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literallydontlook · 1 year

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Atonement - part 1

Pairing: Crosshair x f!sex worker!reader

Rating: Explicit (minors, skidaddle)

WC: 5.7k

Series summary: After Cody deserts, Crosshair comes to terms with his place within the Empire and the things that he’s done in its name. As the inhibitor chips begin to degrade, his building guilt finally pushes him to defect himself. Life on the run is harder than he imagined, but he’s found moments of comfort and true peace from an unlikely source. Can he ever atone for the crimes he’s committed or is he condemned to a lifetime of guilt?

Series CW: canon typical violence, swearing, sex work, lots of negative self talk, PiV, masturbation (m and f), probably oral at some point; reader has a back story but no physical descriptions; lmk if I missed anything

Unwhitewash the bad batch disclaimer: these guys are straight up white in the show and that is not ok with me. My descriptions and headers are made to combat canon designs. If you don’t like that pls leave.

A/N: SOOOOOOO ONCE AGAIN I’m on my Crosshair shit even though almost 0 of my followers are here for this. I wanted to explore what it would take for him to find redemption. TO BE CLEAR a lot of the stuff he says on the show and his attitude and superiority complex in canon are straight up disgusting, but I can’t help but wonder if I’d be strong enough to defect if I were put into a similar situation. In an age where we are so quick to condemn people for their mistakes (god knows I’ve made my share), how can we nurture the good in people instead of pushing them farther away? Also I was horny lol

—

Sharp eyes scan the cantina over the rim of his drink. Others are like him — sitting at tables obscured by the darkness. They’re scheming and dealing, keeping low profiles as they search for their next gigs. The dim lighting blurs their faces and the air is hazy with smoke. But Crosshair still sees everything.

But he also listens.

“…Black Sun…—ot take kindly to…”

“…we’ll need a qui—….to pick off…”

“I don’t want no part of…-mperial control…”

There are a number of promising-sounding leads and he indulges in a little bit of cautious optimism. It’s been 2 months since he’d defected and two rotations since he’s eaten. He never thought he’d ever miss the Imperial slop they served at the mess, but it’s starting to sound pretty good right about now. His stomach rumbles.

Finding jobs was proving to be more difficult than he’d anticipated, especially for a man looking to disappear from the Empire. Most bounty hunters belong to the Guild, but he can’t risk leaving that kind of a record. It leaves him with the kinds of jobs that are actively avoiding official channels.

A spineless-looking gentleman dressed far too expensively for the establishment looks over his shoulder before taking a seat across from Crosshair. He runs a hand through greasy, slicked back hair and fiddles with the gaudy rings on his fingers, twisting them nervously. Crosshair acknowledges him with a silent nod.

“That’s quite a rifle you’ve got there,” he says, attempting to sound nonchalant.

Crosshair hums in response, taking a sip of his drink. The man looks around again and dabs at the sweat around his neck before leaning in.

“I’m looking for some help,” he says, voice lowered to almost a whisper. There’s an awkward silence as he waits for a response but he’s met with Crosshair’s usual brand of stoicism.

He waits for the man to continue and it takes almost all of his willpower not to roll his eyes and scoff. “What’s the job,” he asks finally.

“Ah, yes — well, I’m looking for someone who can be discreet. This cannot be traced back to me,” he says, looking over his shoulder again, “and my associate spoke very highly of you.”

Crosshair narrows his eyes. “And who, exactly, is this associate?”

He leans further over the small table, lowering his voice even further. “Gini Millegi,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“Hmm…” Crosshair considers this information carefully while absentmindedly stirring his drink with a toothpick. Millegi was a notorious gangster in the region who’d hired him for a hit just a few weeks ago. Something about rival gang politics — he couldn’t care less, to be honest. The pay was good and the job was surprisingly easy. What more could he ask for?

The man clears his throat and Crosshair’s returning glare nearly burns a hole in his forehead. “Go on,” he says impatiently. The man jumps in his seat and pats down his pockets nervously.

“The target will be at Safa Toma, just across town tomorrow.” He frowns, mumbling something to himself before exclaiming, “The little brat — she can’t just waltz in here out of nowhere and take our family’s hard-earned fortune! Who does she think she is?!”

He closes his eyes and places a hand over his heart dramatically.

“My father is not long for this world and she needs to be eliminated before he passes.”

Crosshair holds up a hand, “Spare me the details. What’s the bounty?” He didn’t need to hear a long winded story about greedy families vying for an inheritance. The less he knows, the better.

The man sits back and huffs indignantly. “Five thousand credits. Double if you can make it look like an accident.”

Five thousand credits. That's enough to buy some stability for at least a month. He locks eyes with the man and something in the pit of his stomach turns as he considers the proposition. It sounds easy enough, but he’s learned quickly that in this line of work, nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

Especially when the client is avoiding official Guild channels.

His stomach grumbles.

“Fine. But I want fifty percent up front. Those are my terms,” he says, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “You won’t find a more discreet hunter.”

The man hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek in consideration. Finally, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a coarsely woven bag. He sets it on the table, but his hand lingers over it. “How do I know you won’t just run off with the credits?” He asks with narrowed eyes.

Crosshair plucks it from below his palm. “You don’t.”

—

Safa Toma is boisterous, a hub of raucous activity and a host of unsavory characters. The main draw is riot racing, a dangerous sport akin to Tatooine’s pod racing with the addition of officially sanctioned weapons usage. Crosshair had heard of it. Many clients in his new line of work were enthusiastic participants with racers of their own, but he’d never had an interest. The place is decidedly too cacophonic for his taste.

He peers at the stadium through his scope, searching for the reflective discs he’d strategically placed the night before. With any luck, he’d be able to mask his location with a shot rebounded from the opposite direction.

He’s perched high on an abandoned building, several kliks away. By now, the toothpick dangling from his lips is gnarled and ready to snap. He can’t shake his nerves and the vague feeling of foreboding he’s had about this job. His commlink crackles to life.

“The target is en route to the viewing suite. Do you remember the hand signals?” His client’s voice is low and his speech is rushed, nervous and impatiently demanding some sort of comfort to placate his anxious energy.

Crosshair rolls his eyes before responding. His scope swings across the stadium in search of a group matching the provided description. An older, heavier-set woman with a severe expression and dressed impeccably. Another woman in expensive robes and perfectly coiffed hair carrying a small child. And two greasy-looking men in suits wearing jewelry worth more than Crosshair’s entire ship.

“I have a visual. Awaiting your signal.”

The link goes silent as he watches the client dart out from behind a column and speed walk down the hallway to catch up, arms pinned rigidly to his sides in a ridiculously short strut.

So much for playing it cool.

Now that they’re all together, it’s clear that these people are the client’s family. The resemblance between him and the two men is unmistakable. And they’ve all clearly inherited the older woman’s chin, who he figures is their mother. The connection to the younger woman and the toddler is less clear.

He’s focused on tracking the group but registers the sound of stray blaster fire and a unified gasp from the crowd. The announcer’s voice booms and even from this distance, Crosshair can hear it.

“A friendly reminder to all our spectators: be mindful of blaster fire. Safa Toma Speedway is not liable for any injury, death, or disintegration. Thank you.”

He absentmindedly rolls his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Hmm, he thinks, that’d be a convenient cover if the timing is right. Maybe I can double the bounty after all.

Steadily, he follows their movements with his scope until they reach the suite. The two men plop down on a luxurious looking sofa and turn on a large screened TV, where they’re able to watch several sporting events at once. The client pulls out a seat next to the window for the younger woman and Crosshair tenses in preparation, recognizing that this placement is surely intentional. She must be the target.

She sits and places who Crosshair assumes is her daughter on the ground. The child toddles towards the window, pressing her small, chubby hands against the glass, looking down at the speedway with wide, innocent eyes.

He exhales a stuttered breath and closes his eyes.

The kid will be fine, he reassures himself. The family’s loaded anyway.

When he peers through the scope again, he sees the client approach the child, kneeling down to meet her eye level. He places a hand on her shoulder and gestures down toward the track with three fingers, wagging them three times.

Crosshair sucks in a breath.

The hand signal.

Maker. What in Malachor has he gotten himself into? The toothpick snaps between his gritted teeth as he focuses on the small child. She ohs and ahs, clapping clumsily as the speeders pass by. And as if she knew he was there, she turns towards Crosshair’s position, looking straight into his scope and smiles.

Finger hovering over the trigger, he contemplates the job. He’s so close to the easiest payout of his life, but he’s struggling to make the shot. His head begins to throb violently.

Just do the job.

The faces of every innocent child he’d ever executed flashes in his mind.

You must do what needs to be done.

“You know what makes us different from battle droids?”

Just fucking pull the trigger.

“We make our own decisions. Our own choices.”

You were born for this.

“And we have to live with them, too.”

The pain crescendos — an acute, stabbing — until he can’t take it anymore, releasing his rifle with a clatter as he grits his teeth and sits back, hands gripping his scalp and eyes squeezed shut.

He can’t do it.

He won’t.

—

It’s late by the time Crosshair arrives at the agreed-upon meeting spot. The sun has long set and the only respite from the bite of cold evening air is the occasional puff of putrid-smelling steam released from an underground pipe. He leans against the damp alley wall, eyes cast downward. Anger and frustration swirl but at who and about what? He’s not sure.

His brooding is interrupted by the splash of stomping feet approaching. The client is cloaked, a hood pulled over his head, but Crosshair doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s pissed.

“What the kriff happened back there?”

“You failed to mention the target was a child,” he growls, jabbing a finger into his chest.

The client, seeming to forget Crosshair’s physical advantage in this altercation, doubles down on his outrage.

“What happened to ‘spare me the details’?!” He shouts, slapping away the accusatory hand. “What part of non-Guild work do you not understand?”

The toothpick in his mouth snaps in frustration, knowing it’s his own fault for taking this job, so he only responds with a silent glare.

“I’m not a child murderer,” he seethes. He pulls the burner commlink from his belt pocket and throws it on the floor, crushing it under his heel.

Not anymore, he thinks.

The client rears back with his jaw hanging open. He points a condemnatory finger towards the sniper.

“You —“ he shrieks, “you’ll pay for this.”

“Enjoy the fucking credits. I hope it’s worth it,” he says darkly before spitting at his feet and disappearing into a mysterious speeder just arrived at the end of the alleyway.

The leather of his gloves squeak as he tightens a fist and inhales slowly through his nose. He exhales a steadying breath and closes his eyes.

At least he’s got the deposit.

The coarsely woven bag sits heavy in his other hand but lifts a weight from his shoulders. Enough credits for a few weeks. He stares blankly at it until his stomach protests, reminding him that he’s close to death. He lets his feet take him to his next destination.

His boots splash murky puddle water as he mindlessly travels to the closest source of food. The shop is crowded but the warm, comforting smell of stewed nuna and protatoes is too enticing to ignore on such a frigid night.

He waits in the crudely formed line outside. There’s no indoor seating, only a dark window where credits are exchanged for a piping hot bowl of stew passed anonymously by a clawed hand. A Rodian man shoulders his way past Crosshair and anger flashes hot in his chest before the hollowness in his weakened limbs reminds him of his vulnerability.

The air is moist by the time he gets his bowl, the hazy fog settling heavily and blurring his surroundings. He finds privacy in an unoccupied alley to enjoy his meal and absorb its warmth. After the first taste, his eyes widen before he tilts the bowl back and gulps the stew ravenously, nearly choking on the large chunks of meat.

He tosses his trash into a dumpster and begins the long trek back to his ship, docked outside the city’s limits. He hasn’t had enough credits for docking fees and had been making the long journey into town by foot each day.

He absentmindedly scans the fliers posted to a communications pole. It seems like a popular spot judging by the absence of any free space. Some locations are stacked thick with flimsi and everything is damp from the dewy droplets formed on the metal shaft. Many fliers are out of date — faded and torn, pasted over by newer announcements and ads.

Lost Tooka - REWARD. Last seen at central market.

Waste removal services. Discreet and quick. Comm for pricing.

Rhodian Underground LIVE at the Spotchka A GoGo

Midtown Inn — long term and nightly rates available

Crosshair digs into his utility belt, fumbling for the credits. Weighing the bag in one hand, he deliberates his lodging options as he calculates the cost of ship repairs and ammo and food. His body aches and the thought of sleeping on a real bed is tempting, to say the least.

He looks at the time, knowing he’s got another hour or so until he reaches the ship. He makes a spontaneous decision to stay in town, allowing himself to indulge for one night. It’s a short walk to the Midtown Inn, but by the time he gets there, the “no” has been illuminated on their vacancy sign.

He sighs. Just his luck.

He runs a hand over his head, his shoulders sagging in defeat, as he looks around for another option. The immediate surroundings look like a bust. Just closed businesses shuttered for the night.

The inn itself is tucked into the neighborhood, surrounded by a maze of small streets and alleys that eventually link up to the main road. He’s not sure anymore what the fastest route would be so he takes an educated guess and follows the small road past more closed shops below crumbling housing, using the tracking equipment in his vambrace as a guide.

He’s so focused on the little red dot on the radar that he nearly misses it.

The repeating pattern of one junk building after another is finally broken by a small pathway nestled between two closed restaurants. It’s remarkably void of trash. In fact, everything he can see of it from the road is uncharacteristically pleasant. He stares at it for a long time, looking back at his vambrace to determine if this could lead to the main road.

He approaches it skeptically, standing at the mouth of it and finding it to be very well maintained.

Cautiously, he follows the path, each side flanked by tall, solid stone walls that tower even above his significant height. They’re lined with lamps hung close to the ground where they cast a warm, otherworldly glow, keeping most of the way shrouded in darkness. The tranquility here is a sharp contrast to the grit of the rest of Ord Mantell City. He feels as if he’s entering a secret space and he’s careful to stay vigilant as he travels deeper down the path.

Finally, he reaches a crossroads. To the left, the path continues, turning sharply around a corner and out of sight. To his right stands a nondescript two story building, perhaps a house. On one side a large tree’s branches reach up and over its flat roof. And while the walls are painted a dark color, adding to the home’s mystery, there’s something welcoming about it. There aren’t many windows, but the lights are on in most of them, the curtains all drawn shut. Barely visible, painted in a hue just one tint lighter than the walls, is a small sign reading “House of Desire - walk ins welcome” in aurebesh.

Ah.

He thinks again about the credits in his pocket. Doesn’t he deserve one night of relief? He could certainly use it.

Reluctantly, he approaches the door and stands at the entrance. The cylindrical eye of a TT-8L gatekeeper droid extends abruptly from the peephole, focusing on Crosshair’s face before quickly retreating with a slam. The door slides open.

The entryway opens directly into a comfortable living room with a plush sofa set behind a low, circular holo table. A set of stairs runs parallel against the back wall where he sees two sets of legs disappearing up to the second floor. An older pantoran woman stands regally at the center of it all, her hands clasped low in front of her body.

“Welcome to the House of Desire. How can I help you?” She asks, motioning for him to take a seat.

Crosshair reluctantly approaches the sofa, carefully unholstering his rifle so he can sit comfortably. The woman seems entirely unbothered by his armored appearance and weapon as she takes a seat across from him.

“Can I offer you anything to drink? Perhaps an herbal tea?”

He simply nods and she immediately comms someone to bring them a pot.

“It’s your first time here, I gather,” she says with a smile, tapping the table’s control panel and projecting a menu of options. “Let’s start with some questions,” she suggests.

Crosshair visibly stiffens and she smiles knowingly, “Don’t worry, we understand the…sensitive nature of our business. There's no need to divulge your full identity here, only what’s necessary to ensure the safety of our girls.”

He hums in acknowledgement as she asks him for a name, to which he declines, instead opting for an identification number — ironic choice for a clone who’d only ever wanted to be recognized as a person, but different times and all that.

She conducts a full health screening, including a body scan for signs of contagious infections and disease. Finding him healthy, she takes note in his registration file as she explains the rules of conduct within the House. He agrees, signing his newly issued identification number.

“Alright, that about does it,” she says, navigating the holotable program to a roster of the House’s available girls (although the word “girls” is a fairly restrictive industry term it seems, as the catalog features people of all life forms and genders). He peruses a catalog of full body, three dimensional holos, each one including detailed information about their specialties, likes, and dislikes.

The options feel endless and he swipes through each one almost mindlessly, trying to narrow down his criteria. It seems like there’s something for everyone here.

He’s on the verge of making a random selection until one catches his eye. He’s not sure exactly what draws him to you specifically, as many of the girls are what he’d consider pretty — he wouldn’t have a hard time getting in the mood with many of them, truthfully. But there’s something about your entry that makes him stop and piques his interest more than the others.

He silently glances at the madame and she smiles, making note of his selection in his file and sending a message to you.

“Oh, you’ll like her,” she says, pulling a small card from the holo table. She hands it to him before inviting him to follow her up the stairs.

“This is your membership chit. Bring it whenever you visit,” she explains, “you can also plug it into your data pad to make appointments with or contact any girls you’ve had sessions with before.”

He pockets the chit as they walk up the stairs and down the hall to a door marked simply with the number 04.

She knocks gently and a voice answers from within, granting permission to enter. The door slides open to a dimly lit bedroom awash in the dreamy, soothing glow of candlelight. Taking a tentative step inside, he immediately feels his tense shoulders relax as he breathes in the light scent of jogan-blossoms and Felucian jasmine. The gentle plucking of strings, the song more atmospheric than melodic, plays quietly in the background.

“Enjoy your visit.”

Crosshair whips his head around, startled from his reverie by the madadme’s farewell. She shuts the door with a swish, leaving him suddenly feeling very self aware of how dirty his armor is.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” a voice calls from the adjoining refresher, “you can store your rifle and armor in the wardrobe. Unless you’d prefer to keep it on.”

Still hesitant, he finds the aforementioned wardrobe and shrugs off his weapon, next unclipping each piece of armor slowly. Once down to his bodysuit, he looks around the room feeling uncertain about his decision but ultimately resigned to it. He sits down on the sofa, hands clasped together and body hunched over, one leg bouncing anxiously in anticipation.

“Well hello there.”

He stills before finally lifting his gaze. Fuck. You’re even more beautiful in person. The holo doesn’t do you justice.

You walk towards him slowly, exaggerating the sway of your hips, each step shifting the hem of your deep red negligée in the most tantalizing way. This thing was designed specifically to send him to an early grave — he’s sure of it.

You stop in front of him, trying to suppress a smile, mirth dancing in your eyes. He realizes his jaw has been hanging open and he shuts it immediately, averting his eyes. Caught.

“May I?” You ask with a chuckle, motioning to the seat beside him. He continues to avoid your gaze but nods once.

Cautiously, you lay a hand on his bicep.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” you coo, “you can look. Isn’t that why we’re both here?”

He’s got a lot of shame and pride, you think to yourself when he doesn’t acknowledge you.

You smooth your hand up to his shoulder and down his back, feeling the defined muscle beneath your palms.

“Let’s get the boring stuff out of the way first,” you say, shifting to a more businesslike tone. He finally turns to look at you. “Lay down some ground rules and talk about what you want to do.”

You forge ahead. “I ask all my guests to wear a biosheath for the duration of our sessions.” You reach into a jar sitting on a side table, pulling out a foil packet and handing it to him. He accepts it with a silent nod and you smile, pleased that he seems unphased by this request. A good sign.

“Additionally — and I’ll understand if you’d like to find another girl — I will not kiss my guests on the mouth.”

Crosshair raises a brow, surprised by this rule, but nods in agreement. You sigh with relief.

“At any time, you and I are able to renegotiate any activity if either of us begins to feel uncomfortable.

I like to use a color system. Red means stop. Yellow for proceed with caution. And green for go. Does that work for you?”

Another nod.

You laugh. “Talkative I see.”

He shoots you a withering look and you laugh harder.

You move to stand in front of him, using a gentle hand to push him back against the seat.

“Relax,” you say lowly as you swing a leg over his lap to straddle him, running your palms up his firm chest. “Is this okay?”

You grind your hips down against his experimentally, feeling him grow hard beneath his pants. His breath hitches and you take this moment to firmly place his hands on your waist.

“Is that a yes?” You ask, only to be met with obstinance and his silent, piercing gaze. You tsk, “I need to know you want this.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, “why else would I be here?”

What a brat.

“People come here for all kinds of reasons,” you explain, soothing your hands over his shoulders. “Some people come to watch or be watched,” you grind down again, nipping at his ear, “some people just want me to hold their hand.”

“Now,” you whisper, “what about you? What do you want?” You ask, letting your breath fan against his neck. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat attempting to adjust himself, but there’s no hiding how turned on he is beneath the skin tight bodysuit.

Truthfully, he hadn’t thought this far. The entire journey had been fairly spontaneous and he didn’t think he’d have, well, options. He’s never had options before. Not any so straightforwardly given anyway.

You crawl off of his lap, dancing your fingers along his shoulders as you circle the sofa to drape your arms around him from behind. Your hands explore his upper body and you feel his muscles begin to relax when you massage his neck.

“I…want to watch you,” he says finally. “And then I want to fuck you until you scream.”

You hum in agreement. “That sounds like a good plan. You’re so tense,” you muse, digging your thumb into a particularly large knot. He groans involuntarily — something between pleasure and pain.

“How about a massage first? Then you can watch me play with myself.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, palming himself over his pants. You smile impishly.

“I’m gonna take that as an enthusiastic ‘yes’,” you tease, leading him to the bed and slipping your fingers below the hem of his top. He pulls it over his head, and you nearly gasp. Brown skin pulled taut over some…significant muscle development has your eyes bulging. You thought his body suit was leaving nothing to the imagination but apparently there was much more to see.

Maker, you think to yourself.

It’s now his turn to smirk, making you look away embarrassed, caught off guard.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he teases, “you can look. Isn’t that why we’re both here?”

You roll your eyes. “Get on the bed.”

He doesn’t respond, but he smirks at you knowingly as he lies face-down.

“So tell me,” you start, massaging the scented oil over a particularly nasty scar across his shoulder blade, “what do you do for work? I’m guessing you’re a bounty hunter.”

“…something like that,” he answers evasively. You hum thoughtfully, finally deciding to cater to his preference for silence as you work over his tired muscles.

He sighs and you smile to yourself, pleased to be able to offer this man some relief. You crawl onto the bed, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle his back as you continue.

Your fingers work into a tattoo of a skull over the number 99 written in aurebesh and you wonder about its meaning knowing you shouldn’t push him too much. The man is like a stray, injured tooka — skittish and deeply suspicious but desperately in need of affection and attention.

“What? No more inane questions?”

You chuckle - Maker this man is infuriating. “Tons. But I won’t pry. You’ll tell me everything I want to know in your own time.”

He scoffs, “Awfully confident, aren’t we?”

You only smile and hum in response as you dig your fingers into a particularly tense knot of muscle. He hisses, turning his head in an attempt to scowl at you. You laugh.

It’s not everyday you’re actually attracted to a guest, but there’s definitely a level of sexual chemistry here that’s unusual for your experience. His kriffing back of all things is getting you hot and bothered. Without even realizing it, you begin to grind yourself down on his ass, your breath growing heavy as you mewl softly.

Crosshair can feel you becoming needy and it makes him feel ready to burst. He’s been rock hard since you’ve entered the room and he knows that if he so much as ruts into the mattress he’ll come in his pants like some shiny fresh from Kamino.

He growls, finally flipping you over and caging you in between his arms.

“I said I wanted to watch,” he breathes, pupils blown wide with lust. You swallow and nod, almost paralyzed by his hungry gaze, before he releases you.

He pulls up a chair and takes a seat, lounging with his legs spread wide and one hand cupping his bulge. Grabbing the hem of your negligée, you begin to pull it off but he stops you suddenly.

“Leave it on.”

He looks like a king. The way one arm drapes casually over the seat’s back. The way his eyes devour you. Everything about him thrills you, shooting electricity down your spine. It’s been ages since you’ve felt this nervous energy performing for a guest.

You make a show of it. Biting your lip and massaging your breasts. You tweak a nipple and mewl in pleasure as your chest begins to heave with heavy breaths.

“Fuck, kitten, yes” he groans, using every ounce of self control not to stroke himself, “play with your pretty pussy. Show me what you like.”

Obediently, you sit back against the pillows, letting your legs fall open to put yourself on display. You pull your soaking panties to the side and run your fingers through your glistening folds to gather the wetness. Without breaking eye contact, you bring them to your lips and dart your tongue out to lick them before sucking with an obscene moan.

Crosshair grinds his teeth together so hard they nearly break. He doesn’t even know what to focus on anymore. The outline of your pebbled nipples through the silky fabric? Your lips wrapped deliciously around your fingers? The other hand rubbing circles over your clit?

“Fuck your fingers,” he demands, voice painfully strained. You obey, releasing your fingers with a pop before plunging them into your cunt. “Such a fucking good girl,” he praises.

You can’t help but to cry out in frustration as you try to reach that impossible place within you, working both hands feverishly to chase your high.

“That’s right, kitten, is that how you like it? Add another finger for me,” he grits.

You comply, panting heavily, your eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Before you know it you hear the violent clattering of the chair being upturned. You feel his hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking your hand away. Your cry of frustration quickly morphs into one of pleasure as he plunges two fingers into your tight hole, scissoring them until you snap, coming with a scream as his fingers fuck your through your high.

By the time you’re able to see him again through heavy lids and the aftershocks of your orgasm have subsided, he’s desperately rolling the biosheath down his thick cock.

“Hands and knees,” he rasps, barely in control of his desire.

You scramble to obey, arching your back deliciously and presenting yourself to him with a wiggle of your ass. He kneads your cheeks, reverently admiring the way his fingers sink into the plush meat there.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes. Fuck me,” you respond breathlessly.

Grabbing you firmly by the hips, he finally guides himself into your waiting heat and, finding no resistance, sheathes himself to the hilt in one stroke.

You both groan in unison as he stretches you open for the first time.

He hunches over you, fondling your breasts. “I won’t be gentle,” he whispers into your ear. He feels your walls clench around him as he ruts into you.

“Good,” you breathe.

Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him.

Raising himself back up, he grips your hips and begins to pound into you mercilessly, taking out years of pent up frustration as his fingers dig deep into your flesh. For the first time in a long time, he feels in control, using you for his own pleasure.

“You’re such a fucking good girl. Listen so well. Letting me destroy this tight cunt,” he growls.

You can do nothing but grip the sheets as he pistons his hips into you, the bed frame slamming into the wall with each thrust. You’re sure the other girls can hear it. The lewd squelching. The slap of his hips against your ass. Your pathetic moans. Apparently this man is silent except during sex.

“Yes. I’ll do anything you ask, sir. Make me feel so good,” you mewl. His rhythm begins to falter as he reaches his high, finally plunging himself deeply as he comes undone. His release triggers your own and you scream, your walls clamping down on his cock, milking him until he’s spent.

Panting, he pulls out, carefully removing the biosheath and disposing of it, only to collapse back onto the mattress when he returns.

“Maker,” you breathe with a hand resting on your sweaty forehead, “that was —that was…“ you laugh in disbelief as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn’t respond so you enjoy a moment to come down from your high.

The candlelight is beginning to dim as some candles flicker out. The music has long since reached its last track. The two of you lay in contented silence for some time as you softly caress his bare skin, walking your fingers up his arms and smoothing your hand down his back in soothing motions.

You get an inkling when you feel his pliant body first becoming tense beneath your touch.

Before you know it, he’s trembling, his shoulders shaking more and more violently as he begins to sob. It starts as silently but soon devolves into wretched cries, his voice rough with pain. You gather him into your arms, letting him hide his face in your neck as you cradle him, gently rocking your body until you both fall asleep.

—

By the time your alarm chirps and the sun begins to stream in through the curtains, he’s gone. You wake up to an empty bed and a stack of credits on the nightstand.

You lay back down, clasping your hands behind your head and sigh contentedly.

You wonder if you’ll ever see him again.

—

A/N: 🫠 uh i Guess i hope you enjoyed?

#tbb #the bad batch #crosshair x reader #crosshair x fem!reader #tbb crosshair x reader #atonement #crosshair x f!reader #crosshair smut

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silversweetpea · 2 years

Text

Show and Tell

Word Count: 1326

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: You show matt your new tattoo and there are some unexpected side effects.

Warnings: literally nothing I just craved fluff lmao

Author’s Note: This is probably one of the more self indulgent fics i’ve ever written because the idea of getting tattoos for people is something I actually do? I currently have four that are just straight up tattoos of handwriting and doodles from people I love with plans to get 3 more in that style.

❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿ ❀✿❀✿

It had never been a secret in your relationship with Matt that you loved tattoos. You'd been dotted with designs longer than you'd known the lawyer and you had never shied away from the conversation that came about from each one. One of the first things that you had done when you started dating was guide his fingers around the shapes of different tattoos and explain the stories that they represented, or told him what the handwriting was referencing. Recently, you had wondered if he knew your scrapbook better than you with the way that he so mindlessly traced shapes as you lay together.

All of which was why his slightly gob smacked expression was nothing short of endearing.

"You got a tattoo for me?" His voice is quiet in the apartment, disbelieving as if Matt expected you to break into laughter at any moment. There's a small part of you that feels bad for keeping it as a surprise but you knew that if you told the people in your life you were getting tattoos before you did they often tried to pitch in their opinions. You still shudder thinking of the argument you had gotten into with your best friend about wanting her actual handwriting and not some calligraphy font when she started trying to perfect the loops of her perpetually crooked cursive J. You hadn't wanted to fight with him, or to listen to Matt tell you that it was a bad idea. You had just wanted to memorialize this chapter of your life with him.

"Yeah, of course I did. I love you," You never tired of saying it, you weren't sure you ever could when you could see the way that his face changed. Matt wasn't the most chatty of partners, often reserved until given a reason not to be but you didn't mind. Not when you could read the micro expressions of his face like an open book. There was something about the way that he would breathe in, deep and slow, like he was smelling for rain, and his tilted grin would make his features look so much softer. He looked like all the horrible things you knew knocked at the door of his mind had been turned away for a moment, or maybe that was just you projecting how he made you feel when he said it back.

"What did you get?" Matt asked and you watched the way his fingers twitched in his lap. You didn't laugh, afraid to discourage his interest when all you really wanted was to memorize the way he leaned in towards you but didn't touch. Not when you hadn't invited him to.

"Oh, you know, something tasteful." You teased. "A nice watercolor of your ass surrounded by quotes off of practice bar exams."

"(Y/n)," Matt laughed, shattering any attempt at sounding annoyed with you.

"Here, give me your hand," He does and you pause just long enough to give it a gentle of squeeze before guiding it to your forearm. Yur heart beats fast in your chest, a thousand hummingbirds desperate to get out as you think about his reaction. You don't regret the design. Your ink is for you, but you can't deny how vulnerable you feel in these moments just before you explain them.

"Is it a flower?" You can't stop grinning as he speaks, low and contemplative as you finish guiding him over the first flower and move to the next. It had taken ages for your artist to get the right shade of red to stick to the delicate petals and you were in no hurry to move him along the finished piece.

"It's several technically, but they're all the same flower. I got three of them because it's been three years," Part of you wants to leave it at the flowers and keep the quote beneath it to yourself. You won't, you can't trust that Foggy or Karen won't ask about it and then you'll have to explain that you were worried it was too sentimental even for you, but watching him try to decode what flower it is made it hard.

"Well it's not a sunflower," You do laugh this time, but you don't feel bad because you're not the only one.

"It's a red spider lily," The words are slow and your mouth feels dry as you try to organize your thoughts. "It's also known as the Devils crown on occasion and also simultaneously a flower of the heavens. I thought it was fitting for you."

There's a careful stillness for just a moment in his form, fingers frozen on your arm as you push forwards with your explanation.

'It's not the only reason I got it though, just a fun little coincidence. I mostly got it because it's used to mark a time to celebration in some cultures, some Buddhist records even claim that they fall from the sky like snow." You're sure that he's following you now, even as he's silent. Matt was good about letting you ramble when you were nervous to calm yourself down. You can't bring yourself to look anywhere but him when you speak, too afraid to miss something in his expression and equally as afraid of not being heard in all your sentimental glory.

"I would have thought you would go for mistletoe," he says after a minute, voice not quite hesitant but something just to the left of it. You can still picture him now, barely bundled up against the cold weather, snow falling to land in his hair and melting on his hands. You must have sounded like a wreck, caught on a bad night, but he just sat there with you and listened while you watched them light the Rockefeller tree.

"I like the complicated ones, what can I say?" The smile returns and he does that deep breath again. You can't read his mind but sometimes you wish you could just to make sure he picked up on everything you weren't saying. That you liked him not in spite of his multitudes but because of them, that you weren't going anywhere just because things got hard or dangerous, that for all his self hatred and anger you can only look at him and see someone bursting at the seam with virtues. your boyfriend says nothing though, lost in his own thoughts as you continue with your presentation.

"This part isn't going to be nearly as interesting for you, sorry, but I still want you to know it's here." Matt's brow furrows, lips opened ever so slightly as you guide him back and forth across the same patch of skin. "When we first met you gave me your business card. It's not really your handwriting but I didn't know how to get that from you without raising suspicions so I just had them tattoo the braille instead. It's probably better that way though, more you."

"You put my name underneath a flower called 'Devil's Crown'?"

"No, I put 'if you need help' underneath a flower of the heavens. You may not think much of yourself Matt, but I do. I always have." The color comes back slowly and then all at once, from sheet white to a beautiful shade of pink. You bring the hand not guiding him along the words to interlock your fingers with his.

The brunette in front of you has been so quiet for so long that the anxiety has started to creep back in. The only thing that kept you from beginning to loose yourself within it is that his fingers are still tracing the flowers and words on your arm, your hand warm in his.

"What are you thinking?" You ask finally, despite the fear of what he might say. Matt opens his mouth instantly, for once not thinking about the words coming out of his mouth.

"I think when this is is over I want to get married."

#matt murdock x gender neutral reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagines #matt murdock imagine #Matt Murdock fluff

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1863-project-art · 2 years

Photo

[Image ID: Emmet from Pokemon Black and White is standing in front of a Pennsylvania Railroad GG1 electric locomotive, numbered 4935. He is beaming with delight and posing the way Speed Racer does in the opening to the show. End image ID.]

This is one of the most self-indulgent things I’ve drawn in a while.

The Pennsylvania Railroad’s famed GG1 electric locomotives were in service from the mid-1930s well until the early 1980s. They survived the merger into Penn Central, and later on went to work for Amtrak and New Jersey Transit. They were some of the most solid electric locomotives ever made, and their Art Deco streamlining designed by Raymond Loewy made them beautiful, to boot. When I was a little girl of about four or so, I went to Strasburg, Pennsylvania, and there I met the prototype GG1, Old Rivets, the only one without the completely smooth welded body, hence her name. Rivets has been a special favorite of mine ever since.

The GG1 I drew Emmet with here also resides at the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania alongside Old Rivets; this one is nicknamed Blackjack because her number, 4935, adds up to 21. I went with the GG1 for this art because of Emmet’s tendency to gravitate towards Electric-types to a degree; he’s best known for his Eelektross and his Cross Poison Galvantula (that could only learn that move in Gen 5 via breeding, hence the army of Joltiks he’s often depicted with). GG1s used to run out of Penn Station, as well, so they have quite the history in NYC - you’d be able to see them resting in Sunnyside Yard in Queens when they weren’t at work.

Drawn for day six of @submas-autistic-joy, an event all about allowing Ingo and Emmet to be…well, themselves, without angst or ableism. For more on the event specifically, you can check the post out here!

#artists on Tumblr #Pokemon #Submas #Submas Autistic Joy 2022 #PRR GG1

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andlatitude · 1 year

Note

Hey! I've been wanting to do this for awhile, but I could never figure out how to say what I wanted to. I've come to the conclusion that I probably never will, fully, so I'm gonna take a stab at it— it's long, please bear with me.

I don't usually follow blogs like yours; most of the art you post is of OCs or fandoms I'm not a part of and I generally find it hard to be invested in original non-concept art (I really enjoy world-building concepts, but individual characters are harder for me). OC art tends to be snippets, bits and pieces; the random points of a developing character which makes them difficult for me to connect with even when I like the concept or design because they are often smatterings on a page that maybe even the artist doesn't fully comprehend yet.

Your art always connects.

Something about your way with expressions and body movement weaves so much intent into your work; every character conveys so much emotion and personality that I'm immediately drawn in. I can't accurately describe with words how much your art moves me, I don't know how. It sounds so silly, but the best I've come up with is that your characters look really People. They look alive in a way that I haven't quite experienced in art since the 101 Dalmatians era of Disney sketch animation, where the linework always made it feel like the characters were moving even when they were standing still; like they could breathe.

I look at your artwork and I feel the characters in my chest. You did a piece not long ago of two of your OCs sharing a microphone and I felt the awe; that feeling of the world melting away except the other person onstage— that feeling like maybe they are singing the song just for you.

Your art captures the casual intimacy of people just being; scenes like painting nails and other normal, quiet moments that only show when someone feels safe, comfortable. Your work makes 'nothing' moments have weight; there is an artist I discovered recently, Francine Van Hove, who specializes in these types of scenes and some of your work reminds me of hers.

Of all your works though, my favorite is the truth-or-dare comic and it's sequel. The smug satisfaction of calling a bluff, the casual scoff of dismissal of the dare, the confusion then realization, the weight of anticipation— the build-up, the inevitable conclusion. Whenever I see you pop on my Dash I go look through your recent work then hunt through your OC tag for those comics. It doesn't matter how many times I see them, I get hit with the same level of emotion every time.

Whenever I see your work it speaks to me; it makes me think that this is what art is supposed to feel like. I felt like you should know.

God help me if you ever draw a character from one of my favorite shows.

Hopefully this gets through okay; I've been on Tumblr since like 2012 and I still don't really trust the Ask system not to toss messages into the void haha. I hope this message finds you well and that you have a great day.

-Milli :)

Hello!! I really hope it’s okay that I post this. I want to keep it. This means a lot to me, I think it’s way more praise than I feel like I deserve as someone who just draws silly self indulgent stuff for fun. However over the years, the most important thing to me with those drawings has always been conveying emotion. For me it all comes from a place of wanting to express myself and how I feel rather than wanting to “be good at art”.

A message like this telling me that everything I’ve been pouring into my stuff all these years has come across to someone I’ve never met is huge, and incredible, and I don’t even know what to say. I’m really passionate about having that “life” in what I draw, it is what drives me to keep creating, and doing so is such a huge part of who I am. Thank you so much for noticing and for telling me this and for caring about it.

I think those little human moments are the most beautiful, I’m glad I could begin to do a few of them justice. Stuff I make speaking to someone else in any way is the biggest compliment I can get.

Thank you again, I hope your day is wonderful!

#ask #middletone

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potionpeddlerpatchy · 11 months

Note

Patchy! My darling, my sweet, my beloved, hello! :3

I’ve just seen your ask and I am working on responding rn! It is so sweet of u to wanna know more of my selfships; to encourage and enable me >:3.

While I’m working on my reply, I thought I would indulge you too!

So please, tell me anything you’d like about one or multiple self ships you have my dear~. I am listening diligently 🫶🏾.

And if u needed specific questions to get your thoughts started:

Would your fave(s) of choice be the type that enjoys matching or coordinated outfits with you?

What do you think their thoughts are when they hear your laugh?

What part of you do they tend to look at most?

How do they like to hold your hand? Clasping hands? Interlocking fingers? Linking pinkies? One of you grabbing the other’s thumb? Or maybe they like when you take a hold of their arm?

How do you think you would design/decorate a house with your fave(s)?

I KISS U :D 💋💋💋

🫂🫶🏾💖

I do need questions cause I am so dumb that I can't ever think of self-ship stuffs for myself, it's almost embarrassing😑

Alright, let's break out the love of my life Sero for this one; cause I can totally answer these questions no problem with him 😋

We do like coordinating outfits together, though we only tend to do this when we planned to go out somewhere; so if we're going out for in impromptu ice cream date or going grocery shopping we won't match. And we tend to coordinate rather than match, so we'd look similar most of the time, but on the odd occasion, we'll wear the same print and take cute pictures! He's also got great style, I am so blessed

And Sero ADORES my laughter and all the different kinds there are. Like his heart melts at my little giggles, or when I chuckle silently but my body shaking betrays me. But he cannot help but feel triumphant and laugh loudly along with me when I full-on cackle at something. It doesn't really suit me and that's why he loves it the most.

I tend to focus on Sero's hands the most, for which he calls me a perv 😒, but in reality he's the perv because he stares at my lips all the time. Almost as if he's mesmerized by them. When I'm talking, his eyes are just glued to them. I tease him a lot over it, asking if he wants a kiss, which of course he does. He just thinks they're a nice shape and lead to a pretty smile 😊

I prefer holding arms, just something a little more intimate with that. But that being said, oftentimes I find myself linking pinkies with Sero. Just something small so we can stay connected but not have to deal with sweaty hands all the time, which I am not a fan of. Though if we're eating out at a restaurant, we'll entwine our hands at the table. Yes it may cause issues with eating, but its worth it 💛

And we all know that Sero has a very zen sense of style and decor! I prefer cozy, so we do our best to incorporate both into our living spaces. Though our offices are COMPLETELY different, as is his sort of TV/Gaming room. But again, they're our own little spaces. Together it's a mix of both!

And of course, as we all know cause I wrote it, we but we have a beautiful rock/zen garden he made

#*sigh* I just love him so much #we're so happily married I tell you THAT #🔮.the peddler answers #🔮.fellow witch twyla

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prixoruno · 11 months

Text

ok so i may or may not have made a kinsona a few days ago but felt cringe & free enough to post here finally (this is the most self indulgent sona i’ve ever made, they’re cringe as FUCK and are very much a gary sue so uhm uh uhh fuck off cringe culture believers)) im sorry if the ref sucks i like being really specific about my ocs and design’s refs also it’s like almost midnight and im to lazy to change anything on it rn

#ori's doodles #kinsona #dave and bambi #also they may or may not have a crush on a silly 9 foot fella thats mentioned like one time in this ref sheet grins #the moment aadsta said it's alright if oc x recurser content is made was the moment my neurons fucking clicked together #it gets more cringe from here #i'll add this to the pinned post once i make a ref of my fursona

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jujumin-translates · 2 years

Text

Event | Literary Impasse | Chapter 9

*Contains spoilers for Act 12 - eternal moment*

Chikage: …So, this work is based on your experience of falling into a slump, huh?

Tsuzuru: Something like that.

Citron: How do you read this?

Sakuya: Literary Impas-say? (1)

Tsuzuru: “Im-pass”. Y’know, like a narrow path or a difficult problem.

Tsuzuru: I made a lot of changes to the script this time, but I decided I wanted to perform it as a story so I won’t forget what I actually felt as a writer now.

Tsuzuru: I know this is something really self indulgent… Especially when I’m the lead of this, so I’m sorry.

Tsuzuru: And for “Clockwork” and “RATF” and…

Itaru: And as I’ve said before, I think it’s an extra OP stat for a writer to be able to take what happens in their life and turn it into some kind of creative work.

Sakuya: Yeah, I love “RATF”!

Itaru: Yeah, I getcha. I really like the relationship between Kubota and Miyagi. (2)

Citron: And I love “The Luminous Circus”!

Itaru: I love “IMMORTAL CROW” too. Def got a fave from that one.

Chikage: “The Clockwork Heartbeat” is mine. It was the first Spring Troupe play I saw.

Chikage: Regardless of its orgin, it left a genuine impression on me. I’ve rewatched it on DVD since then.

Sakuya: What about you, Masumi-kun?

Masumi: None in particular.

Masumi: …But if I had to pick then, “Sympathy for the Angel”, I guess. No reason why.

Itaru: Huh, that’s surprising.

Citron: I know why! It must be because it’s a love story.

Chikage: That’s a good thought. I do like how Winter Troupe is a little sad overall.

Sakuya: I always cry at that one. And I really sobbed over “Yin Yang Midnight”!

Director: Yeah, yeah, I get that!

Citron: And “+3Ghosts!” was really touching!

Tsuzuru: …You guys, that’s too much.

Itaru: Obviously. We’re all huge Mr. Tsuzuru Minagi geeks.

Tsuzuru: You’re embarrassing me, but thank you.

Chikage: That reminds me, your complexion isn’t deathly pale this time. You usually look like a zombie after you finish a script.

Tsuzuru: Actually, it’s an extension of writing the script for Otomiya-san. Masumi’s been the designated time keeper for the all-nighter ban…

Masumi: The Director told me to watch your health so you wouldn’t get sick.

Director: Sorry. It’s just, ever since RomiJuli started on a time crunch, it’s become your style to push yourself too hard, Tsuzuru-kun…

Tsuzuru: Well, I used to find it too hard to concentrate unless I was completely cornered with a fire under my ass.

Tsuzuru: But Otomiya-san told me that if I want to be a professional for a long time, I’d need to make some changes to that.

Tsuzuru: I’ll be getting older in the future too, after all!

Itaru: Tsuzuru’s becoming an adult…

Chikage: That’s the most growth I’ve seen from him in a while…

Citron: Growing up in the name of old age…

Tsuzuru: Don’t put it like that!

Tsuzuru: Anyway, I’m also being more conscious of my health in the future so I don’t have to worry everyone else about it.

Director: It sounds like you’re already ready to live as a professional writer.

Tsuzuru: Yeah.

Director: Well, alright then, since Tsuzuru-kun’s script is ready to go, we’ll start practicing hard tomorrow until the show!

Sakuya: Yeah!

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Tsuzuru: Phew…

Tsuzuru: (I’m glad that the script finished smoothly and that everyone from Spring Troupe loved it.)

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Itaru: “And as I’ve said before, I think it’s an extra OP stat for a writer to be able to take what happens in their life and turn it into some kind of creative work.”

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Tsuzuru: (I should probably tell Tooru something like that too.)

Tsuzuru: …

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Luke: “Thank you for writing that ending for both you, and me back then.”

Luke: “Because you’re such a kind person, I’m sure that the stories you write will be just as kind as you.”

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Tsuzuru: (…Yeah. I’m sure they will be, Luke. I want to write kind stories for someone else’s sake.)

Tsuzuru: …

Tsuzuru: (I’m sure that kind of daydreaming ability is necessary for me to become a writer.)

Tsuzuru: …Zzz, zzz.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Itaru: Japanese clothes certainly take some getting used to.

Tsuzuru: At first it felt like it was overkill… But once Azami did such a good job with the hair and makeup, it seems much better.

Citron: At first it felt like 864! (3)

Masumi: 753.

Chikage: The numbers are off by one.

Sakuya: I really like the glasses Yuki-kun and Azami-kun decided on.

Chikage: The overall atmosphere is much different this time around.

Sakuya: Everyone looks super cool!

Tsuzuru: …Hey, Sakuya.

Sakuya: What’s up?

Tsuzuru: During rehearsal this time, and even before then… From the very beginning actually now that I think about it, thank you for always being the first to praise my scripts.

Sakuya: You don’t have to thank me! I just really love your stories, so I’m always impressed with your scripts…!

Tsuzuru: Still, writers are always anxious. I feel so relieved when I hear honest affirmations about my work coming from someone like you, Sakuya.

Tsuzuru: Besides, you’ve always been giving me hints since RomiJuli. Same goes for CROW, and this time with Tooru.

Tsuzuru: And above all that, it’s just plain fun to write with you in mind. This time, Tomohisa was just as fun to write for because his lines came out so naturally.

Tsuzuru: It’s a role that’s unlike anything you’ve had before, but that’s why I think you’ll rise to the challenge and give it your all.

Sakuya: Yeah. I really felt your trust in me and I’m really happy as an actor that you wrote Tomohisa as my role.

Tsuzuru: Of course I trust you. I want you to support me as co-lead. As long as you’re with me, I’ll probably be fine.

Sakuya: …Yeah!

Masumi: It’s almost showtime.

Citron: Even now Masumi is being a gatekeeper!

Tsuzuru: I’m glad. But it’s “timekeeper.”

Itaru: How about a few words from our lead.

Tsuzuru: Umm, I almost ruined myself as a writer during the slump that led me to this play, but…

Tsuzuru: The other day, when everyone was complimenting me on all my works--.

Tsuzuru: I was once again proud of the works I’ve written and the characters I’ve created, and I don’t want to ever forget that.

Tsuzuru: I know this might sound like self-flattery, or like I’m a doting parent, but I really love each and every one of the characters and stories I’ve created.

Tsuzuru: It’s not just because I wrote them, but also because everyone played their roles and breathed life into them.

Tsuzuru: I really like each of the characters in this show this time.

Tsuzuru: I think everyone standing right here in front of me in their costumes is so amazing…

Tsuzuru: I’m so happy to have all the actors I admire playing these roles. Once again, thank you, guys.

Tsuzuru: Let’s make this show another successful one and make it one of the stories we all remember and cherish.

Sakuya: Yeah!

Citron: Of course!

[ ⇠ Previous Part ] • [ Next Part ⇢ ]

• • •

T/N:

(1) Sakuya misread “隘路” (pronounced “airo”) as “meiro”. He’s not flubbing the word in the same way Citron would, so I changed “impasse” to be spelt out as “impas-say” to show phonetically like he’s mispronouncing the word by putting too much emphasis on the “e”. Tsuzuru then corrects him with “im-pass” spelt out phonetically.

(2) Tsuzuru and Tasuku’s characters from “Run around the field.”

(3) Had no clue how to put this into English smoothly, but 753 (Shichi-go-san) is a Japanese festival that celebrates the growth of kids ages 7, 5, and 3. Typically the children are dressed up in kimonos, dresses, or suits, hence why Citron tried to say it.

#a3!#a3! translation #〚 event #sakuya sakuma #tsuzuru minagi #citron #chikage utsuki #masumi usui #itaru chigasaki #// oh i’m having emotions now

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benjaminthewolf · 2 years

Text

Sweet, Evil Dreams (Vore Story)

Welp.

I did it.

I’ve finally reached the end of my self-indulgent list of vore story ideas to get to someday.

The experience I had writing this was quite literally the most downright insane experience I have ever had writing anything ever. And as a result of that, a little while after this story releases, I will be releasing as a complementary story, the, as it is labeled in google docs, “Shitpost edition” of this same piece.

****

Nights in the Skylander Academy dorms were barely any different from each date to the next. The area was extremely well protected not only by a complex web of security cameras and alert systems, but also by constantly patrolling specially trained security guards, ever at the ready to strike upon any unforeseen intruder should the situation arise. As a result, if one were predisposed to launch an attack on any amount of the slumbering residents within, the most promising method of doing so would seem to be by pouncing upon them internally, rather than externally. Or, stated another way, deep within their dreams.

Thus, on this particular, otherwise unassuming night, a dream-bound battle of victims seemingly chosen by random promptly appeared inside the other reality, and a sequence of events destined to be remembered only by one at last commenced upon a call.

“Tread Head!” a voice called to the relatively unknown tech trap team core whom was rather unfortunately overshadowed by his elemental counterpart of Chopper back when the series was in its prime. The lightly shifting body of the Skylander told the voice on the outside that the little guy was conscious, but still needed to be coaxed a little more in order to open his eyes.

“Hey come on, wake up! Something’s very wrong here!”

Now that the odd, murmuring tech core was considerably more aware, he was able to subconsciously pair the voice he was hearing to that of a face. He definitely recognized it. It wasn’t something he could’ve known on the spot, but upon flickering open his big light blue eyes, he finally figured it out.

“Wham-Shell?” he sputtered out with a gasp as he swiftly sat up.

****

Now, taking the moment to interject, I must of course preface that the following duo of characters, as well as the actions that they are about to take, were not made by conscious decision in any stretch of the imagination. If the little introductory section at the start didn’t already tip you off, this story is going to be very hard to write. Not because of length, nor any technical roadblocks. No. In reality, this entire scene was chosen by my subconscious brain, and my subconscious brain alone, to play out amongst my slumber well over a year ago. There is a very good reason I saved this story for last on my list of self-indulgent ideas to get to. It is because the concept was not, in truth, made by me. I have of course, invented details here and there and added on description in order to make the narrative flow better. But the fact of the matter is that the only reason I am sitting here now writing this story is because my concept was practically forced upon my being using the will of the dream. Had that dream not happened, this entire concept would be entirely nil.

I do indeed have my thoughts on why my brain might have chosen these two characters in particular. I have a soft spot for Tread Head, if only for how underappreciated he is in the Skylander community. Wham-Shell, though he was never on my list of favorites, not by a long shot, was still held in somewhat high regard if only because he is indeed a part of a character group so near and dear to my heart, that of course being the Skylanders as a whole. I am unfortunately not able to make any discernible connection between the two of them other than that they are of the same fighting group. That being said, if you are one of those readers that almost immediately looks up a character’s design upon the author not providing significant description right away, then congratulations. You might have already figured it out.

Yes, it is indeed my belief that the only reason my brain chose these two in particular to be put through what is going to happen to them next is that fact that their designs have but a few superficial similarities, though only superficial, of course. A color palette of reds and browns upon the body, whilst possessing blue eyes, a body that is more circular in nature than most of the others, now, at last, there is an established connection.

I do intend to utilize this story to do quite more than just write down the contents of the dream, though that, of course, will be the first and foremost priority. Either way, I believe I have said my piece. You have, of course, come here in search of vore, and that is exactly what I intend to provide you all with. Thus, without further ado, please, sit back, relax, grab a snack, and enjoy this utterly bizarre experience I had in my sleep many many many moons ago.

****

“Yeah, yeah it’s me. Listen. Do you have absolutely any idea at all why we might have ended up stranded in the middle of a desert?” Wham-Shell proceeded to ask his still waking fellow Skylander, with a bit of hasty panic in his voice.

“...the desert? I-huh?” Tread Head awkwardly replied as he attempted to survey the area. He did know through his peripheral vision in those first few seconds that wherever the two of them were, there sure was a lot of open space with a ground that was a weird shade of golden-orange. Yet prior to actually being told it was a desert, the possibility that such a biome could be the explanation for this area’s oddly specific traits had never actually consciously crossed the little guy’s mind.

Sure enough, however, just as Wham-Shell had said, upon but a simple, few-second long inspection, Tread Head had it all but confirmed within his mind that it was, indeed, a desert. The open, seemingly infinite fields of the previously described golden-orange sands did not lie.

The sun appeared to be right above the two Skylanders’ heads at the moment, with not a single cloud to speak of tampering with its shine, and the only other thing around the area that could be seen aside from themselves and the blinding orange and blue was an old, worn-down stone brick fort of some kind, secluded nicely south of the two, relative to their current position, thus giving them but one single option of where to go if the option of retreat became necessary.

Yes, there was absolutely no denying that they were currently in a desert. But that was just it. That was all they knew about where they were. No other hints, signals, or clues as to who, what, where, when, or how they had gotten here. Nothing. Nothing, zip, nada. Nothing.

It was only a little while after this fact had set in that Tread Head noticed that his iconic tread bike that gave him his name was indeed with him, too. So was Wham-Shell’s arguably more iconic mace that also gave him his name. This meant that the two of them were able to defend themselves if the situation called for it, but regardless, the presence of their weapons was only to give the poor confused Skylanders far more questions about their current situation than answers.

“...Wham-Shell.” Tread Head eventually ended up saying. “I have just as much of a clue as you do as to what’s going on.”

Wham-Shell let out a sigh. “Well…….” his voice began to thoughtfully trail off in rather deep inquiry before finally piping up again. “I mean-”

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!”

“...*sigh*.....” Wham-Shell rather reluctantly heaved out, whilst forcing himself to shelve for the moment his previous train of thought. “Forget I said anything at all…”

It was only now that the two of them finally had some sort of clue as to what was going on. And yet, as was to be expected at this point by members of a group who were trained to thwart at least three of this guy’s evil plans all before lunch, they really, really, really wished that they didn’t.

“Lord…if I had to count the amount of times I’ve had to deal with that laugh…” Wham-Shell irritatedly grumbled to himself through clenched teeth. “The academy would probably have to build another library!”

A sudden puff of black smoke was instantaneously blown into the unexpecting man’s face before the deep, roaring noises that could only be indicative of an engine suddenly revved up.

“Nevermind about that right now, Wham-Shell, we’ve gotta get to that fort over there, fast! He’s probably going to make mincemeat out of us if he catches us out in the open!” Tread Head piped up as he continued with starting up his tread bike. “Get on!”

As he understood implicitly that, indeed, getting to the fort was currently their only option, Wham-Shell didn’t protest, swiftly getting himself situated onto what was left of the seating space on the thing, holding his mace sideways in his hands as he sat, before a huge cloud of sand and dust was rapidly kicked up around the duo of Skylanders, causing the poor crustacean to choke a little, until at last the tread bike gave a screech whilst it peeled out away from the thing, roaring viciously as it effortlessly grinded across the fine, desert grounds.

Wham-Shell wasn’t really sure how many seconds, exactly, had passed until they were at the fort, (he was so lost in thought at for the time being that he could barely even discern that there was sand around him anymore), but regardless, once the tread bike screeched to a halt in front of the thing, he was forced to take a moment to regain his bearings before he swiftly clammored off. Though, his little mental reorientation, plus the fact he had to maneuver his mace so that it didn’t accidentally hook onto the bike as he dismounted, and the fact that the little tech Skylander naturally had more experience quickly getting off the thing, Tread Head was up and at the small, wooden door of the fort far before Wham-Shell was.

Grasping ahold of the handle (the door was scaled so that the handle could be reached by him in spite of his height for whatever reason), he attempted to fling the thing open in an instant, only to find, instead, that the door was firmly locked. Tread Head was just about ready to call out this information to his current partner, until, completely unbeknownst to him, the unexpected booming crash that was something heavy suddenly hitting the door instantaneously graced his ears.

Instinctively scrambling away from the scene as such, thus discovering that Wham-Shell had indeed made use of his mace to complete the, upon retrospective, relatively easy feat of breaking down the door, Tread Head didn’t really have the need in the end to actually say anything at all.

Swiftly getting back on his bike, for he knew that a battle at this point was pretty much inevitable, plus dragging the thing in by hand was rather inconvenient, Tread Head was thus into the fort and up the first set of stairs he took note of along with Wham-Shell in nothing short of a flash, ending up on the roof of the thing soon after completing the ascension. He was barely even able to get a fleeting glimpse of the internal layout of the fort's first floor as a result of this, but right now, that barely mattered. All that mattered was pinpointing the source of that iconic evil laugh, so that the two Skylanders would be able to track the midget villain down, and-

“Boo.”

Once again, for a diversely humongous number of reasons, not the least of which was their current internal shock, neither Skylander at hand knew any minute sliver about the whos, whats, wheres, whens, whys, or hows of the current circumstances, and yet, once again, they knew deep down that it barely even mattered anymore.

The decidedly NOT midget form that was the one taken on by the infamous portal master at the ending boss fight of Swap Force, a form only known as Super Evil Kaos, stood right there in front of them with a rather smug grin on his face, his arms o’ so casually folded over the edge of the fort, as both of the two, comparatively miniscule Skylanders merely stood there in silent disbelief.

Neither Wham-Shell nor Tread Head were really expecting anything in the way of an explanation anymore, partially because they weren’t really sure if they even wanted to have one in the first place, and seemingly, Super Evil Kaos recognized this; as all the crystalline, purple giant gave to the now significantly more composed and therefore battle ready Skylanders below, was a simple act that apparently, via Netflix subtitles, I learned is formally referred to as “blowing a raspberry”, before the fight began.

“Super Evil Kaos.” the announcer boomed from…somewhere around the area, as Wham-Shell gently leaned into the ear of his fellow bike-riding Skylander, in order to try and give him some tips.

“I’ve fought this form of Kaos before. I know how all his phases go. First, he’s going to slam down his feet in front of us and create shockwaves. We’ll have to destroy the crystals on his toenails in order to complete the phase. Then, after that, he-”

“Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait- hold your goddam horses right there, Wham-Shell!” Tread Head, in a decidedly uncharacteristic fashion, swore back to his teammate.

Wham-Shell was silent in an instant.

“Did you just say HIS FEET?”

Wham-Shell couldn’t help but grow a little embarrassed. “Err…well…umm…yes, you see…he…”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! SORRY SKY-LOSERS, NO TWENTY MINUTE LONG VIDEO FEATURING MY FEET FOR YOU THIS TIME!”

Neither Skylander was in any sort of position nor mental state to be able to respond.

“*Tsc* Just…just prepare to fight him, okay?” Wham-Shell finally concluded with a sigh whilst readying his mace for a strike.

Tread Head…would…have opened his mouth to respond. Would. If only the ground beneath them hadn’t vigorously rocked itself apart in a compounding multiplicity of furious, crackling vibrations as both of the Skylanders were instantly knocked to the floor.

“WHAT IN THE-” Wham-Shell cried out, as yet another bout of these shockwaves physically forced them to stay down whilst the foundations upon the fort rapidly began to fail.

Once again, although the length of time that was expected to happen between the event and its consequences was much, much longer than the amount of time said consequences actually took, the end result, just as always, ensured it barely mattered.

Buried deep underneath a giant heap of bricks and rubble, both fragile Skylanders lay still and limp within their fully, undeniably, unconsciousness, therefore prompting Super Evil Kaos to cheekily give a bit of a preemptive victory pump, before at last he crouched down, and thus, began to wait patiently for one of the two to wake up, in order to initiate stage two.

****

Tread Head gave many consecutive sputters and wheezes in an attempt to void all the dust from his lungs, before at last he felt himself able to breathe properly once more. Letting out a pained grunt as he slowly dragged himself off the floor, the little, bike riding tech Skylander wasn’t exactly sure what to expect upon groggily flickering open his eyes. Subconsciously, he was holding the expectation that Wham-Shell, the decidedly more experienced one between them, had managed to wake up first. That was why, precisely, it came as such a shock to the poor man when he inevitably realized that, in reality, the opposite of that was true.

“WHAM-SHELL!” he searingly screeched out, making a B-line over to the unconscious crustacean’s form.

Tread Head had indeed learned from his training as a Skylander how to check someone’s pulse, however due to Wham-Shell’s exoskeleton, this was almost instantly ruled out as a possibility of making sure he was okay.

“Oh by the love of Master Eon, THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!”

“Pray to your precious Master Eon all you want, you literal bean with legs…” a voice suddenly piped up, forcing the tech Skylander to freeze up all his movements. “...none of that will do anything to save you from your fate by my hands…”

Tread Head could practically feel the shivers as they sequentially rattled down his spine.

“Since when in the heck did Kaos actually learn to be intimidating?” he silently questioned to himself.

“...or, perhaps more accurately….” Super Evil Kaos towering above the poor man only continued on. “...my stomach.” he at last concluded with a crystalline grin and a swift pat over his midsection.

You could practically hear the one final ounce of composure that Tread Head had left inside of him crackling apart into particles just as fine as the sands beneath him as he practically leaped forth amongst the rubble.

“WHERE’S MY BIKE WHERE’S MY BIKE WHERE’S MY BIKE?” he frantically yet frivolously repeated to himself ad nauseum whilst he fiercely dug through the rubble.

“Oh…so that’s what you’re all riled up about right now, hmm?” Super Evil Kaos sneered in absolutely nothing but preemptive joy down at the struggling Skylander below. “Yes…your bike and ol’ Whammy’s mace is indeed the only chance you two have of making it out of here alive!”

Tread Head was barely even able to hear what the gigantic purple monster thundering above him was saying, nor did he really have it anywhere in him to care. His current state of fixation on attempting to find the weapons was just far too important to get distracted from at the moment. Rather unfortunately for the poor little tech Skylander, however, per Super Evil Kaos’ creepily increasing grin, that there mental state was not exactly destined to last for much longer.

“...oh, yes, yes! Where oh where in the world could those precious little objects be, hmmm?” Super Evil Kaos chortled heartily whilst Tread Head continued scrambling around down at the rubble. “Maybe, perhaps, HERE?”

It was only at that point in time, after the passing of many, many others, did Tread Head finally look up. And, upon at last doing so, once more froze on the spot.

“Wha-I…how did you-” was all he could muster to sputter out.

Super Evil Kaos silently swung in a slight, teasing manner, the two Skyladners’ weapons, right there above their tiny little heads.

“Heh. You want a chance to be able to defend yourself and your snoozing sleepyhead buddy over there, eh?” Super Evil Kaos chuckled out. “WELL TOO BAD FOR YOU! Aaaaaaaaaa…”

Swiftly unhinging his jaws from their current position of being locked in an evil grin, Super Evil Kaos’ slimy, dark purple tongue leisurely extended outward from the warm, sticky chamber that was his depthened maw, now prompt and at the ready to accept the two weapons upon its wide, squishy surface.

Before poor Tread Head even had the chance to say anything, Super Evil Kaos let go, and both his bike and Wham-Shell’s mace consequently splat down onto the great, thickened muscle, right before the thing popped itself back into resting position, deep within the maw. Super Evil Kaos maneuvered the objects around towards the entrance of his throat for a while, before at last, he teasingly tilted his head back, and, passing a glance down at Tread Head, swallowed.

Able as a result to view plain as day the, due to the head’s tilt, somewhat accentuated bulge that the weapons made in the giant man’s throat, Tread Head instinctually jostled with a shudder, for he knew with a near-certain confidence, that both he and the still unconscious Wham-Shell were all but destined to be next.

Super Evil Kaos promptly followed up this display with a smirk whilst admiring his victim’s terror, before a sudden echoing gurgle could be heard coming from his middle, seemingly due to the two weapons’ arrival. Rather than react with embarrassment from the suddenty of the action, however, he instead decided to give his stomach a couple of light pats, before cruelly throwing upon the poor tech Skylander below him a good, searing glare.

“...It’s almost as if it's just begging me for more…” Super Evil Kaos added onto the moment whilst he began to reach down, giving a saliva-soaked lick across his chops.

As it had been all but solidified within the poor man’s mind what his fate was to be at this point, Tread Head was not even able to resist as Super Evil Kaos’ gigantic, incoming hand confidently swooped in and snatched him all the way up, coming down with his other hand in order to get Wham-Shell but a few seconds later.

Tread Head’s breath, though it had already been rather short and ragged up until this moment, began in an unexpectedly erratic manner to grow into that of a rather strained pant, as he was at last placed face-to-face with the monstrous portal master who was destined to consume him whole.

Super Evil Kaos simply took a few moments to merely revel in the circumstances, before at last, it became time for the main show to commence.

First, the humongous evilized man moved his miniscule prey downwards, before he slowly squished the tiny Skylander into the thin layer of his body that lay in between the outside world, and his gurgling stomach within. Tread Head knew for a fact that pretty soon, he and Wham-Shell were indeed going to breach this barrier. At this point, it was only a matter of time.

Sensing that he had indeed shut down his still conscious prey’s being down to a degree where gulping him down wouldn’t be a significant issue, Super Evil Kaos at last felt satisfied. Bringing the tech Skylander back up to his face as such, the grotesque, crystalline portal master proceeded to say nothing, as he once again stuck out the tip of his tongue from between his lips, made a little fart sound with it, and then extended it just a little so he may give poor Tread Head a preparatory lick across his body.

Sputtering and coughing just a little as he did what little he could to try and shake all the saliva from his form, Tread Head was soon enough graced full force with the reality that, it didn’t matter how hard he shook, he was still going to end up positively smothered in the stuff when all was said and done.

This, of course, was only the case, simply because it was finally time, in the mind of Super Evil Kaos, to fully unveil his maw.

The slick, cavernous, dark purple depths the poor little tech Skylander viewed before him constantly heaved upon him front after front of damp, heated air, thus reminding him once more of how slimy he was going to get.

Super Evil Kaos knew very, very well just how paralyzed his singular conscious prey was for the moment being. His body positively flooding with joy knowing he quite literally possessed a life in his hands, a pleased shiver proceeded to casually tingle its way down the center of the evil man’s spine. Eventually, upon a long, long wait of practically uncountable moments, Super Evil Kaos backed the poor Skylander, as well as his unconscious ally, a little ways away from his maw, before, in nothing but a quick flinging motion and a simultaneous release of grip, both of them were quite literally flung all the way inside, one slightly after the other, Tread Head naturally coming in first as, right behind the arrival of his poor crustaceous friend, Super Evil Kaos’ jaws came began to come crashing down around them. Snapping his maw firmly shut with a bit of a reverberating Echo, now at last, for all intents and purposes, it was all over. There was absolutely zero method that either Skylander still had available to them that would allow them to successfully escape. Now, it was all in the hands of Super Evil Kaos.

Super Evil Kaos gently lifted up his tongue. Raising the hot, cushiony muscle almost to the roof of his maw, Tread Head was thus forced to lie down on it in order to not scrape his head against the rough ridges up there. Folding the downwards sloping portion of his tongue upwards, thus curling back the entire muscle towards his gullet whilst wrapping up the tech Skylander and his unconscious water elemental friend, Super Evil Kaos slowly squished the heavy layers of force that was the longingly salivating tongue upon his victims’ beings, holding their bodies downwards as he sensually swished the folded muscle between his cheeks.

A little bit of rouge drool trailed down the man’s chin as he continued on with this motion, the squishy, flexible tip of the tongue dragging itself back and forth across the unresisting Skyladnders’ bodies, swirling itself around within their flavors. Naturally, being a crab, Wham-Shell tasted like fresh, out-of-the-ocean seafood, his rough, hardened exoskeleton positively glistening from just how many times Super Evil Kaos had dragged the tip of his tongue around its surface.

Tread Head on the other hand, was, in fact, someone who’s attack style left him regularly covered in dust, muck, and other kinds of filth. And yet, seemingly by some unspoken miracle, he instead emulated the rather peculiar flavor of…out of every conceivable food in the world…cheesecake. Super Evil Kaos had absolutely no idea why this was the case, but nonetheless, it barely even mattered at this point.

Of course, cheesecake and seafood didn’t exactly go together very well, so Super Evil Kaos simply ended up taking many many minutes of his own precious time in thoroughly examining each Skylander individually, knowing quite well that neither had it anywhere within them to be able to resist.

After having taken all the necessary time in order to enjoy his food, however, Super Evil Kaos at last knew it was time to escort them on down to his stomach, and as a result, carefully returned his tongue back to its resting position.

Lifting up the purple muscle once more, though this time, sloping the back portion of the muscle downwards, Wham-Shell and Tread Head were thus forced to slide down the slippery, wet surface, whilst the as of yet unnoted plump, dangling uvula began gently swaying above their two heads.

Now, having come from a small, relatively secluded village in the dizzying dunes, Tread Head wasn’t exactly an expert, per say, on anatomical structures, much less any of their functions. However, upon taking note of the floppy, wide sack of dark purple flesh leisurely hanging above him, something…strange…started happening within his mind. Of course, Tread Head couldn’t exactly tell you why, exactly, his brain suddenly perked right back up into survival mode after probably more than five minutes of being shut down, but regardless, the result was all the same. Super Evil Kaos was expecting to feel the two round-ish bodies of the ultimately doomed Skylanders fitting cleanly into his upper esophageal sphincter, finally at the ready for the swallow. Instead, however, what the evilized portal master got, was a sudden lurch forwards as was dictated by his subconscious, whilst he fiercely suppressed a powerful gag.

Firmly grasping onto one of Wham-Shell’s claws with one hand, and wrapping the other all the way around the uvula, Tread Head hung silently, the only noise escaping from his throat consisting of his rather erratic gasping, therefore locking him out of the ability to speak, whilst his body subsequently hyper fixated in on but the single most intense game of keping grip the little tech Skylander had ever experienced in all of his years of fighting. He had never ever been more thankful in his life that he wore gloves.

Super Evil Kaos, able to feel in great detail each and every minute swing that the dangling appendage took as his only conscious prey desperately clung on, viciously gnashed his teeth as he allowed a low growl to escape up from his throat. The furious cry of rage boomed itself around the enclosed space of the maw as Tread Head risked a glance downwards. He was able to take a glimpse as such into the giant portal master’s throat, which was also dark purple in color, praying relentlessly that someway, somehow ANYHOW, he and Wham-Shell were to make it out of his situation alive.

Swallowing hard in order to try and get the little tech Skylander to let go of his uvula, Super Evil Kaos could feel the appendage stretching downwards as his tiny prey only continued to maintain his grasp. Swallowing once again, Super Evil Kaos could feel the rather strained sack of flesh stretching out as Tread Head’s arm consequently slid downwards, locking itself around the rounded bit at the bottom, as poor, poor Wham-Shell was mere centimeters away from reaching the gullet, causing his currently conscious partner to start positively hyperventilating as he began losing his hold on both his fellow Skylander and the uvula.

Super Evil Kaos could feel the crab’s claw gently scraping the muscles around his gullet, thus telling him that he was only one more gulp away from the ultimate, certain victory that he so viciously craved.

Placing a couple of fingers against his throat as he prepared himself to swallow once again, Super Evil Kaos’s epiglottis covered the entrance to his windpipe as, at last, his uvula was flung all the way back up into its natural position, and a great, squishy bulge proceeded to form itself in his throat. Swiftly swallowing one final time just to ensure that both of his prey were, indeed, trapped helplessly inside of his esophagus, Super Evil Kaos was thus soon able to confirm that the two Skylanders were there, not the least of which was because of Tread Head’s incessant, yet in the end futile resistance that was him shoving and punching against the squelching walls of the throat.

The poor man on the inside, now that he had lost his grip on the uvula, was rapidly losing his grip on reality, and vainly struggled against the constant downward pulses around him as a result whilst the slight weight of Super Evil Kaos’ fingers pushed down onto him from the outside. The sleek, tight muscle walls shoved in and out in an almost rhythmic pattern as, at last, he was able to pick up the faint pounding emulating from within Kaos’ heart.

Now that both of his prey had disappeared behind his collarbone, Super Evil Kaos proceeded to heave forth one gigantic sigh, before taking a second to glance down at the pile of rubble beneath him. Eventually deciding to heap together a pile that he could lay his back against, the humongous purple villain proceeded to do just that, casually ploping himself down against the grainy, desert floor once he was done, whilst placing a hand against his midsection.

Cris-crossing his legs over each other and setting them against the sands whilst his currently uncovered feet lay open and free against the scorching desert atmosphere, Super Evil Kaos couldn’t help but start back up a searing, victorious bout of his iconic evil laughter.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

He positively howled out into the dunes as the maniacally echoing screeches of his own final victoriousness were positively overshadowed back on the inside with the melodic backup of rumbling gurgles and growls that told Tread Head he was finally reaching the end.

In spite of his efforts to cling himself onto the muscle rim around the lower esophageal sphincter as said structure effortlessly squeezed him out into the awaiting chamber below, Tread Head was indeed able to pick up the inevitable splash that sloshed all around his being as he finally landed in the stomach.

The poor little Tech Skylander had lost so much of his sanity at this point that he was barely even able to recognize the shifting, dark purple walls casually squeezing in around him as the gastric acids around him began to sizzle at his clothes.

Super Evil Kaos on the outside was able to feel the organ churning and glorping around as he hazily pat over his guts in his current state of euphoria. Rubbing his hand all the way around the sloshy section of his body, he could tell that the stomach walls were just about right up to his prey at this point, leaving him able as such to feel the relentless resistance of mainly squirming and shoving that Tread Head was exuding upon him.

The poor Tech Skylander on the inside was only able to make out a few things around him by this stage. The still unconscious body of Wham-Shell, the bubbling acid pool, the thick, goopy walls squeezing in closer around him, Wham-Shell’s mace, and-wait a second…the mace? Tread Head’s eyes immediately diverted downwards, almost immediately causing him to suddenly remember the rather important detail that their weapons were, in fact, down here, too. Suddenly feeling just a fleeting flicker of what could barely be described as hope sparking itself in his chest, the tiny man on the inside was just about to reach forwards and grab hold of the mace, before all of a sudden, seemingly completely out of the blue, the lower esophageal sphincter opened itself back up, snatching ahold of poor Tread Head’s attention for just long enough to deny him escape once more, as a considerable front of air suddenly breezed past.

Super Evil Kaos on the outside was indeed able to feel the objects rising back up in his throat, a feeling which ultimately culminated in a deep, echoing belch which positively chimed its booming melody out across the sky. As the objects had landed right next to his right thigh, Super Evil Kaos was able to casually reach over and grasp onto the mace, placing one hand behind his head before he made use of the thing in order to cheekily pick at his teeth. Eventually just flinging the thing off to the side, Super Evil Kaos now knew for certain that there was absolutely nothing that poor little Tread Head could do in order to save his and Wham-Shell’s lives. As a result, he once again decided to break the formerly held silence by snorting an exceedingly teasing:

“HEH, YOU SKY-LOSERS ARE A REAL PAIN TO DIGEST!” out at the quivering Tread Head within, whilst giving a couple pokes at his belly. Proceeding to just place both hands behind his back and allow his stomach to do the rest, Super Evil Kaos was, at this point, excessively well prepared to just sit back, relax, and enjoy the results of his victory.

However, as was the reason he wasn’t able to feel Tread Head struggling against his stomach walls anymore, not as though that detail currently mattered to him, deep down within the dark, cavernous mind inside of the dark purple, cavernous guts inside of the equally dark purple man who had swallowed him whole, the poor little tech Skylander that was only known as Tread Head, had finally reached an epiphany. He did not know how to fight without his bike, nor did he have access to Wham-Shell’s mace. He bore no claws, spikes, or any other biological weaponry that could allow him to escape. He was not physically strong enough to be able to punch his way out. It was true. Tread Head was, indeed, completely and utterly lacking on every single one of those listed fronts, and yet, in direct spite of all that, he still knew, as a simple matter of fact, that he still had one option left.

At first, Super Evil Kaos was only able to feel a slight pain inside of his guts, causing him to swiftly sit up. Before the confused, crystalline portal master could even muster out an “Eh?”, however, seemingly instantaneously, he had vomited all the way up, straight onto the now darkly stained desert grounds, a deathly amount of blood.

Tread Head viciously sank his teeth all the way into the walls of the stomach. He knew quite well that they were, indeed, not specialized to be able to cut and tear through flesh, and yet, despite that fact, they still completed the job just as well. Savagely tearing off yet another chunk of flesh, even more blood proceeded to gush its way into the wound as the chamber painfully growled.

Super Evil Kaos had fallen over onto his front at this point, flailing around in agony and clutching his stomach in positively tormenting pain. Tread Head was completely unable to make out any of the poor portal master’s screams, however, as both the world around his being and the world inside his brain swiftly faded to black as the color drained from his eyes. Subsequently crashing down right next to his fellow, highly respected Skylander Wham-Shell, Super Evil Kaos’ stomach contracted once more, and, riding along with the blood, both unconscious Skylanders were finally set free.

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writing-to-nobody · 1 year

Text

Not So Simple

Rouge and Azel discover they have something in common. Sometimes it’s not as simple as doing the thing that would make us happiest.

Continuation of Indecision. Rouge belongs to @littlemoondarlingarts :)

Words: 2,244

Rating: G

Rouge had hardly gotten a single page into the letter he was translating when Azel interrupted.

"How on Earth do you focus with all this noise?"

He looked up from his work to see Azel cover his ears, wincing as if the music physically pained him. And he says I'm dramatic, Rouge thought. He'd even been kind enough to put on a record in place of inviting a live performer in hopes that Azel would find it a suitable compromise. Clearly, it hadn't worked.

He returned to his work, puzzling over Dracula's handwriting. "As I've told you, I have a difficult time focusing without it, and considering how I spent the last few days in your office getting scarcely anything done, I think you can afford to indulge me for a single day."

"Where my empire is concerned, I can't afford an idle day." There Azel went again with his usual self-important drivel. Most of the time, Rouge indulged him, but he was beginning to run short on patience.

"You're welcome to return to your office," he replied curtly. "Just don't expect me to be waiting with bated breath for your return."

That bought him some time to focus. He finally deciphered the word that had given him so much trouble. Lackadaisical. It was a good thing Dracula couldn't read any of his translated work. He'd probably complain that Rouge wasn't maintaining his flair for the unnecessarily verbose.

The room was quiet save for the scratching of his pen on the paper and the gentle swell of the music in the background. Had Azel left, then? Rouge told himself he didn't care. It would probably be easier to focus without him, after all. He managed to maintain that little lie for the time it took to finish the first of many pages. Then, he couldn't help himself. He glanced over at the chair he'd acquired for Azel (custom made, thank you very much, and comfortable, unlike the stiff excuses for furniture Azel kept in his office. He'd even been considerate enough to request the designer to leave space for Azel's tail. And what did he get for it? Complaints about his workspace!).

He was somewhat pleased to find that Azel had not left, but judging by the way the man was hunched over his papers, a deep frown marring his face, he was still sulking over the arrangement. Well, that was just fine. Rouge could make it up to him later, once he'd made it through the veritable mountain of letters he was supposed to have sent out days ago.

Somehow, he made it through the day, though it was one of the most trying in recent memory. Spending hours poring over the words of a man who saw others as little more than dolls he could make dance for his own amusement wasn't exactly his idea of a good time. Unfortunately, he didn't have a choice. Dracula knew too much, and if Rouge ever tried to terminate their arrangement, he'd happily destroy not only his life, but the lives of his sons. He couldn't let that happen.

"Well," he sighed. "I suppose that's enough for the day. Perhaps we could go for a stroll and enjoy what remains of the moonlight. What do you say?"

Azel didn't respond. At a glance, Rouge thought he was hunched over the desk in despair. It wouldn't have been the first time that day. He rose from his chair and took a tentative step toward him, only to find him fast asleep.

Well, my music's good for one thing, he thought, amused. Their stroll would have to wait. In the meantime, perhaps he could find his guest a blanket…

—

Azel jolted awake with a gasp. He heard something skitter across the floor—his pen, maybe—and was glad he'd just missed knocking over his inkwell. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Where was he?

"I suppose the chair is comfortable, then?" a familiar voice teased.

It took him only a moment to place it, and when he did, he sat up straight, clearing his throat. Something slid off his shoulders. A blanket? How had that gotten there?

"Rouge," he said, as neutrally as he could manage, in an attempt to maintain what was left of his dignity.

He spotted the vampire lounging in a chair across the table from him. He had a book in one hand, though he seemed more interested in Azel.

"How long was I…" He started to ask. Then he broke off, pursing his lips. Maybe if he didn't say the word, they could both pretend this had never happened.

"Asleep?" Rouge prompted, instantly and gleefully dashing that hope. "Well, I'm not certain, mon cheri. I looked up from my work a few hours ago to find you that way, and I thought you might need the rest."

"Hours?" Azel exclaimed. Running his hand over his hair, he was distraught to find it out of place. He must look like a fool. And what of his work? Had he gotten anything done?

Rouge's smile faded. "Is something the matter?"

"I…" Azel grimaced. "I apologize. You must think me dreadfully unprofessional."

To his surprise, Rouge scoffed. "If you think the way we've been conducting ourselves up to this point was meant to be professional, you must have a very strange idea of what constitutes a professional relationship."

"Th-that's—" Azel stammered, blushing. "What I mean is, you must think less of me, after this."

"Must I?" Rouge leaned forward, resting his cheek in his hand. "This isn't one of your…" He waved his other hand in a lazy flourish. "Circular meetings."

"Circle," Azel corrected.

"Yes, that. I'm not some foreign dignitary, I'm your—" Rouge broke off, seemingly fumbling, for the first time in Azel's memory, for the right word.

Unwilling to pursue that line of conversation further, Azel searched the room frantically for another topic of conversation. His eyes fell upon the stack of papers Rouge had been working through all day. "You know, I don't believe I've ever asked what it is you actually do for work," he said quickly.

"Oh." Rouge's expression soured. He drew the stack toward him, picking it up and tapping it twice on the table to bring all of the papers into alignment. "Translation work, when I'm fortunate. When I'm unfortunate, Dracula sends me a few centuries' worth of disorganized, almost entirely unrelated paperwork and demands that I assemble it into some sort of order."

Azel wondered if he'd misheard him. "Dracula," he echoed. "You work for Dracula?"

Rouge sighed irritably and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and bouncing one leg in clear agitation. "Trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds. Not even remotely."

"Dracula is…a real person," Azel said slowly.

Abruptly, Rouge abandoned his chair and strode toward the door. "Are we going to talk about work all day, or are we going to go for a walk? Honestly!"

Puzzled, Azel followed.

—

"This is nice," Azel commented to break the silence. It was a pleasant night, if a bit chilly. The moon was nearly full and, without the pollution of a million lights, one could actually see the stars.

If Rouge had heard him, he gave no acknowledgement of it. For some reason, he seemed to be in a foul mood, and had been ever since they'd left the castle. Azel wondered if it was something he'd said. His companion had seemed to be in good enough humor until he'd directed the conversation toward his work.

Perhaps he didn't like his job. Or, was he cross that Azel had changed the subject when he'd been attempting to define their relationship? At that thought, Azel felt a familiar anxiety pressing in on him. What did Rouge think this was? Azel wasn't oblivious to the fact that he was the latest in a long string of…dalliances. It probably wasn't anything serious. That should have made him feel better, shouldn't it?

After all, he didn't have room for a—…for anything more than a fling. He was meant to marry Skye Delacroix. It was the safe thing to do, and the smart thing to do, and historically, his choices had been nothing if not safe and smart. Where his brother had run toward a life of frivolity to escape his responsibility, Azel had faced it head on. It hadn't mattered if he'd wanted it or not. Why should this be any different?

Besides, he didn't even know what he wanted.

…Well, he knew he didn't want to marry Skye. He was exhausted enough as it was without having to play to her every whim. Surely there were other ways to avoid war. Logically, it would be more advantageous for them to band together, marriage or no marriage, against their would-be enemies, but Skye wasn't exactly known for her logic. She was more the type to damn her entire empire if she felt slighted.

A part of him wished his father were still about. He wouldn't be having any of these silly thoughts, then. He would be marrying Skye, and that would be that.

His father was gone, though. The choice was his. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't and twice as miserable at the prospect of either option.

He took a deep breath, cool night air rushing into his lungs. The air was so fresh here, not smelling of sulfur at all. It wasn't stifling like the city, either, with cramped buildings constantly looming over you and glass and concrete everywhere you looked. Sometimes, he almost wished he could stay.

Of course, that wasn't an option. It had never been an option for him. Besides that, right now it didn't seem like Rouge even wanted him there. Maybe he ought to work on addressing that first.

"Rouge," he said, "if I've offended you, I—I apologize. I seem to do that more often than not, and it surely wasn't my intention."

Rouge's red eyes flicked toward him, nearly seeming to glow in the moonlight. "What?"

"That is, you've been very…accommodating—I-I mean—" He was stammering: something he only seemed to do around Rouge. There he went making a fool of himself again, and Rouge was staring at him now, his expression unreadable. "I've enjoyed our time together," he choked out.

"Oh." Rouge was frowning again. "You're leaving, then."

"What?" Azel shook his head frantically. "No, that's not what I meant at all! I was trying to say that I enjoy our time together, in the present tense, it's just that I've never—" He folded his hands uncomfortably. "I've never done something like this. I don't know what you expect of me or if I'm making too much of this, and If I am, please stop me now before I make a fool of myself any further, but I never meant to upset you by avoiding the subject, and now you must think me a coward, and—"

"What are you talking about?" Rouge interrupted, arching an eyebrow.

"Uh…" Azel twiddled his thumbs. "Haven't I upset you?"

"No. Why would you think that?"

"Well…" How could he put this without offending him? "You seem to be cross about something. I thought it might be my…avoidance, on the subject of our…relationship." He could swear his heart nearly stopped just saying that word. Was it a bridge too far, saying that aloud?

To his surprise, Rouge chuckled. "Ah. No. That wasn't it at all. It's…something else. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Besides…" He linked his arm with Azel's. "I'm far more interested in discussing our relationship." He smiled mischievously.

Azel gulped. Well, at least Rouge wasn't angry with him. Not yet, anyway. "Ah—yes. That."

"And here I thought this was just a fling to you, but my are we getting serious now..."

"Rouge."

Rouge laughed. Azel's heart fluttered at the sound. "Forgive me, mon cheri. You are so easy to tease."

Azel huffed out a sigh and tried to act as though he wasn't flustered by the pet names Rouge used so freely.

Running his gloved fingers over the Azel's sleeve, Rouge hummed pensively. "Does this mean you've decided not to go along with that dreadful arranged marriage idea? Or am I simply to be your paramour?"

Azel grimaced.

Rouge's hand stilled on his arm. "I see."

Azel felt like a rat in a snake's coils. "I don't want to marry her. Surely you can see that!"

"Then, don't."

Azel pulled away. "It isn't that simple!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "There's more at stake here than my happiness. Lives may be hanging in the balance, and I have to do what's best for the people who are counting on me. Can't you understand that?"

At that last question, Rouge looked stricken. He turned away abruptly. "Better than you know," he muttered.

Azel wasn't sure what to make of that. Before he could decide whether to press the matter, a cool breeze whipped past them and, despite his thick coat, Rouge visibly shivered. Azel hesitated a moment before putting an arm around his companion's waist.

Rouge flinched.

"Sorry," Azel said immediately, but before he could draw back, Rouge huddled closer to him.

"I think I've had enough of walking," he said, still in that muted tone, so devoid of his usual spirit.

"Let's go inside," Azel agreed.

Rouge stayed glued to his side the whole way back to the castle. They walked in silence, and Azel worried.

#Azel #Rouge Rouge #story #stories

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