#tw impotence

[fic-dumpster]

I think almost every day about Bonten Mikey and his erectile dysfunction situation. I can’t keep quiet anymore. Bet he uses Sanzu as a dildo to please his s/o.

And Mikey doesn’t let Sanzu do anything other than use his cock on you. He prohibited Haru from touching you, kissing you, even look at you. But that’s something he has to withstand because he can’t handle anything or anyone else near you.

And after all is done, Sanzu has to pretend he doesn’t know your body like the back of his hand. He has to forget how you feel wrapped around him because his king ordered him to.

[oliveskylarks]

okay can we finally talk about how strongly it’s implied that the ripper sexually assaulted hotch that time in his apartment

[scottxlogan]

I'll elaborate under the cut on my view (warning, kind of depressing in terms of my own experience, but as for others I'll just say here as I do at the end for everyone who isn't me, ignore that voice and know you're great, valid and wonderful and you deserve to keep creating great things because you're really good at it!)

Every day I feel like an untalented hack and it gets worse depending on what's going on outside of fandom. Each time I write something lately I think about old pieces I've done that people really loved (that maybe I had a deep connection to in writing) and wonder where that passion and dare I say talent has squandered off to. I know it sounds like an attention seeking thing, but I honestly feel so defeated right now as an author as I feel like the fandoms that I've loved so very much just haven't loved me back or appreciated/thought I was valid in my contributions to them.

It's a self-defeating cycle, but one that this new world of fandom has absolutely put upon me. For example last night I posted a story on AO3 that when I wrote it I thought to myself "This is the story no one asked for, but it wanted to be written" and while it was involving a popular ship, there was a not-so-popular shippy thing happening inside of it that some might not like (which I tagged accordingly), so I expected that there would be less engagement with it, which I accepted and was okay with at least outwardly, but as I got closer to posting the fic, even after rigorous edits, I started to doubt myself. Really doubt what I was doing and my ability to write because I feel like lately with little to no engagement in my fics that I've become kind of dare I say 'irrelevant' in the fandom world and that makes me sad. It makes me think that my writing just flat out sucks and to be honest blocks me in a lot of ways asking to myself "What's wrong with me? What am I doing wrong and why don't people enjoy what I'm doing? Where did I wind up taking this wrong turn and just flopping in general?" That voice has gotten so strong lately that I finally just decided after having the story up for less than 12 hours with lots of views but literally NO engagement other than a bot, I deleted the story deciding it must be trash so what's the point in posting it? I tried to rationalize that maybe I posted it at the wrong time, maybe it just doesn't have an audience or maybe it's just me because I was literally blasted out of a fandom because someone who was mentally draining me and projecting their negativity decided it was time to oust me and the other one I tried to join apparently hates my very existence, so that on top of you know repeated trolling over over 6 months by someone who hates a ship I tried too hard to join fandom in and really become a part of with my enthusiasm and trying to reach out to other fans, but constantly feeling rejected has left me in this place where I no longer feel like I'm good at creating. Where I should just quit and let others take over because I'm no longer wanted or needed in fandom and that quite honestly sucks. On so many levels, but at this point I've exhausted my options I think, so I'm just done. I'll bow down and let fandoms have fun without me because it's clearly what the desired outcome is in terms of writing. So yeah not the right response to this or one that probably anyone really cares about anyway, but I get it. I'm drowning in those thoughts and it sucks especially in a world where life is depressing enough and the real world is so draining. Fandom should be fun and welcoming, but lately...it just feels like it's not no matter how many times I've tried to blend in, so yeah I get it.

Just know to everyone else (ignoring my own woes/pity party here) you are valid and talented and you deserve to create and explore your art and writing and you are good enough! You grow with the more you do and each day you're a better version of you, so don't let those voices take you under even if it feels like you're outside of something you love looking in. You are valid and important in what you do and I hope you remember that!

please please please please reblog if you’re a writer and have at some point felt like your writing is getting worse. I need to know if I’m the only one who’s struggling with these thoughts

[lunozapp]

i now understand why eyestrain tw's are a thing

my head is fuckn hurty and i really dont need bright green on my bright screen rn brah

[wetwibuwution]

Impotent?

[atleastpleasetelephone]

hii maybe some morning sex with BDE

A/N: Thanks for the request! I'm not sure if this is exactly what you had in mind but here we go. Thanks to @sissylittlefeather for encouraging me on this one!

Way Down

Pairing: BDE x Reader

Word count: 1.9K

TW: Usual sorts of BDE things - self-esteem issues, impotence, and then smut - oral, fingering, p in v sex, reader calls Elvis daddy, spanking, bratty!reader.

Elvis turns over for the twentieth time. It’s no use. He can’t sleep. Sighing loudly he gets up and pads over to the bathroom. Maybe if he runs himself a bath and relaxes in some nice steamy water for a while he’ll come out feeling ready to sleep. It seems like a long shot, but at least it’s something to do. He’d already re-read The Prophet five times, written several new notes in the margin, ordered a sandwich from the kitchen and eaten it and counted all of the freckles on your face. There’s not much left. 

He sighs again as he sinks down into the hot water, thinking about you. Thinking about the little performance you’d given him earlier, that’s been playing over and over in his head ever since. That’s what has stopped him from getting any rest. He’d come in, ready to get into bed and read and you’d been sitting there, waiting for him. Dressed in his favourite pink babydoll with your hair and make-up all pretty. So far, so good. He’d got under the covers and opened a book and you’d crawled into his lap, all eyes and hair and bright pink lips. Your little hands running down his chest, cute little voice cooing at him. He told you now wasn’t the time, and he was going to read to you. So you settled down, and listened, all cuddled up to him cutely. 

When he was done reading he kissed you on the top of the head and then eased you back under the covers. As he lay down next to you he realised you’d wriggled out of the babydoll, and started to wrap your naked body around him. Your hands were journeying down somewhere he didn’t want them to be, so he firmly told you no, again, and turned over. With his back turned he could hear your tiny sniffles, knew he’d upset you. But somehow he couldn’t turn back and comfort you. Or apologise. He just waited until he heard your breathing getting regular and decided you were probably asleep. And then he started to feel guilty, and he still feels guilty now. He just didn’t want to disappoint you, when inevitably his dick didn’t work like it should. He screws his eyes shut. He should let you go, really. It’s not fair to you, being with half a man like this. But he loves you. And you make him feel less lonely. He sighs for the millionth time. The bath hasn’t helped, he might as well get out. 

He dries himself slowly with a big fluffy towel and then carefully wraps it around his waist. At least some time must have passed by now. Maybe it’s a reasonable time for normal people to be awake. He walks back into the bedroom and looks at the clock. 9am. He hasn’t seen 9am for quite some time. Moving slowly towards the bed, he sees you’ve kicked off the covers. You do this almost every night - put the electric blanket on too high because you’re afraid of being cold, and then kick it off in your sleep. But usually you’re wearing pyjamas. And right now, you’re still naked from that failed attempt at intimacy earlier, and lying on your front with your long brown hair everywhere. His eyes trail down your body until they reach your ass. It looks perfect right now; tanned and round and just begging to be touched. He stands by the side of the bed and stares at it for a while, smiling, thinking about you running about in your skimpy little bikini, your ass and tits just bouncing around.

You huff a little in your sleep and that makes him smile even more. It’s like you’re being bratty even though you’re not awake. Huffing usually got you spanked, and he knows you do it sometimes because you enjoy a good spanking. You’re always dripping afterwards. He starts to feel something stirring below his waist and reaches out to run his fingers over your ass cheek. Your skin is smooth and warm. You grumble a little now and your head moves, eyes slowly opening as he strokes your ass again. Groggy, but enjoying the contact, you shift your legs a little further apart, inviting his fingers to toy with your pussy. Your grumble turns to a soft moan as you feel one of his long digits sliding inside you. It feels so good. His expert touch has you wet in seconds and you turn to look at him as he eases another finger in. 

He’s a little damp from what you assume is a bath - that’s what he usually does when he can’t sleep. His belly pooches over the towel wrapped around his waist a little, his pretty face stares down at you intently and… wait a minute. You blink a few times to try and make sure you’re not having a very vivid dream. No, you’re not dreaming. That towel is tenting. You get up onto your hands and knees and reach for it, pulling it off quickly and revealing his more than half-hard dick. 

“N-no, ah… honey I-” He tries to protest, wanting to wiggle away from you but unwilling to remove his fingers.

You shake your head. “C’mere I wanna suck you.”

He starts to tell you that you can’t do that when he’s not really hard, but all thoughts and words are knocked out of his head by that pretty little mouth of yours wrapping itself around him. 

“Shit,” he mutters, trying to recover enough to keep pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

You’re pleased at his reaction, your hand pulling him into your mouth as you flatten your tongue against the underside. He makes another little pleasured noise, making you feel even more self-satisfied. 

The way his fingers are just slipping in and out of you, the way you’re so wet for him so quickly, your reaction to his floppy dick… everything is just making him more wildly turned on than he’s been in a long time, and he feels himself hardening in your mouth and hand. He puts his other hand in your hair, and you look up at him, lovingly. 

“Baby, can I fuck you?” He asks, voice hoarse with lust. 

You nod and let his dick slide back out of your mouth again, wet with your saliva. 

“How do you want me?”

He groans. In every which way imaginable, he thinks. Instead he just says, “scooch down to the edge of the bed here, on your back.”

You do as you’re told, positively beaming. You like following instructions, and you like being fucked. 

He strokes himself a couple of times and then lines his dick up with your entrance, slowly starting to push inside. You moan together, enjoying something neither of you have felt for a while. As he starts to slowly thrust in and out, he watches your breasts bounce with every movement. Gripping your legs for leverage, he starts to go deeper.

You’re just getting used to the feeling of him filling you up and stretching you out, your pleasure starting to gradually build, when he suddenly lets your legs go and grabs you around your waist, picking you up off the bed and holding you against him. Your legs wrap around him automatically, and at first you think he’s carrying you somewhere else. Then you realise he’s just fucking you standing up instead. You had no idea he was strong enough to do this. You’re pretty small and he’s certainly picked you up and carried you places a few times, but you’d never thought of doing it in this position. He had, though. Lots of times. Especially when you first met. It was an image he’d found hard to get out of his mind, but somehow he’d never had the guts to try it. Well, not until this sleep-deprived morning with the first hard-on he’s had for a long time, when it suddenly seems like a good idea. 

You hang on tightly around his neck as his hands grip under your ass and his hips buck up into you furiously. You didn’t expect it to feel so good, he’s hitting somewhere inside that you really like and you can feel your pleasure building again. Also, it doesn’t hurt that it seems like he’s throwing you around like a ragdoll. You briefly wonder what came over him this morning that didn’t last night, and then he pulls you off him and back onto the bed again. 

You whine. “Mmm Daddy. I was close!”

Your reaction just makes him grin, and he wonders how much longer he can do this for. He stands over you, dick red and rock hard, face flushed and hair a little wild. He hasn’t felt this good in quite a while. 

“Turn over. No more whining.”

You lie back on your stomach again but the brat in you can’t resist another little whine. He shakes his head with a smirk and slaps your ass a few times. 

“Told ya not to whine, bratty little thing.”

You’re not sure what noises you’re making by the time he starts to fuck you again, fingers gripping your hips as he pulls you back onto him with every thrust. They’re definitely pretty frustrated when he pulls out before you can cum, and tells you to turn back over. 

“Please,” you moan, your pussy red and puffy and desperate to cum. 

He laughs. “Alright. I’m getting tired.” Sitting down on the bed, back against the headrest, he lets his head fall back and his eyes half close. “Come and ride this old man ‘til ya cum all over his dick.”

You can’t get there fast enough. He’s laughing at your eagerness, and then you pout and he kisses you tenderly as you settle back onto him again, your hips rolling. He moans into your mouth as you ride him mercilessly, bouncing up and down and pulling his hair. Finally you’re there, tumbling over the edge into oblivion, fingers entwined around the back of his neck as you throw your head back and moan. 

Your walls squeeze him like a vice and he throws his head back too, big hands taking up most of your back as he keeps bucking his hips into you until he cums. The feeling of euphoria hits him and he gathers you up into his arms, holding you tightly against him as he savours it. You bury your head in his neck and kiss him there, enjoying how he smells - clean with the slightest hint of fresh sweat.

You snuggle into him afterwards, your head on his belly as he drifts off finally into a peaceful sleep. You know you’re awake now for the duration, but you don’t mind. For a change he didn’t put his pyjamas back on, so you plan on spending the next few hours studying his body. Who knows when you’ll get another chance.

As the two of you panted together in each other’s arms, you’d asked him what had made him change his mind. He didn’t really have an answer at first, but then when he thought about it, it became clear. 

“I realised how much you love me, baby.”

***

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@vintagepresley @arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @another-identityofmine @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @cattcb @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @ccab @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog

[oliversrarebooks]

Jameson's Dress

Masterlist

some of you asked for force-fem Jameson so here ya go

tw: forced feminization, mind control, dehumanization, captivity, restraints, anger issues, human auction

April 1860

The days and nights in captivity had done nothing to quell Jameson's rage. He had nothing to do in this damned cage but stew about every way he'd been wronged, all the bastards who'd swindled him -- especially his rotten partner, who'd stolen the business out from under him before Jameson had had a chance to do the reverse. His impotent anger burned inside of him, and it took all of his restraint to not kick and punch at the iron bars and cement walls. More than once he'd flung his meals at passing vampires, valuing the chance to vent his emotions more than he valued eating. And more than once, he'd been drugged for his troubles, the monsters pinning him to the wall and forcing him to drink a nasty-tasting substance that made his mind slow and his limbs heavy.

The only saving grace was that he'd had plenty of time to think about how he'd all make them pay once he got out of here.

"What do you recommend for lot sixteen?"

"I've conditioned her as a domestic worker, so let's style her accordingly. I don't think she needs much embellishment. Her blood quality and docile nature speak for themselves."

Jameson looked out of his cell to see two vampire women making their way down the hall. One was Colette, the vampire who'd shown up in his office and captured him. The other was an older woman in a suit who carried herself with an air of authority -- Florence. She'd taken Jameson out of his cell the other day, and he'd…

He'd…

His mind swam with the effort of trying to remember what had happened. She must have drugged him again. It was the only explanation. By the time he'd woken up, he was back on his cot in the cell.

The vampires stopped at the cell next to his. "And this one's been erased," said Florence, "so I was planning to --"

Jameson stuck his arm out of the bars and snapped impatiently at them. "Let me out of this cell right now and maybe I won't pull down the full brunt of the law on you!"

That was a lie, of course. As soon as he was free of this place, he was calling the police and every lawyer he knew. Vampires or not, they'd go to prison like anyone else, and judging by their clothes, they had plenty of money that he'd get in damages. He'd turn this sordid situation to his advantage yet.

The two vampires shared a laugh as Jameson's rage threatened to boil over. If he weren't behind these bars, he'd slap the smiles right off their smug faces.

"Lot six," said Colette, approaching his cell. "I don't know why you didn't just have him erased. He's so disagreeable."

"Ah, but sometimes the disagreeable ones fall the hardest," said Florence.

"Do you bubble-headed idiots even know who I am?" he demanded, seething. "I could buy and sell you both a dozen times over, and --"

"Oh, we know exactly who you are," Colette interrupted. "That's why we knew no one would miss you when we took you."

"Besides, you're so much happier as a servile little plaything," said Florence. "Perhaps I can demonstrate for Colette."

"What the hell are you --"

"Just be a good boy for me."

The words hit Jameson like a sack of bricks. His mind reeled, thoughts clouding, as he struggled against the flood of foreign, unnatural calm invading him. "I'm not -- !"

"Good boy. Such a good boy."

His anger evaporated, replaced with a blissful feeling of docility, as his muscles relaxed and his shoulders slumped, eyes losing their focus.

Yes, he wanted to be a good boy.

"That's right," said Miss Florence, smiling, and he wanted nothing more than to please her. "It feels good to let go of all that anger. It feels good to know your place and to serve."

He nodded, slowly. He couldn't remember ever feeling so good. Maybe when he was a young child, before he understood how cruel the world was. "Yes, sir."

"Kneel."

He fell gently to his knees, arms clasped behind him and head bowed. He was a good boy. He wanted to serve.

She snapped her fingers. "Aware."

Jameson's chest clenched as the full force of his ire crashed back into him, bringing along with it a deeply unpleasant sense of humiliation as he realized he was kneeling before the goddamned vampires who were keeping him captive. "What are you doing to me? What --"

"Good boy," she said, and everything melted into submissive bliss as she pet his head. "You're a good boy, aren't you?"

The soft touch felt so nice, something he hadn't felt in so, so long. "I'm a good boy, sir," he said meekly.

Miss Colette's cackles rang off the cement walls. "Oh, now, that is a fun toy. I can see now why you let him be so disagreeable."

"He's much more agreeable now. Aren't you, boy?"

Something in him tugged. He didn't want to be agreeable. Being agreeable was for losers who let themselves be walked over.

But he was a good boy, and good boys were agreeable. Obedient. Docile. "Yes, sir."

Miss Colette took him by the chin, and he looked down deferentially. "It is a treat to see a nasty one like this get all the fight taken out of him."

"It's all the same with these angry men," said Miss Florence. "Their anger makes them so tired and easy to manipulate. All they need is a taste of submission, and they become like putty to mold into a model thrall."

In his daze, Jameson was having a hard time following the vampires' conversation, but it sounded like they were pleased with him.

"I think I'd like to take this thrall and prepare him myself," said Miss Florence. "Could you go prepare lots twelve and thirteen, and ask Frank to round up the erased in the blue room?"

"Yes, I'm on it."

Miss Colette walked away, and Miss Florence pulled a ring of keys from her apron pocket and unlocked Jameson's cell. "Be a good boy," she said, as she wrapped a leather collar around his neck, putting him on a leash. "Heel."

He did as he was told and followed a half-step behind her as they walked past the other cells, up a flight of stairs and into a dressing room, with a rack of ball gowns in one corner and a large vanity covered in cosmetics lining a wall. His compromised mind struggled to recall what this was about. He was at an auction house, he remembered, to be auctioned as a commodity, and he'd been rightfully upset about it, but…

Miss Florence walked him over to the rack of elaborate dresses. "Here you are, boy. You may choose your dress."

Some of his blissful calm evaporated. These were women's dresses -- they weren't something he could wear. This vampire was obviously trying to humiliate him.

"This is what a good boy wears for the auction," she said. "And you're a good boy, aren't you?"

Just like that, his thoughts were gone again. "Yes, sir." He didn't know anything about what sort of dress he should pick, so he simply grasped at one that seemed appealing. It was deep blue, the color of the sky at twilight, with black lace and a ruffled neck.

"Very good," she said, the praise making him swell. "Now we have to prepare you."

He was whisked into a large bathroom with a stainless steel tub, and Florence tsk'd as she looked into it. "Empty," she muttered to herself, pulling a braided cord hanging from the wall. "Now, be a good boy and remove your clothes."

The wave of calm obedience that washed through him removed any resistance he would have to this idea, and he mindlessly took off the shirt, pants, and socks that had been provided by the auction house at his processing. He'd been belligerent then, determined to fight the vampires off with everything he had, only to find himself drugged senseless and dragged into a cell anyway.

This way is so much easier, isn't it, said the echo of Miss Florence's voice in his mind. So much easier to accept and obey. So much more content without the anger in his heart, so much calmer with the fight stolen from him.

A few thralls entered the bathroom carrying basins of water to fill the bathtub, and Florence beckoned him to get in. It was bracingly cold, just as he usually liked his baths, but the shock brought his mind back to the surface for a moment. He was as naked as the day he was born in front of the vampire who'd ensorcelled and humiliated him --

"Quiet and docile for me," she said, scrubbing at him with a rag doused in floral-scented soap, scattering his resistance once more. He certainly didn't mind being washed clean of the accumulated grime of days in a prison cell.

Soon he was toweled off and sat in a chair while the vampire trimmed his hair neatly. It didn't take very much time, because he'd always kept it short and groomed. She shaved him with a straight razor, her practiced hand working swiftly and leaving no marks, as Jameson sat stock still in his hypnotic daze.

The next step was to guide him back into the dressing room and take his measurements with a tape, the vampire's aura sinking into him with every small movement and silently coercing him to be empty and blank. His eyelids drooped as his mind drifted. He should be irritated, a part of him knew, but it was impossible to keep from sinking into tranquility.

The tranquility remained as Florence helped him into women's undergarments, sized appropriately for him, but like nothing he'd ever worn. A part of him was trying to fight to the surface, but it was buried too deep under the compulsion to be quiet, be passive, obey the vampire. Everything was so much easier with his anger muffled, a distant roar.

The dress that he had chosen earlier was slipped over his head. Miss Florence took his hand and led him over to the vanity, where a wealth of frivolous beauty products lay spread out before him. She brushed his freshly trimmed hair and began to apply makeup to his face.

Makeup. He'd look like a clown. He'd look like a clown in front of so many vampires, while he was being sold…

Miss Florence hooked a gold chain around his neck. "You'll be utterly quiet and docile for the auction. Passive and serene. Obedient and gentle."

"Yes… sir…"

Her hands gently touched the side of his thick neck, the place where a vampire might drink. "You're meant for service. You'll be so content in service to your betters, won't you?"

It made sense. There was a natural pecking order to the world. He'd just mistakenly thought he was on top, when really, it had been the vampires all along. "Yes, sir, I'm content to serve."

"You know your place now."

"I know my place, sir."

"It's so much easier than fighting to be something you're not. You're not strong. You're not in control. You're not entitled to anything. You're a weak thing that only desires to serve."

It felt so true. If he were truly strong, like he imagined himself to be, he wouldn't be here. "Yes, sir, I desire to serve."

"Good boy."

She led him over to a mirror, and Jameson could hardly recognize himself, wearing a lacey ballgown and expertly done makeup. A stranger, or perhaps a version of him from a different time, where he was soft and feminine and everything else he hated, and was happier that way.

Miss Florence snapped near his ear. "Aware."

His half-lidded eyes flew open as he beheld what the goddamn vampires had done to him. She'd put him under a spell, forced him to wear this absolutely humiliating outfit, convinced him he was --

"Good boy."

Convinced him he was…

"You feel so much better this way."

He did. It was such an immense relief to sink back into tranquility, to forget what he'd been so angry about, his muscles loose and his mind dazed and sleepy. He meekly submitted to Miss Florence as she snapped a pair of jeweled handcuffs around his wrists, ready to be sold to his new master.

Masterlist

[veebarnes13]

That time of the month

Context: When you're on your period, Bucky becomes the sweetest.

TW: none.

Era: TFATWS

Contains: fluff, care

(English isn't my native language, feel free to correct me!)

Enjoy! :)

☆☆★☆☆

Bucky came back from work pretty late, that night. For the first time, he had slept in the Quinjet on his way back from the mission.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, waiting for him. The sight of you curled up against the armrest broke his heart. He threw his coat on the back of a chair, kicked off his shoes, and walked straight to you. He didn't even open the light to see what he was doing, almost stubbling over Alpine who meowed at him.

He bent over you and brushed a strand of your hair away from your forehead, on which he laid a soft kiss. He always thought you were so beautifully breathtaking, and whenever you fell asleep before him, he couldn't help but admire your features. Sometimes he struggled to understand how someone like you could possibly share their life with him. He was him and you were you.

He gently picked you up from the couch, trying his best not to wake you up.

Failed attempt.

Your eyes fluttered open. He cursed to himself under his breath and held you tighter against his chest. You rubbed your eyelids with a grimace, confused at first. That unplanned nap literally knocked you out.

"James...?" you whispered, hesitating.

"I'm here, doll." he answered, carrying you towards the bedroom.

You smiled, relieved he was back, relieved he was fine. You hated it whenever he had to leave for a mission, wether it was for a few hours, a couple of days or sometimes even whole weeks. You despised knowing he was risking his life out there while you were waiting powerlessly for him to come back. You hated to be impotent, especially when Bucky was in danger, somewhere out of reach.

Suddenly, all the anxiety accrued in the past eight days exploded in your face. You felt your heart tighten, your guts twist. He was back. Bucky was back, again, and he was safe. He was okay. Your Bucky was back home.

You clung to his shoulders and started crying against his chest. He straightened, surprised. Why were you crying?

"Is there something wrong? Are you okay, doll, are you hurt?" he hastened to ask, gently looking all over you for any wounds.

You mumbled you weren't, but the tears were drowning your words. He gripped your waist and put you down on the couch, a worried wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. You wrapped your arms around his neck, not wanting to let go, and he got even more confused. He didn't know what you wanted and seeing you cry made his heart shatter. He didn't know what you wanted and it made him want to punch himself.

"What is it, beautiful?" he asked again, his voice trembling.

His eyes roamed all over you a second time, trying to find any cut or trace of blood. You took a deep breath in, only to end up sobbing even more. Angry at yourself, you cried harder, your cheeks turning red under the annoyance.

Bucky blinked several times, helpless, his insides twisting in guilt. He took your hands in his and you realized you had clenched them in fists.

"What do y-"

He interrupted himself, widened eyes fixed on a dark spot on the couch. He quickly pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight.

"You're bleeding." he noticed, jaw clenched.

You sniffed and shook your head. How could you? You didn't remember getting hurt! You look over your arms and thighs, confused, your vision blurred by the tears flooding down your cheeks.

Then it hits you.

Of course.

You got on your period during your nap.

You rubbed your eyes, suddenly aware of the stirring pain under your stomach. You pressed your palm on your lower belly and tried to contain the growing sting.

"Oh. It's that time of the month again?" murmured James soothingly, his hands caressing your arms.

"Yes." you groaned through gritted teeth.

Unfortunately.

Why did it have to show up in the worst moments?!

Bucky cupped your face and erased the tears still streaming down your cheeks with his thumbs. He kissed your forehead and picked you up once again.

"Let me take care of you." he said.

"I can take care of myself." you grumbled.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I know you can. It doesn't mean I'll let you, though."

He carried you to the bathroom, gave you new joggings and threw the soiled ones in the sink to rub them clean later. You complained as he undressed you, planted a kiss on your cheek, helped you to shower, and handed you a night pad for you to put on. You did it, still complaining, and he smiled while looking at you.

"You think it's funny?" you hissed.

"I think you're adorable." he retorted.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tickled your lips.

Once you were done, Bucky picked you up again and took you to the bedroom. He gently laid you on the bed, but didn't join you yet. He went back in the kitchen and you heard him rummage. He almost ran back, with painkillers made for periods and a glass of water. Along with that came your favorite chocolate bar.

You swallowed down the painkillers and grabbed the bar.

"Right before bed?" you asked.

"Are you really going to act reasonnable?" he chuckled.

"No." you replied with a devilish smile.

You took a huge bite and immediately, Bucky thought you looked better.

As you were eating and humming to yourself, he went back in the living room to clean the couch, and your joggings in the sink. He then showered quickly and changed, tradding his mission clothes for joggings as well and what he called a "lazy shirt".

He joined you in the bedroom, turning off the lights. He bent over you to pick up the glass and put it on the bedside table.

He let himself fall beside you, his flesh arm circling your waist. He pulled your back to his chest and buried his face in your hair. His palm drew soft patterns on your stomach to ease your pain. You smiled and closed your eyes. Through the sufferance, you could always rely on your man to take care of you.

"How was your week?" he whispered.

"You were gone eight days." you correct him.

"Right, sorry. How were your eight days, then?"

You bit on the inside of your cheek.

"Lonely."

Such a lonely day, and it's mine... hummed your brain.

"I'm sorry to hear that." he sighed.

He kissed the back of your neck, the crook of your shoulder, the small curve behind your ear.

"You'll have me all to yourself for at least two whole weeks, now. How does that sound?"

"It sounds too short." you mumbled.

Two weeks and then he'll leave again to save the world, leaving you alone with yourself and your crippling fear of loosing him. The weight of your anxiety added to the sting in your belly and tears runned down your cheeks again. Bucky noticed it and hugged you tighter, his own heart breaking in his ribcage.

"I'm sorry, my love. It'll be okay. I'll always come back to you, you know that. I belong with you." he tried to comfort you.

You sobbed harder.

"What if t-this time, you don't c-come back?" you wept.

He frowned in your hair.

"I always will. You hear me, doll? I always will come back to you."

He kissed your neck.

"You're my home."

He left a trail of kisses down your shoulder to distract you. He didn't want you to think about such a negative thing. The thought of you crying alone in the house over him made his heart explode in pain. He couldn't stand it. He wanted you to be happy, to feel whole. You were his sun; he would chase every cloud that came to block your light.

"I love you, doll." he whispered in your ear.

"I love you too, James." you sniveled.

He gently turned you around so you were facing him.

"No more crying. I don't want to see one more tear on this gorgeous face of yours. Understood?" he said.

You gritted your teeth, holding back your sobs.

"I'm here, right now, and I have the most perfectly perfect woman in my arms. What else could I ask for?" he murmured.

"Perfectly perfect?" you grimaced.

"Listing everything that makes you mine would be too long. You're perfectly perfect for me and I love you." he answered.

You laughed. It was so cheesy!

"There you go. My little ray of sunshine."

He cuddled you close to him, his nose resting in your hair. You wrapped your arms around him and hugged him back, breathing in his scent. He craddled you against his chest until you fell asleep, both of your heartbeats in sync, the two of you tangled in a loving embrace.

☆☆★☆☆

Thank you so much for reading this! I hope with all my heart that you enjoyed it.

If you like my writing, you can take a look at my Wattpad account, "WinterBarnes13", but my works there are mostly in French. I only have one Fanfic in English, it's short and was written two years ago, don't come after me if it's bad lmao.

Lots of love!

- Vee

[disinherited-dornishman]

In honour of @helaenasbestfriend 's insane tags on my post, which inspired this two part trash from my end.

Part 2

Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, fantasies of regicide. TW: offscreen marital SA in part 2, because that's what doing one's duty as Alicent Hightower pertains.

Part 1/2

"I'm going to bed, Aemma," said the king.

The name rang through the courtyard like a tolling bell. Eyes turn, the beginnings of whispers follow, but some part of Criston cannot believe it truly happened.

He turns his eyes to his Queen.

When he sees what had been concern for her husband frozen still upon her beautiful visage, like a doe's last moments as it was struck in the heart by a hunter's arrow, he knows. And he cannot stop the quickening of his heartbeat, the clench of his jaw, that burning in his mind - not wild and rapid with panic and fear as the fire that had killed the Knight of Kisses. No, this burn was cold, pure rage.

"Shall I see after Queen Alicent, Your Grace?" Ser Harrold asks, pointedly.

The King stops in his tired shuffling, as though he finally noticed his mistake. Criston prays for a mere apology. Even that admission of wrong is better than pretending he had said nothing at all, and perhaps that would be enough to banish these thoughts of bloody dishonour from Criston's mind.

"No, Ser Harrold..." He shuffles along.

Criston watches his Queen's face fall.

"You have the night's watch, Ser Criston," Ser Harrold says. A look of warning as he walks away.

Criston is glaring. He knows it, but he cannot bring himself to care - cannot stop his grip tightening about his sword's leather hilt. The faint creak is defeaning in his ears.

Aemma. After all these years, all the humiliations, the unerring performance of his Queen in her... duties. The suffering.

Aemma.

One stroke, the voice whispers, swift and clean. That is all that's needed. More than he deserves. A fall down the stairs with no one around to hear and help him. They might whisper afterwards, but so be it. Let them. At least she would not need suffer-

"Come, Ser Criston." Her voice brings him back to reality. The horror is only brief.

They leave the courtyard together, sent off by whispers and looks she's grown accustomed to suffering. She holds her head high but she cannot fool Criston, for he had seen the distance in her eyes.

"Something disturbs your peace of mind, Ser," she says later the Red Keep's sept. Her voice is distant, but her attention is upon him, even as she kneels before the Mother's altar.

"It is nothing, my queen."

"Then nothingness has you terribly occupied." She looks at him over her shoulder. "Your silence concerns me, I must confess."

"I do not wish to not disturb the hallowed peace, my queen, that is all."

She gives him a look that almost feels like a plea. She dislikes his avoidance. He averts his eyes to the ground.

"That was unworthy of his grace," he says, impotently.

"He is unwell, his mind muddled," she says, more graceful in the face of injustice than Criston. "Do not hold it against him."

An act.

He hates it. He hates that he cannot punish the king (what a thought for a Kingsguard to harbour.) He hates what she must endure, and that he must endure watching her endure it, as useful in his vigilance as a gargoyle on Dragonstone.

"May I be honest?"

"Always, Good Ser."

"My thoughts disturb me. They too are... unwell."

There is a silence. His confession makes the hairs on his body stand. His heart races at the thought that he might have overstepped. It is one thing to say too much of the Queen's enemies, but her husband the King?

"Will you pray with me then?" she says, unreadable. "That your anger might be abolished?"

Her generosity, her trust, stuns him. Suddenly he cannot help but admire how beautiful she is in her furtive sorrow, and wish that he could see her smile. Banish all her ills and worries away. How long has he watched her suffer them?

"You honour me, your grace..."

She shuffles aside and pats the pillowed floor with a warm smile.

He swallows his heart back down his throat, removes the scabbard from his waist, kneels at her side, and clasps his hands together.

They pray in the comforting silence and stillness of the sept, under the warmth of the sunlight that is coloured rainbow by stained glass. Beside him, her warmth is radiant, crossing the distance between their flesh. It cools the fire in his mind until he is afloat.

He finds himself wishing he could shuffle closer and truly feel her flesh against his, just an arm, that it might comfort her...

But it is unseemly. Inappropriate. Unworthy.

So instead, he prays harder. Not for his own peace of mind, but for the gods to free his queen of her burden as swiftly as possible.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SIX: SALT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink

This is chronologically the sixth chapter in the series (I'll be changing the titles to the chapter names included on ao3 soon)

---

Another day begins in the cenotaph of Dr Lecter's house. That he doesn’t immediately speak of your night in Will's bed seems intentional, a tactic to keep you on some treacherous edge.

Though you look askance at your abuser across the breakfast table, he speaks only of the day's work ahead of him, and that which he has put to you.

“I’d like you to read the book I left in your room,” he says, observing as you dice poached egg into cubes so thin as to be the crystals of a snowflake. “I see that you have not touched it yet. As part of your treatment, I intend you to follow a curriculum that will provoke healthy conversation and—I hope—reflection, afterwards.”

You spread a quantity of egg white to the furthest edges of your plate, hoping to create the impression of having eaten more than has, in fact, travelled your oesophagus.

“Dostoevsky,” you say, at length. “Isn’t he really depressing?”

Hannibal smirks, and reaches across to gently remove the fork from your plate.

“That is indeed a perspective of his catalogue, but not a conclusive summary. Fyodor’s life, like his work, was frequently besmirched with misfortune, and yet he proclaimed beauty and worship as his driving forces, endeavouring to appreciate both even at the direst junctions of his existence.”

Dr Lecter forks the clandestine shrivels of egg towards your lips, which remain in a steadfast line until you discern the quiet threat in his oaken eyes. While yolk waxes your inner mouth, your fists wrench your skirt, as though you might twist your captors throat through mortal telekinesis.

You think of cartilage closed beneath your fist, of gargled breaths, and quiet, and cringe from the knowing of what would truly come. Dr Lecter’s hand would make a paper crane of your wrist, or else his cock would tear you through you like God’s hand rending the rib of Adam to make Eve.

With you as his Eve, he means to make an Adam of Will, it seems.

You sit, and you eat, and feel the weight of it crawl up your belly on many legs, such vermin.

Presently, you ask, “Can’t I choose something else? A different novel? I’m not much of a reader anymore, and it’s pretty long.”

Truthfully, when you do attempt to read, it is often the same sentence over and over; your hunger has robbed this from you, also, a nosferatu in its thirst for thought.

“If you complete this volume and share your thoughts with me, then you may request a title,” says Hannibal, smoothly; perhaps he has prescribed this book for its preposterous length, as well as its content, an occupation for months to pass. “For now, I would like you to finish The Idiot. There is a character within that I suspect you will come to understand as well as yourself.”

You decide that you despise his pretension as much as his torments, the naked self-absorbtion that comes of filtering experience through such narrow tastes and opinions.

Still, you cannot challenge his word so soon after promising your obedience, and thus finish your breakfast without further word in order to excuse yourself from the table.

Alone in your locked room, you scream against your impotence, knowing well that there is no one to hear or help you. Hannibal has fortified this beautiful room as he might a trove of sapphires to inhibit your escape, and whatever neighbours he has keep their insular distance from it unless invited in.

If a passing stranger did glimpse you there, you doubt that they’d be moved to your release. You are but a poor mad girl, shut away to heal in the home of a doctor so esteemed. There is no word to be had against his, even that of the law, which he has cleverly declawed.

You pull a chair to the window to read, accepting, in sulking resignation, that there is nothing else to do but pace, or sleep, which you will not do, afraid to lose all sense of reality to repetitious acts. The book is as difficult as anticipated; tracing your finger across each page, you hope to anchor your thoughts to its complex and numerous appellations, shadowboxing the eternal fog of food that eclipses all things, even the rapes.

If you accept what has been done to you, and what has been taken, then you must accept the abyss that is to be a slave to circumstance. So, for the following days, you think only of the novel and the view beyond your room, in which the trees weep browning leaves like the blood of a decaying God.

You see little of Hannibal, which you are glad of. His work runs long into the evenings, and the brief visits he makes to your room are merely to ascertain that you’ve eaten. The meals remain small, suggesting a caution in Dr Lecter not to overextend the limits of your disease.

You elect not to tell him how your heart palpitates each time you touch morsel to tongue, how desperately you cram mouthfuls past your teeth, swallowing before you can stop yourself, standing, petrified of your base weakness, which you’ve less and less ability to resist.

There is no secondary option to upturn its pale belly to your taking, nothing but the damnation of the men that rewrite your purpose as love letters to one another, or poison pen notes, one and the same.

Friends, enemies, paramours, or rivals— what they are, if not one or all of the four you cannot interpret.

When Hannibal comes to you on the morning he claims to be Saturday with news of Will Graham’s imminent arrival you are almost pleased, the chance to observe these monsters in repose a thrilling distraction from your sequestered numbness.

“I apologise for my neglect,” says Hannibal, glimpsing something of this eagerness in your expression. “My clients have proved themselves to be uniquely demanding, recently. I hope not to face similar struggles in my home.”

You are, at this time, in the parlour, looking about you for where to pour away the hot chocolate that Dr Lecter has placed into your shaking hands for you to finish. The mug is charmingly presented, towering in whipped cream and shaken cocoa, its contents thick and sweet as Ethylene; you feel you might equally die from it.

Hannibal says your name, and you jump, slopping a little of your drink over the rim.

“How do you feel about Will joining us this afternoon?” asks your captor.

Shrugging, you rub at the spilled chocolate with the cuff of your sleeve, aware of Dr Lecter’s eyes locking to the stain on your dress. He cannot abide mess, or disorder, another quality he accepts in Will, who is not nearly so put together as his companion, even at his best dressed.

“I hate Will,” you say. “That's all I feel.”

“Then why did you choose to share a bed with him?” asks Hannibal.

He knows, then, and likely set this trap on purpose.

“I had a nightmare,” you say. “I needed someone. I still felt... weird. From the meds. I guess it made sense to me, then.”

Hannibal appraises you with interest.

“You could have come to me.”

You cannot restrain your rictus of disgust.

“No way. You brought me here. You brought Will to me. Told him what to do. What he did... it was you, doing it through him.”

“Certainly not,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “I am the dowsing rod that comes upon water underground. Will’s potential, and taste for violence was already there. Still, there are other yearnings to be mined from that plentiful well. You know this: it is why you went to him for comfort. There is a father in Will Graham, craving to give love to a child.”

Again, you grimace, and Dr Lecter releases a sound of soft amusement

“And why that look? Because of the intercourse? Not one of the three of us shares blood with any other. Although it was known amongst some ancient kings to wed their daughters.”

You set down your mug with a punctuating clink.

“You’re not kings.”

“If only we were,” says Hannibal, cheerfully. “What palaces we would have built for us. Ah, well. In my mind, at least, they exist.”

He picks up your mug and places it back into your hands.

“Drink your chocolate. If you finish half of it, I will take it away.”

At this, you brighten.

“Really?”

“Of course,” says Hannibal. “As long as you eat some of the cream.”

He loiters until you are finished, never seeming to lose his fascination with your person.

“A valiant attempt," he says. "Now, let’s get you out of that dirty dress. Wouldn’t want Will thinking I’m not taking good care of you.”

You make as if to go to your room, but Hannibal stands in your way, an immovable wall.

“Raise your arms for me, little one.”

“I can dress myself,” you insist, and wilt as Hannibal’s goodwill visibly wavers.

“Alright, doctor.”

After easing the dress up over your head Hannibal stands a moment, considering your nudity before him. One hand frisks you ribcage to breast, taking measure of your form, and you find yourself shifting from foot to foot, appalled by the coal of arousal that simple touch has spurred.

“So many pleasures could be yours,” says Dr Lecter, “if you would only embrace them.”

You look away, and allow your turned cheek to be your answer.

*

By the time Will enters the house, Hannibal has you drawing on a large sketchpad in an armchair— art therapy, you suppose, but you are no fool. Through it, he means to infantilise you further, making you all the more susceptible to the two of them in that, in all things, you are a child. Theirs.

You’ve been told to draw whatever your feelings dictate to you, but out of pettiness you scratch down caricatures of your tormentors, taking great satisfaction into making each look particularly mean and unattractive.

Will sits at one end of the living room couch, his full mouth in a cantankerous downturn. He doesn’t make even brief eye contact as he greets you; indeed, he pretends to the best of his ability that you are not there as he accepts a glass of wine from his host, a curt, plaid-shirt clad shoulder squared in your direction.

The night you spent in his bed embarrassed him, you realise, as though he were your hostage, and not the reverse.

Thus, he has chosen to hate you for it, and it is as you scar his pencilled image into a graphite scowl that you decide to goad him, in response.

Hannibal—coolly debonair in a pressed rust suit—looks at you throughout his conversation with Will, analysing each haughty exhale and flip of a page in their colourful feeling.

Each time Will speaks, you make a point to drop a pencil with a disturbing clatter, or else stare at the back of his head until he surely feels the pressure of your gaze. It is childish game, to be sure, but one that cannot easily be halted in the name of misbehaviour.

The young man twitches and stiffens with gratifying agitation, his squared jaw a lance of disgruntled solidity. Hannibal’s eyes bear the shine of withheld mirth, and you comprehend that although this man cannot abide rudeness, he is not above the lowbrow if it is in the name of vengeance.

It does strike you as odd, however, that he does not intervene on his ally’s behalf; this, too, you are darkly curious to understand, his passive participation in the prodding of a humming nest.

At last Will snaps your name, one fist brought down on the arm of his chair in a cushioned thump.

“If you want something from me, then you’d better say it out loud. It’s not as if you’re known for being shy about your feelings.”

“You know what I want,” you mutter, drawing your chin up under your knees. “But you’re too chicken to do anything he doesn’t want you to.”

This directed at Hannibal, who merely hums neutrally, and leans in at a subtle incline.

“You’re right: I’m not taking you home,” says Will. “You’ve barely been here a full week, and your collaboration with Dr Lecter is half-hearted, at best. Don’t expect freedom when you haven’t worked for it.”

“And don’t pretend to care about solving crimes when you’re here, committing them,” you retort. “You really put the fucking bullshit into the FBI.”

Will’s eyebrows rise in disbelief, his forehead a graph of harried lines.

“Careful,” he grinds out. “I ought to wash your mouth out with soap.”

Snorting, you pick the sketchbook back up and shake it open across your lap.

Your pulse is ringing with adrenaline, with the fear of where this brattish turn may lead, but with Hannibal silent and quietly interested in one corner, and Will stiff and seething in between, there is causality to your tantrum that you do not care to challenge.

“You wouldn’t,” you say. “You’re too scared to touch me without your friend holding your hand the whole time.”

Will becomes very still.

“That is a very dangerous assumption to make," he says, and suddenly you are almost blind with miserable fury.

It makes you quite reckless.

“So do it,” you say. “Wash my mouth out. Do it!”

“Time to prove that you’re a man of your word, Will,” says Hannibal, from the corner. “A parent that does not reinforce discipline holds no power.”

Will stands up quite abruptly, rolling up his shirt sleeves in terse motions.

“Alright.”

A darkness passes over his eyes, and you realise your mistake.

“Wait,” you say. “No. I didn’t mean it.”

You shriek as Will tries to take hold of you.

“Hold still,” he says. “I don’t want to break your arm. It’d be easy for me.”

He drags you into the downstairs bathroom, slamming on the cold faucet with a free arm and holding a cake of soap under its stream.

“No! No!”

You bring your legs up off the ground and lunge forwards, pitching your attacker into the washbasin.

He pivots you in his grip, one shuddering hand squeezing your collarbone. The other cracks your cheek with an impulsive force that steers you back against the sink, just as you threw him, all your righteous attitude let out of you like pulp from a gourd.

Will stares at his own hand in abjection, his eyes a harrowed eclipse.

His voice stutters, trembles.

“Oh, I— did I— I shouldn’t have— what am I doing?’

You fold to the floor and crawl away on three limbs like a dying animal, one hand clutched to your cheek. Hannibal emerges from where he has been observing from the doorway, gesturing soundlessly for you to return to the parlour. He doesn’t appear angry; rather, the feeling that inhabits his eyes is so unlike any other you’ve yet perceived that dread turns your innards out of you as surely as one of his knives.

You should run, you know, barricade yourself into an unlocked room to wait out the squall.

Yet something—a sense, an instinct—compels you to lurk in the hallway beyond the bathroom to eavesdrop on the conversation within.

“Will,” says Hannibal— through a crack in the door you see him caress the younger man’s quaking arm with the sensitivity of unbridled love. “You are distressed.”

Graham lifts his hand, still flushed red from the blow.

“I made a serious mistake,” he says. “Indefensible.”

“She was antagonising you,” says Dr Lecter, plainly. “You punished her. That is all.”

Will shakes his head, battling to articulate himself.

“No. No. I reacted. It was... inelegant.”

“I agree the soap was perhaps too literal,” says Hannibal, reaching across to turn off the faucet and set the soap bar straight in its dish. “It was a little gauche.”

“Gauche,” Will repeats. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

He laughs shakily, relaxing under Hannibal’s consolation.

“A musician might be expected to produce many flawed pieces in his early career,” says Dr Lecter. “In this case, however, there is a fault in the instrument.”

Drying himself on a hand towel, Will appears pensive, unconvinced.

“And you think it can still be played, this instrument?”

“You have demonstrated it just now. While your first motion was unsophisticated, the second was a symphony. A bullet, a palm; each you have delivered to adversaries with the same instinctive force, and certain beauty.”

“I shouldn’t have hit her in the face,” Will insists. “Too dangerous. I could have deafened her. Given her concussion.”

“Then next time you must put her across your lap,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “That way there is no chance of serious injury.”

A charge conjoins the two of them like a lightning bolt, marrying the earth to the sky.

“Right,” says Will, at last. “So, what do I do with her now?”

You scuttle into the living from before either man realises you’ve been listening and throw yourself down on the couch, your body going into little spasms of terror at the many possibilities of what fate your ire has earned you.

Shortly after, Will passes through the door, inspecting your prone form with a fragile caution. He sits gingerly beside you on the couch and clears his throat.

“Well,” he says. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it.”

You neglect to answer.

Sighing, Will takes hold of the quiet.

"You have a bone to pick with me today. Bigger than usual."

"I could say the same to you," you mutter, and Will's lips tighten into an unpleasant smile.

"You’re upset because I didn’t want to talk to you when I came in. I don’t know what you were expecting from me. When I found you in bed next to me the other night, I knew exactly what you were doing. Didn't Hannibal tell you about my acute empathy?”

Sitting up on both elbows, you shake your head.

"No. What does that even mean?"

"It means I know how insecure you're feeling,” says Will. “And what you think you'll achieve in breaking me down. But you won’t. I don't appreciate being used, One."

He spits the latter half of Dr Lecter's nickname for you as though it's rather beneath him to employ it, and this egotism alone reignites the desperation in you to best him, to raise yourself from the dirt-ground bottom of a pyramid of three points.

Ignoring your repulsion, and the throbbing welt of his handprint on your cheek, you struggle up onto Will's lap and kiss him, your fingers a bow at the nape of his neck.

For an instant he kisses you back, his cheeks in bloom, all gasping and piteous desire. Then he pushes you down onto the floor by the shoulders, his expression drawn, and severe.

"One," says Will. "No. You know the rules."

You stare into the sullen lakes of his eyes until they skitter aside.

"No," you say. "No, I don't, Will. Dr Lecter hasn't explained anything. First I'm a patient, then I'm your daughter, then I'm— I'm something you can just hurt? I don't understand what I am to you people, or what I'm supposed to do."

"You can start by not kissing me," says Will, and he wipes his lower face with one coarse hand as though drying himself of sudden rain.

"Why?” you ask, and the young man leers with distaste.

"You don't even want to. You're manipulating me. Trying to, at least."

"Like you've been doing to me? You want me here. Otherwise, you'd take me away.”

Your voice dries into in a plaintive croak. Your fingers clutch and cleave to him.

"Prove me wrong, Will. Take me to a real hospital. Please, Daddy, take me away from here."

You almost feel him waver, under the spell of your weakness, its call to him. Then he jerks his chin in stubborn resistance, twitching your hands from the fabric of his trousers.

"I'm not going to disrupt your treatment. I have to trust that Hannibal will get through to you. Can't help thinking he's wasting his time."

"Your rules don't make sense," you say, rudely changing the subject back to its previous line. "How come you get to touch me when I can't touch you?"

"Because you'll use it like a shovel to dig your way out of here," says Will. "Or to drive a wedge between me and Hannibal."

"What if I just want someone? I'm alone, here. I can't be alone. I can't cope."

You reach out to Will, forcing a passion for him that is not there. He feels your cold, and flinches back, the genuine emotion you'd felt extend towards you snapped like a pine needle under a hunter's boot.

"Don't do that," he says. "I won't be twisted around your little finger. If you want me on your side, then you can apologise for disrespecting me, and you can use your mouth to do it."

His meaning beats you in, a bruising horror.

"You don't mean that," you say. "Do you?"

Will smiles again, this time with a chilling irony.

"I think I do."

“Why?” you ask, again. “Because he told you it was a good idea?”

With slow purpose Will leans forward, wearing his darkness like a helm, a power, till now, unseen.

“Because you need to learn that I’m not the soft target you think I am. I feel for you, and I want to help you, but not nearly as much as Hannibal does. I lack his patience. The harder you push me, the further I’ll close against you, and the last thing you need is another locked door in this house. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

It is the threat of an echoing night, a decade forgotten underground, as in your dream.

“Yes,” you say, unsteadily, and you see Will warming to his role in a subtle tightening of his posture.

“Then you know what to do.”

You look at his trouser button, gleaming like the tusk of a boar charging unavoidably through some murky underbrush.

“Can we do... something else?” you ask, in a whisper.

“Why?” asks Will, sharply. “Afraid of the calories? Considering Dr Lecter’s been lenient with you today, I think you can afford the addition.”

The cruelty of this takes you aback; you cannot yet determine its cause.

“Why do you hate me, Will?” you ask. “I’m just some girl. You don’t even know me. I never hurt anyone on purpose before I got here. Why am I the bad guy to you?”

He says your name with a dangerous finality.

“You’re stalling. Look, I can walk away and leave your punishment to Hannibal, but I can’t guarantee that he won’t be harder on you than I am.”

“What would he do?” you mumble.

Will pauses, and you get the sense that he’s editing his answer.

“What he believes I’d like him to do.”

“Worse than this?”

You regret the question as Will unbuttons his pants and sits back, all moody arrogance.

“What do you think?”

You envisage yourself running from the room, throwing a screaming fit, or making your attempts at violence upon this delicate man, anything but set your mouth to task, as he desires.

But you have sensed the devil in Hannibal Lecter, have dreamt of it; its spectre is the hand on the back of your neck as you reach into Will’s open trousers and lure out his arousal in your grudging fist.

His girth rises from a thicket of curls, already straining against your touch, as it had been the night he watched Dr Lecter ravage you on the table top. Three strokes and Will is sucking his breath through his teeth, his hands scratching at the sofa, his eyes raised to the ceiling as your mouth closes over the head of his cock.

He grasps the back of your skull and coaxes you clumsily down upon his heated desperation, needing, thirsting, a street mutt brought in to eat.

The first taste of salt upon your tongue has you straining back against him; Will is right in that you fear the numeric value of his excitement, as though the very flavour of him alone might deconstruct your physical being like a wound in space, eating stars and worlds with similar appetite.

The young man is too strong for you; he keeps your mouth, your throat upon him until you give in, fearing he may snap your neck entirely by accident in his ferocity.

He says nothing, only breathes harshly above you, quite beautiful, still, an angel in his ecstasy, his sculpted features catching the soft light of the room, burnished to their most perfect state— you loathe him for that same symmetry, hate that you must hold his thighs in the bastard sibling of an embrace to steady yourself, or else fall upon his lap in bowed debasement.

The noise of the act—wet coughs and rasps, the rattle of saliva sieved through your teeth—takes on the rhythm of a waulking song, all repetition. Your eyes lose their vision to your tears, perceiving nothing but light, and Will’s gloomy outline above you.

His inhales shorten, a sawing in, in, in, of saccharine air, and both palms close upon your cheeks as his small hips rise, and your mouth is full of him, like the crest of some foaming wave.

You tumble back, and turn to spit just as Hannibal’s voice cuts through the room.

“Swallow it. Though my floor is clean, I suspect that it is not quite spotless enough to eat off, which you would have to, should you deposit what you have in your mouth there.”

You glance at Will, closing his trousers with a rather sheepish air about him; no help to you, little though you would have expected him to be. With a nauseous gulp, you drink down his liquor, made ashamed by your absence of valour, a coward to grovel so swiftly to command.

“How far you’ve come,” says Hannibal. “Both of you.”

Will meets your miserable look, and this time there is no guilt in his eyes.

“Is Jack Crawford still invited to dinner?” he enquires, quite casually, as though your tongue was not still thick with him.

Brows arched, Hannibal says, “He is. Why do you ask?”

They both look at you, their thoughts a chevron formation of psychic understanding.

Will says, “She’s not ready for that.”

You shrink away as Hannibal approaches, pressed against the foot of an armchair like a beaten courtier to some mad king.

“She will have to be,” says Dr Lecter. “For I insist on her attendance.”

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 25

Prompt: Alone

Words: 1200~

TW: Unkind Mental Dialogue, Hamfisted Flower Metaphors (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

I've no idea what else to tag this as, but if you've any ideas please let me know

Enjoy!

Soap had been informed that he was being granted a freeday. That Friday would be entirely his, to do with as he pleased. If what pleased him was within regulations, of course. He’s been dreading it from the very moment he was first told and while he was stuck-still fearing it, it came.

He’d gone to bed Thursday night with one last bit of traitorous hope still crying ‘maybe this time will be different’ from a dandelion clock in his soul’s weedful garden, and had awoken this morning to find hope’s stem bare. His garden grown wild with windflowers, plume thistle, hairbells, and nettles once more. 

Staring up at the ceiling tiles of his bunk, Soap tried to convince himself to get up, to sit up at the very least, to make that first step towards facing the day, but found himself unmoving. Laying there with a dull sense of despair as he fails and fails again. Purposelessness slackens his limbs, feels sunk into his very bones, unaccountability a leaden weight that anchors him where he is. 

Alone, with nothing to do, no one counting on him, and not a soul to be disappointed by his inaction, he finds himself unable to unstick himself from his rut. 

Just as he'd known would happen. 

His phone dings and he finds it in his hand within the next moment, without any conscious decision to pick it up off the floor from where it stays just under the edge of his cot while he’s sleeping. It’s Ghost, he’s texted over one singular question mark.

Checking the clock, Soap realizes with impotent urgency that breakfast time had blown past while he’d been busy festering in his bed. He doesn’t know how to respond, he has no explanation, no excuse, he hadn’t turned off his reminders, he’d heard his phone buzzing with the silent alarms he’d long ago set to help keep him on track. It had just felt so unimportant to him at the time.

What had been the point of going to breakfast when he had nothing to do after breakfast, what would he be eating for, why should he fuel a body that was going to be languishing in inutility all day. It was pointless, so he hadn’t. Hadn’t even bothered to stop the alarm, just letting it vibrate itself out. 

But he’d worried Ghost, or else he’d confused him enough by not appearing for breakfast that his L.T had felt obligated to seek an explanation. Soap mustered himself and sent back three thumbs-ups. One would be too abrupt, two was too eager, but three felt inoffensively joking enough to be worth sending. 

Another question marked dinged onto his screen within the same minute of Soap responding. He stared, puzzled. What could Ghost be asking about now? After scrolling back up to check if he’d missed a question Ghost had sent or something, Soap could have smacked himself, and did let his phone drop despairingly onto his chest. He’d forgotten that he never sends Ghost emojis on their own, he only does that with his siblings. With Ghost he barely ever uses them, and when he does it's mostly as tone indicators for difficult to parse statements. Soap liked actually talking to Ghost too much to ever be so taciturn as to just use emojis, normally that is.

“Sorry LT. Didnt feel up to bkfst” He types out and forces himself to send, after watching precious minutes keep ticking by while he agonized over it.

“Whats wrong” Ghost's response pops in, then “Sick?” in a separate text immediately after.

Soap knows he’s really worried Ghost now, if the man is skipping apostrophes and sending stacked texts. He's devastatingly tempted to agree, to say he’s sick, instead of just a useless layabout. 

“Johnny?” Ghost’s concern bleeds from the screen as Soap’s fingers hover over the keyboard and with a grimace he punches in his response.

“No. Just didnt feel up to it”

Knowing that Ghost knew of his sudden onset of redundancy was a horrible sick feeling that sloshed about his gut, but Soap also knew that lying to him would have felt worse. 

A simple “Okay” from Ghost and Soap lets his phone drop again, hanging his hand off the bed to abandon the device back onto the floor. 

Losing himself to the ceiling tiles and the yawning pit that's echoing all his many failures back to him from the depths of his heart, Soap wallows. If rot and decay weren’t progression his garden would be wilting and blackening. Instead it follows his lead and stagnates. Unmoving as still-water and twice as toxic. Time is meaningless to him on a normal day, but now he torments himself with guesses at how long he’s spent just laying there, doing absolutely nothing.

It can’t have been more than five minutes, but what did he know, full hours could have run by him now and he’d be none the wiser to it. 

A rap at his door pulls him from that spiral and he stumbles off his cot to open it. Ghost is stood there, a banana in hand. Carried with the same reverence he gives mission objectives. 

“L.T?” Soap steps out of the way and lets Ghost stalk into his bunk, flushing when Ghost’s scan of the room lingers on his cot with its freshly disturbed sheets.

“Brought you this,” Ghost presses the fruit into Soap’s hands,

“Uh, ‘hanks, Ghostie. Ye didnae-”

“An’ this,” Ghost wields a bottle of Lucozade now, and Soap hasn’t a singular clue where in fuck he could have pulled it from. 

An incredulous snerck of laughter jolts free of Soap’s chest. He folds over, bracing his hands on his knees and staring hard at the floor as he tried to suppress his giggles. A glance over at Ghost ruins him, the energy drink was being pointed at him with intent, Ghost’s serious eyes staring Soap down from just above. Gales of semi-hysterical laughter pour free of him and Soap collapses to the floor as his knees give out. Dropping onto his back, he presses the back of his hands to his eyes, careful not to blind himself with the banana he’s still holding. He can feel his garden blooming under the sun Ghost’s brought in with him, running over with ivy, snowdrops, primroses, and wild arum. 

“Where awn god’s green earth,” He giggles out, dropping his hands to look up at Ghost with a humored smile, “Were ye keepin’ tha’?” 

“Need to know info, Johnny,” Ghost rebuffs him, “You don’t have that kind of clearance.” 

More incredulous giggles wrack through the Sergeant and he rocks himself a little on the floor as he tries to rein himself in. Joyous tears leaking from the corners of his squeezed shut eyes. 

“It’s blue flavour,” Ghost advertises, waggling the bottle at him.

“Well iffin it’s blue,” Soap jokes, his voice bouncing with the remnants of his laughing fit. He leans up, taking Ghost’s extended hand to lever back to his feet, then sits himself back onto his cot and accepts the drink that is a truly lurid shade of blue, as promised. 

Soap pats at the open spot beside him and rides out the subsequent tremor when Ghost plunks himself down with no aplomb. 

“‘hanks, Si.” Johnny mumbles as he starts peeling his Ghost allocated banana, keeping the Lucozade pinned securely between his knees, so he wouldn’t lose it somehow. 

“All good, Johnny.” Ghost assures, watching him spend his full concentration on opening the banana with the least amount of stringy bits left behind. The unspoken warmth that Ghost carried in his soul for this man, finally banking from the blaze it’d been stoked into by Johnny’s uncharacteristic morning. 

Whatever Johnny was going though, Ghost was determined to not let him face it alone.

Thank You For Reading!

Yep, Scots call dandelion puffballs 'clocks', apparently.

Here's the flower meanings, I've a book of them that I took these from, if looking them up tell you something different ┐(•_•)┌

Windflowers - Forsaken Plume Thistle - Misanthropy Hairbells - Grief/death Nettles - Cruelty Primrose - Eternal love/I cannot be without you/Obsessive love Ivy - Happy Love/Affection/Fidelity/Marriage Wild Arum - Ardor/Zeal Snowdrop - Consolation/Hope/Hope in sorrow

All of these should grow wild in Scotland or Britain, if my bit of surface level research didn't steer me wrong.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[r1mmvhub]

✄ new life

tw: +18, an unpleasant description, random murder, poetic inserts, death character: jimmy/curly summary: excited by a new idea, jimmy, no matter what, wants to connect his life with curly forever.

art by _oleg_art

i need to be closer to him than ever, in one body forever.

in a desolate world where everyone is talking about us being dire.

i will take advantage of you, i will pierce our beauty with a needle for the first time.

completely in agony, the crippled body only vomits more blood, spewing out of its abyss of fear the remnants of sanity, which our hero lacked so much. rinsing in liters of thoughts, the result of this procedure — falling into the abyss, going limp in the intestines of an enemy, cutting off a four—chamber, filling the lungs with water, — was the dirty birth of a holy idea that cannot be aborted at this time.

demons used to be burned. women who gave birth to children of satan, consumed by the fiery gehenna, were immediately declared witches, branded for life and even driven away. and now, on the remains of a fictional island, a miracle will take place in a matter of minutes. the devil himself will deal with the creation of a new creation, which would be called lucifer, who, by his stupid mistake, dared to break the rule of god and descend into the wrath of hell itself. and he will pay with the abortion of his old life, in return for the atonement of the sins of the dead.

the creator longed for this birth, and he agreed only under compulsion.

the skin is sewn to the muscles with a thread (dirt seeps into wounds, bandages can no longer absorb new liquid, and the stench is unbearable: mixed secretions, remnants of dried feces, dissolved urine, dried saliva and blood, foreign antiseptics, fresh rinses — useless moments of time when you wanted to wash away all the shame; even sweetly), preserving cracked dreams and hopes, fear and impotence. i wanted to howl in pain, but there was no voice left. as well as the rights to any desire, a possible solution. you won't live quietly even in silence.

he wanted to define new boundaries of permissiveness, completely erasing the old ones, and in principle, destroying any. nothing else and no one will bother them. even my own thoughts.

while the first, inspired by fear, anxiety and faith in his new mission, like a messiah, condemns to salvation — stitches two bodies together, the second humbly died at the last moment, thanking the desert world for a new opportunity for a new life.

[thisuserislilsilly]

Summary: There will be no quarter when Ascilen life is at stake, Jubik would do whatever it takes to keep his hubby safe

Pairing: Jubik x Ascilen (baby boy of @jaghatai-khock

Genre: Action/drama/angst

TW: Hella blood, some fluff at the very very end, gore, angst

Goblin tag squad: @cardinalcanis @finchly-tintinnabulation @artemisareia @echo-of-damnation @meervalv0

@jaghatai-khock

Holding on to you

The attack had come out of nowhere, in a maneuver that had taken the Imperials by surprise, a perfect strike to the heart of the Kianxe system had attempted to wipe out the supply lines of that whole area in the sector, if they succeeded it would had left Kianxe and the subsequent closest planets in complete darkness to lead into the Chaos the heretic forces were looking for.

It had been vengeance, for using the gene-stock of the Emperor's Children once again in the service of the Emperor, too to settle old grudges against the Chapter Master Aureus and his captains. The warband had used strategies of old to add insult to injury, with precise strikes to strategic points in ships and star bases on the level of precision the whole Legion once had been known for excelling at. The Merciful, not staying put with their arms crossed, had deployed in all the fronts possible to defend the system they called home and to bring retribution to those who had wronged them since the day they had been born as Astartes. However the enemy forces not only leaded with the strength of thousands if not millions of cultists and Marines alike, they counted too with Daemons bring forth from the Warp, infused with machinery in unholy amalgamations or straight up letting some of their ranks to be possessed by the foul fiends and serve as leaders on the slaughter that plagued the system.

That is where Aureus had sent distress signals for support on any and all loyalist forces there were available; Haseyr Stormblood and his Ember Nomads, like all friends do, had heard him and luckily by insistence of Jubik they were already on their way there from the Warp. It would he no easy task but if they managed to break through and facilitate a way out for the Imperials to counter attack, the Nomads would do it.

As for the Captain of the tenth company, Jubik was already being possessed by the "Spirits" before the first thunderhawk was even deployed. Knowing the Merciful were being attacked was one thing, realizing this had happened while Ascilen was still debilitated by the amount of stress bearing a child could naturally bring was enough to make emotions flourish in his heart with fury and impotence. The mere audacity of the possibility his sunshine was out there without him by their side was too much for the old veteran to stand.

He did not heard any deployment tactics, nor did he took command over his own company; charging that honor to Kubayen who was already on his way to maybe step up and take his place if the next few years were kind to them both. With only his squad fully armored and equipped with the best weapons they had at their disposal, Jubik proposed himself to lead the tip of the spear offensive against the Emperor's Children on Kianxe; the permission was given in the blink of an eye when the rest of captains noticed Jubik was already out of his natural senses.

Although the zone was too hot for a more discreet or strategic approach, Jubik and his squad used the teleportation devices to coordinate their descent right on the main city of the world, close to the Monastery of the Merciful and their most well defended position. Jubik felt the jolt of the device materializing him on the planned spot and felt a very strong headache when he touched the ground again, the dizziness from that method of deployment never had truly settled well for the veteran, his stomach felt as it was about to throw everything he had eaten that day right back out from his lips, but the man was able to hold it in just enough to have his mind back on the fight that was ahead of him.

The sight he witnessed when he arrived at the main plaza made his twin hearts stop for a few moments. It had been the Emperor's Children work alright, the filth of Slaneesh was everywhere, the corruption of bodies, of weapons, of shouts was too obvious to ignore; but what made Jubik know something truly had gone wrong there was the Merciful Marines themselves. The Nomad knew very well how to read the body language of Astartes and those who he saw in front of them were shocked, unfocused, disoriented.

"Report, report at once! What is the situation in the perimeter? Where are your commanders?" Jubik shook one of the Astartes from the shoulders to snap him out of it

"The comms are all dead sir, we don't know what the hell is going on in other parts of the city! We have been able to hold out in here for a while, but they...they keep coming!" The marine replied, a hint of fear in his voice

"Snap out of it! These are heretics all the same! If they had the same blood as you or not matters not when your whole world is at stake!" Jubik felt the rising urge to punch the man right in the jaw, but held himself just long enough

"The Monastery...by the Emperor it was like a tidal wave! We...we had to spread out just so they could leave there!"

"The enemies are there?!?! There!?!? You imbecile, your Apothecarion is in there! Your wounded, your gene-seed! Why have you not fought until the last men to defend it!!!" Jubik anger got a hold of him and slapped the marine so hard, helmet or not he would had felt that

"Our captains said-" The Merciful tried to explain himself

"If you say another word son, you will know the meaning of corpse stash! You four! Stay here and aid them however you can, call for reinforcements if needed!"

"Where will you be sir?" One of his squadmates managed to speak up before it was too late

"In the heat of the battle..." Jubik murmured more to himself than to the others.

Tightening his grip on his sword, Jubik ran as fast as his body allowed him; the Astartes freed his mind and let go of the mental restraints that held back his instincts, his wild mannerisms, his Cthonipem roots. Going against all of what an Astartes and specially a Nomad was mentally indoctrinated for, Jubik let his feelings tell his body what to do, not the other way around. On that state, full on "possessed by the Spirits", Jubik was able to reach the Monastery in record time, almost as quickly as if he had used a jetbike to get there.

He screamed savagely, one the tribes back in his homeworld used to chant when going to battle, the tie holding his hair braided and neatly arranged in his head loosened by the constant shake and wobbling inside the helmet, it went down his armor, making his grimace look more terrifying if that could have been possible.

The death swarm of Emperor's Children with their Daemons caught sight of the Nomad way too late for any quick defense. In a flash of lighting strikes three Marines were already dead and one Daemon had been sent back to the Warp where it had come from; the rest whenever they turned their attention from the defenders to the lone swordsman making a bloody path through their ranks struggled to caught up with the speed in which Jubik was moving. The Nomad had become a whirlwind of destruction to whoever dared get close, arms were chopped, heads flew, throats were cut, chests tore open and bones turned to dust as they made contact with the raging savage.

The Merciful sighed in relief and renewed vigor when the sudden intrusion made a breach in the attackers defenses. The Noise Marines screeched and wailed with their guns held high, they were the only one's capable of hurting Jubik and once the Chaos Marines realized this they wasted no time in pinning the Nomad to a circle where their specialist would be able to do some damage in the hopes of killing him.

The Nomad was numb to the pain, the sound waves were crushing his inner organs and his eyes started to bleed, he felt his throat give in and his windpipe being violently incapacitated by the screams and howling coming from the hideous heretical weapons; yet the Nomad did not give in an inch, hurting his knuckles by how firmly his grip was on his sword who he refused to let go of despite the pain and suffering. His helmet was cracked and subsequently thrown out of his head when a chainsword made it fly as the Nomad had dodged just in time to not suffer a much more grievous injury if the blow had connected to his head.

When the amount of bodies and enemies started to literally pile up all around and on top of the Marine, the Merciful were able to just throw themselves at the enemy in the last second before the Nomad was entombed alive on the blood and guts around him. As Jubik came out crawling his way out of the gore, his eyes were still wide open and his pupils dilated. He growled more than spoke, grumbling pushing aside whoever came close to him and biting the air if someone tried to touch even one hair.

His body moved on it's own down the corridors and hallways of the Monastery, killing and ripping apart any and all enemies that faced him, no matter if they were demonic in nature or a fallen veteran Astartes. He kicked doors down, tore walls apart and at one point managed to jump one floor upwards just to reach the only person that mattered in his whole world, begging the Emperor and the universe Ascilen was safe.

His hearts sank when he heard struggling coming from the room where Ascilen had been attended on. There were gunfire, then more struggles until the thud of bodies falling limp on the ground made the room stay in silence for some deafening long minutes, just how long it took for Jubik to get there.

He burst in the room, his crazed eyes looked around as the caught Ascilen, he was in vain attempting to defend himself from a Emperor's Children. The heretic was sticking out his disgustingly long tongue out, licking his lips and taunting Ascilen as it got closer to him.

"Come here, oh you sweetheart. Let me see how good you taste" The marine took a step forward "Perhaps when we have gone through our bit of fun, you'll let me do the same with your child"

The Marine laughter bounced off the walls, Jubik was stuck where he stood, if he moved an inch it could risk the Emperor's Children noticing him and killing Ascilen or do something far more perverse and worse than death; if he stood there like a fool the Marine would have his "fun" either way, just a few meters from his loved one.

Ascilen didn't seem to move or react, he was prey to the panic, to the disgust, repulsion, of seeing one of his own, who had he always desired to resemble. One of the perfect chosen ones by the Emperor to have His name on their Legion title. Yet there it was, the twisted perversion of that dream right in front of him, threatening his life, the life of his yet to be born child.

"Stop...stop don't come...don't come any closer-!" Ascilen could picture Damien all over again

"Why stop now precious, when one such as perfect as you could be used by me...don't you know I reassemble the Primarch Fulgrim himself? Would you like a taste of him? Of his co-"

Before the Marine could finish, Jubik jumped on him, using his bare hands to claw at the Marine face, with the sway of the landing both of them fell to the floor, there was a hustle as they rolled, punched, kicked, clawed at each other for dominance; for who would get the upper hand. Jubik moved like a possessed man and, at some level, he was one; his hands came up and down the Emperor's Children without any finesse, any mercy. He slammed the head of the Marine over and over against the ground until something in the back of his head snapped and the arms of the Chaos Marine went limp; yet Jubik did not stop his assault, yelling after every punch, damaging every limb he could see, even using his teeth to bite and tear the skin and flesh off from the heretic's neck like an animal and then spit the remains still present on his mouth once his tired body stopped for good.

Ascilen watched the whole scene in shocked awe and silence. His hands went to his mouth when the worst side of the Nomad was released on that singular encounter; he had no words to describe what he felt at that point, was it fear? No it couldn't, for as much as it looked like it Ascilen was sure Jubik would never hurt him, less so after doing such a thing to defend the Merciful. It was just the radically different behavior of his lover after knowing him for so long as a cheerful and wise person; looking at the animal devoid of all intellect and reason for an instant just because Ascilen had been in danger was certainly something he would have to reflect upon afterwards.

Jubik blinked many times, shaking his head in frustration as he attempted to calm down, to be back in control of his own body. The captain looked down at his hands, to the unrecognizable body on the ground below him, spitting some blood still caught on his mouth or skin on his teeth; then slowly and with a bit of fear did Jubik look up to Ascilen. His hair was tangled and loose on his face partially covering his blue eyes, the features on his face returning to how they had always been; the blood dripping from his mouth and hands, the way he was shaking once the adrenaline was gone.

Jubik prayed at that moment like he had never done in his entire life for Ascilen to not run, to not flee, for the Throne sake for the Merciful to not shoot him for what he had just done. He saw the fear in Ascilen eyes, the shock, the awe, that injured part of his pride still mourning seeing his Father's legion brought down to what they had become. Jubik couldn't blame him if he thought the same about the Nomad, it was fair after the shameful wild display he had just made.

Tears rolled from both of their eyes. With a silent understanding, Ascilen approached Jubik and hugged him, very tightly. He buried his face on the crook of the Nomad's neck and wept for everything, for nothing, for the shock and the relief of seeing Jubik again, for knowing he was there at that instant with the Merciful. Jubik hugged him back and they stood there in silence for minutes on end, waiting for backup to arrive, for the war to be over around them.

They were holding each other now, and that was all that mattered

[starlightsearches]

Yes come to the dark side we have daddy issues and weekly therapy lmfao

But the way I would crumble so fast. I’d try to be defiant but uh. I’d do anything he told me to

so sorry i let this sit in my inbox for so long but now it gives me an excuse to write about hux hitting it from the back so 😚

some TWs for mentions of self-harm, somnophilia, and minor dub-con elements. 18+ only. female reader.

the thing about hux is that he's quite the romantic behind locked doors.

because everything about you is so different from what he's known—being loved and touched and felt so gently.

so sex is always soaked in emotion, wet lips and nudged foreheads and his blushing pink knuckles pulling you closer anywhere he can reach.

it's heavy, and so is this, but in a different way.

hux is incendiary, leaving sparks and ashes in his wake as he stalks down the empty corridors.

it all weighs on him. feeling overpowered, over-ruled, and worst of all, feeling impotent.

and he hates it more than anything, insides of his cheeks mangled from biting back all he wished he could say until his breath stank with the coppery scent of his own blood.

anger like this doesn't go away on it's own.

he could drive it out of himself. let it drip down his fingers with the blood from his knuckles, find ways to let the hurt bloom across his skin until everything else is washed away.

it’s what he would do, before you.

he's in his quarters instead, still in uniform, staring at you from the end of the bed you share most nights.

it feels wrong, and that's what he needs right now, watching you breathe with the cadence of sleep. his eyes tracing hungrily over the slope of your back, the curve of your ass and the plush skin of your thighs.

hux is not gentle when he grips at your hips, but you don't wake. not when he tugs you towards the end of the bed, not when your head slides from the pillow.

not when he yanks the waist of your shorts down over your ass.

he's not sure when he got so hard, or how, but his cock is pulsing at the jiggle of your ass when he bares it.

hands still clad in leather gloves, he grips at the tender flesh without any thought of gentleness, spreading your ass cheeks wide, baring you to him.

and he's not angry anymore, but there's something else terrifying inside of him, a pressure, a need he can't suppress in his chest when he spies your puffy pussy glistening in the low light.

you groan when his fingers split you open, tracing your slit with slow but insistent movements.

hux just shushes you, squeezing at his handful of ass while his fingers impatiently circle your clit.

you're not as wet as he's used to, but sleep has made you pliant enough. he slips his cock from his trousers and breathes hard, stroking the tip up and down your weeping cunt.

there's a whine on your lips when the head of his cock slips inside, eyes fluttering open when he pulls your hips back to meet his.

he presses the flat of his palm firmly against your spine, keeping you right where he wants you.

"go back to sleep, love."

and maybe hux doesn't want you to see him like this. maybe he's afraid of what will bubble to the surface if you look him in the eyes.

he just wants to get lost in it—in the slap of skin and the way your ass dents against his hip bones and the bliss of your cunt fluttering around him, the pace hard and fast and not at all what he's used to.

he's close already, neck stretched long and his eyes on the ceiling, vision fogged at the edges.

he's so close, but there's a sick guilt in the pit of his stomach, a faltering in the pace of his hips.

how could he use you like this?

hux wills himself to stop, to slow the tempo of his thrusts and beg for your forgiveness on his hands and knees, to deny himself of a pleasure he's never once deserved as part of his penance.

but there's the brush of your fingers, your shaky hand covering his own, pressing him tighter against the swell of your hip.

a swift breath, the sight of your pink tongue pressed between wet lips.

"armitage," you breathe, "please."

oh.

you like this.

and he's never been able to deny you anything.

he thrusts harder, deeper into your wet and aching pussy, fingers gripping at your hips close enough to bruise.

and when he feels you cum around his cock with that delicious cry, he's completely forgotten what had him so furious in the first place.

[odbuoyjemmity]

15 w/ mog+cadence+hawthorne for the song asks? :3

song 15: caesar on a tv screen by the last dinner party

tw: major character death via assassination

“Stop moving,” Hawthorne hissed. Morrigan squirmed, trying to stand up, but he was holding her down now, and there was so much blood. Her head felt sticky, “You said you wanted to meet. For peace. You said-” her jaw ached. She closed it, completely impotent. “I know what I said,” he said tightly, signalling to Cadence. Morrigan blinked, trying to clear her vision. Her hands were clenched at her sides and she looked… furious. “I was the one who said it.” “You? I wouldn’t have guessed it. Brothers and sisters.” Hawthorne’s face was speckled with something her brain wanted to write off as freckles, but it was far too red, and she was in far too much pain to believe that. “It’s been a long time.” It had, hadn’t it. She might look the same, her face unlined, her hair still pitch and limp, but his had thinned and greyed. Cadence’s face was worn and wrinkled. When had been the last time she had seen them. When did they stop being her family? “Cadence?” she tried to say. It came out as a series of gurgles, but she was understood anyway. She leaned down next to her, her hand stretching out to touch her forehead, brushing away a lock of hair, like she would do a grandchild, or a sister. Morrigan looked into her face that looked like it had lived ten more lifetimes than hers did, and tried to maintain eye contact. She tried to tell her that she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant for it to all turn out like this. She missed the flash of metal. She didn’t miss it burying into her groin. Her life faded in and out, one second staring up at the people who had once been her closest friends in the world, the next she was at their initiation ceremony, happily ignorant of everything happening behind them, in class with them. On hometrain. Graduating. Getting dinner. Grabbing coffee. Drifting away. Being pulled into work. Becoming a wundersmith properly. Making excuses. Disappearing. Here. Someone said something to her. She didn’t know which of them it was. It could have been both. It could have been someone else. She barely registered what it meant before she knew no more. “sic semper tyrannis, Morrigan Crow.”

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[bhaalble]

TW; sexual assault, misogyny, incest

Been trying to articulate Sarevok's weird misogyny, the way he makes a point to describe Orin's displays as "girlish" as a point of disdain. One of the Echoes talks pretty scathingly about him constantly asking her if she sired any Bhaalspawn, assuming that as his High Priestess this must have been her purpose. And of course's there's. The EVERYTHING with his daughter/Orin's mother. That his instinctive move to make his daughter valuable in Bhaal's eyes was to impregnate her, only to discard her just as quickly when Orin is preferred.

I think it runs a little deeper than that though. Bhaal's children are all encouraged by their father to depersonalize themselves, as living weapons and as potential skinsuits for Daddy. One of the less discussed elements is how they also conceptualize themselves as breeding stock. This has probably been something further emphasized since Bhaal become impotent. The only plan he has in mind is to keep churning out Bhaalspawn until one of them can become his successful flesh puppet/avatar. Until then, since he is no longer able to create more: his children must in his place. This is an expectation placed explicitly on Durge as well. Sceleritas offhand informs you part of your responsibility in the apocalypse will be churning out babies for the slaughter. If your current romantic partner isn't compatible with that vision then its expected you'll take on other mates to supplement.

So I think its less that Sarevok has something specifically against women (though again, that's not absent. Everything about how he talks about Orin to Durge is pointed at that) and more. As a good Bhaalspawn: he's obsessed with breeding nearly as much as he is murder. As one of the last living direct Bhaalspawn (not counting Durge, who was made under special circumstances) he seems to regard it as his responsibility to repopulate their numbers as much as he's able to.