#Non con elements

[the-incompetent-reader]

Genuinely confused

I'm really confused about the people who draw/reblog art for this game but have "proship dni" in their bio, like what does that even mean exactly? Cause DOL has everything, from vore, to pseudo-incest, bestiality, and unavoidable non-con/dub-con. Like who is supposed to interact with your content then?

[widowsofchaos]

could you please do prompt 168 with carol x fem reader? if you’re comfortable writing that of course:)

𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭

synopsis: Trying to find peace at your job’s gala, but a familiar haunting shadow finds you once more.

pairing: dark!Carol Danvers x brown!fem!reader

ao3 // modern au // 5k words.

warnings: dubious wlw smut (forced stimulation, vaginal fingering), stockholm syndrome, toxic established relationship, domestic violence, mention of childhood abuse.

a/n: Carol’s outfit reference. title is a reference to the song, Mary by Alex G. requested 168. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” from this dialogue prompt list. dog metaphors, because I must write pain. Channeled my inner amy dunne for Carol. I’m sorry that I’m just finishing this 2 years later, but I hope whoever requested this, I hope you see this! <3

“She became the parent, the lover, the friend you’ve always craved for—- and yet, here you are,”

The truth can sting, just the sharp tip of a knife, flickering at the raw flesh. Poking and prodding till there’s small plots of ichor forming.

“——broken…” Her index finger arched, halting her words, still a vivid memory, “…. but not beyond repair.”

A scoff escapes.

“What is love without hate, I guess.” Unconsciously it spewed from your lips, the vowels felt like acidic vomit. A pregnant silence arose.

That all knowing head tilt, with those observant eyes—- always earned uncomfortable tension within you.

“Love isn’t meant to be confused with hate.”

The cigarette burns slow between your clenched fingers, nursing three fingers deep. Brown liquor swishes against the carved rocks glass, its clear silver grooves twinkles under the gala’s vermilion hues.

Fragments of words compulsively knock against the walls of your brain; as you mull at the gala’s open bar. A scorned woman who just wants peace, and quiet. Lingering stains of hurt that can last a lifetime settles to silence for once in a long time.

Showered an ugly duckling with affections, and built the pillars of security. Growing up in a childhood filled with anxiety and fear of attachments, lingering stains of abuse from the very beings who birthed you into this world.

She cleaned you, bandaged the scars, and assured you that she was the only one who adored you—- persisted that she was the only one who would.

Now, fighting violently in the legal battlefield of divorce, these past weeks have been mentally exhausting —- all whilst handling the burdening responsibilities of your profession.

Your very mind and hands helped craft this sophisticated gallery.

Your boss, Mr. Laufeyson, opened a new exhibit in the National art museum—- Norse history, one of his niche fixations. A man birthed on Norwegian soil, but raised in the monarchal land of England.

An established man who often seeks to explore the rich culture of his ancestors with much sophisticated adoration, and esteem. The Norse exhibit is now the largest section of the institution, with vast collections of rare artifacts protected behind hard stainless glass.

He breathed down your neck for long weeks, you had the task of restoring each piece that had been brought in, nearly breaking your damn back from all the hovering.

A gala bustling with a sea of middle-class folk, and self-proclaimed aristocrats of New York. You sought solace at the open bar, smoking a stogie—- and slipping into the whiskey.

It wasn’t a preferred choice, but it helps give a quick kick to your nerves. Seeking solitude away from pressures to gallant with faux professionalism, and an particular noisy friend, who should be presenting the Norse gods section.

Earlier, she was pestering with a thousand questions flying by the mouth —- if you ever gave thought to rekindling with Carol.

Dissociating into a mindless static, flickering at your clear square nails, as your cigarette burns slowly. At first, the mention of this exhibit with your boss months ago sent you into a frenzy of joy, but now—- it’s a dreadful experience.

All you long for is to start your weekend, to cuddle with your daug—-

“What an incredible scent you have—-”

Oh God, no.

“—- is that Histoires de Parfums, 1969?”

Fuck.

“I haven’t been around that perfume in a long time.”

It’s as if she can smell you a mile away.

A sensual, purring voice whispers near you. A shadowing silhouette eclipses the shimmering ceiling lights from your peripheral vision.

Your lips wrinkle, restraining the foreboding tears of frustration. Tightly nodding, swallowing a sob. Your breathing becomes heavier.

A hum, “It really smells wonderful.” With precision, the shadow sits onto the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you.” A forced smile curls at your mouth.

“With that scent, I’m surprised you’re not being hounded by the men here tonight.” A subtle wordplay, are you looking for anyone tonight?

As if your mind has forgotten all the bad, and reminisces on the good, all the fun, all the beauty that once blossomed.

“It’s not men I'm looking for.” You whisper, snuffing the cigarette into a provided ash-tray. A creamy hand strokes your knuckles, and your skin shivers under your blouse.

A jolt to your groin, and your breath hitches. All she can do is just touch you, and it’s as if you can get on your knees, and forgive her for everything.

“Why?”

You can see that pearly grin, from the corner of your eye, teasing and twisting.

“They’re too easy to hunt?”

You exhale a chuckle, eyes still trained onto the glistening counter.

“They bore me.”

“So—” Her voice lulls as a moan, “—- see anyone worthwhile?” Her fingers curl around your glass, twirling it by the rim. Your lipstick stain faces her direction, and bold as always, she lifts for a sip. Connecting the lip stain to hers, her eyes never leave yours.

It’s not tacky, nor forceful. How she moves is as if it is her nature.

Your eyes gaze over your shoulder, taking a full look. Finally, to drink in the force of nature that is your estranged wife—- Carol.

Her blonde tresses cascade on her shoulders, milky breasts on display. A pristine, black dress, that cuts and splits at the chest hem, polished nails, and clean skin. Her dress halts near her knees.

“Well, I have my eye on a blonde tonight.” You say timidly. Tenderly, your eyes glance fleetingly, a quick trace over Carol’s bodice, nearly losing your composure.

A pregnant pause.

That pretty pink mouth stretches smugly, as if the cat that got the cream. The hooks caught the flesh.

“You like blondes.”

Her tone lingers as an open question, guising the truth.

“Just one in particular.”

Sinking now, the hooks are tugging.

“Really?” Carol leans, her eyes hooded. “Which one?” Pretending to scan her eyes across the ocean of people.

But your eyes remain fixated on her. As if you were a lost puppy, just gazing at its human. Lucidly, influcating between the spaces of yearning, and guilt.

How at ease Carol is, as if nothing was wrong. The charming woman, the woman you thought she was. The woman she wanted you to think she was.

“The one in the black dress.” You say softly, and defeated brown eyes.

Carol’s eyes gaze back at you from the corner of her oculus, downcasting with a mirth, humming a chuckle. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” She shakes her head, an enticing warning.

A dangerous but delicious fruit hanging at your reach. She wants you to take the bait, urging you to—- to get you back in her grasp, and if she does, she won’t let you go.

This game, a cat and mouse play, is all too familiar. Playing as strangers, attracted together by lust, and curiosities—- the type of curiosity to feel the other’s flesh, subtle carnality. Act out, with playful words, pretend to be different people.

It slowly suffocates you, a twang in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t normal.

She isn’t normal.

Carol can be an array of personalities, she can be the doting wife, the whore in bed, the mother—- she can be the bitch with a violent mouth. Different faces for different folk, no one knows her true self, and she’s good at it —- real good.

So, when you tried to seek help from friends, they couldn’t believe it, nor did they want to. You’re not surprised that Carol snuck into the gala—- your co-worker, Maria, who you thought was a true friend —- the matchmaker from hell, let her in, unknowingly allowing the terror onto you.

But, that’s no surprise. Maria has been Carol’s right hand since their days in the Air Force.

None of your friends believe you—- and, it’s hurtful to admit, you’re too scared to speak about all the hurt Carol made you endure over the years.

Barely spoke of the discomfort Carol used against you, and all your shared friends thought you misinterpreted. All saying that Carol is just head-strong, and that you two are perfect together.

Carol feeds the fire with a ‘She’s just going through a tough time.’

Boundaries aren’t respected, everyone trying to push you back together, inviting Carol in social events —- to the point where you didn’t go out anymore, and just drowned in work.

“I like challenges.” Carol softly leans in, her breath fans the bare skin of your shoulder, “All the more fun when I win.” Her voice drops low, to a wispy whisper.

Her body heat engulfs you, and your eyes droop with haziness for a slick second. You can’t—- not again. No matter how intoxicating she can be, how delicious, it’s not worth your peace.

You’re too drunk for this.

“This cat is too tired to entertain.”

“Who said you were the cat?” Carol’s brow arches, halting you in your step. Carol’s infliction hardens, from the corner of your oculus, you can see the clench of her jawline. That pretty mouth morphed into a restrained frown, the same one you see before a punishment.

An offense has been made.

“I didn’t realize the roles were switched.”

The mask slips.

It’s always her way, her rules. Because no matter how clever, how coy the mouse can be, the cat always wins.

“You’re getting brave on me?” Carol asks.

And now the mask has been dropped.

“I think it’s best I leave.” You quickly collect yourself, a bit wobbly from the alcohol. Leaning against the counter to regain your composure, trying to stand upright.

Not this time. You won’t fall for her charm.

Carol sucks her teeth, “You’re seriously going to leave? Aren’t you tired of this childish bullshit?” Crossing her arms against her chest, lips wrinkling into a scowl. Carol talks as if scolding a child.

Your body twists in a haste, “My bullshit?” Your teeth are gritting harshly, hissing. Angry eyes pierce over the hill of your shoulder, fingernails digging into the leather of your purse; if not the leather, her eyes preferrable.

But this is a place of work, no matter how elegant the night is, you will scream if you have to—- just to escape her. You click your tongue, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I mean I’m usually amused by your brattiness,” Carol laughs sarcastically. “But, now it’s gotten too far.” Her fingertips graze your arm, toying with you, soft and playful—— her fingers grasp your arm in a clutch, earning a whine.

Her eyes are hooded, nearly tugging you downwards. A whine bubbles at the pit of your throat, too terrified to even move.

“You have to come back home.” Carol says, a strain to be sweet, but it’s as if a monster tries to be human. “I miss you.” She purrs, but her eyes … are cold, and agitated.

You remain silent, closing your eyes shut, gliding down in your seat. “Carol… have you signed the divorce papers, yet?” Your eyes stay glued to the sticky counter.

Carol chuckles, “You’re going to try to talk business to me, and you can’t even look me in the eye?” Her baby pink polished nails thump against the bar, thump thump thump.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“And neither do I.” She sips her drink, smirking into the cup, “But it seems my wife likes to play games.” So light, so sarcastic, chastising you as if this was a running joke on your end.

“Carol, for fucks sake.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You made me go crazy.” You bite on those words, full teeth. Fingers curling into makeshift claws, vowels spilling as acidic vomit.

“Controlled me, like I was your puppet.” Your fingers curl and slither in gesture. “Manipulated me against the world, against our friends.” Your mouth opened again, the words weighing heavy against your mouth, but a hum interrupted.

“Look up at me when you talk.” Carol says, your eyes peer up through your lashes, owlishly. “If you’re going to lie, you might as well make it convincing.” She licks her lips, tasting the remnants of her liquor.

“I —- I—” you can’t find the words to even respond. You stare at her incredulously, she will never admit to it. Even now, she has you questioning your own sanity, if it was even worth fighting against her.

It’s not worth screaming about it. Not anymore.

“I have to go.” Swiftly, you stand up, with a bated breath.

“That’s how you talk to the mother of your child?”

Stiffening, as the hairs that align a cat’s spine, “Don’t you dare!” Your index finger pointing, shouting in a hush. “Stop using Kamala against me—” your voice wavers, throat nearly choking a sob, “You did enough of that in court.” Big brown eyes sheening wet, the last nerve shot.

Trying to maintain a level of calm, eyes fluttering back and forth around, seeing if anyone has witnessed your outburst.

“I don’t even have to do that,” Carol’s open palm gestures to your rigid stance, “she can see perfectly fine how erratic you’ve been.” Carol hisses, making your nose scrunch up.

Kamala adores — idolizes— Carol. So memorized by her strong, willful mother, since she was a waddling baby.

You haven’t dared utter a bad word about Carol in-front of Kamala, fearing to shatter the fragile bubble you curated as a shield for her. You wouldn’t let her witness the court meetings, especially the negotiations of joint custody.

By every fiber of your being, you’ve tried to make this separation as discreet as possible—- but Carol has been a devil, bulldozing those efforts. To make you appear as the bad parent.

You can’t stand her lawyer, Carol hired one who hails from Hell’s Kitchen—- fitting since he’s a thorn upon your rib. Subtlety bringing up your mental health, questioning your abilities as a mother —- no doubt, Carol was chewing his ear off about your past.

All Kamala knows is that her mothers are splitting up, with foreign lawyers, and that she now has to split weekends—- those pained brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, it kills you deeply—- all the guilt weighs on you, it feels as if you’re to blame for all the problems.

“You’ve taken so much from me, Carol.” You lean in, kneeling at her eye level. “My dignity, my peace— shit— even my sanity.” Your body anxiously fidgeting, breath quickening.

“But I will not, let you take my child away from me.” Your fingers dive into your purse, fumbling with irate, snagging the last cash you had—- with the finality of this conversation, slamming the money onto the marble countertop.

You carried Kamala, incubated inside you for nine months, fed her from your breast—- you will not lose her, not over your cold dead body.

“Goodnight, Carol.”

Sharply, you turn on your heel, leaving Carol without turning back. Walking with a gait, faking confidence, but truly at your core, a gnawing sense of uneasiness.

-

The corridor stretches as a miniature maze, the more you descend out of the gala, the less crowded it is. Turning left and right, trying to find the exit.

The ambiance is of grainy gray, the tinted blurred windows are foggy with the night’s shadows.

The echoes of clicking heels are faint, your mind doesn’t register, as your own feet and mind are stuck on auto-pilot.

“There she goes again,” an agitated voice snags your attention, brows furrowing, “always acting like the little victim.”

Not granted the chance to realize, in a flash, just as quick as you turned your head, rough hands grab you by the curve of your shoulders, throttling you against the chilled wall pavement.

Earning a hiss, and a gasp, stinging pain births and stretches along the muscles of your spine. Quickly, your fingers fruitlessly try to claw at Carol’s, but all it does is make her more enraged.

Carol thrashes you once more against the wall, and another for good measure; airy gasps of pain escapes you, tears beading at your lashes. That militant discipline seeps from her pores, it’s not a stranger to you, the rough edges of her touch is a familiar bruise.

“It may have worked with the rest of the world,” Carol barks in your face, nose to nose, “but it’s not going to work with me.”

Sniffling, your chin wobbles, trying to restrain a sob that burns your throat raw.

Carol hums, that tut of a sympathetic mother, “Look at us.” Her thumbs rubbing your shoulders, pressing on the blooming bruises. “I don’t like it when we fight.

Eerily, she influcates from predator to savior, “You always get erratic, and you know it upsets me.” Leaning in, her pink lips press a kiss on a falling tear.

“Where’s my special girl?” Carol whispers. Fear is beating inside of you, buzzing as tv static. Staring at Carol through your hooded lids, terrified, and confused.

Carol purrs, awaiting for an answer.

“I’m here.” Barely a murmur, you speak softly.

Carol thrives off of her aggression. But it’s not the traditional masculinity that some women possess in their personalities. She feels it’s the only gift her father ever gave her.

“It’s very cute that you try to fight me.” Carol mocks, her knuckles stroke your cheek. Carol hums, her eyes tracing over every facial feature.

“Let me see if she missed me.”

A string of no no no slip from you meekly.

One of Carol’s hands graze over your shoulder, twirling her fingers into your hair—- gripping between her fingers tightly. To then cup the nape of your neck, her thumb pressing slightly over your pulse point.

As she has you pinned by the scruff, her other hand flows down your cavlices, to your clothed breast—- she snags the collar to expose skin.

Groping a handful of your tit, she mutters still so soft, traveling down the path of your navel—- with a quick precision, Carol snatches your groin; more like clawing.

A sharp gasp escapes you, and all she does is laugh.

A quick glance at the end of the hallway, praying that nobody turns the corner. Carol snickers. “Afraid someone will catch us?” You exhale a huff, nose flaring.

“I remember you used to be quite adventurous.”

“That’s when I was young and stupid.”

Her eyes narrow, pinching your vagina in her hand even tighter. With her knee, she wedges her thigh between your shaky legs, spreading you more open.

Slithering her hand through the stitched fabric, her knuckles stroking your sensitive skin. Your breathing becomes heavier, and all she does is smirk.

Moving your panties to the side, Carol’s makes herself home to your body. Ashamed to feel yourself grow wet, and Carol moans.

“It seems she missed me.”

All unbridled frustration hits the hilt, you cry in a stretched whine, thrashing in her hold. In need to escape, you wanted to go home, away from her.

All these weeks of trying to flee from her, do the right thing to gain custody, to live a good life, give your daughter stability —- all of it goes down the drain by her simple touch.

Beating on her arms with fists, slapping and trying to knee her in a weak spot. Carol’s eyes darken—- as if she’s bored of the insolence.

Carol pushes her weight onto you, pinning to the wall. And her fingers don’t cease on her assault.

“I hate you.” You choke on a wail, your head tilting up as a child.

“I’ve saved you.” An expert circular motion of her fingertips, sending a jolt to your bundle of nerves.

“Who else can say that?” Carol leans in, her head tilting, as her lips meet your cheek.

Softly, she kisses you, caressing and grazing against the skin of your cheek.

“I took care of you, and you just want to leave?” Carol’s pink tongue slithers between her lips, licking and nibbling. Boldly, her fingers dove between your folds, playing with your wetness.

“You wanted a savior, baby, I’m it.” The bridge of Carol’s nose traces yours, humming at the wet sensation of your tears. “You were nothing before me—-” another finger plunging inside you, “—- and you will be nothing after me.”

“I — I — would rather be alone.” You say with a stammer, lips wet with tears. Mouth curling into a brave scowl, regaining some bravery, “I’ll be fine.”

Carol’s face leans a little back, tilting her head mockingly. “When I say nothing after me, I mean it—-” Carol’s teeth bare as fangs, “you’ll be buried six feet deep, before I let you go.” Her fingers grip the nape of your neck, tugging you in.

“No one can ever have you.” She whispers.

Your eyes are owlish, you don’t doubt her…. her time in the boot camp was extensive, you felt her trained strength many times—- she loves like a knife. Many bruises healed over the years.

Not brutal beatings, but very handsy.

A glimmer of fear suffocates you, your body keels as a leashed dog.

Her fingers slither against your peach fuzz, slipping between your mound, toying with your wetness. Splitting your velvety folds apart, Carol vulgarly strokes you with her fingers sloppily, staining the hem of your panties.

Carol grinds herself onto your thigh, you can feel a wet spot pooling at her silk panties. Your fingers are digging into her forearms. A rough dance of humping and grinding, both reaching for a high.

Your wet walls can’t help but suck her inside, clenching tight. Fiercely plunging in and out—— it’s been some time. Since the last time, you were touched. It’s bordering on painful, a bit tight.

You did entertain another for a while. A woman you met at a bar. Short dark chestnut hair, a soft posh english accent, a bold yet cheeky mouth. She said her name was G’iah, you never met anyone with such a name.

Despite the attraction, the idea of offering yourself physically was too overwhelming. But, the emotional energy was wonderful. It was a breath of fresh air.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to love another.

Skin screaming for touch, yet your heart is trying to fight back. The flesh only reminisces the good, but all the hurtful memories are chained to your mind.

Carol’s mouth ajar, hovering over the meat of your cheek. Your face scrunches, eyes tight, a whine boils at your throat. She breathes a chuckle. She always finds amusement in your misery.

Carol loves to play God—- the Old Testament God. In the carnal sense, and in spite. Worship her, and only need her, obey every command, but commit a sin—- and she shall see to it, that her pettiness will rule over your life.

Her fingers spread, your slick connects to her fingertips, flickering the gossamer thin threads between her expert fingers, diving into you.

Her teeth grazes your cheek, her warm breath cascading against your mouth. Torn between closing your thighs to stop her, or thrust your hips into her hand.

Carol’s tongue slips out, and kitten licks your parted lips. Her pink tongue licks your canines, inhaling your breath. Sweet scent of liquor coats your tongue, Carol suckles into her mouth, moaning at the taste.

A lewd pop comes from Carol pulling back on your tongue, as her fingers curl harsher. Bordering on pain, the pleasure is electric. Pulsing through you, as her thumb toys with your swollen clit.

Her moans are animalistic, you can feel her pussy splitting, a sensation of silk and waxed bare skin. Her clit is grinding fully onto your thigh. It feels so damn good.

A part of you wants her to cum on you. To use you.

Carol’s face tilts away from yours. Her brown eyes swirl with malice, narrowing for a split moment. A smile stretches.

“Kamala would be so hurt to lose her mommy—” Carol’s words earn a mean eye from you, but all she does is laugh humorlessly. “How could you abandon our child?”

Like a stab to your heart, Carol just twists the edge deeper. Her fingers still deep inside you, clenching in need for her to finish— to get you right at the precipice.

“I would never leave Kamala,” you speak with a strain, a rough slice at your throat. “I love her.” Bordering on pleading, your eyes water-sunk.

“Then why do you make her cry?”

“What?”

“Every night she asks why her mom isn’t home,” Carol leans more of her weight on your belly. Her fingers fucking you harshly, hitting that sweet spot so perfectly. Your juices are now soaking down her hand.

“She cries till she falls asleep. She thinks you hate her.”

Torn between rutting your hips into her palm, grinding and fucking her fingers as if it was one of Carol’s toys —- and the need for space, to free yourself from these clutches.

Salty tears fall to your wrinkling lips, shaking from silent tears.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carol says, her voice smooth and affectionate. Her lips pouted, “We can be together again.” Her shiny blonde hair kisses her lashes, in the grainy city lights, she looks innocent.

“Don’t you want to be a family again?”

She pushes her fingers further, slowly playing with your clit— and then stops, edging you. She can feel your spongy walls nearly spasming. Carol knows how to play the strings of your flesh.

Damn her.

“I do.” Your voice gurgles in a sob.

You know she’s tricking you… and you enjoy it.

In some deep seeded—- an absolutely fucked —- part of you, relishes in it. Because it’s all you know. But, it’s that glimmer of tenderness, the kisses, and honeyed words that pulls you back in.

Back to mutilate yourself on her knife over and over again. And isn't that what love is? Carol would say, time and time again, after the dust settles from her fits of rage.

Wet squelching floods your ears, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Your hand trails to her waist, gripping her dress, roughly grazing the smooth skin of her waist.

Legs entangled, and Carol’s thrusts are getting faster, sloppy. Her moans are getting high-pitched, away from primal and more girlish.

You cling to her, in this moment, you just need to feel anything. And you know she needed it too.

A burst of euphoria, hanging onto each other, as if both would fall apart. Carol felt it, how you spasmed on her fingers. Clenching so tight, trapping her hand for a moment.

Bated breaths dance against each other, hair flying by the breeze of huffing. Yours are gasps of relief.

In a desperate plea, you reach for a kiss, but Carol pulls away.

“I hope you learned something …” Carol hisses, her fingers stroking between your slippery folds, agitating your over-stimulated clit. The meat of your thigh quivers, tailbone pinching as you try to mesh into the wall, far from her.

Carol takes her fingers out, leaving behind an empty feeling—- like a void. Without blinking, Carol unabashedly suckles on her two fingers, tasting you.

“I hope you make the right decision.” Carol whispers against her tips. Pulling her warm weight off of your bodice, a chill sweeps against the tepid sense of your belly.

Carol hums for a moment with a stony face. She tugs on the collar of your dress, the top of your bosom exposed —- it was a stiff gesture.

Without a word, Carol posed her spine, and walked away, a snide side-eye.

Leaving you behind with an ache between your thighs, love bites across your chest, and fresh bruises. Left behind in the chilled hallway, and in wrinkled attire —- as if you were a used whore.

Your head falls, crying into your chest. Your fingers pulling your dress down, your inner thighs tender. Your fingertips touch the wet spot Carol left behind near your knee.

A pause.

It’s wrong, but you crave her taste. Suckling your fingertips into the cave of your mouth.

You can still smell her fragrance lingering—- and yet, you crave it, hoping it clung to your dress.

-

Timid footfalls carry you through the high-end residential hallway. Bated breath, and in wrinkled clothes, you lift and loosely drop your luggage in your grip. Pacing back and forth, trying to salvage any scrap of courage to knock.

Your head is bowing down, chin to chest. A stop in-front of the door. The reasoning motivating your surrender blurs—- is it for Kamala only, or is it also that a loyal dog who always forgives?

A silent white flag has been waived.

A lonely dog always comes back.

Dull steps creep closer, syncing with the beat of your heart. One unlock, and another follows. Defeat seeps from your pores, a bone-rattling warning siren echoing in the rush of your ears.

The door knob slowly twists, as if she’s mocking you. But not a second more, the door creaks open. Green eyes blink back with mirth, and a smile.

No words are needed.

Carol hums, stroking your hair, fingers gliding down the terrain of your neck, guiding you inside by the nape of your neck.

-

Awaiting on the bed is a silk nightie, and skincare, curated by Carol’s choice. Pristine, wrinkled-free silk. Not one flaw in sight.

She knew you would come back. A cocky woman, and yet she’s never wrong. A stir of irate coils in your belly, but it’s snuffed before it can disrupt.

-

In the dark, you tip-toe down the hall. Elated and relieved, it felt like a century crept by, but it was only a week of separation.

Weekends weren’t enough. You needed to see her everyday.

Brown fingers slowly grasp at the knob, twisting open. The white walls are adorned by the flash of a night light that glows small stars glimmering against the ceiling.

A room of action figures, anime, music posters and a wall dedicated to her drawings. That familiar scent that never really went away, that baby smell that clung to her as an infant.

Kneeling into her bed, curling under the blanket. Legs curling underneath you, knees bent, as you caress Kamala’s scalp, furling her hair behind the shell of her ear. Your brown fingers melt into the onyx shine of her tresses.

Her sleepy cheeks puffed, she looks like a sleeping cherub. Silently, tears cascade against the hill of your nose, staining the pillow sheet.

For months, you’ve tried to conjure ideas on how to run away from this life with Kamala, but all your ideas end up in the possible reality of being arrested with charges of kidnapping, and never seeing your daughter again.

The truth of the matter is -— you will crawl skin bare in the deepest parts of hell just for her. Suffering silently in these marital ruins, for the sake of being able to raise your only child, is what you will do.

You don’t know what you want with Carol —- you don’t have anything else to offer as a wife, besides submitting your entire being as a sacrificial offering.

It’s all she ever wanted. Wholesome love is seen as a defect in Carol’s eyes, a trait taught to her by her father. Control over everything is what brings her peace. And being cared for is what brings you solace.

The only person in the world Carol doesn’t unleash her wrath upon, who she adores entirely, is Kamala. Never once has Carol raised her voice, nor her hand at Kamala.

It’s disturbing, to see Carol be so genuine in her affections.

But, you’re ever so grateful. Despite being a masochist, under all the rubble harboring in your cavity— is a little girl suffocating for tenderness. For anything, just for someone to hold her.

Carol is a peculiar creature, and yet she has driven you to the brink of madness over the last stretched months, because she can’t bear to lose you —-- that has to mean something, right?

But as you lay here, wallowing in the dead silence, staring at Kamala slumbering —-a thought came to you; a lingering fear. Paranoia gnawing at you, chewing away bit by bit.

You wouldn’t want Kamala to suffer like this one day.

[sourtomatola]

Vampire Equinox drabble for the Eclipse SIMP's

Based off this pic I drew

Your back hit the silk red sheets, almost knocking the wind out of you. You would have tired to get up if you weren’t currently gawking at the towering behemoth that is an Animatronic Vampire staring down at you. He effortlessly held one of your hands against the sheet, your entire hand fitting in his upper palm, large fingers stretching like a spider sitting comfortably.

"Well well, breakfast in bed? How delightful~" He grinned down at you. His glowing yellow eyes washed over you as his free hand reached for the clasp on his cloak. His starry cape slipped into his free hand as he set it elegantly aside and placed a knee on the bed.

You were frozen in fear, but upon feeling the bed being weighed down near your legs, you began to squirm and look away for an escape. You grabbed his wrist and pulled at it, determined to get away from this creature with glistening yellow fangs. You scooted your legs away from him, thinking you could possibly twist yourself away. Your desperation growing as you felt more and more trapped under this creature.

“Hmm?” He watched you for a second in amusement, simply keeping your hand held in place. It was only when you tried to roll into a sitting up position that he suddenly leaned in, his face suddenly so close to yours. The glow of his yellow eyes made you feel like a deer in the headlights. You slowly backed away, but your heart jumped into your throat at the realization that he followed you perfectly, making it near impossibly to make space between you two.

Pressing into the sheets now, you could only quiver in place under the Vampire Lord’s sights.

 “P…please…” The single word escaped your breathless lips.

“No need to be shy Little Robin, I am not making any judgements on you.” He assured, as if that was really on your mind right now!

He started to lean closer, but you pressed into the mattress harder, hoping it would swallow you up and save you. His knee nudged between yours, making you feel vulnerable for but a moment before you realized you could use it. You put your knee against his thigh and used it to scoot yourself farther away from his face. You slid easily on the silk sheets, but not far.

“Your amount of fighting is admirable, but unneeded. The game is over.” He said with frustrating patience. Frustrating to you, since now you’re starting to reach the point where you wished he would just get it over with and stop playing with you! He was always like this though, seemed to love to play with his food.

His knees now fully supported himself on the bed, and his free hand placed next to your head. You saw him come closer and tried to press away again, but his free hand slid under your neck and pulled your head upwards to him. Your eyes forced to look into his, but there was no hypnotism, no mercy. He wanted you conscious as he took what he wanted.

His eyes then glanced down to your neck before leaning down. You struggled in one last ditch effort to get away, to convince him not to hurt you again. His larger body kept you from being able to kick or fight much farther than weak struggles and whimpering.

You felt his fangs ghost over your skin, as if trying to find the most ample spot to bite. He was teasing you. Still, after all of it, he was teasing you again!

Finally, his four fangs plunged into your flesh, making you cry out and tense up under the pain. You knew your fighting was just making your blood rush faster, and make it easier for him to drink, but there was not much more you could do under this animatronic horror. You were powerless against this supernatural machine.

You felt your head starting to get light, still cradled in his metal fingers. “Too…too much!!” You gasped, realizing your vision was trying to grow dark from blood loss.

He shushed you softly and left a gentle kiss to your neck before going back to your seeping wound. Your free hand reached around him, grasping desperately at his back in an attempt to hit or pull him off of you. He continued to drain you, unbothered.

As your vison started to close in faster, you could hear his softly chuckle. “Tenacious little darling…I shall savor you.”

Vampire Equinox Eclipse by @miwachan2

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

For the February 2025 prompt on the TF creatives server! A song of love <3

First Aid just can't seem to let that tall, handsome soldier go <3

Song prompt (approached as if it’s Every Breath You Take by The Police);

It only happened once a vorn, and every time First Aid would set it up so he was guaranteed the evening off. Trading shifts, cashing in favours - whatever it took, he’d do it. His colleagues always responded with bemusement, completely perplexed as to why he went to such lengths to secure that slot of free time.

It was quite simple, really. Vortex was around.

The festival was the one time of vorn that he was guaranteed shore leave. He’d explained that it was an ancestral right, that the festival originated in his citystate and it was a requirement that he could attend, if feasible, and he always managed to tip the scales in his favour. Missions far out in the depths of the galaxy miraculously finished ahead of schedule. Chases after adversaries always ended up swinging within spitting distance of Cybertron. That kind of thing. There had been one worrying vorn where he’d almost missed it - Vortex had quite literally sprinted over to him still pockmarked from a fight to not miss the final song.

“I’m off now!” He called out as he tapped his badge on the scanner. “Don’t call me if anything comes up - I won’t answer!”

“Enjoy your date!”

First Aid scoffed at them and quickly left, hoping he didn’t seem too eager to leave. His flat wasn’t far - he’d quickly stop off there and freshen up before heading over to the festival. Vortex had been in touch - he was going to be around earlier than usual. His commander was feeling generous that cycle and had released him early.

Giddiness overtook him as he examined his finish in the mirror. He’d got a new wax recently – would Vortex notice? Would he like it?

The walk to the festival seemed to take forever. There was no point in driving – the streets were so crowded you’d be getting nowhere. He could feel the music pulsing through the floor, he could smell the stalls and the vendors and hear singing and laughter.

Vortex was already there waiting for him. He picked up the pace.

He spotted Vortex before the helicopter had noticed he was there. He was talking to someone, tall and green with turrets on his back. He looked mean. Did they know each other? Suddenly, they were looking at him – they nodded their head towards him, and Vortex turned.

“Aid!” He was waving at him, rotors happily spinning. First Aid waved back, looking for a break in the crowd to make his way over to him.

Vortex was taller and broader and found much less issue in making his way through to him.

“You got a new wax!” Vortex immediately commented, bounding over. “Here, let me take a look at you.” He stepped back and looked him up and down appreciatively, rotors clicking together on his back. Gesturing for First Aid to spin, the medic rolled his optics and obliged. “Very nice.” He purred.

“I’m surprised you even noticed.”

“When it comes to you, I always do.”

“Who’s your friend?” He curiously asked, nodding behind him to where the tall green mech had been.

“Nobody important.” Vortex easily replied, waving him off. “Come on, lets dance.”

It was easy to fall into the routine with him, as practised at it as they were. Hands fell into place on hips, on palms. The movements were second nature, using the beat of the music guide them as they felt it pulse through the floor.

It gave First Aid time to think, for his mind to wander a little. He didn’t want it to, he was trying and he was fighting it – he wanted to spend time with Vortex and enjoy his company, not think about work – but he couldn’t help it. Seeing the soldier in front of him was trigger enough for the thought process and he chewed his bottom lip.

“You’re distracted.” The helicopter lead them into a spin. “Something bothering you?”

It took him a moment to answer.

“What’s going to happen? With the riots, I mean.”

He laughed. “I can’t tell you that. Who knows? Maybe it will die down before it catches and becomes something bigger.”

“I hope so.” He frowned. “The injuries coming from them are awful.”

“Don’t think about that right now, yeah?” Another turn, a calculated spin that took them to the edge of the crowd. “Here, you’ll like this - we’re back in range of Cybertron again in three groons. Why don’t I pay you a visit then?”

“Really?!” First Aid gave an excited bounce. “You never get to come back so soon!”

“I know. Lucky me.”

Usually, if Vortex was coming back to Cybertron it meant either someone was injured or there was something they needed to be on the planet for. Their most frequent rendezvous happened because someone got hurt - usually Vortex, now that he thought about it - and they’d had to seek medical attention. He’d never met the rest of his team, but if it was ever Vortex who was hurt he was always the one treating him. Apparently he just preferred his bedside manner, but First Aid wasn’t entirely convinced.

The night slowly drew to a close. Three groons was both no time at all and an age. The tips of his digits danced up thick armoured plating, up a broad chest and to his shoulder. Vortex watched them dance, rotors twitching in time.

“My flat’s free. If you’ve got time.”

Vortex seemed to be seriously considering it, mulling it through in his head, weighing up the pros and the cons.

“Ah, fuck it. They can miss me for the night.”

------------------------------------------------------------------ The riots had set the flames of war. The last festival they’d managed to attend was tense, and ended early. Not long after, Vortex had started crashing into his flat injured and bleeding and dying more times than he could count, gaining in rapid frequency until he suddenly just stopped. Their comm channel died down too - too dangerous, Vortex had said. Not secure. They couldn’t lay themselves so bare when optics were on them.

Eventually, First Aid only saw him on the skyline, a distant blur that could easily be anyone else but was far more comforting to think of as Vortex. And then, he saw him in reports that wound up in his servos as he stood in the middle of Autobot medical bays.

He hadn’t known he was so violent. How could a mech who’d only ever been so gentle with him be capable of what he was seeing?

Trouble came with an archivist. Unbeknownst to First Aid, they also attended the festival - each and every vorn. And they’d seen them together. They had proof of it. Apparently they’d caught his attention because of how unseeming they were - what was a mercenary doing with a doctor? The helicopter had already been on the radar of law enforcement. The medic was completely unknown to them, his record squeaky clean. In the interests of safety, he’d made some recordings that focused on them. Just in case.

They hadn’t thought about it again until they’d seen him in the medical bay and instantly recognised him – they’d been invited by pure chance to film a thinly veiled propaganda piece, and First Aid just so happened to be on shift when they came to the medical bay.

First Aid awkwardly squirmed under the faint glow of the screen, feeling like his dirty laundry was being aired. He didn’t realise they’d looked that strange together, that Vortex had to stoop that much to kiss him, that he’d gone that red when he picked him up to twirl him. Prowl was very still next to him, arms folded under his chest. Not even his doorwings twitched.

“The last time I saw him was vorns ago, not even a decacycle before I enlisted.” First Aid wanted to turn his armour inside out. Maybe that would help with the feeling that crawled under it. “His spark was guttering.” The truth. “I thought he died.” A lie. He’d stabilised him, he’d begged him to stay, to go to a bigger hospital that had the proper equipment. He’d left, saying something about Brawl, sharp digits leaving holes in the wall as he gripped it for support. His comm link was still active, was still pinging, telling him he was alive. Every cycle, like clockwork.

“I didn’t know he was like this.” The truth. The absolute truth. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, a paragon of virtue; it was obvious he had seen some things and was already slightly jaded. He was possessive in a way that made him feel giddy and had a quick temper, but he’d never done or said anything that made him feel like he was in any danger. He’d always been the first to warn him of any trouble, to keep him out of harms way. It just didn’t make any sense.

Unless it was all just an act, a lie. It twisted awkwardly in his tanks. Had he been played for a fool?

They believed him. His persona as the staunch pacifist had worked in his favour – it was clear that he did not condone the mechs actions, that if he were to be put in front of him now, that he wouldn’t ever engage with him. That he was disgusted and dismayed. He left the room with trembling legs and weak knees.

The next time he saw him, that awkward conversation was a distant memory. They weren’t even on Cybertron any more, the war having moved to foreign galaxies. The planet they found themselves on was red and oxidised, the organic life sparse and clinging on at the edge of the vast single continent. An energon source had been identified; the endless fight for resources continued.

Defensor had been blown apart by something. First Aid didn’t remember what - he just remembered falling into the water and being ripped away by a strong current.

Salt water burned at his sensitive circuitry, and he coughed and choked as he crawled up the slope to dry land. Hauling himself over the ridge the waves had created, he sagged down into the baking hot sand and fought to catch his breath.

God damn it. He hated it when that happened – it was so disorientating and painful, and it just added insult to injury that he’d ended up in the sea after. He’d need to take care to clean himself thoroughly after – he was sure to rust.

He wasn’t alone.

A lone Decepticon slipped down the sand, wheezing as they caught their breath. They cursed and kicked at the sand in annoyance, quietly muttering to themselves as they made a scouting report. First Aid held himself as still as he possibly could, hoping that they couldn’t hear the sound of his plating popping and pinging or the sound of his internals hissing as the last of the water boiled off.

He didn’t have his gun. He’d lost it when they had formed Defensor - he didn’t have anything to defend himself with.

The scout turned and they locked optics. A grin slowly spread on their face as they saw the Autobot symbol on his chest.

“I’m a medic!” First Aid quickly shouted. Their laws still applied on foreign soil. Medics weren’t to be considered combatants, they weren’t to be harmed. Their skills were precious and in demand, and easy to exploit, their spark-deep coding to protect and save a boon to an army without any of their own.

“And?” The Decepticon replied. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Uh oh.

“Y-you’re not supposed to hurt me?”

“I can hurt you just a little bit.”

No, you can’t! First Aid tried to push himself up, back slamming into a red sandstone block. He gasped, his spark thudding in his chest sounding suspiciously like the whirring of helicopter blades.

Something big and grey hit the sand. First Aid winced as granules scratched over his plating. He dared to take his optics from the Decepticon to see who the newcomer was, his spark leaping in his chest when he recognised them. Vortex. He suddenly felt breathless, everything he’d felt for the past vorns threatening to spill out at once. He cast a dark shadow, stalking towards them. His visor was bright and narrowed in on the other Decepticon, rotors trembling as he aimed a gun directly at their shocked face.

“I don’t think so, sweet cheeks.” He squeezed the trigger, and First Aid flinched as he was splattered with the internal workings of the mech’s head.

Vents working hard, he slowly turned to watch them slump down, a gap where their head used to be. His processor couldn’t make sense of it. It should be there. Vortex wouldn’t shoot one of his own. Would he? He wouldn’t. What kind of maniac engaged in friendly fire to save the enemy?

He jumped when he realised Vortex was knelt down next to him, far too close for comfort. Oh, no. When did he start thinking about him like this? That wasn’t right. Hesitantly, he reached forwards to wipe energon from his faceplate. He ended up smearing it around instead, but Vortex didn’t seem to mind - he leaned into his hand, visor dimming and engine purring. Was this allowed? Was this okay? Were they going to get into trouble for this?

“You’ve gotten taller.” Was all he could think to say.

“You’ve gotten shorter.” The war frame looked him up and down. “Or maybe it just looks that way.”

“What-“ he swallowed and tried again, not trusting his vocal cords to comply. “What’re you doing here?”

A distant deep rumble from an explosion reached them, and even through the visor his raised brow was obvious.

“Uh. Fighting?” He tapped his chest. “Soldier. Remember?”

First Aid swatted his shoulder. “You know what I meant!”

“Careful.” His facemask snapped back, revealing sharp teeth and heavy scars. The hand that wasn’t tightly holding his gun reached up to hold his jaw, pressing his thumb into First Aid’s mask where his chin would be. “I’m not as nice as I used to be.”

“Me neither.” He retracted his own mask, ignoring the scrape of metal fragments inside the mechanism. He chewed his bottom lip, eyeing the bright purple insignia on his chest. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

“Depends how nicely you ask me to.”

“I won’t be doing that.” First Aid frowned. “I don’t like being in pain.”

“Shame. Your face looks good when you’re screaming.” Vortex pressed his thumb against his bottom lip, gently rubbing it along it, mapping out its surface. His helm was tilted, his visor dim. “Real shame, that.”

“How do you even-“ he gasped in realisation, pushing Vortex’s hand away from his face. “You’ve been watching me! And you didn’t come and say hi?! Vortex!” He whined. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you? You’re so cruel!”

His laugh was loud and frame rattling.

“Babe, it’s not like I can just drop down next to you!” He cupped his cheeks in his hands, visor glistening. “Fuck, you’re so cute. You missed me? Really? Truthfully?”

“Don’t tease me.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He didn’t sound particularly apologetic, but First Aid was willing to overlook it. Just this once.

“What made you decide to make yourself known?” He leaned into his hands. They were rough but warm, strong and steady. His visor dimmed in comfort.

“Little mister dead over there got too close, and there’s nobody around for miles. Couldn’t have anyone getting their hands on you, could I?”

“You’re too kind.” First Aid reached up to knot his fingers together with Vortex’s. “Any injuries you want me to take a look at?”

“Nah. Got better at dodging strays.”

“Guess you don’t need me anymore, huh?”

Vortex’s hand twisted around, pushing First Aid down into the sand with his frame as he pinned his hand above his helm. “I want you for the rest of my life, First Aid. Of course I’ll always need you.”

His engine loudly stalled as Vortex leaned down.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Coincidence or not, after the encounter on the prehistoric beach Vortex wasn’t shy about making himself known. Every available opportunity, he was there, like his shadow. If First Aid ever found himself captured, Vortex was miraculously tasked with his interrogation. It was almost like the Decepticons were turning a blind optic to it – that they were accepting it as a quirk of Vortex. That he’d found a fun toy to play with and they were happy to let him indulge so long as it got him out of their hair. Other Autobots were starting to notice, and rumours were spreading. First Aid had clamped his hands down over his audials, not wanting to hear any of it.

What would he even say? Could he even deny any of it? He didn’t think that he could, he’d lied enough about it already.

It had been a groon after he’d last seen him – he’d managed to corner him on the battlefield and steal five kliks alone with him before Hot Spot noticed First Aid was gone – when First Aid saw him again. Only this time, he was going to him. He’d seen a helicopter get shot down from the sky, and with a sinking feeling in his tanks and a tightness in his throat, he realised that he recognised the helicopter.

Vortex wasn’t moving. He was smoking, his visor flickering as he tried to stay online. His engine was misfiring, and the ground around them was slowly being stained by leaking fuel, coolant, and oil.

First Aid panicked, quickly breaking into a sprint.

“Well, well.” Vortex coughed, energon wetly bubbling in his throat. “We just can’t help but bump into each other, can we?”

“Jesus Christ – don-don’t talk, okay? Please?” First Aid skidded to his knees next to him, hands hovering over him as he remotely scanned and assessed the damage. Everything was leaking and coming back red on his scans and screaming at him for attention now now now- he swallowed and mentally triaged.

Bleeding. He was haemorrhaging energon from a cable in his midsection. He needed to stop that in the next thirty seconds, or he’d lose enough pressure that his pump wouldn’t work anymore. The cable had been clamped before he’d finished the thought, hands coated and glowing a faint pink.

“What did you do?!” First Aid demanded. “Why- why aren’t you with your gestalt?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Vortex’s voice was staticky. “They’re somewhere.” He gestured vaguely in the direction First Aid assumed he could feel them in. “They’re fine though. Thanks for asking.”

There was a thick fragment of metal sticking out of his midsection that was keeping a lot of energon inside. He’d leave it for now – wait until they were in a brick and mortar medical bay with the proper equipment and more than just his two pairs of hands to remove it. It wasn’t causing him any harm.

“Did you get blown up again?”

“I did! How wonderful you noticed.”

“I am begging you to take care of yourself.” His hands shook a little as he tried to soak up the energon that had pooled in the gaping wound in his chest. He could hear his spark, could see faint whisps of light from the cracked casing. This was where his scans had indicated the most damage – and he couldn’t repair it. Not here, not without the help of Ratchet or the proper tools. His were too big, too clumsy – sparks needed refined, specialist care. Delicate instruments for delicate parts. If he went in gung-ho with his tools now, he’d kill him, he was sure of it.

But his spark was failing. Again. He was always having to keep his spark going, it was if its owner didn’t want it to, as if Vortex were always trying to find new and interesting ways to snuff himself out. It had been okay when he had his place on Cybertron. It wasn’t okay when they were on a planet 70 million lightyears away.

He needed to think of something before his spark gave out. What would keep it going? Could he jump start it? He’d done it before. He needed something to act like a battery, he needed jumper cables. He didn’t have either, and he felt dizzy when he realised what he could use instead.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No.” First Aid’s fingers gently traced over the gaping wound in his chest, dragging the tips of them over shorn and twisted metal. “I’m a pacifist, so I’m going to do something much worse.”

His visor flashed in excitement. “Oh? Watch as my spark splutters out? Oh, Aid, you tease. You should have shown me this side of you earlier.” He sighed and his visor briefly flickered offline. “Such a shame. All the things we could have done together.”

“Don’t be too eager to die, you’ll take me with you.”

“Wh-?”

He was cut off by First Aid roughly forcing open his chest plates. He gasped and choked on the energon gathering in his intake, fresh glowing energon splashing down his cheek as his ankles dug into the ground and his sharp digits left deep grooves in their wake. They had one shot at this, one chance, and First Aid wasn’t leaving any of it up to fate. Ignoring the voices in his head screaming at him – the ones telling him this was an awful idea, the ones insisting that there had to be another way, the ones decrying his unsanitised hands, he reached in and manually overrode the lock on Vortex’s spark case whilst he sent the command for his own to open, and leaned down to press their chests together. Sharp metal scratched against the delicate inner workings of his chest, energon beading along the surface, the pain sharp but a background sensation in the face of the pure panic that was bubbling underneath the surface.

Vortex could die. He was going to die if this didn’t work, and he couldn’t let that happen. What was he supposed to do if he died? It felt unnatural to consider a world that he did not exist in, he couldn’t even remember what his had been like before they first met. Dark, lonely, not worth remembering.

“Woah, woah, woah-” Vortex was in a state of conflict, fighting against two sides of himself that First Aid could see quite clearly as their sparks reached out towards each other and tangled together, his stronger one supporting Vortex’s weakened one. One side of him was rejecting it, wanting to shove him away and bury him in the dirt, to kill him for even thinking of doing something so stupid, so dangerous, so Autobot. The other side of him was on cloud 9, eager to get under his skin and have their sparks nestle against each other forever, whatever it took. To make First Aid carry a piece of him forever, just as much as he would be forced to do the same – the kind of agony that you never got used to, that you would constantly feel scratching against your very being – that a claim had been staked, and there was no going back now. That he had just as much claim over him as his gestalt did, that his commanding officers did, if not more, for when they were gone he’d be all that he had left.

First Aid leaned into the side that was trying to cling onto him, feeling their sparks latch onto each other firmly.

“Careful, you’re still bleeding a lot.” First Aid’s hand reached up to cup his cheek. “If you die whilst we’re connected, I’ll die too.”

He was essentially an oversized life support machine in that moment. He could feel the strain on his systems, the dull ache in his chest and the awkward pull in his spark. Vortex was mentally leaning heavily on him, piggybacking off of him. His legs started to go numb, his arms weak – or was that Vortex? He didn’t know any more, their psyches were mashing together, wires were crossing and-

Chest plates suddenly snapped shut, and First Aid fell back with a gasp. Vents working overtime, his frame suddenly exhausted, he reached up and placed a hand over still-warm metal.

His spark whirred aggressively. It felt heavier.

“Wooooooow~.” Vortex drawled. “Aid. You’ve got something sinister in you.”

“Does it hurt?” First Aid fretted. He could feel pain that wasn’t his radiating from his spark, tingling down his limbs.

“Just where I got blown up.”

“Oh, thank Primus.” He sagged down in relief. “I didn’t know what I’d do if I caused more damage. Okay, okay, stay still.”

“You should have taken the chance to kill me whilst you had it.”

“That’s nonsense and you know it.” First Aid was fast at work, hands flying over his frame to finish up the rest of the damage. Critical fuel lines were sealed, the clamps removed and adjusted. Exposed circuits and cables were covered over and hastily welded – he’d have better materials on base, so he just had to make sure he was stable enough to make it. Vortex watched him silently, hands twitching. He felt the fresh bond ache with each movement.

“Bonds are permanent, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because.” First Aid patiently began. “You said that you wanted me for the rest of your life, didn’t you? Well, I’m the same. So it’s obscene to even consider letting you die. Because you would have otherwise – you know that, right? So don’t go doing anything else stupid.”

A bubbling sense of pride and affection came through the bond. Vortex obediently stayed very, very still while First aid finished, waiting for his command to move again. The moment First Aid sat back to wipe his hands, he glanced up on the ridge and a smirk pulled on the corner of his lips. The medic blinked as he was suddenly slammed onto his back, arms pinned above his head whilst another hand ran sharp claws across his chest plates.

“Thank you, honey. My turn.”

Rotors twitched on his back, flicking towards the ridge. First Aid followed them and saw the outlines of figures stood there and felt his tanks drop. They had an audience.

“Make it look like it wasn’t me?”

“I’ll get off so much lighter than you will if they knew otherwise. I couldn’t have my sweet, sweet little medic kept away from me, could I?”

“Together forever?”

“Together forever.” His engine purred, and his hands forced their way into his chest.

[victorian-nymph]

There was a wild amount of noncon fics when i was looking for superman fics but the thing that threw me off the most was the sentence "alpha clark kent" cause then i have to be like oh yeah these are dcu fanfics, I was floored cause i was like "wait this guy;

[eevee-ftm]

hand caressing my pussy and rubbing my clit and letting me grind against it, and being told im a good girl when i start getting wet from it ❤️

[sourtomatola]

Thought of Mashing Angel dust's "Poison" with Moon, considering what he and Vanny's relationship might be

Lineart underneath

[sharpth1ng]

I think they should fuck a wound. I ain’t even gonna say anything else about what I mean

Hey friend 😂 I don’t think you need to say anything else, I understand you.

This is a safe space.

[tomionefinds]

Do you know fics where Tom is extremely dark and evil but Hermione is good - A very toxic relationship ( he tries to rape and hurt her ) - he do eventually love her ( but still manipulate and hurt her ) - but Hermione is still bamf.

Hey Anon,

Here's a few for you. -JD

[borealing]

just saw someone asking for wlw/queer shows about women and the op reccd myatb because they sometimes hc huaien as nb/transfem

[drades-lair]

Sexy Parties

Fandom: HelluvaBoss

Rating: M

Pairing(s): Stolitzer, Fizzarozzie

Blitz released a loud sigh towards the screen of his phone, scrolling absently from where he was settled on the four-poster bed in the palace’s master bedroom. The room echoed with the sound of the shower from the on-suite bathroom, steam bellowing from its open door where Striker was showering. Blitz only perked when the shower shut off and Striker came striding out, towel wrapped around his waist as he dried his hair with another.

"Hmm, I love seeing you like that," Blitz commented, smirking as he looked Striker from head to toe.

"Hm? Like what, naked?" Striker inquired, cocking a brow as he stopped drying his hair for a moment.

"Domestic, but naked too," Blitz chuckled.

"Humph, domestic huh? Can't say I've ever been accused of that," Striker admitted with a huffed chuckle, continuing to dry his hair while walking over to the closet. Out of the corner of Striker's eye he caught sight of a bag with costumes sitting on the couch near the doors to the room immediately getting a frown on his face.

"Ha! I can see why, but when we're here you just seem more relaxed," Blitz retorted.

"Yeah...when is that party, thing Stolas wants us to go to by the way?" Striker inquired pulling the towel from his head as he gestured towards the bag of costumes.

"Oh, uh...I'll check, it's in my phone," Blitz answered, going through his phone again.

"Alright," Striker flippantly said, moving into the closet to change while Blitz did his thing.

"Uh, okay... oh, tomorrow actually," Blitz chimed.

"Humph, great." Striker retorted from in the closet sounding less then enthusiastic at the news.

"Yep...something wrong?" Blitz wondered upon noting the tone Striker was using.

"Nah, I just wanna get it over with," Striker answered, emerging from the closet wearing a pair of loose jogging pants and pulling a t-shirt over his head.

"You sure? I know when Stolas first brought it up you weren't comfortable with the idea," Blitz persisted

“I just don’t understand why we have ta wear such ridiculous costumes,” Striker stated.

“I mean…it is a sexy costume ball,” Blitz shot back.

“I stand by my previous statement, damn blue bloods have the weirdest ideas for parties,” Striker shot back with an irritated cocked eyebrow.

“You don’t have to come you know,” Blitz offered sensing his mate’s discomfort.

“Nah, it’s fine. If I don’t how’ll that make me look?” Striker responded.

“You sure?” Blitz persisted.

“Yes,” Striker’s tone emphasized the point that he was done talking about this thus Blitz respected his mate’s decision by dropping the subject although it didn’t dampen his worry.

Next day…

Stolas emerged from the walk-in closet wearing a sexy leather outfit, tight shorts with a halter top containing a heart shaped peek-a-boo window. Blitz hummed approvingly clad in his tight leather shorts to match Stolas’ and leather harness, waiting for Striker to emerge from the bathroom where he’d been changing into his outfit.

“Seriously, who the fuck chose these costumes!?” Striker groused, walking out of the bathroom. The costume was a pair of black boxer briefs with a pair of black assless chaps that had red accents and to top it all off a black cowboy hat with a pair of black cowboy boots.

“What? I think it suites you,” Blitz retorted, raking his eyes over Striker’s lean muscular form.

“Ugh…I’m expected ta walk around in this? In public?” Striker questioned, gesturing to his lack of clothing.

“Everyone at the party is going to be in the same amount if not less, clothing,” Stolas offered, attempting to ease Striker.

Striker groaned irritably as he tried to restrain his tail from rattling, he hated drawing attention to himself after all his whole job relied on the opposite. Begrudgingly joining his mates, the trio prepared to head down to the ball room for the sexy party that Stolas had been chosen to host. As predicted the ball room was packed with royals including a few familiar faces, Asmodeus was standing near the far end of the ballroom with Fizzarolli casually chatting with some drinks in hand. Asmodeus was wearing a pair of knee high-high heeled boots in black leather, a pair of black leather shorts and a black leather pentagram harness that had a small pair of black bat wings on the back. Fizz was in a lime green G-string with matching pentagram harness, a pair of lime green ankle high heeled boots and a hood that looked like a frog. Stolas moved to begin mingling with the sin of Lust with Blitz following intending to chat with Fizz while Striker uncomfortably followed in toe, arms crossed over his chest as he stayed close to his two mates despite being unwilling to admit he needed them for comfort at the moment.

“Hey bitch!” Blitz greeted Fizz with a wave.

“Hello Asmodeus,” Stolas greeted the sin in turn.

“Well, well if it isn’t the whore? How you doin’ Blitz,” Fizz greeted in turn with a smirking grin, reaching out to invite Blitz into a hug.

“Stolas! Hey birdie babe, love the outfit~” Asmodeus happily returned the princes greeting.

Striker watched as the group began to converse casually with one another, leaning against the nearby wall to give himself some sort of security. Watching the ballroom carefully his tail wrapped around his thigh, this was not his idea of a good time however if he’d refused to come it would have disappointed Stolas.

“What are you supposed to be?” Blitz asked Fizz with a raised brow.

“I’m a frog, duh,” Fizz stated gesturing to the frog hood he was wearing.

“Uh-huh…a slutty frog?” Blitz added, with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

“Obviously,” Fizz confirmed with a smirk and a shoulder shrug.

Blitz began chuckling when his gaze fell on Striker leaning against the wall looking less then comfortable with this whole thing. Excusing himself from the current conversation with Fizz, he headed to Striker where he leaned against the wall beside his pale counter part.

“You, okay?” Blitz asked.

“I’m fine Blitz,” Striker retorted flatly.

“You sure?” Blitz persisted.

“Yes, Ya don’t need ta babysit me,” Striker insisted with a small snarl.

“Alright, alright, as long as you’re sure,” Blitz chuckled, raising his hands in defense.

Striker scoffed as Blitz headed back to offer getting drinks for Fizz, Ozzy and Stolas, who accepted prompting him to head towards the bar. Eventually the small group moved to meet Blitz halfway leaving Striker a bit further away then he’d like, when as luck would have it an unwanted yet familiar face made its way through the crowd.

“Well now, do my eyes deceive me. Striker, is that you?” Andrealphus crooned moving swiftly towards the pale imp before he had time to disappear into the crowd. The peacock had on an elegant sky-blue gown that had slits clean up to his hips and a peek a boo heart shaped window on his chest along with a pair of white wings behind him and a halo over his head…ironic on multiple levels.

“What the fuck do Ya want?” Striker snarled irritably.

“Oh, don’t be that way~ I think I see why my sister was so insistent on hiring you now,” Andrealphus retorted, cooing as he looked Striker from head to toe with a smirk.

“I repeat, what the fuck do Ya want?” Striker reiterated with a growl.

“Humph, nothing much…” Andrealphus trailed off, smirk turning sinister as Striker watched the icy Goetia wave a hand prompting two other male demons in mascaraed masks to come over. Striker felt his gut twist as the men began chatting with Andrealphus…something was off.

“Is this him?” The one crooned gesturing to Striker.

“Yes, yes, this is the imp I told you about. Isn’t he charming?” Andrealphus cooed in turn.

“Positively charming,” The second man agreed.

“So, where’s Yer bitch of a sister?” Striker growled, not wanting to make too much of a scene at Stolas’ party yet wanting to find a way to get back to his mates.

“Oh-ho, he’s certainly got a mouth on him,” The first man chuckled.

“Doesn’t he now, as for Stella, she didn’t want to come after everything she’s been through,” Andrealphus briefly answered.

“Nothin’, she didn’t deserve,” Striker retorted, making his move to get back to Blitz and Stolas when hands grabbed him by the arms followed by a clawed paw wrapping around his mouth.

…

Striker found himself hauled off to a private room located down a hall a short distance from the ball room, grunting as he was shoved onto a couch by a pair of hellhounds. Clutching to the back of the couch with his tail rattling ferociously like a cornered animal Striker snarled towards the trio who’d been talking to him in the ballroom that now stood in the doorway.

“Hmm, you’re right Andrealphus, he is a lovely specimen~” The first man cooed again.

“Yes, I hope you gentlemen enjoy yourselves,” Andrealphus stated.

“What are you all talkin’ about?” Striker demanded.

“He’s so feisty too, I can’t wait to have my way with him,” The second man stated, voice turning sinister.

“What!?” Striker’s voice broke for a moment, mind putting together the pieces of what was happening.

“Yes, yes, I give you full permission. He’s all yours, just don’t break him too badly,” Andrealphus chortled darkly.

Unwanted memories started flooding Striker’s mind, remembering how nobles use imps as party “favors” at their fancy balls…how he was used once before…passed around till he broke and even then, it didn’t stop. The men in masks began to close in on him causing the pale imp’s tail to rattle a new as he snarled in preparation to flee or fight. Andrealphus huffed a disgusted noise then waved his hand causing Striker’s hands to become frozen to the couch promptly trapping him as the men continued their advancements.

…

Blitz got lost in the conversation with Fizz and Ozz not realizing till some time passed that Striker was no longer anywhere to be seen. Instant concern began to well up in Blitz’s gut as his eyes desperately darted around the ball room for his mate. Ordinarily Blitz wouldn’t worry too much about Striker as his pale counter part was more then capable of taking care of himself, however this was a different matter considering Striker’s past as well as the fact he’d been uncomfortable from the jump with this whole thing made things not sit right.  

“Stolas, have you seen Striker?” Blitz inquired with a hint of desperation in his tone.

“Hmm, no. Why?” Stolas responded, a hint of concern tainting his question upon picking up on Blitz’s desperation.

“He’s missing, I-I can’t find him,” Blitz briefly stated.

“What? Asmodeus, have you seen Striker?” Stolas inquired of the sin.

“Huh? No, wasn’t he just over there a moment ago?” Asmodeus asked in turn, pointing to the wall where Striker had been standing.  

“He was but now he’s gone, please…can you help us find him?” Blitz pleaded with Fizz and Asmodeus uncharacteristically.

“Why the worry? That cowboy hick is more then capable of taking care of himself, isn’t he?” Fizz retorted with a shrug and a clear dislike for Striker in his tone.

“Usually, I’d say yes…but…Striker wasn’t comfortable with being here in the first place,” Blitz began, frown settling on his features as he hung his head with guilt building in his gut.

“Well duh, a room full of ‘blue bloods’ of course he didn’t want to be here,” Fizz stated making air quotes around the word’s blue bloods.

“You don’t understand…there are…things…you don’t know…things that happened to Striker. Please, help me find him,” Blitz Pleaded again causing Fizz to back off a bit in surprise.  

“Alright, we’ll help,” Asmodeus agreed.

The group split up to ask the other guests if they’d seen Striker only to collect some disconcerting information, Striker was last seen with two male royals and a familiar sounding Icey blue peacock Goetia…Andrealphus. Blitz was seething, how the fuck was Andrealphus at the ball? They hadn’t invited Andrealphus nor Stella for obvious reasons yet some how the slippery prick managed to slink into the party. Stolas was none to pleased either upon finding out that Andrealphus had snuck into his mascaraed ball let alone that he may have Striker, fortunately Stolas had a good idea of where they’d gone suggesting the private rooms that offered guests an opportunity to get away from the party for a while if need be.

“We gotta go! If those pricks are doing anything too him…” Blitz demanded with a snarl, trailing off as Fizz interjected.

“Look, don’t get me wrong we should go help and all, but…why are you so concerned? Again, Striker can handle himself, can’t he?” Fizz interjected, honestly confused considering he’d seen firsthand what Striker was capable of.

“It’s…it’s complicated…can we just fucking go!?” Blitz insisted, gesturing wildly.

“Easy Blitz, we’re going now,” Stolas assured the imp, gesturing for them to head off.

Upon arriving to the hallway of private rooms Blitz swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, there were ten different rooms, and Striker could be in any of them. The group headed off to start searching the rooms, calling out for Striker in hopes to find him before anything happened to him. 

…

Striker lashed out with a foot as one of the man’s hands got a little too far up his inner thigh, panting from panic as he fought against his own head more then the people in the room. The other man caressed a hand down Striker’s chest causing the imp to flinch, eyes squeezing shut with a growl through gritted teeth.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” Striker barked, struggling against the icy binds.

“Hmm, such a feisty little imp!” The man cooed sliding his hands down to Striker’s hips.

“Striker!” Blitz’s voice cut the air like a dagger causing Striker to perk.

“BLITZ!” Striker called out right before being silenced by a muzzle made of ice.

Andrealphus was too late in silencing Striker however, the door bursting open as Blitz entered the room with a growling snarl. The two men recoiled upon seeing Prince Stolas standing behind the enraged imp whose expression softened a bit upon seeing Striker struggling to coil in on himself, head dipped to the one side with shallow panting breaths. Stolas glared daggers at the trio in the room.

“P-Prince Stolas!” The first masked man stammered.

“What are you doing here?” The second asked in turn.

“Get your hands off my mate!” Stolas snarled, eyes glowing bright crimson in anger.

“Y-Your…mate…but we thought…” The first man stammered again, looking to Andrealphus who was cockily standing with his arms lightly crossed over his chest.

“You thought wrong! Now leave with your life while you still can!” Stolas warned, gesturing for the two men to leave.

“Y-Yes…thank you,” The duo stated, taking Stolas’ offer as they rushed out of the room.

“As for you! I’m going to call that guards!” Stolas barked towards Andrealphus who simply smirked then sighed in disappointment.

“I don’t think so, we’ll continue this later. Farewell little imp,” Andrealphus cooed, waving a hand causing him to disappear in a flurry of snow.

“Damn!” Stolas cursed under his breath.

“Should we go after him?” Asmodeus chimed in as he and Fizz appeared behind Stolas.

“No, I’ll have the council deal with Andrealphus later,” Stolas answered, tone carrying a harsh promise behind it.

Asmodeus gave a small nod of understanding when a small whimper drew their attention further into the room. Stolas’ expression turned to concern upon seeing Striker curled on the couch with his tail wrapped around himself, hurrying to his side with Blitz while Asmodeus looked on with Fizz in surprised disbelief.   

“Striker! Striker!” Blitz called to his mate.

Blitz crawled up next to Striker gently taking his face in his hands as the pale imp struggled to get his breathing under control, chest heaving with each breath. Stolas knelt one leg on the couch to balance while he leaned over to break Andrealphus’ ice restraints using his magic causing Striker to turn to the side, claws digging into the couch as he doubled over towards Blitz.

“F-Fuck…I…I can’t…breath…” Striker panted out, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to regain his composure.

“Easy darling, we’re here,” Stolas cooed, gently grasping Striker’s upper arms from behind while Blitz gently pulled Striker’s face up to get him to focus.

“Breath…focus on me, Striker,” Blitz encouraged as Striker clutched at his chest with a hand.

Asmodeus didn’t know what to think about what he was seeing neither he nor Fizz had seen Striker in such a state. Stolas gently caressed Striker’s arms with a furrowed brow of concern as Blitz tapped his forehead to Striker’s.

“Did they touch you?” Blitz asked in a quiet tone.

“N-not…in…that way…” Striker managed to pant out.

“That’s the best scenario then…just keep focusing on us, we’re here,” Blitz continued to encourage.

“Asmodeus, could you retrieve a blanket? Please,” Stolas implored of the sin having not forgotten his presence.  

“Yeah…sure…” Asmodeus agreed, immediately heading off.

“Is…is he okay?” Fizzarolli inquired hesitantly as he entered the room with both hands in light fists near his chest.

“I-I can’t…go back…I can’t…do that…again…” Striker panted under his breath, body shaking slightly.

“You won’t…me and Stolas are right here,” Blitz assured his pale counterpart.

“I know…I know…just stay…please,” Striker quietly pleaded.

“Always love,” Stolas assured Striker just as Asmodeus returned with the blanket, bringing it to Stolas who gently draped it over Striker to cover his exposed body.

Slowly Striker’s breathing leveled out as his mind calmed, returning to the present day as he sat back on his heels and pulled the blanket around himself. Stolas already instructed Asmodeus to send everyone home from the Halloween mascaraed ball meaning once Striker was capable of somewhat clear thought he was guided by his mates to the master bedroom. While Striker showered to further calm himself Blitz and Stolas went to bid Asmodeus as well as Fizz farewell, however not before explaining Striker’s unfortunate past to them.

“Shit, I didn’t realize he’d been…is he gonna be, okay?” Fizz wondered, feeling a little guilty for having judged the pale imp so harshly.

“Yeah, sadly I’m aware all too well of those sorts of things,” Asmodeus admitted, sorrow situated on his features.

“He will, fortunately those ruffians didn’t do anything beyond arouse bad memories for him,” Stolas assured the duo.

“Yeah, we’ll get him through it…thanks for helping,” Blitz offered, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly for having jumped down Fizz’s throat earlier.

“No problem, let us know if there’s anything else you need,” Asmodeus offered with a warm smile.

A final farewell saw Asmodeus and Fizz off while Stolas returned with Blitz to the master bedroom where Striker was getting into a pair of gray sweatpants. Blitz and Stolas had gotten into casual night ware themselves earlier upon guiding Striker to the bedroom, sitting on the beds edge Striker released a deep sigh as he ran a hand over his face with his other draping casually over his right leg. Blitz gingerly approached his mate, gently placing his hands on the pale imp’s thighs as Striker lowered his hand to drape over his other thigh to look at Blitz with a tired distressed gaze.

“How you doing?” Blitz inquired.

“I’m fine…really…just…tired,” Striker stammered out.

“I believe you,” Blitz assured his pale mate, leaning up for a quick kiss before pulling back.

The trio climbed into bed together with Striker on the far right, after something sets him off like this it was always awkward as Striker wanted comfort from his mates but didn’t at the same time. Thus, they came up with a sleeping pattern for these moments, Striker sleeps on one side while Blitz curls up behind him and Stolas curls up behind Blitz allowing for the comfort Striker required with out too much physical contact. They knew it would take time for Striker to fully return to his normal self, a fact that was fine by his mates.

[helaelaemond]

50 Helaemond Kisses

day 10 - desperately

Aemond has Helaena in his arms, but her husband calls her back. NSFW.

1.1k words, mentions of non-con elements between Helaena/Aegon. Aemond is both possessive and possessed.

Aemond's voice is ragged. "Shit, don't stop!"

Helaena grabs his hand as she rides him and presses his hand to her breast. He grasps it eagerly and squeezes, rolling her nipple through his fingers. Yes, this is all he wants, all he needs. Sweet Helaena above him, taking control from him and giving them both what they need. Her backside presses down on his balls and he moans again, the slick from their joining making everything slippery and soft.

"Say my name," she sighs.

"Helaena! My Helaena!"

The sound of her name makes her smile, as does the claim he makes on it. "My Aemond," comes her breathless reply.

When she leans down over him, he surges up to meet her kiss. While his cock slides in and out of her cunt, his tongue does the same into her mouth. She tastes of salt and oranges, sweet and sharp, just like her lips. His thighs twitch when she bites his lip and tugs, her hand gentle but firm against his throat.

She pulls back and looks down at him with heavy eyes. She stills the movement of her hips over his for a moment. "You're so pretty."

Her praise is everything. He strains up to kiss her again, but she keeps him at bay. "I am?"

A slow smile spreads across her soft face. It's flushed, and her blush spreads all the way down to her breasts and up her ears. "You are."

"Tell me I'm yours."

She bites her lip and beams.

When she doesn't say it, he props himself up on his arms and almost begs. "Please, Lae. Say I'm yours."

With her gaze burning into his, she lifts her hips slightly and sinks back down. "But you know that I am."

His one good eye closes in bliss. His thighs twitch again, and his hips jerk up, and it forces a quiet moan from her. "Let me hear the words."

Her hand loosens on his jaw and both find their place on his shoulders for support, and she resumes her fast pace. His eye rolls back when she tilts herself to grind down against his pubic bone, and he can feel how hard her clit is.

"Tell me," he begs, eye opening to watch her. The sway of her breasts so close to his face, the tickle of her wavy hair on his skin, the obscene slapping of wet skin against wet skin, it's all beautiful to him. She knows how to take care of him. She loves to take care of him.

"Mine," she promises. She kisses his lips once, twice, and her hot breath mingles with his. "Aemond. You're all mine."

He groans and falls back onto the bed again. With his hands free again, he links their fingers together, and that feels to him more intimate than anything else. She is his, and he is hers, and no one shall claim the other now.

At least that's what he hopes.

The curtains of her four-poster bed are closed and hide them in their own little world. They don't keep out noise, though. One of Helaena's maids - the only one discreet enough to trust her with their secret - lets herself into the room and calls out, "princess?"

"Get out!" Aemond shouts angrily. "Don't stop, Lae. Yes, just like that, just like that."

"Forgive me, princess, but-"

"Out!" he commands again, and his voice cracks. His Lae smiles down at him before one particular thrust up from him makes her face split with a moan. "You take me so well! Yes, take what you need. Good girl."

The maid still hasn't left. The door hasn't opened and closed again, and so she must still be there. Perhaps if Aemond makes Helaena moan loud enough, she'll be so embarrassed she'll have to leave. And so he flips her suddenly and roughly onto her back and slides down the bed to bury his face between her legs. She chokes on a moan when he swiftly replaces his cock with his fingers in her cunt, two long digits that drive in and out and curl against her walls. He runs his nose through her wet lips and runs the tip around her clit, cartilage teasing hot flesh, before his mouth seals around it.

"Aem-!" she whines. Her legs press against his ears. Good. Her thighs are his favourite crown.

"My princess, your br- husband is on his way here." The maid sounds desperately uncomfortable.

Aemond freezes with his tongue flat against her split, and Helaena lets out a dry sob of frustration.

"Aegon?" she calls out. Her voice cracks on the name.

"Yes, princess."

Helaena touches Aemond's shoulder, and he sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Her taste fills his mouth and the world spins. He's drunk on her. He'll kill their brother.

"Drunk?" she asks.

"I believe so, yes."

Her breathing is laboured. She looks at Aemond, both of them sweaty and desperate for the other, and she closes the minimal distance between them with a searing, desperate kiss. "Stay here," she begs. "Hide under the bed."

"Lae-" His quiet protest is cut off by her thumb pressing into the tip of his cock, the nail carefully pressing his most sensitive spot. A quiet groan escapes him, and he nods. Within a moment, he has rolled off the bed and climbed onto the cold stone floor beneath it.

When Aegon stumbles into Helaena's bedchamber, his words are slurred. He asks why she's already undressed, and she just tells him it's so it can be over as quickly as possible. He snorts, and the bed above Aemond sinks slightly when Aegon climbs atop it. There's no loving words, no moans of passion. A part of him is glad that he has made Helaena so wet. It should make it easier.

Less than a minute passes, and Aegon spent with a muffled grunt.

Another minute passes, and the snoring begins. When Aemond slides out from under the bed and looks up, Helaena is watching him, waiting. She is smiling at him. She's glad he's there.

"Fuck me," she whispers. "Next to him."

Aemond's cock is still hard. When she spreads her legs, he sees the familiar glisten, and as she parts her folds for him, she is still flushed red.

"Did he-?"

"No." The answer makes her smile even wider. "He spent on my stomach. I already wiped him off. Come here, Aemond. Please?"

The idea of claiming her again next to her sleeping husband, their ill-fitting brother, should repulse him. But it doesn't. Aemond climbs back onto the bed and lies on his back again, and she finds her place on his cock. With their hands held, they take what is theirs. No one can come between them. Not ever.

Not for now.

[shade-without-color]

When hearts are stolen, then I must fight back [Read this at A03]

TW: Non-consensual elements (If you find this chapter uncomfortable, feel free to skip this chapter if you need to, and focus on self-care if needed)

So happy 2024!! I hope your year has a good start, and speaking about new journeys- Midoriko herself went through her own journey herself. And I feel that I translated Midoriko's darkness into this form, as a year before last I was pretty much in the dark.

On a lighter note, I reach 100K for I want you which is insane, as I never wrote something as long as this story and it really shows how much I love these characters and the journey they went through.

I want to thank @fawn-eyed-girl for always supporting my long story by her amazing outlook (today she found that I have a missing sentence in my story) and clarity and @serial-doubters-club for believing my mad tale.

I hope for more chapters to come as we speak!

[sapphireginger]

Peter & the Sunflower

Summary:

Helianthus Fields where the the Sìogs dwelled, had been nearly annihilated. The newest Sìog who had just hatched was now all alone. His life might have ended too soon if not for the intervention of a Never Boy. or Peter & Pan. A Teen Wolf/Peter Pan Fusion.

AO3 Link

@steter-bang

Thank you to @teenwerewoofs for her artwork!!

[brainhurtyqueen]

I wrote this right after the episode: “Western Energy.” Came out, so this is from my much older writing style, but I thought why not post it? I still loved it because I’m proud of everything I write. I love watching how much I've grown since then.

[aaronnaphiliou]

Avatar the Last Airbender Whumptober 2023 Day 22

No. 22: “They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.”

Glass Shard | Vehicular Accident | “Watch out!”

Zuko got the Avatar onto his ship only for everything to go wrong. Now he was locked within himself staring out like a prisoner with only a one-way window to see the world.