#i know he will not sting me unless he must but i do not want to take that chance!!

[rey-jake-therapist]

So I keep reading that Sauron and Galadriel couldn't have spent sexy times together because it would have bound Sauron to his form, which I'm pretty sure is wrong, so I searched Google and found something funny dating from 2013. 'Couldn't not share it.

"Sex as means to reproduce.

My answer depending on what that s-word means: I. Couple Glue: Sauron: Not interested in such thing. Wears only friend in his world on his finger until he looses both. Valar: They surely had a couple thingy. Tantric sex that Sting hasn't dreamt of or something. Maiar: Not as apparant as the Valar but probably yeah. II. Love pendant (Obsession) Sauron: The REAL baddies in Tolkien's world aren't some misunderstood emos (for which he has my respect). They don't love or obsesse over gals. EXCLUSION: While he was a blender, he might have faked it (if it was useful for him he would have). Valar/Maiar: Dunno. Probably. Possibly. They want the couple thingy, after all? III. Physical activity Sauron: Surely. I mean why not? And the time argument is irrelevant if we exclude the love/obsession/couple thing. Valar/Maiar: The ones that were happy to try new things surely… Unless it was binding to human form and/or the couple thingy was great enough. Wizards: The time argument holds, as they will also engage in a love/couple thingy. The old age probably protected them from it. Saruman, just as Sauron, was a complete Baddy: yeah he prolly did it. He even got new clothes, as he probably tried to tell himself that the women actually liked him for himself. IV. Reproduction Sauron: Deffo not. Immortals probably had some way to control this, as there was no overpopulation issue in ME. But he would probably kill his women and eat the babies before he conceives possible competition. Valar: Couldn't. If the tantric thing was also as good as sting thinks - lucky bastards. Maiar: Had probably something to do with choice."

To be clear, I didn't write this stuff: Source

More seriously, regarding the subject itself:

From Tolkien's essay Ósanwe-kenta, Vinyar Tengwar #39:

Here Pengolodh adds a long note on the use of hröar by the Valar. In brief he says that though in origin a "self-arraying", it may tend to approach the state of "incarnation", especially with the lesser members of that order (the Maiar). "It is said that the longer and the more the same hröa is used, the greater is the bond of habit, and the less do the 'self-arrayed' desire to leave it. As raiment may soon cease to be adornment, and becomes (as is said in the tongues of both Elves and Men) a 'habit', a customary garb. Or if among Elves and Men it be worn to mitigate heat or cold, it soon makes the clad body less able to endure these things when naked". Pengolodh also cites the opinion that if a "spirit" (that is, one of those not embodied by creation) uses a hröa for the furtherance of its personal purposes, or (still more) for the enjoyment of bodily faculties, it finds it increasingly difficult to operate without the hröa. The things that are most binding are those that in the Incarnate have to do with the life of the hröa itself, its sustenance and its propagation. Thus eating and drinking are binding, but not the delight in beauty of sound or form. Most binding is begetting or conceiving. "We do not know the axani (laws, rules, as primarily proceeding from Eru) that were laid down upon the Valar with particular reference to their state, but it seems clear that there was no axan against these things. Nonetheless it appears to be an axan, or maybe necessary consequence, that if they are done, then the spirit must dwell in the body that it used, and be under the same necessities as the Incarnate. The only case that is known in the histories of the Eldar is that of Melian who became the spouse of King Elu-Thingol. This certainly was not evil or against the will of Eru, and though it led to sorrow, both Elves and Men were enriched."

So it's clearly said that the most binding is "begetting or conceiving", in other words: making babies. Melian lost the ability to change form ever again because she conceived Luthien, not because she had sex with Thingol (yeah I know that one event often leads to the other, but Elves are known for being able to decide when they want to conceive, and I presume it's the same for a Maia). And even in this case, in the text it's said that begitting and conceiving are the "most binding" things a Maiar can do, but it doesn't straight out state that it automatically involves losing their capacity to shapeshift... But then, Melian is the only example of Maia who had a child, and she remained in an Elf form.

Regarding everything that's not begetting/conceiving, it would take Sauron to use his hröa (his body) during a certain time before losing the capacity to shapeshift. And if I understand this text well, it would be the result of him getting attached to this hröa, in a way: he would be so used to this form that he would also lose the desire to leave it.

[fatfemmegf]

bees chasing me around at work :(

[tiza0925]

Hello! I'm new to this but have you ever thought about any of your favorite characters while they're in the act and you look down at a certain part and they're so big on you that it scares you but they're pretty sure it could fit.I don't know if you could write something like that, sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.

hellooo, absolutely love this prompt so much ty for this ♡

men that make it fit | 18+

warnings/tags: nsfw, afab/female!reader, size difference, fingering, pet names, praise kink, squirting, raw sex, implied multiple orgasms, large cocks ♡

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Big men who just cover your entire body with theirs when they’re on top of you. 

Guys who make you feel so small when you’re on their lap, their hands are so damn big that they can cover your entire waist, legs, and hands—practically engulfing you. 

Big men that just pin you to the mattress while making out with you, they’re so strong without needing to try, and you probably should feel scared by the difference in strengths but god—you feel so secure. 

And you know he’ll take care of you even if he can hurt you sometimes—never on purpose unless you want it—because of how massive he is. 

Guys who feel just a little bad when they hear you cry from them pushing their thick fingers inside you—stretching your poor cunt and making you leak all over his hand as he curls his fingers inside your plush walls, coaxing out a throbbing orgasm from you. 

“Such a sweet little thing for me,” You hear him murmur, watching as your face twists with pleasure, and he can see the slight worry in your eyes as he fucks you with his fingers. “My baby is taking me so well already.” 

But can you take his cock? 

Fuck—what if it’s too big? 

It must be—his fingers are already too much for you—his dick will be nearly impossible to fit inside you. 

“You think you can be good and take my cock?” You whine, feeling heady and muddy as he pins both of your hands above your head on the bed, while his other hand continues to twist and curl inside you, his thumb pressing and rubbing your swollen clit. “I want to feel my favourite pussy, sweetheart.” 

But you suck in a shaky breath, eyes wide and scared because you know you can’t fit all of him in, and he chuckles breathlessly as he kisses your lips so softly, making you melt against him. 

“Don’t be scared,” He kisses your cheek, then gives your trembling lower lip a gentle pull with his mouth, trying to get you relaxed as he strums his fingers through your sopping folds, his voice low and deceptively soothing. “I’ll be gentle with you, okay?” 

He always is—and that’s the thing. 

No matter how gentle he tries to be—he still ends up stretching you so wide that you think you might actually split in half, the sting of him inside you being too much that you cry sometimes.

He kisses you, and reassures you, hand running up and down your body to spread goosebumps all over your skin. 

Then he’s pushing his pants off to let his fat cock bounce free—it lands on your belly, all hot and heavy, and your breath hitches as electricity sparks through your body—and your heart rate doubles with every passing moment, just waiting for him to stuff you with his cock. 

“Relax for me,” He says while guiding his dick to slide between your plush pussy, letting your slick folds hug his length and coat them in juices as he rocks his hips—his cock head bumping against your clit every time his hips are flushed against yours. 

“You feel that, baby?” Your lashes flutter, your eyes half-lidded as he works you up, making your cunt pulse as he glides his heavy cock over it. “You’re gonna be so good and fit all of me, okay?” 

You gulp, but you still nod—because you want to be good for him. 

You want to feel him and make him feel good. 

And he watches you, focused, taking in every twitch of your features as he slowly pushes the head of his dick inside you—his eyes alight with heat when he sees the way your mouth pops open with a gasp, already feeling the intense stretch of him. 

“You’re okay, baby,” he shushes you, sliding his hands under your thighs to guide them around his waist, and you whine as you hook your arms around his neck, bringing him closer, sloppily kissing him as he waits for you to adjust. “You feel so tight already—fuck—”

He groans, his voice vibrating against you, and you begin to breathe heavily as he pushes his fat cock into you—making you feel every agonizing inch as your pussy struggles to swallow him whole. 

“I—“ Your sentence gets cut short as you choke, already feeling him in your lungs and he’s only halfway in, “I can’t—”

“You can,” One of his hands comes up to swipe a fallen tear on your cheek with his thumb, while his other hand pins you to the bed by the waist. “I know you can, baby, you always did before.”

Which is true—you always did but—

It’s just so fucking big—holy shit—

You bite your lip, and your eyes squeeze shut as you try your hardest to relax—your fluids being pushed out as he lodges his dick inside your warm, plush walls, causing a wet mess all over your thighs and bed. 

You hold him as if you’re clinging onto dear life—taking all of him as he kisses you through it—until his hips finally press against your ass, his cock so deep that your limbs grow numb and you swear you can orgasm already. 

“There you go, sweetheart,” He purrs, waiting a moment as your pussy throbs around him, feeling abused and soaked, and he smiles down at you so achingly soft. “Taking me all like a good girl for me.” 

Then he pulls back—

“Oh god—” And you keen when he rocks his hips forward, sliding his cock along your walls, and he sets a pace of fucking you—getting you wet and your eyes to roll back as he becomes greedy with your pussy. 

“Look, baby,” He grunts, thrusting his cock in and out, his length coming out slick and creamy from your arousal, and he grips your face—fingers squishing your cheeks—to make you look down. “Look how well you’re taking me.” 

Your vision is foggy, you’re barely able to comprehend anything except for the dick inside your sore cunt, and you blink blearily as you try to look at what he wants you to see and—

Fuck.

You watch the way his cock disappears into your pussy, his girth forcing its way into you—and you let out a shaky breath at the way you’re taking it all in. 

Just like he said you would. 

“Told you I’ll make it fit, sweetheart, I always do,” You hear him murmur, and you force yourself to relax into a ragged breath as your limps melt into the mattress beneath you.

You feel like you’re being split in half as he fucks you over and over, bringing you higher and higher until you’re cumming all over him—gushing out liquid as you squirt on his cock with a wet moan, his name on your tongue—

And he takes good care of you throughout it all. His aftercare overwhelms you with cuddles of love and affirmation.

He loves you too much, anyway.

End.

Bokuto, Oikawa, Ushijima, Atsumu, Suna, Gojo, Choso, Sakusa, Geto, Sukuna, Nanami, Akaza, Oda, Kuroo, Hinata, plus any of your fav characters ♡

Masterpost

[capquinn]

Just thinking about how Quinn said he was on a health kick two summers ago and didn’t drink at all then admitted he was the snappiest guy to be around so imagine how moody bf!quinn must be right now with that split lip, stitches tugging every time he so much as opens his mouth — it's not pretty.

He’d be so quiet, and not in the reserved, introspective way you’re used to, but in a brooding, simmering frustration kind of way that seems to pull the air out of the room. Like he’s retreating into himself because everything hurts. The stitches pulling with every word he says, and bruising that makes even the smallest movement a sore reminder. He's frustrated and just done with the week.

It’s the little things that pile up, the ones that are so routine, so instinctive, that they feel impossible to escape. First world problems, sure, but they grind him down all the same. Like how brushing his teeth feels like a battle — every bristle scraping against raw skin, the sharp sting of mint hitting the split in his lip. Or how he can’t kiss you without the stitches tugging, the area far too tender for any sort of outside contact, forcing him to pull back with a wince.

Smiling is a chore, laughing is unthinkable, and the absence of both casts a shadow over the entire week. He’s stuck in this cycle of discomfort, where even the smallest attempt at normalcy — something as simple as grinning at one of your dumb jokes — turns into a reminder of just how far from normal he feels. It’s maddening, this constant push and pull of wanting to feel like himself but being held back by the pain that seems to weave its way into everything.

Clipped answers become his norm: “yeah,” “no,” and “I don’t mind.” Even a simple, “what do you want for dinner?” gets met with a grumbled, “doesn’t matter,” because he knows whatever it is, it’s going to hurt to eat and he won't be able to finish it anyway. And the thought of wasting more food makes him even angrier at the whole situation.

“This sucks,” he mutters under his breath one night, poking at the soup you made him, the corner of his mouth twitching every time the spoon scrapes the bowl. Not that it actually sucked — it was good soup, great even, but everything else sucked, and the soup was just collateral damage in his war against the universe.

You bite back a smile, brushing your hand over his arm. “Want me to make something else?”

“No,” he mutters, leaning back against the dining chair. His hand drags through his hair in frustration before he props his elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his palm like he's truly defeated. His shoulders sagging as though the weight of the week is pressing down harder than ever. “It’s fine.”

Except it’s not fine. He’s not fine. He hasn’t been since that high stick knocked the wind out of him and it’s bleeding into everything.

Thinking of leaving the apartment? Forget it. Unless it’s absolutely necessary — practice, the gym, or a doctor’s appointment — he’s planted firmly on the couch, arms crossed, brows furrowed like he’s in a standoff with the world. If you try suggesting a walk, maybe some fresh air to help him reset, he just shakes his head, muttering, “don’t feel like it,” voice flat, eyes trained on the TV, and the conversation dies there.

Even in the middle of the night, he's moody. He shifts endlessly in bed, trying to find a position that doesn’t make his mouth throb. He rolls onto his back, then onto his side, then back again, each movement accompanied by a quiet sigh of frustration. When he tries to rest his cheek against your shoulder, seeking comfort in the usual closeness, it only makes the pain worse. He pulls back with a wince, muttering under his breath, his brows furrowing deeper as he resettles with a sharp exhale.

��Are you okay?” you murmur softly in the dark, your voice thick with sleep. “Anything I can do?”

“No,” he mutters, and there’s enough of an edge to it that you can tell he’s at the end of his patience. And then he sighs heavily. “Just… go back to sleep.” His voice softens, but only slightly, the strain still unmistakable. It’s clear he’s trying to hold back the weight of his frustration from spilling over entirely.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you shift closer, your hand brushing over his chest as you nestle into his side, your warmth folding into him like second nature. Half-asleep and instinctive, you press a kiss to his shoulder, the faintest, softest reassurance, as if to say I'm here, and you feel him exhale steadily, the tension in his body easing just just that little bit under your touch. His hand moves to rest on your back, his fingers tracing a slow, absentminded path across the fabric of your shirt, and i’s the kind of gesture he doesn’t even about, but it grounds him all the same, letting him focus on something other than the ache in his mouth or the restless churn of his thoughts.

The worst part? The guilt. It gnaws at him in the quiet moments, filling the spaces where his usual softness should be. Every sharp answer, every impatient huff, every time he brushes you off — it all piles up in the back of his mind, heavy and relentless. He doesn’t mean to take it out on you. You know that, and he knows you know that, but it doesn’t stop the weight of it from pressing down on him, tightening his chest with a frustration that feels as much internal as it does external.

There are times when he hears the bite in his own words before you do, the way they come out too quick, too rough, and the regret is immediate.

“Sorry,” he mumbles after one particularly clipped response earlier in the day, when your only reply is raised eyebrows, the universal look of really? His lips barely move when he says it, like even the act of apologising feels like its own brand of punishment — sharp, stinging, and a little too close to the guilt already swirling in his chest.

Sometimes, there’s no apology at all — just a quiet brush of his fingers over yours, or the weight of his palm resting on your leg when you sit beside him on the couch. His thumb moves in small, absent minded circles on your knee, a silent gesture of contrition and love. It’s not grand, it’s not elaborate, but it’s everything — his way of saying I’m sorry, I love you when the words won’t come, when he feels like his brooding might swallow him whole.

And yet, even in the middle of all of his frustration and discomfort, even when he feels like he’s at his worst, there’s still a part of him that tries. He catches himself before he can say something too sharp, lets his hand linger a little longer when he reaches for yours, or pulls you into his side on the couch even when it’s the last thing he feels like doing. It’s quiet, subtle effort, but it’s there — a reminder that no matter how bad the week has been, no matter how much he’s hurting or how heavy the guilt feels, his love for you is always louder than the noise in his head. It’s in the way his fingers thread through your hair later that evening, gentle and steady, as you rest your head in his lap. He leans down, presses the faintest kiss to your temple, even if it's a struggle, and whispers, “thanks for putting up with me.”

And of course you’re putting up with him. Because no matter how snappy or brooding or quiet he gets, he deserves all the love and patience he can’t quite muster for himself right now. He deserves the steady reassurance of your presence, the way you smooth your hand over his arm, or nuzzle closer into his side, silently reminding him that he’s allowed to have bad days, bad weeks even, and it doesn’t change a thing. But really, it's not about putting up with him; it’s about being there for him — fully, unconditionally, because if the roles were reversed, you know he’d do the same for you without question.

[silkscream]

possession

venom!peter x silk!reader

ੈ✩ synopsis: peter parker is not himself when he falls into your universe. it must be a curse that he finds himself tethered to you. the darkness inside him has never wanted anything more.

ੈ✩ genres: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn

ੈ✩ cw: smut (18+ only minors dni), unprotected sex, slightly dubcon, biting, masturbation, violence, gore, self-harm, angst, codependent relationships, slightly ooc peter

ੈ✩ wc: 10k+

ੈ✩ a/n: this is post-nwh. i’ve been working on this for months and i finally feel comfortable posting it even though i still have a love/hate relationship with this story. hopefully i’ll muster up enough energy to make a part two because i certainly have more in store for them. (i miss peter so bad)

ੈ✩ playlist | ੈ✩ masterlist

Peter wakes up with a sharp, throbbing pain in the back of his skull. Maybe if he was lucky, he had completely knocked the wind out of his frontal lobe. Maybe he’d woken in the middle of a coma-induced dream state. As he blinks his eyes open, through the haze of the world around him, his environment pulls itself together. What he sees isn’t familiar.

This isn’t his room.

Maybe this isn’t his body, either. He hopes it isn’t, but he feels the sting of a side wound like an electric shock when he stretches his upper body slightly. 

He scans the walls in search of clues. He knows he’s not in danger – at least, he doesn’t think so – considering that he’s in a girl’s room and not a cavernous dungeon. His vision is dreamlike, blurry, still. When he squints at his surroundings, he can see posters on the walls and books stacked in every corner. He shivers when he realizes he’s looking around the room without his mask. Where the fuck is it?

When Peter looks down at his body, he notices how it stings and frowns at the few rips of lycra on his suit that showcase bloody wounds underneath. The bruise on his cheekbone throbs along with the tension headache that plagues his temples. He can taste copper in his mouth from his split lip. 

“You’re awake.”

The voice startles him. Everything is still sensitive, his joints and wounds and the act of occupying his body. The sound of someone else’s voice in the room triggers enough adrenaline in him to shoot out a web in the direction of the bodily presence that enters.

You frown, cringing at his attack, but you don’t look as startled as he would expect. He widens his eyes when he sees that you’ve dodged his webs completely. Sitting up, he winces from the sharp pain on his side.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Reflex.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

He doesn’t know what to do other than stare. Quite frankly, he didn’t expect to have to entertain a stranger tonight, nor did he think that his identity would be compromised in the presence of one. He’d barely remembered what had happened before he’d gotten knocked out. All he could recall was pain and the taste of blood in his mouth. Glancing at the slenderness of your fingers, he realizes that he doesn’t even remember your hands pulling him toward safety.

“You took my mask.”

“Wanted to make sure your face wasn’t broken. I didn’t take any pictures or call the cops if that’s what you think.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asks cautiously.

“I'm not particularly fond of them. Unless you want me to test how much ransom a loose Spider-man is worth.”

He blinks at the name, considering how ironic it is that you are the first person to see him in his most vulnerable state since his world changed for the worse. You, this unassuming stranger, who happened to have enough kindness to lug his body into your home. 

He’s on edge. Of course, he is; he feels as if he’s been kidnapped, but the acuteness of his senses feels differently than they do when his body knows a threat is in front of him. Instead, it feels like the kaleidoscope of neurons inside him collects together in clear recognition. Like he knows you in his soul alone.

“How did you– how did you even get me up here? I was in an alley, and then–”

“And then I carried you back to my apartment.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Don’t see how that’s possible,” he mutters. 

You surprise him by shooting a web from your fingertips to grab a water bottle from your desk and having it recoil into your hand without much effort.

Oh. 

He asks you your name, and you tell him. When you ask him the same, he shifts uncomfortably and doesn’t answer you. You don’t take it personally.

Christ, he needs to leave now. But he’s transfixed by your big eyes and your curious stare, and he begins to wonder about you in the same way, as if you are the wounded butterfly he’d picked up on the street instead of the other way around. 

You’re fucking weird, Peter’s decided, because, after this, you don’t ask him any more questions. Not anything that deviates from your concern about his wounded state. 

You’re rather casual, which surprises him. You make him a cup of tea, lend him some of your oversized clothes (they fit him perfectly), and force him to stay on your bed so you can attempt to tend to his wounds. (He doesn’t let you.)

Naturally, he watches you wash your dishes and he plays the interrogation game, and you let him. You tell him that you’re in Brooklyn. You negate the idea of him swinging back to his house despite how much he insists. When he asks why, you’re hesitant. 

“You’re probably safer here,” you sigh, almost impatiently.

He doesn’t argue when he feels the ache in his bones again.

“How is it that you’re like me?”

“I was also bitten by a radioactive spider.”

“Shit. There was another one?”

You don’t answer. God, your nonchalance freaks him the fuck out.

Why aren’t you fazed? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Maybe Peter will fake you out and flee, and he’ll forget all about you. He’ll never come near you again. But then there’s the warmth of your voice, and he stubbornly refuses to give in.

“I’m too fucking tired for all this interrogation, okay?” you exasperate. “You can take the bed. Or the couch. I don’t care. Just pick one.”

Why the hell are you letting a stranger crash at your place?

He doesn’t register it coming out of his mouth. You scoff.

“I’ve been through worse. And you’re barely a threat.” 

Peter should feel offended, he thinks, but mostly he’s fascinated by you. He doesn’t blame you for your crabbiness once he sees the clock on your wall read 2:45 am. There’s a nebulous pause between the two of you now, so you make the first move by turning away from him and rummaging through your drawers. You throw an oversized t-shirt and sweats toward him that he catches immediately.

Without a word, you leave the room, which leaves him confused. He thinks that maybe you’re coming back eventually, washing up in the bathroom, but after twenty minutes of examining the knick-knacks and pictures on your wall, your absence is louder than ever. He frowns when he steps out and sees your sleeping figure on the living room couch. Shit. You were serious about him taking the bed.

He peers at you again, eyes adjusting to the room's pitch-black darkness until the window's blue moonlight allows him to see your face. You look peaceful, at bliss, almost. 

Peter should just fucking leave. He contemplates this for over an hour as he lays in your bed, frowning at the ceiling because he’s not letting himself succumb to your weirdly kind offer of staying in your bed as a complete stranger. 

Yeah, there had to be something wrong with you. You’d probably taken him in to use for human meat to sell on the black market or something. The whole girl-next-door thing was definitely a facade. It was.

Fuck you and your pretty eyes and pretty hair and how he could smell it everywhere in the room regardless of whether or not you were in it. Fuck you and your soft sheets and obnoxious amount of pillows. 

Of course, once Peter is done ruminating, the sleep he has in your bed is the best he’s had in fucking weeks. 

__

Your bed smells just like you. Like your sheets are fresh out of the laundry with a hint of something citrusy. Peter can barely open his eyes, but the sunlight from your window annoyingly beams onto his bruised face. The warmth licks his face. 

He can hear the barely-there pattering of your light footsteps in the hallway. The hissing of a kettle. He emerges from your bedroom cautiously like a wild animal released from captivity. Your back is turned to him as you hum something nonspecific, some song he thinks he might’ve liked when he was in high school, but he doesn’t remember the name of it.

“Good morning, Peter,” you murmur, looking up and turning around when you notice his presence.

He furrows his brows. There’s a gleam in Peter’s eye that you can tell is untrusting. Like he’s expecting you to attack him.

“I never told you my name.”

Your gaze softens with sympathy. For some reason, you utter a soft apology.

“You already knew about me, but I didn’t know about you,” he accuses, arms crossed. “Why?”

You sigh. “Have you heard of the multiverse, Peter?”

No. No fucking way.

In a panic, he makes his way toward the front door of your apartment, but you beat him to it with two hands on his chest to block him.

“Peter! Peter, stop–”

“What the fuck is going on? Where am I?” 

He doesn’t realize that he feels short of breath, chest heaving as he clutches you by the shoulders. He also doesn’t realize the extent of his super-strength, though you don’t complain or flinch from the contact.

“I’ll explain if you just calm down,” you reply, your voice still calm. Even in crisis, you’re still so fucking soft, so placid, and Peter isn’t sure if the fact is comforting or terrifying.

Something catches in his throat when you place your warm palms on his cheeks, an embrace too loving and nurturing for a stranger like him to deserve. The entire gesture rewires his brain instantly. Despite his ragged breathing, he stills and nods slowly. 

“You’re on a different version of Earth. Okay? In this version, I’m the one who got bitten by a radioactive spider. I’m Silk.”

“I’m not supposed to be here.”

It comes out more like a question than a statement. You shake your head. 

“No. I don’t know how you got here, but I promise you’ll be able to make it back. There’s a lot of us–”

“I know about the multiverse. I’ve– I’ve met other versions. Of myself.”

“You have?” you raise an eyebrow. 

He hesitates. His brown eyes search yours, scanning your face until his gaze falls through you to fixate on your collarbone instead of your eyes. He blinks with a glassy scrutiny that bleeds with anxiety.

“I fucked things up on my Earth, and now no one knows who I am. No one knows who Peter Parker is, I mean. But why do you know who I am? How did you find me?”

“You know there are other Peters. I’ve met other Peters. After the multiverse nearly collapsed, the Spider Society was created. As a preventative measure, so that shit doesn’t happen again. All of us have the same story, and fucking it up fucks everyone else up, to put it simply. That can be something we can unpack for later. And I– I felt your presence. And I wanted to keep you safe, so I took you in..”

“There was something out there last night when I fell through. I don’t even remember how I got here. It was like waking up inside of a dream.”

The bewildered look in Peter’s eyes has you nearly as panicked as he is because you recognize it all too well. You’d seen it in the mirror yourself when you had first got bitten by that damn spider, however, at that time, you were fifteen and alone. 

“What thing?”

“Something… dark. Amorphous. I don’t know.”

You frown. Your hands are still on him. His face feels like it’s on fire.

The thing inside his body screams at a frequency he can’t understand. It’s so loud that he can’t even hear himself think. 

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

Shut the fuck up.

Peter jumps and takes a step back. When you try to move in tandem with him, he doesn’t let you. The voice in his head has a rasp unfamiliar to him, and it wants to overtake him. Fuck, is he hallucinating? Is he being fucking possessed?

Get out. Get out. Get the fuck out.

I don’t have anywhere else to go, Peter. 

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BODY.

Look at her. Fucking delicious. We have to devour her. Now. NOW. NOW.

He won’t remember it later, but he runs through your bedroom door to the window, fumbling on the hinges until he nearly falls off your fire escape. When you relay this to him later, he’s bewildered, shaking. Too afraid to touch you. Too afraid to be in your apartment at all. Unsure of his memory, considering his lack of ability to recall any of this.

And yet, the warmth of your touch drinks him in, and he thinks that if he’s going to be trapped in a different universe than his own, he’s comfortable being in yours, under your roof. After he blacks out, your face is the only thing he can remember when he dreams.

__

The nightmares wake him up this time. He remembers the horrors of the night before you had found his mangled body in the alleyway. He remembers the pain, the glitch in the atmosphere that had seemed to have his body bursting through the seams, and the black entity that consumed his skin and stuck to it like glue. He remembers what it felt like to be transformed. He just doesn’t remember by what.

When Peter’s lids flutter open, he sees that his environment is sterile and sanitized. You make eye contact with him, and his honey-brown eyes darken, almost spiteful. The longer you look at his face, the more you notice he looks like a child.

He attempts to get up from the bed, but he’s restrained to it. He groans quietly, sucking his teeth.

“You’ll be out soon.”

He doesn’t say anything, though the grimace on his face says a thousand words. Instead, he scoffs.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

The voice in his head is faint and raspy, though, unlike the other times, it’s barely there – much more muted than before. It comes as a passing thought, so nonchalant and quiet that Peter almost convinces himself that it’s something he hears echoed from the hallway nearby. 

Your expression doesn’t falter. You merely watch him with curious eyes. It makes his skin hot. 

“What happened?” he finally asks.

“You don’t remember?”

Peter doesn’t shake his head, nor does he look confused. He stays neutral as if he’s testing you. His jaw clenches.

“You fucking scared me, you know,” you mutter. There’s an exhaustion to your voice. How long has he fucking been here?

“Tell me.”

“It’s like you weren’t in your body,” you breathe. “Your eyes were all dark and you were trying to run away from me. You passed out after trying to jump off the fire escape. I thought you were trying to kill yourself, Peter.”

He notices that the edge in your voice is languishing, full of a distinct type of worry that he hasn’t felt from anyone else in ages. No one’s known him in over a year. But here you are, from a different universe, sitting across from him in this room with a face that almost looks like it’s about to be ruined with tears.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know.”

“Why am I here?”

“I don’t know what happened. The tests they ran on you – it’s nothing we’ve seen before. Or yet.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We use a device to send our Spider-people home based on your DNA. Or the spider you were bitten by since that’s what tethers you to your Earth. We thought you might go home and transport back to your universe, but you didn’t. The system fucking went berserk after scanning you.”

Peter’s first instinct is to say I’m sorry, but he knows that would be stupid, and the parasitic thing in his body shuts him down. He clamps his eyes shut to find darkness under all the harsh fluorescent lighting, but the hint of something sinister shakes his body in a way he can’t explain. He briefly remembers the moments before he allegedly tried to jump off the fire escape of your bedroom. Your soft eyes. Your hands on his face.

Your hand touches his now, and it makes his whole body jerk. 

(Your warmth reminds him of someone else’s, and for that, the thing in him wants to fucking kill you.)

__

Miguel doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with Peter, either. He has other shit on his plate, like chasing misfits through the multiverse. 

Peter gets tired of the tests. It’s not like they’re doing anything because every so often, the thing inside him is lecherous and makes him feel disgusting for reasons beyond him. You are the only thing that keeps him calm. It’s like a manifestation of some curse cast upon him, a plague of a punishment.

In between the tests, he stays at yours. You don’t talk to him much because of your hours at the office, and when you’re home, you mostly eat dinner in silence. Sometimes Peter cooks and has dinner warm for you before you get home because he’s impatient and knows how to make a few basic meals from living alone in that dingy apartment.

It’s mundane. Comforting. In some stupid, twisted way, Peter wants to keep it. Keep you. Even if he won’t admit it. 

He doesn’t have to be Spider-Man on your Earth, and no one knows his identity. He almost feels like a housewife from how he dotes on you in small ways without you asking, this domesticity he’s adapted just because he can. His injuries have healed, and he works on yours instead. 

You reject his help because you’re used to it. Still, he hovers by the bathroom door when you bind your wounds.

He watches you with bated breaths, bottom lip sucked in his teeth. You have no qualms about the pair of eyes on you – at least, you don’t show it. 

“That shit’s gonna get infected.”

You roll your eyes without looking at him. Your nimble fingers work on patching up the cut under your breast instead.

“I know what I’m doing,” you huff.

“You didn’t even put Neosporin on it.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t have Neosporin in this universe?” he asks, an incredulous expression on his face.

You shrug. 

“Again, I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe I should be out there with you on patrol.”

Your head whips around then, studying Peter’s face. He stares back at you with a seriousness that doesn’t break. You narrow your eyes.

“We’re working on getting you home, Peter. I’m not dragging you into my shit.”

“You dragged me into your shit the moment you took me in.”

You grimace, saying nothing. Your lack of response annoys him, but more than anything, it chips away at his ego. 

Maybe you regret rescuing him. The thought brings dread to his chest, guilt riding up in the caverns of the space he holds for you, which has grown bigger and bigger as the weeks go on. He thinks that if the two of you had met in different circumstances, normal ones, perhaps the two of you would be friends. 

He’d been alone for far too long. The scrubbing of his identity already turned him into a shell. The old Peter would’ve been much more proactive about this situation. He certainly would’ve been less fucking moody. But he knows there’s no one to accuse him of not being his usual self because nobody knows him anymore, except you.

__

Peter is so fucking bored of staying in your apartment. He needs something to keep him going, whether it’s crime or college. Cooped up in your home, he feels like nothing at all.

Sometimes, that feeling subsides when you’re home with him all domestic. He agrees to your movie nights despite protesting your incessant preference for horror. He likes how you curl your lip in a smirk when you tease him for being so damn jumpy.

While your relationship is mildly symbiotic, the thought of you permeates him more and more, usually at night. He has dreams of you that he’d be ashamed to relay when he’s awake. The thing inside him lurches, wants with so much zeal that he has to take measures to calm it down.

One night, when you return from patrol, your Silk suit ripped at your bicep, hip, and the space that’s supposed to cover your ribcage. He lets you patch yourself up like you always do without words other than an annoyed gruff. 

Peter can’t get the sight of your bloody wound out of his head, the exposed skin under your breast. Even the tightness of your suit allures him more than it should, which is fucking ridiculous. It’s nearing five weeks since he dropped into your universe. He should be used to you by now. 

“You good?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh.”

You know that’s not true. Peter looks like he’s seen a ghost. You don’t pry. You stopped doing that weeks ago.

The second he leaves your room, he runs the shower on cold. 

You want it.

“Shut up,” he growls under his breath.

Peter has never wished for a lobotomy, and certainly not as much as he is now.

You want her. Take her.

Shivering does nothing for him. He turns the water up to hot, nearly scalding, just as he’s convinced himself to like it. The thing inside him is consuming him, getting closer and closer to his point of breaking, and he knows it. Every moment he can’t be around you for more than a minute, he knows it. 

The only thing that satiates the feeling is to take action himself. To truly quiet that dark, venomous desire, he has to touch himself for release, and he’s ashamed that you’re the thought at the apex of it every single time. Each time he reaches his peak, he can almost make out the figure expanding over his own, a viscous black substance that seems to breathe over his veins. Once he comes to bed with you, it’s gone.

__

The stupid urges make him feel animalistic. It’s never been like this. 

Images of you with your suit ripped at the seams and flashes of your bare skin reel in his brain constantly. It’s embarrassing. He’s not fucking sixteen.

You bother less with pleasantries now that it’s been nearly two months since he fell into your universe. After the initial shock of his situation, of course, he’d had a billion questions, to which you attempted to answer to the best of your ability. Proactive as ever, he’d opted to go to the Spider Society himself on several occasions without you, attempting to understand what could be keeping him tethered to your universe, and to no avail. 

After those trials and tribulations, he’d become withdrawn. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” you try one night. He shrugs. It’s an answer to most of your questions now. It’s starting to get fucking annoying.

“You mentioned you like Star Wars, right?”

“Sure,” Peter mumbles.

“I’ve never seen the prequels.”

It’s the only thing that brings light to his eyes in maybe a week, you notice. The only other times you see that lightness is when you catch Peter in secret moments cozying up to your cat, Ferris.

(Weird name for a cat, he’d remarked. You tell him you’d watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off the day you found him in the alleyway.)

Now Peter is settled on your couch with a soft black t-shirt clinging loosely to his frame. Maybe he doesn’t mean to be on the complete opposite side of the sofa, but the distance feels more apparent to you than it should. Ferris purrs in Peter’s lap. Traitor.

You pretend you aren’t fixated by the slight freckles that decorate his nose. Or his collarbone. Or the way that he smells just like you because he hasn’t bothered to ask you to buy him soap for himself.

You get bits and pieces of Peter’s personality over time. You learn that his favorite Thai dish is larb, just like you. He’s incredibly smart, which isn’t unlike you, but you certainly give less shits about the scientific aspect of the multiverse than he does. He has a guilty pleasure for sugary cereal. He loves the Velvet Underground. He has a freckle under his abs on the left side of his body. He’s annoyingly persistent in helping you patch yourself up.

When you hear the sound of your name in his voice, you wince.

“You zoning out already?”

“Huh?”

He gives you a look and you can’t help but giggle.

“You didn’t even hear anything I just said.”

“I was having flashbacks,” you shrug, blinking back at Natalie Portman on the television screen instead of Peter’s eyes. “To my Padme Halloween costume.”

“That’s stolen valor!”

“I was twelve, dipshit. It was on sale at Specter Halloween and there was nothing left.”

“Spirit Halloween?”

You furrow your brows.

“Oh my god. Nevermind.”

For some reason, this reaction makes you pull the fleece blanket from his body. You mumble a rushed apology to your cat, who scrambles off of Peter’s lap in an instant. Peter is quick to pull the blanket back immediately until the two of you end up in a tug of war. You see a flash of grinning teeth. 

“Peter!” you squeal when he yanks the blanket so hard that you nearly fall off the couch.

“Why do you have so much energy– dude!” You’re almost in his lap but he’s faster than you. You are so close to using your webs on him.

A flush of heat spreads over your cheeks when he has you pinned to the couch, arms above your head with the blanket now forgotten on the floor. His knees are on each side of you, so squirming does nothing for your cause.

“Relax,” he gruffs. 

You can’t tell if his eyes shift in darkness or if it’s just a trick of the television light. The warmth emanating from his cheeks matches yours. The way his legs are spread above yours is vulnerable, and so is the way you’re looking at him, and – fuck, can you stop looking at him like that?

You feel the grip on your wrists loosen as he shuffles to his feet, nearly tripping over the discarded blanket.

“We need more popcorn,” he mumbles.

Fixing the mess of your hair, you peer at him through the dimness. 

“That was the last bag.”

“I can get some more then.” 

He pulls on the hoodie that’s draped over the armchair – your oversized hoodie, in fact – and it’s clearly too tight on him.

“What? It’s late. Are you – are you hungry or something? I can make you food.”

“With what?” he snaps. “We haven’t been able to go grocery shopping yet this week.”

“Well, it’s too fucking late for that now.”

Silence permeates the space between the two of you. The seconds that pass feel so long. There is no void in Peter’s head, only the sound of a disgusting, gnawing desire. Grotesque wanting. He wishes you would just leave so he can scrub himself raw in the shower like he usually does.

She smells so good.

“I’ll get some stuff from the bodega. I need– I need air, anyway,” Peter stammers. “Should swing around and stuff. I’m holed up in here every goddamn day.”

The comment stings. It’s not your fault that he’s stuck here like a stray cat. He knows that, so he feels guilty when his words come out with more bite than he intends. He can’t stand to see the way your bottom lip trembles slightly as you look away from him, mumbling something of a useless apology even when you both know you have nothing to apologize for.

You flinch when the door slams behind him.

__

You don’t see Peter the next morning even though your keys hang right next to the doorway. The window by your bed is left slightly ajar, so you assume that it’s meant for him. 

It’s fine. He had already expressed his cabin fever to you, so it makes sense that he’d be out exploring the city. (This is what you tell yourself throughout the day, even though you can’t stop feeling an ache in your gut.)

Your day is mundane, but they always are, you suppose. Maybe they haven’t felt as such since you had company every day. Peter’s absence is so much more apparent than it should be. You haven’t been without him in a bit. Even at your stupid day job, he occupies your mind, and the mere knowledge of his absence sears a hole in your heart. It feels pathetic. Maybe he’s home. Maybe he’d come back after you’d left for work. 

When you get home in the evening, he’s nowhere to be found. You pretend that it’s nothing to you. You still make dinner for two.

__

Once you’re settled for bed, Peter is on the other side of town at a random bar. It’s a miracle he gets in without an official ID and all, not to mention his boyish face. A raven-haired girl who skips the line takes a liking to him, plus she seems to know the bouncer. She’s attached to Peter like a moth for the rest of the night. 

She’s daring and touchy, with a sense of humor that’s too over-familiar to appear charming. Peter doesn’t have to do much except nod and smirk to seduce her, downing shot after shot just so he can feel a buzz instead of irritation whenever the girl has her hands on him. On the dance floor, the shape of her body slightly resembles yours, maybe. She reeks of over-saturated vanilla, like the inside of a Victoria’s Secret. 

When he fucks her in her lavish penthouse, he can only think of you. He thinks her apartment is boring, lacks character, and looks soulless. It’s nothing like yours. It doesn’t even begin to contain the same warmth. Peter feels similarly about the girl, but he’d had enough shots in the bar to ignore that emptiness. For now, he feels full with his cock inside her, hearing her whiny pleas and soft moans as her face gets buried into the mattress. He only cums when he thinks of your face.

It’s not enough.

Shut the fuck up, Peter screams in his head. Shut up.

Though, we’re hungry, aren’t we? 

No.

Peter groans, digging his teeth into the girl’s neck as his fingertips press into the curve of her waist. He shuts his eyes, breathing rapidly as his body relaxes on top of hers. None of her sweet nothings registers in his brain. He holds off the violence in his head until she’s fast asleep, to his relief, because then he can return to you.

___

You’re wide awake when Peter fumbles with your bedroom window at three in the morning. He nearly trips next to your bed, but he braces himself, landing his hands on the softness of your rug. 

You hear him sigh. Maybe you’ve become too attuned to him. Every movement he makes is a small earthquake to you, so present and real as he unravels even when he’s just taking a few steps toward you. Maybe you’re imagining his breath behind your neck. Maybe you’re dreaming and you wish for it.

He assumes you’re asleep when he crawls into bed with you. This is only the second time. The first time, he’d had a nightmare on the couch and you had offered your warmth. At the moment, he’s inexplicably warm as he wraps his arms around your waist.

“Where were you?” you whisper. 

“Out.”

“You smell like a high school girl’s locker room.”

He snorts, tightening the grip he has over your middle. You feel his breath tickling the nape of your neck.

“Okay.”

“You gonna answer me?”

“Why does it matter? ‘m a big boy.”

“It matters when I’m responsible for you and I don’t know where you are.”

“I was always going to come back.”

You don’t say anything to that. You think this is too intimate, but you can’t help but admit to yourself that it’s what you need. The touch of someone else. The feeling of warmth enveloping your body.

You haven’t felt him this close to you before, at least when you’re this hypervigilant. Stretching your back slightly, you decide to turn to face him. Your body curls naturally into Peter’s without a second thought.

You notice the way he bites the inside of his bottom lip subtly. It’s dumb, how rapidly his heart beats now that you’re looking right at him. You pretend you don’t feel it from being so close to him, but it makes your heart elate.

Peter closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see your face. It’s not like the action helps him calm his heart down, because fuck, you’re so warm and soft and pliant in his arms. He’s gotten good at quieting the voice in his head lately but he’s still afraid of it consuming him. 

“Goodnight, Peter,” you murmur. 

He pretends he’s asleep. It takes everything in him to keep up the facade until he knows for sure you’ve passed out inches away from him.

___

When Peter wakes before you, something primal pushes his senses into overdrive. You smell so fucking sweet. It’s like the universe wants him to eat you.

She’s right there on a platter for you. Just for you.

He’s good at restraining it. Sucking in his teeth, his eyes scan the curves of your waist to the soft edges of your lips. 

Despite his restraint, he can’t be in the room with you right now. Certainly not in the same bed basking in your warmth. For fuck’s sake, what were you thinking, allowing him into your bed in the first place?

He already knows the answer – kindness is what fuels you—your altruism. When the mind gets the best of him, Peter curses at your character when he’s alone. Sometimes he’s on a random rooftop bombarded by thoughts of you. Sometimes he’s in your shower.

If anything, you were perfect, so perfect that Peter couldn’t stand it. So warm and pretty and pleasant that even the way he touches his cock doesn’t dirty the image he has of you in his head. You’re too pure, even when you use your nasty tongue against him, even when you fight him. 

The slightest showcase of your bare skin doesn’t help the cause. Peter retreats to the couch again even though you tell him that you don’t mind the space he takes up in your bed. He can’t tell you he’s doing it for your safety. 

Even so, he’s so attuned to you that he hears your midnightmare whines in the night as if you were right next to him. And when he guards your bed like a dog while you’re asleep, he tries not to focus on the shape of your collarbone. Of course not. He convinced himself that he was lonely, fucking pathetic. He tells himself that the mere sight of your exposed neck and the pout of your lips does nothing to him at all. 

__

Peter comes with you to headquarters. The other spiders are sympathetic to him, often over-friendly. He sticks to you like a lost puppy.

“Did Miguel figure out anything yet?”

“Huh?”

“About getting me home.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, though your expression neutralizes once you look away. It was stupid to hold any value towards Peter. This is what you tell yourself, at least, so you must remind yourself that his questions aren’t out of left field. 

You refused to face the reality that you’d grown attached to him, that his presence had felt normal to you after he’d stayed with you for more than two months. 

“Still working on it,” you reply, giving him a sheepish smile. 

You feel guilty despite telling the truth. No tests could decipher why Peter was immune to being sent off back to his universe. No updates to the technology had worked, either. 

(You don’t really know what he’s still doing here, especially considering how quiet it is at headquarters today. You’re only really there to assist Margo in perfecting the gizmo that helps Miguel verse-jump.)

“I got you lunch, though. And feel free to leave whenever you want, I might stay late.” 

You drop a paper bag in front of him. The contents reveal a Cuban sandwich, bread smooshed flat with extra pickles. His favorite. You’d remembered his long rant about missing Delmar’s.

The gesture is sweet. You’re sweet, even though you’re a hard shell to break. 

The voice in his head is louder than usual today. Once you’re in a separate room, he feels immediately desperate for your presence, and he can’t tell if this is one of his usual emotions. The moment he fell into your world, besides feeling possessed, the emotions he experiences within his body are unlike him. Stronger, desperate, on the brink of detonation. 

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here,” you stammer after clearing your throat. 

“I’m lucky,” Peter shrugs. His eyes don’t waver from yours. “That you’re the one taking care of me, I mean. You’re kind for letting me stay.”

For keeping me. Do you want to keep me as much as I want to keep you?

The smile you give him is saccharine as you flush. He wonders if it’s fake, secretly full of vitriol. Perhaps he’ll find out when the both of you are home. 

He decides to give you space for the rest of the afternoon. After boring himself with floating in and out of random stores in Manhattan, he returns to your apartment in the evening, jiggling your bedroom window open even though you had given him a spare key. 

None of the lights are on except a glow emitting from behind the bathroom door, left open slightly. 

Your eyes shoot open when you hear the creak of the door. In the dimness of your bathroom, the only thing that helps you see Peter’s face is the dozens of tealight candles you have around the bathtub.

He gulps, mumbling an apology as he looks away. 

“You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be,” he murmurs.

“I was having massive brain fog all day so I came home early,” you tell him. He nods in understanding without saying anything. He doesn’t know why he’s lingering.

“You clearly haven’t figured out the concept of a front door.”

He blinks at the wet sheen of your collarbone, how the candles flicker an orange light across your face, and then he looks away again. 

“Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Well, you should try it. You have a key,” you snort. 

Peter’s heartbeat races. God, you smell so fucking good. Like citrus and sandalwood and sunlight. There’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep next to you tonight.

TAKE HER RIGHT NOW. FUCKING DO IT.

“Uh, I’ll leave you be,” he rasps, accidentally slamming the bathroom door closed. 

He knows you’ll be annoyed about it later, but he unlatches your bedroom window again to get outside and feel the fresh air. He doesn’t know what to do with his energy, with the gnawing in his body, so he tries to get his breathing even on the roof of your building. 

“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off,” Peter mumbles in succession, straining his body. 

On the concrete of the rooftop, he lies down and stares at the evening sky, trying to think of literally anything else, but he can’t. He knows that your existence isn’t a curse, that whatever it is that’s plaguing him is deep within his body, but he doesn’t know how to exorcize it. 

In a frenzy, he rips his suit from his body because the thing inside him is begging for stimulation. Thoughts of you flood his brain. Every angle of you, every memory, every scent. You would be surprised to know how much he’s memorized about you considering how rarely he likes to make eye contact.

And God, your eyes. How would you feel if you were watching him right now? Would you be disgusted? Would you be as disgusted as Peter is with himself?

It takes a minute or two of palming his dick before he finishes just from thinking about you. He groans lowly, animalistic, and there still isn’t any relief despite the mess he’s made on his suit. 

YOU’D FEEL BETTER IF IT WAS HER.

Fuck you.

Why is he so goddamn flustered? He’s literally slept next to you. And it isn’t like he saw anything when you were in the bathtub. Just your bare face, your wet shoulders–

Fuck, he’s hard again. Peter doesn’t think he’s been this hard in his entire life. 

It doesn’t take long for him to cum again even with all the overstimulation. You’re probably wondering where he is, too. He hopes to God you aren’t in your room so he can sneak back in quietly and get changed, maybe throw in a load of laundry so he doesn’t give himself away.

This is so stupid. So, so stupid.

Luck is on Peter’s side when he crawls back into your apartment. He hears you humming from the kitchen and the smell of onions and garlic wafts under his nose. He strips quietly and changes into new clothes.

“Pete?”

Sighing, he follows the sound of your voice. The smile you give him is nearly blinding.

“Where were you?”

“Uhh, checking the mail.”

“For half an hour?” you raise a brow.

He shrugs. An excuse makes its way into his mind.

“And I went out to look for cat food. We ran out. I couldn’t find the, uh, brand Ferris likes, though. Sorry.”

“Wow,” you give him a hint of a smirk. The cat in question jumps onto your shoulder as you bend down to get a pot from one of the lower cupboards. “You hear that, Ferris? Seems like Petey cares if you live or die.”

You coo at the small tabby, who meows in response. Peter rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance.

“And you still haven’t figured out how to use the front door. Do you need a live tutorial from me or what?” 

Peter bites the inside of his cheek as he sits down at the island, watching as you pour crushed tomatoes into the pot. The sight makes him awfully nostalgic. You’re the first person who’s cooked for him in years. 

“Let me be,” he huffs, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “And you’re gonna get cat hair in the pasta sauce.”

“No. Ferris is so well-groomed.”

“Not when he sheds all over my clothes.”

“You should be thankful he likes to roll around in your dirty laundry pile. That means he likes you, you know.”

Silence stews in the room, save for the sounds of boiling water. Peter takes the liberty to unlock your phone and put one of your playlists on the speaker. 

He clears his throat. “You need any help?”

“Nah, it’s just pasta,” you shrug. “It’s the last we have, though. Wanna go on a grocery run tomorrow?”

“Of course. The fridge is pitiful.”

“I don’t need your attitude when I feed you every day, Parker.”

You smile in jest at him and of course, he avoids eye contact like he usually does. Over the weeks, you’ve been accustomed to him acting like another stray kitten, but sometimes, you wonder if there’s something about your presence or personality that makes him keep you at arm’s length. Not that you should care what a stray thinks about you.

Peter wishes he could act normal around you instead of constantly being on edge. Again, it’s not your fault. If there was a way he could make it up to you, to let you know how much he’s grateful for you, he would. Every time he thinks about it, his body takes over and shame is all that’s left. 

The bowl of pasta you put in front of him smells heavenly and looks like a page in the cooking section of the New York Times. 

“Help yourself to seconds, big boy.”

His eyes flash to your face, but you’re busying yourself with putting wet cat food onto a small plate for Ferris. 

You both end up eating on the island together. You don’t take a seat next to him, choosing to stand up across from him. Instead of conversing, the music continues to play quietly from the speaker, and you scroll mindlessly through the emails on your phone.

“I can feel you staring at me, you know.”

“I wasn’t,” Peter replies, defensive.

“You were,” you snort. “Which is funny because usually you refuse to make eye contact with me.”

“That’s not true.” (He’s lying through his teeth.)

“It’s okay. I’m not offended.” (Okay, maybe now you’re the one lying through your teeth.)

Peter scoffs, looking away, of course. 

“Thanks for dinner,” he mumbles.

He looks down, collecting his bowl and utensils. He decides to busy himself with the dishes, taking yours wordlessly without looking at your face. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you say softly. He shrugs. 

When you say his name, you’re right next to him and he feels like he might choke on nothing. Sure, he senses your presence in proximity to his own, but there’s nothing to stop you from getting close to him. 

“You’re always on edge around me.”

He doesn’t reply, even though he knows the sound of running water from the kitchen sink isn’t enough to drown out the tension between you two.

“Peter,” you try. Ugh, now you feel whiny.

“Hm?” He feigns ignorance as he glances at you, turning off the faucet.

“I– I just want you to be comfortable around me.”

“I am,” he lies. 

You don’t know what to say to break through the invisible wall he’s put between you two. He doesn’t know how to tell you that the distance is to keep you safe.

Your shoulders sag in defeat as you turn away from him and it conjures a new ache in his chest. Peter is often too caught up in his agony to notice how it might affect you. He can notice the frustration that radiates off of you – he’s not stupid. But the clear disappointment in your body language is so much more apparent than it ever was before.

“I think I might go to bed early,” you tell him, your voice just above a whisper. “Thanks for cleaning up.”

“Of course.” 

The door to your bedroom shuts quietly. 

Despite his constant uneasiness around you, Peter feels petulant now that you’ve left his side. Especially with the guilt of making you feel alienated in your own home. The trouble of explaining any of this to you feels like a burden more than anything, and you were already dealing with the burden of him staying in your apartment like he was haunting the place. 

Ferris slinks between Peter’s legs, purring. He climbs up his legs the same way he does to you and Peter welcomes him into his arms.

“You shouldn’t be nice to me, either,” Peter whispers, stroking the cat’s fur slowly. 

After Peter finishes cleaning up the kitchen, he settles on the couch for mindless television while Ferris settles on his lap. It doesn’t take him long to feel his eyes heavy-lidded, and although it should be easy to fall asleep on the couch, his body itches for your touch. Trying to sleep on your couch makes his limbs feel like they need to stretch every other second. So he surrenders and falls into your bed like he usually does. Like how you expect him to.

__

He dreams of you. He often does. 

Usually, he never remembers once he wakes up, which is probably the safest option. At the moment, the dreams are too visceral to be considered dreams to his subconscious. 

At the moment, he thinks the silkiness of your skin has to be real under his fingertips. It has to be. It would only make sense because your scent is so fucking strong, so alluring. It permeates the entire room, along with the subtle smell of sex and desperation.

Peter can see your pink mouth parting. The way your back arches. The way his name sounds when it comes from your throat, babbling its way out of your mouth, so sweetly. So fucking innocently.

It’s all rudely interrupted by the darkness that he’s attempted to keep away for so long. A black cloud that envelops the both of you, until the cloud is tangible, until it feels like a substance that could drown you. 

Where his senses only uttered your name and acknowledged your sweetness is now replaced by an insatiable hunger. One that is partially his, partially from an entity that could break you in half without a second thought. 

Now, the entity clouds him. Consumes his entire body until he’s nothing but a vast monster with sharp teeth with you underneath him. 

The look on your face is full of horror. Your naked body shudders. Peter wants nothing more than to comfort you, but he knows he can’t, not when something black and viscous has obscured his entire body. 

He is not in his body when his teeth graze the skin of your shoulder, biting hard enough for blood to trickle out of your skin. Your scream is the only thing that he can hear, maybe other than his own, once he sees your mouth spit out blood.

And then, darkness.

___

“No, nonononono, no, fuck, please–”

It all happens so fast. He doesn’t know what he does to you that makes you drop dead so quickly, and for fuck’s sake, his arms are still not his arms. 

“Peter!”

A shake in his universe breaks him apart. When he opens his eyes, he sees yours, wide and shocked and bright despite the darkness of the night.

You’re in your bed and so is he. And you’re holding him, unscathed. There is no black gore adorning his arms. 

“Peter, it’s okay,” you shush him softly. 

One hand strokes his hair while the other is splayed with fingers stretched across his warm cheek. You’re more than concerned by how shaken he looks. Like he’s in shock. You’ve never seen him like this.

“You’re okay,” he says. It’s a whisper. It sounds like a prayer.

“I am,” you nod. “I’m fine. I want to make sure that you’re fine, too, okay?”

His lashes flutter when you stroke his cheek. His breathing is heavy like a newly discovered beast, but you know that you don’t have to tame him from the way he keens to your touch. 

“I–I thought–”

“Shh, you don’t have to talk about it. It wasn’t real, okay? You just had a nightmare,” you coo. 

You can feel the way he swallows sharply and the way he struggles to breathe through his nose. He winces when he realizes that you’re wiping away a tear from his cheek.

“I was– I was terrible–” he stammers, gasping for breath. “And you–”

“Peter, it’s okay. It was just a dream. It’s okay.”

“You aren’t safe with me.”

His eyes are wild. He’s so earnest when he speaks that maybe, just maybe he could be telling the truth. 

You ignore it even though the way he says it breaks your heart.

“I am safe with you. And you’re safe with me, right here,” you try. The sound of his voice has tears brimming the corners of your eyes, too, but you don’t notice. You just want to get through to him. You swallow your anxiety. “We’re safe together, I promise. I would never let anything bad happen to you.”

He scans your face frantically until his eyes zero in on your lips. His senses are flooded with you, like he’s an animal ready to pounce on his prey, but he tries to hold back. His breathing turns shallow and he can’t help but stare at your bottom lip quivering, feeling the warmth of your palms against his cheeks. 

TAKE HER. TAKE HER. TAKE HER.

He’s not sure what the motive is for him pressing his lips to yours, whether it’s the demon inside him or the desire festering in his body. Peter knows that they’re one and the same. 

To his surprise, you surrender your mouth to him immediately. His tongue slots into between your lips without effort as his hands clasp your body with his innate strength, ranging from your hips to the undersides of your breasts.

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but now that he has, you don’t think that you want him to ever stop.

Your hands graduate from his cheeks to the back of his head, pulling at his brown tresses as his hands roam your body with more fervor than anyone else has given you. 

You’ve been intimate with other people before, but they were always so careful, so timid with you. Maybe sometimes they were rough, but your mind was too checked out to notice. But now, the mere touch of someone else’s fingertips on your hard nipples has you squirming in your bed, making your breath hitch. Already, you feel the warmth in your core.

Peter discards your shirt (nearly rips it off) with ease as you whimper, enabling him, neither of you saying a word at all. You grab at Peter’s shirt to tug off, which he does, but when you pull at the waistband of his sweatpants, he takes your hand and slams it above your head with fingers interlocked.

Look how fun this is, Peter. Don’t you want to ruin her? Fuck her pretty little face?

Peter groans at the thought of you gagged with his cum, but he can barely fathom even taking out his cock yet. Well, he can, and although he’s thought about you like that, he doesn’t want to move too quickly. In contrast, his body seems to be moving faster than his brain.

He never thought you would want it as much as he does.

You whine when you feel Peter’s fingers creep under the waistband of your shorts and underneath your panties, immediately feeling your wetness. It pools into the fabric as he rubs your slit incessantly, making you mewl eagerly as Peter’s teeth suck on the skin of your jaw.

“F-fuck–,” you whimper, limp in his arms, preening to the feeling of his tongue on your clavicle. 

You’re so fucking wet, he could devour you in one bite if he wanted to. He could make it painless for you, but that wouldn’t be fair, would it? You wouldn’t feel any of it, none of the agonizing pleasure that should build up between your thighs from his touch alone, and he wants to see it all over your face so fucking badly. 

Do not tease us. We have an appetite to fulfill, don’t we?

I’m fucking getting there, hold on.

Sure, the monster in him wants to devour you, kill you, swallow you whole in a snap. But Peter wants to enjoy it. Wants to enjoy you. So he attempts to quiet the deep voice inside of him.

He still has your wrists bound in one large hand while his other grips your thighs hard, discarding your bottoms in the process. When he opens his eyes, he sees you splayed naked for him with a wanton expression on your face, nearly drooling. 

He also sees that somehow, he’d taken off his sweatpants and boxers, hard cock swelled up and aching as it grazes your folds slowly. 

Peter thinks he’d like to finger you, go down on you, and see how his touch makes electricity spark within your abdomen while your face contorts. He wants to see all your features twist into a sweet expression of pure pleasure, but he’s too fucking impatient. Maybe that’s the thing inside him speaking, so hungry and urgent that he can’t tell if he’s suppressing a being or his desires at this point.

He doesn’t know what currently guides his instincts. They’re all blinded, flooded by thoughts of you. As if there’s nothing else on Earth he could want, ever. 

That could be true. It probably is. But that’s something he can unpack later.

For now, he can only be influenced by the sound of your voice begging his name. He swallows down the sound of it with his tongue in your mouth, drinking in your whimpers as he bites on your bottom lip.

“Please,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet his length desperately as you squirm underneath him. “Need it— need—”

“Need me, huh?” Peter rasps. He touches his forehead to yours, hands still clutching at your wrists above your head.

“Yes.”

“So fucking clingy,” he mumbles against your mouth. You arch your back at the mere feeling of his cock prodding against your wet folds and it drives him fucking insane.

For once, the voice inside his head is only yours. He feels grateful for it.

“Were you planning this the whole time, huh? Wanted me in your bed from the beginning, didn’t you? Admit it.” He’s all teeth when he taunts you. He wonders if you’d let him spit in your mouth if you weren’t so busy pouting.

“Y-yes.”

“So fucking cute,” he sneers. “Pathetic, too.”

You don’t recognize the wrath in his voice — it’s unlike him. Even when he’s been pissed off with you. But you don’t have it in you to question it, because the darkness in it sounds like silk and crushed velvet, and the feeling of his hot breath against your neck makes you want him even more.

In the darkness, Peter’s eyes look otherworldly. Dark and bottomless, the devil incarnate.

You moan his name once more and whiplash meets the senses.

With a shaking exhale, you take the stretch of him, all of him, wincing the slightest bit as he bottoms out. It stings until he slides out just to thrust himself back in again, the resolve blatant on your face as your mouth falls in surrender.

Usually, you’d be embarrassed. It takes a bit for you to let someone in like this so intimately, and even when you’ve done it with other men, you were at least a little intoxicated.

Right now, you’re merely blissed from drowsiness, borderline euphoric from Peter’s proximity. You wouldn’t be able to admit it out loud — you knew the sweet sounds falling from your mouth were enough. Even when Peter had first settled into your bed tonight while you were asleep, you subconsciously curled into him like a moth to a flame.

Peter cups your breast in his hand harshly to latch his mouth onto your nipple, sucking and biting just to hear you whine. He’s rougher than any lover you’ve had before, so you aren’t exactly sure if he’s being sadistic with the amount of teeth he’s using. The feeling of his canines against your flesh is like nothing you’ve felt before. You’d never thought it would be a feeling you would get so fucking addicted to.

He fucks into you harder now, pulling up your legs so that his large, calloused palms are bruising the skin of your thighs. One leg ends up hitched over his shoulder so that he can thrust into you from a deeper angle, one that makes your eyes roll back into your head.

“So fucking good for me– so fucking good–”

Your hips shake when Peter inevitably reaches your sweet spot while his hand that isn’t propping you up is focused on stimulating your clit. You’re fucking brainless, listening to his filthy praises.

“Peter! Aah– oh my god–”

He’s obsessed with the way you’re rendered speechless, how you’re lifting your hips just to meet his, how you’re so obedient when you whimper his name. He’s obsessed with you. He thinks this might be another dream.

Sloppily, he nibbles at your earlobe and laves his tongue from your jaw down to your throat as he fucks into you with ease. His pleasure is a rubber band about to fucking snap. Your hushed breaths and whines nearly tip him over the edge, especially when he can feel you sucking in him so tightly.

“Cum for me, fucking cum for me,” Peter growls. “I know you can do it, baby. Can feel you’re close.”

He’s more intense with his thrusts now that he’s trying to coax your release, and truthfully, he can feel himself following you right after. 

“I’m– I’m gonna–” 

Your voice falls into a staccato of moans that dissipate into Peter’s wet mouth. Your nails dig into his back as he nearly melts into your body. 

His frantic thrusts begin to slow, his hips sloppy against yours as he groans against your neck. His mind is in such a frenzy that he thinks he might just devour you. It starts with his fingers wrapped around your throat. He revels in the sound of your voice choking on your moans.

Peter nearly smothers you with his hand over your mouth, while he bites incessantly at your neck and shoulder. The sweetness of your voice, desperate and wanton for him, is quickly replaced by something darker in his mind. A voice dormant inside him that awakens with the threat of contamination. He’s in his nightmare again, but with the aid of your body to remind him of bliss. Of power.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, fuckfuckfuck–” 

His body is so fucking heavy on top of yours, suffocating you with his desire. His teeth bite down hard enough on the juncture of your neck to draw blood, and he ignores your cry. The frenzy of war and lust and intoxication in his head is too fucking much. It’s his own personal eclipse.

His warmth spills into you. He feels his cum in between your bodies, overflowing out of your soaked cunt and onto the bedsheets. 

It takes a moment for Peter to notice that you’re crying. He knows it should hurt him. He knows he can’t stand the sight of tears flowing down your delicate cheeks because of him. But he doesn’t feel anything at all. 

In a way, both of you are changed. 

You had leaped off of a precipice the moment you let him into your bed.

Peter furrows his brows at your tear-streaked face, body stilling with shallow breaths. He cups your face in his warm hands and kisses you sweetly like a lover would and not a monster. 

For some hellish reason, you kiss him back. 

[underdark-dreams]

It's finally here, all 7k words of it 👀 Thank you for everyone who read chapter 1, and waited so patiently!

[ch1]

Birds and Bees - Ch.2

Rolan isn't usually the type to accept help. In his defense, Tav is very persuasive—and he is very, very desperate.

Tags: Tailplay, Oral Sex, Biting, NSFW | Word Count: 7.7k [Read on AO3]

Rolan didn’t appear again for the rest of the day.

After their awkward exchange this morning, Tav felt she might be somewhat to blame. She tried to recall the bits of Tiefling etiquette she’d picked up from the Elturians; perhaps touching his tail had crossed some sort of line? Either way, the gesture seemed unthinkably forward to her now. 

Then again…Rolan was the one who’d coiled his tail across her desk like that, its tip nearly brushing her hand as she wrote. She’d never seen him do anything like it before. If she didn't know him so well, she’d have found the move almost flirtatious.

At shop’s close, Cal took charge of locking up the front. Tav caught sight of the large iron keyring he carried and realized that it must be Rolan’s. So his brother had checked in on him today, at least—that gave her a modicum of relief.

Lia pitched in to help wipe down all her equipment and carefully fill the many waiting bottles with her cooled elixir. Tav held her tongue from repeating any of the worries she’d made after Rolan during the day—but it seemed her silence was just as damning.

“Stop fussing,” Lia repeated firmly. “Rolan’s just overdue for a rest. I mean, you saw his face.”

“I did.” Rolan had never been the type to slow down or show weakness easily. To Tav, the fact that he’d willingly taken himself to bed worried her more than anything. “Just promise you won't let him turn down a healer if he needs one?”

“If it comes to that, which it won't,” Lia said down to her work. “I promise we’ll find someone, okay?”

Tav kept her tone teasing as she packed away the sealed bottles in their crate. “Hmm, yes…if only you already knew someone with some knowledge of healing.”

Lia let out a bark of laughter. “Trust me, you’re the last person Rolan wants to see right now.”

The sting of those words took Tav by surprise herself. Lia caught their edge too; she pulled up with a grimace, letting a few drops of antidote dribble onto the desk. “Shit, Tav, I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” Tav replied, making a fuss of sealing up the filled crate. The thought made her feel rather less than okay, which she didn't want Lia to see. “I think—I don’t know. I feel like I did something rude today, anyway.”

“Oh?” Lia’s tone was light, but she allowed a conspicuous pause to stretch between them. Tav pushed through a twinge of embarrassment to turn to face her.

“Lia, what would you think if I touched your tail?”

Lia glanced up with an eyebrow cocked. “What, right now?”

“No, just—say I did by accident.”

Lia straightened to take a thoughtful inhale. “I mean…it depends on the context. You and I are friends, I wouldn’t think much of it. Unless you grabbed it up by my backside or something,” she added with a laugh. “It wouldn’t be a big deal. If I’m walking somewhere crowded, lots of people might brush against it unless I’m careful.”

Tav had moved around to reset the rest of her clean glassware as she listened, feeling marginally relieved by the explanation.

Then Lia paused her work again. “Are you saying you touched Rolan’s tail?

“You what now?”

With impeccable timing, Cal skidded to a stop at the edge of the conversation, a heavy lockbox under one arm.

Tav glanced between the two of them. “Yes?” The word came out as a question somehow; her mouth went dry as they stared at her. “Like you said, I didn't think it was a big deal. He laid it on my desk while I was working, so I just kind of—” She mimed a little picking-up motion with her hand.

The siblings exchanged a significant look with each other. 

“What?” Tav felt her face burning and knew the color must be noticeable to either of them. “How does it being Rolan’s tail make it different?”

Cal turned back to her with a frown. “What do you mean he laid it on your desk?”

“I don't know, damn—clearly I’m no expert!” She flailed her arms out a bit. “I just turned around and it was sitting there by my hand, all right?”

Another shared glance.

“That explains it,” Cal decided. It earned him a swift pinch on the arm from his sister. “Ow, hey—”

Tav looked between them again, trying to translate. “Explains what? Seriously, if I offended Rolan somehow, I want to kn—”

“You didn’t,” Lia cut in firmly. “This one here's just an idiot. It’s harder to control your tail when you're sick or tired, and Rolan’s been both, that’s all. I'm sure it was a mistake. And he shouldn't have minded you moving it,” she finished with a decisive nod.

With that, Lia snatched up the filled crate from her with one arm and grabbed her brother’s sleeve with the other. Cal stumbled slightly as she pulled him along, but he wisely held his tongue as they headed for the back stockroom. The hinges creaked shut behind them both.

Tav was left standing alone in the cavernous interior of Sorcerous Sundries, beside the desks that she and Rolan used to comfortably share—not sure if she should feel better or worse.

—

The next morning, Rolan was once again nowhere to be found.

He hadn’t even conjured his projection the way he usually did when occupied with research in the Tower. It was a shame; the shop was unusually busy by midday, and Cal and Lia worked without pause. When she could, Tav left her alchemy just to lend a hand with customers or make runs to the supply room.

She found herself worried to the point of irritation. Was Rolan really so stubborn that he wouldn’t take a potion? Or accept healing from someone he’d claimed was a trusted friend and colleague? She tried and failed not to be hurt by it.

Then again, Rolan had always been the type to shoulder his way through awful things alone while firmly turning down help—particularly from her. His apprenticeship, most recently. The memory made her radiantly angry on his behalf even now.

“Shit—” 

Tav jerked away from the flask and sucked on her freshly scalded thumb. She must have the ratios off again; this recipe wasn’t new to her, but the nuances had escaped her all morning. These sublimates shouldn’t get nearly so hot when mixed.

Might as well admit defeat and review the recipe before she wasted yet another bunch of black oleander. Surely there was a reference text somewhere in Rolan’s library?

Tav glanced around to the front of the shop. Cal was recording a sale at the front desk; Lia was chatting with a very large half-orc over near the conjurement runes. Things seemed well enough in hand. Tav damped the flame at her station and quietly took the stairs for the portal.

For lack of a better word: the library of Ramazith’s Tower was absolutely magical. 

Tav stood breathing in the quiet afternoon sunlight, taking an appreciative look up around her. The collection must be the best one this side of Candlekeep, with all sorts of books on spellcraft, Weave theory, alchemy, religion, the history of Toril—just to scratch the surface. She could think of no hands more deserving than the ones its ownership had fallen into.

Just as Lia mentioned the other day, Rolan had clearly been hard at work reorganizing the place. She ran her fingertips over the books’ spines as she walked around the perimeter of the main floor.

She imagined Rolan with his robe sleeves pushed to his elbows, enthusiastically at work in his book stacks, and bit back a grin. There was something so endearing about his passion for taming disorder. As she walked, she found her gaze drifting to the delicate staircase at the far end of the main floor. It spiraled upward invitingly. 

She’d never been to the upper floors of Ramazith’s Tower—nothing past the library. Certainly she hadn’t stepped foot in any of the private quarters of Rolan or his siblings. She wouldn’t even know which door led to whose.

But her mind wandered readily at the thought of Rolan’s bedroom. What it might look like…smell like. 

No doubt it was packed with shelves of books and scrolls, filled with the scent of fresh parchment and leather-bound volumes. That warm, bookish smell that seemed to be woven into his robes. The fresh hint of cedar from the way he kept his clothes meticulously cleaned and stored. And that other faint spice that she could never identify, but always picked up when he stood close to her.

The same scent that had filled her lungs with dizzy pleasure when he’d hovered close to her yesterday, chin brushing her shoulder and arm circled possessively around her waist— 

She bit her lip as heat pooled between her legs at the memory. She couldn't help it—how very fucking nice it had been to feel Rolan’s elegant hands on her, casually and effortlessly touching, as if he was accustomed to touching her much more often and much more intimately.

It would do no good to dwell on that moment. If anything, the uncharacteristic gesture was just proof of how out-of-sorts Rolan must be feeling. He was her friend, and by all accounts, he’d been too sick to leave his room for days. 

With a sudden burst of determination and a disregard for the consequences, she strode for the stairs.

Taking the curving ascent so rapidly left her dizzy. Tav planted her boots on the landing for a moment, holding onto the railing while she took in her surroundings.

This upper hall was also quietly sunlit, filled with fine carpeting and oak paneled walls; but the atmosphere was somehow less grand than the cavernous library below. More intimate. 

Two doors stood on both ends of the hall. Hazarding a guess, she stepped to the closest one on her left. Its heavy oak panels swung forward with the slightest touch.

Not a bedroom at all, but a bath—and a tremendously fine one at that. All the fixtures seemed to be wrought from polished gold. Underneath a towering stained glass window stood the deepest, widest clawfoot tub she’d ever seen.

As she gazed around, Tav caught sight of her reflection in a large glass above the sinks. Her hair was all frizzy flyaways from a day over her potion work. Indulging a bit of vanity, she paused to tame it with her fingers.

One of Rolan’s many endearing habits was his dedication to fastidiousness. Never a hair out of place, horns polished and shining, robes immaculately pressed—knowing him, with a bit of the Weave.

She must look like some sort of wild hedge witch by comparison. Tav had never minded life in the wilds as a wayward adventurer, even after the Elder Brain was felled to the Chionthar. It was part of what drew her to the career of a traveling alchemist. 

But there were moments…most of them in this Tower, with Rolan and his siblings. Sharing a meandering dinner at a real table with actual chairs. Sitting with Rolan out on the starlit balcony, discussing blood alchemy over a glass of wine as they watched the harbor.  

Tav forced her hands still and stared back at her reflection. 

“What do you want?” She muttered to herself. The Tav in the mirror had no answer. But in her mind, one softly bloomed.

Over the past months, her feelings had tumbled forward faster than she could keep up with them. Seeing Rolan, talking with him about anything and everything, working beside him in quiet moments—she found those were the moments she looked forward to most.

His offer to turn one of the Tower’s empty vaults into a greenhouse for her. Essentially giving her a permanent place in his home, if she wanted it. Was it stupid to hope that he wanted more, too?

As she stood frozen silent in the confines of her lavish surroundings, a muffled sound came from her right.

She hadn't noticed the second door past the bathtub; presumably connecting to one of the bedrooms. She realized it most likely led to Rolan’s.

She stepped toward the heavy oak paneling and raised a hand to knock. As she did, more muffled noises came from within. Tav hesitated, questioning whether she should—then leaned in to press one ear to the wood.

There were the sounds of labored breathing, as if from pain or exertion. She strained her ear harder. There was something almost…rhythmic in it.

And then—she could swear—she heard Rolan's voice groan her name aloud.

A shock of heat ran through her chest, prickling up her neck and diving between the cleft of her legs. The rapid, hot ache at her core made her gasp out in surprise, then clap a hand to her mouth lest he heard. She felt her cheeks burning with realization.

Whatever she had expected to find by wandering up here…this had never been on the list. All she saw in her mind’s eye was Rolan, sweating and panting and desperate. And that thought filled her with overwhelming want in response.

Tav pushed herself back from the door with a jolt. She turned and ran, not knowing or caring whether the ring of her footsteps on tile carried past the door. Her pulse pounded against her ears as she rushed out of the room and back for the staircase. 

Even before Tav’s foot hit the third stair, she knew she was headed for the Elfsong. And a very stiff fucking drink.

—

Day passed to night and back to day again in a feverish jumble. Like a vessel adrift in a vast ocean, Rolan was passed along wave after wave of searing impulse.

Had his ruts always been this overwhelming, and he’d just forgotten? Or was there something different about the drives this time around? 

Even the little dignities were stripped away, one by one. He began by conjuring mage hands at first, but his concentration faltered too many times at the cusp. He finally just settled for his own grip. Desperate sounds rose in his chest each time he neared his next finish, the likes of which he’d never utter voluntarily.

And he quickly gave up on clothes altogether. He lay naked and spread-eagle on his sheets and tried to sleep when he could, before his demanding cock inevitably twitched back to life again. The fever turned his dreams shockingly lewd whenever he did manage to drift off.

By sunset, another strong wave of need was pulsing through his core, demanding his attention. Rolan lay back against his pillows and groaned open-mouthed as he stroked himself.

Even slick with oil, the friction between his hand and the raw, overstimulated ridges of his cock bordered on painful. His finish danced out of reach to the back of his mind.

With an impatient growl, he flipped over to his knees and snatched up a feather pillow, folding it into a sleeve for his cock. A crude solution—but with his first few thrusts, the cool softness of the silk caused a moan of relief to rise in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut as he fucked his own pillow in a desperate chase for relief.

And behind his eyelids, there she was again.

Tav appeared there so easily now. He’d tried to fight it at first—ashamed to be using her like this, without her knowledge or consent—but he found that nothing satisfied his urges so well as when he pictured her on his cock.

So he closed his eyes and imagined Tav…pliant, eager, hungry. Legs spread and center dripping with desire for him. The shameful depth of his need faded away as he fantasized her own. How her eyes might shine as she panted and gasped under him, calling him by name and begging him to fuck her and fill her and mark her as his—

What would she sound like as he took her? He conjured the timbre of her voice, always warm and musical, now canting to a whine as the ridges at his base slammed against her with each thrust.

Pressure coiled rapid and hot at his loins. Rolan slid off the mattress with legs braced, the pillow cast aside, and tugged frantically at his stiff length again. His tail arched and flicked behind him.

Through clenched eyelids he saw Tav laid at the foot of his bed, hair splayed in a messy crown against his sheets as she cried out his name. Her legs crossed behind his flanks to hold him deep inside her tight wet heat—

‘Rolan—’ She moaned louder, her heels digging into his lower back as he took her. Tav gripped two handfuls of the bedding underneath as he thrust relentlessly, chasing more of her heat around his cock, more of the delicious scent at her throat and between her legs—

“Rolan!”

“Fuck—” With a strangled gasp, Rolan’s hips stuttered one last time as his come spilled in ropes to the floor. Panting and shaking, he caught hold of the bed post with one hand as he frantically worked out the rest of his finish with the other. His head spun with the force of it.

But as he opened his eyes and his vision cleared, so did that cottony feeling in his ears. Someone was rapping insistently on the door to his room.

“Rolan, we need to talk—” Even muffled by the heavy wood, Tav’s voice was unmistakable.

“Fuck,” Rolan hissed again, this time with enough wits about him to panic. How much of that last performance could she hear through the door? He snatched up the nearest towel to wipe himself, then tripped away toward the pile of clothes on the floor that had lain untouched since yesterday.

“Go away,” he called tersely, nevertheless yanking the trousers up over his hips. Thank hells that last round had left him soft enough he could do up the laces for now.

On the other side of the door, she was undeterred. “I’m not leaving till I’ve seen you.”

Rolan cursed as one of his horns snagged the ties at the neck of his shirt. Once the fabric dropped over his torso, he whirled around to take in the state of his room. 

Bedsheets pulled sideways from the mattress; pillows strewn across the floorboards; air thick with the smell of him. Absolute filthy shambles.

Using a rush of energy he couldn't afford, he cast a mass prestidigitation spell on the space. The improvement in the air was immediate. But the resulting light-headedness caused him to stumble forward; he caught himself with a hand braced on the door frame.

“I'm not joking,” Tav called loudly, unaware he was now much closer.

He could have yelled at her to wait outside for another week, then, if he wasn't so sure she was stubborn enough to actually do so. After all, this was the person who’d defeated an Elder Brain and taken on several gods in the process.

That…and he found he badly wanted to see Tav in the flesh. Hearing her voice from just beyond his bedroom door only increased that desire. Rolan’s tail lashed behind him in helpless frustration.

“What do you want?” He asked instead, lowering his voice. No use broadcasting any more of this conversation to the whole Tower.

There was a pause on the other side of the oak paneling. “I’ve barely seen you since I got here,” Tav’s voice replied, matching his volume.

“And?” 

“And I'm worried about you…obviously,” she added. “Cal and Lia said you’re sick. But I’d feel better if we could talk face to face.” Even through the barrier between them, he could hear a strain in her voice. She wasn't lying. 

Rolan rested his horns against his braced forearm with a sigh. “Tav, I swear I'm perfectly fine.”

“Then just open the door a moment. Please, Rolan?”

It was far too pleasant to hear her say his name outside of his own imaginings. Rolan glanced down at himself. Barefoot, shirt untucked, but technically presentable. And not pitching a tent for once in the past twenty-four hours. 

“If I do, will you leave?” 

There was another pause. “If you want me to,” came the reply. He unbolted the latch and drew it open to shoulder width.

The wave of Tav’s scent hit him almost before he registered her face in front of him. The sweetness of it overwhelmed his other senses for a moment. It tested all Rolan’s limited reserves of sanity not to grab her by the waist and pull her body against him.

Unaware of the silent struggle raging in his chest, Tav stood with face tilted up toward his. Her eyes had traveled over his figure immediately, checking him over with a worried little crease between her brows. Something at the side of his head caught her eye; Rolan realized his hair hung loose and rather sweaty, exposing the slender tips of his ears.

Her demeanor changed at the sight. Tav sighed, leaning her head against the flat of the door.

“You’re even handsome with a fever,” she told him softly.

Rolan blinked at her. Perhaps exhaustion and hormones were driving him to hallucinations. “What are you—”

Faster than he could react, her palms landed on either side of his face, and Tav pulled his mouth down to hers.

A burst of colors exploded behind his eyes; the sensation of her lips moving on his kindled the dormant heat in his body to wild blaze. She notched her hands upward as she kissed him, and her fingers slid up along the sensitive tapers of both his ears.

Rolan let out a hungry, animal sound against her mouth. Both hands landed on her back and crushed the line of her body forward into his, leaving no space between them. He could feel the soft hills of her breasts pressing against his chest through clothing. The warm scent rolling off her skin and hair surrounded him with dizzying force.

The higher part of his mind was screaming at him. Rolan desperately tried to focus on what it was saying; as he did, he caught the tang of wine on her lips. The discovery gave him just enough will to pull back from her.

And he did, with one jerking step back into his chambers. “You can’t be here.”

Tav stood panting through parted lips, eyes half-lidded as they traveled over him. Rolan felt flames lick his skin everywhere they moved.

“Why not?” She breathed. “I wanted to see you.”

“You’re drunk,” he told her. He rather felt that way himself, still reeling from the electricity of kissing her.

Tav pouted at that, and Rolan wished to bite that lower lip firmly between his teeth. “I’m not drunk,” she corrected. “I’ve had a drink. There’s a difference.”

“You wouldn’t be here if—”

“If what?” Tav watched him as she took a step closer. Rolan stepped back in tandem, reflexive. She was well over the threshold now. “If I knew what was really happening to you?”

Those words sounded much more knowing than he liked. Rolan stared at her, trying to read into her face. He swallowed against the dry lump of his tongue and went out on a limb. “Which one of them told you?”

Tav shook her head. “Cal and Lia have been nothing but discreet.” 

“Then how could you possibly understand?” He demanded. The very recent discovery of how soft Tav’s lips were was making it very difficult to maintain this conversation. He could still feel the way her body had pressed into him.

One corner of her mouth twitched. “Rolan, I’d like to think I’m not completely oblivious. There have been…signs. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about them. I’ve been at the Elfsong all afternoon, just—thinking.”

At that, Rolan felt his tail twitching nervously behind him. “I see,” he replied. Pivoting, like an idiot, trying to pretend this was a perfectly acceptable conversation to have with the woman who occupied most of his thoughts when he was pleasuring himself. “And you think that I—that my—”

Tav made a quick twisting motion to get around the door. She latched it and drew the bolt closed behind them, then turned back to him.

“A lot of humans have heard rumors about Tieflings,” she confessed. “Some stupid, but some credible. I’m saying this is maybe not the secret that you think it is.” As he watched, a much deeper blush spread over Tav’s cheeks. She glanced away to the side. 

“Rolan…I grew up in the Dales, remember? Around rabbits, and cattle, and oxen. Half my friends lived on farms.”

Her analogy couldn’t be clearer. To hear her lay it out so plainly—Rolan felt the last dregs of his pride shrivel up and die. He gripped two palms over his eyes and let out a groan of abject humiliation, turning away to the middle of the room. 

How early had she connected the dots? The moment she felt him brazenly place a hand around her? Had she known all along that he was locked up here, rutting into every one of his pillows?

“Look, Rolan, I’m sorry—I didn’t know how else to say it—” 

Completely overwhelmed by his embarrassment, he hadn’t heard her follow. When Rolan finally dropped his hands from his face, he turned to find Tav standing very close to his chest.

“And I’m sorry for kissing you before,” she blurted out. “I mean, I’m not sorry for it…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, to be honest. But it wasn’t fair. I just…wanted to know how you’d react.”

Rolan watched as her chest rose and fell heavily where she stood. The look in her eyes made his blood pound through his veins. He felt an urge to reach out and smooth back her hair to bring her in for another kiss, one he resisted.

“I care about you,” Rolan told her, before he could lose his nerve. “Our friendship. I respect you, Tav, it’s not worth—muddying things with this.” 

He felt fingers lacing through the ones that hung at his side, and despite his words Rolan tightened his grip automatically. Her hand was so pleasantly cool against the heat of his skin.

“Why do you think I’m here?” Tav answered earnestly. “I care about you, too. If I can help, I want to. Please—”

She was so close to him; Rolan breathed shallowly, but the warm scent rolling off her skin and hair nevertheless swept past him with dizzying force.

“You don’t know what you’re offering,” he managed hoarsely.

She didn’t falter. “Then tell me what else you think I should know.”

His senses were growing clouded with her; the offer that had tumbled so easily from her rang in his ears. It made the thread of Rolan’s control stretch dangerously taut.

“I won’t be gentle,” he warned. 

His inadvertent shift in tone changed something in the air between them. There was a crackling energy that hadn't been there a second before.

Tav licked her lips as she watched him. “Good.”

Rolan thought he might melt from the heat that spread across his skin. His tail snapped against the mattress behind him. If she moved a step closer, she’d feel how hard he was in his pants.

“Mating bites,” he went on hoarsely. “I’ll mark you. Quite a lot. I’ll try not to draw blood, but…I can’t promise it.”

Tav nodded. “What else?” She asked, encouraging him to go on. 

Rolan swallowed against the embarrassment. But this was important for her to know. “This time for us, it’s all about…reproduction. We become quite virile.” He nearly choked, but there was simply no other way to put it. “For the urges to pass quicker, I need to come in you.”

Tav let out a throaty hum of approval. His cock twitched in his pants at the sound. “That’s fine, I take preventatives—it’s safe.”

They stood looking at each other for another moment. That shivery, electric feeling buzzed in the air around them. Rolan wondered if she could hear the way his heart drummed against his ribs.

Tav leaned in slightly. “Well…” She said, and her wet tongue passed nervously between her lips again.

That taut thread in his chest snapped in two. Rolan crushed her up against him with a whimper. Arms circling around her waist, he nudged a thigh between her legs and firmly ground their hips together.

Tav matched his eagerness. Their lips crashed together; at the back of his mind, he felt her grip cradling under each of his ears. Her fingertips licked like flame against his scalp.

Even through layers of clothing, he could feel the heat of her. Rolan jerked her hips forward harder against his thigh; the swelling length of his cock pressed against her soft, yielding center. Tav dipped her head back from the kiss, arching into him with a moan, and her fingertips laced at the nape of his neck. 

It offered an irresistible angle at the column of her throat. Rolan’s claws raked back in her hair, pulling it to a tight ponytail. Then he tugged firmly, holding her open as his mouth descended on her neck.

He kissed and sucked along the band of muscle from her ear to the curve of her shoulder, then parted his lips to bite down firmly on her soft flesh. 

“Yes,” Tav moaned in approval above him. Her hips rolled into his, grinding herself against the hard cock straining in his pants. Rolan felt her pulse skip against his mouth. Only when he tasted sweet copper did he pull away, laving his tongue over the crimson pin-pricks of his teeth into her skin.

He took only a moment to admire the trail of marks blooming along her neck. Tav was already pulling him in for another kiss. Their lips crashed together with bruising force; her tongue explored, tasting, searching for proof of her blood against his tongue and moaning against him when she found it.

Her scent filled his mind. Without breaking from her mouth, he plucked open the laces of her pants. Rolan slipped his hand under the waistband, beneath her smalls, and slid two fingers to dip down between her legs. Her folds were shining-slick; as he nudged her in circles, a trickle of her arousal rolled down his fingers. She shivered prettily under his touch.

“You’re soaked,” Rolan groaned against her neck. 

“All because of you,” she breathed without hesitation. “Been wanting this, gods, wanting you for months. Your hands on me—cock in me—”

At the words he withdrew his fingers from her impatiently, then sucked them clean. Her sweet taste on his tongue made his cock ache. She scarcely had time to curse at the sight before Rolan gripped both arms around her waist to lift her into him.

With one quick pivot, he landed her down on the bed with his frame pressed into her. Her legs hung off the edge from the hip down, and he used the position to grind the stiff length in his pants against her cleft.

Even fully clothed, it was maddening. He could feel the wet patch between her legs, and when she arched further into him, a primal growl rumbled in his chest. 

Tav’s fingers were brushing at his sides, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Off,” she panted impatiently.

Rolan tilted back to rip the garment up over his horns, immediately reaching for her own once his was free. He stripped her frantically, ripping her smallclothes in two before he could work them down her thighs.

When she lay bare beneath him, moaning and arching into everywhere he touched, he was overcome with hunger for more of her taste. 

Rolan gripped her hips, dragging her with a jerk to the edge of the bed. With her glistening folds displayed before him, all he could do was drop to his knees and bury his tongue between them.

The sounds she made were like sweet music as he explored her. He sucked and massaged her slit with his tongue, then plunged it as deep within her walls as he could. His eyes rolled back in his head. Her taste surrounded him; his nose brushed her clit as he ate her, further overwhelming his senses with the scent of her arousal.

“Gods, yes, Rolan—” Tav moaned above him as her hands flew to grip each of his horns. She alternately tugged them and arched into his mouth, grinding her clit against his face.

He wanted to hear her say his name like that another thousand times. Rolan curled his tongue against her walls, determined to taste her even deeper, but to no avail. Without his sharp nails, he would have sunk two fingers into her.

Instead, as his mouth left her, the ridged end of his tail looped around to brush over her slit.

“Ah—” Tav gasped from the bed. One of her hands left him to prop up on an elbow to look. 

He watched her face in adoration as his tail slid between her soaked lips, coating itself in a mixture of her arousal and his saliva. Once it was thoroughly wet, he let the heart-shaped tip push experimentally into her.

Whatever hesitation he had evaporated at the way she arched and keened. He pushed in further, inch by inch, hissing in breath at how tight and wet her walls squeezed around him. Rolan felt his cock leaking between his legs at the sight of his tail disappearing into her plush cunt.

“Taking my tail so well,” Rolan praised without thinking, then groaned. “Fuck, Tav, you’re so tight—”

“Don’t stop,” she demanded, breathless.

When he felt the tip brush the limits of her insides, he held it steady as she panted down at him. Her mouth hung open in anticipation as she watched him lean in again for her center.

But instead of landing on her clit, his mouth met with the soft skin of her inner thigh and sucked it firmly between his teeth.

Tav gave a little yelp of pain, but her walls constricted around his tail so hard he moaned against her flesh. He left two more lovely red marks against her thigh before withdrawing his tail from her, leaving only the tip inside her silk.

Then he thrust back into her and took up a forceful rhythm of stretching her open on his tail.

“Fucking gods,” she gasped, gripping both his horns again. He felt her use them as leverage as she bounced her hips down to meet him. 

“Like this, don’t you?” Rolan urged her on, drunk off her desire. “Fucking yourself on my tail—” He leaned down to take another taste of her clit, swirling and sucking as the ridges on his tail dragged more wetness out of her with each thrust.

“Yes,” Tav moaned, shaking under him as his tongue worked over her clit. “Feels so perfect in me, so—ngh—!”

When he flicked the tip of it up inside her, Tav’s words stuttered to incoherence. He felt her inner walls clench and flutter, and repeated the motion over and over with each thrust.

“I’m—oh, oh ohohoh—”

She dissolved into soft cries. The muscles at her core tensed and shuddered as she climaxed against his tongue. Rolan withdrew his tail from her with a slick release, instead clasping his mouth over her to lap down the sweet taste that poured from her. His pants were so wet he was nearly convinced he’d already come, but he felt his cock straining against the fabric just as firmly.

When her thighs collapsed limp to either side, Rolan pushed himself to his feet for a look at her. Tav’s eyes were bright, cheeks flushed with arousal, her hair coiled out in wild tendrils that framed her like a crown. Their eyes met; with both hands on his arms, she pulled him down for a kiss.

Rolan landed braced on his forearms. Their tongues slid and pushed together, trading the taste of her release. When he felt her reaching between them to undo his laces, he pulled away to loose them and strip off the rest of his clothes. 

Tav reached for his erection, and before he’d steadied himself, she gripped his length to drag the generous droplets of precum around his tip with her thumb. His hips bucked into her.

“Eager, aren’t you?” She teased softly.

“Yes,” Rolan groaned. Tav’s soft hand was around his cock for the first time; it was all he could do to locate words. He knew his face was flushed and tense with arousal, but Tav only looked up at him with appreciation from where she lay back on his bed. 

When she guided his length across the wet of her core, he rocked his hips to drag his ridges across her. She shivered slightly, still sensitive, but rolled into him.

“Need you,” Rolan panted, not sure whether he was asking her or begging. “Tav—please—”

Tav’s hand lined him up with her entrance. When his leaking tip nudged inside her, Rolan pushed forward with one slow, determined cant of his hips.

The cool slick of her walls clutched each inch of him so perfectly. A low groan rose in Rolan’s throat—this was the closest thing to real satisfaction that he’d gotten in days, and he hadn't even started moving yet.

“So good,” Tav said under him, voice sweet and husky. “Keep going—”

Rolan braced his hands against her hips. He pulled out slowly, legs shaking beneath him, then pushed back into the tight plush of her. 

His hips took up a firm pace, and Rolan couldn't bite back his whines as he plunged his cock inside her. Whatever his fevered imagination had conjured, it was nothing compared to this—he fell over her again, fangs skating against her breast as her body rocked under him with each thrust.

“Yes, yes, fuck—” Tav was just as breathless as her fingers gripped the infernal ridges on his shoulder blades. She tugged, egging him on.

Rolan took the invitation with enthusiasm. He nipped and sucked around the swell of her breast, breathing in lungfuls of the sweetness rolling off her skin.

“Harder,” Tav begged, the words vibrating against his lips. The hunger inside him surged in agreement.

Rolan’s lips fastened over one nipple. He sucked, hard, letting his tongue roll her against his teeth. Tav let out a whimper, but he felt her legs crossing around his hips as he continued to bury himself in her.

Rolan pulled away to look at her face. A mist of sweat dusted her brow; Tav’s lips were parted and twitching with silent words. 

“Look at me,” Rolan ordered, still filling her with his cock in a steady rhythm.

Tav obeyed, her eyes shining and pupils blown wide. He straightened away from her, never breaking, and laid a hand each on her calves. Then he pushed up, folding her legs to her chest and opening up her cunt even deeper for him.

“You look so beautiful like this, Tav,” he told her, thighs trembling with the effort of keeping his pace slow and steady. “Folded in half in my bed. Stretched around my cock so perfectly.”

In response, Tav’s hands grabbed her knees, pulling herself open even further to each side. “Is this how you imagined it?” She asked wickedly. “All alone—wishing it was me and not your own hand—”

Heat prickled across his neck and shoulders, but Rolan was too far gone to feel shame. He couldn't resist breaking eye contact, however, watching the way his cock stretched open her dripping cunt.

“Just like this,” he panted in answer. She took in breath to respond, but he was already slamming back into her at a reckless pace.

The lewd, wet sounds of his thrusts filled the room, layered with their chorus of whines and moans. Rolan shuddered at how slick and tight she was around him, perfectly gripping each inch of his needy length. His cock throbbed in anticipation of a satisfying release, finally, after all these times of not quite enough—

“I’m close,” he panted, gripping her hips to pull her down deeper onto his cock. The tip of him nudged against the limits of her walls. “Where should—”

“Inside,” Tav insisted, still holding herself wide for him. “Only inside, Rolan, want you to fill me up—fuck—”

The imagery pushed him over the edge, and he did just that. With a throb of release, he felt his cock pulsing and filling her deepest walls with his seed. His hips stuttered into her as he pushed his spend as far into her as he could reach.

Tav clutched his shoulders as he came, humming and moaning out praises for him. Their hips rocked together, nudging his coated length back against her deep center. 

Tav went tense under him. He forced his eyes open and saw her lips parted in surprise.

“I’m—oh—!” 

She gasped in shock as her own climax gripped her. Rolan hissed in breath at the way she clenched and fluttered so suddenly around him. His length was still hard, and his ridges pulsed against her.

As she drifted back down, Tav’s eyes finally lit on him in a daze. “What…what was that?”

Rolan was abruptly reminded of how many ruts he’d spent without a partner. “I'm sorry, I should've warned you,” he confessed. It was hard to form his thoughts while still inside her. “During the cycle…infernal traits get stronger. Like incubi. Helps attract a partner.” Somehow this explanation was more embarrassing than any of the other filth he’d just spoken to her.

Tav stared up at him. “You're saying your come is going to make me come?”

“Essentially.” Rolan shifted inside her slightly, still not confident he was done. “I apologize—I didn't think to tell you. Is that a problem?”

“Rolan—” Tav let out a breathless laugh, and the sound went straight to his chest. “This is the exact opposite of a problem. Just a bit of a shock, that's all.”

The lovely sight of her happy and satisfied under him was too much to resist. Rolan leaned forward on his arms to kiss her, trapping her legs between their chests.

As her hand stroked softly under his jaw, Rolan felt a second ache settling in his loins. He released her lips for just long enough to push her legs out over his hips, then ducked back down for her mouth.

He rolled his hips into her slower this time, but it was somehow more intense. Their lips stayed connected as he drove into her deep. Her walls were slippery with arousal and his own seed, and they gripped like pure silk around his cock. Her opening slid over the sensitive ridges at his base with each thrust.

When he dipped a thumb between their bodies to rub circles over her clit, Tav broke away with a little gasp.

“I can’t again,” she said, panting.

“You can,” he told her simply. “Hold on to me—” 

She did, wrapping both arms and legs firmly around him as if he was her anchor. Rolan dipped his head to her neck as he doubled his pace, their hips slotting together with each brisk slide into her. He breathed deep against the curve of her shoulder.

Still so hungry for release, it wasn't long before he came again hard. This time he just barely pumped his spend into her before he pulled out to look down.

Sticky white seed dribbled out of her slit, running down toward her hole. He dipped the thumb circling her clit down to swipe it back up across her cunt, painting his come across the bundle of nerves at her peak.

Tav’s thighs twitched under him, and she gripped his arm tight with one hand. She swore as he continued flicking across her clit with the wet pad of his thumb, then whined out his name.

While her next orgasm nearly doubled her in half, Rolan tilted his head to watch the sight between her legs. She was soaked, twitching, utterly intoxicating. Her contracting walls pushed more of his spend out of her; it flowed generously from her slit and soaked down into the bedding below.

Finding himself now utterly spent, Rolan collapsed on his back next to her. As he did, he realized his legs had grown fatigued to the point of buckling from the exertions. He let his body sink heavy into the mattress. 

“I made a mess on your sheets,” Tav panted from beside him. 

Rolan groaned at her descriptive language. The fact that his length continued softening was a sign his urges were finally giving him a reprieve, however. “It was mostly my fault.”

She only let out a weak breath of laughter.

Too tired to trust his shaking legs, he reached an arm blind over the side of the bed and snatched up the first fabric it touched. His discarded shirt.

Pushing himself seated, he gently reached to dry between Tav’s legs. One of her hands traced the ridges on his back as he quietly tended to her.

“How long before the next?” She asked him.

“An hour or two.” Rolan didn't look at her. “Tav, you've done more than enough for m—”

The mattress shifted as she sat up and turned his face into a waiting kiss. It was soft, just a chorus of little presses across his lips.

When Tav pulled away, she tucked the damp curtain of his hair behind one ear. “Rolan, unless you want me to go, I'm staying until it’s over.”

Rolan cast a glance over her. Despite the fact that she was naked in his bed and covered in blooming bruises from his mouth, she was very much the same Tav as ever. “Thank you,” he told her quietly.

She pushed him onto his back with a sudden laugh, landing with her chest pressed to his. “What an utterly Rolan thing to say,” she mused. “Need I remind you I just came three times?”

Tav was teasing him, and was of a mind to put her in her place—only he found that none of his limbs wanted to move at the moment. Instead, his only response was a deep hum as his eyelids drooped shut.

He felt the mattress shift as she rose and wished he could reach out to stop her. But a moment later she curled up next to him again, dragging a soft quilt over their bodies. 

Rolan turned inward to rest his head on Tav’s chest—and fell into his first real slumber in days.

[comfortless]

Priest!König and succubus!reader perhaps 👀? (Unless you're uncomfortable)

cracking my knuckles… sin??

18+. minors do not interact. this is a little shameless. corruption kink, religion, implied virgin!König, cunnilingus, come eating, a little angst.

It’s rare to find a parishioner in the confessional this late; the church’s doors were always open, their opening and shutting is not what had König stirring from a restless sleep, but the creaking of the old hinges in that little booth certainly had. The priest hurriedly dresses himself in his cassock and makes his way to the opposite end, closing the door behind him as he wearily drags himself to his seat.

“Father,” the voice greets on the other side, so soft and quiet he can hardly hear her at all. Shy, almost. The woman on the other side seems to shift, her movement rustling against the boards of wood that separate them.

“Bless me… I have never made a confession before.”

Not a parishioner, then. A stranger coming under the veil of night… König allows a silence to settle over the confessional for a moment before he produces the holy text and sets it in his lap in preparation to free this poor woman from the sin that binds her.

“Go on then, child,” he encourages, tone mirroring her own. The priest anticipates the usual: admissions of lust, falsehoods, or the common doubts. He has pages dog-eared in his book that list of scriptures for those common problems, the ones he would easily find the words to pray for, to cleanse her soul, to hopefully return to his bed to sleep before morning prayers.

There’s laughter from the other side of the booth, muffled as though an attempt to stifle it beneath her palm had been made. Then, “Father, what if I do not wish to be absolved?”

There had been no preparations made for that, but something in the tone of her voice holds his attention. His side of the booth regains its silence as his brow pinches, determined to piece together some reasoning as to why someone would choose to play some dull prank on him of all people…

“Let me see you.”

Her demand catches him off guard again, but of all things this is hardly strange. Her tone suggests nervousness, a feeling he knows all too well as he wrings his hands and rises with a heavy sigh. The door shuts quietly behind him as he waits for the woman to follow suit. A soft rustling follows his leaving from her side, and when she does step out…

No amount of internal Hail Marys could keep his stare from lingering upon the sight of a woman nude: it isn’t that he hasn’t fantasized before, he would take his lashes and fastings and sit in the quiet of his room to comfort himself with prayer after a weak defeat to his own sins. Still… imagination could not compare to the real thing; he takes note of each soft curve, each dip and line and groove of her. Her breasts are soft, her hips enticing, the length of her legs and what lies between her thighs…

He damns himself the moment his cock twitches to life below the cassock, there’s no slow tensing; only the immediate feeling of feeling horribly confined within his own clothes. He breathes out a drawn out sigh, feigning disinterest when his eyes squeeze shut and he turns his head from her.

“… You need to leave.”

The woman’s lips purse in a small pout when he does will himself to meet her eyes again- just her eyes. No part of him wishes to lose his place in heaven, let alone take advantage of some poor lady who clearly must have lost—

“But you are so lonely… I only want to help,” she whispers, her eyes are wet and pleading, expression only further softening as she gazes up at him with an adoration he hasn’t even seen on his flock.

And those words… something shatters in him, breaks into a thousand tiny pieces when he recounts all of those miserable nights lying in bed alone, imagining a woman as he pulled his cock free and gave himself so many weak, dull orgasms that the skin of it began to sting. If God could forgive him for his weakness then… surely, just once he could allow this.

König sighs again when her hands move to free him of the cassock, but he does not take her wrist to stop her. Even with each hesitant motion, he doesn’t take her wrists into his hands or push her away. He lets her strip him bare, lets her see the way his cock drools at the sight of her and his breath seems to stutter in his chest.

“See? It’s alright,” she coos as she takes his face into her gentle hands. There’s Hell in her eyes, the devil on a forked tongue, but he allows her to guide his face downward, to bring his mouth to her tit, and he feasts upon her. To have his last supper be forbidden fruit… all of the metaphors buzz in his head when his tongue begins to circle her nipple, then the other without her even needing to prompt him.

He could not even begin to describe the sounds she made, like the softest of voices amidst the roaring of a choir in his head, Hell’s wailing and Heaven’s chiming all at once as he licks his way down her sternum, her middle and finds his nose pressed to her mound. Nothing in Heaven could have tasted as sweet as her, no amount of lashing could pull the same shudder from him as he feels course through each knob of his spine when his tongue lathes over her slit, up to the hood of her clit and back.

The sounds of her pleasure only increase further when his grip on her thighs forces her to kneel. He maneuvers her onto her hands and knees to lick her properly, eat her out in ways he had only imagined himself doing before as he grips his weeping manhood in one hand and grips her ass with the other. His tongue sweeps over her in repetition— sloppy, clumsy even as he tries to keep himself from spilling into his palm from her taste and the sight alone.

He gets… curious, flicks his tongue over her other hole too and his fingers move to graze over her clit. She encourages him with soft squeals of pure delight, even draws her hand back to touch herself while he spears his tongue in her hole. If it’s only once, he would be sure to make the most of it.

Lust is not his only sin, because pride wells up deep inside of him the moment she orgasms. He smiles, grins, before he buries his tongue back into her leaking cunt, desperate to consume her, lapping inside, around, over her her until she shivers and whines, saying that it’s far too much.

He doesn’t know how to fuck her properly, admits it sheepishly when she lies back on the floor intent to have her take him in some gentle manner, sweet for her sweet priest. Missionary of all things seemed most blasphemous considering where they are, beneath a holy roof.

So, she opts to climb into his lap, seats herself on his cock in one go. He knows he’s well-endowed, thick and lengthy, and he babbles his concerns about breaking her in a weak string of words. Her cunt is too tight, he feels the way she stretches to accommodate him, each ridge of her walls when she squeezes him… The woman only tosses her head back and laughs, digs her nails into his shoulders as she bounces on his cock with such an easy grace he can’t watch— can’t because he already feels himself beginning to tense, feels the blinding heat spread from the pit of his stomach to pull his balls taut.

He swears he sees the angels right before she pulls off of him, leaves him a trembling, aching mess where the wetness of her own arousal has spilled down to his thighs.

“I want you to pray,” she suggests, sweetly peppering his face in the most chaste of kisses. “Pray you get to finish in me.”

She wants to ruin him, wants drag him down to Hell with her. There are no protests when she bends over to present herself to him; the priest does as she asks in a whisper, pleads for her and when it’s done, his reward in in the form of two words “good boy” and her tight, pulsing heat wrapped around him again.

He doesn’t last long, doesn’t even try to anymore for fear she may decide to leave him high and dry entirely. He ruts into her with a grip on the back of her neck and the plushness of her hip, leans his weight entirely over her as the sounds of impact fill the hollow church. God isn’t watching, but the little succubus below him is so appeased and her favor is all he can care for anymore.

When he comes, he fucks her through it, doesn’t even attempt to slow down as he whines into her ear about how good she feels, how they could get married, have this forever and he will show her the light. Fuck, he would leave the church behind entirely for her if she would just let him feel this every night. His thrusts only slow when he grows soft, when he can’t even keep himself inside of her cunt, slippery with his own seed.

She lies back, spreads her legs and lets him see what he’s done, fingers herself and presses his own come to his lips. She tells him he’s fed her better than anyone else, tells him to have a taste too and he does. He laps at her fingers as desperately as he had her pussy, until she pulls away, wipes his saliva onto her thigh and asks him if he’s ready to sleep.

The bed feels so much warmer with another person present, safer somehow even if he’s never felt himself in any danger… not here. He falls asleep in her embrace, the most blissful sleep he’s ever had. It’s only a shame that he had… because when he wakes in the morning the woman is gone. He misses his prayers searching for her, for even a trace of what occurred between them. There’s no stain on the floor or clothing in the confessional… not even a note to suggest she would return.

He goes back to his sad masturbation sessions, doesn’t even repent for the way he wanders into the confessional after service to fuck his fist and imagine her voice calling to him from the other side. He pictures her body beneath him, thinks of her praise and the way she damned him when he shoots spurts of wasted come against the boards. There’s no love, no woman at his side when he returns to his bed at night, but he has his imagination for that too.

[yes-divine-ruler]

okay so hear me out. fem!reader tied and gagged to an office chair, knees to her shoulders, spread wide. kai has been edging her for at least an hour for a webcam show (fingers, mouth, toys). she is creaming, crying, whimpering. kai won’t let her cum unless the guys watching the webcam show pay up. and when they do, he finally fucks her brains out and lets her cum.

Cam Girl - Kai Anderson

x fem!reader

cw: sex toys, edging, overstimulation, sex, webcam stuff

this request has been driving me crazy n I finally wrote it <3

You sat, front and centre, in the perfect view of your webcam. With heavy-lidded eyes, you could barely find the energy to watch what was happening on the screen in front of you. Your knees pressed hard against your shoulders, applying pressure just short of pain. Thick, heavy rope bound your legs open, exposing your dripping core to anyone who wanted to see it. Tape secured your tired body to the office chair that was already sticky and soaking from the hours you’d been sat on it.

Kai had disappeared for only a moment. A moment that was long enough to get your breath back. When he returned by your side, he let out a low whistle in disappointment. You knew that reaction. You knew that meant that you’d be stuck there for longer. Kai had spent the evening stimulating you to the edge. You didn’t know who was watching, or how much money you’d racked up. You were only a prop in Kai’s cam show; the cam show that funded his great cause.

“Steve! You sick fuck,” Kai laughed as he took off a black, latex glove to scroll through the pinging comments, “you know an extra grand will get you want you want.”

You just wanted to spit out the ball gag that was strapped to your mouth and scream. Your desperate gaze searched for Kai’s, and when it found his, Kai only shot you a small smirk.

“You wanna cum so bad, don’t you baby?” All you could do was nod your head in response. Kai exhales a berated sigh, and reaches for the paddle on his desk. Oh god, please no - your insistent nodding quickly turned to a vigorous head shake. You were on the brink of passing out and more torture only meant you’d be further from reaching your climax.

“I can’t let you cum until Steve or, Alan Blayne, pays up,” Kai hunches over the desktop, continuing to read their comments, “oh? You do want me to spank her little, raw cunt?”

You cry from behind the gag, shaking your head harder to protest. The computer continues to ping as tips and messages come through, similar to a round of applause.

“It’s what they want baby,” Kai says to you cooly, positioning the paddle over your swollen clit, “are you gonna be a good girl for me and sit still?”

Regardless of how you were feeling, you knew that you’d have to obey. Nodding your head sullenly, you brace yourself for the first hit from the paddle.

“Good girl,” Kai growls, before he strikes your sore cunt with the head of the sex toy. Your eyes squeeze closed as you try to overcome the sting. Your cunt oozes arousal, making a greater mess of the office chair. Kai sinks a single digit into your weeping cunt, and your eyes shoot open in surprise.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Kai chuckles, reaching out and caressing your tear soaked cheek with the back of his hand.

Boisterous ringing, a like to dropping a stack of coins sound from the speakers. You exhale a breath of relief through your nose.

“Fuck yeah,” Kai bites his lip as his reaches for the hitachi on the desk, “looks like my our little bunny gets to cum tonight.”

Your core aches with anticipation as Kai clicks on the vibrator. The only thought you could muster was that you were finally going to be able to cum. Bracing yourself with excitement, you plead with Kai with your eyes.

“Not long now baby, you must be so desperate,” Kai drinks in your appearance. He wasn’t going to be letting you off after this, he needed to sink his cock into your begging cunt just to see how it felt. An easy extra grand for him.

Kai positions the head of the vibrator over your clit, hard. The vibrations surge through your core, tipping you closer to the edge faster than you thought.

“That’s it. Right there, isn’t it? You’re gonna cum so soon aren’t you?” Kai’s gloved fingers dip back into your cunt, digging into your swollen sweet spot with an expert curl of his long fingers.

Your head tilts back as the remainder of energy drains from you, stopping you from keeping it up right. His fingers work inside you fast, and complimented by the fast vibrations, the coil in your belly snaps.

“Let go bunny, cum,” Kai finger-fucks you until you’re screaming, muffled to Kai’s and the viewers’ advantage by the gag. Waves of ecstasy billow through your exhausted body, as it convulses in time with the intense vibrations.

Kai chucks the vibrator to the side and slips off his pants and boxers. Hovering above you, he spits on his rock-hard cock and drives it towards your oversensitive cunt. His palms rest on the insides of your thighs as he bottoms out seamlessly inside you, filling you to the brink with his entire length.

“Ohh fuck,” Kai seethes between grit teeth, as he ruts his hips into yours. The tears continue to stream down your face as you toss fiercely within your tight constraints.

“Gonna fill that pretty, sensitive pussy up with my cum okay? Holy shit, you’re so fucking wet, you’re soaking my cock right now.” Kai spreads your legs impossibly wider with his force, stuffing his cock deeper inside you with every unforgiving thrust.

You continue to sob as the fire in your belly overwhelms you, letting you know you’re going to cum again. The ringing from the desktop and the lewd squelching sounds of your pussy fill your ears as your body gives in to another orgasm.

“Good fucking girl, that’s another orgasm for me,” Kai bites at your exposed shoulder. His balls slap against your skin from how hard he’s driving into your cunt.

“Oh fuck, I’m cumming,” Kai groans as he empties his load inside you, filling you to the brink with the cum he’d been saving for you for hours.

He pulls out of your cunt with a wet pop, turning to the desktop and leaving you moving in and out of consciousness.

“That’s almost four grand tonight. See you next week, suckers!”

Kai turns off his computer. He turns to you and works fast to untie the rope and rip off the tape. It felt so good when you finally got to sit up and close your shaking legs. The ball gag was last to go, but not without dripping spit down your chest.

“My bunny, my little sex toy,” Kai cups your face and litters it with kisses. You wearily smile at him, ready to shower and go to bed. You both got what you wanted.

“You did so good for me, baby,” he coos, scooping you up in his arms, “time to hit the shower.”

[jadeylovesmarvelxo]

You and Eddie share a kiss but when you see him in the woods with Chrissy, talking and looking a little flirty you guess the kiss meant nothing.

I just wanted to write some angst 🤷‍♀️

❤️

It had finally happened. You and Eddie had kissed. It felt like you were on cloud nine and you couldn't get the image out of your head.

The feel of his lips on yours, the way he took you in his arms and every part of you felt like it was aflame. It was perfect.

It was the day after and you were anxious to see Eddie. What did the kiss mean? Would the two of you start dating? This felt like a long time coming and you had been crushing on Eddie for a while.

You swear you hear Eddie's voice and follow the sound, maybe he's doing a deal? When you spot him looking as gorgeous as ever.

To your utter amazement Chrissy Cunningham is with him, sitting on the other side of the bench as they talk.

She looks nervous so Eddie goofs around to make her laugh. Throwing himself to the ground and then She giggles and the conversation which was stilted at first takes a turn.

It feels borderline flirty, the thought makes your stomach sink. No you must be imagining things? But you don't imagine the shy smile on Eddie's face as he teases Chrissy.

You don't see Eddie until the next day as he's driving you home. He brings up the fact that Chrissy asked him for some weed and that she went to his trailer to pick it up.

Her giggles reverberate in your mind and you stumble away from the scene. Your heart aching and mind racing.

💌

This twists your stomach up in knots. Chrissy was pretty and so sweet, you imagine that she could have Eddie wrapped around her finger if that's what she wanted.

Eddie is staring at you confused and you sigh still feeling the sting of seeing him flirt with Chrissy.

If you hadn't seen Eddie be so flirty this isn't something you would worry about but now it was all you could think about.

"I think maybe we should talk about the other day? Our kiss, I mean unless you don't want to... He trails off at the look on your face.

"It's all I've thought about Eddie. It meant...everything and I thought maybe it meant the same to you too" he looks confused at the turn of the conversation.

"Maybe?" he questions and you shrug. Your feelings are all over the place, the high from the kiss fading quickly. Doubts and insecurities wouldn't leave you alone.

"I heard you talking in the woods yesterday and so I went to surprise you but then I saw you with Chrissy and you were super flirty,

"That wasn't... It was a business deal nothing else" he shakes his head adamantly, his eyes wide and you bite your lip and the next words out of your mouth twist the knot in your stomach even more.

"I know what I saw Eddie. You flirted with her like you do...with me and there was something there, a spark, I don't know"

"Sweetheart no..." The longer that you're speaking to him the worse your emotions feel so you offer him a small smile and notice the van is now parked at Family Video.

"I'll see you around Eddie" you get out of the van and hurry inside the store, furiously wipe your tears away as you enter the store. Extinguishing the high you felt from the kiss until it's all gone.

💞

[evilminji]

Can You "Accidental Baby Acquisition" Yourself?

Like? Say you have a You... who is NOT You, obviously, but A You in the Multiversal sense... and their childhood suuuuuucked. Just? Truely awful for reasons beyond their control.

Such as the veil NOT being so easily peirced in their reality and humanity a bit more... Reactive(tm) to ectoplasm, due to the lower concentration of it in the Everything of their Universe. Which makes their parents research? Unattainable. Dangerous.

Ultimately fatal to their elder sister.

And then later, them.

Not that they were even the loving if wildly eccentric parents most of the other You's KNOW and have. Due to that very say research and their long-term exposure to their own samples. The Reactivity.

"Pit Rage" as some circles call it.

They weren't themselves. Stopped BEING themselves long before their children ever came into the picture. If they could think clearly, they would BEG for someone to save their children. From them. From their house of horrors. From what they've become.

And well? You exsist outside of Time. In the Zone. Maybe you have a wide and crazy adventure with this grizzled, worn, badass of a You. Figure he's pretty cool. Ask if he needs anything. And he laughs this broken glass in your chest sort of sound and says:

"Not unless you could give me a real childhood."

Like? Dude. Buddy. My buddy dude. Gonna have to explain that one. You can't just drop that and walk away. We Crazy Action Bros Adventure(tm) bonded. You can tell me. And reluctantly... he kinda does.

And... Look. You exsist outside of TIME. Your mentor IS Time. You can TOTALLY do that.

This.

But like? You realize... there wouldn't be TWO of you... right? If you take mini-Bamf out of the timestream at point A... you, big guy, stop existing at every instance of point B and onwards.

Yeah. Yeah, he gets that. Fully consents. His life was full of bad decisions and dramatic bullshit. He wants a real childhood. His sister back. Wants them BOTH out of that house and somewhere safe. If he could do it himself, he would. Call it his fucked up way of healing. Finally facing his trauma. It's haunted him long enough.

.....well then. Now You've got a baby and a fussy toddler. They have superpowers because of course they do. That house was OSHAs waking nightmares and deepest fever dreams. Jazzypants is hungy. And baby You did a stinky.

This is Fine(tm).

You're a King! You can TOTALLY handle this! Teeeeeemporarily. Since it's not like they can stay HERE. The Zone is literally uninhabitable long term for the living. So time to fire up the ol Brain Meats. Gremlin Ideas formulating. Loading... Loading... Loooooooading. Got it!

You kidnapped them.

Brilliant! FRIGHTY! Where's the Trenchcoat Booze Slu-...SLUHeuth. Sleuth! Totally what I was planning to say, Starshines! Don't curse. Cursing Bad~☆

The Detective Of Loose Morales in The Trenchcoat, who's Soul I Own, Frighty! Where's he at?? *Distant muffled answer* Close enough! Time to give him a heart attack! And throw a fight! Can you toss me a nightmare medallion? I need to instill mortal terror! Thaaaanks, Frighty! Also can you change diapers? *affirmative noises* Ancients, you're the best.

Smash cut to John Constantine. Busting up some cult, as you do. When? Oh fuck. The leaders heading for the store room! Not today, fucker! They fight. They struggle. It's Manly and Gritty and dramatic! When?

A terrible CRASH. Some artifact must have activated. What... have you DONE? *dramatic musical sting* swirling green and DEATH radiates out from a pin prick of nothing. A black hole in reverse. The cold oblivion of space, given bones to claw its way free. Eyes that sear in colors too technicolor and hypersaturated to be mortal. Green. Green! GREEN.

Ice and stars and death and a terrible, unspeakable Crown.

Two... two little sprogs. Tiny bits of nothing in a monsters hand. KIDS, wrapped up in something they never should of even had to nightmare about. John's eyes catch on red, red hair. A tiny little headband with butterflies on it. Pressed so close to dark locks, as she wraps herself around her little bits of a sibling.

The other ones dressed up in stars.

Someone SOLD their fuckin KIDS. Or this damned this STOLE them. It doesn't matter. Not now, not to John. Because this bastard isn't keeping them. He slides like breathing into the waves of luck and chance, odds and fate. Is on his feet and drawing attention. Whatever it takes, he's leaving here with those kids.

He laughs and it's not a kind one.

"Oi! A word if you will?"

@hypewinter @hdgnj @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe @ailithnight

[bitethedevil]

Rambling about Raphael again: I’m getting more and more convinced that stealing from Raphael is an asshole move no matter what.

I just killed Raphael for the first time yesterday. I had gotten the scene where he comes home before but that was way back in my first playthrough and I chickened out back then. The battle itself was awesome, don’t get me wrong but it felt…unsatisfying? Sad even.

I’m obviously not excusing anything he’s done to Hope, but we don’t really know anything about Hope before we have already taken the decision to go to his house.

I found something in the House of Hope that I hadn’t seen before (it’s on the ground in the main area where the fireplace is iirc):

Like yeah, we know that we don’t really need the Orphic Hammer if we’ve played the game before and all that. But does Raphael? It seems like he genuinely thinks it’s a fair trade. Dude lives in the Hells. I’m sure he really does expect the worst from people (especially someone like the Emperor). So he offers us a deal that he really believes is fair, and what do we do? We go robbing his house, fucks/kills his incubus, meddles in his business and essentially spits him in the face. Bonus asshole points if the last thing you ever say to him is that he’s a shit at sex.

Raphael is evil, no doubt, but he hasn’t really done anything to us. If you don’t take the deal, he simply leaves you alone (unless you refuse the Emperor in the end…in which he essentially calls you a dumbass but still helps if I remember correctly) even though that deal is the closest he’s been to the crown in millennia.

Which brings me to his reaction. Obviously, he seems angry right before the fight, but mostly I got the feeling of a man who has been utterly humiliated. His quote that went along the lines of: “Take away their free will and they’ll call you a tyrant. Let them indulge in it and they become tyrants” is kind of stuck with me. I think that Raphael could have potentially treated us a lot worse if he wanted to, but he chose not to (obviously that’s also to get us to trust him, but still). Which is why it stings even more when we fuck him over.

Think about his diary entries. The man has nightmares about us besting him. Imagine how stupid he must feel when that fear turns out to be true and that he shouldn’t have trusted us to keep our word.

[heizlut]

Zandik’s Whore

cw: rough sex, corruption kink(?)

tags: mean tutor!zandik, bimbo f!reader, corruption kink(?), one use of y/n (sorry 🥺), petnames: cockslut, slut, pet

nsfw under the cut

check out my masterlist here!

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Zandik sat quietly in the library completely engrossed in a book. He was trying to take his mind off the fact that he was being forced to tutor a ditzy girl like you. If he could’ve declined, he would’ve but he didn’t have a choice as he was in the top of his class and needed extra hours to add to his transcripts. You were on the verge of failing the one class you absolutely needed to pass in order to graduate. Zandik didn’t know what drove him more insane, your lack of brains or the skimpy little outfits you wore as you pranced around campus all bubbly and smiling brightly.

Soon enough, he hears the clicking of heels sound through the quiet library. He looks up to see you walking in wearing a pretty little sundress, your hair bouncing as you walked towards him with a bright smile on your face. He feels his pants tightening as he observes you but tries to push away those thoughts, offering you a cold glare.

Oblivious to his outward distaste for you, you approach him happily, “Hello! I was told you’re the one who’s going to be tutoring me. Zandik, right?” He fights the urge to roll his eyes at your cheerful attitude and closes his book, “Yes, that’s me.. unfortunately.. You must be y/n.” You nod and plop yourself down in the chair right next to him. As you do so, the subtle smell of your delicious perfume surrounds him and your bare leg brushes against his, making his cock begin to ache. “Thanks for agreeing to tutor me. All this information on ruin mechanics is really going over my head”, you pout, twirling your hair around your finger.

Seeing you pout like that only draws his attention to your plush, glossy lips. Zandik licks his own lips as he stares for a moment, then quickly clears his throat and returns to his usual cold demeanor, “It’s not like I really had a choice in the matter.. Anyways, this subject requires one to think critically. I can guide you through understanding the fundamentals, but it is ultimately up to you to retain the information.” You smile at him but then a dumb look crosses your features, “But I’m not good at retaining difficult information..”

Zandik blinks, “Well then I don’t exactly see how you’re going to pass if you can’t even retain the information I give you.” Your eyes begin to well up with tears and your bottom lip quivers slightly, “B-but if I don’t pass this subject t-then I won’t g-graduate.” Zandik lets out a disgruntled sigh, an idea forming in his head as he smirks internally, “Then I suppose I could provide you with some additional tutoring outside of our scheduled meeting times.” You give him a hopeful smile, placing your hand on his thigh, “You’d do that for me?” The feeling of your hand on his thigh almost makes him groan but he lets it get caught in his throat, “Of course, but this is only under the condition that you.. return the favor” As he says this, he reaches out and wipes the tears off your cheeks, resisting the urge to lick the saltiness of your tears off his thumb. Seeing you all pathetic in front of him, looking at him like he had hung the stars in the sky himself made him want to ruin you and that’s exactly what he’ll do.

A couple days later you find yourself in his dorm room, settled on his lap with his cock in your tight dripping pussy. Zandik has you cockwarming him, not bothering to thrust up into you unless you get the answer correct. His fingers toying with your cute little clit as he quizzes you on the composition of ruin mechanics. “And where does ruin technology come from?” Zandik asks as he continues to rub circles on your aching clit. “F-fontaine..?” You moan out. He slaps your clit harshly and growls lowly in your ear, “Wrong answer. Try again.” You cry out at the pleasurable sting, trying to move on his cock, “Mmph.. Please… Please fuck me.” His hand makes contact with your poor clit again, causing you to whimper, “Only good girls get fucked by my cock. Now try. Again. Where does ruin technology come from?” You bite your lip, desperate for some friction, and answer dumbly, “I-Inazuma?”

Zandik rolls his eyes and quickly pushes you onto your hands and knees. He pushes down on your back, causing you to arch so perfectly for him and he begins thrusting roughly into you, “What a brainless little slut. All you’re good for is taking my cock.” Your lewd moans fill the room as he pounds his thick cock in your soaked little cunt. Your eyes crossing and your tongue lolling out of your pretty little mouth. If only you knew just how incredibly dumb you looked right now. Zandik slaps your ass making you let out a pathetic whimper and he presses his chest to your back. His hot breath tickles your neck, “Once I graduate, I’m gonna make you into my pretty little assistant. My brainless little pet. All you’ll ever need to do is please me.”

You clench around his cock at his words, “Wanna be good f’you. Wanna be your good girl. Make you feel s’good…” Your words slurring together as all you can focus on is the way his thick cock hits all the right places. Zandik chuckles darkly as he bites down on your neck, releasing thick ropes of hot cum into your awaiting cunt, not caring that you haven’t cum just yet, “What a perfect cockslut you are already. All you’ll ever need is my cock, nothing else.” You whine as he pulls out of you and you feel his cum drip from your aching pussy, “Wanna cum, Zandik..” He grabs you by your hair, forcefully pulling you upright and making you look at him. You look so dazed and drunk from his cock, mouth hanging open slightly. Zandik clicks his tongue, “Now, now. Don’t be ungrateful. You’ll take what I give you.” He pinches your tongue between his fingers, pulling it to stick out slightly and he spits into your mouth then taps your cheek, “Now swallow.” You obediently swallow and he pats your head, “Good girl.”

He had you right where he wanted you, desperate and aching for his cock, his touch, his degrading words and praises. Such an obedient little thing. Why should he waste his time trying to fill your mind with information you couldn’t even comprehend when you could just be his little cockslut instead?

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a/n: hehe i like writing for dottore/zandik. if he becomes a playable character i’ll cum on the spot

[sammakesart]

In Which the Dread Wolf Is Saved By, of All Things, Love.

The blade slices into his palm, blood seeping from the wound and soaking into the leather of his glove. A thought emerges as she watches him: It is the same hand that once held the mark on her own palm. He squeezes his fist, the blood dripping down onto the stone. 

“My life force now sustains the Veil.”

His eyes find hers, a brief moment as their gazes meet and hold. An eternity, over too soon. 

“With every breath I take, I will protect the innocent from my past failures.”

Her gaze falls to his fist, and her heart aches. It is done.

“The Titan’s dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help soothe its anger.”

She watches as he looks down to the dagger, then extends it to Rook.

“I will go,” he says. His eyes meet hers once more as he speaks his last words. To her. For her. “And seek atonement.”

He tears his gaze away, and she watches as he turns, his steps sure and steady as he walks toward the tear in the sky.

They are running out of time.

It is then she makes her decision, though it was no decision at all. She knew—she has always known—what she would do given this choice. 

“But you do not have to go alone.”

He had stopped before she spoke, perhaps hearing the fall of her steps, perhaps in the hope of one final goodbye. He turns as she finishes her declaration, his lips parted in surprise, but he clasps her hands as she stretches them towards him. His grip trembles ever so slightly. She notices the shine in his eyes as tears well, but he does not deny her. He only offers her a warning. It is the only thing he can offer her. 

“Where I am going is terrible.”

She smiles, shakes her shake. 

“It won’t be terrible if you’re with me. We make this journey together. Always.”

The words are reminiscent of the last verse of Dalish wedding vows. She wonders if he catches the significance, but by the way his grip tightens, she suspects he understands. 

She leans in, but then stops, waiting for him to close the last stretch of space between them. His lips meet hers without hesitation, cracked and bloody as they are. She doesn’t care. He tastes of iron and ash, and yet still of him. 

His mouth moves against hers, and she wishes to wrap her arms around him, to pull him close, but she fears causing him any further pain. She has seen the wounds on his face, saw him clutching at his right side as he ascended the steps before she crossed the threshold. She can only imagine the wounds hidden beneath his battered armor. She had glimpsed the state of his dread wolf as it tore the throat out of Elgar’nan’s archdemon. 

There will be time for such things later, after he has rested and healed. Time will never be something they are in want of now.

***

He savors her for as long as he dares, then presses his lips firmly against hers before pulling away. His mouth curves into a soft smile. Just for her. 

There is no force—divine or otherwise—that can part him from her now. Not unless she wishes it.

He holds her gaze for one more moment, the burn of tears still threatening to spill sting his eyes. But he blinks them away quickly, and glances back at Rook. 

“Thank you, Rook.”

Then his eyes fall back to her. He cannot get enough. 

He is not unaware that Rook had to have had a part to play in this once-thought impossible reunion. 

There will never be words or action enough to show his gratitude, especially to someone he has so gravely wronged. And yet, they still have orchestrated the return of his heart to him. A gift he knows he does not deserve, but he will endeavor to earn. 

He squeezes her hands once more—one flesh, one formed—and turns, walking towards the last remaining tear in the Veil. He crosses his hands before him to keep from reaching out, reaching back to hold her to him. She must make this choice freely. 

He doesn’t even dare look, afraid if he does, he will find no one and nothing. That these last few minutes have all been a dream conjured by his addled mind and his bone-deep exhaustion—for what else could it be but a dream? That, after all this time, after everything he’s done, she would seek him out once more. That she would forgive him. Love him still. Choose to be with him, despite where he must go. 

There is a moment where he fears she has changed her mind, or he was correct in his first assumption that she was never here at all. His chest tightens… and then releases as he feels her hand rest upon his shoulder. She is here. She is real. 

With the last ounce of strength he has, he wraps them in his magic and spirits them into the Fade, leaving her world behind. Perhaps for good. 

He took away her ability to choose once, many years ago, when she first asked to join him while standing in the Crossroads. It had torn him in two to deny her, but he knew then that he could not allow her to follow the path he had to tread. Could not allow it to twist her hope into despair, like his own purpose had been twisted long ago. 

For so long, his life has only been duty and destruction. He is unsure of how to be anything else.

When he finds himself once again in the prison of his own making, his knees give out from under him. The weight of the last few hours, few weeks, few years, dragging him to the hard unforgiving stone of his regrets. But this time, he is not alone. 

She kneels before him, carefully cradling his face in her palm, her skin so warm against his. “Vhenan,” she whispers as her thumb strokes lightly over his cheek, and it takes him a moment to realize he is crying, truly crying. The tears that had threatened to fall when he first took her hands in his have now been set free. He crumples into her lap, his forehead pressed the against her stomach as she gently strokes his head and down his back, offering words of comfort, her voice thick with her own tears. She has saved him. He has doomed her. 

The weight of that realization is enough to crush him to dust. He pulls back, eyes searching hers. His hands shake as he reaches up to hold her face. Perhaps there is still time…

“These are my burdens to bare,” he rasps. “I cannot ask you to carry them with me.” 

“You do not have to, vhenan.” She holds his hand to her cheek. “I chose this. Freely. Just as I chose you.”

She presses a kiss to the heel of his hand, the one still wet with his blood. “Being with you is no burden, Solas, not to me. It is a joy.”

Their foreheads meet, pressed together as they once again take each other’s hands.

She is here. She is real. He still cannot believe it.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

Then he says the words she had gifted him, a vow he will hold sacred for as long as they both shall live. 

“Vir shiral malasa. Bellanaris.”

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Any way you want it

Written for @steddiesmuttyseptember, week 4

Prompts: Slap & Loud

Rated: E

Words: 1,282

Tags: Nudity; Light BDSM; Blindfolds; Sensory play; Slapping; Dirty talk; Top Eddie; Bottom Steve

Steve doesn’t know for how long he's been here. It's hard to tell with the blindfold on, the way his mind has gone fuzzy and soft, but his legs are starting to ache from keeping his kneeling position and the ropes binding his wrists behind his back are starting to chafe, so it must've been a while. He supposes he could call out, ask Eddie to end it, but the mere thought has his hackles rising and his teeth gritting, so he doesn’t. Instead, he counts his breaths, tries to focus on the crackle of the fireplace and the pleasant warmth of the flames on his aching limbs.

“How are we doing, baby? Desperate yet?” 

The words tear an involuntary gasp from Steve’s throat. The last thing he remembers is Eddie closing the bedroom door, the sound of his boots thunking down the stairs. How far gone has he been that he didn't hear him return? 

“Desperate?” is what he says. He's a little proud of himself for how his voice comes out, all casual disinterest with only the barest of trembles. “Bored, more like. I thought the goal of this was to make me horny, not tired.” 

“Oh, Stevie,” Eddie chuckles. He's closer than before, even though Steve didn't hear him move. Did he take off the boots? Steve fidgets in his spot, straining his neck and trying to peek out from under the blindfold, but it sits snugly and won't budge. “That's the problem with you, y’know. You're too stubborn for your own good.”

A hand wraps around his throat, pulling him back against a warm, naked body. Eddie’s cock presses into the space between his shoulder blades, thick and fully hard, and Steve gives a strangled moan as he feels himself twitch to attention. Something clinks, like a glass being set down on the mantelpiece, and he frowns at the sharp, earthy scent that hits his nostrils. 

“Wait, did you get into my dad's good whisky?” 

Eddie laughs. Something touches Steve's collarbone, something hard and sharp-edged and cold and he hisses at the sting of it.

“Why not?” Eddie says, slowly dragging the ice cube down, cold droplets catching in Steve’s chest hair. “Why shouldn't I drink his booze? I'm in the house he never comes back to, in the bedroom he never uses, and I have his perfect golden boy at my feet. I think your daddy has made it abundantly clear he doesn't want any of these things. I, though?” 

The ice cube drags over his left nipple, and Steve just barely manages to keep in his yelp. 

“I want it all, baby boy. The question is: What do you want?” 

He rolls Steve’s hardened nipple between two fingers, the pain only heightened by the lingering cold of the ice- … and then he's gone. Steve is left in the dark, floundering and disoriented and desperately hard, and this time, he can't contain his whimper. 

A hand grabs his jaw, from the front this time, and he smells whisky and cigarette smoke and the heady, thick scent of Eddie’s arousal. Steve moans and opens his mouth, saliva pooling on his tongue. When he tries to lean in, Eddie digs his nails into his skin and holds him in place. 

“What. Do. You. Want?” he repeats, every word sharp. “You're not getting anything unless you tell me.” 

He gives Steve’s jaw a brief, warning shake, and Steve’s cock twitches against thin air. Eddie waits. A second, two, while the fire crackles merrily and the cold water on Steve’s skin slowly goes warm. And Steve still can’t see him, but he knows he must be a sight to behold. The black lines of his tattoos contrasting with pale skin, dark curls basked in a halo of red and orange by the firelight, the smug smile playing on those perfect, plush lips. He wishes he could see. 

He could say as much, he guesses - except the thought makes something unbearably soft stir behind his chest, so he doesn’t. 

“You,” he says instead, struggling to form words around the hand still clenching down on his jaw. “Want you.” 

“Aw, honey,” Eddie coos, all fake sweetness. His grip doesn’t ease. “But you have me already. I’m right here with you, ain’t I?” 

His thumb shifts, the pad of it pressing down on Steve’s bottom lip without quite slipping in, and it’s all he can do not to cry out in frustration. His hands twitch in their restraints.

“Your cock,” he grits out, humiliation prickling at the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, he’s glad for the blindfold. 

“Pardon?” Eddie says. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch that.” 

“Fuck you,” Steve snaps. “You know exactly what I-” 

The slap comes without warning. One second, Eddie’s hand is on his jaw, and one moment later, it’s gone, only for his open palm to connect with Steve’s face. The impact isn’t hard, but it still echoes loudly over the crackle of the fire, leaving behind a hot, stinging feeling in its wake. 

“Oh, look at that, he can speak up,” Eddie drawls. His hand fists into the hair at the base of Steve’s neck, tilting his head up. “Now listen to me, baby. You’re gonna tell me what you want, and you’re gonna tell it to me loud and clear. Do you understand?” 

Steve bites down on his bottom lip to keep in the sob building at the back of his throat. 

“I can always leave again,” Eddie says. “Give you another hour or so to-” 

“No, please,” Steve blurts. He doesn't know why, but the thought of Eddie leaving him alone again fills him with a horrible, cold dread. “Your cock. Fuck, I need- … I want your cock, want it inside me.” 

It feels so weird, saying it out loud. Embarrassing and mortifying and freeing and beautiful all at once. His voice cracks pathetically around the last syllable, but he can't bring himself to mind - not when Eddie makes the softest, fondest sound and cups his face in both hands. 

“That was so good, honey,” he praises, and Steve’s breath hitches in his throat. He can't quite tell if it's a sob or a laugh, but when Eddie strokes the pads of his thumbs over his cheeks, he realizes that they are covered in wet tracks. “Where do you want it?”

“Everywhere,” Steve babbles, the words rushing out of him in a mad tumble, now that the dam has broken. “Wanna suck you off, want you to come on my face, want you to bend me over the bed and fuck me into the mattress and fill me up with your-” 

"Whoa, sweetheart,” Eddie says, pressing a long, chaste kiss to his lips to stop the barrage. “I'd love to do all that, but let's take care of one thing at a time?” 

Steve whines again, the prospect of having to wait, of having to choose when he needs everything, everywhere, at once, sending fresh tears of frustration to his eyes. 

“How about,” Eddie says, lips ghosting over his mouth, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, “if I fuck your face first, until I'm nice and hard for you? And then, when that's done, I get us on that bed and you can ride my cock until we both can't come anymore? How does that sound?” 

“So fucking good,” Steve breathes. “Can we start right now? Please, I need-” 

“Of course we can, baby,” Eddie coos, slipping a tender hand into Steve’s hair in the same movement that he pushes his cock into his mouth, stuffing him deliciously full. “See? Good boys get everything they want. They just need to know how to ask for it.” 

More smutty September

[inquisimer]

FOR VIAGO AND ARLOW "keep it. i have more where that came from." (in my head it is a POISON)

of COURSE it is a poison, it was either a poison or a Real Live Snake and I simply couldn't think of a good premise for the latter so here we are.

for @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers, some pre-canon Crow Dad

-

“If you’re looking for something a little more subtle, I’d go three vials over. That one leaves a distinctly bitter aftertaste that will clash with the chowder Teia is having catered.”

Arlow flinched, rattling the cabinet of neatly labeled vials. When she turned around, Viago was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and brow raised. Her fingers closed around the vial in her palm.

“Who said it was going in the soup?”

“If you were planning on putting it anywhere else, I’ll have you back in lessons with Heir for the next six months.”

Arlow rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to poison anyone. Not tonight, anyway. And not without reason.”

“I’m sure you have a reason.” Viago beckoned her forward and she went, expecting him to hold out a hand for the vial she’d nicked. Instead, his gloved fingers caught her chin and tilted it back, inspecting her face. Whatever he saw made him frown.

“What is it for, then?”

“An insurance policy,” Arlow said lightly. “Never hurts to be prepared.”

She knew she sounded like a liar, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about much, these days, not since confirmation had come down from Caterina.

Lucanis. Dead. Even thinking it made her eyes burn with unshed tears; she forced them to stay open, even as Viago’s harsh stare blurred before her. She knew better than to admit such open weakness to his face. Not that he wouldn’t see it anyway; but admitting it would be a mistake nonetheless.

Viago released her chin and wiped an escaping tear from her cheek. “You cannot go like this,” he said lowly, holding his finger so that her tear glinted the torchlight. “You know that they will use it against us.”

“I don’t care,” Arlow snarled, looking away. “Let them play their games; I am allowed to miss my friend.”

“You are. But it changes nothing. If you cannot keep composure, I will lock you in the villa with Emil.”

“At least I’m allowed to call him a snake to his face,” Arlow muttered. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her free hand, careful not to smudge the eyeliner Teia had painstakingly painted on as she willed her tears to dry and forced her sorrow back into the tight knot it had kept in her gut since the announcement. “Better?”

Viago glanced her up and down, and Arlow forced herself not to stiffen. Crows of House de Riva did not squirm under inspection unless they wanted a half dozen lashes and a mild paralytic under the tongue. She was better than that.

“Passable.” Viago stepped back. “You must keep your head tonight. Grief is a heavy thing, and I do not hold yours against you. But the other houses will.”

“It’s his funeral,” Arlow whispered. “Is nothing sacred?”

“You know the answer to that.”

She did. It didn’t lessen the sting, or the twist of bitterness in her throat. The Crows were too familiar with death for grief or mourning to be left in peace. Arlow took a deep breath.

“I won’t do anything rash,” she promised. The look Viago gave her said enough to make her roll her eyes. “I won’t ruin this for Teia. I know how long she spent planning.”

“If that’s what it takes,” Viago sighed. He gestured for Arlow to go ahead of him, and she cocked her head curiously.

“Aren’t you going to make me put it back?”

“I have more.”

“You’re not worried about what I’ll do with it?”

“Do I need to be?”

Arlow snorted. “I think we have different measures of what you do and don’t need to be worried about.”

“Without a doubt.” Viago turned the lock of his study door, scraping the metal pointedly as he placed the key back in his pocket. Arlow kept her face perfectly blank; her picks were well hidden, and she knew she hadn’t left any scratches. What he knew and what he could prove were different things, as he’d been the one to teach her. She slipped the vial into her hip pouch.

“I trust your judgment,” he said, sending her down the stairs with a jerk of his chin. “Do not make me regret it.”

[odditycircus-2002]

Mortal Kombat 1 Intros with Medusa!Reader Part II

Li Mei

Y/N: Are you sure we cannot keep the traitor as a lovely ornament?

Li Mei: Reiko has to face trial like anyone else, Y/N.

/

Y/N: I still regret that I could not have done more for Sindel.

Li Mei: I know it pains you, but no one is accusing you of doing nothing.

/

Y/N: I am not sure I can give a testimony without trying to kill Shang Tsung on sight.

Li Mei: Justice cannot function properly unless you follow it thoroughly.

/

Y/N: I hope you're still not holding it against Syzoth for disturbing the lantern festival.

Li Mei: After everything he's done for the Empire? I'll let him off with a warning this time.

/

Li Mei: It is thanks to you that most of Sun Do's constables survived our battle with Shao and his allies.

Y/N: I am glad to hear they made full recoveries.

/

Li Mei: You must put your faith in justice.

Y/N: There is no such thing as it, the best I could hope for is revenge.

/

Li Mei: It still baffles me that you managed to slip away from me the first time you came to the palace.

Y/N: What can I say? I've always been the slippery type.

Kitana

Y/N: I am presuming that Li Mei wishes to speak with me about slipping hallucinogenic mushrooms into the rebel army's food supply.

Kitana: You did what now?!

/

Y/N wistfully: It seems like only yesterday to me that I helped bring you into the world.

Kitana: Time tends to fly by like that, Y/N.

/

Y/N surprised: I understand honoring Baraka, but Mileena wants to do the same with me?

Kitana: You have served Outworld with as much determination and loyalty as any honored soldier, Y/N

/

Y/N: I am truly sorry I couldn't save your mother.

Kitana: My family and I know more than anyone how hard you try to keep her alive.

/

Kitana: By the gods, NO! That is absolutely a cruel idea.

Y/N: How is throwing food that is secretly explosives worse than Shao weaponizing Onaga?

/

Kitana: Perhaps you should stop coming to the strategy meetings...

Y/N: Is this about my latest suggestion?

/

Kitana: You have a sister?

Y/N: Yes, but we're not as close as you and Mileena.

Liu Kang

Liu Kang: Even though he proves to be resilient, I’d be wary of Baraka loosing control.

Y/N: Have you forgotten I too was once a beauty now a turned beast?

/

Liu Kang: Baraka and his fellow Tarkatans view you as a beacon of hope for all you’ve done for them.

Y/N: Only because NO ONE elssse would help those poor unfortunate soulsss!

/

Liu Kang: Do not become tempted by Shang Tsung’s Well of Souls.

Y/N: If you had any chance of saving the one you loved from a cruel fate, wouldn’t you take it? /

Y/N: I asked you to kill me in a previous timeline???

Liu Kang: Kronika made it so you cannot go on without Shang Tsung. /

Y/N: I was a dangerous enemy in a past timeline, why didn’t you erase me for good?

Liu Kang: Because I had hoped that with better circumstances, you’d turn out kinder.

/

Y/N: I am grateful that you didn’t have me predestined to marry Shang Tsung

Liu Kang: As am I that you had an actual choice to choose who to love.

/

Y/N: I hope you do not expect I pray to you, not when I have to rely on myself to heal others.

Liu Kang: No, I do not need any of the sort, Y/N.

Kiu Liang (Scorpion)

Y/N: For freeing me from Shang Tsung and Quan-chi, I am in your debt till death.

Kiu Liang: I could not stand idly by and let the Sorcerers continue to use you.

/

Y/N: Thank you again for those earthrealm medical books you've gifted me.

Kiu Liang: May they prove to greatly help your cause.

/

Y/N: Truth be told, I envy that you and your new bride have life to look forward to together.

Kiu Liang: I understand why your heart would be in such turmoil.

/

Y/N: My venom is more than strong enough to overpower yours.

Kiu Liang: But can you take the force of my sting?

/

Kiu Liang: Baraka and the rest of the Colony are fortunate to have you as their healer.

Y/N: As is the Shirai Ryu for having you as Grandmaster.

/

Kiu Liang: I promise you, my clan and I will ensure that Bi-han is tried for his crimes-

Y/N angrily hisses: I do NOT care that he'sssss your brother! He must be cut like the tumor he is for hisssss attack on the colony!

/

Kiu Liang: You taught Outworlds High Mage hydromancy?

Y/N: Only the basics. He bringsssss me great shame for abusing the magic he's learned.

Sub-Zero (Bi-Han)

Y/N: Kuia-Liang will be disappointed that he's not the one who finished you.

Bi-Han: He will be disappointed to know you died thinking you could.

/

Y/N: You are plague to everything you touch.

Bi-Han: Only to those who would stand against me or my clan.

/

Y/N angrily and hissing: You killed my patientssss!!!

Bi-Han: I did them a favor by releasing them from their misery.

/

Y/N: Taking Shang Tsung's offer was a foolish mistake.

Bi-Han: You're right. I do not need his sorcery to bring power and glory to my clan.

/

Bi-Han: What manner of illness did you give my Lin Kuei, witch?!

Y/N patronizingly: I thought your clan was supposed to be stronger.

/

Bi-Han: I know your cold blood will stand no chance against my cryomancy.

Y/N: Actually, I ssstill remain warm-blooded.

/

Bi-Han: Your hydromancy has no chance against my cryromancy.

Y/N: Have you forgotten what ice is made from, Bi-han?

Rain

Rain: Why did you never teach ME how to control blood?

Y/N: I wished to spare you of the magic’s cost of madness.

/

Rain: I will always regret my crimes against Seido

Y/N: If you’re truly remorseful, then their ssssouls shall haunt you till the day you die. /

Y/N: I did NOT teach you how to control water, sssso you could dishonor me or your family!

Rain: I know how deeply I’ve shamed all of you. /

Rain: With the magic you know, why did you never pursue becoming High Mage?

Y/N: To avoid being overwhelmed with ambition asssss you were. /

Y/N: Your once cleansing water are ssssstained with the blood of Seido’s victims.

Rain: It is something I can never truly wash away. /

Rain: I have surpassed your water magic!

Y/N: How bold to assume that I’ve taught you EVERYTHING about water’s capabilitiessss.

/

Y/N: You want to come with ME into the Kytinn Hive???

Rain: So I can finally start my penance.