#gods staring at The Crane And The Knife

[savrenim]

.

[0bticeo]

welcome to the show!

summary: vox sends you as a spy to the hazbin hotel. alastor decides to give him a show.

tw: voyeurism, biting, blood play, fingering, valentino mentioned. english isn't my mother tongue.

you're thrown in hell - quite literally. the fall from purgatory and its beasts was long, arduous, and painful.

you've led an ordinary life. woken up. worked. slept. repeatead. same old decaying matter as everything else. you didn't think too much of it, of course not. you were twenty something and rising slowly, steadily in your company as an esteemed lawyer. memento mori didn't ring a bell. maybe it should've.

now you're in hell, and you're burning with sheer, unbridled rage, because how dare they throw you in there? (you're all in hell for a reason. all of you, fangs and bad intentions bare to the world.)

you take up your old job at vox tech. lawyer for a corrupt company. old habits die harder than you do. there, there's the thrill of probing the opposing companies and sinking your fangs into them, corrupt little fox with a too wide smile on your face.

what you gather is this: velvette's sense of fashion involves too much purple, valentino is the embodiment of everything you hate and vox... vox is obsessed with the radio demon. he's disappeared not too long after being asked to join the vees. you'd know, you're the one who wrote the contract he refused to sign. bastard.

could've been fine, really. but they work you to the bone and treat you as little less than a glorified secretary. when valentino throws the cup of coffee you brought him to a board meeting with the other executives of the company, you slam the door on your way out and don't look back.

it goes like this: you've been in hell for a while, and you're done playing the part of the sinner. so you tell charlie morningstar when she greets you at the hazbin hotel.

she accepts you, welcomes you with, out of all things, a song. too much trouble for dear old you.

"nonsense! everyone deserves to be given their rightful importance!"

that one hit close home.

you don't have the time to thank her before she's introducing you to the staff and the rest of the hotel.

vaggie, staring you down with a suspicious eye, fingers itching to reach for her spear. ah. an angel. fascinating.

angel dust. you have to thank him for being here. after you murder him for calling you an enticing little vixen and winking at you.

husker. former overlord. sold his soul to the radio demon in a bad game of poker.

your hair stand at the back of your neck. static crackles in the air. your ear twitches. alastor's entered the game.

"alastor, it's a pleasure to meet you, quite the pleasure my dear!"

he brings your gloved hand to his lips. even through the thin leather, you can feel the warmth of his breath, the press of his teeth like a warning.

his grin deepens when you introduce yourself in turn. a glimmer of recognition flashes in his eye.

shit.

**

you've always liked to cook. there's something about the glimmering edge of a knife cutting thin slices of meat that appeases you. tonight, you crave some rabbit.

somewhere in the kitchen, the clock ticks the minutes away, time bleeding out. doesn't matter when you have eternity to atone for your sins. 

the watch at your wrist flashes. 2:37. of course, insomnia had to follow you down to hell. it served you at voxtech, back when you were pouring over contracts and meaningless paperwork.

you make your way towards the fridge, hoping to god you'll find something to satiate your appetite.

"ah, feeling peckish my dear?"

you startle.

alastor.

you turn, back facing the counter, resisting the urge to bare your fangs. there he is, slithering out of darkness, a spectre in red. you wonder if it's a reminder of the blood he's shed.

"what do you want?" you snarl.

he laughs, static buzzing in your ears. you blink. when your eyes open, he's inches away from your face, craning your neck towards him - he's tall, that fucker.

"why so aggressive, little vixen?"

his fingers dip down your shoulder, down your arm, until they close on your wrist. his teeth press against the bracelet of your watch, scraping the skin beneath, drawing a drop of blood. the screen glows, a faint blue light in the penumbra of the kitchen.

your breath catches in your throat. he's gorgeous, blue light draped over his hair like threads of moonlight.

he hums, the vibration settling low in your gut.

"i just want a little taste..."

you shiver at that. at the way he looks at you like he wants to devour you, consume you whole. at the way his tongue presses on the cut, lapping at the blood. you tense, biting back a soft, needy little sound.

his leg pushes your thighs apart. you don't realise you've been humping against the warmth of him until his hand settles on your hip, claws digging into your skin hard enough to draw blood.

"behave, little spy."

you laugh at that, baring your throat.

"was it really that obvious?"

he hums, clawed finger trailing down the column of your flesh, pressing against the jugular. he can feel your pulse, staccato little thing beating wildly as you look up at him, lips parted with want.

his smile stretches, impossibly wide.

"vox wouldn't have let his precious little lawyer go." his claws tap against your watch. "and i'd be a fool not to get a taste."

he kisses you. he kisses you, teeth nipping at your mouth until you can feel static against your tongue, until you arch your back against him. you whine, claws digging in his shirt, eager for more. of course, he pulls away. bastard.

"patience, my dear. all good things come to those who wait."

you scoff.

"because seven years and s'more weren't enough?"

a pause. his lips trail down your throat.

"i suppose that's fair."

he bites you, teeth sinking at the junction of your throat and shoulder. you keen, a breathless moan of his name as you feel him grind against you. you shouldn't let this happen. shouldn't revel in the warmth of him, body going limp in his grasp. shouldn't drag his hand towards your aching core, let him press his fingers against your slit and chuckle at how wet you are. you can't let him finger you on the kitchen's counter, can't mewl like a wanton whore.

you do.

you do, his name like a prayer on your lips, hips stuttering, desperate for release. you feel him against you, lapping at your flesh like a starved hound. when he lets you go, there's a spider-web thin string of blood connecting him to your shoulder.

the sight of him takes your breath away.

there he is, eyes half lidded, looking at you. there he is, blood, your blood, dripping down his lips, his chin.

he leans closer, watching you, the way your shiver at his every touch, as his free hand digs in the tender skin of your breast and sinks into the flesh.

oh.

something snaps in you - you're on fire, head thrown back in a silent cry of his name.

on your wrist, the watch flashes blue. alastor grasps your wrist in his hand, bringing it up. it's easy for vox to see you. you, disheveled, red fur a mess of sweat and blood, panting, cheek pressed against alastor's chest. you, nightgown hiked up to your hips. you, legs wrapped around alastor's waist, teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder to muffle your moans as he drills his cock into you.

vox groans at the sight, pants growing too tight.

the radio demon smiles.

"hope you enjoyed the show, old pal!"

[killerkillerkillher]

Bound to Fall in Love

Angel/Demon! 141 x reader

Tags: kidnapping, sacrifices, religious references, reader is too angry to die, reader commits murder lol, canon typical violence??, reader gets a kissy on the forehead, a tad crack-ish

Inclusivity tags: reader is referred to w he/him and they/them pronouns, no bodily description, no y/n

A/n: call my brain an apple w all the worms it's got. This was just a blurb at first, but I made room in there for me to potentially make it into... something I guess.

minors dni!

"Cole, I can't fucking focus while they're just... staring at us like that."

"Ignore it, Bess. We have to finish these candles."

You wish a bolt of lightening would come down and strike all three of you at once. Or maybe the building spontaneously combusting would be better. Anything, anything, would be better at this moment than watching your boyfriend and best friend work together to light a summoning circle after having tied you up in your sleep.

For a fraction of a second, you wonder if any gods are watching, if any of them would be willing to give you a boon and allow you one last chance to punch both of these betrayers in the face.

"Okay, okay, the book," Bess mutters, going to the pick up her ritual book from the coffee table you bought. Honestly, if they were going to try to sacrifice you somewhere, your living room is one of the most disrespectful places. Probably right under your bed room.

"I'm sorry," Cole has the gaul to look down at you with a face stricken with grief. Like you're dead already. "We didn't know what else to do. We're both in bad places and you've always been so good to us, so we figured-"

"You better hope this fucking kills me." You grunt. Cole's face melts into a glare. "Because if I'm still breathing, it's going to take more than Satan's intervention to save you from me. I swear on my mother." You jerk forward, making him jump back a step.

"Cole...?" Bess looks at you, then up at Cole with unease. Cole doesn't say anything for a second, sorting his feelings out with a leer before turning to her.

"Read the book."

He drags you into the middle of their pentagram while she sings Latin words off the old book pages. The candles flicker and waver before their flames grow twice as tall. Cole rolls you onto your back and pulls a knife from his back pocket.

"I meant it when I said I'm sorry," Cole mutters. You snarl, but don't jump at him like you want to.

"Yeah? Yeah, you're sorry? Kiss my ass!" You shout over Bess's reading. "If I'm still alive after this, I'm killing you and burying you in the fucking septic tank!" You crane your head up so you can see Bess as well. "Time to get some stuff off my chest, yeah? Bess, I fucked your older brother on the day we graduated."

Her eyes go wide, and she almost stops talking, but Cole shoots her a look that forces her to continue.

"And his friend Carl, the one you had a crush on. And Cole? I never. Fucking. Finished. Ever! You are the only person I've dated who couldn't get me off." Cole's hand's twitch around the blade.

"Are you serious?"

"Does now look like a time to- ack!" You don't get to finish because Bess finished the spell and it was time for your blood to fuel it. The blade buries in your gut, turning this way and that way at measured increments. You just lay there and twitch, breathy gasps falling from your gaping mouth, the pain only throwing fuel to the fires of your rage.

"Please, we call you here! Honor us with your presence!" Bess chants. Cole step away from you when the candles roar and your vision is filled with bright red and orange.

The ground beneath you rumbles. Whispers fill your ears, nothing you can ever imagine understanding, but something tells you they're other summoners. Or maybe little souls of those who were just where you are now, with a people sacrificing them.

It's odd, you think as blood soaks your back, your hair. You thought you'd be more scared in what could be your final moments. But there's only anguish where there should be fear. Only unfettered violent tension felt in your muscles, and a tongue hungering for iron and gore. You're jaw is wound tight enough to shatter your teeth.

If you could think straight, if you weren't about to die, you might be a little concerned. Never have you wanted to sink your fingers into someone's soft bits as much as you do now. This is normal, right? A normal amount of rage for the people taking your life.

Something in your gut tells you it's not.

In the fog of your rage, you missed the appearance of a pair of men above you. They hover, leathery plum colored wings sagging. One wears a leather strap harness across his chest, while the other favors an unbuttoned silk shirt. One of them looks at you curious as the fire dies, steam and copper colored smoke bellowing from his mouth. A thick cigar hangs on his lips.

"You came! There's... two of you?" Cole gawks, then falls to his knees beside Bess. You can't help but scoff at their sniveling forms.

"We did. There are." The one without the cigar brushes back his long mohawk to get a better look at the whimpering humans. They're nothing new to them, just another set of weak little things looking to get something without putting in the work for it.

Well, they might have had to put in the work to capture you, based on the way you still squirm and fight the rope keeping your arms together. So much blood has left you. You are going to die. Yet you spend your last moments doing what most humans find to be a waste of precious time. Being angry. It's interesting.

"What do you want?" The bearded one in the silk shirt grunts out around his cigar. Bess lifts her head just a bit to speak.

"We want to make a trade. A soul for a better life for us."

There's a moment of silence. You blink your heavy lids, growing too tired to do much else anymore. Both demons look back at you, then to the kneeling humans.

"They're not dead." They say at the same time.

Bess and Cole stiffen and finally chance a glance at you. You're bleeding, a glassy look to your eye and a smile on your face, but you're not dead.

"See, Bess?" You cough up blood only to swallow it back down, "what did I tell you? The cunt can't make me come and can't... can't even make me go."

The mohawked devil pops a wicked smile, not even hiding it from his would-be contractors.

Cole fumes. "I can finish the job. Fuck, am I going to finish the job." He stands, moving to step into the circle only to yelp, the invisible border around the summoning circle becoming visible if only to shock Cole back.

"Not so fast," the bearded one spawns a scroll in his hand. He's eyes glow a molten orange as he scans it. "Section 1, clause 3, part 19 states: executioner(s) must sacrifice one(1) human soul to contractee(s)... Let's see... Here it is: Sacrificee(s) must be dead upon arrival so that proper collection can be done. If sacrificee(s) is still soul bond upon arrival, then they are made the true contractor and all work will be conducted with them."

"In other words," the mohawked one grinned, "you should have went for the heart." He taps at his chest.

"Or the neck." The other devil offers.

"Or that vein in they're thigh."

"The sephenous, Johnny."

"Yeah, that."

"No, no!" Cole grabs at his hair as Bess looks like she's about to start crying. You want to laugh. They deserve the despair. They deserve the horror in their mistake. They were going to kill you!

"That means," the devils lean back to look at you. "You're our contractor. You get two requests at the price of one, human. I suggest one of those requests includes healing you." He flicks the ashes of his cigar on your leg. You don't even have to think of what you want most right now.

"I want you to untie me." You roll on your side. They wait for the rest. Cole and Bess look like they're going to shit themselves from the pale faced looks of terror they give you. Your eyes narrow. "And a hammer. A old fashioned iron and wood handled hammer."

Another beat of silence before the infernals bend over in laughter. The room shacks, sulfuric smoke pouring from their mouths to funk up the room. Cole tries to cox Bess to her feet while they're distracted. Their feet can't move though. It's like they're glued in placed and no amount of pulling and tugging could get them loose. Shame.

"Yer a funny one, love. I'll love having your soul for a few eternities." The one in leather floats over you, tilting his head this way and that way to get a good look at you. You settle him with a neutral look. "My name is Johnny. You sure that's what you want? I think you've only got a few minutes left in you."

"Then let's hurry this up a little, huh?"

"Ooh, you heard 'em." The cigared one snickers and snaps his claws. Two contracts appear in front of your face, both written in a language you can hardly comprehend. A pen appeared in front of your mouth. "Sign on the dotted line please."

You take the quill in your mouth, dip it in the blood beneath you.

"Rah 'ere?"

"Mhm."

You lean forward to dot the paper with your sloppy signature, but bizarrely enough, it seems like the powers that be have decided that they haven't made enough appearances. The floor trembles, and you worry about your poor infrastructure for a fraction of a second, when a set of gold doors spawn right behind you. You roll back onto your back to intake everything. You swear you're hallucinating when a pair of white winged angels step out, the clouded blue of heaven at their back.

"Hello?" You greet stupidly. You must be losing your mind, right? What the fuck is happening.

"Do not sign a thing." The bronzen angel instructs. "Human, we are here as messengers. God sees great things for you in your ascension. Please do not squander that to these demons." He shoots a sharp look at the demonic pair. The angel's counterpart wears a white cloak, obscuring all but his glowing golden eyes. You half expect him to sing "Be not afraid." despite you actively shitting bricks.

Oddly enough, their appearence seems to have some sort of healing property. Your lethargy starts to clear and the blade in your gut starts to get pushed out. Nothing hurts anymore.

"Oh, so we've got a big soul on our hands here, huh?" Johnny smirks. "Price, what's the plan?"

Price the devil throws his cigar to the ground and crushes it.

"Do what we do best. Bargain."

"Don't play with us, Price." The shrouded angel grunts. He's got a mind piercing voice that's got your head ringing, and you swear it echoes despite the room being well furnished. "We can provide them with just as much, if not more, at no cost of their soul." Those gold orbs land on you. "All we ask for is your faith."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" You tug at your bonds with renewed vigor. The angels wince at the mention of their Lord, but only watch as you force yourself upright. "I could not give a rat's ass who gets what! How about this? First one to get me free and a hammer in hand gets my loyalty."

There's two resounding snaps from either side of you. The ropes disappear, a hammer is in your left and right hand. You don't think deeper on what that implies. You finally stand, dropping the hammer in your nondominant hand, and march over to the two people you thought you could trust. They kneel now, seemingly ready to beg for their souls.

"Come on, don't look scared now." You drop your hands on your hips. "What happened to you finishing the job?"

"I didn't want-"

"Say it with your chest." You poke his breast plate with the iron hammer head.

"I didn't want it to come to this!" Cole yells. The divine audience doesn't say anything about it. They watch you curiously as you bounce the hammer in hand. Your soul is visible to them. What should be a glowing ball of light is a red and white morning star, all sharp edges and pulsing like a heart. Your soul will certainly not end up with the others, that much is true.

"I just... I couldn't keep up with you! Your life style, the way you act, your job. I never left good enough. Bess expressed the same thing and we just... clicked. We would have just left, but we could have never lived without struggling, so we just..." He swallows. You can't look at him anymore, hands clenching at what he says next. "The book called for someone we cared for."

''That supposed to make me feel better?" You tilt your head. Cole winces, eyes falling on your feet. You look to Bess. "Thought you were better than this. You were going to kill me. Because what, I was happy? I loved both of you, you could have just talked to me."

"We're sorry! What more do you want?" Bess sobs. You straighten up, bouncing the hammer on your hip, acting like you next action is something to deliberate. You already know what they deserve, and a flash of sadness bubbles in your chest, but it quickly passes as a hot, searing emotion burns a hole into what little hesitation you had left.

"Reckon I want your souls after all the shit you've caused." You grin before swinging the hammer back and caving in Cole's chest.

"Fuck..." is all you can say after everything is done. Cole and Bess lay in a bloody heep, all recognizable features destroyed and crushed. You pant, hands trembling and nothing but white noise and static crunching around in your head. You just killed your best friend and boyfriend. For some reason, you've never felt so light.

Someone's whistle gets followed by a clap.

"Impressive. Done that before?" Johnny chuckles. He floats closer, hand running down your back as he moves past and pokes around the pulped organs. "Shite, did them right in. Can't tell which is which."

"I've never-" you start to answer, but hands are clapped onto your shoulders, shocking you into silence.

"Well, that was a good place to start, lad. Your swings were a bit sloppy, but we can fix that." Price squeezes at your trapezius, massaging the stiffness out of them. A throat clears, and Price sighs like he forgot there was other company.

"We aren't finished. The human is our ward now, Price." The uncloaked angel snaps his finger, pulling you from Price and making you spawn between the two angels. The bronzen angel smiles down at you with teeth so white you could damn near see your reflection.

"There you are. It's nicer to have you close. My friend here is Simon and I'm-"

"Come on, Kyle, you know he's ours!" Johnny spits, his wings flaring out. "We gave him the hammer first, so piss off."

"Uh...huh." Kyle's smile falls. "I think you're a bit mistaken. Look, after executing the human's request, I have his name here." A stone slab appears in front of your face. It's smells like sunshine and warm grass. What the fuck. "His pledge to the Lord has been set and his soul already has a place next to Their throne."

"Right, right, like we don't have documentation neither." Johnny huffs. The stone disappears as a scroll appears next to the devil. The smell of sulfur and smoke wafts over to you. "His name is right there, pretty boy. Getting yer fuckin' lookers on."

Kyle ignores the rude tone and does pull out a pair of reading glasses to go over the scroll. You stand there in the silence, a little too scared to speak up. What could you do anyway? In a blind anger, you didn't really have the mind to think any of this out. Angels and devils are fighting over you because you'd stupid ass was too blood hungry to think past murder. All that can be done is for them to figure this out amongst themselves, and for you to wait for the sentencing. Heaven, or Hell?

"...Simon." Kyle slowly pulls his glasses off. "This is legit. His soul is promised to all of us."

You glance up at Simon, the scary motherfucker. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then pinches the bridge of his nose with a hagard sigh.

"Shit."

That's not good.

Johnny laughs, Price grinning like a dog with a bone. Kyle marches over to you, patting your shoulders with an awkward smile. His demeanor reminds you of the way your mom acted when she said she was going to divorce your dad. And all you can think is "Not this again." Are you going to be spending your afterlife going between heaven and hell forever? Does God get weekends because Their day is Sunday or whatever?

"We need to go and talk this over with some superiors. We'll clean this up," Kyle snaps and the gore is gone, so is the ritual circle and candles. "And we'll get back to you in the morning." He places a feather light kiss on your forehead, and suddenly you're squeaky clean and in the softest set of pajamas you've ever worn. "Stay safe while we're gone and don't allow these two to influence you. Get some rest."

"Blah, blah, blah," Johnny mocks from the sidelines. Price tilts his head, and there's nothing but amusement behind those eyes. Yeah, this is exactly like your parents divorce.

"O-okay? I mean, I'll try." You shrug.

Simon nods. "That's all you can do." He steps back into the golden doorway and Kyle falls in stride. You make some distance, and with a final wave from a white toothed angel, the doors shut with a slam that shakes the house's foundation.

"Just you and us now, stud."

You turn with a comedic slowness to the devils. Price chuffs and floats forward. His assess you, takes you in in all your fluffy white pajama glory, and it seems he finds what he wants when he nods.

"Guess we've got to talk with top brass to see what's going on ourselves. Pity we couldn't stick around longer." The devil's eyes never meet yours, staying glued to various parts of your face. They hop from ears, to your eyebrows, down to your lips. Christ on a bike, is it getting hot in here? His blue, glowing cerulean eyes appear to flash with something.

"Shite, yer right." Johnny groans. "I hate going down there."

"Suck it up, love. You know how I feel about sharing." Price drops his interest in you like an old toy and takes Johnny close by his waist. You watch with a lead poisoned stare as their noses touch intimately, words you can't hear being exchanged. It's kinda of awkward to just stand there and watch but your brain isn't really functioning well enough to tell you to stop.

"Hey, stud." You blink, refocusing on the pair. Johnny seems to have climbed his partner, his legs on his waist and arms around his neck. Price makes busy opening a portal to hell in your livingroom with one hand, supporting Johnny under his ass with the other. "Sit pretty, yeah? 'll be back before those two arseholes, promise."

"Right... yeah." You nod. "Uh, be safe?"

"Be safe, he says." Price mutters. "Cute." Johnny waves until Price steps through the infernal hole and falls from view. The portal closes right behind him so you'd have no hopes of seeing anything but the red hue of smog and dust.

And here you are. A little dazed, a little sad, probably holding back a break down from the last hour of events. But you're alive and you're healed. There's no blood to clean, you're in comfortable pajamas. Could probably sleep right now if your brain would stop for a minute, but it doesn't look like that's in the plans.

So you look for something to do. Cole and Bess and moved around all your furniture to make the summoning circle. Guess you can start there, right?

[i-smoke-chapstick]

Can I just have a small bit of headcanons or a Drabble on your pick of multi Gotham boys and their hands? Like I dunno if this is weird or not but kinda like just a dive down on what their hands feel like, who’s are soft and who’s are rough, who has vein hands, who has calloused hands. Just that kind of stuff please?🙏🤭🥺 (reason being of a specific hand edit I saw on tiktok 💀, also don’t feel obligated to do this if you don’t wanna. I completely understand.)

'FLESH, [hand! hcs]

-GOTHAM!VILLAINS X READER-

⋆ Characters ↬ Oswald Cobblepot, Victor Zsasz, Jonathan Crane

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; gotham villains and how they use their hands on reader ;)

⋆ tags/warnings. GOTHAM!villains x female reader. Not pure porn but smut. Suggestive. Might be the most vanilla thing i've written? but I love this request so much and I AM A SLUT for these men. Canon typical violence for Victor, Oswald getting a little rough ;)

𝛰𝑆𝑊𝐴𝐿𝐷 𝐶𝛰𝐵𝐵𝐿𝐸𝑃𝛰𝑇

♫ “This is just my way of unleashing the feelings deep inside of me.” Flesh by Simon Curtis

I know what you're thinking.

Oswald's hands? Out of every Gotham man I could've chosen???

YES. YES OSWALD'S HANDS. Have you seen this mans HANDS? Whether they are on a knife, or in those red gloves, or if he's leaning forward on them? All predatory like...

Not to mention...the VEINS. In almost every scene I've seen of this man? His hands are VEINY. Skinny bird man is not living up to that penguin stereotype, especially not in the earlier seasons.

God- just the way he stirs the wine glass or glass of brandy. Yeah. He's thinking and wishing it was your thighs he was holding, staring into the golden swirls.

The man has some issues with being nervous during sex, but when he lets loose he lets LOOSE. And he becomes feral, desperate, grinding and PAWING for every part of you he can kiss and hold and worship.

C'mon. We see the way he grips that cane of his. The way he holds the custom made knife. The way he gets his knuckles all bloody from hitting Fish or doing his own dirty work in season 1.

Also...going back to those red gloves of his. Could you imagine? Him making you grind yourself into the palm of his hand, watching you, mesmerized at the feeling of skin on leather.

He just wants to watch you writhe from pleasure. His little true love all needy for him and his hands. Gah.

He's so flustered, by the way, if you tell him you like his hands. He's sputtering, and asking why, but that little cheeky (and villainous mastermind) part of him is making a note to use them even more.

"You-," He says with a bit of an unbelieving smile, brows furrowed, voice wavering before his face turns to a look of complete shock, "You want me to what?"

Don't get him wrong, he's listening intently to your wishes, he just looks like he's seen a ghost at your vulgarity. He's not used to being wanted.

𝑉𝐼𝐶𝑇𝛰𝑅 𝑍𝑆𝐴𝑆𝑍

♫ “You can dominate the game 'cause I'm tough / This spark of black that I seem to love.” Flesh by Simon Curtis

This man might have the most iconic hands out of EVERYONE on this list.

I mean, c'mon now. When you think of leather-clad knuckle-less gloves, who do you think of?

The man, the myth, the legend himself. Victor Zsasz has the hands of a working man and he likes to use them.

These are the same hands he carries his guns in, the same trigger finger that will pump inside you while you mewl around him.

In all seriousness, though, he LOVES his hands too. They are his favorite part of his body. Without his hands, what would he be able to do? He's skilled with them. Pleasuring you with them is no different.

They are slightly calloused from the sharp edges of the guns he holds, but he's learned to use his gloves to protect them. Regardless, the old scars and marks from when he was just a boy playing with a tec-9 still remain.

Also, he canonically wears rings when we first see him in the show. Yeah, he's using that to his advantage.

You'll feel the cold metal as he drags a finger along your spine, watching you shiver. He'll do that lazy side-smirk, breathing heavily as he watches you arch up into him just from a touch.

Don't tell him you love his hands. Please, for the sake of the zsaszettes having to suffer a total EGO trip. He's taking it in stride.

But if you do happen to mention it...he's bragging about it.

Every time he gets complimented on a nice shot, he's bring you up.

I can imagine him holding someone hostage, whether its Jim or someone else. He notices them staring at the gun in his hand, full of fear, and he'll look flattered.

"Oh? Are you staring at my hands? Sorry, I'm taken." He's mentioning, off-hand, to the rando he's kidnapped. It doesn't matter if the hostage is a full on 50 year old man. "My girlfriend says she loves my hands. Y'know, life's work, and all that."

𝐽𝛰𝑁𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐴𝑁 𝐶𝑅𝐴𝑁𝐸

♫ “This is not the way into my heart, into my head. / Into my brain, into none of the above.” Flesh by Simon Curtis

Okay, maybe i’m just a monster fucker, but HEAR ME OUT!!

Uncut nails behind those talons of his on his costume. On or off.

Sometimes, he’ll be fully clothed, drawing scratch-marks into your skin, lowly humming in pleasure. That little spark of fear in your eyes when he draaaaaags down just right makes him go crazy.

He can’t help it. You’re his armeggedon, his muse, his savior all in one. The remedy to his madness…and you get all worked up from just a touch. It strokes his ego, like Victor, but he’s quieter about it.

Dirt beneath his fingernails, callouses and blisters from working with those damned poisons. He’s suffered a chemical burn or two, and you’ll see the small circle scars on his knuckles.

You’re like his personal test subject. He likes to study you- watch your expressions when he glides his nails down your skin, almost touching you- but not quite.

Surprisingly a tease when he finds out. He’s nonchalant. He won’t let you see the sheer arousal simmering beneath the surface.

But boy, it’s there. His heavy breathing. It affects him just as much as it effects you. The chill down your back, the shivers left in his wake. He takes his time edging playing with you.

You might need to ask him to cut them lowkey because they can be kinda painful when he’s fingering you. Or…if you’re into that little sting of pain while his tongue massages your clit through his mask.

He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s filthy.

“There you go, little mouse. You like it, don’t you?” He pauses, in thought, while you grind for friction like a cat in heat against his finger tips. “I wonder…where I should sink my claws into you next?”

That damned deep voice of his…the subtle curl of his fingers inside you. Before you know it, he’s pumping in and out, trying to elicit the most vulgar reactions from you. He can’t help it. For a man who prides himself on control…he looses it all when he’s with you.

[chaotic-orphan]

INTOXICATING FEAR (IX)

Much Needed Alone Time

Read part one here

Continued from here

TW: overall content warning, very uncomfortable, forced self-harm, self-harm, mentions of self-harm, explicit self harm, gory self harm, blood, cuts, knives, cutting, explicit detail of blood/wounds, gross depictions of blood, torture, threats of violence, hopelessness, sadistic whumper

This one is even a bit squidgy for me at parts so take care of the warnings and of yourselves! Enjoy!

*~*~*~*~*

“Wakey wakey, Kit,” Ambrose sang. That was his only warning before a slap echoed around the room and Kit’s eyes shot open in shock. Ambrose was crouching in front of Kit, pale red lips tilted up into a half smile as Kit jerked forward. He didn’t get very far though.

Kit’s arms were kept restrained awkwardly behind him, bound tightly wrist to wrist. Kit frowned at Ambrose in question.

“Where’s Superhero?” Kit asked, voice erring on cautious. If Ambrose had managed to subdue or God forbid kidnap Superhero… or use him as his own little puppet toy plaything, then there really was no hope for either of them.

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about Superhero, Kit. He had to nip out on an errand which gives us some much-needed alone time,” Ambrose said, his voice too high and pleased with himself as he spoke, but his eyes… Kit swallowed the lump in his throat at the pain they promised. “Ah, there you are. There’s my scared, timid little Kit. You forgot yourself before, it’s okay. You can admit it, it’s only the two of us here after all.”

“I didn’t forget myself,” Kit snarled, bearing his teeth at Ambrose and jerking forward in the chair as far as he were able to. “I am done playing by the rules of your sick twisted games.”

Ambrose tilted his head to the side, dark eyes drinking in Kit’s threat. “Did seeing Superhero make you brave, Kit?”

“He’s going to see right through you,” Kit sneered, “and when he does, I’ll be there. Watching as he beats the—”

Ambrose jumped at Kit, one hand going to his throat while the other pressed a knife against Kit’s cheek. Ambrose wrenched Kit’s head up, so he was staring directly into Ambrose’s eyes with that cute little defiant look. Ambrose revelled at how still Kit went once Ambrose introduced the knife to his face.

“You won’t be able to watch if I pluck out those pretty little eyes, Kit, would you?” Ambrose mused. Kit shook his, trying to shake free Ambrose’s grip, but Ambrose tightened his hold and pressed the knife in deeper until Kit stopped moving. “Ah, ah, ah, Kit. Play nice or my hand might just slip.”

“Take my eyes!” Kit spat, his voice taking on a feral growl to it, as he struggled furiously in his restraints. “Take whatever the fuck you want because you will fuck up sooner or later and it’s only a matter of time until Superhero finds out who you really are! So go ahead!”

Kit craned his neck up further, pressing into the knife that Ambrose held. Daring him.

Bold.

Ambrose pulled away, dropping all contact from Kit. Kit let out a scoff as he dropped his head and rolled his shoulders.

“Yeah, thought so.”

“You know, Kit,” Ambrose said with a sigh, pressing the tip of the knife against his index finger and twirling it thoughtfully. He turned his back to Kit, walking towards the front door.

“You’re right. I didn’t really think the whole sickness thing through, if Superhero comes back and you’re still as feverish as you were, well,” Ambrose said inclining his head, with a wan smile: “he’d probably recommend a hospital or a healer… both of which I have no need of.”

Kit remained silent. He glared at Ambrose as he continued.

“So, while you were out of it, I was trying to think of a way to get Superhero off our backs and I had a little lightbulb moment, Kit,” Ambrose said, and looked over his shoulder at Kit with a grin, “you wanna know what it was?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”

“You’re so un-fun, but I will,” said Ambrose, turning to face Kit now. “Sometimes stress manifests itself as illness, Kit.”

“Well, I am sick of you, so that makes sense,” Kit grumbled. Ambrose laughed.

“And sometimes, it manifests as mental illness.” Kit’s brows furrowed in question. Ambrose smiled. “Don’t you want to have a guess at what I mean by that?”

“Not particularly.”

Ambrose shrugged. “Good. So, we can begin then.”

Kit tensed in the chair as Ambrose walked purposefully towards him, around the chair and out of sight. Kit turned his head, but Ambrose pushed it back, so Kit was forced to stare forward.

“Hey! Hey! What’re you—”

“Oh, not so brave now, are we?” Ambrose asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.

When the cool metal pressed against Kit’s wrist he jerked forward, trying to get away but Ambrose said: “stay still,” and the sludge like command melted Kit’s brain until he was forced into immobile submission.

The metal pressed against Kit’s wrist again and to Kit’s surprise, Ambrose cut him free of the ropes or whatever was tying him to the chair. He still couldn’t move but for some reason being free didn’t exactly make Kit’s heart sing with joy. Something like dread settled at the bottom of his gut instead as Ambrose walked around the chair again.

“Now, Kit, illness… sickness, physical sickness can be treated by a healer or a doctor but mental illness? Especially from stress, perhaps… oh I don’t know, work related stress from being a hero, for example. That is treated by time away from the stressors.”

Ambrose paused to let his words properly sink into Kit’s brain. Ambrose didn’t speak again until Kit’s wide eyes met Ambrose’s with a panicked kind of hatred.

“No,” Kit said. “No! You can’t—”

“Oh, yes, Kit. Yes, I can.”

“Superhero would never… he wouldn’t—” Kit blubbered before furious eyes met Ambrose’s dark ones. “He would check on me every day—”

“Would he? A good soul like Superhero? Or would the guilt of having maybe pushed you too hard, or not having seen the signs earlier prevent him from coming regularly?”

“Wait, Ambrose. You can’t do this!”

“Oh, I can,” Ambrose chuckled.

Kit’s mouth screwed up desperately, his breathing coming out a bit faster than necessary. “But— but I won’t be as fun if you can’t fuck with me when I’m at the hero tower, and you won’t learn about anything or be able to take down the heroes from within, or— or—”

“Oh relax,” Ambrose said with a wave of his hand. “This isn’t going to be permanent, Kit. Just a long enough break away from the stressful environment of being a hero. Some good old-fashioned R&R with yours truly will set you right.”

Ambrose bit back a grin when he saw tears gather behind Kit’s eyes as he struggled to try and fight Ambrose’s compulsion.

“Please, Ambrose. Please! Anything but that, please. I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you want. Please, I’ll stop fighting you. Please just don’t— don’t—” Kit cried, cutting himself off with a heartfelt sob, sniffing as the tears started falling down his cheeks.

Ambrose moved closer, cooing at Kit’s pathetic display of desperation. He pressed a cold hand against Kit’s cheek and brushed the tear streaks away with the coarse pad of his thumb. A sympathetic smile on his stupidly too-red lips.

“It’s okay, Kit. Everything will be fine. Come on, walk with me to the bathroom. The blood will be easier to clean off there.”

To Kit’s horror his body obeyed Ambrose’s command. Every neuron in Kit’s brain was firing at him to stop, to not go with Ambrose, to fight, to regain control over his own body – but it was all in vain.

Kit stood from the chair and followed Ambrose across his living room into his bathroom. Ambrose turned on the light, and turned to grin at Kit, holding out a hand.

“What?!” Kit barked, wiping the angry tears from his eyes.

“Well, you have two choices Kit, you either; step into the bath or hold your arms over it,” Ambrose said, leaning his lower back against the sink and crossing his long legs. “The choice is yours; it doesn’t really affect me.”

“Is it?” Kit asked, coming to stand in front of Ambrose, his heart thundering against his ears. If he could stall for time and wait for Superhero to come back, he could catch Ambrose in the act. He’d know that Kit was suffering at the hands of a fucking tyrant.

The corner of Ambrose’s lips quipped up. “Knock yourself out, Kit. Enjoy the freedom.”

“Except it’s not freedom cause either way you’re going to make me do one of them, aren’t you?”

“Well obviously,” he deadpanned. “But I can wait if you want. We can wait until your precious Superhero comes back and instead of hurting yourself you can hurt him too. Would you like that, Kit?”

“You said you wouldn’t read my mind anymore. Takes the fun out of it, have you changed your tune?”

Ambrose rolled his eyes and stood to his full height, stepping forward and knocking Kit back a step with his shoulder. Kit’s eyebrows rose in surprise as he stumbled back, forgetting that Ambrose was taller than him.

“Honestly Kit, I try,” Ambrose said with another step. Kit matched it with one backwards, still glaring up at him. “But sometimes it’s so rare that you think anything in that little noodle of yours, that the thoughts are too loud for me to ignore.”

Ambrose pressed a finger into Kit’s forehead and tipped him back another step before Kit batted his hand away.

“Real funny, Ambrose. Hah-hah!”

“I try,” Ambrose said, flashing a charming smile. “But you’re right. I have decided. In the bath is better than out.”

Without pausing Ambrose pressed his palm flat on Kit’s chest, fingers spread and shoved Kit backwards. Kit hadn’t realised how close he was to the bath, so it came as a surprise when his thigh hit the edge. He shot his hands out to steady himself too late, failing to grab hold of Ambrose and gravity had him in its claws. Ambrose getting further away as Kit fell, his head smacking off the tiles as he landed awkwardly in the tub.

“Motherfucker!” Kit cried, rubbing his head with a scowl as it pounded from the whack.

Ambrose shrugged leaning back against the sink again, arms folded across his chest. “I did give you the choice to get in the bath of your own accord. This one’s on you.”

“Maybe I want to lean over it,” Kit grumbled, fumbling to right himself. When he settled Kit glared up at Ambrose from the tub. “Well, we don’t have all day. Force me to do whatever you want; I don’t care anymore.”

“Kit,” Ambrose chided. “Don’t have that attitude, come on. Make it fun for me. Struggle a bit.”

“What’s the point? You’ll just use your powers on me and get what you want eventually. Let’s just cut through the bullshit.”

Ambrose shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Ambrose leaned off the sink and handed Kit the knife. “Kit, I want you to take the knife and roll up your sleeves and cut your wrists.”

Kit felt the blood drain from his face.

“What?” Kit whispered as his hand reached for the knife against his will. “Wait! Ambrose, you can’t want to kill me I thought—”

“Oh hush, Kit. Don’t be dramatic. Make the cuts horizontal. Not deep enough to bleed out, or need stitches, but enough to leave scars.”

Kit was rolling up his sleeves as Ambrose spoke. “Ambrose, wait please. Please! Wait! Stop! Why can’t you do this to me? You cut me! Make them believable? Please?! Ambrose please, I – I don’t want to do this.”

Ambrose crouched so he was eye level with Kit, looking into Kit’s too bright eyes that were already tearing up at the mere thought of Ambrose’s command.

“What makes you think I care about what you want, Kit?”

Kit let out a sharp hiss as the blade sliced through his skin. Kit didn’t look down. He didn’t want to see what his body was doing to itself. Instead, he stared at Ambrose as he cut and Ambrose stared at Kit, never dropping eye contact for a second. Black eyes drinking in every twinge of pain flashing across Kit’s face, savouring every morsel of emotion that bled through his features.

Kit was doing a good job of keeping his face impassive. Until the third cut. Kit sucked in a sharp breath as he banged his leg against the wall of the bath, wrenching his head up to stare at the ceiling and breathing slowly out through his mouth with a pained hum.

“Alright there, Kit?”

“Never bett— AGH! Fuck!”

This time Kit looked, and he wished he didn’t. Sticky blood surrounded his wrist, thick and dark and gloopy. Kit couldn’t even tell where the cuts were because the blood from the last cut had washed over them all, leaving streams of blood racing down Kit’s palm. Splashing down onto the snow-white acrylic bottom of the tub.

Kit was going to be sick, but there was no time as his arm mechanically moved back to slice again. Kit looked up pleadingly into Ambrose’s black eyes, looking for any sign of sympathy or empathy, finding nothing except his own pathetic reflection staring back at him. Kit bit his lip to stop crying out on the last cut before Ambrose moved.

“Okay, Kit. That arm has enough. Mo—”

“Wait,” Kit croaked, licking his lips. “Waitwaitwaitwait, wait…”

Ambrose paused, tilting his head, eyebrows arching at interruption. He didn’t punish Kit though or chastise him, so Kit took that as an opportunity to continue.

“The… the blood— my knife will slip. I need to—”

“Okay Kit,” Ambrose said softly. “We can wait while you fix yourself.”

“Thank you,” Kit breathed, dropping the knife onto the tub floor with a clatter. Kit’s hands were shaking violently as he wiped the blood on his tracksuit bottoms, biting his lip to quiet the pained whimpers.

Ambrose clicked his tongue and said, “Kit stop. You’ll ruin them. Use the water.”

Kit blinked up owlishly at Ambrose, eyes glazed over as if the thought of using the bath hadn’t occurred to him. Kit nodded dumbly and reached over to the end of the bath, turning on the cold tap. The water was freezing. Before Kit could talk himself out of it, he gritted his teeth and plunged his arm under the spray.

Kit let out a startled gasp of pain, making his other hand a fist and beating it off the side of the bath because the cuts stung under the icy water. Kit bit his lip and rubbed the sticky coagulated strings of blood from his arm and hand. He did his best to not watch them slither like snakes down the drain and instead focused on turning the tap off.

Kit looked down at his arm to see fresh bright red blood surface in his cuts. None of them too deep. Exactly what Ambrose wanted. Exactly what Ambrose commanded of him, and he obeyed like a good little puppet.

Kit pushed himself back to the middle of the bath trying to push that though from his mind. His damp tracksuit clinging awkwardly to some places as he scooted across. Kit found Ambrose’s eyes with his own as he wiped the fresh streams of blood on his tracksuit, half to dry his hands, half to fuck with Ambrose just because.

Kit grabbed the knife and got comfortable, balancing his knees against the inside of the bath, feet planted on the bottom of the tub. He cocked a brow at Ambrose, as if to say I’m waiting, and Ambrose had to laugh inwardly at the gall.

Ambrose’s lips quipped up at the simple defiance. “Okay, Kit. Now cut your other arm.”

Ambrose relished Kit’s shaking hand as he drew the knife over his skin. He wanted to record all of Kit’s micro reactions in his brain just so he can think back on this moment whenever he was feeling down. It was intoxicating.

To watch Kit’s hand tremor, his body fight against Ambrose’s power and not be able to do a single thing to stop him. He could feel Kit’s mental resistance trying to fight Ambrose’s compulsion off him as he made the second cut. Ambrose drank in his expressions, every muted wince that he tried so hard not to show Ambrose.

It was pure turmoil he put Kit in, and it was addicting. He could watch it all day, and never get bored but that was just with Kit. Most of his other victims had a weak constitution and gave in a few days into Ambrose’s mental assault, in hopes that Ambrose would get bored and let them go. Some of them stopped fighting him out of sheer weakness, but not Kit. Never Kit. How long had it been now? Weeks? Months? And Kit was still fighting him.

Even if it wasn’t fighting Ambrose’s powers mentally, it was his little looks of defiance, his unwillingness to concede even if it would make life easier on him. No… Kit was a fighter and Ambrose couldn’t get enough of it. Finally, someone to match him, to challenge him. To say no and make everything difficult just because. It was obviously an illusion, but to Kit it seemed to be some semblance of control that he could pretend to have.

His favourite part was coming up now… ah yes. After the third cut, Kit bit his lip to stop the sudden cry. A deeper cut. He brought his head up and stared Ambrose directly in the eyes, that defiance still evident through his pain filled, glassy eyes on the verge of tears. Even when he wanted Ambrose to show mercy, he refused to ask.

It felt like Christmas and Kit was a gift for Ambrose to toy with, to batter and break and fix and break again, but a toy doesn’t give you that same satisfaction. The euphoria of seeing Kit’s white knuckled grip tight around the handle of the knife as he sliced through his flesh against his will and tried to hide the pain in his expression. Or more aptly, trying and failing to hide it, made it all the sweeter.

Ambrose leaned forward. “Two more, Kit. One deep, one shallow.”

“Nn— no,” Kit whispered, his hand shaking harder now. “No…”

“Remember little Kit, what you are. You’re my little puppet. My plaything, you don’t get to say no to me. Now, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough for hospital.”

“Fuck you,” Kit whispered venomously as he sliced through his arm, deeper this time. Kit cried out loud this time, craning his neck back to glare at the ceiling and Ambrose leaned closer. Observing the strain in Kit’s neck, the veins popping out of his throat. His jaw that was clenched tight enough to grind his teeth. His voice that came out like a pathetic animal’s cry.

“FUCK! Ughh!” Kit groaned, stamping his foot against the wall of the bath again, trying to exert the pain in his arm and transfer it to the bath.

“Look at it, Kit,” Ambrose said, and Kit shook his head.

“Go fuck yourself, Ambrose.”

“Kit. I said, look at the mess you’ve made.”

Kit fought the command like he always did but eventually his head turned down against his will and his eyes fixed on the massacre of blood on his arm again. Ambrose watched as Kit visibly paled at the sight with a soft smile. Kit made another cut while he looked at his arm and then Ambrose plucked the knife from his hand. Kit glared up at him. Ambrose just grinned.

“Clean your arms with the water, then change out of those clothes and put them for the wash. I’ll get the blood out of them, Kit. Don’t worry.”

“You’re so gracious,” Kit spat. Ambrose looked over his shoulder at Kit.

“Kit, slap your cuts for me.”

Kit barely registered the command, but the sharp sting had him letting out a diminished howl through gritted teeth.

“You fucker!” Kit screamed after Ambrose, but Ambrose had already walked out of the bathroom laughing at the good of it. “I hate you!”

“I know, Kit.”

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) - @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom

[kittyamore0]

Hey there!! Can I get an Ethan landry scenario where the apartment Scene in scream six Isn’t him but Quinn as ghostface and reader goes through what Anika does after Ethan told Quinn not to do anything to them?? Thank you!

A/N: i was so pissed because i loved Anika and that whole scene gave me 36 panic attacks and 67 heart attacks!

Knocking at death's door...

°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼���☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°

°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°

RATING: SFW

PAIRNG: ETHAN LANDRY X GN! READER TAGS: @kittiescrownedsoul, @zspen

FANDOM/GENRE: Scream 6, ghost face, dark romance, horror

POV: 2ND POV

WRITING STYLE: one-shot, slight angst

Reminder: Do NOT translate, transfer, modify, copy or steal my ideas!

CW: Attempted murder, faked death, blood, height mentions, GN! Reader, swearing, shouting/screaming

°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°

The cold wind hits your face hard, your body trembles at the sight below you. The fall was too high. Banging of someone trying to break in can be heard from behind you, Ghostface.

Ever since receiving that picture on your phone about Ethan 'dying,' things just went downhill. Now, leading to you being on a timer at death's door.

"Oh, god...I can't do it, I can't do it...!" You sobbed as Anika frantically gestured to you to hurry as fast as possible. The drawer wasn't going to hold Ghostface for so long.

You began slowly crawling over, your breathing uneven. "You can do it! That's it! That's it!" Sam and Anika shouted.

You sobbed, as you noticed Sam, Mindy, and Anika had gone quiet, staring at what was not you, but behind you...

"What?" You stared at the back, confused. "[Name], you have to move right now!" Mindy shouted and pointed behind you.

You turned around to see Ghostface stabbing his knife beside the ladder. "No! No!" You gripped onto the ladder weakly, your heart hammering in your chest.

"Move!"

"You gotta move!" Sam and Mindy tried reaching out to you, but the ladder suddenly shook back and forth and up and down. "Stop! Stop!" You ducked down your hugged the ladder, as Ghostface violently shook it.

"[Name], MOVE!" Anika cried. "Anika, I don't wanna die!" Your heart felt like it had stopped when Ghostface lifted up the ladder and tilted it. "No, no, no! Stop it! You fucker!" Mindy gabbed onto what she could of the ladder.

To their surprise, you didnt fall. You stuck on to the ladder and hugged it for your dear life. Legs tangled and curled on the steps, arms engulfing the sides, but you were upside down. There was still a chance for your downfall.

"What...? Mindy stuck her head through the ladder to see a distressed you. Sam, and Anika laughed in relief and disbelief. "Im still alive! Oh, shit!" Seeing you still clinging to the ladder had gotten him furious. He started shaking the ladder up and down again.

Until, all sudden movements stopped, and you almost slipped because they stopped during his mid-shaking-the ladder. You craned your neck to look up slightly. Two Ghostafce, but they didnt look like they were helping each other...no...they were...fighting?

Another Ghostface appeared, but swung a punch at the Ghostface trying to kill you. "What..?" Sam whispered and Anika just stared in shock.

Suddenly, the second Ghostface comes up to the window. "[Name], go...GO, NOW!" He shouted with his deep, moderated voice. That was enough to get you going, because even though you were backwards, you started crawling up slowly. One by one...

Sam, Mindy, and Anika cheered as they picked you up. Anika arms held under your arms, Mindy was holding your stomach, and Sam got your legs. They hauled you in the apartment on the count of three.

Anika, and Mindy hugged you. "You did it! You did it...!" Anika cheered. Sam crouched down and came up behind you.

"What was that..?" You shook your head. "I dont know...I think that Ghostface knows us, or rather...me."

°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°°｡⋆𓋼𓍊☆𓍊𓋼⋆｡°

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[sacredsnape]

In which you distract Sev from his work on his birthday

Happy birthday to our beloved prince!! This is a special bday oneshot <3

Genre: smut

Warnings: office sex, creampie, partially clothed sex, dom!Sev, sub!fem reader, daddy kink, praise kink, size kink, oral (f receiving), finger sucking, food play, aftercare

Link to masterlist

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

You softly knocked on Severus's office door, a dark chocolate birthday cake carefully balanced in your hands. White icy frosting bore the message, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY SEV!"

Your husband opened his office door, his features laced with exhaustion and irritation. His features softened considerably when he saw you standing there with a beaming smile and birthday cake.

"Hi," he said softly, letting you inside his office. You stepped inside, being greeted by the sights and smells of various bubbling and smoking cauldrons on his desk. Despite it being his birthday, Severus still did his work like any other day. You wished that he'd allow himself to take a day off for once.

"Happy birthday, my love," you said, standing on your tip toes to kiss him. Severus's chest, which had been tight with stress from his work, loosened as his lips found your soft ones. He cupped your face, deepening the kiss before pulling away to murmur, "Thank you, princess. Did you make this cake all for me?"

"Of course I did," you laughed, placing the cake down on a nearby table. You glanced sideways at the potions on his desk, adding, "Why don't you put those away and have some cake? You've been working so hard recently and I'm so proud of you, but it's your birthday and you deserve to relax."

Severus pulled you forward by your waist, the sudden movement making your breath hitch. You craned your neck to look up at him, as he was several inches taller than you and naturally towered over you. His staggering height made you feel both protected and weak in the knees.

"I have to keep prototyping those potions, sweetheart," Severus said as he dotted your forehead with kisses. You frowned and he kissed your frown away. "It's just my luck that my birthday happens to fall on a work day."

"Sev, for the love of Merlin," you said, exasperated. Severus raised an eyebrow at you, absentmindedly rubbing circles into your hips that nearly made you squirm.

"You deserve to relax," you repeated firmly, holding your head high. "Have some cake with me and we'll sit and chat about stupid things."

Severus exhaled slowly through his nose, leaning down to press a singular kiss to your neck. He smelled so good, like cinnamon and rain. Your eyelids fluttered, biting your lip and whining when he pulled away.

A ghost of a smirk played at his lips as he responded, "We can have the cake later, baby. I need to finish my work."

"Severus Snape, I swear to god-"

Severus laughed. Your sentence fell short and you stared up at him, perplexed. He pressed a second, longer kiss to your neck this time, and you felt heat begin to pool in the pit of your stomach.

"Just give me a few minutes to finish up, okay? Take a seat and then I'll be ready for you." Severus pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before relucantly releasing you from his embrace.

He returned to his desk and you quickly sat down across from him, playing nervously with the hem of your skirt as you watched him work.

Severus hummed thoughtfully to himself as he worked, glancing up at you every now and then. Every time he caught your eye he smiled, his trousers becoming uncomfortably tight as he hurried to finish.

He yearned for you. Despite his desire to bend you over his desk and fuck you, he wanted to finish his work. He knew that he was practically edging himself and you, but that's what he liked. He enjoyed the fun and tension of it.

The moment Severus finished working and cleared his workspace, you immediately rose from your seat to grab the cake. You proudly placed it down in the center of his desk, summoning two forks and a small knife.

Severus smiled softly at you as he stood up, snaking his arms around your waist and watching over your shoulder as you sliced him a piece.

You turned around in his arms, your back pressed into the lip of his desk. Severus's chest was pressed into your front, his leg dangerously placed between your thighs. You swallowed thickly, handing him his slice as your cheeks burned crimson.

"Thank you, baby," Severus smiled, forking a piece into his mouth. He chewed slowly, relishing in the rich flavor. The dark chocolate melted pleasantly on his tongue and he hummed appreciatively.

"This tastes amazing," he said, noticing that a bit of frosting had gotten on his finger. He slowly licked it off, his eyes finding yours. You rubbed your thighs together on instinct, your blush deepening, and your breath quickening.

Severus must have noticed your sudden change in demeanor because he smirked, collecting more frosting on his finger. "Do you want to try some?" he asked you. You gasped; his voice was remarkably deeper than usual, presumably because of his growing arousal.

You nodded silently. Severus chuckled darkly.

"Use your words, sweetheart."

Severus pressed himself closer to you, his knee nudging your clothed cunt. You gasped again, tightly gripping his forearms as you fought to stay on your feet. Severus gathered more frosting, trailing his finger down the column of your neck and leaving behind a trail of white frosting.

"I want to try some," you finally said, your voice meek and trembling as you grew needier for Severus. Severus smiled tenderly at you, raising his finger to your mouth. You opened your mouth and he slowly slid his finger past your lips and into your mouth.

Just like you did with his cock, you immediately closed your lips around the digit, staring up at him innocently through your lashes.

You could feel Severus's hard cock pressing against your leg as you sucked on his finger. He released a quiet moan, dipping his head into the crook of your neck. He licked and kissed at the frosting he had left behind there, all while you continued to suck the frosting off his finger. It tasted wonderfully sweet.

Severus slowly brought his head up, his lips covered in frosting. You had a second to breathe before he smashed his lips against yours, groaning needily into your mouth as he lifted you up onto his desk with ease.

"Sev-" you gasped, moaning loudly when he reattached his lips to your neck, sucking harder and firmer on your skin. You wrapped your arms around him, knotting your fingers in his hair as pleasure overwhelmed your body.

"You taste so sweet," Severus moaned as he pulled away, licking the remaining frosting off of his lips. He pulled you closer by your hips, eagerly hooking his fingers into the waistband of your skirt.

"May I?" Severus asked you, his chest heaving and his eyes dark with lust. Although he was horny and desperate to fuck you into tomorrow, consent was the most important thing to him.

"Yes, daddy," you responded boldly. Something inside Severus shifted upon bearing you address him like that, and he practically tore your skirt into two as he removed it. He discarded it to the side, dropping to his knees to worship you like the goddess he saw you as.

"So pretty," he hummed, softly kissing your inner thighs. He silently admired your underwear; they were pink and lacy, decorated with a small white bow at the top. Severus couldn't wait to unwrap that birthday present.

Severus hooked your legs over his shoulders, inhaling the smell of sex as he inched closer to your dripping cunt. You nibbled on your bottom lip, excitement coursing through your veins. However, your excitement quickly deflated when Severus stood up.

"What-" you began to ask before being shushed by Severus. You watched him push the cake to the side, your eyes widening as he gathered a dollop of frosting on his finger.

He returned to his kneeling position and slid your underwear off, lifting your hips with one large hand. "When did you buy that pair?" Severus asked you, his lips grazing your clit. You whined, tugging gently on his hair. Severus pulled back, frowning up at you.

"I asked you a question, princess," he said, his voice edged with impatience.

"Last week," you answered, squirming when he dragged his frosting-clad finger across the top of your cunt. "Daddy," you quickly added, keening under his light touches.

"You should buy more like that," Severus suggested through a breathy chuckle. He firmly held your thighs in place over his shoulders, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the top of your cunt, licking the frosting off in the process.

"Fuck," you moaned, barely having time to process his ministrations before he took your throbbing clit into his mouth, sucking hard.

"Ah, p-please-" you stammered, your back arching as Severus worshiped your clit. You weren't quite sure what you were begging for, but Severus took the initiative and added his tongue to the mix, lapping up your arousal.

"Such a good girl for me," he growled, his nose rubbing against your clit as he worked his tongue along your slit. Your thighs trembled as you threw your head back, staring upside down at the numerous potions lining the shelves behind you.

"Oh my god," you gasped, digging your fingers into his scalp. Severus moaned against you, directing two clean fingers toward your entrance. He pushed them inside, causing your thighs to clamp around his head.

"God, your cunt is fucking ethereal," Severus groaned as he scissored his fingers inside of you. You were a complete mess, dribbling out all over his desk and tongue. Your body was aflame with pleasure, your orgasm approaching its peak.

"I'm so close," you whimpered to Severus, listening to the lewd sound of his fingers coming in contact with your cunt with each swift thrust. "Please don't stop- ah!"

Severus had taken your clit back into his mouth, sucking firmly. He moved his fingers faster and harder until you were crying out, pulling on his hair as your orgasm crashed through you.

Severus gently lapped at your clit as you came down from your climax, murmuring sweet words that seemed quite oxymoronic with how he had your legs shaking.

"You came so much for me, my sweet girl," Severus praised as he stood up, proudly puffing out his chest. Knowing that he could bring you so much pleasure with his tongue and fingers alone greatly boosted his confidence.

Severus leaned in to kiss you and you could taste a mixture of yourself and frosting. You were breathing unsteadily, your mind a bit fuzzy from your mind-blowing orgasm.

Severus slowly pressed kisses to your cheek, softly asking you, "Are you okay?" As much as he loved making you orgasm, you seemed to be in a heavy daze that raised his concerns.

"I'm okay," you said, nodding and licking your lips. You pulled him closer by the front of his robes, nibbling on his jawline and lazily palming his hard cock over his trousers. Severus moaned softly, grabbing your wrists and pinning them down to the desk.

"No touching," he chastised, winking at you. You opened your mouth to complain but quickly fell silent when he unbuttoned his trousers, freeing his cock from its confinements. The head was red and leaking, the shaft veined and girthy.

"Pretty," you mumbled as you gazed at his cock, biting your lip as you hesitantly reached both hands out to touch it. Severus didn't stop you; he watched you with attentive eyes, breathing slowly as you struggled to wrap both hands around his cock.

"Look at that, baby," Severus cooed, brushing your hair out of your eyes. "Your hands barely fit around my big cock."

You whimpered and nodded, giving his cock a few strokes. Severus immediately stopped your movements and you glared at him. He laughed, amused, and grabbed your hips, pressing his forehead to yours.

"I love you," Severus spoke, grabbing his cock and stroking it familiarly as he lined it up with your weeping entrance. You held onto his biceps, biting your lip as he undid the buttons of your blouse and pulled your bra down far enough so that your breasts were visible.

"I love you too," you breathed, pressing desperate little kisses to his cheek. Severus held you closely, smoothly pushing in with a grunt.

You whimpered and gripped his biceps, your mouth hanging open. Severus slowly kissed your lips and began to move in quick, shallow thrusts, gradually stretching you out.

"So fucking good," Severus grunted against your neck, holding your hips tightly. One hand fell to your clit, rubbing it in quick circles that caused you to squeeze his cock.

"Fuck, baby. Your pussy is like a fucking vice," Severus moaned, lying you down on his desk. You accidentally knocked over quills and books as you laid down, gripping the sides of the desk.

Severus bent over you, his breath hot and heavy on your neck. He thrusted harder, making your breasts jiggle in the confinements of your bra.

"Feels so good," you said breathily. Severus grabbed your hands and held them, pressing forward deeply and saying, "Yeah? My big cock stretches you out so good, doesn't it?"

"It does!" you cried out, wrapping your quivering legs around Severus's waist. You let out soft whimpers and moans, almost feeling lightheaded with lust as Severus continued to buck into you.

"Your pretty clit's all swollen," Severus cooed as he rubbed it quicker. It throbbed against his thumb, pulsing with overstimulation. You bit your lip, fighting to keep it down in order to avoid waking up the entire castle.

"Let me hear you," Severus said gruffly, snapping his hips so hard that his desk began to shake.

You shook your head. Severus abruptly stopped thrusting and you whined, squirming your hips around.

"Come on, sweetheart. I said, let me hear you," Severus repeated, continuing to rub your clit. Your walls fluttered around his cock and you moaned quietly; he was definitely doing that on purpose.

"Good girl." Severus resumed thrusting, drawing more lewd sounds from you. You clutched onto him, begging him to go faster.

"Faster? Fuck, you're so needy," Severus said, thrusting faster just like you had begged him to. You raked your fingers down his cloak, which he still wore, sliding the thick fabric between your fingers.

You could feel yourself growing closer to orgasm, your body shaking with each powerful thrust. Severus moaned above you, his face flushed red from his exertion. You grabbed his face in your hands, whimpering to him, "I'm gonna come soon."

Severus sloppily kissed you, his tongue circling yours. He held you tight as he moaned back, "Let go for me, princess. You've been so good for me."

You embraced him, releasing a broken moan as your orgasm reached its peak. Severus never stopped rubbing your clit as you came, drawing intense waves of pleasure from you. You shook beneath him, gasping for air as he continued to fuck you.

Severus let out a loud moan of your name as he came, filling you to the brim. He stayed still for a few moments, keeping you stuffed full of his warm seed. You were still squeezing him, milking him dry of every last drop.

"I'd say that was the best birthday I've ever had," Severus laughed quietly, stroking your face. You smiled, pressing a small kiss to the tip of his nose. "I'm glad it was," you said, "although you gave me most of the pleasure. I feel like it should've been me giving it to you, since it's your birthday."

Severus carefully pulled out, rubbing the head of his cock on your overstimulated clit. You whined and he chuckled, helping you sit up and cleaning himself and you up with a simple spell.

"I was receiving pleasure," he assured you, picking you up bridal style. You hooked your arms around the back of his neck, smiling up at him. "Your pussy feels like magic."

"Sev," you murmured, blushing in embarrassment at his words. Severus simply smiled down at you and pecked your forehead, carrying you to his adjacent private chambers.

There, he got you comfortable in bed and gently massaged your muscles, especially the ones in your legs. They were still shaking a little from your two orgasms.

"Thank you again for the cake," Severus said as he ran his large hands up and down your legs. "It was very tasty, but not as tasty as you."

You grinned and shyly hid your face in your pillow, giggling when Severus pressed kisses to your legs. How an amazing birthday it truly was for Severus.

[house-of-slayterr]

X-Men & Bat/Super Fam Incorrect Quotes:

Superman : We should get you to a doctor for a check up immediately. What if it happens again, and there isn’t anyone around to help you? What if it’s congenital? Oh my God! Was it me? Did I hurt you?

Y/N : …You realize any other person that made their partner pass out on bed would simply feel really proud of themselves, right?

Y/n : So what are your political beliefs?

Jason: awkwardly trying to impress them: Well, I think Pikachu would be a lot more powerful if he had a gun.

Batman : Robin , why are you crying?

Dick : This book is so sad!!

Batman , picking it up: But this is my diary-

Charles : Hey Jean, wanna third wheel on my date with Erik tomorrow?

Jean: Sure.

Charles : Storm ! Wanna third wheel on my date with Erik tomorrow?

Charles : Great! I've always wanted to go on a double date!

Jean & Storm : ...

Erik : Charles ...

Jean: I spy with my little eye something that begins with the letter “s”.

Storm : *looks over at Erik and Charles * Storm : Is it “sexual tension”?

Rogue : You know, Bansheee gives Hank flowers everyday, I wish you'd do that too.

Gambit : Okay.

*Later*

Gambit : *gives Hank flowers*

Hank : ???

Gambit : I don't know, I'm confused as well.

Rogue : Hank , you'll be working with Bansheee and Gambit .

Hank : Alright! My fantasy threesome!

Everyone else: *blank stares*

Hank : ...Of people on a team.

Jubilee : Why are your tongues purple?

Pyro : We had slushies. I had a blue one.

Bobby : I had a red one.

Jubilee : oh.

Jubilee :

Jubilee : OH.

Kitty :

Kitty : You drank eachothers slushies?

Jean : So… I’ve seen you’ve been spending a lot of time with Logan recently.

Scott : No, Jean , it's not what it looks like, I swear.

Jean : Oh really? So no reason for me to be jealous?

Scott : No! You’re the only one for me.

Jean : Is that so?

Scott : I promise! Logan and I are just dating, okay? They’re my partner.

Jean : So there are no best-friends-feelings involved?

Scott : You are still my one and only best friend! They’re just the love of my life, nothing more!

Jean : But I’m still the platonic love of your life, right?

Scott : Of course bro!

Jean : Bro...

Logan : What the-

Logan : Is there a cactus where your heart should be?

Jean : What’s up your ass this morning!

Scott : *walks in* ...Hey.

Jean : Hmm… nevermind.

Logan : WAIT NO!

Damian : How do Jason and Tim usually get out of these messes?

Dick : They don't. They just make a bigger mess that cancels the first one out.

Damian : *running into the room* Dick just said they don’t love me anymore!

Tim: What?!

Dick : *following him in* I did not say that. I just said that we are not driving all the way across the country just so you can punch Jason in the face.

Damian : Good night.

Dick : Sleep tight.

Jason : Don't let the bedbugs crawl up to your ear and whisper threatening things that make you question yourself.

Tim: Great, now Dick 's crying.

Jason : Why are you smiling?

Kon : What? I can’t just be happy?

Damian : Jon tripped and fell in the parking lot.

Jason , to Jon: When was the last time you let someone hug you?

Jon: *thinking*

Jon: 2012.

Kon : 2012…?

Jon: Yeah. I almost died and it really freaked Damian out so I let them hug me.

Damian , carrying a box: What would you say if- if I, hypothetically, came home with 7 kittens one day?

Jon: …

Jon: What’s in the box?

Damian : What woul-

Jon: Damian , what’s in the box?

Damian : I think you know.

Bonus Villains:

Crane : I sleep with a gun under my pillow.

Ed : I sleep with a knife.

Harley : Both of you are pathetic.

Crane : Oh yeah? What do you sleep with?

Harley : Ivy .

Harley : HYDRATE OR DIE-DRATE!

Harley : *aggressively throws water bottles*

Ed : Uh... what's up with them?

Crane : They're trying to yell mental health and wellbeing into us.

Harley : I APPRECIATE ALL OF YOU!

Ivy , crying: It's working.

Oz, with a headache: Advil me up, daddy.

Ed : I will short out the language centre of your brain if you say anything like that ever again.

Ed : We have a problem.

Oz: No, YOU have a problem. I have an idiot who keeps making them.

Y/n: You have to apologize to them Crane .

Crane : Fine! But I must warn you that this might make me a better, nicer person and that is NOT the person you fell in love with!

Y/n: *angrily presses Crane against a wall* WHERE'S THE MONEY?!

Crane : ...

Crane : Are we about to kiss-

Joker : Lex , I need some advice.

Lex : You need advice from ME?

Joker : Yeah, frightening, isn't it?

Lex : I haven’t lost my virginity.

Joker : Because you have no friends?

Lex : No... because I never lose!

*At a speed dating event*

Joker : Oh wow, people are really shallow.

y/n : Consider it a background check. For example: Do you have a death certificate?

Joker : *Checks their pulse* Sorry, not yet.

y/n : Good, I'm not fucking a ghost again.

Bonus to the Bonus: + Wade

Y/N: All in all, a 100% successful trip.

Logan : But we lost Wade .

Y/N: All in all, a 100% successful trip!

Logan : Thank you all for coming.

Wade , wearing a hospital gown: When I heard you couldn't get laid, I dropped everything and came straight here.

Logan : Well, I couldn't imagine anyone else being part of the "Fuck Logan Task Force".

Y/N: Yeah, I interpreted that in a different way.

Logan : Come on, Wade . Nobody actually believes that Y/N is in love with me.

Wade , to The Squad: Raise your hand if you think that Y/N is helplessly in love with Logan .

*Everyone raises their hand*

Logan : Y/N, put your hand down.

Tag: @oceansrose2002 @kados-of-chaos @mothmans-kingdom @myers-meadow

[matchmadeinsevenhells]

HotD Ep. 10 AU—Luke

Luke doesn’t want to die. He makes a different choice.

CW: mild gore, eye trauma

“A fight would pose little challenge. No, I want you to put out an eye, as payment for mine.”

Luke is scared. He wants to run, get to Arrax and go, but Vhagar is also here, and she’s the scariest of all—

He stares at the knife on the floor.

“One will serve.”

He’s older than Aemond was. Part of him feels like he’s been running his entire life, ever since he picked up that other knife, all those years back. It makes him wonder if maybe Aemond has also been running since then, in his own way.

And now it has led them to this.

“I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

Luke doesn’t want to die. He promised Mother he wouldn’t fight, that he would make it back. And Mother has just lost Visenya, too. If he doesn’t come home…

Luke keeps staring at the knife. He sheathes his sword and starts walking towards it as in trance.

The Hall falls silent. Even Uncle Aemond stops spitting vitriol when Luke bends down to pick up the blade.

It’s a good, sharp knife. Well kept. It will cut deep and easy. Know what you’re aiming for, Daemon always told him, but Luke thinks that’s a bit difficult since he won’t be able to see. He probably should start shallow, at the corner.

“Very well, Uncle,” he says, willing grim determination onto his face and into his voice as he looks back at Aemond. The sapphire in his empty eye socket seems to glow in the dim lighting, drawing his attention. It doesn’t even look that horrible at all. The rest of Aemond’s expression has gone slack.

He probably wants Luke’s left eye, to make them even.

Before he can lose his nerves, he plunges the knife into his eye. Half his world goes dark.

It hurts. It hurts so much, and all Luke can think of is Daemon saying that it doesn’t matter if you cry or throw up, all that matters is that you do defeat your opponent, and this is almost like a fight, yes, so Luke stops trying to suppress the screams crawling up his throat and focuses on holding on to the knife instead.

His knees have hit the cold stone floor at some point. Someone is whispering “Dear Gods.” nearby. Luke keeps looking at Aemond, who has taken half a step towards him, his face is full of rapt attention, staring back at Luke like Luke has just given him the most unexpected yet wonderful present. Perhaps he has.

Someone is shouting for the Maester, he thinks as he changes the angle of the knife and then reaches up with his other hand to feel at the edges of the wound. His shoulders are heaving, his own sobs interrupting the knife every few seconds. Gods, it hurts so much. But he always leaves things half done, and he can’t this time, he can’t. He’s glad he’s wearing gloves.

He’s collapsed on the floor now, the knife slipped from his grasp. But his left hand is still carefully curled around something small and lumpy—where’s Aemond? He hastily cranes his head until he can look at his Uncle again. They’re matching now, a hysterical part of him thinks as he holds out his left hand to him like a peace offering.

[saintship]

Your writing is amazing.

I had an idea for König, where maybe he's got a little mommy issues and he'd been dating the reader for a bit and they finally meet their mom?

(hurt/angst n comfort encouraged apvuvjrloxjclf)

Thank you so much :,)

This is definitely something i can see happening, thank you for requesting! I tried second-person perspective with this one, if you like it or hate it lmk!

Warnings: mentions of abuse, König had a shit mom, no angst between reader and him bc I’m a pussy, smooch at the end

Let me bring you home

König x gn!reader

König’s life before the task force was hard to explain, and harder to revisit. From the day you and the team met him, his past seemed to have every lock and deadbolt protecting it as humanly possible. After growing closer, cooking together, learning from each other, and hushed confessions, you’d found your way into his heart and couldn’t be more content to help him heal from his aversion to trust.

Tonight, the team was stationed at a safehouse, König rummaging through the kitchen almost immediately after getting past the door. The others gathered in the living room, debriefing at first before devolving into a warm environment of arm wrestles and laughter. You broke away from the group to wander into the kitchen, where König was quietly preparing enough food for all of them. He noticed you immediately; try sneaking up on a guy like that, and set down the knife he’d been using, uttering your call sign softly.

“Hi. Is that maultaschen?” You gestured to the meat- filled squares of dough already boiling on the stove.

He blinked. “It is. My family has their own recipe but,” he gestured to the dingy kitchen around him. “Resources are limited.” He gazed at you a moment more, and you swore you could see the smile forming on his face. “You know German food?”

“I listen when you talk, you know.” You replied easily.

“I-I see.” König spun the tip of the knife on a fingertip. It was never not entertaining to fluster someone you can to crane your neck to look at.

“Is your family big on cooking?” You boosted yourself up on the counter, and König slowly returned to the vegetables he’d been chopping.

“You could say that. My Oma always told me that with the size I was, I’d drift away if I didn’t eat enough.”

You smiled, indulging in the way he gestured and spoke fondly of his family.

“Did your mom cook for you?”

The hand slicing a carrot paused. For only a moment, but your eyes flitted from the action and to his boots, which shifted in weight.

“Did I say something, Kön?” You slid off the counter.

“No.” He replied quickly. “Not at all—my mother..ah, it is not a—happy story.”

“I-I know, god, I shouldn’t have brought her up, I’m sorry.” You turned away, but a guiding hand on your shoulder brought you back to face him.

“You did nothing wrong, liebes.”

You took his hand from your shoulder to hold it in both of your own.

“I will listen to all your stories, König, happy or not.” You assured him. He sighed once before turning, hand still in one of yours as he moved to rest his hips against the counter.

“Well,” he began. “Even before the idea of the army was in my mind, she was a—cold woman. Strong. She’d been through so much, lived through dark times outside her control. It seemed my being there in her home was a reminder of something she wished she could take back.”

You pressed your hip to the side of his leg, silently grounding him. His hand wound up around your waist, resting it over your hipbone while the other stayed on the counter. He stared ahead, watching the food on the stove.

“I was a teenager when she decided it was time I learned how she really felt about having a son. A financial burden, a point of stress. Made sure to leave..lasting impressions.” He opened the palm of his free hand for you to see, burn scars littering the delicate skin.

You exhaled slowly, anger toward the woman meant to protect him rising in your chest.

“And when I told her about the army, about being a—sniper..it was what broke us apart forever. She sent me out of her home where I had nowhere to go except..to them.” He gestured to the wall behind the both of you where soft laughs and conversation still drifted through.

“König?”

“Yes?”

You swallowed thickly, steeling yourself. “Could you take your hood off for a minute?”

He didn’t respond for a moment, and you were sure you’d made everything worse, before the hand on your body retreated and joined his other in reaching over his head. The hood came down slowly, gathering in his hands before he placed it on the counter. You moved to stand in front of him.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him, but it was like being starstruck all over again. His unkempt hair framed a strong brow, which shielded long lashes that blinked in the new perspective. His eyes, nose mouth, cheeks, freckles, ears, you could go on about it all. At last, you moved slowly, carefully taking his head in your hands.

“I need you to know you are not things that have happened to you. What she said wasn’t just wrong, it wasn’t true. You are kind, and gentle, and-and gorgeous,”

“Liebes..” König’s cheeks reddened, breaking eye contact at the remark.

“It’s true! And you’re a remarkable soldier. I’ve seen you with the civilians caught in it all, the children, König, I know you care. Because you’re a good man.”

You let your words hang for a moment before saying what you’d been thinking for days.

“I’d like you to meet my mother.”

▂ ▃ ▄ ▅ ▆ ▇ █ █ ▇ ▆ ▅ ▄ ▃ ▂

Getting time off work while being an active military member was not easy, to put it lightly. But when you and König finally had it, it was more than worth it.

Your hometown rolled quietly past as you drove through the area you grew up in—making a few detours to point out your high school, where you learned to drive, and making König laugh with stories of your stupid teenage endeavors. Miles away from work, his hood was off, and he wore the maroon sweater you’d bought him along with dark jeans and his informal work boots. Seeing him so relaxed made you nearly crash the car a few times looking over at him.

“Almost there.” You murmured, passing by rows of houses on your street. König picked at the skin beside his fingernails.

“Hey.” You take of of his hands in one of yours. “She’s going to adore you.”

König tapped your joined hands on his leg, nodding.

You pulled into your driveway, the sun just dipping below the trees. You stopped to take in the pinks and oranges scattered across the sky before leading König to the door. You turned to him, smoothing out his shoulders and the sides of his arms while he studied your face. With the one last removal of a stray dust bunny from his sweater, you knocked. It was silent before footsteps approached quickly and the door swung open, your mom tackling you in a fierce hug.

“Missed you!” She exclaimed, releasing you to stand back on her heels. König watched the exchange with a weight in his chest but remained polite.

“Missed you too. Mom, this is who I was speaking about over the phone. He and I work together.” You took König’s bicep in one hand as you spoke, leaning into his side. He cleared his throat quietly.

“It’s lovely to meet you.” He held out a trembling hand.

“Oh, please, no need.”

You fondly knew this would happen—stepping back to let your mother envelop König in her arms. She’d reached for his neck, causing him to lower himself slightly with widened eyes and frozen hands. They hung in the air, and you almost laughed when his dumbfounded gaze met yours. He had the brains to return the hug, following your mother inside as she went on about how much you three needed to discuss. You trailed after, closing the door with a smile.

König was the near perfect boyfriend to bring home; helping with cooking and dishes, listening and complimenting, and you knew it wasn’t even him trying to impress—he just knew to be polite. At the end of the night, your mother suggested a glass of a light wine, which you both accepted. König generally didn’t drink, but admitted a white wine was a simple pleasure he enjoyed. The conversation mellowed, the three of you talking like family in no time.

“This one,” your mother began gently. “Has informed me you had a rough go of it before you even got into that uniform.”

König looked at his glass. “Ah, I see.”

“That woman doesn’t know was she’s missing, honey.” Your mother pointed to König to emphasize her message. “You’re a remarkable man.”

“It’s true.” You murmured, mostly to him. This time, the warming of his cheeks was on full display.

“Danke..”

“I think that was a success, don’t- König?”

You’d traipsed down the steps on your way to take a walk with him in the warm night air when he’d stopped at the porch. He descended them after a moment, and you waited for him to catch up.

“This..your mother being so kind, it means so much.” He admitted softly. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” You wounds your arms around his middle, looking up at him fondly.

His eyes wandered your face freely. “Ich liebe dich, mein Schatz..”

“What does that mean?”

He smiled, a real, gentle smile, and lowered himself to capture your lips in a slow kiss. He pulled away only to murmur against your mouth.

“It means I love you.”

[thehellsystem]

do you have any varigo headcanons ...

OH BOY DO I

Hugo is does not automatically “get better” the moment he moves in with Varian. She has kleptomaniac tendencies and jumps a mile in the air whenever they see a guard. He’ll stand in front of expensive objects and consider how much he could sell them for. AND ONE TIME she was doing this with a massive grandfather clock and they were feeling it with their hand and then he dissociated. Then it was like, an hour later and the clock was in his and Varian’s room and she was like “VARIANNN- VARIAN I FUCKED UP-“ so Varian and him are trying to sneak it back to its original spot because Hugo is freaking out losing his marbles at the thought of being kicked out because he BLACKED OUR AND STOLE A CLOCK and Rapunzel catches them, obviously. She’s super nice and understanding because she’s married to Eugene but Hugo is going through every stage of grief because she’s not an emotional guy but oh boy does he think he’s going back to the streets AND that he got Varian in trouble. Varian’s like “You know I tried to kill several people and got pardoned, right?” And Hugo’s like “…oh”

Varian? Very normal man. BUT I think he should get to be mildly insane. He’s holding a knife and he’ll slowly turn to the person next to him and go “How many people do you think I could kill with this?” And Hugo will respond VERY HONESTLY like “Ten, before you get arrested. Fifteen if you wear your mask.”

Nuru was not their wingwoman. She was so fucking tired of them. They were the kind of couple where everyone knew they were dating before they knew themselves. In the way that Varian’s sleeping in Hugo’s arms and still going “We’re just friends :)” and Nuru is SO TIRED because Hugo is sitting with her head in Varian’s lap staring at him with heart eyes and they’re just trying to have a normal meal

Hugo and Varian have a mutual hatred for Winter. Hugo hates it because it’s easily the most difficult season for people on the streets to live in, Varian hates it because of Queen for a Day. They just hibernate in their lab every winter, even if Corona is almost always warm. It’s so common to not hear from them for WEEKS because they’re in their lab doing who knows what during Winter.

MODERN AU but they go to concerts together and Hugo holds Varian on their shoulders so he can better

I HAVE THIS WHOLE AU I’M WRITING OUT THAT I HAVE SHARED WITH LIKE TWO PEOPLE SHIRT THAT SAYS “ASK ME ABOUT MY OVERLY SPECIFIC VAT7K REWRITE”

Hugo ate everything within a mile of himself when he first got to the castle and then freaked out about it and was like “I don’t deserve this oh my god they’re gonna send me back” and stopped. Varian gets incredibly concerned and keeps staring at her at every meal and Hugo’s like “Well, can’t have my boyfriend being worried. Back to food.”

Hugo has an abnormal fondness for foreign cheese. Varian is lactose intolerant

WHISTLE FOR THE CHOIR BY THE FRATELLIS

Yong is aromantic and his image of romance was very confusing because Hugo and Varian are saying they’re just best friends while feeding each other bits of food

HUGO IS PARTIALLY BLIND idc he is because same. My eyes do NOT work and I have the thickest glasses lenses known to man. Hugo holds up pieces of paper to Varian and asks him to read out loud for him and he says it’s because he can’t see it BUT mostly because he likes the sound of Varian’s voice

The Garden by The Crane Wives starts playing

OKAYOKAY I’ve seen people say they’re Stupid With Love but Hugo actually dreams about Varian falling off a cliff. And that’s his romantic dream about the boy he has a crush on.

RYHEYBFIGH

[savrenim]

I've got to say. I feel like the current thing holding me back from Writing the most is, like. the.... drag in the physics sense of the word of having Long Unfinished Works making me suddenly extremely cautious about publishing anything that I do not have The Rest Of The Story Written

[ccieatchildren]

Whumpay 24 Day 1: Strapped to an Operating Table

TW: Experimentation, Eye Gouging , Noncon Drug Use

Whumpee jolted awake.

He tried moving his arms, but found them, and his other limbs, clamped down. Cold metal pressed against his back, and Whumpee still felt groggy from whatever sedatives they were injected with before. He pulled and pulled at the restraints, but they wouldn’t budge. 

A hand knocks on the table next to his head, startling out of his panic. A person moves from behind him to another Whumpee notices standing in the corner, craning his head to watch them. 

They begin to talk, and though he couldn’t hear what they were saying– he never could– but Whumpee had become adept at lip reading. Hyper-focussing on the researchers’ lips he tried deciphering what was said, but the shapes they made were unfamiliar. 

He wished his brother was here. 

Not only was he hearing, but he also understood English. Tears pooled in Whumpee’s eyes at the thought of their brother. 

Shifting in his restraints, Whumpee drew the attention of the people once again. They argued with each other for a few seconds before the taller one grabbed a scalpel. The other hurried to a metal cart covered with various other medical tools and drugs, pushing it near him. 

The one with the knife approached their metal bed, muttering a few words until they realized he couldn’t understand them. Seemingly done with trying to communicate with him, the scientist sighed, turning to their partner and nodding. 

Whumpee did understand this. 

He screamed, tugging at the clamps, trying in vain to break the solid metal. The main one barked some sort of order at the other, who sped to retrieve a syringe. They both held his arm down, despite his incoherent yelling, putting the needle through his skin. 

Immediately Whumpee could feel his limbs slacken, brain becoming foggy. They tried pulling away once more, but nothing happened. His head and arms felt as if made from foam, somehow soft but immovable. They tried blinking the sensation away, but even his lids did not reciprocate. 

He had lost sight of the researchers in his panic, but Whumpee was returned to his situation by the scalpel appearing much too close to his eye. He attempted to turn or scream again, but he laid still and nothing but quiet gurgles came out. 

He could do nothing as the blade pressed against the edge of his optic organ. Could do nothing as they slowly scooped out the ball, and still couldn’t do anything as they carefully severed its long tail. Whatever gods were out there were merciful enough to make it painless. 

After they took the first one, then went the second. Both carelessly thrown onto a tray. The organization had no use for his eyes, powerless and inhospitable. 

Unlike his brother’s. If only the rest of his body could withstand the calamity.

Now Whumpee was the recipient of the twisted experimentation instead. 

The uncomfortable sensation of something he needed being torn from him was horrifying. But, much worse, was right before the nerve was split, when he could still see. In a different situation, when he wasn’t being forever altered and his brother were still alive, he would’ve thought it cool. Looking around the room without being confined to his head. Not staring at the bleach white ceiling and unsmiling scientist, but perhaps behind him, or around the corner. The possibilities endless. 

Not now however. One gone, and his vision halves. It is disorienting how quick it is. As if a light turns off one only one side, before the other endeavors to compensate. Second gone, and he sees nothing no more. Stuck in a black noiseless room. Only touch, but even that was muddled by the slowly dissolving sedative. 

Whumpee was used to being a sense behind others, not having the privilege many others had. However, it was all he had ever known, and he never much minded. He did not need sound as the others did, content in his world. 

But having something he had always had a grasp of cruelly taken from him… it will stay with him for evermore. 

Feeling begins to return to his body, and along with it comes the pain. The pits in his sockets irritate from the air, exposed to an element they never should have. 

Nothing else happens in the dark silent void. Nothing else can happen but to wait.

Soon rubber probes around the holes. It is violating in a way he can not explain, and he hopes he never experiences it again. His thick tongue garbles out a protest. He thinks… There is no way to tell anymore.

The prodding gets more aggressive, the touch turning into burning. He can feel his vocal cords vibrate with the scream.

A tug. The string coming out of his eye is yanked, jerking his head with it, and Whumpee whimpers. 

The room gets slightly hotter, close to his yarn. He wails. 

Whumpee’s vision returns. It is once again outside of himself, literally seeing himself from an angle he never will again. 

The researchers watch him, faces blank, focussed only on their work, uncaring of him.

The new orb is shoved back into his skull. It does not fit correctly, unnatural and clearly not meant for him. It knocks against the top of the socket, lids not able to fully close over it, moving flesh in his skull to make space for itself. Fitting a triangle into a square.

He may have his sight back but not his eyes.

The second follows in a similar way, but he has to suffer more, the drug leaving his system. It is agonizing, forcing an item that does not belong, and he screeches and shrieks throughout the whole process. The shorter one is put off by his reaction, steadying his legs. The taller one seems accustomed to his suffering. 

The feeling of needles poking holes behind his eyes will never leave him. But it is finally done.

They hold up the mirror in front of his face, reminiscent of his mother after she cut his hair. But this is much worse. Much, much worse. Because of what stares back at Whumpee, widened in fear and grief.

His brother’s eyes. 

[the-mellow-drama]

My first drabble

it's a bit long, 1.2k words, but here you go. also on AO3 if you prefer that formatting

slightly nsfw, semi-public fingering, suggestive content

The buzzing goes off, like every morning, and I sit up as the sheets fall to my lap. The sun is just streaming in through the gauzy white curtains, and I crane my neck the other way, taking in my wife as she sleeps beside me.

Hermione.

The sheets are crumpled, wrinkly from our actions the night before and I smile at the memory. She lies on her back, the black sheets dipping across her back, exposing the skin stretched over her ribs. Her curly hair falls around her face and I shove it away, taking in her glow. 

Gods, I’m lucky.

I find my trunks from last night, sliding them up over my hips. I step over to the expansive closet, slipping on a button-down and grabbing one she can wear when she wakes up. I lay it on the edge of the bed, delicately kiss her cheek, and slip into the bathroom with a clean pair of dress pants.

By the time I leave the bathroom, Hermione is awake, looking bleary-eyed and beautiful. A lazy smile crosses her face and I can’t help but walk around to her side of the bed and fall onto her exposed lap. 

“Good morning, baby,” she whispers, coming my hair back from my face and I stare up at her, taking a deep breath. I kiss her stomach, and then slightly lower, smirking at her sharp inhale before pulling away.

“I have a meeting that starts in 10 minutes,” I say and she frowns. I chuckle before grabbing the white dress shirt I pulled for her and her bra from the floor.

Black lace. My favorite.

I clasp the bra in the front, groaning at the sight of her breasts practically spilling from the cups and I slide the dress shirt on her so that I don’t skip my meeting and tie her down to the bed. I slowly do up the buttons, kissing along her skin and I skip the last two buttons, kissing up her throat before capturing her lips.

“I gotta go baby, but I’ll be back later, okay? Take it easy today,” I say and it’s more of a commandment than anything but she nods as if she has a choice. 

I grab my gun, the last thing I need before taking one last look at her in all her glory.

“Draco, I love you,” she says and I smile again before stepping out and closing the door. 

I walk along the halls, the swanky apartment of no interest to me anymore. I bought the building after Hermione expressed interesting in renting the penthouse while she finished out her English degree. It’s two years later and I am itching to move on.

Perhaps I could buy a boat?

The thought it laid aside in my mind as I open the sliding door to my office, a dark room with a long table, filled with my associates. I meet everyone’s gaze, always tracking and assessing their every move. I want to trust them.

But I don’t. I hope they know this. 

I sit down and everyone is silent, waiting for me to speak.

“There’s someone I need you to find, Blaise,” I finally speak and he looks up, uninterested. He’s always been my go-to guy when it came to disposing of someone, his ability to keep cool and calm a very useful asset to have.

“Who?” He drawls nad my face screws up in disgust.

“Adrian Pucey. He was hitting on my wife, and I don’t think I like him much.” I say and Blaise nods, getting up and leaving. He murmurs something to someone out in the hallway and my ears pique up at the sound of Hermione’s voice.

She doesn’t normally join us for meetings; Hermione knows what I do, I practically told her on the first date but she just smiled and carried on with the conversation. When the door opens again, and she walks in wearing the button up shirt and little else, I scowl at everyone at the table in warning.

Do not fucking look at my wife. They all avert their gaze and I turn my head, smiling possessively at her. She’s washed her face nad brushed her hair, the curls unruly around her face.

She’s beautiful.

And she’s mine.

Hermione is carrying what looks to be her butterfly knife, flipping it around before twirling it once more and closing it up. The action has my cock stirring in my slacks and I pull her to me, her bum resting on the arm of my chair.

“Hello, boys,” she drawls and I can’t help but think that power looks fucking stunning on her. I’d give her whatever she asked for. Just like that. Her fingers comb through my hair and I stifle a groan, my head tipping back in pleasure. 

Someone clears their throat and Hermione smiles before looking down at me. “There’s someone I want you to find for me, baby,” she says and I nod, almost too eagerly. “Pucey. I’d like you to bring him to me. I want to have a few words with him.”

I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her closer, urging her to duck her head down. “Blaise is handling it, love. You’ll have him by the night is over, I suspect.” She smiles and stands in delight. 

“Don’t be much longer, darling,” Hermione says, lips brushing against the shell of my air. My hand falls to her thigh, her back to the rest of the people in the room and I slide my fingers up, up…to find nothing. 

No knickers, no fabric. Just her cunt, almost dripping down her thigh. I smirk up at her, brush my figners along her clit just once. She shivers and I bite my lip before slowly pushing my middle finger into her, and then my index, pumping once and then twice before pulling out. 

Her fingers wrap around my wrist and she sucks my fingers into her mouth, eyes fluttering shut. Her tongue lauves against the tips of my fingers and she pulls them out with a wet pop.

A cloth napkin wrests in my lap and for the life of me, I can’t remember why but I dry my fingers off before looking back up at her. 

 “I’m almost finished. Go wait for me.” I command and she runs out of the room.

The rest of my team is staring at me, some smirking, others looking less than pleased but I can’t find it in my to really care. 

“Back to work gentleman,” I say, standing up after calming down enough that my raging erection is a tad less obvious.

I have a wife to attend to.

[yellowstonewolves]

Liar for Liar

Pairing: Wyll/Astarion

Chapter: 1/?

Ratings: Explicit in later chapters ;), mature for now

Summary: So there's this guy. "The Blade of Frontiers". Wyll Ravenguard. Can Astarion make use of the cocky righteous son of a bitch or not? Can he keep all his secrets hidden from the vaunted monster hunter? Might Wyll have some secrets of his own? (Slow burn that vaugely follows along with a Wyll Origin run. Smut in later chapters)

Ao3 link:

Astarion came to in the wreckage of the mindflayer ship, a telltale shade of green blazing against his closed eyelids He turned towards the dirt, braced every muscle.

Moments ticked by, and he was still alive.

He cracked open an eye, hissing at the sting of the sudden flood of light, and raised his arm. His skin was soaked in sunlight, glowing pearlescent with it. His head swam at the thought. The sun was warming him now, he could feel it, laying on him friendly, as if he had never been away.

He cupped his hand as if it would slip through his fingers, pressed a kiss to his palms as if daylight was something he could kiss.

Every inch of the world glowed with gifts for him, the muddy hues he had known transfigured into resplendent shades he only now realized he had forgotten. He stared at the gently waving prairie grasses and the little round stones and the dirt, even the dirt. His eyes ached but he wouldn’t let them close, not yet.

Gods help him, he was halfway to crying,at the simple beauty of a sun-soaked day, like some sort of fucking druid. 

Voices cut through the pastoral babble of nature then, and Astarion came crashing down to reality, hands whipping back to his daggers. He craned his neck in the direction of the sound.

“This tadpole’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had stuck in my head,” said a deep, pleasant  voice

Tadpole. Astarion’s ears would have twitched at that, had he not learned to suppress that reaction.  Was that what the thing in his head was called? He crouched behind a boulder, and  peeked out at them, a well built, one eyed, noble looking human and a scrawny half elf girl.

 “There was that ballad that was popular several years ago, the Snake and the Siren,” continued the man. He was handsome, the way the sun shone on his chiseled cheekbones, the spray of stubble along his jaw. But he was also familiar. He had been on that ship, “It echoed through every tavern, at all hours of the day and night. It was so annoying!”

“I don’t know it.” his companion responded

“Really? You’re lucky. It was everywhere.”

 She shrugged, “I don’t listen to music.”

“ You don’t… what, any music?”

She shrugged again.

Were they mindflayer thralls? It didn’t sound like it. But they could very well have retained all their human memories, even some semblance of a human personality, although their wills were no longer their own. He was pretty sure that was how illithids worked, although he hadn’t exactly brushed up on the lore about them recently. How negligent of him.

  They were not taking him back to the ship, not now that he’d felt the sunlight on his skin for the first time in 200 years, could  see it even now, everywhere he looked.

Would they fall for an ambush? Could he pull one off? It had been so long since he’d needed to think so hard. Usually he could just  whip out the routine, as habitual as getting himself dressed in the evening. Sometimes he wound his arm around some tipsy stranger in a tavern and found himself already in that lavish bedroom, head between their legs, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. 

It was a welcome departure to be in a situation that called for some finesse.  

The one eyed man came upon him first. He sprang into action at Astarion’s calls for help, but he did not look entirely surprised to find himself on the ground, Astarion’s knife pressed to his neck.

“Now,” Astarion purred, “I saw you on the ship, didn’t I?”

“Oh? Good for you”The man grinned, as if he were not aware how dire a position he was in“Did you watch me slay the ship’s captain?”

“No. And I didn’t--

“That’s too bad. I was in rare form. It was a sight to behold. Wasn’t it Shadowheart?”

“Let him go” the half elf said “Wyll is foolhardy but I need him alive”

“Certainly. Once he’s answered all of my questions. Now—

The man took advantage of the moment of distraction, rocked him to the side with a quick tilt of his hips, and slipped out from under him with some fancy rolling maneuver. 

Astarion swore, and crouched, ready to tackle him again. His eyes met Astarion’s red ones. 

Astarion felt a pressure in his head, something writhing, rooting through his thoughts. Astarion’s hand flew to his temple. It was Cazador he thought, heart pounding. Except it wasn’t. 

It was this man. His memories, bleeding into Astarion’s own. Astarion watched him chase some burly devil across the plains of Avernus, felt the familiar thrill of the hunt, and something else, under it. The righteous, furious indignation of an honest to gods hero, confronted with something he had judged to be evil.

The hero introduced himself as Wyll Ravenguard! The Blade of Frontiers! 

 He took the ambush in stride, “Some people lose all good sense in these kinds of situations” he said ,brushing the dust from his armor “Were I not a seasoned adventurer, perhaps I too would have succumbed to panic.”

He didn’t look like a seasoned anything. His scars aged him, but once they were accounted for, he couldn’t be older than thirty. But then, humans had funny ideas about aging.

Astarion took Wyll’s pardon magnanimously, for all he longed to call out for the insult hiding in those genteel words of his.

He took Wyll’s outstretched hand, shook it. The man looked him up and down, intensely scrutinizing. Astarion fought the impulse to cower under his steely gaze. He had more experience in keeping secrets than this whelp had in wiping his own ass. This Blade would glean nothing from him.

Hours later, Astarion stood by, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Wyll free a gith from a cage, seemingly unbothered by her hostile demeanor or the notoriety of her violent race. Astarion gleaned from their conversation that she had tried to kill Wyll on their first meeting as well. Goody. At least he wasn’t the only one.

At the first opportunity, Astarion pulled Wyll into a sidebar. As glad as he was to have someone of her stature along to protect him, he thought he’d better establish to the man who had fallen into the role of their leader that he was a far more useful companion, the last one who should be sacrificed to some rampaging monster or capricious god, should the need arise.

Astarion asked “When she breaks all your bones for failing to live up to her standards of brutality, can I have that fancy rapier of yours?”

Wyll raised an eyebrow“Many have tried to break me. None have succeeded.”

“Are you sure that’s not just up to luck?”

“A little luck”Wyll responded, “and a lot of skill. But if you’re afraid of her, I know a spell that could lend you some temporary courage.”

Astarion withdrew, trying to look as if he wasn’t pouting.

Their little group chanced upon a gently pulsing portal and when Wyll crept closer to it Astarion leaned forward, eager to see whether it would destroy him or not. 

When it turned out to contain an incredibly milquetoast wizard, Astarion was less enthused 

“How good can he be if he got himself stuck in there?” Astarion said. “He’ll probably blow us all up trying to light a campfire.”

“He was falling to his death at the time. Besides, these tadpoles are very complex, magically. We’ll probably need help of someone with a wealth of arcane knowledge” said Wyll, “if not him, then who? You? You don’t seem to be the intellectual type”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You seem to prefer to let your knives do the thinking for you. If indeed, you are thinking at all.”

“I am thinking.” Astarion huffed “I am thinking of all the dreadful things I could do to you in the dead of night tonight, if I got sufficiently fed up with your disrespect”

“See?” Wyll chuckled, “threatening me. That’s a poor plan if I ever heard one.”

 It’s a shame, really, Astarion thought. They were bedded down for the night, and he was filling his canteen from a stream, letting the water flow over his wrists with not so much as a twinge of pain.

Such a sharp tongue is wasted on a bleeding heart. It will fall silent, when Wyll’s blinkered valor gets him killed.

 Some memory wanted to stir within Astarion as he thought this, of another man, another time. He wrestled it down. 

He worried it was showing on his face, because when he looked up, he noticed Wyll was staring at him, from his place by the flickering campfire. He was holding a little black notebook, a quill poised over it, dripping ink as Wyll held it in place.

Astarion sauntered over, to stand by the fire’s gentle glow. He let his eyes linger on the hint of chest exposed by Wyll’s tight leather nightclothes “See something you like?” Astarion asked, infusing each word with sumptuous flavor .

Wyll’s gaze was suspicious, lingering on Astarion’s face, “Pardon me for asking, but do red eyes run in your family? Rare color, for an elf.”

Astarion snorted, relieved that he had not been caught in a moment of weakness, “Indeed they do.” he said, “Do stone eyes run in yours?”

 Wyll just chuckled, “An elemental somewhere, perhaps, in the Ravenguard family tree”

Astarion leaned just a bit closer, trying to catch a glimpse inside the notebook he was holding, but Wyll snapped it shut. 

Part of Astarion wanted to press, but his position among these odd people was still tenuous. There was no use in alienating their esteemed leader.

Besides needed to rest soon, if he hoped to have time to hunt before morning light. Should probably hunt first, sleep later but he was bone deep exhausted. He changed out of his doublet, finally, into more comfortable clothing. He’d need to pick up something with a higher neck once they reached civilization. If he was still free by then. 

His trance was predictably miserable. He woke up panting and sweating, head pounding . It took a few minutes to remember that he was free but when he did, his mood took a dramatic swing for the better.

He stalked the woods for the better part of an hour, looking for deer. By the end of it his good humor had dissipated entirely.Their party’s racket seemed to have scared all the big game away. He was just about to give up and go back to his tent hungry when the bushes behind him shook.

He whirled around just in time to see a rabbit hop from it, and pause, sniffing the air.

He took a step towards it and the creature looked up, met his eyes with its big brown ones. He could smell that its blood was pumping too fast, heart about to explode.

“There there” he whispered, keeping himself very still. 

The rabbit stared for a second, blinked. Then ,seeming to consider that he might not be an imminent threat, the rabbit’s eyes darted to a hole in the ground, about a foot to the left of it.

In that moment, Astarion pounced, teeth landing on its neck, arms and legs crashing into the ground painfully.  His fangs sunk beneath the rabbit’s  fur as its hind legs buffeted his chest. Its blood was like lukewarm water, tediously dull for all it took the edge off his thirst, albeit with none of the rotten aftertaste of plague. 

He caught a glimpse of the hole it had been looking towards, and he knelt over it, listening. There were more rabbits inside, smaller ones. He lashed out with his claws and came up with a fistful of bunny. It was only a kit,  couldn’t have been more than a week old, head the size of a peach pit. Barely a mouthful of blood in that tiny body.

  There would have been no harm in releasing it really, except that now it had made him contemplate releasing it. To inspire such thoughts was a crime that must be punished with extreme prejudice. 

He held the kit in his hand like a teacup, extended his pinky as he did so, on a whim. He pretended for a moment he was out on a veranda somewhere, finely dressed and entertaining the most refined company he could imagine—himself.

“And how are you finding your beverage, Lord Ancunín?”

“It is bland, Lord Ancunín, but there are worse tastes.”

“Too true.And how are you finding freedom, Lord Ancunín?”

“It is not bland enough. All this dreadful running about. But there are worse tastes.”

When he had finished he tossed aside the ball of fur that had been the kit, rubbed his face against the pelt of the mother, hoping to remove all traces of blood.

Just as he was leaving he saw Wyll, although the human did not see him. The man crept from the mouth of his tent, surveyed the camp, and stalked off towards the forest. He darted a look directly in Astarion’s direction, and secure in the knowledge that he was well hidden, Astarion took in his expression. The man looked haunted.

Wyll sat under the trees, chest heaving. He pressed a finger to his stone eye, withdrew it. He shook his head “Gods damn it. Why can’t I just…” He let out a groan.

 Wyll looked up, scanning the trees, as if his pitiful human eye was capable of discerning threats in the darkness. He seemed to conclude he was alone, and took out a handsome mahogany pipe from a leather pouch over his hip, stuck the end between his teeth. He drew out a smaller pouch of tobacco, crumbled the dried leaves between his long, thin fingers. He filled the bowl, pressed a thumb to pack, filled it to the top again. He pursed his pretty lips and blew, priming the pipe.

So he had a smoking habit. Astarion would not have expected it of him-a bad example to his leagues of adoring fans, surely? 

Wyll took out an arcane igniter,flipped it open and tapped the rune inside. A mote of fire flared up in the wake of his finger. Its reflection danced over his cheekbone, an orange ball wavering on his skin like the moon on the surface of a lake.

 Wyll lit up with the same hand that was holding the pipe, letting the tip of the flame brush the surface of the tobacco just for a second, without scorching the rim of the bowl. It was a neat party trick, one that Astarion had seen performed many times, in many bars, though not often with such practiced nonchalance. 

White vapor rolled out over the burning leaves. Astarion could almost smell it, bittersweet, acrid. The scent of gin-soaked hunting grounds and doomed afterglows.

 Wyll closed his eyes tight, cheeks hollowing as he inhaled. 

Wyll blew a cloud of smoke into the night air, watched it wind in tendrils towards the heavens. Some of the tension had melted from his shoulders, though not all of it.

  Astarion toyed with the idea of strolling over, asking for a pull, and then another, brushing his lips against Wyll’s inviting ones, feeling the points of his stubble clustered like stars on his skin. He imagined sucking the smoke from his mouth, pulling back, letting it leak from his parted lips like a poisoned promise as his palm cupped the hero’s jaw, thumb stroking the warm skin of his face.

Too bold, he decided, but he found himself taking a step forward regardless. A branch snapped under his foot. He winced. Shit. 

Wyll jumped like a kid whose parent had just rattled his bedroom doorknob at the worst possible moment, yanking the pipe from his lips as he squeaked “who’s there?” 

Astarion stilled himself, refrained from blinking or breathing and Wyll cleared his throat, said in a deeper, more classically heroic voice “Who’s there?”

Astarion didn’t move a muscle. 

In a much louder voice, one that echoed like a chorus of monsters from the very depths of the hells, he bellowed “Answer me!”

Astarion fought the urge to bolt.

When that produced no response Wyll shrugged, slumped back against the tree. He held a finger to his eye, lowered it just as quickly, sighed. 

Astarion recognized despair when he saw it, the stale kind, where the wounds were scabbed over with layer after layer of resignation. There was nothing to gain, he saw, in trying to muscle in on this moment, so he would take his leave.

It had nothing at all to do with that voice Wyll had shouted in. Astarion had not been pants-shittingly terrified, hearing it. 

He hadn’t.

[sparrowmoth]

Written in the Scars • [AO3]

Teen | 3.2K+ | Marlos-centric/OT4 | Heavy Angst, Devotion, Whump

A/N: More detailed notes on AO3, if you're interested, but here, I will just say thank you to my lovely friend Blake (@finitevoid) for talking through this fic with me and inspiring me to push the plot further, plus impressing upon me the image of an insanely tall Maleficent, which has now become secret canon in my mind dajkgsjdkg <3

CW: Heavy angst, verbal and physical child abuse, emotional manipulation, non-graphic usage of medieval torture implements, threat of self-harm, a lot of swearing, and a hurt/no comfort kinda cliffhanger in this first chapter (sorry).

Chapter One: Birdcage Religion

The knife isn’t dropped with a clatter to the stone floor. It is thrown at the feet of the Mistress of All Evil—Mal’s mother, her queen and, at a whim, her executioner. She’ll be that today, from the look on her face—the way her eyes flick to the knife and she tells Mal to repeat that.

“You heard me,” says Mal, stepping out in front of Carlos.

He doesn’t try to pull her back, though from the corner of her eye, she can see his hands twitch, like he’s thinking about it. His face has gone blank, but she reads fear in his quiet, the way he stands like a ghost, trying not to be seen. He thinks he’s caused enough trouble.

That makes Mal want to cause more.

She doesn’t shrink when her mother stands slowly from her throne, rising to her full height of seven feet and then some. Her horns add another foot and she’s standing on the dais. The candlelight behind her casts a shadow that much longer—a monstrous form, in all—

“So disappointing,” says Maleficent, voice dripping sickly sweetness. She takes her staff from where it’s leaning and takes a slow stride off the dais, almost gliding toward her daughter. “It seems your heart’s grown like a tumour in that precious little chest of yours.” Her words warp to a snarl as she lifts her staff up, spearing it forward, striking Mal hard in the sternum, sending her stumbling back into Carlos.

Mal grabs the end of the staff to keep from losing her balance, eyes flashing green as she glares at her mother, whose own burning gaze comes down the length of the staff. Only hatred there. No, intent—

“PROVE YOURSELF, GIRL,” roars Maleficent, wielding the staff in an arc as she kicks at Mal’s shin, sending her down and out of the way, leaving a path to Carlos. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.”

Carlos, in a slight daze from having hit the stone floor—hard—recovers quickly at the sight of Maleficent encroaching, her staff poised to strike, coming down like a falcon, everything a blur—

Mal throws herself in front of him just in time to take the blow.

In some far part of his mind, still dazed, Carlos hears her ribs crack like a shot. He feels the part of a rabbit having watched the hound dog take a bullet for its prey, right from its master’s rifle—

Then, Mal is slumping across him, wheezing for breath, and he’s trying not to panic as he tries to sit up, tries to drag Mal away, tries to think through the thought stream of stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid—because he’s scared and he’s angry and he doesn’t understand. Why didn’t she just do it? Why didn’t she just hurt him? Why didn’t she…

“Ah, so it is a cancer,” says Maleficent, practically in a purr. She’s put the end of her staff under Carlos’ chin now, forcing his gaze up. She smirks when his open, vulnerable face turns quickly to something vicious. “You don’t fool me, boy. I can see your weakness…”

Mal’s arm shoots up and she grips the staff hard, pushing it away.

“Leave him alone,” she grits out, struggling up while half in Carlos’ lap still. “This is…” She coughs, blood speckling her lips. “Between you and me…” she manages, craning her neck to meet Maleficent’s eyes, high as a god’s above hers, staring ever down, down, down.

Maleficent smiles, something sinister, and she yanks her staff back easily out of Mal’s fist. “Do you know what I think?” she asks, the point of her staff hovering just above the stones. “I think… what’s between us are three little problems… and he happens to be one.”

With that, her staff comes down in an almighty bang, cracking open the stones and ushering in the guards—a group of boar-headed men with wide-set, matte black eyes set in wiry, mud-brown fur. They are dressed in leather armour with a dragon scale design, and various weapons hang from their belts or are carried in their hands—

They need no instruction beyond the simplest nod.

Carlos bites down on the first hand that reaches past him, trying for a fistful of Mal’s hair to drag her up. He draws a crude noise from the guard he’s wounded, but another moves in quick enough—

Mal is grabbed tight around the waist, weakening her kicks as she gasps for breath. Carlos is hoisted by the scruff of his jacket, but he writhes so much that he slips out from it easily, landing light on his feet, where he would normally make a break for it, except—

“Carlos,” Mal chokes out, a note of pleading in her voice.

He knows what she wants, what she’s trying to tell him.

He knows, if she could manage, she would say it’s an order.

But he doesn’t try to run.

Mal’s desperate eyes are the last he sees before a guard comes up behind him, pulling a sack down over his head and drawing the string tight, making him reach for his neck before his hands are roughly yanked away and burly arms lift him off his feet again.

Thick as the bag is over his head, the noises around him are slightly muffled, but loud as his breathing now sounds in his own ears, he hears Maleficent sigh, like this is all some inconvenience—

“Prepare the birdcage,” she addresses the guards, “and some chains for the mutt. No food, no water.” She pauses, then adds with a dark sense of promise, “If even one escapes, there will be pork roast for dinner, do you quite understand? Good. Now, to the dungeon.”

Maleficent’s dungeon is not unfamiliar.

Mal, Carlos, Jay, and Evie had plumbed the depths of the castle when they were all children. That was different than this, being carried down blind, hearing the echoes deepen, feeling the damp press in, a chill like death’s hands, goosebumps spreading—

There is sobbing, screaming, quiet moaning, and pleas behind the first door that opens at the bottom of the stairwell. They pass on through without a word from the guards or Maleficent herself.

Several more doors open and all sense of presence in the cells fades away to nothing. Now, there is only the footsteps, the rattle of chains and the clank of metal, words exchanged between the boar men in a guttural language, and underneath it all, the faintest of whimpers—

“You see now,” says Maleficent, “what your defiance will cost you, so I wonder…” She trails off and Carlos hears some shuffling, feels the bodies shift around him, and a hand pressing down on his head—

He’s forced onto his knees.

The bag is ripped away to reveal Mal, standing in front of him, with her mother behind her, one clawed hand on her shoulder—the other holding a knife, offering it for Mal to take—

But Mal’s just looking at Carlos.

“Slit his throat,” Maleficent whispers into her trembling daughter’s ear, lips close enough that she must tickle the flesh, “and I may just reconsider your punishment.” She trails her hand down from Mal’s shoulder, grabbing her wrist and guiding her puppet-like to grasp the knife. “Go on,” she urges. “His life is yours. He belongs to you. That’s what you’ve told me. Now, I’m telling you… to prove it…”

“Mal,” says Carlos, barely audible. I’ll come back goes unsaid.

She knows that. She knows that. Why won’t she just kill him?

This is the closest to mercy she will get from her mother.

Mal’s fingers twitch and Carlos holds his breath. He watches, heart pounding, as she slowly takes the knife, and then—much quicker than he can process such a stupid fucking decision—she’s whirling around, poised to stab her mother’s chest, no hesitation at all—

But Maleficent reacts, too fast for Mal to land the blade.

Her wrist is ensnared. Her mother’s face is stony.

This time, the knife is dropped.

It clatters to Mal’s feet and lays there, abandoned.

The silence that follows seems almost unnatural, as thick as it is—like a spell that can be broken by only Maleficent. And she does, but at her leisure, first gripping Mal’s chin with a punishing pressure—

“Do you want so much to die?” she asks, voice low and predatory.

Mal just stares at her, breathing hard and ragged, a soft-edged anger in her eyes, like fear is threatening to resurface—

She has no time to react before Maleficent withdraws her hand and brings it back with a hard slap that echoes off the stone walls and almost seems to make the torches flicker. The force of the blow should send Mal to her knees, but Maleficent grabs her, fisting her jacket, yanking her up. She takes a fistful of Mal’s hair and whips her head toward Carlos, forcing her to meet his eyes again—

“ANSWER ME, GIRL. WOULD YOU DIE FOR THIS DOG?”

Carlos, holding Mal’s gaze, almost imperceptibly shakes his head.

Mal stares at him for a moment, eyes bright with unshed tears, then her expression hardens and she spits blood at the ground, a trickle of red spit dribbling down her chin as she strains to tilt her head back and look at her mother, saying everything with her silence—

Maleficent’s lip curls. Her knuckles whiten, paler than pale—as though her skin is translucent, showing the bones. “Very well.”

She stoops, bending down to Mal’s ear—

“But know that, this time, you will not be buried.”

Maleficent straightens to her full, monstrous height, shoving Mal to her knees before she commands her, voice thunderous, to surrender her weapons, her jewelry, her outer clothing and her boots—

Pridefully, Mal looks back up at her mother as she moves to comply, slipping out of her jacket to show the knives strapped to her arms.

She removes them, one by one, and simply tosses them aside.

Carlos watches, breathing ragged, red creeping in at the edges of his vision. She’s giving up—and for what? “FUCK YOU, MAL!” he bursts out, startling the guards on either side of him; their grip on him had slackened, so he slides easily to the ground. “I’m not fucking worth it,” he growls, staring dead into Mal’s eyes. She looks stunned, on the verge of anger; then, the knife’s pulled from his boot, and—

“NO!” She’s up on her feet, lunging for Carlos before a pale, clawed hand hooks her upper arm, dragging her back with an effortless tug.

Carlos’ knife is at his own throat, and the guards who, at first, had moved to disarm him, are melting slowly back away. Their eyes are ever on their mistress, who has one hand raised—a silent command.

“Carlos,” Mal gasps softly, straining hard against her mother’s hold.

His eyes are raised above her head.

Maleficent is smirking.

She… wants him to…

Carlos falters, lowering the point of the knife from his throat to his collarbone. He looks at Mal, takes a breath, makes his decision—

And plunges the knife into the nearest boar man’s knee.

They squeal and the sound of it, so piercingly loud, rings in Carlos’ ears as the guards bear down. He thinks, for a second, somewhere through the din, that he hears Mal laugh—in spite of everything—

The thought is interrupted by a boot to his gut, leaving him winded. No time to catch his breath before he’s dragged up by his arms—and Mal is screaming now. He’s sure of that. He can’t focus on the words because there’s too much stimulation—the rattling of chains, the icy bite of metal, the hot breath on his face. He tenses under large hands checking over him for weapons, taking each as they’re discovered—

Carlos’ too-small boots are yanked off and he briefly feels the stone floor, burning cold beneath his bare feet; then, the chains hooked to his wrists are pulled up sharply toward the ceiling. The ground goes out from under him and he struggles not to flail, feeling panic swell up in him. He strains to touch the ground, but only manages on his tiptoes—and that’s only for a moment before a hard shove sends him swinging, shooting pain down through his shoulders—

The boar men snort with laughter as Carlos struggles, seemingly in vain. He gets a grip on the chains attached to his shackles and, with all the upper body strength he can muster, swings himself with legs outstretched—just when the guards have turned their backs to him.

He catches the nearest one around the neck, legs quickly constricting until the boar man starts to choke, clawing at Carlos’ skinny ankles as two of his fellows rush to assist him—

One grabs hold of Carlos’ leg and tries to pry it back, even almost succeeding—until his sweaty hands slip and Carlos’ leg snaps back with force, catching the choking man right in the snout. His tusks dig in to Carlos’ flesh, but the pain is distant from Carlos’ fury—

Until the weight of a spiked club connects with his hip.

He bites down on a cry as his legs come loose from around the boar men’s neck and heavily succumb to gravity. His shoulders ache and his hip throbs and he feels numbness in his fingertips.

Still, when a guard stoops to seize his good leg, Carlos spits down at their head and meets a snarl with a snarl. His ankle is shackled to a short length of chain, attached to an iron ball that’s set a little away.

His toes can touch it if he stretches, but it’s too heavy to drag nearer in any hope that he could stand on it, so he just glowers at the boar men as their numbers start to dissipate—

And Mal comes sharply back into focus.

She looks beaten down, quite literally, on her knees in front of her mother, wearing nothing but her thin, black underwear. There’s an open cage behind her, in the shape of a person much taller than her, albeit nowhere as tall as Maleficent, with her horns that scrape the ceiling. She is a god here on the Isle and she carries herself as one.

Huge, even at a distance, Maleficent’s stare turning suddenly on Carlos makes him feel like a lame deer in a grizzly’s line of sight.

“Still alive, I see,” Maleficent remarks.

Mal’s head jerks up and she meets Carlos’ eyes.

“There’s cruelty in you yet, child, to not have spared him this torture when I gave you the chance.” Maleficent smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “His pain will be immeasurable, and all because…” She tips forward, bending at the waist, one hand slowly extending until she cups Mal’s stubborn chin and forces it upward. “You are a sadistic, selfish little girl,” Maleficent coos, her voice like poisoned honey.

Mal tries to shake her head, but her mother holds her chin tight.

“He begged for a quick death, but you denied him…”

“SHUT UP!” Carlos bellows, writhing in his chains despite the pain that lances through him. He can’t listen anymore. He can’t just feel this helpless. “YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW?” He glares at Maleficent, all fear in him burnt up.

The air seems almost to coagulate, growing thick with a tension that holds the guards in their places, their eyes on their mistress as she rises to her full height, reaches out to take her staff, and—

“DON’T HURT HIM!” Mal bursts out, struggling up to her feet. She puts her arms out like a pair of spread wings—a feeble sort of shield.

Maleficent simply takes her staff in hand, face plain and unmoved.

“Speak again,” she says, addressing Carlos, “and I will cut out your tongue.” She looks at Mal, eyes dead of emotion, then lifts her staff and slams it down against the stone. “Enough of my time has been wasted on you.” She circles behind Mal, who turns to face her, wary as a mouse in the presence of Bastet. “Had I only known you’d be so human, so stupid and WEAK…” She takes a menacing step forward, backing Mal up to the birdcage. “This would have been your cradle.”

Maleficent shoves Mal and she goes stumbling backwards, right into the cage. Her head slams against the iron bars and she sinks dazedly down onto what feels like a stove with the switch just flicked on—

Her mother steps back and gestures for a boar man—one who shuts the iron cage, turns the key in the padlock, then—throwing his head back, jaws open to the ceiling—drops the key right down his throat and forces a swallow. He suppresses a cough before opening up his mouth again, presenting his throat for Maleficent’s inspection—

She perks an eyebrow, leaning over him, then gives a curt nod of approval. “Finish it,” she says with a snap of her fingers, and two boar men rush to operate a pulley made stubborn with rust—

Maleficent watches as the birdcage is raised several feet in the air—then higher still at her direction. Only when it is hanging out of the reach of any normal person does she utter, “There. Now secure it.”

Mal chokes down a whimper, just now starting to squirm.

Her mother regards her without any emotion, and somehow, that’s worse—worse than laughter or gloating or even… disappointment, because if Mal’s blood were pure, she would already be screaming.

“Mom.” The word escapes Mal as Maleficent turns her back—

She stops—and from his vantage point, Carlos sees her teeth flash.

It’s a moment, only, and then she’s icily calm. “Guards,” she says, and they come quickly to attention, awaiting her orders. She holds the room in silence uncomfortably long, slowly tapping her fingers against her staff. “You will inform Jafar and Evil Queen that I have withdrawn protection of their wretched whelps. Furthermore, that I will not tolerate any sight of the two in the shadow of my castle—and should they appear to darken my doorstep… I expect you will report to me with a body to be buried. Do you quite understand?”

She glances over her shoulder, then starts toward the door.

Mal stares after her wide-eyed, fists clenched tight around the iron bars. Her knuckles are bloodless, but her palms are reddening.

Her lips are parted, but she doesn’t speak.

Carlos is quiet, too—teeth grit so hard, his jaw aches. He’s breathing hard through his nose, glowering at Maleficent as she glides through the door, and all the boar men with her. The door slams shut and the jail keys jingle, locking up this cell that will, in days, become a tomb.

When all the footsteps have faded, Carlos finally screams—

Pure fury. Unspent anger. Hatred. Bloodlust. Wrath.

He’s not afraid. He will come back. He will come back. He’s not afraid. Death is familiar. He will come back. He’s not afraid. It isn’t that. It’s not the dying. Not the torture. Death’s familiar. So is pain.

It’s just that—if he hadn’t kissed her—

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. And feel free to subscribe on AO3 if you want to be alerted when the next chapter comes out. Kudos and comments are lovely, as well! ♥