#brief references to noncon and murder

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Two

Chapter One

-

Two years prior

The world is on fire, and Brother Grigori can find no opening in the wall of flames. 

He comes to a stop as the archway comes crashing down in front of him, blocking him from taking the market road. When he turns, the crush of the crowd behind him, pushing and shoving and trying to force their way through the narrowed alleys that still remain, seems as dangerous as the burning buildings.

There can be no air to breathe, in a crowd like that. He would be trading possible death for certain suffocation.

Instead, Grigori pulls his white robes more tightly around himself, feeling marked by the visibility. On a normal day, the white robe would lead to people stopping to ask him for healing, for forgiveness, to confess their sins and be freed of the guilt and shame of them. Now, though… the priests of Dromada seem a special target of the bandits who have attacked Her most beautiful patron city.

The priests are nearly all dead, he thinks, in a circle in the temple where they were caught unawares at the evening meal. Only Brother Grigori had been away, ministering to a family with a dying father who needed to be given his Final Grace. 

The man had taken his last breath just as the first bells of alarm rang at the guard towers. Grigori wondered if his body was still lying in his own bed, forgotten.

Or if the man’s house had already burned, a tomb of fire. 

Where the man’s wife and daughters had gone.

Grigori had run for the temple, only to see the bandits streaming out, laughing and shouting and shoving at each other, soaked in sprays of bright red blood against their black leathers. He had hidden, in the temple stables, until they set the stable roof on fire, too, and then he opened the stalls and the wide double doors and escaped when the sudden rush of panicked horses overwhelmed their observations.

The horses had been let to run to freedom and safety. If they make it to the river, and they can swim, there will be safety at the other side. 

Grigori had one inside, moving past the shattered remnants of Dromada’s statue, now crushed on the temple steps. A single white marble eyeball, austere and somehow judgemental, had stared up at him from her half-formed face. The rest looked like cake crumbs, marked with footprints from the soot-stained soles of the bandits’ boots.

He found the bodies of the others in the dining room, some still seated before their still-warm dinners. Throats slit, stabbed through the heart, some simply bashed to death by shield or flat edge of a sword. Twenty-nine dead priests, and only one remained alive, the youngest, twenty-two year old Grigori, who had been found on the steps as an infant and knew no other life than this.

It seemed impossible that the wail he had let out hadn’t brought the walls down around him. 

Then, because there was nothing else left to do, he ran.

Now, the people of the city scream around him. They fight and shove and kick, they hold to each other, beg for mercy from the faceless men in black leathers on black horses who race through the night with torches in hand. 

They kick with heavy boots to knock victims to the ground, yank jewelry from their necks, and slaughter them in the street. He sees someone drag a young man into a house, laughing uproariously as the man pleads, the bandit already tearing at his clothes with abandon. 

It’s obscene.

Like something out of the filthy books they sell in secret at the bookstore in the market, the ones wrapped in thick paper as soft as cloth, that you must ask for by name. Oh, Grigori knows all about the profane pleasures the temple forbids.

He used to dream about them, before he begged Dromada to take such desires away, and they had marked his flesh with his vows. 

He had owned such a book.

Once.

The bookstore has burned, too. There will be no more books sold in this dead city, to dead men, with open eyes the flies already hover over. 

Near him, a woman holding a baby cries out, breaking him from his terrified stupor. Her voice is shrill and panicked. “No! Please, not my baby, please, no!”

Grigori, who had been hidden in the shadows, bursts forward. He’s driven more by instinct than courage. The woman turns to him, eyes wide, tears streaming down reddened cheeks marred with soot. She clutches the wailing infant close.

A bandit on a huge horse looks down at him, face hidden by a mask and helmet except for their eyes, wide with surprise at the sight of him. They have a sword held high in one hand, ready to bring it down. 

“I thought we killed all you stuck-up snobs,” The bandit says, puzzled. “At dinner. Eating fine foods in your fine temples.”

“I-I wasn’t th-there-”

“Oh, you weren’t. Huh. Visiting a mistress?” The bandit winks.

“I beg your-... no!” Fury rose in him, barely held in check by the fear. How dare this anonymous creature of such darkness and hate suggest he would do anything to break his sacred vows, while still wearing the white robes of Dromada, whose hem stays clean even during the worst of the mudslides and floods of spring?

“Oh. Well. If you could just step aside so I can go back to slaughtering-”

“Hurt not the children!” He calls, his voice rasping from breathing in too much smoke, forcing the woman behind him, shielding her with his own body. His heart pounds wildly, making him oddly dizzy, uncertain. “They have done nothing!”

The bandit blinks once. Their eyes crinkle at the edges. “None of you have done a single fucking thing to deserve this,” They said. Was there laughter in that voice, mocking his fear and his righteous anger? When something so terrible goes on all around them? “And yet we’re killing you anyway, just to send a message to Pehla, aren’t we?”

Grigori’s eyes widen. “The… the King Pehla?”

“Oh, right. He’s a king now.” The bandit laughs outright this time, but they lower the sword, and Grigori finds some slim, small pointless hope in the sight. “He was only a prince the last time I saw him.”

“The last time you saw him? No one sees the King!”

“Well. Not since I saw him, I guess. I do tend to make an impression…”

Grigori’s mouth is dry. “I-I… you must go-”

“Anyway,” The bandit says, ignoring his attempt to speak entirely, “Why should we leave any survivors, huh? Tell me why.”

“I, I can’t-... why do you need to kill anyone?” His voice trembles, and he coughs to pretend it’s the smoke forcing it to weaken and not the same fear that has his knees turned to liquid. Somehow he locks them in place, keeping the poor woman and her wailing baby behind him. She shushes the child, cuddling them close. 

“Because you can’t send a message about being dangerous unless you’re actually Dromada-damned dangerous, now can you?” The bandit’s eyes are crinkled again. “Wait. Droma-damned. Is that better?”

“I-... Just. Please. Please, the town is yours, no one else needs to die, there are no more soldiers here. Please.”

There’s a pause. The bandit stares at him, considering. “Say please again. Just like that, but… softer.”

Grigori’s eyebrows furrow, but he offers a hesitant, not-quite whispered, “... please.”

“Dromada’s Dick, that’s nice.”

“Dromada doesn’t have-”

The bandit cuts him off with a gesture. “It’s a figure of speech. Have they ever let you out of that temple, honestly?” Then they sigh. “Well… fine. You're very pretty. I think I've made my point."

Grigori’s mouth opens, but no words come out. The confusion is so pure and perfect that he forgets he ever knew how to speak beyond a stammered, “Wh-what?”

What point?

The bandit points at him, and Grigori straightens up, trying to seem taller than he is. “You. What’s your name, Priestling?”

“I-I am Brother Grigori, priest apprentice to the-”

“Right, yes, Grigori. I like that, Grigori. Nice, won’t have to change it. That would be irritating. See you later, Grigs. Bet you twenty marks I know exactly where you’ll go after this."

"I-... I don't understand."

"Ssssshhhh. Don't worry about it. I’ll find you.”

Before Grigori can answer, the bandit jerks the reins, turning their horse on its heel and riding off into the night. Grigori hears shouting in a language he doesn’t know, one voice then echoed by dozens more, and watches in confusion as the bandits brandishing their swords come pouring out of what houses still stand. They ride away. He watches the one who had dragged the young man into the house come out still fixing his sword belt back on, the young man stumbling after him with his shirt off and his pants ripped, holding them up with one hand. The young man and Grigori briefly meet eyes.

In less than an hour, all the bandits have gone. 

“What happened?” The young man asks, breathless. There are red marks around his neck, which Grigori’s brain refuses to acknowledge are in the shape of the hands that had closed there. “Where are they going?”

“He made them leave,” The woman whispers, and Grigori turns slowly to look from side to side. Indeed… there are no bandits to be seen. 

No army of men and women in black on black horses, setting fires, slaughtering thousands.

No one but the people of the city, and their sole surviving priest.

“You made them leave,” The woman says, in a tone of awe, and she touches the sleeve of his robe as if he himself is the statue since fallen. “You did that. Dromada’s sake, you made it end.”

"What? I, no, I didn't-... I don't know why-"

"Dromada's own has saved us!" Someone yells. Someone else echoes it.

Grigori feels like he'll be sick all over the cobblestones, more frightened of their admiration than he was of the bandits.

By the end of the week, the temple has been cleared of bodies and Brother Grigori is the hero of Henton City. He sweeps the steps, accepts a handshake from the equerry to the king, although not the king himself, who hasn’t been seen in years, not in public. He is given a medal,  special coin on a ribbon with his own likeness cut into it. He's told to wear it always.

He hangs it off his bedpost and pretends it doesn't exist.

He cries, at night, alone in a room that holds thirty beds but only one man left to sleep in any of them. He tries to clean the sleeping space out but finds a diary under Brother Fraykil's bed and reads his writing about what promise Grigori has shown and cries some more, then he never touches any of the other beds again.

People keep coming to thank him, and he can't make himself be rude enough to send them away.

For a few months, he's famous. 

A hero.

Painfully lonely, but... a hero.

Plagued with nightmares, withdrawing from the people, eventually closing the temple doors and barring them shut. The people pitied him, left him gifts of food and drink on the temple steps for him to bring inside at night.

They whisper about him.

He doesn't care to listen any longer.

He prays, and feels the Goddess's touch, but by the time he next wakes from sleep, the comfort is gone.

And yet... still, he's the Hero of Honorable Henton City, Dromada's favored priest, the single survivor of the temple massacre. The man whose grace and holiness was so strong, at his young age, that even the evil things could be convinced to leave by his word.

He was meant to be there, the people whisper. He was born to be the orphan left at the doorstep, raised bathed in holy waters by the men of Dromada's temple. He was born to be a hero.

He doesn't... feel like much of a hero.

They say he's one anyway.

... until he runs away from the temple and joins the very bandits who had so disgraced Dromada’s own city, swears allegiance body and soul to their terrible leader, sleeps with him on the dark altar to a vicious elven god, and vanishes into the dark forests of the Kaila, never to be seen again.

At least... that's the way the story is told.

Grigori's version of what happened is a little different than that.

Not that there's anyone to listen, by then, but the bandits.

-

tag list: @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @sunshiline-writes @befuddled-calico-whump

[eemcintyre]

Tainted Love (Terry Silver)

TW- noncon touching, toxic relationship, crying, yandere-esque behavior, references to SA and blood.

Summary- Part 2 of "Cruel to be Kind." You are in extreme physical and emotional turmoil after the... incident... at the house. While doing everything in your power to avoid Terry, you're trying to figure out what you should do and how you feel about the person he's revealed himself to be.

Look alive sunshine!! I actually managed to figure out a sequel for my inaugural Terry Silver fic!! I hope that everyone who enjoyed the first one and requested a sequel feels like this did it justice

P.S., the "you are a murderer, no matter how beloved" is not my original creation; it's an aesthetic quote I found on Pinterest, so I take no credit for it

Y/N had to get out of that house.

She had tried to go to work the day after everything that happened, but upon seeing Brian’s empty desk, the imagery of yesterday and her revulsion crashed over her and she soon had to go home; being violently ill for the rest of the day. Two more days had passed since then and she had not tried to go back.

Y/N could barely eat or sleep, so it was all she could do to gather the strength to move from one room to the other to avoid Terry throughout the day. Being in his presence, let alone looking at him or speaking to him, was even worse than trying to go to work.

Multiple times each day, he would carefully tread into the room, quietly attempting to sit near her and hold her hand or start a conversation. All she could see was the blood that had been splashed across his face, and she shuddered away from the memory of his grip on her chin when he forced her to look at the carnage on his office floor.

As quickly as possible, without a word to him if she could manage it, Y/N would flee the room for another- luckily, the mansion offered many to choose from, but Terry never failed to find her eventually. Especially since he had the staff keeping a close eye on her, making sure that she was alright if he himself couldn’t. He had ordered them to tend to her as much as she would let them, and then report back to him what she ate and how much, whether she was staying hydrated, and how much sleep she was getting.

She couldn’t even bring herself to sleep in the same bed as Terry anymore, opting instead to make her desperate attempts at rest in one of the guest rooms at the other end of the house. The idea of sleeping all night next to a murderer- especially a murderer whom she had thought she could trust and who had left their violent past behind- made her skin crawl.

Terry, of course, would try to justify his actions in his own twisted way to make himself feel better. But he was a murderer, no matter how beloved. There was no undoing, unseeing or rationalizing it.

She had to get out of this house. Yet, she knew Terry would never willingly let her leave, stubbornly under the illusion that he could control every outcome, including bending this matter to his whims. That he could eventually persuade her to his side, and they would somehow go back to an idyllic life and a healthy, normal marriage. She almost admired his ability to be so unaware of self and others and so apathetic, wishing that she could channel some such abilities of her own.

Every waking moment was a feverish inner conflict. Y/N was so hurt and afraid and confused, but the only person she could throw herself into the arms of, who could typically make all of her problems and pain go away, was the person who had now caused them. And somehow, she still loved Terry and missed him so much it ached and wanted to bury her face into his chest and cry- and at the same time she was half-mad with the instinct to run away as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

Since ten that night, Y/N had been pondering along these wretched lines, huddled in a window seat within some empty, unused extra room of the house. The stars had revealed themselves in the sky and provided enough of a brief distraction that her tearful thinking temporarily faded into a blank headspace and exhausted staring up at the sky. But her heart immediately started pulsing frantically when she caught a tall, dark shape approaching in her peripheral vision.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Terry’s deep voice rumbled from a few feet behind her. She twisted her head just enough to see that he had propped himself against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

“I was just getting ready to-” she had already swiftly risen from the window seat to head in the direction of the guest room when Terry thrust his arm into her path.

“No. You’re not spending another night sleeping in a guest room,” he declared, as if it were a mutually agreed-upon fact. “You will sleep in our bed. With me. With your husband.” His voice hardened, and he grabbed her shoulder with his outstretched hand, turning her to face him, pulling her closer and closer to him as he spoke. “You will have conversations and eat meals with your husband, look him in the eye, and sit in the same room with him for more than ten seconds.”

She stared intently at the area of the wall next to his head, never directly at him, her lips beginning to tremble. She leaned away from him as far as his hold would allow. He took all of this in and exploded, seizing both of her shoulders harshly.

“Look at me! Talk to me, damn it!” He shook her and she flinched, her gaze snapping to meet his, letting the tears fall freely down her face. Lowering his volume, he continued. “I’ve given you your space, I’ve tried with everything in me to understand why you aren’t happy and relieved that your life is so much easier and safer-” he ghosted his fingers down her cheek, “-And instead, you’re crying over a guy- who was probably going to rape you- like you loved him or something!”

Y/N shook her head violently. “I didn’t like him- I hated him! I hated him… but I-I didn’t… want him to���”

“Why can’t you just admit it?!” Terry was incredulous, blue eyes wide and wild. “Why can’t you stop putting on this holier-than-thou production just so you can feel like you have the moral high ground? You’re glad he’s dead, just admit it! The only thing I’m guilty of- besides a necessary lie of omission to you, which I’m not proud of- is having the balls to do what no one else will. I took action. I effectively eliminated a threat- all with… minimal mess. I always have your best interests at heart, baby.”

Terry paused to take a breath and release his bruising grip on Y/N, who was rooted to where she stood in shock. It was half-due to his outburst, and half to the fact that he was right. But she would never say as much.

His chest heaved as he swiped his hair out of his eyes. “And yet I revolt you, don’t I?” he asked, pacing back and forth in front of her. “You think I live a privileged life, but what a luxury to never have had to fight to the death for your life or for the people that you love.” His expression darkened and his voice was low and velvety, the way it sounded when he was most dangerous.

She hated it when he played the Vietnam card against her. “Is this what you think love is?” she cried, throwing up her hands. “Love is… I don’t know- spending time with someone, helping them with a chore, telling them they look pretty- not killing someone in our own house! A man is dead!”

“An asshole got what he deserved, and no one’s going to come looking for him!” Terry ceased his pacing, pausing in front of her again, and despite her boldness just moments ago, she felt small. “Like anything else, love is just a matter of perspective. To me, wiping that lowlife from the face of the earth was an act of service. A profound act of love. I know better than most, and better than you, that the world is disgusting and evil, and there’s nothing I won’t do to protect you from it.” He shook a finger in her face for emphasis. “It might make you feel better to think that I don’t experience any feelings of my own, but nothing hurts me more than seeing you unhappy and afraid.”

“Then why are you making me feel that way?” she sobbed, backing away from Terry, him following and maintaining the small space between them despite her attempts to widen it.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me! Darling, I would never hurt you. I hurt people who give me a reason to- and that includes anyone who comes near you with bad intentions- but never you.”

Not until she gave him a reason, she thought. She jumped as her back hit the wall. “I don’t believe you anymore!”

At these words, Terry looked almost… wounded, and Y/N was stunned. But with a flicker of his eyes, it was like he’d flipped his internal switch and any tenderness she might have been starting to feel from him was gone. Stepping well into her personal space, Terry trapped her against the wall between his arms.

“Well.” His tone was flat and measured but his eyes were deeply fixated on hers. “What’s done is done. We’re still married, I’m not letting you go, and you’re not leaving. I always told you that this thing between us was going to be ride-or-die. So, whether you can learn to forgive me or not, you have to figure out what we need to do so you can put this behind you.”

Terry took her hand in his, relishing the soft warmth that he’d missed so dearly over the last few bleak days, ignoring the fact that she was frantically trying to pull away. “It’s time to go to bed,” he declared, dragging her down the hallway.

[justagirlinafandomworld]

It's busy this week, but don't think I didn't make the time to put this list together!! Thank you all you wonderful writers for the joy and entertainment you have provided me this month.

This month's list is long and full of spicy, fluffy, incredibly written fics. So kick those shoes off, get comfortable and browse for a new favorite. A lot of Bucky, too, I'm just sayin'. ;)

Happy Reading!

2023 reading list | fic rec masterlist

Dividers provided by @firefly-graphics

Marvel

To Have and to Hold series by @indyluckycharlie Bucky Barnes x Reader: Mafia AU Summary: Love and obligation. How can you serve one and still save the other? Warnings: Dark themes. Threats and portrayals of violence, including murder and assault. There are references to but no depictions of noncon. Violent and abusive acts are directed at the reader, but not by Bucky. There is also betrayal, controlling/abusive behavior, death of loved ones/main characters, grief, LOTS of angst, a little bit of fluff, nonexplicit s.mut and sexual references. Please note, there is an element to this story that is a surprise and won't be revealed until about 4/5 chapters in. Therefore, I am not including the related warnings here, but I will include them in the tags in case anyone is truly uncomfortable proceeding without knowing what's coming.

Send Me An Angel by @navybrat817 Soft Dark Bartender!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky thinks you're an angel. Warnings: Implied explicit sexual content, Dubcon/NonCon elements (you are responsible for your own media consumption) dirty talk, kidnapping, beginning stages of stockholm syndrome, Bucky Barnes (he’s a warning, okay?).

Starting Gate by @navybrat817 Motorcross!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: You attract the attention of your coworker's friend who just happens to be a handsome racer who plays for keeps. Warnings: Flirting, tension, swearing, rivalries, future explicit sexual content, motocross!Bucky Barnes (he’s a warning, okay?)

Read at your own risk by @buckyalpine Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: 18+ smut

Drunk Bucky by @angrythingstarlight Chubby Baker! Bucky x Reader with a side of baker!Steve vs Honey. Summary: Baker!Bucky has a filthy mouth yet he's somehow still shy. He will spout off the most inappropriate, raunchy joke and have the nerve to blush like you're the one who came on to him. Warnings: none provided

Just One Taste by @angrythingstarlight Beefy Biker!Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: Bucky has an offer you can't refuse. He'll help you pack for your trip but you have to give him a little taste before he does. Warning: Smut, Minors DNI, oral (fem receiving)

Sugar and Spice by @navybrat817 Tattoo Artist!Bucky Barnes x Baker Female Reader Summary: You make a sweet impression on one of the new tattoo artists in the neighborhood. Warnings: Flirting, fluff, innuendos, brief moment of insecurity (reader's mom kind of sucks, sorry!), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). Future couple, slight angst, and feels.

And Everything Nice by @navybrat817 Tattoo Artist!Bucky Barnes x Baker Female Reader Summary: You visit the tattoo parlor when an uninvited guest shows up at the bakery. Warnings: Bad ex, mild (h)arassment, protectiveness, brief moments of insecurity, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

Don't Let Me Down by @princessmisery666 Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: fake fic title drabble Warnings: none provided.

What Dreams Are Made Of by @navybrat817 Tattoo Artist!Bucky Barnes x Baker Female Reader Summary: You’re on Bucky’s mind before your date. Warnings: Ki-ssing, Fluff, slight insecurity if you squint, slight feels (it’s me), Bucky Barnes (he’s a warning, okay?).

Us vs. Them by @princessmisery666 Bucky Barnes x Y/N (Reader) Summary: fake fic title drabble Warnings: fluff

Supernatural

Tell Me You Believe Me: Rumors Part 4 by @deanwinchesterswitch Dean Winchester x Female Reader Chapter Summary: Dean thinks he’s doing the right thing, believes it’s for the best. Still, he struggles to let go, even when he overhears that you’ve moved on with someone new. Warnings: 18+ Angst; Some fluff; Language; Mentions of sex work(nothing graphic); Canon divergence; Descriptions of high emotional distress; Possible triggers

I Promised by @deanwinchesterswitch Dean Winchester x Female Reader Summary: He always keeps his promises. Warnings: Implied sex; Description of drowning

Even Better Than Pie by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior Dean Winchester x Y/N Summary: Y/N knows just how to make Dean smile. Warnings: None really. Kissing. Implied smut. Smidge of angst. Pretty much, all fluff.

Prettiest One by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior Dean Winchester x Y/N Summary: Dean's leg is broken and they've given him lots of morphine for the pain. What secrets will he reveal to Y/N? Warnings/Explicit 18+: None. Bit of Dean crack. Silly, drugged up Dean. Soft!Dean. Adorable!Dean. Lots of fluff. And a kiss.

Like We Used To by @princessmisery666 Sam Winchester x Reader Summary: fake fic title drabble Warnings: none provided.

Show Me What You're Hiding by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior Dean Winchester x Y/N Summary: Y/N gets a glimpse of Dean, and is desperate to see even more. Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut. Nothing too crazy. Nakedness, lustful thoughts, Dean objectification, and a smidge of dirty talk (from the reader.) Adorable!Dean being adorable, while simultaneously being the hottest fucker around. You know, that thing he's really good at.

Deep by @thoughtslikeaminefield Dean Winchester x Female Reader Summary: Dean shows her more about pleasure than ‘deep’. Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Dean being the best lay ever, biting, Dean being a fairytale prince, the jockey is my favorite sexual position (try it, it’s amazing), talking during sex, gratuitous use of terms of endearment bc it’s Dean

Other Characters

Relaxing on Sorgan by @softlyspector Din Djarin x GN!Reader Summary: Part of the Significant verse. Din and riduur relax on Sorgan. Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff.

Sit by @negans-lucille-tblr Soldier Boy x Plus Sized!Reader Summary: Y/N finds herself in trouble when she doesn’t listen to her boyfriend’s instructions.  Warnings: angst, self worth issues, body image issues, oral sex (fem rec), face sitting, face riding, biting, p in v

Blueberries and Cream by @princessmisery666 Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader Summary: fake fic title drabble Warnings: none provided

When the Moon Watches Over You by @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior Beau Arlen x Y/N Summary: Some Beau and Y/N enjoying their time in the moonlight. Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut and fluff. Romantic smut (?) is that a thing. 🤷‍♀️Lol! Skinny Dipping. Semi-public nudity. Implied semi-public sex. Unprotected PinV sex, oral mentioned briefly (m receiving).

Flowers of Fate by @princessmisery666 Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Original Female Character Summary: Serendipity, luck, coincidence – call it what you will, but Bradley is sure his parents may have had a hand in his good fortune. Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff, slight angst, meet-cute. 

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 7 - Hesitation

-A huge demon enters the sitcom stage to raucous applause, spreading his arms and grinning at the other actors- GUESS WHO'S BACK AFTER BEING ON OC VACATION, at least now and then yk, I missed Gabe

TWs: attempted murder/assassination, threats, brief and vague reference to noncon by whumpee, blood, blades

“Please–” Gabriel watched the angel in front of him tremble. She clasped her hands in front of herself, brilliant purple eyes fixed on the bright cerulean soul in his hand. “Please, Prince Gabriel, don't do this.”

Gabriel sneered, rolling the little soul around in his palm, feeling the magical sparks against his skin. “Why?” He walked closer, idly toying with one sword he'd taken. His foot came to rest on the blade of the other. “You tried to kill me in my own home. Give me a reason to spare two assassins.”

She winced back, mouth gaping as she struggled for a reason. Gabriel laughed and dropped the blade with a clatter, bringing the soul up to his mouth. He rolled the marble into his mouth, holding it between his teeth. Everyone who knew of Gabriel Rivas, Demon Prince of the Wrathful Chase also knew how he liked to dispatch the souls of his enemies.

She dropped to her knees, tears springing from her eyes. Sobbing, she scrambled forward, desperately grabbing at the sheer silks he was wrapped in. “No, not him, not Alistair, he's all I have–” 

Something in how her voice broke, in how her watery purple eyes looked up at him with such desperation, made Gabriel pause. Suddenly the soul didn't feel as satisfying to have in his mouth. He pulled the soul away from his teeth with a sigh, brows furrowed.

“Hmm.” He thought for a moment, before grinning again. “Alright, alright. I'll make you a deal.”

She pressed her hands to her mouth and sat back on her heels, looking up at him with a frantic nod. She reached to his silks again, feeling at his hips, starting to tug the fabric away from his skin. “Anything, anything at all, sir, whatever you want I'll–” 

Gabriel felt his grin drop away as his stomach rolled. He stepped back, reaching a hand up sharply. “Quiet. Don't touch me. I don't want–not that.”

He took a deep breath, golden eyes lingering on the intact halo that hovered above her head. It matched her eyes perfectly. Her cloudy, dark grey wings shivered behind her back, pulled as tightly against her as possible. Messy black hair framed her face. Her arms wrapped around herself, like she might fall apart if she didn't. 

“if you can survive out there for forty-eight hours then you're free to go.” He motioned to the window, to the clogged, labyrinthine streets that lay far below his uncanny skyscraper. The screams and howls of the hunted couldn't be heard this far up. “You won't be able to fly. My demons will be hunting you the whole time. But if you can do it, you get to leave. Both of you. He'll stay in my possession until then.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay. I, yes. Yes, I accept. And if I don’t, you’ll kill us.”

“Give me your name." Gabriel said with a nod, offering a hand out to her. She grasped it. When he helped her to her feet, she seemed to barely weigh as much as Throl.

“Felicia.”

“Go on Felicia, you have a fifteen minute start time.”  

Gabriel didn’t know how he felt, watching her disappear into the elevator, shoulders squared.

As the doors closed, he shifted again and a sharp pain raced up his leg. Glancing down, the sword blade he’d stepped on before had bitten into him. Curiosity spiking, he lifted it to examine the sole of his foot. Golden blood started to languidly ooze, but there was no burning. He wasn’t being immolated by holy magic. He curiously looked to the other, and realized that it didn’t smell holy either–that had been the angel. 

Neither one of these blades could have killed him.

“Huh. Well, Alistair. Guess things are a little more complicated than I thought. Let’s just see how Felicia does while I think about where to go next.”

[whumpcereal]

the kennel, part fifteen

part of the kennel (masterlist here). follows this piece directly. not copy edited quite as stringently as normal, but i really wanted to put it up before i went out.

content warnings for: aftermath of noncon, references to filmed whump, breeding, mouth whump, human trafficking, and murder, extreme pet whump, extreme dehumanization, forced nudity, brief suicidal ideation

part fifteen, something like relief

The others see when Doc carries the black-collared mutt out of the pole barn. 

Some watch through glassy eyes, and they don’t think anything of it, because months in Doc’s care have silenced their thoughts completely. They might have cared when they were people, but they aren’t people anymore.

Some see the smears of blood on the boy’s naked legs, and they look away, because they remember when it happened to them. They know he’ll get used to it in time. They did. 

Others notice the ways the boy has changed since Doc brought him here. The way his softness has started to give way to hard sinew and bone. The way he has started to disappear. They look down at bodies that used to feel human, and they turn away from the boy’s dangling limbs because it hurts too much to consider all the ways they’ve changed too. 

And then there are those that watch, unflinching. A big man whose teeth have been taken from him one by one, because, when Doc gets around to it, those teeth will be replaced with filed metal implants, so that the newly christened fighter will have an advantage in the ring. A woman in a pink collar with low-hanging dugs, who’s carrying her fifth pup. They were both black collars once too. Collateral who came with merchandise that Doc wanted more. 

A few months ago, the man’s lover was sold to a businessman in Oman; they will never see each other again. The man bit Doc’s leg after, tried to shred the fucker’s Achilles’ tendon; Doc only smiled and went for the pliers. Complimented the man on his fight. 

Years ago, Doc put the woman’s husband down for trying to protect her; he gave her daughter to a man in a blue and white pick-up truck, told the woman it was one of the highest prices he’d ever gotten, that maybe he knew what to do with her after all. She doesn’t look at the babies when she nurses. It doesn’t matter that they’re taken from her so soon; she knows she isn’t really their mother. 

These two watch the mutt with casual interest. Maybe the boy has just secured his place. Good for him. It is easier to accept what’s coming, when you know what it might be. 

No one thinks of the blonde-haired boy who came in with the mutt. It wasn’t hard to figure out what Doc was going to use that one for, and once they go in the pole barn, they don’t usually come out again. Or, when they do, it’s in an airmail crate.

The rescues watch, but they don’t; they remember, but they don’t; they care, but they don’t. They shiver in the cold and wait to be put back in the cages that they never could have anticipated would become theirs.

Annie watches too, from her place at the edge of the yard. Her chest feels tight when she sees the way Will’s head bobbles backward from the crook of her father’s arm. When she sees Doc stalk back to the pole barn a few minutes later, she decides: she will clear the yard, get everyone inside, make sure they’re fed and warm. And then, she will see about Will. She knows that her father will be busy for a while.

- - -

Will is half-conscious when Annie finds him. He’s been half-conscious for a while, actually, though he still isn’t sure exactly what happened. 

Well, that’s not really true. He knows what happened.

Will thinks of the grapefruit spoons that were in the silverware drawer when his mother still lived with them. The bowl of each spoon was lined with razor sharp teeth, so you could dig into the fruit and peel the bitter flesh from the rind. 

She took the spoons with her when she left. Because the fucking spoons were worth keeping. 

Will feels like his insides have been scraped with one of those grapefruit spoons. His flesh has been peeled from its rind and pulled out of him. His insides burn like citrus juice in a cut, sharp and stinging. And he aches. The most remote parts of him ache with a kind of raw pain he didn’t know a person could feel on the inside, at least not literally. A bruise on top of a bruise on top of a bruise. 

He’s never hurt this way before. And distantly, he knows it could be worse. Because he’s almost certain it was Tommy who—

It was Tommy. Will knows it was. He’s been half-conscious for a while, after all. 

Tommy tried to be gentle. Will knows it. It doesn’t make it better. Nothing will ever make it better. 

When Will hears the door, he opens his eyes. He expects to be spread on the floor of the glass box, Doc leering over him, and Tommy sobbing in the corner. But Will isn’t in the glass box at all. He’s on his back on the wax-papered exam table, and standing over him, a cloth and basin in her arms, is Annie. 

“Hi,” she whispers. He can tell by the look on her face that he is absolute fucking road kill. 

Oh, fucking hell. Will flushes with embarrassment. This is just what he fucking needs. His best friend’s cum on his face and stuck to his thighs, and a beautiful girl right next to him. Fanfuckingtastic. For just a second, he wonders what Jessie would say about him now, but he tries to push the thought away before it can take root. He’ll never see Jessie again. It doesn’t matter what she’d say. 

But Annie’s eyes are heavy on Will’s face, and he wishes they were not. He looks away, trying hard to hide the tears that have crept back into his eyes. It’s only then that he realizes the stupid gag is still in his mouth; a metal piece digs into his cheek when it hits the table. 

That hurts too. His mouth. His jaw. His throat, inside and out. He screamed himself raw, that’s for certain, but the collar–Jesus, he can smell the burnt skin. 

“Will?” Annie’s voice is timid. “I–I’m so sorry.” 

Will doesn’t even pretend he can answer her. He squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing tears out from under his eyelids. They streak down his filthy face. Just one more thing to wipe away. He’s assuming that’s what Annie’s here for. To clean him up and put him back in his cage.

God, Will wouldn’t care if he never leaves the cage again after this. Fucking throw away the key. So long as he never has to do that again. 

There are soft fingers at the clasp of the gag, and even though Will knows they belong to Annie, he jerks away from her touch. He doesn’t mean to–it just happens. He curls onto his side, cradling his mitts to his beating chest. He only just remembers to stifle his whine. He doesn’t want to know what it would feel like to shock the open wounds on his neck. 

Annie pulls away. “I’m sorry! I just–please? Please, let me help you.” 

Will stills, forcing his breath through his nose. He doesn’t move and, for a moment, neither does Annie. Then, she reaches for the buckle at the back of his head, and Will almost sobs when he feels the gag give way. The leather doesn’t fall away–it’s stuck to his skin with Tommy–and Annie gently pries it up. Will doesn’t want to think about what she’s touching, doesn’t want to be touched, but he’s relieved when the pressure on his jaw finally eases. His mouth hangs open, but he isn’t sure he knows how to close it; he’s almost afraid to try. 

“There you go,” Annie murmurs. Her fingertips lightly hover over the shell of Will’s ear, but they do not stay. “Doc’s with your friend. I thought–I thought I’d clean you up. That maybe you’d like it better if I did it than if he did.” 

Like. Will doesn’t like anything about this. And there is no better. There is only just as bad or worse. 

But he supposes she’s right. 

“He’s with your friend now,” Annie says, “so we have time.” 

There’s a stab of panic in Will’s gut. If Doc is with Tommy, then–

Well, they’re even then, aren’t they? 

It’s a horrible thought, because Will is a horrible person. No, not even a person. A mutt. A worthless mutt. If he were a good boy, like Tommy, he wouldn’t think shit like that. He’d know that Tommy didn’t want it to happen, and that Tommy doesn’t deserve to feel the way Will is feeling just now. Tommy is better than he is. Tommy deserves better. 

Will’s the one who’s got no pedigree. He never has. He won’t, now. 

But fuck if it doesn’t seem fair. 

There’s a gentle pitter of water in the basin as Annie wrings out her cloth. When she draws close again, she gasps. 

“Your throat,” she says, her voice trembling. Her touch ghosts just below the collar’s band, and Will hisses through his teeth; it stings like a bitch. “You must have–oh, no. Oh, God.” 

So, it’s not cute, he guesses. 

“We have to get this off.” 

For a second, Will wants to protest. If Annie takes Will’s collar off, Doc will be mad, and he sure as shit isn’t going to punish Annie for that. At least, Will hopes he wouldn’t. He’s not sure why he cares. This girl–she’s part of all of this, isn’t she? 

But she isn’t. Not really. She doesn’t have a choice. Will wouldn’t have chosen the father he got either. And his mother certainly didn’t choose him. Family isn’t a choice at all. 

Annie leaves him, and he stays curled up on the table, because where the fuck else is he going to go? He doesn’t know where she’s gone, but she’s gone for a little while. Will closes his eyes, but still, his eyelids crinkle against the bright overhead light. 

He used to sleep with the light on, after Mom left. Everything was scarier without her, because when she was there, Will wasn’t allowed to be scared. She’d yell at him, tell him he was being a baby, that he was a big boy and he should be braver. So he’d tried. For her. He’d tried to be brave. 

But Will wasn’t brave. He would lie awake in the dark, hot tears squeezing from his eyes as he listened to them fight. Dad would plead, and Mom would scream, and Will would cry, because he wasn’t brave at all. 

When she was gone, Dad never said anything about the light. Dad never said much about anything. 

For just a second, Will wonders what Dad would say about this. But he pushes the thought away just as quickly as it came; he’ll never see his father again, so there’s no point in wondering what he’d think. It’s probably easier if Dad never knows any of this. If he never knows what Will’s been made into. 

Will’s a disappointment, just like his mother.He was never going to be anything else. 

Annie’s steps are so soft when she comes back that Will doesn’t realize she’s there until he feels the cool metal of keys against the back of his neck.

The buckle of his collar opens, and Annie gently pulls the canvas away from Will’s weeping skin. Some of his skin sticks, tearing away with the collar, and out of habit, he grinds his teeth together to keep from crying out.

Well, that’s one way to figure out he can close his mouth.

Annie freezes. “I’m sorry!”

But it doesn’t help. She has to keep going, has to take the collar all the way off, even if his skin comes with it. Who the fuck cares anyway? Just now, Will would shed all his skin if he could. He would let Annie peel it away piece by soiled piece if he thought it would do any good.

But it’s inside him too. The hurt. Tommy. And that, no one can ever strip away. 

“You can cry,” Annie says, and she is crying too. 

But Will doesn’t cry. He forces his tears to stay put, and he doesn’t say a word, even as Annie lays the collar at the end of the table. He won’t give Doc another reason to hurt him. He has to be a good boy. He has to earn his place. 

He has to live, even if he doesn’t want to. He’s not foolish enough to think that Doc would let him die a minute before Doc’s decided he can. No one who traffics in this kind of human suffering is going to be merciful. 

“I didn’t think–” Annie whispers, and even through the blurry pall of his tears, Will can see her hands shaking, “--I didn’t think he would take you out there. The ones in the doghouse, he–well, they’re usually alone. He doesn’t–this isn’t–I don’t–I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

Will doesn’t answer. He wants to believe that she is sorry, but all the same, she knows. She knows what goes on out there, what’s been done to people like Tommy for God knows how long, even if she didn’t know it would happen to Will. She knows, and what’s she done about it? Fucking nothing. Nothing at all. 

But she’s here now, and she’s trying, whatever it’s worth. 

She’s trying for him. 

Will closes his eyes. It isn’t true. He’s just so fucking pathetic that even a girl who’s seen shit like this her whole life pities him. And he’s not stupid. He’s ruined. In the unlikely event he’s ever free again, he’ll never be free of what he is now. There won’t be love. Just fucking pity. 

And who cares if she’s trying? Who cares if anyone ever tries? He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to be touched again. 

But somehow, even that’s not true. He wants Annie to wrap him in her arms and hold him, even though he doesn’t. 

Christ on a bike. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “Will?” 

Will flinches at the sound of his name. He suddenly wishes Annie didn’t know it at all. He can feel her eyes moving over every inch of his marked-up, soiled, fucking wrecked body, and he doesn’t want her to look. He doesn’t want her to look, and at the same time, he’s glad someone knows. That someone cares. 

“I have to clean you up, okay?” Annie’s little fingers push Will’s sweaty hair away from his forehead. He winces, and Annie withdraws, just as quickly as if she’d been burned. “It might–it might hurt a little.” 

Will huffs out a bitter, noiseless laugh. What the fuck does he care if it hurts? Doesn’t everything? Won’t it always? He squeezes his eyes shut again, and his tears mingle with the sticky remnants of Tommy still pasted to his cheeks. 

“Okay,” Annie whispers. 

Will hears the slosh of the rag in the bucket, and then, Annie’s hand slips beneath his head, lifting it in a gentle cradle. 

The rag is warm against his cheek, and Annie’s touch is sure, even if her hands are shaking. She scrubs soft circles over his face, cleaning his cheeks, his lips, his chin. His skin doesn’t feel quite so tight or sticky, even if it doesn’t really feel clean; he’s not sure he’ll ever feel clean again. 

Annie lays his head back down and drops the rag back in the basin, and then her fingers are at the hinge of his aching jaw, circling, massaging, easing the tension left over from the gag. Will groans before he can stop himself, and he braces for the snap of electricity against his throat. It doesn’t come. 

Of course it doesn’t, because Annie took off the fucking collar. Fucking genius. 

“It’s okay,” she says. Her thumb moves gently over his jawbone. “Just–whatever you want to say–please, say it. You’re safe.” 

He isn’t safe. But he can pretend, just for a little while. Before it happens all over again. Because it will. He knows it will. 

“Th-thank you,” he whispers. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s thanking her for, and his voice sounds like his throat is made of fucking swiss cheese, but it’s there. He’s there. There are still small mercies to be grateful for.

Annie bends down and kisses his forehead, quick as a wink. Her cheeks are red when she snaps up again, and she turns back to the basin before Will can say anything else. “You’re welcome.” 

Even as the rag touches his raw throat, Will thinks it might not hurt so bad. Not just now. 

Or at least, he can pretend that it doesn’t. It’s something like relief. 

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows

[whumpcloud]

TE | PC: Swap AU - Thrown Away

masterlist

content: bloodbag whumpee, vampire caretaker(s), intimate whumper, begging for death, broken bones + blood, referenced muzzling and beating, very very brief reference to noncon

Vincent is out of it. The world has been a blur for months now, and all he has the strength to do anymore is lie here and wait until he can be useful again. Though he isn't sure how useful he can really be, at the moment. He has no more blood left to offer, no more bones to safely break, not even enough of a mind to make it fun when it gets twisted and damaged like every other part of him.

The door clicks, and Vincent glances up. A vague, familiar feeling of fear grips him.

"Vincent, dear, you look awful," Lyfelde says, faux-softness in his tone. Vincent closes his eyes again as Lyfelde's hand cups his face. "Poor thing. You really have nothing left to give, hm?"

"Do you need something, Mr Lyfelde?" Vincent asks. "I'm exhausted…"

Lyfelde only ever wants two things anymore - Vincent as bait, or Vincent in his bed. Today, Vincent is finding himself hoping it's the former. But at least Lyfelde wants him.

As if Lyfelde ever wanted him at all, and not just someone to take advantage of. But that's not something Vincent lets himself think about.

"Come on, get up."

Vincent knows better than to disobey, but even pushing himself to sit up properly is an effort that makes his body tremble.

"Oh, Vincent." Lyfelde laughs softly as he helps Vincent to his feet. "It's alright. It'll be over soon enough."

Oh. Lyfelde doesn't want him.

Vincent wishes he could wonder what Lyfelde means, but he's known for a while. One day Lyfelde was going to let the bloodbag be killed. Vincent is desperate for that, at this point. For it to just end and go back to the way it was before Clary. But it won't.

So he doesn't struggle or complain, even as Lyfelde lays him in the trunk of a car. He just curls up, knowing what's coming. The car jolts his limp body, and he does an equal amount of nothing when Lyfelde lifts him out of the car. It isn't as though he has a choice, anyway. He doesn't have the strength to make a choice.

Lyfelde props him up against a wall, and pulls out a pocket knife, taking Vincent's hand and gently cutting a line through his palm. These things barely hurt anymore.

"You'll make a nice snack for some lucky bloodsucker," Lyfelde says, like he's stifling laughter. "You did well for so long, dear. But there's nothing much left in that pretty head of yours, is there? No fun at all."

Vincent can't say that Lyfelde is wrong. He bristles at the words anyway, and watches blearily as Lyfelde walks off.

At least he'll spend his last moments being useful. That's all he ever is.

Sunset, he thinks, as he stares up at the sky. Of course Lyfelde wouldn't put himself in danger just to abandon Vincent. And it means there's an entire night left for a vampire to find him and make this stop.

Vincent doesn't close his eyes until the sun is out of sight, and savours the memory.

---

Someone got messy with a meal, Cai thinks. That's what it smells like, anyway. That, or it's vampire hunters again. Cai is getting sick of them using themselves or each other as bait. Humans have such pathetic ideas.

Still, he hasn't eaten in a few days, and he's quick enough that he can get away if it's a trap. So he follows his nose.

Oh. That isn't bait, for sure. That's someone else's sloppy seconds, thrown onto the ground without a thought. If Cai couldn't hear the heartbeat he'd have thought the man was dead.

Cai crouches down. "Hey."

The human lets out a small, pained sound. "Are you a vampire?"

Cai tilts his head. "Yeah. Why?"

"Can you kill me when you're finished?"

Normally, Cai wouldn't bother answering and just do whatever he felt like doing. He isn't in a particularly murderous mood tonight, but that's really besides the point. Something has happened to this human. Whoever had him before did something awful to him.

"I don't want to leave you dead on the street, honestly," Cai says flatly. "I'll take you back with me. I'll bury you in the garden."

"...okay," the human breathes. "That sounds nice."

It probably shouldn't, Cai thinks. But it isn't his business if this human wants to die. He easily hoists the human over his shoulder and walks back to the house.

By the time Cai slams open the door, the human is fully unconscious, and Cai drops him unceremoniously onto the coffee table.

"I got dinner," Cai signs.

Clary freezes completely, her eyes widening. She grips the fabric of the sofa hard enough to tear it. Vincent, her Vincent, passed out on the coffee table, bruised all over, broken fingers and bloodstained skin, bite marks on his neck as though he's been someone's chewtoy.

"Dinner?" Clary squeaks.

"Is there something wrong with it?"

"That's Vincent." If Clary still breathed, she would be hyperventilating. "Vincent w-who--"

"Oh." Cai's face falls a bit. "He asked to die anyway. Do you want to kill him or will I?"

She feels faint. "He asked?"

"Yeah."

She could kill him. She could kill him, and who would know? Who would care? She wouldn't.

Lyfelde might.

"This could be a trap," Clary says suddenly. "By Lyfelde. To get me back. Or kill us."

Cai hesitates. "Would he really do that to Vincent?"

"I… I wouldn't put it past him." Clary looks over Vincent again. He's far too pale. "You have no idea what Lyfelde was like. I-If he was the one who- who had me, I- I wouldn't have gotten out, I--"

"Okay, I understand." Cai sits down next to Clary and squeezes her shoulder. "What are we going to do, then?"

Clary stares at Vincent, a million thoughts in her mind, and only one seems like the right answer. She thought she'd feel something if she saw him like this. Broken and battered. But there's no catharsis, no relief. He just looks older and more tired and less like the Vincent she knew and more like a dead man walking.

"Keep him," she says, finally. "If it's a trap, we'll be hurt worse for killing him. If it isn't, then there's no point in killing him like… this. It wouldn't feel any good."

The only way she will get any catharsis is with her own two hands wringing Vincent's neck.

"We can leave him on the couch," Clary mumbles.

---

Vincent… wakes?

Fear sets in. He asked to be killed, he knows he did, why would they keep him? He's a stupid, broken bloodbag, and he's barely even useful for that. A panicked sob escapes him.

A moment later there's someone looking over him. Same blonde hair and brown eyes, but the face is far, far more familiar this time, and Vincent squeezes his eyes shut again.

"Oh no, Clary," he whimpers.

He's utterly defenceless. She could rip his throat out with her teeth right now and he could do nothing to stop her. Tears stream down the sides of his face.

"Vincent," she says, and Vincent feels as though if he opens his eyes, he's going to see hers blazing in anger.

"I'm sorry!" he blurts out, bracing himself to be hurt. "I'm so, so sorry, I'm- I--"

"Stop talking."

He promptly shuts his mouth. He'd never speak again if she asked it of him.

Clary sits on the coffee table. She looks nice. He got so used to seeing her muzzled and bound and beaten that it's odd that she's simply… sitting there.

"Are you just apologising because you think I'm going to hurt you?" she asks, almost hisses it.

"N-No!" It's not quite the truth, and Clary only has to glare at him again to get him to admit it. "Yes! I'm sorry, please don't kill me, please, I- I can be useful, I--"

"Useful?" Clary snaps. "How exactly can you be useful to me?"

"M-My blood, my blood, you can feed from me!" Vincent tilts his neck, and Clary can only see even more scars and bruises that make her insides twist. "I'm j-just a bloodbag now anyway, I can- I can take it!"

Clary doesn't even know where to begin. Vincent, a bloodbag. If he didn't look the same, she would wonder if he was Vincent at all.

"I'm not going to feed from you." Clary folds her arms. "You look like shit and your blood smells gross."

Of course. He's only a bloodbag for vampires who can do no better. "Y-You can hurt me! I deserve it, I d-deserve it for everything I did to you."

"Stop babbling, I swear to God," Clary snarls. "What happened to you since I escaped?"

Vincent swallows. A lot of things he doesn't want to repeat. A lot of crying, and screaming, and begging. Being alone. Not being alone enough.

"M-Mr Lyfelde…" is all he manages to say, and Clary hates it, hates it, because the only thing in the world that can make her feel bad for Vincent is a bastard named Ambrose Lyfelde.

She hides her face in her hands. "I hate you."

"I…" Vincent swallows. I hate you and me, too. "I know."

A short, tense silence ensues.

"When was the last time you ate?" Clary asks, eventually, her voice softer than she expected it to be.

"U-Um…" Vincent tries his hardest to remember. "Last… night."

"...I'll send Cai out to get you something to eat," she sighs. "Maybe your blood will smell nicer after that."

So he can still be useful. She's caring enough to give him food. He's trapped here, he accepted that reality as soon as he saw her, but he might be okay. He wants to die - who wouldn't want to die by now? - but he knows Clary wouldn't be merciful enough to give him a death that wasn't excruciatingly painful.

That's something. It's good enough. Vincent lets himself pass out again.

(not sure if i'll write/post more, but if i do, please let me know if you don't wanna be on au taglists!) taglist: @whumpsday @whumpycries @whumpwillow @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @whumpshaped @suspicious-whumping-egg @chiswhumpcorner @melancholy-in-the-morning @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @bloodinkandashes @whump-me-all-night-long @sickophantic @itsmyworld23 @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @annablogsposts @whumpdreamz @thebirdsofgay @sonder35

[oddsconvert]

Shattered Shadow - Chapter 2

Shattered Shadow Masterlist | Shattered Masterlist | Shadow By My Fireplace Masterlist

This is a long-in-the-making AU collab with the amazing @quietly-by-myself! Including my 'Shattered' boys and Vamp!Cyril and Bloodbag!Sacha AU from 'Shadow By My Fireplace'.

If you do not want to be tagged in this (or would like to be but are not), send either of us an ask or message!

CW: Whumpee turned caretaker, wounded caretaker, vampire caretakers, human caretaker, multiple caretakers, bloodbag whumpee, multiple whumpees, references to previous abuse, brief allusion to noncon, wound cleaning, attempted murder

-

Cyril allows himself a moment of relief. They’ll be safe, at least for now. One night is not a lot of time, but it’s more time than he had before he met the pureblood. Hopefully, Cyril can get his bearings together enough to find them somewhere safer to go after the pureblood kicks them out.

“Thank you,” Cyril says with a deep bow that makes him wince, before motioning for Shadow to follow him. “I’m Cyril. The human… he hasn’t told me his name yet. I’m calling him Shadow.”

Cyril stumbled into the house, still grasping his side. Shadow is hardly standing with tiredness. “Is there somewhere he can sleep? I’ll treat him in the morning.”

Despite his hatred for the pureblood, Cyril is relieved that he passed the pureblood’s test. The pureblood is as arrogant as he remembers them being, but he is thankful nonetheless. It doesn’t stop him from showing his thinly veiled hostility, though.

“Shadow can rest in my bedroom for the night, he can settle into bed whilst I attend to your injury”, August suggests, he really doesn’t mind. The pair needed the rest more than he ever would. He watches Shadow sway slightly from exhaustion, the dark bags underlining Cyrils’ eyes. His bedroom would be the only free bed in the house now, with Declan occupying and recovering in the spare room, and it would be unfair to kick Lucas out of his own bed in exchange for the sofa.

“Would you rather I show you the way or give you direction?” August offers genuinely, although hoping his guest would choose the former over the latter so he could keep a watchful eye over the pair.

Sacha freezes when he hears the room “bedroom.” Suddenly, the whole conversation comes into focus. That was the price of getting care here, wasn’t it? He’d have to give himself up to the pureblood. Tears were forming in Sacha’s eyes, but he had to be strong. He needed to help Cyril. Cyril who’d saved his life when the attacker came. Cyril who’d saved him from Master. Cyril who was now his Master. It was his duty to serve.

“Just the direction, please.” Sacha hears Cyril say. He knows he won’t have to service someone as long as Cyril’s there - they’d had that conversation - but doesn’t know if that’s what the pureblood wants.

“Top of the stairs. First door on the right. If… if you wouldn’t mind making your way up quietly? I have a uhm…similar situation-” August awkwardly fumbles, gesturing to Shadow before quickly pulling his hand back, “there’s an ill and terrified human upstairs that I pray is fast asleep by now. I’d hate for him to wake.”

Cyril nods. “Do you have all that, Shadow?” Shadows nods, so Cyril nods in return and motions for him to go up the stairs. “I don’t think I can help you up.” He gives Shadow a reassuring glance that tells him everything is going to be alright. Shadow’s look tells Cyril that he doesn’t believe him, not one little bit.

Sacha hopes that Cyril knows what’s going to happen, that he’ll save him before the pureblood has a chance. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. It’s always an ill omen for a human to be invited into a vampire’s bedroom and Sacha is surprised that Cyril doesn’t realise what the pureblood is asking by not asking.

Once Shadow is clearly out of sight and in the bedroom, Cyril glares at the pureblood. “So, you have a similar situation, eh?”

His hostility is thinly veiled now, even more so than before. 

“From what I can gather, if I can trust your word - Shadow does not appear a prisoner of yours. I’m correct in assuming that you care for the boy?” August queries, a nauseous feeling twisting in his gut dreading the response. Expecting the fellow vampire to scoff in his face, drop the limp and go grab his blood bag from his warm bed. 

“You could say he is dear to me in many ways, yes.” Cyril tries to keep it vague and nonchalant. He hopes that he still comes across as caring, but not in the self-sacrificial, desperate way he really does.

Slowly but surely, August is getting the answers he wants. “The human I mentioned; Declan - he was knocking at death’s door when I found him.”

That’s putting it lightly. Declan seemed one last breath away from fading away forever. And even with helping him back to awareness, the journey is far from over. 

“It’s my intention to nurse him back to health and return him home to human territory when he’s recovered. I - I hope you can see I have no ill will. No harm will come to you or Shadow, I will help as best I can.”

“Shadow was a minute away from septic shock,” Cyril says bluntly, before he remembers the story he’s telling. “As I said, my Maker is not kind, but it is not something I can expect a pureblood to understand.” There’s some sort of anger in Cyril’s eyes when he says that - something he’s letting out just a little. 

“I will not be perfectly obedient if that’s what you expect of me. But I will offer my services if you need them.”

August can’t help but be taken aback, his mouth blubbering open like a fish out of water - croaking as he scrambles for words.

“O-Obedient? Cyril, I would never -” August chokes, shaking his head, “I don’t know what, or who you think I am but, that’s not me. I may not understand or know the complexities of turned vampires and their makers but, I can sympathise. Whatever has happened to Shadow-” August’s eyes flash down to Cyril’s wound on his side, noticing how this whole time his posture has been crooked and nearly bent over in discomfort and pain, “Whatever has happened to you… It shouldn’t have. Let me help?”

There’s an awkward beat of silence, “Let me try, and if you decide you can’t stand my guts long enough to be in my presence then you’re more than welcome to leave. I’ll help find you and Shadow some shelter for the night.”

Cyril feels some strange emotion as the pureblood, whose name he didn’t even know, told him that everything that happened - all the memories that flash through his head in that moment - shouldn’t have happened. All the awful things that happened between his Maker and him - the one who’s dead now, at his hands. 

“I have no choice but to stay. Anyway, Shadow should be fast asleep by this point. His body is still weak, as you can see.” Cyril groans as the pain radiates in an excruciating way. He doesn’t elaborate on why he needs to stay or what his situation is beyond that, but he is happy that at least, at the very least, the pureblood is sympathetic.

August nods in agreement, oddly relieved yet worried for Cyril with the way that he stresses over Shadow’s health as his own declines.

“My surgery is just in the next room over. If you’ll follow me, we can take a look at that gnarly wound and see what we can do?”

Cyril nods and takes a deep, painful breath, forced into his undead lungs, holding his side as he hobbles over to the next room. He sits himself down on the patient’s bed and begins to take off his shirt. The wound is from a wooden stake and there’s splinters everywhere in his skin. The wound begs questions, none of which Cyril was going to answer. The person who’d attacked him was intent on killing him.

With his back turned to him, Cyril can only hear the clattering of instruments, bottles and tools being picked up. August sloshes the alcohol onto a cloth and turns around with an apologetic expression.

“This is going to sting a little, I need to clean it up before I can take a proper look. Is that okay?”

“I was a doctor. I understand.” Cyril was a little annoyed that the pureblood didn’t seem to remember a thing he’d said, but he tried not to think about it. This was about Shadow, not him. “Just get it done quickly.”

The swab of alcohol swipes across the bloody, inflamed wound and August doesn’t miss the way Cyril slightly hisses through his teeth at contact. August works at cleaning away all the fresh and hardened blood caking the wound. But it doesn’t make sense - it’s as raw and brutal as the second it was inflicted. There isn’t a speck of evidence of any healing, or any sign of it beginning.

“This should be healing. If not healed by now. There’s dried and hard blood but the wound is still open? So, what’s going on with your healing factor?” It shouldn’t sound accusatory, but there’s an edge to his tone and an element of curiosity.

Cyril shifts in discomfort. He doesn’t want to answer the question, but knows that it is expected of him. Regardless of the kind words the pureblood had said before, something in his tone now indicates that Cyril must respond.

Does he admit to not feeding? Or try to make a story about how his still-alive Maker made him starve? He’s not a good liar. He knows he isn't. But the pureblood seems easily fooled. 

“Starvation,” he states simply, hoping it will be enough for the pureblood.

“By choice or force?” August quickly retorts, assessing how best to approach the situation.

Cyril looks at August suspiciously. “Why do you need to know? Starvation is starvation.”

August huffs out a sigh, taking a step back and staring down at Cyril like a frustrated parent of a toddler.

“I need to know, because if you need blood and want some blood - I have some bags stored in the fridge ready to go and before you even think it… willingly donated by a friend”, August chastises before Cyril can ever think about airing any judgement, “But if you don’t drink blood - I’ll see what else I can do. Asking for your benefit, not mine.”

“I would prefer not to drink it, then.” Cyril hopes that it doesn’t give too much about him away or that it would make August suspicious of his claim that Shadow was, in essence, his bloodbag. Why would he care if it was willingly donated or not? For all he knew, August was lying to gain his trust. That’s what this all seemed like, lies to gain his trust.

“No blood,” August holds his hands in the air surrender style, “I can work with that. It might take a bit more work but it’s doable.”

Cyril growls a bit. “Of course it’s doable. You’ve treated humans with worse wounds.” Underneath it all though, is a sense of hostility at the idea of drinking blood. He tries to hide it, but it leaks out like venom.

It’s all August can do to bite his tongue, disregard the iciness and get to work on the task at hand. If he gave it another second thought, he might feel the rage bubble inside him but he can’t let himself do that.

“Let’s just get this over and done with” August grumbles, brushing his fingers just around the wound and eyeing up all the splinters punctured within. A wooden stake, August guesses. Someone had made an attempt on his life.

“Care to elaborate on this?” August picks up a pair of tweezers, pinching them and pointing them at the wound, “Who did this to you? You’re very lucky to be here right now.”

Cyril glares a little, but he knows better than to piss off the person that’s treating him. “It’s an old spat. Nothing that should concern anyone.”

It isn’t entirely a lie. However, it isn’t entirely the truth, either. The spat is hardly a spat and it isn’t old by any means. He’s truthful, though. The vampires coming after him would not harm August or anyone in his household. They only had their eyes on two people: Cyril and Sacha.

“I truly hope you’re not bringing trouble to my doorstep. I made a vow that I’d protect the two humans residing in my home, and I won’t hesitate to kick you out for their safety”, August stresses, almost as though he can read Cyril’s thoughts.

Cyril thinks about how to answer the pureblood a little. “Those are bold questions and statements from someone who’s name I don’t even know. You’re no faerie. Vampire names aren’t sacred.” He goes quiet for a little while longer. “I promise you, there is no trouble coming to you. It’s a personal feud.”

“You done?” August raises his brows and scoffs a cheap laugh, “Got that off your chest?”

The tweezers dig inside and pluck each splinter of wood out, Cyril continues to wince and groan but seemingly puts up with it for the end result.

“August. My name is August. I apologise for not introducing myself sooner but to be honest… I didn’t imagine you’d actually be sitting here in my surgery tonight. I thought I’d send you packing.”

Cyril waves his hand a bit. “It’s not a problem.” He takes a moment of silence. “Thank you, truly.” 

The gesture is sincere and without hostility. He knows it comes off poorly for the first kind thing he says to be after August helps him, but he really is thankful. Not many would treat someone who came in after an attempt on their life. 

A genuine smile erupts on August’s face. For the first time tonight, he feels he can actually see the man sitting before him. Facade melting away.

“You’re welcome. I admit I may have judged too quickly this evening.” Way too quickly. The creature he thought he’d opened the door to and the troubled man sat before him now are worlds apart. He can feel the care and concern exuding from him, “You’re very courageous, it’s very admirable how much you care for Shadow.”

Cyril nods a bit, looking down at his wound. It makes him a little sad, to look at it and remember what he has put Shadow through. He quickly shakes the thought away. Whatever he puts Shadow through would not be worse than what Emery was doing to him. Even just thinking of Emery’s name makes Cyril’s blood boil. He cannot believe that such an evil vampire was his Maker.

“Thank you. It’s appreciated,” is all Cyril can say, sitting there quietly, pensively, lost in horrible memories of times he’d rather forget. It occurs to him that August, though a pureblood, might have a similar story. “I may have been the same.”

With August’s treatment finished for the time being, he leads Cyril towards the sofa to turn in for the night, chucking pillows and blankets to him. It’s not much, it’s all he can offer - but Cyril is grateful nonetheless. He’s quick to pass out into troubled sleep, between the effects of starvation and blood loss.

-

Shattered Tags:

@octopus-reactivated, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @ramadiiiisme @darkthingshappen @whumpsday @thecyrulik @t0rture-me, @redwhump, @the-crypid-magpie, @snowstuffscuff, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @wolfeyedwitch, @interdimensional-chaos, @termsnconditions-apply, @whump-blog, @leyswhumpdump, @not-a-space-alien, @onlybadendings @darlingwhump @sparrowsage @flynnswhumpprompts @whumpcereal @wolves-and-winters @ashh-ed @idkmansomeusername @whuarri @33-sdtr-45 @pigeonwhumps @canislycaon24 @the-whumpers-grimm, @damienxozmoze, @predacon-skydrift @morning-star-whump @neverthelass @espresso-depresso-system @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are

Shadow By My Fireplace Tags (not already tagged above):

@i-can-even-burn-salad @pumpkin-spice-whump @maracujatangerine @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @flowersarefreetherapy @quietshae @inkkswhumpandstuff @whumpycries @whumpkinz @roblingoblin285

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 8 ~ Difficult decisions

Hidden Depths AU

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

Genre: Fantasy whump

CWs: thoughts of death (in relation to someone killing him), drugging, abduction, on the edge of a panic attack, very brief reference to past noncon, lady whump, lovely angst

WC: 2135

Taglist: @kixngiggles

A/N: Alright. I know I said I'd only have one chapter or so left. Turns out I have three. Whoops. We also get a little of everyone's POV in this and the next chapter. Also whoops. 😂

But hey, the warnings are shrinking. That's usually a good sign when you're approaching the end of something, right? lol

Resh 

Resh wondered how much longer he had to live while he followed Nykim out of the torture chamber. 

They met an older, well-muscled male with thinning brown hair at the top of the stairs who, at a nod from the thief master, stuck to Resh’s side like glue while they snuck out of the manor. It was late, and the guard they walked past stared straight ahead like they didn’t even exist, allowing them to melt into the countryside. 

Every step jarred Resh’s shoulders, especially the right one, even though he kept his arm close to his body as instructed. The muscles in his neck and back ached, and his reaction headache continued to plague him. None of it could possibly touch how Carr must be feeling, despite how gently Nykim carried her. 

Resh didn’t know what to think about the thief master. He’d heard rumors, of course. Knew that threat about stripping the flesh from his bones and decorating his office with them probably wasn’t far off the mark. But the way Nykim treated Carr made him wonder if there was something more between the two of them. 

A branch, or a root, or some undefinable debris on the shadowed ground beneath the tree cover they’d entered a few minutes ago tripped him up, and he fell to his knees. The pain shooting through his body still didn’t match the ache in his heart. Resh bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep quiet while he forced himself to get up. The thief dogging his steps did nothing to help him. 

Yeah… if he wasn’t hunted down and executed for the prince’s murder, he would probably end up in a shallow grave outside the city. Nykim didn’t seem the type to let some outsider run free with knowledge of his magic. Resh doubted it would matter that he had magic as well. 

As long as Carr was safe. That’s what really mattered.  

Now that Marcus was gone, his sister would be okay serving as a handmaid to the queen. The royals wouldn’t punish her for her brother’s crimes, surely.    

There was no one else in Resh’s life. No one who would care if he disappeared. Orla would be sad, he was sure, but she was young enough that she’d be able to move on without too much trouble. 

Carr–

His foot caught on another branch, and the man beside him hissed his displeasure at Resh’s clumsiness. Resh sighed and tried to focus. The thin shafts of moonlight piercing the canopy didn’t provide much light, and he didn’t have the energy to use his lifesense to guide him. 

Bone-tired and heartsick, he attempted to blank his mind while he trudged after the dim outline of Nykim’s figure. He’d manage for a few minutes, but another thought would invariably pop up. 

How hard Carr had fought, trying to best Marcus. 

The desperate way she’d held his gaze while... He shook his head.  

All that blood. 

Nykim hovering over her, his eyes glowing green.  

A knife to his throat, poised to cut. Hands across his chest, holding him back from Carr. 

The way she’d thrown herself in his arms and let down her guard. 

The threatening glances Nykim kept shooting him before they’d left. 

It was only when he found himself guessing at spots where he might end up in the ground that he was successful at shutting his mind down. 

Sometime later, they arrived at the back of some manor house in the business district. Resh was too tired to care about why Nykim lived in such a centralized area. He just stumbled inside after him. 

A lantern flared to life, and while Resh blinked against the brightness, a hand wrapped around his left arm. 

“Where you want this one?” the man who had followed him asked. 

Nykim turned around, giving Resh the first good look he’d had of Carr in what must’ve been hours. She looked pale underneath the streaks of dried, flaking blood, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her lips moved, but the words were too faint for Resh to catch. 

“Upstairs,” Nykim said curtly. His lip curled, like he was displeased. “Have one of the vermin bring a cot to Carr’s room.” 

What in the pits was a vermin? The man holding his arm yanked him away before he could even think about asking. They headed back outside, where a handful of kids slept on pallets in a stable. The man barked out a series of orders that seemed too long for just bringing up a cot, but Resh was in no state to pay much attention. He’d reached the end of whatever endurance he’d had left, and now he just wanted to collapse somewhere. 

Hopefully, he’d wake up. He was under no illusions that outcome was guaranteed, though. 

Back inside, the man brought Resh to the kitchen and gave him some water. The fuzziness of exhaustion must’ve claimed him after that because when he blinked, the kitchen was gone. The man was gone. Instead, he found himself in a small room with no memory of how he’d gotten there. He swayed. 

“Lie down before you fall down,” Nykim said, walking over to stand before him.

Resh started at his unexpected appearance and took a step back, nearly tripping over something on the floor behind him. Nykim caught his arm, helping him sit on a cot. 

When Nykim moved away, Resh caught sight of the bed across the room. Half-lidded eyes and bloody strands of blond hair were all that was visible of Carr from beneath the blankets piled on top of her. Their gazes locked.  

Nykim knelt before Carr’s bed, breaking Resh’s line of sight. “Are you happy now?” 

The answer must’ve been yes because Nykim nodded and stood. 

“She. Is she. Okay?” The words tangled in Resh’s mouth, stumbling over his tongue on their way out. They sounded thick, leaden. Not like his words at all. He blinked against the blurriness overtaking his vision. 

“She’ll be fine. Lie down, sleep,” Nykim said. 

The room tilted, darkening at the edges. 

Something soft brushed his cheek. His eyelids were so heavy... 

~~

Nykim

It wasn’t until the kid finally flopped over onto the cot that Nykim moved. He turned down the oil lamp until just a flicker of light lit the room, then refilled the basin. Carr didn’t need to wake in a dark room. 

A little surprised she’d fallen asleep so quickly, Nykim replaced the tin of oil on the tiny table by the door and took a seat in the chair he’d brought in. He’d wait a bit, check on Carr once more with his magic, and make sure Resh was well and truly knocked the fuck out. 

Then, some decisions needed to be made. 

There wouldn’t be much time before the prince was discovered. Maybe he should’ve had the earth swallow Marcus like he’d done with the guards he’d killed. But he wanted people to see how that sick piece of shit had died. 

Gods, the way Carr had looked… Nykim rubbed his face. 

And there was the small matter of this kid. Carr seemed to be attached to him, which was really problematic since he fucking knew. Nykim was fairly certain Carr would try to kill him if Resh… disappeared. 

His mouth twisted in a small smile. Who knows, she might actually succeed. There were limits to his magic, after all. Pretty sure even he wouldn’t survive a slit throat and ripped-out guts. 

It was a little ironic that the qualities he appreciated most in that woman were the ones that would end up getting him killed. 

See, Carr was an honest person–this pretending to be a boy thing aside. If she was displeased, you knew about it. There were no backhanded compliments, underhanded deals, or knives in the back when you least expected it. No, she would look you in the eye while she stabbed you. Make sure you knew exactly why she was pissed. 

He was going to miss her after he sent her away. 

Ignoring the ache in his chest, Nykim rose. There was no other way. Too many people knew she’d been in the torture chamber, according to his source. Moving silently, he went to check on Resh. A nudge to the ribs with his foot elicited no response. Good. Looked like Brant had dosed him well. But still, better to be safe.

Carr might be comfortable with this boy, but Nykim hadn’t vetted him yet. Even if he had, he wouldn’t leave her vulnerable in a room with another male, drugged or not. After a quick check on Carr–her other injuries weren’t life-threatening–Nykim returned to the kid. 

Slinging him over his shoulder, Nykim crept out of the room. 

~~

Carr

Waking was unpleasant. 

Her lamp was still lit, and her bed was familiar enough to stymie Carr's rising panic on her return to consciousness. Too bad it was replaced by a deep-seated fatigue and countless aches and pains. There was not a single spot on her body that didn’t hurt. 

Her teeth chattered while she stared at the barely visible wooden lathes crossing her ceiling. Gods, she was cold. It had to be the blood loss, although she supposed she could be in shock. Maybe she was even still bleeding. Fuck. 

Under her blankets, Carr unbuttoned Nykim’s jacket and slowly checked her injuries, feeling for the warmth of blood soaking through her makeshift bandages. 

She found nothing. 

Confused, she pushed her fingers underneath. The cut she’d taken to her side should be a gaping wound, one that would’ve needed stitches at the very least. But… she traced the line of aching flesh, feeling for sutures that weren’t there. A hiss escaped through clenched teeth when she pressed down on the edges, trying to get it to split back open. 

It didn’t. 

What the fuck? 

A quick inventory told her things that didn’t add up. She distinctly remembered Marcus stabbing her in the back. There wasn’t even a trace of a wound to prove it, though. Her scalp still stung where the prince had grabbed her hair to slam her head into the stone, but it wasn’t even sore when she checked. All she found was dried blood matting the strands. 

Her hands shook while she redid the buttons. The ache between her thighs told her it hadn’t been a bad dream. She hadn’t sustained training injuries or been on a job gone wrong. It had all been horribly real. 

So what in the flaming pits was going on? 

Her chest tightened while her thoughts whirled. Trying to calm herself before she descended into a full-blown attack, Carr took several deep breaths. She wished… but wait. Resh was here. Even if he still slept, his presence might be enough to stabilize her. She turned her head to check on him. 

Carr’s heart beat a little faster at the sight of the rumpled blanket on the cot across the room. It was dark–just the barest flicker of light from her lamp lit the space. She just couldn’t see properly. That was all.

The room spun when Carr pushed herself up. She waited for it to stop, then carefully scooted to the edge of the bed. Her foot bumped into something, and when she looked down, she found a cup. Carefully, she leaned over to pick it up, then sipped on the water inside, giving her body time to acclimate to being upright. When it was gone, she set the cup aside and stood. 

Her knees wobbled, and she felt the blood drain from her face. A prickling wave of shattering cold spread over her body, followed by a sheen of sweat that turned her skin clammy. Carr ignored the warning, forcing her body to move before it gave out on her. Hugging the wall, she made it to the lamp and turned up the flame. 

White spots flashed in her darkened field of view like stars in the night sky. Carr lowered herself rather ungracefully to the floor. She couldn’t allow herself to pass out. She had to know. 

Feet up on the wall. Lay flat. Breathe through the pain. 

Familiar actions. Still, it was agonizing to wait, as always. When the tunnel vision finally receded, she flipped over, ignoring the pull on the wound across her chest. 

Resh wasn’t on that cot. 

A messy knot of emotion threatened to choke her, and her eyes shot up to the door. 

She would kill him mixed with what if she was locked in?  

Had she brought Resh here to die? If she found out he was dead, after everything they’d been through… it wouldn’t matter how fucking weak she was. 

An eye for an eye. A life for a life. 

Blood would be her due.

Next

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a sepia-colored version of the original blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths AU are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

[charcolor]

Hello! I was going to follow ur vocaloid fact otd account but saw the steampianist thing in ur dni. Is it alright if I ask what he did wrong? I have big nostalgia for his songs but I don't wanna support him if he's up to no good

i do not trust him (or his fans if they are aware of what he did) because of some pretty awful things he's shown ambivalence toward at best and support for at worst. namely, nazi imagery and pedophilia.

(images are below the cut to avoid triggering anybody. this post contains discussion of the above as well as brief mentions of rape and irl child murder.)

he hasn't acknowledged or spoken about anything like this since 2020, which leads me to believe that he does not want to apologize and instead wants to pretend nothing happened to maintain his fanbase, without saying anything that goes against his beliefs.

if he does apologize and show that he's actually willing to improve as a person, i might be more tolerant of people who still support him, but i will still distrust him for being dishonest and trying to hide his actions.

there may be more i'm not aware of, but here's the main stuff:

followed shadman on twitter (infamous for drawing CP) for a while and defended himself when called out on it. he doesn't currently follow him on twitter but he does follow at least 1 person who openly (i.e. it says so right in their bio) draws noncon and guro (gore) fetish art so i'd assume his basic principles haven't changed

posted a pic of a uniform he wore as a teen with a swastika patch on it and referred to it lightheartedly as his "edgy kid uniform." the original tweet has since been deleted, but tweets still exist brushing it off as thinking it was funny in high school and not apologizing for his tweets any more than "sorry if i have offended anyone." it's not in these screenshots but i'm pretty sure in older replies to others he tried to pass it off as like "actually it's not a nazi swastika it's a buddhist symbol" when he knew full well what it was intended to look like

made the song "secrets of wysteria" about a real life child murderer, pedophile and cannibal (albert fish), using the topic for the sake of shock value in a horror song. (admittedly i don't think this is as bad as his actual pedophilia apologism, and albert fish is not treated as someone to be sympathized with, but it is still very insensitive to his victims, and the song is still up on his youtube.)

left a comment praising a vocaloid song (using oliver, who was voiced by an actual child) openly defending pedophilia. it might be hard to read the text in the screenshot, but the video description says "this song is about pedophiles, how they feel when compared to child abusers. Pedophilia is entirely different from child [abuse]" and steampianist's comment says "i love the concept and message of this song well done"

[mypoisonedvine]

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥 || dark!tonda x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || everyone in your village spread horrifying rumors about the boys who worked at the mill— called them sorcerers, warlocks, devil-worshippers. maybe if you'd known the rumors were true, you would've thought twice before crossing one of them.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 7k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || smut (noncon due to use of magic), humiliation, unwanted creampie, clit spanking, spitting kink (brief), painful loss of virginity, cockwarming (mentioned), death/murder mention (off-screen), period-typical misogyny (if not significantly less than period-typical it's fucking 1650), a slap, another dude being super creepy to the reader, period-typical descriptions of servitude, brief 'master' kink, some mild religious references, accepting candy from strangers

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 - obviously this does not require any knowledge of the book or film, though references are made to it that you'll get if you have consumed either. I used some brief, reconstructed upper sorbian just to be needlessly period- and region-accurate; lubosč is a basic term of endearment like 'darling' or 'sweetheart' and mały kurwa means 'little whore' lmao so yeah you have those to look forward to... oh, and a 'stay' is the medieval predecessor to the corset. sorry for the long-ass note lol

You tightened the laces of your stay until it was just the right fit— snug enough to hold your back straight, but not so restrictive that you wouldn’t be able to breathe right while working today. And there was plenty of work to be done today.

Firstly, the floor needed to be swept and scrubbed, then the tankards that had been soaking overnight needed to be dried before the first patron came in requesting mead or ale, and then after that it was just the usual barmaid tasks: keeping tables clean, keeping customers happy, and keeping the kegs stocked with booze.

The first half of the day went on without anything of note happening; in a town like this, there really weren’t ever ‘new’ customers, just a rotating list of regulars, so you knew what to expect.

It was all quite predictable, in fact: Korla, the man who owned the bakery and the big house on the hill, always ordered two ales and tried to make you listen to him brag about his wealth— but at least he always left you a few coins on the table when he left, the most beneficial way for him to show off to you. Handrij, a younger man with dark brown hair cut close to his scalp, hardly looked at you while you served him and his friends— Jan, Jakub, and another whose name you could never remember— and liked to dramatically order rounds for the whole pub when he’d had a bit too much himself.

And Jurij, the leatherworker who tended to be overdressed for a place like this, always gave you more of his spare change if you let him touch you just a little bit too much without making a face or telling him to piss off. You needed the money today, so you bit your tongue while you were cleaning his table and he ran the back of his fingers over your forearm, exposed by your rolled-up sleeve. “You’re such a pretty girl,” he cooed at you, “it’s a shame to see you working this hard.”

It took real willpower not to roll your eyes when he said that, but you just kept leaning over the table to wipe it with your rag, nearly shuddering visibly when he gently grabbed your arm instead and started to stroke your skin lightly with his thumb.

“Don’t you think you’ll ever get married?” he pressed.

“Why should I?” you smirked. “At least now I’m getting paid to clean up after a man.”

He laughed a bit, and even though part of you would’ve been relieved if he was offended and left you alone, at the same time you were relieved now that you weren’t going to lose out on your tip for saying that. “You’re a bit cynical, I see. But I don’t mind that— I think it’s good that a girl sees things for what they are, not just what she wishes they should be. A lot of girls your age are caught up in fancy and merriment, but not you: you’re practical.”

Did he really think insulting other girls would be a compliment? Did he really think you cared what he did or didn’t mind? “I try to be,” you answered flatly, hoping to bore him enough that he’d give up.

Having finished cleaning the table, you tried to pull back but his grip on your arm tightened, tugging you closer to him. “Hey,” he corrected quietly, “don’t go yet.”

“I have to—” you began to explain, looking to your side where more tables needed to be wiped down.

“Shh,” he interjected, his other hand pulling your face back to look at him again, “there’s nobody else here. You don’t need to serve anyone.”

You hadn’t actually noticed that he was the only one in the pub with you, and it made you want to squirm in his grip, though you resisted the urge.

“Anyone but me, that is,” he added, voice a little lower. You understood, then, that ‘there’s no one here for you to serve’ really meant ‘there’s no one here to stop me.’

His grip on your arm tightened again, almost painfully so, before he started to lean in closer to your face— like he was trying to stop you from getting away before you even tried. The hand on your face moved back to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his chin tilting up with his crooked grin as he stared you down.

“You would make a good little wife, I think,” he hummed. “Sure, you like your independence now, but I think you’d like being married, too— someone to take care of you…”

He leaned in even closer, to speak right in your ear after he’d kissed it lightly.

“Someone to belong to…” he added with a whisper, kissing you again on your cheek, and just below where your ear met your neck, as you wished more than anything to get away. You already belonged to someone— the pub owner, and while he was stern at times, he was a just master and you would rather not anger him by delaying your work any longer.

“I-I don’t—” you stammered, struggling against Jurij’s grasp again.

“Shh,” he soothed, “don’t be rude, lubosč, I just want to show you how beautiful you are…”

Just as Jurij opened his mouth wider to suck gently on your neck, the front door swung open and you both pulled back slightly in shock.

A group of boys had dashed in, and though you didn’t recognise their faces, you knew who they were just by the way they were dressed and the air of foreignness— of unsettling strangeness itself— that seemed to follow them in.

The boys from the mill. The ones that made everyone uncomfortable each time they came into town for essentials. The ones that were said to practice unspeakable evil in their secretive mill, closed completely to all outsiders, even though no one really had much proof past old folk tales.

They were generally considered unsavory customers, and your master had forbidden you from serving them, but right now, they were your saviors.

The boy that seemed to lead them— he was walking in front, and he’d been the one who was talking when they all saw you and Jurij and everyone fell into uncomfortable silence— gave you a little smirk beneath his stubbly beard as he observed the situation you were in. Shame burned on your face as he looked at you, and you looked back at him. Jurij was looking at him, too; glaring at him as if he’d interrupted a private moment. But the boy only stared back at you, and though his face was somewhat neutral, you saw his judgment… or maybe it was just that him looking at you made it impossible not to judge yourself.

As the boys moved along and took their place at one of the empty tables, you cleared your throat and finally wrenched yourself out of Jurij’s relaxed grasp.

“I should get back to work,” you mumbled awkwardly, scuttering away to get behind the bar and furiously scrub some tankards to look busy.

Unfortunately, the group of new customers didn’t seem to pick up on the implications of your ignorance. “Barmaid?” the one you’d made unwanted eye contact with before called out, waving outward to try to catch the corner of your eye, which he did. “Miss?”

You frowned and sighed, but walked to their table, standing beside it and staring at them silently as they each looked back at you.

Although they were young, and at present acting generally harmless, they did still intimidate you slightly just for sitting there. Especially the leader, who seemed to see more than he necessarily let on; he had his curls of sandy-blonde hair pulled back into a small tail, and a few smears of soot dirtying his cheeks and forehead. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink?” he wondered, smiling a bit like he already knew the answer and was just harassing you with his question.

“No, and I think it would be better if you left,” you answered.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

You decided just to ignore his tone, and humor his feigned confusion. “Barkeep says we don’t serve your kind here.” You felt a little guilty, and a little scared, when he glared at you. “His words, not mine.”

“And what kind would that be, specifically?” he asked, raising his brow as if to challenge you.

“Mill boys,” you answered confidently. “You know everyone thinks you’re Satanists. They think you hide there to learn your dark magic… it scares them.”

He sat up a little taller, spoke a little quieter. “Are you scared of me?”

“No,” you shrugged, “I’m more worried you’re gonna stiff me than curse me. A poor mill boy can’t afford to tip, anyhow.”

That seemed to hit him harder than accusations of witchcraft had. “I didn’t expect you to be so inhospitable,” he snapped. “You seem to be quite accommodating with your other patrons.”

The other boys snickered and you swallowed thickly, hating that they’d seen you letting Jurij all but feel you up, but that was different. It was just for a better tip; you weren’t just some floozy barmaid who let customers get handsy for the thrill of it. “I’ve asked you to leave,” you reminded them firmly. “If my master finds you here, he won’t ask.”

There was a pregnant pause before the leader stood up from his seat with a reluctant sign, and the others quickly followed. Quietly, they filed out and started to leave, but apparently the curly-haired blonde wasn’t quite done with you yet. You gasped as his hand grabbed your sleeve at the shoulder and pulled you close to him. “Tell your master that his prejudices might give him trouble someday,” he growled at you, “and that his bar girl should remember her place.”

He let you go roughly, shoving you back slightly so that you stumbled for a moment, and in a flurry of silent rage the boys were gone from whence they came.

Thankfully, the rest of the night went off without a hitch after that, although you were so shaken up that you took the liberty to close the bar early. After some more cleaning and preparations to open tomorrow, you finally took a deep sigh and scanned the empty pub, checking for anything else that needed to be done before you could get to bed for the night.

Thankfully, your quarters were just down the hall; since your full-time dedication as your master’s servant was to upkeep the pub, you simply lived in a small room in the back with a cot and oil lamp. You had one purpose, and though it was simple, you took pride in it. It was no wonder, then, that you felt yourself smile slightly as you appreciated your day’s work and admired the spotless room, every surface cleaned and waxed, each tankard and keg carefully cleaned, each table arranged exactly perpendicular to each wall and each chair upturned and placed on it.

In fact, you were the only dirty thing left in the room; so, with a wipe of the sweat off your forehead with the back of your rag-laden hand, you retired for the evening, beginning to untie your apron on the way to your room.

Your eyes landed quickly on the one thing you didn’t expect: a small fruit tart on your table, one clearly left by a visitor while you’d been at work.

You beamed as you saw the snack beside your bed, laid on a cloth napkin. There wasn’t any note to indicate from whom it might be, not that that would’ve been much help to you considering you’d never been taught to read. Besides, it was quite obvious that it was a gift from your master’s wife: she occasionally brought you extra food from the dinner table, though rarely something as nice as this. Having gone most of your shift without eating at all, you were happy to hop onto your bed and chow down.

Perhaps it was worth savoring, but you didn’t have the time or self-control to do that, especially once you tasted the first bite and involuntarily moaned to yourself at the delicious sweetness. You decided you’d find time to thank Cecilija for the kind gift in the morning, because she was likely already gone to sleep for the night.

As you shamelessly licked your fingers after finishing the last bite, even using your wetted finger to pick up every crumb from atop your blanket, you heard a rushed and heavy knock at the door— not your room, the front door of the pub.

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you waited a moment until you heard another one to get up and start re-tying your apron strings on the way back. “Who is it?” you called out as you exited the back hall and approached the front door, getting no answer.

Thinking it to be your master (most likely and best case scenario), or Jurij claiming to have left something behind even though you’d scrubbed the whole place down on your hands and knees and knew for a fact that wasn’t possible (less likely and slightly concerning to imagine), you swung open the door and gasped at the sight of the boy you’d turned away before. “You know, I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself,” he greeted with a tilted smirk, “my name is Tonda. What’s yours?”

You’d heard that telling a sorcerer your true name was dangerous, gave him greater chance to control you with magic. You remained silent and he laughed a bit.

“Right, can’t be too safe in times like this,” he relented. “Wouldn’t want to go around giving supposed warlocks the chance to cast their devil-magic on you.” He wiggled his fingers at you as if to pantomime a silly spell.

His brow raised, though, when you lifted your tongue inside your mouth to suckle at your teeth.

“Did you already eat the tart?” he asked, and your stomach dropped. He must’ve seen it on your face; he laughed coldly as he stepped inside right as you stepped back. “You won’t give me your name but you’ll eat any treat you just… find lying around. Gluttony is a sin, didn’t any church elders tell you that while they were lecturing about how you need to fear the Satan-worshippers from the mill?”

“I— I thought—” you stammered weakly over your defense, but he heard none of it, only sneering at you as he slammed the door behind himself.

“You shouldn’t’ve been so rude earlier,” he explained darkly. “It’s a shame you don’t know how to treat paying customers— someone really should’ve taught you some manners.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” you defended, “my master told me not to—”

“Apologise to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted before you could stop it. Why had you said that? You weren’t even sorry, really, though you did feel a bit bad for him.

“Hmm, I think you should be more effusive than that, you need to really grovel,” he decided, smirking proudly to himself.

“I think you need to go back to where you came from and get the hell away from me!” you shouted back.

"Shut up and get on your knees," he demanded, and instantly you fell to kneel before him— you couldn't stop it, couldn't fight it, couldn't even question it, you just did it.

He laughed a cold, hollow laugh as he looked down at you. "Are you trying to get up? Don't resist the magic, it'll injure you if you try too hard."

You believed that, unfortunately: you could feel the threat of pain around the edges of everything, like an aura that would shock or prick you if you moved outside of his will. And you couldn’t speak, because he’d told you to shut up.

Your eyes started to burn with fresh tears as you realised your fatal mistake; some would say your mistake was eating the tart without questioning too thoroughly where it had really come from, but you knew you were doomed long before then. This somewhat-unassuming peasant boy really was the warlock all the village people claimed he and his fellow mill workers were, and from the moment you’d refused to serve him, he made it his mission to humiliate and punish you. Sooner or later, he would’ve found a way to get to you— though it was embarrassing that it ended up being so much sooner.

“Now,” he began again, “I think you’re ready to apologise to me properly. Start by saying you’re sorry for being so disrespectful.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeated soberly, “for being so disrespectful.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you are,” he nodded, stroking his chin as he stared down at you kneeling on the floor, “but you’re just not sorry enough quite yet. Get up.”

You rose to your feet quickly, though you lost your balance as he pushed you back: he didn’t push you very hard at all, it was probably almost no effort for him, but it was hard enough to send you stumbling backward until you caught yourself on the edge of a table, between two chairs stacked on it, leaning against it for support.

He stalked forward and cornered you against it as you shrunk away instinctively, though you couldn’t stop him from pressing his body up against yours. You looked away but he demanded that you look up at him and, without any choice, you did. “I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he promised, cold but firm.

“Y-you can’t,” you stammered, “my master will be back soon, and he’ll—”

“He’s already been dealt with,” Tonda interrupted with a snarl. “I’m your master now.”

He didn’t give you any time to process either of those realisations before he gave you first command, speaking right by your ear as his fingers began to push your dress off your shoulder delicately.

"Spread your legs for me," he whispered, "and lift up your skirts, nice and slow."

Against every desire that begged you not to, you sat back on the table and propped your legs up on it as you spread them wide, beginning to gather up your apron and skirt while he leaned back slightly to watch you with a bemused smirk.

The fabric sliding over your legs made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, your heart beating faster with every inch higher you moved your dress. He hummed and ran his hand over your leg; you wished more than anything to kick away from his touch, but the magic was there, waiting, threatening to hurt you if you disobeyed.

Finally you held your dress up to your hips; a draft in the room was uncomfortably cool on your unprotected legs, but it wasn’t the only reason a chill ran up your spine.

He grinned at you with crooked, rotted teeth, and you hardly managed to swallow down your grimace. Being exposed so lewdly made a sick feeling tingle in the pit of your stomach and, oddly, made further wetness gather at your entrance.

“Oh, mały kurwa,” he mocked, “do you enjoy showing me your pussy?”

“N-no,” you choked out your reply, even though you weren’t exactly in a place to deny it when he could see the proof of your arousal.

“Perhaps I should’ve cursed that tart to make you honest as well as obedient,” he joked. “Loosen your stay.”

With a swallowed whimper, you reached behind your back and untied the bow, loosening the strings until you could take it off— and the apron with it— such that you were left only in your chemise. Finally he did something himself: he stepped forward and grabbed the garment at the neck, snarling as he roughly tore the front open and exposed your chest. He kept his eyes trained right on yours as he roughly groped your breasts, his hands hot and calloused and entirely too brutal on your delicate skin.

For your credit, you tried to put on a brave face; you just looked back up at him and tried not to look shy and scared, because that seemed to be exactly what he wanted. When he’d asked you before, hardly half a day since now but so long ago, if you were scared of him… he wanted you to be. But you refused to be.

He sensed it. And it angered him. “You think you’re better than me,” he sneered, pausing his assault to grab you by the torn collar of your chemise.

“No, that’s not—” you denied.

“Some peasant bitch and you think you’re better than me?” he continued anyway. “What, just because you’re clean and you’ve got some cushy servant’s job working the bar and letting any old creep feel you up for a tip? You’re not gonna be clean anymore when I’m done with you… you’ll remember your place after I dirty you up a bit.”

You decided not to disagree with him anymore, since it just seemed to anger him further. He let go of your collar and stood up straight with his arms crossed smugly.

“Take my cock out,” he demanded. Instantly, your plan not to disagree was dashed.

“No, please,” you spoke quickly, though you were only barely managing to stop your arm from reaching out to do it.

“Don’t test me!” he warned sharply. “Don’t make me say it again, either.”

With a little grunt, you gave up your fight against the curse controlling your body and reached forward, slipping a hand into his trousers and almost yelping when you felt his hard member bump against your palm. You used one hand to hold it, trying not to think about what you were doing, while the other tugged his trousers down.

Well, it was hard not to think about what you were doing when you could see it, thick and veiny and flexing against your grip. You sighed as he stepped forward, suddenly pulling your hips closer to the edge of the table.

“W-wait,” you pleaded quickly, but he ignored you completely as he pushed your hand aside and suddenly speared himself right into you, making you yelp and grip the edge of the table hard enough to carve the shape of your fingernails into it.

“Fuck, are you a virgin?” he breathed. “Or, were you a virgin?”

You bit your lip to try to stop from crying, nodding quickly.

“Oh, good girl,” he grinned, leaning in to bury his face against your neck as he began to move. You sobbed and reached up to push at his shoulders, desperate to make him stop.

But he hadn’t commanded you to stop fighting, not yet; he wasn’t wielding his paranormal, Satanic power over you anymore… just his physical strength, just his power over you as a man who had a woman pinned to a table and could do anything he wanted to her and get away with it. “You’re hurting me,” you informed him shakily between your pained cries.

He let you beat on his back for a while, tug on his tunic and claw at his shoulders, before he finally lost his patience and grabbed you by the wrists, pinning you down to the table.

He made a point of thrusting even deeper, grinding his hips up against the back of your thighs each time he was completely inside you, and you let out a long cry every time. “Stop, please!” you begged.

“God, what a precious fucking cunt you’ve got,” he praised roughly, letting his head fall back for a moment as he sped up yet again. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You were only such a bitch to me before because you wanted me to ruin you, right? Admit it.”

“I was only such a bitch because I wanted you to ruin me,” you agreed against your will.

He kept you repeating after him for ages, and as awful as it was, at least it gave you something to do to distract you from the pain.

I wanted you to fuck me, Tonda, I wanted you inside me— this is all I wanted, for you to come back and make me yours. I just needed your cock to make me a pathetic, sobbing, drooling mess…

When he tired of that, he moved on thoroughly abusing your breasts, pinching and tugging your nipples until they were so hard they were sore, then suckling on them eagerly while you tried not to notice that it actually felt rather nice. Each time his tongue swiped over a sensitive bud, your walls clenched around his cock and he smiled against your skin, taunting you for giving yourself away. “The pain must’ve gone by now,” he decided, “it feels good, doesn’t it? You like it.”

Though he was right, in a last play for your dignity, you shook your head; all that got you was him pulling away from sucking on your nipples to frown and slap you across the face.

"Say you love it," he growled.

"I love it," you repeated through your teeth.

"Tell me that you love the way I fuck you."

"I—" you choked on it, trying more than anything not to say the rest of it but failing quickly, "I love the way you fuck me…"

"I can tell, you're gripping on to me so tight— you like it, wench? You like being fucked like the dirty fucking slut you are?”

"I hate you!" you spat.

"But you can't answer my question," he noticed with a grin. "It's all right, you don't need to be ashamed. It's okay to like it. After all, I like fucking you like the dirty fucking slut you are. I love the way your sweet, innocent little pussy feels, so warm and soft inside."

He leaned down to speak quieter and closer to you, staring right at your face.

"I love seeing this cute body take my cock so deep. I love watching your tits bounce and your cunt stretch out wide to fit me: it feels good, you're so, so good…"

The praise shot straight through your body like a lightning bolt, making your back arch up off the table and your toes curl inside your shoes. Pleasure was building and you had no idea what to do with it— you'd never felt anything like this before, and it felt like it was powerful enough to consume you if you let it.

"Tell me that you want to be good for me," he instructed you.

"I want to be good for you, I want to do whatever you say," you moaned, and he let out a deep noise of raw, primal pleasure while he started to really slam into you, brutally claiming your body for himself.

"Look up at me and open your mouth, little girl, stick your tongue out," he grunted his demand, looking down at you with dark eyes as you obeyed. He pursed his lips and spit right into your waiting mouth, growling for you to swallow which you did quickly to get it over with.

As disgusting as it was, somehow it made your body writhe harder beneath him, his cock inside you stirring something deep and painfully intense.

"Stop trying to hold it back," he ordered with a low voice, and unfortunately it was not only his magic that made the command impossible to resist. "I can feel how much you want to come for me. Go on, then, and do it— come."

You couldn't be sure then if it was his curse that made the dam within you break and your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, but at a certain point, it didn't really matter. You cried out loudly, struggling under the grip of his hands pinning you down, and felt everything within you tense up all at once. Just barely past your own screams you could hear him moaning at how tight you'd become, and just beyond the tingling numbness inside you you could feel him fucking you even faster.

All your strength left you and your body went limp on the table, moved only by his thrusts rocking you back and forth. He laughed, though the sound was strained from his own exhaustion, as he admired your total surrender. "I knew you'd like it, just had to help you learn how to take it," he informed you, glancing down at where your bodies were joined with a little sigh. "You're fucking dripping, kurwa, you're making a mess on this floor you just cleaned."

Sadly, you believed him completely; you could hear the sound of your own wetness echoing lewdly around the empty room. You yelped a bit, your body weakly jolting, when he reached down to pinch your swollen clit.

"Come on, I wanna feel you come again," he purred.

"I can't," you breathed, "I— oh!"

He'd given you a spank right on your clit, hence the gasp, and when he gave you another your legs began to quiver. "Hurry up," he demanded impatiently as he kept hitting you, "I wanna feel it one more time before I'm finished."

There was something enticing about that: the idea that he might be done soon and leave you to your shame. It already felt like he'd been using you for ages and you just wanted to soak in the bath and try to convince yourself it never happened. You couldn't have known, yet, that just because he'd finish didn't mean he'd be done with you quite yet.

Though it reawakened a deep soreness, and took more energy from you than you knew you had, with enough encouragement and brutal stimulation to your clit, you came again— with a whimper rather than a scream.

"Fuck," he cursed as he felt your channel pulse once again, "you're gonna milk my cock, little barmaid— is that what you wanted? You want to milk my cock?"

Your eyes shot open as you realised where that 'milk' was bound to end up. "No—" you began with a gasp, but he interrupted immediately.

"Oh, don't play innocent, I know you want my come in you," he mocked, "I know you want it deep in this dirty fucking cunt."

"N-no, pull out, please," you whimpered, choking on a sob when you saw his grin and knew he was going to ignore your plea. "Tonda, please!"

He leaned down to speak right against your ear, still smiling smugly. "Beg me to come inside you," he instructed mockingly.

"Please, come inside me," you heard your voice obey, "please— I need every drop of your seed within me, I need you so desperately…"

"You can be even more pathetic than that, come on, get creative!" he encouraged.

"I'm nothing without your come, master, please!" you spoke suddenly, compelled by the magic but ultimately coming up with some of it all on your own. "Give me so much that I never forget who I belong to, I know I don't deserve it but please, please come inside me!"

"Such a faithful servant you are," he groaned, releasing one of your wrists so he could use the hand to grab at your breasts again instead, "and you'll get your reward— you'll get your master's come, just stay still and take my gift…"

You shut your eyes tight, biting down on your tongue to stop from sobbing, as he moved faster and more erratically while his cock started to flex against your channel. He moaned loudly, squeezing your wrists where he kept them pinned by your head, and finally you knew he was coming inside you when you felt a new kind of heat spread in your core and start to drip from your opening. You sobbed near-silently, eyes shut tight, as he slowed his movements to a stop and breathed heavily.

"Look up at me," he pleaded softly, and you blinked open your eyes and turned your head to see him— face stained with soot and sparkling with sweat— staring back at you darkly. "You're so good, my pretty little servant, you did so very good for me."

"I—" you began.

"Say 'thank you'," he prompted, "'for teaching me.'"

"Thank you," you repeated with a defeated sigh, "for teaching me."

"You're a quick learner— no wonder your master was so unwilling to give you up," Tonda shook his head.

With a small groan he pulled out of you, and you instantly felt a gush of hot, sticky wetness pour out of you: the only thing worse than the physical feeling of it was the metaphysical feeling of his eyes on you, watching your abused hole leak out his seed.

You tried to close your legs but he stopped you with his hands, kneeling down to get a closer look. "I really stretched you out, hm?" he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Can't you just leave?" you groaned, and he stood up again.

"What? Why would I do that?"

"You've done the deed, you can go and let me bathe and sleep," you posited.

He smiled, almost giving you a look of pity, as he pulled you up by your arms— you were so weak he had to keep holding your waist to keep you sitting up. "I can," he agreed, "but why would I leave when I've got such an obedient servant right here?"

He leaned in to kiss your cheek, and your neck, as new tears began to fall down your numb face.

"I have a feeling you're gonna ask me to take you again before the night is through," he chuckled.

"Do I have to do what you say forever?" you wondered aloud.

"Yes," he answered, moving to kiss your neck.

"Just because of a blasted tart?!"

He chuckled again as he held the back of your head, sucking lightly on your pulse before standing up straight to look down at you again. "No, not because of the tart— I'm not quite that powerful. The curse will wear off eventually, probably by the end of the night,” he explained, “but there are other ways to make you obey, some much more effective than black magic.”

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you whimpered, shuddering at his laugh.

“Oh, I don’t have to,” he shook his head. “I can just remind you that your master is dead and you’ll starve without someone to serve who can feed you.”

You swallowed thickly, saying the smallest prayer in your mind for your master, hoping that he hadn’t suffered too greatly at the hands of this evil sorcerer that held you close to him now.

“Or,” he continued, “I could threaten that if you try to run from me, that I’ll let any of the boys at the mill have their way with you.” He smiled darkly as you whimpered at the suggestion. “Nearly two dozen young men who’ve been locked away from the world for years.... they’ll tear you apart,” he added with a wistful sort of look in his eye— he was imagining it, you realised with disgust. "So, as long as you behave, all you have to do is serve me. I think it's a pretty favorable deal, if I'm honest."

He could make you say yes, agree to anything; he could make you sign your life away. But he didn't use the curse to force you, waiting instead for your true answer.

Not that you exactly had a choice. For all his deception, he was being truthful in expressing that he was your only hope. A servant with no master is doomed, and after he'd defiled you your village would probably banish you not only for losing your maidenhead but for it being taken by a dreaded mill body— shit, they'd probably burn you at the stake, now that you thought about it, if they knew he'd put his seed in you and thought you might be carrying the spawn of Satan.

So you gave in to him, and somehow it was more humiliating than ever— because at least the first time, you had no choice but to do what he commanded, but now… now you had no curse to blame. "Yes," you breathed, looking up at him with watery eyes, "I'll be your servant."

He had you change into untorn clothes and pack your things— of which there were few— and follow him back through the dark forest to the mill where he showed you his bedroll: he couldn't give you another of your own so you were meant to share. You recognized a few of the other boys; you shuddered to feel their eyes on you, hoping they didn't notice the way you had to limp… not that it wouldn't be obvious what Tonda had done to you either way.

You didn't sleep that night: it was much too hot pressed up to his body under the thick wool blanket with his arm draped over your chest, though somehow you were shivering violently as well. You didn't sleep because you were afraid to dream; if you dreamt of freedom, of the life you had before, of any fate but this, it would be too cruel to wake up and remember you belonged to a sorcerer who intended to use you only for his own pleasure. It would be too cruel to have to open your eyes and see the gray stone walls— nothing like the soft wood of your quarters at the pub— and know you could never leave this place.

Tonda stirred and awoke after a few hours, pulling you closer drowsily but waking more when he realized you were wide awake. "Why aren't you sleeping?" he whispered under his breath, right by your ear.

"I can't," you whispered back.

"I can help you," he offered, "there are spells to make you—"

"No," you interjected quickly, "please, I don't want to sleep."

You felt him smile against your ear as he turned you onto your back. "Is there something else you want to do?" he asked coyly as he carefully climbed on top of you, slotting his body between your legs.

"Wait," you gasped, knowing you were still horribly sore.

"Ask me to fuck you," he instructed, and to be totally honest, you couldn't tell if the curse was still on you; did it really matter?

"Fuck me, Tonda, please," you whispered shakily.

His come was still leaking out of you from before, leaving your thighs slick yet sticky, and you shuddered when his cock slid over your folds with such ease.

Ease, however, was the last thing that came to mind just a moment later when he entered you. You yelped sharply when he pushed forward and gave you all of it at once— it stung so painfully to be torn open again by his cock, you couldn't help it. He grunted and clapped his hand down over your mouth, whispering in your ear. "You have to be quiet, you don't want to wake the others, do you?"

But you probably already had; they were probably listening now, hearing the blanket shift and your labored breathing and his skin rubbing against yours. They probably knew exactly what he was doing to you, and you tried not to imagine what they might do with that knowledge.

He kissed your tears away as they fell down your temples, cooing quiet praises to you, calling you his servant as often as he felt you needed to be reminded.

But you didn't need to be reminded, you knew damn well that you were trapped and owned. You'd never forget it, not with him forging a new path inside you again and promising to keep you full to the brim with his seed every chance he could get.

He made a lot of promises, actually: promises to keep you safe in exchange for your devotion, promises to pleasure you ("Not that it's any trouble, you're so sensitive and submit to me so easily," he felt the need to add mockingly), promises to keep you in his bed for days on end, promises to train you into the perfect servant.

And to his credit, he kept all of his promises. He proved to be somewhat… unpredictable; emotional, even. Some days he was rough and careless with you, taking whatever he needed, ignorant to your pain. Other days, and much more frequently, he seemed to crave your love even more than your body. He liked to whisper to you, telling you to say that you loved him, right as he filled you; sometimes he didn't even fuck you, just sliding himself inside you and telling you to keep him warm for the night.

He never did curse you to do his bidding again, but you were susceptible to his magic in other ways— some mundane, some rather lewd. But it wasn't quite witchcraft that made you learn to care for him, with time. It wasn't quite love, either, but something eerily similar.

It felt like love, sometimes; after a while, he stopped calling you his servant and started calling you his wife. Not that he treated you much different either way. At least he didn't make you wash clothes or work a farm or raise a hundred babies— frankly, you had more freedom than the average wife, in the end. A little less than the average maidservant, though. You weren't permitted to do much without him, and you only ever left the mill with your hand held tightly in his.

Once, the two of you even visited the nearby village together; you vaguely remembered it as once being your own.

You visited the pub. It was under new ownership. And this time, even though they cast a hateful glance at the devil-worshippers still, they served you.

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ scribbles + sketches: tnii

the most important touya-nii universe asks all in one place!

⋆ why does touya-nii sleep with those other girls? | briefly reanswered

⋆ if touya-nii ever found you high, what would he do?

⋆ does touya-nii understand what reader was trying to say when she said she wanted all of him? at the end of the main series, does touya truly and finally give reader all of him? and why didn’t reader sleep with keigo?

⋆ touya-nii and reader running into tomura at the grocery store

⋆ touya-nii comes home to find positive pregnancy tests in the washroom | part two | part three | further pregnancy thoughts | keigo moves in to help | fuck u it’s my baby now

⋆ what happens if rei catches a glimpse of the branding touya-nii left on reader’s backside? | further discussion | his reaction to rei saying you’re just like you’re father | touya’s hypothetical behaviour towards reader after all of this

⋆ what is someone dared to go after touya-nii’s beloved baby sister?

⋆ (hypothetically) touya-nii attempts to push reader away for the sake of his mother, and reader begins spending more time with natsuo

⋆ touya-nii universe but it’s a reality television series

⋆ touya-nii being a lil softer with reader during her period

⋆ reader has a tendency to get stuck on top of counters like a kitten in a tree n has to call touya to get her down

⋆ touya-nii’s baby playing nurse after he comes home roughed up

⋆ brief notes on how touya-nii + reader’s relationship has evolved by the time of the christmas series

⋆ touya-nii gets reader a dog for extra protection

⋆ what attracted touya-nii to reader in the first place?

⋆ does shouto have romantic feelings for reader?

⋆ what kind of clothes does touya-nii like reader wearing?

⋆ touya-nii and reader playing games separately within the company of each other + notes on touya and natsuo’s relationship

⋆ is reader’s dad oblivious to her and touya-nii’s relationship? does reader’s dad bring up any concerns to rei?

⋆ what would touya-nii do if he caught reader’s ex trying to harass/rape her?

⋆ what are natsuo’s feelings towards reader?

⋆ will touya ever be able to fully realize how much he’s ruined reader? how would he feel about it, if he could?

⋆ will there be more parts to the touya-nii fic? | x |

⋆ touya-nii and reader stuck in the backseat of a car for a family roadtrip

⋆ in my snowman & me, if fuyumi had gotten reader to share a bedroom with her instead, would she have tried to talk some sense into reader?

⋆ how would fuyumi attempt to approach the subject?

⋆ is there anything touya-nii could’ve done to reader during my snowman & me that would’ve prompted shouto to intervene?

⋆ touya-nii taking care of reader after a stressful week full of panic attacks

⋆ touya-nii’s cock

⋆ a note on why it was reader (and not touya’s drug dealing and murderous lifestyle) that was the last straw for the family during my snowman & me

⋆ how touya-nii and keigo-nii would respond to reader letting others use/fuck her because she believes she’s worthless

⋆ hypothetically, how would touya-nii take it if reader ran away with tomura?

⋆ touya-nii totally had to throat-train reader to blow him

⋆ would reader ever have a disagreement with rei and who’s side would touya take if it happened?

⋆ would touya-nii and reader ever become parents?

⋆ will reader ever snap out of this trance and seek help?

⋆ touya-nii’s fashion style

⋆ what would it take for reader to ever yell back at touya (**EXTREME trigger warning: toxic relationships, abuse, manipulation, noncon)

⋆ what? reader WASN’T a virgin when she met touya-nii? | the ask anon had been referring to which mentions touya’s extreme jealousy over not being her first: here

⋆ does touya-nii use condoms when fucking his hoes?

⋆ what did you mean when you said reader had several teary-eyed tantrums when convincing touya-nii to go to the cabin in my snowman & me?

⋆ how touya-nii universe tomura would react to being called Daddy

⋆ would touya-nii allow reader to get a tattoo?

⋆ how old are touya-nii and reader?

⋆ touya-nii isn’t as mean to reader like bmb!dabi is, right? (feat. bmb!dabi)

⋆ imagine reader not wanting any sex toys bigger than touya-nii’s cock

⋆ curiosity about touya-nii and natsuo’s conversations regarding reader

⋆ will we ever see reader interact with enji? and how does touya-nii feel towards reader’s father?

⋆ does touya-nii feel that same ‘head of household’ vibe for shouto and fuyumi?

⋆ how does touya-nii feel about fuyumi?

⋆ does touya-nii still see other girls after the incident (the incident = reader cheating) or is he loyal now?

⋆ why does reader have such a soft spot for tomura?

⋆ does touya-nii also have a corruption kink for natsuo?

⋆ a few questions relating to the non-canon piece i wrote for tomura’s birthday: does touya ever find out? why doesn’t tomura fight for reader? does reader love tomura back? | where in your touya-nii timeline is this piece set?

⋆ in day three of my snowman & me, have natsuo + touya ever done that before with other girls?

⋆ how old is natsuo in this AU?

⋆ in part two of the main series, does touya-nii tell reader she can’t be alone with natsuo because he knows natsuo will make a move on her?

⋆ does touya-nii care about cup size?

⋆ did touya-nii ever talk to tomura about what happened? does touya begin looking through readers phone regularly after the incident? does touya think she’ll ever do it again?

⋆ touya-nii with a reader who has no regard for punishment

⋆ why doesn’t touya-nii like being teased?

⋆ how would touya-nii react to nudes from reader?

⋆ how would touya-nii + bmb dabi comfort you when you’re crying?

⋆ what would’ve happened if reader slept with keigo instead of tomura?

⋆ during day one of my snowman & me it’s noted that touya rarely cries in front of reader. what other instances have made him cry in front of her (or what do you think would be that turning point in their relationship)?

⋆ snuggie imaginings with touya-nii

⋆ love how in my snowman & me touya’s the smallest yet the most fucking powerful of the todoroki brothers

⋆ a small piece exploring what happened after reader passed out in day three of my snowman & me

⋆ would reader ever be able to take natsuo and touya-nii at once?

⋆ how would tomura + touya-nii react if reader sent them a nude while they were out somewhere? how would bmb!dabi react if reader accidentally sent him a nude?

⋆ will there ever be a part four to your main touya-nii series?

⋆ would bmb!tomura, bmb!dabi, and touya-nii take reader out to get her nails done? would they stay with her while she gets them done?

⋆ would reader automatically despise enji? does touya-nii ever speak to his father? is their relationship strained or just tolerable?

⋆ was the ‘vaguely implied incest’ warning for touya-nii and natsuo? (referring to this piece)

⋆ was there any time touya-nii/bmb!dabi/poison!dabi thought about leaving the reader for her own good?

⋆ hypothetically, if reader met both touya-nii and tomura at the same time, would she be more interested in tomura?

⋆ reader cooking for the trap house

⋆ how does reader feel about keigo?

⋆ does touya-nii have a favourite memory of reader?

⋆ is tomura a jealous person?

⋆ is there anything touya-nii could do to make reader really turn against him?

⋆ what will life look like for reader and touya-nii once she graduates?

⋆ aside from tomura wrecking her good, is there anything that could have happened or that reader could have done to elicit the reaction of touya-nii accepting his feelings for reader and stopping his fuckboy ways?

⋆ would touya-nii still want reader when she’s not the cutesy lil thing she is now? would they try to get married and have kids of their own or are they just not the type?

⋆ imagine the drama that would ensue if reader had older siblings

⋆ touya-nii’s tattoos + bmb!dabi’s tattoos

⋆ what if instead of reader’s dad marrying rei, reader’s mom married enji? how would the plot of your series differ?

⋆ is touya-nii still tempted by other girls?

⋆ reader with a youtube channel (ft. the twins)

⋆ absolutely do not think about touya-nii fucking you as hard as possible but stopping to tenderly wrap his arms under your shoulder and cradle your head in his hands

⋆ touya-nii + keigo’s favourite acts of intimacy

⋆ hypothetically, how would a relationship between keigo and reader have gone if she had ended up with him?

⋆ just how genuine is keigo? does he actually like reader or does he just want to fuck her? and what would a relationship with him be like?

⋆ what made touya decide to be ‘niichan’ instead of ‘niisan’?

⋆ touya-nii encourages you and helps you prepare for an oral presentation

⋆ why did touya-nii stop dyeing his hair black?

⋆ how does touya-nii spoil reader on her birthday? how does reader spoil touya-nii on his birthday?

⋆ would touya-nii ever get a tattoo dedicated to reader? if so, what would he get?

⋆ what is touya-nii’s reader’s fashion like? how does touya-nii’s reader’s personality differ from bmb’s reader’s personality?

⋆ is it normal to feel my heart clench when i think of touya-nii? (aka clari’s breakdown of his morality + character!)

⋆ how did touya-nii get involved in drug dealing?

⋆ how would touya-nii react if you were mad at him? (feat. twin!touya)

⋆ is touya-nii one to get jealous over celebrity crushes?

⋆ at what moment did touya-nii realize he was in love with the reader?

⋆ does touya-nii make sure reader takes her birth control consistently like clockwork?

⋆ would touya-nii and reader ever consider going to therapy?

⋆ how would touya-nii and reader act if they had to take care of a friend’s child?

⋆ if touya-nii had met reader before their parents got together, would things have turned out the same storyline-wise or would things have gone drastically different?

⋆ did touya-nii ever have a defining incident that has led to his paranoia or is it just a result of his lifestyle/career? has he ever had a situation arise whilst, say out with the reader, where either of them could be in danger? how would he react?

⋆ what would touya-nii dress up as for halloween?

⋆ does touya-nii pay for readers college/uni?

⋆ what did touya-nii do with the panties he stole from reader at the wedding reception?

⋆ what kind of bikini was reader wearing at natsuo’s party?

⋆ will touya-nii and shouto ever make up?

⋆ does natsuo hang out with touya-nii often? like does he ever just go to touya-nii + reader’s place to chill?

⋆ would touya-nii remind reader to take her vitamins etc?

⋆ does touya-nii snore?

⋆ what does touya-nii’s room look like? once he gets a place with reader does he let her decorate? if not, what style does he use to decorate their home?

⋆ how does touya-nii use readers panties? and which kinks does he have?

⋆ is natsuo part of the yakuza too?

⋆ does touya-nii still fuck other girls?

⋆ is touya-nii’s cock uncircumcised?

⋆ does touya-nii share reader’s nudes with natsuo or keigo? or does he keep them all to himself?

⋆ does touya-nii have an innocence kink?

⋆ what was touya-nii’s first time with reader like? was she a virgin? where did it happen?

⋆ notes on sweet but entitled tomura

⋆ does touya-nii allow reader to drink alcohol?

⋆ what does touya-nii do if reader wants something to suck on?

⋆ would touya-nii mind if reader had an accent?

⋆ does touya-nii ever get jealous of natsuo and reader?

⋆ does natsuo love reader too?

⋆ how would touya-nii react if reader called him ‘daddy’?

⋆ did touya-nii ever film himself and reader like he promised he would in day two of my snowman and me?

⋆ imagine touya-nii and reader having a cute lil beach wedding

⋆ would touya-nii wear a totoro onesie if reader bought him one?

⋆ why does natsuo-nii melt my heart so much?

⋆ brief thoughts on shouto + reader

⋆ touya-nii + cameras in the home

⋆ why is touya so strict about reader staying away from tomura? what about keigo? how do touya’s friends feel about his + his step-sister’s relationship?

[ashintheairlikesnow]

It Will Be

For @whumptober 2022, No. 10. Using Alt prompt 8: Made to Watch

Jameson’s masterlist

CW: PTSD/trauma recovery, panic attack, references to past torture, noncon, murder, dehumanization 

-

It's too hot to move.

Nat’s air conditioning is broken, and while the guy fiddles around with it outside, Jameson lays splayed on the hardwood floor in the living room directly under the ceiling fan, his joints aching with the heat. 

Heat is supposed to help, he thinks, but his bullshit body only throbs worse with every trickle of sweat he feels moving slowly down his temples to soak into the soft hair growing in where his bald spots used to be. Still there… but less obvious now. 

Brief bursts of relief come with the brush of cool air from the fan, or when he manages to get his stiff fingers to close around a cold wet rag he’s keeping nearby to wipe his face with. 

He took his shirt off - only Nat and Vince might see him, and the scars aren't new to Nat. Vince is gone, off to meet someone and, he told Nat before he left yesterday, start unraveling this stupid pointless life. 

Nat told Jameson after he was gone that Vince is selling his house, planning to disappear and start over. Like he's one of us, Jameson has said, and Nat only smiled.

Very like that, she had said quietly. 

Jameson gets it. He couldn't go back to Nanda anymore, even if Nanda was still alive. Nanda would barely recognize him, and probably wouldn't like him like this. He wouldn't want to leave Allyn, either, and Nanda would hate Allyn's willowy grace and softness.

And Jameson wouldn't give them up to go back, not anymore. It feels like a betrayal to Nanda, but it’s not like Nanda is here to punish for it.

Jameson just isn't the pet any longer - and Vince, having slit a throat in his own house, isn't really just Vincent Shield. 

Nat likes and trusts them both, even though both of them are killers, murderers who didn't pull back when they thought their own survival was on the line. It makes Jameson wonder what Nat has done, that she's so unfazed by it all. 

Maybe they just aren't the first killers she's made a home for. 

The TV’s on, but he isn’t really listening to it. It’s just droning background noise, a pile of nothing important that lets his brain slide like syrup through his nonsense thoughts about Nat and Vince. It’s sort of nice to do absolutely nothing. 

Nearby, up on the couch, Trash Cat sleeps on her back, paws curled, her little pink tongue just barely visible peeking out between her teeth. One of her paws twitches, as if she hunts mice in her sleep and has caught one. 

For all the misery of the heat, it isn't so bad to just lay here with the air moving slow over his skin like Nanda's softest kisses.

“... investigation reopened by federal agents,” Drones the TV, Jameson barely aware of the words, “As new evidence emerges in the cold case involving longtime Rancher's Rest resident Robert Weber, recently revealed to be responsible for a string of disappearances throughout the Western United States over the past three decades when his own sudden death resulted in the discovery of more than two dozen bodies, many still unidentified. New evidence suggests that at least two of Weber's victims may in fact still be alive."

Jameson shoots upright so fast he lurches, stomach flipping as his back protests how he twists to look, wide-eyed, at the television screen. 

Robert?

A still photo of the front of Robert's house is right there behind the news anchor's shoulder, overgrown by now with a weedy front yard and little saplings popping up from unclean gutters, a broken window. Yellow crime scene tape winds around, muddy and faded with time and sunlight. 

How long has it been there? When did they find out about him, about his basement? How long ago did they find his house and realize what had happened inside? How long after Jameson had fled, begging his legs to cooperate until he could find somewhere safe to hide?

The yard looks awful, except for the bobbing bright yellow heads of too-tall dandelions, untouched and unencumbered, free to tip themselves up like tiny suns. 

Robert would hate it being so messy outside, Jameson thinks. Even the rosebushes look straggly and dead or dying with no one to water them. Robert loved his rosebushes. 

It's with a sudden flush of bitter, hateful satisfaction that he thinks, good. Everything you touched died, why not the roses, too, motherfucker?

Two unknown sets of fingerprints. One set… one set had to be his, right? He feels a droplet of saltwater escape the nape of his neck, dip under the neck of his shirt, and trickle slowly down the center of his back. His legs bend at the knee, just a little, without his consent or knowledge. He can't stand up.

"Sets of fingerprints lifted from inside the house have long been of interest to investigators," Continues the news anchor with an expression of carefully neutral severity, leaning into the seriousness of the subject while staying distant from it. Her voice is a burst of something floral on Jameson's tongue, like rosewater, but bitter. "The FBI now says that they have been able to locate a match for one set for the very first time."

All the sweat on Jameson turns to ice. 

He doesn't even try.

He just swallows, unable to look away as a photo of the man himself is on the screen, the little tagline Prints identified in Rancher's Rest cold case.

It's Robert, sitting at the kitchen table. Oh, Jameson knelt by that table for many meals, waiting to be fed whatever scraps the bastard put into a bowl and set on the floor, forcing him to eat without his hands or starve. In the photo, though, Robert’s seemingly alone, just smiling and drinking a beer. 

So who took the photo?

It wasn't me, Jameson thinks, even as he wracks his brain trying to find any such memory. He wasn't allowed to use his hands, ever, except for when Robert wanted to fuck into them and then laugh at the pet's defiant glare as he made him beg before he'd clean off the muzzle and his face. He wore those fucking mittens too much to have ever taken a photo. The fucking mittens. What Robert, cackling with laughter, called his paws. 

Oh, are they hurting today, dog? Maybe if you're good I'll let you have a couple drinks and settle that hurt down…

Jameson's fingers ache now, too, as if simply remembering summons the pain. He looks down to see them curled at the knuckles, not quite in fists, and shudders - but then he looks back to the TV. 

Seeing Robert's face… it feels like even after he's dead, he can make Jameson look at whatever he wants. 

Robert never, ever had people over, never let anyone in the house. He always had a victim in the basement, or at least all their rotting bodies stinking up the air-

Jameson groans, leaning over and pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes. He can still smell it, that's the worst part. Just remembering it brings back the goddamn smell. His stomach flips just recalling the decay, the sickly-sweetness layered underneath the Lysol spray or scented candles from the fucking Wal-Mart. It always smelled like death, underneath everything else. He jerks forward, fighting the heave that tries to travel up his throat. 

Robert knew his house smelled bad. He never let anyone in the house.

So who the fuck took the photo, if it hadn't been Jameson?

Had there been someone else before him, or after? Someone who wasn’t killed over moments or days or a couple weeks at most, someone who was allowed to stay in the cage in the living room, watching the light behind the curtains to track the passing days?

"The little town of Rancher’s Rest was torn asunder a few years ago by the discovery of more than a dozen bodies buried in the basement of a beloved, longtime local resident who turned out to be hiding a very dark secret."

Jameson flinches as if the Anchorwoman had slapped him when she speaks again. He'd gotten lost in his mind, distracted by the memory of Robert's smile, and the way he would press his fingers into the paws until he could feel Jameson's trapped fingers twitching, desperate to straighten out again. 

He wore the mittens all the fucking time except in the cage and the basement… until he left. He'd had them off when Robert tried to make him help bury the last one…

Did they find his prints on the shovel handle? On doorknobs, or the dresser where he'd gotten some clothes? 

But, no. Two sets and only one identified. Maybe it's someone else. Whoever took the photo of Robert, maybe. 

Please, he thinks with a desperate fear followed by immediate, painful shame for being so weak. Please not mine, please don't let them be mine. 

"Between multiple still-unidentified victims, implications found in Robert’s own belongings that he may be responsible for even more deaths than previously known, and the lingering question of the fingerprints, this cold case has never been far from the mind of FBI investigators. Today, at a press conference held at the Butte county courthouse in Chico, lead investigator Agent Roland Brandt announced a person of interest has been identified in relation to prints found inside the home."

There’s a second where she stops speaking, and Jameson can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can only think to himself, in a loop that lasts forever and happens in an instant, please don’t let it be me please please don't let it be me as the screen shifts to recording of a man in a dark suit standing before a small handful of reporters. 

Jameson's eyes close, but a hot breath that chills against his neck forces them open again. Watch, Robert whispers, voice dripping like oil inside him. A flash of cold white light. Jameson stops breathing. He can hear his own blood rushing through his ears, but it isn't enough to drown out the news. 

“I-I don’t want to-”

Watch, you useless goddamn dog, Robert says. The hair at the nape of Jameson’s neck moves, shifted by the air from the ceiling fan, but Jameson feels it as Robert’s fingers grazing the short soft hair just at the base of his skull. 

He does what he’s told.

No matter how hard he fought, he always did, in the end.

They'll know, he thinks, even his thoughts spiking with panic, barely even coherent, just fear, and the pain. They'll know I did it, they'll know I killed him, they'll find me and scan my barcode and send me back to WRU to be refurbished, they'll find Nat, they'll find Allyn…

They'll take me away from Allyn-

"... find some prints remaining on a series of photographs found in the deceased's possessions," The investigator is saying, sounding almost bored even as the hysterical wordless fear is rising higher and higher within Jameson's mind. 

His hands hover in the air, knuckles bent and twisted into a shape they are no longer forced to hold. His breath is short and shallow, gasps that barely have oxygen, and he feels dizzy as his lungs cry for more and he can't provide it. 

They won't even let me remember Allyn-

"Thanks to some accidental preservation due to being packed how they were, we have strong fingerprints, and now a strong match."

They'll take my memories of Nanda away-

"No," Jameson whispers. Tears run down his cheeks, blistering hot compared to the cold fear-sweat everywhere else. He blinks them away as they blur his vision. "I won't lose Nanda. You can't fucking take him away, I'm the only one who really knew him, you c-can't-"

"A recent arrest made in Idaho has given us our first break in this case in a long time. Unfortunately, the individual posted bail and disappeared before we received notice of the matching prints. I've distributed the mugshot of the person of interest we are searching for-"

Wait. Idaho?

Jameson feels Trash Cat rub the corner of her eye and her cheek against one of his frozen hands, as she pushes her way onto his lap, a warm slight soft weight that starts up a loud, cracked purring. 

The mugshot is the next thing on the screen. It's a man older than Jameson, by a decade, maybe a little more. He has short blond hair, kind of ashy-colored, slightly longer on top and shorn short on the sides. He isn't looking into the camera.

He has scar around his neck, an angular face with sharp cheek- and jawbones. There's a scar on his nose visible even through a television screen. It's small, but Jameson knows what it means. 

He knows what the neck scar means, too. 

This man has worn a collar before… and a muzzle. 

His eyes are empty, blank above a flat expression. He went into his own mind a long time ago, and maybe never came all the way out. 

Jameson knows that look, too.

"If anyone has seen this man or comes into contact with them, please let us know immediately. He is approximately six feet, two inches tall. Officers who arrested him stated he has an accent, probably European, but they weren't sure. He did not provide any answers to officers’ questions, and his identification was proven to be falsified. His current alias is Charles Ingvall, also known as Chuck or Chaz.”

Chaz? People are still nicknamed fucking Chaz?

“Charles Ingvall is currently wanted for human trafficking charges. We have reason to believe he has become involved with the criminal elements in the expanding pet liberation movement and is guilty of trafficking runaway pets over the border with Canada. Since his fingerprints matched one of the unidentified sets of prints in Robert Weber’s house, we believe he has information pertaining to Robert Weber's case and that he resided in the house for some time."

Jameson exhales. 

Someone else.

They're hunting someone else.

It's not him. 

Someone else left that house alive, and they're looking for that poor bastard, not him. 

Then he remembers the other set of fingerprints, still unidentified, and feels himself go cold and still again. If they ever check with WRU, they’ll know it’s him. They’ll tie it back to Nanda’s death, they’ll know…

Jameson curls over Trash Cat, who makes a soft mrrow of protest, but she doesn't try to twist away. Instead, she settles in, and purrs louder. 

It's not him they’re looking for…

Not yet.

But one day, it will be.

Told you, he nearly hears Robert whisper, with that awful laughter creeping around the edges of his tone, that I’d own your life and your death, too. And doesn’t this count?

-

For Whumptober taglist: @whumpworld 

Jameson’s taglist:   @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

[whumpzone]

Linden & Colton - 19

(masterpost)

CW: references to noncon, Col fearing he'll be sexually abused, flashbacks, brief victim blaming, pet whump, dehumanisation

-

Linden’s phone buzzed again, and he knew exactly who it’d be before he even looked.

Sure enough, messages from his brother were crowding his phone screen. Vikram texted in small, frantic messages, that Linden found oddly funny.

lol fine knowing you you’ll never suggest a day

are you free tomorrow? I’ll come over for lunch or something

you know you miss me!!

Linden rolled his eyes, but truth be told, he did miss him. A new message appeared before he had the chance to start typing.

fine FINE I just want to see jaffa. you can die idc

That made him huff out a laugh, but he’d never give Vik the satisfaction of knowing that. Instead, he typed back:

Tomorrow is fine, don’t worry about bringing food. What are you doing now? Can you ring me? I have something to tell you before you visit.

Vik replied almost immediately.

yeah gimme 2 secs, who have you killed lol!

He checked around for Colton, but he was nowhere to be seen. Probably still working his way through the little chores and tasks Linden had given him, which meant he was either changing the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom (great for dexterity) or watering the balcony plants (providing plenty of fresh air and sunlight). Either way, he still positioned himself in the corner of the lounge, the furthest from his Pet’s ears.

He answered on the second ring. “Vik?”

“Hey, big man. You alright?”

“Yeah… yeah… I, um, I need to tell you something before you come over.”

“You sound tense, mate. What is it? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine it’s just- I have a Pet. Uh. Yeah.”

Vik didn’t miss a beat. “Are you serious? You, a Pet owner? Please.”

“I know, but there was this, this ad, in the paper, the council were talking about this random stray and they said if no one claimed him they were gonna put him down. They would have murdered him, Vik! And I don’t know. I just thought, fuck, no one else is gonna do anything are they. So I rang them up and they gave him to me for free.”

“Wow,” Vik said, a placeholder while he digested all of that. “So, how is he?”

“He’s alright, yeah. Only recently learned that he could speak. He’s still really really jumpy.”

“He’s scared of you, then,” Vik translated.

“Yeah. I don’t know how much of him you’ll see tomorrow. I’ll tell him it’s alright if he just stays in his room.”

“I can’t picture you as a Pet owner, even though you’re not a proper one.”

“Not a proper one as in I’m a good person with a soul?” Linden quipped. Vik snorted.

“Basically. Ew, it’s weird! He does whatever you say! But you’re just- you’re Linden. You’re my stupid baby brother. He should be telling you what to do.”

Linden smiled. Vik always put him at ease. Difficult topics seemed to flow off him like water off a duck. “Yeah, yeah it is kind of weird, I’m still getting used to it. But you see why I wanted to let you know beforehand.”

“Oh, yeah, totally,” he laughed. “Or else I might have thought he was burgling your house and I’d have asked to join in.”

“Oh, shut up. See you for lunch.”

“See you, Pet man!”

Linden felt the weight lift from his shoulders, but not entirely. Now he had to tell Col.

. . .

He had finished over ten minutes ago. Shiny drops of water still lingered on some of the wider leaves, not quite ready to drop into the moist soil below. But the balcony was too warm and sunny to resist, so Col was still kneeling there when he heard Master’s voice behind him.

He flinched hard at the sound, getting up quickly and ungraciously, tripping over his own feet as if he hadn’t just been caught lazing around.

Through the doorway, a perfect rectangle of light caught Master’s face, cutting down through one eye and turning his left cheek a tawny brown. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and leant forward slightly.

“Don’t worry about getting up, you’re fine, love. No, I don’t know if you heard, but I was just speaking to my brother Vikram over the phone. He’s going to visit tomorrow.”

Master was having a guest. Col nodded, but his mind went white. He suddenly felt like he wasn’t in control anymore. He was underwater, and Master’s voice barely faded through from above the surface.

“You can stay in your room, okay? You don’t have to come down and see him, if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure. I just wanted to let you know beforehand.”

The words flowed past his head, and whatever barriers had been pulled down over his mind kept them from making a dent. “Thank you, sir,” his body replied.

“Okay?” Master half-smiled. “Okay. Good stuff, Col. It’s a nice day- stay out on the balcony more, I know you like it there. I’ll see you later, okay?”

He nodded, but it must have been delayed, because he blinked and Master had left the room, as if he had never been there. Had Col dreamt it?

Turning around, the flowers were wet, so he had completed that task. He knew he had been ordered to stay, so he did, trying to keep the creeping dread from flooding him entirely.

But-

The next day-

It all came crashing down. His eyes snapped open and he was in his room, waiting, and then there was the click of the front door and Master was speaking, speaking with another voice- there was a man in the house-

Master only ever had guests when his Pet had been bad, and he was going to be taught a lesson, and that’s why he was told to wait in his room, that’s why he was prepped, maybe it was a small mercy. But he had been in such a state of denial, barely able to process the news, that he hadn’t done anything to make it hurt less.

All he knew was that he was on the floor in the corner, the furthest one from the bed, and his arms were wrapped around him as if that’d do anything to stop the onslaught. He knew they would just force his limbs apart and restrain them like that until they were done, and it didn’t matter whether he cried and begged. Sometimes they even enjoyed it more when he did. Once he had been lifted up by his throat and told to beg for his life, and it made everyone laugh, because look at it, it wants this, it’s begging for it.

The door handle turned and Col could see Master’s face. His eyes scanned the room briefly before they landed on Col, tucked away in the corner of the room. “Col? What is it?”

. . .

Hey, Col. Vik is here, just so you know, but again, no pressure to come downstairs. He knew what he would say, the tone he’d say it in, so he could hopefully make Col feel secure. But it all fell apart when he laid eyes on the Pet, curled up and trembling on the far side of the room.

“Col?” he said. “What is it?”

“You promised,” Col sobbed, utterly betrayed. Linden’s heart broke. “You promised you wouldn’t- wouldn’t- wouldn’t do that…”

“I won’t,” he said, understanding immediately and wanting more than anything to go over to Col and pull him into a hug. But he couldn’t. He knew that.

“You said you wouldn’t let anyone else,” he whispered, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes.

Then- the moment of vulnerability passed. Not that Col looked any less vulnerable. He was still hunched, small and weak, programmed to do whatever it took to make Linden happy. But he caught his tongue, and the mask slipped back on.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You can do- do what you want to me. Of course. I’m not, I don’t mean to question you, Master, I’m sorry, I know my place, I’m good, I promise I’m good.”

“You are, you’re really good.” He put a hand over his heart and kept it there. “I’m not going to come in, Vik isn’t going to come in. Neither of us are going to hurt you. I promised, and I’m sticking to it.”

Col was still sobbing, but it was more uneven breaths than actual tears. He couldn’t have spoken even if he wanted to with the way his lungs were pulling the rug from underneath him.

“For now, I think you might feel safer if I just left you alone, so I’ll go back downstairs, okay? And I won’t disturb you again. You just make sure you feel better, that’s all that matters. Don’t worry, Col. You’re safe.”

-

Vikram didn’t say anything as Linden returned, but he did raise his eyebrows. Linden just nodded, keeping quiet until he was sat back down and, hopefully, out of earshot.

“Poor thing,” said Linden. “He thinks, well- he just sees everything as a threat. I don’t know if he’s ever had a positive experience with another person before. At least not in his memory. Did you…”

He trailed off and Vik simply nodded. All humour was gone from his face; he knew when to leave it out, and when it would help. “Yeah, I heard a bit of it. Heard him crying.”

“I don’t want you to take it personally-“ Linden started, but Vik had already swatted at him.

“Oh, stop it. As if I would. But I am- I am happy I’m here, even though I’m sorry it’s scared him. You need someone too, Linden. Like, shit, this is a full time job.”

“You sound weird, being nice to me” he smiled weakly. Vik grinned back at him, in complete earnest.

“Well then, we can talk about something else, if you want. Something I can confidently mock you for. Where’s Jaffa, too?” he twisted around in his chair, searching for her. His floofed-up hair, hairsprayed to excess, bobbed around on the top of his head as he went. “Where’s my little main attraction?”

Soon Vik had Jaffa on his lap where he was brushing her absent-mindedly, listening to Linden talk about the latest book he had read.

“You are a fuckin’ hermit, dude.”

“And?” Linden pulled his best bored-looking face.

“Well… actually, yeah, stay indoors. Forcing you to come drinking with me would be at the rest of the pub’s expense.”

“You’re a bastard,” Linden laughed. “It’s you they should be worrying about, with that boulder of hair on your head. Look at the state of it, it crunches when you touch it.”

“The ladies love it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause they know if they get locked out they can use it to smash a window.”

. . .

Above them, Col listened. He couldn’t make out the words, but both men seemed happy and upbeat, excited about the night ahead of them, excited about the pliant little bitch waiting upstairs.

Before that, though-

Colton had been openly defiant. He had begged for it to stop before it had even started. He hadn’t taken an ounce of pain, nothing had earned him the right to plead for mercy. He had not only been insubordinate, but he had done it while Master had a guest. That kind of embarrassment would not go unpunished. Master would not have his authority undermined by some common stray.

Col desperately needed to apologise. He knew he shouldn’t just wait for his punishment like usual this time. This time he needed to right the balance. He would prove that he knew his place, and show Master’s guest that his rule here was absolute. So with shaking hands, he slowly creaked open the door, and went downstairs.

The laughter died as he came into view, and even the feeling of their eyes settling over his body made his skin prickle. For a split second, his feet locked in place, but as usual his fear pushed them onwards. He kept his head down, his arms behind his back, his shoulders hunched. As soon as he reached Master’s feet, he knelt. Forehead to the floor. Hands to his sides, ready to be stomped on or grabbed. He was a slave. He was always open for his Master’s use. He did not answer back and he did not question.

“Col, are you, are you sure you want to be here?” Master asked from above. He was very sure. But yes, of course, it was no use Col thinking these kinds of affirmations in his head. He had to make them clear.

“I’m here to apologise, sir, for daring to answer back and embarrassing you. Your Pet knows that he is owned completely and it was c-completely wrong to question you. I had no right to ask for mercy, I don’t deserve any. I’m a mindless Pet with no free will and I exist to serve you. P-Please, accept th-this apology. It won’t- won’t happen again.”

He stammered, towards the end. He could only hope Master wouldn’t get angry about it.

. . .

Ironically, it was now that Linden was embarrassed. He glanced over at Vik, and as the two brothers made eye contact, it was as if they had exchanged a whole conversation.

You see, see what I mean? See how he is?

Yeah, dude. It’s fucked up.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be. You’re doing your best to help him. I’m not embarrassed if you’re not.

He gently reached down to Col and rested a palm on top of his head. He jerked in surprise, a weak gasp escaping his lips, but he otherwise stayed perfectly still.

“Okay, love. Thank you. I’m not angry, okay? My brother is here and he always puts me in a good mood.”

He shot another glance at Vik, mouthing this is how I make him understand. Vik nodded. He was looking at Col curiously. Linden wondered if this was how he had pictured him.

“You didn’t embarrass me. You’re fine. I’m not going to hurt you. Vik doesn’t want to hurt you either. Why don’t you go and sit on the balcony, and I’ll sit with you later, and pet your head? You’re not in trouble.”

As he retracted his hand Col’s head tilted upwards, chasing the warmth of the touch. He kept his eyes low, but whispered, “Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you for having mercy. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Okay, you’re okay. Let me help you up.”

It was technically an order, and Col obeyed silently, offering no resistance as Linden slipped a hand over his elbow and pulled him to his feet. He smiled at Col, but his face was blank and resigned. Beyond fear. He had done what he could, and his fate was in Linden’s hands once more. It hurt to know that. Linden could decide to leash Col at any moment, torture him with knives and burning oil and belts, and Col wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

Linden steered him to the base of the stairs, and then gently encouraged him upwards, until he had drifted out of sight entirely.

The house was silent. He turned back to Vik, but neither had to say anything. Linden already knew that he understood.

-

first half of the taglist!

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captainseconds @grizzlie70 @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonward @cupcakes-and-pain @bumbumbea @whumpfigure @yet-another-heathen @secretwhumplair @whumps-up @as-a-matter-of-whump @getyourwhumphere @itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @zipadeedooda-drabbles @penny-for-your-whump @briars7 @legallylibra @angel-stars @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies @badluck990 @rosesareviolentlyread

@vickytokio @neuro-whump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpsy-daisies @control-whump @theydy-cringeworthy @starnight-whump @cursedandtired @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @justabitofwhump @glamrockgregory @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @genesissane @justbreakonme @addyez @httyd-chocolate

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

Not in a Thousand Lifetimes Masterlist

Summary: Lukas was in his late teens when the addiction to vampire blood hooked him and his terrible connections sealed his fate. He found the right (or the wrong) person that would feed his vice with or without immediate payment; that's what landed him in hell.

Now he's enslaved to a blood club, sold by the hour to feed and seduce vampires for payment. He can't run, he can't fight against a majority of his clientele and he's spent the last half of a decade lost in unfathomable hurt. The club has broken his spirit and left him on death's door more times than he could count, in the end, he just wants to taste freedom again. Outside the same four walls.

Mina is a vampiress with almost half a millennium under her belt and she's fought for her own freedom in nearly every lifetime. She's watched society adapt to vampires and after a hundred years of torture, she's finally able to live a good life. A steady job, a place of her own, and a connection with two humans that love her; her donor and her donor's husband.

All is well until a well-deserved vacation leaves her bloodless and she's forced to find other solutions for her thirst. This time, she strays into the red district to legally feed at what she hopes is the vampiric equivalent of a burger joint. Only to walk through Lukas' door and find a human that shouldn't still be feeding, at risk of their own health.

She's the weirdest, most unpredictable vampire Lukas has ever met and Mina has already pegged him as a hot-headed, emotionally volatile human. Despite their offputting natures, something attracts the two and keeps her coming back, time after time to try to feed on him. It never goes as planned. Not when Lukas has several favorite clients that like to come to see him and release their rage on his breakable form.

One of the first vampires to meet him at the club in his youth has kept his eye on him for five straight years. Periodically coming to beat Lukas within an inch of his life and see who continues to pick up the pieces. Most times, it's the club attendants but when he starts to smell another vampire's blood in his veins, that's when the line is crossed with his obsession. Sang is not the kind to sit back and let someone have fun with his toy, after he's spent so much time training Lukas the way he wants him.

If Mina is going to be foolish enough to step in on his territory, he's going to do everything in his power to make the younger vampiress fall to her knees. Getting involved with Lukas will be the worst thing she's ever done, especially seeing as she'd finally gotten a break to heal from her hundred years of torture.

But the closer they get, the more they figure each other out, both become willing to adapt and try to learn each other's language. She doesn't make his skin crawl like the rest and she gives him back autonomy between them; treats him like he's still a sentient human instead of a plaything. He reminds her the beast inside her isn't evil, but a chaotic nature that when controlled, can serve to protect both of them. He isn't afraid of her, no matter what darkness she reveals about her life.

In the end, things just might work out between them. If they can face the forces completely against them, for now.

(Tags: noncon, violence, blood, mild gore, dubious consent, consensual sexual content, 18+, romance, hurt/comfort, original characters, genderfluid & nonbinary character(s), lady whump, pet whump/BBU, slavery, graphic depictions of torture, beheading, brief mention of child death, referenced murder, threatening dialogue, NSFT themes, psychological horror)

[Click to Return to Main Master List]

Main Characters

Lukas J. Verino - 

[Character Sheet]

[Character Reference Picrew] [Picrew 1] [Picrew 2]

[Character Reference Realistic]

[Lukas Mood Board]

Mina M. Alinsky 

[Character Sheet]

[Character Reference Picrew]

[Character Reference Realistic]

[My Art of Mina 1]

[Mina Mood Board]

Supporting Characters

Sang Lee - [Character Reference Picrew]

[Character Reference Realistic]

[Sang Mood Board]

Val Zugravescu - [Character Reference Picrew]

[Character Reference Realistic]

[Val Mood Board]

Drabbles for Val: [Name Origins] [Meeting Valen/Their real name]

Andreia Leonhardt - [Character Reference Picrew]

[Character Reference Realistic]

[Andreia Mood Board]

Desmond Leonhardt - [Character Reference Realistic]

Chapters 15 / ? - Updated 7/26/22

Desperate times, Desperate measures (1) | (blood, blood-drinking, indebted servitude, brothel/club slavery, bite marks, bruises, forced prostitution, mild NSFW dialogue, female!vampire!caretaker)

Lights, Camera, Take Two! (2) | (blood, implied/referenced beheading, scars, dubcon situations, nightmares, slavery, brothel setting, forced prostitution, implied past abuse, mild angst, past trauma)

A Relentless Return (3) | (torture, whipping, brief mentions of mutilation, neck injury, animal blood mention, explicit language, implied abuse, implied non-con, vomit mentions, slavery, female!vampire!caretaker, male!whumpee, brothel setting, forced prostitution)

Proper Timing (4) | (violence, explicit noncon, nsfw/nsft, sexual abuse, broken bones, torture, force-feeding, blood, blood-drinking, begging, humiliation, referenced/implied PTSD, heavily referenced trauma, blood loss, injury, brief depictions of gore, flash-backs, disassociation, forced prostitution, brothel setting)

Too little, Too late (5) | (implied abuse, nsft/w situations, heavily sexual themes, referenced violence, blood, blood-drinking, blood play, spitting in mouth, anxiety triggers, anxiety attack implications, implied trauma/PTSD, brothel setting)

Action and Consequence (6) | (Brief mentions of torture, broken bones, non-con, arson and murder, references to blood, heavy trauma implications, fluffy/romance, reference to addiction, human slavery, forced prostitution, consensual kissing, romance)

The Art of Manipulation (7) | (long dialogue, domestic bliss, no whump, vague reference of non-con elements, Whumper playing good-guy, workplace interactions, plot building)

Fantasies and Daydreams (8) | (nsfwhump, semi-gratuitous nsfw themes, dirty talk, dubcon elements, implied threesome, consensual sexual content, 18+ for safe measure, verbal roleplaying, sexual manipulation, implied jealousy)

Fool me Once, Shame on Me (9) | (flashbacks of trauma, explicit noncon in flashback, anxiety, blood bond, violence, references to addiction, noncon nudity, threatening, disassociation, trauma segmenting, graphic depictions of scars/scarring, implied past abuse, implied whipping/flogging, referenced burns)

Fool me Twice, Shame on Me (10) | (graphic depictions of anxiety, PTSD, and disassociation, implied past trauma/abuse, grounding practice, threatening, physical violence, language, insults, technical dubcon nudity, whump recovery)

Lie to me, Not yourself (11) | (consensual spanking, NSFW/T content/themes, consensual punishment, emotional breakdown, emotional trauma, guilt, masochistic whumpee, post whump, guilt release whump)

Watching eyes, Running mouths (12) | (implied/referenced nsfwhump, heartbreak, threatening, physical violence, plot-heavy chapter, cigarette burns, intimidation, Whumper vs Caretaker arc)

Many hands make Light Work (13) | (implied dub-con, cutting, knife-play, threatening, nightmares, flashbacks, implied PTSD, referenced slavery, explicit language, dehumanization, mild nsfw-dialogue, psychological elements)

Gather an Army (14) | (threatening, violence, torture, force-feeding, tube feeding, blood, breaking/broken bones, moderate gore, dental/tooth extraction, implied scalping, stabbing/impaling, painting with blood, gore/blood art)

Fool me Once, Shame on You (15) | (whump, blood, vaguely implied intimate relationship, implied depression/relapse in mental progression, referenced injury/physical trauma, psychological horror, vampire-centric horror, polyamorous relationship, whumpee turned caretaker, fantasy elements, plot building chapter)

Fool me Twice, Shame on You (16) | (blood, gore, dismemberment, threatening, violence, implied noncon, gaslighting, torture, stabbing, plot dynamics, vampire whumper, vampire whumpee(s), art gallery theme)

Past/Future Drabbles: 

[Trading Spaces - Role Reversal AU]

[Fate by Design - Before Plot]

[Was it worth it? - Post Plot] 

[Self Care - Post Plot] 

[Mina’s Nightmares - Post Plot]

[Asks about Mina, Lukas and Co.]

[Ask game #1] [Ask game #2] [Ask game #3]

[Mina, Lukas, Val and Sang as Drinks]

[ocean-blue-whump]

8 - Lorenzo

(Happy!AU - The Kidnapping Arc -> Shattered Diamonds)

The very angsty arc of the Happy!AU where Dany never gets forced to marry Ridley Lordin and follows in her father’s footsteps as a crime lord, Lorenzo Whitlock never becomes Sunny, and their one-night stand at the Bahamas leads to a happy, loving marriage. This is a collaboration with @justplainwhump , Dany is her character.

Dany Masterlist || Sunny Masterlist

[Part 1] [Previous] [Next] [Masterlist (coming soon)]

Tagging both the Dany crew and the Sunny crew! @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @whumpfessional @winedark-whump @painful-pooch @distinctlywhumpthing @whumping-on-the-ridge @queenofthenoobs @hackles-up @whumping-newbie @just-horrible-things - let us know if you want to be added or removed from this tag list.

CW: 18+. MINORS DNI. NONCON, forced to watch, creepy/intimate whumper, very brief BBU reference

***

Lorenzo looks up at Dany, trembling. Oh, no. This...this isn't going to be good, the lethal look in Ian’s eyes as he glares down at Dany’s grasp on his arm. 

Ian backs away from the desk, ripping his arm free from Dany's grip. "Fine. Maybe in a few hours you'll be more reasonable. But for now..." His eyes glint with malice. "You should remember that everything you do has consequences for your husband. We won't bring him to WRU yet. But there are other ways of breaking someone down. I'll leave you to think on it. Enjoy the show." 

Ian turns on one heel and walks out of the room. Lorenzo doesn't like that, not at all. His breath hitches as Adam stands up, heading towards him, and Fitz moves to stand right behind Dany, one hand on his gun. 

"Pretty," Adam coos, lifting Lorenzo's chin up with two fingers. "No wonder she keeps you around." His shoulder is starting to swell, he can't move it without feeling horrible pain. It needs to be, to be reset so there's no more damage to the joint, he needs a doctor, sooner rather than later. 

Adam has other plans. 

He pulls Lorenzo to his feet and undoes the handcuffs. "We won't be needing these. You'll be good for me." 

Lorenzo hates that Adam's right. He’ll be good. He’ll be quiet and obedient and take what he has to so he can keep Dany safe.

"Hold her still," Adam says to Fitz. "Don't want her to miss a minute of this." 

Fitz forces Dany down into the chair, her eyes glowing with murderous rage. Lorenzo can only hope that she doesn't make this worse, whatever this is. 

Adam's fingers work to undo the tie on his apron, pulling it off over Lorenzo's head. The cold air makes goosebumps appear on his skin. He's vulnerable now, exposed. 

"I thought this was just going to be a normal job," Adam says as he folds the apron and slides it across the table to Dany. "But then I walked into your house and saw…well, I saw you. In your collar and apron, your pretty blue eyes...yeah, you looked like a fun one." 

Lorenzo whimpers, not daring to make another sound. What are they going to do to him? He's heard they whip pets, maybe that.

Adam guides Lorenzo over to the desk and forces him to bend over it. The metal is cold against his bare chest and this position hurts his shoulder. With one hand, Adam pulls his head up by the hair to look right at Dany, with the other, he slaps Lorenzo's ass hard. Lorenzo yelps, tears pricking at his eyes.

"I want you to remember that you have her to thank for this," Adam hisses. "And if we didn't need her to do this, if there was another way, you'd be dead right now. Remember that, diamond boy." 

Adam's hand is working at the waistband of his underwear, slowly inching the fabric down. 

Dany screams, trying to jump up, and Andrey rushes towards her. It takes both men to hold her down, Andrey's hand over her mouth. 

"Fuck it," Adam mumbles. Lorenzo hears the distinctive sound of a knife opening before he feels his underwear being cut away. 

This...this isn't a whipping. 

"Dany?" he whimpers. "Dany, I'm scared." 

She's not answering, she can't, but she's trying to get free. 

"I don't u-understand," Lorenzo whispers. 

"What is there to understand, baby? You just stay real still for me and make some pretty noises." The sound of a belt being undone, of a zipper opening echoes through the room. 

Tears gather in Lorenzo's eyes. He can't understand. He won't understand. "Dany, please, help me," he begs. 

Dany makes a small sound of despair. 

A tear rolls down his cheek. "I don't understand, Dany, Dany, please, help me." She'll hate him after this but whatever Adam's planning, Lorenzo can't wrap his head around it. "Dany?" 

"She can't help you. She caused this. So she's going to sit here and watch me take what I want." 

"I'm scared, Dany, please," Lorenzo whimpers. "Please help me, please don't make me do this." 

He won't accept what this is. He can't.

The sound of a cap opening. "I hope I don't destroy you too much," Adam says, his voice a low hum. "You're such a pretty, pretty thing. I bet you're going to bleed for me, huh?" He bends forward, laying over Lorenzo, close enough to get into Dany's face, too. "Good thing I like that." 

Dany shudders. 

H...how is Lorenzo going to bleed? There's no weapons nearby save for Adam crushing Lorenzo with his weight and something stiff poking into him-- 

He won't think about that, he can't. "Dany." He's staring at her, they're both crying. They’re both crying, they both know but he won’t, he can’t accept this. "Help me." 

Dany wails and thrashes against Andrey and Fitz in a desperate attempt to break free, but they hold her steady and force her to look right at Lorenzo. 

"I'm so scared." This can't be happening. This isn't happening. It's not real. "Please, stop them!" His voice reaches a crescendo on the last word, it only seems to make Dany cry harder. 

He has to do this alone but he needs Dany, he can't do this. One of Adam's hands pins Lorenzo's wrists down, the other grabs onto his collar and pulls until Lorenzo is choking. 

"P-please." There's something poking between his legs now, he feels Adam's teeth scrape against his back. "Dany," Lorenzo whispers, repeating his wife’s name like it’s an anchor. "Please don't hate me." 

He won't accept what this is, what's about to happen. 

"Dany, save me. Please." 

Adam thrusts in and Lorenzo screams and the world shatters into a million pieces around him. Dany couldn't save him, not in time. And Lorenzo won't survive this if he has to be here, looking at his wife while Adam... 

He won't survive that so he has to find another way. 

Lorenzo Hammond drifts off into nothingness, into the darkness, until he doesn't have to feel anything anymore.

[darkwritingsnshit]

Back Home 6

Warnings: This is a dark fic. Please do not read if you’re under 18, or are uncomfortable with dark characters, noncon, kidnapping, alchol mention, drug mention, death threats, asshole characters.

I absolutely hate the holidays and am not big on my family either so I’ve decided to make that everyone’s problem

That night at dinner, everyone wore smug smiles. You remained in a bad mood all day, their amusement was irritating.

“So, dear, you must be thinking of where in New York you’d like to live, now that you’re back together with Steve.” Your father casually mentioned, as though he were talking about the weather.

You choked on your drink, sending some of it spraying onto the table. Your family looked at you like you had murdered someone.

“Excuse you? I am NOT back together with Steve, is that why you all look so damn smug?” 

The entire family seemed to be in on it, they wore the same expression on their faces and exchanged knowing glances. 

“Well, why not?” Bucky was the one to break the heavy silence.

“We broke up for a reason Bucky, and it’s none of your damn business. Why are you all like this? I don’t want to live here, and I am certainly NOT back together with Steve. Why are you so obsessed with me?” You were exasperated. Your sister and brother laughed at the reference you had accidentally dropped.

“So now it’s a crime to care about your children? Why don’t you call the police then because I’m never going to stop!” Your mother was out of her chair, fuming and pointing at you. You wished her outbursts could at least be predictable. “It’s not our fault you can’t see the life you could have here. It’s like you want yourself to be miserable. We’re trying to give you another option!” 

You had to take a few deep breaths and decide the best way to respond without making things worse. 

“Mom, I love you so much, and I truly appreciate everything you do, dad too.” You really tried to sell the lie, years of lying as a teenager made it a little bit easier. “I promise that if I’m not happy with how my life is going, I’ll come back here to be closer to you, okay?” While that was the farthest thing from the truth, it at least made your mother sit back down. 

“If you really loved or cared about us, you’d do the right thing and stay here. Your niece doesn't even know you.” The look on your father’s face was one you were used to, frustration and distaste evident. 

“That’s not my fault, it’s not like they come visit me, or even accept my calls when I do try to call.” Your sister rarely answered your calls, if she did it was brief and you never got to speak to your niece. Your sister always claimed they were too busy to talk. 

“Please, why in god’s name would we come visit you? Don’t you know how difficult it is to travel with a child, or to even get time off? How expensive it is? Oh that’s right, you wouldn’t, you don’t have a child.” Your sister shook her head at you, Bucky made a noise of disbelief at you.

Your mother put her hand over yours on the table.

“You’re not getting any younger, sweetheart…” she started. You didn’t let her finish.

“Please, stop, okay? I can’t take this anymore.” You closed your eyes to silence around the table.

“You’ve always been so sensitive,” your brother spoke up, “you never could take any kind of joke. We’re trying to be supportive, you can’t even deal with that.” 

Your sister laughed and nodded in agreement, your parents shook their heads in what looked like embarrassment. Thankfully, they took the hint and moved on from terrorizing you. You didn’t say another word to anyone that night. 

-

You got one night off; one night with no parties, no forced socialization, even your sister and Bucky had gone to their own house. Your father was locked away in his study doing work, your brother was with Steve and your mother had “retired early” to take a bath and lay down. You figured she might just be taking xanax and drinking wine but whatever got her out of your hair. 

Realizing that it was your one night of respite, you decided to take advantage of the alone time. You perused your father’s vintage wine collection before deciding on a good year, dug a container of ice cream out of the freezer and went to your room alone, locking the door behind you. You didn’t care if you heard screaming or a murder, there was no way you were leaving your room that night unless the house caught on fire. 

Three quarters of a bottle of wine later, you were drunk and enjoying the tv show far more than sober you would. So far you hadn’t heard anything, no yelling, clangs, bumps or other strange noises, thankful for some down time. Downtime wasn’t always a good thing, because even with the tv in the background you couldn’t stop thinking about what happened with Steve. 

You wanted to blame everything on being drunk, but you weren’t that drunk, were you? It couldn’t entireley be chalked up to that, so why had you been so goddamn stupid? With Steve it was always easier to give in than to argue, you knew that, maybe you were just tired of fighting all the time. But you had kept fighting with him, last night had felt like a fight, and you had the bruises on your legs and arms to prove it. At least, half of last night had been a fight. The other half made you feel so good you wanted to scream. You DID hate Steve, you knew it, so why had you let that happen?

Thinking back on your relationship with Steve made you cringe. You had been so young and dumb and sucked into the lifestyle your family lived that you couldn’t even see how toxic it was. It made you sick to think about how controlling manipulative Steve had always been, but it made you feel worse thinking about how you ate it up. You trusted Steve completely once, and it ended up almost killing you. Every moment you thought had been sweet or cute, was just a huge red flag in hindsight. You wished you could scream at your younger self to run. Steve liked to control you, tell you what to think, who to see, how to dress, he liked to OWN you, and you had been young and dumb enough to believe that was love. Steve still thought it was.

Apparently thinking of the devil could conjure him, your phone lighting up with Steve’s name. With a shriek you threw it across the room, laughing drunkenly when it hit the wall and fell to your bed. It continued to ring, the next caller was your brother, which you ignored. Your brother called again, and you giggled.

“Your call could not be completed as dialed. Goodbye.” You tried to sound like a robot, hanging up on him and laughing. Annoyed, you silenced your phone and crawled into bed, realizing that this was probably the only good night you’d have until you went home. 

-

Christmas day itself was the biggest headache of the year. Your parents put on a play for themselves, in which your family were the actors and you had to pretend to be a happy family. You weren’t sure why you had to act all day long, since there was nobody at your house until the party in the evening, but it was absolutely expected that you play along to make your mother happy. There were even special clothes set out for you to wear, so that you wouldn’t “embarrass” your mother by not looking good. Again, there was no one at the house except your family and their staff. 

You opened presents after a lavish breakfast, your family thanking you for presents you hadn’t bought them. Nobody received anything useful, the lavish gifts were status symbols, instead of something pragmatic. When you opened the small box from your mother you gasped. 

“They belonged to your grandmother, she wore them on her wedding day. She wanted you to do the same.” Your mother informed you. The pearls were beautiful, clearly passed down through generations of women in your family. “They stay here though, you can’t take them back to your place when you leave.” 

None of the gifts you’d ever received had come without contingencies. 

“Thank you mom, it means a lot.” You couldn’t stop looking at the necklace; it matched the photographs of your grandmother in the hall.

“Hopefully you’ll have a use for them sooner, rather than later.” Your father huffed at you, which you ignored. 

You really, really wished that after opening presents the day would end, but you didn’t get what you wanted when it came to family. There were a few hours of respite in the afternoon while your parents rushed around, getting everything in place for the guests that would arrive that evening. You weren’t lucky enough to be spared the thirty minute lecture from your mother about how you had to behave and look appropriate. You had been hearing the same speech since you were a child, you could probably have given the lecture to yourself from memory. 

-

Eventually you stopped asking yourself why your family did the things they did. You wouldn’t get it, probably not ever. Why would they make everything complicated, why would they insist on wearing themselves out for the benefit of other people who didn’t actually care? Considering the short amount of time you had left in the house, you again decided the best course of action was to be quiet and not ask questions that would get you yelled at. You only had a few more days of this. 

By the late afternoon you watched people filter into the house, and heard the noises of a party begin slowly. Groaning, you wondered how much of this you could put up with. Exhausted by the constant expectation of perfection, you decided to forgo your parents wishes, after all it was Christmas.

That’s exactly how you found yourself too drunk. You thought you were pacing yourself but you clearly hadn’t done a good enough job. The sun had set, the house was filled with people you didn’t care about, so you were on the balcony, hiding away in plain sight.

“Gimme one of those,” your hand was shaky as you held it out towards your brother. Surprisingly without a snide remark, he handed over a cigarette.

Steve already had a lighter in his hand, leaning close to light it. You took a few drags until you couldn’t anymore, you hadn’t smoked in years and the whole thing would make you sick, but damn did just enough make you feel better. Steve took it from your fingers and smoked it with you; you let him pass the cigarette back and forth between the two of you until it was gone. 

“You know-” 

“Don’t ruin this.” You waved your hand at him when Steve began to talk, and he miraculously fell silent for a few more minutes.

“I haven’t seen you smoke in years,” Steve tried again.

“I need to brush my teeth,” you walked away, not caring about anything he had to say to you.

After a quick toothbrush and hand wash, you thought about how long you could hide out in your room until someone came looking for you. With a sense of dread you slowly went back downstairs. Maybe you could avoid the rest of your family if you tried hard enough. You laughed at yourself in the mirror at the thought, but you were drunk enough to not care.

-

“Whatever I don’t give a shit.” Your mother was lamenting your intoxicated state. She found you after you came back downstairs, furious at your drunkenness. It was funny how she cared so much about you and your sister getting drunk or tipsy, but didn’t bat an eye when your brother pulled the same stunt.

To prove a point you grabbed the nearest drink, that happened to be in Steve’s hand, and threw it back. You were aware that it was a bad decision but you really, really didn’t care. You were sick of this, it was Christmas and they wouldn’t let you have a minute break from their judgments. 

The amount of liquor you’d had was unreasonable, you eyed the tables in the room looking for carbohydrates to sop up the mess in your stomach. You were starting to feel woozy. 

“I can’t believe my eyes, someone is finally starting to have a good time!” Steve followed you out to the balcony again where you had gone to clear your head.

“I’m not having a good time, I’m miserable.” Why hide how you really felt?

“You seemed happy enough to steal my drink,” Steve countered. 

“I’m not blacking out to have a good time, I’m blacking out to pretend I’m somewhere else.” Steve held up another cigarette which you took and lit, back towards him. 

“Blacking out huh? That’s not like you.” He said with a smile you could hear. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” you gestured behind you towards your family’s house. 

“We can always get out of here,” Steve liked how drunk you were, it made you more compliant. 

“Nah, I’d rather not spend any more time with you,” you let him know. 

“So you’re gonna steal my drinks and my cigarettes and leave me hanging?” 

“My god! I’ll go get you a drink and buy you a pack of cigarettes Steve, why are you like this?”

“Why won’t you come home with me?” He acted like he hadn't heard you.

“Because I hate you!” Your hands were thrown up. 

“Nah, you don’t hate me.” Steve would never let you win any argument. “You proved that the other night.”

“You’re disgusting.” He would never let you live down your mistakes.

“Mmhm, well let me know if you still feel the same way in half an hour.” You could see the smirk on his face when he moved closer.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You weren’t having any more drinks, unsure how half an hour would make you warm up to him.

“That drink was spiked with molly.” Steve nonchalantly threw out.

“What the fuck Steve?” You were suddenly livid.

“It’s Christmas, I’m enjoying myself. And it looks like you will be too.” Steve was all too pleased with himself.

“I need to throw up.” You tried to run to the toilet but Steve stopped you. 

“It’s no use now baby, just relax okay? It’s already in your bloodstream.” He sounded so self assured, so pleased that you had fallen into a trap that he hadn’t even set.

“Goddamn it.” You couldn’t believe yourself. How could you be so stupid?

-

Twenty minutes later, you felt so much better, the people around you were less annoying, the conversations engaging. You surprised yourself with your willingness to talk to people, your leg bouncing the whole time. The people in your house were suddenly far more interesting than before, everyone was so much nicer. 

Approaching you with a smile, Steve sat down beside you and ran his hands up your legs, settling them on your thighs but you didn’t care for once, it felt nice. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” You greeted him, a smile creeping across your face. It didn’t annoy you that he was there, that he was touching you. 

“Feeling better?” A sly look on his face. 

“Yeah, I feel great!” All the animosity had left your voice, you weren’t sure why you had been so upset with Steve. 

“Yeah I thought you might. You wanna get out of here?” 

“Where are we going?” You asked with a giggle. 

“Somewhere more private, somewhere we can talk.” 

Talking didn’t sound so bad, neither did getting away from the crowd of people in the room. 

“Sure, let’s go.” Every part of you felt good, your body was tingling, you couldn't stop smiling. Who would it hurt to go talk with Steve?

Grabbing your hand made you feel an electricity between the two of you, Steve’s skin felt so good on yours. You followed him happily up the stairs into your room.

“What do you wanna talk about?” You were interested in what he had to say, it had been so long since the two of you sat down and had a pleasant conversation.

Hardly letting the words get out of your mouth, Steve had you against the wall, lips on yours, fingers lacing together.

“What are you doing?” Your voice was breathy, but not unhappy.

“Treating you right,” was his reply, whispering into your neck between kisses. 

“Mmmm,” was all you managed, Steve’s touches were incredible. 

You pulled him closer, wanting more of his skin on yours, you pulled his jacket away, started unbuttoning his shirt. 

“You finally want to play?” Steve was grinning, more than happy that you were taking the lead.

“You feel good, you smell good,” you told him, hands still busy taking off his clothes.

“I told you so,” Steve was never one to let you forget it when he was right.

“Shut up and kiss me.” You couldn’t get enough of him. Steve was all too happy to oblige. 

Steve’s lips on yours felt right, felt electric, you wanted more. Pulling him by what little clothing he had left, you pushed him down on your bed before climbing on top of him.

“This, I like,” he let you know, a semi surprised expression covering his face.

“Yeah, me too,” somewhere, some tiny part of your brain was telling you to stop, but you weren’t sure why, so you ignored it. You were happy, Steve felt so good, why would you stop? You didn’t care if Steve was finally getting what he wanted, you were too. 

Steve pulled at your clothes and you let out a happy sigh, leaning into his chest to kiss him. You let him take everything off, tugging at his pants to touch more of his skin. He let out a soft laugh; you weren’t sure if he was laughing at you but you didn’t care. 

Steve flipped you over so you were beneath him, eyes raking over your body, trying to memorize all of it. Humming happily, you ran your hands over his shoulders, his back, his hair. Every inch of him was more amazing than the last. With nothing between you, Steve began to touch you and you couldn’t stop from moaning into him.

“Please Steve?” You didn’t have much control over your body or your voice, your brain cloudy with dopamine. You didn’t want him to stop, you wanted all of him, wanted him to fuck you sensless. Your eyes were half closed in pleasure. 

The second his tongue connected with your clit you screamed, white lights blooming behind your eyes, the way Steve made you feel almost had you blacking out. Grabbing his hair, you rocked yourself into him, not taking much for you to orgasm with a sinful moan. Licking his lips, Steve kissed you deep, both of your faces now wet with your juices. 

“Baby?” you were whining.

“Anything for you doll,” Steve looked ecstatic, loving the sounds you made beneath him, begging for him.

You almost came immediately when Steve pushed his thick cock into you. You didn’t even recognize the noises you were making as your own, completely blinded by pleasure. Even the nasty words he was whispering in your ear made you feel good. Wrapping your legs around him, you pulled Steve closer. You loved his kisses, his lips were always perfect, his tongue felt right against your skin.

You weren’t sure how long Steve fucked you, time didn’t have any meaning to you. Eventually you pulled him off you and began kissing down his chest, his stomach until you reached his cock, humming around it as you began to suck him off. 

“Baby, fuck,” Steve was not expecting this, but molly could have one hell of an effect on the right person.

You had no idea what possessed you to do that, but you didn’t care, you wanted Steve so bad, and his cock down your throat was welcome. You made sure to stop before he came, teasing him before climbing back on top and taking Steve for a ride. You didn’t want to stop, hell you did want to break that bed. What seemed like hours later, you felt Steve cum inside of you, felt his cum drip out of you around his cock. You felt so good, so happy that you made him cum, you still had it. 

“I don’t know if I can sleep,” you admitted into Steve’s chest where you were happily wrapped up in his arms.

“Don’t worry about that baby, give me twenty minutes and I’ll have you screaming my name so loud everyone downstairs will hear it.” He kissed the top of your head.

A small smile crossed your face. If Steve wanted to go all night you were absolutely going to encourage it. 

-

@emberenchanted  @jemimah-b99 @ blithecapricorn  @lovepeaceorelse @aemorr-5885​