#or write a short post. idk

[sylvies-kablooie]

i do unironically think the best artists of our generation are posting to get 20 notes and 3 reblogs btw. that fanfic with like 45 kudos is some of the best stuff ever written. those OCs you carry around have some of the richest backstories and worldbuilding someone has ever seen. please do not think that reaching only a few people when you post means your art isn't worth celebrating.

[booperbeanv3]

drawstuck #4: june edition

alt june shirt under cut

i jst thought it would be cute

[redglassbird]

I will NEVER get over the fact that I can write stories. Like I can weave threads of whimsy in a whole new world and make people feel things if I weave them well enough???? Stories are worth so much!!! Lines of poetry are literally currency to me like I get to write little lines and then writing little lines helps me notice things when I read other peoples' lines????? Magic! Whimsy! Characters! Words! Words! Words!

[sukunasbow]

men that eat pussy like they’re starving and you’re their last meal.

your legs are spread wide open as you sit on the edge of your bed, using your hands to hold yourself up as your legs shake with a mix of pleasure and tiredness as he brings you to another orgasm.

he devours you until his jaw aches, sitting on his knees and holding your legs apart. “just one more for me, baby. you can do it.”

dabi, EREN, gojo, jean, SUKUNA, KUROO, + your fav.

[beanghostprincess]

I will forever love seeing Luffy and Nami holding Zoro's swords. He's so protective of those three but it's not even because he fears something might happen to them, but because he's scared something might happen to the crew and himself if he doesn't have them with him. They're like extra limbs. The ones he uses to fight and protect and breathe. He feels uneasy whenever his swords aren't around him, and that is just a fact. You can't deny that he feels comfort in having them by his side at all times, knowing that he'll be able to protect the crew from any dangers. They're tied to his heart and soul in a way that if he loses sight of them he might actually lose himself too. So he does not enjoy seeing his swords in somebody else's hands. They can disappear, he will find them. They can run away, he will follow. They can break, he trusts them not to but if they do, he will keep going carrying their bond with him still. But he doesn't like seeing them in somebody else's hands because those are his swords. His limbs. His heart. His soul. It's just not right. It never feels right. But.

But.

But sometimes Luffy acts like he knows what he's doing and actually asks for permission instead of just taking what he wants. As if crossing Zoro's boundaries would be unforgivable, when he knows Zoro would give him anything he wanted to take from him. But he asks. He asks, with a careful, polite, deep voice Zoro isn't used to hearing. But it always ends with the softest of smiles and the petition reaches a place inside of Zoro's heart that he just knows has also touched his swords. So he lets him, because how could he not, and he runs his fingers through all of them. Amazed. Astonished. Respectfully talking to them as if they could hear him. And they can. Zoro knows they hear and feel and love and crave and long for his captain's touch. He knows, because he does too. Because who wouldn't? Luffy holds them in a way he never holds anything else- Carefully. Like they aren't his. Like befriending somebody he fears might reject him. Like taking hold of Zoro's heart and holding him so gently in case he might break him. He worships them as if he weren't the god in this relationship. He looks handsome, too. Not pretty. Not cute. Handsome. Mature. His hat covers his adventurous gaze but leaves his mischievous grin for the whole world to see. And yet, the swordsman trusts him enough. Without any look or any word. He knows Luffy's face by heart, he realizes, now that he can picture his eyes quite too perfectly under his hat. His skin glistens under the sun and his tender fingers hold the sword with so much clumsiness it looks dumb. He doesn't know how to hold them, yet they don't want to move away from him. It's clumsy but it takes over them. Maybe it's his haki. Maybe it's the effect the future king of the pirates has. Zoro thinks it's just him. Luffy. And his heart stops the second Luffy smiles, as if he had just heard the sword respond to him. He wants to kiss him. Bite him. Let him bite back and draw blood and eat him. Let him hold him the way he holds the swords but tighter. Closer. Maybe he's in love. Zoro. With Luffy. It's not a maybe. Who is he trying to trick? He knows he is in love. With the way he smiles and the way he holds and the way he wants but respects and loves. It's funny like that, the fact that Luffy keeps being so careful when Zoro would let him tear his heart apart and eat it if he so desired. It's funny that the swords love him with such gentleness when they often demand power. Perhaps kindness is the most powerful weapon of all or, at least, Luffy's most powerful skill. Zoro hates it when somebody else holds them because they don't own them. They don't own him. He doesn't even own his swords, anyway. Nobody can. They're his the same way he's theirs, just with a bit more dominance and respect. But Luffy isn't owning them. He's praying to them. Talking to them. Befriending them. Loving them. And they would bow to him if he so desired. Zoro knows they would, as fierce as they are and violent as they seem and as sharp as they cut. They'd bow to him because Zoro would too. The uneasiness does not exist when Luffy is the one to hold them because, if Zoro had to give out his soul for somebody to take care of, that would be Luffy. And if he has to be unprotected. Naked. Bare in front of a thousand soldiers. He will if it's Luffy the one fighting instead.

Sometimes Nami wants to hold them just to feel what it's like to be in Zoro's shoes. It's a stupid reason. He refuses to let her do it as an instinctive reaction at first. She doesn't seem as interested in following the protocol as Luffy is, but she knows where to stop and she knows what to say to get on Zoro's nerves, anyway. She's equally as fierce. Equally as sharp. He won't let her hold any cursed sword, but it's not like she wants to. She's smarter than that. Careful and respectful but not that interested in the swords and what they mean, more in how they feel. Zoro gets it. Kind of. Somehow. She says something about always letting them eat her precious tangerines, so he should humor her by letting her hold Wado at least. She isn't pushing him. He knows she wouldn't. She's just teasing because she knows. She always knows. She knows he will say yes. Because he always does what she says, although he keeps demanding a bit of respect to not be treated like a dog. But Nami never forces him to do anything. He could refuse. She would give up at some point. But there's just something about her- Stubbornness. Strength. Love. So much love and care and worry and anger. And Zoro likes her. She's selfish, too, like a pirate should be. Stronger than Zoro in the ways that matter. Smarter, too, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. But she leads the way and he follows, not because that's a dog's job, but because he wants to. He trusts her. Something he never thought he would. But he does. She's smart. She leads the way. She knows where they're going. They somehow are the same and totally different at the same time. Zoro grounds Luffy when he gets lost. Nami leads them both so they won't. So there's something about her curiosity that makes him soften. He never knows exactly why he does what she says. Why he indulges her like that. But it's satisfying, for some reason he refuses to read within himself, the satisfactory and pleased grin on her face when he hands her Wado. She's careful with her. Awful at holding her. Bad posture. Great smile. Horrible movements. Beautiful eyes. It's okay, though, he thinks. Wado likes her because Zoro likes her. Nami loses interest within a minute, complaining about the weight and the sudden realization of "you always have this thing in your mouth" which makes her want to give her back. But she stares at her for a whole minute. It isn't her thing, but her eyes spark when the sword is returned to Zoro. Trust. A smile. Thankfulness. Her bangs are getting a bit longer and one strand of hair gets in the middle of her teasing smirk. She says she prefers her clima-tact, but swords are fine, "I guess". "She's pretty" she says. Zoro thinks she is pretty. Nami. In a way he can't quite describe because he has never really been good at that. But she is. Like a blade. Sharp. But in the right hands this time for her not to cut the ones she loves anymore. She hands him a tangerine next, every time he lets her hold his sword. An exchange. "I give you something that matters. You give me something that matters". Zoro wants to say it's not the same, but the tangerine is sweet. Juicy. His fingers then smell strongly of citrus. Almost as similar as steel. If he can feel Nami's heartbeat in every bite, he wonders if she has been able to hear his in the hilt of his sword. Calm. Peaceful. Safe.

Zoro doesn't like seeing his swords in somebody else's hands because those are his swords. His limbs. His heart. His soul. It's just not right. It never feels right. But.

But sometimes it does.

[postazkabansiriussupremacy]

Surprise. Pt. 3 Post Azkaban!Sirius x Mom!Reader

You and Sirius have a chat.

Part One. Part Two.

Taglist: @box-of-kinderjoy @projectdreamwalker @goldenharrysworld @navs-bhat @sagestack

You aren’t sure what you expected Sirius to look like after more than a decade in Azkaban, but this is much worse than you pictured. The dirty, malnourished, manic-looking man standing in front of you is a far cry from the healthy, handsome Sirius you once knew. The sight of him in this horrid state is enough to grow a lump in your throat.

You always had complex feelings about Sirius after he was sent to Azkaban. It was easy to be angry at him for betraying everyone and causing the death of James and Lily, but you were more than angry. You were devastated, to say the least. It’s impossible to say how many nights you cried yourself to sleep. Even knowing what he’d done, it was hard to imagine the one you loved rotting away in Azkaban.

The first few years without him were hell on earth. It wasn’t long after he was incarcerated you found out you were pregnant, and whilst everyone in the wizarding world was partying and celebrating the downfall of You-Know-Who, you were curled up in a ball sobbing and wondering how in the world you were going to do this all on your own.

It was difficult, but you managed. As the years went by and Estelle grew bigger, things got easier. You were able to push Sirius out of your mind and go on without him, but not without continuous effort. With every life change and new milestone reached, you couldn’t help but wonder how differently things would be if Sirius were there too.

For Estelle, you tried your very best to make sure she never wanted for anything, but your heart ached at the thought of her never knowing the love of a father. Estelle used to ask about him (“Why don’t I have a dad?” “Where is he?” “Is he dead?”), and you were never sure what to tell her.

You aren’t proud of it, but as her questions persisted, you lied to her. You lied and told Estelle you don’t know who her father is. She stopped asking about him after that.

You don’t know why you lied. It would’ve been much simpler to tell the truth, but maybe a small part of you wanted Estelle to blame you rather than blame Sirius for her lack of a father. It felt a little stupid, but you didn’t want Estelle to hate the idea of her father. You supposed it would be easier for her to accept her father doesn’t know she exists, rather than to accept her father is a mass murderer in prison for life.

Then you got an owl from Remus Lupin—someone you hadn’t heard from in over a decade—asking to have lunch and talk. You were surprised but receptive. You assumed he met Estelle at Hogwarts and he wanted to know of her lineage under the guise of catching up, and you were half right.

After having Estelle in class and putting two and two together, Remus decided to get in touch with you to tell you the truth about Sirius.

After taking in all of the new information, you felt numb. It’s a lot to take in—learning that Sirius is innocent, and Peter Pettigrew of all people was the one to cause all of this pain.

You came home, politely asked Estelle how her day was, and barely heard her as she told you about the stray dog she found today. Too lost in your thoughts, you ‘listened’ to Estelle’s rambling for about ten minutes before realizing she was talking about Sirius’s animagus.

It had to be Sirius. Why else would there be a giant, wolf-like black dog hanging around your house?

You pretended to Estelle that you’d never seen the dog before, and maybe he belongs to some of the muggles that live further up the road. You carry on your evening as normal, quickly changing the subject anytime she began to talk about the dog, and had her go to bed at a reasonable time.

Only when you were sure Estelle was asleep did you come outside.

You suppose you’ve been staring too long as Sirius speaks up first. It’s hard to read his expression, and his voice is deeper than you remember. “I’d ask how have you been, but clearly you’ve been busy.”

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, urging yourself not to cry. After meeting with Remus and immediately coming home to Estelle, you haven’t had any time to process the information you’ve been given.

There were so many times you’d asked yourself “What if Sirius were still here?” and then immediately pushed the thought away, reminding yourself he’s a horrible man. A traitor and a murderer.

Only he’s not. He’s none of those things.

He’s suffered terrible consequences that he’s done nothing to deserve, and that’s heartbreaking. The last thirteen years of his life were ripped away from him and he was sent to live in horrid conditions, just because he and James chose to trust Peter with something they shouldn’t have.

A heavy weight of guilt drops into your stomach. Sirius had done nothing wrong and yet everyone—including yourself—thought he got what he deserved by being locked away. You hardly even thought to question whether he was truly guilty or not.

Your throat tightens and your lip quivers, and you step forward to wrap your arms around his waist. You can feel the bones underneath his skin, and you sniffle, feeling a couple of tears escape from your eyes.

Sirius takes a moment to respond, a little shocked by your sudden hug and crying. He supposes it’s not unwarranted though.

He reciprocates your hug, one dirty hand cradling the back of your head and the other wrapped around your torso. It’s almost strange how natural it feels. He rests his chin on the top of your head and faintly smiles. You smell good, and it’s wonderful to get such an unexpectedly warm welcome.

Although he has Remus to thank for that. If Remus hadn’t reached out to you first, Sirius imagines this meeting would be going a lot differently.

After a few moments of letting yourself cry into his chest, you finally speak, your voice cracking a bit as you do so. “You smell like shit.”

Sirius gives you a tight squeeze and chuckles quietly, “You live in a cave for a year and we’ll see how you fare.”

You purse your lips and feel more tears forming. He’s been living in a cave? Your throat feels tight as you breathe, “I’m so sorry, Sirius… For everything.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done.” He responds immediately. There was no way for you to know the truth, and even if you did, it probably wouldn’t have changed anything. “…Did you know you were expecting when it happened?”

You shake your head. “No. Didn’t figure it out until a few weeks after you’d been gone.”

“I-… I can’t find the words to tell you how sorry I am.” Sirius whispers. His adam’s apple bobs. “I can’t say when, but I promise I’ll come back to the both of you.”

“I know you will.” You say quietly, nodding. You knew from the beginning he wouldn’t be able to stay, but it still hurts nonetheless. New tears fall onto your cheeks and Sirius’s prisoner robes.

You cry less for yourself and more for him. Even though he’s successfully crawled his way out of Hell, he still can’t rest. Sirius hasn’t known peace in over a decade, and there’s no telling if he ever will again.

Sirius is the first to pull away. Trying to remain strong for your sake, he clenches his jaw as he looks down at your tearful face. He uses his thumbs to wipe the tears off your cheeks, then he pulls your face forward for a kiss. You waste no time reciprocating, your hands moving to the back of his head and tangling in his greasy hair.

Once again Sirius is the first to pull away, ending the kiss too soon for his liking, but knowing he needs to go. He’s been here far too long. He kisses your forehead. “I love you, and I love Estelle.”

“I love you, Sirius.” You reply, looking into his eyes. They’re the same eyes you see every time you look at your daughter.

“This isn’t goodbye.” He says kissing your forehead once more. He steps off your property and out of the confines of the anti-apparation wards. He gives you one last look, then winks. “You look absolutely stunning, by the way.”

You scoff, a stupid grin forming on your face as he disapperates.

You stare at the spot he left from, wiping your tears away.

Realistically, you don’t know if Sirius will be able to keep his promise. You may never see him again. There’s no telling if his name will ever be cleared, but you hold onto hope, and you will wait for him.

[lizardbrainlabs]

sketched out all the human partners!!!

[monstrouslyobsessed]

love’s lethal bouquet

concept: in which the floral shop boss is in love with you—and isn’t a human. —momster

—a/n: well i havent posted in ages because of how bad my writers block was :( and i’m vvvvv iffy about this one. this is much more subtle and tamer than my usual too, but at least its something for the valentine’s day?

anyway, ima try and tackle a commission i owe next so please take care yall<3

—tw / tags: gn reader, implied drugging intention, implied teratophilia, implied exophilia, general yandere themes, sfw.

—featured character(s): the floral shop boss / plant monster (implied)

Valentine's Day proves to be one of the busiest days at the floral shop where you work. Breathing in the heady floral scents that permeate the store, you find yourself in continuous motion, assembling bouquets of pink roses, carnations, violets, and every red flower known to man into the van. With your back straining from the constant lifting, you absently listen to the gentle voice of your boss reassuring an irritated customer about their belated delivery—

and you wince.

Although you should be in a rush taking care of the deliveries, you tiptoe inside the back of the shop to avoid interrupting your boss—

But he merely hangs up the phone upon seeing your flustered face.

“S, sorry—” You begin.

He shakes his head with a gentle smile playing on his thinly bearded lips and says, “Don’t worry about it, love.”

The way he addresses you as ‘love’ used to bother you. It always seemed so…formal, old-fashioned, but coming from him—your boss—he somehow makes it work without needing to force the romantic undertone. Perhaps it is because he is on the older side and being a foreigner in this little town of yours.

The town lies deep within the trench of an endless forest, and you wonder how your boss had found his way here.

His arrival several years ago stirred many gossips about him, with him keeping his lips sealed about his past, but everyone slowly warmed up to him. His succulent blooms, never seen before even in the gardening magazines, certainly helped. Now, your boss is a familiar face among the townspeople, with very few not knowing who he is. And, of course, his handsome and charming demeanor won the hearts of many too.

“But I would’ve made the deliveries on time if I didn’t eat brea—” you try.

His piercing green eyes soften as you nervously fixing your rolled sleeves. You halt when he suddenly leans in.

“Boss—?” You rasp at the new weights on your shoulders, trying to pay no mind to the strange dark strains on his thick fingers.

The way he held you was almost…fond—

And he pushes you outside to the doorway. “Go finish the deliveries, won’t you?”

“Really?” You huff, trying to ignore the red tinge to your cheeks and the heavy thumping of your heart.

Your boss smiles that damnable handsome smile of his and pats you on your head, saying, “Get to it. The sooner you finish, the sooner I can give you your little Valentine’s Day bonuses for working so hard.”

While giving his employees gifts during holidays and special events is not new to your boss, you still perk up in eagerness and reward him with the biggest smile you can muster. As you dart away with a confident promise to complete the deliveries, he watches you scurry to the van, inhaling sharply,

“Soon.”

Your boss murmurs, rubbing his knuckle with his other hand—as if to hide the sudden green spot on it. Tiny vines emerge briefly, before he rubs them away and pivots back to his cash register where his impatient customers have started to queue. Flashing them with a dazzling smile to reassure frustrated customers with a wordless apology, your boss absently peers over to his office.

There, on his desk, is the special bouquet he prepared for you and only you.

Imagining you burying your face into the fragrant cluster of your favorite flowers, oblivious to the true intention of its purpose, the toxic drugging qualities meant to lure you into his arms—into his ivies and his binds of vines and creepers—had him biting back a shudder. Restraining himself before the antsy crowd, your boss rings up a customer with an invisible countdown ticking in his head.

A countdown to have you.

The blooms nearby writhe and shudder, with most dismissing it as mere breezes from the air conditioner.

It was not.

—end…?

[gildedtrashcan]

To them she was PRO-02M1G, the first subject to survive the cloning and splicing process. She was sick and weak from the beginning, her immune system was non existent so they kept her inside.

She told us that the day they researchers gave us to her was the best day of her life, she had a reason to wake up. Despite the medicine and the things they told her, she knew within that she was never leaving the facility.

She experienced the world through a screen, swears she could almost smell the salty ocean, feel the rain on her skin and the breeze through her fur. She always told us we were made to fly and how she wished that one day we could fly together.

She grew weaker and was taken away.

I hope wherever she is, she's flying. At least we can fly for her.

[ganondoodle]

still thinking about how even just the decision to basically act like the shiekah tech never existed is just ... so baffling to me

bc again you could have done all the sonau tech does with shiekah instead, and they were perfect to be explored more in a sequel, why wouldnt you grasp that potential, the literal building blocks for more??

if you are that tired of shiekah tech .. dont make it a fuckign sequel to the game prominently featuring it???? totk doesnt take place generations after botw in which things could have changed drastically, its just a few years afterwards??

you want to reuse the map and get rid of shiekah tech? ok fine take LINK into the past then and the focus is for you to find a way to return; do some neat twist where its revealed that link was the one who sealed gan bc he couldnt defeat him without zelda or something if you dare (they wouldnt)

want less work than that and still reuse the map and get rid of shiekah tech AND reuse characters? ok then make it some alternate universe thingy like majoras mask in which everythign is the same but also isnt, its weird and creepy how characters you thoguht you knew suddendly dont act like themselves, shiekah tech doesnt exist, malice is now miasma, etc, it would give reason to why you feel so much like something about this world is familiar yet also very wrong

as far as im aware every "sequel" we have had so far were either generations apart from the first one, some alternate universe or a different location altogether- in all of which its plausible that things are different, things seem weirdly familiar but also wrong, or that another continent just works different from hyrule

but totk does none of that, its supposedly just a few years after the first game, same world same character, but its BUILT like some strange jumbled mess of stuff from botw and new stuff out of nowhere that just .. doesnt fit, but feeling a strange sense of otherness, a déja vu of something you know but it acts off, like an imposter, thats NOT intentional and it shows, its a mess of botw stuff, from stuff that people missed from the old games and entirely new stuff; i dont doubt it CAN work but the way it turned out is like a mix of 3 different puzzles forced together and being told 'see it fits!' even tho you can clearly see the pieces dont look right in these places

again it feels like a sequel that desperately wants you to forget the first game happened, that anythign from it mattered at all

and that isnt really ... the sense of a sequel? why insist on it being one when it only creates problems? is it marketing?? just like it was marketing to call age of calamity a telling of what happened before botw but then it wasnt that at all and that is still the sole reason why i dislike it? bc i was lied to? totk is like 10000 times worse than that, its a main title and doesnt even have the excuse of yeah its basically an excuse to play all your fav characters in fun ways and the game beign well aware that being its main appeal; what is totk appeal? a toybox with botw aestethic and none of the flavor?

(on a sidenote; the sonau tech doesnt even .. matter? in botw at least calamity ganon was made of shiekah tech parts and him overtaking other tech is a big point, the sonau tech doesnt serve anything but .. idk minerus useless mech? gan doesnt even aknowledge it, he doesnt care, all it is is toys for the player, not link, but the player. the monsters mining the tech materials? what for? gan doesnt give a damn and they dont work for the yiga either??)

i said it before but it gives me the feeling that the way botw invited you to theorize, to look beneath the surface, the way it intrigued you and laid the groundwork for so many interesting things without denying anything.. was accidental? or perhaps put in the game without the directors noticing? i cant stop thinking about them saying sth like "after botw zelda wondered if the kingdom of hyrule needed to keep existing the way it had been before the calamity, but then totk happens" bc it just feels like they realized too late that botw naturally led into questioning the status quo and they scrambled to fit it back into a flat and boring road we have seen so many times before (or even worse really) with totk

zeldas character naturally leads into her questioning and reexamine their history and set of rules? we gotta teach her a lesson of why she is importante god given monarchy girl that has to keep it bc what if evil brown man shows up again for no reason

maybe im grasping at straws here but looking at it this way the sonau .. make more "sense"; the shiekah were a group that was under the rule of the royal family, and misstreated before (oh no look soemthing interesting) so they dont lend themselves well to be used for teaching zelda that lesson- the sonau however are tailored really to be just that; they are a supposedly godly race from the literal sky that founded this version of hyrule, that had tech even more advanced and better than the shiekah, she gets put in the past to meet the perfect god king of goodness personally, also his very fridgy wifey that zelda later replaces in a way, shes put there and treated like family and then gets to see just how evil that evil big man from the desert is, sonia is falcon-punched to death solely so zelda can feel obligated to take over her role, have her new, better 'family' hurt by gan; similarly so raurus sacrifice, look what a noble and good king he is, he payed the ultimate price to lock that evil man away, now zelda you cannot let their sacrifice go to waste, rebuild that divinely good kingdom like it was!!

and even though they go so much out of their way to put the cart back onto the rails of black and white-good and evil in an even flatter way than the old games, it still doesnt feel right, at least to me, it still feels like zelda shouldnt have gone along with all of that, it feels like even her character from botw was walked back entirely, except for the intro, it made her feel like a stranger to me-

because this is a sequel, i know this zelda, she wouldnt act like that after all that shes been through, this feels ... off

and it all just insulting to anyone who cared about botw more than surface level, or the zelda lore in general, i dont even care much about the timeline, but theres alot of lore and themes beyond it that felt ignored, especially so given that .. its a damn sequel, non AU, not generations apart, directly part 2-

but its not.

it even feels very "corporate", put zelda in a dress again, people liked that, put crazy abilities in the game to flashbang people with how insane it is even if its not the best for the gameplay or the story, put a new asthetic into it out of nowhere bc its 'new' and act like its been there the whole time, put gan in there bc people miss him and find him sexy even if his role is just as flat as that of an evil cloud monster-

*sigh*

you know, i saw a post that said aoc was like a bad fanfic (affectionate) and totk was like a bad fanfic (derogatory) and tbh thats like one of the best comparisons/summaries i have seen ..

[kittycatcorner]

shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose. 

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now. 

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples. 

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two. 

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends. 

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed. 

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable. 

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized. 

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture. 

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase. 

Hoffman had spoken, then. 

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.” 

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter. 

Why did that make something strange stir within him? 

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired. 

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence. 

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men. 

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?” 

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive. 

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already. 

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt. 

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips. 

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?” 

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued. 

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.” 

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet. 

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?” 

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say. 

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways. 

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf. 

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.” 

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected. 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.” 

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!” 

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic. 

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair. 

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury. 

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused. 

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head. 

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened. 

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him. 

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged. 

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply. 

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.” 

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place. 

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him. 

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.” 

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.” 

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused. 

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?” 

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. 

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer. 

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds. 

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful. 

“He does not ‘have me’.” 

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.” 

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…” 

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts. 

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.” 

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone. 

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce. 

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…” 

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.” 

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say. 

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.” 

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse. 

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.” 

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said. 

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage. 

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited. 

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity. 

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder. 

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal. 

Tamed. Domesticated. 

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree. 

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly. 

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

[obey-me-headquarters]

hi! could u perhaps write about mc accidentally finding out about the boys’ hard limits? like, just something that triggers their fight or flight response. maybe like inflecting severe pain or something. idk… thank you and sorry if u can’t!

Summary: Reader finds out where their demons' hard limits lie.

Warning/kinks: Degradation, Mirror play, bondage, sensory deprivation, punishment, spanking (with your hand and with a paddle), public play (? You're at an orgy, so everyone around you is consenting), food play, safeword use. In general, there's some panic on the boys' part as they realize that they don't like what you're doing. Along with some of them holding in their safeword for a bit, but you reprimand them for it.

Word count: 8,500+

Reader is completely gender natural and their genital isn't described.

-

Lucifer:

You know that Lucifer has complicated feelings when it comes to his body. He hates that he's missing a set of wings, but he wouldn't go back in time and stop himself from tearing them out. Yet his preference towards wearing as many layers as possible stems from more of a fear of being vulnerable than a lack of confidence in his body.

If anything, he's a bit overconfident in his physical appearance, if someone were to ask you.

("Is it really overconfidence, or simply knowing what I'm worth?"

"It's overconfidence Luci, my beautiful stupidity prideful demon.")

Using mirror play in the bedroom has proven to be an excellent way to break down Lucifer's walls. Whenever the demon struggled to get into subspace all it took was bringing out a mirror and having him nakedly kneel in front of it while you remained fully clothed for him to fall straight into subspace.

Something about him being so vulnerable while you remained untouched and fully clothed did something to him. Made him feel small and submissive. You didn't quite understand, but you definitely saw the appeal.

So, when Lucifer struggled to get into subspace one evening. When collars and putting him over your knee didn't do the trick, you brought out the mirror. It was full length and wide, able to reflect nearly half of the entire room, but you doubt that Lucifer would pay much attention to anything besides you or himself.

As you place Lucifer in front of the mirror he snaps at you, barring his teeth into a snarl and you know that tonight is going to be a difficult fight of trying to get him to relax enough to slip into subspace.

That proves true when you watch Lucifer struggle to fall into subspace. His pride battling his desire to be vulnerable and let you take control, you watch as he relaxes, before tensing up and snarling, before relaxing again, creating a vicious cycle.

Determined to break it, you decide to try something else that always makes Lucifer squirmy and lightheaded:

Degradation

"God, you're pathetic," you hiss as you pace around the demon. "Look at you, snarling at your own reflection like a wild animal. You know, sometimes I think you're no better than a wild animal with how much you fly off the handle."

Lucifer blushes at your words, but his pride is still roaming, and it doesn't let himself relax just yet.

"How dare-"

"Shut up!" You snap, wrapping a hand around Lucifer's mouth to silence him.

"Shut your dirty, lying, cheating mouth! How dare you think you can talk like you have something worthwhile to say."

Lucifer's breath catches in his throat, as the haze of vulnerability starts to creep up on him. Seeing his desire spark in his eyes you smirk and continue.

"Come on Luci. We both know that you never said anything worthwhile in your life. That at the end of the day, you're worthless. No, no, you're less than worthless. You only seem to make everything worst, don't you?"

Lucifer feels his pride crumble at your words, washing away as he starts to feel truly insignificant.

"You can never do anything right, can you? Not for Diavolo, not for your brothers, and certainly not for me."

The mention of disappointing Diavolo and his brothers strikes something inside of Lucifer, something he wasn't prepared to feel. Yet before he can examine what he's feeling, you continue.

"You're constantly fucking up, disappointing everyone around you. I wonder how long it'll be before everyone around you sees what I see. Do you know what I see Luci?"

Breath catching in his throat, Lucifer shakes his head.

You raise his chin with your index finger and direct it to the mirror, and Lucifer flinches when he sees himself.

He knows he would look vulnerable, and normally he would take great delight in how small and weak he looks compared to you, but coupled with your words, instead of feeling small and submissive and safe in your gaze, he feels like dirt. Normally when he drops down into subspace he feels soft and cared for, now he can't help but feel worthless and exposed.

Your sneer doesn't help as you take in the kneeling demon.

"Ugh, look at you. Can you believe that you used to be considered the star of the Celestial Realm?" You grab onto Lucifer's chin and force him to look at himself in the mirror.

"Well, can you?" You demand.

"N-no." He asks barely a whisper as tears spring to his eyes.

Immediately your hand drops from his chin as you stare at your demon in alarm. You're used to Lucifer being shy, especially as you break his pride down, you're used to his tears, but you never heard your demon sound so broken before.

"Luci, darling, are you ok?" You ask softly.

"I, I can't believe that I used to be the star of the Celestial Realm, Master. I am, sniff, I am worthless." Lucifer ignores your concern as he continues to cry, tears dripping down his cheeks.

Immediately you wrap your arms around him and pull him into your chest. "Hey, hey, shhhhh. It's ok baby. I don't think you're worthless. Demonus, ok? Demonus, the scene is done, it's over." You repeat your safeword a few times so Lucifer knows that the scene is over.

As you continue to hold Lucifer against you, mumbling praise and assurances slowly the demon starts to calm down. When his tears finally stop he leans away from you for a moment to catch his breath.

"Sorry, I- sorry. I don't know what came over him." He says, looking everywhere but your face or the mirror.

"It's ok sweetheart, you know you never have to apologize for needing to stop the scene. You know that right?"

"Yes, I'm aware. I just, didn't expect to react that way."

"If you're willing, do you mind telling me what caused it?"

Lucifer sighs and collapses back into your hold, and you think for a moment that he's going to shrug the whole scene off, but after a beat of silence he answers:

"It was the degradation. Normally I like it, love it even. But as I fell into subspace, hearing you talk about me like that made me feel vulnerable, and not in a good way."

Blinking, you will your tears away for now. Later, when tensions are lower, and everything isn't so raw the two of you will have a more in-depth conversation about this and will be able to apologize. Now your demon needs you.

"Thank you so much for telling me, baby. I just want you to know that I didn't mean a word of what I said. I, and I'm sure everyone else, rely heavily on you. We don't think you're worthless at all."

"I know," Lucifer states, a bit of his prideful overconfidence returning.

"Now, why don't the two of us stop laying on the floor and listen to a few of my records instead? I got this new one that curses those who listen to it to sing until their throat bleeds." Lucifer stands, reaching out a hand to pull you up.

It's a bit silly, seeing the still naked demon being so confident, but you hold all teasing remarks as you follow along.

-

Mammon:

You wanted to do so much to Mammon that it became a question of not what you'll do to him, but what he'll allow you to do to him.

And it turns out Mammon will allow you to do a lot.

Hence the list. After a very exciting night of thinking about every fantasy, kink, and wet dream you ever had, you came up with a list of what you wanted to do with Mammon, and are currently in the process of working through that list.

A lot of things on the list Mammon never tried (or heard about) before, which took a lot of talking, and a lot of easing him into certain kinks. The very kink you're trying out tonight being one he never tried before.

You gather up everything you'll need for tonight. A blindfold, noise-canceling headphones, and a pair of chains. You're a bit excited that the blindfold and headphones are magic, meaning that cut off all light and noise, as it was basically impossible to find a human realm blindfold that blocks out all light.

You could tell Mammon was getting excited too by the way he keeps eyeing the items, but in his usual Mammon way, he keeps that fact to himself.

It's adorable how he rushes to lay against the headboard at your command, as he's usually a bit of a brat and drags his feet before obeying your orders.

The chains are the first thing to go, seeing as Mammon and you were intimately familiar with them. As you lean over to secure the right cuff Mammon steals a kiss, leaning upward his lips ghosts over your cheek. With a grin, you pin him to the bed.

"Greedy boy~ we haven't even gotten started and yet you're already teasing."

"Guess it's just in my nature to be a little greedy." He teases back.

Rolling your eyes you give him one last real kiss on the lips before cuffing him to the bedframe. As you back to enjoy your work you can't help but feel giddy.

Pulling out the blindfold and headphones you turn to your demon with a grin as you present them both to him.

"Blindfold or headphones first?"

Mammon looks a bit caught off guard at being asked his preference, before eyeing them both critically. After a beat, he answers: "The headphones, I want the extra time to see you."

You huff at the flirt, not believing just how bold your demon can get under the right circumstances. (The circumstances being chained to the bed as you lay on top of him.) Leaning down you place the headphones around his ears and give him a moment to adjust.

"Wow, this is really weird! Woah! I can't even hear my voice! Am I being loud? I feel loud!"

Rolling your eyes you lean down and tap Mammon twice against the forehead - the signal you two came up with when you want to check in.

"I'm really to go! Just give me one last moment to look into your eyes -" Mammon stares into your eyes unblinking for a solid five seconds "- I'm good to go!"

Wrapping the blindfold around his head you plunge your demon into darkness.

And it is incredibly weird for Mammon. As a demon he has pretty good night vision, so even in complete darkness he can make out shapes pretty well. So being in complete darkness takes him a moment to get used to.

The warmth of your body grounds him, and it doesn't take long before he's relaxing into the plush bed.

Shimmy downwards, you try to make yourself comfortable sitting between Mammon's legs, sitting right in front of his cock. Leaning down you give the half hard cock a puff of air and watch as Mammon jumps at the sensation.

"Th-that felt weird. It felt like, a lot? Even though it was so little?" Mammon mumbles, and you wonder if you're going to get a rubbing commentary the entire night.

Maybe you should have added a gag to your myriad of tools.

Wrapping your hands around your demon's dick you begin to slowly pump it. Mammon gasps at the feeling, before moaning and leaning into your touch. Your touch is light and extremely slow, but the demon has always been extremely sensitive and it doesn't take much before he's nearly spilling.

"I'm cumming-"

Your hands fly away at his words, and he growls in annoyance. With a grin, he can't see you bounce off of the bed and begin looking through your toy chest. Normally Mammon would be peaking over, curious about what you'll pick out. But seeing as he can't currently do that, you grin as you realize that you're going to completely surprise him with whatever you pick.

As Mammon comes down from his high he realizes that you're no longer on the bed. The warmth he previously felt emulating from you is gone, and his heart quickens as he realizes that he's alone.

"Hey, what's the big idea? Where'd you go?" Mammon calls out.

You roll your eyes at the dramatics, too busy with shifting through the toy box. "In a minute, Mamms, I'm just getting a few toys." You answer, half forgetting that he can't currently hear. Mammon was just so loud, so responsive, that you momentarily let it slip from your mind that he didn't actually expect a response from you, and couldn't receive one.

Mammon tries his best to calm down. Surely you're just messing with him, right? Wanting to make him crack and beg for your touch? You do like to make him beg. Yup, that's it. You were just teasing him.

You are still definitely in the room with him.

Right?

Seconds become minutes to Mammon as he strains his ears to hear you. Normally he knew exactly where you were and what you were doing, even when he was kneeling and staring at the ground his demon senses allow him to hear everything. Now he has no idea where you are or what you're doing.

"Ok, fine, fine! I give! Can you please touch me?" Mammon whines.

Picking up the fleshlight you want to use on him you intend to do just that. Only to realize that the demon forgot to clean it. Gagging you put the toy aside to clean later, and decide to punish your demon by continuing to ignore him by looking through the toy box.

"Come on, please." His voice takes on a real edge of desperation as he starts to spiral.

What if you left? What if you got bored of him and decided that you didn't want to play with him anymore? Is he all alone, begging to an empty room because he wasn't good enough? He begins to fight against his chains in earnest now, instead of the teasing, testing pulls he's used to. But he finds that they're locked up tight and that he can't break out of them.

Will you hear his safeword if he says it?

Finally finding a suitable and clean toy you stand up and stretch. Glancing over at your boyfriend, you notice that he's strangely calm as he's no longer begging or struggling against the chains. You believe that he's just pouting and the second you touch him he'll start whining about you taking forever.

Before you can reach him, Mammon mumbles out a soft, broken, "Goldie".

Dropping the toy in your hand you rush over to him and immediately remove the headphones before moving onto the blindfold.

"Hey, hey it's alright. I'm right here." You mumble, hands shaking as you lean up to undo the cuffs.

Mammon has never safeworded before, and you're kinda panicking at the moment, but you do your best to remain calm as you rush to take off the chains.

The second Mammon lays eyes on you he lunges at you, pinning you to the bed in a hug. His arms are firm, yet they shake as they hold you. It takes you a moment to realize that the wetness you feel on your neck is from Mammon, but once you do you coo in sympathy.

"I thought you left me," Mammon whispers into your chest.

Blinking back tears you lean down to kiss the demon's forehead.

"I would never leave you alone like that Mamms. I just wanted to get a toy from the toy chest. I'm sorry, I should have communicated that to you."

"It's alright just... I don't think blindfolds and noise-canceling headphones are for me."

"That's OK, that's alright. Sometimes we're going to find stuff we don't like."

-

Levi:

Levi is an extremely obedient sub. In your many months of dating each other he never once received a punishment. You two set out rules together, with him not being allowed to touch himself without your permission and him being required to leave his room and go to RAD a certain number of times each month.

You had expected a rule to be broken at least once, so you were very surprised to see that it never was. Levi was just obedient, and even when he didn't want to do the thing you ordered him to do, he did it. (Even with an excessive bit of whining)

So you were content to never punish your scaly demon.

Levi wasn't.

"Why do you never punish me," Levi asks, pouting in his bathtub. His face is partially hidden by the pillow he's clenching to his chest.

"Because you never actually break a rule or be a brat?"

"Hmmmmm," Levi pouts. "It's not fair! You punish the others! Yet you never punish me. Is it because you don't want to? Because you could never bring yourself to punish a gross otaku like me?"

Holding back a laugh you crawl into the bathtub. Really, only your Levi could be envious of those you've punished.

"Well, if you're so interested in being punished, why don't you do something bad?"

Levi's eyes snap towards yours, like he never actually considered that option. "Gahhhh?!? Be, be bad? How could I, wouldn't you hate me forever?!"

Softening you reach across the tub to cup Levi's face in your hands. Moving his shocked face towards yours you pepper his face in kisses.

"Nope! Levi, I could never hate you." You say softly, stopping your kissing momentarily to gaze sincerely at your boyfriend.

Levi blushes at the look and hides his face in the pillow that's currently squished between you two.

"O-ok, if you say you wouldn't hate me, I'll, I'll try being bad!"

-

You walk towards Levi's room with a pep in your step, excited to continue playing the new RPG the demon recently brought. You only stopped playing last night as your eyes burned too much for you to continue looking at the screen.

As you cheerfully open the door to Levi's room you immediately notice that something is off about the demon. Instead of excitedly smiling at you and handing a controller over to you, he's curled up on his gaming chair and nervously fidgeting with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"What's wrong?" You ask. Standing over your boyfriend you check him over. Did Mammon steal something of his again? Was an anime he liked canceled?

Levi shakes off your concern and reaches for a controller. "N-nothing is wrong! We don't we start playing?"

He shoves the controller into your hand before scurrying off to turn on the game console. Unsure of what else to do to help your nervous demon you follow along, thinking that he'll open up once you start playing.

As the title screen of the game pops up you see Levi nervously staring at you in the corner of your eye, and you debate asking again if he's alright. Before you're able the title sequence stops and you press the "play" button. A column of saves pops up, and in your confusion, you momentarily forget about Levi's nervousness completely.

"Levi, where's my save?" You ask, flicking between the different saves, yours mysteriously gone.

"Oh well. Um. I sorta maybe, deleted it?" He says in a whisper so quiet you have to strain to hear it.

Snapping your head towards him you watch as Levi nervously fidgets. His left arm is covering his face in a classic sign of Levi's nervousness as a blush paints his cheeks.

Wait. Blush?

All of a sudden your previous conversation about punishment from yesterday comes back to you. You honestly didn't believe that Levi would gather up the courage to do something "bad", so you're momentarily impressed that he did.

All previous concerns about your save fly out the window, as you're sure that Levi backed up the save and is only pretending to have deleted it to elicit this punishment. Stalking forward you wrap your arms around your demon's shoulders and force him to face you.

"Oh, did you know? I didn't know my little demon could be so.... naughty~" You tease.

Levi's face darkens, at both your close proximity and your words. His mouth opens to defend himself but no words make it out. You watch as Levi reboots himself as you teasingly rub circles onto his shoulders.

As moments pass by and Levi is nowhere closer to calming down, you decide to pick up the lead again. "Does my demon want to be punished? Is that it? Were you sitting here in your room wondering what you could do to make me mad and pull you over my knee?"

Wordlessly Levi nods and confirmation, and you can't help but laugh a little. Even when being punished your demon can't help but be good for you.

Returning to your chair once again, you pat your chair and pat your thighs expectingly. Rushing to comply Levi lays across your thighs, and you give him a warning smack of what's to come.

"Ah!" Levi cries out, more in surprise than any real pain, as it will take a lot more than a little smack to hurt a demon Iike him.

It's not the first time you had Levi over your knee, though the previous times were more to explore a curiosity than for a punishment. Yet the previous experiences fill you with confidence, as you know where to smack to tease him, and where to smack that will cause him real pain.

As Levi gets himself situated on your lap you pull down his pants in one quick motion, jeans and all. The demon shivers as cold air meets his rear and you laugh at the pout he gives you in response.

Testing out the waters you give the bare ass a firm smack, and delight in the way Levi flinches at being caught off guard.

"Ah hmmm!" Levi moans, thrusting back for more.

"I expect you to count and thank me after each hit Levi-chan." You say sternly.

"O-one! Thank you, Master!"

Grinning you continue, giving your demon a few more smacks. You didn't give him a number on purpose, as you want to see how many smacks it'll take before his ass is a bright red and he's sobbing out for mercy.

As his ass gets redder and redder Levi begins to squirm against you, thrusting his hips against your thighs. You sigh in response, deep and disappointed, and the sound snaps Levi out of his pleasure filled hazy.

"No grinding against me. This is a punishment, remember? You're not supposed to be enjoying this."

Your tone is harsh, and it sends Levi flinching. You never sounded so.... frustrated in a scene before. Levi is used to you being teasing and gentle, always there with a soft word and a teasing touch. The idea of you being upset with him sends him spiraling.

Tensing up Levi tries his hardest to sit still and obey you, believing that maybe if he shows you that he can be good, and is willing to listen to your commands, you'll praise him. (You'll still want him.)

The next few swings of your fast, delivered before Levi has the chance to count them individually. Because of this, he miscounts them.

"Fifteen, s-sixteen, seventeen! Th-thank you, master."

Slowly, as Levi catches his breath your hand trails upward before suddenly wrapping tightly around his hair. Pulling him upward you lean down to whisper in your best Disappointed Dom voice: "Are you sure you counted right?"

Levi feels his heart stop at your words. He did, right?! He wouldn't miscount - didn't mean to miscount! He swears! It was an accident-

Slowly you watch as Levi's breath starts to stutter, stopping completely before gasping in and out. Immediately you drop your hold and Levi begins to hyperventilate against you.

"Sorry, I'm s-sorry. Didn't -gasp- didn't mean to! Sorry!"

Instantly you pick the demon up and hold his back towards his chest, hopeful that the extra room will allow him to calm down, as you begin mumbling praise into his ear.

"Hey, hey, it's ok! I'm not angry, I promise! There's no need to be sorry, it's ok, I forgive you."

Eventually, Levi gets his breathing under control, and he collapses against you once he does. Shifting him slightly, you pull him into your chest and he immediately buries his face into your neck. You continue to whisper praise as you being to gently stroke his back, allowing Levi the time to compose himself.

"I'm sorry." Is the first thing he says when he does.

"I know baby, I know. There's nothing to apologize for, though, you know that right? When I was disappointed that was only a part of the scene, right? Like when you sometimes pretend to not like something when you do."

Mutely you feel Leve nod against you.

"I, I didn't actually delete your save. I have it backed up on my computer."

"I know, sweetheart, I know." You whisper before leaning down to kiss the top of his head.

"How about this, we continue sitting here for a bit longer, and then we both get something to eat and drink. Then we have a little chat about the scene before loading up my save?"

Levi grumbles at the idea of actually having to talk about what happened, but he nods against you once.

"Good boy. That's my good boy."

-

Satan:

You hold up a pair of handcuffs and Satan grins.

You two haven't played around with the idea of bondage much, there were other kinks that you wanted to try out first. Sure, you toyed around with pinning his hands down to the bed or ordering him to sit still while you edged him. But you two have yet to use any tool to bind him.

A distinct click echoes throughout the room as you fasten the cuff to his right hand before moving to his left. His hands are looped around the bedframe, stopping him from reaching down to touch himself or you as you play with him.

A wise choice seeing as you plan to edge him until he's sobbing.

The first edge passes through him well, only resulting in a choked-off groan before you give him a few moments to calm down. As you do Satan begins to pull at the handcuffs, testing out their strength.

As he pulls his hands back and forth he feels his heartbeat pick up for a different reason. A looming sense of dread slowly starts to creep in, but before he can focus on it you begin to stroke his dick once again.

Arousal floods through his system once again, but so does anxiety. As he chases his denied relief once more he pulls against the handcuffs, flinching when they make a loud clicking noise as they scrape against the headboard.

When you shift away to allow him to cool off the anxiety settles in replacing all thoughts of arousal. He begins to fight earnestly against the handcuffs, pushing and pulling them, trying to will them to break. But they're strong cuffs, made out of demon-resistant metal and almost impossible to break.

In your mind all you can see is Satan shaking against the bed, sneaking out the pleasure you've denied him. But in Satan's, he's reliving an experience he hasn't felt in thousands of years: entrapment.

Memories of heavy chains wrapping around his body, caging him in and denying his escape as he withers and shakes in rage. Memories of dark closets and being chained to this very same bed as he screamed out curses and profanities until his throat bleed.

He thought he was past this stage of his life, where he was angry and trapped. Caged like a wild animal.

"S-SHAKESPEARE!" Satan growls out your safeword - a safeword that has never been used before.

It takes you a second to realize what he said, but once you do you're on him in an instant. Reaching up you fumble with the keys to the handcuffs as Satan struggles beneath you. You whisper praise and assurances as you unlock the cuffs, but you doubt he can hear you.

The moment he's free Satan flinches backward, his back hitting the wall as he scrambles to get away from you. His eyes are wide, his pupils are pinpricks as he studies the world around him. Akin to a wild, caged animal he crotches down like he's preparing to lunge, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You know he wouldn't attack you, yet you do your best to look passive as you raise your hands in surrender.

It takes a few moments, but eventually, Satan comes back to himself. He seems to realize where he is, and what's going on, as he composes himself.

"Baby, are you ok?" You ask in a low, gentle tone.

And Satan breaks.

He completely shatters as he rushes into your arms. You barely have time to realize what's going on before you feel your chest wetten as Satan begins to sob.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry." You mumble, hands lightly touching Satan's head. When he leans into the touch you begin gently petting him.

"It's, sniff, it's ok. You didn't know I would react like that. I didn't even know I would react like that."

"Still, I saw you struggling against the handcuffs, I should have checked up on you."

Satan doesn't know what to say to that, too tired to try to argue with you so he simply hums in response. After a few minutes of sitting in comfortable silence, your hands threading through his hair, he leans up and rubs the remainder of the tears out of his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it? Or would you rather we do something else?" You ask, rubbing circles into his back.

"Can we read a bit first?" Satan asks, and on a normal day he would cringe at how timid he sounds, but he's too tired to care right now.

One day he'll tell you about his "childhood". About this memories of chains and ropes, of dark rooms and confined spaces, of rage and curses.

But now he just wants you to hold him as the two of you pour over a good murder mystery, him free to move around and shift, and you with your hands wrapped around his waist.

-

Asmo:

You and Asmo tried nearly every kink known to man, and even some only known to demons. So you know when Asmo's limits lie, and he knows yours. You know when he's fake whining to get a rise out of you, and when his cries border on actually "too much", you can tell the difference between pleasure tears and pain tears, and after many many conversations you know what kinks he absolutely wouldn't want to try under any circumstances.

Fortunately, polygamy wasn't one of them.

It wasn't often the two of you invited another into your bed, you could entertain each other just fine. But sometimes you wanted to see Asmo dom another person, or Asmo wanted to show off his skills next to a less experienced sub, and gangbangs were just fun! You only had two hands, and sometimes you wanted to see Asmo be taken apart by a dozen.

The orgy the two of you are going to tonight didn't have a "main character", but it was hosted by a prominent sex toy brand owner, and Asmo said that the snack bar was "to die for". So you decided to give it a try.

Asmo was being a brat the whole car ride over, pawing at your jacket and trying to kiss you. Trying to save the poor Uber driver you tell your demon to behave, but Asmo only giggles in response as he tries, and fails, to undo your buttons.

You hope that once you got to the orgy Asmo would settle down, but he's  committed to being a brat. As you hand over your coat to the door demon, Asmo rushes ahead of you and sits down onto the lap of a demon he knows, who is very clearly in the middle of having their dick sucked by another attendee.

He tries to persuade them to let him take over and replace their sub's spot, but you're able to pull Asmo away by his collar and onto your lap.

For one glorious moment, you believe that this calms your demon down enough to start behaving, as he quiets down once as he gets settled. It wasn't long after that another demon started up a conversation with you, asking if you were the legendary exchange student, and how you felt about RAD.

While you talked Asmo absentmindedly sucks on your fingers. He tries squirming against your lap, but one smack to his thigh was a clear message for him to calm down.

Or so you thought.

When Asmo continues to grind against you and begins adding teeth to his sucking, you snap. If he was so determined to be punished tonight, he would get punished.

Rising you stand before Asmo wearing your best Disappointed Dom look. He giggles at the look, clearly happy that he thinks he's getting what he wants. That is a public spanking.

You have different plans though, and you walk towards a corner of the room no one is standing near. Snapping your fingers at the corner you command your demon:

"Asmo, over here now."

Asmo rushes off the couch to obey as he skips over. He eyes you a curious look as you force him to his knees, obviously not expecting his punishment to be somewhere so out of the way and private. You pay it no mind, and when he sinks to the floor and assumes a standard kneeling position you give him another command:

"You're not to move, and unless it's your safeword you're not allowed to speak either until I say your punishment is over."

He pouts as he feels the command take hold, staring up at you with pleading eyes. But you don't allow yourself to be swayed.

"Since you were so determined to be a brat and not be patient, this is your punishment. When I think you're finally to sit still I will release you."

You give him one last pat on the head before making your way back to the couch.

As you resume your conversation with the other demon about RAD, more demons start to join in. Some are curious about your life as an exchange student while others are more concerned with the reason why you're here.

A bold demon leaned in close and whispered something in your ear, causing you to blush and gently swat their arm. After that it was like the other demons suddenly remember that they were at an orgy and not a press conference, and began cuddling up to you.

All the while Asmo stews from his spot kneeling in the corner. At first, he was upset at you for hiding him, but now that you're getting more and more attention a prickle of envy runs through him. Not at you, but at the demons now vying for your attention. You should be focused on him - even if it was to punish him.

Normally Asmo wouldn't mind you getting cozy with a few other demons, under different circumstances he would have been delighted to sit back and watch as you had your way with a few of them. Now? When he's hidden away in a corner, forgotten?

Something stings in Asmo, and he desperately tries to whine out for your attention, but the command stops him. All that leaves him is the wheeze of his chest as he desperately tries to force words out of his mouth. Your safeword was on the tip of his tongue, and if you two were alone he wouldn't hesitate to say it, but something about being in a room full of demons stop him.

He's the Avatar the lust, and this is barely a punishment, what would the other demons say if they saw him use his safeword just because he was put into a corner? He knows that safewording isn't a sign of weakness, but he can't shake the thought of what rumors might follow him if he shows vulnerability.

But when he sees a demon crawl into your lap, and you kiss them on the lips, he can't help but yell out a desperate "Majolish"!

Immediately you push the demon out of your lap and rush toward Asmo. Your knees hit the ground with a loud thud but you pay it no mind you kneel before the now sobbing demon.

"All commands are over! Asmo are you ok, what happened?!"

Asmo doesn't waste a second as his arms shot around you and pull you close. As he sobs into your chest your hands slowly wrap around your demon, trying to piece together what went wrong. You don't get must time to think before Asmo's lips are on yours, kissing you desperately, which you quickly return with enthusiasm. Asmo calms down once you make it clear that you desire him, slumping into your chest.

When you break for air you timidly look around the room and breathe a sigh of relief as you notice that the surrounding demons are making an effort not you look in your direction. As you make eye contact with a demon they mouth out a "side room" while pointing at a closed door.

Understanding that this must be some type of aftercare room, or simply a private room couples can retreat into, you quickly pull Asmo up and lead him into the room. As you make it through the doorway you relax as you see that no one else is in there and gently push Amso onto the bed.

"Asmo, sweetheart, darling, we don't have to talk about what happened right away, but I do want to make you feel better. Can you please tell me if there's anything I can do?"

Asmo, whose been holding your hand in a death grip slowly nods as his other hand wipes at his tears.

"Yeah, yes of course. Just can you, can you hold me for a bit?" His voice gets quieter at the end. "Maybe tell me you love me?"

It's rare to see Asmo so shaken up, even after using his safeword, and something breaks inside of you. But you're determined to focus on him, and you nod.

"Of course baby, scout over."

Asmo does as he's told and you're quick to pull him into a tight hug before you begin to slowly rock him back and forth. All the while whispering praise into his ear about how much you adore him, and how beautiful he is.

-

Beel:

It seemed so simple when you suggested the idea: why not mix two of Beel's biggest pleasures and bring food into the bedroom?

You haven't had much experience with food play before, but after doing some research (watching porn on DevilHub and writing down things you found hot), you were confident you could make food sexy.

After discussing what will happen in the scene, you and Beel come up with a game plan. Beel was a bit worried about not being able to focus on sex when he was eating, so you proposed a solution: you will command Beel to sit still and tease him with food from Madam Screams. When he's a good boy and shows patience, you'll reward him by feeding him a piece of food and then stroking his dick. Trapping in a cycle of wanting pleasure, and being hungry.

The start of the scene went according to plan, with Beel able to control himself as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You dangle a curly fry in front of his face, and Beel drools at the sight.

Teasing him you press the fry against his lips and tell him by a good boy and hold it there. Like a dog, Beel obeys and holds the treat against his lips and makes no move to bite. While your other hand sinks to the edge of his boxers.

Palming his dick Beel lets out a guttural groan, the motion causing the fry to ever so slightly push past his lips and he gets a slight taste of the slaty goodness before you rip it away. The glutton barely has time to mourn that loss before he sinks into pleasure once more as you pull his dick out of his underwear.

Already hard and dripping Beel's dick bounces against his stomach, and you coo in delight.

"Oh baby, you're already so wet for me. Excited already?"

Beel moans in response, unable to think clearly as it was growing harder to think through the pleasure filled haze of his mind.

Wrapping your hand around your dick you give it a firm tug, just how he likes it. All thoughts of food and hunger spill out of his mind as you begin playing with his dick.

Until you press the curly fry against his nose and he breathes in the scent. Hunger overtakes him once more as he tries to lunge for it, but you move it away before he's able. Pressing a firm finger against his slit Beel groans as he's stuck in a tug of war between his two different desires. Food, and sex.

As you deny him his treat once again a growl rumbles through his chest and you pause. Beel has never growled like that during sex before. Smiling you continue to jack him off, but Beel is less excited about his rough growl. He normally tries so hard to keep his hunger rage away from you, what if he loses control?

You don't give him much time to worry about concern as you pump him toward an orgasm. Yet the moment Beel feels like he's going to tip over, your hands retreat and he's left wanting.

As a reward you pop the fry into the demon's panting mouth and he instantly inhales it. But it doesn't provide him much relief as he just feels hungrier.

Beel is used to fighting off his hunger and he's used to you edging him. But dealing with both at once? It's an overwhelming, all encompassing desire he never felt before.

And he's not sure if he likes it.

As you lean down to touch his dick once again Beel lets out a throaty whine, sounding more desperate than you ever heard him before. Horny, but worried you glance up at your gentle giant.

"Are you doing alright, buddy?"

"Hungry- no, horny. I can't, I don't know. I want to stop." He rushes out the last part quickly, but you hear it all the same.

"Oh! OK, alright. Yeah, we can stop no problem. Um, which one do you want first? Do you want me to get you off first or do you want to eat first?"

Beel moans hopelessly at the question, and you mentally berate yourself for even asking. It's not like he can't do both at once.

Shoving a handful of fries into his mouth you begin pumping his dick in earnest now, determined to actually get him off this time. Every time Beel moans in hunger you're quick to feed him more food, and Beel is treated to the sensation of eating while getting pleasure.

It doesn't take long for him to cum, shooting into your hands and getting a bit of your chin as he does. As he breathes out a sigh of relief he lays boneless against you, and you remember to finally undo the sit still command you previously placed on him.

Patting his back with one hand the other reaches over to grab a nearby drink and you hand it to him to help wash down the food. After he downs it one gulp he leans back to give you a dopey, but incredibly fond look.

"That was nice. I liked it when you feed me while jacking me off."

Grinning at the honesty, you lean in and kiss your demon.

"Thank you. I liked how desperate you were and how to relied on me to give you everything you wanted. What about the teasing?"

"I.... didn't like that. I was afraid I'll get too needy and hurt you." Beel says the last part ashamed and you're quick to lean up to give him another kiss.

"I get that, it seemed like a lot. If you want to do this again I would tease you again, I promise."

Beel grins, and you momentarily mourn your wallet at how much food you'll be buying in the future. But that fond look is enough to banish all mournful thoughts in an instant.

"I'll like that."

-

- Belphie:

Belphie being a brat isn't a new development for you. He's been a brat since the first time you bedded him. Which resulted in a lot of punishments. A lot.

You almost believe that Belphie prefers to be punished than his regular scenes, and that makes you want to up the ante and show him a real punishment is like. Maybe you'll finally convince him to be obedient for once.

So you got a new toy you wanted to try with him, a paddle. It's a thick, strong paddle. Made in the Devildom because you don't think a human realm one will survive Belphie's ass.

Yet the demon doesn't so much as cower when you present the toy to him after he caused you to sleep in and miss class again. Well, you'll show him. You'll have him pleading for mercy in no time.

The Avatar of Sloth, true to his name, doesn't put up any type of a fight as you pull him across your lap. Only grinning when you pull his pants down and you notice that he's not wearing any underwear.

"You were really committed to being a brat today, weren't you?" You tease, giving the demon a quick pop on the ass with the paddle.

Belphie moans at the sensation, and giggles a cheeky "no". Wasting no time with foreplay you get right into business by delivering a fury of blows to the demon's plush. You don't bother to tell him to count them, knowing that he wouldn't, or that he'll miscount on purpose.

Moaning at the feeling Belphie arches his back as he leans into the swatting, enjoying the pushing sensation.

Yet, as time continues and you keep hitting and his ass gets redder and redder Belphie starts to feel weird..... tender. You normally don't cause him to feel this raw until much later in his punishment. When both of your hands sting with the amount of blows you dealt, the two of you are out of breath and ready to tear each other's clothes off.

As you strike down the paddle once again, Belphie feels something he hasn't felt in a very long time:

Pain

Sure, your spankings hurt before. But it was more of a force, a push, a physical reaction to movement than any real kind of pain.

And Belphie is not prepared to handle real pain. As the spoiled youngest of the Avatars, he's used to not having to lift a finger. This made your punishments even more exciting as Belphie felt the closest he did to pain he felt in a long time, without actually crossing over into actual pain.

He may not be as physically resistant as Beel or Lucifer, but he's still an Avatar, a high class demon who can take a lot before anything even fazes him.

Which makes this situation laughable.

A simple human like you, causing him, a ruler of the Devildom, pain? It's impossible, it should be impossible.

Yet here he is, forcing back tears as a flimsy wooden paddle causes him pain he hasn't felt since the Celestial War. He wants to laugh, but he wants to cry even more.

The safeword is on the tip of his tongue, but he refuses to cave. He's been spanked dozens of times before, why should he admit defeat over a stupid paddle? He knows you'll disagree with him framing it like that, but you're too busy creating welts on his ass to argue with Belphie's mind.

When you show no signs of stopping or slowing down, Belphie starts to crack. For once he just wants a punishment to be over and for him to apologize and for you to hold him in your arms.

When you strike down once more, Belphie cries out a "No!" That's a little too desperate, a little too panicked, that snaps you out of your rhythm

"Baby?" You ask, placing the paddle next to you. "Are you ok? Do you need a breather?" You know not to suggest stopping, as Belphie will scoff at the notion before edging you on, but something about the way he's flinching makes you want to pause the scene for a moment.

"No," Belphie sniffs, hand reaching upward to rub the tears out of his. "No I'm fine, keep going." He insits, but you notice the way he leans away from you as he says it. Belphie may be a brat, he may pretend to huff and hate punishments, but he never shifted away from you during a scene pause.

Placing down the paddle beside you, you host Belphie up and press him against your chest. The moment you do he's hiding his face in your shirt, an act of shyness that's out of character for the demon.

"Belphie, baby, are you ok? We can stop if you want to."

Belphie sniffles against your shift and you raise your hands to rub comforting circles into his skin.

"I'm fine, just.... I'm not letting a stupid paddle break me." He mumbles out the last part, but you're able to catch the gist of it and you frown.

"You know that's now how that works. You're not admitting defeat, or saying you're not strong enough if you use your safeword."

Believe grumbles out a response you don't catch, but you doubt he's agreeing with you. Shifting his head upwards you create eye contact between the two of you, and don't relent until he's staring into your eyes.

"What if I didn't want to do something and so I used our safeword? Am I breaking then?"

Belphie pouts, knowing that he'll never think any less of you if you were to use the safeword. So reluctantly he shakes his head.

"Well, why's it any different for you? Because you're a demon?"

He flashes pink at being so easily read, and he keeps his mouth shut as he shrinks down.

"No, but......" Belphie trails off, unsure of what to say. Smiling softly you lean forward to press a kiss into his lips, one he's quick to mirror.

"Alrighty, so no more holding in your safeword, ok?"

With an exaggerated sigh, Belphie nods before cuddling up to you. As you lay down with your arms wrapped around him, careful to shift him so his tender ass isn't touching anything, you begin stroking his hair. In the following silence, all that can be heard is the steady rise and fall of both of your chests before Belphie says determined:

"I'm going to burn that paddle though."

-

[kateis-cakeis]

You know, something something Arthur desperately wanted to see the good in magic at any opportunity he was given.

When Gwen was first accused, when he first met Morgause, when he wanted to save Uther using magic, when he saved the woman from being burnt in that small village, when he was given a choice by the Disir, when he was determined to save Gwen from Morgana's dark magic...

(Honourable mentions include when he saved Mordred and argued with Uther about the Druids being peaceful (they are magic adjacent after all) - and well, given the second honourable mention being his remorse for the raid on the Druid camp when he was young, it's understandable that it comes from some sort of trauma. And of course, the result of that remorse was the promise that he would do everything to prevent it ever happening again, and that he would treat the Druids with respect. Hell, even with Kara he was respectful, even though she committed actual literal treason in the form of an attempted assassination of Camelot's king)

Of course, at every opportunity, Arthur's view that there is good in magic, that not all sorcerers are evil, that perhaps his father was wrong, or that his father had lied, ends up being proven wrong, at least in his eyes.

Time and time again Arthur is shown to consider magic as a more neutral force, like almost as if he's desperate for it to be true. It isn't even necessarily his fault that the opinions about magic and sorcerers that Uther taught him becomes reinforced once again.

The fact that he can even think critically about magic at all is a miracle alone. Like this man who has only ever known sorcerers to use magic for evil purposes, to destroy Camelot, attempt to assassinate him, attempt to assassinate his father, to harm those he cares about - and yet he still he still falls back on, what if magic can be good, what if we're wrong, what if, what if, what if--

And it's only when magic itself reveals himself to Arthur that he can finally see that yes, magic can be good.

Because if Merlin is good, if Merlin is the same person even with magic, then magic is neutral, and sorcerers aren't inherently evil.

Arthur was always going to accept magic, that's the thing, that's hardcoded into his character, he just needed the right push, and that push was always going to be Merlin.

Because as Arthur dies in Merlin's arms, blanketed by magic itself, he accepts that even with all of Merlin's magic, his life cannot be saved, magic cannot save him.

But he accepts it, and accepts Merlin, and he dies having brought about all that Merlin ever dreamt of, truly dreamt of, that Arthur would see him for him, and accept him and his magic. And more than that, what Arthur truly ends up doing is embracing it.

Arthur for whatever reason, perhaps because he was born of magic, perhaps because his soulmate is magic itself, perhaps because he has a heart of gold, wanted to see the good in magic at any given opportunity that presented itself, even though with all that Uther taught him, he never should have seen it that way.

It's just, it's so fascinating, and it's so heartbreaking that when he finally knew, he died. But he'll return, and I'm sure then he can build something better with Merlin, really bring magic back to a time that needs it :)

[necrotic-nephilim]

bftc jaytim fuck nasty in their batman suits🩷

CORRECT THEY DO. it's like you live in my brain, anon. and for that, you get a full fic bc i've wanted to write this anyway and you gave me an excuse to. have 6k words worth of dirtybadwrong JayTim. rough sex, blood play, pain play, degradation, consensual but not safe or sane, dead dove vibes so be warned. but also enjoy bc ily for this thought anon 🩷

“You look ridiculous in that get-up. Like a kid out for trick-or-treats.” The words were just as brutal as the fight was. Jason had the bodyweight and training to easily pin Tim, now that he was done toying around. 

Of course, toying around for Jason Todd looked like bloody slashes across Tim’s back, base of his skull, and his forehead. Picking one of Bruce’s older suits may have been a bad idea on Tim’s part. The armor was thinner and easier for Jason to slash through with a batarang in a clenched fist. 

Tim had managed to knock the batarang out of Jason’s hand, but that also seemed like a bad idea now, with Jason on top of Tim. His fists were even more brutal, blunt weapons and he’d reinforced the gloves to make his punches hit harder across Tim’s face. 

There was blood pouring from Tim’s nose and mouth. With all the pain flaring across his body, it was hard for him to get a good read on if anything was broken or not. 

All he knew was it hurt. His head spun from slamming against the concrete. It was hard for Tim to blink his eyes into focus. And when he did, he wished he hadn’t. Jason was leaning in so close, his mask was all Tim could see. Tim dizzily wondered how the glowing eyes didn’t impede Jason’s vision. 

“Look at me,” Jason demanded. His voice was robotic behind the thick metal mouthpiece. One of his fists pulled back for another punch. “Do you see terror? Do you see fear? Or is it just your own reflection?”

By some miracle, Tim managed to catch the punch before it connected with his face. The muscles in his wrist and forearm screamed at the animalistic strength Jason pushed back with, inching his fist closer and closer to connecting. If it did manage to connect, Tim knew his own hand in the way wouldn’t do much to soften the blow. If anything, Jason would shatter Tim’s knuckles against his own nose.

Not a pretty thought.

“That mad I said no to being your Robin?” Tim wheezed. It was hard to get air in his lungs, with Jason perched on his chest, putting all his weight on Tim’s midsection. 

Jason scoffed with cruel amusement. “You’re a second choice, Drake. It doesn’t matter to me if you say no, I can always ask the original. He’d at least put up a better fight than you’re managing.”

Tim couldn’t argue that. He thought he’d have some kind of chance in a fight against Jason, but it was a losing game to confront Jason on his turf, in a suit Tim wasn’t comfortable in. He was too stupid to even bring his bo staff.

A great Batman he was turning out to be.

With bloody teeth, Tim smiled. “You’re right. Is that why I’m your reflection, Jason? Two second rate Robins who will never be the original?” He managed a laugh against protesting ribs. “For what it’s worth, I still think I’m better than you. Least I didn’t die.”

He couldn’t see the look on Jason’s face, but he didn’t need to. The feral yell that came out of Jason spoke for itself at how well Tim got under his skin. Jason’s other fist came barreling toward Tim’s face, but he managed to move his head out of the way, making it only connect with the ground. Jason’s punch was hard enough to make the concrete crack.

Even with the reinforced gloves, that had to hurt. Maybe a couple cracked bones, if Tim was lucky. Jason couldn’t hit as hard if he injured himself. 

That was a solid plan. If he’d actually planned it in the first place. 

“Can’t believe I ever liked you, Drake,” Jason snarled, pulling his hand free from the concrete. He flexed his fingers just a bit too slow. He definitely hurt himself, even if he was trying to hide it. Jason went for his utility belt, grabbing another batarang. 

“Flattering,” Tim deadpanned. He tried to elbow Jason in the neck, but Jason easily twisted away from the blow. 

“I really did you know,” Jason said. Maybe it was the mask, but Tim could’ve sworn Jason’s tone changed slightly. “If Bruce hadn’t corrupted you, you really could’ve been something.”

Tim ignored the comment about Bruce. Bruce’s death was too raw for Tim to be able to look at his grief about it head-on. “Can’t say the feeling was mutual,” Tim grunted. He tried to slash his glove fins across Jason’s face. But Jason was smarter. He had a more durable suit that made the blow easily glance off. 

Damn Tim for picking this suit. He idealized Bruce’s image too much and forwent practicality. He was paying for it now. A new suit would’ve had proper weapons worked into the wrists for Tim to easily flick out. 

“I don’t know about that,” Jason mocked with a cold laugh. “Remind me again Drake, who broke me out of prison?”

He had a point. 

“Real great job you’ve done repaying that kindness,” Tim muttered. He avoided addressing it directly. He didn’t owe Jason his reasons. Especially not with how they’d all blown up in his face. 

“I never needed your kindness,” Jason growled. He wrapped a hand around Tim’s throat and pressed down just enough to make it uncomfortable for Tim to breathe. “That’s what all you Bats could never get through your skulls. I didn’t need to be Bruce’s pity project, and I definitely didn’t need to be yours.”

“Trust me,” Tim fought to get the words out, trying to worm his fingers under Jason’s grip. “You don’t have my pity.”

“What do I have, then?”

“My contempt.” The more Tim struggled, the tighter Jason’s grip got. The sharp points of his claws were starting to dig into Tim’s skin and draw blood. Blood flow was cut off from Tim’s brain and he fought to keep hold of his consciousness. 

“Liar,” Jason hissed. “No one else is here, Tim. You don’t have to pretend and hide things from me I already know.”

Maybe passing out would be a good thing. Then, Tim would have a convenient reason for not answering Jason. A reason to not face the truth Jason wanted him to bare.

Tim knew that Jason probably knew. The way they’d looked at each other through the prison safety glass when Jason was locked up had a thousand unspoken words in just a shared smile. A promise, that maybe, if Jason cleaned himself up with this second chance, there could be something between them.

But Jason didn’t clean up. He flung himself in the opposite direction, if anything. A growing body count and an ugly reign of terror that was Tim’s job to stop.

He started this. He put misplaced faith in Jason. Tim’s bad judgment jeopardized Gotham. 

And now Jason wanted the unspoken part said out loud. Something a part of Tim would rather die than admit after all this. They both already knew. Making Tim say it was just an obvious attempt to humiliate him and Tim refused to sink to Jason’s level.

All this over a stupid crush. 

“Fine,” Jason continued when Tim didn’t say anything. “I’ll say it for you. You loved me.”

Tim made a face and twisted, finally forcing Jason’s hand free from his neck with a hard strike to his inner elbow. “It wasn’t love,” he insisted through grit teeth.

“What was it then?”

Tim didn’t say a word. He wasn’t going to give in to Jason’s cruelty.

“Tell you what,” Jason’s voice dropped low and almost sultry. “If you say it out loud, I’ll give you a free pass. No one will know.”

“A free pass?”

There was no way Jason was implying what Tim thought he was.

“Right here, right now.” Jason nodded. “Can’t say I’ll make it sweet, but something tells me you’re not the vanilla type anyway.”

Shit. He was implying that. Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

The answer should’ve been obvious. 

The answer was obvious. Tim was laying in a growing pool of his own blood because of Jason. Countless people were dead because of Jason. Bruce’s legacy was being destroyed because of Jason. Whatever little crush Tim had once had was long gone and replaced with disgust and hatred.

Most of it was. 

But some small piece of Tim clung to the way Jason grinned at him. And that small piece of him seemed to be steering the rest of him, making him hesitate on what should’ve been an easy answer. An easy chance to catch Jason off guard and get the upper hand in the fight.

Tim hoped the cowl hid enough of his face that his expression wasn’t readable. 

“Over my dead body,” Tim forced the words out, pulling himself back into reality. Praying Jason wouldn’t read into the pause. 

Jason’s body shifted. He was quiet for a moment, then he shrugged and brought the batarang clenched in his fist to Tim’s neck, easily finding the jugular. “So be it. I agree anyway. Killing you is the best way to cut this goddamn feeling out of me.”

“What feeling?” Tim frowned, fingers twitching as he stalled, trying to think of a real plan. 

“No, no.” Jason shook his head and laughed. It was a hollow sound, this time. “You don’t get to have your cake and eat it too. If you won’t say it, then I won’t either.”

Oh.

“You…” Tim sucked in a breath. He was on death’s edge, a blade to his neck, but somehow it was the furthest thing from his spinning mind. “You like me? Like that?” He said it like a stupid high schooler, too shy to even look their crush in the eye. 

“What difference does it make now?” Jason shifted his weight on Tim, bearing down more. “This was always how it was going to end, between us.”

“It makes all the difference,” Tim said. He didn’t know why it did. But he knew it did. Tim reached a hand up, but instead of going for Jason’s batarang, he went further. His fingers reached under his own cowl and tugged it off, baring his face to Jason. 

Vulnerability. A metaphorical white flag, surrendering to Jason. 

Tim was dangerously close to getting himself killed. He could feel it, in his beating heart and overflowing adrenaline. 

“I would’ve come at this from a different angle if I knew…” Tim started, before trailing off. They were still dancing around saying it directly.

Jason barked out another laugh. “Oh, would you? What, you would’ve come to talk instead of fight? You really think that would’ve worked?”

“Maybe-“

“I told you,” Jason’s grip on the batarang tightened, “I don’t need your fucking pity.”

“And you don’t have it,” Tim snapped back. Too angry. This angle was quickly slipping away from him. Shit. “You’re a psychopathic killer and I don’t know if you can ever been redeemed after what you’ve done. But I would’ve tried out of love, not pity, you sanctimonious asshole.”

Jason stuttered. He leaned back and breathed hard. Tim really wished he wasn’t wearing that stupid mask. “You said it wasn’t love.”

Tim took in a deep breath, and let himself fall over the ledge he’d been trying so hard to cling to since Jason pinned him. “I lied.”

For a moment, Tim was convinced he’d just sealed his own coffin. Whatever Jason’s feelings were, it didn’t seem like they were any particular deterrent to hurting Tim. He was inches away from killing Tim and leaving his body for someone else to find.

If they found Tim’s body at all.

But instead. Instead, Jason reached up and ripped the metal part of his mask off, tossing it aside to skitter off into the darkness.

And he kissed Tim.

Tim let out the breath he was holding against Jason’s mouth. And in turn, Jason breathed him in, greedy with his kiss. The batarang was kept firm against Tim’s throat, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Jason was kissing him. 

There was still the logical side of him screaming just how bad of an idea this was. All the reasons he could think of to not tangle with Jason were running circles across his mind. 

Tim ignored them and kissed Jason back. 

Jason tasted like metal and he smelled like gunpowder. Both of those things made sense and made Tim want more. He wanted every single part of Jason he could drink up, even from a single kiss. Jason’s tongue was in his mouth, licking and opening Tim up. They shared each other’s blood through the kiss, until Tim couldn’t tell whose was whose. 

The kiss was broken by Jason just as suddenly as it was started. Jason pulled back and raised the batarang. Panic flashed through Tim and he instinctively threw his hands up to cover his face and neck. 

The batarang slashed through Tim’s suit though, thankfully not giving him what might’ve been the stupidest death in the history of vigilantism. Jason didn’t seem to care about making sure the cut didn’t get Tim’s skin, though. Shallow wounds sprang across Tim’s skin and he hissed, watching Jason turn the suit to ribbons. The batarang was then tossed aside so Jason could rip off the suit as he leaned back. 

The bat symbol on Tim’s chest stayed in tact, but everything below it was ripped away, exposing him from his abs down to his thighs. Jason knew exactly how to unclip the utility belt and throw that aside, with the shreds of fabric. 

Cold air hit Tim’s most private areas. He wanted to cover himself, but he couldn’t get his hands to obey. His entire body was paralyzed under Jason’s gaze.

“Take off your mask,” Tim found his voice, rough and not sounding like himself.

Jason wore a cruel smirk. “No.” He did take off his gloves, though. Tim didn’t hide his sigh of relief. He didn’t want those claws on his skin. He was bleeding enough as it was.

The moment Jason’s hands were bare, he ran them over Tim’s skin. Tim hissed and flinched, but didn’t pull away. He let Jason’s warm hands claim his skin. Jason wasn’t kind or gentle. He smeared Tim’s blood around, exploring every bare inch. Tim’s stomach, his hips, his back, his legs. 

Jason curled a hand around Tim’s dick and Tim’s back arched. 

To be fair, this wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured sleeping with Jason. Still, he couldn’t find it in him to complain. 

Jason jerked Tim off rough and fast. The blood on his hand was slick enough to make a smooth glide over the callouses of his palm. Tim groaned, eyes fluttering shut. He bucked into Jason’s hand. As much pain as his body was in, the pleasure was too distracting for him to care. Tim choked on every breath he managed to take in, unable to stop himself from crying out and whining.

His body was screaming at him because of what Jason had done to him. And now, he was letting himself fall apart to Jason’s hands in a different way. 

“If Grayson found us, he’d think I was fucking torturing you from all the pathetic noises you’re making,” Jason growled. He barely sounded human. He slid his other hand up Tim’s chest and grabbed Tim’s face, stroking his cheek. 

Tim groaned at the thought. He forced his eyes to open just so he could look at Jason. He really wished Jason would take the cowl off. Tim wanted to see Jason’s face more than anything. 

“Don’t bring him up,” Tim gasped, practically humping Jason’s hand for more delirious pleasure. “I don’t want to think about him now.”

At least he could see Jason’s smirk. “Why? Because you know he’d disapprove?”

“Because I want to think about you.” Tim tried to grab at Jason’s suit to pull it off. His hands were clumsy and shaky though, probably from blood loss. All he could do was uselessly press them against Jason’s chest and feel the warmth through layers of armor.

“Fuck,” Jason groaned. His whole body shuddered, affected by Tim’s words alone. Jason stopped jerking Tim off so he could unclip his belt. He kept his other hand against Tim’s face though. Stroking it. “Least I know why you broke me out of prison, now.”

Tim made an aghast noise. “This is not why I broke you out of prison.”

Jason leaned in close, resting his face against Tim’s. “You still broke me out. So all my blood is on your hands too, Tim.” He pressed a kiss against Tim’s temple. “Bruce wouldn’t have been stupid enough to do that. Hell of a Batman you make.” It was like he had crawled into Tim’s brain just to voice all the awful little thoughts that Tim tried to bury. 

“You-“ Tim tried to snap back, but he was distracted by the sound of Jason undoing a clasp, then a zipper. Tim looked down and watched, breath caught in his throat, as Jason pulled his cock out of his pants.

He was already hard. 

Jason’s hand smeared blood across his member. Tim swallowed at the sight. Jason had pushed his pants down just enough to expose a sliver of pale skin. He had a sharp v-line and toned muscles just from the bit Tim could see. An embarrassing noise came out of Tim’s throat.

“Pathetic,” Jason said, but he groaned on the word, working his hand over himself. It was filthy. Both of them, covered in blood, and Jason jerking off on top of Tim. 

Tim wrapped an arm around Jason. He wanted to sink his fingers into Jason’s hair, but he settled for wrapping them around the back of Jason’s cowl. Tim seriously considered trying to pull the cowl off himself, but he doubted Jason would take kindly to it. 

The noises Jason made as he pleasured himself were beautiful. Tim’s sounds were animalistic and, in Jason’s own words, pathetic. Barely human sounding. But Jason. Jason sounded practically divine, low and smooth as he moaned in Tim’s ear. 

“Please,” Tim gasped. He wasn’t sure what he was asking for.

“That desperate?” Jason downright purred. 

Tim didn’t hold himself back from nodding. He swallowed down his dignity. 

If he had any dignity left.

“I’m not going to be gentle,” Jason warned. Like he was giving Tim one last chance to back out.

Tim just laughed. “If you think I want you to be gentle, you really don’t know a thing about me.”

A guttural groan came out of Jason. He pulled back and lifted one of Tim’s legs, bending it as far back as he could. Tim wasn’t quite as flexible as Dick was, but Jason got pretty far before Tim’s muscles protested and he winced. 

“Of course you shave down there,” Jason commented. He slid a hand over Tim’s smooth skin around his cock and balls.

“I don’t like pubes getting caught in my suit,” Tim huffed, trying not to let his cheeks go red.

“Don’t worry,” Jason hummed, “I think it’s cute. Makes you look like a fucking virgin.”

“I’m not.” Like it mattered.

Jason paused, just staring at Tim. Was he disappointed? It was hard to tell. “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else, so it doesn’t matter either way.” Whether or not he was disappointed was masked with a rough, possessive anger that made Tim gasp.

Rough fingers ran over the shallow cuts on Tim’s stomach and he hissed at the sudden sharp pain. It wasn’t easy to ignore the dull throbbing when Jason was practically fingering the open wounds. Tim almost asked what the hell he was doing, before he realized Jason was smearing blood across his fingers, getting them slick and coated.

“Seriously? You’re going to use my own blood to fuck me?” Tim asked, like just the thought of it wasn’t making him spread his legs wider. Still, the idea of cleaning tacky blood out of himself did make Tim internally cringe.

“You got a better idea?” Jason shot back. 

“I think there’s lube in-“

“No.” Jason cut him off, pressing harder into the cuts just to make Tim wince. “We’re doing it my way, or I just leave you in a pool of your own blood with a hard-on.”

“Okay.” Tim caved instantly with a hushed whisper at the rough dominance. 

It was so easy, for Jason to take complete control of Tim. He was putty in Jason’s hands, content to be manipulated however Jason wanted, so long as Tim got his own pleasure out of it. If Jason wanted Tim to bleed, he would bleed. If he wanted Tim to be spread open and ready to be fucked, then Tim would give him that too.

Christ. He needed to be checked out mentally after this. 

Jason gave Tim a pleased hum, probably the closest thing to praise Tim was going to get out of him. He’d take it. Blood slick fingers pressed against Tim’s hole. Two fingers were forced in at once, hard and fast.

Tim screamed.

He didn’t expect Jason to be gentle, but it seemed like Jason was going out of his way to be rough. Scrapping his nails against Tim’s insides and brutally twisting his fingers around. He didn’t try to hit Tim’s prostate to bring any kind of pleasure. The brushes of his fingers over that spot were more painful than pleasurably, if anything. Fast and rough, giving Tim no chance to soak up the sparks of sensation from the bundle of nerves.

“Oh god,” Tim groaned, throwing his head back. His hips twitched violently, like they weren’t sure to press into Jason’s fingers for more, or to try to pull away from the horrible assault.

It’d been a while since Tim had been in this much pain. So battered from a fight that every movement of his body was weak and shaky. He grabbed onto Jason’s arm, desperate for an anchor. He couldn’t have pulled Jason off of him, even if he wanted to.

He didn’t, though. Tim wanted this to last as long as it possibly could. 

He never got to drown himself in the pain. Pain was something that had to be compartmentalized and ignored, for the sake of the mission. Getting back on his feet and ignoring the way his body screamed at him was one of the first things Bruce taught him. 

Now, Tim didn’t have to fight it. He could just give in. The half-hearted instincts from his body trying to fight back were ignored by Jason. Like Jason knew that Tim wanted this. 

Needed this. 

At some point, Jason must’ve worked a third finger inside of Tim. He didn’t notice. The burning stretch swirled with every other point of pain on his body. 

He did noticed when Jason finally decided to purposefully press against Tim’s prostate.

This pleasure was new. Foreign and overstimulating with how aggressively Jason pressed down on the spot, rubbing into it to pull all kinds of noises out of Tim he didn’t know he was capable of making. 

“Jason!” Tim cried out. “Fuck, too much, I can’t-“ Tim’s stomach was cramping from how hard his muscles clenched. He was falling, losing his grip on sensible reality. His head was full of cotton, foggy and unable to get a solid grip on coherent thought.

There were only three things that existed to Tim: pain, pleasure, and Jason. 

“You can’t what? Use your fucking words,” Jason mocked, vicious and uncaring. He rested Tim’s leg over his shoulder to free up his other hand. His fingers wrapped around Tim’s balls and tugged. Tim screamed and arched like a jack knife. He hadn’t noticed how close his orgasm was creeping up on him until Jason pulled it away with a brutal, carnal pain. When Tim lost control of his body, Jason found it and snatched it up, holding Tim’s pleasure in his palm. Tim wanted to curl in on himself, but he couldn’t force his limbs to obey. 

“Hurts,” was all Tim could groan out. He might’ve been crying. It was hard to tell, with his face so wet with blood. 

“Good.”

“Jason,” Tim tried to beg. He was lost to subspace, something he barely realized until now. “I can’t take anymore.” He wanted more. More than want, god, he needed more, but his body was wired so tight Tim was convinced he was going to snap if Jason kept going. 

He wanted that too.

“That’s not for you to decide.” Jason’s rough voice was a light at the end of a tunnel Tim was struggling toward to ground himself. To focus on something besides the agony crashing over his body in brutal waves. “Do you really think you’re in the fucking state to know what you can take?”

Jason was right. Tim just whined, a noise that turned into a choked sob when Jason pulled his fingers out just enough to slam them into Tim’s sweet spot again, overwhelming him with more awful pleasure. 

“Give yourself over to me,” Jason demanded. He leaned in close again. Tim’s vision was blurred, but he could smell the gunpowder and leather. “Say it. Say I own you.”

Tim wanted to. He tried, opening his mouth and struggling to get the words out. He could only make more pathetic noises.

“Say it, or I’ll stab you and leave you to fucking bleed out.”

He probably wasn’t lying.

“You-“ Tim choked on the word, shaking so hard his muscles were spasming. “You own me.” Three little words, and they were the hardest words Tim had ever tried to say. Each one fought against him, getting stuck in his throat. 

But he said them. Because right now, they were the only religion Tim believed in. 

“Look at that,” Jason cooed. So patronizing. “You’re not completely brainless and worthless. Yet, anyway.” He pulled his fingers out of Tim. One second those fingers had been driving Tim mad because they were inside of him, and now they were driving him mad because they left him empty and wanting. 

His body needed more. More pain, more pleasure. Until he broke and Jason fucked the shattered pieces left of Tim. 

Jason got a hand underneath Tim, using the blood from the gash on Tim’s back to slick his fingers this time. That gash was far deeper. Something that probably needed stitches. It had started trying to clot but Jason agitated it enough for fresh blood to pour out. He was able to actually work his fingers under Tim’s bloody skin, making Tim shriek and try to pull away. 

There was nowhere for him to escape from the mind-numbing pain. When he pulled away, he just crashed into Jason’s chest, forehead bumping against the bat symbol of Jason’s suit. 

“So fucking easy to push your buttons,” Jason laughed. He moved his fingers around a bit more just to make his point and pull more wounded noises out of Tim. Then he finally pulled them free and let Tim fall back to the hard ground. It knocked the wind out of Tim.

He didn’t have a chance to try to get air into his lungs. Because Jason slicked himself up with a disturbing speed and lined up. The warning of blunt pressure against Tim’s hole lasted a fraction of a second and then Jason snapped his hips. Buried to the hilt.

Tim almost passed out.

He didn’t know if it was from the pain, the blood loss, or his body’s inability to get oxygen into his lungs. Everything exploded inside of Tim. He was full, so full so fast. Jason’s fingers hadn’t been nearly kind enough to properly stretch Tim for Jason’s size. It almost felt like being stabbed.

Over and over, as Jason fucked into Tim with no kindness. 

A hard slap across Tim’s face forced him off of the edge of unconsciousness. He gasped, eyes snapping open to find Jason’s face right above his, the glowing eyes of the mask taking over Tim’s field of vision. 

Jason was smiling. Blood on his teeth, dripping out of his mouth. Was it his blood or Tim’s?

Tim hoped it was both. 

“I don’t know which Bruce would find more pathetic,” Jason groaned as he fucked into Tim, pulling small screams out of Tim with each punch of his cock, “you putting on that suit, or you letting me fuck you in it.” He brought his lips to Tim’s ear. “Who’s ruining his legacy now?”

If the physical pain wasn’t bad enough, Jason knew exactly how to rip open the wounds of Tim’s emotional pain alongside it. Tim cried out at the thought. 

What would Bruce think of him, like this? Pathetic and barely human underneath Jason Todd?

“And they call me the failed Robin,” Jason just kept talking, like he wasn’t destroying Tim from the inside out. “At least I know how to be something other than Robin. Are you really delusional enough to think you’re going to be the next Batman?” A long moan came out of him and he thrust even harder until Tim screamed loud enough to make himself dizzy. “Answer me.”

Tim just shook his head. “No.” His voice was broken. His throat was sore from screaming, but the word still came out. He’d never thought he really could be Batman. So what the hell was he thinking, putting this suit on?

“Good.” Jason slid his fingers under the bat symbol on Tim’s chest, one of the only parts of the suit in tact. He ripped it off, the fabric tearing loudly in Tim’s ears. “It’s good you know your fucking place.” Jason changed his angle, finding Tim’s battered prostate again. Tim didn’t have the air in his lungs to scream anymore. All he could do was weakly mewl and whimper.

He could die like this. He honestly might. Tim had no idea how his body was holding on, in this state. Maybe it was the pain and pleasure alone keeping him alive. Just so he could soak up every touch from Jason.

Tim was never going to allow himself to do this again. So he had to enjoy it while it lasted.

This time, Tim felt his orgasm creeping up on him. His fingers dug into Jason’s arm and he pressed up into Jason’s warmth. The material of Jason’s suit was rough and unforgiving. It didn’t feel particularly good for Tim to grind his cock against, but he didn’t care. He needed any kind of friction, whether it brought him pleasure or road rash. 

“I won’t stop if you come,” Jason warned, still hammering into Tim at a pace that should’ve been impossible for a normal human to manage. “This isn’t to make you feel good. It’s to put you in your fucking place.”

Tim could only whine, managing a nod of understanding. This was his place. He knew that. He never wanted to leave it. 

The threat of being fucked into overstimulation hung over Tim’s head, but he couldn’t stop himself from chasing the high of his orgasm. He almost wanted to feel the overstimulation. Like his orgasm was just something to get over with so Tim could completely give himself over to Jason. To be used just for Jason’s pleasure, even if it brought him nothing but more pain. 

That thought made Tim’s balls tighten. The only warning he could give Jason was a high pitched keen that barely sounded like Tim’s own voice. His eyes rolled back.

The pleasure of his orgasm didn’t overtake the screaming pain in the rest of his body. It just mixed with the pain, swirling into one intense feeling Tim didn’t have a name for. He screamed until his throat gave out. His back arched and he clenched around Jason, who kept driving into him. Jason growled in Tim’s ear. He was holding Tim’s hip so tight there would be bruises that would end up indistinguishable from the rest of Tim’s injuries.

All injuries that Jason gave Tim. Tim’s body was a canvass, and Jason’s favorite color to paint with was the red that poured out of Tim. 

It was the best orgasm Tim had ever felt. No feeling was ever going to match this intensity. 

Tim came down from his high with an awful wheeze, shuddering. He clung to Jason, like a guard dog laying at the feet of his master. 

“Fuck,” Jason moaned. A shudder ran down his spine and his pace faltered, just for a moment. “You’re really something else, Drake.” From Jason, that was practically a compliment for Tim to soak up and preen under. 

Tim’s body tipped over the edge of overstimulation. His survival instincts kicked in, trying to fight Jason. There was no strength behind his kicks and hits. They just made Jason laugh as Tim made a fool of himself.

“I own you,” Jason reminded Tim. He caught Tim’s wrist and pinned it against the cold concrete, squeezing tight enough to cut off circulation to Tim’s fingers. “I can do whatever I want to your useless body. Don’t try to fight it now.” He leaned down and found an exposed part of Tim’s neck to sink his teeth into. It wasn’t a hickey, but a proper bite, breaking Tim’s skin. 

Tim cried out, but still tilted his head to the side to give Jason better access to his neck. Even when his body wanted to fight, Tim managed to submit. Like the submission was natural to him. 

The pain took over. Tim just floated in it, forcing himself to go limp. Submit. No more fighting. He gave in to Jason and stopping thinking. All Tim needed to do was feel. Feel every point of agony scattered across his body. Feel Jason fucking him. Using him, like Tim was nothing more than a toy. The sparks from Jason slamming into his sweet spot couldn’t be called pleasure anymore, with Tim’s cock spent and limp. It was more pain. 

Better that way. Tim liked the pain more. Delicious and mind-numbing. 

Jason was swearing against Tim’s skin. He mumbled something Tim didn’t catch. Three syllables. Short and rushed out. Tim was almost convinced the second word was love. Maybe he was making it up in his head though, finally lost in utter delirium.

Tim didn’t care.

More insults fell from Jason’s lips. Calling Tim nothing, worthless, pathetic. A cheap pretender who deserved this. Tim agreed with all of it, feverishly nodding. The words were practically sweet nothings in Tim’s ears. 

Jason yelled Tim’s name when he came. His hips stuttered to a stop, buried deep inside of Tim. He knew Jason was coming inside of him, but his body was too battered to feel Jason’s cum filling his insides. Shame that was. Tim wanted to know how it felt, to be claimed by Jason in this carnal way.

They were both so perfectly still, for two people who had been shaking and clawing at each other just moments ago. The only noise was heavy breathing that echoed through the night.

Tim swallowed. He tried to find himself through the pain. He worked through the body checklist that Bruce gave him. Vision. Smell. Taste. Feel. Sound. All the sensations clashed against each other, out of focus and pounding against Tim’s skull.

It was so hard to think.

Tim groaned. Focus. 

Like cold water thrown on his face, he clawed his way out of subspace. Tim got a good look at Jason’s face.

“Are you crying?” Tim voiced the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. 

With the mask, it was hard to tell. Jason’s breathing was shuddered, hitching on every inhale. Tim wouldn’t call it sobbing, but it was close enough for Tim to study Jason’s face. The wetness coming out from under Jason’s mask wasn’t red. It streaked through the blood. 

Tear tracks. 

Jason’s completely rational response was to punch Tim in the face.

Tim swore and curled in on himself, cupping his nose. If it wasn’t broken before, it was now. Jason pulled out of Tim without any care and stood up, leaving him curled up on the ground, trying to set the broken bone and manage the bleeding.

Tim tried to sit up. His arms and legs gave out under him and he slammed back to the ground with a pained noise. He looked up at Jason, squinting. Watching as Jason tucked himself back into his pants, then snatched his gloves off the ground to put them back on.

Despite clearly losing the fight, Tim had done a number on Jason. Jason’s face was bloody and his suit was ripped and torn in some places. He looked like he had been mauled by a wild animal.

If that was how Jason looked, Tim couldn’t imagine what the sight of his own body was.

His second attempt to sit up worked. Now, he compartmentalized. Forced the pain deep into the corners of his mind and locked it up. 

Tim had to be functional now. He couldn’t let the regret and shame get to him.

“I-“ Jason started to say something. It was only one word, but it sounded uncharacteristically soft, making Tim straighten his back and hold his breath. But Jason cleared his throat and folded his arms, stamping down whatever kindness had almost come out. “I’ll throw you a bone. If any of the Bats find you like this you can just tell them I raped you,” he said it like some kind of mean joke.

Tim didn’t say anything. That wasn’t true. They both knew it.

“Preserve your precious dignity you care so much about, huh?” Jason continued. He sounded unsure of himself and he turned away from Tim. 

“Jason-“ Tim reached out for him. “We can still-“ he struggled for the words. “It doesn’t have to end like this. You can still change. I’ll-“

“Don’t,” Jason snapped. He kicked away Tim’s hand. “We both know it’s too late for that.” He started to walk away. “Never wear that suit again, Drake. I’d hate to see you die to someone that isn’t me.” He almost sounded… protective? Tim wouldn’t call it fondness, but maybe something close to that. Tim refused to allow himself to read into it. Whoever Jason Todd had become, he was someone that Tim couldn’t save. He was someone who didn’t want to be saved, no matter how Tim felt about him. Tim had to accept that, even with Jason’s cum deep inside him. Some truths were immutable. 

Then, Jason was gone. Vanishing into the shadows and leaving Tim there.

Tim tilted his head back. He allowed himself thirty seconds. He counted them. Thirty seconds to sit in his own filth and feel the pain for just a little longer, before he had to move and figure out how he was going to get home in one piece without anyone finding out what happened here.

Just ten more seconds.

Five. 

Three.

One.

With grit teeth and a deep breath, Tim stood up.

[paimonial-rage]

simple - alhaitham

synopsis: in which kaveh says you’re normal. alhaitham disagrees

ship: alhaitham x reader

notes: mistakenly written for a title prompt before realizing it was asked for a specific character

You’re the simplest person he knows. So incredibly simple, predictable, uncomplicated—sometimes he wonders how you manage to live such a life.

Personally, Alhaitham considers his life simple as well. He wakes up at the same time everyday, completes his work easily, leaves at the usual scheduled time on the hour, makes dinner, and goes to sleep. That is his life day in and out with the occasional change. But you’re not simple the same way he is. Your life isn’t as scheduled. And yet you are still simple.

Truly and irrevocably simple.

You dislike it when he calls you such. But can you blame him? You daily nag him about eating better, and yet everyday he sees you looking guiltily with a bag of greasy food from the Grand Bazaar. You struggle to make decisions and will often ask him for help, yet when he gives you his response, you’ll always choose the opposite option of his suggestion. He finds himself having to scold you everyday for mumbling under your breath while doing paperwork.

When he mentioned his thoughts to Kaveh, the architect grumbled that his observations were not indicative of the makings of a simple person. He said that you were just normal. Every human being had habits like that. But Kaveh was wrong.

You’re not normal. You’re simple.

If you weren’t simple, why else do you have such a disturbingly loud sneeze despite being so manners obsessed? Why else do you purchase so many notebooks despite knowing you’re not going to use a single one? Why else do you lose your pricey pens at the same rate Kaveh loses mora?

You’re simple.

You’re simple to him.

And he can’t stop thinking about it.

[crumbleclub]

Michael Afton's desperate desire to be saved never really went away.

It started when he was small. He didn't even know what he was missing– he didn't have the context for that– but the aching hole in his chest that grew with every moment of normal, necessary nurturing he was denied hurt, and he wanted it to go away.

As he got older, he understood bits of it. He wanted to be hugged and asked about his day like Charlie was; he wanted someone to ask what was wrong when he cried like he saw on TV. He wanted his dad to look happy to see him.

When Evan was born, even as Michael was steadily growing to dislike being touched, he was jealous of how often the baby was held. He knew it was stupid; he knew babies needed to be held, but something about it still hurt. He imagined what it might feel like to be picked up, since it never happened anymore.

He was only six years old.

As Michael got older, and things at home got scarier, his mindset shifted. He stopped wanting things to change, and instead wanted someone to take him away.

He daydreamed about being rescued. He daydreamed about being stranded on a faraway island, and whoever lived there taking him in as one of their own. He daydreamed about some tragedy befalling his father, and of being taken in by someone else.

That last one made him feel guilty.

His dreams settled in that state. The theme persisted throughout his life.

They sometimes twisted after the Bite. Sometimes, he'd imagine that his rescuers would hurt him; punish him for what he'd done. He'd turn on the news to see another disappearance, and some part of him hoped that he would be next.

At its core, though, all he wanted was to be taken away; taken out of that house that was empty and cold and filled with broken glass.

He grew up, he moved out.

His daydreams remained the same.

In his apartment, he'd sit and imagine someone coming in the night to take him away from his dad's house.

In the security office– as he watched the clock and locked Bonnie out for a third time– he imagined someone waiting for him outside, asking why he'd been out so late and offering to drive him home.

(He'd save them. Nobody could save him, but he could save them.)

(They could have saved him. Countless people could have saved him.)

(Nobody wanted to.)

With the scooper staring him in the face, he humored the idea of someone barging in and demanding to know why he would do something so reckless, so stupid.

They'd pull him out of the way.

They'd take him home.

They'd wipe the blood off his chin and tell him that everything was going to be okay.

When he opened the pizzeria, Mike pretended that Henry's recordings were just that: somebody saving him. Henry had sometimes been the face in his dreams, but it had hurt too much to imagine other times. After all, Henry had never believed him.

Did he believe him now?

And, as the office burned, he turned his head to the doorway. Smoke filled his lungs, and, if he squinted just right, maybe, maybe he'd see someone show up to save him.

Nobody ever did.