#biting and gnashing and tearing and rending and

[just-in-cays]

.

[anarchistmemecollective]

from the back cover:

RESTORING BALACE

Decolonizing Wealth is a provocative analysis of the oppressive dynamics at play in philanthropy and finance. Award-winning philanthropist Edgar Villanueva draws from Native traditions to prescribe the medicine to heal our divides.

Philanthropy has evolved to mirror colonial structures, ultimately doing more harm than good. After fourteen years, Villanueva has seen past the field's altruistic façade and into its shadows: the old-boy networks, the savior complexes, and the internalized oppression. With great compassion-because the Native way is to bring the oppressor into the circle of healing-this book offers the Seven Steps to Healing to open the floodgates for a rising tide that lifts all boats.

biting gnashing rending tearing maiming crunching knawing ripping

[keicordelle]

The Daily Inconveniences of an Au Ra: Healing Magic

Pain bloomed along Keshet's side, his enemy's blade tearing between his ribs. He hissed, lips twisted in a snarl as he lurched away, drawing up his staff to block the next strike. Blood dripped in searing trails down his side, sliding over skin and scales in a wet mess. Flame gathered at his fingertips, and he hurled it at the Garlean, watching with bitter satisfaction as the solider went down in a charred heap.

"Keshet!" Alphinaud's worried voice cut through the air before the body even hit the ground, his footsteps hurried as he rushed over. The familiar gleam of healing magic already glittered in his hands, his aether at the ready.

"I'm fine," Keshet ground out as Alphinaud drew up beside him, reaching for his flank. Keshet twisted out of his way, brushing him off. "Go tend to the other wounded." In truth, the gash burned fiercely, deep and ragged along the edges. It had not been a clean cut, rending his flesh in ways that he had to admit would be hard to stitch. Another scar added to his collection.

"Don't be ridiculous. That looks serious." Alphinaud stepped in again, aiming for his wounded side, and Keshet side stepped once more. No mistaking it this time for anything other than a dodge, avoiding Alphinaud's hands and the healing glow that suffused them. Alphinaud frowned at him. "You are the Warrior of Light. We need you at full strength if you are to prevail."

"I'll be fine," Keshet insisted, casting a glare at the boy that usually sent others running. Sadly, Alphinaud had long since learned his tricks and didn't so much as flinch.

Alphinaud's expression hardened, the picture of a no-nonsense healer. "Must I call upon Y'shtola again, or will you allow me to tend to your wound without complaint?"

Keshet blanched, and he held still this time when Alphinaud moved closer, gritting his teeth as the healing spell washed over him. A thousand fire ants crawled through the wound, biting and gnashing and grinding sand into his nerves. He shuddered all the way down to the tip of his tail, fighting against his better instincts to hold still against the tide of magic. Beneath his eyes, the wound sealed itself, muscle and flesh knitting itself together until not even a shadow of a scar remained to mark the spot where his skin had torn. Only the tacky trail of blood seeping into his skirt indicated that it had ever been there at all.

That was the worst part of all, Keshet thought. Healing magic was truly a marvel, there was no doubt about that. But when every wound vanished as if it had never been, it was as though the memory of the fight was erased as well. What good was a fight if it left no lasting impact? His flesh was littered with the scars of a thousand thousand combats - and now, when they counted more than ever before, he was left bare, with nary a mark to mar his skin and his soul. It was unnatural. It went against the ways of the Dotharl.

Keshet much preferred to handle his injuries himself. When death did not frighten you, there was little reason not to simply stitch your still-beating heart back into your chest and carry on. It hurt, certainly, but Keshet had always found the rapid knit of his flesh to be more painful still - although he couldn't say for certain that others felt the same. Everyone around him seemed to accept healing magic as a given, a simple cure-all even to questions that did not need answers. Why suffer from a scratch or a bruise when you could just wish it away?

Call him a masochist, but back home, that was simply not how it was done. The Dotharl were not blessed with those proficient in the healing arts - the blood they bathed in was of their own making, and their talents with it extended only so far as rending flesh, not repairing it. Each and every one among them knew how to set bones and stitch wounds - they had to. That, that was how it was supposed to be done. When you fought someone, you should feel it. Or else what was the point.

Except that now, the point was to keep his allies alive. The point wasn't just to fight Garleans, but to save the innocent, and that meant he did not have time to let nature heal his wounds. Like it or not (and he most certainly did not) Alphinaud and his magic were the most sure-fire way of ensuring he could keep fighting, day in and day out. So, grit his teeth he might, but he had to bear it.

And besides, he really, really didn't want to come under Y'shtola's care again. Yeesh.

-

Read the rest of the series on Ao3!

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[bluebellsinthedells]

I know it's time for bed when I start wishing to rend and tear and bite and gnash

[maplehazelnut]

SIX emails that I sent read receipts on came back to me this afternoon "deleted without being read"

New garbage can requests!! Missed garbage issues!!!

The new cart requests have whole LISTS of homes that need new carts!!!

I am biting into the soft flesh of the ceos throat and tearing and gnawing and gnashing and rending and then spitting out the gristle. I am so so beyond words angry. We pay so fucking much for garbage service each month!! I know because I am a cog in the wheel that helps pay them! Nearly a quarter of a million dollars a month!!!! And for as much as that bill is they have the AUDACITY to just delete my emails. Truly I am not the yelling type but I think an exception is about to be made. I can understand being overwhelmed. I can understand not having enough staff to deal with things asap. This?? This is just incompetence and I do not tolerate fools when I am trying to take care of shit for my residents.

[theophagism]

gnashing biting gnawing rending tearing etc

first look at oscar isaac as dr. frankenstein. i’m going to start biting holes in my walls

[istherewifiinhell]

408

[To make <Underworld> be responsible for the Probability needed for summoning…]

"I'm still at an age where I'd like to rely on my parents."

[I heard that youths of the Korean Peninsula become independent early in their lives, but I guess I was wrong.]

I recalled the day I left the relatives' place for lodging in a hostel. I was seventeen back then.

Ahhh

Abruptly, a corner of my heart began tingling just a little. I ended up remembering the empty spots reserved for my parents during school events, back when I was still a student.

I always wondered how my friends felt back then. What did it feel like, having someone fill up those spots, having someone who'd come to you when you called out to them?

[Constellation, 'Queen of the Darkest Spring', has unleashed her Status!]

And now, I thought I could finally understand what they felt back then.

AAAHHHHHH

As always its my fault for having limiting assumptions on the novel with every human story but i really did not think they were gonna go so hard on the adult adoption angle....

Like we like to have fun here but yeah the guy we established as weirdly hyper competent but often forgets getting help and would never expect to receive it... the guy we are getting increasingly less subtle about referencing his sucidicity ideation... we've giving him peers that can stand beside him and parents to support him. 😭 👍🏻

[just-in-cays]

.

[radioiaci]

All the begging in the world would not have saved the man - pathetic and mewling like a petulant child - from what Alastor intended. From deep in the wells of shadow, more and more of the overlord's minions because to seep out and into the alley. Gnashing teeth and chittering excitement illustrated their desire to rend and tear, with Alastor's deadened gaze - eyes blackened with the spin of red dials in place of pupils - fixed on their eventual target.

He did not wait for permission before the little creatures surged forward and began to fervently claw and bite at the Sinner's ankles. As they worked to climb the man's legs and take him down to the ground, the rising, loud buzz of radio interference churned in the air around the alley. Wide, yawning maw-like portals opened and spawned his blackened tendrils from various angles, slithering like too-many snakes along the alley's dark, concrete floor. They circled and dragged, as though waiting for whatever remains were left to wrap around and pull into the voidal abyss.

Alastor took steps closer - bit by bit, the environment around him beginning to sway and corrupt. The red from his eyes glowed eerily, the dials ticking second-by-second. As though taking stock of how many seconds the Sinner had left before the radio demon truly stepped in to make ring the final death knell.

Regenerative or no-

The man would not be coming back.

She felt relief hearing that terrifying voice. Feeling the malice and darkness encroach them. Many would be horrified, but Kitty felt safety. He had come. This was over. It was a massive wave of relief that crashed over her.

Quickly she darted away from Greg. Finding solace in shadow. Her breath sharp, and heavy as the adrenaline from the situation began to falter. Panic subsided as she regained herself. He was trapped now.

“What the fuck?!” He gasped in surprise seeing the imposing figure of the radio demon encroaching “look man I didn’t know she was your girl alright…I’ll get out of here promise!” He said raising his hands

“No no….Greg. You aren’t going anywhere. You have to pay for your sins. For your crimes when you were alive.” She said finding strength in Alastor’s presence. “For your crimes against me”

“What do you mean against you? Who are you?” He asked sounding afraid.

“I’m offended you’ve forgotten me. I’m Katherine Hartfeild.” She said her eyes burning with rage.

He went slack jawed. Then his face twisted into rage “you bitch!! I got offed by the feds because of you! Because I ended your pathetic life. You were a shitty fucking wife. I wasted money on you.” He growled.

Kitty seethed with anger but stayed put. Her red eyes bore into Greg’s. “I hope you suffer.” She snarled

[beggingwolf]

Wondering what is going on in my head... I see pictures like this and I think "oh... soft... I would very much like to see geno kissing sid's neck fat as he laughs and they cuddle on the couch... tender... soft...."

Yet, I see pictures like this and it goes VERY MUCH IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION, A LA "I WOULD LIKE TO SEE HIM HELD DOWN AND [redacted nefarious events]"

[ancientrimer]

I don’t wanna be in pain

I don’t wanna be miserable

I don’t want Wilson to hate me

[endless-whump]

The (half) crown of sonnets my class collectively wrote! Mine is the first one and the rest are under the cut <3

---

The sun is soft and warm on my knuckles,

Steering wheel cracked under my fingertips.

Both destination and route are unmapped

As I drive towards the sun without care.

I drive until my neck hurts, my voice worn,

Staring down at the road with a deadened

Hatred, one I will never understand.

The air smells of cigarettes and stale breeze,

But I’ve lost ability to care much,

Numb to the static of a radio,

Another thing I never care to fix.

The static calls out to me, begs for me

With images of the sunlight and song,

Sunlight I do not see, but always feel

Sunlight I do not see, but always feel

Beneath an apple tree, I sit so calm

While the branches sway smoothly in the wind.

This sun-dappled ground, my own dreaming place.

But in my head, those limbs all claw and scratch,

Tearing at my skin, rending flesh from bone,

And the apples fall poisoned to the Earth,

Rotted fruit raining down on me alone.

This venomed tree sits gnarled on a hill

While this sacred arbor glows, hallowed light

But those broad limbs that the summer sun fills

Stand intertwined with branches dripping blight

The light and the dark, tangible and fake.

Through truth and lie, a decision I make.

Through truth and lie, a decision I make.

I took your tattoo-covered arms, scanning

each inch. A vibrant butterfly soaring

through your rich brown skin, a crimson rose veiled

with thorns. Connected to them are your hands,

feathered clouds. I’m sorry for taking the

axe meant for the trees and chopping your wrists.

Sorry for leaving before you could swathe

them back. Sorry for stealing what is yours.

All the sorrys in the world won’t bring back

the hands that healed my wretched wounds. I thought

your hands were my enemy’s. I know that

can’t resurrect you, can’t put me back in

your thoughts. Please, let me put my hands in yours.

Your thoughts, please, let me put my hands in yours

Oh, the things I want to see with you. Take

me to the flea market where sentient

Furniture read aloud their epics in

Draft and snake plants whisper in binary

Code from the corners. Show me where clouds weep

Sunflower seeds and snails made of washi

Tape lead annual pilgrimages up

Vanilla bean plateaus. Buy me tickets

To see baritone orchids and number

2 pencils waltz across a styrofoam

Stage. Let me tour the schoolhouse where children

Learn the ways of toadstools and to speak in

Riddles--riddle me the ones you were taught.

Riddles? Riddle me the ones you were taught

about love! It is not some vague concept.

Love is the playing of a symphony,

and the hollow buzz you feel after a

performance. It is who you doodle in

the margins of your notebook when your soul

is the ballpoint of the pen. Love is that

one song in your playlist that steals the air

from your lips, time after time. It is the

floating feeling evoked by a friend’s smile,

and the drive to create it again. Love

is the bread your mom breaks at dinner-time,

and the TV show your dad watches. Love

is the desire to, and to do again.

Love’s the desire to, and to do again.

God plunged from His throne in such great disgrace

Thronic chorus following His descent

The triumphant cries of mankind drifted

Up to Him as He fell from high heaven

Master and servant of all and none wept

Delighted, and mortified, Exalted

and denigrated, the culmination

Of his most great and unspeakable work

God crashed lifeless against the earth, His child.

stolen and broken by men, His children.

Broken Himself, ruined by His own greatest work

Cherished magnum opus, yet thieves of thieves

Were those murderers of all murderers

Who consoled themselves as gods of all the world.

Who consoled themselves as gods of all the world?

Not you, for you’re a bitter thing, who spits

poison ‘til your gums bleed and your teeth rot,

but you are far from untouchable, and

Your weak skin will never hold against me.

For I am the rage, the anger, the hate,

the biting, gnashing, gnawing, the breaking,

tearing, clawing teeth, and you are nothing

more than food to be eaten, devoured.

I will chew you up and swallow each part,

even if your sourness will burn me.

I am infinitely stronger than you,

and your disgusting juices can’t hurt me.

Today, at last, I will finally eat

this sour, bitter, godawful grapefruit.

[joachimnapoleon]

@histoireettralala, this one’s for you. ;) Papa!Murat in all his fluff-tastic glory. 

***

Murat shifts uncomfortably. The tiny pink plastic chair really wasn’t made to hold a brawny, six-foot-plus adult male. But what choice does he have? His attendance at his daughter Letitia’s tea party is mandatory, and his traditional seat has been usurped by a new arrival, one Mr. Bear, who recently came home with Papa from the amusement park to live with them.

Just don’t break the chair, Murat tells himself. Do not. Break. The chair.

“How is your tea, Papa?” Letitia asks.

He glances down into his empty, plastic toy tea cup. Raising it to his lips, he pretends to take a delicate sip, sighing contentedly for good measure.

“Delightful, my dear.”

The seven-year-old beams. Would Papa like some more? Of course he would! Murat places the tea cup in front of Letitia. She obligingly lifts her toy tea kettle and elegantly simulates pouring him another cup.

“Thank you mademoiselle! You should pour some more for Mr. Bear too, he’s looking rather parched.”

Letitia pours Mr. Bear some more tea, observing that her new friend is always very thirsty because of his great size. She then turns to her younger sister, five-year-old Louise.

“More tea, Louise?”

Louise, busy scribbling in her newest coloring book, shakes her curly-haired head, but informs her sister that Bunbun would like some. The gigantic floppy rabbit has been Louise’s constant companion since arriving at the Murat household alongside Mr. Bear, Baldoin (Lucien’s new stuffed dog), and Ajax, an enormous stuffed crocodile now doubling as a body pillow in Achille’s bedroom.

Bunbun soon has a fresh cup of tea. He expresses his gratitude by drooping over even further in his seat. Louise is oblivious, intensely focused on coloring a picture of an octopus that looks, Murat can’t help but notice, a bit like Davout.

Fearful that Bunbun is about to go toppling out of his chair, Murat reaches over and gently nudges him back upright.

“He’s okay,” Louise says reassuringly. “Just sleepy.”

“Ah,” Murat nods understandably. “Didn’t he sleep well last night?”

“He was scared of the thunder,” Louise says.

“I see,” Murat says, giving Bunbun a severe look. “Well we’ll have to work on that, won’t we.” Cowardice had no place in the Murat household.

The sounds of running footsteps over the downstairs hardwood floor, the laughter and dramatic cries of little boys at play, and the familiar clatter of toy swords bring a smile to Murat’s face. Achille and Lucien must be playing “knights” again. Hopefully they’ll behave themselves and not break anything el—

The sound of something large and ceramic hitting the floor and shattering into pieces reverberates through the house. A frozen silence follows.

Murat sighs. If it was another one of Caroline’s vases, she would have his head. The boys just broke one not even a month ago. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on things while she was away enjoying the spa with Pauline and Elisa. Somehow, he doubted that Caroline would find “I was attending Letitia’s tea party” to be an acceptable excuse for the obliteration of another one of her expensive antiques.

“My apologies, mesdemoiselles,” he addresses his daughters. “I need to go check on your brothers. Be good while I’m gone, okay?” Not that he needs to tell his two little girls that anyway. They are perfect angels, whereas the boys are... well, more like him.

Rising awkwardly from the pink plastic chair, he creeps towards the stairway, not wanting the boys to hear him coming. He peers down the stairs. Eight-year-old Achille and six-year-old Lucien are crouched beside a pile of shards which, moments earlier, had formed their mother's favorite vase. Murat rakes a hand over his face.

"Can we fix it?" little Lucien whispers loudly.

"I don't think so," Achille whispers back. "There's too many pieces."

"What are we going to do?" Lucien asks.

"What, indeed?" Murat interjects, suppressing a smile as his sons jump in startlement.

"Papa!" the boys exclaim in unison.

Murat bites his lip as he regards the remnants of the vase, forcing a grim expression. "Well boys," he begins, doing his best to try to be serious, "which one of you broke Mama's favorite vase?"

Lucien cringes. Achille looks downcast. The boys regard each other in silence for a moment. Finally, Achille confesses; it was his sword that knocked down the vase. But only, he adds with a glare at his younger brother, because Lucien ducked instead of blocking it like a real knight would have.

The mess is soon cleaned up and disposed of, and Achille and Lucien are properly lectured on the importance of absolutely not under any circumstances breaking anymore of their mother's possessions or else. The boys grab their swords and run off to play a new game: pirates! Murat is about to go back upstairs to rejoin the tea party when his cellphone rings.

Lannes greets him enthusiastically. How is the babysitting going? The boys broke another vase? Caroline will be SO MAD. You had ONE JOB, Joachim.

"It's not my fault!" Murat protests. "I can't be everywhere at once. We've had a very peaceful day so far up until this!"

"NO EXCUSES. I have more kids than you and I can manage them well enough!"

"Yeah well your kids aren't little versions of me."

"Thank God for that," Lannes laughs.

Murat rubs his temples while his friend launches into a long explanation of yet another practical joke he recently played on the hapless Bessières. Wandering into the kitchen while Lannes rambles, he puts the phone on speaker and places it down on the counter as he pours himself a glass of juice.

A little girl screams from upstairs.

Murat puts the glass down and dashes out of the kitchen. "IS EVERYTHING OKAY? SHOULD I CALL THE DOCTOR?" Lannes' voice shouts through the abandoned phone.

Springing up the steps three at a time, Murat enters the girls' room to find Louise in tears, being consoled by Letitia.

"What happened, sweetheart?" Murat asks, his heart pounding. "Are you hurt?"

"LUCIEN AND ACHILLE TOOK BUNBUN," Louise sobs.

"Where did they take him?"

"They said he was their prisoner," Letitia says, "and they were taking him back to the pirate ship." She looks at her father, mystified. "Do we really have a pirate ship, Papa?"

"Of course not my dear, where would we keep a pirate ship? I know where they went though." Kneeling, he pulls the sobbing Louise against him. "Shhhhh, it'll be okay my love. I'll bring Bunbun home safe and sound, I promise." He kisses her forehead. "Letitia, keep your sister occupied while I go rescue Bunbun, okay?"

"Yes Papa."

He heads back downstairs. Somehow, Lannes is still yelling through the phone.

"JOACHIM?! WHERE ARE YOU? IS EVERYONE OKAY? I'M CALLING DOCTOR LAR--"

"NO," Murat cries, "DO NOT CALL LARREY, for God's sake Jean. Everything is fine."

"But I heard screaming!"

"It's nothing. The kids are playing a game. I'll call you back later, I have to go." He ends the call, pockets the phone, and leaves the house through the back door.

His eyes go across the vast, vibrant gardens, and out to a distant oak tree, from which protrudes an ornate treehouse. The sounds of boyish laughter carry through the summer air.

Murat had taken great pains--quite literally--to build the treehouse years earlier, when Achille was just a toddler, before Louise had been born. Losing his footing while hammering in some boards one afternoon, he had plummeted out of the tree, dislocating his shoulder in the process.

After recuperating, he had stubbornly completed the treehouse (with help).

Now the structure served alternatively as a fortress, castle, fighter jet, spacecraft, and pirate ship, depending on what mood the children were in. Striding towards the would-be pirate ship, Murat sees Lucien peer out at him with a spyglass, before ducking back behind the window.

Achille appears, bedecked in his pirate hat and eyepatch, a wooden cutlass in his belt. Behind him comes Lucien, dressed similarly, holding the captive Bunbun before him. The droopy stuffed rabbit is led out of the treehouse, towards the makeshift plank Murat had added on some months back to accommodate his sons' piratical fantasies.

"ARRRRR!!!" Achille cries.

"YAAAAAARGH!!!" echoes Lucien.

"What has poor Bunbun done to deserve this?" Murat asks in feigned despair.

"He stole our buried treasure!" Achille says.

"YEAH!" says Lucien. "ARRRRGH."

"Now he must walk the plank!"

"We're gonna feed him to the sharks!!"

Murat has an idea.

"I'll be the shark!"

"Do you know how to be a shark, Papa?" Lucien asks.

"Of course!" He's seen all the Jaws movies, at any rate.

Murat pretends to swim back and forth below the treehouse, baring his teeth ferociously up at Bunbun. Lucien giggles, then, remembering his role after a poke on the back from Achille, resumes his pirate scowl, giving one more loud "ARRRR" for good measure.

"FOR STEALING OUR BURIED TREASURE, WE HEREBY SENTENCE YOU TO DEATH," Achille declares.

Lucien shoves Bunbun off the plank. Murat catches the stuffed rabbit and, gnashing his teeth, simulates rending it to pieces. Laughing, the boys celebrate their triumph with whoops and cheers, waving their wooden cutlasses. Murat, pleased with his performance, tucks the liberated Bunbun under his arm and takes a stage bow.

Soon after, Bunbun is back in the arms of a grateful Louise. Hopefully the boys would neglect to tell their little sister that Papa had temporarily transformed into a shark and devoured her beloved rabbit. Murat cringes. Maybe he can make a deal with them...

The front door opens downstairs. He had completely lost track of the time. Is Caroline home already?

"Joachim?" Caroline calls. "Where are you? ...And what happened to my vase?"

***THE END***

[duckbeater]

ODD FROCK

1. Bad Intel

After the mad king died, a plague took hold of the land, killing scores of children. The queen, his second wife, and a regent facing no natural claimants, felt the people move against her. Though senseless wars had felled all half-princes (her four sons) and full-princes (her predecessor’s seven) alike, she was aware of her husband’s mythic philandering, and the tide of unrest must produce some heir—surely some dashing bastard would step out of the shadows to pike her and alight with the crown. But in the second steep death month, none had. Then in the third deeper death month none had. And more boys were dying every day. It was confusing.

The queen was a very devout woman and kept council with frocks every morning and every evening. “They are saying I have brought this curse on,” she said, just after prayer. “They say I am a sorceress and that you are my lieges in darkness, that we have contrived unholy retribution on the families who helped my husband in his wars.” With her frocks, she needn’t explain that by “helped” she meant “families who allowed my king husband to ravage sisters, mothers and wives.”

“I’m not quite sure how I got so mixed up in this,” continued the queen, “only that I am healthy, and that I stood by a man who did evil. I would like to stop evil, of course,” she added, “and it was my sense, that evil must stop when the king died.” She nodded slowly at her frocks, as if accepting an unspoken reply. “Yet indeed,” she said, “here we are. Our kingdom is sick with grief. I am soon become a pariah. Hopelessness has left us heartless, and I am afraid for all our lives.” Then she waited for that day’s brief.

“The deaths, my regent, are now some 3,000 young souls.”

The queen could not hide her revulsion. “I would like to know who these children are,” she said. “And how they are so numerous.” 

How was her husband so traitorous? How did he even find time for the battlefield? How did the people believe her administrative resources could puncture such a web of frogspawn, a spunk glob that apparently coated the whole fucking kingdom.

Eye Frock continued: “There are reports, substantiated reports, my regent, that when the dead are burned they leave behind a golden thread.”

“That’s deeply stupid,” said the queen. “That’s a deeply stupid trick, surely. And a waste of golden thread, if true. I would like a golden thread. Whoever heard? Bless them. This is absurd.”

“It is substantiated,” said Eye Frock, “and by gruesome means.”

“How?”

“A spate—a rash, really—of accidents involving the twine, my regent.”

“How so?”

“Some survivors have found the thread when bundling the next-day’s ashes. They thought it a miracle, a remembrance, and wrapped it on their person. Some on fingers, some on wrists, some on necks. And each time, the thread has burned as it tightened, severing clean through, hot as fire and quick as death. The injuries to fingers are in the dozens. Well, you know how irresistable it is to tangle a string for the cat’s cradle or a lover’s bower or the spider’s keep or—”

The queen flared her nostrils.

Eye Frock continued: “A child of seven lost her arm above the elbow, after using the thread to tie her an armlet. A father’s head was lopped clean off. A grandmother, stooped and broken, wore her grandson’s thread as a girdle, and died sliced in half in her pig yard. There are other strories, my regent.”

“These stories, if true, disgust me,” she said. “Have we a thread to test?”

Long Frock spoke: “In my pocket.”

“Bring it here.”

The long-frocked frock produced an envelope. He slowly emptied its contents, careful, careful, trembling, before—

The queen plucked it, examined it, held it taut and unafraid. The thing was resplendent: as long as her spine, as thick as ten hairs, her hairs, soft, and so lustrous it bounced light upon her face—a band of yellow and blue and white, recalling the heat of the forge from which it came. From which it surely came.

“This is marvelous,” she said, “quite exquisite. But it is just a band. It is not a noose or a machette or a garrote. It is not a device for murder.” She did not add: For it is too pretty. She tied it about her wrist and nothing happened.

When the frocks were done protesting, gasping and heaving, they noticed she was safe. The men searched their minds for an answer. Each had personally seen the devastation wrought. Yet none thought this was a miracle.

“It is because, I believe, my regent, you are a royal, a true royal, and so immune to its destruction,” said Maths Frock.

“We can test that, of course,” said the queen. “One of you,” she said, pointing to the nine at table, “put it on your little finger.”

Eventually a prisoner was found, instead—a tax-dodger and a drunk, toothless and blue-lipped, blinking back at the brilliance of the morning chapel.

“Probably not royal,” admitted the queen.

And because she expected nothing and the frocks expected a bloodbath, neither party was prepared for the low long squeal of their captive, their ring making quick work of the bone yet tearing at the skin. They thought he must pass out, or bite through his tongue gnashing, as the miniscule torus became a lazy line again, and yanked up tendons like roots from the back of his hand. The rending. The sizzle. The spatter.

“I get it,” said the queen, “I get it.”

[spicedrobot]

Chasing the Demon

Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Sanzang!Zenyatta/Oni!Genji Warnings: trans genji (clit/cunt terms used, no PIV), vagina dentata, anal sex, murder mentions?? Genji’s a bad dude   Notes: Uhhh this is old and I’m now wondering if this is to anyone’s taste but! I hope you enjoy. ;’) I can only put an art preview on tumblr, but please read this on ao3 for the full picture by @/zoannim on twitter!

-

It is greed that undoes him.

In the beginning, Genji preyed on the drunk and cruel. His first was a gambler who brought his house to ruin; the next an adulterer who frequented the pleasure quarters. Each target he justifies in some fashion, though he does not need excuses after the first, intoxicated by the rush that each death grants, eyes bright as hellfire and body glut with their souls.

His targets are embarrassingly easy to tempt. He waits in the shadows of taverns, luring with sweet words and sweeter hands. Each kill makes him bolder, and he begins slinking into houses, into the same rooms where spouses lay sleeping next to his prey. It takes only a finger pressed to his grinning mask as he peels off his lower armor to keep them from alarm. By the time he envelops their cocks into the tight heat between his thighs, it’s too late.

Rumors spread of strange deaths: each victim found half-naked but unharmed, eyes glazed in ecstasy. The city becomes hysteric, and most dare not venture out after dusk. Soon there are few left that catch Genji’s eye; it is time to move on to the next village where new victims wait, ignorant and ripe for consumption.

He leaves at dusk, lingering at the city gates for the changing of the guard. That’s when he sees it: a gleaming palanquin surrounded by gold and crimson banners.

No litter so fine ever held less than royalty. In the cover of shadows, Genji follows it to the fanciest lodging in the city. The servants place the palanquin on the ground and fold back its drapes, revealing its occupant.

Need seizes in Genji’s belly.

A prince, sharp and gorgeous, with painted eyes and full lips, adorned in finery that catches in the late sun’s gold. He moves with grace unparalleled as he rises, a necklace of heavy orbs chiming with each practiced step. Every motion is collected and pristine, and how Genji wants, how easy it would be to debauch such a treasure who has only known love and excess.

One more, he thinks. Just one more.

-

Slipping past the guards is child’s play.

At this hour, he expects the prince to be nestled beneath layers of grand silks that adorn the suite’s enormous bed. Instead, the prince kneels in prayer upon the wooden floor. The vast room is lit by a single torch, but Genji’s never struggled to see in the dim, not after the souls had changed him.

He creeps closer, the soft spice of incense that weaves into his mask warm and pleasant.

“Who are you?”

The prince’s voice surprises him, deep for his stature, melodiously rhythmic. He does not move; not even his heart quickens as Genji draws another step closer.

“A lonely soul looking for company,” Genji murmurs, stopping in front of his bowed head. “You are far from home, prince.”

The prince stills. Then he laughs, the sound startling in the quiet.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” The prince straightens. His eyes are the last to raise, deep and dark, the gaze leveled at Genji so intense that he feels stripped bare before him. “So, lonely soul. What flavor of company do you seek?”

“One that only you can provide.”

The prince’s shoulders shake as he laughs silently.

“Flattering words shall not sway me.”

Genji slips a cool finger beneath the prince’s chin, tilting his face upward, enamored by the supple curve of his lips, synthetic but alluring.

“I speak true. Since I saw you, I knew no other would satisfy me.”

His hand shifts, cupping his sharp cheek. The prince leans into his touch, eyes thinning.

“Hm. Are you willing to prove your devotion?”

Genji crouches, dipping his head in a gentle bow.

“Nothing would please me more.”

Genji’s stomach clenches deliciously, his breath quickening as he disrobes the prince. The omnic lets him, waited upon and pampered at every turn, Genji thinks. To rend such arrogance will be all the sweeter for it. Fine circuitry, strangely scuffed but beautiful, reveals itself piece by piece. Genji slips his hands into soft fabric, feeling between metal thighs as the prince arches into him, mouth circled on a gasp.

The prince’s hand follows as Genji exposes his lower body, pressing a sequence of panels; his cock, segmented and just shy of tumescent, slides into view. Most of Genji’s partners have been flesh and blood, but the prince rises and twitches like any other, helpless beneath his fingers as he takes him in hand.

Genji lifts his mask, smirks with long fangs, though it does not cause the other pause. Instead, slim thighs part wider, cock thickening in his grip, the seams of it glowing teal. It’s a dizzying sight, enough to keep a witty reply from his lips, breathless as he kisses the crown of his cock, the smell of incense heightening, cloying.

“You are quite good at this, lonely one,” the prince sighs, the sound dream-like and far off, the hand on the back of his head urging Genji quicker, stealing sight and breath.

Genji tastes the sweet slick from the prince’s cock, eyes fluttering shut as he draws him deep. Soon whatever soul the prince possessed would be his, a final, lingering thought before oblivion.

-

He awakens to gentle buzzing between his ears and the smell of fresh evening air.

“So you are the demon who has been terrorizing the city.”

Genji groans.

“What…”

He cannot move.

Red cord segments his body, arms twisted behind his back, calves and thighs bound together. His struggles are limited; the strange, lingering drowsiness weakening his movements. Not incense, then.

“You are an imposter,” Genji says with as much venom as he can muster.

The false prince clicks his tongue, too close.

“My identity was assumed. I simply did not correct your error.” His breath tickles over Genji’s cheek, and try as he might, he cannot pull away as the omnic laughs quietly behind him.

“Who are you?”

“A lowly monk in service to the lost.” There is no fire to it, only a statement, gentle against his head. “Your lusts have warped you. It is a terrible burden, to exist without succor.”

Warmth lines his back as the monk presses against him, teases fingers around his flanks. The demon grunts, but he can do little more than twitch and jerk as the monk rubs circles into his hips, cups his thighs through his clothes, close to the heat between where he yearns, always wanting.

“Some monk,” the demon groans as the imposter tears his pants, exposing him to the room, chilled until fingers trace between his legs, not quite daring to do more.

The pads of warm metal find short, sharp teeth surrounding a warm slit, puffy with arousal, dripping and swelling the longer he touches.

“Were you planning to swallow my cock with this? A sweet death, I am sure.”

The monk’s whispers echo in his mind, Genji’s focus undivided on his fingers, tracing and spreading him, testing and teasing his cunt but nothing more. Then his fingers shift, dragging beneath, catching the slick leaking from him then pressing lower.

Genji hisses at the first caress, trembling with the strain. The monk is undeterred, stroking between his cheeks, teasing and prodding until Genji relaxes. He growls as his insides part around the single, smooth finger, heat gathering between his legs, not quite where he needs, but he cannot resist it all the same.

“Do not worry. I will provide the company you so desperately seek.”

Genji swears, anger warring with the strange, teasing pleasure of the finger twisting inside him, motions smoothing as he opens him up, discomfort replaced with something delicious he should reject. He should’ve moved on—but now he writhes on the monk’s finger, back arching as another one slides next to it, brushing something that makes his vision blur.

“That’s it. Just relax.”

The monk nuzzles his pointed ear, catching it in his teeth, kisses just beneath, a place Genji never knew would be so sensitive. His fingers are a constant maddening slide that has him so close to begging it makes his blood boil. Then those fingers curl, and Genji shouts, tossing his head back against the monk’s shoulder, surging like electricity down his spine, sizzling—close…

He whines as those fingers withdraw, petting his swollen rim, more slick pooling over his hands, unsated, so needy.

“Unless you would rather stop.” The amusement is thick in his voice, purring from his synth.

Genji gnashes his teeth, trying to catch those capricious fingers against his ass, grown more enraged each second the monk does not press back inside and finish him proper. The monk’s other hand holds steady at his waist, drawing calm circles just above his clit, aching to be touched.

“N-no,” Genji bites.

“Hm?”

Sweat rolls down his temple, his body squeezing and twisting, but there’s no relief.

“Fuck me,” Genji says like a curse, moaning high and hard as the monk drags him into his lap, his cock, swollen and bright, sliding between his thighs and against his cunt. A synthetic hiss as Genji’s lower teeth brush his cock, and the demon grins even as he feels pressure at his ass instead, worked open and aching, cunt pulsing as the monk starts to slide inside him.

“Oh—fuck.”

Genji bends forward, rocking back on the monk’s cock as he bottoms out, slick dribbling around his cock, not even aware enough to be embarrassed by how much he’s turned on, being tied and used like this. The monk fucks him hard and deep, belying his gentle appearance, more sinful than his occupation allowed. One hand locks on Genji’s hip, the other just above his cunt, thumb grazing his clit.

“F-feeling good, monk?” Genji warbles, drool slipping down his chin as the monk tsks, pounding him in a place that no monk should, stroking his swollen clit in small, tantalizing circles.

“Mouthy,” he murmurs. “Perhaps you will require multiple lessons.”

“Please...!” Genji bites his lip, whining in his throat. “Harder.”

The monk shoves the demon gracelessly forward. Genji cannot break his fall, but the pain is worth the monk’s hands sealing around his hips, driving deeper, faster, the ache within delicious and perfect. He babbles, gasps and swears, guttural sounds that would make any proper human blush, but instead the monk snaps his hips harder, groaning into Genji’s shoulder as the demon seizes around him, barreling into orgasm like slamming into a wall.

His cunt clenches, slick spilling in a gush between his thighs, nearly screaming as the monk shoves him to the floor and holds, pumping him full, so hard Genji feels it settle in his stomach. Steam plumes around them, swallowing Genji’s groans and whimpers as the aftershocks take him, nearly as potent as the first shattering crest.

“Is...is that it?” Genji says, hoarse, squeezing around the cock still inside him.

The hands at his hips tighten, a breathy laugh escaping the monk who starts to move, slowly but gaining speed, Genji’s toes curling at the deep, tender feeling that makes his lower half feel liquefied.

“I suspect you still have more to learn.”

-

Genji can’t move as the early morning light spills through stained glass, though it had been hours since he’d been tied, freed somewhere between the third or fourth round, he can’t quite remember. He groans, twinging deliciously like he hasn’t in ages. When he glances up, he finds dark eyes watching him in turn.

The demon should be ashamed, angered: he was tricked, used, but he’s only sleepy and sore.

“I do not think I can move,” he murmurs, nuzzling beneath the monk’s chin.

One of the monk’s orbs glows, bathing Genji in a warm light that numbs the worst of the pain.

“Being a monk has its perks.”

Zenyatta weaves his fingers behind Genji’s back.

“Taming demons such as you is one of them.”

Genji laughs.

“There are many like me?” He mouths at the monk’s neck, relishing in his gentle, heated sigh.

“No, you are very much unique.”

“Now who’s the flatterer?”

-

The monk leaves the town as he came, surrounded by the gold and crimson of a fine palanquin, one passenger heavier and many times more dangerous.

[frankensteindotpdf]

ive developed this bad habit where whenever im frustrated i just start muttering shit like “ripping and rending and biting and tearing and screaming and crying and gnashing of teeth” and i feel like someones gonna catch me doing it someday and ill have no explanation