#but revered somehow ;D]

[strangunddurm]

devastationem

Pairing: Michael Robinavich x fem!reader

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: PinV sex, unprotected sex, fingering, masturbation, swearing, dirty talk, oral! fem receiving, established relationship, age gap (everyone 18+!), angst.

Summary: Your love for Michael ran deep and you thought he loved you. But there was something he never could share with you, and you always wondered why?

A/N: Don't know wtf this is but okay. Also, sex in hospital!

Devastation (n.) - Originates from Medieval Latin devastationem, meaning "ravage, act of devastating; state of being devastated."

Love was your punishment.

You loved him. You had loved him before you really knew what love was; that thing that was tethered in the slim boarder between obsession and adoration. A simple look upon his face was enough for that heart wrenching feeling to start to spread inside of you. It took over like a disease; a virus spreading through your body, infecting you.

You would never be the same as you were before him. It would be impossible. He changed you in ways that you wouldn’t even notice until years later when you looked back upon life. You would never regret it, though. You weren’t ashamed to say that Michael Robinavich was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

Michael was revered. He was the man that all others wished to be. There was not a single thing wrong with him. He was perfect. It wasn’t his fault that you weren’t perfect enough for him. You tried in every way to please him, to make him happy, but you thought it was never enough. You would always end up saying the wrong thing and the brief flicker of perceived disappointment in his eyes as he looked down upon you was devastating. He would always try to hide it but you knew that doubt lingered in his mind over being with you.

Devastation. You loved him so much that it filled you with dread and devastation. Dread because you knew that he could make you do anything. Devastation because you knew that it would all end. One day, whether it was a day or a year or a decade down the line. Death, divorce, desertion. He would leave you and you would be no more.

He didn’t know that though. Not yet. He was blissfully oblivious to the hold he had over you. You wanted to tell him you loved him so much it hurt you. But it was so easy to get lost in his eyes whenever you saw him and courage ran out of you like water as you struggled to find the right words.

You thought him to be intimidating. Intimidating in the way that he looked at you. It wasn’t a mean look. Never mean, just… intimidating. Like he knew you better than you knew yourself. Like he had figured you all out before you’d even opened your mouth and said your first ‘hello’.

The first time you had met Michael Robinavich, you had just taken your first unsure step into adulthood. He was old enough to know better. To not lean into your advances. He entertained you for a brief, brief moment, smiling politely as you flaunted yourself infront of him. He had been kind and cordially, greeting you briefly as your friend introduced you. You weren’t meant to be there that night, having stopped by her house on your way home, having just finished your third year of college. You stayed longer than you should’ve, touched his arm for moments that lingered far longer to be accidental, laughed to hard at any attempt at a joke as he gazed down at you.

You thought you were special. That that look was somehow reserved only for you despite having only shared moments of an evening together. You didn’t know that it was just how he was, how he looked at everybody. He looked at people as if they mattered, as if it was just him and them left on the entire planet. The crows feet around his eyes made him gentler, kinder. It would be too late when you finally figured that out. You would already be so helplessly infatuated with every fiber of his being that it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter that you weren’t special, not in the way you thought you were, at least. But you didn’t need to be special. You just needed him to want you. In any capacity.

You kissed him outside of the grocery store a year later. You had seen him wandering the aisles on a Wednesday night after you’d finally moved back to town permanently. You hadn’t planned for it. Didn’t know that he was living in the same neighbourhood as you. Your parents had bought an apartment you would never be able to afford on your own as a graduation present you were too embarrassed to tell anybody about. You wondered when you told him about it, months later, if perhaps he thought you immature. Unable to fend for yourself even in the smallest capacity. Maybe that is what created that hesitation in him. Perhaps that is what made it all worse. It would’ve been easier if you weren’t you.

It was the way he was so kind to you once again. Striking up a conversation, telling you about his long shift and empty fridge. You joked about how he could come over for a meal anytime he wants after a shift if he wants to and his quiet chuckle maybe your face heat. Michael didn’t accept your invitation but he didn’t decline it. It filled you with hope.

You had to stand on the very tip of your toes to place a light kiss against his lips. It was mortifying. An impulse that took over you, that you acted upon without a second of consideration because you were desperate. You needed to feel his skin against yours. His lips upon your lips. It had been all you could think about over the last year. A short night spent playing nice had fuelled more than 365 days of fantasies about his hips pressed against your, his voice heavy in your ear, and imagining the way his tongue would feel as he swiped it up, running it over your most sensitive spot in a way that would make your toes curl and eyes roll. Driven utterly insane by your own mind.

Michael hadn’t let it last long, softly prying your arms from around his neck and you had, in a panic, blamed your ill lapse in judgement on the rush of adrenaline. As much adrenaline a shopping trip at 9P P.M. at night could give you.

You hadn’t seen him for a while after that. You avoided going out around the neighbourhood unless it was completely necessary. You knew he was a doctor of some sort, so he was probably more busy than you would ever be but you didn’t want to risk it.

When you saw him again, you were still too young, still naive, still hopelessly entrance by him, even though a few years had passed. He hadn’t smiled when his eyes locked with yours but he didn’t look away either. Instead, he looked at you as if he remember you fondly in some way. As that naive, young little girl that was too stupid to let a simple crush be just a crush that was never acted upon. As if it brought him enjoyment, you were a story he could laugh over with his friends.

You didn’t talk to him first time, didn’t dare approach him as you done the others. He came to you.

“Can I still come over for dinner?” He asked with a smile and your eyes went wide.

“Dinner?”

“Last time I saw you, you said that I could come over for dinner anytime.”

“You want to come over for dinner?”

“Sure.” The beginning of your end. You wouldn’t be a person after Michael. Not in the sense you had been before. You would belong to him; your mind, your soul, your entire being existed solely for him after that. And you liked it. You had accepted it easily. It was nice to have something to live for.

Love was your punishment for you would never feel true happiness. There would always be insecurities lingering at the corners, doubt permeating any sense of security.

You had moved in with Michael after three years together. Not because he had suggested it, it just happened, after a long eventuality of dinners, late nights, and eventually early mornings.

You were happy. Content in the bliss of simple domesticity that encased you. You were entwined together. But there was a place where you ended and Michael started. The Pitt. Michael didn’t like to talk about his job, not in the way you did. His recanting of days were never specific. Never offered too much detail. He kept you and that part of his life separate and it tore at you. Made you feel like an insignificant part of his life that wasn’t worthy of knowing. You wanted to know. Yearned for it.

Perhaps that is what made you stand there, in front of the ambulance bay of PTMC’s E.R. department. You had been standing there for 10 minutes, staring ahead at the swing doors that were calling out to you but you hadn’t dared move yet. You didn’t know if you should do this, if you wanted to do this. To encroach on his grounds, were he was king felt unjust but just all at once. You deserved this. You deserved to be a part of his life. To know.

It was a calm, organised chaos when you walked through the doors. You assumed it wasn’t a busy day, but not quiet enough for complete stillness.

You didn’t recognise anybody there. The faces of Michael’s colleagues were completely foreign to you, recognising them only because of their scrubs.

You stood there, scanning the crowd when you finally spotted the back of his head looming above the rest. You walked briskly toward him, on a war path, headed toward a war the other party didn’t know they were a part of.

“Michael.” You almost let out a slight giggle over the bewildered look on Michael’s face as he spun around, mid sentence, to look at you. “Am I interrupting?” You raised an eyebrow with a smile.

“Why are you here?” Michael bit out.

“No ‘hello’?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I just wanted to see you.” You smiled again, sickly sweet as you looked around him at the blond woman he has previously been talking to. “Hi!”

“Hello?”

You were just about to reach your hand out and introduce yourself when Michael grabbed a hold of your arm, stopping you in your tracks.

“Dana, I’m taking my break.”

“Break? Robby, since when do we have breaks? I-”

“Fifteen minutes.” Michael cut her off as he hauled you along, practically dragging you as he made his way into a quite hallway and into an abandoned office, the door slamming shut behind you.

“What are you doing here?” Michael hissed lowly, still gripping your arm.

“I just wanted to say hi.” You said innocently.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And why not?”

Michael sighed, running both of his hands through his hair as he looked at the ground.

“I matter. I deserve to know. To be here.” Your voice broke slightly, repeating the mantra that always echoed in your head. You matter, your matter, you matter.

“This is where I work.”

“Obviously.”

“You can’t be here.”

“And why not? You never tell me anything about your job, about the people that you work with! Why can’t you bring yourself to tell me about the place you spend 60 hours a week?”

“I-”

“Why don’t I deserve to know?” You whispered, looking up at him with hurt swimming in your eyes.

“It’s not about deserving. It’s just… complicated.”

“What’s so complicated? Don’t you love me?”

“Stop it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want this. I don’t want you and this shitty, shitty place to be connected in any way.”

“And why not? What’s so wrong with me?”

“Stop pitying yourself. Everything is not about you.”

“It’s obviously about me since you have to hide me from this whole world of yours.” You threw your hands out in exasperation.

“I can’t take this, not today. You shouldn’t have come here.” Michael said the words with finality, not wanting you to keep talking back to him. Not now, not here.

“Fuck! I’m sorry, okay? But can’t you see I’m fucking dying here?” You started to raise your voice. “I just feel like an insignificant spec in your fucking life because you can’t tell me more than whether it was a good or bad day at work? I mean, what the hell, Michael? This isn’t normal. This isn’t what two people in a relationship should be doing. What makes it so hard for you to tell me about your life? Do you-”

“I just don’t want the shit here to become shit at home, too!” You paused as Michael yelled the words back at you. “It’s just… too much sometimes. And I thought if I could just… keep you away from here for once then maybe this would last, because I want this to work. I really want this to work. And nothing has worked before. It always ends. Always. In a shitty way, because of this shitty place that I just can’t-”

“Oh…” You didn’t know what to say, biting your lip as you looked around the small broom closet. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I should’ve… told you- how I felt.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

“I love being a doctor. I love my job. It’s my purpose, but it’s just so fucking hard sometimes and I… couldn’t let this ruin us. Not us. Everything else but us.” Michael raised his hands to cup your face, letting his thumbs run across your cheeks.

“I love you, kid. You know that, right?” He looked deep in your eyes as he said those words. You had always loved Michael’s eyes. They were comforting in a way you had never experienced. Looking into them you felt at home. Safe.

“Hey, you know that right?” You nodded. Of course, you nodded because all you had ever believed was that Michael would love you. Did love you.

“I love you, too.”

“Yeah? Good.”

You motioned to your chest, a two curled fingers running down your sternum.

“Love you too much.”

“Don’t think that’s a thing, sweet girl.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Yes, it hurts. Sometimes.”

“In your chest?” He looked down at you with amusement as you pressed your face into his chest, nodding in admittance.

“Hurts there for me, too, sometimes.” Michael chuckled as he embraced you tighter. “Aren’t we a bunch of fools?”

“You are. You’re a cranky old man that can’t just tell the person he lives with how he feels.” You mumbled into his shirt and Michael laughed again over your words.

“Guess I better work on that.”

“You better.” You hugged him tighter before letting go so you could reach up to kiss him. It was a special kiss. A kiss that spoke more than words could, filled with emotions you couldn’t always quite put your finger on.

Michael kissed you back with just as much passion, peppering a rapid succession of kisses to your lips. Eventually, teeth were almost clashing as both of your hunger grew. You needed to feel close to him, as close as a person could be with anther. You needed to feel him between your legs or you felt like you would die if you were to go without it. Here lies the body of you, whose desire drove you to your early demise; death by lust, forever cursed to feel the pulsing ache between your legs and crave the touch of another, never to be satisfied again by your own.

But you weren’t there yet. Salvation would be delivered onto you this day. Michael was frantic in his movement as he pushed up your shirt so that your breasts became bare for him. He didn’t wait, not even taking a second to admire them, before he let his lips attach themselves to your nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, running his tongue over your stiff peak, earning himself a moan from your mouth.

There was a need in Michael that he had only ever felt with you. You didn’t know it but he had craved your touch for years before he felt it. So he had earned this. Had earned your love. He always had a craving for you, needing to feel you in every way he could. He couldn’t hold back as his hands explored everything that they could. He needed to make it right, to let you feel his love.

Michael’s hand had travelled up along your legs to the apex of your thigh. He made contact with the delicate string of your thong and you gasped into his mouth as he tugged it down your legs so that he could run his fingers over your pussy. You were so wet for him, completely having drenched his fingers in all that was you.

He worked you open slowly, slipping one finger inside of you gently. You clenched around him, becoming even tighter than what you already were.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” Michael groaned out into your ear as his lips travelled up and down your neck.

It didn’t take him long before he slipped another finger into you and you couldn’t help the moan that slipped out. He stretched you out slowly, making sure you would be ready to take him. All of him.

“Shh…” Michael hushed you, placing his free hand over your mouth in an attempt to quiet you. Your breath came out in short pants against his palm as you tried to control yourself.

Michael curled his two fingers in a come hither motion, stroking your silky walls to bring you closer to the pleasure you craved so much.

“Gotta be quick, sweetheart, but let me taste you.”

Michael dropped to his knees before you, urging you to take a seat on top of the desk behind you, causing some paperwork to fall to the floor, before parting your legs even more so that his shoulders could fit between them. He held your skirt up, bunching it around your hips with his eager hands before digging his fingers into your thighs, hauling one of them onto his shoulder, and connecting his mouth to your sweet cunt.

The quiet sounds of your breathless moans was intoxicating as he suckled your clit into his mouth before flicking his tongue over the stiff nubb.

Your knees fought against his shoulders as your hand came to cover your mouth, willing any sounds to stay inside of you as you bit down softly in an attempt to control yourself.

You fought to keep your eyes open as your hips moved up and down in a desperate attempt to grind your aching clit against his mouth and nose in search for that perfect sensation that would drive you over the edge.

Your hand slid into Michael’s hair, gliding through it before grasping a firm hold of it as a wave of pleasure ran its course through your body.

Michael had already made you come once when he slid his fingers into you, continuing his ministrations on your clit with his mouth. His movement were much rougher than what they had been before, thrusting them into you expertely, hitting that sweet spot of yours that he knew so well over and over again.

Your back arched into the air and mouth fell open at the overstimulation. It was excuisite.

“Oh, oh, Michael. I’m gonna cum.” You whispered desperately. “Oh, God.”

You clung to his arm in an attempt to hold on to any sort of sanity but it was all for nought. Both of your hands flew to your mouth as your whole body started to shake.

Michael tried to hold you as still as he could but never let up as he flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit again and again and again. He worked you through your orgasm, never relenting as your silent whimpers spurred him on. You had such a tight hold on his hair that it made him groan, sending a wave of vibrations through you that caused you to gasp. He only stopped once your whimpers had grown in volume to a steady whine of pleas.

“You’re such a good girl.” Michael praised as he came up, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. “You gonna let me fuck you, sweetheart?”

“Yes! Please, Michael.”

Michael took a step back so that he could unbuckle his cargo pants, popping the button open before pushing them down his hips enough to let his stiff cock slap up against his taught stomach, balls hanging heavily. He spread the wetness of you that still coated his fingers over the head of his cock, giving himself a couple of pumps in preparation.

“How badly do you want this?” It might as well have been a rhetorical question for Michael knew the answer to that question very well. But he wanted to hear you say it. He wanted to hear your pleas as you begged him to fuck you full of himself. He wanted you to whine for his cum, to drive you so insane that you would begin to speak in tongues as the tip of him would repeatedly rub against that sweet spot inside of you.

“So badly,” You were practically breathless; completely lost just from the sight of him that you would never ever get enough of. Michael loved to see you like this, so disheveled, so fuckable.

“Tell me how badly you want it.” He breathed out the command.

“I need you to fuck me, Michael, I need you to full me up, please…” Your tongue ran over your lips over the sight of precum leaking from his tip, remembering how he tastes.

Michael stepped closer, caressing your jaw as he continued pumping his dick. Michael pressed a sloppy kiss to your before the head of his cock teased your entrance, gliding through it to coat itself in your wetness before slowly beginning to stretc you inch by inch. His dick was to thick and long that you wondered if you could even take it all. The slow drive of his hips into you was driving you wild until, finally, Michael’s hips met yours as he bottomed out and the tip of him was nestled snugly against your cervix.

Michael stopped for a moment to let you acclimate, but only for a moment as he could not bear any more. He drew himself out all the way until only his tip was inside of you. You were desperate to feel all of him inside of you again so you wrapped your leg around his waist, urging him to push forward back into you and fill the emptiness that his dick left behind. Michael grinned and sank into you again.

“Shit!” You cried as Michael drove the air from your lungs as he pounded into you. He never stopped or slowed down, continuously pulling almost all the way out and driving back into you again and again in a steady rhythm. Michael admired you as your eyes fluttered close, tits bouncing with every thrust. Your pussy pulsed and trembled around his thick girth, pulling him in deeper and deeper.

He grabbed your hips tightly, sure to be felt the next day, before continuing to pound into you in earnest. The desk rustled with every rut of Michael’s hips. As much as you tried to stay quiet, moans were slipping out of you and Michael attempted to silence them by kissing you. You let him swipe his tongue along the inside of your lips , swallowing your sounds before they rang through the air.

Michael drove into you harder and faster, unable to control himself from plunging deeper into you. You felt too good, too hard to resist. He should know better but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck,” The words tumbled out of your mouth and Michael could feel you coming closer and closer to your end as your walls tightened around him. And just when you thought that you were about to cum, Michael pulled out of you, leaving you whining for him.

Michael guided you up from the desk, turning you around and forcing your front against the desk. He let his hands slide over your ass, spreading you open for him so that he could admire you. You were glistening, folds completely soaked and puffy.

“Please, Michael.” You pleaded, needing him.

“So greedy, honey.” Michael tutted before sliding back into your pussy so effortlessly.

Michael fucked you with slow, deep strokes to begin with, relishing every little squeak and whimper that made their way past your lips as he made you feel so good. He put his hand around your neck, forcing your upper body back so that he could tilt your head up. He wanted to see you as he pounded into you. He wanted to watch as your face twisted in those throes of passion.

“You like that?” Michael chuckled as he saw your eyes almost roll into the back of your head as he hit that soft, spungy part inside of you.

“You fuck me so good.” You babbled.

His hips picked up the pace, cock beginning to hammer into you, his balls swinging, slapping your clit. Your fingers dug into the desk bellow you, releshing in the pain as your hips were driven into the wood repeatedly.

“I’m gonna fuck you so full, fill you up until your dripping with me.” Dirty words tumbled through Michael’s lips, praising you and the way you felt.

“You gonna cum for me?” It was so quiet that you barely heard it. “You gonna gush all around my dick, honey?” One of Michael’s hand came forward to rub quick, tiny circles at your bundle of nerves.

Your legs tremble as you cum, back arching and toes curling in pleasure. The way you grew tighter around him made him hiss as he forced himself in again and again, chasing his own release. White, hot, searing pleasure runs through him as he finally cums, emptying himself deep inside of you, his jaw clenching and neck straining as he bucked into you. Michael groaned, making sure to pump himself completely empty, making sure you would always feel his love, deep inside of you.

Michael didn’t care that you so clearly looked like you had just been fucked, practically staggering your way out of the E.R. as quickly as you could whilst his colleague's shared quiet laughs. He didn’t care that Gloria would most likely catch wind of it and hand his ass to him. He didn’t care because he loved you. Devastatingly so. Love was his salvation.

[yandere-sins]

Monstober - Day 5: Naga/Lamia [Elemental Sacrifices Part 1/4]

I am fashionably late and since this story was supposed to come out on my birthday I switched the prompts since we all know Nagas are my roman empire, hehe >:3

Also this is part 1 of 4 of a little mini-series happening in this Monstober Challenge, and I will lovingly call it the Elemental Sacrifices. I know we already had a sacrifice before, but what if—hear me out—we have 4 more? Yes, I thought that was a good idea too, glad we agree :D

(They are not much related aside from the concept, but they are in the same universe, so maybe there's some potential for future ideas! :D)

Prompt: Day 6: Naga/Lamia | Scales // Wrapping around // Poisonous Warnings: Yandere, AFAB!Reader, Sexual Actions (Dub-Con, Use of Aphrodisiac, Drinking said Aphrodisiac and getting it stabbed into your arm, Deep Kissing, Accidentally cutting your own tongue, Fingering), Violence (Biting with fangs, Description of (meager) fighting, Cutting the enemy, Blood mention), Monsters + Descriptions of Monsters, Light self-degradation, Long Post

The tradition had always existed.

From the moment you were born, you were told about the sacrifices made to the four gods, which took place twice a century. The four tribes would unite in peace and unity for this month of reverence, choosing their sacrifices carefully and laying down their weapons to organize and strategize the ceremonies so that no god would feel aggrieved. It was a wonder that people that worshipped different things, lived by different means, and usually clashed like hot and cold, light and shadow, could work together meaningfully to pay their respects, assure that everyone would continue to be in the favor of the different gods that roamed the lands you lived on.

And yet, somehow, it had always worked out.

"There, almost done," your mother mumbled, curling your still-damp hair around her finger so it would frame your face. You clenched your fists in your lap as you sat in front of the mirror, unable to even look at yourself without retching. 20 years ago, when you were told the stories for the first time, no one had assumed you'd be the one to be sacrificed in the next ceremony. No one informed you that your days were numbered, your purpose to be nothing but monster fodder.

Because that's what they were, monsters, nothing more, nothing less.

A two-headed snake, an ancient tree, a tentacled beast, and a fire-spewing reptile with wings—those were the four monsters you and the other tribes worshipped with offerings and sacrifices. All your life, you practiced the mindful handling of the teachings, learning how to hunt, fight, and serve your god. But even so, just because you were born the child of the leader, you were going to be discarded by your own people, and your hatred was as fiery as the vulcanos that surrounded your homeland.

"I heard the water tribe sends their most wonderful singer this year, too."

It was a frail attempt at small talk, and you couldn't care less about how pleased your mother sounded as she told you about the other sacrifices. The other poor souls that probably wanted nothing more than to run away about now. You had hidden your tears very well with your head hung low, but you couldn't imagine the other sacrifices felt any less miserable as you did.

You had plans for the future, plans that involved leading this tribe and creating a family sometime. Maybe participate in a war with the other tribes and show off the prowess of the fire tribe leader's oldest child. It was in the nature of your people to be strong and powerful, as was the exceptional artistry of the water people.

"And the earthclan sends another one of their scholars. I don't understand why they think the nature gods would like all these people hiding with their noses in their books, but I'm sure they have their reason for choosing them. Oh, but the wind people are also sending their ruler's child, just like you!"

A tone of pride swung in her voice as she continued arranging vividly red flowers like a crown in your head, pulling at strands of your hair to wrap them into the stems so they'd hold. "And yet, you'll make the prettiest sacrifice of them all. You'll make us all so proud!"

Inside of you, a war broke loose. A war you knew you couldn't win as you knelt on the floor of your childhood home, the place you always thought safest in all of the lands, yet it was no longer the place you'd return to after this expedition. All your good deeds and all your achievements were for naught because when the announcement was sent out that the sacrifice was going to be held that year, it ended your life instantly.

A part of you knew it could happen. Although you never wished this fate on anyone, you had always hoped for a sibling, born or adopted into your family, that could take this responsibility from you ever since you learned of it. Other tribes voted. They chose by luck or by skill at the time of sacrifice. But not yours. Yours had traditions, which meant the leader's strongest family member would go to the gods and ask for their blessings. Get eaten in exchange for a promise of safety and prosperity that the monsters could easily break on a whim. Returning would mean the blessing failed, so that wasn't an option. If you couldn't appease them alive, you would do it with your death. The ultimate sacrifice.

"Now, you're perfect. Look at you, my pretty child."

Pushing her fingertips into the underside of your jaw, your mother forced you to look up into the mirrors. Tears tumbled from your eyes as your head snapped upwards to avoid the discomfort of her nagging touch, and you watched her expression fall in her reflection. Not from sorrow, mind you, but anger.

"This is your duty," she reminded you. "Now that you have grown up and proved your worth, you should feel honored to be chosen."

You bit your tongue, swallowing the disrespect you wanted to voice. You couldn't care less about the sacrifice, about gaining the ire of some monster that some old people had decided to worship. About your mother's opinion or that of anyone else!

Deep inside you, you were afraid. Fear, first and foremost, had always been your teacher. It showed you the boundaries of your abilities and pushed you to perform deeds beyond your capabilities in times of need. It wasn't something to be ashamed of or scolded for; it was natural and normal.

But right behind it was anger. Anger at this tradition, anger at your family, and anger at the monsters for demanding lives in exchange for peace. Gods they called themselves, but there was nothing godly about how they conducted their demands. They were cowards with a taste for human blood, and instead of fighting and being slain by those humans, they demanded sacrifices to satisfy their hunger.

And there was nothing you could do to save yourself.

If you rebelled, you'd be dragged out by your limbs and hair, even if that destroyed the work they put into prettying you up. Who needed to be pretty when they'd be eaten alive? Still, as a warrior at heart, you couldn't imagine a greater shame than to force your friends to bring you to that dreadful sacrificial space, even if they might think it was for the greater good. If you had to go out, you wanted to do so with your head held high, no matter how foolish that pride of yours was. It was better than to put your unfair death entirely into the hands of others.

If you were going to be a martyr, then you'd at least die fighting until your last breath.

---

"That's far enough," you announced, coming to a halt at the edge of the lush green forest you used to hunt in. Before you, vulcanic stone spread in dark hues as far as you could see. Ash filled the air, mixed with the taste of metal and fire. Nothing grew on the stone ground, it was as welcoming as a death threat. Veins of red broke through the stone, leading to pools of lava that was cooking beneath the stone surface, the air simmering from the heat that immediately greeted you, coating your skin in a sheen of sweat. Once you had found the duality of this place beautiful. Now you dreaded it, hands curled into fists as you took slow, steady breaths to calm yourself.

"I wish to face the gods myself."

"Go forth then. Make us proud," your father expressed, resting his hand on your shoulder. A simple squeeze was all you got, and much like your mother who hugged you before your departure, their gestures were too brief to be any comfort. You wondered how they could have possibly come to terms so quickly with losing their own child when you, the one to be sacrificed, were struggling with your fear and pride.

Every step on the hot floor was like a stab of a knife in your back. The hunting party that had accompanied you watched as you continued your journey towards the sacrificial space the ancestors had created, their gazes like whips that spurred you on. But they didn't linger. Since they didn't have to tie you down on the altar, they had no reason to watch the gruesome death of their own kind, knowing that either way, you weren't going to return. You knew the way back to your village like the inside of your pocket, years of roaming the jungles teaching you how to go home. But they'd kill you before you cursed the village with your failure to be sacrificed. Merciless, cold. You were no longer a part of them. You were a meager part of the tradition now.

However, the way to the altar was actually more of a challenge than going home. You had only been there once as a child, laying flowers down for your uncle, who had been the last sacrifice years before your birth. Your father may have called him your uncle, but it turned out he was an adopted orphan who ended up paying for his dedication to your family much later. Your father seemed unsympathetic towards him, but it dawned on you that he must have never been close to this brother of his, probably knowing the fate that awaited him.

You never knew your uncle, but back then, you had been proud of him, too.

That day was also the first time your father explained the traditions and the importance of keeping them up. How much honor it brought to your family and how many lives it saved to lose one person. You wondered why, after he taught you so many skills, worked so hard to make you a respected member of your tribe, and loved you like a father would, he could so easily send you to your death. But it slowly dawned on you what kind of person your father was. One that didn't truly cared for his "family", only for his own pride and gains. And you had been so easily fooled as to believe him all this time.

It took you much longer than you remembered, but eventually, you reached the grounds your ancestors had created for this spectacle. It was close to the foot of the volcano, an altar erected from the stone sprouting from the ground with nothing else present in this wasteland. The heat had increased substantially over time, every breath burning in your lungs, your eyes dry, and your feet chafed from walking over the smoldering stone for so long. Dread was no longer a constant companion as acceptance slowly crept into your mind. You had seen the bones of many humans on the way to this place. Apparently, not everyone had been so lucky to have made it this far, either the environment or the monster killing them before they reached the altar. Or maybe themselves, now that you thought about it.

The sight of the raised altar forced a shuddering breath out of your lungs, the stinging sensation barely enough to distract you from the blaring truth. You were going to die. One way or another, you would. Touching the side of your leg, you felt the leather holster beneath your dress. The dagger you sneaked would probably not be enough to kill the monster, if there ever was one. Still, if you could inflict some damage to it, perhaps your tribe would one day snap out of the trance that it was this immortal threat that your ancestors appeased by offering their own children to it. Maybe they'd see the wounds and realize they didn't have to cower in fear of it, and thus, maybe your sacrifice would not be in vain.

Brushing your hand over the warm stone, you felt an untypical cold shudder run down your spine, knowing it was meant to be your deathbed. You wondered how many before you had laid here, waiting for the monster to come. How many had prayed, hoped, and begged to be saved, and how many had fought and struggled like you were going to. Following in their footsteps now, you knew they did what they thought was their best. That was the greatest honor you could bestow on them.

You hoisted yourself up, struggling to climb on top of the massive stone slab, before you sat close to the edge and stretched out your legs, feeling the burned and chafed soles of your feet crack as they finally got some rest. Hissing, you were confronted with the pain, yet you only sighed, swiping your hands over your face to free you of the sweat that was desperately trying to cool you down. Even if you were used to the warmer temperature of your home, it was nothing against the volcanic heat, and you almost admired it for burning for so long, never bothered by anyone. The air was as heavy as your soul felt, trapped in your body and scared to the heavens.

Imagining the snake did very little to soothe your mind, but you still tried to prepare for the shock its sight undoubtedly would be. You imagined a snake as tall as a building, with two heads splitting apart at one end. Heads with sharp fangs and venom dripping out of their mouths, eyes that ate you up before their maw even got close to you. It would slither over the ground, nimble, avoiding the lava pools, but too large to hide behind the wasteland it reigned over. Bloodlust urging it on as it smelled the sweet fragrance of the flowers on your head, which were delighted to bloom in the warm temperatures. A green tail? Brown? Perhaps a little of both? Maybe its scales were dark red like all the blood it drank from the sacrifices.

"Look at that, they do sacrifice their own kind."

Deep in thought, the heat probably having gone to your head, you hadn't noticed the chafing sound that slithered closer from behind. Only when someone suddenly spoke did your mind alert you of the danger, and you jumped down from the altar, swiftly spinning around and bracing yourself. One hand hovered over your dagger beneath your dress, and the other arm stayed defensively in front of you. With the distance you managed to jump and the massive altar separating you from the monster, you were at a surprising advantage, and it felt good to have the upper hand.

Your eyes widened at the sight of two men standing behind the altar, one of them leaning down on the stone surface right next to where you had sat. In contrast, the other stood straight with his arms behind his back, but both watched you with burning intensity. Immediately, you noticed their similar appearances, the light grey hair falling from their heads, bound by braids, and still with countless strands falling over their exposed chests. Their eyes were like marbles, reflecting the different colors of the area in them, elongated pupils slightly vibrating as they fixated over and over on you. But what really put you off was their size. Their legs must have been easily as tall as the altar, and that was no size a normal human should have had.

"Mother never told us sacrifices were this cute."

The man leaning on the table rolled over on his side, his hair splaying all over the altar in waves. And yet, even while moving, his gaze never trailed off—but yours did. You let out a horrified gasp as the scaled tail of a snake buckled and arched to accommodate the man's movements, and with a surprised jolt, he reared upwards, exposing even more of the tail that started at his hips.

A moment of silence washed over you three, and you felt incredibly exposed and stared down by two pairs of eyes as if they were pinning you into place. Willing you to not move a muscle, to be eaten without putting up a fight. No one said anything before the startled man laughed out loudly, shaking his head and holding his belly before slapping his free hand attention-seekingly against his companion's arm.

"That scared me," he chuckled. "I've never heard that kind of sound before."

The other man let out a hum of agreement, nodding his head before looking back at you. You were at a clear disadvantage, unsure where to look first and who to focus on, as you were outnumbered by the two. The one that kept talking was smaller than the other, although this could have been the heat playing tricks on you. Both were muscular, but he was less refined than his almost-twin. You wagered you could take him on if there wasn't a scaley tail winding from his hips. That would be additional weight you couldn't topple, no matter how much you playfighted the other hunters and warriors of your tribe, which sometimes outdid you in terms of weight and size.

The quieter one, on the other hand, had the typical looks of a working man in the village: big arms coming from a strong back and toned muscles that the woman would drool over, while the other seemed fit and nimble. But your eyes unwillingly focused on the tail as the two scaled the altar, moving forward oddly in sync until it became clear why.

Their two strands of tails flowed together between them into one massive one.

It was mesmerizing, you had to admit, the scales an iridescent white. But whenever the tail moved, it took on the hues of the land, grey and red, only to return to their original color as it wound itself. You were awestruck and panicked at the same time, as the tail seemed to be neverending, wrapping around the altar, finding hold on the stony ground that even your feet struggled with. Fear filled you as you watched their slithering movements, the mistake in your thinking now glaringly clear: The monster existed, and it had come for you.

"Y-You're the monster!" you screamed, and the smaller one of the two scrunched up his nose, taking offense. The white scales swept over the altar, landing in the space between you and the stone with a heavy thud. His body was barely shaken by the impact, so perfectly in balance with itself despite their unnatural split into two different entities, and the seriousness of the situation rained down on you like their sharp gazes as you realized there would be no chance of you overpowering either of them.

Even with their connection, they spread out too far to reach both simultaneously. They could still move independently, even if their range was limited to what their body could give. But even without them rearing up on the tail, they were almost two heads taller than you were. They knew their body better than anyone, and you didn't doubt they had some tricks up their non-existing sleeves to best you.

Biting your lip, you finally slipped your hand beneath your dress, never letting the monster—monsters—out of your sight. To your surprise, you watched their gazes slip to where you raised the fabric, observing you with curious intention, their split tongues slipping out from their lips, tasting the air as they ogled at your exposed thigh.

Your hand curled around the grip of your dagger, and the moment you pulled it from its holster, the snakes lept forward. There was no time to be proud of yourself, but your reaction was immaculate. You jumped back just in time to avert the nimble one's grabby hands, even drawing blood as your blade slit open the skin between his thumb and pointer finger.

However, as fast as you dealt with one of the snakes, you couldn't recover quickly enough to avoid the second pair of hands. Much like you anticipated, their range was too extensive to fight both of them at once, and although you ducked beneath one hand of the stronger monster, his second hand latched on, right in your hair. You watched as the red petals of the flower crown loosened and swayed in the air like a sad veil of defeat.

Your head was yanked back, and you acted quickly, directing the knife towards the unprotected free shoulder, somewhere that would hurt. Somewhere that would leave a visible scar and show everyone that these monsters could be injured. But a bloody grip around your wrist prevented you from pushing the dagger into the creature's partially scaled bodies, your hopes crumbling into ash.

"You good?" the more muscular man asked, and the other clicked his tongue in annoyance while you flailed and struggled in their grip. Your free hand was useless as you couldn't even reach forward enough, and so were your legs as you stood on your tiptoes while they yanked you around.

The latter lifted the hand that was holding your wrist to his mouth, licking up the blood that spilled from the cut on his as he maintained eye contact. You bared your teeth in both pain and defiance, not showing any of the miserable fear and panic you felt inside. You didn't manage to do what you came here for, and you felt the power surging through their bodies just from their hands on you. The failure gnawed at your determination, the fight as good as lost.

"We're not monsters," he hissed, glowering at you, although it looked more like a pout. "But you sure are quick on your feet."

Their comments should not have caused your heart to swell with pride, but hearing it from the monster you swore to hurt in exchange for your life did feel good.

"Surely you wish you'd have gotten an easier meal, monster! But I won't go down until I have shown everyone that you can be wounded and defeated! That you will bleed if the people unite! There will be no more sacrifices once they've seen what I did to you!"

"We're not monsters!" they repeated in unison before exchanging a brief glance with each other.

"Well, I won't call you god and beg for your mercy!" you spat, and the lips of the snake with your hand in his grip curled into a grin.

"Are you sure about that?"

With his blood coating your hand, he raised it way over your head, causing you to gasp as your whole body strained to accommodate the movement. His hand slipped upwards, a few fingers holding you in place, while some snaked between your palm and the knife in your grasp, prying your hold from it inch by inch. You let out a soft whine as the leather grip was torn from you and watched the metal clatter to the ground.

But you didn't have the time to mourn the loss of your only weapon, not when your arm was bent backward. Immediately, your free hand shot up, trying to dig your nails into the fingers wrapped around your wrist still.

That was your greatest mistake. With his free hand, the quiet monster immediately reached for both of yours, wrapping them in his palm as quickly as their tail could around your body.

You were kept on your tiptoes as you felt the scales of said tail slither over your skin. Creeping beneath your soles and running up your ankles, squeezing the flesh of your shins firmly together before wrapping around each thigh individually. You kicked and squirmed, but their tail was almost as unrelenting as their hands, and you involuntarily winced as your wrists were squeezed together as if tied by a rope.

"It's true we are not the monster you're trying to defeat," the leaner one claimed again, licking his wound like an injured animal.

"That's our mother," his brother explained curtly, and your head whirled around to him, the questions etched into your face.

"Look at us; we're only half the snake she is."

With an exasperated huff, you looked back and forth between the two, reeling at the revelation. "That's not possible! You... you are a snake with two heads. It's exactly as it's told in our stories!"

"They're not wrong..."

"I mean, she is a literal snake with two heads. And she's gigantic. You should be glad she didn't find you first, or you'd be even less than a small snack for her."

"And our dad is human. Like you."

You must have looked rightfully befuddled as the two went back and forth on their explanation, but once they were done, you could only gulp, unsure what to make of the situation. "So... you're not the monster that demands sacrifices?"

"No."

"Not really."

"Then..." It was hard to form the words that zapped through your mind, your mouth suddenly feeling dry again as the adrenaline sifted from your blood flow. Nothing could rationalize this situation, and you were still strung up by their hands and tail. This almost felt too good to be true, so you had to take your chance as long as you could. "You'll let me go?"

A moment of silence hung over all three of your heads before the brothers slowly ripped their gazes off you to exchange sly smirks. You wobbled as their body—and by extension, yours—set into motion, slithering back to the altar until you were sat down, your back forced to rest on the stone like a lamb to slaughter, hands hanging over the edge above your head and legs still wrapped by their tail.

"Oh, you can't just leave," the lean one purred, coming up from below you and planting his clawed hands firmly on either side of your arms. "The nights get so cold, and the days are so lonely with our mom busy occupying our dad. She never lets us play with him or come back to our home. Won't you keep us company for a while longer? I'm sure you can teach us some things, and we can teach you."

The other settled on the opposite side, still holding your hands in place as he grunted in agreement. You felt the bile rise in your throat as one touch slipped below your line of sight, claw-like nails raking up your thigh and moving beneath your dress. Their intentions got more apparent as the fabric was gripped from above, too, slowly, sensually raising over your skin until the hip strap of your underwear was revealed.

In a last-ditch effort, you tried to struggle once more, legs tugging upwards and kicking at the ever-winding tail while your hands twisted in their hold, causing it to crush down onto your bones even more. That wasn't how you wanted to go down; it wasn't the fight to death you thought you'd have!

"End me, then. Get it over with," you yelled out, laying your head to the side and closing your eyes, the reality too hard to face. Sooner or later, you'd die anyway, and if this were the things you'd have to endure, you'd rather be dead. It wasn't the kind of sacrifice you wanted to be, one defiled and molested before you'd be killed, so you'd rather be dead than witness it.

"Hush now," someone murmured, and you felt a hand sweep underneath your chin, turning your head forward again before tugging it up and over the altar's edge. Your eyes snapped open as your instincts kicked in, but as you opened your mouth to scream, it was quickly covered by another.

A tongue slipped between your opened lips before you could close them, slashing around inside harshly and clogging your throat. There was too much to take, and you gulped down the wetness it brought, sloshing it everywhere to the point it dripped from your lips, running down your face that immediately heated up beneath the fluid. It tasted sweet and even when you wanted to stop, you couldn't, gulping down all that was given to you.

Your body began to relax while you felt a hand drive down the front of your torso, brushing an entire palm over your breast and getting stuck on your nipple. You jolted, a pang of electricity flying to your head and down your spine, your back arching as you couldn't understand what was going on anymore. You had never felt this sensitive before, and as the hand continued to roam from one side to the other, finding the budding nip beneath your dress and twisting it, you let out an unholy moan into the mouth of the monster, your own tongue lashing upwards until it got caught on a sharp fang. Despite not feeling it, you were pretty sure your tongue was ripped open, but even more of the sweet-tasting, addictive stuff dripped from the fang, gushing into your mouth. You gobbled it up, considering you had nothing to drink throughout your journey, and your mind was not getting enough of the taste.

"Considering how quickly you got hooked on our mating fluids, I'd not be surprised if you do end up calling us gods when we're done with you."

You barely heard the voice of the curious onlooker beyond your line of sight, your mind wholly crazed by the liquid that coated all of your mouth and senses. It took almost more work to extract the monster's tongue from your throat than it had putting it inside. Your head followed it upwards, unwilling to part while the drool kept dripping down onto your face.

As you were freed of the kiss, a shameful, miserable sigh of disappointment escaped you, and you barely regained the ability to reply, "Never," in response to what the snake had said. That caused both of them to chuckle, and the sound sent a core-clenching, spine-tingling warmth throughout your body. Your lips quivering as your mind begged for more of that deep rumble cursing through their bodies.

"We'll see about that," the monster from below mumbled as he raked his claws over your thigh. Immediately, you were jolting upwards in their hold, caught between pain and pleasure as he lightly scabbed your skin. It was a small revenge for his own wound, and the scratches burned deliciously as they welcomed the hot air all around you two. "You're already so wet for us."

"It's called sweat," you mewled defiantly, the sound of your voice not befitting your sarcasm. You clenched your legs together, but it was a vain effort with the tail still stuck above your knees, easily prying them open by driving upwards. The scales rubbing over your skin didn't help your misery at all, and you wanted to throw your head against a solid wall with how dizzy and needy you felt. It wasn't you on that altar, but a very distorted version of you, one that wanted to be fucked silly even though what you really wanted was a good fight.

The two laughed at your comment, and you moaned in annoyance at the electricity that sapped through you at the sound of their voices. Your head fell back over the edge, and you came face to face with the more muscular one of the brothers as he lowered himself to your eye level. His eyes raked over your face, then up to your exposed neck just waiting to be bit.

"You're so cute," he mumbled, split tongue darting out again, tasting the air. Your pussy clenched as you wished for that tongue back in your throat or, even better, caressing your quivering folds below that were begging for something to fill their loneliness. The experience was new to you, as you had never wanted intimacy like this with anyone before. You had been so focused on your goals and diligently upholding your parents' rules and traditions that you never craved anyone, but especially not these two beasts.

"I'm not cute," you mewled, closing your eyes and biting your lips as you felt the sharp claws hover above your abdomen, gently stroking the skin below your navel from side to side, your core clenching even harder with pure, undiluted desire. But when the fingers slipped beneath the rim of your underwear, you moaned as you expected them to dip into the wet mess that lay just beneath, the expectation almost enough to send you over the edge.

"Oh, yeah?" the snake-man grinned, and you felt one finger press into your slit, your folds welcoming it warmly and with a shudder going through your body. You quaked in pleasure, eyes blown wide open, and the two fangs of the monster were all more prevalent as his lips split into a toothy smile. "So cute," he doubled down, pulling your arms taut until your body stretched to the last of its capabilities.

With his lips gently brushing against your forearm, you were wholly unprepared for the sharp pain as he dug his fangs deep into your skin. But the shriek quickly turned into a moan, your hips grinding against the finger probing at your entrance as more of the aphrodisiac went straight into your bloodstream. You watched the dark fluid drip off your arm, causing even more heat to spread where it flowed, and you were mercilessly whining as you couldn't move your hips nearly enough to satisfy your needs.

"Please," you snapped upwards, staring at the creature settled on top of the altar next to you, leisurely rubbing his hand along your pussy.

"There goes the begging," he reminded you, and you bit your lip to the point of hurting yourself.

Fuck, that wasn't what you wanted to say. It wasn't how you wanted to die, you never intended to let it get this far. Pathetic, pathetic, absolutely pathetic. You were a fucking warrior, you fought threats and hunted prey, you were not going to surrender to them—

"Fuck!" you gasped out loud this time as one digit slipped inside you. You felt it hook inside your pussy, slowly dragging out despite being clung to firmly by your insides. All the faster did he push it inside again, every joint that buried inside you made you arch your back and rejoice. You nearly avoided being scratched open inside, purely by how slick your pussy and his hand were by now, more fluids gushing out as he pulled his finger from you again and again.

Simultaneously, another digit curled down, fondling the heated folds until it pressed down on your clit, forcing a mewl from you. Fangs tore out of your skin, but you barely noticed as the two fingers united, taking up more space inside of you and scissoring your walls apart until you felt your pussy gaping and drooling obscenely.

"I'll not... submit," you stammered between bated breaths. "I'll not... be your plaything."

"And we wouldn't want it any other way," they chimed in unison, exchanging a satisfied glance before grinning.

"Mom always said to look out for the feisty ones."

"We just didn't think you'd come to meet us so soon."

"Or that you'd be this fun to play with."

Your whole body shuddered as both fingers were pulled out of your terribly needy hole. Your breath was almost non-existent, the lack of air only stimulating you more as you heard the sloppy sounds of your wet pussy letting go of the monster's fingers. A hand slipped beneath your head, helping you to hold it up as you watched the leaner brother lifting his pointer and middle finger to his face, split tongue lapping out to taste your slick pulling strings in the gaps while maintaining eye contact with you all throughout it.

"They're perfect," he purred as he looked up, stretching his arm towards his brother, who leaned forward to have his taste of you from his brother's fingers.

"Damn, that's sweet," he commented too on your fluids, licking them from his lips as he looked down at you in a mix of surprise and awe.

"And so pretty, too."

You felt their eyes in the same way their claws had raked over your body. Hungrily, with the intention to harm you. And yet, your hole kept gaping, needing more stimulation, wanting more. You were the pitiful prey you kept denying you were, but it seemed that in their eyes, you were so much more than that.

"Our little fighter," the one at your side murmured, stretching upwards to hover beside your face.

"Are you not even finishing what you started?" you spit, your venom not nearly as effective when your voice sounded as if you were drugged and disgruntled.

"Oh, I will, little fighter. We're going to make sure you can take us before spreading you on our cocks and make you cry out in pleasure until you call us "god". But before that, you have to be good and let us take you to our nest. Bonding will take so much time, and you are much too vulnerable out here."

"Fuck you," you grunted, trying to elbow him, but your arm barely moved.

"Keep it up," he grinned. "Wouldn't want you to give up too easily. Breaking you in is part of the fun."

"You're a fucking monster after all."

The snakes hummed thoughtfully as you were finally pulled off the table. Instead of being dragged by your arms or wrapped in their tail, however, you were slung over the bigger brother's shoulder, feeling his hand immediately settle beneath your asscheek, not so subtly poking at your pussy with his claw.

"Let me go!" you demanded weakly, your sore hands pounding pitifully into his shoulder.

"And miss out on all this fun? I don't think so," the leaner brother answered.

"Mother told us you can't go back anyway," the one carrying you added, throwing salt into the wound. They were right, but that didn't mean you'd go down so easily, even if your legs were still quivering and your head throbbing with need. "They'll kill you on sight, won't they? And then they'll return you to the altar so we can eat you."

A hand clasped around your jaw, claws digging into your cheeks as your head was lifted to face the leaner brother. "You know we prefer a different taste," he grinned, and you felt your anger rise again together with the shame of his implication. Collecting your saliva and some of the residues of the aphrodisiac, you spit them into his face, not caring whatsoever what that meant for you.

The snake-man scrunched up his face, quickly wiping it away. "Save your drool," he snarled, and you grinned victoriously despite the clasp he held your face in.

But as if on cue, a large palm flattened against your ass, and you jolted forward on the shoulder, eyes blown wide open as you gasped. You couldn't believe it as the wave of pleasure finally crashed into your rockfest resolution, your toes curling upwards and your eyes rolled back, your orgasm hitting you harder than even the slap had.

"Oh, god," you whispered breathlessly while riding the high of pleasure and shame as you felt your juices leaking even through your panties, dripping and running down the body of the other stronger brother.

"Seems like you finally get it, sacrifice," the guy in front of you noted, brushing his thumb over your lips, which opened automatically to his beckoning.

"Let's go, brother," he urged. "Seems our little fighter needs just a bit more convincing as to why they'll love being ours. I can't wait to make their belly swell with our clutch, just like Mother has always told us."

"We're lucky we found a mate so quickly," the other agreed, and you let out a defeated huff, no more words to counter them with coming to your dazed thoughts.

Their tail set into motion, scales slithering over stone, while your mind drifted off, the aphrodisiac having too much of a hold on your conscience for you to be rid of it quickly. You were going to be taken by the monsters, and if you thought you were helpless before, your body now barely felt like it belonged to you. It was as if you weren't its master anymore, but that drug and those snakes were. You could only shiver, even though the air was getting hotter the closer you three got to the volcano, wondering if you at least fulfilled your duty as a sacrifice.

And when that duty would finally end.

[unintentionalseductress]

Can I be the Snoflake emoji? :D Requesting a 15...of Zayne AND Dawnbreaker Zayne somehow?

Hello! Yes you can be my snowflake anon! I'll update the emoji list. Now, I almost said no to this because I have a Dawnbreaker and Zayne threesome fic I'm working on with a very similar concept but I can't help myself, I'd religiously be taking cock everyday from these 2 if I could.

So if there are some similarities spotted between this and my other fic, pardon. I just really like both of them.

DVP

--------

Sex had always been a two person act according to you. You'd never wanted anyone else, not with Zayne satisfying your every need so thoroughly, not to mention his possessive streak.

So what the fuck were you doing, allowing Zayne's doppleganger to pull off your shirt as he gently traces your smooth skin reverently. This alternate dimension with Zayne's future self was mindboggling. You can see the differences between him and Dawnbreaker as plain as day and night.

Zayne's eyes hold tenderness for you, his girlfriend of many years, while Dawnbreaker's look at you with longing, like a man finding an oasis after wandering the desert. And both of them wanted you equally. Zayne had been thrown off when you both saw him at first but after hearing his story, it appeared that his mind had softened for his alter ego.

"I love her too, and I never thought I'd have her in my life," Dawnbreaker had whispered, gazing at you with those haunted eyes that made your heart ache for him. And somehow, Zayne had yielded, perhaps because in his mind, he was giving you to himself. You doubted he would have gone through with this if it was someone else.

And now you're having your first threesome, except it was with the same man you'd been sleeping with, copied, and feeling the same way Zayne did. It was so arousing, having two of him, with none of the awkwardness of a threesome because you knew him and what to expect.

Still, your body shivers as both Dawnbreaker and Zayne take one of your nipples into their mouths, their lips and tongue feeling similar but flicking different patterns onto the heardened peaks. You whine against the dual stimulation. One Zayne left you satisfied and warm. Two was going to break you, you were certain, in the most delicious way possible.

They suckle and pull, two pairs of hands roaming over your skin, squeezing and stroking every inch of you. Dawnbreaker is under a spell, marveling at the softness of your skin and the taste of your breast as he leaves a mark on the swell of flesh before kissing his way down to your navel, dipping his hot tongue into the little depression, making your squirm with need. Zayne reassuringly pets your hair before pulls you back against his chest, and he grips your thighs, spreading them apart for Dawnbreaker.

A flush erupts over your skin as he completely exposes you to Dawnbreaker's attentive eyes which widen at the sight, seeing the glistening membranes, and the proud little pearl peaking out of your folds at the apex.

"Suck it, like you did her nipple." Zayne issues the advice softly and Dawnbreaker, feeling his mouth water at the sight, obliges, running his tongue between your folds, making you sigh before sealing his lips over your clit. Your body is sensitized and your arousal keeps mounting, the knowledge that these two men were so utterly consumed with you and eager to bring ecstasy into your veins.

You moan and your hips buck but your legs are firmly held apart by Zayne as he helps Dawnbreaker bring you to your peak. "Does it feel good?" He whispers teasingly in your ear and you nod breathlessly.

"It's just like you," you admit then bite your lip as Dawnbreaker slips his fingers into your fluttering hole. His fingers work up a tantalizing rhythm inside you and your eyes squeeze closed and you let out a broken mewl as you cum so satifyingly on his fingers. Dawbreaker crawls up to kiss you and you're sandwiched between the two men.

"I think you can take both of us," Zayne purrs seductively and you're shifted so that you're laying on top of Dawnbreaker. As primal instinct takes over, you raise your hips and start taking his cock into you, feeling a rush at the way Dawnbreaker's eyes go wide as your velvety wetness envelopes him, welcoming him into your heat. He seems unsure what to do but you shush him and start to ride, and his head falls back as he lets out a groan.

Zayne embraces you from behind, kissing the back of your neck and fondling your breasts before leaning you onto Dawnbreaker's chard chest. You gasp as you feel him enter you, gently pushing past the muscle and filling your channel alongside Dawnbreaker. The headiness of being so full, so stretched and used draws a shuddering cry from you. Their cocks move in tendem inside you, strokng your walls and pushing you to the brink, caressing your gspot and kissing your cervix with their tips.

Dawnbreaker grunts and Zayne empathizes with his counterpart; of course he didn't know how needy he would become after experiencing you and your delicious cunt. He's barely holding on, teeth gritted from the additional stimulation of having another cock rub against him. He cums first, releasing his load into you as his hands grip your sides. Zayne starts playing with your clit as he thursts and stars form behind your closed eyes as a second orgasm rips through you before Zayne allows himself to climax, his seex mixing with Dawnbreaker's and making a mess in your already sloppy cunt.

[spacelattae]

Uh Jazzop Angst Teaser

One day I will make my baby Jazz happy. Today is not that day.

Jazz was a good friend. 

Jazz was a good friend. 

That’s what he told himself, at least, every time he walked through the enormous golden palace that had once belonged to Sentinel Prime and was now being rebuilt for the autobot cause— in a more utilitarian, less obnoxiously opulent manner, of course. It now hosted a war room, a surveillance room, the armory had grown exponentially, it was ringed with tough walls, and Optimus was even trying to get the giant tower to expand upward and breach the surface so they could reclaim the land that was once lost to them. 

But he hardly paid that any mind now, not when he was on a very secret and special mission that involved him sneaking through the shadows like a wraith and keeping his chatty nature on hold for just a moment. He prided himself on being decidedly stealthy when he needed to be, something Prowl had always hated him for because it made it so easy to play practical jokes on him whenever he wanted. Poor mech was probably traumatized, to be very honest. 

But, well, there were no practical jokes to be played now, because Jazz was currently tailing Optimus Prime, the now-glorious leader of the Autobots, whose very presence sent a reverent silence sweeping over the halls he walked through. 

And whose constantly frustratingly sad face was starting to actually piss Jazz off. 

He kept his battlemask up more often than not now, Jazz noticed. But it wasn’t enough to hide the way his optics somehow seemed duller with every passing day, even with a t-cog and the Matrix of Leadership imbuing him with power beyond reckoning every waking moment. You would think the presence of these things would make a mech more alive, but no— Optimus Prime seemed more dead inside than Orion Pax ever had, even covered in soot and grime and weary and drained from hard work in the mines. Orion Pax had always had a smile on his face. Orion Pax’s optics were always full of laughter and life. Orion Pax had always retained a mischievous streak to rival Jazz’s own, and Jazz could not count the number of times they’d rolled together, breathless with laughter, over a silly series of shenanigans they’d gotten up to on one of their rare shifts off together. 

Optimus Prime, although he was now larger and stronger and wiser, had not laughed since the moment D-16— no, Megatron— had left. 

And, see, it was up to Jazz to change that! Always had been. Optimus had named him Second In Command, and Jazz would be damned if he didn’t live up to that important title. And look, one of his jobs— literally, in the job description— was keeping troop morale high, right? And… Optimus was one of the troops? 

Jazz was just being a good friend here. His spark definitely did not skip a beat when he met Optimus Prime’s vivid blue optics, his plating did not shudder with heat and charge when Optimus placed a comforting servo on his shoulder, his cabling didn’t thrum to life when Optimus shot him one of his rare smiles. No. That wasn’t real. 

…

It definitely wasn’t what Optimus needed right now, in any case! He didn’t need that whole burden on his already-burdened shoulders, that Jazz had been hopelessly in love with him for cycles even though he knew it could never happen because Orion Pax and D-16 were a pair that could never be separated. They were a match forged by Primus. They were Thing 1 and Thing 2. Hammer and nail. Gold and blue. What D-16 had that Jazz didn’t, he would never know; and he certainly would never forgive that idiot, dumbaft, stupid mech for having the entire world in the palm of his servos and then throwing it away like it was nothing. He had Orion, he’d always fragging had Orion, and he took it for granted. He. Left. When he could have had everything he ever could have wanted.

And now Optimus, dragging his pedes more and more the closer he got to his chambers as if he was running out of the willpower to keep himself going, was suffering for it. The thing was, maybe so was Jazz, because he didn’t know how much longer he could keep playing this twisted game of pretend anymore. 

Jazz was a good friend.

Yeah, sure, but friends didn’t sneak through the halls in the middle of night to quietly knock on the heavy metal door to one’s berthroom, now did they? Friends didn’t lean in the doorway casually, sacrificing sleep to crack jokes that didn’t reflect the pain in their spark just to see a shadow of a smile on a face that was once always lit with laughter. 

Friends didn’t know, intimately, how the other’s dermas always, without fail, tasted distinctly of salt and bitter tears. 

“Jazz,” Optimus murmured against his dermas as he was swiftly dragged in through the doorway and promptly lunged in for a hungry kiss— because Jazz would take any part of Optimus he could get, even when it meant nothing at all. “Jazz, I thought we said not tonight.”

“You can’t fool me, Bossbot,” Jazz smirked with a bravado he didn’t feel as he looked up and traced the haggard lines of Optimus’s faceplates with optics he was grateful were hidden by his visor. Else perhaps Optimus would have seen the worry there, the concern, the pain, the sparkbreak. “I saw you in the War Room today. You were completely out of it.”

Optimus sighed, long and heavy, and let Jazz push him onto his berth so he sat on its edge, his large servos coming to rest at their usual comforting position at Jazz’s hips as he stood between the Prime’s powerful thighs. Slowly, Optimus let his helm dip forward and hit Jazz’s right shoulder with a heavy clunk, his entire frame sagging with it. Instinctively, Jazz reached up to cradle the back of Optimus’s helm, tracing the intricate grooves there. 

“That obvious?” the Prime mumbled, his deep voice reverberating through Jazz’s frame, and Jazz let out a quiet laugh. 

“A little,” he chuckled, to which Optimus turned his helm so he was frowning at Jazz with a disapproving look. “Well. Obvious to me. Your optic color was a hex-code too off for it to be normal.”

And then Jazz immediately wanted to shoot himself in the mouth, because seriously what kind of just-friend notices that kind of stuff and okay now I’m busted and he’s going to be so suspicious and—

But Optimus just looked at him with optics that were too-soft, his face without his battlemask looking so much like the old Orion Pax with the constantly-upturned dermas Jazz’s spark ached. “Only you would notice that,” he smiled, amused, and yes, score, that was GREAT. “You’re far too perceptive to let me get away with things. It’s why you are a wonderful Second.”

Jazz’s spark swelled and sputtered out in the same few klicks. 

“So,” Jazz coughed, trying to hide the way he was flushing brighter with every passing moment, “what was it this time, glorious leader?”

And although Jazz was sure he knew what Optimus was going to say, and although he knew that the smile would fade and his face would fall, that didn’t make it sting any less when Optimus turned his face away, his optics dulling again sadly. 

“We saw him today,” he murmured, seemingly oblivious to how every word was a stab to Jazz’s very spark. “D— I mean. Megatron. On patrol. He shot at Bluestreak, even when we told him we meant no aggression.”

“Hm,” Jazz made a small noise in the back of his throat, wondering why he’d never put two and two together that this was probably why Bluestreak had been in the infirmary for the past couple of hours. But Optimus hadn’t reported it, or anything— so no one had any reason to assume. He was sure the Prime read the question flashing in his visitor before Jazz had the chance to ask it, however. 

“It was an interaction of little consequence,” he murmured hurriedly. “I just… I didn’t know what to make of it. He shot Bluestreak, and when I cried out, he— I don’t know. He seemed to let it go. He let us go.”

Jazz didn’t know what to say to this, but he could feel the pain lashing out from Optimus’s usually-tight EM field, he could see the absolute sadness in his optics, he could feel the pain emanating from every cable in his entire being. And so Jazz said nothing, just cradled Optimus’s face in both his servos and looked right into his optics, tilting his helm. 

“Do you want to forget it?” Jazz asked quietly, his voice rasping an octave deeper as he watched the Prime’s optics dilate, just the slightest bit. 

Optimus had never said no— not after the first time Jazz had assured his shaking and crying form it was alright with him. He didn’t mind. 

Jazz was a good friend. 

And so when Optimus whispered a soft: “yes,” Jazz did not hesitate before dipping his helm down and capturing those soft dermas again with a gentle, brushing kiss, this one just a feather-light touch in the beginning before Optimus’s servo snaked to the back of Jazz’s helm and pulled him in deeper. Unbidden, Jazz flicked his visor back, something he reserved for only those he trusted the very most, with every corner of his spark— and who better than Optimus, who had laughed with him and looked out for him since the very beginning? Whose spark was so pure Primus himself saw it fit to bless him as one of his chosen? Who was as kind and gentle as he was strong, who never lost his temper and who handled the bots around him with a sound processor? 

And, moreover— he knew Optimus liked it this way. 

After all, D-16 never had a visor, did he?

Even after countless nights of this same routine, Optimus was still as gentle with him as he’d always been, asking softly before hooking a strong servo around Jazz’s waist to pull him into his lap, their frames sparking with charge. 

Salt. Jazz tasted salt again, and before he knew it, his lips were traveling down to Optimus’s neck cabling, drawing precious gasps and ragged vents from his powerful frame. To say Optimus Prime throwing his helm back and moaning from Jazz’s skilled tongue was an understatement— nipping at his neck cabling and feeling him writhe was close to Jazz’s favorite thing in all of Cybertron. 

“Focus on me,” he murmured as Optimus shuddered with optics shut in pleasure, holding Jazz gently, close, as if afraid he would break. Or as if pretending his frame was a little broader, a little bulkier, a little more silver. “Focus on me, Optimus Prime.”

“I can make you forget.”

Now if only there was a way for Jazz to forget the steady, painful pulsing of his own spark reminding him that, as always, this was just a little game of pretend, and the morning would come as it always did.

With Jazz in Second, as he always was.

[starryficsfinishwen]

꒰ . ⋮ # 1 Aftertaste.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ — Kinktober 2024

with a taste of your lips, I'm on ride

syn. week 1 of Kinktober 2024, featuring Wuthering Waves and Punishing: Gray Raven men! (A to E)

kinktober masterlist

other works | playlist

a.n. rlly late but at least we got a month to go :D

pairings. [ pgr ] m!shikikan, noctis, lee, chrome, [ wuwa ] yuanwu x f!reader (separate)

CONTENT WARNINGS: NSFW WARNING. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. age play, biting, seggs, a lil' cnc (consensual nonconsent), daddy kink, dirty talking, cardiophilia (attraction to heartbeats), enkuophilia (breeding kink), hints of use of aphrodisiacs (yuanwu), semi-public sex (chrome) dividers by @/cafekitsune!

˚ʚ A for Age play ɞ˚

A Little Death ⟡ Shikikan

In a world where everything is very overwhelming and too much, wouldn’t it be nice if you could actually get someone to do everything for you?

Lucky for you, there was someone else keeping you satisfied.

“Oh, darling,” Your lover purrs in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, “do you not like my gift for you?”

A frilly skirt brushes your soft thighs as you shift in your seat. In the comforts of home, you excitedly wore the Commandant’s pretty gift to you— a pink, frilly short dress that halts by your thighs, paired with a matching pair of tights. The silk around your body hugs you perfectly, but you, in your simple mind, somehow want more.  The numbing vibration down there echoes throughout your whole body, yet never quite enough. You reach out to the Commandant, the golden bracelets shimmering under the fluorescent light of your shared home.

“Daddy,” you whine, desperate enough to rub your cheek on your lover’s hand, “Daddy, I missed you.”

Having the revered Commandant of the Gray Raven is both heaven and hell—heaven in a way that your love is pure and unadulterated, enough that keeps you both sane in this busy battlefield; hell, in a way that prevents you both from seeing each other for a long time. Like now, after many months of him being away, you’re finally back in each other’s arms. Like now—

A gentle hand carefully tilts your chin upward, making you look up to the Commandant.

“Now, now, darling, I want you to use your big girl words.” He tuts, “Do you not like my gift?”

“I-I do!” You cry out, jerking your hips as you try to rub your legs together, “It’s just…I…”

“You want what, dear?”

The Commandant finally kneels to your height. You bite your lips as you feel the vibrator shift a little deeper inside of you. “I…um, I jus’ really m-missed you…”

“Such a little darling for me, mm?” He hums, “Look at you, my darling little princess.”

The praise goes straight to your core, your hole throbbing around the vibrator. With a lithe moan of the Commandant’s name, you paw at his chest.

“D-Daddy,” With small tears in your eyes, you speak, “A-am I doing good?”

The Commandant’s pretty hands caresses your cheeks, to which you lean for his warmth. Such a simple, loving act brings immense joy to your daddy, that he chuckles.

“Ah, you’re doing a very great job, my darling.” Honey drips in his tongue, you shamelessly moan out loud from his voice. With his thumb tracing the outline of your lips, he mutters, “You’re been a very attentive girl these past few months, and you deserve such a great gift, don’t you think?”

His thumb easily slips inside your lips, and you open your mouth. You bob your head in agreement as you suck his thumb, your irises somehow shaped like hearts in your Commandant’s vision. “Yes, yes, yes, I’ve been a good little girl for you, daddy.”

“Well then, spread your legs for daddy.”

Without another word, you obeyed his commands. Opening your legs as wide as you can, you feel a plethora of your essence pool under you. The sight alone makes your lover salivate. After all, a treat like this after long months of absence would definitely satiate his hunger for you. Carefully, he plucks the vibrator out of your poor pussy, with more essence dripping out of you. You moan his name out loud.

“How do you want your gift, darling?” 

Sinful fingers trace your puffy pussy lips, before thumbing your little pearl, causing you to jerk in your seat. You breathe a shaky whine, to which the Commandant tuts.

“I want your big girl words, dear.”

“I-Inside, daddy.” You moan when his long fingers slipped inside, effortlessly finding your sensitive spots, “I-I want your dick inside of me, please!”

“That’s a good girl,” The Commandant praises you, thrusting his fingers upward to make you cry out, “I knew you would listen to your daddy.”

You whine a cry of disappointment when he temporarily withdraws his hands. In one swift motion, the Commandant takes off his pants, revealing his erect cock. Sitting on the bed, he pulls you to his lap. With a small kiss to your jaw, he whispers in your ear.

“Come and get your gift, dear.”

˚ʚ B for Biting ɞ˚

Candy ⟡ Noctis: Indomitus

It’s no surprise that Noctis is territorial. The man hoards everything—glass, toys, anything—causing him trouble with all of the things he keeps, not only to you, but even in Cerberus.

What you never knew though, was that his possessiveness extends to more than just material things.

“Ugh, f-fuck,” Noctis groans at the tightness of your cunt around his dick, “God, you’re so tight, you’re killing me.”

With a sharp thrust of his hips, you squeal as you hold onto the headboard with all your might. “N-Noctis! I-I thought we promised Vera we’ll be quiet…!”

Your meathead of a boyfriend could only moan your name as a response, big hands holding your hips. Noise complaints were already issued as soon as you and Noctis were together, that you’d be too embarrassed whenever you’d meet with Cerberus. But alas, your lover is too hard-headed to ever listen.

“S-Sorry, but I—hngh, so good—this pussy is just too good…!”

Twin moans spill from both of your lips as Noctis fucks you deeper, his hands sliding to the curve of your legs, pushing them to your ears. The new position causes you to cry louder, his long dick somehow feeling like he’s reaching your womb.

“No-Noctis!” 

“Fuck that.”

Noctis rises to see you better under him—with your pretty, fucked out face as uncontrollable moans leave your mouth, tiny hands now gripping his broad shoulders. Was it the blur, or the steam, or the love-lust that somehow clouds his mind as he notices your bare neck. And he gets it—the urge to mark you. No, not just inside of you, but every part of you. In the heat of the moment, Noctis latches onto your chest. With a firm bite! of his teeth in your chest, your orgasm comes crashing down on you, with a loud cry of Noctis’ name. 

“Noctis—! We talked a-abo—haah-!”

Of course, hickies were fine, but you always drew a line for too much. But was it really too much? To him, it still isn’t enough. Noctis is still relentless, fucking you through your orgasm, as he continues to litter your chest with bites. Moving upward, he rests your legs over his shoulder now, the urge to mark you causing him to fuck you harder.

“No-no-noctis—”

“I need to mark you,” He grunts in your neck, the last of his work as his impending orgasm starts to crash onto him, “One more.”

With the last of his precious mark on your now-littered neck, you squeeze his arms as Noctis’ orgasm comes unexpectedly. You cry out with your eyes rolling back as Noctis unconsciously bites your shoulder, triggering you to squirt all over his cock, as well as him filling you up.

Noctis is territorial, you know of that. But seeing the way he had marked you, inside and out, you are sure now that his possessiveness is more than anything simple.

“[Y/N],” Noctis moans, watching his bites and hickies all over your neck and chest, as well as your little pussy struggling to keep all of his cum inside, “...you’d give me one more, mm?”

˚ʚ C for Cardiophilia* ɞ˚

Casually Closer ⟡ Lee: Hyperreal

A construct’s heart is different from a human’s. 

Thump, thump, thump. Apart from its irregular beat, its structure alone runs a different substance. For a construct like Lee, whose heart he had long given up to his beloved brother, he once believed he could no longer love like a human. 

That is, until you came along.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Your heart peacefully throbs in your chest as you sleep. Lee watches you diligently, watching your sleeping figure bathe in the moonlight. He has long been accustomed to hearing the thrum of your heartbeat in the midst of the night. As he finishes the last of your paperwork (ones that he forced you to give to him so you could sleep), his eyes find themselves trailing back to you.

Thump. Thump. Your heart is in perfect condition. The rise and fall of your chest. The subtle curl of your lips, as if you are having a nice dream. Were you having a nice dream? Lee is jealous; he wishes he could see it.

But alas, his eyes drift downwards, to your body. The blankets fall off of your body, exposing your skin, in your shorts. Slightly looking away, Lee’s cheeks dusting pink as he approaches you. The bed dips as he sits beside you, taking in your beauty in the moonlight.

“Commandant,” he sighs, pulling the blankets back to your body, “...sleep tight.”

Thump. Thump. His robotic fingers land on the apex of your chest, where your heart was. Thump…Thump. A skip. His eyebrows raise— did your heart just skip a beat.

“...mmn, Lee…” You mutter his name, in your sleep.

“Commandant?”

“...mm, more,” you mutter once more, your face contorting, “more…please.”

Thump, th-thump. Your heart rate jumps. Something is new in your dreams, then. You shift in your sleep, tired hands holding onto Lee’s, as the blanket on your body fails to cover you. His palm falls flat on your chest, the throbbing of your heart increasing.

Were you having a wet dream of Lee, perhaps?

The thought hits harder to the construct, the blush on his cheeks shading to the color of your exposed panties. 

“Commandant…” He whispers, “Please—”

The subtle way your body leans to him, your thighs barely touching Lee’s body. Yet, the action alone somehow makes his pants tight. This is a problem he faces whenever you are around— Lee both hates and adores the way his body reacts to you so easily.

“—Lee,” you softly moan his name, and his cock throbs, “‘m so needy…”

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Your heartbeat clamors loudly in your chest, and Lee couldn’t help but groan. He wants to touch you. He needs to touch you. But despite the throb of his cock, he could never find the heart to defile you.

“Commandant, you’re making this hard for me…” Lee tries to escape from your grasp, but the grip on his hand somehow tightens.

“...and I know you’re awake, Commandant.”

Your face scrunches up. Slowly opening your eyes, Lee isn’t surprised to see your lust-blown irises staring back at him sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, Lee.” You pout, holding his hand to pull it all over your chest, “But you already know that you can touch me, you know.”

“I can’t bring myself to do that to you, Commandant.” He looks away, his “cooling system” failing to hide the reddening blush across his face, “You already know that.”

“Mm, yeah, but I really do need you, Lee.” You whispered, “Can’t you feel it?”

His hand squeezes your breast, before feeling your heartbeat again. Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.

Your heartbeat is beautiful. You are beautiful. You’re too much— but Lee would kill to be in between you right now.

Without a second thought, Lee leans down to capture your lips with his. In the frenzy haze of lust under the moonlight, he kisses you like there’s no tomorrow. Fuck, it’s too delicious to even think straight, that he effortlessly carries you to his lap. Aimless hands touching skin everywhere, knowing no bounds as you descend into madness.

Thump.Thump.Thump. 

Your heartbeat falls into the same throbbing pattern as his own mechanical heart. You moan into the kiss when you feel Lee’s hands rip through your poor excuse of a pajama, his thumb teasing your now-soaked folds.

“Lee, Lee,” You cry out when his fingers slip inside of your aching hole, despite your underwear, “Stop teasing…!”

“Says the woman who’s been doing that all night.” Lee moans when your pussy flutters around his fingers, “God, so needy.”

“I need you, Lee,” You whine, hips grinding to the way he fingers you, “I need you inside of me, Lee.”

Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump—

Your heartbeat draws Lee wild. With a little assistance from you, he opens his pants to free his erection. An erotic moan draws out of you, as he slowly lowers you to his hard cock, your warm walls contracting around him. A careless grunt escapes his lips, as your cunt flutters as the intrusion.

“Are you oka—”

“—fuck,” You cry out, feeling his cock finally bottoming inside of you, “Lee-!”

The tip teases your sensitive spot, with little tears forming around your eyes. Trying to ease the pain from his size, you helplessly cling onto Lee’s shoulders, catching your breath. But Lee—God knows how far gone he is.

Thump.Thump.Thump. 

Your heartbeat, the way your pussy flutters around his cock— Lee knows he’s in heaven. One sharp thrust, and he has you moaning already. 

“W-wait, Lee—?!” “—You feel so divine, [Y/N],” Lee mutters, the pussydrunk feeling already settling deep in his system, “Let me make you feel so good, please.”

˚ʚ D for Dirty talking ɞ˚

Daddy Issues ⟡ Yuanwu

You are attracted to the owner of the famous boxing gym in Jinzhou: Yuanwu. It’s so wrong, yet it somehow feels so right.

“You seem a bit stiff again today, [Y/N],” You hear Yuanwu say behind you, your roaring heart echoing throughout your whole body.

It’s another workout day. Your arms looped around the bar above you, as you try to accommodate your stretches. Yet, hearing the object of your affections, somehow nearly made you lose your balance. Fortunately—

“Careful, there, little girl,” Yuanwu’s husky voice sends tingles to your ear, “I’d rather not let you fall so quickly.”

Before you could hit the ground, Yuanwu held you by the hips. With a squeal, you quickly brush yourself off of him.

“A-ah, Mr. Yuanwu!” You look away to hide from his knowing gaze, “I’m fine! Sorry, I got distracted…”

He’s silent again. Glancing back at him, you notice gray eyes glazed with worry. Without a thought, you reach out to squeeze his arm.

“I–um, Mr. Yuanwu, I’m perfectly fine, I promise.” You mutter with a sigh, “Can I have a sip of your tea instead? I feel a little light-headed right now.”

Lucky for you, he already had the table set. Sitting across you, drinking his usual brewed Trine tea. The lime-colored tea smells so rejuvenating and refreshing, that you want to drown in its smell alone.

“Say, [Y/N],” Yuanwu opens the conversation for a while, “How are you liking the gym so far?”

You take a sip. The tea oddly tastes sweet today. “Oh…I am enjoying it so far, Mr. Yuanwu. I didn’t even know that I’d be really enjoying the stretches…”

“I’m glad,” He flashes a sweet smile, the laugh lines around his eyes a little more noticeable, “To be honest, when I saw your physique, I always thought you’d be more suitable for stretches.”

Your throat feels scratchy, the more you listen to Yuanwu. Taking another sip, your attention seems to be limited— oddly fixated on the tacet mark on his neck, watching the rise and fall of his broad chest, somehow noticing the way his prominent Adam’s apple bob as he speaks— you snap out of your trance when he snaps his fingers.

“Ms. [Y/N]?” Hell, even Yuanwu’s voice somehow made your core throb, “Are you listening?”

“Hah,” Noticing the intense stare of your master, the blush on your face draws a darker shade. “Yes, Mr. Yuanwu!”

“Okay, so as I was saying…”

His mouth was moving, but the words died down in your ears. Eagerly watching how he took off his gloves, revealing long, calloused hands. They opened and closed in front of you, before reaching for his cup. Tracing the outline of the cup, your thoughts turned naughty—  Wondering how his hands would trace your legs, the inside of your thighs, your wet cunt. Wondering how they’d pry your legs open, how his deft fingers would actually play with your throbbing clit—

“...seeing as your flexibility knows no bounds, I do wonder how far you’d be willing to open your legs for me, darling?”

The words cme hurling at you at a surprising speed. You look up to find Yuanwu’s sweet smile, but this time, laced with something far too lewd.

“I guess you already have imagined that, haven’t you, little [Y/N]?”

Yuanwu stands up, slowly approaching you. His gloveless hands found themselves cupping your cheek, his thumb caressing your lips.

“How long have you fantasized about me, [Y/N]?”

“I…Mr. Yuanwu…”

“Tell me, my dear. I long noticed the way you look at me. It’s unlike any other simple one.” His voice drops an octave lower, looking down on you as he touches your leg. “Do you know the properties of Trine tea is being honest, right? It’ll break my poor heart if you don’t tell me, my [Y/N].”

“A while,” You whisper, noticing the close proximity between the both of you, “I-I have been…”

“Really? That’s so sweet of you. Tell me; what do you usually fantasize about?”

That’s definitely private information. But the way Yuanwu has been looking at you, only made your cunt clench around nothing. “I-I’m too shy…!”

“I’ll help you, then.” He flashes his teeth, akin to little fangs, “Perhaps I need to teach you more about being honest.”

“My dear [Y/N], do you fantasize me holding you like this, then?”

He gently holds your arms above your head, graciously with one hand. In a swift moment, he has you pinned on the table.

“Do you imagine me holding your hands up like this, while I’m in between you?”

He slips himself in between your legs, your legs locking him around his waist, making him hiss.

“M-Mr. Yuanwu-!”

“Do you imagine me holding you by your neck, while I try to kiss you?”

His other hand holds you by the base of your neck, lightly putting pressure. You gasp at the sensation, your hips involuntarily grinding on his hips. He graciously returns the motion, his poking erection on your clothed core.

“Do you imagine me touching you in places that are too precious?”

One hand leaves your neck, trailing from your chest, down to your quivering thighs. Holding you there with a light squeeze, one thrust to your cunt. You moan quietly.

“Or do you imagine me taking you here, on this very table, telling you how much of a good girl you are as I fuck you like an animal?”

You moan loudly when Yuanwu ruts himself on you. You squirm from his grip, but he only urges you further— your back arching, aching for more.

“Fuck me, please!” You cry out, squirming in his grip, “I said fuck me, please, sir!”

“‘Atta girl,” Yuanwu grins, slowly peeling off your shorts, “Let’s make your dreams come true, hm?”

˚ʚ E for Enkuopophilia** ɞ˚

Earned it ⟡ Chrome: Glory

Chrome is a family man, you’ve noted.

Despite living in a house devoid of any familial love, despite only having robots around him. As Langston Smith, his world revolved around “glory”. When he was baptized as Chrome, a new kind of world came— a different kind of glory. Chrome has long learned love through his members, through Strike Hawk. Sure, living as a construct may be hard and different, but it’s a beautiful one. Especially when love exists in his team.

Especially with you in it.

“Your baby is so cute~!” You gush, excitingly holding the small, fragile baby in your arms, “She’s so beautiful…”

On a rest day, Chrome accompanied you to visit an old friend. Long did you both know that your friend had a surprise waiting for you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant!” You playfully teased your blushing friend, “I could have prepared a baby shower for you!”

“We didn’t know either,” She giggles, looking at her husband, “I eventually found out by accident. She really is a surprise for us.”

Chrome could see the love in your friend’s eyes as she gazed at her husband. The latter looks back at her the same way, a soft squeeze on her hand. Looking back at you, who has been captured by the baby’s charms, an unadulterated emotion knocks on Chrome’s chest.

What was it?

“You and Chrome would have a lovely family, if you ever decide to have one.” Your friend comments.

Your eyes meet Chrome’s pensive ones. With a lovely smile, you nodded. “I sure hope so.”

Ah, Chrome knows it’s impossible. How can a construct and a human ever have a family? But somehow, seeing your relaxed appearance as you held the baby— and somehow Chrome sees something else: you, with a swollen belly, looking at him. And something shifts inside of him. And something is different.

“C-Chrome-!” Moans of your lover’s name fill your mouth as you feel yourself fall flat on the wall, “S-slow down!”

Soon after your little affair at your friend’s place, Chrome had you pinned on the wall at Smith’s home. Your panties were thrown somewhere on the floor, alongside Chrome’s jacket. Your body surrenders as Chrome drills deep into you, the surge of pleasure nearly blurring your vision. The whirr of the robots seem absent, but the looming fear that the patriarch would stumble in, would see the lewd and disheveled look on your faces—

“Don’t think of anyone else right now, hah, [Y/N],” Chrome growls, “Focus on me.”

His grip on your hips is ruthless as he fucks you deeper, the tip of his cock precisely hitting your sweetest spots in one go. Your cries only spur his drive— in the face of your lover, you submit to his desires.

“I-I just—hngh, I do-don’t understand w-what got you so w-haah, worked up-!”

“I’m sorry,” He apologizes so gently, in contrast to his thrusts, “You…you were just so beautiful ho-holding a baby…”

Chrome moans your name with a sharp thrust, knocking the air out of you for a moment. Holding a baby? Ah, Chrome saw it. He saw how lovely you were, as you held the baby.

“I want to fuck a baby in you,” Chrome pleads, “I want you to carry our child, [Y/N].”

A cry rips out of your mouth when your orgasm comes crashing without a warning. The idea of having a family with Chrome was something you’ve long wanted. But Chrome— fuck the laws. Like him, the idea of having a family with Chrome is a need. 

“Did you come for me already, [Y/N]?” He chuckles in your ear, fingers rubbing your neglected nub, “So pretty f’me.”

His actions cause you to squirm in his hold. With a cry of his name, your pussy clenches around his length, causing Chrome to hold his breath.

“Do you like the idea of having a baby with me?” Chrome asks so softly, you nearly forget the rough pace he set on your poor pussy, “Do you want to start a family with me, [Y/N]?”

“F-Fuck!” You moan shamelessly, holding onto Chrome’s hand, “Breed me, Chrome, please.”

Chrome looks down to find a frothy white rim around his hard length. Watching how addicting you were to him, your abused pussy taking all of him, his impending orgasm roars loudly in his body— the urge to breed, breed, breed–!

“I’ll put a baby in you, [Y/N],” Chrome pulls you even closer, and all emotions come crashing in— “So take it all.”

“Chrome–!”

As your eyes roll back to your skull, your second orgasm forces Chrome to cum with you, spurts of his hot cum seeping so so deep in you, that some overflowed out of you. It takes a while before you both manage to catch your breath. You try to move your muscles, albeit aching, but Chrome stops you.

“A-ah,” Chrome tuts, “Not yet. I’m not done with you, yet.”

The telltale of Chrome’s still-hard cock still buried inside of you, with some of his cum plugged deep inside of you brings you to reality. It’s only until Chrome carries you, makes you whine.

“I’m not leaving until we’re successful, [Y/N].”

© starryficsfinishwen ᯓ★

please don't steal or own my works!!

*cardiophilia - attraction to heartbeats **enkuopophilia - breeding kink

[pileofmush]

blue raspberry, red sun ୧ ‧₊˚

ft. monkey d. luffy

hello! this is an entry for the lovely @threadbaresweater's summertime (and the livin' is easy) event! haven't written for luffy in a while but i missed him, so.

details ➸ tags: modern au, tooth-rotting fluff, no plot just vibes // cw: gn!reader, mc is implied to have cleavage // wc: 1.3k // ao3

“how can you fuck up eating a popsicle that bad?” you ask, eyes wide at the straight-up murder scene before you. your own ice cream cone sits pristine in your hands—vanilla with a waffle cone. cute, contained, simple. 

you’re sitting on a curb in the middle of who knows where. the sun is particularly vengeful today: bright, hot, loud. it chases away all the shadows and beams down on you like you called it’s mother a whore. sweat pools between your thighs; concrete digs into your ass. you’re afraid that when you stand up there’ll be a sweat-stained print on the sidewalk, free for everyone to see.

your boyfriend shrugs, messy raven hair falling over his tan, toned shoulders. “dunno,” luffy says blandly. he licks his hand in one long stripe like a heathen and hums. “it’s good—wanna taste?”

you balk at the suggestion. “no, don’t—!”

too late.

🍓 .・゜-: ✧ :-

you can catalogue the days spent with luffy during a week by the amount of damage done to your closet. 

the pretty pale pink blouse you thrifted a few months ago—the one with the lace trim that shows off the perfect amount of cleavage—tossed in the hamper with thoughts and prayers thanks to the gigantic-ass stain luffy blessed you with last wednesday. 

(you should’ve seen it coming, really, neon blue sludge dripping from his sun-speckled fingers with reckless abandon near moments before he grabbed you by the waist to bring you in for a sloppy, tart kiss. it was quick and bright, an explosion of blue raspberry, before he pulled away as quickly as he initiated the kiss. he wiped his mouth with a lazy flick of his hand, then grinned a proud, dopey grin, teeth glinting in the sunlight. 

you remember feeling dizzy and warm, baked in the sun and your love and the sheer aura your boyfriend possessed.

“tastes good, right?” he asked. 

your eyes caught his flash of tongue as he spoke, tongue stained blue. 

“yeah,” you agreed quietly, reverently. “tastes good.”)

then there was the trip to the beach a few days ago that luffy suggested, which… alright, maybe you can’t blame him for getting sand all over you at the beach.

(and really, it was a nice trip. you and the straw-hats all packed into franky’s van like a baby soccer team getting driven to their first game. windows down, luffy happily chewing on a sandwich you packed him, nami rattling off directions like it’s her day job, brook belting 2000’s pop. and then, the lot of you spilling out and ambling to the beach. sunscreen slathered on every inch of your skin. the feel of hot wind and sand in between your toes, the salty tang of the sea on your tongue, and your hand in luffy’s, always, as he drags you across the beach with glee.) 

but still. luffy brought home a slimy strand of seaweed to prank you with, and it somehow found its way into your underwear drawer. 'no, he did not put it there', let him tell it. you had to resist beating him with a slipper. gosh, he’s such a dork.

so, yeah. dating luffy definitely means more frequent loads of laundry, but it’s fine. it really is. s’not like you didn’t know what you were getting into. s’not like you mind any traces of luffy you can get. 

luffy seems the type to be born in the summer.

he’s not- he wasn’t. a spring baby through and through, to your initial surprise. and sure, there’s probably something poetic you could say about blossoms and rebirth and fresh starts, but really, luffy reminds you of the hot, everlasting summer. he’s practically the sun incarnate. could’ve been a sun god in another life, for all you know, because his touch is so hot, hot, hot, and his laugh is crude and bright, and he is the only person you know to not wilt under the full force of the sun. instead, he feeds off of it. it gives him life, vigor, sustenance. 

you used to dread the summertime. now, it’s your favorite season.

so when luffy pops over with a blanket and a basket, you don’t need to think too hard to throw in a couple of (okay, several) sandwiches and some leftover fruit.

you decide on a quaint spot at a nearby park. the two of you walk side by side underneath the orange light of the dying sun. it’s a cooler evening. the grass next to your feet bristle; trees dance in the gentle breeze. the endless drone of the cicadas meshes with luffy’s rambling about his latest outing with ace and sabo—apparently, it ended in a fire—and you sneak a few glances at him. luffy’s skin is a rich, warm gold. underneath the last few embers of day, the sky soaked in warm oranges, pinks, and a devastating purple, you find traces of its colors reflected on his skin. 

and luffy is loud, loud, loud, but he is also quiet. and underneath the weight of the sky, you feel incredibly lucky to be a part of his life. 

his hand, looped lazily around your free wrist, snakes down to intertwine with your fingers. 

“what is it?” he interrupts his spiel with a sudden question. 

your teeth sink into the plush of your bottom lip as you consider your response. “it’s nothing.” you pause. parse through your emotions and will them to become coherent thoughts. “i guess i just missed you.”

slowly, he drags the two of you to a stop. he tugs on your hand, a reminder, even as he blinks in confusion. 

“i’m right here,” he says, solemn.

“i know.”

a beat.

“you don’t have to miss me. i’m already yours.”

and, he’s right. like a sun rising above the horizon after a night plunged in the dark, he returns to you, again and again. 

“i know that.” in a stroke of luffy-branded honesty, you admit to him with a shrug, “but i don’t think i’ll ever stop missing you.”  

it is not a bad thing. not a bad thing at all. just another way to say i love you. perhaps the only way you can say it, right now.

luffy stares at you for a while and then releases an uncharacteristic sigh. he takes the picnic basket out of your hands and lets it drop in the grass, along with the blanket he was carrying. then, without warning, your boyfriend tackles you to the ground.

you barely even register it, he breaks your fall so gently, and then he’s clambering over you, long arms pressing you into the soil, long tendrils of grass tickling your skin, and you’re thinking about the dirt undoubtedly ruining yet another shirt of yours as he clumsily lowers his mouth to yours. he smells like grass and sunscreen and maybe a little bit of sweat, and tastes a bit like koolaid. but all you can register is him, the ever-present heat radiating off his body, the nimble fingers digging into your skin almost brutally, the clink of his teeth against yours. hot and sloppy and luffy, luffy, luffy.

you kiss until you can’t breathe, until you breathe fire, until your head is spinning and you can think no more.

then, he rolls off of you. the two of you pant: you, content to remain a puddle on the ground, him, leaning back on his arms. still close, though. still above you, dark eyes roaming over your form intently, tracking your every flutter. 

it’s quiet, save for the cicadas. soundtrack of the summer. 

you sit up and try to pat yourself off. it’s probably useless. you know there’ll be nasty grass stains on your back when you get back home. ah, well. can't be helped.

“i get it,” luffy says, eventually. after you’ve both caught your breath. he runs a finger down your leg, tracing inexplicable patterns into your skin. “i miss you too.” 

oh, how silly it is, to be in love.

“i know,” you say, cheekily. 

he relaxes. “good.” luffy reaches up to pat your head. 

you bat his hand away.

he tosses you a toothy smile.

you catch it.

this was v fun to write. hope u liked reading it <3

[biolumien]

Hiiii!!!! 😊👋 So I only just started Kaiju no. 8!!! New to the fandom and not a manga reader. Idk what’s going to happen in the next episode—all I know is that Hoshina better not d*e lol.

Anyways!!! Obviously I am a huge Hoshina fan/simp!!! I really like your blog and I have enjoyed your Hoshina fics!!!!!! 🥹 And since your requests are open, I wanted to know if I could perhaps make one??? 👉👈

If so, I was wondering if you could do something sort of related to your “say it!” fic??? Like where Hoshina (+ reader) somehow bumps into the ex from operations you mentioned in the fic??? And reader gets SUPERRRRR jealous (lord knows I would be especially if said ex was really beautiful and smart) and insecure. Maybe reader acts a bit distant/moody after the encounter but once Hoshina realizes what’s up he immediately reassures reader and let’s them know how much he loves/cares for them???

Sorry if this request is weird or doesn’t make sense to you, I’ve honestly just been thinking about a similar scenario ever since reading that fic of yours 😭😭 anyways thank you so much for your time 🫶❤️ and please never stop writing, your fics are beautiful 💖💕

notes: hihi; thank you so much for your request; i hope that this is okay; you sent this in before the most recent episode but hoshina's a fairly important character to the story of kaiju no 8 overall so he'll be alright... i combined this with a slightly different ask which also surrounded jealousy but with okonogi; it's very briefly mentioned though.

jealousy as the crux

soshiro hoshina x gn!reader no warnings should apply, i think. wc: 837

hoshina always maintained rather easy conversation with a lot of people—friendly conversation that sometimes got the better of your self esteem when he teasingly doted on okonogi or otherwise. 

you’d tried not to bring it up, to not bother him—because envy and jealousy like that was an ugly emotion, of course. it wouldn’t be right to burden hoshina with them–mostly because you weren’t even sure how he’d react. he was plenty envious on his own, you think–key point on think. but it might have been for more reasonable things, surely. like the envious desire to become stronger, or something noble like that.

nothing quite like yours. 

but stumbling on hoshina’s ex was never on your list of priorities at all. 

so the fact that she was here—was her name amaya?—only made you more uncomfortable. you barely knew anything about her other than the fact that okonogi spoke her name with strained reverence, cautious to never bring it up around hoshina. hoshina seemed to be uncaring of it all, even so–as if he couldn’t be bothered to remember. 

she was smoking indoors, her eyes tired and weary. 

hoshina didn’t seem to tense up when talking to her, which strangely irked you more. 

“hoshina,” amaya says, approaching hoshina with a raised eyebrow. she pats his shoulder, and he chuckles.

“you look well,” hoshina murmurs. 

“hm. well as i’ll ever be.” her eyes flit to you, her eyes narrowing. you felt uncomfortable under her gaze, as if you were some unique kind of insect to be pinned up in a collection. “this your new partner? they’re cute.”

“hm?” hoshina laughs. “aren’t they?”

the compliment doesn’t feel good, somehow, as it usually does.

“thought you said you wouldn’t date again,” amaya says, dusting off some ash off the tip of her cigarette, taking another breath before blowing it away from the two of you. “not that we really were.” she snorts. “you were too much of a coward last time.”

“hey,” hoshina says, sounding mock-hurt. “i figured we were better off as friends.”

“hm.” amaya exhales. “whatever you say.”

“i wish you’d sound more enthusiastic about this,” hoshina retorts, laughing again. it’s the same laugh he has when he talks to okonogi, that same doting laughter–but it also wasn’t anything special. it was the same kind of laughter he had when he talked to you, though perhaps it was tinged with more fondness when he spoke to you.

if there was anything hoshina was, it might’ve just been annoyingly consistent.

"it's hard to be enthusiastic surrounding you. your sarcastic energy exhausts me," amaya drawls.

you turn away from the conversation at this point–and yet you can feel amaya staring daggers into the back of your head. 

“i’ll let the two of you finish this up,” you say, and your voice sounds far more obviously strained than you’d like for it to be. 

hoshina was allowed to talk to other people. but why did amaya irk you so much? was it just the irreverent way she spoke, the way she seemed to be watching you so intently for no reason? what the hell was her problem? as you stormed off, your footsteps grew angrier as you continued to mull over it. no, seriously! what was her problem? 

but what was yours, being jealous in the first place? you were being irrational–worried because you wanted hoshina’s attention for yourself but of course it wasn’t right to worry this badly about it to the point that envy would turn your stomach like this, create the brittling sensation in your heart. it wasn’t right, and the fact that you knew it wasn’t right made the whirling sense of bad in you feel worse.

you rub your face roughly, trying to shock yourself into trying to just be fucking normal.

“hey.”

hoshina’s voice is quiet when you turn around, and his face is contemplative, brows furrowed in worry.

“are you done? talking to amaya?” you ask.

“for now,” he says. his eyes focus on your face, concerned now. “are you okay?”

“i’m…”

the words die in your throat.

“i don’t want to be jealous,” you say weakly. “of whatever’s going on. but, i–”

hoshina’s hands are on your face before you can even finish your sentence, squishing your cheeks together.

“mm, i see.” hoshina blinks, humming. “why didn’t you just say so earlier?”

you blink.

“you’re not… mad?” you ask.

“mad?” hoshina raises an eyebrow, cocking his head. it looks cute. “should i be?”

“no,” you say. “i–or, i don’t know. maybe? yes?”

“which is it?” hoshina asks, a teasing smile on his face before his brow furrows a bit. “if you would have just told me earlier i could have easily just told you that there’s nothing going on between me and anyone else but you. i chose you. don’t forget that, okay?”

you blink.

“and i love you,” hoshina says, completely straightforwardly, with sure honesty. “don’t forget that.”

you nod, and he squeezes your face, leaning in to kiss you on the lips.

[yuma-mukami-garden-god]

May I have an Azusa NSFW alphabet please 🥺

Azusa Mukami NSFW Alphabet

(Dark themes, gentle kink, pain/pleasure, emotionally intimate, heavy sub vibes)

A = Aftercare

Everything. Aftercare is vital to Azusa. Even if he was the one being rough, he melts into you afterward, petting your hair and whispering soft nothings like,

“You didn’t… hate it… did you…?”

He needs reassurance, touch, and quiet closeness afterward—his way of feeling grounded and safe with you.

B = Body Part

Loves your hands—especially when they’re on him. Holding his face, brushing over his scars, hurting him if he asks for it. He also adores his scars being touched or kissed; it makes him feel beautiful in a broken, sacred way.

C = Cum

He gets shaky and emotional after orgasming—sometimes he’ll even cry from the intensity, not because of pain, but because being wanted so deeply overwhelms him. He’s fascinated by the way it looks on you too, whispering,

“You look… perfect… all messy like that…”

D = Dirty Secret

He wants you to hurt him sometimes. Bite marks, scratch trails, bruises—he gets off on knowing you lose control for him.

But his secret? He also dreams of being the one to leave marks—of owning you in the same desperate, reverent way. It terrifies and excites him.

E = Experience

Very little. He knows desire, pain, and obsession—but not true intimacy. The first time with him is full of stammered breaths and gentle worship, but he picks up on your reactions quickly. His focus isn’t skill—it's you.

F = Favorite Position

He likes being under you—loves the weight of you, the closeness, the heat.

“Ride me… please… I want to see your face…”

Also likes spooning from behind—quiet, tight, and wrapped in your scent.

G = Goofy

Rarely. He takes intimacy very seriously, like it's sacred. But if you giggle, he’ll blink slowly and smile, whispering,

“I like… when you laugh…”

He doesn’t joke—but he’ll say odd, earnest things that somehow are funny in his soft monotone.

H = Hair

Messy and soft. He doesn’t care much about grooming, but he’ll let you play with his hair endlessly, especially if you braid it or tug it gently during sex.

I = Intimacy

High. Sex is emotional and spiritual for him. He wants to feel connected, like your bodies are speaking in a language only you two understand. He might moan your name like a prayer, wrap his arms around you tightly, or beg you not to leave him after.

J = Jack-off

Not often. When he does, it’s with thoughts of you holding him down or whispering praise while touching him. If you catch him, he won’t stop—he’ll just blush and say,

“You can… watch… if you want…”

K = Kinks

Pain/Pleasure: He thrives on it, especially being on the receiving end.

Praise + Degradation mix: He wants to be called your “good boy” and your “broken thing” in the same breath.

Blood play/light knife play: He finds beauty in mutual vulnerability.

Breath play: Only if he trusts you deeply.

Ownership: He loves being called yours.

L = Location

He prefers soft, quiet places—your bedroom, somewhere dimly lit, intimate. He doesn’t want strangers to see the vulnerable side of him. But if you ever ask for something riskier, he’ll obey… if he can keep holding your hand.

M = Motivation

Your touch. Your voice. The slightest sign you want him—he’ll melt. If you so much as call him “mine,” it’ll take nothing to get him panting and flushed, already aching for you.

N = NO

He won’t degrade you—he can’t stand hurting you emotionally. He also won’t dom you in a cruel, untrusting way; Azusa needs mutual care, even when it’s rough. Non-consensual elements (even in play) would devastate him.

O = Oral

Giving? Obsessive. He will take his time, like worship, muttering,

“I want to make you feel… amazing…”

Receiving? He shivers, gasps, and might cling to your hair, soft moans spilling from his lips like confessions. His reactions are intoxicating.

P = Pace

Usually slow and deep. He’s desperate to feel every moment, every sound you make. But if you beg or pull his hair, he’ll get frantic, needy, trembling. He loses himself in it, eyes wide and glassy.

Q = Quickies

Rare. He wants the full experience. But if you say you need him—now—he’ll melt and nod instantly. Expect intense eye contact and whispers,

“I missed you… I couldn’t wait…”

R = Risk

Cautious but willing to explore. He’s scared of losing control but craves what it would mean to try something new with you. With enough reassurance, he’ll try anything once—especially if it brings you closer.

S = Stamina

Decent. He’s not built for speed, but for persistence. He can go more than once if you’re patient with him, and he’ll keep trying until you’re satisfied. He lives for praise and closeness.

T = Toys

Curious, but only if you use them on him. He likes rope, soft restraints, and dull blades for sensation. If you gift him a toy, he’ll blush deeply and whisper,

“Will you… use it with me?”

U = Unfair

Never. Azusa is painfully honest. He wouldn’t tease without purpose, and never to punish you. If anything, you could drive him wild with slow touches, and he’d beg for release with flushed cheeks and glazed-over eyes.

V = Volume

Surprisingly vocal. Soft, breathy moans, whimpers, whispered pleas.

“Please… more… don’t stop…”

He doesn’t shout—but his voice, all low and trembling, can ruin you.

W = Wild Card

Sometimes he’ll ask to switch roles—him taking care of you. Kissing each bruise you carry, holding you down and whispering,

“Let me be the one to make you feel safe tonight…”

It’s clumsy, but his heart’s in it. Those are the nights he finally lets himself take without guilt.

X = X-Ray

Slender but longer than expected. Veins prominent, tip flushed and sensitive. He’s shy about it at first, but once he sees how you react, he starts to take pride in how easily he can make you squirm.

Y = Yearning

Constant. He misses you even when you’re in the same room. If you so much as brush against him, he goes still like a rabbit—aching for more. He needs closeness, skin-to-skin, even outside of sex.

Z = ZZZ

Azusa lives for post-sex cuddles. His favorite place is buried in your arms, tangled limbs, your heartbeat against his ear. He sleeps with a faint smile, muttering your name in his dreams.

[springwitch8]

hots for teacher (part 2) (melissa schemmenti x fem!reader)

part 1

summary: you've been infatuated with melissa schemmenti ever since you worked under her as a student teacher. what will happen when you meet again a few years later? (part 2: what happens)

warnings: smut, intensely NSFW, praise kink, age gap, squirting, d/s vibes, inexperienced!reader, minors and men please don't touch this post

notes: ask and you shall receive, beauties! thank you for all the love on part 1, it's kinda surreal to be writing my own fics but also super liberating. any feedback is welcome. idk when i'll write again but i may or may not have another little nsfw draft with a more... punishing... interpretation of mel so we'll see! also, feel free to send me asks because i'm lonely. this one goes out to whoever said melissa schemmenti loves sluts, 'cause yeah she does.

the car ride back to melissa's place felt like it would never end. you crossed your legs when you first got into the passenger seat--partly out of habit and partly to get some friction on your aching core--and were quickly reprimanded.

"tsk tsk, baby. guess i'll have to teach you manners, too. keep those pretty thighs apart for me, all the way home. you're gonna wait patiently until i get my hands on you," melissa scolded.

you whined incoherently, and she responded with a dangerous laugh. the trip was short but unbearable. she had one hand on the steering wheel, while the other drew lazy patterns on your inner thigh. you squirmed and writhed, even moaned quietly, but she remained nonchalant.

at one point, when her fingers drew oh-so close to where you needed them most, your thighs snapped shut of their own accord.

"c'mon, legs open," was all she said in response. she tried to act casual, but you could tell from her excited half-smile that she was enjoying this game more than she let on.

as soon as you got in the door, she was on you. you barely had the focus to take in your surroundings as she lavished you with kisses, working her way across your lips and face before burying herself in your neck. her house was cozy and tastefully decorated with gentle lighting. in the soft glow, her slightly disheveled hair and lustful eyes were a sight you'd never forget.

"is there anyone--oh!" you squealed as her fingers began to trace circles on your nipples through your dress. "is there anyone else here?"

"sensitive, huh?" she teased, smirking down at you. "and no, it's just me tonight."

before you had time to consider what that last word implied, she picked you up and effortlessly whisked you to her bedroom. you were dazzled by the sight of her private space--it was simple yet beautiful, adorned with shades of green and twinkling lights. you didn't expect this level of whimsy from her, and it somehow made her even sexier.

she laid you on the bed carefully, reverently. "god, look at you." she whispered, sending shivers down your spine as she positioned herself on top of you and returned to your lips.

by now you were painfully needy from all her teasing, and you just needed her to fuck you senseless. you tried to convey that with your impatient noises, but it seemed the older woman had other plans. she pulled away from your lips to take in your flushed, desperate face.

"soon, sweetheart, soon. i know you're so worked up, but i plan to make this last."

you hummed in acknowledgment, turning your attention to the buttons of her shirt. you thought maybe if you got her a bit more riled up, she would be less inclined to take her time.

melissa groaned, feeling your delicate fingers ghost over her chest, but shook her head in disapproval. she removed your hands from her shirt, grabbing your wrists with surprising force. "i'm not taking my clothes off yet. i'm in charge, and you need to learn patience."

you gave her your best pout, but you knew she wouldn't budge. this was about power, not patience. she wanted to be clothed, composed and in control while you lay naked and vulnerable underneath her.

she started to pull at the fabric of your dress. you lifted your hips, and in one fluid motion, she slipped it over your head and off of you. it was an expert move, and you shivered at the idea that she had done this many times before.

when she saw your body, she paused for a moment, her mouth slightly open and her pupils dilated. "no bra?" she asked under her breath, not looking for an answer. "you're so soft in my hands..." she mused as her hands massaged your breasts. her fingers moved to pinch and rub over your nipples.

you moaned, bucking your hips upward and seeking more contact. she took the hint and directed her attention to your core.

"nice panties, by the way," she said with a cocky laugh, tugging playfully at the soaked pink lace. "who knew little miss gothic had a colorful side?"

"please, mel, no more teasing, i need you so bad," was all you could manage.

"okay, baby, let's get these off ya." she hooked her fingers through your panties and you lifted your hips, allowing her to drag them off. she folded them neatly and tucked them into her front pocket. something cutesy to remind her of you, wet and pliant under her touch.

"mmm, such a messy girl. you must feel so embarrassed, all spread out and naked for me while i'm fully clothed, playin' with you."

you could only whimper and whine, helplessly turned on by her words but pinned to the bed and unable to move. she cooed at you and took pity, moving down your body to get closer to your core.

she placed her hands once again on the insides of your thighs, gently pulling them apart and revealing your glistening pussy. her breath stuttered upon seeing the wetness covering your core and thighs.

"jesus, hon, you're dripping. you're just aching for me, aren't ya? need me to make you feel good?"

"yes!" you finally exclaimed, regaining your voice. "yes, please, melissa, please touch me, i need you," you begged.

"well, since you asked so nicely..." she gave you a smirk and trailed a finger between your puffy lips, gathering the wetness there.

by this point you were writhing all over the bed, so she had to pin your legs down with her knees. neither of you minded, though. you enjoyed feeling completely at her mercy, and she enjoyed watching you squirm under her.

finally, after an eternity of torture, she gave in, slipping a finger into you with ease and rubbing gentle circles over your clit.

"so tight, fuck," she muttered to herself as she began to move inside you, transfixed by the feeling of you around her.

"feels so good, ohhh..." you mewled as her finger quickly found a rhythm, pumping forcefully and curling at your most sensitive spots.

"you're taking me so well, baby, my brave girl," she soothed, relishing in her ability to draw such pathetic sounds from you. "can you handle one more?"

you nodded frantically, almost too lost in the haze of pleasure to hear her.

she grinned and pushed another finger inside you, making you cry out. you were relatively inexperienced, so the stretch was a bit painful at first, but you were soon overcome by the bliss of feeling so full.

"that's new, huh? poor baby, can barely take two fingers," her thrusts got rougher, as if she was trying to break you. "don't whine now, you wanted this."

you were overwhelmed with pleasure and the slight pain of the intrusion. her fingers were long, nimble and skilled, and she seemed to know all the right spots and rhythms to make you see stars. her fingers stroked your clit with more pressure now, making you shake and moan uncontrollably. it was almost too much. you wanted to scream, but you could only produce pathetic little whimpers of "ah, ah, ah!"

she was clearly aware of what she was doing, and she revelled in your pleasure. she would ease up, return to a gentler pace, and then thrust hard into your g-spot just to hear your cries and gasps. she longed to see you lose control.

"that's a good girl, keep takin' my fingers just like that. you're close, aren't you baby? let's see how long you can last against me," she said, her voice deep and her smile mischievous. there was a competitive edge to her words, like making you fall apart was some kind of victory to her.

suddenly she pulled away completely, and you nearly sobbed. your hips bucked up into nothing. your helpless whimpers were music to the older woman's ears, and she snickered to herself as she moved down your body.

for a moment, there was silence. you stared at her, silently pleading for her touch. she cocked her head at you and raised an eyebrow, silently asking you: are you ready? you nodded intently. you weren't sure what she was going to do to you, but you sure as hell wanted to find out.

before you even had the chance to brace yourself, she was thrusting two fingers roughly inside you again, rubbing hard at that spongy spot. for the final blow, melissa leaned down and attached her lips to your clit, sucking harshly.

"not yet, sweetheart. stay with me," she said, grinning from ear to ear as she felt your walls flutter and clench around her.

with her free hand, she reached up and pressed softly on your lower abdomen. between that, the punishing thrusts, and the hot pressure on your clit, you couldn't take it anymore. the sensations overwhelmed you. the world went blank, and all you could feel was warmth. you swam through oceans of white-hot ecstasy, riding wave after wave of pleasure. and melissa was right there, coaxing you through heaven's gates.

melissa's thumbs rubbed soothing circles into your outer thighs, bringing you back down to earth. "come back to me," she whispered sweetly. you opened your eyes.

"there she is," she said, her eyes sparkling with relief.

she gave you a giddy smile and you noticed the wetness all over her face... and fingers... and sheets. you couldn't help but feel embarrassed.

melissa must have picked up on this, as she took hold of your hand and reassured you. "don't be embarrassed, angel. that was probably the hottest thing i've ever seen." she laid down next to you as she spoke.

you hummed and buried your face in the crook of her neck. she was warm and smelled like cinnamon.

"did you know you could do that, hon?" she asked.

"yeah," you giggled, still dazed. "but i didn't know you could do that."

"i'm fulla surprises, kid," she laughed, stroking your hair. "let me run us a bath, and then we'll see what kind of surprises you've got in you."

she carried you bridal-style to the bathtub, and you relaxed into the bliss. feeling the warmth of her arms around your frame. drowning in her.

[lostgirl677]

Hidden treasure

One-shot

Masterlist

AU imagine where the outbreak never happened.

Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Established relationship

FLUFF

Summary: Y/N found something for Daryl in a thrift store. A real priceless treasure.

A/N: I still struggle to write Daryl accurately. Don't hesitate to leave some feedback.

I came back from the thrift store. There, I found a treasure worthy of all the haggling and near fights in the world. All because it was a gift for Daryl. Yeah, I almost threw punches to get that treasure. But if it was for him, I’d snatch it from the Devil’s hands if needed. I knew that the package wrapped in brown paper was the perfect gift.

When I arrived, Daryl was in the garage, working on his bike as usual. Watching him was always a delight: the way his arms flexed, his hands covered in grease, the occasional swear word escaping his lips. I could watch him all day. He suddenly turned his head towards me, catching me staring like a creep. ”Like what ya seein’, darlin’?”, he asked, his southern accent more pronounced with the day's fatigue. I couldn’t help but grin. “Hell yes.”  I chuckled as I got closer to him. He snorted and smiled. His smile lit up the room. It was good to see him ditching his signature frown for once. He wiped his greasy hands on an old rag and stood up, towering over me like a mountain of muscles and sweat."Good thing ya ma girl. Else I'd be scared of this sexy stranger drooling and undressin' me with her eyes in my garage" he said, smirking as he snaked his arm around my waist. “Good thing indeed. It would be creepy otherwise.” Then, he pulled me closer and I could smell his scent: pine, leather, sweat and smoke. “How was yer day? Thrift store, right?” he asked me. “Yeah. And I have something for you”, I replied. He raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “For me? Ya didn’t have to, honey”, he blushed a bit. I smiled again and said “Believe me, I had to. It’s in my car. I’ll be right back”. He reluctantly let me untangle myself from his embrace and I ran to my car with a bounce in my step.

I came back quickly, holding the package. “Here. I hope you’ll like it”. He took it in his hand, looking at me, a bit unsure. “Go on. It won’t bite you” I encouraged him softly.  He finally complied. As he unwrapped the package, I bit my lip in anticipation. Inside, he found a vintage leather jacket. “Well, ain’t that somethin’,” he murmured while his hand caressed the worn leather. Suddenly, his eyes widened and became shiny as if he could cry. It was a rare occurrence for a man like him. And I knew exactly why he was about to cry. His hand ran over the embroidered name William Dixon. He looked at me, shaking slightly. “H-how? Where?” he asked with a quiver in his voice, unable to find the right words. “I remember you told me that your grandfather died on D-Day in Normandy, and your grandmother was pregnant at that moment. And she had to sell some stuff to make ends meet. And somehow, it ended up in this thrift store. I found it hidden under a pile of old clothes in the stall. So, when I saw the name, I knew I had to get it for you. I think it wanted to return to its family" He looked like he was about to cry. I could see the tears welling up, and it took everything in him to hold them.

He was still looking at the jacket with reverence due to a relic. Which it was - a precious relic of his family. I gently took his hand to guide him back inside the house, in front of a mirror. “Try it. It looks like it’s your size”. I said softly. He slowly nodded, and I helped him put it on. Indeed, it fitted him like a glove. He looked dashing in it. “Daryl, you’re really handsome in this jacket. I’m sure your grandfather would be happy that his jacket is now yours. He would be proud of you”, I told him softly as I gently put my hand on his arm. He lowered his gaze to look at me in the mirror’s reflection and grunted softly. Even if he didn’t say anything back, I knew he was touched by my words. He just didn’t trust himself with words right now. When he tried to arrange the jacket on his body, something fell from the inside pocket—an old picture. I went to pick it up and showed it to Daryl. It was a slightly damaged black-and-white picture of a beautiful pregnant young woman. She was smiling, a hand on her swollen belly. “Grandma,” he whispered, his voice shattered a bit. “She was beautiful”, I whispered. He simply nodded, his hand running over the picture. “How about we buy a frame and place it somewhere nice?” I asked softly. His blue eyes twinkled, still wet from unshed tears and he said “Yeah. Sounds good.” Then he turned to face me. “I don’t know how to thank ya, Y/N”. I simply smiled. “You don’t have to. I just brought back home something that’s rightfully yours. I love you, Daryl. That’s all that counts for me.” He finally let his tears fall and said in a strangled voice “I love ya too, Y/N”. He then embraced me in his strong arms, his grandmother’s picture still clutched in his hands. I wiped his tears with my thumbs and arranged his hair gently. 

Later, I decided to place his grandma’s picture on the small desk in our room. And we hammered a coat hook next to it for the jacket. “Lookin’ good”, he simply told me while placing a kiss on my forehead. “Yeah. Now, your grandma and your grandpa are no longer apart”. He simply smiled. And his smile was worth a thousand words.

[lire-casander]

For the DBDA25 prompt list, how about some weakness? :D

here, have some night nurse musings! i've always thought that there's much more we could have learned from her (and about her!) had we been given a second season.

weakness

The night’s darkness engulfs her as she walks through the streets of downtown London. She doesn’t think she will ever get used to this feeling of being tied to Earth. She’s an eternal interdimensional being, as she likes reminding the boys, and she shouldn’t be subjected to such treatment.

Her place is up at the Lost and Found Department, working with her colleagues to keep track of all ghost children that roam the Earth, competing with them to become the best Night Nurse of them all. She’s won that award two thousand years in a row—ever since she became the youngest to ever be promoted to Night Nurse status. She’s always been so goal-oriented, so focused. Her whole existence has been the Department. In a way, her Superior has been right—she’s still doing her job.

Only she is not helping them into their afterlives, but instead she’s making sure they help others while actively avoiding their own ever-afters.

No doubt she needs a break from time to time.

She slides past the bars keeping trespassers from entering the Royal Docks. She sighs as she comes to a halt at the end of one of the furthest docks, the water a calm murmur underneath her feet. She steals a glance around her, making sure she’s all alone—she’s still corporeal, so she can be seen—and flops down onto the wooden surface of the dock, her legs dangling over the edge.

She comes here whenever she feels lost or overwhelmed or tired. She doesn’t want to show weakness in front of teenagers, alive or ghosts; she’s supposed to be the supernatural authority. And yet, sometimes she just feels endlessly human.

She’s mused oftentimes about that feeling, humanity weighing her down. She doesn’t remember her existence before joining the Department. She has been around long enough to have seen other Night Nurses being brought to the Department, as though they’re coming from somewhere else. Lately, she’s been thinking that maybe Night Nurses are humans who’ve transcended planes. That would certainly bring a new perspective to her existence.

She looks at the water, dark and deep beneath her feet, and wishes, not for the first time, that she had someone by her side whenever she is feeling lost. Scratch that. She knows who she’d want by her side—her actual weakness.

Kashi.

She utters the name reverently as her fingers yearn to touch his skin once again. He’d been so carefree, so trauma-less, so content with his life. She wonders if she’d ever feel as free as he seemed to be. She caresses the ring he gifted her with, softly glowing orange in the dark. And she knows, without the shadow of a doubt, that she’d give up her own eternity for just one more second with him.

Oh.

So maybe she isn’t that different from the boys, after all. And that thought—the idea of being weak, lost, human—isn’t as scary as she’d thought it’d be.

It’s somehow freeing.

send me a one-prompt from this list by @dbda25!

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Spoil Me Gently: Chapter 6 - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 11.2k words.

Chapter Summary: What begins as a quiet meeting in a room made for confessions becomes a reckoning. Every step you take toward them is both pain and promise, every glance exchanged a new thread tying you tighter. James, Sirius, and Remus don’t just speak—they offer: safety, presence, the radical choice to be wanted without performance. In return, you lay down your own terms, each boundary a reminder that love without consent isn’t love at all. What unfolds isn’t romance—it’s negotiation, vulnerability, and the slow construction of something real. Not rescue. Not pity. Just three men saying: we want you, exactly as you are. And, for the first time, you believe they might mean it.

Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, sugar baby!reader, sugar daddy!marauders, famous!marauders, chronic pain, trauma-informed care, slow burn intimacy, explicit discussion of sex and consent, boundary setting, D/s dynamics (gentle), emotional safety, financial support, reader receives money, reader uses mobility aids, reader has trauma, mutual care, discussions of limits and triggers, consent-centered kink, reader is afraid but curious, chapter includes financial negotiation.

Taglist: @miwi-moore

Two days after the meeting that changed something inside you, you find yourself in a different kind of quiet. It's not the hum of a café or the murmur of conversation punctuated by laughter. This quiet is meant to reveal, not conceal.

You use forearm crutches to steady yourself, moving with an uneven but determined rhythm. The carpet under your boots is plush enough to hide the sound, yet you feel every lurch, every shift of weight through your body—through joints that ache, nerves that sing with sensitivity, and muscles that both betray and uphold you. It's not graceful, but it's purposeful. Every step is yours.

The host does not ask for your name or require confirmation of the reservation. They simply nod, a gesture born from the discretion only money can afford. Their smile is gentle, inscrutable, yet not unkind. There's a reverence in the way they step aside, as if understanding the gravity of this meeting without needing to know why.

They lead you through a labyrinth of hallways, where the lighting is soft and warm, casting no harsh shadows. The muted golds and rich purples of the velvet decor reflect off your crutches as you move, and the air is scented with lavender and something else—something comforting that reminds you of crushed rose hips. It's quiet here, a luxury kind of quiet that feels expensive somehow. The walls don't echo; they swallow sound, cushioning it like the many secrets undoubtedly shared here before.

With a final glance over his shoulder, the host opens the door, extending an arm to usher you inside. He eases it shut behind you, the click of the latch sounding strangely final—as if he's not just closing a door but sealing away the rest of the world. For a moment, the silence seems to deepen, settling around you not like emptiness but expectation. It's as though the room itself knows what's coming.

The furniture is plush and inviting, designed for comfort rather than show. This isn't a place for pretence or performance; rather, it's a sanctuary meant for intimate conversations and truths too fragile for daylight.

And they are already here.

They sit in a tableau that seems both calculated and instinctive. James is the closest to the door, his body rigid with tension, yet leaning ever so slightly forward as if he's holding himself back from rising to meet you. Sirius lounges on one of the armchairs, an image of casual grace, yet there's an undercurrent of danger beneath his charm—like a wolf wearing a dog's smile.

Remus sits across from him, posture erect, every line of his body radiating calm. His eyes flicker over your form, and it's hard to discern what lies within their depths—curiosity or concern, lust or longing. Perhaps all at once.

You pause just inside the threshold, your grip tightening around the handles of your crutches. The carpet mutes your entrance, but the shift in the room is palpable—they know you're here. You're not standing still out of hesitation exactly, but because every instinct screams at you that you're teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

This moment, for all its tranquillity, feels more like stepping onto a ledge in the pitch dark. Not because you fear the fall, but because you're acutely aware of it. Aware that crossing this room might mean falling into a chasm from which there's no climbing back. Or worse, falling into a new self that you won't recognise—or be able to control.

You shift, the crutch in your grip a silent testament to your resolve. Your shoulders tense, not in fear but anticipation. The air is warm, floral notes intertwining with something richer, more masculine—leather, tobacco, a hint of salt. It's the scent of men who have lived and loved boldly, yet here they are, quiet and focused, their world narrowed down to you.

Inhale. Exhale.

Silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. No words spoken, no explanations given. Not yet.

"Hey, love," James says, voice low and warm like a favourite jumper fresh from the dryer—soft, familiar, a little frayed but always dependable. There's no pretence, no grandeur—just the honesty of a man baring his soul. His tone wraps around you like an embrace, familiar and safe, respectful of the boundaries yet unafraid to push them gently aside when needed.

Sirius grins before he even opens his mouth, a flash of white teeth against the dim backdrop of the bar. "Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes." His voice is smooth, playful—a dare wrapped in velvet—not arrogant but brimming with a confidence that can't be ignored. His gaze is light, teasing, yet there's a depth to it that suggests he sees more than he lets on. He appreciates, not claims.

Remus doesn't need words to make his presence felt. The slow curl of his lips into a small smile speaks volumes. It whispers, I see you. I know what it takes to stand in a room like this and hold your own. He dips his head in a nod, a gesture so respectful it feels almost antiquated, yet there's a sincerity in it that tugs at something within you.

You don't respond, not with words. There's no need to. Instead, you raise a single eyebrow, the corner of your lip twitching upward in a half-smirk that's more promise than smile. Your chin lifts just so, a slight but deliberate movement.

It says what you can't—or won't: I see you. I'm not awed. I'm unafraid. I am curious.

The message lands, as intended. James's shoulders shift, easing under the weight of your silent communication. His grin loses its edge, softening into something almost sheepish. Sirius hums low in his throat, a sound of satisfaction that suggests you've played into an expectation he held. Only Remus remains still, his gaze steady and assessing, dissecting the layers of your silence.

You move then, pushing forward with your crutches, their rhythmic tap-tap against the rug growing fainter as the distance closes. Each step sends a flare of protest through your joints, but you ignore it, focusing on the three figures watching your approach.

James is the first to rise, the movement lacking any dramatic flair or unnecessary pomp. Instead, there's an economy to it, a grace born from years spent playing football. He doesn't reach out, doesn't try to bridge the gap with touch. His presence alone is an offer of support, silent and unassuming.

Sirius doesn't stand, but his posture shifts subtly, a change from languid ease to coiled readiness. His eyes follow your progress, the sharpness replaced by something warmer, softer, yet no less intense. He's waiting, like the others, for the story to unfold.

Remus angles his head slightly, the lines of his face softening as he watches you, as if you are the first sentence of a book he's been longing to read.

With each step you take, pain radiates from your shoulder, forcing you to plan each movement with careful precision. You reach the low table and lean your crutches against it, bracing yourself for the effort of removing your coat. The fabric clings to you stubbornly, sticking to your wounds as you peel it away. Every small motion sends a jolt of pain through your shoulder, but you grit your teeth and push through.

Sirius appears at your side so quietly that you don't notice him until he speaks. "This is stunning," Sirius murmurs, running a single finger along the seam like it's silk—even though it clearly isn't. "Looks like something that should be hanging in a cathedral or on my bedroom floor."

You flinch slightly, not from the touch—his hand doesn't linger, moving away as quickly as it came—but from the surprise. It's not the same coat he admired two days ago, the corduroy one he'd spoken about like it was haute couture. This one is plain, utilitarian. But Sirius seems to see something more in it, something worth commenting on. He doesn't seem to register the discrepancy.

James snorts, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. "You said the same thing about my dressing gown last week."

"Exactly." Sirius's grin doesn't waver under James's mockery. "Appreciation is key, especially when it comes to fine things."

And he treats your coat as just that—fine and worthy of care. He folds it with an air of reverence uncharacteristic of the Marauder you've come to know, setting it on the back of a spare chair like it's a precious artifact rather than a piece of clothing. Remus watches the display, one eyebrow arched in silent question, but his gaze never strays far from you. Almost as if he's waiting, expecting something to happen.

Your smile fades, but only slightly, a ghost of its former self that lingers at the corners of your mouth. You pause, your fingers still brushing against the cool surface of the table. Let them wait. The tension threads itself between you, drawn taut by the silence that stretches thin across the room. But this time, it's your silence, not theirs.

And even without words, the message is clear—etched into the slight tilt of your head, the steady gaze that doesn't waver. There's a challenge there, hidden beneath the veneer of civility, but also something playful—a spark that suggests you're aware of their scrutiny, that you understand the game being played.

Yet you remain silent, your posture shifting ever so slightly as you adjust your weight. It's not a sign of discomfort but rather one of quiet confidence, a declaration that you are here, you are waiting, and you will not be rushed.

"Here," he says, nudging the chair with his foot like it's a football he's gently passing your way. "This one's yours if you want it." The gesture is slight, almost casual, but his eyes never leave yours. They're steady, calm. Not expectant, not demanding. Just there. Just waiting.

You incline your head—a small motion, barely perceptible. It's not quite a thank you, not quite permission. Merely acknowledgment. Then you move.

Your approach to the chair is measured, deliberate. Each step is a negotiation between determination and pain, a careful balancing act that leaves your muscles groaning in protest. Your body is a reluctant participant, joints stiffening, muscles coiling tight as you lean on the table with one hand and clutch your crutch with the other until your knuckles blanch. You lower yourself onto the chair, feeling the cushion give beneath your weight—too soft, too yielding—and instantly, you feel the pull of gravity like a physical force, tugging at your spine, dragging you down.

For a moment, you let it. Your body tilts forward, shoulders curling inward as you brace against the edge of the table. But then you catch yourself, straighten up with effort, refusing to surrender completely to the beckoning lure of rest.

The pain surges anew, a jolt of electricity that arcs up your back, radiating outward from the epicentre of your injury. Your breath catches in your throat, held captive by the sudden onslaught. You grip the edge of the table tighter, knuckles whitening further as you ride out the wave, letting it crash over you, through you, until it recedes to a dull roar in the background of your awareness.

A sharp breath escapes through your nose, quick and quiet. No one speaks, no one offers platitudes or reaches out to pat your arm in a false show of comfort. Instead, they adjust their positions subtly. Remus shifts his knees under the table. Sirius crosses his ankles. James leans back, his jaw working as he swallows whatever words threaten to spill forth. It's not about bravado now; it's about presence.

"Comfortable enough?" James's voice is soft against the silence, threading its way through the cracks in your resolve like water seeking the lowest point.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, small and without mirth. "Feels like sitting on a cloud of betrayal," you whisper, the words barely more than a breath.

Sirius barks a laugh and shifts in his seat with exaggerated disdain. "We should request firmer chairs for these little clandestine meetings," he grumbles, then adds with a wicked smirk, "My ass hasn't felt this betrayed since I wore leather trousers to the opera."

You snort—actually snort—before you can stop yourself. It's undignified and a little painful, but worth it. "Please tell me you didn't stand up during a quiet aria."

He grins like the devil. "Oh, I did. And they squeaked."

James groans into his teacup. "You're a menace."

Remus doesn't even look up. "He is," he agrees, voice perfectly dry. "But at least he's our menace.”

Remus's fingers curl around the handle of the teapot as if it holds something more than just hot liquid—answers, perhaps, or magic, or calmness. His movements are deliberate, steady. Steam rises in gentle tendrils from the spout, carrying with it a scent that is meant to soothe: lavender, bergamot, and something deeper, earthier. Rosemary? Thyme? Memories? Whatever it is, it hangs in the air between you like incense at a shrine, filling the spaces where words fail.

Sirius slides a napkin across the table towards you, his fingers precise and deliberate. "For your sins," he says, eyes glinting with mischief as he winks at Remus, "or just that bit of tea, if you're feeling mundane."

James chuckles, shaking his head. "It's just afternoon tea, love, not some grand ritual."

"Speak for yourself, James," Sirius retorts, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm always looking to sacrifice something. Boredom, usually."

You raise an eyebrow, smirking slightly as you wipe at your mouth. "Then I'm definitely safe."

"Ah, but it suits you," Sirius counters with a grin, the twinkle in his eyes belying the gravity of his tone. "The rebel in cashmere. I rather like the sound of that."

You chuckle, shaking your head at his antics. "Are we really going to start pairing my outfits to wines now?"

"Gods, don't encourage him," Remus mutters from the corner, though there's amusement in his voice too.

"I'd say that outfit is more of a 2007 Malbec," Sirius muses, ignoring Remus's protest. His gaze sweeps over you once more, as if assessing the bouquet and body of a fine wine.

"Indeed," James agrees, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful hum. "It does deserve a standing ovation."

"Let's not," you interrupt, holding up a hand before any of them can actually stand. Your cheeks are warm despite the chill air filtering through the window cracks. "I think surviving the furniture assault was applause enough for one day."

The table is simple, but everything on it seems to have been placed with care. The teacups are set precisely in their saucers, the coasters positioned just so. Even the spoons beside the plates seem to have been laid down with thought. Their welcome isn't about impressing you with grandeur—it's all about order, space, and a sense of inclusion.

The realisation comes slowly, creeping into your mind like the dawn breaking over the horizon. It's not about putting on a show or flaunting their resources. This is about making you feel at home—or as close to it as possible under the circumstances. And they do it subtly, consistently, without any grand gestures that might make you question their motives.

Despite the calm in front of you, your body tells a different story. Tension clings to your muscles, turning each movement into a battle against stiffness. You can feel it in the small of your back, a sharp ache that makes your skin feel too tight. Your right hip locks and then unlocks with a dull throb, a reminder of the hard fall you took. You reach for the delicate ceramic cup in front of you, and as you extend your arm, pain shoots up your forearm like fire licking at dry wood. You wince, your hand shaking slightly as your fingers twitch around the handle. You pause, cursing silently at the weakness betraying you.

Your throat feels parched, but you force yourself to speak, your voice barely more than a rasp. "So, did I pass the test? Or is there another round where you use real fire?

Sirius lets out a low whistle, his eyes gleaming with something akin to respect. "You strutted in there like you owned the place," he says, a hint of admiration colouring his tone. "I almost clapped."

James snorts quietly, his arms folded across his chest. "And I nearly tripped over my own feet," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

Remus doesn't smile, but there's a certain light in his eyes that wasn't there before. He leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest—a mirror image of James. "She didn't come here to put on a show," he says evenly, his gaze never leaving yours. "She came here to make a statement."

"No," Sirius says, his grin widening. "She's the headliner."

"If that's the case..." You force a weak smile, playing along despite the ache in your chest. "Does that mean there's an opening act?"

"That would be me," James says, puffing out his chest. "I warm up the crowd."

"You are the crowd," Remus mutters under his breath.

"And Sirius is the afterparty," James continues, unfazed.

Sirius lifts an imaginary glass in toast. "And Remus is the unexpected plot twist you never saw coming."

Remus's lips quirk upwards in a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."

As for you, your face feels too warm, and it's not from embarrassment. No, this heat is the sort that comes from being the centre of attention when you're used to the shadows. Sweat gathers at your collarbone, dampening the fabric of your shirt, and strands of hair stick to the nape of your neck. Your cheeks burn, and you can't tell if it's fever or anxiety or the ghosts of old memories—or perhaps all three—that set your skin aflame. Your right thigh twitches, a sharp reminder of wounds still healing.

James moves the teacup closer to you, not pushing but making it easier for you to reach. His hand lingers on the table for a moment longer than necessary—not quite a touch, just an offer.

Sirius stretches, bones popping audibly in the quiet room, then halts, a dramatic pause before he continues. "If anyone needs someone to lounge about and look pretty, I'm available."

"Got it," you reply, voice dry as parchment. "I'll pencil you in after my next emotional breakdown."

He grins, teeth catching the low light. "Great. I do my best work when people are falling apart."

You sit back. Not relaxed—just present. No one rushes you. No one speaks.

James is the first to respond, but it's not with words. He reaches behind you, adjusting the cushion that has slipped from its place. His fingers barely graze your back as he moves with a care that suggests he's done this before—many times, for many people. It's a small gesture, one that might go unnoticed in another setting. But here, in this moment, it feels significant, deliberate. And it's not just the action but the intent behind it that resonates. I see you. I remember. I want this to be easier for you.

You shift slightly, leaning into the support of the cushion, and the tension in your muscles begins to ease. It's not so much the comfort it provides, but the realisation that it was offered without prompting. Like he knew. Like he's been observing the way you move, the way you brace yourself against pain, both seen and unseen.

"Is that better?" The question is soft, almost tentative, his words wrapping around you like a warm blanket. There's an undercurrent of anxiety there, as if he's offering something precious and fragile, fully aware that you've been given gifts with strings attached before.

You nod, just once, and allow a breath to escape your lungs. It's enough. It has to be.

James sits back, crossing his legs at the ankles and resting his hands on his knees. Even now, his posture is slightly hunched, as though he doesn't want to take up more space than necessary. His fingers drum lightly against his denim-clad thighs—a rhythmless song of nerves and anticipation.

"We've talked," he starts, casting a glance towards the others, "and we think it's important to be really clear about what this is and what we hope it can become."

His eyes are steady, not invasive but undeniably present. "I want to offer consistency," James continues, voice low and measured. "Not just in the practical things—though those matter—but in a way that runs deeper. I don't want to be another figure who fades when the going gets tough. I intend to be a part of your life without disrupting it."

He exhales through his nose, a quiet release that suggests he's holding back more than he's letting on. "I want to be someone you don't have to put on a show for. Someone who isn't looking for the polished version."

There's a pause, filled only by the soft hum of conversation from the other tables. Then Sirius leans forward, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth as if he's about to deliver the punchline to a joke only he knows. "And I," he says, "want to make you laugh so hard you forget to hold your breath."

It should sound like a jest, a throwaway line to lighten the mood, but it doesn't. There's a sincerity behind the smile that fades only slightly, revealing the truth of his words.

"Believe it or not, I mean that," Sirius adds, leaning back with a casual shrug. "People might think I'm just after the spotlight—and sometimes, they're right. But not with you. From you, I want honesty. Even if it's brutal. Especially then."

You tilt your head slightly, an unconscious mirror of his earlier movement. He notices.

"What I'm saying," Sirius continues, his voice dropping to a murmur that sends a shiver down your spine, "is that I crave understanding. Not the glossed-over version people want to see. Not the facade I put on for the world. I want you to see me—my needs, my vulnerabilities. The parts I hide away from everyone else. I want to step into your light, not shrink away from it."

He's serious now, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by an intensity that makes your heart pound. His fingers tap restlessly against the table, not out of nervousness but as though he's trying to contain the energy that always seems to simmer just beneath his surface.

"I want you to know," Remus says, finally breaking his silence, "you don't have to make yourself easier for us to love."

His voice is steady, each word chosen and delivered with precision. He doesn't speak to fill the air, but rather because each syllable carries weight. When Remus Lupin talks, it's because something needs to be said.

"I don't desire your gratitude," he continues, "but rather your permission. Permission for us to remain. To see you, not as the world demands, but as you truly are. To be a part of your life that isn't governed by expectation or pretence."

He looks directly at you, green eyes meeting yours. "You don't have to let us into every corner of your world. But when you choose to share, know this—I will listen, and I won't look away."

You sit still for a moment longer, fingers clenched around the edge of your chair, neither submitting nor retreating. You're considering it—that much they can tell.

"Alright," you say at last, your voice as firm as when you started. "You've all stated your case, what you're offering. Now tell me—what do you want from me in return?"

The question hangs in the air, unadorned by pretence or diplomacy. It is a demand for honesty, as raw and real as the tension that fills the room.

"Presence," Remus replies first, his voice layered with resolve. His eyes are unreadable, but there's a steadiness to them that belies the gravity of his words. "Not constant, not forced. Just when it's really you, not the version you think we want."

Sirius shifts in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His expression is a mix of smug satisfaction and solemn understanding. "Your truth," he adds, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the silence. "The whole bloody lot of it. Even when it stings. Especially then." He drums his fingers on the armrest, each tap a punctuation mark in this new dialogue. "Lies I can handle. Silence cuts deeper."

James exhales slowly, his chest deflating as if he's been holding his breath. "Trust," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Not blind. Not immediate. Just enough to let us prove ourselves. Enough so we don't have to guess which version of you we're speaking to."

The words that follow are spoken softly, almost reverently. "We want to be a choice," Sirius begins, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, not out of nervousness but as if grounding himself in the reality of this moment. "Not an obligation you feel you have to fulfill, or a rescue mission you never asked for. Just... an option you choose because it feels right."

James leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, and his voice is low, steady. "We want to offer you something reliable. A foundation where you can stand firm. Not a shifting sand that forces you to adapt just to keep your balance."

Remus's gaze drops to your hands, and when he speaks, there's an edge to his calm that wasn't there before. "I want this—us—to be enough," he says, and there's a finality to his words, a promise that needs no seal. "Not another force pulling at you until you're stretched thin, not another mould you must change yourself to fit."

A silence falls. It's not awkward, nor is it tense; instead, it's full, like a cup brimming with water, the surface still yet holding depths beneath.

"I want to give without expectation," James murmurs, "Like planting a seed and letting it grow in its own time. There's no set date when it has to bloom. No schedule it must adhere to."

"But don't lie to us," Sirius says, his tone calm yet precise. "Not even the kind that's meant to protect. Especially not those."

Remus is the last to speak. "We want to be real with you," he says. "Not perfect. Not unblemished. But honest. With our faults. Our mistakes. Our substance."

You stare at their hands, their postures, their stillness. For the first time, it doesn't feel like an ultimatum but an offer that doesn't require an immediate yes—just the promise of consideration.

The silence doesn't snap; instead, it alters its form. It's not a chasm of unease but a bridge to a new understanding—tension giving way to an unexpected kind of intimacy. The shift is subtle, the conversation moving from whispered promises to tangible boundaries, from unspoken longing to the physical reality that underpins it all. Not because one holds more weight than the other, but because true care—true connection—exists in both realms.

"Let's talk about what's on the table," James begins, his voice hushed yet steady. "And what isn't."

His gaze doesn't meet yours immediately. Instead, he traces the rim of his glass, allowing the silence to stretch before filling it. "We know how these arrangements usually work," he continues, words measured and deliberate. "Money changes hands, and then...sex. That's the expectation, the assumption. And there's nothing wrong with that. But we want this to be shaped by you, not by some standard template."

Finally, his eyes find yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that belies the softness of his tone. "We hope that sex will be part of this relationship eventually, yes. But not as a transaction or on a predetermined timeline. We're not here out of sexual desperation; we could find that elsewhere if we wanted. We're here because we want you. And whatever timeline that looks like, you're the one who sets it."

Before the silence can stretch into awkwardness, Sirius intervenes—not to contradict James but to lighten the gravity of the moment. "Don't get us wrong—we all fancy you," he says, a wry smile playing on his lips. "But we've got each other, so it's not like we're exactly deprived." His tone is teasing, yet his eyes hold nothing but sincerity.

You almost want to chuckle, but the tight knot in your stomach won't unravel. It remains lodged there, a silent sentinel of caution. For now, you remain still, holding their gazes without flinching.

Remus leans forward slightly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet every word resonates with resolve. "You owe us nothing. Not affection. Not access. Not even kindness. Your body is not currency for what we're offering."

His statement is blunt, devoid of any sugar-coating, yet it doesn't sting. Instead, it's like a balm, soothing and unexpected. The clarity of his words cuts through the fog of your apprehensions—truth carved out with precision and care.

Sirius sits, still for once, his eyes holding yours. "We want to have these conversations if you're ready. About your wants and fears, about what won't happen and what might. We want the consent that's living, evolving—not just ticking a box."

James shifts forward, elbows resting on his knees. His hazel eyes are earnest, searching. "And if those conversations never lead to sex?" He shrugs, a slight movement that ripples through his broad shoulders. "Then they don't. You're not some fantasy we're waiting to fulfil. You're a person we want to understand."

The fabric of your trousers is rough under your fingers, bunched in tight fists. It's not discomfort that grips you—it's remembering. The breath shudders in your lungs, then escapes in a rush. You draw another in, letting it fill you, anchor you.

You nod, once, sharp and quick. Then again, more slowly this time. "Okay," you say, your voice even, grounded. "We can talk about it."

It's not acquiescence, not fear masquerading as agreement. It's a choice. Deliberate. In control.

Remus watches your shoulders tense, then lets his own relax. He leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, and his voice is a touch gentler when he speaks. "Tell us your hard limits, and we'll go from there."

There's no echo to his words, no immediate answer that bounces back. Instead, the silence unfolds between you all, a chasm opening wider and deeper with each passing second. It feels sacred in its own way, the quiet acknowledging the gravity of the question posed.

When you speak, it's not in hushed tones or with the tremor of confession. Your words are firm, spoken as fact rather than plea or performance.

"No degradation," you start, voice steady. "No insults, even masked as jokes or attempts to prove a point. None."

James' nod is immediate, a silent agreement. His gaze doesn't waver from yours, and there's no change in his expression to suggest surprise. He already knows this boundary—has known it since the day he first called you friend.

"No choking," you continue, adding another brick to the wall of your safety. "Not in play, not in jest, not ever."

Sirius remains motionless beside him, but there's a subtle shift in his breathing—a hitch, quickly smoothed over—and then a single nod. Acknowledgement. Understanding.

"No blindfolds, no earplugs. I need to be able to see, to hear. I need to know what's happening around me."

Remus shifts slightly, not pulling away but adjusting his posture as though aligning himself with your words, ready to bear their weight. The room is heavy with the promise of your needs being met, with the commitment to respect these boundaries.

You let out a slow breath through your nose, steeling yourself for what comes next. "No sexual touch if you've had any alcohol. Not even a sip. I don't care how fine you think you are. If you're buzzed, it's a no."

There it is—a pause. It's brief, almost imperceptible, but the air in the room shifts nonetheless.

James blinks once, then twice, and nods a little too quickly. Sirius glances at him, then at Remus, then back to you. There's something in his eyes—not defiance, not concern, but an echo of something else. A memory, perhaps, tucked away deep within.

Remus doesn't blink. But something in his posture alters, the slightest readjustment. It reminds you of a gear clicking into place.

None of them deny or argue, but neither do they immediately affirm.

And that, more than anything, tells you they're truly listening.

Your voice grows quieter but no less firm. "Some nights, even kissing might be too much. Doesn't mean I don't want to be close to you. Just means I need you to ask."

"Always," James murmurs, the single word carrying the weight of a solemn vow.

Your jaw tightens, a small but telling reaction. "I don't want tenderness to be confused with seduction. I don't want to be handled as though I'm fragile yet still serviceable. Kindness shouldn't be a stepping stone towards something else. It should be the destination."

Sirius's voice loses its flirtatious edge. "Understood."

You give a curt nod. "No staying over. Not yet. I don't know when that might change or if it will at all. And I won't be rushed into deciding."

Remus answers this time, his tone uncompromising. "Then it's not an option," he states, leaving no room for debate.

James's addition is almost a whisper, meant to soothe rather than impose. "Whatever pace you set... that's what we'll match. Even if it means standing still."

Your gaze drops to your hands before lifting once more. "I'm not trying to be difficult. I just—"

"You're not," Remus interrupts gently. "You're being clear."

The tension in your shoulders eases slightly at his words.

Sirius's exhale is a sound that hovers between a sigh and a quiet chuckle. "Good," he breathes, "We're on the same page, then. Now let us make sure you understand our boundaries as well."

James leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands clasp together in thought, or perhaps to contain the energy that always seems to buzz beneath his skin. "What we won't do. What we'll never ask of you. What's non-negotiable."

Remus speaks first, his voice steady and measured—not from uncertainty, but from the weight of the words he chooses. Each syllable is a stone laid on a path, building a road towards understanding.

"I won't participate in anything that's truly cruel," he says simply, "Even if it's masked as play."

His gaze doesn't waver, not an accusation but a pillar, standing firm for both your sake and his own.

"I'm almost always dominant in the bedroom," he explains, "but it's never about enforcing my will. It's about proposing, suggesting. You always have the choice to agree or not."

His words carry a rhythm that soothes your nerves, but you can't help the question that forms on your lips. "And if someone isn't sure what they want?"

"Then we wait," Remus answers without hesitation. "We communicate. We try to understand together if that's what they're comfortable with. But I never make assumptions or apply pressure."

You nod, taking in his words. The apprehension in your chest loosens its grip, bit by bit.

Remus doesn't rush to fill the silence that follows. He chooses his next words as carefully as a jeweller selecting gems for a bespoke piece. "Control, the way I see it, is a construct built with someone, not against them. I don't seek blind obedience; I seek trust—willing, informed trust. Because when you give me that, it means something."

"And if I can't always give that trust?" Your voice is little more than a whisper, barely disturbing the still air around you.

"Then we work within the boundaries of what you can offer. And there's no blame for what you can't."

His gaze is soft now, as sturdy as the hold he has on you. He's not looking to pierce through your every defence, nor does he question the legitimacy of your fears. His silence is not judgement but patience—the calm before a storm that will never come.

"Because I don't do humiliation," Remus continues, his voice a low hum in the quiet room. "I don't tease with the threat of degradation. The world already provides enough of that without my help."

His words hang in the air between you, not an offering but a promise. You can almost touch it, this assurance of safety wrapped in challenge and growth. It's what you need—what you've always needed—even if admitting it feels like confessing a secret sin.

"It matters more than you know," you say, your voice barely a whisper. The admission makes you feel exposed, but there's a strange comfort in baring your truth to someone who might actually understand.

James is the next to speak, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the table, hands clasped together. His smile is gentle, an unspoken invitation for understanding. "I crave contact," he begins, voice lighter than before, as if the confession lifts a weight from his shoulders. "Probably more than I should."

Your brows knit slightly, curiosity piqued. "More than you should?"

He chuckles, a hint of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "I mean... I can handle pain, sure. But it's the emotional coldness I can't stand. The kind that turns everything into some sort of transaction."

You nod, understanding lighting your eyes. "Being wanted versus being used—they can appear similar to an outsider, but they're worlds apart in experience."

"Exactly," James murmurs, falling silent for a moment. His gaze drops to his hands, fingers tracing subconscious patterns on the tabletop. "Affection keeps me grounded. Praise, kindness, warmth—I need these things. I need to feel wanted before I feel owned, otherwise I lose interest and... shut down."

"You're not alone in that," you say, meeting his gaze with empathy. "It's only human to want to be valued for who you are."

"Maybe," James shrugs, attempting to brush off the vulnerability seeping into his words. "But I do like structure, just not when it's cold, impersonal. Rules, yes, but ones that feel caring rather than restrictive."

"And if someone breaks these rules?" you ask, your voice a whisper against the silence.

James's lips twitch into a semblance of a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Then we talk about it. We adjust." A pause. "It's not the mistakes I'm afraid of. It's the silence that follows."

Sirius's voice is soft when he finally speaks, the pause stretching a beat too long.

"Attention," he begins, and there's a vulnerability in his tone that you rarely hear. "Not the kind people think I crave. Not applause or empty praise. I mean being seen for who I truly am, especially in my darkest hours."

"Do they ever get to see that side of you?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

A shadow of a smile plays on Sirius's lips. "Only James and Remus. But I want you to understand it, too. I want us to get there."

His fingers drum an uneven rhythm against his thigh, then still. They curl into a fist, then relax again.

"I don't always need to be in control, to feel powerful," Sirius says slowly. "Sometimes I want the opposite. But I do need to be noticed. To not be overlooked or dismissed. If I feel unseen, even for a moment, it feels as if everything unravels. As if none of it was real."

You reach out, your fingertips brushing over his knuckles, a fleeting promise. "I see you, Sirius."

There's a pause, the space between his words stretching taut. When he speaks again, his voice is a whisper against the stillness.

"My body... it's complicated. It's both a tool for my work and a part of my image. I can't afford to have marks where they might be seen—my face, my neck, even my hands sometimes."

You nod, understanding. "It's not vanity. It's about establishing boundaries."

"Exactly." He doesn't sound ashamed, but there's an edge of acceptance to his tone. "I want to give a lot. I enjoy intensity and surrender. But I need you to know that there's always a part of me that's scared... scared that if I stop performing, I won't be worth anything."

"You don't have to perform for me," you say, the words falling from your lips with a quiet certainty.

He clears his throat, a soft sound in the otherwise silent room. "I don't need constant reassurance. But I do need to know that if I let myself fall apart with you, you won't drop me or turn away."

"I won't," you say. And you mean it.

There is no sound, no movement. The silence stretches out, not awkward but laden with the weight of truths told and heard. It's the kind of quiet that comes when something significant has been shared and everyone is careful not to disturb the reverberations still echoing in the air.

Each one has given you something—not a list of demands, but a map to their needs. It doesn't mean they expect you to alter who you are for them, or that they wish to control your actions. Rather, it reflects their own boundaries, their lines in the sand. It shows where they can bend and where they will break.

It's not meant to be a puzzle for you to solve alone, but a guide for all of you to navigate together. And it's not just about listening—it's about understanding, responding, connecting.

For this, and whatever comes next.

James is the first to break the silence, his voice steady but softer than before. "We've laid out what we need and what we can't do for you. But that's not the heart of it."

Sirius inclines his head, looking at you with an intensity that lacks its usual mischief. "What matters most is what we can offer, and what we want to offer—for you."

The transition is seamless, like the tide pulling back to reveal treasures hidden beneath the surface.

"We want to be there for you," Sirius says, his tone stripped of any pretence or humour. He states it plainly, like a fact he's held close to his chest for far too long.

"And not because you can't handle things on your own," James adds, his voice just above a murmur. "You've been doing that for far too long. We just want to... help lighten the load where we can."

Your body remains rigid, as if bracing for an impact that never comes, yet something inside you shifts imperceptibly, preparing to listen.

"No grand gestures. No sweeping changes," Remus murmurs, neither leaning into your space nor pulling away. "Just enough to let you breathe a little easier."

There are no grand declarations or dramatic flourishes—only the simple, quiet promise of support.

"None of us are here to fix or save you," Sirius states, his voice a low rumble that's more soothing than imposing. "That's not what this is about." He pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting in a ghost of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "We just want to make sure you're fed, warm, and have company when the world feels too much."

James studies you, his gaze steady and unblinking, as if he's seeing straight through to the heart of your fears. "That's what we mean by care. It's not about control or ownership. It's about making the hard days a bit easier."

The words are heavy, but they don't crush you—they wrap around you like a blanket, tentative over the rawness of old wounds. They offer a promise of safety, if only you'd let yourself believe it, but your body tenses, a slight flinch that you can't suppress. It's barely noticeable, but to Remus, who has been watching you closely, it might as well be a shout.

He's quick to react, though his movements are subtle. The shift in his posture is almost imperceptible, a small inhale held back as he prepares to ask a question that might cause further distress.

But instead of voicing his concerns, Remus changes course. His features soften, the lines of worry smoothing out as he recognises the need for lighter conversation—for now, at least.

"Did I ever tell you about the time the stand mixer exploded?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, allowing the tension to drain from his shoulders. His voice takes on a lighter tone, one that carries the echo of laughter yet to come. "It was a mess. Flour everywhere. On the ceiling, down the walls, in my hair—and in Sirius's mouth because he wouldn't stop talking."

You blink. A beat.

"You were swearing in Welsh," Sirius interjects, a note of relief in his tone. "It was like a rhythmic, angry lullaby. I recorded it. For posterity."

James chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You called the mixer a mechanical parasite and tried to drown it in almond milk."

"Because it was!" Remus exclaims, feigning horror. "It had a vendetta against me from the start. I was merely defending our territory."

"And then," Sirius adds, a grin playing at the edges of his lips, "James decided the best way to salvage the batter was by adding his protein shake."

"Which only made things worse," James admits, leaning into the camaraderie. "Much, much worse."

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, but it doesn't erase the tension. It just loosens its grip, if only for a moment—like the eye of a storm offering respite before the winds whip up again.

It works. Not because the story is ridiculous—although that's undeniable—but not even because it's funny. It works because it feels familiar. It doesn't demand anything of you. It reminds you that this isn't care as a grand gesture, steeped in sentimentality or obligation. It's flour-covered counters and muttered curses and the taste of raw egg in a cake that defies all culinary standards. It's time and patience, not promises.

Across the table, James shifts in his chair. He had started to rise, perhaps without even realizing, drawn by some instinct to bridge the distance. But he stops himself, sinking back into the worn upholstery. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't ask what's wrong.

That restraint—that deliberate stillness—speaks louder than any comforting touch could. It says: I see you. And I stay.

Sirius, who usually fills silence with sound, leaves this one untouched. It stretches between you, not heavy, not oppressive. Just there. Existing.

His eyes meet yours across the table. They're not soft, not really, but they're not hard either. They're steady. Anchored.

When he finally breaks the silence, it's not with reassurances or attempts to wipe away the unease that clings to the air like static. It's not meant to make you feel better.

"We don't want to fix you," he says again, his voice low but clear over the hum of the appliances. "Just want you fed."

His words hit harder than expected, reverberating through the hollow spaces within. You meet his gaze and find no accusation there, only concern. You don't smile, don't allow your features to soften, but something inside gives way just a fraction—a shift so small you almost miss it.

The conversation turns then, flowing as naturally as the pages of a story yet unwritten. It's filled with maybes and what-ifs, gaining momentum without urgency. There's no rush to final decisions, just an exploration of possibilities that forges connections you hadn't anticipated.

Sirius is the first to break the silence that follows, leaning back in his chair like a man already halfway through his next thought. "There's a spare key under the second flowerpot from the left," he says, the casualness of his tone belying the significance of his words. "In case you ever want some quiet, or just fancy making your own coffee before the rest of us are up."

Your eyes narrow slightly, searching for the catch you're certain must be there. "I haven't even seen your place yet," you point out.

"Exactly," Sirius replies, smiling like it's the punchline to some private joke. "High time that changed, don't you think?"

James laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Don't let him fool you. He just wants someone else on cleaning duty for the espresso machine."

Sirius feigns offence. "Hey, I said coffee or quiet, didn't I? The espresso machine is a sacred trust. And I've been known to appreciate a bit of peace now and then."

Remus cuts in, his voice steady as always. "The offer stands, regardless. No strings attached. Just... consider it."

You glance between them, gauging their sincerity. It doesn't feel like a test, nor does it come with the weight of expectation. Instead, it hangs in the air like an open window—a choice, nothing more.

Remus shifts, folds one leg over the other. "I was speaking with an acquaintance of mine, a curator at a small gallery that focuses on experimental and emerging artists. The kind of work you do would fit perfectly into their upcoming show."

James nods slowly. "Art made from found materials, zines, mixed media? Like those booklets you make with the stitched spines?"

Your gaze flickers to James in surprise. "You remember that?"

"Of course," he replies, shrugging as if it should be obvious. "You sent me a photo of one, with the layered pages and the blackout poem. It stayed with me."

Remus continues, "And there's this bookstore tucked away in an alley that smells like cedar and potential. The owners are poets themselves, and they sell local art. I think they'd appreciate your work."

"Plus, they have these velvet chairs that are perfect for napping," Sirius adds, grinning despite the gravity of the moment. "You'd love it."

"You got kicked out for that," James reminds him, but there's no heat in his voice, only fond exasperation.

"Still worth it," Sirius mutters, sinking lower into his own chair. "Best nap ever."

They're sifting through fragments of a life like puzzle pieces, and you hadn't realised how far some had strayed from the box. Places you'd never thought to wander, edges of yourself unseen. But here they are, held up to the light, and you can almost envision the corners aligning just so. It's not an overwhelming process, but rather oddly soothing.

James' focus on you tightens, not in proximity but in intensity. "What makes you feel good?"

You blink at the sudden shift, caught off guard. "Good?"

"Yeah," he says, leaning back slightly, elbows resting on his thighs. His fingers tap a rhythm against worn denim, reflecting the cadence of his thoughts. "Not what helps or what fixes necessarily, just... what brings you joy. In your own skin, for its own sake."

You chew on your lip, taking the time to unravel this new thread. You speak of little things first—the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, the warmth that spreads across your back when you sit in a patch of sunlight, the silence that blankets the world just before the rain begins to fall. Remus listens with a tilt of his head, eyebrows faintly raised as if each word is a secret he's been entrusted with. Sirius closes his eyes, leaning into the slight breeze wafting through the open window, as though he could catch the sound of your voice on the wind and keep it there.

"That makes sense," James murmurs, nodding more to himself than anyone else. "You should have more of that."

The talk shifts again, gentler now. James meets your gaze, his own holding a glimmer of hope.

"We've been talking," he begins, "about setting up a flat for you. Renting it."

Your heart stutters, the words catching you off-guard. "For me?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

James nods, leaning back into the cushioned chair. "Not ours, not shared. Not a room in our place, but a proper apartment. Just yours."

"Without us having keys," Sirius adds quickly, his tone gentle as though to reassure you. "It's important that you feel safe—really safe."

Remus leans toward you, elbows resting on his knees. "And we know accessibility matters too. We'd ensure it's all set up before anything happens. It might take some time, but we're willing to spend it. No rush, no deadlines. Just... a thought. A serious thought."

"More than a rescue mission," Sirius murmurs, his grey eyes softening. "More than a lifeline. A place to settle. To breathe easy."

"With soup," Remus suggests, a small smile curving his lips. "A fridge stocked with your favourites."

"Shelves you didn't have to fill yourself," James adds. "Soft blankets. Books you didn't have to carry home."

"A bath where you can soak until your muscles unwind," Sirius says, his voice dropping lower, "and only let go when you're ready."

Remus's gaze never wavers from yours. "It wouldn't be about surviving anymore. It'd be about what you want when the world feels safe."

"What you want to feel like when there's no weight on your shoulders," James echoes.

They don't press you, don't try to sell you on the idea. They merely lay it out, piece by piece, a puzzle taking shape in the space between them. An offering without strings, presented with open hands and hopeful hearts.

And bit by bit, you let the picture form in your mind. You make no promises, but neither do you recoil. You imagine soup simmering on a stove, books stacked high on a coffee table, raindrops racing down expansive windows. No jangling keys except your own. The quiet assurance of doors locked by choice, not by mandate. And then there's the thought that you won't be alone—not because they will be there, but because they have carved out space for you.

For the first time, it doesn't feel like a dream. It feels like the blueprint of something tangible.

Not a place to hide.

A place to live.

The room is quiet, and James is the first to speak. His voice is soft, almost gentle, as though he's handling something delicate. "We should talk about money," he says slowly, looking down at his glass rather than meeting your gaze.

"About support. I want to make sure you're okay. That you have enough."

His words don't surprise you, but they weigh on you nonetheless. You nod, slowly, feeling the gravity of the moment settle around you. The silence stretches between you again, not uncomfortable but thick with implication.

You consider your response carefully, weighing instinct against experience. Finally, you speak a number into the space between you. It's modest, cautious—almost apologetic. Not a reflection of what you deserve, but rather what you've been conditioned to accept. It's a sum shaped by past conversations, whittled down by a lifetime of being told to expect less.

Then you brace yourself.

You know what comes next: the slight pause, the recalibration of expectations, the redefinition of what care should cost. You wait for the subtle shifts in power dynamics, the negotiation that underlies every act of kindness.

But James doesn't respond as you anticipate. His eyebrows lift just a fraction, and his eyes open wider, reflecting surprise rather than calculation. Then he laughs, a sound softer than you'd expect from such a large man.

"That's it?" he says under his breath, almost like he's talking to himself. His eyes lift to meet Sirius's, then Remus's. A conversation passes in silence. Consensus. Agreement. No debate.

Then James scratches the back of his neck, sheepish, his voice roughened by emotion he's trying not to show. "We were thinking more like… three grand a week."

He doesn't say it like an offer. He says it like a hope. Like he's terrified it might scare you off. Like he's saying, please let me do this.

The amount hangs in the air between you, and it feels like a physical jolt. A sharp shock reverberating through your chest. It's not offered as a suggestion or up for negotiation—it's stated plainly, firmly.

It should feel reassuring, this promise of financial security. Instead, it's disorienting. Jarring.

You don't move, but something within you tenses. Your breath grows shallow, your shoulders drawing together ever so slightly. Your spine stiffens, readying for... what? You wait for a caveat, an explanation that will make this number less staggering. Because that sum doesn't sound like help—it sounds like fantasy. And fantasies have a way of costing more than they're worth.

Your heartbeat slows, each thud heavy against your rib cage—not rapid, just loud. Dull. An echo of caution.

Your first instinct is to recoil, to spit out a biting retort. Not because you want to wound, but because it might serve as armour. A barbed comment fashioned from past hurts. You want to ask them what they think they're buying, to sneer before any semblance of gratitude can take hold.

But you don't. You swallow down the bile rising in your throat, not out of trust—not yet—but out of a gnawing hunger for something different. That desire—that dangerous, irrational hope—is louder than your fear today.

"However," Remus interjects, his tone steady yet firm, "this is not a negotiation."

James watches him, waiting. Sirius shifts slightly in his seat, his gaze flicking between the two.

Remus continues, his voice softening with conviction. "This isn't about giving more than necessary; it's about providing enough. My mother lived on less than this each month." He pauses, his eyes distant. "She was ill and proud, too proud to ask for help. We got by, but just. I remember going without heat some nights, sharing a single coat in the winters, learning not to ask for anything because 'no' was the only answer we could afford."

James's face softens as he listens, his brow furrowed in thought. Sirius looks away, jaw clenched.

"Things are different now," Remus says, bringing them back to the present. "We have resources, all of us. This isn't charity; it's a correction. It's ensuring that you don't have to change who you are to survive. There's no virtue in deprivation when abundance is within reach."

Sirius's voice cuts through the air like a whip, low and decisive. "He's right. I grew up with money, lots of it, but it was always about control—performance, obedience. None of it felt safe or mine. It was a leash disguised as an inheritance. This is not that."

James shifts beside him, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "My parents were different. They didn't expect much from me. They just loved me and wanted to spoil me. And they did." He chuckles softly, more to himself than anyone else. "I was probably a handful for a few years. But I never doubted I was loved, that I was safe. Now that we can do this for someone else—for you—I want that safety to mean something more, something lasting."

He turns back to you, and the intensity in his eyes is almost too much to bear. "Do you think your survival should come cheap?" he asks, and there's an edge to his tone that wasn't there before. It borders on anger—not at you, but for you. "That amount wasn't insignificant. It hurt. But so does coming back from the brink. You deserve comfort now. You deserve to breathe, to rest. That price isn't too steep—it's long overdue."

James's voice is softer, steadier, but no less compelling. "We didn't come here to haggle, Y/N," he says, meeting your gaze with a sincerity that's almost disconcerting in its intensity. "We came to help. If this was about getting the best deal, we wouldn't have chosen you. This is about ensuring you have a future—one where you can stand on your own feet, without constantly looking over your shoulder."

You take a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs before releasing it slowly. The weight doesn't lift entirely—you're not sure it ever will—but it shifts, becomes something more manageable.

"I don't know how to believe that," you say, the words barely above a whisper. They feel foreign, like they've been lodged in your throat for years, waiting for the right moment to break free. And when they do, they're not smooth or polished—they're raw, jagged edges indicative of a survival hard-won.

But you say them anyway. Your words come slowly, deliberately. There are no theatrics, no defensiveness—just the slow unveiling of truth.

"I want this," you say, your voice a study in softness and strength. "I want you."

James exhales, his breath a quiet surrender to the tension that has held him captive. "Good," he murmurs, the word barely more than a sigh against your skin. "Because we want you too. Not some future version of you that's all healed up and perfect. You. Just as you are right now."

Their gazes remain fixed on you, not with expectation or demand, but with a presence that is steady and unflinching.

You draw in another breath and let it out slowly. "The fear... it's not really about you. It's about everything before. The experiences I've had. The people who smiled like you do now, but left ruin in their wake."

They don't interrupt, don't react with anything other than the subtle shift of muscles as they listen. Their stillness becomes a form of permission, a silent acknowledgement that this space is yours to fill with whatever truths need to be spoken.

Remus's gaze softens, leaning in to bridge the gap. "You think you're being difficult," he murmurs, "but all I see is someone trying to find a place where they can finally feel safe. That's not weakness. That's acceptance."

Your eyes flicker between them, searching for falsehoods and finding none. James sits back, his posture relaxed; a silent invitation to share in their camaraderie. Remus watches you, his gaze steady and patient, like one used to reading between the lines of tattered pages. And Sirius, he leans forward—not to close the distance, but to ensure you see him, hear him, believe him.

"But it's hard," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I want it, though. That has to count for something, right? That I'm still here despite it all."

James's voice carries the weight of understanding. "Being brave doesn't mean you're not scared. It means you show up, even when you are. That's the bravest thing I've ever seen."

Remus nods, echoing James's sentiments. "And it doesn't matter if your hands shake or your voice breaks. You walked through that door, not knowing what you'd be offered. That's courage."

Sirius gives a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with sincerity. "Especially when every instinct tells you to run, but you stay. That's how we know this—your desire for change—is real."

The silence stretches, wrapping around the four of you like an unseen cord, binding you together in this moment of raw honesty. Their gazes do not waver, nor do they look away. They simply wait, as if time itself has slowed.

***

Later that night, you're in bed, feeling the phantom echoes of poses held too long and the strain of trying not to react. The house is quiet around you, but you haven't turned on any music, haven't picked up your embroidery, haven't lit a cigarette. You're just lying there, staring at the ceiling, as if it might offer an answer you're not ready to ask for.

Then your phone buzzes. Just once. A simple notification.

You open your banking app without thinking—it's automatic, a distraction.

And then you stop breathing.

There it is.

The number. Not a placeholder. Not a promise. Not something that will disappear when you try to use it.

It's real.

And still, part of you hesitates. Not because of the money, but because of the kindness behind it. You've learned that nice things can turn sour. Seen generosity become a leash. Love used as a weapon. And for a moment, you wonder: How soon will they want something back? Not because they're unkind, but because no one stays kind forever.

You scroll back up, checking the balance again. And again. You take a screenshot, not to share or even keep, but just to confirm it's real—to ensure the numbers don't change when you blink. But despite this proof, your body remains coiled tight with tension. Your shoulders are hunched, and your hands feel cramped around the phone. Your heart throbs in your chest, like a bird desperate to escape.

This isn't the first time someone's offered you kindness. No, you've been down similar roads before. Not quite like this, perhaps, but close enough. Sweet words that turned acidic. Gifts that came with invisible strings. Men who promised "no conditions," yet left you tangled up in expectations.

You want to believe it's different now—that you're safe. But safety is not a feeling you can summon at will. It's something you dissect, analyze, compare to past experiences until the edges blur. Even then, it feels elusive, always one step out of reach.

You switch off the screen, plunging the room back into semi-darkness. The phone feels heavy in your hand, a silent testament to the bridge you've crossed tonight. Yet you remain seated, unmoving, as if the world outside has ceased to exist.

The silence around you is so heavy, it feels solid. Your own heartbeat resonates in your ears, a steady reminder that despite everything, you are still alive. You're tempted to reach for your phone, to send a message—an acknowledgement, a thank you, a confession of fear and confusion. It's the polite thing to do, the expected response.

But you don't.

This isn't about etiquette or performance.

It's about letting the moment be, without trying to shrink it down to fit inside a text message.

So you breathe. Just once, but deep enough to feel it stretch your lungs. Your shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. Then another.

Your muscles remain tight, coiled like a spring, but the tension has shifted from something sharp and cutting to something duller, more akin to a bruise than a wound. The kind of hurt that predicts healing, given time and care.

"Please," you whisper into the emptiness, "let this be real."

The words don't echo or fade away. They simply hang in the stillness, as tangible as the air you're struggling to draw into your lungs.

And there's no answer.

But then again, there's no denial either. No sudden shattering of illusion, no cruel laughter ringing in your ears.

The stillness remains unbroken.

And for now, that's enough.

[rosy-crow]

I'm actually curious your headcanons for Genesis

YES the beloved drama-lord <3

Headcanon A:  realistic

Genesis grew up feeling like a bit of a pariah amongst the Banora children, as they didn’t understand his interests or his wealthier lifestyle. Angeal was the only one willing to cross over into Genesis’ world to understand him and help him feel okay to open up.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Genesis CAN actually play those damn flutes that the devs almost had him play in the game lolll. His parents had him take music lessons as a kid and Genesis did not escape the flute sessions skdjd

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Genesis partially idolized Sephiroth because he sensed that the hero possibly understood the lonely feeling of being in a high position of respect and reverence amongst others. Always being looked up at and not understood. This was a result of the previously mentioned social isolation that came with being the landlord’s introverted son amidst a poorer village.

This drove Genesis to want to be Sephiroth’s equal, to see eye-to-eye with him, to draw closer and find solidarity with the hero. But unfortunately, Genesis would never be able to breach the walls of his own insecurity and low self-worth to admit this, masking it all in his fiery rivalry with Sephiroth.

Even worse, he’d never know that Sephiroth felt the exact same way Genesis did and was craving full unity with the fellow warrior, who he admired deeply and wanted to share the plights of social isolation with. Neither of them knew just how much they could have helped each other.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

GENESIS WILL RETURN ONE DAY TO SAVE THE PLANET SOMEHOW SJDHDH

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 410: Kacchan Fights a Baby

Previously on BnHA: Kacchan was born and then he grew up and murdered the Demon Lord.

Today on BnHA: Kacchan fights a baby. Tomura and Deku finally remember that they were supposed to have been fighting too this entire time, and get on with that once again. Tomura is all, “[literally just reaches out and grabs Deku’s face because Deku’s main character powers suddenly abandoned him in a fit of confusion].” Deku is all, “[chops off Tomura’s fingers which is somehow not even in the top twenty of violent things that have happened in this series in just the last five chapters].” Tomura is all “joke’s on you I still got your quirk :D” and fuck me he actually stole Danger Sense, what the fuck.

logically I knew AFO still had to be alive somehow because he’s too big of a villain to go out that easily without a proper sendoff. but deep in my heart, I’m still secretly disappointed

it just isn’t fair, lol. this guy has died more times than Rasputin and he’s still out here scheming his schemey schemes. when oh when will it end

sir you did not just say you had yet ANOTHER unused trump card up your sleeve??

(ETA: the translation isn’t fully clear here, but I think the trump card he’s referring to is the whole “I’ll just go back inside him and join the part of me that was already in there and we’ll take over Tomura’s body again together” plan that he was trying to pull off. I think. if not though, that’s certainly something worth speculating about.)

well as always the psychology in this series is unironically fascinating! he just wants acknowledgement at the end of the day, huh. just wants some love and attention. too bad he was born in a rat-infested hellscape and learned all the wrong lessons and turned into a crazed omnipotent murderlad

also he really did turn back into a baby sdfsdlkjfl oh no. I need to see Katsuki’s reaction to this immediately

oh my lord

(●__●)

lmao this is so incredibly fucked up

ngl though, this is karma at its finest. he tortured and killed so many people trying to earn everyone’s fear and awe and reverence, only to literally blip out of existence at the end with absolutely nothing to show for it

everyone please enjoy this series of panels of a deeply vexed Bakugou Katsuki picking a fight with this slowly melting evil baby

“you think I care that you’re a baby now. you think I won’t fight a fuckin’ baby. let’s do this you little punk”

also I’m sorry but it’s absolutely ridiculous that the gigantic chest wound Tomura inflicted on him got sewed up so neatly lol. AFO’s not the only one who stubbornly refuses to die no matter what

...

just once, it would be nice if Horikoshi didn’t immediately shred my plot nitpicks to pieces mere seconds after I write them

LMAO

BABY AFO DON’T CARE. BABY AFO WILL THROW HANDS WITH ANYONE ＼(｀0´)／

KACCHAN MY BELOVED FAVE OF ALL TIME, ARE YOU REALLY ABOUT TO LOSE TO A LITERAL FUCKING INFANT

WHAT HAPPENED TO “PERFECT VICTORY” LMAO. MOVING THE GOALPOSTS EVEN AS HIS CONSCIOUSNESS FADES. “EH, CLOSE ENOUGH”

-- OH FOR THE LOVE OF --

me: wow it sure is uncharacteristic of Katsuki to just pass out before he properly wraps up this battle

Horikoshi: oh yeah good point, sure would be a shame if someone... IMMEDIATELY ADDRESSED THAT CONCERN ON THE VERY NEXT PAGE

me: ఠ_ఠ

ldskjflaksdjfkds

fdsfsdkf. “SORRY ABOUT THAT, FOR A MOMENT THERE I ALMOST FORGOT TO BEND THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE TO MY WILL”

holy fucking shit. his body was all “um, just a quick reminder that you’re HORRIBLY WOUNDED and have lost like ten gallons of blood and all of your cells are about to call an emergency meeting to shut this thing down before you get us all killed.” and he was all “WHAT WAS THAT?!” and his body was all “oh my GOD, FUCK, OKAY just forget we said anything”

and meanwhile Baby AFO is just lying there all “(◉⌓◉)”

this six-month-old child is truly and sincerely still trying to kill Kacchan while screeching death threats in high-pitched baby talk

this actually would have killed him too, if he’d succeeded in passing out. all that just to be punk’d by a damn baby

you are actually shitting me right now

at this point I’m genuinely not sure which of them has the more powerful angry toddler energy

oh no ffuffkdsfk

meeeeelting. meeeeeeltiiiiiing!!! oh what a world what a world

jesus Horikoshi I am genuinely speechless

... welp

WAIT NO WAY, REALLY?!?!

?!?!?! WAS IT ACTUALLY THAT SIMPLE THIS WHOLE TIME

-- lkjf

three times. three times in the same fucking chapter. I give up. apparently I’ll literally believe anything this man says. does it feel good, Horikoshi. preying on your readers’ hopeful naivete

yeefuckinghaw lmao

GOOD JOB KACCHAN YOU DEFEATED THE EVIL BABY

awwwww

I actually had a theory about this! well more of a wishlist item, really. I can’t remember if I’ve actually posted about it yet or not. but it’s like. you know how Deku and Kacchan are always being really dramatic about holding hands? wanting to hold hands; not wanting to hold hands; being afraid to hold hands; holding hands via proxy, etc. etc.?

and you know how both Endeavor and All Might have each done their own version of the victory pose that Kacchan is referring to here? with each one using a different hand?

so you see, I was thinking that it might be nice. might be a little poetic and all that. if at the end of the fight, Deku and Kacchan did, in fact, hold hands. and then did the victory pose together. and it became like their iconic hero moment. them standing there together. having accomplished their goal and defeated TomurAFO through teamwork. realizing their shared childhood dream. and sharing that moment of triumph with each other and with the world, ushering in a new era of heroes

anyway yeah. I was thinking that might be a pretty good ending. but it looks like Kacchan maybe really is about to pass out here now, lol, so maybe not? anyways time to finally scroll down

-- okay I literally said awww again out loud

what a fucking nerd. I have never felt more fondness for a character in my life

every damn person watching this on the news better have leaped to their feet and started applauding, goddammit. those motherfuckers better be CHANTING HIS FUCKING NAME. all those nagging reporters better be bombarding his phone with calls. those fuckers who deleted his footage from the Shouto interview better be shamelessly leaving him dozens of voicemails acting like none of that ever happened and presumptuously asking when he can free some time in his schedule to visit their studio again. all the heroes who haven’t hugged him yet better be lining the fuck up. that one guy from the post-kidnapping press conference in chapter 86 better be writing a fifty page letter of apology!!

oh hey it’s a random pre-battle flashback mysteriously taking place in Troy “a few days before the battle” even though I thought they only moved into that place the night before the fight

I love how Katsuki immediately narrows his eyes (I assume. we can’t see for sure but that’s the vibe I get) at Jeanist and has to resist the urge to call the police on him for that pun

so Hadou’s wondering what Jeanist is talking about because they already evacuated the civilians, so what else are they trying to protect. and Edgeshot is all, “well obviously we’ve gotta protect everyone’s future,” which is a nice... rearshadowing?? for him saving Katsuki’s life later on lol

and now Mirko is all “get to the fucking point already.” which, same

so Jeanist says that Tomura is an even bigger problem than AFO, because at least AFO doesn’t want to murder everyone on the entire planet. and he concludes with “he’ll probably try to touch the ground and use his quirk.” which is a conclusion that I have to say wasn’t really worth two pages of flashback buildup for, considering that we all figured that out years ago

I’m guessing this is all just some sort of awkward transition back to Deku’s fight now lol

and now we’re getting two pages of exposition on how long it would theoretically take Tomura’s Decay to spread throughout the city, and then the entire country, yikes

damn. talk about stakes

and now finally back to Deku!!

shoutout to everyone who correctly predicted that Deku was once again talking out of his ass when it came to being out of Gearshifts. we all knew. unlimited supply

wow Tomura way to throw AFO under the bus

the way I recall it, AFO wasn’t the one who failed to kill him back then lol. but go ahead and talk your shit king

DEKU WHAT ARE YOU DOING

holy shit?!?!

like my first thought was “well last time he did this he just tried to steal OFA rather than Decay him, so he’ll probably try that again and it’ll be fine.” only to remember that the AFO inside Tomura is currently permanently(?) out to lunch, and Tomura himself doesn’t give two figs about stealing OFA. so, uhhhh >_>

(ETA: nevermind.)

but then this happened

Deku what the actual fuck

OH MY GOD??!?!

HOLY SHIT

okay. okay, fuck. lemme gather up my thoughts, and then we’ll wrap this up

they’ll never admit it, but you know the other OFA Vestiges secretly resented Shino a tiny bit for being the only one of them to not be gruesomely murdered. bet they all feel guilty for thinking that now

Shino and Banjou also seemed to have this cute little pseudo-rivalry thing going on, so I really feel bad for Banjou now. :/ he looks so horrified in that bottom right panel

gotta admit, I did not see this coming in the slightest. OFA has been this immutable “I do what I want!” quirk for so long that I never thought Tomura or AFO would actually succeed in stealing it, even partially. that shook me to my core

BUT, it’s also really exciting to me because it’s going to make this battle much more interesting if Deku can’t use his get out of jail free card. shit just got way more real and I’m here for it

lastly, so! let me tell you guys my prediction. I still can’t see Tomura being the final villain lol. I just can’t. it feels too anticlimactic. if I’m wrong, I’m wrong, and I’ve certainly botched MANY predictions in the past, but I have not yet learned my lesson from any of it and I will not apologize lol

so here’s what I think. Deku and Tomura battle it out for the next chapter or two, and Tomura snatches up more of Deku’s quirks one by one. we see all of the Vestiges disappearing and the mood gets more and more desperate. eventually we’re down to just Kudou and Yoichi. Deku is panicking, but for some reason Kudou seems even MORE panicked

Kudou/Gearshift eventually gets stolen too, and it looks like this might finally be it for Deku (I have no idea how he’d stop Tomura from Decaying the ground once Blackwhip gets stolen, btw, but maybe Katsuki or someone else interferes in desperation towards the end). but just when it looks like Tomura is finally going to take the last piece of OFA, Deku’s vibes suddenly do a 180, stopping Tomura in his tracks

cut to the OFA Moon Gorgeous Meditation Realm, where Deku and Yoichi are staring at the door -- yes, that door -- in shock. because it’s finally been opened (now that the other Vestiges are no longer there to keep it at bay). and just like that, enter AFO, for the THIRD FUCKING TIME :D :D

tl;dr, HERE’S HOW HORCRUX!DEKU CAN STILL HAPPEN!!! wait where are you all going. wait come back

anyway so wow that was a really bizarre chapter that I truly thoroughly enjoyed, which should probably be a bit concerning. on to the next two week break! (for anyone who’s not aware, Shounen Jump will be on break next week, so yeah.) I’m on chapter 391 now. so close but still so far. the end of the year has gone by too damn fast tbh

[nxzz-skz]

Bound by contract (a bangchan x reader series)

Chapter 12

ᯓ★arranged marriage between nonidol!bangchan and fem!reader

ᯓ★ warnings: fluff, kissing, suggestive, mdni

ᯓ★ note: send an ask or comment to be added to my taglist! (please specify which one :D )

chapter 11 - masterlist - chapter 13

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

Dinner was quiet but comfortable. For the first time in a long time, things felt normal.

You sat across from each other at the dinner table, sharing stories you'd never shared before. He told you about his first "business" - selling candy to kids in school - and you laughed so hard you nearly choked on your food. You told him about the time your roommate tricked you into dying your hair blue in college, and he laughed so hard it bought tears to his eyes.

It was easy. Too easy.

Later that evening, when you were washing the dishes, you felt him behind you before you saw him. His warmth radiated against your back, his presence so close you could feel the heat of him on your skin.

"Need some help?" he asked, his voice low, right next to your ear.

You froze.

"You offering or just trying to be nice?" you muttered, trying hard to focus on scrubbing the bowl in your hand.

"Both," he muttered, stepping closer. His chest was now practically pressed against you back, and his breath was warm against your ear.

"Careful, Chan," you said, placing the bowl in the drying rack. "You're playing with fire."

"Yeah?" His voice dropped, quieter but somehow deeper. "Maybe I don't mind getting burned."

You didn't turn around. You didn't trust yourself to. Your heart was a mess of pounding beats, and every inch of you was suddenly aware of him - of how close he was to you, of how his hands hovered just shy of your waist.

"Stop it," you said softly, your voice uneven.

"I'n not doing anything though," he whispered.

You turned, looking up at him, face a lot closer than you'd expected. He was staring at you with that look - the one that made it feel he could see right into your thoughts.

"Chan," you warned, barely louder than a whisper.

"Say it again," he said, tilting his head slightly, his eyes flickering to your lips for just a second. "Say my name again."

Your breath caught in your throat.

Don't do it. Don't let him win.

But you did.

"Chan," you whispered again, his name barely a breath.

His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, leaning forward so that his forehead rested lightly against yours. His breath was hot against your cheek, steady but not at the same time.

"I should stop," he murmured, his voice so soft it was barely there.

You didn't say anything.

Because you didn't want him to stop.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

The line between you wasn’t just crossed.

It was obliterated.

His lips were on yours before you even realized you’d moved. Soft at first, testing, asking for permission. But the second you gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, he broke.

His hands found your waist, fingers firm but not demanding. His lips moved against yours, slow at first, like he was memorizing the way you tasted. But soon, it wasn’t enough.

You felt it — the shift from caution to need.

He kissed you deeper, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer like he couldn’t stand the space between you. Every breath, every sound, every movement was raw, desperate, real.

“Tell me you want this,” he muttered against your lips, his voice rough, broken.

“Shut up, Chan,” you said, pulling him back in, amused at how needy he sounded.

He laughed against your mouth, and you could feel it — the weight of everything that had been building between you, finally cracking open.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling lightly, and he groaned, his hands tightening on your waist. Your back hit the counter, and you gasped, but you didn’t care.

He kissed you like it was the only thing he knew how to do. His lips traced down your jaw, over the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

Your name left his lips like a prayer, hushed and reverent.

“Y/N…” he breathed, pulling back just far enough to look at you. His eyes were wild, his lips swollen and shiny from kissing you.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, your hands tugging him closer. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

When you woke up, you expected him to be gone.

But he wasn’t.

He was still there, his arm draped over your waist, his breathing slow and steady against the back of your neck.

You stared at the ceiling, your mind a mess of thoughts, but one thing kept repeating over and over.

He stayed.

He always left before. Always. But this time, his warmth was still there, grounding you in ways you didn’t think you needed.

His arm tightened around you, his lips brushing against your shoulder.

“You’re thinking too much,” he mumbled, voice rough from sleep.

“Yeah,” you admitted, eyes still on the ceiling.

“Stop.”

You finally turned your head, looking at him. His eyes were barely open, his gaze lazy but soft.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you muttered.

He grinned, pulling you closer until his face was buried in the crook of your neck.

“Then tell me what you want,” he said, his breath warm against your skin.

You.

“Breakfast,” you said instead.

He laughed.

But this time, he didn’t let go.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

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[memento-morri-writes]

Carrion Backstory Chapter 2 - A Crisis of Faith

Chapter 1 [+ author commentary] / Chapter 2 [+ author commentary] / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 [+ author commentary]

pov: Carrion wordcount: 1.8k character(s): Carrion Vice (D&D) canon status: canon backstory vignette trigger warnings: hallucinations, injury, violence, mentions of death summary: after being left for dead by his paladin order, Reverence undergoes a crisis of faith.

Reverence lay on his back, staring up at the moon. In the hours since he had been left here, it had sunk lower in the sky, and now it hung just above the rim of the ravine. The tiny waning crescent reminded him of the edge of a knife. 

A knife like how the rocks cut into his skin if he even tried to move. A knife like the wounds all over his body. A knife like the one that had cut him out of the tapestry of the Silver Order. A knife like the one that had stabbed his heart when Orion fell. 

He shook his head. He was thinking in metaphors. That wasn’t good. Maybe he had lost too much blood. Maybe he would die soon. 

He wondered what death felt like. It had to feel better than this.

Reverence closed his eyes and waited to die. 

Unfortunately, it seemed the Flame had other plans for him. 

He woke to the sun beating down on him, its bright light prying at the edges of his sleep. Slowly, his eyes cracked open. It was daylight now, and the sun was visible over the ravine. That meant that half a day had passed since he’d been left here.

Carefully, he tried to move, get a sense of his body. Immediately, pain shot through him, causing him to cry out. So he was still injured. And badly, it seemed. The paladins – his friends – had nearly killed him. 

If only they had finished the job. 

He closed his eyes and hoped to die.

Time slipped away from him after that. Hours passed without him registering them. He slept fitfully, waking every time he so much as twitched a muscle. His mouth grew dry, and he wished desperately for rain. 

Rain would also help with the heat. It was fall now, and yet he was sweltering. The rocks beneath him absorbed the heat. He was roasting here, like a rabbit over a fire. 

A fire. The Sacred Flame. 

An image danced on the back of his eyelids: His own body, speared on a ceremonial spear, and suspended over the temple’s Flame as though on a spit. The air was thick with smoke, obscuring the temple beyond the first two rows of the pews. 

Seated on those pews were the paladins. His paladins. The people he had traveled with and fought with and laughed with. They were laughing now, but this time it was not with him. They jeered, banging their metal travel bowls together in anticipation of a meal. 

He understood, then: This was what the Flame wanted. It wanted him to burn. He had taken in its light, and carried it, like a lamp lighting the way. But his wick had expired, his use had run out. And now there was nothing left to do but burn. Burn until there was nothing left. 

If it wanted him to burn, then he would burn.

He closed his eyes and reached for the flames.

Hours slipped by as he waded through the fire. In its dancing flames, he saw memories. He saw himself training alongside the other paladins. He saw Theodore instructing him, correcting his stance. He saw Beren laughing, a mug of ale in his hand. 

And in every memory, he saw it. Saw the fire that burned behind their eyes. The fire of devotion. Of loyalty. 

He walked onwards, through the fire. 

Ahead of him, he saw Theodore, arguing with Beren. Arguing about him. About whether or not to kill him. A fire burned at their feet, much larger than the distant campfire that had been there the first time he had seen these events. 

Theodore’s voice boomed, unnaturally loud, coming from all sides. “I will not kill one of my men!”

Beren opened his mouth to reply. But what emerged was not Beren’s voice. It was the roar of flames, almost deafening in volume, somehow shaped into words. “THEN LET HIM BURN.”

The flames flickered and the pair vanished. 

When the flames settled, they were there again, this time leaning out over the ravine, just like in his memory. But this time, Theodore carried a burning torch in one hand. Beren spoke again, but instead of protest, it was the Flame-voice again. “LET HIM BURN.” 

Theodore reached out his hand, and dropped the torch. It fell, tumbling down towards where Reverence lay on the ledge. Despite it being a barren shelf of rock, the flames caught. He could feel their heat. Feel the way his chains warmed until they were burning his skin. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. 

Above him, Theodore turned away. “Put him out of your mind. Soon he will be nothing but Carrion.”

The flames engulfed him, obscuring Theodore from view.

Reverence burned away.

He woke, thrashing against the chains. It hurt, the pain almost blinding, but that didn’t matter. If he did not break free, he was going to die. And, he realized for the first time, he did not want to die. He wanted to escape, and to get out of this ravine. To hunt down Theodore and destroy his life as Theodore had done to him. He wanted revenge. He wanted to live.

The world took on a purple tint, growing hazy and distant. His muscles screamed in agony. The chains were too tight, cutting into his flesh. He bellowed in pain. They were choke him. Squeeze the life from his body. He was going to burst, or implode.

And then he was free.

The pressure on his body vanished as the chains broke and  fell away, clattering into the depths of the ravine. Euphoric, forgetting about his wounds, he leapt, scrabbling for a handhold on the rocky cliff. His long, knife-like claws dug into cracks in the rock. Slowly, every muscle burning, he ascended. 

Reaching the top of the cliff he staggered forwards, away from the edge. As he stumbled, the world grew in size around him as his body shrank. The pain that he had been trying his best to ignore slammed into him with its full force. 

His legs buckled under its weight and he fell to his knees.

He was dying, he was sure of it. He couldn’t die, not now. Not now that he was free, now that he understood! Desperately he reached out, searching for the golden-orange light of his magic. There was nothing but the cold and the dark. 

Of course. The flames had burned him. They would never heal him now.

BItter laughter bubbled to his lips, harsh and dry. He fell sideways, ignoring the distant pain from the impact. With great effort, he rolled onto his back. Above him, the sky was dark. The moon had vanished. He found himself falling again, but this time falling up, into the welcoming dark. 

He closed his eyes and waited for impact.

Time became a river again, with him borne along by the current, blissfully unaware. Every so often the world became real again, awareness surfacing like an island. 

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

A burst of pain in his shoulder. 

“Oh, fuck.”

A gentle touch.

Stinging pain.

A groan, from somewhere inside himself, more animal than human.

“I know, I know. It hurts. Just try to relax.”

The crackling of a fire. 

Cool water on his lips.

“Drink.”

Before he saw anything, he could hear. He took in the sounds of the world. The crackle of a fire. A rhythmic zing sound, over and over again. Zing, zing, zing. And underneath it, someone humming. He was not alone.

Extending his awareness to the rest of his body, he checked what he could feel. He lay on his back on something soft. A bedroll, maybe? No, too hairy. A pelt of some kind, then. He didn’t hurt, at least not much. There was a soreness that permeated every inch of his body, but it was nothing compared to the agony from before. Wiggling his fingers and toes, flexing the muscles in his arms and legs, he checked his range of motion. He could move. That was good. Maybe even fight if he needed to, though he didn’t want to test that theory.

He cracked open his eyes. Above him, he saw the branches of pine trees. Beyond that, the night sky, and the thin line of a waxing crescent moon. Slowly lifting his head, he looked around. A fire lit a small campsite, tucked amongst the trees. No tents, only his pelt and an empty bedroll. A rabbit roasted on a spit over the fire.

Beyond the fire hunched a figure, bent over some task. They appeared to be the source of the humming as well as the other noise. They didn’t seem to have noticed that he was awake yet. 

Carefully, as quietly as possible, he sat up. Glancing down, he saw he was shirtless and barefoot, though he still wore his pants from the Order, ripped in several places and stained with blood and dirt. He looked around for a weapon. 

There, by the other bedroll. A sheathed sword. 

He inched towards it, stepping as lightly as he could manage. But he was still sore, and clumsy. 

The humming stopped.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

He looked up and saw that the hunched figure on the other side belonged to a rugged-looking human man with weathered skin and a tangled mop of black hair. There was a wide grin on his face. In his hand gleamed a knife, which he was sharpening with a whetstone held in his other hand. Zing, zing, zing.

He must have seen the fear on his guest’s face, because he laughed and raised his hands. “I don’t mean you any harm. It would be a waste of all the time I spent dragging you back from the brink of death.”

He gestured to the rabbit on the spit. “I imagine you must be hungry. Come, sit.” Taking the knife, he sliced off a perfectly roasted slice of meat, letting it fall onto the plate. He held it out in the direction of his guest who still crouched near the bedroll. 

The sword was so close. But if this man had saved him… The smell of the roasted meat hit his nose and his stomach growled. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d eaten but he knew it was days. 

Warily, he inched closer. When the other man made no move to attack, he snatched the plate of meat from his hand. Not bothering to wait for utensils, he picked it up and began to eat. It was the most glorious thing he had ever tasted. It was gone in seconds. 

He looked up and saw his rescuer holding another plate. “Do you want more?” 

He nodded vigorously. “Yes,” he rasped. Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

His rescuer nodded. “Of course. But first, tell me: Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure what was going to come out of his mouth until it did, but once it was out he knew it was the truth. “My name is Carrion.”