#but then after that realization all the blood they’ve spilled is still there. and they should never have had to do that. no one should ever

[cream-and-tea]

pallas in book one is definitely at it-cannot-possibly-get-worse-than-this ABSOLUTE rock bottom but god. there is such a specific flavour to their despair in book two that only happens because of the realization they have at the end of lay me down. like. how do you move on after admitting that everything you believed in was a lie. how do you live with what you’ve done (with what has been done to you). is it possible to pull yourself up out of the pit you’ve dug. what do you do if it isn’t. what do you do if it IS. and once you look at the damage how do you stop looking. past the first layer of hurt there’s just more and more hurt and you were used by the one person who was supposed to keep you safe to cause even MORE pain and no matter how deep you go none of it means anything! it never meant anything at all!! motherfucker your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#pallas’s whole arc in the first book is getting to the point where they go ‘maybe i? feel bad about all this?? actually???’ #i cannot overstate enough that it takes an entire book to get them to that point lmao #and then it’s like. newsflash buddy now you’ve gotta DEAL with that #it really is the mental equivalent of getting into a hot bath of after being out in the cold for a whole day #and the interesting thing about pallas in the first book and their status as a villian and like. their eventual ‘oh SHIT’ moment #is that pallas doesn’t need to realize that they’re a bad person doing bad things #pallas is VERY aware that they are a bad person doing bad things #it’s actually more about realizing the harm that’s been done to them? like as a human being?? #bc they very much have the attitude of ‘well of course i’m doing bad things i was born as an inherently evil person there’s nothing else #i’m capable of doing the most i can hope for is that someone points me in the right direction and i’ll be able to do the hard things #that other people cannot (and SHOULD NOT) do’ #so THATS the mindset that needs to be unlearned before they can start moving forward? if that makes sense? #less ‘shit are we the baddies?’ and more ‘shit have i been horrifically abused?’ #but then after that realization all the blood they’ve spilled is still there. and they should never have had to do that. no one should ever #have to do that. but they did and now they’re starting to see the full extent of what that means #and they have to find a way to live with it. #and it’s absolutely DEVASTATING. #wip: ghost story #pallas #i’ve been working on the book two outline. if you couldn’t tell. head in absolute hands rn.

[rainswept]

STAINED. cw. death, gore. 1.2k words.

It’s dark. Mhin’s left hand is empty. Their right clutches their antique dagger. They are both sticky with blood. This was a bad idea.

They’re stained, no doubt. They have laid waste to countless things — creatures, beings that shouldn’t even be called such, people, lives, dreams. When their eyes are soulless and vacant and staring into nothing as their skin is sliced like jello, it’s hard to feel guilt — but when they’re still so full of hope, glistening with the light of life (or maybe just that of the street lamps outside the alleyway), how could they not?

But greed is not their drive, mercy not their goal, and guilt not the voice they listen to. Nothing is divine. Nothing is sacred. They lean their weight on their hand, drive their blade deeper into the soft viscera between their kill’s ribs and wait for it to stop struggling. It doesn’t take long. They both know it’s over. They hear soft breaths, feel them fanning against their cheek, and it’s then when they realize how close they are — and they only lean in further, and with the sickening reality settling in the pit of their stomach, they find themselves tempted to steal its last breath straight from its lips. They don’t. Instead, they yank the dagger out and wipe it on a cloth — what were they thinking? — and they pull back, allowing the body to fall against the sticky alley wall, smearing blood as it slides down agonizingly slow.

“Don’t follow me. You’ll only get hurt.”

The words they spoke clatter in their mind like a fallen key against stone, spinning and so very loud in the lull of night, a rusted metal they will never pick up — it probably wouldn’t turn in the lock anymore. It’s too late to open that door now. This was a bad idea. They were right, of course. Of course.

It twitches once, then stills. Mhin wants to apologize. They don’t. What they do is run. They turn on their heel and hurry out of the alley, the front of their shirt painted in carnage — your carnage, theirs, their catharsis and solace — blowing in the cold wind, and they stalk home, cloaked in shadow and guilt and regret. What they don’t do, they have to deliberately tell themselves, is pay mind to the crunch of bones in their wake as something inevitably comes to feed. On you. On their mistakes. (It wasn’t a mistake, they say. They are a liar.) It hums in their ears when they’re down the road. It stays long after they’ve left, like flies on a carcass, even though they know the Soulless are too quick to allow those a seat at the table.

They still want to apologize. But they don’t, even as the cries and gasps and retelling of their name spilling from your lips alongside the blood echo and rattle through their skull. They hurry down the street. They try to push aside the gruesome picture of the face they once loved so much being ripped to shreds like it was paper, yet it still burns behind their eyelids, and now they’re afraid that fire might completely betray them and its very own nature and turn to tears. It doesn’t. It was as reliable as they were, when they weren’t shoving a knife deep into the gut of someone they thought they could trust.

They open their door. The tension in their body leaps to their hands, dances beneath their fingertips, and they want to slam it. They close it quietly. They throw their clothes in the wash, and they pour soap on their hands, and they scrub under their nails. Everything is fine.

They should have kissed you. That would’ve shut you up, but not forever, like they did. Forever was what they chose. They couldn’t decide whether they was a good thing or not.

Their hands are bloodied, no doubt. But it always comes off. At the end of the night, it washes down their sink tangled in now pink bubbles, maybe along with a few of those tears because oh, god, all they can see is your face, and all they can imagine is it being torn and your skin spilling forth like ribbons and your eyes popping like balloons, even though they know that’s not how eyes work, and then they forget all about it — they swear they do, the eyes, the names, the touches.

(Your eyes. Your name. Your touches.)

But then they slip into bed, and it’s cold. It’s hard to forget the warmth. Of you. Of the blood. Of your kisses and your gentle caresses, holding them like they could unravel as easily in your hands as flesh and skin. Of your carcass as they left it. You were still warm.

They roll over, tossing and turning in bed, chills drafting through the windows they swore they closed. Maybe they did — maybe the cold rested beneath their skin, clamoring like a strangler fig, something they knew they couldn’t run from, or defeat, or ever be rid of. For as good as they were at their job, they lacked the means to kill what they wanted to most. As much as they tried. As much as it felt like they did when you were pressed against them, when you kissed their throat and stole their breath right from it like some kind of killer yourself.

An eye for an eye. That’s what they repeated to themselves as they drove the blade deeper and deeper into your side until you choked — on the pain, on your own lies. You deserve this, they want to think, but how could they — it was their fault for trusting you, was it not? How could they blame you for a betrayal they knew was coming?

There was a reason they were wary of everyone. Many reasons, actually. Yet they allowed you to change that, to break apart all they’ve carefully and painstakingly created over the years. It was their fault. So they twisted the knife, because that’s what it felt like tingling up their own spine when they looked at you and could still only feel—

Love. Regret. Betrayal. Agony. Everything they never felt when killing. Mostly love, even though they would hardly go as far as to say that, not when you’re now a pile of entrails and muscle and bone — no, you’re probably unfurling in the stomach acid of some wretched creature by now. The thought forces their head to spin, and their chest to feel heavy, and it makes them sick despite themselves, and they bury their face into their pillow instead of where it would usually rest — your shoulder, the crook of your neck. Mhin hadn’t gone soft, no, and they still cemented that they were incapable of doing so — but when you had practically begun to peel their cold flesh straight off of their body and peer straight into them like they never donned armor to begin with, they became used to the feeling of gently prying fingers and kisses that they swore they hated and—

They shut their eyes tight and clutch the blanket closer to their chest, trying for once in their life to hide from the night and the cold and the dark instead of charging after it headfirst. Just as they gave the blood no time to sink in to their skin, neither did they the emotion of what they’d just done — tomorrow they’d wake, and you’d be gone, just as you should have been from the beginning. This was a good thing.

They fall asleep peacefully.

probably ooc because i’ve only played a little bit of the demo,, sorry 😭. despite the demo mostly portraying them as a cold assassin, there was some vulnerability in the end if you chose to follow them.. i figured if it had been a while and the mc really managed to tear down their walls, it could shake them up a bit more than usual having to take their life. we’ll see though!

#rainswept #touchstarved #touchstarved game #mhin x reader #mhin #how do i even tag this

[zmediaoutlet]

Dean in the hospital bed is white on white, where he’s not mottled bruises. Pale lips and puffy red eyes. Sam can see he’s been crying and doesn’t know what to do with that. Eyes smarting from an overload of pain, he knows, and they’ve socked each other and made each other mad and made each other laugh to distract from that kind of thing. Somehow a joke doesn’t seem like it’d cut it, this time. If he could think of anything.

“You want me to get something from the cafeteria?” Sam tries. “Gotta be something better than, whatever, Jello.”

A short head-shake. So he’s not being ignored, anyway. Nevertheless he feels like—he doesn’t know. Like he’s on the outs of something but he doesn’t know what. He should have been there when Dean finally woke up, after they took most of the tubes out and eased off on the anaesthetic. He should’ve tried to wrestle Castiel down to the linoleum and demanded that he do absolutely anything he could to make Dean better. He should’ve—should’ve. This whole last year has felt like should’ve.

TV’s on in the corner. One of the late-night shows, muted. Dean’s face is pointed that way and his eyes are seeing something entirely else. Sam can guess, maybe. He knows the overview but not the details. He wants them and doesn’t. When he pulled Dean out of that horrific place he saw the blood spilled and the holy water and the blades and it was all just—immaterial, because Dean was bleeding and Dean was barely breathing and all Sam had done wouldn’t have mattered at all if Dean’s heart weren’t beating, steady on that monitor, despite everything. But the blades were still there. Maybe here, still. Dean’s hand curled with bruised cut fingers around empty air and dark in the corners of the room.

The feeling of the blood’s long worn off. The feeling fresh off the kill’s gone, too. He’s tired, and everything is awful, and he wants to take Dean out of here and he wants a motel room and he wants—one bed, for once, and for Dean to lay back and welcome Sam open without that edge of misgiving in him, and without him asking questions Sam can’t answer, and where it’s just—them, in a room together with the night shut out past the heavy ugly curtains, like it hasn’t been since—god, how long has it been? Since before he went to college. Since that summer, in Indiana. Rainstorms and Dean whooping at the clap of thunder and their skin sticking together in the afternoon dim. He wants that back so bad.

“I killed Alastair,” Sam says.

Dean’s eyelids dip, close. He takes a deep breath and then turns his head on the pillow, and looks Sam’s direction.

“He’s gone. Dead, not just sent back. I—” Dean’s not changing expression. Weary and pained and not surprised. Like he’s head-to-toe a bruise and is just expecting another blow. Sam folds his hands together, realizes his shoulders are hunched uncomfortably like a kid waiting to be scolded. “Just wanted you to know, I guess.”

Dean licks his lips and leaves them still-dry. The ice chips Sam brought must’ve melted by now, unused. He waits for a frown or a question or—he doesn’t know what, really. What he gets is Dean looking at him straight-on, for the first time since he woke up this last time—Dean’s eyes on his, and then all over his face. Not mad or happy or anything. Like he’s looking for something, but Sam doesn’t know what, and he doesn’t get to know before Dean nods, and then says in that terrible cracked voice: “Thanks, Sammy.”

Tired. His eyes close and his battered hands lay weak on the white sheets. Like, that’s it. A spilled cup of coffee dealt with. Method or means not of interest and what will follow none of his business. And what did he expect? Not a parade and not a screaming match. Not nothing, either.

Sam sits back in the too-small visitor chair and wonders how much it will take to get back the brother he wants.

#my writing #happy wincest wednesday #ww lottery #--idk how many weeks i can keep going #but this is something to keep my hand in #a random ficlet to take place before episode 77

[mychlapci]

another rarepair but overtarn my beloved psychopaths <3 anyway mer overtarn mating probably results in the research facility evacuating the whole building in case all the staff witness the horrors of two aggressive mers almost breaking the thick bulletproof glass while fucking. it may look like an extra violent murder with all the clawing growling fighting and blood making the pool light pink but its just a lil breeding sesh between two loving mates <3

and then the staff doesnt know what to do with the huge pregnant siren with killer voice and the giganormous overprotective brute who scares all of the visitors away even more now than ever <3

oh hell yes i LOVE overtarn. our two psychopaths in love <33

A facility very early into their research days managing to contain Tarn and Overlord, both of them freshly discovered giant sea monsters that have gotten nice and big after years of killing and eating land-dwelling mechs. They’re not too sure if they should be keeping them both in the same tank (or if they should be keeping them at all) as they appear to really dislike each other, but one, they haven’t hurt each other gravely yet, and two, there is no way they’re luring either of them onto a stretcher again. One vet check-up was enough to cause an extreme ruckus, Overlord had to be tased and shot with several tranquilizer darts before he finally passed out and they could safely scan him as fast as possible before dumping him back into the tank. Tarn, on the other end of the facility, was much calmer, but once in the veterinarian's room he managed to kill a worker with one swift swing of his claws and was dumped into the tank without a scan. One scan from Overlord is enough for their research purposes, surely…

Things are going pretty alright, their tank is to be avoided unless completely necessary and the staff work on researching the other, slightly more docile mers they have in store… until Tarn and Overlord start acting strange. Their “disliking each other” turns into complete, unbridled aggression, the two mers fighting at least twice a day, leaving one another scratched and bleeding all around the tank (Overlord and Tarn are displaying mating dances, how sweet <33) The staff is not sure what’s happening until finally all hell breaks loose in their tank. Overlord appears to be… killing Tarn. He’s holding him down, biting into his neck, Tarn is clawing at him violently in a pointless struggle, their tails are intertwining (Overlord’s spike forcing itself into Tarn’s valve slit, spreading it open and hitting the duct of his gestation tank roughly with each thrust, Tarn moaning in pleasure, his claws leaving marks on Overlord’s frame to make sure everyone knows he belongs to him. Overlord tearing chunks off of Tarn and swallowing, keeping pieces of his mate inside him as yet another part of his mating/dominance play) and the staff is told to leave before they manage to break down the glass and flood the whole place. 

Meanwhile, Tarn and Overlord are having the time of their life, swimming around in a pool of their own spilled energon and grinding their tails against each other until they’ve reached another mutual overload.

When the staff comes back, the glass wasn’t broken and the two seemed to have mellowed out a bit… by the time the filtration system clears the water they’re lazily rolling against each other, still deeply mutilated, but they’re calmed down now... The researchers slowly realize the horrors they’ve witnessed through the cameras was a mating ritual… which means there’s going to me more of them. More violent, murderous killer mers. In their research facility.

also, hell yes, Overlord doing displays of dominance towards the researchers and scienstis, extending his spike and rubbing it against the glass until they’ve left with grossed-out winces on their face-plates, mating Tarn in front of the cameras to make sure there’s no mistake in who he belongs to...

#valveplug #merformers #pregnancy mention

[elvensorceress]

For the WIP game

Tell me more about bluebonnets, please 😊

🌼

Hi, Ty! 💕

So, Bluebonnets is the "Broke My Own Heart" story that @eddiebabygirldiaz and I were working on once upon a time. It's set in s2 where the boys immediately start sleeping together in a "you're hot and I'm mad about it" way. Later they of course start catching feelings, but Eddie has to talk to Shannon and she wants to make up and try again. Eddie figures since he and Buck are just having sex and its No Big Deal that the right thing to do is break it off and work on his marriage. But at this point he's completely fallen for Buck. He's stubborn though and refuses to admit it even though Shannon quickly realizes that Eddie's in love with Buck and tries to get him to admit it. He won't. But then Buck gets crushed by the ladder truck and nearly dies and Eddie breaks. (Shannon also lives because reasons.)

There are snippets we've both posted this one being the crux of it all but I'll give you another little snippet 😘💕

Below the cut is Eddie after he had to break it off with Buck. Buck had made them dinner and bought flowers for him. They get broken when the boys argue about ending it.

Ask me about my WIPs

It’s quiet when Eddie walks into the door. The house is empty, and it will stay that way for the rest of the night. Or indefinitely. He’s not really sure. He sets down his keys, takes off his shoes, and goes to sit at the kitchen table. 

When he lays out the bouquet, a tumble of bruised petals and broken flowers spill all over the hard surface. Deep blue puddles and splotches of venous blood, deprived of all oxygen. The kind that will never again return to the heart and be restored. 

Does he even have a heart anymore?

He gently unties the sheer navy ribbon holding the flowers together so nothing more will suffer. Carefully, he gathers the fallen petals, the banners and the wings, sets aside whole florets, dissects out the damaged parts of each stalk, and places the ones that aren’t too injured in a blue vase filled with water and a sprinkle of the packet of plant food that was tucked away in the stems. 

He tries to stabilize the surviving stalks with wooden dowels and loose loops of twine he digs out of a box in the storage shed. There are a few that aren’t broken, a few that weren’t casualties of being carelessly discarded, but all of them have missing blossoms, bare patches, bent stems. 

He could dry the fallen florets and keep them. Just. To remember. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with them once they’re dry and brittle, even more fragile, but he sets them on a paper towel and leaves them on top of the fridge. 

The ribbon has wires in the edges but the fabric is soft and delicate. He smooths it out as best he can and then folds it neatly. He’s not sure what to do with it either, but he can’t throw it away. 

He can’t throw it away. He can’t throw any of it away. 

He threw it all away. 

He tosses the broken pieces too damaged to salvage in the trash bin, lets them fall from his hands, and they ache. He aches. Everything hurts. 

It was just sex. Sex isn’t anything. It’s selfish and momentary, and lots of people have casual sex all the time. That’s all it was. It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t feel anything. 

He cleans up until everything is put back where it’s supposed to be. 

There’s a wedding band somewhere. With a heart and a flower engraved on the inside. But he’s pretty sure it’s still in Texas. He took it off because it was hopeless. And he can’t exactly put it back on now. It’s not here. 

It’s all hopeless. 

The flowers will die eventually. They’ve already been cut, butchered, mistreated, sentenced to death. They’ll wither and rot and it’s only a matter of time before it happens and they’re gone forever. 

It’s gone forever. 

But right now, they’re in his favorite vase that his abuela gave him. Right now they still look vibrant, bright, colorful, like they’re alive and wild and blooming. Parts of them are gone but they’re still propped up and beautiful. They still smell sweet, like home. 

He smells like home. Like he should be here. 

Except he’s not supposed to be here. 

Eddie is married. He made vows. His son needs his mother. Shannon is his first and only love. Buck only offered him sex. It was just sex. It was fleeting comfort and solace, not anything real. It wasn’t anything more than momentary relief. 

Eddie leaves the bouquet in the kitchen, mangled and shoddily patched together as it is. 

And texts Shannon that it’s done. 

#buddie wip #jenwyn wip #fic: broke my own heart #buddie #tag games #wip game

[marzena-doe]

Spotlight: Princess Castra

Princess Castra is the younger (half-)sister of Hadea, Sheila, Aura and Krotan. She is technically a canon character from the original show but was changed considerably for This Is Their Story, which is why she gets her own spotlight topic. 

At first, Castra has no storylines of her own. She's present when the action takes place on Mongo and the royal family is involved but acts more like a background character. She's literally still a teenager back then, so that's probably why. 

When we meet Sheila in Season 2, we're told that she's working for Ming in order to protect both Aura and Castra. It becomes pretty clear then that Castra is one of good guys when she forbids Aura to tell anyone about Sheila potentially falling for Flash Gordon because that surely wouldn't end well for their sister. 

In Season 3, 17 year old Princess Castra again protects Sheila by convincing Krotan not to tell Ming everything that he learned about their older sister. 

Castra is seen with a royal artefact in the very same episode, the Harp of Healing. The artefact’s name is later changed to Harp of Hope. 

When Sheila pretends to have died in order to be left alone by Ming and to work with the rebels, Ming replaces her with young Castra who feels very uncomfortable in that role. But again Castra is the one to convince her siblings not to spill the beans on Sheila. However, when Castra tries to meet with Sheila at some point, she walks into Ming's trap and endangers her sister as well, nearly costing Sheila her life. 

When Krotan takes the throne during the Prince Krotan arc, Castra is everything but happy with his reign. We also learn that she's supposedly very "princessy" (probably meaning very spoiled and used to getting her way) which leads to her making a less than favorable impression on Vultan. 

Castra does support Sheila's marriage to Flash Gordon and is present at her wedding. She also supports the Jedda/Krotan union. When Jedda's living on Mongo, she and Castra become friends. 

When Castra is 20 years old, Ming tries to force her into a marriage. Castra steals a spaceship and flees - with Vultan also on board of the ship. He brings her to Monitor to safety and Castra is then taken in by the rebels where she actively tries to assist them in their fights. She also enjoys her newfound freedom. 

When Ming opens doors to another dimension and only the royal blood of Mongo can close them again, Castra is the one to step up to volunteer and barely survives. 

After Ming's death, Castra returns to the palace. When she is captured by a different group of rebels, she starts playing a dangerous game for her life. When the rescue mission fails, Castra and Vultan are chased by their enemies and have to rely on each other, which brings them close. Castra's plans all backfire in the end and she's called out for siding with the enemy (which she only pretended to do to save her own life) and is supposed to be executed for treason. However, Vultan places her under his protection and tells everyone they're engaged. 

For a while, Castra and Vultan are the new heirs to the Mongo throne. However, their ideas of a potential arrangement for their future are very different. 

Castra is described as a bit talkactive in some episodes. Sometimes she says too much, giving away too many details others do not need to know. She's also seen experimenting with magic in some episodes with chaotic results. At some point, Castra is the one keeping the rebels together. 

Castra and Vultan eventually marry. It's more a marriage out of convenience at first but later they realize that they've developed feelings for one another. Side fact: They marry while all around them a war is fought. Castra becomes the Queen of the Hawk people. 

Castra gets pregnant at some point and gives birth to a son. Sheila sitting on the throne of Mongo creates a rift between Castra and Vultan at first. Castra fully supports her sister but Vultan expects her to support their own kingdom. 

Castra is not married to Prince Tevrok here, probably mainly because I forgot he existed when I first wrote this and it didn't feel right to change everything in the rewrites. I also always felt that Tevrok was a Barin replacement of sorts because him and Flash being so close is the original Flash/Barin storyline from the Flash Gordon universe. However, Tevrok was planned to appear in DoE 2.0. 

Overall, I think it's pretty interesting to see teenager Princess Castra grow into Rebel Castra and Queen Castra over the course of the seasons. I feel like even without having actually written her story, her character development is clearly present.

#spotlight #princess castra

[grapecaseschoices]

Thank you Dakota for yet another beautiful commission!! This still fucks me up whenever I read it, whew.

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

Kendis is mine. Rei and Kendall are Dakota's characters from their IF @theunseelieif

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

“Babes, I don’t know all that much about cooking,” Rei calls from where she’s slouched over on the kitchen table, “But I’m pretty sure cake batter doesn’t need to be whisked into oblivion.”

“Shut up,” Kendall interrupts her with a sharp hiss.

You resolutely ignore both of them, staring down at the mixing bowl below you. You’d like it if you had a one-track mind right about now, if you could wholly focus on this task and nothing else, but you’re not so lucky. The doubts creep in from all angles, and you wonder if you could have done something different.

Perhaps something that wouldn’t have left you with another scar, something that wouldn’t leave you with blood beneath your nails that you can never get out. No matter how hard you scrub, your hands are still stained with it-

“Kendis?”

The word is quiet, hushed, spoken into the vacuum that your thoughts have created. You look up to see Kendall hovering next to you, brows furrowed and hands twitching from holding back.

“Yeah?” You ask, your nonchalance bordering on desperation.

His eyes drop to the already-healed wound on your shoulder. His is still bleeding sluggishly through the bandage wrapped around his shoulder and upper arm. You wonder, briefly, what kind of freak heals faster than a werewolf.

You, apparently.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay, instead reaching his hand out in a silent offer. You see the way his fingers tremble; it’s not easy for him, either. Neither of you express affection like Rei, with her easy touches and gentle hands.

Your nod is stiff, and his hand rests on the small of your back with painful devotion. Rei has come over as well, leaning against the counter and tilting her head to see your face.

“The cake won’t bake itself,” You insist, forcing a sort of positivity you don’t really feel into the words.

But it’s fine. It’s fine. You’ll make it fine.

Because if you show your emotions now, what lies beneath the veneer, you won’t be able to stuff it all back in. Your guts will spill all over the floor, bloody and messy and raw, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to stitch yourself up yet again.

“And my hand won’t hold itself either,” Rei pouts slightly.

Kendall sighs, “Please, for five seconds-”

“No! I saw a bit of a smile, so shut up and let me work!” She leans across you to shove a hand in Kendall’s face.

He bats her away with minimal annoyance, too used to her antics to be anything other than fond.

You can’t help the laughter that spills over, and Rei’s smile is so bright and pleased it feels like you’ve been punched in the chest.

“Let me finish this,” You say, “And then-”

And then. Then what? Then you’ll lay on the couch while the oven timer ticks down slowly, holding two of the people you love most with blood-soaked hands?

“Fine,” Rei sighs gustily, “We’re waiting, though!”

She drags Kendall off to the living room, and he goes without complaint. You realize that, yes, you are going to hold them. Carefully, so as to not leave claw marks in something so precious, but you will hold them. You will. But something still makes you pause in the doorway, watching them for a moment before you enter.

The way Rei practically lays on top of Kendall, blabbering on about something that happened two weeks ago that she’s told you both about four times already. Kendall listens all over again as if he’s never heard the words, though, nodding as he strokes a hand up and down her back.

You take a step forward and pause. They’ve heard you, though, and they’re both looking up with hopeful eyes. So you force your feet to move again, one foot after the other before you carefully sink down to join them.

There’s a bit of shuffling as legs tangle together and bodies shift. Kendall is half on top of you, and your head is pressed against his shoulder while Rei remains comfortably situated on his chest. Your eyes feel heavy, but you stubbornly keep them open, both so the cake doesn’t burn and so you don’t miss a moment of this encompassing warmth.

#theunseelieif #oc: kendis crawford louel #things made for me #dakotawritesif #rei suzuki #kendall bennett #kendis x rei x kendall #so i MIGHT bring kendis into another game #shhhh [i just wanted to play them as a were and in a polyam -- and i get to here] #was already excited for this came but it is increases whenever i think about this #writing commissions #the unseelie if #dakota got a really good on kendis from the material i gave them from the first go -- but they're also open to edits! #kxrxk = or - as i like to call it - kendall and the romantically clueless/obtuse/etc in his life #kendall and how they make him stress and sweat #kendall and he REALLY does not get paid enough for this

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

I got some more angst for ya >:]

What about a Shamura x reader where S/o was attacked by dissenters(Pre-Narinder's betrayal) and dies in Shamura's arms? Like Shamurais trying to comfort S/o as they're like, bleeding out and maybe s/o is apologising or something? Maybe after they take their last breath, and Shamura breaks down, they say "I knew this would happen, had I only known it would be this painful..." or something?

I am feral for angst rn XD

As Shamura was meeting with their fellow bishops, you were out in Silk Cradle picking fresh beetroot for stew.

Today was the anniversary of your relationship with the visionary bishop, so you wanted to prepare a special meal for them once they returned home.

How you both came to fall in love remained a mystery to the other cultists, though Shamura had foreseen your proposal and knew fate was calling for you to be together.

Yet they pretended to be surprised just to see your smile when they said “yes”. Thus, you were blessed with their love and the knowledge that this was simply meant to be.

Although they didn’t exactly unveil every detail of how far the relationship would go, you were content with whatever they told you.

You still did work in the cult, though you were the only one allowed to express intimacy with them. You’d always greet them with a kiss and compliment them on their looks and smarts, telling them they're the most beautiful creature in all of the lands.

At times the mighty bishop became bashful, and their heart grew fonder of you with every gesture of love. Even the temple guardians teased them about this from time to time, though they only chuckled and waved them off.

However, that didn’t mean jealousy wasn’t rooted in some of the cultists. They couldn’t see how you were “worthy” in any way when they’ve worked hard to gain their leader’s attention and blessings.

And for the few zealous ones, that jealousy inevitably led to dissention.

You’d come to realize this when a few hooded followers showed up out of nowhere, surrounding you on all sides.

“Oh! Greetings, my friends.” You smiled as you held the basket of beetroot with two hands. “Do you all need something?”

“Yeah. An answer.” One of them dropped their hood, revealing their glowing red eyes. Clear signs of dissention. “What made you so special, huh? Why did the Wise One choose you? Do they not love us anymore?"

"Yeah! Why do you get to hog all their love?!"

You frowned at their unwarranted hostility. “Of course they love you all. I assure I am not trying to take away any-”

Another cultist knocked the basket out of your hands, spilling the vegetables all over the ground. You scowled and stared at them in anger. “Hey! What's your problem?!”

"You."

"...what did you say-?"

But as you stepped forward to confront the one who said that, you failed to see the dagger they pulled out from underneath their cloak, stabbing you in the chest. You were horrified, only managing to make a choking sound as the blade was pulled out of you.

Looking down at the wound, you put a shaking hand to your chest, collapsing to your knees. “Why...? I..I-I’ve done nothing to any of you...” You struggled to speak.

“What you’ve done was make our leader soft...weak.” They spat, the others muttering in agreement. “Love doesn’t win wars. Only violence and bloodshed! They would be better off without you. We were going to just leave..but we wanted to make an example out of you first. Of how this pathetic cult should-”

“No...NO!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!!”

You and the cultists saw Shamura rise up from their portal, shocked at the scene before them. Although they tried to scatter, they were all suddenly locked in a paralyzed state, forced to remain still and face them directly.

When the bishop saw you on the ground, they immediately rushed over, catching you and holding you in their lap before you could fall over. 

You gazed up at them, seeing their tearful eyes. Warm blood trickled down from the corner of your mouth, but you did your best to smile at them. “I-I’m sorry, my beloved..those dissenters just...c-came out of nowhere.”

“No, no, it’s..i-it’s not your fault.” They tried comforting you, even though they knew this exact moment would come. And they couldn’t change fate no matter how much they begged or cried. “They will pay. And..y-you’ll be in Narinder’s hands soon. I’m so sorry..I..I never had the strength to tell you-”

“Don’t feel guilty..” You reached a hand up, feeling them hold it tightly. “I’m happy for the life we..m-managed to have together. I love you, forever and always.”

“..I-I love you, too. Rest easy, my sweet.

“Goodbye, Shamura..don’t forget me...”

As you took your final breath, the tears rolled down Shamura’s face. They gently set your lifeless hand down, before staring at their terrified followers with hatred.

“Allocer.”

The aforementioned witness was summoned. But it didn’t take him long to see what had happened, and he bowed his head in sadness. “My deepest condolences, Great Leader. Shall I punish the dissenters?”

“Yes. I want them all executed immediately...with acid.”

“Acid?”

“Lower them into an acid bath.” Shamura spoke hoarsely, never taking their eyes off your body. "I want their screams to be heard all throughout the land..so every creature here knows the pain I feel."

The dissenters whimpered in fear, though the bishop glared at them all. “That’s what you all wanted, right? Violence?! Bloodshed?! YOU TAKE ME FOR A SOFT FOOL?!! Well congratulations..you now know a violent and painful execution awaits you all.”

Allocer nodded his head. “I will prepare the temple, my lord. You all are coming with me.”

And with that, he disappeared, taking the dissenters with him to their fate.

Only when Shamura was all alone did they finally weep, still cradling your body and wishing they could have prepared sooner for this.

How they wished to hold you until the end of time...

"I'm sorry, my beloved. I knew this day would come...but if only I had known it would be this painful..”

#clanask #cult of the lamb x reader #cotl x reader #cotl shamura #bishop shamura #tw death #angst

[cod-dump]

Been thinking about that sandman and price ship the anon mentioned

They were together for a while, and both teams went on missions together often because of this. However they decided to break it off, because Sandman was nearly killed because Price got something wrong. He was scared of losing sandman. They remained on good terms because there was no bad blood between the two, and would sometimes join forces together on missions that required a trustworthy ally.

Price didn't know 'down the rabbit hole' would possibly be their last goodbye.

When Sandman had gotten hit by the shrapnel from the car, Price felt time slow down. This was a mess from, from start to finish. His intel was bad and they’ve lost good men today. But he refused to let one of those men be Sandman.

The fact they got out alive, Price clutching the bleeding Sandman as exfil got them out of there, it was a miracle itself. Sandman was taken straight to surgery to save him, Price unable to do anything but pray to the god he didn’t believe in. He stared at the clock most of the time, anxious and tears threatening to spill. He was such a fool.

After hour a nurse comes to him. He jumped to his feet at the sight of her.

“How is he?!”

“The surgery was a success, he’s going to be fine.”

Price almost cried out in relief.

“I won’t lie to you, it was touch and go throughout the procedure. Someone was looking out for him.”

Price almost looked up at the ceiling but didn’t.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s resting and will probably be out until tomorrow.”

“I don’t care… Can I sit in the room with him?”

The nurse nods and takes him through the halls to the room Sandman was in. Seeing him out of gear, covered in bandages and pale form bloodloss— Guilt wracked him. The nurse directed him to a chair near the bed.

“Let him rest.”

She left them be, Price staring at Sandman. His normally beautiful hair looked dirty, his strong body now looked so frail. Price sniffs before taking the chair and moving it next to the bed. He gently takes the sleeping man’s hand and cradles it in his own, afraid he would break.

“I’m so sorry…”

Price laid his head on the bed, still holding Sandman’s hand, as he cried. He almost lost him. All because of rotten information.

At some point Price fell asleep, head nestled against Sandman’s hip. He wasn’t sure how long he’s been there, only that he was exhausted and in pain from the angle he’s been resting at. Fingers gently comb through his hair and it felt nice, loving. Price’s eyes snap open, realizing only one person could be doing that.

He sits up and Sandman is smiling tiredly at him, “Hey, John.”

Price tears up immediately, Sandman cupping his cheek.

“I’m okay, love.”

Price wanted to crawl onto the bed and lay with him, but he didn’t want to risk hurting him. So he just moved closer and rested his head on his arm. Sandman leans over and kisses his head, trying to joke with him.

“The fact a shitty little Honda almost took me out.”

Price looks at him and Sandman’s face falls, “Too soon?”

“I almost got you killed…”

“Hey, I almost died choking on a pea. I would rather be taken out by a car.”

Price sits up straight, “Sandy—“

“John, it’s okay! I’ve had countless near death experiences, what’s one more?”

“Because you almost died because of me!”

Tears fell down his face and Sandman seems to understand what was bothering Price. He takes one of Price’s hands and brings it to his face, kissing the man’s knuckles.

“John… it’s not your fault this happened.”

“It is! I’m the one who got the intel, who lead us through this-“

“Bad intel happens all the time.”

“But this time almost took you-“

Price stops himself from talking, swallowing back his tears. Sandman just tilts his head before kissing Price’s knuckles again. He then tugs on the man’s arm and coaxes him to lean closer to him. Their kiss was soft, Price melting against him. When they finally pull away Sandman strokes Price’s face.

“I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? It’s going to take a lot more than some shitty Honda to take me from you.”

Sandman kisses him again like he was trying to convince Price of that. Price sighs, pulling away from Sandman before resting his head on his chest just so he could listen to his heartbeat. Sandman puts a hand on his head, lightly scratching Price’s scalp, knowing how much the man loves it when he does that.

“I’m not going anywhere…”

Price closes his eyes, letting Sandman’s heartbeat calm him. Remind him that he was indeed alive.

#price calls him sandy #price x sandman #sandman x price #cod mwii #modern warfare ii #call of duty #john price #sandman cod #cod sandman #ask #thanks for the ask <3

[transgamerism]

the weeping dawn

rating: T

characters: The Dark Urge, Astarion, Alfira, minor mentions of other tadpole gang members

summary: “Étaín sates their Urge’s vile hungers, whether they want to or not. Astarion happens upon the aftermath. Swift decision making is required.

What better foundation of trust than getting away with murder?”

read here on ao3 or below

It’s the smell of blood that draws him. Rich and red and heady, the metallic bitterness that no wine could ever hope to compare to. Astarion expects an injured animal, leaking in the grass, ready for him to help it along into the embrace of oblivion. But when he arrives, the creature is already dead, and the killer is still at the scene.

Astarion spots two tiefling bards, one laid on the ground, dead as dead can be, the other standing over her, hands braced on their knees, heaving great breaths interspersed with sobs. This close, he can hear the pound of Étaín’s heart, smell their blood (still in the vein) spiked with adrenaline. In their distraction, they haven’t noticed him yet. Astarion hovers in the shadow of a large oak, and debates with himself. He could depart, chalk this hunt up to a wash and find his bedroll long before Étaín finishes disposing of poor Alfira, feigning ignorance. And watch his back for the dagger that may await it. He could run back to camp, fetch the heroic Wyll or fearsome Lae’zel, someone more equipped than he for putting down monsters. But then after the blood is finished spilling, doubt and suspicion will surely set in. If their leader is a killer, what might the others be hiding? Their party would fracture, and Astarion would lose his safety in numbers.

There’s always the option of a knife through their spine, nearly painless, while they’re distracted. Astarion places a hand on the hilt of his dagger, the dagger they offered him, and hesitates. Étaín twitches, their head rising. A predator realizing it’s being observed. They raise their eyes and find Astarion unerringly through the gloom. He freezes, taking in the extent of their blood and tear stained face. They’re a mess, coated in gore, their clothes stiff with rapidly cooling blood, hands so covered in it that it could be mistaken for gloves.

“I-“ they begin, but seem to be at a loss of what to say.

“Really now, her music wasn’t that bad, was it?” Astarion drawls, carefully. Hand still on his dagger, tensed and ready to run.

Étaín draws a shuddering breath. “I don’t know how it happened.” Astarion raises one unimpressed brow. “I think I did it in my sleep,” they whisper, “All I know is I woke up and she was dead.”

“Convenient,” Astarion remarks, voice falsely light. Étaín flops down into the grass in answer, lacking their usual grace. Astarion, against all of the better judgment he’s scrounged together over the last two centuries, edges closer, away from the cover of the tree. Hand still on his dagger hilt. He notices that Alfira’s eyes have been gouged out, most likely by sharp thumbnails. Her face, though slack in death, still holds the hint of abject terror in her expression. Her blood is still warm, he can sense it pooling inside her veins. Not life-warm, but at least less-than-two-hours warm.

He makes sure to keep his fangs hidden when he says, “You’ve put me in a rather awkward position.” Étaín looks up at him miserably, starkly contrasting from their usual serrated joviality. Over the last few days, they’ve proven to be fiercely clever with words and blades, perhaps unpredictable, but nothing that suggested tendencies toward violent murder off the battlefield. This vulnerability, assuming it isn’t an act, makes Astarion’s neck prickle. He prefers a veneer of snide humor over tears.

Astarion once again turns over the idea of bolting for the camp in his mind, rousing the others from their beds to come and dispense swift justice. Or his blade could find its home in their eye socket. They’re seated, seemingly unarmed. He would say defenseless, if there wasn’t a cooling corpse on the ground before him. If he goes to the others, or kills Étaín and returns back to camp, leaving behind two dead bodies, there would doubtless be questions. They may inquire as to what exactly Astarion was doing, stalking the woods in the dead of night, to find Étaín in such a compromising position. Or suspicion could alight upon him when the rest realize that he alone, out of all of them, does not sleep, and should have noticed the disappearance of both bards.

Étaín, however, is in no state to ask those sorts of questions. If they are indeed a violent, sadistic murderer trying to play off of his goodwill, it would be in Astarion’s best interest to go along with it. If he doesn’t, he could easily be next. And if they are, somehow, just a pathetic little amnesiac with an uncontrollable taste for blood, nothing breeds trust like the sharing of a secret. Or, if that fails, blackmail.

Astarion sighs, long and low through his nose. “Where did it happen?” Étaín blinks, uncomprehending. “You were clearly dragging her from somewhere, where did you come from?” Astarion asks, even though as he speaks his nose easily picks up the blood trail.

Étaín points east. “We were by the water when I woke up.” Astarion nods once, then again more firmly.

“Well, go back there. Dispose of any evidence as best you can, and clean yourself up. Crocodile tears or no, you won’t be convincing anyone of your innocence if you’re still covered in gore come morning,” Astarion instructs. He raises his nose to the air, scenting prey and predators nearby. It takes barely a moment to pick out the musky, bloody smell on a wind from the north: the gnoll pack they had skirted around earlier that day. The odor is hard to forget, blood and rot and afterbirth.

“What about,” Étaín gestures meaningfully to Alfira.

Astarion gathers her wrists in one hand, crouching down and using them to haul her across his shoulders like a hunter with a deer carcass. “Plenty of scavengers in the wild. I’ll stuff her in a bush somewhere and she’ll be naught but bones in a few hours’ time,” he says with a confidence he certainly doesn’t feel. Blood drips slowly from her open mouth and onto his arm.

Étaín sits for a moment, staring at him, before rising to their feet and shuffling off toward the riverbank, obedient and bloodstained. Alfira is still a sticky, pungent weight on Astarion’s shoulders. He adjusts her and starts off at a brisk pace, cursing how he sags after only a few steps, neck and shoulders and legs burning with strain. Even starving, he used to be able to bend iron bars with his bare hands, scale walls and walk upside down on ceilings. Now, despite the gift of the sun and a few days’ worth of decent blood in his belly, he can barely haul a corpse.

It takes longer than Astarion would have liked to reach a spot he deems near enough to the gnolls’ territory and far enough from camp to store Alfira. But he finds a spot of tall grass and brambles just off the Risen Road. Unlikely to be stumbled upon by any wayward goblin patrols, but the gnolls will scent the meal in no time. He drops her unceremoniously, rising and cracking his neck. Astarion gives her one last look, locking all of his sympathy in a little box he keeps behind his sternum, staring until she’s only prey that had the misfortune of stumbling into his path. He turns away as her face begins to change, taking on the appearance of a thousand victims who met their needless end at the hands of a monster in Astarion’s midst. He walks away from her before the gnolls hone in on the smell of bloodied meat, heading for the river.

Étaín sits at the bank, shirt off and submerged in the water, most of the blood gone from their skin now. They don’t give any indication that they notice his approach, busy scrubbing their shirt with a small rock, trying to grind out the bloodstains. But, when Astarion clears his throat, they barely twitch an ear, simply casting a glance over their shoulder.

“I have vinegar for bloodstains,” Astarion says, holding his hand out for the soiled garment, “Give it here.”

Étaín rises, standing in the ankle deep, silty shallows to wring the water out of their shirt before turning to face Astarion fully. Their torso is split by long, straight scars; two leading from either shoulder to their breastbone where they meet, then trail down as one, curving around the belly button and dipping below the waistband of their trousers. Astarion has seen scars like that before, but never on the living. It’s difficult to tell against the pink of their skin, but they seem fresh, thick and purple-red, gnarled in some places as if applied by an overly eager hand.

Astarion forces himself to blink before he can be accused of staring, but Étaín barely seems to notice, arms at their sides and unembarrassed as if nakedness is as comfortable to them as being clothed, and says, “Why are you helping me?”

Astarion lifts a shoulder, affecting carelessness, “I’m only willing to tolerate a maximum of one bard in my company.” Étaín frowns at him, then rolls their eyes, spirit coming back to their expression after the tears and blankness.

They shift their weight, cocking a hip. “It’s me, right?” They raise an expectant eyebrow.

“Well,” Astarion allows, “You’re certainly the only one here.”

Étaín laughs like a bell: tinkling, and utterly hollow. Then, they step out of the water, the ends of their trousers sodden, and approach Astarion. He bites his own tongue to keep from backing away, but all they do is pass him by on their way back to camp. He stands there, clutching their ruined shirt in both hands, gazing out at the black water reflecting stars.

The next morning, Étaín finds their shirt clean and hanging on one of their tent poles to dry. Astarion doesn’t look up when they emerge from their tent, sitting in a ray of sun to sharpen his daggers with a whetstone “borrowed” from Lae’zel. If he notices her glaring at him, he ignores it.

“Étaín!” Wyll calls, brow furrowed where he sits near Gale’s breakfast fire, “Have you seen Alfira?”

Étaín feels the phantom stain of blood on their skin, alighting them with an intoxicating mix of elation and dread. “Not since I went to bed last night,” they say, “Maybe she got cold feet and went back to the Grove?”

“In the dark, alone? Unwise,” Gale remarks, prodding at some bits of sausage in his pan.

“She was here at the end of my watch,” Astarion supplies. Étaín looks at him briefly, but he keeps his eyes on his dagger, pausing to blow on the honed edge and squint at it critically.

“We should look for her,” Karlach suggests. “She might have gotten lost heading out for a late night piss, or something.”

Lae’zel scoffs. “Doubtless she ran back to where she came from, or else became a worg’s meal. We must push on.”

“Loathe as I am to agree with Lae’zel,” Shadowheart says, “Anyone who can’t manage a nighttime piss without getting lost shouldn’t be following us around.”

With every word, Étaín thrums with delight, fingertips singing with the thrill of getting away with murder. They force the budding smile back before it can bloom, instead furrowing their eyebrows in false consideration. This time when they look, they find Astarion observing them silently. They wink, and he quirks a brow. The ugly guilt and heaving fear of last night are gone, leaving only wariness at not being able to control their urges as well as they thought, but this is overshadowed by the bliss of satiation. They had no idea how ravenous for it they were, how much they ached for the slaughter. Only now that it’s gone can they appreciate the true weight of it. There is a pinch, an itch, of regret. Poor, sweet Alfira didn’t deserve Étaín’s ire. Would that they could have reserved it for a goblin or ogre or mindflayer, but even that is lost in the swirl of satisfaction.

“We could split up,” Étaín suggests, ever the pragmatist. “Karlach and Wyll, if you’d like to search for Alfira, you could do that while the others of us continue scouting west. We would cover more ground.”

There’s more deliberation, a brief argument, before it’s finally agreed that Shadowheart would accompany Wyll and Karlach to canvas the area, looking for both Alfira and more signs of cult activity to the north. Lae’zel, in an attempt to keep her away from Shadowheart and give everyone a break from their constant bickering, will join Étaín, Astarion, and Gale as they track west, following the trail of goblins to their stronghold. Gale has been annotating a collection of maps he found in the Grove, and assures them all he has a very good idea of where the ruined temple the human mercenaries spoke of is.

He leads the way, quarterstaff in one hand and map brandished in the other, while Lae’zel stalks behind him, rolling her eyes when he pauses to consult his compass. Astarion falls into step beside Étaín, bringing up the rear a few paces behind. “And you’re quite certain they won’t find any trace of your late night activities during their noble quest?” he hisses, just loud enough for Étaín to hear.

“I swept away my tracks with a leafy branch on my way back to the river. You?”

Astarion smirks. “I don’t leave tracks. I can’t say the same for gnolls, however. They'll likely find pieces of Alfira, at the very least.” He squints at Étaín warily. “You’re in high spirits. Considering.”

Étaín shrugs from shoulders to the tip of their tail, curling it over at the end into a little loop. “Whatever plagues my dreams is sated. If we’re lucky, perhaps this will be the last of it.” They don’t mention the afterglow of bloodlust, or the lingering taste of Alfira’s fear at the back of their tongue. Astarion doesn’t look particularly convinced, but they ignore it. Whatever inspired him to help them last night, he’s stuck with them now. He’ll hold his tongue if he plans on keeping it.

Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Astarion says only, “Maybe keep it outside of camp, if there is a next time.”

Étaín smiles beatifically at him. “Don’t worry. You’re safe with me.” As the group continues on their trek, Étaín pulls out their violin, setting it to their chin and bowing out a tune before beginning the first verse, “Dance upon the stars tonight…” They recite the lyrics to the best of their memory, keeping time with the rate of their steps. The Weave fills the song, warping the notes as they rise from the violin and their lips, until every word is strung with hope like pearls. They can feel the magic settle on the others, filling their hearts and bellies with new vigor, their souls with purpose.

“That’s a sweet little song! Quite melancholy, as well. What is it?” Gale asks over his shoulder once the song comes to an end. Étaín takes their violin from their chin.

“It’s something I heard Alfira singing. Maybe I’ll have her teach it to me properly, when we see her again.”

#bg3 #astarion #astarion x durge #durge #dark urge #bg3 fanfic #fanfic #op #posting at a rlly bad time but lol

[im-not-thinking-confetti-cannons]

Day 25: Bloodplay

Warnings: none

Rating: E

Pairing: Raylan x Tim

Tim’s not sure how the two of them fell into this habit. He doesn’t remember the first time Raylan showed up at his apartment with a six-pack and a smile, because Tim never asked what he was doing and Raylan never provided a reason. He just keeps showing up – and Tim keeps letting him in.

Raylan’s there now more nights than he’s not. 

It’s a realization that hits Tim slowly one night, as they’re sitting on the couch together, an hour into the Lord of the Rings marathon that’s airing. Raylan’s on his second beer and Tim’s already thinking about grabbing a set of sheets out of the closet so he can set up the couch for Raylan to crash on – and the fact that they’ve done this enough for there to be that sort of routine in place is more surprising than it has any right to be.

The fact that Raylan is choosing Tim, consistently – that, perhaps, is surprising too, though Tim feels like he has every right to be surprised there. It makes him think, maybe about things he wouldn’t be thinking about if Raylan wasn’t in his space, if they weren’t just buzzed enough for plausible deniability.

“When’s the last time you got laid?” he asks, going for a casual tone and missing by a mile. Raylan fixes him with a look like he knows, like Tim just asking is enough to show his hand.

“It’s been a minute,” Raylan says, and Tim hides his smile behind his bottle of beer, shaking his head.

“A minute,” he repeats. “Raylan, for you, that could just as well mean you got some last night.” It couldn’t, though. Raylan was on his couch last night. But still. “You’re…” A slut, he thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. “Insatiable.”

Raylan’s eyes narrow. “You’ve been spending too much time with Boyd,” he says. It’s not a question. He just knows, because somehow Raylan Givens is the person who can read Tim better than anyone else. It’s karmic, Tim’s sure. And it’s more reassuring than he’ll ever admit aloud.

Tim shrugs lazily. “Nelson won’t play Scrabble with me anymore,” he says. “And it’s not like I’m spending any more time over there than you are.”

Raylan’s jaw clenches a little, the way it always does when someone brings up the fact that he’s supposed to hate Boyd and he doesn’t. “We’ve got history,” he says after a moment, like that’s any sort of answer.

“So you keep saying.” Tim takes a sip of his beer. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

He’s close enough that he can hear Raylan’s little huff of laughter, barely louder than a breath. “A month,” he says. “Maybe more. I don’t know, Gutterson, I’m not exactly counting the days.”

Liar, Tim thinks.

“And besides,” Raylan continues, “I’ve got a standing date with your couch. I’m not about to step out on my best girl.”

Tim laughs, sharp and unbidden, but Raylan likes it, judging from the way a smile slants across his mouth. “Maybe you’ve lost your touch,” Tim says, and Raylan flips him off before draining the rest of his beer and setting the bottle aside.

“Maybe I just haven’t been able to find what I want,” he mutters. Almost immediately, he looks like he regrets the words, and Tim smells blood. It’s not his favorite thing about himself, the way he can spot a weakness from a mile away, but it is damned useful, both in the field and out of it.

Tim was sure he had all of Raylan’s sore spots mapped out. It’s more thrilling than it should be to realize that he doesn’t.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” he says. Raylan still won’t meet his eyes. “Aw, come on. I told you about Sigourney Weaver, Raylan, it’s time to ‘fess up.”

Raylan rolls his eyes – actually rolls them, exaggerated and obnoxious. “We both know Michael Fassbender is more your type,” he says, and… well, a month ago, that might have made Tim’s hackles rise a little, might have made him change the subject. Now? Now it just convinces him that he’s on the right track.

“Spill,” he says. “Then we can do our nails and braid each other’s hair.”

“You’re an ass,” Raylan mutters, but he’s smiling even as he shakes his head. “It’s not anything special. Not really. I just…” He trails off, shrugging, and then raises his head to meet Tim’s eyes. “I like to be roughed up sometimes. That’s all.”

I like to be roughed up sometimes.

Tim already knows that’s going to run on a loop in his mind for the rest of the foreseeable future. In the moment, it’s instantly all he can think about: Raylan seeking people out to scratch this particular itch, and what, exactly, he might mean by roughed up. It’s broad enough to make it a gray area – Tim’s known men who would have considered letting a girl push them onto their backs so she could be on top rough.

Raylan, though… Raylan doesn’t seem like that type.

Tim’s silent for too long, and Raylan’s shoulders go tense under all the shirts he has on. “What,” he says, almost defensively, “you never like it to hurt a little?”

Tim shrugs. “Can’t say I do,” he says, and before Raylan can take that the wrong way and clam up, he adds, “Doesn’t mean I don’t know how to make it hurt real damn good.”

Slowly, slowly, Raylan smiles, cocky and crooked, and the warning bells that should go off in Tim’s head just don’t. Raylan is trouble, and he knows it, but at the moment he’s too caught on I like to be roughed up and the way Raylan has spread his knees, welcoming, to worry about that.

“You gonna let me run this show?” Tim asks, and oh, the way Raylan shudders is fucking beautiful.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little breathy. “If you think you can handle that.”

It’s a challenge. There’s no two ways around it. Raylan’s trying to rile him up (has been for years, Tim thinks) and if he were younger, if he wasn’t intimately familiar with how boys like Raylan ticked, it might work.

As it is, Tim gets to his feet, tapping Raylan’s shin with his foot to indicate he do the same. “Kitchen,” he says, and when Raylan just raises an eyebrow, he adds, “I don’t want you fucking bleeding all over my carpet, Raylan.”

Raylan stumbles a little, and the sound he lets out is all wanting, all need. “Christ,” he says under his breath, glancing over his shoulder. “You planning on making me bleed?”

Tim flicks the light on in the kitchen. It’s not huge, not by any means, but the linoleum on the floor is old and stained. If he does make Raylan bleed, it’s not going to ruin anything he’ll have to pay to get cleaned. “Depends,” he says, and Raylan’s eyes glint a little, focusing on him. “How do you want it?”

Raylan grins, the tense and tight something in his shoulders loosening at Tim’s words. He lifts his chin, tapping the hinge of his jaw. “Right here,” he says, and when Tim just raises an eyebrow, he huffs. “What?”

“This how you always ask people to punch you in the face?”

“I don’t usually have to ask,” Raylan quips, and – well, Tim supposes he doesn’t. Tim might be able to pinpoint those pesky little weaknesses, but Raylan’s got a penchant for knowing exactly which buttons to press to make someone fly off the handle. And he employs it more often than is probably healthy.

Abruptly, Tim thinks about the officer’s club, thinks about Arlo and the way Raylan swallowed down his anger at the blow. And he thinks about how he was on his feet before he was even really sure what he was doing, ready to get between them, to put Raylan at his back so he wouldn’t have to turn the other cheek.

This is different. He knows that. Still, he gets close enough that he can raise his hand, brushing the tips of his fingers gently over the curve of Raylan’s mouth. It’s half acknowledgment, half stalling, giving Raylan a moment to take it back if he wants to. Tim won’t do him the disservice of asking if he’s sure, but… he can give them both a minute to settle.

Raylan smiles. “I know what I want,” he says quietly. “It ain’t the first time I’ve done this, Gutterson.”

And Tim knows without asking that it wasn’t Winona making Raylan bleed for her in bed, knows that he’ll be laying his own marks over older ones, deeper ones, ones inscribed with property of Boyd Crowder. And maybe the idea of flaunting his own bruised knuckles the next time Crowder cons him into playing a board game is more than a little appealing, the way I can break him just as well as you did will hang unspoken in the air between them.

Maybe he’s got a thing about pushing people’s buttons, too.

“No,” Tim says quietly. “I reckon it’s not.” He strokes his thumb over Raylan’s bottom lip, watching the way Raylan lets his mouth fall open, easy and expectant. He’s patient, for once in his goddamn life, and Tim can’t help but push a little, just to see how easy that facade will break.

“Say it.”

Raylan falters, and Tim is close enough to see his pupils blow wide, to hear the strangled little sound that comes spilling out of his mouth. He swallows, licking his lips reflexively, his tongue just barely brushing the tip of Tim’s thumb.

“All right,” he says, and Christ, his voice has gone ragged, almost broken with how rough it is. “I want you to hit me.”

“Good boy.”

Raylan whines, a shuddering, pleading sort of thing, and Tim has just enough time to acknowledge the fact that he pulled that sound from Raylan’s mouth before he hits him.

He pulls the punch enough that it won’t shake a tooth loose or break Raylan’s jaw, but it’s not a love-tap, either. Raylan’s head snaps to the side, and he instinctively takes a step back, not quite staggering but not entirely stable, either. Tim follows him, grabs the front of his shirt with the hand he just hit Raylan with and drags him closer, none too gently. 

“Fuck,” Raylan breathes. He looks a little dazed, drunk on more than the two beers he had, and Tim knows the feeling, how that first flood of endorphins can hit hard when it’s what you’re after. 

His hand slides up Raylan’s chest, his fingers curling comfortably around Raylan’s throat. It makes him still, suddenly, makes his next breath come slow and measured and careful even as his pulse jumps under Tim’s palm. Oh, Tim thinks, a little distantly. Oh, you need this, don’t you?

Raylan reaches up and touches his mouth, his fingertips coming away bloody. “I guess you’ve done this before, too,” he says, his eyes flicking to Tim’s face. His expression is caught somewhere between appreciation and disbelief, like this side of Tim is something he hoped for but didn’t actually expect.

Tim squeezes, just a little, just enough to make Raylan’s eyelashes flutter. “Once or twice,” he says. “Take your belt off.”

Raylan’s moving almost before Tim’s done speaking, fumbling with the buckle, until he’s finally able to tug the whole belt off and toss it aside. It clatters when it hits the ground, but Tim’s already popping the button on Raylan’s jeans with the hand that isn’t wrapped around his throat, pushing them down along with his boxers just far enough to let his cock spring free.

Raylan’s hard. It’s not a surprise, but Tim still takes a moment to look anyway, the curve of Raylan’s cock and the way the head is wet and shiny with precome sticking in his mind in a way he knows he’ll be revisiting later. 

“Enjoying the view?” Raylan asks, a little too breathy to be entirely sarcastic. Tim just hums in response, letting his gaze linger for another moment before raising his eyes to Raylan’s face.

“Could be better,” Tim says idly. “Something tells me you’d look real pretty bent over the counter.” Raylan’s cock jerks at the words, and Tim’s mouth curves into a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe. If you’re good.”

“I swear to–”

Tim holds up his hand, palm cupped, in front of Raylan’s mouth. “Spit,” he interrupts, and Raylan flashes a grin at him, bloody teeth on display. The sight makes liquid heat pool at the base of Tim’s spine, makes him ache and want, so damn desperately – almost badly enough to spin Raylan around and have him right there. 

Almost.

“Spit,” he repeats, a little more forcefully, and Raylan does. He spits into Tim’s palm, and Tim has just enough time to see that it’s more blood than saliva before he’s wrapping his fingers around Raylan’s cock and stroking him, root to tip.

“Oh, fuck.” Raylan shudders, a full-body thing, and Tim can feel the way his legs nearly go out from underneath him. With the hand he’s got pressed to Raylan’s neck, it’s easy to back him up against the fridge, to hold him there while Raylan tries to buck up into his grip. 

Blood and spit don’t make for excellent lube, and the friction has to be bordering on too much, but Raylan doesn’t seem to care. He’s desperate about it, eagerly fucking Tim’s hand like it’s all he wants, like if he doesn’t come in the next thirty seconds he’s not going to be able to take it anymore, and Tim’s just a mean enough bastard to want to hear what Raylan sounds like when he’s begging.

He loosens his grip just enough to make it frustrating, to tease at the friction Raylan really wants. “Come on,” he urges as Raylan makes a wounded little noise of complaint. “Don’t make me do all the work here, cowboy. Give me a show. Make it worth my while.”

Raylan looks down at him with half-lidded eyes, his lips parted around the ragged breaths he’s taking, and Tim barely thinks about reaching up, abandoning the hold he has on Raylan’s throat in favor of slipping his thumb into his mouth. He feels the way Raylan’s cock twitches in his hand, precome spilling down the length of it as Raylan sucks, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue against the tip of Tim’s thumb like he’s sucking dick instead. 

“Good boy,” Tim murmurs again, and this time he can feel the way Raylan moans. “God, Raylan, look at you. So fucking pretty when you’re gagging for it.”

Raylan’s mouth falls open, his breath leaving him in a rush of air that’s almost a sob. “Please,” he begs, and Tim’s pants suddenly feel a little tighter, the way Raylan’s voice breaks around the word going right to his dick. “Tim, fuck, I need–”

“I know what you need.” Tim lets his fingers tighten, and Raylan does sob at that, his head knocking back against the fridge as he thrusts desperately into Tim’s hand. He’s a pretty picture, his whole body is trembling, wound tight with need and pleasure and that edge of pain that Tim’s provided, and Tim has just started wondering about how good he would feel if Tim was fucking him like that before Raylan’s stomach sinks in and he comes.

Tim strokes him through it, slow and steady, his other hand shifting to cup Raylan’s cheek. “There you go,” he murmurs, and even to his own ears he sounds a little awed. He can’t help it. Watching Raylan come down from that high, shivering with aftershocks every time Tim’s fingers brush against the head of his cock – it’s something Tim could quickly become addicted to. Might already be a little addicted to, if he’s being honest.

Raylan turns his head into Tim’s palm, smiling as his chest heaves, his cock slowly softening in Tim’s hand. “Don’t stop now,” he says, and it takes Tim a moment to really register what he’s said, for understanding to break through the sudden white noise filling his head. Raylan’s grin just widens at Tim’s shocked silence. “Unless you don’t want to get yours.”

Tim does. He’s so hard it hurts, and the reminder has him throbbing in his jeans, suddenly more than a little desperate himself. Unlike Raylan, though, he has a modicum of self-control – even if it doesn’t really look like it as he hauls Raylan away from the fridge, all but shoving him towards the counter.

“Bend over,” he says, and he has just enough time to catch how pleased Raylan looks before he’s turning his head and draping himself over the counter. 

If he had a little more patience, if the need to fucking come wasn’t making his hands shake, Tim might take the time and work Raylan open on his fingers, might fuck him deep and slow until he was begging to come again, but he tucks the thought away for the next time Raylan shows up with beer and a needy glint in his eyes. 

Next time.

What a fucking thought.

Tim pulls Raylan’s pants and boxers down the rest of the way, pushing them to the floor with his clean hand. Raylan tries to spread his legs, but with his jeans tangled around his ankles, he can’t move much – which is just about perfect for Tim’s purposes. Impatiently, he tugs Raylan’s hips back, and then slicks the insides of his thighs with Raylan’s own come, tinged pink from the blood Tim used to jerk him off.

Raylan makes a low, pained little sound as his cock twitches between his legs, still soft, but clearly trying to rally for round two. “Christ,” he mutters against the counter. Tim fumbles with his own pants, pushing them down just far enough to get his dick out, and then he’s nudging Raylan’s thighs together and fucking into the space between them.

Raylan makes another one of those sounds as the head of Tim’s cock brushes against his balls, his soft, oversensitive cock, but he doesn’t pull away. He just clenches his thighs hard enough to make stars appear on the edges of Tim’s vision, arches his back in a fluid, easy way that makes Tim want to sink his teeth into something soft – like the place where Raylan’s neck meets his shoulder.

Tim presses his forehead to Raylan’s spine, panting harshly as his thrusts become a little shaky, a little uncoordinated. He’d be embarrassed about how quickly he got to the edge if he could think of anything other than how good it feels, if Raylan wasn’t moaning and squirming underneath him like Tim was actually fucking him. 

And that’s what pushes Tim right over the edge – the thought that Raylan is enjoying this, getting off on it, even though all Tim is doing is chasing his own pleasure. His hips stutter, and he manages one, two more thrusts before he’s spilling, pulsing between Raylan’s legs as he comes all over Raylan’s soft cock and the cabinets, both.

The orgasm carves him out, leaves him feeling hollow and shaky and perfectly sated. He ends up draped over Raylan’s back, panting against his spine, and for a long moment, neither of them move. Tim’s content to catch his breath while pressed up against Raylan, and Raylan seems more than content to let him.

Eventually, though, the feeling of cooling come becomes too uncomfortable to tolerate. Tim leans back, wincing as he slides back through Raylan’s slick thighs. Before Raylan can straighten, Tim strips out of his own shirt, placing one steadying hand against the small of Raylan’s back as he cleans up him, first his thighs, and then his cock, best he can.

By the time he’s done the same for himself, Raylan is standing again, his pants done up and a familiar crooked smile slanting across his mouth. Tim realizes, belatedly, that they haven’t even kissed, though he doesn’t expect the twinge of disappointment the realization brings along with it. 

“I can call a cab,” Raylan offers, and Tim doesn’t hesitate to cuff him upside the back of the head – gently, though, barely hard enough to ruffle his hair. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he says. Raylan’s eyes flick towards the couch, and Tim isn’t good at comfort, never figured out how to be a reassuring presence, but stray dogs are stray dogs, no matter if they’re wearing cowboy hats or baseball caps. “If you bleed on my sheets, though, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Raylan grins, small and soft and real this time, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. “I think I can stick to those terms,” he says. Then his voice drops just a little, goes rough around the edges. “Shower tonight or in the morning?”

“Insatiable,” Tim grumbles. “Tonight. You think you can keep your hands to yourself?”

“Nope,” Raylan says, popping the ‘p’. And, as if to prove his point, he leans in, hesitating just long enough to give Tim a chance to pull away before he kisses him, just the barest brush of lips, oddly sweet and chaste after everything they just did. He smiles against Tim’s mouth when he breaks the kiss. “But I have it on good authority that you don’t mind.”

Tim shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue, because there’s nothing to argue. Raylan’s right. In the morning, he’ll complain about the bruise on his jaw and the soreness he can feel with every step he takes, but he’ll also cock his hip against the fridge and ask if Tim’s free on Friday, with that look in his eye like one night wasn’t enough – like no number of nights will ever be enough. 

Like he’ll keep coming back until Tim closes the door in his face, as if that will ever happen. And Tim will say yes, will say you’re buying dinner, cowboy, because he still hasn’t figured out how to tell Raylan no and mean it.

find this fic on AO3 here:

#justified #kinktober 2023 #raylan givens #tim gutterson #givenson #this is so long i'm so sorry

[chikagestits]

“ALDO!”

Astraeus reaches out for him. He’s never done something like that. He’s never yelled so loudly for someone—for a skydweller. Never reached out with such emotion—such dread—for another being as he watches the light leave his eyes.

Before he knows it, he’s killing the creature. There’s blood everywhere and suddenly Astraeus feels sick as he wields his sword. Is it Aldo’s blood? No, it can’t be, he’s not the one that killed him. But it could still be. He got him killed after all. If he knew he was immortal—if he had just told him, maybe—

Maybe nothing.

He’s dead already and he couldn’t even say goodbye.

…

Say goodbye?

That’s something skydwellers worry about isn’t it?

He’s lived among them long enough to know their customs. You bury the dead, you hold a funeral. Astraeus buries him somewhere nearby and he stares at the grave. He’s confused to say the least.

Why is he even doing this?

At some point, he heads back to town. It’s obvious by how he comes back alone that people start to ask what happened. Astraeus tells them. Bluntly.

“Where’s his body..?” One villager asks.

“I left him there.”

“…You left him there..?” They stare at him. Is that disbelief? “Why would you just… leave him?”

“I buried him.” He’s confused. “Gave him a funeral, I don’t—“

“You can’t just—just leave him there!”

Some are angry at him. He doesn’t understand. He’s done what they’ve done for others.

“How are we supposed to visit him?!”

Why are you angry?

“I can tell you where it is,” he insists, “it’s just north of—“

“Not everyone can make that trek into dangerous territory!”

Why are you yelling?

“Bring him back!”

For some reason, that demand punches him in the gut, the wind knocking out of his lungs despite no one raising a finger at him. I want him back too.

“I’m…” He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry…”

“Just…” someone else speaks up. “Bring him back here so we can bury him here. Please…”

He nods without fully processing the request as he takes a step back. “…Right away.”

Astraeus turns and leaves. He still can’t breathe, even as he walks all the way back to where Aldo died. He doesn’t understand why they reacted that way. Has he learned nothing while living here? Had he been wrong about everything?

Why does he feel this way?

He has to stop. He has to drop to his knees and breathe. It isn’t until he’s reached the ground and trying to catch his breath that he realizes there are tears in his eyes. He tries to wipe them away, but his vision is still blurry. He tries more, but more tears replace them.

Are they taunting him? Twisting the knife into his body more?

Why does it feel this way?

Why does it hurt so much?

“…It should’ve been me…” he chokes out and covers his face with his hands as if that’d stop the tears spilling from his eyes. “Why… why did you have to be an idiot…?”

After a while, he forces himself to get up. He needs to get Aldo back home, it’s what he deserves. And then afterwards, he’ll leave. He won’t come back, not unless he’s ready to face him again.

“What are you thinking so deeply about, Astraeus hm?”

Lilith’s voice cuts through his thoughts like an icicle. Rolan ends up smiling at her and laughing a little. He’s being used as an energy source for Angra Mainyu right now. Not the ideal situation, especially not the one to be laughing in. But he’s waiting for the skyfarers. He’s confident that they’ll be able to defeat Lilith.

His gaze turns up into the sky.

“…I think after this I can finally say hi to an old friend.”

#peten writes #GBF relink #gbf relink spoilers #gbfr spoilers

[ruinedsam]

Wait, I just thought of something. Abbadon decides that if Sam won’t take the throne, she will because Crowley is awful for her. But, she has been talking to Sam while trying to get him to take an interest in being King of Hell and finally says, “well, if you won’t do it, I will.” Sam just wants to finish his lunch in peace and agrees more out of the hope this will make people stop asking him to take the throne than anything else. Abbadon asks if he’ll support her, because Sam Winchester’s approval actually carries a lot of weight in part due to the fact that the throne might technically be his via Azazel and Lucifer and also everyone is lowkey terrified of him due to him being both a good hunter and that time period when he could snack on one of them and murder the others around with his mind, and Sam agrees because he just wants someone competent in charge as issues with the ruler always spill out to the rest of the world and he thinks Crowley won’t be able to make the demons truly accept him. But Dean is out there supporting Crowley, so it’s Winchester vs Winchester. I’m not sure how the Trials and the aftermath fit here, but if we assume Gadreel still occurred, he’s kicked out way earlier and I want it to be because Abbadon told Sam he had an angel as a passenger and that’s the last thing she expected from him after the stories she’s heard and her own observations: Sam freezes and she realizes he didn’t know. So things progress like they did in canon regarding the Gadreel aftermath, but this means that the Crowley/Dean vs Abbadon/Sam situation is all happening when things are already pretty raw between Sam and Dean. The fights between Sam and Dean over their respective support are brutal; Dean still takes on the Mark of Cain here, only there’s a real concern throughout this that Dean is going to relieve the Cain-Abel story. Sam has to leave for his own safety, and Abbadon (or Meg) eventually finds out and insists he stays with them. Sam more or less goes “whatever” and it’s cheaper than staying in a hotel and he really can’t stand seeing Dean right now—and if they wanted to kill him, they’ve had plenty of opportunities so far—so Sam is now living with at least one demon. Dean sneers at him about this, about how he’s picked a demon over his brother before and Dean should’ve seen this and making at least one crude comment about Sam’s addiction and if he’s sleeping with and drinking from this demon the way he was with Ruby, which Sam denies. Dean is about to make what is no doubt a derogatory comment, and Abbadon cuts him off by airily saying that Sam is actually safer with her than he is with his own brother. Throughout all of this, it is just a repeat of that constant issue that Sam first sensed as a kid but only found the real cause for after Cold Oak: he is Azazel’s son in the eyes of the demons, and apparently in Dean’s eyes as well. I’m not sure how the fallout goes, but I desperately want there to be more about Sam’s demon blood and I think we could’ve had a fun example of it during the Abbadon-Crowley arc

I only watched season 9 one time because it made me so mad so I don't really remember why/how/to what extent Dean teamed up with Crowley, but hell's internal politics really aren't his business and I don't see why anyone would care about his opinions lol he's just some dude. I really want Abbadon or maybe Meg tell him that in the most patronizing way possible, adding that Sam's the important one.

Anyway I really love this because Sam needs people who haven't been sanctioned by Dean in his corner and the fact that they're all demons is something that would torment Sam (which I find very enjoyable because I'm a sicko).

#ask #meg calls sam brother au

[circusgoth-dotcom]

The Truth is In The Trouble (Pt. 2)

Ship: Sweeney Todd x Bill Fang

Word Count: 650

Summary: Part 1 here. Sweeney reveals his taste for murder, Mrs. Lovett reveals her taste for serving piping hot cannibalism, and Bill reveals he's not as innocent as he seems. CWs for discussions of murder, discussions of cannibalism, (brief) Mrs. Lovett being jealous of Sweeney and Bill.

Tag List: @dudefrommywesterns @canongf @futurewife

As Bill hyperventilated in Mrs. Lovett’s arms, Sweeney came thundering down the stairs.

“What in the bloody Hell are you doing down here?” He asked somewhat breathlessly as he attempted mental acrobatics on how to keep Bill on his side after this.

“Oh, thank the Gods you’re okay!” Bill gasped, pushing away Mrs. Lovett as he shakily approached Sweeney, who in turn became terribly confused.

“Me?? Of course I’m fine, what...?”

“Weren’t you attacked?? How else did he end up like that??” Bill pointed at Officer Maltby’s body, brushing against Sweeney’s side. Clarity washed over the barber in seconds as he took Bill’s hand, forcing them to look at him again.

“What do you believe happened?” He asked softly. Bill’s dark brows drew together.

“That for whatever reason, someone came into your parlour and attacked both of you...?”

“I’m fine, Bill. There was an attack but, not on me.” Sweeney remained grimly serious as he continued, “I told you I would take care of that swine...”

Bill’s eyes widened slowly with realization. “You... you killed him, then?”

“Yes. Because he was a threat to you.” Sweeney placed affectionate hands on their shoulders, his expression one of adoration and suffering and madness. “Do you understand, now, how I am going to enact revenge for my Lucy and Johanna? Do you know how much I care about you?”

They looked back at the body, still bleeding out despite its breath long taken. Sweeney’s calmness seemed to infect them as they took a breath, time slowing around them.

“I suppose he was only a tosser cop. What meaning did his life have?” Bill returned his gaze to Sweeney’s with a small smile, though his grey eyes still held apprehension. “But what are you going to do with the body?”

Relief enveloped the barber like never before. He turned them toward Mrs. Lovett. “My neighbour had the most peculiar but efficient idea I’ve ever heard proposed. Not only that, but it gives the corrupt a chance to finally give back what they’ve destroyed.”

Mrs. Lovett blushed coyly and waved her hand dismissively. “It was a no-brainer, really. Well, William, you were so curious about the meat...” She then retrieved a small, intricately beaded purse and held it out in a flashy display.

“Pirelli’s purse...” Bill looked between it and the meat still waiting to be put to use before covering his mouth. “They’ve eaten him. You killed him, too??”

“He remembered me, from before. I had no choice.” Sweeney explained.

“You’re not going to stop with the Judge, are you?”

“Quite the opposite, my dear. No other’s blood will satiate me until I have his throat, but until then, it will spill. It will spill and fill up the poor masses he and his colleagues look down upon until our spirits are full, and then some. But that brings me to a difficult question...” He placed a large, deadly hand on Bill’s jaw, his face inches from their own as he whispered, “Are you a baker, or are you a pie, Bill?”

In that moment, they felt a rush of every little feeling of affection they had ever had toward Sweeney. Every flirtatious phrase they had bit back, every less-than-platonic compliment they had forced down, all because they believed it would be inappropriate considering the circumstances. Yet, here he was, practically confessing his capacity to love again, desperate for Bill’s approval. Bill cupped Sweeney’s face in his small hands, shivering pleasantly at the texture of his stubble.

“Baker.”

Behind them, Mrs. Lovett’s expression turned sour. “This isn’t much of a place to be having an intimate moment, don’t you think, Mr. T?” She snapped. “Why don’t you two go upstairs while I take care of the ‘fresh supplies?’”

Sweeney guided Bill’s hands away from his face, lacing his fingers with theirs. “I couldn’t agree more. There’s much I think we need to talk about.”

#blood tw #circus scripts #self shipping #self shipping community #self insert #self insert x canon #self x canon #oc x canon #self insert oc #gay self ship #trans self ship #💈I Will Learn to Love Again💈 #🥧Try It! (You Might Like It)🥧 #<- platonic f/o #🖌️💈.s/i

[kankuroplease]

Could you share some Shisui hc, if you have any, pls?

On one hand; Shisui is ruthless when it comes to working for the Uchiha. He doesn’t care about pleases of mercy, agonizing screams, he’s not squeamish about blood, etc.

He’d only be dealing with them in that manner if the royally fucked up, so the blame is on them in his opinion

And on the other; he’s all smiles and jokes. No one really knows what to make of him

While everyone one is playing checkers, Shisui has been playing chess since he was 10.

Madara had all the money and power, so he plotted his own adoption by the leader of the Uchiha. Taking knife to the gut defending him was a small price to pay for opening the golden doors of opportunity

And although he admires Madara, he’s never truly seen him as his father. Just the boss he respects and wants the job of

He encouraged Obito to focus on going pro for both their benefits one less person for him to compete with and the sweet idiot would be less likely to die and break his heart as a pro fighter than sticking with the “business”

Kakashi’s the one that did his tattoo piece. He could’ve gone to Minato like all the others, but Minato wanted to be a family man and Kashi can’t kick out the guy that’s brought him so much business since completing his piece

He told the Uchiha’s to let Rin into Obito’s room after his accident for Obito’s benefit after he realized who she was

He introduced Toneri to Hinata in a way she’d think she made the connection herself for the Hyuga/herself. This made his business with her a little more pleasant as she’d be in a lighter mood.

He looks out for Hanabi because very few people outside of Neji and Hinata do. Plus babysitting her is the only way Hinata will give him deals.

Bonus that Hanabi talks too much and spills names and locations of the grown people that owe him money

Is very friendly with Sakura because he has a feeling Tsunade will sway her into finishing medical school and who doesn’t need a good reputable doctor

tried to be cool with Sasuke for his own benefit. If he is going to run things one day, he’d like to at least know something about the kid Sakura and Itachi’s lips are sealed

He uses Chiha’s love of money to bribe her to croon his men. He knows quite a few of them are interested in the little Uzumaki and if they’ve been good, why not reward them with her lovely presence

She really only agrees because Shisui has a strict respect the entertainer policy and he pays her a lot

Michi marrying Neji was not in in plans and he didn’t like that he probably would’ve paired her with Sasuke to build a better connection for himself there. Hot Sauce doesn’t do new friends, but he can still work her marriage to his favor

Despite his ulterior motives, he does care about the people in his life. He just wants what he wants and has a bad habit of treating others as NPCs and pawns.

Itachi is his competition; but he’s also his one good friend. So he’s keeping their foght for leader clean. Even Hana is off limits for Itachi

They often do interrogations together for maximum effect and clean up

See he can play nice?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, he loves kkobri’s kids. Even if his presence has to be “approved” first, he likes seeing their little faces and buying them gifts.

Makes him think he might want his own minions one day. But business first 🤧

Uchiha manwhore leaving broken hearts everywhere because he doesn’t play favorites and has no interest in settling down

Very flirtatious and playful outside of work

He’s never failed to complete a task

Actually a picky eater and embraced about it

He still maintains a respected and feared place within the Uchiha. Which many believe would make him a good leader in the future as planned

His nicer moments to strangers are the ones when he’s helping the down-trotten. He has a whole apartment complex that’s simply “pay what you can” for rent he covers the property tax of the building by inflating the price of the people with money he doesn’t like

Owning all the real estate that he does give him freedom to move himself and founds around freely

His main residence is also home to a lot of his men and weapons collection penthouse life

His weakness lies in his past, which he keeps guarded

His parents went out of their way to help others and when he does the same, he can almost imagine their happy faces

he has paranoia about footsteps in stairwells. They’re the perfect trap that’s how his parents were ambushed

The only one who’s ever noticed his unease with stairwells was Itachi, but Shisui tried to play it off

1000/10 he’s planning and plotting.

#ask #tsau: uchiha shisui #tw suggestive #tw mention of death #tw mentions of violence

[sailorshadzter]

inspired by @taylorswift "I'm spilling wine in the bathtub You kiss my face and we're both drunk"

Despite the late hour, she’s called for a bath.

The maids come to do as she’s bid, lugging between them the copper tub and buckets of piping hot water. When it’s full nearly to the brim with sweet, rose scented water, she waves away the women, intent on having a private moment with her own thoughts. And so, just before she shimmies out of her dressing robe, she pours herself a goblet of wine and steps into the steaming tub, placing the pitcher of wine just within her reach. 

A sigh escapes her as she sinks down, the water sloshing over the edges as she settles into place, far more comfortable here than she’s been all day long. It’s been a long day- a long week- a long month- as they’ve prepared for the fight with the Night King. Now that it has come and gone, she’s left among the survivors to pick up the pieces without those they’ve lost. Now, all there was left to do was carry on. She closes her eyes, pushing away the thoughts of Theon, of the good man the world had lost that night. 

Her thoughts turn of course to him then, as she pours herself a second goblet of wine. 

As always, Jon is never far from the back of her thoughts, and she thinks of him tonight, drunk and smiling at her from across the room. She thinks of his hand softly touching hers in the darkness of an empty corridor, catching her after a late evening council meeting. She thinks of his somber gray eyes searching for hers, even in a room full of a dozen others. Even now, her heart flutters at the thought of him, her pulse quickens, a feeling she realizes she actually enjoys quite a lot. Despite the ties that bind them together… The blood that runs in their veins is one and the same, that of a shared father, yet… She cannot shake the feeling that she’s meant to be beside him. Though, she’s reminded of the damned dragon queen, and wonders if she’s only just imagined these things of Jon, that he’s never once looked her way in a way beyond that of a loving brother. Perhaps it was just her that was deluded, that it was her touched by treacherous thoughts of loving her own sibling.

Another goblet down, she thinks perhaps she might just drown her sorrows, unaware that the object of both her thoughts and affections stands outside her very door. 

He knows he shouldn’t be there. 

Not at this late hour and certainly not when he’s drunk- but, he can’t help but to want to be in her presence. Especially after… No, he pushes away the memory of Daenerys’ pleas, of her quiet fury as she realized he was not fully hers, nor would he ever be. In this moment, he would think of no one but her, no one but Sansa. And so, he raises his fist and knocks on her door. 

When the knock comes, she calls out for them to enter, thinking it would be the maids who come to help her wash her hair, or perhaps help her dress for bed. But when she looks up, that third goblet at her lips, she finds it is anyone but the maids. 

Jon is entranced by the sight before him.

She’s there in the tub, red hair slicked back and wet, the outline of her body barely hidden beneath the still steaming water. He knows he should look away, but he cannot bring himself to, especially when she swallows the last of the wine in her goblet, the red liquid staining her lips which curve around the syllables of his name. To his surprise, she’s not shooing him away, but instead, gesturing for him to come even closer.

So, he does. 

Sansa knows this is wrong, but she can’t stop herself from encouraging him closer. Looking up at him from beneath her lashes, she’s smiling as he approaches the front side of the tub, all so he can look down at her from where he stands. Of course, she sees at once he’s drunk- he’d had a considerable amount of ale at the feast, after all. His eyes flicker from her face to the curve of her breasts, just hidden out of view from the water, and when he looks back up at her face he’s grinning in a way she’s never seen before. “Sansa, I…” He begins, somewhat sheepishly, but she’s leaning forward now, red hair floating around her on the surface, the empty goblet outstretched. He reaches for the pitcher and pours it full and she’s smiling as she leans back as she was, putting the goblet to her lips in the most enticing of ways. Jon can’t help but to let out a shaky breath, hyper aware of the warmth pooling in his stomach. 

“I thought you might have gone to bed,” she says after a moment, tilting her head ever so slightly. 

“I could not sleep, not without seeing you,” he admits, the alcohol giving him courage he’s never before had. He watches as her face transforms; something like relief softening her, then something like true joy brightening her entirely. 

“So here I am,” she replies, spilling the last of her goblet into the water, head spinning with both happiness and the wine. 

“So here you are,” he breathes, kneeling down beside the tub, leaning in so he can catch her mouth with his. Her lips are sticky sweet with the wine she’s drank and he feels her wet hand slide into his hair, drawing him closer still. When he draws back a moment or two later, her hand trails across his jaw before it falls back into the water, though her rosy lips are smiling. 

“Help me out, won’t you?” She asks then, to which he nods, rising back up to his full height to fetch the sheet a maid had laid out across the chair nearest the hearth. When he brings it to her, he watches as she rises up without hesitation, forcing the very air from his lungs at the sight of her naked frame, droplets of water running the length of it. With shaking hands he offers out the sheet, which she steps into as her feet touch down on the floor, water dripping from the ends of her long red hair to the floor below. Even when she’s wrapped in the linen, he’s well aware of the curves of her lithe frame and she is laughing softly, slipping past him so he must turn around to watch her go back towards the hearth. Standing there with the golden light framing her, she is like a goddess come to life, the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen before. “Jon…” His name is soft upon her lips as he comes closer, close enough to put his arms around her. 

Before she can speak again, he’s kissing her, intent on never letting go again.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #my writing #i wrote this #you can never convince me that tswift isnt a jonsa because holy hell #taylor swift inspired this #as usual