#griffith smut

[writtenbyjeanofarc]

#!! - 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑴𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵 — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ; ᴀᴄʜɪᴇᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ

CHAPTER ONE - CHAPTER TWO - CHAPTER THREE

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: smut.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Griffith X You (fem! reader)

𝖈𝖜: RAPE/NON-CON.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊:

Finally finished the fic after months of procrastinating.

This fic is not proofread or beta read.

Don’t try this at home, kids!

….And some rape down there. I don’t condone any of this irl (no shit). It is to note that it is part of the story’s progression and I only intend to explore such dark elements like the series always intended to do so in canon.

The “don’t like, don’t read” rule applies here. Kindly heed the tags one more time before proceeding.

“Griffith…I…” you paused as you caught your breath. You were failing to fake self-confidence at this point in time, your legs shaking as you could only watch yourself give into the fear that made its way through your head and heart.

“I…wasn’t expecting your presence here…I….”

Griffith’s eyes narrowed in response, letting out a low hum. He was getting closer this time, giving you less time to react and run for your life.

You took a step backward, pressing your hands against the dresser for some support. You knew you’d hit a dead end the way you clumsily hit the wall, groaning softly in response. You waited and waited for a sign to attempt running past Griffith and escape the palace with all your will’s might. You still had your bathrobe on, which made you partially vulnerable to him, but you didn’t care. You just had to run away from the man who has been invading your personal space.

“Worry not, princess. I came not to disturb your slumber. What I ask for is one simple thing that I believe you and I could share. If I’ll allow you to do so, that is.” Griffith said.

“Who are you to tell me what to do with my Kingdom? This is my lair, as bestowed by my father before me. The fact that you’re trespassing does not make you worthy of seeing me at my-“

Your words were cut off by Griffith, his cunning tone making itself clear in the dead silence. “And who told you that this kingdom was entirely yours? Remember, your induction to queenhood was only taken into consideration because of your father’s sudden death. Besides, it’s not as if you have any experience in leadership whatsoever.”

“Are you underestimating me?” you asked, slightly annoyed with his attitude.

“Why, of course not.” Griffith said as he took brisk steps forward, making it almost impossible for you to escape. “Want to know a secret?”

You nodded in response.

“I killed your father.” Griffith said, shamelessly. He walked three steps forward, caging the both of you within a small distance.

“You son of a bitch! Why….why would you do such a thing?! My father has been-“ you were interrupted once again.

“I had to do it. There could only be one way to test as to whether Midland is fit to be led by a Queen all on her own…..and turns out, the ‘Queen’ in question has no experience.” Griffith said.

“How dare you insult me in my own palace!” you exclaimed. “I’m leaving!”

“Not when you’re barely dressed like that.” Griffith smiled deviously. “Now…..come here….”

“What….what are you implying?” you asked, attempting to charge your way to the exit of your bedroom. “N-never mind….I’m fucking leaving.” As you charged your way to the exit, you felt two hands wrap around your waist from behind. No, it was too late. Griffith caught you. Pulling you backward, he lifted you to your own bed and started stripping down until he wore nothing but his Behelit.

You attempted to escape once more, only for Griffith to pin you down to the bed and press his lips into yours. You fought against the sheets and turned your head to break the kiss, but your attempts were rendered futile as it only prompted Griffith to slip his tongue inside your mouth. Griffith kissed you harshly, and it frankly felt like kissing an untamed beast cornering its prey. You never knew Griffith was ...quite an expert at this, his mouth slightly nibbling at your lower lip everytime he retreated.

After finally pulling away from you, Griffith latched his face onto your neck, positioning himself next to your right ear. “Give yourself to me, Princess. After all, your Kingdom….will soon be mine.”

“No…NO!!!!” you exclaimed.

“A little stubborn, are we?” Griffith asked, tilting his head. “Well, it’s not like you’ve stood a chance. We’re taking off this one, okay?”

You kept tugging at your bathrobe’s ‘belt’ to keep it away from the filthy man on top of you. “Griffith, I don’t want this, please…..”

“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Too stubborn.” Griffith said, his touch growing angrier as he grabbed your bathrobe by the waist, curling his hand to a fist. Using his other hand, he slid a sleeve of the wardrobe off your shoulder, revealing your bare shoulder and right breast. Griffith dug right in, his lips kissing your hardened nipple as he engulfed his mouth to suckle it whole. While doing the do, he used his right hand to slide off the other sleeve of your bathrobe, exposing your other breast and stripping you down to your naked form. Griffith pulled away from your nipple, impressed with how he rendered the Queen of Midland helpless under his touch.

“Mmmm……what a pretty little thing you make, just for my kingdom.” Griffith let out a satisfactory hum. “This will be a rather fun time showing them who’s deserving of the throne.” Next thing you knew, Griffith was about to go down on you, positioning himself around the area of your waist.

“Don’t resist, Princess. Now, be a good girl and spread your legs wide open.” You hesitantly obeyed, up until Griffith grabbed you by your inner thighs, spreading them wider and raising them. Finally, he slipped your legs up his shoulders. It felt dirty having someone’s face right up your pussy, especially since this was your first time. Your mind wandered as you closed your eyes, hoping everything you just witnessed was just a dream. But no, it wasn’t. You fought against Griffith’s clutches, tugging at his hair and pushing him away.

But this just prompted him to dig right in, lapping at your fluids as he used his hands to part your lips for better tasting. You muffled a moan from the pleasurable feeling, covering your mouth with one hand. Griffith’s tongue worked you in fast, yet practiced motions—the tongue moved swiftly and curled just the right amount to send you shivers down your spine, earning muffled whimpers from you.

Granted, vibrators didn’t exist in the Medieval Era of Midland, so you might as well indulge in that feeling of someone’s tongue right up your pussy.

Griffith withdrew from eating you out for a while, his breathing and humming loud enough to send you goosebumps. “Mmmm…. You’re already this wet from a little kissing and heavy sucking. I wonder how it would be like to have you sing while having myself fully inside you, to have you clench around me while I slowly take what’s rightfully mine.”

“L-let go!!!!” you screamed. “I don’t want this!!!”

“You’ll take whatever’s been given to you, Princess. After all, you’re something…..” Griffith said, strict and unwavering. “Magnetic.”

Griffith moaned as he dug right back in, his tongue hovered over your clit. He started tracing small circles in a slow pacing, which left you impatient and begging for more. You tugged into his hair trying to fight him off, but as previously stated, you were left with no defenses against his strong grip.

“Griffith!!! Oh God…..!!!! I’m gonna…..!!!”

The feeling gave you that guilt, guilt for enjoying this man’s advances on you, and guilt because you just couldn’t believe your sense of authority was being challenged by a man of common birth.

But Griffith refused to stop. No, he didn’t stop suckling at your clit gently to give you a break. Griffith was merciless in the bedroom, leaving you with no choice but to accept the fate you’ve been accustomed to.

“Agh! Griffith!!! Stop….!!!!” you moaned out loud.

Griffith’s tongue kept going, and it wasn’t long before he inserted two digits inside your entrance without warning. He just didn’t care. His tongue slowly picked up the pace, speeding up and finally making you reach that sweet, sweet climax you’ve been waiting for. You fucked back subconsciously against his tongue, riding out your orgasm until it was ready to subside. After coming down from your high, you suddenly realized Griffith was looking down at you icily with his bright blue eyes, his body towering over yours despite lying down in bed.

You were screwed. What was about to happen next?

“Hmmm…..perhaps you are ready to take all of me. I’m going to fuck you so good you’d actually forget being the Queen of Midland.”

“No…..NO!!!!” you exclaimed, attempting to get up and reach for the door. You were stopped dead by Griffith once again, leading him to push you back to the mattress and grabbing you by the legs. Spreading them wider, Griffith let go of your legs, only to stroke his length before initially inserting it in your entrance. Slight precum formed through a pearl-like shape at the slit of his cock, adding lubrication to the process of entering you. Before you knew it, Griffith made efforts to adjust and bury his length within your vagina, though you ached in retaliation.

“Aghhh!!! It hurts! It burns! Let go!”

“Hush, princess. I know what I’m doing.” Griffith said as he spread your legs open for a better view. He adjusted himself by taking slow yet sure steps in burying his length into you, filling you to the brim. You were at this point begging to be freed from his grasp, though your fainting strength was no match for him.

Placing his hands on your wrists, Griffith pinned you down and started thrusting his hips in a slow, yet ambitious pace. You bit your lip to hold back your moans, but it was all for naught. You let out a small “uh” while he rocked in and out, sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the air as he leaned closer to your ear to speak.

“You don’t stand a chance against ruling Midland.” Griffith muttered at an intimate distance from you.

“What…..Huh…..?” you whimpered, your breasts being grabbed as it bounced from Griffith’s thrusts. “What….do you me-ngggh!” you grunted, trying to resist him by trying to get up. “I owe you nothing! Just please, let me rule my Kingdom in peace! I’ll do anything…..anything….but this…..!!!”

“Surrender your pride, little one.” Griffith said as he caught his breath. “I want you to dream of this.”

As a means of defending yourself, you attempted to grab Griffith by the hair to pull and tug on it roughly. However, your efforts to distract Griffith failed. You had to take responsibility for what had to happen next, and it was all because Griffith wanted a taste of your kingdom.

“I have every right to follow my dream, princess. And I want you and your kingdom surrendered to me. That is the pinnacle of achieving my dream.”

“You’ll…..you’ll never…..have my kingdom…..” you fought your way to speak in the midst of denying the pleasure Griffith gave you.

“You’ll take whatever I deem right to give you, princess. After all, your kingdom and this body will be mine.” Griffith said.

You screamed as loud as you could that the servants and every guest would hear you. The walls were soundproof, but you didn’t have a choice.

“Please!!!! I don’t want this! Please get off!!!”

“You do know screaming out for servants to assist you won’t do your kingdom justice, right? Mmmmm…..”

Right on the dot, Griffith stopped thrusting, pulled out, and aggressively flipped your body over that you were facing the bed. With one fell swoop, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pinned your head to the pillow to muffle every moan and protest you had up your sleeve. Without warning, he repositioned himself right up your entrance, taking you from behind.

“This is a far better idea to keep your mouth shut and do as I say.” Griffith commanded.

“Mmmmmhhhh…….mmmmhhhhh!!!!”

The sounds of lewd clapping resumed, Griffith’s cock milking every last bit of your pussy’s juices with fervor. There was no turning back now, and he was truly getting at it, without any form of warning or informing you of any discomfort felt. It was like Griffith only cared for his own pleasure and never left crumbs of remorse for your wellbeing. This left you scarred—physically, emotionally, and most significantly, spiritually.

“Mmmmmm……I’m getting quite close.” Griffith smirked as he leaned forward. “What are you going to do about it, princess? Squirm? Run away?”

Your eyes widened at his remark, your body telling you to escape as he was nearing his release. You certainly did not want to carry his child, nor want to do anything with the monster who pounded on you animalistically.

“Noooooo!!!!!!” your voice protested while being muffled by the pillows where your head rested.

“As I said, you’ll take whatever’s been given to you. Now….”

It wasn’t long before your body betrayed you. You felt your climax approaching despite being against the thought of Griffith fucking you. Subconsciously, you fucked back, trying to get Griffith’s cock deep in you before you could feel his fluids leaking straight from your soaked cunt.

Three.

Two.

One.

Your moans and grunts filled the pillow, adding to its warmth while Griffith bit down your neck out of extreme pleasure. His thrusts sped up as he began to feel ropes of cum shooting itself inside you before pulling out. And the feeling was mutually GOOD. You let out a groan as your muscles relaxed, Griffith moaning as his cum began to leak out from your newly filled cunt. You were soaking wet and drenched in sweat as Griffith stayed inside you for long.

You were now marked as his. You didn’t know what to do at this point as you were deflowered after your coronation day.

“Sleep well, princess. Provided you are to raise a child from our time together, just let me know. We can build a kingdom where you could rule by my side.”

You couldn’t respond, which prompted Griffith to flip your body back to lying on your back. It was truly a tiresome night, filled with intensity and passion as Griffith stole everything from you.

You just never stood a chance.

Your eyes suddenly admitted defeat, staring up at Griffith as he looked down at you with a look of an angel. He was charming, so to speak, but heavily dedicated to what he promised to achieve.

And he achieved it.

He achieved his dream.

[angelltheninth]

Could Griffith make you submit?

Anon... there is not a single part of me that would submit to that man. But you did inspire me to write this so thank you.

Pairing: Griffith x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, hate sex, rough sex, biting, hair-pulling, fight for dominance, insults, banter

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: He has the most pullable hair. Plus I love characters with white hair, usually. He is a very rare exception, but still looks pretty.

Whoever said that the line between love and hate is thin they were correct. On some days you got along with him just fine, on other days it was a knife fight, sword fight, fist fight, but it always ended the same way, with the two of you tangled up in bed together.

"Ouch! How many times do I have to tell you-?!" You pulled him away from your neck, saw him grinning down at the new bite mark he made, "No. Biting." You warned but he smiled wider.

"You can say it all you want. You know I won't listen." He never listened to anyone but himself. Especially when he set his mind on something. It's what made him so infuriating to deal with most of the time. Griffith chuckled as you glared at him. "I'd much rather listen to this."

He pushes his cock deep inside of you, his balls smacking against your ass. As you gasp from the way your pussy is being stretched he leans back down to bite the other side of your neck.

"Fucker." You pull him back again and scratch your hands against his scalp.

"Bitch." He retorts back with a cocky grin, his hips picking up the pace, "You think you can insult me and get away with it?"

Now it's your turn to grin, "I know I can. I'm the only one who can. Because you love this too. You love fucking me. Manwhore."

"Cockslut."

"In your dreams." You wrap your legs around him and lip him into his back, your hands grabbing his wrists and pinning him down. If there's one thing he absolutely hates that's you being on top.

"And your nightmares." Griffith met your hips in a rough sync, his hands digging into your thighs and keeping you against him. "You talk so much, you say you hate me, you fight me at every turn and yet... Here. You. Are." He grunted and moved his cock in and out. "Pussy drooling on my cock. If you hate me so much you should get off." As if he would let you go anywhere before he's satisfied.

You leaned down and cradled his face in your hands, "Let you off so easily? I don't think so." Before he could talk back yet again you pushed your fingers into his mouth. Griffith eyes widened for a moment before he bit them, not hard enough to make you pull back but enough to leave more teeth marks. "We're not done yet Griffith, not yet. Not until you come into my pussy like I know you want to."

Griffith bit down harder, growling curses at you as he pushed you down against him, his cock throbbing as you moaned on top if him.

"Cocky bitch." With both hands he smacked your ass, making your body jolt on top of him, "If you want my cum so badly then stay right here until it's all in you. I'm not letting you off my cock until you can't do anything but moan my name." That wasn't an empty threat, you knew, but you also knew he was gonna have to work to make it happen.

[dollwrites]

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!queen!reader, sex on command, degradation, Griffith is lowkey misogynistic, titty fucking, spit kink, cum marking, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟯 ∣ day two [ griffith + tit job ]

“I can be the most perfect gentleman that a lady could require, but I have an sneaking inkling that Her Majesty wants a scoundrel, instead. A dirty mercenary, a ruthless animal, to fuck her the way her king never could.”

you should’ve had him apprehended the moment he murmured those words, close enough to your ear to kiss the shell of it. you should’ve seen him in shackles, whipped and tortured, for daring to speak in such a way to the Queen of Midland, but you didn’t. you stared, straight ahead, and bit your tongue to keep from expelling a breathless moan. you allowed him to leave your side after that, melting into the crowded ballroom, mingling with the other nobles. his eyes lingered on you only for a moment, before they drift away, to keep from being overly suspicious. you had merely stood there, in shock, as you process his willingness to approach you in front of the Courts and your husband, and whisper something so heinous.

something so true.

it had been at your own behest, after all, that the young mercenary would become your plaything whilst fighting for your country, but it had been an arrangement brought to him in secrecy by your ladies in waiting, and he was meant to act discreetly. you glanced around, and realize that no one had been any the wiser. not even your husband, whose sharp eyes seemed to always watch you with disdain, had noticed Griffith whisper to you.

when you look back at him, he’s no longer focused on you, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face that you knew had to be for you, and not the generals he was conversing with. he must’ve caught your flustered seeking from his peripheral vision, and it must’ve amused him to no end.

damn him.

you managed to sit through the majority of the festivities, pretending to be enthralled by your husband’s banter with his retainers, but every so often, you would carve a line of sight directly to Griffith. you would stare at him, admiring each flawless detail from the plumpness of his lips to the long, heavy lashes that fan the apples of his porcelain cheeks, to the silvery curtainous tresses that were so carefully secured in a low ponytail to cascade down his back. he was so beautiful, and you began to fantasize about what his silken locks would feel like if you were to grip fistfuls of them, how his velvety pout will feel as he presses it flush to your sex, the way your back would arch if he pushed his tongue inside your hole, aching and clenching for him…

when you started to shift in your seat, rubbing your thighs together, you knew you had to make an escape. you couldn’t go another moment without Griffith in your bed, and so you promptly excused yourself, and several of your servant girls followed you up to your bed chamber.

Griffith’s sapphire gaze was keen enough to notice you leave, and he waited several more minutes, inching towards the exit until he could slip away, completely undetected.

Griffith’s let in to your bedroom before he can knock, and the ladies are swift to leave the two of you alone before he can close the door behind him. “Have you considered my counter offer, Your Majesty?” he asks with a soft tinge of amusement in his voice. he pushes the heavy, wooden lock in place against the door, his glacieresque gems focused only on the way you approached him, staring up at him with sparkling awe in your eyes. “Would you still prefer to have me as you wish, or would you find more pleasure in allowing me the honor to use your body?”

“I don’t want the obedient gentleman,” you blurt out, grasping the thick lapels of his coat, to pull yourself closer to him. “I want the scoundrel. The beast.”

“Is that so…?” Griffith grabs your shoulders, halting you in place as you speak, the ghost of a smirk tickling his lips. “Then the beast is what you shall have.” it’s a whisper, heavy with desire as both of his hands glide down to envelope the shape of your breasts through your gown. the fabric is thick, but as both fists reach up for the neckline, your breath catches in your throat. a swift yank, and silk screams as he tears at the neckline, stretching and ripping until your breasts jiggle free. your nipples harden almost instantly as they’re exposed to the cool atmosphere, and your back arches— the force and carelessness he exhibits in order to expose your chest pulling you off balance. he swoons at the sight, cradling your breasts with both hands. your nipples slide along the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, before he experiments with pinching the hardened buds. you let out a soft whimper.

Griffith’s hands are almost unnervingly soft for a mercenary general, and they’re warm as he kneads your breasts. your head tilts back and you expel a long, heavy breath as he tilts his head to watch your countenance closely. “I’ve hardly touched you, Your Majesty, and you’re already mewling for me.” his pupils are blown out as he tugs on your nipples, and watches in delight as you squirm and moan. “I suppose these pillowy tits of yours are sensitive enough to make you cum all alone…” his knee worms under your multitude of skirts, to press against your sex. with a surprised gasp, your thighs clamp around his leg, but it was already too late. his digit tips roll over your nipples in smooth teases, pressing them like buttons as you squirm and gasp, and grind your slick against his knee. “The king must not appreciate them. But I will.”

groping thick handfuls of squishy flesh, a groan gurgles at the back of his throat as he pushes your tits together, smashing them against each other, and his icy gaze flickers up to you. “Do you know what I love the best about a woman’s tits?” he asks, in a soft baritone that seems to send a quake straight to your core. you moan, breathless, and shake your head, before his own dips low enough to run his tongue in a thin stripe that creeps up the length of your cleavage, before he expels in a whisper, “They’re soft and warm, and when pressed together like this, create such a delicious hole to fuck.”

your head was spinning already at his words, so when his hands glide upwards and grip your shoulders, forcing the Queen of Midland to her knees in front of him, breasts jiggling and exposed and dress askew on your frame, you bent to his will without protest. “There we are. A pretty, obedient queen. Are you so awestruck by the visage of my peasant cock sliding between your royal breasts that you fold so easily?” there’s a faint smile on his kissable pout now, a powerful one, and he grasps hold of your chin with one hand, using the other to undo the complexity of his breeches. he forces your face up, to stare at him directly, and you swoon at the hard grip on your chin. “I will enjoy defiling you, little queen. But what’s even more exciting is that you will enjoy it so much more.”

your face was flushed of its usual tone, eyelids fluttering as they struggle to stay open. the heat between your bodies was almost too much to bear already. “Use me…” you plead, quietly, needy. “Use me, mercenary, degrade me. Do so and I will see to it that you climb the military ranks to your heart’s content.”

this pleases Griffith, and he runs his thumb over your trembling bottom lip, looming over your kneeling frame as he pumps his cock to attention. as it swells, and hardens, your eyeline drifts downwards and you become entranced at the thought, your mouth hanging open in expectancy.

“Such a beautiful mouth, warm and wet,” Griffith purrs, pushing his thumb in to anchor it against the fleshy inside of your cheek, “you know well a woman’s duty and where and how to take a cock, and I’m certain your mouth has been well trained by your husband.” your cheeks heat up with humiliation as he teases your gag reflex with his fingers, you cluck and try to push his fingers out, but they remain, and you only end up dribbling drool out of your mouth with an embarrassed whimper. “But I will need you to save these talents for him, your lovely mouth is your weapon, and you’ve just become my greatest ally in my war for my dream. You will use it so efficiently, pleasing your husband and whispering those persuasive words in his ear, until I have surpassed every general in his army. You will do this for me, yes?” you nod, batting your eyelashes, swirling your tongue around his fingers. Griffith was so breathtaking, and in this moment you were so aroused and at his mercy, that you would’ve agreed to do anything for him. “Very good, my desperate little queen. Now, save these lovely lips for their task, and I will fuck your luscious tits, instead.”

both of his hands find their way to your breasts again, and he takes a step forward, his stance wide imposing as his feet plant themselves on either side of your poofy skirt. the way his thick, hard cock lays against your chest is almost as if it had sought out its new home, and he pushes your breasts to mold around it, forming a tight canal as he teased a couple of strokes. with a slow rock of his hips, his cock tunnels between your breasts, the puffy, pink tip peeking out by your chin, and he rolls his head on his shoulders, eliciting a soft and pleasured sigh. “Very soft.” he croons, closing his eyes, his fingers digging into your squishy tits as his pace starts to pick up. “The perfect sheath for my cock, don’t you agree?”

you were too busy staring at the display, watching his sex glide between your breasts, that you simply elicit a quiet babble of a yes, your arms bent up by your sides, your hands balled into fists.

“My dear queen has never been degraded quite like this, her body used by cock in ways her sweet, little brain couldn’t even imagine,” he all but moans at the realization, working his jaw for a moment. “Look up at me, little queen. Let me see your mouth hanging open, the desire to suck what’s just out of your reach.”

you do as instructed, but you hardly so much as peek before you hear the sound of him expectorating— his spit splattering against your top lip and dripping down into your waiting mouth, mixing with your own that had gathered in a thirsty pool. you flinch, surprised, but then look up at him, wide eyed.

no one’s ever spit on you before.

and you liked it.

a lot.

Griffith’s grin is loose, his lips parted as he starts to pant, bucking his hips more forcefully, faster, fucking your titties with reckless abandon, kneading them roughly.

“You liked that, did you?” it was as if he could read your mind, his icy blue irises seeming to glow in the dim candlelight of your bedroom. “You are more and more fetching, the filthier I discover that you are.”

“A—again,” you whine, only to be graced with another shower of spit, and you moan, gratefully, before blurting out, “Thank you!”

the depravity in your voice was something you’d never heard before, especially not from yourself, and it should’ve been humiliating. but it wasn’t. it was exhilarating and liberating.

“Close,” Griffith grunts, his chest heaving, still adorned with his ruffled tie. the fact that he was still mostly clothed made this encounter all the more promiscuous, “I’m right there… right… there…” he was grinding his teeth, because you’d tucked your chin, pressing your lips together in a lazy O, letting his tip kiss the shape over and over. each time he drew back, you could taste the sticky sweet precum he left stamped to your lips. “Ah,” Griffith releases a sound, a croak as he grabs your hair at the root, pulling your head back and allowed his other hand to fall from your breasts, taking hold of his cock at its mighty base. his fingers rub against the fluffy, silver pubic hair his cock sprouts from, before starting to pump up and down wildly. “I will paint those beautiful tits of yours, my whorish queen. So you can smell of me. And remember how thoroughly I’ve fucked them—“

he hardly gets the words out before his release erupts from the swollen head of his cock, casting long, warm white streamers over your heaving breasts. your hands scramble to push them together, mimic the way he had to fuck them, so you may gather the entirety of his semen upon their expanse, and you peer up at him with wide, happy eyes. “G—Griffith…”

his ragged breath starts to slow, his platinum bangs damp and sticking to his forehead and his temple when he finally releases your hair with a heavy, satisfied sigh, “Did you enjoy that, Your Majesty?”

watching him come undone and quickly recover had your mind going blank, and your thighs sticky with your need, but you thoughtlessly nod, attempting to form the words themselves, but none came to your lips.

it’s all right, though, because Griffith pulls you to your feet. “Lovely, because now I will bend you over your vanity and tend to that sopping wet cunt of yours.”

[apollodarling-writes]

Stay With Me

cw: soft smut, griffith is soft, self indulgent, creampie, praise, cock warming

Tender kisses trail the length of your neck, feeling almost reverent as Griffith's fingers intertwine with yours. He shallowly thrusts into you, murmuring words of praise before he connects his lips with yours, pressing deeper into your drooling cunt.

"I love you." He murmurs, squeezing your hand. "I love you so much."

You mewl in response, gummy walls gripping his cock as if you were afraid he'd leave. "I love you too."

Griffith groans, gripping your waist as he loses himself to pleasure. You whine, back arching and fingers gripping the sheets of your shared bed as his cockhead reaches spots inside you that you had no idea existed before him.

"Griffith," You whimper, ""M gonna cum."

Griffith leans closer, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your chest, quietly groaning into the curves of your breasts. "Cum for me, dear."

You pull him closer, walls clenching and fluttering around his cock as you chant his name. "That's it, dear." He groans, thrusts growing sloppy as his own high nears. "You're doing so good for me- just a little bit longer."

After a few more thrusts, Griffith's hips still, cock throbbing inside of you as thick ropes of cum spill into your cunt. He gently pulls you to into his chest, cock still sheathed inside of you as his arms wrap around the small of your back. In the moment the two of you were one, or at least it felt that way.

Griffith presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “Let’s stay like this for awhile.”

[psych0cherry]

1×1 M/F PR partner!

1×1 M/F PR partner!

Hey guys! I'm 18 years old and looking for a partner (Man or woman, it doesn't matter.) to write RP stories (Romance with an engaging plot and story) in anime style! I have several OCs from different anime universes, with fascinating and creative personalities. I'd like to share a list of anime I'd love to use as a backdrop, as well as characters I'd like someone to play as a couple. However, if you prefer to play another character, we can talk about it. I also like to play different canonical characters, so if you want, I can play a character for one of your ocs and you a character for one of mine!

I appreciate stories with a hint of masochism and dark romance, with cruel paths and tragic endings. While that's my preference, I also love writing cute things as long as there's a good plot. I have absolutely no triggers. I like to write longer texts, but I can adapt to your writing style! While I can also write obscenities, I prefer not to limit myself to just that.

First, I would like to mention that I am Brazilian and I am using Google Translate to communicate in English. However, my writing in Portuguese is correct, so I believe that the translation does not have many errors.

Here's a list of fandoms and characters I'd love for you to play, if you're interested in the dynamic!

Kimetsu no Yaiba:

Douma.

muzan.

Obanai.

akaza.

Berserk:

- Griffith. Jujutsu:

Gojo.

Toji.

Choso.

Geto.

Diabolik Lovers:

- Honestly, any of them.

- But I have a preference for Laito, Subaru, Azusa.

Naruto:

Neji.

Deidara.

Danganronpa:

Nagito.

Kokichi.

Byakuya.

Chihiro.

Fuyuhiko.

Inuyasha:

Inuyasha.

Kamisama Kiss:

literally every character.

Tokyo Revengers:

Mikey.

Izana.

Ran.

Sanzu.

Angels of Death:

Zack.

I accept suggestions too!

I can write lgbt, gay or lesbian couples, it doesn't matter, but you would have to help me a little with that.

If you're interested, like this post and I'll DM you. You can also send me a DM through my blog or contact me directly on Discord. :)

My Discord name: g0thyz_

[missvaseline]

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 2 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

When Griffith was a child, he found his very first member. They've grown together and she became the best swordsman he’s ever seen, a prodigy. But there is a difference between being a mercenary, and then being Griffith’s.

Triggers: harassment, heavy manipulation, possessiveness, dubious consent, sadism

Read Previous: Chapter 1

The swordsman's eyes focused on the tree line following the river before she turned to the voice behind her.

“You show up and ask me to race now?” The swordsman asked, adorning skepticism on her face.

“Like I’ve been showing up and asking you every sunrise. This isn’t a strange occurrence.”

“While we are… upset at each other?” She corrected.

Aqua eyes searched for every hint of understanding that he could find within her own. Her name slipped between his lips as he scoffed.

“When I told you to retreat for the night, I was no longer upset.”

Delicate lips twinged as she brushed her fingers between the fabric of yesterday’s clothing balled in her arms, a nervous habit over any of her wear. Inky guilt still clung to her while skepticism hid just beneath.

“What if I’m too upset to race?”

“Then I’ll console you.”

A breeze settled through that chilled her without her armor. And it was all the more reason to ponder simply putting on the iron suit and racing with him just for a little bit. These moments stirred her into long confusion, words were usually stuck behind chattering teeth while she struggled to understand. It felt like a need lost and forgotten in the comfortable confines of its near famine which never seemed to fully go away in every cycle

“I’ll put on my armor.” She said.

She slipped passed the linen of her tent and all too quickly strapped herself into her armor. When she had come out he had already gathered their horses, quietly waiting while the morning fog lapped at the metal plates over his calves.

He looked magnificent. It was a standard thought that he tended to himself more often in the mornings. But it seemed as though it was more than usual. How the world around her grows rose tint the closer she got to him. He had this way about him.

The dueler gathered the leather reigns from him, climbing onto her steed. It was soon that hooves trotted in rhythms beside each other. The low of yesternight was melted by the warmth of the morning and already she was in higher spirits. They would go a mile out from camp, riding into a trail that slithered through crowded trees; their score with each other was neck and neck in their races.

“How far do you want to go?” He asked.

“To the hills? Finish line at the big boulder.” The corners of his lips lifted.

“Ambitious today?”

And hers did too, “Are you?” She concurred.

When their horses stopped at the redwood tree they had labeled as a starting point for the area, they had waited. She kept her steed ready.

“We’ll see where the ambition goes after this race.”

She tightened her fingers over leather, already picking out the best routes to take. She brushed the dark brunette main of her steed, leaning in slightly. Blue eyes toured the slant of her body pressed over the back of her mount.

“Listen Viola, we’re going to defeat this chap and I swear, I’ll find as many apples for you to eat. Focus, girl” She whispered to the flicking ear of the stead before straightening herself. The horse chortles and snorts in response, breaths in the cold air danced.

“I could never get over that name, Viola.” He tittered. "I wonder if the apples you feed her will be from spoils or consolations.”

Suddenly, leather cracked into the air as he whipped his reigns, his stallion surged forward leaving a trail of his laughter behind to chase after.

“You cheat!” She yelled, painfully snapping her reins, the quick jolt of her horse being unfelt in comparison to Griffith’s jests.

“Cheat?”  His voice called back honeyed in mock offense as he failed to let her catch up, “Whenever did I call start before?”

Molars pressed into themselves as heels dug into the sides of her steed. Her stomach nearly pressed into the curved leather of her saddle as she leaned forward trying to catch as much speed as possible. Long silver tail hairs whipped like a mocking flag in front of her as she focused.

“I didn’t call start yet!” Her nag finally ate the distance between them.

“Ambition doesn’t wait for permission.”

His fingers loosened over his reins as a form of mercy, slowing down just to mirror her steed.

“There. Better?” He cast his Azure gaze on her as his lips formed into a leer.

“Oh, don’t give me that, you are so cheap.” She said between laughter, both of their steeds galloping easily through the trail. In just enough gradualness, she hastened her mount again to shoot forward. A defiant chortle shot out of her as she snapped back to look for Griffith behind. Though only the empty damp pined path was shown before hearing his horse snort beside her.

“They’re my tricks, don’t you think it would be harder to use on me?”

“Of course.” The swordsman grumbles, leather creaking between her tightening fingers.

His smile turned away as his eyes flickered in behind him and then forward. His horse suddenly stepped in front of her path, halting her.

“Let’s take a detour.” Eyes flickered up to his as her brow tilts.

“I don’t know the paths out this far besides this one and we are racing.”

“Plans changed. You can follow me.”

He says as he and his steed sift in front of her, the golden light from the sky kissing his argent locks into its color.

“We have training-“

“I let them know we are on a longer race.”

The air grew quiet before she finally relented, following him deeper into the forest where the path raised into its convoluted nature. Every piece of land was a novelty in every pace revealed as she grew quiet.

“Where are we going?” She called out as she trailed behind him.

“You’ll see.”

He replied without looking back.

Intuition stirred beneath the surface of her as they ventured forth. Minutes melted into nearly an hour before the trees parted themselves into a small field. Blue speckled between green in the clearing like a secret waiting to be told.

The swordsman halted before going any deeper as trail of parted grass followed his horse until he stopped at the center, the only thin misplaced was a ross ridden boulder. Life had painted him in front of her eyes in a still frame until the breeze whispered between silver, wavy tresses and the greenery below him. Her mind couldn’t fumble the words together as his cobalt eyes pointing the sky suddenly flickered down to her.

“How do you feel?”

he asked, making her uncertainty well to the surface.

“A bit… confused, though, the orchids are beautiful… these are the same flowers we used to collect as children.”

“Why did you decide to follow me?”

The swordsman paused as she searched for his meanings in his eyes.

“Because… you told me to?” She stilled on her horse as she watched him carefully.

“Why when I said so?”

Air thickened with his tone. Asking the question again and again until she made the right answer.

“Because I wanted to.”

Griffith slipped off of his horse, pacing to her, palm open, beckoning her. He silently waited.

“I don’t understand the meaning of this-“

“Take my hand.” He interrupted with velvet shaping the dagger hidden under his words.

Carefully, she reached for his hand, slipping off her horse before he quietly paced them to the center of the field. The dueler moved to pull her hand away but he tightened his fingers to the shape of her palm. Blades of grass and pedals sighed between armor as they sifted to the middle where rays of the sun littered groups of sapphire corolla at once. He finally stopped and turned to face her, his look burrowing into her own.

“You followed me here because you want to. Our shared history. It wasn’t blind faith.”

A tug and she skipped closer.

“You aren’t blindly following me.” He whispered as if the trees that stood around them was an audience attempting to peer into their conversation. Silver brows furrows slightly with a rare look. So unique it was hard to place.

“I see…” The swords master averted her gaze as confusion was hitting to a boiling point. She was scared to say the wrong thing. To stir him when they were alone, damn near lost away from the camp.

She was trapped here with adrift and him. Leather over the pad of his thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“When I stumbled on this field, It scared me.” Silver lashes veiled his eyes as he glanced at the curves that made her palms.

“Why?”

“Because it was something other than what I always thought I wanted for once.” He gave a half smile, “That was years ago. Could you imagine how my thoughts are now?”

“What were those thoughts?” She asked.

A beat of silence and he tugged her fingers to pull her a step closer to him. His presence, larger than the field they were standing in.

“How do I own a kingdom when you’re not there.”

Eyes stared until the cool breeze between them forced her to blink.

“I could be a knight or come to visit whenever I can. I’m sure you’ll be busy in the castle when you get there.” She cooed, trying to soothe his worries. It was understandable, they were like bonded felines- unable to stray too far from each other naturally. At least that was her reasoning

“I mean,” He paused before craning over her, “When you’re not here, like this. This close.”

Blood quickly ran to her cheeks; It felt so dry outside there was nothing to swallow.

“I won’t be leaving you like that. I’ll always be here when you need me.” Was all she could muster. She stilled, eyes widening as she felt silvery, wavy bangs against her forehead as he pressed his against hers. Another breath shortens while leather slipped against her cheek.

“Always?” He murmurs, “Say it again.”

The cold confused her; she couldn’t stop shaking. The dueler took a step back but he followed with another in a duet.

“I-I’ll always be here.” her breath pushed out. She jolted as the thumb that rubbed her cheek suddenly pressed upon her bottom lip, brushing it open. He reeled for comfort again, his compulsive need wrapping around her like a bag over her head.

“Again.”

He took a step closer, caging her against the large boulder she thought was so far away.

“I’ll a-always!“ She coughed as she felt his thumb push against her tongue. “Griff-!“

“Shh shh.” Griffith hushed, His thumb slid deeper while the tip his nose brushed against her scalp, inhaling the ghost fragrance of lilac. “You always reminded me of these orchids.”

The swordsman began to pant. Sheets of her armor scraped against the boulder, the sound that tore from it felt as grating as the gloved finger between her teeth. She yanked her mouth back before she felt the bite of fingers squeeze her jaw harder. Hacks sounded again while a strange tinge coil within her gut.

“Where you don’t need much care to be in the way that’s perfect. Beautiful.” He whispered, “I just needed to keep the weeds away to let you grow when we were kids. It was easy that way then... Do you know how hard that will be when I’m writing edicts and sitting on the throne. How the weeds will come then to steal your time like vultures who were waiting for the kill all along.”

Palms push at his shoulder as she gagged while the finger held her tongue down.

“Griffith-”

Nails skitter at iron plates before he finally relinquished her, spit bridging from her chin while she peeled over to cough violently. Griffith simply held his gaze at her while the wretching continued.

“I apologize for the slip.” He said almost too gently. He kept himself gated behind a boundary he was barely holding up to.

“I had gotten upset thinking about it-”

“Fuck your feelings, you scared me!”

He kept the mask of calm as she resolved herself. She peeled from the rock to quickly get to her horse, scrambling like it was life raft.

“Whatever is going on with you, you need to deal with it!”

She yelled as he didn’t turn to face her. She assumed it was from guilt.

“You don’t even know the way back.”

“I’ll find it!” She yelled as she whipped her reins, the hooves driving themselves away from him- leaving him in the parting of trees. Her eyes were frantic as she shivered on her horse. Why would he do that? Where did that come from? Why was he acting this way suddenly? It was the questions that poured into her because if he were to rock in his resolve, she would feel it. She always did. Even when he appeared calm- it was the slightest tone of his voice that would make her feel it.

He's never this upset unless she spent too much time training with others. In their teens, whenever she would come home late from hanging with the others, she would face his fury in the shape of him sitting in dent in chair at their shack of a home. The hidden resolve would torture her with questions and nitpickings down the bone just for him to reshape her skin with something else.

Flowers hummed against steel as he stood long after she had left.

[virgo-mess]

These gifs live in my mind rent free. I should have part 3 of chapter 6 up in a few hours.

[karatekels]

TIGmas Day #4 – Eye of the Storm

Today’s story is for @theinheriteddutchess, and it’s just the right amount of unhinged and delicious… and Christmassy!

TW: Deception, manipulation, coercion, breeding kink, forced pregnancy, dubious consent, lying about birth control, semi-public sex, Terry Silver brooding and tired of waiting around

---

Eye of the Storm

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Terry’s POV:

Attention all passengers. Attention all passengers. At this time, all flights are currently canceled until further notice due to inclement weather. All commercial and private aircraft are currently grounded until conditions improve.

Weather. One of the few things in life that remained out of his control. This blizzard in particular seems to be taunting him with that fact.

LaGuardia is bustling on Christmas Eve, the airport overflowing with clusters of families and travelers trying to make their way to their loved ones. Terry’s just grateful he’s surveying them all from the relative quiet of the elite lounge reserved for those flying in private jets, looking through the tinted windows at the unsuspecting commoners.

Christmas Eve.

He’d intentionally scheduled his year-end meetings in New York for this time of year, wanting to keep himself occupied. With the All Valley tournament won earlier in the month, Terry had taken a step away from the dojo for the remainder of the year; hearing chatter about the holidays always left him feeling agitated. Frustrated.

Alone.

And now, instead of enjoying the luxuries of private air travel and anticipating a return to the reasonable, warm climate of Los Angeles – he hated the cold – he was stuck surrounded by reminders of his solitude, nursing a passable whiskey.

A family pulls off to the side, right in front of him, mother and father trying to calm their wailing brats, and he feels an uncomfortable pang in his chest.

How could so many undeserving, unworthy, average joes reproduce their mediocrity with ease while he, with an empire that could sustain generations of his legacy, went without?

He had spent the first decade or so of his career living up to the stereotype of the billionaire playboy, having more than his share of fun with anyone and everyone that had struck his fancy. He figured that when it was time for him to settle down, he’d have his pick of worthy candidates, beautiful women of good stock that would kill for the opportunity to bear his name and his children.

But no one had met his standards, and he was now well into the winter of his lifetime. It was too late.

… Or was it?

He may be pushing seventy, but his doctor had assured him he was still able to conceive during his most recent physical. He had plenty of resources to attract and… retain a suitable partner. And it wasn’t like he was settling down in his thirties; he could find someone worthy enough to have and raise his children without tiring of them after decades of time together.

Someone younger, naïve, impressionable… Someone that he could shape into the perfect wife and mother, if they didn’t come that way naturally.

A flustered young woman walks by, her open trenchcoat revealing flaring, child-bearing hips, her eyes sparkling with an anger that indicated great depth of passion.

Someone like you.

He finishes his drink, throwing his coat back on and wrapping his red scarf around his neck, straightening to his full height as he tracks your movement through the airport with his eyes, seeing you find a seat towards the end of the terminal.

It was time to expand his dynasty.

Reader’s POV:

Even at the far end of the terminal the noise is deafening, and you can’t help but scowl at the throng of people standing around as their travel plans are put on hold, the airport full to bursting.

You think you would give anything to be away from this crowd right now.

All you are trying to do is call your mom – God forbid the family cabin have cell reception, let alone Wi-Fi – to let her know you wouldn’t be there for Christmas. At least this afforded you an excuse that she couldn’t hold against you, but you wish that you could be back in your apartment instead of trapped here.

“Excuse me, Miss –” comes a soft voice behind you, a large hand squeezing your shoulder.

“What?!” you snap, spinning around in your seat to glare at the offender. The man removes his hand from you immediately, leaning back to give you space with a slightly wounded look in his blue eyes. Your frustration dissipates and is replaced with guilt.

“I’m sorry for startling you. I just wanted to ask if this was yours?” he explains in his smooth, deep voice, your passport in his hand.

Well, now don’t you feel foolish.

“Oh my God, yes it is!” you exclaim, cheeks flaming with embarrassment at your temper tantrum. “Thank you, Sir,” you continue, reclaiming your passport and tucking it securely into your pocket. “I’m so sorry for being so rude just now, I –”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the man cuts you off, giving you a warm smile. “Airports are stressful even under the best of circumstances.”

“Still, that’s no excuse to take it out on you,” you chide yourself. “I’m just trying to make a call, but it’s too loud in here,” you explain, and the man tilts his head to the side as he stares at your lips, trying to figure out what you’re saying over the din of the bustling airport.

“I just want to make a fucking phone call and I can’t hear anything with all these people!” you snarl, glaring all around you as your temper flares into life once again. The man’s face twitches in response; you suspect he’s biting his tongue to keep from laughing at you.

“I believe I can help you with that,” he offers kindly, somehow managing to speak audibly without raising his voice. “If you’d like, that is.”

“You can get me out of this mob?! I’m all yours!” you take him up on his offer enthusiastically. For a second, you think you see a wicked, pleased smirk on his face, but then you blink and he’s turned to walk away. You hasten after him, having a much more difficult time getting through the crowd; this man seems to have an aura about him that makes people give him a wide berth. At least it made him easy to spot – well, that and the fact that he towers over everyone else.

Now that your temper has been quelled, you take a moment to really look at this man. He was older, probably in his sixties, but looked strong – you doubt your head would even come up to his shoulders. He’s dressed in luxurious, well-tailored clothing that indicated wealth, with a full head of wavy hair that nearly brushed his shoulders. As he stops and turns back to see if you’ve followed, you notice how his hair, a lovely shade of silver, compliments his bright blue eyes.

All in all, he’s a real Silver Fox.

You catch up to him, glancing at the plain black door with a key card reader next to it before looking up at him curiously.

“Where does this lead to?”

“A private lounge,” he replies, not giving anything else away. So, he was proper rich, then. You reflexively back away from the door as if it could tell that you couldn’t afford to enter.

“Oh, I don’t think I’m allowed to –”

“You’ll be with me, you’ll be fine,” he cuts off your concerns, waving them away with a hand. You bite your lip, unconvinced.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, you brow furrowing in concern. “You don’t know me at all!”

He offers you his hand, his expensive watch dangling from his wrist and catching your eye. “I’m Terry Silver. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he purrs, charisma oozing from every syllable. You find yourself shaking his hand before you’ve even thought about it, enjoying the way it fully envelops your own.

“Y/N L/N,” you reply, suddenly feeling shy; he hasn’t released your hand.

“A lovely name. So, now that we know one another, will you be joining me?” he asks, giving you a lopsided grin that makes him appear younger; it was truly difficult to gauge his age.

You find yourself still hesitating, though you’re not entirely sure why. This man hadn’t given you any reason to question his intentions, and it wasn’t like any harm could befall you in an airport, of all places. He opens the door with a swipe of his card, holding it ajar with a raised eyebrow in your direction.

“Well, I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet of this wonderful, mostly empty lounge. It was nice talking to you, Y/N,” he says teasingly striding through the doorway without another look back.

“I… Wait!” you hurry after him, barely catching the door before it closes after him. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

He turns back to you with a beaming smile, clearly pleased by your decision.

“Glad to hear it!” he says, sincerity ringing in his voice as his eyes twinkle at you, walking at a slower pace to match your shorter stride. Suddenly, he bends towards you to whisper in your ear, the gesture sending a surprising thrill through you.

“This will be the only awkward part, my dear. I promise,” murmurs, and you’re momentarily dazed by the scent of his cologne before you realize he has wrapped an arm around your shoulders, hugging you close to his side as he walks past the hostess, flashing her a card before carrying on right past her.

The moment you’re out of her sight, he respectfully releases you, giving you some space. You find yourself more than a little disappointed by the loss of his presence.

“I hope I didn’t overstep, Y/N. It was just the easiest way to get you inside.”

“I…No, I don’t mind,” you stammer, feeling like an idiot. “Thank you.”

Terry leads you to a quiet, secluded booth next to a bar; you can count the other patrons on the fingers of one hand. The headache you felt coming on since your flight was canceled evaporates the moment you take a seat across from him.

“Go ahead and make your call,” he insists, staring pointedly at your phone in your hand.

A server comes over at Terry’s signal, and he orders a whiskey neat, the brand sounding foreign and expensive, then gestures to you with an open palm.

You order a double of your favourite highball, getting the sense that you’ll need the liquid courage to get you through both the phone call and the rest of the evening.

Terry’s POV:

As he nurses his drink and pretends to watch the snow continue to fall through the large window, he reviews the information he has gleaned from eavesdropping on your phonecall:

The rest of your family is off in the middle of nowhere, a landline being the only means of communication with the outside world (and, more importantly, you).

They believe that you’re lying about the canceled flight to try to get out of the holiday. This appears to upset you, though he senses it’s not entirely untrue.

You’re something of a workaholic, a point of pride for you and a sore spot for your loved ones. He thinks he appreciates the dedication.

You’re currently single, if the icy tone you used to spit out the name ‘Derek’ into your phone was any indication.

And you can handle your liquor, he notes as you polish off your drink, scowling as you listen to whoever is on the other line.

You’ll do.

“I’ve apologized a hundred times; I don’t know what more you want from me! I’ll do my best to get there when the weather clears, mom. Thank you, goodbye,” you growl into the phone, hanging up more aggressively than necessary.

“Seasons Greetings from the family?” Terry jokes wryly, and you give him a withering look. You have a pretty, expressive face; he’s looking forward to watching it transform into a mask of ecstasy for him.

“Bah, Humbug,” you grumble with a pout that draws his attention to your full lower lip. Had he lucked out, running into you at the perfect moment, or was he simply finding you more and more desirable because he was planning to knock you up some time within the next few hours?

“Thank you for bringing me here and letting me do this, Mr. Silver,” you say graciously, letting out a heavy sigh and sliding down the booth like you thought you were going somewhere.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asks with incredulity, and you freeze in place.

“I was going to go pay for my drink and then get out of your hair,” you offer weakly. He’s pleased you’re already looking guilty at the thought of going against his plans for you. Wanting to test you, he points a finger at you before pointing a few feet to your right. Sure enough, you follow his direction, sliding back into the booth obediently. Good girl.

“Firstly, your money is no good here; everything is automatically put on my card,” he counters you smoothly, wanting to set out the expectations for your future relationship right from the outset.

“Then please, allow me to reimburse you at least, Mr. Silver –” you plead, and he decides he likes that tone from you very much.

“Terry,” he corrects you sternly, noting your blush. You like being told what to do. “And no,” he adds petulantly, for good measure.

“I don’t understand. Why are you doing all this?” you ask with frustration, your voice tinged with desperation. The way your big, beautiful eyes are fixed on his, looking to him for answers… he feels his cock twitch against his thigh.

“I saw an opportunity to be a Good Samaritan and I took it,” he replies simply, nodding in recognition as the server replaces your drinks with fresh ones, though his eyes never move away from your face. Sensing that you’re not fully buying into his logic, he decides to take a more sentimental route, with the added bonus at hinting at his plans for you.

“And I don’t have a family I’m trying to get to; the least I could do is help you contact your own.”

Terry watches a wave of sympathy wash over your features, and he feels his hooks sink a bit deeper into you with satisfaction. After a moment, your expression returns to normal, though your eyes appear calculating.

“Nothing’s for free,” you state matter-of-factly, though you don’t hesitate to take a sip of your second drink. He bites back a smile as you make use of one of his favourite expressions. “What’s in it for you?”

“Your company as we wait out the weather, if anything,” he replies innocently, blinking at you as if he was utterly perplexed by what you could be insinuating. He cackles in his head.

“Although, you certainly seem eager to be back in the chaos of the terminal,” he carries on, his voice teasing. “And here I thought I had found a kindred spirit.” He sighs deeply, turning his gaze back to the window. Though he hates the snow, it is currently his greatest ally in his ploy to keep you with him.

“You… you just want someone to talk to?” your words are heavy with unease, and his eyes flit back to you. Someone so young and appealing shouldn’t be so wary, so surprised at receiving attention. You would have all of it.

Provided it was first approved by him, of course.

“Do you know of a better way to pass the time?” he asks politely, noting the way that your throat constricts as you swallow heavily, not meeting his eye as you shake your head. Your desire is evident; now to get you to let your guard down and act on it. The more you thought this was your idea, the easier it would be for him later on if you needed… convincing.

“Where are you meant to be heading to?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“My family is in Washington. We have a cabin on Mt. Baker that we try to get to every Christmas. They’re all there, waiting for me,” you explain, a trace of bitterness to your voice.

“You make it sound like they’re going to pounce on you,” he notes with amusement, looking at you with sympathy even as he imagines being the one to give you that treatment. You sigh, fortunately not having any insight into his thoughts.

“They mean well, and I love them all very much, but they can be a lot. I’m glad I only see them two or three times a year.”

“Loved ones always seem to aggravate us like no one else,” he agrees, his jaw clenching imperceptibly.

“And you?” you attempt to reverse the roles you’re playing, and Terry allows the move. “Where are you heading?”

“Home, to Los Angeles. I was in New York for business,” he answers, purposely keeping his answers vague. Further questions on your part would suggest growing interest, and he wants to hurry the process along.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to be somewhere warm for Christmas!” you respond with jealousy, sighing dreamily. Ask, and you shall receive.

“It won’t be much of a Christmas, I’m afraid,” he adds, wanting to see your pity. And, no surprise, there it is, your eyes softening as you take him in. He sees your fingers twitch, and suspects you’re fighting the instinct to take his hand comfortingly. He’ll have to break you of that habit, and soon; your instincts are far more aligned to his intentions.

“I’m sorry, you mentioned you weren’t going to visit family.”

“It sounds like you are quite similar to how I was at your age; prioritizing work, only visiting family occasionally… having a bit of a short fuse,” he teases, winking at you, and you blush, scowling at him.

“Well, clearly I’m on the right track, then, if you’re able to get into a place like this,” you respond cheekily. He gives you a piercing look over the rim of his glass, as though taking a contemplative sip. Your eyes seem focused on the way his hand grips his glass; he runs a fingertip along the rim for good measure.

“I don’t know about that,” he replies, going for a somber mood. “I think my one and only regret is not having a family of my own.”

You give him that same look of sympathy again, this time looking as though you might leap at across the table and into his lap to console him. Almost there… he can taste the growing tension between you two on his tongue, like a snake tracking the scent of its prey.

“And yours?” he asks, once again keeping you on your toes by switching your dynamic. “Do you have any regrets yet, Y/N?” he asks, cocking his head in interest. You fidget under his intense gaze, seemingly unable to look away.

“Hmm, maybe. I’ll have to think about it!” you avoid the question, clearly uncomfortable with looking inward. No matter; he’d soon pry you apart and get everything out in the open. “If I go use the bathroom in this place, are they going to fingerprint me or ask for a fancy card?” you ask jokingly, giving him a wink. He lets you change the subject; having a few minutes to himself would be beneficial.

“No, once you make it past the hostess, you can pretty much run amok around here,” he replies, pointing you in the right direction. He follows your retreating form with his eyes, sliding down the booth the moment you round the corner, his hands quickly pulling your coat towards him and retrieving your passport once again from your pocket. You really should pay more attention to keeping track of such important documents.

Tucking the small booklet in the front pouch of his suitcase, he slides out of the booth and over to the bartender.

“Another drink, Mr. Silver?” the man asks, already turning to reach for his preferred bottle.

“No, I want a room. The biggest you’ve got, and for God’s sake, it had better be clean.”

He doesn’t want to have to waste time with all of these formalities once he’s whisking you away to defile you.

“Your card, please,” the man requests, unfazed by Terry’s tone and request. Handing it over, the card is swiped, updating access to one of the private rooms.

“That’ll be Room #8, Mr. Silver; last door on the left down the hall.”

“Thank you, Roger,” he replies smugly. “If my guest and I are nowhere to be found, and our luggage is still at our booth, keep an eye on it for me, would you?”

He finds he doesn’t want to be subtle about this; he wants it to be perfectly clear that he’s going to be taking you – hot, young little thing that you are – to a private “Nap Room,” as they called them, and decidedly not nap. The world should know it. The world would know it, once you were his, your body growing and swelling with his child…

“Yes, Mr. Silver.”

He turns away without another word, feeling confident, and sees you emerging from the bathroom. The instant that you spot him, he can see your cheeks turn pink, your gaze darkening, and he suspects his choice to gain access to the room in advance was a wise one. He slowly stalks over to you, building the anticipation until he can see you nearly vibrating from the tension.

“I figured out my regret,” you inform him rather breathlessly once he comes to a stop in front of you. You don’t even come up to his shoulders…

“Oh? Please, enlighten me,” he purrs, looking down at you biting your lip nervously; he resolves to suck on it until it bruises.

You take a deep breath to gather your nerve before looking up at him, your pupils dilating in your desire. Your small hands reach up, gripping an end of his scarf in each hand and pulling so that he bends down to your level.

“Not being spontaneous and taking what I want,” you hiss in his ear, pulling him by the scarf into the bathroom.

---

It’s been awhile since he’s been with a younger woman, let alone one with your… tenacity. As you prop yourself up on the bathroom sink to better wrap yourself around him, he is all too happy to let you be in control if it gets him closer to you spreading your legs for him. You pull him down to kiss him again, fingers toying with his hair as you tease his lips with your tongue, letting out a dreamy little sigh that he swallows into his mouth. He slides his hands further up your thighs, coming to squeeze your hips possessively, making you moan.

“Oh Y/N,” he groans, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against your own, staring unblinkingly into your eyes. “The things I want to do to you…”

“Tell me!” you beg, pulling back to look at him with need. “Please, tell me what you want to do! Tell me everything, Terry.”

A few lush kisses and the prospect of dirty talk and you were willing to hand over the reins to him, just like that? He’ll take what he can get.

He grips the backs of your thighs in his large hands, lifting you up off the sink with ease and carrying you over to the wall, pinning you against it. You roll your hips needily at the rough treatment, and he smirks against the skin of your collarbone as he lavishes every inch of your exposed flesh with kisses.

“I want to own you,” he whispers passionately, knowing you’ll dismiss the truth as just something said in the heat of the moment. “I want to learn every inch of your body and how to make it sing for me.” You’re gasping for breath now, head thrown back like a lioness submitting to the pride male, and he relishes in it, inhaling deeply as he runs his nose up from your throat to your ear.

“More, please!” you cry needily, fisting his curls as you hold his head against you. Greedy little thing, weren’t you? He’ll teach you to be careful what you wish for…

“I want to bring you more pleasure than you can possibly imagine,” he hums in contentment, giving the muscle at the side of your neck a playful nip that has you wantonly grinding against him. “I’ll have you coming so many times you won’t remember your own name, baby girl; I want you begging for mercy.”

“Yes Daddy, please!” you moan, and something primal in him growls in approval. He grips your waist, stepping back to lower you to the ground, pleased when you cling to him needily.

“Say. That. Again.” His voice is rough as he demands to hear it again, the irony making him internally howl with glee. Your eyes open as you’re set on your feet, and you seem to realize what you’ve just called him with a great deal of embarrassment. He loves it.

“I – I…” you stammer, unable to look him in the eye. His hand comes down without a second thought, spanking you hard, and you squeak, looking up at him reflexively.

“I said say that again,” he repeats, holding your chin up with a finger so that you can’t look away. Your lower lip trembles, and he traces it with his thumb lightly, making you shiver.

“I… I want you, Daddy,” you whimper, trying to shy away from him, but he grips your chin firmly, making you sit in your humiliation.

“Good girl,” he praises, pulling you against him with an arm around your waist, enjoying the way you respond to him.

“We don’t need to do this here,” he tells you, as though he’s just coming up with the idea. “I’ve got a private room.”

“You have a room in an airport just for you?” you ask, incredulous. “Rich people have everything!”

“Not quite,” he corrects you, pointedly looking you up and down before quickly bundling you out of the room and down the hall.

Reader’s POV:

Your head is spinning as Terry guides you into a simple room and leads you to the bed, looking down at you like you were something to eat. You’re nervous, you’re excited, you’re more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life.

You’re not on the pill, having stopped after getting out of your last relationship, but you’re fairly certain that it won’t be an issue for Terry anymore. You find you don’t care, you’re finally giving yourself over to your base instincts. No regrets.

“Come here,” you demand, sitting up on your knees at the end of the mattress. He smirks down at you, slowly closing the distance between you, and you hook your fingers into his belt loops the moment he’s in reach, tugging him to you by his hips.

“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he asks teasingly, his large hand stroking your hair.

“Is that a problem?” you ask, batting your eyes up at him as you brazenly run a hand over his erection.

“Not at all,” he replies smoothly, getting on his knees on the carpet in front of you. In one fluid motion, he’s gripped your calves out from under you and yanked them towards him, knocking you on your back with the force of the movement. “Provided those roles can also be reversed.”

You’re rarely this dominant sexually, but this man just has you wanting. You find yourself wanting to try anything and everything with him. There’s just something about the way that he looks at you, like he’s planning on having you forever, that you find incredibly appealing.

“I want you any way I can have you, as long as it’s now,” you confess, your fingers moving to his belt. He slowly stands up and leans over you, his hands to either side of your head.

“Then stand up and strip for me,” he requests, his face so close to yours. “Now.”

He moves off of you, sitting on the edge of the bed expectantly. You get to your feet, coming to stand a few feet in front of him. You slowly bend forward at the hips, placing a hand on his knee as you move to unlace your boots, your face nearly in his lap. That task accomplished, you straighten up, giving him a coy smile before turning in place, presenting your butt to him. You hear him shift on the mattress behind you.

“Help me with my zipper?” you ask innocently, looking back at him over your shoulder. He stands, towering over you, his eyes locked with yours as he slowly pulls your zipper down to the small of your back. You shimmy out of it, grinding your ass back against him teasingly, and he growls, gripping your hips firmly.

“Filthy little tease,” he murmurs against your neck. “Let me show you what that gets you.”

Moving far more quickly than you would have thought him capable of, he’s somehow got you naked and on your back in the middle of the bed, kneeling between your spread legs with a ravenous expression. Divesting himself of his own clothing, giving you the opportunity to ogle him – who had a body like this at his age? – he finally starts touching you, his hands and mouth working you into a frenzy. The way his hands map out your body with featherlight touches stands in stark contrast to the strength you know he’s capable of, and the anticipation of more is driving you wild.

“Please!” you find yourself chanting, your hands exploring as much of him as you can reach. Terry ignores your pleas, tormenting you until you think he’s going to have you coming for him without so much as touching your needy pussy.

“Terry, please!” you beg, trying to hook your legs around his waist, but he pins your knees to the bed in his large hands. “I can’t take it anymore, I need –”

He silences you with a kiss, reaching down to slip one finger into your dripping cunt, then two, curling them in a come hither motion to stroke your g-spot.

“Oh, I know what you need,” he hisses in your ear, his thumb toying with your clit in circles that have you bucking your hips against him. “You need me to fuck you hard, and raw, and deep,” he groans, and your begging becomes fully incoherent at this point as you wordlessly wail for him to just use you already.

“Don’t worry, baby girl. Daddy’s gonna give it to you,” he promises with a wicked smile, nibbling your earlobe as you shudder, feeling filthy. Finally, he enters you, your slick cunt taking him with ease despite his size, and you let out a moan of completion as he bottoms out. Terry hisses as you clench around him, grinding his hips against yours as he sets a punishing pace.

“Oh, fuck!” you whine, your hips trying to meet his. “Yes, please, pump me full!”

Terry growls in approval at your dirty talk, his fingers gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Yeah? You want to milk my cock of every drop with that needy cunt, don’t you?” he goads you, rutting into you like an animal and making you keen, your back arching off the mattress.

“YES!” you cry out, completely losing yourself to the moment.

“I’m gonna give it to you, baby,” he promises, looking down at you with an outright predatory expression, his hair falling in his eyes. “I’m gonna fill you up.”

And you want him to, you realize as you abandon all reason, giving yourself over to lust.

“Come for me, Terry!” you demand, forcing your eyes to stay open so you can watch him come apart for you. And he does, hips stuttering as he shoots his load deep inside you, coming hard with a roar. You both catch your breath, Terry insistent on remaining inside you, holding you down with your legs around his waist; you’re more than happy to oblige.

Attention all passengers. Attention all passengers. Conditions have improved, and crews are currently working to prepare aircraft for flights. Please turn your attention to flight boards for information about your flight. The first flights will begin boarding in thirty minutes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Terry’s POV:

“Better now than a few minutes ago,” Terry jokes with a wry grin, making you giggle. He gives you an affectionate kiss on the lips before slipping out of you, surreptitiously ensuring that he doesn’t start leaking out of your slick entrance. He’d held you both in an ideal position for conception for as long as he could.

He knows he needs to snap the trap shut on you before you come to your senses, the two of you gathering your clothes and getting dressed. As he helps you into your coat, he’s pleased to see you don’t check the inner pocket for your passport.

“I’ve never been more upset to hear that it’s stopped snowing,” you admit cheekily as you try to fix your hair, your cheeks still flushed. He seizes the opportunity.

“I know exactly how you feel,” he replies, blue eyes blazing as he takes your cheek in hand. You lean into his touch, just as he wants you to. “You should come with me.”

Your eyes fly open in shock, wide as saucers, though he’s encouraged by your lack of an immediate ‘No’.

“What?!” you croak.

“You should come to L.A. with me,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly as if he wasn’t asking for the world. For your world.

“But… but…” you sputter, leaning back as though being able to see more of him would help you determine if he was joking. “My family… we barely know each other!” you babble, and he doesn’t intervene, content to watch you process this on your own.

“I’m not sure I’m done with you, yet,” he purrs when you finally settle down, giving you a searing kiss that makes your eyes lose focus. "It would be no trouble, I assure you."

“What about all of your regret at not spending time with your family?” you ask, and oh, if you only knew…

“An excellent anecdote for why I should make sure I don’t lose you now, and regret it later,” he replies smoothly, internally applauding his own brilliance. “Fate has clearly brought us together, and who am I to deny it?” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, doing his best to look both confident and well-intentioned.

“But… my family…”

“They didn’t seem to believe you were stranded in the airport anyway; how will they ever know you could’ve made it to them and chose not to?” he offers, finding it easy to script excuses for you. “Plus, we both know you’d rather spend time in the sun, letting me spoil you.”

He can practically see the gears in your head turning, and knows he’s almost got you.

“No regrets…” he murmurs in your ear, running his lips along your jawline until you’re vibrating in his hands.

“Terryyy…” you whine breathlessly, and he smiles against your skin. He wonders how many more times he can pump you full before he gets you to his home…

“Say yes, baby girl,” he asks oh-so-nicely. He just has to get you on the plane before you come to your senses. “Say yes and let me take care of you.”

“Okay.”

He blinks, face buried in the crook of your neck, honestly a bit surprised at your easy acceptance.

“Okay?” he repeats, pulling back to look into your eyes.

“I could use a vacation, and could do a lot worse,” you return with a smirk, looking him up and down. He’s becoming more and more impressed by his choice of the mother of his children.

“Then come with me, my dear, and let me give you everything.”

You both quickly gather your luggage from the lounge and make your way to the departure gate for private jets, his naturally being among the first to be ready for take-off. You never once check for your passport.

---

Once the plane reaches cruising altitude, he removes his seatbelt, standing to retrieve a bottle of champagne. You stay put, looking up at him nervously, but your gaze is still heated.

“Are you going to look for my membership card to the mile-high club?” you call after him with a giggle. He returns to his seat with a bottle in an ice bucket, having forgone any glasses.

“You have to be initiated first,” he replies seriously, pulling the bottle out of the bucket and longing to press the chilled glass against your flesh. “And I can’t help but think about how good your body would look dripping with champagne foam.”

Your intake of breath is immediate, and your eyes darken.

“You’re insatiable, Mr. Silver,” you tease, removing your seatbelt and shakily getting to your feet.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he warns you, though you likely assume it’s just a show of bravado. “Now, let’s get you out of that dress again.”

He’d have you pregnant before you landed.

Perhaps the snow wasn’t so bad after all.

---

This was originally inspired by another request given to me while I was stuck in the airport during the summer; I can’t believe I’ve been writing for you all for half a year now! Thanks to everyone for reading!

[dollwrites]

:0 since ur doing the griffith event would u consider writing a pt 2 to the king griffith drabble 🥺🥺🥺

he’s yummmy 👉🏻👈🏻

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!queen!reader, king!griffith, oral sex ( m! ), griffith is possessive and kind of manipulative, suggested conditioning so it’s semi dubcon?, improper use of praise, exploitation of reader’s praise kink, griffith is canon-typical misogynistic, very very subtle pet play too. all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

*same queen reader as this little blurb

“Don’t you know that you were created for me?”

“You exist to stand behind me.”

“You were born to be my queen.”

“My happiness is your happiness.”

Griffith’s voice echoes in your mind; constantly reminding you that you are exactly where you’re meant to be. you happily serve your noble husband— a dutiful and obedient wife that does only what he allows you to, and you’re content with that, because you receive his affection and approval as reward.

to put it frankly: you idolize Griffith.

and he knows it.

he has trained you well; conditioned you to depend on his praises as the flowers in the royal garden depend on spring showers. it makes you needy. easy to control. perfect to dominate.

with a simple sigh— a breathy exhale, Griffith can have you on a metaphorical leash. “Fervent, little wife you are.” he murmurs, “so eager to please her husband. So devoted to his pleasure. Can you think of nothing else but seeing ecstasy etched in my countenance?” the way his voice lilts in inquiry is almost a taunt, as if to sneer victory of the conquest over your simple, innocent mind.

with your eyes trained on his face, you nod, but the action is subtle and in time with the rhythm of your head already bobbing. your mouth watered, lips stretched around the girth of his cock, tongue pinned to the floor of your cavern as you sucked on the flared, swollen tip.

as royalty, you should’ve been ashamed to find yourself upon your knees between your husband’s legs, drool bubbling from the sides of your mouth as his cock filled it, but you couldn’t find an ounce of shame in making Griffith sigh like that. you couldn’t be embarrassed to feel just how hard he was, twitching in your mouth, not when this was an avenue to his good graces. if anything, the more that Griffith put you into positions meant to humiliate you, the more you craved his adoration. your tongue eagerly worms itself free, and glides across the sensitive slit of his tip, hungrily gathering beads of precum that were dribbling out so you can taste his essence. though warm and salty, the flavor to you was more delicious than any wine— more indulgent than any sweet. your eyelids flutter, but you force them to remain open so you can keep your eyes locked on his face, and on his icy gaze that stared back so intensely.

your teasing bore fruit, because a ghost of a smile danced across his plump, parted lips, before he elicited a soft moan, one that enveloped your entire body in heat, and liquified as pure desire in your core. “You are making me feel so good, just as you’re meant to.” Griffith assures you, using one hand to pet the top of your head. the action, while belittling, set your stomach tying itself in knots and your arousal pooling between the thighs that you clench tight together to keep from creating a puddle on the hardwood floor. all you want— all you will ever want is to please Griffith. whether that be with your loyalty, your body, or your status as a noblewoman, you want him to love and appreciate you. so, knowing that you are pleasuring him gives you a spur of inspiration. you mewl in response to his praise, batting your eyelashes as you take him deeper into your mouth, wanting to garner even more affirmations of a job well done; one of your hands creep up the inside of his thigh, holding his heavy balls in your warm palm. you begin to knead them with svelte, slow massaging.

“You are such a submissive creature.” Griffith chuckles, though a rosé hue begins to raise in the apples of his cheeks, and his bare chest rises and falls harder than before. another few pats on the top of your head before his fingers tangle themselves in your tresses. “You crave your King’s pleasure more than your own, and you’re so loyal that you sit at his feet like an hopeful pup, yearning for her master to give her a special reward. Even at the expense of your own humility.” his breath catches as your ministrations work on him, more moans making their way to the tip of his tongue as he rubs his thumb against the back of your head for a moment, before applying enough pressure to push your head further down, feeding you a few more inches of his throbbing, thick cock. “That is what makes you such a lovely, little pet. A lovely, little wife.”

[psych0cherry]

1×1 M/F PR partner!

Hey guys! I'm 18 years old and looking for a partner (Man or woman, it doesn't matter.) to write RP stories (Romance with an engaging plot and story) in anime style! I have several OCs from different anime universes, with fascinating and creative personalities. I'd like to share a list of anime I'd love to use as a backdrop, as well as characters I'd like someone to play as a couple. However, if you prefer to play another character, we can talk about it.

I appreciate stories with a hint of masochism and dark romance, with cruel paths and tragic endings. While that's my preference, I also love writing cute things as long as there's a good plot. I have absolutely no triggers. I like to write longer texts, but I can adapt to your writing style! While I can also write obscenities, I prefer not to limit myself to just that.

First, I would like to mention that I am Brazilian and I am using Google Translate to communicate in English. However, my writing in Portuguese is correct, so I believe that the translation does not have many errors.

Here's a list of fandoms and characters I'd love for you to play, if you're interested in the dynamic!

Kimetsu no Yaiba:

- Douma.

- muzan.

- Obanai.

- akaza.

Berserk:

- Griffith.

Diabolik Lovers:

- Honestly, any of them.

- But I have a preference for Laito, Subaru, Azusa.

Naruto:

- Neji.

- Deidara.

Danganronpa:

- Nagito.

- Kokichi.

- Byakuya.

- Chihiro.

- Fuyuhiko.

Inuyasha:

- Inuyasha lol.

Kamisama Kiss:

- literally every character.

Tokyo Revengers:

- Mikey.

- Izana.

- Ran.

- Sanzu.

Angels of Death:

- Zack.

I accept suggestions too!

I can write lgbt, gay or lesbian couples, it doesn't matter, but you would have to help me a little with that.

If you're interested, like this post and I'll DM you. You can also send me a DM through my blog or contact me directly on Discord. :)

My Discord name: g0thyz_

[missvaseline]

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 11 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

When Griffith was a child, he found his very first member. They've grown together and she became the best swordsman he’s ever seen, a prodigy. But there is a difference between being a mercenary, and then being Griffith’s.

Here is the link to: Previous Chapter

Her lips tasted like his flavor.

The rising cacophony from the camp finally shattered the buzzing around her mouth. Shouts, the scream of sharpening steel, the frantic neighing of warhorses. Reality swallowed her whole, a brutal tide drowning the nascent embers of that fragile hope. The swordswoman broke from the treeline’s embrace, sprinting towards the maelstrom. Armor clanked with quick steps. She saw him almost immediately- Griffith, issuing orders while holding onto his calm. He turned as she approached, eyes finding hers across the churning sea of men and steel. The intensity from their encounter still simmered there.

“The eastern flank is faltering,” he stated, his voice cutting through to her, devoid of any hint of their earlier intimacy, yet somehow carrying its weight. “Laban’s strategy holds, but the Tudors press hard. The King’s Fifth needs support at the vanguard. You’re with me. We reinforce the front.”

Not the command post. Not guarding nobles. The front line. With him. The reversal of events felt succulent with fierce wild joy that surged through her. It fried whatever confusion was within. This was where she belonged

“Understood,” her voice clipped.

They moved together then, a whirlwind of silver and steel cutting through the ranks. Reaching the front, the true face showed itself. Mud churned with blood, the air thick with screams and the sticky coppery stench. Tudor soldiers, emboldened by numbers, crashed against the thinning line of the King’s Fifth like a relentless tide. The Swordswoman drew her blade naturally. It was as if a dam within her had burst. Years of discipline, hours of relentless training, the gnawing ache of being sidelined. Now she was feral. She ran forward, hands tight in her hilt as she swung at the side of a knight caught mid swing with his war hammer. Her sword rattled against chainmail, dulling a curdled scream beneath it. She twisted her upper half further to sink the edge of her blade deeper before stepping out to relinquish it from the hilt of his flesh. The swordswoman didn't have time to fully see the knight slump to the ground before she heard the whirl beside her. She side stepped, sabre slanted to arm herself as biceps hardened, taking the brunt of a long sword head on. Soles of her boots skid against pebbled rocks while teeth grit.

“Fucking bastard-” she snarled before falling forward, swords singing together as the sliver of eyes beneath the Tudor Knight's helmet widening at her bold move. Her sword came through his chest. She stepped forward with more strength. When warmth spilled over her tightened fingers, the last gasp parted from him and his sword slipped to dirt was when she stepped back to let his body fall. Two. Men fell before her like wheat before the scythe, their surprise often the last expression on their faces.

From the slight elevation where he coordinated the flanking maneuver, Laban watched, flinty wide eyes open with an echoed expression of bewilderment. He saw speed and the almost contemptuous ease with which she dispatched seasoned Tudor warriors. But more than that, he saw the ghost. It was Kael reborn, Kael’s ferocity unleashed without the older man’s weary caution. The sheer volume of her kills was mounted with every twist and arc of her blade She spun, avoiding a clumsy axe swing. Her proximity to freedom felt close to an earlier sensation. A whisper from beneath oak branches.

It was enough.

A hulking figure, sensing the momentary lapse, roared and charged. His movements were surprisingly fast for his size, his massive sword descending in a whistling swing aimed directly at her neck. She saw the rusted chainmail, and hatred burning in his eyes. Sunlight glinting off descending steel.

Instead, silence slammed down where the clang of impact should have been.

Griffith stood where the knight had been seconds before. His sabre was clean, yet the Tudor knight lay crumpled at his feet, neck severed in the way he attempted on her, eyes rolled up in their sockets. He turned to her, and the Swordswoman braced herself for the expected fury. Instead, he had placid concern etched over his features. The serenity wasn't coldness; it was deeper. His azure eyes scanned her with swift and thorough assessment for injury, devoid of panic or overt anger.

“Are you unharmed?”

She could only nod with a tight throat. The adrenaline drain leaving her suddenly weak-kneed. Sheer absence of his anticipated rage was more disorienting than the near-death experience itself. It didn't compute. It felt wrong.

He stepped closer, his gloved hand gently, briefly, resting on her shoulder pauldron. Intention was entirely unknown.  "Stay alert," he gently patted her shoulder in a comradic gesture, "The battle turns. We press forward."

Then he was moving again, directing the charge, voice ringing with clarion command. The touch on her shoulder burned hot even through her armor plate. His calm, attentiveness, kindness- it sliced deeper than the Tudor’s blade could have. She watched Griffith become a beacon of silver against the chaos with his commands slicing through the battle like whip cracks. The echo of his touch lingered, more potent than the sweat cooling beneath her armor. His unexpected calm was a puzzle piece that refused to fit, leaving an unsettling vacancy where fury should have been. Shaking off the disquiet, she raised her blade again.

But the surge had already broken. The Tudor charge, emboldened by their initial success against the strained King’s Fifth, seemed to lose its impetus with the Hawks joining the vanguard. Where moments before there had been a desperate scuffle, now the Tudor were sputtering like dying embers. The Hawks flanked the remaining pockets of Tudor soldiers. And the cries of battle shifted, thinning cries and Shouts into chirping buzzards. The Swordswoman advanced, picking off isolated opponents, but the frenzy was gone, replaced by the grim task of cleanup. Mud sucked at her boots as she moved through the wreckage of the failed assault. The sweet adrenaline ebb leaving behind a weariness and the hollow ache of her earlier confusion.

Laban strode onto the churned battlefield from his command position. He stopped near the Swordswoman, nodding towards the impressive tally of Tudor dead surrounding her position. The ghost he’d seen in her movements was now evidenced by the sheer destruction she'd wrought.

“Good work, soldier,” he rumbled, the compliment gruff but sincere, carrying the weight of a commander’s rare approval. “You fight like him. Fast. Decisive. You honor his memory with that blade.”

“Hopefully I'm not just a ghost of my father in your eyes.” She replies, flicking stray blood onto mud before wiping the rest away with the purple cape of Tudor knight severed in half. Entrials gleamed from the sun above. Breathy laughter cracks behind her.

“This wasn’t a probing attack, too reckless for their main force right now. These weren’t frontline grunts. Look at their gear, what’s left of it. Better quality. Desperate, maybe, but skilled.” He spat onto the blood soaked ground while he focused on the narrow point of where the Tudor came between tall trees. “I’d wager they were a suicide squad. Sent ahead specifically to try and decapitate Midland command before the main offensive even begins tomorrow.”

His assessment resonated, clicking another piece into place. A targeted assassination attempt on the leadership. It explained the ferocity and seeming disregard for their own survival. And it underlined the danger of her post. Though she hadn't felt in danger even with cool steel swiping for her neck earlier.

“Figures.” She muttered, eyes narrowed at the blood seeped onto the crevice of her hilt as she tried to rub it away.

Guts had emerged from the across the field, his amor slick with blood. A scar knitting at his forearm. “West’s secure.”

Laban had given him a nod, “Good.”

She expected there to be a conversation between them when there wasn't any to be had. Guts lingered, his silence heavier than questions. Though he spoke anyway.

“You alright?”

She hadn't answered at first, believing he was speaking to Laban, but when the silence fell- she turned to meet their gazes pointed at her. The concern unnerved her more than his usual indifference. She hadn't imagined him being concerned, much less voicing it. She bristled, armor suddenly suffocating and hot like it wasn't winter’s eve approaching. “Fine. The ambush just… caught me off guard.”

His dark eyes held hers longer than she would surmise. She swore he saw it all. The distraction and guilt, the taste still haunting her lips. Guts’ dark eyes didn’t waver. The skepticism wasn't aggressive, just a quiet, heavy certainty that settled between them like dust after an explosion. He shifted his weight, the movement seeming to draw the very shadows of the alley deeper around them.

A deep hum settled through him in response, “I saw some of the auxiliary tents were damaged. Now that the perimeter is secure, come and help set up replacements.”

For some reason it didn't feel like a simple request. She paused first and then fell into step with him.

“Do your due diligence.” Laban said as a parting to them both and she realized his hovering sounded more like fanfare than the standard observation. It was a few steps on, then she saw him point vaguely back towards the treeline where she and Griffith had emerged separately moments ago.

“Seemed like you had other things on your mind. Saw you come out of the woods after Griffith did.” His comment lashed at her without him intending to, making her flinch. He’d seen them. Not together, maybe, but the implication was clear, hanging thick and undeniable in the air. Her constructed excuse crumbled between them, leaving her exposed. And he wasn't finished. This time he was stripped of pretense, “And when the attack hit near the command tent while Gaston was rallying the guard- I was patrolling the perimeter. Heard someone crying.” He looked uncomfortable saying it.

“Sounded like you.”

Crying? She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, only a dry click in her throat. Her mind scrambled, searching for denial, deflection, anything- but Guts’ focus on her subtle trembled form offered no escape. Before the crushing weight of exposure could fully snuff her, her eyes followed trails of smoke tangling above scraps of charred canvas, fragments of what structure they were. She subliminally took the opportunity to ignore Guts’ observations, sifting through the debris to salvage whatever survived.

Guts kicked away a beam now made of charcoal, easily snapping it from the force.

“Looks like eight.” He mused.

Her eyes briefly flicked to the scene as she gathered stray daggers hidden beneath torn cloth, “Nine. I'm sure we have a surplus at the supply carts.”

He grunted at the worse circumstances. The swordswoman stood with a dagger, an old cloak, a sword and a bed roll that managed to survive nearly unscathed. She sighed, finally managing to gather her wits to answer his question before she went rummaging for items in the dirt.

“One of the commanders knew my father. I got emotional. It was beyond me.” She whispered beneath the veneer of Midland knights and Hawks scattering to their duties alike.

The dueler didn't turn to look at Guts before she faced the direction of the line of carts. “Could use a hand bringing supplies for nine tents.” with that, he followed. By the time they had made it eastward, the supply carts themselves looked trampled and raided. She stepped faster, more determined to follow clues of smoke curling in the air, leaving Guts behind. When she rounded for the supply cart, she saw Corkus pinching the bridge of his nose, Pippin pulling out tainted canvas from the din of a burnt cart with arrows sputtered from it. They must've been chewing through the supply carts first right under the Hawk's noses.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you!" Rickert panted, addressing the Swordswoman, his eyes wide.

“Yes, Rickert?” She asked.

“You saw your tent, haven't you?”

The Swordswoman's tired look was enough of an answer to him. He managed carefully through an unsteady pant. Poor boy must've been running around in charge of site management with dwindled resources by now.

“Well, the supply carts have been torched along with the military grade tents. We had another set only to find those were torched too along with the weaponry carts”

The Swordswoman stared, words barely registering past the ringing in her ears that frustration began to chime. Rickert, mistaking her stunned silence for simple shock at the loss, hurried on, relaying his orders.

“Commander Griffith heard about it already. He said…” he lowered his voice conspiratorially as he stepped forward, “well, he’s allocated you space in his command tent for now.”

She must've been glaring daggers at him, her eyes parched from her focus on the young mercenary. Rickert shifted nervously, fumbling with his vambraces out of a nervous tick, clearly reciting a justification he didn’t fully grasp himself. Corkus and Pippin found themselves in the vortex of his words, stepping closer to eavesdrop.

“Said since you’re guarding the nobles anyway, and his tent is right near their command post. It's just practical. Saves setting up a new one right away, keeps you close to your duty station. The other Hawks are setting up further back, consolidating…” Rickert trailed off as he finally registered the profound, almost identical looks of stunned shock from everyone nearby. The Swordswoman felt the blood drain from her face. Griffith’s tent. His tent. After what transpired just moments ago? The world tilted, the ground unstable beneath her boots.

Guts’ reaction was a mirror of her own internal hell, but reflected through a different lens. His eyes widened fractionally. Corkus, standing in his simmering resentment, looked utterly poleaxed. His jaw dropped, eyes bulging, sputtering incoherently for a moment before raw outrage contorted his features.

“His tent? Are you kidding me!?”

The accusation of favoritism, always boiling, now exploded into full blown certainty in his furious gaze.

“Why?” The word clawed its way out, desperate and ragged. She grabbed Rickert’s arm, ignoring the startled look on his face, needing an anchor in the suddenly pitching world. “There must be something else- Officers’ quarters, requisitioned space. It’s safer to have separate tents, surely?” The plea sounded weak even to her own ears, laced with an impropriety she couldn't fully articulate but felt viscerally.

Rickert gently disentangled his arm, his expression sympathetic but firm.  “I’m sorry, but the fire took the main supply carts- the ones with the spare command grade canvas. Everything’s gone. Griffith’s orders were clear. He said you should take it up with him directly if you had objections. Look, I need to help allocate what supplies we do have left.” With a final, apologetic glance, he turned and hurried away towards the smoking remnants of the supply line, leaving her adrift. Pippin had stopped rummaging for items, his glance seemingly mirroring Guts'.

Take it up with him directly. The suggestion was laughable. The near-miss in battle didn’t seem to phase him for this reason.

“Great.” She sighed to herself, her knees growing wobbly with frustration. She kept her face tilted to the earth, afraid that if otherwise, the heat on her face would be seen through her skin.

“Unbelievable,” Corkus sneered, breaking the stunned silence. His gaze dripped with envious contempt. “Of course she gets to share the White Hawk’s tent. Biggest one in the whole damn army, probably got feather pillows and silk sheets. While the rest of us are crammed five to a leaky canvas!

“Corkus,” Guts’ voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You’re dismissed from guard duty. Go help Rickert with the supplies.”

Corkus sputtered, indignant, but one look at the unyielding set of Guts’ jaw and the dangerous stillness in his eyes seemed to convince him. Muttering curses under his breath, he stalked off, defeated. She could feel Guts’ eyes on her as she stared down into the dirt with items balled in her arms.

“Do you need help carrying them?” his voice slivered through her grievances.

“I should be good. Thanks.” she gave a weary smile at him, trying to cover her growing angst. Pippin and Guts had stared at her enought to make her jolt from her place. "I'll just put this at my new tent." Before Guts could stop her she had already weaved herself through knights and mercanaries.

On the way to the noble’s tents, her eyes scanned the command area, settling on a large tent where muffled voices hummed within its hearth, indicating a debriefing was underway. Griffith was inside, undoubtedly charming the Midland commanders in the serenades they needed to hear. But standing just outside the flap, patient and observant, was Owen, the Toumel Knight leader. She haphazardly paced into Griffith’s tent, noting the spacious area. More- the smell of him before she placed her items down on the ground. Corkus may have not been lying. Though, the dueler didn't have the time to see for herself. she was quick to Catch Owen before the nobles did, slipping out from the tent to dart directly for him. He could at least tactically give answers, his non bias reasoning may be more clarifying than her gut deep down assuming that this wasn't coincidental. If anything, Midland could fetch her a spare tent.

“Sir Owen,” she began as she approached, keeping her voice level.

He turned, offering a polite, if slightly weary, smile.  “Ah, the Hawk herself. Settling in?” 

“A question, if I may,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. “Midland command- are there absolutely no spare officer’s tents available? Any reserves at all?”

Owen’s smile faded slightly, replaced by genuine sympathy.  “None, I’m afraid. The fire was thorough, hit the primary stores hard. Everything extra went up in smoke. Why do you ask? Does this have to do with Commander Griffith lending you space in his pavilion?”

So, it was already common knowledge among the command staff. She felt like she was being stripped of her skin and exposed for everyone to see. “I understand the necessity, but I worry it could be politically unwise for him. Sharing quarters with a soldier, even one under his command. Nobles gossip.” She offered the concern as a plausible, detached observation, hiding the frantic personal objections churning beneath.

“Commander Griffith seems remarkably unconcerned with such whispers,” he observed dryly. He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision, lowering his voice slightly.

“Look, I don’t wish to alarm you, but Commander Laban is my closest friend. We spoke after you met him this morning. Griffith likely offered his tent as a form of protection. Your father- he was a significant figure, and at one point, a political enemy, or at least a perceived one, to certain factions within Midland.”

The Swordswoman stiffened, her blood running cold despite the lingering warmth on her lips. Laban knew. Owen knew. How many others? This offered a potential logic, albeit a disturbing one. Protection through proximity, control disguised as shelter. It fit Griffith’s pattern.

“But,” Owen frowned, tapping his chin,“that’s the odd part. From what Laban recalls, and from the histories I know- very few of the current high command actually saw Kael in person, especially not near the end. Which makes Lord Lyle’s comment earlier, his claiming you looked familiar rather surprising. Almost impossible.”he trailed off.

The Swordswoman seized on the doubt. “Lord Lyle looked old enough to confuse my face with any number of soldiers he’s seen over the decades,” she countered, perhaps too quickly. “Memory plays tricks.”

Owen shrugged, though his eyes remained troubled. “Yet, Laban seemed quite unsettled by it, Lyle’s apparent recognition. Staying close to Griffith, within the commander’s inner circle might be best. I say this to reason you, as you came here looking for answers presumably.”

Hidden in plain sight. Or trapped in the center of the storm. With Griffith, she suspected, there was rarely a difference.

"But why?" she pressed Owen, lowering her voice, needing to understand the underlying current pulling her into these dangerous waters. "If Laban knows who my father was and the potential complications… why bring me here? Why involve me with the high command? Wouldn't it be safer for everyone, including him, to keep me at arm's length, or buried within the Hawk ranks?" Why wasn't he trying to oust her, leverage her past, or simply warn Griffith away?

Owen shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping the perimeter as if ensuring their conversation remained private. His answer, when it came, was coated in the smooth patina of courtly diplomacy, yet felt oddly hollow.

"Commander Laban values competence above pedigree." Owen added, a slight emphasis on the word, "though, trusting the known quantity, even one with a complex past, is often safer than relying on the shifting allegiances and whispered poisons of nobility. They backstab each other for sport.”

His answer felt practiced and evasive. It didn't fully explain the personal risk Laban seemed to be taking, nor the almost paternalistic way he’d handled the dagger. Something was missing. But Owen wasn't finished. He leaned fractionally closer, his next words delivered with a quietness that prickled the hairs on her neck.

"And between us… it wasn't Griffith who initially pushed for your placement here."

The Swordswoman froze. "What?"

"Laban utilized the King's formal decree quite deliberately, commander Griffith, initially, seemed less than enthusiastic about you being detached from the main Hawk force and placed directly within this command circle."

He clarified. That clarification punched the air from her lungs. Griffith hadn't wanted her here? He hadn't lied about the King's decree being the impetus, at least not entirely. But his reluctance. Now, it contradicts everything. She stared at Owen until he shifted uncomfortably. There was no reason for him to lie about this.

"I… see," she murmured, the words feeling inadequate. There were no other tents. Laban had insisted she be here. Griffith, after initial reluctance, had seized the chance created by the fire to ensure she stayed, right next to him. There was no escape hatch, no alternative lodging. She had to stay in his tent. The realization settled with the cold finality of a dungeon door slamming shut.

And then, slicing through the confusion, came the memory of Griffith’s voice in morning dew months back:

"Was it less confusing when we were younger? Sharing tents, telling each other stories? Was it better when we did those things?"

Sharing tents. How convenient. How perfectly, suspiciously convenient that circumstances had now forced them back into that childhood intimacy, the very state he had wistfully recalled back then.

A fleeting thought surfaced- Casca. Could she share with Casca? But the idea died almost instantly. Casca commanded Hawk units, her tent would be positioned with the main encampment, likely miles from this command nerve center where the nobles and generals huddled. It was logistically impossible, reinforcing the stark reality of her situation.

A humorless scoff escaped her lips, "Funny," The word came tight with irony, "I accused him of engineering this, of wanting me here all along. He didn't exactly fight me on it." in fact he leaned into it.

Owen chuckled softly, a sound of genuine amusement mixed with a hint of resignation. He clearly recognized the intricate dance of power and personality between the Swordswoman and the White Hawk, even if he didn't grasp all the steps.

"Well, Navigating Commander Griffith's motivations seems a campaign strategy unto itself. He may have simply recognized the inevitable once Laban invoked the King."

The Swordswoman let out a weary sigh, rubbing her temples against the burgeoning headache the day’s revelations had induced. The tent flap behind Owen remained closed, muffled voices still audible from within. "How long do you expect their debriefing to last?" she asked, the edge returning to her voice. Patience felt like a foreign currency she couldn't afford right now.

Owen glanced back at the command tent, then back at her, a teasing glint in his eyes.  "Impatient to move into your new accommodations, are we?"

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, armor plates groaning faintly in protest. Her jaw set stubbornly. "I think I've had quite enough surprises for one day, Sir Owen. Knowing what comes next feels like a necessary tactical advantage at this point."

He turned slightly, lowering his voice again as if sharing a confidence that bordered on impropriety.

"Regarding Laban, he likely made some promise to Kael. Years ago."

The Swordswoman's breath hitched. A promise? To her father? "What kind of promise?"

“I do not know. Laban guards his past closely. But Kael saved his life once, perhaps more than once. Debts like that, among men like them, are not easily forgotten, regardless of politics or kings."

This added another layer of complexity, a motive rooted in honor rather than strategy or manipulation. But it still didn't explain everything. "How did he even know it was me?" she pressed, the question burning. "My father kept his family life separate. How could Laban possibly recognize me after all these years, amidst thousands of soldiers?"

Owen hesitated, his gaze flicking towards the royal crypts, unseen beyond the camp bustle. "He told me… it was at the funeral procession. For Julius and Adonis."

The Swordswoman frowned, trying to recall the chaotic, grief stricken event.

"The queen noticed the disturbance. Laban was standing quite near her then, part of the immediate royal escort. He said when you looked up, after bowing, he saw your face clearly for the first time. And he knew. Instantly."

Stunned silence descended again. The funeral. That humiliating moment under the queen’s glare, Pippin hauling her back. Laban had been right there. He had seen her face, recognized Kael’s daughter in the midst of royal mourning, and said nothing until this morning. A familiar figure detached itself from the command tent, gliding towards them with that distinctive grace.

Griffith was approaching. And the fragile truce brokered by Owen’s partial revelations felt suddenly, terrifyingly inadequate. She remained quiet, caught in the crosscurrents of relief, suspicion, and unwelcome guilt over her earlier certainty about his motives.

“Sir Owen,” Griffith greeted him with a nod, his smile polite but brief, a necessary acknowledgment before turning to his true focus. His azure gaze settled on the Swordswoman. “Finished with your duties here?”

She felt Owen’s presence beside her keenly, a reminder of their conversation, of the truths and half-truths exchanged. The guilt reveberated. She had accused Griffith, raged at him, based on assumptions that were, apparently, incomplete. She kept her eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Griffith’s shoulder, unable to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” she managed, her voice subdued.

“Good,” Griffith said, his tone smooth, accepting her quietude without comment.  “The command tent is being struck for the evening redistribution. You should move what little remains of your gear to my pavilion now. I managed to salvage a spare bedroll from the secondary supplies; I’ll take that. You can have the cot.”

His offer of the cot, the prime sleeping spot felt like a means to butter her up. It wrong-footed her again, making her earlier fury feel churlish. They began walking beside one another- keen not to touch, moving through the bustling camp towards the large, distinctively marked tent that served as Griffith's mobile headquarters. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sounds of the recovering army.

Finally, the pressure became too much. She cleared her throat, the sound small in the open air. “Griffith…” She paused, struggling for the words. “About earlier… my accusations about Laban’s request… I apologize.” The admission felt like swallowing stones, heavy and unpleasant, but necessary.

He glanced at her, and surprise had caught him before he wiped it away. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” His dismissal was effortles. “I told you it was the King’s decree, invoked by Laban. I knew you would eventually see the situation for what it was, without my needing to force the perspective.” He hadn't lied, not technically, but he had allowed her anger to run its course, knowing the facts, when revealed, would land with greater impact. He had let her discover it herself, maintaining his position of quiet authority and deeper knowledge, even in reconciliation.

"How long is this arrangement likely to last?"

Griffith glanced sideways, the setting sun gleaming in the azure of his eyes.  "Until the next supply convoy arrives with replacement command tents. Could be a week. Could be a month, depending on Tudor movements along the supply lines and the King's priorities."

A month. The word hung in the air between them. A month of sharing this confined space, of unavoidable closeness, of navigating the treacherous territory they'd entered under the oak trees. Slow heat crept up her neck. She looked away, focusing intently on the rhythmic crunch of their boots on the path, suddenly finding the pattern of trodden grass fascinating.

Then, another question surfaced, nagging at the edges of her understanding. "Owen mentioned… you initially objected to Laban’s request for me to guard the command unit." She risked a glance at his profile, seeking confirmation. "Why? If you knew Laban… knew the potential connection?"

Griffith didn’t break stride. "Because, I knew how you would react. Being confined to a command post, guarding nobles while the main battle rages elsewhere. You'd feel caged. Pent up." He paused, letting the accurate, if unflattering, assessment land."And when I suspected Laban's insistence stemmed from his past ties to your father, I objected even more. It adds layers of complexity I couldn't predict or control. Placing you in the center of that felt unnecessarily risky."

"Understandable then." She concurred for a rare once.

He stopped just outside the entrance to his large, well-appointed tent. The canvas glowed warmly from the lantern light within finally facing to the darkness showing itself over the lands. "Now, circumstances have changed. Laban's motivations, Lord Lyle's scrutiny, the general instability after Julius' death… the safest place for you is close. Where I can ensure your protection directly." A faint, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. "Frankly, I don't trust the average Midland knight or even most of these noble commanders to adequately defend a potted plant, let alone someone as… prone to attracting trouble as you are."

"Fair point," she conceded quietly, turning away from him. Her attention snagged on the pitiful state of her bed roll, cloak, secondary sword and dagger. The scorched fabric, the pervasive smell of ash. It felt like a tangible representation of her own precarious situation. She picked it up, scowling as she tried to shake out the worst of the soot and smooth the stiffened wool, focusing intently on the futile task. It gave her something to do, something to look at besides the man sharing her enforced sanctuary.

Behind her, the distinct sounds began: the click and scrape of buckles being undone, the sigh of leather straps loosening, the soft thud of discarded pauldrons hitting a trunk lid. Griffith was removing his armor. Piece by piece, the barrier of polished steel that defined the White Hawk was coming down, leaving behind the man beneath. An involuntary tension coiled in her shoulders. She kept her back resolutely turned, fiddling with the cloak, pretending to inspect a particularly stubborn scorch mark, feigning difficulty in balancing her sword against the campaign table – anything to avoid acknowledging the intimacy of the sounds, the vulnerability inherent in shedding one's defenses.

"I'm going to the lake to wash off the grime of battle," Griffith's voice broke the silence, "The water will be cold, but it's necessary."  She could almost feel his gaze on her back. "If you feel unsafe going alone later, given everything… you're welcome to come now. There's safety in numbers, even for bathing."

Her cheeks, already warm from their earlier proximity, felt blistering. The suggestion hung in the air, seemingly innocent, practical even, yet loaded with unspoken implications after everything that had transpired. Bathing. Together. Griffith had bathed in lakes and rivers alongside the entire Band countless times over the years. When they were younger, scrambling through streams after dusty spars, it hadn't meant anything more than rinsing off sweat and mud. There had been an easy camaraderie, an absence of sin born of shared hardship and childhood familiarity.

But things were different now. She was different. He was different. He wasn't the lean boy she’d wrestled with anymore; he was Griffith, the commander, sculpted muscle and unnerving grace, a man whose touch now ignited far more than simple friendship. The kiss. That brief pressure of his lips had irrevocably changed the landscape between them. The thought of seeing him stripped of his armor, of being near him in that state of vulnerability after that… it felt like bathing with her soul and secrets out from her body. Too intimate. She hadn't consciously bathed near him, not like that, since they were well into their teens, since the undeniable realities of their maturing bodies had erected invisible but potent barriers. She hadn't seen him fully unclothed since then.

"We haven't-" Her voice caught, forcing herself to turn and face him, needing to establish distance. He stood now only in his linen undershirt and breeches, his armor neatly stacked. Even partially clothed, the lean power of his build was evident. "...bathed together like that since we were young, Griffith."

He met her gaze, and it was too hard for her to read what was in them. He nodded slowly.

"True." He didn't press more than that. "If you feel uncomfortable, perhaps ask Casca to accompany you later. She’ll likely be heading down with some of the other women."

His easy acceptance somehow felt more cutting than persistence would have. It made her feel… childish. Unreasonable. Yet the boundary felt necessary. "Then why… why even suggest bathing together now?" she asked, needing to understand his reasoning, needing to know if it was another calculated move or simply thoughtlessness.

He seemed genuinely taken aback for a moment, a scoff slips from him as he parts tresses behind his ear. "Honestly? It didn't occur to me that it would be like that. Old habits, I suppose. Practicality. Thinking only of safety after the attack. My apologies." He didn't linger on the awkwardness. With a final, almost formal nod, he gathered a small bundle containing soap and linen.

"I won't be long."

He parted the tent flap and disappeared into the fading light, leaving her alone in the suddenly vast, shared space. It was going to be either a long week, or a very long month.

Go to Next Chapter

[virgo-mess]

New Show on the Drive!

Courtesy of @mrgriffiths TIGs episode of Wiseguy is on the drive, so now you can enjoy more shots of him in lovely shorts! 🤭

I also shamelessly started working on the second part of the CK Terry smutshot at the coffee shop on my first full day off in months. So here's a sneak peek of that. Hopefully, my productivity won't disappear again unannounced but we'll just have to wait and see 🫣.

[karatekels]

Solar Flare – Prologue

Hey y’all – welcome to the Valek fic that I’ve been wanting to write since all the way back in August of last year! I’ve been polishing up the ideas and developing some new characters (this is my first time writing an OC as a love interest!) as well as looking forward to some returning characters (*eyes Cassandra*), and I’m hoping this will be the fic that gets me back into the writing frame of mind. With that, I hope you enjoy!

Summary: As vampires become a growing problem and the number of Slayers dwindles, the Catholic Church decides to perform another ‘miracle’, attempting to create a weapon that will be able to find the despicable creatures in any and all shadows that they may hide. Similarly to the botched exorcism of Jan Valek, the experimental ceremony that Rose Hanlon undergoes doesn’t go exactly as intended, and she escapes the city with a set of abilities she doesn’t even understand.

TW: [this chapter] relatively vague descriptions of violence and abuse

TW: [for the fic; may change as I write] blood-drinking and other vampirism fun, graphic violence, graphic sex, abduction, abuse, threats

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Solar Flare

Prologue: Syzygy

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From the journal of Father Killian…

July 27th, 1998

We’ve received news that yet another team of Slayers has been decimated, torn apart and massacred just north of Sicily. Our numbers are dwindling like never before, and the clergy have become desperate for a solution. The Diaconate of Monteriggioni has spent countless hours researching, trying to determine a solution that will allow us to hold them off while our numbers return; we need more soldiers to wield God’s Light. The Archbishop has granted permission to use any means necessary to fend off these attacks, and their leading suggestion certainly pushes that permission to the limits of His clemency.

It began with research into the Old Rites. After all, the Primogen of their monstrous ilk, Jan Valek, was a result of a misbegotten exorcism – why not pursue a similar avenue to try to atone for the sins of our past? This train of thought led our scholars to a series of old Germanic texts, the eldest of which preceded vampirism by several decades, and to a binding ritual intended for relics. Such a blessing would allow for relics to be traceable should they be stolen, so that we need not live in fear of losing these precious symbols of our faith. It was one of the youngest parishioners that suggested the ritual be performed on a human, allowing them to seek out evil like a beacon and lead our Slayers right to their nests.

The peak of the Perseid meteor shower in two weeks’ time will be the ideal time to perform the necessary rites according to Father Lorenzo. The Tears of Saint Lawrence returning to Earth every summer is already a celestial blessing, and with the shower’s radiant approaching Cassiopeia more than it has in centuries, this will only strengthen the binding of this blessing to its vessel.

All that remains now is to find one.

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August 10th, 1998

The past days have had Monteriggioni in a frenzy. Staving off attacks, finalizing the plans for the ritual, and finding a vessel… This last step proved by far the most difficult, as they needed to be descended from the Crusaders, grown but not an active Slayer, someone useful for the role but not expendable should things go… awry.

Jeremy Hanlon came to me a week ago with an option, just when we were starting to think that all hope may be lost. Hanlon, a fifth-generation Slayer with both family lines tracing back to the Crusaders, suggested his daughter as the vessel. The young woman, Rose, has long posed a problem within the city’s walls and to her family, rejecting the tenets of our community and refusing to train as a Slayer or to marry a man of similar lineage to continue the bloodline. Hanlon has spent the better part of her lifetime trying to atone for the sins of his daughter, and believes that this opportunity is the road to her salvation as well as our own. Despite the woman’s violent reluctance, we have run out of time to pursue other avenues, and as an unmarried woman, her father has retained custodial rights as is customary with our laws, and has agreed on her behalf.

Fortunately the ceremony is to take place tonight, during the peak of the Perseid shower. The sunset can’t come soon enough; the intensity of her ire rattles the very stones of the vestry in which she is being kept.

---

August 16th, 1998

The ceremony was performed, and we have spent a week with the vessel in relative isolation as Rose continues to be… resistant. At the very least, it has allowed us to gradually determine the success of the ritual and the limitations of her new abilities.

On the second day, we were able to use a captured thrall to conduct an experiment, moving the vile creature into the rooms surrounding her own. Without fail, she was able to detect what room the vampling was located in through a feeling she described as an itch that needed scratching. This bodes well for her intended purpose, and it is expected that a more aged or powerful vampire will elicit a stronger sensation, thereby enabling the Slayers to identify the most imminent threat during a pursuit.

A more serious issue arose yesterday. Rose is compelled to obey a direct command from a member of the clergy, as enforced by the use of certain runes during the ceremony, and this has held true for the most part. She will perform simple tasks and answer questions asked of her as instructed, but it would appear that there was a mistranslation with the runes that has led to her obeying vampires as well. The same thrall used for her previous days’ training was brought into her cell to test Rose’s capacity to destroy the foul creatures. Initially she attempted to fight off the compulsion to serve her purpose and exterminate the abomination, but looked to be conceding until the thrall asked her for help.

We lost three good priests last night; she tore into them like they were made of paper. Her strength and speed have definitely been elevated beyond a normal human’s capacity, though not to the level of the vampiric. There is some concern amongst the Scholars that a vampire would be able to supersede our own commands if they knew it would be effective, but if we can make her amenable to our pursuits, it should not pose a legitimate threat in practice.

In the name of the Father, let her soul settle into this new role, so that she may guide us to our Salvation.

---

August 19th, 1998

She’s gone. Rose has escaped.

The security tapes showed her clearly trying to commit suicide to no avail – she has been made to endure, after all. Furious, she tore a leg off of the bedframe and pounded her way through the hinges on the door. Further cameras had shown her tearing through the halls and disappearing into the catacombs without a trace.

We have sent for one of the strongest remaining regiments of Slayers from their base in New Mexico; they are our only hope of retrieving Rose so that we may make the necessary adjustments to her blessing and stand a chance against the ever-growing threat of the vampiric race.

Not only do I fear for the vessel and what she represents, but for the girl as well. We cannot be certain that we have seen all of her abilities at work, or identified any newly created weaknesses, and she could be in greater danger than she knows. Should a lesser man of the cloth – or, God forbid, a vampire – stumble upon her and learn of their powers of persuasion over her, I shudder to think of what fate might befall her.

Our Lord works in mysterious ways; let this turn of events be a blessing in disguise.

---

Syzygy refers to three celestial bodies appearing in a straight line – In this case, we’ve got Valek, Rose, and Jack!

[peetaspenguin]

hunger games edit

[oc-heaven]

Warming

Griffith x Nori (White Hawk Timeline)

Just some good 'ol dom/sub cockwarming

“Quiet, I’m trying to work.” Nori sighed when Griffith squirmed while whining, acting as if he didn’t purposely shift to brush against Griffith’s prostate. It wasn’t fair to scold Griffith, but Nori didn’t care. His cock was glass attached to a harness, so he didn’t feel an ounce of pleasure. Making it even easier to ignore the needy man on his lap.

“S-sorry, Sir,” Griffith mumbled as he tried to stay still, but it was hard to do with his cock pressed against Nori’s clothed stomach on top of the glass cock in his ass. The fabric of the doctor’s clothes was far too rough for Griffith’s sensitive dick. Not to mention his precum was staining the fabric. For which he would likely be punished, though that was something he didn’t mind all that much.

“I feel how you’re leaking. Such a needy thing.” Nori chuckled as he rolled his hips, his hands coming to Griffith’s hips to hold him in place. “Staining my clothes like a whore.” Griffith mewled as his fingers dug into Nori’s clothed back, his forehead resting on the man’s chest. “If you came on my clothes I would have to make you walk to your room the way you are now. It’s late so only the guards would see your bare ass. Would you like that?” A harsh thrust punctuated Nori’s words.

“Ngh! I-If Sir wants it!" Griffith's head was fuzzy so the thought pushed him closer to cumming. Though if he was processing Nori's words better he would be slightly more coy about his proclivity towards it. "I-I wouldn't wear any clothes e-ever so Sir could take me whenever he wanted!" Griffith cried out as Nori continued to buck into him, being sure to occasionally grind against his prostate. 

"If you cum on my clothes I'm making you walk to your room naked." Nori taunted, knowing Griffith was going to cut soon. "You hear me?" Griffith nodded frantically as he raised his head to kiss the doctor. It was the sloppiest kiss there ever was, with far too much spit on Griffith's part. It sounded more like he was eating Nori out rather than kissing him.

"Mmmm! Sir… gonna!  G-gonna… cum!" Griffith whined against Nori's lips as he shot his load on Nori's royal blue shirt. "Keep… keep going!" He begged even though he knew the doctor would fuck him through his orgasm whether he liked it or not. "Good! S-so good!" Griffith collapsed forward, his body shaking through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

"Hmph, looks like you'll be walking your naked ass back to your room." Nori scoffed as he ran his fingers through the spent man's hair. A slight smile came to his lips and his eyes softened as Griffith leaned into his touch. "I'll clean you up."

[dollwrites]

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!princess!reader, king!stepdad!griffith, stepcest, cuddlefucking, reader is a griffith simp and also a brat, griffith is brutally honest and also kind of misogynistic, griffith calls reader ‘ little girl ‘, implied age gap, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟯 ∣ day nine [ griffith + stepcest ]

“Look at me.”

you don’t.

“Look.”

poking your lower lip out in a childish pout, you purposefully avert your eyes. turning your face down into the pillow as if refusing eye contact was punishing your stepfather in some way. he sighs, albeit softly, and you feel his long, slender fingers grip your chin, before forcing your face back towards him. you close your eyes, instead, but only do so for a millisecond.

“Look. At. Me.”

you have no choice now. even though Griffith’s tone rarely raised ( and was, in this moment, a soft whisper ), the edge of his baritone was a sneaking growl that rumbled in his throat, but you’d learned to pick it out and understand when he was at his wit’s end with you. his grip firm and squeezing your chin, holding you in place.

finally, you obey. your eyelids flutter as your vision comes back, and you blink a few times until the blur goes away. almost tears, but you’d managed to push them back.

your bedchamber was dark, except for the pale moonlight spilling through the open curtains that catches Griffith’s figure and casts a silvery glow against his flawless features. your face is inches from him, lain on your side with your breasts smushed against his chest, your eyes more than willing to drink in every inch of his countenance. he isn’t smiling, but he’s not scowling, either. his stoic expression is all too familiar.

“What an insolent little girl you’ve become.” he mutters, and you pout even more. “That’s my doing, isn’t it? I spoil you too much.”

you scoff at that— you want to disagree with him. hell, you want to argue that the king doesn’t give you enough attention as it is, he’s much too occupied with your mother and their marriage to give you any kind of real affection, and the time he did spend with you was always under the guise of night time. when no one was awake to witness him tiptoeing into your bedchamber to fuck you.

“Stop your pouting,” he instructs, angling your face toward him. he moves closer, and for a moment you think he’s doing so to kiss you. your lips part, your eyelids droop, and you wait for that sweet, sweet kiss you yearn to taste. the feeling of his plush lips caressing yours. but he doesn’t kiss you. his breath is a soft wave against your tiers as his own linger, close enough to tickle yours. “And move your hips more. I know you love it when I’m deep inside you like this. So show me.”

“Can you sleep in here tonight?” you ask, biding your time.

but when one, graceful hand careens downward to grasp your thigh and hook it up around his slender waist and he answers a simple, “No.” you huff and puff, but obediently wind your hips in slow strokes. feeling every inch of him fill you, you let out a pleasured sigh.

you wished you could have this all the time.

you wished he would stay, so you could wake up in the early morning, when the sun was just starting to rise, and wrap your lips around the cock you loved so much.

you wished he would hold you like this until you fell asleep, with his and your own body joined in a way that was meant only for man and wife.

“Please? Just this once?” both of your hands rest on his shoulders, keeping yourself close to him as you fuck yourself with his cock. slow and deep. a mine-melting rhythm. “Hnnnn… please—“

Griffith cuts into your begging with a low moan, allowing his hand to fall from your face and glide between your body and his. fingers dipping between your hips, the pads rub slow circles around your swollen button until you swoon, your walls fluttering spastically as he stimulates your clit. “Tighter. There you go. Good girl,” he mutters, his eyeline dropping to your lower body rocking back and forth as his breath catches, “clench for me. Let me feel you milk me.”

it was hard to stay mad when he praised you— though you knew he did so simply to placate you, you cling close to his chest and whine. “Why— why couldn’t you have married m-me?” you were starting to pant, now. the passion of the moment overtaking your senses and tightening every muscle in your body.

“Oh, love.” Griffith croons, but you can hear not a single ounce of real emotion behind the term of endearment. his lips graze yours, his voice a husky whisper. “Marrying your mother has given me my own kingdom, an army, and hundreds of loyal subjects. What could you possibly offer me other than a tight, wet cunt?”

a stunned silence befalls you, and humiliation screws your expression into one of pathetic submission, realizing that he would never care for you the way you care for him. it would be something you would have to live with, after all. being his set of holes when he needed his balls drained, but an afterthought any other time.

his sapphire gaze flickers back to your face, and though he doesn’t smile, there’s an aura of satisfaction and victory that engulfs him, washing over you, too. “Being your father allows me so much more power. Over Midland. Over your mother. And over you, my pert, little plaything.”