#[inarticulate rage noises] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

imapuppy5000 · 2 months

Text

Story about Vlk’s Backround and some of her time in hell. It’s a bit messy and jumps around a bit but it’s all I could manage.

Vlk

Vickey snarled in rage as the cop drew his gun. Mary had been shot already and had fallen back, leaving Vickey alone with the two officers. She held ‘her’ captive tightly by her wrist before making an inarticulate noise of fury and throwing the girl at the officers.

“There. F—kin give me my kid back!” She spat. “Both of em.”

The first officer pulled the teen behind her and directed her outside of the house while the other kept Vickey at gunpoint.

“You aren’t getting them back.” He growled darkly, eyes narrowed and body tense.

That wouldn’t do. “I am.” She sneered. In a moment her dagger was free from her boot and she was charging the officers. Two shots rang out, she dropped.

Her breathing was ragged for a few moments before it stilled and she went limp.

The new officer carefully crept forward and poked her with a foot while his partner kept her at gunpoint. She didn’t move. Their guards dropped slowly and the man lowered his gun. Vickey’s eyes flicked up. She grabbed his ankle and yanked him to the ground, slashing his throat with her knife. There was a boom and she blinked.

The world around her was a hazy red, a pentagram above. Around her were screams and gunshots and honking. It was all too much. Carefully she examined her surroundings and came to the grim understanding of where she was. Hell.

Hell was a lot like the world of the living: taxes, rent, overpriced apartments, jobs, the whole shebang. Sure it was a little more violent than earth was but she didn’t mind too terribly. She was a sinner, she knew it. With all the lives she had taken, things she had stolen, and people she had hurt, she knew her good acts couldn’t make up for it. But that was okay.

She fit in decent enough and had recently secured a job in a club, making a pretty penny dancing. She knew how to woo men and women alike, she knew how to manipulate people to get the most from them and these being degenerates only made it easier. After all, it was easier to convince a sex addict to blow some money on a lap dance than it was a good Christian.

Of course she looked different but the tail was nice to have (good for balance on the poles) and the fur hid a majority of her scars from life. The self inflicted ones did hurt now though, which sucked. Mostly because she could never feel pain so having it now was odd and uncomfortable. Luckily, new wounds or blows still didn’t hurt. The one scar that wasn’t hidden was on her back, it was new. She guessed it to be the exit wound of the bullet that killed her. She had another on her hip that was barely visible where one of the bullets had entered and (presumably) shattered her hip. The one lodged in her collarbone was hidden by fur: as were the ones Mary and victims had inflicted on her.

Along with her differing appearance she sported a new name, Vlk. She wanted to leave her old life behind her. She wanted to forget it ever existed. Mary, her partner and the love of her life, was immortal so despite their sins they wouldn’t be joining her down here. And Lilith, her adopted daughter and everything, was far too sweet to be sent down here. She’d be in heaven where she belonged. Layla would probably join her eventually but the two never got along and would probably stay their separate ways. That being said, she had no ties to the living and wanted it to be striped from her completely. New look, new name, new job… new life.

Speaking of her job she had recently caught the eye of a moth demon. He spoke in an accent that annoyed her and the way he talked to her was the way she talked to others she was trying to manipulate into bed. Even still she went along with it, played his game, and took the money he offered. The propositions to join him at his studio didn’t take all that long to start. He said she’d make a great actor. And she would. She acted with Mary all the time when the god wanted her. Her lack of being able to feel pain and affinity to blood was also a great thing to have with some of the kinks these demons had. He offered her a nice paycheck and, to sweeten the deal, a paid apartment. She happily took him up on the deal even if the apartment was sub par.

The movies were rough and she was bored of this but it wasn’t like she wasn’t used to it. Mary played these games too. She could suck it up. She made Valentino plenty of money, even not being the most popular she was the most versatile and could be used in pretty much anything he needed. The variety was nice, though not nice enough to keep her entertained for long. Sex was never something she liked all that often, even if she was good at it. And she was. She knew exactly what to do and how to cater to individuals, how to read signs and adjust based on them. She could easily figure out if someone was dominant or submissive with a simple conversation and, much like her partner in life, often used that to her advantage.

What she couldn’t figure out is why Valentino was so interested in one of the other actors, a demon named Angel Dust. He was probably the most popular by far. Vlk could understand the attraction but why did Valentino care for him so deeply? Why was he the favorite toy? For a few months Vlk had assumed the feelings were of jealousy, that she wanted to be the favorite like she was with Mary. But after a while she had come to learn that she didn’t care if she was the favorite. She’d really rather not be. What she was feeling was… concern? Concern for a grown man, a sinner, a willing pornstar. That had never happened before and it caught her off guard. Maybe it was because he so clearly didn’t want to do some of, if not all, the things he was made to. Maybe it was because he was trying to get better, something all the demons at the studio knew of and mocked him for. Maybe he reminded her of herself when she was helpless and scared. Whatever the reason she was concerned about him. Everytime he had to cover marks in makeup or the limp he so desperately tried to hide after a long night.. it all worried her. It made her angry? At her boss.

But dwelling on it brought up confusing feelings and she was never one to try and deal with those. She’d rather pop some painkillers or sleeping meds and just check out. Not that she had any sort of drug to ignore the happenings about her— they were too expensive and she was trying to avoid overdosing… again. So she didn’t get any. She just learned that if she went into work and worked full force she’d eventually forget her feelings. And when she was under a certain rough moth she tended to blank on those feelings too. She was quick to become a stand in for Angel. When the spider was at the hotel she was the one called on. She made a point of putting on a show, slowly drawing Valentino’s attention away from Angel Dust. When she saw the overlord was getting antsy and clearly yearning to sink his grimy little claws in Angel, Vlk would approach the moth seductively, keep his focus on her, and (unfortunately) eventually bed him.

Angel seemed relieved that he wasn’t used as often and his thankful face the first time he realized what Vlk was doing did make her feel a bit better about doing it. He had smiled. The first time she had seen him do so without his fake and gaudy persona. It was beautiful. She shot him a sympathetic smile back before the door closed and she was left alone with the stupid moth again.

Let it be clear: despite her not hating him, she did not like Valentino. He was everything she hated in a person but she couldn’t bring herself to feel that strong of an emotion towards him. She was indifferent to his existence. She’d rather he didn’t exist, sure, but everyone would rather that. Except maybe Vox and Velveete. She wasn’t special in that regard. Unfortunately, when the wall blew down and raiders rushed the studio Vlk was put in an interesting position that made it seem she had a lot more loyalty to her boss then she truly did.

Val had been with a young teen. A hellborne. Vlk didn’t like that one bit but she had been restrained before she could bite off her boss’s head. When the attack happened it was clear who the gangsters were going after and Vlk panicked. The teen, Harley, had been immediately thrust in front of Valentino as a human shield. She was vulnerable and terrified and that look… it was just a quick moment as they made eye contact and Harley seemed to beg for help. Vlk couldn’t say no to such desperation. She had leapt forward, form shifting in and out of focus as she dashed between the attackers and dispatched them one by one in a matter of seconds. Limbs were torn off, heads were the wrong way, and several fallen bodies had chunks torn out of them or bite marks littering their skin. When the noise settled and Vlk had calmed enough to return to her neutral form she had immediately rushed towards Harley and blurted, “Are you okay?!”

“Thanks to you I am.” Valentino had cooed, tossing Harley aside and grabbing Vlk’s face roughly. “You’re the only one that stayed to protect me. How sweet.”

Vlk struggled in his gasp but couldn’t pull away. Her eyes darted to Harley and she relaxed as she saw the teen slipping into a robe and mostly uninjured. Their eyes caught again. She was okay, if not a little terrified. She flashed Vlk a shaky, thankful, wave and skittered off, leaving the fox demon alone with Val.

A new proposal. Better pay. Less sex. She would spend most of her day acting as Val’s personal body guard and, on occasion she’d have to do a few movies. She accepted almost immediately. A body guard was a pretty nice job, if she had to say so. And getting to let off steam like that was an exciting prospect. The agreement was made but no deals were formed. Vickey had made a deal with a demon once. She knew better than to do it now that she was working with real and powerful demons. As a bodyguard she was working alongside a few hell hounds. But she didn’t mind that. They seemed alright. Another bonus was that Val had made Vlk to escort Angel to and from the hotel. She was pretty sure it was to make sure the demon kept coming back to work but Val insisted it was to ‘protect him’ and ‘keep other whores off of him.’

The reason this was a bonus? It helped Vlk get to know more about Angel and the hotel. She liked its premise. She liked that he fought so hard for betterment. She would ask his progress on their walks and encourage him when he seemed down. A few times she had carried him back to the hotel after particularly rough nights. He had complained at first but eventually just accepted it so long as no one from work or the hotel saw. The poor guy had fallen asleep in her arms once, grimacing in pain every time she jostled him.

The familiar circumstances were not lost on her but she had also promised to forget Mary and thus pushed those thoughts and feelings aside. She was just helping a friend. At least.. she hoped they were friends. She hadn’t really made any in a long time. Harley and her were getting there but the younger seemed a bit scared of her. Fair enough.

#hazbin hotel #oc

3 notes · View notes

unhingedselfships · 10 months

Text

He knew something had to be wrong when Ophelia called him.

That woman hated him.

It was entertaining.

"I don't know what you did, but get your ass over here and fix it!"

"What exactly have you decided is my fault?"

"Mande? Are you serious? Tu crees muy muy?! Kimi isnt eating! Barely moves! I dont know what the fuck you did and I dont want to know--vales verga, Just fix it!"

He scoffed, "I don't see how it's my fault or problem that you can't take care of her properly."

He hung up on her inarticulate screech of rage.

He almost didn't check the follow up text, but noticed it was from Daikichi.

With a put upon sigh, he opened the message.

: Sorry about Auntie Phe. Can you please check on Mom? She isn't responding to us.

He tried to rub away the forming headache.

And changed course for Kimi's apartment.

—

He was brisk up the stairs, and didn't even bother with his key.

It wouldn't be locked, stupid girl never locked it.

Oh look at that, he was right.

He tried, and failed, to not let it add to his irritation.

Looking around the entry and sitting room, no one else was there.

Had they cleared out when they thought he was on the way?

Had they just left her there?!

A noise caught his attention, and her eldest, a teen now, those kids needed to stop growing, appeared in the kitchen entrance.

"Phe was here too. She took off when I told her you were on the way."

"Awfully presumptuous of both of you."

The boy smiled at him, tired, but sincere, "I know you Uncle Tenshi. Not as well as Mom does but… You don't want to lose her either."

The man bristled at the words and their weight. The insinuations. The truth.

"I'm going to head out too. I won't go far. But you two… probably need space."

Pinching his nose, he waved the kid off.

All but storming back into her room, he shoved the door open, maybe a little more forcefully than needed.

Sue him, he was displeased with this whole ordeal.

"I'm not going to break Kenshi," he mocked, "How's that working out for you?"

He was ready to berate her, to absolutely tear into her over the mess she'd caused, when he really looked at her.

She looked… so much less. Small and… withering. Like a flower left too long in too much sun.

Wilted and fragile.

Steeling himself again, ignoring any discomfort churning his own stomach, he again found himself losing the thread, as she finally looked at him.

She seemed dazed. Not entirely there.

Yet there was a spark, slowly growing.

She let out a deep sigh, and smiled, just barely.

"You came? You're really here?"

"Yeah well. Your family was annoyingly insistent. Do you have to be such a drama queen about it? You did this to yourself. I have other other things, obligations, going in my life that are hard enough without you adding to it."

A wet laugh, and the tears started, quiet but steady.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I make things difficult. On you. On everyone. I don't mean to be such a burden. Seems like that's all I'm really good at," she huffed a shuddering laugh, "You don't have to do this you know? I don't know why you put up with me. It would… It would hurt, so much, but I'd understand if you- If you decided to go. That I wasn't worth the trouble anymore."

She scrubbed at her eyes, "I know I'm. A lot. Sorry. I'll do better. I will. I promise. I'm sorry."

Her voice barely raised above a whisper, slightly rough from disuse.

Dripping in self loathing and resignation.

Kadokura stared at her a moment, before he scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah? Gonna change your ways? Gonna 'do better'?" he placed sarcastic air quotes over the last two words.

He huffed in irritation, "Start by not being so hard on yourself maybe. It's annoying as hell."

She shrank a bit, curled smaller, before looking up at him again, a small watery smile.

"So about that black market therapist?"

He huffed again, this one a faintly annoyed amusement.

They fell into a quiet, not quite tense, but not quite peaceful.

She held a hand up, flat in front of her eyes, and watched it tremble for a moment.

"I need to eat. I think I have the stuff for muffins here," she looked up at him, "Will you stay?"

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, "I already cleared my schedule for the day," he agreed.

—

They sat at the small breakfast table, warm muffins in the center, drinks within reach.

She seemed tired. Better, by a mile, but worn.

And yet.

Something about her seemed more at ease.

"I think…"

She trailed off, and he raised a brow at her, gesturing for her to continue.

"I think I'm going to be ok. Now. Going forward."

He snorted, "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

Huffing a laugh she smiled at him softly, "I understand. But. I really think so this time. Something… I, feel different."

She hummed, staring down into the glass of milk in her hands.

"I think something in me broke. The tension was too much. It finally snapped."

Fidgeting a bit, she looked up at him, "That probably sounds like a bad thing. But I think it's. I think it's for the best. I dunno what's gonna change. If I'm gonna change. But. Maybe it's about time."

She glanced away, eyes distant, gazing out the window.

"I'll never be worthy of y-" she cut herself off and hummed discontentedly, "I'll never be on your level. Able to keep up. But maybe I'll be a little less of a burden now."

Looking back at him, she gave him a soft smile. Acceptance, care, devotion, trust.

"I love you Kenshi. Thank you. For…" she trailed off, "Staying."

It felt like there was so much more in that word than what it was.

She laughed lightly, a little brighter than before.

"I really don't deserve you."

#yakkimi #kadokura kenshi #kadokura-verse #drabble #one shot

2 notes · View notes

dustedmagazine · 2 years

Text

Mutated Void — Roses Forever (Iron Lung)

Roses Forever (LUNGS-197) by MUTATED VOID

There’s little doubt that Mutated Void’s Roses Forever will be one of the shittiest-sounding records you’ll read about on Dusted this year. The fact that the brain-addled skate punks in the band actively want the record to sound as muddy, ugly and stooopid as it does likely won’t improve the situation for many listeners. But for those among us who enjoy this sort of thing, Roses Forever is sublime. Fourteen tracks in 16 minutes; druggy, primitive riffage; drums abused with more enthusiasm than skill—this collection of thrashy, rumbling punk burners scratches multiple itches and simultaneously seeks to fracture multiple bones. It’s wonderful.

We should note that at a couple of points, Roses Forever threatens to become musical. See especially the three minutes of sound one can isolate among “Backyards” and “Isolate the City,” in which relatively more tuneful species of song cut into the accumulated slurry of noise. Even in those instances, the uncompromisingly harsh shrieking of either Ben or Cody — the only names supplied for the two Halifax-based punks in the band, who do not indicate what manner of sounds they are responsible for — gives the tunes a raggedly serrated edge. Don’t bother with the pricey earbuds; this is music for cheap, second-hand speakers.

Mutated Void is at its best when that serrated form cuts completely into the textures of abrasive, atavistic noise. See especially “Sad Purpose” and “Rich Breath,” both of which bear the kind of remarkable titles that only punk sensibilities seem capable of producing. The songs rage with a mixture of extroverted aggressivity and inarticulate gesturing. Even better is the second half of record closer “The Ladder.” Much of the song flirts with the sort of thrash associated with the Big Four, for better or worse, inasmuch as Mutated Void is capable of such disciplined crunch. But after 90 seconds of truculent song, the assembled instruments sag and collapse. There’s amp scree and distortion, crackle and hum. It extends and breaks apart, stuttering in electronic disarticulation. That goes on. There’s nothing particularly intentional about it, but it’s very compelling.

That seems to be Mutated Void’s thing: test the limits of musicality, perhaps without really meaning to. Thrash and bash and portend complete chaos, but string together enough patterns to repeat the performance. To call it song. It isn’t pretty, but it’s pretty great. Roses forever to you, dudes.

Jonathan Shaw

#mutated void #roses forever #iron lung #jonathan shaw #albumreview #dusted magazine #punk #skate punk #halifax

3 notes · View notes

starlitvisionary · 4 months

Note

💎

MISC ACTION MEMES | [x] 💎 - to try to steal something from your muse

An ear-piercing squawk cuts through the ambient noise of the marketplace, turning heads and eyes toward the source. The brief silence that follows is filled by the gentle chime of a golden chain clattering to the ground below Doctor Starline, frozen in horror with a hand flattened against his chest in disbelief.

"You...! You!"

The words fall out of his mouth in an inarticulate sputter, mind still processing the events of the last three seconds as he stares blankly at the would-be thief. Shock is thrown out of the window as fury takes its place. The leather of his glove lets out a futile squeak as he balls his fists into tight knots, seething with rage.

"You look what you've done! Keep your filthy hands to yourself, you miserable little thug!"

His temper tantrum rages on even as the thief disappears just as quickly as she appeared, slipping effortlessly through the crowd. It is only once he realizes that he can't see her anymore that he instead notices dozens of eyes on him.

Flustered, Starline clears his throat, composing himself before leaning over to hurriedly gather the pieces of his tie chain into the palm of his hand. As he hoists himself back upright he holds his head high, posture regal as he attempts to maintain some degree of grace and elegance.

He opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself with nothing to say that could possibly salvage his dignity in the moment. Once again, he clears his throat— louder this time— before briefly bowing his head.

"... Pardon me."

Face burning hot, he ducks his head and storms away, his exit accompanied by the frantic percussion of his loud heels clicking against the pavement.

The faster he gets home, throws on his robe and settles into his desk with a cup of coffee, the faster he can try to forget this ever happened.

#IC:// MASTERFUL EXECUTION #ASK:// EXPERT OPINION #moraypower #[[ THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE LMFAO thank you for the ask! ]]

1 note · View note

blackkatmagic · 4 years

Text

Uni trained me too well - apparently still the only thing that gets me through writer’s block is having a deadline breathing down my neck. Why are brains like this.

#ANYWAY #after 4 months of being stalled #apparently SiH is finally cooperating again #and all it took was me threatening myself with a deadline #*inarticulate rage noises*#writing

70 notes · View notes

triscribe · 3 years

Text

This! Is! Bull! Shit!!!

I am literally using a garden trowel and a rubber mallet to chisel frozen mud out of our car's wheelwells!

Why, you may ask? Because normally in muddy conditions, we leave the car at the front gate and use the farm truck to get around mucky pasture! But YESTERDAY-

Not only was the lock FUCKING FROZEN OVER, by the time we drove around through the side gate and across a field of frozen weeds and slipped and slid down the center path, WE COULDN'T EVEN OPEN THE TRUCK! THE DOORS WERE ALL FROZEN SHUT!

The water troughs were frozen, the barn gates were frozen, the animals were practically frozen - THIS IS GODDAMN CENTRAL TEXAS! WHERE THE HELL IS ALL THE EFFING ICE COMING FROM!!!

#*inarticulate rage noises*#farm life #texas winter wonderland #GAH

11 notes · View notes

imaginekris · 4 years

Text

Imagine Kris muttering "Yo Kris, drop it hard," before full on screaming into a pillow.

#Kris #Yifan #Kris Wu #turn your inarticulate noises of rage and despair into silly outdated dubstep jokes

15 notes · View notes

notquiteaghost · 2 years

Text

i’m referencing this in the next part of filt & taking the opportunity to admit to myself i’ll never write anything more than this tiny snippet, so here is a tiny drabble inspired by this art

----

Lots of things go on amongst his men that Cody pretends to know nothing about. He’d spent long enough breaking the longnecks’ rules, he knows to pick his battles. The sabacc games, the alcohol stills, the betting pools, they’re inevitable. He’d rather reprimand for the shit that gets people killed.

But Waxer and Boil seem determined to test the absolute limits of his patience.

“A ship,” Cody says, flatly. “A battlecruiser, the flagship of the Outer Rim fleet, the ship engaged in more combat than half the rest of the Navy put together– They brought a litter of kittens, barely old enough to not need bottle feeding, onto my flagship battlecruiser–”

“Darling,” Obi-Wan interjects, far too amused for his own good, “I can hear your blood pressure rising.”

Cody does not make a noise of inarticulate rage. He closes his eyes, and lets out a long breath, because if he let himself shout every time he had the urge his vocal cords would be long beyond repair.

“They’re good for morale,” Obi-Wan adds.

“Stop goading me into sparring when your ribs are still cracked,” Cody replies. He pulls his bucket off to run a hand through his hair, then over his face. “Why did it have to be tookas.”

Obi-Wan stands up from his desk, and walks over to where Cody is standing just in front of the door, which he’d barely let shut behind him before he started his tirade. “Because,” Obi-Wan says, curling a hand round Cody’s head, thumb massaging his temple, “it's Waxer and Boil, and they have some kind of latent Force sense specific to small creatures in peril?”

Cody huffs. His headache is already starting to recede. “Usually they have the good sense to leave them on-planet.”

“Any man who can walk away from a baby tooka is not a man I want in my army.”

“I want a divorce,” Cody says, as he pulls Obi-Wan into his arms and tucks his head into the curve of Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “There was definitely something in our vows about always taking my side.”

Cody’s armour starts to unclasp and fall gently to the floor, so Obi-Wan can move his hands to Cody’s shoulders. If the war ever ends, his Jedi could make a killing as a masseuse. “Cody, dearest,” Obi-Wan says, smile still audible, “I love you, and I will absolutely leave you in a heartbeat for a litter of kittens.”

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #codywan #fic tag #filt tag #this isn't anything i'm just very fond of the mental image of cody yelling #also. Give Everyone Cats. evergreen agenda

119 notes · View notes

justlightlysedated · 3 years

Note

for malex please

29. hushed conversation in-between kisses

Michael backs Alex into the front door, pressing his hand to Alex’s jaw and using his thumb to tip Alex’s head up.

Alex stares at him with dark eyes, lips parted around Michael’s name, a question and an answer all at once.

He leans back even further when Michael settles his other hand on the other side of his face and slides his fingers to the space right behind his ear, leaning even heavier against the door, easy and pliant, lashes fluttering.

And Michael loves it when Alex is like this, when he strips away all of the armor of having to be strong and unbreakable, and lets Michael’s touch turn him malleable.

Michael leans in close and hesitates just a second, staring at the way that Alex's eyes flutter close, and how he seems to be holding his breath, waiting for Michael's next move.

Michael pushes forward, and presses a kiss to Alex's cheek, just shy of the corner of his mouth.

Alex inhales sharply, shuddering from the touch, and Michael can't help the smile that crosses his face.

He tilts his head down a little, and nudges his nose against Alex’s cheek.

"I'm going to kiss you," Michael says in a low voice, like it hadn't been obvious what was going to happen when Michael had gotten out of his truck and told Alex that he was walking him to his door.

“I wish you would,” Alex says, sounding almost drugged.

Michael's smile widens even more, and he pulls back a little to see Alex's face. Alex has his head tipped back against the door, and his eyes are closed and his lips are parted.

Michael fixates on them intently, moving his fingers from right behind Alex's ear to the corner of his mouth, brushing his thumb across Alex's bottom lip.

Alex presses the tip of his tongue to Michael's thumb, and Michael moves his hand from his mouth, cradling his cheek and tilting his head to the other side, pressing a kiss on his other cheek.

Alex whines low in the back of his throat, a noise half protest, half plea, and Michael smiles again, pressing his grin right against the corner of Alex's mouth.

"Stop teasing," Alex says, lips barely moving, hands coming up to Michael's shoulders, fingers tangling in the collar of his jacket.

Michael makes a considering sound at the back of his throat, like he's thinking about it, but then he shakes his head, "Nah."

He presses another kiss to Alex's chin, and Alex makes a low disappointed sound.

Michael chuckles, a low sound, right against Alex's skin, and then moves his mouth pressing his forehead to the side of Alex's face and nudging his chin up.

Alex makes a low interested sound, and Michael ducks his face down to Alex's neck, pressing a kiss right where his pulse is beating too fast.

Alex gasps, hands coming up to tangle in Michael's hair. He tugs, just once, saying Michael's name like he's right at the end of his rope.

Michael presses another kiss to his neck, and then lets Alex tug him back up to his face.

Alex's cheeks are pink, and he's glaring at Michael in a way that shouldn't be as hot as it is.

"Kiss me," Alex demands in a low voice, fingers tugging Michael in closer as his eyes drop to Michael's mouth.

"Well, if you insist," Michael drawls, cupping the back of Alex's neck and bracing one hand against the door, as he leans in.

He stops right before their lips touch, and Alex makes a truly mournful sound at the back of his throat, somehow slumping back against the door, fingers still in Michael's hair.

Michael follows after him, pressing their bodies together and placing his other hand against the door, trapping Alex beneath him as he tilts his head and licks across Alex's open mouth.

Alex moans, following his lips as Michael pulls away a little, tilting his head to the other side and kissing Alex firmly on the mouth.

Alex makes a surprised sound like he hadn't been expecting to be kissed, and Michael pushes in closer, pressing his tongue to Alex's before pulling away again.

Alex doesn't let him get too far, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging Michael back to his mouth.

"Someone is eager," Michael whispers hotly right before their mouths touch.

Alex makes an inarticulate noise of rage and pulls Michael into a biting kiss, nipping against his bottom lip with his teeth and tugging it into his mouth.

Michael moans and falls into Alex as Alex devours him, holds him close and keeps him there kissing him like he’s been waiting all night to do it.

Michael loses himself in the kiss, pressing one hand to the back of Alex’s neck, and opening his mouth to Alex’s and kissing him back, until he feels lightheaded and dizzy and hot.

Alex lets him go, pulling Michael away but Michael pushes forward, pressing their mouths together again, unable to pull away, like Alex is a black hole and he’s caught in his gravitational pull.

Alex makes a low bitten off sound, and kisses Michael back, dragging his hands restlessly through Michael’s hair, and leaning heavier against the door, like his knees aren’t working.

Michael isn’t sure how long the kiss lasts, maybe seconds, maybe minutes, maybe days, but he only pulls away when Alex starts to whine low in the back of his throat, and his hands are tugging against Michael’s shirt.

He separates their mouths with a wet sound, and Alex inhales raggedly, head falling back against the door as he breathes in deeply, lips red and shiny and slick, looking appropriately debauched, and Michael feels the pulse of attraction low and deep in his belly.

“I should go home,” Michael says, leaning in close again and pressing a kiss to Alex’s chin.

Alex nods his head,”Maybe you should.”

And then he’s sliding one hand underneath Michael’s shirt and scratching his nails along his lower back, making Michael’s hips stutter forward, sending sparks of pleasure up and down Michael’s spine.

Michael bites against his chin, and presses his forehead to the side of Alex’s face, inhaling deeply and letting his eyes fall shut, feeling like he’s already home.

#malex fic #malexprompts2021 #thank you for the prompt 😊#hope you like it!! <3

108 notes · View notes

stab-the-son-of-a · 2 years

Text

Mitigating Circumstances

TW: Choking, knives, gags, graphic neck trauma, dehumanization, humiliation, death (temporary), conditioning

Same characters as here and mentioned here, part of the Death Is Cheap series.

There be plot amidst the gore.

Asher gnawed on and tongued the metal bit in between his teeth. Drool dropped from the sides of his mouth, wetting his throat and the muzzle. Or was it a glorified gag? He didn’t know. Surprise surprise, he hadn’t anticipated his survival being dependent on knowing about torture tools.

“Have you figured out what you did wrong yet?” Whittaker asked him.

He made an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat as his mouth was occupied.

“Oh, so close, lad, and yet so far.”

The words rankled and set his teeth on edge. Whittaker was younger than he was. A green around the edges whelp on a power trip. Asher simply had to remember that he only had a few years left to his sentence and then he could fuck off into the ether for all he cared. Start fresh. Away from Whittaker and his machinations.

Whittaker caressing his cheek startled him out of his own head. Asher jerked back, flinching away from the contact, only for Whittaker to hook his fingers under the leather part of the mask.

The rough edge of the muzzle pulled away partially from his worn raw flesh with the motion, and Asher followed wherever Whittaker dragged his head to and fro.

And then a cold blade pricked just under his Adam’s apple.

“Let’s try that again, lad,” Whittaker whispered. “What did we learn today?”

That you’re a sadist, Asher couldn’t say. He grumbled indistinctly and sprayed spittle on Whittaker’s face.

Grimacing, the other man tugged Asher forward, nearly overbalancing the bound and crouched prisoner. Obligingly, his thighs and feet protested the odd posturing, with his hands bound behind his back and all his weight balanced on the balls of his feet and a thick bar of metal pinning his feet a certain distance apart.

Big strong man, Asher sneered. Gotta restrain a man six ways to Sunday to feel powerful. Look at you. Bastard.

“I’m gonna release the gag, lad, and you are gonna do me a favor—” Oh how Asher already hated that phrase “—and tell me who you spoke with and who you conspired with.”

As promised, Whittaker began the process of unlatching the leather and metal contraption attached to Asher’s face. He was rough, yanking and tugging, pulling him this way and that to get a better angle. Asher’s calves and thighs burned as he struggled to keep from pitching forward.

“There we go,” Whittaker purred. A man of that expression and demeanor and actions had no right with softness. He was a cruel and vindictive person with whom compassion was a stranger. But no. Instead Asher was left to grumble impotently and open his jaw to cracking lengths to free the metal piece in his mouth from behind his canines. “How’s that feel lad?”

“Fuck you,” Asher rasped. He wished his vocal cords weren’t so out of practice, because he wanted to snarl in injustice, in rage, and tell Whittaker in every method available that his actions were flawed. Deeply and beyond justification, that there was no justice here, not in this cramped cell and not in Whittaker’s twisted, black heart.

The knife point prodded his throat again. Blood dribbled down to pool in the hollows of his collarbones.

“Ah ah ah. Don’t get a big head now, lad, our fun isn’t half completed.” Whittaker fisted his hand in Asher’s hair, tugging the strands until Asher was forced to bare his neck to the man, Adam’s apple bobbing fruitlessly and protruding. “Just cooperate with me, lad. None of this will happen if you just obey.”

He doubted that. He would sooner throw himself into a river than believe Whittaker’s delusions. Asher spat in his face.

Whittaker jerked. Two directions. One with the hand fisted in his hair, yanking him forward and off balancing him, and the other his hand holding steady with the knife.

It slide in like a knife between the joints of a chicken wing. An initial resistance, and then it slotted into place, like his throat was made to house cold steel.

Flailing, Asher fell forward onto his knees and rammed the blade further into his throat. It hit the back and made him gag as a rush of blood filled his throat and mouth.

His hands were still trapped behind his back as Asher fell forward, shoulder thudding with the concrete and head snapping as momentum whiplashed him.

“Oh. Oh no.” Whittaker gasped and fretted, hands immediately moving to his hair — staining bright blonde with deep and unmistakable red — as ounce after ounce of blood oozed out of Asher. Dribbled down his throat. Spurted out where Whittaker had knicked an artery or two. Bloodloss hit Asher within a few seconds, the shock of a piece of metal embedding in his air passageways, had him gasping wetly until he was spinning while keeping flat on the ground.

“I’m not a murderer,” Whittaker protested. “You made me. You did that. You stabbed yourself!”

Instead of a rational response, Asher gurgled. His breathing and air bubbled up in his throat, wetly pushing through the liquid in his clogged throat.

“Oh. I. Oh it wasn’t me. I didn’t - it wasn’t my fault!”

As if it was Asher’s fault Whittaker stabbed him through the throat. As if it was Asher’s fault Whittaker brought the knife to bear to his throat, that Whittaker had taken and isolated him from the rest of the population of the residents.

Gagging now, Asher tried to push himself forward, knees scraping against cement and concrete as he shuffled himself forward, inch by barest inch. Whittaker pressed his knee to Asher’s upper back, keeping him pinned down and immobile.

“God. Oh god I didn’t mean to— you know I didn’t mean to. I’m not a killer. I’m not like you. I’m not a murderer!”

Even if Asher was willing to absolve Whittaker of guilt, he couldn’t speak. His jaw ached as it crushed into the ground, as Whittaker worried about himself rather than Asher’s ability to breathe.

Darkness and bloodloss crept up on Asher, a heavy pall as his obstinacy failed to catch up to the rapid pace of his heartbeat forcing his life’s blood out of his body.

Choking around the slab of metal in his throat - warm now with his body heat and blood, Asher wheezed and shut his eyes.

“I’m not a murderer!” Whittaker screamed, shaking Asher's unresponsive body.

Asher woke to a knife plunging itself into his stomach.

“You bastard!” Whittaker screamed as he slipped the blade out with an ugly, wet slurping noise. “You faked it! Didn’t you?”

“No,” Asher croaked, the tacky sensation of blood drying in his throat all too familiar. The warmed metal still in his throat told him that Whittaker had taken out a second knife, rather than deal with the first one.

A sickening tug of dread pooled in his gut. Whittaker knew now.

Whittaker knew Asher couldn’t die and stay dead.

“What— Wh… what are you —”

Instead of a verbal response, Whittaker twisted the blade in his stomach. “Oh do me a favor and shut up, lad. We’re about to have whole loads of fun.”

“You’re… twisted,” Asher rasped. Whittaker looked like hell, to be fair, eyes red and raw from tears, cheeks rubbery and watered with his grief. “Sir… please…”

“Shut up. You should have told me,” Whittaker insisted, removing the second knife and examining it and the blood on it. “We could have started your rehabilitation so much sooner. So instead… let’s catch up, aye lad?”

“You’re sick…” Asher whispered.

“You’re deranged,” Whittaker countered. “Thank God you didn’t die. Now you can pay for what you did.”

“I don’t... deserve—”

“Don’t deserve to die? Don’t make me laugh, lad, I’ll just twist the knife.”

Then, Asher again noticed and remembered the cold-too-warm metal still in his throat. Which knife indeed.

“Ah yes. There we go. Obedience at last. All it took was a mistake. A misjudgment. Let’s get to work fixing you. How does that sound?”

“Fuck…”

Whittaker’s hand shot out and gripped the handle of the blade. It tugged forward slightly, slipping out of Asher’s throat, but not fully. Not completely.

Asher froze.

“That’s it. Just behave. I won’t kill you without reason. But don’t give me a reason.”

Asher breathed carefully around the metal in his throat.

“You know, Burke… Fives… 5553485. I think I’d like to test something.”

Whittaker slipped the knife free, an oddly curious look to him as he did so.

“Do me a favor and let me see how often this will kill you.”

The next time the knife plunged into him was in his thigh, his femoral artery if the splatter was any indication. Asher whited out at the sensation.

#Death Is Cheap Series #DIC Asher Burke #DIC Tristan Whittaker #choking tw #knives #gagged whumpee #conditioning #abuse of power #dehumanization #hero whumper #villain whumpee #death tw #neck trauma #gore

20 notes · View notes

fridgemagnethusband · 3 years

Text

Die Schöne und das Biest

Chapter Five: Victim or Victor

♡Hey guys!!!!!!! ♡ Here's our long-awaited next chapter!!!! (I really appreciate y'all hanging in there while I got my ass kicked by this week LOL) As always, here’s the master list for my fellow procrastinators out there! ♡ Happy reading, buttercups ♡

Suggested Listening:

You sleep rather peacefully despite your new surroundings, the walls of the factory and the flat insulating you from the harsh noises of the storm raging outside through the night. You pick up the alarm clock, eyes going wide. Guess those lousy crows were good for something after all, you think with a yawn, trudging across the room. You crack the door open slightly and are met with resistance. Peaking out into the hall, you see a now-toppled pile of garments in varying shades of cream, brown, and green, as well as a leather belt. You stoop to scoop them up into your arms and close the door with your hip. You set the pile on the end of your unmade bed, opening each item up in inspection before hanging them in the sturdy wardrobe nestled in the corner. They all bore soft signs of the passage of time; a loose or missing button here, a torn pocket there. But they were remarkably clean, taking the messy nature of Heisenberg’s work into account.

“He sure likes these colors,” you mutter as you wiggle out of your makeshift nightshirt, trading it out for a slightly more fitted beige button-up. Despite the better fit, the sleeve cuffs still trail off the ends of your fingers, leaving you with little choice but to roll and push the sleeves up your arms. You pick out what looked to have been the shortest of the trousers, holding them at arm’s length in front of you. You shimmy them on up over your hips, cuff the bottoms, and tuck your shirt into the waistband before belting the loose waist into place. You square up to your mirror with a sharp exhale, barely recognizing your silhouette in his clothes. They cling and billow in unexpected places, imparting a roguish masculinity unto your figure. You undo one more button, softening the look slightly. You shove your hands into your front pant pockets and wiggle your fingers around in them, amazed at the room to be found there. After plucking yesterday’s list out of your rumpled dress you head downstairs, not allowing yourself time to doubt your secondhand ensemble. You sit on the final step of the stairs to roughly pull on your socks, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee and cigar smoke mingling in the air alerts you to Heisenberg’s presence before you push into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” you offer, his back turned to you. He acknowledges the statement with a low, inarticulate grunt, head lolling in your direction as he stirs the contents of the mismatched mugs in front of him. “How’d you sleep?” you ask, harboring the suspicion that he didn’t.

“Like a dream,” he rumbles sarcastically, handing a coffee off to you. At least he got a bath in, you think, detecting the sillage of one of last night’s unchosen soaps on his skin. He sets his drink on the table before pulling out his chair and flopping down into it, all but confirming that he worked through the night. He drags his mug towards himself and gulps from it, gunmetal eyes sluggishly surveying your outfit. The self-consciousness you attempted to abandon upstairs begins to surface under his scrutiny.

“Pardon my sayin’ so, but you’ve got great taste,” he delivers, expressionless. An unexpected laugh bubbles up from your chest and the uneasy feeling melts away as quickly as it arose. The two of you were practically matching, save for the fact that his clothes fit him much better and you were unburdened by his accessories. “In all seriousness, this suits you,” he says, gesturing broadly.

“I’m glad you think so,” you grin, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “Thank you for these, by the way.” You take last night’s chair and sip at your coffee, grateful to have been made any given the time.

“Saves me the trouble of having to dig chunks of you out of the equipment,” he mutters into his mug, attempting to bury the earnest moment before it can take another breath. “Where exactly in the village do you live?”. He doesn’t bother to tell you that he’s privy to the fact that you do not.

“I don’t,” you correct. “I’m outside of West Old Town.” He presses his lips with a slight frown and scratches at his neck.

“The trail that wraps around the backside of the gatehouse?” he starts with a sigh. You nod in recognition. “Follow it over the northern sluice and make a right at the first fork you come to. Things were a little overgrown last time I checked, but it’ll lead you to the backside of the factory.” Right, can’t take the cart through the ruins.

“Across the sluice, right at the fork,” you repeat. You had never followed the path to completion but had at least wandered as far down as the gatehouse to fish. To think I could’ve been sneaking peeks at the factory this whole time.

The two of you finish your remaining coffee over newspapers from earlier in the week, the pages gripped in either party’s hands whispering to one another in a soft, rustling language from across the long table. You rinse both mugs once drained, and the two of you pull on your equally worn boots in preparation for your separate days. Heisenberg offers your cloak and rucksack from the coat rack, and the two of you head for the factory door. The heavy fog hanging in the air carries the unmistakable perfume of damp earth, and you drag it into your lungs before releasing it with a long exhale.

“The path should dump you out over there,” he points, your gaze following the line of his finger, barely making out a thicket of trees before the forest proper begins. “You’ll find the stable back there too.”

“Shouldn’t take more than a few hours,” you speculate, hand on your cocked hip. He looks at you, and you try to place the emotion hiding behind his downcast lashes.

“Better get a move on, kid,” he prods. “Don’t want to be out after dark.” You dip your head in understanding, not unaware of the increase in animal attacks plaguing the village.

"I'll be back well before dark," you vow, trying to coax the beginnings of tension out of his forehead. He concedes with a nod, permitting you to set off. He watches your form recede into the fog, waiting until you disappear entirely to tramp across the yard himself.

—

You’re barely aware of the fact that you’ve made it into the village when the Duke’s voice calling your name wades through the murky pool of your thoughts. You blink at him from across the misty altar space, watching the widening smile that spreads across his face.

“Could it be that you’ve a new employer?” You turn to look back at the steps you'd all but floated down, and then down at your new clothes.

“What gave me away?” you ask, arms thrown open. You make a show of closing the distance between you, parading about in your too-big pants.

“Quite the getup,” he remarks, your brief march coming to a halt as you dramatically lean against his carriage.

“I’ve been kindly asked not to get caught in anything,” you enlighten as you fish your supply list out of your pocket. “Something about digging chunks of me out of the equipment?”

“Ah yes, well. I much prefer you in one piece,” he agrees, pragmatic as always. “And I suspect you’re infinitely more useful to Lord Heisenberg that way as well.” His eyes continue to dart over your outfit. “Would you like me to keep an eye out for - and do forgive me - better-fitting garments?” You watch his face scrunch in quiet distaste and you snicker, handing him the list.

“I think I’ll give tailoring them a go first.” He inclines his head sympathetically. “I’d love to know what that man eats. Hardly a scrap in the kitchen,” you mutter as he scans over the contents of the list. He does not seem disconcerted by its length, leading you to believe that he’s either familiar with the fact that Heisenberg doesn’t seem to stock his pantry, or that he routinely orders this much. You can’t decide which is worse. When he finishes, he shuffles through a couple of drawers, producing a few neatly written recipe cards that he extends to you.

"He has enjoyed these in the past. I'll add the required items to your list." You cycle through them. Rinderrouladen. Sarmale de Peste. Herbed fish. “I don’t mind sharing since the two of you will be ordering in tandem,” he answers the question dangling from your lips. “Ah, but don’t thank me yet,” he adds before you can reply. He produces a paper-wrapped parcel from behind him and hands it to you.

“What’s this?” you prod, face glowing as you gently roll the box around in your hands.

“A gift. To celebrate the job, of course.” His cherubic complexion curls in mischief and you cease your investigation of the box.

“But how did you know I'd-"

“Ah, would you look at that!” he interjects, tilting his head in the direction of the approaching villagers. You turn to look at them whispering behind their hands to one another before looking at him in defeat. His impish look grows, knowing he’s avoided your barrage of questions for now. You scoff softly, swatting his knee with the recipe cards. “Open it later,” he says, shooing you off with his usual rosy-cheeked smile. “I’ll bring the order up as soon as I have it filled.”

“Don’t think you’re off the hook for this,” you chide from behind your crooked grin. You slide the recipe cards into your shirt pocket and turn towards Old Town, meeting the eyes of the passersby. The polite smile you offer is rejected and repaid with matching scowls. Typical. You shove your hands into your pant pockets with a roll of your eyes, the gift tucked gently between the crook of your arm and your waist. You set your final course for home.

—

You stand with the backs of your hands resting on your hips, taking in your evacuated house. It hadn’t taken long to pack up with so little to your name. You had tenderly folded your modest menagerie of belongings into your remaining dresses, cloaks, and blankets before placing everything in a handful of crates, which now sit stacked in the back of the sturdy cart behind you. The larger items like your fishing poles were haphazardly stuffed throughout, sticking out of the cart like askew twigs in a bird’s nest. You blink back errant tears, nostalgia threatening to release the lump in your throat.

There’s nothing here for me anymore, and there hasn’t been for a long time, you firmly remind yourself. The soft clucking of the chickens in their cages tugs at your attention and you allow yourself one last wistful sigh before mounting your horse. You grip him with your thighs, urging him to ferry the contents of your life onward. You don’t look back.

—

As you cross the sluice, its valves open to provide yesterday’s rain with an unobstructed path, you peer down into the turbulent water below. It foams and sprays beneath you, roaring in your ears as it fervently races towards the reservoir. You look out at the drowned houses jutting from the hazy water like despairing limbs and jagged teeth when the nagging feeling of being watched creeps up your spine. You try to picture the former inhabitants of the homes to shake the thought, but the extreme state of deterioration does not lend you any real insight. You pull your eyes away from the submerged graveyard, focusing on the lane ahead.

True to Heisenberg’s word, the trail was becoming wilder as you retreated from the gatehouse. The worn path was slowly being replaced with a jade carpet of plant life which stretched out into the swathes of mist weaving between the trees with an almost phantasmal fluidity. The forest grew denser, older, mossier. Gnarled roots dive in and out of the ground as if unable to decide whether they’d rather reach for the lush canopy overhead, or burrow into the fertile soil below. They do, however, unequivocally agree to harass your travels. The trees stand as silent sentinels, watching your cart bumble through the low brush, insulating you from what lies beyond. Despite your unfamiliarity with this part of the forest and the low visibility, you feel oddly at home in it. The area hums and rustles with a life that is unbridled by the village dwellers, unadulterated by their influence or judgment. You smile at the thought of none of them having seen this place.

The challenged wheels of the cart and your horse’s hooves kick up the scent of wet foliage below, each soft crunch another note in the unseen orchestra rehearsing around you. The birds call to one another overhead and their overlapping whistles ring out, cutting through the sounds of the small animals padding through the overgrown foliage and the churr of the insects from their covert perches. The chickens trade low murmurs behind you, perhaps in awe of their cousins’ skyward songs, and you look over your shoulder to check on them. You regard the path behind you with an acute curiosity, as it is almost entirely obscured by the billowing swirls of fog stirred up in your wake. The waves tumble dreamlike, spilling back into the collective, and time wears on.

The trees open up into a small clearing before the trail splits in two, and a small, heavily weathered signpost droops in a state of disrepair, its words long since legible. You imagine it once pointed down either side of the fork with pride, though who it was meant to direct, you could not say. You steer your horse to the right and he follows your lead faithfully, but your mind veers left, meandering down the other lane as your cart clatters onward.

You travel like this for some time before you’re jolted out of your daydream by a prolonged howl in the distance followed by a series of short yelps. A subsequent hush falls over the forest. You’re unsure who is victim and who is victor, but spur your horse on, wishing to stay clear either way.

You breathe a deep sigh of relief when the stable finally materializes in the mist, knowing the factory can’t be too much farther. I’ll drop my stuff off and come back, you think, passing the wild structure sprouting from the forest floor. The trail spills into the factory yard and you blink at what little sun the gloomy day offers, eyes having grown accustomed to the dim light that struggled to pass through the dense crowns of the trees. You place the time somewhere around midafternoon, giving you enough time to scrounge up something for dinner. Once you’ve tucked most of your belongings inside of the factory doors, you head back to the stable block at the behest of the clucking chickens in the back of the cart.

Moss, lichens, and ivy cling to the stone walls of the stable like a lifeline. You untack your horse and the unmistakable smell of hay hits your nose as you lead him through the doors and into a stall. He gives little more than a flick of his ears in response, already starting in on his grain. You wander in search of Heisenberg’s horse, to no avail. Must be out, you guess with a click of your tongue. You spot an old ladder and some empty crates on your way back and set them up against the back wall of another stall as an improvised roost and nesting boxes. The chickens are barely offloaded and loosed before they get to work scratching at the stray straw.

“There, all settled,” you breathe. You snatch your creel and fishing pole from the abandoned cart and set off for the mountain stream in pursuit of dinner.

—

“Good timing,” you praise as you hear the kitchen door open behind you. You shake your wet hands off into the sink and turn in time to see Heisenberg dragging his hands down his face. He stands there for a moment with his eyes closed, letting his nose take over.

"Be right back," he replies, already stomping down the cellar steps in his socks. You return to setting the table for dinner, unfazed by his brusque greeting. He returns, bottle of wine in hand, and goes on to produce two glasses and a cork puller from the study. The cork is expertly twisted from its snug home and a half-filled glass is placed in your hands, cool to the touch. He raises his own.

“To,” he pauses, looking around the room as if the right words were floating between you, “opportunity,” he finishes, plucking it from the air.

“To opportunity,” you repeat, raising your glass to meet his with a gentle clink. You bring it to your nose to taste first the bouquet, and then the wine. It's light, zesty. “Perfect for dinner,” you remark, gesturing towards his chair.

He accommodates, taking his seat. You set your glass down in your spot and grab the knife, expertly carving the fish before offering him the top fillet and belly half.

“Trout,” you report, removing the bone cage and giving yourself the other side.

“And the salad?” he asks, shoveling it onto his plate. You take the bowl from him and begin serving your own.

“Sauteed pears and plums on chickweed,” you answer. The end product of successful foraging on your way home.

Neither of you hesitates to dig in, and the two of you stop only to sip your cool wine, Heisenberg topping off your glasses as you go. Little is said of dinner, but his satisfied sigh as you take his plate is compliment enough.

“I think I’ll go get a bath in and head to bed,” he breaks the silence, biting the end off of a cigar. You watch him roll his neck from side to side to loosen its invisible kinks. His face is haggard, his shoulders now bowing under the weight of exhaustion. You nod and bid him good night before turning back to the dishes. When you finish, you pour yourself the remainder of the abandoned wine bottle and roam the study, combing through the endless sea of book titles until one in particular jumps out at you. You tug it from its spot and lumber upstairs to your room.

You open the door with a soft groan, having forgotten about the state you left it in. Your unpacked belongings are strewn about on every surface as though exploring their new home. You shut the door behind you and shuffle around the room as you pick things up, tucking them away in drawers and arranging them on the dressing table. You snatch up your sewing basket and a couple of newly tailored garments from the opulent rug, placing them in the wardrobe. Good enough, you decide, pulling off the day’s clothes and slipping into last night’s nightgown. You collapse into bed and crack open your book, allowing yourself to fall into it and time to slip by.

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.

You shut the book with a gentle thump, and glance at the clock. It was much later than you had realized. You toss back the covers anyways, creeping past Heisenberg’s darkened room and tiptoeing down the stairs with your book in hand. You about jump out of your skin when his head pops up over the back of the couch at the sound of the last step creaking under your weight.

“What are you doing up?” he puzzles, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better look at you. You’re greeted by the sight of his bare chest and redden in response. The fireplace crackles across the room as if waiting for your reply. You wiggle the book in your hand as an explanation, not trusting yourself to speak. A small smile plays on his lips. He holds up a book of his own, wiggling it back.

“I thought I’d make some tea,” you falter, suddenly aware of the fact that you yourself were only wearing his shirt. “Would you like some?” He tears his eyes away from your legs.

“Please,” he purrs.

You pad off into the kitchen, struggling to pull yourself together as you prepare your drinks. You grumble into the sink as you splash cold water on your strobing cheeks in an unsuccessful attempt to cool your face. Tucking the book under your arm, you crouch gently to pick the piping tea up off the counter and return to the study.

“Thank you.” He sits up to receive his mug and you make a conscious effort to keep your gaze above his collarbones. You hum your reply, tucking your feet underneath you as you take the couch opposite him.

“What were you reading?” you ask, chin jerking towards the book in his lap.

“Die Verwandlung von Kafka” he rumbles, voice low as the words roll from his lips. “You?” he returns the question, taking a sip.

“Frankenstein.” He coughs, choking on his drink.

“Are you alright?” You place your tea on the end table and start to get off the couch when he holds a hand out to stop you.

“Fine,” he breathes. “Just went down wrong.” He takes another sip, blinking at the unfamiliar taste. You settle back down and recover your mug before imbibing.

“I feel bad for him,” you sigh, cracking the book back open.

“Frankenstein?” His shrewd eyes search your face for an answer.

“The monster,” you correct.

He gives a rueful smile before returning to his book.

Taglist: @artist-bby @ambiguous-g @honimello @butterflysist3r @spac3witch @xyinparadise @fantrashtic-emily @emmathedestroyer

Chapter Six

#die schöne und das biest #karl heisenberg #resident evil village #re8 #karl heisenberg/female reader #karl heisenberg x female reader #self insert #reader insert #resident evil viii #re village #SoundCloud #Spotify

60 notes · View notes

sword-dad-fukuzawa · 3 years

Note

3 for the meta asks!!

>:000 CHES I WOULD DIE FOR YOU!!

Meta Asks

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

Well, as it happens, I have one such scene written! Warnings for mildly gory thoughts because Jiang Cheng happens to have a lot of pent up rage and aggression. This is supposed to be in the feral cats 'verse (with all the warnings that entails lmao) but I never got the motivation to flesh out the fic I had planned around this scene.

“I’ll kill you,” says Jiang Cheng hoarsely.

His teeth are mere inches from Wei Wuxian’s throat. He could do it. He could lean forward, cross the space between, and tear at those fragile veins pulsing so close to the surface of his skin. He wants to, he wants to so badly he can already taste Wei Wuxian’s blood in his mouth and feel it running down his chin. Let him sink his teeth into his brother’s throat, oh God, because he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything.

But Xue Yang’s shadowy restraints are firm and unyielding. Jiang Cheng can’t cross that divide no matter how he struggles, and Wei Wuxian looks at him with a wide-eyed expression of hurt. Good. He knows that Jiang Cheng means it.

“Don’t make a decision you’ll regret,” Xue Yang says lowly, and Jiang Cheng has just enough leeway to turn his head slightly. He glares at Xue Yang, who glares right back at him with a fierce, unyielding expression.

“I do what I damn well please,” Jiang Cheng breathes. Summoning all of his considerable strength, he tears at the restraints made of resentful energy. They’re made of grief and anger and bitterness, aren’t they? All the failures and the regrets and the terrible, heart-wrenching agony of living.

Old friends, Jiang Cheng thinks grimly, and for the first time in his life, grasps hold of those emotions and pulls.

It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to demonic cultivation. But it pays off, and the restraints loosen for just a moment. He sees Wei Wuxian’s red eyes widen, sees Xue Yang stumble backward in surprise, as he lunges forward. He doesn’t even have Sandu at the ready. Zidian is too slow. All he has are his teeth and the burning, incoherent rage he feels, that he’s felt since Wei Wuxian toppled off the Burial Mounds so many years ago.

But at the last moment, he reconsiders. Jiang Cheng can’t say why. Maybe it’s the astonished, frightened look in Wei Wuxian’s eyes. Maybe it’s the inarticulate cry of frustration from Xue Yang, so utterly out of character. Hell, for all he knows, it’s the way the sun glances off the lake at the last second, blinding him slightly. Whatever it is, Jiang Cheng’s teeth snap shut just before the skin of Wei Wuxian’s neck and instead he twists forward, throwing his entire body weight behind his fist. He punches Wei Wuxian so hard there’s an audible cracking noise, throwing his head to the side and sending both of them stumbling.

Jiang Cheng’s knuckles sting in an entirely too satisfying way as he drags himself upright. He’s breathing heavily, like he’s just finished some long, harrowing race. He looks at Wei Wuxian and flexes his hand once, twice, just to make sure the knuckles are still working properly.

“You’re so fucking righteous,” he growls, and punches him again.

Jiang Cheng knows on an intellectual level that Wei Wuxian is a Devastation-level ghost king who can probably teleport out of the way of his silly mortal punches. He knows, then, that Wei Wuxian is allowing himself to be hit. And he knows that Wei Wuxian is exactly the sort of self-deprecating bastard to genuinely accept that getting hit is his due.

This does not pacify Jiang Cheng. In fact, this makes him want to punch him harder.

But he’s gotten in two very sizable down payments on the debt that Wei Wuxian owes him for breaking too many promises to count, and so after the second punch, Jiang Cheng lets himself stagger and fall on his ass in the dirt. His knuckles hurt, because Wei Wuxian has an unreasonably bony jaw.

“I hate you,” he tells Wei Wuxian, because he feels like it needs to be said. But it comes out more exhausted than vitriolic. He feels so, so tired, down to the bone.

Wei Wuxian, rubbing at his jaw with a slightly dazed expression, nods. “I didn’t expect any less,” he admits absently, and Jiang Cheng suddenly finds he absolutely has the motivation to get back up from the ground, lunge forward, and grab the collar of Wei Wuxian’s robes in his good hand.

“Then why,” he spits, full of a wild rage even he doesn’t understand, “did you come back?”

Why did you come back late? Why did you come back dead? Wei Wuxian, you son of a bitch, why didn’t you ever ask me for help back then?

Wei Wuxian’s hazy red eyes seem to focus on him then, and Jiang Cheng is subjected to his serious, deadset expression. But then he smiles, ruining it—because Wei Wuxian’s smile hasn’t changed a bit since they were children.

He still shines like the sun.

“Jiang Cheng, didn’t you know?” Wei Wuxian asks, his voice light and teasing somehow. “Lotus Pier is my home.”

Jiang Cheng finds, upon hearing this, that there’s a lump in his throat he desperately tries to swallow down.

“Wei Wuxian,” he curses, and looks away.

He’s not crying. He’s not. He’s the sect leader of Yunmeng Jiang and—

And he’s had a long day, and his brother is still dead even if he’s somehow standing right there, and he’s going to commit a murder. At least one murder. And Xue Yang will help him because he is definitely extracting recompense for that stunt with the restraints.

Jiang Cheng is not crying, and so he buries his face in his sleeve to hide the fact that he is not, in fact, crying.

Blessedly, Wei Wuxian doesn’t say anything. But Xue Yang has no such tact. He walks over, and Jiang Cheng can tell it’s him by the light, skittering way he walks.

“Jiang Wanyin, how did you break out of Xinyi’s restraints?” he asks.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t reply. But he hears a quiet thunking sound and a grunt of pain from Xue Yang.

“I stopped him from killing you,” Xue Yang retorts, presumably in response to getting whacked.

“Leave him be,” says Wei Wuxian, and the tenderness in the words nearly makes Jiang Cheng get back up to punch him again—sore knuckles be damned—but Xue Yang lets out such an obnoxious snort that he chokes on a wet laugh instead.

“‘Leave him be, Xue Yang,’” parrots Xue Yang in a high-pitched voice. “‘Save me from Jiang Wanyin, Xue Yang. Explain your Skull-Piercing Nails, Xue Yang. Lick my—”

Then there’s a sound like fabric rustling and Xue Yang is making muffled shrieking noises. The next thing Jiang Cheng hears is an indignant yelp from Wei Wuxian and the distinct, delighted sound of Xue Yang’s laughter.

“He bit me!” cries Wei Wuxian. “Are you—is he your guard dog?”

Jiang Cheng sighs, long and loud, and lifts his face carefully from his sleeve. “Down, Xue Chengmei,” he says, and Xue Yang smirks at him in a distinctly cat-like way.

Wei Wuxian squawks in outrage and Jiang Cheng, hearing that familiar sound, feels boneless and light. There’s a weight off his shoulders that he’d never noticed was there. Like he can breathe again.

#wei wuxian #meta asks #xue yang #jiang cheng #feral cats au #ches!!#enabler fam #xuecheng #xuechengxian #;)#the ot3 part is really eli's fault smh #mo dao zu shi #mdzs

16 notes · View notes

hey-hamlet · 3 years

Note

oh sweet jesus i was just trying to watch bnha tiktoks and then i remembered the final exams would happen in the dptam au and then i started crying

Hmmm... You give me Ideas.

It was only 30 seconds into their exam and Katsuki wanted to throw up. Deku had been nervous but stubborn, refusing to do anything but fight All Might while Katsuki wanted nothing more than to keep that creep as far away from Deku as humanly possible. He’d just been so frustrated and scared, and it made him so angry and – he’d lashed out. Deku had tumbled backwards, looking at him with such resignation Katsuki wanted to punt himself into the sun. Great job protecting the nerd, huh? Why don’t you just spit in his face while you’re at it, maybe it’d hurt less.

“Deku – “ He didn’t have time to finish thinking of what he’d say, let alone to say it before he was all but knocked off his feet by a shockwave. He crouched low to keep his balance, noting Deku was already on his feet, smiling like he was facing down death himself. If Deku wouldn’t run then they’d have to knock All Might flat on his ass. Easier said then done but he deserved it. He shot Deku a grim look who returned it with a smile.

“Kacchan – north exit, like we planned. I’ll stall!” Katsuki fought the urge to snarl a disagreement before he caught the nerd’s gaze and watched it purposefully flick behind All Might. ‘Fake run off then come from behind’ he fought off a smile with a snarl.

“Don’t fuck it up!” He yelled, using his explosions to propel himself towards the north exit. Turning the corner, he stood still, making his explosions gradually smaller and smaller as quickly as he dared. All Might would notice if they just cut out. Shaking out his hands he fell into a run, trying to dampen as much of the rubble’s crunching as he could. He rounded the block, eyes landing on All Might’s towering form, dwarfing Deku from where he’d partially pinned the other boy with a twisted piece of railing. Unable to hear what was being said beyond the roar in his ears, he charged forwards, hoping the extra speed his explosions gave would make up for the early warning the noise would give.

Almost did.

All Might’s hand snapped outwards, it would have wrapped itself around his neck had he not blasted upwards at the last second, flipping over the outstretched arm and firing off a quick blast to obscure his vision. His feet had barely hit the ground before All Might fired off another blow, not bothering to call his attacks, a snide grin on his face. Katsuki again barely avoided being caught by his fist, but the air pressure behind it hit him like a truck, sending him tumbling down the street, the skin on his shoulders burning where it had been scrapped by the tarmac. He turned to the side bile crawling its way up his throat.

All Might was meant to be holding back. If Katsuki hadn’t dodged that could have killed him. He sent a scared look to Izuku’s prone form. The was blood on the railing. There was blood on All Might’s hands.

With an inarticulate scream of rage he threw himself at the hero, rolling at the last second to slide between his legs and deliver a sharp blast to the side of his face. All Might just grinned cruelly at him and, rather than going for a blow, grabbed Katsuki’s side. He let out a choked cry pain, All Might’s fingers tearing through his skin. He wrapped his gauntleted hands around the hero’s wrist firing off blast after blast but whatever the monster’s quirk was it didn’t seem to give him more than a slight blister.

“Come now young Katsuki. Lets be civil. I’d hate to hurt a bright young man such as yourself.”

“Fuck. You.” He spat out, writhing in All Might’s grip, still letting off blast after blast. All Might sighed, like he was a father dealing with a spoilt brat, not some jumped up freak that seemed to get off on beating the shit out of kids. All Might’s fist collided with his jaw, snapping his head back sharply and causing his teeth to snap off the tip of his tongue. His head ringing, be couldn’t correct his flight path when All Might hurdled him down the street, pain coursing through his body with each impact and piece of ripped skin. He tried to get to his feet when he stopped and was barely able to turn himself around to look his end in the face, blood nearly choking him.

All Might seemed pleased with his fear, content to stalk forwards slowly, a sharp grin on his face as if he knew Katsuki couldn’t run away. Couldn’t fight back. The ringing in his head did little to quiet this mounting panic.

“Team Midoriya and Bakugo pass the practical!” Katsuki blinked, dragging himself up to look closer at All Might. All Might himself seemed shocked, looking down at the cuff around his ankle with a strange mixture of satisfaction and anger.

“Well done, young Izuku.” Katsuki started. He’d forgotten Deku in his panic, too concerned with what he figured to be his own future maiming. It sees All Might had forgotten him too – or at least had expected him to stay down. What could –

Katsuki blinked, looking at Deku. His face was pale, a shaky smile at All Might’s praise. He was on his hands and knees, obviously having crawled over from where he’d been pinned, still a piece of metal wrapped around his side, his costume dark and dripping with blood.

Not wrapped around his side.

Through his side.

No wonder All Might had been so convinced Deku wouldn’t get up – he’d skewered him. Katsuki rolled over, blood that had built up in his mouth mixing with the bile that spewed from his stomach, the image of that fucking railing straight through Izuku’s side, just above his hip bone. He spat pointless curses as All Might lifted him onto a medical bot before personally carrying Izuku towards Recovery Girl’s tent.

All Might had torn straight through Izuku’s fucking side and out the other and none of those bastard teachers had stopped the test?

Or maybe they’d tried, a quiet part of Katsuki thought, maybe they’d tried and All Might had decided he was having too much fun to listen.

#bnha au #asks #my fic #dont praise the all mighty

115 notes · View notes

limetameta · 3 years

Note

for the prompts u asked.... maybe tom being jealous? Or tombrax + showing off, whatever you want

Tom Riddle hid his disdain as best as he could. What with growing up in the orphanage where fickle matrons took offence to every little sneer, he had thought himself a master of disguise and impassivness. Alas, Abraxas Malfoy seemed to bring out the worst in him.

Eileen Prince was just talking to him for fuck's sake. But the way she was talking to him! Oh ! Now that was something he couldn't easily forgive or forget. Tom was one of those remember and resent type of people. It kept things interesting in his life. Against everyone's most ardent tries, Tom had not grown up a good christian.

She had been partnered with Abraxas in potions while Tom dealt with the scatter brained Septimus Weasley. While the Gryffindor was brilliant, he wasn't nearly as funny or fun to work with as Abraxas was.

Septimus glanced over to Eileen and Abraxas' table and failed to hide his curious smile. "Ohoho." He only said. Tom asked him if he wished to elaborate on these inarticulate noises. Septimus only replied with an even more confusing eyebrow wriggle. THE FIEND! Tom Riddle refused to be mocked. He diced the ingredients and cursed Slughorn for his inter-house friendship bullshit. Dumbledore was happy with how everyone sat. So was every other professor. But no! Slughorn had to be the better person! He wanted to help everyone network and branch out of their comfort zone so he could collect more students.

Abraxas was the odd man out and he remained sitting with a Slytherin. He laughed that high laughter of his, not unlike a peacock. And Tom almost cut his finger from the rage that overcame him that Abraxas was laughing at Eileen's commentary on anything.

Septimus whistled.

Tom glared.

Septimus' grin widened. That bastard.

"You really want to try me?" Tom hissed under his breath so only Septimus heard him, defaulting to his Woolwich accent. "I'm a prefect, Weasley. I can make your life hell."

"What's hell?"

Tom forgot that most of these purebloods had fuck all clue about christianity. He sputtered, momentarily forgetting to be intimidating. "It's," then he thought better of it and gave up because if he started explaining hell then he would have to explain what heaven was and then he would have to explain Jesus AND THEN he would have to explain the holy trinity and from his previous experience it just was not worth it.

Slughorn instructed them that after they made their amortentia everyone would go around describing their smell.

Tom thought that he didn't want others to know what his smelled like.

But damn it. He couldn't sabotage his potion now.

Ugh.

Eileen giggled.

Tom's foot began to tap. He hated this lack of control.

Walburga Black was the first one to demand that Slughorn inspect her potion. "It is perfect," she said. Slughorn just smiled and told her not to get ahead of herself. "AND IF IT ISN'T PERFECT, THAT'S BECAUSE OF PREWETT'S LACK OF SKILL!"

Prewett, wisely, said nothing. Everyone and their cousin knew that nobody talked back to Walburga Black.

"What does it smell like for you?"

"It smells like victory."

That was vague to anyone that did not know that Orion Black had lucky socks he called victory. Tom did not say anything about them being cousins but he thought that it was... a little...backward.

Tom catalogued most people's smells just out of curiosity.

Avery's amortentia smelled like weed. Not weeds. No. Literally marijuana. Tom was amazed that that could be a bloody smell.

Lestrange's smelled like quidditch locker room. Tom was somehow disgusted in a way he did not know he could be.

He tried to smell his amortentia and couldn't find a distinct smell. This worried him. Had he bungled the potion???

Septimus Weasley looked too giddy to not have a smell.

Walburga yelled at Orion when he said that his amortentia smelled like lavender. "AND NOT ROSES?!" Everyone knew that Walburga's perfume was made of roses. "NOT ROSES!!!"

Orion looked away and tried to hide behind Shafiq.

Walburga almost crossed over to him to fight. People held her back.

Slughorn tried to calm her down. "Miss Black, I will be taking points from Slytherin if you do not calm down."

That did it.

Eileen looked at Abraxas and said: "I smell birds." Abraxas owned like 5 peacocks. After being rich that was his key personality trait. Tom wanted to remove Eileen off of the face of the Earth.

Avery noticed Tom's balled fists and took initiative. He gasped. Everyone looked at him.

Zephyr Avery, proud founder od Hogwarts' orinthology club, had this to say: "Eileen, I'm beyond flattered. But my heart does not belong to anyone except the call of birds!"

Abraxas began laughing again. Tom smiled at Abraxas.

It was Abraxas' turn to say what his smelled like. He bent down. Smelled the potion. And recoiled.

Tom did not think this was a good sign.

"It smells like cheap cologne! Ugh!"

It was so silent that if someone dropped a pin it would echo.

Walburga screeched. "HA! RIDDLE, I THINK ALL OF SLYTHERIN WILL CHIP IN TO BUY YOU PROPER COLOGNE!"

Laughter filled the classroom. Slughorn patted him on the back in consolation.

Tom Riddle wanted to die. But he was happy. But he wanted to die. But not literally die because he was terrified of dying. But he did not want to exist anymore.

"What does your amortentia smell like, Mr. Weasley?"

"Smells like carrots and apples."

"Okay." Slughorn and everyone had no idea who this might be but Septimus was smug.

"Mr. Riddle?"

His amortentia smelled like nothing. But he couldn't say that. So, he looked at Walburga Black and whispered, shyly (HA! AS IF HE WERE EVER SHY!): "The most beautiful rose."

Walburga Black took out her wand: "MUDBLOOD!!!! YOU UPSTART! YOU FIEND!!!"

She was not properly held back this time. Tom Riddle had to run out of the classroom, trying his best to stifle his laughter as he dodged her curses.

Slytherin wound up losing 15 points for that. Tom made them 20 so they were still winning.

#abraxas malfoy #lord voldemort #tom riddle #abraxas malfoy/tom riddle #abraxas malfoy x tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #amortentia #horace slughorn #avery sr #fic

29 notes · View notes