#shake this divine hand you bastard

[jollmaster]

can't say I'm glad to see ya

[sexbot300]

telling them they have a small dick!

pairing: toji x reader, gojo x reader (separate)

⤷ 18+, MDNI

tw: man-handling, p in v, unprotected sex, power play, cunnilingus, falsetto, huge dick (come on now), mentions of creampie, orgasms, degrading/dirty talk, slight size kink if you squint, text format for gojoe.

a/n: this was so funny to write i cant stop laughing. this was longer than i expected, i will be making a part two with choso, geto, and nanami if asked for. originally it was meant to include them but this is a bit tew long. I actually like this more than anything i’ve ever written before :’) comments r more than welcome thank uuuuu. luv u all xoxo (felt things while writing this, it’s funny that I think it’s my best work)

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Toji ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Reading your diary

Toji Fushiguro pissed you off. There were no ifs and buts or any way around it. As much as you adored being friends with Megumi and spending time near the stoic guy, coming by his house felt entirely dreadful. Mutual friends frequently visited his abode, leaving and visiting often without a sliver of complaint leaving their diction. ‘Maybe I was truly the problem.’ A thought had snuck up in the crevices of your brain until the mental image of why you didn’t come over as often decided to grace you with his presence. A shiver traveled up north of your spine, straightening yourself out mentally and physically. ‘Nah. That doesn’t sound right. I am NOT the problem.’ 

Toji was everything Megumi was not; cocky, arrogant, and trying to start anything with anyone if they remotely looked in his direction the wrong way. Was he hot? Of course. Would you ever admit it to the bastard? Of course, you wouldn’t. This is why what unfolds before you felt as if some cruel divine punishment, curated by the highest demon in the belly that cradled hell, deciding today would be the day to toy with you.

Closing your phone with a little, ‘Ding!’ Megumi had sent a text earlier entailing that something of your belonging had been left behind. Strangely enough, even he didn’t know what it was, which left a question of perplexity. All he knew was that his dad found it and to alert you about it. 

A sigh that had built up in the depths of your chest left, as you stood behind the mahogany-colored door. Praying that Megumi would just give the item so a beeline can be made as far as legs can sprint. Bringing a hand to the door, tapping with a fist, “Megumi? It’s me.”

With a shuffling heard from inside the house, the sound of the door unlocked and a slow swing revealed no one behind it. Stepping inside carefully and scooping out the area, an eyebrow raised as the familiar setting had no one in eyesight. Closing and locking the door behind, your voice even more confused, “Megumi? Hello? I thought you’d be here.” 

In plain eye view, coming around a corner stood the looming presence of a man that was hard to ignore. Leaning up against the counter behind, a protein shake in hand as his body seems depleted from a workout session. Glistening in sweat, he stood there devastatingly handsome. A simple white tank top clung onto his pectorals, highlighting the ridges of his stone-hard abs while the pump of his presumed workout caused his already massive biceps to look the size of planets. His gray sweats hung low off his slim core. He eyed you up and down as if inspecting every single thing about you.

“Oh yeah. My son's little friend was expecting you here.” He spoke in a casual tone, eyes met yours for a split second before eyeing you down in a carnal way.

Standing in place, mentally making note of killing Megumi for not being the one to give you what was missing from his home. Only leaving you to deal with his father.

He gripped something behind him his fingers grazing what seemed to be a bit lightweight. A light thud of a journal hit the island counter that stood between the pair. Eyes glancing down on what was thrown carelessly, the journal looked all too familiar.

My diary– fuck. All forms of color had drained from the hue of your face, replaced with a crimson flush. Frantically blinking up at the journal, your thoughts blared. ‘There’s no way he could’ve read it right?’ Almost sprinting at the piece of media, fingertips yanked it off the island forcibly gluing it to your chest almost to shield it from eyes it doesn’t belong to. 

Eyes darting back and forth frantically searching for relief in such a predicament, in a measly voice, “T-Thank you Mr. Fushiguro, it was very kind of you to give it back. I-I’ll be leaving now.”

He had only watched amused, but it wasn’t stated within his facial expression. If anything his demeanor was calm– his body leaned back at the counter behind him, legs crossed over one another while he wore what seemed to be a completely uninterested face.

“Smart girl. Probably read a lot, huh?” 

Clutching the diary tighter to your chest, almost impossibly close, furrowed eyebrows and a snap of a neck towards his direction. A low, barely audible, “H-huh?” 

“My favorite passage is where the narrator states that, ‘Toji is probably compensating his small dick for huge muscles.’” He chuckled deeply, taking a swing of his protein shake before setting it to the side.

Frozen in place, eyes widened, simply just going quiet. I mean– what could be said? For a moment so intense, all that ran through your mind was complete blankness.

“Kinda find it endearing how the narrator only uses vibrators on her clit because the idea of penetration ‘arouses’ yet ‘scares’ her.”

“Mr. Fushiguro did you r-rea-“ stated in an incredibly shaky voice. Embarrassed, wishing that the ground would do you good bidding and swallow you whole with no hesitation. He still looked calm, ridiculing every aspect of you, his eyes had darkened a bit due to pupil dilation.

Everything felt tense, hot, incredibly warm, a moment of heat transpiring between the two of you as eyes met one another. Except both eyes said a different story. His; was full of something that could only be described that an animal gets knowing that they had successfully captured their prey right where they were needed. Yours; full of complete self-pity, begging to be freed under the gaze of something that will eat you alive and leave no bones.

“Do you think that Toji's character might appreciate the narrator calling him ‘hot but probably hotter with his mouth shut?’” His large arms bulged, and crossed over his chest, enjoying every minute that left you squirming under his condescending gaze. You looked like something had caught your throat and any form of attitude seemed to exist on the lines written in the diary. 

Tilting his head, on cue his hair moved as well, his expression seeming bleak. “Aw, wish I could meet this narrator, express to her how far off she is from the truth. Seems the type to talk a lot but get quiet when confronted.”

With a croak of your throat you managed to speak in a weak voice, “Mr. Fushiguro I am so sor-”

A silky voice met your ears, “Megumi taught me a bit about books. You know what’s funny about narrators sometimes?”

“W-what?” Your voice croaked.

“They’re unreliable.”

“Want to know something else funny?”

Body shifting off the ledge of the counter his bulky body slowly walked, emerald eyes glancing down while you stared up with the most innocent expression. ‘Cute,’ he thought. Staring down, a waft of his natural musky scent hit your nasal passages. He towered right in front of you. His long finger gripped a loose strand of your hair, twirling it mockingly.

He juxtaposed the flustered expression drawn on your face, a grin that stretched from ear to ear, a sly expression painting a look of hunger. “Yeah,” his tongue swiped at his bottom lip, voice dropping a few octaves, “it’s tiny even.”

-

On the checklist of things you hated about Toji, you mentally jotted down that he was a liar. He was a complete liar. 

Knees blown out, nose buried deep into his neatly trimmed pubic hair, lips trying to adhere to a girth that wasn’t friendly to take down, saliva coating your chin and seeping through the cracks of the side of your lips, and mascara smeared down the sides of your cheek. 

Toji was anything but tiny. A huge hand gripped the back of your skull, yanking at the follicles of your hair bouncing your head back and forth on his dick. He had to be 8 inches at least.

Gagging and whimpers filled the air, as you pathetically took down all the length he forced down. Your eyes beaming with tears, while he looked down at yours mockingly. Eyebrows slightly furrowed at the feeling of your tight throat clinging onto his cock like a vice. He smirked staring you down as you struggle to take him in, light pants escaped from his throat as spit slowly exited his mouth, meeting the exposed part of his dick and a part of your face.

“Slow down sweetheart, shit,” a condescending laugh, “I’m not going anywhere.” He hissed in a bit feeling your tongue desperately lap up and down his cock as you took the initiative to get completely lost in the feeling. 

It was all too lewd– he had stopped guiding you by bobbing your head, but kept a firm hold; all you did was suck him as if your life depended on it. His hefty cock felt divine to the tastebuds, weighing heavy down your throat and around your tongue. Frantically allowing your tongue to brush over the large veins running throughout his shaft, your hands jerking off what you could, letting the room fill up with the wet squelches. Moaning onto his cock the vibrations cued a grunt from Toji, sucking his massive tip with a ‘pop!’ He pulled you away, noticing the whine in your face when separated from his dick. He laid it on your face, grin sprawled out. 

“You suck dick good for a girl who only gets off to filthy fantasies about a man who she hates.” 

Panting, studying him while feeling incredibly small under his stare, catching your breath. So perfect, you looked so perfect to him.

“Fuck- I could just cum looking at your face like this,” gripping your hair earning a mewl from your throat, he held onto his dick tapping the tip of your tongue repeatedly, he grinned wider noticing how you desperately leaned into every tap. “Heh, want more huh? Coulda came from your throat, rather fuck it in your little pussy instead. I could tell you were a cock-deprived whore from the start.”

All you could do was blink up at him, gulping at everything he was saying, a new wave of arousal crashing down in your panties. Eyebrows furrowed, keeping steady eye contact with him, he noticed your fucked out expression. 

“Aw? No back-talk? Seem to have a lot to run your mouth about in that little diary, girl. Do you even remember your name? Already trained you well without stretching you out? Or does it make you feel ashamed to be this wet in the house of a man you hate so much? Do you have no shame?”

“I-I’m,” you cleared your hoarse voice swallowing any bit of saliva that didn’t engulf his cock, “not wet.”

He blankly stared down at your face before a loud chuckle eroded from his body, shaking him slightly, “Darling, you’re practically dripping on my kitchen floors. You think I can’t see you clenching your thighs f’me?”

“I-it’s not for y-you, Mr. Fushiguro-“

“Cut the shit, it’s Toji. Stand up.”

Pushing your knees off the position they were in for the longest time, you whined and stumbled while Toji watched amused. Standing on your feet, wobbling, he did the honors of throwing you over his shoulder eliciting a loud gasp as your torso made contact and leaned into his broad shoulders. His fingers lightly grazed your wet folds that leaked through your leggings, causing a slight gasp.

He only chuckled again, walking to his master bedroom. “Not wet, my ass.”

-

You’re not sure what round this was, but being thrown like a rag-doll by a man who easily overpowered every aspect of you was not how you expected this visit to go. He did the honors of prepping you for hours long– edging you and making sure you were on the brink of insanity so taking his cock in would feel much more manageable. At first, you winced taking him in, but the pain subsided once the overwhelming bliss of pleasure overtook all feelings of discomfort.

Toji started by fucking his tip in, rocking back and forth to let you become accustomed slightly. He quickly learned that you were nothing more than a cock-deprived whore.

“T-toji, y-you’re, ah! Breakin’ me!”

“Good.” His face had a wild expression, grinning ear to ear, his long onyx hair clinging to parts of his forehead from sweat while the rest dangled in your face. This man just found his new favorite plaything, he’d be damned to stop this. 

Toji had you mangled in a mating press, feet planted firmly into his mattress, feeling every last bit of dick he could give. Holding your thighs back with large hands, he drilled into your poor cunt, legs hanging off his broad shoulders, the sounds of skin-on-skin vibrating in the room alongside his pants, and your loud moans.

“T-toji, ah! I-I’m sorry, t-too,” a deeper thrust sent a harsh quiver from your lips while his lips dropped low to your ear, “Too! Big! Cant!”

Grunting into your ear, the same smirk plastered on his face. He angled himself even deeper, never stopping the rhythm, slamming his inches into you. All you could do was take it and moan desperately. Head thrown back while eyes rolled back into your skull. 

“Don’t” thrust, “care.” He stated casually in your ear while his voice grew huskier, “Gonna fuck my cum into this lil’ ah, fuck, pussy. Make sure it only learns how to take me in.” He chuckled while he never stopped drilling, he pulled all the way out, leaving only the tip in. Causing you to pant rapidly at the loss of dick, hating how empty yet incredibly full you felt just from his tip alone.

“P-Please, please Toji, please,” fingers dug into his biceps in a fucked out voice, “don’t stop.”

“Aw,” he placed his forehead atop yours, mockingly cooing at the mess you’ve become. “Why should I let you cum?” He whispered now, lips ghosting over your own, “Had a lot to say about me being tiny but your greedy little cunt is both clinging onto me and stretching out. Disgusting girl” 

“I’m so so so so sorry, Toji I promise I’ll be good, I’ll be so good.” Frantically scanning over his face, your body still throbbing from the positions he put you in. Meanwhile, he felt just as warm to the touch, the feeling of sex coated him entirely his composure not faltering.

Wrapping a strong hand around your throat he tightened his grip as he pummeled right into you at once, body jerking forward at the sudden stretch. A loud gasp and moan abruptly left your mouth. Before he could continue pumping into you, his lips still hovering over yours, he had a cocky smile still etched onto his face.

“Sent Megumi off with his little friends, they’re having a sleepover.” His smirk deepened, “Oh don’t worry, you’ll be proving to me how good of a whore you’ll be for me all night.” He scoffed, “Maybe then in your little diary you can write about how good I fuck you.” He pulled out yet again, suddenly feeling his body weight push off your body entirely, making you whine at the loss of sensation in your cunt and body. In an instant, he flipped you over.

Back arched completely, chest pressed down into the sprawled-out duvet, legs spread out ready for him to obliterate all self-dignity you had left, his knee pushed into the bed behind you. Placing his socked foot in the back of your head, he gripped his cockhead dragging it along your puffy folds. Moaning slightly at the feeling of contact as he circled his massive tip around your clit, your eyes fluttered shut again. Drool seeped through the sides of your mouth not caring that this man had stolen all sense of respect you once held for yourself.

“Now,” his voice husky again grunting as his cock slowly teased at your entrance before shoving it in at a tantalizing pace. Staring in awe at your hole as it glistened, hearing your cunt squelch around his thick width, “Hear her for me?” Physically tightening at the words he just said, he let out a slight grunt.

“Mhm,” you let out a mangled noise which caused him to chuckle, feeling his foot press deeper onto the back of your head while your fingers desperately gripped at the sheets below. 

“Maybe,” he pushed himself in, a wild smile on his face while he heard you whimper below, thrashing around still not used to a length this immense. “You should listen to her more often than that dumb little brain of yours princess.” 

Swiftly gripping your wrist, he firmly pinned it back at the small of your back, while rapidly thrusting in and out all at once. “Ah! Ah! T-Toji… So! Hnghhh, G-Good,” moans incredibly muffled as they were pushed into the sheets, cunt gripping onto him every time he moved in and out.

Grunting at the view of your ass clapping back at his pelvic region every time he drilled inside, your walls trying their hardest to take him. He only cackled before whistling, harshly slamming a hand down on your ass letting it recoil with a red mark left behind.

“Should’ve told you I read that stupid diary ages ago…”

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Gojo ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Failed date

“Ding! New message from ‘toruu.’” The robotic voice announced in your headphones, breaking you from wallowing in your sorrowful haze.

Shuffling in your bed, trying to forget the events that unfolded earlier today, your hand reached out to your nightstand fidgeting around to find your phone. You thought maybe lying down with sad music blaring in your ears would help, but spoiler; it did not. Groaning slightly while your eyes try to adjust to the phone's brightness. A failed date equated to a failed day, lo and behold, your eccentric friend was at your side ready to wipe away any discomfort. 

Shifting your body upwards, a smile couldn’t help but be formed at his words. At the end of the day, the guy was just that, a guy. There was nothing to stress over. Was there a slight skip in a heartbeat hearing Satoru speak fondly upon you? Yes. But that’s all that there was. Risking a friendship with him wasn’t worth it in the grand scheme. He was appealing in all senses, there was no surprise that girls and boys alike flocked to him like candy. Getting laid wasn’t exactly the objective, but hanging onto things that weren’t feasible was. 

Joking with Satoru came second nature, but having him become defensive over a harmless joke startled you a bit. ‘There’s no way he’s acting like this.’ Nibbling at your bottom lip staring at him laughing in all caps. Is he being defensive? Eyes moving back and forth on the screen questioning what to say next, the conversation continued.

Snickering to yourself, ‘Oh, so he IS being defensive.’ The thought danced around in your head, rolling eyes at every other thing he texted. “There is no way he is serious,” mumbling to yourself like a madman in the dead of night alone while speaking to nothing but the screen at hand. 

A light ping indicated that your message was sent, as you glanced at the dots that appeared from his end. Breath slightly hitching at what he stated next.

Eyes widening, breath caught in throat quickly throwing the phone down face first as your face burnt. Breathing shallow breaths to catch up, time felt a bit still before shaking hands gripped the phone, and slowly brought it into your line of sight. 

My God was Satoru Gojo, huge.

His tip was a light dusty pink, almost made to be kissed, forming a beautiful head that had a bead of translucent precum decorating the slit. The shaft was thick, matching his milky pale tone and fading into an ombre ending right where the tip started. His veins were many, mapped out all around his shaft, up and down, a prominent one stood at the center. It looked heavy, he appeared to be standing up in the picture. A white-happy trail formed alongside the end of his abs and faded around into his neatly groomed bush. You blinked slowly, taking in the image of your best friend’s fat cock. He wasn’t lying. At all. He had to be pushing 8 inches and more. This was the image alone, thumb hovering slightly over the video attachment. Feeling your cunt pulsate slightly and clit growing a bit hard, shuffling some more. 

‘I can't be getting wet over my friend. This is so wrong, he’s probably joking too right? Guys do this all the time with their guy friends. Except, I’m not a guy…’

Biting the bullet and taking the initiative, clicking the video attachment was a wrong, wrong idea. Still, in the same position, his gray sweat pushed down his mid-thigh, the flash was strong in the video. In your ears, everything was heard. Still standing erect, you could hear him lightly chuckle, almost as if he was taunting you in the same room. For some reason, the slick heat flooded more, He brought his large veiny hand, placing it side by side with his cock, holy shit, it was larger than his hand. He spoke your name in a sultry voice one that sent waves crashing down your pussy, a voice that you’ve never heard before. 

“You already know how big my hand is, I mean you’ve held it before. Do with that information what you will.” You could hear the smirk in his voice before plopping on the bed before him, a soft grunt echoed in your ears. So his dick was heavy, it flopped straight on his abs which elicited a laugh on his end. 

“Sorry, I couldn't send you it while lying down. It’s a bit too heavy.” With that, the video ended. Gulping and staring dumbfounded, your fingers anxiously wrote whatever they could, trying to keep any semblance of a friendly demeanor. 

Sighing while rolling your eyes at his behavior, mentally sighing that he's back acting like the immature soul he’s always been. Guess, it’s time to rely on the good ol’ vibrator to solve this problem. Knowing him he’d probably hang this compliment over your head for eternity and that was that with this conversation, which is why what he stated startled you a bit.

Staring at the screen once more, feeling a bit anxious about his response. All that could be thought of is if the wrong thing was said to him. He’d be over the moon hearing that his cock is big as fuck, right? Sighing while dropping your shoulders and clicking the side button to shut the phone off, eyes closing once more while the back of your head met the soft headboard. 

“Ding! New message from: ‘toruu.’”

Eyes widening, the heat still pooling in your lace panties, thanking yourself for another failed date. Within ten minutes the phone was chucked out of hand, racing to get ready for his arrival even though it wasn’t the typical hangout.

Slipping on a lacy, cerulean bra and throwing it on, keeping the same undies on having a feeling that the slick wetness would be favored for you both, fixing your hair, spritzing a gourmand perfume, applying a bubble-gum colored lip gloss, and pulling on a light blue hoodie, tight black spandex shorts, with black house sandals. It wasn’t long before a certain man rang the doorbell.

Rushing to the door while maintaining some form of composure and unlocking it to be met with piercing eyes and a shit-eating grin towering over you. He wore the same sweats in the video and a black hoodie that did very little to hide his massive frame.

“Hi,” he stated in his typical voice, eyes looking over his glasses down at your face, as he put one strong arm over the doorframe. “Hello, ‘Toru…” audibly speaking so only he heard, while a light blush scattered across your face.

“Heard your date got canceled or whatever, what a bummerrrrrrr.” He rolled his eyes exaggerating his disdain due to unexpected plans. “Gonna let me in?” His voice stated in a whisper while studying the curves of your body. 

Slightly nodding, shifting to the side to let the tall figure in, a waft of his cologne hit all senses and shot straight to your core. 

While he walked in, your hand pressed against the doorframe closing it and locking it before a large hand turned you around. Gasping at the sudden feel of his hand around your waist, while the rest of your body was pushed against the door. Staring up at his face, not recognizing the look displayed on his usual happy-go-lucky face, painted a darkened expression of desire. Satoru pressed your chest against the front of his body, pushing you closer by the hand on the back of your waist. Caging you in his embrace, the other hand laid flat behind the door.

Smelling his sweet breath from the various candies he indulged in, the air hit the tip of your nose while his lips were merely inches away from your own. 

“No offense,” his voice silky, smooth, and deeper than usual, “Kinda glad this asshole bailed on you. Wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you anyways.” His smile deepened while you responded by cupping his soft face in both hands. 

Breath a bit higher than a whisper, lips almost touching his while his grip on your waist felt stronger, “Oh, yeah ‘Toru, and you know what to do?” 

Feeling a vibration from his chest against your frame, as a laugh erupted from him, he stared into your eyes intensely. “Let me kiss your lips and show you. I think you know by now my words match up with my actions.”

Almost on command, both of you smashed your lips into one another savoring the feeling of tasting what you wanted for so long. Mutually moaning slightly upon the impact, Satoru quickly moved his large hands to caress all over your tinier frame. Ass, waist, thighs, hair, neck, his long slender fingers were everywhere, anywhere, every chance he could get to press you impossibly close to him.

Mouth agape, he took it as an opportunity to slip his tongue in, slithering it around your mouth while your tongue circled his own. Hands entangled in his hair, tilting your head, and on cue, he did the same. Tongues squelching and roaming each other's mouths as if you’ve been thirsty and the only cure was one another. His hands finally stop at your ass, giving a light squeeze before carrying you up, wrapping your legs around his torso.

Breaking away faces mimicking a blush on both faces, a string of saliva connecting your lips. Slightly panting as your forehead meets his, he stares deeply into your eyes. “Cute and all,” he says still in a haze, “but those weren’t the lips I was talking about.”

-

Hovering over his torso, while your mouth was stuffed with his huge cock. Hungrily lapping up his dick with your tongue, your hand wrapped around his base in a circular motion going up and down while your mouth struggled slightly to take the entirety of him in. Moans sent vibrations across his huge shaft, he was so big, so so so big. You loved every minute of it, it was evident with the sticky residue of cum that formed on his thighs and pubic hair from the previous rounds you’d gone. Saliva pooled on his dick, to rest on his balls and underneath his thighs. 

It was a mess, “Mhm!” You panted, separating yourself from having his cock buried down your throat but quickly attaching your lips at the head, smearing precum on like a lip product. Lapping the precum up and down the slit, before indulging his length back in. “Sa-Satoru- Ah! S-Stop!” Lips making a ‘pop!’ noise after pulling his dick from your throat, hands still echoing a wet sound as they both rapidly jerked him off.

Gojo laid on his back his face stuffed in your cunt, “Cant, ahhhh, too good,” His voice sounding hoarse. Bringing his head up even further into your slick heat, he licked long strips with his tongue from clit, hole, and ass. Both of his large hands spread your cheeks apart, your discharge soaking the bottom half of his face. He dove in head first, nose pressed directly in your pussy while his mouth harshly sucked at your clit, twirling it around his tongue effortlessly. Years of sucking on candy couldn’t compare to this. Pulling away both hands from your ass, he placed them on the front of your thighs, forcing you to sit on his face with a welp that broke away the string of moans.

Continuing to jerk him off, your eyes crossed while spitting down his length, feeling him twitch slightly under your motion. You mewled, “Mhpmh! Satoruuuuuuu!”

Harshly sucking on it before pulling away, he kissed your clit before dragging his head around in a circular motion licking all around like a madman. He closed his eyes and buried his tongue deep in your walls that tightened and contracted around him. Bobbing his head back and forth, tongue fucking your tiny hole, thumb diligently working in circles on your swollen clit. Slowly feeling your high soon approaching in waves and feeling him twitch even more violently underneath you. 

He moaned deep into your cunt while high-pitched yells escaped your throat, “Oh! Oh! Oooooh! Oh, Satoru! I’m c-cumm- ah!” Soon enough, Satoru’s face was full of liquid when your orgasm arrived. Sticking a tongue out noticing him jerk in your hands, closing your eyes, while cum painting your tongue and face. Swallowing him all while quivering from the impact of cumming all over his face.

For once in your life, this was the most quiet Satoru has ever been. 

Breaking away from your cunt, Satoru took a deep breath, laughing to himself shakily.

“Fuck, I should pay men more often not to date you.”

[absurdthirst]

The Future of Rome {Marcus Acacius x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 16.6k

Warnings: Mentions of orgies, whores, cuckolding, voyeurism, oral sex (male and female receiving), cream pie, breeding, mentions of feeding kink, vaginal sex, pregnancy, betrayal, conspiracy, murder

Comments: When Caracalla is unable to father a child on you, his empress, he enlists General Marcus Acacius to be his proxy between your thighs. Needing his general's seed in his efforts to father the next ruler of Rome.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Marcus Acacius MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you watch as your husband, Emperor Caracalla of Rome, paces in the large room, screaming and shouting like an overgrown child. At times, it feels like that is what he is, a child. A man child who controls the largest empire in the world, alongside his brother Geta. The two of them engaged in squabbles that would have all of the citizens of Rome demanding new leadership if they knew of them. “You must carry a child!” He hisses, turning and glaring at you as if you are at fault for the monthly flow of blood that comes between your thighs like clockwork. “How have you not been bred yet? I fill you nearly every week.” His eyes narrow and he stops his stride to turn towards you. “Are you doing something? Taking some tonic to prevent a child from growing?” 

You sigh, shaking your head. “Of course I would not.” You tell him. “It is my duty to provide you with an heir. Before Geta.” You know your husband wishes to best his brother by having a child before he does. “You are still fucking your concubines.” You remind him. “None of them have fallen pregnant with your bastard. Perhaps your seed is bad.” You could be risking his wrath by telling him what no hippocrates would, but he has never sired one bastard and he indulges in orgies and women all the time. You have no love for the husband you had been forced to marry by your father in return for Rome not destroying your homelands.

Caracalla’s eyes grow wide and he hisses, striding over to you and you brace yourself as he hits you across the face with the back of his hand. You gasp and he looms over you, “you dare to insult me like that, uxor? I am divine. Ordained by the gods and you are? Some whore daughter of a King who wilted under the glory of the Roman army. You are fortunate I chose you to be Empress. An honor I bestow upon you and you have the gall to question my seed.” He rants but he knows you could be true. He longs to have an heir before his brother and even if he fucks you every day, you still bleed. He has never fathered a bastard. You cup your cheek, keeping your head down and he sighs, “we must seek a solution.” He declares, frowning as he considers his options to ensure he beats his brother to the heir.

You bite your lip to keep from crying, knowing that tears would only incense the man you are married to even more. Caracalla does not like to see you cry, even if he is cruel and cutting. When he punishes you for any perceived slight. Tears are a sign of weakness in his eyes and he will not have you shed them in his presence. “What solution would you have?” You know he cannot seek out a healer, the risk of rumor would be too great. Any kind of whisper about this would make its way back to Geta. 

He paces in front of the balcony, the linens flowing in the breeze. “I need an heir who will be strong, a fighter. I need a boy. I need you to give birth to the next heir. We need to ensure that you get pregnant as soon as possible.” He murmurs, speaking his mind and he finally turns to you. “We need to have someone else get you pregnant. We need - General Marcis Acacius.” He declares, eyes wide.

You frown, trying to recall what the man looks like. He has been away from Rome for nearly two years, since just after you had married Caracalla. “He looks nothing like you.” You point out.

“I don’t need him to look like me. I need a boy and he’s a strong fighter. He will give our child the characteristics he needs to lead Rome and her army.” He declares, “you will fuck him when he returns.” He orders and you swallow harshly, knowing you will struggle to have relations with a man that isn’t your husband but you have no choice but to do as he demands.

“I will gift you to him to fuck.” He continues on, a wild and honestly frightening smile splitting his face. “It will be an honor, for fighting so valiantly for Rome.” He isn’t talking to you, but rather plotting out what will happen. You can’t quite recall what Marcus Acacius looks like, but you hope that he will be quick to cum like Caracalla, or at least his seed will take root quickly.

****

Marcus looks up at the marbled entrance as he arrives at the palace to meet the Emperors and tell them about his success in person. He’s sent messengers but he must tell them of his accomplishments rather than be allowed to return to his home to relax. He sighs as he adjusts the white and gold tunic and armor that suffocates him. It’s for display, not ideal for battle, and he knows the Emperors will have a feast planned soon after his report and he’s expected to be on display. He scratches his cheek as he is escorted through the halls until he arrives in the grand hall where the Emperors are waiting. He strides to stand before them and bows his head, “Rome is in your hands.” He vows, “we have conquered Africa.” He announces, “for you and for Rome.”

Dressed in snowy white silk and gold, you are sitting off to the side, ignored by your husband and brother as they had waited for the general’s approach. You had heard the crowds outside the palace, the roars echoing dimly and you sat up slightly from the chaise when the doors had opened. Finding a much different man than you had expected walking confidently towards them. He’s older than you remembered, but his gray hair is still pleasant as it mixes with his darker locks. He’s handsome, not the sharp nosed beauty of your fair husband, but darker, broader. His nose is curved and his eyes are the color of night from where you sit. You want to see them up close. He’s large, larger than Caracalla and you wonder if you are the whore some have whispered you must be, for you want to see what this man would be like inside you.

Caracalla cannot let his brother know his plan. No one can know. Geta greets Marcus who bows his head and his dark eyes flick over to you for a moment. When you arrived at the palace you were reluctant to marry Caracalla. He remembers hearing the rumors of your attempts to escape, and the way Caracalla treats you from guards that he served with. He clenches his jaw, standing up straight and the Emperors sing his praises so he offers them polite smiles. He’s sick of war. He’s tired of fighting an endless battle for more land when the Roman Empire is struggling. People cannot eat. Men are dying. It’s an endless grab for power and the Emperors are not fighting for it themselves. “Tonight, we feast in your honor.” Geta declares, clapping Marcus on the back and he follows the Emperors to the head table where he will sit while the court and the senate celebrate his success.

When his eyes land on yours, a shiver races through your body. This is a man who has seen death. Dealt out harsh punishments and narrowly survived. He’s much more rugged, raw. So different from your spoiled and foppish husband. He should be a leader for Rome, rather than a man who has never seen war. You are ignored, so you undrape yourself from your seat and slowly stroll into the hall to join the festivities.

Marcus notices you as you sit down beside your husband and he’s taken back by how beautiful you are but he also sees the sadness in your eyes. The lifeless stare across the room tells him you’re lonely while your husband guzzles wine and cheers for the victory he played no physical part in. He does as is expected, eating and drinking his fill but he thinks about the starvation he witnessed, the poverty that the empire has caused from taxing too much and forcing more war on its people. “We shall acquire whores to pleasure you, General.” Geta insists, “you will be serviced until you feel rewarded for your victory for Rome.” The court cheers and Caracalla then leans in towards you, “return to your room. I want you ready to take the general.” He commands, whispering in your ear.

You don’t sigh, nodding and leaning in to kiss his cheek for show before you stand up and walk out of the room without looking back. Knowing the Emperor, he will want you nude and wearing some of the jewels that had been sent back to Rome as tribute. You have already been bathed and perfumed by your servants in anticipation of your husband fucking you tonight, but Caracalla always demands privacy in the wing of the palace you live in. His oddity will work in his favor for concealing who is planting his seed in your belly tonight.

Marcus is ready to head home when Caracalla whispers in his ear, “I wish to speak privately.” Marcus frowns as he pulls back to look into the manic eyes of the emperor and he knows he can never deny him. He nods and stands with the emperor. He bows to Geta even though the other emperor is busy with his tongue down a whore’s throat as the festivities begin. Caracalla dismisses his guards with a wave of his hand and he guides Marcus through the halls until he enters his private chambers. Marcus is anxious, wondering if the emperor is going to kill him even though the idea is laughable. He’s been a man of luxury. Only carrying a sword for show and never for battle. The emperor still doesn’t speak as he strides over to the doors and he opens them to display you on the bed naked and draped in jewels, a nervous look on your face. “What is the meaning of this?” Marcus demands, confused and wanting to leave to retire to his villa. Not to play games.

“I tried to imagine what kind of reward a man of your talents would enjoy.” Caracalla hums as he smirks victoriously. You are a gorgeous creature and he knows that the man will have no problem mounting you. “Whores are too boring, they have had too many men, been soiled by their pleasures.” He takes Marcus’s shoulders and turns him back towards you and the bed. “But an Empress’s cunt? She’s only had one other cock. She’s practically pure and it’s tight.” He chuckles. “My brother gives you a common whore to fuck, I give you a royal cunt.” Again, it’s a competition between the brothers and he’s determined to best Geta.

Marcus’s eyes widen at the Emperor’s offer and he looks over at you. His cock twitches under his tunic at the way you’re on display for him, but he wonders if this is some kind of test from the emperor. He swallows harshly and looks back at Caracalla. “You honor me but I am - I am satisfied with whores. I do not want to sully the empress with my - with my body. She is divine and deserves to be fucked by a man like you, a man chosen by the gods.”

You lift a brow, wondering what the Emperor will say to that. Would he admit that he has been unsuccessful in breeding you? That there is something wrong with him? Or will he blame it on you? There is no telling with Caracalla. You shift to your knees, spread apart on the bed so he can get a good look at your body.

Marcus’s cock twitches again, hardening as your breasts bounce and he swallows harshly, averting his eyes once again. “I don’t - I don’t understand.” Marcus admits, knowing that only the emperor can fuck the empress to get her with child. “I want you to fuck my uxor and I want to watch.” Caracalla confesses, “and I want you to spill your seed inside of her.”

His eyes slide over your body again and you can see the way his cock is starting to lift the fabric of his tunic. Your nipples are hardening because you are enticing this war-hardened general. “The emperor is very generous.” You tell Marcus, sliding a hand up to cup one tit. “He has never been one to share and yet he wishes to honor his general.” You don’t mention why he would want such a thing. “Do you not like cunt?” You ask, wondering if he might prefer the boys in the bath houses. You have heard rumors of some senators who often prefer the company of men than their wives. Perhaps the general is one of them.

Marcus shakes his head, “no. I- I do. It’s just -” He looks at Caracalla, “you’re the empress and I cannot - the heir cannot be from anyone but the emperor.” Marcus reasons and Caracalla reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, “you have to understand, General, I am asking you to fill up my wife. We have been unsuccessful in our venture to have an heir and I must beat my brother to it. I wish for you to spill your seed inside my empress…regardless of the consequences.” He declares and Marcus’s eyes widen slightly as he understands what is being asked of him.

You can see that Marcus Acacius is not a foolish man, he understands the danger he has found himself in. He cannot deny the Emperor, and he could never speak of it. “Maritus.” You murmur softly, bringing his attention back to you. “Tell the general what kind of son you wish to have.”

Caracalla senses Marcus’s panic and he smirks, “I want a warrior son. Someone who will be strong and fight for Rome, to protect our line.” He says even though he knows the child would not be his blood. “The name. My name must continue through him. I want a gladiator and you possess those traits. I wish for my son to have them. Do you wish to fill my beautiful wife with your seed and produce the next heir to the Roman Empire?” He asks even though he knows no one says no to the emperor.

You can see that Marcus is torn. He can’t say no, just like you could not run away from him when he had decided to take you as his empress. “He is handsome.” You coo. “Strong. He will put a son you will be proud of in my belly.” You tell your husband. “While enjoying himself by having an empress spread her thighs for him.”

Marcus knows he can’t refuse. He must fuck you and you’re a beautiful woman but he prays to the gods that the emperor doesn’t change his mind and punish you or him after the act is complete. “As my emperor wishes.” He nods and Caracalla claps, “excellent. My uxor will strip you. I wish to watch the act.” He says, spinning to make his way to the chair in the corner. Marcus is shocked that the man wants to watch but he doesn’t deny him, knowing that could be his head. He nods and walks over to the bed, waiting for your move.

Sliding off the bed, you stand straight, unashamed of your nudity. You might have only had Caracalla as a lover, but he often wanted you nude to just gaze upon you while you were together. You reach for the golden laurel on his head and remove it gently. “Tonight we will see if your prowess in battle is matched by your vigor in bed.” You smile at him, wanting to make sure he doesn’t change his mind. “If your cock truly is as big as your sword.” You giggle. “Some of the women you have fucked talk.”

Marcus’s cock is hardening with your words and your touch. You are one of the most beautiful women in the empire, if not the most, and Marcus is not immune to your beauty. You set his laurel down and Caracalla takes his place in the corner of the room. He flusters at his reputation and wonders what you will think of him. If he lives up to the rumors.

You try to forget your husband is watching, concentrating on the man in front of you. The gold wrist cuffs come off and you wonder if he would prefer the unadorned look. Rather than being weighed down by the ostentatious trappings of his role. You know you would rather live simply. “Relax, General.” You hum quietly. “The emperor has taught me how to please him. Hopefully I will please you as well.”

Marcus is nervous, anxious, and every emotion a man can be when he’s being used for his seed and watched as he pleasures the wife of one of the most powerful men in the empire. He keeps his hands by his sides until you reach for the hem of his tunic. He’s ashamedly hard, unable to be anything but when you are in front of him. You smell delicious and he knows he’d be diving into your cunt if you came to his home without your status and stature.

Biting your lip, you lift the tunic to reveal his hard cock and you moan softly. “Step back, let me look.” Caracalla demands and you turn to the side to show the emperor his cock. “He is very well endowed.” Your husband smirks. “Good. I would hate for my son to have a less than impressive cock.” He is very proud of his own, even if he is not as thick as Marcus. You reach down and brush your finger over the length as you pull the tunic over his head.

He hisses when your fingers brush his length and you smirk, tossing his tunic aside. Caracalla often indulges in men when he is in the throes of an orgy and he is impressed by the general. His shoulders are broad and muscular. Strong arms. Tapered waist and a full head of hair, albeit graying, even in his ripe age. This is the man who could sire him a son who would be legendary in Rome. “Kiss him.” Caracalla demands, wanting to be in control even if it is not his seed securing his lineage.

You lick your lips, leaning in and press your lips to the slightly chapped ones of the general. You sense his hesitation, knowing that he is unsure of the motives behind this. Instead of pulling back, you press your breasts against his chest, feeling the light hairs covering his skin tickle you.

His fingers flex and Caracalla chuckles, “you can touch her, General.” There’s the permission Marcus needs. His hands slide along your back, pulling you even closer and one hand slides up your body to cup your cheek, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue finds yours and you squeak, unused to such aggressive kissing. Caracalla likes softer especially when he’s wanting the opposite of his lovers or orgies.

Your husband hums, reaching for his wine with one hand and reaching down to squeeze his cock with the other. If it would not potentially ruin the chances of you conceiving a child, he would join you. See how Marcus kisses. Instead, he takes pleasure in knowing that the most powerful general in his army is following his orders even off the battlefield.

Marcus groans into your mouth, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass while he grips the back of your neck. He’s relieved that he sought the company of a whore before arriving back in Rome. He would embarrass himself if he were pent up. He loves the way your fingers tangle in his hair and he is glad to see the empress is not shy about taking what she wants.

The emperor very rarely lets you do what you wish, so this is a new experience for you and you are greedy for it. “Get on your knees.” The order comes from behind you and makes you pull away. Aware that Caracalla will still try to dictate the way you are fucked. “Let the general see you on your knees before him and feel your mouth around his cock.”

Marcus inhales sharply as he watches you sink to your knees in front of him. His sandals are still on his feet while his cock throbs from arousal. Your eyes are sultry as you look up at him,  looking like Venus herself. He swallows and hisses softly when you wrap your fingers around his cock.

You squeeze him gently, feeling him throb in your hand and you roll back the foreskin. You have pleasured your husband like this countless times and he claims you are good at it, so hopefully you don’t disappoint the general. Leaning forward, you press your tongue flat against the tip and then curl it around the head as you take him into your mouth. The general has bathed, so he tastes clean and musky.

His fingers flex by his side as you take him into your mouth. He groans quietly but Caracalla shakes his head, "I want to hear how my empress is making you feel." He demands and Marcus nods, groaning louder when you take him deeper into your mouth. "Fuck." He curses, his hand finding your cheek as he looks down at you.

You hum at his rough praise, feeling the way his hips slightly rock, like he wants to take control and fuck your mouth. Taking him deeper, you moan when the first spurt of his salty seed hits your tongue, a little treat to tell you he is enjoying it.

His eyes flutter closed as he loses himself in the feel of your mouth around his cock. He can tell you’re not as experienced as the whores he has had but you are enthusiastic and he fucking loves that. “Open your eyes, Acacius.” Caracalla orders, wanting to see the pleasure on the man’s face.

You take him deep right as he opens his eyes and they widen in shock as he chokes out a sound that goes straight to your cunt. Pleased that you can make a man as strong and fierce as the general choke on his own breath. You start to bob your head quickly, wanting to hear more and to see his face screw up in pleasure.

Marcus groans, his chin resting on his chest as he watches you take his cock. “Fuck.” He grunts as your hands rest on his thighs as you take his cock in your mouth. His stomach clenches and he moans, shaking his head. “I am - I’m going to- shit. Stop.” He pleads, his cock twitching in your mouth.

You are surprised that he is already about to cum, but maybe he has been without the pleasure of a woman for too long. You pull off his cock, panting yourself as you wipe your chin. Your cunt is dripping and you are eager to see if his cock scrubs against your walls the way you hope he does. Despite your initial reservations about having sex with someone else, you now find yourself looking forward to fucking this man

He is shocked how quickly you worked him up but perhaps it’s because this is not a whore he’s paid for. You are the most coveted woman in the empire, a prize to your husband, and you’re on your knees for him. Caracalla smirks at the look on the general’s face. He looks worked up and the emperor smirks, “you need to spill inside her. Uxor, lay down on the bed and spread your legs for the general. Let him see how wet you get sucking a cock.”

You shift to your feet and turn around. Your eyes slide to your husband and you see that he is turned on, his own cock tenting his tunic. Laying down, you spread your legs. Bending your knees you run your hands down to spread the lips of your sex for him to see. “Soaked.” You moan softly.

Marcus’s eyes darken as he takes in the sight of your wet cunt. You’re dripping and he loves it. He reaches down to squeeze his cock as he shuffles closer. Caracalla smirks at the look on the general’s face. “You can fuck her, Acacius. You have the emperor’s blessing. Fill her with your seed and create the next emperor of Rome.” He demands and Marcus shifts to kneel on the bed. His free hand slides up your thigh until he’s pushing two thick digits into your dripping cunt.

Your eyes flutter closed on a loud moan, feeling the way his fingers stretch you out. His hands are rough, the skin scraping so deliciously inside you and making your legs shift and shake around his hips. This man will be so different from the only other man you have had sex with, you know that instinctively and for a split second, you pray to the gods that it will take more than one time for him to successfully fill you with his seed. 

He pumps his fingers, loving how wet you are around them, and he groans when you squeeze his digits. He wants you to cum like this. His thumb against your clit, he curls his fingers while your emperor watches you. His fingers squeeze his cock through his tunic while Marcus strokes his cock with his fist.

Your body responds to the sure, deep pumps of his fingers into your cunt. “Gods.” You whimper, watching as his dark, intense eyes watch his fingers move inside you. Completely focused on making you feel blissful before he mounts you. You won’t say that your husband hasn’t pleasured you, but it’s always been a byproduct of his own, rather than his complete goal. “It feels so good. His fingers are magical.”

Caracalla smirks as he watches your back arch and you moan as Marcus pumps his fingers into you. The room is filled with a squelch as you take what he gives you. “That’s it, Empress.” He coos, pressing his thumb harder against your clit.

You pant out your first name. “Call me by my name when you are inside me.” You order breathlessly, wanting to hear him say your name. Turning your head, you look to your husband behind you, seeing that he is actually enjoying watching you like this. You know he has attended many orgies and probably watched many people have sex, but his eyes are alight with glee, watching this general touch you.

Marcus watches you as you take his fingers and groans at the way you are fluttering around his digits. He says your name as a demand, wanting you to fall apart for him before he fucks you full of his seed. Caracalla watches and smirks, his cock now pulled out so he can slowly jerk himself at the sight in front of him.

Whimpering quietly, your body starts to react. Toes curling and thighs shaking as your cunt clenches down around his thick fingers. “Marcus!” Your gasp of his name is loud, almost surprised as the intense pleasure rips through you, his fingers pressing against something wonderful inside you.

He groans, cock twitching in his hand as you soak his digits and Caracalla chuckles, “she loves your fingers, General.” Marcus smirks and works you through it, pulling his fingers out after you start to whine. “You want me to fuck you, Empress?” He asks, smirking as he jerks his cock against your pelvis.

You moan, nodding as you try to roll your hips down. He looks confident now, like the general you know he must be on the battlefield. “I do, General. Fuck me full.”

He nods, shifting to position his cock at your entrance, swiping it through your folds as he groans softly when he notches himself at your entrance and starts to push inside you with a soft groan of your name. You’re so tight and hot, his eyes flutter closed at the way you feel around him. 

He’s thick. Thicker than Caracalla, stretching you more than his fingers did and pulling a long, wanton moan from your chest. You are taking another man. Having his cock inside you and you hear your husband groan as he watches. He sounds almost envious, but you can only care about the way Marcus fills you right now. “Fuck.” You whine when his hips are flush and his cock is pushed deep and kissing your womb. “Your cock is made by the gods.” You praise breathlessly.

Marcus looks down at you, his chest heaving at the way you are taking his cock and he shifts to his forearms so he can hover over you. Your legs lift to wrap around his hips and his face hovers near yours. “You’re so tight.” He hisses and Caracalla smirks, “I told you. She’s like a virgin.” He declares as he squeezes his cock in his hand, working himself as Marcus starts to move inside you.

That first thrust is a sharp snap of his hips. Making you scream and your nails dig into his biceps. Marcus freezes, fearing that he had made an error, but your thighs tighten. “More, move general.” You demand, wanting to see if he can make you scream like that again.

He loves the way you command him, reminding him of your status. He relaxes now that he knows he didn’t hurt you and he rocks his hips, pushing deep into you. “Empress. Scream for me.” He growls, leaning in to kiss your neck since he doesn’t know if kissing is permissible. His hips rock forward as he pushes against your cervix.

You moan softly, knowing that he will make you scream if he moves like this inside you. “Kiss him.” Caracalla orders, giving permission and you quickly turn your head to press your lips to Marcus's as his head comes up. He rocks into you steadily, your fingers tracing over the scars on his back and side as he fucks you. Mapping the wars that he has fought and the times he has survived to experience this moment. “So deep.” You whimper. 

He is lost in the feel of your hot cunt around his cock. Your body takes everything he gives you. His hips slap against your ass and he shifts his weight onto one arm so he can grab your thigh, pushing it back towards your stomach as he sinks impossibly deeper into you. His tongue sliding against yours to swallow your moan.

You don’t even think about Caracalla, although you hear the sound of him stroking his cock. Too taken by the way that Marcus fucks you. He’s rougher, harder than your husband and his pace makes your walls flutter around his cock every time he drills into you. It’s so wicked, forbidden and the people of Rome would be horrified if they knew that their Empress was being fucked like a common whore, but you love it. 

He groans into your mouth as you grip his shoulders and he rocks harder into you, wanting to feel you cum around him. His hand slides up your thigh until he’s rubbing your clit. He may have had many whores but he’s always prided himself on ensuring they were pleasured too. “Empress.” He groans against your chin, “want you to cum for me.”

You whine into his mouth when he comes back to kiss you. Rocking up against his fingers as you try to get as close as possible to him. One hand slides down to his ass, feeling it flex as he pumps into you. “Yes. Yes.” You chant, eyes closed in bliss.

Marcus grunts as he grinds into you, his fingers rubbing your clit faster as he wants you to cum for him. He kisses along your neck and Caracalla is invisible to him as he focuses completely on you. “Cum for me.” He demands and you cry into his mouth as you fall apart for him.

It’s good, better than any pleasure Caracalla has ever given you but you can never admit that. Your body trembles under his as your walls spasm around him. Making him groan as you gasp out his name. “Marcus!” You feel how you soak his cock and the sounds it makes as he fucks you through it.

He loves the way you squeeze him and he hisses your name, rocking into you. He knows he should hold off, make you fall apart again but he is wound up by the circumstances. “Fill her up, Acacius.” Caracalla demands and Marcus buries his face in your neck as he thrusts a half dozen more times until he’s pushing deep and filling you up with hot spurts of cum.

The hot splash of his seed makes you whine, eyes closed as you feel him ride out his pleasure, cock pulsing inside you. He doesn’t pull out of you immediately and you enjoy his weight on top of you. He is heavier, broader than your husband and you like feeling like you are at his mercy. The sweat slick skin of his back slides under your fingers and you stroke it and you sigh in bliss.

Marcus shifts to take his weight off you and he swallows harshly. He hasn’t cum that hard since he was with his wife. He kisses your neck without Caracalla seeing it and your emperor stands, cock in his hand, to stand at the foot of the bed. “Pull out of her. I want to see your seed drip out of her.” He demands and Marcus shifts to pull out of you. He lays beside you and Caracalla stands there, eyes dark as he takes in the sight of your dripping cunt.

You can’t really tell what your husband is thinking, his eyes wide and slightly manic. He’s not upset, that much you can tell. “What do you think, maritus?” You ask softly.

He smirks, jerking his cock as he kneels on the bed. “I want to cover you in my seed.” He says as he watches you while you lay on the bed, chest heaving.

You don’t dare look over at Marcus, keeping your eyes on your husband as he starts to buck into his hand. You can tell he’s already close from the groans. “Cover me.” You urge him, spreading your thighs wider. “Coat me and we will pray to the gods that they will give you a strong child.”

Caracalla doesn’t hesitate as he starts to cover you. Hot drops of his seed hitting your skin and covering your cunt that is still creamy from Marcus’s cum. “That’s it. It’s - our warrior.” He groans as he works himself empty of every drop while Marcus relaxes beside you.

You reach down and swipe your fingers through his seed and bring it up to your mouth. He loves when you taste him and he finally milks the last drops out of his cock as you moan softly, licking your digits clean.

Caracalla smirks, “perfect. Fucking perfect. You will be with child before we know it.” He says as he looks over at Marcus, “I want you here to fill her up every day until she’s with child.” He demands, “you will remain here in our quarters. No one will question you because we have no guards inside.”

You are surprised by the Emperor’s order, but you don’t question it. “Will you be present every time, or do you want him to fill me as often as possible?” You ask, looking over at the general to see what he thinks.

Marcus knows he cannot say no. He nods and shifts to sit up on the bed. “I shall do as my emperor desires.” He promises and Caracalla smirks, “you’ll fill her up every single day until it takes.” He demands and Marcus bows his head. “I will let you two decide the times. I cannot afford to spend too much time here and I don’t want people to get suspicious.”

“Of course, maritus.” You shift to your knees and press your lips to your husband’s briefly and he huffs before pushing you back down to the bed. “You must lay there.” He tells you. “Lift your hips so his seed isn’t wasted.”

Marcus reaches for his tunic, suddenly feeling awkward as he redresses while you lay down and keep your hips tilted. He possibly just got the empress pregnant and no one can ever know. The senate would have him killed for his treason, Geta certainly would. Caracalla tucks himself away and strides over to clap Marcus on the back. “I’ll show you to your rooms and we will have your things brought to the palace.” Marcus nods, letting the emperor guide him through the halls until he’s in an ornate room. “You have one job now, General. Fuck my uxor and fill her until it takes.” Caracalla says, his eyes a little manic. Marcus nods and watches the emperor leave. He looks around and sighs, wondering what he’s gotten himself into.

You lay with your hips for an hour. Bored and replaying your encounter with Marcus as Caracalla’s cum dries on your skin. He’s a better lover than your husband and you are ashamed of it, but you are looking forward to having him in your bed again.

Marcus looks around the room, unsure of what to do or say as he comes to the realization that his dream of enjoying time alone in his villa is long gone. He’s under the thumb of the emperor now and he must do as he says otherwise he will face execution.

****

The next afternoon, you find Marcus on the balcony, appearing deep in thought. “I am not disturbing you, am I General?” You ask softly, waiting by the pillar for him to acknowledge you. You wonder what he thinks about this, about being commanded to fill you with his child.

Marcus turns to look at you, reminded of how beautiful you are as the sun shines on your face. “Good day, Empress. You’re not disturbing me.” He promises, “are you well?” He asks, wanting to make sure he hasn’t harmed you.

“I am.” You smile as you walk out onto the balcony and look at the gardens below. “Sore, in a very good way.” You assure him, glancing over at him before looking back out at the neatly manicured hedges and plants. “I hope that you do not feed trapped here.” You murmur softly. “I am sure you are used to doing what you wish when you wish it.”

Marcus looks down at the olive trees and sighs, his hands wringing together. “You and I both know we have no choice but to follow the orders of the Emperor. I did not imagine returning from war to engage in the breeding of the empress. You are a beautiful woman and if you were not the uxor of Caracalla, I would be thanking the gods for letting me be in your bed, but the circumstances are…unusual. As long as you have need of me, I’m at your service.” He assures you, “it is not a task to fuck you but I worry for the day the emperor changes his mind.”

“Caracalla cannot have anyone know about his bad seed.” You murmur quietly. “Especially not Geta. He will not change his mind, but…..” you look around and lower your voice. “I do not trust that he might get rid of you once I have given birth to a son.”

Marcus turns to look at you again, “I would not be surprised but I’d rather have that issue several moons from now instead of being killed for not following orders. It will not be a hard task to put a child in you but you must tell me if you do not wish to take me.” He insists, “I do not want to fuck an unwilling woman.”

You snort, turning to look out at the gardens so he doesn’t see your embarrassment. “He would have my tongue cut out for admitting this, but you are better.” You admit softly. “I spent an hour with my hips tilted towards the gods, replaying what you had just done to me, imagining it happening again and again.”

Marcus turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, and he cannot deny that his cock twitches while his chest puffs with pride. “Is that so? Do you wish for us to…repeat the event soon to ensure the next emperor of Rome? I must admit that I have had many women, most of them whores, but no one has made me cum as hard as you did.”

That makes you straighten, pleased by the notion that you can bring this general to his knees. Making his core quiver in pleasure despite your lack of experience with partners. You bite your lip and turn towards him. “Perhaps we should retire and make sure that we have enough energy for our next session?” You ask, your fingers sliding along the smooth marble edge of the balcony to touch his hand. “The emperor was most insistent that you fill me often. I believe that we should obey his orders.” 

Marcus smirks, seeing the eager look in your eyes, and he leans closer. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint the emperor. Shall we convene in your quarters or mine?” He asks, his eyes dropping down to your lips. You’re forbidden to everyone except Caracalla and now…him. It’s intoxicating especially when you tell him he’s better. Even if it’s just to float his ego. 

“Yours.” You decide, wondering if it will be acceptable to him. “Unless you need to leave again as soon as it’s done?” You ask, hoping that he would not want you to leave. You spend a lot of time by yourself and you are curious to hear about his campaigns and the places he has seen. 

He glances back over the gardens, “I am here to fulfill an order from the emperor and I wish to do it to the best of my ability. Let us retire to my quarters and you are welcome to remain as long as you please.” He promises and he wants to speak to you about your former kingdom, your father, and the army who took you from your home to deliver you to the Emperor.

Nodding, you feel that same odd sense of giddiness that had overcome you last night. A forbiddenness that has been temporarily allowed, even ordained by the gods. A taste of normalcy, where you can pretend that you are not an Empress. Nothing but a woman that this handsome, virile man wants. “Call me by my name.” You ask, almost as a plea. 

His eyes meet yours and he licks his lips as he says your name. He loves the smile you give him in return and his hand brushes yours, “lead the way, empress.” He demands, saying your name again when you narrow your eyes at him.

“Do you prefer to be called by your rank or your name?” You ask softly, turning away from the balcony and walking back inside with him towards his chamber.

“You can call me by my name.” He says, following you as you walk through the hallway to his newly assigned quarters. It’s more than anything he’s ever had before. Even in his beautiful villa. He follows you inside and shuts the door behind you, “you are exquisite.” He declares when you turn to look at him.

“Do you claim those words for every whore you fuck?” You ask curiously, tilting your head as you smile at him, showing him that you are teasing. “Or do you save that for the special ones?”

Marcus shakes his head, “there’s usually no words when I have a whore in my quarters. I like to speak with my actions. Not my words.” He confesses, stepping over to you. He reaches up to cup your cheeks, “you truly are Venus herself.” He murmurs, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours.

“You are handsome.” You admit breathlessly. “Strong, fierce. Like Apollo.” Your hands run up the soft white tunic he is wearing. “I thought so last night when you were inside me. Riding me hard and yet-“ your lips brush against his. “Your lips were tender.”

His cock twitches at the soft contact of your lips and he can’t help it. He grabs the back of your neck and drags you closer to him, tilting his head so he can press his lips to yours. You’re so soft against him, pliable as his other hand grips your waist.

He’s so dominant, in control. You can tell this is a man who is used to being in charge, taking what he needs to take. You don’t resist, pressing yourself against his hard body, letting the kiss deepen as you open your mouth and let out a soft moan.

His tongue slides against yours and he groans you relinquish power to him. You’re so eager to please. He wants to taste you though, all of you. His mouth pulls away from yours so he can kiss along your jaw down to your neck, and he starts walking you backwards towards his bed.

You let him guide you, willing to do whatever he wants. Although it’s easy to see that he wants your dress off when his fingers reach for the ornate pin on your shoulder that keeps the material up. You wonder if it will be different this time since Caracalla isn’t watching.

He pulls on the pin and your robes fall to the marbled floor, exposing you to the cool breeze and he pushes you back onto the bed, loving the way your tits bounce as you fall backwards. He wants to taste you so he grabs your waist, lifting you higher up the bed, and he pushes your thighs apart, wasting no time before he dives in to slide his tongue through your folds.

You gasp in surprise, eyes widening as you lurch up. It’s not that you’ve never had this kind of attention, but that it’s rare. Caracalla prefers to have your mouth on him. Your fingers tangle into his hair and you moan loudly when he flicks his tongue over your clit.

He groans at the tangy taste of your arousal. His fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart so he can slide his tongue against your clit. “Fuck.” He curses when he pulls back for a moment, spreading you with his thumbs so he can suck your clit into his mouth.

You whine his name, closing your eyes. “Marcus.” Your hips roll up until he throws one arm over your waist to pin you down. Holding you in place while he does wonderful things to your cunt with his tongue.

He laps at your cunt, wanting to hear you fall apart for him. There’s no rush for this. Caracalla isn’t watching and you are alone with the general. He approaches your cunt like a battlefield, using the best method to make you fall apart for him. He laps at your clit, his fingers digging into your thigh as he pushes it towards your stomach with a groan.

You pull your thighs back like he wants, reaching down and holding them so he can lick as deep as he wants into you. Moaning out his name again as he continues to feast on your cunt like a man who has been given his last meal besides an execution.

He groans into your flesh, loving the way you open yourself up for him, and he slides his tongue as deep as he can go, loving the tang of your arousal and the way you moan his name.

He groans in your flesh, vibrating it deep into your core and it makes you clench around his tongue. Pushing your hips down against his face, you want to grind into it. To ride his tongue. You’ve heard of such things, witnessed some of the orgies when you had been spying on your husband’s parties after you had been sent off to bed. “Marcus, oh fuck. I- it’s so good.”

He loves hearing your cry of pleasure and his nose presses against your clit. His hand on your hips slides up to squeeze your breast, wanting you to cry out his name again. At this moment, he doesn’t care about anyone hearing your cries even though the Emperor wants this to be your dirty secret. He groans and pinches your nipple, wanting you to fall apart again.

You shiver, your legs tremble as you climb closer to your peak. Feeling your body start to buck again as he pinches your nipple again. “Cum for me and I’ll fuck you.” He rasps out, pulling away from your cunt long enough to order you to cum before he dives back into it. Throwing you over the edge with another swipe of his tongue, your cunt starts to gush in pleasure as you clench around nothing.

He laps up every drop you offer. Like elixir, he greedily sucks at your folds and your clit, working you through your orgasm as his fingers grip your body to keep you in place until you push his head away, overstimulated. He’s aching, hard and pressing into the bed.

“Gods.” You pant, pushing to your elbows and looking down at him. “You are good at that.” You reach down and grab his shoulder to drag him up. “Kiss me.” You beg, not caring that your juices are on his mouth. “Then I want you to fuck me.”

He cannot deny you anything. Shifting onto his knees, his cock tenting his tunic as he leans down to press his lips to yours. He shifts his weight to push against you and he hisses when you reach for the hem of his tunic to pull it over his head, breaking the kiss.

“You are gorgeous.” You whisper, reaching down and wrapping your fingers around his cock. “Do you like to fuck away the heat of battle when you come back to your tent?” You ask curiously. “Do you prefer a softer touch then to counteract the violence of earlier?”

He groans, looking down at your soft hand around his cock, “it depends. Mostly it’s rough, fuck away the adrenaline.” He says and leans in to kiss along your jaw as he holds his weight over you. “Gods, you are - let me inside you.” He pleads, needing to feel your hot cunt again.

You spread your thighs wider, lifting a leg to hook onto the side of his hip. “Fuck me.” You order him, surprised that he had even asked permission.

You release his cock and he grips himself, pumping his length a few times, squeezing as he positions himself at your dripping entrance. He slowly pushes into you, wanting to feel how hot and wet you are as he gives you inch after inch of his cock.

It’s slower than last night. As if he is savoring every inch as he pushes inside you. You don’t rush him, enjoying the way his cock scrubs against your walls slowly, breaking you open and making your cunt fit him inside. Holding onto his shoulders, you encourage him with your sounds, moaning in pleasure and caressing his skin as he pauses halfway inside you.

He surges forward to press his lips to yours, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he pushes the rest of the way inside you. His cock twitches once he presses against your cervix, groaning at how you’re gripping him. His hand caresses your side as he slides his hand up to your breast.

His grip on your flesh is possessive, sure. Taking more liberties now that your husband is not directing his movements. “I’m yours now.” You murmur softly in encouragement. “Touch me. Explore me. Use me how you want.”

He knows you’re not his, can never be his, but you are in this moment, and he’s greedy. He groans, kissing along your neck, and he ducks his head down to take your nipple into his mouth. He bites down, sucking on the hardened nub, and he loves how you cry out at his touch.

You love your breasts being played with. Caracalla has a feeding obsession, wishing that you produced milk, but hopefully soon you will be able to. You wonder if Marcus would want to taste milk from your breasts.

He groans at the way your hand tangles in his hair and he starts to move inside you. “Fuck. You feel so good.” He murmurs against your sternum, turning his head to take your other nipple into his mouth.

You whimper his name, letting him rock you closer to pleasure as he suckles at your breast. “Fuck, you- I can’t describe it.” You admit breathlessly. “You are like a god.”

He chuckles, his breath washing over you, and he grabs your thigh, “you’re a goddess. Fucking - fuck. You’re Venus. I am merely here to worship you.” He declares, his voice is raspy.

It’s intimate, so intimate that it makes your eyes wet with yearning. He feels like he is speaking to your soul, even if it is just the moment. You aren’t used to such soft words and you turn your head to press kisses to his broad shoulder, not wanting him to see you choked up.

He shouldn’t feel like this, like this is right where he should be. You belong to Caracalla and he should still mourn his wife, but the way you take his cock has him groaning your name into your neck as he tries to conceal the way you’re making him feel.

Your body responds to him so easily, making every roll of his hips push you higher. The pants and moans grow steadier every time he pushes deep and the inhale of anticipation when he draws back. The rhythm is one that neither one of you questions, each pushing towards pleasure together. “Fuck.”

He wants you to cum for him, needs to hear and feel it. He grabs your other thigh, pushing it back towards your stomach so you are folded over. He groans your name, kissing along your jaw to press his lips to yours. He slides his tongue into your mouth and drops his hips to grind his pelvis against yours.

Your moan is sealed into your mouth with his lips, or maybe it’s absorbed by him. All you know is that your nails dig into his shoulders as he works himself deep into your cunt. Pressing harder and harder with every roll of his hips. “Oh gods!”

Your cry into his mouth makes him smile against your chin, rocking into you a little faster as you clamp down on his cock. His pelvis and balls are soaked with your release and he hisses when you squeeze him like a vice. “Fuck.” He grunts, eyes closing as he works you through it. He pulls out when you relax beneath him and he rolls over, your body on top of his. “Ride me, empress. I want you to take another wave of pleasure from my body.” He demands, smacking your ass.

Eyes wide, you sit up, your hands on his chest. “I’ve never- never been in charge before.” You admit, even though you would love to do such a thing. “I- help me?” You ask, grinding down on his length and wanting him inside you again.

He suppresses his chuckle at your wide, uncertain eyes, but he loves how you look on top of him and the fact that you haven’t done this before. He reaches down to grip his cock, telling you to lift up. You shift to lift up and he positions his cock so you can sink back down onto him. “Rock your hips.” He commands, wanting to help you ride him.

He feels different from this angle. Bigger. His cock pressing against different parts of your walls and you gasp in pleasure when you roll back down on him. “Gods.” Your eyes close and you lean back, enjoying the way his cock stretches you this way. “You feel even bigger. Like you are right here.” Your hand covers your stomach. “You are in my womb.”

“I will be. I will fill you until it takes.” He promises, his hands gripping your hips. He helps you start to rock and you moan, your mouth falling open and he loves the way your tits bounce as you start to get a rhythm together.

It’s so different, being in charge. If you slow down or grind down harder, Marcus groans and twitches inside you. Like he’s enjoying you using him. Your body moves eagerly, loving the sounds he makes as he digs his fingers into your hips. “Gods, your cock is made for my cunt.”

“That’s it, empress. Take what you want from me. Use me.” He demands, his hand slapping your ass while the other grips your waist. He watches you take your pleasure and he loves the way your chest heaves when you get the angle just right.

You squeal when he slaps your ass again, clenching down around him. He is so commanding, even when he is under you and yet he lets you control him. If you pulled off his cock right now, you know he would let you. It’s freedom, and you’re breathless when you collapse onto his chest to press your lips to his.

He groans, his hand grabbing the back of your neck to keep you close, his tongue sliding against yours. He loves the way you rock back onto him and he wants you to make yourself cum. He needs you to cum again for him.

You lean into the kiss. Continuing to work yourself on his cock. Whining softly when your cunt starts to pulse until you are locking down around him with a cry into his mouth.

He groans when you cum for him again, soaking him, and he wraps his arms around you. He hisses your name and starts to thrust up into you. He can’t hold off any longer as he works himself towards your orgasm. He pushes deep into you, his cock twitching inside you as he starts to paint your walls with his cum.

You turn and press kisses to his jawline and moans softly. “That feels so good.” You murmur, resting your head against his shoulder and feel him riding out his high.

He pants as he closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath. He’s never felt like this before. Like his soul is leaving his body. He caresses your spine, fingers lazily trailing along your skin as he breathes you in.

“Can I stay like this?” You ask softly, content to lay just like you are if he will let you. You reason that having his cock still stuffed inside you is even better than tilting your hips up. “Am I too heavy?”

He shakes his head, “no, not too heavy. You can stay like this.” He says softly, closing his eyes as he enjoys the weight of you on top of him. He feels tired, his eyes still closed as his cock softens inside you.

You don’t realize you fell asleep until you wake up. Still on top of him with his arms secured around you. Holding you in place as he breathes softly underneath you. He’s still sleeping, making you softly turn your head up and watch him. He’s beautiful when he sleeps and you hope that the child you have looks like him.

Marcus wakes up when he feels your stare and he offers you a soft smile, “wore me out.” His chuckles vibrate through you and he sighs, glancing over at the balcony to see the sun is setting. “The Emperor will be wanting your presence.” He says softly, “we must clean up and I’ll leave you to your peace.”

“The emperor is attending a feast tonight.” You hum, knowing that you should probably keep your distance from the general when you are not letting him fill you. “I will be presented and then expected to leave before the festivities begin.” You snort. “There will be an orgy.”

Marcus snorts, “I never understood the appeal.” He confesses, “I like connection. Even with the whores I bedded, I felt connected to them even if only for the night.” He admits before he bites his lip, “do you like your life here or do you miss your home?”

“I miss home.” You want to hope that he will not tell the emperor. He doesn’t like when you admit somewhere else might be better than Rome. “I don’t have many people who will talk to me. Or spend time with me. I’m lonely.” You sigh. “Only to be seen and to bear the emperor's children.” Your father had sent you to marry the younger brother in order to preserve peace for your realm.

Marcus sighs, “I’m sure you do. I miss my village. When I was a boy, my father was killed in war and my mother struggled to survive, to feed us. As soon as I was able, I left to join the army. I wanted to send coin back to my mother but by the time I returned home, she was dead.” He murmurs, brow furrowed because he hasn’t thought about this for so long. “I threw myself into the fight until I met my wife. She was the daughter of a noble and I never imagined I’d be able to ask for her hand, so I fought hard to rise in the ranks until I could ask her father for his blessing. When we married, I was so happy, and she became with child. Then the day of our son’s birth…she died. So did he.” He’s lost in the agony of the memory, swallowing harshly as he tightens his grip on you.

You sigh softly and reach up to caress his cheek. Even though their deaths weren’t recent, you can see the despair on his face. “My prayers to the gods that they are peaceful together in death.” You murmur softly. “You gave yourself to the army and to Rome after that.” You know what it feels like to have nothing to live for, you feel like a prisoner with a decorative chain around your neck. Leaning in, you press your lips to his in a kiss meant to comfort.

He sighs into the kiss, cupping your cheek as he kisses you softly. “And now I give myself to her Empress.” He murmurs, “I shall fetch us some wine.” He says and you nod, shifting off him and he moves off the bed so he can get you a cup of wine.

He moves easily in his own skin, unashamed by his nudity and the body he possesses. He is not as firm as he might have been in his youth, but there is a leanness to him still that makes the broadness of his shoulders and bulk of his muscles incredibly appealing. There is a strength in his frame that Caracalla could never possess. “Do you mind?” You ask softly. “Knowing that your child will be claimed by Rome?”

He pours the wine as he contemplates his answer, “I have no choice. Even if it is not my wish, I cannot say no. As for the child…I am a general. I will die in battle and I would wish for my child to be taken care of. I know this child will be taken care of to the fullest extent.” He confesses, “I can die in peace.”

It’s wise, pragmatic even, but you still feel a sudden wave of sadness thinking about this man falling in battle. “Then I must learn all I can about you.” You murmur softly, smiling when he walks back over and hands the cup to you. “So I can tell him stories about a man that he should admire.”

Marcus offers you a soft smile, appreciating you wanting to tell your child about him. “He can never know that Caracalla is not his father.” Marcus reminds you, “he must be the rightful heir. But if you wish to tell him about your friend, I am willing to share myself with you.” He offers, “but you must tell me more about his mother,”

“That sounds fair.” You smile and take a sip of the wine as you lounge in his bed, completely nude. This is the most relaxed you have been since you have been sent to Rome and you know it is because of him, “I will tell you everything.” You promise.

****

Marcus groans as you clamp down on his cock, soaking him again as sweat glistens on his skin. He grunts, jaw clenched as he rocks into you from behind, his hips hitting your ass so the only noise in the room is slapping skin. He's been fucking you for two months now, spending nearly every night in your bed. Caracalla has entertained himself with his whores and orgies, leaving Marcus to make you scream his name every night.

You collapse down to your elbows, face on the cool sheets as he fucks you through the spasms of pleasure. “Amor, cum for me.” You beg, losing yourself to the moment and slipping up. Calling him an endearment you have kept inside you for weeks now. You spend all day, everyday with Marcus. Falling in love with the general and wishing that you were free to be with him. You feel as if he cares for you, but that just might be the sex that he enjoys.

Your words send him over the edge and he pushes deep as he cums, painting your walls for the umpteenth time. You missed your bleed last month but no one announced a pregnancy, wanting to be sure that you are with child. Marcus is reluctant to have it declared, knowing that his duty will be done and he will be sent away back to his villa, away from you. You are unlike any woman he's ever known. Strong, smart, beautiful, and you are lonely. He senses how isolated you are so he has spent a lot of time with you, discussing his battles, your battles - different in their methods but no less weary - and he has fallen for you. You are not his though, you belong to Caracalla and if he even dared to think about you being his, he would be killed.

Whining in pleasure as he fills you, your legs slide out from under you. Bringing you down to the bed and knowing that he will follow you. You love how close the two of you are, how he loves to touch you and keep touching you. You catch your breath and start to giggle softly, feeling him twitch when your walls clench around him in the aftershocks. “I love how you feel inside me.” You hum, lazy now that your body has been used and satisfied equally.

Marcus follows you, keeping his weight off of you just in case you are with child, and he kisses along your back. “You take me so well.” He murmurs, resting his forehead on your lower neck as he hovers over you. “Do you think…do you think you are with child?”

“I should not say this, but I hope I am not.” You sigh softly. “I have become accustomed to you in my bed and between my thighs. I do not want to give such a pleasure up.”

Marcus pulls out of you and shifts to lay down beside you, “perhaps…perhaps we can continue this. Ask the Emperor if he will allow us to copulate until the babe is born. He may allow us to continue in each other’s company, saying it’s to ensure the baby’s health.” He ponders, reaching out to cup your cheek, “I do not wish to give you up just yet.”

“I do not want to give you up either.” You confess softly, leaning into his touch. “You have become important to me. I….care for you.” It’s dangerous to admit, but you have to tell him that much at least. “I will ask the emperor to continue spending time with you.” You promise.

Marcus knows the request could be easily denied but he wants to continue spending time with you. He nods, shifting to pull you into his chest, burying his nose in your neck. He's gotten lazy, not wanting to train when he could be spending time with you.

****

“Congratulations, empress.” The Hippocrates you had called to the suite beams at you as he packs away his tools and tinctures. “The emperor will be pleased and the empire will drink to the health of your child.” You cover your womb protectively and wonder how Caracalla will take the news. Even though he had demanded this, he could always have a different view now that it is done. “Thank you.”

Caracalla is beaming when you tell him the news, pleased that his plan has worked and he can tell his brother that his child will be the next in line. “If it’s a son.” Geta hums and Caracalla nods, “it will be. A strong boy.” He celebrates by holding a party and you are alone, needing “to rest and protect the baby” in your quarters when Marcus enters, his brow furrowed. “What is the occasion for the orgy?” He asks, not having heard the news yet as he was training with his men all day.

When Marcus comes in, you rush over to him, flinging yourself into his arms and pressing your lips to his. Now truly able to celebrate the baby since his father has come home. “I am carrying your child.” You whisper softly, “your child. Not Caracalla’s.” You bite your lip and reach down to cover your womb. “I do not feel as if this child is his. It belongs to the man I love.”

Marcus’s eyes widen at the news and he pulls back to look down at your hand on your stomach. “Our child.” He murmurs in awe, unable to believe it’s happened despite him spending every night in your bed. He grabs the back of your neck, dragging you to his lips, and he pulls back after several moments to declare “I love you.”

You close your eyes in relief, letting out a small sob. “I love you too, Marcus.” You whisper softly. “In another life, we would be together.” You hate that you are the empress, that you are Caracalla’s wife and not his. “I wish we could change our fate.”

Marcus nods, “me too.” He cups your cheeks and sighs, “I love you, amor.” He murmurs and kisses your forehead, “for now, let us enjoy our time together before I am sent away. Let me worship the mother of my child.” He declares, shifting to kneel down in front of you.

“I will talk to the emperor.” You hadn’t had a chance to talk with him in private before he was rushing off to plan a feast and orgy to celebrate ‘his’ virility. Reaching down, you run your fingers through his dark curls and pray to the gods your babe has those same locks.

Marcus lifts your tunic, exposing your body to his hungry gaze, and he leans in to kiss your lower stomach as you bunch your tunic up under your breasts. His hands caress the back of your legs as he kisses down to your mound, burying his nose in the curls at the apex of your thighs. “Want to taste you.” He murmurs against your skin, shifting so he can slide his tongue through your folds.

Marcus is very talented with his tongue. He has proven that over the past months and you moan in pleasure. He lifts a leg onto his shoulder and you feel so exposed. Like a god being serviced by a mere mortal. He makes everything good. “Marcus.” You pant, closing your eyes briefly before you look down at him on his knees. Wanting to memorize this moment in fear that you might not have it again.

He groans at the tangy taste of your arousal, sliding his tongue through your folds and lapping at your clit like he’s worshiping Venus. He wants to savor every second of being with you before he’s sent away. It could be any second Caracalla decides his job is complete and sends him back to his villa.

His hands hold you in place, keeping you upright while he takes his time to lick through your folds and making you moan his name loudly.

He squeezes your ass just as the doors open and Caracalla strides in, dressed in his robes and taking a moment from the party. “Ah, Acacius. You are taking care of the Empress. Well done on ensuring I have an heir.” Caracalla watches as Marcus doesn’t stop, his tongue lapping at you. “I heard that fucking during pregnancy ensures a boy. I want a son. You will remain here in the palace to make sure I have an heir.” He declares, his cock twitching at the way you moan and Marcus sucks on your clit.

Your eyes find your husband, his face filled with pride and lust. “Yes.” You agree quickly, since it’s exactly what you want. “You need a son, my emperor.” You moan. “He will keep filling me, making sure you get what you need. A strong son.” You bite your lip. “He has served his emperor well and will continue to do so.”

Marcus loves your praise, continuing to ignore Caracalla’s presence as he works you towards your orgasm. He wants to be greedy, to have you like this for as long as he can before he has to leave you. “Keep pleasuring her, Acacius.” Caracalla orders and spins in his heel, wanting to enjoy his evening at the party celebrating his heir. “Keep her cumming.” He shouts back before he shuts the door and leaves you and Marcus together.

You push his head away as soon as the door slams shut and you drop to your knees. Needing to kiss Marcus now that you know that he’s not going to be sent away.

Marcus whines into your mouth in protest but he can't deny you. He cups your cheek and deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his other hand grabs your ass to pull you against him, his cock hard under his tunic.

You kiss deeply, thoroughly. Panting into his mouth and gasping for air when you break apart. “I love you.” You moan. “I need you inside me. Here, now.”

He grabs your thighs, lifting you so you are hovering over him as he kneels on the floor. "Take my cock and put me inside you." He demands, holding your weight over his body.

You fumble with his tunic, reaching underneath and pumping his cock before you line him up with your cunt. Moaning when he slowly lowers you down on him. “Fuck, amor.” You whimper, feeling him like it’s the first time all over again. You feel like you’re more sensitive but it just might be from the emotional turmoil.

Marcus inhales deeply when you sink down on him, engulfing him in your wet, hot cunt. "Fuck." He pants against your jaw as you grip his shoulders when he's fully inside you. "I love you." He murmurs against your skin, wanting you to know how he feels.

Your arms are around his shoulders, fingers tangling into his hair as he holds you up in his thighs. “I love you.” You promise him, knowing that even if your body belongs to Caracalla, your heart belongs to him. “You are my one love. Forever.”

“Fuck. I love you. Never thought - never imagined I could ever feel like this again. Fuck, I want you to - to take all of me and cum again.” He demands, starting to work you on his cock.

You moan in agreement, letting him take charge and control your pleasure. He’s so good at it. There’s only been a handful of times you’ve not cum on his cock and that was only because he was so worked up he came too quickly. However he had made sure he had pleasured you with his fingers and tongue afterwards.

He rocks you on his cock, wanting you to soak his cock again, and he grips your thighs. “Fuck, te amo, amor.” He rasps, leaning in to press his lips to your neck, tasting the sweat and salt of your skin.

Your eyes water and you wish for a split second that Caracalla was dead and you could celebrate your love. Holding him close, your walls are already trembling around his cock as he rocks up into you. “Yes.” You moan, loving when he uses his mother’s tongue.

He is lost in the feel of you, his cock twitching inside you as he rocks into you. He imagines for a brief moment, a life where he can be with you. A life together with your child. It's not possible though. The Emperor would have him killed, could still have him killed, and it's a dangerous game that Marcus has gotten involved in.

Your toes push off on marble floors, helping you bounce on his cock and you could stay just like this with him forever. You want to stay like this. “I love you. You are my love, my amor.” You moan in his ear. “I would be Marcus Acacius’s wife.”

Your words are treason but they make his cock twitch inside you, closer to his orgasm. He groans your name, pressing his lips to yours as he rocks a little faster, needing to feel you clamp down on his cock. “You’d be mine. I’d die for you.” He promises, “mine. Mine. Mine.” He growls against your lips.

You both are vowing things to each other that would have you both killed, but you don’t care. His next thrust pushes you over the edge and you cry out into his mouth as your walls soak him in hot waves of your pleasure.

His hand finds your ass, rocking you as you shudder through your orgasm, and he groans, thrusting a few more times before he falls apart. “Fuck. Fuck. Empress.” He pants, cock throbbing as he paints your walls, his hands squeezing you closer to him.

You cling to him, both relieved that he is going to stay beside you for the foreseeable future and desperate to never have him leave you at all. “You are perfect.” You kiss his neck gently, stroking his back over his tunic that he couldn’t be bothered to take off. Both of you are still dressed, but the moment had been perfect regardless.

He snorts, knowing he’s not perfect, but he wants you and he is going to protect you and the baby until his last breath. Caracalla wants him to stay and that is the best thing he can wish for right now. “Let’s get you cleaned up and settled. You need to rest for the baby.” He reminds you and helps you shift off his cock.

Grinning, you look down at him as he climbs to his feet. “You are going to be overprotective from now on?” You ask, already aware of the answer. He will be protective, he will take care of you. You are already in love with the baby in your belly and you feel like he is the same way.

****

"Fuck, amor." Marcus groans as you rock on top of him. Your bump pressing against his stomach as he rests his back on the wall while you ride his cock. Your knees dig into the bed beneath and his hands cup your sensitive breasts. He's been in your bedchamber for the past six months and he falls more in love with you with each passing day. It will surely kill him to leave you when he is ordered to return to war, but he will go. You can never be his. Caracalla will never permit a divorce and he will be killed for treason. He must go after the babe is born.

Caracalla hadn’t spent more than an hour a week with you, carousing and spending every night having an orgy. He claims he is excited for his child, but he only brings you out to brag about his soon to be born son before he leaves you in Marcus’s care. You are scared, because you know how precarious a position you are in. But you can only survive.

"That's it. Take what you want from me. It's yours. I'm yours." He vows, his dark eyes watching you as you bounce on his cock. Your belly is round and heavy with his child. It's something he never imagined having again after he lost his wife. He's addicted to you and he doesn't know how he's going to leave after the baby is born.

“Marcus.” You moan, leaning back and knowing that he will make sure you are comfortable and safe. “My general, my warrior.” You have been thinking about something dangerous, but you can’t think about it when he’s deep inside you. “I love you.”

He caresses your hips, leaning in to take a sensitive nipple between his lips, and he suckles lightly. He has gotten too comfortable being away from the battles the Emperors send him into, but right now, he doesn’t want to die like that. He wants to spend the rest of his life with you at this moment, no one else but you and him. His hand slides across your hip to find your clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves to push you over the edge.

Carrying his baby has made you so sensitive to his touch that it only takes a few strokes of his thumb before you cry out. Your body shaking and your hips grinding down while your cunt locks down around his cock and your juices coat him.

He hisses your name as you clamp down around him, his eyes fluttering shut for a few moments as he lets you ride your high, until he’s squeezing your hips and thrusting up into you.

“Cum for me.” You beg softly, burying your face into the side of his neck so you can breathe him in. “I want to feel you inside me. Carry you with me even more.”

He groans, rocking up into you with a hiss as he gets closer to his orgasm. “Fuck. Gonna - fuck. Shit. Empress.” He moans your name as he pushes deep inside your pulsing cunt and he falls apart, painting your walls with his seed as he clenches his eyes shut.

You hum quietly, stroking his neck as he catches his breath. Feeling the baby move slightly and biting your lip. “We need to use your favor in the Senate.” You lean close and whisper the treasonous words into his ear. “Stage a coup. Revolt.” You pull back and look into his eyes seriously. “Kill the emperors.”

Marcus inhales sharply, his head turning so he can look into your eyes to see if you are testing him or if you’re serious. When he sees your eyes, he knows you’re serious and he swallows harshly, “it won’t be easy. Trying to convince the senate without the emperors finding out.” He admits quietly, “and they could find out and kill me.”

“Set the meetings.” You had thought long and hard about it. “I will convince them, I will do the talking. If our plot is found out, Caracalla could not immediately put me to death. Geta would discover the child is not truly his and he will never allow that.” You caress his cheek. “I wish to have you installed to rule as proctor for ‘his’ child.” You know the senate could never find out that the child isn’t Caracalla’s but no one but you and Marcus know this truth besides your husband.

Marcus caresses your spine, knowing that you could risk everything you’ve created, your life, your child, it’s all on the line. “Amor…” He murmurs and you cup his cheek, “I will never be allowed to be my own person. I will never be allowed to love you freely unless you do this.” You tell him and he nods, swallowing harshly, “I’ll get it organized.” He promises, “we will see it done.”

“Thank you, my love.” You lean in and press your lips to his. “I fear for our child raised under Caracalla’s direction.” Even if you are the mother, the fact that the baby would be proclaimed the emperor’s heir would mean he would be guided by your childish and evil husband. “I want him to grow up to be like his father.”

Marcus caresses your cheek, knowing there is no choice. If he looks back, he knows that he had to make this choice at some point. He never truly wanted to let you or his child go. The next morning, he dresses for court and decides to start with the hardest senator to convince, Brutus. A man who struggled to watch the Emperors rule but had loyalty to Rome. Marcus approaches him under the guise of talk of war, and Brutus nods, wandering off into a quiet corner of the senate to speak. “I fear we cannot speak in these quarters. Come to my villa, we can speak freely.” Marcus says and Brutus nods, unaware that you will be meeting with the men.

You pace, nervous about what you should say, would say. This is the most dangerous undertaking you have ever attempted. Not even trying to run away from your fate was as dangerous as this. You are trying to change your fate. The senators could be allies, or they could stab you in the back.

Brutus enters the room with Marcus, his head held high but his eyes widen when he sees the Empress standing there, her bump protruding beneath her tunic. “Empress.” He greets you, bowing his head.

“Brutus.” You greet him cautiously, but with a gracious smile on your face as you rub the swell of your stomach, bringing his eyes down to the baby. You will leverage the child in your womb. For your freedom, and perhaps Rome’s as well. “I trust you are well?” You ask kindly. “Please sit. The wine has been especially good lately.” It’s been watered down for your use, but you nod to Marcus to pour the senator a cup. “I hope you do not mind the subterfuge, I needed to speak with you and did not wish to summon you myself.”

Marcus pours the cup of wine and hands it to Brutus who nods, thanking Marcus, before his attention turns back to you. "I trust you are well, that the future Emperor is well?" He asks, and you nod in response, "he is lively. Due any day now." You declare and Marcus clears his throat, "the heir is the reason why we called you here.”

You wait for Brutus to turn back to you curiously, setting his cup down. You take a deep breath and caress your stomach. “It is no secret that unrest in Rome is at an all time high.” You murmur softly. “People are starving and while General Acacious has not been sent off on another expensive and bloody campaign, he will be soon.” You pause and sigh. “I fear for the future of Rome, of my son’s legacy that he will inherit.”

Brutus looks at Marcus who stands there, spine straight and steely eyed as your treasonous words are aired. Brutus could go tell the Emperors and you would be killed as soon as the babe is born, Marcus would be hanged the next day. However, Brutus doesn't run off. He nods, setting his cup down, "it is true that the empire is on a precipice. It could be the fall of Rome or her glory continues. The Emperors are driven by lust and greed. Their actions are selfish and make the lowest Roman anxious for change. We will fall if we allow the Emperors to continue down this path."

“There is another solution.” You suggest, rubbing your stomach again. “In my belly lies the next emperor of Rome. Ready to be guided by wise and cautious men.” Your eyes slide over to Marcus briefly. “Men who know the true cost of war and would be able to teach our emperor those lessons without it harming Rome’s people.” You look back at Brutus. “Men such as our senators, you, nurturing a leader that will take Rome to an even greater height.”

Brutus frowns, looking over at Marcus, knowing that the man who will assist in raising the young Emperor will be him. "And how would we remove our problem?" Brutus asks, eyebrows raised. 

"I say we speak to the senators...establish a coup. My husband and brother-in-law would never see it coming." You say and Brutus takes a gulp of his wine before he says, "I will start speaking to the senators tomorrow."

“I hope that we can count on your discretion.” You add, pushing out of your seat and moving over to the senator. “We are on the cusp of change.” You murmur softly. “If it is the ruin of Rome or the brightness of her future, I leave that to your hands.”

Brutus nods, "if this gets out, it will be death for us all. We won't risk it." The senator promises and he looks over at Marcus, "you shall be the one who the senate turns to?" He asks and Marcus nods, making Brutus smile. "very well. I will do what needs to be done."

You nod to the senator when he leaves, Marcus walking out with him and you start to pace. Wondering if you have just signed your death papers or if you will be successful.

****

The senate is abuzz with chatter until Caracalla and Geta enter the chamber. The senators stand straighter and Marcus stands there, dressed in his official robes with the golden laurel wreath shining. He looks regal and the Emperors slosh wine across the marble floor as they greet the senators with wide grins. Brutus looks over at his fellow senators, his hand resting on his dagger. "Emperors." He greets them, walking towards them, and his eyes meet Marcus's for a moment. "The senate and I have been in discussions about the future of Rome." He declares and Geta hums, "and what a wonderful future it will be." 

Marcus sighs, "we aren't so sure. Romans are starving, you tax them more and more every day to fund your wars and your lavish lifestyle." Marcus declares and Caracalla spins around, his eyes narrowed at the accusations, "you dare to spit these treasonous words?" He demands and Marcus shakes his head, "you are draining Rome dry. Her empire will be no more." He says louder and the senators nod while Brutus steps forward, "your leadership has driven Rome to the edge and we want to save our empire before it falls." Brutus declares and he steps up behind Geta while Marcus moves towards Caracalla. It happens in a flash, the daggers pulled out and embedded in the lower backs of the Emperors who cry out, cups of wine falling to the floor. The other senators rush forward, daggers in their hands as they each take a turn stabbing the emperors until blood runs along the marbled floors.

Your cry from your chamber is loud and pained, servants rushing and whispering through the halls. The Hippocrates has been summoned and the labor seems to be quick. The new heir to the throne of Rome is insistent on being born today. It takes your mind off of your worries. Your waters had broken almost as soon as Marcus had left to join the senators. You know that they had planned to kill your husband and his brother today, but the pains had taken over all thoughts so you had not been able to fret over the hours as they passed. 

Blood covers the floor of the senate as Caracalla and Geta lay dead, blood pouring from their mouths. It turns out they betrayed a lot of senators, made promises they couldn’t keep. The senators didn’t take a lot of convincing to remove them from power. “It is done.” Brutus declares, “a new emperor shall be born any moment but we need someone in the interim. An emperor who will represent us, save Rome and her people from ruin. I nominate General Marcus Acacius.” Brutus declares and Marcus’s eyes widen. He didn’t expect to be nominated, feeling that Brutus would want to take control. “I second that nomination.” Drusus announces and one by one, the senate declares Marcus to be the next emperor. The General is speechless, knowing he could easily be taken down like Caracalla and Geta, but this means he gets to have you. “I accept. I will serve as Emperor for all, we will make Rome prosperous and safe.” He promises as a servant rushes in to announce, “the empress is in labor.” Marcus’s eyes widen and he rushes from the senate, running through the marbled halls in his mission to get to you. He doesn’t care that men shouldn’t be in the birthing room as he pushes through and stumbles to your bedside. “Amor. I’m here, I’m here.” He promises, blood still on his hands as he reaches for yours.

“Is it done?” You gasp out, scared for a brief moment that Marcus had been injured, but he would not have been able to come to your side if the plot had been foiled. “It is.” He murmurs, leaning down and pressing his lips to your forehead. You don’t even care that the servants can see, that the rumors will spread across Rome of your relationship with the General. He ignores the Hippocrates’s complaints about him being there as another pain rips through you and you scream, fingers crushing his own hand until the pain passes and you are panting for air. Your child is safe. Boy or girl, they will be free of your husband’s influence. “We need-” you gasp. “A ruler until the baby is older.” 

"The senate has voted. They have chosen me to be Emperor until the child is old enough." He confesses, "I did not want to become Emperor but I want to save Rome and her people from destitution." He admits just as another pain causes you to grip his hand.

Your hiss is low and almost animalistic, the pains feeling like you are being ripped in two, but you know that it is natural. Surprised that the senate had voted for Marcus, you can’t help but be pleased by that outcome. It would ensure that you do not have to be apart. He will have a large role in raising your child together. “The babe is coming.” The Hippocrates tells you from between your legs, frowning at Marcus as he looks down to see the head. “You must push, empress. As hard as you can.”

Marcus is suddenly taken back to the moment when his wife was laboring and after the silence that lingered in the air when the boy was born sleeping, he remembers his wife's cry of agony until she started convulsing. His grip on your hand tightens as his heart pounds, terrified that he is going to lose you in the same way.

Gritting your teeth, nodding as you sit up and start to scream as you bear down as hard as you can. Sweat is pouring off of you and for a moment, you want to give up and tell them that you cannot do it. The pressure on your hand makes you look up. Seeing the horror on Marcus’s face, you know that he is scared for you. For the baby. Closing your eyes, you push again, feeling the pressure suddenly release and hearing the Hippocrates exclaim happily, “a boy!”

Marcus is shaking when he hears the babe cry out and he knows he's alive. He looks at you, wanting to see if you are okay as the hippocrates cradles the crying baby who has a mop of black hair.

You hear the hushed whispers, but you don’t care. You don’t care if all of Rome knows that the baby that will one day be Emperor is Marcus’s. The Hippocrates cleans the baby up while the servants start to massage your stomach, making you wince in pain but it’s all forgotten when the babe is placed into your arms. Making you cry happy tears as you kiss his head softly.

Marcus stares down at the babe in your arms, his cries echoing in the room, and Marcus falls instantly in love. His son. He will never allow harm to come to the boy, and he will claim him as his. He is Emperor now, he can do as he wishes in regards to his personal life. He wishes to marry you and claim the child as his. “I love you.” Marcus declares, uncaring of anyone else in the room, and he leans in to kiss the forehead of the crying baby. “My son.” He whispers, wanting him to know how much he already adores him.

You beam as you look at Marcus and your son. The future is far brighter now that your love has done the impossible. He and the senate have toppled the emperors and restored order without needless bloodshed. “I love you too.” You promise, leaning forward and kissing him boldly. “Both of us do, my emperor.”

****

Marcus wraps his arm around your waist, the golden laurel on his head matches yours as you stand on the balcony. “Do you, Maximis Acacius, vow to dedicate your life to the Roman Empire and her people?” Brutus asks, his hair now greying like Marcus’s. “I do.” Maximus vows, his head nodding. Marcus is proud of his son who he has trained to be the emperor. He claimed him as his son after he was sworn in as emperor and the empire celebrated having a new emperor with a son to take over. Since that day, you and Marcus have had 3 more children who stand beside you, proud of their brother who is taking his rightful place.

You look out over the crowd, a smile on your face bright and proud. You have been incredibly lucky, Marcus has been a wonderful emperor. Rome has flourished under his care and now he willingly turns the reins over to Maximus like he had planned when he was born. “I love you.” You murmur as the crowd roars in celebration of the new emperor.

Marcus turns to look at you, older but no less beautiful. You are his world - you and the children. He leans in to nudge his nose against yours, “I love you.” He promises, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. His entire world has changed thanks to Caracalla’s mad idea to have another man conceive the heir to Rome. In the end, Marcus is the one who won with his son as emperor and the empress as his uxor.

[animeyanderelover]

how would yan jouno (bsd), L(death note), Gojo and Megumi(jujutsu kaisen) react to seeing darling bloody and passed out?

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, paranoia, clinginess, stalking, isolation, abduction, death

Tags: @maggiequinn59 @shumidehiro @leveyani @izanami78 @lovley-valentine7

Bloody and passed out

L Lawliet

🍰​Watari can't help but give a subtle look of concern in L's direction as the detective stares at the screen which is paused at the image of your form, passed out on the ground and covered in blood. His grip on the fork is subconsciously tightening as L requests Watari after a moment of silence to call an ambulance and keep an eye on you whilst you are hospitalised. Meanwhile he will go through the video tapes to find out what happened to you in the little time he didn't watch you through his multiple screens to eliminate the culprit before they could pose more of a threat to you. In reality L also doesn't have the courage yet to face you in your current condition as seeing you in person would only solidify that slimy feeling of guilt for not having been more careful, for not having seen this coming. After all he is not just any detective but the world's greatest detective. For him to let this crime happen instead of preventing it beforehand as he should have done is going to be a permanent burden he is going to have to carry around with him from now on. To prevent such things to happen to you in the future though L simply deduces that it is perhaps time to finally put you under special security.

Jouno Saigiku

♦️​Every attempt to keep his violent nature hidden fails when Jouno finds you. He may not be able to see your current condition but his enhanced hearing is enough already to keep him informed about your dire situation. He doesn't say anything for a while as he just bends down to your body, wipes away some of the blood on your face, not minding that he stains his uniform in the sticky liquid and it is this heavy silence that puts the other people from the government who accompanied him on edge. When he finally does speak up his voice is sharp and dangerous as he asks why none of the fools have called an ambulance yet. Is he the blind one or are they? He has everything to do himself, doesn't he? Jouno is the one who calls the government, shortly stating that they are going to need some doctors and a new accomodation before he ends the call, barely leaving them time to ask who it is Jouno intends to not only bring but also keep. Whilst you are being catered to by doctors Jouno starts searching for the bastard who did this to you, brimming with barely suppressed rage he desperately needs to unleas onto someone. He's going to make that person beg for death as soon as he has caught them.

Fushiguro Megumi

💙​His heart is in his throat the moment his Divine Dogs find you. Even whilst tracking down a curse he is supposed to take out Megumi already had a bad feeling as his shikigami were acting strange yet he still isn't prepared to find you. Why you? Why not someone else? Even as his shikigami tear the curse apart Megumi is unable to collect himself, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he wipes away some of the blood clinging to your face before he pulls out his phone and calls Shoko, begging her in a thin voice that she must help you. He's clearly shaken by the time you are cared for by Shoko, is barely listening when Gojo pops up because he has heard what happened and attempts to cheer his student up only to stop when noticing that Megumi is elsewhere with his mind. It is only when Shoko steps out of the room that he seems to return to the present, asking her quietly how you're doing and only when she informs him that you'll survive does some of the tension leave his body. However, after this day his paranoia has significantly increased. Who is to say that you won't be attacked again and that next time he won't be there in time? He can't let that happen.

Gojo Satoru

🩵​His presence alone has the curse cowering in fear, fleeing the scene the moment it senses Gojo's massive Cursed Energy only for the sorcerer to catch up in the blink of an eye, his eyes gleaming with darkness and a deep fear of loss that shouldn't appear in such beautiful eyes before he effortlessly crushes the creature, their existence gone within less than a second. As soon as his desire for revenge has been fulfilled he rushes over to you, taking you in his arms as he inspects the damage before calling Shoko and shakily begging her to help you. He doesn't once leave your side even whilst Shoko is inspecting you and heals the worst injuries you suffered at the hands of the curse, his larger hands gently engulfing yours as he remains by your side long after Shoko is done and has left you alone so that you can get some rest. He should have been there for you. You shouldn't have even gotten into such danger. Yet what were you supposed to do? You're a non-sorcerer, unable to see the creatures that threaten your life, much less defend yourself against them. That's why you need him. You need him to protect you and Gojo will ensure that after today he will keep you safe.

[lxkeee]

MY LOVE, IS MINE ALL MINE

—PART SIX

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Fallen Angel! Fem! Reader

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Warnings: none

Notes: sorry it took awhile^^" this is a long chapterr and Happy Valentine's day everyone<3

Word count: 2.5k

PART ONE | PART FIVE | PART SEVEN

It has been two days since [y/n] started living with Lucifer in the palace of hell that is located in the pride circle. It's awkward to say the least, it has been years since... Well, they spent time with each other.

Lucifer on the other hand is very overprotective over her, making sure she's alright even though she has already fully healed herself.

Both fallen angels spent most of their time just talking and catching up with one another. Lucifer shared to her what happened with his marriage and [y/n] sharing to him what happened to her in heaven when he was gone and she also told him about her time at the hotel with Charlie.

Currently the two are in the living room of the palace, Lucifer's head on [y/n]'s lap as she plays with his hair. Fingers weaving through silky blond locks, soft against her fingertips. Lucifer's eyes are closed as he enjoys the sensation of her fingers running through his hair and massaging his scalp. He misses this so much, it brought back a sense of deja vu to him. Reminding him of the past where he and [y/n] would just be lying down on the clouds, cloud gazing while she plays with his hair and his head on her lap. Lucifer wonders what his life would be if he chose to stay in heaven and didn't break any rules. Would he have been happy with [y/n]? Lucifer mentally asked himself, realizing the thought made his cheeks warmed up.

[Y/n] raises an eyebrow as she watches the man shake his head to himself, laughing quietly to herself.

“What's got you thinking? I just saw you physically disagree with whatever thought you just had.” [y/n] says with a small chuckle, looking down on him. Strands of her hair falling off from her ear where she tucked them, silk like [h/c] locks caressing Lucifer's cheeks. Lucifer looks up and sees her gazing at him, curiosity in her eyes, her hair framing her face perfectly. She looked absolutely divine. Wait a minute, since when did he start looking at his best friend through heart shaped pink colored glasses?!

The realization made his jaw drop, [y/n] getting more confused as she placed her fingers underneath his chin to close his mouth again.

“Now I am really curious what's going on inside that head of yours.” [y/n] mutters, her hand had stopped playing with his hair moments ago.

Lucifer shakes his head, “It is nothing, just... Hell stuff...” he says awkwardly with a laugh, his fingers pulling his collar as it suddenly felt too tight around his neck.

[Y/n] looked at him with her eyebrow still raised but eventually sighs, deciding not to push him to say whatever is bothering him. “Whatever you say, Lu.” she says softly and the comfortable silence falls between them once more. [Y/n] humming a tune while she plays with his hair once more while Lucifer was having an internal conflict.

“It has been awhile since I've last visited the hotel, how about we go and see how the others are?” [y/n] murmurs softly, Lucifer opens his eyes to look at her. His red eyes dilated as he gazed up at her, a soft look on his face. He grins at her, showing her that toothy smile that she loves.

“What a wonderful idea, we should visit them!” Lucifer grins, excited to see his daughter again. Although, not really thrilled in seeing the other sinners. Especially that radio demon. He knows that the bastard would try to pull something that will annoy him.

Lucifer sighs once more, [y/n] wondering what got him to change his mood again. At this point she got used to it.

Sitting up, leaving the comfort of her lap. He sat and faced her, seeing her hair falling into her face, he gently tucks it behind her ear.

The two stared at each other a few seconds before quickly avoiding each other's gazes. Cheeks heating up.

“... Right, we should visit them right now” Lucifer says, clearing his throat awkwardly and [y/n] turns to look at him once more.

“Like... Right now..?” She asked with a raised eyebrow and he nodded.

[Y/n] clears her throat, trying to calm her fast beating heart. She expected this, her buried feelings now unraveling like petals of a newly bloomed flower.

Awkward...

Lucifer coughs awkwardly, turning around to look at her, “If you're ready, we can go right now...?” he suggested and [y/n] looked at him, slightly in deep thought.

“Can you give me some time to prepare something? I want to bring something to them when we visit.” [y/n] says softly and Lucifer sighed but gave her a gentle toothy smile.

“Alright.”

[Y/n] decided to use Lucifer's kitchen, the king of hell watching her as he leans against the door frame, admiring her figure as she puts on an apron. [Y/n] approaches him, turning around for her back to face him. The ties of the apron are still not tied.

Lucifer smiled and his hand gently worked with the ties of the apron, tying it securely. “I missed eating your cookies, I remember you used to bake me duck shaped cookies.” he says, nostalgia evident in his voice.

[Y/n] chuckles softly, remembering the memories. “Indeed, you often helped me when I baked.” she says and he smiled, turning around as he too wore an apron, [y/n] tying the ties of the apron.

With a flick of his fingers, Lucifer summoned the ingredients they needed. [Y/n]'s eyes sparkled in awe as she sees the ingredients now on the counter.

The two fallen angels began working on the sweets they planned on making, moving around the pristine kitchen. Working together side by side. Lucifer was tasked with whisking the dry ingredients with the wet ingredients. [Y/n] behind him, looming over his smaller body, her hand on his waist while her other hand held his hand that was holding the whisk. Guiding him on how to whisk it.

‘Goodness, she's so close.’ Lucifer thought nervously. His ears felt unbelievably warm.

“Just like that, good.” she murmurs, against his ears. Oh god, he feels like he's about to pass out.

Suddenly he's very hyper aware. He could feel the softness of her skin against his, her hair occasionally caressing his neck as she leans on his shoulder. The hand on his waist, the hand on his waist, the hand on hIS WAIST. Suddenly he could feel how hot his body was, his heart beating so erratically against his ribcage.

“Lu? Are you okay? You seem spaced out...” [y/n] says worriedly as she noticed the man seemed to freeze while whisking.

[Y/n]'s facial expression softens, admiring the man in front of her. He still looked beautiful as the day she lost him.

Removing her hand from his wrist, that hand gently cupped his cheek. Breaking him out of his thoughts, jumping slightly.

“Jesus... You surprised me.” He sighs, placing a hand over his chest to calm his fast beating heart. The golden organ beating against his ribcage.

[Y/n]'s eyes soften, “You spaced out for a second, I got worried.” she says softly, brushing away the strands of blond hair away from his face that was beginning to fall into his face.

“Are you okay?” she asked him worriedly and he gave her a gentle smile, nodding.

“I am alright, I was just... Thinking...” he answers, voice gentle. He wouldn't tell her that he was thinking about her. How he was basically thinking about her touch.

“If you say so...” she says hesitantly and they eventually return to baking.

They just made the classic chocolate cookies and also baked an apple pie.

They arranged the cookies and placed them into two rectangular boxes, they made enough for the hotel crew. [Y/n] carefully placed the apple pie on the cake container, allowing it to cool down first.

The two decided to change into a cleaner set of clothes as the ones they were wearing were dirtied when they were baking.

Lucifer gifted her clothes of course, she has her own room, a few doors away from his.

[Y/n] decided to wear a cute dress that was on her wardrobe, slipping it over her body. Applying some light makeup on her face. Grabbing a brush, her hand gently moving as she began to brush her hair.

After changing and meeting up in the living room, the two fallen angels didn't notice that they accidentally matched color schemes with their outfits.

Lucifer wore his usual white suit with red accents while [y/n] wore a white with red accents short dress that reaches her knees.

[Y/n] decided to carry the two boxes of cookies they've made, though, Lucifer wanted to be the one to carry it but the woman insisted as he would be the one to teleport them to the hotel.

Lucifer sighs but gives her an understanding smile, placing his arm behind her back and allowing his hand to rest on her waist. The action caught the woman off guard as she could feel heat creeping up to her cheeks.

Lucifer didn't notice how that simple action could fluster her so much, he thought it was nothing as he only wanted to make sure she teleports with him.

With a snap of his fingers, sparkling red smoke covered their bodies. The scenery of the palace's living room morphs as they teleport, now, they're in front of the Hazbin Hotel front doors.

Charlie was just discussing with the gang about what they're planning to do once Adam and the exorcists will come. Their attention was diverted as knocks were heard on the doors of the hotel.

“Oooh new guests?” Angel Dust says with a smirk, lying on his stomach as he lies on the couch, taking up the entire space.

Alastor was just grinning as he sat on the cushioned chair, Niffty sitting on his shoulders and playing with his hair.

Vaggie was sitting at the bar area with Husk still bartending. Sir Pentious was sitting with them too. The egg boys are just walking around.

Charlie's eyes sparkled, walking to the front door. Opening it to see her dad and... [Y/n]...?!

“Charlieee!” Lucifer greeted as he immediately hugged the girl, [y/n] laughing softly behind them.

Angel Dust looked at Husk, wondering if he saw the same thing as him.

The two fallen angels looked like they were matching outfits. Angel Dust gave them a smirk, in which the two fallen angels were confused why.

“Dad?! I didn't know you were going to visit? And Miss [y/n] I am glad to see you again.” Charlie smiled and approached the woman in which the older woman hugged the girl.

“[y/n] here wanted to visit and I thought why not? Also, we brought cookies! We baked them!” Lucifer says proudly, a grin on his face. [Y/n] laughs softly as she hands the two boxes to Charlie, in which the girl excitedly and happily accepts. “Really? Thank you so much!” Charlie says excitedly.

Charlie gave the two fallen angels a look before giving her dad a knowing smirk, Lucifer was confused.

The two fallen angels looked at each other and shrugged, not knowing what that was about. The two eventually went inside the hotel, closing the doors behind them.

[Y/n] was immediately pulled into the group, the hotel crew missing her. Lucifer smiles as he sits on the bar stool, admiring how she interacted with the others. No one is stupid, they can literally see the lovestruck look the King of Hell is giving the female fallen angel, they can literally see his dilated pupils. Charlie sat beside him, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

“What?” Lucifer deadpans, confused why his daughter is looking at him like that. Tearing his gaze away from his best friend.

Charlie nudges him, “You liked her don't you?” she teases him, Lucifer could feel his cheeks heat up once more.

“Me?! I think it's a little too early?” he says hesitantly and Charlie just gave him a raised eyebrow, clearly not believing him.

Husk scoffs behind the counter as he continues to wipe the glass, “Yeah, no one is believing that. We can literally see you giving her heart eyes and you two even looked like you guys are matching clothes.” Husk says nonchalantly and Lucifer had to double check his outfit and [y/n]'s.

They indeed looked like they were matching outfits.

Husk and Charlie could see the circles of Lucifer's cheeks redden even more. The king of hell was leaning his head against the counter, burying his face on his arm as he used it as a pillow, “It was a coincidence.” he explained and Husk just scoffs and chuckles.

“I think it's too early...” Lucifer murmurs, he doesn't want to admit it but he's scared of what Charlie will think. Will she think that he's replacing her mother?

Charlie's eyes soften, she places a hand on his shoulder for comfort. “You love her don't you? Long before I even existed and you still do and I think you shouldn't deny it dad. It's not healthy.” she murmurs softly and Lucifer sighs.

Charlie smiled softly at him, “If you're afraid of my opinion about this, I think you should go for it dad... I want you to be happy and Miss [y/n] seems to be a nice woman...” she says softly as she looks at the woman smiling with Sir Pentious and the egg boys as they ate the cookies that she and her dad brought. Charlie doesn't mind calling [y/n] her step mom. She already sees her like a mother figure already.

Lucifer's eyes softened, sparkling.

“You better shoot your shot, I think you're not the only one interested in her.” Husk says emotionlessly, gesturing behind Lucifer. The king of hell turned around and he could feel his eye twitch as Alastor gave him a smirk as the radio demon twirled the woman while she laughed.

Husk knows Alastor isn't interested, sure, the radio demon sees the woman more as a companion. He just needed to help this pathetic man they call a king to make a move.

Lucifer's sharp nails slightly graze the wooden counter in annoyance.

Charlie nudges him again, breaking his focus from the scene.

“Besides, I won't mind calling her mom. I won't replace my birth mother of course but Miss [y/n] is like a mom to me too. Allow yourself to be happy, dad.” Charlie says softly, smiling at her father.

Lucifer could feel himself get flustered at the idea. Him, Charlie, and [y/n] as a family. It doesn't sound so bad. It sounds amazing actually.

“Soon... I want to make sure that I am ready...” Lucifer says softly, his eyes looking at the woman who was happily conversing with a certain arachnid, chuckling softly as he notices her getting flustered. It might be because of what the arachnid has said to her.

Charlie smiled and nodded, “Take your time dad. You have all the time in the world.” she says softly and he nodded in agreement, “Indeed...”

TAGLIST I: CLOSED

@selvyyr @leo4242564 @blushhpeachh @lunanight1021 @dvc4 @nehy019 @lu-ferri12 @lilteamushroom @froggybich @eddiemunson4ever @who-let-me-write-this @gurutan27 @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @hcneyiced @valerie-36 @jovialcat123 @b0nn1e @raeinn @wally-darling-hyperfixation @faefanatic @trashbin-nie @n1chxyaaenthusiast @cherry-4200 @luleck @adaizel @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @thedarkkitten @brithedemonspawn @kottenox @totallymitya @many-fandoms-lover @hxzbinwrites @snoozewritezz @juskonutoh @mayhimouto513 @hcneyiced @koirb @viylikescats @ren-ren23 @kouyoumarryme @dou-dou @thatsquitepoggers

[cannellee]

Hi. This is about the alpha South x omega x alpha Mikey post for clarity.

Imagine how furious alpha Mikey would be if he found out that alpha South already got omega (name) pregnant.

I think he would go nuts lmao

TOKYO REVENGERS OMEGAVERSE ☆

୨୧ alpha! south x omega! reader x yandere!alpha! mikey (read this for more context)

— mikey finds out you're pregnant with south's kid

cw : delusional mikey, violence, slight breeding kink, baby trapping

a/n : btw I don't like yanderes who are violent towards their s/o, so mikey acts sweetly towards reader even though that might not be a representative reaction!! I hope you'll still enjoy!

MY MASTERLIST: ☆

it would definitely not end well for any of you.

while dating south, you were in such a vulnerable state of mind that you got carried away. he showered you with the affection you came to miss and crave when you were with mikey and you honestly didn't give too much thought about what you were doing with south at night...

it wasn't surprising for you to end up the way you did, little bump on your stomach, which you always caressed and touched after you learned the news.

south was fine with having his omega pregnant, only thing which prevented him from being fully happy was his worry for your safety.

now imagine you left mikey's side for more than two months, so that your belly could show a little. you're growing more and more stressed because of south's behaviour, it's suspicious and weird and with your hormones being all over the place, you're feeling even more distressed.

when you follow him and are met with the most unexpected sight, your breathing quickens and your scent couldn't be more sour. you were sensitive before, but now that you were pregnant that's another story.

when you threw yourself on south, all mikey could feel was pure anger and grabbed your arms roughly to pry you off of him.

yes you were fragile, mikey knew that. but when you fell on your side after he simply pushed you away, he flinched at the pained whine you involuntarily let out.

he looked at you, confused and worried. albeit his initial rage, he managed to decipher your scent between all the strong pheromones of all the alphas out there. it was sweet, sugary and very soft. mikey would've recognisable it with no efforts.

but something wasn't right, something was different. you watched as he breathed through his nose, frown deepening at the foreign aroma around you. your strawberry pheromones were all over the place and decoupled, and among it, a nice new smell of pink sugar grazed his nostrils.

it smelled divinely good, but most importantly, it stirred up mikey's instincts in an abnormal way. he felt on edge, protective thoughts circling in his mind. it's like you wanted everyone to be aware of how fragile you were, to have them know you were powerless and in need of reassurance.

and when mikey looked you up and down, that's when he noticed your slightly round belly, a protective hand over it.

wide eyes, mikey took a while before actually understanding what exactly he was seeing, completely shocked. he questioned you with his eyes, hoping you would simply shake your head 'no' and grace him with the answer he wanted to hear. but you didn't and he couldn't feel more enraged.

he furiously looked at south and wasted no time in showering him with punches. all his yelling hurt your poor ears as your hands did nothing at trying to cover the noise.

mikey was unstoppable as he screamed profanities at south, promising him to never let him go unless he was perfectly sure he would never touch you again.

not only did you run away from him and gave yourself to another alpha, but that bastard even had the audacity to get you fucking pregnant. the marks mikey had left on your body months ago were deep enough to surely be still present ; it was a clear indicator that you were somebody else's. anyone would have backed off and refuse to have sex with you. but this asshole just had to ignore all those claims and deliberately court his omega.

mikey was simply blinded with rage as he hit him relentlessly, aiming for south's weak spots, wrecking his limp body as much as he could.

you couldn't muster the courage to move and you had no choice but to witness mikey's terrifying actions. you were still on the floor, silently sobbing because of the more than monstrous scene in front of you.

fortunately, your current state had made your scent more easily detectable so that you could communicate your desires and troubles better with your alpha during such a vulnerable time.

it flew right to mikey's nose, instincts to take care of his omega took over him and he found the control in himself to actually stop his butchery.

you saw mikey whip his head towards you, instantly letting go of south's bruised body. he slowly came up to you, disapproval written all over his face and urge to take you away from here eating him up alive.

he couldn't get his eyes off of your belly when he helped you sit down properly. he didn't know how to feel about this. be mad at you ? get into an argument with you to convey just how fucking furious he was ?

truthfully, you weren't to blame here, mikey thought. you were just a poor omega seeking comfort, south was the one who took advantage of you. he exploited your need for a strong presence next to you when mikey couldn't give you that.

you could've said anything to deny his words, mikey was clearly not admitting that it was a choice you made consciously. his lovely omega would have never betrayed him this much.

amidst the chaos, he couldn't think properly and instead chose to end his fight with south. he had to make sure you were safely taken away from south's greedy hands, in mikey's home where it was definitely the safest for you to stay considering your condition.

you should be cocooned by your alpha inside a warm nest, safe and sound and surrounded by reassuring items. but instead you're out there in the wild, all alone and unsupervised and trying to stop a fight right in the middle of a place crowed with thousands of alphas.

mikey was fuming, absolutely devastated by how poorly you were taken care of and the rage he felt was incomparable to anything he had ever felt.

he knew he would have done a better job at protecting you and while he had that tiny hope the baby inside you was his, at this time it really didn't matter in his eyes.

all he could see was your shaking form, forehead sweating from how much pressure you were under. your alpha was supposed to provide you anything, shelter you and protect you, especially during such a precious moment of pure vulnerability.

but here you were. you couldn't count on anybody and mikey's heart shattered upon seeing your tear-stained face and defenceless arms desperately trying to defend your poor excuse of an alpha.

he carefully carried you away from this place, placing a jacket over you to prevent you from getting sick.

you had no words to say in this situation, you simply had to follow what mikey wanted and considered to be the right thing.

he placed you gently on the soft bed, showering you with his clothes to remove all foreign smells from you. mikey had to claim you again, make sure you were scented from head to toe. this is what good alphas do to soothe their omegas after all!

and this was his priority at the moment. to put you to sleep, get your mind off of south and all the problems he brought to you.

you were easier to manipulate as the hormones of pregnancy made your omega more receptive to the orders and voice of an alpha. you could try and fight off your instincts, mikey still had the upper hand and wouldn't give up until you obeyed and followed what he considered as the best choice right now. you needed rest and that's what you were gonna get.

and the hectic day soon got the best of you that you finally dozed off, calmly breathing in the familiar scent of mikey's sheets.

your sleeping figure helped mikey release a bit of tension, knowing his omega was right where she belonged and that her future pup was in good hands.

all that remained to be done now was to get your stuff back from south's apartment and take care of south himself. there was no way he was gonna let some stranger be the father of your kid. you belonged to mikey and by extension, the child you bore was also his, he wouldn't have it any other way.

he'll go out his way to find south again and prevent him from claiming your child, probably aiming to kill him in the process. mikey was going to be the only support in your life, the only pillar you'll need. he'll be the only one present during your pregnancy, guaranteeing you to never let you feel hurt or scared ever again.

you won't go out again as well, he saw how today affected you and quickly understood it was all too much for your poor little pregnant omega heart. too sensitive and emotional...

mikey will force you to stay still, waiting at home for him until you finally give birth. his instincts are so strong and overwhelming, he'll enter a blind rage if his omega isn't cocooned in the warmth and safety of her nest, in her alpha's home.

he's actually somehow glad you got pregnant, although he would have preferred to be the biological father. but now he has a great excuse to keep you by his side. he exploits your weaknesses and lack of financial support to insert himself into your life for good. he scares you into thinking you need him to keep you safe, that alphas will rush to hurt you once they learn you're this helpless and trying to raise a kid on your own.

he'll definitely get you pregnant soon after you give birth, wanting a kid of his own blood. he's so deep into a possessive state of mind that he wants nothing more than to see you all cutely waddle around the house because of the seeds he put into you. he wants to claim you in the most primal way. his intentions are mostly triggered by your past with south but also because he feels like baby trapping you is the most efficient way to keep you right next to him.

in the end, mikey's commitment towards you will grow significantly in the future. once south is disposed of, he'll purely focus on you, knowing nothing will ever get in between the two of you ever again.

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to The Incomprehensible's Chapter 348

Brief summary: Cale and GoD funny interaction. GoD explains what happened to Blue Wolf and gives 2 solutions. Cale also gives his own 2 solutions.

===========

Cale and GoD's conversation today was so funny. 🤣🤣🤣

Cale: *talks rudely to GoD* GoD: Damn bastard- Cale: Should I just destroy this? Wisha: !!! Cale: If I just throw this mirror, won't it break? Wisha: !!! Everyone else: !!! Cale: *knocks the mirror on the table multiple times* Divine mirror: *shaking as if begging not to be broken* Cale: *stops knocking the mirror* GoD: …Crazy! Cale: So, stop complaining. Cale: *angry* GoD: Cale, Cale… Let's calm down. Let's talk. Okay? Cale: There is a limit to what I can endure. GoD: Yes, yes. I know you're having a hard time. I think I lost my mind for a moment. I've been working for 73 hours now. Cale: (Hmm? 73 hours? Three days of continuous work?) Cale: 73 hours without sleeping? GoD: Yeah. Haha! Cale: (Crazy…) Narrator: Cale suddenly felt like he wanted to look out for GoD as he recalled his experience of working overtime as KRS. Cale: Yeah. You're having a hard time too. GoD: Right? Cale: Yes. *takes out a handkerchief and wipes the mirror* Cale: *says sincerely* Stay strong. GoD: ...!!! *sobs as he feels moved*

Cale was angry at GoD because he did not get much from the latter. Even Aipotu's source of the world and WT tried their best to give Cale something, but GoD? On the other hand, GoD reasoned out that the chaos that GoB and GoC caused because they split the God Realm in half had made GoD super busy with work.

And upon hearing that GoD had worked for 73 hours straight, Cale's anger disappeared and he felt sorry for GoD, even cheering him up... 😂😂😂 All because he recalled his KRS's days where he worked overtime. He even thought that GoD was the most unfortunate god. 😂😂😂

Moving on to Blue Wolf, the reason why BW wouldn't enter the new divine item was because their divinity had severely weakened that they fell into a deep sleep. BW did not have enough divinity to transfer to the new divine item.

Thus, GoD proposed two solutions to increase BW's divinity:

Wait for BW's divinity to naturally fill up again

Take divinity from a divine item of another god

The first one could be done by BW's believers in Aipotu. After all, BW would soon have a temple there, and even a sanctuary. It would take decades to centuries to fill up BW's depleted divinity, but it was the safest method. GoD even offered to create a portal between the Beastkin Sanctuary and Roan Kingdom, so Lock could freely travel between the two places.

The second one had some special conditions. Each god had a unique "nature" or "attribute", so taking divinity directly from them to give to BW would be impossible. But if it came from a divine item that had not been used for a long time, which meant that the divinity contained in it had almost diluted into nothing, it would be possible.

Of course, it had bad consequences. Taking divine items from other gods would cause conflict, and might even incur the wrath of the god.

So Cale laughed when he thought of two solutions of his own.

Steal GoC's very old and unused divine items

Create a new divine item in the virtual game

GoC was an ancient god, so his unused divine items would most likely have its stored divinity almost diluted into nothing. Cale knew that GoC's saint was playing the game, so he thought GoC should have a temple in the game too. He planned to steal the divine item in GoC's temple in the game. 😂😂😂

However, Cale also had another very crazy idea. He could just create a game item classified as a divine item with the help of the game's AI... Yeah, right. A human creating a divine item. 😂 You sure you don't want to become a god, Cale? 🤣🤣🤣

Ending Remarks

I feel sorry for both Cale and GoD. The former keeps drifting away from his slacker life dream while the latter is suffering from overwork. 😂 Next chapter will be a continuation of Cale's talk with GoD. I look forward to everyone's reactions to Cale's crazy plans. 🤣

[floylia]

THE FINE LINE BETWEEN GREED AND LOVE

— Kaeya x gn!reader

WARNINGS — Angst with a happy ending, blood, childhood trauma, self loathing, HAPPY ENDING TRUST

SYNOPSIS — When fear turns into confessions of love.

NOTE: I did a thing

Kaeya’s affection does not extend to you.

At least that’s what he convinces himself of.

For the years he’s known you, not once did he let his heart win. He let you delude yourself into thinking his affection was hatred. That his friendship came at a price. That he didn’t care one bit, because too much attachment meant losing himself. So he compromised—to put you at arm's length. To be near you but not have you, because people are not coveted the same way objects are. He wanted to have you, but he did not need you.

He knows the difference.

At least that’s what he thought.

The glint of his weapon scalds with the bandits’ flesh, piercing through skin and bones in the heat of the moment. Kaeya takes pleasure in the fear of his enemy’s eyes, but he makes this battle quick. He finds no time for amusement.

He scans the area, heartbeat pacing, breath quickening, before he spots you, leaning on a tree, a hand on your stomach with blood dripping from your temples. He bolts to you, sword forgotten before tearing a piece of cloth from his cape to stop the flow of blood. You barely see him, only feeling the weight of your body shift between dreams and reality.

“Stay with me. Don’t you close your eyes,” He calls out to you, voice breaking but you don’t hear. Your ears filled with statics alternating with nothing. The world is spiraling. It must be playing tricks on you, because you see Kaeya, eyebrows knit together, lips shaking, eyes glossy.

“Don’t cry. You shouldn’t cry.” You whisper and his tears follow.

It’s a foreign sight.

Not a captain revered by all. Not the city’s number one candidate as “grandson-in-law.” Not Klee’s favorite grown-up. Not a scheming bastard who gets a kick off of ordering you around despite your similar rankings in the Knights of Favonius.

But someone who cared.

Someone who feared.

Someone you may never see again as the world darkens.

—

Kaeya Alberich does not pray.

But he knows how to plead, put his hands together, and kneel on the floor of the cathedral despite his conflicting faith towards the divine. The word “please” has never tasted so bitter on his tongue. Fear courses through his adrenaline, piling on top of him like a blanket of snow, leaving him shivering like a coward–because that is what he is.

A coward who dares feel regret.

Two days. 48 grueling hours. 2,880 demanding minutes.

He has been waiting, dreading, and dreaming. When will they hear his pleas? He sounds like a madman.

“I told you to not cry. Why are you crying?”

He doesn’t realize the tears staining his face, but perks up at the familiar voice, your voice, who’s currently sitting next to him.

“You—“ He starts, eyes bulging, swerving from left to right, mouth wide, desperate to find the right words. He raises his arm, hands reaching out to your face—it’s shaking, he can’t control it—until he freezes. Doubt creeping in his mind.

Are you real or has he lost it?

You latch on to his hand, “Does the cavalry captain wished I died or—“

He pulls you in a hug. His head leaning on your shoulder, tears streaming down your hospice clothes.

“My clothes are going to be drenched in snot if you don’t stop being a crybaby.”

“I thought I lost you,” He takes a breath between sniff, his head still resting beside your neck, “I thought I’d lose you knowing I never had the chance of loving you.”

He said it. A sentiment that has echoed from the moment he felt your presence.

“You love me?” There’s hesitation with the way you asked your question. Kaeya is not ready for the rejection that should follow. But he’s come to terms with it. Mulling it over, until he’s accepted that loving does not mean having.

He shouldn’t be greedy. You’re alive, breathing and recovering. That itself is a gift.

“Kaeya, do you love me?” You ask again, this time with determination.

He tried nodding while buried in between your neck. He doesn’t have the courage to look up and face you—whatever expression you’re wearing to his confession—he doesn’t want to see it.

But you force him.

You look deep in his eyes. He’s afraid you’ll see his soul—see the uncertainty, fear, and pain he’s been bearing despite the flashy exterior he presents himself with.

If you do, he wishes you would accept that. All the broken parts that follow. Just like how his adopted father did all those years ago. Just like how Diluc did when they were children. Just like how Klee lets him become a good brother. Just like how Jean trusts him.

He can’t be too greedy.

But isn’t living a “peaceful” life in Mondstadt despite his heritage, already greedy?

Fuck it.

“I love you,” It’s a whisper. He’s not sure if he said it out loud. Scared that he’ll shatter something sacred.

I love you so much that I’m scared. He wants to say, but he’s a coward. Again and again, he proves himself a coward.

“I love you too. Despite my doubts, I was afraid that i’ll never wake up and see your annoying, smug face.”

He swears he’s dreaming.

“I’m sorry, I’m a coward. I’m afraid that wanting you is greedy—“

You press a finger on his mouth, “That makes the both of us. But don’t think for a moment that you’re weak. You’re more than capable. Desiring something is not synonymous to a weakness. It makes you human. Everyone is greedy.”

Desiring something is not synonymous to a weakness. It makes you human. Everyone is greedy.

He smiles. Perhaps you’re right. He wants to believe your words. So he chooses to trust you. He needs to trust you. To hold onto something true, until his chains are broken and the weight of his lies are weighless

“Thank you,” He smiles for the first time in a while before he presses his lips on yours, “I must be the greediest man you’ll ever meet.”

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Two dragon eggs are laid. One in the rivers, one in the maelstrom.

Helaena had tried to warn her, time and time again. The egg that had been laid in the maelstrom had belonged to Maera. And the egg in the Rivers, Alys Rivers, was now staring Maera in the fucking face. A large shadow temporarily blocked light coming in from the small window, the witch’s form illuminated by the light of the hearth. Maera’s eyes widened as she watched the unborn child stir beneath the fabric of Alys’s dress, a silent dance of life within her womb. Alys’s hand instinctively moved to rest atop her swollen belly, a tender gesture that spoke of the deep connection between mother and child.

As Alys looked up, her cat-like green eyes with golden flecks met Maera’s gaze, holding it with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. The witch smiled, answering the question that had not dared been asked. “I have the dragon's bastard in me. I can feel his fires licking at my womb.”

Maera took a shaky breath, her own hand instinctively coming to rest on her smaller stomach beneath her damp riding leathers. The contrast between Alys’s swelling belly and her own barely perceptible bump only served to heighten the turmoil of emotions swirling within her.

Anger boiled within Maera, mixing with a potent concoction of hurt, betrayal, and a deep sense of injustice. She felt a surge of violent rage coursing through her veins, the urge to lash out and seek vengeance consuming her thoughts.

"You look upset," the witch remarked casually, her tone almost taunting. "You needn't be."

Maera's jaw clenched at the sight of the woman before her, her frustration palpable. "You stand there, pregnant with my husband's child, and wonder why I am upset?" she retorted, her voice tinged with incredulity.

Alys sighed softly, a dismissive shake of her head accompanying her words. "It is the Gods' will, Princess. I have seen it."

The mention of divine will only fueled Maera's irritation further. She took a step closer to Alys, her posture tense with anger. "And I wonder," she began, her voice laced with sarcasm, "was the death of my aunt Viserra and her family also part of this divine plan?"

Alys lowered her gaze to her stomach as she absentmindedly caressed the curve of her abdomen. "It was necessary," she stated coldly, her tone devoid of remorse.

"Necessary?!" Maera's incredulous laughter filled the room, a mixture of shock and disbelief evident in her expression. She raised her eyes heavenward, as if seeking answers from the gods themselves.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Maera stepped forward once more until she was practically nose-to-nose with Alys. Their physical similarities were uncanny, but Maera refused to let that distract her. "My husband is a great man," she began, her voice firm and unwavering, "but he has been an idiot."

Maera's gaze bore into Alys's, her stance unwavering as she continued to speak. "You may be able to fool him with pretty words of prophecy, to manipulate him into laying with you and filling your womb," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain, "but I am not so easily swayed."

The witch simply hummed to herself, completely unperturbed by Maera's threatening demeanour. She turned her gaze towards the fire dancing in the hearth below the steel pot, the flickering light casting shadows across her features. The flames swirled and leaped, painting intricate patterns of orange, yellow, and red against the dark backdrop of the hearth. Occasionally, embers would crackle and spark, sending small bursts of light shooting upward before disappearing into the darkness.

“Fire illuminates the truth to those whose eyes are open. No flame is more powerful, nor burns as bright, than that of a dragons,” Alys declared, her voice was calm and measured, betraying no hint of the tension that lingered between them.

Maera furrowed her brow, puzzled by Alys’s strange fascination with the flames. Before she could question her further, Alys turned to look at Maera once again, her eyes reflecting the firelight.

“A great dynasty will be born from the blood of Aemond Targaryen,” the witch proclaimed with confidence, as if it were a proven fact. She rested one hand on her own swollen belly, a serene expression on her face as she seemed lost in thought. “My son…” without warning, Alys reached out to touch Maera's bump with her other hand. Maera's instincts kicked in, and she reacted without hesitation, grabbing Alys's wrist in a firm grip before she could make contact.

The sudden movement caused Alys to glance up, her cat-like green eyes meeting Maera’s with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as she continued, “…and your daughter will return the House of the Dragon to its proper glory. From their union will come the Prince that was promised.”

With a steely gaze, Maera continued to hold Alys's wrist in place, her jaw clenched in determination as she silently dared her to make another move. The action was instinctual, a protective gesture driven by a primal urge to shield her unborn child from any potential harm.

“You are mad,” Maera replied through gritted teeth, her fingers digging into Alys’s wrist, her nails forming crescent moons into the skin.

Alys simply smiled. “It is fate, Maera. Foretold by the Gods.”

Those familiar words. First uttered by the apparition of Lady Gael in her nightmares, the last words she would speak before the dream would tear away the memory from Maera. Helaena had also spoken the words in relation to the broken images that danced within her mind. And now Aemond’s whore had spoken them to her. Maera thought there would be at least be a glimmer of amazement in the stark number of incidents in which these words were spoken. But there was not. There was only bitterness, and unbridled fury.

The wooden door swung open with a resounding bang against the stone walls, causing both Maera and Alys to jump in surprise. Alys's gaze snapped to the door, her small grin betraying a hint of mischief as she managed to slip her hand from Maera's grasp. With practiced grace, she curtsied, head lowered demurely, one hand resting on her swollen belly.

Maera whipped around to face the door, her eyes widening as she saw Aemond standing in the doorway. His long silver hair was tousled, no longer perfectly straight as it had been when he left Kings Landing on his dragon. Aemond's violet eye met Maera's gaze, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face.

He furrowed his brow in a mixture of surprise and concern at finding his wife here, away from Kings Landing. A scoff escaped his lips, accompanied by a deep frown, as he realized she had defied his orders to remain in the capital. He opened his mouth, seemingly to chastise his wife, before his gaze fell onto the witch.

“My Prince,” Alys greeted him, before rising slowly from the curtsy, the movement strained due to her condition

Aemond’s gaze shifted from Maera to Alys, and in an instant, his reaction so pronounced that it seemed to freeze the air around them. His normally composed demeanor shattered in an instant, replaced by a visage of shock and astonishment. The muscles in his jaw tensed, his violet eye widening to the point where it appeared almost unnaturally large against the backdrop of his face.

Maera’s eyes bore into him, capturing every nuance of his expression as he stood there, frozen in the doorway, his single eye locked on Alys’s pregnant form. She noted the disbelief etched into his furrowed brow and the subtle trembling of his lips. Green eyes flicked back and forth between Aemond and Alys, studying their reactions with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Maera noted the absence of fear or concern in Aemond’s eye, no hint of guilt or remorse. It was a raw, unfiltered astonishment that gripped him, leaving him momentarily speechless.

The realization slowly dawned on Maera: Aemond was completely unaware of Alys’s pregnancy. The implications of this revelation swirled in her mind, adding another layer of complexity to the already tangled web of emotions she felt towards her husband and his whore. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Maera was the first to break the silence, an ominously light-hearted tone to her voice. “Well, this is certainly a surprise, is it not?”

She turned her head to glance at Aemond, who remained rooted to his spot, unblinking eye still fixated on the witch’s rounded abdomen. A bitter laugh escaped Maera’s lips. She had never witnessed him so thoroughly taken aback, not even in their childhood. Despite the tumult of emotions roiling within her, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at seeing Aemond so utterly vulnerable, his handsome face now white as a sheet.

“I am sure you have much to catch up on. I shall leave you while I go and settle in my rooms,” Maera declared before taking a step away from Alys and began walking towards her husband. But the she stopped suddenly in her tracks, turning to face Alys once again, as if she had forgotten something. “When is the child due to be born?”

Alys met Maera’s gaze steadily, her expression relaxed. “Two moons, Princess,” she replied evenly, her voice carrying an air of quiet confidence.

Nodding thoughtfully, Maera absorbed the revelation, her mind already processing the implications. She mentally traced back the timeline, realizing that the child would have been conceived around the time of the Harvest Moon Ball.

"Oh, Lady Maera, I can attend to my duties. Very. Thoroughly,” Aemonds previous words echoed in her mind.

Fucker.

The prince had remained in Kings Landing since that day, and whilst that meant that there may not have been adultery in the technical sense, the revelation still stung, igniting a fierce anger within her.

“Has the Maester attended to you?” The Princess asked, seeming concerned for the well-being of both Alys and the unborn child, evident in her voice.

Alys appeared momentarily taken aback by the unexpected question, her brow furrowing in slight confusion. “No, he has not,” she admitted, her tone tinged with uncertainty.

Determined to maintain control of the situation, Maera walked back towards Alys with measured steps. She knew that showing any sign of weakness would only give the witch an advantage. With every graceful movement, Maera silently vowed to handle the situation with cunning and strategy, refusing to let her emotions dictate her actions.

Maera forced a smile, masking her true feelings behind a façade of benevolence as she addressed the witch. “I have no qualms with the child in your womb,” she stated firmly, her words carrying a note of sincerity. “It did not ask to be put there and is innocent in all of this.”

Turning to gauge Aemond’s reaction, Maera found him still rooted to the doorway, his expression a mask of shock. Undeterred, she pressed on. “I will ensure you are examined by the Maester and that preparations are made for the child’s arrival,” she declared, her voice resolute.

Alys blinked in disbelief, gratitude mingling with her surprise as expression softened, a hint of joy shining through her guarded demeanor. “Thank you, Princess. That is kind of you,” she murmured, her tone sincere.

A smirk tugged at the corners of Maera’s lips, a glint of steel in her eyes as she responded, “Yes, it is.” Taking a deep breath, she let the sweetness fade from her voice, her words carrying a warning edge. “But do not mistake my kindness for weakness.”

Maera took another deliberate step towards Alys, her eyes roved over the witch’s form, from head to toe, taking in every detail like she would her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t help but pause momentarily on the prominent swell of Alys’s belly beneath her dress, a stark reminder of her husband’s betrayal. Yet, Maera maintained a façade of control, her expression unreadable as she locked eyes with the witch.

“That bastard in your belly is the only thing keeping you safe,” she sneered, each syllable dripping with venom. “If you touch my husband, no actually, if you so much as even look at him in a way I find distasteful…” She paused, raising a single finger to punctuate her threat. “One word to my dragon, and you will die. Screaming.”

Alys swallowed hard, her bravado faltering in the face of Maera’s unwavering resolve. Her jaw clenched tightly as she met Maera’s gaze, a flicker of fear betraying her composed exterior. “Is that clear?” Maera demanded, her tone sharp and commanding.

“Yes, Princess,” Alys replied begrudgingly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Maera hummed in response, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her lips as she studied Alys’s reaction. With a final, pointed glance, she turned on her heel, shoulder-barging past her husband as she left the room.

She strode down the corridor, her footsteps echoing against the stone walls as she sought out the main chambers where she would be staying. As she walked, the silence was shattered by the muffled sounds emanating from the room she had just left. Alys’s voice, barely audible, was soon drowned out by the cacophony of crashing furniture, shattering bottles, and clanging metal. Despite the chaos behind her, Maera did not falter, her resolve unyielding as she continued on her path, refusing to look back.

The flickering candlelight danced across the stone walls of the chamber as the maid busied herself preparing the bath for Maera. The servants at the castle were similar in number to that at Rain House, much less than that of the Red Keep. It might have made her feel at home, it were not for the circumstances. The warmth of the water filled the air, mingling with the subtle scent of lavender that wafted from the nearby candles.

With practiced hands, the maid carefully undid the intricate braids that adorned Maera's hair, allowing the damp strands to cascade down her back in loose waves, dark brown and silver blended together. The laces of Maera's leathers were deftly undone, revealing her curvaceous form and the subtle swell of her growing belly. Despite the warmth of the room, goosebumps rose along her skin as she slipped into the steaming water, the heat enveloping her in a comforting embrace.

Maera sank into the bath with a contented sigh, the water soothing her weary muscles as she leaned back against the edge of the tub. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the maid, preferring to bathe alone in the quiet solitude of the chamber. Alone at last, Maera closed her eyes, allowing the warmth of the water to wash away the tension that had built up throughout the day. The gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the tub provided a soothing backdrop as she let herself relax, if only for a fleeting moment, in the midst of the turmoil that surrounded her.

As Maera lathered the soap in her hands, she felt the familiar tingle of bubbles forming, yet the soothing sensation did little to ease her troubled mind. With each pass of her hands through her brown locks, washing away the grime of travel in dragonback, she couldn't help but feel a sense of futility. No amount of soap and water could cleanse her of the turmoil brewing within.

The thought of Aemond siring a bastard filled her with a sense of helplessness. Would he acknowledge the child? And what of Alys, with her fanciful notions of fate and birthright? Maera feared the influence Alys might have over the child and the potential threat it posed to Maera’s own status as a princess of the Realm and her child’s status as Aemond’s heir.

Rinsing her hair, Maera couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty that clouded her thoughts. How long would she be forced to put up with the presence of her husband's whore? It seemed as though she was expected to tolerate the situation, to play the part of the dutiful wife. But Maera knew deep down that she lacked the strength and resilience to endure such a trial.

The sound of the chamber door opening and closing quietly reached her ears as she continued to bathe, signaling her husband's arrival. She didn't need to turn to know it was Aemond; the familiar presence and the glint of silver in her periphery confirmed his presence as he made his way toward the bed. The soft clinking of metal followed as Aemond began to undress, the distinct sound of his belt and the buckles of his doublet hitting the floor before being placed neatly on a nearby desk. His boots followed suit, the dull thud of leather against the stone floor echoing in the chamber as he removed them and set them aside.

Maera stole a glance across the room as she continued to wash, running the bar of soap across her chest and shoulders. Aemond sat on the edge of the bed now, clad only in his trousers and an oversized white undershirt. Despite his stoic expression, his single violet eye betrayed the emotions swirling within him—guilt, and perhaps even fear—as he watched Maera with a mixture of apprehension and remorse. She did not say anything and simply continued with the task at hand, letting the undeniable tension simmer in the atmosphere.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he finally spoke, his voice tinged with a rare note of meekness. “I did not know,” he muttered, his words almost lost beneath the sound of the water.

Maera glanced up at him briefly, her expression unreadable, before returning her attention to bathing. His words hung heavy in the air, but she made no move to acknowledge him. As she twisted her thick hair in her hand to wring out the water, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I swear it.”

A humorless laugh escaped Maera’s lips, the bitterness evident in the sound. “I believe you,” she replied, her tone flat and devoid of any emotion.

Aemond’s head snapped up, surprise flickering across his features. “You do?” he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of hope and disbelief.

Maera nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on her task. “I do,” she affirmed, her voice soft but firm. “What I find hard to believe is how you could be so stupid.”

Aemond winced at her words, the weight of her disappointment evident in his downcast expression. “I am sorry, Maera,” he murmured, his tone heavy with remorse.

Maera hummed in response, her movements becoming more deliberate as she stepped out of the bath and reached for a towel. “Do you realize the position you have put me in? Our child in?” she continued, her voice laced with frustration and anger.

Aemond remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor as she began to dry herself off. Maera’s words hung in the air, the tension between them palpable. “It was not an empty threat,” she stated firmly, her eyes narrowing as she turned to face him. “It is a promise. Whatever love I have for you has implored me to be merciful.”

She ran the towel through her hair, squeezing out the water as she turned her back on Aemond, her gaze fixated on the flames of the hearth. “But if she steps out of line once, she will burn, bastard and all.”

The Prince’s reaction to Maera’s chastisement was subtle yet palpable. Though he remained composed, Maera could sense her words cutting him deeply. His eye was fixed on her bare form as she moved across the room, settling into a chair by the mirror to brush her hair, the silver streak standing out amidst the dark curls. Lost in thought as she brushed, Maera contemplated the brewing warfare, both within the Realm and within the walls of Harrenhall against the witch, Alys Rivers. Her mind buzzed with strategies and counter-strategies with each stroke of the brush, each possibility branching out into a web of intricate calculations.

She knew that resorting to brute force against the whore would only play into Alys’s hands, giving the witch the satisfaction of knowing she had rattled a Princess of the Realm. As easy as it would be to simply kill Alys and the bastard within, it only reveal weakness, casting Maera as the jealous wife unable to handle her husband’s transgressions. No, Maera resolved to play the long game, biding her time, and when the moment was right, she would strike with all the cunning and determination of a true Targaryen.

“ Gaomagon ao vēdros issa?” Do you hate me? The Prince asked, as he watched his wife in the mirrors reflection.

“Kessa,” Yes, Maera replied gruffly, her fingers untangling the remaining knots at the end of her hair. She glanced at Aemond’s reflection in the mirror, seeing the tension etched into his features despite his composed facade. It was clear that her words had struck a nerve, stirring up a storm of emotions beneath his stoic exterior. Yet, his gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering in its intensity, as if searching for something within her that he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Yn gaomagon ao jorrāelagon issa?” But do you love me?

His question prompted Maera to close her eyes and sigh deeply. The thought of him being reckless enough to give a woman is seed, and not even think about the consequences of what would happen if it took root in Alys’s womb, filled her with a potent mix of rage and despair. But, she knew that succumbing to such emotions would only weaken her position further.

“Hakotan sīr,” Begrudgingly so, she replied, bittnerness on her tongue as the words left her mouth. While Alys possessed the arcane abilities of a witch, Maera recognised she too was powerful within her own right. She was proficient with the sword, adept at forming alliances, had claimed one of the largest dragons in the world, and, most importantly, ensnared the love and devotion on the One-Eyed Prince.

She stood from her chair that faced the mirror, her bare form ensnaring Aemond to not tear his gaze away, making her way over to her belongings on the other side of the room. She reached into her chest that had been brought in by the guards and retrieved her dagger, the candlelight catching the glint of sapphires and emeralds adorning its hilt, casting mesmerizing reflections.

“I wish I did not. It would make things simpler,” Maera muttered, before turning to look at her husband and strolling towards him. Still sat on the bed, the Prince looked up at her, the silver hair falling away from his face. Approaching Aemond, who remained seated on the bed, his gaze fixed on her, Maera wielded the dagger with a confident air. She pressed its tip lightly against the exposed part of his chest beneath the loose shirt, the metal cool against his skin.

“For instance, I could slit your throat right now for how you have dishonoured me, and not bat an eye,” she purred, applying even more pressure with the blade. As she pressed even harder, Aemond's gaze remained locked on hers as he shuffled backward on the bed. Maera knelt on the mattress, her form following his until Aemond's head thudded against the headboard.

She straddled his hips comfortably, a satisfying smirk crossing her face as she could feel a hardness beginning to grow beneath the fabric of his trousers. “Yet whether to be divine intervention or not, my body will not allow me to press this knife deep enough to kill you.”

A sharp intake of breath escaped Aemond’s lips as the blade broke the skin on his chest, a thin line of crimson welling up in its wake. Maera brought the dagger up to her face, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of intensity and satisfaction as she observed her husband’s blood staining the metal. With deliberate slowness, she opened her mouth and traced the blade along her tongue, savoring the metallic taste of his blood, her gaze locked with Aemond’s, who watched with a potent blend of astonishment and desire, his breath hitching in response.

Grinding her bare core against him, a deep rumbling sound left his throat, his large calloused hands gripping the sheet below him, not daring to touch her just yet. Deciding that he was beginning to enjoy himself a little too much for her liking, Maera snaked her way back down is slender muscular form. The sharpness of the dragger ripped the fabric of the cotton shirt, revealing his toned stomach, a sight that had Maera licking her lips.

The knife stopped at the bulge in his pants and stayed there for a moment. She looked at his face, seeing the tenseness in his jaw and a dusting of pink on his cheeks as he attempted to steady his breathing. With a skilled hand, she hooked the blade underneath the laces, a gasp leaving the Prince’s mouth as Maera pulled the blade upwards, severing the strings that confined his manhood.

Her hand slipped into his breeches to wrap around his length and stroke him slowly, his cock hot and heavy in her hand. She lay on her side between his legs, mindful of her swelling abdomen, as she let her hand slide down his shaft, her touch intentionally light, seeking to draw out the sensation.

“What exactly did you think she would do with the seed you bestowed upon her womb when you lay with her?” Maera asked, her green eyes burning into his as she continued to pump him. No answer came as Aemond attempted to hold back a groan by tensing his jaw. That would not do. Leaning forward she kissed his tip, tongue darting out to catch a bead of his arousal that began to leak from his slit.

He threw his head back, a harsh thud against the headboard indicating that he was beginning to lose control. “Fuck,” he growled, knuckles white from holding the sheets so tightly between his fingers.

���Perhaps wipe it from her body and read what it said in the palm of her hand?” Maera inquired with a mocking tone, before taking him in her mouth. Aemond hissed as she sucked to the base of his length, not breaking eye contact, before coming back up and releasing the cock from her mouth. She tilted her head and continued to taunt him. “Or maybe conduct some sort of ritual and consume it?”

“Maera,” he breathed, the sound of her name from his lips sending a shudder down her spine and causing her core to throb. She wanted nothing more than for him to elicit more such sounds, loud enough even for that whore to hear.

Maera encapsulated him in her mouth once again, swirling her tongue around his tip, ensuring that her eyes were still on his face as he watched her, swiping his tongue against his bottom lip. She settled into a rhythm, bobbing her head up and down his length, noticing how he scrunched his face as the control he had continued to fray at the edges, his hips bucking upwards slightly causing his cock to hit the back of her throat.

As he attempted to entangle his fingers into her damp curls, Maera abruptly pulled back, causing the Prince growl disapprovingly. However, as he watched sit up and move to kneel above his cock, his pupil blew wide with lust, hands finally letting go of the sheets and resting on her plush thighs, fingers digging into the flesh.

“You are a Prince. In my eyes, you are a King,” she whispered in a sultry tone, wrapping her hand around his length and rubbing him against her your entrance so he could feel the slick that had formed there. She sank down slowly on his cock, their eyes remaining fixed on each other as they both gasped. “Not some pathetic wastrel who needs validation from a Strong Bastard,” Maera whined, placing her hands on his chest as she slowly continued to lower herself down, savouring every inch of him until he was fully inside of her.

After a moment she began to roll her hips, grinding against him so her clit pushed against his pubic bone. Her skin prickled at the sensation and that familiar coil in her stomach began to wind its self tighter and tighter. The bruising hold he had on her thighs faded as his hands snaked up her torso, stopping a moment on the small bump of their child, before landing on her large and rounded breasts.

He closed his eye before leaning in and taking one of her nipples into his mouth, the feeling of his tongue swirling around the nub making Maera’s eyes flutter shut. His teeth grazed the skin and her cunt clenched around him, head tipping back as she continued to ride him, Aemond’s hips now snapping upwards to meet her movements.

Deciding to regain a semblance of control, Maera cast her eyes downward to see him staring right back, suckling one of her breasts whilst squeezing and fondling the other. As he switched sides, Maera found herself able to speak. “I am yours because I choose to be. Not because of spells or fate. It’s because I say so,” she gasped, a warning tone beneath the pleasurable noises she made.

Maera picked up the pace, rocking more vigorously as she chased her own high, Aemond now planting his feet on the bed, thrusted upwards, much harder before, hitting that spongey spot within her repeatedly. All of a sudden, blinding white hot pleasure coursed through her veins as her peak hit her, her cunt fluttering around him as he fucked her through her orgasm.

“Seven fucking Hells,” he uttered through gritted teeth, his voice animalistic and feral as he chased his own high, biting his bottom lip so hard that it drew blood. As Maera’s mind became clearer, she continued to ride him, studying his face and paying close attention to his movements as his hips began to stutter, his pace becoming sloppier, his jaw becoming slack.

Aemond was seemingly about to peak, so she promptly hopped off his lap, his cock slipping out of her, glistening in the candlelight with her slick, leaving him shocked and somewhat dazed from the experience. Even though her legs were shaking from climax, she managed to confidently stroll to her chest of belongings, pulling out a nightdress and gown and dressing herself quickly. She caught the reflection of the Prince in the mirror. The image of him sat against the headboard, half-naked with his cock looking painfully hard after he was denied an orgasm was enough to make her chuckle to herself. A fitting punishment.

“I’m going to find a book in the library. Finish yourself off.”

Notes: Honestly, good for her 🖤

Tags: @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @0eessirk8 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @zenka69

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[forlorn-crows]

𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

just a lil something i tortured @divine-misfortune with last night after he shared this post with me and said "Now hear me out Zeph/aeth and or omega bc they won’t slow down fr a damn second "

and thus i started a doc lovingly called "zephyr/omega go to sleep ya old man"

1263 words of omega misusing quintessence in order to (lovingly i swear) force zephyr to get some rest. yes zephyr will be mad at him later. yes omega is being a lil bit of a bastard. yes i am indulging in my (our) hypnokink, just go with it.

“You’re a stubborn old thing, you know that?”

Zephyr rolls their eyes before side-eyeing the quintessence ghoul, making a face. “Care to elaborate?”

“Been spending a lot of time with those new ghoulettes. When was the last time you slept?” Omega puts a hand on the back of the leather armchair Zephyr is currently seated in, where they were, up until now, engrossed in a text about ancient languages. 

They bite their tongue against the urge to correct him on Cirrus and Cumulus’ names. “I slept last night, there’s no need for your concern.”

“Oh, last night, hm? So that wasn’t the organ I was hearing in the wee hours of the morning?”

“You are as old as this building, Omega, surely you’re aware of the noises that aged pipes make when all else is silent.” 

He tuts. “Far too melodic for old plumbing, Zeph.”

Zephyr grumbles and makes to return back to their book without replying. Omega chuckles, and suddenly his hands are resting on their shoulders, thumbs heavy over the strained tendons on the back of their neck. 

“Why don’t you let me help?”

The air ghoul grumbles again. Slots their small stack of notes along the book’s binding as a makeshift bookmark and snaps the thing shut. They place it onto the table and stare at the fire in the hearth.  

“And why should I let you?” they say to the fading embers. 

Omega hums. “Because you need your rest, you cranky ghoul.”

“I am plenty rested.”

“These knots in your shoulders say otherwise.”

Zephyr closes their eyes and sighs like an exasperated teacher. “And you claim that I am the stubborn one?”

“Come on,” Omega goads them. Telltale magick crackling to life beneath his fingertips. “Doesn’t have to be much.”

Before Zephyr can so much as think about scurrying away with their book, warm quintessence seeps into their bones, the tension held there unraveling from the inside out. Their eyelids flutter, shoulders slumping. Some undignified noise bubbles up from their throat, and they can barely catch their chin from hitting their chest as their head lolls forward. 

“You . . .” They try to protest, tongue too heavy in their mouth to form its usual elegant timbre. Their hands can’t even grip the arms of the chair anymore, cementing them into place and thwarting any chance they had of escaping Omega’s nagging. 

Said quintessence ghoul shushes him, self-satisfied and certainly not even close to genuinely comforting. “There you go. See? Knew you were tired.”

“Hn . . .’m not—”

“You are, look at that sleepy face.” Omega brushes a few strands of hair back behind their horns, their head leaning into his touch without their permission. Zephyr’s eyes are drooping, rolling with the effort of trying to keep them open. Maybe they are more tired than they thought, he didn’t give them that much magick, did he?

Omega coos at them, running his thumb along the base of their horn. “Just close your eyes,” he whispers. 

Zephyr just groans, something close to uh uh, but it doesn’t sound very disagreeing. They’re falling asleep sitting up, and his warm hand against the side of their face does nothing but drag them closer to unconsciousness. Suddenly, they don’t want to get away from him. Magick swirls all syrupy in their veins, and, really, it’s getting harder and harder to have any opinions on the situation. 

Behind them, Omega shakes his head and loops around to the front of the chair, still cradling their head as he kneels between their parted legs. The hands at their sides, having slid off the arms of the chair, twitch towards him. Zephyr watches Omega’s other hand as it comes to hold the other side of their face, eyes slow and delayed as they track its movement. 

“You’d do well to listen to me, you tired old hen,” Omega chides them. He wiggles their head a little, not unlike a chiropractor looking for sore spots. Ensuring they’re close to limp and loose. 

Zephyr just lets him. Has no choice, really. They’d call him a plethora of names later—bastard, unwelcome imp, meddling hypnotist spawn—but the thought of remembering to do so slides away like rain on glass. 

He must sense the fleeting thought behind Zephyr’s glassy eyes, because he adjusts their head again, tightening his grip almost imperceptibly. 

“None of that; you’re being so good, aren’t you? I’m only helping, aren’t I? Little bit of magick to get rid of all those pesky cobwebs between your ears. I know, you’re so tired underneath all those stubborn thoughts. Just takes a nice, kind ghoul like me to help you relax, doesn’t it?” On and on he drones, the words going in one ear and out the other, washing away their own internal monologue and replacing it with his own. They are tired, and an afternoon nap isn’t so terrible, they aren’t really busy. And Omega’s helping them. 

Definitely not using his magick in some smug, actually selfish way, rendering the normally uptight ghoul completely powerless in less than a second. No, it’s completely selfless—a show of his care and concern for Zephyr’s wellbeing. Absolutely not a vehicle to win any kind of argument, not at all. 

Their breathing is slowing now, neck nearly limp in Omega’s hands. Sinking deeper into the fuzzy embrace of sleep. 

“That’s it,” he lilts. “You’re gonna feel so much better, and I won’t even say ‘I told you so.’ How does that sound?” 

Zephyr responds with a long exhale through parted lips, left thigh twitching randomly as the pleasant numbness settles in. 

Omega smirks. “Good.” With one last push of quintessence, he tilts their head just so and watches as their eyes unfocus and fall shut, jaw dropping open with the softest noise as they drift asleep in his hands. The quiet snores follow just seconds later, Omega’s hands the only thing keeping them upright. 

He waits until he’s sure they’re asleep, warming his back against the dying flames while Zephyr slumps in their chair. Only then does he pull back the tendrils of his magick, letting it seep down towards the floorboards as slow as molasses so as not to accidentally rouse them. Thankfully, the library is empty this time of day. Nothing to interrupt the air ghoul’s much needed sleep. 

They’re lax and peaceful now, but Omega’s sure he’ll hear about it when they wake. He laughs to himself at the plethora of elegant insults that come to mind. For now, he takes satisfaction in the way Zephyr’s head lolls back against the chair with the gentlest press of his pointer finger, drool making its way out of the corner of their mouth already. 

“Cute,” the quintessence ghoul comments, smoothing out the wrinkles in his button-down. And then, as a wicked afterthought, he presses the pad of his finger to the middle of their forehead again, sneaking in a cheeky suggestion of a dream wrapped in plumes of balsam and petrichor. Snickering to himself when Zephyr whines quietly and their tail kinks up at the end. “Enjoy,” he whispers, making his exit. 

Omega knows he won’t get any thanks for that—a pity, really, considering it was quite a nice little fantasy—nor will he get any thanks for helping (forcing) Zephyr to get some rest. At the very least, he’ll get a very disgruntled and haughty air ghoul glaring at him for the remainder of the day. 

Omega’s fine with being berated for misuse of magick if it means the poor thing won’t be sleep deprived. Until then, he files away Zephyr’s reaction to it for later.

[musings-ofthe-unamused]

Coffee For Cuties (Genshin Impact)

Pairing: Thoma x m!reader

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Thoma <3

The coffee shop near your house was overpriced. The coffee tasted as if it was stale and the only good thing was the pretty blond boy that smiled at you every time you came up to the counter. If it weren't for him, you would have left this place a long time ago. You sat at the table in the far corner. The seat by the window perfectly faced the counter so you could watch him as he worked. Totally not creepy at all.

Thoma was his name. It was on his name tag with a picture of a poorly drawn (but still cute) dog. After the first week of going there, you two had bonded. Shy and quick small talk was the only thing you could manage. You had learned bits and pieces of information about each other. He was a senior in college. He never really said his major, but he did reveal that the coffee shop wasn't his only job. He only worked the most hours here because his best friend, Ayato, owned the shop.

"Staring at him again?"

Ayato was a menace, to say the least. He set down your cup of coffee as you looked up at his smirk. Your eyes narrowed and you slid the coffee closer to yourself. You thought Ayato would at least be considerate about your crush towards Thoma. Instead, he opted for teasing you about it and consistently threatening to tell Thoma your feelings. 

"Thank you for the coffee."

Ayato leaned against the table. "You know, you should just confess."

You rolled your eyes. "Why?"

"Because…" He leans even closer to you, his breath brushing against your ear. "I need entertainment."

"So instead of helping me, you're just going to watch?" You sigh and look at him. "You can at least tell me if he likes guys." 

"I am helping. Just look at him! That's someone who's jealous."

Your eyes flitted to where Thoma was trying not to look over to where you were sitting. He was rubbing down the counter with a rag. When he looked at you, he turned. Ayato laughed as he saw your expression. His hand tapped your nose. 

"You're welcome."

Before you could ask how in the hell that helped your situation, he left. You watched as Ayato walked behind the counter. Thoma asked him a question, causing Ayato to giggle and then shake his head. That bastard then went to the back, leaving Thoma with a defeated gaze. He refused to even look your way.

"Damn it."

You could've gone over there. You should have . But it wasn't so easy. If this were some romance novel, you'd swallow that anxious lump in your throat and get up. You two would talk, have a laugh over how stupid Ayato was, he'd ask you out, and then you'd waltz into the sunset holding his hand. Hands that you spent an indecently long time staring at as he expertly used the espresso machine. Hands that you wanted to- 

No. This wasn't the time. Now was the time to sulk over how pathetic you were. Thoma had never shown signs of interest in you. He was a nice guy. That was like, his default mode. He was probably nice to everyone . You were just a customer, after all. If anything, he probably thought you were a weirdo that came around too much.

"Uhm…" 

Your eyes focused on the blurry image in front of you: Thoma was rubbing his hands nervously, his face turned away from you. It wasn't often you got to see his full frame. The white apron he wore was tied snuggly against his waist. A black shirt with the coffee shop's logo hugged his lithe muscles perfectly. His blonde hair was slightly messy, a headband keeping it at bay as a ponytail rested perfectly on his shoulder. God, he looked like a divine being whose sole purpose was to serve the best coffee. 

"Hi…uh…hi." You wanted to slap yourself in the face. Was now the time to really clam up? 

Thoma turned towards you. He wasn't smiling. "About you and Ayato-"

You scoffed. "Me and him? What about us? First of all, there is no us . We're just friends, if that's what you're thinking. Well, maybe not even that? He's kind of a nuisance. Don't you think so? I mean I don't even know how you deal with him." 

"That's not what I wanted to say."

"What?"

"I just wanted to ask if you're ok?"

"Huh?" Your eyes shift over to Ayato who had revealed himself from his evil cave. He had his hand over his mouth as if trying to hide his smile. "Wha…what did he tell you?"

Thoma cleared his throat. "That you just broke up with your boyfriend."

You let out a loud sigh before gathering your stuff. You shoved everything in your bag angrily, muttering something to yourself about how you never wanted to come here again. Thoma seemed panicked as his eyes widened, his hands raising asif he wanted to keep you from leaving. You grabbed your coffee and chugged the rest of it down before slamming it back down on the table. 

"What's wrong? Oh god, was I not supposed to bring it up? I'm so sorry! Ayato said that you needed comfort so I-"

"Ayato was wrong." Your voice came out more snippy than you thought. Thoma winced, causing you to sigh once again as you put on your backpack. "Listen, Thoma, you're super sweet for checking on me. But I did not break up with anyone. Even if I had, it's not Ayato's business to tell."

"Oh. Well, I apologize if I crossed the line."

"You didn't. I need to go."

It didn't feel good to leave Thoma with a hurt expression. Like a wounded puppy, you just wanted to pat his head and call him a good boy that did nothing wrong. Because he didn't. It was Ayato that meddled too much. It was frustrating. It truly was. If you had less of a brain, you would have climbed behind that counter and choked him while calling him every name in the book. 

Calming down was what you really needed. It was winter, so the cool air hitting your cheeks felt nice. You didn't realize how heated you actually got. As you walked back to your dorm, you thought about if you were truly only angry at Ayato or at yourself. 

It was most likely a mixture of both. You spent so much time pining over Thoma that you didn't actually act on your feelings. To be fair, it wasn't like it was easy. He could be dating someone. Or even worse, he could be straight. When you finally were in bed, staring at the ceiling in moping, you knew you had to at least apologize. 

The next day, you stood outside the cafe wringing your hands together. You were so confident that you could apologize, but now that you were here, you realized it wasn't so easy. What if he didn't want to accept your apology? What if he didn't want to even talk to you? 

"Welco- well, look who it is." Ayato greeted you, if you could even call it that. Thoma was nowhere to be seen, so you walked up to the counter. "You walked out in quite a tizzy."

"Where's Thoma?"

"Not even a hello?"

You glared at him.

He held up his hands in defense. "Ok, ok. He's coming in soon. He said he was late."

"Good," You crossed your arms. "I have a bone to pick with you."

Ayato scoffed. "What? Haven't I been helping you?"

"No! You haven't! I'd much rather you stay out of it!"

"It's not like you're doing anything about your crush. Honestly, it's painful to see."

"So you tell him I just broke up with someone? How is that supposed to help?"

"Comfort. He gives you comfort, you two grow closer, then you date. Case closed."

You roll your eyes, wondering how this man was even in charge of a cafe considering he has no critical thinking skills. "Ayato, I'm being serious. I'd rather work on this at my own pace. You severely crossed a line. It's not your business to tell Thoma anything about me, especially if I didn't ask. Did you even realize you outed me to him?"

Ayato paused. His face grew slightly pale and then softened. "Jesus."

"Yeah. Exactly. I understand you're trying to help both of us out but at least ask . Now I don't even get to tell him about myself when I was ready."

"I'm sorry." 

"Yeah. Just…be more considerate."

There was silence as it sunk in on what Ayato truly did. He honestly didn't seem like a bad guy. He was just too eager to push his own agenda. Before you or he could say anything more, the door jingled. You turned to see Thoma huffing and shaking his hair out as he took off his beanie. Your heart melted at the sight. If there was anyone who was made to be the perfect partner, it would be him. 

"Sorry I'm late!" He smiled. His eyes fell onto you. You smiled sheepishly and waved. "Oh. Hey."

It was a less than enthusiastic greeting. You tried to push down the pain you felt and instead walked over to him. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Sorry…about yesterday."

He shook his head. "I get it. Ayato can be a pain."

"That may be true but…" You pouted slightly. "I had no right to use that tone with you."

"Why…why did he tell me that?"

"He was trying to uh- you know. Just...Uh…"

"You don't have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable!"

"It's not that, it's just-"

"How about I get you a drink? Your usual?"

You nodded. There goes your chance. If you could've slapped yourself without looking like even more of an idiot, you would've.

"Alright. I'll call you when it's ready."

Before he could leave, you pulled on his sleeve. "Before you go…He said that because he was trying to help me. Because-I kinda, well." You took a deep breath. "I really like you. Ok. I'm gonna stop embarrassing myself now so you can work."

Without looking at his reaction, you went and took a seat at your usual spot. It felt good to finally say it out loud. At the same time, you felt like your heart was going to explode . Was this how it felt to confess to someone? Without taking any precautions and just going for it? You wanted to throw up. To actually throw up. You sat back in your seat and zoned out, waiting for your drink.

"Order up!" Your name was called and you got up, staring at the ground as you sludged up to the counter. 

"Thanks," You mumbled, slapping down two five dollar bills. "Keep the change." 

Gripping the cup, you noticed there was something written on the side. Your mouth dropped open. Your eyes shifted from the drink to Thoma back to your drink. Instead of your name, it read “to the cutest boy”. Your head whipped to Thoma again. His whole entire body seemed to be consumed in a blush as Ayato stood next to him with a shit eating grin on his face. Thoma smiled sheepishly and you shyly looked away. 

“Shit.” You mumbled.

"If you'd like," Thoma's soft and melodic voice made you look at him with the utmost attention. "And if you're free afterwards we can…hang out?"

"Yeah. I-I'd like that."

"Cool. Me too."

Ayato let out a laugh. "Finally!"

[radiaurapple]

Lucid Dreams of New Orleans: Chapter 5

CHAPTER SUMMARY: IN WHICH Alastor seeks answers. The last time Lucifer saw his father, he was granted a fragment of His divine power — a punishment in the guise of a blessing — that he might serve as steward of the wayward souls cast down into Hell. It is a cruel gift, designed to ensure that he will always be haunted by his mistakes; Lucifer has endured the past seven thousand years by avoiding its use at all costs. But in the aftermath of the fight with Adam, Alastor's worsening injury threatens the foundations of his daughter's dream. Lucifer does what any good father would do: he uses his long-forgotten power to deliver Alastor's soul from the brink of destruction. In turn, knowing Alastor — with all his sins, past lives, and heartbreaks — teaches Lucifer a little more about what it means to be human.

[AO3 LINK]

New chapter and new promo art for the chapter!! hope you enjoy, next chapter is dropping a week from today as usual!!! 📻🍎

Alastor knocks firmly on Lucifer’s door.

There’s a clattering sound inside the room, followed by the unmistakable squeaking of a chorus of rubber ducks. A moment later, Lucifer peeks through the door, looking disheveled. His hat, cloak, and vest lie discarded on the floor behind him. The top three buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned.

His eyes meet Alastor’s. “No. Fuck, no. Please — get out.”

“Not so fast,” Alastor says. He melts into the shadows, slides along the wall, and reforms inside the room. Lucifer rounds on him in indignation; Alastor snaps his fingers and the door closes gently behind him. He makes a show of brushing off his jacket. “I believe you owe me an explanation,” he says.

Lucifer steps forward and grabs a fistful of Alastor’s shirt. “I said get out.” He drags Alastor forward, toward the door; Alastor stumbles and grabs at the collar of Lucifer’s shirt. His thumb brushes Lucifer’s exposed collarbone.

Then the floor gives way beneath them. They are falling through the sky, into the darkness — the air rushes up around them, so cold it burns. A terror unlike any Alastor has ever experienced floods his system — he hears a scream, but he doesn’t know if it’s his. There’s no space left in his mind for anything but the approaching darkness, the herald of their inevitable deaths.

Lucifer is still gripping Alastor’s shirt — and, Alastor realizes belatedly, already in the middle of some kind of lecture, shouting over the roar of wind.

“God damn you, you controlling bastard — you couldn’t just leave it, could you? Couldn’t just say thank you, Lucifer, for saving my life — ”

Alastor hardly hears him. He’s staring down at the shapes forming in the darkness beneath them. Are they pools of water? Jagged rocks?

“— and I’ll have you know my knees hurt like Hell afterwards. How dare you act like I’m the one in your debt. How dare you — what are you looking at?”

Lucifer follows Alastor’s gaze down to the earth rushing up to meet them.

“God damn it!” Lucifer says. He reaches for Alastor and pulls him in with both hands, then twists in the air so that Alastor is above him.

“What are you doing?” Alastor says.

Lucifer looks at him incredulously, as if it should be obvious. His eyes are incensed and incandescent blue.

Then they hit the ground.

The sound, like a sigh, of the air being knocked out of Lucifer’s lungs. A flash of searing, blinding pain — then he’s sprawled on the floor of Lucifer’s room, curled up facing Lucifer, who gasps — one desperate breath — then rolls up onto his knees and leans over Alastor.

“Alastor,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Alastor sits up and wills his heartbeat to slow, digs his fingers into the carpet. In the corner of his eye, his Shadow grows restless — he breathes there for a long moment to bring it back under his control, but when he finally speaks, his voice still shakes. “That was miserable. Stay the fuck out of my head.”

Indecision plays out across Lucifer’s face. “That wasn’t your head,” he says at last. “It was mine.”

“That was my dream.”

“No — that was the memory the dream is based on. I have that dream almost every night. Sometimes humans catch it from me — I don’t know why.”

“We were falling from heaven,” Alastor says — daring Lucifer to deny it.

“That doesn’t concern you,” Lucifer says.

“Doesn’t it?” Alastor says — he snarls and lunges toward Lucifer, who jumps back, like he’s been burned. Alastor’s fingertips brush Lucifer’s forehead, and they’re toppling backward, again —

Alastor is sitting behind the piano bench at a dance hall, mid-performance; on instinct, he searches the stage for Hollis — but then he recognizes this as one of the white venues he played towards the end of his jazz career, before his radio station and after Hollis was gone.

His fingers still over the keys, moving instead to press on his temples — the rest of the band comes to a discordant stop. The audience mutters uneasily — Alastor scans the crowd and finds Lucifer’s glowing blue eyes among them.

“What are you doing to me?” Alastor says. His voice echoes through the room. He intends it to be commanding, or at the very least demanding, but he can’t quite keep the tremor out of it.

In the corner of his eye, the third man Alastor ever killed exits the washroom. Alastor’s gaze zeroes in on him instantly, as though not a day has passed since he tailed this man on his morning commute, to his home, to his children’s school. The sight of him alive and content, with a faint smile on his face as he spots his low-life friends across the dance floor, fills Alastor’s stomach with burning, indescribable rage.

It hardly matters that this man is already numbered twice in Alastor’s list of kills — the first tally on the list that landed him in Hell, and the second in his inventory of radio screams. It also hardly matters that all of this is merely a picture-show for Lucifer’s amusement.

After Hollis, Alastor never left home without a pocketknife in his shoe. He finds it there, right where it belongs. He leaps off the stage and, with the practiced hand of ninety years in Hell, throws the knife.

The knife lodges in the man’s heart. A wet, choking sound — the man collapses to the floor — a scream —

And Alastor is back in Lucifer’s room with a manic smile on his face.

Lucifer scrambles to his feet and backs away from Alastor. “Stay away from me.”

[AO3 LINK]

[aelinschild]

Paradigm; side by side

˙✧˖ March 7th: Fight or Flight

Main Masterlist | Paradigm; side by side Masterlist |

SYNOPSIS: Burning, inside and out. WORDCOUNT: 1.3K WARNINGS: Cursing, horny Aelin and Rowan, Welding inaccuracies (I am not a welder lol)

Huge thank you to @throneofglassmicrofics for organizing! Make sure to check out other works over on their account!

Drool was beginning to spill. 

Hypothetically, that is. Not in a lascivious way, more of an disconnect between mind and body. But then again, who could blame her? Her hands were tightening and pulling, seizing up with tension from the penning. Beginning to ache in a way she would regret days after if pushed. With what she had scrawled along pages, decorated margins in curves, it was time for a break. Resting where she was would work just fine. 

Just outside the open pane of glass, sat above the antiquely built desk she had practically defiled with her belongings, was a sight worth said drool. 

Aelin’s eyes were stuck everywhere. And it felt incriminating, to be so openly ogling her roommate. Sturdy against the stronger winds off the water of the day. Tall; imposing to what crossed his path. White sand hair, slicked in hazard stripes. Moisture gathering on his brow – enough she cold see its collection from her spot. The small curls at the base of his neck, violently contrasting his skin. Skin she would suffer to touch. A hue of bronze that seemed painted, so exact she could imagine the paintings depicting his structure. All shirtless and sweaty- 

She was getting warm.

It was undeniable that something had changed between the two of them, some ripple effect. A slingshot off axis, removing their celestial existences off course. Invigorating in a way that scared her. She was toeing a line that demanded something from her. Forfeit of nothing, compromise on everything, sacrificing herself. 

But his voice lived in her head. Good girl. Stupid woman. Burning hands, grating stares. She would be in the kitchen some evenings, taking care of a meal – sans Rowan; he never stayed in a room with her for long – when she felt daggers placed between vertebrae. They scratched at more than grey matter, electrifying bones from their marrow. Dripping out tension, removed without her conscious. 

The kitchen was an overlap. A moment where her life had no course but to find his. Magnetic, always coming back to the poles of whatever connection had her hands shaking and her heart squeezing. It only intensified with his actions. He was helpful in the kitchen; competent and assured. Albeit limited, knowing enough recipes to cover the days of the week. Pragmatic when planning, efficient when in action. It was flustering. 

They spoke – less after yesterday evening, strained at the table this morning – in small bites. Never more than what could be swallowed whole. Exchanging conversation like trading cards. Parameters and conditions. She took care to keep her voice even when speaking, her flush sometimes translating to a breathlessness. He never seemed to notice when her pitch jumped. Simply going back to his spot and carrying on. Immune to the heady weight of unsaid words. 

Peeling back skin from her fingertips, crusted and flaying from the saltwater, Aelin continued to watch Rowan. For all the man was; blunt and unfettered, he had a spirituality to him. Some divination that seeped from pores, asphyxiating with proximity. She had no ability to rid him from her mind. The sailboat portraits mocking in all their glory. 

She could be concerned with the safety of his afternoon hobby… but she was gaining a verdant entertainment from the display. Muscles highlighted by the light of the setting sun. In rare cases, framed with sparks of condensed heat. Close enough to pinprick a constellation of scars. And the mask. It was doing things to her that the vibrator she had tossed when leaving the city couldnt even conceive. Fucking bastard. 

Welding inane bits of metal without any protection over ones chest seemed like a recipe for absolute disaster. Some sort of dance with pain, a jump and run with each swing. Battling back and forth simply for the trouble of it. But he had been doing it for the past few hours, and all the willpower summoned to her being could not strengthen her against looking. Looking, thats all. 

Piece by piece, he worked through a pile of metal. Bending near to get a closer look, flipping the mask up for observation, slamming it down. Gloves tucked on, off. Brushing off sparks from collarbones. 

Aelin was up and out of the room before she really had time to consider the outcomes of her next actions. 

-

“What’s that you’ve got there,” she called. Sunshine and gentle waves. Currents that drowned. A shiver of pleasure racked his body. 

Looking up, Rowan knew where she would be. Had been waiting, hoping, for her to just look in his direction. Breath his way. It meant everything and nothing at once. But god, it meant a hell of a lot right now. 

“Just a project. ‘ve been needing to finish it up.” He had to cough, some choking feeling straining words. 

“Huh,” she hummed, wrapping slender arms around her middle. She was light, beaming and radiating in muted metals and shining reflections. Stunning in a way that would not hurt your eyes to stare at. “What does that do?” 

It was unfortunate, having to pull his gaze from her to whatever she was pointing at. 

He hummed, “the electrode holder. See the cord?” His gaze was back on her, waiting for the acknowledgement she had heard him. “This,” pointing at the piece on the table, “is what… brings the metal together, yeah? That is what supplies the power.” 

Her eyes followed where he pointed, and it felt like holding a opportunity in roughened hands. Fragile and breakable. But she just smiled, giving a small nod of her head, hair shifting and falling. His hand stretched out to touch it, curtain it behind jewelry adorned ears and away from vibrant eyes. He wanted nothing in the way of her face. 

He pulled it back, snapping out of the daze when she stepped closer. 

“Why?” Tension weighed heavy, his tongue dry. He could feel the places where he was bare, shifting slightly to readjust. Her closeness was tempting. But, why– why what? 

“Why what?”

“Well, why are you doing this?” She was interested. “I mean, and I am no expert or anything, but I feel like not having the proper protective gear is toying with stupidity…” She cares. “... And, I mean, not too long ago you were digging holes, and now its-” 

His hand landed on her shoulder, firm and electrifying. It was unconscious, psychic and meant to be. Drifting the spot on the peak on bone, fingers reaching down far enough that he could dig into the base of her shoulder blade if he wanted too. Push into muscle and fat, under bone. Worm his way into her being like she had his. 

She paused, mouth parted in a breath of indecision. He could see the indecisive and curious waves rolling through ocean blue irises. Dancing around that ring of gold that burned so bright. He wanted to find ore like that, find some proof of her reality in his surroundings. Present it to her like a gift of ardency. Tug her close and feel the heat under cotton thin t-shirts and canvas pants. Feel her. 

He didnt. Instead, turning her around, he pointed over the shoulder his hand wasnt occupying. Indecently brushing it against cheekbones and the thin membrane of her neck. Itching over the closeness. “See that?” He whispered, eyes shifting from the dancing upsurge of colours as they erupted over waves. “I like it. So, I want another view.” He watched the gooseflesh rise on her neck. 

She shuddered. “What about the deck?” Murmured, so low he had to lean closer. 

“I like right here fine.”

Taglist: @mariaofdoranelle , @leiawritesstories , @renxzs

Let me know if you would like to join the taglist :)

[haru-sen]

Breaking His Silence Pt 2

Finally got around to finishing this, a mere 4,865 words later, lol.

CW: Smut, biting, some blood (have you seen those teeth?), misunderstandings, Warlock Tav is a dumbass.

Part 1

“You spent all that time chasing me around.” You rested a hand over the one still fisting the front of your robes as you sat astride Zevlor. “Well, you caught me, Hellrider. Now what?”

He stared up at you, shock rendering him mute, those flame-colored eyes wide. It was hilarious really.

He smelled like smoke, metal polish, and that sharp clean scent of divine magic that made your nose twitch. He was not a conventionally handsome man, almost too lean, with sharp features, and deep grooves in his face. But you liked the look of him. And well, there was something very appealing about all that strength leashed behind tightly wound reserve.

You held onto the fist gripping your collar, your other hand resting on his cheek. He burned hot under you, and you rather wondered how he would feel without all this metal in the way.

“I realize that you are not happy with me, Tav. But that’s no reason to humiliate me like this,” he said, his voice steady, though there was a tautness to his words. He very carefully reached up and pried your hand off his.

You let him move your hand, tilting your head to the side. “This isn’t humiliation, Zevlor. But if you’re interested in that sort of thing, I have some ideas.”

He flinched, averting his eyes. “You’ve made your point.” His fingers brushed yours, a light version of Laying Hands on you. Cool energy traveled up your arm as he healed your wounds. “You can let me up now.”

“But you didn’t answer my question,” you chirped, leaning over so you were nose to nose with him. “What do-”

A leg hooked around yours, and Zevlor raised his hips, unseating you with far too much ease. You toppled over, flipped onto your back, with Zevlor sitting astride you.

You grunted, flashing him a pained smile. “Well, if you wanted to be on top, all you had to do was-” And then to your shock, the tiefling paladin leapt to his feet and ran, leaving you on the ground, stunned. You sat up slowly, watching him retreat. The man ran fast even in armor. All that training paid off, for him anyway. Rubbing the back of your head, you stared after him. What the hell? You kissed him and he ran away? Godsdamned paladins and their weird chastity fixations. Rolling your eyes, you stood up, straightening your robes.

“Well, you certainly dominated that round,” Astarion chuckled, slinking out of the shadows. “You sent him running off in terror, his tail between his legs. That was rather vicious though, darling.” He gave you an approving smile.

“What?” you squinted. “What do you mean? He smote me! I just knocked him over. Sure, I hit him while he was down too, but that’s just strategy.”

Astarion’s brows went up. “I meant the kiss. You know that man hasn’t been touched in years. Taunting him with what he can’t have is an especially cruel choice.”

You crossed your arms. “Can’t have? Wait...that’s what he thought?” You blinked. “Huh.”

“Wait, you actually meant it? I thought you were annoyed with that relentless bastard,” Astarion’s voice went high.

“...I mean, I am,” you shrugged. “I don’t want to run laps or do push-ups with him. But sex is another story. Paladins have incredible endurance, and there is something truly delicious about corrupting the other side, you know?”

“Huh.” Astarion’s mouth hung open for a moment. He closed it slowly. “Well, there’s no accounting for your strange tastes.”

“So...to be clear, he ran away because he thought I was being disingenuous?” You rubbed your head, wondering how you could have been more obvious.

“I don’t know what’s more disturbing, the idea that you would lead that poor man on for fun, or the idea that you would actually seduce him.” Shaking his head, Astarion disappeared back into the darkness.

“Hey, you didn’t answer my question, asshole!”

Astarion’s laughter echoed in the shadows.

Sighing heavily, you dusted yourself off and walked back to camp, considering your options.

##

The next few days around camp were incredibly peaceful. Zevlor avoided you. It seemed innocuous at first. Between investigating bizarre murders, fighting shapeshifters, and even a trip to the circus, you were focused on several other tasks.

But when you sat down to eat at night, Zevlor hastily left the fire.

When you walked by the training area, he quickly packed up his gear.

When you said “hi” to him one morning, he literally jumped, gave you a nervous wave, and practically fled to his tent.

“I think you broke him, darling,” Astarion told you as the two of you carefully wrapped the dead clown parts for storage. Assembling a jigsaw puzzle scavenger hunt was not the weirdest thing you’d done with a corpse, but it was a new experience. And a clown at that, truly degenerate stuff.

“You really think so?” you asked. “He survived years as a Hellrider, a trip to Avernus, an exile, a refugee caravan, being captured by the Absolute, reswearing his oath… No, that’s ridiculous, Astarion.” You laughed, shaking your head incredulously. “I did not break our paladin.”

“Darling, you’ve seen his face: the man is riddled with stress fractures. You’re just making my point: your teasing is the metaphorical straw that broke the tiefling’s back.” He chuckled to himself, setting the chewed up clown hand treat-o in rags, rolling it like a scroll, and then tying the ends of the bundle up in neat knots.

“He smote me,” you said, rolling your eyes. “He can’t be that fragile.” You put the tightly wrapped clown torso in another crate with the hand. You were not storing body parts with your clothes.

“The other explanation is that he’s playing hard to get,” Astarion said, giving you a truly evil smile. “You should chase him down and confront him about that, preferably in full view of the others.”

You eyed Astarion, recognizing the horribleness of that idea. You considered it anyway. Heh. Well, if Zevlor kept avoiding you, you would have to corral him. But unlike Zevlor, you knew better than to make a public spectacle of it.

##

That evening, Zevlor entered the barn through the side room, shutting the door behind him. You watched from Lae’zel’s tent, gave it five minutes, then followed him inside.

He was in civilian clothes, straddling a bench, running a whetstone along his sword.

You grinned, stepped inside, shut the door, and pulled out a scroll of Arcane Lock, sealing the only exit behind you.

“We need to talk,” you said cheerfully.

Zevlor’s head snapped back and he stared at you with wide eyes, like you said, “it’s time for the execution” instead. But then he very carefully sheathed his sword and stood. His tail swished back and forth as he met your gaze, jaw clenched. Without the armor on, he was a little slimmer, but the man still had a strong frame: broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs.

“Is that really necessary?” Zevlor said, taking a deep breath as he gestured to the door.

“You’ve been running from me so much, that I thought it wise to take precautions,” you said. “And because I’m nice, I didn’t start with Hold Person.”

Zevlor looked away.

You moved closer.

He backed up, averting his eyes.

You frowned, stopping. “What’s wrong?”

“You made it very clear that I should keep my distance or risk more humiliation,” he growled. “I’ve upheld my part of the bargain.” His nostrils flared. “I realize you’re angry at me, but this treatment is just cruel.”

You crossed your arms. “Hold on, what?” You squinted at him. “What are you talking about?”

Zevlor drew in a shaky breath. “I realize I was...too aggressive on the issue of training.” He looked down, tail starting to snap back and forth like that of an agitated cat. “I should not have been so pushy. I should not have accosted you that night.”

“Yeah, OK,” you said, not actually disagreeing.

“And you handled yourself well in the fight. But afterward, you did not have to shame me like that,” he said, closing his eyes, the words thick.

Afterward?

“...OK, now you’ve lost me,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck. “I get that maybe I was a bit...aggressive too. Like, I guess I shouldn't have kissed you without your permission. But it was post-battle and you’d been chasing me for days. You smote me. I just assumed you were interested in stress relief.”

Zevlor stared at you. “That’s not- What?”

“What?” you cocked your head to the side, staring at him in confusion.

He moved his jaw a few times, like he was trying to make words, but they wouldn’t form. “That’s not what you said.”

“It is! What do you think I said?”

“That this wasn’t humiliation, but if that’s what I was interested in, you would come up with something else. I thought that was a warning to back off,” he said with some uncertainty. “I...did not expect such a threat from you.”

“Threat?” You gaped at him. “I meant if you liked sexual humiliation we could discuss limits.”

“What?” he blinked, his voice raspy.

“Zevlor,” you began very patiently, like you were speaking to a particularly dense child. “I assumed you had some power-dynamic kinks, since you come from a hardcore religious military background and engage in regular bouts of emotional repression and self-flagellation.”

Zevlor scowled at you. “That is entirely un-”

“Your many hangups aside,” you said, holding both palms out toward him. “Those details are something you talk about beforehand. I’m not just going to start slapping you around with a riding crop or begging to lick Daddy’s boots without any idea of what you actually want. Anyway, when have my threats sounded anything like that? That’s way too vague. I say things like “Time for a hug from Hadar!” and “I’m going to fucking kill you!” and “Fucking Dolor!” You know?” You grinned at him, hands still outstretched, palms turning upward.

The paladin looked at you, and then the sealed door, and then sank back down onto the bench, his gaze distant.

“That...wasn’t a threat then.” The realization dawned on his face as he spoke.

“Nope,” you said, shaking your head.

“That was actually a proposition?” he asked weakly.

“Oh yeah,” you nodded. “I mean, I thought I was pretty clear about it when I kissed you. What else should I have done? Try to feel you up through the armor?”

Zevlor groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“So yeah, umm...you wanna make out?” you asked hopefully.

Zevlor did not respond. He just sat there, hunched over, refusing to look at you.

You went over to him, crouching between his spread knees, so you could look up at his face. “Hey.”

Zevlor did not budge. Oh hells, maybe Astarion was right. Maybe you really did break the paladin. Fuck.

You gently pried his hands away from his face, grinning up at him. “You OK?”

“Don’t-” he breathed, turning away. “I don’t know what you want.”

You crouched there, resting your elbows on his knees. “I want to suck your dick,” you told him. “I think that’ll make you feel better too.”

He stared at you wide-eyed.

“If you’re interested, cast silence. I know I’d like to hear you, but since you’re so fond of using that against me, it seems right, you know?”

You stared up at him expectantly, waiting for him to pull away or say the words.

Zevlor carefully reached out, cupping your chin. “You...honestly want this?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

“Yeah, I’ll get on my knees and everything, if that’s what you want?” You flashed him an easy smile, realizing Astarion was correct. This man had not been touched in ages.

His breath hitched, and he pushed a stray lock of hair away from your face. “You don’t have to-”

You toyed with the laces of his trousers and then looked up at him expectantly.

Zevlor exhaled slowly. “Tap if it’s too much.”

You laughed. “Oh, so you have done this before. I was worried there for a min-”

Zevlor squinted at you, a wave of irritation pinching his entire face. “Silencio.”

Your ears popped and you laughed, no noise coming out. You dropped to your knees in the straw, carefully unlacing his pants.

A taloned hand gently massaged your scalp.

You didn’t look up at him, too interested in unwrapping your new toy. You carefully freed his cock from his pants, a little surprised that the paladin wasn’t wearing any underwear. Maybe it wasn’t just his martial greatsword that he came here to tend to.

Tieflings had patterns of ridges and bumps all over their bodies and Zevlor was no exception. He was only half hard when you started. You licked your lips and then ran your tongue along the crown, taking in the salty-musk of his skin. There was something different, sharper about how he tasted. The head was velvety soft, fun to swirl your tongue around, even as his fingers tightened their grip in your hair.

You looked up to see Zevlor still hunched over, those brilliant eyes watching you intently.

You winked at him and licked the underside of his cock, lightly squeezing the shaft as you ran your tongue from the head to his balls, feeling his thighs tense around you. The ribbed texture was interesting in your mouth. You expected it would feel even better somewhere else.

Zevlor shuddered, gritting his teeth. If there had been sound, you might have heard him growling. He was longer than you expected, thicker around the base, and heat began to pool in your core.

You squeezed his thigh with your free hand and then slowly took him in your mouth, relaxing your throat, eyes fluttering shut as you swallowed him to the hilt. You began to bob your head. Salty fluid leaked from the tip, and you groaned as Zevlor’s nails briefly nicked your neck.

But Zevlor was a gentleman. He held still, neither thrusting nor pushing your head down. You liked the way he tensed and twitched under your touch. Still, this would go smoother with some help. You reached forward, both hands cupping his ass as you started to try to get him to properly fuck your mouth.

Something brushed your wrist and you felt Zevlor’s tail wind around your right forearm as he started to slowly rock his hips. He moved with you, letting you set the pace. You were drooling now, getting him sloppy and slick, and one rough stroke had you gagging, but you didn’t stop. You had a goal now. You wanted to hear Zevlor. And to do that, you would need to break his concentration again.

Making him come would do the trick.

You gazed up at him, moaning around his cock. Even if he couldn’t hear you, he could see your face, see how you were enjoying him.

Zevlor’s eyes were half-open, his lips parted as you sucked on him. He gave a little tug on your hair, tilting your head back, so he slid out of your mouth, smearing saliva on your chin. The timidness was gone from his gaze. Maybe you had succeeded in sucking some of his sadness out through his dick. Good job!

He studied your face.

You thought he might kiss you, but instead he pushed two fingers down your throat, the corners of his mouth turning upward at your startled look.

You licked the digits, sucking on his fingers, and that smile tightened into something more feral and he pushed your head back down to his cock.

This time he did not sit back and let you lead. Fingers tangling in your hair, he began to thrust into your throat. Your eyes watered as he set a steady pace. He felt bigger in your mouth, his girth grazing your teeth, but that did not seem to slow him down.

You wished the silence was gone. You wanted to hear him. His voice was probably all raspy right now, and if his expression was anything to go by, his blood was running hot. You could just imagine the filthy taunts he had. Probably something about finally shutting you up and making good use of your smart mouth. Why had you suggested using silence again? Gods, you were dumb sometimes.

Zevlor’s cock twitched in your throat, and you had to work to breathe through your nose. His tail was still wound around your right arm, so you squeezed the base of it with your left hand, massaging the underside: tieflings tended to be sensitive right there. The man’s hips jerked forward, and you choked as he hilted in your throat, his nails digging into your shoulders.

You moaned, and even if you could not hear it, you stared up at him with half-lidded eyes, your lips wrapped around his wonderfully textured cock. It was thicker than you expected, and you gripped the base, running your tongue up the underside of his shaft, grinning up at him before you slid him back into your mouth. Then you squeezed the base of his tail again.

Zevlor bared his teeth at you, pushing your head back down till your nose was flush against his pelvis, before yanking your head back, pulling you off his cock.

His jaw clenched, he tried to turn to the side, already leaking pearlescent fluid from the tip. You leaned in, holding the base of is shaft and taking the head back in your mouth, in time to catch the rush of salty cum.

Your ears popped then, the silence bubble bursting.

Zevlor gave a strangled groan, his fists at his sides as you let him finish in your mouth. Panting, he stared down at you as you opened up and licked him clean.

“That pent up, huh?” you asked, your voice rough.

Still breathing hard, Zevlor nodded, his knuckles brushing your cheek. Tilting your chin up, he kissed you hungrily, tasting himself on your tongue. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t mind riding you, if you’re up for another round. Otherwise-”

“Give me a moment,” he growled, running his thumb along your bottom lip. There was a flare of holy magic and he cracked his neck, those orange eyes bright. He slid off the bench, into the straw, reclining on his back, giving you a nice view of his fully hard cock. “Are you sure you don’t want me to-”

“I didn’t waste time making this warming oil because it feels nice on weapons,” you said, plucking a vial off your belt. “Though maybe it does. Guess you’ll have to stab someone and ask them for me?”

Zevlor sighed, taking the vial from you and sniffing it before hesitantly pouring some onto his hands and rubbing it along his shaft. He groaned softly, those elegant fingers stroking his length.

“How trusting. You didn’t even ask what I used,” you said with a grin, taking the vial back and slicking up your own entrance. “Could have been succubus spittle.”

Zevlor snorted, giving you a sardonic look. “That would be your mistake to make. But it obviously is not. I smell cinnamon and ginger. Not sulfur and sweet decay.”

You laughed in delight. “Zevlor, how do you know what succubus spittle smells like?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said, the faintest smile on his lips.

“I always knew you were a kinky bastard,” you said as you straddled his hips, recalling the last time you were in this position.

“Do you really go around not wearing smallclothes?” Zevlor asked, apparently realizing that you were not joking when you said you weren’t wearing underwear.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You winked, then rubbed the head of his cock between your thighs, breath hitching as the blunt head slid inside you, then you took a few more inches of his ridged shaft. You sank down onto him, groaning at the stretch. His skin burned hot and while the oil eased his entry, you still had to take a few minutes to adjust to the fullness.

“No more smart remarks?” Zevlor purred. His tail wound around your thigh, one hand reaching up to cup your cheek.

“Is that a secret paladin technique? Who knew your dick could inflict silence on me?” You laughed, breathing hard as you squirmed on him, that ribbed cock rubbing against your walls with delicious friction.

“That would be a shame. I should like to hear you.” Zevlor gritted his teeth, gazing up at you with a hunger you had not seen before. You ran your fingers up his cross-shaped navel, over the ridges of his chest, your knees squeezing his thighs.

You rolled your hips, whining softly as you took him deeper inside you. “Hells, Zevlor, I thought you found me annoying.”

“You’re often irreverent and inappropriate,” he said, no bite in his tone. “But no, you don’t annoy me.” He gave you a wry smile, his tolerance likely increased because you were bouncing on his cock.

“Do I frustrate you then?” you asked with a sharp smile, leaning forward, close enough to kiss.

Zevlor’s gaze darkened. “All the godsdamned time.” He cupped the back of your head, kissing you hard, nipping your bottom lip with his sharp teeth.

You moaned into his mouth and then pushed off his chest, breaking free, not because you didn’t like kissing him, but because it would frustrate him. You grinned as he scowled at you. “So, are you going to tell me about the succubus spittle?”

Zevlor chuckled, gripped your hips, and thrust upward, a spike of heat driving into your core. “Is that what you want to hear about, Tav? Because I don’t need infernal aphrodisiacs to keep going.”

“Big talk, paladin,” you grinned, clenching around him, just to see him shudder.

“It’s not just talk, little warlock,” he said, his smile turning feral. “All that training I endure has its advantages.”

The leg hook took you off guard (again!), and you squealed as he rolled you onto your back. Suddenly he was on his knees, still sheathed inside you, one hand gripping your chin as he pinned you to the ground.

“Fuck,” you exhaled, gazing up at the paladin.

Zevlor regarded you with a harsh intensity that made you squirm.

“Say “stop” if you want me to stop. Otherwise,” he flashed you a sharp smile. “Lie back and enjoy yourself.”

Before you could make a snide joke about his unimaginative choice of safe words, he shifted forward, shoving your knees up against your chest, his cock sinking deeper inside you.

Folded in half, robes rucked up around your waist, you swore as he fucked you there on the floor like an animal.

He actually growled as he thrust downward, sweat beading on his brow, his eyes wild.

You whimpered as that thick ribbed cock stirred up your insides, driving too deep too fast, as you struggled beneath him.

“Zevlor-”

“I like how you say my name,” he rumbled, leaning forward to kiss you again, even as he drilled deeper into you, and you swore you could feel the impact in the back of your throat. He nipped your neck and you snarled, clawing at his shoulders while he kept up that rough pace. One hand moved between your thighs, stroking your sensitive flesh, making you writhe for him. “I wonder how much you can take, Tav. After all that teasing, I have high expectations. Don’t disappoint me.” He bit down on your ear and you shrieked. If the others didn’t know what you were doing before, they certainly knew now.

Pinned as you were, you did not have the leverage to push him off, to wrest control from the much stronger warrior. You could say “stop.” You could use magic. But you were getting filled with that thick textured cock and Zevlor’s calloused fingers worked between your legs, those fiery eyes fixed on your face with grim determination.

Fuck, you were getting despoiled...or just plain spoiled.

Astarion was absolutely right. Zevlor was touch-starved and desperately in need of relief, and you were the lucky fool that got to break his dry streak.

“You better fucking ruin me, paladin,” you purred, fingers digging into his hair, yanking him down for another rough kiss. “How else are you going to convince me of the merits of your argument?”

Zevlor’s nostrils flared. “You’re playing with fire, Tav.”

“Fun, isn’t it?” you murmured, sucking marks on his neck, and letting out the most obscene moans as he stretched you out, channeling all that frustration into your body, his thighs slapping loudly against your ass. “Don’t be that way. You have fire resistance.”

Zevlor’s low growl made you tighten around him. “You’re the one who’s going to get burned.” His fingers moved faster, that pleasurable friction twisting through you, shooting from between your legs, into your core, and up your spine, pulling needy whines from your throat. Your nerves thrummed, the lightest touch sending shivers through the whole network. Where his skin brushed yours, the heat lingered, pulsing through your limbs, adding another layer of sensation. This godsdamned paladin had you teetering on the edge of bliss, blessing you with his cock like it was the key to your salvation. If being good normally felt this good, maybe you would try it more often.

Or was it being bad to good people? You weren’t too sure right now.

“Zevlor, I’m close-”

He pressed his forehead to yours, keeping up that hard tempo. He closed his eyes, shuddering against you. For a moment, he did not respond.

You waited, savoring his rasping breaths, your strangled whimpers, the slick sound of his cock sliding in and out of you.

“Where do you want my seed?” he snarled.

“Inside me,” you gasped, knowing that answer would hasten him.

Zevlor narrowed his eyes. “Then you’re going to feel me leaking out of you for days.”

You shuddered, vision flickering. You clawed at his shoulders, his arms, swearing as he angled his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging that sensitive spot inside you. Even though he was just as on edge as you were, he did not lose focus. His hand kept up his ministrations between your thighs. His rhythm did not falter. The ridges of his cock seemed to imprint on your walls as he reshaped you to fit him. He was marking you from the inside. The dual sensations of being stroked and getting properly wrecked by the paladin’s cock pushed you over the edge, pressure breaking inside your simmering core. Back against the ground, you could only brace yourself for the onslaught. That moment when all the tension snapped, your body caught in the recoil, the orgasm intensified by the fact you were pinned in place. Keening, you clung to him as you fell apart.

He was only waiting on you. With a bestial roar, he sunk his teeth into your shoulder and you wailed as his hips stuttered against you, pumping his cum deep inside you.

“Fuck-” you sobbed, still clinging to him, despite the sting of his bite.

Breathing hard, Zevlor raised his head, his lips bloody and drawn back in a fierce smile that flattened when he saw the marks in your skin. Guilt immediately started to cloud his expression. “Hells, was that too much? Did I go too far?”

“I didn’t tell you to “stop,” you said tartly to avert the panic. “And if that’s all you’ve got, then I’ve sorely misjudged paladins.”

Zevlor wiped his mouth, his gaze harsh. “You still want more, little warlock?”

“Yes,” you hissed in his ear. “I demand it.”

“Te curo,” he murmured, the wound on your shoulder closing. Inside you, his cock twitched as he channeled divine energy right inside your channel. “Don’t complain when I break you, Tav, if this is how you ask for it.”

“It’s only fair, I keep breaking your concentration,” you laughed, sticking your tongue out at him.

He gripped your chin, his smile wide, and he rolled his hips, cutting off your laughter.

##

“...So,” Astarion said, not making eye contact as you emerged from the barn, brushing straw off your robes and picking it out of your hair. “Is there anything left of the paladin? Or just a desiccated husk?”

“I’m not you,” you sniffed.

Zevlor followed behind you, carrying his sword slung over his shoulder. He still winced when he ducked out of the barn, clearly sore from your shared exertions.

“Well, that was a rigorous bout of training,” you said, cheerfully limping toward the campfire.

“Is that what you’re calling it now?” Astarion groaned. “Yenna was asking some very interesting questions and as entertaining as it was to see Wyll spin a panicked tale or three, no one needs to hear the two of you going at it for hours.” He glared over your shoulder at Zevlor. “Tav’s an idiot, but a man of your experience should know better. Next time, be quieter.”

Zevlor sighed, looking quite put upon. “I would, but that damned warlock keeps breaking my silence.”

[kallie-den]

Hunting Hound

Leinth Aritimis, a rebel pilot, is captured by the enemy. Her personal hero, Sartha Thrace, is there to be a lifeline - but she's a changed woman. Can Leinth set Sartha free? Or is Sartha so lost to Handler's brainwashing, she'll betray a woman who trusts her above everything else?

This is a sequel to Warhound! Please make sure to read that story first so that you can understand this one

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I  write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

---

Nothing makes Leinth Aritimis feel good the way being saddled up in the cockpit of a huge mech suit does.

It’s not a rare refrain for a pilot. Most are enraptured by the sheer power it brings. You can feel it in your gut; the thrum of the engine, the shaking of the earth, the divine thunder of artillery. It’s never been that for Leinth, though. Truth be told, the noise and fury of her own Genetor still frightens her at times. But what really matters is what it lets her do.

Fight.

Leinth never set out to be a hero herself. She just wanted to be a little like her own heroes. To do her part. That was the least anyone could do, and the duty had grown heavy in her belly during the last years of her adolescence, until she was finally old enough to join up. The war isn’t going well. They’re always on the back foot. But that means Leinth always has something to defend, and knowing that makes her strong. The looks of hope and relief she sees on peoples’ faces when she dismounts after a long, hard-fought battle - that’s what feels good.

Now, after a couple of years, people were starting to call her a hero. Crazy.

She doesn’t deserve it, and she always tells them so. She’s no Sartha Thrace, and her Genetor is certainly no Ancyor. Ancyor is a proud old beast. Genetor is a slab. A fortress as much as a vehicle. Huge, angular, unwieldy - but not for Leinth. She’s learned well how to wield it. In her hands, the rebel prototype is a bulwark. She takes pride in that, and she’s proud of her machine in turn. Proud of the way it keeps moving even now, with an awful, jagged chunk taken out of its right leg.

Leinth reaches up overhead and punches a few switches, shunting power into the sensor suite for one more sweep. A few moments later, it clicks back its report. Nothing. No movement. That’s a  relief. Maybe it’s actually over.

“Genetor reporting,” she says into her radio. “Sector is clear. I’m gonna stay out just a little longer. Make sure the bastards are gone for good.”

You got it, comes the warm reply, after a brief burst of static. But I think we got ‘em, Leinth. Don’t wear yourself out.

Right now there’s little choice but to take the sensors at their word. No use looking outside, that’s for damn sure. The day’s fighting has turned the cityscape into a blackened ruin where ash hangs in the air like fog, billowing on unnatural winds. What tall buildings remain are nothing more than burnt rebar skeletons ; in amongst them are the carcasses of mechs that haven’t quite managed to fall, looming over the shattered concrete like strange, harrowed statues. Most of them are so ravaged by the firestorm, Imperial and rebel models look exactly alike.

It’s demoralizing. But as long as there’s land and there’s people, they can rebuild. Leinth always insists upon that, to herself.

It’s been bad here. Intense. A fresh Imperial offensive. There’s no telling how much worse tomorrow might be. This could have been the final battle or merely an opening skirmish. Sometimes the resources and reserves at the enemy’s disposal seem all but unlimited. There’s a push-pull logic to the ever-moving front lines that Leinth can’t perceive. It’s not her job to, as a pilot. But like everyone else, she knows that they are not winning.

Maybe they can win here. Maybe Leinth can be the rock on which the tide breaks. She’s the one who never loses faith.

The falling dusk is a mercy, in a way. It hides the worst of the damage, and the most heartbreaking details. The contents of a wardrobe and a life ripped out of a building by an artillery shell and strewn all over the ashen ground. No good comes from looking. Those things - the human traces, the human remains - are too small for most mech pilots to notice. But in quiet moments, Leinth finds herself looking, magnifying them to fill the Genetor’s viewscreen. It’s a bad habit, and the darkness of night saves her from it. If she indulges, it’s too easy to let her thoughts turn to dark things.

Dark things like Sartha Thrace.

It’s been months since she disappeared. She went out like a hero. Her Ancyor was last seen plunging deep into the enemy’s lines to fight a furious rearguard. She’s listed as MIA not KIA, technically, but Leinth has done her best to make her peace with her hero’s passing. The rumors are making it damn hard, though. Rumors about seeing the Ancyor back in service on the wrong side of the war. Rumors about it moving the way only she could make it move.

Leinth hates hearing that shit. She’s said so often enough and angrily enough that no one says it to her face anymore. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t overhear when people are whispering about it. And it’s hard as hell to get it out of her head. Sartha Thrace means the world to her. Meant the world to her. That poster above her bunk in the barracks. An idol. Even Leinth’s transition goal, in the early days before she knew better. Now the kind thing to do is to let her memory rest until the time comes when they can honor it properly.

It’s not that she doesn’t wish Sartha Thrace was still alive. She wishes that more than anything. Especially in battles like these, it sure would be nice to have a hero to believe in.

Genetor! Headed your way! Leinth!

The urgency of her CO’s voice on the radio catches her attention just as much as her name. Leinth snaps back to attention and looks down at her scope - and then freezes. Her first response - her rational response - is that it’s a glitch. It has to be. It doesn’t make sense for a heat signature like that to be moving that fast. Then instinct takes flight. Leinth can feel it already. The vibrations. The heat in the air. She brings Genetor around to face the new threat, brings her weapons up, and kicks her searchlights up to max.

It’s too late. No time to brace herself. Ancyor is upon her.

Leinth would recognize its savage face anywhere, even here, and it makes her hesitate. If she wasn’t already screwed, that pause is what screws her. Once Leinth can make her hands move, it’s far too late to make use of Genetor’s shields. And Ancyor doesn’t stop to launch a blow. It simply barrels into her. With a raw howl of steel on steel, the mechs collide. Genetor might be a slab, but Ancyor is monstrously strong and it has momentum. There’s no contest. The impact sends Leinth off-balance. The ACS screams at her, but there’s nothing to be done.

Genetor topples over. The bastion falls.

And it will not be allowed to stand. Ancyor is still on her, driving its massive chainblades into the prone mech’s limbs. Leinth cries out in panic. She feels the severance in her own flesh. The rattling, the noise, the flashing lights as Genetor’s systems struggle to shunt power to the cockpit - it’s a nightmare. She already knows she’s lost. There’s no coming back from this.

But it gets worse. Ancyor rears up, and amongst the ashen city, lit only by Genetor’s flickering searchlights, it looks truly awful in its lupine fury. Then it brings its fist down, right on the cockpit. The sound of the blow is an awful crunch; a noise no metal should ever make. Leinth screams as the wall of her cockpit starts to bow in against her. Genetor holds, but only just. Another blow has it convulse, and Leinth’s scream is silenced when her head is thrown back against the back of the cockpit. No ACS to compensate now.

She starts seeing in black and white. Not good. Concussion, at least. It happened so fast. Leinth is still struggling to believe in what she’s seeing and feeling. It doesn’t make sense.

There’s only one woman who can pilot Ancyor like this. But it’s not her. It’s not her.

There’s no third blow. Or if there is, Leinth is too far gone to feel it. She hears something, though. Other vehicles approaching. Not mechs. Smaller. They get close, then stop, then Leinth hears scrambling. Shouting. Climbing. The realization of what’s happening makes her breath catch with fear, but she’s beyond even adrenaline now. Darkness is here for her.

The last thing she feels before oblivion is the Imperial engineers starting to drill their way into Genetor’s cockpit.

***

There is no time, in the room. No daylight, no clock. Leinth has been counting sleeps and by that tally it’s been fifteen days, but that’s surely off by a day or more. Especially given how hard she got knocked around.

Leinth remembers being pulled from Genetor’s cockpit. She remembers being bound and guarded and dragged into an infirmary, to receive only the most basic medical care. Leinth had been in and out for most of that, twitching and shouting whenever she was close to consciousness, but then they gave her something that brought her all the way back up to uncomfortably sharp awareness. Then, an interrogation. Noise, bright lights, sternness, threats - the usual. Crude. Blunt. Like all pilots, Leinth has prepared herself for this long ago. They got nothing from her.

She’d been bracing herself for torture to follow - but no. At least, not that kind of torture. Something had interrupted the proceedings. There had been a whisper in an ear, and then a strange ripple had gone through her interrogators. With fresh urgency, they’d dragged her to her feet and she’d been taken somewhere else. Somewhere down, under the hangar, far beneath the rest of the Imperial base.

It’s strange here. The walls are dark, and it’s much too quiet. None of the hustle and bustle that’s everywhere in any normal military facility. Since then, nothing. Leinth has been left to sit and rot in her uncertainty and her boredom. The solitude is maddening. There is nothing to disturb it except occasional meals given at irregular intervals through a slot in the door.

From how it leaves her feeling, Leinth is pretty sure the food is drugged. She eats most of it anyway. Tricking her into starving herself could be another way of softening her up.

The sound of locking bolts retracting into the wall heralds change. At once, Leinth is completely focused. Any information about her situation, any stimulation at all, is a sweetness she’s desperate for. When the heavy cell door swings open, she catches sight of the person holding the key. Immediately she regrets her eagerness. This is almost more disconcerting than seeing nothing at all.

The menial standing before her had once been an Imperial pilot, judging from the uniform and the wings on her lapel. Once, but no longer. There’s something unmistakably broken about her. Her uniform is wearing thin from neglect and she moves with a strange, stooped, shambling gait that just doesn’t look right on a person. She’s like an animal that’s been beaten one too many times. Leinth wishes she could see her face, if only to verify her humanity, but she can’t. The menial is wearing an awful hood that hides her face - leather, perhaps, and fashioned to look like a dog’s head.

It’s some sick shit, even for Imperials, and Leinth doesn’t have a clue what it means.

All is forgotten, though, when the menial steps aside and reveals Leinth’s visitor.

Sartha Thrace.

Her presence is electricity on Leinth’s skin, and for that reason she knows she’s real even before she pinches herself and blinks - three times, four times, five times. It’s impossible, but she’d know that face anywhere, even here, even in the dim glow of the cell’s lights. It’s the real deal. Leinth believes it with her whole heart, especially when Sartha Thrace flashes her a classic smile and reaches up to rake back her messy blonde hair. Somehow, in the flesh, she’s even more beautiful than she is on the posters.

“Leinth Aritimis?” Sartha says. “Looks like you got scooped up pretty rough, huh?”

“I… I… you…” Leinth’s mouth is struggling to catch up with her brain. There are too many questions, and the first to fall from her lips is embarrassingly juvenile. “You… know who I am?”

“Sure.” Sartha walks into the cell - ushered in, it seems - and the door closes behind her. “We fought together, right? The Dacian salient?”

Leinth nods numbly. She remembered. She actually remembered. They’d only met in passing, as two pilots amongst many, and Leinth had been nobody then. She’d assumed Sartha Thrace had taken no notice of her. She feels - and notes with humor - a faint flicker of gratitude for her captivity.

Then she blinks. She remembers her place.

“I should…” Leinth stands and salutes as best she can. “Captain!”

“Woah, easy.” Sartha laughs and waves her off. “I’ve never been a stickler, Leinth, and it doesn’t seem to make much sense here. Just call me ‘Sartha’.”

Leinth nods. She can barely believe her luck. It’s like a dream come true - circumstances notwithstanding.

“So they… they got you?” Leinth asks slowly, as Sartha walks over and sits next to her on the long bench that’s one of the cell’s only features. “We all thought you were dead.”

“Yeah.” Sartha smiles faintly. “I guess they did.”

“I saw Ancyor out there,” Leinth says. “It’s what took me down. I guess they… gods.”

Sartha doesn’t reply. She just looks down. In the dim light, Leinth can see there’s a strange look in her eye. Distant. Glassy. She’s not herself, in that moment.

Leinth can’t blame her for it. She doesn’t want to think about how she’d feel if she knew someone else had taken Genetor from her. Was using it against her people. The violation would be monstrous. She silently prays her mech was too damaged for that.

“So,” she says, hoping to bring Sartha back. “What happens now? To us. To… me.”

“Wish I could tell you.” Sartha looks up. She sounds OK again. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”

“Did…” Leinth is afraid to ask, but she needs to know. “Have they done something to you? Anything I should prepare myself for?”

Sartha looks down again. “I don’t… know.”

Leinth has no words for that. She shivers. She clamps down hard on her own, faint disappointment. She tries to remind herself that Sartha Thrace is more than a hero on a poster above Leinth’s bunk. She’s been through hell. Anyone would be in pieces after months down here.

“But,” Sartha adds after a long moment, “you’ll be OK. I remember how I felt when they first put me down here. You’re strong. This is not the end. I’m still here, aren’t I? And now there’s two of us. It’ll be easier.”

Now Leinth feels ashamed of even that initial flicker of disappointment. She can hear the grit in Sartha Thrace’s voice. She can feel the warmth, and she is warmed by it. Thanks to her - thanks only to her - this chthonic hell feels bearable. She’s gonna get through this. They’re going to get through this. She can believe that, with a hero at her side. Leinth is so very grateful for Sartha’s presence.

But that begs a question.

“Thank you,” Leinth says, but frowns. “Why do you think they put us together like this?”

“Dunno,” Sartha replies. “She didn’t tell me anything.”

She? Who? The menial? Maybe, but there’s something about how Sartha said it. It’s probably not important.

“Could be they want to get us talking?” Leinth glances around. “This place could be wired for sound. Maybe they’re hoping we’ll let something slip.”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s keep it light, eh?” Leinth says. “Just in case. No secrets.”

“You got it,” Sartha agrees. “I have something important to ask you though.”

“OK.” Leinth glances around again. She decides to trust Sartha’s judgment, but just in case, she leans in so they can whisper to one another. “What?”

“Have you met Her yet?”

“No,” Leinth answers, before thinking. The question puts a nasty feeling in her gut. “Who?”

“Her.”

That one little word contains within it an ocean of feeling. Sartha quivers with excitement as she speaks it. She can barely contain herself. It’s a prayer, swelling with reverence, bursting with unnatural devotion. Leinth can sense already that Sartha is consumed by this ‘Her’. Nothing she said to Leinth before matters. Whatever - whoever - she’s talking about is utterly totalizing.

“Sartha,” Leinth says hesitantly. “What are you talking about?”

Sartha Thrace smiles, and now her smile is all wrong. It’s too serene. “Ah. You haven’t. You’d know if you had. Don’t worry. I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“Sartha…” Leinth’s stomach is plummeting. She’s panicking again. This isn’t right. “What the fuck?”

“She’ll explain everything,” Sartha assures her, and it’s like she thinks Leinth will be grateful for the assurance. “Once She talks to you, everything will make sense. You’ll make sense.”

“Stop talking like this!” Leinth pleads. “Just… just tell me what’s going on.”

Sartha pauses and restrains herself. Leinth can still see the light of energy and enthusiasm brimming within her, though. She’s just holding back because she can see Leinth isn’t ready yet.

“Handler,” she explains. Her tone is worshipful. “Oh, Leinth. You have no idea how wonderful she is!”

“Your…” Leinth feels like she’s going to throw up. “Sartha. Out there. The Ancyor. That… please. Please don’t tell me that was you.”

“It was.” Sartha tilts her head. Her eyes grow distant. “Well. In a way.” 

Leinth doesn’t know what the fuck that means, but she’s heard more than enough. She springs to her feet. Leaps away. Anger is clawing at the inside of her skin.

“Traitor!” she snarls. “How… how could you? How did they… no, no, it doesn’t fucking matter. You betrayed us all!”

Sartha looks saddened, a little. Not enough to doubt herself. “She said you’d say that. But it’s OK. She said that I don’t need to listen. I think she just wants me to help you.”

“Help me? What the…”

Leinth doesn’t want to hear that. It’s awful - that whoever this ‘She’ is, all she has to do is say one word, and Sartha shuts off? That’s inhuman.

“Help you,” Sartha repeats. “It’s… an adjustment. Being with Her. I struggled with it too, at first. At least, I think so. She says I don’t have to remember anymore. But once you accept it - once you accept Her - everything gets better. You’ll see.”

Obviously they’ve done something to her. Brainwashing. Obviously she’s a victim too. Leinth knows that - but knowing isn’t enough. She would have kissed the ground Sartha Thrace walked on. She would have given everything for her. Now she’s with them. Leinth starts to shed tears as her voice becomes a bitter, frigid growl.

“Traitor,” she spits, hoping she can inject enough venom into her voice to make it sting. “You’re a fucking traitor.”

It works. Sartha looks offended. Wounded. She looks away, like she’s trying to go distant again, but she can’t quite manage it. Even now, even after whatever the fuck they did to her, she has just a little bit too much fight for that. She needs to retort.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Sartha says defensively. “I’m not a… I’m a hero, right? You know that. The way you looked at me, it’s… I’m just here because…”

Because? Leinth can see gears spinning in her head, but she’s going nowhere. She doesn’t know why she’s here, or what she’s doing. Not really. She looks so lost.

“I-I have to do what She says.” Sartha sounds almost pleading now. “It’s not like I’m… we’re soldiers, aren’t we? We follow orders. And Her orders are special.” It’s like she’s tricking herself. Searching for justification. She’s found one now, however thin and false. Her distress abates. “If you just met Her, you’d understand…”

Her confusion is so obvious it hurts to witness. It’s embarrassing. Sartha Thrace is meant to be a hero. She’s meant to be better than this. Contradicting feelings tear into Leinth’s mind. She wants to forgive the confused woman in front of her. Their captors must have done something truly awful to her. But that also makes her presence hard to bear. Is it a warning of what fate they have in store for Leinth? Leinth doesn’t want to think about that. Not for one second.

Sartha Thrace is meant to be better. She’s meant to be the hero on the poster. Not this. Leinth doesn’t want to see her like this.

“Just leave me alone,” Leinth says quietly. When she catches Sartha looking sadly at her, she balls her hands into fists. It pisses her off. “Get the fuck out already! Go. It’s not like you’re a prisoner here, right? I don’t want to fucking look at you.”

She laughs bitterly at that. Sartha looks sorry for both Leinth and herself. She stands.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Sartha says stiffly. “I’ll be back, though. I promise. I don’t want to leave you all on your own down here. And I really think She wants me to help you. To look after you. She’s so kind, you see.”

Leinth just stares at the wall, so Sartha walks over to the door of the cell. She bangs on it twice with her fist and the door opens. Leinth stays dead still until she leaves and the door closes again behind her. Then she buries her head in her hands and starts to sob.

Fuck.

***

After that, it all changes. The solitude and boredom, as interminable as it was, is something Leinth comes to miss. Because after Sartha’s first visit, they start torturing her.

That’s how Leinth chooses to think of it, anyway - torture. She’s not sure what else she’d call it. It’s not a kind of torture she’d ever prepared herself for, though. It’s not an interrogation. There are no questions. It’s not pain for pain’s sake, either. Sometimes it doesn’t hurt at all. They drug her with drugs that make her feel like nothing else. They hook her up to strange machines that seem to do nothing and everything. They shine bright, flickering lights into her eyes, and it’s like they’re projecting something, like an old movie on film, and only part of her mind is able to see it.

Other times, it hurts worse than Leinth could ever describe.

Either way, by the time Leinth is dragged back to the cell she feels like her skin’s been ripped inside out. She feels like one of those mech carcasses, still standing even though they’ve been burned to ash on the inside. All she can do is collapse and lie shivering on the floor of her cell, trying to piece herself back together. Sometimes, all the sensations they inflict on her seem to linger on in her body, burrowing deeper, until she can remind herself they’re not real. Sometimes, the drugs leave her with an impossible euphoria that makes Leinth feel like she can’t trust any of her own thoughts.

At those times, when Leinth is at her very lowest, Sartha Thrace comes to visit. 

The first few times, at least, Leinth finds the strength to tell her to fuck off. To her credit, she does. But Sartha keeps coming and eventually, in a moment of weakness, she relents. It was meant to be just that once, but after that Sartha always ends up staying. Leinth is not made of stone. Without Sartha, she’d never see a single soul except for the hooded menials that drag her from her cell each day, and they barely seem to count as human.

She takes infinite comfort simply in sharing her cell, for a time, with another, familiar person. Just seeing Sartha’s face, seeing her little human gestures like the way she adjusts her clothes and rakes back her hair, makes Leinth feel less crazy. Less alone and forgotten, like she’s died and gone to her own private hell.

Sartha’s good company, too. Even though she’s a traitor. She only wants to talk if Leinth does. She’s never pushy. She’ll put up with Leinth’s insults and anger. And sometimes, it even feels like Leinth is getting through to her.

She’s so beautiful, too. That helps.

After a time, it becomes a rhythm. Torture, then Sartha. The rhythm makes it easier to bear. No matter what they do to her, no matter how it feels, after a while Sartha will be there. They can talk if Leinth needs to hear her voice, or not if Leinth needs quiet. Eventually, her anger abates. There’s no point being angry at Sartha Thrace. They’re both in hell. Maybe Sartha’s just in a little deeper.

The rhythm does trouble her, though. She’s not blind to all the ways it could be used against her. Everything that’s happening to her in this place seems as regular as clockwork, but sometimes Leinth senses something behind that. A presence. A person. The rhythm’s conductor, perhaps. It might even be that mysterious ‘she’ Sartha sometimes refers to.

Or it might not. Maybe Leinth is just losing her mind.

Talking helps with that. It feels like it helps, anyway. Not that there’s much to talk about. Mostly, Leinth talks about herself. Sometimes they talk about the war, although it’s difficult to draw Sartha out on that topic. It’s like she doesn’t want to think about what’s happening, or what side she’s really on. It’s like she prefers to be confused. Leinth learns that if she presses too hard Sartha might shut down on her, or worse, leave, and so Leinth learns not to. She finds the line where she can draw out Sartha’s sense of contradiction without scaring her off.

And sometimes there are glimpses of the old Sartha. Of someone bright and brilliant, full of charisma and heroism. Leinth comes to live for those glimpses. Even now, Sartha is a kind of hero to her.

“’In a way’,” Leinth says slowly, one day, thinking back to their very first conversation. “What did that mean?”

“Huh?” Sartha, sitting just along from her in the cell, turns her head.

“When I asked you about piloting Ancyor,” Leinth presses. “You said it was you - ‘in a way’. Tell me what that means.”

Sartha looks away. “I was… nothing. It was me.”

“Bullshit.” Leinth has learned what it looks like when Sartha doesn’t want to think about something. “Tell me. Stop hiding something.”

Now Sartha sighs. “I’m not… hiding. You just wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

It’s possible she’s pushing too hard, but the question has been burning inside Leinth. After a short time, Sartha sighs.

“It’s like… it’s like there’s someone else in my head,” she says slowly. Then, realizing how that sounds: “I mean, it’s still me. Obviously. But sometimes I can… let them take over. When She wants me to.”

Leinth doesn’t need to say anything. Her expression does all the talking. Sartha gets defensive.

“I-It’s not how it sounds,” Sartha insists. “I’m just not explaining it well. It’s like… it’s like how, sometimes, in the heat of battle, you just go on autopilot. You know that feeling, right?”

Leinth nods.

“It’s just… one step further than that.” She’s grasping and she knows it. Leinth can tell. “It’s better this way. A clearer separation.” Sartha taps her foot restlessly. “I wish She was here. If She explained it to you, you’d understand perfectly.”

“Why do you need to be separated?” Leinth argues back. “I don’t. I want to be me. When I’m piloting. When I’m fighting. I want to know what I’m fighting for. Don’t you?”

“I…” Sartha taps her foot faster. Agitated. “N-no. No, it gets distracting. Better to keep it separate. Better to focus. Better to ignore everything, except orders. Her orders. She says I don’t need to think, and the other me makes it easier. It’s better this way!”

By the end, she’s almost shouting. It’s the first time Sartha’s seen her get so worked up. She wants to push further, but she can sense this is the limit - for now, at least. Maybe Sartha’s mistress doesn’t realize how fragile she is. Maybe Leinth is starting to figure out where the cracks are.

But she’ll be smart about it. Rhythms go both ways. Now she can be the one to provide comfort. She slides along the bench and rests her arm across Sartha’s shoulder. She squeezes her. Sartha relaxes. She welcomes the touch.

“You know,” Leinth says slowly, after a minute or more has passed, “that it wasn’t always like this, right?”

“Yeah.” Sartha’s voice is empty.

“And…” Leinth takes a deep breath. “And you know it’s not like this for most people, don’t you? You know it’s not right.”

Sartha plants her head in her hands. She might be crying. Then slowly, finally, she nods.

***

Time passes. It goes on. It gets worse. Whatever they’re doing to Leinth, it’s getting more intense. Not more painful - no, that would be preferable. Increasingly, instead of agonizing memories that reverberate yet more pain, Leinth is left with no memories at all. She’s left without clarity. Often for hours, even after she’s returned to her cell. Blackouts. Lost time. It’s like her mind, her life, is being packed into smaller and smaller boxes. Each day, less space remains. Less of her is able to survive. The rest is all an endless, wandering fog. Each memory and each clear thought becomes a hard-fought battle.

It’s a war. And Leinth is losing this war too.

The pilot has no defenses against this. She knows how to be strong, but strength isn’t enough. Leinth’s emotions are starting to fray. She screams. She wails. She sobs. She bangs her fists on the cell walls until her skin breaks.

Leinth can’t even count the hours or the days. She can’t tell if she’s putting up a good fight. What haunts her more than anything is that all of this could have been no more than a couple of weeks. What if she’s falling apart like this in just two weeks.

It brings her to despair. Only Sartha Thrace can comfort her.

Leinth is lying across her lap, resting her head in the softness and warmth of her former hero. It’s the only soft thing she ever gets to touch. When the inside of her own head feels like a hive of bees or a yawning abyss, she can lose herself in the slightly scratchy texture of Sartha’s clothes. She can become something that only exists in the present tense, without her past to grasp at and her future to dread.

She can’t remember when she lost enough of her pride to accept this embrace, from a woman she’s called a traitor. But Leinth is glad she did. Without this, she couldn’t make it. Her very worst fear is that one day, Sartha will simply stop appearing at the door of her cell. She just has to pray they won’t start using that against her.

Sometimes they talk. Not often, though. What’s there to talk about? Nothing changes down here. Leinth tries to keep working Sartha, though. Putting her fingers in those cracks. Pulling them apart. She thinks it's working - not that she trusts herself to judge. But Sartha talks less about ‘Her’. She seems more uncomfortable, whenever Leinth questions. That’s something, right? That’s hope?

None of that today, though. Leinth isn’t together enough for it. All she can do is rest her head in Sartha’s lap and sob.

She tries to sob silently and cover the shaking motions she makes when her breath catches awkwardly in her throat. Maybe she doesn’t want to cry so nakedly in front of an enemy. Maybe she doesn’t want to cry so nakedly in front of her hero. Either way, she keeps her face turned away and hopes Sartha can’t quite see her in the dark.

Then it strikes her: of course she can. It’s dim in here, but not pitch black. And Sartha’s head is right above her. Of course she can see.

Leinth pulls her arms and legs in tighter. She tucks in her head. “Sorry,” she says quietly.

Mercifully, Sartha doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even make some condescending, cooing little noise. She just, very gently, reaches down and starts to stroke Leinth’s hair.

Leinth closes her eyes. At first in shame, but slowly she relaxes. Sartha’s touch is startlingly pleasant. It feels like an angel’s touch. Suddenly, Leinth is struck with a kind of vision.

She imagines that it’s the Sartha Thrace from the poster, sitting above her, stroking her hair. Sartha Thrace as she once was. Always victorious. Always right. Resplendent in her heroism. Her stirring beauty shining like the sun. Smiling a cocksure smile that lets everyone with her know that it’s going to be OK.

The fantasy is a little childish, she guesses. But she needs it right now. Leinth gives herself over to the pleasant daydream. It makes her feel like it’s going to be OK.

Eventually, after a long while, she manages to make herself still. She stops crying. She’s shed enough tears for the day. But there’s no escaping the knowledge that tomorrow will be the same. Fresh torments. And once they’re over, even less of her will remain.

“Sartha,” Leinth says. Her voice is shaky and hoarse. “I’m not going to make it in here. I’m going to end up like you. Or worse.”

There’s a long pause. Then: “I know.”

Leinth summons up her courage. “Will you help me escape?”

A longer pause. Then:

“Yeah.”

***

They make a plan, that night. It’s a simple one. No time for refinements. Leinth is desperate to get out and, frankly, she can’t trust Sartha to keep her word.

From what she’s said, simple should be good enough. This part of the base - the ‘kennels’, Sartha calls them - is large, but has only a small contingent of those dog-hooded menials. Sartha can send them away once the cell door is unlocked, and then she can lead Leinth to freedom. They shouldn’t encounter anyone else on their way to the hangar. All Leinth has to do is steal an Imperial mech and run like hell.

It sounds a little too good to be true. But what choice does Leinth have but to put her faith in Sartha, and hope she has enough of her own strength left to overcome any unexpected challenges?

The real sticking point is Sartha herself. She says all this like she’s not coming. Leinth senses that she shouldn’t ask. Now more than ever, she can’t afford to push Sartha to breaking point. She can see, plain as day, all the fear and doubt inside the captured hero. For all her reputation, she’s like an abused puppy now. She isn’t just thinking running away will earn her another kick. She’s thinking that running away will mean she’s nothing at all.

Leinth wants to prove her wrong. She’s nursing a hope that, at the very last moment, when they’re standing at the threshold, Sartha will choose to take her hand. They have a connection, as pilots and fellow prisoners. Whatever Sartha’s done, she can still be redeemed. She can be whole again. A hero once more.

And Leinth can be the one to take her back into the light. It feels like fate, in a way. Maybe that’s why her chest is filling with tentative confidence.

The moment comes. Leinth hears the lock on her cell door disengage. There’s a pause - longer than usual - before it opens. Sartha is standing in the doorway. No one’s behind her. Sartha steps back, beckoning Leinth. Leinth’s heart starts to race. It’s happening. It’s real.

“This way,” Sartha says.

They start moving quickly, not quite running for fear that their feet pounding the concrete will alert something or someone. It’s just as dark out of Leinth’s cell as it is inside it, and to her the dark corridors and passageways Sartha is leading her through are utterly indistinguishable. She’s tried mapping the place based on what she sees when the menials drag her out each day, but no luck. There’s too little light, and their work leaves her far, far too disoriented.

Sartha appears to know them intimately, though. She leads and Leinth follows, and eventually she senses that they are sloping upward. It takes longer than she’d hoped, though. How big is this part of the base? Is this sprawling complex just for prisoners like her and Sartha? There’s no sense to it than she can discern.

She can puzzle that out later, though. Now she just needs to escape.

They round a corner and Leinth almost runs headfirst into Sartha’s back. She’s stopped. Leinth can immediately see why. For the first time, they can see light - not the light of day, but the bright, harsh light of the mech hangar, and that’s close enough. It’s still distant and faint but it’s closer than had Leinth dared hope for.

But that’s not why Sartha froze. There’s something else. Someone standing between them and freedom. Not one of the menials. Leinth immediately knows who this is.

It’s Her.

Sartha’s handler. The woman she seems utterly in awe of. There’s no one else it could be. She’s wearing a strange kind of uniform - black leathers and a dark cap, with a long coat that lends her a formidable silhouette. Hair is platinum, almost white, as cold as her eyes. She wears a thin smile as she stares down the escapees.

This is bad. Leinth knows that right away. But she’s already running the numbers. This woman’s no bigger than she is. Even if Sartha freezes up, which seems likely, it’s a fair fight. Leinth can win those.

Sartha Thrace does something much worse than freezing up.

“Well done, Sartha,” the handler says. She gestures down. “Now. Heel.”

Leinth is frozen in horror as Sartha rushes across to the handler’s side and kneels.

Her obedience isn’t the worst part, much as Leinth wishes it was. The worst part is how bursting with energy Sartha is. With certainty. There’s no hint of doubt or shame or guilt in her demeanor. She’s rushing forward. Practically wagging her tail. So eager it’s embarrassing.

If she was going to betray Leinth again, the least she could have done was hesitate.

“Good girl,” the handler says as Sartha throws herself at her feet. She reaches down and blesses her head with a couple of fond pats. Leinth is grateful she can’t see the look on Sartha’s face. She’s sure it would break her heart. “Hello, Leinth Aritimis.”

Leinth grits her teeth. This is as bad as it gets. She needs to get her head into gear. This is combat. She should run. But she needs to ask the question.

“What did you do to her?”

Handler takes her time. She tilts her head. Considering, perhaps, how to answer. "I gave her a gift,” she says. “The kind of gift that wins anybody over. I made her perfectly happy.”

Anger swelled in Leinth’s bosom. “You’re sick.”

The slight smile on the handler’s face is maddening. “Do you think so? I believe I’d like to give you the same gift, Leinth.”

That makes her skin crawl. “She’s not happy, you piece of shit.”

“Doesn’t she look happy to you?” the handler replies. She extends her palm, and Sartha stretches her neck to rest her chin on her hand. There’s nothing more Leinth wants than to rush over and break the handler’s jaw. But who knows how Sartha would react to that?

“I’ve seen what she’s like,” Leinth growls. “It’s no gift. She’s suffering. She’s in anguish. I’ve seen it. Half the time, she’s falling apart!”

“Indeed,” the handler muses. “She struggles without me, doesn’t she? But she put up with it so bravely. I’m so proud of her.”

The emotion dripping from her lips is a sickening mixture of mocking condescension and genuine affection. Leinth has never heard anything like it.

“Sir,” Sartha pipes up. She has eyes only for her handler and she seems nervous about speaking, but excitement at the praise has overcome her. “May I have it back?”

The handler smiles down benevolently at her. She’s so proud. “Of course you can, Sartha.”

She reaches into one of her coat pockets and retrieves something - a small, elongated, metal cage with a pair of leather straps mounted to it.

A muzzle.

Sartha presents herself and keeps dead still as her handler bends down and affixes it to her face, taking care to brush her hair out of the way and make sure the straps are exactly as tight as they need to be. It’s as loving as a kiss. As twisted as a curse.

“Up,” the handler says once she’s done.

Sartha rises to her feet. She turns to look at Leinth but barely seems to register her presence. The muzzle jutting out of her face is grotesque. Leinth can’t help but notice how serene she is now. Sartha’s face is clear of doubt, wracked by none of the confusion that had plagued her whenever they’d spoken in Leinth’s cell.

Was it an act? Or does the handler’s presence simply have this much sway over her?

Which is worse?

Leinth swears to herself and spits on the ground. Fuck this. Fuck whatever this is. She’s not going to fall to pieces over this. She’s not going to stand here and stare and let this woman play games with her head. She’s getting out of here.

“See you in hell, freak,” she snarls, and breaks into a sprint.

All she needs to do is put the handler down and run. Leinth can figure the rest out on her own. Sartha isn’t going to help her. Not now.

She makes it a few paces before the handler reacts. She doesn’t panic, though, or raise her arms to defend herself. She just says something to Sartha in a firm, clear voice.

“Off The Leash.”

The next thing Leinth knows, she’s on the ground. It’s just like when she got laid out by Ancyor. Something is on top of her. Something panting and violent and angry. It’s Sartha.

Except it isn’t.

Nobody could go from zero to sixty that fast. Nobody. No person. But Sartha doesn’t really count as one of those anymore. She’s staring down at Leinth with a look of impossible, bestial hate, eyes as furious as they are shallow. Her hackles are raised and her back is arched, and her lips are drawn back to expose snarling teeth. There’s a sound coming from the back of her throat; a low, rumbling growl, like the rolling of thunder. It’s a sound that has no business coming from a human.

This is her. The other self Sartha was talking about before. Leinth knows it. Not a person. Just a honed instrument of her handler’s violent will.

A hound.

"Easy, Hound,” the handler says. “I don’t want her harmed.”

Hound eases off - but only just. The hate burning in her eyes as she looks at Leinth is so singular. It’s utterly totalizing. Leinth tried to desecrate her goddess. That’s all there is to it. The depth of her devotion is so unnatural it makes Leinth’s skin crawl.

The handler moves to stand over her, looking down at her. “You will not escape from here,” she pronounces. “You will never leave this place again. Not unless I permit it. Understand?”

Her manner demands an answer. Leinth doesn’t have one, not even a foul spit of defiance. She’s just trying not to fall to pieces. She’s cursing herself for her optimism. For not seeing the signs. She’s trying not to tear up too, because that would just be too pathetic. She doesn’t want to give this woman the satisfaction. But for that strength, she needs hope. And there’s precious little to hope for, now.

Only Sartha.

There has to be something left of her, right? You can’t just take a human being and take them apart and put them back together like this. Right? Right? You can’t just make a person this small.

There’s something left. Leinth just needs to get through to her.

“Please,” she mouths silently at the hound. She tries to meet her gaze, hard as it is. So much hate, in eyes that had become so familiar. Her muzzle disfigures her. It’s hard to look past that and see the face of a hero. But Leinth is determined to try.

“You have such faith in her.” The handler’s lips curl. “Don’t you see? She’s mine now.”

“No!” Leinth cries, although her voice is weak. “She… she wants to leave with me. She knows this is wrong. She knows you’re her enemy. I saw it.”

The handler arches an eyebrow. “Hound. Up.”

Hound rises to her feet instantly, offering Leinth one last warning growl. Leinth knows better than to try to stand.

“Take off your jacket,” the handler instructs.

Again, Hound obeys without thought. She discards the military jacket she was once so proud of like it’s nothing. Underneath she’s wearing a simple, khaki tank top. The handler lifts the hem to Hound’s chest and uses her other hand to fondly touch the pilot’s abs, feeling at their definition. She’s enjoying them - her smirk makes no secret of that - but this is all for Leinth’s benefit. She’s trying to piss Leinth off. Showing her that only she gets to touch Sartha Thrace this way.

It’s working.

Then the handler makes her hand into a fist and punches Hound in the gut.

She may not be a pilot, but she’s a military woman and her form is good. And more to the point, Hound makes no attempt to defend herself. The blow leaves her bent double, retching and heaving, before her legs give way and she sinks to her knees. She looks like she’s in agony.

Leinth is sure that Sartha Thrace - Hound - whatever - is quick enough to have sensed the blow coming. But she didn’t brace herself. Didn’t even tense her muscles or expel the air from her lungs.

What the fuck kind of control is that? Control on an instinctive level. In her nerves, her muscles, her reflexes.

And that’s not the end. After watching Hound contort and groan for a few moments, the handler lowers the offending fist to Hound’s lips and pushes her muzzle aside.

Hound kisses it.

The kiss is almost innocent. It’s like a knight kissing her liege’s ring. Knowing it's the hand that just left a mean bruise on Hound’s stomach makes it twisted. It gets worse when the handler extends her fingers and uses them to pry Hound’s lips apart, running her fingertips over her teeth, pinching her tongue, smearing drool across her face.

Depraved. There’s no other word for it.

“Do you still think she wants to leave?” the handler asks as she pulls back and fixes Hound’s muzzle.

“Yes, damn it!” Leinth’s wishes her voice sounded firmer. “You’ve done something to her. That… thing is not Sartha Thrace. It’s just something you put in her head. It’s not her.”

“Would it help to hear it from her own lips?” the handler asks. “I’m trying to help you see the truth of her, Leinth. She doesn’t deserve your faith.” She turns to Hound. “On The Leash.”

Light returns to her eyes - a semblance of it, at least, but smothered by the handler’s presence. It’s Sartha again. The muzzle, though, still ruins her face.

“Sartha,” the handler says. Sartha’s ears prick up, grateful merely for the attention. “Do you want to leave me?”

“No!”

The word bursts from her lips, an explosion, before she can catch herself and add the appropriate ‘sir’. Sartha is suddenly desperate. Panicked, far more so than she’d ever been with Leinth in her cell. Her eyes register a wounded confusion.

Is she being abandoned? What did she do wrong?

“No, sir!” Sartha repeats. Her eyes flick and flit manically. She’s on the brink of collapse. “P-please…”

“Don’t worry.” The handler pets her head again. “You don’t have to leave, Sartha.”

All at once, the hero relaxes. Shoulders sink, muscles release all their tension. Her face slumps into a glowing smile. This is all she needs. God is in her heaven; all is right with the world.

And Leinth’s faint hopes grow fainter still.

“That’s… not…” She feels the need to set this to right, somehow. To explain it away. To make an excuse. “You��re in her head! You have been for months, you sick freak. Whatever fucking game you’re playing with her doesn’t change the fact that she’s still Sartha Thrace!”

“Hmm.” The handler looks impressed, or something like it. “You believe in her so very much. More than I’d expected.”

Leinth would be proud. She takes faith as a mark of strength. For rebels like her, faith in one other is indispensable. She would be proud, if not for how pleased the handler seemed.

“Where does that come from, I wonder?” the handler muses. “Loyalty and admiration so fervent it persists in defiance of reality itself. You can understand, I’m sure, why I might take a professional interest.”

Leinth spits. She’s sure this woman knows absolutely nothing about loyalty. Less than nothing.

“The way you look at her is fascinating,” the handler goes on. She’s bending down a little, peering at the pilot. “Respect. Faith. But other things, too. Envy? That’s normal, between pilots. Who wouldn’t envy my hound?”

At that, Leinth just snorts. It’s nothing she hasn’t thought about before. ‘Do I want to be her friend, or do I just want to be her?’ She’s at peace with it.

“And,” the handler adds. “Lust. You want her.”

“W-what?” Leinth feels something pull tight in her chest, even as she laughs and scoffs. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You do,” the handler decides. She says it so academically. Like she’s putting together a puzzle. Like she’s dissecting a frog. “Why deny it? We know your inclinations. She’s attractive, isn’t she?”

“I didn’t mean…” Leinth glances at Sartha. She has eyes only for her handler, even now, but surely she can hear both of them. “Of course, but-“

“The way you look at her is obvious,” the handler interrupts. She glances at Sartha. “It’s obvious to her, too.”

Leinth’s eyes flash wide. That’s… no. No. She’s lying. The handler is messing with her, that much is obvious. And Leinth was always so careful. She never let those feelings reach her face.

Except…

She can’t be quite so confident, can she? Trying to sort through her own memories of her captivity is like trying to grasp at water. At times, she was all but delirious from the pain and the drugs. Did she let something slip? Did something filthy reveal itself in her gaze?

Leinth looks to Sartha, hoping for confirmation. She’s unreadable. She’s in a blissful daze, shining with gladness at the reunion with her handler and her muzzle.

“Tell me, Leinth,” the handler says. “That poster, above your bunk. Did you ever look at it while you touched yourself?”

Leinth recoils like she’s been struck. Cold washes over her, turning all the hairs along her spine into little icicles. “How do you know about that?”

“Our methods are very effective for extracting information,” the handler tells her. “Did you think that my staff were merely amusing themselves?”

Panic. More panic. Leinth scrambles away across the concrete floor. Suddenly the handler’s eyes on her skin are unbearable. What else might she know? Leinth tries to reach back into memory and find pieces of herself. She finds a black hole. She can’t remember spilling any secrets - but clearly she has.

Who has she betrayed? Please let it only be herself. Please let it not be anyone else.

“I think I can take that as confirmation,” the handler says. “Not that I needed any. You want her.” Her smile widens. “You could have her, you know.”

Leinth goes very still. “What?”

“Is that what would make you happy, I wonder?” The handler reaches out to Sartha again; a light touch across her torso, where a bruise is already beginning to rise. “All I’d need to do is say the word.”

“No! Fuck - no.” Leinth’s stomach churns at the suggestion. “I would never… fuck, she would never.”

“Not at all.” The handler’s confidence is supreme. “If I ordered you to, you’d give yourself to Leinth. Wouldn’t you, Sartha.”

“Yes, sir.”

She doesn’t hesitate before answering, of course. Leinth is just about prepared for that, but she isn’t prepared at all for how plainly eager Sartha is. She’s looking at her handler with hope in her eyes. She wants her handler to say the word. She wants to be given a chance to obey.

No matter what.

Leinth can’t tell if it’s too hot or too cold now. She starts to clamber to her feet, leaning heavily on the nearby wall for support. She feels dizzy. She feels like up is down and down is up. Before she knows it, the handler is right there, merely a kiss away, her eyes inescapable.

“Do you want her, Leinth?” she asks, voice barely a whisper, like what she proposes could be a secret, safely told. “Do you want her body?” She puts her lips against Leinth’s skin. “Do you want her to suck your cock?”

The handler is a pillar of ice, but somehow, just for that one, simple question, she makes her voice impossibly sinful and tempting, like warm syrup being poured into Leinth’s ear. It sticks to her. It makes Leinth’s body stir. Leinth recoils violently, thrown into panic, trying to flee - but she’s already against the wall, there’s nowhere to go.

She can’t let it show. She can’t. But it’s too late, of course.

Disgusting. She’s disgusting. The handler’s disgusting. Hound is disgusting. This is all disgusting.

“You could go down on her too, of course,” the handler adds. “If that’s more to your taste. But I think… yes. This is what you want. Sartha Thrace, on her knees, before you. Warm. Eager. Welcoming.”

“N-no!”

Leinth’s voice trembles. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her fantasies are turning against her and all she can do is turn inward, trying to obliterate them with white-hot shame.

“Well, let’s see.” The handler is ice again as she steps back and beckons Sartha forward. “Here, Sartha. Come. Kneel. Remove your muzzle. Open your mouth.”

“Yes, sir!”

Leinth can hear the eagerness of Sartha’s obedience as she rushes and falls, and briefly fumbles with the strap of her muzzle. Her mind’s eye does the rest, and the picture it paints makes her shiver.

“Look,” the handler commands, and the sheer force of will in her voice is irresistible. “Open your eyes.”

Leinth holds firm for a few moments but it only takes one lapse. One moment of weakness - or perhaps, she fears, of curiosity.  Once her lids part, there’s no going back. She’s transfixed. Sartha Thrace is kneeling before her. Her mouth is open. Waiting. She is ready to receive. There’s a warm smile on her face - it’s for her handler, of course, but it could so easily be for Leinth. It would be so easy to pretend. A fantasy, a wet dream, could never be so vivid and so real.

If it wasn’t already too late to pretend, it is now. Leinth is hard. Her clothes aren’t tight, but it’s still obvious.

“There.” The handler says. She’s not smug, just sure. She doesn’t need to be smug. She knew exactly what was going to happen. “Now, Leinth. Should I say the word?”

Leinth shakes her head in mute horror. If she answered ‘yes’, if she even considered it, she’d become something unforgivable.

“Why not?” The handler asks. “You want to. She wants to.”

“She- ah!”

The handler interrupts her by resting her hand on the back of Sartha’s face and pushing her forward until Sartha’s face is pressed against Leinth’s front. The touch is sparks to dry kindling. Leinth twitches awkwardly, trying to shrink back, but there’s nowhere to go and the handler won’t let her.

Sartha, sensing her handler’s intent, starts rubbing and nuzzling, eager, happy to be of use, and that makes it even worse.

“S-she,” Leinth stammers, struggling to keep the thread of her reason taut. “She doesn’t! She’s… you made her like this! It’s your fault! She doesn’t - Sartha Thrace would never - want this.”

“That doesn’t matter.” The handler shuts her down brutally. “Who knows why anyone wants what they want? It doesn’t matter. Look at the woman in front of you.” She turns to Sartha. “Sartha, would you like to clean my boot?”

“Yes, sir!”

Leinth winces. More of that bubbling, twisted eagerness. Each time is another knife.

“Then do so.”

She extends a foot forward pointedly. Again, there’s no hesitation. Sartha bends forward, prostrate, as if in prayer, and puts her lips to the tip of the handler’s long, tall, black, leather boots and begins to kiss. The wet licking sounds that follow stroke Leinth’s imagination.

Leinth wishes she could look away. But Sartha Thrace’s fall is transfixing. It’s a solar eclipse. She’ll take a punch and thank her handler for it. She’ll kiss her boot like it’s a lover. She’ll make herself a whore at her handler’s command. Is there anything she wouldn’t do for that woman? Any limit?

The question provokes an uncomfortable curiosity.

“That will do, Sartha,” the handler says, after several long seconds. “Stand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sartha’s voice is breathy with excitement. When she stands, Leinth can see that the handler’s boot is shiny with her spit. She keeps staring.

“Look at her, Leinth,” the handler chides. “Not at my boot. Look at her.”

Leinth doesn’t. She doesn’t want to. The handler doesn’t fight her on it. She has other tactics.

“Sartha,” she says. “Kiss her.”

“Hu-“

Leinth can barely breathe before Sartha, her hero, is pressing against her. Their lips meet. Sartha is insistent, and Leinth doesn’t have the strength to push her away. The kiss isn’t chaste or robotic or forced. Sartha sinks into it, willingly embracing her duty. She’s passionate. Eager. After a moment, Leinth sinks too. The fantasy is too nice, even though there’s one unmistakable difference between this and her fond daydreams.

Sartha’s lips taste like leather and boot polish.

Sartha is the one who pulls away in the end, which is its own kind of humiliation. In the moments after the kiss, with her face inches from Leinth’s, she looks breathy. Flushed. It’s enough to make Leinth pine.

“Do you see it yet?” The handler’s voice breaks the moment. It’s as final as a sunset. “She’s not your Sartha Thrace. Not anymore. So why not enjoy her, if it pleases you?” Her smile ticks upwards. “Many have.”

A spike of anger brings with it a kind of clarity. This is wrong. It’s not even a fantasy anymore. Whatever daydreams and intimate thoughts Leinth has succumbed to, here and there, she never wanted this for Sartha. Never.

Many have.

It makes Leinth shudder. This isn’t a wet dream. This isn’t her long-treasured fantasy. This is just… cheap. Cheap titillation. It’s unworthy of her. It’s even more unworthy of Sartha Thrace.

“No!” Leinth cries. She finds her voice for the first time in what feels like an age, and the force in her denial drives Sartha back an uncertain step. The handler looks at her - surprised, perhaps, although more curious than afraid.

“No?” she asks.

“Just go fuck yourself already!” Leinth screams. It feels good to scream. “You can throw me back in the damn cell, but you’re not gonna get me to… to…” She just looks at Sartha. “I don’t know how you got so twisted that you get off on this sick shit, but I’m better than that. She is better than that.”

“She is not.” The handler says it with a knowing smile, like she’s the one who has grasped Sartha’s soul in her hands, and that pisses Leinth off even more.

“Yes she is!” Leinth insists. “She’s Sartha god damn Thrace! She’s a hero. She’s the hero. You can change a lot of things but you can’t change that!”

It feels good to say it to her face. Everything’s fucked up right now, but not Leinth’s faith in Sartha. She’s placing that beyond reach. Her faith is the midday sun, boiling away the morning fog. If nothing else, she can make sure the handler goes to her grave knowing that she was never able to tarnish it.

“There will always be people out there - rebels out there - fighting because they were inspired by her.” Leinth is finding her theme and her voice. “Her face and her name are on recruitment posters all over the planet. People will always believe in her. I will always believe in her. No matter what you make her say or do, people will always know: it’s not real. It’s not her. The real Sartha Thrace was always a hero.”

For the first time, the handler is silent. Her silence is intoxicating. Seeing her, of all people, seemingly lost for words is almost as rewarding as freedom itself. It’s tempting to keep going, to rub her face in it, but there’s something far more important at stake. Leinth turns, again, to Sartha. She steps forward and clasps her hero by her shoulders, pulling her close.

“And you,” Leinth says. “Listen to me. You will always be a hero. I know that’s not getting through to you right now because of how badly they’ve fucked with your head. But it’s true. We spent a lot of time talking down in that cell. It wasn’t all fake. You can’t tell me that. You’re still in there, somewhere. And one day, you’re gonna get out. You’re gonna escape. You’re gonna find your way back to yourself. It’ll be hard, it’ll be painful, but I know you’ll do it, because that’s what a hero does. And when that day comes, you’ll… you’ll…”

She trails off. There’s something in Sartha’s eyes. She’s listening to her now. Leinth’s words have made it through. The look dawning on her face is real, and that’s exactly what makes it so devastating.

Sartha Thrace looks pained.

It’s a bone-deep, weary kind of pain. Suddenly she doesn’t look like a captured hero or a brainwashed hound. She just looks tired. Like she’s a woman who’s been ground down and chewed up by the world. And now, just by talking, Leinth has become one of the teeth. She’s hurting her. Sartha just wants her to stop.

Leinth can’t go on. She didn’t think it would be like this. In the face of this mysterious wound in Sartha, she’s powerless.

But now, of course, the handler has something to say.

“There’s a chink in the armor of every single human being.” The handler speaks slowly. She wants every word to sink in. “At least one. And if you pry it open, you find a void. If you can fill that void, then they are yours. Right down to their soul. She is the chink in your armor.”

Leinth closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to hear this. She doesn’t want to know that all this, all her defiance, was just another part of this woman’s dance.

“You have such faith in her,” the handler says. “You think it makes you strong. It just makes you brittle. You can think you can handle seeing her broken and dirtied and disappointing. Perhaps. But you cannot handle the real truth of Sartha Thrace.”

It’s that pain. It has to be. Leinth wants to close her heart off to it. To make a hated enemy of Sartha in her head. Then she wouldn’t need to care. She can’t do it, of course.

“The chink in Sartha’s armor,” the handler tells her, “was you.”

Leinth opens her eyes in disbelief.

“Not just you, of course,” the handler adds. “Not you personally. But all of you who call her a hero and worship the ground she walks on. All that faith. All those expectations. Did you think she could carry that much weight? That she didn’t notice? That it didn’t drag her down with every step? She was tired of it, Leinth. Deep in her soul, she was tired of it. She wanted to be free of it. She would never have admitted it out loud, of course. But she knew it all the same. And when I offered her freedom, something deep inside her reached out and took it. That is how I made her mine.”

Leinth is frozen. She never thought about it. Not once. To her, Sartha was always a woman on a poster. Why didn’t she ever…

“I should thank you, shouldn’t I?” The handler says it without mirth. “For helping to wear her down. For helping to deliver her into my arms. And after that little speech, I think she’s more mine than she’s ever been.”

Sometimes, when Leinth pilots Genetor, she takes some pretty fucking big hits. It’s part of the job, after all. Genetor was built for it. It’s the kind of machine that was designed to stare down an avalanche and dare the mountain the do its worst. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like shit, though. It doesn’t matter how heavily built a machine is. When you get hit by heavy ordnance, the force has to go somewhere. It goes through you. And the noise. It’s deafening, in the most literal sense. After some battles, Leinth can’t hear properly for hours afterward. There’s nothing in her ears but a skull-splitting mosquito whine of complaint.

Even that doesn’t compare to how bad her head is ringing now.

It was her fault?

She looks at Sartha once again. That’s the only thing that can save her now. Sartha telling her that it’s a lie. That she never felt that way. That she was OK with it. But Sartha avoids her gaze, and her shame speaks louder than any words.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? She’s still just looking to Sartha to save her.

“A hero, a martyr, or a traitor,” the handler muses. “Those are the only fates you left her with. No wonder it was so easy to make her a hound instead.”

Leinth gets it now. There are no heroes down here. Not a one.

“Sartha,” the handler says once she’s sure it’s all sunk in. She knows the signs. The slumped shoulders. The sagging, lightless eyes. “Off The Leash. You can take Leinth to my room now. She’s ready for my personal attention.”

It’s a mercy to be faced with Hound instead of Sartha. Hound knows no shame, and no judgment either. Hound doesn’t hesitate. She just puts a hand on Leinth’s shoulder and starts guiding her, unresisting, away from the light and deeper into the catacombs beneath the base.

---

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[fallenrepublick]

It is by nature of the cathedral that one believes in the holy, the otherworldly. It is the purpose of their being that a chorus of voices ring through vaulted ceiling, doubled, tripled, lauding that which you cannot see in desperate song, so that you may believe, if only for a moment, that your god, your angels, are amongst them, drowned in worship, their message to you lost in the fray. Grandeur becomes the dedication, she who stands above the rest with messages and visions of ages come to pass is, in their eyes, the god herself. They call to her, grapple the air before them, salvation just out of reach. She holds in her hands their futures, their fates.

It is by the nature of the cathedral that the reverence lingers, spoken and respoken in the columns that crumble beneath the shockwaves of the assault. Boots dirtied from a war only just won shake stones and topple the ceiling from above, heralding change along old voices, old songs. Sanctified ground no longer divine in her absence, taking with her those most devout, who hover as aged, natural, sacrificial shields over her youngest two children.

And the bastard son of a Sith stands alone, mother and siblings long since pushed to safety, holding him to promise of return. Against a wave of white, mind slipped down dozens of blaster barrels, the boy stands, markings of both mother and father carved into pale skin. He holds not the hilt of a weapon. He sees not a soul, eyes blinded in faith to a god that once called him chosen. In cacophony, in destruction, in the deafening ruin, there is silence. In silence, the boy listens, listens for the voice of his god. And in the silence, he hears nothing.