#fic: with sincere fervour

[adolin]

arguably the best comment one could hope to receive on a locked tomb fic

[slowd1ving]

Hello !! Do I ask for a Jinyoung Park x husband reader ? please fluff and one shot

NOSTOS . ⁺ JINYOUNG PARK

nostos: defined by homecoming, as after a long journey Gone are the days of an empty stomach and the taste of blood on your tongue. Tonight, your biggest worry consists only of explaining the ball of fur (wedged damply under your raincoat) to your oh-so-beloved husband. anon this is my first married fic ever so I hope this is decent enough fr pairings: jinyoung park + husband reader warnings: none! (literally my only one with zero warnings) wc: 1.1k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Forgive me. Two words repeated themselves like pious mantras while you trudged up the stairs. The rubber of your soles colliding rhythmically against the linoleum of each step sounded comforting, unlike the frivolous allegro of your heartbeat. Residue rainwater left miserly puddles in your wake, and you felt guilty for the soft-spoken janitor who’d tend to the mud tracked into the flooring. 

Forgive me. For what? There were a million mellifluous syllables to describe the long wrongdoings of your life, but to list them all would blur them into flowery wine rather than the sour plums that they were. Lying to good people? Purging the murky cesspits of Gapryong’s Fist? Muddying up the downtown apartment complex your penthouse had been reduced to? 

Gone was the gilt that came with the blood. Your biggest sin this week was making a babe cry with your brief glance, and perhaps the parcel wedged beneath your warm body and raincoat. 

With one hand, you fumbled a rusty key into your lock—third floor, no lurkers, no telltale signs of intruders—and with the other, you clutched the bundle to your chest with the fervour of a starved man. It’s open—!

“Oh.” There he is. 

“‘Oh’ is right. You are late,” he seethed, eyes roaming from the very crown of your soaked head to the tips of your muddy boots. “And you’re getting mud everywhere.”

“Forgive me.” You sounded perfectly contrite, and somewhat abashed—and the sincerity in your tone caused Jinyoung Park to somewhat deflate. You— he— he could never stay mad at the face of his downcast husband after all, even if he knew full well the trembling furrow in your brows had been practised and machinated until Gapryong damn Kim himself twitched in irritation at your performances. 

Well. You weren’t the Infiltrator behind the Fist for no reason. 

“If you’re sorry, take a hot bath before you catch a cold. I’ll heat up the jjigae so you don’t get sick,” he grumbled, but anyone and everyone who knew him could see the soft-worn affection behind his grousing. He wasn’t your husband for no reason. 

There was no move from you. You remained holding your coat to your chest, ring glinting on your finger as you shifted. The back of his neck prickled. 

“Err, might be a bit of a problem, doc,” you said. Sheepishly. Like you always did before that mouth of yours caused your target to become tetchy as they threw something at you. 

His hand instinctively reached for your pink fluffy slipper on the shoe rack to whack your arm with. 

“You got injured? What did you do?” But rather than land on his target, he grasped your arm. There might’ve been a meow. Did it come from you? Maybe. He could never be too sure with you. 

With a loud, obnoxiously obvious gulp, you slid the material of your windbreaker aside. It rustled as though it was making excuses for you, since you wouldn’t argue your case. In fact, you would probably cheerfully agree with whatever he flung at you. 

“A… cat. A cat,” he stared dumbly. A soggy feline juvenile stared dumbly back. 

Huh?

“A… cat?” he repeated, still processing the mental shock. Its matted, damp grey fur and huge splotch on your shirt suggested you’d carried this wretched creature for many miles. And, knowing you, you probably had. Despair wrought his face pallid. 

“Sur… prise?” you echoed in a mimicry of his cadence, and he buried his forehead in his clammy palm. No, he prepared himself to say, already expecting the imminent question. No, his mouth formed. No. “And it’s a kitten, not a cat. Be nice.”

“Can we keep him?” you asked as though this wasn’t the cheap apartment you’d purchased in this district. No, he wanted to reproach, since you did somewhat acquiesce to his request on your whims. You stared, just as dumbly as him and that cat—an unfortunate trio if he ever saw one. “We can call him Jake.”

“We are not calling him the name of my nephew,” he shot back instantly, then immediately cursed at both himself and you for your masterful deceitfulness. Damn you. Damn his silly, obnoxious, beautiful husband drenched and pitiful from the rain, pleading with those eyes of his and causing him to unintentionally fold. You played him like a damn fiddle. 

And judging by the bright beam you wore, it seemed you knew that a bit too well. 

“Well, I’ll be off cleaning our dear nephew,” you zipped past him, still clutching that little furball with all the tenderness of a new father. He was so lost in the happy glow of your smile that it took him quite a few seconds to recall exactly just what you had said. 

“We are not naming it Jake!” he gritted out. 

“You can finally be the favourite uncle!” you sang, partially drowned out by the flow of hot water. 

Staggering, he propped his elbow up against the thin door leading to the bathroom—sharp glare poised right at it. 

When will I learn to refuse him?

 . ⁺ 　

“Who are you and what the hell did you do to my husband?” Shellshocked, you gaped at the scene before you; Jinyoung Park, the man you had sworn to cherish forevermore, had been replaced by someone who’d actually tolerated the kitten’s presence. Nay, the man had the very furball—that he glared at—sequestered away on his very lap while he looked over research files from his lab. And he was stroking behind its ears and under its chin nonetheless! 

What a conundrum. 

“Being the favourite uncle,” he replied with a half-smirk that couldn’t be hidden from your prying eyes. For once in your long life—riddled with more lies and deceits than you could count—you were stumped. 

You cooed to the kitten, attempted bribing it with treats, and even brandished the foxtail you’d found on your way back home. All for naught—the feline remained firmly wedged on his lap, and you couldn’t believe your eyes. 

“Well, your prophecy did work out. We’re both favourite uncles now,” he bragged, and a tear might’ve slipped from your eye as you watched the heartwarming scene. 

“Save a space for me on the couch after I shower,” you demanded, though it was not with any malice nor aggression—just a raw affection for this little bubble. 

“I’ll see.” However hard he denied it, he was still that wily man you’d fallen for; in the hazy evening lamplight, though, he was much softer round the edges.  

And perhaps you were too. 

For despite your lack of piety, you sincerely prayed this would be the domain of the future.

a/n: yes the cat is still called jake

[ravneski]

Desecration

Kokushibo x Fem!Reader

They take what they can't have and bathe in the sacrilege.

this has also been uploaded to ao3 (kudos and comments there would be appreciated <3) link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46981597

warnings: smut, cunnilingus, fingering, menstrual sex, dubcon nearing the second half of the fic, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, religious imagery, sexual violence, strangling/choking, fisting

word count: 5.4k

Fate was a cruel thing.

Dragging her eyes from the floor, she cursed herself for not staying alert, for not paying attention to which room she had mindlessly entered. The Upper Moon One’s aura pervaded, thick as well-trained metal. She stared and he stared back, six eyes unreadable but nostrils flared, shark in water detecting what slicked her fukusa.

“One day.”

Since she had started bleeding. She tensed. “What of it?”

“It will… be painful.” Kokushibo’s golden gaze bored into her.

“There are worse pains,” she dismissed, face blank. She made to turn.

“Are you going to Doma?”

She graced him a near unnoticeable nod.

“Will you… spread your legs for him?”

Centimetres away from him in a flash too quick to be perceived, her veins frosted. “Doma tells me you opened your own for Daki.”

Their gazes swept one another, rising and falling as the moon did, but nothing as renewing as moonlight enveloped either. “Mourning her?” she drawled.

“I utilised her for… what her job dictated she do…”

Her upper lip curled in disdain.

“And you,” Kokushibo continued, knuckles white from the clasp on his sword’s tsuka, “are no different… from me. Go… to your whore.”

She laughed at that, but the mirth was dry sand, rigid as though hardened by unremitting waves. “Doma isn’t my whore.”

“Then what… is he? Your lover?” he replied, derisiveness worn like armour.

“You tell me,” she said after a moment, gathering herself. “You know his body as well as I, do you not, fornicator?”

A vein throbbed at the side of his neck. “You never hesitated… to run to me when you were bleeding… yet now you spare… time for aimless ambling…”

“Say what you mean.”

Even in the gentle light of the Infinity Castle, Kokushibo was but a shadow. The dark side of the sun, she thought. He knew only his shadows, and she found herself drawn to be engulfed by the same fate. His expression held solemnity it was never without, but by now she saw the veneer. As he inched closer, the fractures in his mask seemed ardent.

“Can Doma not taste… your flow?” he asked, interest sincere. “The one that follows the moon’s cycle… is it beyond his reach?”

“He likens it to wisteria,” she admitted, reluctant as she was, “and talks of the mere touch burning him.”

“One man’s bane… is another man’s ichor.” The suggestion in his voice rang sharper than any demon slayer’s blade. She made up for his mishap, his nerve to close their distance and his barely veiled want, by widening the space between them again.

“It’ll be such ichor to him if I allow him to draw blood from my womb,” she pointed out.

“Will you?”

“Will our lord let me?”

“Mutinous thing,” sneered Kokushibo. “When have you cared… for our lord’s boundaries and laws?”

“No more than you.”

His hand, wrapped around his sword’s tsuka, twitched. “I remain constant.”

“Then leave.”

After a second of hesitation, one he tried with fervour to conceal but seeped through to his countenance, the constriction of his pupils and the scorch in his irises, Kokushibo stayed where he was. “You bleed heavier than… last time,” he noted. 

“Do you observe through your Transparent World every time I shed?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand… I smell it. It permeates.”

And he was the only one who could detect her moonblood. Besides herself, and their master, but Kibutsuji Muzan was swamped in more crimson than she could ever spill.

She pivoted, but Kokushibo grabbed her wrist, iron and impetuous. “He’s angry,” she said as her excuse to leave, searching the old samurai’s face. “The boy who bears your brother’s mark and wears your brother’s earrings is making mincemeat of the lesser Moons.”

The mention of his twin left him cold. “That person will… not miss you,” he wagered. “You have time spare.”

He melded, still, to her wrist, unyielding; the shock of his skin pressing hers reignited what she had long assumed abandoned, a stinging ache that rippled between them as waves in storms devastated ships, naked and exposed. Ghosting the pallid paper of her flesh, his nails were a parody of humanity, short and plates plain. Kokushibo coveted what he could not have. For one to receive, one had to give. The human body had to be sacrificed to exceed its feeble limits, its brittle mortality. His façade was flimsy, and with the right amount of force it would shatter and out would come the demon that he had sold his soul to become.

His gaze drifted to her abdomen, which she had clutched in fruitless instinct, before once more locking with her. “Let me,” he said.

It took little time to think over her answer, as much as the sour wrath in her stirred. She acquiesced, and his hands wandered beneath the silk of her clothes.

She was undignified in this bestial position, but Kokushibo lacked the temerity to penetrate her through his cock. She could not bear to meet his face; ignoble though the stance of coitus more ferarum was, it provided sanctity, a way to avoid the intense blaze of those six unblinking eyes. Wooden floor scraped and pricked at her elbows as she used them to support herself. She focused on the crevices of the floorboards, the cracks resembling abysses with their infinite black hollows, wondering how much hot red had rolled into them and festered over the centuries.

Her robes were hoisted up, impudently close to the tender swell of her breasts but secure enough to not reveal them, welcoming him, exposing more than flesh when her heart jumped from the warmth of his invasively close breath. Kokushibo explored her, parting her like petals; when her folds had become so wet she didn’t know, nor wanted to, but his fingers trailed them, tentative as though she were made of glass and he feared breaking her. Sticky with her flow, his digits climbed up to the flushed bud and grazed it with their course tips. Betraying her, her hips gave an involuntary buck. This was decadence, she mused. For the both of them. They would consume the other in every way but literal, the same way he had. Muzan was a blight impossible to efface and stained them even now.

His tongue skimmed the plush of her inner thighs, scraping at the dark cardinal smearing them. The organ roused an acute jolt from deep inside her as it slid in, blood and arousal mixing and gliding to form an easy lubricant. The electric reaction of her body wasn’t quite arisen from satisfaction, but neither was it spawned from pain; it curled and coiled as an endless serpent, a visceral sensation of a latent guilt and a repressed thrill.

Heat unfurled within her, a spark of life, but it wasn’t enough. Grinding her teeth together, she turned herself around, lying on her back. Their gazes tangled, a flash of resentment shared between them; overwhelming the cramps of her womb convulsed something keener, a wretched desire too close to impalement. She raised her thighs for him anyway, as easily as the gates of hell would open for them both, and let the mongrel feast.

The flat of his tongue pressed against the nub at the top of her sex. Long fingers, svelte and elegant enough that they seemed unfitting for a sword-wielder, moved inside her in a focused rhythm, the squelch of sloughed tissue and blood resonating as her body relaxed, sucking him in deeper. Kokushibo’s tongue carded the lips of her quim, dragging down to near his fingers then slithering back to her clitoris, which rose like the opening flowers under sunlight’s grace. Her hips played and rutted to the tempo he dipped in and out of her with, stomach crawling as much as it flipped as she thought of how he had arrogated her with such facileness. Raking the tatami, she searched for a modicum of anchorage over herself, some dose of stability.

She was pitiful, but so was he, and equally deviant. They were deformed, her kind. Demons were death, but they dreaded finality so. She was no exception. Was that widespread fear, lurking in the caliginous heart of every demon, an innate one? Did each of them know there was no salvation in death for their forsaken souls, but only the expecting flames, searing and everlasting?

Once, she had encountered a god, beautiful and bright and unequalled, and underneath layers of false flesh the scars from the conflict, eternal in their retribution, still burned like the sun. If the fires of hell were real, she had felt their touch already, and her cells had never forgotten it.

They were monsters unspeakably damned. Hideous and acrimonious, most couldn’t give reason for why they continued to live other than base instinct, that primal hunger that gnawed and gnawed, impossible to sate. They were greedy to their finest fibre. It was why they were territorial beasts. Sometimes they mated, the odd few, those who dared, foolish and tainted, but it never lasted. Eventually they cannibalised each other, skewing bones and mangling flesh until there was nothing left. The hunger grew too great, too indomitable. Demons could not kill demons through any other means. She summoned the guts to look down at the one on his knees, submerged betwixt her thighs, lapping at nutrition, lifeblood, that which symbolised renewal and viability, and thought there was something poetic about fucking functioning as death.

“He’ll never find the amaryllis,” for those six eyes saw so much, what others could not; she waited to see who those eyes belonged to, the samurai or his lord. “He—” then she stumbled, his two fingers pressed against a hard edge inside her. Drowned into silence by the waves of venereal indulgence.  

“A woman’s hatred… is a sort of devotion,” mused Kokushibo from between her legs.

She lowered her gaze to him, gripping his dark mane to lift his head away from the hot throb of her cunt, though his fingers stayed encased. Pliable, he made a pretty picture painted in her. “Devoted to you?” she ridiculed.

“To him.” His tone was dull.

“I would rather kneel to Ubuyashiki’s Pillars,” she growled. “Your nonsense is bovine. Hold your tongue.”

“Many of our kind would sacrifice themselves to… see our lord live, but you would… throw away your life to see him die.” When Kokushibo tilted his head, the thick, ropelike tendrils of his hair swayed, midnight black percolating into glossy crimson. Strands stuck to the viscous gore around his mouth and he pulled them back. “Do you not… think that is a form of devotion?”

Her jaw clenched in indignant ire.

“Your enmity for him will never… be enough for him to kill you.”

“Does this come from one traitor to another?” The gumption of him to look inquisitive, as though he understood nothing, persuaded her to continue, treading on dangerous grounds. “He was your enemy. And I know you became a slayer to imitate your brother, not out of integrity or duty, but did you never once feel the slightest antagonism towards that person? How can you serve a remorseless man who has slaughtered and devoured thousands after once claiming you would put an end to him?”

“Do you revile him for… his carnage?”

Kokushibo was a mess of slick red, a deceitful embodiment of the rivers of Sanzu. Besmirched by her, flaunting thick fluids and stringy sombre clumps, with the gleam of something darkly holy when her blood caught in the fortress’ ochre illumination, but his features were peeled back into a snarl, teeth whetted and splenetic. Claret dressed between them dribbled past his mouth and down the strong, arrogant angle of his jaw; he was too monstrous to be divine, the beast vespers was sung to ward against than to revere, closer to a wolf than a deity as half a dozen eyes narrowed in synchrony and she recalled the time when he had been her sword, and wondered if this blood was of a wound from where he had turned his weapon on her.

“It’s pointless to wage war against a calamity,” she conceded, then groaned as he stroked that spongy bump at the top of her wall in repeated, lazy beckons, the flick of his wrist and the hook of his fingers.

Grotesquely prurient, ichor in the tiny cracks of them, his lips flitted upwards. “Have you… capitulated to him?”

The question gave her pause. Did she submit? After a millennium chained to her lord, she knew she would never be free of him, that his grasp was indefinite and all-consuming, larger than she could fathom. The gods, if any existed, had surely abandoned her long ago, deserted her to his clemency. But Kibutsuji Muzan was not merciful. Cruelty was in his very appellation and thrived in his every word and action; under his dominance, even those who escaped him through his noxious curse perished in agony, humiliating and revolting, when they uttered his name.

“No.” Her finger smudged scarlet as it traced his jaw.

Riled by her answer, Kokushibo tasted the watery flow that clung to his own fingers. “So learn your place,” he chastised. “Besides, where was your… guilt when you feasted on the defenceless child that… carried rare blood in its body, which now… rests in your gut?”

She smiled, despite his nerve. If she was wilful, she was not alone.

“You bleed a constant rage…”

Waning as the moon did, jilted by the inimitable sun, the smile faltered.

“It ebbs and flows… endlessly in your veins. Are you… not weary?”

His bones trembled as her nail lengthened and sliced into his gristle-coated skin, which split with the proficiency of soft carcass under the butcher’s carving knife. Close to his left bottom eye that it seemed like a rose tear trickling, his blood mixed with hers, finer and more lurid. She lifted a rouge fingertip to her lips and gave a languid lick. With the thorn and bristle of marechi, he withered her, but he lacked its lure. She swallowed him, “And you taste of the storm,” and his fury mingled with hers.

Eyes dark, Kokushibo pulled back. “Your contumacy will not… kill you,” he warned, as if he hoped repeating his admonition would cause her to change. Though he was not a man to indulge in delusions.

Her hand snared in his hair. “Then what do I do with this anger?”

“He is your master,” and she loathed the reprimand of his tone, smooth and ugly.

“He is yours,” she corrected, defiant against his caution anyway, claws pricking at his scalp as her lips thinned. “Is there fulfilment for you in being his lapdog?”

“Akaza retains… that responsibility,” he responded dryly.

“Then what are you?”

“His servant.” The kanji in his eyes, indurated sable that whispered of unfaltering centuries of loyalty, fealty cut regal by the blade, gleamed in the flickering flaxen light of the lanterns. So are you, it rebuked.

She shifted, threading his locks between her fingers. “His ever-faithful Upper Moon One. The strongest of his subordinates, staunchly dutiful to our master,” the word was spat, but eased as she continued with a malicious lilt, “spread for him. Taken by him. Ravaged by him.”

Kokushibo’s eyes flashed. “Why does he allow a woman like you… to roam untethered?”

Oozing furrows were dragged out across his roots. “When did questioning that person become your position?”

“I... am his associate.”

“Is that what you tell yourself when he’s wedging his cock down your throat?”

Rivulets of red ran from his scalp where his hair lay matted, his beautiful strands spoiled by the knots they were weaved into. She reached out, a hand around the thick trunk of his neck, and wrenched him forward until their noses were near touching. Releasing its tight grip around his oesophagus, her hand crawled upwards, spiderlike, stopping its pilgrimage at a flame which befouled his pale flesh. The mark stretched from the right of his sharp jaw, down the side of that strong neck to his collarbone, her fingers descending beneath the white rim of his relic kimono. She brought her lips to his ear, fingertips dancing over the crimson crest as she felt his pulse, faster than it ought to be for a being of tenacious stoicism. Against the shell of his ear, as all his eyes shifted right to follow her, she crooned in a whisper, “Samurai-sama.”

Kokushibo turned to stone, scarlet trickling down his chin and splashing her naked calves. Then he recoiled, swift as a blade sheathed, pulse spiking further and noble face hardening. Her gaze dropped to between his legs, to where the carnal ache of him protruded through the obsidian layers of his hakama.

“A woman like you ought to have her tongue cut,” he snapped.

“Well,” as she began to play with herself, Kokushibo traced every movement with captivated attentiveness, the arch of her back, the heave of her breasts under her robes—with his Transparent World her clothing could be no obstacle, but, whether principle or that men like him preferred the notion of undressing those they lay with, unwrapping their prize, he never indulged in perversion of that kind—the glisten of arousal garnishing her, the cruor dripping out to nestle in the creases of her lips, “I’m certainly glad your tongue is intact.”

While he regarded her with contempt under long lashes, the heat of his groin did not dissipate, a rapt need to slide between her. His breaths were heavy, chest she knew was bedecked with fierce muscle rising under the affluent fabric of his clothing. She paused. “Doma…” she started.

The moment that name was out of her mouth, her curiosity, storm’s gale she had never been able to overcome, was assuaged as his expression soured like fruit gone grossly rotten. Nobody in the Moons would pull out the false diviner from under the sun if he were to be struck by it.

Kokushibo rested his chin atop her imbrued mons. “What kind of slut lies with… a man and speaks of another… male she’s bedded?”

“Don’t insult me if you lack virility where your subordinate doesn’t,” she hummed. “At least I’ve never been reamed open by our master. How much honour did you have, mighty swordsman, when he sodomised you against your will?”

Tapered teeth glistened as Kokushibo glowered.

“You’ve always been undeserving of what I gave you.”

“Perhaps, but… our blood still call to each other.”

Such was devastation’s path. In fleeting wonder, she pondered how many had died to their hands over the distorting centuries. “Then you defile me. We are contaminated by the other. We are filth.”

Kokushibo healed, each gash she had carved into him during irascible delectation repaired by regenerating skin, his hair smoothing out the knots from heady red.

“Filth resonates with filth,” she told him as he pushed her to the floor and tore apart the rest of her kimono with insolent dare, for though her womb had quietened it was not yet silent. “Our blood endure a murky stream,” as he left cochineal fingerprints across her breasts, exposed to him as he lowered his lips to one and suckled with neither care nor violence, but with a rhythm that had her racked in a feverish shiver.

“In a just world, I’d see you… swell and distend with… the weight of my seed,” Kokushibo murmured against her teat, flicking his tongue against it and watching it erect. She blanched.

When his fingers entered her this time, they were not kind, but curled with purpose. They buried deep within her, pumped in and out in time to how he toyed with her nipples, one clasped between the serrated ends of his canine teeth and the other caressed by the hand not thrust within her, rolling it as he kneaded the fullness of her breast on his palm. Stuttered breaths seeped from her open mouth as she smarted from him, yearned in earthquake-like shaking, the coil in her stomach tightening as she clenched around him. 

“We bleed sacrilege,” she gasped, and soaked him in her exhilaration.

Sudden warmth ensconced her as he withdrew from her breast, a string of vermilion saliva snapping, and hid his face in the crook of her neck in a jarring imitation of affection, but it came not from the abrupt facet of affinity and nor was it born of the gratification that had just flown through her, a gentle current now turbulent with terror. Her gaze sidled over the steel thew of Kokushibo to the figure in the corner of the small room. His aura was as weak as it had been when their paths had first met, devoid of killing intent or bloodlust. A chilling resemblance to the Upper Moon demon marked him, but he was distinctly human—and distinctly dead, she reminded herself; yet here he was, defying the laws of the universe once again, and that scared her more than those sixty years after coming across him—with his hanafuda earrings and his soft maroon eyes, connecting with her own.

Cold terror dredged upwards like the pull of limbs from seaweed’s shackles, a fear that had never been conquered despite the centuries separating that night and now. Kokushibo took notice of her stiffened limbs, but in his fatalistic arrogance assumed it was his doing and continued rubbing at her clit in concentrated circles, still resting at her neck.

The Sun Breather stepped forward, face resolute in its emptiness. Vacant gaze, hollow expression. In life, he had never smiled, so Kokushibo had told her. She wondered if a person like Tsugikuni Yoriichi had ever had anything to smile about.

“Leave now,” she whispered to the apparition’s brother. “You’ve fulfilled your purpose.”

Kokushibo’s fangs left her neck and he frowned down at her, bemused. “Stay,” he said, moving his hands up to the slope of her shoulders as if in preparation to hold her in place.

“Stay?” Humouring the lingering note in his request.

“Beneath me.”

“Would you have me like that?”

His hakama rustled with his movement, the grind of his hips, the hardness of him taut and desperate to break free as it rubbed against swollen lips hidden under a thatch of raven hair. “How many men have… had that pleasure?”

“Not Doma,” she confessed.

“Not Doma,” he agreed in pride, then, embittered, “feminised by your wiles… Let me take you as… you should be taken. Under me.”

“Will he kill me then?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Yoriichi ventured another step, only a centimetre but enough to make her skin smoulder with memory. No, she would not die. Not to her master’s cells, not to the Sun Breather’s ruby sword. Across a thousand years, a single opportunity had come to her, a scalding escape, but Yoriichi had failed to take her head.

Years upon years later, here she lay, a man aneled in her blood looming over her with hungry eyes and hungrier cock while a universe beyond her comprehension played games with her.

Although the unworldly dimension of the Infinity Castle protected them from day’s influence, she and the other demon suddenly tensed in unison nonetheless. All Kibutsuji’s mutant creations felt the surface of dawn, a knell within the fibre of their bones to warn them of their only predator. It came with a hounding instinct to run, even if one was safe from the sun’s culling reach. To run and run until the blest recitals of matins was inundated with unfolding nightlight.

As daybreak erupted in another realm, Amaterasu’s sacred child faded, though not before his lips opened and moved with the motion of talk. Nothing audible departed from him. Her heart pounded against the confinement of her chest. Kokushibo finally realised she was glaring past him and turned to follow, greeted by a void corner. When he looked back at her, he discovered no one under him and muttered her name beneath a churlish breath.

“What reason have you to remain? Leave,” she repeated, by the fusuma. Sweat mellowed her body, throbbing from the aftermath of multiple climaxes, but a darker heat piqued within her as she scrutinised his ensanguined form, the wet mess of his face and hands. “You won’t send me to the gallows, Kokushibo, but something worse. Go.”

He towered over her in the blink of an eye. “I don’t… understand you. Women—”

“You don’t need to.”

Bold, he outstretched his hand and splayed his palm in the valley between her breasts, feeling the hammer of her heart. “Do not think me cunt-struck,” the fingers there decayed from paramour’s caress to the scuttling perfidy of insect legs, straining for prey as they made way down a breast and sullied it shimmering cardinal. He groped at her, the roughness men didn’t care enough to reign in. Their teeth nipped and nails scratched. Always squeezing and grabbing. “You will not treat me… like one of your whores, disregarded… once I’ve made you come,” and he placed emphasis on those final words, conceit blatant.

Kokushibo was an animal. The closest of the Moons to Kibutsuji in terms of power. It was only natural, in all the unnaturalness of demons, that he should be so mutant and repulsive, so it puzzled her that she found him beautiful. It, she supposed, was the beauty of a thing ethereal, or perhaps transient; a sacrificed animal, immolated by an unknown force. He was the bleeding lamb, the shot and limping cur, that which was so harrowing it could not be turned away from, the morbid fascination that stirred delight in the sickest minds.

Still, as the lamb bolted from the hand that reached to console it, and bodies withered and mortified from the undertaker’s embrace, his beauty spilled into evanescence. Butterfly wings broke when touched. He mouldered and came to fester a violent, disturbing darkness. While she dwelled on this, he made his move. Pushing her down, mounted above her with the full weight of his strapping form, shoving three virulent fingers inside her.

She pelted him with a livid glare. “I’ll defer when that man dies.” For she would not submit now. That went unspoken, but he heard it. Perhaps his samurai teachings to adhere to greater strength was the only reason his cock remained clothed. 

“Do you… crave death so badly?” Covering her body with his own, he slotted a fourth finger in. The delicate lining of her womanhood stung, his nails nicking as they danced inside her.

“Are you killing me?” she mused. Viridian claws slashed at his violet-ebony kimono, finding purchase in his broad shoulders. Mordancy dripped from her tone like how blood trickled down the hard ridges of his torso.

“Death will not give you peace.”

Perhaps it wouldn’t, but this life was far from pleasant. Though she shook her head at him, Kokushibo drove into her with vigour, the scourge of a whip. She shoved at his chest, his moonlight skin sickly pale, but he did not budge and, in some irreligious depth of her where she ached for this, the intemperate madness of sinners who trod the thin line of destruction and endurance, she was glad for it.

“Stop this,” but her words sounded empty to even herself. He didn’t, because he was a man who took what he wanted and obeyed the whims of only one other beside himself. Audacious, apathetic, awful, he inserted his thumb, then pushed the entirety of his fist inside her. A snarl tore from her throat, and his other hand came to close around that. He did not squeeze, but the mere presence of him around her neck was the potent pressure of a noose. Wet slaps rebounded in her ears as he twisted his fist, drawing his knuckles against her. She burned as if ablaze as she stretched to accommodate the violation.

Why was he here? What had he come for beside the sweet, metallic taste of cunt and the clench of red insides? It was something born of a selfish motivation, she figured that. No different or better than her. Though someone of his station should not act on self-serving wants.

Farther Kokushibo breached. To her unease, her body did little to prevent him. “I thought this was altruism?” she hissed.

His thumb pressed against her jugular, some vile punishment for opening her mouth. It marked her with a hue of cerise, an eager bruise blossoming under the skin. “This is not amity.” By the drag of a craven’s fingertips, veneration was rescinded. “It is… contrition. Yours.”

Bellicose blood smeared her, slewed down the inside of her thigh, not her moonblood, but thinner, of a greater, brighter constitution. Venous, drawn from a wounded and maimed creature, dismal and writhing like a worm on a hook. The hardness of her cervix turned friable. There was a knife—or a sword, she thought wryly, and wondered if he would fuck her with his disgusting katana if he could—in her cunt and it stabbed its way to where no foreign intrusion should have. She spasmed, wrenched out the arm of the hand clasping her smarting neck and suddenly they were both bathed in sticky red, tepid as it gushed from Kokushibo’s socket. It reeked. Not of them, but of him, the laden scent of Kibutsuji. Vessels for his violence, clawing at each other like rabid dogs, fuelled by the instinct to tarnish and impair, the need to rip apart with teeth and talons. They were nothing if not that man’s vestigial reflection; as Kokushibo hollowed her out and the sordid point of his nails pricked at the firm, barred organ of her cervix, it was not the samurai that penetrated, but his lord. A maggot burrowing away, carrying a corrosive disease. There was sin in their veins and it ate at them.  

“Warm my bed,” said Kokushibo, too frustrated to be a growl, too stark to be a plead. A demand, one which she spat at him for, all noble airs abandoned. He flinched as if her saliva cauterised. She hoped it did, hoped that his patience was a manacle and not frangible thread. She had seen what monstrosities cultivated within sullied wombs; the devils seized out of broken hellmouths in downpours of black ichor; the thousand deaths endured in pregnancy, in childbed, in motherhood. That was not a desirable end. It was not true death, but something beyond it, worse and unending, and men were baleful enough to inflict it on any wench they deemed deserving.

Depraved in the way ruby tainted rare moons, Kokushibo gouged her in repeated blows, battering the closed pale-pink neck of her uterus. She wept as his cursed touch shed more of her flesh than her own body could. A malevolent torrent of something she couldn’t put a name to raged within the leaking fissures of her. Here, raising a hand that trembled as it pressed his cool cheek, she was close enough to delve out his awful eyes, to slit his neck, to divaricate his limbs. Close enough to devour him.

But she wouldn’t. An insidious weakness.

When she yanked his savage fist out of her, she freed herself of her cage as well as gaoler. Torn from her insides, the pear shape of her womb, hot and rosy, and aperture of her cervix. Arteries and veins fell like tears, burst like shattered mosaic. She threw the poison in her system to the floor, where it soaked the wood with her diseased red, and relished the surprise on his face.

Kokushibo scanned the consecrated blood daubing him, then his gaze scraped her, fibrous sclera and aureate irises glowing, pupils blown. All they were was blood. They rotted with it, congealed and decayed until there was no trace of who they had been, only the stench of who they had slaughtered. They were their victims’ legacies, harbouring so many ghosts.

Crucifying agony dulled with each passing second. Already her body was repairing itself, working against her as it always had, cancer regenerating within her. Kokushibo rose and she stepped back, bare before him like an offering, though she was not sure what virgin oblation she could be when she had already been eaten; she could not consume him when he had consumed her, and from that she knew he was desecration. Vitiated in the spoils of him, she fled to ensconce herself within the umbrage of endless slanting corridors, praying they would guttle her too.

[randomlurkerblog]

Gifts

for the wayfarer anniversary giveaway. here's the final scene of a planned longer fic i didn't get around to.

~700 words

Aeran doesn’t wait for her, bounding past the landing, which suits Sterris just fine. This ancient section of the Spire exposes its watery allasar foundations, which peek out behind moss and dust and worn stone brick in silvery ripples. When she’s sure he won’t hear her over his own chatter, she bends and wheezes, clutching a stitch at her side. Damned elves and their damnably long legs.

Still gasping, she steps onto a parapet as a final beam of sunlight emerges as the sun sets behind the Frostfall Mountains. A dying forest juts defiantly out of the valleys below, crowned in ginger and chestnut against the coming chill. The air is surprisingly warm, and Sterris nudges Aeran towards the view with her hip.

“Took you long enough. What-?”

In the clear autumn gloaming, the snow-tipped mountains and frosty clouds stretch the sun’s rays further, and the whole world looks like it’s caught aflame. For Sterris, Nesactium was an endless blare of danger and uncertainty - nothing like this.

Aeran comes and rests his arms on the outer wall, and exhales slowly, mindlessly turning a piece of rubble round in both hands. His time on the streets was shorter than hers, but she wonders if he feels it anyway.

The sun’s rays are so weak Sterris can stare near directly into the dying sun unchastised. She’s enthralled, and as she holds out her hand to him, she feels an odd kinship with the singing fervour a paper-moth must feel as it dives directly into torch-light.

Aeran gives her the rock without hesitation.

The lowering sun darkens the entire landscape by contrast, and black squirms inwards from the edges of the sky as the air gets cooler.

Sterris brings out a blunt pocket-knife with a small flourish. She scratches two words into it as evenly as she can, while Aeran sits atop the outer wall and watches the night seep in.

“It’s just a rock,” Aeran cocks his head to the side and grins at her concentration. “would you like me to get you rocks? Do you need a rock guy?”

Despite herself, Sterris scoffs, “Shut up,” and her guilt returns with a vengeance.

“Thanks,” she amends. Now Aeran just looks confused. She exhales. “I meant for bringing me here.” She doesn’t meet his gaze. “You were right before. I needed to get out of my own head, and it’s really nice here, and I shouldn’t have been so…huffy.”

Sterris meets his gaze for a moment. She looks away, so she hands him a rock with their names etched crudely onto it.

“Will you keep it?”

He smiles and takes the rubble. Aeran runs his thumbs across its shallow grooves just as the sun sinks below the watery horizon. The last traces of amber sunlight seep out of the sky. Like life heat dissipating from a corpse.

Sterris wonders if she’s been too sincere. Is it too soon for friendship rocks? Is it too early in the friendship timeline to drag your maybe-friend around the whole castle and show her the sunset? Aeran puts it into his belt-pouch, and now it’s Sterris’ turn to smile. She bumps her shoulder with his side, more affectionately this time.

“We should form a partnership. We can set up a carved rock stall next time Master Varyn takes us out for bartering.”

Aeran swings around to face her and leans against the rich night sky, propped up by nothing but his hands, and Sterris has never been so terrified in her life.

“We should.”

“excellent. I’ll tell Master Varyn-”

“the partnership thing, not the rock stall,” he clarifies. “That’s dumb. I meant you’re not as much of a goody two shoes as I thought.”

Sterris balks. “Goody two shoes? Did you forget the entire trip here? If Cenric told you to hurl yourself off that wagon, you’d be halfway back to Trost before you could say, ‘Yes, sir!’”

“Master Cenric.”

“Not helping your case.”

An evening chill turns through the Spire’s towers, bringing a shiver Sterris cannot suppress. Aeran drops from his perch to stand next to her and conclusively spreads out his arms to the heavens.

“Time to go inside, I think.”

“Yeah.”

They leave the whispering night-scape, black and bejewelled, behind them.

ty for reading :)

[optiwashere]

I think I'm gonna quote the "with religious fervour and exponential need" and the "She deserves it cause she's existing" anons under every AO3 fic you post with Asheera henceforth. These people get it😤

You've found your people, anon. A whole squad of rabid Asheera readers.

What a weird, wonderful world we live in. Thank you all, sincerely.

[selfcarecap]

how about mj and the reader being ✨oblivious gays✨ for each other

I made this a tad bit more dramatic than it had to be, also this was such a good request i feel like i could write 10 more fics with this

-this is a repost of an old blurb-

MJ is so beautiful that it makes your heart hurt.

It’s not her looks that you fell in love with though, but her personality.

Her mannerisms, certain words she uses, her humour, her view on life and its different aspects. That’s what you fell in love with.

Simply seeing her talk and the way she expresses herself can make your heart go into a frenzy.

It wasn’t healthy anymore, and since you knew MJ would never like you back, you skipped an awkward confession of your love, and started distancing yourself from her straight away.

That was last week, and your heart breaks more with every day you two are apart.

But your chest ached even more when you had to pretend to be her friend and watch her live her life like that, when really you were in love with her.

Last night wasn’t the first time you cried because of MJ and you have a feeling it won’t stop for a long time.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you and MJ?” Peter asks you in the hallway, oblivious to how it’s killing you that you can’t be with MJ the way your heart desires.

“You know how MJ is obsessed with telling the truth?” Peter asks and you nod. Yes, you know all about it—another thing you love about her.

He continues, “It’s why she’s such a bad liar. She never lies but when I asked her why you two aren’t hanging out anymore, I knew she lied.”

“What did she say?” You wonder, butterflies in your stomach at only the mention of MJ.

“She didn’t even give me a real answer. She was just, like, super cold and pretended not to care but I saw right through her. But she said you two realised you just aren’t cool like you used to be and that you decided not to be friends anymore. Even if she hadn’t been super uncomfortable while telling me, even a stranger would have recognised the look in her eyes and it was not positive. So what happened?”

You look at Peter with wide eyes, not planning on answering his question as you scan the school for MJ.

You don’t know what you were thinking, but not this. You will never be able to forgive yourself if you and MJ part ways in a negative way.

-

“MJ,” you start, searching her eyes for what you hope can be forgiveness. It might be hate, you can’t tell yet.

She’s sitting on your bed, arms crossed, her bag placed by her feet, ready to be picked up and slung over her shoulder for when she leaves.

You start without planning what you’re about to say, wanting to use every second of her time that she gives you.

“I’m sorry for cutting you off so suddenly but I—”

Love you so much that it makes my heart hurt?

You can’t tell her that.

“MJ I can’t tell you the reason. You’ll hate me even more than you already do,” you say sincerely. Sitting down next to her, not too close though.

She sighs, wiping a tear that was threatening to fall from her eye, “I don’t hate you. I could never.”

“Well, you should. It was shitty of me to just break off all contact and avoid you from one day to the next. But if you hear my reason, you’ll probably be thankful I did it.”

“Tell me why. I won’t leave until you tell me the reason. But I can’t think of anything bad enough to tear us apart. I miss you.”

You swallow, resisting the urge to kiss her pouty lips. She looks so pretty. She always does.

“I- I can’t look at you.”

“I’ll turn around then,” says MJ, not missing a beat as she scoots around on the bed, leaning her back against yours.

“MJ,” your voice cracks, tears unwillingly rolling down your face.

You feel MJ shift behind you, but she stays in place.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you pour out your soul to her.

“When- whenever I‘m with you, I fall for you a bit more. By now I‘m so in love with you and spending a single second with you, looking at you, hearing you speak, doing anything, knowing that you‘ll never like me back, breaks my heart into so many pieces I don‘t think I‘ll ever be able to mend it.”

She gulps, “You like girls too?”

You don’t know what you were expecting, but not this.

Wiping your face, you stand up, ready to leave the room but MJ grabs your hand, pulling you back down, facing you this time.

You answer MJ’s question with a nod, not meeting her eyes.

“I never knew-“ she says and you recognise a glint of hope in her eyes when you replay what she just said in your head.

“Wait- too?”

With a sharp intake of breath, MJ pulls you in. Her hands on your cheeks, demanding but gentle as she guides your face to hers, lips connecting motionlessly for only a short second until you snap out of it.

You start kissing her back with more passion than you’ve ever put into anything else in your entire life.

But with your sudden fervour you kind of mess up the rhythm, causing you both to pull away.

You blink at her a few times before breaking out into a giant smile that’s also stretched across her face.

“I never knew you felt the same. I- I fell in love with you the first time we met. But I thought you just liked guys and our friendship was the most important thing to me in the world so I didn‘t want to mess it up by confessing.”

“Oh,” a laugh escapes you at the same time as a tear, MJ wiping at your cheek with her thumb.

She holds you against her chest, as your tears spill out, tears of relief, tears of feeling at home and at ease, pouring out the feelings you’ve kept hidden for forever.

Stupid fucking tears. You just want to kiss her.

You look up at her as your face and cheeks are dry again, your vision of MJ clear.

She’s beaming at you, eyes full of adoration.

“Can we kiss again? I kind of- I didn’t realise what was going on the first time.”

She grins at you with her perfect smile, a hand behind your neck, pulling you down to the bed with her.

“We can kiss as many times as you want.”

[dizzydancingdreamer]

“So that’s how you want to play this, love?" | The Mikaelson Boys

Hey My Lovelies! I hope all is well today! I received a request ages ago from @activist-af to do something like this, as you will read below. I honestly aimed to fit the movie night theme in there but it was swallowed up pretty fast! I only meant for this fic to be 3000 or so words but, as it always seems to do, it got away from me.I truly hope that you enjoy this, you've given me an unwavering amount of support these past few months while I was battling a major bout of depression and writers block. I can't repay all the kindness and love you've given me but I hope this is a start! Much love darling! And much love to all of you lovelies! Please have a fantastic evening for me! <3

Please read before continuing: I usually wouldn't write this much before my story but I wanted to add this: this story is my first full blown smut. I'm honestly not sure how well it will go over but I tried to make it as loving and healing as I could. I take my writing very seriously. I know sex for many is a touchy subject, and that truly pains me. I sincerely hope every single one of you reading this feels all the love and saftey I tried to incorporate into this peace. I wish you an eternity of love and healing. Be safe my loves!

Request: "Could u do a mikaelson boys x reader? Any plot really, but I’d very much love it if it was a bit more Kol focused. there’s just such a lack of content for all three of them and I love your writing so much. If u need any plot point ideas maybe a movie night kinda thing? I really hold him a bit higher than the other boys. Or something similar to the fic with the Klaus + Eli being injured? Fluffy ending please, smut is fantastic too 🖤"

Description: Y/n is upset that the boys won't let her come on their mission with them, feeling isolated and useless. Kol is supposed to stay behind and watch out for her however things get heated after she tells him off.

Pairing: The Mikaelson Boys x Fem!Reader, mainly Kol and Elijah

Warnings: THIS IS AN 18+ ONLY FIC!!! This is a full blown smut, I honestly do not know how it happened, probably 4000/5000 words are pure sex scenes, also there's a bit of fighting/angst at the beginning of the first scene but it doesn't last

Word count: 5343 (I'm so sorry)

Tags: ANGST, SMUT (full on), FLUFF

(Pics aren't mine but the moodboard is :) )

“I really don’t see why you guys are leaving me behind, again,” you run an agitated hand through your hair, huffing indignantly at the two boys in front of you.

Yes, boys. Not men. If they aren't going to treat you like the full grown woman you are then no way in hell are you going to give them any validation either. Even in your head.

“It’s too dangerous,” Elijah’s chocolate eyes are stern, his hands clenching at his sides, “I can’t risk the witches doing anything to you as a way to get to us. You’re too important.”

Your chest warms slightly at his words but it isn’t enough to break down your resolve. Three hundred years under your belt; they’re going to need to do better than that if they want to keep you away. There are only so many times you can stay away from a fight, only so many times you can watch them come home hurt knowing that if you had gone with them then maybe you could have prevented it. You’re a family and you’re tired of feeling like you aren’t pulling your weight.

You narrow your eyes at the tall boy, still not man, trying to peer through all the red you’re seeing, “I’m not a child, Elijah.”

He stares right back, not backing down, his face cut like marble, unwavering. Beautiful but harsh. Stone. He wears a white shirt, the first button popped and the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His veins are prominent and tempting. Elijah means business. You swallow the lump in your throat, pushing away the heat growing in your stomach.

“Love, trust me, we know you aren't a child. Any other time I would gladly rip you upstairs and prove it. Right now, though, I agree with him. You’re staying here,” Klaus’ softer voice pulls your attention from your staring match with the eldest Mikaelson.

He has a leather jacket on, the material clinging tight to his arms, ready to burst. He’s smiling but it doesn’t reach his crystal eyes. He folds his arms neatly in front of him. He’s not going to budge either.

You scoff at him, shaking your head, “I want to come, Klaus. I need to.”

A new voice joins the three of you in the foyer, “I can make that happen, darling, but you’ve got to stay home with me if you want that.”

You don't even need to turn around to hear the smirk on Kol’s voice but you do anyway, meeting the youngest Mikaelson face to face. He has a grin on his lips, one that, in any other situation, would have you weak in the knees. He has a sweatshirt on and a pair of sleep shorts. He’s on babysitting duty, he doesn’t need anything else. You only roll your eyes at him before facing Elijah once more.

“I’m part of this family, too, you know. It should be my choice,” you have to will your voice not to crack, keeping your tone as low and as steady as you can, “I’m not useless, Elijah, as much as you’d obviously disagree.”

You rub your hands over your bare arms, fending off a sudden chill. You feel like there’s ice coursing through your veins. A traitorous tear tracks down your cheek but you make no move to get it. Elijah’s hardened face softens when he notices.

“Baby, come on,” he reaches to grab you but you step back, not allowing him to touch you.

He can’t do that, make the decisions for you. Maybe if you were still human it would be called for but now it’s not. Sure, you aren't a millennium like they are but you’re not a piece of glass either. You’re strong, whether they want to acknowledge it or not.

“Don’t, Elijah,” you back away further, your cheeks drenched but your eyes fierce, “I’ll see you guys in a few days. Be safe.”

You turn and walk away, ignoring all three brothers as they call out to you, heading up to your room before any of them decide to follow you. You close the door, not slamming it but not exactly shutting it gently either. You can hear Elijah sigh from the front hall and you know he’s tugging on his hair. Klaus swears, his frustrated voice floating up to your ears. More tears fall but you brush them away angrily, lifting a pillow from your bed and screaming into it. No doubt they can hear it but, right now, you couldn't care less. The front door shuts and your heart plummets.

You sit on the edge of your bed, gripping your dark comforter tightly. Usually you like being the one they take care of. You like being held, how small they make you feel. Right now, though, it’s too much.

A soft knock draws your attention to the door, Kol’s careful voice cutting through the wood, “darling?”

“Leave me alone, Kol,” you try your best to make your words harsh but you only sound tired.

“Not likely, love,” he presses, “you know I can go all night, now it’s up to you what that means.”

Your cheeks flush and, as if he can see you through the door, he chuckles. The sound echos through your chest, stirring the remains of anger and frustration and mixing them with something hot and untamed. You pull the door open, coming face to face with the smirking Mikaelson.

“Sorry you landed with babysitting duty, Kol, but I’ve kept myself alive for three hundred years now and I’m pretty sure I can handle two more days on my own. Why don’t you go help Elijah and Klaus, yeah? Seeing as you are the only three who can actually do any good. I’m clearly not strong enough to do anything so I’ll just sit here and look pretty and do absolutely nothing at all because I’m useless. Okay?”

With that you close the door in his face. Well, you try to but he wedges his body in the way so you can’t shut him out. Whatever smile had previously been on his face is long gone and in its place sits a deep frown. His brown eyes ice over slightly and he stands taller than he did mere seconds ago. You can feel a switch in the atmosphere and suddenly you’re face to face. You honestly can’t tell which one of you is more pissed off.

“So that’s how you want to play this, love,” he pushes closer to you, “you want to get angry, yeah? Alright darling, I can do that.”

You open your mouth to protest but before any profanities can fly out his lips are on yours, fierce and strong. He uses his foot to kick the door closed, slamming it into place. It’s done merely for effect. No one is home but the two of you. He spins you around aggressively, pushing you roughly against the hardwood. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, no doubt drawing blood. As if on cue a copper taste fills your mouth, drowning your senses in red. This time, though, the anger is mixed with a wicked kind of lust.

Your hands find his hair without your permission, tugging harshly at the roots. He groans into your mouth, a sound that makes you want to slap him across the face and wrap your legs around him all the same. His hand snakes around your waist, squeezing your hip with a fervour that will no doubt leave bruises that will take longer than usual to heal. He pushes against you, every single part of him rock hard.

“God fucking damnit, Kol,” his lips find your throat with painful ease, sucking the sensitive skin into his mouth in a way thats just this side of painful over pleasurable.

Right now, though, you crave every bit of pain that Kol lays on you. In a sick way you’re proving that you can take it. That you’re strong enough to do the things that they do. Another flash of red floods your vision when you think of the other two Mikaelson's who refused to let you help. You drag one of your hands down Kol’s back, scratching hard enough for him hiss against your neck.

He jerks away from you quickly, only long enough to rip the sweatshirt over his head before he attacks your neck again. He sinks his teeth in at the same moment he rips your tank top in half, lulling you into that sweet mixture of pleasure and pain, hate and lust once more. His shoulders are deliciously toned under your searching fingers and this time when you drag your nails down his back you know you draw blood. Serves him right anyway.

“Fuck, baby,” he wraps a hand around both of your wrists, pinning your hands above your head, “that kinda hurt.”

You want to claw the smirk off of his face. Or kiss it. You can’t quite decide. His other hand is slowly sliding up your back, inching towards the clasp of your bra. His eyes burn into yours, the inferno behind them nothing less than intense. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears so loud it’s almost hypnotic when combined with the tantalizing draw of his hand. It lulls you into a false sense of security, your eyelids heavy in anticipation. He stops moving when his fingers are about to undo the hooks.

He pushes his hips closer to yours, locking you between his body and the door. His stomach is hot against yours and cut like marble. Your fingers itch to feel every bump and dip with agonizing intricacy. Every inch of your skin is alight, every hair raised waiting for anything to happen. You can feel every breath he takes as if it’s your own, your covered breasts just barely grazing him with each rise and fall of his chest. It’s delicious torture.

“Before we go any further here, I need to know what you want. Do you want some quick fuck that’s going to leave you more angry when it’s done?” He rolls his hips against yours, sending sparks flying through your body at the first real touch you’ve had tonight, “or do you want me to make love to you like you know I can. And make all these terrible feelings go away. It’s your choice, darling?”

His words tangle and knot in the pit of your stomach, weaving through the white hot hatred that had been building in your stomach until it explodes. They hit you right at the source like missiles aimed with the utmost precision to destroy every bit of anger left in you. Tears prickle at the edge of your vision, your senses overloaded from the sudden loss of your fury. All that’s left in its wake is this gut wrenching feeling of not being good enough. It’s the original problem and he just effortlessly broke through to it.

“I,” you tug your bruised lip between your teeth, if only to keep it still, “make it go away, Kol. Please.”

“That’s all I want to do, darling.”

He releases your wrists, opting instead to haul your body into his arms and slamming his lips against yours once more. You waste no time running your freed fingers down his sculpted chest, admiring the way his muscles tense as he holds you up. You push yourself as close to his body as you can get, wrapping your legs around his taught stomach and clinging on for dear life. He kisses you slowly, as if drawing all the negative energy out of your body with his lips.

He walks the two of you backwards towards your bed, sitting on the edge, leaving you straddling his hips in the most delicious way. You push your hips to bring you closer together, wanting to feel every part of him that you can. He meets every movement with his own energy, wrapping an arm around you back to keep you pressed against him. Your body is warming up once more in his arms.

He pulls his lips from yours reluctantly, his hand snaking back to the clasp on your back, “this needs to go.”

You shiver at the light touch of his fingertips on your spine, arching with the click of the hooks coming undone. He pulls the lace from your chest slowly, his thumbs grazing down your arms, memorizing every inch of skin he can get his hands on. His eyes meet yours again and he drops the fabric on the ground next to your bed. His hands, now resting on your hips, trail fire up your stomach as they trace their way over your ribs.

“Kol, please,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, reveling in the warmth of his chest so close to your own, “I need you.”

There’s a glint in his eye again but this time you don’t want to slap him. No this time you want him to do heavenly things to every part of you. You want him to take the last remains of this awful feeling and snuff it out with his mouth. His hands finally crest the remainder of your ribcage, his thumbs teasing the underside of your breasts with tantalizingly careful circles. Tears sting your vision again from all the pent up energy inside of you.

“What shall I do, darling,” his thumbs draw along the sides of your breasts, stoking the untameable fire in the pit of your stomach once more, “tell me how you want me to touch you.”

His fingers dance closer to their target, each stroke driving your brain further into it’s Kol induced frenzy. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell is the boy in front of you.

“Kol,” his name falls from your lips in a desperate moan, “please just do something, god.”

He chuckles, a sound that flows like honey and wraps around every inch of you like silk. His eyes sear into your own, daring you to break his stare but you don’t. You can’t

“Well I could do this.”

His thumbs roll over your hardened nipples, as if to punctuate his words, and you see stars. You don’t even try to stop the moans that tumble from your lips, turning to clay in his hands. You give him free reign to mould your body in any way he desires, as long as hands never leave your skin. He pinches each bud between his fingers gently, pulling more praises from deep within you. His eyes never leave your face, drinking in each expression with unashamed greed.

“Or maybe I could do this.”

You know what’s coming when he leans forward, It’s quite clear what his intentions are. However, what you aren’t expecting is for the first gentle nip to send you so violently crashing over the edge that you have to squeeze your thighs around him to avoid falling off the bed. He doesn’t stop when you cry out and you don't want him to. Every swirl of his tongue around your nipple sends you spiraling further into the sweet oblivion he’s created just for you. He rocks his hips against yours while his mouth assaults you, pressing the delicious hardness against you while you fall apart.

He detaches his lips from your lips when you start to come down from your high, kissing his way up your sternum, over your collar bone, before settling on your throat.

“So beautiful darling,” he pulls your skin into his mouth as if he didn't just get enough just moments ago, “so damn beautiful.”

You press down on his hard length again, pulling a groan from deep within his chest, “I want all of you, Kol. Please.”

That's all the encouragement he needs to flip the two of you over and lay you on your back. He kneels between your legs, hooking his thumbs in your plaid sleep shorts and pulling them off much faster than he had down with your bra. He’s more than warmed up now, something that excites you to no end. You’re left laying in a pair of black lace panties that match the bra on your floor.

Kol’s eyes go dark at the sight, a growl that hardens your nipples again rumbling through the air. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh before pulling the lace off of you once more and adding it to the growing pile of clothes. He kisses the junction of your thigh next, sending electricity rippling through your body. It restarts the heat once more and the familiar wildfire rips through your abdomen. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to stand many more orgasms if each one is to be like the first.

“Please just make love to me, Kol, I need to feel you.”

He lifts his head from your thighs, a sight that you will never grow tired of, and his eyes set ablaze, “I was made for nothing more.”

Your heart flutters rapidly in your chest, a warmth spreading like butter over your bones. He kicks his own shorts and boxers off quickly, moving back up your body to rest between your legs. You drink in the heat radiating off his body, allowing it to soothe the remaining ache leftover from your small throw down. His one hand slips under your head, lacing through your hair gently. The other reaches between you, lining himself up against your opening. The slightest touch of him against you is enough to have you mewling his name already.

He teases you slightly, taking his sweet time before pushing in. The first thrust is pure magic, filling you in the way that only Kol can. Each of you boys feel different. Kol lights every one of your nerves on fire with his slow movements. He makes you feel every deliberate movement. He makes you know that every circle of his hips, every time he joins you together is done to perfection exactly how he intends. Kol makes you aware of your entire body and just how much control he has over it.

He pulls back slowly before thrusting back inside of you hard enough to rock your bed into the wall. You clench around him without warning, pulling your name from his lips with mouthwatering ease and sending small shocks through your lower half.

“Christ, baby,” he rocks his hips deeper into yours, burying himself all the way inside you, “how are you so close again already.”

You giggle quietly from underneath him, wrapping your legs around his hips and rolling your own to meet his thrusts. Your hands glide over his shoulders, soothing the scratches you left earlier. You draw his face to your own, pulling his lips down to graze yours. You want him to feel every word you say.

“Don’t play coy, you know exactly what you’re doing,” the end of your sentence is blurred with unrelenting moans.

His hand grabs your leg, pushing your knee to your chest before pushing you into the mattress with a world altering thrust, “you’re right darling, I just like to hear you say it.”

He closes the gap between your lips with another shattering push, your walls clenching harder than before around him again. You swallow each moan that slips from his mouth and into yours. His nutmeg scent clings to you and you know it will take days to scrub him off of you, not that you want to. You could very well spend the next century wrapped up in Kol in every single way possible.

He picks up the pace, slamming into you with controlled ease. Your hands lace through his hair, keeping him as close to you as possible. Your senses are overwhelmingly heightened, allowing you to feel every damned inch of him. You’re in serious danger of falling apart. The fiery ball in your stomach is at its peak once more. When he pulls your lip between his teeth, and you taste the crimson, it explodes.

This time you don't just see stars, you see the sun and the moon and every planet in the solar system. He continues to move in and out of you, drawing out the intensity of your orgasm as he rides his own out. You cling to him with everything you have, refusing to breathe anything but Kol. Everything in this moment is about him and the way he makes you feel. Nothing else matters anymore. Perhaps nothing even mattered before. All there is, all there has ever been, is this one moment.

When you finally land back on earth, he slowly pulls out of you, giving you one last taste of electricity before drawing you to lay on his chest. Your ears ring from the energy you just exerted at Kol’s mercy, your skin deliciously sticky against his own. You're completely and undeniably spent.

You don’t realize that you’re crying until you go to speak, “Kol.”

You feel the sharp inhale he takes rather than hear it. Before you can blink the fresh wave of tears away he’s flipped you around, laying between your legs again and propped up on his elbows. His face is pure concern, his eyebrows creased together in a way that makes you want to smooth every harsh line away. It makes you cry that much harder.

“Darling, talk to me,” he runs a soothing hand down your thigh, pulling you close to him, “what’s wrong baby?”

The tears pour faster at the gentle tone in his voice, drawing an answer to the surface before you even process what you’re saying, “Do they think I’m useless? Do you?”

Your voice is shattered, all the emotions from today coming together in yet another crescendo. You can hear your blood rushing through your ears, drowning out the sounds around you. It’s probably the reason you miss the footsteps pounding up the stairs. You can feel Kol’s soft caresses but just barely. The only thing registering in your mind is the feeling of being completely and utterly weak. Why do they keep you around if you can’t even hold your own?

“God’s no, never. Not even a little bit,” just as Kol speaks, the door opens.

Well, the door slams open, hitting the wall with a crack that echoes through the large house. Kol isn’t startled. He should be but he doesn’t even flinch at the bang. You, on the other hand, tense underneath him, the pounding in your ears still as intense as before. A woodsy scent flows through the now open doorway, pine mingling with your already nutty skin. The pieces start clicking together, albeit at a slower pace than you like.

You’re almost certain you know who’s in the doorway but you look anyway to make sure, “Elijah.”

His name is a whisper and it gets lost under Elijah's own words, his dark eyes searing into yours, “Kol, do you mind giving us a moment?”

Kol glances down at you, a small smile playing on his lips. You plead with him to stay but this is Kol, he’s your hell-raiser. He places a soft kiss on your forehead before he stands, still completely naked, and walks out of the room.

He pauses on the other side of the door, settling a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “careful brother, she scratches.”

Elijah shuts the door when he leaves, much gentler than he had been when opening. Your boys, always the ones for theatrics. He leans against the frame, folding his arms over his chest. You stand from the bed, trying to meet his height but failing. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand but it doesn’t do much to clear the droplets. He tracks your every movement with a fire raging behind his chocolate eyes. You’re painfully aware of how much of your skin is on display for him; that is, all of it.

“What,” you pause when your voice cracks, stealing a moment to compose yourself, “what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be off saving the day.”

He pushes off the door, taking a few steps towards you. You can see he's fighting back a lot of primal instincts. He's as affected by your lack of clothes as you are. His eyes shift rapidly between his usual brown and a deeper coal colour. Despite the situation, you can’t help the heat seeping from between your thighs. He stops a few feet in front of you. There’s no way he can’t smell you right now.

“I was needed elsewhere,” his eyes dip down momentarily, his jaw clenching, “by someone infinitely more important.”

You watch him squeeze his fists together, forcing his eyes to remain on yours. The determination in them is unwavering and fierce. He takes another step towards you.

“It seemed important a few hours ago,” you drop your eyes to your feet, breaking his stare.

He grabs your chin, forcing you to keep looking at him and, in turn, igniting your body, “I assure you it was not nearly as important as making sure that you’re ok.”

Your throat tightens, aching with the promise of even more tears. You wish you could just stop. You’re not afraid to cry but usually you can control it. Right now you can’t. Everything has been building, every little insecurity has pooled, and today was the chip in the damn needed to make the whole thing collapse. It’s too much.

“I’m not,” you wrap your arms tight around yourself, gripping your arms with bruising strength to try and hold back the tremors, “ I am not okay Eli. I feel so helpless. Everytime you come home bleeding and exhausted and where am I?” You run a trembling hand through your mussed hair, yanking at the roots, “Here. Always just here, useless, letting you and Klaus and Kol take it all for me. Am I really that weak? That I’m just extra collateral damage to worry about? What is it, Elijah?”

The words pour from you, each one making him flinch like he’s being hit by an invisible enemy. Every syllable is a bullet to his chest. His body tenses further, his eyes no longer holding any trace of their usual warm brown. Instead they're pitch black, the veins under his eyes a deep plum. The veins in his arms pop as well, his fists iron tight. He curses under his breath when you finish. His voice is gravelly and scrapes the deepest pit of your soul.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, whatever resolve he had been clinging to snaps. He pulls you towards him, wrapping his strong hands around your hips and lifting you against him, giving you a second to wrap your bare legs around his clothed hips.

“Elijah, what are you doing?” You cling to his chest, trying to avoid tumbling out of his arms when he begins walking you towards your bed once more.

He doesn't answer your question, laying you down against your ruffled comforter, “You aren’t collateral damage, baby.”

His voice is the lowest you’ve ever heard it, emanating from somewhere deep inside him. He opens the first few buttons of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head before making it even halfway down his chest. He drops it, much like he Kol had not long before, next to your bed. Kicking off his shoes, he kneels on the bed, coming to rest between your thighs. The heat emanating from you is now a furnace and it in no way goes unnoticed by him. His dark eyes swim across your naked body, drinking in every inch.

“Eli-” whatever you’re going to say is obliterated when he leans down and attaches his lips to the crook of your thigh, dangerously close to being exactly where you need him.

“You aren't weak,” he moves to your other thigh, nipping at the delicate skin and pulling unintelligible murmurs from your throat.

He kisses his way to your center, the anticipation growing like a knot in your stomach, begging to be unraveled once more. Even in the midst of falling apart you can’t get enough of these men. He lays a soft kiss against you, offering you the slightest glimpse of what you know his mouth can do. In the exact same way you had with Kol earlier, every part of you craves Elijah.

Your body arches willingly to meet the first swipe of his tongue, his name falling from your lips like a praise, “you aren't a burden to me, you beautiful creature.”

You cry out as he works his mouth expertly against you, his words humming ecstasy into your skin, melting away any trace of doubt in your mind. His arms wrap around your thighs, bringing you as close to his face as he can get you. The sight of him completely engulfed in your heat is almost enough alone to send you tumbling right there and then over the edge.

“You mean more to me than anything else on this fucking earth,” his dark eyes meet yours as he works you dangerously close to breaking before letting up once more, “and if I have to spend every hour for the next hundred years worshipping you to prove it then consider it done.”

He lowers his mouth against you harder, sucking your electrified warmth with renewed vigour. Your hands seek out his hair, tugging him against you and raising your hips to meet every pass of his tongue. The smell of pine trees and sex envelope you, brining you the closest yet to the kind of high only Elijah can draw from you. In this moment you’re nothing more than entirely his.

“I cannot lose you, baby,” he slips a few of his fingers inside you, “please let me protect you. I need to. Please.”

He curls his fingers just as the last syllable rolls off his tongue and into your core, shattering you into a million tiny pieces. Your hands fist his hair as your body clenches around his hand, pulling a delectable groan from his lips. Your third orgasm almost puts you to sleep on the spot, each of your muscles completely exhausted. Elijah watches you come undone the entire way through, nothing less than reverent awe locked on his face.

He wastes no time pulling your spent body into his arms, wrapping you as close to him as he can manage. You bury yourself against his neck, admiring how even the most unassuming parts of him have an undue amount of strength. He truly is your warrior.

“Eli,” you yawn into his chest, basking in the warmth of his skin, “I can protect myself.”

He tightens his arms around you, “I know you can, baby, but you shouldn't need to. I’ve been searching my entire life for a meaning. A thousand years of trying to be honorable. Then I found you and, all of a sudden, it all makes sense. All the searching and fighting and pain finally has a purpose: to protect you. Let me take it for you. Please.”

You’re speechless, there isn’t anything else to it. His words hit you with immense power, sinking into your skin and settling around your bones. You’re his, all of theirs, to watch over. You really didn't know he felt this strongly. You’ve always had to defend yourself. Perhaps you just aren't used to someone else being so willing to take on that task. Someone begging to take it.

He stands suddenly, with you still in his arms, and walks out of your room, starting down the hall. The faintest sound of rushing water fills your ears, lulling you into a welcome daze.

“Where are we going, Eli?” You have yet to open your eyes, stuck in the soft between being awake and falling asleep.

He kisses your forehead, resting his head on yours, “Niklaus said he wanted to take a bath, my love.”

[amydancepants-peralta]

hiiii!!! i’m coming to our queen of smut to make a request: i was watching yippee kayak last night and i had this vision of jake going home and ~~~~~”warming” amy up after the polar plunge... i don’t think anyone has written this version of a post 3.10 fic and i just think you would be the best one so if you feel inspired by this i would love to read it!! 💕💕

ok so I really loved this idea and it took me forever but here goes!  rated NSFW for all of you playing at home, and can be found here if it’s easier ♥️

everything comes back to you 

Jake’s eyes squeeze shut as he follows Amy’s descent into his couch below, ignoring the scratchy crumbs of yesterday’s breakfast and sliding his fingers into her hair, deepening the kiss he’d initiated only seconds earlier.  Returning his heated embrace with an equal amount of fervour, Amy's nimble fingers ripple along the buttons of his flannel with the practised ease of someone who’d buttoned it only 15 hours earlier; impatiently shoving the fabric out of the way as it parts, and Jake lets out a sigh of satisfaction when it hits the floor with a soft thud.  

It has been close to two hours since he and Charles had finished their debrief (and taken down Flamethrower Gina - or FlameGrrl, if her new twitter handle was anything to go by); and after finding a quiet Amy waiting for him at their desks, the couple had made a beeline for Jake’s apartment, the unspoken need for some Thank God You’re Alive sex crackling between them on the drive home.  

Amy’s two jackets hadn’t lasted more than three steps inside Jake’s apartment, his own leather  discarded a mere second later; and in their newly horizontal position things were moving along pretty well - save for the minor detail that whenever he closes his eyes, Jake cannot seem to get the image of a confessed murderer pointing his gun directly at him out of his mind.  

None of this evening was playing out the way he’d imagined, kissing Amy goodbye earlier this morning from the comfort of her sofa when she left for an early start.  His first Christmas with a Serious Girlfriend in forever, Jake had put a lot of time and effort into selecting just the right gifts; and his plan for a sneaky early unwrapping of a couple of presents (followed, hopefully, by the unwrapping of Amy) had been waylaid by a most inconvenient - but incredibly dangerous - hostage situation in the middle of a department store.  

It was the stuff that only the best kind of Christmas movies are made of (even if he didn’t get to say the Cool Catchphrase), but now that he was home - now that they were home - Jake was beginning to realise just how close he’d come to losing it all.  

Initiating another kiss, Jake closes his eyes even tighter - tight enough to watch the tiny stars as they float by - and even though the plan to just keep kissing Ames until the bad thoughts go away had seemed solid; he eventually has to come up for air, tucking his head into the juncture of her neck and sighing as the scent of his girlfriend numbs the sharp teeth of unwanted memories.  

Amy’s voice is soft when she speaks, but he’d hear her in a hurricane, and the sound carries over tangled limbs before landing at their un-socked feet.  “I didn’t feel it.”

It’s an odd statement - and definitely not something that one expects to hear during a pre-sex makeout - and it prompts Jake to glance downwards at their still very covered bottom halves, returning to respond with an eloquent - “Huh?”

Her head tips back ever so slightly, just enough for Jake’s eyes to lock onto hers, and the seriousness of her look cuts him to the quick.  “My phone.  I didn’t feel it … the vibrations from your texts.  You know, through the jacket.”  Her fingernails scrape the edge of his hairline, and she shakes her head in frustration.  “So puffy.  I couldn’t feel anything, including the cold, which I guess is the point, but … I didn’t feel it.”

Jake nods, feeling his lips purse up.  There was definitely a point, between texts numbers four and seven, when he’d begun to question if Amy was ever going to answer.  But he’d kept texting, based purely on the way she looked at him that very morning, ruffling his hair when he’d woken up and bidding him goodbye with the kind of kiss that made his heart thump long after she’d gone.  He had hoped there would be a reason why, and the sincerity in her eyes now said it all. 

A coolness remains in the wake of her hands as they shift away, voice growing more determined as she continues.  “But, Jake … I need you to understand something.”  She digs her elbows into the couch for leverage, waiting as Jake scoots backwards to accommodate and shuffling up to a seated position; their makeout session taking a temporary pause.  “As soon as I realised, I came running.”

It’s a sorry without saying it, an apology for taking so long to respond to his barrage of texts, and the automatic response of it’s fine, babe bubbles up Jake’s throat.  There’s still a part of him, the same part that once came to work with multiple injuries and pretended everything was fine, that wanted to brush this whole evening away and act like everything was normal.  It was the Peralta way to compartmentalise and move on, but with his girlfriend of seven months (and partner for so much longer) sitting in front of him, suddenly Jake didn’t want to simply shrug it all away.  

His mouth feels dry, and he knows his voice has gone soft, but he answers before he can’t.  “I was really scared, Ames.  For a moment there, I - ” there are too many options for the end of the sentence, and all the fears jumble out from that corner of his mind he’d been pushing them into all evening.  His stomach twists, and he tries again.  “I really thought ..”

Moving closer still, Amy’s knees knock against Jake’s as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in for the kind of comforting hug he’d unknowingly craved.  She whispers I was scared too, the reality of what could have been washing over them for a moment, and Jake realises that this moment right here on the couch was what he’d be needing all evening.

It isn’t until their makeout has begun again - albeit of a slightly softer, reassuring variety - that Amy nestles closer to Jake, sliding her hands underneath his shirt; and it’s the almost freezing temperature of her palms that pull him out of his kissing Amy stupor. 

“Whoa!  Ames, your hands really are on a whole other level of cold.”

(Truth be told, the first time he’d noticed, they were still on the sidewalk outside Goodwin’s; kissing way more than he thought they would with their colleagues and superior officers all within viewing distance.  But he’d been a little distracted at the time, too caught up in the temporary high that came with the realisation that not only had he just lived through his very own Die Hard hostage experience - he, too, had a beautiful woman outside who was so glad he was okay, and honestly, those two things packed together really did make for a stellar - if short lived - moment of bliss.)

Pulling away, Amy inspects her palms as though checking for icicles before looking back at Jake.  “I’m telling you babe, I really might have hypothermia.”

“Wait … you actually did the polar bear swim?”

“Ugh.”  Resting back on her heels, Amy rolls her eyes in exasperation.  “Not exactly, no.  I tried!  But … I just couldn’t go through with it.  Holt and Rosa went in while I stayed on the beach like a chicken.”  Shrugging her shoulders, she continues.  “It wasn’t until I read all your messages and realised what was happening that …” 

The cogs slowly begin to turn in Jake’s brain.  “You had to …?”

“I ran into the ocean to get them.”

He blinks.  “You.  Amy Santiago; perpetual blanket stealer, and the only person who could land on the sun and still find it a little chilly, ran into the freezing Atlantic?”

She nods, her eyes wide and somber, and Jake’s heart squeezes in his chest.  “I can’t believe you did that.”

Her hands move to either side of his face, the contrast in temperatures suddenly feeling like nothing at all; freshly armed with the knowledge that the woman in front of him had run into the very thing she hated, just for him.  “I told you, Jake.  As soon as I knew.”  She leans in to press her lips against his, and Jake runs his hands along her wrists, giving Amy a contented smile when she pulls away.  “Bonus points to you for knowing it’s the Atlantic, by the way.” 

There are a thousand different responses running through Jake’s mind, all of them showing varying degrees of being the right answer for right now, but in the end the only thing that he manages to sputter out is a simple - “You’re amazing.”  

(Short, yet most definitely true.)

“You were in danger, babe.  Nothing else matters when it comes to that.”

A scarily familiar lump forms in Jake’s throat; the same one that had choked his voice up right before he’d confessed his feelings to his college girlfriend Camille - aka, the girl who broke up with him only a day later - and his stomach begins to twist incessantly.  

Amy had dropped everything to find him - he, Jake Peralta, a man who’s clean washing pile sits dangerously close to his dirty washing pile (i.e. both on the floor), who’s teeth hold more cavities than a third grader hopped up on pixie sticks, who’s punching well above his weight every single time he gets to hold her in his arms.  This intelligent, beautiful, courageous woman considered his safety to be more important than anything else, and the words I love you I love you I love you were growing dangerously close to his spilling out of his mouth.  

It wasn’t a new thing, to know that he loved her.  He practically vibrated it out of every pore of his body.  (Had a dream once, that he’d painted it on a billboard over the expressway.)  But it was one thing to know it - to know only a few days in that the two of them together was greater than anything he’d ever been a part of - and another thing altogether to actually say it out loud.  He’s been here before, and knows all too well how much it hurts when it goes unreciprocated (the danger, he knows, of wearing your heart on your sleeve: but there, it shall remain).  Rejection and heartache are not a new experience for Jake by a long shot - but just the thought of it coming from Amy was too frightening to contemplate.  

The urge to escape the seriousness, the voice inside his head screaming deflect! deflect! overpowers the rest of Jake (it’s strength in it’s familiarity), and he leans in to capture Amy’s lips in a kiss far more passionate than any they’d shared this evening.  Sighing against her mouth as she melts into his embrace, he uses the space between them as they part to mumble,  “I think it’s about time I warmed you up then, hmm?”

“Thought you’d never offer,”  Amy grins, that sly upturning of her lips that always seems to have a direct line to his penis; and Jake runs his hands along her back, holding her close to his chest as he lifts them both from the couch and deposits them onto his poorly made bed.  

She slips off his undershirt before another moment is wasted, getting to work on the fly of his jeans immediately while Jake leans in for another heated kiss, picking up on her sudden need for more action.  His hips flex against Amy’s familiar touch as her hand slides underneath, nudging the zipper of his jeans open with her palm and nursing his growing erection, his responding groan mixing amongst their tangling tongues.  

Wrapping one arm around her back, Jake feels the cool bare skin beneath Amy’s shirt, splaying his fingers out as he pulls her closer.  The blades of her shoulder graze against his fingertips as her hand tightens her grip around his cock, covering his length in the steady strokes that she knows turn him on, and truly - how she manages to make him feel this good every. single. time. has to be some kind of magic.  

His brow furrows slightly as his hands wander to the edge of her waist, noticing what feels like an unusual texture there - but, also aware that he may not be in the most ‘sound mind and body’ state as long as Amy keeps pumping her wrist like that, Jake persists with his path of kisses along his girlfriend’s clavicle.  It isn’t until his fingers return to her front, gripping the bottom of her shirt and sliding it upwards that he feels it again, and this time he pulls away from the love bite he had been nibbling into her neck.  “Wait.  Ames, is that …?”

Shifting his weight onto one side Jake lifts Amy’s shirt a little higher, letting out a halted laugh as a darker lycra fabric begins to appear.  “Are you wearing a bathing suit?”

“Oh God!” Amy’s hands brush past Jake’s bare chest, flying up to cover her face as she lets out a groan, his cock already mourning her departure.  “I kept thinking on the drive over that I needed to get changed before we got too distracted.  But then you kissed me in the hallway, and it all just …” shaking her head, she separates her fingers and peeks out at Jake through the gaps.  “I’m still in Polar Plunge mode.  Ugh, this is probably the least sexiest - ” her protest dies in it’s tracks, courtesy of the gentle pressing of Jake’s fingers against her lips.  

“Babe, no.  You’re sexy all the time, it’s actually insane.  You’d look sexy in a hessian sack, trust me.”  He replaces his fingers with his lips as her hands fall away, pressing just that little bit harder before pulling away to catch her line of sight.  “It just caught me by surprise, is all.”

She grins.  “Like your girlfriend had turned into a seal?”

“A sexy seal,” he nods.  “Hottest in all of New York.”

Her chest rumbles underneath him as she laughs - a loud, carefree laugh, easily one of his most favourite sounds - and Jake joins in, pressing one knee into the mattress as he rises slightly to slide Amy’s shirt away.  She looks up at him with the brightest of eyes as their giggles begin to fade and Jake digs his teeth into his lower lip, the urge to tell her just how much he loves her almost too strong to ignore.

(He considers it for a moment, telling her in this apartment that was always an okay place to sleep but now with Amy feels like a home … but he’s watched enough romantic movies in his time to know that pre or post sex first-time declarations rarely held value - and if there’s anybody that deserves better than that, it’s Amy Santiago.)

Instead, Jake takes his time peeling away her swimwear, pausing to kiss each of Amy’s breasts as the fabric rolls to her midriff, shuffling down the mattress as her hips lift to allow both her pants and the suit to slide away and join his on the floor.  Her legs slide against the sheets with a subtle impatience, a quiet sigh falling from her lips as she feels Jake’s hands skim along the outside of her thighs, and he takes his time forging a trail of kisses before reaching her centre.  

He begins with a special kind of kiss, sucking gently on her clit with every press of his lips, following it up with a rogue lick every second or third go as Amy’s fingers dig into his hair.  They tug as he dips lower, circling her entrance with the tip of his tongue, yanking in reprimand when he presses in then pulls away, all far too quickly for her liking. 

Amy’s skin feels perfect; so comfortably bare against his own as Jake makes his way back up her body, keeping one hand wrapped around her thigh as he leans in for another kiss, waiting until her lips are well and truly occupied before sliding one - then, two - fingers inside where she’s wanting him the most.  She writhes beneath him as he slowly works her up, stoking the flame just enough to push her closer to combustion, feeling the moisture build as her arousal grows with every kiss.    

Letting out a shuddered breath, Amy raises her hips to meet Jake’s touch, her yearning obvious - pushing his fingers away and using her free hand to wrap her fingers around his erection, enticing him closer as she twists her wrist with practised ease.  Ever willing to follow her lead, Jake shifts until the head of his cock is pressing against her centre, holding onto Amy’s gaze and entering slowly with one smooth stroke.  

She sighs in satisfaction as he pushes further in, blinking slowly as their pelvises push up against each other, and for a moment Jake pauses, too caught up in the moment to do anything other than stare.  Amy truly was everything he could have ever dreamed of - and by some amazing twist of fate, she’d chosen him over any other.  

He thinks of the heart-shaped necklace he bought for her, the same one that sits underneath the glittering tree in her living room, and how he knew it belonged on her from the moment he saw it in the store window.  How he’d debated on when to give it to her, knowing the connotation that came from an item of that shape, and how right it had felt to tuck it in with the other presents this morning before he’d left for work.  

Because it was true - she could have his heart, in whatever form it came, and wear it around her neck for all the world to see (even if it does sound slightly Game of Thrones-ish).  Jake Peralta was totally, completely, and unequivocally in love with Amy Santiago.  And even if, right now, he is totally, completely and unequivocally terrified of saying it out loud, he needed her to know just how much a life without her seemed impossible.  

He pulls out halfway, dipping his hip slightly as he thrusts back in, holding himself still as her walls pulse around him.  Somewhere along the way, tonight had become less about having sex because it’s been A Day and he has a sexy girlfriend, and more about making love with the woman he’s beyond afraid to lose - and it felt kind of perfect.  “You should know …” Jake swallows nervously, his mouth suddenly dry.  “I need you to know, Ames.  When he pointed the gun at me, there was only one thought running through my mind … and it was that I might not ever see you again.”

Smiling softly, Amy reaches out to rest a palm against Jake’s cheek, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with her thumb as her body shifts beneath him.  Meeting him halfway for a kiss, her hair splays out on the pillow below as she rests back down, looking up at Jake with a thousand unspoken words lingering between them.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jake.  I can’t imagine ..”  Shaking her head, she pulls him back down for another kiss, tightening her legs around his waist and lifting her pelvis to meet Jake’s thrusts as they begin to move together.  

It’s safe to say that he and Amy have had a lot of sex since becoming Jake and Amy, and each time has been incredible - but there was something about tonight, and the way their bodies just slotted into each other like they’d finally found that perfect match, that made all of the nerves in Jake’s body push into Oh My God mode.  Between the kisses, the wandering hands, and the mingling sighs and moans; it doesn’t take long before his thrusts have sped up, temporarily lost in anything other than focusing on how amazing it feels to be inside Amy while her fingernails dig into his butt.  

She whispers his name, a warm breath against his shoulder as his face tucks into her neck, her legs beginning to shake as her orgasm climbs ever closer.  But Jake wants to show Amy, even if he can’t quite say it yet, just how in love he is - how far he would go for her, how every part of who he is now comes back to being loved by her - and when her hands slide up to the edge of his shoulders in a definite sign that she was moving closer to climax, he slows his thrusts down, desperate to savour the moment.  

He watches as Amy’s brow crinkles in protest, pushing her hips hard against his as her impending orgasm begins to slip away - but he knows that a little edging has never been unwelcome, and so he slows down a little more.  Still, her fingernails sting against his skin as she lets a huff, instigating a steady rhythm for them as Jake hovers above, and he leans down to take the edge off by scraping his teeth along the edge of her neck just the way she likes.  

He slips out of her a moment later, grinning at the groan of protest that falls unbidden from Amy’s mouth and leans in to plant a kiss against her lips before whispering ‘gotta keep you nice and warm, babe.’  Her neck cranes towards his as he pulls away, chasing more, and it’s a request Jake’s never going to deny so he returns to kiss her deeper, letting their tongues slide against each other for a little while as his hands wander further down.

Jake grips his own erection with a steady fist, rotating once or twice - just enough to keep him teetering on the edge - before sliding down the mattress, dotting kisses against Amy’s torso as he makes his intended path clear.  

Her thighs feel smooth against Jake’s palms as he traces the curves of her legs, gently nudging one leg higher until it’s resting against his shoulder.  Completely unable to resist, he sinks his teeth into her inner thigh, suckling just enough to know there’ll be a mark there tomorrow, soothing the ache with gentle kisses as Amy moans softly above him.  The press of her hand against the back of his head silently encourages Jake to move closer to where she wants him, and after digging his fingers into her hips he is only too happy to oblige.  

He takes a slow lick, pushing his tongue against her folds and sighing at the taste of them, the mixture of Amy and a little bit of his own pre-cum.  (The switch from condoms to an implanted birth control was recent, and - dare he say - glorious.)  He pushes forward for another sample, bending slightly so that the bridge of his nose presses against her clit, darting his tongue in and out of her centre as she writhes underneath his touch.  

The feeling of her fingers digging into his hair, and the tightening of her upper thighs against his neck, was the stuff that any great sexual fantasy could ever be constructed of - made all the better by that sweet moment of realisation that this was his life now.  He could do this to Amy now, and not be rudely interrupted by an alarm clock pulling him out of a dream.  He could feel her this way, know her body better than she knew it herself, and Jake didn’t need to escape a hostage situation on Christmas Eve to know that he truly is the luckiest man alive.  

Using his thumb to circle her clit, Jake increases the intensity of his movements as Amy thrashes underneath his touch, pushing her lower body off the mattress as it all become too much.  She calls out a mixture of Jake and babe to his apartment ceiling, too overcome with the way her body was riding the wave of pleasure to care about volume, and Jake stays in position, taking all she has to offer as slowly her grip around his body loosens.  

Panting in the comedown, it takes a moment or two before Amy can move properly, bending her elbows to raise herself up slightly and watch as Jake continues his gentle assault on her body.  “Holy fuck, Jake - that was ..”  her voice fades away, raising a hand and then dropping it just as quickly, flopping back down with a satisfied sigh.  He grins, taking one final lick before casting a tender bite just to the right of her mound, leaving the evidence of her arousal against her skin as he nuzzles into the curve of her hip.    

Grabbing an abandoned pillow, Jake rises and places it perpendicular to Amy’s pelvis; hovering over her still slightly shaking body and gently encouraging her to roll over, positioning the pillow until it lifts her hips in just the right way.  He covers her back with his own body as his cock slides back into home, the change in angles eliciting a moan from both of their mouths, and Jake’s teeth sink gently into Amy’s shoulder blade as he begins to pump his hips in perfectly fluid strokes.  

Amy’s left hand flails out to the mattress, perfectly manicured fingernails gripping onto Jake’s sheets as the two of them begin to move in sync - both of them immediately getting lost in the moment, in this position that was so much better than doggy style - because this way they could feel each other completely, could feel the nerves quivering underneath their skin as they raced closer towards the finish line.  

The feeling of Amy climaxing around his tongue only minutes before had made Jake’s cock harder than ever, and the sensation of her warm body surrounding him now was pushing him closer to losing it completely.  He mouths I love you in-between kisses and licks against her sweaty skin, reaching out to link their fingers together as he pushes harder, sliding his left hand between the pillow and thrumming a delicate pattern against Amy’s sensitive clit.  

“You feel so good Ames, oh god I’m going to come soon … you’re so amazing.”  His forehead presses between the middle of her shoulder blades, leaving the I want this forever part of his sentence unspoken as he lets out a stuttered moan. 

Her legs stretch wider apart, searching for that perfect angle as she moans a stretched out yesss, and Jake really increases his pace when she pauses, pushing her abdomen into the pillow and meeting every thrust with a series of gasping breaths.  

His name falls out of Amy’s mouth in a series of broken syllables as she climaxes, her entire body writhing and coaxing Jake’s own completion out of him as he buries his head into Amy’s neck and lets go completely, spilling inside her with an intensity he hasn’t felt in the longest time.  

Wrapping his arms around Amy’s middle as their heavy breaths begin to slow down, Jake pulls out, twisting to curl his body around Amy’s and nuzzle into her side.  Her still slightly shaking hand reaches back, caressing the base of his neck and humming in contentment, stretching her legs out against Jake’s as she moves.  “Well, Peralta .. I’d say you definitely warmed me up.”

He grins against her skin, peppering kisses along her upper arm as he speaks.  “You think it was worth running into the freezing water for?”

Amy’s hand falls away as she shuffles in his arms, twisting carefully within his embrace until they’re facing each other, pushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead as she nods.  “You’re worth doing anything for, Jake.”  Her palm, now entirely warm, caresses his cheek as she pulls him in for a kiss, leaving another against the tip of his nose as they part.  “You’re everything.  I hope you know that.”

Jake nods, a noice dying in his throat as he chooses to respond with another kiss before he can ruin the moment.  One day, some day soon, he would find a way to tell Amy how he felt about her - but for now, he needed to be here with the woman he loves, and feel her soft body in his arms as the exhaustion of the day finally begins to catch up with them.  

It’s completely domestic and entirely perfect how they ready themselves for bed; Amy sliding on a pair of Jake’s boxers as she returns from the bathroom, slipping underneath the covers and gravitating towards his warmth without hesitation.  There are whispered goodnights and gentle kisses, arms and legs intertwining as though they were always supposed to be, and a smile that refuses to leave Jake’s face as he begins to drift off to sleep.  

Let the movies have their action-packed explosions and damsels in distress - his reality kicked it’s butt, any day of the week.  There’s an incredibly intelligent, stupidly beautiful woman laying beside him - one that cares for him, worries about his safety, and occupies a little more of his heart with every passing day.  And truly, that’s greater than anything that any blockbuster could possibly bring to the table.

(Although, if he ever needed to, he would totally jump off the roof of a building.  But only to save the day, and clearly only for Amy.)  

(Okay, maybe a little for him as well … but mainly, the Amy thing.)

[ownworldresident]

Like Kissing A Storm

My second Blades fanfic after Heaven’s Fury. Again starring you, Elf!MC x Tyril Starfury. This one went a little off track after seeing this Tyril/MC fanart by the incredibly talented @einfachtati. The word count exploded a little, but it’s well worth it. Thank you also to @blackcatkita for helping me finetune some details. This and my previous fic will be part of a collection of similar Tyril/Elf!MC ficlets. Enjoy!

Before attending the Masquerade at Undermount, Tyril takes some time to teach you a formal elvish dance.

Length: 1841

Genre: fluff, light romance

Tense: second person, present

———-

“If you hold your arm out like this…” Tyril demonstrates, and you try not to laugh at the seriousness of his expression as he holds his arm out like a statue, pointing directly at the wall with all the attention of an archer.

“You look like you’re about to go into battle.” You snicker, biting your bottom lip, and the laugh reverberates around the empty room. The elf looks thoughtful for a moment, letting his arm drop to his side, then turns to you.

“I suppose it does bear some similarity.” A few moments pass in his reflection, then he lifts his arm again and gestures for you to do the same. “Since you have more experience there than here, perhaps you can transfer some of those skills?”

“Can I also wear my gauntlet?” you ask as you follow his lead, resting your hand against his. Tyril’s lip trembles for a moment as he tries not to react. “You never know when the Grobtars are going rear their ugly heads.”

“Perhaps not right this second,” he says, turning to you again, “we’re not in battle now.” His words settle around you, but you aren’t so sure. Not the kind of battle you’re used to, perhaps.

Tyril directs you to position your hand so your shoulder is relaxed, standing back to watch. You take up his hand again, feeling the warmth of his palm against your own. A different kind of battle. He nods, faces you again, and you shudder as his other hand rests on the small of your waist.

"Now if you place your other hand on my shoulder," he advises, "that is the starting pose for the Masquerade Waltz."

You look down to where his hand sits securely on your waist, fingers parted for a surer hold. Warmth flows from his touch, reaching your cheeks, and you drift from the room for a moment.

"Raine?" He says warily, and when you don't answer, begins to withdraw his hand. You are quick to hold it there, returning to the room, and shoot him a wide grin.

"Guess this one gets close, huh?" Once sure he won't move his hand again, you place yours atop his shoulder, and swallow a reaction as his thumb glides over the fabric of your outfit.

"If you're uncomfortable…"

"I'm not," you say, perhaps a little too quickly, and he nods, that perfect tiny smile gracing his lips before his focus returns to your task.

"I'm glad. That we can continue, I mean."

"Uhuh." You smirk. "Come then, Teacher Lordling Tyril. Instruct me in the ways of the Elvish Dances."

He smiles again, in his eyes, and an approving sound comes from his throat. "We'll move slowly to begin," he says, "but if you can learn as quickly here as you do with new skills, you will be proficient very soon."

At first grinning, you lose yourself to concentration after only a few beats. Tyril's grace has you awestruck, and you can't tell if the heat in your cheeks is from exertion, proximity, or the knowledge that you cannot possibly match his skill. As if he can read your thoughts, Tyril sighs, squeezing your linked hand.

"I have spent more years that you have yet lived perfecting this dance, Raine." He watches you for a reaction as you continue the repeated steps.

"Are you claiming perfection, Lord Starfury?" You flash him a smile, and he lets out what might be a chuckle. He isn't wrong, you think to yourself, but the teasing is too tempting.

"I only mean that if you bested me here, on this… battlefield, of sorts… it would be only a slight to my honour, not a necessity of yours."

"And now he challenges me." You shake your head indignantly. Tyril stops your dance and takes both your hands, holding them by your sides so he remains in your space.

"And if I were to do so? How would you respond?"

"On instinct? With my sword. But in this," you release one of his hands to gesture around the empty hall, "perhaps a start would be to change the context."

"Oh?"

"You were raised in stone halls, Lordling, but I was raised beside a forest. Surely you can think of a more natural setting for us to practise?"

“This is a famed dance hall.” Tyril looks around the stale, rectangular room; raised stage at one end full of unattended instruments, curtained arches along both sides, closing you in completely. “A very suitable location to learn to dance.”

“For a noble elf, perhaps.” You step back from him, straightening your outfit, and drawing his attention again. You project your voice, which echoes around the room as you say, “show me where you go to relax.”

"Within Undermount?" Tyril frowns, glancing away from you thoughtfully. A few moments later, he smiles, and nods to you. “Come with me.”

Gladly, you think, smiling to yourself as you hurry after him and glad to leave the hall behind. He takes you through a different exit, down new halls, until you emerge to a narrow walkway, and your breath catches. One side is the glittering stone of the halls, and the other a line of open colonnades, slender pillars and low barrier between you and a view out over Undermount, reminding you how far you climbed to reach this point.

You realise Tyril hasn’t paused for the view and extend your stride to catch up, your heart quickening in anticipation at his enthusiasm. Past the hall, the carved city becomes a little less perfect, with less jewels in the walls, a few weeds poking through the cobblestone, and ivy crawling up pillars which give the illusion of supporting the ceiling. The garden is manicured as others are, but not as often as the rest of Undermount. When you can no longer see the stone building past tall bushes, you slow to a walk, and realise Tyril is no longer ahead of you.

“This is beautiful,” you call, assuming, hoping, he can hear you.

“I’m glad you approve.” His voice travels from nearby, but you aren’t sure exactly where. Cautious now, you move along a hedgerow path, a little closer to the wilderness you know well, though ‘closer to’ is not much a competition in this place.

“Tyril?” Your voice is nearer a whisper as you turn a corner. “Where are--”

“Welcome.” Familiar hands catch your shoulders before you collide, breath knocked from your lungs, momentarily stunned at the contact. Blinking, you find his face, and snort.

“Tyril, is that… a playful smile?” You press both fists over your mouth as he drops his hands, apparently more taken aback by your words than you were at being caught. He quickly recovers, and the smile returns.

“Perhaps.” Though he turns away, you see the violet colouring his cheeks, and bump his shoulder gently with yours as you pass him. “It has been many years since I visited…” he runs a hand along the closest pillar. “Is it suitable to your taste?”

“We can make it work,” you say, turning to see that, like the colonnades you came from, one edge of the courtyard is exposed to the rest of the city.

“We should return to your practise, as you suggested.” Tyril steps closer, but his expression is less serious as he offers his hand, drawing you gently to the starting position. The climb to the garden has left your breath a little shorter and warmer, and you feel his warmth too when he takes your hand and waist. You shiver, focusing as much on the dance as you can, and fall in step with the elf.

“A fast learner,” he remarks as you cross the stone, forced to tighten the turns to avoid the bushes.

“I’m offended that you expected any less,” you match your tone to your words, but break the illusion with a wide grin.

When you run through the routine flawlessly - in your opinion, at least - you both pause. In the focus, your proximity had been forgotten, but now that you’ve finished, you realise you are bare inches from his body. He still holds your waist, and you his shoulders, with both hands now, and you can’t meet his eyes. As soon as you release each other, you have to return to his home and to the others.

“Raine…” he says softly, and you close your eyes at how perfectly your name sounds from his lips. One of his hands leaves your waist and you frown, unwilling to release this moment. He lifts your chin to face him, and you open your eyes to the sincerity in his. Tension melts from your body, and you swallow hard, moving your gaze between his eyes and his lips, suddenly much closer than you remember. Reaching his eyes again, you see the question in them, and you tilt your face even closer, feeling the warmth of his breath on your cheek. He leans a little closer, then pauses. “Do you…”

“Yes,” you breathe with a small smile. You close your eyes once more, aching to feel more of him, then the impossibly soft lips brush yours, his breath against yours, and you close the distance with fervour, linking your arms around his neck to hold him closer. Tyril reciprocates and your heart flutters, warmth rising in your chest as he presses one firm hand on the small of your back and the other behind your neck, ever closer, bodies flush together. Through your nose you breathe him in so as not to break apart, moaning as his lips part yours to deepen the kiss.

An energy builds inside you as your fingers snake through his hair and his tongue runs along your bottom lip before pushing in a little further. The light in your belly grows in heat and intensity, and almost of its own accord your hand leaves him to hold outstretched, palm up, and your brow tightens as you feel the light leave you, escaping to your palm. Sparks of magic against your back widen your smile.

“Let me help you there…” Tyril mumbles against your lips, extending his own hand over yours, and you feel your magic intertwine, growing, until Tyril mumbles something else, a spell you don’t recognise, and you gasp as your magic leaves your hands and spirals above you.

“Tyril…” you pull back reluctantly, opening your eyes to a smoky, electric barrier around the two of you, your magic and his dancing together, a space that is only your own. “Beautiful…”

“Truly.” He whispers, but when you turn back his eyes are on you, the pure magic around you dancing within them. You watch him for a moment, your limbs tingling, and meet his lips again, intensified by the power that surrounds you, trying to pull him closer through a space that doesn’t exist. He moans your name, and the sound sparks new passion in you. This is different to the last you shared… this is new. This is perfect. This is your dance.

—————-

Blades taglist: @scalpeljockeybrycelahela @the-moonlight-huntress @simplymissjulia @romanticatheart-posts @lovestruck-shenanigans @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @princess-geek

(if you would like to be added or removed, please let me know!)

[hallospaceboyy]

Submitting a Lilith x reader fic for my gf. Reader goes to hell to take care of Lilith in both fluffy and nsfw manner.

To Hell and Back For You

Warning - Smut

You had visited Hell a handful of times now, knew it was dangerous for a mortal, but kept going back anyway, because Lilith is worth going back for. Hell was full of dangerous beings and entities, but you knew that Lilith would protect you, would not let any of them harm a single hair on your head. Which is why now, late at night, when you cannot sleep, you find yourself back there. Lilith had allowed you safe passage directly from your home to her quarters, allowed you to come and go as you pleased, undetected by any other demons.

Lilith always knows instantly when you are close, has attuned herself to know when you are in the vicinity, in her bedroom – so as soon as you find yourself there, she appears, eyes bright and playful despite her obvious exhaustion. She eyes you, standing before her wearing nothing but a short, black nightdress with thin straps, and smirks.

“Did you miss me darling? You look delightful.”

You grin, and her arms open in invitation, and you melt into them, burying your face in her hair, the smell of smoke and brimstone, and spice filling your nostrils.

“I always miss you.” You mumble, and then you’re kissing her neck, and she lets out a low hum. “You’re so tense. Let me take care of you, My Queen.” She chuckles throatily at the term, which is quickly cut short, turning to a gasp when you bite down on her neck, sucking there.

“Marking your Queen? How very frivolous of you.” But when you glance up at her, she is smiling, and her usually clear blue eyes are clouded with a dark lust.

It doesn’t take you long to shed her of her artfully embellished green dress, leaving her standing before you in black lace underwear, and you take in her toned muscles, the smooth expanse of her stomach, the swell of her breasts, the perfect curve of her hips.

“Lay on the bed. Please.” You command gently, and she complies with the raise of a single brow, her hair spreads about her head on the pillow like a fan, and as you straddle her hips, you run your fingers through the long tresses, brushing out the taut curls at the ends. Her eyes flutter closed, and her hands slide up your dress, resting on bare waist.

Leaning down, you kiss her slightly flushed chest, pull the straps of her bra down her shoulders and take a pert nipple into your mouth, switching between biting and sucking, and the demoness moans breathily below you, arches her back. With deft movements her bra is removed, and you lave your tongue over the now bare swell of her breasts, following the line of the undersides of them with your tongue, and her slender fingers comb through your hair.

As you continue your ministrations to her breasts, alternating between them, leaving small red marks with your teeth and then stroking your tongue there, your hand slides down her abdomen to the apex of her thighs, cupping the mound there and pressing your fingers down onto her heat. She bucks her hips invitingly, legs spreading wider of their own volition.

“Stop teasing. You know what happens when you tease.” She scolds warningly, her teeth gritted, and you giggle, moving yourself to kneel between her legs, quickly shedding her of her underwear. You can smell her arousal, instantly push her legs open wider, eyes roving over glistening, wet heat. You bring your face to hers, and kiss her hungrily, tongues entwining, fighting for dominance, you nip gently at her tongue and she groans as your fingers find her sex, sliding over slick folds, teasing at her clit and rubbing in slow circles.

You look into her blown pupils then, and she looks back, breathing laboured, hips wriggling, and you move two fingers to her entrance, enter her slowly, pressing deep and curling your fingers, and her eyes almost drift shut – but she keeps looking, gazing into your eyes as she let’s out a strangled moan. You scrutinise her every feature, as you fuck her slowly, and your heart skips with the realisation that you love her then, have fallen completely and hopelessly in love with the demoness, would do anything to be with her – and you’re overwhelmed with the need to be soft, and gentle with her, make love to her. You want this moment to be different from your other quick, steamy trysts.

You continue to move your fingers, deep and rhythmic, stopping only to add a third, and there’s a light sheen of perspiration on Lilith's skin now, her eyes are closed, her head thrown back against the pillow. Her fingers grip the sheets with whitened knuckles.

“So beautiful...” You whisper, licking at the shell of her ear, and she's writhing beneath you now, meeting your deep, slow thrusts with equal fervour. “Come for me, my love.”

With that, Lilith stiffens, her muscles taut, and she moans your name loudly as she comes undone, hands grasping at you, clawing at your skin, your dress, and you can only watch her in her ecstasy, marvelling at how exquisite she looks.

Slowly, she returns to herself, and you remove your fingers from her, licking them clean. When you meet her eyes, she looks perplexed, almost bashful.

“That was...different.” She mumbles, her voice shaky. You blush, laying down beside her.

“How do you mean?”

“It was... I don’t know. Gentle. Intimate.” Her face is etched with concern, and you realise that concept is foreign to her. Intimacy. Kindness. Someone giving to her simply because they want to, with no ulterior motives, no asking in return. You think you’re going to cry, but you take a deep breath, blinking the tears away.

“Is there something wrong with that?” She frowns then, pondering your question as her dazed eyes meet yours.

“No. I quite liked it.” She admits, and you grin.

“I gather that you’ve not experienced much tenderness, Lilith. But you deserve it. I care for you very much, and I love to show you that.” Lilith's eyes are unsure as she studies you, as if doubting the sincerity of your statement, and you cup her cheek, stroking it with your thumb, and press a soft kiss to her lips. “You deserve to be worshipped in every sense of the word, as Queen, and just as the wonderful woman you are.”

Lilith blinks, and you see the beginnings of tears in her misty eyes as she looks into yours.

“Thank you, Y/N. I care for you very much too." Her voice is a mere whisper, and you lean your forehead against hers, closing your eyes and just enjoying her presence, relishing in the very feel of her. You want to tell her that you love her, adore her with every fibre of your being, would do anything for her. But you don’t, not yet. Don’t want the demoness to shy away from the unknown. But you will, in good time, when the time is right.

[satbiym]

Victuuri Royalty Week Fic Excerpt

“What do you want from this, from me?” Victor asked, an uncharacteristically somber look on his handsome face.

“I just…I - ” Yuuri stuttered, startled at the emotion the question had incited in himself, unable to answer.

Victor’s face shuttered, “I see.” He said quietly.

Yuuri couldn’t stand to look at the unsurprised melancholy on Victor’s face, like he had been expecting Yuuri’s answer, his lack of faith in Victor. So he answered the truth that swirled around in his head every time he so much as looked at Victor.

He said in a voice that rang with sincere fervour, the kind reserved for Priestesses talking about their patron god, “You ask me what I want from you, My King? I want for no glory or gold. Instead I want something far more priceless and precious.”

The court minister shifted, unsatisfied murmurs filling the air, as the whole world sat with baited breath to see what the illegitimate son of a disgraced nobleman would ask of Victor The Great.

What could be more precious than gold itself?

Victor pursed his lips, and waited with the world.

Yuuri looked up at the throne, eyes lit like Greek fire, and softly said with gravitas that made the words reach till the eavesdropping door-bearer on the other side of the throne room, “I just want to be by your side. In any way you will allow and tolerate; I would follow you across the Indus River without a second thought, I would willingly march towards a waiting army, I would walk hungry a thousand miles in the noon-day sun, all for the privilege of being by your side. Grant me this one indulgence, My King, keep me by your side and never let go.”  

[adolin]

Can you perhaps drop the fic from your top 5 ways to make Gideon and harrow fuck post?

it's probably not what you're imagining — it's a veeeery AU premise where Prince Kiriona and Harrow marry and they have angsty altar sex to consume the ceremony. But if you're into dubcon and dark fuck prince Kiri and seething resentment etc. it's pretty hot if I do say so myself

Rated E. 8k

[officialpeebee]

Keepsakes (for thewindysideofcare)

illustrated fic commission for @thewindysideofcare - loved working on this one!

art by @noctuaalba - fic by me

Cassandra sat back in her chair and rubbed at her eyes. The lists Leliana had been sending her were too much to take in all at once; people they had lost, supplies destroyed, units of troops missing since the avalanche. Numbers too large to think about.

Outside the window there was a constant low murmur of sound, even at this late hour. The remainder of the Inquisition forces were working night and day to make Skyhold habitable. Cassandra wanted to be there with them, not in this little room writing reports. What good was a report, after what they had faced?

A noise from behind her chair startled her. She stood, drawing her sword in readiness.

“Woah!” Sera said, putting her hands up in front of her. “Be careful with that. You’ll have someone’s eye out.”

“I apologise,” Cassandra sighed. She sheathed her blade quickly. “You took me by surprise.”

“Yeah. Remind me not to do that again.” Sera walked around to Cassandra’s desk and sat on top of it, heedless of the papers covering the surface.

Cassandra found she lacked the energy to protest. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked, sinking back into her chair.

“No. Other way around, sort of. Got something for you.” Sera reached into a pocket and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. She handed it to Cassandra.

The Seeker took it from her, frowning with confusion. She unwrapped the layers of hessian carefully, and drew in a quick breath when she saw what was inside. Andraste’s flame, wrought in bronze and tarnished with age. “Where did you find this?”

“Chantry, back in Haven. You dropped it while we were making a run for it. Thought you might want it back.”

Cassandra found herself lost for words. She turned the symbol over in her hands, examining it for familiar scuffs and scratches. It was hers. The same votive symbol she had carried with her since childhood.

Eventually she found her tongue. “I had thought this lost.”

“I wanted to give it back sooner,” Sera said. “But you and the Herald and everyone else were too busy yelling at each other. Over each other.” She shrugged, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Didn’t fancy an earful of it.”

Cassandra stared at her blankly for a moment, then looked back to the bronze symbol in her cupped hands. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you?” Sera grinned. “Might be a start.”

“Of course. Thank you, Sera.”

“It’s alright. Things are important, aren’t they. Home when home’s not a place.”

Cassandra looked up at her. Sera’s eyes had gone distant in the candlelight. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” she said. “When homes are buildings things go wrong. People kick you out, or you’re not welcome any more, or a friggin’ archdemon smashes it up.” Sera picked up a piece of paper from Cassandra’s desk and began to shred it nimbly between her fingers. “Things you can keep. Things you can take with you. Make a home anywhere.”

“I… actually know what you mean,” Cassandra spoke quietly. “Haven was disastrous. This place is more defensible, but…”

“But when you’ve had your door kicked in by a dragon nowhere feels safe,” Sera finished. “Don’t worry, I get it. Can’t sleep since. Keep seeing its face.” She shuddered. “Ugly.”

Cassandra looked between Andraste’s symbol and the woman sitting on her desk. She had been sceptical when the Herald had brought the archer back to Haven - concerned, even - and had never given her much thought. There was something flippant about her, a lack of gravity that made Cassandra uncomfortable. Yet she had returned her symbol to her, and had put into words the fear which she herself could not articulate. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her judgement. It would not have been the first time.

“How did you know?” Cassandra asked. “That this was important to me, I mean?”

“You play with it,” Sera said quietly. “When things are bad. When you think no one’s looking. You sit in the Chantry and you take it out. I’ve seen you do it, loads of times.”

Cassandra was taken aback. Now that Sera had said it, it seemed obvious. She held the symbol for comfort, so often that she had stopped noticing it. “You’ve been watching me?” The words came out harder than she had intended, and she cringed inwardly at her own lack of tact.

Sera let out a short, irritated sigh. “I don’t get you,” she said, tearing at the paper in her hands with more fervour. “You’re what - a princess or something? That’s what Josephine said, right? That’s nobler than noble. But you don’t act like it. You get down in the dirt with the rest of us and you help people. You don’t have to do it. So why do you?”

“I would argue that I do have to,” Cassandra said. “‘Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice.’ Andraste’s words. She fought for her people when they needed her. It is my responsibility to do the same.”

Sera looked at her, eyes wide and unblinking. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s it, isn’t it? I didn’t know there were words. Proper words for it. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell the Herald this whole time.” She laughed suddenly. “You’d make a good Jenny, if you relaxed a bit.”

Cassandra couldn’t help but crack a smile at that. “I think I might be a little too… conspicuous for your line of work.”

“Mmm. True,” Sera nodded. “You do stand out, don’t you? All silver and muscle and righteous.”

“Oh.” Cassandra felt herself flush.

“Anyway.” Sera let a hundred pieces of paper fall to the ground like snow and, stretching, hopped gracefully off the desk. “You’ve probably got big important Inquisition business to do, right? I won’t hang about.”

She began to walk away, but Cassandra reached out and took hold of her hand. Sera looked down at it, puzzled.

“Sera,” Cassandra said. “Thank you. Sincerely.”

“‘Sincerely’,” Sera repeated, grinning. “Dead formal, aren’t you?” She squeezed the Seeker’s hand warmly in her own, then let it go. “It’s no bother, yeah? Don’t work yourself too hard.”

She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Cassandra turned back to her reports. She scanned over a few columns of numbers, but could not bring herself to focus on them. Instead her eyes fell on the scraps of paper scattered across the wooden floor. Without thinking, her hand went to the bronze symbol in her lap. Just for a moment, she smiled to herself.

[adolin]

That got me thinking.... Realistically..... The Reverend Parents would be killed off instantly though for a) keeping Gideon in indentured servitude (like I know people like to hate on John, and they are correct even, but like.... nah), b) for the deaths of all the 9th kids....

I bet the Reverend Parents would have tried to kill Gideon again to hide their crimes

Honestly, I think that's very likely.

Fun fact, I did actually write a G/H fic where the premise is that Gideon was found by John when she was a child on the Ninth, and the Reverend Parents were executed as a result. However it's a blink n you'll miss it backstory for the actual fic, which is arranged marriage consummation between Harrow and Price Kiri and it's like 97% filth. HOWEVER I like to overthink the space geopolitics implications of my porn so I've definitely thought about it a lot, especially how Harrow would feel about everything.

The idea of the Reverend Parents trying to kill tiny Gideon to hide their crimes is fascinating, if you don't mind I'm adding that to my fic ideas inspo!

(Also sorry for cutting your ask in two parts, the second part was SO juicy but it's 2AM here and I don't have the brainpower for it. TOMORROW 👀)

[adolin]

fanfic bingo for after me, the flood and with sincere fervour :3

listen. I loved writing these fics SO MUCh!! they're some of my favourite things I've ever posted THANK YOU for the enabling <33

with sincere fervour: honestly not many squares here. this was 80% horny brain. the remaining 20% was "what if John DID find lil Gideon on the Ninth and she went away and grew up to be MEAN and HOT" so it truly all goes back to horny brain and angst.

(Gideon/Harrow, arranged marriage consummation + filthy altar sex + Prince Kiriona, 8k, rated E)

after me the flood: I was POSSESSED writing this fic. What an experience. I just wanted creepiness and the God Squad. "I was joking with my friend and it happened" is. of course. the astral plane cocksleeve <33

(post HtN, Ianthe/Augustine, Ianthe & John, ft. Death! Dramatic betrayals! Metaphorical and literal hauntings! Inter-dimensional makeout sessions!)