#tw darkfic

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FIVE: OATS

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink

This is chronologically the fifth chapter in the series

---

The day after the failed feast Dr Lecter enters your unhappy chamber to find you already awake, greasily feverish in the maelstrom of narcotic hangover. Moaning under the dripping cloth of your bedsheet, you wince from the light that punctures the room as Hannibal draws back the curtains with a determined flourish.

"This is what happens when you do not eat and drink enough, I'm afraid," he says, putting a lusciously cool hand to your brow. "The excitement around the table certainly didn't help matters. Had you been receptive, then you would have been hydrated, full-bellied, and ready for the day ahead. Alas, your mulish nature is the portcullis that refuses you entry into better health. I cannot raise it for you."

You haven't the life in you to retaliate to such sanctimonious jibes, and he well knows it.

Humming a strand of Vide Cor Meum, Hannibal glides about you, first plumping your pillow, then holding a glass of water to your lips until you must either drink, or drown. In fractured gulps you salve your chapped throat with it, then part your lips again for a spoon of porridge; to your surprise, the portion spilled from cutlery to tongue is slim, a suggestion of treaty, of a temporary kind.

"I will never make you eat more than is reasonable, little one," says Hannibal, meeting your narrowed stare so frankly that you are almost abashed by the look. "It would do you no good to upset your stomach any further. I will minimise your intake for a few days, at least."

The suggestion is so unbelievable that you search his plain expression for the merest taint of trickery.

"You're not... angry with me," you observe, at last.

Dr Lecter's head inclines.

"Any ill feelings between us were settled at dinner, were they not?"

He helps you to the bathroom, stepping politely outside the door as you list at a sloppy port-wise angle, gripping either side of the bowl with preventative force; you may fall should you let go, humiliate yourself in the necessity of further care.

That Hannibal reverts to a veneer of nurturing aid after an episode of violence with such undisturbed ease frightens you, as does your instinct to accept that profferred assistance. Too many years span from here to the last time you allowed yourself to do so, and though you know well Dr Lecter's malign in having manufactured such frailty, you may never regain the position to resist it without him.

As with Will, your way out of this house is to drive yourself further in.

"I'll return home early today," says Hannibal, as he eases you back into bed in stops and starts to accomodate each shimmer of nausea. "I can reschedule my afternoon appointments for another time."

"Don't bother," you mutter, against your pillow. "I want to be on my own."

"I'm aware of that. Nevertheless, I will be here to monitor you. If you're feeling better tonight, then I will conduct your next therapy session."

Fear flowers at your core, all thorn tipped leaves.

"I won't be better," you say, your lips still crushed to starched cotton. "That promise I made to you about trying— I can't stick to that. I can't be the person you need. And I can't eat. It's too hard for me."

Hannibal lays a hand on your back, soothing you as he might an infant with colic.

"I know," he says, simply. "Relapses are to be expected. Neither Will or I will admonish you for that. What I will not tolerate is rudeness. I have demonstrated what will occur if you do not keep your tongue in check."

At this your head snaps upright against the pull of sickness.

"Aren't you rude?" you ask, sharply. "And Will?"

Hannibal pats down your coverlet, quite unoffended.

"One might argue that is down to interpretation. I pride myself on cultivating elegance, which includes manners, as a matter of course. Will, however, is— unique. I overlook his cruder moments for the complexity layered beneath them. As for what we have done to you, it is unfortunate that you cannot observe the act through our eyes, and perceive its beauty, as well as your own."

To this, you have no answer. You can think only of snaring hands, of Will's stubble scarring your cheek, and the blood broken like bottled wine across your inner thighs, so much ugliness paraded as glory.

"Please drink the water I've left out for you," says Hannibal.

You do, for he will know, if you do not.

*

There was something in that glass, or the oats, you comprehend, for when you are next conscious you are propped upright in a leather chair, only part returned from witless repose.

A metronome clicks at your ear, back and forth.

Lights flash and cease, white and black their blinking through the timeless night in which Dr Lecter has you drown. You sit, or swim in it; you cannot tell. The fungal spell of Hannibal's cooking robs you of both voice and tether to the earth. You could be foam in a Homerean ocean, where men become pigs on its alien isles.

You too might be such a beast, or a child, or some sylph of amorphous matter trapped in such hampering skin.

The sound of your breath comes, shuttered and sharp.

A warm hand cups your chest, and your lungs seem to open to its gesture as though by unknown magic.

Then a voice murmurs from a face before you, its shape without edge, an orb.

"You are safe. You are cared for. You belong."

Like a switchblade across your eye the light comes again, and you are part of it, an impulse that is all life, all one.

Hannibal speaks your name, grounding you to him, as to a stack in some wild sea.

"I'm going to ask you some questions now," he tells you. "They may be difficult. Try to answer them honestly."

There is only a man here, there is only light; you cannot refuse them.

"Okay," you mumble.

Hannibal's pleasure in your answer is a current timed to the swishing metronome.

"How did your eating disorder begin?" he asks. "What did it look like, then?"

"Just a diet, at first," you say. "The meals got smaller and smaller. Then a lot of food scared me. I started counting calories. Throwing food out. Being around anyone eating was like I was being tortured. That's when I knew that something was really wrong with me."

You hear the scratch of a pen on an unseen pad.

"I see. And how did that realisation make you feel?"

"Nothing. I didn't care. Then I started to like it. Challenging myself. The compliments— feeling like I had something nobody else did, that I was so good at— It became everything I was. My identity, kind of."

How easy it is to speak, when you cannot see the expression of the listener before you.

"Trauma frequently shapes us in our formative years," Hannibal comments. "It is a natural response to build oneself in its image. So, let us retreat to older memories. Tell me of a time that you recall being afraid."

The flashing light numbs to an ebbing glow.

"There was this guy," you say. "A guy that my dad was friends with. Still is. His name is Leland Frost. He used to come over to our house all the time. He was always so friendly, but I knew that there was something wrong with him. There was something in his eyes, the way he laughed too much, or stood too close to me. Like he was putting on a rubber Hallowe'en mask of a regular guy, and everyone was just pretending it was fine, but they really weren't pretending."

"Elaborate."

You gnaw at your lower lip until you taste warm iron, and consider spitting out the calories.

"I tried to tell people about it," you say. "But Dad could never see it. He'd just say, 'oh, that's just Lee. Silly old Uncle Lee. That's just how he is.' But I knew. I saw him. I smelled the cheap rubber mask."

"Did this Uncle Lee ever hurt you?" asks Hannibal, softly. "Touch you in an inappropriate manner?"

This memory is dusky, a cobwebbed photograph.

"I don't know," you admit, at last. "I always thought he wanted to, though. I always thought the minute my parents left me alone with him something bad would happen. The waiting was always the worst part."

A pause, in which you sense rather than see Dr Lecter watching you through the dark-light-darkness.

"But maybe it wasn't Uncle Lee that I was waiting for," you say, at last. "Maybe it was you and Will."

The gloom becomes further marred by tears, and you feel a box of tissues being pressed into your loose hand.

"That's enough for today," says Hannibal, rising from his seat. "You've done well for me. This calls for a reward."

He crosses the room to pick up a telephone, glancing at you with an unintelligible heat in his eyes.

"Good evening," he says, into the receiver. "I hope this is a convenient time for you. Yes, that is correct; I'm calling about your daughter's progress. I am very satisfied with her cooperation today. We are approaching some early milestones."

Hearing the tinny, distant voices of your parents, you struggle towards a lucidity that feels so desperately out of touch.

Hannibal crosses the room towards you again and turns the phone away from his mouth to murmur, "I will allow you a few words to them, if you will be sensible."

By this he means: if you do not give the game away.

You nod your head jerkily and extend a fist as Dr Lecter introduces you into the conversation.

"She is here, now. Somewhat tired, but all is well."

You clenched the receiver to your ear, tears coming in such a quick patter that, at first, you can only sit in hyperventilating silence as your parents babble at you, their voices sharp with an underlying guilt.

"How are you, honey? It's so good to hear from you! We love you! Is everything okay?"

Each day you've been parted from them you've missed them as you would your most vital structures, with a sore and deathly strength, yet your love is not so stark as your disappointment in being so abandoned by them.

"No," you say, at last. "I'm not okay, Mom. Dad. How could you send me away and not even warn me?"

The babbling rises, panic in male and female iteration.

"We had no other choice. It was all we could think to do! We tried everything. But Dr Lecter's helping you, isn't he?"

Hannibal's stare is, itself, a warning.

Pressing your knuckles to your anguished mouth, you pass the telephone back to him, not trusting yourself not to scream for help and damn yourself to the harshest punishment that such an executioner of free will might hand to you.

"She is overwrought," says Dr Lecter, apologetically. "I'll call again next week."

He hangs up, and leans across to clean the tears from your face himself, ensuring the tissue is discarded in a wastpaper basket; even in this he must be perfect, organised and pristine. You hate him for it, this performance he makes of his life, preserving such details as no one would be likely to notice but him.

"I wish you hadn't let me talk to them," you whisper. "Now I feel even worse."

"Of course you do," says Hannibal. "Your family betrayed you. It would be much more unusual if you held no resentment towards them at all."

You squint up at him in accusation.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Leaving a wound open may sometimes allow it to dry, and subsequently heal. You will not advance without acknowledging the harm your parents have done to you, whether through dispatching you to me without consent, or by ignoring your justifiable fear of Leland Frost. The map to your mental injury is unfurling before us: the continents take shape, as do the names that mark each turn in your unhappy life. In time, I will know them all."

Weeping, you slip down in your chair, not wanting to see the truth that thrusts itself up from the outcrop of evil.

"I will help you to your room," says Dr Lecter. "More sleep is in order, I think."

*

Will Graham enters the house some time in the night; you hear his low voice through the floorboards as you lie in swaying wakefulness, wondering what brings the professor here at so late an hour. He stays for so long that he accepts an invite into one of Hannibal's spare rooms, a fact that you discern from the voices passing your door in the hallway.

Again you sleep, though not pleasantly, your psyche disturbed by the third presence in the building, and by the lasting bruise of Dr Lecter's relentless torments.

In this sleep you dream of an antlered thing burying you in a terracotta wood, its face so darkly passive as soil smothers your airways that you might well be a bone, stored there to be gnawed at some late and starving hour.

When you emerge from this haunted slumber you still feel the threads of it still noosed around you; dream-sick, drug-thick, you stagger across your bedroom and, finding the door unlocked, tumble on into the hallway beyond.

By chance you find Will's room, letting yourself into quarters that smell of night-sweat, and pine, and male musk. You scarcely know what you do as you climb into bed with him against his salty heat, nor why it is he, of your abusers, that you seek.

Will starts awake, wild-haired and horrified as he senses your body beside him. Your name bolts from his lips, scarcely recognisable, the utterance of an animal groomed to speak a human tongue.

"What are you doing here? You should be in your own room."

Keeping your back to him, you drowsily reply.

"Had a bad dream."

Will breathes an ironic laugh.

"And you think you'll sleep any better in my bed? I destroyed you, remember?"

Self-blame, self-loathing, all jagged and tail-swallowing teeth.

"No," you mumble. "He did. Not you, Daddy."

You feel Will sit up behind you, scratching a hand through his unruly curls.

"You're not in your right mind," he announces, gruffly. "I'd better tell Dr Lecter to stop giving you whatever medication you're on. It's not good for you. No wonder you're having nightmares."

Still, he doesn't attempt to turn you out of bed, or to call Hannibal to eject you on his behalf. He only slouches, gazing at you, until you turn on your side to look back at his pretty, troubled face in its nest of brindled shadow.

Will's shoulders still droop in a mode of shame, yet the black of the room deepens the blue of his eyes into a yearning colour through which many a woman would gladly fall. He wants you here, you realise, perhaps likes the power he holds in having you soft and needful beside him, in his lair, after all he's done.

You should detest him for feeling it, and you do.

But recognising that craving within him reawakens the understanding of that power you may yet hold over him, in return, the mistress of a cur that bites all but those that direct the leash.

It is a long way off, this control, but the taste of it will do, for now.

"Let me stay," you implore, fluttering sodden eyelashes in a coquettish attempt to convince him. "Please? Just for tonight? I don't want that dream to come back."

You'll loathe yourself for this, in the morning, but now all you care for is the night. Will seems to be having the same thought, for he lies back down on the mattress again, taking care to leave ample space between you.

How does he compartmentalise his violence—his taste for it—from his revulsion towards you, and further still from the empathy that stirs in him like a stamped out fire?

"Just one night," says Will, sternly. "I don't know what Hannibal is going to say about this."

You pull the quilt up under your chin, almost giddy with your achievement, and with it the comfort that pours over you like a September afternoon. This strange happiness you will remember, and wonder at, when all you should have known were the tatters of despair.

"Dr Lecter left my door unlocked," you say, as Will moves in restless, settling motions at your back, still refusing to make contact with your skin. "So it's really his fault I'm here, you know."

At this Will half-rises again, but whatever question or comment he murmurs is lost to your abrupt slumber.

By morning he is gone, and you are alone again, only the scent of the monster remaining about you to mark out your miserable self-treachery.

He is not there to see you thrust the sheets against your face and inhale their bitter stink, if only to claw back the triumph of having made vulnerable a man so very closed to contact of the most human kind.

He is not there, and he is everywhere.

Will is as part of this house as Dr Lecter, now.

[blueicequeen19]

Definitely a jealousy smut! Rafe gets jealous that topper is getting too comfortable with the reader and rafe deals with it using his own ways.

Animosity

Warnings: non-con, jealousy, obsessive behavior, all the triggers

You plopped down on the couch with Topper, engaged in some pointless conversation about the pressures of being him when you feel eyes on you again. You glance up, catching Rafe’s eye from the opposite couch. His blue eyes were glassy and his jaw clenched while he loosely held a glass of scotch to his lips.

You looked back to Topper, who was too busy talking about himself to notice you were distracted. You’d been friends with the Kook boys for a long time. You were into the same things - drugs, girls, and partying. You were almost like another dude in their eyes but Rafe always seemed to glare at you for no reason. He didn’t like you but he pretended he did.

Rafe was very different. He was quiet and reserved when something was bothering him until he couldn’t contain it anymore. Then he’d explode. He’d have random fits of anger and violence then he’d be super chill again. You knew he was having issues at home but he never explained past it being his dad. When he wasn’t troubled, Rafe was tolerable. Maybe even funny and charismatic. But he likes trouble. He liked to stir the pot and create chaos, especially with Pogues. He’d plant little seeds of information then sit back as the drama unfolded.

In moments like these, when it was just the three of you, you were almost nervous. Rafe was unhinged and a loose canon. You never knew what to expect. Would he pick a fight with Topper? Would he start doing lines of coke? This was the Rafe that wasn’t tolerable.

“It’s just so hard sometimes.” Topper’s hand lands on your bare knee, gently squeezing and drawing your attention back to him. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for a response. You opened your mouth when Rafe puts his glass down on the coffee table a little too hard, startling you. You look to Rafe as he pours another scotch before looking back to Topper.

"Jumpy?" Topper asks, his thumb creating circles on the skin of your knee.

"Just tired." You give him a reassuring smile, pulling your knee away from him. Topper's eyes harden and his nostrils flare as he tracks the movement. You know Topper has issues with rejection so you quickly take his hand between both of yours.

"I'm sorry your mom is so hard on you. I wish she saw how hard you try to be good enough for her." You say softly, giving him a smile. Topper visibly relaxes, the attention diverted back to him and he starts to ramble on some more.

You look over, seeing Rafe hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes narrowed into slits and locked on yours and Topper's combined hands. You swallow as you carefully release Topper's hand and sit back against the couch. Rafe meets your eyes as he straightens, also leaning back against the couch as he seems to relax. What the hell was his problem?

It's late when Topper finally makes some excuse about needing to get home and you quickly agree, not wanting to be left here alone with Rafe. You start to follow Topper out the door when your wrist is snagged and you're hauled back, the door getting slammed in your face. You turn to face Rafe, craning your neck to look up at the six foot one brunette with your heart in your throat. Anxiety and nerves had you on the verge of throwing up.

"Are you making a move on Topper?" Rafe bites out, tightening his hold on your wrist when you try to pull away. Your back meets the door and he slowly advances on you, his chest grazing yours.

"We're just friends." You fight to keep your voice even. You knew Rafe craved chaos and inflicting fear on others. He craved their submission and their willingness to please him. Rafe demanded control over everything. That's why he hated the Pogues so badly. Yet the only person who he couldn't bend to his will, was his father.

"It didn't look like a friendly conversation." Rafe growls, his red rimmed eyes glared down at you as he pins you to the door.

"I really don't c--." The words don't even leave your mouth before his hand wraps around your throat, tight enough to be a warning but loose enough to let you suck in half a breath. Your body starts to tremble in fear, realizing that you were completely at his mercy. You wouldn't be able to fight him off and no one would be coming to rescue you.

"See, the thing is that you do care. You wanted to see my reactions, that's why you pushed me. You drove me crazy on purpose. You wanted my attention and now you have it. Tell me, are you a whore?"

"Rafe--." You croak, clawing at the hand on your throat but he doesn't budge.

"Are you? Because I've seen you hooking up with more chicks than Topper and I combined. I've watched the way you fuck. You like to be in control and you like to be watched. Is that why you don't hook up with guys? Because you're a whore and guys won't have you?"

"Rafe--." Tears fill your eyes and he shakes you, baring his teeth.

"Answer me!" He shots, startling you to your bones.

"Yes!" You cry, sucking in a breath. "I like making you guys watch. I like making you guys want me and never having me. I don't sleep with guys because I'm afraid you guys will judge me. No ones ever good enough for the Kook King and I'm not a fan of being bullied. Plus I know that you guys are allowed to fuck as many girls as you want without being shamed but the moment a girl sleeps with multiple men, she's a whore." You spat, pushing at Rafe's chest. He smiles, licking his lips as he leans down.

"And what do you think now?" His voice meets your ear, his breath giving you chills. "Did you think you'd weasel your way into my friend group and we'd just accept you? Maybe we wanted someone that was just for us, not someone trying to be us." You flinch when his cock pressed against your stomach through his shorts. He was hard as a rock. And thick. You try to turn away but he doesn't let you and your anger gets the best of you.

"I think you're just a scared little boy afraid he's going to get his toys taken away." His hand tightens around your throat for an instant, alarm bells going off in your head that this was the end. Rafe would kill you. Then his grip loosens and he's dragging you over to the back of the couch.

"You want to know what I do with my toys? I make sure they know they're mine." Rafe holds you by the back of your neck, forcing you to bend over the couch. You kick and lash out but fail to make any contact. Your shorts and thong are all but ripped from your body, baring you to him.

"I'm not yours." You laugh, despite the fear clawing at you from the inside. "You can fuck me but I'll never be yours. Hell, I want you to fuck me. I want to see how angry Rafe Cameron can get." You challenge him and he growls from behind you, slapping your ass. You bite your lip until you taste blood, refusing to give him any satisfaction as he slaps you over and over again.

"I will break you and I will own you.” Rafe growls, his cock suddenly at your entrance. You panic, worrying how badly it would hurt since you hadn't had sex with a guy in so long but also because you weren't in control. He was. And he wanted your submission.

"You can try," You pant, biting back a scream when he slams inside you with one go. It's like being split open with having no prep. You were soaked but he was still too big. He should've eased into it. You were so full, it ached deep in your gut. Your walls pulsed around him and every nerve was on fire, begging for more. Rafe started to laugh and it pissed you off more.

"You are a whore. You're fucking dripping and clinching to my cock." Rafe keeps one hand on the back of your neck, the other finding the center of your back as he starts to rotate his hips, stretching you. Your eyes flutter closed but you refuse to make a sound.

"This pussy is nice and tight. Maybe I will keep you around. I could get used to this." Rafe pulls out half way before slamming back in, making you gasp with the intrusion.

"Go ahead. I'll just fuck Topper next. Then Kelc." You bite out, trying to ignore how fucking good he felt inside you. Especially when he growled angry and started to pound into you as hard as he could. The couch started to scoot and you had to cling to the cushions. You couldn’t hold back the sounds that flew from you mouth, the way your body ignited as you came, or the deep satisfaction from taking the control from Rafe.

You think it’s over when his thumb suddenly probes your untouched entrance and you freeze, fighting to remain standing.

“Rafe—?” You try to stand upright but he doesn’t let you, his cock still buried deep inside you while his thumb presses against your ass.

“I think I want this hole instead.”

“No, Rafe, please.” You start to panic. His thumb presses harder and you sob at the burning pain. It felt like splitting fire.

“Why shouldn’t I? Give me a reason.” Rafe spits and you gasp in disgust as he presses harder against your opening.

“I-Ill do it. Whatever you want, I’ll do it.” You plead, trying to tilt your hips towards the couch but it doesn’t help. It only makes his cock feel deeper.

“Convince me. You can do better.” His thumb presses harder and I squeal, trying to climb over the back of the couch but he presses an arm down across my back, bending me in place.

“Okay, okay! You win! I’ll do whatever you want, when you want. I won’t flirt with Topper or Kelc.”

“And?”

“What else is there?!”

“Say, that I own you until I decide I don’t.”

“Fine. You own me. I’m yours for the taking.” You mutter with an eye roll, your legs trembling.

“Good. Was that so hard?” You resist the urge to tell him to shut up. To go to hell. To fuck right the hell off. But his finger retreats, along with his threat, and he pulls out completely, spinning you around and forcing you to your knees.

“Open up. I want to paint that pretty face. Get used to being down there. I don’t plan on letting you cum until I’m satisfied and convinced you know your place.”

[gerryrigged]

Any good possessive Dark Manipulating DickTim recs?

I'm craving again but currently not finding the ones I liked

Hmmm, not as many as I would like, tbh! But here are some that I was able to find digging through my bookmarks - as always, please heed the warnings in the tags!

Reality, by Miss Anne Thropy (Rahndom) - 5.2k. With the caveat that dark manipulating Dick is stealing Tim away from Damian in this, so it's not pure Dick/Tim.

Summary: Tim thinks he is going crazy, with the imaginary city, imaginary superhero and imaginary lover inside of his head. His brother will comfort him and keep him safe forever.

grounded, by Buna - 2k.

Summary: There are many ways to keep an omega grounded and bound to the pack. And with Tim's heat coming at such a convenient time, keeping Tim close might not be much of a problem.

Red in Tooth and Claw, by vellaphoria - 5.7k WIP. Vampire King Dick being a perfect bastard, which we all love 🥰

Summary: Dick stands in the doorway, silhouetted in sharp edges by the dying light. Sharper still is his smile, fanged and gleaming. There's nowhere left for Tim to run.

Talon's Wings, by Miss Anne Thropy (Rahndom) - 15.8k WIP technically but it ends in a place that wraps things fairly well imo.

Summary: Dick Grayson is abducted after his parents' tragic demise. He is forced into this void with nothing to see, nothing to feel. They want to break him, they want to train him, the want to destroy him. They would have succeeded if his savior, his little angel, wasn't there to protect him from the void.

Obscura, by lacemonster - 20.1k.

>>> Okay this one I really strongly caveat and emphasize that it is dark, and not in a tantalizing or titillating way like a lot of dark fics can be. This is very skillfully written to be deeply disturbing, and I was! in fact! deeply disturbed coming out of it and to be perfectly honest I never want to read it again, lmao! >_>;; but it is really well written for what it is, and it is definitely squarely in the dark, manipulating DickTim genre, so. Here it is.

Please take the rape/non-con, stalking, dead dove, and bad ending warnings seriously in considering whether to read.

Summary: Tim can't shake off the feeling that he's being followed. Too afraid and ashamed to tell anyone, Tim tries to capture the stalker himself. But the closer Tim gets to the truth, the more he doubts his own resolve as a vigilante.

[nanamimizz]

𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝚬 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐔𝚬.

tags: 18+ minors dni, dark content, dead dove do not eat, yandere caretaker reader, s6 overhaul, unwanted kissing and touching, toxic situation, overhaul is referred to as a pet??? implied physical and sexual misconduct, afab reader, reader is not a hero but a vigilante on the heroes side, noncon.

synopsis: you are sick, unbashledy so and what else should kai expect when you are the only prison that can contain him.

Kai knows this is wrong. Gold eyes peer at you as you hum in the kitchen, the sound of a knife hitting the chopping board grates his ears in a way he can’t stand and again he wishes he had his arms so he could leave this place.

Kai Chisaki has fallen so low he doubts he will ever see the grace of god everyone speaks of anymore, He supposes it’s his punishment for his sins but even he wouldn’t wish this upon anyone. His sleeves hang at his sides pathetically as they have for a while as you make your rounds from the kitchen to the dining table where he sits limply on the chair next to yours. You smile at him, in that same faux-sweet way and your hand comes to gently sweep through his dark hair. 

The thin hairs across his body stand on end, he fights the urge to flinch and loses because he can hear the pity in the way you coo his name.

“Oh Kai, if you’d behave you wouldn’t be so scared of me you know that right?” The saccharine sweetness of your voice is like poisoned honey and it terrifies him. In the back of his mind, his cynical mind can’t help but be amused by this setting. The loss of his arms and the loss of his power has left him as a shell of a man and he can’t cling to any sense of arrogance or arrogation he once claimed so easily. You know this as well as the air you breathe. It is what made it easy for you to take him, tucking him into your home like an injured bird never to fly again.

Your hand has gone from his hair to trace the stubble on his face - it has grown into a shadow that you still haven’t gotten rid of despite how he hates it. You don’t trust him with blades yet, you had said once but he could see the sadistic glee in your eyes as his face twitched at the itchiness he despises. He can still hear the burners of the stove going and that’s what he chooses to focus on rather than the sweet things you say to him, a voice so kind it makes him want to bash his head in.

“Stop - stop touching me. You’re sick, I want nothing to do with you.” He says and it sounds empty, defiant as he maybe is Kai knows defeat and knows its bitter taste. It seems that it is all he knows - losing his quirk, his organization, and his sick goal of destroying all quirks. You laugh and it sounds like wind chimes that grate his ears. He wants to destroy you, your home, your honey voice, and your shining eyes that always seem to dance with joy when he faces his own discomfort.

“I am sick,” You grin and it’s too cruel to be on your sweet face. The kettle you put on whistles in the middle of your agreement and you tilt your head to the side. It would be endearing to anyone else but you. You lean in, too close into his space and he can smell your sickeningly delightful vanilla perfume that makes his ears turn pink as you press a kiss to the corner of his lips. He can taste the mild sweetness of your chapstick and disgust crawls up his spine because he did not want you to kiss him - to touch him. 

“I’m sick with the plague, and so are you my little bird.” You call as you make your way to tend to the kettle, its piercing whistle breaking with his self-respect when you come back, two cups of tea he hates in hand. It’s like you, too sweet for him that he feels like he’ll choke on it, the grains of sugar digging into the delicate pink skin of his throat. You kiss him again, hand at his neck and he wants to spit at you - curse at you but nothing he does can stop you, he knows and he bites back the tears when you nip at his bottom lip. He is so weak now, he can’t even stop a tear from making its way down his cheek as you pull away to coo at his tear-stricken face.

“Stop, stop please,” He begs - pride broken down to nothing as you wipe away the salt water from his eyes. Your hand is soft and warm from the kitchen he can’t help but lean into your touch. There’s a look of pity on your face and he can’t help but feel his own turn pink in indignation.

“Poor thing, you’re such a pretty crier you know.” You say and it’s the thing that breaks him. Another wave of tears slides down his stubble-covered cheeks. You make an ‘aww’ sound as you tenderly wipe them away. Before you were crouched to his level but you rise to stand at your full height and you wrap your arms around his limp frame. You take him into an embrace he doesn’t want, he tastes perfume he hates to like, and his face is surrounded by the plushness of your chest.

“No one will save you from me you know that right?” He nods in your arms - he knows, to the villains, he is useless without his arms and the heroes don’t really care what happens to him after what he put Eri through. His nose betrays him and he finds himself burrowing into your chest for comfort.

“Good boy. You deserve this, it’s what you earned for the terrible things you did. You’re going to be mine until you die right?’ Again he nods, your voice a fuzzy static as he keeps digging his head into your chest. He can feel your laughter at his pathetic need for affection, your hand is back at his head running it through the longer-than-before strands of almost mahogany hair.

“Dinner will be ready soon, it’s your favorite.” You say and the other shoe drops, he stills in your embrace, and it all comes to a halt. You don’t know what his favorite is - you’ve never asked and you never will. Why would you? He’s just your pet bird with a broken wing that should be thankful that someone is even trying to maintain him. You leave to the kitchen and he can feel the warmth of the house that isn’t his home but a cage and his tears have left his face tacky. Kai turns his head, in a slow and lagging motion, and looks out the window. The prison under the sea, named after a Greek myth was wrong, that was not Tartarus.

You are.

[starboundanon]

Hi Herbie! I read the last chapter of SotF and it was very well written, and wow you really know how to throw in those conflicting emotions and feelings. Masterfully done! Like Luke feeling trapped and wondering if he will be allowed to leave, but also wanting to be there at the same time! Thank you so much for posting.

So after I read that chapter, I was really thinking about it and kinda wandered into “what if” territory. And I wanted to know what you think would happen if this:

What if…. “Somehow Padmé was alive…” (LMAO mocking sequel trilogy) and for whatever reason, she either thought they were dead or was kept from them. So anyways she finds Anakin and Luke, around the time of this most recent chapter (but doesn’t know what they have been up to) and of course they are both delighted, Anakin to have his Angel back, and Luke gets to meet his mom! In this scenario, would Anakin suddenly have less physical interest in Luke, now that he can be with his wife, or would he still be trying to sneak to be with Luke? If he stopped going after Luke, would Luke become hurt and jealous of his mom? Would he do bad things to try and I get more attention back? Or be relieved and happy with their new “normal” family?

Oof, anon. I love this ask.

I was talking about this with @hornyfandomtrash, but there really would be only two options, if Padmé was alive.

The first, as HFT said, Anakin would have to extend his relentless, controlling behavior equally onto both of them. His jealousy would force him to keep them separated, except for when he wanted the three of them to be together, similar to how he already restricts Luke's time spent with Obi-Wan until it suits him. He would probably never let Luke and Padmé be alone together, and even that wouldn't be enough to really stem his possessiveness. Padmé would, most likely, be driven away, forced to go back to wherever she's been these last 18 years. Anakin wouldn't take it well, but I think Luke would be relieved. She isn't the parent he spent his life idolizing, after all. She was a stranger to him, really, in the end.

The only other option is a lot darker, but the only way the three of them could really stay the three of them is if Padmé knew, and refused to intervene, regardless of how she actually felt about it. I personally can't see her joining in — Anakin probably wouldn't let her, even if she wanted to — but maybe she's willfully ignorant, or distantly consumed by guilt. Maybe, when Anakin "tucks Luke into bed" at night, she pretends to be asleep when her husband finally comes to bed, pointedly ignoring the fact that it's two hours later.

Regardless of which way it went, no, Anakin wouldn't lose physical interest in Luke. I think he crossed that boundary with no intention of ever turning back — knowing he never could, once he did. I don't think a "normal" family is possible for them, not from the beginning of this story. The moment Anakin took Luke for that bike ride on The Lady, things were too far to turn back from, Padmé or no.

[takami-takami]

Tw: Darkfic mention, kinkshaming, trauma discussion implied

Thought I should be more clear on here.

I LOOOOOVE darkfic. I love darkfic writers and I love darkfic stories.

I love it when people write about something too triggering to me because that means I can mind my own business and scroll past that one and allow fellow encounterers of that experience to sprout joy and pleasure from the dirt that is our adverse experiences. I look at you in awe, because you are like me. You are like me and you are moving past it. You are new.

I love not scrutinizing "unpalatable" responses and coping mechanisms. I love anti-conservatism, I love degeneracy, and I love kink.

This is and always will be a safe space for people who cope as long as it is mentally safe for them individuallly and personally to engage in it. If it is in any way harmful to your self, I gently ask you to walk away from these spaces and take care of your mind.

I love you and I am holding your hand.

[allegra-writes]

I wanna get into writing/updating more regularly again. And I wanna go darker this time. So, after posting the next part of my WIP, I wanna write a sleeping beauty syndrome/somnophilia fic.

The question is:

[trashikin]

Hey, I just want to say that your fic is an absolute blast and I'll wait for updates until they mass produce Hello Kitty casket to bury my corpse. This is a question that I've been wanting to ask from you since chapter 6. What will happen or should I say, what will Darth Vader and Luke say when they finally find out that they are actually biologically related. Will Luke screamed at Darth Vader saying; "you knew! You knew that you're my father" something like that? Or Darth Vader is the first to find out? I really like to know your opinion on this.

Thanks so much, anon!

IWM is a "when I feel like it" fic, which, unfortunately, I haven't lately. It's not abandoned, only sleeping. I also have a whole slew of asks that I haven't answered because they're a lot of prompts and I want to do them justice and get up in my own head about it. I appreciate each and every one! You are all so sweet about my trashy trashy trash fic.

For your question, though...

IWM only has rough planning, I mostly go "haha, you know what would be fucked up?" and add it to the outline. The Reveal is one of the most important moments in a "they don't know" Vaderluke fic, imo, and I want to do it right.

That means that I keep changing my mind on how to do it, but I have decided that one character will definitely absolutely find out precisely who they are to each other.

It's not who you think it is

[inkdemon-whore]

@you-are-a-superstar replied to your post “please give me more lonely, unhinged men to latch...”:

May I offer you william afton from five nights at Freddys

​oh, no the internet said i can't have that one because my headcannons about him are not kosher

also minors asked if they could hug him and it made me very uncomfortable because of my problematic headcannons

here's some old art of him tho from one of my archive blogs

i like his stupid, overly flamboyant and manic design. he looks, feels, and smells like he pulled that suit out of a dumpster, and didn't even wash it. he just put it on and went "yep that's good"

will i ever draw him again?............

..

.....

.......

............

no. no probably not. or if i do i won't post it.

[smashbrosartsandothers]

De Kieru - Yuki's Inner Demon

This drawing is Super smash bros ultimate and Splatoon

This Yuki She Transforming into a demon Her hands are demon Claw Her tail and the wings And her demon eye She is fully complete and she is possessed by a demon She became the demon And Yuki she is trapped in a mind Who can save Yuki And she will to save her Before It was too late she became the demon of the Queen.

Ps This De Kieru Meme : This Story about Yuki She got possessed by a demon and she's transforming into a demon inkling girl.

[bakugoushotwife]

𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖑 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 // 𝖘𝖚𝖐𝖚𝖓𝖆 𝖝 𝖋𝖊𝖒!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

↪↪↪ cw: minors dni, dark content ahead. each chapter will come with its own set of specific warnings. true form sukuna, yuujikuna, timeskip/reincarnation themed. heian era into the modern storyline. gore, murder, cannibalism, weapons, blood, slight blood/knife play, reader is lowkey crazy, made up technique for you, very selfship coded at that, pregnancy, death of characters including reader but we come back, miscarriage/infant loss, i'm just making up sukuna lore, smut, uh he's sukuna please be serious, proceed with caution!

↪↪↪ summary: you welcome the feared sorcerer ryomen sukuna into your settlement, hoping he'll spare your village from his conquering streak. what you—and he—did not expect was a wedding two weeks later. sukuna never does anything halfway, and marrying you is no exception. he is a doting husband and then expecting father, until you unexpectedly pass away...the grief turns him from a raging sorcerer into a scheming and scorned widower. he can't stand the idea of anyone living if he doesn't have you. he comes up with the idea of turning himself into a curse on his war for revenge, and patiently waits for his time to return—to burn the world down forever. one thousand years later, his energy sings to life again, in a miserable excuse of a sorcerer—a boy named yuuji itadori. sukuna is ready to enact his plan, to exterminate everyone and hopefully find you somewhere on the other side of things when it's all over. what he didn't account for was you; again. he doesn't believe it at first—but yuuji's best friend was...you?

↪↪↪ notes from the author: hi hi!! i have been dreaming this dream for a while now, and i get to live it every day thanks to my beautiful and amazing roleplay partner and overall wifey extraordinaire, @suguru-getos . we've played with this idea when we wanted to figure out a way to give sukuna and myself something to stand on because in all reality he'd likely squash me like a gnat if he met me so this was something fun we came up with. i love the idea of sukuna the human having some redeeming moments and knowing love and pure happiness and for that to be a driving force for him to become a curse! once again this will have dark content so proceed at your own risks and read the individualized content warnings for each chapter!!

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝖊𝖗𝖆

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊: 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖊𝖓

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔: 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊: 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓…

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖓 𝖊𝖗𝖆

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖗: 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓...

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖛𝖊: 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓...

⇝ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖎𝖝: 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓...

↯↯↯ comment to be tagged!! banners are by @/cafekitsune

[lena-after-dark]

Pairing: Dark!Namor x Reader

Prompt: "I'll follow you to the ends of the earth. No matter where you run, I'll catch you."

Requested By: Anon

Warnings: Stalking, obsessive behavior, obsession at first sight.

You were on vacation the first time you felt him near. Of course then you didn't know what it was that haunted you through the waters.

The warm waves of the Atlantic washed all around you as you swam from the beach. You went as far as you felt safe to go, pausing to enjoy the sunshine and to sneak a peak at the marine life below. You were unsure how long you were in the water before you felt it. You knew there was a presence near you. You felt the pressure shift in the water, closing around you. Upon inspection, you saw nothing that would cause such a disturbance. But each time you stepped into the sea, you had the feeling that something was there - watching you.

That looming feeling of eyes upon you didn't let up, even after you were home. Though it was gone for a while, it came rushing back one rainy evening. It was enough to make you double check the locks on every door and window in your home. You peered outside and saw nothing. Always nothing. Except when the lightning flashed and there was a figure seemingly floating in the air. You only saw it once, and shrugged it off as your imagination.

Always when it was raining. That's when you'd feel it. That's when you'd see things. It was maddening. The figure only appeared when you were home - and when it was dark. Never when you could find proof that something was there.

Until you started receiving gifts, that was. Handcrafted jewelry and ornate shells appeared at your doorstep. And once on your windowsill - inside. That was enough to make you leave your home. And once again, the occurrences halted - for a time. Then you saw it again, not long after you'd moved. The figure floating in air. The shape of a man. You tried to capture an image, but it was gone before you could.

You had to get out of town again. This time to the mountains. The snow was a welcome distraction.

"Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

You were alone on the balcony of the lodge - sipping a hot drink and enjoying the setting sun. Something about him seemed familiar, though you didn't think you'd met him before. The glare of the sun obscured your view slightly.

"Yeah, it is. You're staying here as well?"

"Not exactly." The rich timbre of his voice was soothing. And yet something felt off. "Just visiting. It's very quiet around this lodge. You're the first person I've seen. Forgive my intrusion. I'm... Namor. May I ask your name?"

You told him your name out of compulsory politeness. He turned to face you, repeating your name with a smile. You could see him clearly now. He looked out of place - as if he were uncomfortable in the clothing he was wearing. Nothing in the style of his sweater or hat matched his earrings - and they unnerved you at the sight of them. They looked to be the same craftsmanship of the jewelry you'd been receiving. Or perhaps it was just a coincidence. You complimented them, testing the waters.

"You like them? Perhaps I'll have to get you a pair." You let out a nervous chuckle. It was time to leave. You made up a quick lie about needing to go and stood, noticing that he wasn't wearing any shoes.

"I'll see you again soon," he said as a goodbye. He sounded so charming. But there was something dark in the phrase. It was a promise. You dared a last glance at him and saw that he hadn't taken his eyes off of you. That familiar feeling was back tenfold.

Namor kept his promise. When you returned home, a pair of green earrings was waiting inside. You weren't delusional. This man - or whatever he was - was following you. Could he fly? What was he? There were so many questions, and no answers to any of them. And now that he'd appeared before you, certainly things were going to escalate. You had to leave again. You moved only when it was bright and dry as a bone outside. You were careful - leaving no trace of where you might've gone. You installed a camera, extra locks, everything you could think of.

You thought you were rid of him. Through stormy nights you didn't see or feel anything out of the ordinary. No gifts were left for you to find. No figure floating outside your window.

Apparently he just needed time to find you.

Your face to face meeting had made him bolder. You saw him again - hovering outside your window as the rain fell. This time he didn't disappear. This time he flew to the glass, placing his hand against it as he looked inside at you.

You scrambled away, trying to alert the authorities. It didn't matter if they didn't believe you. You needed to know someone was on the way to you.

Namor was inside before you could give dispatch your address. He was behind you with his hand wrapped around yours, pulling the phone from your ear and ending the call. The other was around your mouth, preventing you from yelling. He shushed you when you yelled into his hand - as if he were attempting to soothe you.

"I have to admit, I am enjoying our game of cat and mouse."

You pulled away from him, and he let you. When you faced him, a grin had spread across his lips.

"Did you like the earrings," he ended his question with something in a language you didn't understand. Most likely a term of endearment.

"Get out. Now. The cops will be here any moment." He chuckled at that, and paid the thin threat no mind.

"I think I'll keep our game going a little longer," he said as he stepped closer. You instinctively stepped back, and he continued forward until you were against a piece of furniture and couldn't retreat any further. He reached his hand out and ran his knuckles against the side of your arm. The touch sent shivers down your spine.

"I'll give you two weeks this time before I look for you again."

No matter what you said, or what questions you asked, he had no interest in elaborating. Whatever his intentions were in the end, he kept them from you. He wouldn't tell you why he was there, what he wanted from you, nothing.

“I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. No matter where you run, I’ll catch you.” 

He left through the window, flying into the darkness so quickly that he barely looked like a shadow across the sky.

Buy Me a Coffee?

[the-modern-typewriter]

ive been obsessed with your work and i honestly just can't get enough of them! Could i make a request please please please! Supervillain captures hero and tortures them for months until they suddenly get bored of them and ask villain to get rid of them. Villain doesn't know that it's hero he was ordered to kill by supervillain and when he enters the cell where hero was he becomes shocked by what he sees and can't get himself to kill hero. Please continue this however you like im so excited!!

The villain stopped in the doorway of the cell.

It would be wrong to say he stopped dead, given being dead was supposed to be a relatively peaceful thing after the horror of it all.

(The hero, surely, wished that they were dead.)

The villain's mouth worked, but no sound would come out at first. He felt like he'd been punched in the windpipe. In the stomach. In all the vulnerable, gasping places.

(The hero, surely, would find that laughable given the state of them. They would love to only have the air knocked out of them.)

They lay in a broken heap in one corner of the otherwise pristine cell - no chance of infection or disease ending their suffering early, oh no. They were a blot of colour against the white of it all. Bruises yellow and purple and green. Blood red. The glint of bone where no bone should be visible.

Perfectly clean, glossy hair. Intricate, shiny restraints untouched by the violence around them. No clothes.

"Have you come to kill me?" the hero asked.

Their voice was raw, raspy, whether from disuse or screaming he couldn't be sure. It was impossible to miss the most tentative note of hope in the hero's tone.

The villain swallowed. Hard. "Yes," he said. Then, "I've been ordered to. I -" He swore. "I didn't know you were here. I didn't - oh god. How long have you been here?"

He willed down the nausea. What right did he have to be nauseous?

It was impossible to miss the hope and, abruptly, equally impossible to fulfill his task.

He crossed the room in one swift movement, kneeling at the hero's side, flailing to pull off his jacket. To cover the hero with something soft and kind against the bitter chill of the dungeons.

"I'm going to get you out of here, okay? It's going to be alright."

He didn't want to bring a blade down on the hero's ruined flesh, he wanted to offer soothing creams and bandages. He didn't want to invite the hero to drink poison, when he could give painkillers. How could he destroy? All he wanted was to fix.

The hero's gaze finally moved over to him, with seemingly great effort. There was very little behind their eyes. Everything except desperation had been carved out, leaving them some hollowed thing with their innards dumped like garbage on the side.

The villain was reminded of Halloween pumpkins and husked-out dolls, rabid dogs too exhausted to do more than froth and whine.

"Please," the hero said. "Don't."

Once upon a time, the hero had never pleaded. At least not without a glint in their eyes, a mocking twist of their bright mouth, like pleading was a favour, an inside joke that they were both in on.

"You don't want to get out of here?" the villain demanded.

"I don't want to wake up here again tomorrow."

"I won't let that happen."

"Like you didn't let this happen?"

The villain flinched. There was nothing he could say to that, was there? He could beg forgiveness, but the hero didn't even say it like accusation. It was just a matter of fact. Resigned.

"Finish it." The hero closed their eyes, apparently done with the conversation. "If you ever cared about me. Just...just finish it. You need to finish it. Please."

The villain pulled a knife obligingly from one of his many sheathes. He'd seen a lot of dead bodies. His hand wavered, utterly unable to imagine the hero as one of them.

"No," the villain said. His shoulders squared. "No. You're right, I let you down. God, I let you down. But I - I'm going to fix it. I'm going to fix this."

Maybe it was selfish. He'd never claimed to be an altruistic man.

He stepped out of the dungeons some twenty minutes later, gently cradling the hero's body in his arms.

He stopped a second time.

The supervillain lounged against the stairs leading up, eyes glittering, a delighted grin upon their face.

The villain's mouth dried. He glanced down at the hero, who tensed, but did not seem surprised.

They seemed...guilty.

The villain's stomach plunged icy.

"Oh, you failed," the supervillain crooned. They pushed to their feet. "I really wasn't sure which way it would go. We had to have a little bet."

"You-"

The supervillain attacked with monstrous swiftness. Both hero and villain cried out as they hit the floor; the sounds impossible to distinguish from each other. Everything rang sickening with pain.

The supervillain caught hold of the villain's hair, yanking their head back. In an instant, the villain felt their powers sweep over his body, locking every joint and muscle in place. Rigid. Rigor-mortis.

"Good job," the supervillain said, to the hero, in the tone of one promising a lollypop to a toddler. "As promised, you can go now. Crawl away if you can. The front gate locks in one hour! You know what happens if you don't make it."

The hero choked on a sob.

The villain and the supervillain both watched them, agonisingly, try to move. They managed a mere inch. Dragging themselves, with bloodied-nails, across the polished floor.

Then the supervillain turned their attention, dismissively, back to the villain. They tightened their grip, dragging the villain's body back towards the cell, the way they'd come.

"Ah well," they shrugged. "That's a them problem."

"No." It came out a wheeze, barely audible through the villain's frozen lips. "[Hero], please, what-"

"This," the supervillain declared, throwing him down where the hero had been. "Is going to be so much fun. Traitor."

[gerryrigged]

DickTim - practice is perfect

Dick: (strokes Tim's arm idly with his thumb) hey Timmy

Tim: (absently, tapping away at his laptop) Mmm?

Dick: (leans forward, resting his chin on Tim's shoulder) You're getting older, now…

Tim: (huffs a dry laugh) As one does.

Dick: (slides an arm around Tim's waist in a hug) You're probably starting to get…urges.

Tim: (pauses, hands going still on his keyboard. glances sideways to raise one eyebrow in Dick's direction) Am I now?

Dick: (pets his waist reassuringly) Shh, it's a perfectly normal part of growing up. I'm sure they've talked to you all about it in school.

Tim: …Dick.

Dick: I know, I remember being that age. Couldn't keep my hands off my--

Tim: --Dick.

Dick: Heh. Shhh. It's alright.

Dick: Maybe you've even started… (mouth twisting) experimenting, with other kids. Huh, Timmy?

Tim: (drawing out the name in a long drawl) Diiiiiick.

Dick: Shhh, shhh. I get it. It's new. Exciting. Feels good, doesn't it? To touch…

Dick: But hear me out.

Tim: …(exhales, settling back against Dick's chest) I'm listening.

Dick: You know how we have you practice new moves with us first, before you debut them out on the town?

Dick: (turns his head and nudges his nose along Tim's ear, murmuring) Because it's safer, better, with someone who knows what they're doing?

Tim: (throat bobbing as he swallows silently) Mm-hmm….

Dick: These kids, at your school… They don't know what they're doing. I can show you, Timmy… We can practice, just like with your flips.

Dick: (trails his nose down the side of Tim's neck, then speaks with his lips just tickling Tim's skin) Just for practice. Would you like that, sweetheart?

Tim: (turns in Dick's arms and kisses him hard)

Tim: (muttering into Dick's mouth) Oh my god, you kinky fucker - you could give me more of a heads-up.

Dick: (brightly) You love it. (kisses Tim back briefly) How long do you need?

Tim: …(pulls back to shut his laptop) Gimme 15 seconds.

Tim: (closes his eyes, breath evening out, slow and deep)

Dick: (slips his fingers under the hem of Tim's shirt to stroke his skin, counting. watches, enraptured, as Tim's face smooths out, his shoulders loosen and drop, and a pretty blush rises on his cheeks. one hand comes up to run through his hair, ruffling it up into a familiar untidy mess.)

Tim: (blinks dewy eyes open right when Dick reaches 15, and bites his plush lower lip uncertainly)

Tim: Oh - hi, Dick. Did you want something?

Dick: (smiles slowly, watching Tim's gaze flit quickly to his mouth and then away, as he blushes harder)

Dick: (gently) Hey, Timmy. So I was thinking. You're getting older now, and you're probably starting to get…urges…

[starboundanon]

congrats on sins of the father now the most popular vaderluke and aniluke fic on ao3! any idea when the next chapter is coming?

Aww, thanks anon. Not sure about "most popular" but I am very grateful to everyone who's left kudos, comments and bookmarks. Thank you all so much.

I am hoping to update again this Sunday. The chapter count is probably going to go up again, so we'll see how it goes, lol.

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter One)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 4.2k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, No Fluff, Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3)

“How do you think you’ll die?”

His fingers still as they trace your bare spine.

It’s silent in the solitude of his apartment, one of many he moves between to keep safe. This is one of the nicer ones. Furnished with silk sheets, the interior is immaculately clean. Wide windows overlook St. Petersburg below, a sight you never see with towering curtains blocking the view. Carefully curated art hangs from the walls, an abstract painting flecked with gold above his bed. You see shapes in it, think you see something akin to a lynx staring back at you. There’s never anything on the counters, no mess that would indicate someone lives here. It feels too pristine, almost artificial.

Hazy, bluish light drowns both of you as you both sprawl in bed. You like it when he makes love to you here. The large space makes you feel so alone, so much closer to him, like you have him all to yourself. Greedy, you drink in his scent, claw at his back, listen to his breath stutter as he rolls his hips into you.

Makarov is silent as you tuck into his side, shift and tangle your legs a little closer to his. You can’t see his face, but you know the look in his eyes. Precise, calculating, almost detached. His silence is indicative of his answer before he even speaks it.

“With glory.” He responds, fingers resuming their lazy path. “For Russia.”

You nod without any response. You’re not sure what you expected, but it should have been that. Makarov is a soldier, just like you are. A warrior, one who will kill, die for his ideals. As much as you long after him, as much as he loves you in return, you know his death will be exactly as he says. Not gently, not beside you in old age, sighing softly into your arms with his last breath, a lifetime of joy he left behind. His mere existence speaks of violence and retribution, a danger you yourself are caught in as an inescapable tide.

You don’t remember a time before Makarov.

There’s glimpses, yes, whispers of a time before he found you, but they’re distant echoes drowned by the sound of his voice. He says you were a soldier, and you know this much is true. He says he found you dying, on the brink of death. He scooped you from the ashes, rescued you from the embrace of the grim reaper and brought you here. Home. Your earliest memory of him is when he sat in the hospital chair, looked upon you with curious, sad eyes and asked you your name.

You didn’t know.

Marionette, your callsign. A name he bestowed upon you, the one who holds the strings. You’re his blade, his weapon, the arrow in his bow. You fly in the direction of his enemies, cut them down with lethal precision, feel their heartbeats stutter and still in your hands. You’re used to the scent of blood by now, arrive back to him awash in red and let him kiss it from your lips, the taste of your murder on his tongue.

You know what the others say about you. You see them as they watch you walk with him, two steps back, by his right shoulder. A designated position. If someday he were to be betrayed, shot through his spine, you know the bullet would enter you first.

You know too that you’ve accepted this.

Marionette. The puppet, the other soldiers say. Beautiful, poised, but empty. He holds you in his palms and you go willingly, holding onto every scrap of warmth he offers like it will fill the hollow inside you. The others, they’re scared of your devotion to him, the way you’d be ready to die if he asked. Yet there’s something else there too, glimpses of desire for a thing they’ll never touch. A longing to feel your skin, to see the glimmer behind your gaze. Those who look too long disappear, and you know without having to ask that it was through his hands.

You’re his, after all.

In private he calls you милая, дорогая, любимая. Honey, darling, beloved. He cups your face in his hands and presses gentle kisses to your forehead, presses you into the sheets with endless praises of your violence. He treats you like he loves you, even though he never says it. You think perhaps it’s taboo for people like you, speaking of blessings only to have them stolen as soon as you confess. He gathers you to him when he sleeps, presses your bare form to his. You stay awake just to hear the sound of his even, steady breaths, watch how his face doesn’t soften even in sleep.

In the morning he’s gone before you rise. You tiptoe to the living room, see him standing at a crack in the curtains, awash in the hazy dawn. When you wrap your arms around his bare torso, he kisses your knuckles but says nothing. Eyes distant.

Loving Makarov is hard.

He always seems not completely there with you, eyes gazing into a distant future you cannot see. You’re stuck in the present, helplessly watching him discern the spinning axis of the earth, blinking as you see constellations sparkle in his gaze. Copernicus, he watches the stars rotate with him at the axis, tracing across their glimmering brightness like he’s drawing prophecies from the heavens. All for once was a far-fetched dream of Russia, one that becomes closer with every death in your grasp.

You don’t do it for his vision. You do it for him, and there’s some days where you wonder if you could ever stop.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper against the flesh of his shoulder, and he holds your hand to his chest where you feel his pulsing heartbeat.

“There are things to be done.” He murmurs instead. He’s silent for a while, as if waiting for you to protest. You never do.

“Dress. Eat.” He tells you in Russian, as he turns to hold your face in his hands. “I have somewhere to send you.”

That’s how you end up in Prague.

Trailing an informant, one of his own. He’s a twitchy sort, constantly looking over his shoulder in a way that means he knows he’s being followed. Your mission is not to kill him, not yet. First you must see who he meets, which enemy he speaks to, and then bury them both.

December. Snow dusts the streets. You’ve long since become accustomed to the winters in this part of the world, the way the sun hides during this part of the year. You’re bundled in a stylish coat and matching scarf- his choosing. It brings him a certain pleasure, somehow, to choose how you dress. You find you don’t mind, leaning up to his words of endearment with every fine thread he drapes you in.

It’s a shame the coat will get stained. You find he doesn’t mind that either, as if he prefers the color red on you.

You sip on coffee in a chair of the cafe, wishing instead for hot chocolate. The bitterness is familiar, even as the temptation of sweetness lingers in your senses. You hide your face between sips, pulling up the mask that covers the lower half of your face. The informant sits in a corner booth alone, leg bouncing. Sloppy. Obvious. You watch him with cat-like eyes, blinking slowly, wondering if he’ll beg when you kill him. The man that meets him is calmer, dark haired, clearly English. His mere presence seems to soothe the other man, and you watch as they discuss things in hushed detail, the informant sliding a USB across the table where their drinks sit untouched.

The Englishman leaves first, gives a small farewell and shrugs on his coat, neatly slipping the traitorous item in his pocket. You wait a minute until after he leaves, watching your fidgety comrade count on his watch by instruction until he too is supposed to depart. You’ll be back for him later. You know where to find him.

You trail the Englishman into the overcast afternoon, following his dark coat until the street is empty. Yet as you close the distance between you and the spy, a figure rounds the corner just in front of him. Your awareness roars to life a moment too late, and even though you stab your knife forward the man before you counters it easily. His movements are experienced, practiced, and strong. They counter your quick, precise agility in a flurry of movement, before at last you’re forced into the shadow of a building, his broad form crowding you from behind.

“Where is he?” The man breathes in your nape. Cigar smoke, musk, the grip on your wrists speaking of a soldier’s strength. You don’t need to ask who. You already know. You know you’ll die before you tell him.

“Minsk.” You lie easily, and the grip on your hands tightens.

“Try again.” He growls.

“You’ll never find him.” You offer instead, voice easy, almost detached. It makes him pause for some reason, and you wonder if that alone has startled him.

You don’t expect him to flip you around, press his forearm to your throat and rip down your mask.

You see him for the first time then. He’s worn in the way warriors are, years of duty etched onto his face. Thick brows, a beard, eyes that you think in another lifetime could have been kind. He stares at you with open astonishment, a bewildered shock that fades to a strange grief you can’t understand.

“You’re alive.” He whispers.

You blink at him, and for the first time feel your expression change to that of confusion. He seems to recognize you. You’ve never seen him once in your entire life.

He whispers a name, one you don’t know. Yet the voice he speaks it in is that of despair, a realization that seems to eclipse the fabric of his soul.

“What has he done to you?”

Panic flares inside you, and suddenly your entire being is consumed in the instinct to run, run, run. The man holding you captive radiates a danger far beyond that of duty, a fear that roots inside you and cracks at the foundation of your composure. You throw a leg up between you, and in his attempt to dodge his grip loosens on you. You duck under him, seize the knife that had been wrestled from your grip. A slash on his leg brings him to a knee. You dart a distance away from him, shaking, looking back with wild eyes. Red drips from your blade.

You should kill him. You’re not sure you can if you try.

You run.

When you find the informant, let his blood pool over his fingers, you see your own fear mirrored in his eyes.

The Englishman gets away. It’s an unacceptable failure, and when you send an encrypted message to Makarov he is silent for some time before he responds.

Report back.

He’s displeased to say the least when you arrive, mouth pressed into a scowl, brow drawn tight. You try to stand tall, refusing to show just how shaken you are by the whole ordeal. You know better than to show him weakness. Yet the man’s words from before haunt you, repeating in a ceaseless echo that sends the world under you spinning violently.

Makarov paces away from you, but at the mention of the stranger he snaps to look at you, blinking in something akin to shock. It flashes over his features for only a moment before he stills back into his stony passiveness, and then it darkens into something that makes your stomach sit heavy, making you nearly take a step back at the glint that warns of danger.

He strides over to you, and this time you do falter. You’ve seen Makarov angry before, but it was always with his subordinates, the men who show fear, hesitation, those who don’t follow orders. You’ve seen him shoot a man dead for daring to question him, and as he stood over the man’s oozing corpse he had murmured that Russia’s future did not include traitors.

Yet this- as he crosses the room with surprising speed, as you reel backwards out of pure instinct, as he captures your jaw and presses you to the wall so the lynx painting rattles- is different.

“His name.” He growls, teeth bared, jaw clenched, and he doesn’t notice the way your hand encloses his wrist in a pleading grasp. “What was his name?”

“I-I don’t know.” You manage in hardly a whisper. “I swear.”

He holds you for moments longer, stares into your eyes and waits for your gaze to falter with dishonesty. Your heart beats at an aleatory rhythm in your chest, a tremble starting in your hands and spreading along the sinews of your body. Yet as Makarov waits for you to stumble, to confess something you don’t have, you stare into his eyes.

and you see fear.

The ground cracks under you like splintering ice. A flare of panic takes a frigid hold of your veins. Makarov is not afraid. He is not fearful. He isn’t scared of death, of defeat. He throws himself in the jaws of lions and peels their teeth to use as daggers. He does not waver, he remains steadfast, unmovable. So this...this....

He releases you, and it takes all your strength to not gasp in relief, practically sagging against the wall as he turns. There’s a coiled tension to his shoulders, his fists clenching and then releasing before he turns back to you, eyes almost gentle.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He murmurs, reaching forward to loop his arms around your waist. Despite the tremble in your limbs you learn eagerly into the safety of his embrace. “I shouldn’t have scared you. I just can’t imagine the thought of someone like that taking you away from me.”

He presses your cheek to his shoulder, and even though you stay there your eyes are unblinking, wide, as if seeing the first glimmer of the truth to come.

As you sleep in his arms that night, you lay awake with wide eyes still, the stranger’s words repeating endlessly in the cacophony of your mind.

“What did he do to you?”

He gives you a few days to rest but leaves you alone in the too-large apartment. You feel miniscule against the towering windows that overlook the city, and in the absence of his touch your thoughts spiral in uncertainty.

How did he know you?

You’re sent out once more, and this time you aren’t alone. It unnerves you. You’ve worked by yourself for so long that the men on either side of you on the plane feel like they crowd into your space. One of them, the younger one, is fairly talkative. You pass idle exchanges, but every time he asks something that even remotely pertains to you his older comrade hisses at him, as if they’re not allowed to know. As if the mere knowledge of you as anything other than a weapon is a sin.

The rifle in your hands is familiar, the weight grounding as you perch on a snowy rooftop, examining the ambassador’s aide just outside his home. You watch him kiss his wife, blink and feel something familiar and forbidden tug in your ribs.

The older soldier is beside you, his own sights trained on the driver. His younger comrade scans the surrounding rooftops for interference. He doesn’t flinch at the gunshot, the scream from the wife.

He does, however, collapse at the third gunshot. Not yours.

You bolt, rifle hoisted to your shoulder. The older comrade calls for his friend, and you tug him back even as he fights you. He acts as a shield when the next shot rings out, and his blood coats your arms. You duck, roll, plant yourself behind a vent cover and search for the other sniper. You find him on a taller rooftop, his sights glinting in the dawn. A shot dents the steel, and you focus your sights on its origin.

A skull mask. A reaper.

It tugs at something inside your thoughts, the same place where the stranger’s words echo. Distant, a whisper of familiarity locked behind a terrible dread. Brown eyes. The color of rust. They widen when they see you, and in his hesitation you fire a single round.

Your aim is off.

It catches him by the shoulder, and he rolls out of view. As police sirens howl, you take that moment to escape, cast a lingering glance to the neighboring rooftop and wonder why it feels as if you just saw a phantom.

You lose two men, and the deaths are acceptable. They died for the cause. Martyrs for the future that Makarov divines even as he licks the blood clean from your fingers.

It’s only then that the dreams begin.

You sleep in an empty bed. Cold, the phantom chases you through sleep. The bone white mask fades at the edges like mist. It snakes into your lungs, chokes the air and freezes your ribs. In the hollow of your chest there’s whispers of a name you don’t recognize. Yelling, screaming, hands reaching for you amidst chaos and flames. You fall through the sky, descending too quickly. Their voices are lost to the wind, and as you pull at your shoulder, the thing that unfurls above you is shot through with debris. The ground races up, up, up-

You fall, wake up on the floor, trembling, chest heaving, trying to remember where you are. Who you are.

The voices chase you on your next assignment, pulse in tandem with the heartbeat that fades under your fingertips. You try to blot them out, try to replace them with the sound of his voice, and in the midnight darkness they return, howling like the gale. Faces you don’t recognize, hands, touches, laughter.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Makarov tells you when he rouses you in the darkness of a safehouse. Your bruised ribs from your last mission heal under bandages, and as he soothes a hand over them you wince but don’t protest. “Were you dreaming?”

Yes. You think, and open your mouth to tell him, confess the chaos of your nightmares. Yet something howls in the gale inside you, screams in a soundless cry that stifles the air in your chest, sends your voice into wordless silence.

“I don’t know.” You whisper, and it’s the first lie you’ve ever told him.

After that, you only dream when you’re alone.

Never alone on missions, not again. You’re constantly accompanied, flanked, and you have the itching, uncomfortable feeling that you’re being monitored.

You try to ask why you aren’t allowed to go alone and see the way the smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he holds you close.

“To keep you safe, дорогая.” He coos, stroking your cheek with his knuckles. “How could I ever lose you?”

You accept this, but the hollow of doubt inside you wonders that, if that were true, why he would risk you at all. Hardly a week goes by without another injury, another bruise from a target, a mission, an enemy he throws you at and you carve into fatal stillness. It feels in some ways like he’s punishing you, forcing you to bear the cost of his love. Yet he presses kisses to your cuts, the blossoming yellow and purple across your skin, sighs endearments and swallows your whimpers with the slant of his mouth against yours.

Yet you fall into him, your only source of comfort, your beacon. You’re lost without him, a marionette with no master. You don’t whisper the sin of your loved confession even as it tightens in your chest, knowing he can never say it back lest it summon destruction. Taboo, forbidden, just like the doubts you refuse to share with him. You cling to him instead, listen to his heartbeat and try to synchronize it with your own.

“You’re shaking.” He whispers as you shiver in his arms following something akin to lovemaking. “Are you scared?”

“No.” You tell him, another lie. It’s not of him, never him. Not yet.

Your dreams are the thing that terrify you, and you fear them because you don’t understand. They paint images you struggle to discern. Falling one moment, caught in an embrace the next. Gunfire replaced by the clink of glasses and a bark of laughter. Cigar smoke envelopes you, war paint smears charcoal across your fingertips. An arm slings across your shoulder in warm familiarity, hands wrap a wound, and blue eyes turn to you in an affectionate concern. They whisper a name that bores into your marrow, takes holds like rot, and the deeper you carve to dig it out the more you begin to fracture.

Doubt, and it terrifies you. You never have to doubt Makarov. You turn to his hands as they guide you, surrender to his touch as they hone the fatal edge of your killing strike. You’re his, and his alone.

It’s in Belgrade that you begin to understand.

The details of the mission are obscure. Moving a Belarusian oligarch, a team with you. Different from your usual assignments, your carefully curated wardrobe is exchanged for plate armor, gloves, bracers. You wear it like a second skin. The weight is familiar, almost relieving. There’s not much for you to do, sitting in the back of the Humvee beside the package, watching the nighttime city fade to countryside and listening to the loud thrum of the convoy. You’re still healing from your last mission, a sprain that aches in your shoulder. You didn’t protest when he pressed it, took note of your grimace and declared you fit for duty. You must have made a face, because he’d tipped his knuckles under your chin, and had forced you to meet his gaze.

“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Marionette?” He murmured with those dark, soft, velvet eyes, and you found yourself empty of protests.

The Belarusian oligarch grumbles the entire time, and you don’t entertain him. Yet eventually he seems to take notice of you in a different sense, eyes roaming over the dip of your waist that your gear obscures, then up to your eyes hidden by your helmet. You see it out of the corner of your eye, ignore his sly murmur and hungry gaze. He plants a hand on the thigh hidden by your canvas pants, and you resist the fatalistic urge to separate his fingers from his-

A whoosh of noise, a shout by the soldier in the front seat. Garbled, surprised Russian, and you make out the shout of GRENADE!! before the world groans and twists violently around you.

The truck lands upside down, and you kick out the window to escape, haul the unconscious oligarch out behind you, then the driver. The convoy screeches to a halt, darkness illuminated by growing flames and bright bursts of gunshots. A comrade runs to assist your stumbling stance even as you try to drag your package to another truck, and he gets three steps before he crumples to the ground. The bridge where the convoy is halted is precarious, prone to gunfire, and you can hear panicked shouts as those in the trucks behind you realize the mangled wreckage of your Humvee blocks the way.

Another grenade, and this one is close. It knocks you flat onto your back, scatters asphalt and dust over you. There’s a ringing in your ears that deafens gunshots to distant pops, and even your groan of pain sounds like it comes from under water. Your helmet has been knocked from your face, and when you tilt your head to the side you see hostiles growing closer, nearly atop you.

You stand, turn, fall again as a bullet grazes your shoulder. Yet there’s a shout then from behind you, one you stubbornly ignore as you rise once more, stagger towards the edge of the bridge.

That name again, the once that’s become familiar to you by now, the one that isn’t yours. You bend over the railing, stare at the current below, racing in the darkness. The voice calls again, and you turn, stare at the face partially obscured by his helmet. Brown eyed, a mustache, younger than your spirit feels. You’ve seen him before, and you don’t know where, like he’s appeared in a distant dream.

Hands off his weapon, he takes a step towards you, repeats the name in a cracked, desperate call. You look at him, feel fear of the unknown once more pulse between your ribs. The ringing in your ears grows louder, and you stumble backwards in uncertainty. He reaches for you.

“Wait-” He tries, gaze open with despair. “Please.”

“I know you.” You breathe, seeing the way the fire alights across his brown skin in amber hues. “I...”

A step back, a stumble. You pitch over the railing, into the water.

Darkness surrounds you.

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