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wroteclassicaly · 3 years

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May I Taste Your Sin

(Michael Langdon x Female Reader)

Pairings : Michael Langdon x Female Reader

Warnings : Language, smut, blood, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blood play, & period sex.

A/N : This fic has been a loooong time coming! I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, but now that I have inspo I wanted get this out for y’all! The warnings are obviously self-explanatory, so skip this if you don’t like the contents it’s gonna contain! Michael Langdon eats human hearts, and he’s a demon, before anyone starts to fuss over this, lol. I’m sure menstrual cycles with his partner would be a dessert to him!

Enjoy! This one is pretty intense, so I’m nervous about it! I also have more installments with different characters coming in the next few days! :)

Check out where I first posted the teaser for this fic, and check out these period sex headcanons I wrote for Michael!

~*~

He keeps staring at you. You try to move about, do your tasks, even attempt conversation with people you’d tried so hard to avoid these past several years. Your abilities to function like the human being that you are, seemingly vanish whenever the tall honey blond is within your exhausted proximities. You aren’t sure if you’d like to let out the loudest echoing scream and see where it ends up in this place, or let your wildest carnal urges guide your hormones into a literal sticky situation. Or, at the very least, let yourself fantasize about seducing him in your own self-created version of reality.

You’ll have to settle on the latter, unfortunately. Pocketing the cream colored dish rag, you place the last row of finely printed novels on the book shelve. Your fingertips linger, attempting to find a portal through their leather cover tops. Your tongue slicks your parched lips, neck stretching to crack out the tension. You aren’t trying to do anything but stealing some relaxation, when a largely hot hand is pressing a knot-out in a knead on your shoulder - clasping, settling a risky purchase.

You don’t have to make an educated guess to know whose hand that belongs to. He practically spews out his control and ownership of this place every chance that he gets. Biting down a venomous sigh, you coerce yourself into a turn around - gathering an eyeful of Langdon’s fancy black vest. That’s not good enough for the King, apparently, as he fits his pointer finger underneath your chin in a tuck, thumb pressing against your jaw to tilt your gaze to his own.

“Did you forget your manners, Miss Y/L/N?”

The way his shining eyes are sizing your attention, captivating your unwillingness to comply to how Langdon makes you feel - it can’t be humanly possible, can it? There’s that possessive ache that begs you to launch ownership over him and his entire body. Why is everything so widely dramatic whenever he’s around? Is he just full of himself or is it something way more than you’re aware? A crackling parch winds its pathway around your throat, sealing your breath in.

Nothing comes from between your lips. You’re frozen solid, legs a weightless press. Each touch this... man brings upon your body is like a bass thump - pumping you towards his secretive rhythm. All you can do is sway with the beat. Langdon smirks coyly, his other hand resting behind his back in an idle grace.

Neither of you dare utter a word. However, Langdon is seemingly content in making you squirm and you try to focus on everything but his perfectly crafted jawline, and how eagerly you’d suck on it if asked. You swear you can hear your heartbeat galloping off, so strong that it can tear your heart right out of your chest along with it. His colorful eyes glance over you in a brief stamping sweep, lingering at your sore breasts and your waistline.

What is he even doing...?

“Excuse me, but Ms. Venable did not authorize any private conferences with the help.” A cold and steel - grasped voice chills your bones down, dusting your cheeks with a reddening humiliation.

You haven’t even so much as spoken to Langdon, yet it feels like you two have been clawing and scratching at each other all over this fucking outpost, riding one another until you can’t fathom walking upright. You still can’t speak, but Langdon takes care of that for you.

“Interesting, and did Ms. Venable give you permission to waltz in here when you weren’t requested or required, just to give a meaningless order?” Langdon is mildly amused in his question, his hand still paused on your chin, thumb now swiping in a tickling drop with his fingertip - along your jaw.

Ms. Mead looks comical in her brief attempt at forming a snappy comeback, only to go silent in defeat. You take this tension as your escape line - quickly edging from the sacred confines Langdon has built for you two, and you all but run out the door. You’re clutching your shirt collar, punching a two pounce path up the staircase and to the help’s quarters.

Chores now, panic later.

~*~

Five minutes. Five fucking minutes in this place that you’ve served without question, complaint, for nearly two years - is all you want. But as the heavy handed rasps of Mead’s knuckle bones beat on your bathroom door, you know that is a simple pipe dream. Her low voice is harsh with you, making your headache unfold into a full blown migraine. You shift uncomfortably, knees knocking together, thighs sore against the cool porcelain seat below you.

Langdon must’ve massively pissed her off... Good.

Your palms collect purchase to your cradle your face, your eyes glistening with tears, throat burning with frustration. It hurts too much to stand upright this time. Normally women would lose this in stressful situations. Add the apocalypse and barely eating, you’d peg it normal to receive nothing. However, your predicament is much worse, fucking you over once more.

Your body welcomes Mother Nature each month. Unpredictable, yet there. Heavy, excruciating. You could list on and on reasons that don’t amount to much. You’re stuck with a part of you that won’t ever come to fruition.

Not in your former life, especially not in this one. Another reminder that carries an award winning irony. Sighing, you peer down at the red dish rag you were given. Literally on the rag, what a joyous harmony. The elites of course, are given the tampons and pads.

You have to use scraps of fabric you’re forced to wash in the bathtub if you move too fast or sneeze. And on your heavy days when you haven’t the time to stop your duties to wash and air out the towels, things are much harder. At least before the apocalypse you had chocolate, feminine products, a warm shower to take your time in, movies to curl up with, and a place of your own to cry where no one could hear you. You sniffle, hormones locking down your heart.

Most recently the outpost had welcomed the cooperative leader Langdon. He had interviewed everyone but you, uninterested, only flustering you a few times. Him being here just makes your period a more unwelcome storm. This morning as you were passing him on the landing of the staircase, delivering the bath towels to elite rooms, he stared at you. Right into you, nostrils flaring, tongue rolling out to slick his plump lips, blue eyes darkening.

Then there was this afternoon. How could I forget...?

The encounters were over quicker than they took place. Still, his acknowledgment of you didn’t bring your interview, nor did it promise your application for the sanctuary he preaches about. Forcing your tears to bank, you stand with your dress skirt and apron held up, staring at the stained rag in your panties. You turn and flush the toilet, eating back around to the shock of your fucking life. There, just feet in the from the doorway, is Langdon in all his glory.

It makes you swallow harshly, stomach drawing off the butterflies that have grown claws. You feel winded. His ring covered fingers bring an object to your sights. A thinly wrapped stick. You don’t answer, you don’t move, you don’t protest him approaching until he’s directly in front of you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You try, a mere whisper betraying your bravery.

“Helping you,” He answers simply, a heated slide crossing his mouth. You can practically taste him, damn near swaying forward.

You start to snap back into your senses, ready to cover your remembered modesty back up. He grasps your wrist, a hungry look soft in his features. “Will you let me?”

You’re shaking, body on fire at him touching you, you try to keep your legs from clenching, that want. You know what will occur if you let yourself. He is gentle with you, admiration clear. Why? You don’t understand this.

“You’re bleeding, I know.”

Jaw unhinged, you stand upright, his fingers still ghosting your skin. An unlucky movement on your part, the warmth spills from you and you look down between your thighs in horror at the red lines running down your legs, pattering against the floor. Langdon is breathing heavily, practically panting, stunning you once more. His other hand grips your cheek, thumb swiping your lip, eyes not breaking contact from yours.

“Do you know how good your cunt smells? Every pathetic person in this outpost is starving and you have the best meal between your fucking legs.”

When your silence stretches on, Michael nudges forward, careful with you. “May I feast?”

It’s all too much to handle. Having him talk to you, you speaking to him. And now this? How? You begin to grow dizzy, hands trembling as you try to pull your clothing back up. Langdon’s hands grip your wrists.

“Please don’t do that.”

You want to stun him incredulously, backhand him. None of that is happening, not even the urge. Instead, your want for him is magnifying beyond any feigned ignorance. Your tongue slides out across your lips, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a brisk chew. Langdon hooks his middle finger between your teeth, releasing your lip and combing the blood across in a coppery gloss.

Your chest is startled, rising and falling in quivering quakes, ears hearing a static rush. Everything inside of you is alive and crying out in need to be sated. Langdon grips you around the waist, lowering his forehead to rest atop your own, his middle finger - still doused in your blood - slithers past his own lips, which close in a sticky suckle. A vibrating moan pummels his throat, causing a constricting swallow that showcases his Adam’s apple.

If I could only just lick that...

Langdon is sly and devilishly cunning to a fault - fast in his next movements. He presses a designer boot down over your skirts, successfully preventing them from being made up. “Leave them here for someone else.”

“I... I can’t. This is too much, Langdon —“ He chuckles at the formality.

“Since I can see your womanhood running from between your legs, I suppose it’s only fair that we skip some formalities, don’t you agree, Y/N?” Your eyes are probably wider than necessary - a cartoon like sight. He’s used your full name in an authoritative command, leaving no room for question. “And you may call me Michael.”

It’s all a little more frantic from this point. He gives the slightest of information, and you see your skirts and panties gliding across the floor in a winded push. Michael brings that wrapped item back into your eye-line. “We won’t be needing this for a while.”

“I didn’t say yes.” You try, swallowing a weak, whimpering stifle.

“But you didn’t say no, did you?” That shit eating grin. He has you and he is all too aware - elated to the brimming brimstone of hellfire you’re about to bestow upon yourself.

Your insides melt into the trenches of red hot, raw ravishment. Michael drops his left arm down, hand palming his hardening cock through black slacks, eyes encouraging you in a chained bind. “Let’s go and make a mess in my room.”

Now or never. No more of this, back to reality, maybe some place better. You’re spinning in a foiling encasement, precipice wide and open - hungry to pull you under. And you dive in, you let it all go. Michael looks satisfied, sharing something with himself that you don’t know... yet.

Taking Michael Langdon’s hand, you’re led into the unknown.

~*~

Langdon leads you down his own separate corridor, your free hand scolded for trying to hold yourself over your uniform.

“I want you to make a mess.” Michael says.

You hope that you’re not the one who will be paying the cost for your own said mess, or cleaning it up. If it’s up to Venable - you’ll be licking it, all the way to her high heeled boots.

Once inside the confines of Michael Langdon’s bedroom, you take the time to look around, enjoying the perks this situation is bringing. The room isn’t any different than what the purple elites get here, it is bordering on a more... lived in feel, which is ironic when you consider that Langdon hasn’t been here like everyone else has for the past three years.

Guess he’s just more comfortable? He does look like an English vampire half the time..

On that note, a particularly harsh cramp antagonizes your uterus, causing you to clench your abdomen, choking out a acidic slice. “Fucking demonic cramps.”

Michael - now clad in his all black ensemble, minus the overcoat - chortles, knotting his fingers together behind his back and strolls forward, wetting his lips as the firelight crackles a sparking soundtrack. “It’s ironic how you refer to it as “demonic”, when Satan really has nothing to do with this. I mean, it’s not on him that humanity failed their pitiful guidelines for sobering temptation. Wasn’t it your lord and savior that bestowed this curse upon you?” He finishes, giving a head tilt to your unhinged stun.

“Are you religious?” Is all you can come up with.

Michael sneers, looking slightly offended. It fades seconds later. “Depends on your definition of religious, and then there is what one believes in. But I guess you can say that I’m devoted to... a certain cause.”

“Were you this mysterious before the apocalypse, or is that why the cooperative gave you the job?” You try, a discomfort crackling at your inner thighs.

They’re probably smeared... And not just with blood.

“I bet you’re uncomfortable.” Michael teases, snapping his fingers at the fireplace. Did your eyes betray you, or did the flames flicker?

You want to give a snappy comeback, but it feels unwise. You nod like the sap that you are, nails biting your palms. Your heartbeat has begun to accelerate, a visible sight beneath your apron. Langdon guides himself to step in front of you, leather shoes drumming across the floor beneath. Every sound in this forsaken room is flowing through your eardrums - Michael’s scent on the tip of your tongue.

You need him. More than your body has to have the air that filters underneath this mausoleum. You’re so unsteady, eyes brimming with the smoking arousal, blocking common sense. Michael catches you as you collide with his chest, wrapping your fists into his vest. His blue irises are disappearing to a canyon of night sky - lavish black so sinful that it steals the breath from your lungs.

Drizzling off your tongue is a hesitation. “Won’t we get into trouble...? Venable -“ Those rough fingertips hold a softness that hushes your lips, denting.

“Can watch me with my face buried into your cunt. The humiliation will arouse her.” Michael answers in his own finish.

You aren’t sure why, but that grates your mouth into a sneaky grin, shared with Michael’s, sensing that slapping throb at his phrases. He pinches your chin, nuzzling your head to the side, his lips sloping a map across your neck. His towering physique backs you by knocking his knees into your thighs, delivering you to the edge of his bed. You drop like wild weights, looking towards the ceiling, trying to take a deep inhalation. Langdon crouches, pants rustling as they tighten around his temptingly thick thighs.

He tuts in a scold, chiding you furthermore. “You will watch what I’m getting ready to do to you! Is that clear, Y/N?”

You don’t answer fast enough, Michael’s hand wrapping around your throat, eyes burning hellfire through you - dusting your bones to ash. Your throat is wet with the clingy, unshed tears. Fuck, you have to be filled up until you’re hollowed out. Michael is languid in grace, hand toppling into your lap, joining his other.

“Take down your hair, Y/N.”

Like a puppet, you obey your new owner. Unwrapping the pointed bun, you shake your locks free, sighing in an eased tickle.

“What a good and obedient girl that you are. Those who obey, shall reap the riches.”

“Why are you doing this?” An ignorant question on your part.

“Because,” As if it’s the most simple answer in this broken world, Michael let’s his hands start to unbutton his vest, carelessly sending it, his attention not wavering off you in the slightest. “I’m hungry.”

A literal moan comes from you, making Langdon hiss through his through his milky white teeth. He resumes his former position, hovering.

“Spread.” Michael says, a quaint wonder adorning him, his palms sliding up and down your legs to feel you part them. The blood is mixing some fucked out potion with your creamy arousal for him, and he knows it, has it right into your tremble from the exposure.

Your skin is steaming in scrapes, responding so vulgarly to Michael, that he is hooking his wrists under your knees, bouncing the flesh into his awaiting hands, and claiming. He hoists your legs over his shoulders to arch you to his idea of perfection. You should be protesting, in a shambled shyness. That is gone, no place here. Michael let’s his nose rest in the crease of your thigh, crudely sniffing like some beast.

His sopping tongue finds a striking stroke along your ruby red, damp thigh.

Closer... He’s getting closer...

When you can’t feel that warm and snide air he possesses, you lock to load a question. Michael is shedding himself of his remaining clothing in a cocky crawl. His hair curtains his face as he sees you seek out his cock - thick and heavy, weighted and wet with pre-cum.

“Finish taking off your clothing.” You’ve never done something so fast in your years alive.

You have to admit, being so vulnerable like this - naked and bleeding, it has you buzzing.

Michael outstretches a veined forearm, the back of his rings swirling in desiring dances across your breasts. “Do these hurt?”

Your lashes are slicked in perspiring tears, the tired soreness harassing your chest. He has his truth. His trim form bows to you once more, placing your legs back where they belong. He knuckles a pressing push into your abdomen. “Bear down.”

It isn’t an accident this time, it’s not a discreet secrecy. Michael wants you this way. All of you. Finding a confidence, you give yourself a high and sink your fingers into his hair, toes tickling his shoulder blades in a forwarding nudge, doubling down on your muscles. That warmth spills out of you and Langdon takes you, tongue parting your swollen folds. He regulates his tongue in wet paints, licking and sucking everything you give him.

“Please—“ You’re already begging. It’s so fucking intense and intimate that you can’t formulate your own damned name.

“Are you really going to ask, or would you just like to feel good?” Michael vibrates, his mouth visible and shining crimson as he seeks you out between your slippery thighs.

It’s outright feral. His irises are coal black, blue lost in some combing canyon that’s crumbled around sin. His digits prod at your sensitive opening, being accepted moments later. His lips close over your clit, tongue slithering back and forth to assist his beckoning fingers. He gathers more from you - his purpose.

That quenched fold starts to seize you early on, your pattering breaths signaling the orgasm that is about to tear the screams from your fucking diaphragm. Michael’s hand smacks and rolls your swollen breast - permission granted. That’s all it takes and you’re falling back onto the mattress, back arching in a lined drag, pussy flattening against his mouth. He jerks you impossibly closer, your vision whiting out into dark spots. You tangle your fingers further into his luscious strands, holding, pulling.

In the midst of close recovery, Michael is plowing you with a short lived let down, his mouth leaving your pussy. You can’t complain, no time available, as his hips slot in a frazzled fit between your legs. His pelvis is tense, sheathed in sweat. His chest smashes your breasts, his hand reaching down to guide his cock inside you. You can’t speak, but cling tightly to his back. He growls a sound that you’ll never forget, the fire bursting behind him, flames licking the rocked cove that houses them.

His mouth is covered in your essence, your cunt bathing his dick with each violent thrust. It’s pouring in drenches, salty perspiration, pooling blood - both of you losing yourselves in the mess. Michael props himself up, digging into a dipping slam, meeting your mouth in an ending kiss. His hair tickles your shoulders, nose nudges your now blood caked mouth, and he gives the warning.

“Spill your fucking curse all over me!” And you come undone, glued to him in puzzled entrapment.

Your thighs are wrecked, his bedsheets useless, and then there’s Michael, who forces you to look at him and really see him. There’s only black in his eyes. You sputter a disbelief, bracing. His mouth parts, tongue flicks across to gather more, leveling off into his jagged movements. He swells inside your cunt, dousing your walls in his warm cum.

He doesn’t leave you, not even when it’s over. He simply takes you with him. You aren’t sure where you get the courage to speak - body shaking and shivering.

“What... Michael, who are you?”

He cups a hand over your cunt, rolling onto his side, keeping you held to him. He lightly blows away a pesky lock of your hair, then maneuvers another behind your ear.

“I’m the man who’s going to save your wretched existence.”

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zarcake-writes · 3 years

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Berries and Cinnamon

I like Karl Heisenberg. And I was in the mood for something sweet, loving, and slightly sad. Enjoy!

The village is quiet as a bitter wind whistle past the rickety homes and down the muddy little side streets. Most of the houses are dark; only smoke rising from chimneys to show proof of inhabitance. The outline of Castle Dimitrescu is barely visible against the gloomy night sky.

Karl Heisenberg is alone on the muddy streets. The farm animals that usually roam the village during the day have retreated to the safety of their homes. While the cold weather keeps the villagers inside.

He curls his lip when he passes one of the houses. The smell of animals and wet hay is a scent he cannot grow accustomed to. Most of the village reeks; the stench of decaying wet wood and shit is so oppressive it clings to his coat. Personally, Karl finds the entire place to be an affront to his senses.

But worst is the people. Pious fools who consistently grovel and pray at the feet of Mother Miranda; yet cower in fear at the sight of the Lords.

Alcina revels in the fear. It feeds her massive fucking ego. Donna refuses to interact with any except for the few who work in her house. And Moreau is a disgusting freak whose only concern is the occasional validation that Mother Miranda may give. Karl, though, is not sure if he wants to be feared or validated.

A harsh wind blows past him, shaking the trees and nearly taking the hat off his head.

Snow is in the air. And with it, the promise of a harsh winter.

The human villagers have been in a panic about having enough food and supplies for the coming season. Karl has heard plenty of prayers, seen the offerings to Mother Miranda and the Lords in the tiny church. A few brave villagers even approached his factory at one point, asking for metal scrap.

Reluctantly, he gave them a few sheets of metal.

The humans of the village may fear the coming winter. In an attempt to survive, they give offerings to a Mother Miranda, a fake god. Their stoves are stacked with logs, and they cower under moth-bitten blankets hoping to see next spring. Karl does not share their fear.

He revels in the sensation of the cold slicing through his coat. Cold so sharp it reminds Karl of rust-coated metal. The frost-cold ground seeps through his mud-drenched boots. And as chilled wind bites his cheeks, Karl feels almost human.

Almost.

As Karl comes to the edge of the village that borders up to the forest, he stops. The woods are dark, and the path is barely visible through the overgrown brush and ever reaching trees. There are no lamps or torches to light the way. There is not even a sign. Yet, a trail of smoke rising above the trees comes from deeper within the forest.

He enters the dark forest. Immediately, his eyes adjust to the gloom. Similar to the village, the woods are quiet and cold. The trees creak in the wind as an owl screeches, causing every small creature to scuttle into the brush for safety.

Karl dislikes the forest almost as much as the village. There is not enough metal that sings for his touch. Not enough metal that is eager to bend beneath his command. The trees do not listen to him, roots do not break, and every fucking stone gets caught under the toe of his boot. The only good thing is the smell. But even then, the forest smells too pure. He feels like a trespasser.

The path ends in a small clearing with a small cabin in the center. It is surrounded by the remains of a wooden fence that fell to ruin long ago. A chicken coop is behind the house. Karl cannot stop himself from sneering at the smell of chicken shit. A small raised garden in the front of the house.

The cabin looks abandoned, but the black smoke climbing out of the chimney says otherwise.

Karl’s heart speeds up as he approaches the cabin. The stone pathway beneath his feet is new.

The metal lock on the door sings out to Karl. It would be easy for him to unlock the door using his powers, but he promised to stop doing that. The key in his pocket will do just fine.

Inside, the cabin is warm. The slow-burning fire in the fireplace casts the room in a golden light as shadows dance on the wall. The scent of mashed berries and cinnamon lingers in the air.

All the irritation and anger that was bubbling beneath Karl’s skin melts away. A single word comes to his mind: home.

The cabin is small but decorated by someone who loves their home. Pictures of people Karl does not know to hang on the walls. The faces are familiar, and he has heard their stories, but he cannot remember their names. Knick knacks and precious items linger in every part of the room.

On the opposite side of the room is a small makeshift kitchen area that is too small for one person. The stove is old and partially broken, but the sink and cabinets are new. A vase of flowers sits on the dining table. Next to the table are two chairs; one is partially pulled out, while the other is tucked away. A pang shoots through Karl when he notices the jacket and items piled on the unused chair.

A small couch sits in front of the fireplace. A blanket is lazily thrown over the back.

To his right is a partially opened bedroom door.

Karl shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the coat rack near the door. A familiar jacket is the only other coat hanging. His hat goes up next. And his boots are placed next to a pair of feminine boots.

The floorboards creak beneath Karl’s weight.

“Fuck, shut up,” he whispers.

The floorboards do not listen.

As Karl pushes open the bedroom door, the hinges squeak. He freezes, expecting the room’s occupant to wake up. But the room is quiet. And the form in the bed does not move. Behind him, the fire crackles.

The bedroom is small. The bed, which can barely fit two people, takes up most of the space. A pile of clothes lay on the floor near the foot of the bed. Paintings of the ocean and a field of flowers dot the walls. Karl has spent countless hours memorizing every swirl and color of the paintings.

Tucked into the bed is a woman. She’s buried beneath several layers of blankets. Karl can smell the lingering dust on them.

The mere glimpse of her makes his heart speed up, and his hands grow clammy.

For the longest time, Karl hated that she made him feel like a young man who has never been near a pretty girl. He hated the sweaty palms and word vomit he spluttered. He felt so weak that he decided to avoid her. But he couldn’t stay away for long, and he could not imagine chasing her off.

She shifts in bed but does not wake up.

Karl pulls off his shirt, tossing it into the pile near her bed. He winces at the noise his necklaces around his neck make. Even when set onto the bedside table, they still make a jingling noise. Even his belt clinks as he undoes it.

But still, the noises he seems to constantly make do not wake her. Karl is grateful.

Karl pulls the blanket back. She’s curled up on her side wearing a thread-worn nightgown. Carefully, Karl climbs into bed with her. He gets as close as he dares. The sweetness that clings to her skin is dizzying. He can't stop himself from reaching out and placing his arm on her waist.

She jolts at his touch and begins to move away. Karl hears her heartbeat speed up. He can smell the panic and fear already rising.

“Just me,” he rumbles in her ear.

She relaxes and leans into him. He feels the relief in her body.

“Karl,” she whispers.

He hums at the way she says his name. For the longest time, he detested his name. Karl. What the fuck is a Karl? Everyone else must agree that the name is terrible because no one calls him that, not even the family that Mother Miranda formed. Miranda herself hasn’t called him Karl since he was a child. For so long, he has been Lord Heisenberg.

But she calls him Karl. Karl. Karl. Karl. Karl. Whether she’s yelling at him, laughing with him, whispering to him in the darkness, or moaning his name with a reverence that should be saved for a church service, he loves how she says his name. He’s even begged her to never call him Lord Heisenberg, call him Karl. Only Karl. Karl. Karl.

“Karl?”

“Hm?”

“Did you hear me?”

“No.”

She rolls over in his arm to face him.

The orange glow of the fireplace slips through the cracked bedroom door, casting the faintest hint of light in the room. The curves and dips of her face are darkened, accentuating her features. The tip of her nose is highlighted, as is the plumpness of her cheeks. Her lips stand out the most. Karl has the urge to taste them, to taste her. But she can see the soft exhaustion in her eyes.

“I asked how your day was.”

It was shit, he thinks.

“Oh. It was fine,” he says.

Her eyes narrow. “Karl.”

He can’t keep her gaze. She knows him too well. Knows that when his jaw clenches, and he blinks twice that he is lying or avoiding the question.

But Karl can’t stop himself from lying to her about his day. He spent most of it with Mother Miranda and the other three Lords, so of course, it was a shit day. But he can’t tell her the truth because she will no doubt want to know why his day was shit. How can he tell her the religious leader of their village is a fucking cruel bitch? How would she react if he screamed about the other Lords? Moreau is fucking disgusting. And Angie is an annoying fucking freak. Not to mention the dick-cutting mega-bitch that is Alcina.

And worst is he can't explain to her that his shit interactions with the Lords and Mother Miranda were because of her.

All the Lords and most of the village know that Karl Heisenberg has a sweetheart he's trying to keep a secret. Angie asks irritating questions. Alcina gets this unhinged look in her eyes. While Mother Miranda is silent on the topic, but Heisenberg knows she is plotting something. He could see it with the slightest tilt of her head. The only one who doesn’t bother Karl is Moreau.

The sinister glint in Alcina’s eyes combined with Mother Miranda’s silence made Karl’s skin crawl. He knows they can hurt her, kill her, or experiment on her. Karl knows he needs to make some kind of claim on the woman in his arms before those two bitches can act.

Her hand cups his face, bringing Karl’s racing thoughts to a stop. He refuses to look at her. His face will reveal too much. She whispers his name, so soft and sweet, and he cannot refuse her anymore.

He meets her gaze, and she sees it all. The anger, hate, pain, and fear burned in him. But she does not push him away, only smiles and runs her thumb along his cheekbone. Her hands are gentle but worn from working in her garden behind the house.

“I will not pry for details, Karl. But you can be honest with me. I won’t judge you for having a bad day. We all have them.”

“I haven’t just had a bad day, sweetheart.” He clasps her hand that is still holding his cheek. “I’ve had a bad life.”

His voice cracks at the end. Body growing hot with embarrassment and fear of her judging him for the emotion that screams for release in his chest, Karl looks away. He cannot bear to see the rejection in her eyes.

But her silence is loud. Karl's ears begin to ring as his body grows hotter and hotter. He wants to scream for her to say something, anything. He wants her to push him away now for being a weak, broken man.

She does none of that. She sits up in bed, making sure to keep a hand on Karl, and readjusts her pillows. When she lays back down, she is sitting up. She smiles and opens her arms, welcoming him home.

Karl curls around her body, nuzzling his face into her chest. The tears in his eyes bleed onto her nightgown. If she feels the dampness grow on her chest or feel his trembling against her, she says nothing. She is silent as fingers moving gently against his skin. And slowly, the overwhelming emotion that nearly consumed Karl fizzles out until it is all gone.

“Your tits are soft,” he mumbles eventually.

She snorts. “Kind of like your gut.”

“Your tits aren’t hairy like my gut though.”

“And my tits are probably quieter. No grumbling from digestion.”

He hums in agreement. The only sound from her chest is the gentle beating of her heart.

“Go to sleep,” she whispers.

He opens his mouth to reply, but her fingers begin to move up and down his bareback. Nails that she keeps short and blunt leave soft trails along his back, taking care to ghost over the numerous scars. He can’t form a response, only hum at the sensation.

“Go to sleep, Karl,” she whispers again.

Her hands move up towards his head. She gently pulls at his hair, starting from the ends before pulling at the base of the strands. And with gentle fingers, she brushes through the knots in his hair, careful to not yank or hurt him.

Being in her arms is the closest thing Karl has ever been to having a home. Mother Miranda was no mother. And the other Lords are not his siblings. They are no family, just pawns that Mother Miranda will use as she pleases.

And used him she did. She took everything from him, turned him into a monster by making him perform terrible experiments. He’s numb to the monstrous things he has done and continues to do, that Karl does not feel human. Fuck, he hasn’t been human in so long.

But in this tiny cabin, in the arms of the woman he loves, Karl has a home and a family. And he feels human.

#karl heisenburg x reader #karl heisenberg #resident evil village #resident evil 8

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oh-theres-a-woman · 4 years

Text

Flowers in a Peaked Cap; Part One

A/N: Heres to attempt two at writing this author’s note… Let’s just say, I haven’t perfected the art of saving drafts. Note to self to actually find out how to make the draft before losing three solid paragraphs of rambling about the story… Sophie Points; Nil. Laptop/Internet Points; One. Welp, honestly internet and laptop have won a hell of a lot more than that. Just don’t remember how many times I’ve lost work because of not quite understanding how to post on here…. Safe to say I’m still a noob.

Any hoot! Enough rambling about that stuff.

After posting the first piece to this story; in the very very early hours of this morning. I couldn’t help but feel the massive urge to continue and work on the more of Tillie’s little adventure. It made me want to think about her as a person outside the relatives that we already know. What this girl’s goals are and ambitions. Unlike the rest of her family, I think she has a relatable amount of vulnerability and anxieties that are more from society’s working in the 1920s compared to her brothers; Arthur, Thomas and John that all suffer war-related mental illness and scars.

Actively she’s a romantic escapist that wants to make her brothers and aunt proud. Making a name for herself in the means of writing and exploring the tales that are brewed from the memories of old days.

In the progression of this story, I want to be able to explore the growth in Tillie as a young woman. The stepping out of her brothers’ shadows and coming into her own. Growing into a more confident young woman that could be from meeting new people like in this chapter and moving away from her fears.

I do see romance in this story, something like and full of all the trend first experience one faces at one stage or another. In terms of smut, I’d think it’s lighter and would be something that is worked towards. Tillie to me doesn’t seem rather lust-driven. So, it’ll happen if it does, and if not; its simply because Tillie Shelby isn’t interested in that sort of thing.

Important note; I’ll be working on organising the Taglist a little more throughout my next few posts. Please notify me if you’re interested in anything specifically and want tags there or if you mind just being on the general tag list and included in every story I post. Thank you!!!

Requested By; @csigeoblue

Parts; [ Prologue ]

Taglist; @zodiyack, @itsfrancisneptun, @amys-small-world, @fandom-fucking-shit, @hesagod-notyet, @hinagiku0, @dylanlover24, @amirahiddleston, @a-dorky-book-keeper, @theamuz, @csigeoblue, @smallheathgangsters, @beautycinders

Word Count; 1400

Watery Lane wasn’t the play that supported the wild fantasy’s of Tillie Shelby, but the little bookshop that was filled with many hopefuls or lads that were born a little more well off collectively grouped together. Reading the stories they wrote. This gathering was apparently one that caught the attention of the paper since the known publishers and well-off lads from another book club around England had found themselves doing a sort of travel for their source material.

Since the profile of this club of prolific writers had taken interest in the area of Small Heath and its inhabitants. Inviting upstart writers or aspiring tellers to come and meet them. So, onward the youngest Shelby strolled until she pulled open the door of the quaint little bookshop. The signal of her arrival was the sound of her kitten heels and the ringing of the bell on the door. Doe-like blue eyes that were like the crystal-clarity of the purest of water found themselves settling on a group of well-dressed gentlemen. Her eyes flicker between some faces she knew of Small Heath, most of them being the arseholes she went to school with and thought themselves privy to a better life.

It wasn’t that Tillie didn’t believe they weren’t welcome to it. Mostly, it was the way they treated people in order to get there the young woman didn’t quite agree with. She was rather foolish coming to her though since her brother’s had a very vision about how the Shelby family should be seen. Their measures to getting things done with it were also less than admirable. Perhaps, it was the fact that Billy Bronson, James Fitz and Joe Gilbert made hers and Finn’s school life a living hell one way or another. But, it also made it seem extremely unfair to talk to their older brothers about what happened. Since most knew better than to fuck with the kin of the Peaky Blinders.

Plooms of cigarette smoke clouded in the air, filling the bookstore with a spiced herbal infusion and rippled tailored sticks of tobacco. Moving her gaze from the lads she knew; to the new arrivals. The youngest of the Shelby mob offered a little smile. “Is there room for one more?” Tillie finally spoke up, pulling her book that contained the novel she had poured hours and hours over. Smiling hopefully. Arms hugging the expensive leather made book that her brothers banded together in the hopes for a lovely birthday present in the days before the war.

Hoping that she’d fill in with various things she enjoyed to draw, but instead, Tillie hadn’t touched it until she was old enough to respect things. Asking Aunt Pol to help her keep in a safe place until then. Scraps of paper were best for sketches in any case.

Eyes ever hopeful looked at the posher sort, some seemed wary until a certain collared lad smiled and offered a little nod then the place he’d been sitting. Away from the boys that seemed to make life a little more bothersome. “Thank you,” she whispered, settling down in the seat. Resting the book down on her lap before looking to the other lads who straightened their composure.

“We were all about to introduce ourselves since we’ve never travelled outside of London for such a meeting before. Yet, it seemed like a brilliant idea when bought up. Birmingham seemed like the best place, so raw and thrilling. Small Heath alone.” Spoke finally a lad in a handsome waist-coat, the colouring of coal, stiff collar and matching suit made her think of it being something her brother; Tom would wear. Only on the best occasions, or when he was dressing-to-impress. Unlike Thomas, this lad had handsome hazel eyes, the slightest tan to his skin like he enjoyed the frolicking on the beach. His name was Walter, but everyone called him, Walt.

“Even the presence of criminal activity and organisations like the Peaky Blinders, it does make the area a prize for writing. Wouldn’t you agree, lads,” spoke up for eccentric Norman, who took delight in the thing that only made Tillie smile in a measure of great awkwardness. The name seemed to follow her everywhere she went, and there was a measure of awkwardness for that. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t quite mean to be so rude, it’s just you don’t seem the sort to know much on that end, too kind and pretty, huh?” Norm covered himself for any form of rudeness that could have been interpreted.

Only causing a polite little lowering of her head, as her hands wrapped anxiously around her book’s spine. Before relaxing at the conversation drifting off elsewhere. Sobering to the notion that the following cough from Joe Gilbert had goosebumps appearing on her arms. Causing a vast amount of discomfort in the young woman. Tillie traded glances with the nicer of the Londoner’s; Robert. Whom quickly coughed to get things back on track.

“In any case, back to the introductions. We shouldn’t dwell too long on the story topics if we’ve lacked the proper course of introduction. Shall I start?” Robert spoke up, settled against set up for the purpose of meetings. “My name is Robert Augustine, myself and these other gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the others in the group of London lads.

“Are from a collective of young men that wish to write and publish arts. Never before have we had a lady join us, but surely in this modern world we’d be able to welcome the bright minds of femininity amongst us. After all, lady authors are blooming into the publishing world more and more with each generation.” His words seemed to still the anxiousness within her soul at the agreement of his other companions. Looking forward to seeing a hand extended to her, Robert allowed her to stand. The mix of coarseness and softness met between the two palms meet.

Holding her book, Tillie looked down smiling a little at her feet. Hugging her book to her chest, like it was the most precious thing to her. That was… Because it truly was the thing that held so much value to her heart. Her right hand still gently in the hold of the Londoner, cheeks lightly warming. “I’m Tillie Shelby, and I like to write about my brothers, their stories before the war. When we were kids,” she lit up sweetly talking of her brothers. Her hand and Robert’s naturally finding it parting, before he settled in his spot by the desk. Arms folding at his chest with a little smile.

“Would you be willing to share any of those stories?” Robert asked in a light voice. Tillie could only think of one response.

“Would I ever,” she beamed with a presence that seemed to warm the room and the quiet little shop around them. Settling down into her seat once more, she didn’t think about when the others were introducing themselves. Instead, she found herself lost within stories. The more whimsical tales of lads that laughed and partied. Or the ones that filled with a warmth that made her think of the family that suppressed or lost who they were before the war. Among them, none had known those woes and horrors.

They’d seen things happen on the outside. Felt the absence of a brother, father, uncle or grandfather that either died or lost what kept to their memory that their younger-selves recalled. Tillie was young then. Merely a baby in some regard. But she couldn’t ever forget the days of laughter, wherein night terrors; her heroes would just come up and curl into the undersized cot she called a bed. Soothing their fingers along with the softness of infant or child hairs–that had yet to understand dryness or damage.

When business didn’t entirely rule the Shelby family but happened in the background. Those were her tales. The tales of rawness and loss from a different scene. Where her brothers; the men who took over the role of an absent father, became; fathers, uncles, older brothers and best friends. And… Pol became the only mother she ever knew and remembered. Her voice spoke of the volumes to family values and how terrible things broke people. Yet, she never uttered their names aloud.

Only recording them within her mind when she read the tales that meant something to one of her brothers. Art. Tom. John.

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dansedan · 4 years

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greetings as promised here is... chapter two lol

II.

When he joined the order, Jonathan Edgar Quiffrey thought he’d finally found a cushy job- privacy, quiet camaraderie, a well-stocked library and decent meals- somewhere he could diligently putter on existing without concern for his past or his… bodily absences. But then he got sold off to America, and it all came tumbling down around him. No more Friar Brian sneaking him the Classics, dreary English summers with the light stinking breeze of the Thames flowing about, or Mozart hymnals on the proper organ, just… well a whole lot of dust, so far. Dust and Julius Stevenson.

It felt a little like Déja-vu, so close to the process of the erstwhile marriage of his girlhood: the dowry payment, the journey off away from home, the strange man now responsible for his well-being (although Sir Ernest Doyle had nothing on young Stevenson and his incredibly frustrating, rugged, naïve charms). His companion (really owner, if he could admit it) was shockingly tall, tan and well-built, like some clay study excavated from the studio of one of the renaissance masters and set loose amongst horses and cowpoke. He cut a sleek silhouette, broader at the top only slightly, sure and steady legs extending for eternity, deliciously straight and suggestively muscular under his dress-pants. He had the luxury of a soft and satiated gut, but muscle too, from farmhand work, most likely. Stevenson the older was a cattle rancher off in the deep southwest, an enterprising immigrant who had managed to deepen his pockets with American money, and apparently a fellow Englishman. His son carried little of that nationality in his appearance- silky, thick, black hair betraying his native claim to American land, though cut and parted in an overformal Europeanized style. He had striking eyes, deep black and shining with a healthy dampness that made them twinkle. Quiffrey had to fight to ignore them as they followed him during their daily hubbub, dig his face into his bible or fuss around with the saddle and its million ties and protrusions.

He’d open random pages, dig through them to find stories, ideas any remembrance to replace the rumbling panic of the stare burning at his cheek. If nothing else, he supposed at least this trip gave him the opportunity to earn his title- how long had it been since he had studied the actual bible this hard?

It was always interesting, that moment of opening a page at random and having to commit to it, a sense of irony and of communication. Always different, too- you had your classics:

“God so loved the world, that he gave us his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” which was harmless, even comforting. But then along came:

“Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself- and Jonathan made a covenant with David because he loved him as himself” which quite frankly had caused him to erupt into a fit of coughs at seeing it appear on his only barrier against Stevenson’s broad and undressed back, as they prepared for bed in a hotel one night. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, it was dangerous, especially with- “ Jonathan took off the robe he was wearing and gave it to David, along with his tunic, and even his sword, his bow, and his belt.” More than the skin and name, that witnessless wedding, by standards of their people. “I am my beloved and my beloved is me.” The simple exchange of valued material, the faith of near nudity.

Though always the sting at the back of his mind- “it is abomination”- as disconnected as he was from the sanctity of things, it wasn’t terribly enjoyable to hear that from what was ostensibly his boss (as much as a sheaf of paper could be a living man’s superior, he supposed). Still, there was “above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins.” Which… well, he’d better hope it does, at this rate.

The journey itself is fine- they have travelled with more than enough comforts so far, only a few nights in the desert itself- and despite the distance still left to cover he’s been able to work a little here and there, to work enough. And the work is easy, the path is easy as long as the study is constant, and it is for him, because the constancy is comforting. It comes easy, and even leagues away from home he’d rarely had to do anything outside his habits.

The issue was not the dessert- the issue was Stevenson.

He was in no way a bad man- much the opposite, he was open, stoic, quiet- but god, so obvious, in a way only sheltered young men can be. That bread-and-butter upbringing that knows not guilt or artifice more elegant that lying about one’s curfew or feeding scraps to the dog under the table. Quiffrey did not know if he would survive months more of his constant, open staring, jittery grazes overly charged when trying to pass along firewood or supplies, or his new and inconvenient little habit of attaching himself onto his back during his homilies.

It was all so loud, so naturally possessive, that it took a rather terrible effort to constantly refuse the urge to shake the younger man about like a ragdoll, insisting that he notice he was on a holy mission and maybe ogling a strange older man the whole time wasn’t really part of the process? That maybe he should have some shame about being ragingly possessive over a man he had spoken about ten sentences to in all the time they’d spent together and also did he remember the man was a bloody catholic priest and what sort of insane cocktail of lack of self-awareness and intimidating bravado was necessary to just naturally assume that there was both nothing wrong with the situation and also that he had no say in it and just had to go along? And maybe, maybe if he was going to ignore all of those glaring contradictions and faux-passes the least he could do is not suddenly turn bashful the moment he started to respond at all? Because, as much as he’d pushed himself to ignore it, it was Stevenson’s response to any attempt at a friendly exchange that had pushed the frustration from mild offense at some lonely kid perhaps projecting onto him as feminine to a baffled awareness that the whole thing was serious, or god, at least too real to ignore. That speech in the coper’s house which was supposed to be a thanks, a playful payback, something to both break and further distance them, had suddenly become a sign of something dangerously close.

“and god is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear” maybe it was heretical but that sounded like absolute fucking bollocks right about now. In a priory, working through manuscripts and studying and helping out with mass he could stand perfectly happy to ignore his living body. It was part of the job description, part of the choice he’d made to devote to it, but it was also what had landed him here- pious, immutable, well-studied brother Jonathan, of course he could do well on a mission. But it was different here. It was different in the campgrounds between cities, where the vastness of the frigid dessert left both men as lonely players on an empty stage. Utterly alone, feeling naked before the permanent glance that hung between them, then impossible to ignore or brush off as coincidence. Even turned away from each other, on opposite ends of a meagre fire, the sandstone felt like a feather-bed with his awareness of his partner’s movements, the mind creating dips, waves and undulations in the surface where there were none. Even the other man’s breathing, the soft unconscious grunts of effort spared in unknown dreams.

“let us be not like others, who are asleep, but let us be awake and sober” Quiffrey spent enough nights wide awake. Wide, wide awake, with only holy words and silence as his cover.

Until even that was yanked away from him- or rather, stolen.

#reluctant cowboys #my writing #my art

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venactricisfics · 4 years

Text

Malibu Desert

A night out

@lonelyheart75 @audrie-bryant

Mayans Based Story. Adult Content

Master List

Eighteen

After coffee and breakfast at Vicki’s, she wouldn’t hear of us eating out when she had plenty, I climbed on the back of Bishop’s bike and we rode into town. The gates of the scrap yard rattle open and we pull through.

“It’s still standing,” I comment as I take my helmet off. “I’m almost surprised.”

“So am I,” he takes my hand and we walk up the steps to the clubhouse. “I just need to take care of a few things.”

I give his cheek a peck before releasing his hand, “Hurry or we may end up with a hot pink tufted couch.”

“Don’t rush me, woman,” he says, “I will put my dirty boots on your pink couch.” He shoots me a wink then steps behind the stained glass door. I open my computer and remove the overly feminine options from my Pinterest board. I didn’t doubt Bishop for a second. I also wanted to make the new place /our/ place. Our home together. If he could compromise on Harley art and leather I could meet him in the middle. I love him more than any piece of furniture. Though I think I could squeeze that pink sofa in my new beauty room.

“Yo Malibu,” I lift my eyes from my screen hearing Angel’s voice call out, “Bish wants you.”

“In there?” I glance through the stained glass. In all the time I’d dated Bishop I hadn’t walked past the stained glass. I respected him and the club too much to go uninvited.

“Yeah in there, that’s where he’s at,” Angel responds, his words oozing annoyance.

“Asshole,” I say as I walk timidly through the door. The decor was pretty much what I expected. A long table surrounded by big wooden chairs. I fought back the urge to run my fingers over the table’s artwork.

“Sit,” Bishop motioned to the empty chair between Hank and Creeper. He had his Presidente voice on when he spoke. It was firm, controlling, if I’m honest with myself it excited me. I pushed that thought away, I was called in here to talk business. I take a seat after Angel pulls it out. It was almost daunting having all those eyes aimed in my direction.

“We voted,” Bishop says, voice still booming. “We can cut you in for 10%.”

I quirk a brow, “While I appreciate you agreeing to include me in the business. I’ve already spoken to Vicki and sweetheart, that number seems a little low to me.” Trying to keep my face just as stoic. “I’m fronting all the new expenses and providing all the new connections.” He leans over whispering to Taza then looks to Riz.

“Can you talk to Vicki and get her to kick in part of her cut?” he asks.

“I think she will be ok with that,” Riz answers.

“Then I think we can get you up to 20%,” Bishop states.

“I can settle for 25%,” I respond, “as long as the girls don’t feel the brunt of that cut.” I couldn’t quite read Bishop’s expression. Did I overstep? No, it was more than fair. Vicki and her girls get the majority, the club gets a cut for their protection, and I was kicking in all the costs for remodeling and medical.

“Done,” he picks the massive hammer up and slams it down. Adjourning the meeting. I blink, then blink again.

“That’s it?” I ask, standing as he stands.

“Not much more to discuss,” his face finally relaxes and he gives me a smile as we step back into the bar, his arm draped over my shoulders.

“You’re different in there,” I say as I slip my arm around his waist.

“I have to have my shit together, hermosa,” he tells me, “I earned their respect, I have to make sure that I keep it.”

“I like it,” I lean in keeping my voice low, “your Presidente voice is very hot.”

“Very hot, Bish,” Angel says behind me, “makes my dick hard every time.” I respond to his comment with an elbow to his stomach. “Aw shit,” he responds blocking his stomach from any other blows, “Bish your ole la…” he pauses seeing the look on my face,” your girl is assaulting me.”

“I got no problem with it,” Bishop replies then walks with me to the table with my computer still set up. I show him everything I’d picked out. He agreed with most. I compromised the big fluffy couch for a dark brown leather. And he let me go with the canopy bed with twinkle lights.

“We can have it all delivered and set up by the end of the week,” I start punching in my credit card information.

“I can’t let you buy it all, querida,” he says, taking a sip from his bottle.

“We’re buying it,” I tell him, “I’m just putting my card number.” I rest my hand on his thigh, “If it makes you feel better you can pay for the movers. I got a lot of shit that has to be packed and moved.” He nods and leans pressing his lips to mine.

“Bish,” EZ says standing across the table from us, “I got that thing you wanted done.”

“Thanks, son,” he said, then turned his attention back to me, “You ready to get out of here for a while, querida?”

“Sure,” I responded standing up with him walking out to the front, “Where are we going?”

“Just get on the fucking bike,” he states with a slight smile, “Stop asking questions.” He hands me my helmet. I swing my leg over the bike and rest my hands on his side. “You’re lucky I like it when you’re bossy,” I respond.

We rode out of the city and up into the mountains, to a part of Santo Padre I’d never seen before. The view was awe-inspiring. He helps me off the bike and leads me to a blanket that was spread out over the grass. A picnic basket in the corner.

“It’s beautiful,” I say after settling down with him, “I don’t deserve you.”

He rests his hand on my cheek, “You deserve so much more than me. I’m a fucking biker. I am grateful you ever gave me a second glance.”

“I couldn’t help but notice you on your loud as fuck motorcycle,” I smile locking my gaze with his, “waking me up at all hours.”

“Leave my bike alone, querida,” he says, “I know that bike better than I know your body.” His hand ghosting down my arm making me tremble.

“I’ll take your word for that,” I whisper as I move closer to him, my lips hovering just a breath from his, “you seem to know my body so well.”

“Yes, mi amor,” he presses his lips to mine briefly, “I know you’re hungry, you didn’t eat much at Vicki’s this morning.”

“Then I hope this basket isn’t just for show,” I kiss him back then reach for the basket. It wasn’t just for show, it was filled with steak tortas, chips and salsa, and churros filled with chocolate. It was all delicious.

I slid out of my shoes and let my toes feel the sand beneath my feet as I took in the view. The sun dips on the horizon. Everything from the scenery to the man was perfect. A gentle breeze blows my hair around my face. I turn back smiling as he snaps a picture of me with his phone. I walk back towards him, “Let me see?” He swipes through the shots he took.

He gives me a meaningful look, “Take your shirt off.”

“Here? Now?” I raise a brow.

He nods, “Your skin glows in the moonlight.”

“That’s because I’m pale,” I give him a smile. I glance about realizing we’re in the middle of nowhere, I pull my shirt up over my head and lay it on the blanket beside him. He watches me, eyes dark.

“Now your pants,” Bishop says. I pop the button of my jeans and shimmy them down my hips. His gaze moves over me, as erotic as though it was his touch. He raises up on his knees, his hands cup my hips and his lips press against my stomach. His tongue dances over the waistband of my purple satin panties and he grabs me tighter. My fingers lace through his hair when he inches lower, sucking my clit through my satin panties before peeling them down my legs. Bishop’s hands returned to my hips holding me steady as he ran the flat of his tongue along my slit. I let out a moan as the sensation courses through my body. If he weren’t holding me I would have floated away. My muscles tense and I start to tremble, but he continues probing me with his tongue.

“I’m …” I couldn’t finish the thought before my release rushed over me, my legs shaking and I couldn’t stand. Bishop guides me to lay on the blanket. He trails kisses back up my stomach and then my chest and up my neck. He whispers in my ear with a groan, “I love the way you taste.”

My cheeks still flush at his words, I brush my thumb over his cheek, “I love you, Bishop.”

“Do you, hermosa, or just because I made you cum,” he smirks, “twice.”

“That’s a bonus,” I pressed my lips to his, I moaned, tasting myself on his lips. His leather felt cool pressed to my heated skin. I tug at his belt and my hand slips inside, stroking him.

“You find something you want?” he asked, smirk still tugging at his lips.

“Are you going to give it to me?” I try to push his pants down as he settles between my thighs. He hooks my leg over his arm as he drives into me.

“You know I will,” he groans as he picks up his pace. My hands move over the leather of his kutte then grip tight on his firm shoulders. My hips move to meet his thrusts. I tremble beneath him as my mind goes blank as waves of pleasure flow through every cell in my body. He fixes his eyes with mine before his lips crash into mine at his release.

He rests his forehead against mine as he comes down from his high. I smile as his wallet chain brushes against my bare thigh, “Why am I practically naked out here and you are still fully clothed?”

Bishop smiles, pressing a kiss to my forehead, “I’m just fucking lucky.”

“Damn right,” I smile back at him before pressing my lips to his. “Take me home and we can get naked together.”

#bishop losa #obispo losa #bishop x reader #bishop x oc #mayans mc #mayans smut #soa #sons of anarchy

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twitchesandstitches · 3 years

Note

I am kinda curious to see Tia interact with either Viomira or Ricca Mosley during one of these cycles, and what would happen.

“I heard that Miss Tia wasn’t feeling well,” said Ricca Mosley, walking carefully across the rickety drawbridges connecting the islets of land on the swampy region they’d been called to.

Viomira shook her head, thick hair swishing about on her shoulders. “She gets sick easy, I think, but that’s not the problem.”

Mosley kept going; she was a tall and curvaceous woman, built on broadly the same door-smashing lines as Viomira herself, but unlike the elf woman, she had declined to put on clothing suited towards a swampy region. She was starting to regret it, and struggling to keep the mud from taking a high-heeled shoe right off her foot. “Then, what is?”

“Um.” Viomira blushed deeply. “She goes through… cycles. Like heats. And ruts.”

“You make her sound like a beast.”

“She acts like it, sometimes.” Viomira’s tone was strange and thoughtful, a longing tone at the edges of her words. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her painted lips settled into a soft smile at the thought.

Mosley swallowed. She thought of the… bulk of the horde heroine she insisted on calling Miss Tia in a show of deference (as the mega corp she worked for operated on the lands of Tia’s clan, and thus she was their immediate superior, and she was nothing if not concerned with proper hierarchy, to Tia’s own amusement), and her face colored brightly.

Beside them, the water bubbled and rose. Pink light began to shine, writhing and twisting like longing hands moving towards them.

“We’re just… checking on her,” Viomira said, an urgency in her voice, as if she needed to find her now. And Mosley recalled that Viomira tended to be suddenly unavailable at regular intervals, and suspected that she knew the reason why.

Behind them, the water parted. A massive, humanoid and extremely feminine shape arose, and as an enormous tail curled away and rose up, both women noticed a strong and beguiling smell, and a potent need coursing towards them, a longing hunger crying at them to be sated.

Both women turned, the presence right behind them too intense to ignore.

The sun was filtered through the thick canopy of the forested wetland about them, and it gave a strange quality to the massive body now before them, slowly striding towards them. Skin, as black as latex, shimmered and sparkled faintly where the water sluiced off its massive form. ‘Curvaceous’ was a minor thing for such a tremendous body as this; breasts jiggled faintly in a crude bikini, dipping down nearly to her thighs, so massive that they were their own presence, teardrop-shaped and projecting out nearly as much as the giantess herself was tall.

And she was tall. As she approached, her sheer mass providing its own presence, both the women on the land barely came up to above her knees, overwhelmed by just how huge she was.

Her broad body, a fertile and plump shape made even broader by incredibly massive hips nearly twice as wide as the rest of her, approached with a patient slowness belied by the intensity boiled from the figure. Her black skin was marked by a number of nubby crests and dorsal projections along her back and shoulders, running down a massive tail twisting furiously behind her, all of them venting heat. Barely visible panels in her skin opened up, like biological air conditioners, and continuously pumped out excess plumes of heat as she came closer, so that she was surrounded by an aura of neon lights: pinks and blues, greens and purples, mixing together in a frantic glow as she drew closer, and closer.

They could smell her as she drew closer, and they felt the hunger, the passionate need, swelling out from her as she patiently crawled up the sides of the islet. Enormous thighs, so thick that their powerful muscles were hard to see clenching as they propelled her up, flexed minutely when she stepped upwards.

Her neck was long and thick, serpentine. Her face, framed within a mass of pink tentacles and sheets of pseudo-hair that descended down to the waters, beamed in relief and delight at them. Her eyes looked different, Mosley thought through a haze of intense attraction that made it difficult to think. A bit glazed over, dulled.

Tia came closer. The shorts girding her thighs and massive backside flexed, strained by a massive weight they couldn’t make out. Her smell was potent, alluring, and Mosley swallowed again, wavering on the spot. Oh, oh. She was… gorgeous. She couldn’t shake the sudden idea that Miss Tia would be the ideal father of her children, and a nagging thought came across her; an awareness of her own fertility, her own capability to carry Miss Tia’s offspring or eggs or even her duplicates, however her breeding impulses shook out…

Goodness. The thoughts crossing her mind, at the thought of the approaching monster-woman’s massive breasts and improbably sexual bulk, were so… lewd.

Tia stepped fully onto the land, waves of fertile energy pulsing out from them; both Viomira and Mosley could feel her transformative powers altering them, somehow, though there was no visible change they could see. Inside, their wombs were supercharged, insides subtly altered to most effectively receive Tia’s seed, the speed of gestation increased, their bodies adapting for the likely weight of inhuman levels of pregnancy.

Mosley felt her mouth water and her stance loosen as Tia drew closer, her evident need coursing at them like a siren’s call. Finally a massive foot stopped gently near her, and she looked up the massive shape of a monstrously huge thigh, and she felt an urge to scale it, or hug it, or squeeze herself into the semi-scaly skin just to see how it felt.

“Girls~!” Tia said brightly, leaning down slightly. Her breasts rose above them and descended, and both of them took a step back from the sloshing weights settling into the mud. “You came for me?”

Viomira stepped forward and hugged her, sinking her arms around the closest breast she could find. She nearly vanished into it, it was so soft and squishy. “Oh, I got your message about your annual cycle, and I couldn’t possibly stay away!”

Mosley weakly said, “I… suppose I can understand why…”

Tia turned to look at her, her expression brightening. There was a faint tearing sound. Mosley wondered what it was, and she saw scraps of clothing falling away from Tia’s thighs, torn apart by a monstrous weight.

Hopefully, Tia held her arms out, eyes wide with a desperation, a hopeful longing; it was a strange combination, but Mosley just didn’t have it in her to dismiss it. “Please, oh please let me love you both!”

Carefully, a bit timid, Mosley took one proffered hand; it was big enough to pick up her midsection, the fingers clumsy and suckered, but it was also very soft and gently shaped. Viomira simply swerved herself into the other hand, with an excited need that matched Tia’s, though coming from the opposite side, so to speak. Not to give, but to receive.

With a happy roar, Tia picked them both up. Her hair tentacles extended outwards, wrapping around their bodies, and with her sensitivity ramped up by the influence of Tia’s presence, Mosley moaned softly as the fluid tendril wrapped around the base of her large breasts, curling around her shoulder and into the base of her hair.

Destructive energies flooded out; it was the same power that could unmake castles or annihilate the most fearsome weapons, and it seemed Tia had the destruction of clothing in mind. Their outfits unfolding; fabric dissolved into a mass of threads that fell away, underwear came apart in much the same way, and their buttons and zippers, falling into the muck, made faint splashing noises. The air was cool, but Tia’s body, suddenly pressed so firmly against them as she slid them downwards, was so warm. Viomira panted and slid against Tia’s slick skin, and Mosley’s head spun. Goodness! How could someone’s body be so… perfectly erotic, so monstrously delightful?

Tia turned them about, so that they were both bent over, and so Mosley got only a glimpse of Tia’s current flavor in genitalia; a cluster of tentacles emerging from between her legs. A different kind from her hair tendrils, they were black as the rest of her and enormously thick, some as big across as Tia’s thighs: well over four feet wide, and as some curled out across Mosley’s stomach to brace between her breasts, longer than she was tall.

That was going inside her? A part of her mind not presently addled by lust thought: how?

She swallowed in mingled bewilderment and awe as one such tentacle slithered near her face. The head of it swelled out, though not much compared to the heft of the rest, brightening to green colors and faintly glowing. The whole thing was big enough for her to use as a mattress, and as it pressed against her in examination, she realized it was far softer and flexible than she’d expected. Her body sank into it. It was a lot more pliable than she expected.

Tia’s hair tendrils extended around her and Viomira, gracing their bodies. Up and down they slid, hot and delicate with little loving touches. On their sides, tracing little randomized patterns up to their breasts and onto their bellies. While it was plain that Tia’s desire was to simply rut with wild abandon, she still thought to rev them up.

Tia held them with her hands, gently and the suckers on her fingers and palms pressing at them, kissing at their breasts and arms. Little suppering smooches, pressing deeply and wetly. Viomira and Mosley, almost as a pair, sighed and gasped with each kiss.

It went on; not for long, and the fires were soon set ablaze in the both of them, and Mosley found herself sliding urgently, her body seemingly moving on its own, demanding to be filled.

Tia made a soft roaring noise in response.

Mosley gasped as something massive filled her. Slick and hot, with such suddenness that it was a shock. Genital tentacles, several of them, slid into her, and she made soft noises as the little nubs lining their sides moved against her insides just right to be pleasurable.

Goodness they were so big! They were bigger than she was!

Tia’s hips rose and fell, sliding her tentacles in and out of Viomira and Mosley, squeezing them with greater passion and enthusiasm. In and out; hips slamming up and down, into them.

Mosley’s eyes rolled back into her head as waves of pleasure inhibited conscious thought, and inside her, the tentacles did not ejaculate, but oozed reproductive fluids, pooling deeper into her in ways impossible for more conventional methods. She barely noticed her stomach beginning to swell, but it felt amazing, a slow, lovely burn, a sense of mounting satisfaction.

Tia wasn’t done yet, of course. She cried out, a mix of frustration and longing, and she kept sliding, in and out.

And she continued to do so, for hours.

She established a rhythm. She pulled and pushed the women, as she thrusted with increasingly powerful and deep strokes, grooming and loving them with the softest of touches, all coupled with decidedly inhuman purrs and rumbles. Her breasts swung up and down, blocking out the sunlight for the two women.

Viomira vibrated with delight, her sexual cravings fully awakened by the potent heat of Tia. Her brown belly swelled outwards, reaching towards the ground, roundness surprisingly firm with how packed it was with both reproductive fluids and the distended bulges Tia’s alien genitalia made in her body.

Mosley rode the ones inside her, gripping them tightly with her thighs, letting them drive in and out, sliding even deeper into her and expanding to get even bigger, each swell of growth coupled with an explosion of heat inside her, and her belly packing more into itself.

Both women, in their particular ways, adored what Tia did with them, doing their best to keep up with their loving leviathan; their stamina didn’t last that long, though, and even though Viomira was much more experienced at this, soon enough she simply lay back and rode the tide, and Mosley clung on for dear life, clenching like she was trying to force as much of Tia’s astounding monster-dicks into herself as possible.

There was no thought, for either of them. Just the insatiable pleasure of the moment.

Their bellies grew bigger as the hours went by, and Tia’s lust began to be satisfied.

And when she was done, and she pulled them up into proper cuddles as she lay down, their bellies were massively distended, and firm, already beginning to resolve into a mixture of eggs and chimeric young.

Tia planted heavy kisses on the both of their faces, beaming contentedly.

Mosley and Viomira were already passed out by this point, but subconsciously, they appreciated the gesture.

#replies #fics #twitchy!ocs #other people's ocs #twitchy!tiashar #queued #heimkoheimkofan

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titaniaintheflesh · 4 years

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Say “No” To the Nobility

I originally wrote this for a short story assignment in my creative writing class, but I scrapped it and decided to write something else. Anyway, here’s a short story. enjoy:)

Say “No” To the Nobility

by J.J. Oliveira

The first thing the girl noticed when she awoke was the scent of the damp earth and cinnamon. Later, she would discover that the cinnamon was there, not as a result of any nearby cinnamon trees, but because the mushroom goblins used the powder to color their caps a brick red. She had no memory of ever arriving in the forest, or indeed any memory at all. The girl was cocooned in a swath of green moss, and her hair had been braided with white lilies and peach blossoms. She opened her mouth to ask where she had been taken, but felt as though her tongue had been stuck down with cobwebs, and though she had parted her lips, she could not speak. Still, the girl struggled, mouth open as she silently pleaded with the small beings carrying her to set her down. The girl could feel their soft hands pressing into her back, six pairs of them, all running at an equal gait across the forest floor as they struggled to reach their destination.

The girl rolled her head around helplessly, as it was the only part of her body that had not been constrained by her mossy prison. There were little moon faces peering from behind the trees, little mushroom goblins turning up their caps and staring at her with beady eyes brimming with curiosity or scorn. Little beams of colorful light, some unfolding from within the bloom of a flower, stretching languidly to shake off their slumber, and others riding falling leaves, sharp teeth all in view. Little pixies and goblins shaking twigs out of their hair to catch a glimpse of the drowsy human swaddled in moss. She gazed back at them half in fear, for she could do nothing but watch them watch her, carried silent and immobile through the forest.

The sky was dark overhead, little pinpricks of light cutting holes through the blackness of the night sky, but the forest gave no inclination of the time. There hung lanterns and strings of strange light with no justifiable source, for there was no flame, and no electricity, but the lights were there all the same. Yellow or white in hue, and covering every tree in sight. The girl tried to cry, but felt nothing in her eyes but the sting of oncoming tears. As she was carried through the forest more creatures emerged from the wilderness, fauns and strange women with skin made of bark, and vines in place of hair. They regarded her with an alien calm, these fae had curious features, elongated and sharp, with long ears protruding from the side of their heads, and the occasional pair of horns or a tail.

The fauns did not look hungry when they grinned and bared their fangs in greeting, not as cruel or cold as the pixies and nymphs were. The fauns stood hesitantly on their cloven hooves, as if their own humanity was reaching out to her, was it empathy she saw in their eyes, or pity? Could she even distinguish one from the other? They were the most human in the crowd of fae, and the girl begged them with her eyes as she passed each of them, but none made a move to step forward or cut her free, they closed their eyes against her pleas and retreated behind the trees.

The fae began to whisper among themselves, in a strange tongue with harsh consonants and complex guttural syllables. They all crowded together past a tall arch made of two living trees, some clothed in rich embroidered fabrics, donning gold or silver bangles and circlets, while others were naked. This was the faery court, the girl knew it before she entered. The fae stood at twice her height, eyes nearly completely enveloped by their irises, which varied in hue from purest black to bright violet. The fae were diverse, bearing strange tattoos, and clothing of all models. They separated into different clusters, though the girl could not say what exactly separated them. The one unifying trait was their gaze, filled with something halfway between restrained curiosity and haughty indifference.

She turned her eyes skyward and the girl could see the faery city. The trees were living, that much was clear from the bright green leaves that formed the canopy, but they had been carved hollow. Trees like apartment buildings scattered throughout the city, rope bridges and carved staircases connecting them to each other. Faery’s easily walked across narrow paths, some 200 feet from the floor. The forest floor had been paved with round grey stones, patches of flowers housing pixies strategically placed to keep fae from straying from the path. The girl was lain down on a patch of clover before two gnarled wooden thrones. They were both husks of what must have been two beautiful yew trees. Branches woven together formed a gilded peak above the owners of the thrones, though both were empty. The caps who had been carrying her knelt silently, and the rest of the court soon followed suit.

Rise.

The moss that held her limbs bound as tightly as rope disintegrated as the girl stood. She was naked, and some small voice in her said that she should be ashamed of it, but she stood before all of faery court and never felt the urge to bring her arms up to cover herself. On the thrones, as if they had apparated there, sat two of the most beautiful faery’s she had ever seen. The one on the right bore long tendrils of hair like sunlight, sharp and narrow eyes betrayed nothing of the faery’s emotion, but instead held their steely blue gaze fixed on the human who had only just unfurled from her mossy prison. The faery wore pristine white robes, which revealed only a pearlescent chest and spidery hands. The faery sitting on the left had deep indigo skin. This second faery had midnight black hair, pulled back into an orderly braid. Their eyes were a soft tawny brown, but equally as harsh as their partner’s. The faery wore a loose pair of orange silken trousers, and a top that was part wrap and part robe. They both had delicate feminine features, but the girl could not distinguish their gender. Thick gold bands sat slanted on their heads, inscribed with foreign runes, and set with a round stone that seemed to be filled with smoke that was never the same color twice.

“My lord Oberon, we’ve brought the girl.” the white faery turned his eyes away from the naked human and toward the caps who had been carrying her. Oberon seemed displeased that the cap had spoken out of turn, though hardly anyone could attest to seeing the faery king truly pleased. Titania scowled at the caps, and all twelve scattered into the crowd.

“You must be hungry.” the girl felt a tremor in her bones when the faery queen’s eyes locked with her own. Something deep rooted in her humanity knew to be afraid of those tawny eyes. She wanted to ask a hundred questions, all with a similar theme, what is happening? But instead she uttered a meek affirmation. Titania glanced at the crowd of her subjects and waved a careless blue hand. “Eat.”

Where moments ago there stood dozens of faery nobility, now was a twenty foot oaken table, covered in all manner of dishes. Just like before, a tremor of fear ran down her spine. She should not eat the food, or even touch it. But the burning intensity of Titania’s gaze pushed the girl forward, toward a simple stool at the head of the table. Spread before her were six whole roasted animals, pies and elaborate cakes, and baskets full of fruit and leafy vegetables. A loud growl emitted from her stomach, though she could not recall having been hungry on the journey. The sights and smells of the faery feast drove her closer to it. She could still feel the eyes of the two monarchs, and a hundred pairs of eyes peering out through the trees.

They were dangerous, the girl knew that much. But she could not remember why she was so afraid of them. Had they not given her a feast? They had shown her nothing but kindness, and she was so hungry. The girl darted her hand out and grasped a pear dusted with gold. The chalice that sat next to her simple wooden plate filled with wine before her eyes, and she took both up, taking a bite then a sip of the sweet wine. It warmed her, as though she had swallowed a flame. Burning her inside, she took another sip. Then another, and soon she had emptied the cup. The girl hiccuped like a drunk at bacchanal, and giggled a little to herself, forgetting the crowd of fae watching her for a moment.

The girl watched as though she were just a spectator to her life, as her hand went limp and dropped the chalice. The golden cup hit the ground, and it broke into six wooden pieces, dripping with blood. She opened her mouth to protest, but found that she had lost all control of her body. Oberon belted out a cruel laugh, and with what remained of her strength the girl turned her head to the faery king and queen. Their features had warped into something unrecognizable to the regal gods they had seemed to be. Hungry and canine, their mouths were twisted into something resembling a smile.

Fear crashed over her like a cacophony of cymbals, she understood too late why she had been afraid. The same fear that shook her spine fell upon her ten fold. Staring up into the maws of the faery king, immobile and silent.

#short stories #faery #faerie #fairy #a midsummer night's dream #oberon #titania #fiction #short fiction #female writers #lgbt writers #socialism?

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butyouvealwaysbeenthecaretaker · 4 years

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Incidentally, I think there's a queer reading of Crowley sorely missing.

My husband has a joke about young Crowley going to his priest for help with his homosexual urges, and the priest explaining that it was a demon. And Crowley being "...ok well let's try talking to it" and lo! A magus was born.

I actually think there's more to it. Sex magic is part of what makes Crowley a lurid figure, buuuut...the interpretations people have of this are very, very hetero; just as the imagery of Baphomet has become a hyper-masc goat towering over a fragile pulp fiction cover naked witch babe.

But Baphomet is a bigendered figure, even if occult artists all too frequently choose not to draw the boobs, and choose not to draw Baphomet as a kind of woman instead of a kind of man. From the earliest sources in 20th century western occult tradition, magic and mages are defined as a combination of masculine and feminine energy in a single body. *Not* a Gardnerian or Dianic concept of male and female magic residing separately on male and female people. To work magic, the magus must become both symbolically male and symbolically female.

George Ives, one of the earliest British gay rights apologists described himself as "the soul of a woman in the body of a man". That was very much the science/politics of the day, a concept of inverts or uranians. Inverts were a group of people we would now recognise as gay or bi, or trans, or gender non conforming (including people who were simply GNC for the era, like women who didn't want to marry), all in one messy concept of "the genderwrongs". And as early lgbt people were hungry for any scrap of data they could find about themselves, a lot of people adopted this into their self-concept where we would now likely see these things as different.

Anyway, I think that when Crowley joined the Golden Dawn & encountered the concept of mages being both male and female, he related it to what Ives & Ulrichs and others were saying about queer men. Specifically, I want to quote Alan Moore on this from his educational comic Promethea: "the mage seeks to penetrate the mystery; but on finding it, becomes the mystery that is to be penetrated". I think this concept reads very, very differently to a queer person than it does to a straight one. The Golden Dawn's conception of sacred sexuality was drawn from the alchemical idea of the sacred marriage of the Sun and Moon, and used the imagery of a lance dipped into the holy grail; later adopted into Wicca as the knife dipped into the chalice.

In short, what Moore et al is saying is "mages are symbolically both male and female, though in practice their ritual role is one or the other as appropriate to their actual birth gender obvs, especially if anything sexual is happening." Whereas Crowley's reading is..."men can be either the penetrative or receptive partner in sex, and this fits with what Ives is saying about queer men being both male and female, and with what the Golden Dawn is saying about mages being both male and female. And if both parts of penetration constitute a magical act, then that isn't heterosexual: a mage both gives and receives, and that's the true pathway to sacred sexuality".

he's such an inveterate tinkerers that I'm pretty confident he also made the intuitive leap that gay sex, straight sex and lesbian sex would all have differing magical results. I also want to highlight that Thelema, while a bit dickish in the hands of your average straight Crowley fanboy, is 100% the religious tradition a closeted Victorian would develop for his own psychological survival: "everyone has a true desire in them and it is right for that person to express their desires, even if they desire something wrong"

I feel like the queer context for Crowley is almost entirely missing. Like, as the "wickedest man in Europe", the incarnation of the Beast, many people will know he spent an opium-fuelled month in bed with his boyfriend in Paris doing sex magic. That's part of his bad boy image. I think people are less capable of taking Crowley seriously as an actual queer human being, and understanding how deeply queer his religious philosophy is. I think his magical techniques and ideas are decontextualised a lot by people who don't get this (like, straight people who misunderstand "do what thou wilt will be the whole of the law" as "it's ok to be an asshole" rather than "don't be a drag, just be a queen, because baby you were born this way"). I think the way gendered magic ultimately developed in the 20th c was detrimental to queer people, who then had to reinvent their place in Wicca and in the ceremonial occult. When we've always been there, and Crowley's life, work and magic makes us not the sidenote, but the central magic practitioners who are most fully able to embody the work of the mage

tldr: pity Mathers wasn't into being pegged.

#occult #lgbt magic #queer magic

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irrelevantwriter · 5 years

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Feelings? Fuck Off.

Pairing: Negan x Female Reader/You

Rating: Explicit, NSFW

Warnings: Language, Daddy kink, oral (female receiving), mutual masturbation, unprotected sex, mention of bodily fluids, Negan realizing he has feelings (yikes)

Word Count: 4.9K

Summary: Negan comes home to see you in his bed and he starts to realize some things.

A/N: Here’s a little afternoon delight for you all. This was originally supposed to be for Valentine’s Day (hence the mention of it in the story) but I didn’t get it done in time. I had a lot of fun writing this because I decided to do it from Negan’s POV. He’s always so entertaining to tap into, especially when he’s having an emotional crisis. Anyway, I hope you guys like it and enjoy!

Masterlist in bio.

***

Negan sighs wearily as he climbs the steps to his less than humble abode. He’s had a shit day. He’s been having shit days since Rick and his posse of fucking misfits decided to challenge him at every fucking turn. He’s tired of having to sling is dick around to prove a point. He wants them, no…needs them to fall in line like good soldiers and keep the backstabbing to a minimum. So far, they have been dead set on doing the opposite. And he is paying for it.

His whole body is sore; aching with an exhaustion that reminds him he’s far from a young spring chicken. His eyes are blurry from overuse and old age, though he’d blame it on a particle of dust before he went and admitted that. His shoulders sag and he feels burdened with a new weight he hadn’t been expecting. Alexandria is testing his motherfucking patience like no other. He’s mentally drained and the state of his personal affairs is not improving his well-being. Those personal affairs include the fairer sex. More specifically…his wives.

They are a whole other matter entirely. What once was every straight man’s wet fucking dream, has now crashed and burned with only a single survivor left among the wreckage. All of his wives have gone and fucked off in some form or fashion. Sherry hightailed it out of the Sanctuary, even leaving behind her pre-apocalypse husband for god knows what. She had a stick up her ass most of the time anyway. Tanya and Frankie are more fascinated and interested with his newest addition than him nowadays. The wannabe Rain Man, mullet-head have two of his wives fucking captivated, and in a way Negan is grateful…less bullshit for him to have to swim through. Amber is basically in a comatose state since he’d taken the iron to her ex. A situation that could’ve been avoided if people would just stop fucking testing him.

It was all for the best anyways. His true affections belong to one woman. And you were the last one standing. You were there when the dust settled because you were the only one that gave a damn about him. You were the only one who cared if he made it home in one piece. And you were the only one who would care if he didn’t.

He feels relief overtake his body as his closed door comes into view. Immediate guilt soon follows. He’d promised you that he’d be back to celebrate Valentine’s Day. He’d been neglecting his husbandly duties lately and he was on a path of redemption, but he’d ended up failing miserably today. The pick-ups and runs had taken longer than anticipated and he’d been forced to oversee the mess. Once again, you’d been placed on the backburner.

His door eases open easily. He decides to shower and seek you out as soon as fucking possible to start the groveling process. But one look at his massive bed and his plan is abandoned.

There in a nest of grey blankets and pillows, you lay sleeping peacefully. His wives had not been allowed to stay in his room in the beginning, but now, with just you and him, he basically fucking needs it. The warmth of your body always lulls him into a soundless sleep. Some nights you stay with him. Some nights you retreat to your own room. He’s asked you once why you left when it was just the two of you that remained. You’d insisted it was for his benefit and that you knew how much he liked having moments of solitude. That’s bullshit. He doesn’t need that shit. He needs you. But does he admit that? Fuck no.

Negan walks into the room quietly, setting Lucille against the wall as he removes his jacket and boots. He watches over you like a hawk, hazel eyes scanning your prone form as if it were the first time. You look beautiful all wrapped up in his bed and he suddenly feels a swell of emotion rise in his chest. He quickly sweeps the feeling to the side, unwilling to be honest with himself or you. Instead, lust dominates his actions as he sits down on the edge of the mattress and lets a hand trail across your cheek and down to your collarbone. The comforter is pulled up to your chest and he can’t stop the urge to expose you to his hungry gaze.

Your breasts are encased in red and pink; hearts decorating the feminine fabric in celebration of a lover’s holiday. Your nipples are easily visible and he groans lowly at the sight. You are far too fucking good to him and your festive attire solidifies that fact. You shift softly as a thick finger trails between your breasts and over each nipple, the thin fabric barely acting as a barrier as they harden against his touch. He watches as your skin breaks out in gooseflesh, the reaction sending a shot of arousal straight to his dick. Your body’s reaction to him is one of the things he adores about you the most. You’re so responsive and completely open to letting him explore you in ways no one has before. It’s an intoxicating sensation.

A soft sigh leaves your lips as he continues to pull the blanket away from your body, revealing more of yourself. His calloused hands that are so used to beating and breaking men are now caressing the flesh of your stomach with a gentleness that would surprise most. He feels your body arch into his touch as he continues on his path south. Your lower half is decorated the same as the top. A scrap of red and pink material with the same girly hearts barely hide you from view. He can see the perfect outline of your lips against the fabric, a small damp spot barely visible. He licks his lips at the sight.

You shift in your sleep again and Negan can swear he sees your thighs part ever so slightly, silently begging for more. He’s happy to oblige. He traces over your clothed sex with his finger, enjoying the way you lean into his touch. He teases the elastic of your panties and dips a finger beneath the barrier at each new pass. He touches the seam of your opening and is rewarded with a wetness that makes his pants grow increasingly uncomfortable. This time, a moan leaves your lips at the flesh on flesh contact and he can’t take it anymore. He has to have you. He has to indulge in the one good thing he has left.

He moves down the bed so that his mouth is now even with your crotch. He takes in a deep breath and inhales the delectable scent of your arousal. His tongue shoots out on its own, licking at your slit through the fabric. His lips and teeth soon join in, creating a pleasure that has your hips rolling into his mouth. He becomes emboldened by your display and moves your panties to the side. His lips instantly suction around your clit and you awake with a moan, your hands tangling themselves in his hair between your thighs.

“Oh, Negan…” Your voice is breathy and raw with emotion. Negan rubs himself against the mattress, hoping to alleviate some of the throbbing that has settled there.

“Rise and shine, darlin’.” His voice is clear of the fatigue that had been so prevalent moments before. He’s invigorated and horny as fuck. He adds a finger into your slick-soaked channel. Your walls immediately suck him in, the feeling reminding him just how fucking good your pussy always takes his cock.

“Jesus…” You whimper as Negan’s finger and mouth continue to work you over. He adds another finger, his digits seeking out that spot deep inside your body that begs to be explored.

“Right there, baby?” He asks, but your body is already answering for you. Your thighs begin to shake and your nails drag across his scalp as the tremors start to overpower you. “Oh, that’s the spot, isn’t it? Right. Fucking. There.” He thrusts vigorously and watches as you come undone, head thrown back and spine arched in a picturesque scene of climax. You moan loudly, the sounds tapering off to whimpers as he slows down his movements. He eases off as you gently push him away, too sensitive after such an intense orgasm.

“Hi.” You say finally and almost shyly, your eyes now clear of the fog of lust. You look cute as shit still wrapped in all your Valentine’s Day glory with an ‘I just got fucked good’ smile on your face. Negan crawls over you, trapping you underneath him as he presses his still fully clothed body into your near naked one. He makes sure you can feel his dick against your thigh, the evidence of his desire for you apparent.

“Hi.” He replies smugly, enjoying the way you melt into him. His hands run through your hair as you start to come back to reality and down from your high.

“That was quite a wake-up call.” You point out, voice still thick with sleep. Your hands delicately caress his face, the action causing his eyes to close briefly.

“Hmmm,” He hums, soaking in your soothing touches. He can already feel the difference in his body being there with you. The tight coils of tension that had caged his body only moments before were now releasing and easing him into a state of relaxation. And arousal.

“You looked too fucking good to ignore.” He says with a grin and slow thrust of his hips against your core.

You moan as his lips descend onto the flesh of your neck, his tongue tasting you as if you were the sweetest chocolate. Your fingers grip his thick locks; your legs wrap around his waist. His jeans rub deliciously against your thin panties and he can feel that wetness he loves so much start to coat the dark denim.

“You need me, baby?” He husks against your collarbone though he already knows the answer.

“Yes, please…” You moan, your words trailing off as he bites down and sucks on the plump flesh of your left breast.

His hands expertly reach behind you to unclasp your bra, the material immediately being torn away by his hungry hands. You arch into his body now that your breasts are free and he fucking loves that shit. He doesn’t think you realize it, but he gets one-hundred times harder when you push yourself into him. It’s like your giving yourself over to him, to do what he pleases. And you trust him enough to do so. It’s a strong fucking aphrodisiac that he always takes pleasure in.

Your hands pull at his t-shirt and he pulls away from your perfect tits to appease you and pull off the offending garment. His naked chest meets yours and he swears he could hear you release the sexiest fucking purr.

“I don’t think I told you how fucking sexy you looked tonight, baby girl.” He mouths at a pert nipple as he pulls your panties down your rounded hips. The material gets caught on your thighs and he takes a moment to appreciate the goddess laid out beneath him.

“Why’d you stop?” You asked breathily, your chest rising and falling quickly from desire. You look dazed and it’s the cutest fucking thing he’s seen in a while. He feels that bubble of emotion in his chest again, the need to express just how much you fucking mean to him on the tip of his tongue.

“You’re really fucking special, you know that?”

Your eyebrow quirks up at his sudden admission and he can tell he’s caught you off guard. You smile up at him and he feels that heaviness in his chest ease up at the sight.

“So are you.”

They were three simple words, but they made him feel on top of the fucking world. And you’d never know that because he’d never tell you, but he hopes you can feel it somehow. He hopes you can just tell it from his actions and feel it in his touch.

“Now finish what you started.” You demand with a push of your hips and a bite to your lower lip. You know what that action does to him and he has no choice but to surrender.

“Bossy.” He quips as he gets back to ridding your of your soaked panties. You lift up so he can finally free you of them and his eyes spark with mirth as he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales. “And fucking needy. Just like I like ‘em.” He boasts, the scent of you now surrounding him. He feels a primitive wave wash over him and he becomes overwhelmed with the need to be balls fucking deep inside of you.

“Dirty old man.” You tease. His lips form a smirk, one he’s been told time and time again makes him look like Lucifer incarnate. He licks his lips, unashamed of the way his body responds to your own.

“You love it.” He growls as he stands and starts to remove the last of his clothing. You watch with heavy-lidded eyes, your legs parting ever-so slightly to give him a peek of his favorite fucking place to worship.

“I do.” You cheekily agree, body stretching along the bed like a feline. The sight makes him work faster at getting his clothes off so he can mount the fuck out of you.

When he’s finally bare, his hand wraps around himself on instinct, seeking relief. He hears a whimper fall from your lips and he hastily lathers his hand with saliva, jerking himself off to you. You’d started to slip your own fingers inside yourself, the sound of your soaked cunt urging him to a finish line he wasn’t ready for.

“Fucking hell, baby…” He releases the hold he has on himself and moves closer to the bed. You open your legs, letting him see all of you. A finger is buried deep in your pussy while another teases your clit. He grunts and pulls your ankle so that you slide closer to the edge of the bed. You yelp and remove your fingers, gripping the sheets instead. The height of his bed lines himself up with you perfectly and he steps forward to rut against you.

“God, I missed you…” You moan once his bare flesh meets yours. Negan sets his weight on top of you, his stubble-laden face rubbing sensuously along your neck and chest. He lets his lips and teeth work you over the way he knows you like while his dick has a field day grinding against your pussy.

“How much?” He demands, his hands now full with your flawless tits. You throw your head back, submitting yourself over to his ministrations.

“So much.” You finally reply, voice strangled with fast-rising pleasure.

He pulls away, his dick now fully coated in you. His eyes catch yours, ignoring the way you plead with him to resume his actions.

“Prove it to Daddy, baby girl.”

He lies down on the bed, back resting against the headboard. His position says it all and without further prompting you straddle his lap. He fucking loves that you know him so well; that you take your own pleasure in pleasing him.

His hands settle on your hips as you take him in, warming him from the inside out. He can feel your walls grasping at him; feel them pulling him in like they never want him to leave. He groans as you move slowly above him, the sight and sound of you impaling his cock making that elusive tingle surge to the surface. He places a hand on your breast, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. Your hands grip his wrist, urging him on. He pinches your nipple, loving how responsive you are under his touch. Your hips pick up speed, swallowing him over and over. The sensation is fucking intoxicating. He can never get enough of you. He can never get his fill of you.

“That’s it…take it all.” He encourages, his own hips now thrusting up into you at a matching speed.

“Fuck…you feel so good.” Your words sets his body on fire and he doubles his efforts. He assaults your clit and he can feel you starting to flutter around him.

“Cum for Daddy. Squeeze my dick.” He knows you love dirty talk about as much as he does and he happily obliges you. His words no sooner leave his mouth before you’re shaking above him. He can feel the tremors race from your body to his own and he pulls your hips flush with his, stilling your movements and letting his dick feel every inch of your orgasm.

“God fucking damn. That shit is good.” He drawls as you collapse against his sweaty chest. He can feel your lips along his neck and he groans, very aware that his dick is still hard as fucking steel and embedded inside you. He adjusts his position below you and you whimper into his flesh at the action.

“That was amazing.” You breathe out once you finally sit up, hair sticking to your glistening skin. You look hot as shit. Your skin is flushed, your nipples still hard, and your lips swollen from your constant biting. He feels himself twitch inside you and you notice immediately.

Your hips move slowly as they push back and forth. Your hands are planted on his chest, your nails clawing and leaving marks. He thrives on that sting of pain and he has to stop himself from flipping you over and pounding that gorgeous fucking ass. He wants to take his time with you tonight.

His hands grip the flesh of your ass, encouraging your movements. And as much as he loves watching you writhe beneath him, he fucking loves the way you ride him. You’re in your own world, your body moving of its own accord; searching for that cliff to dive off. Your head is thrown back and your tits are pushed out; all while you’re fucking stuffed of him. The image almost makes him bust a fucking nut right there.

“Stop.” He commands with gritted teeth and you instantly obey, your body stilling over his. It takes everything he has to utter that word, but he’s a seasoned lover and he doesn’t get that way by hitting and quitting it. No, he takes his time. He can be just as fucking theatrical in bed as he is out in the world of rotting corpses. And he’s sure there’s some kind of hidden fucking analogy about swinging Lucille beyond the fences and swinging his big dick within the confines of his bedroom. That analysis was for another time.

“Take me out.”

You comply without hesitation and he watches in rapt fascination as you lift off his lap and pull him from your depths. You moan lowly at the loss of him and he can see your lips still trying to clutch at him. His dick is soaked as fuck and he can feel it throbbing like a motherfucker, wanting to cum in your tight pussy. He’s enamored by you and that you can take all of him so well. It’s another check off his list on why you are so fucking special. He doesn’t have a monster dick, but it’s definitely something to brag about. Which he fucking does.

“Oh come on, baby girl…” He starts, his tone taunting and filled with challenge. “You can get Daddy wetter than that.”

Truth is he doesn’t think you can because his dick is already sliding through your fucking hands like Jell-O, but he enjoys provoking you. Because just like him, you can’t help but to rise to the fucking occasion and prove yourself. You challenge him and he loves the hell out of that shit. It’s another one of the things that makes you important to him.

With a new fierceness in your eyes, you take him inside again. He groans and throws his head back because he can feel you doing that thing with your pussy that squeezes the fuck out of his dick. Beyond the intense pleasure he’s laughing because you play fucking dirty. His dirty girl.

“Holy fucking shit.” He curses, eyes squeezed shut and body taut with tension. It’s a different kind of tension than the one he’d been riddled with earlier in the evening and he can’t wait to release it.

Your body starts moving up and down, slowly and seductively. Each time he’s fully inside you, you grip him with a force that makes his eyes cross. He fucking asked for it. He tries to urge you faster, but you ignore his attempts and keep your speed. He can feel that spark catch fire and its spreading fast. You can read his body just as well as he can read yours and you can see how close he is to snapping. You rotate your hips, twirling his dick inside you like you’re riding a wave on the fucking ocean. Shit feels fucking phenomenal.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

His whole body stills and his fingers dig harshly into your hips and ass. You cease your hips and let him fill you up, a victorious smile planted on your luscious lips. He pumps his hips up and into you, keeping you locked to him but knowing he didn’t have to. He can feel the sudden warmth from his release as it coats your walls and him, the sensation enough to make him want to stay this way forever. Through the haze he can hear you mewl and moan, taking as much joy in the moment as he fucking does.

Negan lets his limbs go lax as his chest continues to move with his rapid breaths, eyes closed as he starts to recover from the intensity of his release. You lean forward and catch his lips, and he blindly falls into the embrace with you. His hands smooth over your naked back and ass, feeling you shiver as he does. He can feel a moisture start to collect between your joined bodies and he notices he’s still half hard. Payback time.

He moves so fast that you don’t even have a chance to react. He flips you both so that he now hovers over you, dick still encased in your painted walls. You squeal in surprise and soon laughter flows from your lips as he tickles your neck with his stubble. The sound makes that chest tightening shit happen again.

“Negan!”

“You clearly don’t play fair, baby.” He rumbles against your ear, his teeth biting at the lobe delicately.

“I learn from the best, Daddy.”

Your words make him smile proudly because you are right. You are a badass in your own fucking right, but neither of you can deny the influence he has on you.

He shifts so that he’s on his knees and maneuvers you to your side. This position is a fan favorite for you both. He can watch himself fuck you while also being able to see that pretty face take his dick. He’s freed himself from your clutches and streaks of his cum are already seeping from your heavenly pussy. He can’t help it. He uses his fingers to open you up, always eager to see himself all over you. Perhaps it was an Alpha male thing, but he fucking loves seeing you covered in his marks and cum.

“You ready to learn more from Daddy?” He teases, tongue to his cheek as he situates his dick back at your weeping slit.

You nod, just as eager to take the lesson as he is to give it. By now, he’s fully erect again and he plunges into you hard and deep. You love getting fucked like this and he works to find that spot inside you that guarantees a flood on his dick. Your hands are tangled in the sheets and your body is twisted so that you’re staring up at him with wide, desire-fueled eyes. He slams into with abandon, admiring the way your ass and tits jiggle as he thrusts.

“You gonna cum again, baby girl? Gonna make that pussy so wet I slip out?”

You moan loudly, the volume enough to alert anyone on this floor to what you two were up to. Neither of you gave a fuck.

Your hands are grasping your tits, keeping them from his view and he tuts at the sight.

“Uh-uh, you know I love to see these fantastic titties bounce.” He moves your hands out of the way and he can see you roll your eyes.

“You’re not the one who has to deal with them bouncing on your fucking chest.” You retort, giving in to his request and going back to gripping the sheets instead.

“I’ll make it up to you, baby.” And he does. You cum around him in a matter of seconds, the search for that hidden spot a success. He clenches his jaw as he lets you ride through your orgasm, your body and limbs tangling around him as you shake.

“Fuck, that’s tight. Feels too fucking good.” He groans.

Negan can tell he’s not far behind and he speeds up his thrusts, moving so hard he’s pushing you up the mattress. He slips himself out of you and cums on your hip and ass cheek. It’s not a lot, but he knows he’s not quite finished. Every once in a blue moon he’ll have the stamina of a man twenty years his junior. He isn’t sure what triggers it, but anytime it happens he doesn’t fucking question it.

He slips back inside, still hard and up to giving your pussy a pounding. Sweat coats his skin and he can feel it start to slide down his temple. You’re taking the fucking like a champ; lips pursed and body completely pliant. Your hand trails through his cum, rubbing the liquid into your skin.

“Shit baby, you like Daddy’s cum all over you?” He watches as you smooth your hand up your waist and to your tit, covering the fleshy mound in his spendings. He growls at the sight. A finger makes its way up to your lips and you suck on it. The display is purely for his benefit and that doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Daddy…” You whine and he knows its time to wrap up this little production. He can tell you’re tired after having cum three times. He knows your pussy is probably sensitive as fuck and just to be an asshole about it, he pulls out and slaps your swollen lips with his dick. You jerk away and he laughs darkly because he knows you fucking love it. As much as he pushes your buttons, he makes up for it tenfold when you two aren’t fucking like rabbits. He has his softer moments and they seem to be more frequent where it concerns you.

He’s cumming on your pussy and ass again, the amount much more than his previous load. He’s making a huge fucking mess. One that he knows you’re going to bitch about later, but he continues on. He lets his dick play in the mess he made on your skin, his body finally spent and limp all over. He smirks at your thoroughly fucked form and leans down to kiss you tenderly. Tongues twist together as you both marinate in the afterglow. He’s admitted to you once before that this was one of his favorite moments post coitus…the two of you just making out like teenagers rather than the two savages who fucked each other senseless moments before.

The contrast works.

“I l-,” He stops short, knowing what’s about to slip out. He catches himself and recovers, hoping you hadn’t noticed but knowing you most likely did. “I live for this shit.”

He looks down at you, seeing a specific look in your eye. He likes to think he’s smooth, but there are times when he stumbles. You don’t call him in on it, not immediately anyway. He knows he has time to figure shit out before you do.

“Pervert.” You quip, hands back to tangling in his hair. He can feel his skin sticking to yours from the sitting liquid between you, but neither of you make a move to retreat.

“I may say all the fucked up shit, but you’re the one that gets off on all that fucked up shit, my dear wife.” He nips at your bottom lip while pinching your nipple. You swat his hand away. You know he isn’t wrong.

“Touché, my darling husband.”

Negan finally collapses beside you and he can already feel his eyes drooping, sleep ready to take over. He feels your hand entangle with his and he smiles. His chest is tight again, but its significantly less than what it had been. He doesn’t know what the fuck that means. He knows fuck all about relationships, see his first marriage, but he also knows life is too fucked up to go through it alone.

So, there on his bed, both of you covered in sweat and cum, he decides he’d do anything in his power to protect you. That chest-tightening feeling be damned.

#negan #negan x you #negan fanfiction #negan fic #negan twd #negan x reader

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tomasorban · 5 years

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THE ZODIAC: LEO THE LION

Date of Rulership: 24th July-23rd August; Polarity: Positive, male; Quality: Fixed; Ruling planet: Sun; Element: Fire; Body part: Heart and back; Colour: Gold; Gemstone: Ruby; Metal: Gold.

We have thus far discerned that the dissimilar archetypes stretching from Aries to Cancer contribute vital components to the anatomy of one’s Self. These lay the foundations for a an ego successfully purged of carnal qualities like evil and envy and now confident enough in its spiritual and psychic grounding to begin a lifelong ascent along the socio-political tiers of culture. Unlike the cardinal sign of Aries, in which the mediating element of fire was unrestrained and potentially self-destructive, the steadier and constant fixed flames associated with Leo facilitate temperatures that enable the inner being to commune freely with its external environment and to attain recognition without ever suffering comprehensive changes to its inner hardware.

As an astrological sign, Leo is unique in that it is the only one ruled by the vivifying stellar body of entire solar system, the sun. When we think of the sun we think of heat, light, and flame, the protagonists of the evolution of life on earth, but we also think of intangible characteristics qualitatively connected to it–brilliance, radiance, endurance, self-assurance, self-adulation, nobility, youthful vivacity, and cheerfulness. Individuals who incarnate under the stellar arrangement of this sign are often unified by these as well as an uninhibited sense of freedom, the feeling that the world is their personal fiefdom and that all other beings in it are merely co-conspirators in an inevitable cosmic situation where Leo the Lion reigns supreme. The psyche of Leo resembles that of its totemic animal in many respects. Lions are communal creatures that live in groups called prides and adhere strictly to a hierarchical system where the leader and “king” is almost always the strongest male. Similarly, all Leos encompass an innate inclination towards socialization, community, and relating to others in the context of an imposed pecking order. Unlike buffaloes, gazelles, and the more placid and peace-loving herbivores of the vast savannah, lions are authoritative carnivores that are acutely aware of their own herculean strength and acumen when it comes to hunting. This is why lions are ambitious aggressors, actively chasing down and tackling prey substantially larger than they. The Leo functions in more or less the same manner; it will often tackle complex problems and issues that are seemingly beyond human comprehension and gamble on dreams and aspirations that exceed all its wildest expectations. If it meets with success, the Lion’s already established sense of inner pride and dignity are strengthened tenfold; alternatively, an unfavourable result usually dampens its self-confidence and may spur a personal crisis involving retrograde steps like introversion and burnout.

For time immemorial, we have perceived courage, impetuosity, and strong-will to be indigenous to their mode of being; these qualities also define the archetype of Leo. In the polar realm of cat and mouse, the lion’s strong sense of anticipation determines the rate of its success. The soul of Leo works on much the same premises; it has already formulated a detailed plan on how it will ascend the pecking order long before the optimistic fires of ambition have begun to warm and feed its own heart. As the top dog of the animal kingdom, Lions are rarely, if ever harassed by other creatures, and bide much their time outwardly expressing the many benefits of their privileged rank. One might catch sight of a pride of lions either wallowing in the dirt, tussling about with other members playfully, or undertaking hedonistic deeds like sun basking, daydreaming and oversleeping. Leos mimic their totemic counterparts and usually reflect these in their own behavioural patterns and habits. Despite their grace of movement and overall nobility, lions do exhibit some unflattering traits; they often quarrel with one another for the most scrumptious part of a kill, food scraps and breeding rights. Male lions who have just taken over a pride will put to practice their narcissistic sense of self-adoration by actively hunting out and killing cubs fathered by other males. Many afflicted Leos will often express the exact same sentiment via more socially conventional and acceptable means by unconsciously grovelling in pools of arrogance or using their privileged rank to belittle or demote others. In such instances, the larger-than-life persona that Leo usually emanates inverts and becomes a stereotypical self-loving and egotistical one in which its own little world is far more profound and significant than the majesty that is the greater cosmos and the Godhead itself. When mountains of first-rate arrogance and fanaticism like these prop up, the other archetypes of the zodiac battle fiercely to raze them to the ground and knock some humility back into the Lion.

“Ready or not, here I come,” roars the laughter-loving lion from the den. “The best way to live your life folks is by retaining your childhood vitality and following your heart, and what more could any heart want than raw adventure, pleasure, love, and an occasional stroke of the ego! We’re all born into a world that teaches us about fatalism and free will. I’m a firm believer in the notion of free will. A smart man or woman won’t wait for serendipity to come knocking on the door, but will walk right through it into the greater world and clear a paved road amongst the overwhelming chaotic vibrations and the cosmic noise. I’m a firm advocate of that book by Rhonda Byrne, The Secret. Optimistic and enthusiastic thoughts and actions result in fortuitous conditions that will serve as stepping stones to the mount of the heavens, to the highest strata of society, and even to a winning ticket for next week’s Tatts Lotto draw. It’s all about self-empowerment, self-respect, and fashioning a genuine personality with which to confront the world guys and girls. I’m definitely an idealist, and a bit of a control-freak too. Know who you are, what you are, and what you want; be sure of yourself, your own footing, and don’t let anyone or anything deter or dissuade you from pursuing your long-term goals and ambitions.

Remember to laugh and crack a few jokes along the way as well. We need to able to laugh at ourselves, at our misfortunes, at our problems and miseries, otherwise we become too entrenched in the lamentable fate of the human condition. Some say that I’m full of myself and that the only thing that concerns me is self-love and personal satisfaction. While it is true that I like to stand out and do at times appropriate others for my own visibility and self-promotion, nobody should ever dare to call me heartless or selfish; I do, contrary to what others believe about me, let others bask in their moment of glory and give my all for those who steal my heart. Reputation is of upmost importance; for me, there is no value in a privileged rank if it is attained through dishonest or questionable means and plagued by infamy. Know for a fact that I’m fiercely competitive and ambitious, and will use all the resources that become available to me, my intuition, and my talents to attain exactly what I want.”

People born under this sign are usually animated, extroverted types that enjoy writing and composing a show, along with being the star of that show. All of us carry an inherent need for validation in a world which is moving at a million miles per minute and eternally threatening to leave us behind, but this need appears to be a lot more prevalent and obvious in the composition of Leo. Leos want to be looked at, admired, worshipped, loved, liked, and accepted by others, and will do everything in their power to ensure this comes to pass. Leos are exactly like their mediating celestial constituent when it comes to making a statement; the higher up along the ladder of success they go, the more translucent they become. Leo types are also highly inventive and imaginative and must seek out appropriate outlets for their creative urges. The occupations that best enable unrestricted expression of its principal traits belong to the sphere of the performing arts–film, theatre, dance, circus acts, and so forth. Hence Leo is best at home on the stage and silver screen, eliciting waves of emotion and veneration from audiences that are attentive and receptive to their projects. Its sense of individuality is unshakable and indestructible; those born beneath the aegis of Leo remain true to views and values integral to its integrity, self-worth, pride and deference, and will never compromise them for the sake of fitting into society.

There are two symbols associated with Leo the Lion. The first is the animal totem, the lion, which has been used to represent the zodiacal constellation from the earliest of times. In Babylonian tradition, the lion was called “Urgula” and perceived to be feminine. One of its many epithets was “Great Light”, an allusion to its subordination to the ethereal powers of that great light in our heavens, the sun. In ancient Egypt, the constellation was called “Horakthiis”. In the northern hemisphere, the stars of Leo rise heliacally over the horizon during the pinnacle of summer. This is why the frontispiece of innumerable fountains in Egypt and in southern Europe were carved to look like lions. People made an unconscious connection between the wheel of heaven and the deluge of waters connected with great rivers like the Nile which seemed to reach a crescendo when the former turned to reveal the stars of Leo along the horizon. As symbols of strength, leadership, and power, the iconography was soon adopted by emperors, kings, and other people in privileged positions of authority as symbolic inferences of the aforementioned qualities. The Tarot also assimilated this zodiacal sign into its hidden knowledge system under the tutelage of the Strength card, borrowing the image of a woman taming a lion directly from the Denderah Zodiac. Perhaps the most famous depiction of Leo in the Western world was championed by the Venetians, who used the image as part of a winged insignia (the Lion of St. Mark) that graces countless castles, fortresses, and statues commissioned during the High Middle Ages.

The second symbol, an astrological shorthand for the zodiacal sign, encompasses only the curved tail of the totemic animal. This may symbolise the lion’s mane, a physical characteristic that evokes regal qualities like strength, heroism, and governance. On the other hand it may be a stand in for the heart, a body part over which the sign rules. Most of us will be familiar with the notion that the human heart is a synonym for courage, truth, and unconditional love. From this esoteric perspective, the abbreviated glyph might also be interpreted as a pictogram expressing only these specific aspects of the archetype.

#astrology #astrotheology #zodiac #astropsychology #psychology #consciousness

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foxdressedlikeawolf · 6 years

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Nonbinary November Tarot Challenge: Day 2

Friday November 2nd – The Two Genders

Shuffle your deck. Turn your deck over and look for the Fool. The card on the left of the Fool represents your relationship to femininity and the card on the right represents your relationship to masculinity.

Since I’m trying to learn my oracle cards a bit better, I chose the “align your life” card as the fool. Unsure how this will play out but here goes.

I’ll start with the tarot cards because I feel it’s going to be more accurate.

I love the fool card so much in this deck. Anyway, both the cards beside the fool have the ability to cut and make you bleed. Sometimes the idea of gender applied to myself hurts, but sometimes it doesn’t. I believe yesterday had the coins suit show up in the feminine spot, which still would lead to that being a costume for me. I purchase the parts and apply them as society dictates.

I’ve always related to the swords suit the most. While I love wands for their creativity, and I do relate there, I apply everything with logic and distance from emotions. I’m going to scrap the usual meaning of that card and just take it to mean masculine is where I exist to some degree.

Onto the oracle cards

I chose the Align Your Life card in the fool’s place because it’s about dropping what society expects you to look like and being yourself.

Mintakan in the feminine place seems to be urging me to accept a feminine side, and dance in the masculine place seems to be telling me the same thing. Honestly I’d never be a super masc person regardless, but this damn oracle deck leans heavyyyy to the femme side. Which is kind of funny because the raven’s prophecy deck has she/her pronouns for every traditionally male card.

But also the Mintakan card is a longing for home which is what I feel when I have to present femme.

I’m feeling too tired to truly read cards. Digging into this feels exhausting and I hope it gets easier as the month goes on.

#nonbinarynovembertarotchallenge #nonbinary #tarot #tarot reading #queer #queer tarot #ravens prophecy #work your light oracle

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contentgreenearth · 2 years

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TRUE TYPES POST #25: REGGIE

DISC: C/S profile; result: C/S/I, slot 53

SOJT type: fully differentiated Ti-s (D>A dominant serves as dominant)

MBTI type most resonant: ISTJ* (this is the most typical version of ISTJ)

Note: this is the most typical version of ISTJ, but far from the most common one. FP to TJ in transit ISTJs are much more common

What were you like in high school?

I just studied a skilled trade after school Monday-Friday. Other than that, I was just another kid in the yearbook who barely anyone knew

What is your greatest fear? What do you do to address it?

My greatest fear is screwing something up so bad, that it has to be scrapped, and started all over again. Yet, the funny thing is, that's never happened

Was there a time in your life where you felt you hit rock bottom? What was the situation behind it?

I don't think I've ever had a situation like that. Maybe it's because I'm so quiet and sheltered

Where would you put yourself on the social spectrum, and why?

I'd say, a more social introvert, but still an introvert, not an ambivert

What are some things that really bother you?

Making, or seeing, errors or mistakes. I also don't like crowds. At all. Small groups of people are enough for me. Also, I'm very orderly, and don't like chaos

What, would you say, are your biggest strengths?

I'm very precise and accurate. That's very important in my career as an auto mechanic. When I'm doing accurate and precise work, it makes me happy, I smile, and people want to be around me when I'm happy and smiling

What, would you say, are your biggest weaknesses?

I have a hard time expressing my feelings. People never really know what I'm feeling

When you switch your attitude between introverted and extroverted, or vise versa, what are you like?

When I'm more extroverted, that's when I'm more social, but even then, I stay away from crowds, and hang out along the edges at parties, when I get invited

What was the hardest thing you ever had to do? Why was it so hard?

I think it is just being social. It's hard, because I have to fight the urge to just want to be alone. But as I said, no more than a person or two at a time, please

What are you like when you're sad?

I don't remember the last time I was sad. Yeah, it was a pretty long time ago...

How masculine/feminine do you feel in relation to others of your gender?

I think I'm average

Here's 4 focuses you can have in life: tasks, people, objects and ideas. Which one would be your primary focus and why? Which one would be your secondary focus and why?

Tasks are first, then objects, because I have to use objects to do my tasks. That's kind of a logical progression, don't you think?

What do you do to have fun?

I really don't. I'm too serious. I need to learn how to lighten up.

What was the nicest thing you ever did for someone, and why did you do it?

The nicest thing I ever did, was help a friend I had in high school get his house back in order after he had a party. It was lots of hard work, but we got it done. I did it, because I love being of service to my friends and customers, in practical and tangible ways

Thanks, Reggie, for sharing with us

Additional typologies I've been able to do since:

Big 5: low O, E, A, N; high C (RCOEN)

Enneagram: 6w5, sp/so, 612

Attitudinal Psyche: LFVE

Greek Temperament Blend: Melancholy/Phlegmatic

Psychosophy: LFVE

#typology #mbti stuff #istj

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ke238writing · 3 years

Text

Alex Parkson is the main character of No Milk, Two Sugars. They are reckless, stubborn, and determined. Alex is the child of Linda and George, the sibling of Tom, and the best friend of Bess. Although they are introduces as being 21 years old, Alex is 22 for the majority of the play.

The concept of Alex and their story was first created by me during a writing exercise that took place in the first writing class of my university module. The exercise was to answer some rapid-fire questions about a character without thinking about it too much. We then had to write a monologue from the point of view of the character we had created. The monologue I wrote was said by Alex to a cat on the street as they looked for a ladder to attempt to break into Tom’s house. We were then given homework to write a duologue between the character we had created and a new character. I wrote the scene in which Alex and Tom reunite after 5 years with no contact. Whilst the monologue did not make the cut, the general emotions and underlying themes from the duologue are still present in the final version of that scene in the play.

When Alex is first seen in the opening scene, they are dressed unlike they would usually chose to present themself. They are described as follows:

“Alex Parkson, 21, they/them (AMAB)... Alex’s discomfort in front of the camera is noticeable in the way they frequently touch their hair and clothes. They wear a lilac knitted jumper and a black calf-length skirt that flows in the breeze. They also wear black Dr Martens with purple laces. They are adorned with silver jewellery. Their hair is short and messy.”

When dressed in a way that is more suited to them, Alex is described as follows:

“Alex is dressed casually in a faded green t-shirt and dark jeans, and the same Dr Martens as the photo shoot.”

“They wear the same lilac jumper and Dr Martens as in the photoshoot, and black jeans.”

Images are for reference only. Ethnicity, body shape, hair colour/texture of the character are not limited to those depicted. Physical descriptions of characters are limited to clothing and hairstyle to allow for open and diverse casting.

Growing up, I struggled to find representation of people I could relate to in most of the media I consumed. It has always been my aim with my work to have a diverse range of characters that anyone can easily find themselves in. Because of this, I decided that my main character Alex would be nonbinary. This is not a factor that really plays into the story I am telling, and has nothing to do with the overall plot; it is simply just another part of the character. Knowing how important positive representation of underrepresented groups is, I made sure to thoroughly research the topic of gender and being nonbinary, as well as how to accurately write a nonbinary character. I found that there were a few topics that it was widely agreed on to not be appropriate to cover as a cisgender writer, mainly the things that nonbinary people experience that I as a cisgender female could never understand (such as being outed, dysphoria, deadnaming, being misgendered), but as my story does not rely on Alex’s identity this was not something I ever had to bring up.

Whilst Alex is openly nonbinary when around friends, their parents are unaware of their identity. This is not something that is ever discussed in much detail, as it it not my place to discuss it, and I always made sure to have Linda and George use gender neutral nicknames and avoid gendered pronouns despite them not knowing, as well as having other characters avoid gendered pronouns when talking to Linda and George about Alex, as this would mean Alex would be misgendered and, as previously mentioned, that is not something that is appropriate for me to write.

However, I did note in Alex’s introduction that they are assigned male at birth. I did this for two reasons. The first being that in my research I found that whilst nonbinary representation is already slim in mainstream media, the ‘societal ideal’ and generally accepted image of nonbinary presentation tends to be from either feminine presenting nonbinary people or people who were assigned female at birth, and there is a huge lack of representation for masculine presenting nonbinary people or people who were assigned male at birth. The second reason for this was because within the play Alex still experiences the gendered expectations from their parents that a cisgender male would have to face in our society.

“We were happy! We were fine! I just wanted that again! I needed that again!”

This line is said by Alex at their breaking point in scene 11. After 5 years of hunting for information, they finally discover the truth that was being held from them by their own parents; Tom’s whereabouts and why he left. Whilst Alex expresses their need to find Tom many times throughout the play, this is the first time they ever explicitly say what exactly is driving them forward on their search. When Tom left, the world fell apart for Alex. Their determination to find their brother drove them forward for years but they are beginning to lose hope. When Alex finds a box with Tom’s name on in the attic, with an address on an old scrap of paper inside, it sparks something inside them and they begin frantically researching, desperate to follow the trail and see where it leads.

When Alex and Tom finally reunite, Alex is overwhelmed with the urge to leave straight away. It dawns on them that they were trying to find Tom for so long that they never once considered what wold actually happen once they found him. Alex’s recklessness causes them to make questionable decisions more than once in the play, and they even find themself in the house of a stranger and being threatened with a broom. Alex is also incredibly stubborn. In scene 12, when Tom finds Alex after the family argument in scene 11, he says “Don’t think you can out-stubborn me just because you’re all grown up now.” They refuse to talk about anything they don’t want to and are always determined to get their own way (unless talking to George, when they know it is better to just be quiet and avoid conflict).

Alex’s story is one of discovery, both of information and of the self. In a letter to Alex, Tom writes, “You’re a good kid. A great one. Don’t let anyone tell you different. You’ve always been headstrong and independent and determined and I admire you for it. You’re hardworking, even if it’s not obvious to some people. Stay focused, do what’s right. I’ll see you soon. We’ll be ok, I promise.” These are words that Alex has needed to hear for too long, but is not ready to finally hear them. The play ends in a way that leaves things somewhat open, as Alex is forced to make the decision of what happens next.

Whilst I cannot personally relate to Alex, I found it somewhat cathartic to write going on such a personal journey of growth and discovery.

#ke238nomilktwosugars

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nicksstoryvault · 4 years

Photo

Cascading salvos of quantum novas became incandescently explosive over the Betelguese quadrant of Orion; the intergalactic barriers converged with dormant asteroid fields as celestial auroras of vaporous incendiary helium flashed against pulses of starbursts in the vacuous cosmic gateway. The golden auras of haloing Xandarian Star-pilots were the sector beacons as the Quinjet vectored through a desolate warship boneyard, hulls of A'askvariian and Kree imperial vessels-flagship and battlecruisers hauntingly orbited against the gravitic force of the junker heap-galactic strain of metastatic- tyrannic warfare left annihilative scraps of allied covenants of purged-out resistance.

Keeping himself measuringly reserved in battle-ready vigil, garbed in his navy blue Strike uniform that was tactically adorned with silver chevrons and the embossed star; like a patriotic Adonis of ironclad poise, Steve adamantly brandished up his soldiery valiance to engage the galactic mission without an impedance of hesitance, against the alpha Nova pilot's transmission urgently echoed in his com-piece. "Understood..." he murmured in stern timbre, rigidity pressing his leather-sheathed palm against the glass plane, as the vigilant stillness of his cool azure irises hawkishly captured fusion-prismatic barrages of candescent hydrogen masses-the fireworks of the galaxy. 'Not a bad view...'

There was a time Steve once told Fury that nothing else could phase, believing he'd see it all. He now wondered what else life might throw at him to challenge his perceptions of the universe. Gods, aliens, magic, supernatural and cosmic powers. And now he was onboard a ship navigating its way through the stars. How did his life get so distant from the simple Brooklyn kid who wanted to be an artist? Humanity had evolved so quickly in a little under a century and Steve wasn't so sure how much further it could go, or even if they should.

He wasn't anxious nor worried, but calmly assured by his present company as he spied a glance at his partner and...friend he'd known for the past 10 years. Natasha Romanov was a riddle wrapped in a web he wasn't so sure he could have ever unraveled. She was secretive and coy in a way that made him curious. Suspicion and uncertainty were at the root of his perception of her given who she used to work for, but over time his trust in her was greater than anyone he'd come to know in the 21st century.

It was in that moment her eyes flicked towards him and he immediately shied his gaze, wondering if she had caught him staring.

The stabilizing pulse of artificial gravity within the QuinJet, Natasha disarmingly watch him unabashedly stargaze with feigned boyish curiosity rapt over the sharply-defined angular planes of his features; the naked starkness of viscerous tension was cravingly banking in stoked ferocity as she distanced herself with measures of tactical caution-they needed to hold back against the sensuous rush beckoning them into a maelstrom of long-denied passion. She couldn't trade herself to become an extension of a reality that was forbiddingly conceived by a dance of traitorous beguile that always ricocheted into a promise of vein-scything passion.

Brandishing up a vestigial charade of sirenic nonchalance over the exquisite coolness of her alabaster features against the fiery-sleekier contrast of her braided ombré copper-platinum tresses silkily half-draped over toned svelteness of her neoprene shoulder; arrestingly Natasha fixed grayish-teal irises with a vixenish smokiness on the graven-edged tautness of his bulkier muscle; while jaunty smirk temptingly quirked over the plushier lush of her voluminous lips with an intimate—rivaling challenge of ardent heat wouldn't be staunched out.

After receiving an encrypted message safeguarded by Nick Fury's isolated Xandarian frequency that originated from Skrull cruiser, Natasha immediately responded to that conditioned protocol with utilized incarnations of her spycraft caliber; she wouldn't lose Fury to fascistic Kree war-slavers- galactic deviants of the Peace Corps stationed on barren- wastelands of Morag. Nothing 'close to the vest' was expandable. "It's funny how the playing field looks at this level..." She rasped, snarkily, keeping the raw huskiness of her undertone, conversational, as she distractingly reactivated the electric change of her Widow Bites with a deft flexion of her wrist, giving him sidelong glance, offishly. "That we're now receiving calls to dance around in the galaxy..."

"My mom once told me to never quit. Told me if I wanted to, I should reach for the stars. I don't think this was exactly what she had in mind." Steve smiled fondly at the memory. Sarah Rogers would forever be his inspiration to push past his limits and be the best he could be. But those around him were what inspired him to keep fighting the good fight and not lose sight of what was most important. "What about you?" He wondered. "Space or skies, you look comfortable behind the pilot stick."

"It's never good to be comfortable on a mission, Steve, " she rebuffed under breath, tersely, flashing a knowing gaze at Bucky as he was unmovingly secured in the co-pilot's seat with Selina curled bodily snug against the bulked solidity delineated under the Kevlar layers of his tactical garb. Tantalizingly his shapely-wide lips poutily grazed whisper-soft—phantom heat over her temple in reverent-chaste precision of evocative accord as mahogany whorls disheveledly curtained over the armrest; while cherishingly embraced under the muscle bands of corded flesh of Bucky's slack arm, dozily Selina pillowed the supple delicateness of her fevered cheek kittenishly over the bulge of his shoulder as they were melded into their intimate—reined closeness.

It was a compromised—betraying demand for an ignitable revelation that shiveringly arced in her veins. "Well, they seem to be enjoying the ride..." Natasha whispered breathily, feeling the grip of her leashed control headily fringe against the unspoken—amorous volumes starvingly beckoning her in the driven tenor of a suffusing rush of urgent—feverous havoc. "It's nice to see Barnes' like this instead of running on the edge of the afterlife..."

Seeing Bucky and Selina so comfortable with one another, even in front of others made Steve feel all sorts of things. Discomfort might have been one. It brought him back to the mall years ago when he and Natasha shared their first kiss in an effort to blend in. Public displays of affection made people uncomfortable, he had agreed then. But now they just made him feel wistful of an intimacy he longed for. "Could say the same for us." Feeling bold suddenly, Steve touches Natasha's wrist and coaxes her towards him with a warm smile. "C'mere."

His lips captured a surprised Natasha's. Warm and tender with a deep longing poured into it. He felt her lips smile against his before they reciprocated-a rapturous communion that felt soul-stealingly implosive. A heady possession of white-heat became an electrifying mania of raw voltage against blinding ferocity of thrusting pressure of his fusing plushier lips supping hungrily, the commanding-evocative deliverance of virile grace became a fiercer tenor of depthless- gloried abandon as their murmurous groans intimately dueled in rhythmic-intoxicating unison caught in a feverish rush of breath. The shadowing drift of his nose unhurriedly arrowed a scrunch of pressure into her cheek as they became lost in a wake of sensual heat; they were reaching soul-deep for eternity.

In the quenchless succession of the inexorable moment, the roughen flex of Steve's larger palm readily cradled her angling jaw with feathery tentativeness, hotly aware of the feminine delicacy that he adoringly captured as decadent echoes of unbreakable reverence intensified on yielding accord that fierily erupted against chaste tracery of heated arousal-their mirrored supremacy became heart-poundingly addictive-nothing was reined back. It was reality-the shifting thrust of their mirrored jaws, held no sterilized throb of practiced deterrence-compromise as the mesmerized rush of urgency that possessed sensuous glides of their dragging lips breathlessly melded in coupled tempo as the headier, passion-driven edge of their deepening kiss became incendiary as they blindly clung to the aphrodisiacal surge of wet heat sheening over their aching lips.

It was symphonic waltz as their bodies align without reeling back for hesitant distance, against the definite recklessness of instinctive-headlong demand; every throbbing graze of bruising pressure was commandingly recaptured in amorous-visceral fusion. Through ardent-incredible contrast of their wonderous-fevered kiss, drawing out a throaty moan, beckoningly Steve felt the cushioned flush of her kiss-swollen lips exquisitely widening so openly under the fluid smoothness of his, tactilely urging him to mindlessly plunge into careening thralls of unleashed-breathtaking ecstasy.

Kissing Natasha was like breathing in a new kind of life that made him feel weightless as if he were flying. Steve savored every bit of it and the warmth that it brought to his soul. As they slowly, sensually part from their kiss, he feels Natasha gentle tug on his bottom lip with her teeth which somehow managed to make send pleasant shivers throughout his body. The look on her face was positively beaming and smug while he struggled not to grin like an idiot. "Well...I uh...don't know about you but I'm feeling pretty comfortable." He quipped with a smirk which made the redhead roll her eyes at him.

There were times looking back he had wished that ride didn't end. But looking forward meant fighting to get it all back.

The gambit of cosmic renaissance felt soul-crushing to brace against, as gaseous fumes of sulfuric haze bleched out of sludge pits; it was a damnable reality that was eerily becoming infectious as bulbous-lumpish masses of oozy pudge-slugs-moved repulsively in dormant unison of listless traction. Keeping herself stealthily crouched on a stone ledge, as her tousled mahogany tresses errantly webbed her dirt-smudged cheeks, Selina clenched her gloved hand into a tensing fist as her dark irises glaringly roved over the sand-dune vistas-the outlands where the smoldering wreckage of the Quinjet was abandoned to rust. Gripping onto a fringe of collective impassiveness, she evicted a shiver that rushed through her veins when a massively obese slug noisily slurped up a gangly black frog screeching for release from the pudginess of the cosmic slug's protruding fin.

"Guess someone's hungry..." she quipped in disgusted pitch, instinctively easing down her lithe hand over a holstered Glock as she registered the adamant momentum of soldiery determination encroaching behind her. "Don't tell me, we're just going to knock on the door, soldier boy..."

Steve exhaled roughly as he wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. The merciless heat of this planet's sun was akin to a furnace following them every step of the way across this barren wasteland riddled with strange alien life. The only thing that seemed familiar to him was the vegetation, but if he were gambling man, he'd bet a tree-vine wasn't just a tree-vine here, but a deathly appendage looking to ensnare an unsuspecting victim. Realizing his train of thought, he attributed it to either over-caution or having watched too many scifi movies with Sam. "Wouldn't be the worst idea, I've heard. Who knows, they might even have air-conditioning." He snarked. Not his typical behavior, but it had lately become a habit while operating under stress, and dealing with a teasing partner in the form of a Black Widow. Thinking of Natasha caused an ache to take hold in his chest. Stow it, soldier. He told himself.

"Stealth isn't my strongest suit. But something tells me you won't have a problem there. Think you can find us a way in?" He asked as they ducked into shade while a surveillance droid whizzed overhead on the air, barely missing them.

As the winged droid razored with blinding speed, mechanized with predatory sleekness to harrowingly resemble a swooping terradactyl, in a reactive shift of her thievish precision invested in her leather fingers, against the cacophonous pandemonium of agonized cries mounting within the barricaded fortresses' high walls, Selina clutched the Glock, leveling a kill-shot at the careening droid-at least she would have some taste of devious fun. "You Brooklyn boys always know how to show a girl a good time," she bantered out, snarkily, waiting for the droid to do another fly-by with nonchalant poise. "Just let me care of this robo-toy..."

"I got a better idea. Just hold on tight." Steve said with anticipation to a very confused Selina. Before the brunette could ask what the hell he was thinking, Steve timed the trajectory of the droid and immediately wrapped an arm around Selina's waist and charged towards the ledge. Her startled scream rang through his ear as he hauled her against his side as if she were weightless and leapt-soaring high. The droid moved above them just in time for Steve's hand to lock onto its side. He grunted and strained himself as gravity caught on and Selina dangled and struggled against him. The droid was heavy with its propulsion strong enough to keep them hovering as it continued its aerial surveillance that took them to untold heights, headed straight over the battlement of the fortress. "Don't worry, I got you." Steve told her as she struggled.

Against the precarious vistas of the atmospheric drift, as they haloed a locked-down shipyard, with traitorous urgency, blurringly Selina twined the litheness of her neoprene-clad arms over the enhanced solidity of his Kevlar-sheathed mid-drift, feeling tauten ridges of bulkier muscle vigorously flexed as she disarmingly like a spooked kitten, she pillowed her cheek over his side. A nauseous rush became a possessive onslaught as she gripped onto the dark navy blue of his Strike uniform with blinding desperation. "Slam the breaks on this ride ..." she breathlessly screamed in demanding cadence, as her disheveled tresses whip-lashed her elfish features. "Now!"

Steve held his composure despite the roaring wind and Selina's angry screams coming at him. He felt the droid begin to course-correct itself heading towards a lower altitude. Steve knew they had to let go before eyes caught onto them down below. As they passed over the top of an inner wall, Steve released his hold on the droid. Still holding Selina in his arms, he swerved their positions, putting her on top of him with his back headed straight for the surface. They landed with a clank. The vibranium shield on his back having absorbed the impact and broken their fall with minimal damage. Steve nevertheless groaned as Selina stood over him, looking down at him with a frightening glare behind her domino mask. "Had to improvise. We should be clear to-"

"I'm done playing around..." Selina hissed bitingly in vehement cadence, as her guarded poise became aggressively defensive against the miasmic reek of carious ooze leaking out of dissected skeletal forms that were discarded around to become harvested out by toad-faced blobs of hulking pudginess that were bulbously exuding a tarry sheen of viscous slime-obstructing the rocky crag environs of the monolith fortress' external barriers.

Feigning a rapt grimace of evident disgust over lush crimson of her full-bow lips, unflinchingly Selina quashed down the urge to vomit, as heatedly glared down at two sentinel droids remaining motionless to detect intruders. "If you want to stop curbing fun, I suggest a little target practice, Rogers..." she coaxingly played out, hastily gesturing a gloved hand at the unmoving droids. "Just pretend it's Starks' haywire-terminating bot of mass genocide...Should be easy to imagine that?"

"Can't argue with that," Steve reacted with honed experience as he leapfrogged into the air with his shield held high and bashed the surveillance optics of one of the droids that was moments away from focusing on them. His body twirled under the momentum like a whirlwind that let loose a storm of physical devastation. His shield was sent sailing, its trajectory causing it to land against the wall before bouncing off in a geometrical angle that led to it sawing another two droids in half. Selina's gunfire rang out beside him. The two of them worked in tandem to take out any defense bots being unleashed due to their tresspass. "I see a door up ahead," he yelled after smashing another bot amidst a shower of sparks. The two of them raced ahead down a dark and dank corridor that smelled like oil. The door up ahead opened and out emerged a duo of Lem sentries armed with what could only be deduced as grenade launchers. "Get behind me!" Steve yelled.

The sonorous command of his deep-timbre pitch urgently made Selina react; in fluid-balletic graces of her stiletto heels, lithely she eased into a half-crouch, tactfully reloading a cartilage pack into her clutched Glock, as haloing sconces of oil lamps flitted over her dampened, tousled mahogany whorls. They had breached a smuggling hive, as the odorous reek of tyrannical filth became malodorously potent in the combative wake of their intrusion. Flexing her delicate jaw into a vicious clench, she gritted her teeth, squeezing off another kill-shot of thieving precision. The Lem sentries were arsenals of destabilizing capture-not for partying with. "Is this how you always make an entrance..." she teased, jauntily over the successive dissonance of hailing staccatos of rapid cover fire; greenish haze -alien blood-misted over them. "Or are you just showing off?"

"I'd ask you the same question," Steve responded with a good-natured smile. For some reason, he found Selina's serious attitude mixed with her teasing tendency to be a refreshing mixture that almost reminded him of a certain redhead. The smile on his face became airy as they finished off the last number of guards, leaving them in a cold silence. The bodies scattered around them numbered nearly a dozen. Aliens that were by all indications, stronger and better equipped than them. Steve didn't know how many mercenaries occupied the base, but these couldn't be Ravagers who he had come to know operated with a code of honor of sorts. These were kidnappers, thugs. "We need to find them before more come our way." Steve searched the body of one of the sentries and found what looked to be a gauntlet of sorts that was programmed to open the doors. He grimaced as he squeezed his hand through the metal until it fit around his forearm. Steve watched as Selina searched the bodies of the others, watching as she pocketed a few gold coins and knives. He stared at her blankly. "Really, right now?"

Underneath disheveled his blonde tresses, the hawkish coolness of his silvery azure irises held knifing heat of unbeatable valor, clashingly with a deviant quirk playing over her voluminous lips, as she remained crouched near the sentry's bullet-riddled corpse in a thievish variance of her indifferent caliber, not wavering her roguish poise, against the rancid stench wafting off the hulking alien; Selina brazenly lifted up Xandarian coin out of a blood-soaked pouch. "Always have something to trade in hand..." she ruefully hissed, swiping off more coins."If these space pirates speak my language, it will be an easy slide for us..."

Steve rolled his eyes, somehow finding himself agreeing with her logic even if he didn't like looting from a dead body. "Let's go." He said, lifting his shield and taking point down the hall. Maintenance lights illuminated the path, leading them towards the elevator at the end of the hall. Steve raised the crude gauntlet on his arm and watched as the scanner identified him as a sentry. The doors to the elevator opened and Steve for a moment felt a small sense of unease as he stood at the doors while Selina sauntered inside, oblivious to his unease until she saw him still standing there. He had bad experiences with elevators. Seeing her arch an eyebrow at him he shrugged as he made his way in. Once they were in, Steve stared at the panel of weird buttons. How was it that alien technology could be so similar yet confusing all the same. He resolved to hit the button near the bottom and the doors closed, leaving the two Earthlings to stand in tense silence.

"I'd ask how you're taking all this, but something tells me this isn't the weirdest scenario you've ever been in?" Steve asked her, having heard about some of her exploits in Gotham City.

Unblinkingly saddling him down with a trenchant glare of her dark irises, with distractive ease Selina guardingly braced the curvaceous litheness of her neoprene-garb back against the elevators grated metal door, she incredulously caught a haunting glimpse of a Kree armada vessel within a scrap heap-a junker husk that verminous scavengers rapaciously dissected to sell in trader sectors-a calamitous extension of galactic despotism-gluttonous spawn of Ronan the Accuser. The rabid scum of the felled Kree empire was a barbarous legion of rogue-vulturous scavengers, hiding from Xandar's galactic centurion-warriors of justice: the Nova Corps.

"Yeah," she rasped under breath, sardonically terseness edged in her raspy undertone, while Steve enforced vigilance in his adamant stance as deafening klaxons blaringly amplified in crescendoing tempo-another hailstorm of sensory droids were mobilizing to obstruct them in a strike zone. "Never a dull moment when you're crashing a party..." she deadpanned, readily arcing the Glock with controlled reaction. "Ready to make some noise, Soldier boy?"

"Always ready. But not always eager," he said as the elevator began to slow its descent. There didn't have to be a fight, but he knew Bucky and his girlfriend would chime in that it always ended in a fight. A good soldier was always prepared for battle but a good man would never crave it. Steve tensed but mentally focused himself as the doors opened and both he and Selina were greeted to a wide hallway, no more inviting than the one they came from. Dark, dank, with flickering lights in need of repair. But that didn't catch their attention. What did was the single Kree guardsman standing in front of a massive blast-door. The guardsman himself was massive for a Kree, a mountain of muscle and fat with grisly scars decorating a tattooed face. The guardsman blinked at their unexpected arrival. Before he could raise his gauntlet to raise the alarm, Steve's shield sailed through the air and impaled itself into the guardsman's forearm. It did little more than confuse the tall guardsman, but a gunshot to his head exploded a mass of blue viscera all over the wall.

Steve looked at Selina as she nonchalantly holstered her weapon.

"Not a bad distraction..." Selina breathily quipped in a scathing undertone, under the slits of her domino mask, her brandy-tigerish irises heatedly flashed murderous rawness that banked in her veins, glaring down a viscous glob of Kree blood freakishly melding near her leather boot, as the ogrish sentry flailed sluggishly in a defensive strain as breathless gasps choked out pudginess of his slacken throat. Against the sulfurous murkiness, the alloy-fused vibranium of Steve's legendary-patriotic shield ethereally glinted like a beacon-conductor of hope. In a blinding rush of headlong adrenaline, painstakingly Selina angled her carbon-steel Glock to deliver point-blank accuracy as the discharged bullet cuttingly razored into the repulsive fleshiness of his protruding torso, as the vaporous stench of mucus-slime putridly enwreathed through the raided chamber. "Just when it couldn't get any more unpleasant in here..."

"They can't be far. These subterranean levels look like a cell-block." Steve observed, staring at the grim sight of a withered corpse on the opposite side of a force-field room. The dead prisoner was male, Xandarian perhaps due to his fine clothes. If he had to guess, it was probably a hostage they kidnapped and left to rot when they didn't receive a ransom. Clenching his jaw, Steve marched towards the security check-point and rammed his shield into the mechanism. The door opened and they were hit with a nauseating stench that nearly made them lose their stomachs. Steve had to close his eyes to prevent them from watering due to the repugnant stench of fesses, sewage, and something decaying. "Ugh...Try to breathe through your mouth." Steve mumbled to Selina as he covered the lower part of his face with his hand. It took great effort for him not to heave and lose his lunch, but as he listened to his partner cough and gasp, he knew he wasn't the only one in disgust.

With collective precision on her razor-edged stiletto heels, that was stylized to her brazen tact, frustratingly, Selina brandished a pinch of repulsion evident to a scathing hiss that ghosted out of plushness of her full-bow lips, against implosive exhaustion feverishly arresting her riotous -advancing momentum. Bracing a gloved hand over a metal latch, high-intensity sconces of red strobing lights flittingly haloed over her neoprene-vibranium garb, as kinetic skeins of amethyst defensively electrified with a nano pulse; the disheveled length of her mahogany tresses slickly were askew over the delicate contours of her elvish features as she irrevocably registered a lurid stink miasmically wafting out of drainage vents contorting over them, gloopily. "We need to keep moving, Soldier boy," she urged out in a breathy rasp, questioningly, and steered her dark gaze at disabling sensors rigged to neutralize the detection of an intrusive pace. "They never make a girl's steal easy..."

"Look over there," Steve gestured towards a work-bench ahead beneath a flickering lamp. After he'd grown used to the repugnant stench in these prison levels, he had begun to study their new surroundings. There were numerous holding cells, some force-field generated, others by the crude standard metal bars used on Earth. But what grabbed his attention were the discarded pieces of clothing and equipment littered throughout the area. Some stood out more than others. Such as a carbon fiber stealth suit and a tactical vest. Steve rushed towards the work-bench where, to his alarm and horror, he found Bucky's cybernetic limb resting beneath a work-lamp with a number of tools assembled around it. "Oh my God," Steve whispered, fear sinking in as towards what this could mean. Natasha's widowbites were also on the work-bench along with SHIELD issued-sidearms and throwing knives. His friends had not just been stripped of their weapons but also their clothing. "Buck? Nat?!" Steve couldn't help but call out, uncaring that it could compromise their location. They needed to know that they were here somewhere...alive.

Narrowing vicious intensity of her shadowed coffee irises, in blurring momentum of a cobra thrust, Selina propelled desperate traction, colliding against the workbench in succession of bruising pressure racked in her veins, crouched on her quaking hunches, in a cautious flex of errant poise, Selina splayed her leathered palm shakily over the graphite-alloy plating of Wakandain forged vibrainum that was elementally adorned with golden skeins as she dared a gaze unblinkingly down at bloodied smears disturbingly crusted on the bionic arm's rotator cuff, a soul-paralyzing revelation that had impaled a knifing throb with screwdriver force through her heart."Buck-" she choked out a shivery breath, the huskiness of her undertone was betrayingly threaded into a voiceless heave, as she dragged a lithe finger over damning traces of her beast machines' harvested blood."No..."

"They have to be here somewhere." Steve said, trying desperately to keep a focused mind and not succumb to anguish. It wasn't working. Even as he looked into all the surrounding cells that had unconscious aliens inside of them, his anxiety was reaching an all-time high when he found no trace of his friends. "They can't be..." He felt crushed and hollow with the gripping fear that they were too late. That these barbaric aliens had taken his best friend and his lover, and butchered them to a point he was afraid of finding what remained of them. He locked eyes with Selina, seeing the concealed grief in her eyes masked by tears of rage as she clutched the cybernetic limb like a life-line. The realization was just the same to her. Steve blinked away the overwhelming emotion that threatened to engulf him, his gloved hands tightened into indomitable fists that ached to release their frustrations on the guilty party. But before he could allow his emotions to control him, both he and Selina hear a chilling croaking sound that bellowed from somewhere down below.

"RRibeeeevvee!" Steve and Selina locked eyes, their instincts telling them to reach for their weapons in case another colossal threat was about to reveal itself. But nothing did. The possibility that it was just another alien prisoner-made them feel less anxious but that was until the voice called again, "EEEVEEE-it!" Steve glanced at Selina who nodded his unasked question. Something or someone was calling him.

"Where's that coming from?" He said moving down the corridor.

With a hinged variance of unwarranted restraint against the devastative maelstrom of unenviable heartache; as blonde tresses disheveledly clung over his feverish temples, adamantly Steve measured his pace over grated drainage vents, engagingly in the defensive tack of soldier-honed alertness, he braced his shield against the muscled solidity of his Kevlar-garb chest; a vomitous-carrion reek noxiously sailed throughout the obscured prisoner warren.

The froggish cadence eerily bellowed a warning pitch- a feverous pinch of tense determination etched tellingly over the hawkish planes of his rugged features, keeping himself stoically motionless in a greenish contrast of dimmed light, the flash in the rawness of his cool azure irises became stormily fixed on Selina as she fleetingly pivoted on her stilettoes in balletic grace, not breaking stance as she effortlessly leveled the Glock in direction of murky tunnel. "The noise gets creepier down there..." she gritted under a strain of breath, tersely. "So who goes in first...?"

He wasn't afraid of the dark. He'd seen enough horrors in his life to make the blackness a welcome veil. The darkness could offer a blanket of security for those who needed to hide from the true horrors that moved in plain light. But for James Buchanan Barnes, the darkness protected him from himself. From the grim awful reality that his entire existence had been perverted and remade into something unthinkable. The nauseating stench of his own slimy skin and the sewage water he was forced to lay in had long become a constant discomfort that he'd long grown used to. The gargantuan reptilian shape of his new body was something that was harder to get used to, but the darkness that shrouded his visage made things easier.

For both him and his unlikely partner. Natasha was quiet, like him. Processing their taxing ordeal in the best way she knew how which was by keeping to herself. They were two damaged souls hunkering in the same crappy boat. But they kept themselves aloft with an inner-strength that was the memory of those they loved and fought for. For so long the thought of Selina and Steve kept them going, kept them thinking and processing of ways to get out of their predicament.

And then on one unexpected day, that strength evaporated and turned into fear the moment he heard those voices calling out to him. "S-Steve? L-Lina?" He croaked, feeling the water shift around him as his companion moved in the darkness near him.

Against the sluggish drag of her bulbous mass, with a painstaking strain of her stubbed webbed foot, instinctively reacting to the guttural croaking of her amphibious bunkmate, Natasha utilized an eroded drainage grate to brace the swelled globby rotundness of her blubbery girth as a protrusive layer of her outstretched throat rapted. "You know, I'm pretty sure they're not giving up on us, Barnes..." she rasped froggily in hushed pitch, as nauseatic mucus oozily leaked over her clammy flesh; shifting the bulging largeness of her mutative form she registered the despondent pulse of Bucky's laden-implosive heartache, reassuringly she nudged her pudgy snout against blobby layers of his tensing back. Unsurprisingly while not attempting to move a generous inch, Bucky emitted a scathing groan as he brandished an impassive semblance, as the paunchy expanse of his ballooned-out girth droopily swelled against throaty croaking-nothing would stave down.

They were both morphic-expandable captives of repulsive throes- fattening oblivion of being massively devolved into hideous salientian-froggy visages to become transported to the celestial head of Know-where-a freakishly idiosyncratic collector would store them in his galactic terrarium of exceptional space creatures for his morbid gain. Time of escaping the alien sludge heap was measured on trigger-wire before another infusion would make their changes-irreversible.

Nakedly, as Bucky allowed the damning reality to heartbreakingly tow him back into a boggy tunnel, dewy wetness of unshed anguish bleared his reptilian depths of silvery aquamarine, Natasha felt his Brooklyn resilence ebbing against the dismal stupor was he grappled into-he needed to hit back. "U nas mozhet byt' nichego zdes', no zdes' u nas yest' ... Vse. (We might have nothing in here, but out there we got...Everything.)"

"Vot o chem ya bespokoyus' (That's what i'm worried about)." He croaked. The fact that Steve and Selina had come here looking for them meant that they were both in-danger. If Ajax found out about them, he'd sicc his goons and monsters after them, turning them into blood-sport in his arena or worst, subjecting them to the same horrors both he and Natasha endured. "As long as they're here, they're in danger." Despite how much it pained him, Bucky knew he would have to endure stepping into the light shining down into the pit. He squared himself and gave a bouncing leap forward, trying not to be too sudden as to alarm anyone looking down inside. The sewage water splashed and sloshed, causing him to grimace as it splattered onto him. He saw the slimy surface of his reptilian skin and grimaced at the indignity he felt over what he'd become.

"I think there's someone down there," The voices above became clearer, as Bucky could hear Steve shuffling forward towards the edge of the pit. "Hello? Anyone hear me?" Bucky took deep breaths and began to trudge forward. It wasn't easy when he was missing one arm. The transformation was organic, not cybernetic. The junkers were all to happy to steal away his vital appendage to try and see what made it tick before selling it off. "Hello?" Steve called down again. Bucky could see his shadow in the water. He stands fully in the light and then raises his beady black eyes up.

"I hear ya, Steve. Try not to be too shocked, punk. I know M' not lookin' my best." He tried to sound candor and upbeat. It was an attitude Steve would be familiar with so he wouldn't think he was being tricked or hearing things. But instead, Bucky sounded like a croaking mess with his words barely being decipherable to human ears. Up above he could see Steve looking down at him with a bewildered look, you'd think he'd had his first kiss and he was frozen in shock.

"That really you, Buck?" Steve managed to say after a minute of shocked silence passed. "What the hell happened, man?"

A heart-knifing crescendo thumpingly deafened in her veins, flipping her sleek-curved goggles up, Selina clutched the metal bars, in urgent flexion; against the onrushing surge of feverish wetness mistily blurring his vision, Steve crouched readily low on his Kevlar-clad hunches and splayed his threadbare leather-gloved hand deftly over the vent as the froggish resonance amplified in tensing pitch.

Keeping herself a breadth from the latch opening, the malodorous reek of oozing mucus slicking over amphibian flesh stinkily encompassed the occupied pit as Selina flitted naked rawness of her shadowed brandy irises down at the lumpish, froglike mass below them. Gasping a deadened rasp, breathlessly she reeled back in a phantom variance akin to cool smoke; remaining impassive against the eruptive throb raiding through her heart. "I-It's a damn trick..." She gritted out a hiss, stingingly, refusing not to foster onto the deceptive chimera that rabid galactic traffickers fashioned to lure-flesh Terran blood. Leveling the Glock with murderous precision at the disgusting blubbery heap of fattened slime, thievingly she conveyed no wavering hesitance of vestigial mercy in her pulse-gripping clutch. "Whatever that damn thing is posing as...It's not Bucky."

"Selina!" Steve only just then remembered he wasn't alone down here. Finding Bucky in the state he was in had put him in deep shock so much he was finally snapped out of it when Selina had drawn her gun and aimed it at the frog-shaped creature that Bucky had become. "Its him." He urged her, standing between her and the monstrous frog who didn't react to her show of hostility. "Put it down." Steve held his hand up, urging her to lower her Glock while she glared with barely concealed emotion behind her domino-mask. He didn't want to believe this was all happening too. The pain in his heart-doubled when he thought of what this might mean for Natasha.

"Lina..." The pain Bucky hoped he wouldn't feel suddenly became too real when Selina had come into view, visibly distraught by what she now saw him is. She thought he was a monster-a thing. He didn't blame her at all as each and every day he mourned the fact he no longer looked like James Buchanan Barnes. He'd become Kermit the Frog's grumpy fat cousin. "I'm sorry, darlin'. Guess I shouldn't have tried to be a hero." He croaked, wondering how things might have turned out if he hadn't stowed aboard the mercenary ship that brought him here.

Registering the gravelly croakiness of his threadier-froggish drawl; against the possessive intensity lethally stemming into rampageous-contractive fury became lashingly eruptive in a destructive reaction as Selina lashingly whipped the Glock against a metallic paneled wall. The dissembling pieces of her razored ferocity hailed through the vent's bars in a heart-jolting wake, as she collapsed on her knees sobbingly in the soul-racking wake of infective anguish. A blearing onrush of heated wetness trekked over her cheeks, she dragged her shivery lips with bruising pressure over torn leather of her quaking knuckles as feverish chokes of breath suffocatingly pierced her throat. "I-It can't be him..."

Bucky felt as if his heart was being cleaved in half as he listened to his kitten breakdown and release her anguish. He ached to reach out and console her, to envelop her in his arms as he often did in their quiet moments. But he felt so far away, he couldn't even form words to say despite how much he wanted to say something that would offer comfort. Instead, he croaked in the dimness of his cell, a tear slipping past his beady eyes.

Steve did the only thing that felt appropriate and that was put his hand on top of Selina's shoulder, offering her minimal reassurance that things would be okay. But he wasn't so sure if they would be. His thoughts were side-tracked by the absence of another of their group. "Buck...Where's Nat?" He was almost afraid to ask, wondering if she had been spared this fate or subjected to something worse.

A stark rush of unbidden heartache became stealingly arrestive like a vein-shunting paralytic; Natasha crouched low on her pudgy webbed feet against the unendurable murkiness of her imprisoned domain, greenish casts of light ghoulishly haloed over her pudgier-froggy comrade. Motionlessly, Bucky slumped his tubbier mass against a drainage pipe, a rapt grimace force his puckered snout to jut out sulkily as tarry sludge unremittingly glozed over him-mutative dregs of their parasitical reality had surgically exorcised out his Brooklyn spirit. He was the damnable fringe of abandoning the inexorable fight. "We're nothin' to em' to now, Tasha..." he slurred croakily in dismal pitch, against a soul-lancing throb. "Not even worth a fight..."

Bolstering herself with controlled nonchalance, as Steve's imposing shadow eclipsed the bars, unblinkingly Natasha glanced up with a daring flash of her gluey-teal orbs, blearily mirroring Steve's azure irises that stormily echoed unshakeable-electrified valiance of battle-tested determination incarnate- an unbridled reckoning for their chastened humanity. "S-Steve..." The raspiness of her croaking tenor was bloatedly gargled as she answered his railed-out urgency. "You need to leave...Barnes and I have fixed price on us, don't play this game..."

Nat…" Steve was torn by conflicting emotions as he heard that familiar voice call up to him. He felt relief that Natasha was still alive, but also sorrow that she hadn't fared any better than Bucky and was now being held like some monstrous prisoner. He also felt pain, and righteous anger, causing his hands to ball into fists at his sides. "Nobody gets left behind. You know that. And I'm not leaving either of you." It was driven, passionate. It was all he could spew without letting his emotions get the better of him. He also understood Natasha held the same principles. They would have much to talk about once they got out of here. "Is there anything you can tell us about how they did this to you?"

"Ajax." Bucky cut in with an edge to his voice. "They call him Ajax."

Steve exchanged a look with Selina who had a dangerous fire in her eyes. "Who is he?"

The unhinged measure of rigged desperation of Steve's deep-timbre joltingly revamped a phantom chill against the mucus-coated flabbiness of her abdominous form; Natasha felt Kree entity's sanguineous aura demonically clash with the barbaric-sludgy ambiance that prevalently encompassed them. With forced momentum that was a variance of stealth-honed resilence, she wobbled heavily breadth closer to Bucky, defensive tension became clashingly ignitable as slime viscidly sheathed over the hulking mass of their swelled-out girths.

Brandishing an effective charade of temperate restraint, Natasha croaked out in a rueful hitch, convincingly. "We're dealing with a Kree radical with hardware that mutates prisoners into something like us..." she whispery rasped as Bucky's shadowed aquamarine orbs cuttingly slit with razoring heat of knife-point intensity, teemingly urging her to stake down a rampant warning. "You can't turn your back on him, Steve..."

"Don't think for a second I'll play nice with this alien freak-" A snarling cadence was hissingly eruptive against the scummy darkness of the labyrinth barracks, tigerishly Selina gritted her teeth; raw vehemence suffused in her veins in reactive tenor and with a thievish swipe of her gloved hand in a blinding flex, she viciously clutched a crescent-edged spear of Kree weaponry that was conveniently discarded over an exsiccated husk of skeletal arthropodal remains of a harvested insectoid Sakaaran--it was an execution pit stack-up corpses of traitorous Kree defilers that were once loyal to Ronan the Accuser. "Soldier boy ...Here..." she urged out, fervently, reversing the spear's arced edge as she unerringly tossed it to Steve's opened-hand grip. "Use this to open the grate..."

Steve caught the spear and fell back into soldier-mode. His greater instincts told him that something was off about all of this and they needed more intel before making any drastic plays. But he had no idea what Ajax had in store for his friends and he had no intention of leaving them down there trapped like the animals they'd been turned into. But before he could try to pry the bars open with his immense strength, he and Selina feel thundering vibrations in the floor coming at them from all corners of the level. "I think we're about to get company." And that was when numerous exhaust ports were opened and a vicious gas began to blast into their area. It hit them sudden and fast, Steve and Selina had little-to-no time to try and mask themselves before they began to feel groggy.

"Tear gas." Steve mumbled, shaking his head and grimacing as his enhanced constitution fought to flush out the substance that was threatening to render him unconscious. Selina coughed and shrank back, searching for a door or an air-pocket to safely breathe. In the pit, he could hear loud booming croaks coming from Bucky and Natasha who by now, no doubt realized what was happening to them up above.

"Get out of here, Selina! Steve!" Bucky tried in vain to climb up the wall leading up to the grate, but his mass made it difficult to climb up more than a few feet.

Her feline-honed resistance felt devouringly amputated, the vaporific smogginess of the immobilizing-noxious fumes became exceedingly like cold rust in her throat; the belching resonance of Bucky's croaky-frantic utterance vertiginously deafened against the neasous-suffusive onslaught that penetrated bone-deep with an infectious rush of nerve- paralyzing strain.

The amethyst nanites that interweaved kinetic skeins of her black neoprene garb became stunningly defective against the weaponized haze injecting through drainage conduits. Heaving out a choking breath, with defensive assuage, Selina blurringly hammer-thrust her gloved hand up, as she clutched onto a dented pipe, her deadening momentum became arrested by the parasitic reek encompassing tunnel-like barracks.

Grungily against the crippling assault, her mahogany tresses slashed damply askew over her fevered cheeks, while the hazed blankness of her coffee irises dizzyingly caught Steve reactively frisbee-tossing his vibranium shield in a blinding precision as it metallically ricocheted off a decorative wall of skeletal-monstrous arthropods harvested out of Know-Where fluid pools that were morbidly embedded as distorted trophies. "S-Steve-" she choked in raw pitch, gratingly, as paralytic ether chased her pulse in an exhaustive-vomitous wake. Across from her, gnashing his teeth, forcibly Steve braced his muscled shoulders against the railing, heavy-corded bulk under his tactical kevlar grew revealingly tauter as he collapsed on his knees with disarmed traction-grub-like Sakaaran guard fashioned with cybernetic blades as forelimbs rabidly caught the shield in mid-air neutralizing their measures of tactical defense. They were prisoners. "G-Get Bucky out..."

The gas was suffocating and made it difficult for Steve to see beyond the plumes of smoke that encompassed the cellblock. His determination wouldn't let him succumb to the pull against his consciousness. The irrepressible urge to close his eyes and fall into defeat. He heard a crash nearby and knew that Selina had passed out. Steve rammed the spear between the bars and began to apply every ounce of strength in his body. His sweaty complexion was enhanced by the gritting exertion on his face. The bars began to groan and bend. Below he could see Bucky trying desperately to climb his way out to reach him. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. The sweat trickling into his vision didn't make things easier. He wouldn't stop, even as he felt himself involuntarily drop to one knee, he kept prying open the gate. "B-Buck...Nat..." He panted. His vision blurred and all sound stop, but he could make out a door opening and a dozen mercenaries pouring into the cell-block. Their guns were aimed at him but no one fired. A few made way for a single blurry shape to walk towards him.

"A-Ajax..." He passed out on the floor just as the Kree crimelord stood over him with a thoughtful as he observed just how strong this Terran was. Maybe he and his friend would be useful.

A vacuous defeat was mephitically fringing, nothing warded off against nauseous tension razing through her. A frequency of resistance had deafened out, blearily, against her lashes flitted on conscious-instinctive accord, burningly Selina felt clamping pressure of destabilizing bracer gauntlets secured on her wrists, a deadened pulse throbbingly synced with an energy cable that veined into a begrimed wall, smeared treks of Kree blood were vomitous sigils of executed oppressors -the installation of Ronan's spawning Accusers ushered butcherous planet-reaping massacres of terror storms when Kree warships condemningly eclipsed over targeted planetoids that were under the galactic protection of Nova Corps.

A metallic skeletal droid had been activated outside the electro-rigged bars, laser-red optics scanned creepily over the backlit cell, isolating thermal pulses of her body heat. Sickeningly registering a mordacious fume of rancid sludge; a viscous ooze of leeched out of hollowed-out Kree skull that was barbarously impaled on a corroded spike, used for a lucid warning-not to cross the Terran-mutating warlord-Ajax. The chimeric reality induced an unbidden wake of bone-shunting heartache; Bucky was in the captive-bloating dregs of punishingly being a hideous -blubbered frog.

Reactively, a featherlight brush of masculine -phantom-heat errantly traced over sleek-athletic curvatures of her vibrainum garbed shoulder in flexing tenor, as she registered corded bands of muscle heavily sagging against her. "S-Steve..." she murmured out in a rasped- pitch, thinly, as the cotton-blurriness of her gaze feverishly wavered on the bluish aura grippingly emanating from the appended cable, every measured pulse was leeching out their warring strength. "S-Soldier Boy...?"

Steve teetered on the brink of consciousness, phasing in and out of the darkness as if he were below water. Static rang in his ears and he felt the weight of slumber bear down on him like a ton of bricks. "Selina…" He murmured, groggy and barely managing to hold his eyes open. He felt dizzy, winded as if he were caught in a tail-spin and had just pulled into a leveled position. He was awake, slowly but surely the world sharpened back into focus and he was reminded of the direness of their situation once he saw the electrified bars crackling with sparks. He could feel a weight pressed beside him and turned his head. "You all right?" He asked with a dry throat.

"I'm not sure..." she murmured throatily, flashing a sidelong glance at her valor-hearted cellmate with braced poise, against rushes of fevered heat that bleared her slumberous coffee irises, Selina felt anesthetic drowsiness warding off; quartered pinkish-wormy Sakaaran grubs clung lifelessly over the drainage vents as throat-belching croaks deafeningly erupted in agonized tenor-a demented concerto of robbed humanity.

Under sweat-damp, grungy tresses of blonde errant treks of crimson wetly streaked over the broad, angular planes of Steve's graven-edge, boyish features. Gnashing his teeth, Steve bruisingly tugged the energy cables, harnessing variances of his determined ferocity, against the chasmal darkness of their hot-wired cell, Selina heatedly watched his rigid corded arms tautly strain with urgent-back-knuckled traction, as flexuous pulses exponentially induced a waspish sting through her veins. "S-Stop rattling the damn cage, Rogers..." she hissed, seethingly. "We're rigged up on voltage..."

Against the barrage of tranq-hazed grogginess that immobilized him onto a fringe of sated thrall, blurringly, with a vigilant flex of resilient urgency, Steve attempted to ease his muscled forearm up, tauter corded bulk delineated underneath tactical Kevlar contracted against his braced momentum. Each shift of driven movement sonically reactivated a bone-sloughing pulse of tasering heat. "Y-Yeah, I kinda felt that..." he quipped under ragged breath, unabashedly, as the energy cable squeezed out the reactive strength in his arm crushingly in pythonic succession. "Grah..."

titanically

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black-strike-otp · 7 years

Text

part 94

I’m delirious and require sleep. Also go play this while reading just cuz the song’s title: Shockwave’s Revenge

The aura surrounding Shockwave’s lair left a haze of shrouded evil. It was no darker or lighter than the majority of Cybertron. The lighting was similar to what the Nemesis had; dark hues of purple filtering in every direction which did provide an eerie appearance.

What stood out the most though was the feel in the surroundings. Like a haunted house, it was deathly silent. Walls were riddled with scratches from unknown sources. Untold fights perhaps; or patients struggling for escape. The upper floor almost looked normal other than these strange observations.

Lying about was some worthless supplies left sitting from pre and post war. It appeared much like any other warehouse on Cybertron before the majority were collapsed from the constant strife upon the planet. Much of the building’s few windows had long since been busted out, leaving stray glass on the floor just as much as there was dust.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Blackout testified as he looked around. “Where’s the entry into the lower levels?”

“This way,” a feminine voice chimed.

He shifted his optics over to Venus as she spoke while passing by him. There was a natural sensual sway to her hips as she walked. Hurrying by, the dark rose accented femme disappeared past some of the crates and out of sight.

Novastrike cleared her vocalizer. One of her pedes tapped on the floor as she looked up to him with her helm lowered so that it appeared she was glaring up at him.

“What?”

“I saw you looking.”

“She was speaking to me,” he stated gruffly, offering a slight smile. “And I thought you said you weren’t jealous.”

“Her optics aren’t attached to her hips,” the little femme scoffed.

“I was only watching her walk by to see where she was going,” Blackout defended, his grin growing more crafty as he added on, “But if you feel the urge to stroll ahead to prove a point, I wouldn’t mind enjoying the view a bit.”

Light faded in and out of Novastrike’s ears in a blinking rush of light as she huffed, shaking her helm. The softened blue light emitting from her optics met his fearless scarlet as she quirked a smile of disbelief.

“We’re in a crazy scientist research area, and you’re flirting with me?”

“I live on the edge.”

“By the Allspark, I love you and your dumb hi-jinks.”

Bowing his helm deeply with respect, Blackout’s tone grated as he spook deep in his chassis, “And I love you too, Novastrike.”

“Alright lady’s mech,” Nova sighed deeply as she pivoted on her heel, “let’s get a move on before Venus ditches us. We still need to gather materials to manufacture a transmitter if we’re lucky and the others who vouched to help make our case manage to convince them.”

Stalking behind the little femme, Blackout quietly rattled off in a grumpy tone, “Worst case scenario: we need to find blueprints ourselves on how to build the intergalactic transmitter.”

The quiet melody of Novastrike’s laughter had him grinning like a moron as he took large strides to keep up with the covert femmes darting ahead of him like streaks of lightning. He never had to be the fastest mech with his size; taking large gaits between each step, but they put him to shame even with his usual brisker pace.

Once the obsidian giant had joined the two down a short set of stairs into the lower level, there was nothing in sight but further cargo. With a menacing growl of annoyance, the mammoth sized mech strode further into the small basement dwelling area. Shockwave must have taken great care into concealing his lab, because nothing here stood out as looking particularly alarming. The coverage of this space wasn’t even a tenth of the upstairs size.

He turned his gaze over to Novastrike quizzically after a moemnt. She was looking back to him expectedly and gave a slight inclination of her helm over to Venus. The taller femme was busy pushing some boxes out of the way of the wall. Digging her digits along the seams that made up two panes of metal of the wall, a small section popped up to reveal a button beneath it.

Raising an optic ridge, Blackout stepped over to join the two femmes as Venus pressed the button. Further metal pieces of the wall moved; transforming and peeling to the side to reveal a large elevator platform with guard rails surrounding all but the entry point for bots to walk on.

“You’re telling me Shockwave brought that giant Predacon up on this thing?” Blackout stated with a wave of a servo to the elevator. From the size of it, it didn’t appear as though it could hold half the size of that beast.

“I don’t know,” the assassin stated, placing a single servo to her hip. “This is the only entrance I know of. There could be another one with a larger lift of some sort to get the Predacon up here. I’ve never seen that creature before, but then again, the last time I was here was years ago the one time to save ‘Cade.”

“I would imagine seeing something like that would be hard to forget,” Novastrike quietly reasoned.

Venus gave a brief laugh, nodding her helm.

Both femmes boarded the landing first. It creaked uneasily even beneath their weight. Passing a glance to one another, they turned to look up at Blackout as he tentatively placed a pede on the elevator. Primus, he prayed this thing was operational and not a ploy or no longer functional piece of scrap that was going to send them hurtling who knew how many floors down.

To his surprise and relief, the metal groaned beneath his weight a moment and bounced before settling. Blackout rigidly remained still as Venus offered him a smile that suggested nerves. She gave a brief nod to him, realizing he wasn’t going to move further onto the platform, and reached over to a short stand anchored to the floor. Upon it was two arrows that would lower them down or raise the platform.

Pressing it, they began to slowly plunge into complete darkness down the shaft.

“How many floors are there, and how many do we need to go do?” the black outline in the darkness rumbled.

“I went down to the first level below the top one to fetch Barricade,” Venus stated. “That’s where the call room was too, probably since the radio equipment is hidden somewhere outside nearby I’d imagine. You wouldn’t good reception if it was much lower I think.”

Blackout nodded his helm. “No idea on the amount of floors, then?”

“I know there’s at least one below the one we’ll be going on,” she ventured slowly. “But I don’t know what’s down there.”

“We don’t need to find out,” the smaller femme nervously whispered.

A comforting smile moved across Blackout’s faceplate as he turned his optics upon Novastrike. With his optics transitioning into a night vision filter to better see in the void of blindness, he could make out her figure but mostly, the sight of her glowing brilliant optics of cobalt, teal, and aqua drew him in.

She smiled in return, and although he couldn’t make out her appearance nearly as well as she could his, he could see the way her mood shifted in the tones of her optics and the partial shutter they underwent as they brightened. It was such minimal alterations. Subtle, but he picked up on them and found himself smiling so wide it was nearly painful.

“Maybe where he had been keeping his Predacon pet?” Venus offered.

“Could be,” he agreed, forcing himself to look over to Venus and meet her gaze. “But Novastrike’s right. We don’t need to stay here longer than necessary gathering materials. It would just jeopardize the mission and make Barricade more nervous waiting for us.”

“Believe me, I don’t plan on spending a nanoklik in here longer than I have to,” seethed the taller femme.

They dropped further into the mad mech’s hideout in silence. After another thirty or so nanokliks, light suddenly splashed in, causing everyone to squint as the lift clunked and clanked its way down to the next level.

Venus released the down button. With optics readjusting to the new white and florescent blend of illuminated lights, Blackout took a step back and off the stand slowly. It recoiled and bounced once again, raising up a bit as he removed his weight entirely by stepping off from it completely.

Venus vented quietly as she strolled casually off after him. Reaching out, she patted his shoulder as she walked by and continued marching down the hall before them.

In a flash of white, Novastrike was off and by his pede. The spooked femme shuddered slightly, rubbing the upper region of her arms as she went to shuffle beside him as he turned and began to follow after Venus.

The majority of the chambers they passed had sealed and locked doors. Behind them, chilling moans and groans seeped through. The quiet scratching of digits against some of them added to the unease. Pedes shuffled, but weren’t quite shuffling. Thuds and thumps of varying weights moved around. Somewhere, deeper in this lab, a distant delirious gurgling screaming was carrying.

Novastrike’s digits brushed against his leg. Blackout nearly jumped. He wouldn’t admit to having been spooked openly, but he hadn’t been inspecting the gesture. Glancing down to the little femme, he could read the terror in her stance alone though she wasn’t looking to him. Her helm whipped one way and the another as she restlessly looked around.

“Everything alright, dear?” he rumbled, trying to keep his voice down.

“Too much,” she barely answered.

Raising an optic ridge, he waited until Nova raised her helm up to him. Her face was written in horror, and tears glittered in her optics. Short and brief heavy vents filtered in and out of her frame rapidly.

He instantly came to a halt.

“Nova, I can take you out-”

“No,” she insisted in a breathless monotone. “Let’s just hurry. I can’t take the sensory overload. There’s so much wrong with this place.”

It was startling to witness her rubbing at her optics as the tears formed and collected along the rims of her optics. With a concerned warble emitting from his chassis as his spark chimed a soft, hardly audible collection of reverberating notes, Blackout reached down to scoop up the small femme with guilt. He should have asked her to stay outside with Barricade to keep watch rather than bring her down here with her. He hadn’t even considered how her heightened senses would take everything down here.

Blackout pressed his collected bundle against his chassis. A quiet hum moved through his armor as he looked down the hall. His optics awkwardly met Venus’. With a nervous jerk of his helm, he looked away as he took large steps to meet her where she had stopped. All the while his digits curled protectively over Novastrike’s armor; tighter than necessary but far from being damaging.

Venus made a silent gesture to his servos as she raised an optic ridge questioningly. When he didn’t reply and hardly met her optics, she offered a caring but worried smile and continued down their path.

“How much further to the call room?” he echoed in a coarse manner.

“It’s just ahead,” the cerise highlighted femme stated.

Walking by one of the rooms, a loud band caused Venus to jump slightly. She muttered a curse beneath her breath, shaking her helm as they passed it. The shivers that erupted from Novastrike had Blackout trying to calm her as best he could. Heat basked off of his armor as he pressed her a bit closer, hurrying a bit more than usual after the other femme.

The call room didn’t have a door. They slipped in with ease, and Venus jutted out a digit with relief.

“There!” she exclaimed brightly, passing a cheeky grin to Blackout. “Told you I could find what you were looking for.”

“Grab anything else you think looks valuable,” he stated, looking around with a nod. “I’ll fetch the capacitors and see what other functioning parts he may have. We’ll be needing a power supply which shouldn’t be hard to get here or elsewhere, amplifiers, an electronic oscillator, modulator, and a bunch of other slag. I could care less if you wreck the place gutting it, just make sure anything that looks remotely useful or worthy of trading is salvaged.”

Keeping an impressive poker face, Venus slowly answered in kind, “Blackout, I’d like to remind you that I’ve managed just fine on this planet with eons. Part of getting by is knowing to look at something and even if you don’t know what it is, judging it’s worth and expense.”

He offered an apologetic gesture with one servo in a sweeping gesture to her before cupping it back around Novastrike. The assassin gave a slight nod to him, dashing on the other end of the room as he stomped over the open and massive circuit board missing a panel.

Blackout faltered in front of the opened access control board. He shifted his optics down to himself to his servos. Through his digits, he could just barely make out slivers of white.

He unfurled his cage from around the little femme. She created a brief noise of fear.

“I’m sorry, dear,” the obsidian mech quietly murmured. “I’m going to need to carry this stuff. Will you be okay on my shoulder?”

Novastrike gave a small nod, lurching slightly as she pressed digits over her mouth as she resisted the urge to vomit.

“I’m sorry,” she hoarsely mumbled.

“Don’t be,” he softly whispered, brushing his digits along her ears as he offered her a smile. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry I dragged you down here.”

She mumbled something incoherent that he couldn’t make out. With a frown etching into his expression, the titan curved a single servo around his femme and raised her up to slip on his shoulder. Novastrike nestled against his armor and low under the kibble so that she was hardly visible. He could feel her face close against his neck, and the ragged breaths she huffed against him.

Servos free, he reached out in the circuit board and started to disassemble it. He couldn’t risk damaging any of the equipment, so took care with his large digits in pulling wires out from their sources and disconnecting components. It was tedious, but he didn’t rush himself as he unplugged and divided areas accordingly. For the life of him, he hoped some bot knew what half this stuff was, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to reconnect these dozens of wires himself into a new mechanism.

With a gentle tug as he rocked the circuitboard back and forth, he removed the entire section along with the capacitor. It had to be about a fourth of his height in total lengthwise. Balancing it carefully in his grip, Blackout turned around to see Venus holding a mixmatched sum of loot in her arms and some equipment and cables draped over her shoulders.

Looking him up and down, the femme spoke frankly: “Do you really think you’re going to need that whole piece?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “But I’d rather regret not taking all of it and miss something than just take the capacitor. I can tell there’s an amplifier here, so that’s one thing, but beneath the rest of this mess of circuits it’s difficult to tell.”

“Rip open the rest of the paneling and check,” she urged.

Torn between wanting to take the one thing they did have and leaving with their prize and wanting to complete the job, Blackout vented. He tried turning his helm to look at Nova, but could only partly make out her tail, legs, and rear from her curled up position pressed into his neck.

He growled with frustration. Placing the panel of electrics and spilling wires down, he reached out with free servos to grab the metal panels covering the rest of the monitors computer board. With a sharp tug, the metal bent outwards. With another tug, Blackout managed to rip off another large area of metal to reveal further areas of the motherboard.

He grabbed another section and ripped it free.

Then another.

While he tore into the computer, Venus busily subspaced the smaller items she held that she could. The remaining items she collected she dropped into a small case she found, dumping out its contents on the floor and putting her own items inside.

Finally with the majority of the computer systems available skeleton visible, Blackout shifted his crimson optics over the scenery. His optics rested upon a modulator that looked like it had seen better days; layered with dust and grim. There was only three connections from it throughout the entire motherboard, so he yanked those free and subspaced the small item.

Trailing his optics along coils of copper wires, Blackout spotted the oscillator and yanked that as well.

“That’ll do,” he rumbled.

“Are you sure?” Venus asked. “You don’t want to track down a power supply, or try tearing out any more of the connectors?”

“Those will be easier to come by and reclaim,” snapped the large mech. “I can already tell you the power supply isn’t in this room anyway; there’s a massive line that hooks up over there so it could be a few rooms over, or on a completely different level. We don’t have time to seek it out.”

“I might not know the complete layout of this place, but was there anything else-”

“No,” Blackout cut in before she could finish. He placed the electronic oscillator into his subspace and reached down, picking up the capacitor with it’s interconnected amplifier and various unreasonable dangling wires.

Reaching around, he wrapped the majority of the cables around the board of circuits and tucked it partly beneath one arm. With a respectable nod to Venus, he strode for the door, with her quickly outpacing him in a light jog back to the lift.

It seemed like a lifetime going up the elevator shaft. This whole operation had been too easy for his liking though. No sentries, no guards, no security whatsoever. He didn’t even know if there was an anti-air strike weapon. He’d certainly not seen anything like that stationed outside of the base. He wondered how well-hidden they would have to be, but it surprised him more that that seemed to be the only defense Shockwave had to this place.

“Is there no security feeds here?” he uncomfortably grumbled impatiently, trying to will the damn elevator to go faster as he felt Nova shiver anxiously against his neck.

The taller femme shuttered her optics in thought. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I mean, I always assumed there was. But I’ve literally only been here two, three times maybe. A few times I came here with Barricade as he left for his tests prior to Shockwave locking him up and tethering him to an examination table. The last time I was sneaking in to liberate him.”

“And nothing unusual happened while you were freeing him?” Blackout hedged.

Venus gave a shake of her helm as her pink optics flickered. “No. I mean, outside of the creepy things I witnessed, no. I never encountered any malicious bots or guards.”

“Was Shockwave present at the time?”

“I didn’t see him,” she vented loudly. “Though if I did, I probably would have torn out his optic. The single-eyed creep.”

“Hmm,” Blackout drawled thoughtfully. “I wonder if he was busy at the time, or if he wanted ‘Cade to escape.”

“Want him to escape? Why would he want him to escape?” she asked, her soft voice somewhat harder now and edgy.

“To test him. See what his experiment could do. See how long his resolve would last.”

Venus narrowed her gaze into slits. As the elevator came to a screeching halt to their destination, she released the upward pointing arrow button and dropped her arm. The violet overcast light from the upper levels threw strange figures and hues over her faceplate.

“Well if that was his test, he certainly failed.”

Furious, the femme pushed past Blackout and off the platform. It jostled unsteadily beneath Blackout’s pedes. Pitching as though it was a boat upon rough seas, he reached out to grasp the edge of the wall as he turned to see Venus plodding up the short staircase. He vented softly, letting go off the wall and stepping off onto the steady warehouse floor once more.

He reached up and across himself then to place a servo against Nova. The small femme winced slightly before she lifted her helm up. Her optics looked upon the former Decepticon Hound’s as he looked to her with a warm stare of glittering red optics.

“You okay dear?” he gently coaxed while stroking her ears.

Nova bobbed her helm up and down. “A bit better not being down there,” she admitted quietly. “There was a lot of terrible, horrible, disturbing scents and sounds down there penetrating my helm. I could taste the chemicals floating through the air. You could almost picture the things that happened down there from just the smells alone.”

“I’m sorry I towed you along down there,” he grumbled, kicking himself inwardly.

“That’s okay,” she answered quietly. “You didn’t know what it would be like down there. Neither did I.”

Why didn’t that make him feel any less at fault?

Adjusting his grip on the circuit board against his side, Blackout dropped his other arm to his side again and hiked up the steps after Venus. He followed his way back around the crates and through the warehouse to the front, where the femme was already busy reuniting with Barricade with the contents of her heist at her pedes.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” the small purple and ebony grounder mech urged, holding her face gently in his shaking servos.

“Yes, I’m fine,” replied the black and pink femme, smiling softly as she reached up to overlap her servos on top of his. “See? Perfectly fine. Still in one piece. Nothing bad happened and all. We’re all okay. You don’t need to worry. Inhale deeply-”

As she said this, ‘Cade calmly dragged in air through his ventilation system.

“-and exhale.”

A rush of slightly warm air escaped him as he bowed his helm, placing his forehead against hers.

“Better?” Venus whispered with her optic ridges drawn close with concern.

“Yeah,” Barricade crooned, shuttering his optics part of the way. “Better.”

Smirking a bit to himself, Blackout cast a glance to Novastrike as she observed the pair. She turned to look at him with embarrassment as she was caught staring, looking as far away from any of them as she could by craning her neck back.

With a snicker, the obsidian mech shook his helm. A quiet warbling sound captured his attention and he lifted his helm up to look beyond the couple a few yards in front of him to stare out as a portal began to form where one had previously been.

The other three bots suddenly whipped their helms to the space bridge that was beginning to form.

Blackout’s smile drained away. He quickly turned, stepping to the left and back in the direction they’d come from. His pedes skidded slightly as he glanced back, spotting Venus dropping her servos from Barricade as she tugged on his arm.

“‘Cade!”

He didn’t move.

“Barricade!”

The scream of dismay went unheard.

His violet optics were locked on the space bridge with unfocused fear. As a shadow moved out from the blinding light, Shockwave’s massively hulking frame appeared in a flicker. He appeared taken off guard, though it was hard to tell with no faceplate and a single unemoting red optic staring at them.

Blackout swiftly slid the panel he’d been carrying to the ground. Before he could make his way over to the two Shockwave raised his cannon.

An explosive blast of thunder escaped the hefty weapon as it went off.

Venus shoved Barricade just in time and was hurtled the exterior wall of the warehouse, slamming into metal. She fell to the ground with a gasp, pressing a servo to her side as energon seeped out between her buckled in armor.

Barricade let out a ghastly roar that even startled Blackout. He made a slight lunge towards Shockwave, hesitated, and looked to Venus with sickened dread as the light of her optics flashed ominously. His optics were a blinding pinkish-purple as he darted over to her, placing a servo against her side as her blood ebbed out.

Snapping up his arm, Blackout unfurled his cannon and nearly fired when he pulled his arm up with shock.

He looked to his shoulder and back to Shockwave.

In her alt-form, Novastrike had managed to eat the distance between them and the Decepticon chief scientist and had her teeth embedded in the wire that connected the cannon to Shockwave’s frame. She clamped down tighter as the purple mech tried to shake her lose.

He couldn’t risk shooting and hitting Nova.

Divided, Blackout looked to Barricade and Venus and then to Novastrike and Shockwave. The seams on ‘Cade’s faceplate were slightly visible now, like he was refraining from revealing his maw as he tried to keep pressure on her wound. He looked back to Nova, latched on to the mech standing just outside the space bridge.

There was no perfect choice to be made.

Transforming his cannon back into his arm, Blackout charged Shockwave. The mech went to raise his cannon, but no light emitted from it as Nova ripped her claws through the line, slicing ribbons of wires out as she whipped her helm to tear into the connector.

His fist struck the bot just short of his optic as he turned his helm away. Throwing his weight in to the punch, the scientist fell back a few steps, barely managing to keep on his pedes.

Blackout shook his aching servo lightly, grinning.

Standing just beside the space bridge, a darkness began to emerge from the light. His optics flickered towards it and then slowly, he craned his helm back. Something he’d only had to do a few times in his life when looking to Autobot sentinels and city-transformers in all his life.

With steely fangs bared and mandibles curved out from its face, the Predacon released an ominous growl as it slunk out from the space bridge; curling its body out slowly from the swirling light. With a lash of its mighty tail, it emerged in full and the space bridge closed behind it.

Frag.

Drawing in a rush of air, the Predacon opened its mouth wide. It’s jaws parted as an orange light flickered deep in the bowels of the beast and radiated glowing biolights in a spilling orangish-yellow glow.

As the beast lunged forward, Blackout grabbed the dragon by its upper and lower jaw. Heat just as sweltering and painful as those of the smelting pits and furnaces he’d worked for as a slave emitted from the creature’s maw. It did not release it’s fire, not yet, but hinged and worked its jaws as it tried to get him to release it’s face.

Screeching furiously, the drake tried clamping its teeth down, threatening to take his arm. Blackout grunted, straining to keep its mouth open as beads of melted metal began to drip from his side.

The creature narrowed its optics as he met its gaze. It sucked in sharply.

Before it could bath him in flames, Blackout let go of the Predacon’s jaws. They snapped shut suddenly, and the beast created a hiccuping deep in its throat. Balling up his servo in a fist, Blackout struck the monster on top of its helm, knocking it’s lower jaw into the ground.

Snorting smoke out of its nostrils, the brilliant light faded from its throat. With a whip of its tail, the beast struck him in the legs, knocking him on his back.

Staring up at the mythical legend in front of him, Blackout’s optics widened as it lunged for him again with bared fangs.

Before it clamp down upon his armor, a strong surge of electrical currents blasted outward from him.

The EMP wave suddenly drained him of energy. He’d never tried using that much at one time, but this was an incredibly massive foe.

With a massive thud and a quiet, dull groan, the Predacon’s legs gave out and it fell limp and unconscious before him. The light from its golden optics was gone as they shuttered closed.

Exhaling loudly with shock that it had worked, Blackout pushed himself unsteadily up to his pedes. His optics looked down at the black metal that had hardened on the ground and looked down himself at the strange streaks over his chassis where beads had cooled part of the way down.

Twisting his helm around fast enough to strain his neck cables painfully, Blackout looked to where he could hear the scuffle of pedes. Shockwave was trying to fend off Novastrike as she darted around him, lashing her tail out violently as Scorponok did with the shield casing around her own prongs removed.

The cyber-cat hissed venomously at the mech as he tried to swat at her. Without his single weapon, he practically defective. He relied too heavily on that over-powered source and his experiments for protection rather than fighting. Science came first and foremost; he simple lacked a means of winning.

Blackout went to take a step towards them and fumbled, nearly collapsing on the ground. He looked up with narrowed optics to the duo as they danced, venting harshly.

Growling furiously, Barricade came running from behind, slamming Shockwave in the helm with his pede. As the mech stumbled back with a painful grunt, the small mech turned on point and flicked out a whip.

Blackout recognized that whip. It belonged to Venus.

An electrical current surged out from the weapon as it lassoed around Shockwave’s leg. ‘Cade gave a quick tug, bringing the mech down on his back with a thud and a grunt.

He snapped the whip free with a single flick of his wrist, looking down at the mech as his optic dimmed and grew brighter in irregular intervals.

“‘Cade,” Blackout rasped, looking over his shoulder at the Predacon as its tail slid across the ground slowly. “‘Cade, we need to go.”

The grounder turned his helm towards Blackout slowly. The seams he’d spotted earlier were spreading slightly to reveal a hint of that threatening display of infected purplish-pink lights and the scalpel-ended feeder peeking out.

“‘Cade,” the larger mech warned in a snarl.

Forcibly, slowly, the mech closed the four-way point the majority of the way. He turned his optics quickly to where Venus laid, her servo pressed to her side. She was on her pedes once more at least.

Hasily, the three bots made their way over to the femme. Venus offered a waning smile to them, waving one of her energon smeared servos slightly as she winced.

“Do you need me to carry you?” Blackout asked quietly.

“No, I’ll be fine,” she insisted.

Doubt moved through his optics, but he nodded and quickly moved his attention on to Barricade. “You’ll need to carry the equipment Venus took, ‘Cade. I’ll get the motherboard. Venus, stay between us just in case. Novastrike, can you bring up the rear?”

With a light of courage in her blazing sapphire optics, Nova gave a single nod of her helm.

“Right.” Barricade drawled out in sinister hiss. “Yes. I can do that.”

“Focus, ‘Cade,” Blackout urged, reaching out to shake his shoulder.

The mech looked sideways to the femme standing at his side. She passed him a small but supportive smile.

“I can do this,” he stated almost like a reminder to himself; his tone slightly less gravely.

Grabbing the panel of tangled circuits and pieces of the computer, Blackout positioned himself on one side of Venus as ‘Cade stepped closer on the other side, tucking the box beneath his arm. He reached out to place an arm around her waist for support, pulling her close.

Placing his servo on the ground, Shockwave positioned himself in a seated position slowly. His Cyclops single red optic moved to the left and right. There was no sign of the bots that had attacked them, though he had a clear vision of those that did.

Highly illogical to consider Blackout treasonous, but the proof had been right in front of him.

Turning his single gaze to the Predacon, he watched as it twitched and lazily moved as it stirred from the EMP wave that had knocked his creation unconscious. With a single, thought humming sound to himself, the scientist cautiously moved to get back on his pedes.

He had to check his facility to see what was missing, and settle on making a report to Lord Megatron on the incident.

#quid pro quo au #OTP AU #OTP Lit #OTP Friends #Badass OTP

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