#*evil grin*

[muqingslover]

[ if you're against cunt!boy content then this is your warning to jump ship. To the fellow degenerates that stay, put on your hats and welcome aboard. ]

[ Now as a women enthusiastic, I love the genderbendering shenanigans but I want to take a step forward or rather backwards and talk about the boys with only a pussy because it's so funny and also just bc I can do whatever I want (this is my equivalent of projecting period cramps onto men). Out of everyone, I think we should start with our neighborhood freak. ]

Xavier should've known better when he agreed to let the oddballs from the lab staff to experiment on him. If he hadn't folded when you batted those pretty lashes of yours at him while reassuring him it was a only a small favor for a friend then he wouldn't be in this mess. In his defense, he was told it was a completely harmless drug that was being developed to create more...realistic disguises for missions. The problem is that no one told him just how realistic it would be until he woke up the next day with a very crucial part of himself missing.

Having you laugh yourself to the point of tears at his exasperated reaction when he told you did not help his desire to dig a hole to bury himself in. After a very long phonecall with the lab, the poor man was left laying face down on the floor in contemplation at the news that he was stuck like this for a few days until the drug naturally left his system. He was lucky really, most of the other subjects had been stuck in all kinds of misplaced "genders" for a whole month.

Now, how could you pass out on this golden opportunity of teasing him? He's always so assertive, in his own way, and for the first time you had the upper hand by sheer "seniority" of who has had a pussy for longer which is freaking hilarious but also, very useful, because you could now teach him all about the ways he could feel pleasure that he otherwise wouldn't even dream of. Out of all the other boys, Xavier would be one of the most open about exploring it despite the initial grumbles and embarrassment. He's actually very into understanding exactly how you feel when he touches you and absolutely loves having you touch him in any way. Not to mention his freaky side definitely itches with curiosity. Though, it does take lots of sweet kisses to his sensitive ears and coaxing that you won't make fun of him until he agreed to let you have your way, for now.

He's laying on his back with his knees spread for you while wearing nothing but the soft blue hoodie he refused to take it off because it served as a "shield" to hide himself in. He even pulled on the strings of the hood and resembled some sort of strange sandworm, which you had to do your best not to laugh at to avoid making him turn tail after all your efforts to convince him. Xavier jumped a bit when your fingers spread open his folds— His pussy was a borderline cute shade of pink and the little bit of white fluff hair on top really sealed the deal. The feeling of the cold and watery lube being poured made him decide he needed an extra layer of "safety precaution" and grabbed a pillow to hold it tightly against him since he wasn't confident he could safely hold onto you without accidentally cracking one or two of your bones.

Like everything else with him, it took some coaxing to drag his clit out of hiding as your thumb lightly pulled up the sensitive skin to expose the small bud. The scent of soap fills your senses when your nose nudges against his little cunt and your tongue darts out, finding the perked up clit and licking it with the just right amount of pressure to drag a surprised moan out of his throat. His hood slid down, showing his tousled pale hair when his head whipped back up towards you and his blue eyes landed on yours. "Do that again...Please?" He asked in a weak, raspy voice. All the previous hesitation completely gone and he only wondered if all women were always this sensitive or was it a "him" thing? He genuinely had no idea nor did have enough time to give it serious consideration before his mind blanked at the pleasure you gave him.

His head fell back against the pillow he was clutching when you sucked on the bundle of nerves and for the first time he felt as if he had no control over the bordering pathetic sounds that were being forced out of him. It felt strange, like there was nothing he could use to compare what he was feeling right now, but so damn good. He took in a sharp breath when your middle finger pushed inside his hole, which to your surprise was surprisingly soft, welcoming your index finger with ease shortly after as you began to search for the place that always had you screaming for him and mindlessly wondering if he'd even have it. Your self-indulgent line of thought was quickly answered by a much louder moan echoing and his knees almost closing around your head in reflex. A whole new level of pleasure was being unlocked for him and each cry sounded whiner than the last as your fingers kept on hitting the sweet, sweet spot and your lips continued on abusing his swollen clit mercilessly.

"I-It's good, it's so— A-Ah, it's so good, more—" His voice cracked and he made visible effort to keep his legs open for you. A dark, damp spot became obvious on the pillow case that he was using to muffle himself by biting onto it, a string of drool connecting to his lips as he gasped in such a pathetic way and his blue eyes blinked out of focus. You had never seen Xavier falling apart the way he was now and oh was it a sight to behold.

When his pussy began clenching around your digits warning you that he was going to come very soon you decided to give him another treat for being so good. Your tongue abandoned his poor bud and instead joined the two fingers that were sliding in and out of his slippery slit, probing it's way into his hot, wet walls and causing his back to arch off the bed. Your free hand replaced your mouth by rubbing his abused clit with your fingertips, squeezing it just enough so that his eyes would roll into the back of his head.

"Y-Yes, yes— Love, don't stop, please, please plea—" Xavier begged, his hips grinding against your mouth and his whines turned into broken whimpers before he came so good it caused little stars to pop into his vision. You kept on fucking his cunt while he orgasmed, making sure he felt each and every nerve of his tightening then relaxing before you pulled away to admire your poor boyfriend that had been reduced to a whimpering and trembling mess.

Oh but if you think you have won then you're very, very wrong because we all know Xavier's specialty is turning tables on you. He's not the most dominant ML in-game for nothing after all and with or without a cock he will always fuck you good. He just needed a bit of a warm-up first ;)

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 2 Part 18

Welcome to another WIP Wednesday!

Story Summary: Tim and Danny are both neglected by parents who care more about their work than their families. They deal with this by spending too much time online and find each other playing MMORPGs. They keep up their friendship as Tim becomes Robin and Danny becomes Phantom and don't bother keeping secrets from each other.

Arc 1 AO3 Link

Arc 2: Part 1, Previous

Word Count: 1.7k

-----

From the radio station, the four traveled to the television studio for their next interview. The host had listened to their radio interview and helped summarize much of the information before asking further questions.

Tim and his teammates called into question the biases of the Drs Fenton and hoped their criticisms would bring others to think twice before taking their word as gospel.

When they were finally done, it was almost nine.

Tim shot off a quick text to Bruce for his morning check-in. He noticed Conner texting someone, too. “Who’re you talking to?” he asked.

“Sam. She says Danny’s still passed out. But her parents are talking about some sort of press release the mayor is planning on putting on at City Hall at ten.”

Cassie groaned. “Ugh, more reporters. Please say we don’t have to go.”

“We should,” said Tim. “But we can go in civvies.”

“Can we at least get breakfast first?” asked Bart. “It’s been hours since we woke up!”

“Yeah,” agreed Cassie. “I’m starving. Let’s get some food. I think I saw a diner when we flew to our second interview.”

Before Tim could consider protesting, Conner had him secure in his arms and TTK and they were in the air.

“Lead the way, Wonder Girl.”

Tim scowled to hide his smile. “Oh sure, don’t listen to your leader. Just do whatever.”

“You’d let us starve?” wailed Connor. “Then we’ll stage a mutiny!”

Cassie laughed. “Yeah, see how long you remain in charge of a hangry speedster, half-kryptonian, and demigoddess.”

Tim grinned. “Oh, but you forget I know you all very well. I can win you back to my side. Starting with Kon.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” demanded Conner.

“Easy. I’ll just bribe you with Alfred’s cookies and a great movie. If I add in a dash of ‘I need your help’ and my puppy dog eyes and you’ll be eating out of the palm of my hand.”

“That’s another square on my bingo card!” called back Cassie. “And look, we’re here!” She pointed down to a quintessential American diner with green glass windows.

The group met Bart a block away in an alley where they shed their gear.

“I’ll tell Sam what we’re up to.” Conner pulled out his phone to send the message.

“Quit wasting time! We’re on a deadline,” moaned Bart as he positioned himself behind Conner and tried to push him towards the street and breakfast.

Conner laughed and refused to budge, so Tim figured a demonstration of his power was in order.

He got in front of Conner and pouted at him. “I know I was joking about not allowing breakfast, but I’m the one who didn’t eat before the interviews. An omelet is calling my name.”

Conner groaned and ran a hand down his face. “Fuck you, Rob.” But he stalked forward out of the alley.

Tim and Bart exchanged grins.

“Seriously, Tim,” said Cassie. “This trip has been great for my bingo card.”

Tim stuck his tongue out at her and jogged to catch up with Conner.

Breakfast was simple but tasty and they devoured far too much food. Their waitress was clearly impressed with her first exposure to a speedsters appetite. Add in a super and a demigoddess and it was obscene.

All too soon, however, it was time to go to the mayor’s press conference. As they made their way there, they joined a growing crowd. Clearly many people were interested in whatever the mayor had planned.

In the crowd, he could hear comments about their interviews. It seems both had been posted online and already had thousands of views. Some people seemed to be sympathetic to them, but others were mistrustful of the “outsiders.”

“If they’re such good friends, why did it take so long for them to come here?” asked one man of his friend.

“I’ve a cousin in Central City. She says trouble always follows a superhero,” said another.

Tim exchanged a look with Conner. He’d be able to hear more conversations and could share his perceptions later.

Before long, they were entering City Hall. Already the seats were full, so they were forced to stand in the back. Jack and Maddie were sitting near the front. Jeremy and Pamela Manson sat on the opposite side of the room as them, but also were near the front of the room.

Tim exchanged looks with his teammates to make sure they saw both couples. Conner was glaring at Maddie and Jack.

“They’re complaining about our interviews,” said Conner. “Throwing around guesses that we are either possessed or have already been brainwashed by the ghosts.”

“At least we know they aren’t observant. Maybe they won’t notice us.”

Mayor Montez stepped up to the podium and everyone fell silent. “People of Amity Park, we have been faced with a threat the likes of which we’ve never before seen! And based on the events of this morning, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be able to rely on outside help to get us out of it.”

A stone sunk in Tim’s stomach and he exchanged looks with his friends.

“We only have one piece of business today: Defeating the ghosts that infest our town. And to do that, I'm calling for a vote to cede all ghost policing and security decisions”—he held up a photo of Maddie—“to Maddie Fenton.” As Tim watched, however, the mayor’s eyes glowed red and he winced. “I mean Jack,” he corrected, holding up a new picture of Jack Fenton. “The completely competent Jack Fenton.”

“He’s overshadowed,” breathed Conner.

Tim nodded and was already sending a message to Sam, Tucker, and Danny. “And who knows who else.”

Before they could say anything else, the mayor continued, “And we’ve located the ghost responsible for all the terror inflicted on our town.” He held up a picture of Phantom. “Whatever some outsiders may have tried to lie to you about this very morning.”

A gasp rang out among the crowd. Tim glanced at his friends. Conner was glaring at the mayor fiercely and Tim attempted to step in front of him, as pointless as their relative sizes made the action.

The mayor smiled viciously as a panicked crescendo rose from the crowd. Tim’s phone vibrated in his hand and he saw a response from Sam.

Sam: We saw Sam: Danny is on his way Sam: And we’re following as fast we can

Under his breath, Tim muttered, “Conner, you and Bart should go suit up. Cassie and I will stay and keep an eye on what’s going on. Stay close, but try not to be seen unless an attack happens.” Subtly, grateful for their places against the wall, he passed over the thermos he’d taken with him that morning.

Tim heard Conner’s sigh of relief as the two slipped away. He hated pretending to be a civilian in a crisis. Even more than the rest of them.

Cassie whispered, “I almost hate you for keeping me here.”

Tim just bumped their shoulders together.

The mayor, or rather the ghost inhabiting him, raised his arm and silence slowly fell. “We cannot call for outside help. Those who call themselves the Young Justice today proved that the so-called heroes of this world will defend our enemy over us. That they will spread lies to keep us subject to the whims of these ghosts.” The last word was spat. “So we must solve the problem ourselves. Jack Fenton, if the people of this town agree, you and those you train will be our defense force, will you do this?”

Jack near jumped three feet in the air in his excitement. “I’ve been training for this my entire life, Mayor Montez! I’ll be honored.”

“I believe we must institute martial law! The 9 PM curfew will remain in place. No one will be allowed on the streets alone. No loitering. The park will be closed until further notice. Same with the public pool and library and a number of other locations. Drs Fenton, will you be able to set up buildings protected by ghost shields where people can gather for safety?”

Whispering broke out among the public. Maddie stood tall next to her husband, though being continually overlooked in favor of him was clearly grating on her. “We can. Fenton Works is already protected and within two days we can have another shield up and ready. Within the week, we could have five.”

The whispered were almost loud enough to drown her out by the time she finished speaking

“Order! Order!” called Mayor Montez. “All in favor of declaring martial law, and allowing the completely competent Jack Fenton to mobilize a massive ghost hunt, please say—”

But cutting off the mayor, Danny, in his Phantom form, suddenly appeared in the air in the middle of the hall. “I might be too young to vote, but I’m casting one anyway.”

Around them, everyone gasped and people began backing away even as Danny shifted to look at them. Tim and Cassie both tensed and prepared to run.

“You people have to listen to me,” urged Danny. “I’m on your side.”

Mayor Montez took a step back as members of his security moved to stand in front of him. Jack and Maddie jumped up and glared at him.

“You’re not fooling anybody, ghost kid!” declared Jack. “You are going down!” He reached back and pulled out the Fenton fishing rod, the line was horribly tangled and Jack began messing with it. “As soon as I finish untangling this thing.”

Cassie let out a disbelieving huff.

Tim shook his head. “Apparently,” he replied to her unasked question. He pulled out his phone and shot a message to Bart and Conner.

Rob: get back here now Rob: All 4 of us are needed

Before he even finished typing his last message, Bart was at his side. Just in time to see Danny mutter something and shoot an ectoblast at his parents who were thrown back with the force of it, destroying the podium and leaving a burn mark on the ground.

“Shit,” muttered Tim. “Cassie, let’s go. Impulse, try to help where you can.”

“You’ve got it.”

----

Next

And so the best of intentions go awry!

I can almost taste the end of this arc, but for all I know, that'll take another 10k to finish. So we'll see what happens. Hope you enjoyed.

I no longer do tag lists, but please check out the Subscription Post if you want to be notified of updates.

[yelesomeblue]

Tempted to make another Elara variant suffer

[spaceorphan18]

Ooff, you know, yeah, I am feeling better because I am having some very unhinged thoughts right now.

[cinamun]

tbh, Dira lying to Ryker goes right in the "Dira x Mercy Parallels" pile. She wanted to protect Rah just like Mercy protcted Bishop to Jayce almost all, if not 100% of the time. Add to that the Elliot situation, I completely understand why she lied. Did it make sense? Did he deserve protection? No, absolutely not. But that's what abusive relationships are like! One thing narcissists are good at doing is forcing shared blame and I still don't know if Dira has really unpacked the fact that she didn't have a part to play in what Rahul did to her.

That may, in fact, also be apart of her radical honesty policy now - because maybe she thinks if she was clearer, things wouldn't have happened the way they did.

I mean, that's a take. That is not a take I will agree with, though. Mercy is/was a grown ass woman. Indira was a not. Indira was a teenager without a fully formed pre-frontal cortex (Hope voice). She didn't want Rah to get in trouble. Its as simple as that. I was squinting to see the first parallel friend but I'm deffo not seeing this one.

Also, Mercy wasn't protecting Bishop. She was elevating him over Jay in some circumstances (like convincing him to buy a house and sell the wrekka sto) because she was being manipulated. Emotionally. By a manipulative abuser. She had her priorities fucked, that's not protection. If that's the case she wouldn't have changed her tune when Jay stopped talking to her or threated to cut off the grandbabies. Mercy knew when to stand her ground even if she rarely stood it.

If anything, the only parallels I see are 3 mentally ill men, 2 of which are deceased, that happen to have made their way into the proximity of The Drake Girls™. Coincidence? Or I have a warped imagination and there will be themes of toxicity, illness, violence and drama woven into each little arc. I can get weirder friend.

[royaltystudios]

Planning something devious with someone

[zimisnotdrifting]

Oh hell nah

[succiducus]

At the time in which he’d felt Khan leave him that night, he wandered. Pushing silks back, toeing on his slippers, pulling a robe over his normally bare skin; vulnerable; alone; waiting; at home in persia, he would walk the same path he’d taken, stroll along the decorated corridors and explore the numerous fountains without guard in the witching hour in hopes that whoever had been so careless as to separate him from his beloved would find him long enough to reunite them - yet every morning, he returned to his bed, alive and well, and every morning, he wondered why Khan hadn’t. Rahmi would’ve done better to murder him in such a way, at least then, Khan would’ve had the nerve to kill him in his grief. (tws: grief, murder, anxiety, emotional distress, heavy emotions, blood, insinuation of suicide ideation, anger/aggression/violence - essentially, please be careful when heading beyond the cut <3)

At the time in which he’d felt Khan leave him that night, he wandered. Pushing silks back, toeing on his slippers, pulling a robe over his normally bare skin; vulnerable; alone; waiting; at home in persia, he would walk the same path he’d taken, stroll along the decorated corridors and explore the numerous fountains without guard in the witching hour in hopes that whoever had been so careless as to separate him from his beloved would find him long enough to reunite them - yet every morning, he returned to his bed, alive and well, and every morning, he wondered why Khan hadn’t. Rahmi would’ve done better to murder him in such a way, at least then, Khan would’ve had the nerve to kill him in his grief.

Through the narrow cabin halls, he navigates the Kotetsu easily. The hollow thunk of waves battering the sides of the ship; the hushed conversations through cabin doors; the sound of laughter somewhere off in the distance; the loud snore of a baron and the audible eye roll of his wife as she tossed restlessly beside him; Rostam tilts and wobbles as if drunk, hands dragging along the cool walls as a sense of security. At war with his inner ear, he also finds himself at war with himself. 

One stair; two; four - the Persian king meets cloudy sky, choppy waters, and salty wind. The overbearing warmth of his skin cools; the constant nausea in his stomach wanes; the shine of a hazy moon from behind clouds draws his attention. 

On the bow, Rostam’s heart clenches with the churn of his stomach. Exhaustion from sickness, surrounded by foreigners, learning of his brother’s betrothal; he could no longer keep up the appearance of a healed king. Bubbly; Warm; Excitable - in the halls of Fasil Ghebbi, Rostam had tried to be the image of who he’d been before his husband passed; before he’d become a shell of his former self; before the titles or the immense pressure to fix what his brother left in ruins fell to him. It had worked for a little while, enough to fool Dilara, enough to face Rahmi without killing him despite the desire; enough to give his congratulations to Arshiya and Angelo without starting another war. But as the days of travel grew on and the sickness that had consumed him wore his body down, his mind slipped along with it. He wasn’t okay. No matter how many times he sat in silence, listening to his thoughts, letting out aggressions and grief in tears or bleeding knuckles, nothing made him feel better; nothing filled his absence; everything felt off-kilter and hazy. He was a king; a sultan; a man with the well-being and governance of three-fourths of the middle east on his shoulders yet he could not so much as think of governance with the persistence of his grief.

In the simplest of robes, walking closer to the edge, he watches the waves crash against the boat, wonders what it would like to become one with them; his fingers drag along the dewy railing; he catches glimpse of the moon casting glittering shadows on the surface of the water again; it would be nothing, he thought. As simple as falling asleep. Or so the king hoped; to think of his husband suffering alone while he passed on, it was not a thought he enjoyed occupying for long.

Perhaps the lack of occupation was his problem. 

Every moment that he breathed was a reminder that Khan had stopped a long time ago; somewhere in the early morning, against the wet grass, his blood flowed freely onto the earth while Rostam lay in peaceful rest, stirring occasionally as the sun beamed through their curtains. While he’d made peace with his death, it was now his absence that stung the most. Rostam wondered if it would ease the guilt he carried, had he held his hand as he’d succumbed to his mortal wounds, or if he had spoken teary love against his ear as Allah’s will separated them for the time being. The cold, hard fact remained that he would still have lost him, but perhaps if he had truly been there, he might not have felt like he let him down in his final moments. 

Rostam blinks through tears, not bothering to wipe them from his face. Had they not indulged in drink that evening, would he have won his courtyard battle? Had Rostam dragged him into their private bath together, would they have made conversation early into the morning or until their fingers turned to prunes? Would it have stopped him from leaving his side? Made him think twice before wandering the grounds without his guard? Not knowing the details of his final moments or what had prompted him to get up out of bed gnawed at him. Worse yet, had he not even gotten out of bed at all? Had he been dragged? Made to kneel on his grave in the gardens? Was it his brother’s hand? Was it someone else's? Had he simply been thirsty? 

A dizzy stumble casts him backward, his heart racing in his chest as if the rocking of the boat had sent him overboard instead of backward closer to safety. Pretty eyes come to mind suddenly; lithe and delicate fingers threading through sweat-slicked hair as sickness took him once more in their shared cabin; their warmth beside him; the fluttering of tired eyelashes; the steady beat of their heart against the lobe of his ear; a calm returning to overworked lungs as consciousness became unconscious. 

Anger explodes through him. On every side of their empire, people with negative intentions toward them gathered. Arshiya with her new betrothed, a madman with a crown and the strategy of soldier who picked on the weak to feel strong; the once spineless Rahmi seeking refuge with a nation that dabbled in poisons and criminals, playing consort to a prince; Russia in the Caucasus; Bulgaria in the west; The Mughal Empire’s new reign.

Whispers of rebellion lurked within their empire as well. Perhaps, it was that thought that brings knuckles to the side of the large, wooden support beam; not once or twice, but three times, until his knuckles are red and throbbing and he can almost smell the iron of his own blood on the salty air. Braided hair; rounded shoulders; the dark purples and golds of royalty contrasting against dark skin; The Persian King knew that he could not keep them safe if he did not allow the rope that connected spirit and living to fall from his grasp. 

In the end, however, that would mean letting go of him. Would it not? 

Did he have such a choice? To allow thirteen years of memories to simply vanish? To allow his new spouse to become another victim of his carelessness? As if the pole were his grievances, he sends his fist once more into the trunk of it, a scream to the air as if it were the culprit instead of his brother echoes before the once solid walls of the dam inside his chest begin to falter. It starts in flashes; of flower crowns; smiling faces; jewels; his father’s tears; his mother’s fond eyes; Khan’s hand in his;  Rahmi’s eyes on them; talks of children; coming home after long travels to bordering nations. He could still feel his hands on him; smell the soft scent of spice and lavender of his skin in certain moments; remember the words he spoke to him as the sun rose. 

With every memory that flashes before him, a single thread of twine snaps. One after the other, they continue to break until his metaphorical hands bleed from the rawness of rope burn and his heart can no longer stand the force in which grief hits him. It’s a trembling, loud type of grief; one in which he doesn’t remember how breath works and his sobs could be mistaken for sickness had anyone come upon him. 

What had he done to deserve such a fate? To be left alive while his heart died a million deaths? To watch as his brother sat around a table with another family, feeling the warmth and soul of love touch his own heart after taking that very thing from him? Where was his justice? Where was God now? Every time crown met mat, he’d prayed for a long and happy marriage, for good health - in comparison to how his life looked now, just what kind of God would make him suffer after such devotion? 

Neat handwriting on inexpensive parchment; the flutter of metaphorical butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach; the desire to know more; long hours at his desk in the winter learning Hindi with swinging legs and a harnessed focus that was  uncharacteristic to his level of energy. Flattery in the Indian courtyard, tucked away from courtiers and foreign monarchs; the feel of his journal in his hands, wrapped in cloth after being parted from it. The panic in their eyes; the tremble of their hands; the distrust that briefly fluttered across his mind; the trust that finally settled there. 

Ethereal; chin tilted, eyes focused, Rostam remembers the quick pace of his heart when to his surprise, his desire to pray for the first time in a long time had brought him to where they stood. A smile finds him amongst gut-wrenching sobs and near gags; their skin had been soft when he’d taken their hand, leading them through Gondar as if they were not on the brink of war but on the other side of it, in victory. For a moment, he’d thought he’d seen a sparkle in normally unreadable eyes but as to why, only his heart had understood where his mind still couldn’t. 

He’d want him to feel happiness, wouldn’t he? To not suffer as he was? To go on with the decisions that he’d made and own them as if they had been done with thoughtful intentions instead of random motivations. Perhaps fate was only cruel when something was amiss or perhaps fate only intervened when the time for one’s soul purpose came. Perhaps, in all the chaos of the year, fate was responsible for all of it - perhaps, for the masses to never feel it again, the right person had to feel the sting of grieving; perhaps, in all his own, he’d forgotten that fate had chosen him to be king.

There could be no other reason than fate’s meddling hand. Arshiya ran, Farhad hid, Rahmi fell; Ariyan had become his husband, after-all. Maybe, in a sick and twisted way, Allah had simply righted the wrongs of him and his father; of Haspira; Dilara; Rahmi; Ariyan; Arshiya; Khan. For if the throne truly belonged to Arshiya, wouldn’t she have met him in the Persian chambers of Lal Qila when he’d been ready to crown her Queen? Wouldn’t she now sit where Ariyan did? Maybe his string of odd luck was a mere chapter of an entire story with a happy ending, one of fate’s writing.

Perhaps, letting go would not mean forgetting - perhaps it would mean bringing Khan’s dream to life in his death.

And then, all at once, the rope snaps in finality. The fog of his mind begins to disperse; breath returns; the pain in his chest turns to simple sting; shoulders relax; he rids eyes and nose of emotion; and sinks down against the same support beam that he’d sent his anger into, resting his head backward and allowing his eyes to flutter closed. 

Regardless of his suffering, of his untimely demise, Khan was safe now. In the arms of Allah, he no longer needed his protection or his thought, however, there were people who still lived that did. His sisters; The people of Persia; The people under Ottoman rule; Ariyan. 

And he’d be damned if he allowed another selfish monarch to take any of it away from him.

[type-a-sentinull]

have the house to myself today, what shenanigans will i commit

[frascospecimen]

GRIZZCO SLOSHER DURING COHOCK CHARGE

[gingermaple]

smilk's adopted kids minions

[ningadudexx]

Dear followers . happy pride im coming out as petey the cat i hope U guys accept me.. 😕😕😕

[thebctman]

Love how they highlighted Mel’s power being a mirror in Maddie’s final moment. Mel knows what people are feeling and a glimpse of their true thoughts due to her powers.

So when Mel reflects the Maddie’s bullet, we see a physical manifestation of Maddie’s inner feelings in the moment before she is about to kill Caitlyn.

An evil grin in the face of violence.

[sleep-deprived-luka]

terrible edits for terrible deeds

[shhwsper]

my goddess au.. i missed you

[fhtagn-and-tentacles]

MONSTERS

by Camilo Palma