#he never once pushed him to be better or stronger

[aias-fxtns]

Girl, when I say I set aside my laptop and immediately run to tumblr after finishing my final projects for this last sem, just so I can find and read the lastest chapters of this... god forbid a woman is just balancing her priorities.

You sigh into his shoulder as he secures you over him. You mumble against his skin, "I dream of waking to you often."

"As do I," he brushes his nose against you.

AHHHHHHH YAS, GOOD GOD!!!! THE CRUMBS🙌🙌🙌

Daemon shifts, sitting up so your head was no longer hovering. He pulls you against his chest, kissing your temple, "I am an awfully persistent presence. I will not fade, even if you insist upon it."

"I would never insist that you fade," you rub his cheek, "especially not for me."

Yes, the relationship is improving. The way they communicate now compare to the past, we know it's improving especially after the... mwehwheheh... I hope it will be consistent. (PLSSSS)

He shifts and looks down at you, taking your face to steal back your attention, "that was not a dream."

Finally! It's been cleared and known to y/n, good for her.

"You are no pawn," he wipes your cheeks, "you are my queen."

AH, DUH! AS WE SHOULD BE TREATED!!!

A deep chuckle passes his lips. "Do not flatter me so," he rubs his nose against yours, "I will not let out of this bed."

You kiss his neck, "you will not hear a complaint from me."

Daemon groans and hurtles himself into you, crushing you beneath him. You giggle as he kisses you, mouth hungry for yours. He finds the back of your knee on instinct, and is soon strapping your legs around him. His lips, tongue, and teeth take a moment on your skin.

YEEEESSSSSS!!! (Insert Dr. Falicier saying/singing "Yes", at some point to prince Naveen in "The Princess and The Frog".)

The sound of your name pulls you out of it. He kisses your jaw reassuringly, "None of me desires to gain children but lose my wife. I've already had a taste... it is too bitter to bear."

I love me some man who will not force me to bare a child if he knows I can't (physically, mentally, and emotionally). Good for him!

And knowing the wound they bare after losing the twins is somehow still there so it's really reasonable to stop pushing the idea of pregnancy, let both of you heal first and make sure to make yourselves somewhat stable, then that's when you guys need to reconsider it all out. The Gods will give it to you soon.

"You will regain your strength and then," he stresses, "then shall children come."

Your lips wobble, "a-and if I don't—"

He silences you with a kiss, mumbling, "you will get better."

He takes no other word from you save his name moaned in pleasure.

Take your time, momma. Let your body and soul heal first🥹🫂

He draws your love making until his hair is dripping in sweat and your skin is sticky with him. You're consumed wholly by him and he is consumed wholly by you. Once you're both coming down from your high, you latch yourself around him, unwanting him to pull away from you.

No comment, just this picture.

"I want you inside my ribcage."

I love it when writers do this stuff. Like they use cannibalism or any kind of insane metaphors to describe love or love-making scene, it's just tickle my braincells and shows how creative their mind is.

‎When you arrive, the pit is bustling. The first thing you both notice is Caraxes is feasting, feasting as if his life depended on it, as if he hadn't eaten in months, which he hasn't, not properly.

Good for you bud, get stronger even more!!

Daemon's throat tightens as you walk towards the boy, grunting as he jumps into your arms. Before his jealousy claws at him, Caraxes, with his new found strength, turns and hisses at the villain, the child in your embrace. Like master, like mount.

Like father, like son. No DNA needed.

"Caraxes," Daemon raises a hand in correction. He walks over to him and strokes his face. The dragon pushes into him, showing his displeasure. He hushes him, "Nyke gīmigon, Caraxes. Istiti gūrēñagon ityragon." I know, Caraxes, we must learn to share.

SUS😏

Caraxes makes a sound, as if knowing how incredibly stupid the notion was.

He knows bs when he hears/smells one🙌, LMAO

Caraxes in his human form after the bs coming from his father:

Aegon squeals in protest and Caraxes begins to react, earning Daemon's attention again. The older prince turns and raises a hand, commanding the dragon to stay back.

In the end, because the pair's emotional meltdown, they were both escorted back to their rooms, and you were left feeling terrible to see Aegon be carried away while he cried out for you.

This chaotic duo, I can't with this one😭

Your face twist, "you act as though you would not put up a fight if you were pried away from your dragon."

SHE CLOCKED HIM OUT WITH THIS ONE!!

Silver hair flutters across his eyes as Aemond lifts his gaze, "maybe we can take a break... ?"

I mean, me too bud, I ain't risking my cake for a battle I know I can't win. Good for you.

He does not even look at Aemond, instead, he sneaks an arm behind you, pulling you closer to him, "if you don't let me have lunch now, I'm I'm going to eat your aunt."

The double meaning I can't😭😭😭

Aemond gasps, immediately pulling your skirt away from him, "NO!!!!!"

Starting from this scene I can't stop laughing, I be Deamon irl, being a menace to my niece and nephews, making them scream and cry because they look fun to trigger.

Daemon eyes the frantic Aemond, circling an arm around you as he bites your shoulder.

"NOOOO!" Aemond squeals, trying his best to save you from attempted cannibalism.

Aemond locked in protecting his auntie, LMAO😭

"Daor," Daemon stands as well, eyeing Aemond, "I am a dragon. I gladly eat your aunt every nig—"

Not the double meaning again, we know you also meant it (ifykyk), Daemon😏.

He breaks into a laugh while Aemond breaks into a sob.

I be Daemon irl🙌😭

Aemond woefully looks at Daemon, lips trembling, "muña iksis va moriot ōdrikagon. nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon ao naejot ōdrikagon zirȳla." (Maternal) aunt is always hurt. I don't want you to hurt her.

Awe, protect this kid at all cost!!!

"AND SUNFYRE MANAGED TO DO CIRCLES IN THE SKY!" Aegon motioned with a fork from where he sat at the head of the table.

Another one, see! It's shows how amazing this kids turned out to be when they're surrounded with a good environment, people, and childhood. They're being molded in a proper way. The canon kids would love to experience this one🥹🥹

He would never admit it, but everyone knew, Aemond was his favorite. Holding him after his return from Essos, at a time he was so vulnerable, forged an profound partialness for the boy. He tried to convince himself he'd be just as wretched as his older brother, but he simply was not. Aemond was quiet, observant, obedient, and most importantly, he was not nearly as interested in you as his siblings. He was interested in Daemon, and Daemon adored it; he adored him.

The AU of this, love it! The duo we must have!!!

Daemon's face darkens. Rat.

You inspect Aemond, and Daemon no longer shields him. The boy wanted cake, let him face the consequences. Aemond turns to you, violet eyes innocent, mouth covered in frosting.

Aemond whines, crushing most in an attempt to continue eating it.

LMAO, not the father instinct kicking in—in Daemon when it comes to Aemond😭

He was definitely staring at Aegon like this across the table:

It was a mistake to look at you then. He is powerless beneath your gaze. He curses softly in High Valyrian then waves a hand, "one last game."

The children cheer.

Look at this family. We can end it here you know. No more drama. Yes, the end, guys. Thank you, everyone🙌😅. And they lived happily ever after.... The end.

You watch them play. Daemon is far gentler now which makes the game far more fun. Your heart tightens over how much joy you feel that you have to step out of the room to calm yourself down.

The improvement of their individuality and as well as a partner is very good, I hope it will be well for all of them consistently, even with a slight hint of angst😭😭 (Fuck I feel like I'm jinxing it... Am I?)

Your gaze lands on him. Your eyes are slightly beady, which is why your chuckle confuses him. "Silly boy," you reach for his cheek, "you are my home."

His heart rattles in his chest. He takes your wrist and kisses it.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THEM.

I swear to God, this two screams yearning. Especially, Daemon. He is so Hozier coded😭😭😭. Everytime I read stories like this I tend to listen to one of Hozier music as I read them quietly🙌. This chapter is amazing as always! Love them, especially after a very long time of not using this app since of my busy schedule as a academic weapon. LMAO. I enjoy and love it as always!🩷

This chapter scream, "From Eden" by Hozier.

Tormented Spirit | 22

Part 1 [...] 20 21 22 23

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, emotional constipation, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i just realized sunfyre didn't hatch for aegon and he had to claim him... anyway since I already wrote it like that, just roll with it ok?? ALSO PLEASE SPARE ME A COMMENT/REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS because it feels so aimless T_T anyway next part wont be... hopefully <3 | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @astrogirl01

You find yourself awakening to the feel of hands brushing through your hair. You slowly open your eyes and curl inward, sensitive to the sunshine beaming in through the window. You are pulled in with a contented sigh.

You realize two things then, one, your head was upon Daemon's chest, and two, he was singing something under his breath. You slowly lift your head, finding his face. His eyes were closed, though he was still combing through your hair with a tune upon his lips. He was beautiful.

Your heart tightens as you reach for him.

Daemon stills when he feels your hand on his cheek and promptly opens his eyes.

Your own water as he takes your hand to press a kiss upon in.

"Sȳz ñāqes." Good morning.

Your lips tremble, "issi ao drējion?" Are you real?

His brows furrow as a tear runs down your cheek. He quickly shifts, wipes it away, and pulls you tightly into him, "kessa." You instantly seal your arms around him. He presses a kiss upon your head, "iksan kesīr, ñuha jorrāelagon." Yes. I am here, my love.

You sigh into his shoulder as he secures you over him. You mumble against his skin, "I dream of waking to you often."

"As do I," he brushes his nose against you.

He rubs your back as he feels wetness build on his collar. He holds you tighter, hoping his embrace will dam your tears. He whispers your name in an attempt to soothe you.

You pull away and examine his face.

Daemon frowns at how pinkish and puffy your eyes were already.

You gently swipe his pout and smooth the line between his brows. He seems to relax slightly as you continue to trace the rest of his features. You sniffle, "are your dreams vivid?"

He watches you— you, who seemed to be so enamored by him. He clenches his jaw and squeezes your hip, "sometimes I feel you in my arms."

You lock gazes.

"But then I find a pillow in my embrace when I rouse."

You frown slightly, "my dreams feel like memories that never were. They quickly fade when I open my eyes."

Daemon shifts, sitting up so your head was no longer hovering. He pulls you against his chest, kissing your temple, "I am an awfully persistent presence. I will not fade, even if you insist upon it."

You chuckle softly.

He smiles, squeezing your arm, as if urging that you bless him with the sound once more.

"I would never insist that you fade," you rub his cheek, "especially not for me."

He takes your wrist and kisses it.

"I do have one dream that I have not forgotten... one and only."

He hums in interest.

"I was praying in the temple, and you came to me."

Daemon's throat tightens.

"It was after the last dinner we had with the late queen Aemma, after all the ruckus from it."

He hums again, brows tightening at the memory.

"The next thing I know I was in bed and you were looking down at me," you brush your lips, "then I was kissing you, holding you, pulling you i—"

"Wait," he shakes his head, "this was the night before the tourney, was it not?"

You nod as you trace the burn scars across his chest. You frown and kiss him there.

He shifts and looks down at you, taking your face to steal back your attention, "that was not a dream."

You look up at him, "hmm?"

"I went to you in the temple," he shakes his head, silver hair falling to his face, "I knelt with you then carried you back to your chambers. You asked me to stay and I did."

Your brow furrows as you sit up, "y-you did?" You shake your head, "but I-" your eyes water, "I woke up alone, I-" your lips wobble.

Daemon feels dreadful. He almost mentions that he knows what you've prayed for all your life, but he does not want to speak it into existence if that was no longer the case. Instead, he says, "I had to rouse early for the games."

You whimper, "do you speak true?"

He clutches your cheeks and nods slowly, "I did not want to. I waited until the last moment to leave. I didn't have the heart to wake you."

You scratch your eyes, not wanting to cry, "I... that was why I could not bear to go to the games... I was so bitter that my dreams were so sweet and reality- .... reality—" you cannot withhold your sob.

Daemon pulls you against him, guilt rising up his neck as he recalls the cruelty he handed you once you do arrive. Jealousy soon replaces guilt when he thinks of Gwayne. He grits his teeth, "would you have still gone to your brother had you not believed our love making was a dream?"

You sniffle, "... what?"

He examines your once more dampened cheeks and hangs his head, "would you have been more partial to me had you known I actually stayed with you that night?"

Your heart throbs, "do you ask me if I would have cared less for my twin?"

"No," he looks away, "I ask if you would you have cared more for me."

"I do care for you," you reach for his cheek.

"More than your beloved Gwayne?" he turns back to you.

You frown, "now, yes."

He should be happy, but he bristles at the context. He chuckles dryly, "you loved him more then."

"It still hurt me to know you saw me as a pawn in your game," you simultaneously shrug and shake your head, "I do not mind it now, so long as you do not abandon me."

"You are no pawn," he wipes your cheeks, "you are my queen."

You purse your lips, "Aemma told me something similar... that pawns turn into queens."

"You are no pawn to me," he repeats firmly.

You lower your gaze, "be it as it may... a queen must provide her king an heir and..." you wipe your face, "I- I am not strong enough."

He speaks your name, gently shaking you.

You hide behind your palms.

He parts his mouth, but finds nothing to say.

For a moment, a moment far too long, you crumble into despair. Your affliction does not take control of you though as Daemon's touch keeps you grounded.

He desperate to soothe you, "I am second born."

You take deep breaths to steel your tears.

"Rhaenyra's been named successor..." his voice is soft, "I've no use for heirs."

Your pull your hands away, face falling, brows tightening at his words. You rapidly shake your head, "do not comfort me with lies."

"I don't need to," he mutters, "my words are true, I..." he shrugs, "... need no heirs."

"You would have me believe you do not want me to sire you sons or daughters?"

He places his hands on your belly, his large hand rubs warm circles, "... that is not what I said."

"Daemo-"

"There is nothing to inherit from me," he shrugs.

Your forehead curls. You shift beside him and rest your head on his shoulder, "you would not have them inherit your tenacity or your comeliness?"

His nostrils flare. He leans into you, "you find me comely, wife?"

"I find you beauteous."

A deep chuckle passes his lips. "Do not flatter me so," he rubs his nose against yours, "I will not let out of this bed."

You kiss his neck, "you will not hear a complaint from me."

Daemon groans and hurtles himself into you, crushing you beneath him. You giggle as he kisses you, mouth hungry for yours. He finds the back of your knee on instinct, and is soon strapping your legs around him. His lips, tongue, and teeth take a moment on your skin.

You are dazed when he pulls away. His heart races at the sight of your swollen lips and glazed expression.

You comb through his hair, "your hair is longer."

"Mmm," he brushes your hair off your shoulder, "do you prefer it short?"

You shrug, "I prefer you how ever."

Daemon chuckles, hand coming to your cheek. He traces your lips with his thumb, "very well," he squeezes your thigh and bucks into you, "I shall bed you before breaking fast."

Your belly swirls. You close your eyes when he kisses your neck.

He licks your pulse, "I shall fill your belly with my seed-"

Your eyes open.

"-that you might feel my warmth inside you," he massages your waist.

"Daem-"

"Then you shall have your fill of moon tea."

You tense. Daemon continues to kiss you until he can no longer ignore the rigidness of your form. His eyes lock with yours as he examines you. He sees your trepidation. He tucks hair behind your ear.

I-need-no-heirs plays in your mind. Your throat tightens, not knowing what to think. Is he sick of you, sick of your inadequacies? He wants children but... not by you? He no longer wants to try—

The sound of your name pulls you out of it. He kisses your jaw reassuringly, "None of me desires to gain children but lose my wife. I've already had a taste... it is too bitter to bear."

You grip his shoulder, tight enough that his flesh punctures beneath your nails. You want to speak, but you know not what.

"You will regain your strength and then," he stresses, "then shall children come."

Your lips wobble, "a-and if I don't—"

He silences you with a kiss, mumbling, "you will get better."

He takes no other word from you save his name moaned in pleasure.

Daemon is gentle.

He does not rush.

He draws your love making until his hair is dripping in sweat and your skin is sticky with him. You're consumed wholly by him and he is consumed wholly by you. Once you're both coming down from your high, you latch yourself around him, unwanting him to pull away from you.

He adores it, yet, the same moment, he finds he is, in fact, just a man and you were feminine divinity overwhelming him. "My love," Daemon grunts against your neck, "... let up."

"I want you inside my ribcage."

He both chuckles and whines against your jaw, "I am still inside you, lover."

"I want to eat you."

Daemon, overwhelmed still, but gravely besotted, nips at your ear, "later, I swear it."

You find yourself giggling at the sound of him.

"I admit..." Daemon whispers, "... I wish to rouse... I worry terribly for Caraxes."

You immediately loosen your grip on him.

Daemon whimpers, suddenly ungrateful at the release. He looks at you, brows furrowed in worry, "he must want to eat me as well... though unlike you."

You frown at his expression and shake your head, "he misses you. I've had my turn. You should go to him."

"I can be shared," he licks his lips, "come with me?"

You knit your brows and nod, "of course."

‎Daemon holds your hand tightly all the way to the pits. Part of you wants to tell him you're not going to vanish into thin air, but in truth, you enjoy the fervor of his hold.

‎When you arrive, the pit is bustling. The first thing you both notice is Caraxes is feasting, feasting as if his life depended on it, as if he hadn't eaten in months, which he hasn't, not properly.

Daemon squeezes your hand, and so do you, turning to him with a smile. His lips were slightly parted and his eyes were glassy. You reach for his arm and rub his bicep. He leans into you, scratching his eyes.

"You did it, he's better now," you mutter.

Daemon sniffles and sighs, looking back to Caraxes. He pulls you along with him as he walks towards one of the head keepers and has conversation with her.

As he does, you watch the blood wyrm scarf down food as if his life depended on it. He was crunching on beasts twice your size like apple. You vaguely hear something about him eating 10 cows before a loud, high pitched cry of your name rings across the space.

You turn and find Aegon, already running up to you with a kingsguard running after him. The child was too lithe and the guard's armor too heavy for the prince to be caught. You gasp and pull away from Daemon, immediately alerting him.

Daemon's throat tightens as you walk towards the boy, grunting as he jumps into your arms. Before his jealousy claws at him, Caraxes, with his new found strength, turns and hisses at the villain, the child in your embrace. Like master, like mount.

"Caraxes," Daemon raises a hand in correction. He walks over to him and strokes his face. The dragon pushes into him, showing his displeasure. He hushes him, "Nyke gīmigon, Caraxes. Istiti gūrēñagon ityragon." I know, Caraxes, we must learn to share.

Caraxes makes a sound, as if knowing how incredibly stupid the notion was.

You bend down, allowing Aegon to take your cheeks and kiss you, "muña, I'm going to ride Sunfyre." (Maternal) aunt.

Daemon watches. When his throat tightens, he thinks of the boy's brother, Aemond, and how he felt holding him last night. It calms him down enough that he can offer his mount affection.

You raise your brows apprehensively at the boy, "you are?"

"Yes! Yes! I'm a big boy!"

You hear clanking and find the kingsguard now behind prince. You stand and raise a brow at him, "the prince says he will be riding today."

Daemon turns back.

"Will you be able to take responsibility of him?" you ask the guard.

The knight huffs, looking down at the prince.

You purse your lips at that and lean back towards your nephew, "has the dragon keepers said that you can?"

Aegon hums and looks away.

You sigh, "Aegon—"

"But I want to!" Aegon stomps his foot, turning to back to you, "skoro syt gaomagon eman rȳbagon se urnerys?!" Why do I have to listen to the keepers?!

"Ae-"

"Ao ȳdra daor," a deep voice speaks from behind you. You don't.

Aegon looks up at Daemon, eyes watery in frustration.

His uncle crosses his arms, feeling no sympathy for weepy looks of the child, "yn lo gaomā daor, pār ao daor limagon lo ao jiōragon ōdrikagon." But if you do not, then you cannot cry if you get hurt.

You turn as well, straightening up, "Daemon."

"Emā naejot rȳbagon naejot aōha muña," he raises a finger, "va moriot." You have to listen to your (maternal) aunt. Always.

"Daor," Aegon grumbles. No.

Daemon's upper lip curls. He steps forward, "eminna ao toliot ñuha ybon." I will have you over my knee.

"Daemon," you press a hand on his chest.

Daemon grits his teeth.

You take his cheek and make him look at you. The tension on his shoulders quickly melt away. You offer him a smile but quickly turn back to Aegon when he begins to stomp around in defiance.

He shrieks, "I WANT TO FLY!"

"Aegon!" you try to take his arm, but he wrangles out of your grip.

Aegon squeals in protest and Caraxes begins to react, earning Daemon's attention again. The older prince turns and raises a hand, commanding the dragon to stay back.

Your grip is weak, thus why your nephew slips out of your grasp. When he spots Sunfyre being ushered out the pits, he immediately tries to run to him, but his guard snatches his arm before he can. The golden dragon reacts in like with his rider's tantrum.

In the end, because the pair's emotional meltdown, they were both escorted back to their rooms, and you were left feeling terrible to see Aegon be carried away while he cried out for you.

Daemon is satisfied that you stayed with him. He rubs Caraxes's snout, continuing to calm him. He calls out your name and reaches a hand to you.

You take his hand, sighing as your husband pulls you into his chest. He kisses your temple and places your palm upon his dragon's scales. You are glad to feel that Caraxes warm again.

He cannot help himself, as jealousy lingers in his mouth, "spoiled fucking brat."

You raise a brow at him, "Aegon a child."

"No child of mine," Daemon scoffs, "how terrible to think there now is three."

Your face twist, "you act as though you would not put up a fight if you were pried away from your dragon."

You notice his jaw clench. You place your hand on his shoulder, silently demanding that he look at you.

Daemon huffs, "... fine."

You watch him give you a look.

"Let us pray your sister does not birth another brat."

She doesn't, she births a darling babe named Daeron four years later. Of course, in Daemon's eyes, he was a fussy nuisance, and he despised that his wails were audible in your chambers some nights. He was, in fact, a brat. A demanding one at that.

The boy demanded so much attention that apparently Alicent was not enough. Daeron did not sleep if he was not being held, and your bleeding heart was ever so weak for your sister and her spawn.

This was why you presently held the youngest prince in your arms; he needed to sleep and the queen had much else to attend to.

The sun shines upon your form in the training square. Daemon watches as you rock the child in your arms, tucking dark hair behind your ear as a gust of wind blows it into your face. He grunts when his sparring partner hits his hip.

"Got you!"

Daemon eyes the boy, and deflects with his wooden sword when he tries to hit him again, "didn't I tell you to take a break?"

"I'm not tired, kepus!"

The tiny prince tries to go at him again but Daemon pushes him back with no effort, "nice try."

You look up from Daeron when you hear tiny skidding feet. You adjust the babe in your arm and cup the side of your mouth, "be nice, darling."

Daemon looks out to you, finding your raised brow, then turns back to the boy, "hear that. Your aunt told you to be nice and listen to your uncle."

None the wiser, the boy whips back at you then nods at Daemon, "okay, uncle."

He chuckles as his opponent gets back into fighting stance. He sighs, equally impressed and exasperated by the boy's spirit, "fine," he tilts his head, "let us make a deal. If you defeat me, I'll let you have my cakes at lunch time."

He gasps.

"But-" Daemon raises a finger, "-if I win, you have to give me all your cakes."

The boy freezes.

Daemon's lips curl in to a devious smirk.

He can only stare in silence after hearing the conditions.

"Well?" he raises his brow, "what say you, Aemond?"

Aemond turns to his feet. He lowers his practice sword, "... maybe ..."

"Maybe?" Daemon repeats.

Silver hair flutters across his eyes as Aemond lifts his gaze, "maybe we can take a break... ?"

Daemon laughs, reaching a hand out to the boy, "good choice."

Aemond gratefully takes his uncle's hand and the two walk towards you.

You smile at them and reach for your nephew's face when he's near, "done training, my love?"

"We're taking a brea-"

"We are," Daemon corrects as he sits. He rests his chin on your shoulder, "I'm tired."

You turn to him.

Aemond whines in protest, "you said we're taking a break."

"Yes, well," Daemon pushes your hair to the side and kisses your neck, "I'm starving."

"But kepus!" the boy whines, "it's not lunch time yet!"

He does not even look at Aemond, instead, he sneaks an arm behind you, pulling you closer to him, "if you don't let me have lunch now, I'm I'm going to eat your aunt."

Aemond gasps, immediately pulling your skirt away from him, "NO!!!!!"

You chuckle but click your tongue, "Aemond, I might drop your brother."

Daemon eyes the frantic Aemond, circling an arm around you as he bites your shoulder.

"NOOOO!" Aemond squeals, trying his best to save you from attempted cannibalism.

When you spot the boy's watery gaze, you shrug Daemon off and slowly come to a stand, "ȳdra daor limagon, ñuha jorrāelagon, aōha uncle tymagon lēda ao." Don't cry, my love, your uncle plays with you.

You secure Daeron in your arm before stroking a gentle finger across the boy's cheek.

"Daor," Daemon stands as well, eyeing Aemond, "I am a dragon. I gladly eat your aunt every nig—"

"Daemon!"

He breaks into a laugh while Aemond breaks into a sob.

You disapprovingly call out Daemon again, and he immediately picks the boy up, though he continuing to laugh. Aemond scratches his eyes as his uncle easily holds him in one arm, brushing his silver hair off his face

You glare at him, "it's not funny."

Daemon, enamored by the boy, kisses Aemond on the cheek, "little bit."

You continue to give him a withering glare.

When he finally catches it, his smile fades slightly. He sighs, "māzigon sir," he rubs Aemond's back, "mēre hae kostōba hae istia daor limagon." Come now. One as strong as you must not cry.

Aemond woefully looks at Daemon, lips trembling, "muña iksis va moriot ōdrikagon. nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon ao naejot ōdrikagon zirȳla." (Maternal) aunt is always hurt. I don't want you to hurt her.

Your face falls, "oh, my love."

This promptly wipes Daemon's grin away. He sighs and strokes the boy's arm, "Kessa, kessa... shijetra ñuha tēmire." Yes, yes... forgive my cruelty.

Aemond sniffles, embracing Daemon as he drops his head on his broad shoulder.

Daemon rubs the boy's back. Aemond's empathy begets guilt into to him. It only flares at the sight of your disappointed expression.

"All is well, my love," you pat Aemond's head, "we shall eat cakes now."

Aemond perks, quickly turning to you.

Daemon's eyes crinkle his simpleness.

"Shall we wait for your siblings in the solar?" you smile.

Aemond nods eagerly.

Daemon chuckles softly, bouncing him in his arm.

You send off Daeron to his wetnurse while you, your husband, and your sister's children eat in the solar. Aegon and Helaena had returned from dragonback, and the former was excitedly telling you about the experience, much to the annoyance of Daemon.

Now eight, Aegon was an energetic and audacious thing. He was more so Daemon's villain now than he was then. He and the boy were competing constantly for your attention, and he did not like it one bit.

"AND SUNFYRE MANAGED TO DO CIRCLES IN THE SKY!" Aegon motioned with a fork from where he sat at the head of the table.

You immediately raise a hand but it is Daemon that sharply snaps, "do not play with your fork."

The boy obeys, but does not acknowledge his uncle at all, eyes still fixed upon you, "Helaena and Dreamfyre could barely keep up with us."

You turn to your niece, who sat beside you, quietly eating her food. You brush her hair back, "if that is so, you must slow down for her."

"NOOOO!" Aegon groans, leaning back into her chair, "that's no funnnnn!"

Daemon, who was on your other side, turns to the second born, "is your brother horrid with you, girl?"

"AM NOT!" Aegon protests.

Helaena turns to her uncle, glimmering eyes telling that she left her head in the clouds after riding through them, "Aegon is only Aegon."

She was capable of speaking only like this, like a dreamer. It once fascinated Daemon to see the gift manifest in her, but he quickly realized he had no patience for it, not in listening, much less deciphering. You, however, had eternal patience and lent your ear to every nonsensical word she spoke, even the ones of bugs. Unlike the jealousy her older brother inspired from coveting his wife, he could not find fault in Helaena; she was a gentle thing.

Your brows slightly furrow at Helaena's words, knowing that Aegon has grown to be rather stubborn and expedient.

Daemon sees it as a clear opportunity to villainize him, "so you were being horrid."

"WAS NOT!" Aegon whines, pulling at his hair in frustration.

"Hush," you raise a hand, glaring at Daemon before offering Aegon a sympathetic look, "you weren't. But you, yourself, said you didn't wait for Helaena-"

"BECAUSE SHE'S FUCKING SLOW!"

"Aegon!" you quip, "watch your tongue!"

Daemon chuckles to himself, reveling in how the boy exemplified his horridness. Just as Daemon takes a bite of his food, Aemond, who sat beside him, tugs at his sleeve, pointing to the cake in the middle of the table.

Aemond's plate was not even half finished, and he and Daemon both knew it would greatly displease you if the boy had dessert already. Yet, your husband steals a glance at you amidst your attempt to calm your bratty nephew and casually reaches for a cakes, quickly handing it to Aemond.

The young prince gratefully curls into his chair and smiles at his uncle, "thank you, kepus."

Daemon hums and shifts, turning his body that you might not catch the child eating dessert already.

He would never admit it, but everyone knew, Aemond was his favorite. Holding him after his return from Essos, at a time he was so vulnerable, forged an profound partialness for the boy. He tried to convince himself he'd be just as wretched as his older brother, but he simply was not. Aemond was quiet, observant, obedient, and most importantly, he was not nearly as interested in you as his siblings. He was interested in Daemon, and Daemon adored it; he adored him.

Once Aegon was calm, he continued finishing his meal. Unlike from your vantage point, Aegon could clearly see Aemond snacking on cakes, and so he purses his lips and takes one for himself.

You immediately react, "finish your food first."

"BUT AEMOND IS EATING CAKE!" Aegon points.

Daemon's face darkens. Rat.

You inspect Aemond, and Daemon no longer shields him. The boy wanted cake, let him face the consequences.

"Aemond!"

Aemond turns to you, violet eyes innocent, mouth covered in frosting.

"You haven't finish your vegetables!" you reach for the cake in his hand.

Aemond whines, crushing most in an attempt to continue eating it.

You click your tongue at the mess and elbow Daemon while you're at it. You brush your nephew off while muttering sharply, "you know better than to feed the boy sweets."

Daemon raises his hands, "I did-"

You silence him with a glare.

He tenses, finding it pointless to feign innocence.

After lunch, you and Daemon bring the kids back to their rooms, the latter is eager to have you all to yourself now. As you were about to leave, Alicent arrives. She constantly look troubled as of late, now that Viserys health went on a visible decline.

"Sister," she sighs, coming to you in haste.

Daemon's expression sours when he hears the queen ask if you could spare her a moment. He grits his teeth when you, in all your kindness, readily agree, and immediately get pulled out the room.

He sighs. He watches Aegon and Aemond play with blocks and wooden dragons for a moment and quickly decides to terrorize them while waiting for your chat to end.

When you walk back in, Daemon had roped in Helaena as a fellow antagonist. Though his intentions were truly meanspirited, the children saw only amusement in their uncle as he fashioned himself as the Black Dread, kicking down the castles they were building while Helaena clung on his back, pretending to be The Conqueror.

The sight pinches your heart tightly.

Aegon squeals, trying to push his uncle away as Aemond scrams to rebuild a tower. The older boy yells, "HURRY!"

"I'M TRYING!" Aemond trembles in his haste.

Daemon sees you, sighing through a faint grin, "thank the gods."

The sound of Helaena's laughter as she's put down to your feet should have made you want to laugh with her, but it made you want to cry instead.

"No wait," Aegon cries out, "not yet! We're not finished!"

Daemon shakes his head, not budging as the boy pulls at his arm. He walks over to you, slipping out of Aegon's grasp, "I'm exhausted, boy."

Aegon whines, "but uncle!"

Soon, Aemond is begging Daemon to stay as well. Your heart continues to ache for the kids, but clearly your husband is unmoved. He eyes the boys expressionless, but then notices that even Helaena is hovering. His resolve slightly chips, "enough. I should like a nap, as should you lot."

The boys whine.

You frown.

It was a mistake to look at you then. He is powerless beneath your gaze. He curses softly in High Valyrian then waves a hand, "one last game."

The children cheer.

You watch them play. Daemon is far gentler now which makes the game far more fun. Your heart tightens over how much joy you feel that you have to step out of the room to calm yourself down.

The game is truly over then.

Daemon is quick to your side, egregiously worried at how you were clutching your chest.

You tell him you're alright, but you were so out of breath he does not understand it. He frantically mutters High Valyrian in an attempt to calm you as he rubs your back and keeps you upright.

Again, you say, "I'm alright," and he finally understands you, though he obviously cannot believe it is true.

"Shall we go for a swim?" Daemon mutters softly, so not give himself away to his panic.

You shake your head as you the tightness in your lungs slowly wanes. You lean into his chest, lulling yourself at the sound of his heart beat.

He never knows if he should wrap his arms around you during these times. He waits until you hold him for him to return the affection.

You were soft beneath his touch, no more the shell of what you were when he had first left you for the Stepstones. You were stronger now, more than even how you were when he first met you, brighter too; you had been so sad then. He revels in knowing it was because of him.

"I want to lay down," you mutter against his doublet.

Daemon nods. The lines in his forehead do not fade, for you look exhausted.

Yes, you were stronger, but it seemed even your affliction was. It didn't happen as much, and he was glad of it, but when it did, it was too much.

He rubs your arm as you slowly head back to your chambers. In an attempt to distract you, Daemon asks, "what did your sister say?"

When you look at him, it seems this was not the best choice of conversation.

He immediately shakes his head, "did I already tell you about how Caraxe-"

"It's Daeron."

He purses his lips, already knowing whatever it is will not be good.

"She cannot care for him and manage the king's health and all her duties at once. He'll be sent 45to ward in Oldtown."

Daemon's brows furrow.

"She asked me if I wanted to go with him—"

"What?" he stops you both in your tracks.

"— or if Gwayne should come here to-"

"Get the fucking cunt to crawl here. Why should you have to fucking travel to that hellhole?"

"..."

"..."

"... I-" Daemon sighs and shakes his head in frustration. He squeezes your hand, "I jus-"

"I was not going to go."

Daemon gulps.

"I am not foolish enough to believe my strength would last a day if we are apart."

Your words make him relax, and yet your soft smile makes his lips curl into a guilty frown.

"My sister too is well aware of this," you squeeze his hand back, "she asked with the intention that you'd come with me."

Daemon tenses. He does not like the sound of it.

Clearly to you and your gentle heart, you believed your sister urges such things to your betterment, and perhaps it was so, but he was not gentle. His gut screamed that the Hand had something to do with this, that it was he that planted this idea in the Queen's head. He does not speak it for your sake.

You lick your lips and take a breath, "the last time I was able to take my pregnancy to term was when I went back to Oldtown."

He tenses and knits his brows. He reaches for your cheek and shakes his head, "we've only started trying."

You look off aimlessly before turning back to him, "we started trying when Aemond was two. He is four now, and Daeron is due his first nameday."

"Do not measure yourself against your sister," Daemon's expression hardens, "she's not known a fraction of your suffering."

You do not respond. When you look away again, you do not look back.

He sighs in frustration. He does not mean to break your spirit. He slowly calls out your name.

"You're right," you shake your head, "I just-"

"Want to go to home," he whispers, scared to say it too loud.

Your gaze lands on him. Your eyes are slightly beady, which is why your chuckle confuses him. "Silly boy," you reach for his cheek, "you are my home."

His heart rattles in his chest. He takes your wrist and kisses it.

You smile, "I do however... want to go to Oldtown."

Wistfulness captures your expression, causing him to frown. He squeezes your hand gently.

"The air is different there," you shrug, "kinder, I think."

"Kinder?" he cannot control his laugh, "the land wherein your father was molded is kind?"

You do not respond.

He regrets it, as your eyes are downcast yet again. He gulps and decides to simple tell you, "it might be he that put such notions in Alicent's head."

"My father?"

"Who else?" Daemon raises a brow, "he wants me far from my brother, that he may poison him further." He adds, as if you didn't already know, "he requires a cane to walk now."

You nod, "I know."

"I know you know, I just-"

"It's fine," you raise a hand, "like I said, I was not going to go."

Daemon feels ill to see you like this, but he does not say a word as you go back to your chambers.

[multific]

A Hidden Gem

Dimitri Kraminoff x Reader

Warnings: pregnancy, angst

Summary: You left him, you ran away. But he found you, and he needs answers.

"Why? I thought you were different. You left me... just like my brother did."

His voice was low, almost trembling, as if saying the words physically hurt. You couldn’t look at him, not now, not after everything. For eleven long months, you had avoided him like your life depended on it.

Because it did.

And now, after all that time, there he was, Dimitri. Sitting across from you in his lavish private club, the one place you swore you’d never set foot in again.

The chandelier above him cast a light on his face, but there was nothing warm in his expression.

Only confusion. Hurt. And Anger.

You hadn’t come here willingly. He’d had you taken.

Pulled from your quiet life and thrown back into his orbit as if gravity had never stopped pulling.

Now he stared at you, elbows on the table, as if he could reach through the silence and shake the truth from your bones.

"Why?" he asked again, quieter this time. His voice cracked. It cut through you deeper than a scream ever could.

You swallowed hard. “I had my reason.”

He scoffed, leaning closer. “I know you still love me. I see it in your eyes. So what could possibly explain this?”

“I can’t-” You flinched as his fist came down on the table with a heavy thud. The glass beside him rattled and nearly tipped.

“Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Did you find someone? Someone better than me? Taller? Stronger?”

“No,” you said instantly. Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried.

He stared at you, jaw clenched. “Then why?”

The shout echoed through the room like a gunshot. You squeezed your eyes shut, your hands trembling in your lap.

And then you said it, the truth you had held inside for nearly a year.

“Because I was scared,” you whispered, your voice cracking, “and pregnant.”

The words broke free from your chest like chains snapping loose.

You exhaled shakily, eyes cast down at your feet as hot tears welled behind your lashes. “I was terrified of your father.”

You looked up and met his stunned gaze.

“It broke me to leave you, Dimi. But I had to. You know how much he hated me. You know what he was capable of. If he found out...”

His eyes were wide, his lips parted in stunned silence.

“He told me,” you continued, “on your birthday. He looked me dead in the eye and said if I ever got pregnant, he’d kill the baby. And me. He meant it, Dimi.”

He swallowed hard, his face pale. “Why didn’t you tell me he threatened you?”

“You know why. He was always watching. Always listening. I couldn’t risk it. So I ran. I ran like a coward. And I’m sorry.”

You rose from your chair, the instinct to flee still buried deep inside you. But as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you cold.

“He’s dead, you know.”

You froze.

“I took over the business. My father’s gone. Buried. He can never hurt you again.”

You turned slowly, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“How?” you asked quietly.

“Hunting accident,” he said, but there was a flicker in his expression. “Though... I know my brother had something to do with it.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “So… it’s really over?”

“It’s over. He’s gone. And I want you to come back to me. I’ll protect you. Both of you.”

He stepped toward you, his chest rising and falling quickly. When he got close, you instinctively placed your hands on him, not to push him away, just to stop him, to feel him.

Your palms rested on his chest, and he didn’t move. Just waited.

Your eyes searched his face. “Is he really. dead?”

Dimitri nodded once. You blinked back more tears. “Our son… his name is Mikhail. I call him Misha.”

A breath hitched in his throat.

“He’s two months old. A kind woman in my building watches him while I work.” You looked over your shoulder, instinctively checking the door. “I can bring him to you. If you want.”

His hands gently closed over yours, lifting them from his chest and holding them between you.

“You’re so beautiful, I missed you every damn day.”

“I’m so sorry.”

The tears you’d held back finally slipped free, but he pulled you in before they could fall far. His arms wrapped around you like he was scared to let go again. His lips met yours, soft, slow, reverent. Like a prayer.

And just like that, you were lost in him again.

How could you have ever left?

“I’ll get a car,” he murmured. “Let’s go get our son. I want us to go home. All three of us.”

You nodded against his chest. “I need to pack his things. The apartment isn’t much.”

“I don’t care. I’m going with you.”

“You’re not going to like it,” you warned gently.

You were right.

---

The building stood in stark contrast to Dimitri’s world, narrow halls, peeling paint, a crooked stairwell.

He stood frozen at the entrance, his sharp suit glaring against the faded wallpaper.

You didn’t wait.

You hurried upstairs, heart racing, you knocked on your neighbour’s door.

“I brought someone to meet you,” you whispered to Misha as you lifted him from the woman’s arms. His little giggle filled the air and almost brought you to your knees. “Your father,” you told him, nuzzling his soft cheek.

When Dimitri entered the apartment, his expression twisted, half shock, half sorrow.

“Misha,” you said, speaking in that soft, lilting tone only babies could bring out of you. “Look who it is.”

He was so tiny. But there was no mistaking it, he looked just like his father.

“My son,” Dimitri breathed as you placed the baby into his arms.

He held him so carefully, reverently, like he was cradling something holy.

“I promise you,” he said softly, “I will be so much better than the man who raised me.”

You believed him.

---

Later, back at Dimitri’s home, your new home, you laid Misha down in the guest bed, surrounded by soft pillows.

“We’ll decorate a room for him,” Dimitri said, already pulling his phone out to make arrangements. “He’ll have everything he needs.”

“Thank you, Dimi,” you whispered, heart full.

When you finally collapsed into bed, he joined you, laying down close.

“He usually wakes up once to eat,” you murmured, already drifting.

“I’ll get up for him,” he said.

You smiled with your eyes closed. “And feed him with what, exactly?”

The silence that followed made you chuckle.

You didn’t hear him laugh, but you felt his arm wrap around you.

---

Dimitri couldn’t sleep.

He lay there for a long while, watching you. Listening to the soft rise and fall of your breath. Then, quietly, he slipped from the bed and padded to the guest room.

He knelt beside the bed where Misha lay fast asleep, his little chest rising and falling.

“You look just like me,” Dimitri whispered, brushing a finger along his son’s cheek. It was impossibly soft.

His throat tightened.

“I understand your mother now. I would’ve ran, too.”

He stayed there, watching Misha sleep for a long time. And then, finally, he returned to bed. To you.

He pulled you close, burying his face in your shoulder as sleep finally took him.

For the first time in a long time, his heart felt whole.

A/N: This is a rewritten piece of Full Again I didn't like the original story as much so I decided to change it up a little and make it more interesting.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[monstersflashlight]

Lusty for love

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day!

Cupid (monster) x fem!witch reader || sex pollen, (light) dub con, breeding, oral sex, dirty talk, praise kink

You were stupid. A bit more stupid than normal at least.

You were trying to get some new potions to work when you accidentally spilled the pink powder he gifted you specially for lust potions. The pink powder was obtained from the cupid species, they produced it on their wings and any human or monster would instantly fall into a lustful frenzy once they touched it. And that’s why it was so hard to get, they had to give it to you specifically with a very clear intent of lust...

Your cupid friend gave it to you as a birthday present, and you were supposed to drop an itty bitty quantity in each potion because every time someone used the powder, he would feel it. You promised not to use much, always controlling how many potions you’d make… But you weren’t expecting for it to slip your fingers and pretty much cover your whole body. Your skin was tingling and your brain was barely coherent when you dialed his number.

“I need your help,” you whispered against the speaker, not letting him even say hello.

His response was instantaneous: “What happened?” You could hear him batting his wings in the background, and you were sure he was already mid air coming to get you. He must have felt the powder activating.

“I- I dropped the pink powder on me,” you confessed, your breathing labored and your skin tingly.

Fuck, you were about to burst and you didn’t even move. You’d never felt such intensity before, it was like every inch of your body was electrified and caressed at the same time, even the touch of the clothes over your body felt erotic.

“Fuck,” he cursed. The air against the phone was enough to know he was rushing to your house, his wings almost deafening in the background.

“Please, please…” You barely made sense, your brain was fuzzy in a way that made your clit tingle and your panties were so wet you could already feel your juices ruining your pants.

“Fuck,” he cursed again. In other circumstances you would have blushed, your unrequited crush on your cupid best friend making you feel all kinds of emotions. But you weren’t thinking straight, and he was talking again: “I’ll be there in a few minutes, take your clothes off, rub your pretty little clit until you are dripping wet because as soon as I cross your window I’m going to be inside of you, and I won’t stop until you are dripping with my come for every single hole.”

His words drove your brain into a frenzy, the effect of the pink powder getting even stronger as you did as you were told, pulling at your clothes so fast and hard you broke something. You didn’t care, you’d deal with whatever tore later on. You laid on your potions table, not caring about everything falling down or the million little pieces of glass that were probably on the ground, you had only one focus: obey. Your fingers found your clit and you started rubbing rapidly, moaning against the phone.

“You sound so sweet, good damn it. I knew you’d be perfect,” his words meant nothing and all at the same time, your inside twisting and turning as your pussy contracted over nothing, making you whine and beg. “I know, love, I know.” You could hear him breathing hard, the powder probably affecting him too, and with each movement of his wings you could feel him getting closer.

The second your window opened with a big crash, you were begging for him and he was falling to his knees next to the table, not caring about the glass, grabbing your ankles and pulling your legs as far apart as possible. He set his big body between them, his wings so wide and soft you felt the tickle against your knees when he pushed your legs over his shoulders.

The first contact of his tongue against your tender flesh feels like lightning hitting your body. And it only turned better when his dexterous tongue found your clit. He ate you out like a starving monster, fucking in and out of your pussy with his forked tongue until you were screaming his name and asking for more. More. More.

You came in less than two minutes, with his fingers pressing against your G-spot and your brain turning into jelly inside your head. It was so much and so little at the same time. You needed more. You needed him inside of you in any way you could. You pushed your torso up, pulling your legs off his shoulders and shoved his chest back until he was a few feet back. You jumped off the table, not even feeling the tiny glasses on the ground as you walked over them.

It was like your orgasm only made you hornier, more desperate, you needed him more than you needed your next breath. “Let me suck you off, please, please…” You begged, your eyes fixated on his dick straining against his pants.

You fumbled with the zipper, and he helped you, looking at you with such tenderness that your heart was about to explore out of your chest. But first: dick.

“Okay, love. Okay. Whatever you want. You can do whatever you want to me.” His words sounded like a promise, and your brain was so fuzzy you could only nod as you fell to your knees. “Open up,” he ordered, taking himself on his hand and caressing your cheek with the other. He fed you his cock and you swallowed it down greedily. “That’s it, such a good witch for me, such a pretty mouth wrapped around my shaft. Fuck, do that again.”

You rolled your tongue over his head, pressing against the underside where you knew he was most sensitive. That cupid anatomy book coming in handy when you were wrapping your hand at his base and squeezing until you felt the ridges inside move. He cursed over you, his hand grabbing your hair so harshly you felt the tiny spikes of pain, but that only made you moan louder around him.

He cursed again, telling you nonsense as he moved his dick in and out of your mouth slightly. “Fuck, your mouth, love. You are perfect. You are so good to me. I’ve been wanting to have you like this forever. Good goddess, your mouth.” You grabbed his ass, trying to get him closer, further down your throat, but he stopped you. “None of that, I… I need you. I need to be inside of you. After that you can play with me all you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” your voice was airy and low, and without a doubt you knew your whole body was pink all over.

He helped you to your feet, claiming your mouth in a brain melting kiss before grabbing your ass and helping you back onto the table. His fingers found your pussy at the same time he positioned himself on your opening. “You are so wet, fuck.” He pushed the tip inside, and you were indeed so wet he slipped right in.

He cursed in so many languages you weren’t sure how many words he said, but you were in heaven. You reached Valhalla or whatever other heaven there existed out there. All at once. None at all… You touched the stars and came back to your body when he moved his hips back, pushing right back in and drawing a scream out of your lungs.

And then there was no more playing, only frantic fucking and dirty words.

“Do you like me, love? Do you like the feel of my cock inside of you? Do you like when I say dirty things to you?” You shivered, nodding frantically as you rolled your hips, chasing some of the pleasure he was promising you with his thrusts. “Of course you do, you love to be fucked this hard, this fast… You never had it so good, did you? None of your stupid boyfriends was as good as me. Say it.”

“None were… None as good as you…” Your voice was trembling, his thrusts too fast and harsh, but you couldn’t complain. You wouldn’t. It was that good.

“I know darling, I know nobody was as good as me. But you didn’t let me tell you that, did you? You were always with one or another, never enough time for me to fuck you as you deserved. To treat you as you deserve. To make you fucking mine,” he punctuated each word with a hard thrust that hit right over your G-spot, sending sparks of desire and pleasure to your brain until you were drooling over the table. “Tell me I’m wrong, tell me you don’t like me like that and I’ve been pining over you for nothing,” his anger was palpable in each thrust of his hips inside your pussy, his ridges undulating and massaging you from the inside.

“I CAN’T. I CAN’T. YOU ARE RIGHT!” You screamed as another wave of pleasure washes over your body.

But he wasn’t listening to you, he was too focused on his actions, on driving you insane. “You can’t because you like me. You’ve liked me as long as I’ve liked you and you’ve been denying us both. For what? For some flimsy human dick? No more, love. You don’t go back to anyone else anymore. You. Are. Mine. To. Please.”

“Yours. Yours. Yours…”

And then there’s fireworks behind your eyelids and your brain is short circuiting. You could barely hold your body up as he expanded his dick inside of you, the cupid trick of locking inside your tight pussy was multiplied by a thousand because of the pink dust, and you could only scream silently as he bred you to the brim and your vision turned white behind your eyelids.

You came back to your body resting over his chest, the soft feathers tickling your cheek as you looked down at his wet dick, still half hard. Your body still craved him, and you were about to act on it when he said: “For what’s worth… I really like you like that, too, love,” he whispered against your sweaty forehead, his breathing labored as his dick twitched in your line of sight.

You threw a leg over his middle, rubbing your still dripping pussy over his dick. “Prove it.”

And he did.

(He was also true to his promise to leave you leaking and bred from every single hole, but that’s a story for another day...)

[monkie-brainriot]

Next season in english still has yet to air so have a scattered analysis on Mk’s relationship with touch and Monkey King’s VS the Six Eared Macaque’s teaching techniques and how they kinda interact with Mk while I cope 

(This is a very long post with a bunch of screenshots from the show so buckle up if you click the keep reading <3 bGKJAWMOEF) 

From the beginning we see Mk very touchy with his friends and they are touchy with him. Mei grabs him, picks him up, hugs him and leans into him with an easy familiarity that he hardly even seems to notice. Throughout the show we see the easy contact he has with his friends and the way he connects with them through touch. Touch almost doesn’t appear to be something Mk really registers to start out with. It’s just something that happens with friends and he accepts that readily and doesn’t even think about. It’s just another way of talking and connecting and it seems to be a rather big part of how he connects with people. 

Right off the bat, it’s established that Monkey King is a very touchy person as well. We start off the first meeting with his tail around Mk’s waist, picking him up, putting his hands on his shoulders to encourage him and he doesn’t seem to be all that bothered by Mk when he’s literally climbing him to poke his face. He even climbed on Mk’s shoulders and grooms his hair a bit during Bad Weather like its the most normal and naturally thing in the world. 

Their first bit of time really training together we start off with Monkey King dodging weaving and then quite literally throwing Mk into a mountain. 

Mk’s startled of course, screams the whole way down, but never once does he look hurt. 

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[duskier]

Ghost, who is actually so hung he can't fuck you with his entire dick no matter how much he preps you beforehand- so he's got you on your back with your legs spread wide, him standing before you. Presses his hips forward, cock gliding against your clit with ease until his hips are flush with yours, his tip leaking pre on your belly.

"Look'a how deep I'd go, bunny. Too much for you, precious."

Of course, as always, once you're this cockdrunk and desperate you're confident you can take it all. You want to, want to be the first one to take all of him. The afterglow of him confessing you're the first person he's been with that could take as much as you already have still burns inside you.

Ghost tuts, clicking his tongue at how you roll your hips. Admires you whining beneath him, finding your own pace grinding against him.

"Could break you, so many ways. You'd let me, wouldn't you?"

Your eyelashes flutter shut as words fail you, his hips jerking and interrupting your rhythm. You can only nod instead of answer, grinning dumbly as you hear him chuckle darkly. When he gives a low, heady groan, you know it's time. You draw your hips as far up as you can, his tip catching in your hole. One of his hands grips your hip tightly, so hard it stings.

It's ridiculous how sensitive he is, especially the deeper he goes. It's like your tight, wet heat is him sinking into his own little slice of heaven. He's babbling something to you, some sweet nothings growled into your ear as he watches himself disappear into you, but you're too busy on keeping it together.

He stops midway. You aren't having it. He's stronger than you, thinks he knows better than you, so it should be his way or the highway- but when you push yourself deeper on him-- downright spearing yourself on the monstrous thing, he's seeing stars. Goes entirely rigid surrounded by you, fighting off an orgasm threatening to spill over before anything ever began.

You're never able to get him to the root, it couldn't be physically possible for you, nor any other human. Never stopped you from trying, and he always appreciated that stubbornness in you.

[xhyjin]

thinking about nanami kento! (when am i not) with a s/o that is socially awkward/shy

he knew from the start that you were distant. during work parties, you never showed up, only clocking in to work and leaving once your duties were done, never lingering to chat or mingle. the rare times you did attend, you stayed in the corners, quietly observing with wide, nervous eyes and a faint blush coloring your cheeks. he couldn’t help but be intrigued, and one day, curiosity got the better of him. he approached you. your words stuttered, your face burned red, but there was something about the way you responded that made him instantly drawn to you. from that moment, you became his reason to look forward to work every day.

he began to notice the little things about you. how you stayed tucked away in your cubicle, only speaking to coworkers when necessary. how you spent your lunch breaks alone, either watching a show on your phone or quietly eating, lost in your own thoughts. and how, at the end of the day, he’d sometimes catch you smiling to yourself in the elevator, as though you’d found happiness in the smallest of things. it fascinated him how content you seemed in your own world, and after weeks of silently admiring you, he finally decided to approach you properly.

but he was careful—patient. he knew you were shy and reserved, so he didn’t want to overwhelm you. he started small, spending lunch breaks with you. at first, the silence between you both was awkward, though not unwelcome. you blushed furiously at the attention but didn’t push him away. instead, you quietly shared bits of your lunch with him, a subtle gesture that said, i’m glad you’re here. he knew you struggled with words, so he didn’t press. instead, he let his presence speak for itself, slowly building a bridge of comfort between the two of you.

when kento finally worked up the courage to ask you out, making it clear that this wasn’t just work-related but a date; you could hardly believe it. your eyes widened, and then you nodded eagerly, your happiness shining through. his heart swelled at your reaction. he had planned a simple outing, maybe a cafe, but seeing your excitement, he wanted to make it special. he made reservations at a nice restaurant, ensuring you’d have a secluded spot to enjoy your time without pressure.

the date started just as he expected. you were quiet, your voice barely above a whisper when you responded to him, sticking mostly to “yes” or “no” answers. but kento was nothing if not patient. he asked small, simple questions, easing you into a conversation, and when he mentioned something you loved, your entire demeanor changed. your eyes lit up, your voice grew stronger, and you started talking more, rambling on about your interests. you didn’t even realize how much you’d been speaking until the waitress interrupted to take your order. your face turned crimson as you sulked in embarrassment, worried you’d talked too much. but when you glanced at kento, his gaze was soft, a gentle smile on his lips, he looked utterly captivated.

ordering was its own challenge. you felt embarrassed, too shy to tell the waitress what you wanted. kento noticed your hesitation and, with a subtle nudge of his foot under the table, gave you something to focus on. you nudged him back, and it was enough to calm your nerves, allowing you to place your order. he was thoughtful like that, always finding quiet ways to make you feel at ease.

by the end of the date, you’d grown comfortable enough to start asking him questions. the two of you talked for so long that you didn’t notice the restaurant had emptied. when you finally left, the night felt far from over. kento drove you to the beach, where the two of you walked hand in hand along the shore. the sound of the waves filled the comfortable silence between you, and when you stopped to look at the moonlight reflecting on the water, he turned to you and asked, “may i kiss you?”

your heart raced, but you nodded, and when he kissed you, it was as if you were something fragile, precious. he didn’t want to rush you or make you uncomfortable, but under the glow of the moon, he couldn’t resist the beauty of the moment—or of you.

after that, the two of you continued to grow closer, going on more dates and eventually making it official. over time, you began to come out of your shell, though you still retained your social awkwardness. kento loved every part of you, from the way you stumbled over your words to the way you blushed under his gaze. to him, you were perfect exactly as you were, and he made sure you always knew it.

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

Yandere batfamily x neglected reader

The manor is cold, silent as a tomb, and for once, it feels like a fitting home. You lie still on the bed, too small and fragile in the heavy, towering room. They all gather around you, each staring in shock, faces pale, breaths shallow—as if hoping that, by holding their breath, they might somehow trade their own life to coax warmth back into your cold form.

Bruce’s hand hovers over you, hesitant. His calloused fingers, so accustomed to war and violence, seem clumsy when they brush against your cheek. He trembles, silent, fighting against the whirlwind in his chest, his stoic mask cracked beyond repair. “I promised to keep you safe,” he whispers, his voice breaking in a way none of them have ever heard before. “I promised… and I failed you.” His hand, heavy with the weight of every failure, drops to his side, useless.

Dick’s hands cover his mouth, choking on a sob that won’t stay hidden. He’s the eldest, the one who was supposed to know better, to set the example. But he looks at you now, his eyes red and raw, remembering each time he walked past you, too busy laughing with others to notice you slipping away. “Why didn’t I tell you…?” he whispers, agony etched across his face. “Why didn’t I show you that you were loved?” The words fall into the silence, lost, and he knows you’ll never hear them now.

Jason kneels beside the bed, clutching your lifeless hand in his, as if he can pull you back with sheer force. His shoulders shake, his body radiating rage, despair, regret. His lips tremble as he remembers the countless times he shrugged off your gaze, ignored the quiet plea in your eyes. He thought he was sparing you from his darkness, protecting you from the world. But now he sees it for what it was—neglect, cold and unkind. He bows his head, the unbreakable Red Hood shattered, silent tears falling onto your still fingers.

Tim stands back, his face white, hands trembling as he presses his fists to his sides. The detective, the genius, who noticed everything—except you. He let the days slip by, assuming there’d always be more time, that you’d understand he was busy, preoccupied with saving the world. But now, as he watches the life drained from you, he feels a pang in his chest sharp enough to cut through bone. “I should’ve been there,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “I should’ve been a brother to you…” He stares at you, eyes rimmed with despair, the guilt hollowing him out from within.

Damian’s usual steel has melted into something unrecognizable. He doesn’t know how to touch you, where to place his hands, and the hesitation makes him feel powerless in a way he’s never known. He’d prided himself on being stronger, colder, above such weakness—but now, faced with your absence, he finds himself wishing he’d let you in, softened just a little. “You… you weren’t supposed to…” He can’t even finish, his words broken. He reaches out, almost unwilling, to touch your hand, flinching when it’s cold. His lips press into a thin line as he tries to hold back tears, but they fall, betraying the ache he’d been too proud to acknowledge.

They stay by your side, each of them reliving every lost opportunity, every moment they could have held you close and didn’t. Days pass, blurred, and they linger in the same room, surrounded by memories of what should have been.

When Alfred brings them food, they push it away. They can’t bear the thought of comfort while you lie there, untouched by life. They whisper to you, sometimes out loud, promising things they can’t ever deliver: "We'll make it up to you…we’ll fix this." But no voice answers back.

Driven by desperation, Bruce turns to ancient books, rumors, magic, anything that offers a hint of hope. He works night after night, chasing the impossible. The others follow him, each digging into their own corners of madness, driven by the need to correct what they destroyed. But every ritual fails, every lead falls cold. And the bitter truth gnaws deeper: there is no cure for regret, no resurrection from guilt.

The night finally falls silent, and they’re left alone with you, as if the universe itself mourns. Each of them curls beside you, their heads on the bed, hands on your arm, your hand, your chest, wherever they can cling to you, trying to pretend for one last moment that you’re still there. They hold on, eyes shut, whispering prayers to a god who’s deaf to their pain.

When morning breaks, none of them rise. They stay beside you, unwilling to face a world that doesn’t have you in it. They’ve lost you, their last chance to be the family they should have been, and they know now they’ll never be whole.

(A/n: no one asked and I also didn't but INSPIRED BY DIS IDEA FROM @steor-ra ILY BESTFRIEND BUT PLEASE UPDATE 💜👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩)

[tarotsoul]

Ghost in the Wind — Part Five

SUMMARY: Harnessing your power is growing easier by the day, and Madja finds out some interesting things about witches souls.

WARNINGS: swearing, mentions of torture, kissing, teasing, fingering, handjob, oral (female receiving—all of this is somewhat public), mentions of death

WORD COUNT: 6.4k

Series Masterlist

Cassian struggled against the vines that wrapped tight across his midriff, his muscles flexing with power but nothing shifted as they tightened with his every move. His golden skin was coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his shoulder-length hair damp with excursion. 

You were no better. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your skin flushed as your knees began to buckle. Hold it. Rhysand’s voice had continued to purr into your mind throughout the session, guiding and commanding every step of the way. He worked you from sunrise to breakfast, then again from dusk until nightfall. 

It had been your routine for the past two weeks, and with every session, your power and control grew stronger. You could now detain a being with nothing but your mind, could bound and gag with vines and soil. This session, however, was different. Because it wasn’t just vines that wrapped across Cassian’s arms and legs and torso. 

This time, the vines had thorns. And they pierced his skin deeper with every movement he made. 

It had taken an additional two weeks to get to this point. Two weeks of introducing the Inner Circle to your magic, of slowly allowing them past the protective walls your abilities offered. You no longer had to keep your distance from your friends and family. It appeared the only time your magic attacked on its own was when you were startled or afraid. 

You’d been at it for sixty minutes already, your brows dotted with sweat. Rhysand continued to slowly pace the training ring atop the House of Wind. Feyre stood off to the side, a towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Nesta watched from beside her, arms crossed against her generous chest as she squinted at the way her mate seethed in discomfort. 

So far, Cassian had not been able to break free from your bindings, nor had he been able to move a single muscle more than an itch. And Rhysand was more than impressed. 

“Good,” he complimented, a noticeably proud smile on his face. At that, you slowly released your power and took a heaving breath of relief. The vines lazily slithered from Cassian’s body, the thorns leaving scratches in their wake that healed almost immediately.

“You’re presenting incredible control. Tomorrow, I’d like for you to make those thorns bigger. And by next week, I’d like to see if you can implement a slow releasing toxin or poison.”

Cassian widened his eyes at his High Lord. “I’m not volunteering for that.”

A smile found your lips as you took a few breaths to settle your lungs again. You had never expected training to be this rewarding. Rhysand was nothing but attentive to your powers and how they worked. He made sure you felt comfortable with everything you tried and he never once tried to push you beyond your limits. 

When you expressed you first wished to harness your power in a defensive way, he was more than happy to oblige. He agreed that perhaps it would be the best way to learn control, and then you could go down the route of healing, learning how to harness it for remediation, too.

And Cassian�� well you were unsure if you would ever be able to thank Cassian for the trust he had for you. To allow your wild magic to bind and hurt him, not knowing if you could reign it back if it got too much. 

Rhysand chuckled at his brother. “We’ll work something out.” 

If it were Rhys, he’d practice on one of Azriel’s prisoners—draw out their pain and suffering with toxins and thorns. It would make a great interrogation tactic. But it wasn’t him. It was you. And Rhysand was not prepared to present that situation or idea to you. Not unless you came to him and it was exclusively your suggestion. 

For now, he would figure out another way. 

And Elain had told him as much before she and Lucien left just a week ago, claiming she had to reason to remain. You were safe, you would learn control. And she would visit after her and Lucien’s travels.

Feyre approached with a glass of water, handing it to you and dabbing your damp skin with the towel. From his seat across from you, Cassian gawked and scoffed playfully. “I didn’t realise Y/N was the one to be bound and pricked for an hour.” 

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Illyrian baby. As if you haven’t endured worse.” 

Despite the chuckle leaving your lips, you still offered him the rest of your water, which he happily took with a cheeky wink. You returned the sentiment with a half-smile, your body still struggling to recover from the energy the session took from you.

As much as you were enjoying it—honing your power and taking control—you couldn’t help but yearn for more. You understood the strength of your mothers magic was enhanced by your fathers Fae heritage, and you had been practicing winnowing with Mor whenever she had the time to spare…but your mother…

“I’d like to learn more about witchcraft.” 

All eyes turned to you, some wide, some weary. You cleared your throat, shifted your weight from one foot to another. “As thankful as I am for this—and as much as I am enjoying it—I’d like to learn the other side, too. Rituals, spells…”

No one spoke. You met Rhysand’s eyes and something akin to regret was lit. Your shoulders slacked at the sight. “None of us are exactly versed in witchcraft. And it has been a long while since I’ve met a witch who doesn’t feel inclined to eat me.” 

An attempt at a joke, you understood, but it did not relieve any of your disappointment. Three weeks ago, Madja had confirmed that out of all of your cousins, Elain was the only one to share similar markers in her hair and blood as you. Markers of wiccan ancestry. Rhysand had been the one to suggest Elain’s presence and similar magic may have been what awoke you. 

It had been known that when she was tossed into that Cauldron, it took something from her. Through Madja’s research, she was led to believe it had taken that power and replaced it with her Fae abilities—keeping that nature element but changing its course completely. 

Which meant you were alone. With barely any clue where your ancestry stemmed from, it was useless to even ask. But your mother had been a healing earth witch, that much you were certain of. Surely there had to be books somewhere, even if just to intrigue you until Madja concluded the rest of her research.  

“Gwyn may be able to help,” Nesta spoke. 

You turned to her. Yes, you’d heard of the young priestess, a fellow Valkyrie of Nesta’s. Your cousin had told you much about her position in the library within the House. Yet that was as far as your knowledge on her went. 

Still, it awoke that small shred of hope within you. Hope that one day you could feel close to your mother again. 

Azriel took a sip of his tea, lounging back at the dining table as he watched Cassian shovel heaps of eggs and bacon into his mouth. The shadowsinger couldn’t help but quirk a brow at his brother. Cassian had always eaten like a starved male, but this… Azriel was certain it had been minutes since he stopped to take a breath. 

“It’s not going anywhere,” Azriel quipped above the rim of his mug but Cassian did not slow. He chewed as his gaze met his brothers and spoke through a mouthful of his breakfast. “You let Y/N bind you with her vines and prick thorns into your skin for a solid hour, then you can comment on my eating habits.” 

A smirk kissed at the corners of Azriel’s lips at the thought. He would be more than willing to allow his body to you for practice. Though he wasn’t sure he’d want an audience. Especially not with how his scent was already beginning to shift at the thought alone. 

Gods, after four weeks of tasting you and touching you, he should have his hormones under control by now. But he was no better than any other Illyrian brute. He was starved for you all hours of the day—completely insatiable. He had never experienced such hunger before. It was completely overpowering. 

The sound of Cassian’s plate sliding across the table broke him from the sinful thoughts, and he looked at his brother who now seethed. “Really, Az? While I’m eating my breakfast?” 

Azriel’s smirk faded as his brows rose, taking a sip of his tea. “Are you forgetting about the time Nesta was choking on your cock, right before I was about to eat my dinner?” 

Heat rushed to the apples of Cassian’s cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the thought of his brother seeing his mate in such a compromising position. And not because he did not trust Azriel, but because he knew that at one point, Nesta had considered the shadowsinger for herself. 

The general cleared his throat and shifted, attempting to reign in that mated protectiveness. “What’s the deal with you and Y/N anyways?”

Azriel took another sip of his tea. “What do you mean?” 

Cassian scoffed. Azriel always did that. Played dumb or completely ignored any conversation when it came to his love life or bedroom habits. “I hear you both, going into each other's rooms at night,” Cassian admitted, “you’re not sneaky.”

Azriel hid his smirk behind his mug. “Not trying to be.” 

The general's eyes squinted. He was used to his brother deflecting, ignoring. He was not used to him being so truthful and open, despite him only saying four words in response, Azriel did not deny his involvement with you. 

“You like her?” 

Azriel remained quiet, watching Cassian with a blank expression. 

“She’s been through a lot,” Cassian probed, noting the way Az’s grip on the mug tightened. 

“I know,” he got out. 

“And this is all pretty new to her… I imagine it's very overwhelming, too.” 

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?” 

Cassian shrugged, slouching back in his chair as he crossed thick arms over his muscular chest. “Nothing. She’s grown a lot since coming here, and she’s growing more every day. I wouldn’t want her to feel like she’s just a secret to you.” 

Raw pain sliced through Azriel’s chest at his words. He knew you did not feel that way, knew you were always so open and honest and comfortable with him. Yet Cassian’s words still stung. He could have brushed his brother off, claiming he didn’t know what he was talking about. But that would mean downplaying what he felt for you. 

And he was not prepared to even entertain the idea of that. 

“We’re not keeping anything a secret.” 

Cassian smirked. “So there is something going on.”

Azriel finished the rest of his tea, set it on the table and a scarred finger traced the rim of the mug as he considered his next words. He did not have words to describe what continued to bloom between the two of you. Longing stares, subtle touches, heavy kisses and passionate intimacy until the early hours of the morning.

And yet you had not crossed that line, not with him. He would not rush you, would not pressure you. Azriel accepted anything you offered and gave back everything in return. 

“She’s been through a lot,” he repeated Cassian’s earlier words, “I want her to understand that she’ll never have to experience that type of control ever again.”

Cassian did not need to ask anything further. Partly because he understood what Azriel was insinuating—that he was allowing you to set the pace and decide whatever you were—and the other part because it was not his place to press for more information. It was your life, your story and your trauma. He would not invade your privacy like that. 

Cassian respected you far too much. 

So, he nodded his head, pulled back his plate of breakfast and heaped another spoonful of eggs into his mouth. He would not push on the matter, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t toy with his brother a little. 

“Y/N mentioned she wanted to learn some witchcraft. You know, spells and rituals that her mother might’ve used.” Azriel hummed, gaze fixed on the table. Cassian bit back his smirk. “Nesta suggested taking a look in the library for some old books. Gwyn’s going to help.”

Azriel’s eyes snapped to Cassian’s, his face paling just slightly. Bingo. 

The shadowsinger swallowed. “When?” 

Cassian ate another spoonful. “They’re already down there now.” 

Azriel did not bid his brother a goodbye before his shadows guided him to the library doors within the House. His heart was thumping against his chest, an anxiety like no other streaming through his veins. He was yet to tell you about his infatuation with Mor, his brief involvement with Elain, and he had not yet disclosed the same about Gwyn. 

The last thing he wanted was for you to hear anything outside of anyone else’s mouths. It was for him to explain. No one else. 

He entered the library quietly, dismissing his shadows so as to not fright the priestesses. He passed Clotho first, offering a subtle nod in greeting before sauntering further into the dim library. 

Perhaps Azriel should have mentioned this place to you sooner. Despite your love for books, maybe knowing this place was available could have helped with your healing. But you had done so well without it, and Azriel had very selfishly enjoyed every moment of your presence. 

It did not take long to find you, your scent still lingering in the air and he followed that trail to one of the higher levels. There was where he found you. Alone, eyes gleaming in happiness as you looked through the archives of rituals and witchcraft. You already had two books in your arms and Azriel did not hesitate to take them from you as he approached. 

His presence took you by surprise, only for a moment and you offered a wide smile, your chest feeling warm. As it often did when you spent time with the shadowsinger. 

“Az… what are you doing here?” you asked in a way of greeting. 

He held booth books in one arm and offered a grin at the nickname you’d taken to calling him. Gods, he had only seen you yesterday evening and yet it felt as if it had been days. You looked even more beautiful today, the gentle glow of Fae lights casting over your skin. Though he could notice a hint of exhaustion in your eyes, likely from your training with Cassian and Rhysand. 

Az stepped closer. “Cass mentioned you were down here looking for some grimoires. Thought I’d offer some help.”

You squinted your eyes at him playfully, cocking your head to the side. “Didn’t Cassian tell you that Nesta was with me? And Gwyn?”

Colour stained his cheeks. “Yes. But an extra set of eyes and hands never hurt.” He looked around then, in search of his brother's mate and the young priestess that he had saved those few years ago. “Where are they anyway? Nesta and Gwyn.”

You shrugged, returning to look at the bookcase before you. “Nesta wanted to look at some romance novels, Gwyn mentioned she saved a secret stash of the smutty ones for her.” 

You did not mention the way the priestess had looked at you with guilt or embarrassment when Nesta told her Azriel was quite fond of you. Your cousin did not need to say anything for you to understand. There had clearly been something there in the past, something Gwyn felt wrong for. She had no reason to. 

But you did not speak those thoughts to her. Instead, you offered a beaming genuine smile and thanked her for offering her assistance. You had promised to come and visit the library again, and had suggested bringing lunch next time.

It was clear to her that her past involvement with the shadowsinger did nothing to sour your current one. And she was more than thankful for it. 

“And you’re not interested? In the smutty novels, I mean.” 

You turned to Azriel with a smirk, a knowing gaze in your eyes. He mirrored it, cheekily. Gods, he would never fail to make you melt beneath that hungry stare. “Something else has been keeping my interest instead.” 

A grin, and then, “I’d like to keep your interest tonight, if you’ll let me?” 

You quirked a brow, the books long forgotten as you faced the handsome male before you. “Oh? And what did you have in mind?” 

Everything with Azriel had felt so easy in the past weeks. Even this, the flirty… it seemed to fall naturally between you both. Never once had you experienced an uncomfortable silence or nervous pause. 

It felt right. 

Az closed the distance between you, reaching a gloved hand for your waist as he leaned down to brush his nose against yours. “I was thinking of taking you to the Rainbow… more specifically, to the theatre.” 

A grin spread across your full lips. “Really?” Your excitement was palpable, and Azriel had no doubt that if his shadows were here now, they’d buzz around your small frame with adoration. 

He nodded, planting a slow kiss to your mouth. Your lips puckered against his, following his lead. There had been more of this since that fruitful night he touched you at the townhouse. 

Kisses and touches when you were alone, lingering glances when in the presence of others. Often, your nights were spent with him, in his bed or yours, in the private library or in the gardens. 

You had allowed him to touch you, taste you… he had allowed you to do the same. Azriel had given you full control over every situation, every interaction. Whatever this was between you, you could not get enough.  

“I’d like that,” you whispered into the kiss, feeling his mouth stretch into a smile before he kissed you once more. 

You leaned into him, melting under his attentive touch when someone cleared their throat and he gently broke his mouth from yours. Nesta stood to the side, a pile of books in her arms and a brow quirked. 

But Gwyn… she did nothing to hide her grin, the flush of her cheeks or the happiness that glimmered in her teal eyes. You knew she knew of your story, your trauma. And you knew her happiness came from a place of understanding. 

Understanding what it took to break through the past and live in the present. To move on. To heal. 

“Need I remind you that this is a library, not a brothel.” 

You rolled your eyes at your cousin. “You best scamper off with those books then, Ness.” 

She scowled at you playfully when Gywn breathed a choked laugh. Azriel watched her then, his body stiffening just slightly before you. But enough for you to notice, to feel it. 

“It’s good to see you, Azriel.” She offered politely. 

He dipped his head. “And you, Gwyn. Thank you for helping Y/N with the grimoires.” She brushed him off with a waving hand and turned her bright attention to you with a smile. 

Azriel felt his tension slowly dissipate, watching the way you both seemed to communicate with your eyes alone. You knew, he could tell. And you did not think of him any differently. 

Not one bit. 

The play was wonderful. Well, as much of the first half that you had seen. By the time the curtain pulled for a short break, Azriel’s hands had begun to wander. Beginning on your knee and ending between your thighs. 

He had gotten you seats in Rhysand’s private booth. And when darkness shrouded the theater during the interval, his shadows encompassed you both to hide you away from the public. 

His lips were hot on yours, his tongue licking sensually against your own. Your small hand had wrapped around his thick shaft, pumping the way you had grown to know he liked. And his fingers curled deliciously at that spongy spot within you. 

You did not stop when the curtain opened and the play resumed. Neither did he. Azriel had instead lowered to his knees and pried you thighs open, rolling up the fabric of your dress as he stared into your soul. 

Then his mouth was on your aching cunt and your head was rolling back against your seat. His tongue worked meticulously, licking and swirling, his mouth closing to create suction on your throbbing clit. 

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging at the roots and fingernails scratching at his scalp. The first time Azriel had tasted you, he had you reach that high three times before stopping. And every time since, he had done the same. 

Though this time, you knew you had to keep quiet. Your spare hand covered your mouth, your teeth biting at the palm of your hand to stifle the moans and whines that threatened to escape. 

Your hips bucked into his face, his guttural hum sending vibrations through your veins. He was a starved male when it came to you, and you feared you would never get used to that hunger. 

His fingers continued to pummel into your cunt, curling and scissoring to stretch you deliciously. The sounds were obscene, wet and quiet but everything was far too amplified. You only hoped his shadows could also offer some form of soundproofing, too. 

“Az…” you barely managed to whisper, forcing your eyes open to watch him. 

He was already looking at you, his pupils so blown in arousal that you could sparsely see the honey you loved so much. You had never experienced such desire before. Even in the other times you had been intimate with him, it never felt as strong or as dire as this. 

Because this had you wanting to damn any consequences. Damn any trauma you had once experienced. You wanted him, every part of his body and mind and soul. You wanted to feel his thick cock stretch you out, fill you until you were crying and pleading for him to ravage you. 

You’d never once felt such primal need, and Azriel noticed the shift in your scent. Noticed how it changed from arousal to a diabolical sense of unravelling. You’d never looked at him with such ferocity before. 

And Azriel feared he would lay down his life in that moment, if you so asked. 

You tightened around his fingers, your legs trembled. You bit down harder on your palm as undiluted pleasure seized your body. As you cried silently, as your thighs shut tight around his head. As he sucked on your clit at the same time his tongue rubbed against it. 

You came harder than you ever had before. And by the way you heaved a breath through your nose, you knew Azriel had reached his high with you. 

With his hand fisting his long cock and his pleasure dripped down his scarred fingers. Perhaps it was that hunger that remained that had you reaching for him… that had you guiding those fingers to your mouth as you cleaned his come with your tongue. 

He mirrored your actions, removing his digits from your cunt and stuffing them into his own mouth to suck them clean. You watched one another, chests heaving as your pussy throbbed and Azriel’s cock twitched. 

You’d go again, you’d force him into that chair and straddle him, sink down on him until he was buried so deep within you, you didn’t know where you ended and he began. 

And Azriel appeared to have sensed your thoughts and shook his head. He pulled his fingers from his mouth, but you kept his in yours. “Not here. I won’t take you for the first time in the fucking theatre.” 

A grin spread across your lips and you released his fingers, now clean as the faint salty taste of him stained your tongue. 

You batted your lashes down at him. “What if I asked nicely?” 

He huffed through his nose, though a smile graced his face. “Don’t tempt me. You deserve more than that.” 

Your expression softened at the kindness of his words. He always knew what to say, his actions always followed his verbal promises. Another thing you had never experienced before. But Azriel seemed to take pleasure in showing you how you should be treated. 

“You deserve everything,” he whispered. 

You reached for him then, for the knitted wool of his sweater and he followed your lead when you met him in a searing kiss. No words could convey what this male was beginning to mean to you. How strongly you felt for him. 

“I only want you.” 

Azriel’s heart remained steady, despite his mind's racing. He would give himself to you in a heartbeat. All you had to do was ask. 

He was about to tell you as much, when a gentle call of his name sounded in his mind. Azriel took a brief moment to compose himself before allowing his High Lord into his mind. 

Apologies for interrupting. He purred. Azriel fought the urge to roll his eyes. But Madja has concluded her research. She’d like to speak with us, we’re awaiting your return. 

You noticed the distant look on his eyes, the one he only sported when Rhysand called for him. Your stomach dropped slightly, not ready to end the night just yet. But the smile on Azriel’s lips suggested it would not be for the worst. 

“Madja has some information to share. They’re waiting for us at the House.”

He had winnowed you almost immediately to the bottom of the ten thousand stairs. Only then did he take a moment to fix both of your flushed appearances and plant a tender kiss to your mouth. 

He had flown you both to the balcony, gently settling you to your feet. Though your arm remained looped with his as you walked into the House proper, where Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian and Nesta awaited with Madja. 

The elder healer offered a smile in greeting as you entered the lounge, and your arm slipped from Azriel’s. 

“You will be pleased to know that I have finally exhausted all avenues for this research. I have some interesting things that I think would help and that I’d like to share.” 

Your heart thundered in anticipation. By the look in Madja’s eyes, you knew you were about to learn everything. She set three old books onto the table, their pages thick and discoloured. They must be at least five centuries old, but you would not be shocked if their age preceded that. 

“I finally managed to trace your heritage back to your ancestors through your blood and hair samples.” She paused, as if waiting for everyone’s undivided attention. 

“You are a direct descendent of Mother Garmelhia. She was High Witch of the Elesendray coven—a coven of earth witches. They were healers, though through her blood, the abilities were not always passed down to the offspring. Your mother was the first in two centuries to present these gifts. Her sister—” she turned to Nesta and Feyre, “—your mother did not possess such abilities. Elain inherited a drop of those gifts, which the Cauldron quickly took, but you—” Madja looked to you again, “—you are blessed with the rawest form. The same as your mothers, but stronger.” 

There was no hiding the silver than lined your eyes. A storm of emotions clouded your vision, your mind. Your mother… your beautiful mother… 

“For some their abilities lay dormant until something triggered it. For example, Elain’s did not trigger until forced into the Cauldron, and even then, her power had shifted when Made Fae.”

You processed her words, everything made sense. Your magic had been buried so deep within you, with your mothers mark. But you wondered if your power would have shown had she not glamoured it.

“So mine triggered the moment I passed the wall into Prythian?” you asked. 

Madja’s tight lips quirked to the side as if in thought. “It would appear something happened when you passed through. And with your Fae heritage from your father, that would have also played a part. Do you remember exactly when something felt differently?”

Your mind carried you back to that night, when Nesta took your hand in hers and guided you past that shimmering veil. When you were shoved to the ground and your hands touched the grass for the first time. You shared a look with your cousin, cocking her head to the side as if she was also trying to pinpoint it. 

“Um… right after we passed through. After that creature attacked us. Everything felt clearer, but still slightly hazy. I could sense things but I didn’t know what. I thought it was just because the land held magic…”

Rhys took a step closer, his hands stuffed into his pant pockets. There was a gleam in his eyes, one that demanded more. “Did you find anything else?”

Madja nodded, reaching for the top book of the pile and flipping it open to a random page. Indeed, the book was old, yet it somehow held the scent of something you had never come across before. Something slightly familiar, yet not at all. 

“Yes… have you ever heard of soul-ties?”

Something in your stomach almost exploded. Azriel took a curious step closer, eyes scanning the pages but they were all in ancient tongue—one that Madja clearly spoke or at least understood. 

When nobody replied, Madja went on. “Within the Elesendray coven, and many others in history, soul-ties were the equivalent of a mating bond. Through the brief history I could find, it is said that a witches soul calls to another. Not just any soul. The other half of theirs.”

“So… like a soul-mate?” Cassian piped up.

Madja nodded and she did not break your gaze. She knew something, something you did not. 

���What does that have to do with my abilities?”

“It doesn’t. Not directly at least. But it is also said that when a witch finds their soul-tie and their souls are merged whole again, it is a tether so unbreakable that it exceeds even the strength of a Fae mating bond. And unlike the Fae mating bonds, if a witch does not accept their soul-tie, they will cease to exist entirely.”

Everything went silent and your heart refused to beat. 

“What are you saying?” Nesta’s tone was not one to play with. 

But Madja took a breath and laid a withering hand over the page Azriel could not take his eyes off. “I believe you have found your soul-tie, Y/N.” 

No. There was no way. You didn’t dare look at Azriel. You couldn’t. You didn’t know what it was that grew between you, you did not know where you stood in that sense. But the relationship you had ran deep. Deep enough for you to fear losing whatever he was to you. 

You begged your power not to act, begged it not to show the fear that began to cripple you. You had already once been bound to a man you did not love, a man that did not love you. You would not be forced into it again, with a powerful male this time who could do unimaginable things if he wished. 

You stuffed that fear so far down you almost choked on it. “How do I know who my soul-tie is? I didn’t think there were any other witches in Velaris?” 

“It doesn’t have to be a witch.” Madja’s eyes bore into your very spirit. “A soul-tie would be someone who endured the same agony as you to trigger an ability, to become who they were fated to become. Nothing is by chance, the Mother forges what is meant to be. Especially for witches.”

You were too overwhelmed, scared. “But passing through the wall triggered my powers? Who else would have done that?” 

You were in denial, refusing to believe that this was to be your fate. But it was Rhysand who took a step closer, his lips parted and eyes clouded. 

“You always had your power, passing through the wall just awoke your senses, because of your Fae father. Your mother’s magic was truly triggered when we burned your mark.”

You watched as Rhysand’s eyes drifted to Azriel, to his hands. Your lungs seized, your chest ached. You could not look at him, could not dare meet his desperate gaze when a lone shadow slinked to your hand and weaved between your fingers. 

“Holy Gods,” Feyre breathed.

Azriel remained still, aloof. For if he moved even an inch, he was sure to crumble. He knew. At that moment, he knew. He’d always had his suspicions, even when you were human. His soul called to yours. The missing half of him.

Rhysand came closer again. “When your stepbrothers burned your hands when you were a child, when you were locked away, your ability to wield shadows was triggered.”

Shadowsinger.

You stared at his hands—those beautiful hands. You had not known of Azriel’s story, had not ever wanted to pry. You never felt the need to ask, never considered his hands were anything abnormal. His step-brothers had burned them. He was a child. 

And your magic… burning the mark to set it free…

It was silent for too long, like it was some sick dream and joke and the Mother only ever intended for you to experience pain and agony in your life. But it made far too much sense for it to not be true. 

You had never felt so at ease with anyone before. Had never experienced such comfort and safety than in his arms. You did not need to pretend with Azriel, you did not need to hide or apologise. You just existed. And that was enough for him. 

Because you didn’t feel a change when you passed through the wall, when that creature died. You felt it when you heard something in the sky. When you heard Azriel. 

You dared a glance at him then, at the male you were destined to be with. The one the Mother made for you. The other half of your soul. His beautiful hazel eyes stared at you with such unyielding clarity, like every ounce of pain he had ever endured was worth it. Because it brought him to this moment. To you. 

It almost seemed too good to be true. That he was for you. That he was your fate. Yet your mind would not allow one single negative thought to grow. No seeds of doubt planted, not even one. Because your soul knew, you knew. 

You had no fear in that moment, staring at him. For Azriel’s own eyes mirrored your every thought. For this first time in his life, he truly felt worthy. His mind did not allow his past to dictate if he deserved that happiness. His heart did not allow a beat to falter out of place. Steady, calm. Yet a storm raged in his soul. As it had done for the past eight weeks in your presence. 

Nothing in his life had ever felt so right before. So meant to be. He damned himself a fool for his past behaviours, for ever chasing or entertaining the idea of another. 

Azriel had never truly understood what it felt like to have a home. Not until Rhysand’s mother took him in. But even then, he felt he did not deserve such kindness, that the Mother did not grant him a home of his own for a reason. 

He had always deemed himself unworthy, such a fragile mindset had taken over his entire life. 

But she granted him you. A friend, a lover, a connection so strong it exceeded even his brothers’ bonds. A soul-tie. The literal missing half of him. He had felt honor many times in his life, had felt wanted and needed and appreciated. 

But up until this moment, he had never felt worthy. 

He did not shy from your gaze, from his family watching the scene unfold. He took a step closer as a tear slid down your warm cheek. His soul sang for yours, bellowed and beckoned and begged. That’s what that feeling had been. His soul had been yearning to reunite with yours the whole time. 

“I do not know how much time you’ll have if the soul-tie is not accepted.” Madja broke through the silence softly. 

Azriel took a step closer, almost reaching you. He shook his head. “That is not something to worry about.” 

Your chest ached, your throat burned. You could not look away from him—did not want to. If you had, you would’ve noticed the lack of your family. Would have seen them fade into the shadows with such admiration and happiness in their eyes as they left to give you both privacy. 

Madja had remained, though neither of you offered your attention. She smiled to herself, and piled the books atop one another again. “When you wish to accept the soul-tie, there is a ritual you must follow. I will be happy to guide you when you are ready.” Her words were white noise in your ears as she retreated.

You were almost shrouded in darkness now, Azriel’s shadows working to cocoon you both in a haze of privacy. Words failed you, unable to conjure even a sentence. He was so beautiful, gazing at you with such longing, as if you’d singlehandedly placed the stars in the sky. 

He was closer now, the toes of his shoes mere inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath on your face, feel a scarred hand reach to cup your jaw and his thumb brushed gently across your cheekbone. You melted into his touch, fighting to keep your eyes on him. 

“Hi,” you breathed. 

A wide smile pulled at the corners of his full lips, a row of white teeth peeking through. Your heart trembled. This beautiful male was yours. Yours.

“You want this?” He was not asking for clarity, no. Azriel had no doubt in his mind. But he would be damned if he did not make it clear that you still had a choice. No matter what, you would always have a choice. 

Your head bobbed in confirmation, a smile of your own tugging at your mouth now. Azriel grinned wider, the tip of his nose bumping yours. 

“Yeah?” he asked in a whisper, and you were giddy with excitement. 

Your eyes fluttered closed as your mouth met his. A kiss so tender and soft that your souls hummed in unity. Azriel did not need to look at you to know that flora had tangled in the strands of your hair, in the strands of his. 

Time seemed to stand still as you kissed him. And the realisation that he would get to do this with you forever… Well, it was something that finally made him thankful for his step-brother's cruelty. 

Because what a beautiful thing it was for this to be his fate.

A/N: so this is pretty much the end of the series!! It is very much open to a bonus epilogue chapter in the future that will potentially contain their soul-tie ceremony and shit loads of smut, but for now, my babies are healthy and happy!! Thank you all so much for the incredible amount of love and support you guys have shown on this series, it truly does mean so so much to me!! <3

If you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a like and reblog, your feedback is always appreciated <3

[katz-rambles]

Aphrodisiac sex with Viktor has taken over my brain. So I'm gonna write about it 🤭.

My first Arcane fic!! Wooo!! I hope I wrote his character well!

(nsfw, fem!reader, use of aphrodisiacs, alcohol mentioned, masturbation, oral (fem and male receiving), dom-ish!reader, sub-dom!Viktor, Viktors a tease, friends to lovers?, I think this is it!)

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰

The night started out normal, enough. You went out with some friends for a nice girls night out filled with drinks and gossip, and it was an amazing night. You're relatively tipsy by the time everyone is ready to go home, it's about half past midnight, and the only thing you can think about is going to bed. That is until, about half way home. A sudden spark flows through your veins, creating a dull fog in your mind. Maybe you had a bit more to drink than you thought you did.

You've decided to walk a tad bit quicker to get home. A small apartment in the downtown of Piltover, it's a nice size and not too expensive, especially since you're sharing it, and the fact that there's only one bedroom inside just adds to the fact. You're just glad that Viktor doesn't mind sharing a bed.

You have to fumble with your keys for an embarrassing amount of time before you can actually unlock the door. It's silent inside the apartment, there's no sign that Viktor has already come home. Although, that wouldn't surprise you, ever since he and Jayce started to work on the Hextech, you've been seeing less and less of him in your shared apartment.

You push off a shower until the morning, it can wait a few more hours, it's too late. When you enter the bedroom, you almost scream when your eyes focus well enough to see someone sitting at the small desk in the room. So he is home, you rub your temples and sigh. He’s always staying up late. You don't want him to hurt his back, more than he already has, by being in such an awkward position all night. So you gently grab onto his shoulders to try and wake him up, his shirt has slipped and your palm rests on the bare skin, the warmth that comes from him could burn you. From such a simple touch that foggy haze fills your head once again, when Viktor is in a better position you'll get a drink of water. You tighten your grip on his shoulders and carefully shake him, a sad attempt to wake him. You would just carry him to the bed, you're strong enough, but you don't want to irritate his leg.

“Hey, Viktor.. are you awake?” You whisper, when you feel him stir. No response comes from him, but you're not going to give up any time soon. So this time you try a different method, you crouch beside him and lift up his head to try and see if he's awake, and he's not. Of course he's not. But you're determined to save his back from his hunched position. Each time you try something different and your hand makes contact with him, you can feel another spark flow through your veins and the foggy haze in your head gets stronger. Maybe this time you'll just splash him with ice cold water, but that'll probably give the poor thing a heart attack.

“Viktor, come on. You can't stay like this,” you groan and try to shake him awake, once again to no avail, and your feet are starting to ache from crouching in your heels for so long. At this point you're starting to give up, and you try to shake him one last time. Your hand rests on his waist this time, the other on his arm, you can feel the warmth of his body, along with his scent, a mix of oil, metal, and his shampoo that creates an intoxicating smell that you'll never get enough of now, from this position and, as much as you may hate to admit it, it sparks a dull throb in your core. “Vik.. please?” You shake him, trying to ignore the fire that's sparked inside of you, and this time he does wake up. A shallow gasp escapes from him as he pushes his head up and rubs the back of his neck. He lets out a low groan and looks over at you, the noise has you thinking about just how he would sound if you had your way with him.

This time it's his turn to shake you from your, not so innocent, thoughts, and he pushes himself up from the desk, now standing while you're still crouching. The position puts you at the perfect level that your thoughts start to wander again. “Just how much did you have to drink?” He chuckles as you stand yourself up, one of his hands reaches to press against your forehead, and it burns. You can't tell if it's him or you that's warmer, but the contact has a familiar pulse starting at your core. Just before he's able to say something you push his hand away from yourself. “Enough,” you reply, trying to shake the feeling away.

He scoffs and leans against the desk, and you can't deny how fucking hot he looks. His hair is messed up, his clothes have wrinkles in them, and his hands, god his hands, have traces of whatever he was using back at the lab on them.

You decide to take a shower now, maybe this way you can deal with the problem of your hormones raging like a horny teen. The warm water feels like it's been sent straight from heaven and down on your aching muscles, you can feel yourself relaxing under the water. You let your hand drift to your breasts and massage the flesh of one and then the other, feeling your nipples harden under your palm. Each touch you give yourself, you let yourself imagine that it's Viktor. You place your free hand over your mouth to silence your gasp when you push a finger inside your hole to find yourself dripping from such light touches. You curl your finger up to try and hit that one spongy spot inside you, and when you finally find it, you hope that your hand muffled the loud moan you let out. You slowly add another finger, wishing it was his instead of your own. You set a steady rhythm of your fingers, while grinding your swollen clit against your palm. You bit down on your hand in a sad attempt of silencing yourself, silently praying that the mix of your palm and the running water will be enough to not let your moans escape the bathroom. You start to speed up your fingers as you feel your orgasm get closer, desperately grinding against your palm for the friction you crave against your clit. Soon enough your orgasm crashes down on you, and you let out a loud moan. Now you're left panting from the aftershocks of your orgasm, yet even after that, the haze and pulse is still evident. Maybe you should just sleep it off.

The shower you had was relaxing and when you come out you find Viktor sitting up on the bed, with a book in hand. You crawl into bed beside him and lay your head onto the pillow, closing your eyes and relishing in the cold feeling of the fabric against your, still burning hot, skin. Even after a long shower the feeling hasn't stopped, and now being right beside Viktor, it's seemed to double. “Are you okay?” Viktor asks, when you lift your head up from the cold release of the pillow, all you can muster is a nod, if you open your mouth you're afraid you might just moan, you can feel his body heat from under the covers and his scent is evident in the bed. “I'm fine, Vik, think I just had a little too much to drink,” you laugh and rest your cheek on one of your arms, “but I'll be fine after a good sleep.”

Viktor sighs and lifts your face up, his hand holding your chin. He studies your face and you can feel your face heat up from his intense gaze. “Hmm, you don't seem fine. You're practically burning up,” he states. The way his accent sounds when he speaks has you clenching your thighs and hoping he doesn't see you doing so. He keeps your face in his hand for a few more seconds before he finally lets go, “maybe it was one of the drinks you had making you burn up.” He brushes some stray hairs out of your face and he shuffles so you're both laying down, he pulls your face closer to him and squints his eyes at you, before he can say anything else you pull him closer and kiss him, feeling his reciprocate the kiss just spurts you on more and you thread your fingers in his hair.

He rests a hand on the curve of your waist and when you feel it you pull away and feel yourself internally panic, “holy shit, I'm sorry. I have no fucking clue whats gotten into-” Before you're able to finish your scentance he pulls you back down and kisses you. His hand trails down your waist towards your thigh and he strokes the side of your thigh, occasionally giving the fat of your thigh a squeeze. “I told you. It was one of the drinks.” He mumbles against your lips and grabs your hip and pulls you closer, you take the hint and quickly climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and he groans when you grind down on his semi hard erection.

You pull away from his lips just long enough to tug his shirt off, quickly doing the same with your own, before connecting your lips again. You start to trail kisses down his jawline, towards his neck, leaving a kiss on his adams apple, and moving to the side of his neck to leave more kisses and occasional harsh sucks to form a mark, savouring the noises he lets out every time you do. Being careful to not hurt his leg, you move yourself down to trail your kisses lower and lower until you reach the hem of his pants. “May I?” You ask breathlessly and he chuckles, “you practically tore off my shirt, you think I'd say no now.” He scoffs, a teasing undertone to his words that causes the throb in your core to heighten. You pull down his pants and boxers to let him dick out, wrapping your hand around the base and giving him a few strokes before you wrap your mouth around the tip, licking up the bead of precum that's settled there. He groans and tangles his fingers in the strands of your hair, not pushing or pulling but just resting his hand there. You start to bob your head, making sure to tease the tip, relishing in the noises he's making, a mix of delicious groans and whimpers leave his lips and it spurs you on more. He thrusts his hips up and the tip hits the back of your throat causing you to gag around him, his fingers gently tug on your hair and when you look up at him he lets out a loud groan. You use one of your hands to reach down and rub your clit, matching the pace of your fingers with the pace of your head. He thrusts his hips up again, this time a little rougher, and you know he's getting close. You swirl your tongue around the tip and he pulls your head off him. “No, when I cum, it'll be inside you.” He says, and you whine at the loss of friction when you pull your hand away from your aching clit. He pulls you to him and kisses you, savouring the way you taste and groaning when he tastes himself on your lips. You pull your pants off and straddle his hips again, lifting yourself up and lining his cock up. You give him a few strokes and slowly start to sink down.

The stretch is delicious and you moan when you've lowered yourself all the way. He brings one of his hands to your thigh and rubs it, you place your hands on his chest and start to lift yourself up. You whimper as you do so, adjusting to the stretch. A few seconds of just having his tip inside you, you lower yourself back down and repeat, slowly getting faster and rougher with each bounce. Soon you're riding him, one of your hands is on his chest, supporting yourself and the other rests on Viktors hand that's squeezing your thigh. You speed up a bit more and he groans when he feels you clench around him, his head falls back onto the pillow. His hand leaves your thigh and he brings it up and starts expertly rubbing your clit, for a second you find yourself jealous of his experienced fingers.

“Viktor! Fuck.. please don't stop!” You moan and clench around him, his hips start to rut up to meet your bounces. You both know that you're close and you know you aren't going to last very long. Your moans start to become more frequent and at a higher pitch, one of your hands leaves red scratches down his chest as you feel your orgasm get closer. Your nails dig into his skin and you bury your face in his neck, biting down on the sensitive skin when your orgasm hits you, your pussy pulses around his cock and with a few more thrusts up he's cumming inside you, his muscles tensing and he's moaning.

You both lay with each other for a few seconds before Viktor speaks up, “do you feel better?” He chuckles when you nod, you're still panting and you rest your forehead against his, a sheen of sweat on you both. You whimper when you push yourself up and feel his softening cock slide out of you, the globs of cum that drip out of you make you whine. He grabs your hips and pulls your pussy closer to him. “I can't have you dripping on the bed, we just changed the sheets.” He groans and pulls you so you're sitting on his face, his tongue lapping at your folds and tracing your clit. You can feel the vibrations of him laughing when you squirm on top of him, his hands have a tight grip on your hips, ensuring you don't move too much. You thread your fingers in his hair, tugging on it as you start to grind your hips on his face. He ravages you, eating you out like a starved man. The curve of his nose bumps your swollen and sensitive clit deliciously and you pull on his hair at the feeling, when you do he groans into your pussy. He doesn't slow down or even hint at stopping as you can feel your third orgasm of the night creep up on you.

“Fuck! Viktor.. ‘m so close!” You whimper and grind your hips down on his face, the obscene slurping noises that come from him just fuel your arousal. You tighten your grip on his hair and your thighs tense around his face as your orgasm hits, your squirming as he helps you ride out your orgasm. He laps up all of your juices until you're trying to push yourself off from sensitivity. “There we go,” he sighs when you move off his face, he has a sheen of your arousal around his mouth and he licks his lips and smirks at you, “now you won't drip on the clean sheets.” You laugh and he pulls you closer to him, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you, you can taste yourself on his lips and it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

“How did you know it was the drink?” You ask him, feeling your eyelids grow heavy with each word that leaves your lips. “Aphrodisiac, it was easy enough to figure out when you came out of the shower. You're not as quiet as you think you are,” He smirks when you groan at him. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, one of his hands rubs your back, drawing random shapes and figures, and successfully lulling you to sleep.

[ilium-ilia]

john price x fem!reader | word vomit | drabble | dub-con/non-con | smut | unhinged price | unreliable narrator | unedited | don't poke the bear, love

You should've known better.

Strange men with debauched desires lurk in all rancid corners of the internet waiting for the right moment to prey on something as sweet as you. You—all soft smiles and head tilts, eyes shining as you listen to him ramble about all the work he's put into all while beaming about how well he did and how it will make the perfect commuter car for work. He can't help but think how stupid it is of you to come here to meet him alone, at his house, dressed like this. Shorts that expose enough skin to beat the heat and a tank top to match—body glistening with perspiration.

John realizes that you're smart. You know well enough to talk him up about all modifications that were made, and remember the milage for this model off the top of your head. You speak eloquently. Well educated. When he asks you where you work, you're not smart enough to give him a fake answer.

You're not smart enough to deny him when he offers you a drink of water inside of his house, either.

(Just to cool you down, love).

Beads of water on delicious lips, he leans against the counter as he listens to you ramble. Never once does he ask for you to open up, but you split yourself anyway. Tender flesh peeling back like the skin of an orange. It rolls. Flakes off. Advertises your juicy insides to a man who's dying of thirst.

He'll teach you to be better. That's what he tells himself, anyway. He'll show you how to push someone away when their fingers brush against your bare shoulder, not lean into the warmth like you are now. Mindlessly, you look up at him. Your lips are still wet enough for him to lick them and be satiated—hydrated fully well off of mere dew alone. Your eyes lock onto him, and your lips grow tighter.

Don't you know any better? Don't you know that you're advertising ripe meat in front of a very hungry creature?

No—maybe you do.

Maybe that's why you don't put up much of a fight when he presses your hips into the counter and snakes his thumbs beneath the waistband of your shorts. Maybe that's why your whining is quiet and pitchy as he yanks them down, arse fully exposed. Maybe it's why your tears fall silently as he grinds against your cunt.

(Stupid girl. Don't you know that you shouldn't play with wild animals?)

As he feeds his cock into you—inch by aching inch—he grunts about the rules. His rules. The ones you're going to follow from here on out. No being alone with strange men. Only show your teeth when you're ready to bite or be bitten (really, a smile is nothing more than a poorly hidden growl, after all). Most importantly be smart—smarter than this.

Fingers curling into your hips, he chuckles as you reach behind yourself, nails scraping poorly against his stomach, unable to break any skin through the cotton of his shirt. How cute you are. Little rabbit wandering into the bear's den and wondering why she's being bitten.

Then, hips stilling, he spills into you. Cock pulsing inside of you, your pules only grow stronger as he keeps himself buried deep inside of you. Warm, frothy cum spills out of you, seeping around where he plugs you full. He tells himself he'll teach you better than to allow that to happen, too.

"You know love..." He's tracing your spine. Bear-claw finger raking down your skin, one step away from a razor sharp enough to cut your clothes from your body. You quiver, rabbit-flesh sobbing beneath his touch. "If you wanted me, all you had to do was ask."

[angelltheninth]

You and another writer motivated me to continue watching Invincible- I just finished season 2 last night and I forgot how much Mark suffers yet he still keeps his heart of gold, which just makes him more attractive to me.

Seeing all the tragedies Mark goes through makes me want to love up on him and console him, and tell him he’s doing his best. Can you write something like that for him? With comfort sex please 👉🏻👈🏻

I'm so glad that my writing got you into the show. It's so good, and it makes you cry at the same time

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, comfort sex, nipple sucking, self-hatred, gentle sex, crying, hurt/comfort, slight breeding kink

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Mark goes through so much, that is so true. He needs therapy.

The one pushing for the two of you to hurry up and get naked is Mark

However the only reason he's being pushy is because he is so desperate to feel something other than the pain and grief he's constantly been hit with

All the while you're whispering soft words into his ear, cradling his head in your hands as you bring his lips back to yours to stop his tirade of self-loathing words

It can only be for a while but you swear that you will take his mind off the things that bother him so much that he can hardly sleep

Neither of you can turn back time and do things differently but you have the here and the now, and right now you want to show him how much you love him and want him

Your hands are slow, gentle, taking time to take his clothes off, paying attention to every scar he's gotten, older and new ones

Mark shivers when you pull him close and press your bodies together, your legs around his hips, his hands trembling across your thighs and ass as he floats you down on the bed

Usually he's pretty chatty during sex, but now he just can't seem to tell you anything but how he wishes he was better, stronger, worthy of loving you as much as you love him

He sucks desperately on your neck, his tongue licking against your pulsepoint

As he pushes his aching cock inside of you his whole body is shaking with nerves and energy he's been holding within, the stress, the lust

Earning a moan of approval from you he picks up the pace, not really caring if he breaks the bed at this point

Desperate for his mouth on you he takes one nipple and tugs lightly, eliciting the sweetest sound of pleasure

Barely any space is left between your bodies

Fingers intertwined with each other and your pussy tight, massaging his pulsing cock, it feels like those are the only things that are keeping him grounded, from spiraling

Judging by how Mark is looking up at you and by how hard his hips are snapping against yours you can all but hear him asking you if it's okay to come inside of you

Even on the best of days he's shy to ask you that question

Not that he doesn't want to do it, but now, with so many things happening, it's riskier if you should become pregnant

To hell with the what ifs, you love him and he loves you, so you give him a nod, you tell him, whisper a yes into the tense silence between you

Whimpering as he pistons his hips against yours tears spill down his cheeks, all of his emotions hitting him at once

You lean the both of you on the side and hold him while he keeps pumping thick ropes of cum inside of you, vowing to get stronger, to never let anyone hurt you, hurt him, hurt anyone he cares about ever again

[asterlust]

The World You Never Knew

When Gojo is sent to a small region to dispose of a powerful curse, only to learn it’s already been dealt with, he finds something far more interesting.Or, rather, someone.

Yandere!Gojo x reader

Tags: Rape/Non-con, violence, yandere/obsessive/possessive behavior, threats of blackmail, smut, P in V, v fingering, rough (more on Ao3)

Word count: 12.1K

an: A present to Poly @/Envy-of-the-apple. Absolutely stunning individual, that one, HIGHLY recommend his work. Pls go tell him that you love his porn and jerked off to it 12 times in his anons.

This is a repost from my other blog, as this one will be dedicated to dark content. Sorry, and thanks for bearing with me <3

“Ughhhhh.”

“Gojo Satoru! This is–”

“Yeah, yeah,” a lazy hand waved through the air, irritated, like swatting away an annoying fly. “I got it. Go to this town, deal with the spirit. Is that it? Really? I mean, do you have to send me specifically? Seems underneath me.”

“It’s a Grade 1. Ieiri doesn’t fight, Nanami is busy on another mission, and the Kyoto branch is busy training new sorcerers. You’re the only person left.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“This is not a request! It’s an order, Satoru.”

A deep, heavy, long-suffering sigh escaped the owner of the Six Eyes, who finally kicked his feet off the office desk and rocked his chair back into its proper upright position. “Fine,” he ground out, slapping his knees as he stood up. “I’ll go. Where is this place again?”

Yaga’s cheek twitched. “Kami-shima.”

Gojo nodded, half-paying attention as he dug around his ear with his pinky. “‘Kay.”

“Thank yo–”

Before the teacher could finish his statement, the door to his office slammed shut, prompting him to drop heavily into his seat with a groan. 

He rubbed at his forehead, defeated and drained after dealing with the heir of the Six Eyes. “That child…”

All he could do was pity any village inhabitants that might cross paths with Gojo Satoru.

«___° ° °___»

“Left!”

On cue, you ducked right, dodging a nasty swipe aimed straight for your head. A moment later, a second arm lashed out, and you somersaulted to entirely avoid the series of limbs racing towards you. Dirt clung to your back as you rolled onto your feet, your arm working to wrap the heavy chains of your tsuri-dōrō around your wrist and palm.

The demon screeched and spun to face you, enraged by your swift escape. Its arms flailed, sickly green and bronze appendages that wriggled and writhed, squirming like worms on a wet stone – six on the left, nine on the right.

You and Mirio had been running circles around it for the better part of fifteen minutes, wearing down its stamina chip by chip. You had already lopped off two of its arms and a leg, scorch marks decorating its infected, necrotic flesh, but it had yet to slow down.

“Back, right, down!”

You raised your right leg, and slammed it down the moment a wobbling, flailing limb appeared beneath you. Your lantern dropped on top of it behind your calf, and you channeled your mahou into it. Its blue flame flared, blazing up the length of the monster’s arm on command, eating away at its thin tissue. The inhuman sound that escaped its gaping maw grated on your ears, but you only increased the power behind the fire, pushing until the arm burned through and fell off.

As the demon stumbled away, howling at the top of its lungs, its disembodied arm continued to twitch and thrash, like salt thrown onto frog legs. Your nose wrinkled, and you kicked it away, turning around to continue fighting, chain winding once more in preparation to be thrown.

But, to your luck, a long spear was already stuck through the beast’s center, spikes protruding like the rays of the sun to keep it lodged in place, poison dripping off the polished wood. A paralytic, specially designed to affect only demons. The stronger the demon, the more the paralytic affected them.

Your name was shouted. “Now!” 

Wasting no time, you swung your tsuri-dōrō over your head twice, and launched it at the demon. The dark metal legs caught onto a flap of loose flesh and punctured into the muscle beneath, providing the perfect hold needed to maintain steady, undisturbed contact.

It screamed, but it was too late.

“Burn!” You shouted, weaving twin flames chasing one another down the black chain until they reached the center of the lantern. In an instant, the entire monster was engulfed in a blistering, cyan inferno. It wailed as its body began to flake and fall away, washi lit with a candle and released to float to the heavens. Rapidly, your target decayed, crusting and disintegrating until all that was left was a pile of ash that, too, was fading.

Before it wholly disappeared, Mirio jogged over, her hands clasped; pinkies and ring fingers intertwined, index and middle fingers set flush to one another and pointing upwards.

“Be released,” she urged. With a damp poof, the ash popped, fizzled, and was gone.

You sighed in relief, allowing your tsuri-dōrō to settle on the soil. Bent over, you propped your hands up on your knees, gulping down gallons of air to catch your breath. You’d been napping soundly under the warm sun until Mirio had shown up, panicked as she shook you awake and informed you that a demon was encroaching on the village. Given no time to stretch and yawn and prepare, you’d hopped up and ran straight into battle.

You didn’t regret it, no, of course not. But, man, you were going to be sore in the evening. You could already feel the acid leaching from your thighs, causing your muscles to twitch like soapy bubbles popping.

“Sure you’re not too old for this, ma’am?” A tease, given to you from your very own apprentice, one darling Akinori.

They were a spritely, young kid, far too eager for the fate awaiting them, the obligation they accepted when they became – pleaded to be – your apprentice. They aspired to be like you, like the rest of the Exorcists that wandered the island, and while you weren’t entirely comfortable with the pedestal they put you on (unintentionally, you knew. They were a good kid and meant well), you remembered what it was like when you were their age.

Starry-eyed, excited to play your part in protecting your home, your people, defending them from the monsters under the bed that used to scare you.

Now, all you wanted was a nap. A strong drink, too.

“Nori,” you panted out, and stood straight once more. “Shove it up your ass.”

They pouted. “Is that any way to speak to your apprentice?”

You used your index finger to flick at their forehead. “I warned you, you knew what you were getting into. No complaining, now.”

Nori snorted and rolled their eyes, but obeyed, skipping up to your side. Their stripped, paperless parasol was folded, and with a flick of their wrist, the weapon disappeared. Following suit, you let your chain fall to the ground, and both it and your tsuri-dōrō vanished in a bundle of sparkles.

Beside you, Mirio was writing on a strip of paper, a block of wood held underneath it for support. “Time of exorcism: 14:23. Well done, that was quick. It only took seventeen minutes.”

You groaned as you arched your back, hands on your lumbar to aid in cracking the vertebrae there. “Not bad. You’ve gotten better at callouts. How’s your vision?”

At the mention, your fellow Exorcist rubbed her eye, grunting. “Not awful. Aches a little, but I think it’ll go away in a few minutes.”

Nodding, you clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Take it easy.”

She nodded back. “‘Course. Do you want to go report to the Elder about the demon?”

Cocking your head side to side, wincing at the clicks in your neck, you hummed in consideration. “Yeah, sure. Let’s get it out of the way now.”

With Nori tucked against your side, the kid rambling (again) about how cool your strength was (again) and fluffing up your ego (appreciated), your little trio made their way towards the Elder’s home, ready to turn in the report. Ideally, you’d get it over quick, and be freed to continue that late afternoon nap of yours.

Unfortunately, the world seemed to have other plans.

Stopping in your tracks, you locked onto a figure approaching from the distance, dressed nearly from head-to-toe in black, save for the shock of white hair decorated atop their head. They walked hunched over, hands tucked away in their pockets, clearly detesting whatever had brought them to this hamlet.

Noticing that you’d fallen behind, Akinori and Mirio called out to you simultaneously.

You waved them off pacifyingly. “Go ahead without me, I'll deal with this.”

“You sure, auntie?” Nori asked, peering skeptically at the incomer.

You crinkled your nose at the bridge. “Don’t call me that, you’ll make me feel old.”

“Would you prefer ‘mom’?”

You began reaching to tug off a shoe. “You–!”

Mirio grasped Nori’s arm and began tugging them away, waving at you from over her shoulder. “See you at the Elder’s house, auntie! Be careful!”

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest petulantly as you watched your juniors disappear across the bridge in a fit of giggles, Nori’s laughter carried on the soft, ocean breeze to you, and you eventually sighed as you dismissed your irritation. “Damn children,” you mumbled, returning your attention to the stranger, who was now only a few meters away.

Closer, now, you could see it was a man – a boy, really. You had at least a decade on him, maybe that and a half. His cheeks were still round with youth, scrawny despite his unruly height. Wide shoulders, yes, but arms and legs like twigs. Lanky, damn near sickly with just how pale the exposed skin of his face was.

Even so, you could recognize the presence of mahou no matter where you were, and his was particularly strong. White hair, too. Strange, you thought. Albinism? Something else? It was certainly a unique look, if nothing else. You’d ask about it later, if you found the chance.

“Welcome to Kami-shima,” you told him once he was in reach, arms lowering to rest at your sides. “What brings you here?”

He stopped in front of you, head raising to show that he was wearing round shades, the lenses pitch black. Hell, you weren’t sure he could see through them at all to begin with, but he made it here and hadn’t tripped yet, so maybe it was simply an illusion that made them look darker than they were.

He was silent for a drawn out moment, then responded, a plucked brow raising. “Who are you?”

“Manners,” you chided, then gave your name. “I’m a local Exorcist.”

He quipped sarcastically, “Exorcist? What, like, you scare away ghosts? Puh, you know those aren’t real, right?”

Good heavens, who raised this boy? Even your grandpa, notorious hardass that he was, was never this condescending. 

“No,” you enunciated slowly. “I exorcise demons. You’re lucky, we just got rid of one shortly before you arrived.”

He frowned, and a look of deep consideration crossed over the parts of his expression you could see. It made him look like he was pouting, like thinking was a task he wasn’t ever keen to do. Pretty easy to clock him as a spoiled, rich kid. This had to be a punishment for him of some kind.

You met him less than thirty seconds again, and you could already see why it would be.

He huffed, the noise one of disbelief. “Wait, the cursed spirit? You got rid of it? That thing was a Grade 1, how could you exorcise it?”

“The hell does ‘Grade 1’ mean?” You mumbled, and shook your head. “Nevermind. I was able to exorcise it because I’m the most experienced Exorcist in this part of Kami-shima.”

“But, you’re so…weak.”

Your brow twitched and you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. “Someone needs to discipline you,” you insisted. “Come on, I’ll take you to the Elder.”

In truth, while you did intend to show him your way of life, since he clearly had no clue how any of this worked, there was something about him that unsettled you. Greatly. Part of the reason you wanted to hurry and meet up with the senior was so that you weren’t alone with the newcomer anymore. 

He was a jerk, sure, but that’s not what (wholly) bothered you.

No, it was the way you could feel him staring into you, through you.

You couldn’t see his eyes, but it was easy to sense the sheer power behind his gaze, the way he seemed to look down at you as if you were an insect. Maybe, that was his Strength, those eyes of his. Gods, what an unsettling thought, for someone’s power to lie within their eyes alone. All he would need was a glance. A peek, and cities would be razed.

His Weakness would be blindness, were someone to somehow reach his face and claw out those orbs, but you had a feeling that nobody would ever get the chance.

As much as you hated when people wore sunglasses, since it made them look exceptionally suspicious, you were, inexplicably, grateful that his were planted solidly on the bridge of his nose, blocking his hues from your sight. Whatever it was about them, the irritating tickle in the back of your mind told you that you didn’t want to ever peer into them personally.

Without waiting to see if he was following you, you started walking towards the village, and a few, delayed seconds later, you heard him jog to keep up. 

“What’s your name, kid?” You queried.

He clicked his tongue. “Gojo Satoru,” he replied, like you were supposed to drop onto your knees and stick your head in the ground, performing dogeza for having not realized his identity sooner.

Instead, you blinked at him from the corner of your eye, and kept striding forward.

“Alright, Gojo. Nice to meet you,” you hummed. “Were you drawn to Kami-shima because of the demon?”

Gojo cocked his head to the side, further and further until his jaw popped. “Yep. Got sent to this…place on a mission.”

You let out a ‘huh’ sound. “Mission? Oh, so you’re part of another sect of Exorcists? Are you from the mainland?”

He shrugged idly. “Nah, I’m a sorcerer.”

“Sorcerer? What a weird name.”

“You people are the ones with the weird names. Demons, Exorcists, what’s up with that?”

You raised a hand on instinct to smack the back of his head, only to be stopped completely by the sensation of…air?

Staggering to a stop, you flexed your hand, sensing the strong resistance pushing back into your palm. It wasn’t like you had been frozen into place, your hand hitting a brick wall; you could still feel the energy flowing in and around it, the twitching of your muscles that indicated you remained in control of them. You were moving, just incredibly slowly, enough so that by the time you breached through this invisible barrier, you’d likely be bones rotting and returning to the earth.

Withdrawing, you brought your hand to your chest, rubbing your thumb into the center of it to swipe off the excess mahou the ability left on you. “What in the world? Is– is that your Strength?” You were so certain his eyes were his Strength, were you wrong?”

A grin split across Gojo’s lips, tugging at the corners until it pushed his cheeks upwards. “Infinity. It’s the inherited Technique of the Gojo clan. Neat, right?”

“Technique?” You repeated. “How does it work?”

“Anything that comes into contact with Infinity is slowed down infinitesimally until it almost ceases entirely.”

How fascinating, you thought. How terrifying. The power to divide a number upon itself forever and never reach zero, to apply that to himself, to others.

Just what was his Strength?

Deciding to let the Elder figure it out for you, you crossed the bridge with Gojo in tow, offering hellos to the familiar faces you passed by, who stared unabashedly at the outsider. The aforementioned outsider himself didn’t appear to mind the attention in the slightest. If anything, he relished it, waving and grinning at the older women, cooing at the young children hiding behind their mother’s legs.

Your people weren’t unkind to newcomers. Given how small the island was, the low population, visitors weren’t common. You had nothing to offer tourists; attractions, interesting structures, none of those existed. All you had were beautiful landscapes, a tepid oceanfront, local specialties, and warm hospitality.

For most, that was more than enough. Those that came knew what to expect, and didn’t make a fuss.

You believed Gojo wouldn’t behave that way, and your neighbors seemed to think the same.

The call of a youngling made you turn, watching as an adolescent boy ran up to you, arms outstretched. You knelt down, allowing him to crash into you, the force causing you to puff out an ‘oof’.

“Miss Exorcist, Miss Exorcist,” he practically bounced on his toes. “Is the demon gone?”

Patting his back twice, you hummed in assent. “All gone. We took care of it, don’t you worry.”

“What did it look like?”

You mulled over his question, deciding how to tastefully leave out the grosser details a kid his age didn’t need to know. “It was tall, with a big mouth and so many arms, I lost count,” you embellished, not mentioning the stench of rot and decay that stuck to it like a miasma, nor the way the detached arms wriggled like abandoned lizard tails.

He hooned, brown irises glittering with fascination. “So cool! Was it strong?”

“Super strong.”

“But, you’re stronger, right? That’s why you won!”

Enjoying his chiming laughter, you leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “That’s right. I’m way stronger. No big, scary monster is gonna get you, not under my watch.”

He giggled. “Can I be like you one day? See and fight the monsters, too?”

You hummed in contemplation. Not many were born with the ability to see the demons, let alone take them down. “Even if you never get to see them, it’s never a bad idea to get stronger. Gotta protect that little sister of yours if I can’t be there.”

He nodded firmly, deadly serious. “I’ll keep her safe. I want you to be proud of me.”

“I already am,” you ruffled his hair, his dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Now, go, find your mom. I’m sure she’s worried about you.”

“She’ll make me do chores…”

“Then, you better hurry back before she gets mad and gives you more work, hm?”

He gasped, suddenly aware of the consequences of avoiding chores. He wormed his way out of your hold and scurried off, thanking you on his way.

As you stood back up, Gojo appeared at your side out of nowhere, nearly scaring you out of your damn skin.

He paid your spook no mind, his attention focused on where the kid had vanished down the tight alleyways. “They know?”

“Huh?”

“They know about curses? That you’re a sorcerer? The people of this island?”

You blinked. “They know about demons, and that I’m an Exorcist, of course, they do. Why wouldn’t they?”

“They’re not supposed to,” he claimed, brows knitting. “We’re meant to protect humanity, so they can live in ignorant bliss.”

Your lips tugged downwards in displeasure. “That’s too dangerous,” you explained. “If they didn’t know, they’d have no way to protect themselves if one of our Exorcists isn’t around. How are people supposed to survive in this world if they aren’t aware of the threats that exist in it?”

He didn’t reply to that, lost for an answer. “How do they know, if they can’t see curses?”

From the back pocket of your pants, you pulled out a wooden token – an omamori. “From the shrine,” you informed him. “Grants protection, and kinda works like a siren. If a demon is close by, the omamori creates a thin barrier around the owner that can deflect most demonic attacks. Gives them enough time to get back to safety and warn the Elder.”

“Who is the Elder? You keep mentioning him.”

Giving him a wan smile, you pushed open the door of a nearby home, jolting your head towards it. 

“You’re about to meet her.”

True to your word, as you stepped inside, you found the Elder sitting in her armchair, nursing a steaming cup of tea as Nori and Mirio rambled about the defeated demon.

“–And, then, she threw her tsuri-dōrō on it, and it went fwum! Totally badass!”

Mirio smacked the back of Nori’s head. “Language!”

“Wha– but it’s true!”

The Elder laughed, her crackling voice soothing the bickering pair. “It’s alright, little Mirio. They’re still young, let them be excited,” she said, placing her cup on the side table next to her chair. “Besides, we have guests.”

Both of the younger two in the room whipped their heads around to take in your and Gojo’s presence.

“Hey,” you greeted. “Miss me?”

Nori hopped up to their feet from the floor and pointed at Gojo, completely disregarding you. “That’s him! That’s the stranger!”

This time, it was you that whacked them on their shoulder. “Manners! It’s rude to point and yell.”

They pouted. “Sorry, auntie. But, that’s him, right?”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sighed. “Yes. This is–”

“Six Eyes.”

All present froze to look at the Elder, who gazed at the white-haired man with wonder and awe.

Gojo scoffed. “Finally, someone recognizes me.”

She shook her head. “Not you, boy. Your Strength. You wield the Six Eyes, do you not?”

You watched his jaw muscles feather, but the pride of someone being aware of his power overwhelmed any sort of irritation her dismissal incited. “I do. What of them?”

So, it was his eyes, after all. You were right.

“That’s powerful magic there, boy,” she warned. “Too powerful, in the wrong hands.”

He rolled his eyes (well, his head – those sunglasses were in the way, and he was notably very aware of them) and sucked his teeth. “It’s fine, I’m the strongest. Best hands, right here.”

“Elder,” Mirio tugged at the woman’s sleeve. “What are the Six Eyes?”

She took the girl’s hand into her own pair, palms worn soft with age. “They’re like your eyes, but much more powerful, my dear. Capable of seeing everything.”

“Everything?”

She confirmed, “Everything. Light, mahou, your heart. Nothing can hide from those eyes.”

Mirio placed a hand over her chest, evidently covering her heart, protecting it from Gojo’s intrusive gaze, were he to try and see it for himself.

It explained the glasses, at least. Likely to dampen the effect of his Strength. You imagined that having them bared was unpleasant, if the Elder’s words were true. Mirio suffered from potent headaches if she channeled her Strength for too long. Was Gojo’s Strength permanently activated?

“That’s not all to you, is it, child?”

Gojo grumbled something about not being a child, so you stepped in.

“He claims to have something called ‘Infinity’. In short, I can’t touch him,” you told her. “Elder Aisha, is it possible for someone to have multiple Strengths?”

Aisha considered it, resting her chin between her index and thumb. “It is, though it is more rare in today’s age. With less demons, there’s less need for an Exorcist to possess multiple Strengths. Your ancestor had two.”

“My ancestor?”

She got to her feet with a groan and pop of her knees, and hobbled over to a nearby bookshelf. Her lithe fingers skimmed over the backs of a few books, and eventually pulled one out. She popped it open and flipped through a number of pages, then handed it to you to observe.

On the page was an ukiyo-e painting of a man settled in seiza, flowing kimono robes pooling around him. On his left stood a bronze lantern, unlit, its chain looped neatly in coils under its base. You realized that it was your lantern. 

“Your ancestor, Yoshitsune,” she tapped on his face, “had the ability to create any item the good spirits deemed necessary to ensure his victory in battle.”

“Fascinating…I had no idea. What about Gojo, then?”

Gojo made a noise.

You lifted your head from the book. “What?”

He crossed his arms, tapping his toe on the soft rug of Aisha’s living room. “This is boring. I didn’t come here for a history lesson.”

Your temperature spiked with anger. “You–”

“Of course,” the Elder interrupted you. “My apologies. My dear here,” she motioned towards you, “will give you a tour of our modest town. Won’t you, dear?” She asked rhetorically.

“I–”

At the way she pried your fingers off the book and snapped it shut, you promptly closed your mouth and swallowed down any objections.

“I’d be happy to,” you forced a positive inflection. You didn’t want to leave, you wanted to learn more (Aisha had a way of making your grown ass interested in anything), but you knew when to bow your head and accept a task, even if it was one you despised.

Tomorrow. You’d pester her tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, the stranger would be gone.

«___° ° °___»

Surprisingly, he was obedient in trailing after you, a bit like a duckling.

You expected more whining, more complaining, more bitching. Your home, after all, did not seem like a place that would hold his attention for any length of time. Though, you supposed that was accurate, since it was you he was keenly captivated by.

It made your stomach churn.

So, you tried to take the spotlight off of yourself. “How long are you staying?”

He shrugged one shoulder languidly. “I was gonna leave as soon as I got rid of that cursed spirit, but since you already killed it…might as well stay. A mini vacation, y’know? I definitely need one, the higher-ups have been yapping their old, greasy heads off again. It’s so annoying. They talk and talk and talk, going on and on. Can’t stand it. They never shut up.”

Tongue held between your teeth, you let him go on, ignoring your desire to stick a rock in his mouth. Currently, you planned to show him the boring spots around town, confident you could scare him into leaving early.

“Peachy,” you muttered once he paused to take a damn breath. “Great, well, I’ll show you around, then drop you off at an inn–”

“Ooooor, I can just stay with you.”

You coughed on your spit. “Pardon?”

He kicked a pebble. “I mean, it’s way more convenient. We won’t have to cut our conversations short, and we can get to know each other better.”

The lilt at the end of his sentence sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’m way older than you, it’d be impro–”

He stopped in front of you. “I don’t care.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. “Gojo–”

“I’m serious,” he asserted. “I don’t mind that you’re older.”

“That’s not– I mind.”

Gojo raised his hands placatingly, almost as if surrendering. “Don’t worry, I won’t leech off’a ya. I’ll compensate you fairly for housing me. As thanks.”

You snarled. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You should come with me, back to Tokyo,” Gojo said. “We always need more sorcerers. Strong sorcerers.”

Whiplash. From one topic to the next, never giving you a chance to find ground to stand on.

A bubble of something trickled up your throat. Hesitance? Distaste? Anxiety? Something that made acid sting your esophagus. Your anger dissipated, replaced with disorientation. “Oh,” you responded dumbly, lagging behind. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not interested.”

“Why? It’s so much better than this place,” he insisted, jeering at your surroundings. “More interesting. Plus, I’ll be there.”

That’s exactly the issue.

Your eye twitched in offense. He knew exactly how to rile you up, and it was working, to your chagrin. The constant turbulence was throwing you off balance, pissing you off. “This is my home. I won’t stand by and let you insult it simply because our way of life is different from yours. Like I said: thanks, but no, thanks.”

The boy remained silent, expression neutral, and it had nervousness twisting in the pit of your gut. You’d rather he yell at you, shame you, call you dumb or old or what have you. So long as he didn’t examine you the way he did now, unresponsive, biding his time. Picking you apart down to the molecular level, separating your atoms until you were strewn apart, latticework for him to admire.

A dissection done by your shrine god would have been less invasive. Their hands wouldn’t have felt as abrasive while digging through your guts, their nails wouldn’t have scratched your cold, stiff arms and legs. Not the same way Gojo’s glare peeled your layers off one by one, time taken to examine each and every slice with diligent fixation.

Your god would take your Strength, and return it to the world, allowing it to one day resurface so it may return to your reincarnation when the time came.

Instinctively, you knew that Gojo would take it, and keep it for himself.

He’d wrap his hands around the flickering flame of your soul, squeeze the heart of your very being, just to feel your warmth. He’d search through your body to find what his greed most desired, and cling to it, breathing in the scent of ash and cracking cherry bark that released a sweet scent as they burned, one too enticing for him to admire only in passing. 

He’d take your tsuri-dōrō and let it burn everything until only you remained, cupped in his palms, held too high above the smoking soil to consider jumping off.

Not unless you wished to succumb to the blaze yourself.

You waited.

Waited, and waited, and waited, apprehension growing, sweat forming at your hairline and slipping down your temple as you anticipated the explosion that would follow your rejection, the burst of emotion too violent to keep contained inside a body that never knew how to back down, a mind that was never told no.

He opened his mouth, you held your breath–

“Just give it some thought, okay?” Gojo smiled, his head tilting to the side benevolently. “It’s an open offer.”

–nothing.

No burst, no violent meltdown, no tantrum from the spoiled brat. No demands, no threats, none of your expectations met.

It should relieve you. To some degree, it did.

A bigger part of you, the part that had bundled up energy in preparation for an argument that wouldn’t happen and had no outlet anymore, tensed up in a brief twist of panic.

He wasn’t calm, not at all. Anyone else, he could easily fool, bearing that charming grin and nonchalant stance, his tone easy and cheery, accepting the rejection with grace and humility. Anyone that wasn’t you.

Your sensitivity to mahou meant you were painfully aware of how strongly his flared.

At your refusal, it swelled fiercely, gasoline poured over unlit charcoal. It came like a heavy downpour, a cataclysmic cleansing of the sin that infested the ground you walked on, the tree canopies you hid under. A freezing rush in the dead of summer, frostbite nipping at your fingertips, craving your heat, the iron of your blood, to feast on your vitality.

Then, it was gone.

Its swift arrival was followed by an equally swift departure, leaving behind a vacuum, energy sucked out too fast. It staggered you, your equilibrium briefly interrupted, confusion and fear making you dizzy.

But, he kept smiling, pretending nothing was wrong.

You knew better than to point it out, to mention his temper, the displeasure you knew paced back and forth, a caged animal that salivated and rubbed its side into the bars, knowing it was a matter of time until it was freed, given permission to hunt its promised meal.

You bit down your prey response, the temptation you had to fawn, to placate. Apologize, tell him you changed your mind, you’d go, so long as he didn’t destroy your home.

You’re a fighter, for fuck’s sake. An Exorcist. You’re better than this.

You stifled the need to say that aloud. To assure him you weren’t going anywhere.

“Yeah,” you said through your teeth, a strained simper. “I’ll think about it.”

«___° ° °___»

The moment you unlocked the door to your house, Gojo made a beeline for your couch, dropping into it with a weary sigh. Comfortable, right at home, like he belonged.

Just make it through the night, you tried to convince yourself. Have to make it through the night. Then, he’ll be gone.

Cracking his knuckles, he stretched out his long legs and tucked his hands behind his head. “Thanks for housing me.”

The cheek, the gall. You had trouble believing you’d somehow let the kid coerce you into permitting him entry into your private space. What would your Chichi think of you now? You mourned, grumbling as you kicked off your shoes and stacked them neatly in the genkan, scowling at the way he let his fly every which way. Because you weren’t raised to be petty (though you wanted to be), you gathered his sneakers and aligned them, too.

“Yup,” you replied sarcastically, popping the p. “My pleasure.”

He ran you ragged, practically dragging you through the streets, stopping to eat at your favorite restaurant (he paid, claimed it was ‘his treat’. The restaurant might no longer be your favorite). He demanded to see the shrine, the gift shop – “we don’t have a gift shop.” – the beach – “I’m not going swimming with you.” – anything he could put his mind to.

Frankly, you were exhausted, and wanted him out of your home, but you wanted your bed more.

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” you told him flatly. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

He whinged. “What, won’t let me in your bed?”

“I’m not giving you my bed,” you spat out grumpily as you tugged open the hallway closet and tunneled through it in search of a blanket. If you had it your way, you’d let him cover himself in toilet paper for the night, but your Mama raised you better than that. Unfortunately.

He mumbled under his breath, “That’s not what I said…”

Quilt in hand, you blinked at him, not having heard him properly. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” he swept away your curiosity in a sing-songy tone. “Where’s your bathroom?”

You waddled over to the couch, not quite able to see exactly where you were going until you dropped the pile of fabric onto the corner seat of the couch. “Oh, uh. It’s down the hall, first door on the left.”

Wordlessly, he got up and vanished into the room. The light flicked on, the door closed, and you were alone.

Visibly, the tension in your body melted, stress you didn’t know you were holding. Your shoulders slumped, and you were able to breathe, conscious of his absence. Air bolted back into the room, uninhibited now that his stifling, dominating presence wasn’t there to consume it all for himself.

For a few sacred, precious minutes, you stood there, absorbing the peace of existing without the ghostly sensation of Gojo breathing down your neck.

The sound of the tap turning on drew you out of your reverie, and you busied yourself. Unfolding the blanket, laying it across the sofa to act as both a sheet and comforter Gojo could fold over himself, propping up a nearby throw pillow, trying not to think about whatever it was he was doing in your bathroom. Pretending. Pretending all of this was normal. A familiar guest visiting from the mainland, one that acted normal, looked normal, sounded normal, was normal.

It only lasted so long.

The door opened, and out he came, yawning loudly. Round sunglasses still in place.

His hair was mussed up, face ever so slightly damp, water droplets clinging to a few strands of pure white. Fresh, ready for bed.

Like you, he was pretending. Whether for your sake, or not, you didn’t bother trying to understand.

His mahou continued to flow through his veins, primed, never released. His energy bounded off of him in waves, lazy, seafoam lapping leisurely along the beach’s shoreline. Sand darkened by the salt and water, then lightening as the murky green receded.

While you knew that he and his sorcerer kind functioned differently from you and your Exorcist kind, you were certain that his energy was distinctly abnormal. Never resting, never sated. It salivated, greedy, intent to devour anything he got his hands on.

If you weren’t careful, it’d be you he gorged himself on, ingesting you, flesh and bone and sinew and all. 

“Man, I’m wiped,” he lied, stretching his arms high above his head. If he stood on his toes, his fingertips would brush the ceiling. 

Your lips tugged at the corners into a flat, stiff line. “Good timing. I finished setting up the couch for you. You can go ahead and sleep now.”

As he passed you, he tapped your ass twice. “Thanks, pretty.”

You squeaked, covering your backside, but he appeared none the wiser to your plight. Or, purposefully ignorant.

Just overly friendly, he doesn’t know any better. Spoiled brat, young, a kid.

Whatever excuse you needed to comfort yourself, you sought out, jaw wound shut. He’ll be gone tomorrow. He’ll be gone tomorrow. He’ll be gone tomorrow.

The bearer of the Six Eyes plopped down onto his makeshift bed, adjusting to get comfortable, and sighed like an old dog. Happy. Right at home.

“G’night,” he drawled.

“Goodnight, Gojo.”

 He grumbled something, but you were far past caring, not bothering to stop and ask him to repeat himself. Hurriedly, you locked yourself in your bathroom, hands braced on your sink, lights off. The thought of looking at yourself was unbearable, facing how much a 20-something-year-old unraveled you as easily as plucking a loose string on a knitted sweater, rows upon rows of destroyed for mere curiosity. Vapid, temporary interest.

Fuck, you couldn’t wait for him to be leave, so you could erase him from your memories using bleach and a wire brush.

Gulping down your loathing, you flicked the switch, and dared to meet the foe residing in the mirror.

She posed the same way you did, skin pulled taut over her knuckles, bones protruding from how tightly she gripped the wooden edge. Bags darkened the crescents under her eyes, cheeks sunken, scleras bloodshot. Were you a stranger, a friendly neighbor, you would have asked her if she was sick, bid her to sit down, wrapped her fingers around a steaming cup of ginger and lemon tea.

But, there was nobody who could help you now, give you that comfort. Your Mama and Chichi were on the other side of the village, enjoying having the house to themselves ever since you moved out a decade ago. Sunday brunches were a given, those weekly visits ritualistic and necessary and wanted. 

Showing up uninvited, so late at night, a stranger left behind in your home?

They’d have your head on a pike.

Bear with it. You were an adult, an Exorcist. Gojo was just some runt from the mainland.

You’ll be okay.

Won’t you?

Massaging your temple to encourage your blooming headache to go away already, you reached out with your free hand to grab your toothbrush, only to halt dead in your tracks.

It was wet.

A cold shiver swarmed you, raising hairs along your arms and nape, goosebumps forming.

He–

He used your toothbrush? Your toothbrush?

It– sure, you forgot about getting him a new one, but surely he would have known to ask for one. 

You clamped a hand over your mouth, forcing yourself to breath heavily through your nose, slow and deep inhales. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fucking fine. It’s a toothbrush. You were lucky that you had spares, and even if you didn’t, you were able to use your finger in a worst-case scenario.

Pointedly avoiding the now tainted toothbrush, you rifled through the top drawer of the counter, locating a brand new one. You ripped open the packaging, ran it under the water, added toothpaste, and scoured at your teeth aggressively. You went at them like you hated them, like there was blood stuck in them, drenching the wells of your molars, staining the enamel. Behind your incisors, on your cuspids, to the back of your tongue, gag reflex triggered.

You brushed, and brushed, and brushed, panting when you finished. Fluoride in your stomach, stinging your nasopharynx, the cost to feel clean, at least here.

Had you felt safer, were there not a stranger down the hall, you would have sat down in the shower and let scalding hot water wash away your revulsion and make you anew, burn away the dirt of where he dared to touch you, of where his eyes strayed.

Choking out the toothpaste, mouth aching from the cold water you punished yourself with, you nearly clawed at your face to rinse away the oil and grime of the day, wanting to be done already.

The sooner you were in bed and fell asleep, the sooner the next day would come, and you’d be free again. Free from those eyes, that mahou, that person. If he could be called that.

if he could be considered human.

Tenderly, you opened the door and peeked down the hall, finding Gojo’s back to you, fast asleep.

Thank fuck.

Cautious as a mouse, you tiptoed to your room, skillfully avoiding all the creaky spots in the floor. You didn’t feel safe ‘til you shut and locked the door, which you leaned back onto. Gods, you were exhausted. The weight of the day hung on your shoulders, causing your feet to drag and stumble over the pile of clothes on the floor.

Bewildered, you looked down, and found a shirt, tank top, and pair of pants strewn across the floor, tossed haphazardly.

Why were they on the ground?

You didn’t recall having left them there, but then again, you weren’t the most tidy person, and tended to be forgetful. Maybe, you dropped them on your way out that morning, unworried, figuring you’d toss them in your hamper when you got home. 

It rubbed you the wrong way, scales made of teeth that shredded into you, but…who else, if not you? Gojo never left the bathroom, the door remained closed the entire time he occupied it. You didn’t own any pets, but it wouldn’t have been the first time a stray cat got in. Though, you didn’t see or hear any critters scuttling around. A check of the hamper indicated that nothing hid inside it, either.

There was nobody else to blame.

The conclusion felt wrong, yet you came up with no other ideas.

So, all you could do was pick them up from their resting place on the floor and toss them into the hamper, alongside the clothes you were wearing. 

Where you usually took your time getting ready for bed, liking to pamper yourself. the sensation of being watched hadn’t left you since Gojo arrived on your island. The less time you were naked for, the better, in your opinion.

Quickly, you swapped out your blouse for a loose, oversized T-shirt and slipped on a clean pair of panties. Normally, you didn’t wear more to bed, disliking the sensation of bottoms rolling up your legs while you slept, but you needed to put on something more than just underwear. You were safe in your room, but it wasn’t enough.

You searched through your dresser, tugging out the pair of sleeping shorts you found and drawing them up your legs, over your hips, finishing them off with a small bow at the front.

There. Better.

Sort of.

Not much, actually.

It’d have to do. You were sleepy, tired of the day, threadbare. Your bed called to you, and you had no intention of ignoring it.

The sheets welcomed you soothingly, embracing your form in that familiar hold you were longing for, coveting. Fluffy comforter, downy pillows, comfortable mattress, everything you required to smooth down your hackles, at last able to lower your guard. You were safe. Safe. Safe.

Images danced on your ceiling, hazy recollections and fantasies, absentminded planning, zealous to have your individuality returned to you. Dreams of taking a day off, visiting the docks, hiding from your student that would inevitably drag you to a nearby field to ‘train’, AKA watch you swing around your tsuri-dōrō. A day to yourself. All you needed was a day to yourself, and everything would be good again.

Right as your lids began to slip shut, succumbing to your exhaustion, something pressed against your lips.

Soft, warm, plush, pillowy. 

Your eyes snapped open in an instant and you were sitting up, pushing away whatever was touching you, leaning over you. 

In the dim, silver light of the moon, you saw him.

Gojo Satoru.

His sunglasses weren’t on, but, god, you fucking wished they were. Without them, there was nothing to conceal the horror that greeted you upon making eye contact.

Blue.

They were so, so, viscerally blue. Wide, shimmering, glossy. Fairy crystals that shone the same way the moon did; they imbibed all the light in the room, practically glowing from the sheer vim they contained alone, digesting the slivers of night. 

You gasped, scooting back minutely. “What are you doing?”

How did he get in? You didn’t hear your door open, and furthermore, it was locked. It wasn’t possible, it wasn’t–

The door’s open.

It was open, swung wide to show the lightless hallway, a chasm left in dearth of his mahou. 

“I’m kissing you.”

“Wh– I know that,” you snapped, eyes shifting back to him. “I’m asking why you’re kissing me.”

He blinked, considering you as if you were a few degrees short of intelligence. “I like you.”

Fuck. This is what you were worried about, on some level. You should have known. People always seemed to enjoy putting you on a pedestal, unconcerned for the discomfort it caused you. You weren’t someone to be idolized, not like this, by someone like him.

“Look, Gojo.”

“Satoru,” he corrected. “Call me Satoru.”

Your nose wrinkled. “Look, Gojo,” you emphasized. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but I’m not– this,” you pointed between yourself and him, “isn’t happening. You’re too young for me, we met today, and I’m– I’m not interested, alright?”

He frowned. “I told you that I don’t care how old you are.”

“I care,” you specified. “I care that I’m much older than you. It’s– it’s wrong. Okay?”

Lashes of pearl fluttered. “Why? I’m above the age of consent. I am consenting.”

You exhaled, growing frustrated. “That’s not the point. It’s not about the age of consent, it’s about the differences in maturity, the power imbalance. Besides, I’m not consenting.”

He kept quiet for a long moment, taking in your features, processing your little tirade. Outwardly, he gave no reaction, and you didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

But, he started to lean back, retreating from you, and you breathed out the air you were holding in relief.

Idly, defeated, he dipped his head. “I get it.”

You relaxed, muscles losing their tension. “Good, I’m glad.”

“You’re playing hard to get.”

Before you could react, he was on you, tackling you back onto your bed.

“Get off of me!” You screeched, shoving at his chest, trying desperately to lift his weight from your body.

His size was deceptive, his might hidden under layers of black cloth. You were older, you had more experience, you were supposed to be stronger. You were a teacher, you were an Exorcist, for fuck’s sake.

Yet, it took him no effort at all to pin you down, knees thrown over either side of your waist, weight settled to keep you immobilized. You struggled valiantly, fighting with all your might to dislodge him. Nothing. He didn’t so much as budge.

“I can play hard, too,” he promised, lips split, harsh pants of excitement escaping him. “That what you need, huh? Someone to knock you down a peg?”

You opened your mouth to scream, but he slammed his hand against your lips, a demented look glimmering in those terrible orbs of his. You tasted the salt of his flesh, dug your teeth into his palm, but garnered no reaction from him; none aside from the low groan that rattled in the base of his chest, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Shh, shh,” he hushed. “What’ll your neighbors think if they came in and saw this? You, in bed, with me?”

You froze, heart leaping to your throat. No, no, he wouldn’t.

“Are you really gonna let them see you taking advantage of me?” Slowly, he pulled his hand away, smirking down at you.

You peeled your tongue from the roof of your mouth, your maw suddenly painfully dry. “They won’t believe you. It’s my word against yours. I grew up with these people, they know me.”

“Did you know, most of the time, people are completely unaware that their loved one is a murderer?”

Your lip trembled. “What?”

He nodded solemnly, pouting. Degrading. Condescending. “It’s true. When interviewed, family, friends, they all say they had no idea, their loved one would never. They know them, after all. So, they’d know if their father was a murderer.”

“What are you getting at?”

He leaned closer, too close, he was going to swallow you whole. One hand toyed with the hem of your sleep shirt, twisting it, smoothing it out. “Everyone has secrets. Who’s to say this isn’t yours? Liking younger men?”

“I don’t like younger men.”

“How are they supposed to know? All they’ll see is you sharing your bed with someone who is too young for you. Your words.”

You were torn.

He was lying, manipulating you, scaring you with the thought of being ostracized by your community for something that wasn’t true. You knew it wasn’t true, you were certain that your community would know it wasn’t true.

But, how were you supposed to explain that he overpowered you? This young man, in his early twenties at most. Yes, he was strong, but you had age, experience. You should have been able to fight him off without issue.

You couldn’t.

He found no fight when he dug the spindly lengths of his digits into the edge of your shorts, and yanked.

The fabric tore on its way down your thighs, jolting and exposing more and more skin in short bursts as he tugged the material off, off, off. He spared it no mercy, disregarding your sniffles of protest. You could hear him mumbling that he’d buy you a new pair, as many as you wanted, better, prettier, as if that was what you were upset about. 

His nails scratched at the bared flesh of your legs, merciless in his efforts to strip you, fighting against his odd positioning over you that he didn’t want to change. You squirmed, kicking out as best as you could. It freed one foot in the process, and he decided that was all he needed.

You blinked, and he was between your thighs, hands hooking under your knees to tug you closer, wrapping them around his lithe waist. To your absolute, utter horror, he pressed his hips directly into yours, the seam of his uniform digging into the split of your center, and you felt it. Him.

Hard. Undeniably, ruthlessly solid, flesh turned to stone. It froze you in the midst of your struggle, and he took the opportunity to grind into you, firm, unforgiving. He rolled against you, huffs and wimpish grunts spilling from his lips, and your panic was brought back tenfold. You jerked and twisted with renewed effort, trying to claw at his arms, his shoulders; wrap your fingers around his throat and squeeze until he went limp, until his chest jolted, then stilled.

For all your exertion, it did nothing to deter him. In fact, he moaned when your nails caught on the soft skin of his stomach under the rucked up edge of his top, dragging angry, vicious red lines into the pale give of the muscle beneath.

“God, I can feel you, so warm,” he hissed through his teeth, snowy lashes squeezed shut as he focused his energy into leeching the heat from your core.

Distressed, you whined, a pathetic noise unbefitting of you. Too ugly, too weak, too unlike yourself. This wasn’t happening, it simply wasn’t.

“Look at that,” he purred. “Wet for me already. Knew you were pretending.”

You startled. “I’m not!”

He set his finger against the gusset of your underwear and slid it upwards, through the natural dampness that had gathered there. He must have mistaken it for arousal.

His teeth shone white, canines sharp, primed to bite into your jugular and shake, rip, tear. Snap tendons and gnaw muscle. Eat you.

“‘Course, you are, don’t have to lie,” he patted your hip contemptuously. “I know I’m pretty. I know the effect I have on women, it’s okay, I won’t judge you. I like it.”

You inhaled to berate and lambaste and criticize him, but he didn’t let you start. He rolled his finger around your clothed clit, and all that came out of you was a pitchy, shaken noise. He focused on it, jabbing it, and was convinced your yelps of discomfort were pleasure. It was evident, his nescience, on how your body worked, what felt good for you. Granted, you doubted it’d feel good even if he did know what he was doing.

His impatience won out when he removed his hand after less than thirty seconds of scraping over where your clit was, missing half the time. Antsy, he hooked the band of your panties, tugging at the cotton material more and more discontentedly until he grabbed at it along the stitching on the side and pried it apart, thread and fibers splitting and popping.

“Hey!” You bayed.

His lips left a wet smooch on your temple, and you cringed. “It’s okay, it’s alright, I’ll buy you more. Or, better yet, don’t wear any in the first place.”

His fingers slid through your folds and you coughed on a hiccup of surprise, jerking away from him. He fastened his hand to your hip, keeping you from going any further. Hell, this was pure hell. Nothing less, nothing more; raw suffering in the form of a man intent on dragging you down to the depths with him. He’d carve a home from the molten rock, a cubby made with his own two hands, and he’d bury you in it, somewhere you’d never be able to escape and leave him.

Two fingers propped at your cunt, then pushed in, slow and piercing. You sucked on your teeth, face scrunching in discomfort as the long things poked and jabbed at your soft internals, deeper and deeper. He didn’t stop at the first, nor second joint, sorrowfully. He kept going until he physically couldn't anymore, stuffed to the knuckles, the knobby things barely grazing the nub at the top of your vulva.

You hated it with every fiber of your being.

It was uncomfortable, unpleasant, and so very far from enjoyable. Oh, but who were you to fool yourself? He wasn’t doing this for you, of course not, no matter how hard he tried to convince you that he was. That he wanted you to feel pleasure, sweet and gratifying. When he fingered you, it resembled a clinical examination more than a sexual act, the kind where you and the doctor avoided looking at each other as they tested your pelvic muscles and checked for abnormalities.

He pushed his fingers in and out, not bothering to curl them, scissor them, do anything special at all with them. They were just…there, scoring lines into your pussy, neutral. 

Your relief upon their removal was short-lived. His hand fumbled with the hem of his pants, allowing you to notice that his belt had already been loosened, button and zipper undone, pulled low. Blue and white striped boxers sat on display for a brief period, then were pulled under his stiff length, revealing it to you.

Long, not especially thick, curved upwards, the tip an angry pink that neared on red.

Fuck no. No, no, no, this was not happening, not to you.

You might as well have been fighting against a stone golem, though, for how little he reacted to your attempts at escape. He paid no mind to your spitting, your thrashing, your begging pleas for him to not do this to you, to reconsider, your assurances that you’d forgive him if he’d just stop right this instant!

If you didn’t know any better, to him, you were nothing more than the annoying buzzing of a fly trying to get his attention. Something for him to swat away, squash uncaringly.

Your heart dropped to your toes when you felt the tip of his leaking cock notch against your unprepared hole, your chest seizing, your lungs collapsing beneath the sheer weight of your raw, unfiltered fear.

Then, with no consideration for you, he shoved forward, and seated himself to the root in one vile, painful thrust.

You didn’t realize you were crying until your voice broke, splintering apart in your throat.

Above you, Gojo was panting, whining, practically trembling where he sat, pelvis flush to yours. Your spine arched off the bed, burning pain pulsing inside your core from the forced stretch. You were no prude, but it’d been so long since you’d lain with anyone. You were barely wet enough for a sheen to show on your folds, let alone take anything inside you without the careful prep he lacked the skill to partake in.

Gojo didn’t care for it, evidently.

He was too impatient, too needy, too eager. He yearned too much, and didn’t stop to think about what he wanted, just that he wanted it now.

You sobbed, hiccuping, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes to race to your temples. He cooed at the sight, leaning forward, closer to your face. The movement carried him further, his tip nudging against the squishy ring of your cervix, and you wailed.

“Oh, shh, shh, it’s okay, I’m here,” he purred. “I’m here now. You don’t have to worry, I’m not going anywhere. You have me.”

“Pull out– pull out!” You yelled at him, pounding against his chest.

He grinned. “Want me to move already? D’aw, who am I to deny my woman?”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, no, no–!”

Your imploration came a moment too late, and fell on ears that were never going to listen to you.

Satoru drew back until the ridge of his glans tugged against the thin webbing of your entrance, and then, he barged back into you, splitting your walls apart to make room for himself.

The friction was agonizing, unforgiving. It scraped against you, sandpaper on fragile glass, painstakingly etched and painted patterns and designs worn away in rapid passes by an uncaring hand. He was intent on erasing the marks placed on you by time, by the ones you grew up with, loved, hated, missed, and replace them entirely with stains made in his visage.

Tattoos you’d never be able to remove; hundreds of eyes with endlessly cerulean depths that sucked in any unfortunate to see them. Lines and crosses and nooses that, no matter how hard you scrub, would continue to choke you forevermore. 

You opened your eyes, vision blurred with tears, and startled to find pitch black voids.

Accretion disks of swirling tanzanite orbited pools of bottomless ink, meres that spanned miles across, nearly consuming the cornflower of their enclosure. Were it not for the tight rings keeping them confined, you were sure they’d spill and flood the world, drown you in their infinite expanses, under their waves. It’d fill your lungs until they burst, pour into your veins until red bled out and left you suffocating in the eternal void that was Gojo Satoru.

His inexperience shown through in the rough, jerky movements of his hips, the way every other thrust seemed to nudge into that one spot that made electricity race through your joints, while the ones in between punched directly into the sensitive nerves at the furthest point inside you, fornices bullied and bruised.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, landing in wet splats on your chest and collarbone where he hovered, hot breaths fanning across your tacky cheeks. You cringed at the sensation, trying to angle your head away.

Oh, but Satoru – he only saw that as an invitation, one he had no qualms about accepting.

He buried his face into the side of your neck, latched onto the skin over your fluttering pulse, and sucked. Hard.

You sobbed, spine arching, forlorn as he branded you in the form of broken capillaries and teeth-shaped indents. He suckled, cruel and vile, slobbering onto you like a mutt. Purebred, but he was no better than the beasts he put down, rotten to the core, that was the only thing that could explain this, him.

He kissed his way up your jaw to your cheeks, nipping at them; to your lobe, licking into the shell of your ear, and you recoiled from him. His chest vibrated with a hoarse chuckle, enamored with your violent indignation. He sought to lock lips with you, but all his humor fell away when you avoided his mouth, upper lip curled into a sneer.

A hand roughly grabbed your jaw, pressuring you to look at him, the anger that marred his unfairly beautiful features. Brows pinched, eyes narrowed, fire licking up the column of his spine to spread like poison on his tongue.

“Do not run away from me,” he snarled, nose almost tip-to-tip with yours, invading. “You’re gonna kiss me back, or I’ll get the entire fuckin’ town in here and make sure they know you forced yourself on me. Got it?”

You drank down your antipathy and resentment for him, aware now that, if he was willing to overpower someone over a decade his senior for his own pleasure and gain, he’d absolutely make good on his threat. If he was willing to ruin your body, he was more than willing to ruin your life.

What choice did you have but to open your mouth and let him spit into it? How could you do anything but give in, let him mash your lips together, let him shove his tongue down your throat and feed on you until all that remained of you were bones and teeth and hollow eye sockets?

The basin of your mahou hemorrhaging through the puncture wound in your chest, run through a sieve to gather the flecks of gold and red blood cells that comprised your entire being. Plasma leaching from your marrow, spilling into a worthless puddle on dry soil to water a flora long dead. Lungs suctioned flat to your thoracic vertebrae, organs shriveled, body reduced to a useless shell, a pitiful imitation of life.

For once, you blessed a man for his inexperience, as it meant Satoru was done with you in a couple minutes. They stretched forever and ever, vanishing beyond the horizon, but it was done, he was done. He spilled inside you, but that was an issue for a separate time, something else to be dealt with when you weren’t under the body of a demon wearing the skin of a man. Evil embodied.

Should have exorcised him as soon as you saw him, you shamed yourself.

But, it was over. He would get off you, and you–

You startled when you felt the pad of his thumb nudging at your clit, uneven back-and-forth swipes that halfway resembled circles, and started sliding in and out of you once more. 

“Gotta make– gotta make a wo-woman squirt if ya wanna – fuck, you’re so warm – wanna knock her up. That’s what he–” he choked, stilling for a second, then harshly pounded into you out of the blue. 

It shocked you, your mouth dropping into a silent yowl, tears sprinkling your clumped lashes like weeping stardust.

“That’s what he told me,” he spat out, rage flashing in his eyes, across the furrow of his brow. “Maybe, not everythin’ was a lie, eh? Maybe, he was tellin’ me the truth about somethin’.”

He was gone from this world, you could tell. It was in the way he no longer saw you, the woman he’d shoved onto her own bed, the person who’d taken pity on him, housed him, taught him how she lived, survived. He had this far away look, this seething hatred, this pulsing need, this agonizing sorrow that ate him from the inside out. A wound that scabbed, but never healed, always present, always twitching in time with his heart, reminding him of its presence.

Heartbreak.

Gone as quickly as it came, he was seeing you again, and you wished beyond everything that he was still in that distant headspace of his, where you didn’t exist, where you could pretend none of this was real. A bad dream. A demon that slithered through the cracked-open window to infest your mind and feed off your nightmares.

His eyes made that impossible, sadly. All they did was remind you, assure you, that this was as real as ever.

Slowly, he leaned down, lashes never fluttering. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, breath fanning into the conch, and he spoke.

“Let’s find out together, yeah?”

«___° ° °___»

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he wrapped one of his arms around his neck and pressed on the elbow to stretch it, taking the opportunity to scratch his back while he was at it. “You’re gonna tell that little group of yours that you’re coming back to Tokyo with me–”

You bristled. “No.”

“–or, I’ll tell them that you took advantage of me while I was sleeping.”

Nausea roiled in your stomach. “You wouldn’t.”

He leveled you. “I will, and I won’t feel bad about it.”

You stared at him, trying to figure him out, call him out on his bluff, but you knew he wasn’t lying. Saliva coated your mouth, and you had to swallow to hold back the urge to spill acid onto the floor.

When you spoke, your voice was far too soft, too broken. A pitiable whimper. “Please, don’t.”

The boy shrugged casually. “I’m being nice, you know, by giving you a choice. It’s up to you. I’m happy to do it either way.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

You didn’t flinch when he cupped your jaw as tenderly as he would a lover’s, swiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

“I’ll take good care of you, promise,” he swore. “Make sure you want for nothing. Give you all you want. I have more than enough money for both of us. For a whole family. Whaddya say, hm?”

You never did have a choice, did you?

Not from the moment you were born on this island, not when you obtained your Strength, not when you were trained to be an Exorcist, or when Akinori attached themselves to your hip in spite of your vehement refusal to tutor them.

And, not from this.

From becoming Gojo’s.

Having gone into autopilot, you obeyed his orders, fearing what he’d do if you didn’t. No need to pack anything, he said, I’ll just buy you new stuff at home. Better than these rags. Come on, let’s go. Early birds and worms and all that.

The village was as peaceful as ever, this time of day.

The fishermen had set out to the sea about an hour earlier, right before dawn broke through the nebulous heavens. Those that stayed behind roused late, taking the chance to catch a bit more shut eye.

You, too, would have been enjoying a long rest, were it not for the tidal wave that loomed on the horizon, threatening, waiting for you. White-crested waves, foam spitting up from their roiling motions; an endless abyss that pined to swallow you whole. It whispered that you had a choice, an order to give, one it would happily deliver on.

Sacrifice yourself, or let all you love be washed into the ocean, your own personal Atlantis.

Akinori, Mirio, and the Elder also weren’t able to enjoy the extra rest, much to your guilty conscience.

They stood in front of you in a row, each wearing their own miens of disappointment, of hurt, of grief.

Aisha glared at you, really. You’d made a promise to protect this land, your home, after all. And, now, you were going back on your word, your vow. She had every right to despise you, to scorn you. She didn’t, though, you knew. You wished she did. She saw right through you, past the cracks in your façade, the lies you fed her about wanting to learn more about demons and be stronger for them, better.

To save the world.

In reality, it was to save only yourself.

Please, understand, you begged silently. There’s no other way.

Mirio had her hands clutched in front of her, gazing anywhere but at you. Her brows were pinched in the center, and you yearned to lean forward and press your thumb to the wrinkle forming there, to brush it away with that signature cheeky smirk of yours, and a caution that she’d age faster if she made faces like that. 

You kept your hands, stained and bloody, to yourself, not wishing to taint her with your sin.

Akinori appeared uncharacteristically serious. Severe.

Gone was their impish demeanor, their mischievous nature. In its place sat an emptiness, a chasm formed too soon; a ball of ice drained before it could freeze its core to keep itself whole. Your heart ached for them, your stomach twisted into knots, your throat squeezing tighter and tighter until you were sure that your vocal cords would burst from your neck.

“You’re really going, then,” they said. A statement, not a question.

Still, you nodded.

“There’s so much to learn out there, beyond Kami-shima,” you reasoned, lying through your teeth. The words tasted like ash and acid on your tongue. “Power we never knew existed. Imagine it – I’ll get stronger, then we’ll never have to worry about demons invading our home ever again, yeah?”

“You promise?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you spotted Gojo standing a distance away. Far enough that he resembled a stick figure, but still close enough for you to feel his stare burning into your back.

You swallowed, and faced Nori again, whispering to them, needing to ensure it stays between you and them, and nobody else, especially not Gojo.

“You have my heart,” you said. “Keep it safe for me until I can get it back, okay?”

They peered deep into you, glancing between your eyes, trying to seek out the deeper meaning in your words – if there was any. You simultaneously hoped they would and wouldn’t find it; a selfish desire to be seen, to be acknowledged, and the knowledge that they’re safer knowing nothing about you. Forgetting about you.

Nori nodded once, tersely.

You took that as your cue to leave.

Taking your hands off their shoulders, you drew in a deep breath, let it out, and gave the trio a smile you could only hope was semi-convincing.

“Don’t wait up for me, yeah?” You laughed. It sounded strained. “I’ll see you all again.”

Whether or not they knew it was a lie, you said nothing more, and didn’t stay to hear what they would say. It would break your heart worse than the whole interaction already had, worse than the knowledge that your chances of actually returning home were slim to none.

Picking up a light jog, you left them behind, joining Gojo at his side. He didn’t hesitate to pull out a hand from his pocket and link it with yours, fingers intertwining and squeezing until the bone inside ached.

He smiled innocently up at you, anyway. “Finally done?”

You glanced over your shoulder, hoping to see that your little family had already left, praying they hadn’t. Uncertainty over your own emotions fizzled under the surface when you saw they were there, watching you, unmoving.

For what you knew would be the last time, you mouthed goodbye to them, and closed your eyes, blocking them from sight.

“Yeah,” you coughed out.

His smile could be heard through his voice. “Great, I was waiting ages. You talk way too much, y’know? You’re gonna love Tokyo. I’ll take you to all the good places…”

You tuned out his voice, letting him ramble to his content as he guided you away from the village, away from Kami-shima, away from the one home you knew. Where you were born, where you lived, and where you were certain you would die.

When he squeezed your hand, you brought yourself back to the present, longing to sink into a void. To disappear, never have to deal with this, with him.

When did you ever have a choice, though? The moment he saw you, it was over for you.

“There’s no place like home, right?” He prodded, poking your side with his elbow.

“Mhm,” you agreed with a rigid growl, clenching your jaw, gritting your teeth. “No place like home.”

banner by saradika-graphics

AN: thank you for reading :D I hope you enjoyed ♥

[bakugoswifee]

Bakugo k. hc's losing his girlfriend .

Warning- none

angst, that's mainly it. + Bring tissues .

1. He Becomes Quiet & Withdrawn – The loud, brash, explosive Bakugo everyone knew is gone. He doesn’t yell anymore, doesn’t argue, doesn’t snap at people the way he used to. He just… exists.

2. Stops Hanging Out with Friends – Kirishima, Mina, Denki, and Sero try their best to get him out, but he refuses. When he does show up, he barely talks. Just sits there, eyes unfocused, lost in his own world.

3. Blames Himself – Even if it wasn’t his fault, he convinces himself that he could’ve done something. That if he had just been stronger, faster, better—he could have saved you. It eats him up inside.

4. Still Talks to You – Late at night, when he’s alone, he’ll talk out loud like you’re still there. Telling you about his day, the stupid things his friends did, how much he misses you. He hates how quiet the house is without you.

5. Wears Your Stuff – Keeps one of your hoodies in his closet, still smelling like you. He won’t admit it, but he sleeps in it sometimes. If you had a necklace, bracelet, or ring, he either wears it or keeps it in his pocket.

6. Keeps Your Room/Side of the Bed the Same – He doesn’t change anything. Your clothes stay where you left them, your favorite mug is still in its spot, and he refuses to move your pillow. It’s like he’s waiting for you to come back.

7. Gets Lost in Memories – Sometimes, he catches himself smiling at an old picture of you two before reality crashes down. Other times, he zones out completely, trapped in memories of your laugh, your voice, the way you used to roll your eyes at him.

8. Still Cooks Your Favorite Meal – Every once in a while, he makes your favorite dish, but he never eats it. Just stares at it for a while before pushing it aside. He just wants to feel like you’re still around.

9. Sleeps on the Couch Instead of the Bed – He can’t sleep in your shared bed without you. It’s too big, too empty. So he crashes on the couch most nights, pretending it doesn’t bother him.

10. Loses His Temper in Fights – On the battlefield, he’s reckless. Fighting harder, pushing himself past his limits, because what does it matter anymore? He’s angry—at the world, at himself, at whatever took you away.

11. Can’t Stand Hearing Your Name – If someone brings you up, he tenses. He either shuts down completely or storms off. He wants to talk about you, but it hurts too much.

12. Refuses to Cry in Front of People – He keeps it together around others, acting like he’s fine. But late at night, alone in the dark, the tears come. And he hates himself for it.

13. Talks to Your Grave – Whenever he gets overwhelmed, he visits your grave, sitting there for hours. Sometimes he talks. Sometimes he just sits in silence, staring at your name, gripping the headstone like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

14. Doesn’t Celebrate His Birthday Anymore – He used to love it when you planned surprises for him, made him a cake, gave him your dumb little handmade gifts. Now? He doesn’t even acknowledge it.

15. Keeps His Phone on Do Not Disturb, But Still Scrolls Through Your Messages – He won’t respond to anyone, but he rereads old texts from you, listening to your voice memos over and over again, just to hear you one more time.

16. Doesn’t Know How to Move On – Everyone tells him you’d want him to be happy, to live his life. But he doesn’t know how. Because to him, life without you doesn’t feel like living at all.

Extra :

People just didn’t get it.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how many times his friends told him he should "try to move on," Bakugo couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He already had the love of his life, and the world ripped you away from him.

So when Kirishima—the dumbass—thought it would be a good idea to introduce him to someone new, Bakugo already knew how this was gonna go. "Hey, man, I just want you to meet her," Kirishima said, rubbing the back of his neck. "No pressure, just—" "I ain’t interested.". "You don’t even know her yet!".

"And I don’t need to."

But before he could walk off, the girl was already there, all smiles and nervous energy. "Hi, Bakugo! I’ve heard so much about you." He barely glanced at her. "Tch. Good for you?". Kirishima nudged him hard in the ribs. "Dude, be nice." Bakugo clenched his jaw, his patience already wearing thin. "So," the girl tried again, "your friends tell me you’re a pro-hero. That must be exciting!". He didn’t answer. Just exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "Uh… I was actually hoping maybe we could—". "Fuck off." The table went dead silent. Kirishima sighed like he knew this was a bad idea. The girl’s face fell, but Bakugo didn’t care. He wasn’t about to sit here and pretend to entertain the idea of someone else.

He turned on his heel and walked off without another word, hands stuffed in his pockets. The ring he still wore on a chain around his neck felt heavy, like it was reminding him who he really belonged to.

It was you. It would always be you.

Dividers! - credits @junabuggy 🤍

Sorry this took so long, I really needed a break and was stressed out. But I hope you enjoyed it!

[mintyys-blog]

Hi Minty! :)

Can you write a fic about Thragg taking a human wife for breeding but ends up falling in love with her instead? There aren’t enough Thragg fics fr

I love your writing btw!!

LIKE HUMANS DO | thragg x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: attempted sex, kidnapping, lightly implied depression

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @mintyys-blog

When Thragg chose you, it was not because he wanted you.

It was because you were… viable.

Human genes, though softer and weaker, carried flexibility that even Viltrumites admired. A human mate could bear stronger children more quickly, survive harsh pregnancies better than many of the pureblood females still loyal to the empire.

He saw you once, trembling in the shadow of a collapsed building after a skirmish on Earth. Fragile, filthy, foolishly brave for baring your teeth at him when he approached. It amused him.

It interested him. And so you were taken.

At first, Thragg treated you with calculated patience — the same way one might tame a feral creature. He offered shelter, food, clean clothes. Spoke in simple, direct orders: Eat. Sleep. Come here.

You obeyed, though begrudgingly. There was no fighting him. No escaping him. He was a towering figure of power, a force you had no chance against. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you still clung to the hope that you might find a way to resist, or at least get some semblance of control back. Your pride kept you from being completely broken.

The first few weeks were cold, sterile. Thragg would come and go, never giving you more than cursory attention. You were an object. A tool. A means to an end. His conversations with you, if they could even be called that, were dry. His voice like stone, his gaze unreadable. He didn’t speak of emotions. Not of kindness. He didn’t see you as a person—you were just a vessel.

That was, until the night he made his move.

His eyes, those burning, calculating eyes, lingered on you. Something had shifted in him — an unsettling, almost imperceptible change that you didn’t fully recognize at the time. But you could feel it. The air in the room grew thicker when he stepped closer, his enormous frame blocking the light.

His large, calloused hand reached for your arm, gripping you with a force that made your heart race.

You knew what this was. You understood the implication. He wanted to breed you. A human female, fragile and weak, to carry children — children that would, by nature, be stronger, more resilient than any Viltrumite-born heir.

The thought churned in your stomach, but you’d learned quickly that your body no longer belonged to you. And if you could not escape, you would resist, even if it was in the smallest, most defiant ways.

So you slapped him.

Hard.

The sound rang through the silence, loud and sharp. A slap meant to remind him that you were not his to control entirely. A slap that would not go unpunished, you feared.

But when the sting of your hand had passed, and you looked into his eyes, you saw something you hadn’t expected.

A flicker of something. Not anger, not rage. No — it was the slightest semblance of… bemusement? You stood there, chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate.

Instead, Thragg simply exhaled through his nose, his eyes hardening just slightly. He released his grip on your arm, pushing you away with a casual shrug.

“So,” he rumbled, as though the moment had meant nothing. “Not in the mood.”

He turned on his heel, the sound of his boots heavy against the stone floor. His words echoed in your ears long after he left the room. Not in the mood.

You were confused. Pissed. But mostly, you felt… humiliated. Not by the slap. No, you’d meant to do it. But by his indifference. By the way he treated your defiance as if it had been nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience.

There were other women. Stronger, trained women. Women who knew their place.

You were just a human. Just an experiment. An option. The thought of you as anything else didn’t even seem to occur to him.

Days passed. Weeks.

And still, he left you alone.

Sometimes, you caught his eye as he passed, and for a brief moment, there would be something more than cold calculation in his gaze — but it was fleeting. He didn’t linger on you. Not the way you’d hoped. And not the way he had with the other women in the past.

You tried to go about your days as normally as possible, though the stifling silence in his fortress pressed in on you. You weren’t allowed to leave, and even though you found a quiet corner to occupy yourself with books or some form of entertainment, there was an emptiness that gnawed at you. You were being watched. He was always there. Even when he wasn’t physically present, you could feel his eyes on you.

And then came the day.

You didn’t know why you said it aloud. Maybe it was the isolation getting to you. Or maybe, just maybe, you had allowed yourself to dream a little too much.

You were talking to yourself. Muttering quietly, half to the room, half to no one at all.

“I always wanted someone who… would buy me flowers,” you whispered, tracing the edge of your blanket with your fingers. “Someone who kissed me when I woke up. Someone who laughed with me, even after a bad day… I always thought that would come first. Before… everything else.”

You swallowed. “Guess I’m stupid for dreaming.”

It was a bitter laugh, one that cracked in your throat. You could hear your own sadness hanging in the air, like an unspoken plea.

The next day, when you woke up, there was something different waiting for you on the stone table beside your bed.

A bouquet. Awkward, heavy-handed — a thick mass of local flowers, some crushed slightly in his too-strong grip, but unmistakably colorful. Vibrant. Alive. You blinked, unsure if you were still dreaming. The faint morning light coming through the narrow windows highlighted the colors — purples, whites, pale blues — though they looked so out of place here in this cold, sterile environment. It was almost like they didn’t belong in the fortress at all. Like they belonged in a home, somewhere warm and soft. Somewhere that wasn’t here.

You stepped forward hesitantly, your fingers trembling as you reached for them. The petals were rough to the touch, their edges a little frayed, the scent faint but real.

Beside them, a simple note written in that sharp, aggressive Viltrumite hand:

“For you. - Thragg”

[kylestfs]

Dynamic

In a city of millions, two men—Ryan and Jason—lived completely separate lives, their paths never meant to cross.

Until tonight.

Bored, they each scrolled through their phones, searching for something (or someone) to pass the time. That’s when they both found it.

A strange, unnamed app, sitting deep in the app store. No description. No reviews. No history. Just a sleek, pulsing chat bubble icon with a single prompt after installation:

*Start Chat*

Neither of them hesitated.

They clicked.

Their screens went black for a moment before loading a simple chat window. A single message appeared at the top.

— You are now connected. Say hi! —

Ryan, stretched across his bed, thumbed at his screen. The chat had connected him with a random guy.

Whatever. He had nothing better to do.

Ryan: Hey. Who’s this?

Across the city, Jason blinked at the message. Who the hell was this?

Jason: idk, just found this app. You?

Ryan: Same. Looks kinda sketch ngl

Jason: Yeah lol. Guess we’re both bored af

Simple. Casual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the pull.

Neither of them noticed at first, but the moment they exchanged words, something shifted.

Something had taken hold.

Ryan absently rubbed his fingertips together. His skin felt… softer.

The air in his room seemed warmer, heavier against his body. His shirt, loose before, now draped differently over his torso. His waist felt tighter, his frame subtly shrinking in on itself.

He shifted against his mattress. Something about the way his body rested felt off.

No—not off. Different.

Ryan: Lol yeah… kinda fun tho~

Wait.

His eyes widened slightly. Why had he typed that? That tilde at the end—he never texted like that. It was… cutesy. Flirty.

A faint pink dusted his cheeks.

His softer, rounder cheeks.

Meanwhile, Jason tilted his head at the message.

Something about it made his gut tighten. No—not tighten. Expand.

A slow, rippling sensation spread through his torso, a warmth settling into his shoulders, chest, and arms.

His grip on his phone felt stronger.

He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons shift beneath his skin. His palm looked different.

Larger. Thicker. Rougher.

His lips curled into a small smirk. He typed without thinking.

Jason: Yeah, guess it’s not so bad. Ur kinda funny lol

The moment he hit send—

Crack.

Jason inhaled sharply as his spine lengthened. A sudden heat surged through his body, muscle knitting together, growing denser, stronger. His once lean frame stretched, broadening, his shoulders pushing outward with a slow, satisfying pressure.

He rolled them instinctively, feeling the unfamiliar weight of his new build. His chest felt heavier, his pecs firmer, fuller. His biceps bulged slightly as he shifted, his veins subtly rising beneath his skin.

His scent was changing too.

The faint, neutral smell of his room was being overpowered by something else. Something thicker, muskier.

Something his.

Ryan’s breath hitched as he read Jason’s text.

“Ur kinda funny lol.”

It wasn’t even that flirty, but why did it make his stomach flutter?

His fingers trembled slightly as he typed back.

Ryan: Omg shut uppp lol ur teasing me~

The moment he sent it—

His waist cinched inward.

His stomach flattened, growing softer, smoother. His hips pressed outward, the bones shifting beneath his skin, forming an alluring, delicate curve.

His legs stretched slightly, but instead of gaining size, they slenderized.

His thighs—once average—became soft, plush, and bony.

His calves slimmed, his ankles narrowing into dainty, elegant proportions. His fingers flexed, and he gasped.

They were smaller.

More delicate.

A faint, involuntary giggle bubbled up from his throat.

His higher, sweeter, softer throat.

Jason exhaled through his nose, stretching his newly broadened body.

His arms felt heavy with strength. His hands—now massive compared to before—flexed against his thighs, gripping the fabric of his sweats.

A warm dampness clung beneath his arms, his natural musk intensifying. He reeked.

And he loved it.

A cocky grin spread across his face.

Jason: Lmao, what, you like it when I tease?

Ryan shuddered. His plush thighs squeezed together. His ass twitched.

His soft, round, plump ass.

Jason leaned back, rolling his shoulders. His chest stretched against his shirt, the fabric clinging to the new thickness of his pecs.

His scent was unmistakable now—deep, raw, masculine, and honestly really smelly.

His armpits—warm, slightly damp—radiated a rich, musky funk. His feet, once average-sized, had grown huge, the soles pressing against the floor with a newfound weight.

His socks, discarded nearby, were stained with sweat, the scent thick and heady in the air.

Jason: Lol bet you’d love burying your face in my pits rn huh?

Ryan’s breath hitched.

His body trembled.

A deep, unfamiliar need coiled in his gut. His thighs clenched instinctively, his ass wiggling against the bed.

His lips parted slightly, his pinker, softer lips.

A whimper slipped out.

His hgher, needier whimper.

His mind felt hazy.

Ryan: Omg wtf why would u say that!!!

Jason: Lmao, you love it.

Ryan whined.

He did.

He fucking did.

Jason was complete.

His massive frame, his thick, dominant scent, his cocky, fuckboy energy—he was the epitome of a top.

His feet huge and sweaty. His pits ripe and musky. His voice deep and commanding.

And Ryan?

Ryan was his.

A tiny, blushing, submissive, needy bottom.

His soft, round ass—perfectly made for his top. His body, delicate, built to be claimed. His mind, rewired to crave Jason’s dominance, his scent, his filth

They had started as strangers.

Now, they were something else.

they only had memories of being a couple for a year.

— two days later—

Jason was all Ryan could think about now—his sweaty frame, his overpowering musk, his deep, arrogant voice.

His scent.

His filth.

A whimper slipped from Ryan’s lips. His pinker, fuller lips. His stomach twisted with hunger.

Ryan: omg jason…

Jason smirked at the message, stretching his broad, muscular arms above his head, his damp armpits airing out. He let out a long, lazy exhale, flexing his thick biceps.

His body felt heavy, powerful, dominant.

Ryan was wrapped around his finger.

Jason : Lmao what

Ryan’s thighs clenched.

His soft, dainty fingers hovered over the keyboard. His heart pounded.

He knew what he wanted.

He needed it.

But saying it outright—admitting it—felt so shameless.

Still, his body was betraying him.

His fingers moved.

Ryan: can u…

He hesitated

A soft whimper left his lips as he wiggled against his bed.

Ryan: c-can u send me… a video… of ur fart again?

Jason blinked.

Jason: Lmao, again?

Ryan covered his blushing, soft face. His cheeks burned

His tiny, needy, giggly body squirmed.

Ryan: pls babe?

Jason chuckled, scratching the back of his head.

His short, unkempt hair was messy, sweaty, sticking up in places.

He didn’t think much about it.

In fact, he didn’t think much about anything.

Not his scent. Not his filth. Not the way his boxers clung to his sweaty skin, or how his feet were practically marinating in his old socks.

He just existed.

And he smelled like himself.

Jason: sure i guess, babe

He barely gave it a second thought as he shifted, spreading his legs slightly. He leaned back, pressing into the bed, his massive, sweaty frame sinking into the mattress.

He lifted his thick ass cheek slightly and—

PPPPPFFFRRRRTTTTT

A long, wet, lazy fart rumbled out of him, vibrating against the fabric of his stretched-out, sweaty boxers.

The scent hit him instantly.

Jason: Lmao, that one was loud af.

Ryan shuddered. His eyes were wide, trembling, desperate.

His plump thighs rubbed together, his body overheated with need. The need to smell it.

He had to know.

He had to hear it.

Ryan: how did it smell?

Jason raised an eyebrow.

Smell?

What smell? He didn’t smell at all, right ?

He gave a casual shrug, completely oblivious to the dense, suffocating funk that now lingered in the air around him.

Jason: idk, just normal I guess?

Ryan let out a needy whimper, his fingers gripping the sheets.

Jason: Wait… U really like this huh?

Ryan’s heart pounded. His soft chest rose and fell rapidly.

He couldn’t deny it.

He was hooked. Obsessed.

Jason stretched again, his thick, sweaty muscles flexing. A cocky smirk played at his lips.

Jason: Alright then, say it.

Ryan blinked.

Ryan: s-say what?

Jason grinned.

Jason: Tell me how much u want me.

Ryan whined.

His body burned with humiliation, excitement, and deep, desperate need.

He wanted Jason to own him.

And he would admit it.

There was no escaping it now.

——————-

Ryan :

Jason :

[vinnyvamppp]

She Threw Me—Then Kissed Me

NOTE: Have I been up for three hours writing this? Yes. Is this one of my longest expeditions about an alien mating with a man? Probably. Two lucky commenters requested this, so here I deliver.

@xecres1cloud @deleted-1-800 Warnings: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Public Sex, Cecil Catches Them, Alien Fucking, Tit Sucking, Porn w a Plot, Misuse of Powers, Cowgirl, Dom!Reader, Switch/Dom!Mark Grayson (battle for dominance), Infatuation, Rough Sex, Plot Changes for Convenience, Mutual Dirty Talk, Hair Pulling, etc. Synopsis: When the shadows of your heritage awaken for the first time in years—responding not to war, but to him—you’re left with one terrifying, exhilarating realization: You didn’t come here to be claimed. But Mark Grayson might just be the first man brave enough to try.

Mark Grayson x Alien!Fem Reader

Word Count: 2,908

You were never meant to leave Themyscira.

Your people—warriors, champions, god-forged in strength and purpose—do not abandon their home lightly. But you were given a mission, one that pulled you from the sacred shores of your birthplace and thrust you into a world that feels too fragile beneath your hands. The gods spoke of a coming war. A force beyond Earth, beyond even Olympus, stirring in the void between stars.

Not one brewing on earth, but amongst earth dwellers in space. The Amazons do not sit idly by when the balance is threatened. You do not sit idly by. So you were sent to watch. To learn. To prepare.

You were sent to this world to stop what’s coming. And then you met him.

Mark Grayson is not a god, but he wears his strength like one. And yet, for all his power, for all the might in his blood, there is something uncertain in the way he carries it. He does not fight like an Amazon—he hesitates, he questions, he cares in a way warriors are taught not to.

Never knowing a world this fragile. Being of Amazon and Talok IV descent, you were a new breed of soldier for your people, and one that could blend in if needed. Although, the power was bestowed due to your father's trickery. No matter. The man is dead.

The moment you landed on Earth, you sought out Cecil to initiate your infiltration. Earth people claimed to be resilient, yet so desperate for help once offered, it's pitiful.

You weren’t expecting to find something worth staying for. His influence prodding at you like an infectious disease. The time was approaching, the time to mate that is, yet you were unusually apprehensive–. THWACK!

Here, metal bends like softened wax beneath your hands. Brick crumbles as if it were pressed from sand. You’ve seen men build their homes, their towers, their weapons—each one designed to endure, yet none of them built to withstand you.

Mark learned that the hard way. “I swear I was ready for that,” he groans, flat on his back in the wreckage of a training arena that should have been reinforced better.

The dust hasn’t even settled from your last hit. A crack spiders through the concrete where he landed, but he’s already moving, rubbing the back of his head like a man more embarrassed than injured. You stand over him, arms crossed. “You weren’t.” Mark exhales sharply, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He’s strong—stronger than most things in this world. But not stronger than you, outside of his domain of expertise.

He knows it, too.

“You’re really not holding back, huh?” he says, half a grin forming. You tilt your head. “Should I?” Mark blinks, then laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s just… you’re insane.” He gestures vaguely at the crater where the ground used to be. “I’m supposed to be the strong one, you know?” You raise an eyebrow. “Who told you that?” For a second, he just looks at you.

Then he grins, something sparking behind his eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’ve been wanting you to say that. I like you.” he says, and for the first time since this match started, it almost feels like a challenge. The slight rasp in his voice sends tingles through you. And finally, you think, someone worth fighting. Someone worth keeping.

Mark is still grinning at you, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. I like you. A simple statement, but there’s something behind it—something testing the waters, something that sees you as more than just an opponent. You roll your shoulders, easing the tension from the fight. “You like losing?” Mark exhales a short laugh, pushing himself fully upright, closer now. "I like a challenge." His eyes flicker over you—not with fear, not with wariness, but something else. Something warmer.

You’re used to admiration. It comes naturally when you are carved from power itself, when your body is built to command. Men have looked at you in awe before, in fear, in respect. But Mark looks at you like— Like he isn’t afraid to lose to you.

That’s new.

You shift your stance, but you don’t step back. "Careful, Grayson," you say, your voice dipping lower. "Keep looking at me like that and I might think you're flirting." At your words you sway slightly.

You were tall and statuesque, and your skin was kissed by deep cerulean hues. Its very image carries the mystery of the void itself. Your hair, thick and dark flows past your shoulders, caught in satisfying curly tussles. Your eyes—piercing, luminous—glow softly in the dark, a warning and a lure. Just how could he not be reeled in? From the moment you two’s eyes met, he felt his heart stir. He couldn’t tell if it was just lust, perhaps, even so he wanted you.

Mark swallows, his grin flickering—still there, but a little uneven now. His eyes dart away for half a second, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with him. “Uh,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I mean, I was kind of flirting, but if that’s, like, weird, or—y’know, if you don’t—” He clears his throat, cutting himself off before he spirals any further.

“You’re really hard to read, by the way.” You arch a brow, unimpressed. “You’re nervous.” His shoulders tense slightly. “What? No. Pfft. Me? Nervous?” He gestures vaguely between you. “I just—uh—didn’t expect this to happen after you threw me through a wall.”

“You survived.”

“Barely!”

“You’re fine,” you counter, stepping closer. His breath hitches—just a little, but you catch it. He’s still sitting on the broken concrete, looking up at you, and for all his strength, all his power, there’s something hesitant in the way he meets your gaze. You tilt your head. “You’re not used to this, are you?” Mark blinks. “Used to what?” “Someone stronger.” His mouth opens, then closes. He hesitates, then exhales a short, nervous laugh.

“Wow. Okay. Just calling me out like that.” It’s not an insult, just an observation. The men here—especially the ones like him are used to being the strongest person in the room. It doesn’t matter that he’s still learning, still figuring out his limits. People look at him and see power. You wonder if anyone has ever made him feel small before. If he even knows what it’s like.

You kneel slightly, closing the height difference by roughly four inches. His breath stills. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Mark.” His lips part slightly, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze flickers over your face, lingering for just a second too long. “…I’m not.” Lie. Not fear, exactly but something close.

Its that nervous, unsure energy that coils in his muscles like he doesn’t know if he should lean in or back away. You’re used to confidence, used to men puffing their chests, trying to match your strength. Mark doesn’t do that. He just looks at you like he’s trying to figure you out, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how. You decide for him.

You lift a hand, slow enough that he can stop you if he wants to. He doesn’t. Your fingers graze his jaw, and he tenses. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and when you tilt his chin up, his breath catches. “I really don’t know what to do right now,” he admits, voice slightly higher than before. You smirk. “That’s new for you, isn’t it?” He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “That obvious?”

“Then let me teach you.” Mark swallows hard, his hands twitching slightly at his sides—like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he should. His pulse is quick under your fingertips, his face just inches from yours. “…Yeah,” he breathes after a moment, voice softer now. “Okay.”

his hands grip your waist, rough and sure, pulling you into him with a force that sends heat curling through your spine. His lips crash into yours—not careful, not questioning, but hungry, decisive. It takes you a moment to process it; to register the way his fingers tighten against your hips, the way his body pressed against yours, firm and demanding. Mark Grayson, who had been so nervous before, so uncertain, is kissing you like a man who finally stopped thinking and started wanting.

Mark moves, twisting, and before you can counter, the ground disappears beneath you. He takes you down with him, the two of you collapsing onto the rubble left in the wake of your fight. The impact sends up a small cloud of dust, but neither of you care.

He’s already back on you, already pushing up on his elbows to hover over you, breath warm against your lips. His voice is rough, a little unsteady. “You keep acting like you’re the only one who can take control.” You smirk, fingers trailing along his jaw. “Prove me wrong.”

Mark stares at you. Mid kiss, you’ve fumbled the bag and told him, in clear, matter-of-fact detail, that on Themyscira, men do not live after mating with an Amazon. And he is very much a man. His mouth opens. Closes. Then, finally: “Okay.” He lifts a finger, his voice rising slightly. “Uh. I—Okay. I really need you to explain how we got here.”

You fold your arms, unimpressed. “We were talking about your customs romantically. I shared mine.” You explained. “Right. Right.” He nods rapidly, pacing for a second before spinning back around to face you. “And—just so I’m understanding this correctly—your custom is that if we—uh—mate, you have to kill me afterward?”

“Yes.”

Mark makes a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a panicked wheeze. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. And you—you don’t see a problem with that?” You tilt your head. “I see a problem for you.” Mark runs both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Okay. See, that is the part I’m stuck on. Why does that have to happen?” He inquires. “It is tradition,” you say simply.

“The Amazons have no need for men beyond what they offer.” Mark lets out a nervous laugh, rubbing his face. “Great. That’s very reassuring.” You watch him carefully. You expected resistance—expected him to balk at the idea of it, at you. Men tend to do that when faced with their own mortality.

And yet, he hasn’t left. He hasn’t even backed away. He’s nervous, sure, but he’s still here. Interesting. You take a slow step toward him, forcing his eyes back to yours. “Do you want to?” Mark swallows. Hard. “I—What?”

“You seem conflicted,” you observe, studying him. “If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t still be here.” His lips part, but no words come out. His gaze flickers over your face, your stance, the way you’re looking at him. He does want you. He just doesn’t know what to do with that want when it comes with a potential death sentence. You smirk. “I wouldn’t kill you, Mark.” Mark visibly deflates with relief. “Wait. Hold on.” His brow furrows. “Then why would you even say that?”

You shrug. “I never said I had to. Only that it was tradition.” Mark stares at you again, looking so caught between exasperation and disbelief that you almost laugh. “So let me get this straight,” he says slowly, pointing at you. “You could have led with ‘I don’t have to kill you,’ but instead you decided to give me a heart attack first?” You tilt your head, amused.

“You’re still alive.”

“Barely!” He sighs, pressing his fingers against his temples. “I think I just aged like ten years.” You close the space between you, reaching up to rest a hand on his chest. He tenses—but not in fear. His pulse thrums beneath your fingers, quick, strong. “You’re an interesting man, Mark Grayson,” you murmur, watching the way his breath catches.

His hands hover uncertainly at your sides, fingers flexing like he wants to touch you. “…Yeah?” You nod, smirking. “Most would have run by now.” Mark exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. I’m really bad at making good decisions.” You hum in amusement, then lean in, lips just a breath from his. “Now, where did we leave off?”

It didn’t take long for you both to be disheveled and distracted. Mark shudders beneath you, his hands gripping your hips as you hover above him. "I won't kill you, but I can't make any promises about how hard I'll fuck you." He shudders at your words, his resolve crumbling. "I'll take my chances." You can feel his hardness pressing against your core, begging for entrance.

Creamy pre-cum bubbling from his tip acted as a perfect lubricant. Succulent. The slip caught your clit, each time earning a sharpened moan from you. Without warning, you slam down onto him, taking him deep inside you. The size of him certainly shows his non-human relation.

He groans, his head falling back as you begin to ride him hard and fast. Your breasts bounce with every movement, drawing his gaze like a magnet. He reaches up, cupping them in his large hands, kneading the soft flesh. "F-fuck, you're soooo beautiful; I’ve seen this in my dreams." He pants, his thumbs circling your hardened nipples.

"I c-can't get enough of you." He admitted, a grin wearily etching across your lips. “W-Wouldn’t want you to, need you badly, Mark.” The simplicity yet raw need in your sentiment drives him wild.

His strong hands suddenly suction to your upper thigh, his mouth latching onto your nipple instead. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, his gaze fixed upon your pleasured expression as your combined moans vibrated the flesh. His tongue grew erratic as it sought to bring stimulation, his hips snapped forward to meet you.

The swollen tip of his cock threatens to bruise your walls with each drive. Small dust clouds from debris kicked up, the sex growing more aggressive as he realized you could handle his strength. No need to hold back, only needing to savor the feeling. A loud clap echoed within the domain; the slab of concrete shifted beneath you as his toes gripped the floor. It's taking everything within you two to hold on as your cunts arousal responds to him. Thank god you’re on earth, easier access to the best pussy he’s had so far. The only pussy he needs now. A strangled growl crawls from his throat—.

“Donald. Turn off the training facility cameras.” Cecil chimed, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “...Right away, sir.” Replied Donald as he hastily cut surveillance.

Your fingers left his chest, deep claw marks reddening his skin. You lean down, your hair cascading around you as you capture his lips in a searing kiss. Your tongues dance together, each of you fighting for dominance. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping it tight as he thrusts up into you, meeting you stroke for stroke.

You squeezed him with such vigor, pussy puffier with more pleasurable ridges. "Jesus, y-you're s-so tight," he grunts, his hands digging into your ass hard enough to leave bruises. "I'm going to make this pussy only crave me." His conviction made you laugh, a wicked sound. "Promises, promises," you taunt, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts. "But we'll see who's ruined by the end of the night."

The room fills with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin on skin, the cries of pleasure, the obscene squelch of your wetness. “Mmph…! Do you feel this, Mark Grayson?” You asked, your voice dropping to a husky whisper, and something in it—some unearthly vibration—rolled through his bones like a pulse, deep and intoxicating. “Mmm… yeah—yeah, fuck yeah, I do.” He rasps, as his teeth grit with determination. “This is how it feels to fuck someone who can handle you.” You grinned, almost sadistically, with a strong sense of pride.

Your expression grew into one of lust as your nose scrunched, glistening lips singing so beautifully for him. “I’ll give you that and more.” The comment was so resolute you almost didn't hear it before you both groaned in unison. One of his hands comes up to tug your locs, preventing your teases. Your head slinging back with a loud yelp as your vision blurred.

You can feel your orgasm building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. A series of pleasured whines leave your unfiltered lips. Mark must sense it too, because he flips you over onto your back, never breaking their rhythm. However, his previous efforts went for not, only spurring you on. Wisps of living shadow curled around his neck, his chest—soft and teasing, cold phantom touches caressing him in droves of trembles. They grew more intense with every stroke of gratification. “Ooh…! Mark! I— I—.” You stutter.

He pounds into you, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. "Oh god, I’m gonna cum. C’mon… please… for me,” he commands so sweetly that you couldn’t deny him, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come; I need to feel you." His words are all it takes to send you hurtling over the edge.

You scream his name like a mantra, your body going limp, and he convulses above you as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. He follows soon after, dick knotting inside you as he spills his seed deep within your walls. Harsh gasps leave you both as he nestles himself within you absentmindedly, not thinking of the consequences. Or so you thought.

Mark smiles— a small, lopsided thing. He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips before whispering, “… Guess you’re stuck with me.”

…

Optional ending!

The Next Day

“No, Mark. After the shit you just pulled, you two are banned from the training facility indefinitely,” Cecil said, rubbing his temples like he was one bad decision away from an aneurysm.

Mark, sitting across from him with his arms crossed, groaned. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

Cecil shot him a look. “Mark, we had to evacuate three city blocks because someone thought an earthquake was happening. Do you have any idea how hard it is to explain to the public that the ‘seismic activity’ was just you and your Amazonian girlfriend going at it?”

Mark turned bright red. “Okay, in our defense—”

“There is no defense!” Cecil snapped. “You two leveled the place! I’m still waiting on a damage report for what’s left of the foundation!”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, entirely unbothered. “It’s not my fault your training grounds weren’t built to withstand real combat.”

Cecil’s eye twitched. “It was! It just wasn’t built for you two doing whatever the hell that was!”

Mark coughed into his fist, eyes darting to the side. “...We, uh, might’ve gotten a little carried away.”

Cecil exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mark. Son. You punched through a wall mid-mission briefing the next morning.”

Mark stiffened. You turned to him, amused. “You did?”

He muttered something under his breath, ears still burning.

Cecil waved a hand. “You’re lucky we need you, otherwise I’d have you both on clean-up duty for the next decade.” He sighed, rubbing his face. “Just—do me a favor. Next time, take it off-world.”

Mark perked up. “Wait, so you’re saying we can—”

“Out of my office, Mark.”

And with that, you grabbed your still-flustered boyfriend by the wrist and gracefully exited before Cecil had an aneurysm.

Again.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

NEXT PART!!