#Echoes of a Sinister Contract

[moni26]

Chapter 3: Allies

Magnus started to dream.

He hadn't in decades, so it shook and unsettled him, but there was no other way to call the series of sensations and images coming upon him.

What used to be a thick slumber he had to fight through, mixed with moments of passive awareness and consciousness in Alexander's body, took a turn and reshaped. The points of slumber, of stillness, they changed. The vast, stagnant void of it, was no more. Gently, like the first ripple in a long-still lake, the dreams began to form before him. Images from Alexander's books and stories would manifest themselves in his imagination, through colours and feelings and details. Becoming more vivid, to the point where it didn't matter they were in his imagination alone, they were still affecting him.

Alexander would tell a story and Magnus would dream about it when he wasn't conscious. Dressing the Father's words in visuals, putting himself around the periphery of the story, or directly making himself a character in it. Experiencing bizarre wishes, bizarre likes, and even more bizarre aspirations. As though he was stupider in those dreams, as though he forgot himself.

Some of the dreams ran away with him to the point where they weren't even manifested by the Father's tales. Magnus's own imagination seemed to brew them with no help, now that it had the chance, and the doors to more were cracked right open. When Magnus was the culprit, his subconsciousness brought up less elaborate things.

The demon found himself dreaming of the sun. The sun that he disliked so much typically, the warm sensation of it, the shine on his skin during a good day.

On top of that, he helplessly drifted into dreams of cats, of parties, of New York City.

That was the worst of it by far, continuing to haunt him when he dreamt of eating, plates of food laid out, with different taste and texture. Of drinking, cool water that quenched a thirst he shouldn't have, then an exquisite cocktail with an olive on top, soothing his throat like a balm.

Magnus knew all of this was bad, but it didn't feel bad. Not compared to the emptiness. If he had to choose between the emptiness or the dreams, he liked the dreams somewhat better. In direct comparison they felt better, and wasn't that what all demons and dark souls had come to claim- it can't be bad if it feels good. If it feels better than what was before. Demons wouldn't fight something they enjoy, something they favor. They weren't like the mortals, shamed away from their desires. Nothing should be forbidden for Magnus, nothing should be too much and off limits, and yet this was dangerous because it was different. Was this how mortals felt when they were placed outside of their realm of familiarity?

Magnus should stop himself from wondering as if he cared. How could caring feel better than not caring? It couldn't.

He was only confused, that was all, this was confusing him. His clarity would return after he takes his revenge, it was pointless to expect differently at this moment. Later when he was free, he'll see this for what it really is, no more than an appalling prison.

By now he knew when he'll be passively awake, what would frequently bring him out if he had no ability to fight through it himself. He'll be awake either when his name was spoken, or when essence and body were in the same room. With him. Alexander.

The demon would hear more and more when Alec (and by extension Magnus himself) was with the vessel, he would feel more. He ought to use it when the time was near.

Alexander was too empathetic, his critical judgement compromised because of the tragedy with his brother. It seemed the priest saw a victim of possession, someone that could have been Jace, that's why he was so kind.

Hellspawns beyond, he was so kind. Too kind. Too good and too calm. A stark contrast to the uproars in Hell that Magnus came from, which he commonly resided in the middle of. Alexander was a lot of things that started with 'too' and ended in all possible manners. There was a quiet strength he held. There was softness behind the edges of his demeanor.

Magnus probably hated him, a bit differently than he hated everyone else. In a slightly altered way than he was used to hate overall.

Alexander's easiest weakness to be exploited would always be his Jace. Even from Jace's grave. Even from Hell, where Alexander knew he had ended up. Magnus roved through his own memories and recollections, and then through Alexander's, when he had small access, trying to determine where Jace had to have been thrown in. The demon attempted it as subtle and as imperceptible as possible, before he was thrown in the next dream.

----------

It was getting tiring to stay in one place by the altar, but Alec was more or less used to it when he was concentrated. His voice carried steadily in the hall, to all the people listening to today's lecture.

He had just delivered a message about self-forgiveness and ambition, two things he was struggling with himself, but that was for him to combat. As always, it was easier for him to engage with others through the ways of the Church. He couldn't remember the last time he went to hang out with people he liked that weren't in any way connected to the job or his past, having casual conversations. Instead, that's how he interacted with everyone. Through this.

Sometimes he thought of the demon in him and the remarks Alec had heard. That he was actually wrong to claim people have disappointed him, closing himself off, only using this to reach forward. But at the same time, he shouldn't listen to anything a demon was feeding him. Their only goal was to spread doubt and hurt, that's what they knew.

As some of the visitors and a couple other clergyman filtered out, exchanging warm greetings and gentle smiles, Alec gathered his notes, preparing for the private moments that would follow. The confessions. Walking toward the booth at the side of the hall, its wooden frame worn by years of use, the thick scent of incense mingled with candle wax. He opened the moderately creaking door and took his place in the chair of the confessional, a place that held countless stories of struggle and redemption.

The rest followed in more hushed tones.

''Father, I have no idea what to do,'' a woman began, her voice trembling slightly. ''My husband lives separately from me, with another woman, and I don't think he's coming back.''

''That must be really discouraging for you. Have you thought about divorcing him?''

''I have. But the Lord brought us together in holy matrimony. I keep thinking I've given vows till death, and it just scares me. People around me don't look too kindly on divorces, they say it's disrespectful to break the bonds set for us by Him. That it would be low of me, instead of trying to repair things.''

Alec offered some of his thoughts, ''The Lord sometimes gives us metaphors, which we can interpret looking into our feelings. Until death doesn't have to be a physical death of one of you. It could be the death of the relationship, the death of his feelings, or yours. In what you're describing, I gather that he was the one deciding to break the bond you had with his actions. It wasn't you.

''If he's living a life which has no place for you, if he's forgotten his own vows he gave you, and is actively disrespecting you and making you feel miserable, I think you're absolutely in your right to divorce him. The Lord wants you to be respected, and he wants you to be loved. Consider this when you decide what to do.'' He weighed a bit before he added, ''The people around you who may judge you, they don't really know what they'll do in your place. Because they are not in your place, you are.''

''Thank you, Father.''

A younger sounding woman was next.

''I've done enough I need forgiveness for, but I don't know where to start. I've failed myself. Not sure how to find my way back to my faith.''

''What makes you feel you've lost your way?'' Alec asked.

''Honestly,'' the woman's breath stuttered, ''it's more than one thing. But to top it all off, with the way I live my life, I've dated both genders. It's what pushed me the furthest away from this place.''

''But you're back.''

''Back and more humiliated than ever,'' the sad voice admitted. ''My parents are quite religious, they struggled a lot with me.''

''Some of those struggles were over what you confessed about your romantic interests, am I correct?''

''Yes. I've tried to change, I really have.''

He turned to the space between their sides of the booth, ''Would your parents expect you to change the colour of your eyes, if you were born with one they weren't prepared for?''

''Uh... no?''

''Did your parents expect you to change the colour of your natural hair when it started growing?''

The reply was just as hesitant when the woman denied that too.

Alec carried on, more kindly, ''Why do you think they didn't?''

''Because I... couldn't have, even if I wanted to.''

''There is your answer. Who you are attracted to is just as natural. Maybe not natural to your parents, but you are a separate person, with feelings and wishes of your own. If you need your parents to understand, tell them we are the Lord's creation. If they are indeed religious, they accept this and value his judgement. This is how he made you, because he never made anything only one way. No, he set some of our differences, to help us find ourselves independently. He knows there is a lot of contrast and divergence around us, he created it so. We only need to look past us to see it. You're not to be punished for something outside of your control.''

''But should I still act on it?''

''If it's reciprocated, you aren't hurting anyone if you do. Same sex marriage is legal here. I assume your parents acted on their feelings when they found each other. None of that is something for you to be excluded from. You aren't excluded from finding the same happiness your parents did, the same happiness that others find.''

''I wish that I could say it like that when I talk to them.''

''I understand,'' Alec nodded, ''Maybe you'll be more comfortable bringing them here, when I could say this to them.''

''Crap, imagine their faces when-'' a slap over the mouth raced over whatever the woman was going to throw in. ''Forgive my language, please! I haven't been to Church in a while.''

''It's forgiven. I would absolutely talk to them, if that is easier for you. In any case, don't hate the way the Lord created you. He loves you this way, as he loves everyone.'' A subtle shift in Alec's stance came, before he picked up, ''About something else you've said- if you no longer find peace going to Church, you can also consider why you do it. Because you want to, or because you have to.''

''Isn't this a case of: we all have to.''

Alec was pensive before saying, ''Just as there are different ways to pray, there are different ways to find calm and peace.''

At a later time, while the sun dipped low on the horizon and the people Alec heard and blessed retired to their homes, he closed the gates of the Church and turned the key. Blowing out some of the candles, his back leaned against the wall and his eyes closed, bringing out the cross from under his clothes and clamping his fingers over it. The reason it was always under the clothes and not above them, even though it would make all the sense for Alec to display it, make it visible for everyone given his position, was because it was different than the crosses priests often wore. It was much smaller, much more Alec's taste: basic, silver, and purified in holy water.

He just liked to keep it tucked away and closer to his heart, especially in times like these.

His introspection from before maintained, for whatever reason. He checked the man he looked after, inspected his IV and the fluids he received through it, then provided the body with a longer glance. Narrowing his eyes as the stare deepened, his eyes fixated on anything out of the ordinary.

Was he being crazy, Alec wondered when he blinked a few times and shook his head.

The flickering candlelight by the unresponsive man cast long shadows across the ancient stone walls. The scent of incense still hung in the air, as Alec was just leaving to his own private space and sanctuary.

Again, was he going crazy?

Was he going crazy or was there a certain feeling associated with this side room, because of the person in it. He walked out, but moved slower, deep in thought, only partly paying attention to what he was doing.

The Church stood silent under the moon's gaze.

Soon it was even later at night, Alec still away from the small bed he used, giving in to none of the claws of sleep.

Without warning, the ground shook. A low, guttural sound, like the growl of a wild beast, was coming from the outside. Finding one of the church windows and looking through, something stirred in the dark, an unnatural chill creeping up Alec's spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand. A toxic presence was in the air.

First, out the window something met his gaze, another pair of eyes, making him jump away. His overwhelming sense of being watched, of being hunted by a predator, was sending alarm bells ring with a blaring intensity through his whole body.

Alexander?

His turmoil got him a sense of Magnus Bane, sleepy and muddled, so Alec held him at bay. For once this week Magnus Bane wasn't the lurking presence that set him into disturbance.

Afterward...

All Hell broke loose.

Silhouettes and shapes moved at the edges of the building, creeping closer, slithering over the gates. Pushing against the wards.

Demons.

Plural.

Lower class, must have been invoked and brought to action by power of an infernal being higher-up. Trying to get the doors to burst open. Pouring to push from one place, looking for a hole to weaken the defenses.

Reaching the only open window to the entrance and forcing it shut, Alec saw more distorted outlines in the night, twisted by darkness and rage. Claws scraped against the glass the second he secured its closing and pulled himself away. The diabolical creature's attempts unrelenting, hungry, searching.

Find it! It's in here! Find it! Mommy wants it!

Alec clamped his hands over his ears, trying to shield himself, fingers curling inwards. A sharp breath caught in his throat, and his chest rose and fell in quick shallow gasps, as if he couldn't get enough air. His eyes darted around the building, having perfect memory of where more weapons were hidden. Considering the chance of the Church not withstanding this attack.

Smell it! It's here! Take it for Mommy!

No, the building and its defenses had never dealt with such a swarm of demons at once, leaping to hit the pane, looking for a way in. Objects tumbled from their placements unprompted, blown out candles falling on the floor, and Alec was rushing into action.

Alexander.

Books tumbled from their shelves, this time with Alec's help as he ransacked to start the right incantation, cutting his other unscathed hand, requiring his blood like he had for the summoning once before. Like other times, the words were foreign just before they rolled down his tongue, turning well-known the second he used them. The switch was familiar by now, reminding him of his lineage better than anything else could.

You, one of the demons was hissing and snarling from the glass, You have it! You've hidden it! Not for you! Is for Mommy!

Alec felt the power of the incantation building within him. His voice, strong and resonant, cut through the oppressive atmosphere. Some of the dark shapes hissed and recoiled when he was battling back now. He used the power harvested in the soil when he spoke the words in his grandsire's language, the consecrated territory mixed with the sacred text he read from, meant to drive them away.

It chased off a good amount, but he was quickly becoming convinced that what he was doing wouldn't be enough against the overwhelming odds. They were too many to begin with, too many to fend off through this. He could force away about half, but then he still had the rest attacking him. Lower demons may be weaker individually, but this many could be fatal.

He crossed himself, moving his hand from the forehead to the chest and then from one shoulder to the other. Then he reached down to his legs, gathering the heavy black fabric of his robes, tearing it from both sides, one uneven line on the right and one on the left. Forcing the material to separate in order for Alec to move quickly and sufficiently. Needing the speed and mobility cloaked behind the ceremonial garb. For this part, only the warrior remained.

With his ripped apparel and its edges fluttering free, Alec reached for the inside of his boot. Taking out a small dart from it. Saying the words and watching it grow to a set of crossbow bolts in his hold, he hurtled towards the only other entry besides the main, a narrow back entrance which was visibly sealed. On the way, he got the crossbow, hidden in a compartment under loose floorboards, runes spread over the entirety of it. Barely catching his breath, he was running while the air itself seemed to howl in his pursuit.

The sealed back door was marked with a rune as well. Alec's bloody hand over it revealed a glamoured gap he could see and shoot from. Stopping things from getting in, but not stopping them from getting out, exactly what he needed. Like through a spell, the gap widened, helping him see outside.

With practiced precision, Alec dropped to one knee, his crossbow trained on the moving shadows. His heart pounded with adrenaline, but his hands remained steady.

The first demon, with scaled skin and fiery eyes, fell fast and neat. The second only displayed part of its clawed limbs before letting out a pained roar, pierced through the chest, disintegrating into the night dust. Alec's pointed projectile was cutting through the darkness, taking out creature after creature. With fluid movements, he lunged shot after shot. His body responding instantly, trained by years of demon hunting.

Alexander!

...

Hellspawns beyond, I didn’t know you had it in you.

...

I think you've got them. Take that, Lilith, you filthy little bitch!

...

Let me help.

...

Alexander!

''No,'' Alec pushed him away.

You could benefit from my help.

Magnus Bane had no reason to help him. He wanted him to die here.

Except we're still tied.

''How did you make Lilith send them?''

I didn't. Does this look like something I would want? We're tied, I have a vested interest in you surviving this particular encounter.

''Then why has she sent them? Why now?''

Stop this and listen to me. With my help, you'll kill them all. Let me.

''I'm not letting you in,'' Alec whispered coldly, narrowing his focus after recharging, releasing the following shots and finding his mark.

Not letting me in, only the strength I've got. It's there for you to use, I'll allow it to flow through you. I won't resist.

Alec inhaled deeply, filled with his misgivings about it. ''Why would you help me?''

Because I've despised Lilith longer than you've been alive. I have no issue seeing all her faithful offsprings burn. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, just this once. Let me kill them.

Alec digged for dishonesty, but exhaustion may start slowing him down and the wards were getting weaker. Besides, in that moment, Magnus's hate for Lilith felt true.

He only had to open his mind to it, before Magnus's strength began to channel into him, wrapping around them like an invisible force. Alec's body reacted almost instinctively, his muscles tensing and then relaxing as the power coursed through him.

In an instant, he was fully outside, standing tall, raising his head.

A vision of black large wings unfurled from his back, sweeping outward with an elegance. He sensed them like an abstract and incorporeal existence, not having a physical body but rather a manifestation of power.

Alec flicked his wrist, and the demons were toast.

----------

''What kind of demon are you?''

The worst kind.

''That's the Devil.''

Is it? Wait until you see my father.

Alec's instincts flared, a realisation crashing over him. The Devil might be a story, but he was said to be a fallen Angel, expelled from Heaven.

Magnus's father... a fallen Angel?

Angels were known to have a corporeal human-like body, one that became vulnerable without the celestial being occupying it.

Oh no!

[begtopush]

The Cult Breeder

Word count 2980

Tw: Dark Topics, kidnapping, pushing baby back in, hard birth,descriptive birth, cult vaguely referenced

The cruel captor smirks wickedly, his eyes glinting with malicious glee as he sees Emily suffering in the throes of labor. He leans in close, his putrid breath hot against her ear as he whispers in a sinister tone.

“Aww, listen to you moan and cry, you pathetic slut. You want this baby out so badly, don't you? Too fucking bad.” He chuckles darkly, trailing a finger along her trembling jawline. “I'm in charge here, remember? You don't get to make demands.”

He steps back, folding his arms across his broad chest as he watches her writhe in agony, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. “Beg for it, whore. Beg me to help you deliver this bastard child. Maybe if you grovel enough, I'll consider it.” His laughter echoes through the room, cold and merciless. “Go on, entertain me. I'm all ears.”

“Please" she whines out weakly but it was not nearly good enough for him and makes him a bit mad with her lack of effort.

The captor's grin vanishes, replaced by a scowl of anger and disappointment. He grabs Emily's chin roughly, forcing her to meet his icy stare as another contraction wracks her body.

“Please?” he sneers, his grip tightening painfully. “That's all you've got? Fucking pathetic!” He shakes her head like a rag doll, his fury mounting. “You think a meager 'please' is enough to make me lift a finger to help you?”

He releases her roughly, letting her head thump against the wall as he steps back. He begins to pace the small cell, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete floor. “I should leave you to suffer, you ungrateful bitch. Let you scream and wail until you pass out from the pain. That's what you deserve for your half-assed begging.”

He spins on his heel, jabbing a finger at her as he leans in close once more. “You want this baby out? Then beg like you fucking mean it! Beg until your throat is raw and your lungs burn. Beg until I believe the desperation pouring out of you. Only then, and only if I'm feeling generous, will I even consider letting you push this brat out of your worthless body. Now fucking TRY!”

She groans "please god pleaseee” the contraction building again making Her whimper trying to grip onto the chain to squeeze it.

The captor's eyes narrow as Emily's groans reach a desperate new pitch, her voice cracking with the anguish of her labor and his cruel torments combined. He leans in closer, his face mere inches from hers, his breath hot and noxious against her skin.

‘Please god pleaseee…’ he mocks in a high-pitched, whorish imitation of her voice, his lips curling in a sneer. “Still not good enough, you miserable slut. You want the big man upstairs to hear you? Then fucking SCREAM IT!”

He slams his fist against the wall beside her head, making her flinch and cry out in fear and pain. His eyes burn with sadistic fury as he growls, “Beg me, you fucking CUNT! Beg me to end your suffering and deliver your bastard spawn. SCREAM my name until it's the only prayer you know. Until the echoes of it are seared into your goddamn soul!”

He grabs a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head back and forcing her to meet his wild, deranged eyes. His face is a mask of cruel intensity, his voice a vicious snarl.

“DO IT, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH! BEG ME LIKE YOUR FUCKING LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. BECAUSE IT FUCKING DOES! NOW SCREAM! SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME LIKE THE ONLY HOPE YOU HAVE IS IN MY FICKLE MERCY!”

She begs and whines for a bit but he still isn't satisfied she tries to disobey him and push she lets out a yelp as he forces something in to stop the descent and locks on a chastity belt so she can't push as she screams.

The captor's eyes blaze with rage as Emily's feeble attempts at begging still fail to satisfy his sadistic cravings. He watches in disgust as she tries to disobey him, attempting to push the baby out on her own. A vicious sneer twists his lips as he hears her pathetic yelp.

In an instant, he's on her, one hand clamping over her mouth to stifle her cries, the other grabbing a Length of coarse rope. He forces her thighs apart, his calloused fingers roughly shoving the rope between her legs and tying it tightly around her upper thighs, just below her swollen belly.

He cinches the makeshift chastity belt with brutal force, cutting into the soft flesh of her thighs until she whimpers into his palm. Satisfied with his handiwork, he releases her mouth and admires his cruel creation with a wicked grin.

“There, now you won't be trying to disobey me anymore, will you, you stupid fucking cow?” He chuckles darkly, giving the rope a sharp tug that makes her gasp in pain.” You want to be a stubborn bitch? Fine. But you'll suffer for it.”

He steps back, folding his arms as he watches her writhe against her bonds, her belly throbbing with the need to push. His grin widens as he sees the desperation and anguish etched into her features.

“Keep fighting it, whore. Keep resisting me. It'll only make your suffering that much sweeter.” He laughs cruelly, relishing every second of her torment. “You're not going to birth this brat until I allow it. Now, beg. Beg like you fucking mean it, you pathetic cunt. Beg until the only word you know is my name!”

“PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE” she cries and screams begging his name for 3 hours as the head pushes against the belt just to make no progress.

The cruel captor watches Emily with sadistic glee for three interminable hours, relishing every second of her desperate, anguished begging. He listens to her voice grow hoarse, her pleas becoming more and more frantic as the pain of labor consumes her. But still, he remains unmoved, his heart as cold and hard as the concrete walls of her prison.

Only when her begging reaches a fever pitch, when her words dissolve into incoherent, pain-wracked wails and cries, does he finally deign to respond. A wicked, triumphant grin spreads across his face as he leans in close, his putrid breath washing over her.

With deliberate, agonizing slowness, he reaches down and unties the cruel chastity belt binding her thighs. He drags it out, letting the rough rope scrape against her sensitive skin, making her flinch and whimper.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity to the suffering woman, he tosses the belt aside. He leans in even closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispers in a voice dripping with mocking gentleness.

“There, there, my pet. You've begged so very prettily. I suppose you've earned a small reward.” He chuckles darkly, his hand coming to rest on her swollen belly, feeling the tightness of her uterus as it prepares to push.

“Push, you fucking slut. Push this bastard out. And remember, you only get to scream for me. Now, PUSH!”

She pushes and screams it wasn't long before she gets the head out she screams out "OH GOD PLEASE IT HURTS" this pisses him off he's not God he said she could only scream for him. He comes up to her gripping the head and with deliberate slow movements he pushes the head in very slowly as she screams and begs.

The captor's eyes blaze with fury and outrage as Emily screams out her desperate plea to a higher power, completely forgetting his cruel command. A vein throbs in his neck as he fights the urge to strike her for her disobedience. Instead, he leans in, gripping the newborn's head with deliberate slowness, his fingers sinking cruelly into the soft, vulnerable flesh.

He glares at her, his voice a low, menacing growl as he forces the baby's head back inside her with agonizing slowness. “YOU WANT GOD TO HELP YOU, BITCH?” he snarls. “THEN PRAY TO THE ONLY GOD WHO MATTERS HERE!”

He grinds the baby's head against her cervix, making her shriek in agony as he continues to force it back inside her. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING THAT HURTS?” she cries. His other hand comes up to wrap around her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make breathing a struggle.

“I am your god now, you fucking whore. The only one who can grant you mercy or suffering. And you just pissed me off.” He leans in closer, his eyes burning into hers with sadistic intensity. “Now, scream for me. SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME LIKE THE ONLY WORD YOU KNOW. SCREAM IT AS I FORCE THIS BRAT BACK INSIDE YOU. SCREAM IT LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. BECAUSE IT FUCKING DOES! NOW PUSH, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH! PUSH HARDER! PUSH LIKE YOUR VERY SOUL IS ON THE LINE. BECAUSE WITH ME, IT FUCKING IS!”

"STOP STOP DONT OWOWOWOWOW" She screams trying to close her knees on him her hands still chained above her head forcing her into a standing position as he's slowly forcing the head into her body.

The captor's eyes widen with vicious amusement at Emily's desperate screams and futile attempts to close her knees, to protect herself and her unborn child from his cruel ministrations. He chuckles darkly, a sound that sends icy shivers down her spine.

He leans in closer, his grip on the baby's head never wavering as he forces it even deeper, making Emily wail in agony. “Stop? Don't push it in? Oh, I don't think so, you pathetic slut.” He snarls, his voice dripping with sadistic glee.

He uses his free hand to grab her thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave livid bruises. He forces her leg open wider, exposing her most intimate places to his ruthless violation.

You don't get to tell me what to do, whore. You don't get to make demands. He grinds the baby's head harder against her cervix, drawing a blood-curdling scream from Emily's throat. “I decide when this baby lives or dies. I decide when you live or die. And right now, I decide that you're going to take this brat back inside you, whether you want to or not.”

He starts to push the baby's head back in with brutal force, ignoring Emily's desperate screams and pleas. His eyes glint with cruel, twisted amusement as he watches her suffer.

“Fight it all you want, bitch. It won't change a fucking thing. You belong to me now. This baby belongs to me. And I say it goes back inside your worthless cunt until I say otherwise. NOW STOP STRUGGLING AND PUSH, YOU FUCKING WHORE! Push this brat back where it belongs, or I'll make you fucking regret it!”

But her respite is short-lived. He reaches for the discarded chastity belt, his lips curling in a wicked grin as he holds it up, letting her see the cruel device that will once again deny her the right to push her baby out.

He leans in close, his voice a sinister whisper against her ear. “You want to play the stubborn bitch? Fine. You can earn the right to push this brat out. But you're going to fucking work for it.”

With brutal efficiency, he forces her shaking legs apart and shoves the belt between them, cinching it tight and cruelly around her thighs. He grins at her whimper of pain and protest.

Next, he reaches up and unchains her wrists from the restraints above her head. She massages her red, aching wrists as he grabs her roughly by the arm and hauls her to her feet.

He drags her stumbling and groaning form out of the small cell, not caring about her labor pains or the baby's desperate need to be born. He forces her to walk, to move, as he marches her through the house.

He sets her to work, making her clean, making her scrub, making her cater to his every whim and demand. All the while, he watches her with a cruel, mocking smile, enjoying her anguish.

“Clean this fucking toilet, you disgusting pig.” He growls, shoving a scrub brush into her hands. “Keep begging if you want to, but you won't push until I say you can. Now fucking work, you worthless cunt. Work for your brat's life!”

She cries and begs pushing every contraction just for the head to reach the belt and recede again making her cry “PLEASE LET ME GET IT OUT PLEASE"cries screams

The cruel captor watches Emily with sadistic amusement as she stumbles through the house, her belly heavy and aching, her body wracked with the pains of labor. He listens to her pitiful begging and crying, his name falling from her lips like a broken mantra between each agonizing contraction.

He forces her to clean every inch of the house until it gleams, until not a speck of dust or dirt remains. All the while, he hovers over her, criticizing her every move, demanding perfection and punishing any perceived shortcomings with cruel words and harsher actions.

Finally, when the house is spotless and Emily is exhausted and shaking, he drags her back to the bedroom and throws her onto the bed. She lands hard, a grunt of pain escaping her as another contraction seizes her, the urge to push overwhelming.

The captor watches, his eyes glinting with wicked anticipation, as Emily's body instinctively starts to push. He sees the baby's head begin to crown, stretching her poor abused flesh to its limit.

He leans in close, his lips curling in a smirk of cruel satisfaction as he growls, “Damn, I put a big one in you, didn't I? And I'm not sorry. Not one fucking bit.”

He reaches down, his fingers sinking cruelly into the flesh of Emily's inner thighs, spreading them wider as she screams and pushes against her bonds. “You want this baby out so badly, don't you, you filthy whore? Well, keep pushing. Keep screaming. Let me hear how much it hurts. Let me hear how much you need me to give you permission to birth this fucking brat!”

She pushes screaming as the head crowns “IT BURNS OH IT BURNS SO BAD GET OUT GET OUT” she cries

The cruel captor throws his head back and laughs, a harsh, grating sound that echoes through the room as Emily screams in agony, her voice raw and hoarse from her labor and begging. He grins down at her, his eyes alight with sadistic glee as he watches her writhe and push against the burning, stretching pain of her cervix yielding to the baby's passage.

He leans in closer, his breath hot and foul against her face as he snarls,” ‘OW, OW, OW, IT BURNS?’ You think that hurts, you pathetic slut? You haven't seen anything yet.” His fingers dig harder into her thighs, his nails leaving livid red welts in her soft flesh.

He watches, enraptured and cruelly amused, as the baby's head pushes out a little further with each of Emily's agonized screams and pushes. He reaches down, his fingers sinking into the baby's slick, compressed head as it emerges inch by excruciating inch.

He chuckles darkly, his voice dripping with mocking sympathy. “Oh, you're doing so well, my pet. Your body was made to be bred, made to be used for pleasure and pain. And I'm going to use you for so much more.”

He leans in, his teeth sinking into the fleshy part of her shoulder, biting down until he tastes blood on his tongue.” Keep screaming, my lovely little fuck toy. Let me hear how much it hurts as this big, beautiful baby destroys your pussy on the way out. You've earned it. Now, PUSH! Push this brat out and maybe, just maybe, I'll go easy on you. Maybe.”

She pushes and the head pops Out with a squeal she doesn't stop though she just keeps pushing “GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT” she was so delirious

He watches with sadistic fascination as Emily pushes with all her remaining strength, her face contorted in agony, her voice raw from her screams and cries. With each push, her body strains and convulses, her muscles taut and trembling as they work to expel the large baby from her tight, abused channel.

Sbee can feel the baby's head emerging further with each contraction, stretching her cervix to its limits and beyond. Emily's screams reach a fever pitch as the burning, searing pain of the baby's head crowning becomes too much to bear.

With a final, agonized scream that echoes through the room, Emily pushes one last time, pouring every ounce of strength and willpower into that final, desperate effort. And then, with a gush of fluids and a rush of relief, the baby's head slips free, followed immediately by the broad, sturdy shoulders.

The captor catches the baby as it emerges, lifting it up and holding it aloft, letting Emily see the fruits of her labor. He grins down at her, his eyes wild with cruel triumph.

He leans in close, his voice a sinister whisper against her ear as she collapses back onto the bed, exhausted and shaking. “Look at what a good little breeder you are,” he growls. “Breeding a big, strong boy. I'm so fucking proud of you.”

He sets the baby down roughly on the bed beside her, not caring about its cries or needs. His attention remains solely focused on his broken, defeated prisoner as he sneers down at her.

“You did well, whore. You've earned a small reward.’ His grin turns wicked, his eyes glinting with dark promise. “I think it's time to start working on giving me a little girl next. What do you say, my pretty fuck toy? Ready to be bred again?”

[okiedokrie]

INFERNO

Summary: The witch trials are in full swing, the church ordered for all witches to be burned at the stake. From morning until the night, you pray for those who turned their back against God. But a knock at your door startled you, the church, in desparation, accused you of witchcraft. Only then did you realize that your God has long forsaken you. Now, you make a deal with the Devil.

Characters/Pairing(s): Demon!Joshua X F!Reader

Genre: Smut, Angst, Horror

AUs/Trope info: Demon!AU, Contract Relationship

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: References to witch trials, religious terminologies, literally talking about giving birth to the anti-christ, killing everyone (im being serious), (smut warnings under the cut)

Rating: 18+

A/N: Dedicated to the ji to my han @nebulousbrainsoup

Smut Warnings: oral (f receiving), slight overstim, taking virginity, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie,

"Halt! You are being seized by the church. You will now confess all your transgressions to the light of the lord." The knights of the holy empire called out to you, that the one day you left the church to purchase food was the day you got accused of dark arts before your peers.

"Wretched witch, pay the price of your sins with blood and tears. Your crimes against our lord will not go unpunished. Come to the break of dawn in a fortnight, you shall burn at the stake as you will in hell."

The metal of the constraints dug into your skin, you aren't sure if the metallic scent in the air was rust, or blood, you couldn't hear the screams of those being tortured over the ringing of your own ears. You pray, this time for your own salvation; but seven days have passed and your god has not come to save you.

Whether it was desperation or disappointment, you couldn't tell. But something pulled you, so magnetic, the darkness that surrounded you was promising vengeance.

The sky grew dark as it was clouded in a tint of red as if the heavens bled for you, but your back is against them now, no god is here to save you.

"A soul most pure, intriguing, very intriguing." A layered voice said, it whispered, screamed, groaned, and moaned. You knew exactly who this was, the lord of darkness himself.

"Tell me, after devoting your life to your God, why have you come to beg for my mercy?" The shadows started to condense, each word was also a step towards you, the shadow now vaguely resembling the figure of a man.

"I beg of you, lord of darkness, spare me mercy for my God has forsaken me, give me salvation, and I will then devote my every hour to you, waking or not." You beg as you fall onto your knees, your skin breaking against the cold stone floor as your nails drag across the dirty floor, the grime building as filth under your nails.

He chuckles, "Let me make one thing clear, you call yourself a devotee, but when you are on the stage that is life, you are first and foremost, an actor." The voice echoed in the chamber you were a prisoner in, and the click of his heeled shoes ticked like a clock, "Good actors hone their craft, to captivate the audience. You may act like a devoted follower of the good lord, but you were promised to be mine. My mother of demons.”

He continued, voices condensing into a sound more fathomable, but still as sinister. “There is a seed of darkness in your purest of souls, feeding on the last of the purity in you. All I have to do is nurture it, and you will be mine.”

The darkness ripples and cracks around you, the air becoming hot, the smell of lightning invades your senses, overbearing, overpowering the reality you were accustomed to.

The voice speaks again, swirling into a deep masculine voice. His voice becoming more palatable to your much too human ears, you mind is no longer straining to comprehend the horror of his diction, “Which is why I will offer you a contract. Give what is most pure of you to me, and I shall protect you, give you the power to burn this earth to the ground, return them to me, and I will promise you a life of bliss by my side."

He steps into the dim red light, you see him now, a man dressed in a black suite that was much too modern for your time, his glowing amber eyes pierced your very heart as the smirk on his plump lips bared his fangs to you. His hand is outstretched to you, black lacquered nails and a glowing purple glyph etched onto the palm of his skin.

"Come now, won't you shake a poor sinner's hand?"

You jump from your place on the floor, grasping his hand, and with a firm shake, you say, "I do, I promise to answer your every beck and call, I will serve you, my lord."

You feel the mark on his palm burn onto yours, the pain was insurmountable, like all the ends of your nerves were burning, pain that you could feel in the very core of your being, but then, bliss.

The contract has been signed, the seal now is to take your purity.

Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper virgini, beato Michaeli archangelo, sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis, quia peccavi nimis.

The cathedral bells ring ominously, and a dark red tint paints the sky to warn the people below the heavens that the devil has taken hold of another poor, unfortunate soul.

The choir sang as the church bells rang, another soul lost to the dark hands of the devil. A path of sin paved with blood, sweat, and tears. Solemn was the tone of the town, a young maiden of the nobility embraced the devil himself, lost in his sweet kiss.

You embraced him, your body, mind, and soul now his. In every sense of the word, you gave your life to him. The people mourned and wept for you, their hearts heavy with the weight of this stain, this sin you left for them to bear as you will live forever in the dark bliss of the devil's tongue.

He kissed you passionately, his black heart almost beating for you, cold hands held you delicately, as if the slightest touch would break you, he laid you on the sheet that acted as your bed in this cell.

He trailed his hands slowly, starting from your knees to your thighs, the way his palms ghosted over your skin made goosebumps rise, he hooks his fingers to your draws, pulling the garment from under your skirt and discarding it to an unknown corner of the cell.

He stares down at your heat, golden eyes in a heated stare with your wet pussy, a flower yet to be plucked, dripping with golden honey as the lord of darkness blew the cold air into it.

He placed a delicate kiss to your knee, he was much more delicate than what you’d expect the lord of darkness’s intimate manner would be, trailing equally soft kissed down the length of your thigh to the apex of them, your sex clenching in anticipation.

His forked, long tongue licked a stripe across your heat, collecting your sweet essence on his tongue, he groaned at the contact to your velvet flesh, reveling in the feeling of unbridled lust.

You throw your head back, a coil in your stomach was starting to form was the lord worked his tongue around your folds, stopping occasionally to suckle on your clit, you thread your fingers in his hair, pushing his head closer to your heat in a desperate attempt for more friction.

He continued this gentle but dizzying pace with one goal on his mind, to taste the first and last time this flower tasted so sweet. The coil in your stomach was tightening almost painfully, the pleasure was insurmountable, pressure was building in a way that you never experienced before.

Then the coil snapped.

You throw your head back in a silent scream, your body shivering from the impact of such a powerful orgasm, he continues his ministrations on your heat, only this time avoiding your clit.

He licked your essence off his lips, he discarded his pants somewhere along the time he was between your legs, his firm hands took your legs and threw them over his shoulder, you catch his shoulder,

"Wait!" You plead, "my lord, your name, please give me your name." you say, the dark lord stared at you, but only for a moment.

He stares into your eyes, his amber gaze burning into your memory before he speaks again. "Joshua. Joshua would be more suitable for your human tongue." He said, as he finally entered you.

"Joshua-!" you gasp out, the stretch of his girth deliciously burned, his hard cock dragging into your heat with just friction that it didn't matter how wet you already were.

He rolls his hips in a slow and steady pace, taking in every new expression on your face and sound that you make. He bit his lip, holding back his own noises to savor the sweet sounds falling freely from your lips.

He picks his pace up after he notices you relax more, the force that his hips meet yours made your body rock upwards, shaking from the pressure that was rubbing against your walls.

"I'll breed you, your body, mind, and soul, all mine for the rest of time. I'll plant my seed into you, you'll bare the devil's children, mother of demons. My whore for all eternity." He breathed out, ragged from the force he was thrusting into you, you could only feel the rapid thumping of your heart over the ringing in your ears, your head was pleasantly empty, the only thoughts in your head was the delicious drag of his cock into you.

"Oh- Joshua-! It feels so good, oh- I feel it-!" You moan out, although you aren't sure if that's exactly what you said, for all you know, it could've just been babbling noises.

"Yes, cum around my cock, cream on it and milk it for it for all it's worth." he groans out, clearly also close to his release, his grip on your hips, dark talons digging into the skin and drawing blood.

Another coil snaps in you, this time, much more powerful. You can fill a surge of dark power being absorbed into you at the same time Joshua spills his seed into you, this dark force was hot, it felt like you had the power of a god swirling inside of you.

Out of breathe, Joshua looks at you, "by the break of dawn, you will no longer be human. Let the sleep take you, my dear, for the next time you awaken, your final waking place will be all of the new world. I promise you that."

He said as he placed a searing kiss to your forehead.

By the time the sun rose again, all the strength you had lost from being imprisoned here had not only returned to you, but you were now stronger, the dark flame burning under your skin fueled your anger, and an unholy boiling boils beneath the surface.

The cell, the dungeon, all the king's men, all the king's subjects, and the king himself, will not escape your inferno.

The only throne left standing is the one where Joshua sits, ruling over the sinners of the old world with you by his side.

[cemeteryspider]

Family Fragments Part 1

Stanford Pines x Child! Reader

*No use of Y/n* *Fem Reader*

Summary: Flashback~ Ford must protect you, his innocent daughter, from becoming an unwilling pawn in the sinister schemes of an Interdimensional demon.

Trigger Warnings: Possession, Child Endangerment (thanks Bill), Psychological Manipulation, Mild Violence

Word Count: 1.1k

You shifted in your father's arms as he pushed through doors and walked through hallways from the basement of his shack in the woods into your room in the attic. You barely registered him tucking you into your bed and him kissing you on the forehead with his heavily chapped lips.

"Good night, Sweet pea," He whispered and the door clicked behind him. 

A loud tired sigh echoed in the short stairwell down to the foyer. The descent down the staircase was heavy and creaky and when he came to the door in the basement he widened his eyes and allowed the retinal scanner to scan his eye confirming he was not possessed by Bill. He couldn’t help the yawn that escaped his lips as he entered the basement, cluttered with half-finished devices- scattered wires and gears glinting under the dim flickering light bulb hanging overhead.The unfinished portal stood tall in front of him humming a just so a he felt a soft vibration through the soles of his shoes. 

He sat down at the workbench and resumed writing in the third journal. Drawing the new suit he was designing to keep Bill out of his mind for good, however there was the small problem of the brain he needed to complete the thing. However, his mind drifted to the mind erasing gun in the hand of the suit which reminded him of his old friend, who left him alone to work with his muse months ago. 

Then he heard a not so subtle knocking coming from upstairs. At first he thought it was some random drunk knocking at the door and letting the person get bored of the odd old cabin in the woods, but after a succinct series of thuds and a hushed laughter he decided to investigate.

He breathed a sigh of relief—at least Bill couldn't sneak his way down there, not without triggering the failsafes. But as he looked up, his heart stopped. There you were, standing in the foyer, eyes glowing an unnatural yellow and a smile far too wide for your little face. It was a sight so wrong, so unsettling, that Ford could barely bring himself to speak.

Your limbs jerked awkwardly, like a marionette pulled by unseen strings, controlled by a puppeteer who lacked all finesse, "Hey, sixer!"

He stood frozen for a moment. Bill's voice coming from your mouth where your sweet little voice should have been, he swallowed a lump in his throat and forced himself to speak, "What are you doing here Bill?" 

Bill grinned, twisting your lips into a mockery of a smile, "I just came by to see you and it seems as though you've taken certain... precautions to make sure I don't interrupt your research."

A chill went down Stanfords spine, his research into the Anti-Cipher Society, and the plans for the suit I had designed, "Let's talk face to face, Cipher. No need to bring my daughter into this."

"I suppose I could end our contract a bit earlier than I intended," And with that your eyes rolled into the back of your skull, and your scaleras the correct color once more. Quickly Ford ran toward you and stopped your descent before hitting the ground.

Bill floated around looking at the different furniture with great fascination, "What is wrong with you, she's just a child."

He cradled your head while you continued your sleep, "Yeah, quite a while since I made a deal with something so small, very difficult to control such small limbs. Painful falling down the stairs don't you think?"

His eyebrows rose and looked over your head moving your hair around, checking for any blood or bruising that could indicate a head wound or concussion.

Stop being such a stick in the mud, Sixer,' Bill sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. 'She’s perfectly fine…for now.' His tone darkened, and Ford’s blood ran cold as he watched Bill shift, his form flickering like a faulty lightbulb.

Ford clutched you tightly to his chest, his heart pounded erratically in his ribcage, "I think it's time for you to leave."

"Nothing more for me to do here, but just you wait I think I will see you again, real soon," With that the cabin seemed to gain its color back and you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes.

"Dad?" You whispered after a rather large yawn. He couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at hearing your darling voice. His fingers trembled as they wrapped themselves around your small frame, almost as if you would slip right through his grasp into the nightmarish darkness Bill brought in. For a moment, he pressed his nose to the top of your head and breathed in your familiar scent, desperate to remind himself that you were here with him- still his little girl. A surge of guilt tightened his chest. 

"Everything's going to be okay, Sweet Pea just go back to sleep." And you did. For so long he had stayed awake for as long as possible trying to avoid Bill gaining control of his body he forgot about you. A child with little contact with the outside world, and how easily children can be persuaded by older wiser beings. Bill is a master manipulator and Ford practically opened the door to your mind by inviting him into his. 

Despite the distance he forced Bill to keep from you, he had been in his mind. Combed through his memories his happiest being with Stan in his earlier years, and with you in the present. You never were far from his thoughts and Bill knew his weak spot.

He could pull his own hair from his scalp at his own negligence, scream at the top of his lungs for the danger that he put you in, or cry at the worry he felt after learning of your tumble down the stairs caused by someone he once called his friend. However, he did none of those things.

Once he had tucked you in for a second time, Ford sank into the old chair beside your bed. The springs groan under his weight, the leather cracked and worn from years of use. He stared at you for a long moment, watching your chest rise and fall as you slept peacefully. It made his heart ache. How innocent you looked, under a heap of soft blankets, completely unaware of the danger that lurked just beyond your dreams. A dim lamp casting a light golden glow across the room that seemed like a fragile barrier against the dark shadow Bill Cipher cast on this night. 

Ford’s hand shook as he plucked a pen from your desk and opened the journal he had tucked in his coat pocket, the ink bleed slightly as he pressed it to the parchment. He wrote furiously, his mind racing with all sorts of plans, but one thought rang through: I can’t let him take her. Not my daughter.

[ekathaenyra]

Imagine tommy being werewolf and finding y/n somewhere in the woods injured and bringing them back home to help them heal instead of eating them like tommy usually does or something along those lines

English isn't my native language, some sentences are translate with google, i'm sorry if there's mistake

It's my day off so I'm just writing all day!

Thomas Hewitt x fem!reader

A cold wind blew through the trees, making Y/N shiver. Leaves crunched beneath his feet, and every step echoed in the oppressive silence of the forest. Night had long since fallen, and the darkness made every branch sinister, every bush suspicious. Lost, exhausted, Y/N tried to find his way back, but it was clear that he had ventured too far. The moon shone, full and bright, above the treetops, bathing everything in a silvery light.

But suddenly, a noise. A branch cracking, there, just behind. He turned abruptly, his heart pounding, searching in the shadows for the origin of this noise. His eyes scanned the darkness, but he saw nothing distinct. Yet he felt that he was no longer alone.And then, a growl. A deep, threatening sound, which made his whole body shudder. Y/N stepped back, tripped over a root, and fell flat on his face in the mud. In the darkness, he saw two glowing eyes staring at him like headlights in the night.

The silhouette of a massive creature slowly took shape, muscles rolling beneath thick black fur.

It was a werewolf.

His limbs shook with terror, every fiber of his being screaming to flee, but the pain of his fall prevented him from moving properly. A violent tear in his calf tore a cry of pain from him, and he watched helplessly as the creature approached. Its fangs flashed in the moonlight, and the monster leaned over him, sniffing his scent.Y/N closed her eyes, waiting for the fatal blow. But, against all odds, the werewolf did not attack him. Instead, the creature stood still for a moment, as if hesitant, then let out a growl, less aggressive this time. The beast seemed... intrigued? Or perhaps even worried?Y/N opened her eyes, surprised not to have felt any tearing pain. The creature, immense, was still staring at him, but it did not move.

Then, slowly, she leaned down and grabbed Y/N with surprising gentleness. Unable to resist or even understand what was happening, Y/N felt her strength abandon her as the werewolf lifted her like a featherweight.In a painful half-sleep, Y/N felt the creature move with him in its arms, its large paws treading the ground without a sound, as if it knew the way through this dark forest perfectly. The trees seemed to parade around them, and the moonlight cast strange shadows on the beast's face, accentuating its size and wild air even more.

After what seemed like an eternity, Y/N felt the air become heavier, as if the forest had thickened around them. Then, they arrived in front of an old wooden house, hidden behind the trees. It seemed abandoned, yet the werewolf's steps were calm and assured.

The door opened with an ominous creak, and the interior was dimly lit by a few flickering candles.The werewolf gently placed Y/N on an old dusty couch, then stepped back slightly, still watching her with his piercing eyes. Y/N, still in shock, didn't dare move, for fear of awakening the creature's savagery.

But something unexpected happened. In front of him, the beast began to transform. Its muscles contracted, its fur retracted, and slowly, it took on a human form. In a few moments, it was no longer the terrifying werewolf, but an imposing man, with a marked face and intense eyes.

Thomas approached again, silently, and began to examine Y/N's injured leg. His gestures were surprisingly gentle, almost cautious. He frowned at the wound, an expression of concentration and determination in his eyes. Y/N, still in pain, nevertheless felt a strange comfort in feeling the presence of this man who was so frightening. After a while, Thomas slipped away and came back with a basin of warm water and strips of cloth. He began to clean Y/N's wound with unexpected delicacy. Y/N's eyes didn't leave his face, trying to understand what could possibly motivate this usually brutal man to help her like this, him, a complete stranger.

"Why... why are you doing this?" Y/N whispered, her voice trembling.

Thomas didn't answer. He continued his work in silence.A heavy silence settled. Y/N didn't know what to say, and Thomas continued to bandage her injured leg. Thomas' gestures were methodical, as if he had already treated wounds before, but the intense look he sometimes gave Y/N betrayed a certain embarrassment. A glimmer of something that Y/N couldn't quite define.After a few minutes, Y/N felt the pain diminish. The bandages were tight but not uncomfortable. Thomas straightened up, his hands covered in dried blood, but he didn’t seem to be aware of it.

His eyes were lost in space for a moment, before he returned to the corner of the room, taking an old dusty blanket that he delicately placed on Y/N.Y/N, exhausted and numb with pain, let himself fall against the back of the sofa. Despite everything, a question lingered in his mind. Why was this man, this monster, acting like this? He closed his eyes, letting himself be lulled by the warmth of the fireplace that Thomas had lit in silence.

When she woke up a few hours later, the room was still plunged into semi-darkness. Thomas’ massive silhouette stood out against the glow of the fire. He was watching, sitting nearby, his eyes fixed on Y/N. He hadn’t moved an inch.

“Thank you,” Y/N murmured, still slightly groggy.

Thomas simply nodded. He seemed oddly vulnerable in that posture, despite his imposing build. As if something in his heart had pushed him to act differently that night.

[tf-kinky]

Noah's fascination with control had always lurked beneath his charming exterior. When he discovered "Transmo," an app that could turn anyone into any object, he knew Jake, his sweet and unsuspecting roommate, would be the perfect subject. Jake was the kind of person who'd do anything for others, unaware of the darkness that was about to envelop him.

On a quiet Sunday, with Jake absorbed in his usual reading, Noah activated Transmo. He aimed his phone at Jake, a sinister smile forming as he chose "White Tank Top" and added the option to make the transformation permanent. A dazzling light flashed, and in place of Jake was now a simple white tank top, but to Noah, this was far from simple.

Jake's consciousness was suddenly trapped within the fabric, his senses heightened to an excruciating degree. He could feel, hear, smell, and see, though his sight was now a distorted view through the weave of the tank top. His panic was immediate; silent screams for his humanity echoed within him, but no sound escaped.

Noah picked up the tank top, feeling the fabric that was once his friend. He knew Jake was aware, feeling every touch, hearing his voice, smelling his scent, seeing the world in a disorienting way. "You're mine now, Jake," Noah whispered with a dark glee, slipping Jake over his head.

As Noah started his daily activities, Jake felt every stretch, every breath, every drop of sweat that seeped into his new form. The sensation was unbearable, a constant assault on his heightened senses. The smell of Noah's sweat, the sound of his movements, the sight of the room through a blurred lens — all of it was overwhelming.

Noah knew exactly what he was doing. "You'll never escape this, Jake. You'll feel every moment," he taunted. He decided then and there that he would never wash the tank top, letting Jake experience the accumulation of dirt, sweat, and grime. "I like you like this — no more showers for you, buddy."

Days turned into weeks. Jake, now a permanent fixture on Noah, felt the fabric grow stiff with dried sweat, the smell becoming his constant companion. Every time Noah wore him, the fabric stretched and contracted, the odors intensified, and the stains grew darker. Jake's silent pleas for release were his only company in this new, unending reality.

Noah took perverse pleasure in the situation, often commenting, "You're getting quite the collection of smells, aren't you, Jake?" as he put on the increasingly grimy tank top. He enjoyed the control, the permanence of Jake's new state, knowing that Jake could do nothing but endure.

Months passed, the tank top, once white, now bore the marks of neglect — yellow stains under the arms, an unpleasant scent that lingered even when not worn. Jake's world was one of sensory torture, with no escape or relief in sight.

The transformation was irreversible; Jake was to remain a sweat-soaked, never-washed tank top for as long as Noah lived. Noah's dark experiment had turned into a permanent nightmare for Jake, a testament to the depths of human cruelty and the horror of losing one's humanity to another's twisted desires.

[blackdollette]

"you act like a kid even though you stand 6'2." | s. reid

norman fucking rockwell! - lana del rey

⊹₊⋆ synopsis: it was a leap in the dark, with spencer trembling right behind you...

fill out the taglist form! : @thirtyratsinasuit @auggiethecreator @oliviah-25 @sleepysongbirdsings @pleasantwitchgarden @emma-e-a @bellasprettywords @hiireadstuff

⊹₊⋆ pairing: bau!female!reader x subby!spencer

⊹₊⋆ word count: 551

⊹₊⋆ contents: a little fluffy, spencer opening up to you

thunder clapped, sending a booming crescendo through the sky as electric lightning tore through the night’s black canvas.

you brought your fist to the mountainous wooden door of the supposedly abandoned manor, banging on it roughly. 

“fbi!” you yelled once, receiving nothing but silence in response to your call, along with the piercing echo that cut through the noise of the storm.

you turned, looking behind you. “alright, spence. it’s clear. let’s head in.” 

with his clammy palms keeping a shaky grip on his gun, he croaked out a feeble protest. “d-do we really have to go in there? i think that we can confidently conclude that it’s empty.”

there was nothing confident about the way he could barely tie together a string of words.

“all evidence that you came up with points to this place. we’ll just do a quick search and get out of here in no time.” with an almost effortless turn of the handle, the door creaked open with a sinister squeal. “we can even split up to cover more ground quicker if you want.”

you flicked on your flashlight, slowly making your way into the pitch-black house with spencer scurrying behind you, nearly tripping on his shoe. 

“everything okay back there?” you turned around, shining your light on him.

he was pale as a ghost, his neck specked with goosebumps as his eyes darted around the darkness, his pupils contracted in fear.

he cleared his throat, his voice coming out hoarse and suppressed. 

“w-would… would it b-be alright if i just waited outside…? i-i… i just…” his disposition had gone from slightly anxious to borderline panic, his hands trembling frantically as he sealed his eyes shut.

“hey, spencer…” you dropped your voice to a whisper, approaching him slowly. you hadn’t noticed the unfiltered, raw fear in his eyes until now, like he was about to run mad. you cautiously took his hand into yours, massaging slow circles onto his protruding veins with your thumb, dimming the flashlight slightly.

“what’s going on with you..?” you brought a gentle hand to his face, stroking his cheek and leading him against the wall, letting him lean against it. 

he panted quietly, his gaze not meeting yours. tiny beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, fluffy tufts of hair scattered across his face. you didn’t want to rush him to speak. you just wanted to know what was wrong.

he swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair as he finally brought himself to look at you. “have i… ever told you that i’m afraid of the dark..?” his voice was laced with guilt, like he was confessing to a horrific crime. 

you tried to mask your surprised but your eyes began to widen. “no… you haven’t mentioned it…”

he angled his head downward, the paleness in his cheeks being replaced with an embarrassed blush. you sighed deeply, giving him a pat on the chest. “c’mon, spence. we’ve got a job to do.”

he nodded, but the fearful look quickly returned in his eyes. 

you slipped your gun out from your belt, keeping a safe grip on it. “stay behind me. nothing’s gonna hurt you, alright? i swear it.”

he sheepishly snaked his arm around your waist, clinging onto you like you were his lifeline. 

“it’s all gonna be okay…”

author's note:

[gatheringbones]

[“Westerners naturally look upon it as sinister that the children of North Vietnam and the NLF zones of the South learn to read and do arithmetic from political material. But “politics,” or “government” in the widest sense of the word, was also the basis for the traditional education. Confucianism was, first and foremost, a philosophy of social organization. The Confucian texts, for instance, provided the foundation for the imperial law. (Is not the law… true virtue? asked one of the nineteenth-century intellectuals. “In the law we can… find complete expositions of the three duties [of a prince, a father, and a husband] and of the five constant virtues [benevolence, righteousness, propriety, knowledge, and sincerity] as well as the tasks of the six ministries [of the central government].”) As one historian has pointed out, the texts established a social contract between the government and the governed, for in order to claim legitimacy the emperor would have to echo Confucius’s “I invent nothing, I transmit,” thus acknowledging the limitations on his personal power. To learn how to read was therefore already to learn the management of the state. Because the Confucian texts formed the whole of civil education, the bias of the intellectuals was towards these “human sciences,” towards practical instruction in the governing of society. To the traditional Confucian scholars all knowledge led back into the political and moral world of man.”]

frances fitzgerald, from fire in the lake: the vietnamese and the americans in vietnam, 1972

[fafnir19]

Twelfthtide

My reflection in the mirror revealed a man who had weathered life's hardships. My weary eyes held the weight of my struggles, and my once-dark hair now showed signs of thinning. The lines etched on my face were testament to my difficult path. Despite the weariness, a flicker of determination still burned in my eyes, a trace of resilience in the face of adversity. I strode through the bustling corridors of the office, a facade of confidence masking the unease simmering within me. Despite my efforts, I found myself ensnared in the sticky web of office politics, with no escape in sight. My direct manager at least seemed to value the dedication I poured into my work, but the looming shadow of the company owner’s, Montgomery Kolthard, disapproval hung over me like a shroud. As the days inched closer to the third Advent, I received a summons from my manager to his office. I tightened my grip on the strap of my briefcase, a sense of foreboding settling in the pit of my stomach. The words that followed shattered what little hope I clung to: the Weynsteen deal had collapsed, and with it, my employment. My protests fell on deaf ears, as the decision to let me go was handed down directly from Mr. Kolthard himself. Dejected, I wandered through the festively adorned streets, my thoughts a maelstrom of despair, when suddenly, a sharp impact sent me reeling into darkness. A speeding car changed everything.

I awoke in a hospital room, only to realize that I couldn't move anything below my neck. The doctor's words delivered the crushing blow—I was paralyzed. Despair settled over me like a suffocating blanket, and I couldn't see a way out of the darkness. The stale air of the hospital room did little to lift my spirits as I lay there, imprisoned by my own motionless form. It was on the night of St. Thomas, the longest and darkest night of the year, that my world twisted into something beyond comprehension. A figure emerged from the shadows, introducing himself as Zamiel. His presence sent shivers down my immobile frame, and I struggled against the urge to flee, though my limbs refused to respond. Zamiel's voice, smooth as silk but tainted with a sinister edge, shattered the silence as he made his proposition. "Do not fear," Zamiel's voice echoed through the room, "for I bring an offer that will unbind you from the shackles of your condition. I can restore your mobility, but in return, you must serve me for a few days every year." I struggled to comprehend his words, the weight of his proposal pressing down on me. "Serve you? How?" I managed to croak, my voice strained with disbelief. Zamiel's eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light as he explained, "I conduct business with mortals, granting them their heart's desires in exchange for their souls. Your task will be to facilitate these transactions on my behalf. And fear not, for your own soul is not part of this bargain." Zamiel explaining that humans without souls did not make good bargains and hence, my soul was not part of the deal.

 A wary skepticism gnawed at my thoughts, but desperation grasped at the threads of my resolve. With a mixture of dread and fleeting hope, I accepted his terms, and Zamiel handed me a quill and a piece of parchment. "How shall I sign the parchment? I cannot even move!" I protested. Zamiel's chuckle sent a chill down my spine. "Ah, but you can move well enough to sign your name. The ability will be restored to you, should you agree." Suddenly I felt the sensation return to my hands. With trembling fingers, I pricked my thumb, and my blood dripped onto the parchment. With newfound strength, I signed the contract. Zamiel summarized the deal: "When the gates between worlds close on the Feast of Epiphany, you will no longer be paralyzed. In return, you will work for me every year from Holy Eve to the Epiphany!" The next morning, I thought that it was just a dream. The days blurred together, and soon it was Christmas Eve. While others reveled in festivities, I could only brood in my hospital bed, feeling like a mere shadow of my former self. The cheer around me only served to highlight the cavernous void within me.

On the morning of the Epiphany, I awoke to a new reality. I found myself in a vast, opulent bedroom adorned with dark, luxurious furnishings. The air was heavy with the scent of aged wood and incense, and the grandiose setting reflected a level of luxury I had never known. As I stumbled across the room to a lavish, ornate mirror, I caught sight of my reflection and I was struck by the transformation that had taken place. No longer the 47-year-old man worn down by life's tribulations, I was now a youthful, athletic figure with an air of sophistication far beyond my years. The room itself exuded an aura of grandeur, with intricate tapestries adorning the walls and an expansive view that stretched out onto the sprawling city below. On the nightstand lay a piece of parchment, aged and weathered, bearing the peculiar mark of a crimson wax seal. As I examined the parchment, the words etched upon it seemed to dance before my eyes: "Your former boss Montgomery Kolthard cannot bear children, but has desperately desired an heir for his business. I, Zamiel, have granted this wish. You are no longer Christian, but Lucius Kolthard, Montgomery's son. Remember our deal: from the Holy Night onward, you must perform your service." Armed with the knowledge of my newfound identity as Lucius Kolthard, Montgomery's long-awaited heir my days were filled with schmoozing at elite gatherings, draped in the finest attire, and basking in Montgomery's adoration.

Everything I had longed for was within my grasp, yet beneath the facade of grandeur, an unsettling unease festered, a constant reminder of the pact I had struck with Zamiel. As the days turned into weeks, I found myself entangled in the web of Montgomery's business affairs, receiving an insider's glimpse into the inner workings of his empire. It was a heady experience, to say the least. Montgomery, often cold and distant, doted on me with an almost doting affection, treating me like the son he had always yearned for. However, the more he idolized me, the more I felt the weight of the unspoken expectations resting on my shoulders. The grandeur of Christmas Eve arrived, and as the festivities ebbed away, I retreated to my opulent chamber.

It was there that an inexplicable urge drew me to the ornate mirror adorning the wall. Stepping through the ornate mirror, I found myself in Zamiel's realm — a breathtaking place adorned with marble and gold, a stark contrast from the opulence to which I had grown accustomed. Zamiel stood before me, his presence commanding yet strangely comforting. "Lucius," he intoned, his voice resonating through the chamber, "what a striking devil you've become. Those tight pants and cloak suit you well." Zamiel's eyes sparked with amusement as he added, "I must say, I quite like the horns." I watched as his gaze lingered on the horns that had materialized on my head, a sign of the Faustian bargain.

With a sardonic smile, he gestured for me to follow, promising to teach me the art of striking bargains and the alluring nature of collecting souls. Despite initial qualms, I found delight in crafting contracts that would cost my clients their souls. My negotiations became increasingly cunning, and I relished my service to Zamiel. Additionally, I enjoyed the company of the incubus demons. As I stepped back into the mortal realm on Twelfth Night, I looked forward to the events of the coming year, such as my graduation and a planned sailing trip. Yet, I also anticipated my next service to Zamiel from the Holy Night onwards.

[fanficsfreeideas]

A Warning in Scars

Mushishield

Redeem/HeavenAlastorweek day 5-Holy Burns Evil/Allergic to Evil

The first time it happened, it was nothing more than a fleeting sting—an eerie flicker of pain on Alastor’s wrist as he reached for the gleaming knife.

He had been sharpening it, humming under his breath, when suddenly, his skin began to sizzle, as if it had brushed against a hot stove.

A startled yelp escaped him, more from shock than pain, as he stared at the angry, crimson welt that blossomed across his arm like a burning brand.

It was inexplicable.

At first, he dismissed it. Then it happened again. And again.

Each time he teetered on the edge of wickedness, when his mind flirted with darker impulses, when his fingers itched to enact deeds far more sinister than a mere threat, the burn returned with relentless precision. It was sharp, unseen, and utterly unexplainable.

Meanwhile, you watched from the shadows, your heart heavy with remorse.

You were supposed to be his guardian angel, the unseen force meant to steer him away from sin. Yet every time you reached out, desperate to pull him back from the abyss, your touch ignited a searing conflagration. Not only did his skin burn, but yours as well. Angry blisters erupted across your arms, as though the very purity woven into your essence rebelled against his tainted soul.

It was unbearable.

You had been trained for this, to be a beacon of hope, to lead lost souls to salvation. But Alastor was different. His heart was a shadowed, his smiles concealing the darkness beneath. And you, his appointed guardian, couldn’t even stand near him without both of you getting burn.

Desperate, you kept your distance, whispering guidance instead of reaching out. But words were as insubstantial as drifting wind to Alastor. He would tilt his head, as if acknowledging a vague sensation, but the gravitational pull of his own desires was far stronger.

Every time you failed to stop him, his skin deepened into searing scars, and your own affliction spread like wildfire, an unyielding, cruel reminder of your inadequacy.

Curiosity gnawed at Alastor with every relentless burn. They perplexed him. These marks were not born of any earthly source; he knew pain, but this was something else. Something intimate. As if an unseen presence was reaching out, trying to touch him.

One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon and the shadows stretched long and hungry, Alastor loomed over his latest victim. His fingers curled possessively around the cold handle of his blade, poised to carve out another fragment of his wicked art.

Then, in a merciless twist, a fresh burn erupted across his forearm, raw, searing, like a freshly ignited ember.

He hissed, staggering back, clutching his arm. His eyes darted around the empty room, scanning the walls and the ceiling.

“Who’s there?” He whispered, for the first time feeling something foreign prickling beneath his skin, doubt.

Just beyond his line of sight, you lingered, tears glistening in your eyes. You wanted to scream at him to stop, but the chasm between you had grown too wide. Too irreparable.

You were a failure, a guardian angel rendered powerless, unable to preserve even the faintest spark of purity in the soul you were meant to save.

Alastor didn’t stop.

The burns became a part of him, scars littering his skin like ghostly fingerprints, remnants of something he could not understand. And you, dear guardian, withered away. Your body was ravaged by unyielding afflictions that healed, only to return, your spirit breaking under the weight of your unfulfilled duty.

Then came the day Alastor finally sold his soul.

It struck you like a thousand shards of ice through your heart. The unholy contract was sealed in blood, his maniacal laughter echoing through the endless void.

And as the crimson ink dried, he felt it—

The absence.

The burns ceased.

For the first time in countless years, his skin remained untouched, unmarked. But instead of relief, an unfamiliar emptiness festered within him. It dawned on him, too late, that those agonizing burns had been more than mere pain.

They had been a connection.

The last fragile thread tethering him to something pure.

And now, they were gone.

From the heavens, you watched with tattered wings and a broken spirit as Alastor fully embraced his darkness. You were forbidden from interfering any further.

Your failure was absolute.

Because if you tried to save him, it would kill you.

And Alastor? He never understood what he had lost, only that he felt a little lonelier, without the mysterious burns that once marred his skin.

In the end, no solace was to be found.

[theroyalhouseofwindenburg]

As the morning sun cast a soft glow into her chambers on the 6th day of spring in the year 1333, Queen Fiona stirred from her restless sleep, a wave of discomfort washing over her. The undeniable pain in her stomach signaled the impending arrival of her long-awaited child. Fearing the labor pains, she summoned her trusted lady-in-waiting, Agnes Rivers, who stood by her side as a pillar of strength.

Hours stretched into what felt like an eternity as Fiona grappled with the arduous labor. Each contraction brought her closer to the moment she had both anticipated and dreaded. Then, at last, the cries of a newborn pierced the air, momentarily silencing the world around Fiona. Eagerly, she turned to Agnes, her heart pounding with a mixture of hope and trepidation, seeking reassurance. But Agnes's face remained inscrutable, casting a shadow of uncertainty over Fiona's heart.

Agnes informed Fiona that a daughter had been born, not the male heir that the kingdom and King Wilhelm had hoped for. Fiona's heart sank, the weight of her husband's expectations crushing her in that very moment. She sat on the edge of her bed, emotions swirling within her, not knowing how Wilhelm would react to this news. Her thoughts oscillated between the immense love she already felt for her daughter and the looming storm that would inevitably ensue.

Summoning her strength, Fiona allowed herself to hold her daughter, to whom she named Augusta. The infant's innocent eyes and delicate features ignited a powerful surge of maternal love within Fiona, momentarily eclipsing the storm of troubles that awaited her. She marveled at the beauty of new life, finding solace in the bond she shared with her child.

However, the tranquility was short-lived. King Wilhelm's arrival from court shattered the delicate atmosphere, his stern countenance casting a foreboding shadow across the room. Expecting to see his long-awaited heir, Wilhelm's demand was met with Fiona's somber admission that they had welcomed a daughter instead. His reaction was swift and merciless, his disappointment boiling over into a storm of anger.

Harsh words spilled from Wilhelm's lips, branding Fiona as weak and inadequate, the bearer of a daughter rather than the coveted son he desired. His bitter comparison to his mistress only deepened the wound in Fiona's heart. Struggling to hold back tears, Fiona pleaded for her husband to understand, to see beyond the gender of their child. But his rage remained unchecked, and his decision was final – their daughter would be taken away from Fiona's care and placed under the guardianship of a governess at Windenburg Castle.

In a sudden eruption of fury, Fiona's voice shattered the air, her desperation manifesting as she demanded that Wilhelm not take her baby away. With a chilling swiftness, Wilhelm's hand closed around her arm, his grip vice-like as he forcibly pushed her to the floor. Overwhelmed by his physical dominance, Fiona felt his foot press down on her chest, a cruel reminder of her helplessness.

"Keep her in line," Wilhelm barked at Fiona's loyal ladies, his command echoing through the room like a sinister decree. As Benedict approached the cradle, Fiona's heart clenched with a mixture of rage, sorrow, and despair. Her baby girl, the embodiment of her dreams and love, was lifted away, destined for a future beyond Fiona's reach.

On the cold floor, Fiona cradled her head in her trembling hands, her sobs muffled by the weight of her heartache. Her devoted ladies surrounded her, offering words of solace that could hardly penetrate the depths of her anguish. Through tear-filled eyes, Fiona watched as Augusta was carried into an uncertain future, a future from which Fiona felt forcibly excluded.

In that haunting moment, Fiona's world shattered, the echoes of her daughter's cries and the bitter taste of powerlessness lingering in the air. She clung to the memory of Augusta's tiny face, etching it into her heart as a beacon of hope amid the darkness of her captive existence.

[stanislawkowalski]

@tides-of-clarity asked: (i suddenly want angst and drama. Sorry bb n) Oh he done it now. Capella really couldn't stop. His body moved on it own. The day was beautiful. Another spontaneous surprise date and he was enjoying his evening. Though the gods never let him be happy for too long. It felt like a movie all going by so slow. A car pulled by, a gun was pulled out, Capella got in-between, and bang. His breath was taken away as he puffed out a shocked and pain breath. Screeches of the car echo the night as the attacker flees since they missed their target. Pain filled his body as he stumble back coughing out a splat of blood. His hand clenched to where his right lung should have been but only a hole now. Rocking back and forth he stumble to remain standing dropping to his knees before laying on the ground. He can feel his blood pool to him making his body cold. Wheezing pain breaths he can feel the bullet lodge in but his curse already doing work to fix him. His only concern, Nastka. Looking up he saw that his lover was okay. Thank the gods they spar him. "don't panic, it will all be okay. I'm okay." Capella tried to reassure him with struggle words. "darling your not hurt right?"

In the waning glow of street lamps, Nastka’s world collapsed into a singular, blinding focus—Capella. The night air, once crisp and invigorating, now felt suffocating, as though it pressed down on him with the weight of a thousand regrets. The car's screeching tires and the fading engine roar were swallowed by the deafening chaos of his own racing heartbeat and the blood that seemed to echo in his ears.

Disbelief washed over him like a cold tide, dragging him into a maelstrom of confusion. Capella, the embodiment of light and joy, lay crumpled on the ground, the vibrant evening dissolving into a grotesque tableau of suffering. It was as if the world had tilted, painting the night with smudges of red and shadow, leaving Nastka to grapple with a reality that refused to make sense.

Shock followed with a numbing grip. The breath was stolen from his lungs as Capella’s pallid face came into focus, framed by a halo of blood that spread like a dark omen on the asphalt. Each detail magnified through Nastka's blurred vision—the once radiant eyes now clouded with agony, the unnatural angle of his beloved’s body, and the sinister crimson smear that heralded an approaching end. The red haze before his eyes was not merely from the blood but from the searing sting of panic and despair.

Anger ignited within him like a storm, furious at the cruel gods who tore apart their fragile happiness and at himself for being powerless to intervene. His rage roared with the ferocity of a tempest, its fury driven by the image of Capella’s suffering.

Then came the abyss of sadness, an overwhelming sorrow that crushed his heart. Every strained breath Capella took felt like a dagger to Nastka’s very soul. The love of his life, once a beacon of hope, was now a fading ember on the cold ground. The helplessness was a relentless torment, each drop of blood a cruel reminder of his own impotence.

Driven by desperation, Nastka fell to his knees beside Capella, crawling forward as if trying to grasp the last vestiges of hope. His fingers, trembling and slick with sweat and blood, clutched the edges of Capella’s coat with a frantic intensity. The scene before him was a chaotic blur, each second stretching into eternity as he struggled to find and mend the wound.

“Kwiatuszku,” his voice was a fragile whisper, trembling like the first light of dawn. “This--. You are… you are lying here?” His eyes darted around, seeking a miracle that might unravel this nightmare, hoping the other would rise, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Get up...- stop this and get up...-"

The blood seeped through his fingers, a visceral confirmation of the horror he could not fully accept. ““You’re… you’re not leaving me, are you? Remember the contract you signed… you cannot leave me behind. If you do, I swear… I will hunt you down and—KURWA!—I will kill you myself. I won't allow it! I won’t!”

[yingren]

for always, to be seen is to be stripped naked to your core. to show the wound, the primordial Void residing into your chest, a companion more permanent than those wrought of flesh. her mother taught her, always look them in the eye! the eyes say that which the mouth does not! as if to warn, likewise, if they see you, they will see your heart. fire-wrought thing knows not whether she wishes to be seen.

to be seen crumbling when she does not wear her elaborate mask of mascara, red lipstick and all other pieces of makeup. to be seen weeping when the weight of everything overwhelms her. to be seen as this dead-alive thing she has burnt herself into becoming, to be seen as the hollow shell of a woman, instead of a full woman.

yet, when with him, the merciless tide of yearnings buried deep emerges. the roaring sea of her own spirit / making, all stirred to life in a violent storm. on one hand, she ought to tell Ren the same as she does to all others, I don't want your pity! [ he must know as much! ]. though, to admit the wound is far too unbearable a thought... ever caught between rock & hard place: I want for you to stay with me. // If you see me for what I am, I will never revert to my proper self. You will destroy me! Your seeing of me would be the equivalent of you slashing me open with your blade and seeing the ugliness of my bleeding insides!

still, Mya does hold his visage between her hands, thumb caressing his lips. a meeting of gazes she does will herself into withstanding. the dreadful conclusion, now that you have seen me, I cannot suffer for you to go away and leave me bleeding all over the walls of this faux home! hence, she leans forward, closer, closer, closer. closer to undoing, closer to fulfillment, closer to agreeing to this contract of mutual mangling that is [ ... ] love? may you call this love, this sinister selfish comfort she takes in knowing his heart is as bruised as hers?

the gesture of the kiss is nothing gentle, for there is nothing restrictive / restricted in her manner of want, in her manner of hungering for burning as realness. though the sensation of his mouth on hers only leaves her hungering for more, as though she were a horribly starved thing finally finding food aplenty at last. she grabs him, she buries her fingernails in his clothing to pin him in place, to let him know that she will not suffer to be left alone, only breathless from the fierce greed with which she claims his lips. ( hehe <3 )

what kind of monster finds solace, pleasure even, in the feeling of blood slipping through their fingers like sand, like time slipping away grain by grain, like a harbinger of rot setting in deep beneath the skin, if not ren ? everything the world deems ugly, repulsive, unworthy of preservation — he gives it breath. it comes alive in his hands. he comes alive in it. the thrum of a heartbeat cradled between his palms, the ruin of its removal painting the scene before him like some twisted masterpiece, this is his domain, a battlefield of his own making. it's no longer shocking. it's routine. the once-jarring violence now barely registers, a predictable echo that fails to satisfy a mind desperate for more than carnage for carnage’s sake. he’s searched for meaning in the blood-soaked soil, in the broken bones and pulverized remains, hoping and praying that maybe ( just maybe ) something beyond death might reveal itself. but it’s all the same. dirt. decay. silence. the grave offers no answers, only more dust.

yet there’s a strange comfort in knowing he’s not alone in this ruin-making. when it’s mya behind the destruction, it’s not more fascinating, not more beautiful — but it is different. her chaos speaks. where his carnage poses questions, hers offers answers. her aftermath isn’t empty, it’s a declaration. she wears her truth openly, without apology, like a crown of thorns — piercing, unflinching, painfully honest. if ren were smarter, maybe he would have kept his distance. maybe he wouldn’t have been so tempted to reach out and touch that truth, to feel for himself what it meant to be so bare and brutal and real. but he wasn’t. he did. and now, he can’t forget the way it felt.

has he come far enough to allow himself this ? to indulge, even briefly, in the quiet luxury of being wanted ? ren doesn't get the chance to speak, the soft pad of mya’s thumb resting against his lips silences him, and he doesn’t resist. why would he, when leaning into her touch feels like the only right thing left in the world ? weightless would be too generous a word. what he feels under mya’s hands is the opposite: a grounding weight, steady and sure. there’s gravity in her touch, something that holds him together rather than pulling him apart. not oppressive, but anchoring — comforting in the way a lighthouse stands unmoved amidst the storm.

there’s no need for words between them in that moment. in the way she looks at him, and the way he looks back, is a silent understanding. he doesn’t need to hear it spoken aloud to know. he’s seen, he’s known, he’s real. and in that same quiet reverence, ren gazes at her. at the sharp cut of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, the defiant edge of her presence that both dares the world and lays claim to it. 

when mya kisses him, the rest of existence folds in on itself. it’s not some storybook moment, not a wish granted, nor the sweetness of petals brushing skin. no, it’s raw. it’s desperate. like kissing through the bars of a cage, pressing forward because what he wants is there, inches away, yet never close enough to truly hold. even if ren were to slip beneath her skin, crawl into her very veins, he thinks it still wouldn’t satisfy the ache. the kiss is breathless, fast, too full of need to be anything less than consuming. he responds in kind, as if trying to tell her without words that he feels her hunger — and that it makes his own unbearable. he is something feral in her hands, a creature that pleads for mercy but recoils the moment it’s offered. he does not want her pity, so he'll take her violence. his head tilts, subtly seeking more, as his hands move without hesitation. one finds the line of her back, fingers splaying across taut skin and the ripple of strength beneath it. the other rests at the nape of her neck, holding her there — not forcefully, but like someone afraid that if he lets go, he’ll drift away entirely.

@furiaei / a ( not so ) lil smooch.

[blueberrioo]

This is the original approach to the manga, but I did change the setting slightly..........

Ch.1 (demo)

The air in the office was thick with the sterile scent of paperwork and ink, but beneath it, there was something else—something metallic, something wrong. Evelyn’s fingers trembled as she flipped through the contracts on her desk, her mind racing back to what she had seen just an hour ago.

Blood.

Dripping from his lips.

She had always known there was something unsettling about her boss, Lucien Valmont. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly powerful, the weight of his gaze like a velvet chokehold around her throat. He was the kind of man who commanded obedience without raising his voice, who turned heads without trying. Rich beyond comprehension, his empire stretched across continents, a web of power and influence that no one dared challenge.

Except she had seen. And now, she knew.

Evelyn swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath as the elevator dinged. Footsteps, unhurried, deliberate, echoed down the marble hall. Her heart lurched. She shoved the papers into a folder, trying to appear normal, but it was too late.

The glass doors of her office swung open, and there he stood.

Lucien Valmont.

Tall, imposing, devastatingly elegant in his tailored black suit. His shirt collar was crisp, pristine—as if it hadn’t been stained with crimson moments ago. But Evelyn wasn’t fooled. She saw the way his fingers twitched, the way his chest rose and fell too steadily, too controlled. And his eyes—

They burned. A deep, ancient hunger that sent a shiver down her spine.

“You’re shaking, Evelyn,” he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk yet laced with something far more sinister. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. "Tell me, my dear... what is it that frightens you?"

She gripped the edge of her desk. "Nothing, sir. Just a long day."

His lips curved into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Lying doesn’t suit you."

He was too close now. Close enough for her to feel the unnatural chill radiating from his skin, close enough for her to see the sharp canines hidden behind the smirk. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“Do you know what happens,” he continued, tilting his head, “to those who uncover things they shouldn’t?”

Her breath hitched. "I won't say a word."

Lucien hummed, amused. “Oh, darling. I know you won’t.”

Before she could move, before she could even think to scream, his hands were on her—one curling around her wrist, the other cupping the nape of her neck, tilting her head just so. Panic exploded in her chest, but her body betrayed her, frozen under his touch.

“I have watched you for so long,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “So obedient. So perfect. And yet… you dared look where you shouldn’t.”

She tried to jerk free, but his grip tightened, fingers digging into her skin.

“Please,” she gasped. “Don’t—”

“Shhh.” His voice was velvet, intoxicating. “It’s too late for that now.”

The world blurred as he moved—so fast, so inhumanly fast—and then everything went dark.

She was his now.

And he would never let her go.

[houseofbrat]

Last weekend, The New York Times published “Inside a Hollywood Smear Machine,” the now-viral exposé detailing how Justin Baldoni’s publicists smeared co-star Blake Lively during the release of It Ends With Us. Notably, the Times didn’t break the news of Lively’s complaint to the California Civil Rights Department—TMZ did—but the paper had a meticulously reported, 4,000-word piece, complete with graphics, ready to go as word spread. Clearly, the Times had been sitting on a draft for some time. But did anyone bother to confirm with the relatively obscure California agency whether Lively’s complaint had actually been filed? And why there?

The answers might offer a glimpse into where things are headed. Typically, coverage of a legal development follows the event. But in this case, it feels like the story itself was the objective. And that could have ramifications.

As Matt detailed on Monday, Lively’s highly specific complaint—and the stories it generated—were built on information retrieved from the cellphone of Jen Abel, a Baldoni publicist who worked for Stephanie Jones at Jonesworks. Abel handed over her phone before leaving the firm this summer, and Jones, in turn, provided the sensitive contents to Lively’s legal team under subpoena. But did Jones, in effect, invite that subpoena as a way to sidestep her confidentiality obligations to a former client? Matt noted her conspicuous absence from Lively’s complaint (and the Times story, too). I’ll add this: As far as I can tell, Jonesworks was the only entity subpoenaed. Baldoni himself didn’t get one. That seems… odd.

So given this, why did the story of Lively’s complaint get out? Was it, to echo what Lively told the NYT, to pull back the curtain on sinister retaliatory tactics aimed at those who speak up about misconduct? Perhaps. That seems to be the prevailing narrative. And, certainly, Lively should be able to address alleged sexual harassment on a movie set without being targeted by a coordinated smear campaign. Filing with the Civil Rights Department may indeed be a prelude to a lawsuit: It commands the gravitas of a government body and offers certain privileges, like reduced defamation risks and the perception of seriousness, without requiring immediate escalation.

But here’s a more cynical theory: Cognizant that Baldoni was on his way out as a client, Jones decided to dish dirt as an act of her own retaliation. Abel’s phone, I’ve been told, wasn’t owned and issued by Jonesworks. So Jones took her employee’s phone—was that even legal?—and used its contents to arm Lively’s team with damaging material. If so, the latest stories may be the result of yet another layer of P.R. rat-fucking.

Is that what happened? I can’t say for sure, but Bryan Freedman—Baldoni’s lawyer—certainly thinks so. Freedman told me that upon learning her firm was being fired by Baldoni’s company on August 30, Jones insisted she couldn’t be terminated until the expiration of her contract—and instead, demanded $200,000. When Baldoni wouldn’t agree, Freedman said, Jones “weaponized” Abel’s texts and “conspired” with Lively’s team to help them file the complaint. “Faced with losing yet another client, [Jones] resorted to her well-reported tactics and attempted to decimate her own client,” Freedman told me. 

If Freedman files a lawsuit, as he has promised, he may very well investigate everyone’s motivations, plus dig into Jones’s work for and against Dwayne Johnson and Lauren Sánchez (both former clients) and Scooter Braun (a client who is a financial backer of Melissa Nathan’s P.R. agency, which now reps Baldoni) to establish a pattern. The discovery could get messy, and there’s also the possibility of legal action from Abel over the seizure of her phone.

Jones didn’t respond to a request for comment on the matter. But on Tuesday, she filed her own lawsuit, accusing Baldoni of breaching a contract that called for his company to pay her $25,000 a month through May 2025 and claiming that Abel and Nathan orchestrated the smear campaign against Lively behind her back. Her claim of ignorance is hard to take seriously given that on August 14, in the midst of the It Ends With Us backbiting, Jones sent her own strategy email that recommended “flooding the zone” with positive stories about Baldoni as well as mobilizing a “robust network of supporters and third-party advocates” to provide counternarratives to Lively’s allegations. I’ve obtained Jones’s 8/14 memo, which recommends the team “prepare alternative stories.” 

Interestingly, it also reveals the leadership of Sony, which released It Ends With Us, had begun hunting for leaks regarding the Lively-Baldoni fracas, and had accused Jones of having called the Daily Mail and “escalated things.” She denied the accusation, but two weeks later, Jones would be fired, leading her to email the president of Baldoni’s company: “As you are aware, we are currently in a contract that does not include a termination clause.”

Perhaps Jones, with her new lawsuit, is now trying to get ahead of what’s coming. Either way, this saga is far from over. We’re about to get a look behind the curtain of Hollywood’s smear machines—and yes, I used the plural.

[moni26]

Echoes of a Sinister Contract

This fic was created for the Shadowhunters Reverse Bang 2024: Presented by the @malecdiscordserver.

I'm so happy to be part of this year's bang! I want to thank the organisers of this event, and especially my artist, Better_Than_Chocolate, for creating the incredible art you see below. It blew me away and helped me get into the atmosphere of the story every time ❤️ Check out Better_Than_Chocolate here and find more of their art and wonderful stories. Find their art post and their twitter here.

Fandom: Shadowhunters (TV) Rating: Mature Pairings: Magnus Bane / Alec Lightwood Summary:

Magnus watched the Father, overturned by his grief, give up on his soul. Ducking his head in slow painful agreement. Soon, echoes of the sinister contract reverberated through the walls, and Magnus Bane waited to claim it all. ----- A twist unknown, a shattered path. For in the deal, a trap was spun, The demon now, the mortal’s one. In chains of flesh, his fire fades. No soul to claim, no victory won, The demon’s reign undone, unspun.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5