#meat based corruption

[kply-industries]

"Now now, one felony per hot dog bribe. Oop! Shouldn't have called it that!"

[subz-but-everywhere]

[eveningdawn222]

people who act like batman isn't "judge jury and executioner" because he doesn't kill people are like. genuinely so funny to me because. they're very obviously thinking of "executioner" as like. the stereotypical guy with axe who chops people heads off, and not, yknow, the literal definition of the idiom itself, which is about someone who has the ability to judge and then subsequently punish someone unilaterally. which is quite literally what batman does.

he has the ability to decide what is a "crime" to him, he is the one who decides whether people are guilty of those crimes, and he is the one who executes their punishment. the severity of the punishment doesn't matter - he is unaccountable to anyone else, and indeed is allowed to commit as many crimes as needed to reach his arbitrary ideal of "justice."

the ideal of batman is this: a man who is so fundamentally changed by an act of senseless violence that he takes it upon himself to fight back against the rot and corruption in the world. he does this not through political activism, not through ridding himself of his wealth in favor of a greater good, not through community outreach, but through an individualistic fantasy of being a hero.

and you'll say: charlie, but he does do that !!! he donates his money all the time, he funds social programs, hospitals, orphanages, gets people jobs -

and i will say this: so why don't things get better?

because here's the base of it. gotham, at its core, can't get better. no matter what bruce wayne does, there will always be more crime, more villains, more death, more people for batman to beat up in back alleys. because that's what sells.

reoffending rates don't matter in gotham, prison reform doesn't matter in gotham, what actually causes crime doesn't matter in gotham because that doesn't sell books.

and so here it is; dc has unintentionally created a world where batman can't win, but can't be wrong, and where thousands of nameless, faceless, only-created-to-die civilians must be pushed into the meat grinder that is gotham, to fuel bruce wayne's angst and vindicate his constant, tireless, noble fight against the forces of evil.

and then: a new robin, who is poor and who's parents are dead or gone because of this cycle; who is happy go-lucky and hated by editors and fans for being robin, for not being dick grayson, for being poor.

and this robin is written, unintentionally or not, to be angry at the ways in which batman's (the narrative's) idea of justice is detached from its victims. bruce seems perfectly fine to allow countless unnamed women to be at risk from garzonas in his home country, yet robin is the one who is portrayed as irrational and violent.

this robin is not detached from gotham in the way bruce wayne is: this robin is a product of gotham.

(and here's the thing. you can't punch aids. you can't fight a disease with colorful fights and nifty gadgets. and how would robin dying from aids add to batman's story; it would call into question the systemic changes that haven't been made in gotham. how does a child get aids, in batman's city?)

so robin dies, and then bruce (the narrative) spends the next couple of decades blaming it on him. it is jason's fault; he was reckless, he just ran in, he thought it was all a game. if only bruce had seen what was coming, if only he could have known that jason wasn't rich enough or smart enough or liked enough to be robin.

batman gets a little more violent, a little more self destructive. he hurts people more and almost (!!) kills a couple guys. this is bad because it's self destructive and "not who he is." it is not bad because batman should not be able to just beat people up when he's angry.

and then he gets a shiny new robin - who is all the things jason "wasn't": rich and smart and rational and he doesn't put who batman is into question. batman and robin are partners, and jason is a grave and a cautionary tale, and (crucially here) never right.

the joker kills thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be killed.

batman beats up thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be criminals.

and then jason comes back, and nothing has changed. there is a batman and a (shiny! rich!) robin and the joker kills thousands. (because it sells)

and jason is angry - he has been left unavenged - his death has meant nothing, just as willis' had, just as catherine's had, just as gloria's had, just as -

thousands. ten of thousands. hundreds of thousands. written to be killed.

but one of them gets to come back.

and he is angry - not only at the joker, but at bruce (the narrative) - because why is the joker still alive (when thousands-)

here is the thing - jason todd is right. not because the death penalty is good, not because criminals deserve to die, not because of everything he says -

but because of what he calls into question. why is the joker alive?

because he sells books.

and dc has written a masterful character, through no fault of their own, because jason knows what is wrong, and he knows who is at fault - batman. (the narrative)

so the argument that bruce can't kill because he's not judge jury and executioner; the argument that jason is a cop or that jason is insane or that jason is in the wrong here; they hold no weight.

batman can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

and jason can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

so he will beg and plead and grovel - he will betray everything that is himself, he will forsake his family and his city and kill himself - just so that bruce (the narrative) will let the joker die.

he was condemned to death by an audience, and after he came back he has spent his whole life looking us in the eyes and screaming, asking, pleading; why is the joker still alive?

why are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands (the number doesn't matter, see, because they're just a number. not people. not real.) why are we expendable for his story? why did i have to die just for nothing to change?

and the answer is money. and the answer is the batman can never be wrong. and the answer is shitty writing. and the answer is -

nothing jason can ever change.

which is the worst of it all. he is a victim with no power, and no one else in the world can see it. he is raging and crying and screaming at his father and his writers and you - and it doesn't matter. jason doesn't matter. and he knows it.

[starkeyisthelastname]

based after this scene in season one 💦 sucking stepbro!rafe off 👅

Your legs swung back and forth as you patiently waited on your stepbrother’s bed, waiting for him to get done talking about something with Ward. You knew he didn’t necessarily like anyone in his room without him knowing, but you just had to tell him what was on your mind. The sound of footsteps pulled you from your thoughts, watching as the door opened and in walked Rafe. He let out a small snort as he saw you, shaking his head as he grabbed the keys to his bike. “What are you doing in here?” He asked, mind focused on something else at the moment.

As fucking pretty you looked, he had plans to go to the Southside to Barry’s to get some blow before Topper’s party that night. He watched as you bit your glossy bottom lip, looking down at your pink painted toes. He let out a huff, already irritated from the berating from his dad. “What’d I tell you about coming in here?” He asked.

The truth was that behind the walls of Tannyhill, Rafe Cameron was starting to teach his innocent stepsister some nasty things. It was wrong, he absolutely knew that. You on the other hand, were so curious to learn more from him as he knew best. You couldn’t help yourself, the memory of him teaching you how to suck him off, vivid in your mind. You felt the blush come to your cheeks, your eyes meeting his blue ones. “I.. I wanna do that thing again.” You spoke shyly, watching as he crossed his arms.

Rafe leaned against his desk, raising a brow as he became a little more focused on you. He’d been wanting to corrupt you for a while now, your saint like ways making it an even bigger turn on for him to want to ruin you. “And what thing is that?” He asked, tone a little taunting. Maybe going to get coke could hold off for a few, he had some time.

“I wanna-ummm… suck it again.” You said quietly, a little ashamed as you held back from saying the word he told you it was called.

Not moving from his place against the desk, he nodded his head slowly with a hum to hold back his grin. “Suck what again? My dick?” He asked, already feeling the ache run down to his balls. Oh this was going to be easy. One lesson and you already were feening for more. You nodded your head eagerly, tits bouncing in the tank top you wore which his eyes went to before back to your beautiful face. He laughed, giving you an amused look as he uncrossed his arms. “You want it so bad then come get it.” He said, reaching over to shut the door and lock it.

You giggled, hopping off the bed and sinking down to your knees in front of him. He looked even more giant from this angle, staring down at you as you popped the button open of his khaki shorts and pulled the zipper down. Pulling his pretty cock out, it nearly smacked you in the face. You wrapped your delicate hand around it, looking up at him through thick lashes.

“Go ahead, put it in your mouth little slut.” He drawled out, watching you slowly wrap your lips around the tip. It was quite the sight to see again, taking the back of your head to shove it down more. You gagged around him, trying to pull back from the grip he had on your hair. “You’re fine. Breathe your nose.” He said, thrusting his hips forward.

You did as he told you, breathing your nose as he began sliding his cock in and out of your mouth. He let an almost amused laugh as he watched his thick meat stretch your pretty lips open. The way you had your hands behind your back already like a good little obedient slut he was about to start training even more. “Fuck yes… you like getting your throat fucked by your stepbrother?” He asked, pulling out and slapping his dick against your tongue.

“Y-es.” You squeaked out, desperately opening your mouth for him to shove it back down your wanting throat.

Rafe slid his fat cock back in your wet mouth, letting his hand roughly grab the back of your head to push down his entire massive length. You placed your hands on either side of his hips, whining around him as he continued to hold you there. Maybe he was taking out his frustrations about his dad out on you, but then again you wanted this and he was enjoying it too much.

“Don’t try and back out now sis, you were sneaking in here just to get some dick down your throat. Remember?” He said, pulling out so that you could catch your breath for a second, only to slam back in your mouth. “Oh yeah and after Top’s party tonight, you’re gonna learn to take your stepbrother’s dick in your pussy.”

[jazzfromthevoid]

Me and my friend made a horrid creation called a fear sandwich, each ingredient is based of a tma fear.

1. The end: the bread, specifically the butt end of the bread that had been slightly burnt by the manufacturer.

2. The fleash: some kind of mystery meat. A horrid combination of a bunch of different meats.

3. The slaughter: a nother meat, but it has metal shavings in it.

4. The hunt: a mixed greens but it's poison ivy and grass. (With a bit of blood on it)

5. The desolation: a REALLY hot sauce, like inhumanely spicy.

6. The buried: an entire truffle. Dirt and all.

7. The dark: just squid ink. Way more than is necessary.

8. The lonely: a single very sweet pickle that does not go well with the rest of the sandwich.

9. The vast: a thousand island dressing that is actually just salt water. It's also really cold.

10. The corruption: very moldy cheese, it's just all mold, with maggots in the senter, as a suprise.

11. The eye: one of those toothpicks that goes through the sandwich holding it together. It also has a little olive with the capsicum in the middle of it on top. (The olive is uncomfortably moist)

12. The spiral: a very strangely cut onion that doesn't even really taste like onion, but you can't tell exactly what it tastes like, so you just sit there in mild confusion and terror of what you just ate.

13. The stranger: a sausage that you think is normal meat but is actually a vegan sausage.

14. The extinction: a very rare very endangered animal filled with micro plastics.

15. The web: what looks to be sesame seeds on the bread, but are actually very small spider eggs. (It's a delicacy in some places, it would be rude not to have it)

A million notes and I will attempt to make it. (Please don't I don't want to make this. I don't even know where to get half of these ingredients)

[gatorbites-imagines]

So, @spurionage and I were talking vampire variants of mark, so I've been spending all day making bad drawings on my dying ipad. Enjoy, or something.

May I introduce, Vampyre Mark. (Info and drawing dump under the cut), and yeah, he's joining the petvincible squad

So, Vampyre Mark, he wasn't turned but was born like this. If he started out human and became a vampire with age, or what, I haven't decided.

He's more based off of a monster-ish vampire. Think the old-school kind that had all sharp teeth and would drink blood from people's torsos. He also has multiple abilities like shapeshifting, thought detection, teleportation, mind control, etc etc. he isn't comfortable using many of these abilities though.

As a shapeshifter and high ranked vampire, he is able to walk in sunlight, but he overheats easily.

I haven't decided if he actually goes by invincible or something else, like eternal, if he's been around for a longer time.

Follows the rule of "if you don't destroy the body completely, it comes back" that both vampires and viltrumites follow.

His viltrumite genetics bonded with the vampire ones and just upgraded him pretty much.

His eyes don't reflect light, which is the easiest way to spot a vampire in his day and age. He can live on more than just blood, but blood and raw meat is a real treat. He doesn't like eating people, but he's done so before.

His moral compass is also pretty iffy, cuz his ability to read minds means he can see just how corrupt some people are, or it's more like their evil is projected so loudly at him that he can't ignore it, and at that point he feels he's actually helping the world by killing them. And it would be a waste if he didn't eat them, you know?

He tends to slick his hair back more than other marks, and he has paler skin, though it becomes a lot paler when he's out as his hero-sona. He also has more prominent cheekbones and wears gloves most of the time. And as a vampire he doesn't just have sharp fangs, instead all his teeth are sharp, though some are longer than others.

His vampire features start showing when he fights and he can't suppress it anymore

And he has multiple forms he takes when he's out as invincible (or whatever name he uses). One is a more hero looking form, where the eyes follow the spiderman rule, so they move depending on his expression

And the other is a more shadowy shapeless being that he's actually more comfortable in, but it makes everyone else uncomfortable because its uncanny in the way that he doesn't move like a physical living being

And no, he isn't weak to things like garlic, mirrors or silver, or crosses. But he plays along to some of it, just to make the GDA and people think they have the upper hand and feel safe.

[ruensroad]

Curiosity killed the cat, or so the saying goes...

I've been in a slump for awhile, mostly on the writing end of my life, but also in a general creation sense. Recently I've been working a JiuYuan story in my mind based on the myth of the Mares of Diomedes, and while I'm still on the fence if I have a good headspace to start writing it down, I still feel like sharing it.

For those not in the know, the Mares of Diomedes were four man-eating horses that Hercules was tasked to capture. He fed them their master which calmed them of their madness.

My version would be more... ghostly versions of the horses, fallen celestials corrupted by resentment and meat. Still, there's one thing I know for sure: Shen Yuan would be so interested in studying them!

Shen Yuan - rogue cultivator on paper, monster enthusiast in practice - hears about the accursed spectres haunting an area and of course wishes not only to see them in person, but perhaps solve the riddle of their corruption.

Opposite him stands Shen Qingqiu - a master at eradicating resentful spirits - sent by his sect to destroy the Mares before more people are eaten.

Their goal is opposite, but still they team up ... though clearly Shen Yuan needs more practice in the art of charming horses. Not pictured: Shen Qingqiu hiding a laugh behind his fan, because seriously, this clown is gonna get himself bitten.

[ateohsixxxx]

Eerie

If you’ve gooned to my blog, you better fucking tip me

ⓘ You are legally obligated to tell me if you dream about me

Asks open | DMs closed

Sir/it/she | Girl-like thing

36 tattoos | 10 piercings

I’m tall af, don’t let them lie to you.

cringe is dead, I killed it • dom leaning

ⓘ CAUTION: I’m toxic. I romanticize violence, stalking, kidnapping, abuse, manipulation, and cannibalism.

pic:set themed photoshoots, some story based

8:06 selfies and random pics of me

te:xt horny thoughts, stories, text posts

bi:te cannibalism, vampires, meat in mouth

in:tox me, but fucked up—the intox king

ba:it prey coded. its happened, once.

am:en religious/ blasphemy kink

be:at the nonnies asked for violence

ma:tch let’s go hit for hit, shot for shot

hello sidney my knife tag

bring the biggest gun to the knife fight I love Kodak Black, this is my gun tag

drinking game I do drugs and drink to a theme. The commune gets lit on Saturdays

#🚩 noncon/dubcon, manipulation, fauxcest <- block it if you need to

Favored Captives: 🫘, 🗿, 🥀, 🪐, 🦌, 🖤, 🍒, 🐝, 🐻, 💫, 🎀, 🎸, 🐺, 🦂, 🪳, 🍃, ♠️, 🫠, 🐯, 🎤, 🌱, 🦈, 🪽, 🍋, 🌺, 🦜, 🪻, 🌙, 🐸, 🔪, 🦇, 🥩, 🕸️, 🧸, 🧚🏼‍♀️, 🥊, ⚰️, 🍬, 🐀, 🦋, 🎠, 🐦‍⬛, 👑, 🍷, 🌸, 🍑, 🧶, 👁️, 🪞, 🐇, 🐱🐉, 🍄💚,

—————Boop for Instant Violence—————

498 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖘, 𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖇𝖔𝖝𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖒𝖞 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖚𝖓𝖊

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

hierophilia • somno • cnc/noncon/dubcon • intox/forced intox • corruption • dacryphilia • cannibalism • pet play • primal:hunter • stalking • kidnapping • erotophonophilia • violence • overstim

Banner and graphics by @cafekitsune

[chocookittycat]

Taking You Out On A Date

Characters: Shanks and Ace

Warnings: suggestive texts and mild profanity

Shanks

• Will definitely pick you up wearing his usual attire: ugly pants and humble sandals included.

• Despite his unimpressive outfit, the restaurant he's taking you to is beyond what you'd expect: pure luxury, from the food to every piece of silverware placed on your table, clothed in wine-red cotton drapes.

• Pulls out the seat for you and gives you that damn smile—the one that makes your knees weak.

• He knows what he wants and somehow makes you know what you want. He doesn't just sit there waiting for you to order in silence—he suggests dishes based on your preferences (ugh, observant).

• You order a whole lobster? He cracks it open and removes every ounce of meat for you 🥹.

• Gently dabs your face with a napkin when you get sauce on it.

• Will ask—or drag—you to the dance floor with that heart-melting grin.

• Slow dances with you like JSJDJWKDODELO—one hand on your waist, face resting on your shoulder, mouth whispering sweet nothings in your ear before gently nibbling on it.

• He pulls back, acting like he didn’t just engage in foreplay (fuck him).

• Takes home a bottle of rum, of course—and champagne for your after-party.

• Kisses your forehead and asks where you want to go next (your bed, obviously, you dumbass emperor 😒).

• Escorts you to your room… until you finally tell him you want to spend the night in his quarters. (AHHHHHHHH WIFHELXJi'mferal)

• You wake up the next morning in his bed, of course, with nothing but a blanket draped over the two of you. That stupid, pretty face 😩—such a lovely sight to wake up to. And what makes it even better is the fact that he’s yours, for life 🩷.

Ace

• 100% dumbass whose only idea of a date is "eat, hold hands, and kiss."

• Marco and Izo are his top coaches. They pick out his outfit, style his hair, and insist on giving him a bath to purge whatever dirt they think he couldn't clean himself—calling it “clearance for a successful date.”

•And Ace was like, “Huh? Clearance? Successful date? The hell, I don't get it!” (these bitches are corrupting my sweet boi’s mind and he doesn’t even know it 😭)

• Baby boy is a heated badass but totally clueless when it comes to romance 😭

• Comes to pick you up at your cabin and freezes when he sees you in your stunning red dress—hair down, nails done, makeup on point, and lips a smile away from taking the life out of him.

• Marco and Izo whisper from behind a barrel:

  “Take her hand! Take her hand!”

  “Idiot, say something!”

• “You look like a royal wedding feast.”

• Marco and Izo facepalm so hard. “SHE IS NOT FOOD, DUMBASS,” Izo screams internally.

• You just laugh and take it as a compliment.

  “Thank you. And you look like a full-course meal,” you flirt.

• He blushes.

• The two coaches get giddy behind the barrel like proud stage moms.

• He takes you to an al fresco restaurant by the sea. Warm lights hang low, live music plays in the background, and couples—young and old—dance in the open space.

• This cutie pie holds back from ordering the whole menu just to prove he can be a “refined gentleman” 🥹🩷 (brownie points for effort).

• You initiate the flirting to calm his very obvious nerves.

• Eventually, he starts to relax and flirts back.

  “You, a dancer? Why don’t you show me, Pidge?” (Short for pigeon, his nickname for you.)

• He reaches for your hand and leads you to the dance floor.

• From there, it’s a night full of fun, laughter, and the undeniable progress of your feelings for each other.

[hellfiresky]

The Wolf Den

This fic was heavily inspired by @carbon-corrie's beautiful Crime Lord! Wolffe art! Go check it out and gawk!

Enjoy The Wolf Den’s playlist here!

Summary: Months after defecting from the Empire and building a criminal empire in Level 1313, Wolffe finally gives in - to ambition, to violence, and to you. You always knew how to handle him. Even when he thought he had the upper hand.

Word count: 7,616 words Pairing: Crime Lord!Wolffe x Pit Fighter F!Reader (Reader's nickname is “Butcher��, and is described as jacked and queer.) Warnings: Smut. 18+ only. Violence (pre-smut). Blood and light gore. Mutual (discreet) obsession. Reader is unhinged and so is Wolffe. Explicit sexual content. Power play. Rough sex. Dom/sub dynamics. Post-sex aftercare. Mentions of past f/f hookups. Fighting pits. Dirty apartments. Brat taming if you squint. Traumatic past. Minor corruption kink. And eventually: tenderness. Do not proceed if you're under 18. Seriously. Shoo. Taglist: @orangez3st @msmeredithrose and @cloneflo99 because this is Wolffe lol.

The crowd had been roaring for the past twenty minutes. Yes, only twenty. You’d stepped into the pit twenty minutes ago under downlights harsher than usual - probably a tech error, or maybe just your own exhaustion playing tricks again. Another sleepless night. Crunching your core, you ducked under the jab just in time. The Trandoshan’s claws sliced the air where your throat had been a breath ago. He was twice your size. Well, maybe more. Scales slick with the blood of his last opponent. Mouth reeking of lizard stench and bloodlust.

You blacked out for a split second and slammed your fist into the soft meat under his jaw, cracking something cushiony and solid. Could be his bones, could be your own knuckles.

Next thing you knew was that nasty feeling of your skin scraping against the rough ground. Ears ringing. Your eyes were momentarily blinded by the sweat around them and tasted blood when you licked your lips. Could’ve been from the previous fight. Could’ve been yours. Could’ve been reptilian. 

You rolled to your side and saw your opponent rubbing his jaw. Thick digits probing at the spot you’d hit. Wide mouth full of fangs twisted in something that could have only been arrogance. Rolling your head to the ground, your forehead felt the grit of the surface, palm feeling the stabbing of tiny particles as you pushed yourself upright with your good hand to get back into the stance, ignoring the way your ribs screamed. 

Your leg shot out to catch the bastard clean. He hadn’t expected you to recover that fast, and failed his footing. You pulled his head down as you drove your knee into his chest, shoved him back, and finished it - one elbow to the temple. Then another. And finally, a hammer strike straight to the base of his skull - successfully incapacitating him. 

Even with your ears still ringing, you felt the crowd gradually fall into silence. It started from the front rows, then the middle, spreading like smoke through the rest. 

They knew what they saw. The infamous Trandoshan fighter, undefeated across half the Outer Rim, killed with your bare hands.

Blood dripped from your brow as you raised one arm, something between mockery and victory. The lights buzzed overhead, flickering sickly green-gold, casting your shadow across the corpse. Third win today. Hundreds, maybe thousands, in Wolffe’s pocket.

And that’s why they called you Wolffe’s Butcher.

Silence in the locker room was worse than the arena noise. No crowd, no shouting, only the intermittent hiss from the busted coolant pipe overhead and the sound of you wrapping your shoulder in a bacta-gel bandage. The cold bit into the torn skin left by Trando's claws. You clenched your teeth and kept wrapping.

You didn’t even bother looking up when the metal door whirred open, and exposed those familiar heavy steps. You also ignored the obnoxious sound of a sidearm clattered against the transparisteel table, followed by the weighted drag of a robe tossed over the back of a chair.

“Two more fights,” Wolffe said with his gravelly voice. “Then your debt’s paid.”

You let out a dry snort, and spat a clot of blood onto the floor before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Two more fights, huh?” You rolled your shoulder, testing the wrap. “And after that, how long do I keep playing your bodyguard?” Pressing a palm into a bruise on your tricep, you cussed to yourself. Fighting a trandoshan bare-handed was never your favourite pastime activity. “Thought a former Republic and Imperial commander could handle himself.”

With your hair glued to your scalp from sweat, you finally looked up. Wolffe stood a few paces away, still in his battered Phase II armor. No rerebrace, no elbow plates, no vambraces - only the chestplate, leg armour, and spaulders. The whites on his armour had long since faded into dust-grey, scratched and dulled from wear. He’d swapped the full body glove for a short-sleeved variant, both arms exposed. Ink ran from shoulder to wrist, black and bold.

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t pulled you out of that wreck on Nar Shaddaa,” he deadpanned. “You still owe me.”

Rolling your eyes, you stood up with a grunt, overtrained joints cracking as you stretched your arms overhead. Muscles flexed, you had the type of build people trained decades for. Shoulders almost as broad as his, biceps big enough to crush a jogan fruit, back sculpted as if you were hiding a pair of wings, stomach tight under bronzed, scarred skin. Walking towards your locker, you let the fight drip off you. You didn’t bother putting your shirt back on. The gunmetal grey compression top clung to your chest was soaked with Trandoshan blood. And as you packed your gears inside your locker, you felt his eyes.

Of course you did. Wolffe was never subtle.

The ex-commander’s stare was always piercing. He tracked every line of your spine, the roll of muscle through your traps, the ink peeking along your ribs. Blood had crusted across your shoulder. A split along your left bicep still wet. A fresh bruise was blooming in your lower back, dark and ugly.

He watched anyway.

Throwing a towel on one shoulder, you turned to him, “I beat that one Wookiee bounty hunter next week and I’m done fighting. Deal?”

“I said two more.”

“One Wookiee is basically two… any other beings, really.”

You turned your back again to grab the bottle from your locker and chugged it. Shit, you hated how the room-temperature water tasted like steel. 

“You’re lucky you’re not my type,” Wolffe said, after a pause. “Otherwise I’d make you pay another way.”

You let out a mocking laugh before turning back to face him again, cocking your hips as you tossed the empty bottle into the rubbish bin behind him without looking. “Oh. I’m everyone’s type,” you bit back. “I fucked one of your girlfriends last week.” You stepped forward, close enough to see Wolffe’s cybernetic eye twitch. “She called me daddy.”

You reached for the leather gloves hanging on the communal cloak hanger behind him. 

“Careful, Butcher,” he smirked.

“Or what? Bet I could make you fold like your girls under you,” you grinned before slinging your duffle bag. “At least double my payment if ya want to fuck,”

Only after you left the locker room did Wolffe let out the longest sigh of his day. Maybe his week. Maybe since he left the Empire.

He pushed himself to sit on top of a metal crate where the rest of his pit fighters put their gears in. Every muscle in his body ached - some from the occasional underworld fight that he had to handle without your intervention, some from hiding from the Empire. And all of it his own fault.

Ever since defecting, he hadn’t slowed down once. No quiet retirement. No peace. Just more war in a different font. He started out with odd jobs in the galactic underworld. Bounty hunting, debt collection, merc gigs under the alias Direwolf. He’d earned a reputation quickly - former clone commander turned freelance executioner. 

Eventually, the credits piled up. So did the enemies. He stopped working for gangs and started competing with them. Built an operation from the wreckage of the Empire’s rot. Ran a weapons smuggling network right under Imperial noses, thanks to loyal brothers still inside, quietly feeding him surplus and military weapons from abandoned outposts and ghost shipyards. The credits got laundered through pit fights. And that was how The Wolf Den was born.

He picked Level 1313 for a reason. It was lawless enough to hide from the Imps, brutal enough to keep the weak out, and profitable enough to buy loyalty. He’d tested other systems. Even tried a run on Nar Shaddaa.

Your home moon.

That was where he found you, or maybe lost you. It depended on how you looked at it. Half-alive in an inhumane fighting ring, chained at the ankle, fighting for scraps. Full audience to entertain everyday, no rules, no medics. Only pain for you and profit for your captors. He hadn’t meant to intervene, but something about the way you kept getting up… the way you looked at your captors like they were already dead sparked something in him.

And he eventually pulled you out. Though, Wolffe didn’t do it to be noble. You were valuable. You had the build, the mindset, the rage. So he gave you a better life. Better pay. A bunk that locked. A contract with clauses. Extra credits for guarding his ass between matches. He made you a pit fighter again. Only this time, you had a choice. Or so he kept telling himself.

Wolffe never asked for much. He only wanted you to pay back the credits he shelled out after dragging your body out of that Nar Shaddaa slaughterhouse. The clinic was two levels below the nearest decent hospital, run by a Rodian surgeon with real medical degree but zero licence. You were opened up, cleaned out, patched together with bacta and a secondhand metal spine implant. It wasn’t charity. It was investment.

Not only did he cover the full skyrocketing bill - he also paid extra credits as hazard pay for the doctor, bribe money for the gang who ran the block, and the cost of your forged chain code so you could live in the Den without worry. And although he paid you, your debt didn’t shrink easy. It took time. Pit earnings weren’t much, as generous as Wolffe was compared to other handlers, it was still nothing stacked against the amount owed.

You had a little extra from guarding him - your official “secondary function,” and that went straight to personal entertainment. Vice, mostly. Vices were cheaper than therapy. So yeah. You were still in debt.

Sometimes, it felt like he wanted it that way. For you to be forever indebted.

You liked to blame that on his girlfriends. Yes, plural. He didn't actually need you to pay back those credits he spent on you to keep the Den running. But there was always someone on his arm. Pretty. Soft. Not built like you. They came and went like weather - dancers, slicers, the occasional smooth-talking smuggler with silky dresses and expensive shoes.

All of them temporary. All of them replaceable. But you weren’t. And he knew it.

Which was probably why you were still stuck here - shoulder bandaged, ribs bruised, guarding the man who bought you a second chance and kept you close like he still hadn’t decided whether to thank you or own you.

“Did you check your account?” He asked without looking back. The weekly rounds across the level had become almost religious. A show of presence. Territory marking. Wolffe took it seriously - polite visits to those he tolerated, thirty minutes staring contest at ones he didn’t. And like always, you trailed a step behind, slugthrower slung loose in your grip, hands still raw from the last fight.

“I did,” you muttered, eyes locked on a passing Falleen.

Black Sun. Their people were crawling all over 1313 lately. You didn’t like it.

The other bodyguard, a Lasat built like a security droid with pale lavender complexion and massive scars across his eyes and mouth, shot you a glance and huffed through his nose. A laugh? A warning? Hard to tell with him.

You let out a muffled chuckle at his reaction. Everyone knew you weren’t the strongest. Not by a long shot, but you were the smartest, and definitely the most reckless. That’s how you won all those fights. So Wolffe doubling your pay wasn’t a surprise. It was a simple math. Keep the wildest one happy, or deal with the fallout when she flips the table during a negotiation.

“No more complaints then,” Wolffe muttered as he adjusted the clasp on his cloak, pulling it tighter across his shoulders.

The three of you stepped inside an establishment crawling with people scraping for credits and a second chance at survival. A rival pit ring Wolffe planned to buy out. Or ruin.

“Eh,” you said, brushing past him to clear his path. “Could be better.”

You walked straight toward the Abyssin in the navy blue blazer, Kor Gresh. The one-eyed man sat dead center of a half-moon plush booth, surrounded by at least six visible guards and probably a couple more blended in with the crowd. You held back a laugh somewhere between amusement and pride for your own boss.

Kor Gresh was a known gangster, blackmarket financier, and a typical crime lord who would fold in an alley fight before he even bled. That’s why he always moved in a pack. His reputation lived in the men he paid to keep him upright. Wolffe didn’t need that. The ex-commander was a threat on his own. You and the Lasat were enough backups.

The armoured guards stood straighter, hands steady on the triggers as you approached.

“Kor Gresh,” you said coolly, before stepping aside to let Wolffe take the front. “Wolffe,” you added, catching the eyes of your Lasat colleague, making sure he was ready if anything broke.

Kor Gresh stood still, of course he did. He raised his expensive-looking glass of liquor. “Direwolf himself,” Kor drawled with his unmistakable posh Upper Coruscanti accent, voice gurgling as if it had something caught in it. “Didn’t think you’d show in person. Thought your Butcher did the talking these days.”

You didn’t react. You did, however, rest your finger near your trigger.

“I only send her when I need someone dead,” Wolffe answered. “Today’s a talk.”

Kor stretched his arms across the booth. “So, talk.”

Wolffe’s cloak brushed the grimy floor as he stepped forward. “You’ve been siphoning fighters off my circuit. Not paying them. Two of them ended up dead in your ring last week, no payout to the families. That’s a problem.”

Kor shrugged with one massive shoulder.

“It’s the pit. Everyone dies eventually. You should know.”

Wolffe tilted his head. “They died badly. Not even a good crowd. Only disposal. That’s not sport. That’s waste.”

Kor grinned. “You here to lecture me on honour now, Commander?”

“No,” Wolffe said. “I’m here to buy your ring. Before I take it.”

A laugh rumbled from the Abyssin’s throat. “Bold. New in the game, and cocky as hell.”

Like good little minions, his bodyguards chuckled along. Forced, performative, fingers locked tighter on their blasters.

“Your fighters came to me because of your piss-poor pay,” Kor went on, lighting a thick cigar with a torch the size of your fist. “You’re not even a good employer, Direwolf.” He blew out a column of smoke with practiced arrogance. “No need to talk like you run Galactic Wrestling Entertainment where nobody dies and it’s all a choreographed performance with decent pay.”

You watched the smoke curl around his massive watery eye and considered whether it’d be more satisfying to break his jaw or his kneecap first.

It wasn’t a lie, though. Pay was shit. But at least Wolffe paid you. Oh, the joy of bare minimum. You really should start looking into outside sponsorships. Something to scrape together to finish off your debt, maybe even catch a patron. If you could land that, maybe Wolffe would finally move you up like he did with the other not-you top fighters he backed. Those he actually hired, not picked up like a sad tortured tooka. 

Maybe one day, you could be like Wyrmen Lictor. That top-ranking warrior on Nar Kanji. The Arachne was well-sponsored, well-armed, and loved by her syndicate. She was a walking billboard of protection. No one touched her without permission. And her fights gathered spectacles from across the Outer Rim, expensive, surrounded by medics and cameras. She wasn’t just a fighter. She was basically a celebrity, and you weren’t there yet.

But if Wolffe was picking fights with people like Kor Gresh, maybe you weren’t as far off as you thought. Maybe one day he’d get enough credit and senses to actually sponsor you. 

“Return my fighters, or I’ll take over your arena.” Wolffe hissed. Now was the time for a quick headcount. You scanned the guards. Memorised blaster placement, knives, every miniscule of hand movements, the guy in the corner pretending to be drunk. You didn’t have to look at the Lasat to know he was doing the same.

“As a longtime businessman,” Kor chuckled, “let me tell you - your clone mentality will always set you back.” He swirled his drink, the liquid sloshing in slow circles. “You know, the whole brotherhood thing. Loyalty. Camaraderie. Even when these lot aren’t your brothers. They’re just your fighting dogs.”

He took another sip. Then pointed his cigarra at you. “Yes, including you, love.” Then at the Lasat. “And you.”

“You know we c—” you started in a low voice, but Wolffe’s hand came up fast, holding you back.

“It doesn’t have to be violent,” Wolffe said calmly, voice taut. “Just hand them over, and we can do the site handover like good, civilised men.”

Kor set his glass back down on the shiny table, chuckling like he already knew the ending to this conversation. “I’ve been having fever dreams of taking over your little Wolf Den too, you know.”

Tapping the ash of his cigarra, he crossed his leg over the other.  “I own at least half the fighting arenas on 1313. You think you can buy them all out? The shitty little ones, sure, they fold because they’re worthless. But mine?” He showed his teeth through cracked lips. “My fighters stay because I make them visible. I give them stage lights, sell them as brands. They get front-row sponsors, personal logos, their names printed on cheap t-shirts down in The Wharf. Do I pay them fairly? No. Sometimes not at all. Do I let them keep their full cut? Hell no.” He shrugged. “But they get seen. They get talked about. They get followers. They think it’s exposure, and that’s worth more to them than your clean-cut credit transfer at the end of the week.”

You felt something twist in your gut. Because he wasn’t wrong. “I give them the illusion of fame,” Kor said, spreading his arms wide. “And it works. Because that’s all most of them want. Right, darling?” He looked at you again. 

You glared at the void behind him, engaging your old, tested method to tune everything out. Cold air. Strobing lights. Distance. Let the noise drain out until it was just you and the shape of what needed doing. Because you knew how this ended. With Wolffe and his little ambition, his dream of owning every fighting ring on 1313, turning his gang into a syndicate - you knew a fight was inevitable. You just hadn’t expected it to break out in velvet booths and overpriced liquor. Still, you had to admit: Kor Gresh was no idiot. Arrogant, yes. Flashy. A fossil with his one-eye and coiffed hair and suits. But he’d earned his rep. And he didn’t build and buy the arenas on this level by being slow.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” Wolffe grunted.

In a blink, blasters pointed straight at him. At least eight. All aimed at his overgrown curls-covered head - surprisingly, including the Lasat. 

Fucking hell. You stiffened. Of course it was X. That bastard had only been around three months, and somehow wormed his way into Wolffe’s favour fast enough to stand beside you as co-bodyguard. You never liked his name, refused to say it out loud. And now here he was, a plant all along. Wolffe glanced at him in the flattest stare you’ve ever seen, and a single word.

“Really?”

Then he looked at you. And you knew that the best survival tactic in a room like this was to act like the majority. Let the dumb ones think you're part of the tide. You quickly drew your slugthrower and aimed it at Wolffe’s temple. “I want my face on a t-shirt too,” you deadpanned.

Wolffe turned his head slightly to meet your eyes. “Butcher,” he muttered. 

You’d done this before, pretending to turn on him only to flip back the next minute and tear the whole fucking room apart. This wasn’t new. But it never got old. His eyes dragged down to your lips for a breath then he gave the tiniest nod you’d ever seen.

You pulled the trigger.

The slug caught the Lasat in the side of the head, just above the temple, and dropped him before he fired. You quickly dove behind the booth as Wolffe flipped the table, sending bottles and plates crashing. Wolffe was on his feet, twin DCs drawn, firing fast bursts. He dropped two guards in the first volley. You rolled out from behind cover and caught one trying to flank, choking him in the neck before emptying your clip into his gut.

The velvet lounge that once contrasted the rest of the grimy arena reeked of smoke, blood, and glass. One of Kor’s men tried to run, and Wolffe got him through his leg. You kicked another in the knee, grabbed his blaster, and used it to cave in the skull of the one trying to crawl for the exit. By the time the last scream died, you were both standing. Wolffe breathing hard, ignoring a steaming scorch mark at the bottom of his cloak.

You, spattered in blood again, hands still tight around the warm grip of the stolen blaster.

Kor Gresh slumped cold in his seat, a line of red dripping from his throat, still holding that fucking cigar like he might get one last puff.

“I hate these meetings,” you muttered.

Wolffe cracked his neck. Holstered his blasters.

“Then stop talking so much.” He turned to you without a smile or a thank you, of course. Just that steady post-firefight tension in his shoulders because he hadn’t quite come down yet. You hadn’t either. Your pulse was still somewhere in your throat and in your ears. 

The rest of the arena had cleared out when you fired the first shot - scrambling to avoid being caught in the crossfire. What remained now was just the scent of scorched leather, burnt hair, and death, and that obnoxious Huttese techno over the sound system.

And there was you and him.

“We’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do first thing tomorrow,” he muttered, looking around. “I’ll contact… what’s his name—”

Of course. Fucking man forgot the name of his own secretary again.

“Kala.”

“Yes, him. He’ll handle the old fighters, transfer the new ones, and we’ll rebrand this place. Make it the new Den.”

You weren’t listening to the logistics thanks to your rebellious eyes who decided to slip for a second right to his lips. It made you feel stupid, mostly because you’d seen him covered in blood. Seen him bark orders, take down men much scarier than him, walk into rooms and ambush everyone. His lips shouldn’t be the thing you noticed. But it was. Lush. Too plush for someone like him. A little chapped. Smudged with soot in one corner. And you wondered - not for the first time, not even the tenth, but this time it hit you harder, how he might taste.

It was true you’d slept with one of his girlfriends. Okay. Two. But you’d started wondering lately was it because you actually wanted them? Or because you wanted residues of him? Whatever part of him they carried in their mouths. On their silky smooth skin. The way they said his name behind closed doors. The shape of his voice echoing through someone else. You shook it off, swallowed hard, and looked away. But you could feel his stare grazing the side of your face, again. 

The two of you left the venue, your boss himself had ping whoever cleaners available in the block to clean the bodies up, and whatever business that usually went down after a successful acquisition. You pulled open the speeder door with a grunt, knuckles still aching from a punch you landed on one of Kor’s men - yet you admired the flaking blood painted the tips of your nails as you curled your fingers around the wheel. Wolffe slid into the passenger seat without a word.

You were halfway to the Den when Wolffe broke the silence. “Drive to your apartment.”

“Why?”

“Just drive.” 

You glanced at the rearview. He was head-down in his datapad, scrolling through whatever schedule or cleanup list he was already organising. Not a minute later, he let out a long exhale, raised one eyebrow at you, then tilted his head back to stare through the grimy sunroof - watching nothing but tangled structures and dull support beams lining the notorious level.

“Alright,” you muttered to yourself.

A few minutes later, you pulled up in front of your building - a rundown, three-story slab of concrete with dying hallway lights and a busted lift that always smelled like bleach. You killed the engine and got out, holding the door open so your boss wouldn’t have to touch the grime-caked handle. Stupid little courtesy you never gave anyone else but him.

Wolffe rounded the speeder without a word. Cloakless. Probably left it crumpled in the passenger seat. He had a habit of ditching it the moment he sat down, said it restricted movement, but you knew it was more than that. He wore it for image, not comfort. Part of whatever social code he’d picked up on his slow rise through the underworld.

He reached for the driver’s seat, then stopped before turning to you, and really looked at you. And for the first time in two years, he said, “Thank you.”

You didn’t realise your face had cracked into an eyeroll and a frown until you looked away and let go of the door. But before you could take a step, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you back, and crashed his lips against yours. It wasn’t soft, nor was it curious. It was pure lust, and it was full of teeth, and tongue, and possibly two years of unsaid shit dragged between your bodies. His rough hand cupped the back of your neck, and when he broke away he rasped. “Stars, what more do you want, Butcher?”

You simply stared at him for a second, tasting the kiss, breathing through the ache in your ribs and the split in your lip. Then you grabbed him by the front of his sweaty undershirt, yanked it like a collar, kicked the speeder door shut behind him, and started walking backwards towards your building. He obeyed like a good boy. And judging from the way he stared at you? The bastard was enjoying it.

You dragged him along without letting go, twisting your arm to keep moving properly up the emergency staircase that still reeked of deathsticks. Of course the lift was broken again. You passed the second floor’s stuttering hallway light, burning dim and useless, before finally reaching your Wolffe-paid apartment. Keying the lock with your free hand, you shoved it open with your boot, pulling him in.

Inside, Wolffe caught a breath of unwashed laundry, old leather, and the metallic tang of weapon cleaning solutions. He’d known what kind of place this was when he let you crash here. It was barely livable with concrete walls, one grimy window, no decor - but clearly, he didn’t care. Not then. Not now. Not when you were about to fuck him into oblivion.

You let go of his shirt and reached for his chest plate, clumsy from exhaustion. He caught your hand just to look. Eye scanning your face like he was seeing something for the first time.

“You sure?”

You rolled your shoulders, didn’t bother with words. Instead, you dragged him into the wall and kissed him again - harder, hungrier. “Shut the fuck up,” you muttered against his mouth.

“Yes ma’am,” He chuckled against your mouth, letting you claim him. 

After accidentally scratching an open wound on your own hand, you finally got the first clasp of his chest plate open, yanked the metal off his body, and threw it across the room. Wolffe didn’t stop you. Didn’t help either. He only dragged you closer, hands palming your ass, grabbing for whatever part of you he could get, trying to undress you through sheer willpower while you tore him apart one brutal piece at a time.

His spaulders went next. Then the leg plates. Then the vambraces. Each release echoed through the shitty little apartment. He got impatient by the time you reached the codpiece. No surprise. His fingers were fast, unhooking the leather buckles at your side with one hand, yanking your blood-slick gear down with the other, dragging you back into another kiss that tasted like sweat, rage, and iron. By the time you both collapsed into the barely-held-together excuse of a bed, tangled in the hole-riddled duvet, you were half-naked and grinning like a fucking maniac. 

Wolffe shoved you down hard, but you flipped him on his back, and climbed on top. He growled beneath you, rough palms dragging down your sides to grab the meat of your thighs as if trying to remember what control tasted like - but you didn’t give him the chance.

You peeled your compression top off with zero ceremony, and tossed it somewhere behind you. The last of your armour hit the ground. Your body was a map of bruises, scars, half-healed fractures. It was a battlefield that perfectly matched his own. 

Wolffe sat up to meet you there - one hand curling into your hair, the other braced against your waist. You expected him to bite, to snarl, to pin you and make a mess of it all. But instead, he stilled for a breath or two. Then he tucked your hair behind your ear gently. “Fuck, you’re beautiful when you’re not beating the shit out of those poor souls.”

Warmth climbed your neck and bloomed across your cheeks - unwelcome, too visible, too human. You knew your face was red, and it pissed you off more than it should. “Fuck you,” you growled, but the man under you only laughed - smug as fuck. You didn’t give him time to gloat. You caught his mouth again in another hungry, furious kiss, biting at his bottom lip.

You were soaked, flooded, wrecked. His hands all over you, the tent of his blacks stiff as it dragged against the soaked seam of your underwear. You ground your hips down harder just to hear that heavy breath he always tried to swallow. His hand came up, rough palm cupping your bare breast, calloused thumb circling your nipple before giving it a sharp pinch that made your spine jolt and your teeth scrape his lip. “Gods, you could’ve just told me you wanted me,” he rasped against your mouth, tone infuriatingly casual for a man about to get ruined. “No need to be bratty about it. Could’ve skipped the whole pay raise stunt.”

You pushed him down harder, flattening him against the mattress. “Shut the fuck up,” you hissed, but the crack in your voice betrayed the forced nonchalance - it only told him how badly you wanted this. How badly you wanted him. He chuckled, and a hand smacked down on your thigh, then your ass. 

“Ohhh, I see,” his breath hitched as you pressed your palm down again. “This is about you being on top tonight.”

You licked your lips, chest heaving, eyes locked on his flushed face and parted mouth. “Damn right it is.”

“Mmh. You kinda have to fight for it, Butcher,” His hand dragged up from your ass to your thigh and finally your throat. Giving it just enough pressure to make your pulse flutter under his palm. The toothy grin that split your face was enough to break him. “Stars,” his thumb stroked the hollow of your neck. “Did I just find my match?”

You leaned in into his grip, letting him feel the way your pulse kicked beneath his thumb. Your grin grew wider. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

Wolffe’s cybernetic eye burned grey in the low light, that molten kind of focus reserved only for the ring, or this. You could feel his erection straining against his blacks under you, and gods, the way he looked at you like he could snap your spine or beg you for mercy? Either one would’ve made you feral. “You’re cocky tonight,” he rasped.

“You started it,” you whispered, rolling your hips to make him hiss. “You think I’m gonna let you manhandle me like your other girls?”

His palm on your throat wraps tighter, possessive and reverent all at once. “No,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re not the kind to get handled.”

“Exactly,” you leaned down, lips brushing his stubbles, nipping it. “I’m the kind who does the handling.”

That earned a low, half-laugh, half-moan from deep inside his chest, one of those sounds that made you even wetter. His hands were on your thighs again, holding you like he was bracing for impact - or maybe surrender. You preferred the latter. You reached down and wrapped your fingers around the hem of his blacks, yanked them down to free him, and gods. There he was. Thick, heavy, and already slick at the tip. You couldn’t help the curse that slipped out of you. “Go on then,” he said, voice rough as rust. “Handle me.”

And you did. You sank down slowly, savouring every inch like a victory you fought tooth and nail for. The stretch was brutal in the best way, making your breath catch, your body tremble, your bruises scream and beg for more. Wolffe’s hands gripped you tighter, eyes darkened with a glimpse that almost looked like awe.

“Fuck—” he gasped. “You feel—stars—Butcher—”

You bounced on him once, to watch his face twist. Then again. And again. 

“You liked this, huh?” he grunted, voice sending shiver down your spine. “Like seeing me under you like this?”

The crime lord peeled his back off the mattress, catching your mouth in a toothy kiss, only to drag his lips lower - biting a mark into your neck, claiming a territory. “Is everything a fight for you?” he growled into your pulse. Then his hips surged up, driving deeper, harder, dragging a cry straight out of your throat. You clutched his shoulders, nails scoring the meat there as your head dropped forward, gasping, moaning his name like it was the only thing you remembered. “Yes,” you answered.

“Of course it is,” he rasped, bucking up again, letting you feel the full weight of him. “Fucking starved thing, always clawing your way to the top. Even here.”

You growled back, pulling his face up to yours, teeth clicking as your noses touched. “You think I work this hard just to get fucked? No. I fuck you.”

He bared his teeth. WIth his wild eyes now, and equally wild hands, he bruised your hips as he slammed up into you again and again meeting every drop of your hips with equal fury, and smacked you again. “Come on, then. Take it. Take all you want,”

That drove you to roll your hips harder until the air left his lungs in a sound that sounded more like a complete surrender in the form of your name. Sweat stung your cuts. Your thighs burned. His hands slipped and found new bruises to make on your thighs. And still you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he rasped. “No wonder they’re all scared of you.”

“I don’t want them scared,” you gritted, grabbing a fistful of his greying curls and tugging his face to yours again, “I want you ruined.”

“Too late,” he laughed, breathless, slamming up into you again and dragging another helpless moan out of your mouth. “You already ruined me, Butcher.” And stars, if that didn’t make spiders swarm the insides of your stomach.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulder as you slowed down your pace, grinding in tight, torturous circles instead of bouncing like he wanted. Dragging your lips against the shell of his ear just as his hips tried to buck again, and you slipped your palm down on his abdomen and stopped him. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t get to fuck me unless you ask.”

Wolffe let out a frustrated groan as if something primal was clawing its way out of his throat. His hands gripped your thighs, but he didn’t move. “I swear to fuck—” he growled through clenched teeth. 

That gave way to a wicked smile on your face before you started rocking your hips down again, taking him in deep, but not all the way. Your lips brushed his again, taunting. “Say it.”

His brow furrowed, frustration leaking from every corner of his face. The man who commanded an entire battalion - from the Republic to the Empire and now to a growing underground syndicate. The man who fought wars. Who ruled the Den. Who never begged. Never bent. But here, pinned under you, shiny with sweat and breathing like a beast, he was shaking.

“Please,” he finally muttered, cracking his voice.

You tsked and rolled your hips again, cruel and perfect. “Louder.”

“Fuck,” he hissed, almost punching the mattress. “Please. I need you to fuck me. Ride me like I’m yours.”

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his lips.

“Good boy.”

That broke him. With a grunt, he flipped you, pinning you down with his weight, one hand braced by your head and the other gripping your jaw as he rammed back into you like a man possessed. You cried out as the whole bed rattled beneath you. “Happy?”

But you couldn’t speak. Not with him buried in you so deep it hurt so deliciously, not with the pace he set - brutal, unrelenting, devastating. You could only moan his name, again and again like it was holy. Like it was a prayer. “Fuck. Wolffe. Pl—”

You choked it back. No. No fucking way were you going to beg.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Come on. I said it.”

His grip on your throat tightened just a little—enough to make you aware. His other hand dragged down your body, anchoring your hip so you couldn’t squirm away. He rammed into you again. “What do you want, Butcher? Huh?” he hissed through his teeth. “You want to be like those fuckin’ fighters in the Outer Rim? Get your face plastered all over 1313? Credits poured into your account? Sponsors fighting to buy your contract?”

You rolled your eyes back as pleasure tore through you in waves, your back arching, mouth open in a silent scream. He smirked.

“Oh yeah, that’s it. Taking me like a good girl now, huh? Not so mouthy when you’re this full,” he sneered against your throat, biting down to leave a mark. “Not much of a fighter now, are you?”

You hissed between clenched teeth, nails raking down his back. “Fuck you, I’m still winning.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, baby,” he snapped, “but right now? I own you.”

And then he pounded, and you finally let go. Fully. Completely. Every wall, every smartass quip, every scrap of carefully curated control - you let it burn. It all dissolved under the weight of him, the way he filled you, claimed you, broke you in the most devastating, delicious way. You rode that heat with no shame, let your back arch and your mouth drop open, fingers scrambling for something - anything - to hold on to.

He didn’t let up. Didn’t give you space to think. And gods, it was so good to stop thinking. “Did my girls behave like this when you fucked them?” he bit again. “Did you act like me? Say it.”

“Fuck,” you moaned. His thrusts started to stutter, his rhythm slipping, trying to chase the high now, same as you. He dropped his forehead against yours, hand still firm around your throat, the other fisting the sheets beside your head. You felt him shake.

“Come on, Butcher,” he breathed, eyes wild. “Be a good girl. Tell me what you want now.”

You met his gaze. Sweat beading down your temple. And you smiled. “More,” you whispered. “I want more. Until I forget my name. Until I forget yours. Until the whole level collapses and the only thing I remember is you.” And with a desperate groan, he kissed you again.

“Come for me,” he growled against your lips, his bedroom voice fraying at the edges of control. “Now.”

You could only nod. Could only cling to him, breath breaking into gasps as your entire body tensed, spiraled, then shattered. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, dragging red crescents into sweat covered skin as wave after wave ripped through you. And he didn’t stop until he felt you quake and tremble and fall apart beneath him. 

That was when he let go. 

With a strangled curse and a stuttering thrust, he followed you over the edge, his release crashing through him as his hips jerked and finally slowed, grinding deep as he buried himself to the hilt. He held you there, locked tight together, panting against your neck, every muscle in his body taut with the aftershock.

And then, he chuckled through the haze, lips brushing your cheek. “Good,” he murmured. “Always so pretty when you win something.” Wolffe planted a kiss against a scar on your jaw. “Apparently still pretty when you lose.”

He stayed there. Letting himself stay buried inside you. Breathing you in. The room stank of sweat, and sex, and neither of you moved. His weight grounded you. His presence muted the outside world.

You both stayed like that for a good five minutes, the only sounds in the room being your breaths and the slowing thud of two hearts calming down. Then finally, Wolffe pulled out with a grunt, very slowly as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet. You winced at the sudden emptiness, but then his hand slid up your body to push back the damp strands of hair clinging to your forehead. “Still with me?” he rasped.

You nodded, eyes half-lidded, lips curved into dazed and blissful smile.

“Good. Stay here.”

He rolled off the bed, groaning as he stretched, every muscle from his shoulders to his calves protesting the motion. You heard him muttering something under his breath about "concrete hellholes" and "buying a new mattress, for fuck’s sake," before the sound of the sink running filled the apartment. A few minutes later, he returned with a glass of water in one hand and a damp rag in the other. He handed you the glass first. “Drink up.”

You took it, gulped, and let your head fall back into the pillow. “Why do you sound like you’re about to give a military debriefing.”

���Because I know you’ll pass out without rehydrating, and I’d rather not scrape your body off the floor tomorrow.”

You snorted into your water. Wolffe sat back down beside you, dragging the rag gently across your stomach, wiping away sweat, his cum, and smudged blood from the earlier fight. 

“Did you just clean me?”

“Stop talking,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I’m always thorough.”

You caught his hand, fingers curling around his wrist. “Yeah? Is that what your girlfriends said?”

“Yeah,” He raised an eyebrow. “They didn’t say the same about you after you slept with them? Did you wham-bam-thank you ma’am my girls?”

“I had to hurry cause you were at the door. So…”

Wolffe rolled his eyes, then leaned down, kissing the side of your knee. “Maybe I should stop letting you win.”

“You won’t.”

“You keep pushing, Butcher, and I’m going to make you really lose next time.”

You smiled lazily, letting the empty glass rest on your belly. “Promises, promises.”

Months later, the new Wolf Den was alive with bigger suspended ring, better lights, louder crowd. It had taken weeks to convert Kor Gresh’s sad excuse for an arena into something worth bleeding in, but Wolffe had done it. Or rather, you both had.

And now, the crowd roared around you, every scream bouncing off the walls like thunder. You stood dead center in the pit, shoulders rolled loose, knuckles already bloodied and swelling under your wraps. Across from you, that mountain of a Wookiee covered in black and grey fur snarled deeply. He was notorious, one of the most feared gladiators in the Outer Rim, flew to the core of the Galaxy and deep in its most infamous level. Black Krrsantan. A worthy opponent. 

The announcer’s voice echoed across the massive sound system filling the entire arena, “Three… two…”

You bounced once on the balls of your feet, rolling your neck. Unlike before, you weren’t stitched together by alcohol, stubbornness, and painkillers. Your cuts were fresh, but your body was prepped. Strong. You had proper gear now, a real training schedule, and gods help you - a fucking medical team. And it was all thanks to him.

“One…”

You scanned the crowd. Past the lights, past the noise, past the ring of fighters and guards and sponsors and drunk bastards. And there he was. On the upper level, seated like a fucking king. Tattooed arms and elbows on the table. Maroon cloak draped elegantly behind him. At least eight armoured bodyguards around him. That familiar scowl carved into his face.

And yet, his eyes softened when they landed on you.

Wolffe raised his glass and tipped it towards you. A private gesture no one else noticed. No smile, no words. Just that.

You grinned.

“Fight!”

And then you charged.

[themothwhisperer]

Yellowjackets cannot be analyzed and evaluated based on familiar standards. Based on a “normal” life. 99% of people will live a relatively regular life. Therefore we genuinely cannot understand what these characters are going through. Our understanding is limited. It’s simply not realistic to judge them with the societal settings we were raised into from day one to now.

It’s normal to think they are bad people. It’s normal to have mixed or even negative opinions and feelings about them. It’s kind of the point. They’re confronting us with what humans can become in extreme scenarios. If anything, I think it’s fascinating beyond mesures.

Embrace being upset or mad at them.

Embrace questioning the actions of even your favourite character.

We’re trying to imagine what it must be like, but they are not making it easy for us to navigate alongside them.

Also, let’s not forget about a very important aspect of their reality: they are teenagers. It’s a mess even when you haven’t crashed in the middle of an enormous and ruthless forest. A normal teenager is worried about things we, as adults, look back on and perceive as minor or even ridiculous. First relationships, friendships and what to wear and the look to pick for a party or the grades at school or results on the field… One day that was the kind of problems they had and the next day they were dealing with very tangible and adult issues. Some of them did have tougher lives already, but the shift was still drastic for every single one of them. They were literal babies. This is a terrible scenario for any human being. It has to be much worse when you’re just a child. They were forced to grow up extremely fast, not even having the tools and preparation required for it all. It’s brutal. They were already exposed to blood, severed limbs and dead bodies in the following minutes after that plane hit the ground.

And yes, I know some of them are doing so much better than the others. They’re holding on to the absolute best parts of themselves and unlike the others, they are not so corrupted by the horrors they have to do and witness. Nat and Van are prime examples of maintained sanity and humanity. They are strong and deeply good people. It’s true. And it definitely is remarkable and admirable. But with that being said, the trauma is made of many layers for some of them. Of course they’re all profoundly affected and changed, but some of them had it worse. And on top of that, everyone is fundamentally distinctive. Everyone reacts uniquely. Everyone’s got their own weaknesses and strengths and past experiences to carry around. And in a place like this, the smallest details can make a world of difference.

That’s why Shauna is so extreme, for instance. Do we really think she was destined to be a bad person like Melissa was insinuating in episode 8? She was already a troublemaker, right? Having sex with her best friend’s boyfriend like that. But I personally think it’s much more complicated than that. She’s a teenager. She’s flawed, but she also doesn’t know anything. A teenager is a work in progress. She doesn’t have any landmark to guide her. Well at least not anymore. I feel like the possible explanation really comes from her very severe grieving process amplified by a great deal of loneliness. The two sort of emerge from the same roots also.

Shauna bites now, but she always was the dog amongst them. Her canine form simply mutating, adapting. Initially following Jackie’s lead like a lost puppy. Not feeling much, even with the thrill of fucking someone she shouldn’t. But that was okay, it was enough. She had a muzzle, a structure to hold her down, keep her steady. And she also had plenty of time to cope and learn how to do things properly. She was just a kid. But said kid ended up very far away from home, with the guilt of her best friend dying and the unimaginable pain of her baby dying right after. She took a knife to tear skin off. She fed the group and with every sliced piece of meat, she lost parts of herself too.

We can only wonder what’s left. One thing is absolutely certain however… Weakness is not an option. Since Jackie died, she is alone. Of course, Tai and some others truly wanted to help her out, but ultimately, she had no allies that could compare to what Jackie and her had. Van and Taissa have each other (and just think about how it can make the experience much easier when true love and care still exists for you), Lottie has a dedicated “following”, Gen and Melissa were always close, Akilah and her cute little creatures... But Shauna? She’s all by herself. With every passing day, her humanity is shattered.

And then fear comes. Her trauma is so massive that it sort of invades, or rather infects everyone else. People are scared of her now. Of what such an hopeless young woman could do. What she could potentially be capable of committing. That comes with even more distance, but also a newfound power. Fear is a great tool to dominate. At this point, Shauna will take any satisfaction she can find. So this is it and she cannot fail.

That’s also where Melissa becomes interesting. Danger is attractive. Broken things call to be fixed. Plus, this could be it for them, maybe they’ll never leave this place after all. Better make the best out of the situation. Shauna probably sees an opportunity above all else, sure, but there was most likely always a bit of her pre-crash self in this “relationship” too. The typical excitement and hope that can accompany first love. That’s maybe why she gets so aggressive and abusive in episode 9. She cannot accept rejection. It’s the little girl in her that’s hurt. Not only she is experiencing her queerness for the first time, she is also losing all the control she once held on Melissa. She was leading the lost puppy, just like Jackie once was doing with her. And suddenly Melissa is done with her. She had her fill and she is disappointed in what Shauna ultimately is. So she bites back. And harder at that. Is it okay? No. But Shauna cannot accept failure anymore. If things don’t work out her way, she will be violent and cruel. This power is the only way she can keep moving forward.

[sandraharissa]

How I would do Warwick:

make a parallel arc to Silco in s1, he's a monster dad now, have him be a corrupted version of a protector like Silco was a corrupted revolutionary in s1

have Jinx hallucinate Silco via fishbones and have the 2 daughters be haunted (whether positively or negatively) by the ghosts/zombies of their fathers, a shark and a hound

use Warwick being drawn to blood as a way of making him the peacekeeper still, discouraging infighting between gangs/chembarons bcos ppl don't wanna draw out a werewolf who's gonna kill them all

have him throughout his arc slowly regain memories, giving us insight and paralleling the current events by showing us glimpses/broken memories of his relationship with Silco, the falling out and the first revolution

use Warwick to explore young Vander's anger issues, why was he known as a hound? show that

have broken memories result in lol-esque lines to Vi like 'Zaun needed you' and stuff, he could meat it to Vi, but he could also be confusing ppl, like Vi/Jinx and young Silco (or Cait/Jinx and older Silco)

explore him putting too much responsibility on Vi and parentifying her

give him a monster dad arc that mainly centers on Vi but also Jinx a bit

with Jinx make it about them being revolution symbols, strongest heavy-hitters around who ppl will follow to their deaths and explore their anger issues and guilt over hurting their family and their new life/identities as monsters

with Vi do more than just have a two headed dog on her jacket, show how as an enforcer and Cait's right hand she continues the bad and good that came with Vander's protector/peacekeeper attitude towards the undercity. create parallels about leadership and violence not being the answer. In lol Warwick's bio or smth he can initially only remember a little girl screaming a name (and his bearded face), have that be Powder screaming after Vi so that he would recognize Vi's name, connect Vander being experimented on for a decade to Vi's time in prison, how they're both mama-wolf without any cubs etc. focus on gauntlet imagery with Vi and tie it to Vander and violence like they did with the eye imagery and trauma in s1.

have resurfacing memories of tragedy make him more unstable

we can also have some kind of Vander-Silco Vi-Cait parallels

now all that is based on stuff in s1 and pre-existing lol stuff that I could extrapolate from. I'm not gonna draw out a whole arc for Warwick for s2 (it'd be extremely hard to do and require writing out arcs for all characters to know how exactly they intersect) but I'm just saying, all of this seems like no-brainers to me.

[mimizumc]

Okay so, the world building. In tma au they are all human because I think it would be easier that way with meat and corruption being a factor. So they live in tma world with all the cults and institutes but the whole story takes place in the 80's and before the main story there was a large political or whatever organization like EU and it was called senate like in the IDW comics and decepticons protested against them and eventually destroyed them they are considered a terrorist organization but are more like league of super villains but it's way too cartoony for tma univers so terrorist it is. Autobots is organization that is sprout out as a reaction to decepticons and consist from anti terrorist squads all around the world merged into one new organization. Decepticon need to hide, so they're base is under water at the coasts of Mexico cuz I just think it's epic sigma and I'm leaning this reality more to 80's futurism then realism. So by the 80's war between Autobots and Decepticons began to combust and at one moment both Megatron and Optimus disappeared leaving Soundwave searching for Megatron while he has to make sure Decepticons won't turn in just a mess, Bumblebee and Hot Rod searching for Optimus while Ultra Magnus replacing Optimus. The main protagonist is Soundwave because he is so perfect for this role honestly and I'm just not that interested in autobots. He is marked by the eye but will transform into avatar, so he could find Megatron, but he would have to adjust to his new powers. Shockwave knows a lot about the entity's he was a fan of Lietners collection although found him kinda pathetic, he buried himself in the research of possible ways to use fears for decepticons and at one point isolated himself so much in research he became avatar of lonely. Part 1 of tma au Astrotrain and Blitzwing next, spoiler they are doomed.

[teyrnacousland]

I'm jumping in on the Spite spirit vs demon discussion going around because this is one of my favourite Dragon Age topics!

I've always thought the concept of spirits and demons is less black and white than it's presented. I see it the same way I see the concept of "Good" vs "Evil" in people. 'At what point in DA2 does Justice become a demon' is the same question to me as 'at what point in DA2 does Anders become evil'? In my personal opinion, it's never. Others might disagree. (They do, trust me, they won't stop telling me about it) As does Anders himself. Is there a definite, objectively true answer to whether or not Anders is evil? Or is it all subjective?

I think it's the same with spirits. I think a lot of which spirits are considered spirits and which are demons is based purely on what morality we ascribe to certain feelings. Pride is Bad. Valour is Good. Rage is Bad. Compassion is Good. Etc.

But it isn't that simple. Rage may have a tendency to lash out and destroy everything around it, but it can also be healing like in Harding's companion quest, or it can be motivating, sharpened and used as a weapon for justice and to protect others like in Grandin's case in Inquisition. Similarly, Compassion, despite being "Good", can come to kill innocents in the name of mercy. None of these concepts and emotions are clear black and white. It's just that most people would categorise them as bad and good respectively. (Especially since the Chantry teaches them to do just that.)

The thing with spirits is that they reflect people's opinions.

Lucanis: I notice you never say demon around me. Emmrich: Watchers avoid the word. It begets unfortunate expectations. Lucanis: With just a name? Emmrich: Spirits are mirrors of our emotions, and we, the unconscious creators of their environments.

Emmerich doesn't call Spite, or any spirit, a demon because that opinion could reflect on Spite. I love this banter because I've been saying this about Justice for over a decade now. Is Justice a demon because he was twisted by Anders' feelings, because of his own actions, or because he's always feared becoming a demon and Anders feared his own flaws corrupting his friend and those fears combined to make them think it was true, and because everyone around them talked about and treated Justice like a demon for the better part of seven years?

Even humans adapt to meet expectations in that way. If you treat someone like they're evil, they're more likely to see themselves that way and act accordingly. Spirits just take that to the extreme. Expectations and environment can literally fundamentally change them, they're beings of the ever shifting Fade, where nothing is constant and everything is adaptable.

Going back to Spite, the reason he and Lucanis don't become a typical abomination is because they made a deal. Which has to start with Lucanis choosing to see Spite as something that could be reasoned with. How much different would things have gone for them if Lucanis had responded by panicking and trying to fight Spite off because he saw Spite as nothing more than a monster? Spite would likely have reflected that instead, not because that version of Spite is any less capable of reason, but because that's how any frightened being backed into a corner would respond. Maybe it helps that Spite is literally the demon of "no, fuck you" and all it takes to reason with him is saying "calm down, because freaking out and bursting out of me is what the person who put you here wants you to do". But we also know that even something like Rage is capable of coming to this type of agreement, as the Rage demon does with Grandin.

Here are some things Solas says about demons in Inquisition:

"They fight to gain entrance, and when the rules of this world do not mirror theirs, they lash out. Tragic, but not evil." "The dog that bites you because it is rabid is not the dog that bites you because it is starving. You may kill either, but one is just a few scraps of meat away from being your faithful servant."

Rage is said to be the most common type of demon. Rage is also one of the most common responses to trauma and stress. And Solas seems to be claiming that this state of lashing out isn't permanent, as it wasn't for Grandin's Rage demon. (As it isn't for people who are hurting.) Grandin's Rage demon found him, drawn to his own rage, and was likely soothed by the fact that together they had a purpose and a target to focus all this new Rage on. Rage's voice speaks alongside Grandin's when he talks about protecting people. Is this version of Rage still a demon? If working with Grandin gives it focus and purpose while it adjusts to this world, like Lucanis' goals do for Spite, will it still be Rage when they're done? Could it calm down and become a spirit of Justice or Protection? Will it go back to being whatever it was before? Or will it always be a spirit of Rage, just a more complex one now that it is a thing that exists in our world and not just a simple concept in the Fade?

In both Spite and Grandin's case, neither of them fit into the clear cut Good Spirits vs Bad Demons method of categorisation. They fit far better into a system where spirits are like any other people, complex and capable of both good and evil.

[whatbigotspost]

Our 2 party system is corrupt and upsetting. I get that the democrat party stays trash AND I’m fucking thrilled and shocked they’re actually shaking things up like never before.

I know Biden has done horrific things AND he actually is commendable for EVENTUALLY listening and making this choice (at the last minute.) Who has ever done similar (hint: no one.)

I understand Kamala is a cop AND I’m still voting for her, no question. Not even flinching.

I understand she is too like Genocide Joe on many many issues that I deeply disagree with AND I’m fucking delighted the republicans entire 2024 election playbook (“our guy is LESS demented and decrepit!!!!”) is now embarrassing irrelevant and easily weaponizable back at them.

I wasn’t gonna watch any fucking debates or really any election anythings, bc what would I possibly learn that would be of any value?

But now I’m absolutely giddy to watch someone who is (no matter what you think of her politics) CLEARLY at the top of her “talking off the cuff” game and she will run verbal circles around the lumbering fool the Christo fascists are propping up as their meat puppet Trojan horse for Project 2025.

I was always going to vote blue nose-hold bc I understand that is one of the very very few levers that is clearly, obviously in front of me that I have within my personal power to pull against fascism.

I’d like elections to still exist. And our elections aren’t perfect, our systems are fucked, I hate parties, I hate the electoral college, I hate SCOTUS and honestly I hate 99% of politicians writ large AND the demoralizing experience that is voting as a leftist in Texas sure just got a lot less deflating and empty feeling.

The republicans really were gonna ride the boost off of a fucking an assassination attempt to the White House and the dems looked like they were really gonna let them…

AND THEN THEY DIDN’T.

It doesn’t change everything but it changes SOMETHING. Everyone else has already said all the great analogies about voting in the US…it’s choosing a bus ticket, not marrying the candidate, yadda yadda yadda. My bigger point here is that things at least are more interesting and less “over before it’s over.”

Abandon all or nothing thinking in your politics. It will serve you very little.

If you’re curious about a very good review of what has happened (as of Sunday), how it’s possible in US electoral structures that the dem nominee can switch like this, this is a helpful, fact-based non-partisan overview.

[sillygoofyqueer]

Ahhh, I love the drama of humans using sapient creatures as cultivation aids, when the MC is one of those creatures.

Based on all the non-MXTX novels I've read, using humans, human souls, and human body parts as cultivation tools is what constitutes demonic cultivation (well, plus some curses, mind f ckery, and involuntary shapeshifting). This is presumably why WWX calls his stuff Guidao or 'ghost cultivation' instead.

But in those same cultivation novels, there are loads of sapient creatures that can cultivate too… yet killing them for glory or using their body parts for cultivation is often just fine???

I adore stories that take pause and point out just how bullshit that all is. Maybe if they aren't a member of your own species it won't corrupt your cultivation, but it's still not okay to murder or harvest parts from a sapient creature (and even sentient ones ought to be treated with care, not dissected alive for improved potency or whatever).

So yes! I'm fully onboard with Heavenly CrowYuan ultimately running into drama from people wanting to harvest him, just because he's not innately human shaped (and possibly human descended) like TLJ's line, or half-human like Binghe.

YAYAYAYAYAY I love the angst that could come from Shen Yuan being hunted down, so simultaneously trying to both help out those in need and differentiate between those who are taking advantage of him and those who actually need his help - desperately. He's transmigrated from being a human, and he's being hunted down by people who don't care about killing him even though he's seemingly the only Heavenly Crow Demon around. Those who want to take his corpse and rip it apart for any possible chance at power from his blood and flesh, the wealth from his feathers and wings. He runs and he hides, and he thinks about those endangered animals he always used to see online, how they were being hunted down for their tusks and furs. Their scales and their meat. He wonders if this is how they felt - they were different, they weren't seen as anything more than things to gawk at or use for another species' selfish whims, and they were hunted down for it.