#like i feel that is powerful enough in itself

[jarofstyles]

Worshiped

Who doesn’t love a simp-y Harry? I’ve been in a kick lately of writing him but this is next level. He loves his girl and does not play about her!

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WC- 4k

Warnings- smut, soft dom!H but some switch vibes, praise kink, spit play, unprotected sex (wrap it up), slight pain kink on his end, oral, etc

With her standing there in the dress he had bought her, he found himself thoroughly distracted by the way the fabric hugged her body. A body he had no idea how whoever was the creator of life itself managed to sculpt, because just being able to see it was a gift from the gods. His hands traced her silhouette, starting from her shoulders and slowly moving down her arms, then around to her waist.

"Fuck me, Angel…." His lips muttered softly, more to himself than to her. "You have no idea how stunning you are, do you?" Thumbs gently traced the waistline of the dress, admiration clear in his voice. It would be hard for her to forget with how often he tried to remind her, but he still did wonder if she ever truly got it. If she could fathom how insanely other worldly she was.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a warm, golden hue over the room, highlighting her in a different way than the rest of the night had. The candlelight in the restaurant had been incredible to see her in, but this was special.. Any difference if lighting had him appreciating her in a different way, but something about the glow of their bedroom, the most intimate place of the house had him feeling it tenfold. 

Harry lingered behind her, unashamed as he allowed his ring clad hands to slowly explore the dips of her body. Y/N was a masterpiece he couldn't get enough of, as if someone had dipped their paintbrush into the depths of his foggy brain and brought his ideal to life. Nimble fingers traced the delicate lace detailing on the bodice of the lavender dress, feeling the soft fabric breathe heat against her skin. He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to the back of her neck, grinning to himself as he felt her shiver at the touch.

"I need this off you, please." Returning to her shoulders, he made work of slowly pushing the delicate straps down her arms. As the fabric fell away, exposing her bare décolletage, he let out a soft puff of a breath against her hair. “You are… Unreal.” His words were quiet, but he knew she could hear them over the sound of the fabric being dragged down her form. In his mind, it was in the top five sounds he could hear from her, right underneath the breathy moan of his name and slightly above the little gasp she made when he smacked her ass. 

 Y/N simply stood there, letting him remove the dress completely until she was standing before him stripped bare. The dress fell from her body and onto the floor with a soft whisper, allowing Harry a moment to truly appreciate the view before him. Her body was like a damn map that he had become all too familiar with but wanted to study every day so he never had the opportunity to forget. The dip in her lower back that he loved to kiss. The waist that his hands loved to grasp. The pretty ass that he had smacked more times than he could count. Her long legs and those thighs that had his mouth watering, he had a hard time keeping it together. Her stomach, soft and sensitive every time he kissed it. Her breasts were made for his palms and nipples perfect to pinch. He loved her body. He loved her body. every single part of her called to the base level of his attraction. He couldn't help himself.

Harry had always been a man who appreciated a woman's body, but the higher power had truly outdone herself with Y/N's.

It was hard to not love her body. Especially when it fit every part of him like a puzzle piece. He loved how it was soft where he was hard- How it was round where he was angular. He had a hard time getting over the dip in her waist and how his large hands could span it. God, did he adore her thighs and how they felt wrapped around his waist. Sometimes his favorite was the curve of her ass and how it fit up against him when he bottomed out inside of her- but he was careful to choose favorites when he had so many. She was made out of a fantasy he hadn’t been creative enough to conjure up himself, only able to fathom it in front of his own eyes.

She let out a small hum, shivering slightly as his eyes worshipped her body. Y/N knew he loved looking at her naked. He was almost like an artist, taking his time to study every little thing. She trusted him implicitly with her body, so when she felt him press against her back, she automatically leaned back into him, letting her body mold against his like it always did. Her bottom pushed back against his crotch, making him grunt softly. Her head fell back against his chest, baring her neck to him. 

"Fucking beautiful." The man murmured against her skin, his voice husky as it remained quiet. His hand palmed her breast, his fingers splaying out to cover as much of her soft flesh as possible. It was selfish of him to want to be all over her, but it’s all he wanted. Really, it felt like a need to have his hands touching every inch of her even if it wasn’t fully possible. Kneading the soft mound of her breast, his thumb brushed over her hardening nipple with a soft coo. Feeling her react was a privilege he didn’t take lightly. His other hand wrapped around her waist, keeping her flush against him. Nuzzling himself into the crook of her neck, he pressed open-mouthed kisses to her sensitive skin.

 "God, you're gorgeous. Can’t get over it.” He whispered against her, his touch soft and slow. His fingers gently pinched her nipple, making her arch back against him with a soft whining sound leaving her swollen lips. "Look at you. My gorgeous girl…" The man murmured, taking her in. "You're a damn goddess. Every inch of you is made to be worshipped. N’I’m your main follower." His lips found the particular spot she liked underneath her ear, letting his tongue brush it before sucking softly on the skin. "Y’know I'm obsessed with you, yeah baby? Like dangerously obsessed?"

Y/N could feel his obsession in every touch, in every whispered word. She loved how he worshipped her and how he always made her feel cherished. Most of all, she loved how he talked to her like she was the most precious thing in the world to him. She loved his hands on her nearly all the time, like he couldn’t help but touch her- and how he always made her feel protected, honored. Even when he was filthy, in the depths of their passion, Harry had no issue with making her feel worshiped. She turned her head to the side, allowing him better access to her neck as she whispered back "You are. I love it."

It was the truth. Y/N had wondered if someday, someone would be able to match the amount of passion she knew she could bring into a relationship. It was hard to imagine someone feeling so intensely in the way that she did, but she had met her match when Harry had waltzed into her life.

"You love it?" he murmured against her skin, a coo of pleasure in his voice. He nipped at her spot to make her squirm a little in his arms, soothing the small sting with his tongue. "You love how fucking obsessed I am with you, my perfect girl?" His hand slid down her stomach, his fingers splaying out possessively. "You love how I can't keep my hands off you? How m’always touching you, kissing you, fucking you until I break? Because that’s what y’do to me. Ruined and saved me all at the same time.” He was waxing on and he knew it, but it was only her right to know how twisted up she managed to get him. “All I can think about is how much I love you,I spend my days dreaming about you. S’that make you happy?"

"Yes." The word came out breathy and needy as he continued to run his hands south. "I love how you can't keep your hands off me. I love how you make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world every single day." She met his eyes in the mirror as she continued in the whisper, despite there being no need to keep the volume low. The intimacy of it all had it cocooning them in their own personal bubble.. "I love how you speak to me like I'm your own personal heaven."

"Oh, but darling… You are." Harry groaned, his hand sliding between her legs to get a taste of it. "My own personal fucking heaven. If I’ve died n’this is where I end up, I don’t want anyone t’bring me back. I want to live here." The words were murmured against her neck, his fingers finding her wet and ready for him between her sacred thighs. "So sweet and so fuckin’ mine," he praised, his touch gentle and calculated as he pet her, making her gasp. "You're my everything, Y/N. My love, my life, my whole fucking world." His other hand came up to cup her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger again to get her to let out one of those pretty noises again. 

"My beautiful girl," He crooned, his damp fingers slipping through her slick folds, parting her gently. "My precious, precious love…" His fingers found her sensitive bud, circling it slowly and feeling her pulse against his fingertips. Having the key to his pleasure in the palm of his hand was a gift he wasn’t going to waste. "What am I going to do with you, hm? How should I spend my night ensuring you know just how much you make me feel?”

His fingers continued their maddeningly slow circles around her clit, teasing her mercilessly. "Tell me," he spoke, his voice a low rumble against her ear, "Do you want me to fuck this sweet cunt until you're screaming my name? Or should I worship it with my mouth until you're dripping down my chin, begging for my cock?" His other hand tweaked her nipple sharply, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. "How should I show my goddess that she's worshipped?"

"Both," Y/N gasped breathlessly, her body arching into his touch. "Fuck, please..." Her eyes fluttered closed briefly before catching his gaze in the mirror again. "I want... I want your mouth first. Make a mess on your face. I want to watch you worship me." Her hips rolled forward, pressing against his fingers that were still teasing her clit. "Then... God, then fuck me into the mattress." She was already panting, her body completely pliant against his. Even if he held the physical power, he would bend at the knee for her. His girl was the one in charge. 

"Knew you'd be a greedy little thing today. S’a good thing I love fulfilling all your desires." He loved how she wasn't shy about telling him what she wanted.  She knew exactly what she liked and how to ask for it, and it made his job of giving it to her a million times easier. "On the bed, then. I’ve missed that cunt. Show it off for me." He removed his hands from her body, albeit a challenge, giving her a gentle pat on the bottom to urge her forward.

Y/N's legs shook slightly as she moved towards the bed, feeling the familiar adrenaline light her up. It was hard not to feel on the good side of the edge knowing she had a man who never, ever failed on delivering what he promised. Once she was standing next to the bed, she slowly climbed on her knees, gripping the duvet with both hands. She looked back over her shoulder at him, her eyes burning with need. "Like this?" She asked hoarsely, spreading her legs wider to expose her glistening cunt to him.

Harry's gaze was riveted to the sight before him. his love, on her knees, bare and open for him. The sight was exquisite. he couldn’t believe how perfect she was. “Yeah, I love you like that. Fucking stunning.” He murmured as he slowly crept closer to her, crawling onto the bed. His large hands gripped her ample ass, his thumbs spreading her wide for his own inspection. “S’My favorite view.”

Harry couldn’t deny that it filled him with a sense of pride to see evidence of her arousal like this. He pushed his fingers through her messy slit, spreading her juices around. The sound of wet, squelching noises filled the room as he touched her, making her whimper softly. "God woman, you're so fucking wet." He muttered, dragging his fingers back and forth through her dripping cunt. It would almost sound like he was pissed but he was anything but. He was aroused, more than ever.

"Look at me." He commanded, his voice deep and authoritative as he continued to spread her juices around her slick cunt. She immediately turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder, her eyes glassy with need. Without breaking eye contact, Harry leaned down and spat directly onto her cunt, the warm liquid mingling with her own arousal. "So fucking filthy," he growled, using his fingers to massage the saliva into her folds. "Just like my girl should be."

Y/N felt slightly lightheaded at the view, the feeling, all of it. As filthy as he claimed for her to be, he was her perfect match. He knew how to make her crazy because he was just as insane. He brought his spit covered fingers up to her mouth, pressing them against her lips. "Taste yourself." Harry ordered. "Taste how fucking wet you get for me. How your cunt cries for me." He held his fingers there, not moving, waiting for her to open up and take them inside. "Go on, baby. Show me how you clean my fingers."

She parted her lips obediently, taking the digits into her mouth. Humming softly, the taste of her arousal sending a fresh wave of heat through her core. It was very dirty, something she wouldn’t have ever thought of liking before, but Harry had managed to open her up to all sorts of things she never thought she would like. Being spit on and cleaning off her taste off his fingers was one of them. As she sucked his fingers clean, she maintained eye contact, her gaze smoldering with lust and obedience because she knew what it did to him. Playing with fire? Perhaps. But Harry would give her what she wanted. After a long moment, she released his fingers with a soft pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his digits for a brief second before breaking. 

"Fuck, I love you." It was a strange time to declare it but seeing her do that stuff had him feeling every sort of insane that he ever could. He couldn’t get enough of how she tasted, how she looked on her knees, how she whimpered and begged when he touched her. Slipping his wet fingers back into her cunt, he let out as he moved where he wanted to be- with his mouth right on her. as he buried his face between her thighs, his long fingers curling up to hit that spot inside her that drove her wild and had her humping back to chase the feeling. "My filthy, perfect girl," he mumbled against her flesh, his hot breath making her shudder. "Spread wider f’me, baby. Let me in." He demanded, pushing her thighs further apart to give himself better access.

Finding her clit with his lips, Harry latched onto the sensitive bud and sucked hard, letting his tongue flick over it. Her taste coated on his tongue and he groaned in pleasure, the vibrations sending waves of ecstasy through her. His arm wrapped around her hips, pulling her cunt closer to his eager mouth as he devoured her like a starving man presented with a feast- his favorite meal. "Fuck, you taste divine." he murmured before sucking her clit back into his mouth eagerly. Harry had tasted plenty of people before and as cliche as it most definitely sounded, Y/N was by far the best he ever had. He could spend days here and not get tired, wear her on his skin if it was appropriate.

"Oh my fucking God," she whimpered, her hips bucking forward as she pressed against his face. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she reached behind to grab him, holding him exactly where she wanted him. "Right there, baby... just like that..." Her voice was breathy and urgent, completely lost in the sensation of his tongue against her sensitive nerves. She could feel every suck, every flick sending jolts of pleasure through her entire body. It was so hot having a man who wanted to make her feel good, but knowing he got off on it too? Hearing his groans and moans and feeling them vibrate against her? That was a whole other level.

"Harry..." She gasped, spreading her legs wider for him, because fuck, what wouldn’t she do for him in this position? " Holy shit." Her back arched slightly as he continued to suck her clit like it was his favorite candy. "Baby, wait..." She tugged lightly on his hair, her thighs tensing around his face. "You're- You're too good at this..." The whimper was lost as his fingers slid back inside her hole, curving up to hit that sweet spot again. "Oh my God." Her inner muscles clenched around his digits. 

Y/N was getting close, he could feel it in the way her legs trembled and her cunt clenched around his fingers. But suddenly, she pulled him away, panting heavily. "Wait, wait.” she gasped, turning around to face him. "I need your cock, Harry. I need you inside me right now." Her eyes were wild with desire, her chest heaving with every breath. "Please, baby. Fuck me." 

He wasn’t sure why she didn’t want to finish on his face this time around, but he wasn’t ever going to say no to being inside of her. 

"With pleasure." He growled, quickly unbuckling his belt and pushing his pants down. His hard cock sprang free, already leaking precum. Like she was weightless, there was no hesitation in grabbing her hips and flipped her onto her back, settling between her spread thighs. 

The days at the gym spent specifically to be able to toss her around were proving to be very successful, and Y/N made a mental note to test some of that out later.

"You want my cock, baby?" He asked, teasing her entrance with the head of his dick. "You want me to fill you up?" He leaned down to kiss her deeply, silencing the moaned response she gave. He knew what she wanted- that was his job.

With a deep groan against her mouth, his hips pushed forward, sliding his thick dick deep into her. He panted into her mouth as her walls stretched to accommodate him, wrapping around his shaft like a vice. "There we go. S’perfect. M’home." he mumbled against her lips, beginning to move his hips in a steady rhythm. It may be very cliche, cheesy to say, but nothing made him feel as at home as being close to her did. Nothing. He pulled back until just the tip remained inside, then pushed heavily back in, skin colliding with a solid thud.

"Ahh- fuck. Harry…" She cried out, her back arching off the bed as he filled her completely. Her nails dug into his toned back, sure to make the marks he loved as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. 

He set a slow, sensual pace, angling his hips to bury himself as deep as possible with each thrust. Harry wanted to feel every inch of her gripping his cock, each deliberate movement dragged his shaft along her inner ridges, have her feel it just as much. They were made for each other just based on how she took him and he wanted to remind her each and every time. "Feel that, baby?" He purred, his breath hot against her ear. "Feel how deep m’getting? Claiming every fucking inch of this perfect cunt."

He made love to her slowly, his touch everywhere as he adored her body. His thick hands roamed over her, his calloused fingers tracing her soft skin. "My beautiful girl," he murmured, kissing down her neck as he continued to fill her completely as she clung to him. "My precious, precious love..." His touch was soft and gentle the best he could, his movements slow and deep, taking his damn time with her. Every single time he got to be with her in this way was one he cherished, but it was hard to pound into her when he felt overcome with how much he loved the woman. "My treasure..." He whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "My heaven...S’what you are.” 

There had been no exaggeration on his end. Being inside of her, being close to her was what he considered perfection. Getting to have the woman he would have only ever dreamt about in his physical hands, feeling the heat of her skin on his palms and the pleasure of her wrapped around him like a lock to a key, it was unreal to him at times. Waking up to her face or her voice, getting to be the one she loved was everything he could have asked for. 

 "You're my everything," he breathed, his pace unhurried yet intense. Each thrust was deliberate, designed to hit that spot deep inside her that made her eyes roll back. All he wanted was for his sweet angel to feel good. His thumb brushed gentle circles over her clit in time with his movements, his touch light. "I worship you." The man confessed, voice hitching as she squeezed around him. "Your body... your heart... your fucking soul." He leaned down to capture her mouth in a deep, loving kiss, swallowing her whimpers and moans.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he murmured against her lips. His eyes met hers, burning with an intense, adoring gaze. The longer he was with her, the more the fire was stoked. He was engulfed in the flames of her but he never felt it burn. Only the most comfortable warmth someone could ever imagine. 

"I was a lost, broken man before I met you. But you... you put me back together. You made me whole again." His movements were slow and deliberate, each thrust meant to draw out their pleasure as long as possible. They were both too close and he knew it, but this wasn’t the end of their night. It was only the beginning. Burying himself deep inside her, his hips grinding against hers as he felt the nails dig into his back and her mouth open to whimper his name, he let out a breathless laugh as she lost herself on his cock. "Yeah- that’s what I want, baby. Let go on me. Give me everything, and M’gonna give it right back.” It was what he was meant to do. Harry didn’t know before Y/N, but he sure as hell knew now. “You're my redemption, my salvation, my fucking everything. M’gonna spend my whole life showing it"

[https-bobreynolds]

good for each other

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds/sentry x enchantress! reader

summary: just a raw moment between the two of you in the tower’s medical bay.

warnings: blood, injury, tension

author’s note: can be read alone but this is supposed to be a part two for enter the sun and the spell !! thank you all for 7000+ likes, reblogs and comments🫶🫶

back at the tower, the overhead lights are dim, tinted soft blue, like the place itself knows everyone needs rest.

bob’s sitting on the edge of the medical bed, shirt half-peeled off, bruises already blooming dark across his ribs, a slow trickle of dried blood on his temple. he’s trying to downplay it, like always.

you walk in carrying a med kit and an eyebrow already raised.

“you should be lying down.” you say.

he scoffs softly. “i’m fine.”

“you took a missile to the chest, bob.”

“i’ve… taken worse.”

you plant yourself in front of him. “doesn’t mean you should.”

he’s too tired to argue. so he lets you patch him up. the antiseptic stings, he doesn’t flinch, but you do.

“sorry.” you mutter, tapping gauze against his skin.

bob looks up at you, quietly.

“you did good out there.”

you smile. “you lit up the sky.”

“you danced across it.”

you pause.

there’s something different about the way he says it, not just admiration, something else, something tender, like he doesn’t just mean it looked cool.

like he means: you were beautiful.

you swallow, look away.

“i didn’t black out this time,” you say, more to fill the space.

“that was a lot of power to channel,” bob says, softly. “you sure you’re okay?”

you nod. “more than okay. i think… i think i’m learning how to carry her.”

bob studies you. “it doesn’t… she doesn’t scare you?”

you meet his gaze.

“no,” you say. “because i’m not carrying her alone.”

and maybe that’s about more than just magic.

his shoulders drop a little. like some breath he didn’t know he was holding finally let go.

a beat passes.

then you mutter, “let me look at your ribs.”

bob sighs, lays back. the bed creaks. you pull the rest of his shirt up and wince at the mess of black-purple bruising.

“you heal fast.” you mutter.

“you worry faster.” he says.

you glance at him, caught.

his voice goes softer.

“… you always… you always show up when i need you.”

you tape the last of the dressing across his side. “so do you.”

he’s quiet for a second, eyes fixed on the ceiling. then:

“you ever feel it?”

“feel what..?”

“the way the air changes… when we fight together.”

you sit back on the stool beside him, arms crossed.

you think about the sky burning gold and green. the way your magic carved runes in the dark like constellations. the way he moved beside you like a storm just barely held back.

you nod once, “yeah.”

he turns his head toward you. his expression is open now, tired, a little raw, but honest.

“you scare me, sometimes.” he says.

you blink. “gee, thanks.”

he smiles, “no, i mean… you move like someone who’s not afraid to be exactly what you are.”

you look at him. “and you move like someone who’s spent too long pretending he’s not.”

silence. but not the awkward kind.

just full.

“i think we’re good for each other,” bob says, quietly.

you lean your head back against the wall, eyes closed.

“then don’t scare me like that again.”

he nods.

and for a few minutes, you both sit in silence, bruised and bandaged, your hands resting just close enough that your pinkies brush now and then, like a promise you haven’t said out loud yet.

not tonight.

but maybe soon.

tag list:

@lovetoalll

[jordiemeow]

summary: new rochelle is watched over by father patrick: charismatic, trusted, adored by the town's youth. but when you, a troubled young woman, begin confessing desires you can barely name, he finds himself drawn to more than just your need for salvation.

warnings: 18+, masturbation, religious themes/blasphemy, morally dubious priest, specific age gap not specified but implied (patrick early 30s at most), power imbalance mentioned + alludes to patrick seeing himself as god, patrick jerking off while reader is unaware so tagging dubcon, reader confessing sins/praying gets this freak horny

notes: inspired by rewatching fleabag. hot priest. mmm. patrick hot priest. mmm x2. patrick hot fucked up priest. mmm x3. haven't been to church in like 4 years forgive me for anything inaccurate x

—

Patrick Zweig—or Father Patrick, as you know him—has long since noticed the way the young people of New Rochelle come to him. They do not only seek someone to represent their faith but something more elusive. Perhaps it is because he is younger than most priests. Not old and distant, but in his early thirties at most, with an easy smile and a voice that carries warmth and humour. Young enough to understand the pulse of the town's restless youth but old enough to carry the weight of the Lord's unyielding authority.

The people of the town gravitate towards him for the rare sense of understanding he offers. His sermons aren't just words; they feel like conversations, one between a sinner who has repented inviting them to do the same. It’s raw. Real. Sometimes he thinks they have come to trust him a little too much.

That must be what draws you to him. Conversations in town, staying after service to light candles just to catch a glimpse of him tidying away prayer books or emerging from the sacristy absent of his vestments. The real man behind those robes of faith. 

He’s come to enjoy your company. The shy smiles you offer when he lights a candle next to yours, or the way your pupils dilate when your lips part oh-so-willingly to accept communion from his giving hands. Yes, perhaps it’s not the company itself he likes, but rather the way you look at him as if you’re waiting for his absolution. Not God's. His.

And it comes eventually when you bump into him while walking home after a rough day. Bloodshot eyes, nose running and hands trembling when you choke out a "Father, I must confess. May I come by the Church tomorrow?"

He agrees. What kind of priest would he be to turn away a parishioner in need? He knows that's not why, of course. He enjoys the thrill of command in his sacred space. The silent dominance in your submission. It is a heady feeling to hold power not just as a priest, but as a man standing between your past and your hope for redemption.

"Tell me," he says. "What would you like me to do for you tonight?"

Your hands wring together nervously. The sight makes something stir within him. "I want to feel clean. I want to believe I'm not beyond saving."

"Then you must accept your truth and seek the path towards light. Not by denial, but by courage." He nods towards the booth. Your eyes dart over nervously, but you mimic his nod in wordless assent.

Neither of you speak as you settle in on opposite sides, curtain shut until the sacred and forbidden mingle only in the flickering candlelight beneath the red fabric. He can barely make out the blurry shape of your face through the lattice, and for a moment all he hears is his breathing mixing with your own.

It starts tame. Things like I pretended to be sick to get out of going to work or I've been slacking on my nightly prayers because I've been too lazy before bed. He wants to press, because clearly you did not beg to come to confession just for this. There must be something darker weighing on your soul.

But he forces himself to be patient, interjecting only when necessary to assure you that you are holding yourself accountable and therefore will be cleansed in the eyes of God. Until you utter the words:

"And... and sometimes I touch myself. To relieve the ache within me. I know it is wrong, and I want to stop. To repent."

Blood instantly rushes south at those words. His fingers dig in to his palms so hard it almost feels like his nails would rend his flesh. Such admissions are commonplace in the House of the Lord, and yet hearing you speak them does something to Patrick. His mind wanders to places it shouldn't. He conjures images of you writhing in the silence of your room while your hand seeks that sinful high. 

His nails dig into his skin and he has to inhale through his nose to keep his voice from cracking when he asks, "How often does this ache come upon you?"

It is so quiet in the booth that he can hear your shaky exhale. "Almost every night, Father."

His chest rises and falls heavier as he listens to your confession, his fingers trembling under the fabric of his green cassock. He shouldn't ask. This is your place to confess, but the question slips out anyways:

"And you said you... touch yourself?"

You hesitate. You trust him enough to give him everything. The shame, the fear, the secret part of your soul you dare not speak aloud to anyone else. Attraction. Desire. Truth you're terrified to claim. It reaches into places that Patrick has long since buried beneath years of study and prayer.

He's never had the need to wait so desperately for the next sentence to fall from someone's lips. He feels as though he's hanging on to every word, hand gripping his thigh as he waits for you to continue.

"Yes," you breathe, as if you're picturing it now, too.

"Just to relieve the ache, as you say," he clarifies. This is not something new for him. But you. He’s always been so fond of you and the way you looked up at him with those sweet eyes of yours… 

This is wrong. This is holy ground. He is supposed to guide you, not...

Not what? Want you? Use you? Revel in the control of your secrets?

He remembers his vows, the promise he made to serve God, to resist temptation, to be a vessel of mercy and purity. But in the quiet of the chapel, the lines blur. He holds the power here—the power to condemn or to forgive—and that knowledge intoxicates him like a dark prayer one would utter to a deity that was not his own God.

Patrick wonders, then, can he separate the man from the priest? Can he keep his desire buried beneath the robes and rituals? Or is he already lost in the same darkness you're confessing to, tangled in the very sins he is sworn to save you from?

"May I ask where this ache comes from? If only to understand what you are confessing to."

His heart beats faster. It's not just a spiritual power right now. It's deeply personal, because here you are, a young woman trembling with fear and shame, laying your soul bare behind the veil of confession. And to hold the key to your salvation, or your condemnation, is an all-consuming thing. One that leads his hand to slip down, down, down into the tight confines of his cassocks. Fumbling with buttons to push further until he reaches into his boxers and—

"Well, Father, I... I find myself drawn to… men. Ones that I should not be." Oh. Yes, there it is. A gasp that is not completely in disbelief came from the other side of the confessional as his fingers curl around himself. The quiet of the booth is broken only by your voice and the faint rustle of clothing from across the lattice as he listens intently.

Married men, his brain supplies. Or perhaps someone as unobtainable as him. "Attracted in a way I should not be. I don’t want to feel this way. It’s like a weight inside me, like a stain on my soul. I pray for it to go away, but the feelings grow stronger. I’m scared I’m lost."

"You are not lost," he rasps. "Those thoughts you have... they do not define you. You are a child of God." His breathing is heavy, punctuated by a low, almost choked off groan that he prays you do not acknowledge. "The church teaches us about sin, yes, but also about love and forgiveness. What matters is your heart’s honesty."

He hears you breathe out a shaky sigh. "But I feel so dirty. Like I’m breaking God’s law."

Dirty. Breaking. God. His hand tightens around his cock, stroking up-down, up-down, up-down as your words struggle to find clarity in his head. Dirty dirty dirty. Your voice is so soft, so tinged by despair. He cannot decide whether he wants to save you or ruin you further.

"Sometimes, what we fear most is what we must face." His lip catches between his teeth so hard he can taste the tangible rust of blood on his tongue. "And in confession, you find not judgement, but understanding."

"Do you understand me, Father?"

Yes. Oh, you have no idea how much he understands you. Does God hear the conflict in my heart as clearly as your confession? He wonders. I am a priest. I am meant to forgive. But who forgives me when my own sins are tangled in the shadows?

His other hand grips the wooden screen, nails digging fruitlessly into the timber-stained beech. You may not go to Hell for this, but he certainly will. A servant of God indulging in the sin of lust in his very House of Worship. Patrick's hand picks up faster at just the thought.

"You are not alone, my child." He forces the words out. It comes out strangled, a little too sharp, a crack in the steady command you're used to. His head falls forward until his forehead brushes the screen. Patrick holds onto his weakening composure with gritted teeth.

"The Devil whispers in all our ears, but it is up to us to reject his sinful promises."

"And have you? Rejected his sinful promises?"

In that moment, he wonders if this is a test. One he is failing and too far gone to fix. Patrick lets out a hoarse laugh and doesn’t even try to hide the desperation that seeps into it.

"You have no idea." His breath hitches. His mouth is dry. His eyes burn with something that feels like pain. His cock throbs with something that feels like divine pleasure. "The things I would do to—"

He chokes on his own words. No. You are the one confessing, not him. The room feels like it is spinning and his body thrums with a sinful ache he has not felt in years. The Father he is sworn to serve would not have him succumb to this selfish desire, and yet here he is. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus on the heavy, burning wood beneath his hand, but all he can picture beneath the screen is you. On your knees, eyes wide, waiting for him to do something about this burning hunger.

"This is a house of prayer, my child." His voice is hoarse. Raw. "I urge you to do the same."

His hand is a blur in his trousers and it's harder and harder to keep his voice steady. "You have not yet given me your penance for these sins."

"So I must pray?"

"Yes. On your knees."

He hears you sink down on floor, forehead pressing into the opposite side of the screen as his. He can only imagine what he would be doing—tasting—if not for the wooden barrier. He feels dizzy. Light-headed.

The weight of the penance he imposes feels like a chain, one you're willing to accept. Because in that submission, you find a flicker of hope. Your hands clasp together in your lap.

"Repeat after me. Our Father—" His breath catches on the word father. He hears you say the words on the other side of the lattice.

"—Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."

Patrick's hand picks up. Squeezing at the base of his thick length, dragging it up to smear himself in the essence of his own dark desire. He wonders if you can hear the slick slide of his hand around his cock with as much clarity as he does.

"Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread—"

Something that sounds like a moan pushes out from behind the screen. You pause.

"Father? Are you alright?"

"Yes." His answer is too fast, too breathy, but he commands nonetheless: "Keep going."

You continue without him. His eyes are screwed shut as he pumps himself, listening to your sweet voice sing to him like an angel. Temptation personified praying to the Lord who will condemn him for the gratification he is bringing himself right now.

And then, eventually:

"Amen."

That does it for him. Sudden and abrupt, the warmth of his sin spills into his hand, coating his fingers and the inside of his boxers. A pleasure so hot that it feels like it comes from the Seven Hells themselves, vision whiting out as a low groan forces its way out of his throat, raw and guttural.

The silence afterwards is stifling. He takes in ragged breaths that sound more like sobs. It leaves you kneeling in your guilt, heart pounding, unsure what to do next. What was that noise? Was Father Patrick crying? Or was it something else? You swallow thickly.

He slowly slides back onto the bench, running an unsteady hand through his dark hair. "Rise, child." He hears the scuffling of you pushing yourself up to your feet. "God has freed you from your sins. Go in peace."

Silence on the other side of the lattice, before you speak tentatively: "Thank you, Father." You do not thank God. You thank him directly. It should not make him feel as satisfied as it does.

Patrick does not move when he hears the curtain draw, or when your footsteps disappear down the nave. It is only after he hears the distant sound of you blessing yourself in the narthex and the door creaks shut behind you that he rises.

He steps out, inspecting the glistening of his hand in the dying sunlight that peeks through the clerestory. He is stained by guilt, and yet he makes no effort to scrub the evidence from his skin.

Because if he wants to feel clean, truly clean, he must be willing to feel dirty first.

—

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[mylovesstuffs]

birthday afterglow 🚿 joshua hong × fem!reader.

✩ ! includes :: smut-adjacent | MDNI!. husband!joshua x dead-tired!wife!reader. established relationship. heavy post-coital fluff, consensual use kink (??), one-sided physical effort (consensual ofc), implied 4+ rounds, sleepy dialogue, mildly cracky. soft birthday sex aftermath. 629 words. notes :: ig my first actual drabble? indulgent, sleepy, feral domesticity. unproofed, but powered by delulu strength. I think I was very sleepy too when this prompt popped up in my head.

You were boneless, and not in the sexy, flexible way, but in the, if you ask me to lift a single toe, I’ll pass out and see God, kind of way.

Four rounds. Four.

Joshua lies beside you, chest still heaving. Skin slick with sweat, his warmth pressed along the length of your spine, trying to sink back inside you by proximity alone. The room smells like vanilla-sweet infused by sweat and skin; remnants of what you both have done to each other. He’s been all smiles earlier when you surprised him with a low-lit dinner and a ribbon-tied ‘gift’ only he can unwrap.

But now? Now, he was hovering above you, eyes dark and still so goddamn hungry.

“Babe,” you mumble, face half-buried in the pillow. “Please. I can’t feel my legs.”

Joshua chuckles low in his throat, sound stitched from both affection and pride. “I know,” finger brushes sweaty strands of hair from your cheek. “You did so good for me.”

You let out a half-pained, half-mocking groan, wriggling slightly where you lie, skin sticking to the sheets. “You’re still hard, aren’t you?” He doesn't answer, but the press of his cock against your thigh gives him away. You can feel it. A beat of silence passes before you sigh, voice hoarse and completely serious, “Use me if you still need to. I’m not moving again.”

There is a literal pause for a good five seconds before the reaction you expect from him finally comes. He moans—like actually, moans. Soft and almost whiny, “God,” he breathes out, nuzzling against your shoulder like he is trying to restrain himself from trying to crawl inside you without actually doing it. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” you mutter sleepily. “Just... don’t expect eye contact. Or movement. Or words.”

You feel his lips ghost over the top of your spine. “You sure?”

“I’m your wife. This is part of the job,” you deadpan as if that is the entire argument in itself. Dry delivery, with no frills, the tone makes it impossible to tell if you are serious or just playing for the effect. “Happy birthday.”

Joshua lets out a fond breathless laugh that rumbles from deep in his chest but doesn't bother making a show of itself. His lips brush your shoulder again like a muscle memory he doesn't have to think about anymore. “I love you,” he says into your skin, not because he expects an answer, but because it is true in that moment and every other one too.

You hum, not even a full word but just enough to say, heard you. Say, me too. “Love you too,” already half-melted into the pillow. “Now go ahead. I’m just gonna nap while you commit a felony on my body.”

He groans, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

He dives in, and when he moves, it is slow. Every shift of his hips, every inch of contact, carries an edge of desperation; like he knows the moment will end and can't stop chasing it anyway. He whispers your name into your skin, clutches you like it matters, like letting go would split something wide open.

You don't move even when he breathes hard against your back. Not even when he says things that aren't full sentences but still get the meaning across. You just stay there, your body heavy and warm and unmoving, since you have poured every last drop of energy into him already—as your husband makes love to you one last time for the night.

Later, he lifts you gently, arms looping under you like it isn't the first time he’s carried you this way [it wasn't the first time]. Your legs don't argue; they’ve already given up.

⌦ 🚿 © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

[yourislandgirl]

⁺‧♱₊ DON’T TOUCH, DON’T DO IT ˚˖𓍢⋆ || 박성훈 x fem!reader || fic

ib: this prompt by @hoondrop

summary: light and darkness culminates in a single glance when you find yourself entranced by a handsome stranger, and with one touch he brings you closer to god than you could ever have imagined

genres: fallen angel!sunghoon x human!fem reader, romance, mature, suggestive, angelic/devilish powers au, religious imagery, strangers to ???

warnings: swearing/cursing, skinship, indirect allusions to sex but nothing explicit is written, some descriptive sentences on bodily harm (burns.. to sunghoon), desperate sunghoon, he’s lowkey going through a psychotic break and questioning his entire purpose, yn sees a handsome guy who questions religion like herself and runs with it, not an accurate rep of christian mythology — i’m not christian i just like researching and learning religious symbolism so i’m so sorry if i get smth wrong

w.c: 5.9k

[archive]

It had been at least ten or so hours since he’d lost it all. Or at least that was his assumption. Time worked differently in this realm. Everything felt tortuously long.

The field where he’d woken up had left charred grass blades beneath him, his skin stippled and smoking in two long stripes down his broad back. The smell made him want to heave and yet nothing came out. But the feeling… He’d never felt such a repulsive reaction in himself.

Angels didn’t feel nauseous, they didn’t feel hunger, rage, wrath, or at least they weren’t supposed to.

But now the feelings seemed to suffocate him. Yet the air was stale.

The world of the humans felt bleak — it lacked the opulence of pearlescent pillars and amber chandeliers and marble pathways. The trees seemed less alive, the flowers less fragrant, everything was less.

But it was better than the other option…

He refused to go there.

But that left him no other choice but to stay here. Among the humans. They were…different.

Some shone brightly, others had a festering wound coiling inside them, draining them with every breath and every sin. Those fighting for sanity were always teetering on the brink of giving up and pulling through. Those that gave in, fell into the poison of release that had Sunghoon looking away in disappointment.

But at least they had the chance to redeem themselves.

Sunghoon regarded every passing person with a semblance of prospect — they each had the opportunity to find salvation. Something that would forever remain out of his reach.

Turmoil riddled his mind, complicated emotions that had never touched the strings of his heart were now orchestrating his feelings. He’d become a marionette, a simpleton compared to humans who had grown into mastery of these emotional shortcomings.

This shame buried under anger was new. And it only grew with every passing hour.

He found himself walking into an empty chapel’s halls. Rows of pews and stone walls carved with intricacy, paintings and murals of the divinity that he’d once known — it wasn’t enough.

His steps echoed, heavy against oakwood polished floorboards. The urge to raise up into the air, suspended between gravity, it gnawed at him. But despite all the dust and musty candlewax, all Sunghoon could smell was the burning flesh on his back.

He chose a pew to the far corner, away from the entrance but far enough from the podium that he felt like he could stare without the guilt swallowing him whole. His back rested against the length of the bench, one arm bending back to cushion his head.

And for the first time since he fell, Sunghoon wept.

Hot tears slid down his unblemished cheeks — skin that had never felt anything more than the warmth of Heavens sun, the sweetness of its rain — he felt the rage pushing itself out, heating up his face, pulsing against his skull, twisting in his throat.

Feeling the sticky yet dry remains of his sadness was humbling.

Amongst the multitude of muddled emotions, one thing remained consistent — Sunghoon had divinity that did not hold power to those above, and was irrelevant to those below, he only mattered here, and yet here was the realm of freedom that promised salvation to everyone but him.

Sunghoon let his hand slide down his face, wiping his tears and with them, his self pity.

Alright Father, you want to punish me? Let me show you the liberty of your punishment.

⋆ ───── 𝜗𝜚 ───── ⋆

There wasn’t any goal with your walk. You just wanted to get out, clear your head, get your thoughts straight, something to pass the time. It wasn’t a planned route. There wasn’t an intended destination.

So when you found yourself on the steps of the old church in your town, it felt more pretentious than comforting.

What gave you, the girl who renounced religion as something that predetermined value, the right to step foot into such a place when you felt lost.

Regardless, you simply scoffed and entered the place anyway.

It was the better option compared to the town’s newer church. This one was all but abandoned, safe for the archive room being used as storage by the pastors after they all moved to the newer church across town.

You remember sneaking into these halls as a young teenager. Usually during a game of truth or dare, to see who’d be brave enough to enter the abandoned church at night and get a picture of the weeping angel statue out the back on the church grounds. Safe to say you’d finished the dare with only minimal nightmares for the rest of that weekend.

“Worth it,” you whispered to yourself as you slid past the slightly ajar doors.

The place hadn’t changed at all. In a way, that was comforting. After seeing all the new apartment complexes closer to the city or the reconstructed parks that got rid of the old equipment you’d grown up with, this was an oddly nice change of pace.

You pulled out the lighter in your back pocket and reached for one of the single candle holders. The sun was setting rapidly outside and the streetlights on this side of town were old and quite frankly unreliable.

The crackle of the aged wick filled the previous pin drop silence and you felt goosebumps rise along the length of your forearms. The slither of cold that slid down your spine made your shoulder shake slightly.

It was a delicious sort of drear, the kind that had you curious and pushed away thoughts of your day, your week, your life.

Tonight, in the halls of the church, with its enormously high ceilings that glittered with cobwebs and candelabras, all that mattered was your peace of mind. You didn’t care about tomorrow, or yesterday, or even the last hour.

You just wanted to get lost in the one place in town that had stood still through the progression of time.

You took tentative steps along the rows of seats, searching for the odd bible left behind, maybe some other momento, lost among moth eaten cushions. The amber flame in your hand cast eerie shadows, reflecting mirages from the multicoloured stained glass.

You had just reached the podium when the sight of a limp body along one of the pews had you frozen on the spot, a gasp strangled in your throat.

“What the— Hey.”

You placed the candleholder on top the podium, letting its light spread wider from the elevation, and you hesitantly walked closer to the man laying there in what appeared to be a satin shirt and pants that looked darker than obsidian. A grey coat was bunched up behind his neck for support and upon further inspection, his shoes seemed caked with mud and gravel, as if he’d been walking for hours.

You shuffled closer, breath held between your pursed lips. Except it didn’t stay back for long — your eyes had only just reached his face when you felt the air being pushed out of your lungs.

He was… Beautiful. There was simply no other word for it.

Fair skin mildly speckled with dark stars, lips that looked like they had a touch softer than rose petals, one hand tucked under his head, dark hair spread in different directions from his sleep. His other hand was adorned with silver rings, glistening despite the minimal lighting, as if they glowed but not quite.

Your hand reached forward before you could even control it. The desire to touch him was something so out of this world that it was as if you were viewing yourself through a screen, your body moving without any intention other than to feel the form of someone that screamed angelic.

As your fingers touched the soft fabric on his shoulder, you wondered if he was some wealthy runaway, some sort of political figure or celebrity, maybe even a model. No other explanation came to mind. He looked otherworldly and his clothes felt like they were meant to be worn by a prince.

And he radiated warmth. Not a feverish burn but a simmering heat. Like the sun in the early morning, the first rays of light.

Finally, taking a breath, after what felt like a millennia, you cleared your throat and gave him a gentle shake.

“Hey. Wake up. … Hello?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, lips creasing together before sitting up with a jolt, eyes wide, shoulders tense. You stumbled back a few steps, watching him observe his surroundings until his gaze landed on you. Before he squeezed his eyes shut.

“…So bright.” His voiced was slightly rasped from sleeping and yet the gravity of his tone had you lost for words.

All you managed to get out was a measly “Huh?”

“Bright.” He repeated himself.

Looking back at your single candlestick, you frowned a little. “That’s too bright for you?”

The man simply rubbed his eyes with his fingers, blinking a few times before shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it.” Your hand clasped itself around your mouth hurriedly.

Heat prickled the back of your neck as you watched the man in front of you start to stretch and stumble to his feet, standing taller as he straightened up.

He didn’t appear to have registered your words, thank god, but the embarrassment had already washed over you.

It was hard to stop staring, observing the way he scanned his surroundings, took a step forward before looking down and sighing in disappointment. It was as if he expected something to happen.

You were just about to work up the nerve to ask some sort of question when he turned around.

“Oh god…” You took a step backwards, hand reaching for your phone. “You— You’re hurt.”

He froze, his shoulders squaring as he looked back to you. “I’m not. I— It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not?” Your phone lit up as you unlocked it. “You need a doctor.”

He took a step closer, palms up placatingly. “I don’t! Just… Stop. Trust me. I’m fine.”

Your thumbs paused, hovering over the keypad. It was a little impossible to look away from him. His gaze had a depth that had you swimming just to stay present in the moment, fighting against the tide.

He must have taken your silence as an indication to keep going. “I, uh, already had it treated. It just needs to be aired out to heal now.”

That didn’t seem medically sound in the slightest. From your quick glance it looked like severe burns, not the kind you got from a kitchen stove. Two long stripes etched down his back, the marks burnt through his shirt, browning the once pale, moonlit-white of the satin.

“I don’t think that airing it out will help much…” Your eyes darted between his, gaze fixating on the small moles that dotted his face. You were so focused on counting them, you missed the way his lip quirked up.

With a shrug, he reached for his coat, grey and long, draping it over his shoulders. “I’m just doing what my doctor told me.”

Normally, this would be the perfect opportunity to form an ending to the conversation and make a quick exit.

Normally, you would do that just that, giving a curt smile and a quick nod and a simple ‘Have a good night’ before speed walking out the door.

Normally…

Nothing about this man was normal.

“What are you doing here?”

He sighed at your question, arms crossing over before he spoke, “Just sleeping. I’ve had a long day. You?”

“Uh… I was out for a walk. Kind of ended up here. Weird, right?”

His expression sobered a little, his mind seemingly drifting before he responded. “No. You probably came here for a reason. Like I did.”

“And what reason’s that?”

“Peace. Silence. Company.”

You felt the same tug on your limbs, where it was like you were a mere spectator while your feet took a few tentative steps forward. “Are you the company?”

The man’s eyes seemed to soften, a hypnotising contrast with the subtle strike of his smirk. “If you want me to be.”

⋆ ───── 𝜗𝜚 ───── ⋆

It wasn’t like Sunghoon knew what to do in such situations.

Stuck in a realm where redemption was futile had suddenly made every thought, every action, every inhibition seem enticing.

What could he do now that he had no limitations on his soul?

Did he even possess a conscience? Or was it always just an added bonus to divine existence?

What would it be like to give in and fall into that freedom?

He’d have to get used to not raising into flight after taking a single step — the lack of wings left a lightness to his shoulders. He felt uninhibited.

Usually in bouts of desperation, one does something that they will eventually regret. But Sunghoon couldn’t deny how exhilarating it was to dismiss regret. To feed into thoughts of impurity because he finally felt separate from the shackles of feather and bone that had once framed his structure.

He had the opportunity to let go of everything that had once defined him. He had the chance to reinvent himself in his own image, rather than what was handed to him upon birth. He just didn’t know where to begin.

Until he laid his eyes on you.

Through the brief interactions, it was clear why you shone so brightly. There was a genuine light inside of you — golden and glistening — ready to shine onto anyone in need or sear the space around you to protect yourself. There were a few people he’d seen with such brightness.

You were the first one he’d seen up close.

It should have concerned him. Usually he was supposed to have a sense of nurturing and a desire to help facilitate such brightness.

Now, all he wanted was to feel the tempting burn of your light under his fingertips.

This should have concerned him — this desire, so raw, and so new, and so unknown. Yet it was so natural.

Sunghoon let you have your space, blinking repeatedly every chance he got in order to get used to the way you shone in the dark space of the church hall.

The way you moved with a hesitant step, a slightly measured reaction, like you were aware of how much space you were occupying, it was so human of you.

You’d taken the candleholder back in your hands and were explaining briefly why you’d decided on going for a walk in the first place. And Sunghoon listened with raptured attention. Eventually the pair of you made your way past the long echoey hallways and into the archival room.

“This room’s got more comfy chairs anyway.” You gave him a little smile, setting the candleholder down on one of the empty tables before you went to light a few more.

With every little flame that flickered to life thanks to your lighter, the room glowed a little orange. Sunghoon sighed, your own light slightly dimming from the candles around the place.

“So,” you started, “Why are you sleeping at a church? Not that I’m judging… Or, maybe I am. I don’t know. I’m just curious.”

An amused smile etched on Sunghoon’s lips. Your flailing hands as you tried to explain yourself was endearing enough that he didn’t register his response until it happened.

“I can’t go back home.”

“Trouble with your folks?”

“Something like that. I just needed to rest until I can figure out what to do with myself.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either. Sunghoon knew there was not much a fallen angel could do unless they got help from those in power in the Underworld.

But then he’d be indebted.

Dismissing the concern he simply relaxed at how you accepted his words. Your attention seemed taken by the volumes of tomes and books that lined the shelves.

Pulling one out, you flipped it over before frowning at the lack of text on the back. “Guess that doesn’t work. Only novels have blurbs,” you muttered.

Sunghoon walked a little closer, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he carefully took the book from your hands. “Check the inside, last few pages.” He opened the back of the book and pointed out a tiny paragraph of text, looping in fancy script on the aged, yellowing paper.

His eyes followed the way your fingers traced each loop of ink, trying to read the words.

“It’s Latin,” he whispered. “Translates to something about ritual to revitalise a soul after they have sinned.”

You scoffed, closing the book and sliding it back into the shelf. “Sin itself is so bogus.” Halting for a moment, you stole a glance at Sunghoon. “I mean, not to offend you if you’re religious. Which I’m assuming you are if you choose to sleep at a church when you’ve got nowhere to go. I didn’t mean—”

“Relax.” Sunghoon, leaned against a table behind him, arms crossing over his torso as he spoke. “I don’t think sin has weight on me anyway. Not anymore.”

Again, not a lie. But not the truth.

Again, he should have been concerned with the ease at which he was crossing his old limitations. But he wasn’t.

Instead he was smiling at the way you relaxed. He was nodding at your explanation on the rejection of sin, entranced by the confidence in your autonomy. A little envious of what was blissful ignorance to the kinds of realms he’s seen. You truly were existing in the moment for no one but yourself.

“You should keep doing that.” His fingers played with the platinum ring that weighed heavy on his other hand. The last piece of the life he had once known.

You hadn’t quite understood his words. “Doing what?”

“Living for yourself.”

You smiled.

It should have been a sin to have a smile as ethereal as yours, but Sunghoon just smirked at the realisation that you’d renounce that sin as well.

“I don’t actually know what I’m doing.” You walked closer to where Sunghoon stood, back rested against the table. He watched you with a gaze so soft, it was impossible to notice how he was basically pulling you closer with a single look.

He remained situated in one location, eyes following your every movement, as if the dark brown irises that flickered gold from candlelight were some source of power, in control of every step you took.

“You…” The words died on your lips.

You’re different. You’re not normal. You’re doing something to me. And I’m letting you….

Sunghoon was indeed in control. A power he hadn’t ever used without intention until this very moment. He wasn’t moving a human being to the right position in order to facilitate some divine timing. That was no longer his purpose. He had no purpose for anyone other than himself.

Just like you.

He wanted to give into that. Feel what is was to be like you. Feel what it was to be with you.

Feel you.

⋆ ──── 𝜗𝜚 ──── ⋆

There was no logical explanation for how it happened. One minute you were standing a few meters away from the most handsome man you had ever laid your eyes on, and the next minute, you were inches away from him.

Less than inches.

He stood tall, gaze cast down, eyes half-lidded and filled with a darkness that only seemed to beckon you closer.

Your neck craned slightly as you held his gaze. You had no clue where you found the will to keep looking when every nerve in your body was pulsing with the urge to look away. But his pull was inexplicably demanding. And it had you wanting to fulfil what he asked, his desires becoming your own, his thoughts enveloping yours, a shadow encircling light.

With shaky hands, your fingers reached closer — little dark spots on his skin, porcelain smoothness, light rouge dusted across his cheekbones with the candlelight shadows making him seem like he was suspended between this world and a world just beyond the veil — you ached to touch him.

“Don’t.”

With a blink, you halted. Your eyes searched his for some explanation.

“You don’t want to touch me.” He spoke with a certainty, like he knew the power he held over you, like he knew you were questioning why you wanted this so bad.

But that want, that craving, it was all you could focus on. You could have pleaded in that moment, but you tried to bite back the desperation from seeping through your voice and nodded. “I do.”

A smirk struck his features with the magnetism of lightning. He was so alluring. And he was just standing before you. “Innocent girl…” The gravel of his voice left a thundering thump in your chest, in your soul, in the parts of yourself that you didn’t expect. “You don’t know what you want.”

“I do.”

“Really?”

You kept your eyes locked with his, nodding again.

Swallowing back the shivers that were working their way up your forearms, you waited as he straightened up a little more, growing taller than before. You didn’t think it was possible. His own hand started raising higher, mirroring yours, his fingers just a hairs width away from your own cheek.

“Then tell me,” he started, “What do you think you want?”

You bit your tongue. How could you tell a nameless stranger — a handsome stranger, but a stranger nonetheless — that all you really wanted was to feel his hands on you, feel his breath mixed with yours, with no clause or reason or regret for what would come or what it could mean.

Meaning only mattered when it was given that importance. Meaning only existed if one let it. You didn’t intend to.

“Hmm?” He hummed, awaiting a response.

Your response came with your gentle touch, fingertips softly tapping against one of his moles, eyes fixated on the slope of his nose, trailing down to the tantalising sight of his lips, parted ever so slightly. He stiffened from your touch, eyes fluttering closed. A low hiss, barely audible, filled the little space between your faces.

“I know what I want.” You didn’t think your voice had ever been so soft. “The question is, do you want the same?”

His eyes were still closed, his hand dropping down to clench around the fabric of your jacket. “I shouldn’t…”

His brows furrowed, eyes opening to finally meet yours and you felt a sweltering heat from his very gaze. He held a breath for an eternity longer than you thought was humanly possible. Your hand had only just lifted off his face when he grasped with a firm grip, sparks creeping along your palm from his touch.

“I shouldn’t want this.” His whisper seemed to be more for himself than for you. So you chose to remain silent. Entranced by the sight of someone fighting to remain logical in a space that seemed to defy logic, where the energy pulsed with desire, where intellectualising the tension was trivial when you could just give in and feel.

And when he took that single step closer, fingers lacing into yours, you closed your eyes in an immediate release of control. There was no time to question yourself, to try and understand why you were acting in a manner that didn’t feel normal. All that mattered was the warmth of his breath, ghosting lips that hovered over yours, and the gentle rub of his thumb on the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment.

“Forgive me.”

You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Unable to respond, you thanked every source of operant powers that you didn’t have to.

His lips seared with a fire that breathed another life into you. An indescribable feeling, like no other kiss, no back-of-a-party hook up or first date butterflies could compare from the way he claimed you in that very moment.

Nothing mattered when he moved his mouth against yours. Nothing became everything. The ground beneath your feet could have gave way and you would have remained in the spot, one hand pressed against his chest, the other sliding out of his grasp and pulling him closer with the collar of his shirt.

His hold was the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. His arm wrapped around you, fingers pressing into the material of your jacket, one hand already working on lowering the zipper just enough to slide his hand along the bare skin of your neck, cupping your jaw.

You pulled back, breathing deeply. His eyes held a lust that you hadn’t seen before, a thirst that didn’t seem explainable, yet it only drew you in. His thumb slightly pulled on your lower lip, like he was hypnotised, thoughts foggy, only one goal in mind. You could have chalked it up to the heat that bathed the room, but honestly, you had the same goal. And with the way he studied you while you unzipped your jacket and pulled it off, he seemed to understand.

“Are you sure you’re not an angel?” He asked, seeming a little dazed.

The line felt undoubtedly cliché and yet the way he looked at you — eyes glossed over, lips parted, ready to swallow yours again in an instant — he seemed to really mean it.

You giggled, tugging his grey coat off his shoulders. “I’m no more an angel than you are.” You pulled him back down by the collar, your grip so tight you thought you heard a button pop. “Besides,” you breathed against his lips, “I don’t think angels get up to shit like this. Do you?”

He exhaled low, nose nudging against yours, like the mere act of sharing oxygen with you was making his head spin. And maybe it was, because yours was doing the same.

The sound of his chuckle had you biting back the most embarrassing sounds. And it didn’t help when he held your waist, fingers pinching at the skin through the material of your shirt while he turned the two of you around, leaning you against the desk.

“I can tell you with the upmost certainty,” his hand reached down and hooked under one of you knees, lifting you up by the back of you thighs, seating you on the desk as he stepped closer, between you legs. “Angels don’t do anything like this.”

He seemed almost grateful…

For a split second, the confusion overtook the emotions and you wondered about the man before you. The one who’s hand was trailing up your clothed thigh, his other hand stroking the soft skin of your cheek, like he was trying to memorise the sensation, trying to embed your warmth into his soul.

You felt the urge to ask, but you were torn between the need to know and the need to feel.

“Are you okay?” He leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss before pulling away to gauge your reaction.

You nodded. “Never better.”

His lips trailed down your jaw, the warmth drowning any doubts, teeth poking through to prick against the pulse of your neck. You clenched your hand around the width of his arm, tilting your head further to feel as much as possible.

When your fingers slid between the silk of his hair, you wondered if you’d ever felt anything so smooth. It curled between your fingers, practically begging to be tugged.

And who were you to deny that.

Each touch ignited a beating pulse in its wake. Each kiss melted together. Tongues clashing, teeth nipping, hands wandering to places that had your moans and whines melding together into a lewd symphony.

And yet you had never felt more content.

That’s what happens when desire takes the reigns. Time blurs together and before you realise it, you find yourself feeling like heaven is found in some dark corner of an archive room, in the arms of a handsome stranger who seems to be just as lost as you are.

a.n: this was supposed to be a drabble but i think i’m almost incapable of writing those bcs tell me why this ended up being so long T^T not complaining (that much) bcs i still had fun writing it !! hope i delivered xx

perm taglist: @oceanstide — @sheepsgf — @itsrinsdrs — @enjakey — @rynnest — @jaylaxies

2025 © yourislandgirl

[meownotgood]

all I need. / arcane herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is gender neutral (no anatomy is described, just that viktor is inside them), monsterfucking, mind meld, stomach bulge, size difference, marking, yearning, dom / sub undertones, praise, very slight degradation, aftercare. (pet names used for reader: little dove, little lamb, pet, love, my dear, beautiful, beloved) word count: 12.9k

read on ao3

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The Herald of the Arcane closes two giant palms around your waist, the faux air around you shimmers, compresses — and he promptly lifts you to settle your weight on his thigh, as though you weigh absolutely nothing. 

You could partially attribute it to the softening of gravity. He's carved out a slice of the arcane for just the two of you. A pocket of unreality that sizzles with color, envelops you in its embrace, and fractures in the edges of your vision like broken stained glass. 

The Arcane Herald, for all his clear omnipotence, has tracked you back down to your shitty little apartment on the corner of the Zaun-Piltover bridge. He tapped the door with his knuckles, and ducked underneath the doorframe to casually push into your apartment. You have to crane your neck at a near-painful angle to look up at him. You can't help but find it funny. A nine-foot-tall amalgamation of Hextech and magic and sinews twisted to an eldritch whim still knocks, before he enters your home. It was his home too, once. 

But the two of you are currently somewhere else entirely. 

"AN EDGE BETWEEN THE BOUNDS OF CORPOREALITY," Viktor answers; he reads your thoughts as if they're an open book, an effortlessly analyzed constellation sprawled beneath his fingertips. "DO NOT BE AFRAID. I COULD RETURN US TO THE MORTAL PLANE, IF YOU WISH." 

He sounds like an angel. Reminds you of an artificial God in necromantic clothing. 

His voice echoes, collapsing in on itself. It sings through your mind with the pure strength of the arcane. A melody resounding. There's a hint of his old tone, buried deep beneath the layers of power and magnitude. The abyssal reverberation opens its maw and swallows Viktor's familiar voice whole. 

You shake your head in reply. 

The Arcane Herald's false eyes stay steady on yours. Golden suns. Pupils ringed, spirals of anomaly-light curling within like whirlpools. A shiver shudders up the notches of your spine. It's as though you're being watched by multiple sets of eyes, instead of just two. The third arm jutting out from his back twitches violently, before strings of zodiac-runes fill the phantom space around you. 

No, you aren't entirely afraid. Viktor can sense any underlying fears. Blossoms of wilting crimson and snapping venus fly traps, sprouting throughout the flourishing garden of your mind. 

Still, when he curls his palm in, fluidly digging through the soil of your sequestered emotions, he can feel your affection. The resonant brush of old roots and bright, vivid petals. 

You might've been scared, once. You must've been terrified when you thought Viktor was dead. And it certainly must be unsettling to finally come face to face with the aberration that's been wearing his skin. If you were to run, he couldn't blame you. His new form is effortlessly strong. Large, when compared to a mortal. A vessel capable of bending the structure of reality to his perfectly architectured will. 

Viktor was prepared to sweeten your mind with pleasant memories. Perhaps you'd react better to a more desirable version of him. A cosmos-filled remembrance of soft touches and softer whispers, framed by promises made of sugar cubes and thick honey. He would bare what remains of his humanity, if you asked. 

Instead, as Viktor catches your eyes for the first time in forever, he watches you murmur his name — less of a question, and more of a confirmation. Viktor. You sound shaky enough to topple and break. It's you. It's really, honestly you. 

He steps a bit closer, a bit further into your apartment, the way one would attempt to corner something skittish. Crackles of lightning spark from where his feet meet the hardwood floor. You stumble in, fox to open bear trap, and you wrap your arms around his middle. Damp and teary cheek pressed into his side hard enough to leave an imprinted gear-shape behind. 

He held you. What else was he meant to do? Allowing himself to be drawn here is an abandonment of his purpose in its own right. He hardly cares, barely considers how inconsequentially quaint this is. The Arcane Herald — the arcane's chosen vessel of calamity, once compelled to turn all of humanity into crumbling husks on a dead and faultless world; Viktor permits you to sob against him, as his hand delicately caresses the soft back of your head. 

Viktor finds that right now, hours later, there is not a single droplet of fear present in your storm-bound system. Only pure, cascading delight. 

You shift closer on his lap, you lean into his touch when he steadies a splayed palm to the bare small of your back. As the scene stabilizes, bubbling ripples of magic smooth out, until you and the Arcane Herald are held in a perfect crystal ball of transcendental abnormality. This is how Viktor's hold on your mind describes it, anyway. 

"I HAVE MISSED YOU," Viktor coos. The deafening boom to his voice drowns out the subtle traces of tenderness. "YOUR PRESENCE IS… WELCOME." 

You've no need to speak. He reads your reply before you can voice it. I've missed you, too. 

Fate is a perpetual predetermination. Atlas holds the sky on his shoulders, and Viktor carries the glory of an entire arcane galaxy in his palms. Orpheus turns around for Eurydice, and Viktor chases the bittersweet comet-trail right back to where he first left you. 

There isn't much sense in this. It goes against his pragmatic vision for pure evolution. He knows humanity is far from him now, a shadow he left with his first death. Indulging in its traces clashes with his goals. Clashes with everything the Hexcore sought to make him into: a chrysalis stripped of emotion, weakness, love. 

In the first seven minutes after death, as the body turns cold, brainwaves replay the moments where they felt most warm; Viktor spiralled through every softly-braided memory of you, in the seven days he spent cocooned; the sound of your breathing, his breathing. The press of touch to touch, like soft snow against snow. His hex-ridden heart doesn't beat. He thinks he's seen your face behind his eyes for every hour of the seven months he spent evolving, searching for enlightenment all alone. 

He is always alone, at the very end of everything. 

Destiny weaves its cosmic thread through the magic he carries in his veins, and against all odds, it brought him here. To you. He remembers flickering through tangibility like a ghost, an apparition haunting the halls of Zaun and Piltover. Crawling home as though he never truly left. 

Viktor has missed you the way dry earth misses rain, the way an entry shot misses an exit wound. The way electricity longs to be harnessed, and divinity craves to be worshipped. 

He's weaker than he should be, for you. You are a lingering flicker of sentiment, a part of the fragments he swore to crush beneath his newfound palm. The sun-strong radiance inside himself that he can't manage to snuff out. 

And now that the Arcane Herald has you, he isn't certain he'll ever be able to let you go. 

The anomaly's bubbling aurora-light frames you, a halo glimmering at your edges. You've already discarded all of your clothing; you were meant to be cherished, he reasons, as he observes how your chest heaves with subtle, panting breaths. You quiver with mankind's most potent emotion: desire. 

You impatiently shift closer. Your forehead lands against the nape of his neck, where his cape is tattered and magic-blown. Viktor's hold on the arcane shudders around you. 

"Viktor," You sigh out, like it's simple, an exchange between lovers; like he's the man you once loved, not the shattered remnants of him; like you aren't dangerously close to the biomechanical half-God nearly responsible for the subjugation of humanity. You sit pretty on the Arcane Herald's lap, perfectly designed to be coveted. 

You laugh, half-amused, half-in-disbelief. Viktor's featureless gaze bores into you, echoes of light glittering on his golden, spiked crown. He tilts his head, curious. As if he's asking, What's wrong? 

"I have an otherworldly threat to all of Runeterra in my fucking apartment," You answer, exhaling. "Gods." 

His voice pounds inside the fabric of your thoughts. 

"TO BE PRECISE, YOUR MIND IS LINKED WITH A THREAT TO THE FUTURE OF RUNETERRA, WHICH EMPOWERS YOU TO COMBINE WITH HIM INSIDE THE ARCANE." 

"Ah. We're tangled up in a cavity of magic?"

"YES." 

"I wasn't sure if it was…" You shrug, and reobserve the space around you. Magic pulses from every angle, smearing color in messy brushstrokes. It begins to burn your eyes the longer you look. "I don't know. Some sort of illusion, I suppose." 

Viktor hesitates, burning eyes flickering faintly. "ARE YOU… ALRIGHT WITH THIS OUTCOME? WOULD YOU PREFER IF WE DID NOT CONTINUE?" 

You shake your head, smiling. "Come here." 

You reach for him. You're holding his face in both palms, as if he's a statue, porcelain and intricate. A stone-carved, cherubic effigy. Markings dot either side of where he's been split. Small, star-shaped divots. One beneath an eye, another above a mouth. 

With how large he is, you have to prop yourself up more to let your breath ghost the space between his eyes. The main cross-section of his mask is cool, as smooth as solid steel, while his hidden first-face is rough, rigid. Reminiscent of crumbling marble. 

You kiss him. Gods, you kiss him and Viktor can feel it, even though such a thing shouldn't be possible. You press your lips to the star beneath his false, forever-closed eye, and it glints like amethyst, shimmers like a constellation. You pepper kisses to the gold etchings underneath his sun-strong gaze, where his tears were once midas-touched. 

Viktor is sure his blasphemous, forged-by-violence form does not deserve this, but he still leans into your touch when your lips trail pleasurable arcane-abundant explosions down the golden veins of his neck. 

"LITTLE DOVE..." Endearment clicks through the steady gear-sequence of his reverberant tone. 

Starry pupils unchanging, Viktor's gaze can only regard you emptily. But, in an expression of tenderness, he drags his huge palm up your bare side, caresses your soft skin and admires the subtle intricacies of your flesh. Your birthmarks, your scars. Everything he still remembers. The curve of your waist, the section of your ribs. He feels your fingertips, as you trace where the gears of his back brace are permanently fused to his breastbone. Viktor trembles, somehow. 

"Vik," You parrot, words warm on his neck. You kiss his nape, then his jaw, then the flat faux-steel of his face. 

Energy radiates off of his touch in persistent waves. His palm paths up your spine, and surges of death-defying magic fill you — tenacious, resurrection-burned electricity. 

You make yourself tall, propping up onto your knees, so you can gently press your forehead to his. Viktor scans your expression. Your eyes flutter shut; he wants to preserve their softness the way one would pin a fragile butterfly's wings. Once again, you aren't carrying a hint of trepidation. When your gaze finds his own, you're admiring him. In all of his chilling, daunting, inhuman glory. 

Some faint, gnawing contradiction opens a hole in Viktor's chest, and makes him wish he would've done anything to deserve it. 

"THE OUTCOMES LAID BEFORE ME…" Viktor begins; your persistent breaths leave fog on his cold mask. 

"THE OPPORTUNITIES DEFINING WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN… I THINK… TOGETHER, WE COULD HERALD A NEW VISION. WE CAN BE THE AUTHORS OF OUR OWN TENDER PURPOSE." 

A small smile plays on your lips. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. "I'd follow you anywhere, Vik. I trust you." Your jaw grits. I still trust you. 

And then, you sigh. "But can we just be us? Just for tonight?" 

Viktor buries what he truly wishes to say in between his makeshift ribs and beneath the star-filled madness in his core. And what are we? 

"OF COURSE," He answers, instead. 

His huge hand finds your own; arcane-infused power ripples from his palm, untamed. Still, your digits fit perfectly between the gaps of his, as Viktor laces your uneven fingers together. Strong, with weak. Your gentle flesh, and his rigid, purple-gold, bony digits. 

He gives your hand a soft squeeze, brushes his thumb along the back of your palm to a wave-like rhythm. 

"I HAVE LONGED FOR THIS. TO INDULGE IN YOUR COMPANY. TO UNITE YOUR MIND WITH MINE." 

More so, Viktor has craved to remember the shape of your touch; and converging with the arcane has filled him with a knifelike sensation, unrelenting and hungry; it's given him an insatiable desire to consume. 

(Viktor recalls when he first held you, your body curled up against his, his unnaturally long limbs awkwardly spread so the both of you could fit on the ragged couch in your tiny living room. The distant hum of both twin cities fills the space: huffing pipes, whirring airships. Back then, a large living space wasn't deemed necessary, considering the two of you planned to spend most of your shared time at the lab. 

It's achingly intriguing — your persistent attachment to a dead man's belongings. You've been watering his plants, in his absence. Small pots of succulents and flora line the kitchen windowsill. A spare cane leans against the dining room table, still exactly where he left it. Viktor — the arcane-enthralled Viktor — thumbs through his newfound grip on your mind, listening closely for the echoed answer. 

Your distant thoughts murmur to him, It's because it makes me believe you might still be coming home. 

The Arcane Herald feels his third arm twitch. He says, I do not understand. 

You crane your neck, unaware, glancing at him from where your head leans against his forearm. Understand what? 

Why you continue, why I can remain an object of your affections. Viktor twists a small anomaly sphere between his fingers, webs of the arcane clinging to his gold-tipped digits. Stray flecks of magic spark like lightning. You consider how it'll feel when he must press this sphere inside your mind. 

I am not the man I once was, he says. Perhaps some would describe me as… inhuman. A monster. Your mind reveals you have dwelled on such rumors, yet you show no fear. 

You answer simply, Because it's you, Viktor. I could never be afraid of you. 

Viktor considers this, as your fragile emotions pool within him — he curls in on himself at the bottom of the ocean, drowning in the midst of all that you are. An endless surge of affection and guilt and voracity, in hues of blossom-pink and cold-silver and delicious-orange. 

He gazes at you calmly, before the anomaly sphere fizzles out of existence with a flick of his fingers. 

There is perhaps… a less painful method of transmitting the arcane. Shall I explain?) 

You clumsily squeeze Viktor's large hand back, and a sharp jolt of magic resoundingly kisses your skin. When you reach above you, cupping his face in your free palm, Viktor nuzzles into your touch like a giant contented cat, the thrum of the arcane gently purring from him. 

He caresses from your side to your spine, numb digits pressing tenderly to vertebrae. You're acutely aware of how large his palm is. How huge the Arcane Herald is compared to you, how pathetically small and stupidly human you must look in his lap. You swallow hard, arching into his touch. 

Gods, you've missed Viktor more than anything. You want to be his. You want the Arcane Herald to covet you in the blasphemous way a fallen angel loves a mortal. Without reason, with sets of six broken wings and bitten tongues and storms of chaotic maelstroms, as you make a mockery of what he was made for. 

"Viktor," You breathe, tone low, as though whispered beneath an altar. Arcane demigod, my archangel. "I need you." 

Viktor lifts you with ease, both of his hands finding your waist, propping you above his lap. He supports your weight as you drown him in kisses, pressing your lips to the statuette side of his face. 

His voice laps against the sides of your mind, like waves against a dock in a storm's aftermath. 

"I NEED YOU MORE THAN MERE EMOTION COULD EXPRESS. BUT THIS BODY IS… UNCONVENTIONAL. I DO NOT WISH TO BREAK YOU." 

"I'm not fragile, Vik. I can take it. I want to take you." 

At this, his eyes seem to soften, sharpen. Radiant suns filled with pure warmth, utter zeal. 

Third arm tilting, bending at its metallic joints with a dull cracking sound, he grabs your face in his huge, firm claw. 

His tone echoes, seraphic. "PERHAPS YOU SHOULD BEGIN BEGGING, THEN." 

And you do. You whine softly when Viktor's large palm squeezes your leg, his thumb teasingly rubbing your inner thigh — your voice threatens to break, while you recite scripture. "Please, please, don't tease me anymore. I fucking need you, Viktor…" 

It's easy, simple, instant — the calculation the Arcane Herald effortlessly solves, enabling him to immediately determine a new course of action, a mirror to your potent emotions. 

He watches you pant, purposefully waits with his palm gently caressing your thigh, until you're sufficiently teased, and practically shaking with want. Viktor's third arm digs its pointed talons into your cheeks. He dips a hand between your legs, and promptly shifts into utter depravity. 

"SUCH A DELIGHTFUL MESS YOU HAVE MADE FOR ME…" Viktor coos; he uses his gold-tipped thumb to collect your glistening arousal, to get you dripping and dumb on his long, delicate digits. You tremble hard, knees wavering like branches ready to split in the wind. "YOU GIVE IN SO EASILY TO INSATIABILITY, MY LITTLE LOVE." 

Words won't come. You can only whine: "Viktor…" 

And Viktor's reconstructed body tenses, every emotionless inch of him caught in your equinox. He can feel the pitter-patter of your heart, the thump of your warmth, resounding throughout his viscera; your sun, to his night. 

Despite the limitations of his newly metamorphosed form, and the utter clearing of his mind, he's getting off to this. To the quiver in your breath and the way you plead his name — pleading for him. All for him. 

"I CAN FEEL YOUR DESPERATION." Viktor's voice is everywhere, echoing against the boundaries of the anomaly. His familiarly accented tone chips at the walls of your mind with a delicately honed chisel. He flicks his thumb over where you're swollen and desperate and oh-so sensitive. There's stars in his touch, as he rubs in slow circles, in smooth galaxy swirls. 

Now, says the whispering echo, the sweet outline, the caress of Viktor's kindest tone against your brain. How do you wish to be taken? 

"Anything-" You retort, breathless. "You can do anything you want to me." 

The Arcane Herald's resounding laugh is nothing short of maniacal. 

"YOU ARE SUCH A NEEDY CREATURE. ABSOLUTELY EAGER TO BE FILLED." 

Needy. This word sounds exceedingly saccharine. 

His third arm acts with a mind of its own, squeezing your face a bit tighter. Lightly shaking your head back and forth as if you're a toy. The sharp end of a claw playfully traces your puffy bottom lip. 

"WE COULD MAKE USE OF THIS SILKEN, PLIANT MOUTH. KNEES BENT BEFORE ME, MY PALM STEADIED TO YOUR THROAT AS I SLIDE MYSELF ONTO YOUR AWAITING TONGUE. YES?" 

"Y-Yeah," You find it hard to focus, hard to think, hard to keep your eyes steady on his mechanical gaze — were his pupils always such perfect, artificial, phoenix-bright circles? "But I want- want you inside. Please." 

Viktor hums a rich, pleased noise. He spreads his long legs a bit wider, the anomaly begins to flutter around you in endless cosmic spirals; a thrum, thrum, thrum of restless magic; Viktor's cock unfurls, curls out from his pelvis as a thick, rippling, dripping mess — 

But he keeps your gaze focused on his own, clawed third arm holding your chin tightly. 

"EVERYTHING YOU COULD POSSIBLY DESIRE, YOU WILL HAVE." Energy surges from his form, careens up the tingly river of your spinal column, in turn. "I WOULD CROSS GALAXIES AND REALITIES FOR YOU, MY DEAR. I WOULD BRING THE GODS TO THEIR HEELS." 

Eager pressure mounts in every corner of your nervous system. You swear under your breath. 

Once his third arm finally releases you, your gaze is trailing downwards. Past the delicate curve of his waist, live-wire magic threading through the indents of his body like visible veins. Past the V shape of his pelvis, and the unnaturally jutting handlebar-edges of his hip bones. 

To be anatomically correct, the Arcane Herald's cock is most akin to a thick, wet tentacle. It's ribbed with gold ridges like the rest of his body, bolts and gear-shaped ornaments lining the underside in place of where octopus-suckers might be. A slimy, clear liquid thickly coats its surface. The appendage is thin at the end, the very tip as thin as your pinkie finger, but at the base, it gets twice as thick as your forearm. 

"Hah," You gasp, too dumbfounded to breathe more than a disbelieving huff, "Shit-" 

"WE WILL PROCEED AT YOUR PACE," Oh. The booming echo behind his tone sweetens itself into madness, and what's left of his voice sounds utterly affectionate. Nervous, only slightly. "I DO NOT WISH TO… FRIGHTEN, NOR HURT YOU. YOU MAY TAKE AS MUCH OR AS LITTLE AS YOU NEED." 

"I want you," You're answering, assured. "Right now." 

Viktor tightens his hold on your waist. 

Arcane resurrection hasn't merely made him anew. It isn't a mere matter of placing a puzzle back where it belongs: the pieces of his amber eyes, his sinews, his skin dotted with little brown stars. He is a different form of alchemy, all together. 

How much of him is still him, and how much is lost due to Hexcorization? 

He imagines prying himself open, pulling apart his ribcage after the arcane left him raw, chewed up and spat back out. The cavity of his chest shimmers like the mouth of a kaleidoscope; he knows this, it wouldn't be the first time he's been split in two. He'll place these newfound emotions right where his heart should be, until they sing in runic shades. Until they sprout and flower: his personal, tender contradiction. 

Would he remember who he once was — who you've truly been waiting for, then? 

There lies the truth of it. He wants to give you everything you've been waiting for. 

As he begins to lower you down, you feel the end of his cock flick against your entrance. Lavender-hued fluid laps against you, diligently getting you slick and slimy. You can't help but close your eyes, boneless as you hug him tightly, collapsing against his large, all-encompassing form. 

Gravity warps around you, it presses into your skull. Viktor gently pushes you back by your shoulder until your gaze is forced to meet his own. His third arm clicks. A halo of shimmering sparks and glowing symbols and precise code begins to frame him, demanding in the way it hungrily commands the anomaly's magnetism into itself. 

Carefully, his palm is placed onto your cheek. Gazing down at you, he caresses your skin with his thumb. As if you're made of velvet, a soft blossom on the wind. 

"LOOK AT YOU," The Arcane Herald purrs. The anomaly shimmers, your mind warps; and for a brief moment, you're a distant observer, gazing at yourself and Viktor from an outside perspective. Gods, Viktor is huge, and you, bare and pliant on his lap, look so terribly pathetic. 

"SUBLIME," Viktor corrects, head tilted inquisitively. The connection between your mind and his strains like a knot pulled taut. "YOU ARE PERFECT. VERITABLY GLORIOUS." 

He grasps your chin, his free palm presses flat to the center of your chest. Your eyes glaze over, shifting into empty spotlights of stormy stardust — and you're seeing through Viktor's eyes, your head swimming as you're made to admire yourself. 

Everything is covered in a film of murky, iridescent light. The edges of your figure are sharpened and saturated. Viktor doesn't see in color, more than he perceives an image as flowing droplets of static-rich energy, of equations surrounded by blooming halation. Diamond-shaped artifacts settle in the boundaries of his compound vision, reminiscent of the pattern on the rim of the Hexgates, or the matrix used to spark a Hexgem to life, or the configuration that gleams all around you: the anomaly, breathing in constellations. 

Viktor watches as the lithe tip of his cock ever-so gently presses in — and you're watching, too, observing the spread of your shaky thighs, and the heave of your chest as he presses his palm between your ribs. You are captivating, in this way. Beautiful. All of your details create a painted picture of perfect tandem. Your shape, your skin, your hair, your eyes, your everything. 

Or perhaps Viktor's thoughts are too closely entwined with your own. Splendid little human. All mine. Can you see why I adore you? 

With how fucking thick he is, and how unexpectedly small you're realizing you look, in comparison — is he even going to fit? 

You're barely given time to consider. You whine when you feel the first ridge, a tiny gear-shape embedded into his tip; with your bottom-lip quivering, you realize you don't need to beg, you just need to imagine. I want more, you think, and Viktor, buried deep in the threads of your mind, obliges. 

More, you're given more; you watch through his vision as his cock begins to ease inside you, a sizable bulge already pressing at your lower stomach. He splits you open, nice and slow, so you can get used to the way he fills you. 

And even though you barely have a third of the fat, writhing tentacle inside of you, you're already utterly full. It flicks and convulses, exploring your walls, slickening your thighs with droplets of glowing, purple spend. You can feel every ridge. The ribbed, golden rings. The protruding bolts. The four-pointed star-shaped studs. 

Gods. 

You're throbbing. Thudding around him to a heartbeat-strong pulse that beckons him in and pleads for the wraith-like Arcane Herald to fuck you. To ruin you. 

"BREATHE FOR ME," Viktor murmurs. He pulls his hand from your chest to softly brush his knuckles over your jaw, and you slam back into your own mind with the force of a thunderbolt. "YOUR PLIABLE SOUL… IT FLICKERS LIKE AN EVANESCENT FLAME." 

Light prickles from where his touch once lingered, sparking against your chest. Gasping, you glance down. An imprint of him is left behind on your skin. Five large fingerprints sprawled between your ribs, one for each finger and thumb, textured with web-like strands, shimmering when they catch the radiant light. The soft, golden whispers of the arcane. The Herald of the Arcane's signature. 

With this tangible mark, you belong to him, now. 

Viktor answers your thoughts. "YOU ALWAYS HAVE." 

Always. Though, within the space he has carved for the both of you — reality split apart, a dissected capsule — you are closer to your lover's husk than you've ever been before. 

You hold onto Viktor's shoulders tightly, grabbing fistfuls of his tattered cape. There's a persistent hum. Building magic, a whirlpool around you, a supernova in his body; warmth settles in your core, winter in your bones. Energy ripples through his cock in a long wave, firmly throbbing inside you, and you shudder, you shake. 

"EXQUISITE… YOU ARE PERSISTING SO EXCELLENTLY. SO GOOD FOR ME…" Viktor caresses a palm up your side in approval. The glowing flames in his gaze begin to soften. He holds you steady, as your warmth eagerly pulses around a little under half of him. 

"I can feel- hhah, it's so much…" Your words break, unsteady and weakened. 

You, for all of the confidence Viktor knows you have, are reduced to a sputtering, needy mess, quivering on his cock. Delicate as a thin sheet of autumn ice. 

The Arcane Herald must admit, he enjoys this pathetically docile side to you. He wants to keep it, possess it, until you're his. Only his. 

"YOUR BODY IS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO THIS ABUNDANCE OF ARCANE INFLUENCE. ALLOW YOURSELF TO BECOME LESS RIGID. PERFECT. BREATHE DEEPLY. I HAVE YOU." 

You take in deep, controlled breaths, while a large palm begins to drag up your heaving side. 

Viktor touches you the way Icarus once touched the sun; an inventor against destiny, soft, fake feathers and warm wax. He is a monsterous imitation of heaven, too. 

He hardly cares if he's burning on the inside, if the Hexcore's diagram defines his biology as unwarmable, untouchable. Just for tonight, he wants to be some devout imitation of humanity, a metallurgical replica that comes to life under warmth and love, not a profane shell hollowed by the lack of it. Just for tonight, he'll let himself be weak for you. 

Breath nearly caught, you lean your forehead into his chest, and you're unable to resist pressing a reverent kiss to the golden outline that frames his breastbone. His brace, forever welded into his thorax. It's unexpectedly smooth, sensitive. Faint spellbinding threads brush your lips like wind. 

Viktor isn't yet a God, but he wonders if this is what it's like to be worshipped. 

Crests of magic exhale around you, frothing waves of brilliance, as if he's expelled a steady sigh. He grasps your side firmly. You're dizzy, golden rays of light filling your gaze, before they thin — and you realize you're somewhere else, viewing the beginnings of a vision. 

Galaxies stretch as far as the eye can see. An infinite expanse of everything. Shooting stars and divine light ripple through the atmosphere. You're cupped in a giant palm — in Viktor's giant palm, his cosmic form a refracting rainbow, an angel with astral wings. Viktor is the sun and the stars and the moons and the asteroids. You are safe, content. Designed for reverence, the perfect piece to his orbit. And so, you revere. 

The vision fizzles into nothing when the clasp of your hands makes the endless, starry abyss flutter with fondness. 

Viktor glides his palm down, finding your waist. In his wake, your side is softly seared with his fingerprints. 

Another dream lets itself in. 

This one is… different. 

Tender blades of sunlight burn around the figure that resembles Viktor; a memory, a representation. (A large, arcane-touched palm to your back.) The Viktor you once knew has moonlight-pale skin and a bobbing Adam's apple and a gap between his teeth when he smiles. You always grow soft with the sight of his smile. (A hand to your shoulder. The small of your back. Your neck. Your stomach.) 

Recollections flicker inside your brain like flipping through an old photo album. Delicate palms fit with worn calluses, and freckled arms made to be kissed, and hair you dreamt of running your fingers through, soft and wild like chestnut sparrow feathers. He is blinding starlight, even in the moments where he's been made to shatter like glass. Even with fiery amber in his eyes and blood on his palms and a chrysalis, surrounding. 

You picture trailing your lips over both legs, from his thighs to his knees to his ankles. You picture pressing your teeth to the bony curve of his clavicle. You picture kissing and kissing and kissing him, a moth to his flame, the kindling to his spark. His lips are soft, his tongue presses a star into your mouth, and you honestly don't care what's become of him because he is still Viktor, your Viktor — 

By the time the Arcane Herald is done reaching into your mind, imprints of his fingertips are left all over you. You're absolutely covered in golden fingerprint-blotches. Light dappling your skin from his firefly touch, like the glow of the sun between leaves. 

Viktor tilts you towards him by your chin. "YOU ARE WHY HUMANITY ONCE CREATED DIVINITY. I ADORE YOU."

His voice dips into a tone you almost remember. Soft, gentle, human. 

You offer him a crooked smile, canines bared. You're breathing hard again, hips impatiently shifting. "You're so, s-so lovely, Viktor. You are. I want to see you. Just like this. Just as you are." 

Viktor's gaze briefly flicks across your form. He admires the sheen of sweat on your skin, newly marbled with marks, his touch. Proof of his selfishness, his illogical tenderness. Your soul appears to burn steadily within you. A bright flame in ocean-deep shades of blue and silver and jellyfish-purple. Persistent like the click of gears, as smooth as the glide of a pen, hazy like ash in a misty, bright sky. Perfectly, utterly you. 

"ARE YOU CERTAIN?" Viktor asks. The repetition and ricochet of his voice is noticeably just a hint quieter. He gently glides his palm over the marks on your side, arcane ornaments decorating your bare skin. "I COULD SHOW YOU SO MUCH MORE." 

"I'm sure." You sound desperate. "You're perfect." 

Only for you, Viktor reasons. Only in the lingering afterimage of your gentle influence. 

Affection swells in his hollow center. The same shape as when he first saw you, when he finally came home and held you in his arms, while he analyzed the glimmers in your mind of hope and love. And a distinct lack of fear; you trust him, for all of his godlessness. For all of his endless, infinite loneliness. 

As foolishly feeble and perhaps impossible as it is, Viktor honestly, achingly wants to kiss you. 

Like a sunrise. Mouths touching like a bite into responsive, begging flesh. Perhaps while you taste his starlight, or perhaps with no need to subdue this new form: the arcane-touched chimera he's evolved into. 

My softest paradox. For the betterment of the purpose the arcane chose for me, perhaps I should renounce these frivolous emotions. And yet… No, I cannot abandon you. Not when you are in need of me. Not when I need you. 

Droplets of anomaly-moisture, as well as condensation caused by the sex-slick heat in between your bodies cascades down Viktor's golden accents, making them shimmer. He slowly shifts to hold your cheek in one giant, careful palm. Sparks of faint light stipple from his touch like fireworks. 

In a hurry, you prop yourself up as much as you can manage. You grab his face to pull him closer, his body bending to meet you, so you can press breathless kisses to his cold jaw. 

With the way the Arcane Herald is buried inside you — a result of his wavering focus, or maybe your own — the anomaly's aurora-light begins to morph, a shaken-up snowglobe. His cock pulsates with a glowing swell of stimulation. You grind your hips clumsily, groaning against the sunken curve of his false cheek as you lightly bounce on the fat, dripping tentacle. It resounds with a terribly wet, obscene sound, purple liquid now dripping all the way down to your knees. 

Allowing your mind to interlace with his is, at this point, purely instinctual. The tightly knit walls of Viktor's headspace purposefully weaken to let you in. 

Oh, and his mind surges. 

You're enveloped in a raging wildfire, his desire a flickering flame at the very edges of your fingertips. It's hard to breathe. Hard to form coherent thoughts as the Hexcore — Viktor's new heart — whispers within every facet of him. It amplifies his own inclinations, works concurrently to augment his magic and strengthen his cognition. You aren't used to its overwhelming pull. Your thoughts and his and the arcane's potent echo meld together, like several messy brush strokes on the same canvas. 

Please, you plead. Pure pleasure and gnawing endearment thrum from Viktor's discordant thoughts, with the strength of a laser beam to your brain matter. 

You deserve to hold the solar system in your palms. He'd give you the planets and their rings and the kiss of the stars; you are his perfect, exquisite catalyst. 

The Hexcore replies, writes its own poem, to the tune of humming runes and swirls of hazy imagery: you, on your knees. You, with your tongue wrapped around Viktor's fingers. Viktor tipping your head up with the end of his cane, or slipping his palms down your collar, or sinking his teeth into your nape. Viktor's newfound, huge body pinning you into place, while he presses the claw of his contorted third arm to the base of your neck. His large, ornamented hand splays across your back, leaving fingerprint-wings on the skin between your shoulder blades as he roughly pounds you from behind. 

Your eyes roll back into your skull. 

Oh, but this is what lies within your unveiled desires, says the jeering echo in your head. Resounding, shattering, Viktor's softly accented tone unfurls into a meadow of a hundred voices, speaking all at once. Will you be satisfied when your mouth is full of me? When you are grinding your feeble hips against your hand, your palm filthy and wet, while you sputter and pathetically drool around the luminescent mess of my spend? Of course. You are quite simple to please. 

Or perhaps I should push you underneath me, pleasure myself and myself alone with the assistance of your thighs, or your stomach, until you are begging for me to take you. To ease inside you, filling where you are terribly neglected and utterly wanting. Admittedly, I would find contentment in this… watching you plead. Until your skin becomes marked with slick fractals. The most potent brush of the arcane. 

"Vik- Viktor, please…" 

Can you feel- 

"I CAN FEEL HOW WARM YOU ARE," Viktor murmurs, interrupting your thoughts. You rest your arms on his shoulders, searching for leverage as you grind your hips down. "I CAN SENSE YOUR EAGERNESS. YOUR VULNERABILITY. HOW YOUR MIND, BODY, AND SOUL BEG FOR ME IN SYNCHRONIZATION." 

Despite relinquishing his humanity with the acceptance of his new body, the way a cicada sheds its exoskeleton — despite embodying a dangerously corrupted representation of life; (praying mantis, disguised as the orchid) — despite the truth of the matter, he was meant to dismantle you piece by piece, he was designed for control and gloriousness and revolution, Viktor thinks, softly, that he'd gladly follow where you lead. 

An old, once-loved name is nothing more than an emotional foible. A thread he held onto, because it happens to fit his whims, happens to mean victory. But Viktor feels radiance in his chest when you begin panting for him, gasping out pleas of Viktor, Viktor, Viktor, framed by broken noises as you fuck yourself on him. 

It's so wet. There's so much arousal and thick purple lubricant between the two of you. Squelching and dribbling down the golden accents of his length. 

Gods, you're trembling on his lap, hands shaking as you grip his shoulders. The ripples of your thoughts are a soft melody, in his. I need you. Need you to save me. He would, without question. He'd hold you to his skeleton until your bones are a part of his bones. He wants to catch you in silken thread and arcane-webbing, while he sinks sharp fangs into your skin. 

It happens swiftly, now — 

Viktor's jaw unhinges with the sickening sound of breaking bones. The bottom half of his mask splits down the middle, opens horizontally to reveal an abyss, a black hole; a giant maw with rows of sharp teeth, two large, curved canines, and a long, slithery tongue. Forked like a snake, golden at the tip, gradienting into a dark shade of raven-purple. It drips with a sheen of thick saliva. 

A firm palm grasps your chin. He pulls you a bit closer, until you're straining your neck to look up at him. Your heartbeat catches. The burning suns of his blank pupils bore into your own fluttery gaze. Both tips of his tongue brush your lips. Politely prying, before possessively slipping into your mouth. 

You moan when his tongue licks a heavy stripe over yours, kissing you in earnest. The taste of him as he explores your mouth is all-encompassing. Strong, vibrant, he tastes like nebula and void. Like crimson and moonlight. Ever-so slightly metallic, akin to licking aluminum, like pressing your lips to a supernova. 

His saliva is thick and pervasive. His tongue is unmistakably slimy; you whimper, and when you swallow, allowing the bitterness to slide down your throat, Viktor breathes a deep, satisfied noise — like the rumble at the bottom of the ocean. 

Divinely transcendental, his voice continues to resound inside your mind. 

"GOOD PET. YOU ARE UNEQUIVOCALLY GOOD FOR ME." Viktor laps against your tongue, both forks trapping it before they teasingly graze your canines. You swear light glints on his sharpened maw, and his faux mouth upturns slightly, faded star-mole following along, and he's just barely smiling. 

"SO FASCINATING, WHEN YOU BECOME THIS EXCITABLE." 

You're shaking so hard, you've no need to move your hips. 

Gently, Viktor's long tongue presses a bit farther, forcing faint gags from your trembling system. You're overwhelmed, placed between his gaze and his pulsing heat inside of you — and the way your mouth is utterly full of him. Your lips wrap around the thickest part of his tongue, his taste spilling into your throat: a warm knife, pure sharpness. 

You beg with your eyes, pupils fat moon-pools. The colorful, surrounding anomaly satellite-pings approvingly. 

"YOU ARE ON THE CUSP OF CRYING. HOW PRECIOUS. TELL ME, WHO IS IT THAT YOU BELONG TO?" 

You, your head is rebounding. I'm all yours. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, a panicked butterfly trying to get free. Here, in the depths of your emotions, you crave to be devoured. To be held lovingly between his teeth, to have his searing, arcane-infused touch bruise your bones with his imprint. Pulling you apart, layer by layer — skin, muscle, soul. 

You'd let him take you anywhere. You'd let him carve his golden-hued love into your marrow. 

I will. 

Pure endearment overfills his chasmic void, left where the Hexcore landed in his chest like a meteor. 

Viktor collects these thoughts in a bottle, holds them somewhere close and contradictory: 

Ah, my dear, where shall we go first? You have not seen the gilded sunset over the mountains in Shurima, nor the blossoming of the trees in Ionia. Runic teleportation is only strenuous on the mind the first time you experience it. I want to dance with you atop the highest, star-filled peak in all of Runeterra. If not in another life, perhaps we can still embrace this one. 

"COME. SHOW ME, LITTLE LAMB." When Viktor finally pulls his tongue from your mouth, he's licking a fat stripe from your jaw to your cheek, leaving your skin slimy and cold. "I WISH TO SEE YOU BROUGHT TO PANTING, PLEASURABLE CHAOS." 

His tongue curls back lazily, and his jaw snaps shut, leaving his masked, expressionless face behind. Viktor's head cocks, owl-like. You don't appreciate being taunted; your brows furrow, and you hurriedly reach up, grabbing onto the gold arches on either side of his face. 

They're somewhat akin to antlers, handles. A crown. You've decided to refer to them as horns, either way. Smooth to the touch, and perfectly palm-shaped. 

Viktor laughs, purrs. "YES, GIVE IN TO IMPULSE- TAKE WHAT YOU NEED FROM ME, FALL TO YOUR ENCOMPASSING EMOTIONS…" 

So, you grind into him, breathing faster, holding on for leverage as you pathetically circle your hips. Viktor brushes his large palm up the small of your back, charting the map of tremors in your spine. You dig your nails into both golden horns, even though you're certain their firm surface won't give. Weakly, you exhale in frustration. 

"Vik- I can't- I need you, please…" 

That's all it takes. 

Finally, finally, Viktor grabs your side and slowly thrusts into you. 

Gods. Viktor must be a seraph, the arcane's depiction of the divine, tall and ornate and carved from steel; inhumanly angelic, a synthetic machine — because he feels absolutely heavenly. 

The first arch of his body into yours has you gasping. The Arcane Herald, as attentive as he is resolute, methodically falls into your rhythm. He grinds up when you grind down, and you can suddenly feel him everywhere. You can't think through the pulse of his magic, the arcane fervently fucking into you; you can only fall against him, utterly limp. 

"HOLD ONTO ME," Viktor murmurs. Head leant into his chest, you can feel his large body vibrating with the words — the thrum of his heart, the steady song of the Hexcore. 

You're given a moment to catch your breath. You whimper a stuttered cacophony of words. Please. More. 

Your thoughts are a crisp, babbling river Viktor longs to cup his palms into and drink from. More, more, more. 

Such a filthy little creature, he rebounds, though he knows his current headspace is just as deplorable. 

Viktor begins to fill you with all of him, easing you down so, so slowly — until you've taken all of the fat base of his cock. There's so much of him, and it's a slick, awfully tight slide when he starts to shallowly press in and out of you. 

"AH-" 

The anomaly wavers to the tune of his stutter. 

"YOU FEEL… IMPOSSIBLY ADDICTIVE…" He groans, the sound deep, resonant. "ABSOLUTE PERFECTION… MY LITTLE LOVE, FULLY FILLED WITH ALL I HAVE TO GIVE THEM…" 

The energized air around you blossoms with green flora, golden blooms. You sob in delight. You can practically feel him in your stomach. 

Honestly, you weren't sure what Viktor was deriving from this, if his new form could feel anything at all — but right now, he sounds completely wrecked. 

Not that you're any better. 

All you can do is grab fistfuls of his cape, as the Arcane Herald guides you, ruins you. His hand firmly presses into the soft flesh of your side. He's so much larger, so much stronger. (Delicious contrast drips from this; Viktor remembers pressing your shapes together, fragile on fragile, your face held in his sweat-soaked palm as you run your fingers through his hair, and everything is blisteringly soft —) 

For this Viktor, it's a simple, effortless task: the way he lifts you up and down to fuck you. Pulling you until you're taking half of his dripping length, only to fill you with its staggering thickness, enough for you to feel the friction of every ribbed ridge. Every golden bolt. You moan softly, and he smoothly bounces you, as though you weigh nothing. 

Static encompasses your mind, like storm clouds rolling over. His cock curls, the tentacle writhing to bully a spot inside of you that has you seeing a spider web of constellations. Viktor huffs, every slight groan causing the rainbow-hued arcane to bubble around the two of you. 

He slips out for a moment when he pounds you a bit too clumsily, the slick plap, plap giving way as he slides over your bare skin. Utterly wet, his cock flicks, laps at your sex. The tip traces V patterns and rune-shapes right where you're sensitive and throbbing. You drip for him, as expected. Needy. Empty, so desperate to be full of him again. 

He caresses your head, leans into your mind to check on you. You've barely processed his ping of, Are you alright? before your thoughts are shaking him back and forth and pleading, Please, more. 

In a simple, smooth movement, he eases back into you, pushing every ounce of air from your lungs. 

Shooting stars shimmer in your peripheral, a candelabrum of bright, palpable tenderness. The Arcane Herald's hidden affections, on vivid, fireworking display. Viktor's third arm click-click-clicks, and a rune matrix halos him, blurry and blue. 

You fuck each other desperately, then. Your broken moans meld with Viktor's electrifying, shuddering hum. You press against him with no distinct rhythm — and it's clear Viktor's resolve is faltering. A crack forming in the flawless shell of his facade. When you're involved in the equation, it's a feeble facade, really. 

Because Viktor can't hide his softness, his lingering humanity, especially now, with plumes of earnest affection filling the very atmosphere that surrounds your shape. You breathe it in. Viktor's magic tastes like eternity. The chemistry of his endearment settles in your vessel, richly divine. He adores you. Has always adored you. Down to your soul, you've never known anything more true. 

You pant his name in between each breath. You're so lost in him, so focused on finding your peak, you barely notice the accelerating glimmer in the runes above him. Twirling and ticking, their shapes jumbling together like spinning a globe and trying to imagine the place your finger will land on. They're bright enough to blind, if you were to look right at them. 

Arousal drips down your thighs, dirties his lap with every slick squelch. Viktor's head spins — post-enlightenment, it should not be capable of such fatigue, and yet the fire behind his glowing eyes twirls in spirals. 

His hands shake, the inner workings of his viscera aching with something innate. The Hexcore's budding urge to claim, to devour everything it touches like a long shadow. He loves this, loves bringing you pure pleasure to the point of speechlessness and bonelessness. Loves the auroras of affection and the disorderly waves of ecstasy that amalgamate in your mind. He wants to fill you over and over and over. There's a recursive impulse in his reassembled system that delights in the conceptualized tenderness. 

It isn't logical. Sentimentality is far from glorious. 

You should continue the life you have already established without him; he can help the lost souls of humanity without you, as he's done up until now. This makes sense. This is the path laid before him, the plan he was hoping to follow once he arrived here. Three simple, necessary steps. Visit you. Settle his reservations. Leave. 

But it is terribly lonesome without your presence. 

And as far as keeping you at arm's length is concerned, he's already failed, hasn't he? 

If he asked, gave you the choice instead of running from it, would you wish to come with him? 

Viktor imagines voyaging far from the bright skies of Piltover, and the dark depths of Zaun. Inhuman hand folded over soft hand, as he shows you what it means to step into a new reality. 

Everything he has learned and seen sprawls before you, before him, an open map of endless possibilities. He dreams of soothing you to sleep beside a bright, homemade fire. Of bringing you to the edge of the world, or the top of the sky, or the boundary where the earth meets the sea, all with a singular arcane-flare from his staff. The crackle of flame, the hum of the wild. The crash of a waterfall, the echo of your breathing. Viktor will covet every individual intricacy; dragon coveting gemstones, sharp teeth and long talons and unblinking snake-eyes. 

He's usually an embodiment of good luck, despite this. To some. 

Those he has attempted to heal since he left Piltover tend to fear him. They cower, broken limbs shaking, broken hearts pounding fast. Sometimes they shout. Angel. Demon. God. Viktor is none of those things. 

The Arcane Herald presses his fingertips to their foreheads, and watches golden thread knit them anew. 

He could be content with this, he sometimes thinks. No grander goal. No overarching evolution. Just this path, paved by the thin shred of his retained humanity. A flourish of kindness in his soul that the arcane can't smother out. (His blanket-turned-cape, the brooch he wears over his chest, the golden notches in his spine. The same lines on his palms that you once kissed, and his own name; you've always loved the way it feels to say his name.) 

Especially so, he believes he might've found what he was meant for, a bright glimmer to fill the space where his heart should be, when he pictures changing the world with you. 

You've always been like a sunrise. Bright light and warmth, you would lead his way with your firefly-glow. Those he heals would find a new sense of comfort, as you place a steady hand to a tensed shoulder, the way you did with him so many years ago. 

A man falls to his knees in front of him, and he shakes your hand, before he staggers away on his unsteady, golden legs. A young woman pleads, says a prayer to him as his runic halo illuminates the fresh fingerprints on her forehead. She embraces you tightly. Thank you, thank you. Viktor drums golden nails against his staff. A softened look crosses your face. It gets stamped in Viktor's brain with spellbound ink until it's completely memorized. 

As you step inside the luminous ring of his teleportation circle, he gently grasps your hand to keep you steady. The surrounding light swirls. He holds your forearm, and pulls you close in something of a practiced dance. 

You smile at him, his vivid muse. He admires you, unblinking. He brushes his thumb over your knuckles and kisses them with magic. The lilt in your tone is smooth like Janna's breath as you ask, Where to next? 

It hardly matters. The persistent, void-like ache within him quiets down for the first time in an eternity. This kindness — yours, his — softly augments him so easily. 

Viktor feels wholeheartedly content. A gnawing undertone, satiated. Anywhere, he thinks. Let us cross the universe in a single stride. Amateur astronomers, aren't we? 

Together, you'll traverse the desert. The mountains. The sea. He'll carry you home when you're tired from the day's events. He'll stay in with you, even though the arcane calls him onward, even though he has no need to sleep like this, joining you as you rest well into the day. 

His legs hang over the end of your small, temporary cot. Utterly out of place, his limbs are too long, the sheets catch on the gold ornaments around his ankles, and his third arm gets awkwardly pinned against the headboard. And when his purple-veined palm splays flat to your chest, slow whitecaps of energy cresting against your head to manifest a pleasant dream, Viktor notes the way you shiver. Breathy gasps uttered from your lips, please, don't go, as you press your feeble form against his. 

In the end, he'd give you everything you desire. 

This is exactly what you want — to have your oh-so human shape pressed beneath his, Viktor's monstrous gaze burning into you as you pathetically tremble. While he pins your wrists above your head with the sharp talons of his Hexclaw, and purrs so pleasantly when you pant with anticipation. 

Nuzzling into the nape of your neck, everything impossibly close, he bathes you in his giant shadow, in the steady rays of his third arm's divine light. The silver ridges of his masked face are cool against your skin. He wants to spend hours upon days upon years marking his favorite details of yours with his fingertips; wax-warm prints on your hips, your back. Arcane-patterns embossed along your thighs and your stomach, polychrome like painting the cosmos across your bare skin. 

Your imperfections were made to be admired. No, more accurately, you have always been perfect. There is nothing to fix nor change. You deserve everything, and so much more. 

He wants you perfectly sated, softly panting his name every morning and night, each sunrise and sunset greedily spent in one another's company. 

Light's first flecks appear on the horizon, alighting Ionia's quiet autumn trees in ichor-lucent shades. Arms and legs locked around him, rays glittering off of his gilded frame, you take Viktor inside of you in the comfort of your makeshift camp. 

Dusk bleeds into night, and this time, you're stationed in a run-down inn somewhere north of Demacia. 

There's a new form of illusory magic Viktor has been studying. A remnant in a supposedly Targon-sourced tome he bought for dirt cheap in a Bilgewater port. 

Considering Viktor's appearance and especially his stature, it's difficult to travel through busy regions without heads turning. This magic particularly affects the mind. It allows you to finally stay at a decent inn for the first time in ages, under the guise of Viktor being your very human, very normal partner. 

You are supposed to be a married couple. But if there was a noise complaint — 

All this to say — Viktor imagines fucking you in a tiny room with a rickety bed that thumps when it hits the wall and creaks to protest his weight. 

He barely fits, the tiny room and the even tinier bed clearly not made for his inhuman, nine-foot-something height; he has to cling to your body, pinning your back against his chest and your ass to his pelvis. The edges of his golden ribs press indents in between your shoulder blades. You look so pliant when you're under him; fully bare, utterly small. So very delightful. My adorable, perfect muse. 

The moon is full. The glowing, runic halo above Viktor's head mimics the shimmering descent of the night's stars. The light from his eyes burns bright in the darkened room. Two steady, piercing flames. Shadows cast themselves onto the ceiling, framing his third arm, his horns, his crown. They twist and combine and resemble the outline of fluttery, umbral wings. 

Teleporting the two of you would make things simple. Perhaps he could have you in an arcane vacuum, as he's done many, many times prior. 

But it's awfully thrilling to cover your mouth with his large palm, to silently purr in your mind that you must be silent, my little dove, because his voice might shake the room with its unholy reverberation — while his impossibly large body pins you, and while he relentlessly fucks whimper after muffled whimper from your drooling lips. 

Saliva slickens his purple-mottled fingers. Magic pools from his figure, bathes you in tingly radiance. The wrinkled sheets are drenched in sweat and slick and luminescent arcane-fluid. The inn's little room is filled with the Arcane Herald's huge body, his resplendent presence that dapples magic into the atmosphere, and the messy press of his shape against yours, the repeated, methodically wet echo. 

Your swirling thoughts plead, please, touch me here, and Viktor does, exactly in the manner you like. Softly. Lovingly. Until you're swollen and sensitive and needy. A purple thumb greedily slips into your mouth, toying with your tongue. With your hazy cognizance bared to him, your mind diligently fucked open, he tastes your emotions; bites and swallows them whole. 

You are beautiful, Viktor whispers into your brain. Sublime. Brilliant. Tenacious. Perfect. 

They're premonitions, of course, but Viktor's imagination won't stop singing — 

Your gaze, locked to his while you drown in his flame. Your heart, beating fast. Your soul, a blossom of delicate petals in his palm. He wants you on your knees. On your stomach. On your back. Heat pluming over his maw as he pins you to his face and laps at your dripping, sensitive sex with his long, slimy tongue. He wants to press his spend into your mouth with his fingers, wants to leave hallucinatory kisses across the sensitive skin of your nape. 

(Kisses you can feel in an astral mind cavity, somewhere far away from here. This is who I am beneath the chrysalis. This is how I've always wanted to kiss you: with boundless desperation, pale palms to your cheeks, and soft mouth to softer lips, and starbursts to starlight. Implosions becoming the dust in space.) 

He'll lace his fingers with yours when you kiss the star-moles on his false face. His large, deft hands will pleasure you in every which way while you chant his name, until your voice has gone sore. Viktor. A prayer, a plea, a vow coalescing. And the Arcane Herald will give you what you need, he will hold you and love you and show you everything you have always been worthy of. 

He could take you in a moonlit Ionian hot spring, water splashing as you bounce on his lap, or in a cold cabin in the Freljord, bodies close as you exhale hot, shaky breaths, or just anywhere you could possibly want him. 

Viktor wants to fuck you until his illogical, potent affection spells your neurons, your electrons, and every last letter of your memorized name. 

Your breathing is ragged, now. 

Reality dips back into his palm. The anomaly's shape curls into, into, into itself until it billows out in a cloud of miasma. You grind into his lap pathetically, barely in tune with his own steady thrusts. Every buck of his hips has become smooth, as measured as a metronome, while he stays focused on your building pleasure, on bringing you to your budding collapse. 

It takes all of your effort to fumble your hands into his chestnut hair, your feeble fingers grabbing on tight. The strands are wild and grown out, starting to fleck with a breeze of blonde. They're soft, even still. You whimper, you let yourself be manhandled, bounced so easily on his lap — so perfect for him, so worthy of his endless adoration. 

"F-Fuck," Your muscles go tense; your voice breaks as he presses right there, grinds and slowly drags you onto him to draw out the throbs of pleasure into deep, warm tempests. "Viktor, don't- don't stop-" 

There's potency to the way you say his name, igniting a lingering, desperate instinct or an arcane-induced ripple effect; Viktor's cock swells into fullness, the tentacle's fat, ribbed ridges bullying your sweet spots. It drips with sopping wet pre-lubricant, pumps more preparative slickness into you, in turn; it flutters with chameleon-light, thin electrical currents surging from tip to base in shifting hues of glowing purple to lightning blue. 

"GUIDING YOU TO UNRAVEL FOR ME IS UTTER ECSTASY." Viktor coos, his accent thick, tone stupidly sweet and possessive. Echoing in your ears until he's the only thing you can hear. 

He drives himself into you, purposefully nice and deep. A disgustingly loud groan is coaxed from your panting mouth. 

"OH… LOOK AT YOU. TREMBLING. TERRIBLY CLOSE TO AN ABSOLUTE IMPLOSION." 

You are dazzling. A precious, desperate mess due to my touch… and only my touch. I will bring you to enlightenment in the manner only I can. 

"SO GOOD TO ME, YES? YOU ARE… EXQUISITE. AS PERFECTLY DIVINE AS YOU WERE WHEN WE FIRST BECAME DIVIDED. YOUR MAGNIFICENCE IS… MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN EVERYTHING I HAVE SPENT YEARS REMEMBERING." 

I have missed you more than anything in every reality, my dearest. 

You deserve to be taken care of, to be filled and admired and held in every way you need — and Viktor shudders through the salty brine of guilt, because he knows he left you waiting and wanting for far, far too long. 

It won't happen again. 

He holds you as you arch up, his palm instantly finding the small of your back as you make it as straight as you can manage. Your unsteady palms opt to abruptly hold his face and pull him close. Close enough to let his head press to yours. 

Even with your eyes closed, his unfeeling sun-pupils blaze behind your brain like pockets of wildfire. 

Gods. If he could, he would keep this moment close. A sheathed weapon ready for his right hand, a crux and a complex conundrum. So he will always, always remember how it feels to adore you. 

Finding the next best solution, Viktor contradicts all that he is, mirroring your touch. Holding your small face in his own large palms, as though you're precious, his, with enough pure tenderness to capsize you. 

"YOU SIMPLY DO NOT KNOW HOW INVALUABLE YOU ARE TO ME… NOR HOW YOU REPRESENT TRUE RADIANCE-" Viktor stutters, it nearly sounds like a sigh, "A GLITTERING STAR MORE PERFECT THAN ANY GALAXY I HAVE FELT AT MY FINGERTIPS…" 

Forehead to forehead, pace never faltering, he takes you tenderly, steadily; gently perfect friction fills you with carnality and drowns out all else. You grit your canines. Viktor brushes his palm to your jaw, his thumb over your cheek. Pleasure runs rampant in his shaky hands and the full-on quiver of the anomaly's thinning edge. 

The warmth behind his eyes seems to glaze over. A low noise purrs from him that mimics a set of shaking breaths, golden, gill-like ridges on his neck falling open. Puffing plumes of thickly frosted air, like exhaling in the dead of winter. 

For the briefest of moments, in the weakening softness of the arcane, you can sense the aurora of how this feels for him. 

You are warm, perfect. Your frame shakes like a baby bird, delicate flame, to his fallen-angel maelstrom. Mind unfurling. Minds melding. You adore him in every shape, strong or weak or in any chimeral form he wishes to take. Viktor relishes this. Tastes it with a swipe of his tongue over teeth. You sense it just the same. A strand curling, knotting. Becoming one. 

Everything the Arcane Herald feels sunbeams into him tenfold. Pleasure frantically shivering inside every violently reconstructed atom. Devotion sunflowering out from his wilted-rose center, overflowing and filling the void of his frame. It's so much, too much. Affection strong like getting kissed all over, like worship. (Viktor's gentle mouth and his starlit hands and the way he falls to his knees before you without prompting.) Akin to holding a prayer in one's palms, until knuckles ache and skin splits apart. 

Love is all you can taste, sense. In its purest, most concentrated, most overwhelming form. 

"Close," You manage to pant. Your breath fans over his face and Viktor leans just a bit closer, until your soft lips are grazing the smooth metal. "Vik- please, please, please." 

You're begging like there's even a singular shred of him that would deny you. He won't. He doesn't. 

"MY BELOVED." A lilt falls into his tone, a loving refraction that kisses your eardrums over and over again. "LET GO. YOU ARE ALL MINE." 

Viktor bounces you smoothly; he reaches down, finds where you're sensitive and throbbing and circles his deft, magic-rich fingers there. 

I would break the world in two for you. Fruit split down the middle, as I feed you the lush flesh within. I want you to know you are loved, as your heart knows to beat, and darkness knows to encircle light, and emotion knows to tether itself to a soul. 

Energy dances up your spine, a deep purple glow emanates from beneath Viktor's veins; the Hexcore's glowing insides, light glinting off of a chasm of amethyst. He can feel it, your sensitivity, your eagerness. Threading within him, a pinwheel turning, and building, building, building. 

No, perhaps it's his eagerness. A lingering disruption on the heels of his resurrection, because he was promised freedom from humanity, but he cannot erase the memories that shape him. Because he spent ages in that fucking cocoon with every ache the arcane has ever felt winding beneath his skin: the pain of existence, the pain of overuse, the penchant for a wild rune to corrupt itself into oblivion. 

Viktor hasn't been touched by anything other than pain since the arcane decided such sensations are less than glorious. Inessential. Unnecessary. 

You curl your palm around the sensitive, slightly ticklish base of his neck, fingernails scrambling to dig into the ridges of golden ornaments. You brush your lips between his tear-marked eyes with purpose. As the numbness begins to fade and the light within him starts to flourish, constellations becoming galaxies — your touch is so perfectly soft it threatens to hurt. 

It's exquisite catharsis. The arcane has made him into an unexplainable paradox, a Hexcorized heart that defies itself, a vulnerable vessel that has to relearn the difference between stimuli. It's a perception he wishes to evaluate, with you. To give sun and soil and rainwater and gasoline, so this newfound antithesis explodes into blooms in his hands, all hazy and flickering. 

He's missed you. So, so terribly. This is all the runes that bend to his whim can say, now. (Viktor curls in on himself, prods into his bones and finds the weaker vessel he tried to leave behind. Always there, just dormant. He imagines your fingers running through his windswept hair as he kisses you until you're both stupidly breathless. He tastes like nebulae, you taste the same as he remembers.) He watches radiance shine through the mottled marks on your bare skin: his fingerprints, reactive to the untamed thrum of the surrounding stratosphere. 

Blasphemy be damned, the Herald of the Arcane takes an oath to stay by your side, just as a younger half of him, more foolish, more weary and rune-carved and destined to betray you once promised he would. And he can, now. He can abandon augmentation to show you pure, exquisite entropy. 

The unconscious blending of his mind with yours causes you to hear, causes you to answer as your thoughts resound. 

Viktor- I missed you, I missed you so much- I'd always come with you, I promise. I love you. 

Ironically, or perhaps impossibly, Viktor's own mind responds to yours before he has a true chance to think. 

I have always loved you. Come apart for me. 

The anomaly around you flares to life with a surge, a big bang, a colorful amalgamation of wildflower-hues you've never seen before — and you come undone for him, in a storm of broken breaths and reverent chants of his name. 

You're falling — dying — in your lover's arms, breaking into pleasant pieces, as Viktor brings you back to life a thousand times over. His lap to his pelvis drip, drips with the residuals of your arousal. He gently rocks his hips as you finish, drawing out your pleasure for everything it's worth. 

He's close behind, then. His figure is briefly made of cosmos and fractals, symbols and steel. Viktor's endless shudders, careening through his lithe limbs, cause the anomaly to exhale a cosmos-ridden breath of pure contentment. 

As Viktor spills inside you, his spend dripping down his length and your thighs and his lap, vibrant and colorful like an oil-slick — there, onto the prickling, plush skin of your lower stomach, you're gently branded with an intricate half-circle of arcane runes. 

They glow brightly, their cornflower-blue outline starkly contrasting your skin. Fleetingly, you're mortal and patron, human and seraph. The Arcane Herald's signature source of power floods into you: cresting waves of stellar divinity, connected constellations of magic that promise, they've been here all along. You simply needed to be taught how to harness them. 

And then, as quick as a miniscule spark gets water-doused into nothing, the arcane's addictive influence is gone. All that's left behind are the tingling fingerprints on your body, and the silence of the scar-colored runes, a halo dotting your abdomen, carved deep beneath your skin. Palpable proof of Viktor's touch, his devotion. 

Between your heavy breaths, your vision infinitely hazy, you hear Viktor exhale a genuine, utterly delighted laugh. 

"Look at you," His voice, for once, is closer to humanity. No longer echoing, instead booming once inside your skull with a potent sense of finality. "Stronger already, yes? I can feel the restlessness of the arcane within you- you are- hah, so perfect. My glorious little love…" 

A brief storm of cosmos-colored resplendence threads through his body, from the neck down; the Hexcore's way of recomposing, rebooting. He trembles against you for only a few moments. His third arm twitches, clicks, testing the stiff curl of each talon individually. Something burns underneath his false face, and Viktor realizes it's the splitting urge to break into a smile. 

You're limp against him, weakly leaning into his chest. Both of his large palms hold onto your waist to brace your weight. He eases out of you carefully, marvels at the mess you've both made as he returns to faultless, logical normalcy. He's already found his resolve, appearing as he did when he first found you, while you're still gasping for breath. Hair a mess, skin sweat-soaked, legs tensing to try not to tremble. 

This element to his new body is one he can learn to accept. 

After all, it allows him to admire you: mouth parted, your eyes closed like you're saying a prayer. You're akin to magnetism, a driving force he can't look away from. He measures the steady thrum of your pulse. Touch tender enough to heal, his thumb traces your eyelids, your lashes, the curve of your brows and your nose and the softness of your cheek, as though it's an outline he wishes to memorize. You're given plenty of time to breathe, relax, and find your bearings. 

In, and then out. He watches you inhale and exhale for several precious moments. 

When your eyes finally open, the first thing you notice is the shift in the surrounding, enveloping anomaly. 

The space around you is a brilliant galaxy, a vibrant ether, a stratosphere that spirals into itself like ripples on water. Plants blossom every which way, sprouting from nothing. Triangular pockets of light shine onto your skin, as if filtered through stained glass. Dots of stars flicker, occasional equations of pitter-pattering morse code. It reminds you of coordinates and diagrams and something distinctly technical, yet magical. Something familiar. Rays from the sun and metal against metal and an embrace that lasts too long, or not enough. You've never seen anything like it. 

"An amalgamation between your soul, and mine," Viktor softly confirms. He lazily tips your chin up with a patient index finger. You'd almost forgotten how hypnotic his gaze could be. Both eyes firefly-flicker to a warm, exuberant rhythm. 

"Beautiful," He says, focused solely on you. "Is it not?" 

You nod, flashing him a small, drowsy grin. You cup his face in both palms, holding him far too delicately, and you press a feather-soft kiss to the diamond marking engraved just above his eyes. 

The Arcane Herald purrs in contentment. Affectionate, he brushes the back of his hand to your cheek, allowing you to feel the golden kintsugi that adorns his once-broken knuckles. 

The anomaly falls away in a quiet blur. Delightfully tousled, you step into the calm eye after a steady storm. 

Reality warps, steadying around you. Your apartment comes into view in the aftermath of the arcane's inverted bubble. Your dusty living room, your rickety couch, walls and carpet faded with age. It takes a few moments for your mind to stop throbbing. You're distantly aware that Viktor is still holding you, settling your bare frame against him as he sits down, with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his palm to the small of your back. 

You're home. Or perhaps you never left. 

Perhaps this is meant to be the start of a new beginning. 

Gentle fingertips trail up your spine: a lover's caress. You feel elated. Calm. Safe, when you're in the Arcane Herald's arms. 

You blink away the haze, adjusting on his lap to keep your newly steadied gaze on his. Viktor's third arm ticks softly, reminiscent of an aged, steady clock. This time, the halo that frames him is low and translucent, iridescently flickering like the beat of dragonfly wings. His masked face is a perfect picture of emotionlessness. Though you find him unreadable, you can't help but melt as you watch him clearly flick his sunset gaze from your mouth, to your eyes. 

Weary knees shake as you prop yourself up more, to leave sleepy kisses onto his face, stardust brushing your mouth. His metal edges run cool against your bare skin, his chest pressed against yours. You kiss the sculpted curve of his cheekbone. The indentation of a past beauty mark. The smooth curve of his mask that reflects light and begs to be touched; as much as the arcane insists otherwise, he was made to be adored. You're certain. 

Viktor hums, his resounding voice filled with the background noise of a fuzzy drone, "This form of connection… I would assume it could invite considerable strain onto the mind." He nuzzles his face into your nape. You can feel the swell of vibrations as he speaks. "You may rest, if you wish." 

It's more of a promise than an invitation. A sleepless being is best suited to watching over while you dream. 

You slump back into his lap, resting against his chest and absently trailing your fingertips over the gilded crescent of his ribs. "Not right now. I'm alright, Vik." 

Viktor lightly pats your head. "The droplet of arcanic power I gave to you is quite sufficient enough to keep you safe. It will allow me to determine your location, should we become separated." 

You seem to deflate, like a plant without water. 

"Viktor," You plead, moon-big eyes gazing up at him. "Please. Stay." 

He's heard those words before. Between silent tears or grasped hands or fingertips pushing his sweaty hair from his face. 

There, in his flickering recollections, he breathes. Bile tinges in his throat when he swallows. He says a prayer in his head. Soft lips graze your forehead and pallid palms shake and unbeknownst at the time, this memory gets shoved down so deep, it's just as vivid in the moments after he first sheds his skin. 

He wasn't planning on leaving, but this confirms it. Seals it. Stamps a promise into the empty core of his chest that burns with warmth, a knife lovingly delved into flesh, a beating heart pumping blood and oxytocin. Viktor feels alive for the first time in years. 

And even though the Arcane Herald knows he wasn't made for this — he was created for calamity and salvation, not softness on the smallest scale. Just you and him, becoming nothing but a blip on the world's grandest stage. A simple life of endless wandering. A purposeful life where he gets to be intricately born anew for the hundredth time. The softest metamorphosis yet. 

Viktor knows, but he holds your cheek in his all-too large hand, he tilts his head and lets his unwavering gaze burn through you, and he still answers: "Of course." 

It isn't an argument. Of course, I will stay. 

I was meant to. 

[synthetickitsune]

Could I kindly and respectfully request mafia!Hao with very dramatic angsty number 37? (Insert smug cat here SKCJFKDJDJ it now feels freaking weird texting u being unable to use that) Just without anyone actually dying, PRETTY please ✨✨✨

here you go for kindly and respectfully being my writing company when this was made uwu

Mafia!The8 (SVT) | "Who did this to you?" angst | 0.8k | gn!reader cw: injuries, murder, guns

You’re alive. Breathing. Blinking. You can hear your heartbeat deafeningly loud in your ears. The organ itself pushes against your ribs with each pump. You feel your pulse pound in your temples. You can see but everything’s blurred together.

And then, a snap of fingers.

Suddenly the image is sharp. You gasp when your vision focuses and you see his eyes right in front of you. Cold. But you don’t make the mistake of being fooled by appearances. Under the carefully pieced together facade, there’s a beast roaring for revenge.

He takes the handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently dabs at your bloody lips. As you’ve tried to explain, as best you could without speaking a word, the lips are your doing. Partly because you knew this is the situation you’ll end up in, so your anxiety got the better of you and you chewed them raw. You weren’t really that hurt. The doctor confirmed as much to him too. Really, this was an overkill.

“Now, I’ll ask one last time and then I’ll start shooting,” Minghao says, slowly, deliberately, like it truly didn’t matter to him if you respond or not, “Who did this to you?”

The suspects are in the next room. You can see them through the one-way mirror but you don’t look. Truly you don’t want to see them. The less you know, the better.

“My heart,” his voice softens. It’s only you two in the room, so he doesn’t mind getting on one knee in front of you. His hands are gentle, careful not to touch any discolored patch of skin where bruises bloom as he cradles your face. You sniffle and barely stop yourself from wincing. It hurts. “You won’t get into trouble. Just tell me. I’m not mad at you, I’m not disappointed with you.”

Usually you’d hate that he’s talking to you like you’re a child but his earnest eyes and soft touch, softer voice, and most importantly your altered state of mind make you crumble. The dams break, no mercy on your battered and bruised body, and from relative calm you go into hysterics within a fraction of a second. 

Minghao’s on his feet immediately, pulling you closer to his body while still mindful of your injuries. It doesn’t matter. The sobs wrecking through your body cause enough agony. He guides your head to rest against his stomach, gently running his fingers through your hair. You can’t say you really feel it, though. It’s like someone’s stabbing your stomach with every move, every breath. 

He tries to be your pillar to lean on, he tries to keep you from falling apart but it’s a losing battle. You slip through his fingers, you can feel it. You don’t know what to do but cry. Is there even anything to do? You’re in pain. It hurts so much, inside and out. Layer after layer, the pain cumulates. You’re scared of what he’s going to do.

“You can’t be soft with them,” he whispers, almost as if he’s chiding you but his voice is too gentle, “They wouldn’t treat you kindly either. They didn’t.”

He’s right, but what does it change? Violence only spurs on violence.

“My reputation is on the line too,” he adds, voice dropping. You barely hear it. The tears come in streams again. 

How are you supposed to break free of this paralysis? Naturally there are appearances to keep. Powerful men don’t let their family get hurt. And if such an act against who could very well be a god is committed, there needs to come a retribution.

What does it change if you speak up?

Minghao has the capacity for cruelty. He tries to shield you from it. You know, though. You’ve heard. You’re smart enough to realize. You used to think it doesn’t concern you. You made yourself believe it. And then you get involved with evil, albeit against your will, and suddenly you can’t ignore the truth right before your eyes. 

“Your loyalty could be questioned,” his voice keeps getting harder to hear. 

The way he says it. Like there’s some third party to witness this moment. Like it’s the anonymous them judging your actions and picking them apart. 

So you say a number.

Because what he’s doing hurts more than the bruises, than the cuts, than the pain. 

A shot echoes through both rooms, then panicked screams muffled by the gags in their mouths. You hear it under the ringing in your ears and the imaginary water you’re drowning in.

“Thank you,” Minghao tells you. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’ll have someone else clean up,” he says like he’s talking about cleaning up the basement of your home, “But you’re my pleasure to take care of.”

It should be reassuring. It is. You want to go home. You want to be away from all this. 

You want your Minghao. The real one. The one that’s getting further away each day.

He takes some version of you with him. They’re both escaping to safety. Somewhere you can’t follow.

[uncobbedcorn]

behold. my heir

uuuu lore ramble beneath read more ... kicks pebble

their lore isn't really set in stone but here's a bunch of little tidbit ideas

- they were the Ancestor's Final Atrocity, being an attempt to contain the very heart of darkness with a body made of flesh scraps sewn together (it uses the very thread that used to hold its body together in order to sort of mind control others it's smth i will explain later in the post)

- in a way it was successful in creating an imperfect reflection containing an offshoot of the hod intended to defeat the heart (fight fire with fire type deal)

- the letter was to give it instruction before the ancestor did something really funny

- it is the reason why dd is cyclical in nature because with every playthrough it becomes attached to the relationships and the hamlet and the people there and it knows that once it defeats itself there will be no reason for them to stay

- in a sense the Heir becomes attached to the hardships it watches them go through and since it's mostly organic material it develops emotion in a very flawed sense to the point of obsessing over the heroes

- every time the hod is defeated the heir gets consumed with this mental spiral that causes it to impulsively revive the hod and restart the cycle

- every reset also resets its own capacity to feel for the heroes and every time this happens they slowly fall back in love with them rinse repeat

- the teal(?) strings are my way of incorporating dd1's gameplay loop into the character. they act as puppet strings that allow the heir to sort of control a hero's rational thoughts which causes them to act a certain way without being aware they're being controlled by an outside force

- the heir can see the heroes' actions because it's an offshoot of the hod but it cant see everything everything because of the actual hod limiting its power

- they are heavily clothed because they dont want anybody to see its actual form (insecure baby)

- most of the time when they give instruction it's a written request, but in direct conversation it speaks directly to the mind and from an outside perspective it just looks like the hero is holding a one sided conversation but to the hero they think they're talking normally

- it very rarely speaks with its actual voice because it sounds like the overlap of every single creature used to build its physical body. including things that do not have vocal cords complex enough to support human speech so its actual voice is very difficult to listen to

more lore coming never

[ambiguous-avery]

Moon Without Stars, Part 9

Sam Winchester x fem!Reader/You | WC: 5186

Summary: Hunters – the people who lived fast and lawless – had one rule they all abided by. No attachments. And in a world where your first touch with your soulmate would leave a brand behind, No Touching was an unspoken second rule. Not everyone followed that, but you did. Or you tried to. The last thing you needed was for fate to be cruel and bind you to someone. Least of all someone like Sam Winchester.

Tags/Warnings: Soulmate AU, sad Sam (that’s a warning all of its own), idiots fighting fate, strangers to enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: I had way too much fun writing this chapter. To be fair, I’ve had fun writing this entire thing. But this chapter in particular? Loved it. Moon Without Stars Masterlist

“The Soulburn Imprint Theory posits that, in rare cases, when a soulmate bond is severed – through trauma or unnatural disruption – a psychic residue remains. Not visible. Not active. But there. Like ash on the skin,” you read aloud, pursing your lips as you finished the line. “Sometimes, that residue can create the conditions for a new bond to form. Not as a replacement, but as a kind of second path the soul carves out when it refuses to stop wanting.” You rubbed your eyes and blinked at the words in front of you. “When the soul refuses to stop wanting… how poetic.”

“It’s more than that,” Sam said, moving closer to look over your shoulder. “It could explain what happened to you.” You could feel his warmth beside you, the gentle brush of his breath against your cheek. Your mark tingled pleasantly, urging you to lean into him. Maybe close the distance between your faces. You had given the damn thing an inch, and now it wanted to take a mile.

Sam had been eager to share several theories he had stumbled upon, and you had to hand it to him. All the theories he had presented to you were ones you hadn’t even heard of before. The Imprint Transfer Theory suggested that the first mark could’ve been imprinted on you incorrectly due to extreme emotional trauma, but it didn’t seem to fit. Then there was the Cursed Interference Theory that put the blame on a powerful hex or spell. And while that was possible, you couldn’t think of any witches you had pissed off that were capable of casting something strong enough to mess with fate.

“How does any of this explain my mark disappearing, though?” You frowned, scanning the passage again. “This just talks about forming new bonds after severance, not why the first one would vanish in the first place.” Sam reached across you, his arm touching yours as he flipped to the next page.

“Keep reading.”

“In the most extreme cases, the residue itself becomes volatile,” you continued. “Volatile enough to consume the original bond, leaving no trace of it behind. Like it was never there at all.”

Your fingers traced the words on the page, feeling a strange mixture of grief and vindication. You had never come across anything even remotely close to any of these in your research. Then again, you didn’t have an entire library of supernatural information at your fingertips when all of this happened originally. 

“This says it’s extremely rare,” you said, looking over at Sam. “As in, it’s never actually been heard of.”

“But it’s not impossible,” Sam countered, his eyes never leaving your face. “And it matches what happened, right?”

“So… what? My first soulmate bond was so traumatic that it burned itself out? Self-destructed?” You leaned back in your seat, playing with the theory in your head. There hadn’t been anything in the last relationship that you could think of that might have contributed to something like that. Unless something was wrong with your soul.

“Or,” Sam cleared his throat, giving you a look that told you he felt that thought. You weren’t sure if you were annoyed or glad that he was tuned into you. Did that extend into other feelings and emotions? God, had he picked up on your longing? That would’ve been embarrassing… “Maybe there was something external. Something that interfered with the bond without you knowing.”

“That was the first thing I looked for. But I couldn’t find anything that had that sort of ability.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have years and years of data to dig through. There’s numerous curses and hexes and other possible supernatural interference.” Sam ran his fingers along the spines of several other books stacked in front of you. “There are entities that feed on emotional connections. Maybe something was targeting your relationship, and you never knew it.”

The thought struck a chord in you.

“Wait… there was something. There was a case I was working on around the time it vanished. Hold on, I have my notes in my journal.” You pushed your chair back, and just as the legs scraped against the floor of the bunker, your stomach let out an equally low growl. Sam’s gaze snapped to you at the sound.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

You paused, trying to remember. The protein bar this morning with Dean felt like it had been hours ago, though you weren’t entirely sure what time it was. The bunker had a way of making time feel non-existent, especially when you were buried in research with Sam.

“This morning, I think?”

“You think?” Sam closed the book in front of you with a gentle thud. “Come on. Food first, then we can dive back into this.”

“This could be important.” Your back ached from hunching over the books, and your empty stomach was making demands with an urgency that rivaled your mark. But the possibility of answers felt so close. Like they were within your reach for the first time.

“And it’ll still be important after you eat something.” He stood with you, already moving towards the library entrance. “Besides, you said you have notes. Those aren’t going anywhere. Where are they?”

“They’re–” You paused. “In my car.” The admission came out reluctantly. Your car which was probably still in Colorado. Your journal had been your constant companion for years, filled with case details, personal notes, and observations. It was your hunter’s diary, and it contained more than just cases. It contained pieces of you that you weren’t sure you wanted Sam to see.

“We can see about getting your car tomorrow after your stitches come out, if you want.”

Right. Your stitches. That were coming out tomorrow. And then you were free. The thought hit you like a physical blow, stealing away your breath and almost making you double over. Tomorrow. The artificial deadline that had seemed so distant when you had first woken up in this bunker was suddenly right there, looming over you like a storm cloud.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice cut through your spiral. “You okay?”

You realized that you’d gone completely still, staring at the table like a deer caught in the headlights. Sam had a hand just inches away from your shoulder. Like he had reached out for you instinctively but stopped himself.

“Tomorrow,” you said, the word feeling strange on your tongue. “The stitches come out tomorrow.” Understanding dawned across his face followed by something that looked suspiciously like resignation. He carefully placed his hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “They do.” A beat of silence passed between the two of you. Tomorrow meant choices. Tomorrow meant deciding whether to stay or go. Tomorrow meant facing the reality that had been lurking at the edges of your consciousness all week.

The weight of his hand on your shoulder anchored you, but it also made everything feel more real. More immediate. You had been living in this strange suspended animation for six days. Telling yourself that it was temporary. That you were just healing. But now the clock was ticking down to an actual decision.

“What happens then?” you asked. Sam’s thumb traced a small circle on your shoulder.

“Whatever you want to happen.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I know.” His hand dropped away, leaving you feeling oddly bereft. “But it’s the truth. I’m not going to pressure you into staying. And I’m not going to pretend it won’t hurt if you leave.” It was refreshing just how honest Sam was when he spoke. You could almost believe that he had never been burned by it before. Almost. Your mark pulsed with affection, and you couldn’t deny that it was entirely yours. “You don’t have to decide anything tomorrow. Getting the stitches out doesn’t mean you have to leave.”

“I know.”

But did you? 

“Come on. I was thinking that we could get out of the bunker again. I know a place that isn’t too far from here. Small diner. Good food. I can convince Dean to let me borrow the Impala. We could… go there. Together.” There was a careful hesitation in his voice, like he was offering something more significant than just a meal. 

And maybe he was.

Your heart did something complicated in your chest. A skip, then a flutter, then a steady rhythm that seemed to sync with your mark. A date? Was he asking you on a date? He hadn’t said those exact words, but the implication was there, hanging between the two of you like a bridge you could either cross or burn.

“Like a date?” you asked before you could stop yourself. And you immediately wished you could take them back. They were too direct. Too vulnerable. Too much like admitting that the idea appealed to you more than you wanted him to know. Sam’s cheeks flushed pink, and he ran a hand through his hair.

“I mean… if you want it to be. Or it could just be… dinner. Between two people who are tired of eating bunker food.”

You studied his face, looking for any sign that this was some elaborate form of manipulation. Some way to get you to stay by making you think that there was something more here than there actually was. But all you found was the same earnest sincerity that had been slowly dismantling your defenses for the past week. Sam Winchester didn’t seem capable of manipulation, even if he wanted to be.

“A date,” you repeated slowly, testing the word. When was the last time you had been on an actual date? Years, probably. Your mark hummed approvingly, and you could feel Sam’s familiar warmth bleeding through from Sam’s side of the connection. 

“Only if you want,” Sam said quickly. “No pressure. We can just call it dinner.” But you could see the hope in his eyes. The careful way he was watching your face for any sign of how you might’ve responded. And you realized that some part of you – the part that had been buried under years of cynicism and hurt – wanted this. Wanted him.

“I can’t even remember the last date I went on.”

“Me neither,” Sam admitted, and something about his confession made you feel less exposed. Less like you were the only one taking a risk. “So we can both be equally terrible at it.”

Despite the fear and uncertainty and the voice in your head screaming that this was all one big mistake, you found yourself smiling. Really smiling. Not the careful half-expressions you’d been rationing out all week.

“Okay,” you said, and the word felt like stepping off a cliff. “Yes. Let’s go on a terrible date.”

The smile that spread across Sam’s face was radiant. Pure joy and relief mixed together in a way that made your chest tight with attraction for him. You wanted to see him smile like that more often. For the rest of your days. Your mark sang with shared joy, and for once, you didn’t try to quiet it.

The diner was a classic small-town establishment. Red vinyl booths, chrome accents, and a jukebox in the corner playing something from the 70s. The scent of grilled onions and fresh coffee hung in the air, wrapping around you with a comfortable familiarity.

The diner’s vinyl seat creaked beneath you as you settled in, the faux-leather worn smooth from years of customers sliding in and out. Sam sat across from you, and the table felt both too wide and too narrow at once. Too much space between your hands and not enough between your knees. You blamed Sam’s long legs.

You were hyper aware of every detail around you. The flickering neon sign outside casting intermittent blue across Sam’s features. The gentle hum of conversation from the other patrons. You’d been in a thousand diners like this one. But never quite like this. Never with your mark purring like a cat beneath your sleeve and feeling like you could be happy doing this for the rest of your life. Sitting across from your hazel-eyed soulmate.

“So… you really grew up on places like this, huh?” you asked softly.

“Yeah. Diners and cheap motels. Dean and I could probably recite the specials in half the Midwest.”

“Let me guess. He always orders the pie.”

“Religiously. He still does. Pretty sure if he had to choose between saving the world or saving a cherry pie, he’d at least hesitate.” You laughed, and it drew Sam’s attention like gravity, his eyes lighting up at the sound. He was looking at you like you were something precious. Someone who mattered.

“Don’t let me leave here without a replacement pie for him. I told him I’d pay him back with interest for the piece I stole.”

“You may need to grab two in that case.”

“Two pies?” you asked, eyebrows arched. “What kind of interest rate are we talking about here?”

“Winchester interest. It’s complicated math involving guilt, manipulation, and the occasional threat of bodily harm.” You laughed again, feeling an invisible weight slide off your shoulders.

Conversation with Sam came easily, and after ordering a cup of coffee to calm your nerves, the two of you settled into a comfortable ebb and flow of dialogue. The waitress returned with your coffee and set down two warm mugs. You found yourself studying Sam’s hands as he wrapped them around the ceramic. Long fingers, careful movements, the same hands that stitched you back together.

“So, what’s your order?” Sam asked, glancing at the laminated menu in front of him. “Your go-to diner food?” You thought for a moment, running your finger along the rim of your mug.

“Depends on the diner. But usually something that won’t give me food poisoning and costs less than ten bucks.” You paused, realizing how that probably sounded. “Glamorous, I know.”

“Hey, it’s practical. Dean would approve.” Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled like that. “Though I have to ask. Worst diner experience?”

“Oh god.” You leaned back against the booth. “Oklahoma, maybe four years ago. This place called Mel’s that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it opened. I ordered a burger, and it came out still mooing.”

“Please don’t tell me you ate it.”

“I’m not that desperate,” you said with a mock shudder. “Though the waitress did try to convince me that it was medium rare. I ended up eating a sleeve of saltines and called it a dinner.” Sam winced.

“That sounds like a crime against diners everywhere.”

“It really was. I didn’t trust a burger for at least a month and a half afterwords.” You smiled as you spoke, shredding the napkin in neat little strips just to have some outlet for your nervous energy. “Since we’re on the topic of ‘worsts,’” you began, moving to take a sip of coffee that was surprisingly decent. “What’s the worst date you’ve been on?” Sam cocked his head to the side.

“We’re starting with disasters?”

“I figure it’s the best way to set the bar low,” you replied with a shrug. “Makes this one look better by comparison.” Sam laughed and shook his head, and you noticed the way some of the tension in his shoulders slipped away.

“Well, there was this one time in college. My friend set me up with his girlfriend’s roommate. Said she was ‘perfect for me’ because she was also tall.”

“That was his entire criteria?” You leaned forward slightly, hooked onto every word he had to say.

“Apparently. The full extent of his match making skills,” Sam confirmed with a solemn nod and a wry grin. “So I showed up at this Italian restaurant that she picked. Way too fancy for my student budget. And she had already ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu.”

“Oh no,” you groaned sympathetically.

“Oh yes. And that wasn’t even the worst part. She spent the entire night talking about her ex-boyfriend. In excruciating detail. Including a fifteen-minute monologue about his–” Sam cleared his throat meaningfully, “–physical attributes.”

You swore your jaw nearly hit the table, and you weren’t sure if you should’ve laughed or been appalled for him. Maybe both?

“She didn’t.”

“She absolutely did. By dessert, I knew more about this guy than I knew about Dean.”

“So what did you do?” You couldn’t help it. You laughed. But it came easily, bubbling up from somewhere that had been dormant for too long.

“Excused myself to the bathroom and seriously considered climbing out the window,” Sam admitted. “But I was on the second floor, so I figured broken bones weren’t worth avoiding an awkward goodbye.”

“You stayed through the whole thing? You are way too polite.”

“Well, don’t give me too much credit. I did fake an emergency to cut it short when she started showing me pictures.”

“Of her ex?”

“Pictures of the ex. At the beach. Shirtless.”

You dissolved into laughter again, the sound echoing off the diner’s walls. A few of the other patrons glanced over, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. When was the last time you had laughed like this? Really laughed. Not the bitter chuckle you’d perfected over the years of disappointment. You weren’t sure.

“Your turn,” Sam prompted, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Worst date for you?”

“Easy. Wisconsin about six months ago. Guy seemed normal at first. A firefighter, liked hiking, had this adorable golden retriever.” You stirred your coffee absentmindedly. “We met at a bar after I finished a hunt. I was actually in a good mood for once… which, really, that should’ve been my first warning sign.”

“The universe can’t have that,” Sam said with mock seriousness.

“Exactly. So halfway through the date, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. I was starting to think he had ditched me. Which, honestly, would’ve been better than what actually happened.”

“But he didn’t?”

“Nope. He came back with his wife.” It was Sam’s turn to look shocked.

“His wife?”

“Yup. He sat back down and introduced me to her like everything was totally normal. Then said, ‘we’ve been talking about trying something new to spice things up.’”

“No.”

“Yeah. Turns out, the entire date was just a setup for them to find a third person for their relationship reboot.” You rolled your eyes at the memory. “I guess something about me just screamed ‘willing to fix your marriage’ to him.”

“What did you do?”

“Smiled, excused myself to the bathroom, and climbed out the window.” You raised your mug in toast. “Unlike you, I was on the ground floor, and I’m not a polite person.” Sam’s laughter warmed you more than the coffee.

“That’s brilliant.” He was all dimples and teeth, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in the way you had come to recognize as a genuine smile. “It’s a good exit strategy.”

“It’s served me well over the years,” you said with a shrug. “Though... I’ve mostly given up on dating since... you know. Hunting doesn’t really make for a good relationship foundation.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sam agreed, his expression softening. “I’ve wondered what it would be like to have someone who understood this life.”

The unspoken implication floated between you. Someone like you. Your mark thrummed in response, and you found yourself staring down at your coffee mug to avoid meeting his gaze. Thankfully, the waitress returned, saving you from having to formulate a response.

“Ready to order?”

You both ordered, and when she left, a comfortable silence settled over your table. It struck you how natural it felt. Sitting across from Sam in a weathered booth. Sharing terrible dating stories like you were both normal people. Not hunters. Not soulmates. Just two people having dinner together. 

“You know...” you began after a small beat. “This is already better than both of those dates combined.” Sam’s responding smile was soft. Almost shy. Boyish, even.

“Low bar, but I’ll take it.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” you clarified. You absentmindedly traced your mark through your sleeve. “This is... nice.” Sam’s gaze followed the movement of your fingers, mesmerized.

“Yeah. It is.”

The waitress returned with your foot, settling two plates down that smelled incredible after days of bunker meals. Your stomach growled in anticipation. Sam noticed.

“See? Food was definitely needed,” he said. You rolled your eyes at him, but it didn’t dull your smile. Your cheeks were beginning to hurt with how much you had been smiling over the last hour.

“Yeah, yeah. You were right,” you conceded as you picked up the fork. ���Don’t let it get to your head.”

The food was exactly what diner food should’ve been – unpretentious, hearty, and satisfying. You found yourself relaxing as you ate, the day’s tension gradually melting away. Sam filled the silence between bites with stories of previous hunts he and Dean had done. You shared snippets of your own hunting experiences, carefully editing them to avoid the darker moments. You assumed that Sam had done the same as he spoke. The conversation felt natural. Like the two of you had been doing it for years rather than days. Sharing a meal with someone had never felt so right. And when your knees bumped beneath the table, neither of you pulled away.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam said after a while, pushing his empty plate aside.

“Depends on the question,” you replied. Your tone was light, edgeless.

“Fair enough.” He hesitated, running a finger along the rim of his own coffee cup. “I’ve been wondering... What happens after tomorrow?”

Your heart dropped in your chest. Sure, you knew you were going to have to face it eventually. But you had been hoping that you wouldn’t. That maybe... maybe it could just... be pushed under the rug and nobody would question it. Leave it to Sam to drag it out into the light. Your fork had paused halfway to your mouth, and you wet your lips before you set it down carefully on your plate.

“You mean when the stitches come out?”

“Yeah.” His eyes met yours, steady and unguarded. “I know I said no pressure, and I meant it. But I can’t pretend I’m not thinking about it.” You took a slow, measured breath, feeling his nervous anticipation bleed through the mark. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted softly. “At the beginning of the week, I would’ve said that I’d be gone before the sun came up.”

“And now?”

You studied his face – his earnest hazel eyes, the slight furrow between his brows, the way he held himself carefully still as if any sudden movement might startle you into running. Your mark hummed against your wrist, a gentle reminder of its presence. Of him.

“Now... I’m thinking about staying.”

The words hung between you, the weight of them shifting the very air in the diner. Sam’s expression didn’t change. Not right away. He seemed like he was processing what you had said, afraid to react too strongly lest it make you change your mind.

“Thinking about staying,” he repeated carefully, his voice controlled, but you could feel the hope radiating through your mark.

“Yeah.” You pushed your plate aside, suddenly needing something to do with your hands. “Not forever or anything. Just... for now.”

“For now is good,” Sam said, almost too quickly. He reined himself in, though a smile slowly spread across his face like a sunrise. “For now is really good.”

The realization that you wanted to stay had been building slowly all week, like sediment settling at the bottom of a river. It wasn’t some grand epiphany. Just a quiet acknowledgement. Something that had always been there just under the surface. Lurking beneath every interaction.

“I’m not saying I’m going to unpack my entire life in the bunker,” you clarified quickly, needing to set boundaries even as your mark practically glowed with contentment. “Just... maybe stick around while we figure out what happened with my first mark. You brought up a lot of theories I had never heard of before.” You paused, chewing on your own words. “Maybe we could help each other on a hunt or two.” Sam’s smile didn’t dim, but it shifted into something more knowing.

“Of course. Strictly professional research and monster hunting.”

“Exactly.” You reached for your coffee, hiding your own smile behind the rim of the mug. “And... maybe the occasional terrible date.”

“I can work with that.”

The waitress stopped by with the check, and both of you reached for it at the same time, fingers brushing. The electric jolt of the connection made you pull back abruptly, and Sam took advantage of it, snagging the bill with a triumphant look.

“I can pay for my own dinner,” you protested, though your voice lacked conviction.

“I know you can,” Sam replied with a shrug, already tugging his wallet from his pocket. “But technically I asked you out, so it’s on me. Next time can be your treat.”

Next time. The words settled in your chest, warm and promising. You weren’t even out the door from this date, and he was already talking of another one. And the strangest part of it all? The thought of it didn’t make you want to run like it normally should’ve.

“Fine. But I’m getting the pies,” you countered, nodding towards the glass case near the register where several perfectly golden crusts sat on display.

“Deal.”

Outside, the night air felt crisp against your skin, a welcome coolness after the warmth of the diner. The Impala sat waiting in the parking lot, its sleek, black surface reflecting the neon signs from the diner windows. Sam walked beside you, close enough that your arms could brush if either of you shifted in just the right way. Your mark urged you to do exactly that.

“For what it’s worth,” Sam began as you approached the car, “I’m glad you’re thinking about staying.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten. You had spent so long running from connections. From possibilities. From potential happiness. Standing still felt revolutionary.

“Me too.” And you surprised yourself with how much you meant it.

Sam opened the passenger door for you. You set the two pies in the footwell, and as you slid into the Impala, you caught a glimpse of his face in the dim light of the parking lot. There was something in his expression that made your breath catch – a mixture of hope and caution. Like a man who had been given something precious but was afraid that it might shatter if he held it too tightly.

The drive back to the bunker was quiet, but it was a comfortable silence, filled with the low rumble of the Impala’s engine and the occasional rustle as one of you shifted in your seat. Your mark pulsed gently, content in a way you had never felt it before, even with your previous ‘soulmate.’ The entire drive, you found yourself stealing glances at Sam’s profile. The sharp line of his jaw softened by the passing streetlights. The way his hair fell over his ear. The roll of his shoulder as he took a turn off the main road.

When he pulled into the bunker’s garage, neither of you made a move to get out immediately. The engine ticked as it cooled, counting down seconds of a moment you were reluctant to let end.

“Thank you,” you said finally, turning slightly to face him. “For dinner. And… everything else.” Sam looked at you and offered an easy smile.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“I know. But I want to.”

“Then you’re welcome,” he said quietly.

The silence stretched between you, electric with possibility. Your gaze dropped to his lips for just a moment – a dangerous moment – before you looked away. For a fleeting second, you wondered what it would be like to lean across the seat and close the distance between you. To feel his lips against yours. To give in to the pull that had been there since the beginning. Your mark practically vibrated with the thought.

Instead, you reached out and brushed your fingers against the back of his hand where it rested on the bench between you. It was a small gesture, little more than a touch, but it felt monumental. Like a leap of faith.

Sam turned his hand over, palm up. An invitation without demand. You hesitated for a moment longer. Then, you slowly slid your fingers into his. The touch sent a cascade of warmth up your arm, your mark humming with satisfaction like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

His hand engulfed yours completely, warm and solid and real. Your fingers interlaced with his as naturally as breathing, and you marveled at how the simple contact felt more intimate than anything you had experienced in years.

“Baby steps,” you whispered, unable to tear your gaze away from your intertwined fingers.

“Baby steps,” he agreed, his thumb gently brushing across your knuckles.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there holding his hand. Neither of you seemed keen on breaking the fragile connection. The garage was silent except for your breathing and the occasional metallic ping from the cooling engine. It felt like a bubble suspended in time. Something safe and separate from the outside world. Your mark pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Or maybe it was Sam’s. You couldn’t tell anymore where your sensations ended and his began.

When you finally pulled away, it was reluctant. The two of you wordlessly clambered out of the Impala and back into the bunker, and you left the two pies in the fridge like an offering before bidding Sam a good night.

You sat on the edge of your bed, fingers tracing over the spot where your hand had joined with Sam’s. His warmth lingered, phantom and sweet and grounding. You had never been the type to believe in signs or omens, but you couldn’t deny the way that your entire body felt lighter. Different. Like some internal compass that had been spinning wildly for years had finally found its true north. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt this way. Felt like maybe, just maybe, things might work out for you.

The sound of your phone ringing startled you from your thoughts. You glanced at the screen, expecting Sam with a weak excuse not to let the night end. Or maybe Dean had found the pies. Instead, an unknown number flashed across the display.  That wasn’t uncommon. Hunters changed numbers so often that it was rare to save anyone in your contact list. Sam was your exception. You flipped it open and lifted it to your ear.

“Hello?”

The person on the other line said your name, their voice shredded and wrecked like they had been screaming for hours. Your blood ran cold as the familiarity of the voice washed over you in all the ways you had never wanted it to.

“Please help me. It’s back.”

The line went dead.

---

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Part 8 --- Part 10

[maxdibert]

What do you think would have happened if Severus Snape had ended up dead because of the prank?

It’s actually quite telling, because in the end this would be yet another example of how not only society, but justice itself, is structured around class. Severus, a half-blood from a very poor background, would have ended up dead, and the blame would have fallen on Remus, simply for being a werewolf and part of a “race” that exists on the fringes of society and lives under constant suspicion. He would’ve been accused of murder, and I’m not sure whether they would’ve sent him to Azkaban or given him the Dementor’s Kiss (because Severus wasn’t important enough for a formal death sentence, so I’ll leave that open), but one thing’s certain: his life would have been completely destroyed.

And not only that because Remus never intended to hurt anyone. He would never have allowed someone to come near him while transformed. It would’ve been manslaughter at most, but the guilt of having killed someone would have haunted him forever. So in this scenario, the dead man and the one blamed are both poor or marginalised, while the real instigator was a rich kid from a practically aristocratic background.

At most, Sirius would’ve been expelled, and even that I’m not entirely sure about. Severus was a nobody. Sirius came from one of the most socially powerful families in the magical world. Severus didn’t have a penny, and Sirius’s family had money, influence, and connections. Even if he was on bad terms with them, I’m sure they would have intervened however they could to keep their son from going to Azkaban, and likely even to prevent his expulsion from Hogwarts.

That they’d manage to keep him out of Azkaban? What I’m sure of: everyone would’ve been all too eager to blame the werewolf. Whether he would’ve been expelled? I’m not entirely convinced, but it still feels like a very plausible outcome.

Guys, when the rich kill the poor, or use vulnerable people to commit crimes, they usually get away with it. It’s pretty simple: justice has a price.

And yes — I say that as a lawyer.

[grimpath]

Breadhead x human!scientist!You

Request! Hurt/comfort, fluff, protective-mode yeastboy. This looks much more like a mini-fic than headcanons, but whatever... Your request honestly was like a whole fic itself, I really liked reading it! I hope I managed to add something good to it (sorry that it took so much time, I've been delirious about Diligence 💀)

— you did a great job playing the role of a human living among the dead. you've had to survive since you were a child, and it's taught you a lot — from self-treatment to the art of changing your identity.

— you even found your place among rotlings by getting a job at a butcher shop, whose team has become like the family you never had.

— of course, nothing is ever too perfect, and this place had its own secrets that you were once privy to.

— and you yourself had something to run and hide from. at the beginning of your journey, you were careless enough for someone to start hunting you down. however, for a reason completely unrelated to your human nature, which you hid most skillfully. the reason for this was your connection with paradise lost — you were noticed when you escaped from there.

— the rumours spread like fire while you were settling into your life. you suspected, you felt something was wrong, but you couldn't figure out what exactly was the matter.

— and then they started showing up — the ones who were trying to corner you. you didn't have conversations with them, but borrowed a problem-solving method from your boss, starting to cement suspiciously annoying personalities.

— however, these were not isolated scoundrels but a real gang that runs many in the area. and an informant from paradise lost itself would be very useful to them.

— when their people began to disappear, they, of course, understood what was the matter. and once they ambushed you all together. which was extremely difficult to resist, so hard that they drew you blood, and more than once. and then it was already counting for seconds — there was no room for error.

— you did it at the cost of liters of your pitch-black blood, which covered almost the entire street. in the same state, you managed, first of all, to send all the attackers to the bottom of deep dirty waters one by one.

— and then just... crawled to the nearest secluded place, clutching the wounds. patched yourself with the first available needle you carried for a long time, completely non-sterile. secured your exposed flesh with a striated stapler from the trashcan. and leaned back, throwing head up, looking up into the dark green sky, panting hard. you just couldn't show up at the butcher shop like that.

— however, your long absence has been noticed. someone who has always taken care of everyone, but you in particular. the one you feared and respected probably the most.

— the one whose silhouette you noticed with a swollen gaze, shuddering, pressing your body, heated from injuries, against the cold wall.

— the realization in his eyes turns to rage, and you hold your breath, closing your eyes, preparing to accept the expected fate. you've seen how he reacts to the mere mention of blackbloods.

— however, all you feel is someone stepping up to you and picking you up with extreme caution.

— he brings you home, to your room, in secret from the others. he doesn't know how to help you, and therefore fulfills all your quiet requests for antiseptic or proper needle from your kit.

— only when you sigh with relief and look up at him with exhausted eyes does he ask a single question:

— "who?"

— you couldn't help but open up to the one who found out your innermost secret. and kept it.

— you told him exactly what happened and who was involved in it. you noticed how his muscles twitched when you explained the details in colours.

— he didn't leave your side that night. you couldn't help but cling to him. such a deceptively soft body, harboring a gigantic power that you were extremely wary of, eventually gave you peace.

— you've woken up alone, but you've been carefully tucked into your own bed. in the following days, no one bothered you. you suspected whose fault it was. and were worried where the culprit had gone.

— until one night you woke up, almost jumping up from the feeling of someone else's presence. and it was justified — in the semi-pitch darkness, a silhouette towered, whose sudden appearance would have terrified you just a week ago.

— but now you just breathed a sigh of relief and threw yourself into his arms, completely forgetting whether you have not only the moral right to do this, but also the capabilities of the body. you almost fell on shaky legs when you were picked up and gently carried to his soft but firm chest. the chest covered with purple blood.

— "I need to show you something"

he says, and you realize that you're willing to follow him anywhere. even to the ninth circle of hell.

— in the middle of the night, he takes you to a remote, overgrown shore. purple streaks are barely visible on the water surface. you understand everything right away.

— "whatever happens, always tell me first. there won't be a crumb left of them"

— surprisingly, he didn't become overly protective after that. of course, you were free to walk by yourself and do whatever you wanted. he understands that you're very used to surviving alone. however, the thing is, now you don't really want to survive let alone. now you want to and can just... live. happily live with the one who calls you his scored bun in private, with a touch of rebuke in his tone.

[ten-cent-sleuth]

Okay, I’m going to attempt something of a coherent defence of this beloved show. Since I’m not very good at freeform Analysis™ I shall be using the does-it-like-women blog’s own parameters for judging this yes/no question. o7

Does it have enough women in the cast?

~42% of the main characters are women: Daisy Johnson, Melinda May, Jemma Simmons, Yo-Yo Rodriguez, Bobbi Morse. Of sixty-five additional recurring characters, twenty-two are women (~34%).

Matters are even more equal if you take into account team composition, though. In season 1, the team was three men and three women; in season 2, we get Mack but also Bobbi, as well as Trip but he’s considerably temporary; in season 3, we get more Hunter but we also get Yo-Yo. So while the overall cast might be more men, I would say that’s largely because they’re getting killed or written off more often while the women get to stay and develop longer-term. At a time, you have the same amount of men and women.

Do the women get adequate screentime?

Okay, originally I was going to calculate this myself based on IMDb’s very useful screentime breakdowns, but I ultimately baulked at all the requisite maths lol. So instead I turn to the first Reddit page I found when googling “agents of shield women screentime”!

According to this, five of the Top 10 characters with the most screentime are women, and the very top #1 spot goes to a woman. Of these screentime minutes (~7169 total), 3249 of them, or approximately 45%, are women’s.

Does it care about women’s thoughts and feelings?

Female characters’ motives are considered and ideas are effected, for better or worse just as any male character’s. Their experiences can be enlightening and/or traumatic, either way impacting the tone of the show and the development of the characters. Plus, one of the creators, showrunners, and exec producers is Maurissa Tancharoen, so her thoughts and ideals shaped the show itself.

Does it let women contribute to the plot?

Season 1a: overarching arc driven by Daisy’s mission to find her parents

Season 1b: overarching arc driven by Raina furthering HYDRA’s mission

Season 2a: overarching arc driven by Jemma and Bobbi being undercover + May’s knowledge about Coulson that no one else knows + by Daisy’s new information about her origins

Season 2b: overarching arc driven by Daisy’s transformation and her struggle to understand who she is (and also Raina’s own tbh) + by Bobbi’s allegiances

Season 3a: overarching arc driven by Jemma’s time on Maveth + by Jiaying’s warfare against non-Inhumans

Season 3b: overarching arc driven by Daisy’s infection, healing, and vision of the future + Yo-Yo is a key POV to show how the world has changed in the wake of Terrigenesis and the Secret Warriors exist thanks to her and Daisy

Season 4a: overarching arc driven by Daisy’s guilt and subsequent vigilanteism + by May’s abduction and discovery that she is an LMD + by Ellen Nadeer being Ellen Nadeer

Season 4b: this whole arc only exists because of Aida + the team escapes S.H.I.E.L.D. because of Daisy, Simmons, and LMD!May + Daisy, Simmons, and Yo-Yo are the ones to infiltrate the Framework

Season 5a: overarching arc driven by Daisy’s apparent destruction of Earth (and her attempt to understand/avoid this) + by the rebels, as led by Robin, which in turn is thanks to May

Season 5b: overarching arc driven by General Hale’s and Ruby Hale’s agendas + by Daisy’s sealing the Fear Dimension + by Yo-Yo’s struggles to cope with her amputation + by May’s smashing the Odium

Season 6: overarching arc driven by Izel’s attempts to open the Fear Dimension + by Daisy and May’s struggles to reconcile with Sarge’s appearance

Season 7: overarching arc driven by Sibyl’s plans for Earth + by Kora’s attempts to use/control her powers + by May’s struggles to cope with the effects of the Fear Dimension + by Jemma’s desire to protect her daughter

(And all this without even talking about their contributions to episode-specific plots!)

Does it show women as interesting?

They get to be funny, creative, scared, biased, with passions and running gimmicks and contradictions and something to say. They make compelling decisions and face dilemmas that have the viewer on the edge of their seat. This show even takes more interest in F/F fanfic in-universe than some fandoms do on Tumblr, lbr.

Does it show women’s actions as exciting?

Some of the most iconic moments on the show involve Daisy hacking or Simmons sciencing something to save the day/world, May or Bobbi kicking butt, and Daisy or Yo-Yo pulling off some momentous superpowered stunt. Not to mention all the dramatic reveals and whatnot that the villain women get!

Does it give women personality?

And all different ones, too. Different backgrounds, strengths, weaknesses, and motivations—an interplay arises between all these that forges different-looking bonds as well. Each female character’s dialogue sounds distinct, and the various relationships between them feel distinct.

Do the women get their own arcs?

Even when other characters don’t like the direction! Like Jemma going undercover (and her only safeguard being Bobbi, by the way) and this being respected as her choice independent of Fitz, or Daisy becoming a vigilante regardless of what Coulson and the others wanted (and the S.H.I.E.L.D. people who accept/help her the most are Yo-Yo and Simmons, by the way). Their arcs are their own.

Are the women important?

Not only do they influence the story (see the tonal effects in question 3 and the plot effects in question 4), but they are important in-world and to the characters around them. They hold positions of power/authority, command respect, and drive others to make decisions they wouldn’t otherwise.

Are the women people?

The protagonists and the antagonists alike. Even the female villains and side characters get to be significant and complex in their own way, the mains all the more so. Melinda May even had a panic attack on-screen, it was explicitly acknowledged as a panic attack, and other women (Yo-Yo especially, but also Daisy and Jiaying in a manner) took care of her. I’m begging you all to not judge this show based on the MCU at large.

Does it like women?

Well, you know my answer.

This show would not be what it is, would not be as funny or moving or well-written, would not have as much dynamic conflict and cathartic resolution, if not for the women. You could not remove them or replace them without having an entirely different show—an entirely worse show, to be frank. It’s no feminist masterpiece, it made some missteps (I mean, Rosalind…Deke… 😅), but an adjusted 67% no?? Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. loves women, come on!!!

(Yes they torture the women but they also torture the men, so I think that’s just the show’s way of expressing affection… What matters is that their pain and suffering, the women’s included if not especially, is given real narrative space and respected thematic weight! Would you be okay with all the angst and whump had the women been men instead? Because if yes, well…)

marvel's agents of shield?

Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV Series, 2013)

Explain your reasoning in the reblogs!

[abby-howard]

I'm going to be asking a lot of artists I follow this question, but how did you develop your style? It SEEMS like most people find their style and stick with it forever, just making improvements and iterations. I tend to work in a lot of different styles because I enjoy doing that, though I know there are things I gravitate towards as well. But I wonder what your journey was and how you got feedback and improved while staying true to what you enjoyed?

Hi there!

I definitely wouldn't say that I've found my style and stuck with it forever-- I feel like each of my projects has asked for a certain kind of art, and has presented new challenges that push me in new directions.

Some of that comes from seeing someone else's work and having something click into place that might fix errors/faults in my own, and then I might try to incorporate that, such as bigger outlines on my characters to help distinguish them from the background, or maybe a way someone else simplifies eyes that can help make mine look less weird.

When I first started drawing, I can see where I encountered certain influences because my sketchbooks suddenly switch to incorporating some new stylistic element that I liked from whatever I was reading/watching at the time. But it was never QUITE right, it was never just copying, there was always something ~wrong~ with it. And that wrongness was my style! As much as I hated it, that was what distinguished my art from being just a copy of someone else's. I hate it less now, and understand that other people see something there that maybe I don't, because it's just what happens when I filter other people's work through my head. My soul, if you will.

There are definitely through-lines with my work, driven by what I like drawing and what comes easily to me-- hatching is almost always a major component, and I like making expressive characters. Here's some of my earliest available stuff, from my old webcomic:

Then not long after that, I started The Last Halloween, which pushed me to challenge myself in both layout and style:

And here's the same comic, years later:

And here's a series I did for kids, where I had to use full color and lay off on the hatching, as well as learn how to reconstruct animals that we have no photo references for, which is definitely a place where style comes majorly into play, whether I wanted it to or not:

Then there was the horror book I did, where I tried to push my work to be less cartoony overall, and to work very hard on improving my hatching:

Then I started work on Scarlet Hollow, where I incorporated a limited/muted palette and had to once again push myself to make less-cartoony art, as well as learn more consistency so I could draw sprite sets. This was a big challenge for me, and has helped me grow as an artist so much!

And most recently, I wrapped up work on Slay the Princess, which required that I go back in the cartoony direction, but in a very different way than I was used to. This took a lot of sketching to figure out, and there's still a decent amount of artistic stumbling in Chapter 1 while I settled into it.

She's drawing on anime/Disney influence, but each Princess required a bit of stylistic variability. Some are more anime, while some are more realistic than even the Scarlet Hollow characters.

So I wouldn't worry too much, honestly! A person's style is often something that reveals itself over the course of their career, rather than something they choose and then try to stick to forever.

Even if you don't think you have a style, you do. It might vary a lot piece by piece, especially if you're trying to closely imitate another person's art, but the more work you do, the more you'll figure out your own strengths and interests!

[kagoutiss]

din’s champion

[clumsypuppy]

meow

[lichqueenlibrarian]