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sukunahs · 1 month ago

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to distant lands - ch.1: nightmare | ryomen sukuna

pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (medieval fantasy au)

summary: It’s expected for a princess to have a personal guard, especially when you’re an only child and heir to the kingdom. The knight who has watched over you since childhood is retiring and, much to your dismay, your father decides to put his best soldier on the job as his replacement - Ryomen Sukuna, the Kingdom’s most vicious warrior and far from your biggest fan.

Little did you know that Sukuna would end up tangling himself in your life in ways you never could’ve anticipated.

word count: 7.8k

chapter content: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, enemies to lovers, slow-burn(ish), forbidden relationship, medieval fantasy setting, fluff, angst, protective sukuna

authors note: I've been consuming a lot of fantasy writing and media lately and all I've been able to think about is knight!sukuna! I'm not sure how many chapters this will have but I've got a lot in my plan for this one!

series masterlist | AO3 | next chapter

The first time that you’d ever encountered Sukuna was four years ago. The Cerulean Kingdom, led by your father: King Kashimo, had been at war with the Zenin Nation who had been trying to expand their land into a neighbouring kingdom.

That war came to an end in just six months. It was practically unheard of for conflict to be resolved between nations so swiftly. Usually battles would take place over years until one side begrudgingly agreed to a peace treaty. But no such thing was required on this occasion.

It was all due to Sukuna.

Sukuna, the twenty-two year old Knight, was such a force of nature on the battlefield that he single-handedly pushed back the Zenin troops. He took the head of their main General with ease and left their forces scattered and afraid. The Zenin King, Naobito, had no choice but to pull back, to give up on his attempt at taking land - he had no soldiers capable of taking on a man like Sukuna.

So Sukuna had returned to your Kingdom as a legend. Every Knight respected him, any woman that crossed his path swooned at the mere sight of him, and your father was completely captivated by him.

Even you, the sole Princess of the Cerulean Nation would confess to having been taken by his status as a legend at first, for he reminded you of tales of King Arthur and his Knights, a shining beacon of bravery.

Your father had thrown a whole celebration for him when he returned from war, a massive banquet where Sukuna was to be commended for his bravery. Kashimo had given you the responsibility of awarding him the medal, knowing how captivated you were with stories of legendary Knights, knowing that you’d be eager to meet one in the flesh.

As Sukuna had approached you in the great hall, he had dropped to his knees at your feet, as was custom. Leaning forward you’d placed the medal around his neck.

“You’re a hero.” You’d whispered softly, heart pounding at the proximity. “You kept me safe from this country’s ruin, thank you for doing your duty.”

He looked up at you then, his eyes meeting yours. You expected to see pride and loyalty reflected in those red orbs, but instead all you saw was disdain.

“I didn’t do it for you, princess.” He said, keeping his voice low enough that he wouldn’t be overheard by anyone else. “I couldn’t care less about what happens to some spoiled little dreamy-eyed brat. There’s no duty for me, your father just pays better than anyone else, and I get to crack a few skulls in the process.”

And just like that, the illusion was destroyed. He was no chivalrous Knight of old, but a selfish man filled with bloodlust. More of a mercenary than anything else, his loyalty not with the Kingdom but with the pay that your father could provide him.

And thus, your dislike of Sukuna began.

Your view of him only tumbled downhill from there, for from that moment onwards he seemed to get a kick out of the disappointment that would flash in your eyes when he would do something unbefitting of a Knight.

When he caught you in private he’d tell you the crudest stories of his bloody feats on the battlefield. In public he’d do his best to make you trip up, to subtly infuriate you in front of your subjects, just trying to pull a reaction out of you.

You’d yelled at him once, when you were all alone, telling him to cut it out, to leave you be. A number of insults that had never passed your lips before that moment were hurled at him. But somehow that seemed to just egg him on, a look of pure elation on his face as you screamed at him - you supposed all he really wanted was a reaction.

It was hard for you to comprehend what his problem was with you. You knew that there were people who held general disdain for the royal family, so perhaps that was it? But his unsavoury nature always felt very specific to you, as though your very existence was an offence to him.

Regardless of his reasoning, the two of you had been at this standoff for years, and now it was coming to a head in the worst way possible.

—

“No.” You said firmly as you glared up at Kashimo.

You stood before your father’s throne, with Yaga standing tall at your side. The two men had just informed you that Yaga would be retiring, that he would have to be replaced with a new Knight.

The narrative that they’d both fed you was that Yaga was getting too old for the position now, that he was too slow to adequately fend off an attacker should it ever come to that. But you weren’t buying it for a second, Yaga had never failed you before, and you’d never even been attacked anyway, so what did it matter?

“I’m sorry, princess–” Yaga started to speak again, but you cut him off, your sharp gaze fixated on your father.

“You’re older than Yaga but I don’t see you retiring from your post.”

“Don’t be childish.” Your father warned. “It's Yaga’s choice to retire, for twenty-three years he’s watched over you, let the man rest.” You said nothing, your brow furrowing. It was hard to fight with that sentiment.

“Besides, with the political unrest between nations right now I need your Knight to be on high alert. Daughters of Kings are always the prime targets to be kidnapped for ransom, and I won’t have you be put at risk.”

You rolled your eyes at that, you felt that your father always overestimated the level of danger that you were in. No one had ever tried to kidnap you before, and you doubted they would now. But there was no arguing with the man when it came to matters of your safety.

“Who’s the replacement?” You asked.

“Go back to your quarters.” He ordered, “I’ll send him up to you shortly. Do try your best to get along.”

That had you concerned. It was evident that your father didn’t wish to tell you who it was himself, perhaps to avoid an argument? You opened your mouth to ask further questions but he silenced you with a sharp glare - a look that told you he was in no mood to entertain you further.

So, just like a good daughter should, you scampered back to your quarters, waiting to see what fate had in store for you.

You hadn’t anticipated that waiting for the time to pass would be agony. You’d done everything that you could to entertain yourself: reading, drawing, braiding and unbraiding your hair in front of the mirror, staring aimlessly out of the window onto those gorgeous green mountains that loomed up on the horizon, just beyond the castle walls. Nothing was easing the growing anxiety in your stomach over who your father had chosen to protect you.

So instead of trying to occupy your time, you’d taken to just lying on your canopy bed, gazing up at the blue material draped across the four intricately carved wooden posts. A flower pattern embroidered in a darker blue shade adorned the material. Your mother had sewed it when you were young - embroidery was always her main joy and subsequently, many of your childhood dresses had been made by her.

She’d passed before you’d grown to be an adult, so none of your current dresses had been crafted by her. It was a shame, the royal tailors couldn’t do half the job that she could.

It was because of her death that your father was so unbelievably protective over you. You were his only child, and that made you heir to the throne - even if you were a woman.

It was highly irregular, usually the throne would go to the next living male relative, but Kashimo had no brothers to hand the crown over to. Most people had assumed that once your mother had passed he would marry another woman, try for another child - hopefully a boy this time to be his heir. He never did. Kashimo had married for love, and his soul was shattered when his wife died, he didn’t want to share his bed with anyone else - he would remain alone until he met his own end.

So, you were all he had - his one shining light. You knew that you should make more of an effort to understand his perspective, that all of his decisions were out of his love for you, but it didn’t make you feel any less like a bird trapped in a gilded cage.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts, and you shot to your feet. For a moment you considered not opening the door, keeping yourself locked in your room in protest. Perhaps you could even climb out the window and give your new Knight a really hard first day, prove to your father that this fool could do no better a job at protecting you than Yaga did.

But you were fully aware of just how childish that would be.

So you let out a sigh and pulled open the door, only to be met with a sight that you could only describe as being your absolute worst case scenario.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Standing there in your doorway at almost 7ft tall, tattoos winding over his tanned skin, and red eyes so sharp that his gaze constantly felt like it was piercing you. He was adorned in his usual silver armor, intricate patterns running over the metal.

When your father has said that he’d be sending one of his best Knights, you certainly hadn’t been expecting him to provide his favourite.

Sukuna had been a Knight for the Cerulean Nation for around ten years now, since he was sixteen years old. He’d climbed his way through the ranks quickly, and had gained the approval of the King himself. He was one of the most capable and lethal Knights in the army, the type of man who would always get the job done, who would kill without remorse on behalf of his King.

The way that your father spoke about Sukuna, in this awe-filled manner, always had you rolling your eyes. You wondered sometimes if your father wished that Sukuna was his own son with the way that he’d obsess over every little thing that he did. You’d think that he was a miracle-maker from the praise Kashimo would heap on him whenever he returned from a quest.

But he didn’t have you fooled. He was attractive, yes - but that was all he had going for him. He was immensely unpleasant to be around, an arrogant and ill-tempered man who believed that the world revolved around him. He’d look in disdain at those he didn’t respect and that happened to include you.

You despised him.

Yet here he was, leaning against your door with a big grin spread across his handsome features. This man, who had done nothing but make things difficult for you, was supposed to put his life on the line to protect you? You’d be lucky if you didn’t end up dead or kidnapped by the time the sun set.

“You’ve got to be joking.” You hissed.

“Unfortunately not.” Sukuna said with a wide grin, striding into your chambers as though they belonged to him. “Cute little room you’ve got here,” he snickered. You felt as though he’d already got you on the backfoot - it was embarrassing to have someone like him scrutinise your living space, especially considering you’d hardly made any effort to clean things up.

“I always did take you as the type to sleep with a stuffed toy.” He said with a laugh as he wandered over to your bed, picking up the well-loved rabbit plushie that sat on top of the duvet. “Does it have a name?”

“That’s none of your business.” You snapped, trying to grab the plushie from his hands. The bunny did have a name, but there was no way that you were going to grace him with an answer. He held the toy rabbit just out of your reach, stopping you from snatching it back.

“So it does.” he said, amusement laced in his tone.

“Give him back.”

“Him huh? Tell me what he's called and I will.”

You pouted and crossed your arms. You weren’t about to give him what he wanted, if you gave in now it would set the precedent that he could just push you around whenever he wanted.

Sukuna shrugged, his eyes roaming to the open window, a wicked grin crossing his face. “If you don’t tell me his name, Mr Rabbit might just take a tumble out of the tower.” He said as he wandered over to the window, holding the bunny out in the open air.

Your face contorted with rage as you ran over to him. “Stop it! Give him back!” Sukuna fended you off with one hand as you grabbed at him, he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying his newfound power over you.

“I will, if you just tell me his name.” He teased. You weren’t sure that he’d really drop the toy out of the window, but you didn’t want to take any chances. That bunny had been in your life from childhood, had fended away many a nightmare, you weren’t going to have him chucked out of a window just because of some jerk of a Knight.

“It's Sir Bounce-a-lot.” You whispered, face flushed red with embarrassment. Sukuna was so surprised that you’d actually given in that he almost dropped the bunny by accident.

“Sir Bounce-a-lot..?” He asked, clearly unsure if he’d heard you correctly.

“Yeah…” You mumbled, a feeling of humiliation creeping into your chest as he openly laughed at you, placing the bunny back into your hands. You pulled the plushie to your chest, shielding him from Sukuna’s cruel hands.

“Like Sir Lancelot?”

Your father had always been fond of telling you those stories when you were a child, your bookshelves filled with tomes recounting the great legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable. Hearing those tales always filled you with a strange feeling, as even though your own life was filled with Knights and Kings, your existence felt so mundane compared to the characters in those legends.

Most of your time was just spent sitting alone in your chambers, and the Knights that you encountered seemed to be the furthest thing from chivalrous. You highly doubted that Lancelot ever threatened to throw Guinevere’s treasured possessions out of a window.

“Yeah.” You weren’t willing to give him any more of an answer, you didn’t want him to know anything about you.

Sukuna continued to poke his way around your room, much to your dismay. He made a few comments here and there about things you had on display, his thoughts on the decoration and colour scheme. You mostly stayed silent, still trying to process that his presence was your new reality.

Once bored with assessing your room he took a seat in an armchair in the corner, sprawling himself out across it as though he belonged there. You found yourself once again frustrated by the audacity of this man, but held your tongue. There was no point in engaging in bickering with him for now, you were sure that your father would replace him with someone else once you expressed how difficult he was.

“So…what now?” He asked.

“What?” You asked incredulously.

“What are we meant to do now?” He asked, speaking slowly as though he thought you’d been too stupid to understand his first question.

“I just…do whatever I want and you’re meant to make sure that I don’t get assassinated.”

Sukuna let out a deep sigh, throwing his head back against the armchair. His red eyes were closed and he dragged a hand down his face in frustration. “That’s it? All I can do is sit here and watch you…” he paused for a moment in thought. “What do you even do with your time?”

You were a little offended by his tone. Sure, it wasn’t like you got to go out much, but you had your hobbies - it wasn’t as though you were sitting motionless day after day like some porcelain doll.

“Well, sometimes I stay in here and read or paint. Sometimes I go out for walks in the gardens. Occasionally I’ll go shopping in the town…” He didn’t look impressed with your list, so you scrambled for something more interesting to add. “I go to social events too! Balls and tea parties with other nobles.”

He rolled his eyes. “Lame.” He said.

“Excuse me?” You squeaked.

“You heard me. Fuck, I can’t believe the old man really stationed me here.” For some reason, his sentiment offended you. Even though you had no desire to have him as your Knight, you despised the idea that he also didn’t want to be at your side. It should be a blessing to serve a princess.

“It's a coveted position, you know.” You hissed out before you could stop yourself.

Scoffing, he shook his head at you. “Maybe for soft little Knights who shit themselves at the thought of actual combat - like that old man you had before, not sure he’s ever laid eyes on a battlefield.”

“If you don’t want to be here, why don’t you just leave.” You shot back, internally begging whatever gods listening that he’d take you up on that offer. Maybe your father would be more inclined to listen to his golden-boy of a Knight than the will of his own daughter. The look on Sukuna’s face told you otherwise.

“Like I have a choice. Do you think I’m happy about this arrangement, princess?” He asked mockingly. “Do you really think I’d rather be in here watching over some spoiled little girl when I could be out on the field?”

“Probably not.” You mumbled. His reputation for bloodlust was well-known. He wasn’t the sort of Knight who killed because he must, he killed because he enjoyed slaughtering his enemies on the battlefield. Being separated from all that was likely agony for him.

“Obviously not. But your daddy goes mad with worry over you. He has this insane paranoia that the entire world is out to take his daughter away, so now here I am. His finest soldier, tasked with protecting some brat when I could be pushing back our enemies.”

You didn’t have a response to that. He was right, it was odd that your father would leave him here with you. Your own feelings aside, taking Sukuna away from the army felt like a sure-fire way to weaken his forces. Although the Kingdom was technically in peace time at the moment, political unrest aside. Perhaps he felt that an assassination attempt was more likely than a war right now.

“You should ask him to send you back.” You suggested. “I don’t want you here either, so it would be a win for us both.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “I tried that already, princess. Face it, we’re stuck together.”

A sense of horror washed over you at that statement, that couldn’t just be it. You’d had Yaga as your Knight for twenty-three years, would you have to suffer Sukuna for that long? Perhaps even longer?

As your eyes trailed over to him, taking note of the amusement written on his face, you found your resolve. You could accept that Yaga needed to retire, but you were not going to accept him as your Knight.

No, you were going to do everything in your power to get rid of Ryomen Sukuna.

—

As the days started to pass by following Sukuna’s assignment as your personal Knight, you thought that you’d grow at least a little accustomed to his presence, that he’d just start to fade into the background and you’d get to continue on mostly in the way that you always have.

Back when Yaga was still your Knight he’d always do an excellent job of making himself scarce, only ever there in your peripheral vision, always knowing when he wasn’t welcome in the room, taking the opportunity to stand guard outside and leave you to your privacy.

Sukuna had no such compulsion.

On the contrary, his presence was stifling. He was always right there, demanding your presence at any given moment.

When you were in public, he’d be right at your side, joining in on your conversations with palace staff, ruffling your hair and teasing you openly in front of others, knowing that you’d do nothing to tarnish your image by snapping at him if there were people around to see it.

If you were in your room, then he was in there too, sprawled across the armchair or occasionally even lying on your bed. That alone would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the running commentary that he brought with him. No matter what you tried to do, he had something to say about it.

Brushing your hair had him telling you that you were too vain, that guys didn’t like women who tried too hard.

Reading had him passing judgement on every book that you opened, sneering at the sight of a romance book that you’d picked up, stating that all romance novels were worthless and written for lonely old women.

Painting had him criticising everything that appeared on the canvas, telling you that the perspective was off, that the colours weren’t mixed properly, and the worst one of all: that he didn’t ‘get’ it. You weren’t sure what there was to get in a simple landscape painting of the garden, but it got under your skin all the same.

It got to the point where you’d stopped trying to do anything, at least then he couldn’t offer any opinions to grate at your nerves.

You’d taken to spending all of your days the same way. You’d wake up late, the sun already high in the sky by the time you’d stumble down to the dining hall for breakfast. Sukuna would always be waiting just outside the doors of your chambers for your appearance. You were fortunate that he didn’t spend his nights in the room with you, that was the rare respite that you got from him, with the quarters for your personal Knight being one room down from yours.

Together you’d eat breakfast - this was usually in silence, at least from your side. Sukuna would poke and prod at you until it was clear that you weren’t going to rise to it, before submitting himself to the quiet. Your father would join you in the dining hall whenever he wasn’t busy with Kingly duties - those times were always the most painful because you were forced to make polite conversation with Sukuna to avoid a scolding from the King.

You’d already learned the hard way that you couldn’t speak negatively about or to Sukuna. On the day he’d been assigned as your Knight you’d gone running to your father to complain, only to be told that you needed to ‘grow up and get used to it’.

Sukuna clearly loved it when Kashimo would join the two of you. He’d take the opportunity to ask you endless questions about yourself, ones that you’d begrudgingly answer to avoid your father’s wrath, but knowing that Sukuna would use all of this newfound information against you once you were left alone again.

Once you’d had your breakfast, you’d generally head straight back to your room, where you’d enact Operation: Make Sukuna so frustrated that he loses his mind and quits. The operation was simple, you’d spend the whole day lying still on your bed with the hopes that Sukuna would fall apart from boredom before you did.

Luckily, you’d had plenty of experience with boredom as a princess, likely more than Sukuna had - you were pretty confident that he would crack long before you would. So you laid there, day after day, staring up at the canopy. You’d often keep Sir Pounce-a-Lot clutched to your chest, still wary that Sukuna might threaten to throw him out of the window again.

You’d do your best to completely ignore Sukuna, a task that you found wasn’t particularly tricky after the first few days. He’d originally tried to make conversation, to aggravate you with his comments. When you’d given him nothing he’d quietened down and the two of you started a long-running stand-off of existing in silence in that decadent room.

Until Sukuna hatched a plan of his own.

You’d become vaguely aware of him moving about the room while you laid there, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of your attention. You’d hoped that his movement was a sign of his restlessness, that it meant that your days of lying idle would soon be over.

Sukuna had said that your father wouldn’t bend on his decision on where he posted his star Knight, so if Sukuna really did get frustrated enough to quit, he’d be quitting your father’s service altogether, and then you’d never have to see his frustratingly handsome face again - the perfect outcome.

As you daydreamed about a life free of Sukuna’s presence, the man in question settled back down into his chair. Unbeknownst to you he had found something very interesting as he’d rummaged through your drawers - something that could signify the end to this annoying little game that you were playing with him.

You’d half drifted off to sleep when his deep voice cut through the silence. At first you’d tuned it out, decidedly uninterested in whatever he had to say, until his sentences started to sound more familiar to you. “Looking up at the king she felt desire deep in her gut, her body naked before him, giving herself over to him in ways that she had never given herself to a man before–”

You shot up into a sitting position, your eyes wide in sheer horror at the words coming out of his mouth, words that you’d only ever read by candlelight when everyone else in the castle was asleep. Heart racing you looked over at him, sitting spread out on the armchair as he continued to read aloud.

In his hands sat a tattered pink book. It had some art of a beautiful woman on the cover, being held gently by some handsome prince. This book in particular had not been on your bookshelf with the others, mostly because you were a little ashamed to own it.

Your friend Yuki, one of the noblewomen that you spent a lot of time with, had gifted the book to you. She’d told you that it was a good learning resource for womanly matters.

The story itself was pretty cliche: a protagonist who was whisked away to the court of an evil and attractive king, with said king actually turning out to have several layers to him, and the characters ultimately falling in love. But you weren’t really reading it for the plot, instead you’d spent many an evening re-reading one particular scene, where the main character finally gave herself to the king, letting him take her virginity.

The scene always served to rile you up, you’d never encountered such content written down before. All of your knowledge of sex came from what Yuki would tell you about her relationship with her husband Choso. Outside of that no one had told you anything. Your mother had passed away before you were old enough to have such conversations, and your father certainly wasn’t going to approach the subject, most likely deeming it as a job for your future husband.

So this book was akin to the holy grail for you, allowing you to live vicariously through the character and fantasise about what it might be like to one day have sex. It allowed you to brush aside the worries that your father would marry you off to some gross old man, and indulge in the thought that you too would get to find your own version of the book’s evil king.

But that information, the deep desires that the book stirred in you, were meant to be for you alone. So the humiliation that ran through you as Sukuna read from the page that you had bookmarked was unparalleled.

“-and as he crawled on top of her, he lined himself up with her entrance, pushing himself in–”

“Please stop.” You pleaded softly. You wanted to yell and scream at him but you were afraid that your father might come in if there was too much commotion, and you certainly didn’t want him to see the book.

He looked at you with a sharp grin. “There we go.” He said, as he snapped the book shut. He placed it back in the drawer where he’d found it, even going as far as to bury it beneath the pile of clothes that it had originally been hidden under.

“Are you done with your little tantrum now? Or do you want me to read more of that smut aloud for you?”

“I fucking hate you.” You said, still shaking with embarrassment.

“At least you’re talking again.” He said. “I know you’re trying to get rid of me, but I get good pay working for your father. I’m not going to quit just because some little brat gives me the silent treatment.”

He took a seat on the edge of your bed and leant in close. Perhaps it was because of the words from the book that had just been spilling from his lips, but you felt a little flustered with the heat of his body so near to yours.

“If you want me gone, princess, you’ll have to work so much harder than that.” He reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.” Your voice came out shakier than you would’ve liked it to. You didn’t want his presence to affect you in such a way, but this was the closest a man had ever been to you, and his gaze was so intense that you were quickly losing your nerve.

You were sure that was how he wanted you to feel though, so you needed to pull it together quickly to not lose face in this battle of wills.

“Mmm, do your worst.” He said, that shit-eating grin never leaving his face.

—

Your first operation had been a colossal failure. You could hardly look Sukuna in the eye after the filth that he’d so proudly recited from that book of yours. In the future you’d need to be more careful about where you were putting your things to make sure that he didn’t stumble across your diary or something else equally personal that he could weaponise against you.

If you couldn’t force him to quit by boring him, you’d just have to get rid of him another way.

One of the only times that Sukuna ever really left you alone was when you were with your handmaid, Shoko. Despite his frustrating knack for constantly being at your side, even he knew that it was inappropriate for him to be present when you were bathing or getting dressed up.

Shoko was gently brushing your hair as you stared down your reflection in the mirror, completely lost in thought. The handmaid was content with the silence, she’d been working with you for a few years now and had become accustomed to reading your moods, always doing her best to match your energy.

“What would you do to get rid of him?” You asked, eyes moving to meet hers in the mirror.

Shoko shrugged as she placed the hairbrush down on the vanity, her hands going back to your hair as she began to braid it. She didn’t have to ask who you were talking about, your dislike for Sukuna had been all you’d been able to talk about for the last few days.

You’d thought that she was going to provide no further response, that she’d grown weary of Sukuna talk, before her neutral tone cut through the silence.

“Make him look like he’s doing a bad job.” You raised a brow at her in interest. “For example, if you went to the King and told him that I was intentionally pulling hard at your hair whenever I brushed it, he’d probably fire me and bring you a new handmaid.”

You turned that thought over in your mind for a moment before shaking your head. “No, he worships the ground that Sukuna walks on, he’d probably just yell at me and say I was making stuff up.”

“What if it wasn’t made up?” She suggested. “Sneak out or something, go hide at your friend Yuki’s house. Sukuna will have to confess that he’s lost you and then your father will fire him for being incompetent.”

So that was exactly what you did.

That night, you waited until Sukuna had retired to his quarters, giving it another hour to ensure that he wasn’t coming in to check on you before you put your plan into action.

Sneaking out of your window was not new to you. Back when Yaga was your Knight you would often climb down the lattice outside one of your windows, allowing you to drop down onto the ramparts, giving you free run of the castle. There was no real reason for you to do it back then beyond the rush that it gave you of doing something forbidden. Usually you’d wander around the castle halls aimlessly before heading back to your room - you’d never snuck out properly, always staying within the relative safety of the castle walls.

This time there could be no half-measures. If you were going to really highlight Sukuna’s incompetence, you needed to leave the castle and strike out into the town itself. Once you were out you could run straight to Yuki’s doorstep and wait until your father came to find you.

You scrambled down the lattice and onto the ramparts below, taking a moment to check both directions before slipping down a hidden passage that would lead you to the ground level of the castle. As a child you had spent a large amount of your free time discovering every nook and cranny of the castle grounds, so you were fairly comfortable with getting around quickly and unseen.

It's because of that exploration that you were aware of a passage that ran beneath the castle wall and into the sewers beneath the town that surrounded the castle. You headed into the garden, brushing aside shrubbery until you found the metal covering to the passage. Pushing it aside, you grabbed a lit torch from the garden wall and dropped down into the hole.

So far so good.

It had been a while since you’d been down here, but you were pretty sure you could remember the way. Following the winding path along until it opened up into the sewers. This was where things got a little more tricky - you weren’t exactly sure which sewer grate opened out into an ideal location, and the last thing you wanted was to emerge in the middle of a busy street.

You weren’t even disguised, so you certainly didn’t want to be sighted by commoners while smelling like the sewer, that would do irreparable damage to your reputation.

Doing your best to mentally map out the town above you, you snaked your way through the sewer passages, marking your way with chalk on the wall here and there so you could backtrack if you needed to.

Eventually you reached a ladder heading up to the surface. By your calculations, you were quite far from the main bustling part of town. You made your way up the ladder and pushed the sewer grate aside, trying to move it as quietly as possible, not wanting the sound of the metal scraping against the cobbles to draw attention.

Popping your head out of the hole you thanked the gods that you had ended up in a completely deserted alleyway. You scrambled out from the sewers and quickly replaced the grate.

Taking in your surroundings you figured that you’d come out in the upper district of the city, where all of the larger houses of nobles were situated - exactly where you’d been trying to get to. You took a moment to get your bearings, trying to figure out the fastest way to get to Yuki’s house from your current position before heading out of the alley.

Your journey was a relatively easy one. The upper district was an area that had a high presence of city guards, meaning that the crime rates were low. As such, the streets were mostly empty and risk free, with you only running across the odd guard and late night reveller.

Why did you even need a personal Knight anyway? You were getting along just fine without him.

As you approached Yuki’s house you noted that all of the windows were dark, not a single lit candle in sight. You supposed that made sense, it must’ve been approaching 1am at that point, and you hadn’t written to tell her to expect you. You hadn’t wanted to risk Sukuna intercepting your letter and finding out - he had no real respect for your privacy so you didn’t think it would be beyond the realms of possibility for him to do such a thing.

But now concern was gnawing at your belly. What if you knocked on the door and she didn’t wake up to answer it. Or worse, what if her sensible husband Choso opened the door and took you back to the palace? He was unwaveringly loyal to your father, and you considered that he may not be willing to risk Kashimo’s wrath for the sake of your little game.

Lost in thought, you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

A hand clamped firmly over your mouth, swallowing the sound of your scream as another hand snaked firmly around your waist. You were pulled back against a large body, the figure yanking you into a side-alley. Tears brimmed at your eyes as you desperately tried to struggle against the man, but to no avail. His grip was iron-clad.

Fear overcame you at the possibilities of what could happen to you next, were you going to be taken away? Killed? Tortured? Was your father actually right? Maybe you should’ve listened to him about needing Sukuna, if you hadn’t been so stubborn you wouldn’t be in this situation.

All of those thoughts and regrets instantly dissipated when a familiar laugh sounded from behind you, his hands loosening their grip and releasing you as you spun around to look at him.

Sukuna was peering down at you, his red eyes were lit up with amusement. He was still wearing his Knight’s armor, but he’d concealed it with a long black cloak that he’d likely been using to blend into the background. The look on his face told you just how elated he was that he’d caught you, like this was all some big game of cat and mouse to him.

“Aw, are you scared, princess?” He asked, a hint of laughter still present in his tone.

“What’s your problem?” You hissed. “I thought that was real, I could’ve–”

“Exactly.” He cut you off, his voice surprisingly serious now. “It could’ve been real. Someone could’ve whisked you away just then, done whatever they wanted with you. Aren’t you lucky that it was just me?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his hands were on you again, pressing you up against the stone wall of the alley. “And that’s why we don’t run away. Good thing you’ve got such an attentive Knight huh?”

“The only threat out here was you.” He rolled his eyes and brought his face closer to you, so close that his nose was practically touching yours.

“That doesn’t sound like a thank you to me.” His warm breath fanned over your face, and he grinned at you condescendingly, his smile so wide that you could see his fang-like canines.

“I’m not going to thank you for giving me the scare of my life.” You said, your hands bracing against his armored chest to try and push him away a little, his close proximity was stifling. “How did you even find me?”

He scoffed. “That was easy, you and your handmaid don’t talk as quietly as you think you do, I’m very familiar with your whole little plot to get rid of me.”

Well, that was not ideal. You considered denying it, but that felt like a waste of time - he’d already heard the entire conversation, lying wouldn’t really get you anywhere.

“Mmm, any pointers so I can succeed next time?” You asked dryly, and he laughed - it was a more genuine and joyful laugh than you were used to hearing from him, and it caught you off guard.

“Make sure I’m definitely not listening next time you hatch a plan, that would be a big one.”

You nodded, a little deflated. “Noted. Are you going to tell my dad about this?”

“The sneaking out? Or your evil plan?”

“Both, I suppose.” You mumbled. Ideally, your father would never find out about this situation at all. You’d get scolded for sneaking off, and your credibility for accusing Sukuna of anything in the future would completely disappear. It would essentially ensure that he would stay as your Knight for the foreseeable future.

“I won’t tell him about either.” Sukuna said simply, an unreadable expression on his face.

Your brow furrowed with confusion, trying to understand what game he was playing. The only person who benefitted from your father not knowing was you, Sukuna had every right to tell him what was going on, it was only fair in this petty little game you were playing.

“Why?” You asked with uncertainty.

“Because this is enjoyable. I like watching you come up with all these cute little plots to get rid of me, it keeps me on my toes.”

You couldn’t decide how you felt about that. Nothing about this was supposed to be entertaining for him, it was meant to be torturous. He was meant to despise you for putting him through hell, and yet here he was talking about it like you were taking part in some trivial competition.

“And,” he continued, “I thoroughly enjoy thwarting your little plans. I’m not going to ruin my own fun by bringing your father into this.” He brushed a hand through your hair and brought his lips to your ear. “This is between you and me, princess.”

An involuntary shiver ran down your spine, the hairs on your arms standing up at the feeling of his warm breath on your ear and neck. You were quick to side step away from him, thoroughly flustered by his behaviour. He was smirking back at you.

Smug bastard.

“Anyway. We should head back.” Before you could say anything, he stalked over to you and hoisted you over his shoulder. You let out a little yelp of surprise, adrenaline rushing through you as you were manhandled into the air.

“H-hey! Put me down!” You demanded. When he didn’t respond, you started to beat your fists against his back, desperately trying to get his attention. He seemed completely unbothered by the action, striding through the streets with you firmly in his grip, as though the weight of your fists was no more irritating than a fly buzzing around his head.

“You might want to quieten down, I’ll be carrying you back all the way through town - wouldn’t want your citizens to see you making a scene now would you?”

You froze. He had you down on that front. In private you’d be as difficult as you liked, throw your temper tantrums at him or at you dad. But never in public. That’s a value that your mother had instilled in you from childhood. Image was everything for a princess, you couldn’t have the common folk thinking ill of you, it was your job to be a shining example of elegance and grace.

So you stopped struggling against Sukuna, going limp in his hold and allowing him to carry you back to the castle.

Fortunately for your sanity, the late hour meant that very few people got to see you in your humiliated state. A few townsfolk spared you a glance before going on with their nights, and the guard stationed at the castle gate had a good laugh at you before letting Sukuna by. He and Sukuna seemed plenty chummy with one another, with Sukuna slipping him a gold coin in exchange for his discretion on this situation.

Sukuna insisted on carrying you all the way to your chambers, going so far as to tuck you into your bed. You were so disoriented by the events that had transpired across the night that you didn’t even have it in you to verbally chastise him, silently going along with his actions.

“Thereee you go.” He said softly as he pushed Sir Bounce-a-lot to your chest, your hands instantly gripping at the bunny. You were livid, this felt like some sort of sick humiliation ritual, but you felt too tired to really push back against his actions.

Not to mention, it was hard to spit vitriol in his direction when your brain wouldn’t stop replaying the way that he’d manhandled you to get you back to the castle, flinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

It had been so embarrassing, and yet your traitorous body still burnt hot at the thought of it, at how his big, warm hands had felt against your skin, how the low rumble of his voice had reverberated through his body beneath you as he’d carried you back to the safety of your chambers.

You realised a moment too late that your gaze had been lingering on Sukuna for too long. You looked away swiftly, but not before you caught the flicker of interest that appeared in his deep red eyes.

“Goodnight princess.” He said softly. You couldn’t tell if his tone was mocking or genuine. Either way you’d have to save yelling at him for the morning.

Then it would be time to work on a new plan to get rid of him.

next chapter | series masterlist

a/n: thanks for reading! I'm going to try and get the next chapter out in the next week!

let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist.

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sp4ceboo · 1 year ago

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Atonement: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: fic i wrote with @triluvial 's lovely idea

tw: 18+, smut but pretty soft, oral (f recieving), so so so so much angst, fluff after tho dw, swearing, hints of sa and pedophilia from the baron, baron is also creepy to reader but not explicitly, u gotta bear with my yapping in the beginning but it gets good i promise, inkpie

wc: 3.9k

headcanons for this universe

When you married Feyd-Rautha, you were warned of many things. His cruelty, both in and out of the bedroom, his bloodlust, his uncontrollable rage, his violence, his complete and utter lack of mercy. They told you he was psychotic, he was a cold blooded murderer, he was insatiable and that you’d be lucky to last a year with him, and yet, they never cautioned you of his sheer, unerring indifference.

Before your marriage, you fancied that he’d be like fire; raging, searing to touch. You went as far as to wish to tame his inferno. Late at night, when you could not sleep and doubt wreathed your thoughts, you also considered that he’d be like ice, like the colour of his piercing eyes, glacial and cold, devoid of anything soft or sweet.

As a child, you saw him fight in the arena. There he blazed with passion, his victor’s smile a cruel curve upon his face, his knife blade stained dark with fresh blood: he was mesmerising. At that time you were beginning to understand that your future had been sold to this violent man, and you resented your parents for it - now you realise that it went deeper than that, that it was rooted in generations of religion, of whisperings of the Bene Gesserit. Still, even then, you found the way he burned intriguing, and you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

But you were wrong. He turned out to be neither fire nor ice, just stingingly, dismissively apathetic. His eyes slide right over you when he happens to pass you in the corridors, as if you’re lower than a servant, lower than the rare rats that survive Giedi Prime’s conditions. You suspected your marriage would be painful, wedded to a man such as he was, but you didn’t think it would be this damn lonely.

You wished he hated you.

That way, at least you’d mean something to your husband. At least then vehement, savage emotion would rise within his gaze whenever he looked at you, not that horrible, polarising blankness. You wish you disgusted him, because then he’d at least he’d speak his mind - you had learnt that he spoke with brutal honesty, uncaring of the consequences.

Maybe to him, that’s all you are. A consequence of being high born, of being the na-Baron. You mean nothing to him, and he treats you as such; to him, you are less than the speck of dust on the floor, less than a grain of sand in his beloved arena.

It’s not that you wish for him to dote on you, nor love you or devote himself to you. You just wish he would look you in the eye and feel something; you’d rather him stare at you in revulsion and call you names that you can’t even think up yourself than the dead, lifeless detachment that clouds his face when he sees you in your shared chambers.

Feyd-Rautha has never laid a hand on you in violence; in fact he rarely touches you at all. The last, and only time he kissed you was during the wedding day, and he makes no moves to be in bodily contact with you any more than he has to be. You are obliged to produce an heir from him, yet even in these infrequent encounters it seems as if it is a chore for him - he takes no pleasure in your body nor does he try to pleasure you, and he makes no sound when he takes you, staying as long as it takes for his seed to fill your womb before leaving without a word. On those nights, your thighs tremble as you stumble to the bathroom, only allowing your tears to fall once the shower water is searing on your skin.

During the first month of your marriage, you did everything in your power to please him. You thought maybe you weren’t pretty enough for him, maybe you were not desirable as a wife, so you always smiled at him, made an effort to fill the silence that pervaded the air around him, bringing up topics you knew he would enjoy, like the arena, like his love for knives and duels. To even that he would not reply, rebutting your questions with monosyllables or simply ignoring you. You stopped once he began to leave the room while you were mid sentence.

It is now your fourth month locked in this marriage with an uncaring man, and all you feel is bleak, crushing resignation. Somehow, Feyd-Rautha seems to take more interest in conversing with his brother than you.

You wonder if he has forgotten your name. He addresses you simply as ‘wife’ - that, and nothing more, the title leaving his lips like an accusatory curse, reminding you that if you did not serve a purpose to him, and if decorum did not restrain him, he’d have disposed of you by now, either by slitting your throat or simply abandoning you outside the palace grounds, not even bothering to end you himself.

The palace in question is lonely, but you feel the loneliest when you lay awake at night, shivering on your side of the bed as Feyd-Rautha slumbers to your right. Tears always prick your eyes during those moments, but you stifle them, afraid that you’ll rouse him with your crying; you do not know what you’ve done to garner his mistrust, but many times you’ve glimpsed the knife he keeps beneath his pillow, the cold blade glinting in the moonlight.

Often you wonder if he has a secret lover, and that is why he does not bother with you. You wake up sometimes and he is gone, but soon you realised that he would visit his concubines, especially after he had bred you. You would finish your shower, unable to wash off the feel that you were dirty, you were just an animal, a mindless thing to produce an heir for him, and he would be lounging in the antechambers of your quarters, ignoring your presence with the three harpies wrapped around him, whispering in his ears and caressing his moonlight skin. They accompanied him everywhere he wished, even in public, and to begin with, you felt humiliated that he would so explicitly show that you were not to his satisfaction.

Now, it just makes the solitude even worse.

You find solace in no one. More than once, you have walked in on the servants laughing behind your back, and as it became evident your husband was uninterested in you, they did not hide their mocking. The Baron’s other nephew you hardly saw, and the Baron himself terrified you: there was something in the way that he stared at you, his beady eyes glittering from where they were set deep within his putrid flesh, that made you feel more soiled than even after Feyd-Rautha took you.

So you remain isolated, speaking only when spoken to, drifting through the palace’s wide, dark hallways like a ghoul, a mourning spectre. You can barely remember your life before, just wisps and fleeting flashes of colour that ridicule rather than comfort you.

To Feyd, it is obvious who you are. A spy, commanded by his uncle to report every single one of his doings to you; he cannot slip up once around you, cannot reveal his weaknesses, that he is desperate to be loved, to be seen as someone whose only use is not war. He sees the way his uncle looks at you, hungry for information you do not have because he does not impart it, the way the Baron comments on you and the way you flinch at his words, pretending that you do not report to him.

Feyd is determined in his resolve to give nothing away. His uncle has held power over him since he was young, he refuses to give him even an inch over him now. He still has nightmares of it, which he wakes up from with his pale skin sheened in clammy sweat, clammy like the hands of his uncle.

Sometimes, he sees the tears in your eyes after he fucks you. The first time, he almost stopped, almost asked you where it hurt, but you turned away before he could, acting, always acting; acting when you smile graciously at him, acting when you ask him what his favourite type of blade is, what his favourite form of swordsmanship is. You are good at pretending, but of course you are - his uncle is the Baron, a man who bathes in power. No doubt he would get only the best of spies.

Tonight, you are not where you normally are. At this hour, you are usually asleep, or feigning it in the very least, curled up small on your side of the mattress, yet the bed is still made, the sheets unrumpled and smoothed down as they were this morning. Feyd thinks that maybe he might catch you reporting to his uncle, so he strides out of your shared chambers, pausing in the doorway to listen carefully; as a boy, he hunted in forests that have now been chopped down and industrialised, but he has maintained his keen ears long after the last wild plant on Giedi Prime’s surface choked on the fumes of pollution.

There’s a soft noise, barely perceptible, that echoes down the corridor to his right. Silently, he tracks it down the labyrinthine passages of the palace, servants scurrying out of his warpath, bowing their heads to him - he wonders if they too report to his uncle, if they travel now to his quarters to inform him of his beloved nephew’s whereabouts.

Feyd wishes he and Rabban were brothers first before rivals. Then he could have someone to rely on, someone who he trusted in this palace built on lies.

Pausing, Feyd cocks his head. You huddle in a crumpled heap at the end of the corridor, your knees hugged tightly to your chest, head low as if under a crushing weight. It occurs to him that maybe the Baron was displeased with your efforts to gain information and made it known to you - a pang of pity tugs at him, for he knows what his uncle’s wrath is like. At least you have been spared from the sole thing worse than that - the Baron’s thirst.

"What are you doing, wife?"

Your head snaps up, Feyd-Rautha’s unfeeling voice kindling a rare burst of temper from you. Is it not evident to him what you are doing? Or is he just too blind to see the tears streaking down your cheeks? Your words are injected with venom when you speak, and you hope that it stings him for leaving you alone in this cold, dark place.

"So now I am of concern to you?"

Feyd is taken aback by the indignant arch of your brows, the resentment displayed in your eyes. It takes him a moment to register the harshness lacing your voice - you have never addressed him in this way - and another to digest your words. There’s a bleakness in your wet, tear stained face as you stare up at him, and shock too, as if you did not expect yourself to speak against him this way.

Something clicks into place.

Feyd recognises that look in your eyes. He recognises it, because he’s seen it in the mirror a hundred times before; haunted, harrowed, lonely. He remembers nights when he trembled beneath the cold sheets of his bed, when he was small enough that he felt like he was drowning in the black satin, his eyes wide as the fabric seemed to wend around his limbs, tying him there as he lay fearful of everyone, fearful that his uncle would summon him. Even young, he was so terribly aware of not knowing who he could trust and who would turn to the Baron, bearing information like knives to split open his childish skin and spill his guts on the freezing stone floor.

It broke him. He is barely a shell of a sentient being, repressed emotions wreathing like ghosts around his frame, his eyes hollow, his heart decaying. In his fear, he was blinded, and he pushed you to the place where he had been all those years ago, so terribly, terribly alone - you are stronger than him, for lasting this long.

Sharp, plunging, dread sinks in his stomach, weighs down his soul; he has done unspeakable things to you, treated you like a dog, like a whore - worse. How can you look at him without hatred in your eyes, spite?

Bile rises in his throat, his heart seized by a dark, burning anger. He has done this to you, he has slashed your skin and left you bleeding, and yet all you did was try to please him. In an effort to save himself, he trampled you under foot; in order to keep you out, he left you surrounded by shadows. Feyd has never hated himself so much, has never despised who he has become with this much furor.

Slowly, he crouches before you. Eyes wide, you shrink away, misreading the direction of his rage, flinching when he reaches out a hand. Pressing your back against the wall behind you, you turn your head away from him, fear causing tears to spill down your cheeks: he sees the way you will the stone to swallow you up, knows the feeling.

"Please don’t hurt me," you choke out, hands trembling uncontrollably.

Something deep within Feyd’s soul withers and dies at your words. Forcing his jaw to unclench, his hands to release the fists they held, he shoves down his anger. The fury is for later, for when he has made things right - for now it is you that is his priority. Too late, a voice whispers in his ears, too late, too late, too late -

Gods, he deserves to burn at the fucking stake for this. He deserves eternal hell for this, he deserves worse. He is a fool: a blind, blundering fool, stuffed to the brim with paranoia and cynicism.

He sucks in a breath. "I will not hurt you. You have my word, whatever it is worth to you. I - I have made an irredeemable mistake, I - "

After his first sentence, you have not heard him. Tears of relief soak your face, and you whisper needless apologies for them; it is an arrow through his heart that you fear him so - yet the pain is where it is due, justifiable for the way he has shamed you, belittled you.

"May I - may I touch you, my wife?"

You do not know why you nod in reply of your husband’s strange request, but the moment you do, strong arms pull you into a solid chest, and a sob leaves you - he is so warm, warm enough to banish the seeping cold embedded in your bones, warm enough to let your sorrow flow anew, soaking his shirt as your hands bunch in its fabric, so that if he is cruel enough to leave you here, at least he will have to fight to do so. You have not been held in a long time.

Each of your shuddering sobs is a knife blade twisting in Feyd’s spirit. He lets the pain wash over him, clings to the way you burrow into his arms, a kind creature in the embrace of a monster. At one point, in the throes of your crying, you beat at his chest, telling him that you hate him, and he takes it with a bowed head, stroking your hair and holding you tighter once you exhaust yourself; this is only a fraction of his atonement.

You fall asleep in his arms. He carries you back to your quarters, and only once the door is closed behind him does he let his tears mingle with yours. Keeping you cradled to his chest like a child, he pours a glass of water for you to drink in the morning, knowing you will be dehydrated; he sets it on your bedside table before laying you down on the mattress.

You don’t let go of him, even in your sleep. His heart clenches, tight in his chest, and he drops a kiss in your hair before lying down beside you.

He believes he will love you, if you will let him.

Consciousness leaks slowly into your mind, and you blink, squinting through the beam of light that filters in through the curtains. From your months spent here, you’ve realised that Giedi Prime’s atmosphere is normally churned up with violent storms and choked with pollution, so this ray of sun that falls against your pillow, warming your face is far from unwanted - nor is the pale forearm tucked around your waist, firmly so, but not trapping you either.

Your husband’s chest fits snugly against your back, his breath warm and steady against your skin; his fingers splay out across your stomach, gentle, communicating so many things that were left unsaid. Vaguely, you remember falling asleep, nestled against his chest, tears drying on your cheeks.

When you roll over, you’re unsurprised that he’s already awake. With blue eyes softened by the sunlight, he regards you, fingers settled at the small of your waist. Something clouds his gaze, and he shifts, propping himself up on his elbows.

"I owe you an explanation."

You wait silently, unperturbed by the way he clenches his jaw. He vowed to you last night that he would not hurt you, and you trust that. Wordlessly, his lips open, then close, and you patiently watch him, far too well acquainted with how this man struggles to let down his guard - even now, you cannot read the twisting of his features, the way his eyes squint as he looks at you.

"I - I thought you were a spy sent by my uncle," he finally confesses. "My uncle… when I was younger, he,"

Reaching out, you cup his jaw in your hand, running your thumb along his cheekbone until he relaxes. You see the battle in his eyes, to let go, to tell you the knowledge that he thinks you deserve, but you see with it the years of hurt, of solitude. Something hopeful, something beautiful blossoms within you - the realisation that this wounded beast before you is someone that you could grow to love; you want him to bare his scars to you, those that are long healed and those that still seep with blood.

"All in good time, Feyd," you assure him quietly.

He sighs, touches his lips against your palm. "I am sorry, my wife."

Slipping your hand down to grip his shoulder, you lean closer towards him so you can kiss him. An anguished sound leaves him, and you see clearly how he realises that he has wronged you, how it pains him, and yet how the taste of you awakens something tender within him - you marvel at it, that it has survived, buried within him for so long. Perhaps he will let you love him.

Feyd is neither forward nor insatiable in the way he kisses you. In fact, he pulls away first, moving to get up from the bed despite the way your hands grip his shoulders, and you almost doubt that he wants you before you glimpse the longing in his eyes that lingers before he pushes it down. You wonder if this man knows how to make love or if he just knows how to fuck, you wonder if he feels the same molten feeling in his stomach that you feel and that is why his movements are tinged with nerves as he gently escapes your grasp. It is clear to you: he does not want to scare you.

"Must you go?" You ask, tugging at his fingers.

He tilts his head. "I don’t know if you want me here, after what I have inflicted upon you."

A streak of bravery takes ahold of you. "Please, Feyd, I want you."

You delight at the fire that ignites in his eyes upon your words. He wastes no time in returning to your side, dropping a sweet tasting kiss to your lips before taking your chin in his hand, eyes searching yours as he sits between your thighs.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he says. "Yes?"

"Yes," you echo, blood heating your cheeks.

Feyd kisses you again, giving you time to rescind your reply if you want, but you just tug at the hem of his shirt, drinking in his sculpted chest when he pulls the black cloth over his head. Delicately, he trails his lips down your skin as he undresses you, his broad hands warm where they encircle your waist, holding you flush to him as his calloused palms explore your body, skimming over your spine and caressing your breasts before settling on your thighs and pulling them open.

You’re terribly aware of how wet you are when his eyes settle on your pussy. Instinctively, your knees tip inwards, your face growing hot at the hunger in his gaze, but his broad shoulders block your legs from closing, followed closely by his hands which gently push them back open. He smiles at the blush high on your cheeks, rubbing his thumb over your ankle in order to put you at ease.

The sound you make when he pushes his fingers into your cunt and curls them almost makes Feyd moan. You tremble for him, bashful, and he can feel himself rock hard against the mattress, aching for the tight clamp of your velvet walls. He wants to bury himself between your thighs, and so he does, your sweet slick exquisite on his tongue - he presses kisses like butterflies to your thighs, your hips, worshipping you as his fingers pump in and out of you to the same pace as your heaving chest.

You look beautiful, gilded by the sunlight, lower lip trapped between your teeth, but he doesn’t miss the way you grip the sheets with one hand, the other clapped over your mouth, panting as he pleases you. Stroking your thigh, he pauses, licking your slick off his lips.

"Let me hear you," he bids.

You blush again but obey him, tremors wracking your body as he sucks on your clit, laving his tongue over it until you throw your head back, eyes rolling as you come, your honeyed moans and hot release exquisite upon his senses. He wants more, needs more of the taste of you, but you tug at his shoulders, whining for his cock, and he’d rather die than deny you.

The way you say his name when he buries himself inside you sets his soul on fire. You look beautiful beneath him, shaking and whimpering from the hot pulse of his length, clawing at his shoulders until he wears red marks that he’s proud to bear, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you. It seems you cannot get enough of him, and Feyd is more than fine with that because he finds himself addicted to the feel of you under his hands, begging him for more.

Feyd remains entranced long after he comes inside you, with you, your cunt spasming around him. You draw close to him, intertwining your legs with his as he kisses your face, your neck, your chest, making sure he has not hurt you, making sure you are sated. Curling your fingers under his jaw, stopping him, you look him in the eye and smile before kissing him, and he finds himself mesmerised again by you.

He is certain you will let him love you. He is yours.

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getouyuri · 28 days ago

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bite the hand that feeds

✞ pairing — vampire!geto x gn!reader

summary — “i want you to eat well. i want you to be full.” or, suguru has denied himself human blood his entire fledgling life. sitting back and watching him self-destruct just won’t do.

✞ content & warnings — SFW but MDNI, gender neutral reader, hurt and comfort, angst, fluff, suggestive themes and content, modern au, vampire au, pet names, bartender!geto, geto is in his 30’s, starvation, blood drinking, bloodlust, mildly possessive behavior, the intricacies of vampire morality and guilt and ethics, religious undertones and imagery, masochist!reader, aftercare, doting geto

author's note — decided to revamp (lmao) an old fic that i published for a different fanbase… hashtag recycle hashtag reuse. i even made a 2nd spotify account to share this playlist for it if you wanna listen while reading 😭 this fic was already very dear to me but now it’s even more so w/ this geto version, so I hope you all enjoy this as much as I do!! 🫶🏽 masterlist

writing © getouyuri. fanart © kayluvshie. dividers © bbyg4rlhelps. wc: 9.1k.

“Baby,” You call again, lips downturned.

Suguru merely hums but doesn’t otherwise show a sign of life, the vampire swaying in place in the kitchen and eyes glazed over like freshly fired ceramic. You have to rise from your perch on the armrest of the divan in order to make his dazed gaze settle somewhere in your direction, but he isn’t really seeing you— his dimmed irises threaten to slide right through your very much corporeal body.

That only serves to make your frown more pronounced.

Since the second Suguru silently slipped through the door with his decorated keychain, fresh from a grueling shift at the bar, you immediately knew that something was wrong. Your instincts told you that it had nothing to do with him smelling of a sticky alcohol that he didn’t consume, the scent nearly masking the remnants of his jasminey cologne.

Suguru looked oddly disheveled and worn down, a far cry from the usual quiet confidence and composure that fills out the frame of the vampire, and was slow to respond as he absentmindedly picked through the pantry.

He was trying to find something to satiate the cravings that were surely making his blood sing, but the hunger was scrambling him beyond repair. You had to jolt forward when Suguru didn’t react fast enough to catch the dried mangos that his shaking hands had knocked to the side.

All of your earlier attempts at questions about his day were answered by incomprehensible murmurs. You hovered uselessly behind him until you finally turned, retreating to the living room with further concerns mounting on top of the already growing pile. Suguru had remained, planting himself in the kitchen amidst the sprawling ivy and potted ferns.

Your concern only fuels your persistence, though, and after you had given Suguru a few more minutes of time— in which he ended up doing nothing but stare at the appliances on the countertop— you think to try again.

“Baby,” You repeat, softening your voice into a coo. You practically creep over, socked feet making a scuffing noise as you drag them across the carpet, then the tile of the kitchen. You keep your hands slightly raised in a placating matter as if approaching a cornered animal— an unpredictable predator.

You think that you may as well be with the way Suguru stares at you with blood-red eyes, slowly swiping his tongue over his lips. It makes you shiver.

You’ve done your fair share of research, having taken to hitting the books (which really means the internet… and admittedly, a few vampire romance novels), boldly showing up at his mother’s door with questions, and simply observing him in the four corners of your shared home.

To someone like Suguru, considered undead from the moment he was reborn into this world by a stray vampire that got their claws in him when he was younger, blood— especially human blood— was essential. A necessity, like water was to humans, to the soil and the plants and the birds.

You’ve noticed something, though. Suguru drives fear into himself— the fear of what that knowledge, the taste of human blood, would do to him. If it would consume him, desire and hunger rotting him from the inside out as Suguru kept it from morphing into what he thinks will be an uncontrollable bloodlust. He denies himself his biggest necessity, the one that lined his very being.

You heard it from the lips of his mother himself, whose tiredly-etched face had been tipped down to her special blend of tea as you conversed during an impromptu brunch.

Mei’s a beautiful woman. You can see where your boyfriend got his almost wraithly elegance in those lavender-hued eyes that exude a calm that drugs you, her black hair that swings over her shoulder in a long braid. That signature Geto smile that she gives you as she pours you your own cup.

But she’s weathered in a way that Suguru isn’t and will never be, forever trapped in a body that cannot age. He’ll never have the crow’s feet that crinkle her eyes just so. The silvery streaks crowning her head. The plumpness of her hips and her neck that her slowing metabolism brings about. The slow decay of self.

“Thank you,” you say, taking a sip of tea. Not wanting to waste her time, you dive right into the nitty gritty. “I’m hoping you can give me some insight on the whole… Suguru thing. He survives off of animal blood just fine, but I know it’s not enough to sustain him for good. Like, at all. I’ve taken a shot at the more obvious reasons as to why he’s adamant about abstaining from human blood in conversations with him, but…”

Mei waits patiently. Your shoulders wilt. “He just doesn’t see that I’m worried about his health. I feel like a bad partner for not being able to help him or get through to him.”

The older woman sets her teacup down with a quiet clink, her expression softening with understanding. She exhales a gentle sigh as she reaches across the table to squeeze the top of your clenched fist.

"You’re not a bad partner, dear. Far from it. And Suguru loves you with his whole heart," Mei reassures, her voice fond but tinged with something heavier—something like grief. “That boy… Suguru’s always been stubborn when it comes to his ideals. He clings to them like they’re his lifeline."

A flicker of bittersweetness and a shadow of something else crosses her features before she continues, "Even as a little boy, he was like that— always putting others before himself, always worrying about being a burden or punishing himself for things beyond his control.”

You purse your lips and trace the rim of your cup. Her eyes follow your fingertips. “Tell me about it,” you quip quietly, earning a twinkling of laughter from her.

But then she sighs, long and weary. It feels like her exhaustion passes to you, for you suddenly feel bone-tired. Helplessly so. “I do think you could get through to him, though. You’re different from me. You’re not his mother. You’re someone that’s chosen him over and over again, connected by a love that you’ve forged together rather than by blood ties. He’ll always see my offers as ones born from maternal obligation.”

“Just because I’m not family doesn’t mean he’ll fold,” you bemoan even though you see her point. You’re just frustrated and a little lost— and trying to figure out how to ask her about how this all started without being overly blunt.

You don’t even know if Mei would be comfortable with sharing such a private piece of information, let alone how Suguru himself would feel if you asked him. When he mentioned his turning to you during a casual conversation, he breezed over it as if discussing the weather. All he said was that he was turned when he was young, and that he’d live with this new change. Would have to live with it.

That made it sound incredibly depressing. Which it was.

She doesn’t even need to say anything. The purposely pregnant pause that follows and the look she gives you is a glaring scarlet letter— you can practically hear her scoffed ‘you’re very obviously part of our family’ that she’s too polite to let spill.

Still, she comments on it regardless. Mei picks her words like they’re little cherries. “You’re family in every way that counts. But you know that.” Another slow sip of her tea, the silver bangles on her wrist jingling softly.

“When Suguru was turned... he was so young. My baby was barely nine— just a child forced to grapple with instincts he barely understood, desperate and terrified. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, not even the man who turned him. Suguru clearly doesn’t trust what he might awaken in himself if he indulges in human blood. He holds onto the fear that he’ll lose control and hurt the people he loves.”

Mei raises her eyebrows, silently encouraging you to take notes. You sit up a little straighter, heart picking up, leaning towards her like a flower greeting the spring sun.

"Normally I’d say that it’s best not to push and instead let him come to you. Clearly, though, he’s willing to wait us all out until the end of time. Considering that… I’d wager your best bet is this— strike when the iron is hot. When you offer your aid, make sure he knows you’re offering because you want to and that it’s your choice. Never because you pity him. Show him that it’s safe to accept something that you want to give to him and that he can trust in everything being alright.”

You had silently taken this in, thanked Mei upon leaving a few hours after you shared brunch with her, and trotted on home with bags of Mei’s tea to make for Suguru.

There’s been a few incidents where you offered up your forearms whenever Suguru’s stashes started to run dry. Your willingness to satiate his appetite made the vampire instantly round on you with a blend of fear and concern that rivaled the intensity of a thousand desert suns.

Animal blood, he promised, was enough and would have to be enough to tide him over. He would not let you come to harm for something he considered unnecessary. You still think it peculiar.

Suguru acted as though instinct was as taboo as the cardinal sins. Suguru acted as though feeding from you was like leading not one but two lambs to their untimely slaughter.

You haven't tried to serve Suguru your blood on a silver platter since, instead choosing to wait for the right moment. Now, with your conversation with his mother still fresh on your mind and Suguru blinking slowly, exhaustion heavy on his eyelids as he cranes his neck to look at you, you think this may be it.

“You can’t keep holding your hunger at bay like this. It’s unhealthy, Suguru.”

One hand goes to the cold stone of the counter and the other tentatively lands on the slope of his shoulder. You rub at his shoulder consolingly. Suguru’s tongue peeks out once more, the same color as the soft gummy pink of a wolf’s mouth seconds before it strikes, and you watch a tremble race through him.

“I’m fine, and I’m well, and I will continue to be so,” Suguru defends himself at last after a drawn out silence that made your skin prickle with the beginnings of fear of already fucking this up. He’s almost struggling to fashion the words together, slurring just barely. His eyes glide down to your hand and burn through you as if spotting the veins beneath your skin, but he doesn’t shrug you off.

You’re immediately thrown— when Suguru gets into a starved state like this, his nature crying out for human blood only to be barely kept at bay by the tanginess of an animal’s, he retreats into himself and shies away from everyone, even Mei and Satoru and Shoko, even you.

Now, though, he just seems… resigned. None of the usual testiness and attempts at self-isolation when Suguru yearns for salvation rears its head. The concern heavy in your stomach like a stone slices further into your insides the longer he lets you stay close.

“That isn’t what I meant, and you know that,” you point out, as you’ve done time and time again whenever the topic of Suguru’s hunger crops up and he tries to dodge it with the grace of someone that’s dodged way too many misdirected swings from drunks at the bar he works at while trying to break up fights. “You need more than just the blood of animals.”

His shapely eyebrows slant with the beginnings of an uncharacteristic scowl. There’s that hangriness, you think humorlessly. “It does its job,” Suguru shoots back, a warning laced into his tone. With barely a glance at you, he turns away, his dismissal coming out short. “Save your breath. I’m about to eat.”

Your hand naturally falls from him when your boyfriend crouches to flick open the cupboards beneath the counter. Your fingers curl midair, wanting to bend down and reach out to him, but your arm drops to your side.

Suguru pulls out the wedge at the top of his small ice-box and frowns when he’s greeted with crinkled, blood-sprinkled packets. You watch Suguru yank out the fullest (a very generous word, considering it only holds a puddle) and rises back up, his shoulder brushing against you like a cat greeting another.

“Will that be enough?” You press.

You know it isn’t; far from it, in fact. Suguru knows that too.

He opens it anyways with a firm nod, the tightness between his brows smoothing out at the first scent of blood. Your body betrays him, and your heart, already thumping a few beats too fast, races faster. Suguru glances at you, at the pulse that thrums heavy beneath your jaw, and wraps his lips around the opening.

Oh, Christ.

Suguru drinks. Feeds. He pushes the blood up to the rim of the packet with massaging thumbs, wringing and coaxing every drop towards his mouth. You’re reminded of the near-empty bottle of toothpaste you share that you’ve pointlessly been stringing out even though it should’ve been tossed a week ago.

His throat visibly catches when he trickles it onto his tongue. Within seconds, he gulps it all down, left practically panting with how fast he knocks it back. Your attention never leaves his lips.

“See?” He tosses the mangled packet into the trash and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smears just below his bottom lip and he swipes his tongue over it, then licks at the remnants on his teeth.

You feel strangely faint, like you’ve been wrung just as dry. You think it inexplicable– the feeling that drums through you every time you witness Suguru ingest blood– but you know its meaning. Even humans have their vices, as odd as they may be.

“I’ve had my fill,” Suguru reassures you the longer you continue to stare unblinkingly like you’ve just bluescreened, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than he is you. You catch the flash of his canines as he speaks and you swallow instinctively.

The vampire must realize his face says as much, so he clears his throat and crouches again to toss the packet, forcing the wedge back into the box. Suguru stands and decisively kicks the cabinet shut. The soft bang rattles you into action.

“Somehow,” you begin, voice blessedly calm, “I don’t believe that to be the case.”

“Doll—“

“It’s never enough, is it?” Surprisingly, Suguru doesn’t retort. Instead, he purses his lips. He looks a tiny bit better with what he had ingested, but he still looks worn. His unblemished skin runs unnaturally dry. “That packet held barely enough blood in it to be considered an appetizer, let alone a full meal. You’re surviving, baby. Not living. You know that.”

Suguru’s continued silence speaks volume. He’s exhausted. He’s hungry, but not irreversibly so. A solution sits warm on the horizon, and you, willing to do anything if it means your beloved will be healthy and happy and satisfied and full, hold the sun out to Suguru in the palm of your hands.

“Your reserves are completely depleted. In your current state, weak as you are, you know that there’s no way you can go out and hunt either.” A huff escapes you, laden with concern. “And, just as well, you know that I’m more than willing to quench your thirst with my own blood.”

“Why are you so eager to offer yourself up, knowing that I’ll only hurt you?” Suguru suddenly snaps. Some of his lucidity returns to him as his annoyance and desperation mounts. Ozone seems to come out of nowhere like a distant fog rolling in over the hills, crackling, blanketing the air over you until it’s so thick that you nearly choke on it.

He tosses his hands in the air in an uncharacteristic burst of frustration, the sharp movement a far cry from the elegant grace he carries himself with. A gently placed hand on your hip to slowly coax you to melt into the security of his side, a slow-moving pace when at your side as if he has all the time in the world to revel in it with you.

Careful. Controlled.

That’s not what that was, though.

Before you can comment on it or stare wide-eyed at him for a second longer, Suguru’s lowering his arms. Smoothing a hand through his glossy dark tresses, he lowers his gaze to collect himself.

“I’ve survived without it for years just fine.” Suguru’s voice wavers, just barely. He sounds desperate. “There’s no need to add further blood to my hands. Not yours.”

“Lemme repeat something you’ve said to me before then. In pain, there is love, and in love, there is pain,” you answer simply. You shift, intending to draw him close, but his hand instantly catches around your wrist when you go to reach out for him. “And that blood? You’re not ripping it from me. I’d be giving it to you willingly. It’d be my choice.”

You stare at each other, your irises meeting purple ones as Suguru keeps you at bay. There’s thinly veiled terror in his eyes, terror at what he himself could do should you get closer. Your pulse staccatos beneath Suguru’s thumb.

“Let me say this—“

“You’ve been doing nothing but saying this and that. Is speaking your favorite pastime?” Suguru cuts in snarkily.

“Suguru. C’mon now.”

He purses his lips as his deflection is knocked aside. The nail of his pointer scrapes against the skin of your arm. “Sorry. Yeah. Go on.”

“Let me say this,” you repeat, smiling for only a moment before it fades. Your thoughts of months past coalesce on your tongue, turning everything that tumbles out raw. “I worry about you. I worry about you just as much as you worry about me. It’s not out of pity; it’s all love.” You steadily curl your hand around Suguru’s wrist until you’re interlinked. Watching his face carefully, you lift your tangled grip until your lips skate across his knuckles.

“If I have to experience even a little bit of pain to see you healthy, then so be it. I trust you. I trust the control you have over yourself, and I know that you’re not gonna drain me dry and leave me for dead.”

Against all rationale, you think you wouldn’t mind it. If Suguru wanted your bones, organs, your bleeding heart cradled in the palms of his hands and wanted to keep taking more and more, you would give it all to him.

No hesitation. No request for anything in return. Just unwavering devotion.

“You’ve managed what, like, more than twenty years without human blood? But can you withstand another ten without it? Twenty?” You hold the back of Suguru’s hand to your mouth as if whispering it against his skin will make your concern sink in, nestle itself into the marrow of his bones. “The last thing I wanna see is the one I love deteriorate in front of me. You think I want that?”

You swear Suguru’s bottom lip quivers. You know that resonates a little too much. You didn’t really want to strike at the whole ‘hey, I’m painfully mortal and you’re immortal so you’re bound to leave me behind’ topic, but you don’t have many other options. “Angel…”

“Suguru, just listen to me,” you stress, interrupting. “You’re not some beast or sinner for being hungry, and you shouldn’t punish yourself as if you’re either one,” you murmur, voice gone sweet even as Suguru grips your wrist tight. His palm burns against your skin, icy-hot and firm. Shackling you in place, tying you down to the plate of a teetering scale. You wonder if you’re damning you both. “Don’t let your morals hinder your instincts. I want to help you, so take what you want from me. I can handle it.”

Suguru’s mouth parts, as if catching the scent of your truthfulness and letting it sit on his tongue. He ruminates for only a minute, then slowly, his grip slackens until his hold becomes a gentle tether. You take the opportunity to rock towards him, a boat to a dock, and he steps in closer to hold you by the forearms as if you were the one close to crumpling from thirst.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” Suguru warns. His nostrils flare.

When you give him a look, repeating everything you had voiced with only your eyes, Suguru meets you stride for stride, struggling to stay stony-faced. His eyes keep flicking to your neck, the smooth expanse of your skin peeking out from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of your cream sweater that he bought for you, as if watching the blood course through you.

“Seriously, doll. I don’t…” he licks his lips. “Neither of us know how I will react the second your blood falls on my tongue, nor do I think I want to find out. I don’t enjoy the thought of hurting you.”

A sweet sentiment— entirely unnecessary, though.

You glance over Suguru again. You take in the glassines of his eyes that threatens to drown them both in his yawning desire, the almost sickly quality to his skin, and gods above— you think for the thousandth time that you’d do anything to relieve even a fraction of the wrongness and hunger that Suguru must feel.

“Set aside your burdens for me to take on and lemme worry about the consequences. All you gotta do is focus on what you need, and I’ll handle the rest.”

You briefly close your eyes and the words burn sharper than fire-water as they crawl up your throat— “Although I don’t want to see you destroy yourself, I’ll respect your wishes and drop the subject entirely if you deny me. Again. This has and will always be in your hands, Suguru. You’re the only one who can decide this for yourself. I’m just giving you… another option, one that’ll always be on the table.”

Suguru simply dips his head after a moment’s deliberation, voice solemn. “I appreciate your words.”

I appreciate your words— the choice to come to his own decision. He speaks with the weight of someone who has rarely been dealt the cards that he has wanted; being attacked, ‘killed,’ reborn again as something he never wished to be, every time that the old management of the bar he works at pulled his leash taut and ground him underfoot whenever he strayed too close to their spoils before he fought tooth and claw to rework it from the foundations and up.

Not for the first time, you want to dig up the strings of fate and rip and shred them thread by thread until you can weave it all into something kinder for Suguru.

The silence that stretches thin between you starts to feel like a dismissal. Resigning yourself to the nth refusal, you begin to tactfully back off. Suguru reaches for you before he can put more distance between you two.

“Sorry. That wasn’t a no— I was just trying to collect my thoughts.” Suguru lets go of you. The lingering ozone in the air finally snuffs out, and you feel like you can breathe proper lungfuls again. “You’re right. I know you are, angel.” Suguru’s lips part so sweetly around the pet name creased with care and use; a folded-up letter from a lover.

“Really?” You utter blankly, the ball of your foot still off the ground from your aborted step backwards.

Suguru levels you with a disbelieving gaze. “What did you think your little speech would do? Roll off of my back?”

“Can you blame me for thinking so?” You retort, thinking of your previous attempts, the small hints you’ve scattered at Suguru’s feet only for them to get swept away. You settle your full weight back onto the floorboards.

“I’ve been… dismissive about it before,” Suguru admits; that’s the best you’ll get out of him for sure. “To be honest, I’ve found myself considering drinking from you for the last month or two, but I still had my doubts and reservations,” he near-mumbles, then. He crosses his arms and scrunches his nose. “But I needed that extra push.”

The vampire keeps one arm pressed to his chest and rubs at his temple. “I’ve been apprehensive about this since the day my life was flipped on itself. You know that.”

“I do.”

“And you’re truly just… not worried?”

“Not particularly, no.”

He searches your expression. “I just want to make sure that you’re certain and not doing this because you think you owe it to me.” Suguru speaks carefully.

You blow out a sigh through your nose. “My silly Suguru. I’ve always been sure, especially when it comes down to your health being at stake. I never say things that I don’t mean.”

Suguru surprisingly— or unsurprisingly, really, given his track-record of picking off of Satoru’s stupid puns— cracks a small smile at that. “At stake, huh?”

“Don’t.” You catch on immediately with a groan. You wipe a hand down your face to hide the uptick of your lips. Some degree of relief at Suguru’s quip fills you despite your amused exasperation.

Emboldened and hopeful, you press yourself against Suguru. His shoulder is solid against your own. “So,” you prod, light and airy, “if your answer isn’t a no, then what is it?”

Suguru hums under his breath, presses his weight back against you. Purple irises crawl skywards. “I guess it’s a yes.” He points at you before you can utter a loud woop, but your budding smile speaks volumes. “If this goes wrong, this will never happen again. Literally never.”

“Say,” you drawl, mind already wandering off five steps ahead even as a vicious relief unspools from your chest and spreads through your body at his yes, “hypothetically, if all goes well, would you continue to feed from me? Like, habitually?”

“Provided you don’t taste gross, yes.”

“What the— hey!” You cry, openly giggling at the shade. “You’re so meaaaan, Suguru. Don’t knock it until you try it. I’m sure I taste a billion times better than animal blood.” Squinting, you rub your chin. “… what does it even taste like, anyways?”

Suguru visibly shudders a little. “Depends on what kind,” he says, voice thick as if growing nauseous. Or being haunted by something particularly disturbing. “It’s usually really… chalky. Muddy and kinda sour, too. Imagine swallowing a whole cloth that was used to wipe up vomit.”

The flavor that immediately tries to replicate itself on your tongue makes your face screw up in disgust. “Okay, ew.” You tug at his arm, glancing towards the nearest divan. “Let’s sit down for this.”

Suguru follows along with an amused huff. Your linked arms lightly swing between your bodies. “I’m beginning to suspect that you have a little more stake in this than one of a concerned lover.”

“Drop that word, will you?” You snort.

Suguru flashes you a real, genuine grin at the noise. It’s toothy, revealing a fleeting glimpse of unnaturally sharp canines. “Well?”

Thoughts of Suguru’s fangs have chased you to work, to lunch breaks, to your doorstep, your dreams. Going from peacefully sleeping through the night for a majority of your life to waking up in a cold sweat with an imprint of Suguru against the inside of your eyelids, poised over your prone body with fangs kissing your throat, proved to be a very jarring wake-up call.

Would it hurt? You asked yourself over a glass of water that you poured himself in the middle of the night after one such dream with shaking hands. Would you enjoy it? The heat that settled decisively in your gut as you leaned against the counter and stared at the moon spoke for itself. You’ve always been intrigued, both in an intellectual, genuinely inquisitive way— and in a how would those fangs of his feel on my jugular? way.

Despite your traitorous mind, you’ve always put Suguru and his values first. Your feelings and interest in the matter have always been only an aside.

You have no shame in voicing any of this, but, well. You’re sure Suguru knows somehow, anyways. You clear your throat. “Consider me curious.”

“Ah, curiosity,” Suguru drags his voice out honey-slow, clearly amused. When you sigh dramatically, long-suffering, he raises his eyebrows and herds you closer to the divan until your legs graze its edge. Your heart thrills. “A person’s weapon, vice, and downfall. Would I be right to assume that there’s more cards on the table than just that?”

Those purple eyes sweep over you. You childishly avert your own and don't grace him with an answer.

“I want you on your back, angel,” Suguru orders in the next beat, his tone switching tracks so rapidly that it leaves you reeling. A delicious thrill licks up your spine. “And still.”

Embarrassingly, your body already began to run hot the second Suguru’s fangs flashed through your head again, so you’re quietly grateful that you need to shed your sweater to make room for Suguru. You wiggle it off, not missing the appreciation that curls Suguru’s lips, and sling it over the back of the furniture.

Satisfied, Suguru lays a gentle hand on your chest and towers over you. You follow his guidance and obediently sink back until you’re practically splayed out, a butterfly pinned to a corkboard, completely at his mercy.

Memories of Suguru tracking you down the street by scent alone to give you your wallet that you left behind at the bar that he works at swims through your head. That was your first meeting. Every whisper of cloth, every subtle brush of shoes against the ground had your heart pounding until you jumped with a shriek when he abruptly grabbed your wrist from behind, giving you an apologetic smile when you whipped around.

You know what it is to be hunted, intimately so.

But nothing compares to being caught.

Not when Suguru collars you so sweetly, measuring out your demise in spoonfuls of sugar; a hand with sharp fingernails ghosting along the newly exposed skin of your shoulders, his purple eyes trickling down your body like a stream, the gentle but grounding weight of him settling onto your lap like he belongs there, trapping you beneath him.

Oh, you think, feeling terribly like prey. Oh.

Suguru slips his arms beneath your own and his hands land on your lower back to feel your warmth that he latches onto. He cradles you close like a boa, all tightly wound power, curling around you and enveloping you in nothing but Suguru.

He’s fucking freezing against you. Unnaturally so— yet, you suppose, it’s natural for him considering his vampiric constitution. His body runs even colder with the beginnings of starvation. You’re sure that if you carved out a space between his ribs, squirreling yourself away into the alcove next to Suguru’s heart that his ribs protect, even his insides would run frigid enough to eternally preserve you both.

You both exhale when Suguru ducks down to peck your nose, raven locks spilling down his shoulders and around you like a veil of safety that promises his attention is on nothing but you. Then he tucks his face into your neck, lips brushing over your pulse point.

Your heartbeat flutters wildly beneath your skin like a caged animal and you know that Suguru can feel it thrumming eagerly at his mouth. He says nothing of it, but you hear his breath come quicker.

“Just… shove me off if I somehow can’t stop myself,” Suguru murmurs into you. You nod a little, mostly to placate him, and tilt your head back in invitation.

“I trust that it won’t come to that. You should have more faith in yourself,” you sigh back. You gently squeezes his waist, then run your touch down the leg caging in your own. “Now stop stalling with your needless worrying. Everything will be fine.”

“I’m not stalling.” Suguru sounds a smidge petulant at being read like an open book, but there’s an undercurrent of amusement to his tone. “Can I not take a minute to savor this moment?”

“There’ll be plenty of other moments like this for you to savor in the future,” you point out with a confident puff of your chest, pleased by the fact you can say so knowing that your words possibly hold water, but you go quiet and indulgently rub at Suguru’s thigh. He huffs out a laugh, and the first whisper of incisors nicking at you as Suguru’s lips part around a smile makes you shudder.

“I won’t remind you again that this will hurt. But this is your last chance to back out,” he warns.

“I have no plans of doing so.” Your voice is breathier than you intended it to be. “Have you had your fill? I know you’re enjoying yourself, but I’d hate to be kept waiting.”

“My baby is such a nuisance.” Suguru laughs. His shoulders shake with it, bright and airy. “Use some of that patience of yours and wait.”

And you do. Suguru’s fingers curl into your side. You almost wish you had a mirror nearby, if only to watch the way Suguru noses at you, breathing in slowly as he searches for a place to sink his teeth into. Languidly, he laps at the junction between your neck and shoulder, slicking the delicately thin skin with spit.

For a beat, there’s nothing from him. His breathing settles and goes near-silent, as if he’s been lulled into a trance, until you can only hear your own. The chimes at the kitchen window jingle. You feel and hear Suguru’s jeans chafe beneath your palms when you flex your hands. You sit still, patiently and impatiently.

Teeth eventually poke at your skin, like they’re asking you to make way. You suck in an anticipatory breath, Suguru whispers a low “relax, I’ve got you always,” and his fangs finally slide home.

His mouth fully seals itself against your neck as he breaks the skin with ease and lets blood rush forth. You register the odd sensation of being impaled by fangs— it’s kind of like being struck by a needle, only they have more pressure behind them— seconds before the sharpness of them kicks at your senses like a jackrabbit. You tighten with surprise and Suguru’s quick to soothe you with a gentle squeeze at your side; another relax before he hungrily swallows his first mouthful with a satisfied noise.

You aren’t sure if Suguru’s utilizing some secret vampiric trick that allows him to sedate his prey or if it’s simply the trust you have in him, but regardless, you slowly unwind beneath him. First your fingers, which had somehow twisted into Suguru’s pants so hard that your knuckles surely went white with the force of it, then your shoulders, neck, the rest of your body gradually unthawing— the same way the coolness of him begins to unthaw as he draws in your warmth.

Your body submits to his needs without hesitation. You know he could drain you dry if he wanted to (hell, part of you admires that he could) but, feeling completely safe, you just focus on the way he gratefully melts into you.

An oddly soothing feeling seizes you in wake of the fading stiffness. It flows molten through your veins, pools heavily where those blade-sharp teeth dig into you. It clouds your head and makes your eyelashes flutter. There’s a warmth to it that feels strangely good, overwhelmingly so.

All people are a little bit mad. It just so happens that you’ve never been an exception to that fact of life.

Once you gather yourself enough you try to focus on the vampire on top of you. Fine trembles wrack Suguru, noticeable enough that you can feel each one vibrating off of him. You take a steadying breath and stay stock still, wondering if he’s alright— until a broken, muffled noise slips from him.

Your hand darts for Suguru’s hair before you can use your brain. Wincing, you unceremoniously drag Suguru’s teeth from your skin with your heart lodged in your throat. Blood drips from the wound unconstrained, the smell stinging at the fine hairs of your nostril.

All you can think is that maybe, just maybe, you’ve made a grave error. Did you just ruin what you have with him? Was Suguru losing it? Was he disgusted? You have no fucking clue.

A glassy sheen marches across Suguru’s hauntingly beautiful plum-rich eyes the second they open and land on you. He looks beyond wrecked, spit and blood clinging to his bottom lip and eyes wild despite their far-away look. His deceptively soft mouth glistens, crimson; fangs stark white and like marble that’s been sharpened into the spear point shape of blades.

Your mouth parts as you stare up at him, chest heaving. You don't know what suddenly possesses you but your hands curl tighter into Suguru’s long soft hair, an incoherent mumble falls from you, and the rest of it gets swallowed up by his mouth as you drag your bodies impossibly more flush until it’s hard to remember where you end and where he begins. Only then do you kiss him.

The flats of your teeth click with how fast you descend upon each other and it stings and you do not care and you want, want, want—

Suguru’s sinful tongue slots into your mouth with a noise that crawls into the hollow of your ears and destroys you from the inside out. The taste of metallic blood— your blood— that he shares with you should disgust you to no end, but you hungrily lick along the silkiness of Suguru’s mouth to get at more of it. You part for a breath and Suguru snaps his teeth at your bottom lip in mockery of the deeper bite on your neck. Brain fizzling, you eagerly arch up to kiss him again.

Holy shit. Your thoughts buoy back to you, tied down by the tiny strings that keep your mind from floating up to join the singular cobweb blanketing a corner of the roof.

There was something incredibly, deeply intimate about letting your lover swallow down your blood, more so than you thought it would be. Suguru has you lining the softness of his throat, filling the hole in his stomach that has ached for two decades that felt longer for him than they did you. You satiate Suguru’s unquenched hunger with all of yourself.

You groan.

He drags his lips down your cheek, your jaw, chases the scent of your blood further down your neck like a bloodhound and damn near growls. “Little more.” Teeth sink back into your skin with a vengeance but never once does it feel too rough, too painful, and you squeeze your eyes shut, breathing out a sigh as you continue to let Suguru take what he so rightfully deserves. He swallows; savoring rather than devouring.

“Good,” you choke out. “That’s okay. Take your fill, baby.”

You can practically feel how his mind, usually so disciplined, teeters dangerously close to frenzy at your words—but the soft press of your fingers through his hair anchors him. Despite his desperation that swells even further, it remains checked. He flicks the flat of his tongue out to lap up each wet rush of pumping blood with an intense desire that makes your insides do cartwheels.

(For the first time in his life, Suguru understands why drunks lose themselves to their bottles, why vampires lose themselves to bloodlust. It’s euphoric. It’s agony. He wants more. He wants to bury himself so deep in the heat of your veins that he forgets what it means to be anything but ravenous.

The taste is nothing like the animal blood he convinced himself to survive on without ever truly satisfying himself. It sweetens his tongue like cherry wine. This is ambrosia, thick and metallic and alive. It crashes against every neglected corner of his being in gentle waves, filling up that monstrous hollow that threatens to be his ruin. With how good he abruptly feels, Suguru thinks he could almost mistake himself for a human again.

But there’s guilt there, too— his conscience clawing at him despite the pleasure surging through him. Just this once, though, he lets himself indulge— and dream of a future where this is your new normal. Quiet moments in bed where he sucks gently from your wrist or forearm between kisses that he presses there, gazing at you as if wondering how on earth such a flawed being like himself could be touched to his core by someone as special as you.

You trust him. This is you giving him something no one else ever has. Every appreciative swallow is a revelation and a promise, every pulse of your blood against his tongue a brand-new addiction. The sweetest of sins that he’d willingly die once more for.)

Suguru drinks you down like a mortal laying their lips to a goblet of nectar— quickly, messily, greedily, blood pooling too fast for his lips to catch. A tendril of it slowly spools down your neck, catching in the dip of your collarbone. You’re near dizzy with it, but you think Suguru dizzier with the way his lips lazily smush against the skin of your neck as if inebriated.

“I want you to eat well,” you murmur against the side of Suguru’s head, breath puffing over the shell of his ear. He jerks against you, just slightly, and you have to suck your teeth to keep from groaning. “I want you to be full.”

A honeyed melody drips from Suguru’s lips, returning to your skin. Feed, feed, feed, your very blood a siren-song. Suguru kneels over you, swaying, drunk on you, before sobering enough to sink down and lick his spoils back up with a greedy tongue.

He follows the steady stream down to your collarbone, lapping what strayed from the punctures, before returning to the wound with shuddering breaths. Suguru sinks his teeth back in to keep the blood pooling, and this time, you’re the one who jerks. Your hips kick up and you jostle you both.

You can’t hold back the noise you make at the pleasure-pain blossoming like a dragonfruit that’s been shredded into with a knife and left to bleed its juices freely and the way Suguru rolls down against you, almost unthinkingly. Your hands somehow find their way to Suguru’s hair and tangle into the dark strands. He hisses through his mouthful of skin and blood, and you find that you’ve never felt this awed and turned on in your entire life.

“Shit.” Shit. A shudder sings through you in a hot-flash. Words slip between your fingers faster than you can think them. All you know is Suguru. “Suguru.”

He keens in response. Unlatching himself, he’s quick to groan out “Jesus Christ,” all raspily before dipping back down and lapping over you again. You let loose another curse and drag your hands over every crevice of his body, futilely trying to hold onto him for dear life.

You lose yourself to the pull of blood between teeth, the shuddering grind you find yourselves falling into. Time rolls into a small disjointed ball. The fog settled over you starts to take on a different shape. Your neck painfully throbs like a drum, beating faster and faster until the cacophony drowns out all sound, forcing all of your senses to lock onto the overwhelming scent of copper filling your lungs. You claw at his back in prayer.

“Okay,” you manage to wheeze out when it finally becomes too much, voice cracking on the last syllable as your vision washes black. Blearily, you wonder if Suguru can even hear you over the roar of blood as it races through your veins— hell, if he even wants to hear you, but Suguru instantly unfastens himself from the wound with a wet, sticky pop.

The pressure that clung fierce to your skin lets up all at once, and you choke on your stumbling breaths. Your head tips forward dangerously. You think you black out to the sound of Suguru’s labored breaths and panicked mutterings, because when everything filters back in, Suguru’s inhales and exhales are a little more slower, relaxed.

You’re tilted slightly to the side as if you started to tip over and got caught. You drink in the weight of your partner still sitting astride your hips for a moment before gently bumping your forehead against Suguru’s collarbone to alert him to your returning consciousness.

“Hey,” Suguru murmurs, voice rumbling pleasantly near your ear.

“Give me a moment,” you rasp, near apologetic. Suguru merely cups the back of your head in response, promising his presence and patience.

With that, you let yourself soak in the sensations and smells of your shared house for a while longer as you recuperate, then you take stock of yourself. You feel incredibly lightheaded, but not a drop of regret darkens the calm waters of your thoughts. You slowly drag a hand through sweaty hair and find that there’s blood beneath your nails when you go to drop your hand back down.

You stare at the scarlet flakes that fall from them like petals and have to close your eyes at the sight. The phantom sensation of your fingers digging into Suguru’s back makes the tendons in your palm grow stiff.

“Did I hurt you?” You croak, a wave of guilt slamming into you. Your hand moves to do— you don’t know what, but when it ends up hanging uselessly between you both, Suguru gently takes it between his own.

“Not at all. A few drops of blood is nothing compared to the amount I took from you, doll.” Suguru sounds concerned.

You peel your eyelids apart at that, hoping to reassure him that you’re fine, and manage to catch the relief flooding Suguru’s features as you blink a few times.

He stares at you for a long moment, something soft flickering in his gaze when he assures himself that you’re well before he smooths a thumb over your tender puncture marks, wiping away the remaining blood. Calloused palms come up to cup your face, cradling your head and keeping you from listing sideways any further.

“You’re not a monster for that, y’know,” you mumble instinctively, feeling the urge to say it. There’s no way you’ll let him sit alone with his thoughts later and convince himself that the basic necessity of feeding is deserving of penance. Not when he’s finally just now had a taste of what breathing without a weight crushing through his chest is like. “It’s totally fine. I’m fine, see? Still alive and kicking and happy to talk your ear off in the morning.” Almost comically, that’s right when you yawn.

The chuckle that rumbles from deep within his chest makes you beam, feeling all warm and gooey in a way that has nothing to do with blood loss. “I very much look forward to that.”

Looping back a few seconds in your conversation, voice pitching impossibly softer, “I just… you wouldn’t respond for a moment,” Suguru informs you. The tightness of his jaw suggests that it affected him more than he wished it to. You feel a pang, hoping you didn’t spook him. “Nothing crazy, roughly forty seconds. I should’ve stopped sooner. If anything, I’m the one that needs to apologize.”

You’re sure you look a mess, what with the stupid dopey smile on your face as you drift through a fog of aching pain and desire. You attempt to school your face into something more firm. “Ugh, stop with that. You really don’t have anything to say sorry for. But you’re sure that you’re fine?” You toss back at him.

God. Between the two of you, you could easily secure a gold in the ‘fussing over each other’ Olympics.

Suguru rolls his eyes but fondly drops a kiss to your forehead, a soft assurance. You tilt into it with something akin to a happy purr. “Seriously, don’t worry about me,” he soothes, smiling slightly all the while. “It’s already healing.”

Letting you lean your cheek into the palm of one hand, Suguru takes one of your hands and guides it to the expanse of his back, helping you search for where your nails bit into him. He drags your fingers over miniscule raises on his back, and you’re pleased to find the skin already stitching itself back together.

“Faster than usual?” You rub your face against him like a cat, eyes threatening to fall shut again. Peering up at him, you admire the gentleness in his gaze that Suguru reserves only for you.

“Definitely. I knew to expect it, but it’s still surprising.” Then, “hold on, let me get you something.”

His warmth vanishes from your lap. You’re momentarily thrown, brain lagging, before focusing on Suguru slipping around the counter and into the kitchen. He returns with a glass filled to the brim with juice.

“You need the sugar,” he explains simply. He cards your hair further away from your face and he gracefully curls in at your side, pulling you sideways onto his lap.

It would be so easy for Suguru to allow his instincts to raze all rational thought, to let himself finish the job and go for your jugular like an unleashed hound and rip your throat out with scarlet-stained canines.

But he’s doting. Achingly so. Even now, even after feeding, his first instinct is to make sure you aren’t suffering for his sake.

He sweeps a soothing hand up and down the scoop of your shoulder and his other comes up to carefully coax your head back as he brings the glass to your lips. Drowsy eyes flicker up to Suguru, who meets yours with a relaxed smile, and you let Suguru trickle the juice onto your tongue.

You obediently drink your fill, taking another sip when Suguru’s pointer finger curls away from the glass and pokes your lips until you let them part again with a sigh. You half-focus on not choking, even as Suguru siphons it out carefully enough that it would be impossible, but all you want to do is drink in his handsome figure.

For a moment, you think yourself truly out of it and stupidly love-drunk until you realize that Suguru does look positively radiant. You blink slowly, once, twice, and squint through the haze.

Color blooms prettily in Suguru’s cheeks and the shadows beneath his eyes have entirely been chased away, his entire being humming with renewed vitality. He looks incredibly loose-limbed and relaxed; more so than he does when dozing off to the feeling of you scratching at his scalp and the smooth tenor of your voice as you read to him after a long day.

Edward Cullen sparkles, you internally giggle to yourself.

Suguru catches you staring and shakes his head fondly. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Glass clinks as Suguru leans over to table the cup before rising. His hand curls around your bicep and he helps haul you from the divan. When you immediately sway on your feet with a disgruntled moan, trying to blink back the twilight creeping in on your vision, Suguru steadies you with a quietly confident, “I’ve got you.”

An arm wraps around your midsection and you return the hold with your own draped lazily over Suguru’s shoulders. The slow shuffle to the hallway and into the bathroom feels like an eternity and a half.

Artificial light blares against your irises and you grumble under your breath. It dims into something less harsh and you peel your eyes back open, your reflection wavering in the mirror before you. Your attention glides down to your chewed lips, a tiny thumbprint of blood pressed along the curve of your jaw, the bruised junction between your neck and shoulder.

You flatten your pads against the dark spot and stare some more. Suguru shuffles behind you and his mouth comes to rest against the back of your shoulder, ghosting over your nape. His eyes, usually deep violet, glow faintly crimson. His lips are still stained a sinful red.

“Mine,” Suguru mumbles.

“You sound like a caveman,” you hum in reply, earning a snort, and you let Suguru kindly direct you around the bathroom, ushering you through fragments of your usual routine instead of the full thing. Something about leaving yourself to Suguru calms you.

“This has to have gone against some sort of protocol,” you mumble as Suguru finally lowers you into your bed, mouth tasting vaguely of the mouthwash he managed to make you swish around and clothes switched out for loose sleepwear.

Blankets tuck up and around your shoulders, and both an exhale through Suguru’s nose and multiple kisses ghost across your cheek. You shiver. “I’m sure there was something in one of the books I read about vampire and donor relationships— professionality and boundaries and whatnot.”

“When have you ever cared about rules,“ Suguru gets out, mostly to himself, then snorts. Somehow, the noise sounds attractive coming from him. “You are so ridiculous.” He presses another kiss against your face and entertains you with a smile in his voice. “I suppose I’m being pretty damn unprofessional then.”

“Oh, no, you’re very professional,” you argue. You instantly whine as the bed creaks when Suguru leaves you, but you’re quickly satiated by his swift return. You have no shame in your neediness.

The rest of your thoughts wash out as Suguru burrows into the blankets next to you and gathers you close to protectively curl around you. You settle in together, face to face and skin to skin. It’s familiar.

Your eyes flutter back open once it occurs to you. You don’t know how many minutes have passed you by.

“Did I taste good?” Comes barreling out of you.

Your partner hums in brief contemplation. A curtain of hair whispers across the punctures in his neck as Suguru props himself up on one elbow, peering down at you. Another kiss presses against your cheek and Suguru’s breath fans over you. “I’d certainly make taste to drink from you again.”

“I’m going to sleep now.”

Suguru shakes with silent laughter.

(Long after you finally doze off, lips adorably parted and legs tangled together like the roots of a tree intertwining with another’s, looking cuter than a kitten in his rolled up flannel pants and old college sweatshirt, Suguru allows his head to fall, cheek squished against the chest cavity that houses your humanity. Your heart thumps steadily beneath his ear. Reassuringly so.

A soft exhale escapes him, half fondness, half awe. “Thank you, baby.”)

author’s note: this old fic of mine fits suguru so well it makes me sickkkktkshrkdja I LOVE YOU VAMPIRE SUGURU I LOVE YOUUUUUU

if you listened to the playlist while reading this… i heart u forever. also I’m thinking of when my mutual of 4 years read the original version of this fic and said she’s never been so turned on and frazzled by smth that was sfw which was truly the highest of compliments. MISS MY BAE!

perma tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @shokogasm @dairyfaerie @pvmpkingod @skz8stay @floriophrastus @originalsaucy @loyalguma @wormplant @amane1271 @oporotheca @teachmehowtodokiaye @dogwhiskey @sunnydayqq

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cosmicaura7 · 2 months ago

Text

BREEDING KINK

Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation, dirty talk,

Synopsis : He has been thinking about it for a while now, having a baby with you. The thought consumes him and he can't keep it to himself any longer.

Author's Note : Enjoy this in the meantime since I'm on my period hehe😜

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

Clint Flood isn’t a man of flowery words. He doesn’t have to be.

He speaks with his hands, with the way he stands in front of you in the doorway like a wall, shielding and solid, eyes burning like headlights through storm fog. When you wear his shirt around the house? He growls under his breath. When you curl into his lap after a long day, kissing his neck while he runs his calloused hands down your back? He always ends up whispering it.

“Gonna put a baby in you.”

You never laugh. Because when he says it, he means it like a promise.

Tonight, it’s no different. The moment he walks in, sweat on his brow, bruises on his knuckles and streaks of dried blood on his arms and hands, he looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed. You’re already waiting in the bedroom, sprawled out in nothing but soft cotton underwear. You don’t say a word, you just spread your legs and tilt your chin, daring him.

His chest rises hard. His boots are off in seconds. He crawls over you like a man starved, kissing you rough, deep and worshipful. His hands slide over your hips, gripping them with reverence and hunger. “You know what this does to me, baby?” He grinds out, voice thick with need. “Lookin’ at you like this. Waitin’ to be filled.” You moan as he pushes inside you, slow and deep. His thrusts are powerful from the start, steady, possessive and built to last.

“You feel that?” He breathes into your neck, hips meeting yours again and again. “That’s how I know you’re made for me. Your body, hell, this womb, it’s all mine.” You gasp his name, clutching his back. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t let you drift too far.

He keeps you grounded with his weight, his words. “Gonna fill you up so good.” He murmurs, voice breaking. “So deep you won’t stop thinking about it. Walkin’ around with my baby in you, that’s all I want.” He starts to tremble as you tighten around him. You feel the change, the urgency, the desperation that hits when he’s close.

“You want it, sweetheart?” He pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanna be mine like that?”

You whisper yes over and over until he groans, thrusting deep and finally lets go. The warmth floods through you. Clint shudders hard, his arms wrapped tight around you, breath hitching in your ear. “Take it…” He rasps. “Take all of me.” He stays inside you even after it’s over, holding you as if letting go would break the spell. His lips press softly to your temple.

“Gonna keep you full.” He whispers. “Make you round with me.”

“You already have.” You cup his cheek, smiling into the hush of your shared heat.

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

There’s something in Dave’s eyes tonight. He’s been tense all day, something about the way he walked through the front door, jaw tight and shoulders rolling like he was shaking off bloodlust. The kind of energy that made your heart race for two reasons, danger and desire.

You didn’t ask questions.

You just waited in the bedroom, lights low, legs bare and wearing that lace he always fingers like he might tear it off. When he finally walks in, the air thickens. He says nothing at first.

Just stares.

Then slowly, like a storm rolling in, he approaches, boots heavy, gaze locked. His voice is low when he speaks. “You been thinkin’ about it too?”

“About what?” You blink, heartbeat jumping.

He leans down until his lips brush your ear. “About me filling you up. Finally making you mine.” Your body jolts at the heat in his voice, hungry, possessive and needy. That calm control he usually wears is cracking and what’s underneath it is feral. He undresses you in silence. There’s a kind of reverence to it, like he’s peeling away everything that doesn’t belong between the two of you. And when he pushes you back onto the bed and lines himself up, his voice is thick with restraint.

“I’m not pulling out.”

You already knew. He’s been hinting for weeks, hands low on your belly after sex, muttering “It’d be so easy, baby. So fucking easy to knock you up.” And now he’s shaking as he slides into you, one arm braced by your head, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise.

“This pussy was made for me.” He grits, moving in long deep strokes. “All soft and wet, begging to be filled.” You moan his name, lost in the heat, in how full he makes you feel. “That’s it.” He pants. “Take me. Every inch. Gonna breed you so good, sweetheart. Gonna fuck a baby into you so deep you’ll feel me every time you move.”

The words hit you like lightning. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper. He groans, raw and broken, and his rhythm falters. You know he’s close, you can feel it in the way his body trembles. “Gonna give you all of it.” He whispers. “Every last drop. So you’ll carry me. So no one ever questions who you belong to.” When he finally comes, he does it with a deep primal growl of your name. You feel the warmth flood inside you, hear the ragged way he breathes as he stays buried to the hilt as if his body won’t let him leave you. You kiss his cheek, chest heaving.

He strokes your stomach, hand spread wide and possessive. “We start tonight.” He says softly. “You're gonna take. I know you will.”

And somehow, you believe him.

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

It always starts with a look.

That Dieter look, smoldering and theatrical, as if he’s the lead in a tragic romance and you’re his co-star, the one woman who will destroy or save him. Tonight, he’s pacing the bedroom barefoot in a silk robe, ranting in half-curses and half-whispers, until he finally turns to you. “I’ve thought about this all day.” He says, eyes wild and sincere. “You. Pregnant. With my baby.”

Your pulse skips. He’s been like this lately, dramatic and obsessed. Every time he touches you, he groans about how “fertile” you look, how “his seed should live in you like holy fire.” It's unhinged. It’s so Dieter. And it turns you on more than you can admit.

“So why haven’t you done anything about it?” You sit on the edge of the bed, head tilted.

That’s all it takes.

He immediately pounces. Clothes are gone in a blur of motion, his hands fumbling and shaking as he drags your underwear down. “You don’t understand.” He groans, kissing your thighs and your stomach. “You belong to me. And if I don’t come inside you soon, I’ll die. I will literally collapse and perish.”

“Then do it.” You whisper. “Fill me.”

He shudders. And when he slides inside you, it's with reverence, like he’s praying. His hips move deep and slow at first but his words? Those come fast and desperate. “You’re so warm… your body wants this, wants to keep me in. God, baby, I need to breed you.” You cry out, his rhythm getting rougher and more frantic. He cups your jaw and stares down into your eyes like he wants to memorize your face at the moment he claims you. “I want you round.” He moans. “Glowing. So when people look at you, they know that’s Dieter Bravo’s fucking baby in there.”

His name sounds like a plea in your throat as he drives deeper, faster and loses rhythm in his obsession. His hand slides down to your belly, holding it possessively. “I want to watch you grow.” He breathes. “Want to paint paintings about how gorgeous you look carrying my baby. Want to make a documentary about it, hell, a trilogy.”

You’re breathless and slowly getting overstimulated, but you don’t want him to stop. And he doesn’t, not until his body tenses and he groans into your mouth, pressing deep, giving you everything. You feel him release, his whole body trembling as he stays locked inside. “Don’t move.” He begs. “Keep me in. Let me give you a baby.” When it’s over, he collapses dramatically on top of you, panting. “If that didn’t do it, I swear to God I’m buying a fertility clinic.” You laugh weakly. But when he gently strokes your belly and kisses it again and again, you know he’s dead serious.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

There’s something different about him tonight. He’s already stripped out of the beskar by the time you return from bathing, his gloves folded and helmet placed carefully beside the bed. The air is still thick with anticipation and heavy with purpose.

You meet his gaze. He’s seated on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, breathing slow and deep. “You said you wanted a family.” He says simply. “I’m ready.”

Your heart stutters. You knew he thought about it, knew how carefully Din Djarin considers every step, every word. He never promises lightly. But now he’s looking at you like you’re his path forward, his home. The one vessel he trusts to carry his blood, his future and his legacy. You come to him silently, straddling his lap. His hands grip your hips, reverent and rough, as if grounding himself.

“Are you sure?” You whisper, nose brushing his.

He nods once. “I want to see you full with me. Want to know you're carrying what we made.” His voice shakes, controlled and low, like a storm held back by sheer force of will. And then he lifts you, gently laying you back on the bed like something sacred, worships every inch of you with his mouth and hands before finally pushing inside. The stretch, the heat and the sheer weight of him has your legs trembling. But it’s his words that undo you.

“So perfect like this. Taking me so well.”

“You were made for this, made to carry our ads.”

“No one else gets this. No one touches this. Only me.”

His pace is deep, slow and claiming. Not rushed but intentional. Every thrust feels like a vow. Your nails drag down his back as he presses a hand to your stomach, breathing harder and rougher. “Right here…” He groans. “Gonna fill you up. Watch your body take it, keep it.”

You gasp his name as he buries himself fully, over and over, grinding in so deep you swear you can feel it in your bones. “Say it…” He pants. “Say you want me to breed you.”

“I want it!” You cry. “Want you to fill me, Din. Want to carry your child.” His rhythm falters, body shuddering. And then with a deep guttural moan, he comes. You feel the heat of it spill inside as he holds himself there unmoving, forehead pressed to yours, panting hard.

“Don’t move.” He whispers. “I need it to take. Need to know I gave you everything.” You nod, blinking away tears. Because this is how Din Djarin loves, with purpose, with power and with a future in mind. And wrapped in his arms, filled to the brim, you believe him when he says.

“This is the way.”

Ezra (The Prospect)

He watches you like he’s starved, not for food, not for air but for you. Something deeper and something primal. It’s always been in his eyes when he looks at you like he’s survived hell and you’re the only thing worth living for now. You lie back in the narrow bed of your shared dwelling on this godforsaken moon, atmosphere humid, faint hum of the old purifier rattling in the corner. Ezra stands at the foot, shirt half-open, scarred hands on his belt.

There’s a tension in the air that goes beyond lust. It’s been building for weeks, ever since you told him you wanted to stop using the meds and that you wanted to try to have children. He climbs over you like a man crossing a ravine, careful, reverent and trembling with need. “You sure?” He rasps, voice raw with hope and warning.

You reach up, cupping his jaw. “Put a baby in me, Ezra.” Something in him breaks at that. He kisses you hard, desperate and consuming, and then he's inside you in a single thick thrust. You gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a slow, grinding rhythm, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust.

Ezra’s breath shakes as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Gonna take.” He whispers. “You’re gonna take, sweetheart. Know you are.” You moan, wrapping your legs around him, forcing him deeper. He groans, low and pained, like the pleasure’s almost too much. His hand slides between your bodies to splay over your belly. “Wanna see you round with me.” He says, eyes wild now. “Heavy, glowing, want you walking slow 'cause you’re so full.”

“Ezra…” Your voice cracks, wrecked and dizzy.

“I've been in the dirt too long.” He murmurs. “Time I plant something that grows, something real.” His rhythm stutters. He grips your hips harder and panting like a dog in heat. “This body’s mine. Gonna leave you full of me. Breed you properly. Let this place know who you belong to.” You clench around him, and he shudders, head falling to your shoulder with a ragged cry. And then he spills into you, thick and hot and endless. He stays buried, pulsing, his arms caging you in like he’s trying to keep every drop inside. His voice is soft now, broken in your ear.

“We make a new life.” He whispers. “Right here, in this soil.” You kiss his temple. Because you know he means it. And in the silence of this lonely moon, Ezra holds you like he’s finally found his home, growing deep inside you.

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been held until he’s inside you again.

Francisco is the kind of man who carries everything on his shoulders, the mission, the danger and the never ending guilt. But when he comes home, when he’s with you, he softens only in one place, the way he touches your body like it’s holy, like it’s the only safe ground he’s ever known.

And tonight, he’s different. His hands tremble as they slide down your hips. His mouth lingers on your stomach longer than usual. And when he pulls back to look at you, eyes dark and steady, you know what’s coming before he says it. “Let me do this.” He murmurs. “Let me put a baby in you.”

Your breath catches. He’s never said it aloud before but you’ve seen it in the way he always presses a hand to your lower belly after you make love, the way his eyes linger on the curve of your body, possessive and almost… aching.

“I want something that’s mine.” He says, forehead pressed to yours. “Ours. Something real. Permanent.” You nod, heart racing and that’s all the permission he needs. He spreads you open slowly, reverently. His hands are strong, sure but careful like he’s preparing a place to bury something deep, something that will grow. And when he finally pushes inside, it’s not rushed or rough.

It’s purposeful. Each thrust is deep and anchoring. He keeps eye contact the whole time, jaw clenched, brow furrowed in focus. Like he’s thinking about every movement, every drop he plans to leave inside. “You’re gonna take all of it.” He grits out. “Gonna keep it all in until it takes.” You moan, body clenching and he groans low in response, that sound he only makes when he’s close to losing control.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.” He mutters. “You open up so perfectly. So ready to be filled.” He wraps an arm beneath your lower back, angling your hips to take him deeper until he’s hitting that spot that has you gasping his name like a prayer. And when your body starts to tremble around him, he snaps. “Gonna breed you.” He growls. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you so deep it takes. You’re gonna be carrying me, every time someone looks at you, they’ll know you’re mine.”

You cry out, and with a strained, guttural moan, he spills into you, hard and hot pulses that have him twitching and shaking above you. He stays inside, pressed close, panting against your neck. Neither of you move. Then you feel his hand slide between your bodies, cupping your belly again, like he’s willing the future into existence.

“We’re gonna build something.” He whispers. “Right here. Starting tonight.” And you believe him because Francisco never says things he doesn’t mean.

Not in the field.

Not in your bed.

And definitely not with your body under his, soaked in sweat and filled with his seed.

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

There’s nothing casual about the way he touches you. Not when the rest of his life is a performance, smooth suits, sharper smiles and perfectly-timed handshakes. But not here, not when you're beneath him, silk sheets tangled around your thighs, wearing only the diamond necklace he bought you last anniversary.

Here, Harry Castillo is all hunger.

"You know what I want." He murmurs against your skin, lips dragging from your collarbone to your breast. "You’ve known." His voice is thick like honey and bourbon but there’s an edge to it now. A need he no longer bothers hiding, especially not tonight.

You thread your fingers through his dark curls and whisper. “Then take it.” And he does. He slides down between your thighs, hands gripping like he owns every inch. There’s always a finesse to Harry but when he’s inside you, all control blurs into desperation.

“Been thinking about it for weeks.” He groans, pushing in slow and deep, making you feel full. “You, heavy with me and absolutely glowing. Want to watch you swell, watch the world know I filled you.” Your breath stutters. He starts moving with long grounding strokes that keep you teetering right on the edge. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other bracing your hip, making you take him all with each roll of his hips.

“You’re gonna take every drop, baby.” He growls. “And you’re gonna keep it. No excuses. No pills. No getting out of it.”

You moan beneath him, back arching. “Want it. Want to be full of you.” That breaks whatever control he had left.

He kisses you roughly, moaning into your mouth as he fucks you harder, faster and deeper, like he’s trying to brand his name inside you. “Gonna watch you waddle through the penthouse.” He pants. “In your little heels, showing off what I did to you.”

You shudder, crying out as you tighten around him and he loses it. Harry spills inside you with a sharp groan, staying deep, hips grinding as he rides the high. He twitches, still inside, and lets out a raw exhale that sounds almost reverent. “Mine…” He breathes, kissing your shoulder. “You’re mine. And now everyone’s gonna see it.” He doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he lowers your legs gently and lays on top of you, keeping himself buried as long as possible. His hand slides across your stomach, as if imagining the future already taking root. "You want luxury?" He murmurs. "Let me give you the rarest one, a legacy." And in the soft glow of gold lamps and city lights, you know he doesn’t mean money.

He means you.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click and you barely have time to turn around before your back’s pressed to it, his broad frame towering over yours. “Been thinkin’ about this all day, sugar.” Jack drawls low in your ear, his voice thick as molasses. “You, all spread out… waitin’ for me to fill you up.”

You gasp as he grinds his hips into yours, the buckle of his belt pressing into your stomach. “You serious?” You whisper, heart racing.

Jack leans back just enough to meet your eyes, tilting his cowboy hat up with two fingers. His gaze burns through you, hazel eyes dark with intent. “I ain’t jokin’.” He says, slow and deliberate. “Wanna put a baby in you real bad. Want you swollen with me. Want the whole damn world to see what we did.”

You shiver because this isn’t one of his usual flirt-and-smirk games. There’s something real behind it, something hungry. You nod in desperation. He smiles, slow, wide and wolfish. Next thing you know, he’s got you on the bed, boots kicked off, shirt unbuttoned, suspenders hanging at his sides. He kisses you like he owns you, tongue hot and eager, hands rough on your waist.

“Gonna fuck you proper.” He mutters as he slides inside, thick and pulsing. “Gonna knock you up the way God intended.” Your head falls back as he sets a steady rhythm, hips grinding deep, every thrust designed to hit exactly where it counts. You can feel it, his need and the way he holds back from going feral.

“Y’feel that?” He pants, resting a hand low on your belly. “That’s where I’m gonna leave it. Right there and deep.” You moan his name, gripping his arms as he thrusts harder. “Gonna make you a mama.” He growls. “Gonna keep you in pretty dresses and rub your feet while you're carryin’ my kid. No more missions. No more pills. Just you, barefoot in my kitchen with a baby in that belly.” The way he says it like it’s the most sacred erotic thing in the world sends you over the edge.

And that’s all it takes.

Jack lets out a broken groan, burying himself as deep as he can go. He twitches and jerks before spilling into you with raw unfiltered need. He doesn’t stop. He grinds in slow circles, coaxing every drop deeper while whispering filth in your ear. “Gonna make sure it takes, sugar. Know it will. You’re made for this, made for me.” He stays there, heavy on top of you, chest rising and falling against yours. His palm lingers over your belly like he’s already imagining the bump, the glow, the baby booties on your shared ranch porch.

And then he smirks.

“Reckon we better start thinkin’ of names.”

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

He worships you like a collector worships his rarest piece.

Javi Gutierrez may have once obsessed over movie memorabilia but ever since he put a ring on your finger, all his attention shifted fully and forever to you. His hands know every line of your body like a poem, like the script of a film he’s memorized frame by frame. But lately, there’s a different kind of need in his eyes. Something deeper and more possessive.

“You don’t know…” He whispers one night, lips pressed to your stomach. “How badly I want to see you full, round and carrying our child.” You freeze, heart stuttering. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, eyes soft and voice low. “Would you let me? Make something real with you?”

You nod. You don’t even think, you just feel. The answer’s always been yes. That’s all he needs. He climbs over you with careful reverence, like you’re breakable porcelain and holy at once. When he enters you, he moans like he’s been starving, slow and deep, filling you until he’s flush against your thighs.

“You take me so well.” He murmurs. “It’s like you were made to.” You gasp as he begins to move, rocking into you with controlled desperation. His hands tremble slightly as they cradle your hips, like he’s holding onto something sacred. “I’ve imagined it.” He breathes. “You, glowing. The way you’ll look in the morning sun. My child inside you. Ours.”

You whimper, clutching his back. And he groans in response, hips thrusting harder now, deeper. “That’s it, cariño.” He whispers, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me fill you. Let me plant it inside. I’ll worship the life I put there.” Your whole body tenses and his rhythm falters, because he can feel you getting close. “You want this too.” He says, more statement than question. “Want me to breed you. Leave you dripping, aching and all mine.”

You shatter around him with a cry and that’s all it takes. Javi buries himself to the hilt with a low ragged moan, his whole body shuddering as he spills into you. He whispers your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, hands never leaving your skin. He stays inside you, even after the heat fades. One hand drifts to your belly, gentle and awed.

“It’ll be my masterpiece.” He says. “But not as perfect as the real thing.” He smiles, cupping your face.

Javier Peña (Narcos)

He doesn’t say it out loud the first few times. But you feel it in the way he lingers inside you after he’s come, slow, grinding, deep and refusing to pull out. You feel it in the way he rests his hand on your belly afterward, silent and still, like he's imagining something. And then one night, after a particularly rough case, after too much whiskey and not enough sleep, he breaks. He comes home at midnight. Tired, bruised and reeking of smoke and Bogotá rain. You’re already in bed but when he crawls in behind you, kisses the back of your neck and slides his hand between your thighs, you know he needs more than comfort.

“Wanna see you pregnant.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “Wanna see you round and full with my baby.”

“Javi…” Your breath catches because it’s not just dirty talk, there’s a hidden ache within it.

He flips you gently, settling between your thighs. His fingers push in deep, testing, spreading and preparing you with practiced care. “Let me do this.” He says. “Let me leave somethin’ behind. Just one good thing.” Then he’s inside you, deep and hard, with a pace that screams need. His forehead presses to yours, his hand cradling your hip, keeping you still as he rolls into you over and over, desperate to stay buried.

“I fuckin’ need this.” He groans. “Need to know you’ll carry a piece of me. After all this shit...”

You cup his face, arching into him. “I want it too.” You whisper. “I want all of you.” That’s when he loses it. He grabs your thighs and fucks you deeper and rougher, grinding into your sweet spot until you’re shaking, until you’re clinging to him and crying out. He watches you fall apart beneath him, then follows with a strangled moan, spilling inside you so hard he shudders.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like you’re his last tether to this world. Finally, he murmurs. “If I died tomorrow... I’d want to know you were carrying somethin’ that mattered.”

You stroke his back, heart aching. “You’re not going anywhere.” You whisper. But part of you knows, if anything ever did happen to him, you’d still carry him forever. Maybe even literally.

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

The world outside is broken.

But inside these four walls, inside this tiny cabin with its creaking floors and warmth that smells like pine, Joel loves you like the world never ended. It starts soft, always does with him. A brush of his calloused thumb along your cheekbone, a kiss to your temple, a murmur of “Hey, darlin’.” spoken low and tired after a long day on patrol. But tonight, something’s different in the way he touches you. He’s reverent and slow, as if he’s bracing for something bigger than just pleasure.

When he finally presses his body over yours in bed, his voice cracks near your ear. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout it.” He murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “You… carryin’ my baby.”

Your breath catches. “Joel…”

He hushes you with a kiss, slow and grounding. “I know the world’s gone to shit.” He says. “But if there’s one thing worth keepin’ alive… it’s us. You. Me. What we could make.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders and nod, heart pounding.

And then he loses himself in you. The thrust of his hips is deliberate and deep. His weight pins you down, like he needs you still while he gives you every part of him. His hands cradle your thighs, keeping you open for him, spreading you wide so he can press as deep as your body allows. “Gonna fill you up.” He growls softly. “Real deep and make sure it takes.”

You moan and he groans in answer, kissing down your jaw, your throat. “Wanna see you round, baby. Full of me. Belly tight with somethin’ we made.” Each thrust is possessive, each word gritted out between clenched teeth. His rough fingers drift to your lower belly, pressing gently like he’s already imagining it, already claiming it. Your climax hits fast, his voice, his body, his need, it’s too much. You cry out, body trembling.

Joel follows with a low growl, burying himself to the hilt, shuddering hard as he spills inside you. He doesn’t pull out. Not for a long, long time. “Just stay like this.” He breathes. “Wanna keep it in. Let it settle. Let it stick.” Later, when you lie tangled together beneath a wool blanket, he traces slow circles on your belly with his calloused palm.

“You’d be a good mama.” He whispers. “Strong and soft. Everything this world needs.”

You blink at him, heart breaking open all over again. “And you’d be a good dad like always.” He swallows hard, nodding once. And then he holds you tighter, like you’re the only thing left that matters.

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

He returns from the battlefield still wrapped in blood and glory. The roar of Rome follows him but when he steps into your chambers, he softens. For no one else would Marcus Acacius remove his armor with such aching slowness, for no one else would he kneel unless it was for his dear wife.

“Come here.” He murmurs, voice low and gruff from shouting commands all day. “Let me look at you, wife.” You cross the marble floor barefoot, silk brushing your thighs. He reaches for you like a starving man, pulling you into his lap on the edge of the bed. His hands are rough and calloused from sword and shield but they tremble slightly where they cup your hips. “I dream of it.” He says into your neck. “You, swollen with my child. My seed in your womb. My heir in your body.”

You gasp softly, fingers curling into his thick curls as he lifts your shift and parts your thighs. He lays you down like you’re sacred. “Do you want it?” He asks, gaze burning. “To carry my name, my line and my legacy in you?”

Your answer is breathless. “Yes.” That’s all he needs. Marcus covers your body with his own, worshipping you with lips and tongue and hands. He spreads you wide, not just to take you, but to mark you, to claim you.

His thrusts are deep and purposeful, each one a silent vow. “You’ll look divine with my child inside you.” He groans, hand splayed possessively over your belly. “I’ll give you twins. Sons or a daughter, fierce as you.” You moan under him, body arching into every stroke. “I’ll fill you again and again.” He growls. “Until it takes, until the gods themselves look down in envy at what we’ve made.”

You fall apart with a cry and he follows, burying himself to the hilt as he spills into you with a guttural groan, strong hands gripping your thighs, holding you still, locked against him. Even after, he doesn’t pull away. He stays sheathed deep, his weight heavy, warm and protective.

“You will be my legacy.” He whispers into your hair. “And I will protect you and what grows inside you with my life.”

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

He’s never rough with you. Even when his desire runs hot and fast, when his breath shudders and his hands tremble from holding back, Marcus touches you like he’s afraid you’ll break. Even though he knows you won’t. Even though you’ve shown him time and again that you can take everything he gives and still reach for more.

Tonight, it’s quiet.

Just the two of you. Dim light, soft sheets and the sound of his voice low in your ear. “You know what I want?” His fingers trail slowly along your bare stomach, reverent and slow, as if the idea alone deserves to be worshipped. “I want to see you carrying our baby. Our future.”

“I want that too.” You swallow, already aching for him.

Something changes in his expression. The way he kisses you becomes more intense, deeper and more needy. His body covers yours, not to dominate but to cocoon, to shield you, even in intimacy. “I think about it all the time.” He admits. “How you’d look glowing and heavy with my kid. Something of ours.” A breathless chuckle. “A little brother or sister for Missy.” You moan softly as he slides into you, his movements slow, controlled and deep. He holds your hips still, angling just right, like he’s memorized every inch of your body, like he knows how to make you take him in completely.

“Gonna fill you up.” He whispers. “Make sure it sticks.” The words aren’t crude, they’re sacred and said with aching devotion. Every roll of his hips is steady, measured and intentional. Not just to give you pleasure but to plant something in you. A hopeful future with him and his daughter, and soon enough another baby or two.

“I want to leave part of myself with you.” He breathes, voice thick with emotion. “I want you to carry it.” Your breath hitches, hands digging into his back. He feels your body tighten around him and it’s too much, he gasps your name and comes deep, staying pressed to the hilt as he empties into you. And then he stays there, doesn’t pull away. Just holds you close, his hand resting over your lower belly.

“I’ll take care of you.” He murmurs. “You, Missy and our baby. Always.”

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

He’s always been the kind of man who thinks before he speaks, thoughtful, measured and kind. Marcus never rushes anything, not when he’s planning, not when he’s kissing you with that slow patient passion that leaves your knees weak. But tonight, there’s a different kind of urgency in him.

The kind he’s been quietly hiding until now. “I’ve been thinking.” He says, hands resting low on your hips as he looks at you beneath the glow of the bedside lamp. “About us. About the future.” You know that look, the way his eyes flicker down to your belly, his fingers flexing slightly. He swallows, then he finally says it. “I want to put a baby in you.”

Your breath catches. He sees the way your lips part, the way your thighs shift. He leans in close, voice dipping low. “Let me make you mine in the most permanent way.” He whispers. “Let me give you everything.” His mouth finds yours, soft but desperate, as he lays you back on the sheets. He takes his time undressing you, kissing the skin he reveals inch by inch. You feel treasured and worshipped.

And then he’s inside you, not fast, not hard but deep and purposeful. His hands cradle your hips, your waist, then splay across your belly like he’s imagining it, what it would look like rounded, full with his child. “You’d look so beautiful pregnant.” He groans. “You’re already perfect but… like that? Carrying my baby?” You moan his name and he leans in to kiss you again, slow and open-mouthed. “Want to fill you up.” He breathes. “Want it to take. Want to see you glowing.”

Every thrust now is deliberate and careful, like he’s afraid to spill a single drop outside of you. You feel it in the way he presses deeper, groaning into your ear as your body tightens around him. You fall first, gasping his name as you shudder beneath him. He follows seconds later, pulsing inside you with a broken sound, holding still as deep as he can while his seed spills.

Marcus doesn’t move and doesn’t pull out. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck, whispering promises that sound like vows. “I love you. I want this life with you. All of it.” And you know he means it.

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

“You know, sweetheart…” Max says, loosening his tie with a flourish as he shuts the bedroom door. “For a guy with eternal youth, you’d think I’d be patient.” He’s not, especially not tonight, when you’re sprawled on the bed in nothing but his oversized dress shirt and that wicked little smile he can never resist. It’s enough to bring out the predator behind his sharp grin. His hunger isn’t just for blood, it’s for you, for your body and for what he wants from your body.

And tonight? He’s decided.

“I want to knock you up.” You blink at him, heat prickling in your cheeks but you don’t look away. And that alone makes him growl. “I mean it.” He says, climbing over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head. “I want you so full of me, you feel it for days, weeks and maybe even months.”

His fangs flash as he smirks, but the look in his eyes is real, almost reverent. “I want to see this gorgeous body round and soft and slow. With my kid inside you. Half vampire, half you.” He leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Beautiful and dangerous.”

You gasp as he slides into you, thick, hard and hot. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t even ask. Because you want it, he knows you do. His thrusts are deep, deliberate and claiming. Max kisses you with biting intensity, sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip as he groans into your mouth. “Gonna fuck it into you, sweetheart.” He pants. “Breed you like I own you. Because I do, every inch of you.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and he loses it. One hand grips your hip, the other sneaks between your bodies to rub circles against you, coaxing you closer, begging your body to take everything he gives. He wants it to stick, wants it to grow. When you cum around him, he nearly unravels, shuddering above you, swearing under his breath as he spills deep, pressing his hips flush to make sure nothing escapes. He stays inside you, panting.

Then, with a small smile, he kisses your forehead and whispers.

“Next time? I’ll keep going until your legs give out.”

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

Max has always been a man driven by dreams. Some of them may be greedy. Some of them are mostly dangerous. But you are the only one he’s ever held like a prayer. Now, after the chaos, the regrets, the redemption… you’re all he wants to build his life around. And tonight, he’s done pretending.

You see it in his eyes when he watches you undress, slow and deliberate, his gaze reverent like you’re made of something sacred. His fingers trace your hip bone, gentle but trembling slightly. “I want to give you everything I have.” He whispers. “Everything I am.”

You lean in, lips brushing his, voice low. “You already have.” But that’s not enough for Max.

“No, cariño…” He murmurs, hands sliding down to your waist. “I want it to stay. Inside you. I want to put a child in you. My child. Our child.” Your breath hitches. And then he’s kissing you, hard, deep and desperate, like he’s sealing a promise with every touch. When he lays you back on the bed, he worships every inch of you. He doesn't just want your body, he wants your future, to help build your legacy. Something that will live on long after the world stops spinning.

“Gonna fill you up.” He growls softly, pushing into you, slow and thick and deep. “Gonna make sure it takes.” His rhythm is steady at first but his control is fraying. His hand grips the curve of your belly possessively, like he’s already imagining the swell.

“You’ll look so beautiful.” He pants with such need and hunger. “Glowing, full and carrying the future I thought I ruined.” You wrap your legs around him, grounding him in your heat, your need. You tug him deeper, until your hips meet and his composure shatters. He groans your name, his thrusts growing rougher and more frantic, as he fucks you with purpose. Not just to feel good. Not just to chase pleasure. But to breed.

“I need you pregnant.” He rasps. “Need to see you grow with what we made. Need it more than I’ve ever needed anything.” And when you finally cum hard, crying out his name, he follows with a broken reverent sound, spilling deep inside you. Holding himself there, grinding slow and low until he’s sure it’s all buried where it belongs.

When it’s over, Max doesn’t move. He just stays inside you, arms around you, voice rough with awe. “I want our child to have your heart.” He whispers. “They’d be the most precious treasure I’ll ever have next to you.”

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

The moonlight spills through the window, casting long shadows across the room where only you and Lucien exist. The old manor is silent now, save for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the sound of Lucien’s breathing, slightly uneven as his eyes drink you in. You’re splayed out on the plush velvet sheets, your silk nightgown hiked high on your thighs, the delicate straps slipping down your shoulders. He’s kneeling between your legs, still partially dressed, shirt undone and hanging off his shoulders, chest rising and falling with quiet restraint. His dark curls are tousled from your fingers, his lips flushed, pupils dilated as he looks at you like you’re something holy.

“Lucien…” You whisper, breathless already. “What’s going through that mind of yours?”

His voice is a gravelly murmur, rich and low. “You already know.” You do. You’ve seen it in his eyes every time he finishes inside you, how he holds your hips down, how he groans your name like a man lost in a prayer, how his hands linger on your lower belly like he’s claiming it.

But tonight, it’s different. He’s been more intense and more deliberate. You gasp softly when he leans forward, pressing slow kisses along your inner thighs then up your stomach, pausing to rest his lips just beneath your navel. “I want to see you full with my child.” He says, voice trembling with hunger and devotion. “Want to look at you and know I’ve put something inside you that can never be undone.”

Your fingers thread through his hair as his mouth returns to your skin, worshipping every inch. “Lucien…” He groans at how you say his name, like you’re giving him permission to lose control.

“You were made to carry me.” He whispers, kissing higher, his hand splayed possessively over your abdomen. “My wife. My everything. You don’t know what it does to me, thinking about you swollen and glowing, knowing it was me who did it to you.” You arch beneath him, your body already aching for him. He hooks your thighs over his arms as he lines himself up, pausing, always asking with his eyes before he takes.

“Tell me you want it too.” He says, voice ragged. “Tell me you want to be mine like this.”

“I’m already yours.” You breathe. “Give me everything, Lucien.” He sinks into you slowly and fully with a groan that sounds half pained and half desperate. His eyes squeeze shut like he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him. But it’s not just about pleasure, it’s always more. It’s about belonging, bonding and possession.

He moves with deliberate control, slow and deep, his hands cradling your hips as he thrusts into you like he’s trying to etch himself into your very bones. Every stroke is filled with purpose, with need and with love. “Gonna fill you.” He pants, forehead pressed to yours. “So deep you’ll feel me for days. Gonna make you mine in every way.” Your nails dig into his back as your pleasure rises. You’ve never felt more wanted, more cherished and completely his.

And when he finally spills inside you, he doesn’t just groan, he whimpers, breath hitching, trembling as if the act of giving you his seed is a sacred offering. He doesn’t pull away, instead, he stays pressed to you, deep inside, kissing your damp temple and whispering broken words into your hair. “You’ll take me, won’t you?” He murmurs, thumb brushing your belly again. “Let me give you a piece of me. A future.”

You nod against his neck, already lost in the idea of having his child. “I want it too…” You whisper. “I want all of you.” And Lucien, for all his darkness, his scars and haunted past, glows like a man redeemed by love, by need and by the family you’re about to make.

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

You wake to silk sheets and the weight of his arm draped lazily across your waist, the Dornish heat wrapped around your bodies like a second skin. But even in sleep, Oberyn clings to you, palm splayed over your belly, thumb absentmindedly stroking just below your navel.

As if it’s already begun.

He murmurs something in Dornish into your skin, lips brushing your shoulder. His voice is low, smooth and drowsy with lust and longing. “You feel so soft this morning.” He purrs. “Like you’re ready to be filled again.” You turn to meet his molten gaze and notice he’s already watching you.

He always is.

“I already have eight wonderful daughters and as much I love each and every one of them…” He says, trailing kisses down your collarbone. “I want more with you. I want them born out of love and passion, made purposefully.” The words send heat curling through your belly. He rolls atop you, pressing your thighs apart with one hand, the other cradling your jaw as if he fears you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you there.

“I want to see you swollen with my child.” He whispers against your lips, voice thick. “I want the entire court to see who you belong to. To see you glowing, ripe and sacred.” His thrust is slow, but deep and claiming, like every movement is meant to ensure that you take.

“You’re already perfect.” He groans, grinding his hips in tight circles. “But gods, the thought of you heavy with my seed… carrying the next Sun of Dorne.” His control snaps. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hands gripping your hips as he drives into you again and again, chanting your name like prayer between curses in Dornish.

“You’ll take all of me.” He growls, voice shaking. “Every drop, I’ll spill into you until there’s no room left. Until you’re made to carry me.” Your moans blend with his, the sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room like music.

When you come, he holds you down, lets you flutter around him and then thrusts deep, hips locked tight to yours as he pours into you, moaning against your mouth. He stays there, panting and body trembling, his release warm and endless. Then he pulls back just far enough to press his forehead to yours, his hand gently spreading over your belly again. “I hope it took.” He whispers.

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

The wind howls outside your tent, thick with desert dust and the quiet hush of a distant, dying battlefield. But inside, there’s only firelight and the weight of him. Pero towers over you, chest heaving, hair clinging to his damp forehead. The moment your armor came off, the moment you let your soft hands ghost over his bruised cheek, he snapped. “You ride into war beside me.” He growls, fingers sinking into your hips. “Fight like a soldier but you’re still mine and I want the world to see it.”

You tilt your head, breath hitching, watching him through hooded eyes. “Then claim me.” That’s all it takes. He surges forward and kisses you like he’s starved, like the only way to make the ache stop is to ruin you with need. Clothes scatter as your back hits the furs and then he’s there, thick and hot between your thighs, dragging the head of his cock against your slick folds, slow and deliberate.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days.” He murmurs, low and rough. “Burying myself so deep inside you you won’t be able to walk without remembering I own you.”

“Do it…” You whisper. “Put a baby in me, Pero.” He shudders, a full-body tremor, and then drives into you, a savage moan ripping from his throat.

“I’m going to breed you.” He snarls, fucking you hard and deep. “Gonna keep you stuffed full of my seed until you take. Until I can see it and feel it growing inside you.” You cry out, each thrust rocking you into the bed, your nails clawing into his shoulders. He lifts your legs, presses your knees back to your chest, getting deeper, rutting into you like it’s the only thing he was ever meant to do.

“You think you’re done after this?” He growls, eyes wild. “No, hermosa. I’ll fill you again and again. I’ll breed you until you beg me to stop.” You come undone around him, trembling, calling his name like a plea and he follows with a broken animalistic groan, spilling himself inside you in wave after wave.

When he collapses over you, still inside and still throbbing, he doesn’t move. He just cradles your face, his voice hoarse. “You’re mine. And soon, you’ll carry proof of it.”

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

You’re seated on his lap in the couch inside his lab, surrounded by the hum of machines and half-drawn schematics but Reed isn’t thinking about equations, not at the moment. His hands splay across your bare stomach, thumbs brushing side to side. He’s been quiet for minutes, just content with feeling you.

“What are you thinking about, genius?” You kiss the corner of his mouth.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, soft and dark with intent. “You…” That’s not surprising. He shifts beneath you, pressing up against your core. “Specifically…” He says, voice husky and low. “About how perfectly your body is calibrated to carry mine.” Your breath catches as he leans in closer, brushing his lips over your jaw.

“I’ve run the numbers.” He murmurs. “Mapped out the ideal conditions for conception. Your cycle, my genetic markers, even optimal positioning. But there’s something even better than science.” He lifts you gently, guiding you down onto his length, slowly and reverently.

“It’s this.” He groans, bottoming out inside you. “The way you take me. The way your body pulls me in. Like it wants to keep me.” You moan, hips rocking instinctively. Reed’s hands grip your waist tightly. “I think about it all the time.” He confesses, voice unraveling. “You, full of me. Your belly round with our child. I’d document every stage. Not because I’m obsessed with data…” He thrusts hard, making you gasp. “But because I’m obsessed with you.”

You bury your hands in his hair, breath stuttering as he thrusts again, precise and deep. “I want to watch you grow.” He whispers. “Want to chart how your heartbeat syncs with theirs. Want to hold you while you carry the future.”

“Reed…” You whimper, your body trembling around him.

His arms wrap around you as he grinds up with a strained groan, burying himself in one long final thrust. “I’m coming.” He growls. “Gonna fill you up. Let it take. Let you carry my brilliance and your beauty in one perfect form.” He pulses deep inside you, holding you tight as he spills into you, a soft gasp catching in his throat. His body quivers beneath you, overwhelmed and undone. And when he finally speaks again, it’s barely more than a whisper against your throat. “We’re going to make something extraordinary.”

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

You were supposed to be helping him sort through another stack of case files. That’s how this started, papers spread across the oak desk, a storm flickering outside the stained-glass windows of the mansion. Tim had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and got that concentrated furrow between his brows. You’d only meant to walk behind him, gently kiss his cheek. But the moment you whispered. “You’ve been working too hard, baby.” something in him snapped.

Now you’re bent over that very desk, the cool wood against your stomach a shocking contrast to the molten heat of Tim’s hands gripping your hips. His belt hangs loose from one of the brass handles. Papers are fluttering off the desk, forgotten because he’s not thinking about murder or mystery, or Maddie’s grandmother anymore.

He’s thinking about you. His voice is low, gravelly, thick with something darker than usual, it was filled with desperation and need. “Look at you.” He groans behind you, dragging his fingers down your spine before gripping your waist with both hands. “God, sweetheart. You were made for this.”

“For what?” You pant, already shaking.

“For me…” He growls. “To take me. To carry my child.” You gasp at his words, you’ve heard him whisper fantasies like this before, late at night, in bed with your legs trembling around his waist. But tonight he sounds different, he was serious and completely feral. He thrusts into you again, deeper this time, groaning like the pleasure is almost too much. His chest is pressed to your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You like when I say that, don’t you? When I tell you I’m gonna fill you up so good, you’ll have no choice but to take.”

You moan, head falling forward as your hands scramble to hold onto the edge of the desk. Tim’s hand slides from your hip to your belly, palm splayed protectively over your lower stomach. “Want to see you swollen with my baby.” He says, almost reverent. “Want people to look at you and know you’re mine.”

Your whole body pulses at his words. His voice is hot and possessive but there’s love underneath it, filled with worship and devotion. He’s not just claiming you for the sake of control, he’s building a future in his mind. One where you’re barefoot in the kitchen of that damned mansion, glowing with life, your hands resting on a bump that he put there. He’s breathing harder now, thrusts becoming erratic. “I’m close, sweetheart. You’re gonna take every drop. You’ll be dripping with me.”

“Do it.” You whimper, rocking back into him. “I want it, Tim. I want you to put a baby in me.” The way he groans your name in that moment is primal and almost beautiful. He spills into you with a ragged cry, his arms tightening around your waist as if he could anchor you to him forever. You can feel the warmth of him deep inside you, the weight of his body still trembling behind you as he rides the aftershocks.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Then, softly, so softly you almost miss it, Tim presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs. “I hope it takes.”

You twist around just enough to meet his eyes, which are wet and glowing with something raw and real. “So do I.” You whisper. And when he kisses you, desperate and slow, full of promise, you know this isn’t just a fantasy anymore. He means it.

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