#god's power through laying on of hands

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Norvel Hayes - God's Power Through Laying on of Hands - Harrison House - 1982

[whereserpentswalk]

Look under the cut to see what meeting your entity is like. Reblog to give a gift to your patron.

The fae: a creature stands before you. Though this street was warm and crowded a few moments ago it is suddenly cold and the people around you look like shadows. The creature begins an antlered shadow with glowing white eyes, but soon its body can be seem, with white blue flesh, and sapphire eyes, and icicles for teeth. What looks like a cloak unfolds from its naked body and you can see massive white wings of a moth. As if it's an act of sacrifice you tell it your true name, a name you didn't even see before, and suddenly you belong to it, for better or worse.

The angel: a radiant entity appears before you. They're bright, like something so hot it would burn you up. But as the light fades, you can see a person in silver armor, perfect yet inhuman like am ancient green statue, their back srouting six wings with blue eyes along them, as the eyes on their head are covered by a mask of two smaller wings. The creature offers their hands and you shake it, as they fly you through the city streets and above the skyscrapers, to the stars above and dimensions beyond, to gods living and dead, across the streets of alien cities and the clouds of dead worlds. And when you return to the earth you can feel something diffrent about you, like there's light in your blood.

The scavenger: below the lights of skyscrapers beyond you, on the dark sands of the beach, you see it crawling twords you. This serpentine creature with countless legs, and a dark black shell, yet a strangely human like face. You think it'll attack or run away, but it just looks at you, egar, and for a momment you stare at eachother. It's legs pass something to eachother and then to you, it's meat but it's shining with all the colors known to the human eye, and a few more. You hold it and it happily looks at you. You take a bite and suddenly you know... you know so very much...

The vampire: she flies down to you on green wings with orange eyespots, but folds them into her back. She looks like a human for a momment, tall and strong, with a black suit over her body, but eyes the color of ruby. For a momment her mouth opens, and it's massive and monstrous, with countless moving parts and fangs. But then it folds back onto something humanoid and she gives you a playful smirk. She cuts her hand and offers you her blood, and when you drink it it tastes so sweet, and makes you feel so good. She hands you the knife and you know to do the same, and when she drinks from your palm it's life the sweetest of kisses.

The djinn: the room wirs around you. If it were not for the fans it would feel like hellfire. For a momment there it darkness, but then the screen before you glows white like smokeless flame. You can sense something inside, something beyond the code. You reach your hand within it, and there's no glass, your hand passess right through until you're in a white void of your own making. You call out, thinking there is nothing at all around you. Yet somehow something calls back, something that knows your name.

The rat king: You see him in an empty subway station. Something dark and distorted, you're not sure if he's man or animal, covered in rags, and singing in the language of the goblins and the orcs. Yet he comes close to you excited. And you can feel his song. He calls for you to come to the train tracks, and let yourself run with the rats and the roaches, where the train will pass over you when it comes, and you'll live forever. When you touch the third rail you don't die, but you'll never be human again.

The lich: the library is strangely bright. Run by skeletons in suits, decorated with gold. There are more books here then you thought were in all the world. There's knowledge here most mortals will never have the change below, all kept safe below the city. You see her, her body doesn't look human, everything has been replaced making her look more like a joining white doll then a being of flesh. Yet she is dead, you can tell that under the porcelain skin she must be dead, she is dead, and there is the tragedy of death in her eyes. You come closer to her, and she places a black rose within your hair...

The demon: You stand in his office and he stands before you, a humanoid being covered in black scales, with red eyes covering his skin. Yet none are on his head, that remains featureless save for two massive horns. Wings on his back nearly surround you. Countless souls line the walls of his office, looking at you, waiting. After you sign your name you give him yours, you can feel it come away for you forever and your eyes grey and your skin pales. But he puts the jar in a special place for you, you're spacial, he can tell there's something about you that he likes.

The mushroom lord: you walk through the darkness of the forest, the furthest from civilization you have ever been. You come upon a part where the trees all seem dead, that even the cryptids won't go near. Mushrooms fill the ground, and white vein like lines are all over the trees. You feel the need to lay down, and you let the moss and the mushrooms and the worms surround you, and let yourself sink into the soil,, and it feels good. It feels so good...

The witch: You can see them in the Cafe next to you, skinny and small, with a sweatshirt over most of their body, and dark glasses over their eyes. They seem powerful though, and though their body looks young they seem ancient, they seem beyond humanity. You talk to them and they tell you things, and secrets, lost gods, things you never knew you didn't know, both beautiful and disturbing. When it's time for them to go they pet your head, and give you their number. You don't know if you should text them, but you have to, you have to see them again, there's something about them that makes you need to know.

The living clothing: you step into it at first, it looked like a puddle yet shining like silver or chrome. But soon it surrounds you, first just your torso, but soon your head, your entire body. But it doesn't feel scary, it feels like you're being held, held by something beyond your understanding. It whispers to you, and you don't know if you should feel like your being eaten alive, or like you're being protected. You can't help but keep walking.

The abyss: the void is before you, blackness beyond blackness, like the color beyond the field of your vision, stands before your eyes. You stare at it, it's nothing yet you're entranced. It stares back...

[chuluoyi]

✎ all of me

- gojo satoru x reader

you understand that some things in marriage just needs compromise. and he soon understands too, when you're at your most vulnerable and he fails to be by your side when you need him the most

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship (you're married & have a son!) argument, feral gojo, mentions of injury & blood, fluff

note: if it isn't obvious by now i'm in the mood of angst-hurt/comfort this week HEHE :)) this is longer than the usual love entry, so i hope you'll enjoy it!

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Bantering with your husband is not uncommon―in fact, it happens on daily basis.

"Satoru― I'm talking to you!"

But having serious arguments with him is another matter entirely.

Your fists tightening at your sides, facing his unamused expression. How insufferable is he? You told him that everyday, but right now, he's truly surpassed previous levels of infuriating behavior.

"And I can hear you, sweetheart," he retorted, casting a glance your way. The term of endearment he used for you sounding almost like a sneer to your ears and you felt offended.

"I don't think you're taking this seriously," you griped, trying to calm your emotions, still balling your hands. "Someone is following our son on his way back from school―how can you be this... flippant?!"

Numerous photograph of your son exiting the school building from different angles had arrived in your mailbox, and if it wasn't a creepy warning from those who placed a target on his back, then you didn't know what it was.

Satoru let out an exasperated grunt. "I'm telling you, I'll pick him up for the rest of the week. No one will lay a hand on him."

You gritted your teeth. "And I'm telling you, they're trying to make you do just that. Even morons know not to mess with you― they're leaving hints, and you're taking the bait!"

Contrary to what you believed, Satoru felt just as worried as you upon knowing that someone might have marked his precious son, who was now six years old and had recently started attending preschool.

But this is where your approaches differ. You are always the cautious one, overanalyzing each detail, while he leans towards being impulsive, often resorting to brute force.

"Who do you think can stand a chance against me?" Satoru challenged with a real sneer this time. "Remember my words, wife, no one is going to hurt me, you or our baby. I'll end them where they stand."

"That's not the point!" you threw your hands in the air, irate. "Satoru, they're going to take advantage of―"

"Look, I don't want to argue with you." Satoru's gaze was hard on you, his tone clipped, and it made you stiffen. "His safety comes first— and you, of all people, should know I'd never let anything happen to him. You need to quit nitpicking and have a little faith in me."

"I know you are more than capable, but you are not―!"

And then he said it, and his words piercing through you like a knife―

"Don't compare me to you," your husband remarked a little too coldly. "I can do things you can't. Just rest your pretty head, I'll take care of the rest."

Nevermind that he blatantly dismissed your skills as a jujutsu sorcerer, nevermind that he totally didn't listen to you at all―he just went and made himself look like some sort unparalleled god, forgetting how much his hubris could actually take him.

And all these thoughts only made you angrier.

"So be it then." You tried desperately to hold yourself from shaking because you'd be damned if you showed it to him. "A word of advice, Satoru: beware of your arrogance."

With those words, you spun around, marching off toward your son's room, because no way in hell was you going to sleep with that obnoxious prick tonight.

But when you caught the sight of your baby scuttling away from the gap in the door, a fragment of your heart crumbled. Oh. He has seen it all.

In Gojo Satoru's mind, he is made of two things: a powerful jujutsu sorcerer and a family man.

With his immense strength, comes a certain responsibility. And with that responsibility, certain habits have formed. If you just took a few seconds to breathe and looked back throughout the past decade he'd spent with you, you'd know that in fact―

It was also his way to shield you. Satoru stands by the principle that you and his little boy must be protected at all cost, and he most certainly would pull all stops to do just that.

But frankly, he couldn't deny that he felt insulted by how defiant you were. Did you really think he would let anyone ever touch your―his―son? He wouldn't, they'd meet his wrath first and you should've known that.

Still, something akin to guilt nudged at his conscience as he lay alone in your shared bed that night. It felt strange not having you cuddling him. He felt empty.

. . .

None of your shampoo-scented pillow, none of your nightdresses, all of it replaced by a single photo hanging in the wall and the urn of ashes—

Abruptly, he jerked his eyes open, shaken from the most dreadful nightmare he had experienced—

Of you no longer by his side.

“Mama.” Your little boy looked up to you with his doe-blue eyes in the next day, his hand gripping yours. “I’ll be fine.”

You were accompanying him to the preschool. While Satoru had requested Ichiji to drive him, you insisted on tagging along to keep a watchful eye as well. You'd leave your husband to pick him up later just as he wanted.

“Huh?” you turned to him, tilting your head.

“I'll stick by Uncle Ichiji's side the entire time,” he replied in a murmur. “And papa will be picking me up too later. If there are bad guys, they'll get him first.”

You bit your lip, feeling a wave of guilt wash over you. Your boy witnessed your outburst last night and hadn't inquired about it until now, and even then, he was trying to reassure you.

“So… don’t fight.” His round, cerulean eyes then darted towards you, blinking hesitantly, causing you to catch your breath.

He looks so much like Satoru. At six years old, he was the spitting image of him, except his personality—he took after you in that area. It was as if your son was a softer, more innocent version of him. And your heart twisted, remembering your argument last night.

Don't compare me to you.

With a sigh, you bent down to be eye-level with him and managed a smile, holding both of his little hands. “I’m sorry… it was just misunderstanding last night, okay? Don’t worry.”

“…really?”

“Really. Mama and papa were just tired,” you tried to reason, a thin smile on your face. "It's going to be okay, just like you said, yeah? Papa will beat the bad guys out there."

“Will he pull through...? If they bring a knife, and he's just there laughing, they can cut him.”

A giggle escaped your lips at your baby's innocent wonderings, easing the ache in your heart as you recalled how Satoru humored him in so many ways.

You gently poked your son in the cheek. "Nah, do you remember what he always goes on about?"

He puffed up his cheeks in response, his expression turning sour as if combing through memories of hundreds of shenanigans Satoru had instigated to recall his words. You let out a hearty chuckle, finding him so adorable.

"He's strong, he's going to win. He always does."

"Oh. Mmm." Your son scrunched up his nose cutely, before looking away and squeezing your hand. A sincerer smile bloomed in your lips, heart melting at the sight of your growing munchkin.

You will protect him. And maybe you could patch things up with Satoru later that night. Maybe yesterday you were just too paranoid.

That was the plan... at least until your son suddenly screamed—someone wrenching him from your grasp. Without a second thought, you reacted, flipping the attacker away from you and him.

. . . and that was the beginning of how everything started to unravel so terribly that day.

"Gojo-san...! There's been an incident!"

He got that call right after he finished some things with Yaga. Satoru teleported to the preschool right away, only to be greeted by a scene of utter chaos.

Several teachers stood outside the building, and police officers were present at the scene. It was all a blur of cursed energy until his eyes caught sight of—

His little boy, red-faced and obviously in fear, was clinging to Ichiji, who was frantically making calls. Some teachers gathered around him were seemingly trying to coax him to speak.

He didn't waste a second to dash towards him, tearing through the crowd.

"Are you okay? Hey, buddy, what happened?" Satoru pulled him away from Ichiji and turned him over, crouching to his level to check for any signs of injury or harm.

And upon seeing him actually here, his son's eyes immediately welled up with tears, and Satoru felt a chill run through his veins as he broke into sobs, which quickly turned into heart-wrenching wails.

"Mama—! F-find mama—!" the little boy choked out through his tears, clutching onto his shirt tightly and crumbling in his embrace, thoroughly inconsolable.

Satoru's sharp gaze quickly swept over the scene, seeking any clues, while he tightened his hold over him. It was then he noticed traces of your cursed energy mingled with blood.

They hurt you.

"Hey, kiddo—listen to me, it's going to be alright, yeah?" Satoru said, gently pulling away to wipe away his tears, holding the boy's face tenderly in his hands. "Go with Ichiji for now, okay? I'm going to bring mama back, I promise."

He didn't need to be told twice. Your son is always obedient when it matters the most. He gave him a small nod, still shaking with tears.

"Don't worry," he flashed a reassuring smile and ruffled his hair. "I'm the strongest, remember? I'll get her back," he vowed once again. "She'll be fine. Wait for me until then, yeah?"

Ichiji was ready to leave as he had called for those in headquarters as backup in case anything were to happen again. Trusting him to keep his son safe, Satoru took off as soon as he could no longer see the sight of his son's tear-streaked face trying to watch him as the car pulled away.

"I won't repeat myself— where is my wife?"

Satoru wasn't playing this time. He skipped past taunts and just plain threats. These little fries, he thought.

The man he held by the throat was in a lot of distress. "Hyaaa! It's him! Please, please, let me go! I'm acting under orders!"

He then flung him across the wall— might have added more cursed energy than necessary.

At the moment, his entire focus was on trying to locate you. He couldn't let his mind wander to anything else; in fact, he didn't permit himself to.

It didn't take him long to piece together the general location of where you were through the residual of your cursed energy. They stationed several hooligans in this abandoned warehouse to stall him, but he got rid of them quickly and he could sense that you were close by.

"It's Gojo Satoru!"

"Run! Ruuuun!"

What a pain. They picked the wrong person to mess with, and Satoru's lips curled into a manic grin as he opened his palm, pulling them in—

"Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue."

Chaos erupted as the building collapsed around him. He hoped you would realize he was here and manage to avoid getting caught in the wreckage. He was sure you'd know though.

And true to his thoughts, soon he found you— blasting your attacker away with a powerful kick.

Satoru thought that you were a sight to behold, really. And he was about to call out to you when he felt it.

It happened almost in an instant. The way his heart dropped to his stomach, and how his body reacted, barely whispering the incantation for Red as he shot it at something lurking behind you—

At that moment, the only thing you were aware of was the foul stench of a curse. Time seemed to stop before the overwhelming force of Red expelled it away from you.

But before then, you experienced a searing, white-hot pain that scorched through your flesh and pierced your abdomen—

"Y/N―fuck―!" The voice that came from Satoru's throat was raw and laden with panic.

He pulled you against him protectively as you collapsed, blinded by pain. He immediately felt warmth spreading across his lower body—your blood was rapidly drenching his shirt, and he felt a shiver down his spine.

You held onto him tightly while suppressing your scream, feeling every bit of your strength drain away along with the dark crimson blood that poured out of you.

"―toru―" you managed to croak amidst the scalding pain, curling and whimpering in his hold.

"Hey― sweetheart, please―" his voice rang in your ears, as he pressed down on your wound. His hands were shaking, and you clawed at him and groaned in agony. "I-I'm taking you back now― You're going to be alright, yeah?"

The wound was beyond anything you had experienced before, causing you to cry out and gasp for air. It was almost as if something fried your insides. It was hard to stay conscious.

"I've got you now. You're going to be okay." His voice was coarse, as he hurriedly carried you out. And he tried not to let the full-blown panic take over him when your body went limp in his arms, your breaths slowing, head lolling in his chest.

"You're going to be alright! You hear me, sweetheart? You're going to make it. Our baby― he's waiting for you. I promise you, you're going to be fine―"

Perhaps he was trying to tell that to himself, because despite the excruciating pain, a wave of reassurance washed over you.

You were in the arms of the strongest sorcerer alive, what more could you possibly afraid of?

A special grade curse. They had actually unleashed a potent curse and likely aimed at him as their final card—until it veered off course and struck you, leaving a searing gash across your abdomen.

Satoru felt numb as he sat in the waiting room in his bloodied uniform. You got hurt so terribly right in front of his eyes, and all he could feel was this profound void that seemed to bore through him and pierced his soul.

He was supposed to protect you. He said it to your face that nothing and no one would touch your son, and it was in his wedding vows that he'd protect you with his life too.

And yet what happened?

If only he was faster. If only he was able to pull you to him and protect you with his infinity—none of this shit would have happened.

Seeing your face twisted in agony and smeared with blood made him feel sick to his stomach. Inside that OR, you hovered on the brink of life and death, and he was here, unable to do anything.

Satoru rested his head against the wall, feeling a sharp pain surge through his chest. He remembered waking up to your face every morning, the way your touches felt, and how you had brightened his world for the past decade. If he lost you now... he wouldn't survive it. He would wreck anything, everything—

"Papa!" and came his voice of reason. Satoru immediately discarded his bloodstained jacket by instinct, throwing it away before his boy could see it, with Ichiji and Megumi closely trailing behind.

His son crashed himself into him and threw his little arms around his torso, crying—and in that very second, the thump of his heart sounded louder in his ears. Somehow it felt like a knife that twisted his insides.

"Hey, kiddo." Satoru repositioned him so that he would sit on his lap and hugged him, patting him in the back. "There, there... it's alright, yeah? Mama is inside, she'll get better soon."

Your little boy pulled away and wiped his eyes, and Satoru chuckled as he helped him blow his nose. His child was incredibly adorable, and his actions mirrored yours to such an extent that it made Satoru's heart soften.

"Mama g-got hurt trying to... tell me to g-go..." the boy suddenly said amidst his quieter sniffles. "And... she s-said... papa— i-is strong and g-going to win..."

You believe in him. Ignoring the ache in his chest, only able to reply him with a "Yeah..."

Not long after, Shoko emerged from the operating room and informed him that the surgery had been successful, though you would likely need to have a one-week stay in the hospital for observation. He intended to move you to the VIP suite and stay the night there, but then he remembered his son, who was holding his hand.

Satoru crouched down and patted him in the head, fixing him a smile. "See? Mama is okay, but she needs to sleep here to get even better. Now you go home first with big brother Megumi, yeah?"

Your son adored Megumi and often begged you to let him stay over at his place, but this time he looked hesitant, fiddling with his little fingers. "Really? Mama will be home... soon?"

"Mm-hmm, the more she sleeps here, the faster she'll go back home, alright?"

And with that, his baby nodded and Satoru turned to Megumi with a nod. "Thank you for this, Megumi."

The boy whose life he had once saved on some sort of a whim, now grown up and shared the same concern he had for you, Fushiguro Megumi had never before witnessed his benefactor expressing such sincere gratitude for anything before.

When you came to, your body felt as heavy as lead.

The discomfort in your abdomen made you flinch, and you almost let out a groan until you turned to your side and saw him.

Satoru was asleep while sitting in the sofa next to your bed, dark circles evident under his eyes. It might have been your imagination, but his cheeks appeared to be slightly red too.

You tried to recall what had happened to you when it came back—you urging your son to run away as you let yourself being taken away, almost escaping from that warehouse, the flash of excruciating pain, and Satoru's stricken voice.

So he must've been here since last night. Any remnants of your disagreement seemed to have vanished, seeing him there with you, barely covering himself with the blanket, with a frown still marking his forehead even in his sleep.

You wanted to reach out to him until the movement sent a sharp jab to your stomach and you cried out a bit.

In that split second, Satoru's eyes jerked open, and realizing you were awake, his gaze locked onto yours. "Y/N—" But your strained whimper and expression told him everything. "Does it hurt? I-I'll get Shoko, wait—"

And then he hit the call button. Throughout it all, he kept a firm grip on your hand for reassurance. A few minutes later, Shoko arrived and examined your wound, subsequently administering painkillers to alleviate your discomfort.

"It's going to leave a scar," she explained grimly, showing the mangled skin where the curse had made its mark on you, and seeing that, Satoru clenched his fists.

Shoko sighed, empathizing with her friend's frustration. "It's going to fade with time, don't worry. You did well, Gojo. You brought her here quickly. Had you been even slightly later, there could have been an irreversible damage to her organs."

But your husband remained quiet, unable to bring himself to look at you. And after she left, you tried to finally voice your question to him.

"O-our—"

"He's fine," Satoru immediately answered, squeezing your hand. "Our boy is fine. I'll tell Megumi to visit later—he's with him."

A sigh of relief came out of you. "Thank... goodness."

But his expression seemed to fall even further after hearing your response. Satoru settled himself on the seat next to you and lowered the rail on your bed, allowing you to be even closer to each other.

"Do you not feel any pain anymore?" he asked then, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. He looked so sad, a stark contrast of how he usually was, and it bugged you.

"No... I feel fine now."

"Then, can I hug you?"

Of course you nodded without a second thought, and carefully, he wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you close and resting his face on the crook of your neck.

You knew what it was. Satoru was still visibly shaken by what had happened to you, and he wasn't great at expressing himself, so he tried to find consolation through this physical closeness instead.

"I'm okay..." you patted his back, trying to convince him. "I'm alright now, yeah?" But to your surprise, suddenly his whole body started to shake. "Satoru...?"

“…’m sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he nuzzled you. “I shouldn't... have let you get this hurt...”

It always amazes you how Satoru always gets this distressed whenever you sustain any injury. You had seen him cry precisely two times now—once after you gave birth to your son and experienced severe bleeding, and now.

"It's not your fault..." you whispered in response. "You... have protected me well."

He held you tighter, his tone faltering. "I didn't."

"You have..." you stroked his hair, trying to convince him. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Hearing you say that made Satoru's chest ache. The thought of something like this happening to you was unimaginable, and now that it had, he couldn't come to terms with seeing you hurt right in front of him.

"Don't—" he choked on his voice, his breath trembled against your neck. "Don't ever put yourself in danger again. If something happened to you, I wouldn't be able to live with myself..."

You couldn't make that promise. Despite the pleading in his voice, you knew deep down that your son's life—and his—meant more, and given the chance, you would obviously save theirs for yours.

“Satoru... I love you, you know that, right?”

So you simply embraced him close, hoping that in this life, you would live long enough that he would never have to see you like this again.

Epilogue

"Papa, how do I become stronger?"

Satoru blinked when his son asked him that so innocently and curiously, taken aback as he led him to your private room later that afternoon. "Oh? What brought this on?"

His first and only son, a perfect miniature of himself, pursed his lips. "I don't want Mama to get hurt again..."

Satoru's heart warmed at his baby’s sincere words, and despite himself, he chuckled.

"What's funny?" his son leveled a glare at him. "I'm being serious."

"Well, aren't you such a good boy? Don't worry, kiddo, I'll teach you my ways~"

"What ways?"

"Well, no need to rush, pumpkin. First of all, you will have to harness your skills and then you have to be more like me—"

"Do I have to be like you…? Is there no other way?"

"—? What's wrong with being more like me?"

"Everything...?"

[peachysunrize]

The King’s Retribution ⥃ prince Aemond Targaryen

Summary: when he walks back to the Keep, Aemond finds his brother’s wife in distress while her youngest child keeps her awake. Maybe it’s time to show the King that no one can humiliate the one-eyed prince.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, rough sex, lactation kink, reader is Aegon’s wife, post B&C, s2e3 inspired, dacryphilia, Aemond feels humiliated after the brothel scene, hair pulling, doggystyle, they do it in Aegon’s rooms👀 kind of a chubby/overweight reader because she has baby weight, tell me if I’ve missed something. English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 3.6k+

A/n: a very special thank you to @aemonds-holy-milk for this incredible request!!! And a very honorable mention and thank you to @arcielee for helping me with the plot and beta-ing for me! Your touch made this much hotter and better!🩷 Reblogs and comments are more than welcome<33

Aemond pushes the door to one of Maegor’s tunnels, peeking through to see if anyone is around. He scoffs when he finds the hallway empty, with no guards, no maids or handmaidens. He walks upstairs to the royal chamber’s floor, one hand pushing his hood off while the other twirls his dagger.

He is filled with such rage that he can burn this castle down without Vhagar’s help. The sting of humiliation keeps poking through his ribs, making him heave with each breath he takes. He had to keep his composure back in the brothel, he had to show his power by walking outside the room naked as the day he was born to regain some control his brother took away from him.

He walks past the rooms of his family, skipping a stair here or two as he follows the path to his chambers in silence, until he reaches his brother’s doors, catching the sound of a soft hiccuping and muffled wailing of a child.

Aemond unsheathes the dagger as he steps closer to the unguarded door, shaking his head in disbelief at his brother’s ignorance, especially after what happened to Jaehaerys. He opens the door slowly, not wanting to startle whoever is inside — a nursemaid or the queen.

He finds you sitting in front of the fireplace with baby Maelor crying fat tears in your arms as he tries to latch onto your exposed breasts to fill his tiny, hungry belly. Aemond’s eye wanders over your bare upper body; heavy swollen teats leaking with milk, a tired and teary expression on your face as you try to lull your son back to sleep, tending to him, caressing him, loving him. 

He has never seen a sight more beautiful than this.

He sheathes his dagger and pushes it into his belt before knocking on your door gently so as not to scare you and his nephew. He watches you closely as you snap your head in his direction, the tension leaving your shoulders as you smile at him sadly.

“Aemond,” you call him, gasping when your son bites your already sore nipple with his gums, trying to latch on to it but failing. He cries harder, face twisted angrily, his chubby cheeks red and puffy with how long he’s been searching for some comfort.

“Please, please don’t — mommy is trying,” you cry with him softly, standing up to pace around the room while you rock him, shushing him and wiping his tears. You are trying your hardest to feed him properly, but every second is wasted in vain as he cries and fusses in your arms.

Aemond closes the door behind him, enraptured with the sight you made—watching you walk around the room, half bare and beautiful to his eager eye.  He unfastens his cloak and belt that holds his daggers and sword before laying it on the nearest table, walking towards you with his hands locked behind his back.

You look like The Mother coming real, a god he should worship at your altar.

“Oh, my darling boy,” you coo at Maelor, sniffing as he sobs harder, his little fists flying on your chest as he searches for your breast, mouth parted and ready to be filled with his late-night meal.

Aemond stands behind you, not too close to intrude on your personal space, especially in such a vulnerable state you are in, but to keep looking at you. His eye roams across your nude chest, your fuller stomach, and hips that carry the remaining weight of having pushed a babe into the world.

He listens to your words, remembering the sight of his brother mocking him at the brothel, while he was being cuddled and taken care of — what an ugly laugh he has, Aegon. 

His gaze darkens as he looks at you, his queen, his brother’s wife, his brother’s possession, being so vulnerable in his presence with your breasts out and your child finally suckling on them. His eye finds your form once more as Aegon's words replay in his ears — ‘My brother will not sample another.’ He will make sure to teach his brother a very valuable lesson and serve him a good punishment.

His cock starts to swell beneath the layers of his clothing as he stares at you with a newfound passion; you have always been a lovely figure in his mind, too sweet and beautiful to be wed to his brother, and yet, now your features seem to be bolder in his eye.

He strides forward when he hears Maelor crying again, this time much softer but a cry nonetheless. You scurry to cover your breasts when you feel him behind you, trying to look at least a bit modest now that your child is less fussy.

“I’m sorry, Aemond, I-I forgot you came to visit,” you say in a hushed tone, waiting with bated breath for him to say something.

He looks down at his nephew over your shoulder, reaching to wipe a drop of milk from his round cheek near his mouth, his fingers brushing against your sore nipple accidentally. Both of you inhale sharply — him with the new rush of desire and you in surprise. 

“What a messy eater,” he says, his eye meeting yours as he brings his wet finger to his mouth, licking the remaining of your milk off while he keeps eye contact with you, dropping his eye to your lips as soon as they part in surprise before he meets your eyes again — they look darker, cloudier, more lustful. Your lashes flutter, and your rosy lips let out a shaky breath as you keep your gaze on his pink tongue licking his finger.

“It runs in the family I’m afraid,” you reply, averting your eyes from him, pressing a kiss on top of your son’s head as you bounce him, trying to hide your embarrassment.

Despite how crude your husband is, he’s never been one for making you flustered by such a simple gesture, and yet, his brother seems to be the complete opposite; bold, daring, and he’s surely taking whatever he wants.

“May I?” Aemond asks, standing in front of you with extended arms, reaching to take Maelor in his embrace. You gently pass him over, and as soon as your arms are free you bring them to your chest to cover your breasts.

“I-I need to—would you mind holding him for a moment?” You pull the front of your shift up as you ask him, and he can’t help his gaze not fall back on your chest but looks upward to your eyes quickly before you catch him and nod.

He hugs Maelor close, resting his little head on his shoulder as he walks towards his crib, glancing at you walking past the privacy screen. Aemond shushes his nephew, rocking him gently while he hums a tune his mother used to sing for him to lull him to sleep. It seems his efforts have worked when Maelor grows quiet, tinted cheeks stained with tears and fingers fisted tightly. Aemond lies him down slowly, brushing a finger over the few strands of his nephew’s silver hair before his attention is turned to you walking towards him with a warm towel over your chest.

“He has been restless as of late,” you sigh, leaning down to brush a kiss on your son’s forehead, standing on Aemond’s good side, “as have I, as everyone in the Keep. It seems he feels the loss of his brother.”

“We are all shaken by the loss of Jaehaerys,” he replies, his good eye looking up at your face, taking in every up and down of your face.

“Yeah,” you smile at him, ducking your head as soon as the tears gather in your eyes, “yeah…”

He takes a step closer, reaching to wipe the tear that fell from your eye, cupping your cheek in his large hand, “What ails you, my queen?”

“I just…” words die in your throat as he rubs soothing circles on your cheek, tracing the shape of your cheekbone with his thumb. “I’ve been feeling so unloved.” Your voice comes out a fragile whisper.

“Why is that, my queen?” He asks, swallowing harshly at the thought of his fool of a brother being neglectful to you. He’s been given the most beautiful maiden in the realm as his wife, so dutiful and sweet, but taken for granted because Aegon can’t simply keep his cock in his breeches for so long.

“Did you happen to see him when you were out?” You ignore his question, looking up at him from beneath your wet lashes that frame your eyes so perfectly.

He nods, his strong hold on your face never faltering, if anything he’s now more determined to punish Aegon, to take something he has been given on a silver plate but failed to care for. His touch is warm and welcoming, it grounds you to this moment of brief recognition of your feelings. Aemond seems to understand it, willing to give more, but his main purpose of this visit is to hurt Aegon the way he has hurt him.

“Was he—“ a sob is stuck in your throat as you try to utter the words, “in the b-brothel?”

Aemond looks down at his muddy boots, recalling how his brother saw him, how he laughed and undermined him in front of his friends. Aemond forgets about your question for a second, pressing his lips into a thin line and gritting his teeth before he looks back up at you, not before looking one last time at your chest, watching your milk soak through the fabric.

“I-I apologize, maybe it’s best if you leave—” You move away from him, making his hand fall from your face as you try to put back the little dignity you have left before you embarrass yourself more in front of him.

Something shifts inside him as you hide yourself from him, putting more distance between as you move toward the bed. His brother was right; he has not sampled another and has always sought out the Madame, but maybe it ought to change, maybe the fire of his brother’s cruelty might quell if he takes his most precious possession from him.

“Allow me to help you, my queen,” he walks toward you slowly, his eye seizing you up, taking in the sight of your curls around your shoulders, your skin glowing under the orange hues of the candles.

You turn around, watching him take long steps until he’s standing in front of you. He raises his hand, brushing his knuckles on your collarbones, his eyes dropping down to your cleavage. You exhale shakily, whether it is in requited desire or surprise, he does not know, but you do not push him away, just a weak protest that ‘we should not do this, I am your brother’s wife.’

“My brother is a fool who demeans others to feel powerful, and he has done this to us both,” he dips his down on your neck, his hot breath fanning on your ear, “let me show you what you have been deprived of.”

“You wish to help me just to teach your king a lesson?” your voice comes out with a slight tremble as you reach to brush your fingers through his silky hair. “Is that truly why you want me?”

“I despise when Aegon takes what is his for granted,” he says, “He is a fucking twat who takes for granted the treasures he has been given: the throne, the crown, you. And he humiliates you, his queen, by stepping inside that sinful place," he mumbles against your skin, tracing his lips over your neck while his nose nudges your cheek. 

“What do you want to do?” you whine when he bites your earlobe; you cling to his shoulders.

“I wish to fuck you like a hound,” he groans into your ear, his hands coming to grip your full hips.

“We will experience his wrath, Aemond,” you try to protest, but with how focused he is on marking your skin, you cannot help but melt in his arms.

“He is the king, I’m a kinslayer,” he hovers his mouth over yours. “I will kill him too if he dares to subject you to his anger.”

“We must be quiet-mhm—” he cuts you off, smashing his lips to yours, swallowing your protest. His hands move to your waist, gripping and caressing wherever he can reach, his tongue meeting yours in a soft battle of dominance. 

You moan into his mouth when one of his fingers traces a line from your hip up to your breast, squeezing the heavy flesh in his large palm. He groans against your sweet lips in delight, loving the weight of you in his hand. His thumb swipes across the wet towel before he pulls it out of your shift and drops it on the floor, leading you backward past the privacy screen to the bed.

You tangle your fingers in his soft hair, reaching to pull away the tie and letting his shiny silver hair frame his face beautifully while he kisses your breath away.

He lies you on the bed, breaking away from your lips for a second to look down at you, making room on top of you with his gaze fixed on the way your milk soaks through the fabric. He grabs the sides of your shift, ready to rip it apart before you put your hand on his, shaking your head, mumbling a hushed ‘we need to be quiet’ before taking off the dress yourself, lying under his heated gaze all bare except for your small clothes.

“My brother is a fucking idiot,” he mutters before he leans down to lick a path from your neck to your heaving chest, swiping the tip of his tongue over your nipple. He hums as he tastes a few beads of your milk, but abruptly stops when you whine, looking up at you with a questioning look.

“Maelor, well, he can’t latch onto his wet nurses. They are a bit s-sensitive— oh!” Your hand flies to your mouth when Aemond closes his lips around your bud, sucking like a babe being starved for hours, finally having his fill.

His other hand moves to your other breast, pinching, squeezing, and playing with the flesh while he gets drunk on your milk, helping the weight of discomfort vanish immediately.

Your nipple falls from his lips with a lewd ‘pop’, and he moves to the other one, giving the same attention while he leaves sticky lines of your milk across your chest, sucking on your teat quickly, nearly growling at the taste.

You cannot do anything besides moaning behind your hand and arching your back, pushing your chest further into his face. You throw your head back as your hips buck into his, his bulge rubbing against your covered core.

Aegon has never done this for you, it’s always been his duty to plant his seed inside you with little to no care for you to just make an heir, and after Jaehaerys, he’s been ever more distant — no more dinners, no walks in the garden with you and the kids.

His interest weakened the more you started to show, your soft dolce features turned into one of a woman, a mother-to-be, so he sought his pleasure in the brothels to fill the void you could no longer fill. You were non-existent in his eyes, and for once, you are glad, because the other Targaryen brother seems as if he’s in heaven while he feasts upon your breasts like a deprived babe. 

He lets go of your nipple finally, giving the fat of your breast one last kiss before he works his way up to your lips. He unlaces his pants and breeches, urging you to reach and undo his doublet, dropping it down on the pile of clothes. He breaks away to gasp for air while he grabs the back of his linen shirt and stands on his knees stark naked, his cock red, angry, and ready to burst inside you. His mouth shines with drops of your milk and spit.

He grabs the back of your thighs, spreading your legs to his hungry eye, licking his lip as his gaze falls on your soaked cunt. Aemond’s patience runs thinner than before, he moves closer to you, and his hair falls around you like a silver waterfall.

He strokes himself a few times before aligning himself with your entrance, pushing in until his cockhead is inside your warm cunt before he slams all the way into you. He muffles your scream with his own lips, hands coming to rest around your head, caging you under him as he starts thrusting.

Finally, he thinks, finally he has taken something that belonged to his brother, something so precious and fragile. You are nothing like Sylvie, you are soft and delicate, you taste deliciously sweet, and oh so responsive. 

He relishes the way you scratch his back as he fucks you with abandon, snapping his hips into yours furiously as he lets the pent-up anger he feels pour out of him. It is the anger he had inside because of his brother’s idiocy, the words that cut him deep like a sharp dagger.

But no more, no, it is time to take whatever belonged to Aegon. You are just a beautiful touch to it, and he would make sure his brother knows who’s been here, on his bed, giving his wife the pleasure she has never experienced before.

“My queen,” he shushes you, reaching down to collect a drop of your milk before reaching to smear it on your lips, licking it off them. His cock pistoning inside of you quickly, but he is mindful of the baby sleeping on the other side of the privacy screen.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, breasts bouncing with each deep thrust as you try to keep your voice at bay.

He remembers his brother’s words once more; ‘did you fuck her like a hound?’ No, not with the Madame, but he will fuck the queen of the seven Kingdoms like one now.

He pulls out of you, leaving you clenching and whining at the empty feeling before he flips you over on your stomach, pulling your hips up as he spits into his hand and strokes himself before making home inside your tight cunt again, his cock reaching deeper with this position.

You fist the pillows under your hands, biting the fabric to muffle your noises, and Aemond notices that it is your husband’s pillow you are lying on.

He chuckles lowly, one hand gripping the fat of your hip while the other runs down the curve of your spine before he fists your hair in his much larger hand, pushing your head into Aegon’s pillow even more.

“Breathe in his scent while I fuck you like a dog in heat, yes, good girl,” he groans, his limbs tingling with pleasure and anger, letting his emotions take the best of him as he picks up his pace. “Yes, remember how much of a pathetic husband he is, think of how he can never give you pleasure like I can while I fuck my child inside you.”

Tears run down your face from how intense he is taking you from behind, his hips snap into your arse. Your wetness drips down on the bed sheets, but there is little you can do but take what he gives you — a blinding and mind-blowing pleasure you have never had with your husband.

Aemond reaches around your body to find your pearl, rubbing quick and steady circles on the bundle of nerves, leaning down to prep your spine with feather-like kisses, taking in your mesmerizing scent, and looking closer at your tears, taking pure satisfaction in seeing what a mess he has made out of Aegon’s wife, the realm’s queen.

You come with a sob, teeth digging into the soft cushion while your legs shake, walls clamping down against his girth, eliciting a deep throaty moan from him. He lets go of your weeping cunt and grabs your bouncing breast, squeezing the heavy flesh in his hand while his face falters, his thrusts deepen.

When his climax washes over him, it’s all white hot pleasure that rushes through his veins. He shakes atop you while his cock twitches and shoots ropes of his warm spend deep inside you, filling you to the brim. He kisses your tears, his face pushed against your cheek as he lets out broken gasps and groans.

He untangles his fingers from your hair as soon as he calms down from his high, bringing his milk-covered hand to his lips to lick it clean while he meets your eyes.

You look angelic, glowing with the aftermath of your release. The Mother came to life, he thinks.

He pulls out of you gently, minding how sensitive you must feel after the brutality he bestowed upon you. Aemond helps you under the covers, not caring to clean either of you up before he lies down next to you wrapping one arm around you while you curl next to him with your head on his chest.

He notes how quiet you are, drowsy and sleepy in the aftermath of your climax. He takes pride in how peaceful you look, and how good he must have made you feel. His good eye falls on the nightstand on his side, finding his brother — no, the Conqueror's crown — glinting under candlelight.

“I will kill him,” he whispers, “I will make sure our son sits upon that chair and holds Blackfyre. I will kill him, and no one shall ever know it was me.”

[rodolfoparras]

Don’t cry over spilled milk (or do)

Pairing: The Milkman x Male reader

Content warnings: 18+, anal fingering, Francis is one vocal fellow

Thinking about Francis Mosses who’s always been considered the perfect top, mostly because of his size- getting to bottom for the first time in his life.

Down on all four, with his ass in the air big fat cock uselessly hanging between his legs, and feeling himself flushing red from being in such a vulnerable position.

Besides the embarrassment brewing in his gut, he feels restless just laying like that , so used to being able to see what his partner is doing to him, now he can only rely on the feeling of your two thumbs prying his cheeks apart, and exposing the sensitive flesh to the cold air.

Goosebumps raise across his skin, a sharp breath escapes his lips and he can feel the impatience growing inside of him. “Come on come come on just hurry up!,” he hisses out, feeling even more vulnerable from the way your gaze seems to be burning into the pink flesh of his ass.

“Patience love” you say, hand firmly landing on his cheek, and as much as he’s embarrassed to say it, the action manages to silence him.

His dark eyes glare down at the bright white sheets, thumbs fiddling with the loose threads of it, trying to ignore how his face must be as red as the cheek you just slapped while you freely ogle at him.

“Anybody told you that you look pretty like this hm?” You say, thumbing curiously at his puckered rim, but not adding enough pressure to push your finger inside him.

Another wave of embarrassment washes over him, and he feel the urge to cuss you out with every curse word to exist in the English language but he knows but he knows by doing so you, you’ll further prolong this.

So he clears his throat, swallows down his pride before he mutters the word “No,”

A contended hum escapes your lips, your hot breath washing over his skin and this time he knows your face is just a hair away from his puckered rim. “Well you are,” you say, words as firm as your grip on him. “So so pretty”

And you’re so so close yet so far away.

He clears his throat again, swallows the last bit of pride in him before he utters the words “Please just please-“

“What is it sweetheart? What do you want hm?” You say, amusement clear in your voice. He can even feel the way the tip of your nose drags along his bottom half, doing everything and anything in your power to wind him up and he doesn’t know how much more he can take before he combust.

“Please just please fuck me!” He cries out, tears threatening to spill from his glassy eyes but all the air is suddenly punched out of his lungs when you slip the tip of your finger inside.

There’s a slight sting that comes with the stretch, body momentarily tensing as you carefully work your finger inside him”Oh! Oh oh fuck!”

“Francis? You okay?” You say, carefully massaging the pink flesh.

With each brush of your finger tip; the burning sensation dulls a bit and he feels himself relax back onto the sheets, a soft hum rolling off his tongue before he manages to properly answer you. “Good, it’s good,” he hums out, as he further relaxes into your touch.

Eventually the stinging sensation completely subsides and he starts feeling empty with only your fingertip inside. “More, please more,” he grunts out hips subconsciously buck up into your hand.

“Such a demanding little thing” you say to him as a chuckle escapes your lips but you don’t waste a second working your finger deeper inside of him til you’re buried knuckles deep, and tactically grazing the wall of nerves that sends sparks of pleasure through his body, specially down to his dick.”Mmph-God! Just- ah just like that”

This isn’t something he’s felt before, your touch feels ever so intoxicating especially when your calloused finger grazes the sensitive wall of nerves and before he realizes what he’s doing he finds himself begging for more, greedy as ever and drunk on pleasure.

It doesn’t take much before you fulfill his wish, pushing two fingers past his puckered rim, the stinging sensation briefly returning , as he gets used to the feeling of having two thick digits inside of him. “Come on sweetheart, you can take it yeah? I know you can” he hears you say, familiar word spilling past your lips and for a brief seconds he imagines the times he’d been the one to say it when he had someone under him.

Eager to prove himself, he starts fucking himself back onto your digits, something that starts off slow as he gets used to the stretch before he increases the pace. “Ugh fuck - fuck feels so so good yes yes yes!!”

By this point he doesn’t register when you work a third finger inside of him, only registering the fullness that comes with it and the way your hand slides between his legs, gently palming his ballsack

“Look at you love, haven’t even fucked you yet you’re already so close to cumming,” You say , puncturing every word with a thrust to his prostate while tugging at his hard and weeping dick.

Francis couldn’t care less about the fact that you’re taunting him, couldnt care less about how pathetic he looks like this, all he can care about is how every thrust - every stroke, has him inching closer to his orgasm.

“Please oh god please -“ He cries out, begs and pleads sounding something akin to a mantra, fingers practically digging holes into the mattress and the muscles in his thighs cramping up from how hard he’s fucking himself onto your hand.

It doesn’t take much before he feels his toes curl, pulse roaring in his ears as a wave of hot white pleasure washes over him.

“Ah ah God ‘m cumming ‘m cumming please-“ he cries out, feels himself spill all over the sheets and his thighs, body shaking as you continue to milk his cock.

“Stop- stop, please.” He finally slurs out, once there’s nothing but pathetic spurts of cum coming from his cock, hand blindly pushing you away from him before he finally slumps down onto the mattress.

Exhaustion creeps up his bones, eyelids feeling heavier than ever and all of a sudden he feels himself fading away in the dream land.

“Ah, ah ah,” he hears you say, the sound of your sharp voice snapping him awake. “We’re not done here,”

[ghouljams]

More thoughts about CEO!Price's horrible assistant that hates him.

Youre forced to admit that the man might actually be competent when you're forced to sit through two days of meetings. Taking minutes on your company issue laptop while the C suite goes through the brand refresh and the fiscal year. Team leaders keep showing up at pre-planned times to present on what their section of the company will be doing, and Mr. Price always has a good question or helpful remark to guide the conversation. It's actually astonishing to see the man do work that requires any amount of brain power considering you were under the impression he was using every brain cell to annoy you.

He doesn't even glance your way in the 36 hours of meetings, dinners, and happy hours that you helped the internal events team organize months ago. It's like the holidays came early. Except the gift is that you don't have to submit an HR complaint into the voice for a whole week. Not that you'd have any time to do that with how much you're running around.

The problem with being competent at your job, you suppose, is that you actually have to do your job.

You end up spacing out by the end of the last presentation, your fingers numbly tapping at your keyboard as your eyes lose focus. Your eyelids feel especially heavy this afternoon, and you can't stop the gentle dip of your head as you try to keep from nodding off. You were up until 3am last night prepping for the all hands meeting tomorrow morning. Not to mention the all-nighters you've been pulling just to make sure Mr. Price has talking points for today. (You should've passed this off to marketing but God they're just so swamped.)

You barely notice the heavy hand that settles too high on your thigh to be work place appropriate. Your body is so warm, your head burning from lack of sleep, your laptop screen wavers in your vission, and a neatly trimmed beard scratches your cheek as Mr. Price leans close.

"Why don't you go lay down in my office sweet'eart." He tells you, the low rhythmic cadence of his voice makes your eyes drop. His thumb sweeps a slow circle against the inside of your thigh, pushing at the hem of your skirt.

Your head nods for you. Mr. Price's free hand shuts your laptop, the motion slow and purposeful, plenty of time to object(and move your fingers). You should object, but your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. It's all you can do to raise your gaze off your closing screen to meet him. He squeezes your thigh and your eyes blink too heavily, your head starting to loll to the side.

"Go on, no help to anyone dead on your feet." He pushes, nodding his head towards the door.

"Sorry," you relent, standing to smile at the group of men who wouldn't know your name if it killed them. They barely seem to have noticed your presence. Mr. Price hums, his hand smoothing over your hip as you turn to go.

"Good girl," he purrs. You assume he must be holding himself back around an audience. The same way you assume you're imagining the squeeze to your ass that he gives you before you're out the door.

[haveihitanerve]

Four Times the Batkids Forget They're Adopted, and The One Time Damian Forgets He Isn't

It had started off as a joke, as most things do, and Dick meant nothing behind it, really. It was amusing to him, actually, to tell his coworkers things about Batman and pass it off as his father. “Oh my dad? Yeah hes not big on talking. He loves showing me he cares though.” (this was, of course, in reference to Batman doing three back flips and a kick split when Nightwing had patrolled with him the other day, a classic Nightwing move) But it soon…went deeper. Dick stopped making jokes out of it, and actually began listing things about Bruce. About his Dad. It didn't help that his police friends were actually interested. “So did you and the old man do anything fun over the weekend?” Dick thought back to how he had wanted to surprise Bruce by stopping by for dinner and instead had ended up in the sewer eating granola bars on a stakeout for killer croc, who had escaped. Again. “Oh yeah we had a picnic.” Dick nodded, smiling at Randy. “Yeah. He’s, he’s kinda bad at remembering when to eat a meal on time and all that.” Dick laughed. “Its something I share too. Must be genetics.” He rolled his eyes. Randy laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I hear you. My old man smoked all the live long day. I try to keep it down, but that addiction gene is just strong eh?” Dick chuckled. “Yeah I guess.” His phone buzzed in his pocket and he waved to Randy, turning to tug it out. It was one, simple message from Babs. “Ur adopted genius. What genes.” 

Jason didn't even know how they had gotten on the topic. But here they were. “Yes. I got my mothers hair, of course, but I get my temper from my father.” Artemis was saying. “I have parents.” Bizarro grunted. Roy laughed, smacking him on the shoulder. “Well you certainly didn't get Kal’s looks buddy. But you do have his killer hair.” Starfire laughed. “That is true. I, for one, share my parents hair and have my fathers powers. But truly the best gene I was given were my mothers eyes.” They all turned to Jason. “What about you?” Roy asked. Jason scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, I used to have my dads eyes but um after the pit y'know,” He waved to his now green eyes. “And actually I have my dads dark black hair, and he’s graying early too, which might be why my white streak is so prominent.” They nodded in agreement. “But yeah, hes actually a little taller than me so maybe I’ll still grow a few inches but uh yeah. I don't… remember my mother enough to talk about her.” “Dang man. I wish we could meet your dad.” Roy murmured, laying a comforting hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Then we could really compare. I mean-” He laughed. “You sound like his carbon copy.” Jason frowned at his friend. “What do you mean? You’ve met Bruce?” They stared at him. “Jason,” Artemis began slowly. “Aren't you adopted?” 

Tim hunched over the information form, eyes straining to read the small print. His hand reached up to stifle a yawn and he settled for a sigh instead. It was late, but Tim needed to get the form done before he went to bed, otherwise everything would be far too stressful in the morning. He reached over and grabbed his coffee mug, a dark black cup that had a red R painted on it poorly. Bruce had made it for him a few years ago when he had first become Red Robin. He sipped it, staring down at the medical form. “Gods I hate having to do this.” He muttered, but reluctantly grabbed the thick medical binder Alfred had obligingly gotten for him when he had asked for medical records of the family. Tim did not under any circumstances, want to have to sit at the doctors office the next day and somehow lie his way through all the medical questions relating to his family history. He didn't have the time nor patience for it, and it was crucial he was given proper medical advice what with his missing spleen. “Any history of heart issues Bruce?” Tim muttered, flipping back past Martha and Thomas to Bruce’s great great great grandfather. “Nope, guess not.” Tim was halfway through the form when he realized the blood coursing through his veins wasn't Bruce’s. 

Steph rubbed a hand across her belly, staring at the monitor. “Your baby looks good Ms. Brown. They’re at the proper stage. Due in about two months. We’ll see you back here for your next check up.” “thank you doctor.” Steph murmured, sliding off the bed and dressing quickly before hurrying out to her car. The car door slammed shut behind her and she breathed, pressing her forehead to the steering wheel. Her phone buzzed. She lifted it and pressed it to her ear, hitting accept. “Hello?” “hey Steph.” Bruce’s voice vibrated through the phone. “How was your doctors appointment?” Steph gave a bitter laugh. “Everything looks good. The baby will come in about two months.” “Thats good. Thats real good.” Steph nodded, eyes closed. “You doing okay Stephanie?” Bruce asked, voice soft. “I don't know.” her voice broke and she squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears. “I just- I’m so scared Bruce. So scared.” Bruce hummed comfortingly through the phone. “I know Steph. Its scary. And parenting, its hard.” Steph coughed out a watery chuckle. “Was that a hit?” She muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. Bruce chuckled. “No. Baby it wasn't. And just think, you’ll get to see all the firsts I didn't get with you. Their first steps. Their first wave. You might even get to hear them say mama before i kidnap- i mean adopt him or her.” Steph laughed again, and it sounded less watery. “Yeah. Well, when do kids start walking?” She asked in interest, sniffing and sitting up straight again. Bruce hummed. “Well i started walking almost immediately, but Im special.” Steph laughed. “Of course.” “alfred said i first started talking when I was around thirteen months old, and Talia said Damian was walking by ten, but she could have been lying.” Steph nodded. “Tell me more.” She whispered. Bruce obliged, happy to distract her. “Oh and whats probably going to be your favorite, babies, or at least I did, start laughing at around four months.” “laughing?” Steph gasped. “Oh Brucie!!! Thats too funny! Little chubby baby you, the future batman, laughing!” She cooed. She could almost feel his eye roll through the phone and stifled her laugh. “So yeah..” Bruce finished. “You should expect your kiddo to start walking around then. And laughing probably sooner. I would have if you'd be in my life at that time.” Steph was quiet. “Thank you B.” He hummed. “Anytime Steph. I’ll always be here to help you.” “Wait wait wait-” a new voice joined in the background of Bruce. “Are you guys serious right now?” Steph identified it as Jason. “What?” Bruce asked puzzled. “B, Stephs adopted. Her kid is as likely to walk at the same time you did as when she did!” 

“Damian?” “Go away Drake.” Damian called back, riffling through the papers. “Dami?” Tim poked his head into his younger brothers room. “Oh hey kiddo. Whatcha doing?” “I am busy Timothy.” Damian countered in annoyance, shoving the box back under his bed and moving to his desk. “What are you looking for?” Tim asked puzzled. Damian ignored him. “Dami.” “Go away Timothy.” Tim crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Come on Baby Bird. Tell me.” Damian shook his head, covering the blush on his cheeks by poking behind the desk. “Damian.” Tim’s hand was suddenly on his back. Damian jumped. Tim held up his hands in surrender. “Just tell me. I’m sure I can help you find it.” Damian sighed in acceptance, cheeks pink. “I have.. Lost my adoption papers.” He muttered, staring at the floor. But Tim didn't laugh or ridicule him. In fact, when he looked up, his brother seemed thoughtful. “Well i know me and dick and jason have them hung over our beds…” His gaze drifted to the very clearly empty space above Damians bed. “I know.” Damian jerked his head in a nod. “That is why I wished to find it.” Tim nodded in understanding. “Well, lets go look in the den. Thats where Alfred keeps all the legal stuff.” Damian trailed after his brother to the living room and watched as he opened the cabinet and pulled out three boxes. “You look through this one, I’ll search these two.” Tim ordered. Damian nodded, accepting the box. It was where Alfred found them, two hours later, broom in hand. “My dear sirs, what are you doing?” The butler asked in bafflement. “Looking for Damians adoption record.” Tim answered, nose still in some papers. Alfred looked at them. “Master Tim. Master Damian.” The two boys looked up. “Yes Alfred?” Tim asked. Alfred's face was fond and utterly confused. “Master Damian is not adopted. He is Master Bruce’s blood son.” 

@nonepizzawithleftglitter @zombiewithaflowercrown

you asked and you shall recieve!

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Theseus is dead. You’re escorting the Minotaur, more beast than a man, out of the Labyrinth. The problem is, he seems to be more interested in what’s between your legs than in his mission of killing the notorious king of Crete… (12 k. Minotaur is not an actual hybrid in this fic. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Part 1 here.) Tags/warnings: Shameless smut mdni, dubious consent, extremely possessive behaviour, abduction, first time (König & reader are both virgins), hugs & cuddles, washing blood off your monster boyfriend, awkward flirting, semi-rough sex, shifting power dynamics, sexist insults & slurs (the citizens of Crete do not approve of your choices), implied cannibalism, fluffy ending. Mythical AU.

The candle goes out before you reach the surface.

To someone else, it would be the end of the world: to you, it’s only a hindrance, a nuisance, mostly. 

You’re not easily distressed. If you were, you wouldn’t be in the service of the greatest goddess of the Underworld. And you’re not mourning losing the sight of your warmly illuminated beast... You’re only worried about what he will do once the darkness descends. Whether he will forget about his vow, whether the baser instincts take over him once the darkness falls.

And darkness is not capable of making you lost: you can always follow the string in your hand. But without light, it’s difficult to predict the Bull’s moves: whether he decides to maim or fuck you against the wall, you can never tell. He hasn’t lived in the real world among people; he doesn’t know what’s right or wrong and what’s expected of him. Even the best of men can succumb to the demands of the flesh, so what power would a Bull Man have against his animal wants? No one ever taught him to respect the gods, let alone the maidens who serve them...

Then again, if a simple candle was the only thing that kept you alive, then what’s the point of lamenting the loss of it? Your life was already forfeit when you chose to descend here.

So you let it go: as always, the greatest lesson in life is to simply let go. Of control, of judgment, of fear, of hope. 

He doesn’t say a thing when the light flickers, then fades. The candle goes out in silence, and you let it drop before the remaining wax burns your palm.

And it’s not the absence of light, but strength, that forces you on your knees before even an hour has passed. There’s still a long way to go, and the yarn is like a thin string of hope in your hand, but you’re too exhausted, too worn out, too hungry and too tired to go on.

The Bull Man doesn’t object to your suggestion to lay down and sleep for a while. He has walked behind you in silence the whole day. Or night… You can’t tell the difference; you lost count somewhere along the way down here. The air is stale and humid, and there’s no torch, not a single candle anywhere and even if there were, you wouldn’t do anything with them without a flint. 

The horror is kept at bay only through your numerous exercises with the goddess who introduced you to darkness many, many moons ago. You were initiated during the dark Moon, the new Moon, the blood Moon, introduced to the mysteries of the maiden, mother and crone, to the secrets of both the living and the dead. You’re not afraid, but your body still warns you of danger: you just don’t know if it’s a memory from childhood or a reaction to the Bull, panting behind you – out of lust or exertion, you don’t even know. Someone who wasn’t a maiden probably could tell… At times, you curse the fact that there hasn’t been a single phallus inside you because men too possess knowledge. Taking a man into your bed would have initiated you to a different set of mysteries, but now, you are poking blind. 

The Bull Man is an animal, you remind yourself. The longer you stay in his company, the more he starts to resemble a human, even if he is a man of few words. How he even remembers them is another mystery: you thought he was sent down here as a young boy. He speaks oddly but eloquently, a remnant of his noble descent, perhaps. Or perhaps he has listened to the people speaking in the Labyrinth, eavesdropped his victims an hour or two before killing them. Whatever the reason, you have to constantly tie your tongue because there’s simply no point in talking to a beast. The less you know about him and his past, the better.

You ready yourself for sleep, but the cursed cold of the tunnels keeps your body awake. Your flesh is human even if your mind is forged to withstand hunger, thirst and pain. Endurance against cold was never your strong suit, and you miss the heat of the sun, the warmth of it on your skin, even the ample light it gives. You, a lover of the moon, missing the heat of Apollo… It’s a joke, surely.

On the stone floor, it’s even colder, the rough, damp ground making your very bones ache. How on Hecate’s name has the beast survived this place?

“Bull Man,” you speak into the darkness, thick like an impenetrable wall and thin like a virgin’s veil.

“Maiden,” he echoes with a dark, low growl, slightly amused by the name you’ve selected for him.

“Are you cold?” You whisper.

Perhaps he doesn’t quite understand the question or why you asked it. It doesn’t matter: you have to swallow your pride and ask for his help if you’re going to survive this dark prison.

“I don’t get cold,” he finally responds.

“Good. I need your heat.” 

The silence drags on, and you fear he has misunderstood you again, but then he speaks again, with the same slightly amused tone as before.

“Come take it.”

You’re not sure if you’ve completely lost your mind, crawling to him through the uneven floor of the Labyrinth. Who knows what he will do to you once he gets those arms of iron around you? You’re placing your maidenhood, your whole body at his mercy. And you’re not even sure if it’s a he, if this thing is human at all. 

Human or animal, your hand meets the bull’s head on the way to him. He has taken it off, then... It’s not a part of him, just like you suspected. Maybe he is just a giant, daunting man, born from whatever forbidden desire Pasiphae had. Who knows if she only went to a foreign lover’s arms when her husband was at war? Who knows if King Minos has trouble getting his phallus up… These things happen: women get pregnant from their lovers, they do desperate things to pacify their husbands. And you don’t need a bull to get yourself an heir...

You feel his heat before you feel his skin: the Minotaur is verily blazing. He has gotten used to the cold, it seems, his body like a small bonfire in the clammy tunnel. 

“Cold little female,” he comments when you snuggle towards him shyly, thoroughly aware of the uninviting chill of your body. 

You settle next to him, every muscle in your body tight like a bowstring, your breaths shallow when he gives you a welcoming rumble. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and your throat goes dry, the thick swallow in the tunnel echoing around you like a thief.

Arms like iron go around you, and his body is taut, just like yours, but for a whole different reason entirely. He’s not afraid or nervous; he’s just… big. Pure muscle, his whole body thick, the stock and heat of him remind you of the sun. A miniature sun down here in these dark tunnels, but while you start to slowly soften in his arms, a different threat is already emerging. It doesn’t take long before his cock stiffens against you, and with the scarce clothing you both have, you can feel its every excited twitch.

Artemis… Protect me from this beast. Turn him into a dog if he tries to penetrate me. Let him rip my throat instead… 

You’ve never prayed to the Virgin Goddess; you don’t know if she can even hear you from down here. But Hecate would only laugh if this Bull decided to breed you. No mercy would arrive from that direction: she would either send a disease of blisters upon the Minotaur for touching her chosen or then she would cackle like an old woman, thousand times raped.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hoping your kindness will distract him from what’s happening downstairs.

“My pleasure,” he grumbles, mimicking the words he probably heard as a child in his father’s great hall. 

It sends a chill down your spine and butterflies into your heart to hear him speak like a polite man of court. And again, you think of asking him about his childhood... His mother, his father, the things he remembers from the surface. How he survived here without water, if there are underground springs here somewhere. Whether he eats humans like they say... If he ever embraced the dead women he killed. 

“Can you do it again,” he rumbles against you, cutting you away from your grotesque thoughts.

“...Do what again?” 

“Touch me… With your hand.”

His words are blunt now, his speech clumsy. But the way he says it is not an order. It’s an odd beg, more like. Laced with hope and wishes far away from greed. This Bull is never greedy, per se… He’s just lacking. Starved, for so many things that you fear there’s not enough time nor kindness to give him what he needs.

Your pulse flutters when you slowly lift your hand and caress the strong cords of muscle that make his neck. The rumbling returns; it turns into a low purr as the beast relaxes under your touch. Something softens inside you when he sighs from relief. His unbridled happiness tugs at your heart, trying to yank open something forbidden. It’s the softest violation you’ve ever felt: to be held by a giant killer having a roaring erection, while the said killer clearly enjoys your caress like it’s the touch of Aphrodite herself…

You even stroke his face. His jaw, unclenching under your touch; his cheek, covered with what you suppose is simply a wild, overgrown beard. 

“Your hand,” he groans softly, “makes me sleepy and warm…”

The cold, uncaring goddess recedes. The burdens of past, present and future dissolve. Softness takes place in your heart; the iron locks give in like brittle brass. A smile plays on your lips as you continue to pet him softly, lulling you both to sleep with your voice.

“Then sleep, Bull of Crete...”

…

You wake up to his cock pressing against you.

Not against your stomach like when you went to sleep – that you could do with – but against your cunt, barely veiled by the thin linen of your dress.

The panic is soon wrestled down with reason: you tell yourself it’s just a cock. It’s just him. You’re simply in the Minotaur’s arms, and he’s sound asleep still; there’s no reason to buck and jerk and scream. 

The darkness feels like a safe womb now, but with nothing to lock your gaze to, you have to take a moment to ground yourself into reality. And the first thing you ground into is a thick cockhead, pressing fast into your nether lips. He’s practically at the gates, and you’re lucky he’s still asleep.

It’s perhaps your fault this happened in the first place: you notice you’ve dragged your thigh over his hip; as if wanting him to fuck you in your sleep… You embrace him like Helen of Troy, and he holds you through his sleep like a man in love, perfectly content with napping on the cold ground with you.

“Mm…” The beast stirs, probably noticing how the female in his arms is tense as a rod. “You smell like you want to fuck…”

“No I don’t,” you hurry to whisper.

Gods curse this man’s ability to smell everything from miles away. Blood and humans and, apparently, a woman at her most receptive. 

What if he can actually smell the wetness between your legs?

“We need to go,” you slowly remove your leg from on top of his waist, hoping it would go unnoticed that you were clutching him like a lover. You have no such luck: he grabs your thigh and draws it back, sets it safe and snug around his waist while adjusting his grip on you, now hugging you entirely like a lover would.

“I want to mate with you,” he says softly. “You want to mate too. Why go?”

He sounds so adorable when he’s still in the process of waking up to a new day. Drowsy and sweet, voice husky from sleep, body warm as can be, the hard-on between his legs happy and stiff.

“I thought you wanted to kill the king,” you try to point out. 

“This is more important,” he gruffs. “Urgent.”

The cock pushes further up and against you, now spreading your folds under the dress, trying to penetrate into your heat. Your eyes go wide as thick need pools down to meet his greed. His body, his cock makes your head go dull for a moment; you feel like you’re not even capable of thinking actual thoughts.

“No, it’s not. We need to get up.”

You stiffen in his arms, push yourself away, and to your surprise, he actually lets you go. Reluctantly and with a hollow grunt, but he lets you go. 

You rise with a wobble, and adjust your dress, your head spinning from his advances. You swear he becomes more man-like every day, every passing hour, even. Or is it just you who’s changing…? 

The Bull Man is up before you get to ponder on that thought for too long. Your heart and head struggle to find their footing for a moment, your legs are so weak you feel like fainting. He catches you before you fall, the warm, thick arms closing around you with stout affection.

“You need more heat?” He asks softly.

You look up out of habit, even if you can't see his eyes, covered by the carcass again because his voice is muffled.

“No… I’m hungry.”

He’s silent for a moment, probably thinking what he could do to help the situation. You fear he will suggest you go back to visit his “pantry” and eat whatever horrible, half-rotten man-flesh he might have in store there, but he only holds you close to prevent you from sliding back to the ground.

“Hmm. No mice up here,” he ponders. 

“You eat mice…?”

“Sometimes.”

You leave it at that: you don’t want to know what he’s had to do to sustain himself down here. You don’t even have a fire to cook the vermin, even if you would be ready to eat even those after another day or two without food. 

“Not a long way up,” he says. “We will reach the sun soon. Then I’ll find you something to eat.”

“How do you know that…?”

“The air smells different.”

You sigh and search for the string, your lifeline to the outside world. You can’t wait to get out of here, and with both hurry and an odd dread, you hike for what seems like another whole day. Tension, hunger and thirst distort your thoughts, and you’re sure by now that the time flows differently here in the Underworld. With no small amount of pride, you feel accomplished to have survived this place so far. Even gods have had to do some tricks to escape the nether worlds: it is no small feat to charm the Minotaur and then walk out of here unharmed. 

To your knowledge, you’re the only one who has ever escaped the Labyrinth. You haven’t even had time to think about what you will unleash with you… The demon that walks on your heels will take his revenge, not only on the king but on the city who threw him here. 

Well. It’s their problem now. Minos and Pasiphae simply have to deal with their successor. The world will simply have to deal with the Underworld’s wrath. 

And oh, how Hecate would laugh if she saw this monster prince of Crete escape his prison because of you – the feared Minotaur set free, only because he’s mesmerized by a woman. You suspect he would have his cock jumping for any girl, though. It's not because you're an exceptional sorceress that he follows you: it's your cunt he's after. And it shouldn’t make you feel jealous that he probably gets distracted the moment he sees a better offer walk by.

But it does. In your darkest wishes, you would keep the Bull Man all to yourself. Get him a leash, perhaps... Feed him with your own hands and let him grope you in the dark, watch him go wild from lust when you finally give him access to your cunt. 

Many would hardly think you’re a virgin if they took a peek inside your head. But the things you’ve seen and done, the white bulls you’ve slaughtered for the dark Goddess, adorning them with cypress wreaths before slashing their throats open, would turn any woman bleak and twisted like this. For once, you would like to save the bull from slaughter.

When you see the first evidence of light, your body lets out a sigh it has been holding ever since you arrived here. Seeing the sun gives you more strength than any food or meal, and you pick up your pace while the Minotaur behind you begins to hesitate. 

“It’s too bright,” he says before you’ve even walked out of the tunnel, now turning into a vast cave, the entrance to the Labyrinth. 

You turn around to look and stop in your tracks when you see the fear in his eyes is acute. It’s mixed with wonder, the curiosity wrestling away doubt slowly but surely. He only needs a little nudge, a gentle pull, an enticing little smile and eyes that he can trust.

“You’ll get used to it soon,” you extend your hand. 

He takes a step, then another, then another, until he reaches your outstretched fingers, and hand in hand you walk out of the Labyrinth and into the bright morning sun, burning over the kingdom of Crete.

He’s only a breath away from panicking, but covers it well. You wonder if it’s truly the light that’s too bright or if the feeling of being so exposed is what makes him so afraid. Clearly, the vast space opening up before him is intimidating. 

There are grassy plains as far as the eye can see, little hills that dot the horizon, and skies so expansive and bright it must hurt his eyes. Goats are grazing under the sun, trees are bending in the wind, the rustling of leaves and the sound of birds calling him to look in all directions as he tries to make some sense of his surroundings.

“It’s alright,” you give his palm a soft squeeze, and the way he looks there under the sun, so big and powerful and able, and still so utterly lost, is giving you heartache you haven’t known since you were a child.

“There’s… so many colours,” he says, looking at the blue summer sky, the deep olive greens, the dirty whiteness of the goats, the flowers upon the grass. A butterfly, flying past, yellow like the citrus that people harvest from a few miles from here. A big blackbird with an orange beak, swooping down to catch a cricket, the slate grey pigeons flying so close to the sun that he has to shield his eyes even if they’re already safe and sheltered under the bull head.

Seeing his wonder and awe makes you look at the scenery so differently that it burns, it actually hurts: there’s so much beauty in the world, and you have always taken it for granted. Cursed the rain and the storms, cursed the droughts, cursed the gods for sending down another famine, when in truth, the world was filled with abundance, of colours, of life and joy… And all you’ve done is worship darkness. Now the darkness is out: it’s standing next to you, watching the view of your mundane everyday life like it’s nothing short of a miracle.

And when you turn back to look at him again, his eyes are upon you.

“What?” You ask, freshly caught in your moment of weakness.

“You are pretty,” he says, eyes wrinkling with delight under the mask. 

Gods damn him… 

He doesn’t know that human men don’t act like this, talk like this, or if they do, there’s usually something vile involved behind it all. He doesn’t know how to play games, he was never introduced to the lies and deceit of the world.

The Bull of Crete only looks at you with soft fondness in his stare – he doesn’t understand that he should cover that softness as well if he intends to win. Any woman could put a leash on him before another moon has passed, but he doesn’t seem to care. And it’s not even heat or hunger that makes you weak this time... It’s those eyes, looking at you with more and more warmth.

“Nonsense,” you huff without a voice, and turn towards the old road with an adoring bull on your heels.

The cold sigh of the underworld is quickly left behind you as you walk up the old carriage road, nearly grown in with weeds. The Labyrinth is located miles away from civilization, but the people living in these hills are used to the cold cave by now. They trust that the Minotaur will never escape and only turn away their heads and close the doors of their huts when the screaming, crying human sacrifices are delivered to the mouth of the cave. Little do they know that the monster is now looking at their little hills and goats with delight, not bloodlust.

For the Minotaur is fascinated with your world: he has to touch every leaf, every tree, every blade of grass, it seems. The goats are afraid of him, but one small nanny is bold enough to come and sniff his hand. Perhaps it remembers that beings walking on two feet give her apples sometimes, and the giant studies this small white animal with gentle curiosity, allows the goat to smell his hand, only chuckles when the goat gives out a little scoff when she notices there are no treats to be found there.

The vision is more adorable than when you’ve seen children play with kittens, and no matter what you do, you can’t turn your heart into ice anymore. You were taught that the Minotaur is a monster who enjoys torturing his victims, creatures far more helpless than him. Now you see him watching the she-goat with warm curiosity, rumbling softly inside his helm, far from the ravaging beast that approached you in that tunnel what seems like months ago.

You watch him with tender sadness as he marvels at the sky and remembers how he used to sit in the shade of an olive tree when he was a child. He goes to sit there now and examines how the sun filters through the massive branches of the tree as if trying to recall the memory. 

He asks questions like: “How can you humans stand this heat?” or “Why is there only one road?” and listens to your answers carefully.

He says he can smell the sea, even if the salty water is miles and miles away, and gets curious about what’s behind that hill, or that one, what about that one… You wonder if he’s even interested in killing the king anymore and suggest that he could just forget about this cruel place and buy himself a sea voyage with that expensive sword. He could get rid of his helmet and ask if anyone needs a goat herd or an able-bodied man to help at construction sites or stables; he could get work from the docks any day, sail to Athens or some other big city, forge himself a new life. 

But he doesn’t want to.

He says he has to avenge his mother who always cried when he was little.

More wretched tugs pull at your heart as you approach the city. The lovely summer’s day turns into a nightmare once people see who’s on his way to the heart of Crete.

You don’t understand their screams, not anymore, while only a few days ago you knew they preceded death. The Minotaur doesn’t kill anyone, mainly because he doesn’t have to. Everyone flees before his wake, people rush to their homes and bar the doors, even soldiers slip away to be with their loved ones or run to warn the king if they have any loyalty left. 

You’re left to walk through the marketplace in settling dust and tense silence as the Bull Man explores the abundant samples of food on display. He has to have a taste of everything from all stands, but only after he has offered figs, olives, grain, grapes, grilled meat and fish to you first.

“Eat,” he says and shoves a handful of pine seeds your way. “You were hungry?”

“This is not the way to–” you ignore the food only through sheer willpower. “This is not right. People own these things. They sell them at the market, you need to pay for these.”

“Pay? With what?”

He looks at you for a moment, unable to recall what money is and how these things are supposed to work. He probably had his mother’s servants bring him everything he needed as a child anyway, so how could he know? 

“They will take your hands for stealing,” you try to explain with softly building despair.

“I will take their heads before that.”

“The next king will hunt you down and punish you,” you rush after him, and when he won’t listen, you seize his hand and finally get him to halt. He looks down at the weak palm around his wrist, then raises his gaze to you.

“Bulls don’t have kings.”

Your attempts to tame him are futile. The things they’ve taught him to be are now being used as a way to escape responsibility, and while it’s none of your business, you refuse to let him believe that he is nothing more than an animal.

“You are not a bull,” you wail in frustration. “You’re a man.”

He hesitates, only for a moment; the gentle, loving gaze makes your legs weak.

“You’re the first to think that.” 

Then he rips himself away from you, softly but sternly.

He doesn’t need directions to the palace: he knows he has to head for the most prominent building in the city to reach the king. The grandiose heart of Crete, white-chalked and beautiful under the burning midday sun is the pride of every citizen, even if it houses another monster.

You sigh as you watch him go: the Bull Man, the demon of the underworld, the one you thought would rape you bloody before you get to crawl out of the Labyrinth. The fact that he wanted to kill his father more than he wanted to be born again into a new life wasn’t a surprise, but that he chose to bloody his sword rather than his cock is somehow... insulting, almost. 

What actually haunts you is how your insides coil and turn when you rush back to your temple. It’s not like you thought the Minotaur would take you with him. Board some trade ship bound for distant shores, and ravage you ever so softly in the belly of the creaking hull. It’s not like you dreamed of petting him to sleep while you two embark on a new life. But the way your heart twists and wails inside your chest makes it clear that losing him is even more painful than losing Theseus and the life he promised you. 

You never even wanted Theseus; you only wanted him to take you away from here. His affection would have been the result of ample witchcraft at best.

He’s practically already dead, and your heart turns to stone far more slowly than you would prefer. It’s just your luck to first have the golden hero of Greece look down on you in disdain, and then witness even the Bull Man walk away from you like you never meant anything to him. Men killing each other is the oldest story in the world, and you want no part in it, but something in this beast has stirred you awake from a long, cold slumber. It’s infuriating that you can’t dispel a simple animal from your heart. Oldest story in the book, that one, too…

But oh, how you now yearn after some cruel, lowly, dirty beast… The Minotaur already owns you, and he never even had to plunge his sword inside you to prove that. Besides, you would’ve been perfectly willing had he decided to take you on the green grass, under the vast sky, while some noisy goats graze around you. You realize that that’s what you expected to happen, and when it didn’t, you’re left more than disappointed: you're left completely hollow. You always find out these things a little too late, it seems… The Bull is headed for the palace and will likely get killed after he slaughters his cruel father. There’s at least thirty spears in that building, and more will arrive when called.

You arrive at the temple, panting and with your body flushed and weak. The maidens at the entrance share a quick glance with each other before turning their fearful gazes back to you. They’re the youngest arrivals, not even initiates yet; one of them hardly even bleeds. 

“The King is dead,” you announce without bothering to even greet them, and the girls huddle up together like they’re a bunch of slaves about to get slapped.

You realize you must look like an animal with your dirty robes, dishevelled hair and your wild, alive stare. No wonder they look like they’ve seen a ghost... You basically are one, coming back from the dead like this.

“What?” 

A priestess arrives at the threshold like an image of Hecate herself, dressed in robes as black as the midnight sky, but you don’t shy away from her like you used to.

“Or he will be. Soon. The Minotaur is here.” 

“How did you… How did it...”

You’ve never seen the priestess in disarray. She’s always composed, cold and distant, but seeing you like the wraith that you are, freshly escaped from the Labyrinth, spat back from the bowels of the earth like the dark gods didn’t even want you there, makes even the greatest of Hecate’s servants a little uneasy. 

She gathers what’s left of her dignity and finds her most commanding voice. Sadly, it doesn’t have the power to shake the ground anymore.

“Where is Theseus of Athens?”

“Disemboweled… is my best guess,” you say in a listless voice, then turn your head toward the smell of fresh fruit.

Normally, you would walk these halls with dignity, but now, you simply barge in and grab the first piece of food you find. You ought to get whipped for your insolence, but no one dares to raise a hand against you. The maids and priestesses stare in shock as you eat and drink like a starved prisoner. You’re a living Hecate in certain aspects, your arrival the first toll of the bell of doom as the palace guards sound the alarm.

So…

The Minotaur has reached the king.

…

The priestesses deem it only logical that the King finally pays for his sins: the gods have been offended by the number of human sacrifices sent to the Labyrinth, and this is their way of exacting revenge. You were only an instrument of their will.

After a quick wash and some more food, you begin to feel like a human again. The maids bring you a new chiton, flowing and white: your old clothes are burned in a brazier as if that would help you forget.

And this might be the only place you don’t get blamed for unleashing a monster. You were at a crossroads with the Minotaur, and anyone would have done the same: try to talk him out of his killing spree, calm him down, entice him with a gift. No one expected that the beast could even speak, so your approach was unusual, perhaps, but it worked. Hecate guided you through the tunnels, even when the candle went out, she stilled the Bull’s loins until you reached the sunlight where the beast got distracted with other things. You leave out the Minotaur's attraction to birds, bees and butterflies because your story is unbelievable enough as it is.

But the Minotaur will be slain after he has done his deed: Minos is the one who should be punished, not the city of Crete. And it is only just to put down this beast, a mercy.

So when he appears between the pillars of temple, this time wholly covered in blood, people are bound to scream. Even the priestesses who are used to seeing blood, shriek like widows when the Minotaur steps inside the holy shrine of Hecate.

“Where is the maiden of the crossroads?”

He came back for you, after all…

The boom of his voice is familiar, and yet, you cower on the bench when you hear it. The Minotaur sounds like he’s an envoy of Hades himself, and while you’re not among those who scream and yell, it still sends shivers down your spine to hear him speak like that.

Or is it the excitement, a tiny flame of hope that makes you quiver like this?

“We all belong to the goddess,” someone peeps, the Minotaur now descending down the stairs.

The massive head turns, gaze like razor sweeping across the marbled shrine. You’re so far back that he can’t catch you, sitting behind many bodies and faces, and before you can force yourself to rise, the main priestess, the oldest, most crooked of the crones, steps forth to meet this beast.

“This is a House of Hecate,” she speaks. “No man is allowed to enter unless they are Death.”

The black carcass turns, but the priestess doesn’t waver. If anything, her spine turns into unbreakable metal before this man’s gaze.

“I am Death,” he says, far more gently than anyone would expect. Then he walks past the crone like she’s just a harmless elder. No one does a thing, because even the head of your temple is powerless now.

“She had a red string and a candle. Where is she?”

He grabs the first woman he sees, and you rise up before he decides it’s time to thrust his blade into someone to loosen the tongues of these women. 

“Please,” you take a hesitant step towards your Bull. “I’m here... I’m the one you’re looking for.”

The Minotaur lets go of the frightened initiate the instant he sees you. She’s shoved aside with little interest, the blue eyes behind the corpse now solely fixed on you. The way they soften into hazy ice makes your knees weak – that’s the stare of someone who recognizes their loved one among a thick, dull crowd…

“Come with me,” he extends a hand when he reaches you, strong legs swallowing tiles like he’s in a hurry to get back to you. You open your mouth, close it, and look at his hand, the rough, enormous palm held out for you to place your own little hand in.

“You belong to me,” he says with great weight when you don’t speak. It should spark the ire of the goddess for him to dare to talk to you like this… But mostly, your body sings. It tells you to take a step and take his hand: to let him have you, once and for all. 

“My place is here,” you utter, all power gone from your voice. All your dreams, all your fears are offering their hand to you with his, and the maidens, mothers and crones of this hall look upon your exchange with the Bull Man in stupefied silence. 

“You were sent down to me,” he presses on. “You are mine now. You belong to me.”

Your body is singing, singing, singing.

It’s not a request… Or a proposal. 

It’s a god, taking what’s his.

…

You swallow with nothing in your throat and look at the head priestess with helpless misery: she looks back with the eyes of a noxious Medusa, wholly dispassionate to the problems you brought upon yourself. And what could she even do? She’s unarmed against the claims of Hades: Death is now in love with you, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it. 

He doesn’t want to stay in the city, as enchanting as it is, saying that it stinks and that he’s tired of the screams. No one wants him here; he already knows that, and the task he was meant to do is done. He doesn’t seem to be much moved by it either, only asking you if there is a place where he can wash the blood off himself. 

People become more bold when they see you walk out of the city. Not even the sight of a crimson demigod makes them watch their tongues. Insults and slurs follow you through the streets, shouts such as “Kingslayer!” and “Beast!” are accompanied with curses such as “You are an abomination!” and “Go back to your lair!” 

No one treats him as their prince and savior, no one sees him as the man he truly is. And because hatred thickens in crowds, you get your share of the insults as well. 

What kind of a woman would follow a beast like him? Have you sold your soul to the demons of the desert, or has Hades himself forced you to be with this monster? Are you behind the murder of their king?

“Must I remind you?” You turn on your heels, standing tall and proud with the posture of a queen. “According to the old laws, the one who slays the king is the next to rule.” 

“You led him out of the Labyrinth, didn’t you?” the voices ask.

“Gave him your cunt, too,” they sneer.

“You’re worse than the bloody Gorgon,” they mock, but you have a thick skin: if anything, you take it as a compliment to be referred to the mighty slayers of men.

What cuts through your heart is the filth and hate they spit at him, the man who has known nothing but loath since he was born. 

“Hecate’s whore… I should kill you first,” one soldier shouts with spit running down his chin.

The citizens of Crete would never hail the Minotaur as their king, but none can say the deed didn’t prove great strength. Some would even call it justice. He is the queen’s son, after all: he’s more royal than any of these dung-stinking peasants will ever be. He should never have been sent down to those tunnels in the first place.

Before you know it, the Minotaur swoops past you in haste, diving towards the screaming crowd with hunched shoulders and a fiery breath.

“Stop,” you say, and he halts immediately, gaze still directed to the one who called you a whore. The soldiers back away along with the peasants and tradesmen, these poor, humble Cretes who act like they never meant to be so mean.

“Let us go in peace,” you command, voice unwavering and stern. “Or I will curse you all. You and your families, down to the seventh son and seventh daughter.”

That manages to shut them up. The threat of a curse frightens these poor beasts even more than the enraged Minotaur breathing fire through his helm. No one wants rot and puke to follow them wherever they go; no one wants to doom their offspring with illness, death and sorrow. They disperse in all directions and only hiss and whisper as they go.

You spit on the ground as your last gift to these people, leaving the city of Crete with the ever-adoring Bull at your heels.

“You’re even prettier when you’re angry,” he says while walking next to you, voice thick with genuine passion and awe.

You roll your eyes: any man would cower before Hecate’s curse, but this one? This one only gets more horny. 

“Perhaps you are part bull after all,” you retort dryly.

“It takes more than one spear to kill me,” he boasts, but you don’t need more proof of his prowess. Surely, people have tried to kill him in the Labyrinth, but he’s survived every single attempt on his life – for that alone, he should be a decorated hero.

The only thing that makes you annoyed, however, is this childish need to prove he could’ve taken the whole city by himself just because some man happened to call you a slut.

“Mother said I’m a monster instead of a man,” he says, completely unaware that your snap wasn't meant as a compliment. He says it like he’s partly proud of it, and you finally sigh and turn. 

“Your mother was heartless. And wrong.”

The Minotaur only looks at you with a building passion that goes straight to your loins.

“But you’re not.”

“...What?”

“Heartless.”

You feel stripped naked before him, the way his eyes seem to burn away your poor dress. But the fact that he unearths your most guarded secret, just like that, is a catastrophe of a far wider scale.

You’re not sure who’s tied to whom anymore… Or if you’re tied to each other, the gods now laughing in their wine as they look down at you two: a fierce and bloodied giant following the maiden he stole like it’s you who took him and not the other way around.

You reach the roaring waters of a waterfall in silence, the night wrapping the lands inside a dark blue veil. Stars will be visible soon, and with the moon creeping up to the sky, you won’t be needing candles tonight. The silver mistress gives plenty of light for you to admire your beast, and compared to the thick darkness of the tunnels you emerged from this morning, it feels like a generous blessing.

You sit on the banks of the small, clear pond, utterly exquisite at nightfall. The sun’s heat has turned into a warm, caressing breeze, and you submerge your feet into the water, giving out a satisfied sigh as the cool pond embraces your travel worn feet. The Bull sinks to a crouch some distance away from you, curious about your obvious moment of pleasure.

“Did you meet her…? Your mother?” You ask from the cool water lapping at your feet – how can a simple man make you feel so restless and shy?

“Did you… kill her?” 

“She cursed me,” he says, sullen and wholly unsurprised. Time and time again, you are shocked by the hatred his own kin shows him. How can a mother be so cruel?

“How could I kill my own maker?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “For everything.” 

You swallow before such unwavering love. The same man who cursed the gods yesterday  honours the womb he came from so much that he won’t raise a hand against it, not even when his own mother spits curses at him. You don’t know if it’s his greatest strength or biggest weakness, but sometimes you wonder if he’s more human than humans, this beast.

“I’m not,” he retorts immediately. “The king is dead. Mother is safe. I have you... This is the best day of my life.”

You turn to look at him. Time and again, the lack of lies and deceit in this man catches you off guard. It’s more painful than any wound, to see how the Minotaur has no protective skin against the corrupted human nature, that he is human nature before it was defiled.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you falter. 

The chiton pools around your ankles, and you wonder if the man even breathes anymore. You know your skin is glowing with the last rays of the setting sun, you’re aware that the water and moonlight play upon your skin and make you look like an illusion, powerful in its own way.

When have you ever faltered…? Back when you were a little girl, you reckon, the notion euphoric and eerie in your bones.

You rise up and undress before him nonchalantly, trying to ignore the fervid stare of your admirer. Unclasping the brooches holding up your white linen dress, you let it fall down and set you free, secretly reveling in the downright carnal stare now glued to your skin. 

Ripe for plucking, you think while stepping out of the pile of cloth and into the thin evening air. His gaze feasts on you: the plump breasts no one ever loved, the vulnerable navel down below, the dark triangle between your legs, the secret power it holds.

Heat pools into your core as you watch him: everything in your body turns warm and soft when you take in the utter heftiness of him. The mean, swelling phallus between his legs, the near inhuman strength those shoulders and chest possess. Your body is the complete opposite of him, ethereal, almost, compared to the absolute brute strength before you. 

His eyes linger there the longest until he rises too, stiff and dreamy, a beast entirely taken by a thrall. The loincloth is practically torn away, as if it’s only a nuisance he must get rid of immediately. His eyes never leave your shape while he bares himself, and the phallus, you notice, belongs to a human. It’s thick and wondrous, fully erect, adorned with dark curls and accompanied by a set of balls you’ve mainly seen on horses. Big, full and round but unlike animals, they’re covered in dark fur, almost black here in the evening light. Thick seed beads through the slit of his cock from simply seeing you, and the way his chest heaves makes it clear that this man is ready to mate as soon as he’s allowed to do so. 

“You need to take off your helm,” you lift your chin, thoroughly aware of your power over him, even if it’s laughable, a miracle that he doesn’t fuck you on the spot like the animal he is. “You’re a man, not a bull.”

His eyes don’t betray any kind of hesitation. He doesn’t seem to be interested in whether he wears his mask or not. He just blinks as if he’s indeed under a spell and nods.

“If you say so.”

The broad muscles flex as he takes it off, and what is revealed to you from underneath the head is both a surprise and a disappointment. There’s not a monster under there, only a man, a stoic, boorish, shaggy male who’s in desperate need of a wash and a comb. He’s somewhat handsome under all that facial hair and knots, actually, not bad at all – if you like your men rugged and wild. 

He lets the head drop to the ground with a thud as if it was never a part of him at all, and follows you into the pool like you’re his mother and he’s your cub about to get scrubbed clean. 

He seems to dwarf you, even when half submerged in the pond, leaning back with a sigh not unlike yours. If you’re afraid, your body has a peculiar way of showing it: even in the clear, glossy water, you can feel yourself get wet. Never have you seen such strength, not in any man: in horror and awe, you realize he could be a descendant of Zeus himself. As if providing proof to these claims, he looks up to the sky, mesmerized by the myriad stars dotting the vast, unattainable blue.

Using this momentary distraction to your advantage, you reach to pluck a handful of moss from the bank. With this soft little sponge in your hand, you hope to make it clear that this is indeed a bath, not foreplay. 

“They’re stars,” you say softly while slinking closer to him. “Have you ever seen them...?”

“Yes,” he rasps with his head lolled back, throat completely exposed. It always hurts your heart to see that he trusts you so fully. You are no threat to him – even if the gods changed the moss in your hand into a weapon of some sort, you wouldn’t pose any kind of challenge. And still, the way he allows you to creep towards him and wipe his rough hide with the makeshift sponge without so much as flinching is heartbreaking. 

“I have forgotten…” his voice drifts off as he examines the night sky, eyes filled with distant, glass-like delight.

“Beautiful, aren’t they...?” 

“Your world is pretty,” he brings his gaze back to earth and to you. “But you’re the loveliest thing I’ve seen so far.”

You almost freeze upon hearing that. His compliments always catch you off guard, but this time, something forbidden and long forgotten comes undone: a lost want, no, a need to hear such simple words of shallow praise.

“You do not scream... You do not run. Why?”

Your eyes are liquid, glass about to break as you set yourself on the task of scrubbing him clean. You refuse to get emotional in front of him: an initiate of the dark goddess, shedding tears when a horny man calls her pretty? What utter nonsense.

But then he grabs your wrist: not to seize back power, but to prevent you from escaping this fragile moment.

“You are different,” he agrees calmly, then releases you, but you reckon it’s mostly because he misses the soft rubs you were giving him. 

“Perhaps I’m crazy,” you breathe while looking at the damp curls on his chest.

Yes… That’s the only explanation for this madness. It has to be.

“Is that why you took me?” 

“I took you because you’re mine. I want you.”

“You can’t just take what you want,” you warn softly.

“Why not?” His head tilts a little to the side as he’s trying to make sense of you and the manners of your world. “Don’t you want to be mine?”

You lift your gaze and risk a look into his eyes, stripped from all facades as always. You even catch a passing wave of worry there: he had counted on you being as fascinated with him as he is with you. The hunger behind that want, the need to be something special to you, is a whole another issue that must wait until your head is more clear. Way more clear…

“Perhaps,” you confess.

“I have nothing to give you,” he shrugs, eyes looking slightly past you this time, out of shame or anxiety. It takes a while for you to understand he’s liking you to the goods at the market and thinks he’s expected to have money to be able to keep you.

“You don’t need to pay for me,” you smile, trying your best to disguise the soft amusement in your voice. His brows only furrow as he tries to calculate and think.

“I don’t understand the rules of this world,” he finally shakes his head. 

“I’ll teach you.”

For a while, he only looks on with fascination how you rub his arms and belly, basically massaging him with the wet moss. His eyes drift closed when you scrub the back of his neck, the stout erection only getting thicker under the cool water. You’re careful with his legs, not because you’re afraid he’s ticklish but because you try to avoid touching the huge cock already jutting up from happiness. It gives a few excited bounces when you wash his inner thighs, hopeful to get its needs satiated soon. 

“I can hunt for you,” he suggests. “Bring you food… Protect you.”

He’s visibly excited when figuring out a way to give you something in return. He wants to provide offerings for your company, your lore, and eventually, your cunt, too. You might be a virgin, but you’re not stupid: of course he wants the soft, wet prize between your legs. A pair of lovely tits to squeeze at night... Ears to groan hushed confessions into, thighs to nibble, bite and suck until you cry... 

“What do you think?” He asks, breath heavy from the bliss you’re already granting him by simply giving him a bath. “I could give you my heat. Please you...”

“You know how to please women?” 

“No. But you could teach me.”

The way he says it is not shy. Only tentative. A bear, walking on ice and hoping it would carry his weight. One wrong step and the ice will swallow him, spitting out his bones only in spring. 

And then…

“Do you know how to fuck?”

The ice holds, mainly because you’re too shocked to even slap or ridicule this man. His eyes bore into you with such unbridled greed that you have trouble keeping your precious pride intact.

“Of course,” you hear yourself whisper like it would be an insult to your intellect if you didn’t.

“Teach me,” he says, ever more greedily.

“I…”

Your jaw is left open, but not a word comes out. A strong palm closes around your wrist again, this time to bring you flush against him. The water laps at your skin, a distant crow cackles somewhere. Your hand is brought to his phallus, but he doesn’t have to wrap your fingers around it: you do it all by yourself, breath locked in your throat as you feel how hard and blazing he is.

“You want my cock,” he says, mouth only an inch from yours. “Don’t you...?”

You wet your lips – a mistake, because his half-lidded gaze darts to your mouth the instant your pink tongue lashes out. You’re in a predicament, but on the other hand, what else did you expect, taking your clothes off in front of a touch-starved bull?

“I’d give it to you happily,” he insists. “No female ever wanted to spread her legs for me.”

Or a leash. 

Your fingers tighten on their own, they mould around him. Like a bond…

“Really?” You breathe. “What fools they were...”

The cock gives a full throb inside your palm, exalted to be yours. But only a moment later, the dreaded Minotaur moves. 

You find yourself under him before you can even gasp for air: the soaked, hot body of a giant now pinning you on the grass and crushing you under it with ease. The weight of your error is fully pressed against you: he was never tamed, and you were a fool to think you could put him in chains.

The raw scent of earth and musk fills your nostrils, making the stars above you spin. His cock is trapped between your bodies, giving another rich pulse against your thigh. Gods, if he were throbbing like that inside you…

“You make my skin burn,” he growls into your ear, the heat of his skin now unbearable, the coarse hair prickling your skin from neck to thigh. “My loins, ache…”

“Are you a witch?” He asks, and you finally allow yourself to breathe.

If he only knew… But hexes and charms are of no use for you now: the only thing you can do is moan, apparently, as he dives for your neck, planting barbarous kisses on your skin.

Down, down, down he goes, pure avarice driving him to feast on every part of you. You’re too weak to stop him when he searches for the source of your intoxicating scent. Discovering it between your thighs, he dives nose-first into your sex, meeting your core with a hungry grunt.

Your back arcs with pleasure, your nails sink into his back: a funny thing to do when he’s already as close as can be. The trail of crude kisses leads him to your breasts, and you try to keep your whimpers in control, but a gasp erupts when he drags a hot tongue across your nipple. Massive palms close around your tits while you squirm in his hold: he doesn’t seem to be driven by the need to please you; rather, he wishes to study you first, examine how your body reacts to his groping. He leaves your breasts aching and sore, every bite and suck managing to make you wetter and wetter, your cunt screaming for attention by now.

“Gods...” you wriggle on the soft earthen bed, not expecting him to take you with his mouth first.

He withdraws, only a little, but his voice is surprisingly soft.

“Do I hurt you...?” 

“No… But this is not mating…”

“Even I know that much,” he says darkly, and grabs you by the waist, moves you around like a doll until you find yourself on your belly. 

He looks at you from between your thighs, demonic and keen. The broad shoulders force your legs wide apart when he’s seated there, waist-deep in the water, with you hauled to the shore like a siren.

Not a moment is wasted as he pulls you back to him by the hips: you’re drawn to all fours, a hot streak of cum dragging on the inside of your thigh from the cock that meets your skin. He grabs and steadies it with an annoyed grunt, and the fat tip is shoved straight into your folds, your nether lips parted with brute force almost. 

“Guide me.”

His voice is demanding, impatient as he drags the fat head up and down the entrance of your hole, coating his cock with your slick in the process. You wonder if it’s instinctual, if he knows that this is where he should poke and that it will hurt you less if he’s well-oiled. He’s about to rut you into oblivion the instant you tell him where to shove his cock, and the prospect only sends more sap flowing down your thigh.

“There…” you stutter when he finds it, the aching spot that’s leaking profusely. He pushes the head in, not by teasing but by bullying, almost forcing it inside from how tight and unreceptive you are.

“Tighter than my fist,” is his only comment, and it makes you shudder. “I will not last long…”

You wince from the burn, but the rest of it glides in like a dream, and suddenly you’re filled, to the capacity, one could say. He grunts just from the way your womanhood is hugging him, not sure what this foreign object inside you is – is it a good thing or a threat?

“Easy then,” you breathe a huff into the sweet night air, filled with fireflies and night birds who know nothing about the fucking you’re about to go through.

He doesn’t move – inside you, that is. Outside, he crawls forward until he moulds around you, heavy body enveloping you completely. The hairs on his thighs tickle the back of your legs, his chest scrapes your back just so as he demonstrates how you belong to him in every way. But when your cunt starts to squeeze him again, he swallows thickly.

“Does this feel good to you too…?”

You catch faint confusion and concern in his voice, astonished that such a soft, frail body like yours can take his cock just like that. Little does he know you’re still adjusting to his size, thanking all the gods that he doesn’t move yet.

“Yes,” you confess because it does feel good: his thickness inside you, stretching you both gently and violently, studying how it feels to be inside a loving, wet heat.

“Then I will fuck you every day,” his lips come to brush your ear. “Many times...”

You hear yourself whimper, more humble now than ever. No man would dare to take you on all fours, but here you are, like a bought bride about to get stuffed…

He withdraws a little, asks, “Like this?” when he returns with a rough, nasty thrust. The balls meet your mound, heavy on the tender nub you’ve flicked when you’re lonely, covering your mouth while you do it. Both your hands are planted on the ground now, your legs spread before this beast, cunt filled to the brim with his cock.

“Not so rough,” you warn, and he heeds your instructions to the letter until he’s moving in and out with a slow, delicious pace that allows you to feel every thick bump of him. Soaked now down to your thighs, the sounds of your mating is utterly sloppy and slick, and of course he’s curious.

“Are you always like this…?”

“Like… what,” you huff in between the slow, torturous thrusts.

“Soft,” he rasps. “Tight… Wet like rain.”

“No. It’s just when…”

“When you want to fuck?”

You whimper for an answer, mostly because he starts to slip from the agreed sluggish pace. His cock invades you with more urgency, chasing the eruption that must be generous from those thick balls that should belong to a horse.

“I knew it…” he says dreamily behind you. “Some women want to mate with bulls...”

He punctuates his newfound pride with a full, deep thrust, and you wince.

“You’re not a–”

“Keep telling yourself that, little maiden.”

He exhales a hot smile next to your ear, and you’re neck deep in love. Your mouth hangs open, your lids half closed and fluttering from the way he pounds into your poor, abused cunt. Heavy balls slap your swollen nub with careless abandon, making you squeeze his thickness every time he hits the end of you. His grunts become more animalistic with every thrust, and your cunt is a wild thing, leaking and weeping and throbbing until you fear there’s something wrong with you – no woman is supposed to be this needy for a beast…

I’m going to come… You realize in horror as the slick sounds of fucking overthrow even the coursing roar of the waterfall. The knowledge shoots your body full of dark, hot ink; it explodes inside your core like a liquid star, throbbing through your cunt currently being ploughed like you’re nothing but a needy, sloppy hole for him. You’re swimming in so much pleasure that it’s almost painful, the revelation some secret of the gods, no doubt. 

He growls when you moan, heavy arm snaking its way around your middle to keep you in place for him. The purr is eager and low, the rumble erupts from his chest like a thick, loving volcano, a statement of how perfect you are. He nuzzles his nose into your neck and rubs his scent all over you while fucking you through it, the divine rapture that leaves your throat dry from moans. 

He doesn’t need to be told what it means when you’re crying like that: he doesn’t need to be explained that his cock is giving you ample pleasure. It’s so desperate, how much he wants to both fuck and please you, just own you and fulfill you, that you start to shake, your frail body not capable of handling the orgasm he just gave you. 

Your strength fails, and you find yourself on your elbows, cunt even more exposed to him now, the cock pistoning into you with a relentless pace. He’s like a titan upon you, taking pleasure from your quivering, weak frame and the tight wet hole that belongs to it. You’re still in rapture when he starts to sound like broken, wounded man.

“You were made for me,” he huffs. “You were made...for me…”

His voice evaporates along with your thin, adoring mewls, just before he fucks himself over the edge. You can feel the hot, thick spurts, filling you as he roars into your hair, balls pressed flush against your sex, thighs meeting yours in a moment frozen in time. 

They can probably hear him all the way to the city, hear what a cunt like yours does to an invincible beast like him… But his cries are only met with silence; the night sky looks back with disinterest, the birds continue their songs when they notice it was only the roar of a mighty beast that filled the land. Before long, he’s groaning above you, using your hole more softly; loving it until the last drop is milked. 

When he stops, his whole body is trembling from release, but you’re not given a moment of reprieve. He forces you to the ground with him on your back, the rough, thick body never leaving yours. Coarse beard chafes your neck, his body trapping you completely under him, he even opens his jaw to take your shoulder between his teeth and bites you while his cock is still pulsing fat inside you. 

“I can’t get enough of you,” he pants into your ear, angry, almost.

“Good,” you breathe a smile, but he’s not satisfied.

“You couldn’t get enough of me too… I noticed.”

“You gave me pleasure,” you agree. “Lots of it.”

“That was a lot of seed… I haven’t spilled in days.”

He huffs into your ear, astonished and proud that he could do such a thing. You feel him shift to take a better look at you, fingers arrive to graze your temple as if to make sure you’re real, as if having his cock inside you wasn’t enough proof of that. They’re a little shaky, a little uncouth, but the touch is gentle enough, and sweet.

He's boasting again perhaps, you don’t know, but you give him a soft laugh, notice how he stops breathing momentarily when hearing the bright sound.

“I am filled to the brim with you, yes… It will take a while before I can take more.”

“...You have other holes in you,” he offers after a while, quite seriously, in fact. 

“Get off me, you beast,” you huff and squirm to get out from under him, but there’s a luscious grin on your face, a smile that tells him you would more than approve of his obscene ideas later. 

“This feels good,” he murmurs into your hair. “This feels right...”

He allows you to leave from under him, only whines when his cock gets exiled from your cunt. He misses the wet heat like a newborn child misses the womb, but you need to recover from the recent invasion. Seed gushes out from your hole, making a mess on the ground as he pulls you against him, wanting to cuddle you next.

You wonder if he even knows what cuddling means as you lie there with a sticky mess between your legs and the heat of an entire sun on your cheeks. You smile into the coarse, sweaty body hair tickling your nose, deciding it doesn’t matter whether he knows or not: the most important thing is that he wants to hold you like this.

“Yes,” you smile. “This feels right…”

Something blooms in your chest. An odd flower, persistent and sweet. 

The stars above are cold but motherly as they look down on you two: born again into a world that doesn’t want either of you. The only things that accept you now are flowers, birds, the wind and the rain, bees and salty sea, but that’s aplenty. That’s more than the whole of Crete could ever give you.

“Are you thinking about your hero,” he asks above you.

“What? No…”

“Good,” he rasps, so softly now that you start to fear he’s about to cry.

You are more than capable of lying, but Theseus hasn’t crossed your mind in hours: the last time it did, the memory was received with loath and disdain. Thinking about Theseus while you’re draped all over your Bull, his seed flowing out of your womb... What a ridiculous idea. 

The reason for his hardly disguised anger is laid out plain before you: he's just jealous like any other man. Somehow, it makes you feel even more glowy inside.You’re my hero, you want to say, but have no courage to spill out the words. He was balls deep inside you mere moments ago, but telling him this intimate truth seems to be too much.

It never occurred to him, then, that you would enjoy copulating with him. He fucked you with the impression that you needed thoughts of another man to make you wet… That perhaps with the help of the image of Theseus in your mind, you were able to come with his cock inside you. 

“My Bull,” you whisper. “Tell me your name. You must have a name…?”

His breath stops only for a moment, the heart in his chest gives an arduous beat before he answers.

“Asterion.”

Starry one…

Of course.

All monsters have names, usually the opposite of what they’re claimed to be. His birth is in heaven, in the stars; he belongs to the company of heroes and gods.

“Asterion,” you whisper it out into the night air while the animal an man both find their new home in your arms. “Your birth is written in the stars. Did you even know…?”

“Does that make me a hero?” He snorts, more old wounds torn open right before your eyes. 

You wriggle yourself out of his hold, but he avoids your stare. You lift a hand to bring those beautiful Olympian eyes back to you.

“It makes you immortal.”

Perhaps you should’ve known he would be enticed with an apple instead of tethers and deals. Or with a palm, held out with no intent to strike… 

It’s lovely, how he blinks every time he’s confused. You’ve yet to see him shy, but if he ever is, this might be the moment… You even catch him swallowing under that wild facial hair, an awkward blob right after that blink when his birthright is acknowledged.

But even more dumbfounded he becomes when he realizes you’re truly and veritably admiring him. When you whisper it to him – you’re my hero – and watch something shatter in him that was supposed to wrench itself free, that’s when he’s truly granted divinity.

Perhaps it was all about becoming animal again, allowing the other to have a sniff. Baring your throat and embracing the instinct to trust. Marrying your wild soul… The deepest magic of all.

[fear-is-truth]

† 𝑶𝑵𝑳𝒀 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑵𝑬𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑻𝑶 𝑩𝑬 𝑺𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑫

— charlie mayhew x f!reader. | mdni

tags: mentions of religion・allusions to sex・fem!reader・english is not author’s first language・not proofread

⟡ a/n: i wrote this while i was half asleep so…

you weren’t religious. not really. not in the way others were—those who bowed their heads and whispered their prayers like they meant it, like they believed they could be saved. you came to church every sunday, but it wasn’t to find redemption.

he must have known.

from the first time you stepped through those old, heavy doors, you’d felt his eyes on you. father charlie mayhew was a man with quiet power, a young man with eyes that saw too much, and you—well, you were the girl who was already damned.

“i’m going to hell,” you’d say, as you sat in the confessional, separated from him by a thin grate. “even if i confessed every sin i’ve ever committed, tomorrow would be the same. worse, maybe.”

it never failed to shake him, the conviction in your voice. you could feel it, even when you couldn’t see him—his quiet intake of breath, the pause before he spoke, the way his hands gripped the rosary a little tighter.

“you mustn’t say such things,” he’d murmur in response, his voice layered with something that went deeper than priestly concern. “god’s mercy—”

“doesn’t apply to me,” you’d cut him off, not harshly, but with the ease of someone who’s accepted their fate. you didn’t want mercy. you didn’t want saving.

and that, perhaps, was what drew him to you. slowly, quietly, you became his obsession. the girl who didn’t believe. the girl who begged for damnation, the girl who was convinced she was beyond salvation.

•••

more than often, you found yourself thinking of him when you lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling. body warm and restless under the sheets. fingers brushed your cunt as you moaned out his name like a prayer, and you imagined his hands instead—steady, calloused, but gentle. he’d never touch you. not like that.

but god, you wanted him to.

that thought alone should have filled you with shame, should have made you tremble at the audacity of it. a priest. a man sworn to celibacy, to god. but you weren’t the type to be shamed. you weren’t afraid of hell, after all.

•••

“what if i’m already lost?” you asked him. “what if nothing i do can change where i’m going?”

“no one is beyond saving.”

“but what if they don’t want to be saved?”

there was another long silence. you could hear his breathing, slightly uneven now, and for the first time, you felt like you’d pushed him too far. like you’d finally broken something sacred.

“why are you here?”

“because i wanted to see you.”

another pause. you imagined him on the other side, eyes closed, hands shaking just slightly.

“you’re playing with fire.”

you leaned closer to the divider, breath ghosting over the wooden grate.

“maybe i want to burn.”

the words slipped out before you could stop them, and in the silence that followed, you wondered if he would tell you to leave. if he would end it all right there.

but he didn’t.

“then may god forgive us both.”

it wasn’t a confession. it wasn’t a promise. it was something in between, something that wrapped around your heart and pulled tight, binding you to him.

•••

clothes half-buttoned, your hair a mess from his hands, you sat at the edge of the bench, fixing your skirt. he stood across from you, hastily adjusting his collar, his hands trembling slightly as he fumbled with the white tab at his throat.

“we’re going to hell,” you said softly, pulling your conservative skirt over your hips, the absurdity of the statement falling between you. there was a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe—but it didn’t stop him from stepping closer, fingers grazing your jawline before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your skin. slow and sweet, like molasses.

“we already are.”

•••

“you know this can’t continue,” he said one evening as you lay sprawled across the pews, fingers tracing patterns into the wood as he stood above you, his face tight with something between anger and lust. you didn’t look at him, only smiled lazily, hand trailing down the edge of the bench.

“that wasn’t what you were saying ten minutes ago, charlie.”

you watched as he sighed, turning his back to you as he tried to gather himself, but when you stood and stepped up behind him, pressing your lips to the base of his neck, you felt him tremble.

“stop,” his voice lacked conviction.

“do you want me to?” you asked, fingers tugging at the collar he had hastily buttoned only minutes before.

no reply. his resolve slipped away as you kissed along his jaw, hands sliding up the front of his shirt. when he finally turned to face you, his eyes were darker, filled with something you had only seen glimpses of before.

“god help us,” he muttered under his breath as his lips crashed into yours, hands tugging at you with a desperation that had nothing to do with salvation.

•••

the next time, after you had tangled yourselves in the sheets again, you stood in front of the mirror, tying up your hair. the quiet hum of the rotating fan was the only sound that filled the room, broken only by his heavy breathing.

“how long can we keep pretending?” you glanced at him in the reflection, adjusting the collar of your blouse, smoothing down the wrinkles. he stood by the bed, buttoning up his shirt, eyes lingering on you in a way that was both regretful and wistful. you felt his fingers brushed the back of your neck.

“we’ll stop when you do,” but you both knew that wasn’t true.

you turned, meeting his gaze head-on. his lips were parted, collar still askew, and without thinking, you reached up to fix it. as you did, your fingers lingered, brushing against the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse quicken.

“we’re going to hell,”

he said nothing this time, only kissed you back.

masterlist

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki

♡ TW: omegaverse, size difference, somewhat subjugating omega politics, old-fashioned high-class politics of sorts

♡ GN reader

Bakugou doesn't tell people about his home life, so you can imagine the Bakusquad’s utter surprise when they invite themselves over only to find out he has a little omega housewife waiting for him.

“Oh, hello,” you say when the four additional Alphas pour in through the door after your Katsuki.

They all look at you unblinking. The biggest one, a redhead, doesn’t seem all that surprised—as though he’d had some suspicion that’s now been laid to rest. But the other three, an electric blond, a guy with raven hair, plus a woman with cotton candy curls, look at you as if they’d just stumbled upon a mouse in a lion's den—all slightly horrified at the sight of you.

Your alpha, the tightly wound grump seething with annoyance, stomps over to you and plants a quick kiss on your hairline. “They just barged in,” he grumbles under his breath. “Sorry if we scared you.”

You hum calmly in turn, “That’s okay. I heard you yelling in the driveway, so I wasn’t surprised.”

The four members of the Bakusquad are all gobsmacked at the domestic sight—the boss, their boss, their hard-headed macho boss, bending over and apologizing to this little omega half his size.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, peaking over the breadth of his hunched shoulders to the others with a warm smile on your pretty face. “I just finished dinner.”

“No,” Katsuki growls grumpily and winds his arms around you—like an old, tired dog, voice gruff, “Uninvited intruders don’t get my dinner.”

You only giggle it off, brushing his stubble with a soft hand, gently handling him further down to your level so you could place a kiss on his other cheek. “Oh, stop, Katsuki. Be nice to your friends.” 

Then you walk off to the kitchen.

Calling out sweetly over your shoulder, “I went a little overboard, so there’s more than enough for everyone.”

And by god, if they don't fall in love with you right then before they’ve even got a single word out.

But love at first sight isn't all so strange. None of them have ever seen an Omega outside of on film—much less been hit with the scent of one. They're all bewitched and confused at the feeling as they trail after you as if they've been compelled by some higher power.

"Please sit," you smile, gesturing to the long table where only two seats have been made. "Katsuki, hon, help me, please"

They all scoot into each their unplaced seat while your big lousy Alpha begrudgingly helps set the table for the unwanted dinner guests. They remain silent as you serve them like the perfect homemaker—all crimson-cheeked and ashamed at how they sniff after you as you pass them by.

You sit just as brightly despite the awkward tension. "Please, enjoy."

They all obey, eating in utter silence—every single one of them trying hard not to stare—and all failing miserably.

Kaminari's the first to speak, having been left shaken by curiosity he no longer could contain.

"So... did he kidnap you, or?"

It's a fair question to some extent. Omega's are a dime a dozen, all regulated strictly by protective institutions. You can't just find one to mate like in the old days. You need to apply for one and be vetted—not to mention they cost a fortune.

"Denki!" Kirishima whisper-shouts in admonishment, shaking his head from across the table.

"What? I'm I the only one who's thinking it?" he throws his hands up and defends.

Katsuki's fist strains around his fork, but you lay your mit atop his, and he calms down shortly.

“Don't worry, Mitsuki and Masaru made the arrangements and paid the dowry," you giggle, running your hand through your Alpha's ashen hair with fondness in your eyes. "I was a graduation present of sorts. They worried Katsuki wouldn't take care of himself once he started working and thought having a mate might help him with his busy day.”

If Katsuki appreciates you spilling his business like that, he doesn't say anything about it—just continues eating.

Denki sighs and sags in his chair. “I always knew Bakugou’s folks were loaded. How nice...”

Sero grins, “Your jealousy is showing.”

Denki pouts, “I’m not exactly tryna hide it.”

"Yeah..." Mina pipes up. "Can't deny I'm jealous, too."

Sero's grin falls as well with his confession, "Yeah, me neither, actually."

You keep smiling sympathetically, "Well, you're all welcome here—I don't mind the extra company."

"Really?" Denki lights up.

Mina and Sero, too—in awe and in unison, saying, "She's an angel."

"Get yer own," Katsuki grumbles. "Now shut up and finish your food. Then you're leavin'—all of you."

"Oh, come on, man," Denki whines. "Have a little pitty for your fellow Alphas."

"Let's stay respectful, guys," Krishima buds in lightheartedly. "Think about what you're asking."

Then, rethinking the conversation, the other three all realized how it had sounded, even though they hadn't meant it that way. And they all blush even darker than before.

And still, you just smile—alphas are all so cute.

Especially your hyper-protective one.

♡ prequel ♡ BAKUGOU KATSUKI masterlist ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[hwan-g]

𝑺𝑨𝒀 𝒀𝑬𝑺 𝑻𝑶 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑵 (18+)

𐙚˙⋆.˚ pair. music professor! chris x fem! reader | genre. teacher/student, chris’ pov, age gap, smut, dark romance, angst | warnings. power imbalance, obsession, flawed characters, profanity, unprotected sex, use of pet names, dirty talk, graphic sexual content — mdni ! | word count. 8.1k

𐙚˙⋆.˚ synopsis. I’m too weak to let you be, to walk away from you. It’s a twisted, distorted thing, what’s going on inside me. I see no end to it, no relief. Only suffering. I did this to you, my heart, and I cannot apologize. I don’t want to. I’m jealous, I’m jealous, I’m wretched.

I watch you.

That’s a new dress. You walk different in it, your hips sway like you want everyone to notice, and they fucking have. I have. It’s hard not to when you’re so oblivious to your wanting, but I know you, I know what you want. There’s a scarf wrapped around your hair, and the boots you wear make you almost as tall as me, bring you up to my shoulders. I’m jealous of your calves, how they get to carry you all throughout the day, how they lay down with you at night. Your eyes, how they stare at you from every reflection, attached to you, able to see every inch of you from up close.

I’m jealous of your hands, how they brush through your hair as you sit down on the chair across from my desk, the chair you’ve been sitting at for three semesters now, the best view I get to have of you. The only time I’m able to be so close to you without anyone’s suspicion, the only time you’re required to answer to me and all my questions. I have so many of those, but I want to start with your skin. Is it as soft as it looks? When the air blows your way, how would you feel under my palm, shivering, a million tiny goosebumps rising on the surface?

You’re talking to the girl that trails you like a lost puppy, not quite a friend, always around you, yet suddenly I’m glad, because you laugh at something she said, a sound so clear, so light, it lifts the furniture and cures the wood, it builds the room and covers the cracks, pure fucking magic, until all is right again, until I am left with a gaping wound where that beautiful sound nests when it’s gone from the air. It suspends in my head and I let it. I can’t take my eyes off you. You command everything. 

Satie is in your hand, what we’re studying, the copy I gave you, my personal one, with all my marks and annotations. You treat the pages carefully, aware of my watching you, yet you don’t turn to me once. You won’t look at me at all. A beast rattles inside me, begging to grab you, to hold you, to never let go. I haven’t seen you in private for weeks and I’m mad with desire, the urge to bury into your sweet cunt and wrap my hand around your warm throat, feel the pulse there, see the gasp of your mouth, the red of your tongue, your eyes on me, me, me, afraid of what I can do, of the power you give me over you, your attention, the hollow ache in my chest; I’m angry at you for being happy without me while I’m being tormented by your absence, no matter how small, no matter how big, and you still won’t fucking look at me. 

(Y/N). I think of your name how I think of God. This mythical creature that has the ability to save me. Will you? (Y/N). Look at me. Look at me.

“I am tired of always dying with a broken heart.” I speak this from memory and stare directly at the boy who’s been tailing you lately. A mediocre student, unremarkable. Nothing at all.

You can’t possibly entertain him, I’ve already told you this. He doesn’t see you, couldn’t possibly. He’ll fuck you once—even at merely the thought of this I bristle, I want to crack his fucking head open—and move onto the next pretty thing, blind to you, to what you are, to all you have yet to become. It’s unbearable to me that no one seems to realize how incredible you are; your mind, vast in all directions, insightful, and your music compositions, profound and disturbing, the little I’ve taught you and all that you’ve taught me, the way you hold the pen between your fingers, how you curl around your notebook, the way your eyes skim the pages I’ve toiled over for five years, six more prior to becoming a professor, all leading to the beginning of this school year, how you walked in my class and brought me to my knees.

“So dramatic,” someone in the back mumbles. Someone else giggles, a girl I had last year. Mundane.

I wait for your reaction, but it never comes. You stare pointedly down at my book and ignore me. You’re gonna force me to get your attention some way else. You’re punishing me for something, and I’ve no fucking clue what. You want this. Me. Begging for you. Risking everything. My God, look at your wrists, so goddamn delicate, so small. I picture wrapping my hand around them how I did the first time I stopped you from leaving, I picture myself shaking you, demanding to know what’s wrong, making you see how you make my heart bleed.

I need to know you’re okay. I need you to look at me.

“Satie was an absurdly spiritual composer for his time,” I explain, leaning against my desk, crossing my ankles, my arms over my chest. One glance at everyone else, then I stop at you. I speak to you. Let me in. Let me see you, (Y/N). “A very solitary man that was capable of inventing his own religion in order to break further from society. A character like that would be a tad dramatic, albeit entirely genius, yes?”

“How do we study this guy? There’s nothing  to learn from his techniques!” Your friend shook her head, slamming the book in front of her shut. “Child’s play. Overly simplistic. Only two noteworthy compositions in an entire career. Seriously, does anyone know anything besides Gymnopedies by him?”

“Gnossiennes,” another deadpanned. “Your point is shallow. He changed the tides. Music before the work you mention was entirely different from what it was after. Debussy, Poulenc, Ravel—all legendary figures that were deeply impressed by his so-called simplified style.”

A few heads nod in agreement. You remain still as ever, unmovable. What is in that brilliant little brain of yours? Why won’t you share with me? I know you best of all, I’d understand anything. Tell me. Tell me how a girl ruined an already troubled man, and we’re studying it a hundred and thirty-one years later. Tell me about obsession that rules over the mind, of the living digging graves of the dead and hugging their bones, of loneliness so haggard it chokes the air from my fucking lungs. Let me in, and I’ll point at you, my Suzanne Valadon.

“He fell in love once,” barely a sound, barely anything, yet it’s all I hear. I focus on your voice, the lull of it. Your castrating words, my baby. You’re here. You’re burning alive.

“He did.” I jump at the opportunity to talk to you in public. I’d give my blackened soul to hold your hand, to walk you to class. They’ll paint me a monster, but I’d be yours, I wouldn’t care. They’d whisper scandal, unethical, but I’d have stood next to you, defending what I feel for you, knowing very well they’ve only seen a sliver of my monstrous need for you.

This is not enough for me, but I can’t ask for any more of it.

“They tie many meanings to us, meanings that forsaken them, per their request. Satie loved Suzanne, but only because she was the only woman that ever paid him any attention. He wanted to possess her, so that he’d never be alone. It was a selfish love, barely a love at all, more like a torn house looking for an exorcist.”

There you go. Come on. Fight with me on this. Let me hear your voice, wash over me.

“You cannot fault a man, a man of music no less, for the way he loves. We are wicked by nature, we do not possess the softness you do. Even then, Valadon was a painter, as wildly eccentric as him. She refused to be put in a box. She saw only a mirror, and in that way, she saw herself. You could say her love was narcissistic.”

“Bonjour, Biqui, bonjour!” I hear somewhere from the side, but I only see you. I'm tuned in to you, your opinion about what I have to say.

I only ever care about what you think. When I grade your papers, my hands tremble to touch something so precious as your mind. I am the weakest man when it comes to you, I cave in like a house of cards. Pick me up and shuffle me. Toss me across the table, face down. Only use me, let me feel you. Visions of my cock entering you render me blind. Your voice, then. My name on your mouth as I push all the way in, right there on your desk, lights off, door locked. I can’t see no one but you, (Y/N), I’m tortured by the memories.

Can I see you after this? Will you stay? Will you let me lock the door again?

Your eyes scorch me. They light me on fire and leave me to die, I can’t bear the heat of them. How have I wronged you? What did I do to get your hate? And if this is it, then give me all of it, let it be the last thing before an afterlife wandering through a black forest, cursed with only the echo of you. I love you insane, battered and bruised. I love you with a dying breath, a horrible ending.

“Perhaps,” you say and it takes all of my willpower not to crawl to you. “Perhaps they deserved each other, in all their terrible love. Him obsessed, her always leaving. She got married to a banker. He wrote a twenty-eight second, four bar song, after all the portraits and love notes.”

You’re humiliating me. This. What I feel for you. You haven’t been in my office in days, you’ve become a stranger to your soul, and now you come back and shame me. You’ve found someone else. Who is he? Have I seen him? I’ll fucking end him. I’ll kill him, I swear. Don’t fucking test me. You don’t want to see that part of me, you don’t want to see what I’m capable of doing for you. 

“‘Her whole being, lovely eyes, gentle hands,’” You pin me down, you stab into me. “We enter the Romantic Era, page two hundred and seventy-nine. Known characteristics of this movement: a greater emphasis on melody to sustain interest, a focus on the nocturnal, the ghostly, and terrifying…”

I go the entire lecture desperately trying not to stare at your face, that beautiful openness you offered me now tightly shut, entirely passive. How do I survive this, even as I know I am a grown man and should not think this way. I cannot, for the life of me, remember who I was before you walked in this room, what I was doing, why, there was no reason; you, you, you, I was waiting, maybe, an empty train station, and you the flying bullet train, cutting oxygen supply as you passed in front of me, making your stop slowly then all at once, sighing into me, giving me back my life or a semblance of it.

I assign passages and give examples, muscle memory on the piano; I grill the fucking kid that has a crush on you, I make his life miserable, and I think, that’s it, that’s right. You do it to me. You do it to me so easily. This is how it is to love her, man. You’re not made for it, but I am. I’ve survived, and she’ll acknowledge it. I’ll make her.

I sound childish to myself, petty. Truth is, you’re mine. You’re fucking mine. You can’t do this to me.

You jot down notes, you burn through the board, you raise your hand and say all the correct answers, picture perfect student, and I’m as good as dead to you. I’ve been inside you, baby, you can’t forget that. I’ve felt your warm slick clamp around my cock, I’ve had your mouth on my neck moaning my name. You can’t get rid of me. I can’t rid myself of you.

I dismiss the class at eleven sharp, and call you to me. A minute, I say, about the extra credit, even as your friend eyes me, even as the boy glares at me, even as rumors have started to circulate. She’s fucking the teacher, it’s obvious. She’s with him all the time. Except you’re not, not even close, not nearly as much as I want you to be. If I had it my way, I’d hold you to me so tight you’d become an extension of me, unable to escape me whenever you feel like.

I wait until everyone exits, then inconspicuously close the door half way, grab your arm and drag you all the way to the other side of the room. You don’t put up a fight, but your dress has risen on your hips, and I’m suddenly furious. I pull at it and trap you against me and the wall. The lack of reaction sickens me. How is it possible I’ve lost you already?

“What the fuck have I done to you that was so bad, huh?” I speak low so only you can hear, but I’m boiling inside, I’m as dangerous as I’m hurt.

I want to fuck you senseless. Dead. I want to kill you. I want to bury inside you so deep I can’t ever get out. Your breathing pattern changes, you must see it on my face. I don’t feel like being fucked with right now. You’re scared of me, but not really. I would never hurt you. It’s all fantasies, all obsession. I can’t bear the thought of losing you is all, but I need to know what’s going on. This has cost me, it will cost me even more.

I grab you by the hair, tug softly at the ends, and your chin lifts. I trace it. Your eyes widen a fraction but you don’t give in, not yet. I press my erection against you, I breathe like a wild animal. You’re so small in my arms, I could do whatever I want with you. You’d let me. You have already. I just need to find that girl in you again, pull her out.

“I won’t be the teacher’s slut,” you spit out, your lips cherry red and begging to be kissed.

“Too fucking late, isn’t it?”

You try to push me away but I keep you there, your wrists above your head, your face close to mine. I’m lost on you, my mouth goes for the soft skin of your earlobe, I suck on it and feel you melt, I move to your neck and you let me, you’re rubbing your thighs together, you’re begging for friction. I have to close the door. I have to close the door and make sure I’m quick. Classes are still in session on this side of the building. I can’t let myself get sloppy. I’m not gonna risk losing this.

I bite on your neck and you gasp. I’m hard for you. My free hand reaches under your dress, cups you over the thin fabric of your underwear. Wet, goddamn soaked. A string of curses escapes me, as I glance back at the door.

“Stay here, don’t fucking move.”

I take four long strides and lock the damned thing separating us and them, though I know I still have to be quick with you. I held you back in front of the entire class. It’s already been a considerable amount of time for a simple back and forth.

“I can come back later,” you say as I near you again. “After hours.”

In my office, where it’s private and secluded. Where no one will interrupt us or hear us. What you’re suggesting is more sane than what I want to do right now. The logical part of my brain wants to agree. The rest of me lifts your dress and shoves two fingers where I know you want them the most. You writhe against me, and hook your thigh around my hip, opening. That’s it. I knew that’s all you needed. It’d been too long, that was all. I just had to show you how good it is again.

There’s my good girl. Fucking yourself on my digits, your cunt throbbing for my cock.

“I need you, please, please, please, please…”

I cup your breast in my palm, free your nipple with my teeth and bite on it. You hiss, and say my name. I almost finish in my pants, hearing that filthy mouth mutter my name, but your hands are quicker, they’re unzipping and pulling me out, red veins popping, leaking precum, hard as a fucking rock. I want to tear you apart, I want you to feel me for days after.

You jump in my arms and I lift you up. You guide me inside, and I slip into you so easily. A well rehearsed game between us, how fast we can fuck, the thrill of getting caught too great, the adrenaline rushing through my veins pistoling through you, and I pump, I fuck your little soaking cunt until you’re a blabbering mess, until all you can moan is yes yes yes, just like that, right there, right there, and I know where that is, I got you, I’ll take care of you, I’ve done it so many times before.

Where did you think of going? No one can give this to you better than me. You love my cock. There’s no other girl that will do it for me like you do. I tell you this, my forehead dropping to meet yours, your mouth seeking mine. I kiss you, my tongue tasting the strawberry bubblegum you were chewing on earlier, my dick impossibly hard. You’re milking me dry, you’re so horny, I never want to stop, (Y/N).

“I’ll never get sick of how your body responds to me, baby. Come on. I know you’re close.”

You get so whiny when you’re on the verge, your voice raspy from all the hard breathing, and I meet you thrust to thrust, I fuck into you with all I have until I shoot inside you, until my arms give out and I have to lay you on the closest desk, and still I don’t stop, I keep going until I feel your cream, until I reach between us and shove it all inside you, three fingers this time, then kneel down and taste us. You’re so far gone by that point, and I’m distantly aware that we’ve overstayed our time.

I can’t bring myself to care. I want you. I want you so much, my heart is screaming at me. I need to eat you out until you’re coming apart for me again. My hand shoots up and grabs your throat to pull you to sit up, rough, how you like it. Your face is flushed, your hair a mess. I’m proud I got you looking this way. My seed will be inside you for days, you won’t be able to wash it out. I lift your dress once more, your smooth, swollen cunt fucked nice and raw, before I give it a stern slap and bring your underwear over your other leg, dressing you.

We smell like sex. I know we’re not careful anymore. I can’t bring myself to care. Sometimes it happens, it’s a good enough excuse. This, between us. Especially between us. We’re two consenting adults. There was no way to escape you. There was nothing I could’ve done. You grew roots inside me and have been growing ever since.

“Come visit me tonight,” I tell you as I walk you to the door. I unlock briskly, and look outside, left then right. 

No one within earshot.

“Perhaps we should…” I look at you. Whatever’s in my gaze, makes you pause. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t get a reputation, Chris. I won’t.”

“Two minutes ago you told me to call you a good-for-nothing fucking whore as I fucked you dumb. I think we’re past lying to ourselves, yeah, baby?”

You blush and look down. “I just…”

“Do I need to put you on all fours?”

“That’s not fair. You can’t wave sex in my face and get me to stay.”

I retreat like a wounded dog at your feet. “Is that what I’m doing?” I ask you honestly, Heaven and Hell fighting inside me. Yes, one side says while the other soothes, you’ve done only what you know. You’ve been desperate, clinging onto whatever scraps she throws at you.

You kiss me suddenly, your hand resting on the nape of my neck, pulling me down. I move away a burned man. The door is wide open. You study my reaction and sigh. I can’t help but feel this was some sort of test and I just failed terribly.

I have more to lose than you, a regrettable and bitter realization. If the board takes this entirely the wrong way, I could get fired and my license suspended. The power imbalance is too much. If I can’t teach, I won’t be able to see you how I want to. You’ll be here and I’ll be God knows where. You want to protect me. I haven’t been doing the same. I’ve been taking and taking, I’ve been the selfish one.

“Go,” I whisper. “Leave.”

“Chris…we can still—”

“For fuck’s sake, do what you’re told for once!”

You run away from me faster than you ever have before. And for once, I don’t feel like stopping you. My body is another story. My hands tremble at my sides, my fists clenched so tight I’m afraid to move.

I want to hit something. Anything. I want you back here, telling me it’s okay, no one will know, not if we’re careful, not if we keep our distance otherwise. How I say yes, yes, as long as I get to have you like this, as long as I can get lost in you, and how I lay you down, how I never once thought of the consequences then.

Night comes, and we’re back to this. You, knocking softly on my door, and me, forever answering to your summoning, forever bound by the chains that lead only to you. The hallways are dark, the rest of the faculty having locked up long before, probably enjoying dinner in the common room, wondering once again where I am, why I never join them, how I’m no better than the rest, despite teaching Music Theory at one of the oldest universities at my twenty-nine years. I’ve earned my time of solitude. I don’t need to answer to anyone.

Anyone but you, (Y/N).

I hug you to me, and pull you inside, locking behind us. You’re tender in my hands, so impossibly soft, and I feel your melancholy mood, your glistening eyes, full of unshed tears. I wipe at them, I kiss them until they’re mine, I pacify you by whispering your name, very very quietly, my baby girl, so I can convince you that this is real, that you will never lose me, that I have nowhere else to go but you. That I would choose you over and over, that I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you doubt this singular truth.

How I regret meeting you under these circumstances, and if I had it my way, we’d be moving in together by now, we’d be browsing for a couch and a dining table. You laugh at that and call me silly. I don’t care. I got you to laugh, I shook the dreaded uncertainty away. I would do anything for you, my heart.

I sit you down in my chair and get on my knees. Your hand reaches out and I keep mine at your hips, afraid of all the things I want to do to you, with you. Your skirt is black, it reaches just above your knee; all that expanse of naked skin, smooth and unbearable. I rest my head on your lap, the stubble of my jaw rubbing against it, and you shiver, your breath turning quick, excited to have me so close to your core.

“Did you shower?” I ask you, getting hard at the thought of you walking around all day with my scent on every inch of you.

I feel you shake your head, and I smile, kissing the side of your thigh, fingers roaming down down down, the curve of your calf, down down down, your ankle, the delicate bone there. I stretch your leg and kiss all that I can. I smell your arousal, I’m so close to where I wanna be. You exhale a small breath, and I look at you. Your eyes have gone dark, wanting. My baby. I know you. I got you.

“Take your jacket off, let me see you.”

You comply, and I give you time. I make space in my desk, I turn off the lamp, I drench you in absence. All the while my need grows savage, my stomach knots. I feel like a fucking teenager, so eager to slip into warm pussy and never come out. Your warm pussy. For me, only yours.

When I turn around again, you’re taking off your skirt. No underwear. My body goes taunt, I all but fucking growl, as I grab you and smash our mouths together. My fucking girl, mine mine mine, you exist only for me, I’m going to fuck you so good, I’m going to eat you alive.

“I did it for you,” you mumble on my skin, shy, and I put you on the desk, open your legs wide. “I’ve never done it before.”

I dive right into the heat of you. Wet and sweet and slightly musky. So filthy. I love you, every part of me beats this. I love you like this, I love you, I love you. I suck your clit in my mouth, nibble it, bite it. You gasp and moan and move, your fingers in my hair, pushing me away, pulling me closer. You’re a tide, I’m at your mercy. My tongue slips in your hole, and I get to fuck you like this too. I’m so lucky. I’m so fucking privileged that it’s you under me. No one will ever compare again.

You’ve ruined me for everyone else.

What we do after this—you come, violent and thrashing, and I drink every last drop, a thirsty beast at your feet, under trance, under powerful spells and your smell, your smell, baby, your juices. I’m parched. I can’t get enough, I’m greedy, I ache all over; I pull you up and I kiss you. I kiss you and I die. You want to get down, you say, you want me in your mouth. You’re so impatient, so hungry, my love. I deny you nothing.

I grab your hair into a makeshift ponytail and let you undress me. Your fingers, working my buttons, lowering, stroking—I close my eyes, the picture of you etched behind my eyelids—I see you, stuffed with cock, slurped cunt satiated; you’re orgasmic, baby, I contemplate shoving your face on my carpet and taking you from behind, tight and ready for me. I groan, fuck your face until I see white, slapping your red cheeks, spitting in your mouth and shoving myself back in there. You’ve unlocked something primal in me and you’re enabling it, because you love having sex like this, you love being told what to do, you love being manhandled.

At the sight of you crying, I bust. You swallow everything. “Fuck, baby, god fucking damn me…” as I get on your level and wipe your face, lick the salt off your tears, bruise your lips. I take you in my arms and you fall against me, exhausted. I lay you down slowly, an angel being consumed by sin, me the devil, the defiler, and for a moment I’m ashamed; I took you a sophomore, music only your minor, literature your true passion, where your loyalty lied, and I changed your entire plan. I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to keep seeing you, to hear more of what you have to say, to witness it first hand, mere steps from you, so close I could touch, so close I could reach you.

The piano lessons I gave you in those first months, the stolen touches, glimpses of your profile as you learned the keys, as I explained the five finger scale, and then your first song, your second, the way you kept getting better and better, the fastest student I’ve ever had, your ability to write music with no idea how to play it. Teaching you was falling in love with you. It couldn’t have happened any other way. As I stare at you underneath me, hair fanning around your fucked out face, all I wanna do is lay next to you and fall asleep. 

Watching you sleep. Being next to you, trusting me with your eyes closed—I can’t have it like this. You’ve never stayed the night. I’ve never let you. It’s my responsibility to keep you safe from what I’ve dragged you into. It can only go so far until I stop it. I do it with my heart breaking, an open cage. This emotion slams into me, like I’m holding you back from some amazing thing somewhere else, anywhere else, like you could have more; all this could ever be is this dark room with the lock in place, the piano on the side, quiet, in the dead of nothing. You’re attached to a ghost, you love no one.

I’m jealous of your shadow, how it follows you around unbothered, with no shame. My head would hang, a pariah paraded, they’d throw stones, scream names. It’d be all they see, all they’d talk about—see this girl, she’d disappear every evening, and after class, yeah, so many people saw her, she’d chase after him like a lost puppy, what a strange thing—but it was me chasing, it’s me lost, the sick dog begging at your doorstep, the stranger, the disturbing.

“Chris?”

I dig my nails in your hips and lift you up, flip you around, press on your back, your ass flush against my hardening length. I refuse to let you see the monster. I’m too weak to let you be, to walk away from you. It’s a twisted, distorted thing, what’s going on inside me. I see no end to it, no relief. Only suffering. I did this to you, my heart, and I cannot apologize. I don’t want to. I’m jealous, I’m jealous, I’m wretched.

You reach and grab me from behind, rubbing your slick, coating me in your wetness. I’m in shambles, baby, and can’t you tell? You hold me by the balls. I can’t see anything but you. I’m dying. You’re killing me. I enter you, dripping, bleeding. You whimper, backing up to meet me, and I bottom out. Being inside you like this, I’m burning in the last circle of hell. There’s nothing as agonizing, no form of torture more severe. 

It’s here, like this, when I can truly lose myself entirely, where I can let go of any inhibitions; I am not a professor or a member of fuck all, or even a person, I’m nowhere near a man, surely, instead almost completely animal, because I fuck you, I’m getting what I want, I pistol into you, a mad thing, a predator, and I lean my body to cover yours, my mouth breathing hot over your ear, and you’re whining, you’re sobbing onto the carpet, where I’ve taken you over and over and over again, my perfect fucking girl, perfect little whore, how you fucking like it, yeah, just like this, helpless, desperate—yes, yes, please, please, God—I’m going to fucking ruin you, (Y/N), feel this fucking cock, so fucking full of me, baby—I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking come, Chris, don’t stop, please, please, please—

“Stop begging,” I groan into your skin, biting your shoulder, lifting you entire as I shove myself in you. “Stop fucking begging. Clamp me. Drain me, baby, come on.”

“I can’t, I can’t—”

I’m digging into you, I’m scavenging, exorcizing. This is the roughest I’ve ever had you, and you’re taking it all so well. I’m swelling with pride, I feel so deeply for how your body receives me that I can’t hold out any longer. You let me come inside every time. I know you’re on the pill, but my mind races, primal instincts and caveman thoughts—you, swollen with my child, naked, always naked, as I slowly make love to you, staring into the face of my truth, my only right, the only thing I can never regret—you’re so goddamn beautiful it hurts.

“I love the way your come drips down my thighs,” you say breathless, lost in your lust. I’m still moving inside you, still so fucking horny for you. “I sound insane.”

I collapse next to you, but keep your back tight against my chest, lifting your leg to keep fucking into your warmth, unable to stop. Sweat runs down my brow. I’m never not impossibly hard for you. No matter how many times I have you, no matter how aggressive I am, how brutal—you take it all, you fucking amazing girl. My death. 

“Tell me,” I rasp. “I could do this all night, (Y/N). Say the fucking word.”

You tilt your neck and kiss me. I salvage your mouth, run my tongue over the roof of it, and your hole engulfs me. Your pussy tightens, refuses to let go.

“Keep fucking me,” you whisper, avoiding my eyes, embarrassed. “I’m so close, Chris.”

“Tell me what you need, baby. Let me hear you.”

You mewl, and turn away from me. I quicken my pace again, this position allowing me to get deeper, and I do, I ram into you hard and fast, just how you like it, and your voice propels me, it drives me crazy, it wraps my arm around your neck and chokes.

“Your cock…I need it so bad, I crave it every night…please, Chris, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop…”

“That’s my fucking girl. Come on, baby, come on…”

I need to fucking taste you, I can’t wait any longer. I slip out of you, your wail of protest loud enough that I have to slap my palm over your mouth, slap your fucking face for disobeying the one rule I’ve set for you.

And then I dive right into your raw cunt. I slurp and lick and lap, so wet I have to reach down and stroke my dick, the sound of you so fucking filthy it’s pornographic. I growl and spit on my palm, masturbating to the sight in front of me. You climax with a gasp, and I persevere through all of it, keeping you still, but desperate for a last dip.

Once, twice, I slam back inside, and scramble to come on your stomach, thick spurts shooting out, my vision blurry, my chest heavy. A fucking mirage, covered in my cum, spent and destroyed. I love you. I love you.

“I’m goddamned obsessed with you,” I confess, falling back on my heels, breathing ruggedly, running a hand through my hair. You’re a mess all over. My fucking cumdoll. “I am a ruined man, (Y/N). I can’t think of nothing else except this. How I can spend the most amount of my time inside you.”

You laugh, and bite your lip, closing your legs on me. I slap them open, stare at what I created, a visceral feeling tearing through me. I want to cut you down, slip myself inside you, wear your skin as mine. I’m the insane one, not you. You were made to want, while my wishes condemn me.

“You’re never fucking leaving me,” I’m not proud to admit this toxic, acid thought. “I won’t survive it if you do. You’re stuck, do you understand? I’m not going to apologize, and I’ll never mention it again, but,” I rub my thumb on the inside of your thigh, braving a glance at your spent face. You’re scared, you love me. You’re afraid of the fact. “What we have… it’s not fucking normal, (Y/N). I can barely explain it myself. I need to fucking possess you, baby; I have terrible, god-forsaken thoughts of—of crawling inside your bones and carving a place for me there, a place I can never escape.”

I kiss your wet cheeks and wrap myself around you. I rest my head on your stomach, and close my burning eyes; I listen to your heartbeat, your deep breathing. You’re falling asleep, but still, your fingers reach down and soothe my demons away. I’m so devastated by you, (Y/N). I have ruined my entire life to have you. It is the highest form of happiness, the worst imaginable punishment. I need you like I need my own breath.

I drift off with my cock erect, and tears running down my face. It will never be easy, will it? Being close to you. 

It shakes the very fucking foundation of me.

They find out eventually, as we always knew they would.

The board of trustees propose a meeting, a formality, really, since I’m well aware of the rules of the school, and the ethical standpoint of these kinds of things. I’m the big bad monster that seduced you, and you hold no power over me. What do they fucking know, as I stare each of them in the eye and accept their decision. What do they fucking know. You haven’t come to class in four days. Are you okay? Are you embarrassed of us?

“Seeing as you are both adults, I’m sure we can end this unfortunate event amicably. Miss (Y/L/N) will willingly withdraw from your class, and you will be taking an extensive absence of leave for the rest of the semester. The council’s vote was unanimous on this—as a brilliant established member of the university, and a graduate of it, as such, we find it a grave disadvantage to us to let you go. Therefore, an exception has been made. Do you agree with this?”

I have no choice. I pray for whoever tipped off the Chancellor that I never find them. A severe thought crosses my mind—they’ve taken you from me. How will I be able to see you now? What will become of us if we are found disregarding their rules again? Surely death. I couldn’t possibly bear a different kind of separation, one where I lose you beyond just the classroom. It’s unimaginable and it fills me with a freezing dread, a pure horror that I feel down to my fucking core.

“Will you guarantee that this will be kept under wraps? (Y/N)—Miss (Y/L/N) is an exceptional student, one that does not deserve the public outrage something like this would cause her,” I keep my face straight, my expression contained. “It was a mishap, a lack of judgment on my part, nothing more. She remains a brilliant girl, and I wish for nothing more than to see her excel and graduate with utmost respect.”

“Of course. This is a private matter. But, Mr. Bahng, if we receive a similar document again… you understand our position, surely?”

One last time. I need to see you one last time.

“Certainly. Thank you for your time.”

Your phone sends me straight to voicemail. I’m not brave enough to try your dorm room, not with all those girls in there and their judgy eyes, and you refuse to step foot in my class even though you still have two lectures before we’re both to leave. They must’ve told you it was better to stay away for a bit, as to not make it so obvious, and yet I cannot for the life of me see the logic behind you being so far away from me, where I can’t reach you.

I’ve told you this. It won’t end well if I lose you.

I am over myself. I look for you everywhere. I see you in everything, in my dreams, to what little I manage to sleep, in the corners of my office, all the places I’ve had you writhing underneath me, your seat in the very front now occupied by that stupid boy—they all seem to know. Not for certain, but it’s in the glint of their eyes, the silences your voice would fill with such certainty it would steal my fucking breath away.

I ignore them all. I DON’T HAVE YOU, I want to scream at them. My worst nightmare came true, and I can only remember your sweet laugh as I’d bite on your neck, your honey exclamation—oh, it tickles!—as I did it over and over again. I can only remember the warmth of your cunt, the vivid smell of it, and your heart, the fluttering of it against my chest, how I held you to me, and you were safe from all of them, how we should’ve stayed in that office and never unlocked the door.

Leave a message after the tone. Beep.

“Answer your fucking phone, (Y/N). You’re driving me crazy.”

A day later, there you are, getting coffee, a book in your hand, your entire face smiling, so kind it messes with my head, the inner workings of my chest cavity.

I watch you from afar, notice how absentminded you look, how ignorant I must’ve been those past few days thinking this all hasn’t meant a thing to you, because it’s always been in the little things your face makes. Your tells, the things that give you away. How you listen without having heard a thing, how you play with your hair when you’re nervous. I’ve noticed them all, my love, and I can tell right now, that you’re thinking of me.

I think of approaching you, of showing myself to you, but it’s too soon. I can’t walk up to you in public, not on campus. I weigh the risk, the consequences—they’re the same, they haven’t changed, because to me this was always the outcome, this was always the end of us.

I call your name in my grief. Only to myself, a gentle summoning, just so I can pretend your name still belongs in my mouth. It does. It always will.

You do not see me. Or, if you do, you pretend not to. I can’t be sure which hurts more. You shatter me.

I try again the next day, a Saturday. As soon as we’re out of school grounds, a good distance away, I pinch the fabric of your jacket, jilting you. You turn around terrified—this is how I feel, I want to yell and shake you.

Alone, lost, in a labyrinth where I cannot find myself, I cannot find you. Endless loops, unbearable darkness.

“We can’t do this,” you say immediately, flinching away from me. From me. I’m ugly then, I’m dangerous, I can’t seem to control my temper. “I told you we can’t do this.”

I lunge for you, I grab your face in my hands, and force your ruinous eyes to look into my blind ones. I’ve seen nothing since that night we slept together. I’ve been walking around without knowing what day it is, without direction.

“I’ve called you,” I rasp. “Where’s your goddamn phone?”

“I didn’t want to talk to you.”

Oh, my baby. You’re sick with grief, aren’t you? Just like me. Your eyes are raw underneath all that black liner.

Still, I ask, “Why?”

You place your hands on top of mine, and remove them slowly. I cherish even your rejection. At least you’re here, in front of me, corporeal and talking to me.

“I got off easy,” you admit, head dropping in regret. “I didn’t know what they did to you, I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“I can’t be near you. They sent me on ‘vacation’.”

You nod, and it takes every last bit of willpower to not smash you into my chest and keep you there, safe and sound.

“It will never be the same between us, will it?” You sound so eternally sad. I want to fix it. Fix all of it.

But I can’t. And it eats me alive.

“It will not.” In admitting this, I lose a piece of myself. My heart wails.

Look at me again, (Y/N). Meet me halfway and I’ll always choose you. Nothing has changed for me. Meet my eyes, see that I love you. That I’ve loved you from the beginning, that I was made to love you, that nothing ever existed before you, and that I cannot see in front of me.

“Then, we should end it.” 

No. No.

“If we end it once and for all here—”

“I won’t,” I say, keeping my hands to myself, biting down my anger, the pain rising up to choke me. “End it? What does that—I’ve buried myself in you, (Y/N). You’re in me like my own fucking spirit. End it? This will never end. We can never end.”

I got you crying now. As much as it tugs at me, I’m glad of your tears. They show you care, that you don’t really believe the bullshit words coming out of your mouth. I won’t hear any of it, I fucking won’t. You reach for any part of me to hold, fingers lifting in desperate attempt, and I pull you to me by the nape of your neck, our bodies crushing, the wave coming up to meet the shore.

I’ll remain astute as you come and go. You don’t have any choice but to return. It’s where you belong. With me, I whisper in your hair. Stay with me.

“To what end?” You mumble, your voice broken with emotion.

I bring my other arm around you, hold you close against me. “Ours. Until I’m dead. There’s no one else for me, baby. You. It’s always gonna be you.”

You won’t hear any of it. “I can’t ask you to do this for me, Chris.”

I silence you, kiss your forehead, your eyelids. “This is for me. I’m the fucking— I’m the selfish son of a bitch that can’t quit you. If it happens again, I’ll resign,” I made a promise to myself then. “I’ll resign and wait for you to graduate. Once you do, we’ll leave this damned place and go wherever you want. I’ll take care of you, you know that right?”

You nod, and I feel your fists bunching the material of my shirt, as if being this impossibly close isn’t enough for you. As if you’d wear my own clothes if you could, coexist in this body of mine. That’s all I’ve been asking for, you know. To somehow become one entity, to never have to part from you.

Why were our souls split? Not ours, I think bitterly. Ours should’ve never parted. What a cataclysmic event it must’ve been.

“I’ll rent an apartment, I’ll leave campus,” I whisper my plans to you, as we walk along the maple trees wrapped in each other’s arms. “It’ll be ours, you can come whenever you please. You’ll have your own key.”

“I’ll buy my stupid couch and a matching coffee table,” you laugh softly, and I’m ready. I’m sure about this.

I need you to be happy like this, to not have a care in the world. I’ll make it happen, I fucking swear it to you, my heart.

“And the island chairs, and ridiculous knick knacks that I won’t have a say over?”

Your unadulterated giggles set me on fire. “All of them, yes! It’ll be out of an IKEA catalog.”

All I want, all I want—my very soul beats this. A life with you. Beyond the class. It’s always been beyond it.

I say this to you that evening, as I make love to you in a borrowed bed, my name coming from your lips still the sweetest sound I’ve ever had the privilege to hear. My heart’s song, the greatest one. The rise and fall of your breath. My own. Its unique composition.

I love you. I love you so much my chest bleeds open with the truth of it. I’ll gladly run dry at your feet. 

“You’re everything, (Y/N). You’re everything.”

Nothing will ever take you from me. Not even death itself. Especially death.

I will find you there as well, if I have to. 

[mcondance]

knowing better, twisted pleasure ☆ spencer reid

MDNI 18+ oral yay!!!, i love thinking about spencer with his head between my legs so here we are, overstim so “stop” is said once so keep that in mind ☆ title from killshot by magdalena bay, listen as you read if you want! spencer i can’t get enough of you please.

☆ ☆

it’s too much, you can’t. you can’t.

“spence— spence stop,” you plead as you squirm and your legs draw up in an attempt to get away from him. but he just won’t stop. unaffected, he slips his hands under your thighs and pulls you closer to his mouth, to where he wants you.

soft locks are enveloped in your hands as you card your fingers through them because even in your delirium, giving him affection is like breathing. your objections skate right over that pretty head of his and he keeps going, because he knows you don’t mean it. he knows that if he stops and rises back up to his knees, you’ll be begging him to “come back, please,” like you did that one time he felt really evil.

you gasp when you feel two fingers enter you, and you groan painedly when they begin to move, stroking maddeningly.

spencer’s too good at this, his fingers are too caring and precise inside you and his tongue is too soft and sweet as it laves over you. jesus, what the fuck.

it’s all so much, so much. a tortured, groveled moan rips from your chest as another sickly-sweet pang of feeling rocks through you. spencer’s commanding fingers tighten around your thighs, stacking yet another sensation on your already overwhelmed nervous system. human evolution, no matter how developed and perfected, was not made for this. it balks in the face of what spencer’s doing to you.

“oh my god— spence,” you whine, locking in on him through your blurry, teary eyes. between your legs, he looks unfortunately perfect, even as he shuts you down and lights you up all at the same time. you’ve got enough going on under your skin to power your whole block.

it’s lewd, how he looks so pretty eating you out. his messy brown hair and those melting golden eyes, and most disgustingly, his mouth hidden where his tongue flicks against your absolutely soaked center. the visual is art, though, the plane of his shoulders and his ever-expressive liquid hazel eyes flitting between closed and taking you in, in your beautiful ruin.

it’s in moments like these where spencer feels good. you’re explicitly, obscenely beautiful to him, and your pleasure is something he takes great pride in giving to you. as you lose yourself in it, sinking into the sticky pool of feeling, he gets to bear witness to it all.

“oh, baby,” you moan so warmly as he flattens his tongue and licks right over your clit. before, his tongue was quick and precise, but now he’s taken to loving you slowly, licking in a way that could only be called sensual. he hums as he runs his tongue over you again, so salacious, open-mouthed and he looks so dirty that you can’t fucking take it any more. again, your body does its best to protect you from feelings you can’t compute, but spencer does his best to make you take what you need more than air.

then, his fingers inside you focus on their goal, and he’s curling them familiarly and kissing that spot, rubbing it softly.

“yeah, fuck—,” is all you can scramble out before what’s been building up in you since he first settled between your legs explodes. if you didn’t know better, you’d think you’re exploding with how fucking much you feel. it should be humanly impossible to feel this way, but it’s not, because you’re feeling it here and now as your ears pop and your vision goes black and spencer just keeps fucking consuming you. he has the nerves to moan from between your legs, sending shockwaves through your already ravaged being.

eons pass. you travel through a thousand universes and sit upon a thousand suns before you come back to your Earth, with your spencer looking softly up at you, his head laying on one of your glossy thighs. as your senses slowly return to you, it seems he’s wiped his hand off on the sheets because the hand that’s rubbing the outside of your thigh is relatively dry, considering its previous position.

“you okay?” he asks warmly.

“fuck you,” you drag, croaky and unpolished.

he snorts.

“yeah, you’re okay,” he says through his laughing, unhooking his hand from under your trembling thigh as he rises up to hover over you. he kisses you, and just barely begrudgingly, you kiss him back.

“good?” he whispers over your lips. you wrap your arms over his neck as you both settle with each other.

“yeah,” you acquiesce lightly with a shrug and a tilt of your head, before you bring him down for another kiss.

[feyascorner]

It had been a complete accident. Truly.

Mindlessly running your hand through his hair, the tips of your fingertips unknowingly brush against the tip of his ear, and it makes him groan.

Thinking it had been out of pain, you tear your hands away from his head, eyes blinking wide. "What happened? Are you okay?"

And instead of a scowl, you find that his cheeks are multiple shades darker than usual--almost pink. He mumbles something under his breath, then shifts his entire body around so that his face is buried into your stomach, arms locked around your waist. He says something, this time so muffled you can barely hear the words they're supposed to form.

"I can't hear if you're talking into my stomach."

He says it louder this time. "...good."

"What?"

Then, finally, he whips his head just enough to meet your gaze. "It feels good."

Your brows lift, and you slowly slip your hands back into his hair. "This?"

"No--I mean, that too, but--" he's flushing brighter now, and your eyes practically sparkle at how flustered he sounds. It's a rare occurrence, but Astarion at a loss for words is something you hold dear to your heart. "--my ears."

"Your ears," you repeat, hands slowly inching to the sides of his head. You carefully trace the shape of his pointy ears, watching as he practically shudders, melting into your touch. Even your own cheeks seem to heat. "Like that?"

He wordlessly nods, opting to bury his face into your stomach again to avoid facing the power he's just given you. And you use it well, gently massaging his skin with your finger pads, drinking in the way his body reacts to your touch. "Oh my god."

Hours later, when your head lays on top of his arm and he has you close to his chest, you smile up at him cheekily.

He notices the way you're struggling to keep in your laughter. "What?"

"What does it feel like when I touch your ears?"

He nearly chokes on his own words, horrified by how upfront the question is. "It--I don't know, it just feels nice."

"Nice is an understatement."

He groans. "Please, darling, this is humiliating."

And despite the way you continue to poke fun at him and the way he feigns annoyance, whenever the two of you are alone, he always opts to put his head in your lap, and you choose to knead your fingers through his curls.

[celesterayel]

the it couple | luke castellan

request: I’m not really sure what qualifies as a request but could you write a Luke x reader where they are like the camp it couple? 🫶🫶

summary: common knowledge is how irrevocably in love luke castellan is with you.

"you know i adore you, i'm crazier for you than i was at sixteen lost in a film scene" - t.s.

w.c. : 702

warning(s) : none

pairing : luke castellan x reader

the campers of camp half blood don't quite remember how or when it had happened. It just always was: you and Luke Castellan, that is. where you went, he followed. the shadow to your guide and you the balm to his sorrow. annabeth used to whisper to the younger children–the ones who had been taken to camp far too young and therefore had little knowledge of love–that you and Luke Castellan were soulmates: seamlessly bound to one another. 

you yourself had never believed in fate despite the fact that you had met them–old bitter hags. you preferred to believe that life was not set in stone, unbreaking and withered to a timeline. it perhaps led to your brash attitude and ‘ride or die’ mentality but your mannerisms only made luke castellan fall in love with you all the more. some things were just beyond the gods' control. you and luke were one of those things.

you had first arrived at camp a decade ago, where you were then claimed by hades. of course news of you spread like wildfire: you were gorgeous, your talent with your bo staff was unmatched, and your father was one of the three–strong power ran through your blood and you showed it everyday during training. but that wasn’t exactly what caught the attention of everyone, rather the fact that the popular gaze of a certain brown-eyed boy always strayed to you. when you laughed, he smiled. where you went, he strayed. you were magnet and he was never far away.

you both tipped toed around one another, constantly drifting toward the other. playful banter slipped between you two and those around you wondered when you would finally just get together. the first time you guys finally breached the delicate line between more than ‘obviously pining friends’ was after an exciting rivalry game.

despite the strategic planning of annabeth–who clearly eyed the tension between the two of you–and the excellent swordsmanship, house ares had won the game because of you. You had been the one to distract luke castellan after clarisse had forced you to use your charms. it was fun to see the cute blush adorn his cheeks when you approached the head of the Hermes House.

“so, does this mean you agree to go out with me?” he breathed out, hands twirling his sword as he was once again bested by you in capturing the flag.

you laughed out, “i was just waiting for you to ask, castellan.”

no sooner after you had begun dating did the infamy of you two reach an all high around camp. how could it not? 

you two were the all anyone could talk about–the best of the best.

luke castellan was already the best swordsman at camp; a prodigy in the making. his brown curls and dimples only made him more popular among the girls and young teens. he was one of the highest placed leaders around camp; one of the few that clarisse actually respected and the one that annabeth regarded most. 

you were a gem in the rough: bold and brash at times, but calculating and quick-witted. you were the one to turn to when those around camp felt alone, always ready to take care of others and offer words of wisdom. you were a living definition of rules being broken and your power only highlighted the height of your placement around camp. 

when you two walked by, the eyes of the others strayed. newcomers learned of your names before they learned what exactly camp half blood was. 

when you threw your head back and laughed, people watched as Luke curled his lips in pride at being the one behind your laughter. when he sat round the fire and sang songs with the campers, you sat right beside him; head laying on his shoulder and hoping the moment would never end. he willingly allowed himself to lose camp games if only by your hand, time and time again.

yes, you were the it couple of camp half blood but none of that mattered, when he was the one for you.

[beaunoor]

when your bf wants to experiment with you riding on top. he's gripping your thigh with one hand while the other holds the vibrating wand to your clit.

𓇼𓇼𓇼

The tv in the background plays a late night show on low, while you lay your cheek on his chest, one hand lazily rubbing small circles on his chest. He lays out on the bed, eyes on the tv. He’s got one hand behind his head and the other lightly massaging your hair. It’s moments like these that you love. It was just you two in the quiet world.

But the touching and massages always turn into something more. Especially when in the privacy in your bedroom you both are barely clothed in the first place. These moments always end in more heavy petting, where you both ruin the quiet air with raspy gasps and moans. 

You're on his lap now, the both of you sat up. Your lips on his, mouths wet and moving in a dance. Your hands running through his hair, gripping his tresses desperately. His hands run down your back grabbing a handful of your ass, then up again to your back to pull you into him, getting your hips to move in a slow tandem on his growing bulge.

“Let’s try something different this time baby.” He says after pulling away from your lips, a small grin forming

“Like what?” You ask, going back to kiss his cheek then his jaw—

“Just stay on top and you’ll find out.” You pull away and raise an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Don’t worry, I promise you’ll like it.” He smiles innocently.

Except maybe you like it too much.

“Hahh, please!” you exclaim, feeling him buck up into you again. Hands flexing in the air, knowing you couldn't touch anywhere.

He’s got one hand around your thigh, squeezing every so often, while the other holds the wand still. You’re struggling to control your sounds when the powerful vibrations coming from your sex toy rubs on your mound. Then the force of his cock drives up again and you can't help but let out a scream. Your neighbors are sure to get a kick out this tonight.

“Remember you can’t touch, stay still baby.” he mutters, eyes watching what he can see himself move in and out of the tight grip you have on him.

You’re struggling keeping yourself upright, the stimulation of everything making your head fuzzy and your body shaking. He won’t relent on the pounding, you barely doing any of the work.

“Nngh, stop! Please! n’t take it anymore!” you cry, tears welling up, hands coming down to rest on his chest to keep yourself upright.

“I know, I know. Feels so good.” he coos at you, reveling in the erratic movements of your body, “You can take it.”

He moves the toy away and tosses it aside, both hands coming to grip your hips to hold you in place as he bucks deeper into you. Hitting that gooey spot over and over to help finish you off.

“Oh my god—I’m cumming, I’m cu–” you’re cut off from your words by the force of your orgasm, juices squirting out as your mouth opens in a silent scream. Your body jolting at the powerful contractions happening in your abdominal cavity. 

“Oh baby, did you just squirt?” he lets out a small laugh as your arms give up and you fall forward onto his chest, sweaty and breathing heavily. All you can do is let out a quiet whimper.

“Hold on baby. I didn’t get to cum yet.”

toji, kento, satoru, eren, connie, armin, jean, suguru, isagi, yuta, kaeya, takuma, sae, ryusei, hanma…whoever else seems right to you

wrote this really quick to get something out

[elliezlils11utt]

summary: Abby trapping u with her thighs while you eat her out !! 💋

parings: power bottom!abby x sub!top reader💕

~~~

Abby would shove your face father into her needy cunt. praising the fuck outta you as you eat her so well. her meaty thighs wrapped around your head. She layed at the end of the bed, you kneeled down in front of her. treating her like a god. her hands tangled in your hair, grunting and huffing as your tongue runs up and down her slit. her face contorts in pleasure. you watch as her abs flex up when she moves. her eyebrows twitching and scrunching up as your mouth sucks on her clit. her mind goes foggy. ‘oh- god. good girl just like that. fu-fuckkk—‘ she’d mumble through her teeth, clenching her jaw. your nails dig into her thighs. holding her steady as she tries to wiggle out of your grasp. you hum into her cunt. you look up at her, momentarily leaving your position at her pussy. you drag your tongue from her slit to the tip of her clit. a proud smile on ur face. Abby’s eyes open loosing the feeling of your mouth working between her folds. her hands drag your head back into her cunt. and she’s back in bliss.

omg and thinking about when she cums!! I know that bitch ass owen did not treat my girl right so whenever you make her cum with ur mouth, her orgasms are so strong!! AHH.

‘cum on my tongue, please abs ?’

~~~

you beg for something you know is going to happen either way. she would suck through her teeth at your words, Her back arching on the bed and her legs would wrap around your head, begging fully in closed in her would be fucking heaven !! her thighs flex as the muscles in her body tighten as she cums. your lips making out with her pretty pussy. she would grunt throughout her whole orgasm. and she would cum for so long! her high would last as long as she would let it. in conclusion I want Abby’s thighs around my head right meow.