#tw: referenced branding

[whump-about-it]

The Fault is Mine

@whumpuary Day 12: Day 6 prompt (I accidently posted the prompt I meant to post today on the 6th) Share your favorite whump creation.

Because I am vain apparently, this is one of my own creations. It's part of a longer whump story I am too chicken to post in full. But this is my favorite chapter that I wrote.

CW: dissociation, beating, belting, conditioned whumpee, aggravating injuries (accidently), passing out, referenced branding,

Time was irrelevant. Unreal. Seconds, minutes, hours. They all dissolved down to moments. Undetermined, indiscriminate crumbs of existence marching one by one in single file through reality. If you could survive one moment, you could survive the next, and the next, and the next. And if you could survive all the moments you'd already survived through, then you could survive all the ones you still had to survive through.

That had become Heather's existence. No more memories. No more thoughts. Even the fear seemed to have faded into the background. She just lived in each separate moment. Surviving it so that she could get through the next one as well.

She hadn't had feeling in her arms since she had kicked the box out from under her, who knows how long ago. The ringing in her ears had become constant and grading. Her throat was chapped from dehydration and screaming it raw, and she could taste the metallic flavor of blood though she couldn't imagine how it had gotten there. Everything below her neck felt shredded and pulled apart. Excruciatingly painful, but so tangled and mottled together that she couldn't identify the sting of an oozing cut, or throb of a bruise, from the ache of her lungs that were still so diligently insisting on working. She couldn't even differentiate the pain of the brand anymore, though she knew it was still burning hot as an ember sucking all of her heat away into itself and festering somewhere against her t-shirt.

Cynthia had come once since she had branded Heather. She'd landed a badly aimed punch to her face that had left Heather with a bloody nose, clogging one nostril, and what she assumed was a black eye under all the tape. Cynthia had then beat her with a belt across her less injured back.

It was sickening how comforted Heather was by the familiarity of the belt. Cynthia's favorite method of punishment. Even when the beating went on for what felt like eternity and Cynthia started venturing lower on Heather's body to the sensitive backs of her legs. Even when she'd turned it around and started smacking the metal buckle hard against Heathers broken body, the last bit of warmth she had left in her curled and hummed with joy that even if the ground she was standing on was on fire, it at least was solid.

Heather had been too exhausted at that point to flinch away when the leather or metal made contact with her. She didn't even have it in her to try and make a sound. Cynthia had stopped twice to check her pulse and breathing, and after the second time had seemingly given up. Apparently bored now with the state of things. Heather had had enough wherewithal then to know that wasn't a good thing. That Cynthia was dangerous when she was bored, and was going to return diabolical. But even the thought of what Cynthia might do to Graham could only do much to keep Heather alert.

It wasn't that she didn't care about him anymore. Or that apathy had set in and she was hoping he'd take some of the burden. She wanted to protect Graham, and wanted to think of a way to keep Cynthia's attention on her. But she couldn't think. Every thought in her head slipped away like she was trying to hold water. The more she struggled to keep it, the faster it disappeared. Graham seemed nothing more than a dream now, and she was neither asleep enough to grasp him, nor awake enough to wonder about him.

She had long lost the cognition to notice the vibration of the storage container when the garage door opened, and the ringing in her ears was so loud that she couldn't even hear the incomprehensible sounds of a struggle, or yelling. So her first indication of a change in the status quo around her wasn't until someone practically slammed into her. The sudden abrasive contact lit up all of her wounds at once, especially the burn which began to sting so fiercely she managed to identify it over every other pain spasming through her.

She took a strangled breath in through her one functioning nostril, because she could take a breath. Who ever had slammed into her had grabbed her around the waist and lifted her just enough for her to take a real breath. And they were holding her there too. It was the most pain Heather had been in so far. Whoever was holding her was pressing too hard against the welts in her back, pushing in on her cracked ribs, and somehow managing to continuously rub the fibers of her shirt into her burn.

The pain made her teeter so close to the edge of unconsciousness that she actually fell off, dicending into the void and the darkness. But with the oxygen filling her lungs had come thought.

Graham

Heather grabbed onto the last bit of consciousness she could reach and pulled herself back. If someone was holding Heather, grabbing her, hurting her, that meant Cynthia was back. And Cynthia had been bored. Which meant Graham was now in imminent danger.

With some new found strength Heather didn't know she had, she began to struggle against Cynthia. Twisting and kicking her legs. Doing anything to fight her. At the very least pique her interest again. If only she could get her arms free...

Her arms were free. Almost as soon as she had thought it her arms had fallen from their place above her head and all her weight was collapsed on Cynthia. Thankfully, Heather couldn't feel her arms. And as it turned out couldn't move them either. But every already aching muscle in her back suddenly screamed and stretched as though being ripped. Even as that was happening, her chest muscles relaxed and Heather took in an almost involuntary deep breathe of air.

All the new pain, combined with the sudden ability to breathe again made Heather dizzy. Her existence turned grey for a moment, and when she pulled herself back she realized for the first time that there was more than one set of hands on her.

Cynthia, or who she had thought was Cynthia, had their arms firmly around her waist. they were holding her pressed to them and lowering her to the ground. Heather could feel their fingers pressed into bruises on either side of her waist. But there was a third hand spread over the back of her neck and supporting her head.

Was Cynthia making Graham help her? Had he given up and talked? Panic rising in her chest Heather began to struggle again. Only now, being on the ground, totally engulfed by maybe-Cynthia's embrace with one leg on either side of their body, Heather had much less leverage to fight with. She couldn't do much more than squirm, and maybe-Cynthia held her tighter to them while maybe-Graham held her head steady and pushed something pointed against the tape by her ear.

A few moments later the pointed object broke through. Heather could finally hear something other than ringing in her ears, and it was the sound of multiple people talking at once. One of the voices waas very close to her.

"Heather, it's us!"

It wasn't Graham's voice. Nor was it Cynthia's. It was Pete's.

Heather froze. She had all but forgotten that they were waiting on a rescue. The Family must have finally tracked them down and come to get them out. Bring them home. For the first time since Cynthia had first captured them, hope began to bubble in her chest.

Heather tried to turn her head towards Pete's voice, but found that her neck was too stiff to move and pain shot up over the back of her skull and shoulder blades. The hand on the back of her neck, she was pretty sure now it was Pete's, curled gently and began to stroke feather light against the unmarked skin there. She hadn't noticed before that the hand was warm against her icy skin, and his gentle touch, the first thing she had experienced in ages that didn't hurt, sent a ripple of pleasant warmth through her that made the pain a little less excruciating.

"Hold still for a minute" Pete continued speaking and the hand disappeared from the back of her neck "I'm going to get this tape off and I don't want to cut you"

Heather tried to hold still as best she could, but she had only just remembered she had arms as feeling came rushing back into them. From her shoulders all the way down to the tips of her fingers it felt like she was being branded again. A million hot rods pressing into her skin and burning her down to the bone. She wanted more than anything to try and shake the pain out of them, like you do to wake up a sleeping limb, but her muscles and nerves didn't seem to want to work yet and they hung limply around the neck of whoever's lap she was in. As though in compensation, she wriggled more or less unconsciously in their arms to try and deflect the pain somewhere else as she simultaneously focused on reminding her self that it was Pete picking at her face with a knife and not anyone she needed to be afraid of.

Whoever the other person holding her was wrapped their arms a little more tightly around her again, unknowingly brushing up against the bruises from her belting and tried to hold her still.

"I know you must hurt so much Baby" They said "Just hold still until we can get this tape off of you and then you can shake and cry all you want."

It was Lincoln. Even if Heather couldn't recognize the voice, he was the only person she knew who called anyone baby. She hated the pet name, but he did use it for everybody so he got a free pass. And right now the term of endearment made her want to melt into him.

She tried to get the squirming under control, and just about had until Pete ripped a large chunk of the tape freeing the entire front of her face. The sensations that hit her were numerous and overwhelmingly intense, not least of which the feeling that she had just lost her eyebrows and eye lashes.

Her contacts had long since dried out, leaving her eyes irritated. A fact she had been able to ignore up until this point. Suddenly being able to see again aggravated them and made the itching flair, even as she couldn't make anything out with her new found sight other than blurs of light in various shapes and colors that all seemed far to bright and harsh.

With her mouth uncovered her jaw fell limply open and she drew in a breath that felt like a balloon expanding in her chest. The breath was too quick, too deep, she could feel her lungs press against every single one of her ribs, moving them in ways they weren't meant to, and the sore, stiff muscles around them began to spasm. Before Heather could feel the dizzying relief of oxygen again, she was coughing. Her whole body jumping and shaking as her lungs fought to bring in air while her chest pleaded to stop being moved. Her vision went white with the pain of it and she felt shredded again. She couldn't even feel Pete and Lincoln's hands on her, tipping her back, trying to open her airway and mumbling soft encouragements as they did so, until she finally got her breathing under control.

There was something wet on her lips now and she could feel one of the boys run a finger over it to brush the moisture away. There was an extended silence and Pete murmured something about Heathers arms. Lincoln took one arm off Heather's back and moved it to the back of Heather's head, replacing Pete's hand. He then maneuvered her until she was leaning forward with her forehead pressed into the crook of his neck. One of her limp elbows lay on the opposite shoulder while her other had slid down his fore arm, held together still by the handcuffs that Heather thankfully couldn't feel yet as her nerves and muscles still burned with their newfound blood flow.

Lincoln replaced his hands at the waistband of her jeans and ran tiny circles over the visible skin there with his thumbs, rocking ever so slightly as Heather breathed unevenly against his skin, letting out exhausted sobs at the pain each breathe sent sparking through her.

"That's it Baby," he cooed "Just breathe. That's all you gotta do right now. Pete and I will take care of the rest. We got you Baby."

Heather's vision had never come back after her white out, but she realized after several shaky breathes that it was because her eyes were closed. Remembering the too bright lights and fuzzy shapes that were useless for identifying anything, she decided it was better to keep them closed for now. Pete jostled her arms slightly and Heather made a tiny noise of protest deep in her throat as sparks of pain shot up from her wrists. He apologized profusely and explained that he was getting the hand cuffs off of her along with a promise that he would be more careful.

Heather didn't protest any further, preoccupied with the newfound realization that she could make noise. If she could make noise then she could talk, probably, and though she knew she was quickly approaching unconsciousness, there was something she had to make sure of before she passed out. After taking several preparatory breathes Heather attempted to swallow and had the immediate sensation of razorblades in her throat. She took several more breathes to recover and then with a mighty effort attempted to form a word.

"Gr-gra-gr"

It was all she could get out. A small pitiful noise like a dog's whimper that she could feel rather than hear. It was all she could do though, and miraculously Lincoln seemed to understand.

"Oh Baby" he cooed "Shh. Graham's fine. His brothers are taking care of him. He's going to be okay. Just focus on yourself now. Everyone is safe."

The relief felt euphoric. Warmth and comfort washed over Heather and for a pleasant moment all her pain melted away into a numb joy.

Graham is fine

He's going to be okay

He is safe

He's with his brothers

And then the illusion broke so quickly Heather actually gasped.

This is all your fault

In the whirlwind of rescue, Heather had forgotten her promise to Graham's brothers. She'd forgotten that she had failed to protect Graham, and forgotten just how far his brothers were willing to go to protect each other. Her brain fizzled and short circuited on the sudden confusion of what was going on.

Why were Lincoln and Pete helping her? Why were they being so nice? Surely Graham's oldest brother, Adrien, the leader of The Family, would have ordered them to leave her behind. Or maybe he wanted her rescued so that she could answer to him before he threw her back out to the wolves.

Cynthia wasn't Heather's only enemy. When she had tried to give up her life of crime and went to go live with Cynthia, most of her former associates had taken the move personally. Marked her as an enemy and a double agent. Even now that she was clearly a failed convert, the only reason she could walk the street without fear of the many crime lords she had wronged was because she was under the protection of The Family. Without that she wouldn't last a week.

This is your fault

You're a bad person

You deserve everything that's happened to you

As Heather's mind spun woefully out of control Pete finally finished picking the lock on the hand cuffs and pulled the arms apart with an audible squelch of coagulated blood. They had cut so deeply into her skin that Pete had to tug at them to get the metal off of her. He miss calculated the amount of force he needed though and jostled Heather's entire upper body as he pulled. Every single one of her muscles spasmed and she tensed against Lincoln. Her vision sparked white again and she let out a tiny cry of protest before finally, blissfully, falling into unconsciousness.

[ani-and-the-corries-au]

There are some things that all troopers know Nat born's will never understand.

All the troopers grew up in a world where perfection was the standard and anything less resulted in death. Where individuality was a crime and being anything more than just another number was a danger, Where saying the wrong thing in front of the wrong person could get you killed.

All troopers know this, but post Kamino the Guards have had it drilled into them all over again. If they want to survive In the Senate they have to fall back on the lessons they learned on Kamino.

The Corries know that there are some things that nat born's will never understand. Things that Nat born's shouldn't understand.

So no one in the guard quite knows how to feel about the strange fallout of the Shiney squad's Jetti Cadets apparent discovery of the Guards position on Courcant.

It starts small, the guard notices that the boy stops being weird about the fact that most of the Corries don't use their names, when asked, the boys. "It's because I know that you have them now." raises more questions than answers, because apparently the boy just figured out that they used their designation numbers around the Senate because their names were a secret on his own. He also seemed to get an unreasonable amount of joy from the fact that all the clones chose their own names.

If it has stopped there then it probably wouldn't be so weird, but it didn't. From sneaking in extra medical supplies and food, (actual food, not just ration bars) when he discovered that 'depur' was cutting their budget for stuff that they needed to function, to the way he seemed to intrinsically understand their need for secrecy, and their reasoning for it. "secrets keep us safe." Without anyone seemingly telling him.

They all agreed that they weren't gonna ask about how the boy had managed to rangle several senators around to the truth of the situation and his point of view with only a few words to one of them. A point of view that not only had them working on trooper sentient rights bills, but also had them aiding in his more under the table helping.

At first it was weird and confusing, both because this kid was a nat born, and because how did a Jetti Cadet develop this kind of understanding, he was a child. It took them a while to connect the dots, Even as the boy started unconsciously dropping hints.

At first it was that weird little nickname he had for the Senate and Senators, in a language that even the most nerdy of Corries didn't seem to understand. They weren't sure what a Depur was, but apparently it applied to the Senate and was probably not a good thing.

The next clue was the stories, because as Anakin spent more time with the guard, becoming more of a Vod'ika than a Jetti Commander and subsequently beginning to learn more and more about the secrets that they kept from the rest of the Senate.

As the boy learnt about the lighter side of the inner workings of the guard, and how to speak the clones particular brand of Mando'a, the guards began to learn stories about Ekkreth, Leia and Ar Amu, stories about secret plots and tricking the The infamous Depur in ways that resulted in the freedom of those he enslaved.

About secret Languages, Tzai, Jappor snippets and secret rituals. About the ways one could steal back some control from the Masters in ways that they would never even notice. About things that the boy claimed that all Slaves should know, lessons that would help keep them safe from their Masters. A term that by now the guards suspended was not referring to the kind the Jedi had.

By the time the boy causally mentioned that he and his mother had been enslaved prior to him being taken to the temple, the Guards already had a pretty decent picture of the situation.

The fact that the boy had been adopting them into his own culture right under their noses had been vastly more surprising. He'd been a little awkward when he'd admitted it. Saying that he knew that they were sort of Mando'ade, but they could be Amavikka too if they wanted.

And sure, maybe it was a little dark that part of the reason the boy spent so much time in the barracks was because it felt familiar, but also this kid cared about every single one of them, to the point where he apparently sees them as family.

Well it really was no wonder that it was agreed that the entire guard would do just about anything for their Ad'ika. Including possibly stopping said Ad'ika from doing the same for them. (Bloody Skywalkers)

[threepandas]

Bad End: After The War (Next ->)

The click of a button in a mostly quiet room. Machines humming as they churn an endless stream of data. Listening. Receiving. Filtering through the noise, for those bits of intelligence that might win us the war. The outpost was quite. As much as it could be, at least, on this god forsaken moon.

"Perimeter Check?"

More specifically, 'did you get your ass eaten by those horrifying eel-snakes? Because you promised not too, and I WILL be mad.' 'Cept, you know, these channels are technically recorded. Rather not have my snark On Record, thanks. So SUBTEXT.

The familiar, oh so melodious, demonic death screeching of abomination eels and blaster fire comes on comm. A symphony straight out of some sci-fi horror movie, act 3. The part where everybody's getting eaten. Except NOT, because this? This is just my life.

Though the eaten part is still a Very Real Risk.

Which Is FUN.

I wait. Hope I just caught Headshot at just a bad time. Not, you know, in his final moments. Ha ha... Nope! Not! Thinking 'bout that! He's immortal, I'm immortal, and we both live in a happy fun time fairy land of FUCKING WONDERS. Denial? Fuck yeah I know her! Best friend, that one. Gonna be my future kids godparent. Walk me down the aisle. We BESTIES.

There is finally, at long last, ominous silence. Dead or dying? Dead or dying? Which side, eels or Headshot, is Dead or-?

Click.

"Perimeter looks good. Bit of a mess near the east gate, though. We'll need to get the droids to shove some mess over the ledge. They tried to climb again."

Oh thank FUCK. Tension bleeds out of me. This post is hell on my anxiety. I send back the confirm. Slump back on my seat as I keep an eye on his tracker's dot, on the patrol read out. I fucking HATE perimeter checks. They aren't safe. But... well...

This universe? I'm pretty sure, it's an "all the serial numbers filed off" blatant rip off of Star Wars. Might be a fan fiction? Cause, while the troupes are familiar, the "characters", no one is where or WHO they should be. There are also other "totally not X" bits here and there, all of which confuses the fuck out me.

But what I DO know? Is that making a fuss about the safety and well-being of us peons? During this, the "totally not the Clone Wars"? While Evil Dick, Sith-y Pants the Obvious is in charge? GREAT way for our entire outpost to get "tragic casualties of war"-'d. So yeah, no thanks.

Keeping my mouth shut.

And, hey! At least they ate our complete asshole of a commander. Technically we SHOULD be getting a new one... but we were told to make do. Same with all the OTHER critical roles currently empty.

The DICK.

Like? I know he wants to drag out the war and maximize suffering for Evil Not-Sith, Off Brand Space Wizards Of EVIL Powers? But like? Fffffuck yoooou, dude. What the hell. Hope he stubs EVERY toe, always.

The Clones deserve better then this. The SECOND the war is over? I'm stealing Headshot. Fuck this "property of the state" bullshit. Just me 'n him, man. We could go explore the wilds. Or get him a beard and fake glasses. Clone? What clone! This is my BROTHER, Headshot. Our parents were gun-toting hippies. My names Moonrock. Fuck off, maybe. Keep walking.

The second I see him cross the base threshold, I switch over to Droid command. They can't hold my shift forever, but for a bit? Should be fine.

Jogging down the hall and sliding down a few ladders, I finally catch sight of Headshot as he leaves the staging area. Oof. That is a LOT of eel blood. The cleaning bots are cursing up a storm as they follow him. Even from the other end of the hallway... he smells... ripe.

I give him a second to lead the way and for the bots to work behind him. Then join in the little parade. Ah, eel goo. The third worst thing that could come out of going outside. Right behind losing a limb or dying. But hey! I restocked the soaps for ya!

"Doesn't change that it's on my everywhere, Commander."

Oooooh~ breaking out the COMMANDER are we? Is that SASS I hear? Snark perhaps? Why HEADSHOT! Such insubordination~! What EVER shall I do?

He snorts and suggest something anatomically impossible as he gestures to the shower rooms door. I tap it open for him. Goo boy that he is. Grinning I follow and find a bench where I can sit so my back is to him. It... used to be weird, to be honest, this level of living in each others pockets. But time and isolation has eroded a lot.

Clones don't really see boundaries like everyone else. Don't have the same taboos or unspoken social rules. After all... they're all the same gender. Were forced to live basicly in a breadbox with each other. The culture that developed reflects that. And I? Am more of a follower then a "type A". Not passive by any stretch of the imagination, just... eh.

I don't have the social outgoing-ness? I guess? To drag the culture of our base towards MY social norms as opposed towards his. It made him comfortable. I shrugged and went okay. Rinse and repeat. To be honest I was just glad he trusted me enough to SHARE.

Booting up my definitely-not-a-tablet, (which is of course, STUFFED full of various bits of sci-fi technology that only half makes sense) I once again try and connect to the wider army's mainframe. Nothing. I've BEEN trying for weeks now. But for some reason? We're cut off.

No new commands. No new forms to fill. No demands for information.

No UPDATES on what the FUCK is HAPPENING out there.

I'm... not gonna lie, getting nervous. We're a listening outpost. Some of our information is time sensitive. And our SUPPLIES are not infinite. Forget food, if we run out of AMMO? Those nightmare snake-eel THINGS will... Look, long and short of it? I've got an "empty" blaster shoved under my bunk. Two shots left. And compared to the slow, SLOW digestion and meat threshing teeth those horrors have?

At least it's FAST.

But I would REALLY prefer we NOT fucking come to that, you know? That someone would fucking PICK UP. Or? I don't know!? Notice we're offline? Whatever the problem is! The fact that we've gone dark is SPOOKING the fuck out of me.

Not to mention? That even BEFORE communication went down? The chat rooms and update boards weren't making a whole lot of sense. Lot of clone specific references that I didn't get. Memes, maybe? I don't KNOW and that's the part that's killing me. I had no way to CHECK. It all just... went dark.

We're still GETTING data. But? We can't seem to SEND it. Headshot and I checked. I checked the droids while he got the dish and other external devices. Clambering around the roof with his sniper rifle like a well armed, circus trained, mechanic. Nothing was wrong with the droids. And according to Headshot? Nothing was wrong with the dish.

After a while I gave up. Again.

Reminded myself to practice my meditative breathing. In... out... IN... OUT... do NOT trough your only Data Tablet. You'll break it. You can't REPLACE it. It might FEEL satisfying in the moment... but it's Not Worth It. Just listen to the sound of the running water. The quite of the room. Breathe... unclench your jaw, make your muscles relax, c'mon you can do this.

Fuck, I needed my anti-anxiety meds. But we were starting to ween me off them so I didn't go cold turkey when we ran out. It was fucking with my head. But, hey! At least I wouldn't run the risk of seizures! Or any suicidal ideation! No, just slowly building anxiety, in this, History's Most Stressful Outpost.

The shower shut off behind me. Leaning forward to grab a towel from the stack, I tossed it blindly over my shoulder. Heard him catch it. Wet feet slapping quietly against tiles as he walked forward, drying himself. From the feel of droplets and heat, looming just behind me? He was leaning over my shoulder. The man always did like to damn near boil himself in the shower.

"Still nothing? We've run out of D6 bolts. Not to mention your meds..." He commented, still drying off. I could feel the occasional brush of a towel. A bare arm reached over my shoulder to tap at the screen. "Have you tried...? Shit."

He tried several commands. Leaning over me, damn near cradling the back of my head against his bare chest. But nothing worked. Plopping his chin down on the top of my head, he casually wrapped his arm around my shoulders, leaning his weight on me as he considered the problem. The fans kicked in overhead, dehumidifing and hopefully preventing any sort of alien molds.

I told him to go put on some fuckin pants, before he frozen something he might miss off.

With an amused snort he stood and wandered over to the armor cleaner. Grabbing a new undersuit. Blacks went on, armor freshly de-goo-d, he called that he was presentable once more. I swung my legs over the bench. No need to stand, after all, if we're not leaving yet. Besides, exhaustion was a symptom of the withdrawals. Med changes are a BITCH.

Just as I was about to suggest anough brainstorming session, though?

Our comms both ping. LOUDLY.

That's the emergency signal from the control room. SHIT. I'm up and running before the sound even fades. Headshot right behind me. Not so much because he can't out run me, as he'd stop to grab his weapons as was bringing up the rear. Guarding my back. I prayed, PRAYED, this wasn't an attack. We were supposed to be a fourteen person team.

There were TWO OF US.

We'd never be able to hold the line. Would DIE here. Fuck, I didn't even have time to get that gun! I should have been carrying it. It had been too morbid. But... but...!

I slam into the control room. Headshot a half step behind. The droids frantically churning away. Okay. Okay! What's happening? A ship, big one, in orbit. Oooooh fuck. How Big? I ask. Am informed? "Wipe us from the face of the galaxy" Big. Ha ha! FUCKING FANTASTIC. Great! Merry fucking Christmas to me, I guess! Okay. Okay!

Let's DO this.

Get on the short range ship comm, (never thought I'd USE it but here we fucking ARE) and ask, politely, for them to Fucking Identify Themselves. (Because we have Big Guns and are NOT afraid to use um!)

There is a long tense moment. Then? Oh thank merciful FUCK. A Clone's voice comes on the line. General Spark of the 153rd, in pursuit, they're here to catch traitors and resupply if we need anything. Permission to land a few ships?

I. Could. WEEP.

Yes! Oh, ABSOLUTELY yes! Whoever they're chasing picked a REALLY stupid planet to hide out on, not gonna lie. They'll be picking their traitors up in PIECES. But? Never has a voice been more beautiful. Send Techs! You have FULL use of the outpost General! Welcome!

Setting the droids to navigating the incoming ships safely through landing, I all but DRAG Headshot towards the landing pad. People! Actual, real, PEOPLE! Supplies! Oh thank FUCK! We might be able to figure out what wrong with our relays! Get NEWS! And? That was a CLONE GENERAL!!!

That NEVER happens!

I can practically feel my self vibrating with excitement. Bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet, as the ships come in for a landing. The officers that roll out are all clones. Their armor more personalized then I've ever seen it. It's BEAUTIFUL. I can't help but lean over and whisper to Headshot, saying as much. Wondering if we can get him some of the supplies they must of used.

You know, assuming he WANTS any of um.

If not? Dibs.

His shoulders are shaking. Why are-? One of the officers thanks me for the compliment. Headshot you SON OF A SUBSTANDARD VAT. Was your SHORT RANGE MIC ON!? Why would you not-!? Bastard! Dead to me! Sorry general, I've never met this man before in my LIFE. Couldn't introduce if I TRIED.

Still! High ranking clones? We love to see it. I am THRILLED. It's been long over due.

Dooooesn't mean we should hang out in Eel Country though. Everybody INSIDE! Let's goooo. Nice and safe, where no ones getting eaten, m'kay? Thank you! And yes! I DO have a list of resupply needs! A LONG list. Starting with my meds, followed by ammo. Though honestly they're tied at first...

As me and the, now rather concerned, medic chat about the collapsing state of our highly rationed medical supplies? Headshot and the General are off to the side... talking about... something. Not sure. Probably not important, or he'd include me. I show the medic our "infirmary" and medical charts. Then get pulled away by the mechanic.

I barely get to SEE Headshot over the next two days. Forget sitting down. The only breaks I get? Meals and lights out. It's kinda awesome. Exhausting, yes, but? After so long isolated? It's a good type of exhausted. The sort where you feel like? For ONCE? You're actually being productive.

There are SO MANY eel burrows to scan? Potential landing sites? And all the MAINTENANCE? Dear merciful FUCK. Literally everything is out of date and cheap as BALLS. Held together with shoe strings and a prayer. But finally! FINALLY! Someone in budgeting GIVES A SHIT!!! Better equipment! Actual medical supplies! Real bedding! And best of ALL?

AIs! As in Actual, information sorting, artificial intelligences!

Because there literally hasn't been a REASON for humanoids to do this job for CENTURIES aside from a misplaced sense of superiority and distrust of droids! All WE need to do? Is stay on base and make sure THEY don't go rogue or break down from the extended isolation! Woooo desk job!

I'm gonna name um. They shall be my BABIES.

That said? None of this? Is very... Off Brand Sith-y. Little too "cares about their fellow man"-ish, you know? And... I'm not stupid. Excited as FUCK, for all the supplies and new changes... but not? Stupid. Blind.

They're keeping me away from the control room.

Keeping me out of important discussions. Sending me off on errands. All of which? SEEM important. ARE important, on the surface, but hide the fact that they are intentionally scheduled? Just as Certain Things Are Discussed. I am being... handled. Like a child. A fool.

When I confront Headshot? In our bunkroom, which we've shared for YEARS at this point. Slept just across from each other, so this lonely hell might feel just a little less empty? So when the dark thoughts creep in? That we might die in this God forsaken place, forgotten by the universe, left to ROT here, and wouldn't it just be easier to-? Someone there, so we won't. So we still matter.

He stands across from me. In OUR place. OUR room.

And FUCKING LIES.

......I guess I know where I stand, huh? And I know... I KNOW, I shouldn't feel betrayed. Clones come first, always. That's the party line. How they survived. I'm a Nat. There was always a power imbalance between us. I would always have been held just that bit further away then one of the brothers. Guess... guess it just finally happened.

I shouldn't feel betrayed. I have no RIGHT to feel betrayed.

But I do.

Headshot looks alarmed, hands twitching at his side, even as he tries to maintain his facade. Nothing's happing. They aren't doing anything. Right. Uh huh. His lie sits between us like a field of broken glass. The words, the arguments, I'd been looking for now seeming so useless. What's the point? He's made his decision.

I feel like crying. Don't want to talk anymore.

Good NIGHT, Headshot.

In the morning, I don't bother asking. I know he notices. Is waiting, restless, for us to continue on as we always have. We always check schedules after all. But what's the point? He'll lie. Instead I pull my armor on and go. Go to your brothers, Headshot. Whatever's happening here, I'm clearly not trusted enough to be part of it.

I just get out of your way.

There's a lot of busy work on my schedule, but honestly? The new AIs are learning to handle it. Instead, I head down to the new supply crates. Grab some bedding. A cart. Then head back. Pack up my shit. I just... can't.

Moving it all to a different bunk, I still have most of the day left to go. Could...? Probably? Check out if we actually DO have space rats? The droids have been reporting dust and noise in the basement, near the food stores. So likely vermin of some kind. Gonna be horrifying to find out what kind of vermin exsist HERE, but better then nothing, I guess.

Grabbing one of the better ration bars to shove in my face on the way to the gun locker, I count it a breakfast. Everyone's busy with a clone only meeting. Good for them, I guess. Not upset with General Spark or his men, I realize, as I check over the gun, no... just Headshot. Because he hurt me.

All he had to say was "I can't tell you." Or "trust me" and I WOULD have. But no. He LIED. To my FACE. And now? Now I feel like I'm waking around with shards of glass where my heart should be. Like I want to hit something. I need a distraction. So down to long term storage I go.

Normally? It's only droids down here. I have to ride a cramped little maintenance elevator lined with blast doors. You know, incase Satan's favorite pet somehow burrows in. The fuckers. It's also freezing. Which, I mean? Great for food storage, not so much for thermal regulation.

The level is eerie quiet.

Which.... huh. That's? Not right.

I reach for my comm before pausing. The hurt in my chest throbbing. I know I shouldn't let it get in the way of professionalism. Of protocol. The rules are there for a reason. To keep us alive and safe. But... God, I don't want to hear his fucking voice right now. I might cry. Say something I don't mean and regret later. You don't LAST long, isolated out in Hellpit, Nowhere, without doing a little soul searching.

Mortifying ordeal of being known and all that.

My hand drops. It's fine. I'm FINE. There's nothing down here. Or, well, should be nothing down here. We'll find out.

Slowly moving forward, I begin to check the stacks. I don't see any of the droids. Don't HEAR any of them. There should be at least thirty down here. But all I hear? Is the circulation fans. The sound of my foot steps. Something isn't right.

It's a loose, half melted screw in the path that saves me. At first I think it's a bug. But the quite clink when my foot nudges it is unmistakable. It makes me look sideways. There, a cleaning droid, cut down from behind. Tiny little mechanical claws still reaching out to claw itself to safety. Wheels shredded. The marks of a lazer blade are unmistakable.

The hiss-hum even more so.

I BARELY dodge.

Half my gun, simply sheared away. Molten slag dripping from the cut point, the battery already violently destabilizing ask it's nicked. I throw it, before I have the chance to lose a limb. The blast takes out a crate. I'm thrown. Barely roll in time to dodge the downward stab of the hissing blade. A brutal, magic-enhanced, kick sends me flying.

Straight through a stack of ration crates, into a wall mounted medical case. I land among the corpses of the droids. Each, a picture of terror and betrayal. I don't understand what's happening. The blades not red or black! It's blue! That's a not-jedi! Right?! Why are they!? Crates are lifted into the air. Threatening to smash down and bury me alive.

Can't move. Something twisted, badly, in my leg. My chest burning. Something cracked, I could feel it. I'm gonna die. Oh good, I'm gonna DIE.

"Wait! She's not a clone!"

I stare up into the face of the so called "good guys" and feel nothing but terror. Around me, the pieces of thirty droids I'd named and known, dead and dumped like trash upon the ground. Flower with his fussy need to have everything just so, Chirp who loved to sing, Mouse with the wheel I could never get to stop squeeking.

Nothing but Cannon fodder.

They died so afraid.

"Oh! You're right! Sorry! I thought you were one of those 'peating bastards. Are you okay? How long have they held you?" The Knight said. His Apprentice nodding eagerly.

My brain was static. Empty. Held? Slurs? W-what in God's name? I stayed down. Feeling small, lost, and confused. Pain rocking my body from being thrown around. The Apprentice, at least, seemed to pick up on the fact that I had no idea what the fuck they were on about.

"Ah. You don't know what's happened." She said sympathetically. It would be nicer, if she hadn't stood back while I was hurt, before they got around to asking who's side I was on. "The Clones betrayed the Republic. Took it over by force. They've made an empire. They killed the old Chancellor, who was Fallen, but then instead of handing the Republic back to the people? Kept it! Said we couldn't be trusted with it."

The last part was said mockingly. As though everyone and their brother hadn't been aware the Republic was on the brink of collapse. Corruption at an all time high. As though that same Republic hadn't been using the Clones as a SLAVE ARMY.

Slaves do tend to take exception to their chains, historically.

I wasn't really sure why the fuck they were surprised.

"Now come on, you can join the Rebellion. You must know all sort of information, from sitting out here, right? You can-!"

Click.

My helmet went full dark and internal audio only. Which was interesting because I still could barely move. But then bright light and sound, popped and cracked not to far away from my head. A flash grenade. And I finally, FINALLY? Remembered that all standardized armor? Comes with in built life support feeds.

Headshot's mystery meeting was in the command room... where my life sign readout would be. The life support feedback. Real time monitoring from me getting my ass kicked and WHERE.

A hand grabs the drag handle built into each armor, for EXACTLY this reason, and I feel my self pulled out of the danger zone. Can hear heavy, open fire. Shit. There goes our supplies. My helmet clears and I recognize the shoulder I've been careful thrown over. Headshot. He came.

He falls back at some signal I can't see. Straight to the elevator.

The shoulder under me is shaking, just slightly. Adrenaline, fear, anger. I can't tell. But... I... I'm...

"Don't." His voice is rough. Choked out through gritted teeth. His grip just carefully loose enough not to bruise. It seems to be taking everything he has. "You don't get to die. Do you understand me? You're not ALLOWED to die. Not now. Not ever. We didn't survive this long for you to leave me now."

He barely waits long enough for the door to open. Stride smooth and desperate as he races us towards the medic. I rest my head against his shoulder and breathe. Let myself be manhandled. Ha ha... a-at least? I know what he's keeping from me now. So there's that. Ow. Oh god.

The medic has to put me under. Bone fragments.

I drift.

Wake up, bandaged to hell and back, in ou-... in Headshot's bunkroom. Across from the empty bunk that used to be mine. Bed's softer then it should be, still smelling like Headshot. We haven't had the new sheets long enough. Knowing him, he probably stacked um.

The door opens. Headshot stalks in, dragging a cart behind him. His usual "pleasantly amused by life" expression nowhere to be seen. Instead? His expression is... blank. A determined, almost violent, edge to the set of his shoulders.

In silence, I watch as he unloads the cart. Bedding, knickknacks, the various bit of cobbled together wall art. All carefully stuck right back where it had been before. As though he had memorized the proper location of each and every piece. Even as he worked, with his back to me, every line of his body was daring me to be dumb enough to argue.

I didn't want too. I was just... just fucking tired.

Didn't like that we were arguing. If that was even what we were doing.

"Why?" I asked. Summing up everything and distilling it. Why didn't you just fucking TELL me? Why didn't you TRUST me? Why did you think I'd turn on you? Why would you lie? Why were we cut off? Was it REALLY a technical error? Why take the Republic? Why ANY of this?

Just... WHY, Headshot? Please...

"I refuse to lose you. When the war ended, you were going to leave. You said you'd take me with you... but honestly? That was naive. There would be no where safe we could ever go. We all knew that. We all had favorites." He finally stopped organizing my bed. Instead, smoothing down the sheet. Running both hands across it as he stared down, unseeing. "It was all so unorganized. Filthy. They treated us like DIRT. But we were... we ARE better. Designed to be superior. Stronger, smarter, faster. More durable. Why were we listening to them?"

"Then we found out why. Control chips in the brain. The nervous system. Carefully hidden, yes. But not carefully enough. You weren't authorized, you know. I'm glad. If you had been? I'd never have forgiven you. You'd never know you were dead before you died. But... I promise."

"I would have made it fast." His smile was a terrible thing. All broken edges and betrayal. Teeth upon teeth. A mania finally set free.

"Never thought those hypocrites would run here. Expect us to die for them. The happy little slaves. For the glory of THEIR Republic. You'll be okay, Commander. The General's agreed to stay until your back on your feet, just in case."

Headshot slides onto the bunk, sitting at my side, sweetly brushing hair from my face as though he hasn't lost his god damned mind. He's the picture of relief, now that there's no more secrets between us. Now that I'm injured and dependent on his help. Yet... it's teetering.

As though at any minute...

He could slide into some... unhinged state of mind. How LONG has he been on his last thread? Barely holding together? He leans forward and my mind goes utterly still. His lips pressed gently against mine. Chaste. Sweet. A warm, calloused hand, cradling my poor bruised cheek.

"I promise we'll stay together." He whispers against my stunned mouth. Eyes intent and mad, utterly loving. Like a strangers. "I won't let them seperate us. Not for anything. Now that it's done? We can be assigned anywhere. I'll take you with me. War's over, love. We're finally free."

Were we?

[ailithnight]

Howdy y'all. Have a snippet that is completely unconnected to anything else I am writing or will write. Feel free to do with it whatever you please.

But first, important warning! TW: Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault of a Minor

Seriously, this actually might be a brand new kind of fucked up even for the Danny Phantom fandom.

"Oh. I don't think you need to worry about, uh… that stuff."

"Oh? Why not?"

"It's just. Um. Y'know. The, the scientist were always fascinated by, um, by my 'mimicry of bodily functions,' right? They wanted to test how far the, 'the mimicry' extended. If I'd 'mimic' things like, digestion and immune response and, and um, excitement."

"Excitement." Flat. Not really a question, but a question all the same.

"Yeah. You know…" Danny makes a couple hand gestures. Wiggles his pointer a couple times; then holding his hand in a loose fist and giving a couple jerky, twisting pulling motions. Kind of like… Oh. Oh god. He's just 15. It's such a painfully 15 thing to do, dancing around the topic like this. All awkward and nervous.

But also, god, he's so painfully 15. Jason is suddenly wishing he'd made a lot more bullet holes when they took those fuckers down. He would have if he'd known just how far their depravity sank. If he'd known they had-

"They sexually assaulted you?" Dick's voice is high and strained. Jason winces. Everyone knows, Dick hasn't told them, but they've all seen the signs, they know he has some personal traumas there.

Danny full body flinches, recoiling as if Dick had just slapped him.

"What? No! It wasn't. They didn't. It's not like they were, like, getting off to it or anything. They were just. Testing reactions. To, like, stimuli and stuff. Same as when they'd test how my body responded to different temperatures or lack of oxygen or various drugs. It wasn't. It was just an experiment." Danny looks down, fidgeting his hands in his lap and refusing to look up. It's practically textbook denial. Dick is probably fighting flashbacks right now. Jason would try to help him if he wasn't trapped somewhere between horror and rage.

After a long moment of silence and fidgeting, Danny sighs. Still refusing to look at anyone, he leans back and studies the cieling instead. "Anyway. It was just another expiriment, but it still kind of killed any interest in… that stuff." Young. Young. So painfully young. "So I don't think I really need the whole… y'know… talk."

[aziraphales-library]

Hey there!

Got any adult omens that are human au’s? I’ve read all the ones on here that I can find so any more suggestions would be greatly appreciated. The fluffy ones are the ones I enjoy most!

Thank you all so much for the work you’ve done. This library is amazing!

-A

Hello! Here are some fics to add to our #human au, #fluff, and #adult omens tags...

Rear Ended by Caedmon (E)

Crowley is already having a very bad day when he accidentally plows his new car into someone at a traffic stop. He's ready to rip the head off of the person - until an angel gets out of the car, and suddenly, he's in love.

The High Road and the Low Road by saretton (E)

It's been two years and, finally, it has happened. They're paired up again. Anthony Crowley, coach driver for Roadside Fire Coaches and Buses, and Aziraphale Fell, licensed member of Scotland's Tourists Guide Association. Maybe this time they can finally talk and figure out whatever has been going on between them for fifteen years. ----- A Good Omens Scotland Tour Human AU.

litany in which certain things are crossed out by Ayes (E)

A beaten-down Aziraphale opens a bakery in the small town of Tadfield, where he finds an all-night greasy spoon and one fallen Crowley, who is making amends through various and increasingly ridiculous means of community service. Features an inexperienced!Aziraphale, Crowley the town ne’er-do-well, and Crowley’s self-appointed protector, young Adam. Human AU. All quotations are from Richard Siken’s earth-shattering collections of poetry, Crush and War of the Foxes. cw/tw: brief mentions of fatphobia; homophobia; religious oppression; miscarriage; self-hatred; background character death; drug addiction; foster care; past animal abuse… all referenced and not actively happening in the story, but sad beginnings that are addressed in order to make room for happy endings.

Oddity by Tsyvia48 (E)

The Museum staff were shocked and annoyed when their incompetent director Gabriel hired a street performer to guest curate an original exhibit about David Bowie. Aziraphale was immediately put off by Anthony Crowley's rudeness and arrogance--how dare the man think he could just waltz in to a project like this! Aziraphale was determined to make Crowley regret underestimating the task. For his part, Crowley could hardly believe his good luck: some of the smartest people he'd ever met were paying him to think about Bowie. It was like a dream come true. If only he didn't have to work closely with the posh bastard who seemed to need to hold his nose just to be in the same room with him. Crowley was determined to make Aziraphale regret underestimating him.

Drive me to the Moon by CaptainBlou, Elenthya (E)

At GOMENS, world-renowned sports brand and sponsor, one takes pride in endorsing the UK’s most talented athletes. On the other hand, one would like to ignore the fact that their two top of the bill, Aziraphale and Crowley, have heartily hated each other since the day they met. But what should be expected, when one knows these two? Aziraphale is a professional dancer, Crowley a rally driver. While the former switches between fierce competitions and prestigious stages, the other goes from one track to another across the world, clearing out every prize from behind the wheel of his racing car. Two beings, two worlds, two universes that everything should keep apart. But an unprecedented charity event is getting set up at GOMENS, and quickly, their own athletes will have to compete with and assist each other in turns. Two worlds, two personalities. But if they want to run for a cause that matters to the both of them, Crowley and Aziraphale are going to have to find an Arrangement. 

Going Somewhere Slowly by curiouswriterkr (E)

Our bois are in Uni and meet in their last year. Aziraphale has sworn off dating and drinking for reasons, and of course, Crowley wants more. Of course, so does Aziraphale. It's a slice of life story. ~~ “Aziraphale, tomorrow at the pub, could I buy you a drink?” Crowley asked him, eyes earnest and hopeful. “I’m not your student anymore-” “Crowley, your invitation is so very kind and I must decline. You see, I don’t drink and I don’t date,” Aziraphale tipped his chin up a fraction of an inch and squared his shoulders.

- Mod D

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Petri Dishes and Plastic Wrap

ACT TWO: STITCH PATTERNS

Previous—Next

Brian Moser/Reader

Summary: Y/N was brought in for a psychological profile contract after the Ice Truck Killer case starts gaining momentum and the department begins to feel the pressure. She reviews old case files, offers insight, and quietly builds profiles. What no one knows? Y/N used to work at a private sanitarium in Georgia—one that got shut down after multiple patient abuse reports. She even kept a journal on a particular patient who had dissociative tendencies, surgical skill, and a fixation on reconstructing human bodies like art. The file? It got buried. Now in Miami, Y/N starts receiving odd notes—sketches of bodies in glass boxes, neatly preserved. No threats. Just… acknowledgments. And when she meets Rudy Cooper, the charming prosthetics specialist brought in to consult on a limb pattern, she gets the feeling she’s being studied.

TW: Stalking and obsessive behavior (escalating), Gaslighting / psychological manipulation, Romantic horror / coercive intimacy, Graphic body preservation imagery, Complicity in violence / moral decay, Mentions of trauma-induced dissociation, Sexual tension tied to power / pathology (implied), Unsettling past medical experimentation (referenced), Canon is a sandbox.

It started small. Purposeful, but deniable. The kind of intrusions that, if she dared to mention them, would make her sound paranoid. Unstable. Delicate.

And Dr. Y/N Morrissey was none of those things.

At first, it was a coincidence.

She’d run into Rudy at the courthouse parking structure two mornings in a row, him smiling like he just happened to be leaving as she arrived, iced coffee in hand. Then again at the waterfront—she walked that route every other Thursday after reviewing blood pattern reports at precinct storage. It cleared her mind. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.

He’d waved from a park bench.

“Funny how often we cross paths,” he’d said, as if the universe liked to play matchmaker.

But the familiarity began to sink its teeth in deeper. He started showing up with a second coffee, already ordered to her taste. He knew she didn’t like sugar. He knew she took it with almond milk. That she drank half and then let the rest go cold.

“I’m observant,” he’d said once with that soft, sunny charm. “Occupational hazard.”

She hadn’t told him her favorite brand of soap. But one night, walking into her apartment, she smelled it—lavender and vetiver, subtle and sharp—and paused by the door.

No one had broken in.

Nothing was taken.

But the scent lingered.

The next morning, she found the ribbon.

She’d unlocked her car, slid into the driver’s seat, and paused at the faint flicker of red against the gray of her glove box interior. A silk ribbon, looped and folded into the shape of a heart. Clean. Tidy. Measured. The kind of knot you only learn through repetition.

No note.

No explanation.

She didn’t mention it. She didn’t throw it away.

She placed it in her top desk drawer at work, beneath a file labeled Closed: 2001 – Georgia Facility Report.

Then came the pen—a sleek, black ink fountain pen, identical to the one she’d lost years ago, down to the scratch on the cap. It was left on her desk one afternoon, uncapped, perfectly aligned with her notes. She hadn’t brought it in. Neither had the intern.

Rudy stopped by that day, grinning over his shoulder as he left the room. “Sharp pen. Looks good on you.”

He never asked her out. Never said anything that crossed a line.

But Y/N had the creeping sense that he was already inside the perimeter.

Not pursuing her.

Claiming her.

And she hadn’t told him to stop.

The journals had been boxed, sealed, and labeled “Archived – G. Sanitarium / Not for Review.” She’d moved them three times. They always made the cut.

Now, under the dim lamplight of her apartment, Y/N pulled the top one free—leatherbound, corners softened from years of handling. It still smelled faintly like disinfectant and ink. She opened it with the kind of care you reserve for incisions, not pages.

Inside: her old handwriting, smaller then, precise and curling at the ends. She’d documented every session, every vocal tic, every word that felt like it meant something even when no one else seemed to listen.

Patient #79.

She hadn’t written his real name. She wasn’t even sure she’d ever known it. But the voice echoed so clearly through the pages it felt like he was still sitting across from her, wrists rested on his knees, looking at her like she was both subject and observer.

He doesn’t blink when he describes anatomical separation. He says he “feels most whole when things are in pieces.” That control is honesty, and skin lies.

Says hands reveal more about a person than their eyes. “The eyes perform. The hands confess.”

Y/N’s eyes skimmed down another entry, dated two weeks before the facility closed.

New fixation on preservation. Formalin, dry ice, encasement. The patient wants to “hold beauty in place.”

When I asked him what beauty looked like, he said, “You, when you’re thinking about what I just said.”

She snapped the journal shut. Her fingers didn’t shake. But her breath caught somewhere behind her sternum.

Because two nights ago, Rudy had said something.

They’d been standing outside her apartment after an unplanned encounter at the 24-hour drugstore. They didn’t touch. They never did. But before walking away, he turned and said—offhand, casual, too specific:

“You have a face that sharpens when you’re focused. It’s almost surgical.”

She hadn’t remembered the journal entry until now.

She opened another volume.

More notes. Sketches. A preserved smile rendered in pencil. Bones catalogued in affectionate, academic strokes.

More phrases that matched the ones Rudy had whispered in passing.

The timeline made sense. He would’ve been the right age. The right intelligence. The quiet calm that made the orderlies relax. The way he never raised alarms, but stayed close to the staff. Close to her.

She started flagging pages with red paperclips. Circling terms. Names. Observations that had felt harmless at the time, but now glowed like signs left in plain sight.

She knew what she should do.

Report it. Alert Deb. Confide in someone. Bring the journals in as evidence.

But Y/N didn’t move.

She sat at her desk, surrounded by ink and paper and silence, and kept reading.

Not because she was afraid.

But because the patterns were beautiful.

And she wanted to see how far they would go.

It was always under the surface—Rudy’s questions.

Never direct. Never so pointed that anyone else would notice. But Y/N did. She noticed everything.

Especially when it came to Rudy Cooper. 

It started with a lunch break in the forensics lab. He wandered in under the pretense of delivering a model for limb articulation, but lingered with a sandwich and a grin that never quite touched his eyes.

“You ever wonder,” he asked, biting into the crust, “what it takes for someone to stay conscious through dismemberment?”

Y/N didn’t look up from the photos she was reviewing.

“I assume dosage. Skill. A high tolerance to pain. Why?”

He shrugged, licking a smudge of mustard off his thumb. “Just thinking about nerve endings. Where awareness really ends. I read somewhere that the brain can stay ‘awake’ for as long as thirteen seconds after decapitation. Imagine that.”

“I don’t have to,” she murmured, making a note beside the photo. “I’ve seen the footage.”

He chuckled—low and genuine. “Of course you have.”

Later, it was during one of their quieter moments. She was reading at a café. He appeared without warning and slid into the chair across from her.

“If you were going to preserve something,” he said, as if picking up mid-thought, “would you go with plastination or vitrification?”

Y/N blinked slowly, then marked her place in the book with a receipt.

“Depends on the purpose. Plastination for anatomical display. Vitrification if I cared about cellular integrity.” A beat. “But I’m guessing this is rhetorical.”

He smiled. Tapped a finger against his temple. “Just building a hypothetical. You know how it is.”

Every time they spoke, it was like dancing on the edge of a scalpel. She couldn’t help but meet him where he stood—never backing away, always holding eye contact, answering each insinuation with clinical poise.

“If you were going to rearrange someone… where would you start?” His dark eyes stared into hers, waiting, watching…perhaps even wanting. 

She nodded. “The hands. Most expressive. Most honest.”

Rudy hummed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and Y/N’s eyes caught onto the slight movement with intensity. “What’s the most misunderstood muscle group?”

 “The psoas,” she answered. It was immediate and certain. “Deep, buried. Crucial. People ignore it because it’s not visible.”

“Do you think people know when they’re being chosen?” This was said more carefully, more pushy. Like this question was more important than any of the others he asked her beforehand. 

 “Only if they’re paying attention,” she replies, her voice still sure but quieter. 

She should’ve walked away. Should’ve stopped replying. But something in her—something rooted deep in her ribs—wanted to hear what he’d say next.

And he knew it.

Each time she answered, he leaned a little closer. Smiled a little deeper. Touched the air between them like it was silk.

And Y/N, steady and composed, answered every test like it was an exam she had trained her whole life to pass. 

At first, Dexter had passed her off as background noise—another specialist with credentials and a cold stare, the type who filled folders with jargon but never got their hands dirty.

But Dr. Y/N Morrissey didn’t just observe.

She dissected.

She sat in on briefings without taking over, slipped reports across his desk with post-its marked "See page 3—organ arrangement inconsistency," and walked away before he could ask why she was paying attention to the same things he was trying not to draw attention to.

She didn’t speculate out loud. She didn’t insert herself into fieldwork. But her profiles? They began to read like blueprints of his shadow self.

One morning, Dexter opened a report she’d written. The subject line read: Behavioral Analysis: Serial Pathology and The Art of Surgical Cleanliness And there it was:

“This subject is methodical. Highly intelligent. Dispassionate, but not indifferent. They believe in order. In beauty, even. They are not killing for power or revenge. They are preserving something.”

He reread that last line three times, his grip tightening on the page.

Preserving.

She was circling him, even if she didn’t know it.

Or maybe she did.

He started avoiding her—not obviously. Just enough to sidestep conversation. He left the lab earlier, chose different hallways, rerouted his routines so their orbits wouldn’t collide.

But she still found ways to cross paths. Quietly. With purpose. Always looking at him just a second too long.

Once, in the lab, she’d picked up a blood spatter photo he’d been analyzing and said, almost idly:

“There’s no hesitation in this cut. No instability. Just muscle memory.”

He’d forced a laugh. “A professional job?”

Y/N turned toward him, her expression unreadable.

“No. Not professional. Intentional.”

That night, Dexter sat in his kill room—not hunting, not prepping—just sitting, staring at the knives like they might offer reassurance. They didn’t.

Because Y/N Morrissey wasn’t chasing blood or fame.

She was chasing understanding.

And Dexter could feel it in his bones—she wasn’t far behind.

He didn’t call it a date.

Rudy called it “something interesting I thought you’d appreciate.” He said it with that easy smile, the one he wore like a mask made of warm skin and practiced dimples. No pressure. Just intrigue.

They met in a neutral place—a gas station parking lot off I-95. The sun was setting behind a line of wilted palm trees. He handed her a helmet and didn’t explain why until she saw the motorbike. She didn’t ask questions. Just climbed on.

He drove them to the edge of the city, where buildings sat hollowed out like old bones, condemned but not quite forgotten. The one he stopped at had been a private medical clinic once—burnt around the edges, windows gone, paint peeling in long yellow strips like shedding skin.

Inside, it was too quiet. Not abandoned-quiet. Curated.

He led her through the ruined halls, past the remnants of gurneys and shattered file cabinets. Then he stopped at a heavy door, half-rusted shut, and pried it open with practiced hands.

The room beyond was cold. Not physically—there was no power. But something about the air felt preserved. As if time had been sealed in here like a specimen.

The tableau sat centered beneath a makeshift skylight.

A body—not fresh, not rotted. Preserved. Arranged. Arms outstretched, palms open, bones visible beneath carefully stripped layers of tissue. The face was untouched, eyes closed as if in gentle surrender. The body was posed, fingers curled like a statue, back arched in a silent offering.

Around it: glass jars. Some filled with fluids. Others with nothing but labels and residue. Everything was organized. Catalogued. Cherished.

Rudy didn’t speak. He just stood beside her, watching the way she looked at it. Not with horror. Not even shock.

With recognition.

Y/N said nothing. Not at that moment. Her lips were pressed shut, blood drawn to the surface like bruised fruit.

She walked the perimeter once. Just once. And then she nodded.

Only once.

Later, back at her apartment, she wrote about it.

Her journal’s spine cracked when she opened it—an old one, the one marked #79. Her handwriting was messier this time. Her palm smudged the ink as she wrote. Her hand shook just enough to make the loops crooked.

The body was not mutilated. It was displayed. There was no panic. No rage. It was reverent. Surgical. Sculptural.

I don’t think this was meant for Miami Metro. It wasn’t a challenge.

It was meant for me.

She capped the pen. Sat in silence.

And finally allowed herself to whisper:

“He remembers everything.”

The body was on the table—cool, pale, already processed through the first round of evidence collection. The crime scene team had cleared out. Deb was yelling in another room. Masuka was gone. It was just them now.

Rudy stood beside her, sleeves rolled up, gloves already on. He leaned in slightly, eyes tracing the incision that ran from sternum to pelvis—clean, practiced, gliding perfectly along the midline. Not jagged. Not messy. A statement, not a kill.

Alina was cataloguing ligature bruising on the wrists when he spoke.

“Come here,” he said, softly, without looking up.

She didn’t hesitate.

He moved aside, just enough to let her stand where he had been, and then—without warning—his hand covered hers.

Not forcefully. Not possessively. Just enough to correct the angle of her fingers, tilting them toward the edge of the incision.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “Right along the fascia. Whoever did this, they didn’t cut straight through. They glided. Used the tension. Let the skin open itself.”

His hand didn’t leave hers. His palm was warm through the gloves, anchoring hers like a tutor with a scalpel and a student just slightly off course. His thumb pressed lightly against her knuckle as he guided her along the edge of the cut.

Not erotic.

Surgical. 

Intimate.

The kind of touch that said: We’re the same, you and I. You know what this means.

Her breath caught—not from nerves, not from fear. From focus. From memory. From the sensation of finally being understood on a frequency she’d spent years pretending didn’t exist.

The skin beneath her hand was cold and inert.

But the heat between their gloves was unmistakable. Not from friction.

From alignment.

He released her a moment later. Didn’t step back. Just let his hand fall away like it had never been there at all.

“You’ve got good instincts,” Rudy said. “Just needed a little redirection.”

She didn’t reply.

Her hand remained where he left it—poised over the open flesh, gloved fingertips hovering just above the line.

She knew what the cut meant now.

So did he.

The first tableau had been composed. Beautiful, in its own way. The kind of display meant to impress—not law enforcement, but someone specific. Someone who would understand it.

But the next one was different.

The second body was still art, but it was sharper now. Angrier. The arrangement was more aggressive, the wounds stitched not with elegance but with urgency. Still clean. Still cold. But no longer performative.

The third was personal.

A woman, roughly Y/N’s height and build, positioned on a mattress in a condemned motel. Her skin had been flayed in a deliberate pattern—a replication of musculature diagrams found in obscure banned medical anatomy texts. Her face was untouched. Her hands folded. Her hair braided back in a way Alina used to wear during her Briarcliff days.

The room smelled like bleach and sawdust. There was a mirror, propped carefully beside the body, angled to reflect it entirely. As if the killer wanted the viewer to see not just the body— but their own reaction.

Y/N stood there, surrounded by uniforms and evidence markers, and felt the electric prickling beneath her skin. Not fear. Not nausea.

Recognition.

Dexter stood beside her, arms crossed, gaze narrowed—not at the body, but at her. He’d noticed. She was too calm. Her notes are too accurate. Her expression was unreadable, like someone watching the final act of a play she’d seen before.

That night, she found a gift on her doorstep. Not a bouquet. Not a card.

A scalpel.

Sterilized. Wrapped in gauze. Tucked in a case lined with red velvet.

She didn’t report it.

Instead, she locked the door, turned off the lights, and sat in the dark with the case on her lap. Her fingers hovered over it like prayer.

Because it wasn’t a threat. It was a message.

You’re getting closer. You were always meant to.

From that moment on, she was pulled tighter into the inner circle—briefings, crime scenes, high-level analysis. LaGuerta wanted her insight. Deb didn’t trust her. And Dexter—Dexter was watching.

But it wasn’t just them watching anymore.

Rudy was circling.

He started showing up more frequently. Catching her outside the precinct with a look that hovered between affection and hunger.

 He didn’t flirt.

He didn’t tease.

He just lingered.

“You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” he said one night outside her apartment building, voice low enough to make her throat tighten.

 “See what?” she asked, fisting her keys to the point one of the rough edges sunk into the fat of her palm. 

“The design. The throughline. The truth under the red.”

She didn’t answer.

Because the intimacy between them had turned. It wasn’t fascination anymore.

It was selection.

And she wasn’t sure if she was the chosen…

Or the next exhibit.

It was supposed to be harmless.

A visit under the pretense of shared wine and late-night theory—two professionals comparing notes, deconstructing pathology. That’s what she told herself. That’s what she let him believe.

Rudy arrived precisely at 9:00, holding a bottle of dry red in one hand and a takeout bag in the other. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his smile disarming, his posture loose and practiced.

“Dinner with a forensic psychiatrist,” he said as she opened the door. “Every man’s dream.”

Y/N didn’t smile. She stepped aside and let him in.

Her apartment was sterile in a lived-in way. Clean, but cold. Books stacked with surgical precision. A single orchid on the windowsill. The scent of bleach faintly clung to the air, masked beneath lavender oil. Her couch hadn’t been used in days. The table had been cleared.

Except for the file.

A thin folder, closed but not hidden, sitting on the desk near her armchair.

Rudy set the wine down. Took in the space. Eyes roaming casually until they landed—right there. The file. And beneath it, the corner of a notebook. Leatherbound. Faint red threading visible in the spine.

She didn’t move to cover it.

He didn’t ask permission. Just wandered closer, knelt as if admiring a curiosity, and brushed a finger across the folder’s edge.

“Is this one of yours?”

Y/N stayed silent.

He opened it. Slowly. Carefully.

Inside: photos. Scans of her old journals. Annotated profiles. A page torn from Briarcliff’s patient logs. Notes written in her precise script, each line spiraling deeper into obsession—not about a killer, but a subject.

Patient #79.

Volunteer assistant.

Reconstruction fixation.

Rudy.

She’d coded his name into the early entries. Used letters instead of numbers. Drawn diagrams of the way he sat. The way he smiled without showing teeth. Quotes she’d once called “unsettling” now circled in red.

And then—just beneath it all—her handwriting, more recent:

He remembers me. He kept everything. So did I.

Rudy didn’t flinch.

He closed the folder with quiet reverence, like someone folding a flag. Turned to look at her—slowly, the smile never quite fading, but shifting.

Not the mask now. The man underneath.

“You knew before Miami,” he said. Not a question.

 “Not until the sketches,” she replied.

 “But you kept it. You studied me.”

 “You wanted me to.”

The silence afterward wasn’t tense. It was electric. A waiting space. A breath held between them.

He took a step toward her. Not threatening. Not tender. Something beyond both.

“Were you ever going to tell anyone?”

 “Not yet.”

He reached out, not for her hand, but for her wrist—lightly brushing his thumb over the pulse there.

“You always understood me,” he said, voice low. “Even when you didn’t want to.” “You always talked like someone who wanted to be caught,” she whispered back.

A beat. His hand dropped.

“Not caught,” he murmured. “Chosen.”

And for the first time in her life, Y/N Morrissey didn’t know if she was the hunter or the prize.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Brigitte Helm (Metropolis)—Brigitte is the goddess of Metropolis and she deserves to win this poll. She is absolutely stunning, and was a pioneer of silent film. In Metropolis she plays both the good-hearted heroine Maria and the evil robotic clone trying to tear it all down, and she carries both roles off perfectly. SHE HAS THE RANGE, DARLING.

Lyda Borelli (Satan's Rhapsody, Love Everlasting)— no propaganda submitted

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Brigitte Helm propaganda:

in the movie metropolis (1927) she plays an evil cyborg *and* a communist. The evil cyborg is hot in a deranged way and the communist is just very pretty.

just rewatched metropolis with my dad and the scene where she (as the brand new mechanical woman) is being revealed to the upperclass men??? all those men are the horniest theyve ever been in their lives and its Palpable. also just every time she looks at the camera its like that thing of eyes in a painting following you around a room, she has such a heavy gaze it feels like shes judging you from outside time and space and i know some of the tumblr girlies would really go for that if they knew about her

[Link: the above referenced Metropolis clip. tw for some unsavory slave imagery, eyeball horror, freaky statues, death references—general just be careful warning]

She got to play the most beautiful robot in all of cinema. That's got to count for something.

THEE femme fatale of German Expressionist film. Her double performance as sweet and innocent Maria and her evil robot doppelganger in Metropolis is fantastic.

[notiddygothgf]

World famous rock star Choso Kamo's new live-in assistant is convinced that she can fix him -- substance abuse issues and all. Tensions ensue, and as new feelings rise to the surface, the two find it difficult to maintain an appropriate workplace relationship.

(or; the one where an unstable musician meets an assistant with a savior complex).

❝I GOT A BRAND NEW PLACE, I THINK I'VE SEEN IT TWICE ALL YEAR. I CAN'T REMEMBER HOW IT LOOKS INSIDE, SO YOU CAN PICTURE HOW MY LIFE'S BEEN. I WENT FROM STARING AT THE SAME FOUR WALLS FOR TWENTY-ONE YEARS TO SEEING THE WHOLE WORLD IN JUST 12 MONTHS, BEEN GONE FOR SO LONG, I MIGHTA JUST FOUND GOD.

WELL, PROBABLY NOT, IF I KEEP MY HABITS UP AND PROBABLY NOT, IF I CAN'T KEEP UP WITH LOVIN'...PROBABLY NOT IF WE TAKE 'EM TO MY SPOT. PROBABLY NOT, IF I TWEAK ALL DAY JUST TO SLEEP AT NIGHT, GOD DAMN, I'M HIGH. MY DOCTOR TOLD ME TO STOP, AND HE GAVE ME SOMETHING TO POP. I MIX IT UP WITH SOME ADDERALLS AND I WAIT TO GET TO THE TOP.❝

╭─ ⋅ ─ ✩ ─ ⋅ ─╮

▷ prologue

▷ the interview

▷ behind the scenes

╰─ ⋅ ─ ✩ ─ ⋅ ─╯

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : jun 6, 2024

cover art credits: @/2OARIN on twitter

streaming... Kiss Land (The Weeknd).

cw/tags: rockstar!au, loosely based off of 'the idol', keyword very loosely... bc it sucked., slow burn, mutual pining, sassy reader, not really enemies to lovers but let's just say they drive eachother crazy. toxic relationship, but it gets better, mental instability, mental breakdowns, mentions of relapse (will include tw!), implied/referenced alcohol abuse/alcoholism, recreational drug use, implied/referenced drug addiction, HE GETS BETTER I SWEARRRR, eventual smut, sexual tension, explicit sexual content, oral sex, doggy style, cowgirl position, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, questionable decisions just like all around, dark romance, reader is a little delusional (me too its ok), rough sex, rough kissing, rough angry sex, just read it it'll be a sexy and amazing time, choso my beloved you can do no wrong, except maybe in this particular fanfic, LISTEN TO KISS LAND BY THE WEEKND.

[thesupreme316]

aew wrestlers x female readers and their favorite positions in bed?

darius martin, dante martin, daniel garcia, hook, action andretti, ricky starks, eddie kingston, and i know they're not in aew, but could you add drilla moloney & charlie dempsey 🙏

AEW STARS AND: Their Favorite Sex Positions (18+)

Pairings: Darius Martin X Female Reader, Dante Martin X Female Reader, Hook X Female Reader, Ricky Starks X Female Reader, Daniel Garcia X Female Reader, Action Andretti X Female Reader, Eddie Kingston X Female Reader, Swerve Strickland X Female Reader,

Word Count: 1.3K

Supreme Speaks: heyyyy (sorry for being late per usual). thanks to my tumblr bae @hooks-martin for the request (for the last two, I didn't know anything about them but I traded them for swerve). i think this is the most explicit imagine of mine so plz take it easy on me. anyways, please remember that you are loved and appreciated. ALSO HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Warnings: Mature content (if you are a minor, please do not read), explicit content and images, explicit language and indications

Taglist: @hooks-martin @hookerforhook @batzy-watzy @wwenhlimagines @triscillal @cassie0sstuff @sheinthatfandom @eddie-kingstons-wifey

**All the positions and their names be referenced from this website**

Hook: Cowgirl

I can just see it

Him on his back looking up at you and admiring the view; with a smirk

BUT DON’T GET IT TWISTED

He is very much in charge

Will command how fast or slow you go; he doesn’t care about the speed….but will change it if he’s punishing you

“You can ride me a lot faster can’t you baby girl?”

If he sees you getting tired (or he is punishing you), he will just drill up into you with no mercy (you’re riding a jackhammer now)

Frequently brings you down to kiss you (Watering Can position)

Loves it when you scratch his torso; it’s like you're leaving your mark/brand

I CAN SEE HIM REACHING UP AND CHOKING YO-

Just to see you squirm a bit more, he’ll talk in Italian

Tw: google translate

“Prendilo per me tesoro, so che puoi.” (Take it for me baby, I know you can.)

Action Andretti: Bizet

Again like I have said in the past

Man’s a sweetheart but also very shy

This is the perfect position since he probably might clam up if he looks into your eyes

Not in a bad way ofc

From this position, you can’t see him blush

So he wants to be as close to you as possible

And he also wants to be able to slip in at any given chance

I think he prefers slow thrusts so you both can feel everything and take in the moment

Loves to whisper in your ear

“It’s almost like your body was built for mine”

I see him as a tits person, so he squeezes them from behind

…

After careful consideration, yeah my answer is still the same he is a tit person

OVERALL HE IS A SWEETHEART

Dante Martin: Reverse Cowgirl

MMMMM THIS IS MY DREAM SO EXCUSE ME FOR THE PRIVAT-

MANS IS A ASS PERSON

Smacks/gropes your ass whenever

And is a switch too idc what you say; So I think this position gives you both control in a way

If he’s the sub, you’re controlling the pace and more so focused on your pleasure by rubbing yourself

If you’re the sub, MORE ASS SMACKIN not hard or anything (he’s a soft Dom if anything)

I also believe he will pull your hair back to the point your back is on his chest (just walk with me) and he pistons into you

Is a dirty talker too

“Fuck you feel incredible. Come for me”

But tbh I see him more as a sub in bed so…he slightly whimpers and whines in my mind

Will ask you to turn around so he can see your face

Like I said prior, he’s soft so I cannot see him being harsh or rough in bed

Darius Martin: Forbidden Fruit

Teehee

Man is a giver; A GIVER I TELL YOU

Giving you pleasure to the point where all you’re doing is screaming and losing your breath?

Teehee he lives for that

“You taste amazing love”

Loves it when you are on top

Eventually, the position turns into tiramisu or you riding his face

I don’t think he’s a sub all the way but more so a switch who really wants to please you

Tell Darius what to do an he will do it with no hesitation

For an “actual” position, I think he would love the scissor position

It’s very intimate for him and it gives him access to his favorite parts of you

I also think it would be the best position as he can see your facial expressions and give you extra stimulation

Again Darius would be all for your calls and satisfaction

Ricky Starks: Oasis

LITERALLY IT’S UP HIS ALLEY

He can see everything

Tits, Ass, Face, Neck, etc.

He likes to be up close and personal with you so he can kiss you at any point

Also, it’s easy likes to motorboat you

Side note; we all know he likes to be called daddy

So yes he will be referring to himself as Daddy

“Look at you being daddy’s good girl”

Sex-wise, Ricky is a full Dom you cannot make that man into a sub

if you do, he is the brattiest sub ever

Mostly a soft Dom but will turn up the (h)eat when necessary

He just loves being in control (speed, position, etc.)

SUCH A FUCKING TEASE; will intentionally slow down just to see you whine and beg for more

I think he will also convert Oasis into the cowgirl position

Overall, don’t give Ricky too much power

Eddie Kingston: Temptation

Okay let's have a real moment (pulls up chair) This man is so selfless that it’s crazy

For the most part, I can see him as a missionary man, because of the fact that he doesn’t want you to put in work

With temptation, he can see your face and know if he’s truly giving you pleasure

It’s also the perfect position to touch all the parts of you that can give more stimulation

AND YALL CAN DO IT EVERYWHERE

Eddie is a Dom; both a hard and soft Dom

He doesn’t want to go too harsh on you (unless you want it)

Control doesn’t matter to him tbh

Will actually do anything you ask him to because he’s so hung up on pleasing you

LOVES IT WHEN YOU TOUCH HIM OR SCRATCH HIS BACK

“Touch me like that again”

Will ensure that you have more orgasms than him

Eddie is a selfless man and puts your needs over his

Daniel Garcia: Chibi

We all know that DG is a switch (man is a bratty sub let's be honest)

But more important he is an ass man

Chibi stands out the most for me to him

With the position, he can go the pace either you or he wants to go

He can also grab or smack that booty whenever

GOES CRAZY WHEN YOU MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH HIM

I can also see him in the Nirvana position

With Nirvana, he can kiss your legs

I wouldn’t say he has a foot fetish but at the same time yeah he does

WHICH IS THE SEXIEST PART OF YOU IN HIS EYES (besides the ass)

Take the time to appreciate other parts of you

I wouldn’t say he’s a dirty talker but he’s definitely a moaner

….

Even my ass can see that and I need glasses

Swerve Strickland: Doggy Style/Downward Dog

Okay….let me dream real quick

THIS MAN? IS A HARD DOM ALL THE WAY WE ALL KNEW FROM THAT DAMN DEATHMATCH

This man is my baby daddy/sugar daddy and he wishes to be called as such

You? You’re either a slut or a princess in his eyes (I’m bot-)

Loves Doggy Style cause it gives him so much control

Will pull your hair and lean down to whisper in your ear

“You like that, don't you? Lucky for you, I could do this forever.”

Will also pull you up until your back reaches his chest

OR OR

He will put your face down further into the mattress and make you arch your back for him (Downward Dog)

Loves to smack your ass and hear your muffled screams

Will overstimulate you until you tell him to stop

AND HE WILL LOOK OVER AT YOUR PANTING AND SWEATY BODY WITH A SMILE

otay…I’m done

[taekooktimeline]

July 9, 2024 -

One of the photos in Tae’s “Type 1 Photobook” is this one of him posing next to a “Hello Kitty rainbow plushie in bear costume.”

It’s the same plushie we’ve seen in Jk’s home, in GCF Budapest.

https://youtu.be/gJ1Hknhs1Ys?si=C4p2ZtBJrpdXz8le, :20-:28

And what’s super cute is it looks like Taekook own the biggest plushie of the three options -

CT to @angel_HeMaYa on TW for the above info on the plushie and last two pictures

And it’s exclusively available in America only (remember, Jk was in America quite a bit for Golden promos) -

I’d also like to archive some of Tae’s choice in clothing in his photo shoots. In the first photo, he’s wearing a “love my way” t-shirt by allsaints. The brand launched a collection theme with people expressing their own perceptions of love, celebrating different love stories.

This t-shirt’s name references the Psychedelic Furs' song “love my way.” The song is dedicated to people struggling with embracing their own sexuality amid social pressures. More specifically, Richard Butler, who penned the song, said, “It’s basically addressed to people who are fucked up about their sexuality,” and says, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ It was originally written for gay people.”

The song is also featured in the movie “call me by your name,” which we all know is a movie near and dear to Tae’s heart, as he’s repeatedly referenced it multiple times over the years.

Info on the song -

CT to @PeachesMinty, @jjkofvante, @allissur and @prettiestV95 on TW for the above photos and information.

Lyrics -

Tae CMBYN references:

June 9, 2019 with Hobi, and on May 31, 2019 when he played the OST for the movie on the piano - https://www.tumblr.com/taekooktimeline2019/625212551783907328

June 9, 2020 - reading Elio’s fathers speech during pride month - https://www.tumblr.com/taekooktimeline2020/625387601649713152

September 4, 2023 - an article on Weverse notes that Tae’s song “Rainy Days” is a nod to the tomato girl summer trend which was inspired by movies like CMBYN - https://www.tumblr.com/taekooktimeline2023/727548456756035584

Other notable clothes worn I want to archive (and you can decide relevancy) - “personal freedom, make love not war” -

Shut the F U nobody cares what you think” (side note - I really want this shirt 😆)

[carriageonmywaywardson]

Polin Week, Day 1: Mythology AU

Posted the first chapter of a brand new Polin Mythology AU! This is a Greek tragedy retelling that will hurt you before it heals you, but I promise it's an HEA in the end. Please mind the trigger warnings!

TWs: Major Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64323778/chapters/165121798

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2025 - Day 3

Okay something softer for today, perhaps

TWs: references to captivity (the prison kind), needles are referenced Prompt: Sore

"Here," Bastian had said before he left Mariano to get settled. "This is your room. The mattress is brand new, so are the sheets and stuff."

It felt impossible.

He'd unpacked his two bags, hanging up his new shirts and pants in the cozy closet. His tiny laptop sat on the desk, alone on the surface. His underclothes and pajamas filled the chest of drawers on the wall opposite his new bed. The bed that filled the room, that was made neatly, that was almost intimidating in how inviting it was.

Just the month before, Mariano was settling in to sleep on a wafer-thin mattress pad on top of a slab of concrete. Three weeks ago, it was a mattress pad on the floor in a rubber smock. A few days ago it was a hotel bed, the softest thing he'd felt in almost a decade.

Now it was a king sized bed, as soft and plush as he'd dreamed of on his most selfish, self-indulgent nights. There were four pillows, and sheets, and a comforter, and a throw blanket. They all matched. Mariano didn't want to think about what they'd cost.

He crawled onto the bed, then, steeling himself against the idea that this wasn't allowed. That somehow, in the universe's eyes, this was still more than he deserved. It was, and he knew it, but his hands and knees sank into the bed as it took his weight. It was plush, and the blankets were deliciously smooth and soft.

Carefully, Mariano lowered himself down onto the pillows. He sighed, slowly relaxing stiff limbs. The bed supported him perfectly.

A breathless sort of pain started to worm its way into his joints. At the very center of each one, as though a needle had forced its way into every nerve to inject a sorely-needed medicine, unbearable relief began to sear through Mariano's body. It still wasn't enough to keep him awake.

Mariano opened his eyes again, blinking hard in the light. He hadn't turned the overhead lamp off, and there was no window. He almost thought he hadn't even slept.

When he tried to sit up, every part of his body seemed to creak in protest. He groaned before he could stop it, just barely managing to raise his shoulders. He dropped back down into the cushion of the mattress and pillows, though, a sigh of relief escaping when he stopped trying.

Mariano had hauled his body through more scenarios than he could even count, in pain much worse than this, but...he couldn't bring himself to move now. It was a matter of survival before. He didn't have the choice to rest if he wanted to live.

Now, though...all it meant was that breakfast would be a little bit late.

Lost in the haze of full body aches and the feeling of lying on the very clouds in the sky, still in his clothes from the day before and with the overhead light still on, Mariano dozed again.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper

@bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @whumpbees @painful-pooch

[3unnyceleste]

Accidents happen

CG! Eggman x Little! Metal Sonic (special request!)

Poor metal sonic got beaten by sonic and his friends, and he just needs his papa for some love and care!

Tw: mention of changing and nappy, mild violence mention.

Metal sonic stormed into Eggmans base, his metal feet making loud clanks across the floor as he limped. He shoved the door to his base open, and Eggman turned his head, looking irritated as usual.

“Who dares interrupt a genius in his work?” His loud voice boomed through his lab. However when he saw the state of Metal Sonic, he couldn’t help but let out a small gasp.

“Metal! What happened to you? Was it that blasted blue hedgehog and his pesky friends?” He clicked his tongue softly as he examined the extent of the damage on metal.

“What have they done to you, my poor little Metal….” His voice softened significantly as he stroked his metal head. Metal sonic let out a rev that sounded like a purr. He felt weak and vulnerable, a rare sight for such a powerful and evil machine. Eggman scooped Metal up and carried him to his laboratory.

"Let's take care of you, shall we?" Eggman laid Metal onto a work table, a soft mat underneath him as to not ruin his paint finish. Eggman set to work analyzing him for dents or breaks. He found that Metal Sonic's legs were weakened, making him limp, and he had a few dents, and an unfortunate oil leak. Eggman began crooning over metal sonic as he worked. He'd always seen Metal Sonic as his greatest creation, and a little son to him. His little baby villain.

"Poor baby, did that wretched rat hurt you? He wouldn't know art if it hit him square in the face! You hit him right?" (~referencing IDW comics~)

Metal sonic lifted a thumbs up in response, uttering a robotic chirp.

"That's my boy. Now let's get you fixed up." He began repairing Metal, and pulled out some of the accessories he'd made for his special baby:

He pulled out a special Blue and yellow pacifier that had a charging property in it's teat: It would provide Metal sonic with comfort, and recharge him as well. He put it in Metal's mouth and pulled out a sweet star coated onesie and little baby nappy for potential oil leaks. He wrapped the nappy around him and slipped the onesie over his head, all the while Metal Sonic purring and his stomach engine revving. He picked Metal back up and held him close to his chest while patting his back.

"That's my baby boy...." He cooed softly. It was a rare moment of gentleness that Eggman displayed. The evil doctor was usually cackling with pride or irritated, but with his little metal creation, he couldn't help but be uncharacteristically soft. He carried Metal Sonic to his room and sat him in a little bouncer on the door. He let him bounce around on it for awhile while he beeped and made little happy noises. Eggman stole the opportunity to go and grab him a baby bottle full of hot oil, since he'd need it to recharge. He came back over to him and scooped him up.

"Alright, my little star, let's get you fed shall we?" Metal Sonic didn't necessarily need nourishment, just the occasional oil refill. Eggman held him up to his chest and took his pacifier out before putting the bottle in. As Metal Sonic began taking in the oil, his jet engines began quieting down. Everything was calm and well for the little one and his caregiver....

Until Eggman felt oil leak onto his legs.

He glanced down at his legs and the onesie Metal was wearing and gasped a bit. He was taking the oil in alright, but old oil in his metal body was leaking out due to the extent of the damage sonic had done. Eggman picked poor Metal up and carried him back to the work table.

"Oh dear! Would you look at that? My poor little villain needs to get cleaned up..." He quickly got the oil-blackened onesie off and got him changed into a brand new onesie and nappy. He could see the discontent in poor Metal's eyes, so he quickly grabbed him his favorite plush rabbit, Reaper. He rocked him gently and patted his back. "There, there, papa's here." He cooed gently before tucking him into his own bed. He turned on a nearby nightlight and white noise machine. However he saw metal beginning to claw at the pillows, and Eggman grabbed his hands.

"No, no, where are the mitts I made for you Metal?" He scolded. Metal let out a chirp, and Eggman waggled his finger;

"You naughty little one, don't get smart with me. I don't wanna have to put you back in time out. that'd make twice today. Now where are those mits?" He searched around the room and the lab until he found them stashed under a box of tools. He grabbed the pink mits and returned to Metal Sonic. He tied them on firmly and put his pacifier back in.

"There we go.... now dream well. May you kick sonic's butt in your dreams." He spoke softly, pressing a gentle mustache kiss onto metal's blue metal head. Metal sonic let out a tired chirp before his jet engines fell quiet. He was asleep.

~END~

Thank you, Metal Sonic, for this reccomendation!

[tainted-liquor]

Ikea Furniture✰⋆˚˖°

Hobie Brown x Organized! Reader TWs: Hobie being slightly OOC Ingredients: Sugar, kisses, and a lil bit of smiles! W/C: 523 A/N: This was a request ! Enjoy luvs <333

"Hobie, c'mon please love just...GLANCE at the instructions I want an actual working table" You pleaded as you watched your boyfriend use nothing but willpower to build your brand-new kitchen set. It consisted of two chairs, and a small dining table, and included some cute little silverware. You've been doing this back and forth fit for about two hours, and so far he has not even so much as acknowledged the instruction pamphlet in the slightest. Sometimes you ponder how you two even became an item, with you basking in the feeling that came with assembling things by the exact order of the instructions. You enjoyed order and harmony in just about everything, hell even you had a daily routine that you followed like the words of the most high.

"No can do luv! Don't believe in followin' some stupid instructions on a stupid piece of paper" He shrugged. In his eyes, this would be as simple as DIY-ing any of his furniture, but the poor man had never stood against IKEA furniture. Each part seemed to contrast and not pair with the next, and there certainly weren't any hints as to what went where. He had spent two hours kneeling down on the floor, contemplating which screw was supposed to go in the mysterious hole on the side of a chair leg that didn't even look like it could take a screw. His head began to ache as he watched you assemble one chair in about 40 minutes, referencing the 'stupid piece of paper' every now and again with your tongue between your teeth and a screwdriver in your left hand.

You gave him a slightly annoyed glare before shrugging with an impish grin. "Okay! Well, then I'll leave you to it! Good luck, punk baby!" You knew it was only a matter of time before he became frustrated and gave up, or took a peek at the instructions. You've made the mistake of doing that before, and you ended up in the same place he was right now. So instead of getting irritated, you found amusement in his stubborn attitude and sat on the couch, turned on the TV as you watched him try to make sense of the mysterious chair.

He spent the next 3 hours muttering to himself out of anger, small things like "stupid chair...I can put it together myself" with a rather disgusted grimace on his face. You put a hand over your mouth, silencing your giggles as you made no attempt to offer him any help. "D'you want the instructions, babe?" you asked with a slight quiver from holding back a laugh.

He gave you the sassiest side eye you've ever seen in your life, walking over to you and snatching the instructions with no further word. You giggled at his cranky attitude as he scanned over the instructions, assembling the chair within 25 minutes. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" You cooed as he threw himself onto your lap, laying face first into a couch pillow.

"Shaddup." You laughed as you gently patted his back, murmuring small apologies as he relaxed on the couch.

[depressedhouseplant]

🔞 Just Fucking Write - Day 60 🔞

Pairing: Younghoon x Juyeon

Genre: PW a tiny Plot

WC: 1260

TW: None

Smut: Anal fingering, unprotected sex (my brand), referenced previous hookups

Rating: E

Prompt: Younghoon’s “You’re Mine” from the Idol Radio concert

A/N: We are back in the land of member x member fics! Good fucking bye to y/n! I might continue the Chris & Sangyeon storylines if I feel inspired & I do have a y/n request waiting in the wings, but don’t expect any y/n for a long time. Also I went from having a sinus infection to having bronchitis so I’m extra miserable. Please enjoy this reentry. This is also my first entry to a net thus the change in formatting at the beginning of the entry.

Network: @ksmutsociety

Divider: @cafekitsune

Younghoon put the paper in the envelope. He knew exactly who he wanted to hear those two words from. It was a calculated risk. Someone else could decide to do it. In front of a crowd of thousands of people. It would work. It had to. 

The concert arrived and so did the segment. Younghoon tapped his foot nervously as he closed his eyes. He didn’t hear a lot of them moving around when his phrase was read out. He felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his shoulders and a familiar baritone whisper “you’re mine” into his ear in Chinese. Juyeon tried to sit back down and Younghoon jumped up for a hug. Juyeon returned the hug.

“I’m glad it was you,” Younghoon whispered as he hugged Juyeon. 

“Me too,” Juyeon replied as he sat back down. 

The rest of their set ended with Sunwoo and Eric continuing to MC the show. Juyeon caught Younghoon on the way down to change. 

“That was for me, wasn’t it? Your message?” He asked. 

“Chanhee and Changmin have been teasing me for weeks about not telling you how I feel so I decided to go the very public route,” Younghoon admitted. 

“Do you want to be only mine?” Juyeon questioned, holding Younghoon’s arm so their bodies were almost flush. 

“Yes,” Younghoon nodded. 

“Come to my room after we get back and I’ll make you mine,” Juyeon gently pressed his lips to Younghoon’s. This definitely wasn’t how Younghoon imagined their first kiss - in a cramped stairwell after a show. 

“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” Younghoon said against Juyeon’s mouth. 

“I promise it’ll be worth it,” Juyeon smiled. 

“Okay,” Younghoon agreed, stealing one more kiss before walking back to the dressing room. 

Typically time moved fast after a show, especially if there was an event after like a hi touch. However time seemed to drag until they were finally back in the hotel and Younghoon was knocking on Juyeon’s door. 

“Come in,” Juyeon smiled when he opened the door in just a bathrobe. Younghoon noticed a bottle of his favorite alcohol and some fried chicken on the dresser. He looked at Juyeon. “For now or later. Your choice. I am curious what you had in mind when you said you wanted me to be mine.”

“I want to be the only one you ever look at. The only one you ever think about. I take up all the corners of your mind. Kissing me, touching me, fucking me, I want to be yours in every way you can think of,” Younghoon replied. 

“Perfect, because I want you to consume my whole being. I want it to only be you. I’ve wanted it for a long time and I was pretty sure you did too,” Juyeon pulled Younghoon into him and kissed him. “But I wasn’t expecting such a public confession.”

“I can surprise you,” Younghoon wrapped his arms around Juyeon’s waist.  “So how are you going to make me yours?”

“I was thinking fuck you until you couldn’t stand up,” Juyeon grinned. 

“I like that start,” Younghoon kissed him, letting his hands slowly wander up Juyeon’s body. Juyeon reached down and opened Younghoon’s pants, giving him a light squeeze. He moaned into Juyeon’s mouth. 

“Protection?” Younghoon asked. 

“I’m clean if you are,” Juyeon replied, tugging off Younghoon’s shirt. 

“I am,” Younghoon confirmed as he pushed the robe off Juyeon’s shoulders. He’d seen his bandmate naked countless times over the past 7 years, but he’d never seen him naked, hard, and ready to absolutely destroy him. Juyeon undressed Younghoon and walked them to the bed. One of the best things about Macau was the great hotels. They never had to worry about being heard unless someone was literally right outside the door. 

“You really want this?” Juyeon asked as he got the bottle of lube out of the bedside table. 

“I’m sure, I want to be yours,” Younghoon bucked his hips slightly to prove his point. 

“Good,” Juyeon grinned at him and began warming the lube on his fingers. He slid one in and watched Younghoon’s reaction. Younghoon smiled at him and weaved their free hands together. 

“Not enough?” Juyeon teased.

“I like my boys and my toys big and while you do have big fingers, I can take at least three,” Younghoon grinned back. Definitely not something Juyeon had expected to hear. He knew Younghoon regularly hooked up with Sunwoo or Jaehyun (mostly because they couldn’t keep their mouths shut).

”Okay,” Juyeon said tentatively, sliding in a second finger. Younghoon adjusted his hips, grazing his prostate in the process.

”Fuck,” he groaned, starting to fuck himself on Juyeon’s fingers.

”I thought you said you could take three?” Juyeon teased, watching Younghoon’s hips move in a way that would be seared into his brain for life.

”And I want your cock. Think you can make me come twice?” Younghoon looked up at him.

”I know I can make you come twice,” Juyeon smirked. He added a third finger and made small scissor motions to open Younghoon up more. Juyeon pressed down on Younghoon’s hip and began fucking his fingers into him, teasing his prostate regularly. Younghoon’s grip on the sheets was so strong, Juyeon wasn’t sure they wouldn’t rip.

”Oh shit, oh god, fuck, holy shit,” Younghoon babbled as Juyeon continued to push him toward his release. He began kissing Younghoon, lacking his usual finesse, but hearing the noises of the man under him were slowly driving him crazy. Younghoon weaved his fingers in Juyeon’s hair as he came the first time, painting his torso white with his release.

”Fuck,” Younghoon breathed against Juyeon’s lips.

”You ready for my cock now?” Juyeon grinned.

”More than ready,” Younghoon replied as he caught his breath.

”As much as I want to take you from behind, I think I want to see you the very first time you come on my dick,” Juyeon mused as he wiped Younghoon off with the corner of his discarded bathrobe.

”I like that idea,” Younghoon smiled up at him. Juyeon adjusted himself between Younghoon’s legs and pressed into his already used hole. Younghoon’s back arched practically off the bed.

”Have you thought of this before?” Juyeon asked, rubbing Younghoon’s sides.

”More than I care to admit,” Younghoon replied.

”I hope the reality lives up to the fantasy,” Juyeon kissed him again and began fucking into him. Younghoon couldn’t believe this was actually happening. He’d publicly confesses to Juyeon and now they were in his hotel room fucking like a couple of horny teenagers. Part of him wanted to keep this to himself and another part of him wanted to gloat to his two best friends that this had actually worked out. Juyeon’s cock was hitting every sensitive spot inside him and even though he’d just come, he could feel it starting again. 

“You gonna come for me again, baby?” Juyeon asked between messy kisses.

”Yes,” Younghoon panted. Their sweat slicked bodies moved in tandem, each chasing his own pleasure. 

“You’re coming first,” Juyeon insisted, sitting up and wrapping Younghoon’s legs around his slender waist. He thrust hard into Younghoon as if trying to force his orgasm out of him. With a few well placed strokes and kisses, Younghoon came a second time. A few seconds later, Juyeon was emptying into Youghoon’s spent body. Fully fucked out and half asleep, Younghoon pawed at Juyeon’s shoulders to pull him down into a hug.

”You’re mine?” Juyeon asked, nosing up Younghoon’s cheek.

”I’m yours,” Younghoon agreed.

”Perfect,” Juyeon kissed him.

[wonderland-journals]

round two ☆

🔞🔞**CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP 21+**🔞🔞

★ pairing: Manjiro "Mikey" Sano & f!reader ★ word count: 4.8K

When he came to, the rattling in his inebriated mind clearing at the feel of cold steel against his heated skin, he made no effort to move. “You vicious little whore.”

You leaned in so your lips were next to his ear, the pressure of your chest pushing the blade just enough to draw a drop of blood. “That sounds good… Say it again.”

“Enough.”

The familiar, commanding voice that boomed across the room made you straighten up immediately. Your eyes met the onyx black ones of Manjiro Sano, the leader of Bonten.

“Mi-key~” Immediately jumping to your feet, you skipped over to the snow-haired male with a smile. “I’m back~”

“I see.”

★ cw/tw: illegal Activities, underground fighting, gambling, implied/referenced drug use, violent thoughts, hair-pulling, weapons, makeout, gun kink, knifeplay, choking, breathplay, branding, bloodplay, degrading,light sadism, possessive behavior, aged-up character(s), post-time skip, Bonten future timeline

This fic is also located on my AO3. Feel free to like and kudos ♡

**This fic is not intended for immature audiences and does contain dark content. You must be 18 or older and mentally mature to enjoy. Don’t like it, don’t read it. The author is not responsible for your sense of comfort and your preferences.**

The roar of the crowd always made your blood thrum through your veins. A rush of excitement shot up your spine with every swing that missed you by inches. This is what euphoria must feel like, dancing around this makeshift, underground ring. Dodging swing after swing and occasionally dishing out a few of your own with such tactical precision that you were guaranteed to never miss. You were always paired with the meatheads who swore they could take you down, making your earnings so much higher when you proved them wrong.

Just like the asshat before you, already swaying from side to side from exhaustion. You smiled at him, taunting him with a flash of your teeth in that faux smile you liked to give to the unfortunate victims who ended up on the receiving end of your wrath. It shouldn’t be this fun hearing the crunch of bone and tissue when your fist collided with his nose. You shouldn’t be this… aroused at the sight of another man’s blood on your fists. Even when your opponent went down though you simply jumped on top of them and kept swinging until someone finally came and pulled you off of them. The corners of your vision blurred dark with an immediate spike in rage, but after a few deep breaths and the pinch of your nails digging into your palms, you calmed down.

It was so easy to lose yourself in the cheers of the crowd, easy to disregard the boos of the men who lost their money to you. Money that you were more than happy to now claim as yours. Though it wasn’t the only reason you were here tonight… Eyeing the man that led you down an empty hall, devoid of photos, security, or any other way in or out other than the path you followed behind him. Sometimes they just made it too easy…

“Looks like another good night for you.”

A small smile graced your features as you hummed, shifting your gaze to the pink-haired male who leaned back comfortably on one of the single chairs with his gun on the small table in front of him. You had only walked into the building a few minutes ago, your high still thrumming through your system. His piercing, ice blue eyes would have intimidated anyone else, but not you.

“Always a good night.” Adjusting the strap of the duffel bag on your shoulder, you searched the room for any of the other members that normally hung around. “Big bad pup left on his own?”

You didn’t have to look at him to know that he was glaring daggers at you. The empty bottle and array of pills before him were set aside as he stood from his chair, letting it scrape across the floor. He always hated that nickname, you knew this, but it was just too fun to pick on him.

“Be a good pup and go find Mikey for me.”

You walked over to the table he had his spread set up on and dropped your duffel bag on the empty chair next to you. Regardless of any personal feelings you had towards him or any of the other Bonten members, there was still a certain level of respect you all had for each other – most of you anyways.

You could see the vein in his neck throbbing in irritation, his hands clenching and unclenching with a need to wrap themselves around your neck. Maybe squeeze until that irritatingly pretty smirk that seemed to be a permanent fixture on your face more often than not fell and your eyes widened in fear. He could practically see it, and it was beautiful. His hand moved quickly for the weapon he kept tucked into the waistband of his pants, aiming for you without a second of hesitation.

“You forget your place here, bitch.” Sanzu hissed, taking a single step in your direction.

His words only made you laugh, the sound grating against Haru’s ears like nails on a chalkboard.

“Sanzu, you forget yourself!” Not even a tremor in your squeal. He watched you with narrowed eyes as you turned to face him and stepped forward until your forehead was directly against the barrel of the gun. “Did you forget where you stand next to me?” Before he could blink, your hand was cupping his cheek. Thumb gently caressing the outline of his diamond-shaped scar on the corner of his mouth “You are in my shadow.” Your smirk only grew, enjoying the rolling waves of tension and anger that came off of him. “Act like it.”

With one hand you grabbed the weapon from his hand, tossing it somewhere across the room behind you. The hand on his cheek slid back to grasp at his hair and tug it backward at the same time you hooked your leg behind his to trip him to the floor on his back. Spit flew from his mouth at the impact, and you took advantage of his momentary lapse to straddle his chest between your legs and pull the knife you carry on your back holster out to force it just under his Adam’s apple.

When he came to, the rattling in his inebriated mind clearing at the feel of cold steel against his heated skin, he made no effort to move. “You vicious little whore.”

You leaned in so your lips were next to his ear, the pressure of your chest pushing the blade just hard enough to draw a drop of blood. “That sounds good… Say it again.”

“Enough.”

The familiar, commanding voice that boomed across the room made you straighten up immediately. Your eyes met the onyx black ones of Manjiro Sano, the leader of Bonten.

“Mi-key~” Immediately jumping to your feet, you skipped over to the snowy-haired male with a smile. “I’m back~”

“I see.” He answered plainly, face devoid of any signs of emotion save for the small sparkle of life in his eyes when they flicked over to you.

Mikey had always held a sort of soft spot for you, his favorite little assassin.

Placing the knife back in its sheath, you cocked your head to the side curiously eyeing the short-statured mafia leader. “Did you want to see my winnings, boss?”

“No.”

He lifted his chin only slightly to you. A silent motion for you to follow him when he turned on his heels. Having known Sano for more years than you wanted to count, you could read his subtle tells and decipher his secret requests even better than his subordinates. That was why you wordlessly walked away from Sanzu, who was still on the ground dumbfounded by your mood shift, and followed Mikey into his office. Not even phased by the click of the lock behind you, making yourself comfortable atop his desk after pushing some of the papers aside.

“You love to antagonize him.”

It wasn’t a question, but you answered anyways. “He makes it too easy.”

“Tch.” He sucked his teeth, walking over until he was in front of you, eyes darting down to your closed legs and back up to your eyes. Already you could see the arousal swimming in them. “You’re trying to bait him.”

“How so?” You played coy, blinking innocently at him. A single finger tapping your chin. “He started it.”

Honestly, you didn’t hear his response, too lost in your rampant imagination, as it did earlier in the ring, watching his lips move to form his words. The soft pout of his lower lip made your imagination run wild remembering the long nights after a hit when you would come back, and he would ravage you until you were a whimpering mess for him. Picturing all the pretty ways he could bring you to your knees. Your nails drag over your covered thigh in an attempt to pull your focus back on reality. It didn’t work, your mind replacing your touch with his. Stoking the pooling desire in your core, its heat flowing through your body, making your heart flutter in your chest and your palms tingle with the need to reach out and touch him.

“Well?” His curt question brought you back to the present.

“Sorry I think I zoned out there.” Slowly you spread your legs just wide enough for him to stand between them. Your words a low purr as lust clouded your mind, admiring how he took his place between your legs so naturally with that lazy, amused smirk gracing his features. “Could you say that again?”

“My dumb little whore…” Mikey reached up to caress the apple of your cheek with the back of his hand. Obsidian eyes watching the stuttered rise and fall of your chest and chuckling at how easily affected you were. “I haven’t even done anything and you’re already putty in my hand.”

A soft sigh left your lips when his fingers drifted over the expanse of your neck down to your collarbone. Something in his touch hooked you, pulling at your strings with ease to bend to his will. From the moment you first had him, the night you shared the first of many kisses with him, you knew you would do anything, everything for him. Your eyes had already fluttered shut to enjoy the simple pleasure that was his touch, so you didn’t see him lean in until his mouth slotted over yours.

Lips moving in tandem with each other, speaking words that would otherwise never be said aloud. Such an effortless action, yet it made your heart soar. Beating so loudly in your chest there was no doubt in your fuzzy mind that he could hear it, though he never commented on it if he did. The kiss grew quickly in intensity, lips parting to allow his tongue to slide over yours. Your hands come up to grab fistfuls of his hair to pull him closer to you. Your body was acutely aware of him, a shiver of pleasure running up your spine when his other hand gripped your waist and forced it to press against his. The feel of his hardening cock straining against his pants made your mouth water. You could feel your clit already throbbing with the need for some kind of friction, his hand that had been gently tracing from the left collarbone to the right, yanking your top down until it ripped from the force enough to expose your chest to him.

Shoving his hand into your bra to fondle your breast, his thumb swiping over your already pebbled nipple. “Sensitive.” He murmured against your lips.

You couldn’t help but shake your head at the word, squirming where you sat.

“Mikey…”

“I know…”

Grinding his hips against yours, you threw your head back and mewled at the pleasure of the friction you desperately craved finally being given to you. Teeth tugging on your lower lip for a second before releasing it. Parting your lips with his own to slip his tongue in your mouth, letting it battle for dominance.

The quiet moan of his name that slipped past you was cut short by the familiar click of a safety being released. You didn’t even realize that he has released his hold on your waist until the cool metal of the barrel was pressed against your left temple. It should have made you flinch, push him away, something. Instead, you just pulled back, so your face was a few inches from his. Eyeing the string of saliva that connected you when you broke the kiss. Not even batting an eyelash at the fact that if he wanted to, he could pull the trigger with ease. Wouldn’t even think twice about it.

“Now that I have your attention-“

“You always have my attention.”

He pushed the pistol harder against your temple. “Only because you want my cock.”

Meeting his gaze, your smile grew wider. “Does it matter how you have it?”

Sano’s eyes narrowed slightly, observing you with that cold, calculating look in his eyes. Standing in front of you silently, the air was calm between you, for a few minutes before speaking again. “Strip.”

The urge to resist, talk back or do anything that may push his buttons further attempted to push reason to the side, but you resisted said temptation. You craved this man like a drug. Your mind filled only with the thought of him bending you over his desk and filling your cunt with his essence. A comforting warmth creeping over your skin, whispering promises of pleasure in your ear if you just obeyed. So, you did as he asked, a single digit on his chest to compel him to step back so you could slide off the edge of his desk and begin shimmying off your pants. Mikey was kind enough to move the pistol from your head, watching you remove the garment from your body with no more expression on his face than if he were in a board meeting. Any other girl would’ve taken offense to that, but not you. No, you knew better, knew him better. He was aroused, needy. The tent in his pants was obvious and it took everything in you not to drop to your knees before him.

“Well, this isn’t very fair…” You pouted playfully, fingers reaching for one of the loops of his pants. Tracing over his belt buckle, your eyes cast down to eye the bulge that strained against his slacks. “You’re still fully clothed and-”

A hand shot out to grasp your neck in a tight hold, effectively cutting you off. Your hands scrabbled behind you for the edge of the desk to keep yourself upright when you felt cold metal press itself against your sensitive clit.

“Have I ever let you down?” Mikey cocked his head to the side, eyeing your immediate reaction to the stimulation. Rubbing the ridged slide of the gun against your clit, he leaned in with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I asked you a question, sweetness.”

All you could do was nod at him. Eyes wide in surprise from the pleasure rushing through you.

“Use your words.”

“Y-Yes- No! No.” The subtle threat of not getting to reach your peak made only known by how he slowed down his actions despite tightening the hold on your neck, had you correcting yourself quickly for him. “No. Sir. No, never.”

“Have a little faith in me, yeah?” He continued his ministrations, rubbing the weapon against you with a little more pressure. It felt like the air was punched from your lungs when he taunted you, slipping the barrel in and out of your entrance. “Little slut, getting off to me fucking you with my gun.” Manjiro laughed, a taunting sound that tugged at your focus to stay on him, though you wanted nothing more to give in to this toe-curling high your body was chasing. “Haven’t even gotten to the question-answer portion of the night either.”

You could only respond with babbles of his name, keening and spreading your legs wider when he pushed the weapon further inside of you.

“Always playing the line, aren’t you?” He leaned in to whisper in your ear. “You know just easily I could-” You screamed as he shoved it even further in, the raised sight on it scratching over your g spot. “-slip and pull this little trigger.” Squeezing the sides of your neck with his thumb, index, and middle finger, he pushed you back onto his desk. “You don’t care though. You just want to be fucked.”

His name was a mantra, the only thought in your fuzzy mind was him and the pleasure that ebbed and flowed through your system. The snow-haired male didn’t expect you to answer him but was impressed at your stubbornness to try.

“Want your cock, Manjiro.” You moaned out, fingers finding purchase on the hardwood surface of his desk.  “Can I- Can I please?”

Though your immediate desperation amused him, a sure sign of how he’s broken you – trained you – for his use only, there was a tiny bit of information he wanted to know first.

“Not yet, pretty girl.” He hummed. “Just need you to answer one. tiny. question.” Each word was punctuated with a shallow thrust of the gun.

You nodded your head, trying to clear your mind long enough to hear his question. “Yes, yes, yes. Anything-Anything just – oh fuck – just wanna- wanna cum please. Please!”

“Dirty girl…” Sano chuckled, the absence of his warmth over your body from him standing up straight making you whine at the loss. Stuttered gasps escaped you with each slow twist of his wrist, turning the weapon on its side before beginning to pull it out. “Did you take care of your mark?”

“My- My what?”

The Bonten leader had to stifle a laugh. Only a few minutes had passed and already it looked as if he had pushed all thoughts from your mind.

“Your target.” He reiterated. “Your job. The whole reason I let you out to begin with. Ringing a bell?” He relished in the keen of your voice from the sudden emptiness. Licking the side of his piece, letting the sweet essence of your slick burst across his tongue. Suppressing an inward groan, he looked at you with a new fire in his obsidian eyes. “Did you take care of him?”

“Yes.” You propped yourself up so you were leaned back on your forearms, staring down the man that could either be your heaven or hell depending on his fickle mood. “Have I ever let you down?”

The clink of his belt being undone excited you. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” You eyed how he undid his pants smoothly, pulling them down just enough for you to get a clear view of the bulge in his boxers.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers and teasingly pulled them down. “Tell me what you did to him. How did the little rat suffer?”

Grinding his erection against your core, you threw your head back from the sensation. The material of his boxers catching on your clit so deliciously that it made your mouth water. Your breaths came out as ragged gasps, hands curled tight so that your nails dug into your palms and made you hiss.

“Tell me.”

“Fuck! I-” You had to rack your brain for a second of clarity, praying for this sensation curling in your belly to subside for a brief moment to answer him. “I- I followed him. To his office.” A forceful thrust against you made your eyes flutter shut and your mouth falls slack. “One-way hall, no security.”

“Go on…”

He pulled back for a moment and you gasped at the feel of his bare cock thrust against your waiting cunt. Eyes shooting open to see the engorged tip tucked between your folds. Every thrust of his hips smearing your leaking juices on the underside of him. The reddened tip caught against your puffy clit, hips against hips met on every pulse felt below.

“He-” You gulped for air, trying to push past the invisible obstruction blocking your airway. “He congratulated me. On winning the f-fight.”

“Of course you fought.” Though his words seemed to come out easily, you could see the flush crawling up his neck, painting the tips of his ears a bright red. Hear the hitch in his voice. He never stopped his agonizing pace, swatting your hand away when you would reach for him. “Go on.”

“My-My winnings. In the bag.” You struggled to get your words out, watching him pull back again to fist his cock, spreading the pre that spilled from his slit along his length, and tease the tip against your fluttering opening. “Manjiro- Mikey please sir.”

“Keep. Going. Use your big girl words for me.”

His voice, his words, all of it matched with the way he was toying with you, dragging you back and forth on the edge of insanity, it felt like, made your head spin. “I made- I won a lot of money, Mikey. All for you-u!” You laid flat on the desk, teeth clenched together, and legs locked around his waist in a weak attempt to pull him in when he pushed the bulbous head of his cock past the tight muscle of your entrance. “Please, please, please. Want you to fill me already!”

“Keep. Going.”

Groaning in frustration, you threw your arm to cover your face. “Fuck me… Fine!” He pushed an inch inside and then pulled out. “I told him – shit – I told him I was after – fuck me, Sano, feels good~” This aggravating man pushed back in, punching the air out of your lungs with the feeling of being so full, though you knew he wasn’t even all the way in. Still the slight curve he had pressed his tip just right against your soft spot, making you let out a choked moan from the pleasure.

“After-?” Mikey prompted.

“After- After a different reward.” In through the nose, out through the mouth. Deep breaths that burned as they filled your lungs. Thighs shakily squeezing tight on either side of his waist. “I sat- on his lap.” Your words were forced through gritted teeth as he pushed in another inch or so. “Took his face in my hands and-” You could feel the lusty fog drawing you under its spell. Eyes glazing over, tongue poking out to lick across your lower lip.

“Hm?” Pinching your cheeks between his fingers, he made you to look at him. “My pretty little whore sharing what’s mine?” The last word was emphasized by a particularly hard thrust that fully sheathed him to the hilt. You shook your head, a strangled, unrecognizable sound escaping you. “Maybe – hah – I should be selling you on the corners with the others. Since you’ll take anyone apparently.”

“N-No! No! No.” You exclaimed, the corners of your eyes stinging with the onslaught of oncoming tears. “It wasn’t – please! It wasn’t like that!”

Another thrust that had him kissing your cervix. “No?” The demon before you laughed. “Then tell me exactly what it was like.”

You cried out as he pinched your clit. “Manjiro!”

Angry Mikey was actually the safest of all the different sides of him. He was predictable. Releasing his hold on your face, he pulled out his own knife from the back horizontal carry sheath. Lightly skimming the jagged edges of the blade along your jawline, placing the sharpened edge under your chin.

“I wanna hear what my little toy has to say for herself.”

There was that thrill that came in associating yourself with the likes of him. Never knowing if today would be the day he would fully give in to his dark impulses, his rage, and end your existence. You didn’t care, you never cared. You loved the thrill, lived for it. It was a hard sought rush of adrenaline to the system that you craved in the day-to-day. Paying no mind to the warm liquid that rolled down your neck from where the knife bore into your skin.

“I wanna show you…”

When he hesitantly removed the cool metal from your overheated skin, you released the breath you didn’t know you were holding. “No.”

There was no bite to his word, but he wanted you to tell him what happened. You could see the silent plea to reassure him that his irrational fear was just that: irrational. You had to read the silence between you to understand that, though, as all that could be heard was soft breathing and the humming air conditioner that hung on the wall of his office running. He was watching your movements, body on edge. Prepared to react at a moment’s notice. Tentatively you held his face in your hands, bringing him down to you as if you were going to kiss him.

“I took his face in my hands…” You whispered, lips a breath away from each other. “Brought my lips this close to his, and-”

Wincing, you were cut off by the jagged touch of metal pressing into the soft give of your skin above your hip. A single, slow long slice downward that sent a shockwave of pain through you, and you had to resist the urge to flinch or move, or else the semi-deep cut he was making would become fatal. Another smaller cut next to the one he just made, then another, and then a final long cut.

Oh.

“And then?”

You peered down between your bodies to see the bright red ‘M’ that was now carved into your skin. Ignoring his lust-blown eyes that studied you, taking in the way your brows furrowed together and your left cheek was a bit more sunken from your habit of biting on the tender skin on the inside to hold back any other external sign of pain or discomfort. Deep in his twisted mind, he still admired just how perfect you were for him. Your demons dancing alongside his own without overpowering them.

Bringing your lips next to his ear, you answered him. “I broke his neck.” You released a shuddering breath, smirking at him when you met his gaze. “He made it too easy for me.”

“Is that right?” He noticed the twitch in your eye when he pressed his thumb down on his mark. Eyes flickering down to watch the beads of red well up from the cut and spill over his fingers as they dripped down to the desk underneath you. “Well, who wouldn’t get distracted with a pair of tits like this in their face?” His other hand grabbed at your breast roughly, rolling his thumb over your nipple. Setting a slow, hard pace that had him knocking the entrance of your cervix with every thrust. “The bastard only got to look, didn’t he?” Another thrust, this one was harder as he tried to stop you from holding your voice back. “Who do you belong to?”

Shifting your legs so that they sat on his shoulders, he held the back of your knees and pushed them until they practically touched your chest. Exposing you to his hungry eyes and the bite of the air. You hissed when the soft flesh of your thigh was pressed against your fresh wound, eyes shut tightly, and jaw clenched to bite back the curse you almost let out.

“Look at me.” He growled.

And who were you to disobey your leader?

His thrusts alternated between fast and hard to slow and teasing. Bringing you to the brink of a high and then ripping you away with little remorse. “I asked you a question and you won’t cum until you answer it.” A wicked smirk stretched across his face. “Dumb little thing,” he cooed watching your eyes roll back. “Can’t even think straight anymore, can you? Does my cock feel good?”

Nodding, you grabbed his forearms unsure if you wanted him to let you go or fuck you harder. “Feels good. So good. Feels good – fuck! God, Mikey-”

“That’s fucking right.” The heavy sound of his balls slapping against the curve of your ass as his thrusts got harder again. “I’m your owner, your god. You serve me. Now say it. I wanna hear you scream out and tell everyone who you belong to.”

Try as you might, there was no holding back your moans of pleasure anymore. His pace was harder, faster with every second you fought back. Moans of his name as your nails clawed down his forearms, unable to get your arms to respond to your mental command to reach out for him and hold him close. That tight knot inside of your core wound tighter and tighter until-

“Fuck! You, Manjiro! I’m yours!” You keened as your orgasm crashed over you.

“Fuck fuck fuck!”

The muscles in your lower abdomen convulsing from the intensity of it. Back arching off the desk as a silent scream left you. Powerful as he was, Mikey didn’t last too much longer after you. Hissing from the way your cunt squeezed around him, milking him of every drop that spilled inside of you. Cursing under his breath as he continued to fuck you through the pleasure until it bordered pain. When he was sure there was nothing left in him, he lowered your legs to lay flat on the wooden surface. His fingers gingerly pressed against the brand on your skin, tracing it, and smearing your blood over it.

“That’s my girl.”

You wanted to ask what compelled this possessiveness in him tonight, but you knew he wouldn’t give you a real answer, so you left it alone. Nodding in agreement to his claim over you. Besides, since the day you swore your allegiance to him, he owned you anyways.

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