#referenced past dubcon

[ashintheairlikesnow]

“What’s wrong with your friend?” For 5 sentence game

CW: Some frank references to dubcon/noncon, also Juliet is fucking calculated and I love her

Beringer's masterlist is here

-

"What's wrong with your friend?"

"What?" Juliet looks over her shoulder, blinking a few times, trying to figure out who in the hell Gina could possibly be talking about. There's at least a dozen people eating dinner in here already, and the other two dozen or so will come in on their own, stragglers fighting the wind cutting their cheeks and freezing their lungs.

"Who... who do you mean, Gina?"

She doesn't exactly have a lot of friends. She holds her bowl out while Gina ladles the soup into it.

It's been bubbling on the stove all day in a giant pot and smells like sheer heaven, slow-cooked pork with hominy and tomatillos and a pile of cilantro as big as her head waiting for everyone to decide what they want. Juliet looks down at her steaming bowl and adds cilantro, radishes, cabbage strips, a dollop of sour cream. The others add different things, and she thinks about how when she worked, she mostly just ate shit from the convenience store. Sometimes she was lucky enough to snag a tamale from the tamale cart.

Sometimes, her clients took her out to fancy dinner at restaurants that had four-month waits for reservations, but none of that food ever tasted as good as the tamale straight from a big plastic bucket, wrapped in corn husk, making her fingers damp and slick with lard and condensation, burning her tongue. Sometimes Romeo was with her and would buy her one with money he got washing dishes at restaurants, paid in cash with no question asked. He used to make more selling his mouth and hands, but he's got too many scars for that, now, he said. People want Romantics to look young and flirty and like innocence defiled, and it's hard to look innocent when half your face is a twisted line pulling your mouth to one side.

Still, he made life work.

She hopes, sometimes, that he's still out there, still making it work. But life expectancies for runaway Romantics aren't more than a couple of years, and he'd already outlived his by the time she met him.

She'd love to see him one more time, though. Those tamales, sitting on the curb with Romeo giggling over them with fruity jamaica soda fizzing up her nose, those were the greatest things she ever ate, the best times she had. Those tamales, and Romeo's good-natured cursing, tasted like home, like laughter and Christmas, in ways she isn't allowed to remember.

The posole that Gina makes, though, that brings memories, too. Headaches, sure, but lately she can get through the headaches, more and more.

Gina snorts. "Him," She says, gesturing with her ladle. Broth shimmery with pork fat drips off of it, unnoticed. She has tendrils of dark curls stuck to her forehead and cheeks and the back of her neck, where her heavy hair is swept up in something both like and unlike a bun. "That one. He's with you all the time lately."

Oh. Beringer.

Juliet shrugs. "He's not really my friend. He's the one that came in with the handler out in the shed. I've been helping him figure stuff out here. Might as well be useful before Brock notices I don't do shit around here."

"Brock's a softie, he won't make you do anything you don't want to do." Gina leans around Juliet to look more closely at Beringer. "Huh. Ophie said he was a daycare pet."

"He was, I think."

"Really? But he's..."

"Handsome?"

Gina smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Well... I just. He looks more like one of your kind, is all I'm saying."

Juliet snorts. "My kind. Right. The whores, you mean. The giant fucking sluts."

Gina turns bright red. "I didn't say that!"

"Thought it, though. Anyway, we're all good-looking, remember? It's part of the draw of the whole damn system. Get a pretty person to do whatever degrading shit you dream about with a smile on their face and a song in their heart." Juliet laughs without humor. Outside, the wind whirls snow past the windows. It stopped actually snowing a while back, but it's dry stuff, easily lifted by the breeze that whistles past the corners of every house. It races itself over the salted, plowed roads like horses hellbent on making it to the horizon.

"Well. Not everyone has to... you know." Gina's smile fades, and she won't meet Juliet's eyes as she says it.

Juliet lifts her chin. It's not her fucking fault, she reminds herself, that she only knows one way to get by. It's not her fault, she was made that way, and you can't blame someone for doing what they know. "Trust me. You might not have had to fuck them, but you still had to act like less than a person, and that's a kind of fucking, too."

Gina swallows, hard. Silence draws out, and then Juliet stomps away, over to the table where Beringer sits. The daycare pet watches the window, lost in his own mind, a cup of coffee long since gone cold in front of him.

"When's the last time you ate, huh?" Juliet sits her tray down a little too loudly, watching him jump in surprise. There are scars on him, too - she can see it on his hands, creeping up the side of his neck, just barely visible. He has more under his shirt, like cobwebs of dead skin.

"Wh-... oh, hi." His smile is brief, but gentle. She could see how he worked well with kids. There's no malice, in a smile like that. No aggression like the men at bars she'd pick up, no desire or demand like the more expensive clients who scheduled in advance. It's just a soft smile, easy as an older brother waking up for church on a Sunday morning so your mother won't know you slept in.

The little girl that's usually glued to his side is off in the play area in the big building where everyone eats, giggling through tag with another girl. One of the Domestics had come with a child in tow, too, unable to bear the thought of losing her. No one has asked if the child is hers.

Juliet wonders if she was a happy kid, when she was that age.

She'll never know.

"Hi doesn't answer my question, Beringer."

"Oh... uh. I don't know." He goes back to watching the window, and she sighs.

"He's not coming out of that shack any faster because of you making goo-goo eyes, you know."

"I know." Beringer leans forward, resting on his elbow, hand in his hair and palm against his forehead. "Rye says he's got a cough starting up. If helping me escape is what gets him killed-"

"Then it's exactly what he fucking deserves."

Beringer looks up, startled, at the flat, sharp edge of her voice. She watches his adam's apple bob as he swallows, sees the slight flare of whites around his eyes. "... Juliet. I told you, he didn't want to do it anymore-"

"Yeah, I hate to let you in on this, but that doesn't matter. Not even a little bit." She smiles to cut the sting in her words, but it doesn't work. His own eyes narrow in response. "Look. Just. You're still in it, I can tell, and it makes sense since you're so new at being out. But he's a handler, Ber. He was a handler, he's still a handler. You don't stop being a handler once you sign their fucking contract. We all know that."

Beringer's jaw works, but he only looks away, back to the window. "He's..."

"What? Nice?" Juliet laughs, bitter as raw chocolate. "Oh, sure, no doubt. Nice to you, you were taking care of his precious baby girl. But I bet he beat the shit out of someone else as soon as he got downstairs to the training rooms, or had one with a mouth on his cock and told the poor trainee it's breakfast. Handlers aren't nice."

"... he isn't like that-"

"They're all like that. You think it was just Romantic handlers who came to my training room to have their fun?" She smiles, and it's a grimace. A snarl. "God, no. I had to spread my legs for every kind of handler you can imagine. At least the Romantic handlers were fucking honest about it."

Beringer stares at her. He has beautiful dark eyes. The kind you could fall into. She can see why the handler out in the shed followed him here, brought him. She'd have done anything for those eyes, too, once upon a time.

"Stop," he whispers. "He was never like that."

"Guarantee he fuckin' was."

"You don't know him."

"Neither do you. Handlers go through fucking months of training, Beringer. They only keep the ones they know will do the dirty work, the worst sons of bitches, the worst bastards, the worst people on earth. I probably sucked fifty handler cocks in training, or more, and you know what?"

He looks like he'll be sick, and some part of her feels good at seeing one of the lucky ones realize what it takes to keep existing when you've been what Juliet had to be to survive. "What?"

"The only ones I saw wearing wedding rings weren't wearing them anymore a few months later. They can't stay married because they don't give a fuck about anyone but themselves."

"His wife-... Marc's wife hated what he did for work, she left-"

"She left? Lucky woman. You should be that smart. Take the kid, go to Canada, and let the handler out there rot. He deserves it. He let plenty of us rot, didn't he? That great good man out there? Looked the other way, probably did plenty of shit he isn't telling you about. While his little girl learned her ABCs upstairs, he taught one of us how to clean grout knowing they'd get shocked half to death if they ever paused for a single. damn. second."

Beringer's eyes go back to the little girl. She's stopped playing. She's watching a show about a cartoon dog, now, standing with a stuffed tiger crooked in her arm. "I-I don't-... know. I haven't really asked him... if he..."

"I know." She sighs, trying to soften her voice, and reaches out to lay a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I'm being really rude about this, but I swear, it's because I'm worried. If you let him take you to Canada, he'll just want to keep you, to use you. They just have people they want to use. He's using you, Ber."

"He's not." Beringer shakes his head, running his hand over his mouth. He's pale, haunted around the eyes. "He's not. He wouldn't have thought of it on his own. I... I talked to him for months, let him think I'd kiss him, made friends... flirted... did the things I saw them do on TV. I used him."

"Now you don't need him any longer." Juliet nudges his foot under the table with his own, until he looks back at her and she can give him her best wry smile. It's as much a performance as the flirty little grins she'd been so good at once upon a time. "So let him go. Thanks for all the fish, thanks for your baby girl, now go to hell."

"... Rye, he was Rye's handler. Rye said he was always so nice-"

"Right, sure. Bet he was. Then, once Rye knew how to count pills and give baths to old ladies and smile his face off, he sent him on to a house where he got the shit beat out of him by his owner's daughter over and over and over again until he ended up in the clinic four times in a year. Even when he's nice, he's not nice."

Beringer is silent for a long, long time. "What do I tell Mallie when she asks where her daddy is, then, huh? What do I tell her?"

"Tell her he died." Juliet shrugs. "He will anyway, if you're not here to vouch for him any longer. Tell her whatever the hell you want. She's not even old enough to remember you lied. She'll never know. She'll call you daddy after a few months, dad in a few years. You'll be the only father she ever knows. You can watch her grow up, knowing that he can't. Erase him from everyone who mattered to him. Just like they do to us. Take his life and make it serve your needs, what you want, leave him for dead when you're done, and once he's gone through all of it and died after, he'll have paid for everything he ever did to the rest of us who weren't you."

Beringer's breath catches. She thrills, just a little, whenever she lets a man see inside her mind and he looks that frightened afterward. She's never hurt a man in her life - but she's frightened a few, and it's always felt so good.

Romeo was never scared of her, though. He would just find some way to twist her idea and make it even more terrifying. They laughed all the time about the things they could come up with to have their revenge.

"Christ Almighty," He whispers. She's not even sure he knows he said it.

She eats her soup, delighting in the heat and lime and salt and spice, in silence until she's done. She stands to take her dishes back over to the pile of them next to sink, deciding she'll make sure she washes for a half an hour or so to help earn her keep, and pauses.

He's staring out the window again.

"You don't owe him anything." She makes her voice as calm and as gentle as she can. "Understand?"

He doesn't look at her, or answer, but she knows he's thinking about what she said.

Outside, the snow blown by the wind makes sure you can't even see the shack where that handler is being held. Only the fence, and the darkness beyond.

Right where every handler belongs.

[venusbyline]

𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵𝑺 - 𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ☙ (ongoing)

dark!Jacaerys Velaryon x twin sister!reader

— summary: After Lucerys' death and the arrival of the dragonseeds, Jacaerys no longer wants to be betrothed with Baela. He wants to marry his twin sister, even if it means going against Rhaenyra's decisions and sealing suffering in your life and his.

— type: dark, smut, angst

— sequel to Sleep (but can also be read as a standalone series)

— main warnings: female!reader, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, Targcest (twin brother/twin sister), dubcon, rape/non-con elements, referenced dubcon somnophilia, underage sex, forced pregnancy, abusive and toxic relationship, manipulation, sexism, possessive behaviour, obsessive behaviour, pregnancy kink, dark content, pregnancy sex, breastfeeding kink, emotional/psychological abuse, physical abuse, motherhood, minor Jacaerys Velaryon/Baela Targaryen, minor Addam Velaryon/reader, past Aemond Targaryen/reader, canon divergence (The Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n.

— author's notes¹: Nine Moons is a shortfic, sequel to the one shot Sleep, written for Kinktober. Both Nine Moons and Sleep can be read as standalone.

— author's notes²: Each chapter will have its own specific trigger warnings.

❥ Prequel

❥ Chapter One

❥ Chapter Two

❥ Chapter Three

❥ Chapter Four

❥ about me • Jacaerys masterlist • HOTD masterlist • main masterlist

❥ series theme song: Labour by Paris Paloma

[witchywithwhiskey]

say yes + andy barber

(for your fantastic sweethearts game!)

🩷♥️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜

the demon of your dreams

pairing: soft!dark incubus!andy barber x female reader

summary: you catch the attention of an incubus on the day before valentine's day—and it turns out your fates are more intertwined than either of you expected.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), true mates, dubcon/noncon (in this fic an incubus requires consent for certain things but it technically starts off as noncon), somnophilia, teratophilia/monsterfucking, smut, masturbation (m), fingering (f receiving), finger sucking, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, come play, cock warming, choking, breath play, biting/marking, thigh fucking, some overstimulation, dirty talk, praise kink, very brief degradation, pet names (sweet thing/sweet girl), aftercare, referenced marathon sex, happy ending

word count: 5.5k

a/n: thank you, Aspen, for letting me flail at you because i had SO many ideas for this particular character + prompt combination. what i love about Andy is that he can fit into a super fluffy or soft dark or super dark story very easily. (i mean, that's true of a lot of characters, but i feel like i usually lean one way or the other with most characters and with Andy, i'm never quite sure where i want to go.) anyway, this one might require a bit more suspension of disbelief than normal and sorry if the ending is a bit rushed, work was BRUTAL today 🫠 thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy this filthy little fic!! ♡♡

sweethearts game masterlist

For an incubus like Andy Barber, Valentine’s Day was his favorite day of the year.

There was something particularly decadent about the yearning he sensed among lonely, single women on Valentine’s Day, and he always fed well in the days leading up to the actual holiday. Though the demon had to be careful not to feed too much on any one woman, he never failed to gorge himself on the offerings in the city.

But then he came across you in a coffee shop on the morning before Valentine’s Day, and he hadn’t sensed yearning quite so exquisite as yours in all his many years walking the earth. Watching you from across the shop, he knew you would make an especially delectable meal, his eyes following you closely as he sipped on his Americano. 

You hid your emotions well, Andy noticed, keeping them masked beneath a friendly exterior, a welcoming smile on your pretty face while you chatted with the barista making your drink. To all the world, you looked like anyone else with a charming—if tired—disposition, but to the incubus, you were churning with all the emotions that made you a meal. 

The demon could sense the sadness lurking beneath your smile from the moment you’d stepped into the establishment, and he could practically taste the desperate longing clinging to your soul like a drop of hot chocolate caught on the corner of your lip. 

You wanted, more than anything, to be the object of someone’s lust, to find someone you felt safe enough with that you could be turned into the lustful creature you yearned to be. You wanted someone to lick the chocolate from your lips and sate your desire.

And Andy Barber knew he was the demon for the job. 

In generations past, Andy might’ve used his magic to slip into your dreams, seducing you with images of lust until he received the acquiescence he required to join with you and feed on your soul. But, as the incubus’s years had worn on, he’d found he enjoyed a more physical approach.

There was something so much more satisfying about touching a woman with his fingers, feeling the warmth of her body and breathing in the scent of her skin. He enjoyed the feeling of a woman’s soft curves beneath his palms, groping her and learning what made her gasp gently in her sleep. 

Then, the demon would use her slumberous, disoriented mind and her aching, needy body against her to get what he needed—that permission that allowed him to sink into her body and feed on her soul. 

It was so much more satisfying, and so much more fun, too. 

Of course, that didn’t mean Andy didn’t use his magic to get into your apartment. He unlocked your door with a wave of his fingers, closing and locking it behind him before he masked the footfalls of his shoes as he made his way to your bedroom. 

There, he paused in the doorway and took a moment to look at you, appreciate you while you slept, completely unaware that there was a demon in your room.

A smile curled Andy’s mouth when he discovered that you were far from an elegant sleeper, your body sprawled across your bed beneath the blankets, one leg hiked up while the other curled around a pillow clutched close to your chest. Your face was buried in another pillow, your indelicate snores muffled by its softness. 

And yet…you were cute. Precious even.

Andy felt something fluttery deep in his chest, somewhere in the vicinity of his black heart. Instead of looking too closely at the feeling, he ignored the sensation, chalking it up to the excitement he felt knowing you were going to make for a particularly delicious meal.  

The demon slunk into your room, clinging to the shadows as he moved around to the side of the bed where you lay and tried to gauge whether you were a light sleeper. You didn’t stir when he deliberately stepped on a squeaky floorboard, so he decided to ease closer, his fingertips trailing up your body over the blankets piled on top of you. 

When he pulled them carefully from your slumbering body, a little whimper slipped from your lips, a shiver wracking your shoulders as the cold licked against your skin. Andy quickly used his magic to warm up your room, making it a much more comfortable temperature for your nearly naked form. 

He watched you settle, his eyes roving over the curves of your body. Hungrily, he took in the dip of your waist and the flare of your hips, the way your thin nightshirt had ridden up to tease a glimpse of your perfectly rounded ass. Your thighs were parted, and Andy could just glimpse a hint of your panties, hiding your pretty pussy from sight.

His cock hardened behind his zipper and he nearly groaned at the sinful way your body called to his. Even if the yearning in your soul hadn’t been so enticing, Andy knew he would’ve been drawn to you by the desire you inspired just by existing. 

Once he was sure you were comfortable and had fallen back into a deep slumber, Andy finally allowed himself to touch you. 

His fingers trailed gently over your arms, skimming along your skin before smoothing down your side to your hips and thighs. There, he resisted the urge to dip between your legs just yet, instead learning the curves of your calves and the delicate contours of your ankles. 

All the while, Andy watched your face, monitoring your breathing to make sure you didn’t stir again. 

As he observed you, he noticed you relaxing even further, as if his touch soothed you. He felt another flutter in the proximity of his black heart, and, that time, he couldn’t ignore the way it started beating slightly faster. 

The organ often felt cold and dull in his chest, especially when he was in need of feeding, but it felt like it was coming to life in a way he’d never experienced before, not even after a satisfying meal. And it was all because of the way your body was instinctively relaxing into his touch. 

The demon could almost pretend it was him specifically you were melting for, that even though you hadn’t woken and hadn’t seen his face, he was the only one whose touch could have that effect on your body. 

Andy deliberately ignored the fact that, in all likelihood, you would’ve been soothed by a gentle touch from any man who might share your bed, because that thought inspired a concerning level of rage in him. No, he refused to think of anyone else in your bed but him. You were his.

For the night, at least, he reminded himself, pushing his possessive thoughts to the back of his mind to analyze later. He had much more important things to attend to with your warm body, which would soon be willing, splayed out in front of him like the most tempting meal. 

Finally, Andy allowed his fingers to slip beneath your nightshirt, tugging off your panties and nearly groaning when your hips raised instinctively to allow him to ease them down your thighs. He pulled them off and slipped them into his pocket, thinking nothing of the fact that he’d never taken a souvenir before. 

He was too busy focusing on the feel of your body beneath his fingertips. His hand slipped eagerly between your thighs, and he was surprised to find your soft pussy was already drenched. It felt fated that your body would have such a reaction to him since Andy’s cock was straining painfully against his zipper, aching to sink inside your perfect cunt.

The demon cupped your pussy in his palm, a ferocious possessiveness tearing through his chest as he felt you drip into his hand. You were his. His. His. 

His heart beat harder in his chest, the feeling of yearning in his own black soul so all-consuming, he didn’t have the wherewithal to notice it was completely out of character. 

After all, an incubus like Andy Barber didn’t get attached to his meals. He didn’t feel possessive or territorial over the women he fed on, like a wolf who might tear into anything that threatened to take his most precious lifeline away. 

But the demon could feel himself falling willingly into an obsession with you that wouldn’t be sated from just one night. He just didn’t know it yet.

Acting on instinct more than his typical intention of easing a woman into what he had planned, Andy freed his cock from the confines of his pants, taking himself in his palm while the fingers of his other hand explored your wet, warm pussy.

You were so soft, so hot, and so responsive when Andy sank a finger into your tight hole, a breathy moan slipping from your mouth. The demon felt the newly-familiar beating of his heart in his chest, and he suddenly craved even more of your sounds of pleasure, he wanted them to fill his ears for all eternity. 

Andy stroked his cock dispassionately, needing to take some of the edge off his arousal, but he made sure to squeeze the base tightly to ensure he didn’t cum too soon. All the while, he teased your body open with his deft fingers, preparing you to take his thick length.

When he slipped a second finger into your pussy and saw how easily you took him, he had to bite back a groan. His cock was leaking precum all over his fingers, as if it knew there was a warm hole to push inside and was begging Andy to finally put himself out of his misery by sinking into your sweet, pliant body.

The demon had to force himself to make sure you were ready, Andy carefully pushing a third finger into your pussy, and letting out a restrained growl at the sight of you taking three of his fingers. 

His mouth filled with drool as he watched you take him, the sudden desire to feast on your pussy nearly overwhelming him. He wanted to make you cum on his tongue and mouth for being such a good girl and taking everything he gave you. 

But he told himself that could come later—after he got the answer he needed to give you everything you deserved.

To tide himself over, Andy eased his fingers from your pussy and licked your juices from where they dripped down his hand, savoring the sweet taste of your arousal. You tasted so fucking good, better than anything Andy had ever tasted in his long, long life. 

His groan was so loud in the quiet room that he nearly missed the little whimper of need you let out, your hips shifting like your body was seeking the intrusion that had been filling your tight hole. The sound reached Andy’s ears and his cock jumped in his hand, the amount of blood rushing to his dick nearly making him light-headed.

Finally—finally—Andy joined you in your bed, gently shifting your body into the center of the mattress so he could fit behind you. Your nightshirt was rucked up around our waist, and his cock slipped between your thighs like it was sliding home. The stiff length rubbed against your dripping slit while he pressed flush to your back, his arms gently curling around your body and pulling you into his chest.

A soft, sleepy moan spilled from your mouth and Andy wanted so badly to kiss the sound from your lips, to drink it down and feel it fill his lungs. 

Soon, he told himself. Soon he could kiss the moans from your lips and devour your mouth and ravage every inch of your body until you were well and truly his. But first he needed to get your acquiescence, and he needed to be careful with you until he got it. 

You’d already been laying mostly on your belly, and Andy shifted, covering your body with his own, rocking his hips gently to fuck your soft thighs. His cock dragged against your leaking slit with every smooth thrust, coating himself in your desire and making his heart beat furiously in his chest with the need to push inside your cunt, to claim you, to feed on you until he was more sated than he’d ever felt in his life.

Andy could sense the yearning in your soul deepening as your desire ratcheted up, even while you slept. Your swirling emotions thickened in the air around the bed until the demon felt nearly drunk on you. 

Your yearning, your soul—you yourself—were headier than anything Andy had ever experienced and it took all his self-control not to lose himself and rut you like the beast he was. 

First, he needed your permission. An incubus could only fuck and feed on a willing woman, and Andy needed you to be willing more than he’d needed anything else in his entire life. 

“Give yourself to me, sweet thing,” Andy murmured in your ear, the words coming easily after so many eons as an incubus—though the pet name was new. “Let me sink inside your divine cunt and let me drink on the longing in your heart. Let me feed on the lust in your soul and I’ll reward you with pleasure beyond your imagination.”

The demon could feel you stir beneath him, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest with a desperation he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. But it only pushed him to rock his hips faster, to grip your hip possessively while he fucked between your thighs, dragging the fat length of his cock against every inch of your dripping pussy.

Because of the rules of his kind, Andy needed your permission before he could push inside your body, but he could use every trick at his disposal to tempt you into giving him your acquiescence. An incubus wasn’t above using magic or trickery and though Andy preferred to seduce you with just his touch and his words, he would resort to magic if he needed to. 

But something told him he wouldn’t need to with you. Something told Andy that you were his, and he just needed to ask you sweet enough and you’d grant him the privilege of owning your body and soul for the rest of your natural life.

“Please, my sweet girl,” he rumbled in your ear, letting you hear how badly he wanted you, needed you. “Say yes.”

Thankfully for the demon, you hadn’t roused enough for your mind to wonder why there was a strange man in your bed begging to fuck you. It was clear from your soft, sleepy whimpers that you were still asleep enough to think it was simply a very real-feeling dream. 

Your hand reached back clumsily, your fingers curling around the back of Andy’s neck, using your hold to arch your spine and push your ass deeper into the demon’s lap. A keening sound spilled from your lips, your pussy gushing around the thick cock wedged between your thighs, and you finally gave your answer on a drowsy moan.

“Yes.” 

The word falling from your lips tipped you over the line from sleeping to waking, and you finally realized that what you were feeling wasn’t a dream. It was really happening. There was a man in your bed and, for some reason, you’d given him permission to be there. 

Andy could feel the change in your body, the way your body tensed in fear and confusion. It was natural, of course, and the demon had expected it. But what surprised him were the intricacies of your reaction—the way you still instinctively pulled him closer, your nails digging into the back of his neck, your legs squeezing together and trapping his cock against your pussy with your plush thighs. 

You wanted him, Andy was sure of it, even if your mind was struggling to come to the same conclusion your body had already reached. Oddly, Andy found himself wanting to soothe you, his hand skimming down your side like he was attempting to calm a wild animal.

“Shh, sweet thing, it’s alright, you’re alright,” Andy purred, feeling your muscles slowly relax beneath his hands. 

Every caress of his palm and sweet stroke of his fingers had you softening further, your body surrendering to his soothing touch. Soon, you were even letting your thighs fall open again and Andy rewarded you with a pleased rumbling sound and a kiss brushed to your cheek. 

He shifted his hips back, moving until the tip of his cock was pressed against your tight little hole. That made the muscles of your thighs go taut again, but the demon also heard the way your breath hitched in your throat, like you’d sucked in a gasp of anticipation, not fear. 

Andy gently kneaded your hip, his mouth grazing against the shell of your ear and tickling your skin with his beard. “Let me in, my sweet girl,” he cooed, prodding at your dripping cunt with his leaking tip. “I’ll make you feel so good, pretty thing.”

The soft, whispered pleas and praise from Andy’s lips had you relaxing again, your thighs spreading and your hips lifting in wordless offering. It was too perfect—you were too perfect. The demon couldn’t wait any longer. 

Andy pushed inside your wet heat, letting out a grunt of pleasure when he felt your tightness wrapping around his stiff length. You felt so good, your pussy clinging to his cock and sucking him deeper into the warm depths of your body. He slid home until he was buried to the hilt.

As soon as he was inside you, the world tipped violently on its axis, spinning around the demon in a vicious dizzying swirl that he knew was all in his head. 

It lasted only a second and by the time your bedroom came back into focus, Andy instinctively recognized that his entire universe had realigned, with you—your delicate human body and your fragile beating heart and your precious glowing soul—at the center of it.  

“You’re mine—mine,” Andy growled, his voice preternaturally deep and dark, his arms closing so tightly around your body that he heard the breathe exhale from your lungs and felt your heart beating against your ribcage.

A startled squeak fell from your lips and Andy suddenly realized he was holding you much too tightly, and that he was no doubt scaring you. His grip loosened, his hands moving to comfort you, kneading your soft flesh and groping your curves until you let out a soft, happy sigh. 

“I’ll take such good care of you, sweet thing,” the demon vowed in a husky voice filled with warmth. He nuzzled his face into your cheek, pressing sweet kisses to your jaw and neck, listening to your breathy little giggles at the rasp of his beard. “I only want to make you feel good, I won’t ever hurt you.”

“You…” Your voice was raspy with sleep, giving out on you before you could say what you wanted to say. Andy waited patiently while you swallowed and tried again. “You promise?” 

Andy could feel your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his lips and he smiled into your skin. You were human, so you hadn’t felt what Andy had when your bodies had joined, the fusing of your spirits, and if you needed reassurance with words that he would cherish you and protect you for the rest of your days, then he would happily give it to you.

“Of course, my sweet girl, I swear it.”

The last of the tension that had been lingering in your muscles finally drained out of you, and Andy’s cock pushed another inch deeper, the tip brushing against a spot inside you that had your walls clenching down hard on his length. 

The demon groaned in pleasure, pulling his hips back and sliding into you again, muffling a groan into the crook of your neck when you squeezed him so exquisitely. 

“You feel so good, sweet girl, so perfect,” he murmured into your skin, fucking you in short, rocking thrusts that had you gasping and whimpering softly. “You’re taking me so fucking well, such a good fucking girl.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Andy caught the pleased smile that curled the edges of your mouth at his praise. But then you were turning your face into your pillow and muffling your moans into its softness. 

Andy didn’t like that one bit. He wanted to hear all of your sounds of pleasure—they were his, just like the rest of you—so he wrapped his hand around the front of your throat. Gently enough so he he didn’t hurt you, he lifted your head from the pillow, rumbling a pleased sound in his chest when he could hear every whimper and moan that fell from your lips.

“Good girl, let me hear you—let me hear how good I’m making you feel,” Andy urged, rocking his hips harder into you, his cock spearing deep into your tight cunt with every thrust. 

The tips of his fingers dug a little deeper into the sides of your neck and you moaned even louder, your cunt clutching at the demon’s cock like a vise while the rest of your body melted further into his hold. It was like you’d been waiting for him to come along and take control of you, of your very breathing, and it sent Andy reeling once again.

You were perfect. Perfect. So perfect that even that word didn’t feel like enough. It felt like you’d been made for Andy, and he’d been made for you. A perfect match. A true mate.

“Oh god, wh-who are you?” you asked, your breathy, pleasure-soaked voice pulling Andy back into the moment. 

The demon nearly chuckled at the question. It was a little late for you to be asking such a thing when his cock was buried to the hilt in your cunt and every thrust of his hips pushed you closer and closer to the edge of your release. But he didn’t want you to take offense, so he wracked his lust-drunk brain for an answer, finally settling on something close enough to the truth.

“I’m the demon of your dreams, sweet thing,” he rumbled in your ear, picking up the pace of his thrusts. “The one you conjured with the desperate longing in your soul—the yearning to be fucked, to be taken, to be owned, thoroughly and fully.”

“I didn’t, I didn’t conjure anything—I swear,” you babbled, but Andy’s fingers tightened around the sides of your throat, cutting off your protests. The way he choked you only made your cunt gush and flutter between your thighs, and Andy reveled in the feeling of your slick channel gripping his hard cock.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, sweetheart, I know exactly what your soul yearns for, and I’m more than happy to oblige,” Andy purred, raking his teeth down your cheek before nipping at your jaw. 

He was holding onto your neck too tightly for you to make a sound, but he felt your throat work against his palm and your pussy spasm around his cock at his filthy words. He choked you a little harder and sank his teeth into your shoulder through your nightshirt, going crosseyed and nearly cumming when you clenched down hard around him.

“What your soul yearns for is a good hard fucking,” Andy rasped when he pulled his teeth away from your shoulder, moving back to murmur in your ear. “Now, take it like a good slut and I’ll let you thank me later.”

Andy picked up the pace of his hips, pounding harder into you. The demon fucked you into the mattress while he choked the breath from your lungs, giving you only enough air to remain conscious while he savaged your soft, warm cunt with his brutal cock.

It wasn’t long before he felt you reaching the edge of your release, and he dug his other hand beneath your body, pinning you to the bed with his hips while he fucked you ferociously and rubbed your clit. You were helpless when the demon demanded you give him your pleasure.

“Cum for me, my sweet thing, cum for your demon,” Andy urged.

You shattered apart on a silent scream, your mouth wide open and eyes rolling back into your head while your pleasure consumed you. Your body shook beneath Andy’s larger form, your tight pussy strangling his cock and dragging him over the edge right after you.

Andy buried his face in the curve of your neck, groaning his release loudly into your skin while his hips stuttered and finally pressed flush to your ass. He buried his cock in your pussy and spilled his cum into the depths of your womb, flooding your body with his seed while he fed on your soul. 

Out of habit, he was careful not to take too much, but he could sense that there was no such thing when it came to you. That realization made him groan all over again, another spurt of cum spilling into your cunt while he gorged himself on you until he was sated, your pussy still fluttering with the aftershocks of your release.

For a long moment, the two of you caught your breath together, Andy’s hand having loosened around your neck, though he still held you with your back pinned against his chest. He almost tightened his hold again when he felt your head moving, but you only turned your head to nuzzle your face into his beard and he rumbled a pleased sound in his chest, a smile curving his mouth. 

With a gentleness he’d never known himself to possess, Andy eased his softening cock from your pussy, enjoying the way your combined releases spilled across your thighs. 

He paused, scooping up his cum with his fingers and pushing it back into your hole, making you shudder and whine at the overstimulation. The demon shushed you softly, pressing kisses to your cheek and the edge of your jaw until he was done. 

Then, he rolled onto his back and tugged you with him, tucking you under his arm and propping his head up with the other hand. You still wore your nightshirt, and he was still clad in most of his clothes, his pants only opened enough for his cock, but he wanted to hold you a little bit longer before he forced himself to move from the bed.

You lifted your head and looked at the demon, the two of you hanging in a suspended silence while you regarded each other. 

For the first time since he’d slunk into your bedroom, Andy got a good look at your face, and his heart thumped heavily in his chest at the beauty of you. The slope of your nose, the curve of your mouth, and the intelligence in your eyes—it was all gorgeous to the demon.

As he stared at you, you looked at him in return, your eyes darting over his face while you took in his features—his crystal blue eyes and straight nose and the dark beard framing his soft mouth. Your expression was unreadable, but then a small smile curved the edges of your soft mouth, and your eyes warmed. You didn’t seem to hate what you saw, at least. 

“I’ll answer all your questions,” Andy promised, his gaze falling to your lips, the desire to kiss you gripping him and refusing to let go. “But first…” He trailed off, dragging you up his body while his hand cradled your head, moving you so he could slant his mouth to yours. 

The incubus kissed you gently at first, with just a brush of his lips, as if he was asking for your permission all over again. When you sighed happily and melted into him, your fingers curling in the short hair at the nape of his neck, he knew you were giving yourself to him willingly, gladly, wholly. 

Andy kissed you harder then, tracing his tongue along the seam of your lips and seeking entrance that you eagerly gave him. He slid into your mouth, groaning at your sweet taste, and explored you thoroughly while you clung to him and kissed him back.

When your hips began to rock greedily against Andy’s thigh, your slick pussy leaving a wet spot on his pants, he finally pulled away and gave you a wolfish grin.

“Does my sweet girl need her demon’s cock again?” he teased playfully before nipping at your lip and drinking down your moan while he soothed it with his tongue. 

“Yes, please,” you murmured sweetly, making Andy chuckle. 

But the demon wasn’t about to let your plea go unanswered. He rolled you onto your back and took the opportunity to kick his pants off his legs before sliding home with one thrust. The slick of your combined releases made it easy and you both groaned as he filled you up.

“Good,” he growled, clutching you tight beneath his body and encouraging your arms and legs to wrap around his broad, muscular form. “Because I need to be buried in your cunt for the rest of my fucking life.” His voice was a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine and made you clutch him tighter, meeting every thrust with your hips while he fucked you into the mattress.

It wasn’t until the sky began to lighten from a midnight blue to a softer shade of sapphire, the sun dawning on the morning of Valentine’s Day, that the two of you were finally sated enough for you to ask all the questions that had been rattling around in your head since you woke up to the demon in your bed.

Andy answered you with the truth—every bit of it—not even questioning that he didn’t have it in him to lie to you. He told you about what he was and how he’d been drawn to you from the moment he’d sensed you. 

You were skeptical at first, of course, but when he flashed you a look at his true eyes—dark pools of inky blackness like the pits of hell—and showed you a glimpse of his tail, he could tell that you started to believe him. It surprised him how much he wanted you to believe him, so it was a relief when you finally did.

Then, Andy told you about the stories of an incubus’s true mate. He hadn’t believed them until he’d met you, he explained, but a true mate was the one person in all the world that an incubus could feed on and never harm. They were literally made to be together.

Gently, as if worrying that it would be the part you couldn’t accept, he told you that he believed you were his—his true mate, the one person meant for him.

It took you a long moment to process that information, but once you did, you laughed wildly, happily, and pulled him in for a kiss. You were smiling too much to deepen it, so you settled for brushing butterfly kisses all over Andy’s face, making him smile, then grin, then laugh along with you. 

“Y’know, I would find out my soulmate is a demon on Valentine’s Day,” you said, giggling and falling back down against Andy’s chest. You curled into his side, pressing your face into his sternum and brushing another kiss over where his heart was beating in his chest.

Your comment reminded Andy of what day it was and he squeezed you in his arms. “Be my valentine?” he asked playfully, pressing a smile into the crown of your head. But he couldn’t wait for your answer, urging you, “Say yes, sweet girl, say yes.” 

“Yes, of course, my sweet demon,” you purred, throwing a leg over Andy’s body and sliding on top of him. 

Andy’s cock, which he’d thought for sure needed at least a few more hours of rest after the long night of fucking, valiantly stirred to life between your thighs. You reached between your bodies, slipping his half-hard length into your warm pussy and settling down on his chest, breathing a soft sigh of contentment. 

The two of you fell asleep like that, your soft, perfect body keeping Andy’s cock warm while you held each other close. As he drifted off, the demon felt a sense of peace and satisfaction that he’d never even dreamed he could achieve in his long, long life of walking the earth.

From that day on, Andy’s life was never the same. It was happier and more fulfilling and he never wanted for anything, not while you were in his life—and in his arms and in his bed. Together, you celebrated holidays and birthdays and life achievements as you grew together, but one day was still the most special.

For an incubus like Andy Barber, Valentine’s Day was his favorite day of the year. Not because of all the lonely, single women in the world, but because it was the day he’d found his true mate, the love of his life—it was the day he’d found you.

sweethearts game masterlist

[biblicallyaccuratemeat]

Placebo

MDNI!!!!

A/N: Yeah…this is fucked. I apologize in advance. I love Stephen with all my heart, but I believe the man has the emotional capacity of a brick. He has the potential to be a great boyfriend but he is stubborn and dumb as fuck! I’m also trying to be a bit more introspective with my writing style so I hope I pulled that off! Stephen Strange x female reader, mentioned/past Stephen x Christine, hurt no comfort, possibly unrequited love, rough fucking, dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, Stephen is a piece of shit in this, fingering, p in v sex, rough fingering, biting, scratching, dacryphilia, mean dirty talk, no aftercare, godawful relationship dynamics at play here, friends with benefits, this shit is depressing and horny.

Word count: 5.8k

The first time it happens, you’re justifiably pissed. Because you know she exists and you know he still loves her. But he never talks about her, never mentions her, she’s a ghost as far as you’re concerned. You know he compares you to her. That eidetic memory cataloguing each reaction and cross referencing it with hers. It makes you feel sick and disgusted and used. The worst possible feeling, under your skin and visceral. You don’t say anything. You don’t bring it up. You act as if he didn’t even gasp out that soft, “Christine.” In a voice far more tender and wanting than he’s ever uttered yours.

The second time, you just feel numb. Because it is happening again and somehow it’s even worse this time. Why are you even surprised at this point? So, you screw your eyes shut and try to just focus on the feeling of him impaling you on his cock. Move on with your life and come. 

It happens again and again. You don’t even care anymore, not really. At least that’s what you tell yourself when you’re lying in his bed and his seed is drying between your thighs. You can feel the ache radiating off him, you can taste his yearning. It’s bitter and acrid and burns your tongue. And your stupid little heart just falls even more in love with him. Can you really be angry if you’re willingly putting yourself into this situation? Fool you once, shame on you. Fool you twice, you’ll still let him fuck you on every available surface of the Sanctum.

Like clockwork, another Saturday night and another text from Stephen, inviting you over. Inviting is really a generous term, his texts are brief and straight to the point just like the rest of him. So, when your phone buzzes with a ‘ Come over.’ you all but scramble to your feet. You’re long past trying to impress him, trying to earn his favor or a compliment. So, you head to the Sanctum dressed in a casual outfit consisting of sweatpants and some old t-shirt. The cab ride isn’t long and you find yourself outside 177A Bleecker Street, a weird pit sinking into your stomach.

You let yourself in as always, expertly navigating the winding hallways of the old building. You find him in his study, standing by the window, staring out at the dark New York skyline. The city lights flickered and danced, reflecting in the glass and casting an ethereal glow across his chiseled features. He took a sip of whiskey—his drink of choice, even if it did little to numb the ache in his chest.

He heard the door open behind him and knew it was you. The soft click of the latch, followed by the gentle swish of fabric as you entered the room. A part of him wished to turn, to greet you with warmth and affection. But he remained still, feigning disinterest as he gazed into the night. It wasn't that he didn't care for you. In truth, you had grown close—intimately so. Nights spent tangled in his sheets, lost in the throes of passion and physical pleasure. But Stephen could never quite give his heart away, no matter how much his body craved your touch.

You deserved someone who could love you wholly and completely. And though Stephen admired your strength, your intellect, your unwavering loyalty—he could not give you the one thing he knew you yearned for. A majority of his heart still belonged to Christine—trapped in the past, frozen in time. He finished his drink, setting the glass aside before finally turning to face you. His eyes raked over your form, taking in the curves he knew so well. The swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the way your hips swayed as you approached him.

“I wasn’t sure if you'd be coming over tonight." His voice was low, tinged with a hint of something almost resembling tenderness. But his eyes remained guarded—shielded, as if daring you to press for more.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at his cool demeanor, this was the game, the chase, if you could call it that. Was it really a chase if you’d willingly throw yourself at his feet if he so much as asked? You clear your throat, stepping further into the opulent room, running a fingertip along some old leather-bound tome perched on one of the many bookshelves lining the walls. “You asked me to come over, so I did,” You say, carefully neutral, not daring to toe the line yet, “I can leave, if you want…?”

You sneak a glance at him, praying to whatever God that was listening that you didn’t sound and look as pathetic as you feel. He’s not even looking at you anymore, fuck. Taking a deep breath you step closer, maintaining a somewhat respectful distance. You learned early on, you have to let him come to you. Maybe he preferred initiating, maybe it was the way you approached it. Your traitorous mind begins to wander, what was it like with her ? Did he let her take the lead? Probably.

He took a step towards you, closing the distance between your bodies. Bingo , he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Stephen reached out, his fingers brushing against yours as he removed your hand from the book. His thumb lingered on your knuckles for a moment before he let his hand fall away.

"Leave?" He echoed, his gravelly voice dripping with disbelief. "Why would I ask you to come over if I wanted you to leave?"

It was a rhetorical question—one Stephen didn't expect an answer to. Instead, he took another step closer, invading your personal space as he loomed over you. His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt or dissatisfaction. But he saw none. Only tentative playfulness and a spark of something deeper—something Stephen refused to acknowledge. His heart belonged to Christine, and you knew that. You were his confidante, his lover, his outlet—but never his partner in the way that truly mattered.

“Stay." It wasn't a request, but a command. Firm and unwavering, just like everything else about him. "You're not going anywhere. We both know you don't want to."

His hand found your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip as he held you against him. Stephen's other hand tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the brush of his fingers against your cheek sending a shiver down your spine. You melt in his arms, preening under his attention like a flower in sunshine. You wish it was easier to resist him, that you could put on the same aloof act and leave him wanting, but you can’t. It’s not in your nature and you’re sure you’d never say no to him, never deny him. He could hurt you, break you, shape you into something, someone unrecognizable. And you’d stay, you’d let it happen, you’d fucking thank him.

You tilted your head, gazing up at Stephen with an ideally playful smirk that played at the corners of your lips. "You’re infuriatingly bossy," you murmured, your voice a low, teasing purr. "Good thing you're utterly gorgeous, or I swear your arrogance would drive me up the wall. As it is..."

You trailed off, letting your words hang in the air between you. You couldn't deny the way your heart raced at his proximity, or the heat gathering between your thighs. Stephen had a certain magnetism, a charisma that drew you in. And you’d never get enough of him, you were addicted. The high you got from his praise, his touch, his attention…it was your own personal drug, heady and just for you. Your small hand came up to rest against his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. You bit your lower lip, glancing away briefly before meeting his gaze again with a wry, almost challenging smile. "No one else could get away with being so damn bossy. But you? With your pretty eyes and gray hairs?"

You reached up to wind your fingers through the gray locks at his temple, your nails lightly scraping against his scalp. Leaning in closer, you nuzzled your nose against his jaw, breathing in the scent of his cologne—a mix of sandalwood, pepper, and something undeniably magical.

"Guess that's why I keep allowing you to invite me over."

As you spoke, your hand drifted lower, fingers splaying across Stephen's stomach. You could feel the hard planes and ridges you’ve come to know so intimately. Your touch lingered at the waistband of his pants before drifting back up to hook a finger in his collar. "And the real question is, Doctor Strange, what are you going to do with me now that you've got me here?" you asked, your voice a breathless tease. You arched a brow, awaiting his answer with anticipation simmering in your eyes.

You’d never met Christine, but you saw her in the news occasionally and once you found a picture of her in Stephen’s nightstand. She was gorgeous, because of course she was, and you picked up the vibe that she was witty like Stephen. So, you try to play it coy, teasing and flirty, hoping he’ll get off on it the way he got off with Christine. If he does, maybe, just maybe he’ll love you as much as he loved her, if not more.

Stephen's eyes darkened with unconcealed hunger as they roamed over your curves, his gaze lingering on every dip and swell. Your teasing words and playful touches ignited a fire within him—one that could never be entirely quenched, no matter how many nights you spent tangled in his bed. Admittedly, he had always been drawn to you—your intelligence, your wit, your unshakable spirit. On the nights when the darkness threatened to consume him, he sought solace in your arms. Found a different kind of escape in the way your body moved beneath his, in the breathy moans that slipped past your lips. But Stephen could never quite bring himself to cross that invisible line. To bare his soul completely and lay it at your feet. A part of him remained closed off, forever locked away in the past. Still bound to Christine, even as his hands explored the soft skin of your thighs. Your finger in his collar drew him back to the present, and Stephen caught your gaze with a look that spoke of unbridled desire. In the space between your bodies, he could feel the air crackling with tension, heavy with promise.

His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him as he leaned in to nuzzle your neck. Stephen's lips brushed against your pulse point, his breath hot against your skin as he inhaled your scent—sweet and floral, with a hint of something uniquely you.

"If you wanted a man with subtlety, perhaps you shouldn't have come to me," Stephen murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent vibrations through your body. "But since you're here..."

In one swift motion, he swept you into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carried you towards the bedroom. Stephen kicked the door shut behind him, leaving you both alone in the dimly lit space. He lowered you onto the bed, his body covering yours as he settled between your parted thighs. Stephen's eyes held yours captive, his gaze intense and consuming. There was no tenderness in his expression—only a raw, fierce hunger that made your heart race. His hands began to wander, mapping out the curves he knew so well. Stephen's fingers danced along your ribs before cupping the heavy weight of your breasts. He kneaded the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing against the peaks of your nipples until they strained against the fabric of your bra and your shirt. Stephen leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck as he began to trace a path of open-mouthed kisses from your collarbone to the lobe of your ear. He nipped at the tender flesh, soothing the sting with his tongue before whispering, "Now, I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight. Until my name is the only word you remember."

His words go straight to your pussy, hot and gooey and slick. The butterflies in your belly fluttering downwards. It was a promise and a threat all in one, delivered in the same low, gravelly tone that never failed to make your toes curl. Stephen's hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants to cup your cunt through your panties. He could feel the damp heat of you, could sense the way your body responded to his touch. You wish you could be embarrassed by how soaked you were, how needy and pliant you became whenever he shoved a hand down your pants. And you knew that he would gladly take advantage of your weakness for him, he’d do it without a second thought or your permission.

"This is my pussy to wreck, and wreck it I will."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a question. Stephen knew you would give yourself to him—mind, body, and soul. And though he could never reciprocate the depth of your devotion, he would take what you offered and give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. With a low growl, Stephen captured your mouth in a searing kiss—one that demanded surrender and promised ecstasy. His tongue delved deep, tangling with yours in a dance as old as time. Stephen's hands never stilled, continuing to stroke and tease, to knead and caress every inch of exposed skin until your body was aching with need. It was unfair how easily he worked your body, like an instrument only he knew to play. On the rare occasions you went down on him, took his fat dick in your mouth or gave him a hand job as you crouched under his desk, he barely gave you a semblance of a reaction. You couldn’t get a read on him, didn’t know if he liked it or hated it, if he wanted more or for you to stop. His face was impassive, save for the occasional twitch of his eyebrow or that little vein in his temple popping. Whereas you were maybe too enthusiastic, too loud. There was a part of you though, that’s glad you don’t know what’s going on his mind, because you’re almost certain you wouldn’t like it.

You arched your back, a breathy moan escaping your lips as Stephen's hands and mouth worked over your sensitive skin. Under his expert touch, you could feel your body melting, growing pliant and eager. Your tits heaved with each ragged breath you took, nipples straining against the flimsy fabric of your lacy bra. Stephen wasted no time in divesting you of your top, yanking it a bit too roughly over your head as his impatience got the better of him. Cool air hit your flushed skin and you shivered, goosebumps erupting across the expanses of your flesh. Stephen's eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of you, hot and hungry, taking in every dip and curve.

"Stephen..." You gasped out, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. And it was a prayer, just as much as Stephen was your god, cruel and benevolent all at once. Your fingers clenched in his dark hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp as you held him to your chest. Stephen's mouth found your nipple, his lips wrapping around the rosy peak before he sucked hard through the lace of your bra, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. You could feel the heat gathering between your thighs, core clenching and fluttering around nothing. Stephen's hand dipped lower, fingers brushing against your panty-clad mound. He could no doubt feel the embarrassing damp patch darkening the fabric, could sense the need that throbbed in your veins.

"Please," You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively into his touch. "Please, Stephen..."

You knew you should feel self-conscious and you wish you would, splayed out beneath him like a feast for the taking. But all your idiotic brain could focus on was the way he made you feel—consumed, alive, undone. Stephen owned every piece of you in that moment, and you knew he knew it.

You feel a bit helpless as your breathing grows heavier, strands of hair plastered to your damp forehead. You gazed up at him with hooded doe eyes, your nose just inches from his. You looked young, innocent even— a far cry from the experienced woman you had become in his bed. But right then, all you wanted was for Stephen to take you, to fill you, to make good on all his promises. Though he knows he shouldn’t, Stephen can’t help but silently compare your reactions to Christine’s. It’s second-nature at this point and his eidetic memory is a burden in moments like this. He always, always, always compared the memory of her to you. The way the pitch of your laugh is strikingly similar to hers, the way your skin flushes in different spots under his gaze than hers did, the taste of your cunt, the way you feel coming apart on his cock. You’re a pretty distraction, not necessarily a cheap substitute, he made sure of that. He took his time, ensuring there were plenty of differences, many ways you were nothing like her at all. 

Stephen's heart clenched as he listened to the desperation in your voice. The way you gasped and arched beneath him, your body surrendering to the pleasure he inflicted, stirred something deep within him—some instinct to possess and conquer. He knew he should be gentler, should cherish and worship your body with the reverence it deserved. But Stephen was consumed by a hunger that far outweighed simple appreciation. If you wanted to be worshipped, you would have gone to a different kind of man, but no, you came to him. And he needed to ruin you in the most basic, visceral way imaginable.

Icy eyes raked over you, drinking in every inch of exposed skin. The way your tits heaved and strained against the confines of your bra, begging to be freed. Stephen's shaky hands made quick work of the clasp, the scrap of lace falling away to reveal the perfect globes of your flesh. He couldn't help but compare them silently to Christine's, as he always did. Not that it mattered—not with the way your nipples pebbled under his searing gaze, begging for his touch.

Irreverently, Stephen's mouth found your nipple, engulfing the rosy peak as he sucked hard. He groaned against your breast as he felt the dampness of your arousal grow tenfold, your body already so eager and ready for him. Stephen circled your clothed slit, feeling your hips buck instinctively into his touch. The way you whimpered his name, the breathless desperation in your voice, only fueled his own desire.

Stephen's cock throbbed insistently against the confines of his pants, straining towards you like there was some kind of magnetic pull between your flesh. He was achingly hard, painfully aroused—every fiber of his being focused on the stunning creature splayed out before him. With a muttered curse, he practically ripped your panties from your body, leaving you bare and exposed. Stephen settled between your parted thighs, the thick ridge of his erection nestling perfectly against your soaked, swollen folds.

He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasps and whimpers as his fingers dipped between your legs. Stephen's digits slid through your slick arousal, stroking and circling your sensitive clit until your hips began to grind urgently against his hand. He settled over you, the scorching heat of his bare skin searing yours. Stephen's lips found the tender spot on your neck, his mouth open and hungry as he suckled and nipped at the delicate flesh. He thrusted his fingers deep into your hot, clasping pussy. Stephen pumped in and out of your channel, curling and stroking that spot within you that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. His other hand drifted down to the straining bulge in his pants, palming his cock through the fabric before finally freeing it from its confines. Stephen knew you could feel every thick, throbbing inch of him as he ground against you—could sense the way his body ached to be buried inside you.

You’re in raptures, trembling and arching and writhing beneath him. His mouth on your tit and fingers on your cunt could probably make you come right now if he tried. But you know he won’t, he lived for the build up, for the opportunity to show you how well he knows your body and how desperate he can make you. You moan eagerly, spreading your thighs wider to accommodate Stephen, “Yes, right there,” You sigh out dreamily, eyes fluttering shut and arching into his hand and mouth. You can hear the shlicking of his other hand, wet from your cunt, wrapped around his dick as he strokes it in tandem with his fingers. He groans, fuck he finally makes a fucking noise, and you whine in response, pussy leaking in delight.

“Fuck, Christine,” he grunts around your tit, and he’s committed to it, not even hesitating to murmur out that name. You freeze, your heart plummeting into your stomach, the fever Stephen was stoking beneath your skin doused in cold water. Your hands in his hair drop, sitting uselessly by your side as you try to swallow what feels like shards of glass. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper, voice thick, trying to stave off the tears of shame and hurt welling up in your eyes, “Are you fucking for real?” You wanted to sound angry, but it comes out small and pathetic, almost whiny. Your cheeks burn with shame as you gaze at the man above you, silently begging for an explanation that won’t shatter your heart into a million irreparable pieces.

The utterance of Christine's name slipped out before Stephen could stop it—the ghost of her memory still lingering, even now. He cursed himself for the slip, watching the color drain from your face as you stared up at him with wounded eyes. In that moment, Stephen felt a pang of guilt, a twinge of regret. But it was quickly replaced by something darker—the frustrated rage of a man who had lost control. Lost control of his heart, his life, his very identity.

Stephen surged forward, his fingers plunging deeper into your dripping cunt as his cock jerked angrily against your thigh. He could feel the way your silken walls clenched around his digits, hear your gasp of hurt morph into a moan of reluctant pleasure. You didn’t want to like this, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction or let it slide that he just fucking moaned her name. His touch turned rougher, more demanding. Stephen's palm ground mercilessly against your clit as he finger-fucked you with sharp, brutal thrusts. He could feel the wet, obscene slap of flesh against flesh as he violated your cunt.

"Stop being ridiculous," Stephen growled, his voice a low, furious rumble. "You think I don't know what I want? You think I can't tell the difference between you and..."

He trailed off, swallowing the rest of Christine's name as if it left a bitter taste on his tongue. Stephen's eyes flashed with anger, his expression tight and unyielding as he loomed over you.

"And who else would I be calling out to, sweetheart? Who else would I be begging for? Certainly not you," he taunted, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust of his fingers. Stephen knew he was being cruel, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. You whimper at his words, bottom lip trembling. You’re going to fucking cry, you know that much, and you’ll probably come too. His other hand drifted up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, but firm and possessive. Stephen's thumb brushed over your racing pulse, feeling it jump beneath his touch.

"You are the one in my bed, sweetheart. You are the one spreading your legs for me, begging me to fill you. So stop your whining, and take what I give you." It was a command, not a request. Stephen's voice was rough with barely restrained lust, his eyes burning into yours with a fierceness that made your heart stutter. You feel a mixture of terror, anger, hurt, and traitorous arousal. Damn him, damn his silver tongue, his gorgeous face, damn Stephen Strange. Most of all, damn the fact that you hadn’t met him first. It was unlikely and nearly impossible that you would have, but you’d like to imagine if you had…He’d love you, you’d be married, three kids, white picket fence. The whole nine yards and you wouldn’t have to exist with this fucking rain cloud looming over you.

He pulled his fingers out of your dripping cunt, bringing them up to his mouth. Stephen licked them clean with a low moan, his tongue swirling around the digits to lap up every drop of your arousal. Then, positioning himself at your entrance, Stephen gripped your hips bruisingly tight and thrust forward— burying himself to the hilt inside your perfect, velvety heat with one ruthless stroke. Hot, bitter tears slipped down your flushed cheeks as you lay there, frozen beneath Stephen. Your heart felt like it was being carved out of your chest with each ragged breath. It hurt, God did it hurt, knowing you were just a poor imitation in his eyes. But despite the anguish clawing at your throat, you found yourself arching your back, hips tilting up to take him deeper.

You couldn't explain it nor did you really want to acknowledge it, but some dark, masochistic part of you reveled in the brutal way he wrecked your body. As if proving he could still want you, even if it was just for the physical act. You bit your lip hard, tasting blood, as he began to move. Each violent thrust sent waves of reluctant pleasure radiating through you, making you clench and quiver around his pistoning cock. You kept crying, pathetic and stretched out, lost to the sensations, to the heartbreak.

"I hate you, I hate her, I hate this whole fucked up thing," You whimpered brokenly, even as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You clung to him, fingernails digging into the bunched muscles of his back, anchoring yourself against the overwhelming sensations. More insults spilled from your lips between hitching sobs and choked moans. Apologies for not being her. For failing to live up to some unattainable standard only Stephen could see.

But even through the pain and the tears, you submitted to his brutal pace. Your body betrayed you, surrendering to the searing slide of Stephen's cock splitting you open. You could feel every thick, throbbing inch of him, stretching you in ways that edged pleasure and agony. The wet, filthy sounds of your cunt filled the room, a perverse symphony of slick skin slapping against skin and strangled cries etched with despairing ecstasy. You fought an internal battle, torn between not wanting to come, not wanting to give him the satisfaction and the bone deep, all consuming burn of needing to do just that like you needed oxygen.

Your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, but your body sang with a life of its own. Stephen owned it, possessed it, fucking you with a single-minded intensity that stole your breath and shattered your composure. You were just a vessel for his lust, a set of holes to pour his frustration into. And God help you, but some dark, secret part of you liked being used like this. Needed to be punished, to feel his fury and his hate and all the things he could never put into words. You buried your face in his shoulder, biting down hard on the corded muscle to muffle your sobs. The taste of his skin, the scent of him—pepper and smoke and something uniquely Stephen—flooded your senses. You inhaled deeply, drowning in him, even as you wept for the woman you could never be. You felt so fucking tired, so utterly exhausted down to your very soul. But your body was a liar, writhing and bucking beneath his brutal assault, chasing an impossible climax. You knew you were going to come harder than you ever had before and the fact left you feeling mortified.

"Fuck you," You choked out, voice raw and ragged. "Fuck you for making me feel like this. For reducing me to this...this thing. I love you. I fucking love you."

You didn't know if you said it out loud or just screamed it in your head, trapped in the hell of your own making. All you knew was the searing ache between your legs, the cruel twist in your guts, and the overwhelming, inescapable truth that you were hopelessly in love with Stephen Strange. A love that consumed you, body and soul, even as it destroyed you.

Stephen got off on your anger, got off on your tears, it spurred him on and he couldn’t help but continue to moan Christine’s name, each one raising in volume. You were an ache, an appetite, a means to an end for him. Nothing more, nothing less. Stephen ignored your anguished sobs and hateful words, lost in the silken heat of your body as he pounded into you without mercy. He could feel your nails raking down his back, your legs clinging desperately to his waist as he split you open on his throbbing cock.

Each brutal thrust sent jolts of reluctant pleasure coursing through you, your cunt clenching and fluttering around him like a vice. Stephen groaned at the exquisite sensation, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision. He was fucking you with a single-minded intensity, determined to ruin your body utterly and completely. Even as he lost himself in your cunt, memories of her haunted him—the way her voice would catch on a moan, the hot stickiness of her cunt around his cock. But you were here now, writhing and mewling beneath him, taking everything he gave you without a word of true protest.

Stephen tangled a hand in your hair, wrenching your head back to bare the slender column of your throat to his hungry mouth. He bit and suckled at the tender skin, marking you, claiming you as his if only on a superficial level. His other hand drifted down to where you were joined, fingers finding your aching clit and rubbing merciless circles over the swollen nub.

"That's it," Stephen growled, his voice a dark, sinful rumble against your throat. "Take it all, you little slut. Take everything I give you."

He could feel your body drawing taut, could sense your impending orgasm building like a storm deep in your belly. You tried to stave off the impending ecstasy, screwing your eyes shut and whimpering but that only encouraged him. Stephen pistoned his hips faster, fucking into you with sharp, brutal thrusts that struck sparks off his nerve endings. Lost in a haze of lust and longing and bitter, twisted memories, Stephen thought he heard you whisper that you loved him. But it couldn't be—that must be some cruel trick of his imagination. He was too far gone, too consumed by the tight, velvet grip of your cunt to pay it any mind. Instead, Stephen lost himself in the debauched symphony of skin slapping against skin, of your strangled sobs and gasps. He chased his pleasure in the slick, fluttering heat of your pussy, the way your body opened and surrendered and begged for more.

You come harder than you ever have in your life, body convulsing uncontrollably as you sob and hiccup beneath Stephen. Tears stream down your flushed cheeks, dripping off your chin and onto the sweat-slicked sheets. You weakly push at his chest, still reeling from the intensity of your climax, anger and overwhelming heartache coursing through your veins. You try to regain some semblance of composure. Your hair a wild, just-fucked mess around your blotchy, tear-streaked face. You feel utterly wrecked, inside and out, your soul laid bare and your body defiled by his brutal fucking.

“I love you, you arrogant, infuriating bastard. I must be out of my goddamn mind…”  You whisper hoarsely, the words torn from the depths of your shattered heart. Your fingers curl into the sweat-soaked sheets, craving something—anything—to anchor yourself to reality. With a harsh, guttural moan, Stephen came hard and deep—his cock pulsing and jerking as he spilled himself inside you. He flooded your womb with his hot, thick seed, his hips rocking shallowly against yours as he rode out the waves of his release.

In the aftermath, Stephen collapsed against you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. He could feel your tears soaking into his chest, hear your choked, trembling breaths as you fought to regain your composure.

But Stephen didn't offer any words of comfort or reassurance. Instead, he simply rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his chest heaving and sweat glistening on his skin. Silently, he cursed himself for letting Christine's memory intrude, for reducing you to this weepy, pathetic thing. But Stephen knew, with a dark and twisted sense of satisfaction, that he would fuck you like this again. He would use your body for his pleasure, would make you cry over and over until there was no question of how either of you felt.

“I'm going to leave.” The words left your chapped lips in a hoarse whisper, your voice ragged from your sobs of anguish and moans of rapture. Part of you prayed, foolishly perhaps, that Stephen would reach out and ask you to stay. That he would pull you close, whisper that he did, in fact, love you too and he could finally forget all about Christine. But you couldn't linger here, not with the bitter taste of tears still fresh on your tongue and the lingering ache of his possession throbbing between your thighs. You needed to escape this gilded cage before the cruel whims of his desire trapped you forever. 

So you pushed yourself up on quivering arms, the silk sheets tangling around your thighs as you levered your form off the bed. You didn't dare look back at Stephen as you gathered your scattered clothes, fingers fumbling to tug your t-shirt back on. You couldn't bear to see the surface-level hunger in his eyes, the flickering ghosts of a love long lost. Or worse, the apathetic indifference. And he doesn’t call out, he doesn’t stop you, he doesn’t say goodbye. You know as much as you know the sun will rise tomorrow, that when he beckons you once more, you’ll come without question and relive this all over again.

[carnal-lnstinct]

I’m always so excited for your Halloween event! (And anything you write too 💚)

Can I request my boi Gohan. I love our dorky nerd having a mean dark side. 🥰 If I could get anything either dubcon or cnc with him? Any type of setting is good with me; walking home in the dark, meeting at a bar, or a good old meet up with the Ox Prince 😂

(Off question, which I might have asked you before but memory is terrible, but do you think you’ll write Granolah at any point? 🤔)

〖 OX PRINCE GOHAN X READER 〗 ✦✦Content: M/18+. MINORS DNI. au. established relationship. public sex. rough sex. breeding. overstimulation. referenced squirting.    ✦✦Warning: implied dubcon/cnc. light impact play. ✦✦A/N: I still haven't read the other arcs in the manga to fully absorb and muse over Granolah's character, so it depends on how soon I do that and if he strikes interest to me. I swear I only go through the manga to look at Broly 😭 but we'll see!

It seemed like nothing could break through to Gohan in the heat of this moment, his blood pumping and the sound of his own pulse in his ears smothering out any remaining wariness for your surroundings. He’s past the point of indulging a distraction like a creeping up voice or the floor creaking under approaching footsteps. You’re right here, sobbing under the growing intensity of his body pounding against yours and lacking all the flash and fight you started with. You’re perfectly broken down, now malleable for whatever he wanted you to be. He pulled you flush against his hips, allowing you to keep his cock warm for the moment as he removed the fogged glasses from his eyes to get a better look at you. The Ox Prince admires his handiwork with a tasteful lick of his lips and a languid drag of your body along his length, taking in the mess of his cum and yours glossing up your connection.

You trembled inconsolably from the aftershocks of orgasms and squirts you couldn’t control, let alone recover from. A pitiful whine leaves your lips and your knees buckle a little when he pulls you back to fully sheath himself again making him snicker proudly.

Regardless of how much you shake and sob, you aren’t fixing your mouth to say that word. The only thing to make it all stop. Or, perhaps, you can’t. Nothing but hoarse, shaky croaks on your breath, and a fog in your mind holding you back from the relief you desperately need. Even so, he gave it to you to use as a mercy.

Gohan inviting himself to slap your ass in quick succession just to feel you clamp around his cock reminds you of your shared addiction to the high, which really keeps your safe word sitting in the back of your throat. It doesn’t matter where you are, he’s going to fuck you. You protest and he does it harder, longer. Drawing it out and goading you with those deep strokes against your spot to draw attention knowing you’ll try your best to keep from embarrassing yourself. With that shame stirring back into your mind you find your words again, miraculously letting out pleas for him to end it already, for your sake. You can’t take another build-up anymore than you can keep yourself quiet enough to avoid attention. 

But your begging is all hollow bullshit if you’re not going to say it. Admitting you’re afraid to be caught like this or what Gohan would do in the situation should his temper get the best of him doesn’t stop him. You’re his woman, he’ll have you whenever and wherever he wants and he’s never led you to believe otherwise since you’ve gotten this far in your relationship. Filling you up and watching you shamble around afterward to keep it all in is the mark of a fulfilling fuck.

Gohan takes your leg and turns you onto your back from your position on your knees, your cunt wet and stretched to his size enough that he could do it without pulling out of you. He’s not even giving your pathetic words the time of day. 

He doesn’t waste any of his attention on keeping your hands restrained when you start to push against the roll of his hips, growing into a desperate fuss when his pace finds the angle to make you squeal. It’s downright cathartic to feel the way you claw at his skin, the impact of your palm nudging at his unwavering form raising an uncanny smile on his face. His ki surged with excitement in the form of electricity around his body. Heating him more than before as red flashes in his irises.

[thecarisfucked]

15 pierresteban fic recs

(in no particular order ❤️)

(the pierre line) (3499 words) by daytrippers Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon, Past Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc - Relationship Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon Additional Tags: Wall Sex, Mentions of choking, Implied/Referenced Disordered Eating, Childhood Friends, Fluff and Smut Summary: Este never really knew it could feel this way, how instinctive it could be.

hallelujah, petrol blues (8145 words) by orphan_account Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Esteban Ocon, Pierre Gasly Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Future Fic Summary: It’s 2027. Esteban and Pierre are teammates. It goes—okay.

growing pains (5047 words) by grandprix Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon Additional Tags: Angst, Non-Linear Narrative, Complicated Relationships, Childhood Friends, Internalized Homophobia, Implied Sexual Content Summary: Esteban thinks he’s figured his own past out, unwound and stared at and digested it, but that’s still something about his childhood he doesn’t like to look into, not deeply, not cruelly, not with scrutiny. He leaves it there. It almost remains innocent, like that, something clueless and soft and indiscernible that made no more sense when he was twelve years old and crossing the last few lines he’d ever draw in the sand before he lost something forever. Maybe it’s cruel, to someone, Pierre or otherwise, to refuse to admit he ever really loved him.

you whom I cannot betray (41161 words) by tetrapod Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Esteban Ocon, Pierre Gasly, Charles Leclerc, Ensemble Additional Tags: Childhood to Adulthood, Rough Sex Summary: Pierre and Esteban; from the beginning to another beginning.

yes and (lover lover lover) (13208 words) by tetrapod Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Summary: “How --,” Pierre’s voice cracks in his throat. “How do you want it.”

bare your teeth and show me love (1063 words) by gothic_sevgilim Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon, Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon, Charles Leclerc Additional Tags: Mentions of other ships, Mostly Pierre and Ocon being toxic to each other, Toxic Relationship, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, Lovers To Enemies, Enemies to Strangers, Not Beta Read, Unhealthy Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Teammates Summary: They bare their teeth like animals, only then to kiss abruptly and frantically, bruising each other’s lips, biting hard enough to taste blood.

the heart is a muscle (and I wanna make it strong) (6097 words) by bones_2_be Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Esteban Ocon, Pierre Gasly Additional Tags: vague dubcon due to the consumption of alcohol but everyone is on board, fuckbuddy frenemies to something more like friends, not quite a five times fic Summary: Esteban and Pierre haven't been friends for a while, but sometimes it's better with the devil you know. In which Pierre and Esteban make dubious and self-destructive life choices, then make still-dubious but less destructive life choices.

my thumb's on your teeth (15476 words) by geluksalig Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Esteban Ocon, Pierre Gasly Additional Tags: Parallel Universes, Dreams, Australian Grand Prix 2023 Summary: “Thanks,” Pierre says, afterwards, awkwardly. Esteban shrugs. No one tells him to—not explicitly, anyway. He thinks, if he didn’t want Pierre to race, he wouldn’t have given him a shot of his kart when they were six.

into a jukebox larger than the sun (2044 words) by Anonymous Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon Additional Tags: Infidelity, Explicit Sexual Content Summary: “It looks good,” Esteban says, sliding his hands a little higher, thumbs falling into the valley of his dimples. “It looks so good, I could take a picture and—” Send it to Charles, he means to say. If he weren’t such a pussy, he would.

Drowning (with you, in you) (1425 words) by Lovely_Lotus Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon Additional Tags: Brazilian Grand Prix 2024, Character Study, Introspection, Friends to Enemies, Enemies to Lovers, but more like: childhood friends to enemies to yearning to go back to a happier time, Implied Sexual Content, Pining Summary: Only a single thing breaches the water. Two strong arms wrapped around his back, pulling him close. A smile that's beaming at him that makes his heart ache, the face of a friend and enemy and teammate who Pierre almost forgot could direct such a joyful expression at him. A double podium in Brazil makes Pierre think about his relationship with Esteban.

petrichor (3538 words) by septdecoeurs Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon, Charles Leclerc, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Light Angst, Brazil 2024, Introspection, Water metaphors, Implied Sexual Content, Making Up, kind of?, Childhood Friends, Reconciliation Summary: Their helmets knock together as Esteban whispers close to his ear, voice sounding thick. “We did it, Pear, finally.” Pierre nods, all his thoughts swirling into a messy amalgamation that is strangled in his throat. He swallows, blinking rapidly, and rests his head against Esteban’s shoulder. It feels like coming home. If anyone notices the wetness on his cheeks, he will blame it on the rain.

Something ends, something begins (6638 words) by CamilleDuDemon Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon Additional Tags: Romcom Structure, Exes to Lovers, Fix-It, Non-Linear Narrative, Implied Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, post brazil 2024 Summary: Twenty days are reasonable for recovering after such a grueling triple-header. Pierre thinks Esteban won’t text again, so he simply doesn’t hold out much hope – he can be okay with the notion that they’re strangers again, really. It doesn’t really burn, it just…itches, but in a way that cannot be scratched properly. He pushes the thought away, occupies his time with training, golf and whatever shit he feels like doing, because he stepped on a podium during the worst season of his career and he deserves to treat himself, and a week later he’s forced to rethink the situation completely, damn Esteban and his unpredictability. He’s getting ready after some workout, still sauntering around in his microfiber bathrobe, trying his best not to butcher the lyrics of the song that’s blasting from his bluetooth speakers, when the screen of his phone goes off and there he is, the massive fucker, texting him to know what he’s up to during the mini break. Unbelievable. Despite the Cold War they waged on each other for years, Esteban and Pierre reconnect after their joint podium on the Interlagos track, and they fix their relationship one remaining race at a time.

yet again, the jugular (2285 words) by pursuit Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Esteban Ocon, Pierre Gasly Additional Tags: Complicated Relationships Summary: Pierre was never really looking at him the way Esteban looked at him.

fractals (8090 words) by maiaronan - (full disclosure, this one is mine!) Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon Additional Tags: Bedsharing for Warmth, Fucking For Warmth, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, you never forget your first homoerotic teenage situationship etc etc, Lapland Trip 2023, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex Summary: And so it goes. A snake eating its tail, full circle around and around, again and again.

Blue light (9904 words) by Pocket_Girl Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Esteban Ocon Characters: Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon Additional Tags: Light Angst, Miscommunication, as in they are fundamentally unable to understand each other despite trying, First Kiss, Childhood Friends to Rivals to Strangers to Reluctant Teammates to Lovers, Pierre's canonical phone addiction, Author pretends to understand what F1 teams even do during the off-season, I want to apologize for having jinxed the car with this fic Series: Part 1 of Blue light Summary: “Interview after interview, Pierre sticks to the facts and recites the same phrases. "We're not best friends and we won't be": factual. "I know he wouldn't invite me for dinner": also factual. "I'm fine with that": when he reads it, black on white, squeezed between a picture of them both and an ad for Basic-Fit, it seems right. Appropriate. PR-approved. Esteban has no reason to complain whatsoever.” Or: during the off-season, Esteban texts Pierre about his habit of telling the press they aren't friends. Which makes no sense for him to complain about because it's entirely his fault. Things get worse before they get better.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

All of my fics written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles 2024, days 11-20.

[Days 1-10] A pirate's life for me Prompt: Cabin | Rated: M | Tags: Pirate AU; Implied child abuse; Flirting; Sexual tension; Dubcon if you squint, Steve is very into it, promise; Fade to black sex | Notes: Probably not the kind of cabin @steddieas-shegoes had in mind, but I wanted to write more Pirate AU Constellations of crimson

Prompt: Stargazing | Rated: E | Tags: Mafia AU; Mob boss Eddie; Dark Eddie; Blood and violence; Corpses; Nudity; Outdoor sex; Top Eddie; Bottom Steve; Bloodplay; Murder boyfriends | Notes: So I knew I wanted to do starlit outdoor sex for this prompt, but I couldn't decide on a universe to set it in, so I let @steddieas-shegoes pick one. She picked Kiss That Ring, which was a choice for sure. These two truly bring out the worst in each other. Meet the parents Prompt: Family Dinner | Rated: T | Tags: Modern AU; No UD AU; Meet ugly; Fake dating; Fake identity; Past Stommy Wherever you wanna go Prompt: Together | Rated: T | Tags: Omegaverse; Alpha!Steve; Omega!Eddie; Steddie dads; mpreg (referenced); Domestic fluff | Notes: Set in the same universe as Whatever you want it to be Everything you do is perfect

Prompt: Ornament Rated: T | Tags: Established relationship; Post-Vecna; Everybody lives; Christmas; Steve Harrington has bad parents; Eddie Munson is a sweetheart; Making out A purrfect Christmas

Prompt: Tree (for both) Rated: G | Tags: Established relationship; Domestic fluff; Cat dads Steddie; Christmas | Notes: Set in the same universe as this one Sound, color, touch

Prompt: Lights | Rated: E | Tags: Magic AU; Established relationship; Married Steddie; Explicit sexual content | Notes: Once more for the Phantom Thief boys! I published the first part of this exactly 363 days ago, for last year's holiday drabble challenge. I'm not crying, you're crying!! Neverland Prompt: Vacation | Rated: T | Tags: No UD AU; Cruise ship; Musician Eddie; Kids' entertainer Steve; Steve in a dress; Homophobic language; Sexual tension; Eddie being a horny disaster | Notes: Based on this brainworm. Artwork of Steve and Robin in their costumes, done by the incredible @arelliann this way. Of toppings and fillings

Prompt: Dessert | Rated: M | Tags: Established relationship; Idiots in love; Competitive idiots, to be more specific; Sexually explicit language; Sexual innuendo; Eddie is a little shit

Home for Christmas

Prompt: Alone | Rated: G | Tags: Post-Vecna; Future fic; Everybody lives; Exes Steddie; Rock star Eddie; Single dad Steve; Reunions; Second chances | Notes: Continued from this one

[Days 21-31]

[bucketsofmonsters]

Where the Light Enters - Part 1

cw: unreliable narrator, hurt/comfort, slow burn, eventual sex, enemies to lovers, past childhood sexual assault, past sex trafficking, referenced noncon, offscreen dubcon, happy ending, the tags look scary but this is mainly a story about recovery

Cole/Female Inquisitor

word count: 4k

ao3 link

Masterlist

She’d chosen the templars.

It seemed the better option. Or at least the less vulnerable one. 

Frankly, she'd barely understood what a templar was a few weeks ago. The mages seemed upset about them, but surely there were more important things than that in a war. Besides, she'd rather hide herself behind a trained militant force than these rogue witches. 

She still didn’t really understand them if she was being honest. She knew enough to see that people were afraid. No matter how evil the templars may be, at least they were stable. Maybe that was enough. 

She had hoped, assumed even, that Cullen would be doing this part. That she’d point at the templars on the map and he’d set off with his less than stellar army to collect them. That the man who’d been advocating to bring his old comrades into the fold would do the legwork and return with the mage killers and she’d be just that much safer. 

But no. She’d pointed at the map and then been sent off. They hadn’t even given her time to complain. 

Not that she would’ve. It would have ruined her perfectly crafted image of the sweet doe-eyed girl that ensured they wouldn’t throw her to the wolves. The one that changed her from a tool to a manipulable, scared girl. 

She was fine with being manipulated. So long as they thought she was weak-willed, there was no reason to hurt her. She just had to ensure that whatever was best for her was the path of least resistance for them. 

Besides, it wasn’t like she wasn’t returning the favor. The little notebook buried deep under her floorboards ran through the easiest way to get to all of them. Not to endear her to them, just to make her safe. She’d foster pity, camaraderie, desire, whatever would keep her in their good graces for the longest. 

She was always harmless. That was the one thing she had to be. Harmless above all else. Any sign of competency turned to threat under anything but the softest light. 

And yet they’d sent her fragile, bumbling self off to the templars to secure themselves some allies. Josephine had insisted she wouldn’t have to do anything, that she just had to show up while the actual soldiers being sent alongside her would do the heavy lifting. 

Iron Bull had promised much the same, posturing as he normally did. She almost always took him with her these days. He was a beast of a man who threw his weight around like it was nothing, more than happy to take blows for her. And even more importantly, he was growing incredibly fond of her, the kind of ally she needed. 

Their actual leader, the one who made the real decisions, was Cassandra. Cassandra was disinterested in coddling her, more focused on gathering troops than on the strange girl who’d inexplicably been shoved towards leadership because of an ability she’d been given by some higher power. 

Solas, the mage she’d been forced to take with her, was too busy huffing and puffing about prioritizing templars over mages. She thought about snapping at the elf, at insisting that maybe the mages should have been an organized militaristic force if they wanted to be prioritized in this fight. 

Instead, she rolled over like she always did, playing afraid until he stormed off, clearly uncomfortable with the tremor in her voice as she swore she was just trying to get the strongest possible troops so no one else would get hurt. 

Good. Let him be uncomfortable. She had never liked him much anyways. 

But even so, when they arrived at the templar camp she kept herself wedged firmly between Solas and Iron Bull, as far away from the leader of the templars, the Lord Seeker she was pretty sure he was called, as she could. 

She still didn’t fully understand who he was, couldn’t make sense of what he was doing here or why she was meant to care about him. In her defense, she hadn’t expected to be forced to come along. 

Despite her disinterest in him, despite her safe position, despite the way Bull attempted to lead the conflict, when something snapped in the Lord Seeker and he lunged forwards, he lunged at her. 

The world lurched under her feet and it felt like it had the last time, when she'd been pulled through the fade to this awful place and given the strange power that stuck her heading an army. It made her reel in her skin, her muscles and sinews feeling like they were being tugged along faster than she could keep up with, her mind stretching impossibly thin as it did.

And then she was alone. Her warriors and mages were gone, no Bull or Cassandra or Solas to keep her safe. 

Then this Lord Seeker appeared once more, and she suspected that even if she had listened when they’d told her all about the templars and their plight, she would have no better of an idea who this Lord Seeker was. 

This idea was only reinforced when the Lord Seeker began to morph, turning into eerie, hollow puppets of her now absent companions, cycling through her advisors as well. 

She allowed herself the freedom to not perform innocence for these poor mockeries of her cohorts. It seemed probable that this ‘Lord Seeker’ was a demon and as such, unlikely to respond to her usual fawning. 

So instead she got on with things, turning away from the creature that had just decided to morph itself into the face that she tried to avoid seeing in the mirror, and began moving forwards in this strange new space. 

The exploration was slow, the terrain littered with traps. The demon seemed frustrated with her persistent refusal to listen to it menace her. 

The rooms revealed little. Some had puppetted versions of the members of the Inquisition, acting out some situation or another. She decided not to devote her attention to it. It seemed to be intended to display what might happen should she die here and to be frank, she couldn’t care less. She would be dead after all. If Cullen ended up in a jail cell after she died, so be it. It would serve him right for forcing her to come here anyway. 

She explored another room, empty and strange, not sure what she was looking for. It wasn’t like she could just find a way out, she knew she was somewhere incorporeal and beyond things like exit doors. Maybe it was the fade, maybe she was in her own mind, maybe it was this demon’s territory. She didn’t much care, unless figuring it out led her to an exit any faster. 

And then, as she drowned herself in hopelessness and melancholy, a voice sounded from behind her. 

“You.”

The voice didn’t sound harsh nor antagonistic, a far cry from what she’d heard from the demon’s many faces. It was soft, almost curious in its tone. 

She turned around with wide eyes, forcing her face back into the soft façade she’d been free of whilst only under the scrutiny of the demon. 

“Thank god I found someone,” she gasped out, hoping she wasn’t laying it on too thick. “I thought I was all alone in here.”

A young man stood before her. She tried to take him in but it was difficult to due to the frankly absurd hat he was wearing. It covered most of his face, obscuring him from her, the shaggy ends of blonde hair and a stern looking mouth barely peeking out from under it. 

He also, fairly notably, was hanging from the ceiling, which did not help with the matter of the oversized brim of his well-worn hat blocking her view. 

He spoke once more, in that same gentle, inquisitive tone. It was off putting in a way it shouldn’t have been, its softness not quite managing to shield it from that. “It's not the same. Soft words, hard thoughts. You hate me. People do that but you think I’m human and you hate me anyway. Besides it, because of it. It’s hard to see, hard to understand, covered more and more, shying away from the light. The light brings eyes and the eyes bring hurt.”

“Are you inside my head?” Her tone was laced with a spite she rarely allowed to see the light of day.

He looked around. “We’re both inside your head. You’ve guessed that already.”

She shook her head. “Not here, not this place. You, what you’re saying, those are my thoughts. You’re stealing them from me.”

“Not stealing. Just seeing. Hearing.” He paused for a moment, and then said with a decisiveness she’d yet to hear from him. “You’re a bad person.”

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, brushing right past his statements, desperately searching for a way out of this. As much as she hated it, this weird creature that she’d found lingering in her mind was probably her best chance of escape. At least he didn’t seem intent on killing her.

“I grabbed onto you, when you were pulled through the fade. I wanted to go help, but getting out is hard. You made it easy but part of me is stuck up here now. You could help. If you go back I can follow you then too.”

Great, so she’d picked up some sort of mind-reading monster in the fade. She was tempted for a second to take her chances with the demon but she wasn’t stupid. She couldn’t get out on her own, and he clearly knew something. 

“What are you?” she asked, at least wanting to know what she was dealing with before she threw her life into his hands. 

“I’m Cole. What are you?”

That earned a ghost of a laugh from her, the short huff of air barely noticeable. Not that it mattered, Cole could probably feel it as she did. “I’m Rosemary.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, suddenly behind her, standing on the same floor she was on.

“About what? My name?”

“Wandering, alone, unnamed, searching for something soft on the tongue. Rosemary made people see the ghost, not the person. Rosemary earned gentle hands. What are you?” 

This was spiraling out of control faster than she could figure out how to manage it. “Can we focus on getting out of here?” she asked. “Can’t you interrogate me when there’s no imminent threat on our lives?”

Then he breathed a word out like he couldn’t decide if it was a prayer or a curse, like it was a horrible truth that had just occurred to him. “Britches.”

Her head snapped towards him, a tension she’d long since trained out of herself rearing its ugly head. “Where did you hear that?”

“You told me. It echoes in your head, the closest thing to you that there is. It’s so far, fleeting, fading. But it’s almost you.”

“We need to leave,” she practically pleaded with him. “Can we please just get out of here?”

“I’ve never heard someone who wasn’t a who before. Where did it go?”

“I promise I’ll answer all your questions when we get out. Please, we need to go.” She wasn’t above begging. There was very little she was above, in all honesty. 

His head tilted once more, as if considering asking about that thought, before deciding the promise of honesty in the future was worth more. 

“It wants your face,” he declared. “It would hurt more than you ever could, claw the people apart instead of just holding. You want to leave. I can help.”

“You can get me out of here?”

He didn’t even bother to nod, just continued speaking in his strange little riddles. “You need to make it more. Right now it’s just a few. The further you go, the further it stretches.”

“Why would I want to make it bigger?”

“The smaller it is, the closer together the power. You have to stretch it thin.”

Right, so she just needed to keep moving and eventually something in this seemingly endless demon would snap. 

She didn’t need him for that, she could travel on her own. 

His head tilted as the thought passed through her head. “We’re in you already. If you leave me behind, I stay. You want me to go so you can’t leave me.”

He was right. As much as she didn’t want to travel with this weird creature, leaving him festering inside her head seemed infinitely worse. 

“Alright then Cole, we’d better start walking.”

He nodded but did not move. “We will need to fight.”

“You will need to fight. There’s not much I can do.”

“No. You don’t fight, you move softer. Sneaking, slipping, stealing. You only have to roll over if you get caught.”

“I wish you’d stop doing that,” she said, and her voice was instinctually softer. He paid her no regard. 

“I can be quiet. We can move softly together.”

She hoped the creature actually understood what it was saying, that it could be as stealthy as it promised. Or at least hoped that it could fight. 

He still didn’t move and she wondered if he was waiting for her to go first. 

She turned and took a few steps out the door, hearing no footsteps sound behind her. 

When she turned, Cole was nowhere to be found.

A voice came from right behind her, outside of the doorway. “Should we not leave?”

She whipped around and glared at him. He didn’t seem to react to the look at all. 

To be fair, she wasn’t very intimidating. She had little practice at being menacing and she most certainly was not a natural. 

Emboldened by the fact that he did not seem to need to move to follow her, she set out, walking out the door, blowing right past him.

A scream sounded from her left and Cole said, “Keep going straight. It wants you to wind around and around and around so it doesn’t have to stretch.”

His voice echoed and she wasn’t sure if it was an audible noise or not. She turned to where it felt like it had come from and there he was, walking alongside her. 

The sound of her footsteps remained the only ones in the hall as the two of them walked. 

“We should move quietly,” she said. 

He looked around as he moved. “Envy can’t hear me. It doesn't know I’m here. You wouldn’t have either.”

“If not for safety then maybe you should be quiet for my own sanity.”

“You’re not going insane,” he declared. “You are frustrated.”

“You don’t seem to mind.”

“No,” he said. “You can be frustrated if you’d like.”

“No,” she informed him, although she imagined he knew already. “I would not like.”

She turned to look at him and saw a glimpse of his eyes under his hat, a little wrinkle formed between them. “Then you should stop.”

“You first,” she huffed. 

“The Iron Bull is out there,” he said, undeterred by her clear irritation. “He isn’t bad but he brings hurt anyway.”

She decided to try a more direct approach. “Can you shut up?”

“If you let them bite, then it doesn’t count. It only hurts if they take it, if you allow it it's still yours.”

She stopped with a jolt, whipping around to scold him. “If you can see everything in my head, why do you keep talking? You know what’s up there and I know what's up there so what exactly are we achieving?”

“I have thoughts too,” he said, almost wistfully.

“Really? I have yet to hear them. You instead seem intent on airing every thought I’ve ever had as obtusely as you can.”

“It’s hard. Your thoughts are so loud. You’re very angry.”

She huffed as she stormed onwards. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t know. I think the hurt would make me help. It just makes you want to dig your claws in and hold.”

“Fucking irritating little creature, that’s what you are. I’ll be glad when I get out of this and I never have to see you again. Then you can stew on my rotten thoughts as long as you’d like.”

His head cocked to the side. “You’re not convinced we’re inside you. You still hope this could be the fade. You think I may belong here, that I might stay.”

“Frankly, I don’t care where you go. I know you’re not staying with me though.”

“We’re tethered.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You can see in my head, right? Do you really think they’re going to believe a demon over me? You’ll be killed in a heartbeat. Which is fine by me, no skin off my back.”

“A bad person,” he muttered to himself, hands flexing and unflexing slowly, rhythmically as he spoke. She wasn’t sure if he even knew he was doing it. 

He went silent as they heard the shouting of troops. Cole faded away and she took to the shadows. 

If this really was her mind, which she was not ready to wholeheartedly believe on the word of some creature, then she had no idea how stealth worked here. Was it really as simple as being quiet and hiding away? Surely in this space that the demon allegedly created, it could sense where she was. 

And yet she watched soldiers run in front of her, looking desperately for someone to fight as she slunk further into the artificial landscape. 

Cole made himself scarce from there on out, occasionally warning her with that strange, disembodied voice to turn now or to avoid the room ahead, although never in such clear terms. 

Eventually, she realized where she’d ended up. She was where she’d begun, where the Lord Seeker, or perhaps the envy demon, had lunged at her past her several bodyguards, most of which were standing protectively in front of her.

It wanted her. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because of her perceived position of power. Maybe because of whatever this ability was that the fade had given her seemingly at random when she’d been pulled here.

It didn’t really matter, at the end of the day. She just needed to get out. 

And at the top of all those staircases was a dead end where she had been attacked. 

She looked around as the sound of battle-ready troops got louder. 

“Cole,” she hissed. “Where do I go?”

His voice sounded from above and she looked up to find him in the palm of a massive statue. 

“You remember it wrong. The statues don’t have faces here. You didn’t care to look.”

“I still don’t. We have more important things to be worrying about than what some weird statues look like.”

“It should end where it began. You must escape in the center.”

She made the mistake of turning her head, of looking nervously towards the false templars that resided down the stairs. 

When she looked back up, she was alone again. 

Or at least she hoped she was, looking around nervously, checking for any signs of an aggressor. 

But demons didn’t play fair. 

Before she could so much as catch sight of it, the faux Lord Seeker was slamming her back into the wall, hands tight around her throat. 

The face looking back at hers was the half-familiar one from the mirror once more, one she tried to avoid looking at at all costs. 

It was typically unfair, she supposed. To be forced to look at an imitation of herself as she died. 

She kicked and flailed, trying to break from his grasp, to get away by any means possible, but she knew it was a losing fight. She could feel the strength in its hands that far exceeded hers. 

Cole’s voice sounded from right beside her. “He is afraid of you.”

She could see no sign of him out of the corner of her eye as she thrashed in the demon's hold, but she could hear him perfectly. 

The fight began to drain out of her, sinking into herself as her kicks lost all their power. 

And then the hands around her throat went stiff and the world folded in on itself. 

She collapsed to the ground the second she saw Iron Bull in front of her, pulling the Lord Seeker away from her. She heaved in air where she sat, clutching her chest as she did, eyes beginning to water. 

It wasn’t her best performance, a bit overdone. She honestly could have just reacted as she would naturally but the sudden appearance of her companions had thrown her. In her defense, it was a sudden shift and she’d been preoccupied with other things. 

The strange creature with the stupid hat was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t sure if she hoped he was still trapped back wherever they had been or not. She certainly didn’t want him lingering in her head but having a mind-reading creature roaming around would prove an ever greater problem. 

Bull carried her inside as the other two talked about a demon and some transformation she hadn’t been privy to, instead caught up in her own dramatics. 

He tucked her away on a chair in the corner as Solas said something, probably whining about her. Cassandra gave her a firm order to stay put and they left her inside, amidst the templars.

She stayed tucked in her corner, choking down any panic that might want to arise. 

She didn’t like being alone with groups of men, let alone groups of men that she didn’t know and hadn’t built any repertoire with.  

The fight was over fast. She stayed dutifully in her corner, not one to disobey orders. When it was over, Cassandra and Bull returned for her, Solas presumably off worrying about more important things than her. 

Cassandra did not let Bull carry her any longer, insisting she was fine without giving her the chance to speak. She rose to her feet, despite her plan to feign weakness a little longer. She didn’t want to upset Cassandra.

Cassandra dragged her back to their control room to debrief about the mission, where she would inevitably try to pull something approximating leadership out of her once more. 

It wouldn’t work. She knew any attempt to lead would upset more people than it would please.

It was safer to be weak. 

Cullen was upset about something, which didn’t make sense to her considering she’d helped his precious templars first. Josephine was upset too, not that she’d ever admit it. But a liar recognizes a liar and that calm voice was as put on as it could be. Leliana was endlessly practical, so presumably she was telling her something important. She barely listened to any of it, instead focusing on clutching her uninjured stomach in faux pain, hoping that the hands that had been around her neck left bruises, despite having been in that world between worlds. 

And then their typical, predictable chatter turned to something more panicked and she looked up to find Cole sitting on their table.

Her eyes shifted from an impression of someone trying to be brave about their pain to a very real panic, lurching away from him before she could think. 

Swords were being drawn in the blink of an eye and she did her best to position herself behind Cullen. He was already the fastest to the draw and Cole was too dangerous to her. Hopefully, if he felt he had something to protect he would be even more likely to end this creature now, before Cole could become a problem. 

“You left,” Cole said, looking straight at her, the weapons pointing at him not seeming to concern him at all.

All heads turned to her. “Rosemary?” asked Josephine hesitantly, waiting for an explanation. 

“He helped me against the demon,” she said reluctantly. “But I don’t think we can trust him.”

Cole’s head cocked to the side. “Fleeting, fearful, frantic. You need me to be gone, they can’t see what I know. We both will stay.”

She prayed the others didn’t understand that as the threat it was. 

Leliana glanced between the two of them and asked, “A spirit helped you?”

A spirit. It made sense, she’d apparently picked him up in the fade and he hadn’t done anything truly menacing so it was unlikely he was a demon. At least not yet. She wasn’t sure how Leliana had deduced this but she stored the information away. 

She nodded. “He did. And maybe I was unfair. He was nothing but kind to me, and he saved my life. We could give him a chance.”

Cullen scoffed. “Trust him? He’s a demon and you just said we shouldn’t trust him! Now you want to set him free in the camp?”

“Wasn’t it you who said I could stand to be a little braver, Commander Cullen?” she said, sitting up a little straighter. She needed to do this, if Cole was inside her head he could get her killed. “He saved me, and I say we give him a chance.”

Cole was gone before she finished defending him, disappearing with hints of fade green in the air where he’d sat. 

Josephine looked nervous but she seemed the most content with their situation, saying, “He could be a useful resource-” 

Before she could so much as finish her sentence, Rosemary bolted out the door to go find the ticking bomb that had invited itself into her army.

[venusbyline]

Aemond Targaryen — The Beloved Son

— summary: If Aemond could not seek love from the only woman who would take him in her arms and caress his hair, then he needed to find a replacement. An older woman who could make him feel safe and loved again.

— pairing: Aemond Targaryen x brothel worker!reader

— type: smut, dark

— word count: 4.9k

— tags/warnings: female!reader, DEAD DOVE: DO NO EAT, rough sex, oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, mommy kink, breeding kink, breast worship, nipple licking, nipple play, overstimulation, pregnancy kink, dacryphilia, rough kissing, disturbed themes, age gap (older woman/younger man), Aemond is 19 and Reader is 29, biting, crying, pre-relationship, unhealthy relationships, referenced character death, Lucerys Velaryon mentioned, past underage sex, past child abuse, religious guilt and conflict, crisis of faith, blood licking, implied forced pregnancy, mommy issues, labor mentioned, implied Targtower Incest (mother/son) BUT NOT REALLY, implied Aemond Targaryen/Alicent Hightower BUT NOT REALLY, past Targcest (older sister/younger brother), past Aemond Targaryen/Helaena Targaryen, referenced non-consensual somnophilia, referenced rape/non-con, referenced breastfeeding, referenced lactation kink, minor Helaegon, Aegon Targaryen mentioned, past Aemond Targaryen/Madam Sylvi, underage dubcon, minor Alicent Hightower/Criston Cole, curse words, mild angst, ambiguous/open ending, switch!Aemond, sub!reader, canon divergence (Pre-The Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: I decided to explore Aemond's "mommy issues" side. There's no real incest between Aemond and Alicent, but I put it as a trigger warning because there are scenes about them that can be uncomfortable to read. And also because I see their mother and son relationship too complex and intense. In my opinion, Aemond had an adoration and love for his mother in the season one that the writers left aside during the season two.

— author's notes²: Furthermore, I believe that Aemond's loss of virginity with Madam Sylvi may also influenced a part of his weird behaviour. So this time I wrote about the consequences of this in Aemond's mind, even a few years later. I see what happened with him in the books/show as a real child abuse, so don't read this fic if you've triggers with these themes. I do not support any form of abuse, this is just fiction.

— crossposting: AO3

❥ about me • Aemond masterlist • HOTD masterlist • main masterlist

Aemond needed to vent. He needed some time away from all the chaos that must have been in the Red Keep since he confessed to killing Lucerys. Some time away from all the chaos he caused.

He remembered everything quite accurately. How he arrived at the castle with wide eyes and his body drenched, entering his mother's chambers without even knocking on the door. Alicent had let out a loud scream at the sudden appearance and covered her slim body with the white bedsheets. Despite there being no one there with her, his mother's body was sweaty and her cheeks were flushed, as if she had cum just a few minutes ago. At first he ignored the strange sight and muttered, with his voice trembling and weak, that he had become a kinslayer.

He remembered explaining confusingly how he was trying to scare Lucerys and ended up losing control of Vhagar, causing the old dragon to chew every bit of his nephew, only some remains of his tiny dragon falling from the sky.

He remembered Alicent widening her eyes, still covering her small breasts and telling Aemond to wait for her outside the room.

As much as he wanted to leave the place and wait for her in the hallway like the good son he had always been, Aemond nodded and left. Not just her chambers, but also the castle. He looked for any clothing that did not look so expensive as to give away his noble origins, and wore it along with a dark suit. He passed by Ser Criston Cole on the way out of the Red Keep, ignoring the fact that the guard's armor was not orderly as usual, and said something about needing to get some air away from there. Aemond did not wait for a response from the older man, knowing that it was only a matter of a few minutes for Alicent to look for Criston and tell him what her beloved boy had done.

Aemond was lost. He knew that.

As soon as Aemond entered the brothel, he looked everywhere for Madam Sylvi, his sweaty and trembling hands searching for the only woman who could perhaps help him.

When he was chasing Aegon together with Ser Criston to take him by force to his own coronation, he did not expect to be reunited with the prostitute who had taken his virginity. Aemond had an excellent memory and remembered that night very well, every second of that embarrassing moment. If he tried harder, Aemond could even feel Madam Sylvi's full lips around his still developing cock, or the way she lifted his wine-flushed face to her large breasts. Aegon demanded that she not be too soft with his younger brother, saying that a thirteen years old should already be brave enough to handle a little sexual intensity. However, the woman respected Aemond's nervousness and guided him calmly.

That night had not been so bad at all, even if he had not wanted it. He never returned to any brothel, his mother's disgusted reaction to Aegon's impulsive and selfish decision and her plea to Aemond not indulge in such promiscuity made him give up on going there again. He should do as she asked, marry a pretty noble lady and be a loyal husband, be Aegon's opposite.

He did not want to hurt his mother's feelings, he did not want her to look at him with the same look of disgust she gave her eldest son. He wanted to keep making Alicent proud, being her beloved son.

But Aemond had already failed with her the moment he decided to act like a spiteful boy and chase Lucerys through the skies. Now that he was a Kinslayer, his mother would fear him. She would be ashamed of him. I would see him as a murderer, cursing their whole family forever.

And if Aemond could not seek love from the only woman who would take him in her arms and caress his hair, then he needed to find a replacement. An older woman who could make him feel safe and loved again.

Perhaps Madam Sylvi could do that. When she spoke to Aemond when he and Ser Criston were looking for Aegon, she made it clear that he had grown up so well. She looked surprised, perhaps even horny.

Now, after six years without visiting the place, Aemond was there again. The place where he had promised his dear mother in the name of the Seven that he would never set foot again.

He needed to seek affection from Sylvi or another whore who would make him feel as loved as Alicent made him feel before he grew up. He needed to feel worthy and loved by a mother again.

That was a busy night at the brothel for you, too many clients for too few prostitutes to deal with them. Madam Sylvi warned the women that she would take a day off to rest, a privilege that only the oldest and most renowned courtesans were entitled to. Most of her favorite clients seemed angry about this fact, and even though you and the other girls explained the reasons as calmly as possible, no one cared about what you had to say.

Some people just rolled their eyes and walked away, others snorted and threw coins at you so you could do her job then, and some were even excited about fucking a different cunt.

It was not unknown to you why Sylvi had so many customers who frequented the place in search of her. She was very experienced, a beautiful older woman, with large hips and big breasts. She understood how to please men and even women, both sexually and emotionally.

"Where is Madam Sylvi?" A deep voice caught your attention from behind your shoulder, making you jump and widen your eyes, sighing embarrassed when you saw that it was just a customer.

"She is not here today, sir." You forced a smile, trying not to look too much at the eye patch the boy wore. It was strangely familiar and he had facial features that seemed more handsome than most of the men you served, even if he wore a hood that shadowed his details.

With a frown, the man clenched his jaw and muttered one more time. "I need her tonight. Right now."

You recognized almost all of Sylvi's frequent men, and that one was completely unknown to you. You bit your tongue to try not to question him about why he was so desperate to see the woman if he had never been there recently. However, you took a deep breath and forced another smile, your voice sweet and hiding your curiosity. "My apologies, sir, she is not here tonight. But you can look for another courtesan if you want to, we have many options." You reassured and tried to walk past him to go find another man or some woman who could pay you a few coins, before being stopped by the man's hand on your arm, keeping you close to him.

"Well, you are free to please me." It was not a question. He already knew you did not have any customers waiting. You stared at that violet eye for a few seconds, before swallowing hard, your throat hurting while you nodded, having no choice whatsoever. "Then get an empty, private room for us immediately."

You opened your mouth to explain that the isolated places required a greater amount of gold than the common services, but the man interrupted you, handing you a heavy bag full of coins that were almost slipping out of the opening. "I assume you will make it worth the price, woman."

The moment you and Aemond entered the isolated room, he watched you pulling the curtains until they closed, keeping the events that would follow there a secret from other people. Although you still did not realize who he really was, there was an expression on your face indicating that you were suspicious about something. Perhaps it was the money he was willing to spend without complaining during just one night with someone who was not even the courtesan he was looking for, perhaps it was the eye patch that left a little part of his scar exposed, perhaps it was the extremely pale skin...

It could be many things that were making you suspect there was something unusual happening.

When the other prostitutes finished pouring some wine into two glasses and warming the place with candles, Aemond finally cleared his throat, almost as if he were embarrassed or did not know what to do.

"How old are you?" He asked in a more vulnerable voice than he intended, cursing himself for it.

Your brow furrowed at the rude question. There were men who sought out younger and less experienced whores to satisfy some dark desires, but you doubted that was the case. "Twenty-nine, sir."

Aemond sighed and nodded, satisfied with the answer. You might not be as old as Madam Sylvi or Alicent herself, but you were a maturer age than his. It made him less tense. "Good... That is good." He muttered, his single eye directed to the ground when some thoughts shuffled through his mind. A part of Aemond hated himself for having listened to his mother's advice to never set foot in a brothel again. Now, he was ten and nine and barely knew how to talk to a whore, while Aegon must have already fucked even the one he was about to try something on. "Has King Aegon II already enjoyed your services?"

His words caught you off guard, making you fidget with some discomfort, sitting on the mattresses around the floor, your robe tied and expecting anything other than that. "I cannot expose any of my clients' secrets, much less our King."

Aemond hummed without surprise, already expecting an empty answer like that. He took off the hood that shadowed the most part of his face, revealing his long silver hair tied with a not very effective ponytail and the violet eye that shone much brighter now without the dark fabric that made you unable to noticed the true color.

You did not have to be so smart to know the man in front of you was a Targaryen. A Targaryen prince. Perhaps...

"Aemond." His name dripped from your lips like the sweetest honey. "Aemond Targaryen."

The prince maintained his look of neutrality and almost disdain, nodding and then shrugging. "Or Aemond One-Eye, like some people call me. Your King Aegon is my older brother." Due to your lack of response and your wide eyes, Aemond sighed. "And I asked you a question about my brother. Are you going to answer it or not, woman?"

"He... He never fucked me, Your Grace. During the few times I saw him around here, he was either too much drunk or already busy with another courtesan."

That was good. Someone untouchable by Aegon. Not like his mother, who had given birth to Aegon three years before him, contaminating her precious womb with that bitter soul she one day carried, swearing that her firstborn would become an ambitious and noble-hearted boy, worthy to sit in the Iron Throne.

You also would not be like Madam Sylvi, who had already slept with Aegon several times even before his brother forced him to wet his cock inside her during his thirteenth name day.

You were... Pure. Not for the eyes of the world, which saw you as a mere whore, a hole for fun. You were pure for Aemond's eyes. You were untouchable by Aegon's filthy hands. You could be like a mother to Aemond. Hold him like Alicent had held him when he was a child, you could let him fuck you like Madam Sylvi had done when he was just a little boy...

You could be whatever Aemond asked you to be. His whore for some minutes but his mother afterwards. It will be a way to distract himself from what he had done to his nephew. A way to justify his impulsive actions that were about to declare war.

Aemond thought to himself if he should let it all out and just leave later on. That was what he planned to do with Madam Sylvi, even though she was attractive and hot.

Gods, he should not even be there, with the curtains closed and an older but kind woman waiting for him sitting on the mattress, your robe tied carelessly so you could seduce the customers who saw the smooth and transparent silk cloth covering just a little of your beautiful body. He should be with his mother, asking for forgiveness due the war he would cause, begging for the kisses on the forehead that she used to give him when he was younger.

Aemond should just turn around and leave. Leave and wait for Sylvi the next night.

Or rather, he should leave that dirty place forever and go to the Sept to seek forgiveness for his terrible behavior and quick promiscuous solutions.

Of course Aemond should do anything like this. And yet he did not. There was something interesting about being there, analyzing you as if you were fresh meat. Analyzing every detail like he did when he was buying some wooden toys for his nephews Jaehaerys and Jaehaera.

He was analyzing everything with precision, and was enjoying every bit of that vision. "Tell me your name." He crossed his arms, none of his clothes other than his hood were off his body.

You bit the lip before whispering your name and repeating it later, along with your last name. The prince nodded, humming the name on his mouth to test the sound. Enjoying the result, Aemond gestured to your robe and you immediately obeyed his nonverbal demand, untying the knot and letting the thin fabric fall around the mattress, your bright eyes lifting so you could see how the Targaryen prince was reacting.

With flushed cheeks and arms crossed again, Aemond walked a little closer to you, steady and slow steps until he was face to face with you. His index finger lifted your chin with a calm that was the opposite of everything you were used to in the brothel. You even believed that he could treat you really well, unlike other rude customers. But your hope disappeared the moment he grabbed your cheeks, his short nails digging into your skin and forming tears in the corners of your eyes.

"I need... I guess I need to take my emotions out on something. On Someone."

You did not dare blink, muttering an agreement and not resisting when the prince pushed you to lie down. His body was warm, unlike his hands that was cold from sweat. You remained in the position Aemond had placed you in, lying beneath him with your legs spread to let him take control if he wished.

Aemond's heart beat fast, knowing this would be the second time he was about to fuck a woman. The second time he was going against the Faith of the Seven, against his mother's requests. Hurting the feelings of the woman he loved most and probably amusing his older brother, who should have been laughing and drinking, finding it funny that Aemond had not only killed his own nephew due some petty revenge, but was also now enjoying the pleasures he had always despised.

"Do you need help, Your Grace?" You worked up the courage to ask the prince as you noticed how his fingers were a pathetic mess, unable to undo the ties on his own pants after he freed himself from the tunic.

Aemond wanted to tell you to fuck off. To tell you to be quiet and let him fuck your cunt until it is dripping with his seed. Until you are pregnant with a silver-haired bastard. He wanted to humiliate you like Aegon did to all whores.

But for the Seven Gods' sakes... He did not want to be like Aegon anymore.

"I do not know!" Aemond shouted, breaking the silence of the private room. He stopped trying to get rid of his clothes and turned his body to the other side. His heart felt like it was about to explode, his hands were trembling again and his legs were weak. Aemond's head ached like the Seven Hells and he had not drunk any drop of wine that the other courtesans had left there for the two of you. "Gods! I thought this would help me, but I can barely get my fucking cock out!"

Your body moved closer to his, pressing your face against Aemond's warm and bare back. His breathing became more erratic when you remained quiet, but brushed the tip of your nose against his skin as if you were a kitten.

Aemond opened his mouth to scold you for your childish action, and then closed it. There was something different about your silent actions. You did not judge him for being there, you did not mock him when he failed to drop his pants and fuck you fast like any man in their right minds would do. Aemond was far from a sane man and it did not take long for you to notice that.

Even though he was fully aware that you might change your mind about him when you learned the truth of what he had done to his own half-sister's son, Aemond let out a sigh of relief. Neither of you moved the bodies, feeling something good from that whole complex situation.

Then Aemond turned to you, his eye filled with tears that he cursed himself for letting escape. His palm went to your chin, holding it softer than he had done before. It was gentle and almost delicate now. Everything he liked to be for his mother. A good boy. A good son.

The prince looked down at your naked body, your breasts so inviting to him that he did not think twice and immediately touched them, squeezing the soft flesh with an inexperience that was cute to you. Aemond only felt the smoothness of a female chest three times during his entire life.

One of them was when he was just four years old and he was jealous of his mother breastfeeding his youngest brother Daeron after his birth. So he touched Alicent and asked for her milk too, which was denied and he spent hours crying until he got distracted by some wooden toy that which the maids brought at Alicent's request, to entertain the greedy little boy as quickly as they could. After that, Daeron began to be fed by a wet nurse and Aemond never noticed his mother's breast milk again.

The second time was when Helaena was pregnant with the twins Jaehaera and Jaehaerys. Aemond was still an innocent twelve years old boy and was very curious seeing how the girl's breasts were suddenly bigger due to the breast milk. His youthful curiosity got the better of him and he took advantage of the fact that his older sister always let him sleep next to her when Aegon was busy fucking whores in the brothels. He snuggled into a hug with Helaena as she slept and pulled the neckline of her nightgown aside, playing with his thumbs on her nipples until they were leaking white and sweet drops.

Unfortunately for Aemond, Aegon arrived drunk just as he was sucking Helaena's nipples, being breastfed like a baby. Aegon laughed loud at the scene. Aemond's cute lips were so wet with his sister's milk and his face was reddish like a strawberry, body shaking as he explained himself in the least convincing way possible. But fortunately for Aemond, Helaena did not wake up and probably never found out about his immoral act. Or at least he preferred to believe that she never found out about that.

Despite having begged for forgiveness at the Sept so many times, Aemond was dragged against his own will by his older brother to a brothel to celebrate his thirteenth name day. He did not want none of that and he was angry with Aegon, but also scared of the whole situation that would develop, even if a part of him wondered if this was some divine punishment he deserved for taking advantage of his dear sister's innocence during her sleep.

The night of the loss of his virginity had been the third and until then the last time that Aemond touched any intimate part of a female body, his young and plump face buried in the middle of Madam Sylvi's large chest.

He had promised to the Gods that he would only do something like that again with his future wife. But here he was, thumbs rolling your hard beaks and making you gasp. Aemond may not have been sexually experienced like his brother Aegon, and not like his uncle Daemon or his sluttly half-sister Rhaenyra, but he was a quick learner with a good memory.

He remembered Madam Sylvi encouraging him to pay a special attention to her nipples using his mouth, and Aemond was eager to follow that old lesson. Wrapping one of your beaks with his lips, Aemond licked you like a hungry man, his tongue swirling around it and then nibbling.

Every muffled moan that left your lips was like music to the Prince's ears.

Once your breasts were completely soaked with Aemond's spit and red marks from the bites he gave you, Aemond smirked satisfied, the desperation that was taking over his mind disappearing and giving space to the lust building up inside his veins.

He spread your legs like he watched Aegon do with the maids when they were both younger, smirking at the view of your wet cunt, the pubic hair glistening with your own juices. "Fuck, you are really dripping. I thought you whores got paid to pretend, not to actually enjoy it."

You moaned at his mockery. In fact, you did not usually feel pleasure with your customers, even the most frequent ones who were not rough to you. They always focused on themselves, not really caring if what you were feeling was pleasurable or not.

But Aemond Targaryen was different. He was appreciating your body, hands on your breasts as if you were an anchor keeping him safe, face in front of your legs, excited to devour you and satisfy all his hunger.

Aemond Targaryen barely seemed to see you as a whore. He seemed to be seeing you as a woman he wanted to worship more than anything. Almost like a...

"Do you have children?"

The prince was full of random questions, and it was another one of the moments when he crossed an unusual line. Why the hells was this important? Was he some boring man who wanted to have sex just with not so experienced whores? Was he disgusted by pregnancies?

"I do. I have... two kids."

The words was almost impossible to hear. Anyone would tell you to repeat what you said. Anyone could be angry due the answer. Anyone but Aemond Targaryen. The prince's keen hearing caught your words perfectly, a smirk of relief and excitement pulling at his lips.

It was perfect. Almost too perfect to be true.

It did not matter where your children were now. It did not matter if they might be suffering from having a mother working in a brothel to be able to feed them with the bare minimum. All that mattered to Aemond at that moment was that you had two children. Just like Alicent had Aegon and Helaena before he was born.

He could pictured himself coming out of his mother's womb. She always said that Aemond was the most painful birth of all, as the boy came out of her womb with such eagerness that the midwives swore it almost caused a hemorrhage inside Alicent's cunt. While Aegon's birth had been traumatizing due to the fact that it was Alicent's first time going through that labor experience, Helaena's birth was soft. The little girl was born so silent that for a few seconds the Queen feared she had been born dead, but Helaena cried when Alicent began to sob, as if she was feeling her mother's emotional pain.

Aemond remembered how his mother described the birth of each of them, even Daeron, who was the fastest of all to be born. And one thing Aemond would never forget was how his mother described his birth.

Alicent said it was like giving birth to a dragon. She felt like she was being ripped from the inside out and for a moment she could swear that little Aemond enjoyed hearing her screams of pain while the midwives were desperate to help stop the bleeding. She said he stopped crying immediately, the sounds of her suffering calmed him.

If he came out of Alicent's body like a dragon whelp, then he would come into yours with all the Targaryen fire inside his veins too. The true perfect replacement for her mother could handle anything. Perhaps he could really trust you to vent and look for affection if you also saw him as your and Alicent's third children. The most devout and the most feared. He could be that for both of you.

Six years ago, Aemond had no awareness about how to please a woman. He was sure that Sylvi had pretended to cum so that he would not feel so humiliated, not that it mattered anyway, since Aemond had not lost his virginity by choice and Madam was already used to faking pleasure reactions for the vast majority of men who visited her brothel. However, there with you, after not knowing how to deal with the chaos tormenting his own mind, Aemond allowed himself to lower his head and get between your legs, rubbing his tongue on the swollen bud that he knew what it was based on what it was written in the forbidden books of the library in the castle.

At first, the movements of his tongue were disorganized and uncomfortable, and you tried to guide his head, but Aemond bit your thigh, drawing some blood from you and hearing you cry out. Aemond did not care about any of that, licking up the red drops that dripped down and going back to licking your clit, taking a little more care than before, understanding that he had done something wrong. He made his tongue less pointy and flattened it better, rubbing it against your cunt and giving gentle licks, eating out the juices that dripped from your wet hole and then moving it up to focus on your clit, trembling moans escaping you while you rolled the eyes at the sensation.

Your thighs trembled and your back arched upward, forcing Aemond to grip your legs to keep your body down, the wet sucking noises buzzing in his ear when you had the first release.

Aemond did not wait you to recover yourself from your high. He kept your legs open with one of his large hands, the other undoing the ties of his pants more quickly than during the first attempt, throwing them to the side and caressing his hard cock. You looked at his muscular torso and looked down at his long legs and the dark hair on his groin.

You did not even need to entertain him with false praises or get him drunk with the wine the other prostitutes prepared for the two of you. Aemond was ready for it and ignoring his own nervousness.

He spat into his palm, pressing his arousal one last time and finally slamming into you, the abrupt stretch hurting your cunt, lips parted and eyes widening when Aemond ignored your brief pain and started moving his hips, letting out low guttural growls at the feeling of your tight warm walls crushing him.

"Your Grace..." You moaned in a mix of pleasure and discomfort, the thrusts hitting the soft part of your cervix and making you see stars.

Aemond smirked at your incoherent moans, lowering himself until his face was close to yours, capturing your mouth in an aggressive kiss, uncoordinated tongues together, teeth practically devouring each other's lower lip. The exchange of saliva tasted like blood and your own cum.

He had not felt the sensation of being inside a woman in so many years that the pleasure was almost like losing his virginity for a second time. It was intense, strange and desperate. He needed more. He needed to fuck you deep inside, until you were like Alicent, carrying a part of him in your womb.

The faster he got closer to his orgasm, the more Aemond's low growls became whispers begging the Gods for forgiveness and also tearful moans calling you his mother. Prayers and cries coming from a filthy sinner in search of redemption, or from an innocent little boy who needed the love of the woman who gave birth to him.

With each violent thrust inside your tight and sore cunt, Aemond pictured a little silver-haired boy coming out of you after nine moons and destroying you just like he had done to Alicent during his own childbirth.

Now that the only woman who ever loved him with her entire body and soul saw him as a monster, Aemond wished that future routine nights with you in the brothel could fill the void inside his heart. However, deep down Aemond knew that no one could ever love him more than the woman who brought him into the world. For Aemond, failing Alicent was worse than failing the Gods. And there was no divine or maternal forgiveness for a murderer.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Total $hit$how: Thorns Around His Throat

in which Hunter makes a choice

cw: referenced violence, manipulation, crude language, vaguely alluded past dubcon, brief emeto mention. Further warnings will be in the tags for spoiler purposes.

previous // masterlist // next

×~×~×

“Where was he taken?”

“I don't know, I—I saw a van, I remember part of the plate.”

“They can't be too far. We need to find him.”

Jericho and makeup guy were spouting back and forth, nervous colors buzzing around their heads like tv static. Hunter probably should've left as soon as makeup guy (Benny or whatever) came in. Gone back to his room, gone back to Vic, something. Should've left before Jericho could start digging into him, looking for answers he didn't really want.

What was he gonna do about it? Hunter hurt Sahota and Vic told him to, so the fuck what? They were all stuck here until the mission was done, whether they liked Vic’s methods or not. Hunter would find a way to stay, earn it however he had to, whether Jericho approved of it or not. 

He didn't need his approval. He didn't need to listen to him. Jericho had a family. Kids or something. Parents who still wanted to know where he was even as a grown ass adult. He didn't get it, couldn't get it.

And anyway, Vic hadn't meant it. He was just testing Hunter, just making sure he really wanted it, making sure he could listen. And even if he did mean it, who cared? Hunter had done worse things for worse people, taken beatings for bosses who didn't give a shit about him. At least Vic cared. At least Vic would tell him he did good when it was all over.

He wondered if Sahota was in the same boat. What had got him to stay? It wasn't something Hunter'd thought about before now, even though it had always been obvious that this was more than just a job to Sahota. Did Vic bandage his cuts after the interrogation? Tell him good job while he bled? The mental image made him want to cringe away. Wounds he'd caused, twinging jealousy in his stomach.

Sahota was scared of Vic, but Hunter was a little bit scared of him too. He had no doubt Vic could break him apart if he wanted. Put him in his place just like he had with Sahota.

“Is Joy back?”

“She should be by now.”

“We'll need her help. I don't think—” Benny glanced at Hunter, the yellow haze around him darkening a shade. He lowered his voice, but Hunter still heard him.

“Do we tell Vic?”

“Yeah,” Hunter said. Because he looked away. Because he was trying to keep it from him. “I'll get him.”

“I'll get him,” Jericho said, and the purple in his core swirled with a darker shade. Because of Vic? Because of Hunter? Or was he just afraid for Manak, who was stupid enough to get nabbed?

Vic wouldn't be happy. Maybe he'd order them to leave it, let Manak stay kidnapped, wipe the arrogant look off his face. The thought was supposed to be vindicating, but then he pictured Manak, tied up, bleeding like Sahota—

Fuck. Fuck this. 

Jericho left him alone with makeup guy, who stayed standing, arms twisted around himself, silent. Hunter looked away from his nervous, shifting yellow, looking for something else, anything else, even as his head pounded along with his heart.

The headaches were basically background noise now, a constant dull pain that could be ignored. At least for a little while, at least when he wasn't trying to find something specific. His eyesockets still throbbed from trying to find a path through the computer earlier, but it was fine. It was fine.

Jericho came back before long, the dark spot in his chest bigger than it was before. Vic was a few steps behind him, followed by muscle girl, and… Sahota. His face was swollen, mottled with purple and red. Same cold eyes, not even looking Hunter's way. Same slate gray.

Hunter turned his attention to his hands, nails digging at the scabbed-over part of his knuckles, focusing on the blooming rosepetals there as his stomach tried to twist itself loose.

“Tell me what happened,” Vic said above him, and Hunter glanced up in time to see Benny tear his eyes off Sahota's busted face, a dark ribbon coiling around his throat.

“Shit,” he whispered, his voice shaking, and Hunter dropped his head, pinching the inside of his wrist until daisies began to bloom there.

“Mr. Ruebin.”

“Fuck. Yeah. We, we found the drop site, but it was rigged with some kind of alarm. Some guys showed up in a van, and just… grabbed Kaius. Drove away. I— I don't even know what direction, I just ran.”

“Was it Finley?” Muscle girl spoke up.

“I don't know who else it would be.”

“Did you find anything at the site?” Vic said.

“Wh— no. Kaius is gone, isn't that more important?”

“The mission is more important.”

He could hear Jericho exhale. “Can't we do both? If we find Kaius, we'll find Finley. Won't that help?”

“We don't have the time.”

“Don't we need him for the mission?”

Even though what he was saying made sense, every word of pushback wound Hunter tighter. If Vic said no, it was for a reason, right? Vic knew better, right?

“We can accomplish what we need to with only four of you.”

“But—”

“Or maybe three.”

Hunter could read the threat there without even looking up, and Jericho didn't say anything else.

“What happens to him then?” Muscle girl cut in, and Hunter's nails dug in deeper at her words.

“He's smart, isn't he? I'm sure he'll find a way out.”

“Just let two of us go after him. It doesn't need to be the whole team.”

“We have other things to get done. Can't spare anyone.”

“Not even for a night? I won't sleep. Sahota…”

Hunter looked up again when she said his name, but the handler's gray was as cold as ever. His brows tipped down as she looked up at him, something darkening in his chest.

Was it fear again? He knew what Hunter knew, what everyone else refused to accept; Vic was in charge here. You couldn't push against him. This had only happened because of their defiance in the first place. If they'd just listened, they could've picked a different target.

“Even if we let you go, the chance of you finding him is slim at best," Sahota said in an empty voice. "Better to not waste any more time.”

Muscle girl's color deflated like an old balloon, dimming as it crumpled in on itself.

“Glad we're all on the same page,” Vic said. “It's unfortunate the drop site yielded so little, but we're capable of moving forward. Mr. Davis, we'll check your traps first thing in the morning and you can work on gathering data from there. Everyone else, start working on an entry plan. Mission's set for the end of the week. Are we clear?”

Hunter nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground. It didn't matter if Benny and the others knew he'd hurt Sahota. It didn't matter if Jericho was mad at him, or thought he was an idiot. All he had to do was make it to the end of the week without fucking up, and then everything would be okay. He glanced up in time to see Vic leave, Sahota tailing behind him. The other three stayed in place, settled in a stubborn kind of quiet.

He could tell they wanted to talk to each other, held back by his presence. Even Jericho knew he'd side with Vic now, just as much as he knew they wanted to oppose him. Would they be dumb enough to actually act on it though? An uneven trail of stars was swirling around muscle girl, a few of them breaking loose to pass Jericho. When she left the room in silence, he followed a few steps behind. Benny gave it a few minutes, arms still wrapped around himself, and then left the library after them.

They had to be going to the same place. To talk where Hunter wouldn't hear, to cook up another plot against Vic, as if that wouldn't get them in even more trouble. He knew they wanted to go after Manak, that Jericho’s "we're a team" extended more to him than it ever would to Hunter. Could he stop them? He knew they wouldn't listen---why the fuck would they?---but he could threaten to tell Vic. 

He could tell Vic. Show the others once and for all that he cared more about his place here than any of them, that he'd rather chase Vic's approval than Manak’s life, and that was the truth, wasn't it? It was Manak's own fault that this happened, not Hunter's, so why should he have to suffer for it? Why should Manak get to drag everyone else down with him?

With gritted teeth, Hunter left the library, trying to ignore the throbbing in his eye sockets as he looked for the stars muscle girl was dropping. They went back to Jericho's room, it looked like. Door closed, voices muffled inside. 

Should he just knock? Make the threat and hope it was enough to scare them into reason? His fist clenched, but his arm wouldn't budge. Instead he held his breath, trying to listen.

“...after dark is our best chance, right? Vic's gotta sleep at some point.”

“There's a truck up top. I can drive us.”

"How far was it?"

"About an hour."

"I can cut that down."

That was enough to confirm what Hunter already knew. He wasn't surprised, but maybe… a little bothered that they wouldn't listen. A little bothered that they were so sure he'd snitch that they didn't even consider inviting him in.

Well. He would. So they were fucking right about that, he guessed.

But... what if he didn't?

Hunter considered the option for a moment. The idea of walking away, going to bed, trying to sleep off this damn headache, getting up the next day like nothing was off. What would happen if he let them go, but then told them he'd known all along? Would that open up a way for them to trust him? To not hate his fucking guts?

And what happens then?

So maybe they could work together better. Maybe they could be a team, like Jericho said. Maybe even friends, even if it was stupid to expect that much. But then they'd run the mission and it would all be over. Everyone else would go home, and he'd… 

Alone again. Jelly and the rest didn't wait for you, you knew they wouldn't.

Would Vic still want him to stay if he knew Hunter'd kept something like this from him? 

Probably not, not if he knew he couldn't trust him. Lies never worked for long. Hidden things were always found. 

Vic had already promised him a chance at being part of something, something he'd never get from the rest of the team. And maybe Sahota hated him, but let him. Hunter'd lived with plenty of people who'd hated him and survived it, but if Vic kicked him out, he didn't know where he'd go next. Back to Chicago to try and get back into dealing? Back to Rex? He shuddered.

No. Not an option. Fuck the team. They'd already sided against him, why should he try now? It wasn't like he was really screwing them over anyway. They'd done it to themselves when they decided to defy Vic.

Hunter stumbled backwards, trying not to make a sound as he crossed the hall, making a beeline for Vic’s office. When he pushed the door open, his trainer was standing at the head of his desk, flipping through sheets of paper. The green drifting around Vic’s form sharpened with his gaze, a darker shade that might've been annoyance softening when he realized who it was.

At least someone wasn't pissed off at the sight of him.

“Hunter.”

He swallowed. “V--Sir.” Shit, where did he start? He felt like a snitch, but shouldn't he? No. Fuck. Whatever. Vic was looking at him with his eyebrows raised now, new color tainting his green. Fuck.

“Sorry. It's important,” he said. “They're… the other three are gonna go after Manak. I overheard them.” He swallowed again, eyes darting away from Vic's desk, hands twisting around themselves. Vic's color hardly shifted. It got… darker, maybe. Sharper somehow, but there was no flash of surprise or anger. 

“I thought it might happen eventually. They're an emotional lot. Unfortunately, that's what you get pulling from the general public.” He set down the stack of papers, falling silent.

“Y-yeah,” Hunter agreed, pinching the skin on the inside of his wrist as hard as he could, eyes dropping to watch daisies sprout from the reddening skin. “Are you gonna stop them?” It felt wrong to ask.

Vic hummed. “No,” he said after a moment. “They can have their crusade. I'll deal with it in the morning.”

Hunter glanced up, but Vic's color was static. He was just gonna let them go? Why?

“What if they don't come back?”

Vic let out a flat chuckle. “They'll come back.”

How did he know? Maybe he didn't. Maybe he just didn't care. Maybe if everyone else ditched it'd just be Hunter, Vic, and Sahota on the mission. Like how it would be in the future, if he managed to not fuck it up.

“Come here.”

Hunter glanced up again, saw Vic pointing at the desk chair. Vic's chair. His tone wasn't trouble, or a warning like it had been for Sahota a few days ago. It was almost something welcoming, almost something soft.

Hunter took the seat, trying not to fidget, trying to keep his attention on Vic. The smell of chlorine stung his nose.

“You have your priorities straight, Hunter,” Vic said, moving beside him to tuck the papers into a folder. “You know what's important, even if the rest of them cave to their feelings.”

“Manak… Manak would be fine on his own,” Hunter said. He didn't know why. Manak didn't matter, he didn't care about Manak.

“True,” Vic said. “But more than logic, I appreciate your loyalty. The importance of obedience is lost on the rest of them. Something that should be corrected before we get into the thick of things.”

“Yeah.” Hunter’s spine seemed to go even straighter when his trainer moved to stand behind him, laying both hands on his shoulders, the chlorine smell clinging to him, smothering.

“I’m proud of the choice you made tonight. You'll be a wonderful addition to my team.”

Light seemed to burst through the tangle of vines in his chest. This was what he wanted, what he needed. He could be whatever Vic asked him to, he could stay.

He could stay, he could stay, he could stay.

It rang through his head, seeming to rise with his heartbeat as a calloused hand gripped his jaw and lifted his head, fingers digging into his cheek, holding him still as Vic’s lips pressed into his.

I can stay, I can be—

The chlorine smell was choking him now, burning his throat, and all he could do was sit there, any thoughts or words or movements split like broken wire.

Vic pulled back, just inches, but Hunter still couldn't move.

“Vic—”

“Shh.” The hand left his chin, moving up to his hair, turning from a stroke to a jerk that pulled a startled yelp from Hunter.

Somehow, the chlorine smell got stronger at the sound, Vic's mouth covering his again.

He felt like he couldn't breathe. “I don't—”

“You want to be a part of my team, hm?” Vic murmured, breath hot and chemical on Hunter's face. “Don't you?”

Yes. But not… he hadn't pictured this.

“I…”

Vic straightened, his hands leaving Hunter, color darkening. “Or maybe not,” he said, his voice immediately cool. “Maybe I misjudged you.”

“No, that's not—”

“Don't lie to me.” The words weren't screamed, or the danger-quiet of a threat, but they were still sharp, twisting in his gut like a knife.

“Vic, I'm— no, I didn't mean that.”

“Then what did you mean? I've poured a lot of time into you. Gave your training a level of attention the others could never hope to earn.”

Is this what he earned? 

“I'm sorry,” Hunter mumbled, digging his nails into his palms. “I just— You surprised me.” 

“I'm not sure I believe you.” The way Vic’s green was growing darker made him want to throw up. Had he already lost his chance?

“I'll prove it. I won't— I was just caught off guard, please.”

Vic seemed to consider his words, the murkiness in his green dissolving as he stepped closer, seized Hunter's chin, and pulled him into another kiss. This time, Hunter kissed him back, trying, trying to show that he meant it, that he could do this, that this was okay.

“There we go,” Vic murmured against his ear. “Good boy.”

He wanted this, he wanted this. He just wanted to be wanted, he was wanted, it didn't matter how.

Hunter leaned into his trainer, trying to lock onto his body heat and not the heavy smell, but Vic stepped away, a fist bunching into the collar of his t-shirt, tight enough to almost choke him.

“I knew I made the right choice, taking a chance on you.”

Hunter tried to shift his weight, to let up some of the pressure from his throat.

“You know how to follow orders, don't you, Hunter?”

“Yeah.” He could, he'd be perfect, and fuck, Vic was looking at him in a way that could've been loving but it made his skin crawl, and his head hurt so bad. Vic gave the fabric of his collar a sharper twist, and Hunter moved with his fist, knees nearly caving in. He could feel the blood building up in his throat, but Vic's gaze was soft on him, his green brightening with something pleasant; he liked this.

Was it so bad if he did? Hunter could take it. He'd had partners with a thing for pain before and it wasn't that bad. Sometimes it was even fun, just handing over control, letting someone do whatever they fucking wanted to him, anything to get them to stay, anything to get them to want to be there.

“Look at you,” Vic murmured in a voice that felt silken and heavy. “There's something you're suited for.”

His grip loosened abruptly, letting Hunter hit the ground, the brightness never leaving his silhouette.

“I'm finished here for the night,” his trainer said, turning his back as Hunter stood, weight heavy on the office chair. “Why don't you come with me?”

Where? To his room? To bed? Hunter's stomach churned, but he nodded all the same. He wanted this. He liked Vic, he liked Vic liking him, he was just caught off-guard. He wasn't supposed to be caught off-guard. He was adaptable, he could roll with anything, withstand anything, do anything Vic wanted.

Is this what it's like to be loved?

Maybe, fucking maybe.

Vic's eyes were still on him. “What’s your implant showing you right now?”

Petals and vines, coiling inside and around him like anxious snakes. Murky carwash-soap rainbow in his head, filling up his skull with a building pressure, oozing out his eye sockets. Thorns around his throat.

“Dead silver,” he lied. It was what he saw back in the room, with Sahota. The warning before, spinning around them both. The shapes dropping like zapped bugs and melting on the ground. Where were they now? When he looked for shapes, all he could find were Cavan’s stupid stars, fading slowly.

“Where does it lead? To me?”

I want this, I want this, I'll stay, I'll learn.

Hunter rubbed his throat unconsciously, forcing his arm to drop when he realized what he was doing. The pain there was hardly an ache. If that was what Vic wanted, that's what Vic would get.

“Mhm.”

×~×~×

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden

@snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa , @whumpcateyes ,

@clickerflight , @sodacreampuff , @starfields08000 , @neverthelass

[dreamingofthewild]

100 Bloodweave Fanfic recommendations

As there are over 3,000 Bloodweave fanfics, I have been wanting to do a fanfic rec list for a while. To share some of the works I enjoyed and to offer support for the talented writers in the fandom. I opted for 100, as it is a nice number for a rec list. It was very hard to narrow it down, and there are many good fics that, unfortunately, didn't make it too the list. This is not meant as a 'Top 100' list.

The recommendations will be shared in 6 parts as it is too much for one post.

Part 2: In Universe Canon One-Shots - 17 fics.

Of Jackpots and Sticky Fingers by Asidian. 2,736 words. Astarion and Gale encounter the Djinn at the Circus of the Last Days. Hijinks ensue.

Warding Bond by Haarlec. 4,136 words. Fluff and Angst. For Bloodweave Brainrot's 31 Gays of Summer - Day 4 - Shield. 

Dissonance by Quillscales. 2867 words. Manipulation, Implied/ Referenced DubCon. Tav attempts to manipulate Gale into participating in a fivesome with the drow twins and Halsin. Astarion isn't having it. Can be seen as romantic or platonic.

There's no Healing in not Feeling by amberxwrites. 2,872 words. The Araj scene, Tav being a jerk. Five times Gale questions Astarion about his relationship with Tav, and the one time he does something about it. Can be seen as romantic or platonic.

Starving by milestogo2. 7,276 words. Past Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts. Hurt/ Comfort. Gale comforts Astarion during a troubling time.

Veneficus Duellm by Aria_Lerendeair. 8,930 words. Gale challenges a group of wizards looking to kidnap Astarion and return him to Cazador to a wizard duel. I would also recommend this one to non-Bloodweave shippers. Gale gets to be badass and show how competent he is with magic.

Feebleminded by spAceArrow. 3,004 words. Hurt/ Comfort. Astarion is hit with the feebleminded spell. Gale helps.

a delicacy of undeath by shroomonabroom. 3,800 words. Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Angst, Mind the Tags. Gale finds an alternative cure to vampirism: a spawn needs to kill their Master and then consume their heart. Make sure that you have a tissue handy.

All those regrets we cannot bear by Astralia. 7,305 words. Angst, No Comfort, Smut. Gale and Astarion pushed each other towards ascension. They say the way to the Hells is paved with good intentions, and they both paid the price for it.

Like Broken Shards of Stained Glass by lividstatue. 3,089 words. Astarion sees himself for the first time in the Self-Same Trial. Gale attempts to be there for him, despite the gauntlet dredging up his past.

Counterspell by kimprobable21. 7,735 words. Fluff, Catching Feelings. Oh no, whatever is a simple rogue to do when their handsome wizard turns against the party, and they don’t have access to counterspell? There must be some way for Astarion to block the verbal and somatic components of Gale’s scorching ray…

Recipe for Disaster by fsaoud. 8,255 words. Angst, Fluff, Trauma. Inspired by that one line of banter where Astarion says that he pictured his return to Baldur's Gate to include days of hedonistic debauchery and Gale says that it sounds like a recipe for disaster but he is starting to enjoy the taste of chaos.

if my heart stops beating, we'll bleed the same way by AgentBuzzkill. 8,640 words. Hurt/ Comfort, Angst. Gale falls in battle during the fight with Lorrakan and Astarion does not take it well.

These marks will stay by Elowen. 8,434 words. New Relationship, Smut, Comfort. When Astarion loses his tadpole powers and is forced to flee from the sun, it is (to his surprise) Gale who follows him into the dark to offer comfort.

The Missing Piece by thealphaaxolotl. 10,811 words. Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Introspection. Astarion doesn't realize he has feelings for Gale until the wizard is taken by Orin.

The winding road to Waterdeep by LuckofTymora (FelixFelicis). 1,500 words. Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Grief/ Mourning. When Orpheus dies before they can reach the Crown of Karsus, Gale has no choice but to use the orb. Astarion isn't okay with this.

At Last by seagull_soda. 4,716 words. Hurt/ Comfort. The orb is stabilized and Gale gets to have a big ugly cry as a treat.

Part 1: In Universe Canon Multi-Chapter - 15 fics

Part 3: In Universe Canon Divergent - 16 fics.

Part 4: In Universe Post-Canon Multi-Chapter - 20 fics. 

Part 5: In Universe Post-Canon One Shots - 14 fics. 

Part 6: Alternate Universe - 18 fics.

[ofallthingsnasty]

Bill gives off “will fuck you minutes before you have to go meet up your friends so he can get out of it AND have you embarrassed” energy so I’ll love it if you can write that scenario 👉👈

Nothing but facts here 🤭💕 He's such a smarmy asshole haha @flameshadowwolf 😘

fic referenced - please give it a read before you jump into this one, you'll probably need the context.

tags: yandere, heavy dubcon, Bill being condescending as always, breeding mentioned, talk of future knotting, past noncon + forced impregnation + forced marriage, chubby reader, f!reader, werewolf/human, minors dni word count: 3k

You haven’t done your makeup in forever. It’s been at least two months, you think, as you try to remember which of the colors in your little eyeshadow palette is the best for a monochrome look. You don’t really have the time to duke it out with a more complex style right now, especially with your rusty skills - there is barely an hour left until you're supposed to meet Ellie, car ride not included. Your mind sings at the prospect of a quiet evening, with friendly chatter and good food - and you not having to do anything. No needy toddler, no sticky little hands and pouty mouth to rob you of every last ounce of patience and energy, just adults-only conversations and friendly faces. Ellie and her husband Francis are the only members of the pack that are making an effort to include you and you like them all the better for it. You buff out the eyeshadow a little closer to your brows while you try to keep your bitterness down.

That fateful night three years ago had been your D-Day, and everything that followed was just punch after punch to your face - including being shunned by the very community that you had unwillingly become a part of. Of course, the whole pack knows what happened. Three years might have passed, but they still stick their necks together and whisper about it as though it all happened yesterday, avoiding your presence like you’re some bad omen, the hangman’s bride herself. Only Hugh and the Evett couple are cordial, the rest act as though you’re the black sheep of the family. It’s a small relief but at least they treat your daughter fairly well. It might change once her peers reach a mature enough age to be included in the gossip but for now your little toddler girl doesn’t have to play alone on the playgrounds and is invited to birthday parties only her father can take her to.

You rummage through your little makeup bag, searching for your brow powder. It’s probably too old to use safely, but you don’t care as you smudge it into the hairs. It’s not like you have the time to buy a new one.

Out of the whole pack, only your life is ruled by some archaic tradition. You had asked Ellie once about her and Francis and when she answered that they were high school sweethearts, you had quickly ducked into your coffee, ashamed of your own fate. 

Of course, she knows. You’re close enough in age - she’s a few years younger and still bright-faced, probably taking a giant heap of pity in your circumstances. It doesn’t matter to you, you’re just glad that someone who knows about this whole supernatural business is friendly with you - your old, blissfully unaware friends have long since grown tired of your bitter rants about your husband, not understanding why you’re still with him.

Oh, if only they knew. Their not-so-subtle nudges to get you to go to therapy (or to ditch Bill) get nothing but a grim laugh out of you now. No therapist could get you out of this mess, no stupid self-help book could give you the courage (with a sparkle and fire emoji, of course) to just leave. Just leave. God, it’s so stupid it makes you grimace.

Your life simply isn't your own anymore - right down to your name. Now you're just Mrs. Timmons, with a small golden band and his goddamn scent all over you (marking you as his possession). He had dragged you to the altar kicking and screaming, breaking plates and ripping up that gaudy number he had proposed as your wedding dress, but in the end, he had succeeded.

You had threatened to leave once, when Claire had been so very little, to pack her up and go - to the other side of the country, out of the country, across continents - just to get away from him. It had all been hot air, said in a dark moment of despair, of fear.

The solemn truth is that there is no way out of this. No matter how much you screech and fight - you’re not up against a regular man. Behind that grubby smile and dark eyes lies a creature that can track you down with deadly precision and has claimed you as its own, until the day it dies.

It sure is easy to forget when he throws his dirty shoes down onto the couch table or when he smokes when Claire is in the room, when he doesn’t do shit around the house and you get to stew in your anger, ruminate on the abysmal hand fate had dealt you. Then he’s just a regular piece of shit, just another good-for-nothing husband you get to nag and scream at and fume around. But when he fucks you - that’s when he’s back to the snarling beast he had been in that shed. The way he holds you down, even as a mere man, his grip like iron, his eyes feral and wide - even thinking about it makes you shudder.

It doesn’t matter right now, you think. You’ll be safe from his wandering hands and salacious comments in a matter of minutes, able to be yourself and not the always-scowling fury you have been turned into.

Just a swipe of mascara and your purse- 

A soft knock on the door frame interrupts you.

The sound of Bill’s heavy footsteps save you the glance over your shoulder to confirm it’s really him. “Wow, look at you”, he whistles, a freshly lit cigarette in his right hand. “Did I forget something? Date night? Our wedding day? My birthday?”

He laughs at his own joke as he takes a drag and you can already feel the annoyance starting to boil in your stomach. “I kid, I kid. You’re gonna meet with the Everett girl tonight, right? Girl’s night, eh?”

 “Yeah. Francis will join us later, though”, you say, clipped, brushing your mascara wand over the lower lashes of your left eye.

  “That so?”, you can hear him sucking in another lungful, sounding almost pensive. “Sounds awfully nice, princess.” You hum, finally done with your look. “I did invite you to come. If you remember.” A husky laugh behind you makes your brows furrow. “Jesus, woman, what did I do to you now?” You bite your tongue. Oh, you know. You just forcefully impregnated me three years ago and maybe I still haven’t worked through that. No biggie, though. “Be nice to your old man, yeah?”

He takes the cigarette into his left hand and presses a kiss to your temple, then drags his lips down to your ear. His stubble scratches the thin skin that is stretched over the cartilage of your helix and you can’t suppress the shudder. The right hand that lands on your shoulder is heavy and warm as it rubs and presses the fat over the joint, thoughtful but firm. “I have been nothing but kind, haven’t I? If you had ended up with that little freak, you wouldn’t have seen the sun ever again.” Crinkling, dark eyes meet yours in the mirror. 

Evan. You still think about him sometimes, but he moved just shortly after you started showing, too distraught that it had been Bill's kid and not his. You'd pity him if he hadn't done the unthinkable to you, just like Bill did.

“You do know that, don’t you?” Despite yourself, you nod - suddenly hot and cold at the same time. “I keep you fed, I keep a roof over your head, I let you run free, I let you tear up my shit when you’re mad, I let you go to your uppity little bitch you like so much- I think I’m doing way more than necessary, darling.” He mouths at your ear again, suddenly licking and biting the shell, only stopping when you visibly cringe. “I even think I deserve a little something for that, hm? And if it’s not gratitude, it might just be something else.”

He presses out the cigarette before you can even answer, right on top of your eyeshadow palette. Rough hands glide over the nape of your neck, down to your shoulders and settle right underneath your tits where he pushes them up and catches your eyes in the mirror again. “Just look at you, baby. I wish I could ruin all that makeup with my cum but we can’t have you be late for your little wine dinner, hm?” You see your own face twist in shock at his crude words and he watches in amusement, hands already working the soft flesh of your chest. He pinches and prods through the sturdy fabric that cups your tits, rubbing the material between his fingers to appraise it. “Aw, you’re wearing only a t-shirt bra today, aren’t you? Not my favorite lace number?”, he says and squeezes over your clothed nipples roughly, making you yelp in pain. “Or maybe I should be glad you aren’t. Else I’d think you’re dressing up for the Everett boy.” “But you’d never do that, would you?”, his tone drips with something dark. “You’d never betray me, hm?” Your breath stutters. It’s not a question. It’s a threat. “Why, I-”, you gasp, the words enough to shake you out of your stupor. “Why would you think that?”

“Dunno, babe”, he almost croons. “Just wanted to put it out there. In case you got into your little head again.” His hands wander down to your stomach and grab your fat roughly, a deep growl ending the conversation. He buries his fingers deep into you, so deep it stings and you subconsciously stretch upwards, granting him easier access to your neck. He promptly uses it to nip the skin of your pulse point.

“Soft as ever. Makes me want to bite and devour you whole”, Bill laughs. “But I’ll settle for putting another baby in you.” The nails digging through the cotton of your shirt turn sharp and long - he chuckles as you yelp, as you try to wiggle out of the chair in front of your vanity. “Too late, honeypie.” The man who stares back at you through the mirror is no longer a man - he is a wolf again, the same one that sounded the bell for the end of the life you once knew. “Don’t give me those pitiful eyes. Where’s all that fire, huh?”, he snickers, grotesque notes strung together by a deeper voice, by bigger lungs. “Your snippy little attitude. You do know I love to fuck it out of you, again and again.” Your head is pushed down into the wood and it sends your mascara and brushes flying to the floor. He simply drags your face over the vanity until the crown of your head touches the cool glass of the mirror, your legs slowly rising with the stretch. 

You have a hunch of what will follow. “Ass up, sweetheart”, he bites out and kicks the chair underneath you to the side with so much force you can hear it splinter. You’re left to stand on shaky legs, the cartilage of your nose pressed into the furniture. “Good girl.”

You only whimper in response, too weak to struggle against him, even as his hands leave your head.

He shows little regard for your clothes, as little as he had for his in the moment he turned - sharp claws dig into your nicest pair of jeans with little care, thick hands pull them down by force - over your belly, then over your ass. They're left just above your knees as he targets the next layer, a simple pair of cotton briefs. He slices through them and groans at the sight of you - fully exposed, bent over, vulnerable and oh-so-soft.

 "The baby did you good, sweetheart", he laughs and spanks your ass so hard it echoes through the room. "Made you even better. Maybe another one will make that ass even fatter."

  You're mortified at his crude words - but any indignant squawk of protest gets stuck in your throat as he presses his whole muzzle into your cunt.

He licks and pushes and sucks - eats you out so messily that his spit drips down your thighs and you can't contain your voice any longer.

You're rewarded with a chuckle and even more fervor. 

It's too much and yet not enough - his tongue only brushes your clit but he fucks your hole with it so well it makes your legs shake. You don't even register the way his claws dig into your ass, the pain barely noticeable over the mess he's making in between your thighs.

It’s not enough to make you cum but you feel yourself loosening up, growing pliant under his touch. Maybe he can feel it too because just a few precious minutes later he stops, licking his maw loudly. “Could eat you out all day, princess”, he chuckles behind you. “But you got a little girl’s night to go to, don’t you?” You manage nothing but a teary-eyed nod, throwing him a look over your shoulder, that terrifying creature staring right back at you, the man within it clearly getting drunk with the power he has over you when he is like this. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.” He pushes himself into you slowly, but firmly - his saliva mixed with your own arousal making the most obscene squelch. It’s almost a relief to feel him in you after he fucked you on his tongue and you close your eyes, savoring the feeling of him working you open.

“You take me so well-”, he grits out and you moan in response. You should be ashamed of how much you long for his cock, how the years have made you compliant, even needy for him, even though you’re thoroughly terrified of him - but you can’t find it in you to care right now. The shame will come later, when you’re alone with your thoughts again but for now you just want to him to fuck you so well you’ll forget about everything. He starts out slow but it doesn’t last long - it never does. Just a few thrusts in and he’s found a rather harsh pace that has him fist the neck of your blouse to steady himself, claws puncturing the fabric. “God, I just wanna knot you, sweetheart”, he groans and you believe every word of it. “Bet you want it too- Always such a slut for my knot-” You clench around him both in arousal and shock - taking Bill’s knot is such a messy experience, one that would make you late for sure, with everyone able to smell just why you’re an hour behind schedule. “Ah, tomorrow- I’ll fucking knot you tomorrow.”

Your body is dragged over the wood with every thrust, the crown of your head bumps into the mirror every time he bottoms out - you feel like nothing more than toy with the way you’re rattled around. He seems a little extra desperate, probably trying to empty himself into you as fast as possible.

“Right now I’m- I’m- gonna make you stink with my scent, gonna mark you so that they all know how well I fuck you.” How embarrassing for you. Of course Francis will immediately smell it the moment he walks into the door and you’ll have to duck your head behind your wine glass - wolf that he is, claims like this won’t go unnoticed. “So you can’t run away from me-”, he gasps, out of breath with effort. “And no one can take you, either-” Even through your fucked-out haze, something clicks. He’s insecure. That’s why he’s in this form, why he’s so intent on filling you up before you sit yourself down with friends. Why he just won’t come with you eludes you - but that is Bill, ever so possessive, ever so puzzling.

You’d laugh at him if you weren’t currently getting mounted by a two meter tall humanoid monster, if you weren’t so literally fucked right now.  A groan pulls your attention back to the creature you call your husband. “Oh fuck, babe-”, Bill moans behind you, his pace getting even faster. It grates your insides, your body trying to keep you lubricated as he pounds you. Spittle flies through sharp teeth and lands on your ass as he unabashedly lets his maw hang open, too blissed out to care.

“I’m gonna cum, oh shit- Shit-”, he says and loses himself in a string of curses, trying to fuck you as you deeply as he can, rutting into you with so much force you’re scared the mirror is going to break off the vanity. “Fucking take it-”

The snarl he lets out isn’t human anymore, as are the claws slicing into your scalp, the sudden grip keeping you in place. He shudders violently as he pumps you full of his load, hot and wet. The feeling is enough to wring a throaty moan out of you - not enough to make you cum, but enough to make your legs shake and clench around him. “Damn…” Bill wheezes into the silence that follows, hands still iron on your skin. You slump into the wood beneath you, sweat-slicked and high-strung. He laughs as he hears the thump of your forehead against the vanity. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re gonna make me go before my time with that pussy.” You don’t answer, already irritated with him again. “Well-”, he coughs and takes his hands off you, sounding much more composed. “Looks like you need to start over with your little look.” His words make you gasp and paw at your face, the sticky smudge of mascara palpable on your cheeks. You don’t need to turn your head up to the mirror to tell that you’re back to square one, that you’ll be late, with a dripping cunt and hastily scrawled on makeup. Your arousal is gone in an instant, replaced by hot rage burning its way through your stomach for good. A pat on the head and a content sigh behind you make it boil over, make you clench so hard you actually push him out of you. It’s laughed away, either mistaken for the wrong emotion or simply ignored. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, your old man will make it up to you tomorrow.”

[noirsdoll]

-> in your arms

pairing: re6!leon x re6!sherry

words: 3.3k

tags: pseudo-incest, dubcon, mentions of blood, suicidal ideation (from leon), referenced drug use (from leon), short cameos from claire, helena, and jake, set after the events of re6

notes: been thinking about leon and sherry's relationship and their interactions in re6. i feel like leon is such a self sabotager when it comes to good things or people in his life. like he has an intrusive need to fuck things up for himself. also sherry.... poor sherry she deserves the world.

read it on ao3

She was practically ripped from his hands.

Ever since they escaped the confines of Raccoon City, Sherry, Leon, and Claire stayed joined at the hip, navigating the chaos. Claire eventually left, on the search for her brother. For a while, it was just Leon and Sherry, drifting from motel to motel, surviving on loose change and ice cream sandwiches. They were heading to Leon’s place, where they’d finally be allowed a rest.

But they never got it.

Intercepted by the US government, they were singled out as the sole survivors of Raccoon City. Leon was fit to join the government ranks, but not Sherry. No, Sherry harboured dormant remnants of the G-Virus, a last gift from dear old dad. That made her valuable.

Leon could only watch as they dragged her away, kicking and screaming. They were going to pull her apart with needles and scalpels, just to learn an inkling about her parents’ virus, no doubt to equip it for military use. Sherry will be transformed into a mangled piece of flesh no different from the zombies Leon’s had to kill.

Leon called out for her until his throat went hoarse. He couldn’t lose another person, he couldn’t lose her. Knowingly or not, Sherry had become his reason to live. The interrogators around him gleaned just as much. With shady grins and shifty fingers, they had him sign away his life in exchange for Sherry’s safety.

What a joke. Leon had known they wouldn’t uphold their promise, but it was the only chance he had to ensure her wellbeing. That would be the last time they see each other for a long while.

The years drag on. He can’t afford to keep a connection with her now, not after the things he’s done. The blood in his ledger, the people he’s been tasked to kill— because zombies don’t lose any of their human past.

Leon and Helena crash land in China to find Simmons and clear both their names. It’s then, out of the wreckage, that this behemoth comes forth and along with it, a man— coupled with a woman who looks oddly familiar.

The four of them try their best to put it down, and when it seems the dust has settled, Leon reaches out for this woman. He can’t believe his eyes, but he wants to.

“Sherry?”

She turns to look at him, her mouth dropping open. “Leon?”

“Why are you here?” She’s armed.

“Simmons told me to come here, I had to—,”

Leon’s mission returns to the forefront of his mind. “Simmons? Where is he?”

The man, more lapdog than person, gets in between them. “Hey, watch how you talk to her.”

“Jake, it’s okay. It’s Leon, he saved my life back in Raccoon City.” Sherry’s gaze calms him right back down. Something bubbles up in Leon’s chest. Just who is this guy?

Simmons is dead, Helena and Leon’s names have been cleared, yet Leon can’t rest– not till he talks to Sherry. Leon pulls Sherry under his arm, away from Jake. He doesn’t trust Jake, nor does he trust the way Sherry looks at him. Leon’s been away from her for too long.

“Leon! What’s up?” Sherry’s eyes glimmer just how they used to when Leon would take a knee and wipe her tears from her eyes. Back then she was so much smaller, everything was so much simpler. She was his driving force to keep going during the events of Raccoon, when a bullet to the head seemed like a better idea. Now she’s all grown up, now she’s someone else.

“Who’s that Jake guy?” He whispers.

“Oh, him?” Sherry glances over at Jake, who’s leaning against the wall pretending to look busy. Shifty. He looks shifty. Leon doesn’t like him. “He’s just a friend. His blood has the antibodies for the C-Virus.”

“You don’t look at him like a friend.” There’s something abruptly paternal in his tone. He ignores it.

She blushes then, looking away from both him and Jake. “That’s the first thing you want to ask? I haven’t seen you in forever, Leon. How’s Claire?”

“Me and her aren’t… talking anymore.” Leon was trying to protect her, as he failed to do for Sherry. “Did Simmons— did his men hurt you?”

Sherry frowns. “No, he took care of me. That was a long time ago, Leon. The facility is my home.”Her frown deepens, she wraps her arms around herself. “They took some samples, it's all blurry now— I don’t think anything happened.”

“If they did something, you’d tell me, right?” He eyes her warily.

“Of course, Leon.” She shoves him by the shoulder, teasing. “You don’t have to look after me— I’m not a kid anymore,” Sherry smiles.

“Yes, I do.” Leon says it without hesitation. “You’re still…” You’re still my little girl.

She perks up at that. “Still what?”

“Still too trusting. Jake’s dangerous.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Sherry huffs. “He’s a mercenary— I knew that when I was sent on the mission.”

Leon glances at her, deciding to drop it. “So, do you have anywhere to stay now that the facility’s been shut down?”

“Jake offered, but I’m not… sure he actually has a place,” she laughs, like there’s something funny about a man being unable to provide.

Leon thinks for a moment. “While we wait for this all to blow over, stay at my place. We can catch up.”

Things are quiet. Why wouldn’t they be? Sherry’s become a stranger to him. Leon slides a mug of coffee her way, she offers a polite smile. “I, uh, I’m more of a tea person.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Leon roots in the back of his pantry. He finds some green tea from when he actually attended his AA meetings— when he thought things could get better.

Sherry takes her mug of tea, wrapping her hands around it. She’s in her pyjamas— they’re baby blue and white. Cute. She takes a sip and stares distantly at Leon’s kitchen table. “I wonder how Jake’s doing.”

That makes Leon frown— he hides it behind his mug. What’s even so great about that ginger? He didn’t pull Sherry out of the depths of hell the way Leon did, he didn’t sacrifice everything for her like Leon did, the way he would again— without hesitation.

Leon shrugs. “He’s a tough nut, he’ll be fine. How’d you sleep?”

Sherry yawns and stretches. “It was okay. It was just hard to sleep— kept thinking about Ustanak.”

“What?”

“The monster that was chasing us. Do you not read the mission reports?”

“All I know is that it was big and ugly. They all tend to blend together after a while.”

“Right,” she frowns, “I can’t stop thinking about it. They can just make something like that with the sole instinct of killing a single person.” Sherry looks up at him, her eyes are glassy. “What if they send one of those things after you? Or Claire?”

“Hey, hey,” he sits down beside her at the table, “that’s not gonna happen. Don’t think about that.” Leon cups her face and wipes away her brewing tears. This feels more natural between them, the nostalgia of it all tugs at his heartstrings.

It’s his job to protect Sherry, always has been. She should never, even for a moment, ever feel unsafe around him. Leon looks down at Sherry, her face in his hands. She looks so small, helpless.

He kisses her forehead. He’ll keep her safe.

“Sherry’s still staying with you, Leon?” Helena sits across from him in the office cafeteria. She’s leaned against the wall, expressionless– meaning her usual resting glare.

“China took a toll on her,” Leon says, “I’m just helping her through it.”

“She doesn’t need to be coddled.” Helena scoffs. “What she needs is a therapist and a spa day.”

“I know what she needs. I was there for her during it all.”

Helena flicks an empty coffee cup on the table. It tips over. “She’s an adult. Sherry’s older than me, Leon.”

“Simmons kept her in a facility her whole childhood. She didn’t have the chance to experience life the way you did.”

“Keeping her cooped up in your apartment won’t fix that.”

“You don’t get it. She needs me.” I’m important to her. I’m finally important to someone.

“You need her, is more like it,” Helena says. “What about Ada?”

Ada was born from one of those C-Virus cocoons. She’s a monster, a freak of nature– one of the things Leon’s meant to kill. There’s no certainty to her, there is nothing pliable about her the way Sherry is.

Sure, she’s different now, but if they spend enough time together Leon can find the old her, wipe the dust off, polish the cracks and pretend. And Leon is so good at pretending.

“That’s not important.”

Helena opens her mouth to say more, but she sees something behind Leon and adeptly closes it. Then he hears that giggle, that tinkling of choir bells, and a warmth so alien to him blooms in his chest and he is sure that he has made the right decision. “Surprise!”

Any acknowledgement of Helena’s criticisms melt away when Sherry latches onto his arm, leaning into his side. Leon turns to Sherry, unable to hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, thought you were staying home today?”

“I know, but I wanted to visit,” she slips into the spot beside Leon like it’s second nature. Helena rolls her eyes and gets up from the seat, walking off. Sherry glances over at Leon. “Did I do something?”

He shakes his head. “No, she was just leaving.”

Sherry hasn’t left. Leon doesn’t ever want her to. It’s late evening in his apartment, they’re watching something forgettable on the couch. Leon’s got an arm curled behind his head on the armrest, Sherry’s crowded up against his chest.

Leon can’t focus on what’s playing on the TV, not when Sherry looks so adorable, eyelids drooping, half-asleep. He moves one of her short strands of hair out of her eyes. Sherry lifts her head to look at him, a grin of exhaustion on her lips.

And then his dick kicks against her thigh.

Leon goes still underneath her. He doesn’t know what to do, but something about this is making the puzzle pieces Leon had scattered around his brain slowly click together. This is the birth of something that has been festering for so long, an inclination he has tried to ignore.

“Leon…?” Sherry asks sleepily, like she doesn’t want to believe it. Leon is something idealistic to her, he is the hero who saved her in Raccoon City, not an adult man with a dick.

That was one of things Leon cherished about Sherry, how she stays a reminder of a time when he was better. But the truth had to come out eventually. Leon’s biggest weakness is a soft body against his dick— Sherry is no exception.

And Sherry is pliable and her eyes blink up at Leon in something he has never deserved and Leon wonders if maybe this isn’t such a bad idea.

“Keep still for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, he doesn’t want to disturb the quiet.

Sherry’s confusion only grows, she shifts out of her haze. “Leon?” she repeats, and another name catches in her throat, one Leon has never been sure he wants to hear— because of the responsibility and the dependence it would afford him.

And that rotten swell blooming in his gut would only grow further, a cesspool of every bad action and self-sabotage he has lobbied at himself.

She goes to sit up and Leon tugs her back against him. Her warmth against his body is a stark reminder of just how lonely he has been, loneliness that has only been made more apparent by Sherry’s time with him.

And so he ruins it. He corrupts her, he snuffs the light out in her eyes because that is the only thing he is good at.

Then Sherry says she’s going out, clutching her clothes to her chest like her dignity is somehow woven into the fabric. Her big doe eyes are wide like dinner plates, glassy like them too.

He watches her walk away, a stagger to her knocked knees like she really is just a baby deer. She is a tapestry of Leon’s decisions then and now, the wine stain on white carpet, the blood on her underwear.

Their next conversations are held through locked doors, through choked sobs and croaked-out words. Sherry doesn’t look at him now, she averts her eyes from him and everything that he is.

Now Leon is no different from her real father, who impregnated her with that viral embryo when she should’ve been learning timetables. He is a monster. But Leon was never a hero and it’s his fault that Sherry learned that the hard way.

“Sherry, honey, please,” he speaks through the door.

She sniffles. “Go away, Leon.”

Sherry cries on impulse now. Every time Leon talks to her, she erupts in snot and tears that Leon would happily wipe away— but she’s learned not to let him that close again.

So Leon sticks with his original theory. That there’s no way he can make it worse than it already is— therefore he can do as he pleases.

She can’t leave. She has nowhere to go. Jake has fucked off to wherever homicidal orphans end up and Simmons, the stand-in dad, has already bitten the bullet. It is just him and her. And there are only so many rooms in his apartment.

Leon crowds her into a corner of the bathroom, pressed up against the shower walls, water running down their skin. Sherry yelps and covers herself, she is afraid when she never has to be. Leon is the one who keeps her safe— always has been.

“Look at me, Sherry,” he says, carding her wet hair out of her face and kissing her forehead.

She looks at the tile walls, curled in on herself. “What do you want, Leon?”

“I rushed things when you weren’t ready” The shower water drums against his back, a steady noise drowining out the silence.

“There was nothing to rush.” The bite in her voice is long gone. She is closer to a puppy than an opposing force now. “You were never…. like that to me.”

He nods regretfully. “I know that.” Sherry was never like that to him either, but Leon didn’t know what else she was. There was no other place to put her, the cylinder block in the square hole.

“I’m sorry…” Leon’s not sure what to apologize for, he didn’t do anything wrong. He just misread everything, that’s not entirely his fault. “I’m sorry, Sherry.”

“Could you just leave me alone?” There is more exasperation than finality to her tone.

Leon tips her chin up to look at him. “I’m not leaving if you’re still upset with me.”

“Then I’m not upset,” Sherry says, clearly upset. “Better?”

He frowns, “you know that’s not what I mean.”

“Leon I don’t want to talk.”

And he knows why. Puffing out a breath of air, he says, “you can stay with Claire if I really bother you so much.”

Claire slaps him. Once. Twice. She’s always angry with him. Snippy. There’s a reason they hardly talk, Claire only visits his apartment to kick his drugged-out body and make sure he’s still breathing.

“You’re a fucking weirdo, Leon,” she says. “You know what? Weirdo doesn’t even begin to cover it. How could you?” She nails that tone of a distressed mother— she should go into acting. Her performance would move Leon if the only thing he felt wasn’t the urge to kill himself.

Sherry buries her face in Claire’s shoulder. They have always looked so right together, better than he and Sherry ever did. There is a solidarity between them now, the co-founders of the We Hate Leon club that would encompass about half of the DSO.

Sherry looks like a child picking sides. She doesn’t understand what’s going on. Claire doesn’t care. This is all about one-upping him. Obviously. Claire’s constant visits to Sherry while she was a lab rat was mere preparation for this moment, when she can steal Sherry away and blow raspberries in his face, kick a man while he’s down.

And Leon is down. Down and out. Nothing but his apartment and its four walls to his name. He’s popped every prescription opioid he had, there’s no remedy left for that eternal numbness. Matilda’s been making eyes at him from his bedside drawer, one pull of the trigger might rectify everything. Have everyone running back with bouquets of flowers and pity, secretly glad he finally did what everyone’s been begging him to do.

But that’s too easy and Leon hates anything that’s easy. He’d rather sit with the consequences of his actions— a much better form of self-harm, ignoring the bloodstains on the couch cushions and the lingering of Sherry on each and every thing in his house.

She forgot to take the extra toothbrush she had propped up next to his. Leon should throw it away.

Sherry rubs herself raw every night.

It’s compulsive, she needs to, otherwise she can’t function. Every memory of Leon’s touch has heat coiling low in her stomach— even when she wishes it didn’t.

She clasps her hand over her mouth, muffling every keening moan as she cums for the nth time. All she can think about is the way he felt. The rough slide of his hands, the way he talked to her, filled her up.

Sherry has no fucking clue what Leon is to her anymore. The cylinder block in the square hole, he’s fallen somewhere between Simmons and her real dad, rather than being his separate variable entirely.

Claire wants Sherry out of her apartment by the end of the week. Sherry understands, she gets it completely. She needs to find her own place at this point. But she can’t help but dwell on the fact that Leon would’ve let her stay indefinitely, holding her close and never letting go.

She didn’t want to be let go— it was all so confusing, but it was wrong to remain, Sherry knows that to be fact. Sherry couldn’t have stayed, because what he did was wrong regardless.

But then why does she feel like this? So much different than she’s ever felt about Jake. Sherry doesn’t know how to process it, how to deal with the words Leon said to her while he was buried in her, as close as he could possibly get, his cock nudging her heartstrings.

Sherry feels as broken as she does fixed. She dials his number every night, staring at his contact in the darkness of Claire’s spare bedroom, wondering if it’d be a betrayal of Claire’s trust to call him.

The only reason Claire let her stay here is because Sherry said it was unsafe at Leon’s place. It was unsafe because Sherry didn’t know what she’d do if she stayed there any longer. If, in some alternate universe, her and Leon had a conversation and it all worked out. Him and her walking down the aisle, Leon’s ring on her finger, his kids in her belly.

Sherry’s stomach turns over at the thought, with what emotion, she’s not sure. Her breath feels lodged in her throat as she stares at his number.

By compulsion, she deletes it. She knows it’s the right thing to do, that’s what Claire told her, but she still bursts into tears, crying in the darkness.

Knowing that if Leon was here, he would’ve kissed it all away.

[griefabyss69]

Grief's September Sextravaganza Masterlist

I thought I'd put my @steddiesmuttyseptember fics all in one post! I'm very proud of all of them so consider this post is a fridge and the little bullet points are magnets. (I know two of them are out of order but I wanted to put the sequel right under the first fic in its series!)

Benighted [ AO3 ] Eddie gets his best friend Steve to help him make his performance a little… more interesting. Week One: Service Dom WC: 2,447 | Rated: E | CW: Secret exhibitionism, semi-public sex

Quiet Nights [ AO3 ] When Eddie and Steve get stranded by the side of the road, Eddie jokes about how they could fill their time until morning. Steve takes him up on it. Week Two: Soft and Slow, Backseat, Clothes On WC: 7,771 | Rated: E | CW: Semi-public sex, mentions of drunk sex with a past lover, mentions of recent argument

Thunderous Evenings [ AO3 ] Eddie had thought that the car sex was the height of how good things with Steve could get—Steve proves him wrong, even as Eddie proves to Steve that getting fucked can feel great! SEQUEL TO QUIET NIGHTS Week Four: Slap, Loud WC: 11,318 | Rated: E | CW: In content notes of author's summary on ao3 (nothing major)

Patterns in the Ivy [ AO3 ] Steve needs something to help him as he tries not to drown under all of his assignments. It turns out the guy who used to be Hawkin's pot dealer ended up at the same college as him, and he's hotter than ever. Week Three: Rough, Lingerie, Aftercare, Sneaking Around | WC: 6K | Rated: E | CW: Public sex, implied/referenced drug usage (weed), Eddie is a drug dealer, mentions of Steve's parents being terrible

Silence Awakened [ AO3 ] Maybe Eddie shouldn't have goaded Steve so much, but... he wasn't expecting him to react like this, so it's not really his fault, is it? Week Five: Degradation, Impact, Silent, Full WC: 6054 | Rated: E | CW: Dubcon (Elaborated in author's note on ao3), Under-negotiated kink

[amoristt]

since you write for dbd now, can you write a drabble about frank (legion) finding reader in the trials, he used to know her and had feelings for her? can be dubcon/nsfw/sfw whatever you want!

yes yes yes ye sye sye sys yes

- gn! reader . NSFW . noncon referenced but if there's a continuation it'll be dubcon! - as always comments/reblogs are appreciated! - want to support me? heres my kofi!

Run, Rabbit | Frank Morrison/Reader

You don't know how it happened.

One moment, you're at work, mindlessly sweeping the floors of the supermarket you worked at like all the other drones employees around you. Time was ticking by astronomically slow and a part of you just wanted to throw your broom down and waltz out. Money be damned.

The last memory you could recall was heading towards the supply room to retrieve cleaning supplies and then… Nothing.

Nothing, and then, it was cold. It was damp, with harsh winds ruffling the fabric of your work uniform. You were outside standing in the middle of what looked like a road that had definitely seen some better days. The streetlight over head flickered in spasms and offered little light. From what you could make out, with narrowed eyes and dilating pupils, you seem to have found yourself planted in the middle of an abandoned town.

Kidnaping had crossed your mind, along with a million other horrific thoughts.

Would anyone even know where to look for you?

With little exploring along the looming walls of the 'town' you found what seemed to be a massive, electric gate. No power, and no way to climb out, so you took to exploring the town further. A certain… Dread filled you.

You couldn't put your finger on it but you swore you were being watched.

Feeling more prey than human you sauntered about, and used what little technician knowledge you'd learned over the years to tinker with generators in the hopes of powering your escape. It had been going well- until it wasn't. One wrong wire and boom. You were off like a bat out of hell.

The way your blood turned to ice when you heard a second set of footsteps behind you was criminal.

Heart in your throat, your fight or flight pumping shockwaves of adrenaline through your veins, your lungs heaving as you ran without even daring to lookback. You didn't have to. Awful, evil energy chased you- practically nipped at your heels. Mind screaming, eyes searching in desperation for somewhere to hide, you could have cried when you found yourself trapped in a corner of those tall, tall walls. Only then did you whip around to face your attacker.

A white, dirty mask adorned by a tall skinny figure has your breath hitching in your throat.

---

Frank could have jumped for joy when he heard the delightful sound of an explosion merely yards away. It was like Christmas day- like a gift from god. His blade was hungry in his hand, his eyes searching through the familiar darkness for the survivor.

Excitement vibrated on his skin when he saw the faintest form of a figure in the mist.

His pace picked up, and he gained on you faster than you'd thought possible. In mere moments he was less than a foot away, practically able to reach out, grab your hair and rip you to his feet. But, Frank's always found he loves the chase. He lets you get a couple feet on him, he lets you think you have a chance.

He lets you run yourself into a corner like a frightened rabbit.

And god, when you turn to look at him, with those big doe-like eyes and a trembling lower lip, he knows why the Entity had brought him here. He takes a pause of appreciation for a few seconds while you stumble backwards. When your feet hit the wall behind you, he drinks in your appearance, clicks his tongue tauntingly, and twirls his blade in his hands. Your fear ridden voice reaches him like a song.

A song that he finds himself… Recognizing.

From behind his mask, he narrows his eyes. He knows you- he's sure of it. Somehow…

It clicks somewhere in his brain when he really looks at you- past the fear, past the shaking fingers and the sheen of sweat over your skin. A wiry smile forms on his lips and he can't help but laugh to himself deep in his chest. The sound brings waves of terror that he can see course through you.

Years it's been since he's last seen you, he thinks. He'd been in this place for so long he isn't even sure. Maybe it was years, maybe it was decades, even. All he knew was that no matter how long it had been, you were here now, standing before him and completely at his non-existent mercy. He'd always been fond of you since he'd met you in Ormond. You were a free thinker, treading on the darker side of the moon just like him. You saw the cracks in humanity, saw the world through his very same lenses.

He loved your fiery spirit, your impenetrable will.

And, most of all, he loved how he just knew he could tear it all down.

But he'd never got the chance. Your parents had damn near grabbed you by the scruff of your neck and dragged you to a different, safer city once they'd learned the types of people their child had been hanging out with. The types of influences you'd been around. He'd always felt a strange, out of place sadness at never even getting to figure out where you'd been taken.

Or maybe it wasn't so much sadness, as it was disappointment he hadn't really gotten the chance to corrupt you.

You were the one that got away.

Until now, that was. Because now you were here practically fucking gift wrapped for him, like the Entity was rewarding him for his devious behavior.

You're watching every movement he makes, pupils searching frantically for his line of sight, hands clasped at your heaving chest. It make's him giddy.

Frank can't hold back the snarky laugh that escapes him when he takes in your outfit, noting the corporate companies logo. If only your past self could see you now, they'd be sorely disappointed. But, surely that didn't matter. Not now.

Smoothly, he dangles his knife out to his side, before he lets it go. It thuds to the ground, abandoned. It offers little comfort to you, he notices, seeing your worried expression eye the knife before trailing back up to his mask. If he had a little more decency, he'd feel almost a bit bad for you. But, he doesn't, so… He doesn't.

After all, why deny himself of something he'd always wanted?

His figure looms over yours, a light behind him casting a deep shadow over your shrinking form. The outline of you vibrates as you shake fiercely before him. His fingers twitch to touch you, and something below his belt does too. His blood is hot under his skin as he imagines all of the things he wants to do you.

A part of Frank wants to rush in- tear away the layers of clothing keeping you covered and collapsing your shaking knees to the dirt, rip at your hair and force you to choke him down. Or, perhaps, use his trusty knife to drag weeping lines down your exposed flesh, have you cry out and squirm underneath him. The thought makes him shiver in need.

Or, he could take his time. A bit unlike him, sure, but this was a special occasion.

He could play it slow, drag the pads of his fingers up your arms, to the dips of your collar bones. Witness every last goosebumps in it's wake.

He could flatten the palms of his hands and slide it up your shirt until you're the one trying to take it off. Trace the outline of your arousal through your thin underwear until those terrified shakes turn into ones of want. And he knows he could do it, too.

Oh, he could work you until you're practically begging for him to take you.

Mind racing, eager arousal bubbling within him, he brings a hand up to your face and pats your cheek before he flattens his palm against your flesh. It's dewy, hot.

Soft.

Gently, he caresses you, thump rubbing saccharine circles into your skin. You barely flinch away, eyes fixated on him with a panting breath ghosting past your lips.

Frank grins to himself.

Talk about fun.

[mxtxfanatic]

Book of the Week: The Villain has Something to Say

Author: Mo Chen Huan (莫晨欢)

Genre: cultivation, rebirth, transmigration, danmei

Rating: E

My Synopsis: If you’ve ever thought to yourself “man, I wish wwx really had killed all those annoying cultivators at Nightless City,” then boy do I have a book for you! A mix between 2ha’s Mo Ran and mdzs’s Wei Wuxian, main character Luo Jianqing has double the trauma and double the hate as the heavens’ literal least favorite child: the villain! Watch as he defies fate by being reborn, immediately scheming to kill the transmigrator protagonist (the heavens’ actual favorite child), and trying to uncover what went so wrong in his first life as to cause his shizun and secret crush, Xuan Lingzi, to sign off on his death.

My Actual Review: Ok, so usually I absolutely hate when I read reviews that compare random danmei novels to mxtx works as a selling point, but Luo Jianqing really does give Wei Wuxian vibes in how charismatic he is, his personality, and his behavior around Xuan Lingzi, once they get together. Before that, though, he gives a lot of Mo Ran 1.0 as he tries to deal with the hurt of betrayal in the face of his shizun who he thinks hates him but also would obviously not remember said betrayal since it, for all intents and purposes, never happened. Despite all this, though, Luo Jianqing still feels like a unique character, and the story develops into a unique plot where the characters are trying, for the sake of the fate of the world, to rebel against the will of the heavens that has decided that only one (1) person deserves the entirety of all the good fortune in their entire reality, past and present.

I’m adding some content warnings for: grooming (maybe???), incest (maybe???), attempted sexual assault, and some slight dubcon between the main couple due to an aphrodisiac that doesn’t go all the way. However—and I say this knowing full well that it probably won’t make sense if you haven’t read the book—the first two content warnings for this book don’t really have… content? For instance, yes there is incest in the book, but it consists of a character constantly mentioning it to make the main pairing feel better about their “incestuous” shizun-disciple relationship. When you meet said incestuous characters, nothing about their interactions connote a romantic or sexual relationship. The incest reference could be removed and nothing about the story would change. Same about the grooming: for most of the story, we go into detail about how Luo Jianqing was raised by another disciple—which is vital information about his relationship with said disciple—the main pairing don’t get together until he’s 50, and before that, their relationship is completely chaste as far as we’ve seen. But then the author throws a random curveball near the end about the LI being in love with him “from before” he was 17. There is no character conversation about this. It is referenced nowhere else ever again. It could be wholly removed from the story and nothing would change. Take from that what you will.

Pretty sure the translation I read—though complete—was an mtl. Everything was still understandable, and I was able to get through it while still enjoying the plot and characters, but the constant grammar mistakes were annoying.

Translation: incomplete but currently updating