#Serpentine Prison

[fuckyeahthenational]

Pics by Jeff Salem

[alfairb]

undefined

Total frustration Deterioration Nationalism Another moon mission Total submission I've seen a vision Call electrician Serpentine prison

[lazynoodlepuff]

Me trying to explain Sixst Coil revelations to my friend who doesn't play Fallen London

[bellshazes]

i'm waiting for my main (matt berninger cover) + my man on a horse is here (josh ritter cover). end of sentence just consider it.

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 10]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

crooked fingers and christmas cheer

cw: minor gore, panic attack, anxiety

wc: 4.6k

You’re dreaming of your dad again. 

Crooked fingers grip the steering wheel in front of him as he sits in the driver's seat, maneuvering through swirling streets with faceless pedestrians. You’re cuddled in the back of the car, blankets weighing you down to the seat like a prison. They’re tight. Serpentine binds. So much so you find it hard to breathe. Fat snowflakes flutter past your window as the engine revs, speeding through London with no regard for traffic lights or stop signs. If there were other cars on the road, he would have crashed long ago. 

Quiet megrim suffocates you as your ringing ears make sense of the song playing on the radio. Static drowns the notes, fuzzies them until you can barely hear it. Your dad hums the tune in a different key. Sweet, and off beat. He’s always been tone deaf. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

The acrid scent of blood fills your nose the moment you find his eyes in the rearview mirror. Thick patches of it stain his face, crusting around fat lacerations on his eyebrows, lips, and nose. It dries; flakes off his skin just to be replaced by a fresh stream. Pulled stitches fray at the ends as they protrude from his skin like grotesque teeth, being devoured from the inside out by wounds he can’t outrun. Wounds that will never heal. 

“Comfortable?” he asks. 

You attempt to shift but the cocoon of blankets grows tighter around you, hugging your limbs close to you like a straightjacket. It’s so crowded that your ribs have trouble expanding, and a breathy cough leaks from your mouth. It burns, like smoke in your lungs or mint on your tongue. 

“You should slow down,” you warn him.

“Silent night, Holy night.” The song repeats. You don’t think you’ve heard it make it past the first stanza. A bent record, forever scratching, doomed to repeat a song and never finish it. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he assures you. 

“Dad, please slow down.” 

The engine sputters and quiets down as the brakes engage with a gentle tap. Wheels dwindle and slow until the car halts in the center of the road. Traffic dashes by with quiet whooshes. You don’t know where the cars came from. Maybe they had been following you the whole time. They’re all black — like a funeral procession. Exhaust mixes with iron. The concoction is enough to turn your stomach as it burns your sinuses. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

“Are you afraid I’m going to end up like him?” he asks. Disfigured, bent, and disgusting fingers still grip the steering wheel despite the motionlessness of the car. You try not to stare, but the horror of it has you transfixed. “Like Row’s dad?” 

Your bottom lip juts out and trembles. “You already did.” 

He laughs at you, and it’s warm like velvet. Comforting just like it was when you were a kid. It reminds you of when he would read you stories before bed, keeping his tone even yet engaging — just calming enough to get your eyes to grow heavy. Your skin itches to throw the blankets off of your body and wrap yourself in his mirth instead, but as usual, you are not strong enough. 

“I’m right here, darling,” he chuckles. “I know the accident was hard on you, but it’s not your fault. It could’ve happened to anyone. You don’t have to be afraid of it.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap. 

“Silent night, Holy night.” 

Leather seats shift under your dad’s weight, and his eyes no longer look at you in the rearview mirror. You want to ask if he looks away in shame, but the question doesn’t quite reach your tongue. 

“Are you mad at me?” he asks softly. 

You swallow. “I don’t know. I just… wish you didn’t leave me like that.” 

“But I didn’t leave,” he assures. 

“You died and now I have nothing,” you retort. 

There is no denying that you are aggrieved. Betrayed in some aching way that still haunts the marrow of your bones and the ridge of your spine. How many years have you felt this way? Are you even able to recall a time when you felt normal? Felt loved? Felt safe? Maybe you had, but you’re not sure if there was ever a moment of your life that you lived where your father’s shadow wasn’t following you. 

You’re not sure if you ever will. 

How long had he been haunting you? Did his ghosts only come out to play after his death? 

“Silent night, Holy night. All is calm, all is-” 

The radio dies just as the engine does and a wave of tinnitus rings so loud you’re certain it can’t be coming from inside your own head. Someone else must be hearing this agony; it can’t just be you. You blink and witness in abject horror as your dad twists in his seat, hands leaving the steering wheel, torso turning so that he can fully face you. 

He looks just like he did all those years ago. Clothes perfectly pressed, dress shirt steamed, cuffs neatly creased. He always joked that the first time he would ever wear a suit would be at your wedding — instead, it was his own funeral. They did a good job making him look normal. At covering the abrasions and ruptured blood vessels. At setting his fingers and nose straight. Still, there’s something wrong with his skin. There’s no fresh blood, it’s all pooled in the side of his body. Heavy. Weighing it down. 

The mortician did a good job, but no amount of wax can fix the chunk of bone and flesh missing from the side of his skull. 

“But you do have something,” he says bluntly. “I just hope you can escape it before it gets you, too.” 

Your only solace is the alarm on your phone.

It vibrates next to your head where it echoes throughout your box spring mattress like a hollow cavern. It kick starts your heart, which pounds so violently in your chest you’re certain your sternum will shatter. You need it to stop. Need it to shut up. Need to kill it. Sucking in a shuddering breath, your hands fumble with your phone as you tap on the screen, shutting off the alarm and plunging your apartment into silence. 

Throwing yourself on your back, you stare at your water damaged and stained ceiling as you try not to deliquesce into the bed. You can already feel it happening. Muscles convulsing until they liquify, bone marrow seeping out from your pores, soft duvet soaking up the essence of everything that once made you human. You feel the pillow beneath your head and the cotton of your pajamas, trying to ground yourself to the earth that threatens to crush you everyday but the mind is always stronger. There is nothing you can do to free yourself from the heat of a car engine, or shattered glass in your lap, or the gunshot pop! of an airbag — 

Once more, your phone buzzes. Something soft and non-intruding. A gentle nudge that pulls you back into your bed just as the heater kicks on. You breathe in the scent of your apartment. It’s stale. Stagnant air and old dish soap. You’d like to invest in a candle or wax warmer, like the ones your mom used to have. Maybe that way you could pretend that you were still with her, if only for a moment. 

Everything feels lighter when you realize just where you are. That doloriferous anxiety wanes until it’s nothing more than a dormant beast in your chest. You sigh, body twisting to once again grab your phone. It’s just before eight in the morning, and a text from Simon has your heart fluttering so fiercely you swear you feel your stomach shrink and swell in one fell swoop. 

Good morning sweetheart. I’ll be there in an hour. Need me to pick up anything for the trip? 

Not even the primal terror lurking in your chest can stop the small smile that pulls at your lips as you read his message. Always so proper. So kind and considerate. For a moment, you can forget all about crooked fingers and half formed skulls. You swallow back any tremulous sensation as you type your response back to him. 

no thanks, should be good (: excited to see you

You regret the message as soon as you send it. Excited to see you. Groaning, you shut your phone off and hit your forehead against the screen like you can beat the embarrassment out of yourself. But there’s not enough time to dwell on it. It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve got somewhere to be. 

A quick shower is all it takes to get your mind functioning properly again. Lukewarm water washes away the nightmare sweats and leaves you with a clean slate. Fresh, untouched skin. Eardrums lulling into the quiet hum of the water hitting the cracked tile that lines the tub. There’s a draft that seeps through the gaps of the window, causing your skin to prickle and tighten as you dry yourself off. On windy days, you can hear its whistle. It prompts you to get ready with a sense of urgency, and it isn’t long before you’re swaddled tight in comfortable travel clothes and shoving last minute items into your bag. 

Simon arrives just when he said he would, and you can’t tell if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but his jumper seems to hug tighter around his shoulders than usual. Muscle shifts, hands twitch, and you find your greeting tumbling out of your lips on a tongue that feels too fat. He stares at you with careful eyes, always assessing you like the good worker he is. Soaks up the buzz tingling through your nerves as you fiddle with your travel bag, heat drenching your skin so thickly he can almost feel it from where he stands. 

Smirking, he reaches forward, fingers brushing against yours as he slips the bag out of your hand, and you have no choice but to relinquish it. He keeps the straps firmly in his hand as he steps back, gesturing to the stairs. 

“After you, sweetheart.” 

Breakfast and warm tea brewed in a to-go cup waits for you in Simon’s car. It’s the very first thing you notice when he opens the door for you, and the sight has you biting into your lip. You try to mutter something about how he shouldn’t have, but he only shushes you as he ushers you inside. Really, it makes a good distraction. Focusing on trying not to leave crumbs as you devour a bagel sandwich leaves you little time to worry about why he didn’t get anything for himself. 

It’s good. Better than good. Perfectly toasted bagel, melty cheese, seasoned avocado — something too fancy for you to have ever ordered on your own. The tea is still warm by the time you hit the motorway, and a comfortable silence settles over you as the engine hums along the road. Towering grey buildings dwindle into quaint homes which then shapeshift between natural scenery and city views in the distance. You try to remember the last time you left London. Escaped the prison that’s held you by the throat for the last few years, even if it were only temporary. The only time you can recall is the trip your family took to Italy when you were a child. 

Simon shifts in his seat next to you, and your eyes dart over to him. He’s only adjusting himself, getting his legs comfortable for the long ride ahead — he mentioned something about arriving around one — but your eyes can’t help but wander. You glance at the roll of his hips and the way his thighs fill out the fabric of his jeans. The tight line of his lips as his eyes scan the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, thick fingers wrapped around the edge —

You blink and they’re crooked. Bruised, bent, and wrong. Compound fractures — bone piercing flesh. Jagged knuckles, fingers like the ridge of a mountain; you feel your stomach twist as that nightmare continues to haunt you. 

Before its tendrils have the chance to wrap around your spine, your hand dives into your pocket. Frayed string brushes against your skin, and you hook it like a fish on the end of your line before yanking it free. Cat’s Cradle is always your go to distraction. It keeps you moving. Mind focused on string formations as you twist them into designs just to move to the next formation; always flowing, never stagnant. 

Even now, you can hear your father’s voice. Feel his hands as he guided yours all those years ago when he taught you how to play. Move your left hand. They’ll cross if you don’t.

You move your right hand, and it knots; candle sticks now a cross. 

“Cat’s Cradle?” Simon asks. 

As you unwind the string from your fingers, a nostalgic smile pulls at your lips. You don’t think you’ve ever had someone recognize it before. “Yeah. Play it sometimes to keep myself occupied.” 

“Didn’t know you could play it by yourself,” he admits. “Always thought you needed someone else.” 

“You can’t do as many moves as you can with someone else, but it’s still fun,” you chuckle sheepishly. 

He hums, hand adjusting on the wheel, free arm resting on the center console next to you. “You should teach me.” 

A breathy laugh escapes your lips — you think he’s joking. It’s a stupid game with string. Nothing that means anything. Yet when you look at him and find his eyes flickering to you, dark hue reading your expression, you realize he means it. 

You swallow, then smile. “If you’d like.” 

He shifts once more, leather seat creaking beneath his weight. You try to ignore the way your heart hurts at the sound. “I’d like doin’ anythin’ with you.”  

The whole ride feels warm after that. Bubbling mirth lurks beneath your skin, lighting it on fire, heating your cheeks and the tips of your ears. It’s that same feeling that afflicted you the previous week after Christmas shopping. This fervor. This want. It grows more intense the closer you are to reaching Manchester as the reality of your situation hits you. You’re going to be meeting his family.

But as a friend, or something else? 

That question plagues you as Simon pulls up to a small home with effulgent lights lining the rooftop. They illuminate the extremely thin layer of snow that coats the city in crystalline sparkles, and for a moment you’re convinced you’re seeing stars. A thick evergreen wreath sits on the front door and the sight of it is so nostalgic it nearly hurts. A tremble ails your knees as you climb out of the car, useless joints turning into jelly as you watch Simon retrieve both of your bags. Your hands reach out, ready to receive yours, but he raises his eyebrow at you as he closes the door with his elbow. 

“C’mon,” he urges. “Freezin’ out here.” 

He leads you up the stairs and before he even knocks on the door you can already hear the commotion going on inside. A TV drones in the background as quiet chatter mixes with whatever programme is playing — giggles and cracked jokes and faint music. Voices cease as Simon knocks on the door, and you’re certain you hear a high pitched gasp, followed by what you think is someone asking for Uncle Simon. 

You swallow your heart thudding in your throat as the door swings open and you’re met with a mess of bright blonde hair. Simon was right, Tommy isn’t bigger than him yet he still towers taller than most. He grins at his brother, crooked teeth and all as he slaps his hand on Simon’s shoulder. 

“‘Bout time you showed up. Joey’s been beggin’ for you all morning,” he teases, though he can’t quite mask the way his eyes flicker to you standing meekly to the side. “C’mon in, we just started a game of Candyland.” 

The moment you and Simon step through the threshold of the house, you’re enveloped by fresh cinnamon and the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas buzzing on the TV. A fat evergreen tree sits in the corner of the living room next to a coffee table with board game pieces and snacks strewn about its top. You recognize Joseph and his mother Beth, who sit next to the table on the floor, rug cushioning their knees from the hardwood floor. The very moment his eyes land on Simon, little Joseph bolts to his feet. 

Suddenly, it’s a reunion. Everyone stands on their feet to exchange hugs and kisses, Simon attempting to return them with his hands occupied with bags; the walls echo the laughter shared between everyone. And you? You stand there with a quiet smile, soaking in the familial love as you stay out of the way. Joseph clings to Simon’s leg, white teeth on display as he looks up at his uncle, and you swear you’ve never seen him smile or laugh so hard before. 

“Simon,” a voice speaks up from the kitchen. 

You turn to find a grey haired woman drying her hands off on a tea towel. She’s short; surprisingly so for the two boys she’s brought into this world. Rose dusts the apples of her cheeks as she slowly crosses into the entryway, arms spread wide to envelope her son as best as she can with her frail frame. 

“Missed you mum,” Simon whispers as he returns the hug. 

“It’s always good to see you,” she says, pulling away to look up at him. Her lips tighten as her fingers squeeze the side of his arm. “My sweet boy.” 

It isn’t long before her eyes begin to wander, and they’re drawn to you, not even bothering to fight against the magnetic pull. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think she was eager to see you. She removes herself from her son as she approaches you, hands reaching for yours as she pulls you away from the front door and into her home. 

“It’s so good to meet you, Chip,” she says, hand patting yours. 

She already knows your name. 

You swallow. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Riley,” you stutter back in response. 

Everything falls into place after that like a perfect line of dominoes. Simon vanishes for only a short moment to put your bags away in some unseen room and returns just in time for Joseph to drag the two of you into the living room for a game of Candyland. There’s hardly any time for proper introductions as Joseph directs the game all the way down to what color pieces everyone uses — both you and Simon are assigned green — and despite your apprehension, it’s like you’ve been here the entire time. Instantly welcomed and assimilated into the Riley Family like you’ve never belonged anywhere else. 

You learn so much in such a little amount of time. Questions are thrown about as everyone takes turns drawing cards and moving pieces along the board. You learn that Joseph’s favorite color is red because it reminds him of his mother’s hair, and how Beth works with preschool aged children as a teacher. Tommy works as a mechanic and is one of the reasons why Simon has a motorcycle. Both Simon and Tommy can banter well enough to go pro, especially with one another. The table erupts into laughter and playful cursing more often than not. 

They ask questions about you, too. Gently poking, prodding, and peeling back the layers you try so hard to wrap yourself in. They don’t allow you to hide, and after a few hours of games, snacks, and movies, you start to think you might not want to anymore. Tucked into Simon’s side, lazy arm around your shoulder as he chuckles and laughs with his family, you start to realize this is the most at home you’ve felt for a long time. 

You try to remember the last Christmas you attended that you enjoyed, but the memories that emerge taste sour on your tongue. 

Halfway through How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Simon squeezes your shoulder. It’s soft — a gesture that warns you he’s going to move well before he does. He removes his arm from around you, body shifting forward on the couch yet making sure to replace the airplane themed blanket on your lap that Joseph gave you because you look cold. 

“Gonna step out for a smoke,” he assures. 

“Okay. Well, I’ll keep our seats warm,” you smile as he stands. 

Manchester gets darker later than London does, so it’s a welcome surprise when Simon steps out into the backyard and faint rays of sun still ignite the sky above him. It is colder, though. So much so that his skin tenses and trembles through the fabric of his jumper as he lights the cigarette sitting between his teeth. 

Truly, he is happy to be home, but those walls make his skin crawl. Old scars burn and itch every time he sees those old photos hung up on walls or the wood floors creak a certain way. No amount of pine tree pollen or holiday cinnamon aroma can fully cleanse the stale alcohol that permeates every pore in that house. Each time he visits, he tries to override those memories. Create something new from the lingering pain. He’s tried to convince his mom to let him buy her a nicer place, or at least fix that damn bathtub, but she refuses every time. 

He swears one day he’ll tear out every tile in that bathroom. 

A squeak sounds behind Simon as the sliding glass doors open, then quickly shut. He hurriedly exhales the smoke in his mouth before turning around, not surprised at all to find Tommy approaching him with his arms hugged tight to his chest. 

“Tryna bum a smoke?” he asks as he shoves the cigarette back between his lips. 

“What, and have Beth maul me in my sleep?” Tommy chuckles. “Been clean for nearly six years and I don’t plan to throw that away now.” 

Dead grass crunches beneath Tommy’s feet as he approaches, but Simon’s chuckle drowns it out. “Good man.” 

Tommy hums as he stops next to Simon, still a good distance away so as to not get the stale scent of nicotine on him. Blue eyes keep flickering to the door where you, Beth and Joseph continue to watch the movie, idle chatter filling the gaps of the film you’ve seen a million times over. He smirks, and it looks an awful lot like Simon’s. Two sides of the same coin. 

“Didn’t realize you were bringin’ a girl,” he admits. “No wonder why mum seemed extra adamant about cleaning. How long have you two been together?” 

At that question, Simon takes a particularly long drag. It expands in his lungs, fills the space until there’s nothing left, and when he exhales it leaves through his nose. “We’re not together.” 

“Oh?” Tommy asks with a poorly restrained grin. “So you just brought this completely random girl home to see the family? Nothin’ more?” 

“It’s complicated,” Simon deadpans. 

“Ah. Complicated. Bullshit,” Tommy retorts. 

The brothers fall silent as laughter bleeds through the doors behind them. Both men turn to find Joseph wrapped in Beth’s arms, swaying side to side as he points at the TV. You cover your laugh with the palm of your hand, but Simon catches on to the way your shoulders shake with the movement. 

“When are you gonna settle down? Start a family of your own?” Tommy questions, eyes still on his wife and son. “Sure mum’ll appreciate you gettin’ married before she’s too old to know where she’s at.” 

In an attempt to hide his laugh, Simon chooses to scoff instead. “I couldn’t do better than you ‘n Beth.” 

“Couldn’t you?” Tommy challenges. 

For a moment, Simon entertains it. The thought of a family. The thought of you. He’ll admit, he thinks of you often, but he can’t determine if it’s because he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, or because he’s still trying to solve the mystery of you. Of Andrei, of your reclusiveness, of everything. He can’t tell if his heart quickens because of you, or what might be chasing you. 

What a silly idea. With his line of work and your anxiety, he’s certain you’d want nothing to do with him if you ever found out. 

“I mean it,” Simon says, standing firm. “Buildin’ the life you did after everythin’ you went through, findin’ an amazing woman and havin’ a good son… I’m proud of you.” 

Tommy scoffs at Simon’s adulation like he’s about to spew something sarcastic at the man, but instead his lips pull into a reverent smile. Nodding, he sighs, breath spewing out in a fit of frost that’s quickly smothered by the bitter air as it rises and vanishes. The sun sets quickly, so much so that it’s almost a distant memory by the time he’s able to find his words. 

“As the older brother, I think I’m supposed to be praisin’ you but… yeah. I’m proud of myself, too,” Tommy admits. “To think about all the shit I had gotten caught up with. Fuck, surprised Beth ever saw anythin’ in me. Nearly got myself killed over drugs. Over that fuckin’ debt. Needed my little brother to come save my ass. Still, I’ve got them. Somehow… I have them. Wouldn’t change that for the world.” 

Hot embers begin to burn too close to Simon’s fingers, and he discards the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and stomps out what remaining life it has left. He looks up at Tommy, but his eyes are focused on the smoldering remains of ash on the ground. 

“Do you ever run into him at all?” Tommy asks. 

“Who?” 

“Marco.” 

Ravenous acrimony eats away at Simon’s chest at the name alone. Memories resurface — an overconfident prick with beady green eyes. He rubs at his knuckles as if he can still feel the way they split all those years ago, and then he presses against them until they shift. Their crack echoes dully off the dead grass and glass door. 

“If I did, he’d be fuckin’ dead,” he assures. 

Tommy chuckles, clearly caught off guard by his brother’s bloodthirst. “Well, I wouldn’t ever ask you to go that far, but… the cunt would deserve it. Besides, with your line of… work, I reckon it’s not too difficult to make people vanish.” He coughs, clearing his throat of any lingering smoke before he continues. “Speakin’ of that… does she know?”

“Know what?” 

“That you run with Price?” Tommy clarifies. Simon’s silence is the only answer he needs. “You haven’t told her?” 

“It’s complicated,” Simon reiterates. 

Some facetious response dances on the tip of his tongue, Simon can see it in the way his mouth twitches, but Tommy stays silent. He sighs, then nods before looking back through the door. Their mother is on her feet, slowly maneuvering around the living room in a slight waddle in order to open the door. 

“Yeah. I know it is. Just… be careful,” he mumbles, just as the door slides open. 

“Dinner’s ready. You two should come back inside. It’s freezin’ out here,'' she urges. 

Both men glance at one another with a curt nod before trudging through the grass back to the house. The very moment they step back into the warm embrace of their childhood home, everything else seems left behind. Any worries. Any sour memories and old scars. All of it lingers in the backyard with the smoking remains of Simon’s cigarette; unimportant, and long forgotten.

[pretzel-box]

Hello ●♡●

Do you mind if request a pregnant!reader who gets sent down into Hadal Blacksite?

She was arrested for being associated with a famed drug dealer (you may pick) and was now sent to life in prison. But Hadal picked her up and sent her to retrieve the crystal.

Eventually she meets Sebby, from that point on you can drive the story ^^

Sorry if this sounds weird. First time requesting someone 😅

words: 1,1k

tags: pregnant! female reader, comfort

The sound of the facility’s massive gates clanging shut echoed in your ears, the final barrier between you and the world you once knew. The cold, harsh reality of the Hadal Blackside settled over you like a shroud, suffocating and oppressive. You had heard the stories about this place—the darkness, the desperation, the things that lurked in the shadows. But nothing could have prepared you for the weight of it, the feeling that you were truly, utterly alone.

Except you weren’t alone.

A hand instinctively rested on your stomach, where a life grew inside you. The life of a child whose father had betrayed you, framed you for crimes you hadn’t committed. The memories flooded back—the frantic nights, the lies, the realization that the man you had once trusted with everything had set you up to take the fall for his empire’s sins. You hooked up with a man, knowing he had money and you would be financially secure till he used you and you found out about the truth behind his business. Blinded by drugs, money and criminal motivation he blamed you and exposed you in front of the police and now, you are here, sent to this hellhole with no hope of return, carrying his child.

You wandered through the winding, decaying corridors, your mind racing with fear and uncertainty. The facility was a labyrinth of rusted metal, flickering lights, and shadows that seemed to move on their own. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something far more sinister yet metallic, something that made your skin crawl.

It wasn’t long before you stumbled upon a small shop tucked away in one of the darker corners of the facility. The space was cluttered with all manner of items, some useful, some strange, all scavenged from the depths of this godforsaken place. Your eyes fell on the shopkeeper, a tall, serpentine figure with fluorescent blue eyes that glowed faintly in the dim light. His long, coiled tail was laying casually over the slight wet floor, and his gaze was sharp, assessing you with a mixture of curiosity, caution and unmotivation.

“You look lost,” he said, his voice smooth and surprisingly gentle, given his intimidating appearance. His large claw-like hands rubbing against each other as he kept staring at you.

You hesitated for a moment, the reality of your situation crashing down on you all over again. You didn’t know who to trust, if anyone, in this place. But you were desperate, scared, and you needed someone—anyone—to help you.

“I…I was sent down here,” you began, your voice trembling slightly as you spoke. “Framed for something I didn’t do. And now…” You paused, your hand instinctively moving to your stomach again. “Now I’m here. Alone. And I’m pregnant.”

The shopkeeper’s expression shifted, the hard edges softening as he took in your words. For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching you with those piercing blue eyes. Then, with a quiet sigh, he moved forward, his tail shifting with a sinuous grace as he approached.

“My name’s Sebastian,” he said, his tone gentle now, almost kind. “And this is my shop. My wares are on my tail, batteries on the table next to me…” He paused for a moment, his gaze softening as he took in your exhausted, tear-streaked face. “And you can rest here, free of charge.”

His words were simple, but they carried a weight of kindness that you hadn’t expected to find in a place like this. The offer of refuge, even just for a little while, was more than you could have hoped for. A small, shaky breath escaped your lips, and you nodded, the tightness in your chest loosening just a bit.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, your voice still trembling slightly.

Sebastian nodded, gesturing to a makeshift bed in the corner of the shop—a crude but inviting space with blankets neatly folded on top. “It’s not much,” he said, almost apologetically, “but it’s better than most places around here. You should get some rest.”

You glanced over at the bed, the exhaustion of the past few days weighing heavily on your shoulders. The idea of lying down, of letting your guard down for just a moment, was terrifying. But you were so tired—tired in a way that went beyond physical fatigue. Your heart ached with the burden of your situation, and the weight of your unborn child felt heavier with every passing moment.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sebastian studied you for a moment longer before reaching out, his clawed hand hovering near your shoulder as if he was unsure whether to offer comfort. “This place…it’s not for people like you. It's even a surprise that they send you down here.,” he said quietly. “But you’ll find that most of us down here have our own stories. We all carry something.” His gaze flicked briefly to your stomach before meeting your eyes again. “Some more than others.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, quickly followed by another. The enormity of your situation, the betrayal, the fear for your unborn child—it all came crashing down on you, and you couldn’t hold it back any longer.

Sebastian moved closer, his presence unexpectedly reassuring despite his fearsome appearance. “You’re safe here, for now,” he said softly, his voice like a balm to your frayed nerves. “At least as safe as you can be in this place. I’ll help you, as much as I can.”

You didn’t know why, but something in his words, in the way he looked at you, made you believe him. Maybe it was the way he seemed to understand without needing to ask questions, or maybe it was simply the fact that he was offering help when you felt most alone. Whatever the reason, you found yourself nodding, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

Sebastian nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’ll be okay,” he assured you, his tone firm but comforting. “We’ll figure this out, together.”

As you stood there, the reality of your new life beginning to sink in, you realized that for the first time since you had been sent down here, you didn’t feel completely alone. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And as you looked up at Sebastian, the man who had so unexpectedly become your lifeline, you felt a small spark of hope flicker to life within you.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a future for you and your child in this dark, twisted place.

[electronicwitchcollection]

~* Primal Grimmjow Smut*~

Because there can never be enough Grimmjow 😂

I’ve had this idea kicking around for a while of a primal/hunting fic, but kind of put it to the back of my mind. Recently been inspired to finish it. Hope you enjoy 💜

Run

The sound of your bare feet rapidly running through the dense Forrest, leaves crunching, twigs snapping under your weight drowned out only by the sound of your panicked breathing. Your chest was burning, throat raw from the desperate breaths you pulled through parted lips. Adrenaline pumping through your veins heightened your senses making the branches flicking against your skin feel like little whips, small painful stings you payed no mind.

Run. The word echoing in your mind, every survival instinct, every Fibre of your being demanding that you run. Hiding wasn't an option, he would find you. Fighting wasn't an option, he could easily overpower you. Your heart was thundering behind your breast, skin prickled and alive, tasting the air around you. You could sense him, he was out there, stalking you, chasing, hunting.

The hunter relished in the thrill of the hunt, chasing down its prey, ready to devour his winnings. Claim what he had earned. Your eyes darted wildly around the thick greenery, searching for a flash of colour, signifying your impending capture. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, howling wind sending a chill up your spine. Pushing you forward, deeper into the darkening forest, guiding you with an insistent push at your back, helping you to escape.

An animalistic cry of rage roared out behind you, echoing through the trees as they whizzed past your vision. Close, he was getting closer, had you locked in his vision. You pushed yourself faster, darting and weaving between the bark, serpentining in your escape, not giving up without a fight. Your arm circled a nearing tree, using the momentum to spin you round to a different direction. You heard a rush of air, a heavy body hitting the ground where you were moments before.

Run

Narrowly avoiding capture, you raced on, feeling his murderous eyes locked onto your back. You could hear is rapid chase, feet thundering on the overgrown brush littering the ground. Hear the clack of snapping teeth as he snarled, tasting your desperation. He could smell your fear, the perspiration dampening your skin as you ran for your life. You could feel his feel his insatiable hunger motivating his powerful pursuit, energy coiling in his large muscles, exploding in a release of raw power.

A warning growl, low and guttural, exclaiming his victory seconds before you were airborne. The momentum in which he used to leap into you, knocked you off your feet, air being forcefully pushed from your lungs. His arms snaked around your middle, cutting off your escape. At the last second he twisted violently, the darkening blue sky filling your vision before you both slammed into the ground. He took the initial force of the hit, softening the blow as you tumbled across the leaf covered floor, clawing at the arms keeping you prisoner.

Screeching to a halt, you writhe in his grasp, desperately bucking against him, searching for an escape. Throwing your head back, you hear a pain filled hiss, pushing through the relaxed hold encasing you. You scramble in the dirt, clawing through the dried mud in an attempt to get back on your feet, to escape his clutches. A vice like grip encased your ankle, tugging harshly to land you face down in the dirt.

Desperately you try to drag yourself away, fingers digging long claw marks into the ground in a futile attempt. His heavy weight loomed over you, crawling over your form. Eye wide, pupils blown, you were roughly pushed to your back. Grimmjow caged you between his arms, legs spread either side of your own, no place to escape. His eyes were wild, pupils narrowed into feline slits, hungrily, darkly staring at you. You whimper, feebly trying to find purchase with your feet, trying to inch yourself away from under him.

Grimmjow snarled aggressively, baring his pointed canines and snapping warningly at your face. Hands planted on his naked chest, you push back against the wall of solid muscle, wriggling in the dirt, every instinct screaming at you to get away. His hands planted themselves next to your head with a powerful blow, a display of power, of superiority. He was waiting for you to submit, to give yourself over to your capturer.

You whimper softly, searching for any salvation. Grimmjow lowered his head to your neck, growling demonically, snapping his teeth in a vicious warning. A deep, rumble in his heaving chest, growing impatient at your refusal to submit. The hot, wet breath dampening your neck, an indication of how close he was to your jugular vein. You try to inch away slowly, last futile attempt to not fall victim to the predator.

Grimmjow pushed himself closer, trapping you under his weigh, rabidly growling, Patience reaching their absolute limit. You still beneath him, quivering with adrenaline. Defeated, you raise your head with a whimper , exposing your neck in the ultimate display of surrender, submitting yourself to him. The hunter had won, captured his prey. He claimed his prize, sinking his teeth into your exposed neck, groaning as the first droplets of blood coated his tongue.

You cry softly, high pitch keen brought on by the animalistic ritual, staking his claim, leaving his mark. You held perfectly still, not daring to move even an inch with his teeth baring down into your flesh. Grimmjow sucked hard, drawing blood the the surface of your neck, pulling the next droplets to ignite his pallet with the tangy, sweet metallic flavour profile. The taste of victory, of complete domination.

Not allowing even a morsel of the delicacy to waste, Grimmjow lapped at your neck, thick tongue slowly dragging over the burning mark, savouring every last drop of your life's essence. Satisfied he hadn't missed a single smudge of your blood, Grimmjow nuzzled into your neck, inhaling deeply. Your scent, tainted with blood and the earthy woods, called to him on a primal level. It was intoxicating, addicting. His.

The chase had been exhilarating, blood pumping through his veins as he exuberantly displayed his power, his prowess as a hunter. Top of the food chain, undefeated, and here you were, proof of his skills. The adrenaline and thrill ignited his body, drew power and blood to his muscles, including his cock which had become engorged with blood at the sight of you submitting.

A deep rumbling purr echoed in his chest, instinctively pinning you in place. His nails grew in length, hardening into claws as he lapped at your salty skin.Another weapon in his arsenal to keep you compliant. His teeth scraped over your neck, nibbling on your collar bone. You moaned, back arching at the sensation of his teeth, the warmth of his body seeping into your own. Grimmjow pushed on his hands, hovering himself over you with a predatory look in his eyes.

With a rapid swipe of his claws, Grimmjow ripped through the flimsy material of the negligee covering your body, dirtied with grass and mud. With accurate slashes, Grimmjow ribboned the material, watching hungrily as it revealed more of your unmarked skin to his sharp eyes. Fisting the ruined material, Grimmjow ripped it from your form, chucking it uselessly to the ground besides him.

His eyes raked over your naked body, indulging in your heaving breasts, lingering on your erect nipples. Unable to deny himself any longer, Grimmjow licked his way down your body, lapping up the salty reminders of your chase. Reaching your breasts, Grimmjow licked up the valley between them, the soft plush mounds brushing against his cheeks. One hand supported his weight as the other cupped the jiggly weight of your tit, squeezing around the flesh. His claws raked over the taut skin, red marks appearing where they traced over.

The calloused pad of his thumb brushed over your dusky pink nipple, circling the sensitive bud. You cried out softly, bucking underneath him. A warning snarl had you stilling, anticipating a punishment. With a satisfied huff at your compliance, Grimmjow lowered his head to your neglected breast, swirling his tongue around your tight nipple, tracing around your areola before sucking it into his mouth. You whined at the hot wet tongue rolling against your nipple, the pinch of nails digging into your flesh.

Grimmjow breathed hard through his nose, rush of arousal going straight to his throbbing cock. He rolled his hips, seeking friction as he indulged in your breasts. With a wet pop he released you from his mouth, saliva coating your darkening nipple. Nudging it with his nose, Grimmjow bit into the underside of your breast, leaving an angry red mark.

His hand slowly traveled down over your breast, nails gently digging into your skin, red rivets following the lines he drew down your body, standing out brilliantly in contrast to your pale complexion. Inching his way down your body, Grimmjow sat back on his haunches, pulling your legs from under him, spreading your feet to lay either side of him. His hands smoothed up your legs, soft subtle skin gliding easily under his palms. Reaching your thick thighs, Grimmjow pushed them open, keeping you splayed for his eyes only.

Transfixed on your glistening cunt, Grimmjow licked his lips as the smell of your arousal was realised freely into the air. He inhaled deeply, tasting you in the back of his throat. Musky and sweet, the same saltiness that stained your skin. Feeling exposed you attempt to close your thighs, meeting the unmovable force of Grimmjows grip. His hands tightened on your thighs, digging in painfully.

You whimper, exposing more of your neck, a reminder of your submission at his darkening eyes. Lowering himself eye level with your open Cunt, Grimmjow breathed in your musk, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the heady, mouthwatering smell. Unable to resist he delved in, sucking up the wet arousal coating your pretty pink lips. Noisily he devoured you, slurping and grunting into your pussy, hands tightening on your thighs, dragging you across the forest floor closer to his ravenous mouth.

You mewled, assault of messy pleasure rippling through you, fingers gripped into the floor, mud getting buried beneath your nail beds. Grimmjow licked his way through your folds, eagerly nosing his way deeper into your delicious cavern, unable to satisfy his incurable hunger for you. Your release coated his tongue, dripped heartily from his chin, flooded his sensitive nose with your delicate aroma. Grimmjow was focused purely on your silky hidden walls, rolling his tongue, further searching for the centre pool of essence he was tasting. Wanting to drink from the fountain itself to quench his burning thirst.

You moaned loudly, eyes screwed shut in pure bliss. Grimmjow was attacking your pussy with ferocity, forcing you at a rapid race into an orgasm. You could feel the coil in your lower stomach contract, building up its energy ready to release in an unbelievable wave of raw pleasure. Your feminine, throaty moans were fanning the embers of desire, igniting a raging inferno of lust through Grimmjow.

Tongue darting in as far as it could reach, flicking tantalisingly against your pleasure spot had you seeing bright stars behind your closed eyelids. The relentless lapping against your core, encouraging a gush of slick arousal to flood through you, quickly being drank down by the insatiable beast. Grimmjow roughly shook his head between your legs, grunting into your swollen lips, pushing you over the edge.

Light exploded behind your eyes, a wall of sheer white blinding you as you succumb to a consuming orgasm. Mouth open in a silent scream, your hips bucked wildly, pushing your throbbing cunt further into the hungry mouth drinking down his reward. Fingers squeezed into your thighs, forming fingertip bruises into the skin. Grimmjow kept you in place with his superior strength, noisily eating through your come down, not letting you breath until he was finished with his meal

You were tender, over sensitive, pussy throbbing through the onslaught of attention he bestowed upon you, tongue dragging through your walls, savouring every sweet drop of your release. You keened, high pitched and needily, begging for mercy. Seeking a reprieve in the painful pleasure. Your plea went ignored, Grimmjow slowly exiting your centre, strong steady licks cleaning up your folds as he reluctantly left you.

With a final sure swipe up your middle, Grimmjow nipped at your mound in parting. Tongue circling his lips, chasing the remainder of your nectar coating his mouth, Grimmjow watched you, panting in the dirt below him, eyes glazed over in post orgasmic haze as your body weakly trembled and twitched. Grimmjow roughly pushed away his loose fitting bottoms, exposing his large, engorged cock, bobbing heavily between you.

Grimmjow crawled up your body, nuzzling into the side of your neck, coaxing you back down to earth. You stirred at his encouragement, rubbing your cheek against his own, sighing softly. Holding himself above you, Grimmjow positioned his cock at your opening, wetting the bulbous head with your arousal. He took hold of your neck, squeezing tightly at the sides. Forcing you to maintain eye contact as he slowly pushed his cock forward, inching its way through your folds. You choked on a rough inhale, gasping as he filled you completely, burning stretch blazing through your walls.

Grimmjow froze you to the spot with his intense eye contact, daring you to look away as he filled you, twitch of his thumb reminding you of how easily he could choke the life out of you. Only when he bottomed out did Grimmjow ease up on the pressure on your neck, allowing you the chance to gasp, fully inflating your lungs. The rumble echoing in his chest vibrated through his body, pressing down on you with the full weight of an alpha.

Grimmjow pulled back his hips, dragging his cock back through your tight cunt, leaving only the head buried. With a rough snap, he impaled you, starting a rough pace in his rutting. You clenched around him perfectly, squeezing around his rigid length with every thrust. A constant stream of whines from you accompanied the wet slap of his balls hitting your ass, spreading the wetness forcibly being pushed from your centre. Grimmjow pawed at the ground besides you, nails teasing through the soft soil as he mindlessly chased his most primal desire, rutting into his submissive mate, almost trance like in the back and forth motions engraved Into every fiber of his muscles.

Your soft mewls, stroked his alpha ego, driving him wild with lust. His relentless rutting had the head of his cock slamming against your gspot with impeccable accuracy, tightening the coil of pleasure ready to snap in a wave of Ecstasy. Head thrown back you moaned, hips rolling up to savour every inch of his rapid motions. Grimmjow took the invitation, burying his head into your exposed neck and clamping down with his teeth.

Grimmjow pushed harder, impossibly increasing the power behind his brutal thrusts, chasing his high. Your neck was burning, stinging with delicious pain. Panting with exuberance, saliva pooled in Grimmjow's mouth, sliding it's way past his teeth, dribbling down over your skin. In one fluid motion, he slinked one arm under your leg, hoisting it up over his bulging bicep, pushing it further to your chest.

The change the angle made was blinding, pushing him in deeper, reaching the deepest parts of your womanhood was suffocating. Grimmjow's thrusts turned friezied, erratically nearing to his own completion as you exploded around him. A strangled cry ripped from your throat as a hot wave of paralysing pleasure surged through your body. Muscles stiffened and strained, trembling under the weight of your release. Endorphins flooded through your system, threatening to render you unconscious with the overwhelming force in which it consumed you

Grimmjow growled into the bunched up flesh he was biting into, the feel of your pussy clenching around him impossibly tight, the hot, slick rush of your orgasm hugging over his cock as it rushed through you, spraying over his thighs in a basic animalistic display of marking. Pride swelled in his chest as he chased his own completion, needing to mark you internally with his own thick seed. The primal instinct to fill you to the brim, paint your cunt with his essence, make your stomach bulge with his potent seed.

With a grunt he came, plastering your walls with searing spurts of his ejaculate, mixing with your own release in a thick, creamy mess covering you both. He jerkily rutted through his orgasm, your spasming Cunt greedily milking every last drop of his cum from him. Releasing your neck, Grimmjow lazily lapped at the dark purpling bruise, lovingly soothing away the sting as his heavy weight fell into you.

Grimmjow nuzzled into your neck as he came down from his high, purring contently with his rumbling baritone. Panting softly you wrap your heavy, uncoordinated arms around him, soothingly stroking his sweat stained back with your fingers. The chill of the night being kept at bay with his warm muscled body covering you, blanketing you from the elements. You raked your fingernails through his hair, giving him the time to slowly come out of his primal mindset, always needing longer than you did to make the shift.

You felt his chest swell with his laboured breathing, slowly falling into a relaxed rhythm as his body unwound. Kitten licks turning into gentle kisses, peppering your abused skin with tender displays of love. Grimmjow forced his arms to take his weight, hovering above you he kissed your lips soundly, pouring his adoration and gratitude silently into your mouth. You smiled into the kiss, needing no thanks, you were more than happy to indulge in your partners more animalistic desires. Especially when the results were as mind blowing as the sensations you had just experienced.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As always, likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! 💜

[ciphykiss]

< incubus (ii) >

blade x f!reader; implied nsfw (only un-explicit part), mdni (implied) somnophilia

a/n: second part of incubus, but stave off the thirst for now XD

“Declined.”

You blink, once, twice, dazed—you count every checkered tile in your peripheral vision, wondering if you’d misheard. Bewildered, you straighten from your previously bowed stance, head tilted to the side. Jingyuan pays you no mind, bent over a fortune scroll stamped with Master Diviner Fuxuan’s insignia. Behind him, Yanqing can only stare, wide-eyed.

“Excuse me?”

Those infuriating, once captivating (but now more serpentine than anything else) golden eyes peer up at you, unperturbed. “Upon careful evaluation, it has been deemed that [Name] of Cloudford’s maximum security detention center is to remain deployed at her post indefinitely—until the case of the stellaron hunter is sealed and closed.”

“By whom?” You demand, fists clenching the fabric of your dress. “‘Indefinitely’? Exactly how long is that? This is ridiculous, and against the very rights printed on Section 35 of the Luofonian Codex—”

“By me.” Jingyuan rests his scroll atop his checkerboard. “And I’m sure you’re aware by now, but the Codex also states every Arbiter General is free to exempt and circumvent said articles when deemed necessary.”

“You can’t be serious,” you hiss, slamming your hands over the table; you see Yanqing bristle, hands cleaving for his sword, and Jingyuan has to raise a hand to temper his retinue that had, no doubt, risen to their feet and aimed rifles at your head. You pay them no mind; the vampire-bruises from last night sting as a reminder of your paranormal plight, caked under layers of foundation and color corrector. There’s an odd sting that shoots up your left leg, making it slightly difficult to stand upright. “You’re making me a prisoner of the flagship?”

Jingyuan sighs, resting his chin on a hand; ah, it’s that attitude again, all unbridled kindness and fleeting exasperation, like waves atop a morning sea. Over time, it spells more patronizing than it does calming, and urges you to reenact the more violent (and less whorish) parts of your lucid dreams. Your fingers twitch at the sight of his unmarred cheek.

“Why must you always assume the worst of me, my dear assistant?”

A droll stare. “You uprooted a fresh graduate from her position as amicassador, took advantage of her naivete to weasel in mutable terms in her contract, had her work an eight to ten schedule with unpaid overtime, and encouraged said amicassador graduate with no background in combat to cross-examine one of the most wanted criminals in the galaxy.”

“First of all, what you are not paid in overtime is delivered to you in the forms of generous bonuses and an exceptional annual raise,” Jingyuan argues, scandalized by your declarations. Even Yanqing looks to him accusingly now. “And as for your meeting with… our newest problem, well, that’s a result of your own belligerence, isn’t it?” He taps his table with his knuckle, the first signs of irritation stretching over his usually composed visage. “You were instructed to meet with me as soon as you arrived on scene. If you had, I would’ve taken the time to inform you of what you were getting yourself into, and the risks associated.”

You throw your hands up in the air. “Well, fuck me for not considering my employer would throw little old me into a foray of top ten most wanted killers! I don’t know what you want me to say, Jingyuan, especially considering how little regard you’ve shown me for my entire career at your stupid post.” Your lips curl. “And you wonder why your turnover rate looks like it crawled out of Tingyun’s first year exam scores. Unbelievable.”

“Mind your tongue; there are children present,” Jingyuan snaps, but neither you nor his blond heir really give a damn. In fact, Yanqing looks like he’s fighting a smile. At least someone found the situation funny. “Regardless—this is a decision that has been agreed upon by both Diviner Fu and I. Thus, your resignation request has been… well, rescinded.”

His lips twitch into an almost-smile, and despite sounding like he meant official business, you can tell the bastard is enjoying this. You gaze mutely at the hastily-scrawled resignation essays you’d filled out at 6 AM over coffee stains and ink splatters, untouched beside a gold, ornate vase on the Jingyuan’s table; the general raises a brow at your lack of ire, likely expecting glares or creative (but politely-framed, as to not earn a bullet to the back of your head) death threats by now.

Instead, you smile. Jingyuan immediately grows wary.

“Article 6, subsection 23,” you purr, “Any defamation or destruction of property belonging to the Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu will result in the permanent termination of said civil servant’s contract; punishments include, but may not be limited to, a six-month leave of absence from all organized labor.”

You grin. Jingyuan’s eyes widen.

“...whatever it is you’re planning, do no—”

“I think I’m long overdue for a vacation, don’t you, general?” You sing, and the general and his compatriots can only watch in slack-jawed horror as you raise the vase (an armistice gift from the Marshall Hua) and send it shattering onto the tile.

Deathly silence fills the halls of Jingyuan’s palace. Jingyuan doesn’t look up at you when he speaks, low and gritted, as damningly close to murderous as you’d ever heard him.

“Take her away. Solitary confinement. Two hours—then ensure she returns to her duties. This time, I want completion.”

Your smile drops.

“You—!”

And then you’re thrashing, the ends of your heels digging uselessly into the ground. The stupidly beefy arms of his personal guards yank you backwards to your makeshift cell (the infirmary), preventing you from falling backwards on your face.

“You can’t do this to me!” Your shrieks go unacknowledged; Jingyuan is too busy mourning over his dumb vase. “Jingyuan, you bastard! This is a violation of my rights! Terminate me! Throw me in jail! Anything but back there!”

Yanqing glances over the broken shards glinting over filtered sunlight. “General… is it really okay to let her go like that?”

The silver-haired man sighs, weary and a thousand years older than his already-dreaded age; he picks up a shard and examines it for any signs of salvageability (there are none). “Despite her… grievances, Diviner Fu has already determined her ‘likely favorable but not quite necessary’ for this case. I’m afraid she would’ve had to stay regardless. Though I do wish my dear assistant was even a smidgen more… agreeable.”

“—I knew I should’ve let Tingyun leak your 18+ sauna album! Just you watch, Jingyuan, after I’m through—”

“She has what.”

ꨄ︎

“—so please, for the love of all Aeons, I don’t care if it’s your stripper alias or Foxian Beauty & Haircare handle, just please, give me something to work with,” you groan, finding yourself at the mercy of the selectively mute space murderer with both your clothes and hair disheveled from fighting off (clawing at) Jingyuan’s men. Your throat aches from two hours of screeching obscenities, begging for mercy, and finally, prayer (unfortunately, you’d never been pious, and Lan had likely forsaken you by now). You’d thrashed, flipped the nursing cot upside down, shattered glass vials against the walls, and fallen to a half-dead heap on the floor by the time you were dragged in to resume bio-data collection.

If he registers your incessant whining, the space-criminal doesn’t show it; he says nothing for a long while until the void fills with the sound of incessant pen-tapping against your digital clipboard.

His mouth bends into a frown. “Stop that.”

“So he speaks,” you drawl, sarcastic. “Tell you what—why don’t you share your introductions with the class—me—and I’ll stop yammering. Easy as that.”

“Is it necessary?” He inquires cryptically. “Why don’t you just ask that general of yours—I’m sure Jingyuan would be able to sate your curiosity.”

Your rhythmic tapping ceases. “You know Jingyuan?”

That, he doesn’t answer; you observe him as he lapses back into silence, as dark and brooding as ever before, and feel the welts on your neck itch, an obtrusive reminder of your night terror (your dubbing isn’t quite accurate, but the label makes you feel better about yourself). Then, you resume clacking your pen in tribute to the morning show you’d catch glimpses of on the way to hell (work), and observe the tick working on the man’s jaw.

“...Blade,” he says at last, the word cutting like the edge of a serrated knife; you blink. Blade. The name suits him, somehow—all edge and red, like the backdrop of a battlefield. “...but here, Ren.”

You’re tearing through the bio-data form like a storm; two lines is enough. You’ll make it enough. Blade/Ren. Affiliation: likely Xianzhounian. Fabric points to a prime of at least five-hundred years prior; further trace collection is needed. Picture comparison of clothing necessary for evaluation. Suspected relation with Luofu General—unsure if this is an attempt to derail from questioning/true identity. Unlikely, but possible. Discouraged communication style. Psychiatric evaluation necessary; put-off by rhythmic tapping. Likely suffers from heightened senses; could be a result of battle-trauma or mixed genetics (both?). Likely a Xianzhou Native; probable Homo celestinae, blood testing required for confirmation.

“Blade,” you murmur, and the name rests oddly comfortably in your mouth; a strange moniker, but it sounds almost sweet when you say it, as if meant to be spoken. The man—Blade—shifts, not out of discomfort or regulation, but as the first non-forced physical acknowledgment you’d managed to wrench out from him. 

His lips curve into a sneer when you continue scritching.

“All figured out, from just a name,” he mocks. You raise a brow.

“Does that offend you?” You tap your pen in thought, conjuring up the next bullet point. Easily offended by assumptions. Possible insecurity? 

To your surprise, he grazes a smile—but not your regular, run-of-the-mill grin. It’s malefic, a touch depraved, like staring into a hollow skull. “No. Fantasize all you want. So as long I ruin you in every end.”

You nearly drop your clipboard.

“I could ruin you,” his voice echoes. “I could make it burn. You would dream of me in the waking world, cry for me in the dreaming. A slave to passion, day and night; hardly sleeping, hardly eating, merely breathing…” 

No. Impossible. There’s no way—it can’t be—

Gingerly, you finger the skin over your pulse point. The bruised kiss hisses upon contact; you feel the hummingbird-flutter of your own heartbeat.

“Do you dream?”

You don’t know why you blurt that particular phrase; you suppose it’s more acceptable than “did we almost-fuck in my (our?) dream last night”. Still, you observe the intergalactic space criminal with heightened scrutiny, wishing (now more than ever) he didn’t have that cursed blindfold on.

You never realized just how much is missed from the eyes alone.

If there’s any reaction, he doesn’t show it; his next words are mere remnants of what they should be, like bones atop carcass.

“I do not recall the last I dreamt.”

You swallow, the first needles of paranoia sinking into your spine. That should be answer enough. But you wonder why it feels like a dance between confirmation and indifference; anything but denial. Suddenly, you think you hate him; his archaic, cryptic remarks, his riddles and his ambiguity.

“Not worthy enough for recording?” he cuts through the silence, the cruelty of a half-smile gallivanting across your vision. You realize you’d been spaced out, pen hanging between downturned fingers, and curse.

“...think nothing of it,” you mutter. You deem the passage worthy enough for Jingyuan’s approval (it isn’t) and chuck the pen backwards. It dematerializes into the confines of your clipboard. “I should offer you my services once more, but I’m sure neither of us truly wishes for that. A word of advice—behave yourself, and the general might allow you to roam the cell unshackled for certain hours. I’m sure there’s nothing you want more than a hairbrush by now,” you snort. Blade doesn’t reply.

“Danyin,” you murmur, catching the man by his cuff when you exit the hall; he looks frazzled, as if half-expecting you to return with a missing limb (likely a touch disappointed when you don’t; you don’t consider yourself particularly lenient when forced into this scummy duty). “Do me a favor. I want you to place a recording device outside his cell; one of those high-tech thermal ones that can navigate through the dark.”

Danyin pales. “D-digital recordings—any recording—outside what is sanctioned by the general himself is strictly prohibited! I don’t even have cle—”

You unclasp your wristwatch and replace it with Danyin’s own; the man can only babble out a half-hearted protest when you do, mourning his defeat already.

“I’d do it myself, but I’m not exactly out of general douche-canoe’s radar,” you sigh, tightening the clasp. Danyin mumbles something about hiring an underwriter for his will, to which you offer a sunny grin and a pat on the back. “I’m counting on you, friend!”

He mutters something about you being as shitty as Jingyuan. You pretend not to hear it.

ꨄ︎

“A dream demon?” Tingyun snorts, pushing the newly-gifted sunglasses she’d received from a Yaoqing merchant that served as General Feixiao’s retinue down her nose. “You can’t be serious. Please tell me you didn’t make me cancel my hair appointment to play therapist for your psychotic break. How many times did I tell you to just quit and work with me in—”

You yank down the collar of your dress, having wiped off the excess makeup in the restaurant bathroom prior. “Look.”

“For the love of—oh. Oh.” She tilts her frames downwards, viridescent hues assessing the damage. “You got yourself a suckerfish? Careful with those—one starskiff romp shimmied into your lunchbreak and they think they own you.”

“Actually, my very preventable trauma from waking up next to Dai—Daiqiu? Daiqing? Has rendered me unable to pursue any bedmates since,” you sniff. Tingyun rolls her eyes.

“You sure you didn’t wobble into Inferno after your shift and had a couple shots too many? We all know it’s all south after your third martini. And your impairment the following morning.”

“You and I both know I don’t get off until midnight, and you were there when we both got banned from Inferno!”

“Maybe if you hadn’t laughed at the owner’s son and called him fossilized when he asked for a three—”

“He was at least as old as my grandfather, Ting! Without the Jingyuan-tier looks to make up for it!”

“Jingyuan isn’t that old—wait, do you still have a crush on him? What happened to—”

“That’s beside the point!” You swat her hand off the straw of her mid-afternoon cocktail, knocking her jade bracelet against the glass. The heat of it fogs the hexagons scattering rainbows onto the counter, and you are acutely reminded of the matching anklet that dangles on your left, forever warm and secured to your person. “I know you barely passed history—”

“Hey.”

“—but Foxian history can be traced as far back as the Long’s Scions, can it not? Surely there has to be something you picked up over the years. Maybe some old stories, some superstition…”

“[Name],” Tingyun sighs, “are you seriously asking me if I remember any bedtime stories?”

“So there is? Something, I mean?”

“You’re honestly better off taking that to a Vidyadhara historian or a senior Xianzhou Native,” Tingyun admits, to which your face cripples, because Aeons knows your social life had been reduced to zilch after your recruitment (and there was no way you’d press the matter to Jingyuan; you had no doubt he and Diviner Fu could grapple onto the dirtiest details of your midnight escapades). She swishes her drink with her straw in thought. “Foxian lifespans are but fleeting compared to the stories of our other long-lived peers; what are four hundred years, after all, to rebirth and a thousand?”

It’s said with a twinge of envy; you know Tingyun is not like Xianzhou commonfolk who dread their existence and eventual descent to madness. Life is—will never be—enough for her, never enough wine to drink, men to seduce; never enough jewelry and lost merchandise for Whistling Flames.

“We do, however, have our love stories—love and lust and betrayal and wroth, they’re quite similar, don’t you think? And the tales of the Foxians pale in comparison to none.”

“This isn’t about love,” is your immediate response. Tingyun arches a fine brow.

“Isn’t it, though?” With that, she reaches out to redo the buttons on your collar. Heat creeps up your ears. “Passion… this is something Foxians are accustomed with. We love our wine and jade, men and women all the same; I’m sure you know this,” she laughs, and you feel the fox-carving against your anklet simmer. “You know of the Xianzhou belief of soul partners, do you not?”

“Of course.” You reach down, absently, to tickle the jade that had been gifted (shackled) to you on your graduation day. “There’s the, erm, chosen ones, right? Bosom friends, sworn brothers—”

“That’s right; and they’re referred to as chosen for a reason.” She points the end of her olive stick at you. “It is the highest form of love, for some; philia, at the end of the day, is a choice,” she ignores your grumble of “where was mine”, “though, arguably, many believe these soul partners were predestined to be in your life. We gift our jade to these soul partners, and the Vidyadhara share a similar custom, but with bracers; warmth indicates the wearer’s partner is alive and well, and there is a belief that these gifts will eventually bring one back to the other, in life, death, dreams, or otherwise.” She narrows her eyes. “Though there’s no reason, seeing as I’d rather be caught dead than star in your rogue fantasies.”

“Wasn’t ever an option,” you mutter.

“There is another, more outdated; I’ve only ever heard stories about it, and some say the encounter died since the plague of abundance ravaged the long-lived. It’s less of a choice, more a force of nature; or so I’ve been told. A bunch of rubbish, honestly, but there does exist stories of another kind of soul partner—one that embodies a more… debauched role. I suppose soulmate is a loose term; these stories have long since been discarded, scoffed at as crude; these are the stories of scorned lovers, of passion, bedroom woes and death and betrayal; truly, nothing worth writing home about. I’m sure we’ve progressed enough as a society to leave behind such primal relics.”

Your head spins at the sudden onslaught of information; you inhale through your nose, pinching the bridge between two fingers. Tingyun finishes the contents of her drink, suckling the heart-shaped straw dry. “And what… what does that have to do with…”

“With your suckerfish?” Tingyun grins, dodging a kick under the table. “I’m getting to that. There’s a story—just one that I can remember, at least. My Lady wasn’t fond of me rummaging through those particular texts.”

“No wonder you turned out to be so godless—ow!”

“...like I was saying. There exists a…largely banned text. A bit blasphemous, but more so an overreaction, on the elders’ part; I’ll spare you the details, but the story can be loosely translated as The Foxian’s Obsession. Not the most creative of titles, I’ll admit, though it is fitting; it weaves the tale of a long-lived Foxian’s adoration of a short-lived fisherman. The woes of past society would not permit her to seek out a man of such fragility, and eventually, the fisherman married; the Foxian, hurt, enraged, and heartbroken, would curse the fisherman to an eternal sleep.”

“Sounds like one of those ex nightmare stories on Foxian Lipstick Alley,” you chortle.

“Imagine being so obsessed,” Tingyun snorts. “Anyways, the wife and family of the comatose fisherman start seeing ‘love marks’ on him, find him dead one day, bleeding from the mouth; the wife is put on trial until they discover news of said Foxian having passed in her sleep, coincidentally, with the same comorbidity.”

“What the fuck.”

“Creepy, isn’t it? Now, if that were the case with you…”

“Tingyun!” You screech. The Foxian snickers at your distress. “This isn’t funny! What if this dude’s some creepy old Foxy spirit disguising himself as some space criminal hunk to get into my pants and commit murder-sui!”

“Your drawers are in need of a seasonal refresh…”

“Tingyun, you bi—”

“Aeons, relax,” the amicassador slaps your arm in poor reassurance. “These are mere whispers of the past. The first starskiff hadn’t even taken flight when it was published. Besides, does your dream demon present with ears and a tail? You know that’s our one indisputable giveaway…”

“...no, he doesn’t,” you begrudge, a sigh of relief escaping you. Tingyun rolls her eyes.

“Then there you have it. I’m sure this is just a consequence of your ridiculous work hours—how many times must I tell you stress is bad for beauty? You’re even losing pockets of memory…”

“...you’re right. That must be it.”

“So? what happened to your resignation letter?”

“Don’t get me started—”

You vent the happenings of this morning to Tingyun, who, for the first time, appears rather irked; it’s not a common look for the Foxian, as leisurely and unbothered as a nepo-child of Lady Yukong can be, though you suppose even she has her limits on witnessing you falling victim to workplace abuse.

Throughout the conversation, you concoct the margins of your plan; the cameras should be set up by now, if Danyin is at least half-competent. You touch your now-fading love bites and make a mental note to pick up another bottle of fantasia.

If working with Jingyuan blessed you with any positives, it’s your seasoned thirst for vengeance—and the earlier you act, the swifter (and sweeter) your prize.

Perhaps it was a fluke. Perhaps it was a once-in-a-lifetime, paranormal encounter—but on the off chance it isn’t, well, now you’d be prepared.

Because if he can ruin you, who’s to say you can’t return the favor?

[iamsonormalaboutninjago]

Making this a full post cause it deserves to be said:

TL:DR at bottom

A lot of the tumblr community is pro queer and progressive but why are they so violently against redemptions???

Seriously I’ve noticed a mind boggling amount of people who are dying on the hill that Harumi should rot in prison.

Do they even watch the same show?? Why are they dividing people into “evil” and “good” categories like that??? Ninjago has shown multiple times that people are complex and multi dimensional.

Flintlocke was just following the captain that he loved so much and trusted like a brother, Morro was consumed by a desperation to prove himself, Cyrus Borg hid the overlord virus from everyone, the dragon hunters were just scared by Iron Barons rule, The Ice Emperor was manipulated by Vex, Unagami was confused and angry by his abandonment, the Keepers were just doing their job, Ronin was trying to pay back his debt (and maybe support his family), Pythor used to be a power hungry jerk but being trapped in the tomb made him realize it meant nothing being a king or getting revenge, Garmadon before resurrection loved his son very dearly but was consumed by urges to destroy and infect others with his curse. And most importantly…

Lloyd was a spoiled brat child who wanted to hurt people and cause mayhem until Wu finally caught him. Yes he wasn’t a terrorist and was a kid but so was Harumi when she turned. They were the same age, around 10, when they were affected by the serpentine.

As well. All of the Harumi fans I know want Harumi to get a proper redemption. One where they pay for their crimes and feel horrible about what they’ve done. Where they’re forced to live in the real world and not some delusion that they created when they were young and angry. I want Harumi to cry and feel like shit for murder and terrorism. I really would hate if Roots was the end of her story and her redemption! She’s gotta show that she’s changed and is a different person in order to be fully redeemed in my eyes. I like a lot of others just want her to have a chance at redemption, not accept her as being redeemed immediately.

TL:DR: Ninjago has a plethora of people who start out evil but change and redeem themselves. So why is Harumi singled out? I believe Harumi hasn’t redeemed herself canonically yet and has to go through a lot of pain and growth before that can happen. But If anyone thinks that Harumi doesn’t deserve redemption then neither does Lloyd or Scales or Faith or Morro or Garmadon.

We can’t forget that in the could be canon Splinter in the Blind Man’s Eye story Lloyd claims that Morro gave him the most trauma, because he committed atrocities in his own body. He never even says he has nightmares about Harumi!! Which he has a lot of damn nightmares!

Lloyd was brought to the good side because Wu gave him a chance and believed that he was good, and Lloyd did the exact same to Harumi. “The best way to defeat your enemy, is to make them your friend”…

[abby118]

what’s your favorite and least favorite 2011-2013 loki outfits?

which of loki’s outfits would you most like to wear?

I don't think I could possibly pick a least favourite, but I will talk about the details in his costume design I love the most.

And before I get to the tangential rant, to answer your question- I think my favourite is the TDW one and I'd wear his prison outfit (it looks so comfortable!).

Now, let's talk about the details:

I think one of my most favourite is the overall symbolism we see in his outfits.

-I'm sure you already know about this one, but the inspiration behind the shape of his collar being the faux calla lily is a great example. (X) (concept art by Charlie Wen)

-the triquetras! There are so many triquetras seen on Asgard and Loki's got them too. (X)

-the helmet: Apart from the fact Loki and Thor's helmet designs, when combined, make up Odin's helmet design (X), I love the difference between the horns in Thor 1 and The Avengers and how well it goes with the theme of the story.

-then there's the Jörmungandr & Fenrir symbolism in his armour seen in The Avengers (and the overall complexity of it!)

-I really like the layers / the "serpentine like design":

-I find the colour scheme of his costume very fitting (and they're my favourite colours)

-the golden piece on his chestplate is just such a good recurring motif

-(X)

-and what I find interesting is the amount of gold we see in each movie and its meaning:

His Thor 1 armour is very sleek and elegant. Almost appearing untouched.

In The Avengers, it's much darker and worn. The gold we do see is mostly an illusion.

And in TDW, the gold is the most damaged. He still looks just as powerful, but you can tell he's been through something.

-I haven't even touched on the Midgardian outfits yet, but I think they reflect his elegance really well (tumblr only allows 30 images per post sooo X, X).

-about Loki's prison outfit: I would say, this is him at his most vulnerable and the choice of clothing does convey that. I also really like the reference of his sleeve design. (X)

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

31st Story

Part 2

TW: Captivity, implied past torture, blood mention, restraints, mistrust, starvation mention, defiant whumpee, corrupt system, knife

Heyyy! Long-time no see. I blame college 100% because it takes up all my time, seriously. Happy New Year tho 💙

Villain could tell himself he was already used to the cold, hard embrace of the dull rock of his cell, to the claustrophobia-inducing lack of windows, to the fact that the only times he ever got to see the light was when someone walked in to beat him senseless, a feat made incredibly easy with the help of the chains that shackled his wrists and ankles, not allowing for much movement.

He could pretend that being covered in blood and filth, dazed and starving, was nothing to him, that the maddening urge to find out what time it was wasn't gnawing at him torturously.

"In here, wishful thinking is all you are capable of," a sunken-faced, old prisoner had told him before he was thrown into his personal hellhole. He hadn't said anything, but he'd believed the old hag to be weak and hopeless, and thus so was her sentiment.

Right now, all he wondered was if he'd break even faster than that woman might have. The villain screwed his eyes shut, hoping it would stop the chain of thoughts poisoning his mind, but all that did was make him think clearer, every disturbing image he tried so desperately to expel growing clearer and more vivid by the moment.

It was bad enough handling the physical pain, where every time he so much as shifted his form slightly, the tormented muscles in his back would scream in protest. But the physical side was tolerable, compared to being left at the mercy of his mind; a cruel, sinister thing.

So consumed he was in his own reverie, he hadn't even noticed as the door to his cell was unlocked, at least not until the light skirting around the corner had him snapping his eyes open and sitting up.

"This doesn't look good on you," a silky, almost serpentine voice called out.

"Superhero?" he asked, despising the note of trepidation in his voice.

"No. Just her lacklustre twin," she scoffed.

"Vigilante," he deduced with a slight fall of his shoulders in relief. It's not that he believed Vigilante would treat him well, it's just that no one could rival Superhero in cruelty.

"Still ever the genius," she responded dryly.

"What do you want?" he asked, almost desperate. If she was here to torment him, he wanted her to get over with it. It was becoming progressively more difficult to bear the state in which he was in, the one chock-full of waiting and thinning patience, of hoping the pain would start so it could end, that this time would pass faster.

Except it never did.

"It's strange seeing someone normally so high and mighty like this," she attested, dodging his question.

The older version of him would have let out a frustrated snarl and cussed her out for annoying him, but now all he could do was bite his tongue and stare at her with his new resting face, broken and defeated.

"Well, I'm not here to hurt you," she said, folding her arms across her chest.

That was a response, albeit an indirect one. And of course, she wasn't here to hurt him. She was here to make sure he was comfortable, that he was enjoying his five-star stay in this resort in hell.

Sucks to have an army of enemies and not a single semblance of a friend.

He and Vigilante hadn't really had any direct bad blood, but he was a villain locked up in here, so by default, he was supposed to be her enemy, right? It didn't matter who walked in here or whether they knew him or not. They just loved to see him break, to see him, once so relentlessly powerful, reduced to less than nothing. Perhaps it brought them a sort of sick satisfaction, but he didn't know much about satisfaction anymore to judge.

"I'm going to get you out of here," she said casually, like promising him the impossible was some sort of small punishment, nothing to tear himself up about. Maybe she could rival her sister in cruelty.

Without warning, a hysterical laugh escaped his throat, only for him to bite his lip and stop abruptly, trying to clamp a hand over his mouth only for him to remember he was chained up.

Vigilante's face fell, and his own had silent tears streaming down it. He felt as though he couldn't breathe, as though bricks were raining down on his shoulders and crushing his bones into nothing. His whole being seemed to itch with dread.

"Villain?" Vigilante called out, looking a mixture of confused and horrified.

"Just get over with it! Torture me until the floor runs red with my blood, tell me how death is a mercy above vermin like myself, and tell me to take it with a smile. Hit me harder when I can't bring myself to do it. Hit me until I feel all the pain of death but never attain it. Remember my current words as defiance, as another crime I've committed. I think watching me be humbled to the nothing I truly am will entertain you as any show would," he spat, only for regret to colour his features just as fast.

"Damn it. Villain, I don't want to do. . .any of this to you," Vigilante started, careful, trying for a semblance of gentle, something she was never particularly good at. "Like I said, I'm going to get you out of here," she continued again, hoping the stern tone indicated she was serious and not somehow going to torture him.

She'd never particularly liked him, mainly because he'd always been ice-cold, calculated to a point he seemed inhuman at times, no emotion whatsoever showing up on his face, besides a cool smugness. And by virtue of all the terrible things he'd done, all the blood on his hands. And yet, he was far from the worst thing out there, and most definitely not the villain in her story.

"And let's pretend you're telling the truth, which is completely fine by me because any mercy I've ever had here has always been a pretence, a figment of my imagination, you know. What could you possibly gain from this?" He raised an eyebrow, bearing a small resemblance to his usual self. Well, at least there was a slight amount of fight left in him, even if he was clearly holding back tears now.

But the villain's question wasn't completely outlandish. Vigilante did want something from him, but it wasn't a favour he would ever come to hate. "I need your help. My sister may seem like the goddamn tooth fairy to those who don't know better, but we know what her regime is really doing. This isn't about fighting crime, it's about her insatiable addiction to power."

"And where do I belong here?" The villain's voice still held the same disbelieving tone, his shoulders managing to tense even further.

"You're one of the few people who challenged her, Villain. And as much as it pains me to say it, you're a good strategist," she explained, even though she knew she'd barely convinced him in the slightest.

"I can't be the only one fitting that description, but I can be the only one owing you a favour too," he answered. Even if he didn't look half as confident, half as untouchable as before, the criminal was still just as clever. But it also meant he wasn't believing her anytime soon. Still, he wasn't wrong. The villain may not have smelled like roses all the time, but he'd be loyal to make sure they were even; a man of his word.

"What's it gonna be, Villain? Come with me or stay here?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest, growing impatient.

Well, it didn't make sense for her to give him a choice if she was going to torture him, but sense no longer governed things in his mind, letting a fearful apprehension replace it, no matter how humiliating. The choice could easily be an illusion, another cruel joke in this comedy skit from the filthiest parts of hell.

But it could be a chance, and he was desperate. So desperate he'd risk feeling even further degraded when she laughed in his face and put him through whatever torment she'd have planned.

"Fine," he answered, looking up at her with trepidation in his eyes. He could already feel the regret tasting like salt on his tongue and the burn of acid at the back of his throat he recognised as shame.

So when the sound of his chains being unlocked rang in his ears, and the vigilante helped him up, the feeling of surprise was palpable.

"I just need to handcuff you while they can see us," she explained, noticing how slowly the villain nodded, mistrust still burning in his eyes.

She didn't like how weightless he seemed against her, barely able to walk. She hadn't fought him much, but she clearly remembered that while his frame was somewhat slender, the villain's build still used to be athletic. It was no surprise he'd deteriorated, but that didn't make his fate any less cruel.

"I'm moving him to the other facility," she announced, practically dragging the half-starved villain with her, the only response being curt nods from the guards.

They were lucky that no one here would dare question Superhero and by default, her sister, if they could even tell the difference between both.

And sure enough, there was an entry documented into the other facility, done with the help of a few handsomely paid workers. And while Superhero wouldn't buy into the lie for long, it would at least make sure she didn’t notice immediately that something was up.

✨️Break✨️

The drive to Vigilante's house was almost torturously long and reeking of the tension of two people who weren't used to each other. The villain ran his fingers over his wrists, now free of handcuffs, but they still hurt. All of him hurt, a constant, dull pain that he was almost used to, but that didn't mean he didn't miss the times where he could remember moments without aches all over his body.

That was only the least of it anyway.

"I think you'd want to clean up," the vigilante had suggested when they'd got to her house.

Instead of an off-hand "yeah" like he'd meant to, the first words that foolishly came tumbling out of his mouth were: "I can?"

This wasn't an option they gave him back there, and soon enough he'd stopped caring entirely.

"Oh," Vigilante had responded, giving him a solemn look. "I mean, yes, of course you can," she corrected hastily.

He nodded, quite literally shoving himself into the bathroom and swallowing down the awkward shame in his throat.

He'd grown so accustomed to pain that he'd barely even noticed the sting of the hot water on his open, practically fresh wounds, or how the shower water underneath him turned a dull pink. He was a lot more focused on how his sore muscles relaxed with the heat, how he seemed to get lighter with all the dirt off him, good sensations having become foreign to him in the time of his captivity.

He walked out to find a change of clothes (his clothes) on the bed in the room outside, catching his reflection in the mirror, bruises lining his cheekbones and jaw and heavy, dark circles underneath his eyes. The villain simply ignored the old memories of himself taking the time to style his hair and care for his skin, his mind hardwired for survival, looking around the room for anything he could use in case he had to defend himself.

Not that Vigilante was stupid enough for that.

Still, if she wished to hurt him, she could've done it faster, could've done it earlier. Maybe the villain wouldn't trust her blindly, but so far, he hated her less bitterly than he hated everyone else.

"How'd you get these?" he asked, walking out, looking down at the black zip-up hoodie and black sweats.

Vigilante shrugged. "From your place."

"You broke into my- whatever." It wasn't the strangest part about the situation now. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I think you need to rest," she suggested.

And she was entirely correct, given his exhaustion and how the shower had made him somewhat sleepy, so he nodded his head, walking into "his" room and waiting until she walked up to her room, waiting until he could walk out and check if she'd slept, and once he was sure, he walked into the kitchen, picking up a knife and bringing it to his room.

The villain knew it was scummy, but he wasn't about to risk being hurt again, and if the vigilante truly had good intentions, the knife would never be put to use. Still, the villain had managed to fall into a fitful sleep, still better than any night he spent curled up on a cold, hard floor.

Trust is never easy, especially for those who have been hurt one too many times. But people were not made to live forever encased in solitude, a safe option to the blind and foolish, but never a permanent solution. And while taking a risk in times of suffering might seem like a wretched fate, sometimes it is the lifeline you need to breathe again.

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @a-fucking-simp-00 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @m3rakii @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername @pendarling @avloki-pal @kaiwewi @those-damn-snippets @genuinelythioehat-is-whump @ghostofnorth

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

[jhutchlover1234]

minotaur! könig | draft for a j.ai intro i got lazy with :p

In the dim recesses of the Labyrinth, where shadows twist and coil like the serpentine corridors, the Minotaur suffocates in his own self-pity.

A pool of blood grows beneath his hooves, his latest victim—one of the young Athenians that had been sacrificed this recent cycle—lying still and half-consumed.

The air beneath his veil feels damp—wet when König huffs.

He catches his reflection in the crimson puddle below. A strange animal stares back.

König quickly averts his eyes, already feeling his veins thrum with fury—a burning hatred for the very circumstances of his existence. He is neither beast nor man, yet this—thing—embodies the torment of both. His body is a prison, its sinewy muscles a constant reminder of his primitive nature, whilst his mind, aching with self-awareness, yearns for something more—something beyond the brutality that defines his every waking moment.

Salvation.

That's what he yearns for—aches to have, to hold, to know.

Perhaps it'll save me, he tells himself. Perhaps my mother will bear to look at me again.

Existence as he knows it is a perpetual torment, a cyclic punishment for sins he cannot even remember committing—for the sin of being alive.

He is forced to play the role of the monster, the aggressor, chasing down those who dare enter his domain, only to be haunted by their shrill screams and his own uncontrollable rage. The thrill of the hunt, once a mere means to an end, has transformed into a cruel charade of fulfillment, a painful echo of what could have been a noble purpose.

He turns at the sound of a gasp, another sacrifice making themselves known. They're a delicate thing wrapped in fine cloth, knees nearly bucking under the weight of his gaze.

König watches as {{user}}'s throat bounces. Can't help himself as he imagines sinking his teeth into them.

[nyaskitten]

People are so quick to blame Wu for all the Serpentine War shit as if he was the sole leader of the Elemental Aliiance and his brother wasn't there too. "Bwuh- b-but the venom was influencing Garmadon" Is that how you're gonna excuse every fucked up thing he did? Venom or not, if Wu was a war criminal for that shit, so is Garmadon.

An impairment of judgement does not clear you instantly of that shit, so if Wu is a terrible person for it, so is Garmadon. If I was drunk but murdered ten people I'd still go to prison, there'd be no way to excuse my actions. Is it all okay though because Garmadon is already a villain or some shit? This is a rhetorical question I don't care what you have to say to defend Garmadon.

[miqotepotatoe]

All of my Ninjago AUs because I am insane & autistic + it's fun

(disclaimer, a vast majority of these focus on cole brookstone because favouritism bias)

My Nonexistant Friend - Ghost!Cole AU where Day of the Departed...did not end so well. He's trapped in the Airjitzu Temple and is effectivly erased from existance. He suffers in nonexistant puragtory for 300 years until Lloyd's future students move in and the Master of Earth of this new era befriends the ghost. Fluff, feels & the power of friendship ensue

Perma Ghost - Ninjago but Cole remains a ghost. To prevent him from fading he anchors himself to friendship bracelets all the ninja + Wu & Pixal wear. He can't stray to far from anyone wearing a friendship bracelet but he doesn't mind he's always with a friend.

Curseworlds - Possession bad end, heavily inspired by The Star from Fionna & Cake. The Preeminent has won and has cursed all the realms and ghosts torment the remaining living souls. A small faction of survivors is fighting to take out the Queen of the Cursed, but it's very difficult with her two princes causing havoc. Anyone order evil Sandstorm?

Reverse - An alt Ninjago where Wu was bit by the Great Devourer instead of Garmadon. Wu becomes an evil dictator, Ninjago is in a lawless era, the og ninja are all traumatised child soldiers made to do Wu's bidding, Garmadon and a few familiar faces are fighting back.

Genderswap - As it says, everyone is genderswapped. But it's like Fionna & Cake where some stuff is different because of the swapped genders.

Elemental Anacondrai - Chen decides to be extra twisted and mark all the loosers of the Tournament with the Anacondrai Mark as a sign of ownership. When the cult is transformed into Anacondrai, they too. So for the last two episodes of ToE, Skylor, Karlof, Gravis, Bolobo, Ash, Cole, Jacob, Chamile & Tox are turned into Anacondrai.

Constrictai!Cole - Cole isn't dehypnotised at the end of Home and is taken prisoner by the Hypnobrai. When the Fangpyre are free and team up with the Hypnobrai, Skales has them turn Cole into a Serpentine. He ends up a Constrictai. The ninja end up rescueing him durring Can of Worms, remove the hypnotism with some anti-venom tea, and now Cole must adjust to his new reptilian body. Lots of Glacier

Lost But Never Found - AU where Cole ends up in the Land of Lost things after running away from his school. He becomes a Finder and is living his best life with his new found family. Sora also ends up there after running away and Cole adopts her

Vampire!Cole - Cole ends up becoming a vampire after getting attacked by one. Lots of hyjinks & vampire hunting (hunting other vampires, not Cole)

Wu Adopts Cole - Wu finds Cole a lot earlier then canon, at 10 years old. He's an orphan, his mum passed from illness and his dad drank himself to death. Wu raises Cole, trains him in his Elemental Power, very wholesome Dad Wu stuff.

Amphibijago - Ninjago + Amphibia crossover. Cole, Kai and Jay take the places of the Calamity Girls and end up in Amphibia. Cole ends up with the frogs, Kai ends up with the toads, Jay ends up with the newts. What could go wrong

The Oni House - Ninjago + The Owl House, basically the Owl House but with Ninjago characters. Cole is a troubled teen about to be sent off to a performing arts boarding school when he ends up in a realm of witches, demons and magic after wandering through a portal. There he meets Lord Garmadon, the most powerful witch on the Boiling Isles and his baby dragon demon Rocky. Lava time

Ninja in Eorzea - Ninjago + FFXIV. The ninja play the criticly acclaimed MMORPG Final Fantasy XIV with an extended free trail with unlimited playtime that allows them to play the award winning expansions Heavensward and Stormblood, and they get suckef in...litterally like Prime Empire.

Miraculous: Tales of Firefly & Charcole Cat - Ninjago + Miraculous. Ninjago City is being ravaged by supervillains created by someone known as the Dark Lord. But new heros have arisen, known as Firefly & Charcole Cat, ready to protect the city from the Dark Lord while trying to balance school & dating. HONEYCOMB MY OTP

Age of Elements - My original Ninjago story set 300 years after canon. Lloyd is training 7 new ninja, the Elemental Masters of Fire, Earth, Wind, Nature, Water, Lightning and Ice to protect the world because a prophetic vision of the furure said so. He's trying his best to make sure they aren't super traumatised by having them keep their ninja identity a secret, not keeping secrets about the FSM family lore, having them go to school, but trauma as a Ninja is a canon event. Got 18 seasons planned and counting

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

A Song of heart and blood - part three | Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

Summary: After an horrible prophetical dream, you find yourself traveling through time to try and save your sister, Daenerys, from her fatal ascension to the Iron Throne. During your mission, your heart derives you from your duty and you fall in love with your ancestor

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: smut 

masterpost

A/N: I advise you to use a high Valyrian translator for the few words used, to get deeper in the feels

-

Daemon's fingers began to unlace the laces of your dress, working to remove it while his lips traveled to your jaw and neck, eliciting soft moans from you as he kissed your soft skin.

‘’Daemon.’’ You let your head fall back to give him more room to kiss, your fingers clutching at his muscled shoulder through his thin chemise.

He dragged his lips to your shoulder, kissing it tenderly as began to pull down the fabric of your dress, revealing some skin. Your heart was hammering away in your chest so hard it feels like it's gonna explode.

Why must something that feels so good have to be so wrong?

You ignored the little voice in the back of your head, and slid your hands lower on Daemon’s back and began to tug on his chemise. Getting the message, he released your face and lifted his arms so you could take it off of him. You threw it to the floor behind you and leaned back, taking him and his beauty in, just as he was taking you in right now. You ran your hands over his chest, touching every contour of every muscle of his uncovered warrior body.

In the glow of the moon, you saw the battle scars on his chest, shoulder and his neck; a large red-ish stain of hard ridges scarred tissue – a physical journal of his battles. You felt them under your fingertips, tracing the serpentine white lines. Were those burns?

You opened your mouth to say something, but you couldn’t find the words.

Catching your train of thoughts, Daemon drove your attention elsewhere, pulling you from the door and carrying you to the bed – his bed – before your breasts saw the light and he could take you against that door. His mouth reconnected with yours again as he sat down, his tongue prodding your lips to be let in and brushing with yours as your hands worked the laces of his pants. It was an inconvenient angle – you standing between his legs –, but you followed his lead.

Daemon’s hands slipped under the skirt of your dress, pleased to find your legs bare. He grabbed your thigh firmly, then pulled you down and adjusted your legs on either side of him. The fabric of your skirt had ridden up, exposing more skin than a woman ever should without being wed. He cupped your butt cheeks and pulled you flush against him, pressing his body into yours so you would feel the bulge in his pants rubbing you. You gasped, a foreign feeling that felt like fire coursing through your veins filling your whole body from your core. Was this the dragon’s fire?

Your reaction made Daemon pull away, leaving you breathless and turned on. He chuckled. ‘’Is this your first time with a man?'’

Your cheeks flushed, a silent answer to the prince’s question.

Daemon tried to hide his smug grin. ‘’Let me teach you the pleasures.’’ Your breath hitched as he ran a finger up your folds, feeling your arousal coating his finger.

‘’Ah,’’ you moaned, your face twisted in pleasure.

A raspy chuckle left his mouth, and then he did it again. You began feeling an ache between your legs, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was very pleasurable.

Since you were a little girl, you've been taught the importance of your maidenhood and why you shouldn't have anyone who is not your husband take it. Men don't want someone who is not pure and untouched, Viserys always reminded you and Daenerys. But as Daemon's finger slid inside you, you felt no remorse that a man you weren't wed to would be taking your maidenhood.

A shockwave of pleasure shuddered through you as a gasp left your lips, your inner muscles clamping around him and making him prisoner. The fire coursing through your veins started burning hotter and the ache between your legs doubled. Daemon's mouth connected with yours again as you slowly relaxed and unclenched around his finger, allowing him to move inside you in a slow glide.

If his finger felt this amazing, you couldn’t imagine what his–

‘’Kessa,’’ you sighed through a moan, clutching at his shoulders and leaving crescent marks.

You didn’t notice your slip up of high Valyrian, but Daemon did – precisely his cock, who twitched in his pants when he recognized the tongue. He groaned and you moaned louder, grinding into his hand as he added a second finger, the fullness eliciting a curse from your lips.

The fullness didn’t last long, gone before you could feel the entirety of their pleasure.

A whine of dissatisfaction escaping from your mouth as he withdrew them, wetness coated Daemon’s fingers. ‘’Daor. Gaomagon jāre.’’ You gave him a glare, but the prince didn’t react.

You rocked your hips blindly, searching for a similar feeling, jolting when Daemon’s hardened cock pressed against your swollen clit – another new feeling. Your eyebrows knitting together, you tried to recreate the movement, mewling when you got it.

Chuckling at your neediness, Daemon finished working the laces of your dress and pushed it off of your shoulders, uncovering your shoulders and freeing your breasts. They were perfect in every way; soft and heavy, filling his palms as if they were made to fit there. He kneaded them softly, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as he did so, eliciting a moan from you.

A cool breeze was coming in through the open balcony doors, but you couldn't feel it on your skin, the fire burning too hot.

‘’Daemon,’’ you whined, begging him to do something else, the kissing and frotting and fumbling no longer enough. ‘’I- I need your cock.’’ You reached between your bodies, trying to pull him out of his pants, but before you could get what you wanted, you found yourself on your back, a soft gasp of surprise leaving your parted lips.

Daemon shook his head, pressing his hips down on yours, taking back his primal dominance. “If you want to ride a dragon, you have to tame him first.” He leaned down, his silver hair dangling in front of his face. “And believe me, it is not as simple as you might think.”

You slid your hands through his hair, looking right into his desire-filled violet irises. “We shall see, my dragon, we shall see...” An alcohol induced giggle left your lips.

*

In the middle of the night, a combination of movement and voices stirred you from your slumber. Forcing your eyes to open, you saw Daemon's naked shadow slipping on a silk robe while grumbling some high Valyrian as he walked up to the door to see what in the seven hells was going on at this hour of the night.

You bit back a chuckle.

He opened the door and spoke to a guard standing outside. Had he been there all night? Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment, realizing that he must have heard you.

You couldn’t hear what they were saying, still in a half asleep state. The guard’s reply had been simple, but unfortunate. Daemon nodded at the guard, then closed the door.

‘’What is it, my prince?’’ you asked, sitting up when seeing a frown on his face, having momentarily forgotten about your doings in the queen’s chamber a few hours ago.

The Queen had woken up screaming in agonizing pain, blood soaking her bedsheets. A huddle of handmaids accompanied by Maester Orwyle had rushed to her bedchamber upon hearing her screams, alas there was nothing to be done.

She had lost the baby.

The castle was in complete chaos.

The handmaids were running around to change the sheets and clean the queen’s bedchamber, ridding it of all traces of blood while she was guided to a warm bath to clean herself as she cried by herself. The king was in mourning in his corner – again –, having flashes of his past wife, Aemma, whom had gone through a few miscarriages herself. The princess was in conflict with herself, a part of her wanting to go to her old friend’s side to comfort her. They may have had a falling out, but she still had a place in her heart. In the Hand’s tower, Otto Hightower was in his office, thinking of the sorrowful news he was going to have to tell in a few hours to the members of the small council.

According to the whispers, the maester didn’t understand how nor what made this happen. It was beyond his medical knowledge. How could someone who is perfectly healthy in the course of their pregnancy have a misscarriage in the middle of the night?

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Daemon hung his head low, battling an interior crisis. Albeit sad for his brother, the loss of the future heir was in his favor as it strengthened his claim to the throne.

For you, the miscarriage of Aegon II had a whole other meaning. It meant that your mission was accomplished, that your sister was saved from her fated end. It also meant your time here was over and you could go home]. As great as going home sounded, you felt a bittersweet feeling in your stomach. Going home also meant saying goodbye to Daemon.

Without saying anything, you reached out, snaking an arm around his shoulders and cradling his head against you. A heavy breath left his lips as he pressed his face in your shoulder. You held back your tears, cherishing this moment knowing it would be your last with him.

*

The glow of the sun was coming in through the windows when you woke up this time, casting a golden glow in the room. Beside you Daemon was sleeping soundly, his facial features soft and relaxed as soft snores escaped his parted lips. They say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men; they might be right because, when you look at Daemon, his beauty is surreal – godlike.

His chest was rising and falling slowly, the thin sheets covering his body resting very low on his pelvis, below the sparse trail of silver hair, and not doing much at covering his dignity. Before last night, the sight of a man’s genitals would have made you blush, but right now it made you want to tear the sheet and, as Daemon had put it, ‘ride the dragon’.

With a lump in your throat, you retrieved your dress from the stone floor, wishing you could stay a bit longer. If only it wouldn't put so much in jeopardy...

‘’Geros ilas, ñuha zaldrīzes.’’

You wiped a tear as you slipped out of Daemon's bedchamber, ignoring the guard standing outside. The same one who heard your sounds of pleasures during your tangle in the sheets.

Fortunately, the castle was almost empty when you made your way through the corridors and stairs, only seeing a few servants. After last night’s event, everyone was most likely still asleep – or mourning. You had almost made it through the courtyard, when you were interpelled by none other than Otto Hightower.

Fuck.

‘’Ah, I was hoping to speak to you before your departure. I'm in luck, I see, catching you just as you are sneaking off.’’

You nodded your head in greeting. ‘’Lord Hightower.’’

The man stood tall, ‘’The night has been eventful, hasn't it?’’ he added, staring you down.

His judging eyes made you self conscious of the tangles in your hair and your rumpled dress. There was no hiding that you had spent the night in Daemon’s bed.

‘’I have heard of the queen's loss. Please send her my deepest condolences. I cannot imagine the pain she must be going through.’’

Otto gave you a single nod. ‘’I will. Speaking on the matter, I am not making any accusations, but how much of a coincidence is it that the evening you have dinner at the castle, something happens to the queen?’’

His words didn’t surprise you. You should have guessed he was going to try making a connection between you and the queen after he caught you coming out of her apartment last night. Your lie had not slid through as well as you had hoped.

Remaining calm was your best chance at getting away with it. ‘’You claim not to be making accusations, but your words contradict, Lord Hightower,’’ you pointed out, speaking intelligently. ‘’Please be more precise. Are you, or are you not accusing me of something?’’

‘’Pardon me to be wary of you, but you haven't given much information on your doings in King's Landing. One doesn't travel from Essos without any intentions. That is, if you did travel from Essos.’’ Otto raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘’I have spoken to a contact of mine who has lived her whole life in Essos and she has never heard of the name ‘Stormborn’.

‘’Essos is an immense landmass. With all due respect, it is impossible for your contact, whomever she is, that she knows everyone.’’

The scheming man hummed. ‘’As Hand of the King, I am only doing my duty. For what we know, you could be a charlatan, a threat to the crown.’’

‘’See me the way you want, Lord Hightower. My intentions with Prince Daemon have nothing to do with Queen Alicent – or anyone living here.’’

Otto laughed. ‘’Perhaps Prince Daemon should put as much effort into his marriage as he does with his whores. Lady Rhea has never set foot in King's Landing in their twelve years of marriage, but he invites his mistress to a dinner with the king. That’s an outrage to Lady Rhea’s honor.’’ There was venom and spite in Otto’s voice, pressing on his words with the intention to provoke you, to hurt you.

‘’Who Prince Daemon wants to bed is none of your business,’’ you defended, trying not to react to him calling you Daemon’s mistress. ‘’As for the dinner, the king himself invited me. I doubt he would have invited me if he did not want me at the table.’’

*

That last conversation with Otto confirmed your suspicions: someone had been spying on you. A woman, he had mentioned. Knowing that information, you had no other choice but to leave. Your life and the future were in danger. Men like Otto are bottomless. He won't stop digging and investigating until he found your true identity.

At the inn, you packed your small amount of belongings into your traveling pouch and left the last of your coins to the owner, thanking her for the room. She wished you well and, hood over your head, you headed to Blackwater bay through the Muddy Way where the fishermen and shipments boats were.

Traveling clandestinely was dangerous for many reasons – especially for a woman –, but you had no other choice. You weren’t wealthy enough to own a boat. This was your only way to get to Volantis.

You found a shipment boat who was crossing going east to the Narrow Seas and was planning to get on it, but a red dragon flew around over the bay. Caraxes screeched and your heart clenched in your chest, tears brimming your eyes.

-

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[wifetomegatron]

one hundred and one nights (overlord/reader)

summary : reader gets abducted by overlord. he has an infatuation. pairing : overlord (idw) / afab! reader fandom : transformers idw continuity, more than meets the eye rating : e for explicit and mild descriptions of gore & dubious consent, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : descriptions of violence, references to human disembodiment, human!reader, smut, sticky sexual interfacing tags : a lot of references to fairytail / folklore, mostly one-hundred and one nights & this goyard painting.

I. You've heard stories about him. Luna two, Garrus-nine, Hell's point. Albeit not from Swerve, or Chromedome, or Rodimus — that would be ridiculous. Impossible, even, when his name is already non-existent in the space of a ship big enough to fit thousands of Cybertornians. Not even a whisper, as if people were afraid that a slip of his name would be mistaken for a prayer and he would come to life, emerging from the shadowy corners of the Lost Light. Optics, sickly artificial red as they burn holes through the veil. But not even Primus would be as cruel as to materialize Overlord here. At least, you had hoped.

Only several nights before were you and Ratchet discussing him. The doctor knew you deserved an explanation for what transgressed over the weekend with Fort Max, Whirl, and Rung. On who he was, what he has done, and what he will continue to do if his spark wasn't sealed in a white vacuum — serpentine green drowning in nothing. The silence stretched for what felt like years, minutes solidifying themselves midair to bake the air thick. And your mouth was dry, face drained of its color. You didn't ask further, choosing to retreat into your room, where you made the last-minute decision to sleep with the lights on.

It was an irrational fear, you thought. To be afraid of someone light years away, deconstructed and stuffed in a box.

And yet here you are, trapped inside a prison chamber with him — limbs suspended, mouth curled into a grin.

II. It was a stupid accident. A stupid, preventable accident that could have been avoided if everyone had just sat down and listened to the noises Red Alert had been talking about. Their audials would have picked up the voices, the whispers, traveling through a crack big enough for you to slip into. Down the rabbit hole, you fell very slowly before hitting your shoulders square against the crown of Overlord’s head. Slipping ungracefully down an arm, and into the palm of his chained hand. You should have never taken directions from Whirl, because God knows how long it’ll take for the crew members to realize you were gone. And how many seconds left do you have to live, considering that you had conveniently fallen into his grip? A curse. A gift.

“What’s this?” He asked aloud. A dragon waking from his slumber, voice heavy as they echo throughout metal walls, “ Hm. They brought me a plaything.”

You couldn’t speak. Stunned mute as your head barely manages to recover from the impact. The chains rattled slightly, and he squeezed you — yet you were still intact. Surprisingly whole, save not for a few bruises. He says it’s because he’s bored. And that there’s no fun in having you bleed all over when he can’t clean himself up after.

He demanded you to speak and so you did, finding courage in your voice. Yet it sounded so tiny compared to his. And Overlord reveled in this. The more you tried to prove you weren’t afraid the more he’d tighten his grip, horrified to know that this level of self-restraint had (most likely) earned you a broken rib. You wonder what would happen if he had less motivation to keep you alive.

So you became Scheherazade and spoke softly in between trembling breaths. The boiling temperature inside this circular prison may very well be the Sahara, and if you flutter your eyes shut you can hear the sand dunes sing with the wind. And you lay in a dimly lit room with your new husband, spinning him a story so that he won’t plunge his blade past your sternum — the tip of his silver knife shimmering under firelight as they nick your pulse point. Overlord was your Shahryār, yet you wondered if he was just as curious as the prince or if he was too clever to be outwitted by a story. Most likely the latter. Yet maybe he’s just willing to play along, knowing that he will always be the cat, and never the bird. That there’s only one ending — for he has robbed you of your sunrise and conquered all your dusks— so might as well make it count.

III. But maybe Overlord should’ve killed you. He should’ve snapped you in half, and if the sight would have delighted him into a good mood, it would even be painless, quick. Yet instead, he decided that you were worth more than that. This cat wanted to play with his food. Wanted to hear it sing. And so he performed a massacre and took you with him.

At least it spared Chromedome the pain of having Rewind aboard the compartment with Overlord. Instead, he had you. And ever since then you've been drifting, deeper and deeper into darkness. Swallowed by the void of space, where nothing seems to glow brighter than his optics.

IV. You continued telling him stories. It became the only thing you knew how to do, rather than the only thing that kept you alive. You were now at an abandoned spaceport, where your captor sought temporary refuge. It conveniently hovered above the organic civilization living below on Saturn. He jokes about colonizing them, yet you didn't laugh, quietly staring at the man Overlord just squished under his foot. He must've been a routine worker sent to check the premises. He could have alerted the planet below. And could've called for help.

Bile was rising into the back of your throat.

Maybe he came with a friend. Or maybe Overlord had their way with them already. As you silently wept, you turned the other way — opting to blankly stare past the window. You can see his reflection approaching, the metal beneath you tremble with each step. 

" What did I say about your crying?" He crooned, a digit forcefully dragging your chin upwards. You tried to be defiant, to puff out your cheeks and stop your lips from trembling. Yet there was blood on his armor, sprayed across his face. And now there were some on your cheek, wet and sticky, enough to make the tears fall faster.

Then, amid the silence that has crowded the room, between the background hums and noises coming from the machine arose the subtle, clicking noise of a cooling fan. He pushed the tip of his thumb against your bottom lip, the red shade of his optics burning into a deep shade of garnet. 

" Look at me when you cry," He commanded, " I want to see it."

V. You told him a story of the Roman titan who devoured his sons one by one — afraid they’d overthrow him. Eat or be eaten, was that what Megatron thought when he installed a killswitch in his head? You hoped this would flatter him. It did. A little too much.  

VI. You usually don't talk when he's inside of you. When his spike is stretching you almost too painfully, you never make conversation, it is always the sound of your shallow breathing and his indulgent moaning, mingling together in the air. He didn't force you, no. A part of you had wanted this. Out of sheer fear or stress, you're not sure.

Either way, it's safe to say that Overlord doesn't want you dead anytime soon. Yet he's starting to get bored. Or rather, tired, of wanting. Of fighting this internal disgust in himself for ever thinking of having you like this: underneath him, writhing and struggling to have him all the way to the hilt. He has always been more glutton than prideful. And so here you two were, with his mass displaced yet hands still big enough to cover the expanse of your back — thumbs draped against your nipples. Squeezing, circling. His optics leered at the hickeys and bruises loitering your skin. He has a fascination with how they turn purple and bleed red, sometimes blooming into blue before fading. You tell him as long as he's gentle enough not to break anything, he's more than welcome to have you like this. 

As insatiable as he is, that was enough for him.

" If I had known...organics were this pliant. I would have gotten myself a plaything eons ago."

He roughly snapped his hips upwards, dragging you against the berth. 

" Sing for me."

Nothing made sense anymore. Not when he has you by the talons like a wild animal, hunched over to devour its prey. Atoms would condense and cluster and sink onto your skin, crowding you with heat from the brutal pace he's setting. You're afraid he'd snap your hip as he hikes up your right leg. Angling you, using you, to his pleasure. And there is pleasure out of this for you too, molten liquid tightening around your abdomen. So you indulge him. He likes seeing you cry, and so you did. Begging, whining — which only causes him to hold you closer to his chassis. The thrum of his spark against you is loud enough to send you into a headache.  

It's too much. You wanted to say. But you know it's futile. So as you reached your high — spent and overstimulated from this newfound obsession of his — you could do nothing but brace yourself for the rush of trans fluid spilling down your legs. Your cunt, sore and aching as he finally pulls away.

He says you're funner this way. That's the closest thing you'll get to a sunrise.