to dragons, to be swatted away and ignored. Even as CS2 used every last drop of Tibia’s magic she had put into its bones to try and maintain the connections, it wasn’t enough. The grayness of exhaustion, of its mind losing consciousness, pulled at CS2, warning it it was using up too much of the magic needed to keep itself reanimated. The Dark loomed over it, poised to sink its claws into it and drag it away.

NO. NOT. YET.

The second situational command blazed in CS2’s mind. Defend the den from attacks, to the end. With all its power.

CS2 did something else it had never done before. One link remained, not between it and the other necro-animations, but between it and its master. Its creator. The dragon who continually fueled its ability to think and exist.

CS2 seized that link, and rather than send its awareness down to watch through Tibia’s eyes, or to send a signal, or to push more magic into broken puppets, it pulled.

At first the well of magic, the bright burning spot in the corner of CS2’s mind that tied it to Tibia, resisted. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. This wasn’t the rules of the game. It was master and servant, creator and creation. One held the power, and the other was given it. A hunter and its prey, the command and the obedience.

But CS2’s soul stretched. It no longer fit within its own bones, and it forced it to no longer accept those rules. CS2 sent claws into the bright spot of magic, digging into it, tearing and gnawing, until it felt that resistance bend, then break.

Magic flooded into CS2’s bones, at the same time pain ripped through its soul. It screamed, and then it stood up.

At the center of its blackening vision, where it could only just barely focus past the pain, it saw both banescales look up. BS2 warily stepped forward. Behind her, BS1 had one wing and part of his neck free of the cage.

You’re too late, CS2 thought, as the magic filled it up then spilled over, streaming out of its bones, flying across the den to all other sources of bone it could sense, which glowed in its vision a stark, vivid yellow. It grabbed the skeletons, its puppets. It ripped the failed cage out of the floor, then the third trap in the hoard wall. CS2 screamed again and stepped forward, off its ledge. Bones flew to it, shattered or whole, and kept it from falling. Bones stacked atop and wove around another, building a body up from underneath CS2’s skeleton so it could walk, stiff-legged and staggering, toward its targets.

BS2 didn’t hesitate but leapt back into the den, wings flaring, mouth opening to bare fangs as she hissed a challenge.

CS2 gathered all the bones, breaking them down and reforming them as it wished, and as the dragon lunged forward, it dove down her throat.

Back in the dark, but this time it was warm, and moved. Wet, sticky, CS2 forced its way down, digging in a hundred claws into the fleshy walls when the tube constricted and rushing air tried to force it back out, the banescale doubling over and hacking, but failing to eject it. It climbed down, down, down, breaking itself down into smaller, denser pieces as the tunnel shrunk more and more, shredding a thousand tiny shards into the meaty throat until CS2 had no choice but to rip through the barrier into a space slightly more open, and found what it was looking for.

It clamped its jaws around the center of the dragon’s violently beating life, and dragged itself back up the throat and out of BS2’s jaws, ripping the heart out after it. Hot dark liquid sprayed out after it, coating CS2 in stickiness as it backed away to watch the banescale take a shuddering step, jaw opening and closing in a mimicry of breath. Wide orange eyes stared up at CS2 in terror, before the legs folded and the body collapsed to the ground in a broken heap. Blood pooled around its head.

CS2 wobbled slightly, disorientated in the sudden coldness of the den, then became aware of its second target. The banescale had half of himself loose, and as CS2 turned toward him, he wiggled free from the rest of the cage, falling to the floor in a graceless pile of flailing limbs. CS2 lunged for him, but he dove for the tunnel and it fell into the hoard, smashing its bones against the far wall from the force of its leap. That rattled its mind, sent dizzying waves of pain washing through it, but erupting from that pain, came anger. Even with all its power now, it still hurt. With all of this magic blazing out of it, still those dragons thought to beat it.

“Help,” it heard the banescale gasp as he staggered down the tunnel towards the entrance. “Help! Giaw, help! Help, it’s coming!”

And it was. Oh, it was.

First, the corpse. CS2 called it, and the skeleton inside the stinking pile of meat shuddered, then ripped free, gore-slick bones rushing to slap into place within CS2’s distorted skeleton. With them came something else, a glowing mist of orange that melted into the purple.

MORE, CS2 commanded, reaching out past the lair with its mind and touching each source of glowing yellow it found scattered across the snow-drenched grassland. MORE, it snarled, calling those bones to it as it pulled itself back upright, then shambled down the entrance tunnel after its fleeing target. The bones came, dredged up from the earth, ripping themselves free of dirt and snow old and fresh, flying to and adding themselves to CS2’s mass as it clawed its way down the tunnel, squeezing its bulk through the entrance to expand and cascade out onto the hill. More and more, CS2 sucked magic now tinged with red from its creator and used it to direct bones that were gray, bones that were white, bones that were little more than dust, bones that no longer sat together in complete sets, bones that had once belonged to souls of beasts both hunted and killer but now were only its own. CS2 built up its skeleton, bigger, taller, stretching it up towards the moons, toward those fake disks of light, until the land below stretched out wide before its senses, until the two tiny black dots it saw far, far below were only barely distinguishable from all the snow, and CS2 identified them: its targets.

Throwing open wings that curtained out the moonlight, CS2 slammed down two great taloned feet of bone on either side of the two banescales and roared.

No sound emerged.

Beneath it, the dragons cowered, having thrown their wings over themselves in a last desperate attempt at protection, huddling together in the snow. But they didn’t flinch at the sound. Because there hadn’t been one. CS2 tried again, putting all its pain and anger into the roar, but nothing, not even the faintest wind, came out. As if CS2 wasn’t even really there.

It raged, smashing wing and talon against the earth, beating at the snow. Bones shattered at impact and others flew to replace them. CS2 could strike the same fist into the hill a hundred times, and a hundred times whatever bones broke, CS2 could remake a hundred times over and replace again and again. But no matter how much magic it used, no matter the force of its frantic despair, its blows didn’t leave a mark. The bones broke too quickly. Other than the misshapen trails left behind by the dragons, the snow was untouched by its presence. Perfect, pristine whiteness shining under the moons.

CS2 sank back onto its haunches and lifted its forefeet, staring at them. Its wings, wings, sank to the ground, but only rested lightly atop the snow despite their bulk. As the anger slunk away—it realized, dimly, that the banescales were running away, but no longer cared—a new awareness crept over it. It, it had built its huge skeleton into that of a dragon. These were talons, not the short digging claws for a chipmunk’s paws. It had wings, grotesque and fragile without the folds of skin that lent the ability to fly. And a great horned skull to crown the mess, its jaws bristling with teeth molded from the skeletons of creatures CS2 couldn’t name any longer, so many times had it broken those bones down and forged them anew with others.

This is what it was, now. It stood atop a hill sheltering sleeping predators underneath a sky of glittering stars it, it had never seen, it had never known the winter constellations because it had died, it had been hunted and killed, its body, its body of flesh and fur and blood that once been its own shape and sensation, pierced and cut into by the clever talons of beings so much bigger, so much smarter than itself—CS2 was dead, and now it took its murderer’s form with all its magic, power stolen rather than innate or built, and this still wasn’t life.

The snowy ground might as well be as distant as those cold, staring stars and moons, because CS2 was not of this world. And this world was no longer of it.

Undead.

The pain was back, CS2 realized. It had forgotten it while still caught up in its fury, in the thrill of pursuit, of hunting those dragons, but it was never gone. And it was. So. Much.

Agony ate at the hollowness of it as CS2 sank back down into the lair entrance, magic seeping out of the bones shattered and reshattered along the same lines until there were no further cracks to break. The Dark was back, swooping across its vision in dizzying waves as it stumbled down the tunnel toward the hidden entrance of the hibernal den, suddenly desperate to reach it before the last of the magic evaporated.

I need, it tried to gasp, though it had no lungs with which to breathe and that hurt to know, I need to get there. I need to make sure.

That last burning command, the final situational, the ever-permanent. To the end, keep Lamp and my eggs safe.

It fell through the hole into the cold cellar of a den. How long had CS2 dug? There was no sensation in its bones. But no, no, the holes had been from when it had summoned all the bones in the vicinity, and that had included its two remaining sentinels. Their skeletons had broken through the wall of earth to answer its call, and now their remains were scattered somewhere outside in the snow or down in the lair, following CS2’s staggering path. Collapsed there on the floor of the hibernal den, that was almost the end, the Dark almost claiming it. But the master’s command drove it to be sure, and it dragged its skeleton forward, to lift its skull and see with the last of its clouding vision.

A guardian dragon, statuesque in the gloom, lay encircling his nest of sleeping eggs. Peaceful as snow.

Would the banescales have even found them? Would they have thought to dig deeper, upon finding an empty lair and hoard? Had the commands Tibia had given it been too hasty, too simple? What would CS2 have done, if it could have chosen?

CS2 was not alive, it could not even move, and it still had these thoughts, this awareness, these questions. And it made no difference, whether it had them or not. It didn’t matter, not to the world, not to its master, so the weight of them fell solely upon itself.

It was too much. Too much.

I did it, it sent to Tibia, without remembering it had closed the mental communication. I fulfilled your last request. I can rest now. I get to do that, at last.

And it was dark.

[wickedsrest-rp-archive]

Name: Sofia Delgado Species: Human (Medium) Occupation: Bookmaker at The Stacked Deck Age: 33 Years Old Played By: Beck Face Claim: Úrsula Corberó

“Some monsters have voices in their head, urging them to kill; mine are begging me to stop.”

Sofia was pushed out of her mamá’s car at the age of ten with only a vague, finger-point indication of where she would spend the rest of her days. “White Crest, niña mala,” her mamá spat, “find your tita and let her handle you.” Sofia wore no shoes - she’d refused, ever since learning to walk - and carried only a small bag on her back. Inside, a spare pair of underwear, her childhood doll, and a switchblade she’d stolen from her tío’s garage.

The walk to town was as alarming as it was awakening; strange faces leering at her from behind tinted glass, the thick stench of life and loss oozing from conspicuous shopfronts. It was just a normal town, moderately abuzz with afternoon trade, but Sofia’s head felt heavy with a strange force tapping at her skull. As always, yet now more than ever, she hungered.

After questioning enough strangers, Sofia found her tita’s home and, inside, her tita. Cold, white and rigid on the kitchen floor. There was no blood; the kitchen was sterile and the scene, with the sun setting through netted curtains, soft. It wasn’t the first time Sofia had witnessed death, often peeking over the sofa to watch the news late at night, but it was the first time she’d been in the same room as it. Despite the deep-set look of horror carved into her tita’s features, there were no tears or screams, just an overwhelming sense of comfort. Peace. 

Sofia poked her tita’s corpse with the tip of her switchblade. When nothing happened, she shrugged, placed the blade back in her pocket, and went to the fridge to make herself a jam sandwich. The body remained on that same floor for three days, a curious ornament and silent guardian. It was only when the front door rattled with a concerned neighbour that Sofia recognised the urgency of the situation. With great difficulty, she attempted to drag her tita towards the pantry and stuff her between rusted tins and bags of rice, but her young arms were too weak and the neighbour – a middle aged man with small eyes and a drooping chin – had already battered down the backdoor.

“What have you done?” he hollered, rushing forward. Sofia’s answer of “nothing” was true, so she felt no fear in vocalising it. The accusations continued to flow, each more bizarre than the next. A monster, a demon, a sea witch. He cornered her against the kitchen cabinets and demanded she show him her true face; she obliged. Just a smile. A twitch of the lips, a dilation of the pupils. Her face was that of Sofia Delgado, human, female, barely a decade old. She pulled her blade from the pocket of her pinafore and stabbed him twelve times in the neck without uttering a word. Her chest blossomed with pride, the buzz in her head fading, the thirst in her throat sated.

It wasn’t hard to get away with murder. It took over an hour to heave the man’s lifeless body towards the overgrown weeds beyond her tita’s fence and, once settled, she left him to rot. Then she ran to the WC Police Department in tears. “Please,” she’d wailed, “I was dropped at my tita’s this morning, but she won’t wake up. Please!” The authorities confirmed her grandmother had died of natural causes and placed Sofia into care.

By the time the man’s body was found – a lonely conspiracy theorist who most mocked for his declarations of the supernatural – Sofia’s alibi, age and pleasant demeanour had secured her innocence. One being, however, would not let her rest. As she was left to settle in the tiny dormitory of the foster home, just outside of town, the buzz in Sofia’s mind began to harden, white noise becoming words: I know what you did, devil child, it said, Monster! Demon! Witch!

Sofia twisted around and was met with the melting face of her first kill. He followed her everywhere, oft screaming condemnations, sometimes pointing out others in the community whose existence aggravated him beyond death. Frank, the ghost, was tethered to the Earth – and to Sofia – through pure intent to rid White Crest of the supernatural.

Sofia remained in the foster home until she was sixteen, with families perturbed by her empty eyes, knowing smile and outward twitching when Frank’s would yell late into the night. The older she became, the more she understood the need for discretion. Though a pretty face and faux naivety could grant her some margin, she no longer had the defence of childhood.

Sofia didn’t kill again until she was approved to live alone, choosing a derelict bungalow dumped between The Bend and Gallows Grove. It was another middle-aged man, one who’d ogled at her legs as if he owned her. His spirit, worthless and weak, didn’t have the strength to haunt her. Better still, he was from out of town.

To this day, that’s how Sofia selects her victims. Taking a job at The Stacked Deck, she can pick out the immoral and insignificant, those without the souls to shame her in the afterlife. It doesn’t always work; she’s still shrouded with the screams of spirits – both victims of hers, and those who cling to her untrained aura. But the bloodshed calms the noise for just a moment, and the kill – only every couple of years, annually at most – keeps her sane. 

Rarely do White Crest’s inhabitants suspect the pretty little human female, which remains both a security blanket and a cause of annoyance for Sofia. Why must she be assumed the better sex, pious and polite; why must she be the better species, in control of her whims? The world is washed from state to state by tides of blood, the laws of the land designed by lesser men who are too cowardly to taste chaos at their own hands. Though Sofia doesn’t howl at the moon, she sees something in the beauty in an intrinsic desire to kill.

Character Facts: 

Personality: Aloof, deceptive, intimidating, impersonal, suave, self-reliant, composed, calculated, flirtatious

Sofia lives in a ramshackle bungalow on an off-street of Burns Road. She’s never had the money or the inclination to buy a car, so townsfolk will often see her walking home, barefoot, through precarious streets at a leisurely pace, humming to keep the ghosts at bay. The rubble and glass that graze her toes are a reminder of the solid ground beneath her feet, the pain proof that she’s in control of her body, the journey enough to exhaust the senses. With tired legs, a glass of whiskey and a strong spliff, she can pass out in seconds with their threats of damnation only whispers lulling her to sleep.

She has her own corner in The Stacked Deck, not an official table, rather a booth that regulars know not to occupy. There, she takes and delivers bets ranging from next week’s hockey game to more sinister odds, profiting off the misdeeds of others. Occasionally, she’ll be asked to cover the bar. Both are perfect places to mark and monitor her next victim, paying close attention to the scum of the streets with little tethering them to home. Her role sometimes means significant interaction with White Crest’s supernatural community, and she is no longer shocked by their existence.

Though her home is dilapidated and her work less than honest, she presents herself as stylish and suave. Sharp bangs, cute chokers and easy movements. She’s a single-salt whiskey, red-wine and nicotine kinda girl, the sort that suggests trouble but only the fun kind. In her line of work, and with her particular interests in mind, it’s safer to suggest trouble than claim purity.

Sofia prefers to use knives and will always bring her victims home, where it’s easier to hide the evidence. Whilst her kills are easy enough to hide – buried in Gallows Grove at the height of darkness – they’re not necessarily neat.

Not having a car means that she can privately request a chaperone for the walk home, though she’ll never accept a ride. When asked, she’ll explain that she has a fear of cars, a hang-up from her abandonment as a child. In truth, the parked car of a dead person outside her home would spark unwanted suspicion.

Sofia is an untrained medium with no guidance but experience. As her ability to see and hear spirits were provoked as a child, she has had time to adapt to their never-ending noise but cannot control their volume and presence beyond drinking and smoking to numb her senses. When accosted by a spirit of a victim, they’re physical, often bleeding and reminiscent of the moment she killed them. On the other hand, spirits with little connection to Sofia remain just voices in her mind, occasionally a wisp or shadow.  

Despite being somewhat reserved and off-putting, Sofia can socialise well. Her pleasant yet monotone voice, dark eyes and cool conduct promote mystery rather than murder. She will only say what she needs to dissuade suspicion and increase her standing upon Stacked Deck patrons. Gothic and aloof, there are some will be put-off by her presence in their town, whilst others will think her just another oddity.

She’s bisexual with a preference towards women, though does not date. Sofia enjoys sex as both a tool to her trade and a distraction from the ghosts that haunt her, though honest exploits (those safe from her claws), will always be kept away from her own bedroom.