#nameless seed

[spoiledleaff]

nights where phantom and dewdrop spend cuddling in the witching hour, because phantom’s brain gets consumed by guilt and self-doubt that he’ll never fit into the daunting massive pairs of shoes left before him, and dewdrop’s still grappling with the change and as much as he wants to throw the new ghoul out and cuss his very existence for ruining his life, dew’s had to pick up his own shattered pieces enough times to know that no hood would ever come from it.

so, they cuddle. phantom whines periodically, and dew wonders if he knows the sounds he’s making while his newly summoned mind just races. dew scratches his claws in the space between those curved horns and phantom stills. he doesn’t think the others asleep yet. but that’s okay.

they’re together. and phantom is perfectly chilled in comparison to dewdrop’s red hot heat. with a soft sigh, dew leans down to kiss at the crown of phantom’s head.

he stirs. lifts his head up and is careful not to gouge the smaller ghoul with his impressive horns. they stare at each other for a bit, wide and bug-eyed. and oh so vulnerable.

phantom leans up and dewdrop leans in, long eyelashes fluttering over suspiciously wet cheeks.

they kiss.

…and dewdrop idly thinks that maybe they’ll be okay. if not tonight? then maybe tomorrow.

they have time.

[eraserbread]

nanami's not about to fight with u... he's just gonna show u who you truly belong to. read part 1 for context

"i'm not fighting with you, just get on your knees."

"ken, we have a houseful of guests-

he's shaking his head, tugging his zipper in a fateful swoop. you don't lie and say you weren't buzzing with the idea of what he'd do next, but it felt so wrong. now was not the time to be getting him off.

"i won't repeat myself." then his pants are down and he's easing his already-flushed cock from its confines. he's rubbing himself to his full potential right in front of you, so comfortable with you standing in front of him, wide-eyed and nervous.

luckily your kitchen is closed off from the rest of the house, but it's not completely closed. someone could easily pop their head into the arched entryway and see everything you're seeing. deep down you know kento wouldn't let that happen. he has the awareness of an anxious cat, so you trust him enough to get on your knees, crawling to close the distance between you two.

"i'm doing this because domination tends to make you mild-mannered," he explains briefly, voice tinged with a hint of arousal. "and that's what I need from you right now. do you understand?"

"mhm." you reply, looking up at him with silent doe-eyes. from this angle at his feet, he looks so much bigger. daunting and familiar. so beautiful... and all yours.

"relax your throat." he demands just before taking a handful of your hair and guiding you down the length of him. he's not easy to take in the slightest - your jaw burns, eyes screwed shut as you try to swallow back a gag.

then, a thunderous bout of laughter erupts from the other room and you fold -- gagging and choking all over his pretty cock.

he yanks you backward, face screwed up in distaste. "what did I just tell you?"

"'m sorry." you whine as he smushes your lips with his tip.

"if satoru walks in here and sees you like this, i will be extremely upset."

"'m sorry." you repeat, genuinely sorry and just wanting him inside of you again. he's barely gracing your lips, but every atom in your body is screaming for him. if you thought satoru was charming five minutes ago, you didn't even know who he was now. all you want is your husband.

"him and his righteous savior complex.. makes me sick." he mutters, mostly to himself. he has two big hands on either side of your head, squeezing like only he can. it's been too long together, he knows you're not a china doll.

so, he fucks your limp throat like he hates you, eye twitching as he watches your face go more flushed with each mean thrust he's delivering. you've never taken him like this, feeling the drippy tip of his cock at the base of your throat, giving you goosebumps all around his touch. you've never felt closer to him, yet so pained by every one of his movements.

it's like your entire mind goes limp. etched with scrawling versions of his name only. he's you can think about, all you can taste...

only when he's finally done and marked your stomach with his seed, does he help you up with a strong hand, just holding you close for a second until yours stops shaking.

he doesn't say a word, just watching your eyes as they stare back at him expressionless but teary and bloodshot nonetheless. he leans forward and kisses your forehead.

"sorry. you know i'll always love you."

you nod, because... yeah. same. that makes him smile.

and he guides you back to your party holding your hand, watching out for you as you take the seat next to satoru back. it's like he doesn't even notice your presence, he's far too preoccupied teasing utahime about some nameless story from the past.

once the party has concluded and kento is seeing them all out, does satoru stop and say something.

"poor, little nanami..." satoru stops just before he reaches the first step past the front door. ken regards him with a nod, leaning against the doorframe. "this is what happens when the lamb chooses a wolf."

"do i even want you to explain?"

satoru shrugs him off, throwing up in hand as a curt goodbye as he turns around. "she's too nice. it's sad to know you yelled at her... she was all teary-eyed and mellow for the rest of the night."

kento turns around, chuckling to himself as he finally shuts the front door. reveling in the quiet comfort of his home he thinks:

ha. did much more than make her cry...

[ryuucam]

SWEET BROWN SUGAR (VOL 1)

˓𓄹 ࣪˖ sweet old kink drabbles hehe ,, featuring diluc, venti, wriothesley, itto (vol 2 here)

tw dubcon in a few, perv!venti, monsterfucking in itto’s…kinks r listed with each character !! MDNI

a/n wrios is so long LMAO u can tell hes my fav.. they were supposed to be hcs but brainrot is real 😵‍💫

DILUC — breeding + tit sucking

the sound of skin slapping filled the room, only broken by diluc’s desperate grunts. you can’t remember for how long you’ve been going at it — certainly long enough to have your cunt stuffed with your husband’s hot cum. you can’t keep track of how many times you changed positions, but diluc seems to enjoy you riding him more than anything. can you really blame him when his face is smothered by your bouncing tits, though? you let out a whine when he starts squeezing them, murmuring something about milking you dry. while one breast is getting squeezed, the other one is getting sucked harshly. but you wouldn’t want it any other way, mainly because he seems to cum harder with one tit in his mouth…

VENTI — exhibitionism + teasing

venti lives like a free spirit - and in his excuse, he technically is one. that’s why he doesn’t understand why you get mad at him when he plays with you … that’s what boyfriends are for, no? what do you mean you’re in public? venti doesn’t care, and truth to be told, he enjoys seeing you squirm after a gust of wind accidentally blows your skirt, coming in contact with the wet patch on your panties. he giggles as he watches your face becoming more and more flushed. what’s worse, the more you tell him to stop, the more little wind torrents appear out of nowhere, cold air hitting your nipples. venti’s not mean - he doesn’t think he is - so he will fuck you, eventually. maybe when you’ll start behaving like the cute puppy you are and keep quiet as he rubs your tits… you don’t want to let the angel’s share customers hear you, right?

WRIOTHESLEY — face fucking + cum swallowing

his head hurts so much. another long day at work, having to listen to every single complaint from nameless prisoners, replying to letters sent by the court of fontaine, keeping in touch with some random patrol officers… it’s all too much. wriothesley sighs as he enters his home. it’s not too late, he thinks, you may still be awake — “wrio?”, his thoughts are interrupted. there you are, his sweet, sweet lover… just who he needed after such a long day. in quick strides he walks over to you, muffling whatever you were going to say with his mouth. you whine as he tugs at your panties and let a cry out when he cops a feel of your tits… jeez, you can be so loud. wriothesley breaks the kiss, leaving your lips wet with his spit, and quickly undoes his trousers. he can feel his cock pulsing, begging to be relieved. he can also feel your pretty eyes staring at his bulge, and who is he to deny you? you gasp as the pushes your head towards his cock, hissing a curt “suck” before grabbing your hair. he’s rough, so rough, and he know he shouldn’t be — you’re his doll, after all. the room is quickly filled with your chokes and broken sobs as you try to catch your breath while he’s thrusting his cock in your mouth. be a good doll and swallow his seed too, will you? don’t worry if you don’t want to! he’ll just have to paint your cheeks with thick globes of cum… don’t be embarrassed, wriothesley thinks there’s no prettier sight than this.

ARATAKI ITTO — size difference + free use

he can’t help it…he’s an oni, damn it, he’s bound to have an insatiable appetite for cute humans like you. you’re so nice, so tiny and plump, big doe eyes always staring at him, pawing at his exposed chest when he presses his hardened cock against your ass in public. itto can’t help it, he thinks, what is a man — or oni, whatever, supposed to do when he has a cute little thing hanging around him so often? he’s so tall, if he turns his head a little he can even see your tits pressed against the fabric of your kimono, droplets of sweat sliding down your cleavage. what’s gotten you so hot and bothered, huh? itto wants to help you, he wants to show you that onis can treat humans so well, so don’t be surprised when you get a feel of his cock sliding between your ass cheeks. you gave him permission, didn’t you? to help himself when he just couldn’t take it anymore, you’re just so sweet to him… and now he’s going to repay the favor. a second later, you’re pushed against a random tree, shirt pulled down to expose your bouncing tits, skirt lifted up so itto has a better access to your poor, poor pussy. his hands cup your waist, your ass, rubbing every one of your nice spots, making you cry out louder and louder. all he can think about is how sweet you are to him and how your cunt is just so tight, so it’s so surprise when he lifts you up in his arms, cock pounding relentlessly into you. itto is a nice oni, he thinks, because he treats you so well, always helping you relax, even if that means having you going dumb on his dick in broad daylight.

[shotmrmiller]

ps!ghost's twitter feed used to be of him at conventions. his car. him in a pool. the gym. arm around johnny in his backyard. sprawled on his couch next to kyle. basic stuff. the occasional obligatory promo of the video he shoots.

then it's one faceless pic of you for your OF. pretty thing, puffy pussy visible through your sodden knickers. thighs spread wide, feet on each side of the slim mirror. retweets it with a water emoji.

now, it's him with a cup of steaming black coffee in his hands, a sleek macbook before him on the marble-top kitchen island (hand covering the lower half of his face because it's too damn early for the mask. kinda looks like he's yawning. cute.)

johnny throwing up two fingers, thick wrist adorned with a bracelet, sunlight glinting off of its jewels. vacation, it looks like. cobblestone street beneath his loafers. panna cotta gelato in his other hand.

it's him with his hands in his pockets, neck craned back to look at the masterpiece that hangs on the wall— brushstrokes of genius on canvas. he's got a healthy glow to him, sun-kissed gold. warm, unlike the clinical white of the museum walls.

then it's you again. this time you've got two small (in comparison to his very long ones) fingers stuffed into your greedy hole, glistening with slick. heart eyes emoji.

and again. a vibrant pink vibrator in your cunt, one arm reaching for the camera, remote control in hand. put it as intense as you like. i can handle it. two heart eyes and water emoji.

and again, 3 consecutive pictures. your face is covered by a big red heart, but everything else is visible. like the creamy white fluffy rabbit ears on your head, a collar around your neck, tiny carrot charm delicately dangling from it, white cottonball tail on your arse. small, black triangles on your head: cat ears. silky collar with a tinkling silver bell. long, furry plume-like tail, obsidian black with a precious white bow at the base. last is a puppy mask. buttery faux-leather, sleek and smooth. padded fist mitts, rosy, pink paws. whip-like tail. a thick collar around your neck, chain links glimmering with the camera's flash. handle on the floor, beckoning to be picked up, to lead you about. i'd be a good pet, don't you think?

(simon spam retweeted this 6 times. kyle sent him a message about it, telling him his twitter is freaking out. it was most assuredly not a mistake.) lowered his joggers enough to take himself out and fisted his cock until he covered that pretty arse of yours with his seed. was not fun cleaning up his phone after but so worth.

(he'll never admit that heat blooms in his cheeks when fans ask if you're his lover. how lucky you are. must be seeing nameless gods beneath him, touching the sky with your fingertips when he uses his mouth. seeing the universe behind your eyelids when he makes you come around his cock.)

he wishes, lol.

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘌𝘋 𝘈𝘍𝘍𝘌𝘊𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚 - 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 𝘍𝘖𝘜𝘙

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader | Sinister!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Mention of Sinister!Mark knocking boots

a/n: in case i didn’t do a good job explaining it in this chapter, the scene is starting with Maskless Mark! Our favorite little William lover ;* for an evil guy he really is such a good boy <3

→ Part Three ←

Mark stood beneath the weight of the sun, his unmasked face dirty and sweat covered from the heat of the day. His hands were sore from hours of labor, gripping the plow's handles as it carved deep grooves into the soil. The earth was tough, the work exhausting, but there was a sense of satisfaction in his movements. This was simple, honest work—nothing like the chaos he usually found himself in. Here, there were no world-ending battles, no complex decisions with lives hanging in the balance. Just sweat, dirt, and the promise of a good harvest.

Beside him, an old farmer grunted with effort, his worn hands digging into the earth with an expert movement that Mark would never be able to replicate. The man’s weathered face broke into a smile as he straightened up to catch his breath, his eyes glistening with gratitude.

"Thank you, son," the farmer said, his voice rough from years of hard work. "I don’t know how I’d have managed without you. You’ve done more than any of us could have hoped for."

Mark nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow, the sun beating down on him. He could feel the weight of the words in the pit of his stomach. He had helped. He had fixed what he and his counterparts had destroyed. But the guilt still lingered, gnawing at him. This farm, the land before them, had been torn apart—brought to ruin in a way that Mark couldn’t even begin to justify.

The farmer reached down to a nearby crate, lifting a small, wooden bento box. He handed it to Mark with a deep bow, a gesture of respect. "A little something for your trouble. I wish I had more to give."

Mark took the box, his hand trembling slightly. The gesture was kind, but it felt... wrong. The guilt twisted inside him. He didn’t deserve this. Not when he was the one who’d helped destroy the very thing they were trying to rebuild.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low, almost distant.

The bright sun began to set as the day wore to an end, casting an orange hue across the fields. With a final glance at the land—at the seeds they had sown together—he turned, his muscles almost aching with the effort, and took off into the sky. The air whipped against his face as he rose higher, choosing to stay at a lower altitude. His eyes scanned the landscape below, always vigilant. Always ready to lend a hand if the world called upon him.

It wasn’t long into his journey home from the eastern Asian mountains before his eyes caught sight of something below. A dark scene in a narrow European alley. Sinister Mark, unmistakable even from this height, chest to naked chest with some nameless woman. He rolled his eyes at the depraved sight, but didn’t stop to watch. He didn’t need to. Instead he simply shook his head, thinking of how this was just another way they were letting down the people of this universe.

Maskless Mark continued on, not once looking back.

After some time he reached the Guardians of the Globe headquarters, the familiar sight of the towering building greeting him as he landed with a soft thud. Inside, the others were already gathered. Cecil stood by the door, arms crossed, his usual serious expression in place. The rest of the variants filled the room, awaiting his arrival.

Main timeline Mark looked up as he entered, his sharp gaze flicking over Mark's tired form. "Where’s Sinister?" he asked, his tone steady but expectant.

Maskless Mark responded wryly, "He was... busy, having relations with some European woman in a alleyway."

Mohawk Mark’s face twisted into an expression of barely contained rage at the statement. His fists clenched, his entire body trembling with emotion. The others watched in silence, confused by the sudden eruption of anger.

"What's your problem?" asked the lensless variant, brow furrowing.

M.Mark didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. Instead he clenched his jaw, biting down hard on the words that were trying to claw their way out. No one understood why it bothered him. He barely understood it himself, and certainly wasn’t in the position to put it into words.

Main Mark, unaffected by the outburst, turned to Cecil. "I’ll go get him." He was calm, as though nothing had happened, his voice matter-of-fact. Cecil simply sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose in a moment of frustration. Without waiting for a response, Mark disappeared in a blur of black and blue through the exit.

M.Mark watched him go as a sudden realization dawned on him. This was his chance. An opportunity to finally do something. A moment he could use to prove to you that S.Mark wasn’t the one you should be with. This had to convince you, giving you full clarity of the bastard you wrongly clung to.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered abruptly, and before Cecil could object or anyone else intervene M.Mark bolted from the room, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Minutes later, he arrived at your house, his breath coming in quick bursts. Not from the exertion of getting there but the pure rush of the moments that were to come. He knocked on the door, eager to talk, eager to finally get you to see the truth. The door swung open, and there you were.

For a moment, he froze.

Your face was like an angel’s—soft, glowing with warmth, your smile brighter than anything he had ever seen. Only you had the power to make such a powerful man feel small. All the words he had prepared, all the venom he had planned to spew, dissolved. He stood there, speechless, heart hammering in his chest.

You looked at him with quiet curiosity. "Hi again,” you said with a light chuckle. “Can I help you?"

He blinked, scrambling for something to say. "I... I just wanted to check in. Make sure everything's okay?"

The words felt hollow, useless. You gave him a puzzled smile, but the kindness in your eyes was undeniable. And in that moment, Mark knew that he couldn’t be the one to hurt you. Not like this. “Yeah, everything’s fine over here…” you responded with a slow confusion, your tone still staying on the airy side.

Mark fought the flushed feeling creeping into his cheeks as he mumbled something about that being good, and needing to get back to headquarters. He met your stare one last time and the ethereal beauty that radiated from your eyes nearly knocked him off balance. He stiffly turned, walking away without another word. His mind raced with confusion, emotions he didn’t understand swirling inside him. As he flew back to HQ he tried to make sense of his own thoughts, but couldn’t get the image of your smile out of his mind. And that, in turn, kept him stuck in that feeling of disarray.

→ Part Five ←

[pedge-page]

Live a Little, Give a Little ... More [Part 2]

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Live a Little Give a Little part 1

Summary: you've got one last stunt in you before you retire to have your baby--will your mystery Baby Daddy make a final appearance?

Warnings: Breeding kink, pregnancy, exhibition, groping, public sex, public teasing, dub con, manhandling, rape-esc situation that may be triggering, unprotected sex, creampie.

18+ ONLY

- - - -

You keep waving to your camera even after it clicks off and stops recording. Leaning back in your streaming chair, you close your eyes. 

Well, you did exactly what you set out to do: gained a shit ton of views and earned a mega bonus from your subscribers, rating shooting up thanks to that little stunt you pulled a few months ago.

You peer down, drumming your fingers along the hefty bump that had grown in your belly since then. “Hope you’re a bit more responsible than me, kiddo,” you mumble, smiling softly as you stroke over with gentle fingers.

Getting pregnant was not exactly how you imagined achieving that feat.

In all honesty, the plan was never to fuck a stranger on a crowded train. You were on the pill, but STD and STIs were a thing, so the furthest you had genuinely planned with a few hand jobs and being groped by perverts. 

But the second you felt that man on you, felt his cock pulse in your legs, something else over took you. Your whole bodies shivers with excitement every time recalling that day. Trying to etch every single detail into your memory. His callused hands, the firm, broad chest and shoulders that easily could overpower you, his warm thick fingers dancing along your skin, the trace of his breath along the shell of your ear, each beautiful little grunt and groan echoing in your ear like a broken record. 

His massive fucking hung horse cock.

You’ve been fucked by big-dicked guys before. But to know how to use it so fucking well that you don’t need to be battered to a pulp just to feel it, is something that no man can compare to your handsome baby Daddy.

Slickness pools in your panties. At some point, your belly is going to be big enough that you won’t be able to touch yourself. But for now, as your hand dips into your underwear and gathers your arousal, you think about him. 

If he was here now, would he make you cum on his fingers before you could have his cock buried to the hilt in you? Tell you that you’re a naughty girl, so fertile and sweet for the taking? A cum hungry dumb slut who doesn’t know how to function without his seed filling her up at every conceivable moment. Make you watch yourself in the mirror cum like a whore from his touch as he promises to breed and brand you over and over again for the world to see. You bite your lips, feeling him hot on your skin, balls twitching with each pulse of his seed dumping safely into your waiting womb to take him.

The thoughts of the faceless, nameless man who impregnated you on a crowded train during rush hour brings you to orgasm much quicker than any toy or method you’ve tested. Your jaw drops in a silent scream, a slight grin tugging on your lips as you rub your pussy through her little quakes, desperate to feel complete again.

You come down from your high, sticky fingers tracing along your belly as you drift into your current situation, ironically brought on by your insatiable horny lust.

No, you didn’t intend to have sex with a stranger that day. And when you weighed the odds in the nano-second before he impaled you… I mean, even if you got an infection, so what, just this once? What OnlyFans streamer didn’t have a disease or two? (No, please don’t take that advice)

You got tested immediately afterwards, and thankfully everything else came back negative from your fun encounter.

It only took a few more weeks after that of peculiar symptoms to get tested for something else that, to you genuine surprise, was positive. 

The man must have super sperm to have blown past your supposedly unstoppable birth control, which hadn’t even failed you when you did that 5 creampie amateur gang bang porno last summer.  Maybe you were only an hour late in taking your dosage on time that one day, too drunk and more concerned about fingering him cum back into you, but still…

You went into shock for a solid week, not sure what to do. Sometimes even now you feel a little jolt in your tummy, and see your body changing, and it just keeps dawning on you that you’re actually about to have a whole ass child.

And you don’t know the father.

It’s both thrilling and horrifying shook up in a bottle of hormones and currently sitting on the edge of a cliff. You should scold yourself for how stupid you were, if only you actually regretted it.  Even if you’re about to be a single mother who cant explain a thing to your soon to be child about their daddy, you knew you were gonna love you baby. No doubts.

Besides, when you were more financially stable, you DID plan to have kids at some point. So what if it’s a little sooner than expected? Life is full of unexpected surprises! 

You decided after the baby is born, no more streaming. You were gonna get a more stable, (more cloth required) job and raise your precious kiddo on your own.

But a few teasing streams until then, just to milk those breeding, misogynistic, baby bump hungry men out there willing to throw money at you if you rubbed milk over your belly, would be worth those extra bucks before calling it quits altogether.

Still, it would be nice feel him just one more time…

-

Joel’s been watching your stream obsessively since that day you brazenly showed your pregnant belly to the world. He’s got notifications going off on his phone every time you upload something. 

Even with his cock in his hand, most of the time you just talk to your followers, answer their questions about your pregnancy so far, and about that day.

He sees the way your eyes glint, the corner of your lips curving into an unashamed smile as you retell details about him.

Sure, all the lonely fucks in the chat spam your inbox “that’s so hot”, “god I wish that were me,” “can I use your holes and breed you next? My bus departs in 30 mins ;)”

Honestly, who’s to say you aren’t pulling a total bluff? You’re a porn streamer; it’s your job to feed into men like his fantasies. Maybe you had fucked a dozen guys on the train that day, got pregnant from one of them, and only uploaded Joel’s session because it was the hottest? Maybe you were already pregnant, and you’re just spinning a scandalous story for your followers to hold on to? And who’s to say you don’t already have a cuck boyfriend or husband, who could have been filming or watching you two on the train that day from a different angle?

The thought of you belonging to another man, of the baby you “claim” to his being another’s makes his hand grip his cock tightly, teeth grinding down on one another while staring at your beautiful eyes and smile through the computer screen.

He drops a pool of spit on to his tip before sheathing it over with his hand, lubing his cock. You would usually end the stream with some tease:

“God, my breasts are just getting so sore,” you groan dramatically. You unbutton your blouse and reveal your naked cleavage. “Don’t even have any more bras because they’re getting so damn heavy!” You cup them and moan into the camera, relieving the ache while pinching your nipples. 

Joel licks his lips. He had gotten to know you (or the version of you on your stream) a lot more intimately thanks to discovering your blog. He spent hours studying every detail that he missed. Its one thing to have dumped his load into your exquisite pussy, but to be able to see your face, hear your unashamed moans, ogle your gorgeous breasts and body that he had been denied that day makes him yearn to have you one more time.

Your belly had grown just as quickly, drooping over your pelvis just a bit more than before. You’re not at full mast yet. He watches how you maneuver, maybe a little slower or more bulky than before. It fills him with pride, seeing how much you’re having to struggle with his child growing in you. At the very least, you can still reach to get a bulbous pink dildo in your cunt and flash the camera as you masturbate, crying out as you beg Daddy to breed you again.

Joel cups his balls with one hand while the other furiously works over his shaft. His stomach tenses, building towards his release with eyes transfixed on the way that little cunt still has enough room to fit that toy. He would know, you took him with very little prep. 

“That’s it baby, come on, Come for Daddy,” he groans.  Doesn’t care that he’s jerking off in a dark room by himself to a brightly lit screen of his baby momma that doesn’t even know him. Yet. 

You moan directly into the camera, mouth agape as you thrust the dildo in and out, hitting that sweet spot that has your eyes rolling. You spread your legs over the chair, and the skin strewn across your belly tightens as a gush of liquid squirts out of your pussy.

“Fuck Daddy, making my pussy squirt so fuckin good! M so full my cunt can’t hold all my naughty juices, too full with your cock and your cum and your baby!!”

Haggard groans rumble in his throat as his cock erupts into jets of white ribbons, shooting along the computer screen and covering your face as you smile and lick the dildo clean. He milks his sack of the last little spurts of cum before sighing and leaning back against the chair, dreaming about painting your womb white again with his next load. 

When you come down from your high, and the last of the generous tips come flowing in, you usually rub along your swollen tummy. Sometimes it’s subconscious, like you’re comforting your child, other times it’s for the show, twirling around and pushing it out to show everyone how big you’ve gotten. Your voice centers him back to reality.

“And before I forget, I have one final announcement: After our little baby is born, I will be retiring.” You smile softly, but there’s a sense of gratitude mixed with sadness. “I know! It’s been such a great journey, and I’ve never felt soooo good about something as amazing as this, and to share it all with you is more than I could have ever hoped. So as a final send off, I’m doing one last exhibition piece.”

Joel leans, ignoring the stain of his cum drying along his shirt and smudged into his laptop.

 “If you’re out there, Daddio, I want to meet you. Catch me in the same area, around the same time—and no I’m not going to tell you all exactly where on here!  If you’re there, you’ll know—and if not, I will be streaming the whole thing live this time so don’t miss out! Even if I can’t find my blessing baby daddy, I will certainly still be putting on a show for however many lucky bastards get to grope a pregnant, single slut like me!”

-

You stand along the train platform, anxiously glancing over your shoulder at the random passersby just trying to catch a commute. Some men have definitely eyed you in less than innocent ways already. It’s a cest pool of perverts today. 

You contemplate the biggest hiccup in your plan: You know the only chance you have to recognize him is from feeling his huge dick splitting you open again. Cinderella slipper style, if you will. You didn’t have a name, an address, any identifiable features—you wouldn’t even be able to recognize his face if it were right in front of you given that you never really saw more than a blurred partial reflection of it in the first place. That monster cock is the only thing that you’re betting your life on right now to find him.

But for the safety of your baby—you had 0 plans to fuck anybody today. And I mean it this time.

The wind from the train tunnels keeps riling up your frilly dress, the fabric now fitting a little more snug than it did before thanks to your baby on the way. There’s a sense of excitement mixed with disappointment steaming in your flip flops. No, you had no hope of actually finding him again. 

 But who’s to say you can’t still have a little fun, touch some dicks, get your tits squeezed and call it a successful career?

Rush hour got a bit crazy, and boy were the men just as in a hurry. You bit your lip and smiled at a man who brushed by you, his hand happily squeezing your little ass cheek through your dress. He seemed young, thin, definitely not your man, but his long fingers did feel nice, caressing your hips as he grinned to you as well. Swaying your chest in front of him, he peers over your cleavage. The two of you waited along the platform, the crowd shifting awkwardly around you waiting for the train. You twiddled your hair, angling your phone up so it could capture his hand gently caressing your lower belly. 

His eyes widen in surprise: your bump wasn’t entirely obvious under the skirt of the dress, still small enough to be concealed under baggy clothing but very obvious the moment you feel it or pull the fabric tight. You giggle as he eagerly stroked over your belly, and you can barely see the twinkle of a fantasy forming behind those eyes.

The train followed forward a little too soon, and the man got on without another glance at you. Probably his wedding ring might have had something to do with it, but no matter. You remained where you were.

When the cart rushed past again, the wind blowing your dress, you caught the eye of a group of two behind you. You winked at them, lifting your skirt scandalously to show off your bare ass and wiggle at them, before enticing them to follow you behind the stairwell. 

You propped your phone up quickly, conveniently cutting off from the neck up to disguise their faces before they too rounded the corner. One was a bit shorter, dark haired, maybe around 40s with a full beard. His hands were all wrong, not your guy, but you didn’t deter him as he stroked along your cheek and down your cleavage, pulling the fabric of the dress tight to see your swollen tits. 

The other man, tall and muscular under that tight shirt, blond and younger, pressed firmly along your back, the outline of his cock making you rub your ass along his crotch. You quickly reached behind you and stroked his stiff bulge while they pinched your nipple through your dress, held the weight of your pregnant belly and brushed their knuckles along your inner thigh. 

Their faces didn’t matter. Maybe they were your fans, maybe they were just some lucky pervs at the right place at the right time. Either of them could be your mystery man, while neither could be too. You try to brush off your disappointment with a flirty laugh, stroking both of them through their trousers as they breathed in your perfume and continued to touch your body. No, their cocks were all wrong. It didn’t feel this rigid or this plump, his tip was more bulbous than this, and the curvature is in the opposite direction.

You glanced at your camera, making sure you’re getting good angles of your pronounced body sandwiched between these two creeps. They didn’t say much, thankfully, and you didn’t care to talk. Your feed was blowing up, with them none the wiser at behind recorded.  It’s not until you peep again at the screen that you see a third man entering the frame behind you. 

The other guys shift uncomfortably at his intrusion, but you look up at lucky perv number three. You don’t bat an eye when he boldly put his hand between your thighs and slid up along your skin, thick digits grazing your wet folds. You hum contently. Oh, he’s here for the cake. You try not to go hazy, eying the cheeky bastard while being stimulated all over.

 His height was between the other two but that didn’t make him any less imposing. Broad around the shoulders with a bit of a soft tummy, but his denim shirt hugged those biceps so well. And he’s older too, much older due to the wrinkles under his brown eyes and the grays starting to take over in his curled hair and patchy beard—

Your brows furrow for a second, not enough time to process your thoughts before he’s shoving the other two men aside despite their protests and walking you back against the tiled wall, your bum resting on the metal bar there. His torso parts your legs perfectly, and you gasp, hands gripping his shoulders to keep your balance. He only grins, something very knowing behind that look, a secret you feel left out from, and you’re about to call it all off until he rolls that massive THANG between his legs against your uncovered core.

You moan out in surprise, your head falls forward on his chest. He growls something out to the other guys, who end up scurrying away with their palms pressed on their crotches like scared dogs. 

“L-Look, mister,” you say, and fuck you should be trying to fight this harder. Especially with the jangle of his belt coming undone between you. You don’t want some stranger fucking you—again—that defeats the whole purpose of the tease! You could still shout for help, there’s plenty of other people just around the corner if he tries anything funny. And your baby, your health, your safety— “I don’t —I’m not in the mood for anything—penetrative. But I could satisfy you in other ways,” you huff, dragging your lower lip between your teeth.

He smirks again. His breath is warm, so close to your face you could almost kiss him. He feels so strong yet so soft, holding you securely against him, his hand cradling your belly while his tented cock pressed along your clit. Your hearts racing, beating wildly that you don’t doubt he can’t feel it against his own. Maybe he’s considering it, something willing yet still satisfying. You feel drunk off him despite only sampling the scent of him, not the taste quite yet.

He holds your gaze with his curved nose honing yours. Its intimate.

Familiar.

You should protest at least a little when he flips you around and bends you over. He’s got one hand protectively over your belly, making sure you don’t fall into the wall. You glance up, and the sight of your body positioned perfectly centered at your camera. Fuck—he knew where the camera was? Was he a fan watching your stream before he came over? Your shocked expression fills the screen as his torso and hips press against your ass, yellow dress flipped over your hips for his private view.

Your mind is reeling, unaware of the thick slap of his length against your folds—that jolts your attention. You know that cock…

He thrusts in all at once.  No voice escapes your parted lips to convey the cross eyed, fantastic, unbelievable, one in a million stretch that you had been missing for months, now filling you up to the brim and suffocating every available micro meter inside of you, and making you whole again. The same stretch, the one that’s making you cum on his cock right now, flooding your senes as arousal electrifies every nerve in your body.

The man behind you only chuckles, still getting the perfect view of your gaping mouth and furled brows reflected on the phone scream. he hisses lowly between his teeth as you continue to clench around his cock with your sweet wet little cunt. It’s like scanning a membership, and your body finally recognizes the owner of the shop. You pant harshly into the bar, walls convulsing over his thick length buried deep to your occupied womb.

The man that had placated your mind, your pussy and womb for the last 6 months, the man who left the best gift you’d ever received, the man right here in the flesh, that you had almost considered a dream were it not for the growing swell of his child in your womb occupying your delirium…

He leans over you, just enough so that only his lips are visible at the top of the screen, his voice ghosting along your ear: “Hi babygirl. Missed you. Looks like you have a little surprise for Daddy.” You feel his bear palms caress your swollen tummy.

Your lips curl into a delirious smile, lashes fluttering in blissful patterns of love as your entire being welcomes this man into the home he’s already carved out of you.

Even your baby nestled small in your womb wiggles excitedly at the recognition of her Daddy.

Neither of you look away from another as he begins thrusting into you, rocking your body back and forth along his member like the toy you’re so good at being.

He was amazing—no, better than before if it’s possible. Impossibly hard, long, thick and throbbing, all shoved up your pussy with desperate ruts, impaling your soaking pussy over and over again. You had to remind yourself, still lost like a love sick puppy in his eyes, that you were still in public, being fucked raw, pregnant, behind the stairwell of a crowded train station during rush hour. Nosy chatter echoed through the tunnel as the two of you humped against one another, partially clothed minus your genitals connected in a haze of passionate fucking. The phone in front of you is only forgotten, and you can only imagine the comments and tips blowing up at the fact that you’d actually found him.

Despite the openness, the vulnerability of your position, it feels far more intimate, just the two of you fucking to your hearts content. You’ll wonder later about the wondering eyes from trains beginning to enter the station and seeing the two of you in the blurred windows , but right now, you’d be ready to take his second bastard child right this second. 

Your handsome hero reaches past you and turns the recording off, flipping the phone down. If he’s going to have you again, really have you, it would be his own little private show. No camera. No show. He abruptly pulls out before spinning you around and nestling himself between your thighs again, his cock aligning to your entrance before sliding right back in. Right where he belongs.

“Oooooh shiiiit. Shit Momma, you’re so good at taking it,” he rasps into your neck. He presses a wet kiss along your throat, each thrust pushing you back but he holds you close and sucks you right into his grasp again. Your open lips hover over one another as he sets his pace again, his tip now kissing your cervix with each kiss of your pregnant belly to his naval.

“It’s mine, isn’t it?” He growls with an edge of desperation. “Tell me it’s mine.” Beads of sweat begin to form along the creases of his forehead, but he didn’t once consider slowing his pace. With the pay your ass jiggles at each slap of skin.

“It’s yours,” you cry. There’s no doubt. your heart screams with joy just as the knot in your stomach snaps. he grips your mouth with his strong hand as your head rolls in ecstasy, wailing out into his flesh with unfiltered moans.

Harsh breaths are forced out of his nose, his lips switching between a snarl and a grin as he nears his end. 

“Inside,” you hum into his ear.

He wasn’t planning on putting it anywhere else. With one final heave, he lifts you off the rail briefly, your weight balncing under his arms and your tiptoes on the ground as he bursts inside of you, painting your walls with his hot cream.

You both breathe in the polluted air. Distant echoes of the rafters rattling in the darkened caves ahead while footsteps rustle down the metal stairs behind the two of you. The breeze of the caverned tunnels cools the sweat along both your bodies. He hasn’t let go, still glued to you, holding you close as if you’d slip away.

You sit upright in his lap, trying to catch your breath. You survey one another, pupils blown wide yet calming. The two of you just giggle as your pants slowly sync together. His rough yet gentle fingertips stroke your cheek before brushing away the strands of messy hair that had covered your beautiful face, and for the first time, he can really get a full look at you in person.

“I’m Joel,” he says sweetly. He brings your knuckles to his lips and presses a gentle and long kiss, never once breaking eye contact with you.

You shake your head and laugh, offering your name to him as well.

Although, at this point, with his cock still impaled deep inside, his baby growing in your womb— its safe to say the two of you are well past such a redundant formality.

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[vespertin-y]

i usually see venti no longer looking identical to the nameless bard presented as a tragedy, like he doesn't even remember their face anymore. but i would like to propose it as a bittersweet joy.

he used to look just like them (but his cheeks are rounder and rosier now from good food and drink) he used to look just like them (but his skin is darker now from days spent under the sun) he used to look just like them (but when he is ready - when he is ready, his face will start to crease from the repetition of his smiles)

the bard's legacy not as an unchanging statue, but a seed, to be carried forwards until it blooms into something unrecognizable but lovely all the same.

[circledemptiness]

Gotham Kink Alphabet – B is for Bondage

Pairing: Bruce Wayne (Batman) x Reader (M/GN) Rating: Explicit +18 Tags: Bondage, spit as lube, orgasm denial, situationship

✦ Read on AO3 ✦ Full Alphabet

Lying on the ground, immobile and bound, you feel the firm press of his palm between your shoulder blades. Holding you down exactly where he wants you. You pretend the touch isn’t intimate. He pretends his breath isn’t hitching.

✦ Come vote for the next prompt!

The moon hangs fat and milky in the dark night, stars peppering the sky like thousands of little diamonds. A gentle breeze caresses your face, the weather merciful for the early days of March.

It’s a beautiful night.

Your breath hitches as you run, weaving through towering buildings, slipping into shadowed alleys. Your backpack is full; another fruitful evening, you think gleefully. But the contents hardly matter when there’s a trophy far more exciting trailing you in the clutch of the night. It’s all part of the game; you both know it. Yet neither of you will name it for what it is.

He protects the city, stops criminal scum like you. That’s his role. Isn’t it?

And you– well, you break into people’s homes, steal their valuables, and disappear into the dark. That’s what you do. Like now, gripping the fire escape, climbing swiftly onto the rooftop, pushing yourself just out of reach. Forcing him to chase you. Hunt you. Because that’s what he does. Always, incessantly.

Almost as if you wanted him to catch you.

Almost as if he wanted to never succeed.

But you never make it easy. FIghting, clawing, kicking. The Bat likes it when you put up a little fight, you believe. Likes it when you play dirty, even though he could end it in an instant. Pin you down, crush you, break every single one of your pretty bones. Easily.

You don’t even remember how it all started. The first time his carved scowl curled into a sensible smirk. The first time his teeth grazed the column of your throat.

The first time he roared as he spilled his seed deep inside you.

He always lets you go then, after reclaiming the fruit of your labor. How very dare he. But you forgive him, because there’s an unspoken promise woven into his fiery kiss. The promise of a next time. Another visit in the secrecy of the night.

You pretend it’s accidental.

He pretends it will never happen again.

You reach the rooftop of a nameless building, Gotham sprawling beneath you in an eerie glow. Neon signs flicker like dying stars, headlights carve golden veins through the streets, and streetlights bleed white and pale onto rain-slick sidewalks. It paints a scenery in electric colors and shifting shadows. One you know by heart now.

But you have no time to admire it. Not when he’s still chasing you.

You can almost hear the Bat’s footsteps, heavy, determined. So you run again.

And just as your fingers graze the exit door, a grip on your wrist. Tight, bruising. Probably feels like foreplay for someone like him.

A swift motion, too fast to register, and the world tilts, spins. The next thing you feel is cold concrete biting into your front, the impact forcing a hiss of pain from your lips. Your arms wrenched behind your back, his weight pressing down, straddling your thighs.

He’s warm against you, a bull entirely made of muscle and restraint, holding you down so tightly you can barely move. It does things to you. Unspeakable, unmentionable. Things that coil low in your stomach, a fire licking behind your navel, making your pulse race.

You kick, thrash on the ground like a wildcat, twisting your hips in a desperate attempt to throw him off. But his grip tightens at the back of your skull, pressing your face against the concrete. It’s not cruel, not even rough. Just effortless. Controlled. Thoughtful, almost.

More weight settles over your thighs, his body caging yours, the accidental press of his bulge against the curve of your ass stealing the breath from your lungs. His warmth surrounds you, his breath, hot, unsteady, skimming your cheek, betraying a fire his rigid posture refuses to reveal. His lips graze your ear, teasing the cartilage, so close it’s maddening.

His breath smells expensive. Fine wine and gala nights.

You will pretend you don’t know why.

He will pretend he struggled to stop you.

These do not belong to you, he states, his voice low and warm, like smoke rolling over gravel. Heavy, deliberate, edged with warning. Entirely too detached for the situation you’re in.

No, you suppose they do not.

One giant hand closes around your wrists with effortless strength, pinning them behind your back as if you weigh nothing. Not even a frail bird in his clutch. You can feel it; power coiled beneath his grip, the kind that could snap your bone just like that. Without effort. Without a single thought.

And then, something cold. The smooth slide of leather against your skin. A strap winding around your forearms, dragging down to your wrists in tight, unrelenting loops. You hear the soft clink of a buckle behind you, the only warning before a final, decisive pull cinches the restraint in place.

The leather bites; not enough to hurt, but enough to burn, to remind you of its hold. You flex your fingers, testing, but there’s no give. Just the unyielding embrace of the strap, snug against your skin, keeping you bound, kept.

In this position, you become acutely aware of just how massive his thighs are– easily twice the size of yours, and hard as steel. They bracket your own, a firm, unyielding cage of warmth, his hips pressing flush against you. And there, undeniable, the rigid swell of a bulge that probably should not be that firm.

He shifts, just enough for it to drag against the swell of your ass; a slow, maddening friction, and your eyelids flutter shut for a brief, betraying second. Then, his hands, iron-made, like the rest of him it seems, trail down your thighs.

Before you can sigh, before you can sink into the heat pooling low in your stomach, something cold snakes around your legs. Leather, smooth and frigid, wrapping taut against the plush of your thighs, sinking into the soft give of your skin.

Lying on the ground, immobile and bound, you feel the firm press of his palm between your shoulder blades. Holding you down exactly where he wants you.

You pretend the touch isn’t intimate.

He pretends his breath isn’t hitching.

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if he enjoys this. Having you helpless. At his mercy. The way his hardening length almost imperceptibly rocks against your curves makes you think he does.

Still, you twist, squirm, testing the restraints, searching for an opening. Each time you think you might find one, he counters with just a little more pressure. On your shoulder, on your skull, on your hips.

When his fingers lift away, the barest graze against your skin, the phantom touch lingers longer than it should. And if your insides throb each time he manhandles you, well… that is neither here nor there.

Turning your head to the side, cheek pressed against the cold concrete, you steal a glance at him over your shoulder. His expression is unreadable, set in stone. But his breath betrays him. Uneven. Laced with something thick and needy.

So when you shift, rolling your hips just enough to meet the slow grind of his cock against your ass, he inhales sharply. A silent gasp. You do it again, testing, teasing. Until suddenly, his hands clamp around your waist, dragging you back into place. Pinning you down with the sheer, unrelenting strength of a bull.

You can’t move your arms. You can’t move your legs. You can’t move at all.

And then he thrusts. A slow but forceful, desperate rut, grinding his length against your pillowy skin with reckless abandon. As if you were bound for the both of you, restraint bleeding into him instead.

Heat coils in your stomach, tight and insistent, anticipation licking up your spine like fire. His grip is bruising, his weight sinking into you, pressing you into the ground, his thick thighs caging yours. Every shift, every motion, stokes the ache curling low in your core. Needy, unbearable.

There’s a low growl behind you, the only warning you get before his strong hands pull your pants down, just enough to reveal the soft curve of your behind. He grabs the plush flesh, spreading you indecently, a whimper dying on your lips, swallowed whole by anticipation.

He spits on your welcoming hole, the act crude, improper, so at odds with the man he pretends to be. And when his fingers breach you, preparing you roughly, a string of pleas bubbles from your ragged throat. The stretch is fierce, burning perhaps even more than your restraints, but you can hardly move a muscle. But it never lasts long. Patience has never been his virtue.

You pretend it has nothing to do with you.

He pretends it has nothing to do with you.

You hear the rustle of fabric, the metallic whisper of a belt undone. And once he deems you pliant enough, loose and breathless beneath him, his fingers slip away; leaving you hanging, strung between the edge of pleasure and the ache of denial, a panting mess of need.

Then, with another growl, he all but shoves his cock inside your tight opening. 

It’s a tight fit, especially when he’s essentially mounting you, fucking you into the concrete ground while you lay helpless. You cry out, feeling his cock filling your insides, while he all but groans and growls with every thrust.  

You will pretend you fought him.

He will pretend that he did not lose control.

Your knees, your shoulders, your hip bones ache against the unyielding ground, jolted with every brutal snap of his hips. You wish you could touch him– cling to him, claw at him, hidden in the shadows where neither of you has to pretend. But here, now, all you can do is take. Endure.

You lift your hips as much as your restrained body allows it, offering him a deeper angle, and the Bat responds by wrapping a hand tightly against the leather straps of your wrists, holding them securely as he anchors himself, giving him the right purchase to impale himself viciously inside of your tight clutch. There’s a beast behind the cowl, one that only you seem to summon. One that does not silence your screams of pleasure, does not suppress his own. Even the way your stomach bulges when he bullies your insides, his abdomen slapping against your ass feels right, feels correct.

And when he spills himself deep inside of your bruised hole, you will pretend that you did not hear his undignified moan. He will pretend that he did not enjoy it. 

Your breaths tangle together. Shallow. Unsteady. Your body trembles, restless, left aching and unsatisfied. You whimper, pleading, contorting on the ground. Helpless. Denied.

No mercy for criminals. Or something like that, you suppose.

The leather straps loosen, peeling away with a slow burn, leaving raw imprints on your skin. The moment they’re gone, you roll onto your side with a sharp hiss, fingertips brushing over tender muscles, bruised and sore.

And then, he’s gone. Before you can say anything. Before you can even reach for him. 

The night swallows him whole, leaving nothing but silence and the lingering ghost of his touch. It always ends like this. Sudden, unfinished. As if staying a second longer might unravel something neither of you are willing to face.

That’s always the worst part.

You will pretend your heart doesn’t ache.

He will pretend the same.

[scoutofmymind]

Hiii, I’m not entirely sure if you do au one shots, but if you do please write a princess x knight trope with Luigi. Him looking out for you during his night shift, watching you with the fiancé your father chose for you despite you two being madly in love.

Your writing is gorgeous, btw! In awe <3

I’m Your Man — {Luigi x Reader}

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI, kissing, p in v, virgin Luigi, fucked up kingdom politics, reader is a princess with an evil king father lol, this is NOT alpha/Omega or whatever, Luigi was raised as a wild animal killing machine, once again inspired by Mitski

Wc: 6,143

Notes: Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

AN: Thank you so so much for this request 💕 I once again took this and ran with it. It actually wasn’t my first Luigi x princess reader request sitting around in my inbox, so come one, come all! I have an inkling I might have questions about this one, so lemme know! I enjoyed writing this very much x

Ps: in order to keep this Drabble length and not fic length, I definitely cut out some backstory . But I hope despite that, it’s easy to follow along xo

You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man

You believe me like a god..

I'll destroy you like I am

— I’m your Man, Mitski

Ironmere lies suffocated beneath its winter shroud, the castle's hundred hearths cold and dark save for one — your father's study. You've no choice but to seek its warmth, sprawled across a leather chair that's seen generations of royal lectures.

The fire pops and hisses, each crack of burning wood another tick in your mental count, anything to dull the familiar sermon.

"I must remind you," your father says, pipe smoke coiling around him. His shadow stretches across the study walls, cast by flames that paint the room in shades of amber and gold. "That the Grims are bred for loyalty, my dear." He turns to study your face, but you keep your eyes fixed on the dancing flames, refusing to meet his gaze. "Can be no more your equal than a well-trained dog."

The fire swallows his words, and you wonder if it, too, finds them bitter.

Since catching you at your balcony, tracing the Grimguards' movements with hungry eyes, your father has waged his own quiet war; each day brings a new warning, each meal seasoned with thinly veiled threats meant to plant fear where fascination grows.

But seeds of warning find no purchase in frozen earth.

"Speaking of which," he says, abandoning his chair to stand before the frost-kissed window. Beyond the glass, the Ironmere mountains pierce the steel-gray sky, their jagged peaks collecting snow. The ancient evergreens bow beneath their white burden, branches dripping crystal daggers of ice. "We've taken a new pup out of training. Young one, but promising. He'll be stationed near the South Tower."

They're bringing in a new generation again, stealing youth and binding it in black armor and cold metal muzzles.

Your father's cruelty wears a gentleman's mask, polished and pristine as the rings that adorn his fingers. Time has taught you to see beneath it, to recognize the calculated malice hiding behind words like duty and tradition.

The South Tower stands like a frozen sentinel, eternally facing winter's fury. It's where your father plants his fresh seeds of war, watching come morning with clinical interest as frost either hardens them into soldiers or claims them for the grave.

No coincidence leads new Grimguards there.

They either wake to see another dawn, their breath clouding behind their muzzles, or they join the nameless others whose bones might still rest beneath the tower's foundations.

This is how he plays at being divine — selecting who lives and dies with the casual interest of a man trimming roses; Nature's selection, he calls it, as if nature ever intended for young men to be bound in iron and left to freeze.

"Another child?" The words slip past your guard and your head turns toward him, though the fire still claims most of your attention, its warmth a mockery of comfort.

"No younger than yourself, my love." The endearment falls from his lips like frozen honey — sweet, yet somehow wrong. He speaks of sending a boy your age to stand in winter's cruelest depths, guarding a tower that has stood empty since before your grandmother drew breath. "We've discussed this before," he says, finally abandoning his view of his frost-touched kingdom to fix you with that measured stare. "You ceased being a child the moment you became heir to Ironmere."

You answer with silence and the loud protest of leather against leather as you shift in your chair.

Let him interpret the sound as he wishes — rebellion or resignation, it matters little. In this moment, you think of another young man who whose breath will freeze behind a muzzle while you sit before this fire, counting the ways your father fashions cruelty into crown.

"The muzzle ceremony is their rebirth." His voice takes on that familiar, aristocratic lilt—the same tone he uses when discussing wine vintages or the value of old tapestries. As if he speaks of art rather than chains. "This one's training scores are exceptional. He'll serve the crown well."

You've watched these ceremonies before, hidden in gallery shadows. Seen how they strip away names and replace them with numbers, how they forge living flesh into living weapons. The muzzles aren't just metal — they're shackles of status, marking each Grimguard as something less than human but more than beast. A perfect servant for your father's perfect kingdom.

In your mind, you see another humans eyes, bright with unshed tears as cold iron meets warm skin — another soul bound to Ironmere's frozen heart, while your father speaks of service as casually as one might discuss the weather.

Through frosted windows, you've studied their brutal dance since childhood.

The Grimguards train in Wolfdens outer courtyard where the stones are perpetually slick with ice, where one misstep means more than just a fall. They move like shadows given form, their black armor drinking what little sunlight winters here permit.

The training starts before dawn, when breath freezes mid-air and fingers can barely grip steel. They fight with those peculiar curved blades — somewhere between sword and sickle — that have become as much their signature as the muzzles that cage their faces.

The weapons are deliberately unwieldy at first, designed to strain muscle and test resolve.

Many break their own wrists learning to wield them.

You've counted the phases of their training through seasons.

First, the endless drills until their movements become reflex, then the sparring that leaves red droplets crystallizing on white snow. The masks come early — crude training ones at first, heavy iron things that make it hard to breathe, harder still to see. They learn to fight half-blind, to rely on instinct over sight.

To become creatures of pure reaction.

But it's the endurance training that haunts your dreams.

They stand for days in the bitter cold, perfectly still, until ice forms on their armor. They run barefoot through snow until their feet bleed, then run further still, and some disappear during these tests, their names never spoken again, as if Ironmere itself had swallowed them whole.

Your father calls it necessary refinement.

You call it what it is.

The systematic breaking of human beings until all that remains is loyal steel wrapped in obedient flesh.

It was the whimpering that drew you from your chambers — a sound so foreign in these stone halls where weakness dares not echo. Your footsteps fell like fresh snow as you traced that desperate keening, following it until it transformed into a metallic chattering, silver bars rattling as violent tremors wracked a body fighting to remember warmth.

He doesn’t turn when you found him in the South Tower's breezeway, though surely he heard you.

His silhouette matches the template they all conform to eventually — broad shoulders carved by endless drills, frame solid as the mountain itself, training blacks clung like a second skin, running from throat to wrist in an unbroken line of shadow. Only his gloved hands betrayed movement, fingers flexing and unflexing in a rhythm that matched his shivering.

The new muzzle catches what little moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, shaped like a snarling dogs snout, throwing silver patterns across the walls. Too new to have darkened with use, too rigid yet to have molded to his face.

Another wolf being broken to the bit, another hound learning to embrace his cage.

The closer you drift toward him, the more your father's warnings drum against your skull.

Never approach a new Grimguard alone. They're most dangerous before the muzzle takes hold.

The metallic chattering quickens like a death rattle, and the cold seems to deepen, carving into your marrow with ancient teeth, and memory washes over you as you recall exactly what they become — watched them train in the courtyards below your window, witnessed how they move like poetry written in violence, how they strike with the precision of winter's first killing frost.

But this one.

This one still trembles.

His control fractures with each shudder, and you remember how father once told you that a Grimguard is most lethal in the moments they're breaking.

Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

"Are you cold?" The whisper escapes before wisdom can catch it, and the transformation is immediate — his trembling ceases as if frozen in time, muscles locking into place with military precision.

Whether it's training or pure shock that stills him, you can't tell.

These new ones are always unpredictable, balanced on a knife's edge between their old instincts and their new purpose.

"I heard you whimpering," you continue, the words hanging dangerous and delicate in the space between you. Through the silver teeth of his muzzle, his breath comes in short, controlled bursts, each exhale creating ghost-white clouds that dissipate against the metalwork.

The pattern is deliberate now — mechanical — as if he's forcing each breath through a carefully memorized cadence, the same measured rhythm you've watched the veteran Grimguard use during their drills, when they're trying to master pain.

You wonder if he's already learning to lie with his body, or if he's simply too terrified to show weakness.

You hover in the uncertainty, unsure what response you're seeking.

The Grimguard are like shadows given form and function — you've spent years watching them from windows and walkways, learning their peculiar language of violence and restraint.

They move in packs through the fortress halls, all lethal grace and barely contained aggression, but you've also witnessed the moments they think no one sees.

A Grimguard pressing their muzzle against a packmate's shoulder after a brutal training session, the silent comfort shared between two hounds who lost their third to a snow bear's claws at the North Gate, and there’s something almost gentle in how they lean into each other then, these weapons your father has forged, finding warmth in the spaces between their brutal purpose.

But those moments are never meant for outsiders' eyes.

They're certainly not meant for the kings daughter, whose very presence reminds them of the hand that holds their leash.

You've seen how quickly they can shift from deadly grace to deadly intent, how the muzzles hide everything except the truth in their eyes.

He turns — slowly, deliberately — and you catch your first glimpse of eyes behind the silver latticework.

They're brown, almost gold in the dim light, and far too lucid for comfort. Not yet hollowed out by more training, not yet carrying that vacant winter-wolf stare that marks the veteran Grimguard.

These eyes study you with an unsettling clarity, as if cataloging every detail of your presence.

His head tilts, just slightly, reminding you of the hunting hounds when they catch an unfamiliar scent, and the motion is too natural, too human. Somehow that makes it worse, as most Grimguard move like they're reading from a manual of precise angles and measured steps.

The muzzle shifts as his jaw works beneath it, and you realize he's trying to decide if he's allowed to speak to you. New recruits often struggle with this — the complex hierarchy of who can command their voice and who must be met with silence.

The princess falls into a grey area their training hasn't covered yet.

Finally, his gloved hand rises, not toward you but to his own throat, fingers pressing against the high collar of his blacks where you know the control runes are etched.

The control runes are your father's masterwork — ancient symbols seared into the skin at throat and spine, binding each Grimguard to the fortress's will.

You've seen them during the marking ceremonies, watched how they burn with a cold blue light as they're carved, how they fade to silvery scars that pulse with each heartbeat.

They serve as both leash and collar, limiting how far a Grimguard can roam from the fortress walls, how much force they can use, who they can harm.

"My Lady." The words emerge like broken glass wrapped in velvet — smooth on the surface but jagged underneath. His voice carries that telltale distortion all new recruits have, as if speaking through layers of frost, but there's something else there. A tremor of defiance, perhaps, or desperation. "The cold is necessary. Part of our conditioning."

He swallows hard, the muzzle's intricate metalwork shifting with the motion. The runes must be burning now — you can see how his fingers dig deeper into his collar, tendons standing out against the black leather of his gloves, but he holds your gaze, those amber eyes still too present, too aware.

Most pups learn to lower their eyes by now.

You notice a tension in how he stands, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and you recognize the stance from watching new recruits, called the Unblooded, in the training yards.

"Necessary," you echo, tasting the word's bitter edge. You've heard your father use that same justification countless times in his workshops, watching dispassionately as fresh recruits screamed through their first exposure to the killing cold. The cold that reshapes them, hardens them, strips away everything warm and human until only the Grimguard remains.

His breathing hitches — just slightly — at your tone.

The runes pulse again, brighter now, a steady rhythm like heartbeats beneath his collar. You notice how his other hand has curled into a fist at his side, leather creaking with the strain, Fighting the compulsion to kneel, perhaps, or fighting the instinct to run.

Both would be equally futile.

"And who told you that?" The question slips out softer than intended, almost gentle — It's dangerous, this curiosity about their lives before the muzzles, before the markings. Your father has warned you repeatedly about seeing them as anything more than what they are now: tools, weapons.

But there's something about this one's eyes, about the way he still holds himself like he remembers another life, that makes you reckless.

You can hear the slight scrape of metal teeth as his jaw clenches beneath the muzzle. When he finally speaks, his voice has splintered, "The Keeper himself, my Lady. Your father."

You hear the sound of boots approaching, the groundslurkers making their rounds to assure everything is just-so.

"Inside," you murmur, touching the frozen door behind you. Not a command, but an invitation. A dangerous one. No Grimguard is allowed in the royal quarters unless specifically ordered by your father.

The punishment would be severe.

He knows this.

You see the conflict ripple across what's visible of his face, the way his fingers twitch toward his turtleneck collar, but the patrol's footsteps are getting closer, and you've already seen too much.

You push the door open wider, letting candlelight spill onto the frost-rimed stones. "Choose quickly."

For a moment, he's perfectly still, like the ice sculptures in the winter garden, then he moves — one fluid step through the doorway, silent as snow despite his armor, and you close the door just as the patrol rounds the corner, their heavy boots echoing past without pause.

In your chambers, he looks desperately out of place.

The black armor and cruel angles of his muzzle stark against the rich tapestries and furs. He stands rigid, carefully not touching anything, as if afraid his mere presence might taint the warmth of the room.

In all your life in the palace, you've never dared to get this close. The Grimguard are your father's shadows, his weapons — to be glimpsed from afar, never examined.

But now.

You circle him slowly, studying the way frost creeps along the joints of his armor, how it crystallizes in delicate patterns where leather meets metal. Up close, you can hear the soft crackle of ice forming and reforming with each breath, see how the cold radiates from him in barely visible waves that make the air shimmer.

The muzzle is even more intricate than you'd imagined.

Delicate silverwork overlays darker metal, creating a lattice of thorns and frozen vines that cage the lower half of his face. You can see now why they call it a muzzle rather than a mask — it's fitted precisely to his features, allowing just enough movement to speak when commanded, but designed to remind both wearer and observer of its purpose.

Control.

Your hand lifts before you can stop yourself, drawn to the impossible intricacy of it. His whole body goes rigid, but he doesn't step back. This close, you can see the minute tremors running through him — fighting against something you don't fully understand, or reacting to your proximity, or both.

"Does it hurt?" you whisper, fingers hovering just above the metalwork. "All the time, or only when-“

"Yes." The word comes out rough, barely above a whisper. He hasn't spoken this long without a command in who can say exactly how long. "Always. But more when..." He trails off, eyes flickering to your still-raised hand, then away.

More when fighting whatever's been done to him, you realize.

More when showing any trace of humanity.

Your hand trembles slightly, caught between pulling back and closing that final distance. The cold radiates against your skin, a warning or an invitation— you're not sure which.

You've never heard one of them admit to pain before.

They're not supposed to feel anything at all.

But he does feel.

He hurts.

His eyes widen, a flash of something — fear, hope? — breaking through their frozen surface.

"Let me help you," you say softly, reaching for the intricate clasps of the muzzle nestled in his wavy, black hair. "Just while we're here. No one will know."

"You can't," he says, the words strained. Even this small act of refusal seems to cost him. "The cold will hurt you. And if the Keeper—"

"My father isn't here," you interrupt, your voice steady despite the way your heart pounds. "And I'm not afraid of the cold."

You're close enough now to see how the metalwork digs into his skin, how even the simple act of speaking makes the thorns beneath the sides of his muzzle bite deeper.

All these years, you never knew the muzzles were lined.

Never wanted to know.

His breath catches as your fingers brush the first clasp, but he remains perfectly still, caught between what he's been made to be and what you're offering him — a moment of freedom, no matter how brief.

The clasp comes free with a sharp click, and his whole body jerks as if struck. A soft sound escapes him — pain or relief, you can't tell, as frost spreads rapidly across the metal where your fingers made contact, but you refuse to pull away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, working on the next clasp. "I'll be quick." The cold bites into your fingertips now, sharp and hungry, but you can see how the muzzle's grip has already loosened slightly, allowing him to take a deeper breath. “Are they all like this?”

His hands clench at his sides, trembling with the effort to remain still, and each release of a thorn seems to send shockwaves through him, as if the very act of being freed is its own kind of agony. But he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away — and that tells you more than words ever could.

The facade of silver and shadow begins to come apart under your careful touch, revealing glimpses of what lies beneath; you try not to think about how long it's been since anyone has seen his true face, or why your father thought it necessary to cage him so thoroughly.

"No," he manages, voice tight as you work on another clasp. "Not all. This one is special." There's a bitter edge to the word that makes you pause.

The implications sink in slowly. Your father must have designed this one specifically for him — more thorns, more pain, more control. Because he was different somehow. Because he fought back.

You examine the cruel metalwork with new understanding, noting how the thorns are positioned to punish speech, expression, any hint of defiance, your fingers tracing a particularly deep puncture mark, and he goes completely still, hardly breathing.

"Almost done," you promise, though your hands are nearly numb from the cold now. Each clasp reveals more evidence of long-term torture disguised as restraint. The more you see, the more questions burn in your throat, “Why’d they give you one like this?”

He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer, the final clasp coming free under your trembling fingers, but he makes no move to remove the muzzle completely.

"I remembered," he finally says, "Something I wasn't supposed to. My name." His eyes meet yours, and there's something terrible in their depths — not just pain, but knowledge. "They take everything when they make us, but I kept one thing."

He stops abruptly, as if even this small confession costs him dearly, and you can see the thorns pressing deeper as he speaks, drawing pinpoints of darkness that might be blood, might be something else entirely, yet he hardly reacts.

The pain hardly registers.

A weapon isn't supposed to remember who it used to be.

But this one does.

“What’s your name?”

His breath catches at your question, and you can see him fighting against years of conditioning, against the very magic that binds him, and the room grows colder, frost crystallizing on the windowpanes.

"L-" he starts, then gasps as if the very attempt causes him physical pain. His hands clench. "Luigi," he finally manages, the name coming out in a rush of frozen air.

You repeat the name softly, testing its weight, and he shudders at the sound of it from another person's lips. How long has it been since anyone has called him by his real name? How many years of being nothing but a number, a weapon, a Grimguard?

This is where it began.

And soon, you find yourself inventing excuses to avoid Duke Aldrich of Brindsborough's tedious evening calls. Instead, your nights belong to these stolen moments; you and Luigi seated on the floor of your chambers, knees touching, sharing whispered confessions in the candlelight.

He teaches you how the Grimguards sleep — bodies intertwined for warmth in the cold stone kennels, finding comfort in the press of limbs and shared breath. The first time he shows you, hesitantly arranging your bodies so your back fits against his chest, you understand.

It's not just for warmth — it's about trust.

You learn to read the minute changes in his expression, the things he can't say even without the muzzle. He learns your tells, too — the way you twist your rings when you're anxious, how your laugh changes when you're truly happy versus when you're playing the perfect princess.

These evenings become your refuge whilst the rest of the castle prepares for your upcoming marriage to a man you barely tolerate, you and Luigi build something fragile and precious in secret candlelight.

You tell him about the time you were seven, and you snuck your injured falcon into your bedroom instead of letting the gamekeeper "take care of it." You'd splinted its wing with strips torn from your favorite dress and fed it scraps from your dinners for weeks. Your father had been furious when he found out — not because you'd ruined the dress, but because you'd shown weakness.

Mercy was unbecoming of a princess.

The next memory stands out sharp and clear — that particular night when everything shifted.

You'd barely managed to secure the door's heavy lock before Luigi abandoned his usual restraint, muzzle yanked off. One moment you were turning, the next your back hit the floor with a soft thump, driving a surprised laugh from your chest.

His movements were pure instinct, almost feral — nothing like the rigid control the Grimguards usually displayed. Cool lips and nose traced your neck once you’d pulled his muzzle away, your collarbone, your hair, erasing every lingering trace of Duke Aldrich's cloying cologne. Each brush of contact sent shivers down your spine, not from cold but from the intensity of his need to claim, to possess.

"Marking your territory, are you?" you whispered through breathless giggles, fingers threading through his hair. The words made him pause, and you felt him tense — caught between embarrassment at his display and a deeper, darker urge to continue.

You could feel his breath against your throat, quick and uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "He touched you. I could smell him on you all evening. I couldn't. I can't-“

Instead of pulling away, you tugged him closer, understanding flooding through you. This wasn't just possession — it was protection, desperation, love transformed by whatever magic had remade him into something wild and fierce. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm yours."

A sound rumbled deep in his chest — not quite human, not quite animal—and his grip on you tightened almost painfully. The temperature plummeted, frost blooming across the flagstones in intricate spirals, but you weren't cold.

Not where he touched you.

"Mine," he breathed against your skin, the word holding years of denied wanting. His control, already fragile, splintered further. You felt the magic that bound him surge and twist, fighting against this claiming that went against everything they'd bred him to be.

Grimguards weren't meant to want.

Weren't meant to possess anything but their duty.

Yet here he was, trembling above you, eyes dark with need as they met yours. One hand cradled your face with impossible gentleness, even as the other gripped your waist with bruising intensity. The contradiction of him — deadly weapon and tender protector, ice and burning want — made your heart race.

"Say it again," he pleaded, voice rough with desperation.

You reached up, traced the scars where the muzzle had been, and watched his eyes flutter closed at your touch. "I'm yours, Luigi," you whispered. "Only yours."

The moment your fingers trace those scars, Luigi shudders violently, a full-body tremor that sends cascades of ice crystals shimmering through the air. His breath hitches, catches — no one has ever touched him there, not with such tenderness, not since they first bound him.

But then he does something that steals your breath — he leans into your touch. Like a half-wild thing learning trust, he presses his face against your hand, nuzzling into your palm.

His skin is cold as ever, but his breath comes hot against your wrist. When his lips brush your skin — tentative, questioning — you feel the ghost of frost patterns blooming up your arm.

"Warm," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the sensation. "You're so warm." His eyes are half-lidded now, tension melting from his shoulders even as his grip on your waist remains possessive, and the contradiction fascinates you — how he can seem so dangerous and so vulnerable in the same moment.

You trace another scar, and this time he makes a sound that's almost a purr, deep in his chest. The ice spreading across your chambers takes on a soft, pearlescent glow, as if reflecting his pleasure. It's intoxicating, this power to gentle him with just your touch, to make the fearsome Grimguard melt like snow in spring.

When his eyes open to meet yours again, they're heavy with an emotion that makes your heart stutter. The gold in them has darkened to midnight, pupils blown wide. "More.” he whispers, and it's both a plea and a demand.

With trembling fingers, you map the constellations of his scars, each touch drawing new sounds from him — soft gasps and broken whimpers that make your chest tight. The marks are smooth beneath your fingertips, silver-white against his olive skin. You trace them all; the deep grooves where the muzzle's straps cut in, the lighter marks across his jaw where they tested different bindings.

His control slips further with each caress, and frost flowers bloom and fade on your skin where his hands roam, leaving trails of delicious cold that make you shiver. When your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth — where the metal once forced his silence — he catches it gently between his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to your fingertip.

"They told us we couldn't feel," he murmurs against your hand. "That the binding stripped everything but duty.” He presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged. "With you, I feel everything."

You curl your fingers into his hair and pull him down, eliminating the last space between you. His lips are cool against yours, but they warm quickly as you show him this new way to be close, to trust, to want.

He learns fast, desperate and eager, like a man who's been dying of thirst finally given water.

You feel it in every desperate roll of his hips, that untamed creature beneath his skin — the one the Grimguard could never fully bind. It surfaces in the frost that spreads beneath his palms where they bracket your head, in the way his breath comes in ragged pants against your neck, hot despite his perpetual cold.

He's beautiful like this — composure shattered, cheeks flushed an impossible pink against his beautiful skin, and his eyes are blown wide, that ethereal chestnut brown nearly swallowed by black, and they catch the light like stars when he gazes down at you.

There's something almost painful in his expression — wonder and desperation and disbelief all tangled together.

The friction between you draws broken sounds from his throat, primal and unrestrained. His movements are instinctive, graceless — so different from his usual precise control, each roll of his hips against your thigh becoming more frantic than the last, his whole body trembling with need.

"Please," he gasps, though you're not sure what he's begging for. You’re almost certain he doesn't know either. His fingers curl against the floor, "Please, I can't- I need-"

You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair again, drawing him down until his forehead rests against yours, and he whimpers at the contact, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

This close, you can see every emotion flash across his face — vulnerability and hunger and love so intense it steals your breath.

The wild thing in him recognizes its match in you, and neither of you want to tame it anymore.

His voice trembles as he tries to find the words, years of enforced silence warring with raw need. You cradle his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"Tell me," you whisper. "I want to hear you say it."

"I-" he starts, then breaks off with a shaky exhale.

"I need to be closer.” He whispers, his movements between your legs desperate and juvenile, but there’s something so, so sweet about it.

He’s reduced himself to raw and visceral need, and cares little for how it makes him look, this feared Grimguard, a hound who sleeps in piles with his pack, a weapon of mass destruction, a human being. He’s flayed himself open for you, guts spilling forth, red hot and oxblood — this primeval need, this unfiltered want.

It simply is not something you’d ever find in anyone else.

Specifically the Fiancé your father has hand-selected.

Luigi groans as you guide him where you need him, the sound low and broken against your throat. Your nightgown rides higher, silk cool against fevered skin. His grip on your hip tightens instinctively, and you gasp at the perfect pressure of frost-touched fingers.

Each roll of his hips is hungry, instinctive — like his body remembers what his mind was forced to forget. You wonder if he dreams of this, if behind those crystalline eyes he imagines all the ways he could unravel you. If during those long, cold nights in his chamber, thoughts of you haunted him like this.

The friction builds a delicious heat that makes your head spin. You arch against him, chasing more, and his breath hitches at the way you move. His eyes are wild when they meet yours — desperate and wanting and almost afraid of how much he needs this.

The etiquette mistress would faint if she knew the thoughts that filled your head during lessons now — memories of frost-touched skin and desperate sounds and the way Luigi says your name like a prayer.

You guide Luigi beneath you, and he goes willingly, eyes wide with wonder as you settle above him, his hands tracing paths of up your thighs, mapping you like something precious, something sacred, each touch leaving ghostly patterns on your skin that fade like morning mist.

The silk of your dress whispers between you as his fingers trail higher, catching on your collarbone where your necklace rests, transfixed by the way the pendant rises and falls with your quickening breath, by how the gold warms against your skin while his touch remains winter-cold.

"Closer," you echo, fingers curling in the hem of his black shirt. You draw it up slowly, exposing him inch by inch, the moonlight streaming through the window catching on old scars that map his abdomen like constellations — some precise and surgical, others jagged and cruel.

Your heart aches at their implications, but now isn't the time to count his wounds.

Not when he's looking at you like this, like you're everything he was told he could never have.

His breath hitches as your hands explore the newly exposed skin, and the temperature drops further with each touch, frost spiraling out beneath him in intricate patterns that match his racing pulse.

"Please," he gasps, and you're not sure if he's begging you to stop or never stop. Maybe both. The wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever, making his eyes glow like arctic stars in the darkness. "I need- I don't know how to-"

You lean down until your foreheads touch, breaths mingling in the frost-edged space between you. His skin radiates winter's chill everywhere except where his heart beats strong beneath your palm. You can feel him trembling, power barely contained.

"Let me show you," you whisper against his lips, cradling his face. His eyes are luminous in the darkness, filled with vulnerability and desperate trust. The temperature drops as his control frays further, delicate patterns of frost blooming across every surface.

"I've never-" he starts, voice breaking.

You silence him with a gentle kiss. "I know," you breathe. "I've got you. You're safe, Lu."

His fingers flex against your arms as emotions war across his face — years of isolation and fear battling with his need to be known, to be accepted exactly as he is. The wild thing in him strains closer to the surface with each passing moment. "Let go," you tell him softly. "I got you."

You pour all your love into another kiss, wet and hot, showing him that he's worthy of gentleness, of care.

That he doesn't have to hold himself back anymore.

And he doesn’t.

You watch in wonder as his composure fractures, that usually fixed expression melting into something vulnerable and raw, his hands grasping you like an anchor as his careful control slips further.

The temperature drops with each shared breath, but you've never felt warmer.

His face — usually so guarded, bearing scars that speak of battles fought alone - is transformed. Open. Trusting. His lips part on silent pleas as his eyes lock with yours, glowing like arctic stars, and the wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever.

You've never seen anything more beautiful than this proud, powerful man allowing himself to be soft for you. To be vulnerable. His fingers flex against your skin as another tremor runs through him.

"You're safe," you whisper, rocking your hips against his in a slow rhythm that allows the both of you to adjust. "You're mine."

The sound he makes is something between a sob and a prayer, raw with years of loneliness and need. You kiss him deeply, showing him with every touch that he's worthy of this — of pleasure, of care, of love freely given, and he takes just as his heart desires.

It hardly takes him any time before he’s got the hang of it, raw and needy, soft but strong.

He shoves his face in your neck once you’ve been laid on your back again, his teeth biting gently into the soft flesh of the curve in your shoulder, his instincts still lingering, but you welcome them and each mark he leaves against your skin, the rhythm of his hips sloppy and wild but achingly free, your own body cherished as if he’d come undone at your altar.

He worships you, just as the Grimguards are meant to worship their Keeper — his devotion raw and unfiltered, his gaze defiant and steady, “I love you.” He says, the words feeling like a foreign language, but one you had taught him to speak. “So much it hurts.”

[spoiledleaff]

could you bless us with some bottom dew x top rain where dew wants to go out to annoy rain but rain wants to spend time with dew so when dew tries to leave rain like strips in a flirtatious way and dew gets all weak for that and then rain fucks dew into the mattress? 🙏

ohoho!! anon, i've been staring at this ask for much too long, haha! you know that 'heart-eyes, motherfucker' meme? yeah, haha! that's been me staring this down!

anyways! some silly little filth below the cut ♡

They're onto him. He knows.

Dewdrop's been so awfully fucking bored this entire goddamn evening, and Rain had offered to spend some time in their dormitory together. Now, Dewdrop had thought that this was super-secret water ghoul horny code for 'hey, i'm also bored. wanna have me fuck your ass so hard, you can feel my balls in your chest?'

You'd think. But, no.

Rain's had Dewdrop tucked into their side for the past hour and a half, one of Cumulus' silly little romance novellas - a stupid human excuse to just read actual porn in public, as Dew might call it - perched half on their chest as their arm is wrapped over Dewdrop's shoulders, keeping him close.

The interactions between the two have been so goddamn chaste, that Dewdrop's absolutely fucking certain that they must know what Dewdrop's actually here for. He's been dragging his claws over the exposed little sliver of Rain's stomach, casually wiggling his own mangled tail over Rain's upper thighs and crotch, and even angling his body up to nibble on the translucent flesh of the fins decorating Rain's inner ear. In response? Rain linked their claws through Dewdrop's mischievous digits, entangled their tail with Dewdrop's before practically throwing them both out of reach from Dewdrop's target area, and even going so far as to twist their head away from Dewdrop's nibbling teeth.

Sathanas below, normally the ear nibbling move would have Rain's mouth on his chubbed up cock by now. They have to know.

But this? This kind of playing hard to get is just boring. Which is not a word that Dewdrop would often use to describe Rain of all ghouls. But, well, the poor fire's sin has been awfully under-stimulated since breakfast, and Dewdrop would much rather be the sexy kind of overstimulated right about now, to be completely honest.

"'M gonna fuck off to my room, I think." Dewdrop mumbles, already ducking underneath Rain's arm and untangling their tails so he could go literally fuck himself.

"Running away, droplet?" He could hear Rain's fluttering voice, croaking at first due to having not used their voice for some time.

"Tired." He lies, feeling as though he could run three different fucking marathons with how much sheer energy he can feel coursing through his vessel's veins.

"Too tired for me, pet?"

And, ohhhh. That made Dewdrop pause.

Turning on his heel, Dewdrop cautiously glances over his shoulder, immediately going fucking bug-eyed when he sees Rain toying with the buttons of their uniform's collar. They've already popped open a couple of the topmost buttons, their claws now torturously swirling slowly around the rim of the next button. Dewdrop can see the sharp edges of their collarbones peaking over the slight ruffling of their shirt, the way those twin arteries seem to flutter underneath Dewdrop's predatory gaze, and the way there's this one specific bead of sweat that's slowly falling down Rain's Adam's apple and pooling in the hollow of their throat.

The tip of that one merciless claw has drifted down towards the side of their chest, tap-tap-tapping over the area where Rain's perky little nipples are almost certain to be hiding underneath the sinfully thin layer of Rain's undershirt. They've dropped their book, and their newly freed hand is now able to teasingly grope at the laces and ties keeping their pants secure over their waist. Those ink black claws are now toying with the ends of those uniform laces, slowly - excruciatingly fucking slow - pulling on one of the ends of the ties.

(...Dewdrop wants to rip those laces off with his fangs; tongue fuck the hollow of the water ghoul's fucking throat just to get a sip of their nectarine sweat.)

But, Dewdrop can't. All he do is stay frozen, watching helplessly as Rain proceeds to slowly pop open those buttons without hesitation. Inch by inch of indigo skin slowly being revealed to Dewdrop's ravenous gaze. The saliva gathering in every corner of his mouth suddenly feels overwhelming; choking.

Rain's undershirt falls open as the last shiny button is removed, finally.

Their nipples are hard and pebbled, small beads of sweat trickling down the length of their sternum, and Dewdrop's eyes are fucking glued to the neat trimmings of hair leading down to the agonizing bulge hidden just beneath their trousers. Rain's claws graze up their stomach and chest, teasingly swirling around their newly naked nipple before flattening their palm over the edge of their collarbone. They cock their head to the side, and Dewdrop audibly gulps at the way a singular strand of dark curly hair falls over their face.

"Hot in here." Rain quips, those sharp eyes raking over Dewdrop's frozen body in an unfairly predatory way.

"Uh, yeah." Dewdrop says, dumbly. His trouser suddenly feeling much too restricting.

Rain laughs at him, perhaps a bit too cruelly considering the unfair situation. Their legs fall open further, the unmistakable bulge of their arousal already soaking through their pants with the amount of precum Rain's already fucking leaking. Goddamn water ghouls-

"Get on the bed, baby." And Dewdrop fucking dives for his previous position of being sprawled out on Rain's sheets. Although, with the way his knees suddenly collapsed under him, it was more like the fire's sin stumbled into those satin sheets.

Again, they laugh, slipping off their bed as they begin to slowly slip their unbuttoned shirt off their shoulders. Dewdrop twisted his body around to watch as their shirt slowly fell off their slight frame. Rain swirled their hips, their tail performing a mesmerizing dance behind their shifting legs as those beautiful claws plucked and played with the idea of unlacing those trousers.

"Rainy..." Dewdrop whines, his own hands quick to reach between his thighs and cup himself. Rain doesn't tell him off for touching himself without explicit permission, but Dewdrop gulps at the way their eyes darkened behind those elegant eyelashes.

"Take your pants off," Rain hardly had to even finish their sentence before Dewdrop was yanking at his own respective lacings, "panties too."

(Dewdrop flushes noticeably at how Rain fucking knew that Dewdrop chose his favorite pair of silk and lace panties to wrap his pretty little cock in.)

By the time Dewdrop's focus is once again zeroing in on the way Rain's groomed happy trail shimmers underneath their room light, Rain's ties are fully unlaced and the material is being pushing down their spread thighs.

And their fucking cock bounces free from its constraints. Because apparently Rain wasn't the only one who decided on some more risqué choices of undergarments for the day. Or, well, lack thereof.

"Turn around, slut." Rain suddenly demands, their tone turning dark and the sound of it suddenly makes Dewdrop that much closer to pure shamelessness.

Dewdrop flops over onto his stomach almost immediately, propping up his ass and wiggling his tail in Rain's direction.

"Gonna fuck me, Rainy?" Dewdrop teases, shaking his ass as one of his hands ducked in between his thighs once more, palming and stroking at his growing arousal. He's fucking dripping.

"I'm gonna shove my cock inside this tight little hole," Rain growls, kneeling onto the bed and quickly slapping Dewdrop's ass, "and I'm gonna fuck you so hard, you'll feel my cum dripping down your throat, droplet."

Rain presses closer, leaning in to dribble spit over Dewdrop's fluttering asshole, immediately lining up the tapered head of their cock with Dewdrop's asshole. When they push in, it's all in one go. Rain fully sheaths the length of their dick inside Dewdrop's tight ass with a low groan, the pace they set fucking into Dewdrop's hole is brutal; cutthroat. They press the entirety of their front against Dewdrop's clammy back, one of their hands reaching over to shove Dewdrop's face further into their mattress, their other smacking Dewdrop's ass as Rain nuzzles their face in the side of Dewdrop's neck.

"Unholy Father, baby," Rain groans, dragging their nose over Dewdrop's sweaty jawline, "I always love sinking my fat fucking dick in this tight little hole of yours. My favorite way to spend the afternoon-"

Dewdrop gasps as Rain's knot bounces against the rim of his asshole with every harsh thrust. There's another smack to his ass, and the fire's sin prays to every unholy deity that might be listening that he'll feel those hits for the next week.

He can already feel the imprints of the stitch work of Rain's once pristine sheets pressing into the meat of his cheek. Fuck, this is so much better than Christian fucking cuddling-

[wolfy1298]

Don’t you ever wonder what kind of secrets and plot points Venti keeps hidden? He claims to be the weakest amongst the Seven-and that could be true given his whole 500 year slumber and poison and all- but he’s still a god. AND one of the original Seven. You gotta be good at SOMETHING to survive for this long…

He’s also the only archon so far that doesn’t have a second story quest so what is he hiding?! We have accounts of him literally shaping the land with ease from both the Golden Apple Archipelago events and his character stories. We know that he has close relationships with the Hexenzirkel and somehow managed to avoid conflict with them??? And there’s also the fact from the skyward sword series that he was originally a catalyst user before picking up the bow in honor of Amos. He’s pulling a Childe when it comes to weapons he currently uses and the ones he’s proficient in.

And don’t even get me started on his connection with Istharoth and Celestia! Mondstadt already has the Thousands Winds Temple AND the nameless island where both Venti and Istharoth were once worshipped. And from Before Sun and Moon, we know that the Thousand Winds (which Venti IS A PART OF) were once called the Thousand Winds of TIME, all of whom were created and controlled by Istharoth. AND THEN you have Venti suspiciously appearing in the right place at the right time again and again and again. He even self proclaimed knowing every song: past, present, and future. Hell he’s probably one of the only few beings in Teyvat who can naturally bypass Irminsul because of his songs: Nahida already shown it’s possible to save deleted info if rearranged into fiction so the same should work for songs and poetry. And there’s also what the hydro fungus in Nahida’s second story quest said about changing forms. That you need time for growth to occur. And Nahida - an ARCHON- had trouble maintaining her fungus form for even the short period of time. She was even told that to do so for longer, one would need to bypass time itself which is near impossible. AND YET VENTI CHANGED INTO THE FORM OF HIS FRIEND IMMEDIATELY AFTER RECEIVING HIS GNOSIS AND HAS YET TO CHANGE BACK OR TIRE FROM FATIGUE (as we know it). HOW STRONG IS HE. Sure, the yokai in Inazuma and Adepti in Liyue can all change into a human form, but we know in game that it takes a long time and steady energy to take on a human shape, and the Adepti all seem to have that ability naturally: there’s no bending the laws of nature if it’s already natural to them. So what’s Venti’s excuse?!

As for Celestia: there’s already written in the statue of Barbatos “the gateway to Celestia” and what not. And Khanreia! In the chasm AND in the Caribert quest, Barbatos and Mondstadt keep getting named dropped. According to Dainself, the city in the chasm is supposedly OLDER than Khanreia and possibly the Seven, yet BARBATOS of all beings is mentioned in the records you find??? And in Caribert, it’s a Mondstadtian woman who that one bloke had a child with. Never mind that Mondstadt is where Kaeya and Albedo - the two characters with confirmed Khanreian origins- end up! There’s also the fact that Khanreia seems to base its gods and names and whatever around Norse mythology….which has strong ties to GERMANIC HISTORY. WHICH MONDSTADT IS BASED OFF OF. And Enkanomiya, which was once ruled by Istaroth, is Greek origin. Suspicious considering all the connections to HERMES Venti keeps portraying. (And then there’s also a connection to all three places with the hexenzerkel with their Chinese names? Like I think I read somewhere that Alice is Aries(?)/Eris(?) and Nicole is actually Nike in the Chinese version? Which are very much based in Roman/Greek origins)

Oh and something I forgot to mention earlier with the whole Istharoth connection. Mondstadt’s saying “seeds of stories, brought by the wind, and cultivated through time”. SUSPICIOUS

Anyways, this has been my nonsensical Venti theory rant

And you’re stuck with me @worldsokayestmagicalgirl

[frudoo]

Bells Ring (6)

Title: She's My Baby

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Warnings: SMUT. Handjob.

John does not sleep much. Every time he nods off, the reminder that you are in his arms renders him conscious once again, and he watches you intently just to make sure you’re still alright. Moonlight barely glows through the cracks in your curtains but it’s enough to display your features to him, peaceful and reassuring. Beautiful. Enchanting. 

     Perhaps sleep evades him because his body is expecting something more. Why wouldn’t it, when there’s a gorgeous thing lying right beside him with warm skin and soft breaths exhaling through plump, parted lips? The king’s chest rises and falls rapidly as beads of sweat begin to form below his hairline. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force the debaucherous thoughts from his head. So here he lay, struggling to swallow the thick of his spit, surrounded by you and your scent, you and your perfection.

     John knows he should have left your chambers the moment your eyelids fluttered closed. It’s all that was expected of him. Watch over you until sleep paralyzed your soft, sweet body, then flee like he was never there in the first place. It would be the proper thing to do—the respectable thing to do—but when your head slipped onto his shoulder and your peaceful face tilted up toward his own, weakness became him. Death itself could not drag him away from this comfort, this fulfillment he was not aware he’d been lacking for some time now. 

     Often he found himself lonely in his own bed while Aiyla was away in Ireland. Naive he was to believe that her own bed may be just as empty as his. Foolish. Still, not once did he invite in a concubine or a mistress, relying solely on the silkiness of the pillows the queen left behind. While another man was buried deep inside of his wife, he had his nose buried in her floral-scented linen and his neglected cock rutting between the crease of her folded pillow. It did little to satisfy the aching in his loins but it did enough, at least until Aiyla would return. 

     His stomach churns. The ‘welcome back’ rendezvouses would never happen again, not now. How did he let himself get cucked by some nameless, faceless bastard? What kind of man could her lover be for the queen to fool her king in favor of keeping the both of them? What kind of a man is John for not fighting to keep his marriage? 

     A weary man. A man who gives and gives and for his efforts is rewarded with a treacherous, wretched family. When John had heard of his son’s wrongdoings he was burdened with guilt, convinced that the seed he planted with which conceived his son was tainted. He knows better now. Ewan was born from a deceitful womb, sprouted from rotten roots and watered with abrasive ego. God help him, he came by it naturally. It’s human nature to want. To lust. It is unfortunate that, like his mother, the prince lacked the discipline and decency to fight his urges and be grateful for what he had. 

     John was grateful. A loyal man, who watched firsthand the effects of infidelity in his parents’ marriage and swore he would never jeopardize his own family with such barmy desires. He stayed true to his word, committed to serving his wife just as he rules his country—with unwavering devotion. Devotion that ended with another man’s cock between Aiyla’s duplicitous lips while he laid up in bed tending to his own needs. Her vixen hands laced with betrayal would never touch him again. It is a satisfying notion, yet it brings no comfort. 

     You stir, and it startles the king out of his thoughts, a much needed distraction. Even in your sleep you prove yourself the angel John believes you to be. He runs his thumb over your lips—the very ones he had kissed earlier in the night—and hums thoughtfully. Even on their best days, in their youthful prime, before he knew what a harlot his wife would become, he and Aiyla never had this. His heart never ached so painfully with longing though she lay beside him. 

     John loved Aiyla with all of himself. He put every bit of his energy into adoring her and reasoning why the rest of his country should do the same. He loved her, but not once did he ever feel so utterly captivated by her as he does with you. Perhaps it is because with his age came wisdom and far more empathy than he may have wanted, but some deep part of his mind suggests that maybe it sensed the queen’s vile tendencies before he did. 

     With you, it is pacific. With you, there is no responsibility weighing on his mind, no tension to relieve on either end. You are the exact opposite of Aiyla—not a rotten bone in your lush body nor a foul crease in your brow. You are all grace and warmth, luxury and absolution. It is by no means where he expected to find himself at this point in life, scandalized by his slut wife and finding solace in his son’s own heartbroken spouse. He ought to be disgusted with himself, leave your chambers as he should have done ages ago, but something about the way you take to him so easily keeps him there, keeps his hand on your cheek and his eyes locked on your delicate lips. 

     You need him. That is the difference between you and the queen. You require a steady hand to help you hold your chin upright. John never had to care for Aiyla. She did not require nor want his guidance, and although it drove him bloody mad in the beginning of their marriage, he had learned to become content with her stubborn independence. He had admired it up until now. But you, amenable and docile, remind him of what joy can be found in being indispensable and truly desired. 

     You need him in a way that nobody has for a long time, and God, it makes his cock plump up in his trousers.    

     The pesky feelings he’d been trying to eradicate all night come back tenfold as he once again feasts his eyes upon your restful form. You are undisturbed and he’d prefer to keep it that way, yet he cannot control the tremors of unattended arousal that wrack through his body, forcing his hips to shift uncomfortably. Exasperated and guilt-ridden, the king attempts to slip out from beneath you without rudely waking you. He believes he’s succeeded until he throws his legs over the edge of your bed and the resounding creak startles you awake.

     “John?” Your groggy voice makes his heart race in his chest—you’ve never addressed him by his birth name before, only his royal title, but heavens above, it sounds like glorious music coming from you. 

     “Back tae sleep, bonnie. Ah shall return tae mah own chambers.”

     He hopes you can’t sense the strain in his voice, and if you do, might you mistake it as rasp from having just woken up. It pains him to leave you by your lonesome as you have been the past few days—weeks, months—but he does not desire to subject you to his selfish debauchery. He would not forgive himself if you felt disgusted by him in any way. 

     “Must you?” You sniffle and sit up, eyes struggling to adjust to the lack of light and focus on his figure. 

     John sighs softly, a frown tugging his thin lips downward. You do not make leaving easy for him. He is cautious as he turns to face you, gently lifting your chin with his thumb.

     “Ah mus’ tend tae matters, princess,” he whispers. 

     “F-forgive me, Your Majesty, but I… I do not wish to be alone. Please, allow me to accompany you?” Your hand wraps around his forearm with fervor, nails threatening to break the tender skin. 

     Such a sweet, fragile lamb, asking nothing of him but his company. Nausea bubbles in his gut, but he still cannot—will not—allow you to see the vicious parts of him that only wish to take and feed mercilessly. 

     “These are nae matters fer a lady such as yerself tae witness,” John dismisses your plea and prays that the sob you let out is just a trick of his mind—but of course he is cruelly proven otherwise.

     “I understand,” you try to hide the wet tremble in your voice but the effort is futile. “My apologies for keeping you.” 

     The ache in his loins is far less important than keeping your affections, he decides, slipping back beneath your duvet and pulling your body right up against his. His fingertips dance across the exposed skin of your back, right above where your day-dress begins. He hums softly as you curl into him with no hesitation whatsoever, resting his bearded chin on top of your head.

     “Ah’m no’ gonna leave ye, lass,” John murmurs into your hair.

     You still smell of the flora from the garden, redolent and pure. Lilac skin warms beneath his touch and he berates himself for even considering leaving you alone just as his son has done so many times. He nearly feels his heart implode when you rest your palm on his chest, still clad in yesterday’s attire. He might feel more embarrassed by it were his nerves not alight with liquid inferno.

     “What did you need to tend to, my king?” Your still-small voice vibrates against the skin of his neck—when he doesn’t respond immediately, anxiety floods you. 

     ��A-apologies, I know it was not my place-”

     “Hush,” John interrupts, more harshly than intended. “Ye dinnae have tae apologize. Ah jus’... ah care fer ye deeply, hen, an’ ah dinnae wish tae scare ye away.”

     Frowning, you rise a bit to look down at him. Disheveled hair and damp, flushed skin return your gaze.

     “I am not afraid,” you mutter. “Tell me what it is that you need, Your Majesty, and I should be glad to assist you.”      

     “D’ye truly wish tae kno’?” His voice is far more unsure than you have ever heard it, and it makes something in your heart clench with pity.

     “I do.”

     John stares up at you with lidded eyes, oceans of stormy blue barely making themselves known beneath the haze of sleep still lingering. One large hand engulfs your wrist and slowly guides your hand down his chest, then his abdomen, and finally to the hem of his trousers. At the contact of your palm meeting with his unmistakable erection, you gasp. The king’s first instinct is to shove you away, retreat from your chambers and spare you any further disgust, but the way your fingertips gently graze over his clothed cock paralyzes him where he lay. Your breath hitches as you feel him out, and he grabs your face to pull you down for a tender kiss.

     “Can ye feel wha’ ye d’tae me, princess?” John rests his forehead against yours, biting back a groan when your cool fingers slip beneath the fabric barrier of his pants.

     You nod dazedly, biting your lip when bare skin finally collides and your hand is granted the exploration it so desperately craves. Lately you’ve seen what kindness and care lies beneath his title, but it would be deceptive to say you have not pondered what the king may be hiding beneath his trousers. It is safe to say that John is thick everywhere, abundantly warm and unbearably desirable. He feels heavy in your palm, tense as the air between the both of you. 

     “May I move my hand, Your Majesty?” You ask timidly, although your actions are the furthest thing from shy.

     “Please, hen, ah need ye,” John pants, thumbs grazing along the roundness of your cheeks.

     It is a rarity to hear someone in such a position as king beg. It sends blinding heat spiraling down to your belly—you would be a fool to disregard his desires. You lean down to kiss him again, gingerly running your thumb across the head of him. His hands tremble as they hold you, soft moans ripping from his throat to rest themselves on your tongue. With every stroke, he twitches, fingertips gripping and releasing your skin in an attempt to ground himself from the dizzying pleasure you bestow upon him.

     “Is this alright for you?” You ask when he pulls away to catch a breath.

     John looks positively undone, pretty pink mouth fallen open indefinitely to unveil every uninhibited hiss and cry that dares escape him. His hips jerk and his eyes roll back, pushing out unbidden tears that had been collecting in his waterline. You kiss them away before they can melt into his beard. 

     “Ye f-feel… bloody perfect,” the king croaks, one hand wrapping around the back of your neck and the other around your occupied wrist. “Princess, please, ah willnae- och, please!” 

     Eagerly he smashes his lips against yours once again, and despite the initial sting, you are quick to match his energy. Your hand pumps quicker, with more urgency, and it gets the man beneath you whining like an injured pup. He sounds heavenly, angelic, more so the closer he gets to reaching his end. His eyes snap open when you flick your wrist for the last time, and his furrowed eyebrows silently plead with you to hold his gaze. With a final shout of ecstasy, John erupts at last, thick ropes of spend coating your fingers and his throbbing cock shamelessly. He is quiet on the comedown, chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath although it makes his lungs burn. 

     Clemently, you tuck him back away into his trousers, wiping the sticky remnants of his euphoria onto the fabric. He thanks you with a chaste kiss to the tip of your nose.

     “Shall we go back to sleep?” You question him with a pleased smile.

     “Aye,” John whispers, pressing one more lingering kiss to your lips before pulling you into his strong albeit tired arms.

     As you fall back into slumber with your head tilted up at him as it did earlier in the night, flurries of thoughts dance through his overactive brain. 

     Only one is certain—King MacTavish has fallen irrevocably in love with you.

Taglist: @variety-fangirl @bingoz @thevoiceinyourheadx @gazsluckyhat @vmaxis @cryingpages

[vixvaporub]

The Witch and the Beast | Majo to Yajuu by Kousuke Satake – Chapter 56 ◎ The Nameless Seed, Act VII

[twit-ter-pa-ted]

Yes, Ma'am. - Part Two

pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x afab!Reader

warnings: flirting & poor description of food, i think

overview: You find out why Sanji is known to be the best chef in the East Blue. The Straw Hat reveals his intentions.

a/n: this is turning into a full blown series😭 thank you for the support on the first part, i was so shocked and i am so immensely grateful for everyone who read and enjoyed it. i love you all!

part one — final part

Sanji had barely taken a step into the kitchen when Patty began reprimanding him on how Zeff had kicked him out of the kitchen for the day, but it didn't stop him from grabbing a pan and starting his work.

You waited patiently after watching Sanji disappear into the kitchen. As you waited for your food, your eyes darted to the party you had been dismissing since you first noticed them. You were busy flirting, after all.

The Straw Hat, the Long-nose, the Redhead, and the Pirate Hunter. Their complimentary bread disappeared within seconds of it being placed on their table, courtesy of the straw hat, which led to the long-nose whining about how he didn't get a chance to taste the bread.

Dish after dish arrived at their table as you recalled hearing the straw hat order every dish on the menu, and you couldn't help but wonder how the nameless pirate would pay for it.

In the middle of watching the Straw Hat, whose name, you learned, was Luffy, you noticed Sanji returning to your table.

He set down a plate in front of you as well as a glass of strawberry milkshake.

"Somethin' I've been working on – sauteed True Bluefin over a sweet soy glaze, sided with seared asparagus," he descripted as he set down utensils and motioned at the plate. Then he motioned at the milkshake. At a glance, you could see that it had been done the way you requested it be. It even had a pink and white striped straw to match.

"Strawberry milkshake with a thin coat of strawberry syrup, no seeds, fine whipped cream made by yours truly," he playfully bowed, "and a strawberry to top off a drink as sweet as you."

You smiled as he winked. "Thank you, Sanji."

He refused your utterance of gratitude. "Please, I find it a privilege to have been able to cook for a beauty such as yourself."

He seemed to have no plans to leave, instead waiting to see your reaction, so you began to cut into the fish, your eyes never leaving his as you brought the piece to your lips using the fork.

A burst of flavor overwhelmed your taste buds the moment you took the piece into your mouth. Your usually insouciant temperament slipped for just a moment as your eyes widened.

"It’s good," you managed to say as if it weren’t the best thing you had ever tasted in your entire life.

"Yeah?" He smirked. He knew you were masking your amusement, it was evident on your face that you were. He drank in your expression as you attempted to keep your cool.

You nodded. "It's nothing like anything I've had before," you admitted.

"Thank you, love."

You moved onto the drink. As you went to grab it, Sanji spoke.

"I realized I never got your name," he declared. You paused, simply holding the drink in your hand now.

"Will you be needing it?" You questioned while playing with the fountain glass. His flirty persona faltered with confusion as your tone seemed to have an implication.

"I saw you flirting with the redhead earlier, did you make sure her water came from heaven itself?" You jested, hearing even her crewmates teasing her about the interaction.

He smirked as he was ready to tease, "Are you jealous?"

You only shrugged. "I'm just stating what I observed, darling." Lifting the straw to your lips, your eyes never left his as you took a sip.

You were more of a whiskey on the rocks kind of person, but you had to admit – the strawberry milkshake was far better than good. You couldn’t understand how something so simple could taste so heavenly. There were, in fact, no seeds, and the taste was just the right amount of sweetness that you were looking for, even if you hadn’t mentioned a specific level of sweetness for it.

You think you'd never be able to find words to describe it, just as you had run short of words for the sauteed True Bluefin. "It’s good," oh, please. The two of you knew that you felt you never knew what real food tasted like until you had tried Sanji's cooking – tested out his skills in the kitchen.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the drink. It was so delectable that it was almost painful.

"I like you, Sanji," You confessed before beginning to cut into the fish in your plate again. "I enjoyed our exchange. I certainly enjoy the dish and drink you've made for me." Sanji opened his mouth to reply when someone shouted from the kitchen area.

"Oi, Sanji! You’re here to cater, not to flirt!" Sanji evidently clenched his jaw.

"Just get back to cooking, Patty!" He turned to you again, his jaw now unclenched and his eyes thinning as he smiled.

You rarely told anyone your name. In your line of business, it didn't really matter who you were or how much they knew about you. It was all in the matter of how cheap or expensive your product was, and how hard you were willing to fight for its worth (and your life).

You told him your name. Just your first name – nothing more, nothing less. It led to less hurt that way, if you knew the least you could about each other.

He repeated your name as if to test how it rolled off his tongue, his tone velvety as he spoke.

"Likewise." He moved slightly, indicating that he was now leaving you to eat your lunch.

"But I do mean every word I say. It's nothing I've said to anyone before is all I'll say, I suppose it's up to you to believe that or not. I do hope you consider coming back here despite how shitty it is." You couldn’t help but chuckle as he deprecated the restaurant he worked at. "I'll be willing to cook you up another meal, if you’re up for it."

You pretended to think about it, but you were already dead set on your answer – "Sure, why not?"

Sanji's smile grew as he began to depart from your table, his eyes never leaving yours until he had to take another table's orders.

"That's the broker pirate hunter?" The straw hat declared with his eyes on you. You whipped your head to face them with a puzzled look.

The redhead's eyes widened. "Hey, not so loud!" She turned to you to find that you were already looking in their direction.

"Not a broker, not a pirate hunter!" You corrected irritably.

"See? I told you." The long-nose attempted to mutter as he lightly smacked the straw hat's shoulder.

"Hey, are you the nameless, bounty-less pirates that defeated Axe-Hand Morgan?"

"Woah, woah. You did – you did what?" The long-nose's eyes had widened. He seemed to be unaware of the gang of pirates he had joined.

"Nameless?" The straw hat echoed. He then stood to approach your table. He held out his sauce covered hand which you only looked at. He retracted his hand when you made no move to grab it.

"My name is Monkey D. Luffy. I'm going to be King of the Pirates!" Your eyes widened at his proclamation, your eyes returning to look into his.

Unlike what you expected from countless others who had declared themselves to soon be King of the Pirates, this Luffy character seemed to have something else other than pure determination glimmering in his eyes. It almost had you believing that he was going to be King of the Pirates.

"So just you wait," he then said your name as if you were close friends, "I'll get my first bounty soon."

He couldn't have been that much younger than you. And yet, something about him made you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"That's my crew, by the way." He pointed at his booth. "That's Zoro, Nami, and Usopp."

"Not in your crew," Nami denied.

"Don't introduce us to the pirate hunter, Luffy!" Usopp scolded him.

"What's up?" Zoro calmly greeted.

"I'm not a pirate hunter. That's a pirate hunter," you corrected Usopp once again, pointing to Zoro.

"Not anymore," Zoro corrected you, too.

"Well, I can see that, given how you're in a pirate crew."

He only scoffed. "Uh-huh, nice to see you again, too."

Luffy seemed to be unaware of the tension between the two of you. He grinned as he came to a realization, "Oh, you know each other?"

"Yep." You and Zoro answered in unison, which caused you to glare at each other before looking away.

"Well?" Luffy questioned expectantly, slinging an arm around your shoulders. You looked at the hand on your shoulder and wondered if the boy had any respect for boundaries. You simply shook your head and decided to return to your meal.

"Oh, come on. Zoro!" He whined as he returned to their table.

* * * * * *

taglist: @inf4ntdeath @x-uno @miloonmetis @angeli-fucking-cat @zzbloody-animezz

thank you for your support! <3

(there will be one more part after this one)

[durnesque-esque]

This was the fantasy. Getting to be a hero. Fighting for a cause you know in your bones to be right.

But we never wanted to be here.

Nobody wants, really wants, to be here. With every passing year, I understand more keenly the reluctant heroes. But even then, we're not Frodo trudging up Mount Doom, most of us. We're more one of those nameless people lost in the various and sundry fights that don't even merit mention in the book.

And yet we're here.

And I don't know about you, but I will fight tooth and nail, blood and bone to for every piece of it. I will trudge and toil and fight every little fight I can.

Because if we all do, if we all fight all these little nameless fights, we can craft the world we want with our bare hands.

Utopia is not a myth, it's the end goal. It's the dream we may never live to see, but if we water these seeds with our sweat, blood, and tears, the little seeds we plant will grow into mighty trees that will at last grant shade and rest to all that come after us.

I will never have children.

But I will fight to my last to make a world I would have wanted to raise children in.

And this is me, looking at you. A person I may know, but more likely will never meet or speak a word to and asking: will you fight with me?

Will you help make the world we dream of together?

If you say yes, if we all say yes, we can make it.

Will you help make it?

Will you fight beside me?

[blueikeproductions]

Sentinel Prime also has an interesting conceptual history.

Also interesting is how he managed to be the main villain of two movies in the film series.

His origins lie in the Marvel comics, simply being the name of the guy who was in charge before Optimus, when the comics took the lead set by Rodimus in the original movie, and started setting up a proto-Prime lineage.

For the most part, Sentinel remained a comics only character, as the 80’s cartoon never had a Sentinel, instead using its own lineage consisting of various nameless generics.

Though modern material has retroactively declared this fella is the cartoon Sentinel.

Sadly this design and his rad space rhino truck mode has yet to be immortalized in toy form.

Sentinel’s personality didn’t start getting fleshed out until the Dreamwave era, where most material painted him as powerful, kind and a revered figure among the Autobots. Like Rodimus in the cartoon, Optimus felt inadequate stepping into the role Sentinel left behind.

Sentinel’s more pompous arrogance didn’t become common place until Animated’s version.

Originally more of a goofy friendly jock in his boot camp days, but after a falling out with Optimus during an off the books trip for treasure hunting that saw Elita lost and Optimus take responsibility for Sentinel’s stupidity, the big chinned bot became more entitled and bullheaded, unwilling to accept his own mistakes to look bad in front of Ultra Magnus. Developing a phobia of organics from the giant spider aliens, Sentinel isn’t exactly a people person, not winning over the citizens of Detroit like Optimus did during his time in Earth. This Sentinel would get increasingly desperate trying to make himself look better over Optimus who had won over Ultra Magnus, but usually this wound up backfiring for him like when the Headmaster cut his head off and took over his body. Sentinel got a bit lucky when Shockwave attacked Ultra Magnus, allowing Sentinel to become acting Magnus to lead Cybertron. This saw strict curfews and fear mongering propaganda, mostly about organics and Decepticons to Ratchet and Alpha Trion’s annoyance. In Sentinel’s brashness, he almost unwittingly destroyed Cybertron when attempting to shoot down an unstable Omega Supreme controlled by Megatron, leaking Transwarp energy that’d fry the planet if attacked. When Optimus’ crew came back to Cybertron with Megatron, the missing Protoforms, the Allspark and Omega Supreme they were regarded as heroes, but Sentinel wasn’t impressed, doubling down on how HE was Magnus over Optimus. In the semi but not totally official Trial of Megatron script reading years after the finale though, a dying Ultra Magnus officially appointed Optimus as the true Magnus, which only made Sentinel more desperate, getting fooled by Megatron into being put on a trial that ultimately ended in the Decepticon’s favor.

While a blowhard from top to bottom, TFA Sentinel was still trying to do what he felt was right to protect Cybertron, something that would influence his movie counterparts.

Pry the most well known version besides Animated Sentinel, the DotM version was initially a mix of his Dreamwave version and Star Trek Spock (cuz he’s voiced by Leonard Nimoy).

The IDW movie comics fill in some extra gaps, as Sentinel was a direct descendant of the Primes, and supposedly the last. Leading Cybertron into a prosperous age alongside his “sons” Optimus and Megatron.

Sentinel also fixed an issue that was never fully resolved from ROTF, where special technology was developed with Wheeljack in order to tether a sun to Cybertron, re-energizing the Allspark without needing to destroy it, and powering the planet. Turns out solar power was the answer still, the original Primes just… misunderstood it. The seeds of the eventual Great War were planted however when Megatron overheard Sentinel and Optimus talking, and grew jealous, as Sentinel revealed to Optimus he too was a descendant of the Primes, and is set to take over when Sentinel steps down.

Although it seemed Sentinel had died when the Ark seemingly exploded, he survived and his ship crashed on the Moon of Earth, kick starting the movie. While the Autobots were thrilled to see their old leader back, hoping the tech the Ark held could stop the war, their joy turned to horror when Sentinel Prime revealed he intended to bleed Earth dry, having made a pact with Megatron to save Cybertron in this way. The comics fill in the gaps by better tying it with RotF, where Sentinel and Megatron’s interests aligned, and they decided to go to Earth, the site of the final Star Harvester to complete The Fallen’s goals to save Cybertron.

DotM Sentinel was a noble being and a strong patriot of Cybertron. Like TFA Sentinel, he did what he felt was right, but unlike TFA Sentinel, he employed a form of tough love towards the end, realizing Optimus didn’t have the ball bearings to do what was necessary to win the war. Only too late did Sentinel realize Optimus actually DID when the Prime was pushed too far and shot his former teacher and beheaded his opportunistic brother.

Sentinel falls further in IDW, where due to a lot of retcons and current political events at the time, the orange and red IDW Sentinel Prime was the first instance of a false Prime. Originally an opportunistic Titan Master called Infinitus, he served the ancient Primes and vowed to keep their teachings alive: by keeping the weak in their place with the “good” insuring it. He took on the alias Sentinel and slowly rose to Prime rank, ensuring Cybertron kept its suffocating limitations like the Clampdown and Functionism in place. After being beaten by Megatron, and left for dead, Infinitus merely abandoned his old Transtector in secret (leading the Autobots to be confused how Sentinel was beheaded), and sought to build a new one to continue his plans. Disgusted at post war Cybertron, where the Transformers were slowly unifying with each other and the “disgusting” Colonists and aliens, Sentinel decided to make Cybertron great again by tearing it all down using the power of the Metrotitans. This didn’t go as intended and saw Sentinel die for good, but it did indirectly see the release of Liege Maximo Prime, who had been sealed away in his own MetroTitan that was needed to stop the lobotomized Citybots that Sentinel managed to send to Cybertron.

There was a brief reprieve in IDW’s poorly received reboot, where its Sentinel returned to the just but firm DOTM Sentinel prewar, with the impatience and boldness of TFA Sentinel. This Sentinel wasn’t a racist nitwit, as he led a cultural potluck on Cybertron consisting of other colonists both Transformer and organic aliens. Optimus worked as a political aide alongside Sentinel, and ultimately inherited the Matrix when the big guy was killed by the Rainmaker Decepticons.

Aligned Sentinel is a bit of a mess, because he was originally called Zeta Prime, but they wound up trying to have it both ways calling him Sentinel Zeta, with his younger self looking like TFA Sentinel, but his WFC design being completely unrelated. I’m saving him for Zeta Prime’s entry, but the main thing inherited from this version was being installed as a Prime by the Quintessons.

But now via, TFONE, Sentinel has fully embraced his villainous heritage. A blend of all the major Sentinels, DOTM and TFA visually and IDW personality wise, he inherits his Prime role from the Quints like Aligned. The main difference is Aligned Sentinel Zeta wised up and chased off the Quintessons, TFONE Sentinel sought to bargain with them for personal gain.

A former aide to the Primes similar to IDW, he instead grew jealous of their glory and power, wanting it for himself. He got his wish when the Quintessons invaded, secretly working for them to destroy the Primes and steal the Matrix. Once the deed was done, Sentinel instead took Megatronus’ T-Cog as a trophy as the Matrix spirited itself away from the unworthy blowhard. Creating an elaborate lie to the clueless populace, Sentinel painted himself as a hero who chased off the Quints and ushered in a new era for Cybertron, creating a new generation of diligent (Cogless) wokers to mine Energon, while he “led” expeditions to find the Matrix that was “lost” in the fight. In truth, he was paying off the Quintessons in Energon, though even Sentinel was forced to admit the arrangement was barely leaving the Transformers with anything.

His downfall came when the main heroes witnessed his dirty dealings, and heard the truth from a still alive Alpha Trion, with D-16 out for mech fluid. While Orion succeeded in showing the populace the lies Sentinel told Cybertron, that wasn’t enough for D-16, who first hand witnessed Sentinel’s mask coming off, his true cruel nature exposed at last. Sentinel was perfectly content in wanting to murder the rebellious High Guard and naughty Miners that fell out of line, wanting to use them as an example by massaging the truth. After all, the truth on Cybertron has always been what Sentinel wanted it to be.

While Orion didn’t want a murder (I assume Orion figured Sentinel would just be thrown in jail while Cybertron restructured itself), and took a shot for Sentinel, it was all for naught, as D-16 killed Sentinel anyway, and took back Meg Prime’s Cog, installing it in himself to fully evolve into Megatron.

TFONE Sentinel took the worst traits of his predecessors, becoming the embodiment of what a truly bad Prime looks like. Notably, Sentinel’s actions absolve Megatronus and Liege Maximo of their own counterparts’ misdeeds, putting all of Cybertron’s problems on Sentinel Prime only (barring any retcons in future sequels). Depending on what future stuff may do, perhaps Sentinel Prime is now the defacto bad Prime over Megs and Liege. What Sentinel Prime Transforms into varies, though with the inclusion of the cartoon “U-Haul Robot”, he tends to be a truck to mirror Optimus, but the truck differs depending on the character.

Hilariously, a new 40th anniversary Missing Link toy repaints the old Optimus toy into G1 Marvel Sentinel.

The modern G1 & TFONE Sentinel are the only deviations, opting for planes, and a space train that’s never really used.

Given the series’ habit of making most flyers villains, and ONE Sentinel’s quite literally being above the miners, maybe future versions of Sentinel will be arrogant jets instead.