#tiny protectors rock

[pick-a-plush]

[talesofourworlds]

SCREAMING IN JOY LOOK AT THEM!! LOOK AT THEM!!!!!! Thank you Shai for showing me these I've been dying to know who they'd pick for the cameo costumes for Arise for ages and they're finally coming!

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Between A Rock And A Hard Place

Male Yandere Human-like Golem x Gender Neutral Human Reader (CW: Noncon, huge dick, golem man, magic, fatal violence towards bandits, spit used as lube, general yandere behavior) Word Count: 1.8k (Sorry this took forever, was originally going to be a drabble and then kinda got away from me, hope you all enjoy huge dick golem man.)

The small town that you lived in, Somnheim, had been victim to a swathe of horrible luck. Raided by bandits, packs of beasts killing livestock, and enemy soldiers scavenging what they could. Finally the town had enough and sent for a practitioner of the magic arts to aid them in the defense of their village.

This was you.

They didn’t have much but they offered a home and food for your services. You figured you could help them and have a quiet place to conduct your research away from the prying eyes of the council, who liked to hold newer mages under their thumb. It would also just be something nice you could do for your fellow humans, and these folks clearly needed the help.

You didn’t want to stay in this place forever though, so your solution would have to be one that would last long after you were gone.

Given your expertise in summoning and animating the logical choice was a good, old fashioned, golem. A pentagram, some select incense, clay flesh molded to a slate skeleton and imbued with an amethyst heart carrying an artificial soul, some runes carved in, and a scroll inserted that would have him follow his purpose and give him personality.

Then just add in a spell that turned the humanoid clay man into something more human so as not to frighten the villagers too badly and make him able to experience a near human existence.

The ritual was a complete success. Of course it was. You were you after all, young but talented and more importantly utterly dedicated to your craft.

Somnheim now had a mighty protector. An artificial man over 9 feet tall, with huge bulging muscles, shaggy brown hair, stoic brown eyes that gave nothing away, and glowing green runes on his arms and legs. The spell that made him human-like was more than just visual, it gave him nearly all the functions of a human male, he’d be as durable and strong as the hardest metal, never age, and of course he was certainly infertile.

Not one for creative names, you named him Slate.

Eventually bandits came by and decided they would stock up in Somnheim before going on to bigger and better loot.

They did not live to regret that decision.

Slate simply rolled a massive boulder down the hill they approached from and flattened all but a couple. Those he took care of quickly with magically precise throws of average sized stones.

Over the months any threat he couldn’t flatten with a boulder or smack with a stone he would pop open with his mighty fists.

By the end of his first year as the village’s guardian he was beloved by every single townsperson. Even the tiny children, who would climb on him and put flowers in his shaggy hair as he smiled and watched, had no fear of him.

You had enjoyed your time there, but eventually it was time for a change of scenery. You wanted to do more field research and you had saved enough money up with side projects to be able to fund a trip to the other side of the country near The Great Forest.

The villagers were grateful and sad to see you go, but they were much more interested in Slate than you.

But when you packed your bags to leave behind your wattle and daub dwelling once and for all you found yourself blocked by Slate.

He uttered one word in that deep, almost monotone, voice of his.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? I have to leave.” You tried to squeeze past him but he was not having it.

“I must protect the village… Your presence here makes the village safer… I might need repairs… or reinforcements… And you also tasked me with keeping you safe…”

You fudged the wording. You, breather of life into stone, weaver of clay, and creator of souls, messed up the wording.

He picked you up like a box of luggage and sat you on a chair in your makeshift study before going over to the heaviest bookshelf, picking it up, and placing it in front of the only door so you couldn’t escape.

“I’ll move it when I need to leave… then I will put a rock outside to keep you here…”

And that became your life. A literal prisoner in your own home.

Your magical abilities were useless in this situation, you were not a battlemage that could explode a wall, you couldn’t teleport, you bent earth.

Of course you tried to tunnel your way out by making a hole under your bed, but Slate had walked in and caught you red handed. He had confiscated and locked away all your magical supplies and texts unless you needed them to repair him you were not getting them back.

Slate was tentative enough of your physical needs, bringing you food and water and taking you outside like some sort of pet for sunlight, fresh air, and exercise. You had tried to run away but of course he had inhuman speed. And the villagers refused to help. What if Slate refused to save them if they did that?

It was a fair concern, he was made to protect the village and not villagers, he may even see them as a threat if they assisted you. You were on your own.

Though you were healthy enough physically your mental condition was deteriorating rapidly. How could you not be? Being trapped in the same building, even with trips outside, was awful. The villagers only looked at you with pity if they looked at you at all, and no one would even talk to you anymore.

It got to the point where you barely eat, refused to go outside, and spent all your time laying in bed.

Slate was failing the magical directives that governed his personality and behavior. You were clearly not safe, he was convinced that you would die if this continued, and honestly you likely would… eventually…

But the golem was not incapable of learning. He observed the other humans to find out what he could add to your life to bring you back to your usual self.

One night, when he was sitting in front of the house watching the humans passing by and holding hands, he came to the conclusion that humans had families, they lived together in their dwellings and they loved each other. They coupled together and mated.

Up until this point Slate had only been directed by simple emotion and the unyielding parchment that had imbued him with his goals. But now his task demanded something more of him, it demanded a much more complex emotion. The magic in him allowed this evolution, and now he was much more dangerous because he loved you. But it wasn’t just love he felt for the first time, it was lust.

Slate’s expression became one of someone thinking about the one who they adored infinitely, an expression of a man thinking about the person he wanted to have writhing in pleasure beneath him, even his normally green runes and brown eyes took on an amorous pink glow.

When you heard the boulder blocking the door shift and then heard the bookshelf take its place as what was blocking your way out as Slate came lumbering in with his heavy steps you didn’t even glance up.

Not until he stood in front of you and you noticed his strange pink glow replacing his green one did you stir.

You sat up in bed and when you saw the strange way his normally near emotionless eyes were staring at you, and glowing, you scooted away.

“I know what you need now! I am so sorry for not realizing sooner…” He said in a surprisingly soothing tone, a stark departure from his normally deep monotone.

“What do yo-”

Your words were forgotten as he took off his shirt and pants revealing a sweaty body and a frighteningly large cock.

“You need a partner to be happy, like the other humans, and you need to mate!”

He sounded very eager.

“No! Uh… I don’t need to… mate. I need to lea-” he put a large finger over your lips and shushed you before gripping your pants and peeling them and your underwear away from you carefully.

There was no dissuading him from his chosen course of action, he would make you happy and keep you safe no matter what!

It’s what you needed.

Slate leaned forward and spit all over your hole, thoroughly lubing it with his spit, before pressing his big cock into your hole.

It was so large that you let out a whimper of pain at first, but he was somehow knowledgeable enough about sex to know he needed to let you adjust to the size rather than just ramming himself in.

You gasped and writhed but he held you still with his massive hands running up and down your sides as he slowly pulled you down on his prick.

Slate was in complete heaven, he had never really known much pleasure of any kind, let alone the type that came with burying his cock in someone he was now completely obsessed with.

He had no idea his dick could be used for this at all, but now that he did he would certainly be doing this everyday, maybe even a couple times a day! The perfect blend of heat and softness was amazing.

As he began to thrust slowly, with a blissed out expression as he stared up at nothing with drool coming out of his mouth, you couldn’t help but moan in pleasure as his cock caressed your depths perfectly.

Hearing your breathy moans snapped him back to reality. You were finally happy again~

The treatment was working! That settled it, he would do this every single day no matter what!

Carefully gripping your sides a bit more firmly he moved your entire body back and forth on his cock. You couldn’t help it, your whole body twitched with the force of a massive orgasm. The sensation of your body spasming around his previously virgin dick caused him to slam in deep and cum hard.

He pulled you close, holding your head into his muscular chest as he panted, his dick still firmly impaling your limp body. You hadn’t been eating much and this serious fucking had taken a lot out of you.

Slate cleaned the two of you up, bathing you gently before taking advantage of your compliant state by spoon feeding you some dinner he had brought from a town person.

Mating with you made you so pleasured and too tired to resist him when he took care of you, he almost couldn’t wait until you had enough energy to do it again, his cock strained in his pants with anticipation.

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

Chan x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Suicide, Death, Grief, Blood, Life after loss, Cursing, Mentions of cursing higher power out of anger, Angst.

Word Count: 5.5k

If you or someone you know is suffering from suicidal ideation or thoughts of harming themselves, please reach out for help. You never know when someone's last day will be; no one ever does. But if you can help - even just a tiny bit, sometimes a word, text, or even a call can be a catalyst for positive change.

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Part One.

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You vividly remembered the day your older brother debuted.

The memory was seared into your mind, a day full of nervous excitement and overwhelming pride. You were only 9, still young enough to idolize him in the purest way, but old enough to understand how much this moment meant to him. The two of you had grown up together, inseparable since the day your parents brought you home from the adoption agency. Hajun had always been your protector, your constant source of comfort, and now, he was going to be a star.

It was a chilly autumn afternoon, the kind where the crisp air nipped at your cheeks and the golden leaves crunched beneath your sneakers. You were clutching your brother’s hand tightly as you stood in the crowded concert hall. The anticipation in the room was palpable, a mix of excitement and nervous energy that buzzed like static electricity.

Hajun had always been the rock in your life, the one who knew how to make you laugh even on your worst days. As the lights dimmed and the opening notes of Eclips3’s debut song filled the air, you could barely contain your excitement. You had seen him practice countless times, but this was different. This was his moment. Your father had you on his shoulders so you could see up and over the barricade, yelling.

"JuJu!" You squealed, holding up a sign with your sloppy handwriting that said: "That's My Brother".

When the spotlight hit him, you saw the confident smile that always made your heart swell with pride, although you were too young at the time to understand that feeling. Dressed in sleek black and white, he looked every bit the star you knew he was destined to be. He danced with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, his movements precise and full of passion. The crowd’s cheers grew louder with every beat, and you felt your chest tighten with a mix of joy and admiration.

During their dance break, when Hajun was at the center, it felt like the crowd was the loudest; but maybe you had imagined it because you loved him the most; maybe you didn't.

But you didn't imagine the excitement in his eyes, and the smile he couldn't even bother to contain.

You remembered how, in that moment, everything seemed perfect. Your brother was up there, living his dream, and you were there to support him. His eyes met yours briefly, and he gave you a quick wink. It was a silent reminder that no matter how far he went, he would always remember where he came from. It was a promise that you held close to your heart.

He loved you and you loved him.

As the final notes of the song faded and the crowd erupted in applause, Hajun waved, his smile never wavering. When he finally came offstage, his face was flushed with excitement and exhaustion. He scooped you up into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you as if he never wanted to let go.

“I don’t, want you to move away.” You mumbled sadly, digging your head into his shoulder, the rush of adrenaline and happiness fading instantly as you realized this hug was unlike his other ones; this was a goodbye. Although temporary for now.

“Don’t worry, Gremlin,” he whispered in your ear, his voice a mix of triumph and tenderness. “I’ll always be here for you, no matter what. I may be far away, but you can always ask Mom and Dad to call, okay? And I’ll visit, and you can watch my videos and I’ll mention you in them too. I promise, I’ll always be here for you.” He stuck out his pinky, his eyes twinkling, and you gave your gap-toothed smile as you locked your pinky with his. He placed a kiss on your cheek and ruffled your hair one last time.

Little did you know, those words would become a beacon in the storm of your life. Something you would always come back to. And that promise he made would be tested.

Because all things made, are at risk to break.

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Your alarm went off and you just stared at the small black box that had one of those plastic zoo animals hot glued to it - a racoon. The noise was annoying, and sometimes you wondered why you didn't just switch to using your phone alarm, but there was just something nostalgic about using a physical alarm clock.

You hadn't realized it had been going off for almost 20 minutes until your mother walked into your room.

"Sweetie, you up?" Her voice was soft, melodic. A hint of raspiness in it, although it was more pronounced today; you figured due to the time of day and how much she had cried over the past week. She looked as if she was about to go out. She had her bag hung over her shoulder and her makeup done.

"Yeah." You mumbled. Technically you had been up.

Since you hadn't even fallen asleep.

It wasn't like you could get much sleep these days.

"They're announcing it today?" You mumbled quietly, the soft hum from your ceiling fan the only thing breaking the almost unbearable silence. You figured thats why your mom was going out, you had heard her on the phone with one of the ladies from church, and heard her telling her that your father was working overtime at the hospital and that she wanted something to do throughout the day to keep busy.

"They wanted to wait a bit longer; to give us time to grieve, but fans are starting to realize something is up."

"It's only been a month since Kae-Joon killed himself as well. Are you sure it isn't just the company trying to keep their image intact?" The venom in your voice made your mom flinch.

"I'm so sorry, baby."

"Apologizing won't bring him back, Mom." The cool air hit your legs, as you threw off your blanket, causing a slight sting so some of your open wounds. Three hours of constant scrubbing left your skin raw and sensitive, and it had yet to heal. But you didn't want any traces of his blood on you.

"Just like you, I'd rather not watch when they make that announcement." You stood up and made your way to your closet, finding some pants and a sweater to throw on. You could feel the stress your mom was carrying when she sighed.

"Did you at least open the box he left you?"

It was as if you were deaf to her words. After a few minutes of silence, she got up and left, softly shutting the door behind her. You made your way back to your bed and under the covers deciding to not even comb your hair.

What could anyone tell you to do?

It had been a week since you strained your vocal cords, screaming for help, screaming curses at God when you had found your brother bleeding out on the guest bedroom floor.

You remembered seeing Hajun act the same way, when his leader had walked the same path, not even a month ago.

But he had been happy the past few weeks, hadn't he? He had come home, and you had gotten to be with him.

He loved you. He wouldn't do this. Not to you.

You reached towards your nightstand, and your fingers wrapped around his phone.

You powered it on to see a picture of him with you on your first day of high school.

You both had wide smiles, and Hajun was squeezing your shoulders, his chin rested on top of your head as you both laughed.

Your mom and dad had always joked that Hajun loved you more than he loved them.

But the irony of it was that it wasn't a joke at all.

The minute you had come home from the adoption agency, apparently Hajun had been all over you, wanting to hold you, and have your crib put in his room.

Your mother had given birth to a baby boy, but due to complications he died just hours after his birth. Distraught your mother had been pleading that it wasn't true, and a teen mother had heard a few nurses talking about how heartbreaking it was. She was putting her baby up for adoption and having heard another mother's grief wished to ease some of that.

You wondered if it was one of those instances where another's one's trash was another's one's treasure after you had gotten into a huge argument with your mom one night.

But looking back you couldn't have been more grateful to be put into the family you were in, with your mom, dad and Hajun. Your mom had also gotten the daughter she had always wished to have. And you got a love you believed everyone deserved.

You wiped your eyes once it became too blurry to see Hajun's screen staring back at you, and scrolled through the large number of missed calls he had gotten.

Sunwoo Hyung 🤍😂- 47 missed calls

Favorite Hyung 🤠🤓- 92 missed calls

Chris🦘- 4 missed calls

Grumpy Hyung 🖤🐈‍⬛ - 38 missed calls

You could scroll through it all day. Goodbye texts, calls placed in denial.

They were all one in the same, and you subjected it to yourself for the past week, refusing to swipe the notifications away.

Your parent's had seemed to want you to forget most of it, as that was there way of copying. To forget everything; minus the fact that Hajun has left a box addressed to you in his room.

It was hard to accept his suicide when you deluded yourself into believing it was something done in the moment; you didn't know if you could even begin to cope with the pain of acknowledging that he had meticulously planned it. So, you hadn't looked at the box, let alone in it yet.

In a weird way your parents wanted to know. To find closure you figured. They hoped his suicide note would be in that box, and the battle you had gotten into with your parents when your mom had brought up the possibility did nothing to help aid in the hurt you all were facing.

Your father had been out at work every day, refusing to take bereavement leave so he could distract himself from his eldest child's death. It hadn't helped he had worked the shift Hajun was rolled into.

Your mom had been packing up the house in a move that you knew would be inevitable. None have you been anywhere in the house much rather than your bedrooms, ordering food in, using the bathrooms on the highest levels of your home, and completely side stepping any area of the house where your brother held his presence the most.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and tightened your own embrace, as you felt more tears begin to form.

"I miss you."

Your family has always been an affectionate family - Hajun the most - and since his death that all seemed to sever. Your mom had barely touched your father, let alone you. It seemed everyone's version of coping was isolation, and that just made Hajun's absence even more noticeable.

He always had to have skin ship with someone. Most of the time it was hugging or sitting close enough to someone their legs were rested by each other's, with you he would rest his head on your shoulder, or pinch your cheeks telling you how adorable you were, and 'how could you not be when you have the most handsome brother in the world'?

It had been an ongoing laugh in the industry and in his fandom that he was his own dating ban. Due to his inclination to hug everyone he met, his company had to deflect rumor after rumor, to the point where they eventually had no choice but to make an official statement. Thirteen separate articles had speculated about his love life, each one feeding into the frenzy that surrounded him. His warm nature was both his charm and his curse, a constant point of speculation in a world where even a simple smile could spark a scandal.

But now you knew better. You knew the real reason behind that warmth, the desperation behind every hug, the way he clung to people as if they were his lifeline. He had always been the light in every room, the one who could make anyone smile even when his own smile never quite reached his eyes. You used to marvel at how he could be so kind to carry so much of the world’s weight on his shoulders, his friend's, his family's, and still manage to hold his own.

You were selfish to never realize that the weight was slowly breaking him down, piece by piece.

Maybe, it's my fault... You had wondered while sitting the hospital waiting room. Maybe if I never complained, maybe if I solved my own problems instead of looking for him to solve them.

After the leader of Eclips3 had taken his life shortly after being involved in a trafficking scandal that had led to the death of four separate women, and the group went on an indefinite hiatus which sparked Hajun's homecoming, that light had dimmed even further.

"I could've saved them. If I would've known..." He repeated over and over.

You saw it every time you looked at him—the way his once vibrant energy now seemed forced, his laughter a hollow echo in the house that had once been filled with genuine joy. You tried to reach out, to be the rock for him that he had always been for you, but he would brush it off with that same reassuring smile.

He had gone through a few of these ruts prior. You once had mentioned to your mother he seemed more tired than usual, but soon enough after a break he was back to normal.

Two nights before he had ended it all you laid in his bed as he spoke to you softly.

"Sometimes...I wish I never chose this life." He had told you.

"Then quit. Come back home. Mom and Dad will take care of you."

He had pinched your nose. "How could I when I make so many people happy? I can't just throw away God's gift to me hmm?" He laughed quietly. "Besides, who would buy you all the things you want if it weren't your big brother?"

The breath you had released betrayed your true feelings about the situation.

His eyes would always betray him, and the pain in them at the moment was so deep that it made your heart ache. Yet you didn't say anything.

"Just a break, Gremlin," he whispered, ruffling your hair like he always did. "I’ll be back to annoying you in no time." His eyes would always betray him though, and the pain in them at the moment was so deep that it made your heart ache. Yet you hadn't said anything.

If I said something, would he still be here?

The break never ended. Instead, it shattered into a silence so profound that it consumed you, wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket. Wrapping around you just the way Hajun's arms had so constantly wrapped around you, tight, secure, an unbreakable hold.

You were alone now, in a world that had lost all its color, where the joy that once filled the rooms was replaced by a deafening quiet that you no one could escape. Every corner of your home felt empty, even though it was still filled with the remnants of his life—his clothes still in the coat closet, his favorite mug still on the kitchen counter, his music equipment still set up as if he might return to use it any moment.

Sometimes in the quiet hours of the morning when your brain shut off momentarily, you believed he would walk through the door, the gentle hum of his voice accompanying the staccato patterns of his keyboard.

His room, once a sanctuary of music and late-night confessions, now felt like a tomb. The posters on the walls, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed to mock you, their bright colors dulled by the memories they carried.

The posters of countless amines you had forced him to watch on his tours were hung up, the corners curling inwards from the stagnant air in his bedroom. His guitar, propped up in the corner, was still out of tune, left that way after the last song he played—a song you couldn’t bring yourself to listen to again.

Everything was frozen in time, preserving the last moments of his presence, moments that were now too painful to revisit, yet too precious to let go, and too blaringly obvious to set aside in hopes of a happy future.

But you had to. You had to go through his things, even if every object you touched felt like another stab to your already shattered heart. You needed to feel close to him, even if it meant opening the wounds that hadn't begun to heal even further. You couldn’t just leave his room untouched forever, as much as it felt like disturbing it would make his absence all the more real.

So, you managed to pull yourself out of your bed and make the walk to the end of the hallway.

The black paint he had painted once on his doorway was peeking through a part of the peeling white paint that your dad has used to cover it up.

Your hand slowly grasped around the doorknob, and you stood there for a minute, an hour- or maybe it was seconds. Time was foreign in that moment.

You stood in the doorway, the air thick with the scent of his cologne, the memories clinging to every surface like ghosts. You inhaled, and it almost seemed like he was standing right next you, or behind you, hugging you and telling you how he was proud of everything you had done, or telling you how much you meant to him, or how grateful he was to have a baby sister.

Your steps were hesitant as you crossed the threshold, each footfall extra loud in the stillness; the snapshot of a life that had been cut too short. You couldn’t help but feel like an intruder, as if you were trespassing in a space that didn’t belong to you, even though it was now yours by default.

And even when your brother had been around, he had always left his door open for you; if not physically metaphorically. The bed was still unmade, the sheets tangled from the last night he had slept in them. His desk was cluttered with notebooks, sheet music, and pens as well—tools of a trade that he had dedicated his life to, tools that he would never use again; tools that you pinned some of the blame on.

It was while you were rummaging through the drawers of his nightstand that you found it—a small, weathered box tucked away with a pile of old notebooks that he had countless lyrics written in. Lyrics to songs that would never be released.

Your mom had told you that there was a box in the nightstand, but out of respect to Hajun's wishes, she didn't touch the box as it was addressed to you. Just informed you of its existence. Constantly.

Your breath caught in your throat as you pulled the box out, your fingers trembling slightly. The box was unassuming, just a plain wooden box, but it was heavy, as if it carried more than just the objects inside. You knew your brother’s handwriting well, and the simple label on the top read, "For Gremlin, when you need me the most."

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest. You sank down onto the floor, the weight of the box in your hands almost too much to bear. What could be inside? What had he left for you? Was it really a suicide note? You weren’t sure if you were ready for whatever it was, but you couldn’t not open it. Not now. Not when you decided that it was time to acknowledge whatever he had left behind. The box felt like a connection to him; a connection that you weren’t ready to sever, even though it had been only days since you last heard his voice.

But it would be even longer without hearing it now.

With trembling hands, you lifted the lid, your breath hitching as you revealed a stack of envelopes, each one labeled with a different emotion—“Read when you’re sad,” “Read when you’re scared,” “Read when you’re mad.” There were fifteen in total, each one written in his familiar handwriting, each one a piece of him that he had left behind for you.

They still smelled like him. And the ink still smelled fresh as well, as if he was in there moments ago as he was writing them.

You wondered if he had waited until the morning before to write them, or if he sat at his desk, with his desk lamp, writing them in the moments the ones he loved most slumbered.

Did he feel even more alone in that moment?

Did he feel as lonely as I feel right now?

The tears that you had been holding back for so long finally broke free, spilling down your cheeks as you ran your fingers over the envelopes. The reality of his absence hit you all over again, like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. He had known. Somehow, he had known that he wouldn’t be there to help you through the hardest moments; that no matter who he turned to he knew he wouldn't be able to defeat the biggest demon raging in his mind; so, he had left you these pieces of himself, a way to still be there for you, even in death.

Your vision blurred as the tears continued to fall, your breath non-existent as you tried to hold back the sobs that threatened to break free.

It was so like him—always thinking of you, always wanting to protect you, even when he couldn’t protect himself. He had been hurting so much, more than you could have ever known, and yet he had still found the strength to think of you, to leave behind something to comfort you in your darkest moments.

Why couldn't he have focused on himself? Why did he have to worry over me so much, that he couldn't reach out for help? He could've have been dialing a number, talking to a therapist- mom, dad, me - instead of writing these and admitting defeat. Why couldn't he worry about himself for one moment?

It's my fault. You told yourself over and over as you looked through the envelopes, a weird anger boiling in your stomach at how kind your brother was that it aided in his own neglect.

You were about to put the envelopes back in, when you saw something flash in the bright lighting of his room.

At the bottom, beneath the envelopes, was a photograph. A tiny polaroid that had been taken in what you had assumed was a party, or a club. It was dark, but you could tell the photographer had used flash.

You pulled it out, recognizing only one face in the picture—your brother and another young man that you had assumed was Hajun's age, both grinning widely, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

Their smiles were both wide and white, and you instantly could tell just by the way the man smiled - his eyes nearly disappearing and his nose scrunching up slightly, that they had to have gotten along extremely well.

The young man was familiar, his face one you had seen before, but couldn't pinpoint. You were more than sure he had to be another idol, since Hajun didn't have many friends outside the industry - unless they were back home - due to the safety concerns and harsh restrictions of his company.

You flipped the photo over the photo out of habit, not expecting anything to be there, but slightly surprised when you saw a somewhat messy penmanship on the back, an unfamiliar handwriting that had engraved the words in fine tip sharpie, “Call me when you get lost.”

And beneath it your brother's familiar chicken scratch:

You'll be okay.

He knew. He planned.

And a hatred burned in your heart, but you couldn't bring yourself to accept that anger.

Why did you leave me?

Your hands shook as you held the photo, tears slipping down your cheeks as the reality of what he had done washed over you.

He had left you more than just words. He had left you a connection, a way to reach out to someone who might understand, someone who might help you find your way out of the darkness you were drowning in.

But how could you?

How could you listen to your brother's instruction when he had delivered you the worst kind of betrayal.

How could you listen to his instruction, listen to his words and believe them when you had once believed in a promise that he so easily broke.

How could you reach out to someone when you didn’t even know how to begin to heal? The thought of calling a stranger, even one your brother had trusted, felt impossible. Yet, as you sat there, surrounded by the remnants of your brother’s life, you knew you couldn’t do this alone, you didn't want to admit it, but you had to.

The photograph slipped from your fingers as you collapsed back onto the floor, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once. You laid against the cool hard wood of the floor, trying to grasp anything that could keep you tethered to reality.

The pain, the grief, the overwhelming sense of loss that you had been trying so hard to keep at bay finally broke free, and you were powerless to stop it.

The sobs that tore from your throat were raw, primal, a sound of pure anguish that echoed through the room, through the house, through your entire being.

"Mom! Dad!" You cried out. "JuJu."

The house remained silent, your parents out and about. Staying away from anything that brought them back to that moment.

"JuJu." You croaked. "JuJu..."

It felt like the world was crumbling around you, like everything you had ever known was being ripped away, leaving you with nothing but emptiness. How could he be gone? How could the one person who had always been there for you, who had promised to never leave, be gone? The thought was too much to bear, too painful to comprehend, and it left you feeling hollow, like a part of you had died with him. You wanted to die.

You couldn't end up like him, you couldn't.

But you couldn't even fathom living without that support.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, curled up on the floor, your body wracked with sobs that seemed to have no end. Time had lost all meaning, and you were trapped in a cycle of grief that felt like it would never end. But eventually, the sobs began to subside, leaving you drained, exhausted, and aware of your utter loneliness.

With shaking hands, you wiped at your tears, but they kept falling, as if your body was finally letting go of the grief that had been festering inside you for so long. It brought almost a physical relief, being able to release that second half of tears that had seemed to stop when the gravity of Hajun's death had hit you.

The photograph lay beside you, the words on the back blurring through your tears, but you could still make them out.

"Call me when you get lost."

The words echoed in your mind, and for the first time since your brother’s death, you allowed yourself to hope that maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back.

You found a tentative belief in Hajun's last promise; a belief knitted together solely by desparation.

With trembling fingers, you reached for your phone, your heart pounding in your chest as you dialed the number scrawled on the back of the photograph. The line rang once, twice, three times, and for a moment you thought it might go to voicemail. But then there was a click, and a voice on the other end—a voice you somewhat recognized in passing. But would be at a loss if needed to pinpoint who it belonged to.

"Hello?" The voice was tentative, cautious, as if the person on the other end wasn’t sure who might be calling. It was laced with an Australian accent, a deep and rich and prominent tone. You could hear the sound of music playing faintly in the background, and the voice of multiple people speaking, a reminder of the life you had once known through your brother, the life that was now so far out of reach.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, a jagged breath escaped. Your throat felt tight, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst. But then, as if sensing your hesitation, the voice on the other end softened. "It’s okay," he said, his tone gentle, reassuring. "Take your time."

And somehow, those simple words were enough to break through the wall you had built around yourself. The tears started flowing again, but this time they weren’t just tears of grief. They were tears of relief, of release, of finally letting go of the pain that had been eating away at you for so long.

"I miss him," you finally managed to choke out, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. "I miss him so much, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to live without him. And- And I found this- and you said call me wh-when-" You gulped for air.

There was a pause on the other end, and for a moment you thought the call had disconnected. But then, the voice came back, stronger this time, yet still harboring an immense amount of sadness as well.

"You're Hajun's little sister, aren't you?" The voices in the background quieted, as the man on the other end moved to a quieter spot.

"You don’t have to do it alone," he said, and the sincerity in his voice made your heart ache with a strange mix of pain and comfort. "He wouldn’t want you to go through this by yourself. And neither do I. So, whenever you’re ready, I’m here. We’ll figure this out together."

And in that moment, for the first time since your brother’s death, you felt a glimmer of hope. It was small, fragile, like the first rays of sunlight breaking through the darkest of clouds. But it was there, a guiding you toward the hope of a future that, while uncertain, wouldn't be so terrifying anymore.

You had lost your brother, and nothing would ever fill the void he had left behind. But maybe, just maybe, you could learn to live with the pain, to carry it with you as you moved forward. And with the help of the person on the other end of the line, the person your brother had trusted enough to leave you in their care, you knew that someday, you would find your way out of the darkness.

Maybe not entirely, but right now you figured a life with any light- even if only seen at a distance, like the exit of a tunnel, would be better than whatever the hell you were going through at the minute.

"I-I'm Y/N." You stuttered out, your tears coming to a slight halt. There was yet another silence on the other end, and you wondered if he had hung up; but somehow you knew by just talking to him for a moment, he wasn't the type to do that.

"I'm Chris. Hajun was one of my closest friends. And I'm sorry." His voice was choked with emotion for just a slight second. "But I promise, I'll do my best to help you. It's what he would've wanted."

"I... I don't know. How can I escape this. I can't...what if I can't?"

"If you can't escape, then know that I'm here. Know that you can call me, tell me where you are - whether in a deep anger or sadness tell me -and I'll come find you."

Even in a moments time, you trusted him. You trusted those word's he said. You were lost, and he would do everything in his power to make sure you were found. Because no one did that for Hajun. No one found him until it was too late.

Maybe it's a promise he wished he could make to Hajun.

But now Chris was making you that promise. A promise that you prayed to God he would keep.

Because you didn't know if you could handle another broken promise.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹

If you or someone you know is suffering from suicidal ideation or thoughts of harming themselves, please reach out for help. You never know when someone's last day will be; no one ever does. But if you can help - even just a tiny bit, sometimes a word, text, or even a call can be a catalyst for positive change.

988 - USA Suicide Prevention Hotline | 24 Hours 111 - Helpline UK | 24 hours 1393 - Suicide Hotline Korea | 24 hours

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@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha

@iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric

@panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee

@shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin

@whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun

@ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael

@skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads

@jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld

@kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9

@minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg

@0325tiny @resi4skz @soaplickerrr

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹

[anjelicawrites]

Board made by the amazing @zaldritzosrose. Thank you so much! It is amazing!

Paring: modern!Aemond Targaryen x reader

Synopsis: Period kink collaboration with my amazing dragon friends! Based on an ask @lady-phasma received; read the rest of the works here. Aemond sees in how much pain you are during your period, and decides to lend you a helping hand or better, fingers.

Warnings: period smut, fingering, blood, mention of blood flow, kissing, overstimulation, reader is a bit anxious and ashamed of being on their period, a tiny bit of gore (Aemond says that he has to clean his eye socket and prosthetic), a dash of possessive!Aemond.

A/N: reader is AFAB, where needed, they/them pronoun used. Reader is nondescript but Aemond has to bend a little to hug them.

You’re writhing on the black bed sheets, your naked back arches and slides on the silky material with every gentle motion of Aemond’s long fingers inside your cunt.

NSFW and 18+ only please!

You weren’t too sure when he proposed to help you deal with your period pain, you were feeling so self conscious about the flow and the mess you would, inevitably, make; now? You don’t even remember where you are, your body is a floating bundle of nerves, no pain, no thoughts, only pleasure.

Aemond had kissed you, senseless, as soon as you were back from work, cranky, in pain and tired. He had cornered you against the door by putting one bent arm over your head, while his other hand had cupped your chin to make sure you were staring at his face.

“Welcome back, ñuha ōños, my light.” He purred.

“Hi baby.” You answered, with a small voice.

You knew what he was trying to do and he wasn’t being that subtle about it, if you had to go by the erection pressed against your center.

“Long, hard day at work?”

You couldn’t look into his blazing eye, the naked need and hunger there, yet you were mesmerized.

“Yeah, my back is killing me.”

You weren’t lying. You have been on the pill for years, which had been a big help, and had pumped yourself full of pain relief, yet you didn’t feel totally comfortable.

“Let me help with that.” He growled.

“Aemond…” You whined when his hands grabbed your hips to push you as close as possible to his hard body.

“Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't lend you a hand.”

You recognized the tone: he was in full negotiation mode.

“It’s disgusting.”

“I have to clean my eye-socket and prosthetic. I call that disgusting.”

“It’s unsanitary.”

“I will wash my hands afterwards.”

“I will make a mess.”

“I love when you do that.”

“It’s not proper.”

“Aren’t you the one who taught me that ‘being proper’ is a silly society construct?”

“Aemond, it’s blood, from my vagina.”

“So? Eye-socket, remember? I am not afraid of some little blood.” He cupped your cheeks with his big hands. “Look, you’ll never know if you don’t try and I’ll stop if you tell me to. I want you to feel good.”

You felt the heath spread all over your body at the eagerness you heard in his voice: Aemond wanted to help, he had always been your protector, your sworn sword, your rock, you knew he hated when he felt like he wasn’t doing that, even when there was no enemy to fight.

“Kiss me?” You asked, needing to feel safe in his arms.

“Gods, yes.”

His arms moved to envelope your body, his back bent a little to reach you comfortably and his lips, Gods his lips, soft and warm on yours, kissing you slowly, until you parted your mouth to welcome him in.

You moaned when your tongues met, your body held upright by his only, your knees wobbling dangerously.

“Let me take you to bed and treat you like the queen you are.”

You giggled when he swooped you up and carried you bridal style, you hid your face against the side of his neck to breathe in his masculine scent and leave small kisses on the soft, alabaster skin.

With the utmost care he laid you on the silk sheets and undressed you, kissing and nibbling every patch of skin he could reach, making you laugh when he started tickling your sides and you had to threaten him, or he wouldn’t stop.

You felt self conscious when he removed your panties and you noticed that the inside of your tights were stained with blood (pill or not, the flow is always out of control).

“Are you still with me?” He asked, with a soft voice, as if he didn’t want to startle you.

“Yeah.” You hated how unsure you sounded.

“Will you show me then, ñuha ōños? Will you spread your legs for me and show me how beautiful you are?”

You couldn’t look into his eye when you, slowly, let your legs fall on the side, displaying your curls, wet with fresh blood.

“You take my breath away, dōna jorrāelagon, sweet love.” He murmured.

You dared take a peek at his face and took in his mesmerized expression, the enlarged pupil of his eye and the way he licked his lips, absentmindedly.

“Do you truly like it?” You loathed the embarrassment in your voice: you shouldn't feel the way you do!

“Yes. You’re always beautiful. Look at me.”

Slowly, feeling your whole body lit up, you let your eyes bore into Aemond’s lonely one and almost choked when you saw him lick his fingers with long laps of his pink tongue.

“You can scream and cry as much as you please, I will stop only when I know your pain is gone.”

You let your body fall on the mattress with a moan: Aemond is always a man of his word, he will drive you crazy and bend your body to his whims.

“Give me a kiss, dōna jorrāelagon.” He said, covering your body with his.

“Yes, Aemond, yes.”

His still clothed front lay on yours, the expensive cotton of his shirt was so soft against your naked breasts, his tongue was gentle in your mouth, easing you into relaxation as his long fingers slowly traveled from your knee to your center.

He leisurely followed the lines of your muscles, kneading the knots of anxiety he found along the way, teasing around your needy center until you started moving your hips, trying to catch his wandering fingers; you moaned when he, finally, spread your lips. You couldn't see them, but there were tendrils of blood and come already formed, his index finger squelched with the obscene amount of it when he slowly breached you.

You were so warm around him, warmer than ever and so responsive: you’ve never clenched this tight around him, he had to work your muscles open, slowly, gently, his lust inflamed by the needy sounds you were making.

“You’re sucking me in so eagerly, my love.” He drawled in your ear and you tried to hide your face. “None of that. Let me enjoy all of you.”

Your first orgasm hit you unexpectedly, fueled by his gentle movements and the hungry expression on his beautiful face.

“Aemond…” You begged, when he didn’t stop fucking you, he simply slowed down to help you ride the high.

“Shhh, shhh, ñuha ōños, one is not enough. I know what you need.”

Slowly, one by one, his middle and ring finger entered you, to crook in a come hither motion that had your hips jump off the mattress when he started massaging your G spot intensely, precisely, with one goal in his wicked mind.

Your body writhed under his, your hands grabbed at his arms to scratch as you felt the intense burn of pleasure explode inside of you, your whole body burning with it, until you came, with a long scream.

Aemond didn't truly still inside of you, he kept massaging your walls, slowly, scissoring you, eyeing you like a hawk: he didn’t want to miss a single blessed out expression on your face, not when you were the picture of pleasure, his personal Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, and you were calling his name so sweetly, as if he was your only tether, your safe haven.

Aemond had you dance on his fingers for hours, slowing down and hurrying up, until your body was a writhing mass of nerves and tears, your blood and come had formed a puddle under your ass.

You're his masterpiece, your body his temple, your pleasure his only goal; he smiles softly when you try to say his name, but only a dis-articulated sound of pleasure slips from your tired lips.

“I'm here, I'm here.” He tells you softly.

He lets his thumb massage your puffy clit, so overused the light touch has you clench painfully around him as he lays over you.

He's still dressed, his nice shirt splotched with your blood, his slacks too uncomfortably tight for him to move without a moan of pain: not that he cares, only you and your pleasure exist, he's the mere conduit of it.

His lips find yours in a sloppy kiss, you tongue subjugated to his can barely move, his fingers so deep inside of you drive you mad, your pain all but forgotten; when his mouth lands on your breasts you keen, back barely arching to meet his ravenous mouth and teeth. Your hands slot in his hair to control his movements and he sucks harsher, leaving marks all over the soft skin. The dual sensation forces your body into overdrive; your brain is already so drunk with pleasure that you start shaking violently when Aemond's fingers pick up speed again. In vain you try to beg, you cry, your abused walls inflamed by his constant use clench so tight he can barely move or spread his fingers, his thumb brutal on your clit, fast horizontal sweeps that send shock waves up your spine.

Your eyes open wide, through the veil of tears you can see his focused expression and the hungry smile on his soft lips. Desperate you grab his biceps, your voice failing you when you try to scream the pain, and the pleasure you're feeling.

“The last one, ñuha ōños, give it to me!” He roars.

Through the turmoil you want to scream that you can't, he's ruined you, God please Aemond have mercy! No more! But your body is not yours anymore, it's his instrument to play, you’re simply along for the ride.

When pleasure explodes you arch so much you're sitting, body ravaged by the pleasure your muscles shake, your cunt clamps so tightly Aemond can't move his fingers and it's only his will that stops him from coming untouched at the sight of you coming undone, with fresh tears streaming down your cheeks.

You flop on the bed, spent, leaking obscenely when Aemond can slip his fingers out of your overused hole.

His fingers are covered in a mix of your blood and come and the mess has leaked down his palm and back of hand, almost to his wrist; when he spreads his fingers there's red tendrils adorning his digits. You have turned him into your masterpiece, a miracle he could never deem possible, marked him in a way no one ever did before and never will.

You're making distressed sounds now, so cold and lonely on the big bed and Aemond immediately grabs your spent body and sits you with your back to his front, curling protectively around you. He murmurs sweet nothings in your ear, he kisses all the soft skin he can reach: pretty, pretty and amazing you are, perfect in any way: his own, personal, miracle.

“You did so good, do you know that?”

The gentleness in his voice, the sweet tone he only uses in these circumstances, are the line that tither you back to reality, to him, your only love.

You try to say his name, to voice your needs, but your brain is too muddled and drunk on endorphins to properly work.

“Do you want to do something for me, ñuha ōños?”

Even as drunk as you are, you can feel the devilish tone and you can't help but nod: you’d do anything for him, even kill, if that meant keeping him by your side.

Aemond smiles at your eagerness, even floating in a sea of pleasure, your only goal is to make him happy, as he is you; he knows he could ask you the most heinous things, and you'd accept: but he would never do something that would harm you, mentally or physically. Not in a million years a Goddess would bestow their gaze upon a ruined thing like he is, yet you did and he will never risk losing you, or hurting you, he’d rather lose his other eye than let that happen. When he pushes you to check your limits, he does it because he knows it’s to help you better yourself, the same way you make him a better man every time you choose him over another, or tell him when he fucks up.

“Lick this mess clean, issa jorrāelagon, my love. Will you do that for me?”

You nod and babble your consent, sticking your tongue out for him, a part of you trembling in the wait.

Iron and a tangy taste hit your tongue, not a bad combination, foreign though, addictive in its novelty, to the point that Aemond has to slow you down when you choke on his fingers and you whine when he tries to have a little taste himself.

Your tongue licks fast and hungry, not leaving a particle of yourself on him until he's clean and your lips are red with your blood, only then Aemond lays you on the bed again and puts his head on your sternum, listening intently to your heartbeat slowing down.

“How are you feeling?” He asks when he feels you try to adjust your position.

“I’ve never been better.” Your hand flies to his mouth. “Don't say a word. Not one.”

As one would expect, Aemond says something intelligible against your palm.

“Why are you still dressed? Oh my God!” You shriek when you see the mess: he looks like a serial killer!

Aemond simply shrugs his shoulders and throws the shirt on the floor: he has another ten in his wardrobe, he can afford losing one.

“Oh God Aemond I am so sorry!”

You can't curl on your side because he's keeping you pinned against the mattress, but you can cover your face with your hands, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“None of that!” Aemond's hands are strong in yours as he forces you to look at him. “I have enjoyed every second of it!”

He silences your objections with a sound kiss and by tickling you until you squirm and laugh under him: you make him so happy just by existing, he wouldn't want anyone else in his life but you.

“Aemond?” You ask, alarmed, when he moves down your body until his face is hovering your drenched pussy.

“Since you were so ravenous, I need to have a little taste.” He smirks at your whine. “Just a quick one, and you need a clean you up, let’s call it me repaying your favor.”

His hands grab your tights and pull them on his shoulders, opening you up to his hungry gaze: just a quick taste and he’ll let you sleep. This is just your first day, he has a whole week to eat you out until you're all he tastes.

Aemond taglist: @fan-goddess, @xcharlottmikaelsonx, @qweencrimson

Ewanverse taglist: @vhagar-balerion-meraxes @zaldritzosrose

[rel124c41]

BITCH CAME BACK. vox

You leave the VoxTek tower at 3 P.M. and return to it at 3 A.M.

Vox likes to think you would never betray him like that.

tags: established relationship, bodyguard, relationship issues, implied/referenced sex, big brother is watching complex, canon typical violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, & fist fights

word count: 8,626

It is not cheating.

He chooses to believe it is not cheating. 

No matter what Valentino whispers about you being unsatisfied in bed; no matter what Velvette teases about how you always leave behind your phone; no matter what his derailing mind starts to image (some muscular hellhound, incubus, sinner, overlord, defined biceps gripping your thighs and –) in his most calamitous moments: Vox chooses to believe you do not leave VoxTek tower to go cheat on him. 

Relationships are built on trust. That principle rule is often why relationships fail in Hell. Trust from sinful liars was as valuable as a rock painted gold. In Hell, trust comes from blood signatures and thumping, electric green deals. You and Vox were not bound through these standard demon methods. No contractual deals, you outlined early on, just verbal agreements. 

You and Vox did have a certain verbal agreement: three little words. Whispered into the drool spot on his pillow, bleeding from your mouth when you two collided in kisses, breathed on your wrist when you found him hunched and tired in his office, flashing on your cell’s screen, and written on his hand. That was the deal. 

Though, Vox muffles a curse into his pillow, you certainly have been saying those words less now.  

He moves his monitor off the pillow surface when the rain of the shower ebbs. When you came in, the scent he had picked up on you was thankfully not sex. Instead the scent of metallic blood clung to you like amber honey on a bear’s mouth. Your signature scent. Vark and his hammerhead brother were drawn to how deeply the smell was oiled and shampooed into your skin. Violence: a perfume tailored for you. 

A hair-dryer starts up in the bathroom and Vox stops busying himself with sharpening the metal of his claws. 

Still, even if sex was not a present scent, that didn’t mean you did not have it. The dark part of him stirs like a hive of bees. Foreplay for you is like a mimic of lions fighting a buffalo to eat her child. His purchases of new screen protectors and bandages increased when you two first kickoffed a relationship. So scent is not a good thing to completely go off on –

The sound of water returns. Ah, the sink faucet. Buried under the first sound, he can hear the tiny scrub of a toothbrush. Light leaks under the closed door. If you kiss him tonight (he hopes you will), he would be grateful for the smell of mint on your teeth. Mint and iron. Mint and iron and the possible burial of body sweat, sex.

You left VoxTek tower at 3 P.M. – in the middle of a weekday before anyone working there would dare to clock out – and then you returned to your shared bedroom at 3 fucking A.M. He should zap the information out of you.

It’s not cheating; it’s not cheating; it’s not cheating. 

The bathroom door clicks open. A towel is thrown around your neck. Already dressed in your pajamas, a simple billowing pair of sweatpants and socks, you make your way over. Tiptoeing even though you know he is awake.

At the ping of you entering the building through surveillance cameras, Vox had started to gradually stir. He could not fake being asleep. As soon as the black on his monitor melted away to reveal blue, you knew he was awake. There is no acknowledgement of him from you. No hi honey or night Vox. And his face brightness is not dimmed below seventy percent so you know he is awake. Azure lighting filtering over sheets and floating in the air, you pull back covers to sink into bed, shirtless as was your habit. You turn your back to him, which has regrettably become a new habit.

He tracks his eyes over the canvas of your back. On it, mauve and ebony bruises are speckled. They are like lily-pads in a dark lake or a thousand eclipses lighting up a dark sky. Never an absence of bruises with you. Across the canvas, there are bisecting marks of sharp claws not made by him that cause him some stress.

Vox remembers once connecting all your bruises into constellations, shapes of animals and faces and other things, post-aftercare scrambling up his wires and guiding him do something so sinfully, sentimentally human. He remembers your laughter and whines at his cold claws on warm skin. Remembering not in a human way but in an electronic way, memories always fresh in his mind, recorded.

You were like a virus. The most prominent memories he has are ones with you.

Blue light slimes over your skin. Vox dims his screen in hopes you might turn towards him. No luck. He lifts up one sharpened claw to drag a line shaped like a cleft note from bruise to bruise. He goes to —

“Stop that. It hurts.”

He goes to do nothing. Defeated, Vox returns his hand underneath his pillow. Why are you acting like this? Why were you doing this to him? You must feel his eyes scrutinizing on the cusp of your shoulder. Moving, you do something that takes that dark, calamitous part of Vox and squeezes it like a dog clamping his teeth around a squeak toy, all the ink spilling over and soaping up his systems.

You inch to the edge of the bed, so close to falling off that you might as well leave altogether.

It’s not cheating. Vox rolls over and tries to sleep without dreaming. 

You are a hired bodyguard for Valentino. Out of the ten bodyguards employed, you are closest to Valentino. Though you do not flank your boss all hours nor all week, you are seen most in the public eye out of the others employed to protect this pompous moth prince. This is because you are so efficient at your job.

It was that efficiency that drew Vox to even glance in your meaningless, background direction.

For a sinner demon, your physical appearance does not often stir up anything for anyone. Your employer did give you lipstick tubes a few times and perfumes for you to try. If Valentino said you had potential, he wanted you to embrace it.  You politely declined but kept your gifts. To be honest, you are very plain. Your hellish form was disfigured to give the mimicking resemblance of an oni, a yokai, but most human features remained. 

You had two physical differences that Valentino nettled you on showing off. One: golden spirals running down your arm like kintsugi art; two: a set of heavy, crimson horns growing from your temples. Every first of the month, Valentino mourned your horns.

January first, February first, March first, April first, and so on, you would grind down your horns. Equipped with a hacksaw and then a sander, it was a routine task for you. What could have grown gorgeously into carmine bighorn sheep’s horns were ruined to Valentino’s grief. You snipped them away like a disgruntled gardener. Like two red tree stumps, your horns sat on your head.

You went through with this cosmetic change for two reasons. You could not stand the look of a demon on yourself. Your horns were so heavy that they often disturbed how you moved. 

“I could not kill your enemies if I am toppling over due to the heft of my horns,” you told Valentino and he conceded. 

So unburdened by that obstructing weight, you did your job remarkably and accidentally captured Vox’s eyes. Sparked him, you joked. And then he came to agree and would say you shocked his heart – which often left you with warm cheeks. A relationship built all because someone grew obsessed over a pornstar and felt owed a performance, thus deciding to take it out on Valentino at one of his clubs.

It was nothing remarkable. You were not intimidated by the demon’s size despite the Vees awe. It was simply your job to do. If someone threatened Valentino, a bodyguard needed to react. 

“But a runt like you being able to take down someone like that. What a treat you are, (Name)!” Sharp teeth flirted with you and the moth kissed your bloody cheek when it was all done.

You were not small in stature like an imp. You retained your human height. However, some sinners grew with the hellish transformation. Thus, a 7’ 6” demon was a spectacle against you who was very obviously not reaching that. Though, your hellish transformation had selected a different prowess of your physical form to alter: your strength. Fondly, you reflect on that day.

“Mr. Valentino! Sir!”

Valentino blinks behind his heart-shaped glasses. In front of him, the head of the sinner woman he was talking to gained a third eye. Valentino only blinks because as she slumps lifeless to the ground, her drink slashes on him, causing him mild stress. Then, he blinks a second time as you grab him by the waist, spinning him off the leather booth, a hole suddenly appearing in the exact spot his back was reclined on. 

His lips upturn into a smile, amorous pinks and warm amber lighting raining down on his features. How theatrical you are! He mourns when your hands slide off his waist as you jump in from the shadows to do your job. 

He distantly hears Velvette curse. She was sitting on his left so it is only natural she would be startled, so close to when the gunshots were fired. Valentino watches as you jump down from the high platform where the three Vees were sitting and watching the night’s performance before being rudely interrupted. 

The demon is easy to make out in the crowd, Carmine-manufactured gun raised in his hand, standing at a height perhaps only three feet smaller than Valentino himself. He is not standing for long. You vault yourself over a table, kicking him down to a height you can reach and starting to take care of your job. Now, this is not as good as the performance on the stripper pole but is not half bad. 

“Vox. Light,” Valentino says, turning to his right where the television demon is in a similar state as Velvette, but collecting himself. A cigarette hanging from a long cigarette holder is waved momentarily in his face. 

“Thank you,” Valentino says and, smoking, watches. 

There are a million tools you could be using – glasses from any of the nearby tables, the arm of a leg chair, Valentino knows you are skilled enough to grab the gun laying two yards across the club floor to finish this job. Yet, all you do is punch and punch, enjoying and savoring your job.

Raising your fist by your head, launching it down into the demon’s face. Again and again and again. Valentino watches with great delight how the speed at which the demon’s legs fail miserably underneath you wans off from panicked kicks to tired scuffling. Your knuckles are recolored. You raise back up your fist. You launch it back down into the concave space you are making. There is a nose, underneath that is a gorey sunken mess, underneath that is a disconnected, bottom jaw. The crimson warmth coating and nuzzling into your hand is a welcome feeling. You miss it dearly when the body underneath you eventually stills. 

With a push, you stand back on your feet and start towards Valentino. He raises one of his four arms out to you – the upper right one drawing you in as he spins you excitedly on the platform. Valentino dips you and kisses you on the mouth, giving you the courtesy of blowing out his smoke first.

“Well done!” He pulls you back up into a standing position. 

“It is my job, Mr. Valentino.” Your voice is monotone which isn’t too entertaining but it does not dampen Valentino’s cheer. “No need for praise.”

Your gaze briefly flicks over to the couch. Genuine scolding burns you up inside while looking at the hole in the leather booth, should have been quicker. You startle when you see one of Valentino’s associates staring at you. Was the television demon named Vel or Vox? Doesn’t matter.

Hating being ignored, a finger on your face tilts your gaze back to the heart-shaped glasses. Valentino leans down, humming at the side of your face when some gore must have billowed up from the mess you were making. “But a runt like you being able to take down someone like that. What a treat you are, (Name)!” Sharp teeth flirt with you and the moth kisses your bloody cheek; all of it done and all of it set in motion.

You will never know Heaven. After some tears, skin punched off your knuckles, and snowflakes of broken glass, you accepted this. You will never know Heaven and its comforts. This is a second Heaven.

Red rivers waterfalling over and down trembling fingers. Warm pain of a bruise kissing into an ankle or wrist like an amorous cat. A crack as the cartilage of bone is split like a pencil. Skin rubbed off like latex on a scratch ticket to reveal bone, blood, and fat. Bitten tongues elongating into red syrup; a black gap in the military cemetery of teeth; an eye rolling on the ground in a morbid game of golf. Blood and injury, a frequent lover of yours. All these wonderful experiences and sensations: backdropped by the sound of sinisterly supportive cheers from imps and sinners. 

Your chance of redemption. Smoke billows off your lip and past your bloody nose. This is a chance to feel what Heaven could possibly be like. Redemption and honor made possible through violence, something you have known for a long time. A moral as ingrained in you as the gold rivulets falling down your arms.

Fiddling with your cigarette with your tongue, you busy yourself with wrapping white around your hands. Over the left and diagonal across the right – like a child practicing tying their shoes. 

You finish your work, checking your compression is tight, when the door opens and a muscular hellborn demon with defined biceps walks in. “(Name).”

“Yeah?”

“Only three more minutes.”

“Got it.”

Vox will never know Heaven. This is nothing that causes him any grief. During his entrance into the realm – before he set up contracts, set up VoxTex, set up a reign of control – it had been a heavy stone to lay with until erosion crumbled it down to a pebble. He will not know Heaven; so fucking what? 

He put so much stock in his business that it would be unfortunate for him to be pulled into heavenly gates. This was Heaven, not a second Heaven but Heaven itself. In the military march of obedient corporate slaves, a hymn. With the simple spiral of his right eye, he could get people to revere him. Proverb 15:3 says: the eyes of the Lord are in every place (every cellphone, house security system, every television and computer), beholding the evil and the good. Alastor gone and probably buried somewhere, Vox was on top of his game. Heaven was perfect until you started acting so strangely.

Something dark stirs in him in his news studio. His brain and eyes are wired to every device in the room. Vox turns from talking with the camera operator, words automatic as if they were pre-recorded. Even when you are concealing yourself in shadows, he can see you and when you step out of them, he wants to watch.

“Sir, is this a correct height for the trucking?”

“No, you’re doing it wrong,” Vox says without even turning his body to check the camera’s position. 

His attention is raptured by you. As it always is. Woefully, he watches as you talk with Valentino in the corner, before another bodyguard with defined muscles, puts a hand on your shoulder. Vox does not even try to hide the abhor spark that flicks over him. He could hear everything perfectly from Valentino’s phone but it is nothing of use. You switch out a shift and are letting your boss know that you are clocking out. Simple, quotidian activities. Nothing of use to try and decipher where you go. 

This is Heaven, Vox reminds himself, standing in Hell.

“Five hundred, nineteen.”

The room tilts and billows.

“Five hundred, twenty.”

There is something about pain that is so satisfying to you.

“Five hundred, twenty-one.”

If you could stay in pain, it would be as beneficial as a plant in sunlight.

“Five hundred, twenty-two.”

You – You, huh? – You turn your head to the side slightly. Blue light fruitlessly hides from you. Oh, he is awake. Releasing the tension from your muscles, your feet take a slight drop to the ground. You can finish the last of your six hundred and sixty-six pull-ups at a later time, you relinquish.

Just as you grab yourself a shirt, Vox finally decides to speak. It is a tone as if he is trying to gauge which version of you he will receive today: your old self or your new self. “Morning.” He rises up from the pillow and smiles dubiously. “You still have a bit more than a hundred to go.”

You stare at him. In his expensive, personally tailored pajama button-up. Him, with the hesitation in his eyes. Vox. Your Vox. Who despite the distance you have carved out, you are still incredibly fond of. You pull the shirt down over your abdomen and say, “Morning.” Slowly, you take a lazy walk to the side of your shared bed. “How do you feel,” you ask as you plant yourself down.

“Definitely felt better before,” he grins lopsided, trying to flash on some boyish charm. “Think you almost dislocated my shoulder.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I liked it.”

“Still, it’s not right of me.”

“...” Vox runs a hand up and down your thigh before lifting it up onto the bed.

“What is the agenda for today?”

“Let’s see. Marketing team has a change of manager which is gonna be a bitch to handle; we have a mid-morning segment to do on Velvette’s love potion; I have a 2 o-clock, a 4 o’clock, then a 5 o’clock; today is Friday so another Vox-2-Nite is scheduled. And that is all planned without any wiggling room. So if just one thing goes wrong –” At the mere thought, his voice starts to drop in octaves, prematurely vexed. World never seems to stop spinning, even when being below it. 

“Sounds dreadfully long. Are you sure your charge will hold on through it?”

“I scheduled a fifteen minute break in there … somewhere.”

“Ah, yes, Vox’s infamous fifteen breaks. Ones that always get pushed off until the end of the day.”

“They aren’t so infamous when I have you there, forcing me to take company-policed hour breaks … You really have to stop doing that.”

“Well, you’ll have to trudge through today without me or an hour break. Valentino has me booked today, honey.”

“That fucking bastard,” Vox shimmers, cursing Valentino, and you offer a timid chuckle. You trail a calming hand up and down his arm. Throughout the conversation, he and you had fallen into the lotus sex position – just awfully more clothed and less sexy– one of the numerous you two had been tangled into last night. 

Last night … your mind cannot help to wander to it and not fun wandering either. Two awful images keep spinning in your mind. One: the image of you grabbing his upper arm in the cowgirl position only to push too hard and hear a sickening crack from his shoulder, his screen malfunctioning. Thank your lucky star, it was just air bubbles. Two: in the middle of your rendezvous, the image of his screen turning black because you had taken talons and dug them amorously into his abdomen, your passionate action almost punctuating his colon. 

You kiss under his monitor when Vox rests his chin onto your head, feeling the warmth of electronic currents mimicking a bloodstream long since retired. You let him stay that way for a while, enjoying his presence. It is a little better than finishing up those pull-ups. 

“Hey, are we alright?”

Spoke too soon.

You stone up in his arms like a garden statue – ah, his arms. He has thought ahead and wrapped his arms around you, forbidding you from escaping this question. Well, you can still escape as you had no contract requiring you to answer his questions. Avoidant kisses are speckled past his poorly buttoned-up pajama top. 

“(Name).”

At the stern tone coating him saying your name, you bite into his blue-tinted collarbone. Vox is expecting this so he does not even groan at the fresh assault on an already bruised neck. He lets you fight shy of this heavy conversation through your physicality. His pride is quite grand when he does not moan as you attack his particularly sensitive spot, just in the space between the vagus nerve and jugular vein. 

“(Name).” You sweat cold when you realize Vox’s voice is still controlled and level, absent of a single glitch.

“Yes, honey?”

“Are we alright?”

“Why wouldn’t we be,” you avoid the question with a question and start to unbutton his pajama top. 

“Because you’ve been leaving –” his voice glitches, just a slight temperament, but you jump onto the break in his words.

“Hey, Valentino’s working on,” you press a kiss to his dead heart, “on this new segment in his porn. And it’s got,” you bite down lightly on his nipple, “this really hot position in it,” you scold yourself when your fingers mess up on a button, “called the Valedictorian. I think we should try it.” You celebrate when you manage to undo the last button by sucking on Vox’s nipple.  

“(Name).” 

At least this time, when your name is said, Vox’s voice is wobbling. And, thus the arms around you are less like a steel cage and more like fragile icicles. Honestly, you could have broken out any time but you would rather slip out of his arms with humane strength. 

And Valentino comes to the rescue twice in this eventful morning. Mentioned in name and then showing up in the ring of your phone. Vox is in such an amorous state that he only disconnects the incoming call after the third ring which means its presence has been heard and cannot be ignored.

“(Name).”

This time he says your name mournfully. You place a parting kiss to his throat. From his fragile arms, you slip away. “Duty calls,” you say and then leave as you have done for weeks now.

EXPANDING THE VEES REIN. 

That is what the agenda for today’s meeting is, highlighted in bold in the most professional serif font, Times New Roman, and thrown up onto screen behind Vox’s chair. He had wrestled with that for a while, foolishly feeling like the intern he once was in the living world. Not that Valentino or Velvette would appreciate it. Crumpled papers littered his personal bedroom, alliterations and homophones scrapped. Absent from his usual sounding-board (your spot in bed empty), he had decided after frying his favorite mug that simple and cut-to-the-point was the way to go.

Expanding the Vees rein: how can they go about that, the next slide asked to a group of two. Well, don’t damage your dead brain too hard by thinking of that alluring question; Vox was already supplying the answers and then the execution. And he readily rambled on about it:

“Now this little beauty is called SPID. It stands for spider parodying intellect-gathering device. Spied and spider, see? The task of the SPID would be to lock onto anybody’s potential target, infiltrating homes and creating a web of information through this lens. If we refer back to slide thirty-three, we can see the previous success of –” 

“Vox.”

The Overlord screeches to a halt. Not really paying attention if either Velvette or Valentino were paying attention, his name being said catches him by surprise. His claws pierce gently into the plastic molded around the spider device in his hand. The SPID is just one of the dozen he has brought in, all masquerading under the purpose of Expanding the Vees Rein.

A snarl appears on his screen. “Yes, Velvette?”

“How long have you and (Name) been together?”

It gives the Overlord pause for a moment. Gently, he takes his claws out of the back of the mechanical spider. Letting the tiny creature join the others on the conference table, Vox grumbles, “eight months, one week, three days.” 

He onlys that so precisely because he has a detailed timeline of everything since his fall. Give him a precise date and year, no matter how far away, and he could tell you exactly what he had for breakfast. His memory was pristine. 

“Isn’t that enough time for you to trust them? And enough time where we don’t have to sit through your spiraling insecure bullshit?”

With a laugh: “As you can see, Velvette, this meeting is the betterment of the Vees. If one does not always expand his monopoly, he leaves himself vulnerable to be subdued by another monopoly. Sooo – as I was saying, this spider is going to help us –”

“He’s just being pissy because he doesn’t have his little bebito/a under contract.”

The spark of electricity that flies over Vox’s entire body is violent. Volatile energy pulses in the air as formidable as a gun. This time (because he had already picked back up the spider) the SPID dies with a crunch in Vox’s claws. All eight legs twitch in the tiny thunderstorm inside Vox’s grasps. Vox is envisioning crushing a different insect though. 

“Neither do yOU.”

“I might not have their soul, but I have their loyalty. Do you?” Vox can tell by the grin pulling up Valetino’s lips that he finds this remarkably humorous. Very pleased at himself that he knows something the Vox doesn’t. 

“You FUCKING –”

“Hahahaha!”

They never get to go over the additional twenty-seven slides Vox had slaved over the night before.

“Mr. Valentino? Sir?”

The strap of your duffle bag is choked by uneasy hands. When the door had opened in the back alley of Voxtek’s towers, you had admittedly jumped like a startled cat and screamed like a kid on a rollercoaster. Even when greeting the familiar face of your boss, you are still a little nervous. 

“Do you need me for something, Sir?”

Though you are off the clock, so Valentino really should not be down here. In the dirtiest part of the towers, in a small sliver of space ignored by security cameras. Which makes your apprehension completely valid.

“Can’t a man enjoy a smoke, bebito/a?” The uneasy wilts out of you as he pulls his cigarette holder from somewhere.

“Of course, Sir. I will leave you to it.”

“No, stay. That other demon is such a sloppy bodyguard.”

“Oh.”

“Light?”

“Of course, Sir.”

You take your place next to Valentino, his shadow. Looking down at the duffle bag, you judge that you can be a bit late. It is not like –

“Dunhill. Refined cigarettes, cinnamon and suet.” Pink smoke billows off tiny fire, slurring up into the air in the shape of sweet Valentine candy. It never fails to impress you with how delicately opulent it looks. “You know, the best cigarette is the first cigarette in the morning. The untouched, virgin cigarette after a night starved of them. Very new. Very Dunhill. 

“I do not like owning second hand garbage, (Name).”

You feel your heart beat faster just a few seconds. That tone of voice is one you have never had directed at you. The straps of your duffle bag cry for release as you strangle them in a worried grip. “I’m aware, Sir.”

“Typically, when you get out of the hole, you do not go crawling back to it.” 

“Yes, typically not, Sir.”

You two fall into silence. Where Valentino luxuriously leans against the brick wall, you fall back and dig your shoulders into the brick, making sure to feel the pain and burn of a bruise. At this moment, you can feel your heartbeat under the skin of your throat. You are sure Valentino can hear it too with how he is prolonging drags off his cigarette. Typically, you were not so afraid of Valentino – even now, your fear stems from the thought of Vox instead of Valentino. You wrestle with the thought of the repercussions if Vox knew you were crawling back into that hole as your boss said.

“Answer me this.” Smoke waterfalls off his lips and you look up. The Overlord slowly takes off his heart-shaped sunglasses and bends his height. “Are you being summoned there?”

“No, Sir,” you answer with your untethered soul still inside you, pounding away on your ribcage. 

“Hm.” Straightening up to his height, Valentino smiles and puts back on his sunglasses. “Good.”

It is not cheating, Vox reminds himself as he hops from television in stores windows to telephone wire to smart watches. Those four words are a fire blanket coating over his damned soul. They keep him from exploding in fiery rage. Even when he reaches a point where he has reached the last electronic he can use, he repeats that … ugh, prayer … in his head. Sparking out of a telephone wire, Vox stands formidable on the ground, energetic from his frustration. 

Then, he tries diligently to shrink and draw less attention to himself.

His screen brightness is dimmed to a submerged 16 percent, all of his notifications are thumbed over to off, and a gray hoodie is zipped over his red-and-black striped waistcoat: all the preparations for this espionage set into place. He had done exceedingly well keeping out of your sight while keeping you in his sight. Head down, Vox follows around the last corner you took. 

Every city has its bad areas. Pentagram City has managed to exceed the limits for a bad area quite impressively here. He has to side-step some monstrous activities he would rather soon forget. The depth of red liquid staining his shoes would put to shame a wade in a cranberry bog. Violence swims in the air like a body fragrance.

There is a hole in the world like a great black pit and the vermin of the world inhabit it and its morals aren’t worth what a pig could spit. Vox recounts you saying that once; he pulls up the recording in his files, listening to your voice in the back of his head. Perhaps you have meant here rather than Hell. 

Waiting thirty minutes inside telephone wires after you went in was painful. He had boiled over with the anxious energy of just wanting to follow you shoulder to shoulder. He knew better. So while watching you go down a flight of cement steps, past a black gate, into an apartment complex’s basement was like water in the wires, away from him, it was necessary. If you knew about his presence before he wanted to reveal it … well, he rather not clean up shit off fan blades.

This is just a simple check-up. An in and out operation. He just … He just needs to know what you are doing.

Vox cannot really wrap his head around why you are coming here. You are so much better than this cesspool – was it a kink of yours to socialize with the lowest of the low? Skirting around the gate and the door, he walks in uninvited.

No security checks? Really is the lowest of the low. Incredulous, Vox analyzes the place.

It is a lobby of sorts — a mock imitation of it and as close to organized as a hoarder’s house — and there is evidently a large gathering around a desk. There are some outliers standing to the sides of the room. To the far left are double doors, guarded by two well-built and muscular figures. 

Black, jealous spirals appearing in his right eye, Vox turns back to the crowd to calm himself. This does not look like a sex dungeon but he can never be certain. He watched as people elect to shove knives into throats instead of shoving to move up into line. Receding into his body, he feels around for an electronic he can teleport in and out of.

Hm?

Hm.

No way. 

There are zero electronics in this entire place. It gives Vox such whiplash he ogles at the place until he remembers to school his expression. No one even holds a phone in their back pocket. For the first time in his reign of control over technology, he cannot feel a single spark of anything. 

Vox is knocked out of his stupor when some sinner pushes him, “fucking move or lose it, flat face.” and melts into the bloody crowd.

Metal claws curl up into his right palm. He schools that whet vehemence in his soul, knowing he sadly cannot cause a scene. No one knows of his presence. Probably the only praise-worthy factor of a town empty of technology. Joining into the crowd, Vox thinks on how he will find that sinner later. Electrocuting him until his eyes pour out of his sockets like rooibos tea is a calming image to feast on. His digital mind plots in great detail as he waits to reach the front.

— according to — the eutectic point, two solids have the same melting point, of the human skin and eyeball is — between 500 to 2000 volts kills — and saline — a sponge moistened with saline as a conductive jelly for electric currents — according to —

Vox is kicked out of his browsing of the internet when a phlegmy throat clears itself. He narrows his eyes in annoyance, finally stepping up to the seat of his mind and away from the waves of databases. 

At least he was recording and listening to what others said before him: “I’ll have 80 on number 7.” Vox says, combining the numbers of two separate customers’ statements. Then, he pulls out his credit card from his slacks. Even under poor lighting, the ebony and gold surface shines pristinely. 

The demon at the desk raises an eyebrow at him, “We don’t accept cards, newbie.”

They don't — huh! Even the Epirorium down in Cannibal Town accepted credit cards — credit cards were the most effective way to pay for anything! A quick transaction without the hassle of juggling coins and crumbled bills. He cannot help gritting his turquoise teeth in frustration. 

“You cannot be serious.”

“No cards or phones. You’re already breaking one of the rules with that fucking Samsung you got as a head.”

“It’s a LG, not a Samsung.” He can feel his teeth grinding.

“I don’t give a fucking shit.” The demon deadpans. “Do you have any cash?”

Waste of space sinner; if his patience (his very small patience) keeps getting tested tonight, something is gonna go wrong. With a grumble, he searches around in his wallet. Credit card 2, credit card 3, credit card 4, a photo of you and him, credit card 5, cred— a measly five dollar bill. Slamming it down, Vox deepens the pitch and echo frequency of his voice, “Here you go. Five on number 7.”

Worthless piece of shit. 

The demon clears their throat and then hands Vox his ticket. Knowing that is all he needs from observation, the Overlord makes a swift turn to the double door. What greets him is crowds upon crowds of sinners, imps, and hellborns. A stadium of sorts? Vox walks across the top floor, analyzing the circling structure of seats. No one is sitting in the seats but they cascade down in a cup-like structure into this eight foot drop where he can guess the entertainment is. Off the top layer floor, Vox finds a staircase and sedately starts walking down them. All the while he listens to the crowd:

“Kill them! KillthemKillthemKillthem!!”

“The stomach! Go for the stomach!”

“They’re getting destroyed out there. I bet my left eye on this, if they don’t win …”

“Cheater!”

So he was correct in assessing this was a gambling spot. A fighting arena of sorts … Vox thinks he is starting to get all the pieces put together when a loud voice, unamplified by any technology but still pristinely clear, yells, “THE WINNER!” The crowd explodes; Vox lowers his hearing and disturbs the charge into his eyes. His shoes click measured on the stairs. Metal claws grasp the railing and he leans forward, curious and suspecting. 

“Announcing their one thousandth, two hundred and seventy-second win, it is our one and our only (Name)!”

Some skinny demon, smaller than Vox, raises your arm up by the wrist. The golden patterns on your biceps and latissimus glow like a fanning, spiraling wind-chime made of reflective metal. A Jason Pollock of red blood coats your body. Your hands however are thoroughly drenched in red, making the smaller demon’s grip unsteady and slipping. Your expression is tired and unsatisfied. Up and down, your chest rises in heavy pants. And though you look you could really use a nap, Vox thinks you still look stunning.

That is why Heaven felt so far away: in the news studio, in his bedroom, empty from the march of corporate slaves and the clicking keys’ symphony of obedience. Heaven followed after you. 

“(Name).”

Like a dog, you growl around the material in your mouth. Why could he never leave well enough alone? Him and his annoying persistence to always be in your business like a second skin! When he starts pounding on the door, you kick it back hard in retaliation. Thump! Wood groans at the assault. 

Glaring as your name is called again, you work. You had told him it would take five minutes and it had barely been two.

Forceps pinched between your teeth, you gently continue what you came in the restroom to take care of before your management interrupted. (Fuck, you were always under the thumb of someone, bending yourself to them always). Performing any type suture is vastly different when fake silicone skin was not geysering out a steady stream of blood. Pulling the needle holder towards yourself, you push your non-dominant away to lay the first knot. You watch as the loop of blue thread shrinks inch by inch. When the first knot is laid, you twist your hands to do the second knot. 

“(Name)!”

“For fucks sake! I told you five minutes! Not two, not four! Five minutes!” You squeeze the forceps and needle holder in the same hand, harsh metal almost crushing under your grip. You have enough control to not break the tools you need to sew up your thigh. “Am I clear!”

“I don’t care how long it takes for you to get your rocks off. You come out right now. This crazy fan of yours is causing a fucking scene and I won’t have it. It’s either you or nothing.”

“You own the souls of thirty plus fighters! Get one of them to handle it!” 

You look back down at your leg, trying to fruitlessly focus on your knots. Were you on the second or third? 

Your management bristles and shouts back, door almost leaning into the bathroom with the weight of his frustrated voice, “you don’t think I’ve tried that! I don’t know how they managed to do it but no one landed a single punch on them. Like I fucking said, it’s either you or nothing.”

If you were not so equally frustrated, you would have taken a moment to absorb that information. Instead, only a fourth done with your interrupted sutures, you bite back, “unless they want me coming out there with my sweats down my ankles, tell them to fuck off!” You tried to keep profanity out of your words most of the time but this was too frustrating. Putting the forceps back in your mouth, you end the conversation. 

There is a ghastly noise beyond the door. You startle on the toilet seat, the metal hurting your enamels with how your mouth tenses. It is the hollow thumping noise backgrounded by raining sizzles. There is a bloody cough. The raining sizzles billow then fall back, sound momentarily expanding then shrinking. A man’s electronic voice: “I’ve already seen that.” You bite the metal harder in denial.

“(Name),” Vox says. 

Absent of your senses, your hands finally get the second knot tied – it is sloppy and unaligned to the first. 

How? How did he possibly find this place? It is so off the grid of the Pride Ring that no maps or GPS know the name of it. It is a rumored place, absent of technology, that only the lowest of the low lived in. You have been so careful with triple checking your surroundings. No one on this side of town could afford a phone. No one on this side of town could afford to ever get out of it. 

You will never forget meeting Valentino. Long ago, he seemed supernatural and uncanny. Luxury branded cologne burning your nose and pink cigarette smoke irritating your lungs. Everything, the affluent aspects of him, down to his self-possessed smile was something alien and frightening to a sinner like yourself who never experienced the sight of wealth. 

Valentino had been right about it being a hole one would never want to crawl back into. Comparing past and present, you were comparing an orphan on the streets to a prince in the castle. It was obviously better to choose the laps of luxury you had fallen into, content and chesired. 

Yet home called to you and you, the bitch, came back.

You stare hard at the bathroom door separating you and Vox. Blood runs down your left thigh to floors that have never seen a mop. If there is a way to downsize yourself into abysmal nothingness, you yearn for that ability. To shrink away … you wish you could. Slowly, you take the forceps out of your mouth and hold them tight in your lap. Seems like you are going to have to address the open wound. 

“Vox.”

“Can I come in, doll?”

Two things. You wholeheartedly hate two things about his question. The nickname, doll, implying you could be anything like porcelain skinned dolls; then, the fake shyness in his voice, trying to seem meek when Vox is far from that. “No, you can’t. In fact, I think you should leave.” You can smell the mounting violence.

“(Name), please. I just want to know what the problem is.”

“There’s no problem. We’re fine.”

“If we were fine, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Well, I’m fine with me being here, so you’re just going to have to find it within yourself to accept that.”

You surmise this is it. This is going to be the first argument of the relationship. The catalyst of whether you two were going to spark with a negative or positive charge, growing or dying from this verbal fight. Physical fights are your raison d’etre. Now you shift to a wrestling ring. Amputated from the burden of your hands and left with your mouth. Eyes drawn to your lap, you are unsure if you are going to win this. 

“You’re obviously upset over something.”

“I’m not.”

“(Name).”

“Vox.”

“Why can’t you – UGH!” You can tell by the start of his sentence it would erupt into volcanic static and electricity. All the hair on your arms and exposed thighs rise as he sends a wave of energy at something beyond the stall. Good. Physicality you can handle. You wait patiently for Vox to knock down the door. “Do you want us to be public?” Your body locks up, spine pressing hard into the manual flusher behind you. Why – Why is he trying to gauge what has you upset!

As you are reeling from his question, your mouth remains shut. Vox, taking silence as a negative, asks, “are you upset about my past with Valentino because we both have a past with him!” He jumps back when the door thumps and bends with the force of your kick. “Okay, wrong choice of words. Just – ugh! Are you upset about my past with Valentino?”

“I’m not upset over that.”

“Sinners don’t just leave their home from 3 P.M. to 3 A.M. unless they’re upset over something, doll.”

“I’m truly not upset over anything,” you insist. You really need to get back to your sutures before anything has the chance of getting infected. “Vox –”

“Okay, I’ll stop hacking into your phone!” He shouts in defeat.

“You'll stop what!” This time you kick without holding back any of your strength. The locking mechanism splinters down the middle like a wafer cracker. You feel a little victorious in this match when the door hits him in the shoulder, his startled jump just a bit too slow to avoid getting hit.  

“Unholy fuck!”

“My phone,” you bite at him, eye to eye finally. Vox and his Big Brother is Watching complex is one of his worst traits. “You’ve been hacking into my personal phone like I told you never to do.”

“You told me never to do it because of trust. How am I supposed to trust you when you leave for twelve hours in the middle of random nights like you’re on a booty call schedule,” Vox bites back. His red sclera are pointed down, resembling the shape of orange slices with how deeply cut his glare is. Defensiveness is written into each twitch of his body. 

“What, you thought I was cheating on you?”

“What else was I supposed to think!”

That shuts you up. Your temperature on your face rises with each inch of shame that eats at you … well what else was he supposed to think. The image of him, lying in your shared bed alone, head swimming with sharks of queries about your relationship, paints itself in your mind. Eyes down, you concede that that thought of cheating was warranted. Relationships are built on trust. That principle rule is often why relationships fail in Hell. Trust from sinful liars was as valuable as a rock painted gold. Cheating? … Yeah, you cannot blame him there.

“It’s none of that, Vox. I wasn’t upset about any of that and I’m not cheating on you.” 

Even when you cannot look at him, he can tell by the frequency and pitch of your voice that you are telling the truth. A few advanced polygraph technology moves into his right eye, scanning you for any sign of a lie. “I would never cheat on you.” In your chest, your heart beats. Eighty-three beats per minute, completely at rest, completely truthful.

Vox feels awful, finishing up with analyzing your heartbeat. He feels like he has just given a public report wrong on live television and he can feel the social media downfall already materializing in the air; he feels sick to his stomach. And yet he is still mad because, “Why did you not talk to me about this?”

“I was ashamed; and a little scared.” You bite your cheek. “I was ashamed and scared about you finding this place for the longest time.”

Vox raises an eyebrow. “You think I would judge you for needing to blow off steam?”

“This place is beneath you. I know exactly what was going through your head when you entered here: this place is the worst of the bad or this place is the lowest of the low.” Vox inhales through gritted teeth and you know that you hit the bullseye. “I couldn’t just bring you here. You would have been disgusted. And … and that would have led to you eventually being disgusted by me.”

There it is. You guess that is all you really can give him. Still, Vox is looking at you like he does not understand you. He is probably deducing that his past self could have overlooked this revolting place like a lover overlooks an ugly birthmark or stretch-marks. This was not a minor impurity. 

“I fell here.” 

Understanding dawns upon Vox’s face like a gleam on sunrise. Falling … the spot where one fell was sentimental, perhaps not in fondness but certainly in a consequential way. A fool only dares to insult the spot where a sinner has fallen, their second home. 

In a sinister way, this is a homecoming for you. And – sending a wary glance to the bathroom door while he leans into the stall – Vox has realized he committed an illicit act on the same par as perhaps punching your brother or sister. Even if you hated your co-workers?, the sentiment remains. 

The live broadcast analogy is frivolous. Vox feels like he is an intern who just spilt coffee on the front of his boss’s suit a minute before the higher-up was scheduled for a momentail meeting. The burn in his stomach is paralyzing. 

“I-I uh,” Vox stammers. Little sparks are jumping up his body like happy stars. Frustration that mistakenly looks playful. He moans out, “Fuck, (Name).” and leans heavily on the stall’s inside wall.

You chuckle humorously and finally look up. “Yeah. I know.”

“I guess I get … the secrecy now.”

“I’m sorry for not coming clean. Even if this is a really bad hole, it is my hole.” Vox smiles at you, fondly without his previous hesitation. You know by that smile alone that you two are going to survive your first argument. However, you do not want the conversation to shift away from the thesis. Now that you two have finally managed to start it, there is so much that you have to say. “Vox?” He stares in attention. “... We’ve become domestic, Vox.”

“That bad, doll?”

“It’s awful.”

“...”

“I worry – I worry all the fucking time – about hurting you.”

“I’m an Overlord, you’re a sinner. It is a little insulting that you would think –”

“But I do! Every minute, I just worry and worry,” you interrupt, pressing a hand to your chest to emphasize those words. All your hands have managed to do are kill and maim and injure. Fighting quelled your hands. You were positive that if you drained your hands to the point of exhaustion it would keep Vox from getting hurt. “I’ve never been gentle – I’m awful – and I –!”

Vox kneels down on unwashed ground, covered in blood and piss, in his freshly tailored, iron-pressed slacks. Your dead heart pounds at that.

Then, Vox says three little words that you two have decided to put the coin of trust into, paying the fare to a relationship that both of you wanted to keep. “Hey,” he says to snap you out of your thoughts. Then, as he slowly takes the tools out of your hands, Vox says, “I love you.” 

“I love you too.”

As he helps you with your sutures, you still remember when Vox and you had finally said those three little words that built up your relationship. Your contract. One that in a way was not really a contract at all.

I love you. He had said that for the first time when you were checking his grammar for a broadcast. Highlighters and colored pens laid scattered on the ruffled sheets. You had been crossing out the tailing end of a sentence. Eight words stretched out when he only needed three to hammer home his point. You crossed out fifteen words in surprise. In Hell, he is akin to a shark and you are akin to a goldfish. Even so. Sometimes I think love and violence are the same thing. You had meant that as warning but he just leaned into you, biting your tongue when you two kissed. 

Accepting that part of you.

[thedoll-ri]

firefighter!connie, loves his job. he lives for saving lives, the rush is addictive. racing into burning buildings, heart pounding. adrenaline surging as he carries a child to safety.

firefighter!connie, the heartthrob, turns heads. ladies swoon when he's at red lights or on minor jobs.

firefighter!connie, but connie stays loyal, proudly wearing his wedding ring. he politely reminds admirers he's happily married and deeply in love with you.

firefighter!connie, a tough exterior with a soft spot for kittens. he's the one who rescues them from trees and shelters them with a smile.

firefighter!connie, on his days off, he surprises you with breakfast in bed, wearing his apron with a hint of flour on his cheek.

firefighter!connie, whos face lights up when kids stop him for stickers, he loves interacting with the kids and definitely will do those elementary school presentations.

firefighter!connie, with a collection of handmade "thank you" cards from grateful families he's assisted, reminding him of the lives he's touched.

firefighter!connie, your rock and protector, whose presence alone makes you feel secure in a world of uncertainties.

firefighter!connie, his watchful eyes scanning the surroundings, ensuring your well-being as if his sole purpose is to protect you.

firefighter!connie, proudly wearing his uniform with your initial embroidered over his heart, a symbol of his devotion to you.

during a break at the fire station, firefighter!connie flipping open his wallet to reveal a tiny picture of you with your initial written on the back, his special keepsake.

[urdreamydoodles]

Wolverine x Fem!Reader

Logan rivalry with your dog

Logan, Wolverine, finds himself in a awkward rivalry with your small, not-so-bright dog, Mr. Pickles, as he navigates life with you as his partner. Despite his gruff exterior, Logan gradually warms up to the tiny, fluffy companion who insists on treating him like a personal dog bed.

You’ve always thought Logan was good with animals. After all, he’s got that whole rugged, nature-loving thing going on—man of the wild, protector of the weak, and all that. He’s lived out in the woods, fought alongside beasts, and generally been one with the earth in ways you couldn’t dream of.

But when it comes to your dog, it’s a whole different story.

“Come here, Mr. Pickles,” you call sweetly from the kitchen, trying not to laugh as Logan grumbles under his breath in the living room.

The small, fluffy dog at Logan’s feet—Mr. Pickles, a name he clearly detests but you adore—looks up at him with wide, innocent eyes. Logan glares back down at him, as if the tiny creature is his mortal enemy. For a moment, there’s a standoff, and then Mr. Pickles’ tiny tail wags, excited for no reason at all, as if he’s just been praised for something.

“I swear, Y/N, this dog’s got the IQ of a rock,” Logan mutters, standing up from the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. “How the hell did we end up with him?”

You chuckle as you watch the scene unfold. Logan, the Wolverine, the man who’s taken down enemies three times his size, looks like he’s being outwitted by a ten-pound ball of fluff.

“You ended up with him because I love him,” you say with a teasing smile, walking over and scooping Mr. Pickles into your arms. The dog instantly cuddles against your chest, as if he’s already forgotten his little staring contest with Logan. “And because he’s adorable.”

“He’s ridiculous,” Logan counters, his gruff voice barely concealing the amusement in his eyes. “And that name…”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Pickles?” You raise an eyebrow at him. “I think it suits him.”

Logan snorts. “Suits him, alright. Little guy’s about as bright as a jar of pickles.”

You bite back a laugh, petting the soft fur on Mr. Pickles’ head. The dog wags his tail happily, oblivious to Logan’s jab. “He’s smart in his own way,” you defend, though even you know that Mr. Pickles isn’t exactly a genius. He’s gotten stuck under the coffee table more times than you can count, and just last week, you found him barking at his own reflection in the sliding glass door.

Still, he’s your little companion, and you adore him. And Logan? Well, he may grumble and complain, but you’ve caught him sneaking Mr. Pickles scraps from the dinner table more than once.

“You should get used to it,” you tease, setting Mr. Pickles down on the floor. The tiny dog immediately trots off, distracted by who knows what. “He’s part of the family now.”

Logan huffs, sinking back onto the couch with a groan. “I don’t know how you convinced me to get a dog in the first place.”

You roll your eyes, moving to sit next to him. “Oh, come on. He’s not so bad. Plus, I think deep down, you actually like him.”

Logan gives you a sidelong glance, his expression skeptical. “Like him? The damn thing chews up my boots every time I turn around.”

“Maybe he’s just trying to impress you,” you say, biting back a grin. “He probably sees you as competition.”

“Competition?” Logan shakes his head in disbelief. “He’s a dog.”

“A very small, not-very-smart dog,” you add with a laugh, leaning against Logan’s side. “But still. I think he’s jealous.”

Logan grumbles something under his breath, but there’s no real bite to it. You know he doesn’t hate Mr. Pickles, not really. In fact, you’d bet good money that Logan’s secretly gotten attached to the little fluff ball. He just won’t admit it.

“You think I’m jealous of that mutt?” Logan asks, his voice low and playful as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

You shrug, leaning into him with a smile. “I don’t know, are you?”

Logan’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Not a chance.”

Just then, Mr. Pickles reappears, trotting over to the couch with his usual clueless excitement. He jumps up, his tiny paws landing on Logan’s leg as he tries to scramble up into his lap.

Logan freezes, glaring down at the dog like he’s considering his options. He could easily shove Mr. Pickles off, but instead, he just stares at him, brow furrowed.

“What do you want, furball?” Logan mutters.

Mr. Pickles, as always, wags his tail in response, clearly mistaking Logan’s gruff tone for an invitation. With an enthusiastic yip, he finally manages to climb up and curl into Logan’s lap, settling in as if he belongs there.

Logan sighs heavily, looking down at the tiny, fluffy creature now snuggled up against him. “You gotta be kidding me.”

You laugh softly, watching as Logan awkwardly shifts, trying to adjust to the fact that Mr. Pickles has decided he’s found a new favorite spot. “Looks like he’s getting comfortable.”

“I ain’t a damn dog bed,” Logan grumbles, though he doesn’t make any move to push Mr. Pickles off.

You can’t help but grin. The sight of Logan—gruff, tough-as-nails Logan—sitting there with a tiny, fluffy dog curled up in his lap is probably the most amusing thing you’ve ever seen.

“You know,” you say, leaning your head against his shoulder, “I think he likes you.”

Logan looks down at the dog, who’s now fast asleep, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s probably the only creature in the world who can get away with using Wolverine as a pillow.

“Yeah, well,” Logan mutters, his voice softening just a fraction, “I guess he ain’t so bad.”

You smile, knowing that’s as close as Logan will get to admitting he’s grown fond of the little dog. Mr. Pickles might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s managed to worm his way into your hearts, even Logan’s.

And honestly, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[moonshynecybin]

#thinkin about teen dad marc…. like diplopia year…. <- say more callie

eye got. SIX asks about this lmao. but anything for you elle ofc. required reading on this is @yekoc’s vale knocks marc up in like 2013/14 post found here go read it (AND THE REPLIES !!! ). foundational text.

but in this one. vale is jerry springer voice NOT THE FATHERRRR. which i think would make his specific commitment issues significantly weirder and more complex. and marc MUCH more neurotic lmao. he has a baby to look after !!! AND he’s doing death defying stunts !!!

so marc either gets a girl pregnant and keeps the baby or gets knocked up and keeps the baby. choose your own adventure. he’s a teen. diplopia year cwaziness. fully like. i am injured and may never race again which i can’t fix instantly and easily so i’m going to HAVE THIS BABY. tries to #win at teen pregnancy. and marc is part of a VERY tight knit little family so once he gets better he absolutely carts that baby all around the world and inside the garage. (which. he comes back because he both wants to and HAS TO. marquez family finances already depended on him, now you add a tiny sweet infant into the mix that he is responsible for. marc is already psychotic about winning because of natural competitiveness and the aforementioned family pressures this would literally make him worse. crazier.) babychamp t-shirts new meaning. bouncing her on his knee in the box in 2012 BIG ASS baby ear protectors. santi very seriously explaining shit about tire pressure to the side. kissing her little cheek in parc ferme.

and vale. meets this baby/toddler. LOVES this baby/toddler. and as his relationship with marc takes shape it’s a little different! marc’s i’m old for my age complex is 9000x more pronounced but VALE’S i’m young for my age complex is toooooo… so it’s weirder. yes they start fucking but it’s also like. less often. less free time more baby time they don’t hang out at bars as much but every time vale sees marc he gets to hang out with a hot person he likes and sometimes he gets to be goofy for a leedle baby that he is RAPIDLY gaining affection for. marc leaves her with vale (HUGE TRUST. THE BABYSITTING LIST OUTSIDE OF FAMILY IS LIKE TWO PEOPLE.) when he goes to the bathroom and vale reaches over to grab her favorite toy (bugs bunny plush iykyk) without thinking and it’s like oh. oh no. like he spends enough time with her that he KNOWS HERRRR… doesn’t have the rigidity of the fuckbuddies dichotomy because they hang out so often WITH the baby so he can’t write the whole thing off as much. truly what do you do if you love and want to coparent a child. but are also exceedingly scared of commitment and growing older. well.

anyways vale is a freak so he turns that over in his head for a bit. scared 2 death. chews on that for a while. but when it really gets too deep for him is hmmmm ranch visit. when marc rocks up with his toddler (hot pink tiny bike for her that goes 1mph. baby pecco and luca and franky braiding her hair.) lethally adorable in a too big yellow vr46 hat that makes vale’s chest feel like RIBBONS.) and then marc races vale like he’s going to DIE. for NO reason. in a fun vibey recreational session. and vale’s fucking in it now!! every time marc takes a corner too fast his heart seizes up and marc’s daughter flashes in his brain (the baby curl of her hair and the way she reached for marc laughing from the crowd last race…) ans cold sweat breaks out across the back of his neck because if something happens to marc then—

so he pulls back. still waves to her in parc ferme. still makes stupid faces to make her laugh (feels like he’s FLYING. feels like WINNING.) and does grabby hands with marc on cooldown laps (eye ALSO think he doesn’t realize that his marc feelings are a separate entity for the baby feelings lmao. like that he would be worried about marc regardless. the baby is a good excuse here…) but. it’s interfering with his focus. he has to win his tenth. he can’t be coparenting this kid (she’s turning FOUR he’s been giving her bday presents for THREE YEARS NOW.) and worried about marc like that because marc is a competitor. and marc doesn’t feel that way anyways. marc is a bastard to him on track. marc is crashing all the time (WITHOUT VALE THERE. he hears about marc’s summertime hand injury and is like haha. and the baby was WERE. who is HOLDING HER??). and suddenly uccio is at his door and marc is a saboteur. and he’s getting older and he’s slower and jorge is GOOD and that’s— that gives something for vale to grab on to. to self destruct this before it can implode by itself. to make sense of all of this.

and afterwards— after sepang and their text thread drying up and everything. she still runs up to vale allll the time… finds him in the paddock tugs on marc’s hand until he lets her go… and vale always picks her up spins her around sends her back to her dad… still gets her a bday gift… marc watching with a sad smile on his faceeeee… vale DOES get over things faster in this universe because he wants to be more involved for babychild but. it’s rough there for a while when vale is still lying to himself and marc is creating RIGID structures for who he lets in to his daughter’s life because she STILL asks him to call vale so he can read the bedtime story because marc does NOT do the voices right… and he CANT CALL HIMMMM

[novanoms]

Specific vore mood of the night:

Giant and tiny are outcasts of their respective societies, finding comfort in one another through much trial and error. The most significant being a language barrier they’ve yet to efficiently work around. Personality wise, the tiny is much more active, playful, just a whimsical little guy. The giant is very calm, almost cold with how little they express, just a brick wall of an individual.

Anywho, they’ve gotten to the point where they can communicate basic ideas like, food, water, rock, etc. Tangible things. At some point, the giant starts to feel this unbridled protectiveness towards this tiny ball of sunshine. It starts to spiral from anger towards the tiny’s kin for kicking them out, to this self-consciousness that the giant is no where near deserving of the title of ‘protector’ for the tiny. It gets to the point where the giant panics when the tiny is out of sight, constantly seeking to be near them just in case. For fear of them being hurt, or even taken away.

The tiny, however, is oblivious to slightly confused by this change. With the giant’s stone cold expressions as well as the lack of proper communication, they don’t really notice the shift. They still go about like before, they now just have a paranoid guard dog wherever they go. This only further spurs the giant into their thoughts, as the overwhelming pit in their stomach surges at the thought of the tiny being exposed to the threats of this world. While the giant always manages to lock these feelings behind their expressionless exterior, it quickly gets out of hand the second a threat does show up.

Whether it’s a too-close encounter with a wild animal, or something as simple as a thunderstorm, the second the tiny displays tangible fear, the giant’s protectiveness goes into overdrive. The tiny receives a quick comforting nuzzle in the giants palm before stuck in their maw. They can hear the heavier breathing of the giant as they rest for a moment, too confused and freaked out from the initial threat to truly react. A second later they’re guided to the back of the throat by the giant’s gentle yet hasty tongue, swallowed down with as much grace as they could muster.

By now, the tiny has gotten a grasp on where they are, hearing the passing of the giant’s beating heart that seems to be quickening in pace. As they’re pushed into the organ, it grumbles in greeting and constricts as they move around to get their bearings. Not enough to hold them in place, but enough to feel them clearly. While the tiny is scared and confused, they still trust that the giant did this to help, and that this action means no harm.

Meanwhile, the giant is just spiraling into self-loathing. Why did they do that? They know why, but they shouldn’t have. The giant tries to comfort the tiny as best they can, but the words are non sense, just as they always were. They can feel the tiny squirm, it has to be fear. They really are a monster, undeserving of this innocent being’s presence. The second this passes, they’ll be afraid of them. The tiny will run farther than they can reach, and they’ll lose the little spark that gave them so much joy.

The giant’s thoughts pause, along with any other movement as they feel a very distinct feeling in their middle. The tiny, nuzzling into the slightly cramped organ, the squirming of their limbs seeking comfort in the plush folds. They can feel the tiny pressing into the front wall, a small hand petting the tum from the inside as an attempt at comfort. The giant, overwhelmed with the situation, settles to simply hold their gut, focusing on the calm movements that soothe their racing heart. They wouldn’t dare hurt their little friend, and it brings the giant so much comfort knowing that despite the barrier, the tiny knows it too.

[holylulusworld]

Craving

Summary: You receive your much-needed punishment.

Pairing: Walter Marshall x fem!Reader

Warnings: dom/sub relationship, heavy daddy kink, use of sex toys, overstimulation, edging, orgasm denial, overuse of the nickname kitten/baby kitten, overprotective Walter, aftercare, a hint of breeding kink, being tied up (consensual)

A/N: I rewatched the movie and...uh...didn’t get this tall bear out of my mind. Suffer with me...

“Use your words, kitten,” he taunts as he tugs at one of your nipples. You can only moan, and squirm on the table he tied you to. “I’m all ears, baby kitten.”

“Please,” you’re unable to think, speak, or even feel anything but the butterfly strapon torturing your swollen clit. “I can’t take it.”

“That’s not what I want to hear,” Walter tuts. He stops the device when you arch your back, stealing your high once again. “I told you to stay at my apartment, tugged away. Safe. Sound. But no, you had to go out and worry me sick.”

“It was-,” you breathlessly choke out a moan when he switches the device back on. “a spa day. Nothing else…please.”

“They could’ve kidnapped and hurt you too,” he growls and stops the device again. “I wanted you to be safe, and you disobeyed. You’re not a detective. Only a weak and sweet kitten.”

“Daddy…please…”

You cry. Fat tears roll down your cheeks. You’re ruined for anyone else. Your body, mind, and soul only crave one other soul. Walter Marshall. Your protector. The devil and a saint at the same time.

He’s teasing your strung-out body with the device again. Switching it to the highest level. Walter ruined you a long time ago, but tonight he wants to break you all over again.

“Look at you, all needy and whiny for Daddy. But you were a brat. There will be no release for you today,” he puts the remote away to lean over your body. Your lips tremble, and you choke out another sob. He kisses the whimpers away, smirking against your lips.

“Please…I-I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again. Please…please…oh…please.”

You rock your hips, desperately riding the toy torturing your clit. “Again,” he grips your face with his large hand to force you to look up at him. “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry…I won’t do it again. Pr-omised-“Your eyes roll back, and your body starts jerking violently as the device pushes you over the edge. “Daddy…”

“So pretty when you cum,” Walter whispers against your trembling lips. “Even prettier with my big cock inside of your tiny cunt.” He smirks darkly when you gasp against his lips.

You didn’t dare to ask him to fuck you or at least give you his cock tonight.

“Please…”

You’re unable to control the words slipping out of your mouth or your arousal anymore. You're so wet that your juices run down your thighs, dripping onto the dining table. “Please, what kitten?”

“I want your cock inside of me. I’ll be so good for you from now on,” you breathe against his chapped lips. “Please, Daddy.”

“Oh, baby kitten,” he whispers lowly. “I wish I could give you my cock. But you won’t get it tonight. You didn’t earn Daddy’s cock. I’ll take off the butterfly now. You will let me have a look at your pussy and then I’ll run a bath for both of us.”

You sniffle but know better than to talk back. Walter is not mad at you. He was worried about your well-being and now, he shows you how much you mean to him the only way he knows.

He stands straight to look down at your sweat-glistened skin before he speaks to you again. He takes a deep breath and his features soften. “I’ll untie you now, kitten. You did so well for me,” he praises.

While you watch him, Walter carefully removes the silk scarfs holding your wrists and ankles bound to the table. “I’m proud of you, baby kitten. You always do so well for me.”

His praises go straight to your core. You whimper and wiggle on the table, hoping to get him to touch you. “If you are a good girl, I’m going to breed you just like you asked me to do.”

“OH,” you lick your lips.

“I don't mean I'm going to just cum inside your sweet pussy. I will hold you down and push my cock so deep inside of you that it hurts. I’ll ruin this cunt, fuck you so deep and hard you’ll see stars until I finally burst inside of you, and fill you up to the brim.”

Walter smirks when you make an odd noise at his words. He watches you squirm on the table as he moves his hands over your thighs to drag the strap-on butterfly down your legs.

“When…?”

“Soon,” he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss on your forehead. “Now let me take care of you…”

“You’re safe with me,” Walter mumbles against your hair. You lie on his chest, his strong arms wrapped around your body.

“I’m sorry for worrying, Walter. You wanted me to stay at your place, but I was crawling up the walls. Then my friend Lily called, and I thought it’s safe for me to spend the day with my friends.”

“Y/N…I wasn’t mad,” he inhales sharply as he remembers finding his apartment empty. “Only worried.”

“Did you get that monster?”

He hums and runs his warm hand over your bare back. “We got that one. There are too many out there. Sometimes it feels like I’m fighting an unwinnable fight. We win one battle but lose the war.”

“You will get them all, I’m sure about it,” you close your eyes and enjoy his warmth, sighing deeply. “Just remember to be careful too. I can’t lose you, Walter.”

>> Part 2

All works tags

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@shikshinkwon​​

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@mogaruke​​

@shatteredabby​​

@soryuwifeyxx​​

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@liloxclu

@km-ffluv​​​

[angel-of-the-moons]

Ligyrophobia

Moon Boys (Jake focused) x Mama!Reader (Feat. Khonshu and Victoria!)

TW/CW: fluff!

A/N: This just popped into my head because i suffer from this as well and God damn it I needed fluffy Khonshu

Note: This ties into my mini-miniseries, "Small Surprises". Just a drabble on Khonshu's tough bitchy exterior chipping away because Victoria is adorable and he's secretly a big ass softie

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

It was a dreary day. Another storm sweeping over London, blotting out the sun's rays behind the angry dark clouds.

You and Jake had run out to gather things to make for dinner, and Victoria didn't want to venture out with you. She had a bit of a fever and a sniffle, and you were hesitant to leave her behind.

You and Jake were flabbergasted when Khonshu had offered to babysit her.

Jake was hesitant to leave your precious child alone with him, but... even he had to concede the point when you told him that as a protector of the innocent, he would never hurt Victoria.

He had sneaking suspicions that something else was going on with you in particular, as even Steven was far more protective of you than usual.

But... here he is now, with your sickly daughter who sniffled and rubbed at her eye as she huddled beneath her desk, her plush scarab clutched against her chest as though it could ward off the booming thunder from outside.

The power had blinked out, so the flat was dark, only the dim light from outside provided any illumination, which seemed to frighten the child more.

He kneeled down, peering at her.

"You can come out. It's only thunder." He said, trying to keep his tone gentle and quiet. She was a child after all, and it was natural for children to fear things outside of their control, and things they did not yet understand. Especially children like Victoria (and Steven).

Victoria shook her head and cried softly, burying her face in the stuffed toy, her feet curling and rubbing together again, and again as she rocked back and forth, noises bubbling up beneath her tiny sobs.

"Little one--" Khonshu's voice was cut off when a loud crack of thunder shook the flat.

He looked towards the window to see the heavy rain pelting the glass with loud patters, the wind shaking the glass.

This was a bad one, he couldn't help but wonder what triggered this.

His head snapped back to look at Victoria when she hiccuped and began wailing, rocking back and forth, her breathing so quick and ragged he was afraid she would faint.

Her face messed and streaked with... ugh.

But... he couldn't deny something inside of him tugged at the sight of her so tiny and helpless, afraid of what her little psyche could possibly label as some sort of monster outside her home.

Khonshu sighed and reached down, his voice low and soft.

"Come here, little one." He says gently, his large hands curling around her tiny body and pulling her out from her hiding place.

He wasn't surprised when she squirmed and cried, trying to get free to go back to her "safe place". He let her flail, to fight him, until he sat back, cross-legged and cradled her against his body.

She sniffled, her breathing broken up by little sobs as she finally relented, body tense as Khonshu held her, his robes flowing around the two of them, creating a buffer between Victoria and the storm outside.

She snuggled against him instinctively, drawn in by the warmth he exuded, but still made little noises and groans as the thunder roared outside.

Khonshu cradled her back with his hand and pressed her a little tighter against his chest, feeling her rub her cheek on his robes and bandages in a manner similar to how she would stroke her cheek on you or one of your lovers.

"Hush." He murmurs softly, petting her curly hair in an effort to calm her. "You are safe."

She didn't respond. She didn't usually talk when she was having a meltdown, often only rocked and made odd sounds in an attempt to work off her frightened or nervous energy; and it was difficult to break through to her mentally when she was like this.

Khonshu sighed.

And then... began humming.

It was a small melody, but one he remembered well. Hathor would often pluck her harp and sing it to him before he was sent into exile. He remembered being present during the feasts and festivals in her honor, her followers often sang the same song and performed it in the streets.

His deep, vibrating voice seemed to soothe her, little bit little, judging by how she relaxed against him, the tension in her body loosening as he gently rocked her, humming the heavenly song to her.

While this moment was happening, however, he didn't notice the monitor in the corner, the little red light blinking.

He did not know that it automatically switched to battery mode when the cord was disconnected or the power was switched off.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

Jake squinted at the bottles of vitamins, trying to figure out why one bottle was more expensive than the other when their ingredients were the same.

"Ay, paying for brands is so fucking stupid." He growled, ignoring the weary looks from people as he cursed in Spanish.

He plucked a bottle of the shelves and held it up, clearing his throat so the pregnant young lady next to him would look.

"I don't mean to be rude or anything...." He said awkwardly. "But which bottle of these is better? Would you say?"

The young woman seemed a little nervous at first, until she spotted the bottle on question, and realized he was looking at the same shelf of vitamins she was.

Her left hand rubbed her belly as she shyly took the bottle from his fingers, turning it over, and looking at the facts on the back of the bottle.

"Oh! For these, you can just get generic. They have the same stuff and are cheaper." She chirps.

Jake sighs with relief as he replaced the bottle with the recommended one. "Sí, that is exactly what I was saying."

"You're.... shopping for someone?" She asked.

"Ah... Yeah." He laughed a little stiffly, dropping the bottle in the basket he clenched in his fist.

"My fiancé."

"Aw... how far along is she? Er--I mean, I don't mean to assume, I was taking prenatals before I got pregnant just for the health benefits, uh..." She floundered.

Jake flashed her a charming grin, his beard creasing around his plush lips. "She's due sometime in the summer. Only found out a week or two ago."

"Oh! Congratulations!" She smiled, relaxing a bit.

"Gracias," Jake chuckled. "Our little girl is going to be excited--we hope--when we tell her."

"Aww... I hope everything works out for you guys." She giggled, grabbing a bottle of vitamin gummies for herself as well. "Well, maybe see you around!" She chirped once more before cutely waddling away.

Jake grinned again, he couldn't wait to see you waddle like that. Like a cute little penguin.

"Jake! Jake!" You panted, apparently having run with the shopping trolley just to find him. The panicked edge in your tone had him immediately on alert.

"What's wrong? What is it?" He asked, dropping his basket in the trolley to hold your arms in his palms.

"The power's out at home." You heaved, holding up your phone.

He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Did something happen? Was Victoria all right? Did Khonshu do something--

"You have to see this." You say, interrupting his thoughts as you swiped your password in, opening the app to the baby monitor. You weren't out of range just yet, as the shop was relatively nearby, and you'd purposefully purchased that expensive monitor because of the large signal range it had.

You turned your phone around, a face-splitting grin on your face as you showed him the most recent clip recorded. The monitor, when you weren't looking at the receiver at your bedside, uploaded clips in five-minute intervals to the app for storage for you to look at later.

Khonshu and Victoria were highlighted plainly in the night vision mode. Victoria was curled up in his lap and Khonshu was... was singing to her. He didn't understand the words he said out loud, assuming it was some ancient language that Steven could only decipher; as his large hands patted her hair and back, rocking and soothing her like one would do for a baby.

"....See? Who was right? Told you she'd be fine with him." You grin slyly, a hand over your ear, awaiting the inevitable.

"Okay, okay, mierda." Jake ran a hand through his curls, shaking his head at you. "You were right. Maybe the old bird is... coming around."

"Victoria has a way of charming everyone." You giggle, looking at the recording with a glimmer in your eyes.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around your waist, his hands resting on your belly, thumbs tracing your soft curves beneath your shirt.

"Yeah, well... I'm willing to bet her sibling will have the same charm."

[webslingingslasher]

tw: depression

hey! i was wondering, how would peter react or take care of reader with depression? can be either nerdy or frat peter or any peter rly :)

sorry i am very much kinda really going thru it rn 😞

felt that. depression is fucking brutal, anon. i'm here for you and i hope you're taking care of yourself for now.

--

you don't move when your window opens. you haven't moved for hours, you couldn't draw up enough energy to turn or eat, or breathe. the wall in front of you hasn't changed, it's been a blank slate of emptiness. just like the pit inside you.

'i know you're not sleeping.' it's teasing, your heart doesn't have it in you to perk up. you don't feel excited peter showed up, nothing could top the numbness that's burrowed its way into your chest and mind.

'you haven't texted me back all day, i was about to send a smoke signal.' your bones feel sharp, the idea of rolling over to face him stings, you think you'll shatter into a million pieces. you have nothing left to give, even talking seems exhausting.

'baby?' peter knows somethings wrong, he thinks he knows what's wrong. you had a good stretch, it had been months before the depression caught up and sent you bedrotting.

peter can't imagine how it feels for you, but for him, watching you go through this, kills him inside.

your mattress sinks, you close your eyes when peter reaches out for you, his hand on your skin is the most warmth you felt all day. it's peter; your rock, your safety net, your protector.

you think it's the first time you've talked all day. you had a permanent lump in your throat and you knew just by opening your mouth the tears would start.

but it's okay, because peter is here.

'i'm really sad today.' it's all it takes, your shoulders shake with your sobs, how could you feel everything and nothing all at once? peter's soft whispers have you curling into yourself. you don't deserve him, he doesn't deserve this.

'oh, honey.' it's full of love, his nose brushes your shoulder like a puppy asking to be pet. 'wanna give me a hug?' your voice wavers on your answer, it's raw and scratchy, begging to be hydrated, you don't think you've even had water today.

'yes, please.' your cheeks feel sticky but peter's holding you tightly, yet softly, it's like he's trying to hold you together. it's working. 'i'm sorry.' you feel bad. you should be more for him.

'don't be. i want to be here for you, and when you can only give twenty percent, i've got the other eighty. i love you. always and forever. no matter what.'

he needs to add the end, he needs to because he knows how it weighs down in your mind. how you've told him over and over it's unfair he has to put up with this and how he doesn't deserve what you bring to the table.

peter told you he's got a big fucking table and it's got more than enough room for your "mess." you don't say the silent part out loud anymore but he knows you still think it. peter would never admit it to you, but sometimes he really hates your brain and the way it thinks about yourself when your depression sets in.

it's selfish, you hate it about yourself but you need a reason to keep going.

'can you tell me how sad you would be if i died?' to anyone else it would sound morbid, to peter it means you're feeling better. peter slightly rocks you in his lap, he hums like he needs to think.

'you think you're depressed? just you wait, i'll make this look estatic.' a smile teases, he's determined to get you laughing. 'i mean it. i'd be on my knees, tears and snot all over my face, holding your hand at your funeral. i'd probably throw myself down the hole with you.'

it works, it's minuscule but you gave him a real smile and a tiny laugh. it's because you're picturing the teary-snotted face he'd be sporting and he's totally okay with that.

peter presses kisses over your hairline, he's speaking from the heart and you can feel it.

'because if you're not living, i wouldn't have a reason to either.' 

[writing-fanics]

then she ran: coriolanus snow x freader [heavy angst]

summary: he’d become something colder than his very own name. she was no longer staring into the eyes of the coriolanus snow she’d fallen in love with, and so she had to run]

(some spicy scenes will be added)

more about it this is a little preview

she sacrificed a lot just to be with him. leaving behind her family in the capitol just to be with the man she loves. once seeing the small cabin by the lake with lucy gray’s covey, she realized that this was the life she truly wanted. a life away from the capitol away from panem.

she told this to him the life she wanted with his head lying on her bare chest, with only a mere blanket covering their bodies. how she would love to have him by her side in that life, living away from the capitol away from panem. going up north.

but that of course never happens as we all know. here’s a little sneak peek of what I want the ending to be.

a little girl is singing “the hanging tree” which she overheard her mother singing one day. she started singing it even though she didn’t understand the meaning behind the song.

“Briar, how do you know that song?”

Briar stopped singing and turned back towards her mother, looking down thinking she’s in trouble. “Am I in trouble?” Briar asked, looking at her mother.

She shook her head and sat down beside her daughter, “No, my little rose thorn,” She said, looking at her little girl.

“I heard you singing it one day,” Briar said looking at her mother, who sighed. Y/n knew that one day her daughter would overhear her singing a song from her past. A song that in a way told her story of how she ended up here.

“what’s it about?” she asked curiously. her mother bit her lip nervously while watching as Oscar the family dog and protector of the little cabin. Ran around in the yard.

“It’s complicated sweetheart, but I’ll tell you when you’re older.” She said, looking at her daughter. Who frowned in disappointment hearing this.

“You’re still very young my little one,” y/n said cupping her daughters cheek, smiling as she stared into her daughters blue eyes.

“and I know you have so many questions, and I have answers that I’m just not ready to give to you just yet.” She said and her daughter looked at her, despite being five years old. Briar was definitely a lot more mature than her age, she was smart and headstrong. Knew a lot of things heard only little things about the happenings outside their tiny cabin. But not much.

A/n:

I might make it more cheerful though or bittersweet, maybe making briar two years old and she’s playing outside on the porch. Y/n sitting on a rocking chair while her daughter plays with Oscar

she goes inside for a quick moment to get something telling Oscar to watch her and the dog barks understanding the assignment.

when she looks out the window it’s snowing, and briar is like. “mommy mommy! s snowy” she exclaims, watching as the little girl plays in the snow.

yes her love for snow is gone now, having moved on. but still couldn’t help but imagine how different her life would be if he was here with her..

Imma write this

[the-ellia-west]

Raavas 1/3 - Feathered Sword

Enjoy! (Hopefully)

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

"With all due respect, you aren't getting any younger, sir."

"Ha!" Evellias touched a grey streak in his beard at the thought. "I suppose you're right. But I'm not dead yet!"

"If you're reckless, you could be by the end of the year."

"I'm reckless?"

"Not at the moment, but you could be if you start thinking you're invincible."

"I won't. Besides, I know my way around a sword Aery. Don't worry so much."

"It is my job to worry, sir." The guard put his hands behind his back. "You're the only protector we've got. This kingdom can't afford to lose you."

"Can't afford to lose my sword, you mean." Evellias raised an eyebrow, "You know just as well as I that the only reason they haven't taken it from me is because I'm the only one who can use it."

Aery started to speak, stopped, and continued. "You have protection nonetheless, sir."

"Well then, I may just have to use you for some other purpose, hm? How do you feel about errands, Aery?"

"No."

Evellias laughed, but a faint cry stopped both men in their tracks.

"Did you hear that, sir?"

"I did." The soldier reached for his sword. "What was that?"

"It sounded almost like a child." Aery knelt by the reeds. "It came from here."

"Almost bird-like." Evellias nodded. But just as he started to help, a strange feeling tugged in his chest. Almost like fuzzy strings wrapped around his heart, pulling him toward the water of the creek. The swordsman followed the pull but stopped as a faint glow caught his eye, pulsing faintly beneath the murky water. The warrior squinted at the cool light and slowly edged toward it. But as water soaked through the toe of his boot, the sigil carved into the center of the cross guards on his own sword burst into a light of its own.

A Protector's sword. But it couldn't be lit on its own.

The swordsman glanced around, steeled his resolve, and plunged into the water. He dropped under, reaching for the light. The tip of his finger brushed a hard object, and he fumbled with the metal for a moment before getting a grip on the hilt. Evellias pulled at the sword. It wouldn't budge.

The warrior pulled harder, bracing himself against a rock. And as he pushed himself to the last of his strength, the sword finally sprung free of the mud. Evellias flipped his hair back out of his face, brushing off the sword.

"Sir!" Aery stopped, catching sight of his boss standing in the middle of a creek. "What- Uh, never mind. Sir, you may want to come take a look at this."

"What?" The warrior hooked the sword to his belt beside his own and trotted over to Aery, the sword's light blazing brighter as he did so.

"It's a child, sir. A Harpy hatchling, to be precise."

"Why is it here?" Evellias frowned as the small bundle sniffled softly before continuing its tiny chirping cries.

"I'm not sure. But the nest looked like it had been abandoned." A pause stretched between the two. "We should kill it."

Evellias frowned and glanced at the sword. "No."

"What? Sir, we have to. If we let it loose in town, it could attack someone!"

"It's a baby. It doesn't know how to."

"Then we need to get rid of it before it learns."

"Aery," Evellias drew the sword. "It's a protector."

"What?" Aery stopped, staring at the glowing steel and back at the child. The guard pushed a lock of hair out of its face. "I... I suppose... Harpies are sentient..."

"Yes! It can learn!"

Another long pause stretched the air thin before Aery spoke again. "He. He can learn." The guard's eyes softened. "What will you do, sir?"

"I'll take him with us. I'll raise him, train him. This sword is meant for him. We'll make him a guard, the protector he's meant to be."

***

"What is rule number one?"

"Only eat what I'm supposed to."

"Rule number two?"

"Keep the sword safe, and make sure I always know where it is."

"Number three?"

"If something goes wrong, hide and wait for you."

Evellias ruffled the young Harpy's hair. "Good job!"

Raavas wrapped his wings around himself as a soft cooing chirp escaped his lips at the praise. "Thanks, Papa!"

"You're very welcome." The swordsman scooped the little boy into his arms.

"Can we go outside? Please?"

"Alright. Do you have your sword?"

The Harpy nodded, touching the little toy sword in its sheath resting beneath his wing. "Yes, Papa!"

"Okay, then we can go."

"Yay!" The little boy's fluffy white wings fluttered excitedly as Evellias took him to the front of the building.

Minutes passed of the little boy playing about in the grass before a familiar shape passed by the gate. Raavas gasped and leaped to his feet.

The man dismounted his horse and knelt. The little Harpy flung his arms around him. "Raavas! How are you doing?"

"Good!"

"Aery. Welcome back. Have you found anything?"

"Unfortunately, not. But we need to talk. Things have gotten complicated."

"What's the news?"

Aery glanced at the young Harpy. "It's a message from the king. Anyway, have you been behaving?"

"Yes! Did you bring presents?" The little boy grinned.

"Ha! Sorry to say, little one, not this time."

Raavas' smile faded a little. "Okay."

"I need to talk to Aery, okay? Can I leave you here for a little bit, Raav? Is that okay?"

"Papa?" Raavas squirmed, and Aery put him down.

"Yes?"

"Can I go get a snack?"

"Not right now, maybe soon, okay?"

"Okay."

The two adults retreated inside the building to converse, and Evellias called for a servant to watch the little Harpy.

They spoke and shared information on the new situations and the adaptations they'd have to make for a while. But just after they'd finished speaking, a servant burst into the room.

"Sir! Master Evellias! The young master has gone missing! We looked for him in the garden and all about the house, but he's gone. We can't find him!"

"What?" Evellias leaped to his feet. "Shit. Aery, find some sort of clues. You, follow him."

After a short moment to process, all three figures raced off to their respective orders. Evellias tossed the corner of his carpet away from the bed and pried up the loose floorboard, drawing out the magnificent silver sword.

It's light cast dimly upon the floor, he rushed back to the ground floor and nearly ran into Aery. "What did you find?"

"He's inside. We found trails of dirt in the hallways, and one of the servants heard him say something about food before he dissapeared."

"He did mention wanting something before we went to talk. We should go to the kitchen. See if he's somewhere in there."

"Agreed." Aery nodded, and the two warriors followed the hallways to the kitchen, but after searching it, found nothing.

Evellias drew the sword and held it out. The light glowed at the light levels of a candle. He backed toward the door, but as he did so, the light faded. "He's here."

"But that's impossible, sir. We checked everywhere."

"Apparently not." Evellias trailed around the room and stopped in front of a wall. "Here is brightest."

"But- wait. Unless..." Aery passed Evellias and pulled open the cellar door.

"No, that's not possible, how..." Evellias looked down at the sword. He stepped hesitantly onto the steps, the light growing stronger. But as the two swordsmen followed the stairs, a faint noise stopped them in their tracks.

A soft sniffling cry somewhere between a sob and a bird trill. Aery glanced at Evellias, and the swordsman dropped the weapon, rushing down the stairs. "Raavas? Raavas, is that you? Answer me. Are you okay?"

Instead of an answer, the sobbing continued. "Aery, grab a torch. Now."

"Yessir!"

Evellias stepped cautiously into the darkness, little hiccups interrupted the sobs as a small voice gasped from the darkness. "Papa... I... I'm sorry... I didn't... I didn't mean..."

"Raavas!" Evellias sighed in relief, but froze as the words finally sunk in and the child returned to sobbing just as Aery brought the torch.

But both of the swordsmen froze in their tracks as the light fell over the child. Blood. Panic surged through Evellias, but he stopped as he caught sight of the small shapes beside him. Crimson soaked the Harpy's hands and face and he flinched. "Papa... I'm sorry..."

"Raavas. What's there to be sorry about?" Evellias hid his fear as he sat beside the little boy and cradled him in his arms as Aery knelt to examine the shapes and the blood.

"I... I... I broke... I broke the rules! Don't... don't be mad... Papa. P-please."

"What do you mean?"

"Rats." Aery looked up. "Desecrated..."

"I was hungry, Papa." Raavas hugged Evellias. "I... they're quiet. I didn't want to hurt them... I..." He broke down sobbing again, and Evellias hugged him close again.

"It's okay, Raavas. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay. It'll be the same as it always is." But as he and Aery locked eyes, they both knew that would be a lie.

Nothing would ever be the same.

Thanks for reading! Please comment anything if you read it! Anything at all!

Part 1 (Here) | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 3.5

@i-do-anything-but-write @friendlesscat @darkandstormydolls @artsandstoriesandstuff @rivenantiqnerd

@urnumber1star @bloodmoonloveletter @sunglasses-in-the-bentley @stars-forever @corinneglass

@supercimi @phoenixradiant @whoevenknowswhatimwriting @blue-kyber @aalinaaaaaa

@lunaeuphternal @chaoticcandle @sunflowerrosy @n1ghtcrwler @ghostlyboysstories

@floweryprosegarden @thisisntrocket @bluektw @nkikio @i-hate-happy-endings

@confused-romantic @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @starslide @ramwritblr @homelessnerdwrites

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@cosmolumine @caffeinated-and-annoying-bard @cherrychiplip @theliteraryarchitect @the-letterbox-archives

Thank you for reading! <333

[sastrology]

the rising and you

(part 1/3)

ARIES RISING: FOREST FIRE

pictured: (Rihanna and Stevie Nicks, Aries Rising)

Individuals born with an Aries rising stand out of a crowd. They typically have exuberant personalities and an easy time drawing friends. They're likely to be quite opinionated and are not the type to keep beating around the bush or react well to passive-aggressive behavior. They love anything that is new and fresh. These individuals are known for being quite go-getters who will not settle. They can be very blunt and to the point which can irritate the softer rising signs, but they prefer to let people know where they stand and hate beating around the bush.

With a Cancer 4th house (if sign interceptions are not present) they can have a strong bond with the family and feel as though they are the family's protector which can make them act out impulsively if they ever feel threatened. Even if they are the youngest sibling, they often become a sort of mother figure to the rest.

Build wise they will appear more masculine, and athletic even if they don’t work out. They really pop in sportswear regardless of build. Red and black colors are flattering and make their features pop. Pointed chins that form into a well-defined square jaw with thick and defined eyebrows. Being the first sign of the zodiac they can also appear quite younger than they are. They may also have a lot of scars or bruises on the face and body.

TAURUS RISING: ROCKS AT A SEA SHORE

pictured: (Fred Rogers and Vivien Leigh, Taurus Rising)

Individuals with a Taurus Rising exude a calm, stable energy that a lot of people crave. They're stubborn, generous individuals who can be very pleasing and practical to speak with. They really enjoy luxury and beauty items and take a lot of time for self-care. They are the types to not really want to involve themselves in drama as they can think of 100 other things they'd rather be doing. They’re never going to say everything you want to hear, they will say what you need to hear. They are strong individuals who can bare the weight of the waves that can crash down on them.

With Leo in the 4th house (if sign interceptions are not at play) it shows they needed a lot of love growing up. Whether that was met or not is ambiguous, but Taurus Rising individuals are either made strong or born strong. They may have great pride for the home and enjoy throwing family get-togethers and cookouts and do it tastefully.

Facial features tend to be very symmetrical with naturally curly hair. They’re built with a well-formed body, average-to-short statures, larger arms, and a strong neck. Thick, curly hair is more likely. Thanks to the Venusian influence, these risings can have softened almost refined features. As to be expected, these risings look great in greens and burnt umbers. They typically care quite a bit about what they look like, so beauty can be a focus.

GEMINI RISING: KALEIDOSCOPE

pictured: (Amy Winehouse and Drew Barrymore, Gemini Rising)

Gemini Rising individuals are bright, vivacious, and expressive individuals. You can usually spot them pretty easily since they love to talk and communicate and use a lot of hand movements. They have keen observation skills and the ability to read people quickly. They are very light-hearted, yet impulsive individuals, who love to give their opinion on anything. They are very strong communicators with a lot of charm. They're very changeable in nature and can change their minds often as they are constantly seeing the world from a new angle due to their curious mind that never stops working.

With Virgo in the 4th house (if sign interceptions are not present) we see organized individuals who strive to help their loved ones improve. They will provide a lot of acts of service to the family and constantly strive for more ways to better assist them. If something goes wrong in the house or family, they can become bogged down on the tiny details and become frustrated. They are very good at organizing as they are able to see all of the little details to help make something perfect.

The eyes are clear and sparkle, especially when they get to talk about something they're passionate about. Broad foreheads and they may appear younger than they are. They typically have slim builds and average to tall heights. The limbs in general are quite long, including the fingers, legs, and neck. VERY expressive facial expressions.

CANCER RISING: SPRING RAIN

pictured: (Selena Gomez and Farrah Fawcett, Cancer Rising)

Individuals with a Cancer ascendant are remembered for heartfelt talks at 3 am, intuitive nature, and innocence they project.

With Libra in the 4th house (if sign interceptions are not present) they will be known for having an aesthetically pleasing house. They may be a bit messy, but it carries a certain charm to it. Venusian in nature, they may make great designers and have a knack for interior designing.

With the parents they may measure a lot of their worth on the approval they get from them. They could have a low tolerance for arguments in the household and have mastered the role of peace keepers.

As with most rising signs, the eyes can be round buckets of depth. People with a Cancer rising typically have rounded features. The hair and skin can be very luminous and carry a healthy glow and plump to it. They pull off silvers, charcoals, and greys like they just walked off a 1940s film set. Women with this rising typically develop femininely quite young and carry a fuller figure.

as always, I am not an astrologer. This is based on my astrology books and online research over the years. This is a very basic assessment of the rising sign, as a LOT of other factors can influence a person's personality.