#actually this is one of the most primal forms of composing

[claratyler]

This is literally like the second class im teaching at this daycare center and ive already written like 7 songs/rhymes. Who knows maybe maria will release kids music one of these days (which i think could be kind of lucrative, which my pesonal concert music is certainly not). im chugging these songs out like theres no tomorrow. Its just all the shite you find online is just so so bad im so sorry kids that are growing up with cocomelon or whatever the fuck, with weirdass harmonic choices and prosody that makes you want to remove your ears. Its literally unusable (to me)

[biteofcherry]

FOR NEW YEAR'S EVA...

Can you dish more about Ruby Garden Bucky and Curtis? It always seems so natural to pair best friends Steve and Bucky together in AU's where they co-exist, so what drew you to having them fall in with the same reader?

Okay, I'm going to be completely honest here and admit that Doms!Curtis&Bucky came to be purely by chance.

I started Ruby Garden with the idea of Dom!Steve as a single dominant. I haven't imagined him co-doming with Bucky, or anyone other. Actually, I haven't thought about Bucky in that universe at all for a long time.

Then, when I had most of the Doms already established, this idea of a submissive being topped by a pair of Doms came to me. And my brain started working hard on finding the right pair. Since I was working mostly with CEvans characters, Curtis was my choice. Then I tried to match him with someone and I just couldn't see him working with anyone, until Bucky popped into my mind. Now that dynamic I could see right away.

They're both rather quiet, composed, have that raw predator side to them. I knew I wanted a submissive with all the primal kinks and they just suited that perfectly.

Bucky is still Steve's best friend in that universe, but they don't top together, never had. Curtis, who in this universe was a part of the Army unit that Steve commanded, knew Bucky long enough for them to form a deep bond that definitely helped them when they first started experimenting with taking one submissive. And they find it working for them perfectly.

They trust each other to look out for one another and support each other - they do trust the submissive to safeword if needed, but knowing your top partner will intervene as well helps a lot. Intervene not only if it's too much for the bottom, but also if they sense the other top is struggling with feelings or sensations.

[dailycharacteroption]

Planar Tour Guide: Positive Energy Plane part 2

(art by Nele-Diel at DeviantArt)

Geography

Creation’s Forge, as it’s other name: the Positive Energy Plane, suggests that it is filled with and generates a continuous supernova of positive energy, the very essence of life itself.

Supposedly, the plane was created in the earliest days by drawing the ambient life energy into a concentrated mass like the formation of a star, while also opening up an equal and opposite counterpole of void and entropy: the Negative Energy Plane, in order to counterbalance the one and start the cycle. Whether this is true or not, the natives of the Void don��t like the denizens of the  Furnace very much, while the latter pity the former for reasons the do not share with most mortals.

In any case, the key feature of the plane is the overwhelming amounts of life energy, which as we mentioned yesterday, prove lethal not just to the undead, but also to inadequately-prepared mortals as well, overloading their bodies and bursting them like fireworks.

Those with such protections (and some eye protection for the incredible brightness) find the plane mostly bereft of solid matter. What solid structures do exist are usually islands of crystallized positive energy, where strange plant-like structures grow and thrive in the burning radiance, creating forests of these strange forms of life. Naturally, such an empty expanse has subjective gravity, with those within able to choose to fall in a direction in order to traverse it.

There are, however, structures and some form of civilization to be found on the plane, primarily with it’s guardians, the jyoti. The largest and most well-known of their cities is Arudrellisiir, a city of crystal in the shape of a lattice ring surrounding one of the many star portals linking to a material plane sun, in this case a particularly bright blue-white star. While the city is breathtakingly beautiful, acting like a great refracting kaleidoscope from the light of the central portal, it is also nearly impossible for mortals to visit due to the xenophobia of the jyoti natives.

Mentioned vaguely in only a few esoteric texts, the Dominion of Ksathras is the home of the seven manasaputra kumaras, who use the realm as a place of trial for the souls who find it, offering enlightenment. Because of this, the exact form and terrain of the realm changes at their whims to better suit those who find it. As most who do are not actively seeking alignment, the trials within can often be harrowing in nature.

Another major location is The Garden, an island situated between three jyoti cities, and actually being minor-positive in nature, making it easier on mortals who venture there. Within the garden are massive crystalline flowers, some bright and gleaming, other wilting. The jyoti claim to have planted this garden before the first mortal soul formed, and each flower there represents a mortal soul that ascended to divinity, the health of said flower reflecting that divinity’s status. (Though would-be god-killers will find that harming the flowers does not in turn affect the deity in question). The jyoti tend the garden dutifully, and harvest seeds, pollen, and nectar for divinatory purposes, though rumor has it that such things might have other uses if one could brave the guardians and get ahold of the stuff.

Many adventurers, outsider, and powerful beings sometimes come to Creation’s Forge to negotiate with the jyoti to store or imprison artifacts or creatures within impregnable vaults, and none are more impressive than the Prismatic Vault, with walls and defenses composed of the same multicolored magical barriers as prismatic wall or prismatic sphere. (It’s possible that those spells and similar ones originated on this plane. The Prismatic Vault has many wonders and horrors stored inside, ranging from hundreds of artifacts from across many worlds, as well as at least two liches of mythic power, two fiendish demigods, ant at least one fallen primal inevitable, with rumors of many more such treasures and prisoners as well, all surrounded by such powerful destructive wards and the lethal nature of the plane beyond.

The final listed notable location is perhaps the most grim, and serves as a reminded of what the jyoti and their allies are willing to do to keep the influences of the gods out of their home. The Titan’s Prison is the last remaining trace of an ancient war where at least one deity (now forgotten) led an army of titans to the Furnace to attempt to conquer it, but were soundly defeated, entrapped inside a crystalline prison. Occassionally, massive humanoid shadows are seen beating at the walls from the inside, while sometimes the bodies of danava titans appear impaled on the burning spindles of crystalline positive energy jutting from the globe, burning slowly in the positive energy before being drawn back inside. Sometimes, manasaputra pay the prison a visit, whispering words of forgiveness, but no creature has ever been released or redeemed from within its depths yet.

As we can see, the Positive Energy Plane is a place of primal, overwhelming energy which can leave the visitor aghast as the wonders within, both in awe, and in horror. It is not a place one travels to lightly, for it is hostile both in it’s raw energies, and the distrustful nature of its primary denizens.

Speaking of which, we’ll be taking a closer look at these inhabitants next time!

[dailyadventureprompts]

Footnotes on foes: Eldrazi

Hey DMs, do you need an unfeeling aberrant force to threaten your campaign world at various scales but don’t want to use mindflayers? Bored of lovecraftian knockoffs threatening to drown reality in abstract but unspecified “madness”? Well have I got the monster for you friends, It’s the Eldrazi: an unknowable and all consuming horde that’s here to reduce your setting to nothingness.

I’ve always had a fondness for the Eldrazi after they originally debued in magic the gathering, alien beings that sap all life from their surroundings and seem to have no other aims beyond the total and complete obliteration of whatever world they happen to dwell on. (plus they have a super cool look, and in the end isn’t that what matters?)

Eldrazi have a lot of mystery surrounding them, but in trying to puzzle them out I came up with my own headcanon that was too good not to use.  Below the cut I’ll go into detail on how I think the eldrazi function, and how you can best use them in your campaigns.

TLDR: The eldrazi are the great decomposers of the multiverse, reducing dead worlds down into their base components, and then into dust to be reabsorbed by the cosmic cycles of the astral sea. A perfectly natural process, but one that can go catastrophically wrong should the eldrazi be drawn to a world that has not yet died as they often are by witless dabblers or disruptions to those same astral currents. When they end up on a world they’re not supposed to be they end up creating wastelands, fighting against nature like an infection.  

While they’re scattered about many regions of the astral sea where stagnation looms, the eldrazi mainly occupy a region of the multiverse known as the dead realms, a cosmic landfill where realities decay into one another and the faceless horrors can do their work.

It is important to note that the eldrazi are not a species, or in many ways actual organisms: Each eldrazi brood (differentiated by trends in their alien anatomy and what they transmute material into) is the intrusion of a singular will into the cosmos with its own aims, which constructs its bodies from the errant energies of whatever world it happens to interface with. This makes communication with the eldrazi highly difficult, especially for those who encounter them without prior knowledge, as the will that pilots an eldrazi brood experiences the whole of the brood at once, many bodies at once, many dimensions at once. Even the most intelligent and independent members of a brood are merely hands in comparison with the greater body, able to exert a greater tactile degree of control but not actively conscious.

This alien existence extends to their anatomy: resembling summoned or illusory creatures, the body of an individual Eldrazi lacks blood or organs, and is instead a notional matter primarily used to store the magical potential they sap out of the worlds they digest. When an eldrazi dies they do not rot, instead they erode, the magic that composes their being leaking back into the laylines they siphoned dry.  Such transference can cause surges of wild magic proportional to the size and number of the brood slain.

This lack of a physiognomy extends to how Eldrazi seem to “breed”, budding like fungus or grotesquely merging to form larger bodies, which amounts to the prime entity behind the brood splitting up its focus for multiple tasks.  Sometimes the entity needs to actively participate in its act of decomposition, in which case the brood begins draining all it can, growing all it can, and then merging together into an eldrazi titan. These entities can lay waste to landscapes but also think in ways the disparate brood could do nothing about.

Eldrazi have a strange relationship with magic, in that their singular goal seems to be to extract the magical/living/quintessential essence out of dead worlds, meaning they become very adept at reading and manipulating systems that are built upon these primal currents. Eldrazi broods spread along a plane’s laylines like mushrooms along a rotten branch, sapping at its nutrients till the line goes dead and the landscape with it. This infection can even spread to enchantments, curses, and magical constructs, bringing them into a titan’s influence and even providing a seedbed for the growth of more eldrazi.

Very little of this information is well known by planear scholars, and even less of it is understood by those who might encounter stray eldrazi that’ve ended up scattered on their worlds. What most understand is that the Eldrazi show up following great magical disasters, create a wasteland wherever they go, and seem to have an innate ability to overcome and subvert magical defences. Most are content simply to hunt them on sight, and the prime eldrazi seem more than content to let their stray buds be culled while they focus on the real task of eating worlds.

Adventure Hooks:

High in the mountains there’s said to be the wreck of some kind of flying ship, that locals say they saw hurtling through the sky decades ago only to crash somewhere amid the peaks. The ship is in fact a spelljammer, and salvaging its helm might just be the first step in the party setting off on their first cosmic adventure. All is not well though, as when they begin exploring the high cliffs and isolated valley, they find ship and much of the surrounding landscape has been turned into a spiralling labyrinth of giant bismuth crystals, the haunt of a few eldrazi the jammer crew picked up while fleeing a dying world that ended up scuttling them in the end. 

Powerful spikes of magic draw the eldrazi across the planes, so after the mid-campaign villain attempts their apotheosis and fails miserably, not only to the party have to deal with whatever threat that unleashed, but increasing numbers of sightings of horrifying entities skulking about the countryside near the villain’s old lair. This gives the party a chance to re-explore an old dungeon, finding its corridors warped and its chambers filled with dust. 

Desperate to impress their supervisor by summoning a rare creature from the outer planes, a group of arcane grad students at the local magical college have unwittingly ended up snagging an eldrazi away from its brood, and are intent on studying it. For its part, the eldrazi seems oddly complacent, but is infact exerting its flesh warping influence on the students and the animals surrounding their lab. The party first gets involved tracking drown grotesque chimeras of ratswarms and stray beats, which invariably lead them through the increasingly organic sewers and up into the lab, where the eldrazi has broken containment.   Not all the students are accounted for, and while some got away with benign abnormalities, others have been incorporated into the brood, and will seek new places to take root.

Also, while there’s no official stats for eldrazi, a lot of great creators have already taken the challenge upon themselves, so I encourage you to go out and find some of their work.

[inkykeiji]

i can take you there but baby you won’t make it back

character: dabi | todoroki touya

notes: stepcest (kind of—ur parents aren’t married yet) with dabi-as-touya x a very naïve and inexperienced reader, normal!AU (no quirks, dabi also has tattoos over his scarred + fully healed skin), university!reader, implied yakuza!dabi, excessive use of the words niichan and good, praise kink, fingering, face fucking, title credit = save that shit by lil peep lmao  uhhhh yeah i hc dabi as a very intelligent and perceptive individual soooo i feel like he’d be a master at reading a person & their emotions and then adapting his manipulation techniques

warnings: 18+, pseudo-incest (stepcest), noncon/dubcon, slight somnophilia, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship, size difference, slight degradation, mentions of drug use

words: 7.1k

part 2.1 | part 2.2

synopsis:

“You want to be good for me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Of course,” you respond instantly. Later, when you lay awake in your bed, you’ll feel ashamed by your actions, by how readily captivated you were with him, by how easily he was able to manipulate you with those sapphire eyes and that rough voice—

But in that moment, you’ll do anything to pull that little smile from him, anything to hear him tell you you’re good. You just want to be good.

Something dark and primal flashes in those gorgeous eyes as they gaze down at you, a small grin spreading across his face. “Of course,” he repeats softly.

        ✰          ✰          ✰          ✰          ✰          ✰          ✰          

Your dad’s been dating Rei for a while—nearly a year, now—when things begin to get serious, and he proposes to her.

She accepts, so it’s not exactly a surprise when she suggests you guys move in with her—she’s got more than enough space, she tells you, it’s just her and her son in that big old house—and your dad seems pretty thrilled about it. This was the next step before marriage, after all.

You like Rei well enough, she’s always been nothing but sweet to you, and anyway, your father’s relationship really isn’t any of your business or concern.

It isn’t that you don’t want to move in with her—her house is in a better part of the neighborhood, a standard detached upper-middle class home, and just a short walk from a bus stop that’ll take you directly to university, which you start in a week.

It’s just…You’re a little apprehensive.

You know she has kids. She mentions them in passing every once in a while, but you can’t for the life of you remember their names, or their ages, or how many of them there are. You know they don’t all live with her, that her relationship with her ex-husband is complicated and rocky at best.

But you’re still surprised to hear that only one of them, her eldest, lives with her. She tells you he’s five years older than you are, that he’s a clever, smart boy, going off on a tangent about how disappointed she is that he didn’t go to university, because ‘he would’ve done so well—he could’ve shone so brightly.’ Something about the way she says that, the way her voice sounds almost sad, makes anxiety turn to lead in your stomach. She talks about him as if he’s already a lost cause, but he’s only in his mid-twenties, isn’t he?

You understand the moment you see him. The man standing in front of you as you shift from foot to foot unsurely in the foyer of this unfamiliar house is about as far from what you anticipated as he could possibly be.

He’s tall, skin pale as moonlight, with jet black hair and the most stunning blue eyes you’ve ever seen. But that isn’t what captivates you. It isn’t the lip ring curled around his bottom lip snuggly, and it isn’t the tongue piercing you’re about to find out he’s hiding in his mouth, either.

Every inch of the exposed skin of his arms is covered in intricate, seamlessly flowing tattoos—or, for a moment, you thought it was tattoos, plural. Upon closer inspection, you realize that each arm is actually covered in one giant tattoo, giving a new definition to the term ‘sleeve’. It’s all black ink, not a splash of colour anywhere, depicting an extremely detailed and anatomically correct mechanical arm, complete with what would’ve been joints, ligaments and bones in the form of wires and steel.

The tattoos extend onto the tops of his hands, made to look as if surgical staples are peeling his skin back to reveal the robot beneath. This same tattoo continues up his neck, along his jaw and onto his cheeks, all the way to his bottom lip, spreading across his entire face and disappearing into his hairline and onto his ears. Finally, there’s a small portion of the tattoo underneath his eyes, the surgical staples lining the edges of the face tattoos, too.

It startles you—you’re not necessarily scared, you just…weren’t expecting that. But there’s no denying the rush of breath that involuntarily escapes your lips as your eyes search his face, raking over his body in a brazen way that should make you feel shameful, travelling back up to find him smirking smugly at you, raising an eyebrow as your eyes meet again.

The look in his eyes tells you he knows, knows what you’re thinking about, knows how undeniably attracted you are to him, and scalding heat floods your cheeks.

He chuckles a little, which does nothing but add insult to injury, and sharp anger slices through your chest at the way that you stomach absolutely drops at his gravelly voice. You can’t believe yourself, can’t believe your body is reacting and responding so readily to this man—this stranger.

He introduces himself as Touya, in that rough, deep voice that forces a jolt of electricity to run through your veins. You idly wonder what your name would sound like on his tongue, how it might sound if his voice dropped to a growl, find yourself stuck thinking about this for the rest of the night.

✰          ✰          ✰          

To your disappointment, and as much as you are unabashedly interested in him, you don’t interact much with Touya for your first few weeks in the house—in fact, you barely see him at all.

This only piques your curiosity about him more, finding that you’re unable to tear your eyes from him on the rare occasion that you are in a room together. He catches you staring every single time, and he has the audacity to chuckle to himself and shake his head when his gaze meets yours, your eyes quickly darting away and cheeks burning at his laugh.

You begin gathering little tidbits of information about him, purely sourced from interactions you witness in the house, desperately praying for something that’ll give you an opportunity to start a conversation with him.

Your efforts prove fruitless when, almost a month and a half since you moved in, you’ve still only spoken a handful of words to him. You do learn a bit about him through observing, though.

You discover that he’s a smoker, which really doesn’t come as a shock at all. Marlboro’s are his favourite, and he’s always got a pack in his back pocket or rolled up in the short sleeve of his t-shirt. He must have them imported—Marlboro’s are incredibly rare to find all the way in Japan.

Touya must have a lot of things imported.

You find out that every other Thursday, Touya discreetly stuffs an absurdly large wad of cash—all composed of ten-thousand-yen bills—into his mom’s hands, forcing her fingers to curl around it. She fights him on it, every time, but he’s firm and adamant that she take it. It always ends with Rei giving him a small, watery smile, Touya pressing a kiss against the side of her head and murmuring that he loves her.

After you witness this interaction for the first time, you begin to notice that, while the house looks relatively normal on the outside, it is stuffed full of luxury on the inside. Flat-screen TVs each complete with full entertainment systems, state of the art appliances that are somehow up to date with all of the latest trends (including a smart fridge—absolutely ridiculous), custom made furniture, ornate rugs, a housekeeper that drops by every Sunday…

You have no idea what he does for work, but you think you’ve got at least some sort of idea when you catch him one night, just past 2AM, exiting his room and using a thumb to brush excess white powder off his nose. His eyes catch yours, pupils blown and shining in the low light, and he smiles darkly at you, winking once as he walks away.

You don’t ask—no one ever does.

You don’t ask about the crimson splattered on the toe of his boot, or why he sometimes smells metallic, like copper, the strong scent wafting after him and invading the halls as he stalks leisurely toward the bathroom. You don’t ask why he leaves the house at odd hours in the night, and you definitely don’t ask about the soft clinking and clicking you hear through the thin walls every so often while he cleans his gun at 3AM.

You’re not sure if it’s really any of your business, anyway. So you stay quiet, and continue to wait.

The opportunity finally comes one Wednesday in October, two weeks before Halloween, when you’re in the kitchen after school busy fixing yourself an afternoon snack. Touya comes home uncharacteristically early—you rarely see him before 10PM, so his entrance scares you, and you jump a little.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as he passes by behind you, just an inch too close, just enough so you can feel his body heat radiating off of him.

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, shaking your head a little and trying in vain to stop your hands from trembling as you spread peanut butter across a piece of bread.

You can feel his eyes on you, and it makes you nervous, makes your skin crawl in a way you’ve never felt before. He laughs a little at your struggling, leaning against the counter next to you and crossing his arms over his chest.

“You don’t have to be so nervous around me, y’know,” he says with a smirk, eyes glittering at the way your lips part in surprise, your breath stuttering a little. “I’m your niichan after all, aren’t I?”

You hadn’t even considered using the honorific until he himself uses it.

Your hands freeze, hovering over your plate, and you look over at him slowly. “You…Want me to call you that?”

“You can, if you’d like,” he says smoothly, nonchalantly, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It makes no difference to him, he tells you, but when he finally looks back at you, you think you can see it in his eyes—a sharp, small glimmer of…of something. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way you can’t decide if you like or not.

But this is it, you think, this is your opening to finally begin talking to him.

So you do. And the smirk he gives you the first time you address him by the honorific, voice quivering slightly as you ask him where Rei normally keeps the blender, is nothing short of predatory.

“It’s on the top shelf. It’s too high for you, though,” he says, voice so sickly sweet it almost sounds mocking. “Let niichan get it for you,”

It isn’t, but you let him get it for you anyway.

And he knows—knows he’s got you the moment you gasp at the honorific leaving his lips, trying to hide it behind your hand, nodding quickly and squeaking out a thank you.

It starts after that. He begins playing with you; a sick, perverse game of cat and mouse, hunter and hunted, and you play your part perfectly.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it, if you said it didn’t send wicked sparks of excitement shooting up your spine and an intense fluttering in your stomach.

And it starts slow. It starts with gentle pet names—honey, sweetheart, princess—and fingertips trailing down your arm as he passes you. It starts with a large hand placed on the small of your back, guiding you—out of the house and into his car, out of the kitchen and into the living room, out of the hallway and into his bedroom—and with little pecks on your lips stolen when no one’s watching, quick kisses that leave you feeling exhilarated despite their chastity.

Suddenly, he’s home a hell of a lot more. He’s sitting too close to you on the couch while you curl up with a textbook, his thigh pressed against you and flesh burning hot through his black jeans. He’s joining the family dinner a few times a week, idly hooking and unhooking his ankle with yours beneath the table while smirking at you from across it.

Suddenly, he’s asking you if you need a ride to school, or if you need someone to pick you up. You don’t, you tell him, the bus is just fine, but he insists. It’s what niichans do, he says. He wants to take care of you, he says.

Who are you to deny him that, really?

✰          ✰          ✰          

The first time you experience Touya angry is about a month after the inciting incident, when he catches you walking home with a few of your university friends.

He had texted you earlier that day, telling you that he—very regretfully, he said—would be unable to pick you up from school this afternoon because ‘something had come up’.

You didn’t question what it was—you knew he’d lie even if you did. So you accepted it obediently, reassured him that it was fine, that you’d find another way home.

You’re pretty sure if you had told him that you didn’t have any extra change on you for the bus suddenly whatever important thing that had ‘come up’ which so desperately needed his attention wouldn’t be so urgent anymore. But you didn’t want to be a bother, or inconvenience him, so you say nothing.

Two friends decide they’ll accompany you on your walk home, so you aren’t lonely, they claim. Normally, the walk from campus to your house is about thirty minutes, but that day it takes you nearly an hour, wasting time goofing around and walking slowly as you talk idly.

Touya’s already pissed that it’s taken you so long to arrive home, that you’ve ignored all of his extremely considerate texts asking if you’re alright, but when he sees you squished between two boys, giggling as the three of you stumble up your driveway—he’s fucking fuming.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asks, voice calm and monotonous, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Your head snaps up—you swear he wasn’t there just a second ago—blood running cold.

His stance is relaxed, arms crossed loosely over his chest, lazily raising an eyebrow as your wide eyes meet his. Technically, the only indication that he’s furious is the blazing blue fire in his eyes, but your friends can read the tension in the air surrounding him, shuffling a little closer to you. This minuscule action does not go unnoticed by Touya, sharp jaw clenching once.

“You had niichan worried,”

You’re frozen a few feet away from the porch, unable to find your voice, to move your legs, to breathe at all.

“I didn’t know you had an older brother,”

Your eyes do not leave Touya’s as you speak, the words hoarse. “Oh, we’re—”

“Yeah,” Touya bites, irritation finally bleeding into his voice. “She does,” his eyes float back to yours. “Come here, princess,”

Your body snaps into action, moving automatically before you can even comprehend it, allowing Touya to tuck you into his side the moment you reach him.

Your hands are shaking, but you have no control over them as your fingers curl in his white t-shirt, clinging to him. To your surprise, the arm around your shoulders hugs you closer in response, thumb caressing you.

“Thanks for making sure she got home safely,” he tosses over his shoulder, managing to make the simple sentence sound like an insult, tone bordering on patronizing, while he turns on his heel, marching you both inside.

“I-I’m so sorry,” you’re rushing to say the moment the front door shuts behind you two, Touya’s arm still wrapped firmly around you.

He looks down at you coldly. “Don’t you dare pull shit like that again,” he tells you, eerily calm voice forcing spikes of icy dread up your spine. He pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in as his eyes bore into yours. “You had me worried sick,” he breathes out then, squeezing you again. You’re surprised in the sudden change of tone, feeling your chest swell at the thought of him fretting over you, a small smile gracing your lips.

“I…I did?”

Touya’s eyebrows furrow, as if he’s offended at your questioning, mood morphing in the span of a second. “Of course you fucking did,” he spits like you’re stupid, arm dropping. “Do you ever check your phone?”

“Wh-What?”

Touya rolls his eyes. “Check your phone,” he calls out airily as he begins walking into the kitchen, shaking his head a little, disappointment rolling off him in waves.

Hastily fishing your phone out of your bag, you’re astonished to see eight texts from him and three missed calls. You scroll through the texts quickly, each one making you feel more nauseous than the next. ‘Is everything okay? You should’ve been home by now’; ‘Please answer me, princess, you’re making your niichan nervous’; ‘Where are you? Answer my fucking calls already’. Guilt turns sour in your mouth and you hurry after him.

“I-I really am s-so sorry,” you force the words out, unsure as to why there are suddenly tears stinging your eyes. He isn’t even doing anything—his back is facing you as he nonchalantly begins brewing a pot of coffee.

But the thought of him being upset with you, of losing his approval, sends a sharp pain searing through your chest.

“Are you?” he asks, and although his voice holds no malice in it, it causes your whole body to stutter with a harsh breath.

“Yes,” you whimper out, latching onto his arm and tugging in an attempt to draw his eyes to yours, to see how regretful you are, the remorse written across your face. “I should’ve…That was so careless and inconsiderate of me,”

“It was,” he agrees simply, voice still light, as if he’s discussing something as mundane as the weather. “But you’ll never do it again, right?”

“Right,” you agree readily, breathing out the word before you even realize what you’re agreeing to.

“Tell niichan you’ll never worry him like that again,” he finally looks over at you.

“I-I’ll never worry you like that again, niichan, I pr-promise,”

His eyes hold yours for what feels like eons, before he finally twists his arm out of your grasp, instead wrapping it around you and tugging you against his body. You stay staring up at him, eyes wide and obedient, breath bated as you wait for your next order, so pliant and ready to serve him.

“Good,” he whispers, eyes finally softening, and you feel like you can breathe properly again. His free hand cups your face, thumb running along your lips, then your chin, then your jaw. “You want to be good for me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Of course,” you respond instantly. Later, you’ll lay awake in your bed, feeling ashamed by your actions, by how readily captivated you were with him, by how easily he was able to manipulate you with those sapphire eyes and that rough voice—

But in that moment, you’ll do anything to pull that little smile from him, anything to hear him tell you you’re good. You just want to be good.

Something dark and primal flashes in those gorgeous eyes as they gaze down at you, a small grin spreading across his face. “Of course,” he repeats softly.

  ✰          ✰          ✰          

He begins to trust you more. You meet his friends, each one terrifying in their own right. Jin is alright, although his brain is fried from drugs, and he talks to and contradicts himself a lot, earning the nickname Twice from Tomura.

Tomura horrifies you to your very core—a tall, lanky man with sunken red eyes and sickly pale skin who looks like he’s one bad day away from death—and Touya tells you very sternly to stay away from him.

A university student not unlike yourself, Keigo is your favourite. Keigo is the most normal, with his wild blonde hair and enticing gold eyes that always look like they’re playfully holding the secrets of the universe just out of your grasp.

Keigo’s brain is always going a hundred miles a minute, although you’d never guess it with his trademark lazy drawl, speaking as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. But he can always keep a conversation going, knows exactly what to say to avoid awkward silences or lulls in the discussion, and you appreciate that. You think he’s so cool—he has so much knowledge about the oddest things, everything and anything, ‘a walking encyclopedia’, Tomura calls it, and it fascinates you to no end.

It’s the speed, Touya tells you one night while you’re laying on the couch, your body on top of his, the pads of his fingers dragging down your back in rhythmic strokes. Speed is Keigo’s drug of choice, you find out. Speed is the reason why Keigo knows as much as he does.

“Sometimes he doesn’t sleep for days,” Touya says. “That’s how he has all the time to memorize everything he knows—though that big overactive brain of his plays a part in it, too,”

The thought inexplicably makes your heart sink in your chest, and you don’t say anything else. If Touya notices your shift in mood, he doesn’t mention it. You idly wonder what Touya’s drug of choice is, but you’re too scared of the answer to ask.

  ✰          ✰          ✰          

It’s only a few nights later when you wake with a violent jolt, breathing laboured as you absentmindedly press your palm to your chest, trying in vain to calm your racing heart.

A nightmare.

You sit in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of your own harsh breaths echoing off the walls and debating what to do next. A minute later, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, wincing when your bare feet touch the cold hardwood, and pad down the hallway.

You try to trick yourself into believing that you aren’t using this purely as an excuse to spend the night with him. It really was so scary, you reason with yourself, it really has made you all shaken up…

Who are you kidding? You didn’t even attempt to go back to sleep.

You’ve been in his room plenty of times now—sitting daintily on his bed as he introduces you to new music, new movies, new books. Stuff that reminds him of you, he says, stuff that he thought you might be interested in. You’re grateful for it; there are so many things you’ve learned in the short time you’ve known him.

That isn’t all, though. There’s no denying the warmth that spreads through your body, that tiny excited flutter in your chest, when he calls your name and interlaces your fingers, leading you toward his room and telling you he’s got something to show you.

Yes, you’ve been in his room plenty of times now. But this is the first time you spend the night in his bed.

He’s still up, soft golden light leaking from under his closed bedroom door. Your hand quivers a little as you lift it to rap your knuckles against the wood. He appears in the doorway a moment later, leaning against the frame in a black t-shirt that looks like it’s a size or two too small for him, riding up to reveal a teasing sliver of milky skin, tips of his hipbones jutting out from the waistband of his plaid pajama pants.

“Princess? What is it?”

You didn’t realize you were staring, and you jump a little at his gravelly voice.

“Oh. I, um—Well, I just…had a nightmare a-and I can’t sleep,”

You can barely look him in the eyes as you say it, your cheeks burning. You both know it’s a lie.

But he plays along.

“Aw, baby,” he coos, drawing you into his arms, into his room, into his bed.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs as he turns on his side to face you, propping his head up with a hand. “Poor thing. Was it a bad one?”

Your mouth feels like its been stuffed with cotton, rendering you incapable of speech, tongue dry and sluggish. You nod in response, heat seeping into your cheeks again at just how loudly your heart is thumping while you roll onto your side. There’s only a few inches of space between your bodies now, his hot breath fanning across your face as he speaks again.

“Do you want niichan to help you forget about it?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, and you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, eyes searching his. Your thighs squeeze together at the way his voice has dropped an octave, low and husky, familiar heat pooling in the depths of your belly. He waits patiently, lifting a hand to caress your cheek, then runs his fingertips down your bare arm, goosebumps following.

Finally, you nod. You think you see the corners of his lips quirk up into the slightest hint of a smirk, but you blink, and it’s gone.

“Here,” he whispers, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you against him. Hand cupping your jaw, he tilts your face up and slots his mouth against yours.

You’ve kissed before, of course—in his bed, in yours, on the living room couch, on the kitchen counter with his hips shoved between your thighs—but this…this feels different.

These are kisses with intent, with purpose, with a goal in mind. These are kisses that keep you distracted—slow, soft, messy with saliva—as his hand slips down your body and between your thighs.

Your gasp breaks the kiss, wide eyes blinking up at him then fluttering shut as he brushes a knuckle against your clit. He hushes you, nimble fingers spreading your folds before he drags them up your slit, huffing out a laugh at how wet you already are.

“Were you thinking about something naughty before?” he gasps mockingly, sliding the pads of his fingers back down as he speaks.

His hand withdraws from your shorts and he orders you to lift your hips, tugging the waistband down your thighs. You squirm a little, forcing them further down your legs until you free yourself of them completely, eyes gazing up at him again, awaiting your next command.

Legs part dutifully as his hand travels back down to the apex of your thighs, pushing a finger into your soaking pussy.

It’s slow at first, thrusting leisurely with his middle finger a few times and loosening you up a little before adding his ring finger. Sapphire eyes watch his motions, captivated by how your eager little cunt sucks his fingers in selfishly.

“Look at that, huh?” he breathes, looking down at you. “Such a pretty little pussy you’ve got,”

You open your bleary eyes to peer at yourself, mesmerized by the way his fingers are pumping in and out of you, glistening in the dim light of his bedroom. He curls his fingers and you inhale sharply, hips twitching toward his palm.

“Oh?” he chuckles darkly, knuckles nudging the spot again. “Did niichan find something, baby?”

You don’t know, you’re not sure, you try to tell him, but all you can seem to manage is pathetic little whines while you nod your head.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he’s asking as the pads of his fingers tap against that spot, your entire body jolting.

“Y-Yes,” you whimper out, a little breathlessly. “But it’s never felt like this,”

“Aw, baby,” he coos, and it’s so condescending. “Then you weren’t doing it right, sweetheart,”

He quickens his pace, chuckles at the way you try to desperately fuck yourself on his fingers at such an awkward angle.

“Poor little thing, can’t even get herself off properly,” he tsks. “You need your niichan to do it for you, don’t you?”

Soft whines spill from your throat as you nod eagerly, your stomach coiling tightly.

“One day,” he breathes, curling his fingers with a vengeance this time, your hips rolling up off the mattress. “When we have the time, I’ll teach you how to make yourself feel so good,”  

He’s talking too much. You want to tell him this, tell him to shut the hell up, but every time you try to speak he presses the heel of his palm to your clit and grinds against it, effectively scattering all of your thoughts, soft mewls of niichan the only sound escaping your lips.

Can’t deny his voice is fucking hot though, a form of foreplay all on its own.

And he knows this, can read you like a goddamn book, especially when he’s got his fingers two knuckles deep inside of you. He can feel it, he tells you. You don’t even need to speak; he can feel your thoughts when his voice drops an octave and your cute little hole flutters, when he chuckles and your pussy clenches around his fingers—a slut for his voice, aren’t you?

“Pretty baby, you can’t do anything but nod dumbly, can you? Been fucked stupid by my fingers alone, huh?”

Your head barely moves, lost all control of your body by this point, only able to whimper in response.

“Gonna come all over my fingers, pretty girl?” the knuckle of his thumb begins grazing your clit in quick strokes. “C’mon, make a mess for niichan,”

And it’s pathetic, how quickly your body obeys. Your pussy squeezes once, twice, three times and you’re gushing all over his fingers, juices collecting in his palm, running down his wrist. You’re embarrassed—you’ve never cum that much before, have you?

Breathing still ragged, you nuzzle into his sheets, partially hiding your face from him. Nothing could hide the involuntary grin that forms on your lips, though. Arms snake under your boneless body, tugging a bit.

“Oh no, baby, we aren’t done yet,” Touya’s saying while he hoists you up, letting you lean heavily against him.

Head tilting in confusion, your glazed eyes find his. “Wh-What?”

He looks down at his lap and your gaze follows, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips at the bulge straining against his pants. “Doesn’t niichan deserve a nice reward for helping you forget that scary dream?”

Eyes darting back to his, you nod slowly, whispering out, “Yes. But—But…” But you’re hesitant; you’ve never done anything like this before. Shaking hands reach for the waistband of his pants, beginning to pull them down but freezing when the head of his cock peeks out.

Touya sighs. “Come on, you wanna be a good girl for niichan, don’t you?”

Of course. Of courses you do.

Then he wants you to touch him, he says. He’ll help you; he promises.

“But you gotta get it wet first,”

You ask how, and he laughs at you. “With your tongue, stupid,” he tells you.

He instructs you to kneel on the floor and you comply immediately, trembling legs folding beneath your body as you situate yourself between his knees. He inches forward on the bed a little, shuffling himself to the edge and caging you between his thighs. Bringing his cock close to your mouth, he taps the head against your closed lips.

They part instantly, obediently, his eyes flashing with something sinister as you take the head into your mouth and suck hesitantly, big eyes staring up at him waiting for approval.

He curses, his hips twitching ever so slightly, skin stretched taut over bony knuckles as a hand forms a fist in the sheets. Starting with kitten licks at first, the tip of your tongue barely touches him, tracing veins, then begins to gain more confidence as he groans a little, telling you what to you, that you’re doing good, so good for him.

Watching him through thick lashes, you have the audacity to look bashful as your tongue laves around the shaft, drenching it in saliva. A hand tangles in your hair and yanks, pulling you off his cock when he decides it’s sufficiently wet enough. Long fingers encircle your wrist, bringing your hand to form a fist around him.

“Like this,” he says, jerking your hand up and down.

You’re terrible at it, movements awkward and uncoordinated, but in that moment he doesn’t really care. He’s irritated a little, wondering out loud how anyone can be bad at handjobs while a large hand wraps around yours and forces you to speed up. Bad? Your heart sinks at the small three letter word, a hard lump forming in your throat, looking as though you may start crying.

But he cums quickly after that, ropes of searing hot white painting your cheeks and face. You watch him the entire time, panting a little, lips parted slightly and your tongue darts out to lick them, tasting him.

He laughs at your bitter reaction, and it’s such a patronizing sound.

“Don’t worry,” he says, collecting the cum off your face and forcing his fingers into your mouth. “Someday I’ll stuff your throat full of it.”

  ✰          ✰          ✰          

You can no longer mention needing—no, wanting—anything around him anymore, because within the next few days it’s sitting pretty and perfect on your bed, propped up against your lace trimmed pillows.

He’s so good to you; you should be grateful you have such a generous niichan, one who eats you out and spoils you with gifts. You’re so spoiled.

And he tells you this, in the dead of night when you wake to find him shoving his cock into you, snarling a little at your soft whines of protest.

“Don’t be a brat,” he warns. Just be a good girl and take his cock. He does so much for you, can’t you be good for him?

Yes, yes, you want to be good for him, you want to be the best for him.

By this point you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve woken up in the middle of the night with his head between your thighs, prepping you to take him.

“Stay sleeping, baby,” he’ll tell you, words whispered into your hair as his cockhead nudges against your hole.

As if you could ever stay sleeping when only a few minutes later he’s pounding you into oblivion, large hand clasped over your mouth so tightly his blunt nails are digging into your cheek, so hard that it’s yanking your head back, neck beginning to ache.

He tells you to be quiet, “You don’t want anyone to hear, do you? Then we’d have to stop, and you don’t want that, right, sweetheart?”

You don’t, you whimper. Of course you don’t—you want whatever he wants, you want to be his perfect little baby, you want to be told how good you take his cock, the praise mumbled against your skin in a low, strained voice right before he fills you with cum.

  ✰          ✰          ✰          

He disappears for a few days near the end of December. You have no idea where, Touya answering your curious texts with playful quips at first before he grows tired of it and tells you to stop fucking asking.

But eventually, he returns.

The front door slams shut and your body flinches with a jolt of excitement. Adrenaline spikes your blood when you hear his heavy boots colliding with the hardwood, getting louder, louder, louder…

He passes right by you, not glancing at you at all. Moments later, the sound of water hitting the tiled shower wall echoes down the hallway.

And you wait. Patiently, you wait, like the good little girl you are, not daring to move a muscle. Eventually he re-emerges, hair still damp, a few strands sticking to his neck.

With a groan, he collapses on the couch next to you, flopping his head into your lap and gazing up at you with glazed, blown sapphire eyes.

“You’re high,” you say softly, not accusatory, just an observation. He giggles a little.

“So what if I am?”

“What did you take?”

“Oh,” he gasps mockingly. “Oh no, baby, I can’t tell you that,”

Why? The question is burning on the tip of your tongue, and you can tell that he’s anticipating that to be your next response, but you bite down on your bottom lip, holding it in. You know his answer already, can practically hear his patronizing voice—Because good baby sisters aren’t supposed to know about stuff like this.

“Can I try some?” you ask instead.

All of the mirth fades from his eyes in an instant, and he moves in a flash despite his inebriated state, so quick you can barely tell what’s happening. His large hand wraps around your bicep in a bruising grasp, pulling you towards him as he sits up, his face an inch away from yours.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he spits, cobalt eyes blazing and voice rumbling against your chest. “And if I so much as catch wind that you’re using, have a mere feeling that you’ve tried it—even just once—I’ll slaughter you and the fucker you got it from. Do you understand me?”

Surprised tears spring into your eyes and you nod jerkily, body beginning to tremble as your breath gets caught in your throat. You want to tell him that you didn’t mean it, honest, you promise!; that you were just kidding around, you swear!, but you can’t, voice mangling itself with the hitched little breaths on the back of your tongue.

He growls at your silence, his grip around your arm tightening and you cry out, terrified that he might actually crush the bone with his bare hand.

“Say, yes Touya, I understand,”

“Y-Yes Touya, I understand,” you manage to stutter out, voice returning only at the command of a direct order, tears spilling over and rolling down your cheeks in pairs. His eyes search your face for a moment, his features contorted in fury, before he sneers at you, squeezing your arm once then roughly letting go, shoving you away from him.

You fall backward against the arm of the couch, heart thumping so vigorously you’re sure he can hear it. He groans, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, exasperated.

“Fuck,” he sighs, eyes opening to glare at the ceiling. “You’ve ruined my high,”

You stare at him, breath coming out in uneven huffs, clinging to the couch.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, terrified to move lest you upset him more.

He’s silent for a moment, still staring up, until he lolls his head to the side, glancing at you through the corner of his eye. A small smirk spreads across his face.

“C’mere,” he says, nodding his head a little in indication.

“Wh-What?”

“C’mere,” he repeats. “Come make it up to me,”

Your body’s moving before you’ve given it permission to, crawling into his lap obediently, thighs on either side of his hips. His smirk widens, and you love it—you love how much control he has over you without even trying, you love the way a quiet whimper slips through your lips as his large hands begin kneading your flesh, running up your legs and grabbing your ass.

Lips trail up the column of your neck, and you tilt your head back, a silent plea for more. You can feel the way his lips curl into a grin against your skin, nipping at it a second later.

“So, how you gonna make it up to me? Huh?” he shifts his hips under you, pressing his hard cock into your clothed core. You whine a little, grinding against him.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” you breathe out while sharp teeth mar your collarbone.

“The hell you waiting for? Show me,”

You begin sliding down his body and he pushes on your shoulders, forcing you to your knees between his spread thighs. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, gaping pupils outlined by a thin ring of blue.

Holding his gaze, you lean forward with your pretty little tongue hanging out and begin licking along the straining bulge, tracing it slowly, the denim rough against your sensitive muscle. You relent though, lapping at his clothed cock in slow, long strokes, and his jeans are just thin enough for you to feel him pulse in response.

A giggle bubbles up past your lips, muffled by the denim, already beginning to feel heady as you pull simple reactions from him. Your mouth forms a cute little ‘o’ and you suck on him the best you can through his jeans, drooling all over his lap and soaking through the material.

The hand in your hair tightens into a fist, yanking hard and pulling your mouth away. “Stop fucking teasing,” he warns, a hint of something ominous in his voice.

You obey, because you always obey, tiny fingers working to quickly unbuckle his belt, pop the button, yank down the zipper. He aids you, lifting his hips and allowing you to tug his jeans down his thighs enough for his cock to spring out.

His own hand wraps around the shaft, you pausing mid-action as you reach for it.

“Open,” he demands, your dutiful lips parting immediately, letting him push his cock into the warm, wet cavern.

He sets a brutal, punishing pace from the start, refusing to give you a single moment to adjust. His other hand fists in your hair, forcing you to stay still as he rams his cock down your throat.

Reflexive tears burn your eyes, blurring your vision. You blink quickly to clear them, desperate to watch him, to catalogue all of his micro-expressions and the sound of his voice as he grunts out your name, to burn it into your mind, etch it into your very soul.

Touya’s head falls back against the couch, Adams apple bobbling with his rough whimpers, long neck and sharp collarbone on full display. If your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, you’d love to lick up his smooth skin, to trace the dips of his collarbone with your tongue and sign your name in brilliant splotches of blue and purple.

You’re gagging around his cock now, starting to feel lightheaded and struggling to inhale enough oxygen. The ache in your jaw is beginning to spread, but you ignore it, stretching your mouth open wider, to take more, to be good for him, to make him proud. It’s worth it for the hoarse, throaty moans you’re pulling from him, to hear your name shuddered out, followed by a breathy, “Fuck,”

He forces hot cum down your throat a moment later, and you choke on it, sputtering around his cock, throat spasming as it tries to force the foreign object out. He won’t let it, though. He holds your head in place, nose pressed against his pubic bone, and you can do nothing but take it, like a good little girl, like he tells you to.

But it’s all worth it. It’s all worth it, to hear his broken whines like that, to have him look down at you and pull your hair and tell you you’re good, so good for him.

And you’re sobbing by the end of it, gasping for air the moment he lets go of you, wheezing violently as your head collapses against his thigh.

“Did I—” you cough, voice raspy from having your throat fucked raw, “—Did I make it up to you, niichan?” you gaze up at him, eyelashes spiky with residual water. You’re the perfect picture of obedience, strands of hair stuck to your face where your salty tears have dried and swollen lips gleaming with saliva as you watch him with glittering eyes, waiting desperately for his praise.

He looks down at you, eyes devious and diabolical, chest heaving a little. “Of course you did,” he tells you, corners of his lips tugging up into a sharp smirk as you melt into him. “You always do, don’t you?”

[mandoalorian]

The Secret Of The Wish [Max Lord x F!Reader] SEX POLLEN

Summary: You’re a new intern for the Wall Street Journal, sent out to interview Maxwell Lord, a businessman who has suddenly found financial success in the oil drilling industry. When you ask him what does he owe his success to, he gives you a surprisingly honest answer: through the power of the wish. You make the mistake of humouring him, and playing along with his little story until he proves to you just how powerful wishing can be.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT (sex pollen in the form of wish granting therefore there is automatic dub-con) unprotected p in v, male oral, handjob, tit play, butt play, spanking, cockwarming, creampie, degradation, praise kink, office sex, power-shift, dom/sub dynamic, implied age difference, mutual pining.

Word count: 4400>

Masterlist

REBLOGS appreciated! 🤍

Black Gold Cooperative was booming with business. Even the outside of the building was swamped with hundreds of people who were desperate to get inside and speak to Mr Lord himself. Luckily, you were a journalist for the esteemed Wall Street Journal and your position in the company had earned yourself an interview with the successful CEO. The entire world had thousands upon thousands of questions for Maxwell Lord, and you were the lucky intern who got to meet with him on this humid Wednesday afternoon.

A tall blonde woman who you assumed was his secretary, led you to his office. All his employees seemed to be young, attractive and wore only the best designer clothes. It was almost intimidating. You couldn’t mess this up. You were conducting an interview with one of the most successful people alive - this could actually be your big break in the industry. Taking a deep breath, you made an attempt to swallow away your nerves before making your way into his own private office.

It was extensive in size, with large plants and statues in every corner and on every surface. Honestly, you found his taste in furnishings to be quite tacky. You knew it was just his way of bragging about how wealthy he was without actually saying anything. He was neck deep in paperwork and he hadn’t even noticed you were just standing there, in his office. Your eyes flicked across his messy desk, taking in the sight of multiple opened bottles of vitamins, colourful smoothies and other supplements. You made a mental note, not exactly pinning the salesman as a health freak. You’d been standing there for longer than you’d anticipated and he still hadn’t looked up, so you cleared your throat and prepared to grab his attention.

“Mr Lord… I’m here on behalf of Wall Street Journal, we’re doing a segment on Company Sudden Search....” you began to introduce yourself but a roll of his eyes and a flimsy yet disapproving gesture of his hand cut you off.

“Yeah yeah, I know,” he grumbled, taking a swing of his green juice before fastening the cap back on the bottle and pulling a face of disgust. If he thought it tasted so bad, why was he drinking it? Maxwell took a minute trying to compose himself for the interview. He’d waited his whole life to be interviewed by the Wall Street Journal and no matter how bad his migraine was… he couldn’t mess this up.

In fact… there was something about the way Maxwell Lord looked in this moment. His bottle blonde hair was sticking up in random places, probably due to the beads of sweat that laced his forehead. His tie was pulled open and his suit jacket was crinkled, yet he still made the effort to keep it on for whatever reason. He didn’t look like the persuasive, bright eyed salesman on the television, that’s for sure. You supposed all those studio lights could make anyone look different, but that didn’t necessarily mean he looked bad. He didn’t look sick as such, just a little disheveled. He kept rubbing his temples as if he had a killer headache. You considered asking him if he was okay, but that wasn’t why you were here.

The prolonged silence made Max Lord look up at you from the many papers on his desk. He was frowning, and if one thing was clear, it looked like he was having a bad day. It looked like he could do with some major stress relief. The first two buttons of his pinstripe shirt were open, and his collar was wonky, and honestly? You had to fight the urge to stalk over to him and help him out. You imagined running your fingers through his golden hair, caressing his face and letting your hands wander down his chest. You imagined whispering dirty little things into his ear until he ached for you. There was something about teasing a higher-up that you just couldn’t resist. Nevertheless, you cursed yourself for the inappropriate thoughts. You were a young intern for one of the most successful journalism companies… and shit, he was the CEO of what had suddenly become the richest organization in the world. He was a powerful man, more powerful than you knew. It would be foolish to mess around with a man like Maxwell Lord.

Maxwell took a shaky exhale and done what he could do best. Fake a smile. Feign confidence. Pretend like he was okay... like he had it together. He promised himself that he would not lose control of his power— he couldn’t— but this moment was only the start of his descent into madness. He never knew how hungry he could get... how satisfying his power could be, until he met you.

“Come here sweetheart,” his frown curled upwards into a smirk and his eyes began to gleam again, just like they did on his famous infomercials. His voice became a little louder, and a little more confident as he stood up and padded around his desk, pulling out a chair for you to sit down on. You hesitated, his change in attitude wasn't lost on you, but still, you obliged, and shuffled into the golden plush chair. The material was so soft and you struggled to suppress a moan. “Everything okay?” he asked you, placing a large ring clad hand on your shoulder and giving you a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah I just… I’ve never sat on anything so comfortable.” you confessed, shuffling around. Maxwell’s eyes lit up with desire at your comment and his gaze fixated on your face.

“Really?” Never?” he chuckled lightly, brushing his thumb against his lower lip as he took in your appearance. Just the shape of your perfect body was enough to initiate something primal in him. The tightness of your blouse and the vision of your short pencil skirt that cut off mid-thigh already had his cock straining against his tailored suit pants. “I can think of at least one more comfortable thing in this office for you to sit on.”

You’d be lying if you said you were unfazed by his little flirtation. If any other middle aged man had said something so crude to you, you’d have snapped back with something witty to put them in their place. But Maxwell Lord wasn’t any man and his charm alone had cast you under a spell. Your knees were weak and you felt like putty under his touch. Even when he removed his hand from your shoulder, you felt completely and utterly submissive to him. 

You cleared your throat and opened up your notepad. “I’m just here to ask you a few questions…” you told the businessman, biting your lip nervously. Maxwell nodded and sat on the edge of his desk, waiting patiently for you to get started. “So uhm, Forbes is reveling in the fact you’re self made… but not much is known about your past. We don’t know about your family or where you come from… is there anything relevant you’d like to share with the world?” you asked curiously.

And for the first time, Maxwell Lord broke his gaze with you and looked down at the carpeted floor. “There’s not much to say, really.” he said, but there was something in his tone of voice that indicated he wasn’t willing to provide any further details. Hoping you hadn’t struck a sensitive cord with him, you glanced back down at your notepad to ask him another question.

“I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but not much is known about your personal life. A handsome, wealthy man like yourself can’t be single, right?” you asked, even startling yourself over how over bearing you’d begun to sound. Maxwell let out a chuckle and quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I’m single, yes. Tell me darling, is this Wall Street Journal or US Weekly?” he joked, and you felt a flush of heat radiate your cheeks. You knew better.

“I’m sorry. It was an unprofessional question,” you quickly backtracked. “Do you uhm… do you have a pen… I could borrow?” You asked awkwardly, feeling a little irked over how flustered his simple presence had made you. You'd been so nervous to actually meet with Max Lord, you'd even forgotten to bring something to write with. You were so embarassed. But Maxwell was hardly paying attention to your lack of organization, and instead he just smiled and grabbed a gold encrusted company pen from his desk. “Thank you.” you said timidly. “Can I ask you something?”

“That’s why you’re here… isn’t it?” he retorted playfully. 

“The interview is about Company Sudden Search and for some reason there are no questions about your company… just you,” you frowned apologetically. You hadn't come up with the questions, one of your executives had. You were just there to look pretty and milk as much information out of him as you could. “I guess the world is curious about you, Mr Lord. More curious about your private life than this empire that you have created. But Black Gold Cooperative had been off the grid for many years only prior to this week and now suddenly you’re the wealthiest company in the world. You’re the richest man in the US. And data shows absolute no correlation towards that. Your purchased oil wells were dry until one day they just weren’t. It wasn’t gradual, but Mr Lord, we are living during the Cold War and oil is as scarce enough as it is. How… how did this happen? You must know something.”

As you rambled on, Maxwell stared dead into you. You hadn’t been asked to say this, this was coming from your own interest. You had done your own digging about this (just like any successful journalist would), snooping into Maxwell’s business and finding out exactly which oil fields he owned and how much oil was in them in the first place. This wasn’t coming from the Wall Street Journal. This was coming from you. Maxwell never expected to be confronted with such a question. You were practically trapping him, but the way you could swindle the truth out of him was an attractive quality of yours. Not many people could get the truth out of Max Lord.

Maxwell chuckled lightly. He could tell you. It wouldn't make much of a difference. Besides, you’d be foolish to believe the truth. You’d think he’d gone insane. Had he gone insane? These damn migraines… he was drunk on power… his mind had become corrupt with the idea of fortune and success. And he needed this interview to go well.

Maxwell grinned, as charming as ever, and took both of your hands. “I made a wish.” he told you, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You paused, unsure what to make of his comment. Was he making a joke? It didn’t sound like he was joking. In fact he sounded more serious than ever. “Like… upon a star?” you asked, giggling only slightly in attempt to make a judgement of whether or not he was just messing with you. Maxwell smirked and nodded his head. He’d expected that you wouldn’t believe him.

“On my journey to self fulfilment I locked into a secret, the secret of the wish. So I wished for it. Or, someone wished for it for me…” Maxwell explained, talking in tongue twisters. His fingers brushed over your knuckles. As you listened to him, he noticed the way your eyebrows knotted together in bewilderment. He was definitely serious about the wishing thing. But if he wasn’t going to be honest with you, then maybe this interview was more trouble than it was worth. Just as you were about to break away your contact with his hands, he continued. “Tell me what you wish for you and I will show you how it works.”

That was quite the proposal coming from him.

You blinked. “Uhm…” He stared at you, waiting for you to come up with some kind of answer. You supposed that you could always just humour him. “So you’re like a genie?”

“I’m Max Lord, sweetheart, and I can make your darkest fantasies come true as long as you just say the word.” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

The sexual tension between you both was undeniable, and it had been since you had entered his office. His already chocolate brown eyes had darkened considerably with lust. You pursed your lips together into a fine line and you tried your very best to ignore the fact that your lace panties were damp with arousal. You knew he was powerful. Strong… sexy. You’d been in his office for barely five minutes and he already had a hold on you.

“I suppose I’d want success in my career. It’s hard… being taken seriously, as a woman in journalism. It would be nice to just feel respected amongst my peers.” you confessed.

“The people at Wall Street don’t respect you?” Maxwell asked, and you swore that for a split second he sounded genuinely concerned.

“Uhm… I feel like I’m not really at liberty to discuss that. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.” you scrunched up your nose.

“Because you deserve respect, miss Y/L/N.” Maxwell promised you, his hand sinking down to caress your thigh. You gasped under his touch and looked up at the ceiling. “Is this alright… me touching you like this?” he cooed, tracing circles over your pantyhose.

“Mm.” you mumbled in agreement, your eyes fluttering shut as his fingers dipped under the hem of your skirt.

“So if you could wish for one thing… one thing at this very moment in time, it would be for success in your career? Is that true?” Maxwell quizzed, eyeing you up with curiosity.

No.

It wasn’t true.

In fact your career— this interview— was the last thing on your mind.

Fuck.

Silently, you shook your head. “So darling, tell me, what would you wish for?”

You sighed in defeat, remembering that you’d just humour him. It wasn’t exactly professional but he wasn’t helping you out either. Just go along with it, you told yourself. You finally looked back down at him and saw that his lips were moist from where he’d hungrily licked at them, his eyes fixated on your breasts and the way he could just about see the lace print underneath the thin material.

“I’d wish for you…” you shakily exhaled. And that caught his attention. His gaze flicked up to meet yours and he waited for you to continue. “I’d wish for you to let me use you to get what I want. You’re rich… powerful… wealthy…” A gust of air distracted you and a breeze blew through your hair. The windows weren’t open, the fan wasn’t on, and Maxwell looked completely and utterly spent over your revelation. It had just came out of nowhere. There was a few beats of silence and Max looked you up and down.

“What do you want?” he croaked meekly. He removed his hand from your thigh and his whole demeanor changed in a split second.

When you noticed how stiff his manhood was, and the way his precum had already leaked out onto the grey material of his pants, it stirred something up inside of you. He wanted this too, that much was clear.

And now, the roles had reversed. You were no longer the shy intern interviewing the big name CEO, you were a sexy journalist who’s nipples had hardened significantly and you had this fresh yet welcoming air of power to you. There were two people in this office and yet suddenly, you were the one in control.

Maxwell’s perfect, plush lips had parted and his dark eyes followed you as you stood up from your seat. He looked down at the wet patch from where you were sitting and gulped, imagining just how great it would feel to slide his fingers through your folds and feel your arousal himself.

All for him.

“I think you know.” you replied softly, sitting him down in the golden chair that you had once made yourself comfortable in. You pulled off his crumpled suit jacket and discarded his tie, throwing it haphazardly onto his already messy desk, and then sunk down to your knees, spreading his legs apart.

You began to palm at his erection through his pants, involuntarily licking your lips as your fingers danced around his growing bulge. “Ngh- fucking tease.” he groaned, his eyes snapping shut the second he felt you begin to work at removing his belt. You pulled down his zipper and reached into his pants, pulling his cock free. He wasn’t enormous, but definitely above average, and thicker than you’d ever taken before.

“You just need someone to make you feel nice, don’t you?” you cooed gently before licking a stripe up the base of his cock. “All this stress from work… huh? From making people’s wishes come true.”

“You… you have no idea.” Maxwell grunted, his cock twitching in your hands as you pressed a sweet little kiss to his head. His slit was still leaking with precum and you were desperate to get a taste of the CEO. You gave him a small kitten lick, relishing the saltiness of his seed. He was delicious.

This shouldn’t have been happening. Sure, Maxwell was hard before you’d even made the wish, but holy crap, he didn’t expect for this to actually happen. And neither did you. You assumed he was lying, just like he lied about everything else in his life. Afterall, who was going to believe a man who told you his success was owed to wish granting? 

“Mr Lord… you’re so big.” you sighed longingly before making an attempt to attach your lips around his cock. He looked down at you and let his hands grip the back of your head as you sucked on his sensitive tip. 

Who would've guessed that a good blowjob was exactly what Max Lord needed to feel better about himself?

Max felt like he was in heaven. He was already seeing stars. He’d been granting peoples wishes left, right and centre. He wasn’t necessarily touch starved but it had been a good few weeks since he’d gone without sex; his only motivation being to find and harness the power of the dreamstone. But you were giving him the best head he’d ever had in his life. It was like everything was pent up inside of him. His balls were tight and he was achingly hard and in a moment of pure lust, he thrusted his hips deep into your mouth. The sudden movement had you gagging and a trail of saliva mixed with his precum dripped down your lips. You pulled off him, gasping for air but quickly wrapped your lips back around him and taking his length even further than before. If he filled your mouth this good, you wondered how he’d feel filling your pussy.

“Not gonna last… fuck!” Maxwell cried, his cum shamelessly spurting into your mouth. His load was massive and he doubled out of you, the remnants of his seed spilling against your lips and down your chin. His heart was beating rapidly against his chest as he took in the appearance of you, down on your knees, in between his legs, with his milky white cum all over your pretty face.

Despite his orgasm, Maxwell was still hard. He still craved more. More of a release from you. It must’ve been your wish that created this desperation that dwelled inside of him.

“More,” he pleaded, his eyes round and doe-like. “Please, I need more.”

“Say less.” you whispered, unbuttoning your blouse and pulling down your skirt and pantyhose so you were simply just standing there in your white lingerie set. You looked so pure and innocent, and yet you were in absolute full control of this situation. You were the one dominating him.

“You said you wish to use me, so use me.” Maxwell begged as he extended his arms and made grabby fists, desperate for you to come over and help him out. 

He was right. This was your wish. You could play along with this for as long as you wanted. You removed your panties, unclipped your bra and discarded the garments, letting your breasts fall free. Maxwell’s jaw dropped at the sight of you and you stalked over to him. You straddled him and sat on his lap.

With one hand, you wrapped your fingers around his cock again and began to slowly jerk it, beginning a handjob which was more than pleasant for him. With your free hand, you grabbed onto his shoulder and steadied yourself, before stretching your body and pressing one of your breasts into his mouth. His lips latched around your tit immediately and he began to suck on your nipple as you continued to rub his cock. You moaned with pleasure, tossing your head back as his tongue worked at the hard little bud.

You subconsciously found yourself riding his thigh, dragging your dripping wet cunt along his expensive pants and making an absolute mess of them. He experimentally flexed the muscles in his thigh a few times, trying to gauge a reaction out of you and see how you liked it. His teeth grazed your breast and he let himself get a little too excited, peppering love bites all over your chest.

“Yes, that’s it,” Maxwell groaned. “Take what you need sweet girl.” he praised.

You whimpered when he flexed his thigh again and you felt yourself begin to reach your climax. You clenched around nothing and his cock was throbbing in your hand. You knew he needed more too.

You let go of him and he pulled his mouth off your tit with a ‘pop’. You cupped his face with both your hands and adjusted yourself slightly, this time so the tip of his cock was pressed against your entrance. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for his stretch before sinking down onto his length, settling balls deep. “Fuck… Fuck fuck fuck,” you chanted, your eyes squeezing tight shut as he filled you.

“Move.” he gasped, biting down on your shoulder. You whimpered and tugged on his golden hair, sending him into an absolute frenzy.

“Fuck, Mr Lord… oh god please, you’re so fucking big.” you cried, tears of pleasure pricking your eyes. He wanted you to move, sure, but this was your wish, and you were more than happy to just sit on and warm his cock for a few minutes.

Your walls were tight and perfect around him, just like he’d imagined. You brought your finger down to your cunt and began to rub at your clit as his cock stretched you out. Your moans of gratification echoed throughout the extensively sized office and you felt your juices drip down his cock.

“So good,” he whispered. “Move, please.”

“Mmm,” you couldn’t even fumble out words, and your vision was nothing less than a haze.

He rubbed the pad of his finger against your puckered asshole before sliding it in. Your body tensed up at the intrusion but God did it feel good. “Fucking move.” he growled, biting down on your earlobe as he began to thrust his index finger in and out of you.

Maxwell brought a hand down to cup your ass and he gave you a rough spanking. “Move.” He repeated, this time his tone a lot more demanding and less polite than the first time.

And just like that— he was in control again.

You obliged, not wanting to irk him any more, and began to bounce on his cock. “Greedy bitch,” he grunted, spanking you again. “Fuck… thinking you can use my dick for your own pleasure, huh? Everything comes with a price.” he hissed as you rolled your hips over his manhood.

“Oh Mr Lord.” you sighed with every movement, as his cock pressed against that sweet spot inside of you.

“You just couldn’t resist it, could you?” Maxwell asked rhetorically, a villainous smirk crossing his lips. “One great wish and you wish to ride my fucking cock," He had a point. People had come to him wishing for Porsche's, political power,— and you, with your whole chest, had wished to be the one who could pleasure him. Help him let go. “Shit baby, you take me so well.”

Despite his growls of degradation you knew he wasn’t going to last long, if the way his cock throbbed inside of you was anything to go by. You didn’t mind though. He could disrespect you all he wanted. You were more than happy to be Maxwell Lord’s little cumslut. His little whore.

“G-gonna cum, oh fuck, please.” you screamed, pressing your fingernails into his back as you rode out your high.

“Yes,” he moaned wantonly. “Soak my cock.” And with those three words, you came undone, sat on top of the richest and most successful CEO in the world. “Are you safe?” he asked, his hips bucking up into your sensitive core.

“I am.” you confirmed, and without even asking for permission, he spilt his seed inside of you, ruthlessly painting your walls with his cum.

He kept his cock inside of you until it softened and slipped out, and you mumbled something incoherent at the loss of his fullness. Maxwell watched your chest as you heaved, making every attempt you could to catch your breath. He pressed a sweet kiss into your collar bone, and then up your neck and along your jaw. You relished the feeling of his lips against skin; post coital bliss fostering your every thought.

“You’re a good girl,” he whispered, rubbing the curve of his nose against your neck. “I grant you your wish, and in return, I give you the utmost success in your career.” he sighed, and for the very first time Maxwell Lord said something completely and utterly selfless. It was through no gain to him whatsoever. You didn’t deserve to be looked down upon by your peers and employers, he knew that much. And if he had the chance to change that, he sure as hell would. 

“You will achieve things no journalist has achieved before, you will be rich, and be the first to seize every opportunity.” he said in between kisses.

To you, he was just whispering sweet nothings into your ear, humouring your larger-than-life dreams and ambitions. But if there was one thing that Maxwell Lord admired in a woman, it was her aspiration and goals. If you were brave enough to waltz into his office as let him cum all over you, you definitely deserve this. At that moment, you had no idea that Maxwell Lord would change your life forever...

Permanent taglist: @paintballkid711  @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja190 @maxiarapamaya @autumnleaves1991-blog @artsymaddie @harrys-stan @kennedywxlsh @cripplingmoon @cheekygeek05 @mrschiltoncat @rye-flower @theamuz @persie33 @sleepylunarwolf @martellthemandalor

[probablyevilrpgideas]

Things Which Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza Is No Longer Allowed to Do

Foreward:

The Golden Throne, in the interest of minimizing inter-throne conflict, proposes this list of acts which will be considered declarations of war when performed by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza. It is not intended to single out the esteemed holder of The Salvage Throne and High Lord-Hero of All Goblins, but rather is directed to them in recognition of their peculiar abilities and frame of mind. It should be understood that such acts would likewise be considered acts of war if performed by any Throne holder if they were able to perform them to the level of skill and ability of Artificer Supreme Proq Khaasza.

While the Diplomatic Community of Urtrament Throne Holders is not able to exercise authority over Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza, they being as sovereign as any other Throne holder, the following items will be considered to be acts of war, and responded to accordingly, by the undersigned Throne holders.

The original of this document shall be held by The Golden Throne, while Sympathetic Copies will be provided to all Throne Holders. Additions to this list may be proposed by any Throne Holder, after which they will be discussed and voted on by the Diplomatic Community of Throne Holders, in meetings arranged by The Vellum Throne.

Signature of this document indicates agreement to its terms but does not bind a signatory to act in any particular way.

(this document has been signed by all known Throne holders save for Proq Khaasza and Sunken Throne Holder Kol'Khiaq)

Things Which The Diplomatic Community of Urtrament Will Henceforth Consider Acts of War by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza

Usage of ink composed of deep shadow and black sand in letters sent to other Throne holders anyone.

Handing out Black Bags and Desecration Tape to any goblins

Teleporting around the world over the course of one night and leaving any powerful magic items in the shoes of goblins while they sleep

Any research into the alchemical composition of the body which produces the Goblin Condition with the goal of creating a Goblinization Elixir

Creation of Carrying at diplomatic functions any form of Greater Bag of Tricks made through the use of high level conjuration magic, especially those which conjure proxies of Primal Beasts (we can't stop them from making these things, but by all the gods, we can bar them from carrying them to official functions)

Providing said Greater Bags of Tricks to attendants who are then brought to said functions as Salvage Throne staff.

Handing out said Greater Bags of Tricks to anyone who will then be within a mile of a diplomatic function.

Creating false bottoms composed of sugar and containing Alchemists Fire in the bed pans of other Throne holders through any means, whether magical or infiltration of serving staff.

Providing "medicine" which is actually Tanglefoot compound in pastille capsules to other Throne holders

Replacing the silverware, glassware, or dishes at any diplomatic function dinner with Thunderstones which have been Stone Shaped into the appropriate form.

Setting Thunderstones into the backs of chairs at said functions and then provoking other Throne holders such that they suddenly stand and knock their chair over.

Doing anything on this list to God Throne holder Ny-Aarnd, "even though nobody likes The God Throne." (While true, he tends to make it everybody's problem)

Making gifts of clothing tapestries coffers gold ANYTHING which are actually polymorphed skeletons zombies wolves Daemon Dragons ANY DANGEROUS CREATURE with a non-permanent duration. (Lets not take the chance of letting them get around this with permanent durations)

The next time a rust monster is introduced to someone's Coffer through any means at all, but especially through polymorphing the monster into coins and paying someone through coffer mark will be considered a declaration of war on the whole world, and in particular will be answered by the most highly trained and capable wardens available to The Golden Throne as we consider it to be both counterfeiting and debasement of the currency.

Placing Contingent Evil Weather effects with the trigger "hears the name Proq Khaasza spoken" on vermin which are then released into the palaces of other Throne holders.

Ditto for the trigger "hears (any Throne holder's) name."

Such Contingent Evil Weather effects are likewise not to be placed on serving staff of the palace.

These condemnations also go for any birds which are then released into the area surrounding a palace any settlement.

These condemnations also apply to the following triggers: the death of the creature bearing the spell, the birth of an heir to the Throne holder, hearing profanity or obscenities, when the creature bearing the spell leaves the palace, when the creature bearing the spell is targeted by Dispel Magic.

Offering to help a Throne holder who is suffering a headache, heartburn, indigestion, muscle spasms, or any other physical ailment and then doing so by teleporting the offending body part out of their body.

The same goes for mental ailments and brains.

Heartburn is likewise not to be "treated" through making an incision on the person and casting Chill Metal on their blood, even if "technically, it should work due to the iron content of blood."

Note to all Throne Holders-- At this point, anyone who accepts medical assistance from Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza gets what they deserve. It should be well-known by now that while they may be able to treat any kind of ailment or wound, they are not doing so in good faith, no matter what they say.

Ending any oath with the words "or may the Heavens fall," especially when the oath is magically bound.

Ending any oath with the words "or may Daemons take us all," especially when the oath is magically bound.

Ending any oath with the words "or may we all be violated by Spiked Tentacles of Forced Intrusion," especially when the oath is magically bound, whether that's a real spell or not.

Make any magically bound oath through verbal agreement. Magically bound oaths made by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza must be made in written form such that they will be null and void if they introduce any non-agreed upon additions, and will not become binding until both parties have signed--And Proq must sign first.

All clothing, equipment, jewelry, and other possessions carried or brought by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza are subject to Identification prior to their entrance to diplomatic events, meetings, or functions. Failure to comply will be considered an act of war.

Note to all Throne Holders-- All condemnations to which Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza is subject by this list must likewise explicitly be applied to Manacled Throne Holder Rald Ghonaeg. As Proq has pointed out, while they are, perhaps, uniquely likely to conceive of these actions, Rald is as capable of performing them, due to his usage of Efreeti-Wish magic to claim and maintain his throne.

Note to all Throne Holders-- While they are more likely to fight than collaborate, Proq Khaasza and Rald Ghonaeg are not to interact. Any outcome will become everyone's problem in short order.

Creating an army of skeletons and providing them cursed equipment, to then be placed in the path of Templar raiding forces such that this cursed equipment will be quickly looted by said Templars.

Note to all Throne Holders-- Condemnation 31 does not apply within the territory of the Salvage Throne. Anyone who attempts to invade a sovereign territory unprepared for how the sovereign will respond--no matter how cruel, unorthodox, or otherwise "creatively malicious,"--brings such actions upon themselves, and it is not within the power of the Diplomatic Community to control how individuals defend their territories.

That said, the creation of the spell Proq's Time Delay Bowel Disruption Curse disgusts all signatories of this document, and its use is considered to be disproportionate retribution, no matter the acts of the invading force.

Distribution of wands of Proq's Bowel Disruption Curse to oppressed populaces will only result in the slaughter of said populaces you allegedly care about, Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza, I mean, really now.

In light of the fact that a sufficiently powerful casting of Proq's Bowel Disruption Curse can produce the effect "Fatal Intestinal Maelstrom," usage of the spell on any Throne holder, or soldier or guard thereof will be considered an act of war, and an investigation will be undertaken into how the caster acquired the spell or device which produced the effect.

It is the opinion of The Golden Throne that torture, especially that which causes bodily harm of any form, is an ineffective method of interrogation, and a despicable means of punishment. However, simply showing a captive tools or other implements of torture as a means of encouraging cooperation with an interrogation or persuasion is regarded as fairly innocuous. That said, when the "implement" is, to quote from reports, "an amorous half-dragon troll of immense stature, even for his race, with an elephantine erection," who has allegedly been given "enough aphrodisiacs to kickstart a world-repopulating orgy," it is the opinion of The Golden Throne and most other Thrones that this is over the line.

Whether said ogre is an immaterial illusion, or not.

Usage of mental compulsion magic to convince a subject that their blood has been replaced with "evil testicle-hating centipedes," who will "chew their way to" said organs and "painfully destroy them," is considered to be a method of psychological torture which will cause physical harm. It's usage on other Throne holders or their official representatives will therefore be considered an act of war on par with other forms of torture used on such personages.

Actually transmuting a subject's blood to "evil testicle-hating centipedes" through high-level polymorphification magic is not to be taken as a loophole in the above condemnation.

Even if the subject "deserves it."

Transmuting the sex slaves of a Throne holder such that their orifices become "maws full of evil rapist emasculating fangs" is prohibited. Even if said slaves enthusiastically consented to the transmutation. Especially if they enthusiastically consented.

Note to All Throne Holders-- Through majority vote, Condemnations 38 through 41 are invalid in the case of usage against individuals whose sex slaves are found or considered to be of particularly vulnerable demographics.

Note to All Throne Holders-- Both the vote to consider sex slavery to be a despicable act of violation of sapient autonomy and the vote to declare it a practice with no official sanction by sovereign powers have been declared a draw. Individual Throne holders will hold their own opinions of this practice, and any actions undertaken by one Throne holder against another in regards to the practice are between the Throne holders in question. It is not the business of the Diplomatic Community to arbitrate such disagreements. That said, Condemnation 41 is still meant to be considered a broadly held opinion of the Diplomatic Community.

Usage of oneiromancy to attack Throne holders in ways condemned by this document will be regarded as if the actions occurred outside of dreams.

Note to All Throne Holders-- All accusations that Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza used oneiromancy to assault a Throne holder in their dreams will be investigated to the fullest magical ability of The Vellum Throne. Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza is not culpable for your own nightmares, no matter how justified.

Note to All Throne Holders-- It is not the business of the Diplomatic Community to arbitrate Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza "stealing your wives."

Or girlfriends.

Or concubines.

Or daughters.

Note to All Throne Holders-- If you do not want Proq Khaasza, High Lord Artificer and Protector of All Goblinkind and AEther's Gift to Femmes seducing the people you consider "your property," perhaps you should treat them better, and begin by not considering them property.

Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza is not to alter the master of this document through manipulation of their Sympathetic Copy, and the only reason their methods for doing such have not been investigated is for concern that any investigation would result in broader knowledge of how to subvert the magic which undergirds many binding contracts and agreements in Urtrament.

However, Statement 50 will remain by majority vote of the Diplomatic Community.

All future votes by the Diplomatic Community will involve affidavits verified through the most powerful divination magic available to The Vellum and Golden Thrones to prevent further manipulations through mental compulsion magic by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza.

The fact that it cannot be fully and definitively verified which members of the Diplomatic Community were mentally compelled prior to the vote held for Statement 52 is not to be taken by Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza as an endorsement of their actions with regards to Statements 50 through 52.

Usage of Necromantic Magic to control the bodies of dissidents executed by other Throne Holders to perform any musical number, but in particular ones involving the songs "Always Look On the Bright Side of Life," "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts," "Fuck You," or "I've No More Fucks to Give," will not be considered an Act of War, but please, do not do it again, Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza. It was very disturbing.

We likewise apply Statement 55 to the following performance styles: Monologues, Soliloquies, Choruses, "Roasts," "Flytings," "Diss Tracks," Vociferous Praise of the Executioner or Throne Holder, whether genuine or sarcastic, "curses from beyond the grave," Stand Up Routines.

If it is found that Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza had anything to do with the rash of scolding apparitions which most Throne Holders experienced over the AEthertime Week of 3048 GL, the Diplomatic Community will convene to discuss what the consequences of this should be. Salvage Throne Holder Proq Khaasza should therefore consider this to be a condemnation of future instances of such apparitions, if they were in fact involved.

God Throne Holder Ny-Aarnd wishes to make it known that cursing him with "stereotypical villain motif music from a half copper street play, produced by a persistent Ghost Sound effect whenever (he) did anything" was not appreciated, nor funny, and he will consider future "juvenile curses" to be personal insults, and respond as he sees fit--quote, "ask the people who have insulted me before, I will rent you a shovel and map to their graves."

The majority of the Diplomatic Community has voted to make it known "No, it actually was hilarious, and, compared to their typical exploits, Proq is encouraged to do it again."

Note to All Throne Holders-- The Golden Throne neither condones nor condemns such "Juvenile Curses," save to say you are all, allegedly, adults, and encourage you to act like it.

[imagine-darksiders]

I hope you feel better soon! When you're feeling better would you be able to write something about jealous Strife? That ask made me curious

“Do you really have to go?”

From your seat at the vanity, you heave an exasperated sigh and set down your lipstick, swivelling around in the chair to face the Horseman who stands sulking at your bedroom door.

“Strife,” you begin patiently, “I'm afraid my answer still hasn't changed since you asked me ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I know. It's just -” Averting his gaze, he crosses his arms and grumbles, “I thought we were gonna hang out tonight.”

“And I told you two weeks ago that I wouldn't be around tonight.”

You can't see his expression, hidden as it is behind the silver helm he wears, but you're fairly confident in guessing that there's a pout on his lips.

“And besides,” you add, “We hang out all the time. You practically live here. Hell, you've already turned my spare bedroom into your own personal den.”

'Den' is an understatement. Your spare room is now less of a bedroom more of an Earth museum, filled from floor to ceiling with all of the things that Strife has picked up simply because they took his fancy. For the most part, it's all junk. There's an obsolete gaming console that no longer works, a skateboard, a horse figurine made of glass, no less than three Nerf guns and not a foam dart between them...

Honestly, you're loathe to tell him to get rid of any of it, though you fear you might have to soon if you don't want the mess spilling out into the rest of your house.

Giving your head an exasperated shake, you check the time on your phone and stand up, throwing your bag over a shoulder. “Listen, it's just one evening with an old friend who I haven't seen since before the apocalypse. We can hang out tomorrow, I promise. But now, I really need to dash, he'll be here to pick me up any minute.”

Pausing to stuff your phone into the pocket of your trousers, you head towards the door, hardly noticing that the Horseman is still standing in front of it with his arms folded neatly across a broad, armoured chest. It's only because you glance up right at the last second that you manage to avoid a painful collision. “Um...Strife?” you ask, halting in your tracks, “... Move?”

In response, he simply leans back against your door and begins to inspect the claws on one of his gauntlets. “Nah... I'd rather hear about this friend of yours. You've never mentioned him.” Pausing, he shoots you a sly smirk that you can sense more than see, his golden eyes flashing, “You guys close?”

With a roll of your eyes, you mimic his posture, crossing your arms and giving him a glare that would make Death proud. “Strife, what's gotten into you? I just said I'm going to be late for my friend.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he returns coolly, “Just wanna know that my friend isn't walking into a trap.”

“Oh wow – a trap? Really? Of all the-” You cut yourself off and raise a hand, massaging at your temple. “Okay. Now you're just being ridiculous. It's not a trap.”

“Why don't you let me come with you, just in case?”

“Because!” you cry, throwing your arms up, “It'll be awkward! You remember what I taught you about third-wheeling?”

He remembers it well, in fact. Just like he remembers everything you teach him, committing the moments to memories that he'll carry with him until the day he snuffs it. He only has you for less than a hundred years, after all, and he's determined to remember every last bit of it. The Universe must have thought itself pretty hilarious when it placed you in his life. Of all the creatures in all the realms, the one he ends up caring about most just so happens to be the one with the shortest lifespan. It makes him want to hunt down the Creator and shoot a hole where a heart might be.

Shoving down his contempt for the omnipotent bastard, Strife returns his attention to you and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I don't mind tagging along. You know, just in case I have to watch your back.”

Your response hits him harder than a crack from Fury's whip. “I don't need you to watch my back every second of every day! Stop being so paranoid.”

The Horseman is too proud and obstinate to ever let the stab of hurt show in his eyes, but he can't ignore its presence in his chest.

He is not being paranoid... He's being a good friend - watching your back, looking out for you, all the things a friend is supposed to do. Not that he's had much experience being friends with a human. Or anyone, for that matter, who isn't a horse or his siblings. It's been a learning curve for both of you, though more-so for him, and so far, the most prominent challenge he's faced is balancing the line between being a friend and being an overprotective nuisance.

It perhaps hasn't helped that, ever since humanity was resurrected, the pair of you have been nigh inseparable. He's grown used to your presence – is dependant upon in, according to Death; a fact that Strife had vehemently tried to deny, at least until he learned that you'd made plans. Plans with someone else. Plans that didn't involve him.

It was only once he'd taken some time to reflect and found that he had indeed been glued to your side for months, that he realised the awful truth.

His older brother was right, after all. The smug ass.

A shudder rolls over the Horseman's body and he blinks, realising that in the few seconds he's been lost in thought, you've managed to reach around him to push open your bedroom door.

“Hey!” he complains as you all but shove past, and he – being the soft-touch that he is – simply allows himself to be moved aside. Grumbling, he follows you across the landing and down your sweeping staircase until you reach the front door and stop beside it.

From outside, the thunderous roar of an approaching, automobile's engine thrums in his ears.

“That's him!” you chirp, and Strife hates the way your face lights up at the mention of whoever 'he' is.

Throwing open your door, you head outside and try to pull it shut behind you, yet find your efforts abruptly halted by the Horseman sticking close to your heels. He ducks through the low doorframe and moves to stand beside you, his viciously keen gaze raking over the vehicle that idles at the end of your driveway.

By his own admission, Strife has always had a weakness for those 'motor bikes' the humans like to ride, with their shiny gaskets and noisy engines. But this one – the one upon whom sits a tall, lanky human – Strife does not care for.

“Anton!” you call out, flying down the driveway, splaying your arms out wide in anticipation of a hug.

'Anton' laughs brightly and kicks down the bike's stand as he leaps from the seat, his own arms only just opening in time to receive you when you crash into him with a whoop of delight.

As soon as those long, stringy arms wrap around your shoulders, the Horseman's hackles raise like a feral beast's and the sudden presence of Anarchy begins to claw at the confines of his ribcage. For a few moments, he wrestles with himself, weighing the pros and cons of letting his most primal form take over for a while, but after envisioning the disapproving frown that's sure to adorn your face should he pull such a stunt, he bitterly shoves a reluctant Anarchy back down and settles upon prowling down the gravel drive after you, glaring hard at the stranger the entire way. Admittedly, he is a little surprised at himself for the animosity. On the whole, he's always maintained a good rapport with other humans. He likes the species, a lot. So to suddenly be filled with such a strong disliking for this particular human strikes him as odd and out of character.

Then, Anton's hands slide down to your lower back and another bout of indignant fury flares up in the Horseman's belly. After what he thinks is, quite frankly, an obscene amount of time, the stranger releases you, holding onto your shoulders and leaning back to get a better look at your face.

“God, it's good to see you, Y/n,” he drawls, eyeing you from head to toe in a way that makes the Horseman's skin crawl, “I can't believe it! You've changed so much!”

Grinning shyly up at him, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and reply, “Hopefully for the better?”

His own smile widens. “You were always at your best, even before the apocalypse. Still, being Humanity's Hero seems to be really suiting you, huh?”

At once, your expression falls and you pull a face, extracting yourself from his grasp. “Oh god, don't call me that. I've told the media till I'm blue in the face - the Horsemen are the ones who deserve to be called heroes. Oh, speaking of whom...” You turn to face the looming presence at your side and gesture up to Strife. “I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

Anton's gaze leaves you long enough to flick over towards the Horseman and you watch as he does a very comical double-take, his eyes bulging for a moment before he manages to compose himself again and lifts his hand in greeting. “Hey! You must be one of those Horseman guys. Death, right?”

Noticing that the Nephilim's hands curl suddenly into tight fists, you interject, “Uh, actually, this is Strife, Tones.”

“Tones?” He really does try to keep the disdain from his voice when he switches his burning, golden glare between you and the other human. “I thought you said his name was Anton?”

How many other friends do you have?

“It's a nickname, Strife,” you reassure him quickly, “This is Anton.”

A nickname... Of course. The Horseman's stomach twists itself into a knot and he can't stop himself from blurting out, “How come you've never given me a nickname?”

The human concept surrounding abbreviated names was a fairly easy one for him to grasp when he first learned of them. They're terms of endearment, meant to signify familiarity and friendship.

He's your friend. He's familiar. Why doesn't he have a nickname too?

"Ugh, I'm sorry. We'll brainstorm nicknames when I get back," you huff, "But the restaurant will give our table away if we don't hurry. So -"

Turning to usher Anton onto the bike, you hardly manage to take one step before a large, metal hand is sliding around your forearm and tugging you gently to a halt. Biting back a groan, you glance over your shoulder, ready to scold him, but one look at his slouched stance and averted gaze stops you in your tracks.

"Uh. Hey, Tones?" you call, never taking your eyes off the Horseman's mask, "Can you give us a sec?"

The human behind you is careful to check that Strife isn't looking when he rolls his eyes and grunts in acknowledgement before he turns and saunters over to his bike, leaning up against it and pulling out his phone.

Once Anton has turned his attention elsewhere, you raise a brow at the Horseman and wait, patient, expectant. After working his jaw for a moment or two, he finally looks at you properly and tightens his grip on your arm, not until it's painful, but enough that you understand what he's trying to convey in the gesture.

He really doesn't want you to go.

"Strife?" you prod.

Reluctantly, he lets out a rough exhale.

Although he's far better at it than his siblings, watching Strife try to openly express emotion isn't unlike watching someone pull their own teeth out with a pair of pliers. The process is slow, and it's best to sit back and listen to him rather than try to encourage him to speak. So, that's what you do, and eventually, your patience is rewarded when after another few seconds of silence, he offers a strained chuckle and says, "This guy isn't my replacement, is he? I know the bike is cool, and all, but..."

"Your replacement?" you laugh, incredulous, "Strife. I don't know how it worked with Nephilim, but for humans, having another friend doesn't cancel out any existing ones."

He knows that. He's not some whelp who never learned how to share. Frustrated with himself, the Horseman huffs and turns his head to the side, glaring hard at nothing in particular.

"Hey..." An old habit kicks in, and before you can stop yourself, you reach up to trace your fingertips along the underside of Strife's helm, tipping it back towards you and smiling at the bewildered look in his yellow eyes. Confident that he's paying proper attention, you pull your hand away again and state, "I could search the whole universe from top to bottom for the next hundred, thousand years, and I'd never find a friend who could replace you, okay? So stop worrying. Your ranking as 'my best friend' is not under threat."

"M'not worrying," he grumbles, but inside, his heart is aglow with the warmth of your words. At the back of his mind, Anarchy rumbles happily. You said best!... He's your best friend? He tries to recall you ever calling him that before. Then he realises that, no, you can't have done. He wouldn't forget a moment like that. Not in a million years. Just like he won't forget how he feels right now after hearing those two words.

Oblivious to the fate you've just sealed for yourself, you clap your hands together, bringing the conversation to what you hope is an easy conclusion. "Good. In that case, will you please let me go with Anton now?"

The Horseman's mood sours almost immediately, but at least he peels his fingers off your arm.

"Hey, kid?" he address Anton, packing his voice with all the menace and threat that he can muster, "If I find out she gets hurt on your watch, I'll introduce you to a couple'a friends of mine..." His hands fall less-than subtly to his holsters, where the silver handles of Mercy and Redemption glint in the sunlight.

Anton's face pales upon seeing the Horseman's legendary pistols.

"Stop that," you scold him, smacking the back of your hand against the armoured chest plate before turning to your other friend and calling, "Come on, Tones, let's go."

Anton all but throws himself onto his bike, kicking the stand back and jamming his keys into the ignition whilst you climb on behind him, albeit far more gracefully. The man tosses you a helmet and you shove it onto your head.

Strife's eyes remain settled upon your hands that wrap snugly around Anton's waist and it takes everything in him not to grab you, haul you off the bike, drag you back to your home and lock you inside.

“I'll be back late tonight,” you call over the roar of the engine as you begin to pull away, “There's food in the fridge if you want to eat! And my Netflix is still logged in! I'll see you later, okay!?”

Strife doesn't respond, not because he can't think of what to say, but because there would be no point. Anton has already peeled away and pushed the bike to a reckless speed. All the Horseman can do is stand there at the end of your driveway, his shoulders drooping dejectedly.

After you're nothing more than a dot on the far horizon, he tears his eyes off you and lets them fall to the tarmac near his boots.

He never notices you looking back.

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 19: Turn A Blind Eye

Content Warning: Mentions of Cannibalism

Beggars can't be choosers, or so the saying went. And nowhere was this more apparent than with his own people.

Everyone who came to join had their baggage, their angers, their hurt- but what mattered most was to evaluate if they were a spy or not, and if they could comply with the basic rules. And that was being strict about it.

Dione gained her dragon form, declared she'd destroy Ishgard by his side, and proceeded to go on to sometimes announce she ate the knights she killed. It made Esredes extremely uncomfortable, but there wasn't much he could do other than tell her to stop. Rusty was a nightkin that had been experimented on, and yet when he asked Esredes if he was going to kill him now, Esredes merely told him he hadn't broken the rules, and that warranted no action. He was still a vicious monster capable of killing people with ease and also eating them. But all Esredes saw- or wanted to see- was a troubled young man who needed his place, and for someone to care about him. Vette was an ancient Ishgardian who was more dragon than human. All it took was for him to gain her trust, and she turned into a giant, mighty war machine capable of killing so many knights at once. But then she was just a crying and vulnerable woman who needed his help. Rae was more composed than the others, but on the battlefield, he was merciless to the Ishgardians. Still, he held back when asked, and for that, Esredes rarely chastised him for anything.

All of them were monsters, or would be, by Esredes' own definition. Yet sitting above the rest, perhaps the man believed he was still the greatest monster of all, the only one able to command all the others, however much they actually listened to him. They were his broken birds to take under his wing, and reform into even greater monsters for his own purposes.

Yet how would he fare in those times they no longer took his word for what it was? When their inability to manage those base, primal instincts like he himself managed overtook them, and carnage and blood came in its wake?

Playing with fire meant knowing intimately how to put it out.

Otherwise, someone got burned.

[millie-ionaire05]

A Shadow’s Light

Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Fae AU ♕ Monarch Yoongi ♕ Fantasy AU ♕ CEO Yoongi ♕ Soulmate AU

Summary: The approaching solstice reminds Yoongi that his time for remaining Monarch without a kindred soul is running out. As each day goes by, the shadows around him become more unruly, and his emotions become harder to control. Even as his right hand, he’d never considered you as someone to court, not until he realized your light could tame the shadows. Oh, but your light brought more than that, it brought a burn that had desire curling deep within him. A desire that he won’t allow to slip away. 

Word Count: 4,130

Rating/Warnings: M for Mature (+18); Monarch Yoongi; Confidant Reader; Female Reader; CEO Yoongi; Slightly Dom Yoongi(?); Office Sex; Unprotected Sex (wrap the schlong before you sit on the dong); Oral (f receiving); Fingering; Multiple Orgasms; Overstimulation; Bottom Yoongi; Top Reader; Squirting

Author’s Note: I’ve dreamed of this Yoongi quite a few times over the last few years, and so I finally decided to write it. Albeit, this is a completely shorter version than the original one I started years ago, but I think it’s fine as I ease my way back into the writing scene. Thank you so much to @dee-ehn​ for the amazingly beautiful banner; it’s absolutely stunning! Hope you guys like it 😊

   The feel of cold paper against his fingertips is almost a welcomed reprieve compared to the monotonous drone of the head of marketing, an older man with a pinch in between his eyebrows and a smug expression. Yoongi’s mind is filled with a million other incessant thoughts, ones that are far more pressing than the steps on appealing to the board of directors. 

   For one, the solstice was tomorrow, and the primal hunger for a kindred soul to be at his side was becoming even more difficult to deny. He knew if he was unable to find someone this year, the Elders would begin to question whether he truly should be the Monarch for their kind. His kind. Just the notion has his wings twitching in anger before it is dwindling to a burning frustration, his fingers reflexively crumpling the edges of the paper he held.

   “Sir?”

   He turns merely a centimeter towards you, his eyes forcefully focusing as they make contact with your own. You seem almost taken aback by his gaze, your lips having parted and your eyes wide. He must not have realized how hard his expression had been, but he quickly softens it, a rumble of an apology carrying its way to your ears only. Your gentle eyes turn sympathetic, your mouth curling up to show a bright smile, and it almost blinds him. 

   It was no secret within the world of Fae that he was the first shadow chosen as Monarch, much to his surprising dismay. It was not so much a surprise that he was chosen per se, as he had been groomed for it during most of his childhood, but it was the fact that he was groomed at all that surprised him. Even as Monarch, the Fae were wary of those ‘cursed’ by the shadow. It was not only uncommon amongst their kind, but it was also dangerous if not controlled properly, and it could rarely be controlled. Before his ruling, parents would often tell stories of shadow monarchs who grew out of control, their shadow swallowing the settlement whole. 

   Whether parents continue to tell their children such stories is lost on him, as he very rarely is included in conversation when the settlement gets together. He wouldn’t be surprised though, as he, too, worried for the safety of everyone around him. 

   You on the other hand, he was the least worried about. You were the complete opposite of him, as you were blessed with the light. A rare gift. It was always said that the light could tame the shadows, but he only feared you would make his grow, like how an increase in light source could cast a stronger shadow of a human figure. Especially if it got too close. 

   But regardless, you were also groomed similarly to himself as a child, so that you would be by his side. A loyal….assistant….if he had to title it. You were his confidant, his right hand man (or technically woman), so to speak. The Elders had thought it wise to have you close to him, and while the thought had initially made him uncomfortable - the shadows around him twitching in disgust at the light you brought - he had grown fond of your company within the last several years. The shadows around him had ceased their fury long ago when you were near, and he was grateful for at least that respite. 

   “It’s quite alright, sir,” you carry on, oblivious to his internal torment. “Would you like me to escort you out of here?”

   He can’t help the twitch of his lips, an eyebrow raising as he allows his body to turn towards you, his chair barely squeaking at the action. He watches the way your cheeks flushed at his stare, your eyes casting down to your lap as your fingers fiddle with non-existent lint. His eyes roam to your wings, watching how the beautiful white seems to shimmer as they fluttered slightly. He knew he could fluster you - he often found it entertaining - and quite frankly he also found it adorable. The shadows around him groan. 

   With a tsk, his lips twitch down, and you immediately sense his shift in emotion. You were so perceptive to him, and yet still so obliviously unaware of how his shadows reacted when you shined so bright. In those moments it was very painful, and while he could usually muster through the pain, he found that it was actually difficult for him in that second. 

   Fear zings through his body as his shadows laugh, their forms swiftly quivering in excitement at the thought that he wouldn’t be able to stop them, that he wouldn’t be able to prevent them from consuming what was around him. His body becomes rigid, his eyes closing as he works to compose his emotions, his mind fighting with itself as his heart thuds within his ears. He can faintly hear you calling out to him, but he is too busy focused on his task. 

   A sharp sting envelops his hand, and his eyes snap open to find your own hand against his, the shadows retreating to the furthest recesses opposite of your shine, and his heart stutters. Never have the shadows withdrawn so quickly, no matter how many lessons the Elder’s had given him, he has never been able to control them. Not to say they are controlled per se, because he knew they could never be controlled, but they were tamed for the moment. Your hand continues to burn against his, and he slowly pulls back from your touch, his eyes meeting yours once again. 

   A small nod of his head is all you need, your body instantly moving as you announce their departure, your figure guiding him back towards his office. His eyes never waver from your wings, watching how they are so delicately beautiful and white, a complete contrast to his sharp black wings. Your wings were round, many swirls intricately woven in various degrees of white, sparkling no matter what time of day. While his wings were sharp edged, and of the deepest of blacks, a color that portrayed an endless void. He’d been told, more often than not, that his wings seemed invisible if he flew around the city at night. It didn’t just stop there though, as the shadows also allowed him to blend in to the darkest corners, keeping him out of sight if he wanted. 

   He was such a contrast to you, not just in wing shape and color. It was normal for women’s wings to be larger than men’s, just like a female bird was larger than a male, but your wing size complimented you so well. Everything about you and your gift suited you. Your gift gave you the ability to travel at the speed of light, not that he’d ever seen you use it. He supposed there hadn’t exactly been any reason to use it, so of course he wouldn’t have seen you. Or maybe he hadn’t seen you because you were simply too quick for him to catch, he wasn’t entirely sure. He made a mental note to ask you one day. 

   “Would you like me to clear the rest of your day, sir?” you ask, watching him as he moves around his desk to his chair, your eyes wide with concern. 

   “Yes, please,” he murmurs, his eyes closing as you rattle off into your phone for all of his meetings to be cancelled. 

   The shadows are still in the corner of his mind, having shifted so they were completely opposite of your presence. Yoongi’s heart races with the speeds of a thousand mustangs, the beat traveling up his neck and into his ears, and he isn’t sure what to do. You had stopped the darkness, which had seemed to be even more out of control lately, but you had done it. His eyes can’t help but open to stare at you, your body now resting on the chair across his desk, completely oblivious to his gaze as you scroll through your phone.

   With a simple command, he orders the shadows to close his office door and lock it, and he watches as they are quick to avert your presence and complete his task. He wonders if they fear the torture of the light again, and whether that is why they are so compliant. Nevertheless, he has an image in his mind that couldn’t be wiped, and that image was you. In all his years of life he had not looked at you in any way more than a friend, a confidant...until today. 

   He smirks at the way your body jumps, your head turning to see the office door closed before your gaze whips back around to look at him. He knew how you felt about him, because while he was quiet for the most part, you were like an open book. Your emotions were as plain on your eyes as your heart was on your sleeve, open and bared for him. You didn’t cower from your feelings towards him, but you also weren’t jealousy possessive when the Elders ordered him on many courtships with other women. No...you stayed by his side and supported him, even as each of them failed to subdue his darkest demons. 

   Slinking from his spot, he slowly makes his way around the desk, stopping until he has leaned against it in front of you. Your body instinctively shifts back against your chair as your gaze lowers, though he knows this was out of respect as the Monarch, he doesn’t want you to pull further away from him. His hand still burned at your contact, and a deep part of him begged to feel it again, begged to feel the pain. 

   “Stand up,” he orders, and watches with satisfaction as you instantly comply, your body a mere few inches from his. 

   The shadows quiver at the proximity, which only brings a shaky breath from his lips, his hand reaching forward until the tips of his fingers graze your cheek. Your eyes rise to meet his, confusion trying to mask the culmination of fear and desire he knew you felt, but the words of your open book practically scream at him. Beg him. 

   In one swift movement his hand grips the back of your neck, his fingers burning, but he doesn’t care as his lips meet yours. And oh, how soft your lips were against his, it had to be a crime. He had been with sparingly few people in his life, but nothing compared to how you felt against him, how your light seared him in magnificent ways. A moan escapes from your velvety lips and it can only be accompanied by the groan from his own as he shifts his head, taking advantage of the new angle to slip his tongue into your mouth. 

   Oh, had he known how compliant you would be under his touch, he would have tried this ages ago. So soft and supple, yet you burn hotter than a thousand suns as the shadows practically whimper at the onslaught, yet the pain was quickly becoming something he relished. Something he needed. An addiction that he wasn’t sure he would be able to fulfill. Your pretty moans only further the tingles in his body, their assault almost unnecessary since his pulsing cock was tightly confined to his work slacks, but it only furthered his need for you. 

   Pulling back swiftly, he practically melts at the whine that escapes from you, your gaze hazy as you stare at him in a mixture of confusion and disappointment. It almost makes him lose it. Almost. 

   “Please tell me you want this,” he states, his breathing heavy as his chest heaves to allow more air in, but it seems almost futile. 

   Your face contorts into an expression he can’t seem to understand until it shifts into understanding, a soft smile falling on your lips. Your hand comes up, cupping his cheek and his heart jumps at the contact, the burn intensifying. Your eyes silently consent, but he wants to hear you say it. No…he needs to hear you say it, and he can see it in your eyes that you know that. 

   “I want this,” you whisper, and that’s all he needs. 

   The room envelopes in a darkness like no other, the pure desperation in your eyes as he swiftly swipes his hand across his desk, items clattering onto the floor. You squeal in a mixture of delight and surprise as he unexpectedly throws you onto the now cleared desk, the chill of the wood bringing goosebumps onto your skin, and he doesn’t miss it. No, he sees you so clearly, it is as if all the noise in the world has cleared away to provide the perfect picture that is you. He can’t keep calm as your back arches, your chest practically begging for him to come closer, to ravage you. 

   Reaching forward with trembling hands, his fingers deftly unbutton your blouse, his eyebrows rising when he’s met with the most complimentary color of silk that cups your breasts. Your skin is illuminated with a flush as he continues to stare, his moves slow and methodical, and he takes note of the clench of your thighs as you attempt to relieve the pressure. He doesn’t speed up in his ministrations though, slowing even more as he allows his fingertips to trace from your neck down to your hips, stopping right above the barrier of your tight pencil skirt. He relishes in the way you quiver as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of the skirt, finding the clasp and button with ease and opening it before you can even comprehend what’s happening. 

   He thanks the Heavens that you hadn’t chosen to wear pantyhose this day, because he would feel guilty having to tear them off your body. Well...only slightly guilty. He can’t continue the thought process though, because a deep groan is pouring from his lips at the sight of your matching underwear, his cock now at full attention and already weeping through his pants. His teeth grips at his lower lip as he forces his body to remain at a glacial pace, but with every second that passes, he’s finding it utterly difficult. Your panting did nothing to calm him, your breaths coming quick as your blown out pupils stare at his hands, your tongue coming out to moisten your reddened lips. 

   Oh he needed something on his mouth, and he needed something on them now. Discarding your skirt to some unknown spot across the room, his hands grip right behind your knees, fingers tightening so he can forcefully spread your legs. He can feel the muscles in your legs resist as you try to snap them together again, but he doesn’t allow it, his Adam's apple bobbing at the sight of you. So pretty, so beautifully created, and the burn against his hands strengthens. Grunting at the pain, he is practically salivating as it mixes with the pleasure, the shadows quivering around him, but they remain compliant. 

   And you remain compliant, too, your wide eyes moving to meet his own. A smirk claims the corners of his lips before he leans forward, allowing his hot breath to seep through your underwear. Your legs are trembling within his grip, and you try with all your might to bring his mouth closer to where you want it. Where he knew you needed it. And he is content on giving it to you. Moving his hands from their spot, he uses the angle to spread your legs further apart, his hands coming to your hips. The cry of pleasure that escapes your mouth is pure bliss, your body clearly stiff with shock at the sudden action of his fingers having pushed your underwear to the side so that they could flick your clit. 

   Yoongi’s mouth salivates at the sight of your entrance, completely wet and dripping. He wants to ask if it’s because of him, but his body is working faster than his mind. His mouth begins to suck at your juices, his nose bumping into your clit and you jump, his hands swiftly moving to hold your hips down. Oh how sweet you were. Like the sweetest of treats, but a rapidly addicting taste that he isn’t sure he can stop. He is sure you don’t want him to stop either, considering how your hand has desperately moved to his hair, fingers gripping at his locks. You tug when he purposely licks your nub, a mumbled whine of his name falling from your lips, and he can’t help but groan. 

   With all thoughts of a glacial pace flying from his thoughts, he allows himself the pleasure of wrapping his lips around your clit, alternating between sucking and licking in hopes he could hear you call his name once more. At least once more. 

   Oh but he doesn’t have to wait for long, his name practically pours from your lips in rapid succession as he continues his actions, the tremble in your legs intensifying. Shifting in his spot, he blocks your leg with his shoulder so that he can free a hand, the tips of his fingers promptly prodding at your entrance. Earning an anguished whine from you as he leans away from your pretty pussy, his heart thrums at the way your eyes roll back when he shoves a finger inside of you, quickly following it up with another. 

   There isn’t much he is proud of, but his fingers are one of them. He doesn’t miss the way your back instantly bows off the desk when he curls them and finds your sweet spot.

   “Y-yoongi,” you cry out, beginning a new song of his name with explicit curses that sound so sinfully sweet, his jaw is aching. 

   Desperate to see how quick he could get you off on his fingers, he leans forward again to provide unabated licks to your clit. The light behind his eyes is almost blinding as your bodies remain connected, the shadows sticking to the far walls away from your shine, but quaking at the pleasure they feel through him. He wasn’t even undressed, and he felt as if he could cum on the spot, just on the feel of you against him. Of the mix of pleasure and pain as he refuses to lose any form of contact with you. And you must have felt the same, because you basically wail your impending orgasm a mere second before it comes crashing. 

   But he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. He continues sucking at you and savors the battle your body has, conflicted on whether you should withdraw from the overstimulation, or stay under his tongue as the pain rolls into renewed pleasure. All Yoongi can think about is pleasing you, devouring you in every way he can because this is nothing he has ever felt before. 

   Your grip in his hair tightens painfully, and he moans at the way you try to stop him. Finally caving in to your demands, he pulls back from your clit and looks you in the eyes, a growl tearing from his chest at the look on your face. You had to be as far gone as he, possibly further gone considering your pupils had practically consumed the iris, your wings spread taut across the desk. His own wings twitch at the sight, and it only takes him a mere five seconds to pull his clothes off and throw them across the room with yours. 

   Five seconds seem like too much to him, and possibly to you too, because you are standing in front of him by the time he finishes. You have managed to remove your bra and panties on your ascent, your hands coming forward to grab his shoulders, a flash of your wings switching your positions. His vision all but careens at the intensely quick motion, unable to keep up with the change as the room spins. When his eyes are finally able to focus, you have him lying against the desk, scrambling to climb on top of him. 

   His cock twitches at your juices dripping onto him, each drop tingling against his skin until your flesh makes contact with his once again, the sheer pleasure of pain zinging through him. Reaching forward, his hands grab hold of your hips, desperate to bring your entrance against his member. Your mind seems to be in sync with his, as your hand shoots down to grip his cock, bringing his head to your dripping core. He growls at the onslaught, his thighs tensing for fear that he would lose if before he could get himself in you. 

   You waste no time in letting his thick cock slide in, your neck becoming exposed as you throw your head back, a cry echoing in the office. The shadow’s tighten their position, absorbing your moans as you beg him to release his grip on your hips, desperate to move so as to allow the tip of his dick to rub over your spot. But his grip is ruthless, the onslaught of pleasure and pain putting him at the edge, and he was not going to lose it now. 

   Tears are trailing down your cheeks as you meet his gaze, your eyes widening as you observe the slithering shadows wrapping around his neck, quivering in hopes he would lose control in this moment of fragility. Your hands move towards the shadows, the tips of your fingers connecting with the skin at his neck as they retreat, the thrum of his pulse accelerating beneath your fingertips. All control flees from him as his hands grab yours, your fingers intertwining before he thrusts, a silent command to move. 

   Oh, how you felt above him. Pure bliss. Your hips snap as you grind against his cock, your back arching as you try and move faster. He can feel the shake of your thighs, the shivers as goosebumps travel down your body, turning your nipples into hardened nubs. He lifts himself slightly to take one of those buds into his mouth, groaning against your skin as you practically cry his name. A constant tune of his name on your lips, collective curses intertwining between your bodies as your grip on his hands tighten. 

   He forces his eyes to remain open, unwilling to lose contact with your body above his, his eyes flitting to all parts of you. He never wanted to forget how beautiful you look above him, how well you balance him as your skin made his burn in all the best ways. Your walls tighten around him, signaling your fast approaching release, and your cries of pleasure grow in volume. Digging his feet into the desk, he lifts his lower half in hopes it will give you more leverage against him, but it was also his desperate way to be closer to you in all the ways he could be. 

   Your back curves as you halt above him, your walls spasming against him as your juices gush out, the push of your orgasm almost causing him to slip out. He grits his teeth as he forces himself to stay inside of you, his grip unmerciful as you continue to squirt on his cock, soaking his lower abdomen. 

   Desperation consumes his body as he watches you unravel above him, and his grip on your fingers release, his hands moving to your hips as he adjusts his stance. He revels at your cry of surprise when he begins to slam himself up into you, your chest coming forward to rest against his own, changing the angle in which he enters you. Your lips rest against the thick vein in his neck, your teeth nibbling at his skin as your hands run up his arms before slipping through his hair. If the pain was intense before, his body was practically aflame as your fingers grip at his hair, your walls remaining clenched around him. His thigh muscles scream as he chases his high, frantically speeding up further when he feels the end near. His wings twitch, pitching forward as they comfortably make contact with yours, the bond of a thousand lifetimes pushing him over the edge. 

   It takes him a moment to realize you’re both in the air, his wings having carried you both off the desk, and you both softly float back towards it. You remain on top of him, your eyes searching his own as your wings stay connected, cocooning your bodies as the bond is finalized. 

   “I found you,” he whispers. 

   A small smile claims your lips as you stare back at him, his heart swelling at your reply. 

   “I found you.”

[glass-frogs-and-dragons]

Elves were supposed to be flawless.

Warnings: death :) Sorry

Pairing: Barduil :3

Fandom: The Hobbit

I'm very sorry

This kinda follows Movieverse for The Hobbit but with a smol twist.

Elves were supposed to be flawless.

That’s what Bard of Laketown was brought up to believe, what he had heard from his grandfather and the older townsfolk’s stories. The idea was cemented into the man’s brain ever since he was a child. He had never met an elf before the weeks leading to the Battle of the Five Armies, and even then- even under all the pressure and the surrounding death- the elven warriors and their blond king had fought with swan-like elegance. Even Legolas and Tauriel, only children by elven standards and captains of the Royal Guard (or so Bard believed), were more graceful than most men. Sure, some lost their composure sometimes, but it was often the younger ones (still older than him) when their friends or loved ones were in danger; Sigrid had smiled as she told him of when the red-haired elf had cured Kíli, a foreign panic evident in her face.

Elves were also graceful.

That could be proven by Legolas’ mannerisms, the warrior’s synchronised way of fighting and King Thranduil’s short range of facial expressions- a disdainful sneer reserved for dwarves, a cold but dangerous smirk for when he was threatened, and his inexpressive face for everyone and everything else. Bard found impressive that they barely bat an eyelash even when they faced an enemy as ruthless and terrifying as the orcs from Dol Guldur or Gundabad, despite overhearing Tauriel admit she was terrified when fending off the ones that had invaded Laketown trying to find the dwarrow to Kíli. The lad had managed to dodge the otherwise fatal blow from an orc and was now sitting dutifully beside his unconscious brother and uncle while Gandalf used his magic to cure them both, and even though Bard didn’t harbour any strong sentiment towards the King Under the Mountain, he could understand the family bond that held them close even after their brush with Death.

Bard admired Thranduil especially, as he was a capable and reasonable ruler (save when it came to dwarves or irritating men) who governed rationally, albeit being cold. Thranduil rarely raised his voice more than his duty as a king required, yet could still command sharp orders that everybody in the vicinity would follow. He seemed heartless to most, and Bard had to admit he sometimes wondered whether the Elvenking’s heart was actually there and there was no stone replacing it.

Elves were almost the epitome of perfection.

That is why Bard was shocked to the core when he heard the heart wrenching, primal scream tear through the battlefield. At first, he believed them to come from the dwarrow, maybe something had gone astray, but when he saw Kíli rushing out of the tent with eyes as wide as saucers and asking what had happened he discarded the idea. It could not have been a man, Bard was quite sure; still, he rushed towards the source of the sound, heart beating wildly in his chest. When he reached the clearing from which the scream came from, his breath hitched as his hand instinctively flew towards his mouth, covering it.

It was Thranduil. The ever unphased Elvenking was the source of the agonising cry he had heard earlier. He was kneeling on the ground, armour strewn aside, and cradling something in his arms; his long blond locks were somehow longer than Bard remembered was askew and dirty (Bard never thought he’d see the day when he would witness an elf’s hair getting messy) and sobs racked his body. The shock that had paralysed him was quickly replaced by an unsettling sense of urgency as he rushed forward towards the king. When he heard the man’s footsteps the blond turned to look at the newcomer, making Bard stop dead in his tracks. Tears coursed through Thranduil's otherwise pale cheeks; his eyes, those beautifully regal blue orbs, were now red and swollen; the left side of his face looked just as if it were about to turn to ashes, corroding that perfectly formed face and his jaw was clenched viciously as if to stop another sound from escaping his lips. He was crouched in a way that prevented Bard from seeing what the king was weeping about, though it was painfully obvious that it was a body- a corpse. After a few seconds of hesitation, Bard kneeled beside the king and put his hand on the other’s shoulder; the figure was now visible to him.

The man let out a choked gasp.

The king’s son, the blond prince Legolas, was lying on the ground; blood that had once sprouted from the knife wound from his stomach now pooled on the floor and solidified around his torso, forming a crust on his clothes and making a striking contrast with the paleness of his cold skin. His eyes were closed and it seemed like all the colour had drained from the young elf- even his golden hair, usually darker than his father’s, looked almost white. His lifeless hand rested on his bow, smeared with both black orc blood and red elven blood; his quiver also lay beside him, empty. He had run out of arrows and an orc had taken advantage of this and had impaled him with his sword.

Bard opened his mouth, but before any words could come out, a raspy voice cut him off.

“Don’t.”

He looked at the king, then at his dead son, then back at the king. The man sat down beside the elf, their shoulders barely grazing, and stared at the corpse. Thranduil wanted silence, and Bard could understand why- he hadn’t lost his children, but he had been told that Legolas was the only living family the King had, and Bard could not come close to imagining the pain he was going through; still, he stayed and listened to the broken words in Sindarin that fell from Thranduil’s lips. The left side of his face had finally crumbled down, allowing Bard to see burnt muscle, destroyed nerve and milk coloured eye; looking closely, he could recognise the signs of dragon fire on his King’s face, increasing the awe and the pity the man felt for him.

Bard put his arm around the Elvenking’s shoulder, almost retreating when he saw the other flinch and tense, but began to rub his arm gently as if it were to provide him with any semblance of comfort. Much to his surprise, the usually composed and collected facade crumbled as Thranduil wrapped his arms around the man’s torso and buried his face in his neck; muffled sobs resonating in the brunet’s ears and the gentle patter of the rain on the mounds of corpses that surrounded them.

Elves were supposed to be flawless but right now, and despite grief settling and the lack of words between them, Bard was grateful his King had decided to seek comfort in him.

[sohin-ace]

Secco - Good Boy

This is cross-posted from Wattpad and available on AO3.

Enjoy~

Warning: It gets a little steamy 👀 close your eyes kids.

You were part of La Unita Speciale, a division that was not exactly the best perceived in Passione, for the quite unique people that composed it.

Cioccolata, as cruel as he was, never had any sort of problem with you, if anything, you both managed to work in cooperation very well. He actually had what you can only call a bit of a soft spot for you after you treated his little Secco with the upmost love and care.

I mean, it would make sense to appreciate the people who appreciate your pets, right?

On the other hand, the puppy boy in question was extremely fond of you and your endless love ministrations and praises, and you couldn't deny that the duo snatched you a hearty laugh everyday.

Even the rest of the team accepted you right to their arms, the assassins, Tiziano and Squalo were sweet towards you and you got along pretty well with the couple as well as the very solitary Carne, the one who showed you the ropes.

Of all the members, one would consider you to be the most 'normal', but again, there's no such thing as normal in a group like this one, especially when you felt so much at home with them.

Rather, you were maybe the softest of them all, even if that gentleness you had was known in the syndicate to be just as, if not more, terrifying than Cioccolata's sadistic outbursts.

After all, who would possibly want to be dismembered and tortured by the seemingly sweet and caring girl that always spoke with a voice of velvet?

The same girl that you first see when you open your eyes, tied up and unable to move on a surgery table. The one you foolishly believe would save you, remove your restraints, and lead you to the exit as she tells you that 'everything will be okay".

Who wants to be betrayed by a false sense of motherly comfort? Not your victims, at least.

You still remembered how it all started. Funny how you originally were one of Cioccolata's own victims at first. But as you woke up dizzily to see his strange assistant in a body suit, his camera right in your face, you could only smile at his widening and panicking eyes.

The doctor was outraged that you woke up so soon, before he even started cutting your guts wide open, but as he turned around and saw you, one hand untied and petting the boy vigorously while babbling 'Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?' in a baby voice, he had to pause questionningly for a while.

He wondered if it was the effect of the anesthetics that was meddling with your brain, or if you were usually just... Like that... Like them.

You didn't even freak out at your position and barely showed any concern to Secco's canine behavior. If anything, you looked like you were having a ball, eager to see what purpose all the tools around you were about to serve.

He wanted to believe you were just brain fogged by the chemical, but seeing his good boy excitedly jumping around you and probably messing the video he was taking, he couldn't resolve himself to just continue on with his plan just yet.

Cioccolata had at the time, told himself he'd keep you and observe you a little bit, studying your behaviors before he decided if he wanted to kill you or not.

But what firstly was an observation case with you as specimen, ended up in you joining the gang and proving yourself to be quite the talented and ruthless 'sweet nurse' you now were.

You were currently cleaning some tools and weapons peacefully while humming some tunes. It was a rather calm day and the easy cleaning of stainless steel was therapeutic for you.

You felt a presence lurking ominously and menacingly behind you, the tall man slowly approaching and reaching out towards your much smaller form, only to grab your arm suddenly in a shaky but vicious grip that would make anyone jump.

You turned around and smiled at the sight before you, your eyes softening on the male.

"Secco, carino, what's wrong?"

He stared at you with his wide, soulless eyes and he didn't need to speak a single word for you to understand what he needed.

You put your tools down and fully turned around to face him and gently cupped his face, the light action making him flinch and tense visibly, a strange reaction of excitement.

You chuckled as you heard his breath coming in short, hissing pants through his mask.

"Is Cioccolata being too rough again?" You softly asked, genuine concern in your voice and the male nodded so eagerly, he was almost headbanging.

That's right. It became a recurring thing between you two. When Cioccolata was a bit too harsh with his aggresive affection and Secco was too overwhelmed, he would come to you for more tenderness and comfort to contrast it all. Which you didn't mind at all.

You took him by both his hands and lead him towards the couch and he could barely contain his excitement, knowing you were in for a cuddle session. Oh he loved to be the little spoon and he always felt so safe in your arms.

You sat down and he followed suit, whining loudly and giddy already. You gently pulled him down and laid his head on your lap and he instantly curled up.

Oh his reactions were all so cute and precious. You never had the occasion to own a dog before joining Passione, and man, was Secco one big doggo.

Despite his tall build, Secco always seemed to shrink himself when he craved your attention and laid upon you just like he was currently doing. You carefully patted his head and glided your fingers up and down his neck and shoulders.

The first times, you had asked him to remove Oasis to be more comfortable, but he didn't hold himself back from becoming very defensive and insistantly refuse.

Well technically he could feel you touch him just as well, since it was his Stand. So you let him be, since he was already comfortable that way.

He shuddered and sighed as you continued to massage and caress his head and back, relishing in the warmth and softness of your thighs. It was a relaxing moment, but you knew it was only a matter of time before he started jumping up and down again.

Secco loved to be petted, but he was always so agitated and hyperactive, he could never stay put. He wasn't at all one for just relaxing and doing nothing. It was probably one more thing that made him get along so well with Cioccolata.

You laid back against the couch and mindlessly rubbed his arm up and down, softly tracing patterns over his Stand before the male suddenly jerked up.

He got up so fast and so suddenly you thought that you had hurt him maybe, or that he heard something. But when you looked up a him next to you, his purple eyes were fixated on you and you noticed he was breathing weird again.

He was bouncing his leg up and down and fidgeted with his hands. You were expecting something to come up soon but, just like a jumpscare, he made you anticipate it long enough to still surprise you.

He towered over you ominously before he abruptly caged you in his slender arms, his grip possessive as he dived forward, pushing you down on the couch.

You weren't shocked by his act, but his obssessive clinginess and clumsy lack of tact always took you aback and you couldn't help the gasp that escaped you.

He tightened his hold around you and straddled your legs as you struggled to free your arms and reciprocate the 'hug'. His breathing hastened and he let out a small growl as he forcefully nuzzled his face on your chest.

"Uuurrghh...! Hmmrrghh...rghhh."

"There, there, atta boy. Steady now." You hushed and patted his head, rubbing his heaving back, trying to tame the beast he was. "Yes, good boy."

He seemed to calm down slowly, his pants coming in short as he pushed his weight against you.

You cringed and tried to contain your wheeze. The man was heavy above you and seemed to forget how easily he could overpower you if he really tried or wanted to.

You secured an arm around his shoulder as he moved towards your neck and uncovered his mouth, something he only ever did to get his sugary treats.

He laid sloppy open-mouthed kisses all over your neck, blowing warm steamy breaths through hungry pants all over your now wet skin, the contact making you shiver and clench on his broad back.

"S-secco-..." Your breathy voice was strained as you winced, your own breathing becoming arrhythmic by the second.

He was so bad at this, yet you loved it so much. He had such weird ways of expressing his love for you and was so animalistic about it, only a handful of people could ever handle a man like him.

He did not stop as you occasionally felt his warm tongue lap up at your heated skin, as if you had seasoned it with powdered sugar just for him.

Your mind was hazy and your lids fluttered close on their own behalf with pleasure before you suddenly felt him grind his hips on your leg with earnest.

You immediately shot your eyes open as you felt him harden by the second, squeezing your waist flush against him, desperately seeking every single ounce of friction he could get from you.

You gasped and grabbed his shoulders, forcefully pushing him away from you. He stopped and hovered above you, his eyes wide with confusion as he stared at your own strict, pissed ones.

"Secco! What did we say about rutting?! Bad! Bad boy!" You scolded and he gasped.

"Ah-! I'm... I'm sorry Y/N...! I'm sorry!" He fretted out an apology, suddenly realizing he completely forgot himself and went a bit too far.

He hated to upset you, but he just couldn't help himself. You were always so good to him and he loved you so, so much, he could hardly contain himself around you. Especially when you were so beautiful, so sweet and so kind towards him.

If it were just him, if Cioccolata allowed him, he would have ravished you and jumped on you so many times already.

Was he wrong, though? Was he wrong to find you so irresistible that his sheer primal instincts took over, throwing self-control out the window? Maybe, but that didn't change anything. He was a good boy, and making you angry was a big no-no.

You sighed and softened your gaze on his apologetic and regretful eyes. You brought him back down to lay his head on your chest and this time, he let his hands nicely tucked next to his face, making sure they were on sight and not drifting anywhere else.

"Behave." You spoke firmly yet softly, your deep voice not helping tone down his prior arousal. "If you want to get rewarded, behave."

He nodded and calmed down. He was so shaken up, you were just like velvet-covered steel and he was not ashamed to admit he absolutely loved it.

Oh there was nothing he could do but obey you. Especially when in return, you were gliding your fingers delicately through the slit of his suit, your cold digits hitting his bare skin so deliciously.

He shivered and did his absolute best to stay still and drink up your presence. How warm you felt under him and how sweet you smelled. He found himself sighing in content and finally close his eyes.

"Y/N, are my tools read- Oh, Secco that's where you've been!"

Secco yelped and instantly jumped to his feet at the brutal sound of Ciocolata bursting through the door.

"Ah, welcome back. Your tools are all cleaned up, you can take them." You sat up as the doctor walked in and took what he needed.

"Perfect. Secco, we're going now." He ordered and the boy obeyed with grunts and whines of agreement. "Thanks for keeping an eye on him, Y/N."

"It's my pleasure." You leaned over the edge of the couch and reached out playfully towards the now crouching boy. "Bye Secco~"

"Nnngghh...!!!" He blushed at your sing-songy voice and gripped hard on the doctor's leg who clicked his tongue.

"Come on, now." Ciocolata urged as he left, Secco following close behind him.

You chuckled to yourself in amusement and laid back down for the day.

Why do dogs do that? Why do you have to mount me, bro, it's my leg, please! Get off I just want to live a quiet life.

Edit: I searched and apparently dogs hump you as a coping mechanism for anxiety :( 

[m00nlitknight]

wherever i may roam. ( 1 of 2 )

fandom: IT (2017) pairing:  patrick hockstetter / female reader word count:   2.1k+ warnings:  underage drinking. loud scenes. men being creepy. patrick being patrick. extra: based heavily off one of these prompts.  part two in the works!  i hope you all enjoy this, and have a fantastic day c:

Having parties wasn’t a known rarity within the ranks of Derry, but they weren’t a known phenomenon on a superficial level, either.  Within the ranks of upper class high schoolers, they were typically done in the fashion of a small circle of friends rather than anything colossal.  Those instances and occasions of plenty were saved for the rare event of a musical guest.  While the quality of the music wasn't considered a static variable, the fun and energy that ensued from the crowd - teens and college students, usually - was.  For that, many found themselves grateful for the bands, even if they were bad metal covers of pop songs, cover bands for hot acts that didn’t make tour stops in Maine, or just song-writers who were trying to make it in the world of music.

You couldn’t complain -- you shouldn’t, really.  Being the daughter of a well-off lawyer whose business was usually taken out of town, and a girl with a reputation to upkeep; these events didn’t just fly under your radar, they were on a completely different radar altogether.  It sucked, really, to be thrust into expectations you didn’t care to uphold, but not having the might to fight back.  So, you did what you could and lived with it.

However, living with it meant blatantly going against the rule of social rules, society, and your father all the while being directly under their nose.  It was a needle-thin line to walk, but one you felt you walked with confidence and care.

Which, is how you managed to sneak out of the house undetected and attend the concert that had been whispered within the school the previous week.  Spoken from under the bleachers, overheard from the bathroom by those who smoked and considered themselves too cool for the joint; who knew your keen sense of hearing would become so useful?

From the moment your father bid you a sterile adieu, composed of a hollow embrace and chaste kiss to the head, you had begun putting your plans in motion.  Wherever he went, likely to a hotel for whatever trial was taking place early the next morning, or whatever, you couldn’t find it in yourself to particularly care.

Looking the part of a ‘typical’ metalhead wasn’t something you were truly infatuated with to any degree.  Sure, putting on the guise of torn jeans, fishnets, boots, and whatever decimated t-shirt you could find was a great bound of comfort compared to the typical stuffy outfits you had, but it felt tiring to have not just one, but two kinds of social guises to keep up.  Polar opposites, at that.  Surely, you deserve an award for it.

You ease the vehicle into park, a full street away from the actual event, to ensure the protection of the metallic body of your car.  Next, you lean to look yourself in the eye -- eyes rimmed with a sharp black, smudged with burgundy eyeshadow, and lips done with a simple gloss.  Had you any actual lip colors, you would’ve reached for them instead.  You stare for a moment longer, admiring the well-pointed wing extending your likely bored resting face.

Stud earrings and a lazily done ponytail completed your look, the rest of your outfit accented with bits of silver jewelry you couldn’t find it in yourself to truly care about.  Several rings were on your fingers, simple silver bands you had bought from thrift stores recently.  In the frosty, night air you wore a black cardigan over a simple black tank top.  Nondescript, you hope, and would allow you to simply blend into the background.  A simple, forgettable face in the crowd.  Exhaling, you prepare yourself for the night to come and push the car open.

The music, likely booming from the basement, lilts through the air with jagged electricity, and it manages to translate into your veins with a faint tingle in your fingers.  You grin to yourself, already feeling the exhilaration to come.  Around the premises of the home a multitude of cars appear parked, which has you thanking your mind for avoiding the mess of it.  Multiple parked on the curbside, in the driveway, and also on the lawn.  The image of the destroyed grass and streaky soil has you cringing internally, for the remembrance of the hard work that likely went into the landscaping.  

The open, and partially wrecked, door frame is but a glance into the chaos that took place shortly after the sun laid itself to daily rest.  Broken electronics, a lamp, a shattered glass coffee table, and a bloody and unconscious stranger lying all in view.  Suddenly, you felt thankful for the thick and hard soles of your boots, and preyed your balance wouldn’t be giving out on you anytime soon.

As you draw closer you hear the music increase in volume, and can only imagine the ear-shattering havoc occurring just down the stairs.  A sudden shriek to your left rips you from your foot hitting the entryway of the door, instead whipping to a sudden figure being body slammed through what you assumed was the living room window.  You felt a wave of relief wash over you at the fact that this wasn’t your home, but a resounding ripple of pity for whoever actually owned the place.

You quickly stepped past and shuffled through the living room, leaving the unnamed duo to brawl, the more coherent shouting briefly as a greeting.  Quickly you found the kitchen, from the trail of empty and shredded beer cans, to the demolished and alarming amount of disposable cups, you snickered to yourself quietly.  The volume increased as you moved more into the building, most of the partygoers sticking to their own groups and remaining calm.  Wherever the violent action was, it was bound to be nearer to the actual band.

In the corner do you find one of the kegs, swiftly making yourself a drink and turning back to the face of a stranger.  Ebony hair, gel-slicked to perfection, deep brown eyes, and a teetering stance; he eyes you with curiosity and an underlying sense of something else.  You shift uncomfortably when he registers your attention on him.

“Y’from here?” he slurs, prodding your shoulder aggressively.

“Nope,” a bold-faced lie, coupled with nonchalant disinterest.  “You?”

“Nah, from, uh...Place a’ways from here,”  he gestures with both hands, drink-filled cup sloshing with the movement and liquid threatening to spill from the open top.  He leans down to your level.   “Where y’from, doll?”

“Don’t quite think I’ll share where I’m from with a guy who won’t even tell me his name before getting my address,” you cringe at the stench of beer heavy on his breath and lean back.

“Oh, uhhh...Name’s, fuckin’...Michael, y’can call me Mike, though,” a grin overtakes his features while your frown deepens.

“Alright, Mike, I’ll see’ya around,”  you attempt to shift around him, to shuffle out from the keg-corner only to be blocked.

“N’awww, c’mon?  I was polite, or whatever, ain’t’cha gonna tell me your name, dollface?”

“No, now let me through.”

“Or what, kitten?”

Outwardly you groan at the intrusion of your space, and also the blatant annoyance of him.  His turns nearly primal while the music gets louder, a crescendo you knew you would likely have trouble yelling over.

A thin, pale finger with several rings taps itself on his shoulder, from a form you were unable to see.  Michael turns around, aggravation apparent while he begins, “Can’t’cha see we’re busy h--”

He’s cut off by a jarring and strength-filled punch, falling awkward and stone-cold out on your shoulder and kegs.  You watch him fall, as though it happens in slow motion, eyes wide and nearly dropping your drink.  Upon turning your head you come eye-to-eye with someone who could put you in an even worse position and you feel a faint sliver of fear scurry up your spine.  Patrick Hockstetter.

“Kitten,” he starts, with a deadly vocal tone which could only be described as velvet draped over gravel.  You want to cringe.  “That your boyfriend or somethin’?”

“Ew, no,”  No gentle care is taken into shoving the unconscious boy’s body from yours and onto the matted, once shaggy carpeting.  “Just a fuckin’ creep who didn’t know where or when to stop.”

Recognition flashes in his eyes, momentary, and he grins to himself while grabbing something to drink.  It makes you uneasy, to see someone who knows everyone at your school.  Your arms cross as you move to leave, until his voice speaks over the music once again.

“What brings a girl like you to a place like this?”  It makes you realize just how close he’s managed to get to you, lips near your ear as though his presence engulfs you.  “Careful, princess, or you just might get devoured.”

“I--”  a short-lived stammer as he turns and throws an arm over your shoulders, causing you to tense.

“S’okay!  I’ll be but a chaperone so you aren’t found dead by sunrise.”

“Wait,” just barely croaked out, and obviously no hindrance as he begins dragging you from the corner and into the rest of the party.

He takes you down the stairs, a bouncy lack of care going into his lengthened strides and whether or not you were able to keep up.  You hold onto him, sliding an arm around his waist to try and keep balance while staring down at the floor to make sure you weren’t about to fall over.

At the bottom level is what managed to always ignite a feeling of excitement in you, set ablaze the adrenaline and flames of hardy teenage violence.  A mosh pit had formed and the destruction stopped just shy of the stairs.  In the air is the heavy scent of leather, sweat, and iron; all of which attacking with the force of animalistic glee.  The air feels heavy, like it’s weighing down on your shoulders.  Timidly, you steal a glance up at Patrick, who’s managed to get a lit cigarette betwixt his fingers and discard his drink in the time you’d been adhered to his side.  He takes a long drag and licks his lips, smoke emulating the carnage of a dragon, if you could compare him to such a beast.

He looks down at you and says something you’re unable to hear over the music, and had it not been for the sheer volume, you’d likely find it to be one of the more enjoyable acts to grace Derry with its presence.  His arm unwinds from around your shoulder and he plants a kiss on your forehead, to which has you reeling, before stepping into the pit and leaving you alone.

It feels unnerving, to suddenly be rid of the boy who’d claimed himself the role of your ‘evening security blanket,’ but to suddenly fear the repercussions.  Eyes you know are locked on opponents or the evening’s stand feel locked on you, and you feel socially naked at the foot of the basement’s stairs with both hands wrapped around a red solo cup.

You gulp after losing sight of him among the dim room and other black-haired aggressors, taking to maneuvering yourself to a couch sat beside a grandfather clock on the outskirts of the fighting and staring into the lukewarm cup.  Sips are taken from it, carefully, while a couple does what you can only describe as practically eating one another’s faces.

As time passes you begin to feel more cramped, not so much that eyes are on you any longer, but more so that the time to leave is rapidly approaching.  A brief glance at the clock registers it as 11:50 p.m., and you feel a slight pang in your gut that the time to move is now.  

You set the plastic cup on the coffee table in front of you and start off, without much of a care for who would be the poor soul to clean it up.  The stairs are ascended quickly, and alarms in your mind begin to go off fervently.  Wherever your evening’s chaperone had gone, he wasn’t worth getting potentially arrested for.  The kitchen and living room are passed briskly, and while the quick removal of such loud noises is nothing short of disorienting, the sound of approaching sirens is enough to sober you completely.

The yard is left in the dust as you take to a full-sprint down the street, mentally cursing yourself for even coming in the first place.  Wherever the authorities were, you knew that potentially crossing paths with them would be a death wish.

You only slow down and exhale when you’re in your car seat, key jammed in the ignition and letting the engine roar to life.  Speeding home probably wouldn’t be the best course of action, but you can’t help the lead foot and lady luck allowing you to swing into the driveway with no detection.

Is this true nirvana, you wonder, narrowly escaping the law after a gut feeling in a place you weren’t even meant to be?  Whatever the case, you knew sleep would either be impossible to grasp, or come the moment it hit your pillow.

[lizzy-frizzle]

Here’s the second piece! It stars one Deidre Hunt from @smallest-turtle

Lizzy was walking around the ishgard markets, looking for anything interesting.

[Hmmm. No, no, that’s gaudy, no, ew do people wear that?]

She sighed, exasperated, “Nothing. Nothing is good enough to get for Sadu. Maybe I should just make something?”

There was a light commotion as the most horrendous shroud accent tears through the scuffle, “I didn’ do anythin’!”

Lizzy, having spent most of her youth in the shroud, recognized it immediately, but to ishgardian ears it must’ve been gibberish.

Lizzy steps toward the noise, and pushes her way through the crowd, the source of the commotion was a young hyur woman was grabbed by the arm of an ishgardian market guard.

“Um, hello, is there a problem?” Lizzy asked the guard.

The guard takes a step back, “I, uh, oh Lizzy. I caught this one stealing from the stall.”

Lizzy looks at the woman, then back at the guard, the guard was easily twice the height of her, “Mhm. Well, I can take it from here.”

Lizzy stares the guard down, knowing the guard doesn’t want to just let this go.

He takes a moment, and begrudgingly throws the arm down, “Fine.”

Lizzy takes a breath, “You know, I’m just saving you.”

The guard looks confused, but waves it off, and walks on.

The woman turns to Lizzy, “I had it und’r control!”

“Well, I don’t think a person with the echo should be composing themselves like that.” Lizzy measures the woman with her eyes, “Wait, how old are you?”

“18, why?”

[This is a child.]

“What’s your name?” Lizzy asks, as gently as possible.

“Deidre.” she starts analyzing Lizzy, “Who’r you?”

Lizzy shudders, [This child speaks like my grandmother.]

“My name is Elizabeth Frizzle, but you can call me Lizzy, everyone does.” Lizzy stops for a second, “Wait, Deidre, that name...Aren’t you the one the scions have been getting to curb the primal threats recently?”

Lizzy knew that there had been others, and honestly was happy to let them take over while she focused on her more romantic endeavors.

“Ye, ‘ave you any idea ‘ow frustrat’n it is?”

Lizzy parses the information on her ears, “Uh, yea, the scions had me take down a couple primals, then I was pulled away by some issues elsewhere, then more issues, and I suppose you took up my responsibility.”

[If I had known they would make a child…]

Lizzy continues, “Hey, would you wanna come with me while I shop around?”

Deidre was about to turn and run.

“Hey, I’m not going to force you to fight anything, I just want some company while I shop, my chocobo isn’t allowed in the city, so I don’t ge-”

“-Chocobo?” Deidre perked up.

“Oh? Yea, her name is Valerie. I’ve raised her forever, I don’t leave home without her.” Lizzy looks at Deidre, “Would you like to meet her?”

The hyur nodded, and started following Lizzy.

Lizzy begins to talk as they walk through the market, “I’m looking for a present for my girlfriend.” she stops to check out some jewelry in a stall, “Normally these kind of markets can have hidden gems, but I haven’t found anything today.” she holds the focus of her necklace out to show Deidre, “Sadu got me this necklace, and even got it engraved, and I can’t find anything nearly half as meaningful for her.”

“Wha’ kind’o girl i’she?” Deidre asks.

“She loves to fight, she challenged me to...7? Or 8, fights before she accepted my date proposal.”

Deidre nods knowingly, “Why’nt get’er a new weap’n?

Lizzy stops, shocked, “Why didn’t I think of that...”

[Sadu has always used that staff though, I don’t know if she’d like a new one. Maybe the gesture is enough though?]

“Ok, let’s go somewhere else then, you can teleport yea?” Lizzy looks at the scars on Deidre’s arms.

“Ye!”

“Alright, let’s go to Gridania then. They make the best staffs.”

With that they were whisked away.

~New Gridania~

“So, I think a staff with this one tree...” Lizzy trails off, half-talking to Deidre, half-thinking of what she needs.

“Do y’always talk t’ yourself?”

“Well,” Lizzy starts to defend herself, but alas, “I guess I’m so used to traveling alone I do...huh.” Lizzy thinks about it for a moment, “Well, anyway, I got the wood I needed.”

With a flash, Lizzy starts carving the wood into a staff right there. The movements being rapid, but carefully calculated, the form of a beautiful staff forming. A thin pole, with the focus point having wings and twin serpents coiling up to a slot where a gem should go.

“Now I just need to get a special type of diamond.” Lizzy stops, “Hey, I’m gonna go fight a god real quick, can you stay here for a moment?”

“Uh, sure?” Deidre sat down on a log.

“Alright,” Lizzy disappears.

Deidre notices the dark blue chocobo standing there, waiting for her owner to return. She beckons her over, and the chocobo gently sits down and rests her head across Deidre’s lap.

10 minutes later, Lizzy re-appears. Now she’s holding a pristine looking diamond.

“Wonderful.” Lizzy takes out the rod and inserts the gem.

“Who’d y’fight?” Deidre asks.

“Kefka, that stupid clown always uses diamonds in some of his attacks, so fighting him allows me to get them for weapons.” Lizzy stops, feeling nearly insane, “They’re really good weapons.”

“Ah, can I meet y’girlfriend?”

“Uh, sure, I don’t see why not. Have you been to the Azim Steppe?”

~Dotharl Khaa~

As soon as Lizzy spots a specific Au Ra, she leaps into her arms.

“SADU!”

The smiles on both their faces is near infectious, and Deidre can’t help but smile at the sight.

Sadu let’s Lizzy down, “I wasn’t expecting you to visit today!”

“Well! I made you something!” Lizzy notices the standalone hyur among everyone, “OH! This is my new friend, Deidre. She’s from the Shroud too.”

Sadu looks at her, “Are you strong?”

Lizzy begins to scold her, “Sadu, she’s a child.”

“And children can’t fight? She looks like she can topple some beasts.”

Deidre confidently says, “I bet ah’ve kill’d more than y’have!”

Sadu nearly steps back, “What.”

Lizzy translates, “She thinks she’s killed more creatures than you.”

Sadu nods, “See? That means I should challenge her.”

Lizzy gets a worried expression, “Can I at least give you your present first? I think you’ll love it.”

“You got me something?” her eyes flicker with excitement.

“Yea! Actually, I made it.” Lizzy takes out the diamond infused black mage staff, “Here!”

Sadu takes it, and examines it. Carefully tracing the notches and patterns in it. After a moment, she casts a spell on a nearby shrug, igniting it instantly.

“Ooooo, I like this! The magic flows so easily, and so potently!”

Sadu hugs Lizzy again, this time punctuating it with a kiss.

She let’s go of Lizzy, “Thank you so much!”

Lizzy seems lost in a daze, cheeks flushed.

Sadu turns her attention back to Deidre, “Ok, so about that fight then?”

[evoedbd]

Forevers

Summery:  Kya had long since accepted that she was in love with a scarred soul. That she would go to the ends of the world to see Helena smile. To be the reason. The depth of her dedication was no longer a tidal wave, or rather, Kya was no longer beneath the crest of that wave. She rode it, above its overwhelming power and yet helpless to alter its course. A gentle awakening where some realizations are made between snuggles. Purely fluff. ************** The morning was lazy. Sunlight spilled through the windows, dancing across the tangled sheets of their bed. Helena was the first to wake, for once not roused by nightmares. She felt light, bathing in a cautious happiness as her arm wrapped a little tighter around the woman snuggled into her side. Kya was a mess, as usual. Her dark hair was tangled and frizzy in its specific places, falling over her sweetly flushed face. Her cheek swelled, with half of her face smooshed against Helena’s breast. A minuscule pile of drool gathered at the corner of Kya’s lip, trickling down onto Helena’s naked skin. The American’s cheek was sweaty, overheated from being pressed against Helena’s skin all night. The shorter woman’s curves tucked perfectly into Helena’s body, pressed so tightly that Helena could feel the dampness of sweat down her entire left side. It was part of her magic, that she was always warm. Kya too was a warm person, meaning that the thin layers of sweat where they touched for hours on end were not uncommon. There was a blissfulness, waking in such a state. Reminded that these small discomforts existed because the love of her life was snuggling into her. That they were safe. Kya had always been a cuddler, even when Helena had tried to reject her. Despite sheets between them like barriers, somehow Helena had always woken with the girl snuggled up to her. Mornings in the castle when Helena had been forced to untangle without waking the stubborn girl had been the hardest fight of her life. Once their relationship had evolved into romance, Kya’s snuggling had been more welcomed. Still, that had been clothed to a degree. Now, Helena felt safe enough to shed all her attire. Kya always matched her, touched by the intimacy. Thus, two space heaters had formed a cuddle puddle. “Stop thinking so hard.” Kya’s sleepy voice was muffled by Helena’s flesh. At that, the Sorceress blinked, reaching out in an effort to untangle Kya’s hair. Helena always cradled Kya’s head to her chest, holding her lover close. Due to her unsettled dreams, Helena often clenched her fist in her sleep, or tangled her fingers in Kya’s hair for comfort. “Forgive me. I do not mean to concern you, my love.” Helena’s voice was equally as soft, as if any louder would disturb the blanket of lazy peace surrounding them. Slender fingers began to tuck raven locks behind Kya’s ear, always lingering in the affectionate touch. There was an absent mindedness to Helena’s actions, as if she were stepping through the routine as her mind wondered. Kya quietly pressed her lips to Helena’s skin, offering the gesture with the same sleepy look of awe she had every morning she woke beside her lover. “I wasn’t looking for an apology, Helena.” “So you remind me every time I offer one.” The Sorceress chuckled. The sound was hollow, an attempt to convince the world that she was perfectly fine in her moment of bliss. However, doubts began to creep. Memories of the castle nipping at the heels of sweet dreams and loving kisses. “And I’ll do it every day until I die. As your girl, I take my role very seriously.   I must constantly remind you how fantastically wonderful you are, even if you can’t see it.” Kya declared in a mock serious tone. She meant every word, that was evident, yet there was an underlying playfulness that drew Helena in. Kya had a way of disarming the Sorceress without overwhelming her entirely. Kya could be serious, so serious that Helena’s mind couldn’t roam beyond the woman’s words. Kya could become her existence, offering the love she had never experienced before. Other times, Kya could deliver her reassurances in such a casual way that Helena might have missed them if she didn’t hang on every sound to leave the American’s mouth. It perplexed her how these deep and serious confessions could be delivered with such a casual acceptance. Kya had long since accepted that she was in love with a scarred soul. That she would go to the ends of the world to see Helena smile. To be the reason. The depth of her dedication was no longer a tidal wave, or rather, Kya was no longer beneath the crest of that wave. She rode it, above its overwhelming power and yet helpless to alter its course. “You are beautiful, Helena. All of you.” Kya declared, her playfulness falling away as she propped herself up on a single arm. Her stone coloured eyes roamed over the expanse of Helena’s body, taking in the luscious curves and battle forged muscle. Even scarred, Helena was the most perfect woman that Kya had ever laid eyes on. Real with her imperfections, yet almost ethereal with her radiance in the morning light. The mix of powerful and vulnerable was intoxicating, pulling Kya closer even when there was no space between them. “Your hair is like moonlight. Its so soft. Whenever you lean close, it tickles my face, hides me from the world so I can only see your eyes.” Kya began, reaching out to take some of the strands between her fingers. She carefully brought the ends to Helena’s face, delicately using the platinum locks as a brush across the Mage’s features. It tickled, that was obvious by the way Helena’s nose crinkled and her brows twitched. Despite that, a soft smile began to form and quiet chuckles escaped, indulging her otherworldly lover’s strange behaviour. Kya kept her strokes slow, taking time to memorise every single detail of the masterpiece that was Helena’s face. “Your eyes are so...” Kya trailed off, seemingly lost in the Mage’s gaze. Helena watched Kya’s throat bob, swallowing down her own emotions as Kya finally found her voice. “Wow... I mean, they can be more blue than a sapphire, or the sea. Then they can go black when you’re closer to your more primal magic. When you’re protecting me. It’s like, your own way of telling the world nobody is going to hurt your family. Your magic doesn’t scare me, Helena, because I know you. Its a part of you, and you would never want to use it to hurt me.” Once again, Kya allowed her words to trail off, her lips curled into a somewhat coy smile, tinged with flirtatious mischief as if she were about to say something meant only for Helena’s ears. “You know, I totally had a thing for Willow as a teen so... I actually find your magic eyes really sexy. Different, but, well you know..? Exotic?” Kya’s words earned a soft gasp from Helena. The Sorceress opened her mouth to speak, yet no sound could escape but a soft squeak. Meek as a mouse with its voice stolen by the sweetest kiss of magic and wonder. Could she ever fully explain how deeply such a simple gesture rendered her defenceless? How each compliment was an infusion of love that left her ready to burst? How had she found a woman so perfect and yet so insane? A woman who could see tenderness in dangerous spells. Who could look at the element of destruction itself and think it beautiful? Sexy? Desirable in a partner? “Your lips are so soft they should be illegal. Your kisses always make me feel loved.” Kya continued to leave Helena speechless, leaning down to lock her lips with the blushing Sorceress’. Helena’s response was instant, pressing into the gesture as if seeking more. The kiss was gentle, simple, given both women were too busy smiling, yet the message was delivered. Kya tenderly broke away, shifting to pepper chaste kisses over Helena’s face. A playful nip to the chin earned a gasp, whereas a peck on the nose earned a chuckle. Each kiss was a spark, leaving Helena’s skin tingling in its wake. The Sorceress missed the feeling of Kya’s lips, even as the next kiss was delivered. It was impossible, to long so desperately for something already in her grasp. Addiction and craving paled in comparison to the raw need simmering in Helena’s veins. “Kya...” Helena tried to speak, her voice catching in her throat. The need was stronger than anything Helena had known. It was not just for the carnal pleasures she had been exposed to. It was for the smell of Kya’s hair. The annoying ways it tickled her nose in the night, or tangled around her fingers. It was for the sweat between their bodies, the discomfort when her arm went numb from Kya’s weight over it. For the times they disagreed, for their awkward fumbles and differences. For the agony that being parted caused. Helena craved everything of the woman beside her, positive and negative alike. Kya’s mere existence was her addiction... but how could she even put that into words? “Oh no. If I am being this gay, I am going all out. I’m not half assing my big, loving confessions.” Kya interrupted, brows lowering in mock disapproval as she pouted. Helena stared, utterly confounded at being at a loss for words. It was adorable, the way Helena’s lips parted and her cheeks flushed. It was moments like these where her true vulnerability came to light. Helena was powerful, composed and a few years older than Kya. Yet, for her years, she was almost like a teenager learning her womanly body when it came to gentle moments like these. Where Kya could find something else to admire that Helena herself seemed so unable to understand. In love, Kya was the guide, leading Helena through the highs and lows. The Sorceress took several moments to process, simply allowing Kya to continue brushing her face. Then, she smiled, a silent surrender more radiant than the sun. “I love your neck. Its warm and always smells like you. Its safe. Every night I want to come home and snuggle. Just breathe you in. Cuddle the woman of my dreams.” Kya continued, shifting to rest her nose against Helena’s throat. The Sorceress brought her arms around Kya, taking a moment to embrace the girl before she pulled Kya over her chest, between the brackets of long legs. At this, Kya’s breath caught, leaving her trembling above Helena. “-Holy shit.-“ Kya interned, processing her alarm. She could feel the warmth of her Mage’s core pressed so closely just below her belly. Kya was hyperaware of every smoother texture that betrayed scars along with the prickles of regrowing hair. She felt the ripple of muscles that had been forged by practicality, thighs tensing around her hips as Helena processed the moment. A reflex reaction to having someone laying over her. “-Holy Shit!-“ Kya internally cheered, mentally repeating the words before falling into wordless gushing. This was huge! A pure moment of trust from the Sorceress that blew Kya’s mind and heart to pieces. Shards of happiness cut her to the bone, filling her with such giddiness that she couldn’t help but press a loving kiss to the hammering pulse beneath her lips before leaning back enough to gaze down at Helena. “-Wow. Yep. I like this. Best view in the world.-“ Kya concluded. She had been like this with other people, yet never had she anticipated the intimacy she would feel when it was Helena. Breathtakingly gorgeous Helena, with chaotic morning hair and sleep filled eyes, touched with the softest curious amusement and quiet content. Her eyes promised seduction and love along with the disgustingly domestic feelings all wrapped into a jumbled mess of bliss.    What was best was that there was no fear in those sapphire depths. Her lips curled into a tender smile, shyly inviting Kya’s into a gentle kiss. One became more, long and drawn out between them as Helena’s arms tightened around Kya’s body, hands leisurely roaming up and down the American’s unmarred back. “-I can’t believe we’ve come this far. She’s so amazing. I love her!-“ Helena sat up, taking Kya with her. Their breasts pressed together, the curves of their bodies melting into each other. Beating heart to beating heart. Kya surrendered to her racing pulse, offering her an ecstatic smile. She rested on her knees, aiming to take her weight off of Helena despite their closeness. One of Kya’s arms wrapped around Helena’s shoulders, earning the softest hum of approval as the Sorceress returned the embrace with tender yet firm arms wrapped around The American’s waist. Helena’s scent was home, enough to lure Kya towards peaceful dreams. Contentment was heavy in her limbs, drawing her eyes closed as she continued to breath. For the sleepiness she felt, an equally powerful spark drove her on, reminding Kya that the task was incomplete. She had yet to map Helena’s body. Yet to give her cheesy list. To complete her daily devotions. Cautiously, her other hand ran down Helena’s neck, trailing down until Kya’s palm pressed over her heart. Words were not needed, not when Kya could feel Helena’s heart leaping to greet her. Attempting to burst through the Mage’s chest. “Your heart is so strong. Even as everything was crushed and torn from you, you held your kindness. Like a treasure hidden away, a light in that dark place you were left. Every time I feel your heartbeat I remember how you fought for me. How even when you wanted to die, you chose to live because you promised me forever.” Kya had to take a moment, struck by the seriousness of her words. She had meant for this to be light, to just love Helena, yet the weight of her words suddenly rested on her shoulders. This was more than love. It was more than just enjoying the moment or fantasising about forever. It was beyond simply dating. The way Kya felt was commitment. The desire for their forever. Not just fanciful words and longing, but a legal forever. A show to all the world that Helena Klein was HERS. That SHE was Helena Klein’s. “-I don’t want to wait for forever. I want now.-“ The realisation led to a flood of words. “Helena, if waiting for forever means I miss the now, then why should we keep saying forever? I want to be with you. I want to see how many years it takes for your hair to go from moonlight to white. I want to be the first to notice every new grey hair, or wrinkle. I want to become that annoying old couple that shouts to one another. Every now I will have until the day I die, I want you to have,” “My love-“ Helena began, only to have Kya’s rambling continue. “And we have so much to work out, but I couldn’t hold that in anymore. I don’t know if marriage and kids is our thing, but I lo-“ This time, Helena was the one to intervene, pressing forwards to seal her lips over Kya’s. The dark haired woman let out a muffled sound of alarm. Her body reacted before her brain could catch up, leaning into the Sorceress. It took Kya a few moments before she settled, surrendering to her love’s guidance with a content sigh. Helena responded with a hum of her own, smiling into the kiss as her hands roamed along Kya’s spine. Her fingers sought out every bump, circling each bone gently before climbing higher. The touch was rather slow, calm despite the emotions packed into their kiss. One of Helena’s hands massaged with firm fingertips, seeking out every tension in Kya’s back. The other was light fingernails, scratching the most beautiful patterns into Kya’s flesh that left her tingling. “Kya...” Helena murmured, pulling away from Kya. The smaller woman made a soft sound of disappointment, whining a little at the loss. With the kiss broken, sense came rushing back. The world was no longer a haze of pearlescent hair and warmth. Kya could make out the seriousness in Helena’s sapphire eyes, mixing with the traces of content happiness that lingered from waking. The Mage’s subtly swollen lips were curled into an almost shy smile, softened by her lack of dark lipgloss. She felt the soft hairs at the base of Helena’s head, tickling her fingers as she clung to her lover. It was so tempting, to pull Helena back and relish in the moment. To forget the world and time in favour of pure bliss and endless love. Instead, Kya swallowed, waiting for the Sorceress to catch her breath. “What moments I have in this life are yours, Kya. We are walking this path together, even if we do not know the road ahead. Of that, I have no doubts. No regrets.” “Yeah?” Kya questioned in an awestruck tone, pulling away enough to inspect Helena’s face. “You’d agree to marry me?” She breathed in absolute amazement. In a single moment, all her thoughts latched onto the idea of their wedding. How would Helena look in a flowing white gown? That line of thought left Kya’s lips trembling in an effort to keep what was left of her composure. She knew Helena was far from the virgin that white gowns were made for. So sinfully, wonderfully far... “With one stipulation...” Helena’s words left Kya’s soul floating. No condition could be too much, no request too extreme. One tiny condition to meet and a new life could unfold with Helena. One little thing and Kya Klein would no longer be a fantasy scribbled in the pages of a diary, no longer bound in the dreams of a hopelessly in love woman in the middle of a war. “Tell me about this Willow who contends for your heart.” All at once, Kya’s cheeks flared even as her laughter tumbled free. This was sure to be embarrassing.

[hotforharrison]

Unholy Divinity ch 4

Chapter 3 <-- Series Masterlist --> Chapter 5

Pairing: Harrison Osterfield/Reader/Tom Holland

Summary: Choosing to spend your eternity in heaven or hell should be easy, right? Yeah, not so much.

Word Count: 3,494

Warnings: Language & Smut

A/N: My usual chapters are 1,500-2,000-ish words long, which isn’t too long or too short, in my opinion. It’s apparently your birthday today, so have a giant (for me) chapter! I’ve been working on it on and off for most of the day.

Tom stalked toward you, chocolate gaze piercing, not unlike a mighty predator approaching its helpless prey.

When he reached the edge of the bed, his fingers moved to deftly undo his button down, eyes not leaving you for even a moment.

Underneath his shirt, he was powerfully built, more so than you’d previously assumed. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to get your hands on his toned body. He was more conventionally attractive than any man you ever thought you’d end up with before you died.

You’d consider yourself a very lucky lady, if he weren’t the king of hell and all that implies, and if your mind wouldn’t stop returning to Harrison and how part of you wished Tom hadn’t interrupted, how most of you wished they’d both just stayed.

You continued to watch as Tom toed off his black oxfords and socks, slowing down his disrobing as he reached his slacks. You stared as he popped the button and unzipped them, both nervously and eagerly wondering what he was hiding beneath them.

You were pretty sure he was taking pity on you when he shoved both his pants and silk boxers simultaneously down his thighs, until they fell and pooled around his bare feet. Although you’d been staring, you couldn’t help but avert your eyes. For some reason, it was difficult to bring yourself to look at his completely nude form before you.

“Go ahead and look, darling. Let me ruin you for Harrison,” he urged you.

You took him in, eyes eventually settling on his erection where it rested against his flat stomach. You didn’t have any real life basis for comparison, but it was a little intimidating, not unlike Tom himself.

You swallowed. “How do you know you’re ruining me for Harrison?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he replied.

Your eyes widened. “Were you two, uh…”

He laughed. “No, nothing like that. We were roommates, and sometimes you don’t have the best discretion when you’re drunk and have a girl over,” he explained.

“Wait, there are roommates and alcohol and hookups in heaven?” you asked, wondering what other misconceptions you had about heaven.

“No, when we were alive,” he clarified.

You were surprised. “So you knew each other before you went to heaven?”

“He didn’t tell you? We were inseparable, even died and ended up in purgatory together at the hands of a drunk driver one night when we were on our way home after a concert,” he explained.

“No, he didn’t tell me. I just assumed you met in the afterlife doing, well, whatever it is angels do in heaven,” you said.

“But enough about Harrison and heaven. Tell me what you want, love -- anything at all, it’s yours for the taking,” he offered.

“I’m kind of scared,” you admitted, dropping your gaze to the duvet.

The bed dipped beside you, and a finger underneath your chin tipped your head up, your eyes meeting his again.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of, all of it,” he requested.

You swallowed heavily. “I’m afraid it will hurt.”

“I’m not going to lie to you. It might hurt,” he told you, “but I promise that I’m going to make you feel so good that it won’t be a big deal.”

You nodded.

“What else are you afraid of?” he asked.

You took a deep breath. “You’re absolutely sure I won’t automatically go to hell for doing this with you?”

He huffed a laugh. “Trust me when I say sex isn’t a one way ticket to hell.”

“Even sex with the king of hell? That seems somehow...worse,” you finished.

A smile crossed his face as he shook his head. “That’s part of the appeal for you, though, isn’t it? No one more forbidden in the afterlife than the king of hell.”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted quietly.

“You’re actually quite naughty underneath that pure exterior, aren’t you? Wanting all sorts of things a good girl like you shouldn’t even be thinking about,” he ventured.

Your stomach twisted into knots. “I’m, well, I’m not sure I’d say that.”

“You might not say it, but that doesn’t make it untrue,” he pointed out, somehow looking even deeper into your eyes. “I bet if I got my hand in your pretty little panties right now that you’d already be soaked from the mere thought of me taking you, without so much as a single kiss.”

If you were being honest, he wasn’t wrong. None of what he said was wrong.

He ignored your silence and continued speaking. “But as much as I’d like to kiss you breathless, I’m not going to, at least not right now. I was completely serious when I told you that I want my lovers to beg me to take them. I can tell you’re intimidated by me, maybe even a bit scared of me, and I don’t trust that you’d tell me to stop while I’m distracted. It’s true, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

You wondered if his king of hell powers, if he had any, included mind reading, with as much as he seemed to know what was going through your head. You found yourself unable to form words, so you simply nodded.

“I won’t completely deny myself, though,” he told you.

He closed the small gap between your lips, pressing his to yours, fingers moving from your chin to brush softly against the side of your face. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you parted them without hesitation, granting him entry. You were nearly a completely passive party to his thorough and passionate exploration of your mouth.

Making out with Tom was completely different from making out with Harrison, like night and day, or rather king of hell and angel.

When you kissed Harrison, neither one of you dominated. It was just a gentle and comfortable ebb and flow that went on and on, your arousal increasingly gradually to the point of desperation.

Tom had no compunctions about taking exactly what he wanted, exactly how he wanted it, with your explicit consent. Your arousal spiked quickly with him. He filled you with an insatiable desire for something less sweet and more primal, to be taken and possessed, fucked and filled.

He eventually broke the kiss, and you were surprised that he didn’t seem entirely unaffected by it, nothing like it was just another kiss in a long line of kisses for the king of hell.

After Tom composed himself again, his fingers traced the bare skin of your stomach below your top where it had ridden up.

“Do you want to?” you asked.

“Do I want to what?” he responded. “Use your words, darling.”

For some reason, his phrasing and tone aggravated you. Although it was entirely true that you were inexperienced and definitely a little scared, you didn’t need to be coddled like a child.

You decided not to ‘use your words,’ and batted Tom’s hand away with a roll of your eyes to tug your top over your head and toss it on the floor, followed by your bra soon after. Fueled even further by your annoyance with the king of hell, you hopped up off the bed and quickly shucked your pants and panties, too, plopping back down on the bed completely nude.

He licked his lips as he looked at you lustfully. “That struck a nerve, didn’t it, love? I think I rather like you feisty.”

You smirked at him, heart absolutely pounding in your chest with nervousness despite your bravado. “Well, now you’ve got me, your pristine and untouched and coveted prize, naked and at your disposal. What are you going to do about it?”

He chuckled. “Patience, my dear. Good things come to those who wait. Your slight trembling is a tell of how you really feel, by the way. I know you’re still just as scared and intimidated as you were a few minutes ago.”

You didn’t realize you were trembling, but noticed when he pointed it out. “You asked me what I wanted earlier. I really do want you to touch me. I want to know what it’s like when it’s someone else’s hand instead of always just mine.”

“That I can do,” he told you, tracing your lips with a fingertip.

You curled your tongue around it and sucked lightly on the digit.

He grinned. “Not completely naive, are you, sweetheart?”

You gave his finger a final swipe with your tongue, before responding, “I don’t know when you died, but there’s plenty of porn on the internet.”

“Yes, I’m well-aware of internet porn,” he said, as his now wet finger trailed its way down your body, leaving a slick trail in its wake. “Time passes differently here.”

You nodded, watching while he moved his finger from the valley between your breasts over the curve of one, until it reached the nipple.

He spread the remaining dampness over the sensitive nub, swirling his finger around it, before he leaned in and blew on it.

You gasped at the pleasurable chill it sent down your spine that also made you pulse with want between your legs.

His finger trailed down farther, over your ribs, down your belly, until it was just above your mons. Then, it stopped.

You looked at him expectantly, his eyes still on your face, gauging your reactions. “Why did you stop?”

“Giving you the chance to change your mind,” he replied. “I know I’m the king of hell, and you probably have some...less than positive assumptions about me because of that, but I don’t want anything we do together to be something you regret.”

“It won’t be. I still want this, still want you,” you told him.

He nodded and his finger finished its journey over your mons, slipping between your folds. “Christ, you’re so fucking wet.”

“Well, yeah, I want you,” you repeated.

He smiled as he swirled a few circles around your clit with his finger, before dipping lower toward your entrance, stroking over it a couple times. “Can I?”

“Please,” you responded.

His long, slender finger pressed into you slowly to the knuckle. “So hot, and wet, and tight for me. You’re going to feel fucking divine around my cock, darling. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please give that to me,” you told him a bit breathlessly, feeling more desperate than you had before.

“Someone’s eager.” He chuckled. “But not yet.”

You couldn’t help the whine that escaped your throat at that.

“Soon,” he reassured you. “I haven’t even made you cum.”

A second finger carefully joined the first, stretching you a bit more, and his thumb rubbed your clit this time.

You bucked your hips against his hand in an effort to get more stimulation, but he immediately put a stop to that and pinned you down effortlessly with one hand. His apparent physical strength was another turn-on. You wondered if Harrison was the same.

“You need to stay still for now. I don’t want to hurt you,” he explained.

You sighed and nodded, still thoroughly enjoying what you were being given, even if you did want more.

“Do you want another finger?” he asked, apparently deciding to compromise.

You paused for a moment. You hadn’t ever had three fingers inside yourself before, but you wanted Tom’s dick, and that was definitely bigger than three of his fingers. “Go ahead.”

He gently and carefully worked a third finger into you, eyes on yours. “Let me know if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” you told him. It was definitely a lot, and your orgasm was pushed a bit further away while you got used to it, but you were pretty sure that everything was going to be a lot at first.

It didn’t take long for the pleasure building inside you to start increasing again, his thumb moving a bit faster when he sensed you getting close.

“Go on, cum for me, love.”

That was the last little bit you needed to reach your climax. He lifted his hand from where it held you down so you could move your hips through your lengthy high, shaking against him and crying out his name.

He withdrew his hand from between your thighs when the aftershocks subsided, and you were left more relaxed and somewhat sated.

You stared as he made a show of cleaning his fingers with his tongue.

He smirked. “Do you want me to eat your pretty pussy, sweetheart?”

Your face flushed at his words, and you swallowed before eventually finding your voice again. “Yeah.”

“I promise I’ll give you my mouth, and tongue, and fingers, leave you screaming until you’re too hoarse to make another sound,” he told you.

“But?” you added quietly.

“But I’m still not sure you’d speak up if you didn’t like what I was doing, and I’m not going to be one of your regrets,” he finished.

“I understand,” you said, and you did.

You found yourself wondering if there was a story behind his insistence that he doesn’t want you to regret anything you shared with him, wondering if he’d even tell you if there were, wondering how such a strangely considerate lover became the king of hell, wondering so many things that you weren’t sure you’d ever get an answer to.

“I won’t offer you my mouth right now, but I can offer you my fingers if you want me to make you cum again. I’ll make you cum as many times as you’d like. If Harrison returns before we’re done, I can tell him to leave. Or you’d probably rather I ask him to stay.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.

The thought of Harrison joining the two of you sent an obvious shiver through your body, raising goosebumps on your bare skin, and you already knew Tom was going to latch onto that and make you squirm.

He chuckled. “You know, you could probably convince him to do almost anything. I know him, and I saw the way he looked at you when he left earlier, like a lovesick puppy. As I told you before, a little ménage wouldn’t bother me, even if it was with him. Not when it makes you look and react like that.”

His words sent a new wave of arousal pulsing between your thighs, spreading through you. There was so much you wanted to do that you hadn’t yet, but the only thing you could really focus on was your need to be filled. “I want you now. Please, Tom.”

“That really gets you off, doesn’t it?” he commented, amused. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

You spread your legs to make room for him between. He climbed on top of you and positioned his erection against your entrance.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” you responded.

He pushed forward slowly, but steadily.

You hissed when he finally breached your body, immediately stilling. The ache of the stretch was intense. You wished you’d done more while you were alive to prepare yourself for this moment.

He brushed away a few stray tears that you didn’t realize had fallen. “Let me know if you want to stop, or when you’re ready for me to move.”

The ache faded as much as you thought it was going to while he was still inside you, and you didn’t want to make him wait forever. “Go ahead.”

His struggle not to move faster as he continued burying himself in you was obvious. The ache didn’t increased so you didn’t stop his progress. He sighed in relief when your bodies were finally flush and paused again. “How are you doing?”

“You’re really, uh, big,” you answered.

He huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised.”

“Surprised by what?” you asked, confused.

“You’ll see,” he told you.

“I’m confused, but okay?” you said.

He changed the subject. “Would you like me to move now?”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” you responded.

He rocked himself in and out, lengthening his thrusts gradually until he was almost completely withdrawing before he moved back in.

The ache faded away into nothing but a sensation of fullness and pleasure. You enjoyed the way he slickly slid in and out, how he occasionally brushed a spot inside you that sent sparks of pleasure down your spine, something to explore later.

When you rolled your hips back against him tentatively, seeing what felt best, he moaned loudly and slipped a hand between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing it. “I’m getting close, and I want you to cum with me.”

You were already partially there, from just being fucked. The added stimulation of his finger working your clit sent you over the edge quickly.

Even though you knew he wanted to watch your face, you moved your lips against his to kiss him as you climaxed. Instead of the passionate kiss you imagined, you ended up clacking slightly against his teeth and awkwardly moaning into each other’s mouths.

As you came down, the thought of the difference between the movie moment you imagined and reality sent you into a fit of giggles.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Tom exclaimed. “Don’t do that! It’s really sensitive right now.”

You couldn’t stop laughing, and he pulled out to plop down beside you, obviously disgruntled.

“I was trying to have an intimate moment with you,” he huffed.

“Sorry,” you apologized, rolling onto your side to face him.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“Movie kisses aren’t reality kisses,” you replied.

“They’re not,” he agreed. “I’ll kiss you more soon. I don’t want my sweet darling feeling neglected. I just had to be sure, at least this time.”

“No regrets here,” you reassured him.

Relief was apparent on his face.

You cuddled against him, not sure if he was actually into that or not. When he tugged you closer, you smiled. “Will you ever tell me more about you?”

“If you join me in hell, I’ll tell you everything you ask.” His tone was obviously teasing. “Otherwise, you’ll just be left wondering.”

“I guess you have to convince me somehow,” you said lightly.

“Damn. I was hoping I just convinced you with my dick.”

“I do have to say you’re the best I’ve ever had,” you told him, trying not to laugh and ultimately failing.

He laughed, too. “Tell me that again after you have boring angel sex with Harrison, if he doesn’t go off too early to even get inside you.”

“It’s not his fault. It had been a long time for him, since he last…” you trailed off.

“You asked to know more about me. I’ll let you in on a little secret, if you promise not to tell Harrison,” he said.

“My lips are sealed,” you promised.

“I’d bet a lot on it being just as long for me as it had been for him, and I didn’t cum early.”

“What about all your consorts?” you asked.

He laughed. “You mean the ones I made up?”

Your eyes widened. “Why?”

“I wanted to impress you, bring you back down to hell with me,” he told you. “I didn’t get to be or continue to be king of hell by having a constant orgy. I started out a fallen angel like the rest of them and worked my ass off to get where I am today.”

It took you a moment to respond. “Why did you come for me, then?”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but my kingdom is stable now. I have much more free time, more than I’ve ever had, and absolutely no one to spend it with. That phrase, ‘it’s lonely at the top?’ It’s entirely true,” he admitted. “I handpicked you and waited. Then, of all the angels that could have been selected to retrieve you for heaven, it was Harrison. Any of the rest would have known better than to cross me and just left to let me have you, and we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

You hugged him tighter against you. “Thank you for trusting me. I’m glad you told me.”

“I really thought you should know the truth, before you made your decision, but please don’t tell Harrison.” His tone was verging on begging.

“I won’t say a word to him,” you promised, and completely meant it.

“Anyway, I should probably leave now, before he gets back. I promised the two of you privacy, and I’ll give you that.” He kissed the top of your head and moved to get up.

You tugged him back down. “Please don’t leave. It’s so quiet and lonely here when neither of you are around. There’s nothing, not even a single book. I hate it.”

“Just let me get dressed. I’ll stay here with you until Harrison gets back,” he offered, getting up from the bed to grab his clothes.

You were surprised he didn’t try to convince you to join him in hell again, but he was apparently full of surprises.

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