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pin-k-ink · 5 months

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knife’s edge // gojo satoru

tw ⇢ teacher-student relationship, implied age gap, dub-con, punishment and reward system, power play, dom/sub relationship, blowjob, fingering, begging, hair pulling, degradation, mentions of violence and injuries, spanking, facial, belt whipping, praise kink, face fucking

wc ⇢ 6.7k

a/n: i am not happy with this one at all

The inky blackness of night cloaked the abandoned factory district in deep shadow, the dim glow of the waxing moon filtering through shattered panes of grimy glass offering little illumination. Your ragged breaths echoed sharply in the cavernous silence, each rapid footfall sending plumes of dust and grit swirling into the still air in your wake.

You risked a frantic glance over your shoulder, heart hammering a staccato rhythm against your ribcage. The curse's formless shape undulated through the gloom behind you with horrific, boneless grace—an amorphous mass of writhing miasma capped with wicked curved appendages that scraped in screeching arcs against the cracked concrete hallway with each slithering surge forward. Jagged claws of solidified cursed energy aimed to ensnare, tear, and rend any flesh within reach.

A fleeting memory sliced through your mind's frenzied whirl — Gojo's voice carrying that unmistakable lilt of teasing amusement as he'd drawled something about being on your "best behavior" during this training exercise. His smug confidence had rankled you at the time, fueling your burning desire to prove yourself more than a bumbling student constantly needing rescue from their mentor.

But now, harsh reality crashed through those foolish delusions in waves of cold, jagged terror. You were hopelessly outmatched and ill-prepared for confronting this particular curse born of manifested nightmares. Its presence alone incited paralytic dread laced with a phantom ache of crushing loneliness echoing from some primal depth. Heedless of the stunted whimpers tumbling from your trembling lips, it closed in with relentless, inexorable hunger.

You redoubled your pace, lower legs shrieking with the exertion of maintaining your panicked sprint. Up ahead, the hallway fractured off into a labyrinth of shadowed corridors and forsaken antechambers. Fighting the icy lances of panic penetrating your frantic thoughts, you arbitrarily flung yourself down the second passageway on the left, restraining a scream as the curse's barbed tendrils whipped around the corner in pursuit.

How had you allowed yourself to be lured so far from the staging area where Gojo awaited your safe return? Stupid, stupid overconfidence. Surely he would berate your rashness before grudgingly coming to your aid...if you survived this ordeal long enough to earn his scorn. You swallowed back a hiccuping sob at that grim prospect, legs pumping harder in sheer desperation.

When the next turn presented itself, you instinctively banked hard to the right, hurtling through the decrepit doorway of what appeared to be some kind of dilapidated manager's office. Dim moonlight filtered through the filth-streaked windows, casting the skeletal shapes of rusted desks and chairs in stark silhouette across the debris-littered floor.

You twisted in mid-sprint, fruitlessly hurling the few feeble cursed tools you'd had on your person towards the curse as it rapidly filled the doorway. Their meager defenses ricocheted off a shimmering barrier the curse erected with mocking ease. Your breath sawed from your lungs in panicked bursts as those razor-tipped appendages sliced through the space you'd just occupied, sending shreds of plaster and splintered wood exploding in all directions.

There was nowhere left to run. In blind panic, you scrambled backwards on your hands and feet as the curse's oozing grotesquerie filled the open doorframe, blocking any hope of escape.

Suddenly, something sharp and unyielding sliced into the meat of your palm, causing you to cry out in pained surprise. You looked down to see the jagged remains of some kind of metal pole or rebar protruding from the crumbling floorboards—the very shrapnel strewn across the office that your desperate retreat had led you straight into.

The unforgiving shard of rebar punched clean through the soft center of your hand in a blossoming spiral of agony and blood. Your scream hitched in your constricted throat as scorching lances of whitehot pain lanced up your arm. Tears blurred your vision, leaving the curse's steadily encroaching form obscured and wavering in your sight.

The twisted groaning of stressed metal snapped your gaze downward just as the compromised floor buckled beneath your weight, splitting like a crumpled Jenga tower along the lines of its pre-existing fractures. The gore-slicked rebar came suddenly free from its entrapment with a meaty slurping sound, pitching you backwards as your already precarious perch vanished from beneath you.

You plummeted in a dizzying freefall, the decrepit office warping and careening away above you in smears of grey and brown and black. Instinctively you flung out your arms, mouth gaping in a soundless scream as you plunged downwards into the bottomless unknown of the abandoned factory's shadowed depths.

Time itself seemed to unravel into surreal slow-motion as your trajectory carried you into the diffuse path of moonlight slanting through a shattered window high above. Silver-edged debris tumbled alongside you—jagged splinters of wood and twisted scraps of metal glinting like macabre confetti amid the freeze-framed droplets of your blood blossoming in faint crimson blurs.

Then, with a violent percussion of displaced air, something rocketed into you from the side—a solid, immense force that knocked what little breath remained from your lungs in a strangled wheeze. Powerful arms like bands of steel locked around your torso, violently arresting your plummet as your failed to process what was happening.

Head spinning, vertigo graying the edges of your vision, you dimly became aware of the world blurring past in streaks of shadow and dim light as you swung in an upward arc, abruptly changing trajectories with dizzying velocity. The whiplash intense enough to make you cry out hoarsely as cold panic lanced through you anew.

Just as abruptly, the disorienting rush of movement slammed to a boneshaking halt, your body folding in on itself with the force of the deceleration. You found yourself crushed against a solid plane of warmth and wiry muscle, every nerve ending screaming in protest as your savior's bruising embrace constricted tighter around your ribcage. The guttural growl rumbling through the steel-banded arms holding you immobile reverberated straight into your rattled bones.

"Dammit, girl—you make trouble follow you around like a hellhound on a scent trail, don't you?"

The familiar, sardonic drawl finally pierced the roaring in your ears. Gojo's distinctive smokey timbre ignited a fresh surge of tremors— though born of relief rather than mortal terror this time. You sagged bonelessly against his chest, quaking with reaction as the abyss you'd narrowly avoided plunging into slowly reasserted itself in your reeling awareness.

Gojo simply held you pinned flush against him, stance braced with preternatural solidity despite the physical feat of force he'd just exerted. With your face pressed into the juncture of his shoulder and neck, his unique scent of sandalwood and citrus enveloped you in a cloak of reassurance. You clung to that steadying anchor desperately as you struggled to rein in your haywire senses.

He seemed content to allow you that reprieve, not bothering to immediately extricate himself as the pounding of both your thunderous heartbeats gradually subsided to a more measured cadence. At last, when you'd stopped trembling quite so violently, Gojo shifted infinitesimally—just enough to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up towards his.

"Y'know, when I said to be on your best behavior, I didn't mean to go seeking out new and perilous ways to get yourself killed on my watch, bad girl."

Gojo's voice still maintained that undercurrent of sardonic cool, but you detected the faintest hints of...something else bleeding through. An edge of anxious relief perhaps, buried beneath the outward mask of nonchalant irreverence he always wore. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw with maddening tenderness at odds with his tart rebuke, sending your pulse into a frenzied gallop once more.

"Gojo-sensei, I-I'm so sorry," you stammered, scarcely daring to draw breath too deeply in his embrace for fear of surrendering to the urge to bury your face against his neck and simply exist in that space for a thousand reassuring moments. "I got overconfident and careless and put myself in danger by wandering off. You were right, as usual, and I—"

He cut off your self-flagellating apology with a gruff tsk, index finger pressing firmly against your parted lips. "Hush now. I can already see those pretty eyes filling with crocodile tears that will make me go all soft and stupid again."

The sardonic smirk he flashed you ignited a spark of bristling indignance in your chest—but it was a welcome reprieve from the icy terror currently waning through your system. Gojo's gaze roved downwards, searing gaze flickering over you in a blatant sweep from head to toe. Whatever he saw in his obscenely casual inspection made his jawline tense perceptibly.

"Looks like our little curse didn't take too kindly to you wandering off the beaten path either," he remarked, deceptively mild drawl betrayed by the subtle edge of strain hardening the words.

You followed the weighted path of his hawkish regard to where the tattered remnants of your uniform clung in bloodied tatters, entire swaths torn away to reveal expanses of gashed and rapidly-purpling flesh glistening with crimson. A vivid flush bloomed across your cheeks as you hastily sought to cover yourself, hissing as the incidental movement tugged at your lacerated skin.

Gojo clucked his tongue again, more chidingly this time. "Easy there, slugger. Let's not go scrambling around until we get those battle scars properly dressed."

Before you could protest, Gojo was moving again - shifting his grip to cradle you securely against his chest with one arm while his free hand extended outward, palm glowing with an ethereal purple luminescence.

One disorienting transition of vertigo later and the ruined factory surroundings had been replaced by a cozily appointed interior.

The incongruously homey space you now found yourself in appeared to be some kind of living quarters - though imbued with distinctly more luxury and refined appointments than the standard student dormitories would allow.

Rich hardwood floors were covered in plush area rugs of deep crimson. The walls were adorned with elegant-yet-minimal furnishings and intricately patterned tapestries in jewel tones suggesting an Eastern influence. Various artifacts - porcelain vases, statuettes, and inscribed metal wall-hangings - were interspersed with a few strategic pops of color and indirect lighting to cultivate an ambiance of cultivated tranquility.

"Comfortable?" The rumbling baritone against your ear made you start slightly as Gojo carried you towards what appeared to be a bedroom sectioned off by opaque partitioning screens.

You opened your mouth to reply, but any words withered on your tongue when he shifted his hold to deposit you with infinite care atop the bed - as though you were the most precious of fragile burdens. The sheets were a sleek dusky charcoal hue offset by the warm burnished glow of brass lamps casting flattering illumination across the space.

Gojo crouched in one fluid, boneless motion beside where you lay, all lazy power and effortless masculine grace barely restrained beneath that veneer of irreverent cool. His gaze was immediately drawn to the sluggishly bleeding gashes marring your exposed skin, sharp azure irises hooded beneath lowered lashes.

"Let's get you decent first, hmm?" He lilted in that sinfully smooth timbre, already working to divest you of the tattered remnants of clothing still clinging to your mangled form.

You flushed hotly, opening your mouth to offer token protest, but his pointed look swiftly quelled any objections before they could sound.

"Don't get shy on me now, pretty girl. I've already copped an eyeful of everything you've got thanks to that curse taking talons to your outfit." One corner of his lush mouth quirked upwards in that irresistible smirk that never failed to spark a flicker of defiance in your core. "Might as well make the most of the situation, neh?"

With deft efficiency and hands belying an almost reverent delicacy, Gojo stripped you down to your bared skin, blatantly allowing his piercing gaze to map every purpling contusion and seeping laceration in the process. You remained motionless, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of shattering this suspended reality into shards of mortified embarrassment and pining desire.

Gojo clicked his tongue in a noise of disapproval as his inspection catalogued the extent of your injuries. His thumb traced the lurid weal of a deep gash carving across your ribcage, featherlight and ghosting over the sensitive abraded skin but eliciting a shuddering exhalation from your parted lips all the same.

"Such a mess you've made of yourself, babygirl," he chided in a low, dark purr that seemed to resonate straight through the shallow surface of your flesh and delve molten paths into the viscera below. "Clumsy, clumsy girl wandering off and courting disaster like it's a favored lover. Maybe you need reminding why it's safer to stay close...and who exactly you belong to."

Gojo stood and moved across the room, giving you a momentary reprieve from the heated intensity of his presence. You watched him retrieve a wooden basin and an array of glass jars and cloth wrappings, absently tracing your fingers over the stark patterns of blooming bruises and lacerations. Though the sting of your injuries still pulsed in time with your elevated heartbeat, it felt muted somehow - a distant discomfort overshadowed by the lingering warmth of Gojo's touch and his dark, heated words still reverberating through your mind.

When he returned to your side and crouched on the plush rug once more, you couldn't help but tense slightly at his proximity. Gojo's lips curved in an inscrutable half-smile, as if privy to the chaotic whirl of your thoughts. Dipping a clean cloth into the basin of herbal-scented water he had prepared, he began gently sponging away the streaks of blood and grime from your abused skin with meditative focus.

"You know," he began conversationally, breaking the weighted quiet between you. "I had a feeling assigning you to run solo for this particular exercise was inviting disaster." His gaze remained fixed on his ministrations, calloused fingertips brushing featherlight over the shredded gashes scoring your abdomen as he cleaned each one with almost ritualistic care.

"You've always had a penchant for acting first and regretting the consequences later." Gojo's tone was a strange blend of wry affection and pointed reproof. "That wild spirit and impulsive bravery are what make you such a marvel to train...but they're also what consistently lands you in hot water requiring my intervention."

You wanted to protest, to insist that this time you had been cautious and level-headed right up until the curse overwhelmed you so unexpectedly. But the words shriveled up unspoken on your tongue as memories of your rash overconfidence resurfaced with a flush of shame. Gojo was right, as infuriatingly often seemed to be the case when he turned that penetrating stare and spark of dark wisdom upon you.

"I cannot even begin to fathom what could possess an otherwise reasonably bright girl to forsake all her training at the first sign of danger," he continued, words hardening into a disapproving rasp. You flinched inwardly, knowing the scolding was deserved but still bristling at being spoken down to like a petulant child.

Gojo's touch stilled abruptly, his thumb and forefinger capturing your chin in an uncompromisingly firm grasp that forced your gazes to lock. The vivid azure of his eyes bored into you with searing intensity from beneath his silvery lashes, commanding your rapt focus.

"Do you have any idea how close I came to losing you tonight?" His words emerged in a gravelly undertone that seemed to reverberate somewhere deeper than mere sound.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he spoke over your stillborn attempt with quiet yet immutable authority. "Too close. Far too close for comfort, little one."

Gojo's thumb traced the plush arc of your lower lip with deliberate reverence, the blistering heat of his touch raising delicious sparks of sensation despite its apparent innocuity. "I don't take kindly to situations where I am mere inches from watching light fade from those gorgeous eyes of yours. Do you understand me?"

Any residual defiance flickered and died beneath the scorching promise of intent blazing behind the shrouded azure regard holding you hostage. All you could manage was a tremulous inhale and the barest fraction of a nod in acknowledgment.

Something indecipherable flashed across Gojo's expression - both a subtle easing of the taut line of his jaw and a perceptible deepening of the shadows clouding his eyes. His hand slid from your chin to cup the back of your neck, fingertips lightly caressing the sensitive skin as he pulled you forward until the briefest whisper of distance remained between your brow and his.

"Let this be a lesson to you then," he murmured in a voice rendered incalculably darker by its lowered register. "Stay close to me from now on where you belong, understood? No more foolish detours or reckless stunts serving only to test my stamina in constantly retrieving you from harm."

You found yourself mesmerized, lashes fluttering in a hapless series of blinks as his breath fanned warmly over your parted lips. There was simply no other response than a breathily murmured, "Yes, Gojo-sensei. I understand."

The barest ghost of a smile - one of grim satisfaction rather than mirth - curved the edges of his sinful mouth. "Good girl."

The heavy-lidded intensity of Gojo's gaze seemed to scorch straight through to your very core as the silence stretched taut between you. His thumb traced idle patterns along the racing flutter of your pulse just beneath your jawline, touch tantalizingly light yet possessive all the same. You shivered at the implication behind such a disarmingly tender caress coming from your mentor.

"You test me at every turn, don't you, my pretty thing?" The words emerged in a low, molten rumble tinged with thinly veiled exasperation and something infinitely darker—a banked smolder of bone-deep desire he made little effort to conceal. "Never quite able to simply mind your place and stay obediently out of harm's way, constantly seeking new ways to throw yourself into the line of danger until I'm forced to intervene..."

His fingers trailed lazily down the sloped column of your throat, following the racing thrum of your pulse until his palm settled in a burned brand over the thundering cadence of your heart. You couldn't help the tremulous hitch of your breath as his calloused thumb grazed the swell of your breast, the barest suggestion of weight behind the touch.

Gojo's eyes glittered mercurial beneath the fan of his silvery lashes as he watched your response with rapt attentiveness, gauging your reaction to his calculated escalation. You were pinned motionless beneath the heated intensity of his undivided focus - the blazing epicenter of a storm waiting to break.

When he spoke again, his graveled baritone had lowered a ruinous register, each dark rumble seeming to sear across your feverish skin like a scorching caress unto itself.

"I'm sorely tempted to finally take you firmly in hand once and for all, babygirl. To show you exactly what lies in store each time you defy me so recklessly and necessitate my...intervention." He curled his fingers ever so slightly, delicious suggestion laced through the subtle rasp of hardened fingertips grazing the taut bud beneath the thin fabric covering you.

Your spine arched in an involuntary bow of pleasure-edged shockwaves, a broken whimper falling from your lips before you could bite it back. Gojo watched the display of responsiveness with naked hunger flickering across his austere features.

"Yes...that's what you crave, isn't it?" He mused in that same sinful, smoke-ruined tone that seemed to curl molten tendrils of liquid heat low in your belly. "My undivided attention and reprimand for each infraction, each reckless display where you've failed to heed my instruction..."

Gradually, with agonizing deliberation, Gojo shifted to loom over you with coiled dominance thrumming through every steel-banded muscle. His free hand traced a scorching path down your torso, insistent fingertips hooking beneath the thin fabric at your hip and exerting gentle but implacable pressure.

"But such willful disobedience cannot go entirely unpunished, can it?" He purred, pupils dilating as his gaze raked over your form with incandescent hunger. "Not if you're to finally learn some modicum of discipline and self-control..."

With deft surety, Gojo relieved you of the final scant covering as his sinful lips curved in a lush, dangerous smile. A fraught moment of charged suspension stretched between you as his reverent gaze roamed freely over the newly bared flesh. Then, with infinite tenderness at odds with his thunderous promise, he cradled you against the scorching plane of his chest and lowered you back to the plush bedding in one fluid motion.

"Perhaps a few lashes from my belt are in order for the way you've acted out, my willful little girl," Gojo rumbled as he braced himself above you, gaze devouring the way your thighs reflexively parted for his settling weight. "And you will count each one aloud and thank me for it, won't you?"

Your lips parted in a soft gasp at the sheer filthiness of his implication. Your pulse thundered so loudly you were certain he could hear the erratic drumming. Yet, with a heady thrill of realization, you discovered that you didn't want to resist - didn't have the strength of will left to resist him in this.

Gojo's hand slipped beneath the sleek fall of your hair, fingers curling around the back of your neck in a deceptively light but immovable grasp. The gesture was an unspoken command, an assertion of control that demanded your total surrender.

"Say it, kitten." The words emerged with the softness of a blade honed razor-sharp. "Tell me how badly you need to be taught some much-needed obedience...or else we'll simply have to continue these exercises until the lesson sticks."

Your breath shuddered from your lungs, eyes fluttering closed as a delicious shudder rippled through your entire body. It took all your remaining shreds of willpower not to arch into the heated cradle of his hips already settling against the apex of your thighs.

"Please, Gojo-sensei," you finally managed, voice quavering with need. "Teach me a lesson. Punish me until I've learned my place..."

A soft exhalation escaped Gojo, half-swallowed by the faint rustle of the bedsheets. His grip on your nape tightened fractionally as his other hand slid down the slope of your ribcage and across the dip of your waist.

You were powerless to resist the slow roll of his hips - the delicious pressure grinding against your exposed core in a way that made your lashes flutter with dizzying pleasure.

"My good girl," Gojo praised with a wicked glint in his azure gaze. "Now let's see how long you can keep up the obedient act before you're begging me to stop, hmm?"

With a sly, predatory grin, Gojo rolled off of you to stand, leaving your body buzzing with anticipation and the phantom heat of his weight pinning you. You lay there, breathless and quivering, as his fingers flicked open the clasp of his belt with a metallic snap.

"You remember the rules, don't you, kitten?" Gojo rumbled, leisurely tugging the belt from its loops with a sinuous slide of leather and metal. "No counting or pleading until the very end, or else I'll start over."

He stepped towards the edge of the bed, looming over you in a manner both protective and menacing. Your pulse spiked into a rapid tattoo as the coiled length of leather whispered through his palm in an anticipatory slide.

"Spread your legs and arch that ass up for me like a good girl," he instructed. "You've earned a good punishment for nearly getting yourself killed, haven't you?"

The words sparked a jolt of hot shame deep within you, but that only fanned the flames of your desire. Your body reacted before you could think to deny his command, thighs parting and hips canting upward until the vulnerable curve of your rear was bared and presented to him.

"That's it, my perfect little toy," Gojo crooned, the soft sibilance of his words underscored by the telltale shift of leather and metal in his grip. "You've always been such a good listener, haven't you?"

A tremor rippled through your muscles, the instinctive flinch of anticipation, and a ragged whimper tore from your throat when the first blow landed with a deafening crack. You bit down on the knuckle of your thumb to silence the cry, a futile bid to restrain the sound.

"No no no, pretty girl," Gojo chided, his low baritone rife with dark amusement. "Those sounds belong to me. Let them out."

You shook your head, eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to deny him, even though you knew it was impossible. His free hand settled in a proprietary weight between your shoulder blades, pressing your upper torso flush against the mattress.

"Don't be stubborn now, kitten," Gojo chastised, voice a husky purr as the leather of his belt slid across the abused skin of your ass. "You know the rules...and I'm going to make you scream those numbers for me."

The leather snapped again, a blistering stripe of searing agony lancing across your exposed flesh. The cry ripped from your throat sounded foreign and primal, and you were suddenly grateful for the muffling effect of the thick bedding.

"Count." Gojo's tone brooked no argument.

"Two." You managed the word past gritted teeth, hands fisting the sheets with white-knuckled force.

"Good girl," Gojo purred, the sound rich and honeyed as the cool leather whispered over your abused skin. "Let's try for three, hmm?"

A third searing swat landed, and then a fourth. Each one wrung another pained cry from your lips and brought your hips straining against the restraining hold of his palm.

"Five," you gasped, barely registering the tear that slipped down your cheek. "Thank you, Gojo-sensei."

The next lash was gentler than the ones before it, but no less effective in eliciting a breathless gasp and a shudder of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"S-six," you stammered, barely able to string the syllables together.

"You're doing so well, baby," Gojo murmured, his words a soothing rumble that belied the merciless sting of leather as he brought the belt down across your flesh once more.

You lost count of the swats, each one a searing brand and yet an exquisite pleasure in its own right. With every number that fell from your lips in a broken sob, your thighs slickened further with a shameful gush of wetness. You didn't even realize you were crying until you felt the press of his palm between your shoulder blades, grounding and comforting and unbearably hot.

"Shh, sweet girl, it's almost over," he murmured, his voice a velvet purr that seemed to seep beneath your skin and burrow into the core of you. "Just a few more. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," you whimpered, tears slipping free despite your efforts to stop them. "I can do it, Gojo-sensei."

His chuckle was a dark rumble. "My good, obedient little girl. Always eager to please, aren't you?"

His hand moved from between your shoulder blades to stroke gently along your flank, fingers tracing idle patterns across the bruises marring your flesh. A sharp contrast to the stinging burn still radiating through your abused flesh.

"Are you ready for the last one?" He asked, the question almost playful.

"Yes." You breathed the word, the single syllable a soft exhale.

"That's my girl," Gojo murmured, his approval warming the pit of your stomach. "Let's see if we can make this one really count, shall we?"

The leather snapped against your ass in a devastating strike, eliciting a cry that was half pleasure, half pain. Your thighs trembled as your back arched, body instinctively seeking more contact with the unyielding surface of his palm.

"Seven." The word came out sounding more like a moan.

Gojo's hand smoothed over the abused flesh of your ass, his touch maddeningly gentle and yet still stoking the flames of desire within you. You couldn't stop the whimper that escaped your lips as his fingers teased the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, the feather-light touch eliciting sparks of heat along your spine.

"There, there," he murmured, the words a dark rasp that sent shivers through you. "I think that's enough punishment for now, don't you agree?"

"Yes, Gojo-sensei," you breathed, your voice sounding foreign to your ears.

"Good girl." His fingers ghosted over your slickened folds, teasingly light and yet eliciting a gasp of pleasure.

"But if you want to earn the privilege of a reward, you're going to have to earn it first," he continued, his words a low growl that reverberated straight through you.

Your eyes fluttered shut as his thumb traced slow circles around your clit, the sensation sending tendrils of molten heat coiling through you. You couldn't help the whimper that escaped you, or the way your hips bucked against his touch, seeking more friction.

"I'm not hearing a yes, kitten," he chided, the words a dark purr.

"Yes, Gojo-sensei," you managed, the words coming out in a breathy whisper.

His fingers teased your entrance, dipping just barely into the slickness gathering there. A low groan escaped him, the sound reverberating through your body.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me, aren't you?" He growled, his voice a low rasp. "All spread out and aching for me to fill you up, aren't you, babygirl?"

"Yes, Gojo-sensei." You repeated the phrase like a mantra, unable to form any other coherent thoughts as his fingers curled inside you.

"Look at you, taking my fingers like such a good little slut," he murmured, the words punctuated by the wet sounds of him pumping his digits in and out of you.

You couldn't help the way your hips rocked against his touch, the sensation eliciting sparks of pleasure along your spine. Your back arched, thighs trembling as you sought more friction.

"That's it, take it all," he urged, his voice a low rumble. "Feel how tight you're gripping me, baby. So wet and desperate for me, aren't you?"

"Please," you whined, the word emerging as a broken plea. "I need more, Gojo-sensei. Please."

"Such a needy little slut," he chuckled, the sound sending shivers through you.

He removed his fingers, eliciting a whimper of protest from you, before his palm came down hard on the already abused flesh of your ass, the resounding slap echoing through the room.

"Up," he commanded, the word a rough bark.

You scrambled to obey, limbs shaky as you pushed yourself upright. Your thighs were slick with your own arousal, a sight that only intensified the burn of humiliation. You couldn't help the whimper that escaped your throat, a combination of humiliation and desire.

Gojo stood in front of you, his pants unbuttoned and his cock fully erect. The sight was enough to make your mouth water, but he seemed determined to draw this out, his expression an inscrutable mask as he appraised you.

"On your knees," he commanded, the words a low growl.

You sank to your knees before him, the movement sending a jolt of pain through your ass as it came into contact with the plush rug. His cock was mere inches from your face, the tip glistening with precum. Your breath caught in your throat, your mouth watering as you took in the sight.

"Suck it," he commanded, the words a low rumble.

Your hands trembled as you reached for him, fingers curling around the base of his cock. He let out a low groan as you stroked him, the sound sending shivers through you. He was rock hard, and you couldn't help the moan that escaped your lips as you felt the weight of him in your palm.

"Good girl," he murmured, the words a low rumble.

You opened your mouth, tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock. He tasted musky and salty, and you couldn't help the way your body responded, a rush of heat pooling between your thighs. You took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips bucked forward, and you nearly choked, but managed to steady yourself.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice a low rasp. "That's it, baby. Just like that."

Your tongue traced the underside of his shaft, reveling in the feel of him filling your mouth. Your jaw ached, but you didn't care, lost in the sensation of him. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tightly as he fucked your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. You swallowed him down, moaning around his length.

"Shit," he cursed, his voice a guttural growl. "You're so fucking good at this, aren't you, slut?"

The words sent a thrill of pleasure through you, and you couldn't help but whimper in agreement. You wanted him to keep talking, wanted to hear him praise you, wanted to hear him degrade you. His cock pulsed in your mouth, and you knew he was close.

"Gonna come," he growled, the words a harsh rasp.

He pulled out, his cock springing free from your mouth with a wet pop. Your eyes widened as he pumped himself in his fist, the sight of his swollen, leaking cock almost enough to make you come undone.

"Beg for it," he commanded with a low snarl.

"Please," you pleaded, your voice a desperate whimper. "Please, Gojo-sensei. Please come on my face."

"Fuck," he swore, the word a guttural growl.

You closed your eyes as he came, warm spurts of cum landing on your cheeks and lips. You licked your lips, the taste of him bitter and salty. You couldn't help but whimper as his seed trickled down your face, his musky scent invading your nostrils.

"Clean it up," he ordered, the words a low growl.

You complied, using your fingers to scoop the mess from your cheeks and licking it from your fingertips. The action only seemed to arouse him further, and his cock twitched in response. You couldn't help the moan that escaped you, the sight of his renewed erection sending a rush of heat through you.

"On the bed," he commanded, his voice a rough rasp.

You scrambled to comply, the ache of your bruised and battered body momentarily forgotten in the anticipation of what was to come. Your legs trembled as you climbed onto the bed, spreading them wide for him. Your pussy throbbed, the feeling only intensifying as you watched him step out of his pants and stalk towards you with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"So needy," he purred, the words a low rumble.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he knelt between your legs, his gaze raking over your exposed body. You felt like an offering, a sacrifice laid out for him to devour. His cock was hard and swollen, and you couldn't help but writhe beneath him, desperate for him to fill you.

"Patience, kitten," he murmured, the words a dark chuckle.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the tender flesh as he dragged you closer. Your skin tingled at the sensation, the anticipation nearly overwhelming. He lined his cock up with your entrance, the tip pressing against your slickened folds.

"Please," you begged, the word a breathless whisper.

He leaned over you, his lips a hairsbreadth from yours. You could feel his breath against your skin, the heat of him making your pulse race. You ached for him, the empty void within you seeming to expand until it threatened to swallow you whole.

"What do you want, kitten?" He murmured, his voice a low rumble.

"Fuck me, Gojo-sensei," you whimpered, the words emerging as a strangled moan.

He pushed into you, his cock filling you up in one swift thrust. You gasped, the sensation nearly enough to send you over the edge. His cock stretched you open, the fullness sending sparks of pleasure through you. You arched into him, your hips grinding against his as he began to move inside you.

"So fucking tight," he growled, the words a low rumble.

You writhed beneath him, lost in the feeling of his cock pounding into you. His hips rolled against yours, the friction sending bolts of electricity through you. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You moaned against his mouth, his tongue exploring yours.

"Come for me," he commanded, the words a ragged order.

You cried out, the pleasure ripping through you as you came undone beneath him. Your pussy clenched around his cock, milking him for all he was worth. He groaned, his grip on your hips tightening as he slammed into you. The sound of skin against skin was a symphony, the feel of him moving within you almost too much to bear.

"Fuck, kitten," he growled, his voice a husky rasp.

His hips jerked as he spilled inside you, his release sending you spiraling into another wave of pleasure. You clung to him, the orgasm ripping through you with an intensity you'd never experienced before. Your entire body shuddered, your muscles clenching around his cock as you milked every last drop of his cum.

"Fuck," he groaned, his cock slipping out of you with a wet squelch.

You whimpered at the loss, the feeling of him leaving you making you want more. You could feel his seed leaking out of you, trickling down the insides of your thighs before you felt the telltale trickle of wetness. The realization that he'd made you squirt was nearly enough to send you spiraling into another orgasm.

"You're a mess, kitten," he purred, the words a dark chuckle.

His fingers traced the rivulets of wetness on the insides of your thighs, the sensation sending shivers through you. The bedsheets were soaked beneath you, your juices and his cum mingling in a puddle of filth. The sight only served to arouse him further, and his cock twitched, already half-hard again.

"So messy," he murmured, the words a husky rasp.

He reached up, tracing a finger through the mess of his cum and your juices on your cheeks. You whimpered as he brought the digit to your lips, the taste of him making you crave more. He pressed his thumb into your mouth, the weight of it a welcome sensation. You sucked on it, savoring the flavor of him.

"Fuck, that's hot," he growled, his cock already fully erect again. But he knew your body couldn't take it, not after everything he'd put you through.

He rolled off of you, and you immediately missed the heat of his weight on top of you. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. You sighed, the feel of his skin against yours sending shivers through you. His cock pressed against your ass, and you couldn't help but grind back against him, eager for more.

"Greedy little slut," he murmured, the words a rough chuckle. "Stay still. I’m trying to take care of you."

He pulled the blankets over the two of you, cocooning you in the warmth of his body. Your muscles ached, and the bruises and welts on your skin throbbed, but you didn't care. The exhaustion and pain were a distant afterthought, overshadowed by the euphoric bliss that came from being sated by the man who had trained and taught and tormented you.

"You did so well, my sweet, filthy girl," he purred, the words a soft murmur against your hair. "So obedient, even when I had to punish you for nearly getting yourself killed."

Gojo cupped your face in his hands, eyes twinkling with both relief and mischief. "You really had me worried there, yknow," he chided gently.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, kissing you with a jovial intensity. His kisses trailed along your jaw, up to your ear where he murmured, "Don't think you can get away with stunts like that." His teeth grazed your earlobe playfully.

Laughing, you tried to squirm away, but he captured you in his arms. "No escaping your punishment," Gojo teased, raining kisses along your neck and collarbone. His fingers danced along your sides, finding all the spots that made you squirm with giggles.

Finally, he relented, pinning you beneath him with a roguish grin. "There, I'd say that covers it for scaring me half to death." His expression softened as he brushed a few stray hairs from your flushed face. "Just don't go risking that beautiful smile again, okay?"

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo x reader smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru

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angel-of-the-moons · 11 months

Note

Could you do some possessive Baraka x reader? :)

BOY CAN I

Mine

Baraka x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: NSFW, SMUT, Jealous!Baraka, sex, voyeurism (?), exhibitionism (?) unprotected sex, feral/predator, primal sex, biting (c'mon we've all seen this man's teeth), blood play (sort of), breeding kink, slight Kanon fudging for plot reasons

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩🥩

You were his prized possession, an Edenian who wanted to learn more about Tarkatan culture and customs. Who better to learn from than the leader of the clans, Baraka, who had the good graces of Kitana Kahn?

You studied them well. From your tiny village, you'd only ever heard stories of them, or encountered the occasional raiding tribe that tried (and failed) to pillage your homes.

You knew they were nomadic, that much was a given considering how rarely your own people interacted with them.

But you always wanted to know more. Now that Kitana Kahn brokered a peace with them, you pleaded, as an imperial scribe, to study them. (And oh, boy, learning about the Ritual of Blood was very interesting.)

She agreed, believing that the people learning about one another would bring everyone closer together.

Little did she know that it would bring you and Baraka together as well.

You found out about the so-called Time Merger, what Kotal Kahn had done to his people, and what the Titan Kronika promised him in return. In spending long hours listening, conversing... Until it morphed into him glancing at you longer and longer. Imagining how your soft flesh would be so pliant in his large, leathery hands. How sweet you would taste.

It made him salivate at the thought of tasting you.

It started out with the courting rituals, bringing you freshly hunted meat, weapons, muttering soft, raspy words in his native tongue.

You had a few relationships in your long life, but none ever lasted long.

Whereas many were hesitant, or reserved, Baraka pledged himself to you wholly, "proving" he was good enough to be your mate.

And... Yeah. You gave in to his passion, so intense that your mind could barely catch up. More than once that passion wound up with you having gravel and sand embedded in your knees, bits of desert scrub clinging to your hair as he pounded into you from behind, grooves and scratches in your skin where he'd grazed you with his claws and fangs.

Sex with a Tarkatan? Intense was the tamest word you could use to describe it. Feral was one of the others. It was rough, primal, full of pure animalistic need to not make love, but to mate; to claim you. And you'd be lying if you tried to deny it and say you didn't enjoy it.

At least a little...

The marks he would leave on you, he would go on to explain, were to ensure other Tarkatans would not dare make a move on you. However, those outside of their tribe didn't understand. Yeah, explaining to Kitana Kahn what the marks meant was... awkward to say the least.

Where Tarkatans knew to leave you be, other Outworlders and Earthrealmers did not. Males especially would gaze at you with lust-filled eyes and stand far too close for his liking.

It was after one such situation, where an envoy was sent to administer some supplies as a gesture of goodwill to the tribe that Baraka was particularly set off.

One of the men in the group decided to flirt with you, lean in and give cheap compliments in hopes of getting you out of your clothes, to sneak away for a moment of unsatisfying carnal want.

He knew you were loyal, but something about the way that you smiled and genuinely laughed at one of his jokes had Baraka seething with rage. He could feel the blades in his arms flex and shift, wanting to rend the flesh from that soft, weak little man's body.

But he waited until the man's feeble attempts at courtship ended, before he dragged you off the moment the sky blackened and stars twinkled high above.

"Baraka! What--?" You were interrupted by a deep snarl; and Baraka pinned you against a boulder, inhaling deeply your scent. A mixture of his musk and the scented oils you fancied. But now, it was tainted by that foul man's stench.

It was like silt and mud staining a perfectly glassy pool in a desert oasis. He would not tolerate it.

"I can smell him on you." His gravelly voice tumbles out against your skin, his hot breath and bits of saliva dripping onto your shoulder.

"I don't like it."

You barely had a moment to think before his hands gripped the front of your tunic, and with a hard tug, ripped it right down the front, exposing your breasts to the cooling night air.

"Baraka! Someone will see us!" You hiss at him, moving to cover yourself, looking around in a panic.

It was one thing for him to pin you down and fuck you somewhere secluded, hidden, or even in his own tent...

But you were far too close to the camp and the envoy for your liking.

"Let them see. They need to know you are mine." He snarled, pinning your hands on either side of your head as he leaned in once more, scraping his jagged fangs over the flesh of your throat.

He licked at your skin, briefly, before moving up to your lips and shoving his tongue inside mercilessly, threatening to choke you out of your oxygen. For added measure, he took your bottom lip in his teeth and bit hard enough to puncture and cause a small rivulet of blood to drip down your chin, making you whine as he licked it up, before shoving his tongue back inside your mouth to tangle with your own; the sweet, coppery flavor of your blood invading your taste buds.

He pulled away, leaving a sloppy trail of saliva to mix with your blood as his hands fell to your hips, gripping you tight, the spikes on his arms tearing into the soft fabric of your dress as he tugged slightly.

You could hear the seams ripping beneath his claws as he did this.

You let out a gasp when he parted your thighs with his knee, and he grabbed your hand, forcing you to palm his fattening cock that hung beneath his trousers.

"I will make sure they know you belong to me. That you're mine." He said to you.

You felt your mouth water and your cunt flutter at the promise of having him inside of you.

You could see spittle dribble down his chin as his nostrils flared, his red-gold eyes focusing on you with all their intensity.

"I can ssssssmell you." He said, his voice rumbling lowly and hotly against your throat.

He shoved his hand beneath your skirt, chuckling madly when he discovered nothing beneath, feeling how wet you were already.

"Hrrr." Baraka hissed. "Don't lie to me. You've been wanting this all day."

You tipped your head back, biting your lip hard to stifle your moans as Baraka teased your folds, wetting his hand before he forced two of his fingers inside of you, mindful of his claws as he curled and twisted them, stretching you out.

"Be a good girl for me." He hissed, abruptly pulling himself free and aggressively licking his fingers clean while staring directly into your eyes.

You whimpered, then, when he gripped your hips and spun you around with dizzying force, his hand between your shoulders, forcing you down until you were practically bent in half in front of him. Baraka hiked your skirt up over your hips and spread your legs wide, pussy glistening and wet. All for him.

Only him. He just needed to remind you of that, and he would, he made sure of the fact as he tugged his trousers down and freed himself.

He gripped the base of his cock with one hand, taking a moment to line himself up. You had to bite into your knuckle to swallow back the wail that tried to rip from your throat as he thrust inside of you, cramming his hard cock deep within you, the tip harshly slamming against your cervix in one animalistic thrust.

Some Tarkatans mated for life, and he definitely wanted to keep you. No other weaker male would have you. He wouldn't let them. He'd slaughter them first.

He pulled out, leaving only the tip of his cock, before snapping his hips back into you, a short yelp bubbling out at the force, feeling the air in your lungs leap with the ferocity of his pace.

You bit back your sounds, not wanting anyone to overhear the two of you as Baraka relentlessly pounded into you, fucking more and more of your slick down your legs, dripping into the cracked, sandy ground below.

Baraka had no such compunction. He was quite the opposite.

He wanted someone to hear you. For them to know how good he fucked you, how he took care of you. How he satisfied you.

And god, was he doing an amazing job.

Every thrust had your mind going blank, vision fuzzy at the edges.

He brought his hand around your front, viciously swiping at your clit as he pummeled your guts ruthlessly with his dick, knowing full well you were close to cumming, he was just trying to bring you to that delicious edge quicker.

Your walls fluttering around him, you finally choked out a sob as he fucked you through your orgasm, hot tears rolling down your cheeks as he bit down on your shoulder, lapping up the blood that welled up from the punctures.

He bullied his cock into you faster, and faster until he couldn't take your pussy squeezing him any longer, snarling and snapping his jaws at the air as he emptied every last drop of his seed into your greedy womb.

He hadn't heard of a Tarkatan breeding with an Edenian, but he was certainly not above trying with you. He brought his hand up from your aching and throbbing clit, to rub at your belly with a deep rumbling laugh coming out of his throat.

You panted, legs wobbly as he kept you pressed against the rocks; the only thing keeping you upright were his hips and hands pinning you there.

His hot breathing ghosted your sweaty skin, cold against the moisture that dripped down your body, soaking the remnants of your dress.

A deep rumbling emanated from Baraka as he lifted his head, turning to the side. You couldn't see him, but you knew he was smiling, a wild look in his eyes.

It wasn't until you lifted your gaze to look at what amused him so, that you realized.

The man from the envoy was standing there, a torch in his hand. He had apparently heard the noise and came to investigate.

You turned away, burying your face in your arm with shame.

You felt Baraka snap his hips to yours again, making you sob quietly into your arm at the fresh wave of pleasure.

Baraka laughed as he started fucking you again, his expression slightly unhinged as he rocked you with each jagged thrust.

"She's mine, little man. Go back to your little camp fire."

#mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat smut #mortal kombat 11 #mortal kombat #mk baraka #baraka #baraka mk11 #baraka x reader #baraka x you

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popjunkie42 · 29 days

Text

Night Falling

For @officialrhysandweek 2024

Read on AO3

After the murder of his mother and sister by the Spring Court, Rhysand confronts his father, longing for punishment and absolution. Instead, the High Lord has a lesson for his youthful son.

Tags: Descriptions of violence, grief, toxic family relationships

I love you @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta read and support! I wrote this during some of the worst weeks at work ever so I hope the brain cells were there.

And I hope you like some Saturday afternoon angst!

Fic under the cut!

Broken.

Everything here was broken.

Shards of cracked and splintered black marble littered the great hall of the Moonstone Palace. Lines of white and gold like veins, the ground splintered like spiderwebs and covered in a layer of dust.

The Prince of Night sprawled against a chunk of marble twice his size, jagged and sharp. Rhysand panted with exhaustion. His head tipped back against the stone, tears making tracks through his dust-coated skin.

Too soon his body was recovering - his energy returning. He had torn the room apart in anger, in grief, begging for the oblivion of exhaustion.

The curse of his dark power - to never yet find the end of it.

Again, the memory and horror washed over him. A dark, endless play in his mind’s eye. Two heads, bloodied and disheveled, faces locked in fear staring up from floating baskets. Their skin the faded color of winter. Every act of cruelty and violence etched on their once beautiful faces.

He turned to the dust-laden floor and vomited.

It was black bile that burned as it came. Nothing left from whatever hours or days he had spent in this fog of grief.

Not just the pain of their absence - but the horror of the violence, the suffering that threatened to pull him under to some murky, vile place he feared he might never return from.

He should not have gone into the mind of the Illyrian patrols who found their heads floating in the river.

But he couldn’t not see. The same as he would never purge the image of their bodies found hours later - stiff and bloodied in the snow, stumps where proud wings had once flared.

The mountain trembled again beneath him.

Would his father let him tear it all apart?

Could he even stop himself?

Ever since he started rending the room into pieces, his power had been seeping like oil through the Moonstone Palace into the rock of the mountain - deeper and deeper until he felt its great cold roots in the earth. Gripped it with nervous tendrils of shadow. Ancient and powerful rock that he longed to pull from the ground like weeds only to tear apart in his hands. An act of primal destruction, like the forging of the earth.

He knew the Night Court was cast in darkness. No moon or stars or rising sun would penetrate the midnight shroud over their lands.

Perhaps it was cast over all of Prythian. Rhysand hoped it reached to Spring - that it wilted flowers and field, a dark portent to whatever fate awaited them.

Because await them it would. But not for long.

Amren had taught him to control his power, but not yet to see the full breadth of it. But he let his power leak, let it drip from him without a care.

The tiny beast hadn’t even come to see him.

Probably for the best. He had snarled at Cassian and Azriel as they found him in Windhaven - winnowing away with a whiff of sulfur, the rushing of air. Nothing in him was ready for their fallen faces, to watch the grief echo back and forth between them.

So he was selfish, leaving them to their own pain. Throwing up shields brimming with sharp starlight and cold winter night in jagged configurations around the Palace, to remain undisturbed.

Two faces again behind his eyelids - his sister’s eyes shut tight, face scrunched in pain. His mother’s - fearful and wide, facing the end with open eyes.

He wondered who they had killed first. Who had to watch the other die before their eyes, hope winking out.

Samara - the proud Illyrian Queen, young but fearless Lady of Night.

Amira - the shining star of the court, the only evidence of his father’s capacity for affection.

His family. His beating heart ripped from his chest. An immortal lifetime of possibility stolen from him forever.

And all his fault.

Whether he would have died with them or ripped the Spring brutes apart - he should have been there. Told them he would be there. Told Tamlin where they would be, before meeting him next week for training –

Tamlin.

He repeated their names in his mind. Cador the High Lord. Rian. Owen.

Tamlin.

The unfathomable betrayal. Or worse - the betrayal he had been warned about, his stupid, arrogant self ignoring his family and friends for the fierce training and tender passions of the third Prince of Spring.

Tamlin.

The name was burning poison in his mouth.

Rhysand let it burn, let it dissolve and corrode inside of him, joining in the heavy despair of his grief.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

He didn’t know how much time had passed in that silent tomb of a hall. As his power rose he tore it apart again, but without his initial vigor, sending stones clashing against each other, but without the taste for total destruction. Like a child playing with blocks, tired and plowing through their towers.

He knew it to be true: he could tear this palace, this mountain to pieces, cast the world into darkness.

But still, his father would not come to him.

He would not stoop so low, even to his grieving son.

When Rhys felt the heat of the sun burning against his blanket of deep twilight, he willed his muscles to move.

Feet carried him unconsciously, the walls of the palace passing before him without recognition as he walked down, down into the Hewn City, wards flickering to his blood and power.

Underground, black banners were already hanging from buildings and the windows of decadent manors. Voices wailed in the city center. Rhysand stuck to the shadows. What did these people ever care for his mother, his sweet sister, other than their fearful obedience?

He found his father in his grand bedroom behind the throne room, a pale attendant at his side.

Emrys had no crown on his sandy-colored head, shot with white around the temples, in the privacy of his chambers, but still power in the room thrummed with his command. His deep inset eyes, dark under his heavy brow, didn’t leave the sword he polished in his hands. Rhys stood uselessly in the door.

“Leave us.” The High Lord did not raise his voice, did not show any signs of sharing the raging grief of his son, disheveled and tear-stained, as he dismissed his servant.

Greased cloth glided over black metal, mottled and banded with swirling patterns like dripping water.

The room was grand and furnished lushly, all rich velvets and silks, the fireplace carved out of stone and large enough to roast a boar. During the day, sunlight streamed in from chiseled pathways and clever mirrors, even this deep into the rock.

But the comfort of the room was lost against the ebbing violence emanating off the High Lord. Sovereignty effortless and pervasive, as if at any moment he would exhale too loudly and blast the walls apart. He took no care now to cast any glamour, to temper himself. Like a glistening diamond uncovered in the rock. After eight hundred years, his son knew he no longer cared what anyone thought of him - even his family - other than that he was terrible and brutal.

Rhysand stood in silence. Waiting. Wordless. What could he now say to him?

This was his long life, stretching before him: only him and his father, bonded together in misery. Wholly without the light of his mother and Amira.

No more would his mother be the fierce but extended bridge between them, or Amira the beating heart of the family. Their beauty and laughter was gone and now from the world. And Emrys with his half-breed son raised in the unrefined wilds, a disappointment at every turn, and a threat with his growing power. Eyes that never looked at him but to find a fault, or a useful pawn, or a nuisance to be dismissed.

How much more oppressive this place would become with the two of them, hating each other for all eternity.

Emrys paused in his rhythmic, unconscious polishing, nicked the tough skin of his thumb against the newly honed edge of his sword. A drop of blood, red as rose petals, slid down the blade.

The High Lord sat there, no sign of tears on his cheek, no rent clothes, only the mating band on his left hand any reminder of what he had lost.

“Finally you come to me,” he said, watching the wound on his thumb seal back, glowing with magic.

Rhysand bit down his anger, his fear, and fell to his knees.

Hard hewn stone bit into his kneecaps. But it was all right - his body was just a vessel now. Just a carrier of pain. He deserved much more.

He didn’t dare to look at his father. Choking swells of tears rose in his throat, rage and shame. Rhysand bowed his head and shut his eyes tight.

“I am to blame. I accept any punishment from your hand.”

Silence reigned. Rhys waited, calm acceptance in his chest, whether it be for the High Lord’s pitiless wrath or to fall under the quick slice of metal on his neck.

But nothing came. Nothing moved.

Rhysand looked up.

His father’s eyes were locked to him, piercing dark blue - a mirror to his own, the only shared feature, the only reminder of their common blood. Filled with disdain, with disgust.

“What would be a fitting punishment for this, Rhysand? What do you propose?”

The Prince of Night clenched his jaw tight. Against the tears ready to spill, another sign of his weakness and frailty for his father to sneer at.

And also in desperation. To be punished, to have judgment meted out by the High Lord, who he had wronged…who else could give him the condemnation he desired, the retribution fit for his crimes? He could disappear into it - the righteous retaliation of the widower, father, High Lord.

“It was my fault. You warned me. Everyone warned me not to trust him. To trust Tamlin.” His name was noxious in his mouth, his vision still of green eyes and a bright smile, a golden hearty laugh, irreconcilable with this act of viciousness. Of cowardice. “I wasn’t there, when I said I would be. I didn’t protect them. And now they’re - they’re dead. Because of me.”

His voice was a hollowed whisper, his throat ragged and raw. Dead. The first time he spoke the words aloud.

Emrys snorted a laugh, no smile found on his face, shadows cast in his hollow cheeks. “My son. Always the fool.”

Rhysand took a sharp breath against his growing anger. I accept the punishment. I will accept whatever he directs at me. I deserve all of this and more.

The High Lord’s stare did not falter. Rhysand could feel the invectives growing and building inside his father, his lip curling in displeasure. “Always swaggering around the world, like this Cauldron-given power was something you earned. As if it would protect you, as if you were untouchable. The lesson you refused to learn from me.

“You think me mistrusting, isolated. You look upon me with the eyes of fervent youth to only find fault and shortcomings. But now perhaps you will listen to me. Now you will learn. What it takes to have power in this world. What it takes to keep it. You are not an immovable mountain, Rhysand. You are a target. And every day, every moment, your enemies will chip away at you, and everything you hold dear, until they vanquish you. That is the life of a fae of power, that is the life of a High Lord.”

Rhysand inhaled deeply under his cutting look, his father: cold and cruel, forever locked away in his Court, rarely setting foot out of its borders. Rhys had longed for the world, after seeing so much in the war, taking every opportunity to attend summits and meetings and respond to summonses. Hungry for Prythian, for knowledge, for the bright crackle of life and the oddities and newness it held. While his father brooded, paranoid and angry, lying and ignoring the rest of the Courts, keeping the Night Court secrets close.

It was true - he had disregarded him. Had thought him twitchy, frightened, closed minded. Always finding enemies, always hearing the threat behind the door when Rhysand longed only to wrench it open.

“I need to know what else you told him. I need to know if Spring knows about Velaris.”

A cold fist of offense grabbed hold of his heart.

But wasn’t he right, to suspect? To be cautious?

Weren’t his mother and sister more precious to him than the hidden city? And he had given them up without a thought.

“No. He knows nothing beyond public doings of the Hewn City, and some old stories of Illyria.”

“And he knows of your powers? Of your dissatisfactions, of your youthful emotionals and desires to use against you?”

Rhysand swallowed. “Yes. He was my friend.”

Emrys grunted as he sat down again at the foot of his bed. Picking up a stone and a short knife, its handle a soft polished wood inlet with pearl, and started to sharpen.

He was quiet again for a while. Rhysand felt his legs cramp, his kneecaps ache against the stone. “Fortunately for you, you are now my only heir. And while I never sought to have you, I won’t deprive my court of the stability of succession. No matter how little you might deserve it.

“And if you are lucky, you’ll have millennia ahead of you to punish yourself. Or to ask your High Lord to, as you have done with everything difficult in your life. But now is not the time.”

Rhys kept his head bowed, breathing through his despair.

“Get up off your knees.”

“So you will not give me what I desire?”

A hiss emanated from his father. “You are full of grief, and yet still you would fight me instead of listening,” Emrys clenched his jaw as he examined the gleam of the edge of his knife in the raging fireplace. “I will not say I was remiss in your education. I had to forge my legacy alone, as you will, Rhysand. You will learn or you will fail, as the Mother sees fit. The crown will rest on your head. There is no doubt that when I am gone the power will go to you and only you can choose how to handle it. Only six others know what it is to be blessed and tied to the land, and we’d rather cut off our own hands than speak to each other. So do not expect lessons, or a helping hand, when you grapple with the power. ”

He sighed, finally done with the sword, his eyes locked to the flickering flames. “I know when the weight of the court is on your shoulders and the centuries have made you tired and brittle, you will remember me. You’ll remember your foolish, youthful spite and when you finally recognize the solitary prison of your throne, I will be long gone, and unable to assuage you.”

He exhaled again. Sheathed the knife at his side. He brought his sword to his back, strapped across from shoulder blade to hip, unlike the spinal column blade of the Illyrians. “Such is the way of it.”

Rhysand stood still as marble, fists clenched.

He couldn’t believe his father - he would be a different kind of ruler someday, not so cold, not so vicious and merciless. He would dream and work create a Velaris of the whole world.

Emrys laughed, as if sensing his thoughts.

“It is the undeniable truth of being High Lord - that your power came from the death of another. The poets and the historians may dress it up however they like, but a High Lord’s power is forged in death. To be a High Lord is to be fatherless. To be a High Lord is to be alone.”

“I don’t believe that.” All the reaching he had done, his heart straining across long quiet dining tables, aching for the eyes of his father to fall on him, to show even the hint of softness underneath. That hollowness inside made Rhysand brave. “You had your mate. You had your family. You chose to be alone.”

Emrys hummed, dismissive. “I will not argue with a child. Now is not the time.”

“When is the time?” Rhys snapped. If he could not speak plainly with his father when their whole world was broken, could not find a drop of love or care in him even at the death of his family, was there anything decent to be found in him at all?

“I believe you are as fond of this performance of grief as you were of your mother and sister.”

The words hit him like boulders to his chest.

The old man must truly not feel anymore, had lost all ability to understand anything beyond himself and his own power.

Leave it to his father to drag him out of grief and into rage.

“Do I shame you my lord, by mourning for my own flesh and blood? My deepest apologies, I should have known better than to think you would care.”

A snap of power arced across the room, across his face like a blow.

“Do not test me, boy,” the snarl of anger, of pure violence Rhysand had been craving since he set foot under the mountain. Hand on his burning cheek, Rhysand looked up. Saw his father’s knuckles white with restraint. “There are many things, an entire world of things you know nothing of. To lose a mate –” Emrys eyes flickered away, a snarl twitching at his lips. The only sign he was affected. More emotion than Rhys had seen from him in years.

The High Lord closed his eyes. Took a breath deep into his lungs. The tension did not leave his shoulders.

When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You will never know, Rhysand, what it is like. If you are ever cursed and blessed with a mating bond then I wish you better fortune than I. To have a mate is to no longer belong to yourself. To have pieces ripped and torn from you that can never be returned.”

All the hatred Rhys had ever felt for his father gathered at once, roiling in his stomach, acid and poison burning from within. “So you resent her? The Cauldron chose a mate for you and all you feel is regret?” Too late he realized he spoke of her as if she was still here…the pain of remembrance crumpling inside him all over again, even amidst his rage.

“You do not understand.”

Canines, tearing through the soft flesh of his mouth, an iron tang on the Prince’s tongue. “She loved you. I don’t know why, but she did. And all you ever gave her in return were orders, as if she were some servant, as if she were some possession of yours to move from palace to palace. And that was when you weren’t ignoring her outright. Did you ever even –”

The slap on his face this time wasn’t from magic, it was the hard sting of flesh, the rings on his father’s hands bruising his cheekbone.

Rhysand fell from the force of it, hard hewn stone on his back, his father towering over him like a dark storm.

“You don’t understand. There is a part of me now that is gone. Forever. It’s in my chest and there’s a –” another deep breath, his face scrunched in pain.

Emrys fought again to master himself, chest heaving as he stood over his son.

“I don’t understand. How can you be so calm? How can you be so accepting”

The High Lord sighed, burdened and angry. “I carry heavy weights every day. I have grown accustomed to them. The weight of the court is upon me always, the power, the care, the suffering. Obedience and betrayal. A plot at every corner. Sycophants and assassins. And all the while the people who rely on you, open hands, hungry mouths. Their cries of suffering are at your hands, their pain, your failure.” Rhys was surprised at the candor, at the care in his father’s words.

“You are my son, Amira was my daughter, but every Night Court member is my child. My responsibility. This you will learn too one day, if you can someday overcome your natural selfishness. There is no choice or thought…if you are a good High Lord, you will bleed for them a thousand times over and it will never be enough. You learn to protect the inner parts of you, the last bit of blood to keep you going another day.”

“So this is what you have to teach me, father? That I’m doomed to a life of loneliness, that a mating bond is a curse, that I’ll be crushed daily under my duties and responsibilities? That there’s no joy or love in the future, only duty and pain?”

Emrys shrugged. A thoughtless gesture, so boredly casual Rhysand almost laughed. “You will make your own life, Rhysand. One day you will have to make your own choices without me. I will not fight for your understanding if you continue to be a fool. Come, we’re wasting time. The sun is setting across Prythian and night is coming to the Spring Court.”

“What?”

Emrys stood, flipping another sword in his hand to inspect, then sheathing it at his side. He offered a hand to Rhysand. His son flinched.

A steady look passed between them. Filled with stars, filled with eternity. And a question. Rhysand finally took his hand and stood.

The Prince of Night eyed his High Lord with wariness. Although he knew him to be powerful and a fighter in his youth, it was rare for him to be the warrior, to set aside his power and step away from the Illyrian legions to hold steel in his own hands.

“I hope you will be strong. I hope you have learned something from those damned Illyrians. I could have taught you more, but you would’ve made a poor pupil. And I a poor teacher.” Rhysand cocked a brow, at the strange admission. “But it’s too late for that now. Let me teach you the final lesson - how to treat with your enemies.”

Rhysand’s blood went cold.

Yes, he had plenty of thoughts of blood on his hands, of Spring running red with it. And in his heart he knew there was no other answer from his father.

But now it was real.

And Tamlin…his mother…

“It’s high time you put to use these supposed powers of yours. You will show me what everyone whispers across the court about my Cauldron-blessed son.” A command. “You will serve me in this, and work to clean the debt now upon you. You will hold their minds, we will not give them an instant to summon any defense. And they will know the terror that lurks in the darkness.”

There was relief, shameful but sure and calm, at the order of the High Lord. The Prince would have no choice, he would obey orders, he would be a weapon for his father and nothing more.

And yet –

“We cannot kill the Lady of Spring. Every male must bleed, but we cannot be like them.”

Emrys shook his head, his blond hair brushing onto his forehead, strangely disheveled. “You’re still not listening.”

“I am listening. If I had a mating bond, I would not wish the death of my mate. And I would not wish it upon another, if it tears you apart. The death of her family would be enough suffering for all.”

Rhysand saw the resistance, dismissive in his father’s face.

“Promise me.”

Emrys eyes flashed. Rhysand had never demanded things of his father, never had the bravery.

So he watched while the High Lord considered. Nodded. “It will be as you say.”

Emrys stopped the sure movement of his hands, which had been buckling belts, smoothing the front of his tunic, tightening the sheath of his weapons. His gaze upon his son was suddenly heavy, knowing. Rhysand felt the full weight of it. Longing was prickling in him, to winnow, to dive into the violence awaiting them before he had time to balk.

In a matter of hours, maybe minutes, Tamlin would be dead. The Spring Court decimated by Night. A High Lord killed for his crimes, descendents wiped from the earth.

No matter the thrumming power of the order of his father, Prythian would know what befell the Spring Court. Who was the only one who could hold minds and overpower High Lords and their sons. This was the beginning of his legacy. His father would lead the way but Prythian, and the world, would soon only know the son of Night as the terrible angel of retribution.

Slowly, Emrys unsheathed the knife from his side. Flipped it in a smooth motion. Offered it, gleaming wood handle, to his son.

An order. A question.

Rhysand breathed. Traced the inlet pearl in the handle with his eyes, glimmering like starlight.

Two faces, contorted in pain. The tinkling of laughter, the warmth of wings encircling him. The soft sound of his mother’s voice as she sang him to sleep.

Rhysand reached out his hand, and grasped the knife.

Read on AO3

#rhysandweek2024 #rhysandweek #rhysand fanfiction #rhysand's father #toxic families are fun #acotar fanfiction #angst for you babes #my writing

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heavenlytouches · 13 days

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The Walking Dead x Rick's Sister Reader please?

Y/N was in a special unit but she was bitten so they tried an experimental treatment on her, the virus was stopped but she had bloodshot eyes, black veins all over her body and increased aggression and less ability to talk more growls but the infected don't notice her when she's around. She runs away from her brother, but he convinces her to come with him.

Hello love!! Thank you so much for this great request! I really love your idea, it's great. I hope you'll like this one ^^ El <3

Rick Grimes- find a way

•𓇼°🐚·☾.

FEM reader

<3 (SFW)

TW- none

BROTHER! Rick Grimes

Post-infected reader

Rick Grimes

The moon hung low in the night sky, its pale light filtering through the twisted branches of the barren trees. You could hear the faint rustling of leaves, each sound amplified in the heavy silence of the world that surrounded you.

You had once been part of a special unit, proud and trained, but the bite had changed everything. It was a nightmare—once human, now straddling the line between survival and something monstrous.

The experimental treatment had saved your life, but it had left you more beast than person. Bloodshot eyes, black veins like gnarled roots spiraling across your pale skin, and an unsettling growl that replaced words.

Tonight, you were running away from your brother Rick, who had cared for you with an intensity that made your heart ache. You could feel him close behind as you darted through the remnants of what used to be civilization, but you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want to hurt him, and you couldn’t bear to have him look at you with those eyes full of worry and love.

With each step you took, anger and fear coiled tighter in your chest. You glanced back briefly, catching a glimpse of his familiar figure shadowed by the moonlight- a pillar of strength, always brave, always careful.

“Stop!”

He called, voice thick with desperation, breaking the stillness of the night.

But you didn’t stop. You kept running, the weight of his concern trailing behind you like a haunting whisper.

You had become something else. Something dangerous. You brushed past the remnants of a crumbled street, the echoes of the past whispering secrets you no longer understood.

Rick wasn’t like the others, the ones who had succumbed to the virus. He could always see you- his sister, the one he fought for. The thought made your pulse race, a painful reminder of the love you wanted to reject for both of your sakes.

As the infection spread through the world, Rick’s world, you had become an unwanted weapon, a living danger lurking within the shadows.

“Please! You... don’t understand!”

You felt the words bubbling up, but in this wretched state, all that escaped your lips was a low, deep growl. It sent shivers down your spine, and you clenched your jaw shut, refusing to acknowledge the truth- you were losing yourself.

Rick's footsteps grew louder, and it lit a fire of panic within you. You didn’t want him to catch you. The thought of him seeing you in this state made your insides twist with a primal urge to hide.

But even as you ran, you could hear his comforting voice cutting through darkness.

“I won’t leave you! You’re still my sister! We’ll find a way!”

The relentless pounding of your heart echoed with every growl that reverberated in your throat. Instinctively, you knew that the infected didn’t see you as one of their own.

They passed by, oblivious, but only because you controlled the monstrous side of yourself, the side that wanted to rend and tear. If Rick were to come close, if he were to truly see the horror that was now you, there would be no way to reassure him.

You hurtled through the void, branches clawing at your arms. The truth flooded your mind- the experimental treatment hadn’t eradicated the virus; it had transformed it, refined it into something that twisted your very humanity.

You hadn’t asked for this battle; you hadn’t chosen this path. The growls emerged, and as you reached the edge of a dilapidated building, you heard Rick bark your name again, filled with both fear and determination.

“Please! Just let me help you!”

Your feet slowed, the instinct to flee stalling as his voice wrapped around you like a familiar embrace. Torn between the ferocity growing within and the warmth of familial love, you gasped, the remnants of your humanity surfacing.

In that very moment, you turned to face him.

Shoulders squared, chest heaving, bloodshot eyes locked onto his, you growled again- a low, instinctual response to the fear that clawed at you. But beneath that growl, the fragmented pieces of you screamed for help, for understanding.

Rick took a cautious step forward, his jaw tight but his eyes unwavering.

“You’re not a monster...”

He said, voice steady, holding your gaze like a lifeline.

“You’re my sister. Whatever happened, we can face it together.”

You felt the weight of his words, the truth they carried. And yet, the tears that you couldn’t allow to surface burned from within. Rick drew nearer, a beacon of hope shining through the murky fog of your existence, and it began to crack the hardness pooling around your heart.

With a sudden rush of energy, you fell to your knees, the growl subsiding as anguish rippled through you. Your vision blurred, the black veins pulsing like dark rivers beneath your skin.

“I-I don’t want to hurt you..” You finally managed to whisper, your voice raw and quivering, a faint echo of the sister he remembered.

Rick knelt before you, the distance between you closing like a bridge forming across an abyss.

“You won’t hurt me. We’re in this together. I swear it.”

The deep-rooted instinct that had driven you into isolation began to ease. You felt the layers of fear start to peel away.

Yes, you were different, yes, there was darkness creeping inside you, but there was still a flicker of light- a bond forged through love and resilience.

As you looked up at him, your heart full of conflicting emotions, you understood that if you were going to fight against what the world had made you become, you wouldn’t do it alone.

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll come with you.”

You managed to say before another growl ripped it's way out of your chest. Rick didn't back out. He just stood there, looking at you.

Rick smiled, a mixture of relief and pride lighting up his face.

“Let’s find a way to make it through this. Together.”

And as you stood to face the chaos ahead, the shadows breathing around you, they faded just a little, replaced by the bond of family. The last remnant of hope in a world gone dark. It was time to reclaim who you were, and with Rick by your side, you would find a way.

I hope you liked this one!! I really adored this theme, it's so unique and cool. Remember guys, I write for a lot of characters/fandoms and requests are always open!

El <3

(all images were made by: El via canva & paint)

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wytchoftheways · 9 months

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Horned God Invocation: ⛦

By the flame that burneth bright

O Horned One!

We call thy name into the night

O Horned One!

Thee we invoke by the moon led sea

By the standing stone and the twisted tree

Thee we invoke where gather thine own

By the nameless shrine forgotten and lone

Come where the round of the dance is trod

Horn and hoof of the goat-foot God

By moonlit meadow on dusky hill

When the haunted wood is hushed and still

Come to the charm of the chanted prayer

As the moon bewitches the midnight air

Evoke thy powers, that potent bide

In shining stream and secret tide

In fiery flame by starlight pale

In shadowy host that ride the gale

And by the fern-brakes fairy-haunted

Of forests wild and wood enchanted

Come! O Come!

To the heartbeats drum!

Come to us who gather below

When the broad white moon is climbing slow

Through the stars to the heavens height

We hear thy hoofs on the wind of night

As black tree branches shake and sigh

By joy and terror we know thee nigh

We speak the spell thy power unlocks

At Solstice, Sabbat, and Equinox

Word of virtue the veil to rend

From primal dawn to the wide world's end

Since time began---

The blessing of Pan!

Blessed be all in hearth and hold

Blessed in all worth more than gold

Blessed be in strength and love

Blessed be wher'er we rove

Vision fade not from our eyes

Of the pagan paradise

Past the gates of death and birth

Our inheritance of the earth

From our soul the song of spring

Fade not in our wandering

Our life with all life is one,

By blackest night or noonday sun

Eldest of gods, on thee we call

Blessing be on thy creatures all.

🕯️🐐🕯️

🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿

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justabigoldnerd · 3 months

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Five Senses Tag

Oooooo I love this idea

Rules: Share a snippet to represent each of the five senses! (Taste, Touch, Smell, Sight and Sound)

My entries are under the cut for length reasons lol 💕

Taste: "An American Werewolf in London"

Solo was skilled in the kitchen. He never made a dish he couldn't stomach, and if it was any less than perfect, he'd practice until it was. Now, however, everything he made tasted bland at best and nauseating at worst. The strangest thing was that Illya and Gaby didn't seem to notice a difference. They enjoyed his meals as always, rarely leaving leftovers, while Solo hadn't eaten in a week. And he was starving. Late one night, as Solo's stomach ate itself with hunger, he scoured through every ingredient in their apartment in London, throwing together any and every concoction he could come up with. Still, he couldn't get it right. His knees sent sharp pain through his legs by the time he finally sat in a chair, facing the open refrigerator. It was almost empty now, the cold light it was emitting cast in a sharp angle over his form. Solo held his head in his hands, trying to ignore the throbbing in his arm and head. What was wrong with him? Nothing worked, nothing would fix this. Nothing would satiate the intense craving for…. For….what? Solo's line of sight followed the light, his hearing focused on the electricity buzzing from inside. On the top shelf was a cut of meat wrapped in butcher paper. It was lamb; the star of the dinner he didn't have all the ingredients for yet. His stomach growled. Maybe he could whip something up. Just sear it with some herbs he had left. Solo stood and retrieved the lambchop, unwrapping the butcher paper as quietly as he could so he wouldn't wake his partners. A tingling sensation started up in his jaw, and before he realized what he was doing, he sat back heavily in the chair. The meat was frigid and soft in his hands. Applying just the slightest pressure yielded an oozing trail of myoglobin down his forearm. Solo brought it closer to his face, his heart thundering. Some primal part of his mind knew what he needed to do, but the thought of it made him nauseous– more so than anything he had cooked. Despite the disgust he felt towards the instinct, he didn't have the strength to fight it. He needed to feed. The buzzing sound grew louder as Solo screwed his eyes shut and gingerly sunk his teeth into the flesh of the lamb. Effortlessly, he tore from it, separating it from the bone and swallowing it down like a ravenous animal. Solo didn't vomit. His stomach didn't even churn. In fact, he enjoyed the taste of the raw meat on his tongue, the feeling of rending its flesh with nothing but too-sharp canines. That was what sickened him. But he was just so hungry. The lambchop was gone in less than five minutes. The kitchen looked like a murder scene, and Solo the homicidal beast. His hands shook, and revulsion twisted in his chest. Notably, his head had stopped pounding, and his arm was painless. What the fuck?

Touch: "The Most Dangerous Game" [Expanded]

Illya's eyes fluttered open and he was met with an extraordinary sight. Water soaked Solo's hair, gradually freeing his curls from their pomade prison, it dripped from his nose, and fell in sheets over his chest and shoulders, making his skin glisten. Mouth parted, Illya brushed his fingertips along Solo's ribcage. He dragged his hand over the curve of his pectoral muscle, noting old and new scars partially hidden by the spattering of black hair there, then let it come to rest on the back of Solo's neck. Like magnets, they drew each other in, indulging in a more delicate kiss that had them both smiling into it. The horrible question that had hovered over his head for the entire journey back was answered in earnest with that kiss. Illya felt something click into place in his chest.

Smell: "The X-Men From U.N.C.L.E."

Somewhere deep in the wretched fumes of suffering, an impossible thing broke through. As Charles pulled Erik aside to talk, the sunlight of hope began to shine through the fog. “You seem uncertain,” Illya rumbled quietly. “Not uncertain,” Solo amended, “Just….piecing things together. How's Ms. Teller?” “Mm,” Illya hummed and crossed his arms defensively. Solo wished he could see what he was thinking. “Shaken. Better now that I am not near her.” “To be fair, you are six feet of wrath. But she's not afraid of you, if that's what you think.” “How do you know?” “Remember the airport?” Solo prompted, then at Illya's questioning silence, he continued, “Fear has a very….prominent pallet. It smells like death, tastes like rot. It's everywhere, right now, but before? On the plane? The only thing I sensed from her was amusement. You were the one who reeked of fear.”

Sight: "Nanites Library AU"

It doesn't take long for Solo to spot Illya in the crowd. He is smiling, which is a rare treat in and of itself. But he's also at a table of children, presumably walking them through how to put together whatever plastic contraption they have between them. The kids are laughing with him, having a blast, and though Solo cannot hear what he's saying over the drone, he can imagine the velvet of his voice in gentle tones as he entertains them. Butterflies fill Solo's stomach and a lopsided grin spreads across his face. He stuffs his hand in his pockets and leans against the doorway, just watching this grizzled giant grow soft around the edges. Solo had never wanted kids in his life, and the CIA was certainly not the place for it, but in the moment, if the Russian had asked him, he would've said yes.

Sound: "Scorching Out Thine Sovereignty"

Ultimately, that is what does it. It is brief, but he hears himself scream, hears the hissing pop of the machine short-circuiting, feels hot blood roll down his own face. Feels the hands of the nurses holding down his thrashing body. Hands aren't what binds Solo to the chair, Illya reminds himself in a desperate attempt to shake away the memory. “I never thought I'd say this,” the wrecked sound of Solo's voice, hoarse and breathy, snaps Illya out of it, “But I’m actually quite pleased to see you.”

Ahhhhh this was a HUNT lmao I'm sorry if I've already posted some of these ajdgsjskhdsj

Anyway, no pressure tagging @pippinoftheshire @the-golden-comet @huggiebird @yallwildinrn @too-young-to-fall-in-love

@times-up-alone-tonight @nicijones @cha-melodius @heytheredeann @thattripleabattery aaaaand anyone I've missed or anyone who sees this and wants to join!! 💕💕💕💕💕

#tmfu #the man from uncle #tmfu movie #illya kuryakin #napoleon solo #gaby teller #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #tag game #five senses

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turnthemasunder-if · 1 year

Text

My Third Interactive Story

Turn Them Asunder is an interactive novel, about a little child's family was murdered by a Lycan seeking vengeance

There are 4 love interest for you to choose from, 2 males and females each with their own past and secrets for you to learn!

(Note: The RO's are not final. I might add more in the near future and that no romance is not a option. Also, I want this novel open as much as possible not restricting itself to the medieval time era or any kind of era. For example, I might put modern music in the novel.)

(Warning: 18+ The story includes the following: Violence, , swears, cliché's, innuendo and many more will be added in the future)

Link: Demo, Discord

Introduction:

It has been too long since that accursed night, too long since you enjoyed your life but the fates have chosen you as their unlucky entertainment.

Everything happened too fast, your parents were tucking you in bed and kissing your forehead goodnight. You feel safe and happy hoping that this will last forever and you dreamed about rainbows and sweets.

Then you eyes fluttered open to the sounds of scream echoing in the night, you rose up from your bed and went to the noise, creeping slowly on the staircase and you can hear fighting and cursing. Then what you saw that night will forever haunt you, your parents is fighting some sort of monstrosity at first you see them winning but the beast got it's second wind and overpowering your parents.

Killing them, rending their flesh and bathing and eating their insides their blood spraying on the walls and onto you but you were to shocked to notice it, to terrified to move and scream when the beast spotted you and planning that you will be their next meal.

The beast grabbed you by the neck and taking a bite of you, a nibble to be exact savoring each taste then that is when they bit you on the neck.

Well that's in the past, today your a hunter a special one of a kind hunter, you were cursed that night and you turned into a beast as well but you were different than the common creature of the night.]

You have their strengths but none of their weaknesses.

The hunt is beginning and you will end their unlife.

You know what they say; "It takes a monster to destroy a monster"

Features

Pick your MC's gender

*Customize your MC's physical appearance.

*Make choices that will affect the story and the people around you.

*Improve your skills.

*Can you find love among the team? Know their story, see what makes them tick. 2 males and 2 females with their own personality and supernatural side.

*Will you follow and embrace the darkness that is festering within you or will you fight against it.

*Battle vampires, werewolfs, ghouls, thralls.

*Oh! A special voice will be talking to Tarnish!

Romance Options:

Maria Torres, A.K.A Spawn {F}

"Size does not equate to performance!"

You’ve never met anyone like her before. She’s a Filipina, a former policewoman who left her homeland in search of a better life. But fate had other plans for her. One night, she heard a commotion taking in a dark alley, and something inside her snapped. She felt a surge of power, a primal instinct to protect the innocent and destroy crime. That was the night you found her, and turned her into one of your own.

She’s not just a woman, she’s a hybrid. A hunter, like you, who prowls the night for evil. Your uncle, the leader of your team, has assigned you to train her and teach her the ways of your kind. It’s not an easy task, but you’re determined to help her adapt and survive.

She’s a paradox, a contradiction. She’s tough and fierce, but also vulnerable and sensitive. She’s sarcastic and rude, but also shy and sweet. She’s small and lean, but also strong and wild. She’s like a irritating puzzle that won't fit in on the board and darn captivating as well, and you can’t help but feel drawn to her.

But she’s also stubborn and independent. She pushes you away at every turn, trying to keep her distance from you. She acts like she doesn’t need you, or anyone else. But when you flirt with her, she blushes and tries to hide her horrible poker and angwy face. You can tell she’s hiding something, something that makes her afraid to let you in.

"Will you be able to break through her walls, or will you fall victim to her feisty attitude? There’s something about Maria that will leave you breathless and curious. Her story is a mystery that you want to solve, and her character is one that you’ll fall in love with or fell in love with her personality."

Charles Tepes, A.K.A Bloodless {M}

Physical Appearance:

"The soulless feeds on humans, while I feast on the vampires dead beating hearts!"

Meet the descendant of Vlad The Impaler himself, a powerful lineage that would make any vampire quake in fear. But despite his ancestry, he is seen as nothing more than a low blood by his fellow vampires. Why, you may ask? It's because his father committed the ultimate sin in the eyes of the Court Of Blood - he fell in love with a human, making his son a Dhampir.

As if that wasn't enough, his family was eradicated for violating the sacred rule of never weakening their line by cavorting with a human. It's no wonder why he's driven by vengeance, wanting to burn and stake those responsible for the trauma that he's suffered. He'll move heaven and earth to avenge the honor and lives of his past family, and nothing will stop him.

But beneath his hardened exterior lies a heart that beats with passion and longing. Can you be the one to reignite that spark, or will you end up on his list of bastards to get staked?

"He's a mysterious and alluring character, one that will leave you with goosebumps and a desire to know more about him. Despite his troubled past, there's something about him that draws you in, making you want to unravel the secrets of his heart. Will you take the chance and fall for this dark and brooding Charles?"

Angel Lustra, A.K.A Ripper {F}

Physical Appearance:

"Top to the morning to yah! Business or pleasure?

As you approach the Legion's resident devil, Angel, you can't help but feel a sense of trepidation. Don't be fooled by the name, for she's no heavenly creature. But as you get closer, you also can't deny the allure that surrounds her. There's something about her that draws you in, despite the danger that seems to emanate from her very being.

Angel is not just any blacksmith - she's the one responsible for developing the weapons of the team. And she takes her job very seriously. Her nickname is not just for show, as she's earned it in the most brutal and satisfying way - by leaving her enemies to rest in pieces.

She's an unhinged and demolition specialist, and she wants every weapon she crafts to make the creatures combust or implode. Her services may be acceptable, but when she's deployed on the battlefield, heads will always roll and blood will run freely.

As you try to court Angel, you can't help but wonder if you'll be able to stay in one piece. Her past suitors have not fared well, and you can still feel the chill that runs down your spine when you think about the gruesome ends they met.

They all ended up as mutilated corpses, or worse, as her personal playthings. But you think you can be different. You think you can tame the beast within her, and make her yours.

"But there's something about Angel that makes you want to take the risk. Her bloodthirsty aura, combined with her deadly skills and sharp wit, is enough to make anyone weak in the knees. Can you resist her dangerous charm and win her heart without losing your own? Angel is a character that will make your heart race and your skin crawl with burning desire or maybe your just burning in flames right now?"

Chase Holland, A.K.A Seeker {M}

Physical Appearance:

"I hope this playfulness of yours is good in bed, yes?"

You’ve always been curious about the Lycan and tracker of the group. He’s a self-proclaimed incubus, a lover of all things living and breathing. He claims it’s his nature, his animal instinct, but you wonder if he’s just hiding behind his lust. He’s a skilled hunter, and he never fails to deliver his target. But he also never misses a chance to seduce anyone who catches his eye. He’s charming, but he’s also reckless.

Despite his sleazy demeanor, there's something dark and intriguing about him. He avoids talking about it, and whenever you try to pry, he distracts you with his compliments. He makes you feel special, but you also know he says the same thing to everyone else.

But as you spend more time with him, you start to see a different side of him. A side that’s deeper, more complex, more genuine. A side that makes you want to know him better, and maybe even love him.

"Will you be able to break through his walls and reach his heart? Or will you be just another notch on his belt? Chase is a character that will make your pulse quicken and your mind wander will limitless possibilities on the topic of love and its sub-topics. Will your love for him blossom into something real and everlasting, or will it be just a dust on the wind?"

#if #demo #romance #interactive novel #adventure #status: wip #itch.io #twine story #writeblr #dark humor #supernatural #hunter #Turn Them Asunder

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findingoblivion · 3 months

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yes you may tear me asunder, like a watermelon

yippeeeee hooray rending into you with my hands and teeth and pinning you down and going feral over you with such a primal need that you will forever be changed after i'm done with you

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elysiumania · 1 year

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title: fragile reflections pairing(s): blade, reader characters: blade, kafka, silver wolf, elio word count: 6.4k synopsis: as the moment unfolds, you believed victory was within your grasp, only to be met with an unexpected twist of fate. blade emerges as the ultimate victor, proving that when it comes to skill and long-lasting life, he surpasses you. this realization instills a profound understanding that there are depths to blade's abilities that outshine your own.

Within the expansive confines of the Stellaron Hunters' concealed headquarters, the training ground resonated with the thunderous clash and rhythmic swish of a finely honed blade slicing through forged metal. Overlooking the spectacle, nestled within the confines of the state-of-the-art modular training room, stood Silver Wolf. Her piercing gaze surveyed the scene below, attentively observing the unfolding exhibition of martial prowess.

Amidst the orchestrated chaos, a man emerged as the focal point, his dark blue-hued tresses swirling through the air with an untamed grace. Embodied by an aura of controlled ferocity, he stood resolute amidst the whirlwind of activity, embarking on an unyielding encounter with the meticulously crafted training machines. These automatons, a testament to the ingenuity of the hunters’ skilled hacker, were no match for his formidable abilities.

The man's eyes, ablaze with an otherworldly crimson radiance, mirrored his innermost desires—a primal longing for the thrill of battle and the exhilaration of spilt blood. Yet, his movements betrayed a grace and finesse that belied the raw intensity burning within. With each step and strike, he danced effortlessly amidst the mechanical foes, his lithesome form evading their onslaught with a combination of instinct and honed skill.

As the clash of steel echoed through the training grounds, the air hummed with an electric energy, captivating all who bore witness to this display of martial artistry. The man's proficiency with the blade was unparalleled, his strikes executed with a precision that showcased years of disciplined training. It was as if he had transcended mere mortal limitations, his every motion a testament to the consummate fusion of mind, body and spirit.

For the past half-hour, Silver Wolf had maintained a silent vigil, her unwavering focus fixated on the unfolding spectacle before her. The training ground had become an arena of chaos, a maelstrom of clashing blades and rending metal that assaulted her senses. Each swing and strike from Blade echoed with a thunderous noise that reverberated through the cavernous space.

In any other circumstance, Silver Wolf would have sought solace in the virtual worlds or reveled in a rare day of reprieve from their demanding mission. But today was different. She had chosen to remain, to bear witness to the sheer might and skill emanating from her comrade. The resounding clash of metal, though deafening, was a testament to Blade's unrivaled prowess and the inherent dangers they faced as Stellaron Hunters.

The vision of Silver Wolf partaking in a well-deserved respite, following the successful completion of their latest mission under the watchful guidance of Elio, now felt like a fleeting dream. Her companion, an insufferable and insatiable man, wasted no time in asserting his insatiable appetite for training, demanding a veritable army of automatons upon their return to the headquarters.

Silver Wolf's eyes flickered with a blend of disbelief and exasperation as she cast a skeptical glance on Blade. The audacity of his request, to acquire a multitude of automatons at this critical juncture, bordered on the absurd. Yet, as her gaze locked onto the fiery intensity burning within Blade's eyes, brimming with an insatiable thirst for combat, she found herself with little choice but to yield to his demand. It wasn't a matter of feeling inferior to him; rather, it served as an unspoken recompense for his timely intervention, saving her from the relentless assault of their adversaries during their pursuit of the elusive stellaron.

The notion of indebtedness was an unwelcome concept in Silver Wolf's mind. She harbored an intense aversion to the notion of owing favors, and her unyielding resolve demanded immediate action to settle any debts that may have accrued. She refused to bear the weight of obligations and burdens, even if Blade himself never entertained such thoughts.

Thus, despite her yearning for respite and the solace of her personal quarters, Silver Wolf felt compelled by her sense of duty to discharge the debt owed to Blade. She comprehended that the conception of reciprocation scarcely traversed his mind, but she remained steadfast in her commitment to uphold her principles and ensure a clean slate, devoid of any lingering sense of obligation.

As Blade's onslaught continued, the metallic chorus reached its zenith, rising to an overwhelming crescendo that permeated the air with a symphony of strife. Each strike from Blade's sword, an extension of his very being, carried a ferocity that shattered the training machines like fragile porcelain, leaving behind a trail of broken fragments strewn across the field of the training ground. The scattered remains, akin to fallen soldiers on a hard-fought battlefield, bore witness to the magnitude of his prowess and the unyielding force that coursed through his veins.

Silver Wolf, deeply engrossed in her tenth endeavor to activate an array of diverse automatons, was abruptly startled from her task by the distinct sound of the glass door being swung open. Swiftly swiveling her chair, she found herself confronted by the unexpected sight of Kafka and yourself entering the room.

Kafka, her characteristic mischievous smile gracing her features, strode in with an air of familiarity, while you accompanied her with an enigmatic expression that concealed your immediate intentions. With a friendly flourish of your hand, you greeted Silver Wolf, offering a warm acknowledgement of her presence within the room.

"Oh, so here you both are," Kafka exclaimed, her voice brimming with a delightful blend of inquisitiveness and amusement. "I've been searching for you and Bladie since some of the crew informed me that you've returned from your mission and ventured off to the training grounds."

Silver Wolf nodded in response, her attention momentarily diverted from Blade's fierce swordplay outside the glass, as Kafka continued to observe the intense spectacle.

"Yes, once we arrived, Blade wasted no time in requesting the use of my machines for his training," she replied wearily, a hint of exhaustion lacing her voice. "Perhaps he needed an outlet to release some pent-up tension."

Letting out a weary sigh, Silver Wolf turned her gaze towards you, seeking to understand your presence in the room. "And what about you, (Name)?" she inquired, her eyes reflecting both curiosity and a touch of fatigue. "What brings you here?"

You cast Kafka a sidelong glance, a mixture of amusement and exasperation gleaming in your eyes, as she posed her question. "Kafka practically dragged me away just as I was en route to the cafeteria for some nourishment."

Kafka, undeterred by your response, tilts her head and playfully queries, "Aren't you eager to offer a warm welcome to our esteemed hunters, freshly returned from their mission?" Her smirk reflects a mischievous glint in her eyes.

In response to her playful inquiry about welcoming the returning hunters, you and Silver Wolf exchange furtive glances, silently sharing an unspoken understanding. Finally, you turn your attention back to Kafka, and in a casual tone, you confess, "I suppose... my inclination does not lean particularly in that direction."

Kafka's laughter resounded through the room, a vibrant eruption, carrying a sense of carefree exuberance that seemed to emanate from the depths of her very being. As her laughter subsided, she addressed you, her voice tinged with amusement and a mischievous undertone that laced her words with playful teasing.

"(Name)," she remarked, her tone a delicate balance between jest and genuine curiosity, "You truly possess an air of rigidity. Perhaps it's time to unwind and embrace a lighter approach? Or perchance the allure of embarking on another mission has been gnawing at you during this month of dormancy within the confines of our headquarters?"

Your response was involuntary, a subtle scrunching of the nose and the formation of a deep crease upon your forehead betraying the truth behind Kafka's astute observation. You could not deny it—the restlessness had taken root within you, a persistent itch that fueled an insatiable yearning for the thrill of a fresh mission. The boundaries of the headquarters, once a bastion of purpose and strength, had gradually become stifling and confining. They now dulled your finely honed skills and eroded your sense of self, leaving you yearning for the exhilaration and purpose that only a new endeavor could provide.

Elio's firm determination to keep you on the sidelines remained a confounding enigma, a perplexing puzzle that teased at the corners of your mind. Initially, it was easy to attribute it to the critical mission undertaken by Kafka and Silver Wolf as they infiltrated Herta's impregnable space station. Yet, as the days stretched into weeks, and missions were deftly assigned to other members, the absence of targeted orders directed specifically to you left you adrift in a sea of bewilderment, seething with an all-consuming anger that threatened to consume you whole.

The sheer absurdity of the situation only served to exacerbate your mounting frustrations. The knowledge of your capabilities, honed through countless trials and triumphs, echoed relentlessly in your mind, a reminder of your worth and the contributions you could offer to the cause. It was as if the very essence of your purpose had been cast aside, relegated to the shadows while others took center stage. The tempest of emotions churned within, a potent blend of indignation, resentment, and a simmering sense of injustice that surged through your being.

In the depths of your mind, a maze of questions twisted and turned, their answers elusive like phantoms in the mist. Doubts, like shadows, crept insidiously into your thoughts, their insidious tendrils probing the very core of your existence.

Did Elio harbor reservations about your capabilities? Was there a seed of doubt that had taken root, deeming you unfit to face the arduous challenges that the missions entailed? Perhaps, in his eyes, your presence posed a lurking liability, casting a shroud of uncertainty upon the success of the team's endeavors. The lack of clarity, like a gust of wind, fanned the flames of speculation and self-doubt, igniting a tempestuous storm within your consciousness.

Yet, amidst the tumultuous sea of uncertainty and frustration, there remained a steadfast trust in Elio, an unfaltering belief that he held intricate plans concealed beneath his enigmatic demeanor. His clairvoyant abilities, whispered in hushed reverence, carried an aura of mystique and substance. Elio possessed a talent for speaking in riddles, weaving his messages with an intricate tapestry of words that masked the full extent of his intentions.

His every utterance, like ancient prophecies, cast a tantalizing veil of intrigue over his actions. And while this ambiguity often left you grappling in the dark, struggling to decipher his enigmatic clues, you understood the weight and significance of such abilities. You never wavered in acknowledging the gravity of his visions.

But the absence of any inkling, any morsel of guidance regarding your current state of uncertainty, left you adrift, much like a solitary vessel lost amidst the boundless sea. Each step forward felt like stumbling through an enigmatic labyrinth, where the path ahead remained concealed within a dense fog of ambiguity, teasing your senses and confounding your every decision.

Even Kafka, Elio's most trusted confidante, seemed devoid of insight into your predicament. As she and the other stellaron hunters departed for their daring missions, a bittersweet envy flickered in your eyes—a longing to be part of their adventures, to embrace the thrill of the unknown. Sensing your yearning, Kafka became a beacon of solace, assuring you with words of encouragement that your turn would come, that destiny would soon unveil its plans for you. In an effort to offer further solace and a tangible connection to their journeys, she promised to return with souvenirs from the exotic worlds they traversed—a gesture brimming with thoughtfulness and consideration.

In those moments, a profound sense of gratitude swelled within you, radiating warmth amidst the desolation of your stagnant existence. Kafka's kindness, though seemingly small in the grand scheme of things, became a lifeline—a fragile thread of connection that alleviated the monotony of your prison-like days. Each trinket or token she brought back became a cherished treasure, a fleeting glimpse into the worlds beyond, a portal through which you could briefly escape the confines of your confinement.

Returning back to your senses, you regard Kafka's question again. "Yes, I am. I want to go on a mission after getting stuck here like a prisoner. I feel useless when I'm the only one being left here while the four of you are going on a hunt."

As the weight of your words settles in the air, Kafka's keen eyes scan your face with an understanding born out of years spent in companionship and shared experiences. She recognizes the subtle nuances, the minute shifts in your countenance, that reveal the emotions you struggle to conceal—the bitterness, the sense of unfairness that tugs at the corners of your lips, threatening to spill forth.

In the beginning, when you first joined the ranks of the stellaron hunters, you wore a cloak of mystery, distancing yourself from the others and erecting walls that shielded your true self from prying eyes. But over time, a gradual transformation occurred, and the fortress of stoicism you once donned began to crumble, revealing glimpses of vulnerability and authenticity. The layers peeled away, revealing new facets of your being, and Kafka, ever perceptive, observed this change with a mixture of satisfaction and contentment. It was evident to the growing trust between you, a sign that the bonds of fellow hunters had woven themselves deep within your heart.

Kafka's gaze lingers on your face, her own expression a mirror of understanding. She acknowledges the frustration that simmers within you, the yearning to break free from the confines of your confinement, to once again venture on missions that test your skills and ignite your spirit. Her voice, when it comes, carries a gentle reassurance.

"I understand," she says, her words a soothing balm to the restlessness that churns within your soul. "It is natural to feel that way, to crave the thrill of the hunt when you are left behind. But trust that Elio has his reasons, hidden though they may be. We are Destiny's Slaves and each role we play is integral to our collective success. Your time will come, (Name), and when it does, you are free to do as you wish."

Her words, spoken with the weight of sincerity, convey a profound understanding and an unyielding faith in the tapestry of destiny that intertwines your fates. In her eyes, there is no doubt, no hesitation even if Kafka's a known mischievous and enigmatic woman.

But for you, you are aware that the temporary reprieve that enveloped you in its gentle embrace couldn't mask the underlying truth that gnawed at your core. As the moments of ease slipped through your fingers like sand, you were acutely aware that the specter of frustration loomed just beyond the horizon. Tomorrow, or another day when clarity continued to elude you, the weight of unanswered questions and unfulfilled purpose would resurface, seeping back into your consciousness like a relentless tide.

You knew all too well that the calm facade you wore today would eventually crumble, giving way to the storm of emotions that swirled within. It was a cycle, a rhythm that played out time and again, leaving you caught in the perpetual dance of anticipation and disappointment. The weight of confusion pressed upon your shoulders, reminding you that the unwarranted luxury of relaxation could never truly drown out the echoes of unfulfilled aspirations.

With a languid tone, Kafka muses, her index finger thoughtfully placed upon her chin. "Were I in your shoes," she begins, "I would readily savor this moment of respite. It is undeniably a luxury to indulge in relaxation, considering the demanding nature of our profession. So, I intend to seize the opportunity and start on my own personal vacation, unburdened by responsibilities or concerns."

As Kafka's words flowed from her lips, a discernible undercurrent of longing wove through her tone, resonating with the weight of her unspoken desires. You, intimately acquainted with her journey as a stellaron hunter, recognized the deep-seated yearning that permeated her speech. Countless missions, each one demanding and arduous, had been entrusted to her capable hands by Elio himself. The weight of responsibility she carried, shouldering the expectations and trust placed upon her, was immense.

You understood the toll that her consecutive missions had taken on Kafka, the toll that went beyond physical exertion and delved into the field of emotional and mental fatigue. The constant vigilance, the endless pursuit of dangerous prey, had become a relentless cycle that left her yearning for a respite, a momentary escape from the burdensome load she carried.

In her role as Elio's confidante, Kafka bore the heavy weight of his trust like a skilled conductor, orchestrating and executing missions with unwavering dedication. The weight of her responsibilities was akin to an intricately woven tapestry, each thread representing a mission, a life entrusted to her capable hands. With each passing day, the tapestry grew denser, the threads multiplying, until it threatened to engulf her entirely. The need for a vacation, a respite from the constant whirlwind, had become an urgent necessity.

In that fleeting moment, a vivid tableau painted itself before your mind's eye, depicting Kafka liberating herself from the binding chains of responsibility. It was her very essence yearned to break free from the constraints of their esteemed profession, to venture forth into a realm where her worries and obligations held no sway. The palpable longing in her eyes spoke volumes, revealing an ardent desire to partake in the unadulterated joys of unfettered freedom and self-gratification.

Hence, you understand the reason why she said those words. You have no say.

As if a thunderous clap resounded through the training grounds, seizing your collective attention, you and the two others turned to witness Blade's final strike cleaving through the last vestige of Silver Wolf's intricate machine. In an instant, the room fell silent, save for the lingering echoes of destruction. And with an abrupt motion, Blade's gaze darted at the modular training room where the three of you are settled.

Silver Wolf, weariness etched upon her visage, heaved a weary sigh, as she already sensed the message conveyed by Blade's piercing gaze alone. No words were necessary, as he stood amidst the remnants of conquered contraptions strewn across the field, his silent proclamation resounding through the air.

Through the telecoms of the training ground, Silver's voice resounds as she addresses Blade, "Blade, there are no automatons remaining. You have successfully eradicated them all with your own hands. However, please be aware that my machines require a week's time before they can be utilized once again."

If Silver Wolf remembers it correctly, her role did not encompass the creation of machines solely for Blade's destructive pleasure. She was not a mere servant to fulfill his whims, nor was she bound by duty to tirelessly churn out automatons to cater to his insatiable desires. The incessant demands placed upon her by her relentless fellow hunter had taken a toll, leaving her exhausted and irritable.

Each time Blade laid waste to her meticulously crafted machines in the training grounds, Silver Wolf couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration. The weariness etched upon her features betrayed the burdens she bore, both physical and emotional. While she harbored a deep desire to repay her debts to Blade, the situation had become an unfair and one-sided exchange, tilting the scales heavily in his favor.

Kafka's sudden suggestion catches both your and Silver Wolf's attention, prompting a moment of consideration. "Why not have (Name) and Bladie engage in a sparring match?" Kafka proposes, her idea arising unexpectedly. "Such an arrangement would prove mutually beneficial. (Name) would satisfy their longing for action, while Bladie would find the increased engagement they desire. It appears to be a win-win situation for both parties involved."

Kafka's mischievous eyes sparkled with a glint of amusement as her voice danced through the training ground, intentionally allowing Blade to overhear her suggestion. Her gaze fixed upon him, her smirk conveying a challenge, as she eagerly anticipated his response. Yet, Blade remained stoically unmoved, his back turned to her, his sword dismissed with a graceful and masterful flourish by his side.

Kafka's lips stretched into a satisfied smile, her keen perception allowing her to discern the unspoken affirmation within Blade's deliberate actions. Understanding his silent agreement, she shifted her attention towards you, her gaze beckoning for your input on the matter.

A brief pause enveloped the space, as silence settled and anticipation hung in the air. You released a defeated sigh, the weight of confinement and monotony lingering within you. With a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders, you conceded, realizing that Kafka's proposal would at least provide some thrill from the mundane.

Kafka's smile broadened, a sense of satisfaction emanating from her as both parties seemed to lack any objections to her proposition. It was a small victory, a chance to break free from the confines that had threatened to stifle you and Blade.

Blade stood motionless in his place, his gaze scanning the remnants of destruction that sprawled across the training ground. However, his attention was swiftly seized by the resonant sound of the training ground's doors swinging open. As you strode purposefully through the wide expanse, skillfully navigating your way through the scattered debris he had left in his wake, your eyes remained fixated upon his form, an enigmatic gaze he could never decipher, characterized by a nonchalant and constant composure.

His gaze mirrored yours, displaying a seemingly relaxed countenance that belied the overflowing bloodlust teeming from within him. Though his intention was shrouded in silence, it seeped through your senses, an undeniable presence.

As the distance between you and Blade dwindled, you held your gaze steadfast, meeting his own undaunted stare, devoid of any discernible emotion.

"As ceaseless in your hunger as ever, Blade," you greet him, your words ringing out into the air. However, his silence in response carries no weight or significance for you. It is a familiar sight, one reminiscent of your initial encounter with him.

Blade, unmoving and stoic, continues to watch you with his penetrating gaze. His scrutiny holds no sway over you, a gaze you have grown accustomed to his presence. Undeterred, you take a deliberate step forward, drawing your sword from its sheath with a fluid motion, the glimmering steel catching the light. The air hums with anticipation as you dismiss your weapon with an echoing swish, slicing through the atmosphere.

Blade, unflinching and immobile by your display, remains rooted in his stance. But, a flicker of something unfamiliar dances in his eyes—a glimmer of intrigue and amusement. He witnesses the burning thirst for thrill and the desire to spar that radiates from your very being. The intensity in your eyes, flickering with resolve, is a novel sensation for Blade. It sparks a response within him, a twisted desire to challenge and crush the confidence that brims so palpably within you that both intrigued and repulsed him.

In a suspended moment, pregnant with anticipation, you launched yourself towards Blade with an almost ethereal swiftness, the weight of your sword firmly gripped in your hands. The clash of steel ringing through the air as your sword descended upon him, driven by precise movements and burning hunger. Yet, Blade's reflexes, honed to an unparalleled degree, proved to be a formidable match for your assault. With a seamless display of skill, he skillfully blocked each of your rapid strikes, his own weapon bearing the marks of wear and tear, cracks tracing intricate patterns along its surface.

The resounding clash of your weapons sent tremors through the vicinity, accompanied by fleeting sparks that illuminated the battlefield in transient bursts. As Blade caught a glimpse of your dauntless gaze, brimming with determination and purpose, his smirk deepened, a silent acknowledgement of the intensity mirrored within you. He recognized the fire that burned in your soul, a flame that drove you forward in relentless pursuit of your ambitions.

Blade, however, held no interest in venturing beyond the realm of fellow hunters, his attention solely devoted to the field of skills and accomplishments. Delving into the depths of personal connections held no allure for him, save for the exceptional regard he reserved for Kafka and Elio. Driven by a dedicated desire to achieve the goals that coursed through his veins, he remained focused on his own path, unfazed by the currents that surged within the hearts of others.

Throughout the course of your shared missions, you and Blade maintained a professional distance, seldom engaging in more than the necessary interactions. Under the guidance of Elio, you would receive your instructions and embark on your respective tasks, reconvening only upon completion to report back.

Formerly, Blade held a dismissive perception of you—a figure he regarded as weak and lost, shrouded in the barriers you had erected around yourself. It was an impression born out of his keen ability to read others, to discern their strengths and weaknesses. But, his perception underwent a remarkable shift during your first mission alongside Kafka.

Witnessing the fluidity and finesse with which you wielded your sword, Blade's insight went through a profound metamorphosis. The elegant ballet of steel that exuded from your movements transcended any experience he had hitherto encountered, stirring within him a voracious curiosity about the depths of your mastery. From that moment forward, a new chapter unfurled as Blade assumed the role of an astute observer, his gaze etching every detail of your technique upon the canvas of his memory. He painstakingly absorbed the intricacies of your attack patterns and unraveled the enigma of your abilities, seeking to fathom the unfathomable depths of your prowess.

With each passing day, his respect for you as a formidable swordsman grew.

In Blade's vantage point, the encounter with you held a level of intrigue and stimulation far surpassing any battle against Silver Wolf's machines. While facing off against the onslaught of thousands of automatons showcased his prowess and efficiency, this live duel against you offered something more—a truly worthy challenge that ignited his senses.

As the clash of your blades echoed through the training ground, Blade's eyes gleamed with a hunger that surpassed mere bloodlust. It was an insatiable craving for the exhilarating dance of steel, for the unpredictable nature of combat, and for the opportunity to test his skills against a formidable opponent. In this battle, he found a worthy adversary, one whose abilities and strategy pushed him to his limits.

With each decisive strike, you threw yourself into the battle, channeling the very essence of your skill and resolve. Every movement was executed with precision, a testament to your unfaltering focus. Your eyes blazed with a fiery intensity, reflecting the sheer force of your will as you sought to assert your dominance over Blade.

But Blade, in all his arcane prowess, met your assault with a calm and calculated grace. His responses were swift and deliberate, a proof to his mastery of the sword. Like a dance of shadows, he effortlessly parried your attacks, his sword and arms forming an impenetrable fortress against your relentless onslaught. It was as if he possessed an innate understanding of your every move, countering each strike with a calculated precision that left no room for error.

As the clash persists, a silent exchange of energy passes between you. Blade, ever perceptive, keenly sensed the depth of your thirst for battle. He recognized the hunger that emanated from you, a longing to once again immerse yourself in the chaotic embrace of combat. The frustration and pent-up energy that had accumulated during your days of confinement now surged forth, propelling you to unleash your skills with an intensity that bordered on desperation.

In the face of your unleashed power, Blade couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. It was a rare sight to witness someone so driven, so resolute in their pursuit of victory. As he deftly countered each of your strikes, a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, an acknowledgment of your ferocity. In that moment, he found a profound sense of amusement, knowing that he not only matched your skills but surpassed them.

The battle between you and Blade became a spectacle, an exhibition of skill and strength. Each strike of swords painted a vivid picture of your excellence and his mastery. It was a dance of swords, a symphony of movement and strategy, woven with the threads of anticipation and calculated aggression. As the battle intensified, the air crackled with an electric energy, a testament to the sheer force of your wills colliding in this epic encounter.

Blade's relentless assault continued, his sword slashing through the air with an almost supernatural speed and rigor. You found yourself on the defensive, struggling to block and dodge his relentless attacks. The weight and speed of his strikes pushed you further into a corner, forcing you to rely on every ounce of skill and reflexes you possessed.

Amidst the tumultuous fray of battle, Blade seized an opportunity and struck you with a powerful blow to the gut, leaving you momentarily winded and gasping for breath. Stepping back to regain your composure, you felt the sting of the strike reverberate through your body. Yet, you refused to let it break your spirit. Your senses remained sharp, your determination unyielding, as you knew that conceding defeat was not an option.

Blade, ever persistent, cared little for your momentary falter. His intention was clear: to continue his interminable assault until you either met his level or conceded defeat. With each impact of his strikes, a devilish grin stretched across his face, a telltale sign of the satisfaction derived from engaging in a worthy contest.

Like a bolt of lightning, Blade hurled himself towards you once again, his attacks unrelenting and fierce. He craved the thrill of a true challenge, and in your resilience, you provided him with the fulfillment he sought. The storm of your swords echoed about, a demonstration of your determination to match his relentless onslaught.

Amidst the chaos of the battle, Blade's keen perception caught a subtle transformation in your demeanor. The flicker of surprise and fleeting perturbation that had briefly graced your countenance dissipated, giving way to the familiar mask of impassivity that often cloaked your features. It was as if a switch had been flipped within you, triggering a shift in your disposition.

In that fleeting moment, the veneer of indifference that settled upon your expression hinted at a potent force lying dormant within, waiting to be unleashed upon your foes.

This revelation served only to stoke Blade's already burgeoning excitement, evident in the widening smirk that etched itself across his face. His eyes sparkled with a sinister gleam, for this was the very reaction he sought from his foes—a complete abandonment of mercy, a resolute absence of reservations, and an unyielding determination to unleash havoc upon the battlefield.

He wants more. More of it.

In the heat of the battle, Kafka and Silver Wolf stood as ardent witnesses to the captivating spectacle that unfolded before them. Their eyes remained transfixed upon the clash of wills between you and Blade, their hearts pounding in fervent anticipation with every strike and parry that reverberated through the air. The atmosphere crackled with a heated charge, resonating with the tangible intensity that filled the space.

Amidst the ceaseless exchange of blows, you delved deep into the reservoir of your vast experience and honed skill. Every fiber of your being became singularly attuned to the intricacies of Blade's movements, a masterful analysis seeking out the faintest glimmer of vulnerability to exploit. The passage of time seemed to elongate, granting you a heightened perception of Blade's lightning-swift strikes within a mere fraction of their usual cadence. With augmented senses and a razor-sharp mind, you deftly navigated the elegant dance of blades, executing each move with calculated precision.

Taking a moment to draw a deep, fortifying breath, your firm gaze locked onto a concealed weakness, a blindspot inadvertently revealed by Blade in his relentless assault. It was a fleeting instant of lucidity amidst the swirling chaos—a moment of clarity that held the potential to alter the course of the battle. Fueled by an indomitable will power, you readied yourself to unleash a calculated counterattack, seizing the opportune moment that lay before you.

With a steady grasp upon the hilt of your sword, a swift and deliberate strike was unleashed, finding its mark upon Blade's right chest with unparalleled precision. The steel pierced through the tender flesh, a testimony to the accuracy and skill imbued within your every movement.

From the depths of the inflicted wound, a single rivulet of crimson emerged, staining the air with its presence. Yet, the sight of blood failed to elicit any flicker of perturbation within your steadfast demeanor. Your gaze, stripped of discernible emotion, ascended to meet Blade's own pair of crimson orbs, forging an intense gaze between you two. In that impermanent episode, a tinge of perplexity flitted across your visage as you delved into the mystifying depths of his eyes, cloaked in a mixture of amusement and intrigue. Unrelenting, Blade's devilish smirk persisted, mirroring the unshakable will power etched upon your own countenance.

The once vibrant training grounds now lay in silence, an eerie stillness permeating the air as the residue of the fierce battle hung in the atmosphere. The clash of swords had subsided, replaced by a charged tension that seemed to linger between you and Blade. In this quiet aftermath, Blade's voice cuts through the void, dripping with condescension that only serves to provoke you.

"Though you may inflict upon me an abundance of stabs, those wounds shall simply mend, allowing my existence to persist," he asserts, his words laced with disdain. Yet, your gaze remains fixed upon him, devoid of interest but brimming with a resolve that refuses to waver.

"Indeed, I am well aware of the transience of your wounds. That is precisely why I took it upon myself to pierce through your flesh with my own sword, Blade," you retort, a hint of purposive satisfaction coloring your voice.

A sinister smirk stretches across Blade's face, his features contorted with a blend of amusement and an insatiable desire to shatter your spirit with his own hands. He recognizes the cunning behind your calculated strike, acknowledging the depth of your strategic aptitude.

"How cunning you prove to be," he remarks, his voice dripping with pleasure, before swiftly transitioning to a more resolute tone. "Yet, such craftiness holds no significance in the face of true power."

Blade relinquishes his hold on his weapon, the sound of its impact against the ground ringing through the air, an echoing thud that resounds in the silence. Your gaze remains fixed upon him, your senses sharpened, attuned to every nuance of his demeanor, as you brace yourself for his next move.

However, to your utmost astonishment, he clings steadfastly to the body of your own sword, resolutely refusing to let it slip from his grasp. Despite your fervent and desperate attempts to wrest it away, his hold remains unyielding, as though bound to the weapon by an unseen force. Engaged in a relentless struggle against his strength, you strain every sinew in an effort to reclaim what is rightfully yours, but your endeavors prove naught but futile. As the moments stretch languidly into an interminable eternity, your eyes bear witness to rivulets of crimson, gently cascading from his clenched hand, a solemn indication to the toll his compacted grip exacts upon his own being.

Yet, in a stunning twist of fate, Blade's other hand swiftly ensnares your throat, catching you off guard with its merciless grip. The sudden constriction tightens around your windpipe, robbing you of precious breath and leaving you gasping for the elusive oxygen that now eludes you. As your vision blurs and your body weakens, you involuntarily relinquish your hold on your own sword, its resonating clatter filling the vastness of the room. Desperation surges through your veins, compelling your hands to claw desperately at the imprisoning arm, their futile attempts to break free revealing the depths of your plight.

Despite your valiant struggle, the vice-like grip around your neck remains unyielding, leaving you utterly at Blade's mercy. Suspended in mid-air, you find yourself helplessly suspended between life and death.

Blade's eyes, ablaze with a chilling indifference and an unrelenting malevolence, lock onto yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. In that dreaded gaze, you catch a glimpse of his namesake, for within their depths resides a cold-heartedness devoid of any mercy, a mercilessness that threatens to snuff out your very existence.

"Let us bear witness to the endurance of your tenacity," he proclaims, his grip around your throat tightening with each syllable, unwavering in its intensity. "I will persist, undeterred by the ravages inflicted upon my body. It shall regenerate, as it has time and time again," he asserts, his voice resolute,

"But you, fragile beings of humanity, are far more vulnerable. A single piercing strike, your life is extinguished. One misstep, and your fate is irrevocably sealed. Therefore, tread cautiously upon the paths you choose, even if you boast confidence in your skills. Be mindful of the formidable capabilities others possess, ready to snuff out your precious existence. So, I offer you a word of advice: if you wish to continue your fragile existence, know your place."

Blade's warning hangs in the air, his words filled with a chilling reality that sends shivers down your spine. The weight of his grip presses against your neck, a stark reminder of his strength and the vulnerability of your mortal form.

After moments of scrutiny, Blade finally relinquishes his iron grip, allowing you to plummet gracelessly to the unforgiving floor below. As you lay there, wracked by fits of coughing, desperately gasping for the precious breath that eluded you moments ago, a wave of relief washes over you like a long-awaited reprieve. With every rasping inhalation, you slowly begin to restore the delicate equilibrium of your being.

As the tremors of the ordeal still course through your weakened body, you summon the remnants of your courage to meet Blade's piercing gaze. With an air of detached indifference, he retrieves his sword, his movements fluid and controlled.

Without a word or a hint of emotion, Blade turns his back on you, his retreating figure a stark silhouette against the dimly lit surroundings. The weight of his presence lingers in the space between you, a testament to the enigmatic nature of his being. You watch as he fades into the shadows, his footsteps fading away like whispers in the night.

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