#prowl and music and claws

[ovaryacted]

GUARD DOG

─ Logan Howlett/Wolverine x fem! reader || WC: 5.0k

SYNOPSIS: On another one of your joint club outings with Wade, your boyfriend Logan stands by to make sure you enjoy your night. Once you both arrive at your apartment, he tends to your needs and helps you relax.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Established Relationship. Age gap implied [Logan is his canon age, Reader is mid to late 20's]. Alcohol consumption. Kissing. Unprotected P in V. Shower sex. Fingering (f receiving). Manhandling. Biting/Marking Kink. Size Kink if you squint. Mutual fantasies of public sex. Worst!/Variant! Logan Howlett. Grumpy! Logan in public, soft! Logan in private. Wade is the third wheel who drinks for fun but can't get drunk (obvi). Descriptions of the reader's clothing (mini skirt & skimpy top). Reader is shorter than Logan in heels. Logan can pick the reader up.

A/N: Lord this was a pain in the ass to write for absolutely no reason, but I am glad it's done. Big shoutouts and thank yous to @ozarkthedog and @pedgito for reading this over and encouraging me. And also thank you to @zloshy and @studioghibelli for holding my hand and helping me out with the brainstorming process. As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. Enjoy! <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

To this day, Logan doesn’t know why he still puts up with Wade’s shit or agrees to his antics. But he doesn’t mind doing it so long as it keeps his eccentric friend off his back and keeps you happy.

The club he was brought to was loud, the air thick with the pungent stench of weed, and he swears he could distinctly sniff out cocaine in the bathrooms, irritating his nose. Bright strobe lights strained his vision, and the obnoxious pop music vibrating through the walls was anything but pleasing to his sensitive ears. Thankfully, the bar had Jack Daniels on the shelf, enough to do the job and keep himself busy.

He raises his arm to lean against the bar, sipping away at his fourth cup of whiskey, knowing that the buzz he feels will go away as quickly as it hits him. Adept eyes scanned the club, landing on your figure as you danced to the current song.

Logan admired the sway of your hips, the mini skirt you wore riding up your thighs with every pop and swivel. The low-cut top you paired it with shifted when your arms rose to the beat change, the open back showing more than enough skin to leave to the imagination. He could taste the light sheen of sweat from your neck at a distance, amplifying your natural pheromones that elevated the perfume you sprayed on earlier.

He did what he did best. He watched. Even with his dominating presence, he was hyper-aware of the other men who stood by prowling like hawks, stalking their prey and waiting for the best moment to attack. Wade was enough to keep you safe during your joint club outings, but now that he was with you, Logan ensured you made it home every night.

You were smart and vigilant, always were before you met him. But Logan was familiar with the instinctive behavior of men, especially men like him. Ill-tempered. Selfish. Prone to arguments and have an affinity to attract trouble. He knows what they were all thinking, creating mental checklists of what tricks they’d use to guarantee you went home with them instead. Countless fantasies of their hands feeling you up, touching you in ways that Logan was allowed to, in a way only he could.

His heart thumped in his ribs at the thought. The innate possession he felt towards you flared as he impatiently wiped his hand over the dark denim of his jeans, ignoring the growing itch to claw the next fucker that thought about coming within six feet of you.

You could hold your own; you’ve told him more than enough times that he didn’t need to stand by and monitor your every move. Yet he does it without hesitation, refusing to give anyone else a chance to breathe you in or get close enough to touch what was his. 

Wade waltzes to the bar and orders another martini, glancing at Logan and contorting his neck to peek at you dancing with a blissful smile.

“Having fun, Wolvie?” he asks, grin widening as his lips envelop the thin straw in his drink, slurping it up like a refreshing cup of water. 

“You know the answer to that,” Logan mutters, finishing the rest of his amber liquid in one gulp before tapping the cup on the bar countertop and asking for a refill. The bartender flashes him a look of concern, receiving a flick of Wade’s hand and topping off the glass.

“You’re five drinks in. Quit being so fucking grumpy,” Wade sneers, detecting someone walking in their direction. “Now flip that frown upside down, Logie bear. Our girl is coming over, and I don’t need you getting your panties in a twist because you’re moody.”

Logan rolled his eyes before spotting you striding to him, standing in front of the burly man with a hazy smile. He noticed the multitude of heads that turned to follow your direction, tracking you with every step you took toward the deviant pair. A low whistle seized his attention, Logan’s head rapidly spun at the sound to find its source and nip it in the bud. The growl settling in the back of his throat simmered down once your soft hand touched his chest, grounding him to you.

“Hey, old man.” Even in heels, you still couldn’t reach him face-to-face, smirking when his thick arm wrapped around your waist to bring you closer. “Enjoyed the show?”

“The music in here fucking sucks, but I can’t complain too much,” Logan’s lips hovered over the shell of your ear, lowering his voice as he spoke. “You were my favorite part.”

“Oh, you weren’t looking at the girl in the cocktail dress? I don’t know, her dress was real short.” The corner of his mouth curled up, challenging your statement that feigned any truth. Giggling, you clutched his bicep, the alcohol loosening your tongue to speak more bluntly. You pivoted to spot Wade, who watched you both from afar in animated shock.

“Problem?”

“Sorry, honey. I just can’t stand seeing the two of you be all touchy-feely in front of me. It’s very disturbing.” Wade finished his martini, ordering a margarita and explicitly asking for a tiny umbrella. “I hate that you took my spot. Creeping in like a slut into a happy home and snatching my man away.”

Ever since Wade had introduced you to Logan almost a year ago, it had been an instant connection he got front-row seats to witness. He was excited when he finally compelled Logan to go to the club you both frequented, recalling how he raked his eyes over you when you weren’t looking. It was only a matter of time before you left the club with Logan one night, and Wade met him at the front door the following day like a disappointed parent acknowledging his walk of shame. 

All jokes aside, considering the pair he just unleashed into the world, he would believe himself to be the city’s most qualified and successful cupid.

“Can’t call me a homewrecker if there was no home to wreck, sweetie,” you shrugged, hearing Logan’s dry chuckle.

“Sure, whatever. But you should be thanking me, you know? You get to have those big, meaty hands on you all the time. Not to mention you get to fuck him and actually see his d-”

“Wilson.” Logan’s voice cut him off, causing Wade to murmur under his breath. You fronted the brunette, messing with the collar of his leather jacket.

“Don’t be mean to him. He’s right. I do have the happy privilege of fucking you all the time.” Your glossy lips hypnotized Logan, his hand kneading your rear as he caught your breathless laugh again. He’ll never fully admit it, but he’s always loved your lack of filter when you had a little bit to drink. You were funny and engaging without needing the extra boost, but something about you being openly vulgar made his blood flow south.

“That you do.” His ego blazes inside him, leaning forward to kiss you in the club for the first time that night.

You happily accepted it with a pleased hum, tasting the Jack he’d been drinking and exchanging the flavor of vodka still on your tongue. Your fingers clutched at his jacket, body pulsing with need as the alcohol in your system beelined straight to your clit. Audible gagging noises pushed you to draw away from Logan, your drunken sight landing on the culprit.

“Oh, am I interrupting you guys? I told you to give me a PDA warning next time before you start getting freaky, otherwise I’m joining,” Wade taunted, getting a scoff from you and an irritated grunt from his friend.

“How about we share another drink? Will you forgive me then, Wadey?” You flapped your lashes at him, his wrinkly skin creasing to mimic your gleeful appearance.

“Fine, but only because you know how to sweet talk me. Tequila?” Your optimistic nod motivated him to order another round of shots for the two of you to down. You felt a gentle squeeze on your arm, meeting Logan’s gaze and silent questioning. Can you handle drinking more?

“Just a few more, and we’ll go, okay?” You stroked his chin, kissing the corner of his jaw in reassurance. He asked to test your senses, only intervening to stop if you were too far gone to speak to him. Unlike him, he wants you to keep your liver intact.

“Alright. But the second he starts offering you shit to snort, we’re leaving.”

“I would do no such thing!” Wade dramatically reacts, offering two tequila shots while holding some of his own. “Besides, I don’t need our precious darling over here fucking up her pretty nose. She needs that thing to smell your bullshit from a mile away.”

With another laugh, you swallowed the shot of clear liquid, inhaling a hiss and consuming the next, sucking on the lime to reset your tastebuds. Your body warmed with a buzz from the drink, an electric shock coursing through your veins as it roused you. 

“C’mon, sugarplum, you owe me a dance.” You didn’t have time to waste as Wade dragged you to the dance floor, throwing Logan a flirty wave and joining your mutual friend. The Wolverine returned to his position, manning his post and sipping on the remaining liquid in his glass. He kept tallies on the wandering eyes that gravitate to you, fighting the urge to rip out every single one.

He’ll keep the peace for your sake. You were already his, you’ve been his ever since you took him home and made him stay the night. What more did he have to prove?

It was nearing two in the morning when you finally decided to call it a night. By now, the heels on your feet started slipping, and your footing grew unsteady when you attempted to walk to the bathroom. You held your bearings long enough for Logan to call a cab home after buying some greasy food for you to eat, shooing Wade once he said he was stopping by Vanessa’s.

Logan’s touch was constant the entire way home, skimming your thigh and lower back in the cab, responding to every one of your little mumbles to keep you awake until you arrived at your apartment. Getting you out of the backseat was another hassle he was familiar with, aiding you to stand up straight without accidentally exposing yourself. The best solution he came up with was carrying you inside, wrapping your arms and legs around him as he held you steady and trekked inside the apartment complex.

He didn’t mind the faint squeezes of your arms or the clenches of your thighs around his waist. You were calm, safe, and happy, mindlessly humming in the crook of his neck as he eased his way through the front door. Strong arms entrapped you as the familiar walls of your bedroom filled your vision, Logan placing you on the edge of your bed with a huff of breath.

“I’m gonna get you a cup of water. Alright?” Logan’s hazel eyes met yours, taking in your feeble nod.

“Okay,” voice light and airy, you patiently waited for Logan to return as promised. Within a minute, he had a tall glass of cold water in his hand, a few ice cubes floating at the top.

“Open up. Need you to drink some of this for me.” Heeding his command, you sipped the refreshing beverage, soothing your parched throat. You got halfway down the glass before he drew the cup away, placing it on the bedside table for later.

“Let’s get these heels off now,” Logan suggested next, descending to his knees and bending his leg to raise your foot on his thigh, messing with the straps tied to your ankles.

“Yes, please. They’re fucking killing me.”

He chuckled as you wiggled your foot at him, allowing his thick fingers to unclasp the buckle that held your heels together. Peeling one of the shoes off and dropping it to the floor, he loosened the other, the heel falling to the ground with an audible thud.

Strong hands held your right foot by the ankle and gently twisted it, stretching the tendon after a long night out and doing the same to the left. You whizzed contently at the touch, the devoted rubs of his thumbs and forefingers massaging your feet after hours of dancing never failed to make you feel better. Before you started dating him, you underestimated Logan’s capacity to be affectionate, but he eventually got the hang of things once your relationship grew more steady. 

Sure, he had been alive a long time, you got that warning from Wade prior to meeting Logan. But once you cracked through that tough exterior, you developed a soft spot for the man buried under all that trauma.

“Always so nice to me yet grumpy with everyone else,” you said, running a hand through his hair as he stayed on his knees.

“You’re saying you don’t like special treatment?” he teased, the look in his eye heating your belly. He caressed your shin, drawing circles over your skin as you watched him.

“Never said that. Like it too much sometimes,” he stood up, kissing the top of your head and walking to the bathroom to wash his hands.

“Let’s take those clothes off and get you in something less skimpy.”

“Already? You didn’t tell me anything about my skimpy outfit. Thought you liked it…” you feigned a pout, and Logan raised a curious eyebrow.

“You look good, you always do. I told you that before we left.” He loomed over you, a shiver rushing down your spine when his musk surrounded you. His hands were at either side of your hips, palms resting on the mattress as he observed you.

“I like it when you get all dolled up for me.” One of his knuckles moved to graze your bare forearm, the hair on your skin rising from the goosebumps that followed. “Hate that everyone else gets to look, though.”

“You did good tonight. Didn’t claw anybody in the ribs.” You were only half joking, but you knew it wasn’t such a farfetched idea for him to do just that. All it took was one guy to come too close, and Logan’s knuckles were splitting to unsheath the blades embedded between them.

“Trust me, I was thinking it.”

“I know you were. Still happy you didn’t, so thank you for that.” You held his cheek and tenderly kissed him. “Now take my clothes off.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Logan tugged your mini skirt down your legs, tossing it to the floor. Your top was next, lifting your arms so he could pull it up from your torso, leaving your top half bare. He leaned back to take you in, raking his eyes over your uncovered figure. You were only clad in the lace black thong he noticed earlier when you were getting dressed, the thin piece of fabric doing nothing to conceal what he knew lay underneath.

“You’re staring again.” Your voice brought him to reality, a dry hum being his response.

“You don’t usually complain when I do,” he noted, growing more cocky at the uptick of the subdued tension between you.

“Because I like it when you look at me, smartass.” You held him by the fabric of the white tee hiding under his jacket, hands roaming over the expanse of his chest and stomach, messing with the metal of his belt buckle.

“Seems like you want something…” Logan hungrily watched as your legs spread wider to accommodate for his thicker ones between them, lingering to pounce on you.

“Want you to fuck me.” A rich groan tumbled out of Logan when you yanked him down for a kiss, chasing his tongue with your own and biting his bottom lip. His large hands skate over your thighs, textured fingers pinching your hip to keep you in place. Pulling his head away, he exhaled out of his nose, lightly grazing the tip of it against yours.

“Not until we shower. You smell like Wade and tequila.” He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, messing with the knobs to get the searing temperature you liked and coming to capture your dumbfounded expression.

“Are you fucking serious?” You shouldn’t be surprised. Though you think he was just finding more ways to get you to sober up.

“Very. I don’t need you smelling like him in bed. I want you to smell like you.”

Rising to your feet, you entered the bathroom and bent down to peel your thong off. Holding the last piece of clothing by the tip of your finger, you flung it to Logan, swaying your hips with an added flare as you stepped under the showerhead. The steaming water hit your aching body, comforting your sore legs from standing on an arch for so long. 

You heard shuffling from the other side of the glass barrier, enjoying the feel of the scalding spray as burly arms encircled your midriff, holding you loosely by the waist. Turning to face Logan, he eyed you with a softness reserved only when you were alone, your love worming its way into his cold heart and chipping away at the frozen bits and pieces over time.

“I’m surprised you haven’t melted yet from how hot this water is,” Logan jested, pressing yourself closer and gliding your fingers over his torso.

“You’ll get used to it,” you brushed his comment off, his rough fingertips coasting down your back, much softer than how he handled you in the club. “You’re the one that likes showering with me anyway.”

“Course I do, but I’ll never know how you tolerate this. You sure you aren’t the mutant here?” You lightly slapped his sternum, petting his skin with a shake of your head.

Logan maintained the scorching temperature of the shower stream as he held your chin with his forefinger and thumb, bending forward to kiss you, slow and passionate as it always was. You reached for his broad shoulders, opening your mouth to welcome his tongue, the muscle curling around yours with ease.

Maneuvering to pin you to the tiled wall, your hands ran up to the nape of his neck, driving your fingers through his wet hair as you sought more of his touch. Logan parted from you, leaving a trail of kisses along your jaw and neck, biting at the skin. Your breathing grew more sporadic, desire surging through you and flourishing between your thighs.

“Logan, please,” you were already begging for more, and he hadn’t done anything prevalent yet. Even with the alcohol slowly ebbing away, your arousal intensified, and a desperate craving for his attention overwhelmed you.

“What do you need? Tell me, sweetheart,” he commanded, his tongue rolling down to your clavicle, sucking a mark into the side of your neck for you to uncover in the morning.

“Need you to touch me.” Unabashedly, you took one of his hands by the wrist, spreading your thighs to position it where you needed him most. His fingers quickly found your pussy, drenched and crying out for his touch. The tips of his pointer and middle fingers drifted up to your sensitive nub, twitching under the initial rubs he delivered.

“Yeah? Need me to make you feel good, sugar?” Logan’s ego continued to ascend as he observed the expressions on your face, your eyebrows furrowing when his digits plunged into your aching hole.

“Been like this for a while, hm?” The smooth timbre of his voice spurred you on, directing his free hand to hold the bottom of your thigh, raising it to his hip and keeping it in place.

“Since you kissed me in the club.” Your confession fell over his lips, nails digging into his shoulder blades, leaving crescent indents in their wake. “Wanted you to fuck me in the bathroom.”

A deep moan rumbled in Logan’s chest at your words, crooking his fingers into that spot tucked at the roof of your entrance. You whined loudly at the touch, tossing your head back against the tile behind you and clenching hard around his thick digits.

“Next time. All you gotta do is bring me there, and I’ll fuck you over the sink.”

You couldn’t help but envision what it would be like to follow through on Logan’s proposal. How he’d pursue the imprint of your natural scent, mixing in with the aroma of your perfume that emanated off of you in waves. His lips would make a path over your shoulder and neck, leaving teeth marks for the club members to see after he was done with you. His fingers would wrap around your throat as he fucked you against the counter of the bathroom sink, forcing you to look at your reflection as you took him from behind.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks in dark smudges, your lip gloss fading and leaving a ring on the base of his cock from when you sucked him off, his cum dribbling down your thighs while he grabs your torn underwear and stuffs them into his pocket. And once you’ve both had your fun, you’d take his hand and stroll out of the bathroom with a smile, proudly flaunting Logan’s claim for everyone to acknowledge who you belonged to.

He was focused on the dives of his fingers inside your cunt, concentrated pulses to your g-spot and sneakily adding his thumb to the mix to press into your clit. Your half-lidded eyes glanced at him, the tell-tale signs of your upcoming orgasm creeping up and building in your gut. Logan could sense it too, the increase in your heart rate and the pulsing of your walls signaled that you were getting close, desperately seeking that release he could give you.

“I know you’re close.” He picked up the pace of his fingers, punctuating his thrusts to work in a third digit to stretch you out properly, the circles on your bundle of nerves becoming relentless. “Come for me, darlin’. C’mon, let me feel it.”

Trained like a dog to obey his command, your climax hit you with force, the strained rope of tension snapping and shooting relief up your spine. Gripping at the nape of his neck, the moan you emitted resounded through the bathroom as your thighs quivered from Logan’s ministrations. The slick walls of your pussy convulsed around him, giving you a few more pumps with his fingers before he took them out, watching in a daze as he licked them to taste your slick with a satisfied grumble.

“Always taste so damn sweet,” Logan remarked, letting you taste yourself on his tongue with another kiss. The hard length of his cock twitched over your lower belly, the ache of being empty overwhelming your senses.

“You can take a little more right, princess?” It was a genuine question, analyzing your energy levels after a long night out. But you craved to feel Logan the best way you knew how, nodding your head at the thought of feeling him deep inside where he belonged.

“Want you, please,” you implored, large hands grabbing the underside of your thighs to lift you from the ground, Logan’s strong hold keeping you upright on the wall. The tip of his cock bumped against your opening, your arms wrapping around his neck as he positioned himself.

“Hold on to me.” You did as he said, mewling in pleasure as he sank into your waiting cunt.

You welcomed him without resistance, his legs and forearms flexing to hold you up as he drove his hips forward until he was down to the hilt. A whimper wormed its way out of your mouth once Logan was tucked snug inside you, the tip of him hitting depths only he could reach. Your eyes fluttered closed at the feel of him, legs wound tighter as you adjusted to him.

“That’s it. Exactly where I’m supposed to be,” Logan confirmed with a grin, pressing his forehead to yours and breathing you in. He concentrated on the way your wet heat enveloped him so well, pussy molded to take him like that was your purpose.

Leaning more into your embrace, he began to move, shifting his hips to dive into you just the way you liked. Deep and even thrusts sent you reeling into ecstasy, your toes coiling as he persisted in his consistent pistoning.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you cried out at his movements, the upright position Logan had you in propelled the tip of his cock to hit the roof of your entrance with rehearsed accuracy. Your clit came in contact with the hair at the base of his length, the delicious friction adding to the amplified sensations.

“Feel so good. Fucking warm and wet. Shit.” He rambled against your throat, both of his big hands cupping your ass and keeping you secure as he fucked up into you.

Logan used his strength to bounce you on top of him in time with his jabs, heavy balls smacking into you as he picked up the pace and chased his release. You tightened again, nails biting into the taut skin of his shoulders and raking down, drawing a noisy groan out of the man from the pain. His skin reddened with the streaks you left behind, mending together as his regenerative powers healed him in seconds, removing any evidence of your marks.

“Logan, need it, need you. Please.” He understood what you were asking for, the pounding of his hips getting sloppier on your instruction. “Want you to fill me up…”

“Cum again for me and I will. Fill your pussy up the way you need.”

He wasn’t asking. Your deft fingers went up to his hair and gave him a harsh yank, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, meshing your mouth with his. Logan panted a breath and followed with a hiss at the slight ache, the urge to fill you up awakening the most primal parts of him.

Your climax washed over you abruptly, mouth positioned in a silent scream as you unravel underneath Logan. He whispered words of praise in your ear, prolonging your orgasm for as long as he could. Your walls flexed and spasmed around him, soft cries morphing into helpless whimpers with every fierce buck of his wide hips. Molten pleasure surged down his back, and his hands sought purchase on your body, squeezing hard enough to bruise. 

“Fuck,” Logan rasped into your skin, stifling his growl with a sharp bite to your neck. The blunt ends of his teeth dug into you, hard enough to tear at your flesh that bloomed into bright red and will fade to purple.

With a few more lunges, he burrowed himself deep inside, painting your walls with his spend and claiming you like he always has. Your legs tensed around his abdomen, making sure to keep him safely tucked and not let a single drop go to waste. You slumped against him, head lolling forward to rest on his shoulder as he littered soft kisses over the marks he left behind in a muted apology. 

“Better now?” he asked, carefully bringing you to stand on the ground, keeping his hold on your hips in case your wobbly legs gave out.

“Mhm. Much better.” You nodded, offering him a kiss and enjoying the aftermath of your respective highs. The carnal appetite you felt earlier dimmed down to manageable levels now that you got what you wanted.

“Good,” Logan reciprocated your delicate kisses, doing what he could to calm and prep you for bed. He knows you could theoretically go for another round, but your exhaustion was palpable. He’d have to make up for it in the morning.

He took your loofah and body wash, pouring the liquid over the net fabric and scrubbing at your figure. He washed you meticulously, rinsing off the suds, and you returned the favor by cleansing him too. Your scents interlaced together as you washed each other, a smile sneaking up on Logan’s face at the realization.

After the shower, Logan did the honors of drying you off, rubbing you down with lotion, and grabbing a baggy dark T-shirt to dress you in. You brushed your teeth as he searched for his sweatpants, alternating between using the sink until you were both ready to end your night.

You eased into the mattress first, tugging the duvet to the side for Logan to follow you and lay on his back. Instinctively, you cuddled into his side once he made room for you, throwing an arm across his chest and lifting your leg to bend comfortably over his thigh.

“You’re gonna make me breakfast, right?” you questioned sleepily over his shoulder, familiar with the post-coitus routine he established in your relationship. In a few hours, you’ll find him making pancakes in the kitchen, or he’ll be under the sheets between your legs again. Either way, it’ll be a good start to your day so long as he’s the first thing you see when the sun beams through the bedroom window.

“I’ll think about it.” Jabbing at his ribs in mock retaliation, you closed your eyes and listened to the distant sounds of the city filling the room, soothing you to sleep.

“Love you, baby. “ You’ll doze off before you hear his reply, nuzzling into his body and chasing the stability and comfort of your personal weighted blanket and heater.

He waited until your breathing evened out and your heart rate leveled, beating on par with his. Giving you a side glance, you were fast asleep, embracing Logan like a teddy bear. Pressing one final kiss to your forehead, he watched you sleep for a while longer, stroking your backbone and holding you close.

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

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Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

[soulcandi]

𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 | 𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐲

synopsis: sorority!reader stumbles upon ghostface behind a closed door at a halloween party and decides to play along with what she assumes is a cruel prank.

warnings: blood/gore, murder, implied alcohol and drug use, bimbo!reader, finger-sucking (lmao), written with afab!reader in mind.

a/n: first tumblr post! this is cross-posted on wattpad and ao3 too! lowercase intended.

word count: 3,841

it wasn’t the muffled screaming that drew you toward the room at the end of the upstairs hallway, but it was certainly what inspired you to press your ear against the door.

at first, you weren’t sure what you were hearing—the music from the party downstairs was making the floor thrum beneath your feet and it was impossible to try and hear anything over the deafening, base-heavy music blaring in the downstairs hallway. especially in your state. but then through the thin wooden frame, there it was again—the screaming, the pleas of terror reduced to stifled, high-pitched whines. 

you held your breath, reaching down to set your big gulp full of jungle juice on the floor of the hallway. the entire first week of zeta orientation was focused solely on helping sisters in trouble and recognizing unsafe situations at parties like this one. and with your ear plastered to the door, you could tell that there was nothing safe or orderly going on in the room behind it, and not even the joint you stole from the guy dressed as danny zuko downstairs was going to change that. 

you had seen date-rape frankie hanging around downstairs, slinking around the kitchen on the prowl for incoming zetas to prey on, but you hadn’t seen him in a few minutes. in fact, you hadn’t seen him much at all since you lost track of your new freshman friend, tara.

biting down hard on your bottom lip, you rapped your knuckles against the wood. there was a slight pause before the sounds of struggle grew louder. 

oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.  

“tara?” you called, it felt like your mouth had been stuffed with cotton and you could still taste the sour hawaiian punch mixer on your tongue. The last thing you wanted to do was interrupt someone’s fantasy of hooking up in pike house on the thirsty thursday before halloween, but you would rather not just walk away when it sounded like someone was being gutted—or worse.

the knob turned with ease and you found yourself stumbling into the room before you could reconsider turning right back around and locating one of your sober sisters to investigate on your behalf. you had half a mind to slap a hand over your eyes to avoid seeing anything you rather live your life without ever seeing.

“tara, is that you? it’s—” you peaked between your fingers for a fleeting second but all you saw was red. 

desperate, angry red claw marks marred the white carpet in a breadcrumb trail leading all the way from the door to the back wall just underneath the window. you stumbled, ankles wobbling in your strappy pink heels as you reached for the doorknob to catch your balance.

there was a figure cloaked in familiar black robes wearing a gaunt white mask that you knew all too well. his hand was raised with a knife poised to stab the girl currently wriggling in his arms. they both watched with bated breath as you gaped at the scene before you. 

“uhm…?” you mumbled, not entirely sure you were seeing this right. you glanced over your shoulder to find that you were completely alone in the upstairs corridor. you coughed and shook your head disbelievingly. you really needed to thank danny zuko for his potent product.

or maybe you needed to stop stealing people’s weed when they were too busy making out with girls dressed as marie antoinette to notice. 

the girl’s head lolled to the side, blood running like rivers through the crevices of her face. her eyes were half-lidded, the entire front of her slutty cowboy costume drenched in blood. you squinted down at her, unable to place her at first. but then it hit you like a slap to the face. 

“courtney fucking carter.” you pointed almost accusingly down at her limp body. it was courtney. she posted a mirror selfie in that exact same outfit just a few hours ago, minus all the gore. ew, you really needed to take her off of your snapchat. 

you felt like an idiot for believing all those heartfelt ‘your first college roommate will become your lifelong friend!’ facebook posts that your mom sent you the entire summer before your freshman year because courtney fucking carter was the furthest thing from a friend that you had at the moment. 

from the split second she’d gotten wind of what you went through a few years back—of what you had seen and survived, it was all downhill from there. fake blood in your body wash, ghostface masks in your closet, daily prank calls, and anonymous threatening texts every morning, noon, and night.

her little display tonight was no different from last halloween when she paid the entire lacrosse team fifty bucks each to wear those stupid costumes and stalk the zeta house while you were sober sister. 

she coughed and even more blood started bubbling in the corners of her mouth. her perfectly winged eyeliner was smudged at the tips and her face was blotchy and red from crying. you were honestly a little impressed that she would make herself look so disgusting for a silly prank that didn’t even scare you. 

“(y/n)...” she blubbered, gasping as she reached out with a limp hand in your direction. “please…”

the killer hadn’t moved since you tripped into the room and if it weren’t for the labored breaths making his chest rise and fall every few seconds, you would have thought he was a statue. you wouldn’t have been surprised if she hired an actual actor to help her with this one.

“oh, this is too good,” you sighed, twirling around and grabbing your drink off of the floor before walking into the room and letting the door ease shut in your wake. as soon as it did, it was like you had hit mute on the entire rest of the party. sinking to your knees on a wet, bloody patch of carpet, you took a long sip from your straw, ignoring the delicious sting it delivered to the back of your throat.

you were just nearing the point of the night where a rum and coke only tasted like coke and you started forgetting that there was liquor in your cup at all. 

courtney’s eyebrows tethered in confusion, but you weren’t even looking at her anymore. the masked figure cocked his head to the side, gloved fingers clenching around the steely hunting knife hovering a foot or so over your ex-roommate's chest.

trauma sure had a funny way of presenting itself because there was absolutely no reason that you should be so spurred on by that sight. biting your lip, you mirrored his empty expression, tilting your head parallel to his. “well? go ahead. finish her off.”

“please, no! oh my god, no!”

“shut the fuck up, my god. you act like I wouldn’t have paid like a million dollars to see this happen to you for real. grow up and let me enjoy this.”

leaning your back against the door, you pulled your barely-parted knees halfway up to your chest, not caring in the slightest that your satin slip was leaving very little to the imagination. chewing lazily— drunkenly—on your cherry-red straw, you gestured vaguely for her accomplice to proceed.

he bristled at your attention, testingly bringing the knife down a few inches to gauge your reaction. the movement elicited a weak cry from the girl lying victim in his lap and you smiled with the nibbled tip of your straw pinned between your glittery-painted lips. “do it.”

through the floorboards, you could hear the opening chords of SLUT ME OUT, followed by the excited screams of your sorority sisters. the stars were aligning in the most perfect way. if this ended quickly enough, you could link up with tara and ethan and make your way to the dance floor with time to spare before the song was over. 

a long, labored breath was smothered by the smooth plastic of the mask but you heard it anyway in all of its gruff, ravenous glory. not even a full second passed before the stainless (probably retractable) blade disappeared and plunged straight between courtney’s ribs. she arched her back as her body mimed a reaction to the pain and you watched from afar with hazy curiosity. 

“yes!” you clapped, throwing a weak fist in the air. “get her ass!”

“fu-fuck you, (y/n),” she spat.

“ditto. no, actually you can eat shit and choke. you’re honestly such a good actress that this is kinda sad.”

every insult, every bitter comment that you’ve been holding in since last september came threatening to spill out of you. courtney’s body lurched as the knife was yanked out of her torso, but when it re-entered, there was no reaction. no more pleas for her life, no melodramatic dying remarks. in fact, she went deathly still—her body slumping over in an awkward heap on the carpet as ghostface rose, shoving her aside in order to stalk his way over to you. 

his heavy black combat boots made deep imprints on the stained carpet, now half-dried and tacky to the touch. with one more sip for good luck, you abandoned your cup beside the door and crawled on your hands and knees to meet him halfway at a tantalizing pace.

pointing your half-lidded eyes through the black eye holes of the mask, you wondered which of her sick and twisted friends was watching you back right behind them. but honestly, who were you kidding? the not-knowing was what made it just a teensy bit sexy. 

“you gonna kill me next?” you pouted, sitting up on your knees less than a foot away from where he stood, shooting him the biggest, roundest doe eyes that you could manage. your pitiful frown only deepened as he shook his head, dragging a leather-gloved hand through your hair and knocking your little plastic tiara aside.

you couldn’t help the airy gasp that slipped past your lips as he made a fist in the back of your head, pulling your face up toward his before tapping two fingers against your lips. 

heaven. you had flown straight of out pike house and somehow landed right at the pearly gates of heaven. 

your mouth fell open obediently, tongue rolling out like a welcome mat for his two thick digits to bully themselves inside. the stiff leather was coated in a warm, sticky substance that made your mouth water and your fists clench where they were folded neatly in your lap. fake blood. nice.

the flimsy plastic mask seemed to shiver as a hushed groan echoed inside of it. your tongue swirled over the leather pads of his fingers, sucking them clean like your life depended on it—and maybe it did, who knew?

the stranger’s thick index finger curled against your tongue and coaxed a soft whine to rise from the back of your throat. the stretch wasn’t too much, but paired with the sharp yank of the tight ponytail he had formed with your hair with his opposite hand, you were borderline delirious from stimulation. 

when the hand in your hair loosened without warning—like he was struggling to keep a solid grip—you blinked up at him with wide eyes and listened as the muffled breathing grew louder and even more rapid. you were desperate to see how far this would go while your shitty ex-roommate was still playing dead in the corner. 

an unexpectedly hard yank to your hair had you sitting up on your knees, face angled up toward the mask as a pleading whine bounced against the leather digits exploring the cavern of your mouth. your face had long since been reduced to pins and needles and the only thing you could do to ground yourself was seek reassurance in those black, empty eyes looming over you, even if all he did was stare back at you with blank, unfeeling apathy. 

you pulled your lips off of his knuckle with a quiet pop, wet eyes blinking up at the mask as you hesitantly wrapped your hands around his wrist. when he did nothing to pry you off of him, you pressed a gentle kiss to the tips of his fingers, licking a long stripe through the slit between the two digits and forcing them to part.

only when you were 100% certain that every trace of gooey, thick artificial blood had been licked clean from his glove did you sit back on your heels with a sickeningly sweet smile. “thank you for sparing my life, mr. killer.”

the mask was aimed directly at your face and you weren’t quite sure that it ever moved. he gave you a quick, restrained nod before finally releasing your hair. 

you shook your head to free your hair from the ponytail shape, only slightly concerned with the red handprint that must have been slapped across the back of your head. downstairs, you heard a lapse in the music and pouted as you wobbled to your feet. you missed your favorite song. 

almost instinctively, ghostface offered you his arm, leaving yet another bloody handprint on your elbow where he caught you from falling. “thank you,” you snorted, finding that small lapse in character insanely funny. this whole thing was hilarious to you and you really hoped that you would remember it when you woke up tomorrow morning for your econ lecture at noon. 

whose bedroom did courtney borrow for this? you prayed for that poor fucker’s sake that he was well-paid because there was no way in hell that all of that gore was coming out of this carpet. he could kiss his security deposit goodbye.

speaking of courtney, you turned to flip her off one last time before dipping to collect your abandoned drink and pointing an accusatory finger at the guy who was still pretending to be ghostface. “Make sure she cleans this up before one of the pledges sees. I don’t want you getting blacklisted.”

he nodded, slow and considerate. your lips found the straw and you took an idle little sip, reaching up to boop the sunken plastic nose of the mask before twirling around and slamming the door behind you. the air around your body instantly chilled—compared to the rest of the party, that bedroom had been broilingly hot.

another one of your favorite songs began to play but you ignored the urge to wobble your way downstairs and instead felt along down the dark hallway toward the bathroom. 

the dim yellow overhead lights flickered to life as soon as the door shut behind you and you leaned your entire weight over the porcelain sink. someone had been rifling through the medicine cabinet—some loose odds and ends were strewn across the counter.

you reached forward to pull the door of the medicine cabinet closed so you could catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror but your eyes instantly grew round and your mouth fell open at the sight of your own reflection. 

the entire bottom half of your face was painted in cartoonishly red fake blood. it caked your skin and rivered down your face like drool. you looked like a vampire immediately after chowing down on some poor unsuspecting person. your last-second princess costume had been transformed into a carrie-at-the-prom nightmare. 

you reached up and smeared the blood across your lips with the tips of your fingers, taking a single drop and tapping it against your tongue. it didn’t taste like cherry or corn syrup or chemicals. it tasted like old pennies. copper. 

it tasted real. 

a loud, blood-curdling scream echoed down the corridor and you felt your face grow numb. not even a full second later, there was a series of rapid knocks on the bathroom door and you blankly fumbled for the doorknob, eyes practically glazed over. all you could focus on was the taste of blood— blood—in your mouth. what were the odds that she sourced actual, genuine blood for this?

as soon as you unlocked the door, it swung outwards and you blinked up at the figure standing in the doorway. 

ethan’s face was flushed, eyes nearly half-lidded. he took one look at you and swallowed thickly. black mascara cast dark shadows across the apples of your cheeks and if you hadn’t known any better, you would have thought you had just been thoroughly fucked-out. 

you felt disconnected from the rest of your body, a dull prickly sensation stabbing over every inch of your exposed skin. ethan gulped, glancing up at the ceiling for a split-second before he could bring himself to meet your eye. meanwhile, you were scoping out the red-hot issue brewing in his khakis. 

“eth,” you whined, pulling a sad face as you shifted all your weight to one heel. “were you dancing without me?”

he always tended to get a little stiff whenever you dragged him out to the dance floor with your girlfriends at parties like this one. it wasn’t his fault. after the first few times, you started to realize that it kinda just…happened. it was flattering, honestly. 

ethan was a sweetheart—your sweetheart. your heart would have shattered into a million pieces on the floor between you if he’d told you that he had been downstairs dancing to your song while you sucked the soul out of some poor creep’s fingers in the upstairs bedroom. 

he cocked his head to the side, eyes wide and pleading as he silently begged you not to tease him. not here. not now. he really wouldn’t be able to handle it once you started.

ethan’s tongue darted out to wet his lips and he pushed the door open wider, reaching for your hand. “we gotta get out of here,” he croaked. “something happened.”

“oh shit. cops?” 

you glanced toward your cup on the rim of the sink and immediately swatted it into the trash can. there was no way in hell that you were getting busted for underage drinking the night before your favorite night of the year. spending halloween in a holding cell was at the very bottom of your bucket list. 

the world was moving in slow motion—the weed, the two lime-green jello shots you took downstairs, plus the drink you’ve been nursing since the pre-game you hosted in your room earlier that afternoon were all hitting you at once. 

ethan let out a stressed groan and glanced behind him. “not yet, but chad is talking to 911 downstairs. they’ll be here soon.”

you just then noticed that the music had stopped completely and the sound of voices were echoing up the stairs in its place. a breeze was crawling up the staircase from the front door which had been propped open as partygoers filed out onto the front lawn. “come on,” he said, voice on-edge as he guided you out of the bathroom by your hand. “i have to get you home.”

he said nothing about the blood that was trickling down your face and staining the neckline of your slip. you wrapped your fingers around his instantly, trailing absent-mindedly behind him as he guided you down the hall. when you passed the room at the top of the stairs, the door was propped wide open and a trail of blood was spilling out into the corridor.

you tried to peek over ethan’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of courtney begrudgingly scrubbing red goo off of the carpet, but she was still playing dead in the corner. 

“don’t look.” ethan snapped, instantly pulling your face into his chest. you planted your hands there against him, feeling every hastened breath and rapid thundering of his heart. the palm of his large hand closed over your eyes and you gasped at the sincerity in his tone, stumbling blindly as he led you back downstairs blindfolded. 

the dots were starting to connect and you felt yourself begin to sober up as an anxious, dreadful feeling began rising in your throat. “eth…”

courtney was dead—or hurt, at least. and you were the one who encouraged her attacker to stab her in the heart. you were the one who refused to listen when she begged you to get help. you were the one who licked her blood clean off of his fingers, looking him in the eye the entire time as if begging for him to let you do more. 

“ethan…” you tried again when he ignored you. “i think I’m gonna puke.”

“no, no, no— shit. you’re fine, (y/n). you’re okay.”

if eth said you were okay, you were going to be okay. simple as that. 

you felt numb—completely brainless—as he shoved his jacket over your bare shoulders (his jacket, because when you left the zeta house earlier that evening, you proudly proclaimed to him that a hoe never gets cold and that you wouldn’t need one). his hand found the small of your back and he rubbed comforting circles into your skin. 

the taste of copper was like acid on your tongue. you could only stare ahead as two police cruisers rolled up onto the lawn outside of pike house—the lawn which was now littered with red solo cups and the odd strands of toilet paper that also hung from the trees like thin ghosts. 

ethan squeezed your hand and you looked up, eyes blank and bleary. he shot you a quick, pitying smile, like the way someone would look at a cat with a jar stuck on its head. it was cute, but you couldn’t help but feel bad for it. “we’ll take that shortcut you like,” he said, thinking out loud as he led you toward the sidewalk away from the police. “the one that takes us by 7/11.”

with your back toward the house, you didn’t see the forensics team barrel inside through the front door. you had no way of knowing that at that very second, there was a group of officers closing off the room that you had stumbled into earlier that evening or that they were swabbing the carpet, the door, and every surface in between for dna. 

“mhm,” you hummed absently, almost completely spaced as you relied on ethan to guide you down the bustling new york city street. he supported your weight happily, knowing that when you woke up for class the next morning, it would be devastatingly easy to convince you that most of what took place tonight was a product of your vivid imagination. 

you would have no idea that after hours of labwork, they would find zero evidence that you had wandered upstairs at all or that ethan—your sweet baby ethan—had erased all traces of you from pike house, down to the big gulp you threw away in the upstairs bathroom.

he couldn’t have you blamed for his crimes. are you kidding? that would have defeated the whole purpose of putting courtney fucking carter at the top of his hit list. he wanted you to watch him play his sick little games without ever getting your hands dirty. 

what else were friends for, really?

[anon-e-miss]

A Work of Light

“Do ya wanna feel real helpless?”

Prowl was intrigued by the question. Condensation beaded his nude protoform and his fans hummed noticeably as the worked to cool his heated frame. Jazz had the long and nimble digits of a musician and he had not settled at mastering mere musical instruments. He played Prowl as well as he did a lyre or a bass and the witch did not doubt his lover played his other amorous partners just as well. They were not friends so you could not call them friends with benefits. It would not be fair to call their status complicated. They were two mechs from very different worlds who were working together to identify a mutual threat. That they were interfacing was insignificant. Given the power of a witch’s feelings when they worked, Prowl regularly sought out anonymous lovers when he wished to perform interface magic. Since Jazz had discovered this habit, he had become Prowl regular partner. That did not mean this interface was anymore meaningful that any of the other anonymous interface Prowl had enjoyed.

“What did you have in processor?”

Jazz buckled the strap behind Prowl’s helm. A large red ball stretched the witches mouth wide. His arms were secured with more straps behind his back, under his doorwings. Prowl’s optics rolled back in his helm as the Amalgus grabbed his chevron in his servo and wrenched his helm back at the same time as he buried his heavily ridge spike into Prowl’s soaking wet valve. Prowl’s moan was silent as the Amalgus’ fragged him from behind, his spike plunging straight through to his forge each time. Muted, Prowl could not speak a spell and with his servos each tied his elbows, Prowl could not perform physical magic either. His belly was coiled tight and his valve rippled over Jazz’s spike over and over as the Amaglus fragged him hard and fast.

He could not ask Jazz to stop. He could not break free. He could not work a spell. As Jazz shifted into his feral form, Prowl should have been afraid; there was nothing he could do to save himself. The Amalgus’ engine rumbled in a low purr and Prowl felt his hot ventilations against the back of his neck. Jazz’s claws dragged lightly over Prowl’s aft before he seized his hips and hike them up. Prowl could not hold himself up and his face fell against the pillow. He arched it back as Jazz slowly eased the tip of his spike into his soft afthole, below it, the Amalgus’ second spike ground between Prowl’s swollen valve folds. Unconsciously, Prowl held his intakes in anticipation. His squeal went unvoiced as the Amalgus’ dual spike cleaved him open.

Spines raked Prowl’s nodes and he overloaded, tears pouring from his optics. The agony was exquisite. Jazz growled in a language Prowl did not understand but he nodded his helm against the pillow all the same. He was overloading and he knew he would not stop until Jazz had taken his fill. Amalgii usually only interface in this form when they were in rut and driven to breed their berthmate. Receptive Amalgii and Polyhexians had dual valves and dual wombs, capable of carrying in both forges at once. Prowl was a receptive Praxian. He only had one valve and a small protospike only the length of half a digit hard. It was hard not and it sent bolts of pleasure up Prowl’s spike as Jazz squeezed it between his claws. As Prowl overloaded, sobbing silently, it went limp and slipped back into its sheath.

Jazz pulled Prowl up and forced Prowl to face a mirror. Behind him, the Amaglus looked like the demons in the old books Prowl had studied, all sharp angles and spines. Rarely, did Prowl feel small. He had never been slender but three carryings had added to his curves. Though Bluestreak was a first-tier sparkling now, just learning his first glyphs, stretch marks still lined Prowl’s belly. The tattoos that covered the witch’s abdomen should have been warped but the stretch marks seemed to embellish the psalms he wore on his sentio-metallico. His wells hung low, too large and heavy to be perky. Jazz twisted Prowl’s stiff nozzle before sliding over his round belly. There was no extra mass on Jazz. He was lean and powerful, whatever his form. With one servo, Jazz held Prowl’s jaw, making him watch as his claw circled his sheath. Prowl jerked his helm but he could not pull free from Jazz’s grasp, his optics went wide as Jazz pushed a single, clawed digits into Prowl’s narrow sheath. He shook in the Amalgus’ arms. Prowl could see Jazz’s spike where it disappeared into his well fragged valve. Now he watched Jazz’s digit disappear into his small sheath.

“Did ya know yer gamma cluster ‘n yer transfluid duct are connected?” Jazz asked him as his claw lightly scrapped against that very duct from within Prowl’s sheath.

Prowl valve clenched hard around the spike lodged within him. His legs were weak. He knew he could “cum” through the stimulation of this duct. Receptive Praxians did not make transfluids but they still retained the duct from the times before when all Praxians were dual-sexed. As Jazz teased that duct Prowl’s belly became tighter and tigher until lubricant squirted out from around the spike that was plugging his valve. Jazz let go of his chin and Prowl’s helm sagged. The Amalgus pushed a second digit alongside the first, straining Prowl’s tiny sheath. Lubricant gushed out around Jazz’s spike again as he withdrew the two digits, leaving Prowl’s little sheath gaped and swollen. Jazz’s claws dug into Prowl’s hips and he dragged him up and down on his spine-covered spikes until finally he overloaded, spines locking into Prowl’s biolights and nodes, spraying hot transfluids deep in Prowl’s belly, flooding his forge and his aft pipe and overcome with ecstasy, Prowl passed out.

Garbed in his conservative armour, there was no sign of the amorous meeting Prowl and Jazz had enjoyed joors early, at first glance. The witch worked the crystal on his bench as lubricants and transfluids slowly trickled down his leg. Prowl’s faceplates were flush as his swollen folds rubbed against the lining of his armour. He wiped condesation from his browridge as the tattoos covering his sentio-metallico glowed. Voice both breathy and rough imbued the lust in his energon into the stone he carved. It would be a powerful talisman to whoever carried it. Releasing a puff of air from his intakes, Prowl set down the stone and the tattoos the marked him as a Worker of the Light faded. He braced himself against his workbench as his legs trembled. Prowl’s face was scarlet as he looked at the time. He would be going to interview witnesses with Jazz in just a few joors. It was going to be a chore to act civilized.

“What’s that ya got there?” Jazz asked. The ease with which he had to slip up on Prowl was honestly offensive. Somehow, the Praxian’s doorwings were blind to him. Prowl looked down at the crystal he was polishing, it was not only the shape but the size of a spike.

“A talisman,” Prowl replied.

“A talisman?” Jazz said, helm cocked. He knew better than to touch any object Prowl had worked.

“One that will ensure the keeper is well pleased,” Prowl replied, a flush forming on his face.

“Ya don’t need a talisman for that,” Jazz declared in a perfectly licentious tone. He flicked the hood of Prowl’s chassis and it popped open. Prowl’s heavy well spilled out and Jazz squeezed both as he lightly nipped Prowl’s neck.

“Oohh!” Prowl moaned, servos clinging in the Amalgus’ shoulders. His legs were splayed wide as Jazz’s drilled his spike deep as he fragged Prowl on the witch’s work bench.

Thank the Light the room was soundproofed. That protection had been put in place to ensure completed works were not contaminated by new spells. It was convenient all the same as his wanton cries echoed about the room but no further. Upstairs, Smokescreen and Bluestreak were already sleeping and Strongarm would soon be as well. His youngling was in charge of her brothers while he was out, though Prowl was not technically out yet. All the lusty cries the gag had held in earlier spilled out of Prowl as Jazz sucked his nozzle and spiked his sopping valve. Jazz lightly nipped Prowl’s nozzle and the witch squeaked. His jaw hung open as the Amalgus’ face contorted in an erotic grimace as he watch his thick spike sink between Prowl thick, shiny folds. Prowl cupped Jazz’s helm as he murmured wanton glyphs. Slowly, Prowl’s tattoos started to glow. He cried in exultation as he overloaded again.

“Didn’t know I could frag the magic outta ya,” Jazz declared as he helped Prowl right his armour.

“Nor did I,” Prowl said. “I trust you will not try to take advantage?”

“We’ll see.”

[j0eyj0rdis0n]

KINKTOBER DAY 6

DUBCON

JEFF THE KILLER

You'd heard what everyone in town said about October, about fall, about the Halloween holiday. He came out, it was his favorite time of year, his time to prowl, to take who he wanted. You didn't know exactly what the townspeople meant by "take who he wanted" but your mind certainly wondered. They'd spoken of his wild smile, cuts dug deep into his skin, his skin as white as a ghost, and his hair black as night. All you could think of was him as the month approached.

What if you were what he wanted to 'take'? You felt a chilling fear rise in your chest. You imagined his crazed smile as he did with you as he pleased. Whether that was good or bad you couldn't exactly decide.

As instructed, you locked your windows and doors, making sure the house was completely secure before deciding to head up to the warmth of your bed. You shimmied out of your sweats, letting your long shirt do the covering before snuggling under the blankets.

You found yourself laying wide awake, not able to shake the feeling of someone watching you. It made the hair on your arms stand up and goosebumps prick your skin. After what seemed like hours trying desperately to sleep, you gave up, trudging back downstairs to hopefully fall asleep to a movie. Maybe that would take your mind off things right?

You turned on the TV, the brightness blinding you. As your eyes adjusted you flicked through the movie selection, picking your favorite one and laying back as it began to play.

From outside your sliding glass door he watched. Watched the way you laughed to yourself at the funny parts, jumping when you were scared. Would you jump when you saw him? Scream in fear? Oh how he'd love to hear your delicious screams. Listen to you cry as you begged him to leave you alone. He was slowly growing frustrated at the way your shirt was just barely long enough to cover what it needed to. How he yearned for you to stretch and show him those pretty panties he knew you wore.

He'd been watching you for quite a while after all.

You'd gotten better about closing your blinds, but he was sneaky, and he was quiet. He was surprised you hadn't realized how many of your cutesy panties went missing.

As the movie came to it's peak, he struck. Breaking the lock on your window before sliding in. His blood crusted sneakers hitting the padded carpet as he snuck towards you. As he neared closer he began to wonder what your hair smelled like, how your blood tasted. He didn't think he could kill you like he was supposed to.

You shreaked as he yanked your head back by your hair.

Music to his ears.

"Oh how I've been waitin' ta get my hands on you." He declared through that signature sickening smile.

You felt your heart sink. How did he get in? You swore you locked everything!

"P-Please- Please just let me go! I'll do anything!" You begged, tears springing to your eyes as you clawed at his hands that held tight to your hair.

"Anything huh?" His smile turned into a devious smirk. "No takebacks doll."

He let go of your hair, taking your hands in one of his before using the other to slowly drag your shirt up your ever so beautiful body. He looked at you like a piece of meat to devour. All his.

The way your tears dripped down your cheeks and onto your perky tits had his pants feeling rather tight. He left your shirt just above your exposed chest, taking his knife from his belt. The cool metal sent shivers up your spine as he dragged it slowly up from your core to in-between those perfect tits of yours.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, "please... Please don't hurt me..."

"Oh but hurting you is the best part doll! I can't wait to taste your blood~" He growled as he bit down on your neck hard. Your yelp only made him bite harder, slowly drawing blood. A small moan left your lips as he sucked on the vicious bite he'd just given you. "Oh so you want it more than you're lettin' on!" He snickered, using his knife to cut your panties off you.

Hopping over the couch he was on top of you in no time. His knife pressed to your neck as he brought his slender fingers down to your dripping core.

"Please don't hurt me-" You sobbed for the umpteenth time.

"Shut your pretty mouth or I'll put it to use." He muttered, working his tight skinny jeans off as he rubbed your puffy clit.

No matter how terrified you were, your body betrayed you and your need to be touched. He loved the way that he could get you dripping from simple touches and threats. His lips came back to your neck, continuing to suck and bite enough to draw more blood which he happily lapped up. Your hips squirmed against his fingers as he worked magic on you.

"Oh my pretty thing is getting so worked up just from my fingers! Imagine how you'll be when I wreck you with my cock?" The killer remarked against your neck. He shuffled his way out of his boxers, pressing his hard length against your aching cunt.

No matter how much your brain said no, your body begged for him. He watched as you practically sucked him in, his length disappearing in and out of your tiny hole. His head rolled back at the feeling. It was like you were made for him. Just perfectly tight and beautifully wet.

This was the closest to heaven he'd ever get.

His mouth connected to your erect nipples as his fingers worked your clit and his cock hit all the right places deep inside. You felt your mind clouding over with nothing but lust. The fear subsided and all you could think about was how well he was fucking you, how his cock was just perfect for you, how your orgasm was rapidly approaching.

The killer groaned out as you tightened around him, squeezing him in a way that he knew he wasn't going to last much longer. He felt the way your pussy began to flutter around him, how your moans only got louder and your thighs began to shake as pleasure overcame you. You looked like an angel as you came. If he could've taken a picture he sure would have. He quickly pulled out, giving himself a few pumps before finishing on your stomach.

"Don't you tell anyone you met me. Or I won't be so nice next time I visit." He said as he gave you one final bite on the neck, swiping your panties from you and tucking himself back into his skinny jeans.

"See ya' soon doll!~" He sang as he made his way back out the way he came.

[atvace]

Lady Dior and the Seven Dilfs

Call of Duty men x Female!Reader

(y/n) got demoted from the FBI inspector general down to sergeant because of her valiant move in a drug smuggling mission. she has been assigned to task force 141.

"what a bunch of fuckers." she thought.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

available to read in AO3 and Wattpad!

• not owning any character, they belong to their creators whatsoever

• slow building, eventual porn, character development. slow update because I need to play the campaign first

• not so accurate, might ooc a lil

• Los Vaqueros, Mexican Cartel, Kortac included

● This was originally written in my Wattpad (@Atvace) but I decided to post it here too for more recognition.

●warning: Harsh words, incoming shameless smut (non-con will have a warning in the chapter intro), drug addiction, smoking, drinking (me, im sorry), sh, sa, ptsd, mention of rape, angst (from the comics), F/M/M type a smut, etc. chapter that contains smut will have the TW.

copy my work, I hope your cat makes biscuit to your face with their murder mittens and leaves claw marks all over yo shit face, I hope you did your homework but forgot to publish it so you got an F, I hope your mom forgot your lunch and you starved for the rest of the day, I hope a roach fly to your face when you're taking a huge shit, I hope when you take that huge shit it's so huge you got hemorrhoid for the next 5 months

Spotify:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

[tsunami-of-tears]

Foxtrot

Nesta x Cassian x Eris

A/N: I see your Azris Crackship, and I raise you - Nerissian

Wordcount: <700

Warnings: Angst, violence 

So much had changed since the last Solstice. Prythian was finally experiencing a period of somewhat peacefulness. Eris, who had proven to be a loyal ally to the Night Court, was once again in attendance at the annual Solstice Ball in the Hewn City. 

Eris stalks up to the dais to greet the High Lord and Lady. Bowing his head, he says with his typical smirk, “Happy Solstice.” 

Eris presents a gift to Feyre. She takes the box from his hands and removes the top, revealing a palm-sized orb with a button on the side. 

“This is for Nyx. It’s a nightlight, press that button to turn it on.”

Feyre presses the button and the orb lights up, projecting a replica of the night sky onto the ceiling. From his mother’s lap, Nyx’s little eyes widen.

Eris crouches down to be at Nyx’s level and speaks to the boy in a hushed tone, “With those great wings, you’ll be able to see all of those stars one day.” Nyx babbles back to the male, revealing a tiny bottom tooth. 

“Thank you very much, Eris. This is so thoughtful,” Feyre responds, smiling wide at the Autumn Heir. 

“It’s my pleasure, I had something similar when I was a young boy.” Eris rises from his crouched position and his eyes meet Nesta’s.

From her spot at the side of the dais, Nesta watched the interaction thoughtfully. She had warmed to the male over the past year, but her mate had not. 

Eris flashes Nesta a charming smile and extends his hand. “I haven’t stopped thinking about our last dance. Would you do me the honour of joining me for another?”

Nesta steps forward, looking regal in her black gown and halo of silver laurel wreaths. She takes Eris’s hand in hers, “You know it’s hard to find a good dance partner these days.” 

Eris winks at Nesta as he brings her hand to his lips. 

Cassian tenses as he observes the exchange, but says nothing. He knows how much Nesta loves to dance and wants her to enjoy the ball. 

With arms linked, Eris leads Nesta to the centre of the dancefloor, just in time for the next number.  

The song is slow enough that partners can chat with each other as they move around the room. After a few graceful spins, Eris pulls Nesta flush against his body, still swaying in time with the music. 

Eris leans forward to speak softly into Nesta’s ear. “I never got a chance to congratulate you on your mating. It’s a shame, Autumn would have suited you. You certainly have your own flames.”

Eris pulls back, his eyes simmering with heat as they meet Nesta’s. Her eyes widen as the sharp snap rings in both of their ears and they feel the tug in their chest. 

Nesta gasps as she drops Eris’s hand and reaches for her heart, towards that shimmering bond.  

Eris moves his free hand to gently caress her jaw, “Ah little fox, you may be a fire queen after all.”

Cassian, who has been watching the pair intently, storms over at that moment. “Get your hands off my mate,” He yells. 

Fists fly, and Eris ends up on the floor - not expecting the attack. 

Nesta screams as Cassian kneels to hit Eris again. “No, please don’t hurt him.” Nesta claws at his arm to stop him, but he’s frozen mid-punch.

Cassian’s jaw goes slack and his arms fall to his side as he meets Eris’s amber eyes. The unmistakable snap echoeing in their ears. 

“Cauldron, no,” Cassian whispers.

Hushed voices and shuffling feet can be heard as Rhys clears the ballroom. Azriel grabs Cassian under his arms, hauling him to his feet. Nesta rushes to Eris, kneeling beside him and dabbing his split lip with a handkerchief.

“Mother’s tits,” Rhys mutters, prowling over to see what the commotion was “You guys are such children, what is— oh.”

Rhys lets out a dark chuckle as he realises what has just transpired.

He looks between Eris and Nesta on the ground, and then over at Cassian who looks like he’s about to be sick. “The cauldron is cruel.”

[barrenclan]

Official PATFW Playlist!

 Hooray! I’ve been working on this for a couple weeks while I’ve been unable to work on the comic itself, because I’m very fond of making playlists and I like assigning music to characters. I hope you enjoy listening to it!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0GZWVmucv2DvA4H7uLwquk

As it says in the description, the first 27 songs are individual character theme songs, and the rest are general or at least not a character’s theme. Here is the list so you all know what is up:

Pinepaw (How Soon Is Now?), Cormorantpaw (Chop Suey!), Slugpelt (Never Love An Anchor), Daffodilpaw (Folding Chair), Asphodelpaw (Teen Idle), Rainhaze (It Seemed the Better Way), Egrettail (Twelve Thirty (Young Girls Are Coming To The Canyon)), Mallowstar (Fly Me To The Moon), Blacknose (Heartaches), Redpelt (Red Light Fever), Cootstorm (Hellfire), Plumstripe (Anti Hero), Beeface (Don’t Rain On My Parade - Glee version), Nightberry (Dream), Cypressfoot (We’ll Meet Again), Dustfeather (Mother Knows Best), Deepdark (Bad Bad Things), Prowl (We Will Commit Wolf Murder), Spike (Apex Predator), Fang (The Dismemberment Song), Thrasher (Not A Common Man), Hush Puppy (Last Words of a Shooting Star), Crow (The Wolf Song), Magpie (Fire), Partridge (Cry Little Sister), Ranger and Hacksaw (Partners in Crime), Longest-Claws (The Wolf) 

[revelisms]

Silco, Sevika and Jinx Headcanons (music ver 🎵)

Since my playlists are running rampant (and they're largely how I get a sense for writing character voices/actions/etc.), I thought it'd be fun to share a few HC tidbits via some tunes :-)

Silco — aka the Bloodshark, the Eye, Mr. Crime Boss himself; the man, the myth, the slippery bastard. Also clocking in with nearly 8+ hours worth of songs for this sack of bones...I am...side-eyeing myself. Anyway.

Foundation — Sunlit Grave, Saint Mesa

This basically kickstarted the playlist earworm, for him. At a high-level, this is the song I think of anytime I write him: it's dark, eerie, regal, persevering. I always get an image of someone sinking beneath the depths at the beginning, and clawing out of a deathly cage/prowling to a bloody pinnacle by the end. The lyrics themselves also capture a flavor of his character, as a dead man speaking to someone (potentially his killer and/or lover) who knew him before; who must choose to let go of their knowledge of who that dead man used to be. He is gone, irreparably changed, and he's not coming back—and he'll drag a kingdom to its knees, by the end. (Maybe it's what landed him in that grave, in the first place.)

Inner Voice — The Wondersmith and His Sons, Astronautalis

This gives a sense of past and present: a glimpse into the hard-cracked persona he'd built in the mines (which I associate with folksongs, especially of an English or Gaelic nature), twisted up into the sly, scheming charisma he harnessed as co-founder of the Lanes. For me, the song paints a potential tale of childhood (the lyrics tell of a family of swindlers, from which the narrator is the cleverest son) and a foreboding hint into the future (too much grease can break down a machine; for all their success, a brutal end is eminent). It also just feels like him—it's growly, arrogant, and jovial; drawling in some moments, and spit-fired in others.

On The Record — Time & Place, Queens of the Stone Age

In terms of what he'd actually listen to (of which I think he'd have a extensive range, to the point of his tastes skewing past eclectic into downright bizarre), this would fit easily between a swath of blaring industrial rock, crooning big band classics, jazz, folk-tunes, experimental funk, r&b, etc. It's got that flavor of 80s post-punk vocals that would be a staple in his sets, with a snappy flare in the instrumentals (something he'd nod his head or tap his pen to)—and, funnily enough, has a slight echo to Snakes (Vi's and Jayce's fightsong), which...oddly fits, given I see him and Vi as actually very similar, at their cores.

Sevika — aka the Lioness, the Teeth, "step on me and I'll thank you for it" Miss King. She's badassery in a gilded package, baby—but there's a tender spot under it all, if you squint.

Foundation — Little Girl Gone, CHINCHILLA

Another song that kickstarted the playlist earworm. This is a baseball bat to the gut with prowess, swagger and Try That Again energy—and the transition of the whisper to the drop just hhh. Gets me every time. This song is the battle anthem from a woman who's earned her armor (fittingly, working under a gangster)—test her patience, and she'll be wearing red on her sleeve; dare to cross her in a fight, and she'll drink you down like liquor. I can visualize a snappy two-punch brawl every time I hear this.

Inner Voice — Milk, BONES UK

Dipping into that tenderness here, with a stark note of ceaseless ambition, we've got this song—a reflection, a demand, a love letter, a hunger. There's so many layers folded into this: the desires of a self-made life to be everything and more their host yearns for it to be, even if, underneath it all, what they truly yearn for is belonging. This feels like a young, angry, cropped-hair and bloody-fisted Sevika fighting down the world—and an older self looking fondly, if a touch melancholically, back on it all.

On The Record — Know Better, Janelle Monáe

Put her on the aux, and she'll have the dancefloor congealing into a neon haze of sweat and glitter. The mix of the sax and the bassline here just thrums with her energy, to me: self-assured, watchful, slow-smirking. It's often the kind of tracks she reaches for, especially for a crowd; she's got a bold streak in her, and it doesn't take much to stir it to full display (come here now, stranger; gimme that sense of danger).

Jinx — aka the Loose Cannon, the Bombshell, everyone's favorite lil' gremlin. I tend to interpret her character in distinct "phases"—i.e., Powder, Jinx, and Jinx post-shimmer. These also factor into what I musically associate with her; each piece of her character feels very distinct.

Foundation — BLOODMONEY, Poppy

This is like...the Jinx song, to me. It's about distrust, sacrifice, self-identity, denial, rage, all wrapped up in a spiteful bow of religious allegories—a flash-cycle of whose opinion she worships, at any given moment (when nobody is watching, what do you believe?). It's also just a sensory meal with the sound design, and could even match up with soundbites of her voice so easily.

Inner Voice — Crimson, Skott

Take a stroll into Powder building Jinx's persona from the ashes. This is a haunting, beautiful song, with an undercurrent of something fight-eager, spiteful, and hopeful brewing beneath the surface. In the wake of tragedy, there's still a thread of strength; someone picking up the pieces while trying to find a path back to their own mind. I almost hear this as an apology and declaration of war, in turns, from Jinx to Vi.

On The Record — BOOM, Cassyette.

You know this little metalhead is listening to any splitzy mechanical tracks she can get her hands on (fuels the inventor muse, y'know?)—and I think she'd love this. I mean, c'mon. It's a song about explosions, told through a narrator saying how slipping into different mental spaces feels like a bomb waiting to blow. I could see her jamming to this on loop in her workshop while tinkering with a new flare gun. (Also, as a close runner up, I associate anything Djerv with her, given they were the artist for Get Jinxed—she'd probably have things like (We Don't) Hang No More always on the gramophone, singing to it word for word.)

[gendervapor14]

8. What song would make a great fic (to either write or read)?

9. How do you find new fic to read?

10. How do you decide what to write?

(if not answered already), and 37 & 38! Fanfic ask meme❤️

ooh hello!! thank you for these!! i did answer #38, but i'll answer #37 for sure!

8. What song would make a great fic (to either write or read)?

ooooo as a music nerd i love this question and i apologize for how longwinded my answer is XD i don't do many songfics or much song-related writing [*shoves the title of two fights for freedom under the rug*] but i do have a ton of playlists and songs that make me think of specific characters or fics. to answer this question, i'll just pick one called "Fever Dream" by Dirt Poor Robins. specifically the part starting just after the 4:00 minute mark. the lyrics make me go INSANE with this idea for a dark/horror dq bros fic where doflamingo realizes that corazon is just a false identity and he can't do anything to get his brother back and it drives him even more insane. these lyrics make me crazy Now here comes the liar (lion) Clawing at your door Drunk on the blood of your brother And he's back for more (apparently the lyric is actually "lion" rather than "liar", but i hear "liar" so therefore i declare it is "liar" for the sake of my own brainrot) imagine a fic where rosinante is the one psychologically tormenting doflamingo!! unsure if i'll ever get around to writing it, but it'd probably have a similar vibe to blood gone sour.

9. How do you find new fic to read?

i usually do a nightly prowl under the one piece fandom on ao3 and either filter by most recent fics with rosinante or bell-mere. otherwise i read recs that are bumped on discord servers, or stories friends write! i'm actually terrible at reading tho i don't read nearly enough. when i have free time, i usually use it to create.

10. How do you decide what to write?

excellent question. i make a list of priorities. sometimes it's disorganized lists on my phone, sometimes i use calendars. first and foremost are things with due dates, so zine work, or gifts for exchanges, birthdays or holidays. next i prioritize stories that are works in progress, but already posted on ao3. i hate having incomplete works posted on ao3, so i strive to get them wrapped up asap. then it's a rabid thunderdome of all my other wips and ideas all wrestling for victory for who gets to be created XD i'm constantly bursting with ideas i never get to work on, unfortunately.

37. Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it?

i'm gonna go ahead and promote spitfire and ice because i busted my ass on this for the crackpair event and i was actually really happy with the result? i was assigned makino x kuzan, so i threw bell-mere in there too just to shake things up, and then i fell madly in love with bell-mere x makino and their flirty banter. it captured my heart in a way i was NOT expecting. i guess the tags aren't particularly interesting to most, so it's relatively unknown with only 4 kudos and 31 hits. but look at this!! “Hey, I’ve gotta ask you something.” She leaned over the counter once Makino settled herself and refilled the pitcher for the next round. “Would I still be wanted here…after hours?” With a tight smile, Makino rested her hands over the tabletop. “We’re closed for customers after hours. I need some time to tidy up the place.” “Right, right…” Pretty gray eyes wandered. “But in this situation, I wouldn’t be a customer.” With an amused chuckle, Makino folded her arms over her stomach. “What do you want me to say, Miss Bell-mère? Do you want me to welcome you to my private quarters upstairs?” That exposed chest filled with air. “I wouldn’t be against an invitation.” smh. well, at least i'm proud of it!

ahhh sorry i got so rambly XD i had fun answering these! thank you so much for the questions!! here's the list if anyone else has a question, or wants to reblog it for themselves!

[adndmonsteraday]

Rakshasas (pronounced: /rɑːkˈʃɑːsɑːz/ rak-SHA-saz) were a dignified race of duplicitous outsiders that mostly dwelt on the Material Plane. They were reviled as devious sorcerers, political puppeteers and thought to be an embodiment of evil.

“I can see your nightmares and present them to your eyes. I can also show you your heart's deepest desires, or rip your throat out with my claws. And you think to toy with me?” — Ashatra, a rakshasa mage

The true form of a rakshasa was almost never seen due to their ability to assume almost any humanoid figure, but their lavish taste ensured they were almost always wearing the finest garments and most precious jewelry. Their true forms were most commonly humanoids with the heads of tigers and luxurious fur to match their attire, although it was not unusual for them to possess the heads and features of carnivorous apes, crocodiles or mantises, with high ranking rakshasas being rumored to have multiple heads. One rakshasa known to Inther Blackfeather of Luskan even possessed a scorpion-like tail.

The eyes of a rakshasa could range from gold and black slits for felines to protruding, multifaceted spheres for insects but always contained a fiendish glimmer of disturbing, infernal intellect. However, their most unnerving and unique feature was their reversed hands. The palms of a rakshasa faced out from the body when the arms were at rest and the finger joints bent backwards to grasp and manipulate objects.

Rakshasas stood 6‒7 ft (1.8‒2.1 m) tall, with those of lower rank being shorter. Their build was typical for a human of their size and they weighed between 250‒350 lb (110‒160 kg).

Personality Unsettling others with their eerily structured hands demonstrated a mere fraction of a rakshasa's true maliciousness, as their wickedness rivaled that of devils and their avarice surpassed them. Their animalistic appearance disguised a sophisticated personality with an unstoppable lust for influence and material wealth.

They combined the habits of a predatory aristocrat with those of an indolent cat, savoring the finest art, music, literature, clothing, weapons and armor while spending large amounts of time lazily resting in their comforts and prowling unseen. Powerful magic, lost spells, arcane tomes and secret lore, particularly those of the evil variety, were of special interest to the born sorcerers. Slaves were collected the same as any other form of art, and were expected to indulge every whim of their cruel master. This served to bolster the already overinflated ego of the rakshasa, a haughtiness they displayed to all who knew their true identity.

Rakshasas used their transformative abilities to appear as nobles, cardinals, merchant princes, crime lords and other beings rich in power. They used their natural charisma to form vast arrays of minions, lackeys, servitors and henchmen, and despite their pride were masters of deceit. Rakshasas disguised not only their forms, but their very involvement in events, pulling political strings, creating vast intrigues, and instigating government corruption to secure their safety. Their innate cleverness was enhanced by their supernatural abilities, and yet countered by their strange sense of honor, as like devils they would hold to the letter of an agreement while ignoring the spirit to double-cross their supposed allies.

Rather than steal from other powerful beings, rakshasas favored robbing the poor and needy, using their assumed authority to obtain riches and items from those that needed them most. Their ability to gain dominion and rise to power while causing others to fall was a source of pride and joy for them. They would plot the death of a mortal's family, take everything they had, and ruin their reputation through vicious slander, but nothing brought them more pleasure in this activity than turning a model citizen's society against them by exposing hidden truths.

Activities Upon reaching independence, rakshasa usually attempted to establish their own territories as far away from any other rakshasas as possible, utilizing their mastery of disguise to carefully investigate a region for years while staying insignificant. They instinctually sought out hideaways, safe houses and secret lairs from which to conduct their schemes and display their opulence, their lives often shifting between periods of hedonistic pleasure and unyielding discipline. Thieves' guilds, mercenary companies, business fronts or temples to neutral deities were suitable covers and if no such thing could be found, the rakshasa would be forced to create one itself.

At the same time, they searched for those of weak wills, dark secrets and crippling fears, collecting every possible detail about their hidden vices through their thought detection ability and pre-established connections. If bribery and temptation were not sufficient, they would use extortion and slander, threatening to ruin the target's life if they refused to comply. Spies and informants were monitored by more reliable and easily controlled servants and as their cruel criminal empires spread, subjects under their control, whether a victim of their greed or a knowing servitor, found the rakshasa's demands grow more unreasonable and time-consuming.

Most rakshasas that focused on self improvement, despite already being leagues beyond ordinary mortal casters, tried to improve their sorcerous abilities. If not personally studying magic or attempting to discover sources of arcane power, some sponsored adventuring parties under the guise of an interested individual or organization, sending such groups on quests to obscure locations or supposedly dangerous regions.

Rakshasas were naturally adept sorcerers, able to use a wide variety of enchantment and illusion spells to beguile their enemies and detect the thoughts of others at will. Most magic was of no use against rakshasas, as only some of the most powerful spells were able to affect them unless they allowed it. Only potent, enchanted weapons were capable of properly harming them, but piercing weapons that had been blessed, or potentially those wielded by good creatures, were particularly effective. Blessed crossbow bolts and arrows were said to instantly kill them, but it was said they had to be pierced through the heart with such weapons to truly slay them.

Rakshasas could shapeshift as long as they desired and their new forms could not be magically dispelled, although truesight could pierce their guise and they reverted to normal upon death. Their claws contained a magical curse that plagued the minds of those struck with nightmares and terrifying figments, preventing them from resting properly unless the curse was removed.

Society Rakshasa communities on the Outer Planes were protected by greater rakshasas or ruhks, a term meaning knight, skilled warriors of great speed and martial prowess. 15% of rakshasas were ruhks and 15% of the ruhks were rajahs, a term meaning lord, that led their clans. 5% of rajahs were maharajahs, a term meaning duke, that led several small interrelated clans or singular massive clans. Their island societies were composed of hundreds of members with the duke as the unquestionable leader, although dukes were known to serve under even more dangerous entities and clans would be run by a rajah in the absence of a maharajah. The rakshasas of Acheron were infamous beings that laired on hidden cubes veiled from prying eyes by powerful illusion magic. Each clan kidnapped petitioners and planewalkers to serve as slaves in their palaces in an attempt to impress the maharajah that ruled over every rakshasa on the plane.

Befitting beings of deception, early reports on rakshasa society contradicted later descriptions, although both were based on subservience and subjugation and it was possible some combination of the two was present. Earlier claims were that rakshasas belonged to a unshakable caste system and that individuals were incapable of rising through the ranks. Later descriptions portrayed it as a meritocracy based on guile and ruthless immorality, where rakshasas constantly waged conspiratorial wars against each other. Enslavement, rakshasa or not, was an indication of power and their political battles ended either in the death or domination of the loser. As rakshasas grew in reputation and prestige they would gain the noble titles of ruhk and rajah, reaching maharajah status after the successful conquest of all others rakshasas in the region.

Female rakshasas, rakshasi, raised children independent of males, teaching their children vital lessons about their society. Rakshasi were unyielding disciplinarians, but the rigorous and ruthless tests they employed were contrasted by their pampering praise. The reason for this was likely the patriarchal nature of rakshasa society, as females were meant only to be faithful, childbearing spouses that raised powerful offspring. The rakshasi population was somewhere between having just as large a population as males and having three times their numbers, and males could very well have harems. The nature of power was important in a rakshasa's education, as they learned that those in power could just as easily retract their gifts as they could bestow them. Mature rakshasas wasted no time establishing their criminal empires and may have already done so.

Religion The rakshasa served the lesser god Ravanna a ten-headed being that was the paragon of their tyrannical ideals of decadence, cunning and narcissism. Most clerics were chosen by Ravanna based on his needs and desires rather than them coming to serve him and it was practically suicidal by those who knew of him to ignore commands for such summons from his great priests.

He commanded his servitors to rule and expand from the shadows, giving his clergy the air of a secret criminal organization and was not adverse to choosing members of other races to be part of his priesthood. Befitting a being of such overwhelming egomania, prayers to Ravanna were longwinded and sycophantic while depreciating the value of the speaker. His devotees commonly carried personal shrines with which to make daily sacrifices of blood and coin with their natural armaments, made both artistic and ornate but easily concealable on short notice.

Within the Abyss, chaotic evil rakshasas were known to serve another lesser god, Kali. The demon lord Fraz-Urb'luu, Prince of Deception, also commanded a great number of chaotic evil rakshasas known as the Hollow Rajahs.

Source: https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Rakshasa

[escapeaddict]

I strongly dislike time travel

so I thought

what if an AU where Chat Blanc just... happened

no do-overs

just a post-apocalyptic Paris

and then I wrote a thing

The shattered moon shone weakly down on a broken Paris, casting its blackened bricks and sooty pavement into stark relief. Scummy water lay stagnant and still in the Seine, so dark its oily surface did not reflect the wavering starlight back at the sky. Filth and muck mired the sidewalks, garbage rotted in its rooted-through bins, and flakes of ash choked the low-hanging air. Charcoal husks of the calamity’s initial victims crumbled into dust, fresher bodies decomposed in the streets, and the hanging carcasses of angrily harpooned cats adorned the walls. The silence of the death-filled city was deafening, and every breath, every heartbeat, had the potential to betray a person’s location.

Chat Blanc prowled across rooftops, drying blood on his silver claws, white leather suit smudged with black and stained with crimson, and scanned the darkness with ice-blue eyes. Below him, a tall girl with long matted hair slipped quietly into a half-collapsed apartment building, a large drawstring bag of scavenged supplies on her back. Chat Blanc dropped from the roofs to the street-level, landing softly on all fours, sniffing the air. Even now, weeks after the disaster, beneath all the grime and the unwashed stink, the girl had a familiar scent, no matter how hard she tried to mask it from the akuma’s sharpened senses. Chat Blanc pricked up his ears at the sound of murmurs from within, voices he recognized from a former life.

He smiled, baring his needle-like fangs.

A mother, a sister, and a brother. A family of music lovers.

Tonight, the last name would be struck from the list of her classmates.

And then he would yowl at the sky, alone and supreme, king of a ruined world that fell, unasked for, at his feet.

[bob-surrunkel]

Bedtime Story 28.06.24 (att. 2)

The crickets are chirping in the wet marsh at this time of night. The streetlamps buzz their soft hum into the silence their lights shine against, broken in drawn out intervals where engines rumble through and away: silently, louder, loudly, and fading again. The houses are shadowed by the clouds - thin and fast at the hailing of a new winter - as well as their balconies, their gutters, their columned porches and their slanted tiles.

The wiley cat begins her nightly prowl; the pruning of her brown and white feathers are complete and the spaces between her pads have been licked spotless. Her little claws grit the pebbles of concrete scattered loose upon the pavement, feeling the traces of the many footsteps that fell in the daytime. She slows then sniffs the air intermittently as she steps, but scents in the night are scarce. There are the engines, the gumtree leaves, the roses in the decorated gardens, and the westringia bushes that dot the path. The deep and sickly smells that carry from the garbage bins in the streets she registers subconsciously. Her silent trawl continues confidently until the feeling of free flowing wind warns her of open space. Her sway becomes more cautious, the placement of her paws softer, as the advantage of her senses gives itself to open air that blows about in torrents. Finally stopping, completely blind and deaf to the deeper darkness laying over the encroaching field, she sniffs the air and lights upon the smell of Another.

Pouncing in the dark she scampers between the mailboxes of units that line the perimeter. She recognises a row of cars parked alongside chain fencing as her opportunity for vision and begins a careful approach. Stopping with space to spare she prepares herself with practised wiggles, building the pressure in her hind legs, directing the warmth in her heaving stomach. Perfect. She lands too quickly on the low hood - wincing at an echo - before crawling hurriedly to the adjacent roof. The scent wavers in her nostrils with the quickening of her breaths. She forces a long pause and small huff as she scans the shadows. Slowly, surely, she gathers herself and pushes her diaphragm into a steady pace - her deepening inhalations working swiftly to relax her mind. Again she scans the shadows. The slight breeze carries on, almost undisturbed in its movement as it traces a path from her nose to the end of her flicking tail. She shivers and feels her body become tense, tucking her front paws, content that she is invisible. Another deep sniff of the air finds the scent coming steadily still.

A car approaches the court blaring muffled music that shatters the tension settling over the scene. She clambers down in a panic, leaping and landing heavily on the road, locking her legs under her and fleeing. She scans the way - navigating the grass, footpaths and cars with learned and absolute efficiency. Her heart pounds happily at every step. She comes to a rest in front of her backyard pot plants after walking along her fencepost and gazing over her territory. She breathes out, softening herself, and begins licking her paws and pruning the feathers of her neck once more. When she settles she will try again.

[smolsleepyfox]

GWTD Transcript "Most intimidating client ever"

[Entrance to the shop, low angle shot. A large wolf enters. It has dark greyish-brown fur with prominent scars over the right side of its face. Its head is lowered as it steps inside, its gait calm, prowling almost.]

Voice-over: I’ve worked with a lot of clients others thought scary, but today I was reconsidering my job choice.

[Close Up of the wolf's face. It is observing the situation coolly. Its eyes are a prominent light blue, making its gaze even more eerie.]

Groomer in video: At least you actually fit in the shower.

VO: Since you were all so excited about the last video, I decided to invite another one of my werewolf friends. This is Sasha, and if I didn't know him I'd probably have run already. 

[They step into the shower. Sasha sits down while the groomer warms up the water. He licks his lips, observing her closely. He does not move while she soaks his fur, only his ears twitching slightly, but his eyes remain fixed on her.]

VO: The full moon was two days ago so he's in dire need of a little wellness treatment. 

[She puts her hand into his coat, pulling out some loose undercoat.] 

Groomer: You’re not shedding as much as I expected. [pause] I'm not gonna lie, your staring is freaking me out a bit, man.

[Sasha tilts his head slightly, but stops staring at her like a stuffed turkey. She begins soaping him up, her hands vanishing in the thick fur.]

VO: I am using Fluff This! Cozy Creature shampoo, because it was Halloween last week and I'm not ready to go into the Christmas season.  Last time I talked about how important establishing boundaries is before working on a new client, because once shifted, it can be hard to communicate in words. In Sasha's case, his pack leader called to tell me something we forgot, but this level of preparation is certainly not the norm.

[Sasha stands up at her request while she rinses off the shampoo. He is still alert but more relaxed than before. The groomer shuts off the water and looks at him for a moment.]

Groomer: Your alpha said you won't like your face washed, is that true?

[Sasha turns his head sharply at the words.]

Groomer: Don't be mad at me, I'm just repeating what I was told.  So are you gonna rip my face off if I do this? Because I wouldn't like that very much.

[Sasha stares at her for a moment, entirely still, then he huffs and flicks his ears. It almost sounds like he's saying "fine".]

[She begins washing his face. Sasha has his eyes closed for most of it, and his posture is stiff. He is clearly stressed.]

Groomer: I’m working as fast as I can. Is that a werewolf thing, because your brother also didn’t like this.

VO: After going through a stack of towels, it turns out Sasha actually fits on my big table. I got this one after I realized I’d get more lycanthropic clients. It has a maximum weight limit of just over 500 kilos and can theoretically keep a werewolf still if they freak out. It’s not something I’ve used before aside from practice and I hope I never need to, for everyone’s sake. 

[She puts a rubber mat onto the surface and Sasha steps onto the table, lying down and dangling one paw over the side. There is a band of scar tissue around his ankles.]

VO: Sasha is an old werewolf and like many of his kind suffers from the beginning stages of arthritis, so I pad the table down to prevent him from slipping. I put on the happy hoodie and my beekeeper’s hat and once again cover my shop in fluff.

[Long sequence of blow drying set to majestic music. Sasha has laid his head down but is still very much alert, his tail twitching on occasion.]

Groomer: I’m afraid you have to stand up.

[Sasha obliges, claws digging into the mat to stabilize himself. He sniffs the air and suddenly growls, loudly. He puts his paw on her shoulder.]

Groomer: What?

[Sasha’s paws shift to semi-hands nearly instantaneously. He switches the dryer off and pulls down the happy hoodie in one motion. Hands shifting back, his claws scrape the metal of the table. He stares at the door, entirely still.]

Groomer: O-kay, that was mildly terrifying.

[The camera cuts to the hallway, only showing the groomer’s and another person’s legs.]

VO: Turns out another client mixed up their schedule and came in a day early. My shop is neutral ground, but that doesn’t make people like each other. After that mildly terrifying incident, I finish blow-drying him and begin on the haircut. Sasha is in great shape even so shortly after the moon and only requested very minimal trims. Much like his brother, he has very long tail fur, so I give that a good brushing and shorten it with my chunkers.

[The brush makes a satisfying ksh-ksh sound going through the fur. The groomer holds the long fur between two fingers while she cuts it.]

VO: Working on werewolves is an incredibly special task that requires mutual trust and a lot of knowledge. That said, I’ve never seen a partial transformation like this. You really never stop learning.

[Switch to full view of the table. Sasha has sat down while she brushes out his back. He is once again observing her cautiously.]

VO: Sasha has collected a lot of scars in his life, so I had to switch between several tools before finding something that was comfortable for him. Once again, the AquiGroomer proved its worth, removing a ton of undercoat without hurting his skin. I used the dematter on the long fur on his chest and then cleaned out his ears. 

[Sasha clearly enjoys the feeling, turning his head while she moves the pad.]

Groomer: So, you gonna let me touch your feet? 

[Cut to a close up of her removing the fur between his paw pads. Noticeably, he’s missing two toes on the left front paw.]

VO: A few of you asked if shaving out the paw pads is necessary since many older wolves have trauma surrounding their paws being hurt. I wouldn’t say it’s absolutely necessary, but there are advantages depending on your location. A rural pack that mostly walks in the forest or even on snow is probably better off keeping all that extra fluff. It is more work to keep clean, but it can help with sinking into the snow. If you live in an urban area, shaving it out gives more traction on smooth surfaces. Sasha comes from a rural pack, but will spend some time in an urban area, so he’s decided that he wants more traction, especially since he’s only got three claws here.

For that extra wellness factor, I rub some balm on his paw pads and let it sit for a bit while I start cleaning the massive furnado. 

[Timelapse of the shop filmed from a high angle. Sasha is lying on the table, letting his feet dangle over the edge while he observes the groomer moving large tufts of light gray hair with a broom.]

Groomer: I swear I need to get a bigger trash can if your kind keeps coming in.

VO: I spray Sasha down in Spooky Pumpkin cologne, because Sasha is a spooky guy, and we’re all done. From beginning to end, this groom took four hours, with a short break for snacks in between. 

[Sasha sits on the table, observing the camera in that same cold manner he has before.]

VO: And all that’s left to say is thank you for watching, I hope you enjoyed the stern Sasha.

[novafire-is-thinking]

❌What WIP do you find the most challenging? Why?

Already answered here with additional important thoughts here.

However, because you’re Sparrow, I shall present you with a feast of even more details:

For much of my life, I’ve been obsessed with the concept of personal identity and the crafting of said identity. Nietzsche once said, “We want to be poets of our life first of all in the smallest most everyday matters.” I know exactly what he meant.

This philosophy applies to my characters as well.

Soundwave’s backstory is such a challenge for me because of the sheer amount of work I want to put into crafting and refining his journey of Becoming. I’ll be putting almost as much work into Pharma and Prowl later on, but Soundwave is the number one priority, for obvious reasons.

Then, there’s the whole worldbuilding aspect…

I can see Kaon.

I’ve stood atop the region’s highest mountain and marveled at the majesty of the star-filled sky.

I’ve heard the storm winds whip through the black crystal forests of Kaon’s wilderness.

I’ve watched Soundwave snap the tip off one of those crystals, and have seen the way the light catches in the pleochroic fragments as he crushes it in his clawed hand.

I’ve strode down the obsidian-black walkways of the ancient city.

I’ve run my fingers along the brilliant gold lines embedded within the building facades.

I’ve heard the music drifting through the halls of the palaces.

I’ve heard the language spoken in hushed tones between friends and lovers.

I’ve trembled at the war cries rising from the hills.

I’ve stepped in the glowing blue of spilled energon running down those same dark hills.

But there is so much more to be done.

For this ask game

[urbaneturtle]

DCAU Rewatch: Batman the Animated Series 16: The Cat and the Claw, Part 2

As Batman works to take down Red Claw, Catwoman’s pursuit to save an environmental preserve brings these opposing forces into an uneasy alliance.

Credits

Story by S.C. Derek & L. Bright

Teleplay by J. Dennis & R. Mueller

Directed by D. Sebast

Supervising Composer Shirley Walker

Music Composed by Harvey Cohen

Animation Services by Akom Production Co.

Layout Services by NOA Animation

One thing I tend to overlook on this show is its directing, the way the camera moves and shots are staged. Even in some sloppier episodes, we can get some stunning imagery. The opening of this episode, where the camera pans down from the moon and gothic skyline down through the trees and to the nervous gangster walking through the park, is gorgeous. Some old-school animation tools to create the illusion of depth there. And of course, the backgrounds always look great.

The opening scene where Batman is pressing the gangster is solid stuff. Like I said last week, I wish this episode focused more on the Gotham underworld and its connection to the crooked corporations as opposed to the silly ecoterrorist stuff. Where the last episode was a lot of fun characterization and playful banter between Batman and Catwoman, this one focuses a lot more on straight-up action and Red Claw’s plan to release a germ weapon. And it is all the worse for it.

There’s a nice subtle parallel between Batman and Catwoman midway through, where Selina and Bruce each go back home, chat with their assistants, and suit up for their nightly prowl. It’s done in a way that doesn’t feel intentional because it is so natural to each character, but the structure of the two scenes is so similar it’s undeniable. It’s smart storytelling that furthers the plot but tells us about each of the two characters and their similarities—despite being on opposite ends of the law.

Nothing about Red Claw is compelling or sensible at all, but it’s made just a bit more tolerable because the two-parter is truly about the relationship between Batman and Catwoman.

Read the full analysis and commentary, including production details, on one of the first episodes of Batman the Animated series ever aired on the Patreon.

[splendidissimus]

August 2000 - He's Not Home

((Content warning: anxiety, heart condition))

((Promptspiration: @whumptober 2023: day 7: I paced around for hours on empty; I jumped at the slightest of sounds. / Radio silence ))

Genre: hurt / comfort

Romance level: major

Angst level: 3/5

Draco's headspace: anxious

((words: ~1300))

------------------------------------

Draco couldn't settle down. He prowled anxiously through the ground floor of Theo's house, stifled in the same four narrow rooms, trying not to think and unable to stop it. 

He knew where Theo was. His alchemy mentor had sent him to look at an old wizard tomb in the Hogsmeade area, an expedition that would keep him overnight and probably to the next afternoon. Theo called it 'chores' and the 'main perk of having an apprentice'. It was meant to be tedious, boring, exhausting, and dirty work.

But a couple hours after Theo'd gone, a thought wormed its way into Draco's mind: that it was dangerous. He knew the thought was irrational, but he couldn't drive it away, and it sank its claws deeper and deeper into his mind.

He tried to ignore it, distracting himself with trying to figure out how to make a sandwich, but he could even eat what he put together at the end because his stomach was too tight, and trying to read only left him looking at the same sentence over and over, and music on the wireless just put noise behind his thoughts. 

He tried to logic himself out of it — old wizard tombs were secured with basic locks or puzzles, not with deadly traps. He had a room at the Three Broomsticks. It wasn't like Hogsmeade Valley was crawling with bands of Dark wizards or dangerous magical beasts, and even if it were, Theo was capable of defending himself. And he was near enough people to send up sparks for help if he weren't. He was fully safe, there wasn't any danger… 

But it didn't help, because his mind only responded with but what if. What if an unstable ceiling caved in? What if the tomb was harbouring acromantulas? What if there were unsavoury types interested in the same tomb for some reason? What if he fell down and broke his leg? What if he fell down and broke his wand?

What if he was alone and…

He should go back to his own flat, but he couldn't bring himself to. For some reason, the thought of Theo's house standing empty was unbearable. 

He could feel his heart responding to the constant quiet fear, trying to beat harder, faster. He focused on Occlumency techniques to try to control his emotions and his heart. Unfortunately, fear was the one emotion he had never been able to control except by burying it into nothingness, and he didn't want to get trapped in that dark numbness ever again if he could help it. 

Finally, he defied his heart and, leaving all the lamps lit behind him, forced his way up the three flights of steep, unsteady stairs that made Theo's house a death trap for him, up to Theo's room at the very top of the house. The cramped attic space, lined with trunks and overfilled bookcases, offered little in the way of comfort except the sagging bed at the far end. Draco took a seat on it under the creased Holyhead Harpies poster, winced at the screeching of springs, and tried to catch his breath.

The room smelled of Theo. That did help calm his heart, although probably not enough to offset the climbing of the stairs, in all honesty. Still. He closed his eyes and recited his mantra, that Theo was okay, he would be home tomorrow, and nothing was wrong…

But what if it was? It could be. He had no way of knowing. He was just lying to himself.

There was a way to check. Maybe. He had the Owlless in his pocket, the special sheet of parchment and enchanted quill that he and Theo could use to write back and forth instantly. They hadn't used it in a long time, but…

He laid it out on the table beside the bed. The last conversation in it was months old, Theo wishing him a happy birthday and his lack of response. He read over it a few times, restless eyes returning to the top every time he finished it. Repeating to himself that Theo was okay.

Finally, he wrote 'Please write back.' on the bottom of the page. And then waited. 

He stared at the page forever, telling himself he wasn't worried and there was nothing to worry about and he hadn't expected an answer anyway and Theo probably didn't even have it with him and he could quite possibly be asleep right now and there was nothing to worry about… A cycle of the same thoughts chased themselves endlessly through his head, an ouroboros of anxiety. The cold tightness of his stomach and the painful fluttering of his heart didn't believe the words his mind tried to insist upon.

His heart was too fast. He didn't even have to turn on the monitor to acknowledge that. It was too fast and it wasn't calming down, because how could it? He needed to take something for it.

He didn't want to sleep, though. Except he did. The sooner he went to sleep, the sooner Theo would be back and he'd prove to himself that everything was all right and this was pure foolishness. Or he could stay up just a little longer and see if Theo wrote back. It could be any moment. But no, he probably wasn't going to, and anyway, if he went to sleep, then it would be morning soon and he would have Theo's answer on the Owlless waiting for him. 

He sat and watched the Owlless. 

It did nothing.

His heart gave an obvious, irregular thump, and he winced and held his chest. He had to. He unshrank the potion bag from his pocket and found the sedative meant for this, took a last look at the unresponsive Owlless, and swallowed it all. 

The effect was quick and irresistable: his pulse gradually slowed, and exhaustion and achey muscles gave way to calm tired feelings. He tried to resist it, but soon he curled up on Theo's bed, surrounded in the reassuring scent of him. 

—

Draco woke before dawn from unremembered nightmares that left him wiping tear-tracks off his cheeks and dread heavy in his stomach. The first thing he did, when he realised where he was, was check the Owlless, and he found that Theo had not written.

He told himself he had expected it. He also stayed there looking at it for a long time.

Around noon, he planted himself in the sitting room where the floo was, pretending he was listening to the wireless, or that he wasn't just marking every second of 'afternoon' where Theo didn't show up. If he wasn't back by the time he was normally off work…

A few hours later, the floo flared to green life, and he was on his feet. Theo came through, dusting off his sleeves, and Draco immediately grabbed him, hugging him tightly, holding the back of his head, fingers twining through his hair. "I know it's stupid," he said into his shoulder, preemptively. "Just…"

Theo's hands were startled wide for a second, showing he hadn't even realised he was there, then rested on his hips. "Hey. Everything okay?"

"Yes." Now it was.

—

After a few minutes, Theo made his way upstairs to change into clean clothes. He wasn't expecting the state of the room. He could read Draco's night in what he left there — the wrinkled bed, the empty emergency sedative, the abandoned Owlless with its single plaintive sentence… 

He didn't even waste the time to change. He went back downstairs and wrapped his arms tight around Draco, holding him silently and not letting him go.