#The Verdant Falls

[psicheanima]

Merry Christmas Eve to everyone but these two

[iridescentscarecrow]

and all the children are insane

- mtefil fanfic, character study, 2.6k words, oneshot

- verge (pov)/dante

- read on ao3 at archiveofourown.org/works/62250289

[hag-darling]

Me when I first read these replies: lol what

Me now:

[sabaramonds]

Title: but in the desert instead there is a juniper tree Fandom: Make the Exorcist Fall in Love Word Count: 3k Relationships: Dante/Vergilius, Dante & Daniel, Daniel & Vergilius Characters: Vergilius, Dante, Daniel Warnings: canon-typical religious themes, implied/referenced sex, implied/referenced homophobia. some headcanons & speculation re: vergilius stuff. Summary:

Vergilius visits Dante and calls an old friend.

read here on ao3 yayyy!!! and my ☕

[truly-sincerely]

Dark Star Falling (addenda)

Durgetash Headcanons

Gortash is in his mid-30s, Darling is older because Tiefling

Gortash dresses/looks like shit because of unexamined grief plus he’s extremely touch-starved

The no fear cloak is new, he got it made after Dearest’s disappearance

Orin got the jump on Dearest by impersonating Gortash

These two have no idea how consent works, tho Darling has been picking the concept up via osmosis from the good examples in camp (Halsin)

They never had labels pre-amnesia, so Darling showing up post-amnesia and just rolling up on Gortash and saying true things about him is very disquieting for him

Nubaldin/Raphael named him Gortash first and he kept the name after he escaped for the same reason The Emperor says Gortash called him The Emperor and he kept it

Dearest never once called him Enver pre-amnesia

Gortash never heard Dearest laugh pre-amnesia

The raid on the House of Wonders predated (and in fact lead directly to) Gortash’s betrayal of Karlach, but Karlach and Dearest never met and did not know about each other

Gortash is left handed and does need the cane sometimes cuz he has a bad left knee (self-inflicted)

(this one isn’t a headcanon, it’s a fun fact) Gortash doesn’t actually have to renounce Bane for Darling cuz being alive after failing Bane is the basically same thing; he’s supposed to submit himself to a disciplinarian to be executed

Even tho he knows that Darling went to the House of Hope, Gortash has not grokked that Darling killed Raphael there, and Darling won’t bring it up because they know they weren’t supposed to know about Gortash’s childhood there; so Gortash will probably not realize for months that Raphael is dead

Darling sets Gortash up in Lenore’s arcane tower and renovations keep him busy for a long time

There is a brief issue with Gortash becoming a Chosen of Mahkloompah but only some Lolth-sworn Drow get hurt, so it’s mostly fine

Not punished, not redeemed, but a secret third thing (just stop doing evil shit)

Gortash is not invited to any of the reunions

[fivveweeks]

YOU GET ME YOU GET ME TWIRLING YOU AROUND !!! WORKAHOLIC DANTEEEEEEEEEEE {corrodes} im so sorry i keep coming in here

they're giving out of touch out of time i hate them i hate them im obsessed wit them </3

BESIDESSSSSSSS

Sure they might want e/o, but are they what they need???? in time, yes but ironically enough I don't think time is a luxury verdante has. for as much as Dante can manipulate time that doesn't stop the fact that its still moving forward. They're not the only people who want the boughs it's a race and they're both too professional for feelings anywy

they're stuck in "I'm sorry I'm not/can't be what you need" "I know, it's okay. I didn't expect you to be anyway," DO YOU SEE DO YOU S E E

im morose imd espodent

THEY KNOW FULL WELL WHAT THEY'RE GETTING INTO!!! THAT'S WHY THEY DANCE AROUND E/O!!!

Verdante isn't an end i think, it's a bus stop (hah!) in a very very long journey of fulfilling their very different goals. A blink once and you'll miss it kind of opportunity.

i have normal feelings abt verdante oki thats all ill stop making a mess in ur ask box im a bit embarrassed now lol

- 🎭

clutching onto ur leg and cryinhhhhh fellow verdante soldier i get it i get u god these two drives me insane too

the inevitable hourglass of running time and getting swept up in the flow of the city. "i did not come to care for and love you expecting a reward." the unspoken kinship and wordless understanding. two similar souls meeting in that single, coincidental moment and getting the chance to at least find out each other's existence even if nothing comes out from it. the love is still there despite despite DESPITE. screaming and crying

never be embarrassed about going unhinged i swear i've lost and gained like 50 followers in my insane tweets of verdante n i wouldn't have it another way. sometimes ur brain has words and u need to get them out or u will fall sick. honoured to share thoughts with you tonight i need to go explode rn

[ninbinary]

[picture of garfield falling on his face in a box]

[burgojo]

DISTURBIA. MAHITO / M!READER

summary. in the golden age of jujutsu, mahito had you, and lost you. a thousand years later, he seeks to bring you back.

wc. 9.1k

tags. smut | sub bottom mahito, top reader, heian era!mahito & cursed spirit!reader (manifestation of fear of night/absence of light), reader had a cult/worshippers. mention of blood & gore. mahito with a pussy, size difference, breeding kink, mention of babytrapping. fingering + oral (mahito receiving), doggystyle, exhibitionism (mention of others overhearing), jealousy, praise, multiple orgasms (mahito receiving), creampie, ahegao (?), god kink (reader), temp play (reader is naturally cold)

notes. obligatory ooc warning. also, i made up a lot of lore for the reader('s abilities), so scroll down about halfway to skip it and get to the good part :)

[ requested ]

Deep in the beech forests of Northeast Japan, Geto Suguru stands delicately amongst the verdant green undergrowth. He glances around, petting his large winged cursed spirit absently, and gathers his long dark robes in a hand. He glances over his shoulder.

"Despite your insistence on coming here, you've been awfully quiet. Is it not what you imagined?"

Bent at the waist to inspect massive green leaves as large as his face, Mahito looks up. "Huh? Oh, I was just curious about how they went about their plan. This place is maaassive. How are we supposed to find him? Maybe they cut him up? Sprinkled him from the highest mountain?" He sighs. "Whatever they did – they chose a green place to do it. Hanami would probably like it."

Dismissing his cursed spirit with a wave of his hand, Suguru chooses a direction and begins to move. He doesn't so much as walk as glide, his long skirts and the heavy undergrowth obscuring his steps. The tall, slim beeches are set just far enough apart for one person to slip between their trunks, and Mahito is forced to fall into step behind Suguru.

He flexes his fingers; stretches his arms; kicks ferns. Twigs tug at his hair and he huffs, glaring at the tree that dared touch him. He clasps the section of hair to his chest, dragging his slim fingers through it obsessively.

"You're twitchy," Suguru says without turning around. "You never did say how you heard of this curse. Seeing as you're not busy running your mouth, why don't you tell me now?"

Mahito sighs, skipping over a fallen log overrun with moss. He gazes up at the trees and notices the way the thick emerald canopy filters the sunlight until all that's left is an even, misty glow. Shadows are soft and deep around here.

"Not much to say," he hums thoughtfully, knocking a branch out of his way. "Lotta curses back in the day. Just makes sense to have some hidden around the place."

"Yes, but how did you come across such old records? Surely sorcerers would've kept something like that far, far away from prying eyes."

"Humans get tired. They get clumsy. They misplace things."

Suguru raises a brow. "And you kept it? For a thousand years, without purpose?"

Airily, he says, "So what if I did? You really expect me to act like one of you, doin' things with reason and purpose? C'mon. I liked the pictures on it."

He may think Suguru falls for it, but Suguru is nothing if not perceptive. Mahito flings his arms out too wide. Each stride is too long, each twirl around a slender beech too motivated – no, he sees it all. He's playing at carelessness when it couldn't be further from the truth.

Absurdly human of him, really.

Suguru hums, halting in his tracks. Mahito almost bumps into him. Again – too eager. Suguru lifts a hand, palm down and fingers splayed, and closes his eyes. Thrums of warm sorcery crackle through his veins – weak, barely trace amounts. Expected for thousand-year-old jujutsu. To be able to feel it still was a feat all in itself. Just how intense was the battle that raged here?

"We should be right in front of it," Suguru claims, dropping his hand and opening his eyes. They stand before a slight ridge of the earth, exposed tree roots weaving in and out of rich brown soil. A heavy blanket of moss hangs over the ridge and ivy grows beneath their feet. "Yet... I don't sense any spirits nearby."

"Hey," says Mahito suddenly. "The scroll mentioned a 'tomb'. You said in front of ya, yeah?"

Nodding, Suguru folds his hands within his robes. He watches as Mahito's arm lengthens into a massive cleaver, and he steps back at the wicked smile that spreads across his lips.

Mahito lifts his arm, pale eyes glinting dangerously. "Man, I so hope I'm right!"

With a slam that rumbles the ground beneath their feet and strips the nearby trees of their leaves, Mahito splits the earthen mound before him clean in two, leaving a shallow ravine that extends into the horizon. The soft earth parts like melted butter, soil and chipped wood exploding forth with such strength that Suguru narrowly avoids a pointed root that embeds itself into the trunk behind him.

When the dirt and leaves settle, they reveal the chiselled stone set into the earth. Split not quite perfectly in half – for Mahito loves chaos, and halves are better off-kilter – is a room carved into stone, hollowed out with a single podium erupting from the centre.

Upon the roughly-carved podium is a mid-sized box plastered with ancient seals and talismans. Peeking inside reveals that the inside of the 'room' is covered in the stuff, too – old, yellow, and faded, they flutter from wind they haven't felt in aeons. One peels off and comes to rest gently at Mahito's feet.

"Huh," he says eventually, staring at the cuttingly-familiar brushstrokes. He reaches for the wooden box, soft and rotted with age. The moment his fingers brush the surface, he pulls back with a jerk and makes a face. "Ouch! Spicy."

"Strong seals," Suguru comments, making no move to help. Mahito huffs and blasts the talismans away with a burst of cursed energy, testing the now-bare box with the tips of his fingers like one might with a freshly-microwaved plate.

He cracks the box open. Inside, innocent as a fresh lamb, lays a shallow, red-lacquered suzuri-bako.

"A... writing box?" Mahito murmurs to himself. He reaches in and takes the smooth box into his hands. It feels much heavier than it should, and an oppressive weight shudders through him, dark and cold and familiar. "Geto-san? It's a cage. I don't have the key."

"Let me take a look." Suguru stretches out a hand.

For a fleeting moment, Mahito hesitates – the slightest tilt of the box towards his chest. And Suguru knows.

With a growing smile, Suguru folds his hand back into his long sleeves. "Ah... I see. You know this spirit."

"I—" He pauses. "Maybe. Once upon a time."

"Interesting," says Suguru, "that something as old as this still has an effect on you."

"Nah – boring, actually. I'm old and sentimental." He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. He chuckles and tosses his hair over his shoulder, tracing the edges of the box. Power tingles against his skin. "Pretty thing, for a cage. Maybe I could just – ease it open—"

Suguru raises his long sleeve to shield his face as the box pulses with a sudden, growling shockwave, forcing him to step back to keep his balance. The ferns sway around his knees.

Mahito clicks his tongue, a pout forming on his lips. "Damn it! This should be simple!"

The second attempt has the birds squawking and flying into the skies as the surrounding trees shudder violently. For the third, Suguru winces slightly as Mahito slams his fist – a giant mallet – against the box, resulting in another shockwave of barbed cursed energy. He lifts a hand, placating.

"Ah, Mahito... Perhaps I can give it a go?" he suggests. "It may need a... sorcerer's touch."

Mahito's eyes widen. Of course! Those ancient douche-canoes probably knew he would come for what was his. It only made sense to weave his name into the seals.

"By all means," he replies, stepping aside. "Take a gander."

Stepping forward, Suguru tugs his sleeve to his elbow and scoops up the box from the floor. He dusts off the cover. "Lovely craftsmanship," he muses and hovers his palm over it despite every nerve in his body writhing and begging to pull away. Some instinctual, ancient force warns him off it. He lets energy seep into the age-made cracks in the seals, and from within, gently burns away the net holding its prisoner still – like taking a lighter to the end of a frayed rope, creating spaces big enough to squeeze through.

The lid cracks open.

Like a floodgate opening, freezing shadows and smoke pour out of the gap, forcing the lid to clatter uselessly to the ground. Darkness bleeds down the walls. Suguru's eyes widen as his pale fingers, deep within the thick black smoke continuing to billow forth, begin to turn blue at the tips, visible frost surging over his skin. Smoke fills the air around them, fading out the sun until it could be a misty grey night. Rivers of shadow pool thickly around his knees until he can't see his feet, and he hurries to set the box on the podium.

As he lets go, a shadowy tendril curls around his exposed hand and arm, burning white frost into his skin. His breath hitches.

A freezing hand seizes his wrist. Inch-long black nails dig rivulets of blood – his red, all-too-human blood – out of him, and his heart plummets at the sight of the hand, wrapped completely around his forearm as if it's a thin piece of rope. On instinct, he yanks back, and the hand comes with.

Then, a flood of smoky shadow spews from the open box – and a cowled figure claws its way out, formed from the very shadows that plunged them into a sudden night. It rises and straightens, towering over them both.

Suguru's arm hurts. He clutches his wrist, his blood coagulating over the delicately-patterned frost, and chances a glance back at Mahito.

Arms spread wide and palms open, an unnervingly breathless smile plastered on his lips, Mahito gazes up at the wispy figure unblinkingly. Wide-eyed and panting softly, he laughs – bright and jubilant, victorious.

"Yes! Yes! There you are!"

He skips past Suguru, giggling madly as he takes one large, clawed hand in both his own. He presses the palm to his cheek as he hops in place, stretching up to reach for the round silver brooch pinning the cloak of shadows together over the shoulder. He hasn't seen his eyes in so long, and this stupid hood is in the way!

Mahito?

The voice comes from within Suguru's head. But, unlike Hanami's, this voice slithers among his own thoughts, slipping between them as light as a ghost. It could've been his own, for all he knew, except for the fact it carries a sorrow so profound it eclipses every other thought – he can focus on nothing else.

—

Everything is on fire. Everything is on fire and it is all because of you.

Of course, the fire was the easy part. One day, perhaps your beloved will forgive you for using such an overzealous amount of cursed energy to make your grand entrance. It completely overshadowed his own.

Everything would change here. It would be your end, or your beginning. Before you stand the most powerful sorcerers in the land, all gathered to rise against you one final time – or die trying.

All so tense. A sigh flutters through your lips as you brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. Mahito has influenced you too much – you are bare from shoulder-to-waist, oil-slick blood coating your arms up to the elbows, and facing the strongest adversaries you have ever met. Yet, all you can fret about is your poor hakama, now no more than a shred of memory. You donned your best silks for this, and the first thing the cruel little bugs did was burn it off you.

At the very least, your sashinuki may be salvageable.

"You are strong," a white-haired sorcerer calls above the roar of the flames towering into the sky. "Some call you divine and pray to you for aid, but you do not listen."

"I listen," you reply coolly, and slick back your hair with a blood-soaked palm. "I help them to lose the burden of their regrets and relieve their physical pains. I daresay I help more than you."

"They call you a healer, but what you do is not healing. Once, you numbed a man to his wounds until he fell to exhaustion fighting in your name. You are a spiteful creature. Desperation is your lure."

"If I hear it, I answer. If they think I am their saviour, who am I to disagree? It's a rather pretty title – though, it is amusing to be lord of maggots. I like to watch them squirm."

How did a curse of night, of the endless dark, grow so powerful? Every secret done in the dark, every lie and gnawing shame, was yours. There had always been something different about you, and they were fools to ignore it, even upon your first meeting:

You, tall and regal, kimono the darkest shade of navy blue damask, had been nothing like their other curses. You looked quite human. Perhaps there was something godly in your stride, something primordial in your voice, that cowed them all like children. You spoke to them, soft and paternal, and suddenly, each and every one of them was afraid of the dark and you were their only solace against the monsters beyond the window.

Enchantment, they'd called it, upon blinking awake and finding you gone. Perhaps it was your domain, to cull their thoughts until all that remained was the ancient instinct to fear the black night. Had you heard them discussing you, hands shaking and faces drained of blood, you would have laughed.

—

Suguru's eyes flicker, and the scene flips to a forest clearing.

—

"Mahito!"

The cry of his name is guttural, a thousand voices coalescing into a roar and a shriek. Across the battlefield, he falls, and you catch the flames reflecting in the shine of his widened eyes as he grasps the unfamiliar black blade piercing his chest. His soul writhes around it, pierced by it, unable to slip away unscathed as he has so many times before.

In that split second, your attention lapses, and black chains lash your body, slamming you to your knees. You snarl, straining against them.

"Surrender," the sorcerer before you orders, white hair stained red with blood. Despite his injuries and the loss of an entire arm, he stands tall and steady above you. "We will let him go if you choose to die."

"If I choose to die?" You run your thumb over your knuckles, regenerating three lost fingers. A rather good trade, you think, for taking off his arm in the process. "You'd allow a spirit, able to shape the soul into something inhuman and unrecognisable, to walk free in exchange for my life? My, my. I must be particularly disruptive to your little society."

"You're beaten." His voice is sharp despite his clear exhaustion. He struggles to restore his arm. "No matter how many of us you kill, you will lose first. Give up."

"Such misplaced confidence. 'Choose to die'..." You sneer and the black iron chains wrapped around you tighten, far colder than you are. You have warmed, somewhat, in Mahito's presence. You cannot be bitter about it when it is he who marks your soul. "Hah! Nothing stops you from killing him anyway – so, politely, I decline. There are only so many of you. You will run out of bodies before I do."

As you speak, your image flickers in an attempt to split your consciousness into the deep shadows around you. The chains chew into your skin and you hiss as your control dissipates like a candle blown out.

"Interesting," the sorcerer murmurs, gazing down at you pensively. The red flames swirl behind him. "Interesting that your bond with that curse truly did win us this fight. I admit – I was sceptical it would work. You're... not what I expected."

You turn your gaze to Mahito, crumpled on the ground with his long, straight hair creating a curtain over his features. He grasps the handle of the blade, trembling slightly, and his breaths are shallow and rapid as he attempts to pull it out. He can only whimper in pain – too quiet for anyone to hear. But this battle is a secret under darkness and belongs to you. You close your eyes to his furious cry and panicked breaths as the blade refuses to budge and saps more of his strength with every second.

Run, you implore, and his head shoots up, pale eyes meeting yours. Cursed energy surges beneath your skin, rippling and bubbling with bloodthirst. Run and don't look back. Mahito, you must survive at all costs. Do you understand?

The chains quiver and the links bend out of shape, their strange unearthly metal creaking. Your body strains against it, fingers elongating into claws and mouth growing jagged fangs. Your skin rips and flickers, bleeding dead galaxies. The chains bite into your shadowy flesh, but you grow larger despite it.

The sorcerer takes a step back.

Go, your voice rasps in his head, syllables rough and struggling in the monstrosity of your own body. Mahito's eyes widen as the chains groan, shuddering with effort – and snap.

He pulls himself to his feet, pale grey kimono tattered and stained. He grips the blade lodged in his chest and stumbles away, chasing the safety of the tree line.

You roar, twice as tall as the sorcerers around you, cutting them down with rapid, decisive blows. In his state, he doesn't notice the sorcerer turning in his direction.

But you do. With a shriek, you launch yourself at him, breaking through the ranks of sorcerers trying to stop you in a burst of viscera and bone. You seize the man giving chase after Mahito, and his whip-like technique is nothing against the overwhelming strength of your new form. One slash of your razor-sharp claws and his technique putters out in his limp hands.

Mahito spares you one last, desperate look, before turning and running into the darkness. You pull the shadows closed after him, deepening the shadows around him until you have him in your grasp.

Live, you say wistfully, releasing him from your shadows as far away as you can by a riverbank. He collapses and attempts to slip the blade out from between his ribs. He quivers with effort, and you don't turn back to the sorcerers picking themselves up for one last push. As long as none of them find Mahito, you will accept the consequences of your hedonistic actions. Live for me. Please.

You languish in your prison for one thousand years.

—

Mahito beams, nodding so hard his head threatens to fall off. "You remember me! I knew you would!"

Slowly, as if learning how to move one muscle at a time, the hand cupping his face brushes its knuckles down the edge of his cheek. When it reaches his chin, long fingers wrap around his throat as if to choke – then, they release. Using the first three fingers, the shadowy spirit grasps Mahito's face, turning it further up towards him. The top of Mahito's head only reaches the spirit's ribs – or where they would be on a human.

Mahito, the spirit calls joyfully, lifting its other hand to cup his face with a flourish of a long, wispy sleeve. Draped over him, the spirit's shadowy robes engulf him almost entirely. Oh, Mahito, my darling pale bone-shard...

He laughs, accepting everything with a smile that seems too ancient for someone like him. It's the smile of one who's known loss – not his usual grin of frivolous naivete.

"You look awful," Mahito says, with a little pout and a frown. "Come! I'll get you back to full strength. But I suppose that guy behind me will want introductions. No number of old scrolls or tomes would get him your name."

That name was never mine, the curse declares. Humans could never know me as you do. My strength is not theirs to invoke.

"Alrighty," Mahito says. He spins on his heel, hair bouncing, and points above him, where the spirit stands – floats – behind his shoulder. "Geto-san! This is YN! I knew him back in the day. He had a bit of a cult, too, so I think you'll get along splendidly."

That piques his interest. That white-haired sorcerer – probably a member of the Gojo clan, Suguru thinks with an achy little throb, if his paleness was a family trait – had mentioned something about your perceived divinity. He wonders why you'd pay attention to any of those ignorant monkeys.

"You're probably thinking about the whole cult thing, right?" Mahito comments offhandedly, tossing and catching the silver brooch he stole from you. Despite this, you haven't pulled down your hood. The straggly ends of the cloak hang by your arms.

"I won't say I didn't wonder."

"Don't worry, it's not a long story." He clears his throat importantly. "Back in the day, we didn't have curtains or anything to hide the results of our actions, so what we did must've seemed like magic or something paranormal to humans. My YN was often seen before and after destruction like plagues and floods, so word began to spread of a beautiful man who would save those he appeared to. Of course, this was survivorship bias. If he killed 'em, not like they could say that to anyone, right? So that's how people began to worship him."

"How fascinating," Suguru murmurs, eyeing you up. "Before, I saw your... memories. Was worship how you grew so much stronger than a normal curse?"

You finally look up, having been concentrating very hard on Mahito and his new appearance. His clothes are strange, but you're beginning to come around to them. Apologies. My body is not quite... complete. Some portion of me may have passed through you as I formed. You touch Mahito's hair, rubbing the strands between your fingers, and he giggles up at you. Perhaps you are right. Evolution was always within Mahito's portfolio, not mine. I should have been constant, unchanging, like the night. Odd, isn't it?

"The form you gained right before you were sealed away – do you still have it? Or was it a result of their belief?" If he could sway you to his side – gain your abilities – it might be enough. Just enough.

You consider his question. Human emotion is potent. I may no longer have shrines made with my image or prayers whispered in my name, but there are infinitely more humans now to draw from. I may gain it back – in time.

"Fascinating," Suguru repeats. He extends his uninjured hand with a kind smile. "Then please – allow me to be your host in this new era. I own a temple with a not-insignificant number of human visitors. It may help you recover."

You glance down at Mahito. He nods encouragingly. "He's not a bad guy to be around, I promise! A little uppity, but with the strength to back it up. You'd be with me. We'd be together again."

You pause, your large hand halting on top of Mahito's head, where you'd been petting him. He blinks up at your featureless face, and shadows waft from your shoulders –  a sigh, or what passes for one with your inhuman anatomy. Very well, you relent, taking one of his ponytails and tugging lightly, I will follow. Be grateful that I bow to you.

"Oh, yes," Mahito giggles pleasantly, leaning into your stomach. He props his chin on your ribs, staring up at you with a grin. "Verily, my lord. When we arrive, I'll even show you how grateful I am."

You cup his face gently, squishing his cheeks. You run a thumb over the stitches below his eye. Dubious little creature... Lead on – we have much to talk about.

—

Recovery, you find, requires mostly time. The first thing you do when you regain sufficient strength is create a new body – one Mahito is familiar with, and which looks almost entirely human. For all your distaste, their physical anatomy is simple and useful, and you can spend less effort holding it together than most other shapes. Geto Suguru, as you come to know him, is incredibly interested in you and your capabilities, almost invasively so, and hates humanity quite a lot. You avoid him where you can.

You enter the room you were given by ducking under the lintel, one which Mahito now shares with you. Once you heard where he used to reside and what it was had been explained to you, you had been firmly insistent he come with you rather than you with him. Sewers, you claimed, were no place for the beloved of a god.

He is at the dresser in a grey kimono, which grabs your attention. He runs a brush through the pale blue-grey hair swept over his shoulder. He opens his eyes at the sound of the door sliding open, a smile automatically tugging at his lips.

"You're back," he says warmly. "What did Geto-san want this time?"

"He has trouble sleeping," you reply, taking a seat on the bed. It is odd, you thought once, that a traditional temple like this would incorporate such modern furniture, but Mahito seemed to like it, so you kept your mouth shut. "I drew him to slumber."

Mahito hums knowingly. "Humans, right? So messy. Him especially. Man, emotionally, that guy is a wreck – gets so worked up over nothing."

Politely, you ignore the invitation to complain. You may be a curse, but you have some dignity. "He freed me from a thousand years of imprisonment, Mahito. It's the least I can do to repay him."

He frowns. "I freed you."

"The seals prevented you from doing very much, Mahito," you say, amused. "If he wasn't there, you'd still be banging away at it. However, you did figure out where they kept me and kept me alive in your memories when no other did. I am grateful for that."

"If you were less judgemental of the other curses, I'm sure they woulda remembered you fondly," he rebuts. "You were too much of a lone wolf. 'Ooh, Sukuna's eating my worshippers 'cause I told him he's not cool! Kenjaku badgers me way too often about his dumb plans!' If you didn't complain about them to their faces, I'm sure they would've been happier to remember you."

You scoff. "Why should I care? I have you."

The tone of your voice warms what passes as his heart. He turns on the stool to face you, setting down the brush and picking up his hair ties. He begins to section his hair into three parts.

"I mean that much to you, do I? Little old me, more important than the favour of the great King of Curses," he coos, rising to his feet. He offers you a hair-tie with a soft smile, and you accept it. He crawls into your lap, sitting with his back to your chest. He hums as you comb your fingers through his hair, fumbling only slightly with the intricacies of a braid. It's been a long time since you've had hands.

"What does the King of Curses have that I care for? He is strong, but has many enemies. He is an arrogant, fickle creature and desires no equal, only slaves and followers." You adjust the thick locks of hair you've left loose to frame his face. He seems to like threes, so you'll keep it similar. "I like to do as I please. He is feared – I am fear."

You consider your next words. "He is also very rude."

Mahito barks out a laugh. "Careful. If he hears that, you'd be sliced up quicker than you can say 'oops'."

"You say he is now little more than a set of relicts. I wonder – if I kicked him around, would he know it and come later to kill me?"

Mahito presses a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "I don't think so. They don't seem to hold any sentience by themselves. Even curses empowered by the fingers don't look like they contain any part of 'him'."

"Interesting."

"Remind me to never let you carry his fingers."

"Of course." You tie off the end of the braid, sitting back to admire your handiwork. A human had come in with something similar, and you'd been too preoccupied with how it might look on Mahito to really care for what Geto was doing.

(You didn't care much for what any of them were doing, truthfully. Their idea for a world of curses was not quite uninhabited enough for you, as the god of the endless night and the perfect, empty void. It was only because of Mahito's unique technique that you let him live beyond your initial meeting, after all.)

"You kept your hair long," you say, voice a low murmur.

Mahito glances over his shoulder, gazing up at you through his messy bangs. A sly smile curls at his lips. "Oh, you know," he waves a hand carelessly, "you liked it better this way."

You prop your chin on top of Mahito's head. He grins. "You always wore it like this?"

"Well, I sat like a rock at the bottom of a river for a couple hundred years, so no, not always. But when I did like to have hair – yes, it was long."

You rest your hand around his throat, like a collar. Mahito smirks, dancing his fingers over your knuckles. "Hey, now... What's this doin', big guy? Careful – I'm half your size."

"You do not have to look like you do. I would adore you regardless."

"How cute! But it's no fun when we're both too big for the bed." He turns in your lap, straddling your thighs, and playfully plucks a thread loose from your haori. He cocks his head to meet your eyes with a smile when a brief scowl crosses your face. "C'mon, lighten up! You're out of the slammer! What better way to celebrate than with me? If you want, we don't have to do it on the bed. Maybe on the floor... Out in the forest... Drenched in human blood..."

"Mahito, Geto is across the hall. You are loud."

"He can plug his ears. I'm sure he's got a curse somewhere in him for that." His grin broadens freakishly. "I also want a curse inside me."

"Mahito," you growl, your grip tightening on his hips.

"Oh, say that again." He shows the whites of his eyes briefly with a teasing moan. He drapes his arms over your shoulders, wiggling around and settling comfortably in your lap. Your shoulders tense. "Such a bore. Hey – I'm better with my technique nowadays. Y'know how much fun we could have?" He leans in with a giggle, lips brushing your earlobe. "Gimme ideas. I'll make you feel so good."

Concentration was always the common denominator. He was once easily overwhelmed – he'd like to think he improved.

"I still tire quickly," you say, and not even you can obscure the annoyance in your voice. "Belief is so hard-won these days. I fear you'll have to be gentle with me."

He giggles, though his expression softens – or as much as it can for him; perhaps 'less-crazed' is a fairer term –and he drags his tongue hotly against your jaw. It's a kiss – his version of one.

"Okay," he sighs dramatically, kicking his legs childishly. "Hm... How about this? Tonight, shall I be your prince, princess, or," he winks, "your master?"

Your lips purse. "Gods do not have princes or princesses. 'Divine right'." You scoff. "Don't make me laugh."

"You'll always gimme your 'divine right', though, yeah?" He wiggles his brows cheekily. "Your sacred sceptre. Your god rod—"

"Mahito."

He sulks for only a moment before perking up again, tugging at your sashes and collar to open you up for his eyes only. He traces the marks on your skin with a hum.

"You and Sukuna have a lot in common, you know."

"He's a fool. I hope that's not what you mean."

He snorts. "Relax. I didn't mean it like that. I like you more, anyway."

"I'd certainly hope so." You flex your fingers, lifting one hand to measure against his waist. "I endured a thousand years of imprisonment for you."

"You're gonna bring that up constantly, aren't you?"

"Only when important. Do you know how small it was on the inside?"

He sighs. "I'm never winning an argument again."

"You've already won my heart."

"Your heart!" He laughs. "What a human thing to call it."

You lean back, allowing him to push your kimono off your shoulders. "Call it what you like. Be what you like. I've spent too long away from you to care for names and titles." You trace the stitches running across his hips. You lift your eyes, and Mahito's breath hitches at the hunger in them. They swirl with empty galaxies and dead stars, and he finds himself subconsciously leaning in, longing for that cold, dark and very gentle place. One day, at the end of all things, you will bring him there, lord of nothing and lord of everything. Perhaps he'll learn how to touch his soul to yours, like bubbles, and you'll never have to leave him again.

"Is this what you want?" he whispers as you strip him bare, his grey silk kimono pooling on the floor. "Me? Just me?"

"I have no need for anything else. Power, armies, what have you... Sukuna, Kenjaku, even this Geto – their plans are so short-sighted. Everything will come under my hand eventually. Until that day arrives, I am content with you."

"So romantic," Mahito murmurs, a coy smile pulling at his lips. "Can I also come under your hand? Pretty please?"

"Must you ruin everything I say with a filthy joke?"

He pushes you backwards onto the bed, hovering over you with a grin. He grinds down on your lap under the pretence of getting comfy and he relishes in your groan. "You just set them up so perfectly for me! How could I not?"

You click your tongue. "I indulge you too much."

"Not enough, I'd say. Took me way too long to get into your pants. Do you know how desperate I was at times? You expected me to see you doused in human viscera and not want you all up in my guts, too... Ridiculous, in my humble opinion."

"Sex is such a human notion."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he whines. "I have to say, it's pretty fun. You like it, too, don't you?"

"Hm."

"C'mon, we're both here because of humans. We aren't, like, appropriating anything." He reaches down, palming the bulge below your kimono. His grin widens. "If you don't like it, why did you give yourself the parts for it? Ha! Checkmate."

He yelps as you grab him and toss him down onto the bed, pinning him under your weight. He stares up at you with wide, innocent eyes, his loosened kimono gaping at the chest and stomach.

You rake your eyes down his lithe, pale body, humming when his breath hitches at your touch. You glide your hand down his side, tracing the smooth curve of his waist and hip.

You reach down by his hips and part his kimono further. When the silk falls open, you are greeted by a neat patch of grey hair – and glistening pink folds.

He giggles at your expression. He twirls his hair around a finger and bats his lashes, which might be thicker and longer than usual. "Now we match."

Clicking your tongue, you curl your fingers around his slender thigh and part his legs, eyeing him unblinkingly. He's not sure if he should be aroused or offended – you're hard to read and he's never sure what you like. Perhaps that's part of why he stayed – you were like a game – but now, a thousand years later, he can't help but feel... unsure? Nervous?

Afraid?

He wants to laugh at the concept. Him? Afraid of your opinion of him? How disgustingly fragile.

You're talking now, and the sound of it snaps him out of his spiralling thoughts. You've always had that effect on him.

"I'm not sure how we match at all, Mahito," you're saying. "As spirits, we are incapable of siring spawn. I would say we match less."

He whines. "Hey...! I put all this work into looking nice for you, and you're telling me now that you don't like it? Besides, who're you to say we can't have some little curse babies, asshole? There's never been another me – maybe I'm the exception. Maybe I'm better than the rest of 'em."

At last, you lift your eyes. Mahito wants to curl up beneath your gaze – you are terrifying and comforting all at once. "No," you say softly. "You are one of a kind."

A smile splits his face, cocky, and he sits up, leaning back on his palms. His kimono slips teasingly from his shoulder. "Mmhm, that's right... Boy, you sure know how to make a guy feel special."

You tilt your head, considering something. You stroke his thigh, absent-minded, and he presses into your touch. "You don't know for certain – about spawn."

"Obviously not. I was sitting among the rocks of the Shinano River for, like, eight hundred years. You want me to fuck a fish?"

"Why?" You lift a hand as he opens his mouth to snark at you. "About the river, Mahito. Not the fish."

He frowns, his lower lip jutting out slightly. "You told me to survive! I did just that. I'm not sure why you sound so disappointed."

"You, resting in the same place for hundreds of years? Wouldn't you have grown bored? I'm sure it did not take that long to heal from your wounds."

He huffs, crossing his arms. He tugs his leg out of your grasp. His hair falls over his features. "You were dead, for all I knew! When I didn't know much about anything, you were there to teach me. For the first time ever, you were gone, and if they'd managed to kill you, what would they do to me?" He flicks a wrist, sleeve whipping your side. "You told me to live. To survive. So I did, okay? After all, it was the last thing you ever said to me. I had nothing else left of you."

The air is heavy. Neither of you moves a muscle.

"Mahito," you say softly.

He throws himself backwards onto the bed with a bounce and a soft thump, hands over his eyes. He tries to kick you, but you catch his ankle. He scowls. "Stupid. Asshole. Jerkface. Don't say my name like that."

"Mahito."

He gulps as you close the distance between you, your palm pressed to the mattress beside his head. His breath hitches as your hand glides from his ankle to his calf, holding it over your shoulder. You don't quite pin it there, but you leave your palm open, steady against the outside of his knee as it presses against you.

"You've grown soft," you observe.

He crosses his arms and tries to glare. It's a little hard when you're kneeling between his legs, your lips six inches from his own. Do you still taste the same? "No, I haven't. You just knew me before I lost everything."

"Let me return this to you, then." You part his kimono fully, the silk pooling on the bed. You reach for your own clothes, though your eyes remain trained on his. They remind him of a fox, quick and clever and sly. "Can I make it up to you, Mahito?"

He sniffs, glancing aside. His arms uncross. "Fine."

"Thank you."

You're so stupid. And polite. Ugh.

Your fingers travel down between his thighs. His throat bobs as you slide your middle finger between his wet folds, coating it in his slick. He shifts as you thrust it in gently, exploring him. Your warm palm cups him, something possessive in your touch, and as he relaxes around you, you slip a second finger in.

He gasps sharply, his hands shooting up to wrap around your biceps. You halt, buried in to the knuckle. It's hard not to be – his walls pulse around you, sucking you in.

"Am I hurting you?"

He shakes his head. He offers a brief, breathless grin. "Nah. Just feels different. Good different. Keep going."

You nod, sitting back on your heels to watch the way his cunt flutters around you. You stroke the leg thrown over your shoulder, kissing the ankle, and Mahito lets out a muffled mewl as your thumb presses against his clit.

"Sensitive," you murmur to yourself. You glance up. "Have you done this before?"

He licks his lips, steadying his voice. "What, changing myself like this?"

"Yes. For your own pleasure, rather than for battle."

"No," he admits, legs tightening around you. "This is the first time."

Humming, you glance up at him, allowing a smile to grace your features. "Then we can explore it together."

You pull your fingers from him – and with a thoughtful look, you place them in your mouth. Mahito's breath hitches as you swirl your tongue around your fingers, relishing in the taste.

"Sweet," you declare, and place his leg gently down on the bed. You settle at the base of the bed and tug him down by the thighs, staring up at him with playful eyes. "You wouldn't mind if I had a taste from the source, would you?"

He shakes his head, and it tips back with a moan as you bury your head between his thighs. You lap at his soft pink folds, and as you push your tongue inside, he slickens up, walls hot and pulsing around you. He squelches as you push in deeper, slick dripping from his eager hole. He grips your hair with both hands, moaning in delight as you fuck your long tongue in and out of him, curling roughly against the spot inside him that makes his head spin.

"Awh, fuck," he whines, laughing breathily as his spine arches and hot pleasure laps at the base of his spine. "F-Feels even better than I thought it would—! Ah, hah, gimme more!"

You draw your tongue out of him, making him whine and pull your face further into his fluttering cunt. You suck at his clit, lifting a hand to raise the hood of it as your tongue circles and your teeth graze it – he jolts in surprise, hands tightening in your hair. 

"Patience," you purr, tongue laving over his reddened clit. You push it inside him, wriggling about experimentally as his throbbing walls stroke the length of it, hungry and devouring.

"I already waited a thousand years!" he says, almost angrily. His heels dig into your shoulders as he lifts his hips, chasing a high. Your tongue is so long – it massages that rough patch of nerves at the back of his cunt and he seizes, crying your name as you grip his hips and lift him to your lips.

He takes what he wants rather inconsiderately, slick dripping down your chin as you kiss his hot folds. He's practically humping your face, grinding against your mouth and the tongue sinfully deep inside of him. You groan as his moans pitch higher, whorish, and he begins to tremble around you.

So quickly? You're amused. He's missed you more than he's willing to let on.

You fuck him with your tongue, saliva and slick mixing on his fair skin, and he's positively dripping, every thrust squelching and pushing out a sweet gush of pleasure into your waiting mouth. You swallow it blissfully, your thumb circling the wet nub of his clit.

With a wobbly, high-pitched cry, he shoves your face into his gummy cunt and comes on your waiting, writhing tongue, thighs seizing around your head and locking you in place as he coats your chin in his hot, sticky slick.

With your tongue buried deep inside him, flicking about and pressing curiously against his soft walls, he lets out a shaky whine, grinding against you with rough rolls of his hips. It's not an unfamiliar motion. He takes you so prettily, soft smooth folds now dark with lust.

Shakily, Mahito releases you, body sagging into the mattress. He pants and gasps, the tense heat between his legs unbearably achy and needy. He wants to melt.

"S-So… good," he sighs, a broad grin crossing his face. You lap at him lazily, and he twitches. "Mm… Now gimme your cock, 'kay? Nice 'n' deep. Promise me."

"Promise what?" you ask, licking your lips and wiping away his come. Your eyes glint with satisfaction as you set down his unsteady legs and crawl between them, the bulge in your trousers straining in its confines.

"That you'll fuck me up," he whines, turning onto his stomach and lifting his perky ass. He gazes over his shoulder at you, wiggling his hips and spreading his knees further to show off his tight holes. "You can have either one – jus' want you in me, okay? I miss having a big cock in my belly, miss being fucked and filled up until 'm all swollen and can't move." He pouts, his eyes half-lidded, and presses his ass against your bulge, grinding lazily. "C'mon, big guy. Don't you wanna put your baby in me?"

His eyes shoot wide open and his jaw drops as a thick, throbbing intrusion splits his pussy apart. He can't help his eager moans as you set a steady pace, his loosened pussy sucking you in with ease. He scrabbles at the sheets as your grip tightens on his waist and drags him down to match every thrust – he grabs the headboard as your cock kisses his cervix, making his eyes roll back.

"Oh! Y-You're cold – big – so muh – much," he cries brokenly, pressing his palm against his stomach. He shudders at the icy temperature of you inside him, making his hot walls ache and throb with such need that it borders on pain.

On every harsh thrust, he feels you glide against his palm, filling him up so completely that he can barely breathe – that feeling, of every breath physically restricted, makes his eyelids flutter and his pussy clench and flutter. His wet warmth surges down your thighs with his high, and you groan as he jolts and whines.

"You can handle it, Mahito," you note with a soft hum. Your touch grazes his clit and his breath stutters. "You have before, haven't you?"

"I-I'm rusty," he tries to joke, but it comes out flimsy as you shift and he clamps down punishingly around your cock with a moan. "Oh, fuck!"

Your hips snap into him and he fumbles slightly, grabbing one of your hands on his hip. He slumps into the mattress, lifting his hips as you fuck into his swollen heat, slick and soft around you. Little chained moans fall from his lips as he twists the sheets in his fist; his body jolts back and forth with your thrusts, his long blue-grey braid bouncing over his shoulder.

"Feels so g-good," he slurs, legs shaking like leaves. He spreads them, reaching down to split his sticky pussy lips with the V of his fingers. His lower lip quivers as he gazes at you over his shoulder. His bangs are a mess over his lust-blown eyes. "More – more, more, I want more—! Make me yours again, ah, right there—"

"Quiet now," you murmur amongst his choppy moans. "Geto will hear you."

"Wh-Whose fault is that?" he whines, the expression on his face fucked out and deeply flushed. "H-Hah – bet he'd be jealous, anyway! He wants you but you're all mine! Mh—"

You chuckle softly, leaning over him with a palm braced by his head. He feels small like this – protected. He whines into the bedsheets, his pussy dripping down his inner thighs.

"Mahito," you say, almost admonishingly. "Are you jealous?"

"Of that – ah – human? No!"

You trail your lips up his shoulder and neck, nipping at his ear. "Mm, of course. But I do think it would be prudent to watch him carefully. That technique of his may prove... troublesome."

Mahito sniffles, come-slick walls clamping around you and making you grunt. "S-Stop talking about him."

"So you are jealous."

"I just don't like it when you talk about other people when you're inside me." He attempts a glare, but his ruined expression quivers when your cock kisses his womb, tears welling up along his lashes and sticking them together. "Th-That's a normal, hn, r-reaction."

"Would you like me to talk about you, then?"

He averts his eyes and nods, tiny, into the sheets. You press your lips to the stitches trailing over his shoulders, admiring the contrast between the dark lines and Mahito's pale skin. You pick up the pace, thighs clapping against his ass, and his moans grow louder, more desperate, as his pussy flutters dangerously around you.

"My Mahito is so sweet to me, greeting me with this little piece of heaven here," you purr with a particularly teasing thrust into his cunt, nuzzling into his hair as he grips your forearms for stability. He nods reverently, lips parting and eyes rolling as you shift your hips and fuck him quick and hard into the mattress. His toes curl as he cries out, every thrust knocking a whiny moan from his throat. "My Mahito did so well, listening to me all that time ago... You're so good at obeying me, aren't you?"

"M-Mmhm," he whimpers. "Yes! Yes, I did, I always listen to you, oh, god—"

"Ah-ah-ah... You've been spending far too much time around humans, Mahito." You kiss his neck, and he shudders, your cock filling his belly until he can think of nothing else. He whines as you stroke his side, fingers fluttering over his stomach.

"I am your god," you murmur. "I taught you. I saved you. Perhaps I can even..." You press the smooth bump in his stomach and he lets out a ruined noise, muscles tensing. "Gods create, don't they?"

A choked, whorish wail rips past his lips. The glide comes easy – hotter, wetter. Waves of heat pulse through his core. His hole squelches as a thick ring of white forms around your base.

"Mahito." You tug his braid sharply and he whimpers as his head jerks back. "If you cry out to a god, it will be my name on your lips. You are mine. I won't tolerate anything less than your total loyalty. Do you understand?"

He babbles, whimpered half-words slipping from his lips. He nods to the best of his ability with your grip on his braid, arousal curling hot and powerful in his gut at the growl in your voice. "Yes!" he cries, his ass ricocheting off your hips. The rough pace makes his knees knock together. "Yes, yes, I'm your bitch, 'm sorry – you're my god – hnn, f-fuck, don't stop—!"

"Good, Mahito. Always so obedient for me."

Perhaps he reshapes himself because suddenly he's vice-tight, throbbing around you with a gooey slickness that tugs pink around your shaft when you try to draw your hips back. You suck in a sharp breath.

"Mahito," you coo, stroking his stitched cheek, and he whimpers, tears clouding his vision. "Let me go, dear. I can't give you what you want if I can't move."

"I don't want you to leave again," he sobs, curling his fingers through yours.  He can't think straight.

If – if he gave you a child, an heir... you wouldn't leave him, right? You couldn't. You liked him for his uniqueness – he wasn't like any other curse you'd ever met. You told him so. With the return of the Six Eyes, each day brings forth more powerful spirits, and you are like Ryomen Sukuna, whatever you say. You, too, are fickle, and you are cold as the night over which you reign. If some other curse – or, fuck him, a human – catches your attention, it's not impossible you might drop him for them.

After all, you're so much older than him. What is he but an indulgent curiosity?

As his thoughts spiral away from him, his body reacts to you – his glossy, silken pussy hugs your twitching cock, and the smell of sex lingers heavy in the air. "Oh god, oh god," he whimpers sweetly, brainless and drooling and pierced on thick cock, "oh, god—"

"Yes," you hiss. "You belong to me." You bury your nose in his hair, skin slapping rhythmically and rocking the bed. You bury yourself in his sloppy cunt over and over again, wrapped so perfectly around you. With a low growl that has Mahito's pussy throbbing, ropes of thick come paint his insides, filling him up and dripping from his hot, slippery folds.

He arches into your cold, firm embrace with a frenzied wail of your name, a sound wrecked with pleasure and pent-up desire. He trembles as he creams around you, milking your cock with a hungry desperation, and the pale curls over his pussy are damp with a filthy mixture of slick and come. He throws his head back. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his eyes roll back at the feeling of your seed spurting deep within him, his insides so much more sensitive.

Or maybe he's just missed you. Either way, his throat feels raw, and the shattered whimpers that crumble from his lips as he collapses into the bedsheets are all he can manage, his pale eyes half-lidded and fluttering as you continue to pump him full. You stroke his stomach as if he's something sacred and murmur sweet nothings into his ear as he twitches in your arms.

He mewls, panting, as you eventually pull out, his gaping pussy clenching around nothing as your seed dribbles down his thigh. Without your grip on his hips to keep him up, he crumples to the bed in a dazed, soiled heap. His cunt squelches when he moves and he licks his lips, trembling slightly as he raises his head to look at you.

You're beside him now, gazing back with those beautiful eyes of yours. If he stares into them long enough, deep enough, he might catch a glimpse of clashing black holes and dying stars.

That battle an age ago left you with something inescapable. Things used to be easier – you were of the night, and the night was simple with the whisper of something shadowy within the dark. Now you have sparks of something hotter within you. Evolution, change, all of it – Mahito had more of an effect on you than anyone could've guessed.

He presses himself into your side and you wrap his lean body in your embrace. You stroke his hair with a soft hum, combing your fingers through his bangs and tucking them behind his ear.

At last, he speaks up, head resting upon your chest. "I got all dolled up for you," he says quietly. "You made a mess of me. Ruined my hard work."

You kiss his forehead. "Is that not what you wanted?"

"Hey... Don't twist my words."

"I'm sorry."

Silently, he leans up and nips at your jawline, soothing the spot with a kitten lick. He settles back down and you trace the stitches crossing his body, making him hum as you reach the ones following the V of his hips.

"I won't leave you, Mahito. Not again."

He glances up, a fist curling gently on your chest. "Really?"

You nod, staring at the ceiling. He fits perfectly into your side and you clutch him there, protective and possessive in the way he adores. "Yes."

He stares up at you, an unreadable look in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Okay," he says, and closes his eyes with a secret little smile.

[sansmeanswithout]

my rainworld iterator ocs

[nereidprinc3ss]

you’re my best friend

in which spencer reid has to teach your young son how to make friends nicely after a day at the park gone awry

fluff!! warnings/tags: fem!reader, husband!spencer yum, boy dad spencer enters the nereidprinc3ss cinematic universe!!!! yayyy!! but you still have a baby daughter as well, Spencer would 100% give his children old people names I'm sorry, gentle parenting Spencer my beloved a/n: I really miss spring its my favorite season so I found this draft that feels very springy and it makes me very happy also.. the name... like queen... also this is old so its probably not winning a pulitzer

The sun beats down just shy of hot on the sheath of fresh grass where you and Spencer are comforting your crying son—the ground beneath your blanket is a lush, verdant carpet, still cool with springtime rain but not wet. 

All of this pleasantry is lost on your son Oliver. He’s too focused on the scraped knee he sustained when he got pushed over on the wood chips. Marianne, your baby girl, is gurgling happily in her little bassinet next to you. Whoever said raising girls was harder had obviously never met the Reid siblings. Oliver is a drama queen—something you suspect he inherited from his father. 

“See? All better,” your husband is saying, wedding band glinting as gold as the curls that fall to his eyes as he smooths a bandaid over Oli’s wound. Seeing him like this never gets old.

Oli’s crying chokes to a confused halt. 

“It still hurts,” he complains. 

“I’m sorry, buddy. But you shouldn’t’ve pushed.”

“I wanted to be her f-friend,” Oli says, his sweet little bow lips (all Spencer) beginning to pout again. 

Your husband wipes Oliver’s already teary cheeks gently. “I know, but she didn’t know that. Not everybody likes to be pushed, even when you’re playing, because it’s kinda mean, isn’t it?”

“I was not being mean.”

“Do you push all your friends?”

“Sometimes,” Oliver says stormily. Spencer gives him a knowing look. 

“Are you sure you didn’t push her just because she’s a girl?”

Little shoulders raise and drop heavily. Guilty. 

“I know it’s sometimes hard to make friends with girls, but they generally don’t like being pushed. Not anymore than boys do. Maybe even less.”

“Then how do I make friends with them?”

Spencer considers this. 

“Well… how do you usually make friends?”

“I ask if they wanna play.”

“Sounds like you already know how to make friends with girls, then. That’s all you have to do.”

“How did you be friends with mommy?” Oli asks, bunching the blanket in his little hand. You smile to yourself.  

Spencer’s eyes flash up to you for only a second, his lips parted in what only you would recognize to be amusement. 

“I was super nice to her. Me and mommy are really good friends, right?”

Oliver nods dutifully. 

“Do you know why?”

A shake of his little curly head, this time.

“Because when you’re nice to someone, it usually makes them want to be your friend. Not always. But you have a much better chance that way. If I pushed mommy the first time we met, I don’t think we’d be here today.”

Your lips flatten to zip in a laugh. To Oliver, this is a very serious matter. To you, too. It’s important that he grows up to treat people well. 

“Why not?”

Spencer dodges the question smoothly. 

“Why don’t you try going to apologize to her? She might not want to talk to you, and that’s okay. But if you say you’re sorry, maybe you guys can play nicely together.”

This determines the already willful Oliver, who pushes up clumsily before running down the knoll on his short legs and approaching the swing set where his earlier assailant now plays alone. He stops far enough away that he can make a break for it if she gets a fixing to push him again. Smart boy. 

You and Spencer observe the interaction carefully, and while you can’t hear what’s being said, things seem to go well. Soon they’re making their way to the little kid’s playground in tandem. 

“Super nice, huh?”

“I really wanted to be your friend,” Spencer counters, scooting closer to Marianne’s bassinet. “Hi, angel,” he coos, demeanor instantly softening as he strokes her soft cheek. You can’t help smiling. The look in his eyes is truly something to behold. “God, I’m never gonna get over how much she looks like you.”

You preen and try to hide it. “You can’t possibly know that yet. Her skeletal structure is far from fully developed.” 

“Uh oh,” Spencer says to Marianne, offering her a quarter of a strawberry from a Tupperware. “Mommy is starting to sound like me. Is that scary, or what?”

Marianne cackles and burbles and takes the fruit with her little clutching fingers, only missing her mouth the first time she tries to eat it. 

“You’re so good at this,” you murmur thoughtlessly. The moment Oliver was born he’d been a natural. Earlier, even. You saw it in his eyes the second you tearfully told him you were pregnant. He’s a man of many gifts—and that extends to the way he parents. 

His gaze turns to you, still just as soft, but more knowing, on you. It’s comforting, to be known and seen and loved like that. 

“Couldn’t do it without you.”

“Corny,” you tease.

He shuffles on his knees to be closer to you. “Biologically factual.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he pulls you into him with an arm and presses a firm kiss to your head. 

“Have I told you how much I appreciate you recently?” He murmurs into the quiet dark against your temple, shielded from the spring sun. 

You’re melting in his hold, the way you always do. “Mhm.”

“Good. There’s nobody I’d rather be super nice to.”

You breathe him in—feel the rush of happy chemicals flood your brain.

“What if I pushed you?”

“You wouldn’t do that,” he asserts, pulling back and framing your face between his hands. 

“But if I did.”

He regards you with narrowed eyes. 

“Why? Am I in trouble?”

“Maybe.” But you say it too coyly. The corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I’d forgive you,” Spencer murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. “But if you want to be my friend, you can just ask, lovely.”

One more quick peck, and he’s situating himself to lay his head in your lap once more. You slide his sunglasses on for him once he’s settled, and he catches your hand, kissing your knuckles. Your lips twist. 

“You make it so hard to want to push you. I need you to be mean.”

He laughs. 

“Too bad. I like being nice to you.”

[natalievoncatte]

Lena pulled up the furred hood of her parka over her head, and walked outside. She had no idea what to expect, and neither did anyone else, apparently. She huddled close to Kara -her Kara- who stood out in the arctic cold without showing a single sign of discomfort. Neither did Clark.

The cyborg stood off by herself, cold, steel fingers resting on the hovering stasis pod that carried her Lena, a doppelgänger from another universe. The pod’s transparent casing was rimed with frost, leaving its inhabitant a blur.

They heard the Themysciran ship before they saw it- because it was invisible, at least at first. When it approached it folded out of the air in a winding blur, just appearing- a sleek chromed flying machine with curious classical ancients in brass and gold, a blend of high technology and ancient elegance.

As it landed, Kara raised her cape to shield Lena from the engine blast. A ramp lowered at the front and out walked the largest woman Lena had ever seen. Not just tall, but large. She made Kara look downright skinny by comparison, striding down the ramp in skirted armor and mail with the pelt of some huge beast laid about her shoulders for warmth. When she approached, Kara looked up at her.

“Clark,” she said.

“Diana. This is my cousin, Kara and Lena, her partner.”

The Themysciran princess turned to Lena and regarded her briefly with a curt nod.

“You’ll have to stay behind, Clark. The others are welcome aboard.”

More Amazons descended from the aircraft. Kara leaned over to Lena.

“I could take her,” she whispered.

“You mean in a fight, right?” Alex said, leaning past Lena.

“What else would I mean?” said Kara.

Alex snickered, and motioned Kelly and Nia over. They’d portaled in earlier.

Kelly was clearly excited but Nia looked a little green. It was probably from the shock of the portal jump. It could be… disconcerting.

Lena and Kara were among the last to board, and Lena was stunned by the elegantly appointed interior and sank comfortably into a plush seat. She politely declined a glass of wine but Kara took it, smiling in shock after taking a taste.

Lena decided she’d have a glass after all. It was the sweetest, most delightful wine she’d ever tasted, and the alcohol content had to be through the roof, because one was enough for her.

The cyborg sat by the stasis pod, staring at the floor.

Lena stood and moved over to sit beside her.

“Are you alright?”

The cyborg glanced at her.

“I am… comfortable, thank you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

They were silent for a long time.

The cyborg said, “I’m afraid. When we heal her and she wakes up, why on Earth would she still want this? This thing? I’m virtually a corpse.”

Lena put her hand on the cyborg’s.

“Kara, remember how you told me how much my Kara loves me?”

The cyborg nodded.

“If she’s like me, your Lena will never let you go. You are her red sunrise. I know it.”

Lena left her to think on that, and rejoined her Kara, eventually falling asleep on her shoulder.

The jolt of landing woke her. Kara put an arm around her and pulled her gently back to awareness, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.

Diana rose and the ramp opened, and Lena’s breath caught. She had never seen a land so beautiful. Verdant plains of grace swept out before them, the air sweet with the scent of flowers. An entire delegation was there to greet them before the gleaming marble structures in the distance.

They moved the pod first, the cyborg hesitant to walk out in the light until Kara put a hand on her shoulder. Soon everyone was on the ground. Even the earth here was soft and inviting; Lena had an urge to take off her shoes, and she absently noted that the Amazons wore none.

Everyone was on the ground except Nia. She hesitated at the edge of the ramp, eyes darting back and forth, searching for something between Lena and Kara.

“Why do you hesitate?” Diana asked.

“Only women can set foot on the island, right?” Nia asked, sounding a little choked.

“Yes,” said Diana. “What of it? You’re a woman.”

“Yes, but…”

“But nothing,” said Diana. “Take my hand.”

She reached out. Nia stared at her palm for a brief eternity and then took it, shaking as she stepped off the ramp and her foot touched the ground. She took a few wobbly steps and let out a long, pained sigh.

“See?” said Diana. “Only women may set foot here. Now, let’s see about healing your friends.”

“Friends?” said the cyborg.

[leclerc-hs]

don't wake the kids - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x nanny!reader (fem) summary: in which you got his daughter to finally fall asleep but risk waking her up not too long later warnings: 18+, slight smut, oral (f-receiving), bad french (please correct me i was tired while writing this lmao), not proofread!!!! word count: 1608 author’s note: i think i’ll write more for them bc i like the idea of single dad charles LMAO. this was fun xoxoxo

PART 2

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

THERE WAS SOMETHING about Mr. Leclerc that always made you stare at him in admiration. Maybe it was the fact that he always excelled at everything he did. For instance, raising a daughter on his own couldn’t have been easy. Hell, merely spending a single night watching over his kid has you feeling thoroughly drained. So, when Charles came home to you sprawled along his couch with the TV on a low volume, he wasn’t surprised. In fact, the sight brought a grin to his lips. You were the absolute cutest thing he had ever seen. Aside from his own daughter of course.

You weren’t even aware of the impact you left on him and his daughter. There wasn’t a day where you weren’t mentioned by his daughter. She adored you, and he did too.

“Comment était-elle?” How was she?  His voice was deep as he dropped his keys on the table of the entry way table. “Fatiguée?” Tired?

You barely moved as he approached the room, too comfortable to even sit all the way up for him. His hands rest in the pockets of his dress pants as he leaned up against the arch of the living room, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes never straying from yours. 

You felt yourself swallowing harshly at the sight of him. He’s so fucking hot. “Elle était un ange!” She was an angel! There was a soft glow of moonlight that seeped through the curtains, casting a gentle radiance on the room as you whispered those words. You were whispering, careful to not wake her in the next room over. But also, in attempt to hide the desire in your voice. It would be a complete lie if you said you didn’t find him attractive. If you didn’t think about him that way.

With a subtle exhalation, Charles gracefully moved away from the archway, making his way towards the couch. He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, his head finding a comfortable perch on the back cushions, a gentle smile gracing his features. His legs extended languidly, and the contours of his thigh muscles subtly asserted themselves through the delicate fabric of his dress pants.

Turning his head to look at you, “Would you mind staying in the spare room tonight?” 

His eyes, an enchanting shade of green, held you captive in a mesmerizing trance. Lost in their depths, his question became a distant echo, momentarily forgotten in the captivating allure of those verdant depths.

It wasn’t an abnormal question. At least, not anymore it wasn’t. You’ve been watching his daughter for months now and have occasionally crashed at his when it was too late at night. When you didn’t answer right away, lost in thought, Charles felt the need to wearily add an “I’m too tired to take you home.”

It’s not that you didn’t have your license, but you didn’t have a car. And because it meant more money, you always said yes. At least you always told yourself it was for the money. But it really was for all the times you got to see a shirtless Charles in the morning. His hair all disheveled, eyes full of sleep. The rasp in his voice. And also, the breakfast.

His hand swiftly dropped to your exposed thigh, the tennis skirt adorning your body doing little to cover you. He patted the area right above your knee softly for your attention, “Je suppose que tu n’as pas de vêtements; je vais te trouver quelque chose.” I assume you don’t have clothes; I’ll grab you something. The touch was so miniscule, so quick, that you could barely grasp the concept that it happened before he was already standing.

Although staying over wasn’t new, borrowing his clothes was.

You found yourself unable to speak as he stood from the couch and made his way to his room. The air was charged with a delicate tension. You were convinced it was the suit that had you stumbling for words, or maybe the fact you haven’t had sex in months and Charles is just that fucking hot, and in front of you, looking at you, touching you.

“J’espère que cela est assez bon.” I hope these are good enough. Bathed in the gentle luminescence of the room, Charles gazes down at you with an intensity the captures the essence of the moment. In his hands, he holds a neatly folded pile of clothes, extending them toward you with a certain grace. A faint, sleepy smile graces your lips as you accept them. 

With a languid elegance, you begin to rise from the comfort of the couch, only to find Charles extending his hand toward you. His fingers confidently entwine with yours, pulling you up. Although, it seems Charles underestimated his strength because you are sent flying to your feet, awkwardly tripping in the process. But before you can make a total fool of yourself, Charles is slipping an arm around your waist, holding you to his chest.

You can feel your cheeks redden in embarrassment, “Je suis tellement désole.” I’m so sorry.

You feel Charles laugh reverberate in his chest, making you more alert of just how close you two were. “Ne sois pas désolée.” Don’t be sorry.

In that suspended moment, time seemed to stretch, creating a timeless place where you and Charles were encapsulated. Locked in a shared gaze, the world outside this intimate bubble ceased to exist. Uncertainty lingered in the air, an unspoken question hovering between you two. Charles’ firm hold persisted, grounding the moment in the tangible warmth of his touch. 

As the stillness enveloped you, his eyes were fixated on your flushed cheeks, a canvas painted in hues of warmth. The intensity of his gaze conveyed an admiration that transcended words. To Charles, the sight of your blushing complexion was nothing short of captivating – an endearing revelation of vulnerability that only heightened your allure.

“Tellement jolie,” So pretty. The words were so soft. Barely audible if it wasn’t for your proximity. It was as if he didn’t even know he said them out loud.

You felt frozen while trying to decide if this was a dream or not. But when the pads of Charles thumbs made way to your face, tracing your bottom lip slowly, you knew you were fucked.

“Est-ce que je peux?” Can I?

You wanted to scream. Yes! You felt your stomach churning with need. But externally, you were calm. You needed to be quiet.

You made the move to nod your head when his lips collided with yours. It was slow and tentative at first. Like he was trying to test the waters. He pulled away for a moment, eyes staring into yours once again, as if he needed to make sure you were okay with this.

But as soon as he saw your lips draw into a smile, he knew he was fucked.

The second time your lips met it was feverish and messy. All tongue and no air. The clothes that he handed you previously, now lay on the floor in a messy pile, your hands sliding around his neck. You both go tumbling down onto the couch.

He groaned quietly into your mouth – a sound as if the taste of you was something he craved his whole life. His hands dropped from your jaw, closing around your neck, as you felt him push your further into the couch cushion with the weight of his body.

“J’ai besoin de toi,” I need you.  You managed to slip the words out, your fingers trailing through his hair on the back of his head.

Before you had the chance to press your lips back together, he was pulling away, leaving you breathless and a little confused until his hands dropped to the waistband of your skirt. His fingers shoving their way in and pulling them down, your underwear being yanked off in the process. His gaze met yours once more, filled with anticipation and eagerness.

“Tu as l’air tellement putain de bien comme ça.” You look so fucking good like this.

Like this. Spread out and beneath him. Completely bare and whimpering for him. 

You could hear him curse to himself as he draped your leg over his shoulder, seeing how wet you already were. 

The first drag of his tongue on you was enough to make your back arch instantly. He groaned, his nose brushing against your clit as he dipped his tongue inside of you. Every dip of his tongue sent you bucking your hips harder against him. And he loved it. 

With every stoke of his tongue, your fingers fisted his hair tighter. You began to buck your hips, so close to reaching your orgasm, but he denied. His hands were quick to push your hips down onto the couch. He wanted to hear you beg. 

“Charles,” you sighed softly.

“Hm?” You didn’t even have to look at him to know he was smirking. His tongue was placing slow licks to your clit, light enough to keep you right on the edge.

“S’il te plaît.” Please.

Charles was back sucking on your clit in less than a second, his hands sliding up to your covered breasts, squeezing them. He moaned into your pussy, the sound enough to send you spiraling over the edge. You gripped onto anything that was near and placed it over your face, trying to cover the moans that were escaping your lips.

Your body shook as you pressed the pillow into your face. He licked you as you came down and didn’t stop until you were practically shoving him off.

His lips were glossy and puffy, coated with you. A smirk on his face as he stood up and looked down at you completely flushed on his couch, half bare. You looked at the bulge of his cock, pressing against the seams of his dress pants, and then back up at his eyes.

“Bedroom?”

[truly-sincerely]

This Is A Masterpost

I'm Sincerely DeGelder. I'm a writer and part time kaiju. This is my writer bio: I will die if I go too long without seeing the ocean. My cat is Paisley and my wife is @elliwiny. I like writing comics the most, but I'm trying to teach myself to love prose too. My favorite thing to write about is awful people getting second chances. I prefer a hard-earned happy ending to a tragedy.

(art by Elliwiny, colors by me and @justerithings)

Opportunities

Sci-Fi Thriller webcomic about rotten people doing crimes and the amateur detective caught up in the middle of their schemes. Imagine if Nancy Drew was an alien who stumbled ass-backwards into the villains from Die Hard.

Currently updating Monday - Wednesday - Friday

The Verdant Deep

Action-adventure romance webcomic with an ensemble cast. It's about a group of adventurers who find themselves trapped in a dangerous underground realm. To their surprise, they find a home and a family in the sunless caverns… and a creeping otherworldly evil that seeks to devour it all.

Currently on indefinite hiatus

Cincerely on AO3

(Baldur's Gate 3)

Dark Star Falling M - durgetash/durgestarion - just act 3

Lifetaker / ɹǝʞɐɯƃuᴉʞ Gloomstalker M - part of a long-fic, durgetash - pre-canon

I'm also outlining a space opera called Black Dog Star and I talk about that and post concept work from time to time.

[thekinslayed]

Where Beggars Walk and The Lovers Swim

summary | A grieving widow strikes a deal to bring her husband back to life.

pairing | aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | inspired by orpheus and eurydice, angst, grief, death, book alys leaning, psychosis, incest, some spoilers for f&b, happy ending bc i was feeling sappy 🥹

wordcount | 3.3k

note | consider this my halloween fic :) not a v spooky person but i love me some mythology! orpheus is my fav especially and i loved this idea w aemond! lmk what u guys think!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Grief had made a phantom out of you. The days since your lover’s fall into dissolution morphed into one sluggish, forlorn disarray. You didn’t know how long it had been— weeks, months perhaps. A transition of incredulity marked your days, then anger, until the numb stretch of woeful nothingness saw war’s end and they whispered of the madness of the green women. 

Helaena had gone before you did. Fallen just as Aemond was, and you deemed how much better in tune they were, even in death. You were always a beat too late from him, a step too far to reach. And now Mother wouldn’t stop frantically whispering in your ear, clutching her only living lifeline by the sleeve with rapid whispers of despair. It was making you sicker. 

The last living dragon took to the skies at dusk, and for a moment, it was beautiful. Vibrant orange sparked a sliver of life in your otherwise lethargic being, but even that had its end. A punishing downpour of rain slowed your mount as you crossed the Riverlands, but never deferred. The haunting sight of Harrenhal was imposing through bleary eyes, greeting you with its ominous embrace. 

Not a soul in sight, the shades of the dead welcomed you in its broken halls and dilapidated walls, and you wondered whether your love was one of them, lingering in some dark corner. Finding her was no challenge, an easier feat than the chase in the night you prepared yourself for.

Alys Rivers sat in what might be one of the last remaining chambers left intact. Her verdant orbs looked at you with expectance, a knowing lift in her thin lips at your trespassing. Your eyes hardened from where you stood at a careful distance, the sharp throbbing in your temple in tune with the cold rain pelting the castle from within. You stared at the face that had stolen from you, had taken the one thing you held dear, and led him to his death.

You had walked in with determination, an angry weight to your every step. Yet, you faltered. The wiggling bundle suckling on her chest fed with satisfaction, a head of silver shimmering against the dark of the night. You stared at the tuft of starlight on its head, and you felt your withered heart scream with the shrapnel of its last broken howl. A piece of him, yet never to be yours. 

“Princess. My, what a surprise.”

There was a slippery smoothness in her voice that made the hairs on your nape raise in warning, the grip on your dagger tightening. Your spine remained rigid despite the rising caution in your veins. The sight of your mount circling the open hall was a comfort, an impregnable shield from the unknown. 

“You killed my husband,” you glowered, the crackle of your voice unfamiliar as it echoed in the vast threshold. Alys raised her eyebrows, though her eyes remained the same glittering green that left you uneasy.

“I am afraid you confuse me for someone else. Your brother-husband had been slain by your uncle Daemon, princess, not I,” she responded, tone sticky with something sweet. Her raven mane was one with the night, a sharp contrast to her pale flesh. The woman appeared young enough, but common whispers would tell you she was older than the castle itself. 

“You fed him with lies, delusions disguised as heretic promises of victory,” you seethed, taking a dangerous step closer. “You took what was mine, and I have come to take it back.”

The babe pulled from his mother’s teat. It stared at you, into the empty depth of what had been a soul. Your void of amethyst hues stared right back. For a moment, it felt like looking at the lonely purple of your dragon’s good eye, the same magnetic ocean that once left you dazed and light as a feather. Until Alys shifted her son, cradling him into her neck, a protective hand on his nape as though you were some pathetic cradle snatcher. You came here for no babe, but an apparition.

“Larys Strong once told me of a story of a sorceress in his father’s house. He said she would tell of his future through the fires in the hearth, cradled him to sleep with dizzying visions he’d fail to make sense of. I figured he told me that to scare me, but I only thought him a fool,” you said, tilting your head as you stood before her. “I imagine you can do much more than lowly tricks on unassuming men. The gods give you power, do they not?”

“Speak plainly, princess, and perhaps we might find agreement,” she warned, stopping your pacing with the sudden drop of her tone. You stared at her, fiery willfulness blazing in your Valyrian orbs.

“I want you to bring my husband back to life.”

Alys’ laugh was shrill, piercing through the continuous pitter-patter of the interior storm. It made you want to cower like a child, foolish for such a demand. Yet her eyes scarcely told you what was beyond her power, merely of her amusement and deceptive wit. “You come into my castle and order me to raise the dead? Quite a bold demand for a woman with naught to offer,” she jabbered, triggering a tick of contempt in your chest. Dragon’s blood began to grow bubbling beneath your flesh, heated despite the chilling cold of the night. 

“I have been ripped off my all! I have given you my husband, let him seed you a son with no qualms and now he is dead!” Your rage echoed with an air of despair, no doubt reaching the ears of the listening dead. It only grew as Alys tutted at you as though you were but a petulant child, stomping her pretty feet with her stubborn demands. The glint in her eye called you for what you were— desperate.

“Oh dear darling, your prince’s bed was too cold without a wife in it. He wanted you here, did he not? And yet you weren’t,” she cooed. Her blow landed with a crack on your spirit, hitting you right in the middle of where it hurt. You were needed home, you had told Aemond. War made him grow frazzled, the emergence of bastard dragonriders left him grasping to regain the upper hand. You were no fighter, but Aegon was gone, and Helaena broken with sorrow. You had asked him for forgiveness, and a promise of reunion, until you were too late and all that remained of him was a skeleton tethered to his mount in deep water. 

“My little dragon–” Alys smiled, caressing her babe’s head, “–merely came as a token of gratitude for my company.”

The semblance of perfidy in the wide-eyed child reminded you of the failure of your fruitless marriage, broken in vow yet once blazing like wildfire. It should have been yours. You should have been blessed with a babe as beautiful as your husband was, not this conniving woman hungry for your blood. The numbness in your occiput jolted to life with the heat of rage— no, this anger was cold. Your veins icy and sharp like the deepest northern winter, your suffering harsh and unforgiving. Alys’ refusal would have to come with the repercussion of forcing your hand to break even.

“You take me for a fool,” you said, punctuated by the billowing howl of the wind’s turn as your dragon perched on a fragmented column. Your mount may not be the greatest to descend on the burnt stronghold, but she may as well be the last to burn it all to the ground, powered by a widow’s grief. Alys sat straighter in caution, her hand tightening over her son’s skull. You took another step closer, emboldened by the scales’ tipping, while your dragon stood mighty in command. “I know what you are. I have heard of what you see and what you have sought, one of which came from my husband. Your hand forges much more than what you made known, do not hide it.” Your pulse thrummed erratically on the cusp of something great, something tangible. You started to see Alys’ resolve quiver while yours grew denser and fortified. “Bring him back, lest I harden Harren’s curse with my dragon,” you commanded.

“You command me with threats, child?” she spat, standing abruptly. Your dragon growled in warning, rumbling with the thunderous storm that remained relentless. 

Your lips itched to smirk at the shaken witch, your chest beaming with hope. “My mount is starved, and she is intemperate. She merely awaits a single command,” you pushed.

“What you seek is to transgress the gods’ will,” Alys tried to reason, but her excuses never carried the idea of her inability. Your eyes fell on the child, the maddening effects of your agony clouding your better thinking. Green eyes followed where yours went, widening. 

“If so, I come to collect my debt in one way or another.” With your words, your dragon swooped down, sending a harsh gust of wind on her descent that shook you where you stand. She roared, its echo so loud that even rain and thunder bowed to the dragon’s might. 

With a heavy sigh, Alys closed her eyes, muttering something under her breath. You waited with impatience, fingertips quivering to reach for what was once out of your reach, now a hair’s breadth away. “So be it,” she said. The raven-haired woman sent you off to the Weirwood, free to take what you would find. Your boots squelched with every swift step as you blazed through the halls, bursting past doors to reach the courtyard where the tree stood tall, its trunk white as snow against the night. 

Before its face, you found him. 

“I pray my eyes do not deceive me now,” you whispered to yourself. Your reaction was nothing short of visceral— your hands shook tremendously, as did your knees, and you felt bile start to creep upward at the incredulity of it all. Yet you remained unmoving in your step, eyes wide in disbelief.

Aemond looked mythic under the pouring rain. Soaked to the bone, yet the storm had only added to his state. The dark green speckles of moss on his boots proved where he had been all this time. Freshly plucked from the depths of his demise, your husband stood tall in his armor, rippled Valyrian steel glinting in the winks of moonlight. “Is it really you?” you asked, voice cracking with the plea that this was no jest. Aemond nodded, his good eye as wide as yours, his sapphire eye beautifully haunting under the moonlight.

Your lower lip quivered with the threat of bursting into tears, but the astonishment left you frozen still. You took small steps toward him, careful that he might disappear lest you moved wrong. His hands were pruned and pale in his re-emergence, quivering in the harsh chill. “My dearest love, you are cold,” you said, taking off your fur-lined cloak in haste. However, your dragon took a step back before you could shield it over him, his hand raised to keep his distance away from you. “Aemond?” you asked in confusion, yet he remained unspeaking.

“Must not be too keen with greed, princess, he is not yours yet,” a familiar voice rippled behind you. Alys materialized in the middle of the courtyard, her babe nowhere to be seen. The glint in her eye returned, sending a cold shiver down your spine. You figured it wouldn’t have been this easy, yet the fear gleamed in your heart as you stood protectively in front of Aemond. 

“The prince Aemond is free to depart with you, but on one condition— he shall remain trailing your shadow as you walk on ahead. You will not speak, nor will you pause, or turn until you pass Harrenhal’s gates.”

Your brows furrowed, temper heating with these games. “You still conspire to deceive me, witch?” you fumed, calling on your bond to sense where your dragon was circling above your heads. 

“Tis merely the gods’ provision,” Alys shrugged. Uncertainty clouded the joy that was only beginning to bloom in your heart, mind weary of such games. You looked back at Aemond— your Aemond, real with flesh and shared blood— and you find in his eye the hope you thought had been long stolen. His subtle nod urged you on and you both took to descend the winding steps down to the towering castle’s gates. 

The challenge proved to be a difficult feat. It was hard to see through the rain, harder with the darkness of the hour of the wolf. Your only comfort was the constant clink, clink, clink of Aemond’s armor that made known he was still there. Though your dread only grew with every step, silently praying in desperation that this was no sick trick by the gods. 

It seemed the closer you inched towards the gates, the more relentless the storm grew. Perhaps it wanted to knock you off your path, make your husband slip and preying on your helpless need to turn around. With every sonorous thunder, you started to lose the sound of Aemond’s steps behind you. Even your dragon, previously following your trail above in the skies, seemed to be lost in the depth of darkness, and you were all alone. The unease in your spirit made the torment unbearable, urging you to hasten down the steps. 

The tall iron gates marked the end. The moment you passed its threshold, your relief was insurmountable. You breathed deeply, before turning around to face your lover risen from the dead, but you were only greeted by the cold wave of dread when you failed to find him behind you.

You had gone too fast, too eager. The drenched armor must have slowed Aemond, or it must have been the struggle of navigating the darkness with his lone eye. Perhaps rising from the depths of the God’s Eye left his sculpted form of prowess dampened with exhaustion, his bones aching with every step he had to take.

You had gotten too far ahead, and Aemond was still on the steps.

“No,” you whispered, rushing back to reach him. He knew well before you, merely standing on one of the last few steps. Your anguished eyes met his, and you found only warmth when you thought to find anger, until the blinding strike of lightning made you shield yourself.

He was gone when you opened them.

The wail that tore through the night was enough to reach the souls in the highest tower. By morning, the people found their missing princess curled up on muddied earth, sick to the core with a burning fever and a broken soul. 

Whispers of madness only amplified at the state you fell in, deathly pale and fatigued as you wept day and night. The gods seemed to snicker and delight at your lament, teasing you with fleeting winks of your lost love following you wherever you went. The court’s growing worries led to confinement in your chambers, left to rot in misery. Your world remained unmoving, yet time passed on. When pity came and you were let out for air, you took to your dragon with one last destination in mind.

The Gods Eye was cold as steel in the late winter. The overcast sun was tepid on your wearied body, and the grass had lost its vibrancy in your eyes, the forests painted a dampened shade. It was unclear how long you sat there, merely staring at the gaunt reflection of a girl you once knew. Shedding until left in your shift, you dipped into the icy water, swimming into its depth and plunging your head under repeatedly. You willed yourself to hold your breath, diving deeper and deeper, filled with a last determination to find him. Your lungs started to strain with exertion, your muscles prickled with an unforgiving cold, but something in your heart kept you under. The lake’s odd currents swept you far from where you came from, leading you to a depth of rubble and bones. It was then you found her monstrous shell, Vhagar, mighty to its core with remnants of rotting flesh clinging stubbornly in areas. Atop sat her rider, but where she was bones and water-swollen meat, he was whole. His silver hair billowed around like a curtain, and his fingers reached up for you. 

A third chance, perhaps the gods may not be so cruel after all.

Yet the more you swam, Aemond stayed too far away, but you persevered.  You swam deeper and deeper, despite the burning in your chest and the lightness in your head begging for reprieve. Fueled by the last shreds of life, you urged on further, kicking and treading through the darkness of the depths, until light began to shimmer through the water. All of a sudden, you were swimming upwards and not down, until you broke through the surface to find yourself right where you started.

Where everything was once bleak and cold, was now warm and bright. The grass a luscious green, and elegant swans swam around the lake. It was warm like late spring, the air fragrant with flowers, and it made you happy. You swam back to the lake’s edge to where you had left your garments, but instead of finding the pile of fabrics, a tall figure awaited you.

Aemond.

“Beloved,” he spoke, and he smiled. Gods, how he smiled. 

You gasped in disbelief, warily keeping your distance in thinking that this was yet another vision. “I pray my eyes do not deceive me once more,” you whispered. Your husband took a step closer, his smile unwavering as he cupped your cheek in his hand. How warm. He was always so warm. “Tis truly you,” you breathed.

You took his hand in yours, planting a reverent kiss on his knuckles. Emboldened, you took a step closer. Your hand, pruned and pale in your re-emergence, caressed his firm chest, now rid of the weight of his armor. You ran your touch upward to trace his jaw, his lips, to the faint scar of his cheek where his jewel winked at you in the sunlight. His hands found their home on your waist, caging you close in his arms despite the water dripping to your feet. “Have I kept you waiting?” you asked, tears prickling the corner of your eyes as your lips quivered. For the first time in an inconceivable amount of time, your anguish was ended. 

“I have stood where you have, walked behind your shadow. I have seen what you have seen. Where you have gone so have I,” Aemond said, the melody of his voice a beauty you had started to forget. 

“You were always with me?” 

“Enduringly so,” your love nodded, tucking a damp piece of hair behind your ear. 

“What a terribly journey it must have been— walking behind someone so blind. Forgive me,” you sobbed, clutching the cotton of his shirt tight, lest they took him away from you again. His lips were warm as he kissed away every tear that fell, before claiming yours in a spellbinding kiss that voiced the promise of eternity. 

“Such torment is all left behind now, my love. It is only you and I,” Aemond vowed. 

Joyous laughter filled the air as the lovers swam side by side, overflown with love in the sweetness of a cosmic reunion. Your chest felt light and your body much more filled with life as it ever was as you found your home in his embrace, free at last.

History would recall the Kinslayer perished in battle, chained to his dragon, and his wife aptly so in the pursuit of him, though local folklore would tell otherwise. In the years following the dragons’ dance, the Gods Eye met no shortage of curious passersby diving to find whatever soul lurked in its depths. Some eager to find the prized Dark Sister and the bones of the queen of all dragons, but all anyone ever found in its depths were a pair of remains, of two lovers embraced they say, intertwined for eternity. 

[rongloa]

𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 | 𝐌. 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

↜ CONCEPT — current | CHAPTER ONE ↝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲. falling to earth like a comet—brilliant, burning, and broken. you don’t know their ways or their meaning. but there’s no harm in finding one thing for yourself.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬). mark grayson x tamarenean! reader

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. future slow burn, future gore, heavy angst, two aliens falling in love w/ each other, invincible series typical violence, extreme misunderstandings, eventual nsfw ( more to be added )

𝐚/𝐧. hey so i watched invincible, fell in love w/ the show + mark grayson and decided i needed to make a stupidly sad fic for it with hatred, devotion and just pure sadness. this is just a teaser kinda idea thing i had. this won’t be canon but it’s like an introduction?

also, reader isn’t described or named! i just used starfire for the headers cause i’m a hoe for aesthetics and reader is based off her, rahhhh 🫶🏼🫶🏼

The grass is warm beneath your bare feet, the suns casting soft golden rays across the open fields. Flowers swaying and dusting the field with glittering pollen. Petal-creatures chime in high pitches as they drift lazily through the air, brushing against your cheeks like curious new friends. You chase them with laughter tumbling from your lungs, your arms outstretched, the long fabric of your dress fluttering behind you like wings. Your toes skim the highest of the stems below, tickling the soles of your feet.

The hills roll in vibrant gold and verdant green, and the palace looms gently in the distance—all soft spires and opalescent stone, yet to break beneath the pressure of the sky.

You are small, but the land feels endless. Safe. Yours.

Near the balcony, amid flowers that weep tears of lilac, two figures watch you from the shade of the flowering trellis. Your mother—tall, radiant, fierce—clasps her hands behind her back as your father speaks softly, he’d always loved your mother.

“She’s wild,” She says with quiet love, with a tone that would melt your heart if you heard. “Like the suns themselves live in her chest.”

Your father doesn’t smile often, but he does now, faint and proud. “And she’ll need that fire. The council will object. She’s young, barely through her first year of training—”

“She learns.” Your mother’s voice sharpens.

“She was born second,” he reminds gently.

“She was born ready.”

You tumble into the grass with a shriek of delight as one of the petal-creatures bursts with a glittering white puff in your hands, harmless and fragrant. You don’t hear the words drifting behind you. You don’t know that your name is already being spoken like a promise. You only know the sun feels good and the sky is yours.

The future hasn’t touched you yet. Not with fists. Not with fire.

Not yet.

Earth is a blur beneath you, a storm-wrapped swirl of oceans and lights and clouds too soft to be real. The depth of space had dulled your senses, only the blistering heat that you had felt breaking the ozone layer of your home was what accompanied you. You don’t know what this planet is really like. They called it “chaotic.” “Violent.” “Hopeful.”

The last one is all you cling to.

You break through the atmosphere like a comet—fire streaming behind you, heat clawing at your skin, the air screaming as it parts around you. Earth. The third planet from the centre most star of their system. Blue, green, and heartbreakingly whole. You almost can’t believe you made it.

As you come to a stop within the clouds dust whips up in plumes from the desert so far beneath you. The innermost part of the continent would be a good start. You don’t break the cover you have, not yet. You simply fly along as you inspect the odd formations and land.

The gravity is almost too easy to shoulder here, and the sun warming your skin in a delightful way. It’s much different from your home, from the never-ending gardens and sprawling fields of just flowers.

It makes a pang of sickness rise in your stomach, home. You miss is with a kind of pain that nearly drags tears from your eyes. You miss the animals too, and your family.

Drifting around a particularly large rock formation and a gust of wind drags your hair into whipping the back of your neck. You can’t help the way you cringe as you continue, in search of any structures, or life.

Just when you begin to see abandoned metal sheds on the outskirts of an old worn down town, there’s a loud roaring in the distance, no, directly behind you.

Three fighter jets flank you within seconds of you breaking cloud cover, tight formation, their sleek metal wings slicing the sky like blades, blue energy pulsing from the engines in them. You hear the sharp ping of radar locks, the low rumbling of the engines, and maybe a little fear from the breathing in the cockpits.

A mechanised voice rings out, travelling over radio waves. You can’t understand it, don’t know the words or the their meaning.

Dragging yourself to a slower pace, you turn to look upon the closest jet. An odd thing sits within the cockpit, a massive black mask masking what would be their face.

If you were in their position, a foreign alien roving over your country, you would not be lenient. No announcement or sign of peace. You would be ready to fight too.

You raise your arms outwards to show you carry no weapons.

The jet that flies above gives another signal—more deliberate. The voice crackling in a foreign tongue, but the intent is clear: Land. Now.

You obey, not out of submission, but hope. Earth wasn’t supposed to feel like this—so sharp, so suspicious. But you left a world where suspicion became bloodshed. You left when the faceless conquerors came, burning through your cities, razing your skies, and laughing as they conquered what your people had built over the millennia.

You land roughly in the middle of a desert, dust pluming around you, the jets circling wide before hanging low to the ground. All their noses aimed downsight, at a singularity. At you. For a moment, you feel alone in the wide expanses of the desert. Even with three souls hovering fingers over the killswitch.

Then—footsteps. Measured. Unafraid.

It makes you shiver, but not out of the heat or cold. They approach from your left, you turn to face them.

A human, who looks a lot like you. Physiologically wise. Two hands, a face, and legs just like you. It makes a smile bloom on your face even as this situation feels too suffocating, like there aren’t barrels of weapons pointed at the space of you.

A man approaches, through the dust. Tight black suit. Grey hair that sits far back on his head. Piercing eyes, and a gnarled looking scar that makes you too curious not to stare. A battle scar, a story.

You give a polite smile, or what you can muster. It’s a bit too toothy with the way his eyebrow shifts just the slightest. Your teeth are sharper in appearance then his.

A bow instead? That’s more respectful. You hinge at the hips and your hair curtains your view of the man who’s slowed to a standstill, the tips of your hair create odd little swirls on the ruddy sand below. Glancing up from your position through parted strands his face is the same, a placid look of indifference. Fuck, not that either.

“Thank you for welcoming me to your planet, Earth…” You gauge his reaction and still nothing. You’re ready to bang your head against the floor and plead with any higher power that he understood any of that, only a word. Even the ‘Earth’ part, but it wasn’t likely. Your home world accent is still too thick. The word probably sounding more like, ‘E-ar-tuh’.

You just bring yourself back up, hands clasped in front of you as you simply wait for him to engage instead, maybe say one word you can recognise out of a million. Oh, the cursed language of Earth and this weird man who wouldn’t react to a g’lark eating the face of his mother.

As you stand and wait, he looks at you like a man who’s seen too much and still wants answers. It sets the nerves in your hands on fire, and the hair at your nape stand on end.

You think he says his name, ‘Cecil Stedman’, and perhaps a question. An important one that you cannot conjure an answer too. Not yet.

You can only bring yourself to nod once.

[starlit-sanguine]

Random assorted Obey me headcanons.. PART 2..✦

Part 1 here <3

Diavolo:

Most of his smiles are out of politeness when he's around nobles and other people of status, though you can tell he's irritated from the way his eye twitches or his jaw clenches when his allies bring up politics or some other important topic, all of his Smiles are reserved for you, and the people within his circle ♡

The prettiest eyes ever, they're this enchanting shade of Gold that look like pools of honey when they hit the sunlight. They hold this sense of wonder whenever he talks, ever the curious one as he's still learning about human customs and how they work, speaking of humans; Always looking for you or Solomon within a room, excited to speak to either of you! if you're together? even better because he would love to see how you interact!

His coat has to be sewn often because when he's bored in meetings he'll play with the golden buttons on the sleeves and they end up falling off due to the constant fidgeting and tugging... Barbatos really needs to get him some kind of toy because he's tired of accidentally pricking his hands with the sewing needle.

FANGS, not really visible unless he's laughing or smiling at one of the brothers dry jokes or escapades. He's quite embarrassed by them because he thinks they make him look silly.

Stretches a lot, and when his back makes a snapping noise he always gets a little kick out of seeing Lucifer in specific, grimace. He never noticed until one day he stood uo to grab something from his office, and his shoulder cracked, and Lucifer immediately scowled and raised a brow, still standing in his designated place in the school council office; Diavolo noticed this and quirked a brow, Lucifer was never this expressive usually? So he did it again and the demon had to look away in disgust, and now the future king of the devildom pulls this shit all the time just to see his friend get grossed out.

Barbatos:

Has this really cute habit of tilting his head when he's confused, he doesn't mean to, its just his nature. But its so out of character for him, which is probably why its so amusing to Solomon and Diavolo... mostly Solomon. He and Luke will be reading up on a recipe and it'll mention an ingredient he's never heard of.. causing him to tilt his head and hum a questioning "hm?"

Also has pretty eyes, This verdant green that stands out against the rest of his features (apart from his hair that I'm jealous of), They also glow in the dark, which scares the everloving soul out of anyone in the room with him. His eyes are also reflective like a cats))

At Diavolo's meetings he keeps his tail wound around his leg, ready to put anyone in their place. No one will speak up to the future king of the devildom when his right hand man has glowing eyes, a pratical weapon around his leg and a charming yet threatening smile that he uses on people to shut them up.

Gets along well with the brothers, but mainly Lucifer, One night whilst Diavolo was hosting a gala, Lucifer couldn't take the overwhelming.. everything that was the ballroom, so he snuck out to take a small de-stress walk, that's where he caught Barbatos sat by the piano- also destressing for a minute- and they sat together for awhile as he played a few notes as he talked, about the devildom, Diavolo and maybe opening up slightly. Lucifer thinks about that moment often, and how he knows things about Barbatos that many will never know.

In his rare downtime he likes to read, finding the world of fiction to be interesting. Especially fantasy books written by humans because he likes to see how wrong they were about certain things.

Simeon:

A really fast walker, unintentionally taking huge strides as he makes his way through the halls of RAD, always has to stop every few minutes to let Luke catch up to him, He's only a baby!! he can't walk that fast!!

Fairly clusmy, Once he was at a convention and someone asked if a spelling error in TSL was actually a hidden meaning for something and he just shrugged and said in his sweet voice, "No, I just could not spell the word correctly so I went with it ahaha"... yeah the fandom was furious for weeks.

Walks with his hands behind his back, mimicking Lucifer. It started at a meeting with MC, Beelzebub and Luke and Diavolo and Lucifer were discussing the whole Cerberus incident, and Simeon felt out of place with his casual stance, so he held his arms behind his back to try and look stern, it just kind of stuck..

Has this stupid flirty on and off thing with Solomon, talking to the sourcerer with a teasing tone to his voice and smiling whenever the Wizard retorted with some innuendo that definitely shouldn't be repeated out loud. Should the Angel be making dirty jokes with the human? no. but will he stop?... also no

the prettiest smile in the whole cast, makes everyone smile back due to the amount of positive energy that the Angel radiates, he just wants everyone around him to be happy, bringing joy is his job after all.

Solomon:

The most charming voice, complimented by his pretty eyes and stupidly cute smirk, he wants you to know that his attention is fully on you, that despite all his pacts and in all the years he's been alive, that you're the only one that truly matters.

Easily jealous, he won't show it but there'll be signs, his grip will tighten on your shoulder, or his eye will twitch in annoyance, he barely gets any time with his beloved apprentice! now someone's trying to shorten it??! He thinks not.

For the love of the stars above he cannot sit normally, cannot sit with his legs together otherwise he might go insane. The worst man spreader known to man, also has an awful slouch when he's deep into his work.

His eyes shimmer when they hit the moonlight, they look dead in the sun, just a stone brown with nothing to add to it, but when the moon hits them there's this explosion of colour, Within the grey split brown of his sectoral heterochromia lay splices of blue and green, touches of his past humanity that he's lost touch with.

Has piercings that match Asmo's. Collarbones are adourned with a pretty silver bar with pearls holding them in place, and his earlobes are pierced and usually decorated with earrings that dangle and show off some of his personality that hides behind his smile.

Luke:

I only really have one for him!! and its that he loves the rain, due to memories with Barbatos and Mammon from the walk they took, (referencing a memory card) His favourite flowers are hydrangeas also due to this memory!