#IDLE HANDS; IDLE THOUGHTS / MUSINGS.

[spider-stark]

LADY STRONG

Benjicot Blackwood x Velaryon/Strong!Reader

Summary - Stuck in the Riverland's on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn't recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

Warnings - none except not edited!!

Word Count - 3.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

As if the prospect of a marriage tour was not horrid enough, your first stop was proving to be positively dreadful.  

You had imagined the lands surrounding the Trident to be beautiful. A lush, verdant landscape—filled with fragrant herbs and bright, blooming flowers, painting the Riverlands in rich, colorful hues. You pictured babbling streams and plush grass, stunning castles and, perhaps, some equally as stunning men.  

What you hadn’t imagined, however, was the weather.  

Even from within the confines of Riverrun—the ancestral castle of House Tully—you still feel the effects of the merciless heat beating down upon the sandstone walls.  

Your handmaids had tried to dress you accordingly, stuffing you into your thinnest—and, consequently, your least regal—gown, in hopes that it might prevent sunstroke. Yet still, even as three of Lord Tully’s own servants try fanning you while you sulk in the dining hall, you feel as though every inch of your body is drenched in sticky sweat.  

“This is miserable,” you groan to Ser Lorent, the Kingsguard who had been assigned to your tour. Flanking your right, you spare the knight a pitiful, sidelong glance. “I believe I would sooner die a spinster than be forced to live in this sweltering purgatory!”  

The servants, haphazardly positioned around the table, remain utterly stone-faced, not letting on if they found your comment about their homelands to be humorous or offensive.  

Ser Lorent merely laughs. “The Riverlands are known for their humid summers, princess.” With a wink, he adds, “If you ever bothered with your studies, you would know this.”  

“I study!”  

“With the blade, perhaps,” Ser Lorent muses, his teal eyes twinkling with lighthearted mockery. “But certainly not with books, princess.  

Rolling your eyes, you slump further into your chair, your body practically melting into the upholstery. “Leave the geography lessons to Jace,” you tell him, waving an idle hand. “After all, he's the heir to the Iron Throne. I am merely the prized broodmare—” focusing on your plate, and the half-eaten lunch upon it, you try swallowing the bitter tang now filling your mouth—“a royal womb to be sold off to the highest bidder.”  

And, at times, you aren’t even sure if that is considered an honest truth… You’ve certainly never felt royal.  

Like your brothers, you were born extraordinarily plain-featured. With no silver hair or lilac eyes, you appear more like a common-born peasant than someone of prized Valyrian stock—and it didn’t help that, unlike your brothers, you had no dragon, either.  

Ser Lorent watches as you absently push a piece of seared cod around your plate, sighing. “That isn’t true, my princess.” His words are tinged with sympathy. “You are being sold to no one. Your mother wishes for you to have a marriage born of love—not duty.”  

“Ah, yes,” stabbing the fish with the prongs of your fork, you bring it to your lips, “which is why I’m being forced to spend my summer meeting with the haughty sons of fat country lords—for love.”  

His tongue clicks with disapproval. “Your mother has given you a choice in selecting your own husband, princess; which is a luxury not granted to many women.”  

Frowning, you pop the piece of fish into your mouth, turning his words over in your head.  

Gods.  

You hate it when he’s right.  

“Fine,” you relent, still chewing. Turning sideways in your chair, you raise your fork to him in a mock threat, “But my earlier statement stands! If I must take a husband, then it certainly won’t be anyone from here—lest I become no more than a puddle of sweat.”  

Ser Lorent cracks a smile at you. “Should you turn to a puddle, princess, then I vow to mop you from the floor.”  

“How valiant of you, Ser Lorent,” you laugh. “I’m unsure of how I might ever repay you for such loyalty.”  

“I’m not sure you have to worry about that, princess—I don’t believe that puddles are much concerned with matters of debt.”  

Turning back to the table, another soft laugh spills from your lips. “I suppose you’re right, Ser.”  

All too soon, however, your amusement begins to fade. A warm breeze blows in through the many open windows lining Riverrun’s dining hall, the stifling air only accentuating the stickiness of your skin.  

Sucking in a deep, heavy breath, you ask, “How long do we have?”  

Ser Lorent doesn’t ask for clarification, knowing almost at once what you were asking him. “We’re expected back in the Great Hall in a little under an hour, princess.”  

You blow the breath out, groaning slightly.  

An hour—that's all the time you had left before you would be forced back upon the dais, expected to once again smile and be cordial as men and boys from all across the Riverlands made their case for your hand.  

How many of them could possibly be left? This morning alone you had met with dozens upon dozens of them, their voices all blurring into a monotonous hum as they spoke of the history of their Houses—if one can consider nonsensical legends from the ancient Age of Heroes as true history, that is.  

Noticing the dreadful pall cast over you, Ser Lorent clamps a comforting hand on your shoulder. “How about a walk before we go back? It might help to clear your head,” he suggests. Then, with a wry grin, “Perhaps you might wish to think back on the men from this morning—see if any of them might make you change your tune about life in the Riverlands.”  

You pin him with a playful scowl. “There’s not a man alive that could change that tune,” you vow. “But you’re right—a walk might be nice.”  

Rising from your seat, the servants around you lower their fans, silently dismissing themselves.  

“Will you be accepting my company on this walk?” Ser Lorent teases—though you know what he’s really asking is: will you be accepting my protection.  

“After this morning, I believe I’ve had enough company for a lifetime.”  

The knight’s brow draws tight, an apprehensive frown beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes.  

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Ser Lorent. It gives you wrinkles,” you tease. Adjusting the slit running along one side of your dress, you reveal the dagger holstered on your thigh. “I assure you that if any of these Riverlanders dare lay a hand on me, they’ll lose some fingers.”  

Ser Lorent snorts, head shaking. “It’s not you I worry about, princess,” he jokingly admits. “Just stay close by, understand? Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you.”  

“Yes, yes—understood,” you dramatically gripe, already walking past him to the exit.  

“Oh, and princess?” He calls out just as the guards pull the doors open for you to leave. You glance over your shoulder at him, brows lifted. “At least try not to injure anyone.”  

With one last roll of your eyes, bright with mischief, you shout on your way out, “No promises, Ser Lorent!”  

Wandering through the outer yards of Riverrun, the blistering sun beating down upon your skin, you find yourself overwhelmed by a sudden ache in your chest.  

You miss home. Desperately.  

You miss Dragonstone’s near-constant cover of clouds, forever shielding you from the heat. You miss the cool breeze rolling in off the Blackwater, the air peppering your cheeks with salty kisses.  

But even as you dream of a reprieve from the muggy Riverlands, you can’t help but miss your family—your brothers—most of all.  

Perhaps it is that feeling that led you here, to the training yard, guided by the familiar lull of splintering wood and steel slicing through the air, the sound offering a much-needed remedy to the homesickness twisting in your gut.  

Smaller than the one at Dragonstone, Riverrun’s yard was no more than a cramped stretch of dusty-dirt, lined with old training dummies and archery targets. Mostly encircled by the towering sun-bleached stones of the castles, only a small part of the yard remained open to the sprawling gardens beyond, sectioned off by ornate iron fencing.  

Striding over the open gate, your attention falls upon the lone boy standing in the yard's center.  

As the sunlight beats down overhead, long shadows dance around his feet as he glides through a set of movements—each step calculated, every strike deliberate.  

You step closer, keeping your steps light as you approach. With his back turned to you, you watch as sweat drips down his neck, glistening. It soaks into his tunic, the thin black material clinging to his lean, muscled back.  

He’s talented—you think, studying his form.  

Talent is something you're familiar with—intimately. You were raised around warriors—trained by the Rogue Prince himself. Yet never before had you found yourself so utterly bewitched by a fighter.  

He didn’t move like other boys.  

He wasted no time on the flowery style displayed by so many summer children—the ones who thought of battle as a performance rather than a matter of life or death.  

Instead, he moved with the lethal prowess of an apex predator—his blade cutting through the air with a controlled ferocity that, while lacking the flourish of other warriors, was undeniably impressive.  

Dirt flies as he throws himself into another set of movements—a series of strikes and parries, executing with unbelievable precision. With every twist and pivot, muscles tense and shift beneath his tunic, his body as powerful a weapon as his sword.  

He lunges forward—and wood cracks! as he slashes his blade along the belly of one of the dummies, a move that would have disemboweled a living opponent.  

Cutting through the sudden stillness, you bring your hands up to your chest, filling the yard with a slow clap. Back still turned to you, the boy's spine goes ramrod straight at the unexpected sound.  

“Impressive,” you muse, taking another step towards him. Mere feet remain between the two of you, now. “You move well—better than most, I’d say.”  

The boy spins around to face you, his once elegant movements now blundering as he nearly trips over his own feet. Biting your tongue, you try to hold in a laugh.  

Big, storm-cloud eyes meet your gaze, pinning you in place as he blinks, visibly thrown-off by your presence. “Sorry-” he stammers, out of breath. “I didn’t think anyone else would be coming out here-”  

You lift a hand, cutting him off with a smile. “Oh, no—don’t apologize on my account! I enjoyed the show,” you tell him. “Seems that you have a real talent for swordplay.”  

His cheeks flush, his lightly sun-kissed skin turning a stark crimson. “Thanks.” His laugh is a nervous, awkward thing—endearing, too. He sticks a hand out towards you, the other still limply holding his sword. “Benjicot. Blackwood,” he introduces himself, fumbling over his words, “but you can call me Ben or Benji—or anything, really.”  

You take his hand, biting your lip to mask your amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Benji.”  

A beat of silence passes before confusion finally tugs at his features, his hand falling back to his side. “Uhm—” another sweet, awkward laugh— “and you are…?”  

Realization dawns on you, leaving your brows to shoot up to your hairline.  

Seven Hells. He doesn't know, does he?

A sudden speechlessness grabs hold of your tongue.  

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, you aren't what many expected of a Targaryen princess.

Plain-featured and dressed in thin, common clothes, you imagine you likely appear no different than the servants surrounding you at lunch, fanning you to keep the heat from going to your head.  

Even so, it's rare that you met someone who doesn't know who you are. And, selfishly, after a morning filled with insincere compliments from haughty Lord’s, you like the idea of remaining nameless—titleless—for the first time in your life.  

“Wow—sorry—that was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” Tapping a finger to your temple, you laugh. “I’m Mylissa,” you lie, stealing the name of one of your handmaidens. “Mylissa Strong.”  

“Strong?” He echoes, brow furrowing. “Strange—you don’t sound like you’re from the Riverlands. Your accent is—”  

“Southern?”  

Benji nods.  

“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life in the Crownlands, so I suppose I’ve picked up their accent,” you explain. “I’m here with the princess, actually—as her lady-in-waiting.”  

The mention of the princess—you—turns his skin a pasty white.  

Keeping a tight leash on your curiosity, you try not to sound too intrigued when you ask, “And what about you? Raventree Hall is a decent ride from here, is it not?” On horseback, the ancestral seat of House Blackwood was two days away from Riverrun, if not three. “Are you here to meet with the princess?”  

Benji shifts his weight, leaning from one foot to the other. “Supposed to,” he begins, his words tumbling out, “but I don’t know—I’m not so sure that I’ll go through with it.”  

Your expression falters, disappointment washing over you like a cold wave, combatting the intolerable warmth of the sun.  

“Why not?”  

He shrugs—a timid, shy gesture that feels so unlike the predator you had snuck up on. “There are over a hundred men in there,” he waves an arm to the castle, to the Great Hall within, “all waiting for an opportunity to impress the princess—meanwhile, I can hardly get out a single sentence without choking on my own spit.”  

Your laughter bubbles up involuntarily, a few giggles spilling past your lips. The Blackwood boy shoots you a playful glare from beneath long, dark lashes.  

“Well,” you begin, absentmindedly toeing the dirt between you, “perhaps the princess might find it endearing, don’t you think?”  

Benji scoffs. “Doubtful. I mean, think about it!—she’s a princess!”  

Your eyes widen, glimmering with mock-offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”  

Once again, that crimson tinge returns to his skin, crawling up his neck, this time.  

“I meant no offense,” he defends himself, mistaking your expression for one of a Lady meaning to defend her princess. “But what could I possibly offer a princess?”  

You tilt your head, pretending to think on his words. “Well, the Blackwoods do have a history of being valiant warriors, do they not? And you seem to be quite skilled yourself,” you say, daring to let your stare drift down to his arms, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing well-muscled, sweat-slick biceps.  

He snorts. “I’m willing to guess that the princess would likely care naught for my skill with a sword.”  

“Then you would guess wrong,” you retort, a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Many say that the princess herself is quite skilled with a blade—I imagine she would quite like a boy that’s capable of challenging her.”  

Benji’s eyes darken a shade, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “And what about you, Mylissa?”  

The false name catches you off-guard, but you do your best to hide it.  

“What of me?”  

A bit nervous, he asks, “Would you like a boy that can challenge you?”  

Your heart stutters in your chest—skipping several beats as his stare lowers, dipping past your waist and falling upon your thigh. On the dagger sheathed there, no doubt.  

Heat begins to crawl up your neck, hotter even than the sun's blistering rays. “Oh—” You stutter, words lost upon you.  

It’s true that you were used to the attention of men. After all, your morning has been filled with it, and soon enough the rest of your day will be, too.  

But this was different.  

Benji wasn’t giving you attention because you’re a princess, a mere royal womb to strengthen his House’s bloodline. Rather, he was doing it simply because he wanted to—a feeling that was utterly foreign to you.  

Wiping a clammy hand on his sweaty tunic, Benji misreads your silence, taking a half-step back. “Apologies, my Lady—that was too forward and-”  

You don’t let him finish his rambling. Taking a step forward, you close the gap he sought to create between you. “I’ll make you a deal.”  

“A deal?”  

You nod. “As you know, the princess will be in the Great Hall for the rest of the evening, holding court with the other Lord’s who’ve come for her hand. I'd like for you to meet with her.”  

Benji cocks his head, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I truly mean no disrespect to your princess, my Lady, but I was asking if you might be interested in–”  

“I know what you’re asking, Benji.” You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “And after you meet with the princess, if you still wish to inquire about my hand,” you say, placing a palm to your chest, “then I will happily hear you out.”  

In the distance, a bell sounds out—signaling the time, you realize.  

“If you’ll excuse me,” you start, already taking a few small half-steps backwards. “I’m expected inside.”  

Letting his sword drop to the ground, Benji lunges forward to catch your wrist. “So you agree to meet with me after court, then?”  

“If you’re still interested,” you muse, a tinge of anxiety laced through your tone, “then yes.”  

The corners of his lips twitch into a bashful smile. “I give you my word that–”  

You planned to interrupt him. To tell him not to make oaths he wasn’t certain he could keep, knowing that he may very well change his mind about you once he realizes who you are—that you’re not technically a Strong. But, before you can, another voice intervenes.  

“Princess!” Ser Lorent calls out, exasperated, as he walks through the gate. “We must hurry, princess,” he continues, pausing only to give a wary glance at Benji’s hands wrapped around your wrist. “We’re late.”  

Your pulse begins to pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins at being exposed as a liar by Ser Lorent. 

Benji’s face goes blank—then his eyes go wide, big as saucers as you snag your wrist from his grip.  

“Princess...” He utters, voice laden with disbelief. “Princess?!”  

You can hardly bring yourself to do anything other than grin stupidly at him, nearly stumbling over yourself as you back-up to where Ser Lorent is waiting impatiently.  

“It was lovely meeting you, Benji!”  

You hope he can hear just how genuine your words are.  

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” you call out over your shoulder, sparing him one last glance as Ser Lorent guides you to the gate, watching as he blinks in astonishment, still processing the revelation.  

Walking back towards the inner-castle, Ser Lorent glances down at you with a knowing look. “You seem giddy.” There’s a teasing glint to his words that makes you roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “So,” he continues, his brisk pace never faltering, “does this mean that your statement from lunch no longer stands? That, perhaps, this sweltering purgatory may yet grow on you?”  

You bite your cheek, a permanent grin still etched onto your face.  

“Let’s just say that I’ve decided it’s best to keep my options open, Ser Lorent.”  

a/n - you may ask yourself: lainie, why would you refer to him as mostly BEN in the last fic and BENJI in this one??

and the answer? I have not ONE clue. my brain is rotting and benji is cute.

anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one! feel like I got to explore more of his personality here. additionally, I need HBO to know that if this boy ends up not being benjicot blackwood then I'm gonna fucking riot

benjicot blackwood tag list - @a-song-for-ages @ghostinvenus

[augustinewrites]

just alhaitham realizing he wants a baby with you... cw: pregnancy, children

alhaitham is in the middle of reading, spending his lunch hour tucked away in a quiet corner puspa cafe when he feels a poke at his arm.

he slides his headphones off, looking over to see a child standing next to him, clutching something to her chest. 

“excuse me– mister scribe sir?”  

the scribe sighs, tucking his book away. “just alhaitham is fine.”

the child blushes furiously. “oh, um, mister alhaitham sir, my teacher says that your job is reading. could you read this for me please?” 

that was an incredibly juvenile description of his job, but he doesn't correct her. the girl slides what alhaitham recognizes as the children’s book that tighnari had written (and collei had illustrated) to teach the basics of forest safety. the storytelling was mediocre and the illustrations were average, but he supposed they were sufficient enough for children who had no higher education.

alhaitham glances at the clock. he still has a half hour left of his break, and he was nothing if not an advocate for educating young minds.

—

“the lesson is to always be prepared when traveling through the rainforest,” alhaitham explains, closing the book. “there’s always a high probability that you’ll run into fungi, especially if you're on foot like little cyno was. you’d do well to add a variety of antitoxins to your first aid kit.”

the girl considers this, brows pulled into a furrow as she sips at the sunsettia juice he’d ordered for her. 

“why didn’t little cyno just go around the fungi when he saw them? then he wouldn't have gotten the sports.”

“the spores,” alhaitham corrects. “but your point stands. common sense is perhaps the most effective survival tool.” 

children, with their inquisitive and imaginative minds, were adequate problem solvers. they didn't overthink things, instead utilizing a simple, pragmatic way of thinking. 

he wouldn't mind raising a little scholar of his own with you. 

he’d thought a normal amount about having a child before. typical musings, like when he would have one (after school, after securing a decent job). or what their names would be (esfir for a boy, laila for a girl). who would bear his children (the only person he’d ever considered was you).

but these aren’t idle musings anymore. this time, the idea hits him full force, quickly spiraling into a hope. a dream for the future. 

a boy with his eyes and your smile. a girl with your hair colour and his nose. how you’d raise them together, how they’d grow to be intelligent, inquisitive, creative, and endlessly compassionate.  

“sweetheart, there you are!” a relieved voice exclaims. 

the girl sitting across from him perks up as her mother runs up to the table, her smile widening. “mama! mister alhaitham read me a book!”

“i'm so sorry she interrupted your lunch, sir,” the frantic mother looks sheepish as she apologizes, but alhaitham dismisses it with a wave of his hand. 

“it’s alright. if anything, this experience has been rather enlightening.” 

_____

“that's quite the stack,” you comment mildly when your husband enters the bedroom with an armful of textbooks. “which new topic have you been intrigued with this week?”

alhaitham sets the books down on the nightstand and answers, “conception.”

his answer is spoken simply, casually, like he’s talking about the weather and not one of the most life-altering decisions you could make as a couple. 

“conception,” you repeat slowly. “like…”

“you’re a doctor. you’re aware of the biological process behind it.” 

“of course i am,” you say, suddenly feeling flustered. “i just– we’ve never talked about this before, haitham.”

your husband sighs, walking around to your side of the bed and sitting by your legs. “well…i want to talk about it.” 

seconds pass. seconds that almost feel like a lifetime as you watch each other, looking for any unspoken signs of hesitation.

“it’s up to you,” he finally says, gently placing a hand on your ankle. “it’s your body, you’re the one who would be carrying our baby for nine months. if you’re not ready–”

you don't need to hear the rest, crawling over to cup his face in your hands and press a soft kiss to his lips. “i'm ready. we’re ready.” 

his eyes immediately brighten, and he momentarily leaves your grasp to reach across the bed to grab the topmost book from his stack. “there are certain positions that we can try to increase our chances of conceiving. according to studies conducted in fontaine, this one has an effectiveness of 89.5%. it’s called a mating press…”

you wish you could say it’s the first time he’s propositioned you with educational literature. 

“wait, you didn’t ask me,” you giggle, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging lightly. 

he pauses. “will you try this position with me?”

“no, smartass. ask me to have a baby with you.”

your husband grins, hooking his hands under your ass to pull you into his lap. you gasp as he does so, his head dipping down to the crook of your neck. he says your name, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“will you let me put a baby in you, dearest?”

[buttercandy16]

Bound by Death

PAIRING(s): Dark!Rio Vidal x Innocent!Reader

SUMMARY: An innocent witch falls prey to Lady Death's obsession, trapped in a dark web of desire and control.

WARNING(s): Obsession, Manipulation, Control, Noncon, DarkThemes, Degradation, StockholmSyndrome.

A/N: Requested 💚

You didn’t mean to call her. Summoning Lady Death herself was the last thing on your mind. You weren’t powerful enough—at least, that’s what your sister, Lilia, always told you. “Stick to the basics,” she’d said, her voice both patient and stern. “You’re not ready for the deeper arts.”

But your curiosity was insatiable. What harm could a little experimenting do?

It was supposed to be a simple spell—an offering of gratitude to the spirits of the wood. You gathered the ingredients meticulously, whispered the incantations carefully, and poured your heart into the ritual. The forest had been quiet and still, save for the flickering of your candle and the rustle of leaves.

Until she appeared.

At first, you thought she was a shadow—a trick of the waning light. Then she stepped closer, her dark cloak billowing in an unseen wind, her face illuminated by an unearthly glow. The air grew frigid, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones, and her voice sliced through the silence like a blade.

“You called me.”

You stumbled back, your knees weak. “I-I didn’t mean to...”

Her eyes locked onto yours—silver and endless, holding the weight of eternity. Rio Vidal, the Reaper, the Lady of Death. Her beauty was terrifying, her presence suffocating. She stepped closer, a crooked smile curving her lips.

“Didn’t mean to?” she repeated, her voice low and mocking. “Oh, little witch, you can’t undo what you’ve done. You sought something, didn’t you?”

You shook your head desperately. “It was a mistake! Please, I didn’t—”

Her fingers brushed your cheek, the coldness of her touch stealing the air from your lungs. “Don’t lie to me, mi pequeña hechicera.” Her tone was almost gentle, but her grip tightened, forcing you to meet her gaze. “You wanted power, didn’t you?”

“No! I just... I wanted to give thanks!”

She laughed—a sound that chilled you more than her touch. “So innocent,” she mused, her eyes scanning you like a predator sizing up its prey. “But you’ve caught my attention now. That’s a rare thing, little witch. And I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

The days that followed were a blur. You told Lilia what had happened, but she brushed it off as a fluke. “The veil is thin this time of year,” she said, her tone dismissive. “Spirits drift in and out. As long as you haven’t made a pact, you’ll be fine.”

But you weren’t fine.

Rio appeared everywhere: in your dreams, in the shadows of your home, even in the mirror when you glanced too long. Her voice whispered through the night, taunting and commanding.

“You can’t run from me,” she’d say.

She visited often, her presence growing more physical, more consuming. She’d appear in the garden while you tended the herbs, her cold fingers trailing down your arm as she made idle conversation about mortality and devotion. She took pleasure in your discomfort, in the way you squirmed under her gaze.

Lilia began to notice your growing paranoia. “You’re restless,” she said one morning, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “You’re always looking over your shoulder.”

You didn’t tell her about the mark Rio had left on your wrist—a faint sigil that burned cold to the touch. “It’s nothing,” you lied, though the truth sat heavy in your chest.

That night, Rio came to you again, this time at your bedside. She sat at the edge, her cloak cascading like ink across the floor. Her hand rested against your leg, deceptively gentle, but her grip left no room for escape.

“You’re wasting your time pretending you can avoid me,” she said, her tone soft but laced with menace.

“What do you want from me?” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes.

Her smile was slow, predatory. “I want you. All of you. Your loyalty, your magic, your very soul if I decide I want it.” Her fingers traced up your arm, cold and deliberate. “But don’t worry, little witch. I’ll take good care of you. You’ll see.”

“I don’t want this,” you said, though your voice shook with the weight of her presence.

Her eyes darkened, and the room seemed to pulse with her energy. She leaned closer, her face inches from yours. “What you want doesn’t matter, mi amor. You’re mine now.”

She pressed a cold kiss to your forehead, and the darkness claimed you.

Waking up the next morning felt like surfacing from a deep, suffocating sea. The sunlight streaming through your window seemed sharper, almost invasive. But no matter how bright the day, you couldn't shake the chill in your bones.

Rio's words echoed in your mind: "You're mine now."

Your hand strayed to your wrist where her mark lay, a sigil faint yet undeniable. You’d hoped it would fade like some lingering nightmare, but it burned ice-cold beneath your touch, a tether you couldn’t sever.

Lilia's voice startled you as she called from the kitchen. "You’re up early," she said as you shuffled in, your unease masked by the calm of routine. She didn’t know what lurked in the shadows. She couldn’t see how the air felt heavier, how it seemed charged with an oppressive, otherworldly energy.

You didn’t tell her. How could you? Lilia had always been the stronger one—both in magic and temperament. But this? Even her power seemed insignificant compared to Rio’s suffocating presence.

"Couldn’t sleep," you muttered, avoiding her gaze as you poured a cup of tea.

Her eyes narrowed. “Have you been dabbling again?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.

You shook your head quickly. "No! I..." The lie almost choked you. You turned away before she could question further.

But that night, Rio returned.

This time, she didn’t wait for your compliance or conversation. You felt her before you saw her: the air in your room grew frigid, your breath misting as shadows coalesced at the foot of your bed. When she appeared, her form was draped in dark elegance, her silver eyes alight with a predatory gleam.

“You can’t avoid me forever,” she said, her voice low and intimate.

“I wasn’t trying to summon you,” you protested, your hands clenching the blanket tightly.

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,” she replied, tilting her head. “You don’t have to. You and I are connected now, little witch. Did you really think you could make a call to the beyond and walk away unscathed?”

You stared at her, your voice caught in your throat.

She stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, as though savoring every step that brought her nearer to you. Her cold fingers brushed your chin, forcing you to meet her piercing gaze.

“You don’t understand yet,” she murmured, her voice a dark lullaby. “But you will.”

"Understand what?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

"That you were meant to be mine," she said, her lips curving into a smile that was equal parts alluring and terrifying. "I’ve taken kings, queens, and warriors. But you?” Her hand moved to cradle your cheek, her thumb brushing lightly across your skin. “You’ll be my greatest treasure."

Tears welled in your eyes as her words sank in, the weight of them pressing down on you like a suffocating fog. “Please, let me go,” you whispered.

Her laugh was soft and cruel. “Oh, little one, I am letting you go. For now. But you’ll come to me willingly. You’ll see that no one else can give you what I can.”

Before you could protest, she leaned closer, her cold lips grazing your ear. “Don’t fight it,” she whispered. “It’s so much sweeter when you surrender.”

And just as quickly as she appeared, she vanished, leaving you alone in the chilling silence of your room.

But the mark on your wrist pulsed faintly, a reminder that her claim on you was far from over.

The following days blurred together in a haze of paranoia and unease. Rio’s presence was no longer a subtle weight lingering at the edges of your consciousness; it was suffocating. She came and went as she pleased, making herself a constant in your life whether you wanted it or not.

It was on one of those nights, when you were too tired to fight sleep, that she made her move.

Your room was pitch dark, the stillness broken only by the faint rustle of the wind outside. A frigid touch on your ankle jolted you awake, and there she was—seated on the edge of your bed, her silhouette illuminated by the pale moonlight spilling through the curtains.

"Did I startle you, mi pequeña bruja?" she murmured, a sly smile pulling at her lips.

"Get out," you said, voice trembling but firm. "You're not welcome here."

Rio tilted her head, her silver eyes glinting as though your defiance amused her. "Oh, but I don’t need permission anymore. You already belong to me."

She leaned forward, her fingers ghosting over your arm, cold and unnervingly gentle. "Why do you keep fighting when it only makes things harder for you?" Her voice was deceptively soothing, like the calm before a storm.

"I don't want any of this," you snapped, pulling your arm away.

Her smirk darkened. "You don't know what you want."

With a flick of her wrist, the mark on your skin flared icy blue, a sharp, stinging reminder of the bond she’d tethered to you. Your gasp of pain made her smile widen.

"You’re so delicate," she purred, her hand moving to cradle your face. "So easily broken. But don’t worry, mi amor, I’ll take care of you."

Her touch traveled lower, fingers brushing over your collarbone. It wasn’t tender, not really. It felt more like a claim—a slow, deliberate reminder of who held the power. You wanted to recoil, to push her away, but your body betrayed you. Whether it was fear, magic, or something darker, you stayed frozen under her gaze.

"Such a sweet little thing," she murmured, leaning down until her face was only inches from yours. Her breath was cold against your skin, sending chills racing down your spine. "Fighting me won’t work, little one. You’ll see soon enough... submission will feel so much better."

“Rio...” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

"Shh," she cooed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "No need to speak. Just listen. Feel."

Her lips hovered over yours, teasingly close, but she didn’t press forward. Instead, she shifted to your neck, her cold lips grazing your skin. It wasn’t gentle; it felt calculated, like she wanted to leave an impression that would haunt you long after she was gone.

"You can run from others," she said against your skin, her voice low and dangerous, "but you can’t run from me. I am death. I am the end and the beginning. You’ll find no escape, only inevitability."

Tears welled in your eyes, frustration and fear mingling into a knot in your chest. "Please..."

"Please, what?" she asked, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes held a wicked gleam, and her lips curled into a smirk. "You don’t even know what you’re asking for, little witch. But I’ll give you what you need—even if you’re too afraid to see it now."

Her thumb brushed across your lower lip, and the intimate gesture sent a shiver down your spine. She smiled at your reaction, clearly pleased by your discomfort.

"I’ll come for you again soon," she whispered, pressing a final, icy kiss to your forehead before vanishing into the shadows.

You were left trembling and alone, the cold feeling of her touch lingering long after she’d gone.

Things started to turn for the worse.

It started small—your spells backfiring, draining your energy faster than they should. Then there were the whispers that filled the silences, impossible to ignore. They weaved promises and threats into your mind:

"You’ll never be safe without me."

"You’re too fragile for this world."

"Submit, and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever desired."

Your independence chipped away with every moment you spent second-guessing yourself.

It was Lilia who first noticed. “Your magic is unraveling,” she said one evening, her brow furrowed in concern as she studied you. “You need to center yourself. What’s happening?”

You bit your lip, unwilling to tell her. If she knew Rio had staked a claim on you, she’d try to intervene—and that terrified you. What could even Lilia, with all her skill and confidence, do against someone like Rio? You’d seen what she was capable of. The mere thought of angering her again sent chills racing through you.

“I’ll figure it out,” you lied. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

One quiet evening, you sat on the floor of the cottage, sifting through spellbooks in a desperate attempt to find a way to break Rio’s mark. The text in front of you blurred as exhaustion overtook your focus, but as you pushed yourself harder, the candles in the room flickered.

And there she was.

“Still trying to fight me?” Rio’s voice sent a sharp stab of panic through your chest.

Your head shot up, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. She stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. She looked almost amused as her silver eyes tracked your every move.

"You shouldn’t overwork yourself, mi bruja," she chided, stepping into the room with a predatory grace. "It’s adorable that you’re trying, though."

“Why?” The question burst out of you, raw and desperate. “Why me? I’m nobody—nothing compared to what you are. Just leave me alone!”

Rio’s expression softened, but not in the comforting way you’d hoped. It was mocking, tinged with something cruelly possessive. She crouched down in front of you, one hand tilting your face toward her.

“Nothing? You’re far from nothing,” she said, her voice quiet, dangerous. “You’re mine. And I take very good care of what’s mine.”

She held your gaze, her thumb brushing over your cheek as her hand cradled your face. The touch felt deceptively soft, but you knew better by now. You flinched, trying to pull away, but she grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at her.

“Do you understand what I’ve done for you?” Her tone was still soft, almost coaxing. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let you run around, pretending you have a choice. But you’re so fragile, little one. Look at you—drained, lost, stumbling around like a child in the dark.”

Tears welled in your eyes. “I don’t need you.”

Rio smiled, and it chilled you to the core. “You already do,” she said simply.

She waved her hand, and the mark on your wrist burned cold. You gasped in pain, the chill spreading through your arm and radiating into your chest. Your mind swam with an overwhelming sense of loss, fear, and longing—emotions you couldn’t separate from each other anymore.

“Every time you resist me, this world will hurt you more,” Rio said, her tone matter-of-fact. “But I can give you strength, protection, peace. All you have to do is let me in.”

When she released you, the weight of her absence felt like a part of you had been torn away. It was the cruelest trick—making you long for her presence just to feel whole.

“I’ll come back when you’re ready,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of a promise. “And trust me, you will be ready soon.”

You curled into yourself as she disappeared, your tears falling freely. Deep down, you realized she was twisting something inside you, warping your resolve piece by piece.

And you hated that it was working.

The days that followed were a blur of fear, anger, and desperation. You threw yourself into research, scouring every book, every scrap of magical knowledge you could find. Somewhere, there had to be a way to undo Rio's mark—a way to sever the connection that bound her to you.

You thought you could handle it alone. But the strain wore at you, gnawing away at your confidence. The more you tried to use magic, the more you felt the weight of her influence. Every spell fizzled out, every incantation felt heavier, harder to manage. The mark on your wrist would burn whenever you pushed too hard, as if Rio were reminding you of her presence, taunting you from afar.

Lilia was beginning to notice the cracks in your facade. Her watchful eyes lingered on you longer than they used to, her questions more pointed.

"You’re restless," she said one evening as the two of you shared dinner. "Something’s wrong, and it’s not just the magic. Tell me what’s going on."

"I told you, I’m fine," you muttered, stabbing at your plate without appetite.

"You’re not fine," she shot back, her voice firm but not unkind. "I’ve seen the way your spells falter, how distracted you’ve been. This isn’t just fatigue, is it?"

You clenched your fists, your mind racing for an excuse, but nothing felt believable enough. The truth clawed at your throat, but you swallowed it down. If you told her about Rio, she’d try to intervene. She’d confront her, and that... that terrified you more than anything.

"I just need time," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

But time wasn’t on your side.

That night, you tried again—a simple purification spell, something Lilia had taught you years ago. You whispered the words with as much conviction as you could muster, pouring all of your focus into the magic. But no sooner had the energy begun to flow than the mark on your wrist ignited in sharp, icy pain.

Your concentration shattered, the spell sputtering out like a candle in the wind.

You spun around to find Rio standing in the corner of the room, her presence dominating the space. Her silver eyes gleamed in the dim light, a predatory smile playing on her lips.

"I won’t let you control me," you said, your voice shaking but resolute.

Rio’s smile faltered, and for a moment, her eyes darkened with something you couldn’t quite place—anger, disappointment, or perhaps something deeper.

"Oh, little witch," she said, her voice lowering as she stepped even closer. “This isn’t control. It’s inevitability. The sooner you accept that, the less this will hurt.”

She reached for your wrist, her fingers brushing over the mark. You tried to pull away, but her grip tightened like a vice, cold and unyielding.

“This bond between us? It’s permanent. You can run, you can scream, you can even try to break it. But in the end, you’ll realize there’s no escaping me.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, not just because of their weight, but because part of you believed her.

“I don’t want this,” you said, tears slipping down your cheeks.

Her expression softened in a way that felt almost genuine. “You think you don’t,” she said softly. “But I see what you need—what you crave. Protection. Purpose. Someone who will never leave you, no matter what. And that someone is me.”

Her hand moved to cup your cheek, her cold touch sending a jolt of conflicting emotions through you. You hated how your body froze under her gaze, how her words seeped into the cracks in your resolve.

"You’re lying," you managed to say, though your voice wavered.

"Am I?" she asked, tilting her head. "Then why haven’t you told your sister about me? Why haven’t you begged her to save you?"

Your breath hitched.

Rio’s smile returned, slow and knowing. "Because deep down, you already know the truth. You can’t live without me now, little one. And the longer you fight it, the more painful it will be."

Her lips ghosted over your forehead in a mockery of tenderness. “Don’t worry, my darling. I’m patient. I’ll wait until you finally understand.”

And then, just like that, she was gone, leaving you trembling and alone, the echoes of her voice ringing in your mind.

As much as you wanted to deny it, there was a part of you—buried deep and growing louder—that couldn’t help but wonder if she was right.

The days blurred into weeks, each one more suffocating than the last. Rio’s words haunted you, weaving their way through your thoughts, tangling with your fears, and distorting your sense of reality. You tried to keep your distance from her, to focus on breaking free, but every step you took seemed to bring her closer, as though she were guiding you down a path only she could see.

Lilia began to notice. She asked more pointed questions, spent more time watching you. "You’re withdrawing," she said one evening, her gaze steady. "It’s like something is... draining you."

You tried to smile, to lie like you always did, but the exhaustion was etched into every corner of your being. Your spells continued to fail. Your magic, once vibrant and alive, was now a hollow, unpredictable force. And in your weakest moments, you thought about her—Rio, her promises, her cold, comforting touch. It disgusted you, terrified you. But it was impossible to ignore.

You closed your eyes tight, shaking your head against her words. But when you opened them, she was there, seated in the chair by the window as though she had always been part of the room. Her silver eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight, her presence commanding every inch of space.

"I see the cracks forming," she said softly, rising from her seat. She moved to the bed, her steps deliberate, graceful, like a predator approaching wounded prey.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Her touch was cold but grounding, anchoring you in a way you couldn’t explain. She leaned closer, her presence overwhelming, her scent intoxicating despite the chill that radiated from her.

“You’re mine,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your temple. “Say it.”

“I’m not...” you tried to say, but the words faltered. Your resolve was crumbling, the weight of her presence too much to bear.

Tears brimmed in your eyes, frustration boiling over. “You’ve taken everything from me! My magic, my freedom, my mind—you’ve ruined me!”

For a moment, something shifted in Rio’s expression. Regret? No, it was something darker—possessive satisfaction. "I didn’t ruin you," she said softly. "I saved you. You just haven’t accepted it yet."

Her grip tightened, her nails digging into your skin—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who was in control. "You’ve been trying so hard to hold on to who you were, but that girl is gone, my love. There’s no place for her in my world. Only the new you—the one I’m creating."

“I don’t want to be yours!” you screamed, your voice cracking.

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled, the calm, knowing smile of someone who already knew how this story ended. "Oh, but you are. Deep down, you’ve already given yourself to me. That’s why you’re so afraid, isn’t it? You’ve realized there’s no way back."

Her lips brushed your temple, cold and cruel. You tried to turn away, but she held you firm, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Soon, you won’t even want to fight me.”

That was it. Something inside you snapped.

“No!” you screamed, shoving her away with every ounce of strength you had left. She stumbled back a step, her eyes widening—not in anger, but surprise.

You turned and ran.

You tore through the cottage, your feet pounding against the floorboards. Your mind was a whirlwind of fear and fury. You didn’t care where you were going, only that you had to get away from her.

But no matter how fast you ran, the air grew colder. The shadows seemed to chase you, reaching out with invisible fingers. And then you heard her voice, calm and unbothered, echoing through the halls.

"Where are you going, mi bruja? There’s nowhere you can run."

You reached the back door, flinging it open into the storm outside. Rain lashed at your face, but you didn’t stop. You stumbled into the forest, your lungs burning, your clothes soaked to the skin.

For a brief, desperate moment, you thought you might escape. But then she appeared, stepping out of the shadows as if she had always been there, waiting for you to fall.

Her hair was untouched by the storm, her dress pristine despite the mud and rain. She was perfect, unyielding, and terrifying.

"Running from me," she said softly, tilting her head. "Such a waste of energy, my little witch."

You dropped to your knees, sobs wracking your body. “What do you want from me?” you choked out, your voice barely audible over the storm.

Rio knelt before you, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders. Her touch was cold as ever, but this time, it felt like surrender.

“I want you,” she said simply, her voice steady. “Completely. Your mind, your body, your soul. No resistance. No hesitation. Only me.”

Her silver eyes bore into yours, unrelenting. “And you’ll give it to me. Maybe not today, but soon. You can fight, you can scream, but in the end, you’ll see. You’ll belong to me.”

You wanted to deny her, to scream that she was wrong. But as her cold embrace closed around you, your resolve wavered. Deep down, a terrifying truth was beginning to take root.

What if she was right?

What if she already had you?

The storm outside had long subsided, but inside, the air hung heavy with an ominous stillness. Rio stood before you in the dimly lit room, her patience worn thin, the faint amusement she often carried replaced with a chilling determination.

"I’ve given you every chance to accept the inevitable," she said, her voice devoid of the feigned gentleness she had once used to coax you. "But your stubbornness has tested my patience for the last time."

Her words chilled you to the bone, but you refused to respond, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor as if defiance alone could shield you from her power.

"You want to run, don’t you?" Rio continued, stepping closer. Her footsteps echoed like a countdown, each step pulling you further into the abyss. "But even now, you’re beginning to realize how futile that is. Still, you force my hand."

Before you could move, her cold, ghostly grip was on your wrist, the mark she had burned into your skin igniting with searing pain. You gasped, the agony buckling your knees, but she didn’t relent.

“You will break, mi bruja, and I will be the one to mold the pieces.” Her silver eyes bore into yours, devoid of mercy, her grip like steel.

You struggled weakly, your magic sputtering like dying embers, but Rio’s hold was suffocating, her aura pressing against you like an iron vice.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” she murmured, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. “But you’ve left me no choice.”

A swirling darkness spread from her fingertips, creeping up your arm like tendrils of night. It burned and froze at the same time, sinking into your very soul, wrapping around your mind with suffocating intensity. You gasped, clawing at her arm, but there was no escaping it.

The mark on your wrist seemed to come alive, glowing a sinister black-red as Rio leaned closer, her voice wrapping around you like the enchantment it was.

"Let go," she whispered. “Let me in, or I will take what I want, no matter how much it hurts you.”

Her free hand trailed up to your face, her cold touch sending waves of chilling energy through your body. It wasn’t gentle—her fingers dug into your skin, possessive and unyielding. She forced you to meet her gaze, her silver eyes alight with dark promise.

“You’ve fought so hard, little witch,” she said softly, brushing a tear from your cheek with her thumb. “But that fight ends now. You will give me everything.”

The tendrils of dark magic tightened their grip, pushing into your thoughts, your memories, your very essence. Your protests died in your throat as she overwhelmed you, her presence filling every corner of your being.

"You will beg me for release," she hissed, her lips brushing against your ear. "You will cry for me, call for me, and when you’re too broken to fight, you will thank me for taking what was always mine."

Something deep within you cracked under the weight of her will, her magic, her voice. The resistance you had clung to so fiercely now seemed pointless, your very self slipping through your grasp like sand in a tide.

As your vision blurred, Rio’s lips curled into a victorious smile. “That’s it,” she said softly. “Finally, you understand.”

Your body trembled, weak and defenseless, as the last vestiges of defiance crumbled. The dark tendrils enveloped you fully, binding you to her completely, until there was nothing left but her cold embrace.

You didn’t know when the tears stopped, or when the weight in your chest gave way to hollow acceptance. But as Rio cradled you against her, her grip like a chain and her smile like a noose, you realized the fight was over.

You were hers. Completely.

_-_-_

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[ninibeingdelulu]

Midnight craving

synopsis-> you’re pregnant and suddenly crave for salmon in the middle of the night

A silvery shaft of moonlight sliced in through the sheer curtain panels draping over your bedroom window, casting everything in muted shades of blue and shadow.

You blinked blearily against the dimness surrounding you, willing your eyes to adjust as you carefully extricated yourself from the tangle of sheets twisted all around your legs.

Glancing over your shoulder, the gentle swell of Kento's bare chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm of deep sleep undisturbed.

You couldn't resist the tender smile tugging at your lips while drinking in the peaceful expression painted across his features.

Light lashes fanning out in delicate crescent moons over those high cheekbones you adored peppering with butterfly kisses.

Kento's head lolled slightly to one side, prominent jaw shadowed by the faintest traces of stubble leaving you longing to trace the defined line with idle fingertips.

Powerful arms splayed out carelessly at his sides as if instinctively reaching for you before you'd slipped away from their protective circle.

Your heart swelled fit to bursting with the overwhelming surge of adoration pulsing through you at simply watching your husband sleep so serenely.

How you ever got so ridiculously lucky to have this man as your partner- your best friend, your teammate, your everything- still felt surreal most days.

And soon he'll be a father too...to our little bun in the oven, you mused dreamily, one hand straying in an absent caress down the rounded swell of your protruding belly.

That single thought alone never failed to spark fresh embers of joy kindling themselves alight in your chest.

Right on cue, a sudden fierce craving for something hot, savory and protein-rich overwhelmed you from out of nowhere.

Your pregnancy appetite could strike with zero warning like a Category 5 hurricane lately.

Nodding to yourself in resolve, you carefully pushed upright to arch your spine backwards in a satisfying full body stretch before tip-toeing barefoot out of the bedroom.

No sense in accidentally rousing the love of your life from his well-earned slumber when a simple midnight snack would sate the two of you.

The pale blue glow from the refrigerator flooded your dim kitchen as the heavy door creaked open.

Rummaging through stray tupperware and discarded takeout boxes, you eventually extracted the container from yesterday's fresh market salmon steaks.

Fingers already tugging eagerly at the clinging plastic wrap, you shuffled over to lean your lower back against the counter's edge while inhaling that delicious fresh scent wafting up in enticing tendrils.

Before you even realized it, more than half the juicy pink fish filet was devoured. Juice dribbled past the corners of your mouth, prompting you to lick away the lingering salty brine across your lips while humming in blissful satisfaction.

"Well well...looks like our little troublemaker was up wandering around and getting into all sorts of mischief again, hm?"

Kento's sleep-roughened timbre floated towards you, prompting you to freeze mid-bite.

Your gaze swiveled towards the kitchen entryway where your handsome husband now lounged with bare sculpted chest glistening in the fridge's bluish light.

Deep umber eyes still slightly glazed over from interrupted slumber roamed freely over your guilty expression while the corner of that sinfully full mouth gradually quirked upwards in a knowing smirk.

"I'm so sorry, honey" you whispered contritely, quickly polishing off the rest of the midnight snack still clutched in your fingers before moving to meet him halfway.

"I tried my best not to wake you up but apparently this little stinker inside wanted salmon."

Your hushed explanations dissolved into a breathy giggle as Kento engulfed your smaller frame in his arms, one large palm splaying protectively across the dome of your belly.

Rasping his dexterous fingertips across the taut skin there elicited a firm kick or two from within in response.

"Yeah,...I get it, love" he murmured down at the source of that restless fidgeting with his irresistible bedroom-rasp.

"Just don't give mommy too hard a time with all those wild midnight cravings of yours, alright ? Daddy's gotta make sure to spoil you both plenty."

The molten intensity of his gaze searing straight through you sent shockwaves rippling outwards from your very core.

As if reading your mind, Kento swiftly leveraged his grip beneath your thighs to hoist you clean up into his arms in one effortless glide.

You released a breathless giggle while automatically twining both limbs around his trim waist, allowing him to swiftly navigate that solid triple-threat combination of martial artist, sorcerer and husband grace straight back to the bedroom.

His lips crashed hungrily against yours the second your shoulder blades hit the mattress - swallowing down the remainder of your elated laughter.

Kento's heavy torso bracketed your hips on either side, leaving his palms free to roam every curve and swell below in a worshipful glide.

Hooded midnight eyes smoldered in tenderness while ghosting featherlight kisses down the elegant column of your throat before eventually nestling against the resounding heartbeat beneath your sternum.

Each measured breath he exhaled in tandem with your synchronized pulses cascaded over your sensitized skin in a torrent of rapturous tingles.

One of his large splayed hands never ceased those rhythmic, soothing caresses against your rounded tummy all the while.

As if he subconsciously sought to impart his own transfixion upon the wriggling new life within your womb through sheer willpower alone.

"Get some rest now, my darlings."

Kento commanded thickly against the swells of your breasts although you knew he was only putting on a stern facade for show.

The adoration gleaming incandescent from his liquid umber gaze as his cheek nestled closer betrayed the raw, all-consuming emotion swirling within.

"Tomorrow's gonna be yet another wild day full of new chapters just waiting to kick off this incredible adventure the three of us have stumbled into together."

Still practically delirious from the heady swirl of hormones and euphoria residing bone-deep, you smiled radiantly while sinking your fingertips into his blond messy locks.

"I can't wait to raise our baby together, ken." you murmured fervently against his brow.

Kento's eyes slipped shut in answer, only the serenely content quirk of his kiss-swollen lips giving away his silent response before snuggling flush against you once more.

With a profound inner peace you'd never experienced before seeping in, both lovers gradually succumbed to dreamless slumber swaddled within each other's warmth.

[risuola]

ENTRY #9 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // I know you're lost, please take my hand.

contents: arranged marriage!au, fluffy — wc. 672

a/n: i wrote it before jjk261, let's pretend the chapter never happened oki? oki.

series masterlist

“When you look at me, what do you see?”

He asked and you hummed.

You were looking at him and his eyes were fixed on you — studying, searching, questioning. Despite the faint light of a candle that danced across his features, the intense blue stood out as beautiful as ever and there was hope lingering inside of it, floating on top of the crystalline surface. You touched his face, his cheekbone and nose. You touched his lips. Your gentle fingers were exploring, admiring, because he was a piece to admire.

His features were neutral, almost relaxed, but there was a shadow of vulnerability that the world didn’t see often. Satoru wore a mask in his life, he learned at the earliest age of his life that emotions are there, bubbling inside his chest and that’s where they are supposed to stay, never reaching outside of his heart. He was taught that weakness is bad, that what he feels inside is not for the others to notice. That fear and love are death. But you—

“I see a boy.”

—you made him want to push the doors that for nearly three decades of his life were closed shut and very carefully locked away. Meticulously, you made your way through the difficult labyrinth of his personality and knocked, and pulled the handle, and rung the bell. You got there and stood, tall and confident, waiting for him to open, determined to see what’s inside.

And he let you.

“I see a boy who’s lost. Who cares so much about the others and so little about himself. Someone, who despite the fearless exterior is petrified to feel, to attach himself to someone, to open up and be vulnerable and weak. When I look at you, Satoru, I see a man who’s carrying a baggage of very difficult events that no person should carry alone and yet, he’s too stubborn to allow anyone’s hand to help him,” you were talking, letting your thoughts out and he was listening. Those eyes, full of blue and sparkles, were fixed on you, on your eyes and lips. He kept your hand to himself, brushing idle circles over your wrist and holding you near his face where your fingers were soothing his skin. “I see a boy that craves touch and love, longing masked as indifference and wit.”

“Perceptive, aren’t you?” He mused, but despite the teasing comment, his voice was soft and gentle, barely above whisper.

“I also see a sweet tooth like no other.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” His chuckle vibrated against the heel of your hand where he pressed his lips. “So, that’s who I am if not the strongest? A lost boy in need of attention?”

“To me, you are Satoru. You are my husband who blushed and got flustered each time I as much as brushed my fingers against you. Who got so lost in your own infinity that a simple touch startled you.”

“I can’t help but feel like you’re teasing me right now but I don’t mind it,” he said, nuzzling into the warmth of your hand and then, his arm wrapped around your middle, pulling you closer until there was no space between you and him.

He exhaled and relaxed, securing his grip around you and he melted with his nose against the top of your head, in your hair. Your breath tickled the bare skin over his shoulder, your fingers found the lines of his back and he wanted more. Satoru felt a rush of warmth shot throughout his body, he could smell your skin, a scent of the tastiest of desserts that filled his nostrils and it sent a shiver down his spine.

You felt perfect in his arms. As if you were meant to be there and your frame was carved out by gods just so you could fit against him like a piece of puzzle.

“You make vulnerability seem less scary,” he whispered into your hair and you hummed softly, allowing him to continue. “And I’m grateful for it.”

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[delirious-donna]

My Lover’s The Sunlight [Higuruma Hiromi]

an: a wonderful thought that I simply couldn’t pass over when it was suggested to me, especially as a glasses wearer myself… Hiromi likes it when you keep your glasses on.

pairing: Higuruma Hiromi x female reader

warnings: reader is a glasses wearer, bit of domestic bliss, alcohol mentions, making out turns into much more, NSFW

The evening had been a pleasant one. Not often did you take the time to cook together these days, more often than not it was hastily thrown together hodgepodge meals or heated up prepackaged food for convenience alone.

It was understandable when you were both so very busy, and it wouldn’t go on forever, that much you knew for a fact. So, to have shared a delicious home cooked meal and a lot of laughter at Hiromi’s supremely lacking culinary finesse, it was a balm for your heart and soul.

With bellies full and good humour in abundance, settling into a nightly routine was as easy as pie. Your latest book rested on your chest, legs up on the couch with your feet in Hiromi’s lap. He massaged the tired arches, rolling his knuckles along the soles and pinching playfully at your wiggling little tootsies. The movie he had stuck on played quietly as background noise to the idle chatter you indulged in, everything was perfectly at peace.

“We should have evenings like this more often,” you mused out loud whilst reaching for your wine glass and taking a long, well deserving sip.

Hiromi agreed with a noise in his throat. His gaze moved from the screen to your face, dipping from your eyes to your mouth, watching as you licked away a stray droplet of cabernet. The hand at your foot moved to your ankle, thumb grazing over your ankle bone before grasping to tug you deeper into the cushions.

You offered a saccharine smile, dripping in honeyed possibilities. ���Need something mister lawyer man?”

~

It had started innocently enough from that point. Discarding your book in favour of indulging in the spicy heat of your husband’s mouth. His tongue licked across your teeth to curl with yours. Your fingers ran through his thick head of hair, twisting the black strands near the roots just how he liked.

Soon you were sat on his lap, straddling him with your chest flush to his and your hips undulating to rut your pelvis against the bulge that was awakening impressively fast. Hiromi’s hands explored beneath your sweater. Broad palms glided along the length of your sides and his fingertips teased at the lace of your bra, dipping past the cups and tweaking at your nipples to hear your breathy little squeaks.

Hiromi’s kisses moved to your jaw, your neck and your décolleté. His hooked nose nudging insistently at the modest neckline whilst he grabbed at you more firmly, making you gasp.

“Off,” he ordered to your surprise. The bark of the word was so unlike him that you merely blinked for a moment, meeting simmering eyes that told rich tales of how he was going to devour you this evening. “The sweater, please… it’s in the way.”

“You’re lucky you added a please or else I might have said no…” you teased, knowing full well that was not the case. The arousal between your thighs had increased from his tone alone, causing you to clench in anticipation. There would be no refusals, but it was always fun to toy with him a little. A sleek eyebrow rose by reply, Hiromi questioned your certainty and gazed down to where you were mercilessly grinding into him.

Huffing at being caught in the obvious lie, you reached up to remove the glasses from your face only to be stopped. Hiromi’s hand encased your wrist, stroking over the pulse. “Keep these on. I like it when you wear them when we—y’know, when we… fuck.”

Oh.

A jumble of hastily discarded clothes surrounded you. Underwear sticky with arousal obscured the corner of the television, Hiromi’s tie decorated the side table lamp and a stray sock had managed to land in the plant pot by the window. None of it mattered, not when the man beneath you had a mouthful of your breast and was lining himself up for you to sink onto his cock.

You glanced at him over the rim of your glasses, eyes low-lidded and sultry. You were aware your glasses were perched further down your nose than usual, knocked slightly askew from the fervour of shared kisses. Hiromi bucked upwards without thought, his cock slick with precum lost its place at your entrance, slipping to your clitoral hood and adding such sudden pressure and friction against your pert clit that your nails clawed into his shoulders. The chain reaction continued; hot moans muffled around your breast, streaks of red decorated his shoulder down to his chest and you twitched in Hiromi’s hold, desperate to be stretched and filled.

“Hiro—dear god… you’re going to be the death of me! Come… here.”

Reaching between you, the velvet skin of Hiromi’s foreskin rolled back with little effort. Pumping him once then twice, gasping when his teeth sunk a little deeper around your areola, you rose higher and welcome him inside—welcomed him home with a low guttural moan of satisfaction.

You rode him slowly, careful to roll your hips and draw them back enough that only the tip of him remained lodged between your walls. Hiromi hissed through clenched teeth, finally withdrawing from your tender breasts to let his head fall backwards, sweat edging his hairline and the tendons in his neck stark in their strain. His hands pawed at your backside, spreading you further open whilst he watched you through near shut eyelids. Leaning in, your lips claimed his. His hot breath mixed with yours, spurring you to move faster when his stomach contracted, and he whined into the depths of your mouth.

“You—I… oh fuck—fuck! Look at me, lemme see you,” he wailed, his voice an octave higher and filled with urgency.

The second you pulled back to glance at him, he bit savagely into his bottom lip and his eyes travelled between your face and your tits that moved in time with your frantic bouncing. It made you smile, lopsided and punch drunk, seeing your husband still so affected by you after all these years. His cheeks were a ruddy pink, droplets of sweat running from his hair to his jaw and if eyes could look like hearts, then that would be the only way to describe the love and adoration following your every movement.

“Fuck—love you. So much. Fucking goddess… so beautiful,” he slurred enthusiastically.

Hiromi wrapped a hand around the hair he could reach, tugging it into his palm and driving upwards with sudden ferocity. Hiccuping from the unexpected change, you clenched around his length, letting him take over as the pressure in your belly reached the point of no return. Your orgasm broke over you more quickly than expected, the taut stretch of tension snapped in half as pleasure contracted your muscles and made you spasm over and over. He fucked you through it, holding your pliant body to take every impact of his cock drilling into you, angling you so that the soft tissue near your belly cushioned him perfectly.

He was lost to his desires, to his obsession of memorising every line and detail of your blissed out face. Your glasses squint and foggy, eyelids drooped and mouth agape. Your breasts jiggled perfectly, shiny from his spit, tender and swollen from his mouth and how he had bitten and suckled your skin. What pushed him over the edge was the reflection in your lens, his face reflected back to him and the raw adoration more than evident in his expression. He loved you. He loved you much, and he would never able to verbalise it as eloquently as he would like, despite his years of schooling and far from lacking vocabulary.

Everything was perfection to him; you were his everything and he poured the entirety of his essence into the orgasm that shot through him with a sound like a war cry. Only then did he loosen his hold, welcoming you to drape yourself against his panting chest. Boneless and dewy with sweat, your skin tasted salty when his lips found your shoulder and he licked at it like a kitten drinking milk.

“That was…” you panted, trying to catch your breath. “That was something, huh?”

“It was more than just something.” Hiromi kissed your cheeks before returning to your mouth, speaking with his lips ghosting yours. “You’ve really got no idea how sexy I find you, do you?”

His cock twitched, sloppy movements causing you to arch and stretch from the continued fullness of being impaled. Of course you knew, it was written all over his face, but it still made you flush to think about, not least admit.

“I have some idea.”

Hiromi sighed, a happy sigh though he shook his head. “Darling, you have no idea.”

[pickingupmymercedes]

Hey love. Can I request “you’re blurring your words together, time for bed.” but drunk Lewis? Thank you ❤️🥰

Hi lovely. That was a fun writing, hope you like it too.

I can only imagine how much of lightweight he must be now that he doesn't drink alcohol anymore.

You’re blurring your words together, time for bed.

The last of Lewis' birthday cake sat untouched in the center of the table, surrounded by the remnants of a celebratory feast. The laughter that had filled his London home earlier had died down, most of his friends and family having already departed.

Lewis' 40th unofficial birthday dinner, with a few close friends and family at his London home, was winding down. The air thick with the warmth of good food, good company, and perhaps a little too much wine. Specially for a certain birthday boy who had had almost to no alcohol for a couple of years.

Y/N watched him, a smile playing on her lips. He was amusing his dad, his words slurred but his enthusiasm undimmed, about a particularly daring overtaking maneuver from way back in the day. Anthony, chuckling and nodding along as he held that proud gaze at the man he had raised.

Lewis caught Y/N's eye at his side and winked, a mischievous glint sparkling in his usually sharp gaze. He swayed slightly in his chair, prompting Y/N to push a glass of water towards him. "Easy there, champ" she teased.

"Am a big boy you know?! Forty, to be exact" Lewis slurred, leaning back in his chair, a goofy grin plastered on his face. "Bloody hell, never thought I'd see the day."

Carmen shot him a worried look. "Are you really alright, dear?"

"Peachy, mum!" Lewis declared, throwing an arm around Y/N, nearly knocking her off balance. "Never been better! Forty years of pure…" he trailed off, his brow furrowing in concentration.

"Well," Lewis began, his voice dropping to a thoughtful and vague tone, "I never thought I'd still be racing at forty. Thought I'd be, like, retired, settled down…”

Lewis' gaze drifted to Y/n, he cleared his throat, a playful glint still lingering in his eyes.

"Maybe a few mini-Hamiltons," he stated before his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "though let's be honest, the pre-mini-Hamilton training has been… well, let's just say it's definitely kept me in top shape."

Y/N's eyes widened but she couldn’t help but laugh. The absurdity of his words making his step-mom look like a tomato, while his dad, bless him, seemed to be trying to decide between burying his head in his hands or bursting into laughter.

"Alright, birthday boy," she said, her voice firm but laced with amusement, "You're blurring your words together. Time for bed."

Lewis blinked at her, his expression a comical mix of confusion and indignation. "But…" he started, then looked around the table, finally settling on his wide-eyed nephew who was trying very hard to look anywhere but at them.

"Right." Lewis mumbled, a sheepish grin replacing the earlier defiance. "Sorry, everyone" he continued, his voice a little louder now. "Seems it really is time for bed for me. See you all tomorrow"

His friends erupted in laughter; the tension broken. Y/N couldn't help but nudge him playfully on the arm. This was Lewis, birthday drunk or not: a goofball with a heart of gold.

In bed, Lewis propped up on pillows in bed, was still musing aloud. "Sorry about that," he mumbled, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to…you know."

Y/N chuckled. "Don't worry about it. It’s not like they think we’re celibate" she teased, leaning in to kiss him softly. "Now, come on, Mr. Blurred Words, it's definitely bedtime."

Lewis wrapped his arms around her, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "You know," he said, "maybe forty isn't so bad after all. Got everything I ever wanted, right here." He reached for her hand, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her skin. " I'm glad I waited all these years though. Glad I didn't settle for just anyone."

Y/N squeezed his hand, her heart overflowing with love. "I’m glad too" she whispered. "I love you, old man"

______________________________________________________________

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[gretavanlace]

Hush

Josh Kiszka x reader

18+ only Minors do not interact

Warnings: graphic sexual content, dirty talk, choking, light degradation, praise, slight dom/sub/switch dynamic, language, etc

Josh is vocal.

That is certainly no secret.

Anyone who has watched him strut about a stage, microphone in hand, knows that.

Off stage, he talks incessantly about both the things that matter to him, and the mundane. Things he is passionate about. Things that light fires within him and drive him to create and pack this world as full of his heart as he possibly can. Arbitrary ideas and notions. Strange ponderings.

Pontification, he likes to call it.

He’s also vocally boisterous when agitated. He loathes waiting, and will mutter complaints near your ear in line until you’re willing your eyes not to roll. A phone call to vent about the antics of one brother or another from the studio is a regular occurrence and can be counted on just like death and taxes.

“Samuel was even later than I was,” he might huff, “and now Jake’s guitar needs to be restrung because fuck this whole world if he has to use a backup. I hate them, and I want to come home to you, light of my life, keeper of the stars, goddess of all that is— oh, we’re ready…gotta go.”

Josh murmurs in his sleep, sings in the shower, talks himself through menial tasks, hums in the grocery store, carries on one-sided conversations with the cat who simply chirps along while swirling around his ankles.

At least twice a night he snatches you from drifting off to sleep with a question: Do you think I should call my mom more? If I miss her, she must miss me. Or, Did I ever tell you about that time that Jake ate shit and fell in the lake? I was thinking about it today, and…

Random thoughts and idle musings he can’t help but verbalize, you hear them all. Mostly. The ones you aren’t privy to, fall upon the nearest ear - but he’s so fucking charming even a stranger is happy to play sounding board.

Josh is also expressive when you’re wrapped up in soft, linen sheets…or wherever else he’s decided he can no longer wait to have you.

Whispers of devotion swelling like a gentle breeze across the hum of your pulse when he makes love to you. Filthy, dirty, blush-inducing declarations when he’s fucking into your trembling body like he’ll never touch it again.

And you love it…all of it. But now - with your visiting sister slumbering in the guest room on the other side of the wall - is certainly not the time.

“Baby, please…” his mouth is sucking gently along your collarbone as he grinds into you slowly, friction hard and constant against your greedy, swollen clit, “let me fuck you faster…c’mon, I need it.”

”What you need, is to be quiet,” your voice is a stern whisper, but your hands are tender in his hair.

He could easily set a pace as brutal as he desired if he felt inclined to disobey…but, ever the sweetest switch, he has opted to play nice tonight.

”I’ll be quiet,” he promises. It is a lie he truly believes, and to prove that point, you clench around him and draw forth a pitiful groan from deep within his chest.

A swift pinch at his side serves as punishment ”Shut. Up.”

”Fuck you,” he sounds deliciously desperate, “You did that on purpose. Squeezing me with that beautiful pussy…goddamn.”

”What’s going to happen if I let you make me cum? Hmm?” Your mouth falls into a delicate pout as if you just feel so sorry for him, “You know how tight I get. How I just hug your cock all snug and wet…”

”And warm,” he adds, lost in it, daydreaming in the dark of night and twitching inside the embrace of your cunt, “Soft as satin, sucking me right in…oh my god, baby, please.”

He begins moving with more purpose, dragging the head of his cock against that lovely little spot that will render you incoherent if you allow it to.

”Oh my god, please,” you mock quietly, “Look at you Joshua, what a whiny baby. What are you begging for? Pussy? Is that what you need?”

He nods frantically against your sternum, as though he doesn’t trust himself to look up at you.

You feign confusion wickedly “But you’ve got that. You’re already inside me…”

“Faster,” he breathes, biting and mouthing at your shoulder now, “Need it faster, and harder. It’s too slow, I need more.”

Clicking your tongue like he is a poor, pathetic sight to behold, you shake your head, “Slow down.”

”No, please don’t make me,” he slows, as instructed, but trails off with a whimper.

So, maybe there’s no ‘like’ about it, maybe he really is a poor, pathetic sight to behold. Yes, you decide, that’s exactly what he is…

…so why not push him even further?

With a swift tug on the roots of his curls, you issue an order ”Stay still.”

Despondent and mournful, he groans into the crook of your neck and grabs at your hips so tightly you’ll be admiring raspberry bruises in the mirror come morning. “C’mon, baby girl…lemme take it. I fucking want it.”

If he were looking at you, he’d see the devilish gleam in your eye. Aren’t you an awful witch tonight? “What? Don’t you like it when I keep your pretty cock warm for you?”

He flexes hard inside of you, simply to gain even a hint of friction. “You’re being so fucking mean.”

”Mean?” You coil around the throbbing length of him and he shudders out the tiniest sound, “If I was mean, I’d lock your pretty cock in a cage and fuck your face all night.”

For a moment, he shirks his submissive edge and hisses in your ear, low and slow, “Liar. Not with little sister in the next room…you couldn’t keep quiet with my face between your legs if someone fucking paid you to.”

In response, you shove him back and roll until your thighs are locked around his waist, the crown of his cock nestled against your clit as your hips swivel heated circles.

”Does that feel good, baby?” You’re taunting him cruelly while, in contrast, lovingly reaching up to smooth the furrow from his brow. “Does that just feel so good?”

”Wanna put it back inside,” his eyes squint shut and anyone who didn’t know better might think his expression is that of suffering. “Perfect fucking cunt, so tight, so…”

”Shh,” you quiet him with a hand wrapped around his throat, relishing the way his adam’s apple slides against your palm when he swallows hard, “shut your mouth for once.”

He’s staring up at you, wide-eyed and needy, like you painted the stars in the sky, gorgeous and glittering, just for him…and how you wish that were true. How you wish you could give him something so profound. Something worthy of his light.

”I won’t make a sound,” his vow sounds out, a cross between the honesty he wishes it to be rooted in, and the lie he knows it to be. “C’mon baby, please…fuck me sweet.”

Does he really want it sweet? Or is he simply aware that that’s all he is capable of quietly handling?

Likely the latter.

Your fingers have found your nipples, twisting and tugging on them as they tighten into pink pebbles that send shivers crawling down into your stomach with every pull. His eyes lock in on you, watching you tease them as his breathing kicks up into a frenzy.

“You’re pushing it,” he warns, grip pulling you down closer as he rocks his hips up to meet you. “Keep it up and I’m gonna fucking take it. Be a good girl now, baby…I’m done with your shit.”

”Yeah?” Your eyebrow raises in silent challenge. Does he have it in him tonight?

“Yeah.” He nods, licking his thumb to swirl much too gently across your clit.

”I think you should just behave and be grateful for what you’re—“

Stunned and dazed, the room blurs around you as you’re flipped and tossed until your cheek is pressed against the cool, crisp sheets. They smell of him, and you breathe Josh in until your lungs ache while his cock teases at your entrance from behind.

His body folds over yours until his lips sweep the shell of your ear, “You’ve done it now, baby girl. Better be quiet, yeah? Not a sound.”

With a swift snap of his hips, the silken glide of his cock fills you full as his palm presses against your lips to muffle the high-pitched moan that gasps out of you.

”Now who’s the whiny baby?” his perfect teeth sink into your earlobe and tug until it blooms with heat. The moan that seeps into his soft skin causes his lips to curl into a smirk you can feel. “This is what you wanted, you think I don’t know that?”

He has begun moving at an excruciatingly slow place, the head of his cock dragging gently inside you just right…but you need more.

”You think I didn’t know that you wanted me to just fucking take it all along?”

You nod urgently, tangling your hair against the pillowcase. Of course he knew, he knows you better than you know yourself. There are no secrets to be hidden away when it comes to Joshua. He hunts each and every one down like glittering treasure with ease…your body his map, the pools of your eyes ciphers he decodes without even trying.

His tongue is dancing its way along your jaw now, springing chills to life upon your flushed skin ”Tell me how good my cock feels and I’ll fuck you full.”

Another woeful sound shakes out of you and a rumbling, gravelly laugh huffs warm against your cheek, “My poor, sweet baby can dish it just fine tonight, but she can’t take it? Is that it?”

With a shhh that makes you feel weighed down heavy with lust, he lifts his palm away from your mouth. “I can take it,” you promise in a hush, “Please…I can take it, I swear.”

He is so still inside you, but the familiar stretch is enough to send a tremble tripping up your spine, spider-cracking like a jolt of electric pleasure. “But can you take it quietly? Can you be a real good girl or should I gag you like a whore?”

”I’ll be a good girl,” you breathe, relishing the sound that slips out of him, a cross between famished desire and worshipful devotion.

“Yeah?” He’s enjoying this little game too much to wave goodbye to it just yet, “You’ll be a good girl if I give you this cock?” He presses in so deeply there’s nothing left for him to give, “You’ll take it quietly and squeeze it nice and tight? Soak it with your little wet cunt when I make you cum?”

He can feel you clenching already, twisting around him like a fist, milking him, pulling him in, starved for more.

”Yes, yes, yes,” you chant softly, begging for him to get on with it, “Just fuck me, Josh…please,”

There’s that sinful mouth of his again, ghosting over your ear, “Just fuck me Josh,” he mocks in a velvet whisper, “Please.”

A sob escapes you and turns the apples of your cheeks pink…he echoes the sound back to you and fans the flames of your delectable shame.

”Quiet now, baby…” he reminds you, tone taunting and laced with self-satisfaction, “You just bite down on the pillow if it gets to be too much, and I’ll bite down on you.”

You tighten around him at the mere thought of it and tug an achingly gorgeous grunt from deep within his chest, “You like that? You want me to bite you to keep quiet? Mark you up all pretty?”

”Fuck…” you reach back and grab for him, fingers sinking into the curve of his waist, begging for it with your entire body.

You can’t seem to manage much more, but it’s enough for him, and with a swift pull back, he snaps his hips hard and fast and sets a relentlessly feral pace in motion.

The head of his cock, thick and suede-soft, kisses your cervix with each inward push, driving a wild sound out of you that you smother into the pillow, tongue dragging against the worn cotton as though it were his mouth.

His teeth are peppering your back and shoulders, gnashing his own moans way down deep into your flesh where you will secret them away forever. He gifts each sound to you on a gorgeous, stinging platter and you only want more, more, more. It is never enough with him…you are gluttonous for whatever he sees fit to offer.

”You feel so fucking good, baby,” it comes undulating across your cheekbone like a warm, languorous breeze, “So fucking wet, I can feel you all over me. You’re gonna make me cum.”

He grows impossibly hard within you and that, along with the filth he is sighing into the night and the drags of his teeth, sends you careening over the edge you had no idea you were so close to. You explode around him, and his weight grows heavier atop you as his thrusts lose rhythm.

“That’s it,” his praise is clipped and winded, “just - fuck - just like that. Keep going, so tight, messy pretty fucking pussy, make me cum, baby, please…make me fucking cum.”

He’s babbling like a brook you want to lie beside and listen to for the rest of your life. So beautiful. So Josh. But so quietly, and you know how difficult it must be for him, how hard he must be trying, and you love him all the more for it.

With a final, vicious bite, he coaxes a hiss out of you that makes him see stars as he lets go, fucking himself deeper and deeper as he rides it out, moans pressed into your glazed, shivering body like flowers in between the pages of a book.

And still, you only want more. You want his jaw to lock, his teeth to break the skin, to draw blood, to scar you…soft pink, raised marks tattooed by his kiss to remind you.

A long sigh flutters your hair, and your eyes drift closed at the soothing lilt of the sound as his fingers begin to card through your hair.

”You thirsty, baby?” His nose nuzzles at you, drawing forth a lazy smile that is half smashed into the pillow.

“Yes, but stay a little longer.”

He cuddles down into you, cheek to cheek, the weight of his body keeping you warm and safe in the silence.

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[seeingivy]

heart to heart

ryomen sukuna x f!reader

**part of my best friend's (older brother) fic

previous part linked here

--

sukuna realizes that he’s falling in love with you on the anniversary of his grandfather's death. it’s rather morbid, but he deems that it’s fitting. 

the more that he lingered on it, the more he realized it. that family – good and bad – was always going to hum in the background to the two of you. though he supposes that’s just because you grew up together, that somehow you were intertwined in all of each other’s firsts. 

first day of school, first basketball game, first funeral. 

the day itself isn’t one that sukuna likes to dwell on – a memory colored dark, pushed so hard into the deepest, darkest spots of his mind, that sometimes he only realizes the day has passed a week after the fact. regardless, whenever the realization comes to a head – on time or not – the regret is so suffocating he can barely breathe. 

it’s why he makes every effort to avoid you when the day comes to pass. it’s something that he does with everyone – ignore them like he has the plague. but it’s a little bit different when it comes to you. it’s not personal, he muses, but at the same time, it most definitely is. 

you’re central to the memory. 

sukuna’s sitting up, an idle text being sent to both yuuji and his mom, when the knock on the door comes. and he can feel pressure increase in his throat at the sight of you – his brain feeling heavy, this time in a different way – as you balance two mugs in your hand. 

if it was any other day, sukuna would have found it very difficult to contain himself. the messy bedhead, glasses perched on the edge of your nose, and the fact that you’re drowning in one of his dress shirts. 

sometimes he wondered if you did it on purpose. tried to rile him up just to see how he would react. though on second thought, he almost knows for a fact that you hardly understood what exactly it was that you did to him. how you made his skin feel like it was on fire. 

you sit across from him, setting both of the mugs down on the nightstand, before you press your fingertips to his collarbone and push him back on the headboard to use his body as a pillow. you can hear a scoff before sukuna’s hands tangle around your waist, his fingertips ghosting the waistband of what he recognizes as his boxer briefs. 

“you know, part of your whole freeloading in my apartment agreement was that you’d steal my shirts. not my underwear too.” 

you poke his chest. 

“freeloading? need i remind you, that you basically beg me not to leave each time i’m here. and i’m sorry. i spilled the first batch of hot chocolate i made all over my pajamas and my spares are in the laundry.” you state. 

hot chocolate. 

sukuna knows for sure that you must be doing that on purpose. and that maybe you watch him as keenly as he watches you, because you catch on to his discomfort just as fast. 

“i’m sorry if it’s too much.” you whisper. 

you watch his adam’s apple bob in his chest, as he leans his head back against the headboard and shuts his eyes. you trace little stars into his skin, right under the tattooed flesh as you try to talk, as softly as possible. 

like he’ll run off if you push too hard. 

“sukuna. i-i know that this day can be hard. but we can do whatever you want today.” 

“i have work.” he states. 

“no, you don’t. satoru told me you took the day off already. that you always take it off. and suguru asked me to take care of you.” 

sukuna rolls his eyes. idiots. 

“what about yuuji? knowing you two, you’ve probably got some whole orate tradition you do. probably use my headshot as a dartboard.” 

“it’s actually your yearbook photo.” you defend. 

sukuna smiles. 

“megumi and nobara have got him covered. i’m here for you.” you state. 

sukuna looks down at you, before quickly looking away. he can’t stand your eyes. 

“s’just another day, y/n. if anything, you should get the fuck out of my house. make sure my sensitive brother is fine.” 

sukuna watches your eye twitch. he feels bad, but swallows it down. 

you lift your hands up to cup the sides of his cheek, lightly rubbing your thumbs under his eyes until they open. his light brown eyes flicker to yours and the message comes off just as he intends it. 

don’t. 

sukuna should have known you’d be stubborn about it. 

“sukuna. s’not really fair if we have a power dynamic.” 

“i’m two years older than you. you are well of age.” he deadpans. 

“i mean. when i tell you about what’s on my mind – insecurities or-or my fights with yuuji or even mazzy – it’s not just spilling out of me because you’re my boyfriend. like i’m so emotional that i rant about my problems to everyone. it’s actually more natural for me to put it away. and i purposely don’t for you.” 

sukuna’s intrigued. 

“i’m trying to do this right. like, not withhold things from you because i know that you would hate that. the same way that i would hate it, if that’s what you were going to do with me.” you respond. 

you rest your cheek against his collarbone, before bending down to press a kiss into his skin. 

“s’not a nice feeling. the conversations we have make me feel like i’m standing naked in front of a classroom on display sometimes. but it’s –” you start. 

“that sounds like an ideal situation to me.” 

you pinch his bicep. 

“i mean. it’s not always easy to feel so bare. but i know it’s the right thing to do. and you kind of have to let me in too. i know it might not seem like that to you, because you fell into the caretaker role so quickly with me, but – i’m usually the one who does that type of thing, with everyone else. and i’m not half bad at it.” 

sukuna watched you take care of yuuji his whole life. in the moments that sukuna wasn’t there, he knows that you were the one sitting at his side. especially when he took off so fast like he did.

it’s partly the reason that he was able to do it. because he knew that yuuji would be taken care of – and well, too. but it almost feels wrong, too immature of him to go to you with his problems. 

how are you ever supposed to come to him again? 

“c’mon, baby. anything you want today. we can go back home and eat at the diner. or go to his grave. stay in the entire weekend…” you hum. 

it’s the first time that sukuna’s ever heard you use a term of endearment on him. he was never short of them, a constant cycle of his favorites – pretty girl, doll face, angel. it almost seemed wrong to call you by your name at this point, not when he could so openly express his affections and watch you smile at the fact. 

but sukuna likes it more than he wants to. being called baby. he never wants you to say anything else again. 

he always thought it was a little stupid, an infantile or immature nickname when he watched satoru call suguru as such. especially the way satoru always seemed to beam whenever he did it. he’ll be sure to swallow his retorts the next time. 

“i want to go to the sushi place. back home.” he states. 

you scoff. 

“oh my god. i went on my first date there. got felt up near that fountain.” you respond, scrunching up your nose. 

“i got a handjob near that fountain.” sukuna states. 

“ew. don’t tell me you��.in the fountain?” 

he only grins in response. 

“ew, sukuna! you’re such a dog.” 

“i’ll have mai bring me a nice dress. we’ll go the whole ten miles on a fancy date, like everyone from high school. if you’re lucky, i might even let you touch my butt.” 

“could i be so lucky?” he asks. 

you pinch the side of his cheek. his response is pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

“do you have a pink dress?” he asks. 

“sure do. i’ll have her bring that one, okay?” 

--

sukuna drives you to the sushi restaurant. the ride into town is quiet. you’d almost think that sukuna was mad at you for pushing, but his warm hand resting on your thigh silences almost all the qualms in your head. 

when you make it there, the mere fact of being there with sukuna leaves you with an odd thought. that if things were different beforehand, you would have been fifteen standing there with him, instead of leaving the restaurant feeling oddly dissatisfied from a guy who really wanted nothing to do with you instead.

“sukuna. party of two.” 

“it’ll just be five minutes.” 

sukuna gives a kurt nod before dragging you to the other side to lean against the wall, his hand warm on your waist. you pick your brain at the best thing to say – his uncharacteristic silence brimming you with anxiety and making you particularly hyper-vigilant in choosing the right thing to say to him. 

"you're beautiful, you know that?" he whispers.

you fight the urge to smile so hard.

"thank you, sukuna. you're beautiful too."

he glares at you.

"you're shitty."

you smirk, before pinching the side of his cheek. of course that was his reaction.

"you're such a cutie pie little baby sometimes I just wanna-" you coo.

"shut the fuck up before I make you." he responds.

"ooh. so scary!"

“i came here for the first time with my grandpa. i'll even tell you about it if you stop being a little bitch for a second.” 

you stop.

“yes, sir. ” you respond, saluting. 

sukuna smiles in response and it makes your heart skip a beat. that and the fact that you swear you've never seen his eyes so soft.

“so basically –” sukuna starts 

“sukuna, y/n? is that you?” 

you look over to your left to find one of your old neighbors – so old that you can barely even remember his name – standing at your sides, excitedly waving at the two of you. 

“god, it’s been years! you two are so grown now.” 

“mr. soma.” sukuna responds.

you find yourself grinning ear to ear at the fact that one, sukuna’s tone is entirely displeased. and two, that there’s no pleasantry laced in with his words. 

“y/n. how is your dad? i haven’t seen him around in a while.” 

the taste in your mouth is metallic. 

“couldn’t tell you! i haven’t seen him either.” you state. 

his face pinches up, the pitiful expression that follows causing a subsequent clenching of your jaw. 

“sukuna. how’s your father?” 

“still a dick.” he states. 

you smile. the way he seems to flinch at the bluntness, at sukuna’s demeanor, is solace enough for the double dose of shitty dad comments. he gives you both a polite smile before skirting off, after an awkward round of small talk. university, work, yuuji and sammy and he's off.

you turn to sukuna, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“you okay?” 

“obviously. a dumbass with a shitty attitude won’t ruin my mood when i’m here with you. are you?” 

“me too.” 

sukuna smirks at you. 

“really? you're not internalizing every awkward experience that happens to you? have i entered a parallel universe today?” 

“i’m a mystery, idiot. you can spend forever trying to figure me out.” 

“planning on it.” he responds. 

sukuna splits all his sushi with you. if you like a certain plate, he almost refuses to touch it afterwards, just to let you finish all the pieces. and after you say you’re too full, he’s does the job for you – only because you say that you feel bad leaving it to waste when they took the time to make it.

it’s strawberry ice cream afterwards and he makes it very clear that it's only because it’s your favorite. you swing by the store when you get back into the city and eat straight from the tub on the kitchen island.

and over your shared spoon of dessert, sukuna’s voice is almost so quiet you can barely hear it. you think that the ice cold sensation curbs any warm anxiousness that would stop him normally from talking – and you thank your cravings for it.

“my grandpa was the first person who took care of me.” 

you press your cheek to his shoulder in response, rubbing circles into his palm as he talks. 

“I know it's a natural thing. that when you have a younger sibling, that it takes the attention away from you. i know logically that i had that attention, that i required it when i was a baby too.” 

"but?"

"but yuuji's so fucking likeable. i love the idiot and it feels like shit to admit, but i fucking hated that everyone almost forgot about me just because of him."

you pause.

“it’s hard not to like you too.” you state. 

“but you know what i mean. i liked taking care of him, until i didn't. he got older and...and sometimes it felt like he didn't even fucking care about half the things i did for him. at one point, i got sick of watching everyone fawn over him so much that it made me upset. i told my mom but...you know how she can be. didn't really register for her. ” 

you hum in response. 

“my grandpa must have noticed that i had a little bit of resentment towards him, especially when i was in eighth grade. started getting in fights and acting out and all that. and he brought me here. and-and i was pissed at him that i just started fucking yelling at him. about how he didn’t care about me and how i felt unwanted and under-appreciated and…and he agreed with me.” 

he pauses, bringing one of his hands up to your hair. 

“i like feeling appreciated. valued enough that someone will listen to me and actually believe it. that he wanted to be around me too.” he states.

you pause, your heart clenching so hard in your chest. your stomach nearly drops at the sentiment, at the memory that you can feel tears in your eyes. you’re murderous hatred for sukuna and yuuji’s dad only grows tenfold with every consecutive day – but feels particularly potent now. 

you immediately tilt your head up, in efforts to curb yourself from crying – when you’re the one who should be strong for him right now. he, of course, notices right away. 

“eh? what’s wrong with you?” 

“allergies.” 

“did you miraculously get stung by a bee in the past few seconds while we were sitting here?” 

you scoff. 

“you’re so obsessed with me. you even memorized my medical history!” 

“that was in no way romantic. god forbid i know a basic fact about you so you don’t like, literally die on me. now tell me what it is. you basically have to because my grandpa is dead, you know?” 

“are you really playing the dead grandpa card?” 

“the fact that you called it that was fucking offensive. now you have to tell me.” 

you roll your eyes. 

“i was just thinking about that day. it makes my heart break that you lost someone who made you feel understood. that you felt alone, even though we were all right there. i hope you know that i find it hard to drag myself away from you sometimes. you're like the only place i want to be." you murmur. 

the year before sukuna left, he got into fights often. you remember it vividly – the fact that his mom always seemed to be at your house crying to your mom, while you and yuuji lingered by the doorway for too long listening when you shouldn’t have. 

and he’d shuffle in hours later, a purple eye or bloodied knuckles – a wall of silence with zero explanation. 

but the worst part is that the one time he got in serious trouble, enough to constitute needing to be picked up from the police station, was cosmically the worst possible day it could have happened. 

because sukuna’s grandfather was already dead when you guys got the call. you had all been phoning him for hours and unbeknownst to you, the reason he didn’t pick up is because his phone had gotten taken away. and his mom, yuuji – they were so struck in their own grief that your mom had taken you and sammy with her to go get him. 

and now when you think of it – the thought of him sitting there all alone when you found him, the fact that he was sitting there feeling misunderstood made you cry. it was enough to know that you had all unleashed horrible news on him, but even worse to know you were the one to rip his grandfather away from his life. 

“i remember that you were the one who told me.” he states. 

you nod, affirming his memory. 

“you…you were all quiet. was kind of expecting your mom to give me an earful, about being responsible for my mom and yuuji. but she was just quiet. sammy didn’t even look at me. and when i saw you, you were crying. came up right by my side and apologized. you were the first person to give me condolences. made me hot chocolate when you got home because you didn’t know what else to do.” he states. 

“yeah. i wish i was more composed or…or could have at least said something better to you. and i still kind of suck with words but i…i hope this helps? at least a little?” you mumble. 

sukuna leans forward, curbing any follow-up sentiment you could have had with his lips. you can still taste the strawberry. you murmur against his lips – him pulling you back in every time you try to pull away. 

“did you kiss me to shut me up?” you ask. 

“do you want a cookie for figuring that one out, genius?” he responds. 

you lightly push his chest. 

“you’re such a dickhead! let me do the whole supportive, caring girlfriend thing. i can’t just leave you hanging, you know.” 

sukuna rolls his eyes.

“doll face.” he deadpans. 

you glare at him. 

“you are perfect.” 

you’re caught off guard. 

“i’ve never told anyone any of that before. never even met someone i’ve wanted to tell. quit fucking worrying yourself over whether or not it was good or bad. i’m half convinced that you could be my remedy to anything.” 

you can feel the heat rushing to your cheeks at the praise. you bundle the fabric of his collar in your shirt before you pull him forward, pressing your lips to his as softly as you can. 

“someone feeling bold today?” he murmurs against your lips. 

his hand is warm on your face, cupping the side of your cheek. and when you lean forward, the warmth that surges through you is so deep that you think you might have kissed sukuna too hard. because now you’ve backed him up against the wall, your fingers quickly rushing down the buttons of his shirt. 

sukuna’s quick to stop you. hands warm on your wrists and brown eyes widened. 

“what are you doing?” he whispers. 

“oh. oh, i don’t know. it…it just kinda came over me. sorry. just like..felt super close to you there for a second and i felt it like…rumbling in my chest.” 

sukuna’s brings his forehead against yours. his eyes are pinched shut, almost straining, his breaths quiet. 

“i want to do something. but you have to tell me if it’s going to make you feel uncomfortable.” you ask.

“okay.” sukuna responds.

“don’t even think about fucking lying to me. i’ll know.” 

"yeah right."

“i mean it.” you grates. 

“just tell me.” he responds.

“okay, but-” 

“y/n l/n.” 

you pause.

“can you take a bath with me?” 

he pulls back. 

“what?”  

“a bath. suguru gifted us these bath salt and stuff. he said it was a gift for you. told me you like that kind of thing.” 

“he's always gifting some weird therapy shit to me.” he states.

"therapeutic." you correct.

“one day i’m going to curb your fucking attitude and you’re not going to like it one bit.” 

you smile. 

“i hate you. i’ll take my bath on my own then.” you respond.

he yanks hard on his arm. 

“okay. if it's uncomfortable, we get out.” 

you nod. you get in first, quickly leaing against the wall and hiding under the warm bubbles, as he follows suit. weirdly enough, sukuna's first instinct is to go to the other side, the farthest from you, but you stop by pulling on his wrist.

"c'mhere. just lean against me." you murmur.

it’s a little bit awkward at first. because sukuna's the one wound up instead of you.

“can you relax for me?” you whisper.

“right. sorry.” 

he leans back, your skin prickling, as he settles his head against your chest. he's looking up at you, his eyes fixed on yours, but you can’t help but stare at his skin - freckles and moles that you’ve never had the opportunity to notice sparkling his skin. 

“thank you.” he whispers. 

“for?” 

he scoffs.

“y/n.” he chides. 

“use your big boy words!” you coo.

“shut the fuck up.” 

“c’mon. you've got it in you.” 

“you know what i want to say.” 

“of course i do. i know you’re really glad that i have an innie belly button instead of an outie.”

sukuna nearly chokes on his spit.

“i beg your pardon?” 

“i know that outies freak you out. you don’t have to say it.” 

sukuna stops himself from saying it. 

that he's falling in love with you. 

it’s right on the tip of his tongue. but he knows that it’s too fast so he swallows it down. that and the fact that it would be fucking insane if he said that to follow up your stupid joke about inne and outie belly buttons.

“baby, we should really donate your brain to science. i think you could advance neuroscience fifty years into the future.” sukuna states. 

“take that back, asshole.” you respond.  

“make me.” 

you yank hard on his hair, before fixing your hands back in his locks and pushing the matted wet hair off of his forehead. sukuna leaves a kiss in your hands, before he seems to wander off somewhere else, almost like he's deep in thought.

you grant him the quietness. sukuna loves you even more for it.

--

next part linked here

an: ICK CHAPTER BUT WHATEVER

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[atlabeth]

can i request a bridgerton au fic with nikolai? (i was reading not so simple earlier and was thinking about nikolai and now i can’t get the idea out of my head lol) maybe the reader isn’t the diamond of the season, so she has no idea why nikolai (A PRINCE!!) wants to court her

sweet relief

pairing: nikolai lantsov x fem!reader (bridgerton au!!!)

summary: you meet a striking stranger at your first ball, only to discover he is not a stranger at all.

a/n: thank you so much for requesting this man it was so much fun to write i got carried away!!! i hate nikolai and his charming self so much

wc: 3k

warning(s): none that i can think of ??

Nikolai is bored. 

In truth, he does not fully know why he is here. Vasily has already been declared as the catch of the season, and the heir to the throne is much more valuable than the second son. But he is back in London after years spent traveling—not in search of a wife, he might add, to the chagrin of his mother—and he supposes that is cause for some interest. 

In the most basic sense of the word, Nikolai is also a prince, though he hardly has claim to the title. Not with the rumors of his true parentage floating about. 

If he was lucky, he figured he’d find some fun around Mayfair. If he was unlucky, he will be forced to deal with swarms of eager debutantes and even more eager mamas. 

And at this ball, Nikolai has realized that he is unlucky. 

He’s already had to fight off a horde of eligible ladies and their mothers, and explain ten times over that he is not here to participate in the season, he is just here to visit family. He doesn’t think they’ve heard a single word he’s said. They only see the lack of a ring on his finger. 

It is why he has found himself in some corner of the ball, a glass of champagne—that he wished was brandy—held loosely in his hand as he tuned out the idle musings of the men he’d somehow ended up around. His eyes dart around the ballroom, looking for anything even remotely interesting to get him through this night. 

He catches a glimpse of a pair walking through the doors, a mother and a daughter that he recognizes as a debutante from earlier in the day, but before he is granted the chance for further inquisition, his thoughts are interrupted. 

“Your Highness,” someone says, and his attention is drawn from his glass to not just one, but three pairs of mothers and mares, surely trying to vye for his hand. “It is an honor to meet you.” 

“I was unaware of my popularity,” Nikolai says wryly, looking at each of the women in turn. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“The pleasure is all ours,” another mother says brightly, and he sees her nudge her daughter. “If I may introduce my daughter, Miss Eleanor Woodbridge?” 

Nikolai bows his head in greeting, and she curtsies. When Miss Woodbridge speaks, her head is still bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Highness.” 

“So I’ve already heard,” he remarks.

Her cheeks flush bright red as she stands back up, and the next mother begins to introduce her daughter, and then the next—a Miss Evelyn Frances and a Miss Anna Huntsbury. 

Nikolai ends up in a dance with Miss Huntsbury at the nudging of her mother, and though it is perfectly pleasant, he can’t fully enjoy it with all of the eyes on him.

It is not as if he doesn’t enjoy attention. He is perfectly fine with being the center of attention, with being adored by women, with dancing and balls and all sorts of revelry. 

But this— especially after his travels to other countries, away from good society and the expectations of nobles— is so unbelievably predictable. All of these mothers attempting to find their daughter a husband, only interested in Nikolai because of a title he likely won’t earn. He doubts a single one cares of the man behind the Lantsov brand. 

But a second prince is better than no prince at all, and thus the moment he is off the dance floor, he is once again swarmed by women. 

He allows an inward sigh as he plasters on a smile. 

It is going to be a very long night. 

-

You are inexplicably nervous. 

You’ve just debuted and you are already in attendance of a ball. God, why must they hold the season’s first ball the night of all the debuts? You haven’t even had the afternoon to soak everything in—to truly absorb the fact that you must search for a husband—as your mother and lady’s maid spent every moment ensuring you were the image of perfection for tonight. 

In your mother’s opinion, they succeeded. But you already feel as if you are suffocating in your gown.

You are not the diamond, but in truth, you are thankful for it. There is already a huge weight on your shoulders to make a match—you could not imagine having the queen’s eye on you the entire time. You wished luck to Miss Jasmine, both that she could avoid horrendous suitors and the queen’s ire. 

Your mother says your name softly as you cross the threshold into the ballroom, immediately overtaken by the dancing and the musicians and glittering jewels. “Are you alright?” 

You shake your head rapidly. “No, Mother, I do not think I am alright. I am at my first ball of the season and I believe I may pass out.” 

She breathes a loose laugh as she shakes her head as well. “You’ve nothing to be nervous about. You will shine just as you always have, my love. I’ve no doubt that a suitor will see that.”

“That is what I am afraid of,” you huff. “I’ve equal fear both of finding a husband and not finding one. How is one meant to dread both of their options?” 

“You’ve nothing to be nervous about, and nothing to be afraid of,” she repeats, “and certainly nothing to dread. I’m sure by the end of the night, you will have suitors lining up for a chance at your affections.” 

You truly doubt that, but you do not voice anymore of your concerns. Your mother has already done you a favor working through so many of them with you—the least you can do is smile prettily and dance a time or two. 

And you do. More than you imagined—your mother sends you away to fetch glasses of lemonade after a few minutes of idle chatter, and after you’ve poured the first glass you are approached by your first suitor. 

Lord Kenneth Barham, son of the Earl Pritchard. You’ve no idea what a man of title is doing around you, but he is agreeable and kind throughout your first dance. Had you the ability, you would have stayed by his side for the rest of the night only so you could avoid the rest of your expected debutante duties. 

But you do not, and so after a respectful if not slightly boring conversation between the two of you and your mother, he parts ways with the promise to call on you. You are not granted reprieve, to your mother’s delight, and it is not until a near full hour of dancing that you are able to get away. 

You slip away while your mother is busy discussing things with the Baron Ashford and his son, and you have never been so thankful for the outdoors when the cool air hits your skin. 

You let out a long, deep breath as you attempt to calm yourself. Things are going well, much better than you expected—you are already expecting five gentlemen to call on you by the morrow, three of which are titled. 

But you are not even halfway through the ball, and you are already exhausted. Your feet ache and you’ve grown weary of the weight of jewelry on your head and wrists and neck. You’ve truly no idea how you are meant to make it through the entirety of the season, if it is like this. 

“I apologize, my lady. I was unaware there was another out here.” 

You turn around and hold back a sigh. Even in your attempts to be alone, men still find you. 

“I do not have a claim to these gardens,” you say wryly. “You are free to roam.” 

He chuckles as he nods, and he takes another few steps towards you. “I wish not to roam—just to take after you and wrestle out a moment for myself in this schedule.” 

“Then you have picked a wonderful spot,” you say with a nod. “I will give you time to enjoy it on your own.” 

You start on your way, but he steps in your way. “There is no need, my lady. I already rather enjoy your company.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “You have been in it for but a moment.” 

“And what a lovely moment it has been,” he says. 

Normally, irritation would have won over by now. You should not be out here with a man unchaperoned, and you truly just want to be alone for a moment—you’ve a myriad of reasons to stick to your bearings and leave. 

But you have to admit, he is agreeable. His blonde hair is artfully styled, he’s dressed rather finely, and his hazel eyes seem to twinkle as he looks at you with a smile.

“...Alright,” you say, and you decide to stay in place for now. “Have you a name, good sir?”

“You can call me Lord Sturmhond,” he says. 

You raise an eyebrow. “I apologize, my lord. I’ve not yet heard of you.” 

“That just means I am all the more able to make a good impression,” he says, his smile only growing. “Which is rather imperative with a lady such as yourself.” 

You feel your cheeks grow warm, and you bite back a smile of your own. “You are quite the charmer. It could be quite scandalous for us to be found alone.” 

“You needn’t worry,” Lord Sturmhond says. “I doubt anyone will leave the ballroom. They are all too focused on the visiting princes.” 

Your eyes widen. “There are princes here?” 

“The Lantsovs,” he nods, and this time his eyebrows rise. “Had you not heard?” 

“...My mother may have told me, but it would not come as a shock if I neglected to listen,” you say sheepishly. You let out a deep sigh as you wring your gloved hands together. “I should be all the more thankful to be out here with you, then. The only thing to come of my meeting a prince would be disaster.” 

“Oh, I surely doubt it,” Lord Sturmhond says. “I enjoy your presence, and I enjoy your conversation. I believe the princes would feel the same.” 

“You flatter me, my lord, but I am in doubt.” Your gaze drifts off to the sky as you take a moment to appreciate the stars. “Truthfully, I am out here because I am overwhelmed. I’ve spent the hour dancing and in conversation with various men, and already I have had to venture out here for reprieve.” 

“All of this takes practice,” he says. “It is an unreasonable expectation for debutantes to be thrust into the season and perform perfectly. None of this is a light matter, and yet it is treated as one.” 

You sigh. “I just cannot imagine doing this for so many more months. It is going to be a very long season.” 

Lord Sturmhond chuckles. “I have thought the exact same thing tonight, my lady.” 

You find yourself smiling, freer and more genuine than anything you’d mustered earlier in the night. The other men you’d met were fortunately kind, but you just felt… different out here, with him. 

There were no eyes on you, meaning you did not need to act the pinnacle of propriety. That must have been the difference—not the man himself. 

In the distance, you can hear the changing melody of the strings, signaling the start of a new dance. Your eyes fall to your dance card, and as you read the last few names, you remember you still owe three more dances. You bite back a very unladylike curse. 

“I apologize, my lord,” you say, hurrying through a curtsy as you begin to back your way towards the ball. “I really must be going. My mother will have my head should I stay out here any longer.” 

“I understand.” Lord Sturmhond catches up to you in a few quick strides and he takes your hand, stopping you in your tracks. Your breath catches as he presses a kiss to the back of your hand, and your heart hammers in your chest even with the barrier of your glove. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” His hazel eyes are nothing less than enchanting as they focus entirely on you, and had you any less sense, you could easily find yourself talking away the hours of the night with him. “Have confidence. I am sure this night will go your way should you wish it.” 

“It was a pleasure to meet you as well, my lord,” you say. “I hope it is not too forward of me to wish on our meeting again.” 

“Do not worry,” he says. “We will.” 

You open your mouth to ask him how he can be so sure, but the strings grow louder and you huff a sigh. In lieu of another goodbye, you nod and grin at the lord before you rush back indoors. 

Your mother doesn’t berate you when you appear by her side again, so you were not gone for too long. You get through your next three dances, and your last suitor is just leaving when your mother jabs you in the side. 

“Darling, the queen is coming our way,” she whispers. “And she has the Lantsov princes with her.” 

You nearly collapse just at that combination of words, but you hold fast—quite literally, as your hold tightens on your mother’s arm. You are thankful to the Lord Sturmhond for alerting you to the presence of princes tonight, for your shock would be exponential without it. 

“Why are they coming our way?” you ask. 

“They have been making the rounds together,” she says. “Straighten your back.” 

You do, and then you nearly collapse yet again when your eyes meet those of one prince. 

Those gorgeous hazel eyes stare back at yours—you know yours are as wide as dinner plates, despite your attempts to hold back—and he gives you that same damned smile, bowing his head ever so slightly as if to acknowledge your meeting. 

You met the prince. 

You told the prince of all your worries. 

You were kissed on the hand by the prince. 

You only hear your mother saying your name when she nudges your shoulder, snapping you out of your reverie. You blink and look at her, then to the queen.

“Your Majesty,” you rush out, ducking into your best bow, “Your Highnesses. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”  

The queen greets you and your mother with your surname, and though all your attention is on her, you can still feel the prince looking at you. 

“Have you met my sons, Vasily and Nikolai?” she asks. 

Vasily bows politely, respectful but reserved. “A pleasure, my lady.” 

You curtsy in return, and your Lord Sturmhond steps forward. You are thankful, at least, to put a name to the lying face. 

“It is a pleasure to meet such a beauty,” Nikolai says. He takes your hand and bows down to press a kiss to it, and your skin burns from his touch just as it did out in the gardens. He does not let go when he straightens, instead looking to your mother. “I do not wish to end our meeting prematurely, but I would love to have this dance.” 

“Of course!” your mother exclaims. “It would be her honor, Your Highness.” 

Nikolai nods and smiles, looking back to you for your permission. You nod as well through your haze, and he leads you out to the dance floor. It takes a moment for you to fully come back into yourself, and it only occurs once he has laid his hands in the correct position. His feather light touch is like lightning. 

“I did tell you we would meet again,” Prince Nikolai says, that sure smile on his lips yet again. Had it not been for your years of dance lessons, your weakened knees would not be enough to carry you through this waltz. “Did I not?” 

“...You did,” you say. “But you did not tell me you were a prince.” 

“I find it invites unnecessary pressure,” he says. “Did you not enjoy our time together?” 

“...I did,” you say again, unsure of your words. 

“And I am proven right in your manner,” the prince says. “You spoke so easily in the gardens, and now you seem to be putting thought into each syllable.” 

“You— you are a prince,” you repeat, your still-lingering shock making you speak plainer than you intend. “Of course I am putting thought into my words.” 

“You needn’t worry around me,” Nikolai says. “I am just another man in London.” 

“You are a prince.” 

“As we have established,” he nods, and when you let out a light huff he grins. “You have a lovely smile.” 

“As do you,” you say, and you shake your head. “I cannot believe you allowed me to make a fool of myself out there.” 

Nikolai frowns. “However did you make yourself a fool?” 

“You allowed me to ramble!” you exclaim. “I told you of my worries, of being overwhelmed, of all my thoughts—” 

“And what is the problem with that?” he asks. 

“It is unseemly to complain to a prince,” you insist. 

“We see our meeting quite differently, then,” he says. “For I left it with a most favorable image of you, and a wish to see you again.” He cocks his head. “Did you not leave with the same?” 

“...I did,” you say after a moment. 

Your conversation stalls for a moment as you part from each other, following the steps of the dance, before joining back again. His hand is sure in yours, startling but welcome warmth. 

“Then I do not see the issue,” the prince says. 

“You have made this night all the longer,” you intone. “Your attention makes me something of a target among the ladies of the ton.” 

“Do not worry,” he says, that irritatingly pretty smile aimed at you yet again. “I believe we can get through it together.” 

“Together?” you ask. 

“You wished to meet again,” Nikolai says. “I plan to grant that wish several times over.” 

“...I would like that,” you admit, feeling your cheeks heat under his gaze.

“And just to think,” he says, amused, “you said your meeting with a prince would be a disaster.” 

[captain-hawks]

ask me

barbatos x f!reader

summary: you can't stop thinking about Barbatos' forked tail, and he's well aware, so he decides to show you exactly how he likes to use it over tea one afternoon.

word count: 2.2k

content: 18+ ONLY, NSFW, smut, masturbation, tail kink, penetration in both holes, tail sex, praise kink

“Ask me.”

The smooth, low tone of Barbatos’ voice softly nudges you away from your idle thoughts, and you glance up from where you’d been staring down into the depths of the cup of tea in your hands. 

You furrow your brows in confusion. “Ask you what?”

A ghost of a smile plays across his lips as he tilts his head to the side, casually running a gloved finger along the filigree adorning the lip of the mug. As if in answer, his tail winks into view for a moment as his demon form pushes to the surface, twin tips twirling together before disappearing back under the table. 

Your heart rate picks up at the sight, and your fingertips dig into your thigh as you stretch and rotate your ankle in an attempt to stave off the desire to bounce the nervous energy right out of your leg. 

“The servants are a chatty, nosey bunch,” he muses, steepling his hands together as his green eyes sparkle.

Not quite trusting yourself to respond otherwise, you launch another question as you evenly ask, “Are they?”

He raises his eyebrows slightly and nods, leaning in slightly as if he’s readying himself to share a secret with you. “Leave anything out in the open, and they’re certain to see it.”

It doesn’t take much guesswork to figure out what he’s getting at. You’ll never forget the horror of tiredly walking back into your room at the House of Lamentation after a long day of classes last week to discover you’d left a new toy right on top of your sheets.

Asmo had excitedly drug you to a naughty looking little shop in town when he’d found you loose-lipped and horny enough one night to blurt out that one of the things you missed most about the human world were vibrators. Needless to say, you’d worn yourself out that night as you shamelessly plunged your new purchase into your needy hole, bringing yourself over the edge thrice before you finally collapsed beneath the sheets, tossing the sticky toy aside and quickly falling asleep.

And it would have been fine, really. 

You’d have no issue earning yourself a whispered little reputation at RAD for masturbating, for fuck’s sake. You certainly weren’t living in a house of angels, after all. 

The issue was the specific vibrator that you’d chosen. The one you’d been unable to look away from after your eyes landed on it across the store, subtly clenching your thighs together the entire way home as you felt the weight of it in the shopping bag knocking against your leg with each step.

When Asmo saw the immediate glazed over look on your face the moment you walked into the store, he had gleefully explained that the Devildom’s selection of vibrators and dildos might be a little…kinkier than you were used to seeing in the human world. 

Kinky didn’t even begin to describe it.

But there was one particular thing nestled amongst the shelves of monstrous cocks of all shapes and sizes that you couldn’t look away from: a teal-coloured vibrator shaped like a forked tail. 

To your surprise, Asmo said nothing when he met you at the counter with a basket full of his own purchases—he simply offered you a mischievous grin as he nudged a small bottle of lube toward the cashier for you as well. 

It was only later, safely in the darkness of your bedroom, that you let yourself think of it. 

Think of him.

Face buried against your pillow and tears of pleasure leaking from the corners of your eyes, Barbatos’ name was a silent scream on your lips as you fucked yourself with the toy, one end of the tail stuffed into your cunt while you slid the other into your ass. 

You came so hard the first time you nearly blacked out, holes squelching wetly as you greedily chased two more orgasms while the demon butler’s face flashed in the forefront of your mind. And you’d left the evidence like a beacon right on top of your bed when you’d rushed out the door for class the next morning, not sparing a single thought for the servant that would likely be in to tidy up your room in the afternoon. 

Something brushes against your bare ankle, bringing you back to the present, but you can’t bring yourself to look at Barbatos. Not now that you’re certain he knows you purposely bought a fucking vibrator that looks like his goddamn tail. 

As if he can feel the mortification pouring off of you in waves, Barbatos lays a gentle hand on top of yours. “Ask me if I enjoy using my tail on my lovers.”

You suddenly wish you’d taken Solomon up on his invitation to join him in researching teleportation spells. Turning your hand over, Barbatos begins to rub a comforting circle with his thumb into your palm, patiently waiting for your response.

One could say it’s difficult to want for anything with seven demon brothers willing to dote on you day in and day out during your stay in the Devildom, especially when you live with them. But, in perhaps the most cliché manifestation of the age-old adage of wanting what you can’t have, you’ve found it a battle in and of itself to stop thinking about Diavolo’s elusive butler. 

At first, it was his deep voice that set you off-kilter, the tone stroking its way down your spine like liquid fire. Paired with eyes that always look like they know more than they let on and a disarmingly handsome face, the brothers and Lord Diavolo himself are hard-pressed to maintain your attention at the times when Barbatos skirts about the edges of the room, unnoticed by some but always seen by you.

While your time spent in his presence has been meager in comparison to how frequently you see your housemates, Barbatos often makes the most of it with playfully witty remarks that leave you reeling long after he leaves and kind gestures that make your heart ache, like the way he made sure the House of Lamentation was stocked with your favorite tea after you made an offhand remark about it one day. 

With a menagerie of demons eager to monopolize your attention, you were nearly ready to accept defeat in the face of an impossible conquest—because in what world was Diavolo going to let you seduce his fucking butler?

Your plans to stamp out the burning embers of your little crush went to hell in a handbasket the day you saw Barbatos flash into his demon form though, unfortunately. As if seeing his elegant horns wasn’t enough to get your heart positively racing, you’d outright choked on your soup when the real star of the show revealed itself—that goddamn fucking tail. 

Levi had patted you on the back as you gasped for air, vegetables and broth launching an assault on your throat as your wide eyes took in the sight of Barbatos threateningly pointing the forked appendage in Mammon’s face as he held out a hand for the money he owed Diavolo. 

Once you saw that teal, forked tail in all of its slithering glory, there was no going back. The only direction you could spiral was further down into a frustratingly horny purgatory, wondering whether or not it would be uncouth to proposition the demon butler to fuck you with his tail. 

And now, it’s the steady reassurance in Barbatos’ eyes as he squeezes your hand that allows you to let the words tumble from your mouth before you can think better of it, “Do you enjoy using your tail on your lovers, Barbatos?”

What can only be described as a devilish smile curls at the corners of Barbatos’ mouth, and he briefly darts his tongue out between his lips before coyly responding, “In many ways. Was there a specific one you had in mind?”

Your mouth goes dry, confidence faltering at the insinuation in his tone. “I…” you trail off, unable to muster up the filthy thoughts about the male sitting in front of you that have long-since taken up residence in your head.

A contemplative noise escapes his lips as he shifts into his demon form, slowly pushing both of your teacups aside as his tail slithers up onto the table. Your breath hitches in your throat as he lazily flicks the forked edges before pressing it closer to you, the surface of it cool and smooth as it ghosts along the curve of your jaw.

“I’ve been told the secretion has a…pleasant flavor,” he muses, eyes glittering with delight when you unconsciously part your lips at the feeling of his tail now prodding against them. 

Sweet, viscous liquid that vaguely reminds you of honey, though more slick than sticky, hits your tastebuds as one forked tip presses against your tongue. 

And fuck does it taste good. 

You let your jaw relax, and Barbatos readily accepts the invitation, slipping his tail further into your mouth as the other tip caresses your throat. A fresh spurt of the sweet nectar pours onto your tongue, and you greedily gulp it down, moaning softly as you begin to suck on his tail. A soft growl of encouragement rumbles in Barbatos’ chest, plates and mugs clinking in protest when he tightly fists a hand in the ornate tablecloth. 

“And there’s also this…” he adds, tail sliding out of your mouth and trailing down your chest, effortlessly flicking open the buttons of your RAD uniform. 

Knowing full well Lord Diavolo could return to the Demon Lord’s Castle at any time, it’s a battle in and of itself not to cry out at the feeling of Barbatos squeezing your breasts with his tail. But once he uses the twin tips to tease both of your peaked nipples at the same time, the shameless whine you let out can’t be helped, not in any realm. 

Meeting his gaze, you try to steady your breathing as you ask, “Where else?”

Barbatos licks his lips. “Would you still like me to…show you?”

You nod, and his tail disappears under the table, wrapping around one of your ankles and tugging your crossed legs apart. One forked tip pushes your skirt up and out of the way and then tugs aside your underwear, the other spreading your thighs so wide that you slip down in your chair slightly.

And the moment that Barbatos slides his dripping tail through your equally slick folds, your body trembles with a jolt of searing hot pleasure, and a moan so wanton and desperate tumbles from your lips that you know you’ll never be satisfied again without this—

The feeling of one end of his tail firmly massaging your swollen, throbbing clit, the other teasing at your entrance.

The desire written plainly across his face as both tips curl around one another before he begins to ease them into your cunt.

The way he leans across the table and presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, fangs scraping against your skin as you roll your hips to meet his thrusts.

The damp material of the chair beneath you, sodden with the combined arousal leaking from his tail and your wet heat.

The softly uttered, “Beautiful,” as you whimper his name. 

The feral, possessive snarl of frustration that escapes him at the sound of the front door opening downstairs.

…the way Barbatos continues to fuck you with his tail even as Diavolo unknowingly strolls into the room with a grin on his face, seemingly none the wiser to the activities hidden beneath the long tablecloth. But after he deftly snatches the last biscuit off of one of the plates in front of you, he offers you a sly wink before turning on his heel and leaving, none too discreetly closing the doors to the sitting room behind him.

You’re nearly on the verge of making a comment about what just happened, but all rational thoughts leave your head when Barbatos quietly rasps, “This is my favorite place to use it, though,” just as a forked tip nudges at the tight ring of muscle nestled between your asscheeks.

He pauses, just for a breath, and you whimper, “Please.”

Appendage covered with both of your fluids, Barbatos begins to stretch your asshole open. If you weren’t so busy moaning and whining unintelligible sounds, begging him to go deeper, you’d laugh at the thought of the silly vibrator now tucked away in your room. Because while the toy had certainly felt good, you know now that nothing can compare to the exquisite pleasure of Barbatos using his real, dexterous tail to fuck both of your holes at the same time. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, reaching across the table once more to stroke your face, thumb sliding across your cheek. “So wet for me. You take me so well.”

You shudder at the praise, hardly able to contain yourself as a wave of pleasure like you’ve never felt before rises up inside of you. And when Barbatos curves his tail so that the part not ruthlessly plunging into your fucked out holes rubs against your sensitive bundle of nerves, you tug on the tablecloth so hard the teacups go crashing to the floor, your entire body shaking with the force of your orgasm. 

Barbatos lets you catch your breath a moment before he pulls his tail out of you, and you can’t help but whine at the emptiness that follows. 

Smirking, he brings the forked edge coated in your cum to his lips and licks it clean before purring, “I have some other things I can show you, if you’d like.”

— likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated!

[vergilscatgirl]

── .✦  A Gentle Shred of Humanity ♡

𖥻 Pairings ; Vergil/Fem Reader, Vergil/You.

𖥻 Content Warnings ; Explicit sexual content (18+), reader is fem-bodied (though no gendered pronouns are used), porn written with plot, fingering, penetration, creampie, praise, situationship to lovers, partially vocal Vergil, slight obsession if you squint.

𖥻 A/N ; I’m not sure why I wrote this. I had this idea since I began writing “Humanity Isn’t Easy” (A fic I’ve been working on for about a week now), Vergil may be OOC, but I’ll let you all be the judge of that. I haven’t written smut in the longest time, but feedback is greatly appreciated. A big thank you to @dantescatboy and @fragmented-stars for beta reading this for me and providing feedback. ♡

Vergil struggled to navigate humanity and the intricacies it held within. Whether it be socially, romantically, or platonically, little did it matter; for he still found difficulty in truly comprehending its meaning.

Meeting you brought a whole new perspective. It has been weeks since he returned to mankind — despite the icy demeanor he upheld to, you begun to pierce through the defenses he built; albeit, minimal chips at the exterior, it was progress. What you two shared wasn’t a romance, but it wasn’t platonic either. Gentle touches interlaced with dulcet conversations, exchanged fleeting glances at one another during work.

He was uncertain about the emotions he was experiencing towards you, it seemed like a far away concept, baring no sense of familiarity. It was obvious a connection of some form was developing between the two of you, but comprehension failed him. It took time to even acknowledge the probability that he had the capacity to have feelings for someone, especially someone who was human. For most of his life, Vergil denied his own humanity, yet in the time he sought it out, he hesitated when addressing it head on.

Later that evening, when you approached his room, to him it came as a surprise. He hadn’t foreseen your visit to his door at such a late hour in the night. Granting you a silent nod of acknowledgment, the door opened further, welcoming your entry.

And that’s what led to this.

You lay, nestled in his embrace, amongst the dark of the room that encircles you both, with the moonlight above casting the floorboards and walls with a luminescent blue. His grasp on you was gentle, holding onto you as if he never wanted to relinquish you — while he couldn’t explain why. 

“What are we?” You would ask, out of the blue. “We act like lovers, but are we really even that?”

“I have no answer to that,” was his terse response. The uncertainty gnawed at him — beyond his exterior, he was keenly aware you two had a connection of some form, though the prospect of it developing into something more was a thought he dared not address. “Are you wanting a relationship with me?” He found himself inquiring aloud, seeking clarity to calm his ever growing musings.

“That’d be nice, yeah.” 

The silence that lingered between you two felt interminable; as if a century had gone by. He found himself without words, adrift in indecision. For a man who thrived on seeking, knowing, understanding the truth of what he sought after, grappling at the concept of romance in its entirety proved to be an arduous challenge.

“Is there anything in particular you had in mind?” Idle hands remain on your body, cherishing your warmth against his own.

Your face would flush in response to the unexpected  question. “Not..exactly, no.” Your hands explore the texture of his chest, soft traces along the skin.

“I am unable to understand what is included within a relationship — beyond the usual, we already do what contributes to a connection, aside from sex, if that is what you’re implying that you want from me.”

Your face would heat up even more, if that was even possible, face pressing firm into his chest. This was definitely not the implication you intended, however if that were to be the outcome, you wouldn’t deny him.

“If that is what you wanted of me, I’m sure I could provide it for you.” With a gentle glance towards your crimsoned face, hidden within the confines of his body, he almost found a smile gracing his lips, which manifested into a mere tilt at the corner of his mouth. 

“I mean.. I.. don’t really.. well..” You mumble incoherencies, unable to find your wording, arousal clear in your tone, an ache igniting within you; mutters turn into mere, hushed noises. 

“Only if you wanted to, that is. I’m not fully informed on the subject, though that may change.” His voice looms above, hand raising to caress your hair in placid strokes in an attempt to calm your growing nerves.

“I mean..I wouldn’t mind.. if.. we..” You truly were at a loss for words, taken aback by the forwardness of his statements.

It was as if time had come to a standstill; his movements are precise—premeditated, every maneuver found purpose. His grip on you remains as delicate as before as your body lays beneath him, a near yelp escapes your lips. His gaze locks onto you, unwavering as his hands leisurely explore along your body, as if noting every unique detail he could find. 

“I will ask this once, and I want you to be entirely honest with me,” his voice resonates from above, “are you wanting this with me?” 

If you weren’t aroused before, you certainly were now, the pruriency aflame within you formerly boils to a further degree, pooling between your thighs — you stare at him, the moonlight casting a glow on his features. Frigid, azure eyes reflect sincerity, seldom seen beyond his typical austerity, lips compressed into a firm line, awaiting your answer.

“Yes,” your hands raise from your sides, serene in your movements, cupping his face. Butterflies flutter within your entire being, his arms enveloping your body with such admiration, as if you were the most beautiful creation humanity had to offer him. 

Calculated motions, timing stilled in hushed breaths in the fever of the moment — grasps at your shirt, peeling it away from your body with intent. Desperate, tremendously so, though his composure never falters, he endures the ache, testing his displicine; to him, this moment was not about intercourse, it wasn’t an act upon lust, nor passion — a chance to produce a connection anew, restoring the jagged bond between you two, to piece together the sporadic fragments of his humanity. He can feel it in the way you caress his body, lips parting to disperse near discernible whimpers. You were his fortitude, his longing, his humanity. He yearned to discover that exhilaration which intoxicated him so sweetly, something he pursued for so long, now right within his grasp.

Sultry breath fans along your collarbone, leading to your neck. Coarse hands ensnare your frame, treading circles into your skin, seeking out more, sparing no time to ease your shorts down your thighs. Your body radiates heat, sweat glistening along your skin, all you desire is him in the moment, your mind running vacant. “Your body is of God's most divine creations.” His tone rings true, fingers pursuing elsewhere, curling around the waistband of your underwear, to guide it down, slick coating its fabrics. “You poor soul,” he murmurs into the alluring warmth of your skin, inhaling the essence of your scent.

Fingers taunt your skin, earning a gasp from your lips, a singular finger slipping into your silky and soaked heat, your pussy clenches around his digit, enticing him in further. “How I adore hearing you,” he adds another, your hips bucking up to meet his penetrating motions, gliding out, only to plunge right back in. Your breath was caught in your throat, moan after moan rolls off your tongue, the sounds you make urges him further. His thumb strokes your clit, in careful, precise circles. You can sense your climax approaching, deep within your abdomen, a coil burning alight, your cunt gripping his fingers so firm.

 “Vergil, oh god, Vergil,” you weep to him in utter desperation, hand reaching to his hair, tangling your fingers within his unkempt silver strands, slick with sweat. The needs within you boil over, noises falling upon his ears like a graceful song, cunt smearing his hand with your juices, coating the sheets below, and it’s sloppy; and you’re so close, each gasp that leaves your lips, glossy with spit, chest heaving—

His actions halt, fingers slipping out of your pussy, a trail of slick following. A pitiful whine slips from your throat. “Why did you-”

“Quiet,” was the only response he would grant you, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken command. Rising to his knees before you, his belt unfastening in a brisk manner, his hardened cock finally being freed from the refinements of his pants. Your eyes broaden at the sheer size of it, worrisome that you may be unable to fit it. As if reading your expression, he supplies with, “and you can take it, my love. I am positive you can.”

With his body pressing against yours, you surrender to his touch, fingers finding place in his sweat-coated hair much like before. His own find home on your hips, gentle and light, kneading into the skin.

“You are my everything,” he leaves no time for your response, cock easing into your sopping cunt, ceasing only to watch as your eyes cycle upwards, a soft cry breaking through the air. A kiss brushes your temple, followed by the weight of his own as he respites there. “I have you, my love.” He pulls himself from your heat, only to push himself back in, relishing in the way you clamp around his cock. He stifles a groan, the now harsh thrust of his hips melting away your composure, his right hand leaving its place to begin circular strokes at your clit. The coil burns anew, if your whimpers are any give away to the pleasure capitulating you. You’re so full, and the immense pleasure stirs within your entire body. You can tell by the way his thrusts grow sloppy that he’s close himself. “Vergil, please, I.. I’m so-”

Your words matter not, for his labyrinth of thoughts entraps him, “my everything, my light,” his praises ring in your ears, bringing you closer to your climax, “my own gentle shred of humanity, for you have made me feel alive again.”

You seize, body trembling as your climax washes over you, a loud moan igniting the air, your fingers digging into his hair, whimpering out babbling incoherencies. He continues on, guiding you through your high, before succumbing to his own, a final sharp thrust of his hips as he fills you, his cum flooding within you, a moan finally escaping him. He stays there, noting the heavy rise and fall of your breathing, your body against his. He presses a gentle peck to your forehead, brushing your hair from your eyes. “I love you.”

And you were his; his ever present humanity, a guidance to his troubles, his light in the dark, something to cling to in his journey through life, to never relinquish, to never let go of.

[sleepynoons]

TIP TOE BY HYBS – higuruma hiromi (jjk) x afab!f!reader, post-canon!au, nsfw / 18+

genre – fluff, smut word count – ~2,900 warnings – manga spoilers, brief sub!higuruma, oral (giving), body worship, marking, edging, cum eating, praise kink synopsis – it's been weeks since the last time you and your husband have spent quality time together, and now that it's christmas, the two of you can finally spend an intimate evening together.

HIROMI: Be there in 10 minutes.

Promptly, you head downstairs, making your final adjustments as you slip on a vintage gold watch and rub a spritz of perfume behind your ears. Your clutch, coat, and shoes are already at the front entrance, and as you finish adorning the accessories, you’re all set. 

You stand in the entryway, fiddling with your phone to send your final work updates for the night before setting it aside and concentrating all of your attention at the door, waiting.

The silence and idling are unfamiliar, you think. Usually, there’s never a moment of peace in your routine. In a typical day, you wake up at dawn to the sound of your husband already brushing his teeth and washing his face; afternoons are spent driving around, enduring the Tokyo traffic that is characterized by impatient businessmen and consecutive red lights, as you drop off sorcerers at their missions and make subsequent reports; by nightfall, you return home completely spent, but you still rush around, pitter-pattering about, so that you can quickly make dinner.

It's Christmas, though, so your day's been anything but routine.

There are five more minutes before Hiromi comes, yet they feel never ending. You can only chalk the feeling up to your restlessness, eagerness, to see your husband, who’s been away for a few days on a business trip. And even before this business trip, he was out every day from morning to midnight to tend to shorter missions. When the top brass said they would work him to the bone, they weren’t lying, and it’s been months since the two of you last had any time to yourselves.

The sound of wind, gravel crunching, a slow roll into a stop echo outside. Glancing at the mirror one last time, you shake your shoulders out and stare at the door handle. As soon as the knob twists and the door moves, you look up and beam as his face comes into view.

Though he’s clearly exhausted, there’s also a small smile adorning his face, and he steps forward to kiss you gently on the crown of your head.

You laugh, soft sighs under your breath. “You should’ve asked me to pick you up instead. It’s not good to drive when you’re already drained from fighting.”

He shakes his head. “It’s no problem. Thought you needed a breather, since you’re always in the car. Anyway, here.”

From behind his back, he pulls out a small bouquet, a bundle of red and fuchsia peonies wrapped in white tissue paper. Delighted, you take the flowers into your hands, being sure to handle them with care, and you let your eyes wander over every bulb and petal.

“These would look great in our bedroom,” you muse, already sliding off your heels to put the bouquet into a vase.

You’ll arrange them once you get back, you think, as you head up and down the stairs.

Soon enough, you and Hiromi are on your way to your favorite restaurant. It’s a spacious, quiet place, on the top floor of a hotel where diners have a picturesque view of the Tokyo skyline, and it serves the best wine you’ve ever had. In fact, the two of you come here whenever there’s a special occasion, and the waiter recognizes the two of you and immediately gestures towards a table near the windows.

As always, Hiromi’s the perfect gentleman. He pulls out your chair and helps you settle into the seat before sitting down himself. He extends his arm out on the table, so you can hold his hand in yours. He chooses one of the two desserts you’re debating between, so that you don’t really have to make a choice in the end.

But you can tell he’s a little distant, or rather, distracted. When you glance at him, his eyes aren’t on yours like normal. His grip is looser, and you’re pretty sure he isn’t breathing much.

“Hiromi?” you mutter.

“Yes, love?”

You tilt your head. “Are you here? With me?”

His stoic expression breaks into one that is more embarrassed, shy even. He runs his other hand through his hair, sighing at being caught.

“Sorry,” he chuckles.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, peering over the rim of your wineglass.

“Work. And how great you look, of course.”

You take a pleased sip. “You as well, handsome. But tell me, how was your mission?”

“Fine, as always.”

You roll your eyes. “Hiromi, that doesn’t mean much coming from you. You say ‘fine’ even when you’ve been told a colleague has died or when you’ve been hacking away at cursed spirits for days on end.”

“I suppose that’s the new norm for me. Though, not surprising to you, is it?”

You can’t help but huff unhappily. You’ve been an assistant manager to jujutsu sorcerers for years now, so you’re more than used to the inevitable fate that most of your colleagues succumb to. Arguably, you have it the worst because, sometimes, you’re the last face they ever see before they die on the frontlines. 

Sometimes, you disassociate from that realization. How haunting it must be, to die and share your last words with a mere acquaintance, to die without getting to see your most beloved one last time. Your job is to send sorcerers off to their death, only able to offer trite platitudes before you enforce the veil that separates them from the rest of humanity.

While you worry about Hiromi, you have no doubt he’s as much of a genius as Gojo Satoru when the latter was still alive. Truly, nothing can kill your husband. Besides, Hiromi’s no stranger to death, even before becoming a sorcerer himself.

You hum, barely bothered. “Not really. But it’s important that you take care of yourself, and I’m here to help, of course.”

The food comes, and you think it’s time to pivot. You clear your throat and say, “Now, if you’ll excuse my callousness, it’s Christmas, and I think my husband should have a full night off. Let’s eat!”

And like that, Hiromi nods and follows your instructions.

That’s the crux of your relationship. While Hiromi’s incredibly responsible and intelligent, he’s no different from any other person, and needs a shoulder to rest on at times. You’re witty, optimistic, and, most importantly, willing to provide him that support, so you’ve grown to trust and respect each other immensely. 

When your husband’s especially tired, like tonight, you steer the conversation, guiding, leading, redirecting. It’s all part of your ruse to get his mind off of miserable things, to distract him before his pondering thoughts and moral compass overtake his sensibilities once again.

As you’re eating, you inform Hiromi of Itadori Yuuji’s latest adventures and progress, as well as any updates you’ve heard about the higher-ups through the grapevine. You also tell him about the radish stew recipe you perfected the other day and the neighborhood cat that’s somehow been getting thicker. He also speaks of the missions he’s been sent on, the outcomes of criminal cases his juniors have been in charge of, the latest email he received from one of his law professors. 

The evening’s pleasant, and just as you’re taking your first bite of raspberry tart, you watch as Hiromi’s brows furrow, his eyes staring at the tufts of snow drifting down.

“No need to frown, my dear,” you comment.

He asks instead, “Are you cold?” 

You shake your head, but he insists on standing up and sliding his blazer off to drape over your shoulders. You thank him with a quick kiss on the back of his hand, but in your mind, you know your usual tricks don’t seem to be getting him. You internally sigh, knowing you won’t be able to discern the real reason for his listlessness until you get back home.

Luckily, upon arriving home, Hiromi visibly is more relaxed. His brows are no longer wrinkled with concern, and his jaw, though always defined, is not as set or tense. You lead him to the dining table, gesturing him to sit, as you pad over to the kitchen and fill up a kettle. As you wait for the water boil, you feel around in your cupboard for containers of lemon zest, ginger slices, and honey, in addition to your favorite set of teapot and teacups.

But Hiromi can never stay still for too long. When the kettle’s switch flips, he makes his way over to you and takes the handle before you can. He mutters something about the boiling water splashing onto your bare arms, and you can only giggle as he begins pouring on your behalf. It’s his consideration, his constant attentiveness towards your needs and surroundings, his protectiveness – just a few of his many admirable traits that you deeply appreciate, and there’s no better time than tonight to let him know.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom briefly, before coming back to find that everything’s already set on the dining table. You remain standing, however, sauntering over to your husband and resting your hands on his shoulders, dipping down to kiss the top of his head. Slowly, your hands slide down the plane of his chest, feeling the definition of his brawn and muscle underneath his shirt, fingertips stopping right before they hit the buckle of his pants, then treading back upwards. At the same time, you line kisses down to his shoulder, slight traces of your gloss and lipstick marking your path, before pulling away and leaning close to his ear.

“Hiromi,” you murmur, “what was on your mind during dinner?”

You press your palms a little more firmly against his body, applying pressure as you drag your hands back down. This time, you don’t lean back up, so your fingertips stay and fiddle with the leather band of his belt.

“Sorry, love,” he says. “I didn’t mean to be so aloof.”

You click your tongue, though there’s no ill-intention behind it. “That’s not what I asked, my dear.”

He chuckles. He knows nothing can get past you, yet he still tried. “Just you,” he mumbles.

“What about me?” You manage to undo his belt, so you stand up and walk around to kneel in front of him.

He sucks in a breath as your hands come to rest on the insides of his thighs. You spread his legs apart and, resting a cheek on one, you look up at him expectantly.

Hiromi scowls, his ears an adorable pink, and with shaking hands, he rakes one through his hair. The other comes down to rest on your face, where he rubs a thumb gently into your temple.

Finally, he answers. “Everything about you, love.”

Your heart flutters. “Tell me more,” you urge him.

He shakes his head, in disbelief at your insatiability. But it’s only fair, he supposes, after all this time apart. And so, he continues.

“You look gorgeous in red. Your blush, lipstick, dress… The dress is new, right?”

You nod, very pleased to know he noticed.

Quite uncharacteristic of him, Hiromi trips over his words. “It’s… very lovely on you.”

You trace a nail over the zipper of his pants. You’ve got him now. And so, you continue to press, musing, “What about it is lovely?”

Your husband knows what you’re up to, so he sucks in a breath through his teeth before letting himself go, throwing all embarrassment and caution to the wind – because, really, why should he be shy in the first place?

Hiromi admits, “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, love. I haven’t seen it on you before, and there aren’t any sleeves…” He gestures vaguely around your bare shoulders and collarbones.

He’s so darling like this, you think, as you try to stamp out the laughs bubbling in the back of your throat.

“I appreciate your honesty,” you say. “I love it when you’re so good to me.” You look up at him, down at his zipper, back up again.

And that does it for him. You can see him swallow thickly, as well as the slight bump in his pants. His face is also completely flushed, and the kitchen lights reveal some sweat lining forehead. You can’t help but purse your lips, more than ready to give him some loving.

Biting the metal zipper of his pants, you pull it down as you undo the button and pull out his tucked shirts. He lifts his hips slightly to make it easier for you to roll down pants just enough so that you can see his boxers and the obvious bulge it barely covers. Using your teeth yet again, you peel down the band of his boxers, until his leaking cock is freed of all confines.

You resist the urge to drool and lick your lips. If you did, it would ruin all the lipstick you had used in the bathroom earlier. As a result, to keep your mouth busy, you begin kissing and biting everywhere, except for his cock. Hiromi’s lower belly, square hip bones, even his balls – you leave splotches of stubborn, messy rouge and bruising hickeys in your wake. From the corner of your eye, you can see your husband fisting and unclenching his hands, but you quickly put a stop to it when you reach over to redirect his hands to the back of your head.

“Do you want me to?” you ask, peering up at him with smudged, wet lips.

He bites at his lips, clearly holding back a moan. With a barely concealed groan, he nods and pleads with a shaky “yes.”

Immediately, you take the head of his cock into your mouth. Moaning around it, you suckle on it and lap at the generous amounts of pre-cum that coats it. The pre-cum’s a little bitter, but nothing you can’t handle, especially when you love the way your husband tastes in general.

Then, you begin to take more of his cock into your mouth, adding centimeter by centimeter of his length. The entire time, Hiromi’s holding the back of your head, neither shoving or tugging, but you need him to use you with a little force, want him to let go just a bit more. He can be quite stubborn, so you know you need to push him more.

You decide to assist with your hands. One hand clings onto his hips, while the other holds and plays with his balls. Occasionally, when you need to take a quick breath, you leave a trail of red from the base of his cock to the tip before swallowing him whole again. You can feel his legs shaking, shuddering, with every bob and suck of your throat, and from above, you can hear him take breath after shaky breath.

Finally, as you take him in your mouth completely one last time, you time everything perfectly. Your nails bite into the skin at his waist, your palm tightens slightly around his balls, your tongue grazes over that particular vein on his shaft, you glance up at him with pearly, teary eyes – it’s more than enough to throw him over, and his hands tighten and shove your head down.

He groans, “Cumming!” He holds your head down, causing you to gag and tighten your mouth around him, as he shoots rope after rope of cum down your throat. You can’t help but moan at the stronger, stickier taste, and you do what you can with your tongue to extend and help him through his high.

After a few seconds, Hiromi pulls you off of his cock, watching as you use a finger to scrape up the cum that’s dribbling down your chin and push it back into your mouth. He sighs at the sight of your seductive beauty and the masterful way you handle him. Just a few teasing remarks, slight gestures, a cunning smirk, and you have him losing his mind over a slow-paced blowjob.

He leans over, loops his arms underneath your shoulders, and lifts you up from your knees.

“They must be bruised,” he notes with concern.

You pat his cheek and settle down on his lap. “It’s worth it,” you say with a shrug.

Hiromi thinks you’re quite stubborn, too. He knows you won’t give in or say yes, so he takes it upon himself to take initiative.

He slides his hands underneath your dress and traces up your leg until he reaches the thin string of your underwear. You shiver at the fleeting touch of his fingertips, and he glides his palm over the top of your thigh until he’s close to the heat radiating from your core.

“You’ll let me enjoy myself more for a while longer, right?” he asks as he inches closer and closer to your core.

You can’t help but squeeze and press your thighs together, but to no avail as Hiromi slides his hand down your panties, his fingers nudging your legs apart.

But then, he stops. Right as he’s about to reach your aching bud, he retracts his hand.

You’re about to whine, complain under your breath, but he silences you immediately by rasping into your ear, “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

You wrap your arms his neck as he picks you up, hugging you tightly to his chest and sharing wet, desperate kisses with you as he takes the stairs, two or even three at a time, to your bedroom.

And as he places you on the edge of your shared bed, he tells you what’s exactly been on his mind throughout this whole evening.

With a smoldering gaze and a gravelly, deep voice, he says, “I can finally undress you, love. I promise I'll give you all of my attention.”

winter event masterlist

[suzukiblu]

Day eight of “Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it” behind the cut. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Pet,” Tim says, idle and easy, and Kon immediately stops caring about anything any more complicated than whatever he’s gonna say next. “Hands behind your back. Show off those pretty tits of yours for me.” 

It’s not actually an active decision, listening to that order; Kon just does it. Or–his body just does it, maybe. His hands go behind his back and one latches around the other’s wrist to hold them there and–and he doesn’t exactly push his chest out a little more than that gesture already did on purpose, but . . . 

Tim told him to “show off” for him. So like–so he maybe does do just a little of that, yeah. 

“They are very, very pretty tits,” Bernard muses, inspecting Kon’s chest with shameless admiration in a gut-heating way. Kon’s dick is definitely not gonna get any softer under these circumstances. “I mean, we're not talking full-on Starfire levels here but we're in that weight class, seriously. My sole criticism is that you didn't see fit to pierce your nips when you got all that metal put in your face and ears. Or your dick, come to think of it. You'd look fucking sweet with a Prince Albert or a Jacob's ladder. Maybe both, I’m a greedy man.” 

Kon feels–flustered, a little, and maybe a little flattered too, even though it’s obviously just another jokey little fantasy Bernard wants to run his mouth about. Just, well . . . this jokey little fantasy . . . 

“I, ah–thought about it, but . . .” he trails off with another flash of embarrassment, trying to figure out how to say but I didn't know anybody who I thought would like it without sounding like a total fucking freak and a half. 

But Tim’s Tim, of course, so he zeroes right in on that and asks, “But what, pet?” 

Kon turns red, and is positive he sounds like a freak and a half when he says, “But I didn’t know anybody who I thought would like it.” 

“. . . ngh,” Tim says. 

“Man, I could get you an online petition going right now and bet your aesthetically-perfect ass it'd go viral inside an hour,” Bernard says very feelingly and while even more shamelessly ogling Kon's chest. Kon–flushes, for some reason, and doesn't really know how to . . . respond, he guesses. 

“Sure,” he tries, not really sure why he feels so fucking flustered about the idea. About the idea of–of maybe changing something about himself like that for . . . for, like . . . or at least because of . . . 

By Tuesday it literally won't even matter if Bernard thinks he'd look good with those piercings, but he can't help thinking–he can't help thinking–well, he could still do it anyway, right? It won't matter anyway, so . . . 

“I mean it,” Bernard says, reaching up to very pointedly pinch one of Kon's nipples and flashing him a crooked grin as he does, and Kon suddenly feels like he's in this position for more reason than Tim just wanting to see it. Like he's–like they actually wanna just–just get out a needle and–tell him to make it invulnerable, tell him to let it through his TTK, tell him to–to let them–

Kon–he thinks he actually might let them, if they actually wanted to.

[hanasnx]

About Peter in "closure"... He is soooo pathetic. I love him.

Do you think he's the kind of guy who suggests dating after dirty sex, even though you've already rejected him many times? I get the vibe that every time you call him he thinks something 'changed' in your feelings

— source.

MINORS DNI 18+ NOTES: anon this shit got me biting my lip.

"I'd be a lot more accessible if we were, you know, dating." PETER PARKER's suggestion catches you off guard, exchanging a glance with him while he adjusts the hemlines of his suit. After your brief love-making you'd think he couldn't wait to get back out there, save the neighborhood or whatever. Your reticence is alarming, and he has to fill the silence, "It can be about more than just the sex."

You scoff. "Thought we've been over this, Spidey," You fix up the disheveled state of your room after he threw you around. "Besides, I doubt I can share you with the entire city of Manhattan." you joke, more to yourself than to him.

"Is that what stops you?"

You face him, and see he's approached the window, a steady hand bracing on the wall. "C'mon." you reason, slacking in place with books in your hand that were knocked from your nightstand. "Don't be like that."

"Be like what?" he asks indignantly, and you recognize his tense stance, the crease in his mask, his feigned ignorant tone.

You tilt your head at him with an exasperated sigh. "If you're gonna do this every time I call you, then maybe you can't handle it."

"Yeah, maybe I can't."

He's baiting you, playing a martyr to dramatize it and get you to see what you're about to lose. It's familiar. "Alright. Maybe don't come over next time I call."

"Maybe don't call."

Your jaw rolls, a thrill setting in your stomach. There's something hopelessly alluring about him when he gets like this. Pathetic and wanting, throwing a tantrum— in his own little way— to get you to understand his side of things. You idle. Throw your books onto the bed with a bounce. Leisurely, you saunter towards him, gaze set on his feet. You hum pensively to yourself, "'Don't call.'" you muse, parroting his words as if you're mulling them over, generously scanning his suit-clad form. You come to a stop in front of him, and he's made no move to exit. "Not even when I... need you?"

He considers it, and firmly responds, "Well, if it's an emergency..." he trails off, clearly referring to life-or-death situations, as Spider-Man is often confronted with.

"Oh, it's always an emergency." you correct him, your voice lowering to a sultry level as you fidget with the texture of his uniform.

"Not-" He pivots his head at the innuendo, narrowing his eyes. "Not that kind of emergency."

You close in. "Not even when I can't get myself off? When my fingers aren't enough? C'mon, Spidey, s'not fair. You know I have small fingers." you plead, heightening your pitch to convey a desperation as you clamber for his attention. Pressing yourself to him, draping over him. You can feel his resolve melting. "Thought you were all about helping a girl in need."

[paimonial-rage]

in another life - xiao

the steambird's secret santa for @swordfish-ii | i tried to make it cozy and angsty but i'm not sure if i succeeded. i hope you enjoy!

“Do you ever think about what we’d be doing if we were born human?” You asked as you gazed up at the sky. It was beginning to snow now. Not heavily, no. It looked as if snowflakes were fluttering across the sky, dotting the torn landscape. 

Xiao followed your gaze as he sat beside where you lay. Wounds and bruises littered his skin and torn were his clothes. The spear in his hand was embedded into the earth, the only thing standing before you both. 

“I’ve… never considered such idle musings,” he replied. 

He was tired. So tired. 

You laughed, though paused midway to cough up the blood threatening to drown your lungs.

“Really? Not once?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see the point in thinking about things that can’t happen.”

You sighed.

“Always so serious,” you pouted. “Well, I like to think about things like that. For example, I bet Brother Bosacius would be a construction worker. Or maybe a blacksmith, you know, with his muscles he’s so proud of and all. And Brother Menogias would be leading the Liyue fashion industry, obviously,” you began, humming in thought. “I bet Rex Lapis would still order clothes from him, even if he was human.”

“I can see that.”

“And Sister Bonanus? I bet she’d be a model for Brother Menogias. Ironic, considering how they ended in this life. I can see her flooding his workshop with all the long pretty dresses she adored.”

“Sister Indarias… I don’t know what she’d be. A business woman, maybe?” You mused. “She was always the fiery type.”

As you spoke, Xiao kept his eyes on the sky, tracing the snowflakes that fell. He didn’t look at the decimated surroundings. Away from his view was your battered body and broken bones. And the memory he held of the frenzied battle against each other just minutes before was out of sight. How you managed to get a brief moment of lucidity from the cancer that was karmic debt was beyond him.

“You… you would be a Wushou dancer,” you began, your voice weaker. “Or some kind of performer part of a troupe, known for your skill and agility. You’d wow the crowds with your acrobatic stunts, I bet. And as for me… I don’t know. Perhaps a normal civilian.”

You coughed again, softer this time. No doubt your eyes would start losing their focus soon. He didn’t have to look at you to know. He’d seen it so, so many times before. 

“And somehow… we’d all be friends, even though we’re so different,” you finally said, a smile evident in your voice. “Brother Bosacius would play pranks on you like usual. Sister Bonanus and Sister Indarias would stay up late chatting about makeup. I’d be begging Brother Menogias for a new outfit. Everything… like how it should be.”

It was quiet between you both now as you stared at the sky. It was beginning to snow heavier now. Soon the evidence of your madness would be lost under a blanket of white. 

“Do you…” You began, your voice wavering for the first time, even weaker than it was before. There was not much time left now. “Do you think our next lives will be happier? And that… we will all be friends?”

“I… don’t know.”

That’s all he could say. Though your words painted a beautiful picture, they weren’t reality. The truth was often less kind than one would hope for. And the last thing he could do was lie to you. You deserved more than that.

“But…”

If you wanted honesty…

His gaze finally turned back to you. There you lie—bruised and battered, bleeding from your wounds, and still as beautiful as the day he first saw you. But gone was the light from your lovely eyes. You would speak no more.

His eyes shut as he let out a tired exhausted sigh. Then, he turned his eyes back up at the sky.

“If… if it did turn out that way… I suppose I wouldn’t mind.”