#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.

[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

[gravesidevibes]

Impotent?

[getousslutt]

Foolishness [pt. 1]

-> When a handsome man with a warm smile and kind eyes offers to take all your troubles away, who are you to refuse?

Pairing: The 'Salesman' x F!Reader

TW. dark content, mdni, noncon, bondage, gun play/kink, gags, mindbreaking, sexual and physical abuse, the salesman is mean in this You are responsible for your own media content ~ if you do not like, do not interact.

A/N: Whoo boy! I've been debating internally whether to post this to Tumblr or not but after fairly positive feedback on AO3, I thought why not! If you'd like to read it there, you can check it out here!

“Come on then, Reader, you know what to do.”

Despite the demanding tone of voice he uses, it still takes your body a minute before it’s able to catch up and listen to the fear racing in your mind. The tears streaming down your cheeks from your eyes are mixing with the drool dripping from the large ball gag wedged in between your lips. All that can be heard in that dark and intimidating room is the sound of your sniveling and muffled cries as you try to force your limbs to move.

You’re terrified — beyond terrified. Petrified to the point that your body has frozen in on itself. 

You never should’ve accepted the man’s game–it was foolish of you. But being foolish is what got you into your situation in the first place. Mistake after mistake made and you’d found yourself drowning in student debt with the ever impending threat of being kicked out of school looming over your shoulders. Humiliated and judged, you’d been abandoned by all and any friends you’d managed to make and with no family to turn to, it had seemed the reality of your fate was inescapable.

Until a man in a pristine grey suit approached you with a warm smile and kind eyes and asked you if you wanted to play a game.

Despite your initial confusion and apprehension, his easy-going charm and convincing enticement had been enough for you to agree. Your desperation had been what persuaded you to follow this older man, one you’d met not ten minutes ago, one you didn’t know the name of, into a black sleek car and into an apartment. Your foolishness was what led you to your situation now.

No longer was his smile warm nor were his eyes kind—instead, the smile felt menacing and cruel and there was a blaze of something sinister and insane in his eyes now as he looked down on you.

When he’d first pulled out rope, you’d tried to back away but he’d reminded you of your debt and the promise to make it all go away. So, you’d let him tie your hands behind your back; you’d found it strange when he'd fussed over how he tied your hands, making sure your hands stayed locked around either elbow. 

The fear welled into something completely new when he’d reached for the button of your blouse.

“What are—”

“Do you want the money or not?” His sharp voice cut in, looming over your shoulder to meet your gaze. “My patience is waning with your impotence.”

Somewhat offended and blinded by your desperation, you’d said nothing in return, only leaning back into his chest in silent consent.

Your attraction to the man was hard to ignore — despite the overall oddness of the situation, watching his lithe and lean fingers swiftly and smoothly unbutton your blouse was enough to make you grow wet. You’d squirmed in the spot, unaware of his careful gaze, a short gasp leaving your lips when he’d finally unbuttoned the last button and pulled back your blouse to reveal your bra.

The man was dead silent as he left your back, moving back to stand in front of you. Your eyes trailed his entire form, breaths shallow and heart racing as his cold hands reached for the waistband of your skirt. With one last look in your hands, he yanked the garment down, bringing it to your ankles;

“Step.”

Swallowing thickly, you'd listened, stepping out of the skirt so he could pull it away.

With that, he'd stood to his full height once more, causing your head to tip back to meet his eyes.

“Now,” he says, slow and calm at first, still with that same smile on his face. “Get on the ground and stick your ass up at me.”

The fear overrides your intrigue, money slipping from your mind as you realize how stupid and naive you were being.

“S-Sir, I don’t—”

Your words get caught in the back of your throat as your face is grabbed harshly, his fingers digging into your cheeks and pulling a cry of surprise from your lips as you’re tugged up, forced to the tips of your toes. With your hands restrained behind your back, you’re left defenceless to even attempt to stop him.

“Get on the ground.”

His tone is considerably darker, smile gone and your eyes widened.

“I-I—”

Pulling away, you blink at the sudden sharp sting across your cheek. It takes you a second, blinking, until you realize he’s slapped you across the face.

Turning back to him, your lips part.

When you don’t move, he slaps you again.

“Stop—!”

Once again, the palm of his hand hits you square across the cheek.

“I can keep doing this.” He threatens and the smile returns with that crazed glee. “Until you listen like a good girl.”

Choking back a whimper, you slowly lower yourself to your knees. 

Once you’re on your knees, you glance at him one final time, hoping this is all some sort of sick joke; he only raises a brow, hands held out, as if in a warning. Biting your lip, you swallow thickly, turning so your back is turned to him and with just a second more, you slowly lower your head to the ground, tipping your body so that your ass is still up as you press your cheek to the carpeted floor.

“Good girl,” the man soothes and you flinch as his hand falls on your panty-clad ass. “Now, let’s start the game.”

You glance back at the man best you can, too nervous to even try and pick your head up properly as you wait for him to finish explaining.

“Here’s how the rules work,” he starts, his hand still tracing along the curve of your ass, pulling at the lining of your underwear. “See this gun here?”

Body freezing at that, you forget yourself, head spinning back and picking up off the ground to stare at the gun held lazily in his hands. You hadn’t seen that on him anywhere—you didn’t know he…

Before you can even think of saying anything, the man’s hand had shoved your head back to the ground, pain radiating from the thud of your cheek on the ground as he'd glared down at you.

“Stay bent like that,” he'd warned, leaning in close, “or I’ll put a bullet in your brain and end this all now.”

The tears start then. You hadn’t even realized you’d been close to tears until that moment, feeling your eyes well and tears stream down at your cheeks as a choked sob pulls from your lips. His hand had remained in place against your cheek, holding you there until you force your head to move in a jerky, slow nod. 

“Good,” he nods, pulling back and straightening his tie like he hadn’t just threatened to murder you. “Let’s finish, shall we?” He'd smileed down at you as you'd sobbed, convulsing on the ground, staring up at him. “You’re going to fuck yourself on this gun. But here’s the trick, you’re not allowed to cum for a full fifteen minutes. If you don’t, I’ll pay off your student debts.”

You can feel yourself starting to hyperventilate, breaths growing quick and panic making your vision spot. Still, you'd forced yourself to speak; “what happens if… if-if I cum?”

“If you cum… well, I haven’t quite decided yet.”

A wail had left your lips then, loud and piercing as you'd crid on the ground, body shaking and hands desperately trying to break free from the rope keeping them restrained. “Please,” you'd found yourself crying, beside yourself. “Please, let me go. I-I… I don’t want to play this ga-game anymore! Please!” 

You'd barely notice the man move until his hand reaches for you again. You'd flinched, fearing a slap again or something worse, but he'd just brushed his fingers across your cheek. “That crying is painstakingly annoying, isn’t it?”

Letting out a sob, you turn inconsolable.

His solution for your cries had been to gag you. And that’s how you found yourself now. 

The man had been kind enough to at least prep you; your earlier attraction had left you somewhat wet and with a bit more prep, the gun wasn’t as painful entering as it would’ve been otherwise. He’d said he’d put it in to help you but after that, it was your turn to start playing.

Now, with a gun in your pussy, the hard ridges jarring and painful regardless, he was clearly waiting for you to start fucking yourself on it.

“If you don’t start fucking yourself now, I’ll pull the trigger.”

Eyes widening, you have no doubt of the man’s threat. You can’t see him since he’s directly behind you and you wouldn’t dare try to lift your head again, but you can imagine the pure glee on his face as he threatens to shoot you.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you force your body to move, pulling your hips back so the gun slides out from behind you. Just as the tip is about to slip out from your hole, you push yourself back. You’re slow, careful, not wanting to hurt yourself, but after a few more minutes of rigged, painful thrusts, you hear him sigh in annoyance. 

“Faster,” he orders, “or I’ll do it myself. And then you definitely won’t win.”

To your credit, you try to quicken your pace. You do the best you're sure you possibly could given the circumstances. But you’re too afraid, body frozen with terror and the looming threat of death that even the understanding that if you don’t go quicker, you will die, isn’t enough. 

After two minutes, his free hand falls on your left hip, stopping you.

“Too bad,” he huffs, as if scolding a child. “My turn.”

It’s immediate. A cry leaves your lips as he thrusts the gun in, slamming into you in a way you’re sure to bruise, before pulling it out and returning. Your cries turn inconsolable once again as he brutally pounds you with his gun, in and out, in and out, your body squirming and muffled pleas leaving your lips that fall on deaf ears.

You grow wet, but not with slick from pleasure. instead, you're sure you've started to bleed; his pace cruel and abusive as you wail on the ground in pain.

When five agonizing minutes pass, and you’re sure your time is ending, his hand on your hip moves and there’s a brush across your clit. It causes you to still, freezing, until the brush returns, this time pressing directly onto your clit. The man rubs his thumb in a circle on your clit, causing your eyes to bulge open, flinching in your restraints.

“Time starts now,” he grins from behind you, “let's see if you can not cum for fifteen minutes.”

You start to thrash in protest, failing but trying to argue that your tim should've started before but the thrusts of the gun return and you’re reminded very quickly of how vulnerable of a position you’ve been placed in. His thumb works quickly and tirelessly, providing stimulation to your previously ignored and bare clit, pulling pleasure you’d thought impossible to feel.

And as his rubbing continues, you grow more wet, this time with slick, until eventually the thrusts of the gun start to feel good. He's too good with his fingers, and maybe some sort of fucked up part of you brain liked what was happening if you were able to garner any kind of pleasure from it at all.

Being fucked with a gun shouldn't feel good. Having your clit played with by a man who'd slapped you and forced the gun in you shouldn't feel good either. Yet, here you were; keening and mewling as the pleasure built.

You have no concept of time, body convulsing and the tingling sensation of your orgasm growing as you try to hold back. His fingers move swiftly and with skill, knowing exactly what moves to make to have you keening and panting on the ground for him. 

It all comes to an end with a sickening snap of the coil, your vision blurring for a minute as hot white pleasure blooms through your entire body, leaving you dizzy. You gasp around your gag, choking on your spit as you moan in response to the orgasm. The man doesn’t stop, guiding you through the orgasm as your body slumps and you’re left flinching in overstimulation.

Heart racing, throat aching, a minute later he finally stops.

The gun is pulled from your pussy with a wet slop, and you let out a cry.

“Such a shame,” he coos, finally moving so you can meet his gaze with tired, blurred vision. It takes you a minute to realize he’s holding his phone in front of your face. “You were so close.”

On his phone is a number – “0:45”

You’d been forty-five seconds from reaching the time limit.

“Now,” he smiles down at you, “what should my prize be for winning?”

[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

[reveryfics]

Broken Divinity

Hughie Campbell x Male Reader

Summary: Dealing with one psychopath is one thing, but finding one that's hell bent on murdering the first is something completely different.

A/N: Doing some more DC fics with my boy Hughie. Reader is a powerful supe. Requests open.

TW: Blood - Violence - 18+

The rain slicked the city streets, mirroring the slickness of the rage that coiled within you. You weren’t sure if Vought, in their infinite, arrogant blindness, ever truly grasped the monstrous creation they’d unleashed. Were you a failsafe? A contingency? A weapon waiting in the wings, primed to detonate if Homelander’s leash snapped, or if anyone dared to challenge their golden god? The question gnawed at you, a festering wound in your psyche. But one truth cut through the fog of uncertainty: they underestimated you. They never factored in the raw, unbridled chaos that churned beneath your skin, the sheer, visceral fury that would drive you to confront their precious icon.

They molded you, shaped you, twisted you into a weapon, a tool. They saw potential, a blank slate ripe for their manipulations. They saw a mortal, a child, a plaything. They never saw the monster they were forging. You knew you were no god. You knew you were a product of their twisted experiments, a puppet dancing to their strings. But the word “human” tasted like ash in your mouth. You were something else, something far more dangerous.

They wanted a replacement, a tool to dispose of a rogue asset. They wanted a “Mr. Nice Guy” to rot, replaced by a weapon, a force of pure, unadulterated destruction. And you, in your twisted way, were happy to oblige. You’d become the embodiment of their darkest fears, a being driven by a singular, burning desire: to crush Homelander beneath your heel, to obliterate the smug, self-righteous smirk from his face. The thought sent a jolt of perverse satisfaction through your veins.

The drizzle intensified, the city a blurred, indistinct backdrop as you faced him. Homelander, the paragon of manufactured perfection, now a mess of blood and arrogance. A scowl, etched deep into your features, met his cocky grin. Your knuckles, raw and broken, dripped crimson. Your lip was split, your vision blurred by a bloodshot, bruised eye. You spat a mouthful of blood, the metallic tang a familiar, almost comforting sensation.

Homelander’s pristine image was shattered, his hair disheveled, his face a canvas of crimson. He was frustrated, bordering on enraged. He couldn't comprehend your resilience, your ability to absorb his blows and return them with savage ferocity. Every punch you landed, every near-crippling strike, was met with a dismissive, condescending remark, a constant reminder of his perceived superiority.

“You got balls, kid,” he sneered, his voice laced with a venomous amusement. “Just not enough.”

The air crackled with tension as he launched himself into the sky, vanishing into the storm clouds. The same damn tactic, the same patronizing departure. Every time you got close, every time you landed a hit, he retreated, leaving you seething with impotent rage. A guttural scream ripped through your throat, your fist slamming into the rain-soaked pavement, cracking the concrete.

You barely registered the growing crowd, the faces blurred, the phones recording your every move. But one face stood out, a constant, irritating presence. He was always there, at the edges of your battles, a silent observer, a mocking witness to your failures. The sight of him ignited a fresh wave of fury. You stormed towards him, the crowd parting like a sea before a storm. You seized him by the collar, the fear in his eyes a fleeting, almost satisfying flicker.

“What’s your name?” you demanded, your voice a raw, guttural growl.

“Hughie…Hughie Campbell…” he stammered, his eyes wide with terror.

He choked on his words, his gaze fixed on the dizzying drop below, the raw, unhinged rage radiating from you. “We want the same thing,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “Please, you have to trust me.”

The desperation in his voice, the raw, naked fear, stirred something within you, a dark, twisted sense of power. You cocked an eyebrow, intrigued. How could someone like him, so seemingly fragile, share your burning desire?

That’s how you found yourself in his cramped apartment, listening to Billy Butcher’s venomous tirade, his voice thick with grief and rage. Homelander, the source of his pain, the destroyer of his life. “We kill ‘im, and I get my son back,” Butcher snarled, his eyes burning with a cold, implacable hatred. “Plus, you get to fulfill whatever psychopathic needs ya want.”

You crossed your arms, your gaze shifting between the two men. Hughie, his face pale and drawn, couldn't mask his discomfort. He’d witnessed your brutality, the casual violence with which you’d shrugged off injuries that would have crippled anyone else. He couldn't reconcile the monster he’d seen with the person standing before him.

“I join you,” you said, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. “But that bastard is mine to kill.”

Butcher opened his mouth to argue, but Hughie, sensing the volatile energy crackling in the room, quickly intervened. He knew that any disagreement would only escalate the situation, that a clash between two such stubborn, rage-filled individuals would only end in bloodshed. You had made your claim, and everyone knew that you would have Homelander's head.

The wind whipped at your clothes as you perched on the edge of the skyscraper, the city sprawling beneath you like a toy. Homelander, a grotesque parody of a messiah, bellowed platitudes to the cheering crowd below. Hughie, beside you, fidgeted, his gaze darting between the scene below and you.

"I don't think you're like him," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the wind.

You were startled, the statement hanging in the air. "The only difference," you said, your voice rough, "is that I realize I'm human. I'm not some… some god, untouchable, invincible."

Hughie sighed, the weight of your words heavy in the air. He knew, deep down, that you were a different kind of monster. A monster born of pain, of betrayal, of a system that had twisted and broken you. He reached out, cupping your face, his thumb gently brushing away a stray strand of hair. "Go get 'em," he murmured, his voice a low growl.

He pulled you into a fierce, desperate kiss, the taste of rain and fear clinging to his lips. You clung to him, the fleeting touch grounding you, a fragile anchor in the storm brewing within. Then, with a silent nod, you leaped.

The fall was exhilarating, a plunge into the chaos. You landed with a bone-jarring thud, the impact sending a jolt of pain through your body. Homelander, startled, whirled around, his eyes narrowing.

"You pathetic… insect!" he roared, laser vision flickering to life.

The fight was a brutal ballet of death. You dodged his blasts, your movements a blur of motion. You countered with your own heat vision, the beams colliding with deafening force. You fought with a savage intensity, fueled by years of pent-up rage.

"You think you're a god?" you snarled, your voice hoarse. "You're nothing but a spoiled child, a monster in a cape!"

"You're no better!" he countered, his voice dripping with venom. "You're a weapon, a tool, just like the rest of them!"

The fight raged on, a whirlwind of fists and fury. You were a mirror image of his rage, your blows as vicious as his own. Finally, with a desperate lunge, you managed to pin him to the ground, your weight crushing him beneath you.

He struggled beneath you, his eyes wild with a mixture of rage and fear. You stared down at him, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

"This is for everything," you hissed, your voice barely audible. "For what they did to me. For what they did to everyone."

You let out a scream, raw and primal, and unleashed your heat vision. The beam, intensified by your rage, tore through his face, a searing, agonizing death.

You stumbled to your feet, your vision swimming. The crowd had fallen silent, a collective gasp hanging in the air. Cameras flashed, capturing the carnage. You saw Hughie running towards you, his face a mixture of horror and awe.

You collapsed into his arms, the weight of your actions finally crashing down upon you. He held you close, his hands trembling as he cradled your head. You looked up at him, a faint smile playing on your lips.

"We did it," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He kissed you, a long, desperate kiss that tasted of blood and victory. The world around you faded, the cheers, the gasps, the horrified whispers. There was only him, his warmth, the fleeting sensation of peace before the darkness consumed you.

[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.

[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

[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.”

send an ask with a number 1-100 and a character, or relationship (romantic or platonic) and i will give you a ficlet with those characters and the number correlating to a song on my wrapped playlist

[apocalypse-shuffle]

SCARECROW | JONATHAN CRANE (general canon)

—

“Freakum Dress” (Scarecrow | Jonathan Crane x Fem!Reader)

| Tasked with going to a gala with your miserable boyfriend things are not looking up, then one of the Rogues makes a special appearance. Whether that’s a good thing or not is…yet to be decided.

| SFW, showing off a new outfit, (TW: murder, mild gore), reader has a good for nothing boyfriend -chubby!reader

| Pic source: Batman - The Long Halloween

| 1k+ words

“Are you sure this will fit the theme?” You question through the bathroom door.

Your partner sighs so loud it passes straight through the reinforced wood to reach your ears.

“How many times are you gonna ask me that question? Either come out or don’t, but I’m leaving. You’ve been in there for like an hour.”

He walks off then and in a fit you finish fixing your hair and then throw your spray bottle on the counter. An hour. He was acting a fool over you taking an hour, as opposed to his measly ass twenty minutes, to get ready.

You pull open the door and yell: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He yells back at you from the living room.

“Hell yeah! You’ve got 10 minutes before I go without you!”

Your nose scrunches and you glare at the closed bedroom door before sucking your teeth.

Fine. This was just going to have to be the outfit you settled on. The man had given you barely a day to get your shit together for his gala, spouting about wanting to show you off, only to throw a fit when you started asking what he deemed to be too many questions.

You brush your hands down the sides of your dress. Personally you didn’t think asking what the theme was once could be classified as ‘too many questions’, but whatever. You already know he’s moody as hell. One of the many things you’ve been putting up with since agreeing to date him almost two years ago now.

You size yourself up in the mirror. At least you looked good. Your boyfriend might have been in a mood but you’d been cooped up in the house for too long. It’d do you some good to go out.

“Yes ma’am!” you spin a little to look at the back of the dress before wiping away a smudge of your lipstick from your chin. You smile then lock off the light and leave the bathroom.

“I think I’m ready,” you tell your boyfriend from where he’s sitting at the dining table. Then it’s your turn to get spontaneously annoyed as he looks you up and down.

He licks his lips. “Oh, you're in theme alright.”

You scoff, giving him a tight lipped smile as you grab your purse.

“Good to know,” you open the front door and toss him his keys as he follows you. “Now let’s go.”

•••

You can tell as soon as you enter the gala, clutching your boyfriend’s arm while he holds you close by the waist, that you weren't quite in theme.

It’s a Halloween party, so you know you’re not completely off, but while you’re dressed in a backless sparkly orange floor length cocktail dress, the other women around you are definitely not so chaste.

While you’d thought you’d go with something more classic that showed off your figure (fupa and all), everyone else, who clearly were allowed time to put their outfits together and told the actual theme, was dressed in giant ball gowns and elegant bouta and colombina masks.

You narrow your eyes and blow off air as you’re dragged around like a prized pony. Your boyfriend mostly takes to showing you off to every manner of his twitchy eyed business associates. You swear you break out in hives just being in their vicinity.

When he’s introducing you to the CFO of his company the man is simularily twitchy, problem is this time his eyes aren’t the only thing with no manners. You have to knock his hand off thrice and endure a chocolate innuendo and some real shitty flirting attempts all while your impotent excuse for a partner just cracks jokes and kisses ass.

It’s when the old man utters: “You got yourself a real good woman, Mr. Daniels, but I’d never let mine go out dressed so inappropriately.” that you really lose it.

There’s a split second where you just have to take in that those words actually just came out of his mouth before you gut react.

You cock your head, “Excuse me-?”

Stefan grabs you by the arm and jerks you back from where you’ve taken a step towards his superior.

“Excuse us! We're just going to get some air, Sir!”

Then you're gone, being dragged off to an empty balcony by your boyfriend and his tacky as hell penny loafers.

“You’re a fucking punk, you know that?”

“Don’t do this shit right now, Y/n.”

“I’ma do whatever the hell I please after you just stood there like a dummy and let your boss harass me.”

He shakes his head with a scoff and deposits you in a low lit corner of the balcony. He stands in front of you, blocking you from the rest of the attendees in the main room as you take a moment to catch yourself.

The long suffering way he rolls his eyes is oddly hurtful.

“And so what?”

“So what?” Your eyes widen and you stare at him in bewilderment.

“Yeah,” he stresses. “You know how hard I’ve been working to get this promotion and he says a few words and you lose your shit! Can’t you just support me for on—!”

“—Ohhh, don’t you just hate it when couples fight?”

The both of you freeze.

Stefan doesn’t even turn but you can’t help the way your eyes track to find the source of the voice. At the corner of the small three person balcony, just out of your line of sight, a figure sits crouched on the stone railing. Glowing red eyes stare back at you where the person’s balancing effortlessly and you fight the urge to let out some unholy mix of a choked back whimper and a noise of pure frustration.

Of course one of Gotham’s Rogues was what your night needed.

You’re still staring at him when Stefan finally unglues himself and turns to stare too, and the longer you look - the longer anyone takes to speak - the more the darkness seems to aid in distorting the image of Scarecrow taking stock like he’s high above the fields.

Honestly, the fear he elicits isn’t unfounded. A far cry from the Dr. Crane you once learned under and TA’d for, this version of the man barely registered as human.

Spindly arms and legs make up his majority, the features of an otherwise completely normal man but the way he wears them makes your skin crawl. As far as you can tell there’s been no sightly gas permeating in the air that wasn’t Gotham’s usual smog, but a steady tremur is settling under your flesh anyway.

“U-um,” Stef clears his throat, taking a shaky step even closer to the man on the other side of the balcony. He holds his hands up and they shake down to their very marrow. You feel him. “Listen,” he’s saying, and that’s his negotiation voice.

“I don’t want any problems, alright? Just- look,” he indicts you over his shoulder and instantly your heart seizes with betrayal.

“Stef-!”

You try to grab him, get him to stop. To think. Two years worth of a relationship down the drain for this? Sefan isn’t having it though and shrugs your hand off before taking yet another step towards the man of nightmares.

Your arms fall to your sides in defeat as he starts trying to make a deal, throwing you under the bus in any way he can possibly think to.

“I’m not worth it, alright, Man? Her though? She’s got enough trauma for the both of us. Just let me go and- and I won’t call the cops or anything. I’ll just leave, yeah?”

At Scarecrow's continued silence you watch detached as Stefan gets even closer, hands clasped together with a big wobbly smile on his face.

“C’mon man, right? You can’t tell me you don’t want a piece of that. She’s so fucked up it’s a miracle she’s not been committed yet…”

Your absolutely gutless waste of an ex keeps going on but you stop listening to him the second Scarecrow starts physically responding to his words.

Still performing his balancing act, like a great perching crow the man leans forward slightly. Though he’s clearly gearing up to address Stefan it seems - to your great horror - that he’s looking at you instead.

The salt from your tears burns your eyes, and similarly your heart turns to cinder in your chest as the villain contemplates you.

You glare at Stefan’s back.

Fucking Stefan.

Scarecrow cuts the man’s treacherous word vomit off not a fiery blink later.

“Alright now,” he says, tone nearly placating. That grand scythe the villain fancies so much makes its first appearance, swinging around to threaten at Stefan’s space without falter, “that’ll do, Pig,” Scarecrow rasps, and Stefan perks up, hopeful.

You have a split second to wonder what the fuck that means before the scythe retreats then comes swinging back around towards an unsuspecting Stefan.

All it takes is one fluid blur of movement and then in a slow slide you watch, breathe lodged uncomfortably in your throat, as his head separates from his body with a slick sound.

His head falls to the ground with a wet thud and you blink wildly down at it. So wildly in fact that when his body follows - knees first as if in prayer and then sprawled unceremoniously to the ground - you barely react.

A shift, boots scratching against stone, and your eyes snap back upwards.

The long pointy tipped hat he’s wearing falls languidly from the left to the right in his exertion before his dark gaze is panning back to meet your own.

A beckoning hand is held out to you, signs of a human hand inviting you closer. For a brief wandering second your eyes slide to the glass doors, to the party beyond, and you imagine.

Would you even make it past the first step? Jumping over your former partner’s fallen body would slow you down, and despite his skinny frame everyone in Gotham’s seen Scarecrow go toe to toe with the Dark Knight. Could you stand up against that?

The crudely stitched together burlap sack seems itself to breathe as the Scarecrow inhales to speak.

“Tick…tock,” he chimes and your fantasies fall to impossible pieces at your feet.

Blearily you blink over at him, eyes thankfully dry again.

“Breath,” he instructs a moment later, and despite your fear - or maybe because of it - you do as you’re told.

That first gasp of chilly air cuts its way down your dry throat so horribly you feel it the whole way down.

It’s enough of a shock to your system that you finally push through the trudge of your own terror to accept his invitation. Like this you only have to step over Stefan’s feet to cross the balcony and lay your hand in his.

Long pointed nails prick, light but incessant, into the skin of your palms as he appears to closely inspect your plump figure.

He’s bringing your hand up so he can spin you when he pauses, head tilting to the side. You swallow nervously and your hand starts shaking even more in his grip as he silently regards you.

“Ms. L/n?”

Shit.

“Who?” Your choked out words snap everything back in motion.

The cloth around the masked figure's mouth seems to stretch taunt, giving the nearest hint of a smile.

“Oh darling,” he croons. “You have just made the night so much more interesting.”

Up close like this he recognizes the face of his most engaging student from back in the day and you … ? Well, your stomach drops as you’re faced with the full attention of a madman.

Unbeknownst to you as your conversation was transpiring, mini squadrons of henchmen had infiltrated and were terrorizing the elites schmoozing on the inside. Clouds of sickly looking gas floating into the air.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

Jonathan: *gives you a rebreather* "I expect a summary of tonight's events and an analysis of at least three different people's reactions by the time we leave.

You: *startled blinking & blindly taking whatever he hands you*

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it! this is a sideblog tho so I won’t respond.

[redditreceipts]

Hi, I’m curious on your opinion, if you’re willing. I’m a trans woman, I recognize I was born with a male body, but I don’t accept people purposefully calling me a man. I am a woman. I’m curious how you feel about that combination of how I see my identity.

Tw: stalking, harassment

I experience life through the lens that people perceive me as, which is woman. I’m talked over at work, I’m stalked by cars while riding my bike at night, and numerous men have made inappropriate advances toward me. I know I don’t have the specific experiences of sex-based discrimination, but I definitely experience the gender-based discrimination from living in a sexist society.

Hey :) Thanks for the question!

You can of course identify however you like, but to acknowledge material reality, self-identity is not really that important. I would, however, not advocate for people to come up to you and harass you, call you names etc. I also think that it is the kind thing to do in most situations to respect people's pronouns and beliefs, even if you do not share them.

And yes, it is also very problematic that men are treating you like that. This should not happen, and you should be able to maneuver the world without this kind of discrimination. People are seeing you as a woman, and women are treated like shit in this society. However, just because people see you a certain way does not mean that you literally are that thing. For example, there are catholic women who wear headscarves. In an islamophobic environment, some people might think that they are Muslima and shout islamophobic slurs at them. Do these women experience a kind of discrimination similar to that of Muslim women? Yes. But does that make them Muslim? No.

But if people are seeing and treating you as a woman, the gender-based discrimination you face is certainly a problem, which would make you a great ally in the fight against patriarchy and exploitation! Passing trans women and women face a lot of similar struggles, even if I wold argue that they do not belong in the same sex category. These are male violence, homophobia, sexualisation, mental health issues, and overrepresentation in prostitution. I actually think that your voice is very important, and if you are interested in fighting for women's and trans women's rights, I think that you can contribue quite a lot! There are many trans women who are allies in feminist and intersectional fights and I think that your voice can be impotant in bringing attention to these issues :)