#so you can burn the whole world down without ever setting foot there

[sealer-of-wenkamui]

Just wanted to say that while I’m not personally really into the rape/sexual assault aspect that was so clearly being implied with “bloody bedchamber”, I am 100% on your side that it profoundly undermines Mohg as a character to take that from him under the aegis of “Miquella charmed him!” Frankly the DLC really did some serious damage to Mohg AND his faction with the whole “charming”, as it’s just really… removing a LOT of their weight/agency in the narrative for way too many players.

(Oh that’s completely understandable, I just like to point out my personal enjoyment of it because of how many people act like it’s a dealbreaker for liking Mohg, while on the contrary it was one of the very reasons I was interested in his character to begin with)

And yeah, it’s exactly as you say, his implied sexual abuse (or at the very least, a violation of Miquella’s body that reads as a pretty clear parallel to it) of Miquella is a major part of his character. You can look at his upbringing and see how he might end up with a warped perception of love, where if he wants to be loved he has to take it by force, resulting in the situation with Miquella (and he also is forcing Miq to play a role in his dynasty, the unloved abandoned child making a name for himself as a lord, with the one he loves, willingness of anyone involved be damned) So to say ohhh well actually Miquella wanted all that weakens his character so much. It’s just an excuse to avoid the dark implications without caring about what it means for his character, he had plenty of motivation to do that to Miquella to begin with.

And we even seen in game that the charm does not fully mind control people, it simply seems to make them love Miquella, and prevent them from killing him or any other opposition towards him (and they’re self-aware of the charm and hornsent still mentions his distrust of you, and Leda also brings it up that he never placed his full trust in her either. These aren’t even demigods.) No one else exhibits the sort of possessiveness Mohg does towards Miquella, and Mohg’s goals for him were separate from Miquella’s own, wanting to make him a God under the Formless Mother (an outer god, which we’ve seen him oppose because of his sister)

Ansbach is a knight of Mohg so he’s a biased source of info, but I do still hate how the dlc emphasizes Mohg as a victim so much because it further leads people to act like Mohg did nothing wrong.

[itsabouttimex2]

Hi hope it’s not to late to request yandere demon bull family , with reader having a crush on MK please 🙏

Bullfam reacts to dating MK

(Alternate Scenario)

Red Son’s reaction closely mirrors MK’s in the Monkiefam scenario, just far more severe and less quick to open up to the idea of his little sibling dating.

As the seasons go on, he’s more and more likely to grudgingly accept your relationship with the filthy, awful, empty-brained, plan-wrecking, noodle-making peasant. By season four, he’ll have a severely vitriolic view of your relationship, but will very unhappily accept that MK not only makes you happy, but also keeps you safe.

In season one? He explodes into a blind rage and temporarily switches his plans from taking over the city/world to outright killing his rival.

You sigh as you step into your room, where your brother is, but has no right to be, in your personal opinion. You feel more of a mild annoyance at him going through your things than anything else, though. He does this regularly, giving his reasons as “keeping you out of trouble” and “making sure you aren’t up to anything”.

Today is the first day after years of relentless searching that he finds something.

Red Son’s hand trembles with an emotion you can’t quite place, holding an item you can’t quite see. You peek closer, shifting to look around his shoulder.

It’s your phone, with your messages open.

And he’s looking through the chats you’ve had with MK.

“Y/N! EXPLAIN YOURSELF RIGHT NOW, YOU- YOU- YOU ABSOLUTE BUFFOON! HOW DARE YOU?! RUNNING AROUND WITH THE DEMON BULL FAMILY’S GREATEST ENEMY?! DO WE MEAN NOTHING TO YOU?! DO YOU NOT LOVE US? DO YOU LOVE HIM MORE THAN US?!”

He throws your phone to the ground, crushing it with a flaming foot. Then that fire begins to spread.

Flames gush freely from his hands, his eyes, his hair, all setting him alight in a brutal display of the power he wields. The fire he spews grows hotter and brighter until almost all of his body is consumed by an eye-searing light. You’re forced to turn your head and cover your eyes. There’s nothing you can do to stop him right now, and you certainly can’t go running to your parents, either.

Even if they did decide to step in and force him to stand down, it would mean revealing to them your relationship with the first and foremost obstacle to their plans and schemes. They might even go so far as to fan his fury, encouraging him as he sets off on a one-man warpath towards Megapolis, and with it, MK.

The best and safest option here is to bite the bullet and desperately apologize and start to beg for him to calm down. Tell him that you’re sorry for keeping secrets, for getting into a relationship without his knowledge or consent, for sneaking around with his rival. Tell him you’ll call the whole thing off and break up with MK if he just calms down and stops burning things, if he promises not to hurt anybody. If you cry and tremble as you make promise after promise, there’s a better chance it’ll work.

And though your pleading does slowly get through to Red Son, his anger is only ever so slightly mitigated. Shaking so fiercely that he threatens to combust once more, he grips your shoulder with just enough strength to leave a bruise and throws you into your closet, locking it behind you before stomping off to speak with his parents about what you’ve been doing.

You’re left alone, sniffling and shaking in the dark, sitting with your legs against your chest in the enclosed space.

Things are bad, already. And then you hear soft footsteps, and you know they’re about to get worse.

Thankfully for you, your mother comes to see you before your father does.

Princess Iron Fan is the calmest and most reasonable of the three, with iron-lined nerves and a perpetually composed demeanor. You’re lucky, really. If it had been your brother again, or; god forbid, your father… at least her coming here gives them both a chance to cool off from the news while she tends to you.

She slowly unlocks and opens the closet, looking down at your huddled form. Whether she looks at you with pity, reproach or disappointment is impossible to distinguish by face and body language alone.

Even when she kneels down in the closet to meet you face-to-face, her emotions are utterly indistinguishable. Your heart pounds frantically, terror mounting inside you. The red-robed demon shakes her head and sighs softly at your panicked expression, opening her arms to you.

“My poor, foolish child. Come to your mother.”

Princess Iron Fan might be evil, might be married to a would-be world conquerer, might be willing to throw children around in a fight… but she adores her family above all else. So she takes pity upon seeing your tears and brings you into a hug, letting you rest your teary eyes on her shoulder.

She’s still mad, of course. But she’ll preserve her image of you being a precious and innocent treasure that she simply must protect by shifting the majority of the blame to MK, deeming him a “bad influence”. You’re still getting locked up nice and tight in the fortress, of course. You’ll be put in a room with a door that’s too heavy for you to push open, trapping you inside even without taking into account that your parents seal it with locks both iron and arcane, just to keep you extra “safe” from someone who never posed any threat to you whatsoever.

“My naive little Y/N,” she coos into your ear with sickly-sweetness, tightening her arms around you. “Was my foolish child led astray by a petty, rebellious mortal? I had thought you were readier for the world, wiser to the tricks of it’s people… but I see now that I was wrong.”

Your heart clenches at her manipulative words, her loving but sharp tongue driving stakes into your quickly diminishing self-esteem. By framing a simple desire to grow up and develop a relationship as a severe personal failing on your end, she justifies locking you away. You can’t call her a bad person if she convinced you that it’s for your own good, after all.

She truly loves you, in spite of her manipulations. Iron Fan will be the one bringing you food and fresh clothing every morning, ensuring that you stay healthy and clean even through the long duration of your imprisonment grounding.

She sets you onto your feet, brushing off your clothes before cupping your cheek with one of her hands. “Come now. Your father wants to speak to you.”

All you can do from there is drag your feet along after her, dreading the inevitable confrontation that awaits you.

She brings you to the master room of the fortress, where the Demon Bull King awaits you, scorn leering from his eyes. She pushes you into the chamber, then shuts the iron door behind you with a powerful gust of wind, trapping you once more.

With leaden feet, you slowly walk forwards, head lowered to the ground so as to not make eye contact with your furious father. Once you stand before his throne, he leans forward.

With a long, clawed finger he reaches out to you. Carefully, he hooks his powerful and sharp nail under the bottom of your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“Child,” he rumbles, his voice dangerously low and gravelly. “You have much to answer for. If I were you, I’d begin explaining… and quickly.”

Just as you did with your elder brother, and your mother soon after him, you take the most peaceful option you can, and try to placate. If it was just Red Son that was angry at you, you could run to your parents for sanctuary. If it was only Demon Bull King, you could seek out your mother and beg her to soothe his rage. Now that all of your family is enraged or upset, you have nowhere to run, no one to turn to.

“I… I’m sorry, father. I have no excuse.”

You do, actually. That excuse being that you’ve lived hundreds of years right beside them and have proven both your strength and maturity time and time again. Still, they treat you like a child and insist on hiding you away from the world and everyone within it.

“Please give me a chance to earn your forgiveness.”

You don’t want his forgiveness. You want your family to understand that you’ve grown up, enough that you have an interest in romantic relationships. You don’t want to have to fight to get them to acknowledge your feelings and desires.

Your father stares down at you with icy eyes, huffing and snarling. You know he wouldn’t truly harm you, of course. None of your family would. The mild bruise Red Son gave you just a short while ago was the worst any of them had ever hurt you , and even that was probably unintentional.

DBK leans back on his throne, unhanding your chin. Still, his eyes never leave yours, boring right through you.

“I see,” he says, his voice heavily guarded. “I see what the problem is.” The giant demon folds his arms as he rises from his throne, towering above you.

“You’ve been given too much room to roam, it seems. I have been gone for so long that you have forgotten the Bull clan’s mission.”

He raises his fist high, then swings it against the wall to sound a brutal clang that echoes through the room and causes your ears to painfully ring as you recoil.

“We are demons! We conquer, destroy, and rule! None stand in our way! We do not lower ourselves to commingle with mortals! We rise above the rabble, and crush them under our heels when they dare to resist!”

“Do you understand, Y/N?”

Swallowing the lump in your throat is painful, but you force yourself to do so anyways. If you want to soothe the anger you’ve inspired throughout your parents and brother, then you have to take the high road and play nice for your own sake.

Not only for your own sake, but for MK’s as well. Their anger is directed between the both of you, after all. Assuaging it is the easiest way to keep him safe. With that in mind, there’s only one thing you can say.

“Yes, father.”

[greasergal]

Metanoia Prologue

Pairing: Older!Mikey Walsh x OC!FemReader

Warnings: language, angst, slow burn romance, sexual innuendos, drinking, dark past, mentions of depression

Summary: Estella spent a lot of her life not really knowing who she was. So on a journey to figure that out she said good bye to the life she had made in search of one she would enjoy. Which is how she happened to stumble upon the Goondocks and the best group of friends she had ever met.

word count: 1.5k

→ One

Materlist

PROLOGUE | OUT OF TOWNER Wednesday June 30th 1993, Astoria Oregon

The thrill was what got to her. The absolute freeing and exciting feeling of running off. The whole world was in her hands and she could do anything. Who knew what would happen next. Just the mystery and on edge her future seemed was enough to keep her foot on the gas and to continue driving with no map in her hands. Each road she passed was a split decision. A small grin tickled at the corner of her lips but didn't fully form because the thrill in her stomach was enough to make her sick and happy at the same time.

She had been driving for a while now. At least eight hours before she had loaded her car with anything she could think of bringing along. She was actually surprised the small white Volkswagen Bug could hold all the junk she had thrown into it. The sky was grey and drizzling raindrops all over the earth. As Estella admired the beauty of Mother Nature her stomach grumbled. She hadn't had the time to eat before her split second decision of leaving. Passing a small town sign she smiled knowing this was promising of a restaurant nearby. The town hit you all at once, lots of houses, and a whole bunch of different colors. Estella could see the small port down the end of the road and it somehow brought the little old town together.

As she got closer to the port she saw a sign for a little diner and let out a sigh of relief. Without hesitation she pulled into a parking space and grabbed her wallet. The inside was small and very old school but it gave off a warm welcoming feeling. There wasn't a lot of people inside, just two young boys sitting at the bar stools and an older gentleman off to himself in a booth. Estella took a seat on the opposite side of the bar from the boys and started to look at the menu as a blonde girl emerged wearing a pink waitress uniform.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked with a small smile. She had warm brown eyes and she stared into Estella's hazel ones with kindness.

"Um, I'll just have some French toast and bacon on the side. Oh and a glass of orange juice" the girl smiled as she wrote down the order and walked it back to the window. She gently clipped it to the carousel and spun it around so the cooks could get it. She watched as she moved to wipe the counter in front of the two boys and fall into conversation with them. Before she knew it the girl had returned and started wiping down the counter in front of her. Estella also couldn't help but notice the boys staring at her from across the bar.

"Is there something on my face? Those boys you were talking to over there are staring at me" she leaned and whispered to the blonde so they wouldn't hear. The blonde chuckled slightly and shook her head.

"No we just aren't used to out of towner's around here. Where you from?" she asked and Estella leaned back, thankful she wasn't losing her mind.

"Redding California" the blonde girls eyes widened. Rarely did they get the California sunshine type around the area. That was almost a nine hour drive too.

"So what's got you all the way out here?" the blonde asked as she grabbed the girls glass of orange juice and set it down.

"It would help if I knew where here was?" Estella told her and the blonde chuckled as it made sense how the girl had ended up in their small town.

"Well you're in the goon docks of Astoria Oregon of course" Estella furrowed her eyebrows as she recognized the name. Why did she recognize that name?

"Isn't this the small town that found that pirate treasure or something a few years back?" Estella finally questioned as the blonde grabbed her plate of quickly made food and set it in front of her.

"You're right, that story made our little town famous" she told her and Estella nodded as she thought of such a tale. She only remembered it because of how interesting and exciting it was when news broke out about the lost treasure. That wasn't the kind of thing that happened every day. 

"Do you know the full story?" Estella asked and the blonde turned to the two boys sitting at the bar, sharing a look that Estella didn't quite understand. 

"Yeah, back in 85 some kids called the Goonies found a map to One Eyed Willie's ship right off the coast through some hidden tunnels. The treasure they found saved half the town from being turned into a golf course. Put our little town on the map" Estella found a sense of comfort in the story and smiled.

"That's quite a story. No wonder your little town has a charm to it" and the blonde smiled at the unusual response from the girl which caused her to hold her hand out.

"I'm Stef, it's nice to meet you" she said and Estella quickly smiled and wiped her hands off with her napkin before placing it in hers.

"I'm Estella, it's nice to meet you too" the girls smiled at each other as they shook hands. Before either girl could speak they were cut off by a bellowing voice from a woman.

"Stef, who said you could take a break?" the two girls turned to face the plump woman as she descended the spiral staircase in the corner.

"Oh Ginny, there is no one here" Stef talked back as if she was still a child. The woman named Ginny found her way behind the counter wearing a uniform identical to Stef's.

"Oh really?" she said as she gestured to the two boys, Estella, and the gentleman just getting up to leave.

"Okay but none of them needed assistance at the moment" Ginny rolled her eyes and started to work amongst the counter.

"Clarke and Lawerence I swear you've been here all day. Time to get out, you finished eating an hour ago" she scolded the two boys across the counter from Estella.

"Aww Ginny we got nothing better to do than be here with you" the skinnier one said and she rolled her eyes at him.

"Yeah and I still want a milkshake" the other said and Ginny sighed.

"I swear you two come in here and cause trouble everyday, could I get a strawberry milkshake?" Ginny yelled to the back kitchen as Stef turned back to Estella.

"So you planning on staying and visiting for a bit?" she asked and Estella thought for a moment.

"Well I wasn't really planning on going anywhere so why not? I just needed someplace to get away" Estella answered and Stef smiled, excited at the idea of  anew face around here. 

"Don't we all" Ginny piped up as she handed the milkshake to Lawerence and the girls laughed.

"Thanks Aunt Ginn" he replied as he immediately started sucking it down.

"Your welcome" she said just as the two boys began to stand.

"We're heading out but before we leave, I'm Mouth and this is Chunk, only the older folks round here call us by our real names" Clarke held a hand out to Estella and she smiled and accepted his handshake.

"I'm not old young man" Ginny scolded as she pointed at him and he laughed, the pair starting to walk away. 

"Alright we best be going, see ya later babe" Mouth said as he leaned over and gave Stef a small kiss. Estella was a bit surprised but brushed it off quickly. As he pulled away he gave a small pat to Estella's shoulder and Chunk gave her a wave as they both exited the diner.

"If you plan on staying I might have to be careful. A pretty girl like you could send him running away" Stef said once they were gone and Estella went to respond and assure her of no trouble before Ginny spoke up.

"Oh please you've had that boy wrapped around your finger since you found that damn pirate treasure" and Stef looked to see the immediate shock that painted the new girls features. Estella looked at Stef and she gave a small chuckle.

"Surprise" she said and the two girls fell into joined laughter.

"That's so cool. So you found the treasure?" Estella asked and Stef shrugged and looked at Ginny.

"Not really, I was just along for the journey. There was one boy we wouldn't of done it without" she told her and Estella tilted her head, confused at the modesty that came from telling a story like that. 

"Who was the boy?" Estella asked even though she couldn't possibly know who he was. 

"Mikey Walsh"

Comment if you want to be added to the taglist :))

[janetbrown711]

The World is Not a Nice Place (to those of us who breathe)

Pigsy has a pretty good gig for himself: a nice little restaurant, a cute regular customer (who's name he keeps forgetting to ask), and a place to call his own. However, his life changes forever when two orphans hide out in his storage closet to hide from the police.

AKA Pigsy adopts MK and Mei as kids AU <333 This will be a whole series, so prepare for a lot of cute dadsy content and lil Mei and MK (as well as some divine intervention bc why not).

Part 1 Part 2

Ao3 Link

Pigsy was the proud owner of a little noodle shop his grandma helped him set up called “Pigsy’s Noodles'' and it was his pride and joy. He’d been running it alone for two years now after a teenage and young twenties-hood of running around, getting into fights, and getting severely traumatized with his best friend. It was his grandmother’s suggestion when Sandy threw in the towel leaving Pigsy aimless, and he couldn’t thank her enough for it.

It was different without her around, certainly not any easier, but being a local business in a city that was only being more commercialized by the second gave his place an identity and authenticity no chain restaurant could ever replicate, so business was stable.

Sure, he didn’t exactly live a life of luxury, but his studio apartment above the restaurant was all he needed. He was a pig of the simple life, according to his grandma anyways.

That didn’t mean he didn’t miss the chaos and Sandy, whom he hadn’t seen since… well.. a while, but that didn’t mean he was completely alone. He had this one regular who came in to work on his capstone for his masters and applications for doctorate programs who was kinda funny and cute and smart. Granted, he rarely ever paid his tab, but Pigsy liked listening to him ramble about the Legends of Sun Wukong, so that kind of made up for it.

If only Pigsy could ever remember to actually ask for his name.

Today was going to be a slow day, Pigsy knew that. Grey storm clouds covered the sky, giving the city an almost haunted feeling. It would probably rain soon enough too, so any hopes of foot traffic were dashed. His regular was still there, of course, but something was off with him too. He was quiet, reading something on his laptop with a worried brow, which worried Pigsy too.

“You– uh– readin’ the news?” Pigsy asked, drying a glass off with a towel to mask his concern.

“Yeah– there was a huge fire last night. You know that ancient ancestral home to the descendants of the White Horse Dragon?”

Pigsy nodded.

“It burned down, as well as an apartment complex nearby,” The regular turned his laptop around to show the chef. Pigsy got a good glance at it before cringing.

“Yeesh– is everyone okay?” He asked. The semi-stranger shook his head.

“The owners are both confirmed to have died, but no one can find their daughter, and there are at least ten dead from the apartment fire,” he turned his laptop back around.

“Dang, how old is she?” Pigsy asked, setting the glass down.

“Seven, I think.”

Goddamn.

“Hope the kid’s okay,” Pigsy looked out the window, staring at the neon glow of his sign against the dull gray sky.

He should probably close.

“Hey um– you got any more dissertation writing to do today? I’m thinkin’ about closing early” Pigsy asked.

The man sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses up as he did. “I don’t know if I can focus on that, but I know I can’t really go home– it reeks of smoke since I live a block down from all that.”

“O-oh, right, yeah– uhm… feel free to stay as long as you need then, I won’t close til you’re all good,” Pigsy blushed, thinking about how stupid that idea was.

The stranger gave him a soft smile. “Thanks.”

“Ah, no problem– so long as you actually make a dent in that tab of yours,” Pigsy tried to tease but got something in his throat halfway through that made him cough and therefore sound like a flustered idiot.

The stranger laughed a little and went back to his laptop, while Pigsy went to clean the grill, desperate to scrape away his embarrassment.

Almost twenty eight and he was out here blushing like a piglet.

The pair were silent again for a while, except for the occasional siren or two as police drove down the street, which was hardly an unusual sound for Megapolis. However, after a bit of this, Pigsy and the customer both jumped when they heard pots and pans crash to the floor in the back.

“Was that a rat?” The man asked.

“No-! That’s ridiculous-!” Pigsy defended, his face red as a tomato. “I’ll go check it out– I swear this place is sanitary,” Pigsy quickly turned off the grill, grabbed a broom and prayed he was right.

He went back to the back of the restaurant, frowning when he saw the back door was open, though only a crack. With a sigh, he went and shut it, sure to click the lock this time and now really really praying there wasn’t a rat or any other pests.

“Anyone in here?” He called out. He wasn’t exactly shocked when there wasn’t a response, but as he got closer to the storage closet, he could swear he heard something shuffling– probably an animal like he suspected (he was usually so vigilant about the door dammit– this was so stupid). Now holding the broom like a weapon, he approached the closet door carefully and quietly, listening to more shuffling before quickly grabbing the doorknob and flinging the door open, causing two shrieks of children to ring out.

“Pleasepleaseplease dont’t hurt us-!”A little boy cried out, shielding his friend– a girl– with his arms and trembling.

Kids??? What the fuck were kids doing here???

Quickly, Pigsy flicked on the lightswitch and set the broom down.

“What’re you two doing here? This is a private business and I don’t–” Pigsy was going to lecture more but noticed the girl who was crying a lot and looked oddly familiar.

“S-sorry, Mister, w-we didn’t know– we’re sorry about the pot i-it’s just–” The boy apologized but the girl interrupted.

“I-i didn’t mean to do it, I-i was just trying to c-clean a-and– a-a-and n-n-now m-mom n’ d-dad are– a-a-are– a-and so we just– and then the cops– a-a-and–” The girl couldn’t get through her sentence before choking on her tears.

Wait a minute…

Holy shit.

“You’re the missing dragon girl, aren’t you?” Pigsy knelt down. The girl nodded her head as she hugged her knees close to her chest.

“D-don’t tell anyone, please,” The boy pleaded. “ ‘specially the cops, they’re spooky.”

Pigsy snorted. “Yeah I know that, but you can’t just hide here kiddo, people are looking for you– maybe even your family.”

“MK’s my family, I don’t have anyone else,” The girl sniffled. “A-and those guys are scary, th-their eyes are all red.”

“Red eyes? Kid, I know cops are bastards, but they don’t have–” Pigsy stopped to think for five seconds before suddenly getting very, very worried.

Demons.

“Look, I won’t tell anyone you’re here, but how’s about you move to the kitchen where I can keep a better eye on you two, okay?” He said, looking over his shoulder at the backdoor. As the kids nodded and slowly stood up, he grabbed the padlock on the high shelf and put it around the back door for extra security, before going back to the kids, who were watching nervously.

“Look uh– just keep your heads low and stay behind the bar, there should be some room for you two if I shift some boxes around,” Pigsy scratched his head and went out to the kitchen, but the kids didn’t follow him.

“Everything okay back there?” His regular asked, lowering the lid of his laptop.

“Y-yeah-! Yeah, just– um… keep studying,” He smiled nervously. The semi-stranger gave him a curious look before raising the lid and getting back to work. He quickly went back and found the kids still standing in the doorway of the storage closet looking down.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you two?” Pigsy asked softly. The girl pulled on her long black hair nervously and sniffled.

“I-i’m scared they’ll see us,” She confessed.

Pigsy immediately got on one knee and placed a hand on her and the boy– MK–’s shoulder. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you two, okay? You have my word.”

The kids exchanged weary glances before nodding. Pigsy gave them a weak smile before standing, reminding them to stay low before leading them out to the kitchen where they remained creeping low, but not before the regular saw them.

“Um… hi,” His customer gave a wave to MK and the girl, who froze.

“It’s okay kiddos, he’s a–” Pigsy glanced at him.

“A friend,” The man finished his sentence for him, which made Pigsy blush a little.

“Oh– hi-!” MK waved a little before getting on his knees and hiding under the bar like Pigsy instructed, which the girl shortly followed.

“Mind telling me why you have kids hiding under your bar?” The scholar teased a little.

“Ah– well uh–” he glanced down at the pair, who were having a silent conversation with hand signals he didn’t know.

“There’s some trouble stirring up right now and they needed somewhere safe to stay so I figured why not keep ‘em in my line of sight, you know?” He shrugged at the half-truth.

“Oh, that’s really sweet of you,” The man said with a smile, going back to his laptop so he didn’t notice Pigsy’s face turning dark red once more before he turned around and got back to cleaning.

After a while of casual silence, Pigsy heard the bell ring and muttered to himself when he heard them say “Megapolis Police, we’re here looking for a little girl, Mei Dragon. She’s long black hair and was last seen in a green jacket with white shorts and sneakers.”

“You see any kids here?” Pigsy scoffed as he scraped off the fond from a pot.

“Look here, wise guy, we’re gonna search this place whether you like it or not,” One of them snarled, but Pigsy just rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” He said, setting the pot down to dry while picking up an iron skillet. One of the cops– a slightly smaller but still plenty muscular one– eyed him.

“This’ll be quick anyways,” The officer said.

“Better be, or else you’re gonna scare off my customers,” He crossed his arms and stood in front of the cupboard where the kids were hiding. He glanced at his regular, who seemed just as annoyed at the presence of police as he was.

The officers huffed and began snooping around, looking under tables and in the bathrooms, getting huffier the more and more they didn’t find the girl– Mei.

Man, Pigsy was really bad about asking for names.

When the cops went to the back, Pigsy heard the girl start crying again. Pigsy bit his cheek before crouching down again and asking what the matter was.

"S-sorry, Mr. Piggy, I-I don't know why– I-i just keep–"

"Hey, it's okay kid, you just gotta be quiet for a little bit longer and then the scary guys will leave and we can find you somewhere a lot safer to be, okay?"

The girl rubbed her eyes with her jacket sleeve and nodded, which was when Pigsy noticed her eyes were glowing emerald green.

So uh… that was interesting.

"Does she normally…?" He turned to MK who nodded.

Alrighty then.

“Hey– there’s the dragon brat-!” One of the cops shouted from the doorway to the back.

Shit.

“Yeah well if you want her, you’re gonna have to go through me,” Pigsy huffed, gripping the pan and going into a fighting stance. Just like that, the cops shed their skins to reveal they were actually just a massive tiger and the larger one leapt towards Pigsy, who knocked him as hard as he could in the jaw with the skillet, sending him into the grill.

“Woah-!” The girl watched in awe, bringing Pigsy way back.

“Oh my stars– Are you okay-?!” The regular closed his laptop and shoved it into his bag frantically.

“You good at running?” Pigsy asked as the smaller one jumped to attack, but he whacked them away too.

“Can be under pressure-!” The man quickly slid his bag around his shoulder.

“Great– take the kids and run,” Pigsy said, taking MK’s arm and pulling him out of the hiding spot before placing him on top of the bar, then doing the same with Mei.

“Right uh– Let’s get going then-!” He said, helping the kids jump down as the bigger tiger demon got up and tried jumping towards Mei, but Pigsy got a hold of his neck and was able to hold him back and thankfully the kids and sexy customer were able to get out. However, he must not have hit the second guy hard enough because he was back and instantly tackled Pigsy to the ground and gave him a nasty gash in his shoulder with his claw, tearing through his chef’s shirt. Pigsy was able to kick the guy off of him, and when he saw the bigger guy was making a run for it, he grabbed the nearest bottle of rice vinegar and threw it at him, which shattered against his head on impact.

“Ha-! Take that ya bastard-!” Pigsy was pleasantly surprised his aim was still good, especially with his arm stinging severely from the previously mentioned gash.

“Alright, piggy, you wanna do this?” The tiger turned away from the entrance.

Ah, fuck– Where’s Sandy when you need him?

He hit the smaller in the face with the skillet again, before having to duck to avoid the bigger one leaping at him once again. Thankfully, his size and strength failed him when he overestimated how much power to put into that and he went crashing straight through the wall (which was not good for Pigsy’s bills, but priorities).

Jiangjun– we need the dragon, not the bacon,” The smaller tiger growled and stood.

“You were the ones pretending to be cops,” Pigsy growled and leaned against the bar, trying not to wince in pain.

“This is a mercy, Pig Man,” The big demon got up and snarled. “You can’t kill us, but we can kill you.”

Before Pigsy could protest again, the tigers bolted out of the restaurant, and Pigsy scrambled to keep up.

The street quickly turned into a mad panic as people bolted out of the way of the tiger demons, which was kind of good because there was a clear path for Pigsy to follow. Did he have a plan? No. Did his arm hurt with every attempt at running? Yes. Did he even know why he was sticking his neck this far out for these kids? Kind of– He wasn’t heartless– if kids are in danger he’ll protect them, that’s how normal people responded.

He also hoped his regular was okay– if they lived he was going to make sure he asked for his name.

When he caught sight of the trio, they were dashing around a corner, and the demons quickly followed. Pigsy was starting to fall behind and so said a quick prayer to whatever and picked up the pace, mortified when he turned that corner and found they got themselves backed into an alley.

“Nowhere to run, Little Dragon,” The bigger tiger licked his lips and got on all fours. Pigsy scrambled for something to grab, but the smaller tiger pounced on him and that quickly became a struggle of its own.

“Mr. Piggy!” Mei cried out, her eyes still glowing but flickering to a wine red. She balled her little hands into fists and stepped away from MK, who was forced to let go of her arm and so grabbed onto the man.

“Get away from him!” She shouted, and a rush of hot air flooded the alleyway, causing the tiger to stop fighting Pigsy, though he still had him pinned and with claws at his throat.

“B-boss, you said she was too young,” The small one said.

The bigger one growled, “She’s supposed to be, but something’s… different.”

“I saidget away!” She screamed, and Pigsy couldn’t believe his eyes– she was suddenly surrounded by an aura in the shape of a very, very large Jade Dragon, who’s eyes stared menacingly down at the two tiger demons. There was something else too– sparks of that red from before, but whatever that was it was clearly restrained, despite her anger.

“C-c’mon boss, let’s get out of here,” The small tiger let go of Pigsy and scrambled away. The larger remained, staring down the beast until it opened its massive jaws as if to spit fire or water, and then he ran.

“Wow-! That was so cool Mei-!” Her best friend cheered for her while Pigsy forced himself to stand.

“Yeah, not too bad– kid-!” In the middle of Pigsy’s compliment, all of the glow faded from Mei’s eyes and she passed out, thankfully caught by the regular.

“We should get you– you two– to a hospital,” The man said, his face going pale at Pigsy’s appearance.

“What? I’m not that roughed up,” Pigsy denied, despite feeling so dizzy from blood loss he had to rest a hand against the wall of the alley.

“C’mon, I’ll call a cab,” The man rolled his eyes playfully before calling the car and then they were off.

.o0o.

Once they were at the hospital, things quickly got awkward as it became more and more apparent to the staff that they had no relation to Mei and didn’t know any of her medical information. Thankfully her situation was a lot less serious and she was awake and had perfectly fine vitals in just a few minutes, whereas Pigsy had to get stitches and a blood transfusion, and was put under observation for a while.

The observation period was boring, of course, and it had him wondering just what the hell he was doing with his life. He didn’t know these kids– he didn’t even know that customer’s name– why was he out here destroying his very livelihood and fighting for them like they’re his own kids?

“Are you doing alright there? You're almost done” The nurse, “Ming-Hoa” according to his lotus-shaped name tag, suddenly spoke up. Pigsy blinked and shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah, just… thoughts,” He shrugged.

“Getting into life threatening situations often does that to a person,” The nurse laughed a little, checking all of the monitors and writing something down on his clipboard. “What you did was very brave. That girl could very easily be dead, her family is indebted to you.”

Pigsy sighed and closed his eyes. “That’s the problem– the kid doesn’t have a family.”

The nurse nodded a little. “Well… I’m sure they’re happy wherever they are.”

“What’s– uh–” Pigsy looked down at his hands. “What’s going to happen to the kid now?”

The nurse had a small smile on his face. “Well, custody of her will be decided by her parent’s will and the boy will undergo a similar process, though if there’s no will, he’ll be placed into foster care.”

“Wait– him too?” Pigsy tried to sit up.

“Oh, you didn’t know? He was also orphaned in the fire the other night, though he was in the apartment buildings.”

“But they can’t split those two up, they’re practically siblings– joined at the hip and apparently all they have." An expression of sad realization washed over the chef's face.

"Yes, yes, but unfortunately that is how it goes unless the person taking in the girl was willing to take the boy too," Ming-Hoa explained.

"How could anyone not? I know I sure would," Pigsy huffed as the nurse checked the monitors once more and started unhooking all of the devices.

"Well that's what we like to hear," He said as he took off the heart monitor from Pigsy.

"Sure..?" Pigsy raised an eyebrow as he stretched. The nurse continued to type something into his computer as Pigsy stood and gathered his things, which was really just his torn up chef’s shirt.

“The Dragon Family Lawyer will meet you just outside to discuss a few things, Mr. Zhu,” He said. Why exactly the nurse knew about Mei’s lawyer when he wasn't even her nurse was something Pigsy didn’t have the energy to question.

“Uh… thanks,” He nodded, throwing on the torn shirt over his white tank top and bandages before heading out to the waiting area, which was strangely cleared out except for Mei, MK, his customer, and a woman wearing a white pantsuit and high heels with lotuses on them– the lawyer, most likely.

“Ah, Mr. Zhu, I’m Gatita, the lawyer for the Dragon Family Estate,” The woman stood, but before he could go to shake her hand, Mei jumped from her seat and gave Pigsy a hug.

“I’m sorry you got hurt, Mr. Piggy,” She apologized profusely.

“Hey, I’m just glad you’re okay kiddo,” Pigsy patted her back before she let go and joined MK back by the bead maze.

“I’m glad to see Miss Mei likes you already,” The woman smiled fondly before going once more to shake Pigsy’s hand, which he did before taking his seat next to the regular.

“So… what exactly do you need to talk to me about?” Pigsy asked.

The lawyer reached into her bag and pulled out a large manilla folder. “Well, there was a peculiarity in Mr. and Mrs. Dragon’s last will and testament, which says that if no one remains of her immediate family, then it would be up to The Dragon King of the East, and it appears he has chosen you,” she said, pulling out the document that stated just that.

Pigsy blinked.

“Mr. Zhu?”

“S-sorry there, i just– what???” Pigsy shook his head. “I-i’ve never met any Dragon King and I know damn– dang well that I am not better for her than any king in an actual castle would be.”

“Well, mystical beings often have their ways of looking around. Plus, Mei is merely a descendant of Ao Lie, she’s not as draconic as her great uncle and his family. It would be better for her to be raised in a more humanoid environment,” Gatita said, pointing to a specific paragraph of the paper Pigsy still couldn’t hope to read.

“You know I ain’t exactly human myself, right?” Pigsy snorted.

“I suppose you truly haven’t spent any time with dragons then,” The lawyer laughed to herself like Pigsy didn’t literally just say that.

“Well, either way, you wouldn’t be alone. You’d have my number for any emergencies, and plus your husband here will be of great help,” She smiled at the man next to Pigsy and both of their faces turned red.

“Woah– wait now– we’re– I’m not–” The man protested.

“Oh! My apologies, I just assumed because both of you were present– it doesn’t matter. Custody would primarily be given to Pigsy for both the boy and the girl–”

“Both of them? I didn’t think you were in charge of both of them,” Pigsy sat back in his seat, his head beginning to spin.

“Are you suggesting you’d want to split the two up?” The woman frowned a little, glancing back at the two seven-year-olds.

“N-no! I just–” Pigsy rubbed his forehead. “It’s… a lot. I’m not exactly rolling in money here and I just–”

“There is a sum of money set aside for Mei and the boy’s childcare, as well as Mei’s inheritance, but that won’t be available until she is eighteen for safekeeping, and as far the academy goes, her and the boys admission has been paid in full for the next eleven years already so that’s not a concern either,” She said, pulling out more documents and Pigsy was still not going to read any one of them– though it didn’t matter because it seemed like his customer was doing it for him (probably because he actually understood them because he was smart and stuff).

“I understand it’s a lot, Mr. Zhu, and if you truly feel uncomfortable, you can turn the offer down. However, if you do, they will without a doubt be separated and live very, very different lives,” The lawyer said with an earnestness the chef didn’t expect.

Pigsy glanced back at the kids, seeing how happy they were in each other's company, and then thinking back to how fiercely they protected each other and– hell, even him.

He’d have to be heartless to tear that apart.

“I… I’ll take them,” Pigsy said.

“Are you certain?” Gatita asked seriously. Pigsy nodded.

“I am.”

“That’s what we like to hear,” She smiled, taking out a pen from her bag and handing it over to the chef.

“Wait, that’s it? No evaluation, no checking bank accounts or backgrounds or anything?” Pigsy took the pen nervously.

Gatita laughed. “We did all of that beforehand; you’re all clear Mr. Zhu.”

Pigsy blinked again. He glanced at the man to his left.

“I’m no lawyer, but everything looks legit and–... and I can help a bit too, if you’d want that– like around the restaurant and stuff,” His customer said, his hands pulling on his scarf nervously.

Pigsy smiled a bit, probably like an idiot, before glancing at the lawyer and covering his mouth and mouthing “I don’t even know your name.”

His customer laughed a little before copying his motion and mouthing, “it’s Tang.”

Tang.

It was perfect for him.

“Right,” He smiled more, lowering his hand and turning back to the documents.

He had no idea what it took to raise a kid– let alone two.

Then again, he’d have to be an idiot to turn down what was probably a small fortune.

But he shouldn’t just be doing this for money.

And he wasn’t– he cared about those kids and couldn’t imagine forgiving himself for separating them.

Plus it was technically her family’s wants, and who was he to say he knew better than literal celestial dragons?

With a breath, Pigsy gripped the pen tighter and signed his name across every dashed line Gatita pointed to, and then it was official.

Pigsy just adopted two kids he barely knew, one who was a descendant of a literal dragon.

He hoped he had even a clue of what he just got himself into.

[jeeperso]

D&D Quotes Without Context

Ravenloft Edition, Fundertainment Land Arc part 2

Gunder: “Don't you know I'm dead inside?” Vesh: “Yes, that's the problem, we want you dead on the outside too.” Poom: "And all the other sides, too. Just to be safe.” Marshal: ”Management wants to make a show of my suffering. Of course we'd be going through their outdated knockoff Darklords.” Marshal: ”Count Strahdical (pronounced St-radical) was the leader here, back in the day.” Gorbash: “How insufferable was he compared to the real one?” Jonni: “Real one gave us goulash, so I’m guessing lots.” "Hunky Harkon, Adamazing, and... I always forget what the mummy was saddled with.” "They literally could not come up with anything dumber than Ankhtepot.” Marshal: ”By all rights, I should offer you all a chance to be in the union, but I served with each of you as Lord Soth-cool, and I know you all to be a bunch of knobs.” Strahdical points at you. "No. NO. IT IS YOU WHO IS THE KNOB!” "Time to cut the count up; 1, 1 blade strikes, 2, 2 blade strikes.” "You always thought you were SOOOO much better than us.” “I mean… he is…” "You never wanted to hang out with us and eat kids after hours.” Edmund is thinking. ”Hunktepot, Ankh I’m a little teapot, Ank the Poo…." GM OOC: You guys are basically getting your asses kicked by the Groovie Ghoulies. Azathoth: "Since when was this game a 90s Saturday cartoon?” Nyx: "Since about our first adventure where we dealt with a haunted house.” Strahdical: ”We call THAT the bite of 87. Fucking RECOGNIZE.” Nyarlathotep: "That you're a relic? O-kay.” Somewhere Vesh is suddenly filled with an urge to burn down an overpriced pizza parlor. OOC: No, that's what they want you to do. For the insurance money. "Gnarlytepot... Ankredibepot…." He stands there for a second. seemingly fine. "HA! YOUR PATHETIC ATTACKS ARE USELESS AGAINST ME!” Then his top half falls off. “SHIT!" It is just now that Poom arrives. "Sorry, I had to burn down the toilets to make them sanitary.........And you guys did fine without me.” “That’s great. I am bleeding very badly.” Poom: "So do we just set each one on fire till we find the mimics?” Jonni sighs. “Nyx, you’ve got the best hand eye coordination. Give it one shot before I become Death, destroyer of claw machines.” "I do NOT have a gambling habit!” “Is that why Strahd knows what you look like naked?” “You're right... YOU HAVE A GAMBLING PROBLEM!” Nyx: *rolls nat 20* Marshal: ”I did see that right? She just noclipped through the glass and grabbed the ticket?” Even though you are pretty sure the claw tries to deliberately drop it at some point, and when it drops it to your hand you swear the claw flips you off somehow. When the flash clears, where Marshal was standing now stands a four foot tall teddy bear in adorable armor. "Darn, if it is a curse it the weirdest curse I've ever seen. Into a statue or plant, sure. But a stuffed toy, never.” “You mean… other than last week when that happened to all of us?” "That felt more like genie magic, not a curse.” "Um what the fuck happened to Marshal?” "Revenge of the Claw Machine.” "I've only known Bitey for five seconds and if anything happened to them I would burn this world to cinders and piss on the remains.” Nyx carries Marshal teddy bear. Gorbash: “One or both of them are going to murder the rest of us in our sleep.” Poom: "That's why I sleep with both eyes open.” Vesh: ”Well I think I saw him reading a bellhop the riot act a little while ago.” Gorbash: “…The Fuck? I'm fairly sure I diced him into pieces…” Jonni: “Did he at least have robot parts?” Gorbash: “Wait... THAT MEANS I CAN KILL HIM ALL OVER AGAIN! There are positives to this situation.” ”SHAZAM!” fluffy marshal says, before with a thunderclap, flash of light and a cheap smoke bomb effect, he's returned to his proper form. Gorbash: “Could you do that this whole time?” Marshal: "I bore the price of my hubris, for as long as I tolerated it." Gorbash: “You forgot you could do it, didn't you.” Marshal: “…Yes.” Yog-sothoth: "Hey, Poom: we cheated and gave you Intellect Fortress. Get casting.” Poom: "So apparently now I can do Jonni's thing.” "Can I have a salad please? Thank you.” "Sure, you want Macaroni, Taco or Tuna?” “I could shit a better Turkey Leg. I should go back there and show them how to season huge chunks of meats.” "They always make these chairs sized for big people, I have to stand on it to see into the arena.” “I mean… you want the high chair or the kiddie stool? Those both seem bad options to me, but it’s your dignity.” Gorbash: “Marshal I think you've managed to piss off both of our old tormentors in one shot. Keep up the good work.” Jonni: “How bad could it be?……..It’s cool, I said it ironically.” Gorbash: “... Really?” "Good news. It doesn’t infect creatures... It eats the tadpoles. Bad news? It eats everything else too.” Gorbash: “It's a killing machine with mind powers. This is going to suck.” OOC: Behold my Champions levels of dice! Fear me! GM: The arena fills with scorched worm flesh, which smells slightly better than the turkey legs. OOC: Bad news… I can only do that once more. Good news, I did that from 60 feet away. Edmund murmured, clasping his holy symbol and bringing out a reliquary as it is filled with golden light and summons forth a figure garbed in blue. <"Peace be upon you, seekers of knowledge! I-- HOLY FUCK!”> Jonni: “I only understood those last two words, but it’s generally bad when the being of pure angelic knowledge thinks this shit is messed up.” "Incoming dragon steamroller!” Azathoth: "FINISH HIM!" Yog-sothoth: "Wrong part of the fight.” Poom puts her fingers to her head, a third eye opens up, and a wave motion beam comes out. Gunder sighs, and waves his hands, and several servers in peasents begin setting up a stand around the Neothelid and then begin carving it up to sell shanks on a stick for 10 GP a hock. Gorbash: “Damn it, now I have to waste 10 gold if I want a taste without licking the gore off my armor.” “You one a those angels can be a lady on command?” "I can be a lot of things.” "I am the angel TriVia, of where the three roads meet." Vesh comes up to Trivia "Welcome to the group. We just adopted you. No you don't get a say. Here's your introductory pamphlet.” Marshal wisely switches out Nyx's stein of Ruminating Jolt for something less likely to make her hyper. "Nooo, my Jolt! I haven't felt like I had this much energy since I was 5. Wheee!" Nyx goes running around with her arms out. Vesh takes it from you. "YOU DON'T NEED IT. YOU'RE ALL THE WOMAN YOU NEED TO BE.” Marshal: ”That, and I'm reasonably sure Danzi has it spiked with actual ruminating drugs.” “Okay, food is shit, entertainment tried to eat us. I say we cast sleep on Nyx and sleep this off.” So you guys all get as good a nights rest as you can (and consequently Gorebash spends half the night infllicting menacing attacks on the toilet). Poom (as she stare-sleeps from her armchair): "That's what you get for trying to buy all the neothelid.” GM OOC: Also does Gorebash have the beard yet? Gorbash OOC: Let me roll. Okay it's a 50/50 chance so 1 is beard 2 is no beard. *rolls a 1* Gorbash has become a beard dragon. OOC: I’m presuming that's a fryer, with what looks like bacon and potatoes in it? OOC2: I’m not sure, I think it’s the “American “ hot pot from a Japanese show. Hamburger and fries cooked in a pot of cola. OOC:…that hurts my brain, teeth and stomach all at the same time. OOC: Now I got the Winnie the Pooh song stuck in my head, imagining him wrapped up like a mummy… OOC2: I have the same problem every time I think about China.

[hongism]

yall know what time it is. ITS BREAKING THE ASKBOX TIME SJJSKALALALKAKSKWLWMNSNDDJKDK

honestly i expect nothing short of a masterpiece the moment i saw the notification. YOU! DO! NOT! DISAPPOINT! EVER! MISS CALY!!!

before getting into the crazier bits of this chapter, i wanna acknowledge how much you’ve grown as a writer during this series 🥹 recently i started re-reading some of the older moc chapters, and not to say that your writing wasn’t great before in any way, but the way you write now is so much more refined and beautiful, and i guess some of that is also attributed to how intense the story line and characters have developed. seriously, i’m so grateful to be able to read something and feel just how much effort and love the author has poured into in. now i can go on and on about praising your talent but i digress for the sake of discussing more… pressing issues that goes on here :)

*SPOILER ALERT FROM THIS PART*

now that jisung, hyunwoo and even hyunjin (sadly) has reached their demise, it finally dawns on me that this really is an end of an era. we spent like the past 1 or 2 maybe even 3 acts going through a gazillion emotional roller coaster rides all caused by jisung, but now is it weird that i’m kinda sad that he’s gone? it’s a perfect ending since jisung will probably never get his redemption even if he lives, but idk, i think it’s kinda depressing how love makes you do crazy shit :/ hyunwoo, on the other hand, BYE YOU ASS LMFAO WELL DESERVED. the only thing that dude has is the fucking audacity until the very last minute.

the action scene was beyond immaculate just as the emotional ones and there’s no doubt about that. im writing this with metaphorical tear streaks down my face and a broken heart after reading the whole chapter. you’ve got a way with words that can make me feel like i’m living and breathing in this fictional world. also, can we talk about this:

“Give me what’s mine first”

“Let her go immediately, you dog, or I’ll put a bullet in your head too.”

WELL GOD DAMN SIR. i’m gonna be fr and say i was SO certain we’re finally gonna get the infamous, long-awaited scene that must not be named between captain and ghost, but that’s on for me for not taking the slow burn warning more seriously lol. BUT there is still hope, i mean our mc would not be our mc if she can resist temptations and mind her own business yk.

"All these pit stops, huh? You sure she's the one trying to save you here, Captain? Because it looks an awful lot like that's what you're trying to do to her instead."

"Nightingale"

“I'm going, I'm going!”

and THIS IS ADORABLE OMG?!/?? i swear this whole part and the next part here is a prophecy that they’re gonna get it.

Yet, what you see before you is a trap, one carefully set by a vulnerable yet volatile man who could easily turn the situation into one that is advantageous to him permanently and you briefly. You imagine he has been in this position before — one where he can take as he pleases without thinking of the consequences of his actions — and where you stand, in a vulnerable spot yourself, you feel that tug to be near someone on equal footing. Wonder persists in your mind as you question where that is how Yunho initially fell into bed with him some time ago, or even further back to the first time Seonghwa was with him.

my girl has got some resolve and dignity alright, but we’ll see how long that lasts hahasksjak. we still probably got around 100 more chapters lol but just so you know, you’re gonna have to expect more than a broken askbox when that happens. everyone here will go so insane we might accidentally report you for emotional damage /hj. this is more than enough rambling but PLEASE I CAN NOT WAIT FOR MORE YOU’RE A LITERAL GODSEND THANK YOU LOVE YOU <3 - 🌊

OMGOMG okay i’ve been trying to answer this ask for like 2-3 weeks now but tumblr kept making it disappear from my inbox i was legit losing my mind?? but god bless today... today it worked... so finally i can respond... 

thank you for waiting for me so sorry tumblr was a bitch and didn't let me respond sooner </3 i was legit so sad it kept disappearing bc i wanted to answer SO BAD LSKDFJFLK thank you thank you first off in this past few days i'e received so much lvoe and compliments on my writing, and i've been told many lovely things and i know you sent this ask a while back but man it still means so much to me i'm still so grateful the words hold just as much meaning to me i really truly appreciate them and you!!!

now onto the spoiley bits... you're spot on! this is the end of an arc in its own regard where we've been in this storyline for such a long while by now that it's a bit like wow! that's over! i've been loving seeing the mixed bag of reactions about jisung, truly, the overwhelming majority are upset over his death even if he was a villain in many regards and that is super fascinating to me and frankly that was my goal i was trying to achieve! switching the perspectives of jisung vs hyunwoo, i wanted to play with that concept and i couldn't be happier with the outcome!

hongjoong and mc have such a fun dynamic and push-and-pull to play with too i adore it and i adore seeing everyone react to that as well, especially with recent chapters ofc.. but she's a strong one! she's resisting well! she's still got her resolve and her dignity both buttttt we'll see how much longer that lasts :3

[just-some-random-blogger]

Chapter summary: Aemond dwells upon the past while trying to live without her.

The most ominous summary ever

**15 YEARS PRIOR**

DAMN OK NOT THE FLASH BACK YOUR PAST TRAUMA DO NOT MAKE UP FOR YOUR PRESENT CRIMES

Alys purses her crimson stained lips, perfectly manicured nails of the same shade brush against his cheek as she stands over him. “Oh sweetheart,” she coos, “You had to know that our little arrangement wasn’t forever.”

Oh so you LIED bout not having a sugar baby before 🤬

His heart twinges at this, what could she possibly mean? They are made for each other, two halves of the same whole. He stares at her, confused. “But I love you…”

Puppy weepy aemond... 🥺 (I don't actually give a fuck)

Alys sighs. “Look, we both got something we wanted out of this arrangement. You got to have a little fun, and I made sure I got the Harrenhal contract.”

NO I ABSOLUTELY UNDERSTAND YOU AEMOND CUZ WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT

Aemond’s own flat feels too big, too empty, too quiet, when he returns to it.

YOU SAY AS YOUVE FREELOADED IN A MIDDLE CLASS HOME???????????

He’s never stopped to consider his own living space much before, preferring functionality over comfort. He is out most of the time anyway, so what does it matter as long as things do what he needs them to do? 

The musings of a lifeless robot cog in the workplace 9 to 5 machine. Get a hobby? And Therapy?

It’s only as he leans against the spotless granite of the kitchen counter that he is struck by how lifeless and sterile it is here. He’s grown used to the warmth and cosiness of being at her place; the smell of jasmine that wafts delicately in the air from the incense sticks that her and Mysaria always seem to be burning, being pressed against her on the tiny sofa, her feet in his lap as trashy TV plays just a little too loudly, the tiny space is filled with laughter, comfort and love. Dropped back into his own space he feels as though he’s been set adrift, empty and hollow, yet he has no one to blame but himself.

NO BUT I LOVE THIS FOR THEM 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 FOR THE GIRLS IN THEIR LOVELY HOME AND FOR AEMOND. SUFFER 💞💞💞💞💞💞

The bed is too big, he has too much room, he misses the feel of springs digging into his back as he curls himself around her on her tiny mattress.

?????????????????????????????????? when rich people exotify normal people things you lose me. I KNOW THAT'S NOT THE FUCKING POINT OF THIS AND WHAT HE MISSES IS HER AND HER SHITTY BED THAT IS PART OF HER BUT I CANT NOT THINK ABOUT THAT PART UGH

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face and throws the covers off, walking to the bathroom. Rifling through the medicine cabinet in search of painkillers to dull the throbbing ache in his left eye socket, his fingers close around something cool and metallic.

You should see a doctor. Like actually fr fr

He plucks it out, studying it carefully. It’s a bracelet of hers, probably left there accidentally from one of the few times she’s stayed over. He turns the silver bangle over in his fingers, remembering the first time he’d seen her wear it. He’d thought to himself it looked cheap, but now as he holds it it feels like the most precious treasure in the world. It’s all he has left of her.

I know this is character development but CANT FUCKING STAND HIM UGHHHHHHH CHEAP THINGS CAN BE CHARMING TOO YOU PRETENSIOUS ASSHOLE

“I’ve just put on lipgloss, Aem,” she says, her voice saccharine, “Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬😬 ok nah cuz id love to smear lipgloss on him. OK IM JUST SAYING THAT ABOUT AEMOND NOT THIS PARTICULAR MOMENT IN TIME AEMOND

DAMN FLORIS REALLY SUCKED THE LIFE OUT HIM HUH 💀💀💀 RIP AEMONDS TRUST, YOU WOULD HAVE LOVED ANNIVERSARY GIFTS

“I’ve always been miserable,” He throws his cigarette butt down onto the decking and crushes it under foot.

ITS NOT A PHASE MOM

“Hm. You know, there’s only so many times you can use that excuse before it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy,”

HELAENA ATE WITH THAT EAT HIM UPPPPP

“I mean it, Aemond. She’s your…your atlas moth! Pin mount her before somebody else does,”

Oh to be an Atlas moth about to be pinned LMAO AHAHHAH

mysaria_ww has started a live video

Aemond feels his breath catch in his throat, his heart seems to skip a beat at the sight of her and he holds his phone in trembling hands as he makes a note of the location sticker. A cocktail bar not far from here.

THIS IS WHY YOU DONT POST YOUR LOCATION GIRLS AND BOYS.

They’ve been apart for so long that he’s forgotten just how beautiful she really is. It’s like the first night he met her all over again, when he’d gotten out of the car to greet her and she’d stolen his breath away. He hadn’t let her kiss him that night, afraid she’d just be doing it for the money. He won’t make that mistake again tonight.

.... get it i guess?

He walks slowly over to her table and the way her face falls when she notices him makes it feel as though his stomach is in free fall. She looks so shocked and unhappy, she’s never not been pleased to see him. He hates this.

I love this 💞

“I let you go,” She sobs, streaks of black mascara track their way down her cheeks alongside her tears, “I respected your decision, I didn’t reach out, even though I wanted to. I left you alone, so what gives you the right to ruin girls’ night?! You broke my heart and acted like you were doing me a favour, so why the fuck should I listen to anything you have to say?!”

CHEW HIM OFFFFFFFFFFF 👺👺👺👺👺🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬❌❌❌❌💩💩💩💩💩🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 NO ONE DESECRATES GIRLS NIGHT

Come outside.

WHAT AM I A DOG?????? WHO DO THINK YOURE COMMANDING HUH????

“Because I’ve tried to live without you, and I can’t. What we had was good, so fucking good, and I threw it away because I’m a coward. Just let me make this right, please?”

You can glue glass back together but it'll always be cracked

“A replacement, so I can stay over without feeling like someone has spent all night attempting to make balloon animals with my spine.”

HERE HE IS AGAIN SHITTING ON HER BED THAT HE, WHAT WAS THAT, FUCKING MISSED UGHHHHHHHHHHHHH IF YOU HAVENT REALIZED MONEY DOESNT FIX EVERYTHING HELLO????

“Hmm,” he runs the tip of his nose against her cheek, “I’ve missed you,” he presses a soft kiss to her cheek, “none of it matters,” he kisses her other cheek, “not the money, not anything,” he kisses the corner of her mouth, “not without you,”

Actually imma need you to pay me now. Pay me right now. 😐 I'm not playing. I didn't want the money but now since you're out here replacing shit, just replace everything here. Pay her and mysaria. 😐 Pay your dues free loader.

He moans low as she sinks slowly down onto him, the tight wet heat of her enveloping him causing his balls to tighten in a way that builds steady pressure at the base of his spine.

And now we're fucking 😔😔😔😔 the flesh is weak. The dick lover is weaker

He strokes her hair as he holds tightly, gratitude and love overwhelming him. “You forgive me?” he asks, voice thick with emotion.

😃 vehicular manslaughter

“I’m working on it,” she whispers back.

Imma need him to grovel for, like, 1-2 months actually. THEN he can THINK of fucking me 🙄✋

For the record, this was lovely. This was a treat 🥰🥰🥰🥰 as much as aemond stressed me out and as much as I disagree with YN 😭😭😭 I still love this fic 🫶 a petty queen like me would have NEVER bended the knee and my masochist self would have ended this in angst 💔💔💔 no happy endings for anyone 💞💞💞💞💞 YIPPEE

I love this though. It was my gift to myself after taking my college graduation pics 🫶🫶🫶 lunch with a fic on the side was such a win for the girlies.... Of course I had dinner by this point too HAHAHAHAHHAH

Who Taught You How to Love Like That? - Chapter Five

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x female character (third person) Warnings: Sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics. Smut. Angst. Word count: ~3.5k

Series masterlist

Chapter summary: Aemond dwells upon the past while trying to live without her.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

The flat door clicks closed behind Aemond and he lingers in the corridor for a moment. This was for the best, he was sparing her, so why does his heart feel so heavy? Every step towards his car feels as though he’s walking through quicksand.

He loads Vhagar into the boot, throwing his overnight bag onto the backseat and sits wearily behind the wheel, gripping it with enough force to turn his knuckles white. He screws his eye shut, attempting to will away the prickling sensation around the rim, alongside the lump in his throat.

I’ve done the right thing. I’ve done the right thing. 

**15 YEARS PRIOR**

Aemond looks up at her from where he’s seated on the edge of the hotel bed, brows arched in pain and disbelief, as tears slip down his cheeks. “So that’s just it, you’re ending things?”

Alys purses her crimson stained lips, perfectly manicured nails of the same shade brush against his cheek as she stands over him. “Oh sweetheart,” she coos, “You had to know that our little arrangement wasn’t forever.”

His heart twinges at this, what could she possibly mean? They are made for each other, two halves of the same whole. He stares at her, confused. “But I love you…”

She laughs, green eyes crinkling with mirth and the sight and sound is a dagger to his chest.

“You don’t love me,” she says, her tone condescending, “You’re barely twenty, you don’t know what love is. You just like the idea of an older woman.”

He shakes his head, feeling himself become angry at her cold dismissal of his feelings. “Then why? Why bother with me?”

Alys sighs. “Look, we both got something we wanted out of this arrangement. You got to have a little fun, and I made sure I got the Harrenhal contract.”

Bile rises in Aemond’s throat, his eye narrowing hatefully as he stares at her, acrid warmth spreading throughout his chest.

She’d used him.

**PRESENT DAY**

Aemond’s own flat feels too big, too empty, too quiet, when he returns to it. The pitter patter of Vhagar’s claws against the hardwood floor as she potters towards her bed is the only audible sound.

He’s never stopped to consider his own living space much before, preferring functionality over comfort. He is out most of the time anyway, so what does it matter as long as things do what he needs them to do? 

It’s only as he leans against the spotless granite of the kitchen counter that he is struck by how lifeless and sterile it is here. He’s grown used to the warmth and cosiness of being at her place; the smell of jasmine that wafts delicately in the air from the incense sticks that her and Mysaria always seem to be burning, being pressed against her on the tiny sofa, her feet in his lap as trashy TV plays just a little too loudly, the tiny space is filled with laughter, comfort and love. Dropped back into his own space he feels as though he’s been set adrift, empty and hollow, yet he has no one to blame but himself.

The bed is too big, he has too much room, he misses the feel of springs digging into his back as he curls himself around her on her tiny mattress. This bed doesn’t feel like home, not anymore, not since he’d laid her down upon it all those nights ago, put her legs over his shoulders and…fucked it all up by leaving without saying anything the next day, just like he fucks up everything. She’d given him a second chance and he’d squandered it.

No, he did what he needed to.

I’ve done the right thing. I’ve done the right thing. 

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face and throws the covers off, walking to the bathroom. Rifling through the medicine cabinet in search of painkillers to dull the throbbing ache in his left eye socket, his fingers close around something cool and metallic.

He plucks it out, studying it carefully. It’s a bracelet of hers, probably left there accidentally from one of the few times she’s stayed over. He turns the silver bangle over in his fingers, remembering the first time he’d seen her wear it. He’d thought to himself it looked cheap, but now as he holds it it feels like the most precious treasure in the world. It’s all he has left of her.

How had he allowed things to go this far? It was only ever supposed to be transactional but he’d allowed it to evolve, letting her occupy a space in his heart and mind that left them both vulnerable. He ended things, not wanting to cause her unnecessary pain and yet in doing so has devastated them both.

Aemond doesn’t do love or relationships. Not even his own family can stand him, so how can he expect another person to feel that way about him, or open himself up to the possibility of having those feelings for someone else? It’s a path he’s trodden before and it doesn’t end well.

**5 YEARS PRIOR**

Aemond leans in to kiss Floris, she turns her head and he catches her cheek instead.

“I’ve just put on lipgloss, Aem,” she says, her voice saccharine, “Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

“Mm. Was just about to leave, love,” He tells her, grabbing his keys.

“Forgetting something?” She says with a slight pout and tilt of her head.

“Ah, of course,” he fishes his credit card out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and hands it over to her, smirking as the diamond of her engagement ring glitters with the movement of her fingers, “I’ll see you later. I love you.”

“You too!” She calls over her shoulder, already walking back towards the bedroom.

It’s not until Aemond is almost at his car that he realises he’s left his phone in the flat and heads back upstairs to retrieve it. As he opens the front door he can hear Floris on the phone, only able to pick up on her side of the conversation, he pauses to listen in.

“...I can only put him off for so long. I have to do it occasionally, otherwise he’d get suspicious. It’s that horrible prosthetic eye, it gives me the creeps–”

“...only a few months until the wedding, then I can get a quickie divorce and take half of everything–”

“...no, he hasn’t made me sign a pre-nup, he’s too obsessed with me for that–”

Aemond’s breath catches in his throat as a dull ache spreads its way through his chest. He slams the front door hard enough to alert Floris that he’s home and strides towards the bedroom.

**PRESENT DAY**

The next few weeks are a miserable dirge for Aemond. He buries himself in paperwork at work, in an attempt to push away thoughts of her, yet finds his mind wandering to how she might be spending the working day, whether she’s finally managed to get the museum to commission the exhibit she’s been pushing for or not. He considers dropping by the museum, just to see if he can watch her from a distance, but decides against it. It was his decision to end things, it was for the best, the least he owed her was to stay away.

Aemond sits on his couch in the evenings, the cold, hard leather unwelcoming against his back, the space too expansive as he attempts to watch the same trashy TV on his widescreen that he’d watched with her on her TV. He finds he couldn’t give less of a shit about which couples are voted off of Love Island or who scored the lowest on Come Dine With Me, for him the experience was about being snuggled up next to her on the sofa, feeling her warmth, hearing her laugh. Now she’s gone, and none of the things that accompanied that seem to matter.

Family functions are unbearable without her. He misses the way she’d smile up at him when he placed his hand at the small of her back, misses how effortlessly she converses with his family, even the members he struggles to get along with.

Without her to keep him grounded, he bickers with Aegon, is aloof with his mother and Helaena and actively goes out of his way to antagonise his nephews. He hasn’t just reverted back to old habits, he’s worse, and it’s obvious his family have begun to notice too. He elects just to stay away entirely when invitations are extended.

That is until the night of Helaena’s birthday party. His only sister would never forgive him if he didn’t show up, so grudgingly he goes to the gathering his mother is having for her at her place. 

He stands out on the decking, the same decking where he’d shared his first kiss with her, the memory plays on a loop in his head, he can still taste the red wine on her lips. 

The cherry red tip of his cigarette as he takes a drag provides further illumination alongside the soft glow of the lights through the windows of the house, and the moon that shines bright in the night sky. 

It’s quiet, save for the muffled bass of the music coming from inside. It gets louder as the French doors slide open for a moment, quieting once more as they slide closed.

Aemond rolls his eye, blowing out a tight line of smoke, his shoulders tensing. He wants to be left alone, he had hoped that escaping to the garden would have made that perfectly clear to everyone.

“It’s just me,” Helaena says softly, coming to stand beside him.

Aemond softens, glancing down at her, his gaze drawn to the bubbles that rise to the top of the glass in the gin and tonic that she’s taking delicate sips from.

“Happy birthday, Hel,” he says, facing forward again and taking another drag.

“It’d be happier if you’d actually come inside,” She nudges him gently with her elbow.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t be,”

“What’s going on with you? You’re miserable lately.”

“I’ve always been miserable,” He throws his cigarette butt down onto the decking and crushes it under foot.

“You were less miserable when you had your girlfriend. I liked the guy that you were when you were with her,”

“She’s not my girlfriend, never was,” Aemond’s tone is clipped, he purses his lips as he feels irritation prickle at his skin.

“Why not?” Helaena taps the rings on her fingers gently against her glass.

“She deserves better than me. I’ve spared her the inevitable hurt I’d cause her,”

“Hm. You know, there’s only so many times you can use that excuse before it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy,”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve ended things because you don’t want to hurt her, but I bet doing that has hurt her, and you,”

Aemond scoffs, “I don’t do relationships, Hel,”

She huffs a quiet laugh, “No, I don’t do relationships because I’m aroace. You do do relationships, Aemond, you’ve just made crappy choices in the past and you’re allowing fear to dictate your future,”

He narrows his eye, glancing towards her again, “And how do you know so much?”

“I’m incredibly fussy about the insects I choose for pin-mounting, and those just go on my wall. I’m even more particular when it comes to people. I’ve seen how you two look at each other, don’t chuck this away,”

“Hel–”

“I mean it, Aemond. She’s your…your atlas moth! Pin mount her before somebody else does,”

“A truly horrifying metaphor, but thank you,”

“You’re welcome,” she smiles warmly, “You gonna come inside now?”

“Actually, I think I’m going to go. Do you mind?”

“Gonna go get your girl?” She asks with a grin.

“Perhaps,” he says with a bow of his head.

Helaena deposits her drink on the railing and claps her hands together excitedly. “Then of course I don’t mind, go!”

Aemond pulls out his phone as he gets into his car, seeing the Instagram notification pop up on his lockscreen.

mysaria_ww has started a live video

Allowing his curiosity to get the better of him, he clicks on the notification and startles slightly as pounding music blares from his phone’s speaker. The camera sweeps shakily over a couple of obnoxiously lurid drinks before it lands on her.

Aemond feels his breath catch in his throat, his heart seems to skip a beat at the sight of her and he holds his phone in trembling hands as he makes a note of the location sticker. A cocktail bar not far from here.

He locks his phone and is starting the car before he has time to properly think about it.

The bar is dimly lit, the music not to Aemond’s taste and far louder than he’s comfortable with. It’s the type of place that has seemingly endless happy hours and serves drinks that are mostly ice. He bristiles uncomfortably as he descends the steps, but refuses to be deterred. He needs to speak to her.

He freezes when he sees her. Her elbow is propped against the edge of the table, her chin resting on her hand, an easy smile graces her lips as she listens intently to whatever Mysaria is whispering to her.

They’ve been apart for so long that he’s forgotten just how beautiful she really is. It’s like the first night he met her all over again, when he’d gotten out of the car to greet her and she’d stolen his breath away. He hadn’t let her kiss him that night, afraid she’d just be doing it for the money. He won’t make that mistake again tonight.

He walks slowly over to her table and the way her face falls when she notices him makes it feel as though his stomach is in free fall. She looks so shocked and unhappy, she’s never not been pleased to see him. He hates this.

“Can we talk?” He raises his voice to be heard above the music as he reaches their table.

She shakes her head, climbing unsteadily from her bar stool and grabbing her bag. “Oh, I am too drunk for this…”

He watches in dismay as she staggers away, flanked by Mysaria, before deciding to follow them both outside.

“Hey, wait–” He says, reaching for her, and she whips around, eyes wide and mouth tightened in anger.

“I’ll be right here,” Mysaria says softly to her, stepping to the side and pulling up the Uber app on her phone.

“No, you wait!” She shouts at him, “I have spent weeks trying to get over you. You don’t get to make someone fall in love with you and then act like that’s nothing!”

She’s in love with him?! 

He feels his chest tighten at the admission, standing there dumbfounded, he allows her to continue.

“I let you go,” She sobs, streaks of black mascara track their way down her cheeks alongside her tears, “I respected your decision, I didn’t reach out, even though I wanted to. I left you alone, so what gives you the right to ruin girls’ night?! You broke my heart and acted like you were doing me a favour, so why the fuck should I listen to anything you have to say?!”

Because I love you too.

He can’t say anything, as much as he wants to, his throat has run dry. His fingers flex uselessly by his sides, longing to reach out and wipe away the tears and make up that have run down her face.

She’s pulled away by Mysaria as an Uber pulls up to the curb and he can do nothing but watch helplessly as they drive away.

You’re losing her. Do something.

Sleep does not come for Aemond. The image of her tears plays over and over in his mind as he tosses and turns, tears from hurt that he’d caused her. 

He has experienced crying in relationships before; he’d cried when Alys ended things, but he was young and stupid and thought he was in love with a woman twice his age. Floris had bawled when he’d confronted her about what he’d overheard, but they were the crocodile tears of a desperate woman caught out for being a gold digger.

Aemond has never seen the real anguish of heartbreak before, at least not on another person, and he never wants to see it again. He has to make this right. It’s not until he feels the drip from his jaw onto his collarbone that he realises that after weeks of holding them in, his own tears have begun to fall.

It is almost midday the next day when Aemond has everything he needs prepared. The big white van he parks outside of her block of flats is cumbersome to drive in comparison to his sleek, black sports car, but he hopes the inconvenience will be worth it.

Come outside.

He texts her, relieved when the bubble displays as delivered, at least she hasn’t blocked his number.

He climbs out of the van, leaning against it, heart pounding as he looks up to see the curtains of her living room window twitch.

A few moments later she’s stepping outside, a look of confusion on her face. “What’s this?”

“An apology,” Aemond says, “Letting you go was a mistake. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I fucked it up, it’s what I do, I fuck things up. But I’m sorry, and I want to be with you, whatever that looks like for you. I want to do this properly.”

“Why are you doing all of this now?” She asks, folding her arms defensively.

“Because I’ve tried to live without you, and I can’t. What we had was good, so fucking good, and I threw it away because I’m a coward. Just let me make this right, please?”

She sighs, “What’s in the van?”

He motions for her to follow him, and opens up the back, revealing a brand new mattress, still in its plastic wrap.

“A replacement, so I can stay over without feeling like someone has spent all night attempting to make balloon animals with my spine.”

“Presumptuous of you,” She says with a raise of her eyebrows.

Aemond shrugs, “I’m all in,”

She runs her hands through her hair, eyes flitting between him and the mattress. “How the fuck are we supposed to get this upstairs?”

He smirks. “There are removal people coming in an hour, they’ll take your old one away and bring this one up,”

“And what happens if I say no?”

“Well, that’s why I told them to leave it an hour, so I’d have time to cancel in case you did,”

He can see her fighting against the smile that tugs against the corners of her mouth. “I’m not letting you off that easily,”

“I know,” He says, taking a step towards her.

“So what do we do for the next hour?”

“We could give that old, lumpy thing on your bed upstairs a final send off,” he reaches for her and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re pushing it,” she whispers.

“Hmm,” he runs the tip of his nose against her cheek, “I’ve missed you,” he presses a soft kiss to her cheek, “none of it matters,” he kisses her other cheek, “not the money, not anything,” he kisses the corner of her mouth, “not without you,”

When their lips finally meet it is slow and soft, and a contented sound rumbles within Aemond’s chest. It feels like he’s taking his first breath of air in weeks.

They waste no time in helping each other out of their clothes as they hurry upstairs. He smirks to himself as he lays back against the bed, feeling the familiar springs dig into his back, he pulls her to straddle him, allowing her to set a pace she’s comfortable with.

He moans low as she sinks slowly down onto him, the tight wet heat of her enveloping him causing his balls to tighten in a way that builds steady pressure at the base of his spine.

Gazing up at her with reverence, fingers digging into the plushness of her hips, he watches transfixed as her breasts bounce softly with each undulation, committing to memory every breathy moan and gasp. She feels like home, and it has never felt better to return.

When she eventually collapses against his chest, tightening and spasming around him as she falls apart, she takes him with her and he grunts as he feels himself pulsate and spill deep inside of her.

He strokes her hair as he holds tightly, gratitude and love overwhelming him. “You forgive me?” he asks, voice thick with emotion.

“I’m working on it,” she whispers back.

“I can wait,” he reassures her, “I’m all in.”

[nihilnovisubsole]

so, about that lovestruck thing.

if you follow the dating sim world at all, you already know that voltage usa, maker of lovestruck, is closing up shop. in december, they announced that they would stop production on the app. tomorrow is the last day before the servers go offline. to be honest, before this week, i hadn’t paid much attention to it. i had so many plates to spin, it’d gone to the back of my mind. then @arthoure​ mentioned feeling melancholy about it on twitter, and i realized that it was kind of bittersweet for me, too. i wrote 25 seasons of voltage content. if i can trust my math, that’s somewhere between 750 and 800,000 words. linkedin says it was three years and ten months of my life. still, i had mixed feelings about the work i’d done for them. i shrugged it off.

lovestruck fans didn’t do that. within hours of learning that the app’s days were numbered, they set out to archive everything. i haven’t checked the numbers, but i’ve heard that with their combined effort, they managed to record almost every route. that’s astonishing. see, preservation casts a long shadow over the video game world. few studios care about it, and even fewer know what to do. a lot of old games are just gone. others don’t run on modern hardware. that’s especially true of mobile games, which often have to fight for respect. amid all that, lovestruck’s readers went, “we love these stories so much, we’re going to stare obsolescence down and find a way to save them.” when you’ve written for a project that people say that about, you have to be pretty jaded to not feel touched by it.

as a first industry gig, voltage had two things going for it. it taught me discipline, and it gave me a community. i learned how to power through writing when i didn’t feel like it. i got to work in genres that i might not have otherwise. i got to know the people who would become the VOW writers, who are some of the most talented friends and colleagues i’ve ever had. i never would’ve written “anniversary” without them. i never would’ve tried to stick up for myself as a worker, either. and for all the nights i worried about where my life was going, voltage ended up being exactly what i hoped it’d be: a foot in the door. you can draw a direct line between @sailorscooby​ giving me a chance to take reiner’s route and obsidian giving me a chance five years later. seriously, i met my current boss when they read a statement i’d given to the gaming press about the strike. networking, huh?

i would be lying if i said all of it was positive. you know me, i try to frame things in a flattering light, but it was hard work, and the writers organized for a reason. during the strike, it became public that voltage usa’s writers were paid less than half of a professional per-word rate. the deadline turnarounds meant i had to work seven days a week, even on vacation and from my mother’s hospital room. on top of that, the amount of agency that writers had over their routes could vary wildly depending on the project’s vision. i wrote some scenes that i got to pour my whole heart into. i also had to write some scenes that i try not to think about. i needed the job. it happens all the time in the working world, and at the risk of sounding mealy-mouthed, it wasn’t one person’s fault. all of the producers i worked with were sweet, generous people. from things i observed, i could tell their jobs weren’t that hot, either. that’s just how it goes when a company doesn’t leave room for departments to collaborate and play to each other’s strengths.

despite it all, we managed - slouching and largely burned out - to put together stories that the fanbase looked forward to. many of lovestruck’s most enduring, resonant moments happened because one of the writers wedged in a shard of themselves. some routes carried the weight of moral complexity, trauma, grief. others brought fresh, challenging new attitudes to genre tropes. in general, the producers tried to offer writers routes based on their personal interests, and that enthusiasm was contagious. i’ve seen the fanart. i’ve read the emotional posts and in-app reviews. i haven’t read the fanfic - our NDAs didn’t let us - but i bet it’s great. i’ve also heard that some fans made meaningful discoveries about their gender or sexuality from reading certain routes. as the village het, i couldn’t tell you anything about that, but i know it mattered a lot to the people who wrote those characters.

i think i was always a funny choice to write for lovestruck. if you’ve read my other work, you’ll know i prefer love stories that don’t feel like romance. between the breakneck schedule and not being their target audience, i don’t know that i sold the routes’ intended breathlessness. i have to admit, i’m not too broken-up about that. i had my fun tweaking expectations and digging into the action plots. in reiner’s route, that bore out in the politics and strategy, and the heroine growing into her enormous responsibility. even in leon’s route, i appreciated the detail work of planning the heists and delving into different types of organized crime. and diego’s route - well, it’s not a competition, but mystery? old guilt? an MC coming into her bossy side? it was an almost-perfect match.

and the wedding outfits, of course. at voltage, writers weren’t allowed to communicate with the art team, so we were the last to find out what characters’ designs would look like. when diego proposed, i threw a pile of photos in my producer’s lap, and thankfully, i think they were too busy to put up a fight. you can imagine my joy when they showed me the roughs of the sprite art. it had all the elements of transformation i wanted from his route. it was also a preview for some of the interdisciplinary teamwork that i’d be encouraged to do at bigger studios. i would’ve loved to get more art design ownership of certain characters. i had some ideas, let’s put it that way! at least i got that one.

but now i’m just telling war stories. thank you for reading my routes, and the routes that my dear friends wrote. i hope you got something from them. in fact, if lovestruck’s narrative decisions ever frustrated you, and that pushed you in a creative direction, that’s the biggest win of all. if you’re sad about the app going down, don’t worry. people have archived it, and you’ll find something else to love. besides, the VOW writers are working on new writing all the time. we’re not going anywhere. we’re just doing it our own way now.

[tinaotaku]

I have an idea for ending 2. So basically reader found the blue spider lilies and she eats it so it makes her being able to walk in the sunlight. After muzan died, he was reincarnated in the modern world and he's child who is neglected by his father and would always go to the playground to meet reader who treats him better than he ever treated reader in his past life as a demon. Thank you for reading my idea! Love your work, author!

Note: Okie Dokie! Thanks for the compliment! I am so sorry for not doing this straight away. As I mentioned before, I have a lot of assignments, and my exam week started. I hope this fanfic isn't that bad.

(T/W! 4BUSE)

No One POV

-Flashback-

"This flower... isn't this what that man has always wanted? The flower that could grant him the ability to walk under the sun?" You asked yourself as you picked the flower once it was nighttime. The flower was blue, literally. Now, you have set your mind to conquer the demon race as a whole and take your revenge.

However, you were unsure of how to do it. Should you just straight eat it, or do you need to do some experiments to make this work?

"Frankly, I don't know how to do this, so let's do it the easiest way, shall I?" You took the flower and stuffed them inside your mouth, making sure to bite them. The taste was horrible! It was bitter as hell, and you could taste some soil alongside it. You put your hand close your mouth as you tried your best not to gag and vomit your stomach.

Not long after that, you started to feel hot.

Like something emerges from your insides and burns your entire body. Falling to the ground, you hugged yourself and screamed in pain.

Then, you blacked out.

-Flashback end-

From a distance, you could see a child running towards the playground. He looks like he is no older than 5. He has a pair of black eyes and black hair with red cheeks. He ran as fast as he could, and he was holding his tears before they could go down. He was very hurt, and all he could think of was running and finding that lady.

The lady was no one other than (L/n) (Y/n), the owner of a restaurant near his house. He knew that he could find her in the playground, sitting on a bench near the seesaw. It was her favorite place, after all.

Once he stepped a foot on the playground, he ran even quicker to her spot. He could imagine her smile and her calming scent when he hugged her. It's been days since he ever saw her. He got punished by his father because his grades were falling.

"Ms. (L/n)!!" the child shouted before jumping into her back and hugging her like a koala. He sniffed your hair as he cried slowly into your shoulder.

"Now, now, Muzan. What did I tell you about randomly jumping into someone else's back? That was quite rude of you, young man," You said as you closed a book and turned your back. All you can see is a small kid with a snot running from his nose as big tears went out from his eyes.

However, all he can see is a goddess smiling. It doesn't help that the sun was shining brighter than usual, and it shone upon your face, giving Muzan the ability to see your face clearer than before. His heartbeat started to go a bit faster, and his cheeks were now red because of your beauty.

"I- I apologize.." Muzan whispered and jumped from your back. Noticing his dirty face, he began to wipe it off fastly.

You couldn't help but smile. Muzan was cute and just adorable as hell. Once Muzan was done, he sat next to you and began to play with your fingers. It was calming for him, but you knew that he was hiding something.

You began to ask, "Is there something you would like to say, Muzan?" You looked into his eyes and found some hesitation and sadness inside. It's like it's waiting to be released.

Soon, a sniff went out. Muzan looked into his feet and tried to explain. "D-dad... he was mad at me... *sniff* my grades were lower than expected, and I-i got punished from it. He left me in my bedroom without water and food for 2 days straight." Then, Muzan burst into tears. "All I wanted was his attention and praises! W-why couldn't he give me that? I don't like studying anymore! I-i wanna run away from my home, and n-never *sniff* looked back," He wiped his tears off and cried more.

You sighed in sadness. After you defeated Muzan, you never expected that Muzan would get reincarnated. You would expect him to suffer in hell for a few more decades, but, alas, he is here, crying beside you. It wasn't a surprise that Muzan get treated the same way as to how he treated you back then.

I mean, karma exists.

"It's ok, Muzan," You said, trying to make Muzan calm down. At the same time, you pat his back. "Things like that happened for a reason. Be strong and don't give up. Just remember that I'm here, and you could always go back to my shoulder to cry on,"

Muzan's head went up, and he looked directly into your eyes.

"Y-you promised?" Muzan whispered, not believing what you said. He doesn't want to burden you with his problems at all. What if you got tired from his rants and decided to leave him alone?

However, his previous thoughts go away when he sees you nod and smile. "It's alright, Muzan. I will always be here for you. Don't be afraid to come to me and ask for advice,"

Muzan's frown turned into a smile, and he hugged you. "Thank you so much, Ms. (L/n)! I couldn't thank you enough," In return, you hugged him back and smiled.

I don't want him to go through the same pain I have to go through. With that being said, I hope I can be your friend and companion in this life.

[c-is-for-circinate]

The story creates the story tells itself. That's it, that's what this is, it's the thing I always end up saying when Critical Role hits me right in the solar plexus, because stories are how we make sense of events after they've already happened. The story is not a thing in the moment it is created, it is a thing you can only know the shape of once it's over with, and then you look at it and you say, yes, of COURSE, it only ever could have been this from the first, couldn't it?

Seven miserable loners and outcasts and reckless illegitimate rebels meet in a tavern with no desire whatsoever for heroism. Their morals are quickfire and slapdash, casual and arbitrary, we'll help out these people, those people aren't our problem, we dislike those fucks over there. There is a war brewing and they want nothing to do with it. Fuck fame, fuck fortune, we'll keep to ourselves and play fast and loose with crime and take care of our own and maybe some lucky randoms we meet along the way. We'll fight and scrap and tussle amongst ourselves because none of us even entirely understand our own morals, let alone how to reconcile them with any of these other half-assed motherfuckers we apparently have to care about now.

They fuck up. One of their own dies.

They drown in rage and fury for just long enough, until they can stop gasping and growling for vengeance to take a breath. Then they run.

They run, because they do not care to stand and fight: not against evil or dragons or tyrant kings, not against their own grief. They flee the country. Nobody is chasing them, but they flee anyway, to avoid shackles, to avoid control, to avoid being set to anyone else's purpose, to avoid their own loss and their own sins. They run to the sea. (They find danger, and shackles, and control, and somebody else's purpose there again. The world is full of shackles and those who would wield them.)

They grieve. They avoid their grief. They sanctify their fallen comrade. They do not aim to be anything, this ragtag group of miserable loners and outcasts. The only thing they know themselves to be is each other's. They do not know themselves at all, but this grief, this loss--they know it, at least, know it together, an iron band binding them all heart to heart. It is the first truth they have to hold on to, the thing that lets them see each other as the only thing that matters, the only thing that's really real.

They face down a cult and win, because the other option is shackles or death. They face a demigod and flee, again, again, again. Always they flee.

They flee towards home and home is burned. They have seen loss and they have seen death and it finds them no matter how they run away, so maybe it's time to change direction. Maybe it's time to run towards. It's still running, still half-mindless directionality, it's still familiar. They are not heroes, they are not somebodies, they have never wanted to be somebody. This group has never wanted to be anybody, not as a group, not when they're whole. They're nobodies, trying to take care of themselves, take care of their own, to grow past their grief that they pretend they're gone from now, mostly, most days, when they can. (Pretend it's not the grief that made them each other's in the first place, like none of the fighting and scrapping and scrabbling along beside one another ever had in the first place.)

They bulldoze and trip and stumble and run towards instead of away, for once, just this once, the very first time they've run towards a thing since that last time, the only time, when they temporarily lost three of their own and then broke themselves trying to chase them (trying to chase vengeance). Towards is so much more dangerous than away. Run towards something hard enough, you might actually find it. You might have to become somebody when you get there, instead of just not-being somebody else.

They're somebody now. This rag-tag, broken, mismatched knot of nobodies, not even mercenaries because they're too skittish to even really look for paid work, they're somebodies now, or so Someone Important says. It fits like an ill-tailored coat that they've been forced into without ever making a choice. Without ever realizing, entirely, how much they never made a choice. The world said congrats, you're heroes now, and these killers and thieves went, well, fuck.

And then they tried to be heroes anyway. Not because it fit, not because they knew what to do, but because the mess of them, the seven of them, barely knew who they were to begin with. If the world was shouting HEROES! YOU'RE HEROES! BE HEROES! at them this very loudly--then don't they have to wear the coat that's being given to them? Don't they have to be, have to find some way to become, the heroes they've tripped and stumbled into appearing?

They don't know themselves. All they've done so far is run from themselves--from parents and children and their own crimes, from chains and challenges, limits and labels. They only barely know who they're not. They couldn't know who they are. How do they know they aren't heroes? The one thing they know, the only thing they have, the only thing they've ever run towards, is each other. The one thing they know for absolute sure and certain that defines and binds them is that steel band of grief, that first loss, the thing that broke and forged them to begin with.

So they look for answers in their grief, in what they've lost, because if it's the first true thing about them as a group, them as a whole, then it must be able to tell them who they have to be now. They sanctify their fallen, twist meaning and moral out of conversational confrontational casualness, make a mission statement out of leave every place better than you found it. They forget who he was, petty and venal and mortal and flawed. (They try to convince themselves that they don't have to be petty and venal and mortal and flawed.) They cling to what he meant.

And they fail. God, looking back on it all, with the shape of the story and the shape it's become, is it any wonder they failed? Petty and venal and moral and flawed, these rough-edged rabble-rousers, not even mercenaries because they don't even know how to take orders besides their own. Trying to be heroes. Trying to stop a war, because that's their job, right? It has to be. That's the shape of the coat they're trying to wear, that's the shape of leave every place better than you found it, that's the thing they crashed straight into while they were running, running, running the way they've always run, run, run. So they look for answers everywhere, because they have to have the answers to everything, and they scry and they spy and they play sides. They meet with queens. They turn to each other on the streets on the way out of the palace and ask in horror, "What did we just do?"

They run and they run and they trip and they fall and they unleash more evil than there was to start with. They lose one of their own, again. They sit in shattered shards, and what just happened? How could we have seen this coming? What did we just do?

They don't know themselves. They've been running from themselves, trying to run towards misty shapes they can't define in a too-big coat and too-small shoes, without any real practice in running towards to begin with. They don't know themselves, but they need to move forwards. They need to be whole again, the six, the seven (the eight, the nein). How can they do that if they don't know themselves?

And--finally, finally, they learn.

They learn. They throw a sword in a volcano and forge a sword anew. They rediscover their own mind, their own heart, covered in blood with each other's blood on their hands. They walk into their abusers' homes and then walk back out again alive and un-alone and unchained. They recover bodies. They recover families. They find themselves.

(And the selves they find are mortal and flawed, because they have always been mortal and flawed, because they are built to be mortal and flawed, because they are still the same misbegotten messes they have ever been. But they are stronger for having sought themselves out, for what they have found. They are the stronger for those threads of heroism they tried to, managed to keep.)

They stop a war, incidentally. In the end it's not even all that much due to them. They sit, nobodies on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and watch in silence. It chafes a little, not to be in the center of things, to be able to be the heroes it felt like the world told them they had to be. (It feels a little like relief.)

They find themselves. They find themselves, and they find another lost and broken man, miserable outcast loner, petty and venal and mortal and flawed. They only start to realize how they know themselves now when they see how much he doesn't.

(The peace treaty happens, happened, is/was/will be happening, because they tripped and trembled and tried their way into it, but in the end a thousand chess pieces moved to make it so, and it is signed on a boat where we do not even set foot. The culmination, the crowning glory, the true victory of that whole middle story, is a perfectly-dressed man in chains in the hold of a boat, admitting to his own sins. It is secret and it is individual, and it is the concrete proof above all proofs that our nobody unknowns are finally their own very-known selves. Because they were Essek, once--but know they know their own mirrors well enough to look at him and recognize that.)

They know so much, now, about who they are and who they are to become. They have looked at their pasts and, yes, flinched away, but they've seen, and they know, now, as much as they can handle. In the end, the one thing they don't know the true shape of, the one thing left to seek that must be sought, is of course (of course, of course) that very first thing they thought they knew to begin with. The one thing left to face is their grief. The one thing left to discover is what shaped it from the very start.

So they run, like they have always run. In amongst the snow it is the very distillation of running, towards and away, away and towards, chasing and fleeing and fleeing and chasing, are we in front or are they? It's every mistake they ever made all over again. It's every new lesson they've ever learned.

They don't ask any more, what's the right thing to do. They don't need to ask. They know, already, swift and sure and confident as they once stumbled and dodged. This is a thing that must be stopped. It is ours to stop it. Yes, it is a heavy, clumsy coat to wear, but it fits us out here in the snows where we're not trying to prove our heroism to anybody any more, for good or for evil. Yes, it weighs on our backs and tangles our legs, but it fits as well as any role we've ever tried to wear. It fits us more than it could ever fit anybody else. It's our role. It's our coat. It was forged of our choices, our pieces, our fights. It was forged of our grief.

Nobody else is here with us, to watch, to know. Just like when we were seven shiftless, aimless, worthless nobodies wandering through a circus tent on the way to nowhere (everywhere) else. There's us and the demon born from our grief, the demon who sprang up and died and is the only reason we any of us ever met. Just us, just the nine of us, three and three and three. The three who were dragged off in chains and gave us something to run towards, that very first time. The three who chased, and watched their companion fall, and faced their grief head on, and ran. And Lucien, and Caduceus, and Essek, beginning and middle and end: The man whose demise allowed us to come together, reborn from the loss that bound us. The man who found us and told us that grief is inevitable and passing, that we must continue with it, that we still had such a long way to go. The man who we found like a reflection in an aging mirror, reflecting our own progress back at us, showing us how far we've come and what we've learned how to be.

Of course it had to end this way. (There were so very many other ways it could have ended, once. Of course there were none at all.) Of course it would be nine and nine in the end. Of course it would be this final perfect marriage of heroism and anonymity, for this group that's finally figured out their selves, past and future and right-the-fuck-now, saviors and heroes and petty nobody fucks. Of course it would be this.

And of course, of course, of course it had to go like this. Of course, after everything, the first six of them would try to reverse that grief that forged and tied them. Of course they couldn't. Of course they couldn't, of course, of course--(and was it fate, that 1-in-20 chance, that 5% chance, that 1 on a die? was it fate like the dice are always fate in every game, rolling out poetry with every throw, because all the rolls that aren't quite poetic enough get forgotten?) Of course it was a 1, not some other number, not some sheepish failure of a 4. Of course the universe itself would speak to say no.

No, says the universe, that is not how this story goes--because the road is full of shattered shards, and our heroes only learned to be heroes by discovering how bloodily bad at it they were, by nearly causing the apocalypse before wrestling it back again. Of course the universe itself says that after all this time, after changing so far and discovering so much, this the inciting thing from the very beginning that bound this group in steel must not be changed. Of course, with all their pleas, the six people who knew him cannot bring him back.

Of course that's how the story would go. And of course there's Essek, the man who met this party so long after their throes of mourning that it had sunk into their bones and grown quiet before they ever knew him, who cannot accept this outcome. Of course it's Essek, who never met and has barely heard of this man, this grief--Essek who has not yet grown into the quiet acceptance of his own grief, who does not yet know his own mirror, who has only just barely begun to understand running to instead of from and still doesn't know the shape of what he might eventually choose to chase--who seethes in rage. Who cries about not fair.

Of course it's Caduceus who takes the inspiration of that anger, that grief, and changes it all. Of course it's Caduceus, who the group only even found out of their grief. (They tracked him down to beg to know if he could raise the dead in the first place. Do you remember? One, two, three, Caleb and Beau and Nott, finding him in his graveyard to beg him to help.) Of course it's Caduceus, created to serve and to heal and to make so, so very sure that everyone understood that death could be necessary and final. Of course it's Caduceus, who stood over Mollymauk's grave by the roadside and put a hand in the dirt and cast decompose, because what is dead should be allowed to stay that way until it grows into something else. Of course it is. Because Caduceus has learned his own shape by now, too--and it is still full of devotion, of dedication to the dead remaining dead, but it is steadfast and selfish sometimes too, forged in friendship, full enough of love to try, just this once.

Of course Caduceus gave the diamond but didn't try to perform the ritual, at first, at first. Of course he's spent so very long so very gently urging his friends to reconcile themselves to their loss, to letting their loved one sleep. Of course, in the end, in the very end, he weighed all his faith that once held so firm and final and without exceptions, with this grief before him, and found just this once, maybe, within it.

Of course when he tried, the man who lives to put things in the ground (to put Molly in the ground), even after the fates and the gods and the universe had spoken--when, just this once, against the will of the natural order and the universe and the power of destiny, he asked, just once, for the path of things to reverse--of course. Of course he was the voice that needed to speak for the story to listen.

Of course Molly would end the campaign. Of course this had to be the finale of it all. Of course this ritual--not this fight, not this mission, not even this apocalypse, but this ritual, this resurrection--must be the end of things. Of course it's the end of the story. You can't go any farther than this.

There can never be nine of us. It won't be ironic any more. But irony, after all, is just a way of running from sincerity, sometimes running away from sincerity so hard and fast you crash back into it from the other side. Like running from being a person, from being that person, from letting things matter, from mattering. Like running so far and fast from being found that eventually you have no choice but to find yourself. Irony's a shield against having to know the truth.

There's nine of them. It's not ironic. It's perfect, but it's not ironic. It's just the truth. They know who they are, now. Not who they were running away from being. Not who they tried to be for the sake of anyone else. Who they always are. Always were.

This story could have been a hundred thousand different things, when it started. Of course it was always fated to end with nine.

[sealer-of-wenkamui]

As someone that likes Mohg precisely BECAUSE he’s a creep with heavily implied sexual abuse implications (either in a literal or metaphorical sense, either way “bloody bedchamber” with an unconscious person is not subtle in the least) I absolutely agree. I actually DONT think he beat the allegations at all, and people are just going with that because that’s what they want to see, and the DLC playing up the whole ~oohhhh he’s a poor victim~ angle way too much (from a biased source) certainly doesn’t help.

We see through people like Leda and Hornsent especially (who openly states his distrust of you!) that the charm is NOT total mind control, and furthermore they’re self-aware of it. Even Ansbach didn’t switch fully to serving Miquella, rather his goal was to find out why he was there. It can prevent people from hurting Miquella, sure, but with Mohg’s twisted sense of “love” as far as he was aware he’s not, so I don’t think it would stop him. And these are non-demigod characters we’re talking about. The dynasty was still all Mohg’s, and he wished to make Miquella a god under the formless mother, which is not Miquella’s plan. And I also don’t buy Miq counting on him being killed either, cause that’s way too unreliable, you can become Elden lord or even burn the world down without ever setting foot in his area. I think Miquella merely was adapting to failed plans, and the charm only fed into Mohg’s pre-existing obsession. But since the game shied away from showing how Mohg hurt Miquella, the main story feels poorly done, and that’s before getting into all the Radahn nonsense and how the Haligtree isn’t mentioned at all, and how important Malenia is to him largely forgotten.

controversial opinion maybe: i dont think mohg should have ever beaten the allegations

It's like... I dont know how to describe it... A character who was initially perceived as evil, kidnapping their half-brother from their sacred resting place, with overall strange incestous/pedophilic implications.......

Only for the two-year long awaited DLC to come out for it to be like, "Naw it's actually a reversal were the Eternally Cursed Child is the predator who bewitched the poor sad man who established a Blood Cult, and kidnaps Albinaurics and War Surgeons and uses Maidens blood in rituals in the name of a bloody Outer God" who is a victim actually 🤪

and im like

[bluejayblueskies]

oh if you did a little something for jonmartin and "hiding their face in the other’s neck" i would be so 🥺💕

touches prompt list

a little post-circus kidnapping hurt/comfort! cw for wounds/injury, mild blood, mentions of non-consensual touching, and mentions of kidnapping

.

There is a stranger’s elbow digging into Jon’s side.

He shifts from one foot to the other, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his side while surreptitiously giving the stranger a glare that he hopes adequately conveys his dislike of the current situation. The tube is packed, as it always is at this time of day, and there are… so many strange hands. An elbow, at least, is better than the hand that had pressed to his back as the individual it belonged to had instinctively tried to maintain their balance.

After all, Nikola didn’t touch him with her elbows.

Jon doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. He wants to lie down in a soft bed and get his first good night’s sleep in a month and finally have the space to process. Alone.

Instead, Martin stands next to him on the train. His hand rests just beneath Jon’s where it grips one of the metal poles, and Martin takes care not to brush against him despite how crowded the car is. Jon considered telling Martin, when they first got on the tube, that it was okay—that his touch would be… well, it wouldn’t be bad. But he’d stayed silent, allowing Martin to cultivate a careful space between them. They’ve been silent for the past twenty minutes as they’ve passed by station after station on their way to Martin’s flat in Brixton.

“I have a flat,” Jon had said uncomprehendingly when Martin had suggested (or rather, gently begged) that Jon come back to his flat with him. “It’s, um. It’s nice. Spacious. S-sturdy locks.”

“You… you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Martin had said, sounding and looking very much like he wished Jon would anyway.

“I’m fine.” Jon was not fine. But he could be fine until he got back to his flat. It was always good to have a short-term goal.

Martin gave him a look that clearly said that he thought Jon was full of shit. Jon was, but it was still unnecessary. He was just trying to keep it together. What did Martin want—him sobbing and crumpling to the floor right here in the Archives? No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“You were kidnapped. Twice now. I really don’t want it to happen a third time. Besides, I…” Martin trailed off and fluttered his hands at his sides. “I—I should take a look at your hand. And your, um. Wrists.”

Jon looked down at his arms. They were, indeed, quite red and raw and scabbed over and likely to scar. Nikola had been irritated when she’d seen that he’d been tied up so tightly, but she’d decided there was nothing to be done about it. She would just ‘make do with what she had.’ And, well. She had never stopped Breekon and Hope when they’d cinched the ropes just a little bit tighter each time.

“I have first aid supplies in my flat,” Jon lied. He was fairly certain that he had a backpack of What the Ghost merchandise and a single mattress to his name at the moment. “I can take care of it.”

“So can I.” Martin took a deep breath. “I just… I don’t want to see you hurt, Jon.” His cheeks were flushed a rosy pink, and he looked over Jon’s shoulder at the wall behind him. “J-just for tonight, at least? I want…” Martin swallowed. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

And then Martin had turned those lovely blue eyes to his, and, well. Here they are.

Jon adds 24 hours onto his mental countdown of the time he has left until he’s allowed to break down and tells himself that he can manage. It’s… important to have long-term goals as well. He splits this one into steps.

Step one: get to Martin’s flat without crying. He achieves this easily enough. He finally escapes the cloying presence of strangers as Martin’s door shuts behind them, and then it’s blissfully quiet. Martin flips on a light, illuminating the space in pale yellow. It’s a little bit messy but otherwise spartan. The walls are painted a dull eggshell white, the floor made of cheap lino. Martin sits Jon down on the couch and disappears into the bathroom. Jon stares at the wall and focuses on breathing evenly and thinking about anything other than how smooth his skin feels when he slowly rubs his fingers together.

Step two: let Martin bandage his wounds without crying. This is… more challenging, if only because it hurts. Martin apologizes profusely as he wets a cotton ball with isopropyl alcohol and gently cleans the inflamed areas. Jon sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, focusing on anything other than the stinging, burning sensation in his wrists and hands. Funny—he’d thought that at this point, he would be used to the pain, but he’s not. All he knows now is what to expect.

Martin carefully wraps his hand and wrists in bandages. For a moment after he’s done, he delicately holds Jon’s hands in his like they’re porcelain. His hands are warm and soft, and Jon imagines how lovely they would feel against his cheeks. He thinks briefly that Martin is going to raise his unbandaged hand to his lips and lay a kiss across the back of it, but Martin doesn’t. Instead, he sets Jon’s hands back in his lap and stands, mumbling that he’s going to go make some tea.

Jon scrubs his uninjured hand across his eyes, just once.

Step three: sit on the couch with Martin and drink tea without crying. Martin presses a mug of steaming chamomile into his good hand and lays a plate of biscuits between them. “Th-they’re your favorite,” Martin says with a small, nervous laugh, like Jon’s not already staring at the plate with something choked sitting in the back of his throat. “I—I figured you probably haven’t really eaten today, and… I don’t really know what you’ve eaten lately. So, um. Yeah.”

Jon thinks of the things that Nikola had called food, then chooses not to think of them at all. He tucks the memory into a box next to cold hands and exposed skin and burning ropes and slams the lid before it can all come spilling back out again. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. He gingerly takes a biscuit in his stiff, aching hand that hasn’t had the time to heal properly and probably won’t get the chance to do so in the future and pops it into his mouth whole so he doesn’t get crumbs on Martin’s couch.

Step four: eat a biscuit that tastes like the best biscuit you’ve ever had and is the first palatable food you’ve had in weeks without crying.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks and comes back to himself. He’s staring blankly at Martin’s face, at eyebrows folded in concern and mouth curled into a small frown. Martin’s freckles are smudged into smears of tan, and the lines of his jaw waver like a mirage in front of Jon’s eyes. That’s odd, Jon thinks. Then, he feels something wet hit the top of his cheek.

Oh, no.

Quickly, Jon reaches up and scrubs the tears away from his eyes. As soon as he lowers his hand, more spring up in their place. He curses and sets his mug of tea down heavily on the table, taking one more look at Martin—whose eyes are now wide with worry—before turning away and attempting to pull himself together.

Step five: stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

(Stop crying, his grandmother says as he stands in the living room, hands and knees dirty and hair a mess. He’s managing to say words between his sobs, words like book and stole and spider. She’s frowning at him, but her voice is still patient and calm when she says, You’re not making any sense, Jonathan. Stop crying, please, and speak clearly. You had a nightmare?)

“Jon, what’s—” Martin catches himself, which Jon is thankful for. He thinks that if Martin had finished that question—asked him what’s wrong—Jon wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from saying, what isn’t? “What can I do to help?” he says instead, a hand hovering carefully in the air between them like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch Jon or not.

“Don’t look,” Jon manages to say. He immediately feels ridiculous and follows with a quick: “S-sorry, it’s—I don’t k-know how to—I’m not—I’m n-not good at—”

“I’m not looking,” Martin says softly.

Jon cuts off, takes a breath, and turns his head back toward Martin. True to his word, Martin has his eyes closed, though his hand remains in the air between them. Jon presses his good hand to his mouth for a moment to hide how the sight rips a new, more ragged sob out of him. Then, tentatively, he reaches forward and takes Martin’s hand.

Martin inhales sharply. Jon almost lets go, but Martin curls his fingers around Jon’s hand and squeezes. He holds Jon’s hand tightly yet so achingly softly, and Jon could weep. (Or rather, is weeping.)

“Can I hug you?” Martin says abruptly, like he’d been fighting an internal battle about whether or not to say it and had just lost. His cheeks darken, but he doesn’t say anything else or take it back. His jaw shifts as he pinches his lips together and worries them back and forth.

Jon is… not the kind of person who initiates or seeks out hugs. He always makes them too stiff, or he holds on just a bit too long and makes them awkward, or he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and ends up just dangling them uselessly in the air. He’s also never really seen the point of them if he’s being honest. As a form of greeting, surely handshakes or waves or head nods get the point across just fine. Right now, though, there is truly nothing in the world that Jon thinks would make him feel safer than having Martin’s arms around him.

Jon nods, then remembers that Martin can’t see him and whispers, in as composed a voice as he can muster: “Please.”

Step six: hug Martin Blackwood without falling apart completely.

Martin’s arms are soft and warm around him. His chest is flush with Jon’s, and he’s holding him so close that Jon is practically on Martin’s lap. All Jon can think is that it’s been so long since he’s been held by something not made of sawdust or plastic. He grips the back of Martin’s jumper with lotion-soft hands and cries tears that have been collecting for a month into the fabric as he buries his face in Martin’s neck. Martin’s hands rub large circles across Jon’s back, and he’s whispering gentle words into Jon’s ear. Things about safe and okay and time and here.

By the time Jon feels thoroughly wrung dry, his cheeks are sticky and his head is throbbing and he’s desperately in need of a glass of water. He takes a few deep breaths, then carefully extracts himself from Martin’s arms. Martin lets him go easily, though his hands remain resting lightly on Jon’s elbows as if he can’t bear to let him go completely.

Jon thinks he knows the feeling.

Martin’s eyes are still closed, and Jon is hit with such a swell of affection he can hardly breathe around it. “Y-you can open your eyes,” he says, a bit sheepishly. Martin does, and if he’s affected by the state of Jon’s face, he doesn’t show any indication of it. “Sorry,” Jon mumbles, twisting his ring—now on his left middle finger instead of his right—around and around mindlessly. “I just…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s elbows gently. “I understand. Any time you need me to look away, I will. Okay? I just…” He takes a breath. “I’ll always be here. F-for you when you need me.”

If Jon weren’t thoroughly out of tears, that would make his eyes water. Instead, he nods and offers a small, weak smile. “I know. Thank you, Martin. It… just. Thank you.”

Step seven: fall asleep safe against Martin’s side in the bed that he insists is big enough for two, face pressed into Martin’s neck once again and hands curled loosely in Martin’s sleep shirt.

He’s so drained by the time they’re there, so wrung-out and empty and relaxed, that he manages to do so almost immediately. He thinks he hears Martin murmur, “Sleep well, love,” as he drifts off. But it disappears into the fuzzy border between sleep and wakefulness, slipping from Jon’s mind entirely as he fades to black.

[sobsicles]

claire's not expecting them to be at the door. she blinks at the sight of four men all huddled on the stoop with flowers and what appears to be bags of food flowing from their arms. jack is peeking above a bouquet, beaming at her.

"who's at the door?!" jody calls from the kitchen, her voice muffled by the sound of grease popping and the clanking of pans and spatulas meeting over and over.

"god," claire calls back, because she likes to think she's funny.

there's a beat of silence, and then jody's sticking her head out the kitchen. the moment she sees them, she breaks out into a grin and saunters over, shoving the spatula in claire's hand as she chatters away.

"what's going on out there?" donna asks as claire escapes back to the kitchen to poke at food jody is apparently willing to burn just because the winchesters decided to show their faces today of all days.

"judgement day," claire says dryly.

donna shares a look with patience. "haven't we dealt with that already a few times?"

"only by association," claire admits, "but i wouldn't put it past them to bring it along with 'em now. the boys are here."

"oh, isn't that nice?" donna chirps, already popping up from her chair. "i didn't know they were stopping by today."

"wonder how sam's doing," patience agrees, wandering out the kitchen right along with donna. claire can hear everyone cracking up and talking in the living room.

trust the winchesters to shake things up just by showing up. can't have one goddamn day, can they? well, that's not true. in their case, as far as claire is concerned, they're shitty for showing up and shitty for not. someone has to knock 'em all down a peg or two, so she might as well be the one.

"what did that chicken ever do to you?" kaia asks teasingly as she sidles into the kitchen and stops by the stove, hip-checking claire out of the way to take over.

"the boys are here," claire informs her.

kaia raises her eyebrows. "like, the boys as in the winchesters, or is this a milkshake pun?"

"i can only be so gay, sweetheart," claire says, shooting her a flat look.

"raise the bar a little. could be gayer. you can always be gayer," kaia teases, reaching out to sneak her hand around claire's hip, her eyes bright with amusement.

"you know what? you're right," claire agrees and immediately tries to cop a feel while kaia laughs and dances out of range.

jack appears in the doorway. "hello," he says, whispering for some reason. "claire, i need your help."

"no," claire says, not even glancing at him. she continues to try and put her hand up kaia's shirt, just to see her laugh.

"can i borrow twenty dollars?" jack asks.

"no. aren't you god?"

"yes, but i don't get paid to be."

"well, sucks for you. borrow money from cas," claire mutters, settling in behind kaia as she focuses on the food on the stove, swatting lazily at claire's roaming hands.

"he'll just borrow money from dean."

"borrow from sam."

"he'll just borrow money from dean."

"borrow from—wait, why does it matter if it's from dean? just borrow from him."

jack huffs. "i can't. i need the money for dean. i have a card, and i read online it's customary to give money with a card. also, will you sign it?"

"you got dean a card?" claire asks, craning her head around to stare at jack skeptically.

"yes."

"don't tell me it's for what i think it is."

"mother's day," jack confirms unironically.

claire wheezes out a laugh. "oh my god."

"there's a pen in the catty on the fridge," kaia says, clearly amused.

"yeah. yeah, this is—yeah." claire chokes on more laughter and stumbles towards the group of pens in the magnet container on the fridge. she waggles her fingers at jack, clearing her throat, lips twitching. "hand it over, beanstalk. you're a fucking genius."

"oh! thank you," jack declares cheerfully, passing over the card. "so, can i borrow twenty dollars?"

"hell no," claire says. she braces the card against the fridge and swallows down a laugh. sam has already signed it. this just gets better and better. happy mother's day, old man, aka the secondary source of my mommy and daddy issues. you're going for gold with this double-whammy, she writes.

"but i need it," jack insists, staring at her with wide eyes.

claire shrugs. "tough break, kid. what, cas doesn't give you an allowance? is it just me, or are dads getting stricter these days?"

"i didn't think about it in advance," jack admits sadly. "i want to do it right for the holiday. it's mother's day, claire."

"i'm well aware. sorry to break it to you, kid, but last I checked, your mom's as dead as mine," claire tells him, her voice flat. he frowns and she forces herself not to feel bad. everything that sucks for him sucked for her first, so her sympathy levels are a little drained. "father's day will roll around eventually, and you've got a long line of those, so wait your turn."

"i've already done something for my mother today," jack says slowly, his eyebrows furrowed. "i visited her in heaven."

claire snorts derisively and passes the card back over. "must be nice."

"it was," jack agrees, completely missing the point. "i really can't borrow twenty dollars? i'll pay you back."

"nah," claire says. "who cares anyway? wait, why is dean the mom?"

"well, castiel is my father."

"ah, so it's about them having the hots for each other, then? really, kid, you coulda just made dean your step-dad."

jack blinks. "they have the...hots for each other? you mean sex. they have sex?"

"you know what?" claire points at him with her free hand. "i'm not gonna burst your bubble on that one. you've got enough issues on your own without wondering if mommy and daddy still have a spark, so I'm gonna leave that alone. i've got five dollars. take it or leave it."

"deal," jack says immediately.

money is exchanged, and jack looks like he's on cloud nine. claire's just stoked to see the expression on dean's face when he gets the card. it's a homemade card and everything, nothing like the two claire, kaia, patience, and alex got for jody and donna.

claire helps kaia finish up the chicken, which promptly gets set aside to wait on the rest of the food in the oven. sam wanders in at some point to drop off the food they brought. dessert, by the looks of it. pies and cakes that go in the fridge. it's kind of them, but claire would shoot herself in the foot before she ever admits it.

she lets kaia tug her into the living room where everyone is already at, rolling her eyes at how cheered everyone seems just because the winchesters happened to grace their doorstep. really, they all suck.

but also—and claire will never admit this, not even to save her own life—it's nice to see 'em again. it's nice that they've come to celebrate the day in jody and donna's name, giving them flowers and such. it's nice that they hang around for a bit and don't bring the world crashing down on everyone for the duration of their stay.

and, well, it's nice to see cas, too.

he perches up next to the couch that claire is squeezed on with alex, donna, kaia, and jack. kaia is practically in her lap, but claire is secretly glad for the excuse. while everyone talks and has conversations across one another, cas focuses entirely on her.

another thing claire will never admit is how reluctantly pleased by that she is. it warms her. stupidly, it turns soft and gooey in her chest that he automatically gives her his undivided attention over everyone else, even jack. but, then again, it's not cas' day, so she doesn't have to look too close to that feeling. it's mother's day, so it's not about him.

when the food is ready, they reconvene in the kitchen, and that's when they crack out the cards and gifts. claire is practically vibrating with laughter before jack has even brought his card out. before that, though, she smiles softly and strokes kaia's thigh under the table as jody and donna read their cards and chuckle at the messages, their gazes warm and their smiles sweet. they look happy. they deserve to be.

"okay, last one," claire announces, grinning at jack. she's starting to think she likes this kid if he's an agent of chaos like this.

and okay, maybe she hates him a little in abstract, but in detail, she finds that she does actually like him. you kinda just wanna put him in your pocket without meaning to, she's learned. there's too much to explore with the whole psuedo sibling thing and parents that aren't parents, as well as parents that are but didn't choose to be, only he did choose one of them, and it wasn't her. it's complicated, but underneath it all, there's a vibrant love there that she can't look directly at. sometimes, she despises that she's included in it; yet, just the same, she's thankful that she is.

"oh hell," dean mutters, swinging his gaze between alex and patience. "one of you...ya know? did we miss something?"

claire snorts.

"what? no," alex replies, grimacing. "i have no idea what claire's talking about. claire, what the hell are you talking about?"

"jack?" claire prompts in a wheeze.

"here you go," jack chirps, holding out the card to dean, beaming. "happy mother's day."

the expression on dean's face is somehow even better than claire imagined. she howls with laughter while sam buries his face in his hands, his shoulders jerking. cas squints at jack, and jody's eyebrows fly up at the same exact time that donna grins.

"is this a joke?" dean sputters.

"no, no, nope," claire chokes out, nearly fucking crying with laughter. "happy mother's day, dean."

"you gotta take it, man," sam agrees, clearing his throat and biting back a smile as he bobs his head dutifully towards the card.

dean fixes sam with a flat look and snatches the card. "you're all so fucking—sam, you signed it?!"

"happy mother's day," sam says, his mouth pinched, visibly trying not to laugh.

"do you like it?" jack asks earnestly. "i made the card, sam signed it first, and claire provided the money."

"i—" dean stares down at the card, then heaves a sigh and looks up at jack. it's clear to him that—out of everyone—jack is clearly taking this very seriously. he offers him a weak smile, then swallows. "yeah, s'great, kid. thank you. sam, you are dead to me. claire, i will be spending this on something you hate. cas, this is somehow your fault."

"yup, sounds like a mother to me," jody declares, holding up her beer with a smile.

"welcome to the club," donna agrees, holding hers up as well. "everyone else annoys the shit out of you, but you love 'em anyway."

dean sighs and clinks his beer to theirs.

[cinnamonest]

Lupophobia

Yandere "Escape Attempt" prompt - Razor

-------------------- Words: 8,944 Warnings:-fem reader, attempted noncon beastiality (none actually happens), yandere/captivity, noncon, biting, breeding, brief gendered themes/tones involving animal mating. Heavily inspired by my degrees of lewdity "deviant"/beastiality playthrough. I applied things I learned in college linguistics for this. Truly putting my education to a good purpose. --------------------- The fortunate thing about animals, and their adjacents, was that they were very easy to deceive, and no matter what, they would fall for the same trick, time and time again. "You see it girl? You want it?" You grimaced at the slimy texture on your fingers, wiggling the fatty slab in your grip and swallowing the sickness that came from looking at it. Out of, you supposed, ingrained social habits, you gave an awkward smile as you wiggled the meat. In contrast, the wolf had the opposite reaction, her ears immediately perked up, and she leaped into a playful position, front half low to the ground as her tail stuck up, and a low whine escaped her throat, eyes fixated on the meat. Yes, unlike with people, who had a greater capacity for pattern recognition and learning, who followed the fool me once, fool me twice mantra, you could count on animals to be easily deceived over and over without having to change the way you deceived them. This was far from the first time you had pulled this exact move, nor was it difficult to do -- you merely waited for a spare moment to rip out a chunk of the meat and hid it away for a little while while the rest of the pack was not looking, too absorbed in their own gorging to even cast a glance in your direction. "You want it...?" You repeated, wiggling the slab again in front of the wolf's eyes. Drool spilled out of the side of her mouth between her sharp, glistening teeth, and she let out another whine.

This was not the first time this trick had worked. This was not the first time you'd managed to steal and hide a hunk of meat away while the animals gorged themselves on the remains of whatever poor creature fell victim to them. Hell, this wasn't even the first time that this specific trick had worked on this specific individual wolf. You'd come to recognize each of them with time, even assigned them little names in your head by identifiers. She was a mother, one of the wolves that remained behind at the little den while the others went out for hunting, leaving only the nursing females, the smallest pups, and, well, yourself. Albeit in a weakened state in nursing, they were still easily capable of overpowering you, and, through means you honestly did not understand, they somehow knew they were supposed to prevent you from leaving. Even when you stood up, one or more of them would immediately pick their heads up, ears falling flat and even letting out the softest of warning growls.

She whined in front of you, eyes fixated on the slab. You wiggled it again. It was an easy deceit to pull off. "You want it... then go... get it!"

You hurled the hunk of red flesh as far as your arms could manage, and, exactly per plan, the she-wolf immediately bolted in the direction of the throw. And likewise, you turned on your heel and began the now-routine dash in the opposite direction -- the direction of human civilization. That had been the easy part.

It was the rest of the way that would be difficult. This time of day was the only opportunity you had to pull this whole thing off, but the sun was quickly setting, and unlike the wolves, you were not exactly gifted with night vision. You likened the route to an obstacle course, a puzzle -- repeated actions that became muscle memory. The first few times, you'd merely stumbled around in the woods for a few minutes. With each successive attempt, you retained more knowledge of the path, could clear a longer distance in increasingly shorter times, memorized landmarks, remembered little helpful actions and hindrances, and with each successive attempt, you found yourself making it closer and closer to the end of the woods than the time before. There wasn't much else to go by, so you used trees that stood out to you. The huge tree with the hollowed out hole in the center was the first landmark -- go right. The tree that had an oddly-angled branch came next. So on and so on. You measured success by how many of said landmarks you could pass in time, striving to make each a longer and longer venture every time. Just when despair had been finally getting the better of you, the last attempt had had you finding a footpath used by the Springvale hunters, and that meant you were close. If you could just find that again -- there. To say flat ground was a welcome feeling to your bare feet was an understatement. The slimy dirt texture of the forest floor and prickly leaves and pine needles was not a pleasant sensation. Nonetheless, there was no time to savor it or anything, soon, soon, you'd walk on paved streets, and floors, and, and... You stopped for a mere moment, panting, desperately taking in deep breaths to soothe the exhaustion burning in your chest. You darted your head from side to side. There was no sign of anything coming your way. No footsteps or growls in the distance behind you. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, as much from physical exertion as it was from a blooming, disbelieving excitement. I might actually make it.  Your legs felt weak at the prospect, and you steadied your stumbling against a tree. You were certain you'd never made it this far before. It was difficult to process, almost surreal. After so, so, so many times, over the course of months and months, you were so used to being stopped by this point that your brain half-expected it at any moment. You'd really reached a point at which the escape attempts were almost done with a knowing futility, you no longer really had much hope when setting out, merely running on principle and the faint chance that was now so real. You could be stopped any moment. And yet, after a few more breaths, nothing happened. You shook your head to clear the dizziness, taking a deep breath and squinting forward in the twilight. You nearly felt your heart stop when you processed a shape in the distance -- a building. Springvale. It was distant and downhill, but visible. Right there within your reach, and all you had to do was go to it, so you steadied your breath and took off as fast as-- The world suddenly spun around you as something snatched at your ankle. Your shriek echoed off the trees, reverberating until it grew silent. A clanging of metallic sounds accompanied it, rattling hollowed objects triggered into motion. Everything began to settle, the sudden flooding of stimuli to your eyes and the feeling of sudden movement both slowing to a gentle sway. You were unbreathing, unblinking, heart pounding as your vision spun and, in a panicked haze, you desperately darted your eyes and head each way, struggling to process your senses. Your head felt suddenly tight and tense, your upper half heavy, and a burning pain wrapped around your ankle. Everything was... upside down. You looked down -- no, up -- at your feet. One was bent at the knee, falling in the direction of gravity towards your head, the other was extended perfectly straight, tense and unable to move. A cord was snagged around your ankle, a perfect tightened knot that wrapped around the flesh. You looked up -- no, again, down -- at the ground. Nausea lurched in your stomach as you did, seeing the forest floor a good drop below. You took a moment to process. You followed the trail of the rope from where it tugged painfully at your ankle, followed it to the branch it looped over, and down the trunk to the base of the tree, where it was securely tied around a knotted root. The metallic sound had come from what appeared to be collected garbage, metal scraps, a glass bottle or two, and some metal tools and cans all tied up in a net and secured to the spot where the rope met the branch, an alert that the trap had been set off. Your mouth hung open, you blinked over and over, before finally, bitter anger burst in your chest. "Ghhhhh!" You let out a frustrated, furious cry, thrashing wildly and pulling at your scalp. You kicked and struggled, but only succeeded in making yourself swing, making the nausea and dizziness worse. A trap. Of course. The furthest you've ever gotten, and you were stopped by a fucking hunting trap. Damn those Springvale hunters for coming this far out into the woods. It could be worse, you tried to console yourself. It could have been a bear trap, which would have more or less destroyed your leg, possibly taken it clean off. But nonetheless, misery and frustration bubbled up in your chest as you swung back and forth, slowing down to stillness. You'd never made it this close to town before. You could see the road as well, albeit just barely, a few hundred yards in the distance. You could make out where the dirt path became gravel in the distance, upside-down in the last light of the quickly-setting sun, and, as tears filled your eyes, you reached a hand out to it, miserably grasping your hand shut before letting your arm fall. It was so, so close! Now you were trapped, stuck here in this miserable, humiliating predicament, and you'd have to wait to be saved, and inevitably dragged back the way you'd come. You thrashed again, trying and failing to curl your body up and reach your foot. Your fingers just barely grazed the knot of the rope, but even if you could reach it, it was designed for your body weight to hold the knot in place to begin with. You let out a shaky sigh and a small sob, tears dripping directly out of your eyes and falling downward with gravity. You wiped your eyes, and a thought made a bit of nervous, daring hope light up in your chest. You were close to Springvale, right? Maybe you could be heard. This trap was set by the Springvale hunters themselves, right? You'd seen these types before, a snare that, when tripped, released on one side and whipped around the center of the force that tripped the rope, forming a perfect, tight knot around the ankle of the prey before hauling it upwards by use of weight. You took a deep breath and cupped your hands around your mouth. "Help!" You called out, straining out the vowel as long as you could, before inhaling a ragged breath and repeating the action. As the echoes quieted, you waited, but nothing happened. You wriggled and writhed, but only succeeded in making the net of metal rattle. You supposed it helped the hunters hear animals struggling, and led them to the source. But the hunters wouldn't be back out until tomorrow, you couldn't afford to wait for them to come rescue you on their own. You waited a moment, trying again and again to yell. The Springvale hunters, a traveler on the road, hell, you'd accept help from treasure hoarders if they hung out in this part of the wilderness. Anyone, anyone human. Well, except one, preferably, but still. Any other human being. You couldn't even remember the last human interaction you'd had. At least, a fully human interaction, without any licks or whines or growls or other canid behaviors you'd become far too accustomed to. But nobody came. You waited. Tried again. And again. And again. No response. Your head was beginning to pound and throb. You'd black out if you stayed like this much longer, and you were pretty certain it could even kill you. But nothing was responding to your cries for help. You wracked your brain in panic for a solution. An idea popped into your head. You'd seen Razor do it before, and the wolves responded to him even though he produced the sound with a human voice, so maybe you too could... It was embarrassing, but worth a try. You didn't exactly have many options. You jerked your bodyweight in the other direction, making yourself turn to face the woods in the direction you'd come from instead of Springvale. You reached your quickly-numbing arms up and cupped your hands around your mouth, forming your lips into an "o" shape, and, well, swallowed your pride. You didn't have any better ideas. "Awooooo--" You tried to mimic the howls you'd heard so many times as accurately as you could manage, but it came out a bit strained and comical. You waited a moment, and, receiving no response, whimpered in your desperation and tried a second time. Your voice echoed throughout the trees. You weren't certain exactly how it worked, you were pretty certain they had different tones they used, some for aggression, some as a cry of distress, but you weren't capable of telling them apart. You could only hope for the best. It wasn't really as if they could help you, but at the very least, they would probably go find Razor for you. They'd done so before, after another humiliating failure when you'd fallen into a hole in the earth during a past attempt. You'd learned they were far more intelligent than you once thought, and they understood things like that, at least. But gods, did this make you feel dumb. Your face heated with embarrassment with each attempt. You inhaled to try a third time, but as you did, a shrill howl pierced the air from a distance. A response. Your heartrate picked up as a little spark of relief and hope -- albeit dread that lurked in the back of your head -- made you shudder. You howled again, and received a second response. It carried on for a few minutes that way, sounding back and forth, and it sounded like the other was getting closer. Finally, you heard steps, and anticipation swelled in your chest. You were pretty sure that the response howls had been that of an actual wolf -- even you, in your time in these woods, had learned to tell the difference between Razor's vocalizations and that of the wolves. There were simply some aspects of the canid sounds that human vocal chords could only mimic, but not recreate to a perfect likeness, and thus his vocalizations were a bit distinct. Still, you could be wrong, or, even better, perhaps the footsteps coming close to you weren't an animal at all, but perhaps a different figure, maybe a hunter...? No, that was definitely a four-legged gait. That, too, was something you had learned to tell apart, a two-legged gait versus a four-legged one. It kind of came in handy when you were trying to to hide or run and needed to gauge exactly what was hunting you down. You craned your neck to the best of your ability in the direction of the sound. A creature emerged from the trees. You took a sharp breath. ...It was merely a very large, brownish-greyish wolf. It gazed up at you with big black eyes and ears perked up in alertness. You squinted. You'd never seen this wolf before. You were fairly certain of this much; during your time in the woods, you'd learned to distinguish between them pretty well. You learned the little differences -- this one was bigger, this one had a scratch on its ear, this one had a scar on its hip, this one was more brown and this one was more grey, and so on it went. This one was different from all the wolves you'd become familiar with. The wolf sat down, tilting its head at you, tongue lolling out as it panted. It was huge, muscular looking. "Help," you whimpered. As aware as you were that it obviously did not understand, you couldn't think of anything else to do. You flailed a bit in your desperation, and pointed towards the spot where the rope was tied to the tree. "Help me... Come on, please..." The wolf actually followed the line of your pointing, eyes settling on the base of the trap. And, miraculously, moved towards it. Your heart pounded. Did it actually understand? Would it help? It walked over and bit at the rope, shaking its head rapidly in the same way you'd witnessed the wolves kill small prey, or how dogs played with toys. It was helping! You shuddered again, hope burning in your chest, and a tear of relief dripping from your eyes upside-down to the ground below. And if this wolf wasn't from the pack, it wouldn't take you back, right? How, you weren't certain, but the other wolves seemed to understand the... arrangement going on. Many of your escape attempts had been thwarted not by your captor himself, but by the pack -- surrounding you in a circle, barking and growling and snapping at you until you were forced to turn back, even tackling you as you ran, biting your clothes and arms to drag you back. But this wolf would let you go, right? .... Wait a second. Cold dread suddenly made your stomach lurch. This wolf had no reason to help you, and no reason to drag you back. It had every reason to see you as easy prey. Any relief or hope you'd felt was immediately replaced with a chilling rush of panic. Yes, you would be easy prey, right there for the taking. You thrashed about, trying again to reach up and loosen the knot on your foot, but failing. Fuck. You were trapped between two unpleasant options. There was a chance the wolf was just helping, but in the end, it was an animal, not a person, with instincts of goodwill or benevolence. It would follow its instincts. Once you hit the ground, you'd have to run. That was the only solution. But... it also occurred to you only then that you were hanging a good fifteen feet or so in the air. Upside down. What if the fall knocked you out? Hell, what if it broke your legs? What if it broke your spine? If it were Razor himself, he'd lower you down slowly, but the wolf lacked the sense  or ability to do so. You'd just drop. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There was a thick coating of leaves on the ground, which would hopefully help, and this part of the forest had soft, clay-like ground rather than hard rock, but nonetheless, it was a long drop. Dammit! Your body wracked with a sob of frustration, anger, and panic. Why did all of this have to happen to you? You'd asked yourself that that plenty of times. You didn't do anything to deserve-- There was a snapping sound. You shrieked as gravity immediately sent you crashing down, world spinning around you, and you collided with the earth with crash that took the breath from your lungs; the sound flooded your ears, echoed as your head went numb. You landed directly on your back, eyes looking up at the trees and the sky beyond then as the world spun around you and your vision darkened. Pain ran through your body on impact, a rough, blunt sort of pain that ached through your flesh and meat and bones. You groaned in pain, teeth clenched as it flooded your senses, trembling as it slowly began to ebb away after the initial blow. The wolf's face popping into your vision sent you jolting back to awareness. It was startling, it's cold wet nose pressing against your own, and after a moment, it lapped its tongue against your face. Panic seized your entire body, and you were frozen, unable to move, not even breathing, eyes wide in terror. And then it licked you again, letting out a soft, tender whine. It was being friendly. You let out a shuddering sigh as relief washed over you again, and you thanked whatever god was looking out for you for granting you your life. "Th-thank you," you murmured, reaching a trembling hand up to pat the wolf's head, wincing at the soreness in your arm. It whined again, bumping its head against yours. Wolves were far, far larger than you were certain most people realized. Back home, you'd always thought that the howls you heard at night from within the safety of Mondstadt's walls were from creatures no bigger than the large hunting dogs you'd seen in Springvale. In reality, that was not the case. Even the smallest of the wolves were massive in comparison to those dogs, their heads easily twice the size of your own. You'd been utterly terrified of them in the beginning, bursting into frightened tears whenever one made its way over to sniff you in their curiosity, or dump an offering of a small creature's carcass at your feet in a show of friendliness (an unsettling experience, no matter how many time you were told it's good, 'cause they like (y/n)), or lick your face in an attempt to show affection. You'd grown used to it with time. But this wolf was even larger than the majority you'd seen, easily thrice your size in every capacity. Likely a loner separated from its pack. You were aware there were sometimes conflicts between the larger, stronger pack males that ultimately ended in the loser leaving the pack and heading off on its own, although it seemed nearly incomprehensible that a wolf of this size would lose to anything. Had it chosen the route of violence, you wouldn't have stood a chance. You laid there for a moment, head spinning as you took deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm yourself down and regain your sense of control over your body. You curled your fingers and toes, flexed the muscles in your arms and legs. You were a bit scraped up and your entire body still ached from the impact, but miraculously, nothing seemed broken. You closed your eyes, feeling the cool evening breeze and the wet tongue that was repeatedly lapping at your face. Finally, after a moment, with a groan at the ache in your body, you pushed yourself upward with your elbows, flipping over to your hands and knees, pulling your leg forward to stand-- The breath was knocked out of you yet again as a massive weight crashed down onto your body. You clawed at the ground, gasping to regain oxygen, body going tense. "Wh-what-" The creature let his bodyweight fall down on your frame, and you grunted as your upper half slammed into the ground. It rendered you entirely immobile, this wolf was both massive and heavy, you could barely breathe under the sheer mass of its body. You struggled to push yourself back up onto your elbows. "H-hey, what are you--" With a whine, it rutted its hips forward. Oh, fuck. "N-no!" You tried to rear up, pushing your upper half upward on your elbows as hard as you could, to no avail. Its weight was crushing. "B-bad! Bad dog! Stop!" You clawed at the dirt, gasping as it thrust again. "Get off!" It only let out the same high, throaty whine, thrusting its hips several times in quick succession, humping your ass with desperation. You could feel its blunt-ended cock digging into the flesh, making your blood run cold. When it rutted forward, the motion hiked your ragged little dress up, bunching up the fabric and exposing your cunt. You whimpered with fear, desperately trying to drag yourself forward. "Stop, stop, get off!" You thrashed again, achieving nothing by the action. The worst part, the dread that was quickly overtaking your thoughts, was that you knew it was futile. You'd learned a long time ago that your resistance would mean nothing, not by the brutal laws of the world outside of the fragile sense of safety human society provided. It was expected. It happened among the wolves themselves all the time -- the mates were not something that were chosen in the same way humans did. Too many times you'd witnessed the ritual -- the males would fight, snarling and growling and lunging at each other until one would give up and run scurrying away, tail tucked between its legs. Growing up with all the knowledge you'd learned from books and what humans generally observed of the animals, you'd always assumed that from that point, the she-wolves would then gladly and willingly copulate with the victor, but, you'd quickly learned, that was not the case. It had shocked you the first few times, your eyes widening and your mouth dropping open as you witnessed the poor females get tackled, mounted, their whimpers as teeth sank into their shoulders and kept them in place. It was brutal, and yet, you'd come to understand and accept it was simply the way things were. Perhaps the part that had shocked you the most was how accepted it was -- the other wolves would simply look on, adjusted to what was normal among them, and the brutalized female would, from that point on, act as a normal mate to what more or less was originally her assailant -- licking and grooming each other, sleeping next to one another, spending time with each other, all as if such a thing made sense. Given the acceptant, compliant state you sometimes found yourself slipping into, you supposed you weren't too different in that way. Because they're strong, you'd been told. Beating the other male and forcibly mating the female herself signified strength. They were supposed to try to run and fight, and the male was supposed to forcibly overpower them, a display of strength, of suitableness as a partner. That was why fighting back didn't matter -- it was supposed to be that way, in the minds of the animals, and thus they were content with that setup. The present moment was anything but content. Another rut of the wolf's hips brought you snapping out of your brief thought, back to the moment at hand. The forest was quiet aside from your own struggling, the last rays of light were fading from the sky, the moon hanging high in place of their light. You let out a shrill, squeaking cry, thrashing with renewed effort, but, predictably, not even budging. "Get off! Get off me! Stop it, bad dog!" No matter how you tried, you couldn't move your body in the slightest, perfectly pinned still. "Fuck..." It let out another whine, not even seeming to notice your struggles, grasping at your shoulder with its teeth, and you feared that if it bit down, it might shatter your shoulder. It rutted forward, and this time you froze, entire body going tense as the blunt head of its cock pressed firmly against your exposed slit. You finally managed to claw at the leaf-covered ground enough to pull yourself forward, if but just an inch -- and the wolf, snarling, thrust its own body forward to push you back into the same position. One of its front paws reached forward and clawed onto your shoulder, and you squealed as it pulled you back, forming a tiny cut in the flesh of your jugular. Your began to nearly hyperventilate, trembling, breaths shallow and quick. "S-stop..." Your plea was defeatedly quiet, realizing that further protest would only hurt you. Tears gathered in your eyes. Your back was bent at an angle under the sheer weight of the furry mass that kept you pinned, and it felt like your very lungs were crushed, breathing quickly becoming difficult. You began to feel your body tingling with numbness. It was so heavy and difficult to breathe you weren't certain you'd even survive if it fucked you. Panic seized your brain, overriding any coherent thought. There was a snarling, growling sort of noise that cut through the surrounding stillness. It wasn't coming from the creature mounted on your body. It didn't sound canid. It was human. Much like the howls, you had learned, with time, how to distinguish between the real and the imitation, those sounds that, no matter how long of a lifetime of practice one had, could simply not match the vocals of another species. The wolf stopped its motions, turning its head, and likewise immediately transitioned its entire demeanor, tensing up and returning the sound, a low snarl, baring its teeth as its snout wrinkled up. It dismounted your body and lowered itself to the ground, hips and shoulders raised as its core sank low, a preparatory stance ready to lunge. You fell forward, face crashing into the leaves, before scrambling upwards and falling back on your ass, propped up with your hands behind you and your knees bent as you froze, unable to move a muscle, eyes open wide and gasping for breath as air burned in your lungs. You could see red-orange eyes glaring in the moonlight from a short distance, and for once, the face of the wolf-boy made a wave of relief come crashing down, rather than panic at being found. He made another low sound in his throat, a snarling growl. His shoulders hunched up in a similar motion to the wolf, baring his teeth, glare locked on the transgressor. He didn't have a weapon on him, so his hands clenched into fists at his side. You'd witnessed this plenty of times in the past by now, but never before with him as one of the participants. The other male wolves within the pack hadn't exactly taken an interest in you, rather, simultaneously accepted you as one of their own, while seeming to recognize you as something of an "other," as they did him. Among them, though, these conflicts were regularly occurring, a constantly shifting hierarchal dynamic that was weighted in blood and pure brute strength. Your heartrate picked up anew. Strong as Razor may be, this thing was massive. And he didn't have his claymore, you remembered he'd left it near the den earlier, before going on his daily routine to check the various animal traps. This wolf could kill him. And given that it wasn't a pack member, it wouldn't hesitate to do so. The wolf took a few heavy steps forward, growling all the while, and the wolf-boy reciprocated the action, a deep low growl in his throat as he stomped forward, fingers curling into a claw-like shape, not exhibiting so much as the slightest hesitation to show aggression against the massive creature. You tried to stand on your shaking legs, but fell on your ass again. "W-wait, no, r-run," you stammered, words spewing out of your mouth before you could process them, "he'll hurt you--" Your vision went white, bright light exploded all around, a crashing, booming sort of sound cutting off your words. There was a heat to it that you could feel on your skin, but it blinded your vision, leaving you blinking as, in a mere moment, the electric energy faded to a purplish glow that sparked with a buzz in the palm of his hand. The wolf leaped back in terrified shock, immediately flattening its ears, turning and tucking its tail between its legs, scrambling with fear into the darkness of the trees. And just like that, the threat was gone. You were left slack-jawed, mouth hanging open, trembling and panting as you watched it disappear, footsteps growing quieter and quieter until they could no longer be heard. Instead, the leaves to your side crunched in a two-legged pattern as the figure drew closer, and then dropped down to his knees to get on a face-to-face level. You turned your head and your eyes met. His eyes were wide and pupils blown even wider, mouth slightly open, looking you over. His eyes had always had a softness to them, full of light. After a moment, he reached up, slowly, and wiped the tears from your eyes, a soft, unthinking gesture, and leaned forward. He nuzzled his face against yours, and, after a moment, licked a few quick, short laps up the side of your face. It was nothing you weren't very well used to, and you merely sat numbly as he did so. His eyes trailed downward, widening as they met the gash that had been created on your neck by the massive wolf's claws, and he leaned forward again, lapping at your skin. You inhaled a sharp breath at the sting of his tongue on the wound, but you knew it actually was helpful in terms of clotting, so you didn't resist. You sat like that for a moment, silent, still, letting him clean up the wound, saliva naturally helping the healing process. It was bizarrely intimate in its own way, but it certainly wasn't the first time he'd helped in that way with a wound. It stopped stinging after a moment, blood clotting under the wet warmth. He pulled his head back, looking over you again as if to ascertain your unharmed state, eyes wide and expression flat, looking directly at your face - your weary face, trembling lip, expression still uneasy from the remaining shock. "You... Okay?" There was a softness to his face, a wide-eyed look of innocent concern. You did your best to nod. Any hope you'd had left had been crushed at some point in the adrenaline of the encounter, and thus, all chances of escaping gone, defeat and weariness washed over your body, and you slumped forward in exhaustion. Of course, he was unaware of and most likely did not even consider why you suddenly fell against him, he tended to take any action you made at face value and accepted it as simply what it was, and likewise, every action he made was easily interpreted the same way. It was, you sometimes consoled yourself, a rather welcome simplicity in contrast to the hidden and subtle meanings that humans often portrayed through their actions, and you never had to worry about an innocent action being misinterpreted maliciously, nor did you worry that your emotions were too transparent in your actions. Instead, he merely seemed pleased by the gesture, eagerly wrapping his arms around your frame and pulling your closer, rubbing his head up and down so the sides of your faces nuzzled together, squeezing you tightly. "I heard you," he said, a cheerful sort of pride in his voice. "Came to help." You swallowed. "Th-thank you..." As much as his sudden appearance crushed any chance you had of reaching Springvale, you couldn't help but feel a genuine relief, even gratitude, for saving you from what would have undoubted been a highly painful and traumatizing experience, if you'd survived the lack of oxygen. Not that you weren't already getting your fair share of traumatizing experiences out here, but, well, none quite like what your experience would have been had he not shown up. After a still, silent moment of embrace, he released you, shifted and stood up, but then suddenly tensed, and his eyes widened with what seemed like surprise, or perhaps realization, mouth opening slightly. His eyes were cast downward, settled on the cord that was still tightly tied around your ankle, and reached down to loosen the knot, slipping it off and tossing the remaining cord to the side. You made a small sound as if to start speaking, but cut off and fell silent, shutting your mouth. And then, as he came back up, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and processing, mouth slightly open as he looked a bit to one side, then the other, to you, and up to the tree from which you'd hung. The wheels were turning. Finally, after a moment, it seemed to click, his eyes went wide with realization for a split second before he turned his head back towards you and narrowed his eyes in a glare. His "angry" face had always been a bit difficult to take seriously, he had maintained a baby face despite his age, big eyes and soft features making it look like more of a pout than anything, but in time you'd learned the rightful amount of fear to have at seeing it. Your heart sank in your chest. "You ran away again." His voice was a bitter, grumpy mumble. You'd feared that when you noticed the surprising lack of anger up until a few moments ago. That it hadn't yet clicked with him, until now, exactly why you were out here, how you got out here, in the first place. He might have thought the larger wolf had dragged you out here, or, perhaps more likely, it had not crossed his mind at all in the intensity of the previous moments, too focused on conflict and comfort. "I..." You trailed off, trembling. There was a moment of silence. You couldn't exactly argue against it. It was true that he was rather gullible, and would often believe rather ridiculous excuses or explanations that anyone else would never buy, but there were limits to that, and at the present moment, you couldn't think of any excuse that even he would believe. Even if the wolf had come in to drag you away, the she-wolf set to guard you would have made a noise to alert the others, and he knew that. There was a moment of silence, and, not receiving any objection to his claim, he exhaled a frustrated huff through his nostrils. "I'm mad." As nice as it was that you didn't have to worry about being misinterpreted, another pro to your situation was that your captor was easily the most transparent person you'd ever met, bluntly honest, so much so it sometimes worked against him. You were pretty sure he couldn't be indirect or subtle with his words if he tried. Passive-aggressiveness or anything of the sort was foreign. "I'm sorry," you murmured, hoping to ease his anger, but you knew by now those words didn't really hold any meaning to him. He opened his mouth, that same pout on his face, and took a breath as if to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth, looking at the ground for a moment, opened again, repeated the process, and again, before roughly shaking his head, head hanging and expression falling to something like irritation and disappointment. With other people, you'd feel more intimidated by silence, silence meant someone was angry and trying to get under your skin. And while he made no attempt to hide being angry, you knew the silence wasn't an intentional passive-aggressive act, but rather, just lacking the proper words. It was a process you went through frequently, and to some degree, you felt bad for him. Having feelings, having complex thoughts, but lacking the knowledge or ability to articulate them, being unable to adequately express what you thought and felt, limited to such simple terms as sad and mad, words that could only convey incredibly simple feelings... you could only imagine how frustrating that would be. He knew that those words weren't enough, but didn't have any other ones to use. You understood why, then, he grunted in frustration, kicking at the ground, sending a few leaves scattering. But you also knew that if he could not express himself with words, actions would have to suffice. You knew better than to expect any different. This routine, despite its variances in the specifics of how the events went down, went like clockwork from this point onward, the moment of defeat. They say humans are, after all, creatures of habit. You nonetheless let out a little surprised sound at the suddenness with which you were lifted by the armpits, quickly moved a few steps to the side and unceremoniously pushed forward, facing one of the many boulders that dotted the forest floor. Instinctively, releasing an exhale of defeat and acceptance, braced yourself against it, hands pressed into the rock. You were technically standing, but leaning far forward, bodyweight resting mostly onto the rock you were bending over on. His front pressed against you, hand pushing your back down into an arch, latching arms around your waist. There was no hesitation, no preparation, merely pulling the fabric of your dress up with one swift motion, and the waist of his pants down in another, all in a matter of a single moment, and rutting against you, once, twice, cock slipping against your folds, and on the third thrust, it actually slid in, pushing about halfway in with harsh force with no warning. You gasped at the sting, clawing at the rock as your face twisted with the slight pain, but his hand gripped hard on your shoulder. "Stay... Still." It was honestly impressive, you sometimes thought, to manage to get a cock inside you so easily with hip angling alone. He'd never thought to use his hands to do so, you guessed due to merely mimicking what he observed, as all humans did. Nonetheless, you let out a mewl at the feeling of friction against your walls as it dragged, pulling out a bit before slamming back in. Then again, faster. And again, faster still. And finally, setting into a rhythm, quick and harsh, your body lurching forward at the force. Defeat and despond had fully set in, and you made no movement to fight back, instead attempting to ease the discomfort by pushing back with the thrusts. And then, after a moment, it stopped. It often did -- again, a set pattern, a routine. Increasingly often these days, he changed his mind at this point, initially going with the instinctive, natural option, but it would take a moment to remember that there was an alternative. You shuddered at the sliding feeling and emptiness as he pulled back out, but even though you braced yourself, the air was knocked out of you as you were flipped over, back hitting the rock -- and this time aching as the bruising flesh from the earlier fall was hit again -- now leaning your weight onto the rock on your back, facing forward. The roughness with which you were tossed about and maneuvered was, you knew, not intentional, nor out of malice, but it always left you disoriented as your vision spun a bit. And it was only a single second before you were filled again, gasping a deep breath and reaching your hands out to claw at his back as you felt yourself stretched apart all in one motion, and your legs fell into the routine position of hooking over his arms. He liked it this way. The human way, he called it, with you on your back in some form rather than on your hands and knees, facing him rather than turning away, which had been the only way you'd done it -- you supposed the only way he had been familiar with -- for a good while. You'd introduced the position once when your arms and legs were exhausted from strain, and, perhaps to your relief, it became the most common way that the routine went down. You supposed that, deep down, no matter the way in which a person was raised, there were certain innate needs and instincts that could not be overridden, woven into the very biology of a person. For humans, intimacy, the feeling of affection, and you supposed that that itch was met for him more adequately this way. And he liked to mimic normal behaviors in that regard. You recalled a time ago, back before you were brought out here for good, the wide-eyed fascination with which he'd watch passing couples of people on the road and streets, would make an attempt to imitate the same actions, albeit lacking in the same gentleness, technique, or appropriate timing. Reaching out to grab and hold your hand (with a crushing grip) as you walked, awkwardly pressing your mouths together (so firmly that your teeth clacked and your jaw hurt). That, at least, had gotten better. Now, it was somewhat gentle, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. Gentle, but still very awkward, lacking in the rhythmic motions with which you'd expect, more like holding still but pressing firmly against you, but lapping a quick lick to your lips. You could taste blood on his lips and tongue, a permanent coppery taste that never went away. That didn't last long. It was hard to maintain the mouth contact when he started rutting into you, causing your body to rock in jerking motions up and down on the surface, and his face buried itself into your shoulder, panting shallow breaths that were warm against your flesh. And again, like clockwork, you knew how the issue of your body rocking back and forth, disrupting the rhythm, would be solved, and you inhaled as you braced yourself, first for the tightening grip of arms around your waist, and then-- You gasped a sharp breath despite your mental preparation as teeth sunk into your jugular, opposite the one with the injury, further locking your bodies together. He growled, a low throaty sound. Teeth gnawed at your shoulder before releasing and sinking down in a different spot, digging into the flesh just short of the force it would take to break it. You cursed whichever god thought it would be funny to give him abnormally sharp canines. Even with your weight leaning against the rock, a good portion of it was still being supported by his arms, which, with any normal human being, you would hope would cause enough strain to perhaps slow down the actual thrusting, but you knew better by now. Nor did you expect any kind of buildup or anything, no, you gritted your teeth at the immediate fast pace that dragged against your insides, raw and with little fluid to lessen the friction. The quickness and suddenness always left you sore, your internal parts not having enough time or stimulation to expand or prepare, so each thrust that slammed into the top of your insides sparked a shock of pain and pleasure sensation so strong your entire body jolted with the feeling. The bruising soreness of the recent abuse to the same spot -- how many times earlier today, three, four? -- heightened the sensitivity. And, as with the rest of the routine, you didn't expect words. You couldn't blame him -- talking was hard enough when he was focused, you imagined it was much harder when preoccupied with sensation, and with less blood in the brain. It also made sense that he didn't seem to process anything you said either -- any slow down or wait fell on deaf ears, or rather, non-comprehending ears. Eventually you, too, fell into the same state- "I-- hah, ah, w-wait, mnn-" -- unable to form words, unable to take in anything around you, pure sensation clouding your brain of any and all thoughts. You heard your own little cries ring out and echo through the empty forest, and soft, pleasured whines in your ear, hot breath from panting that grew faster and faster as the thrusts became more erratic and harder, slamming in and out, the wet, slapping sound ringing out with your own voice. It pushed against all the right spots, stretching you incomprehensibly full, overloading your brain with the feeling, and the harder your nails sank into his back, the harder his teeth bit down into your neck. The sparks of pain from the feeling felt small, distant, erased by the overwhelming good feeling created by adrenaline and pleasure, and the thought of how badly it would hurt later was the furthest thing from your mind in the moment. And because you knew words meant nothing in the heat of these moments, you had learned that announcing or warning for orgasm didn't matter. Neither of you needed words -- as with many things, you could communicate it without them just fine. He could still sense it, the way you clenched and your hands grasped at his hair and raked down his spine, and in response, the thrusting somehow grew harder and faster still. A perfect and clearly understood communication as clear as any verbal exchange. The squealing you made, the way your body spasmed and your back arched, was better than anything you could have said, really. You weren't... actually fully certain he understood the action as anything other than communication, like a message indicating "cum now." You assumed that was what it meant to him, since, as always, you felt the movement stop, panting as he pushed into your one more time, holding your hips as close as possible as you felt a twitching inside. It was always perfectly coordinated like that. The peak was always too short, always that same burst of feeling that you wished could last just a moment longer, leaving you panting. Heavy breaths in and out, shuddering, sweaty flesh clinging to each other. You could feel the arms that held your legs up shaking with aftershock, forehead falling to rest against the spot between the mounds of your chest. Then, after a moment, a nuzzle, slowly rubbing a cheek against your collarbones. As soon as that stopped, his head popped up again, looking up at your face with those same wide amber eyes, soft and somehow, despite everything, they always seemed so innocent and bright. A curious, but fairly neutral, content sort of wide-eyed gaze. Anger resolved. Sometimes you were grateful it was that easy. "Ok. You're... good, now." You understood without needing it explained. "Good" indicated something along the lines of fixed or resolved, the phrase "you're good" indicating, in this context, resolution. You assumed it had originated from listening to others in some context or another. You swallowed, and nodded. There was no point in fighting now. A sort of numbing aftershock had set in, and your head was spinning so much that even if you ran, you might fall over on your own without the inevitable tackling. It was a struggle for another day... the same conclusion this always, always resulted in, a conclusion you reached more and more quickly each time, but you tried to put the concern that thought sparked away, merely standing on trembling legs. "...Stupid hunting trap," you muttered, giving the remains of cord a kick into the leaves. He tilted his head and made a soft hm? of confusion. "Th-the trap," your voice was raspy. "They laid out traps for - for catching animals, the hunters, you know." He blinked for a moment as he processed your words, then shook his head, but smiled, beaming with pride. "Mm-nn, I made it. Put lots of them around here." You squinted, head jerking up to scan the treeline - sure enough, now that you looked closer, you could see several treetops dotted with similar nets full of scraps set to make a sound when triggered and struggled against. In fact, the more you gazed around, you realized there were easily dozens and dozens of similar traps, some of different styles and shapes, all perfectly lining the edge of the woods before the road. "...You won't catch things like that," you muttered. "It's too close to the end of the woods." Another slightly confused stare. He shook his head. "Traps are... for you." You could always count on him for two things. Undying loyalty, and obtuse honesty. You blinked at him, expression flat in blunt surprise, then, with a crooked smile, you let out a single huff of bitter, tired laughter. You were numbed to the point that you were, at the very least, able to recognize the humor of it all. Another way of coping, perhaps. It only occurred to you then, as your thoughts cleared, how relief had washed over you when the lone wolf had run out into the night, but your mind had not been focused on your own violation. You remembered your words. Run, he'll hurt you. Your only concern in that moment had been his safety. The thought set off some sort of alarm bell in your head, but the utter exhaustion made it difficult to place much concern in anything.

Your legs were trembling in aftershock, numb and heavy, but it wasn't as if that mattered. Even as you briefly put a hand to the stone beside you to lean your weight onto in an effort to stand, you knew you wouldn't be walking anyway, that wasn't part of the routine. And sure enough, as you got about halfway upward, arms wrapped around your waist instead, and you were roughly maneuvered, tossed like a ragdoll, knocking the breath out of you as you were tossed over his shoulder. "Okay, we're going home, now." He started taking a few heavy steps forward, not even struggling in the slightest to carry your full bodyweight, instead walking as if you were light as air. You didn't protest. You slumped over defeatedly, merely casting your gaze all around, trying desperately to memorize the locations of at least a few of the traps in the dark, but knowing full well in the back of your mind you'd never get past them all. No matter how you may outsmart them, you could never win. It occurred to you that, in a way, you were the one falling for the same trick over and over, continuously placing a ridiculous hope in escape and falling for your own foolishness time and time again. Perhaps that made you a bit more like the animals than you liked to admit.

[lucygraysboy]

billy  would  be  lying  if  he  said  lucy  gray’s  reaction  didn’t  amuse  him.  he  doesn’t  think  he’s  ever  met  a  girl  who  could  turn  scarlet  at  the  mere  thought  of  kissing,  but  clearly  there’s  always  a  first  for  everything.  he  would  also  be  lying  if  he  said  it  wasn’t  the  most  adorable  thing  in  the  whole  wide  world.  “is  it  because  i’m  covered  in  dirt  and  sun-burned?”  he  playfully  teases,  and  it’s  only  thanks  to  the  roll  that  he’s  basically  just  put  in  his  mouth  that  he  manages  to  refrain  from  grinning  and  giggling.  “thank  you,  lucy  gray.”  he  grows  serious  again,  just  wanting  the  curly-haired  girl  to  know  that  he  is,  in  fact,  very  much  grateful  for  everything  she’s  done  for  him.  “it  seems  petroleum  jelly  has  many  different  purposes.  it’s  worked  miracles  on  my  lips  and  face,  too.  and  some  people  in  new  york  use  it  to  protect  their  horses’  hooves  during  winter.  they  apply  it  around  the  inside  of  the  shoe  and  the  sole  of  the  foot  and  it  prevents  snow  freezing  in  the  hoof,”  he  explains,  licking  his  finger  even  though  it’s  dirty  and  he  probably  shouldn’t,  but  there’s  crumbs  of  these  delicious  rolls  on  his  skin  and  he’s  not  about  to  let  them  go  to  waste.  “a  —  a  bath?”  it’s  billy’s  turn  to  stutter.  the  blue-eyed  cowboy  can  barely  believe  his  own  ears.  most  people  would  send  him  on  his  way  without  dinner,  and  this  girl  is  suggesting  he  takes  a  bath?  and  she’s  speaking  of  taking  care  of  his  injured  hands?  who  is  she?  what  is  she? “well,  i  had  a  hat,  but…  i  don’t  really  know  what  happened  to  it,”  he  admits  with  a  shy  smile,  tearing  off  a  piece  of  the  roll,  watching  the  dough  separate.  it’s  not  gooey,  but  it’s  not  dry  either.  it’s  the  most  perfect  thing  he’s  ever  seen  and  tasted.  he  plops  it  into  his  mouth,  savoring  each  bite.  he’s  already  had  three.  this  is  his  fourth  roll.  “did  i  have  it  on  when  you  saw  me?”  the  hat.  he  most  likely  didn’t,  otherwise  she  would  have  brought  it  here,  too.  for  some  reason,  he  feels  kind  of  sad  that  he’s  most  likely  lost  it  forever.  “that  sounds  very  interesting,  indeed.  i  think  birds  are  beautiful  and  smart,  and  they  do  sing  very  prettily,  especially  at  dawn.  do  you  have  a  favorite  one?”  he’s  always  been  particularly  fond  of  bluebirds,  but  now  he  can’t  really  openly  admit  that,  not  after  he’s  compared  her  to  one.  “do  you  watch  them  from  some  special  spot  or  this  window  right  here?”  he  can’t  help  but  think  it’s  yet  another  proof  that  she  is  the  sweetest,  most  gentle  soul  —  only  people  with  pure  hearts  can  genuinely  love  and  appreciate  animals  as  small  as  birds. ��  

“you  sure?  ‘cause  i’d  feel  a  lot  less  like  a  pig  if  you  took  one,  too.”  he  gently  pushes  the  plate  towards  the  doe-eyed  angel,  a  soft  smile  on  his  lips.  an  invitation.  “thank  you,”  he  mumbles  shyly,  lowering  his  gaze  as  his  fingers  dig  into  the  soft  dough  once  more.  he’s  already  uttered  these  two  words  a  dozen  of  times,  but  he  could  say  them  another  dozen  or  even  a  thousand  times  more  and  it  still  wouldn’t  be  enough  to  express  his  gratitude.  “i  forgot  to  say  grace.”  and  that  seems  to  be  an  even  bigger  crime,  so  he  quickly  sets  down  the  roll,  lowers  his  head  and  crosses  himself  before  picking  his  food  back  up  and  brining  it  to  his  mouth.  “oh,  these  are  so  beautiful,  lucy  gray.”  beautiful  to  the  point  where  instead  of  taking  a  bite,  he  puts  the  roll  back  onto  the  plate  to  examine  the  artwork.  “it’s  prettier  than  gold,”  he  muses  in  sheer  wonderment,  analyzing  the  knots  and  the  colorful  beads,  tapping  a  blue  one  with  his  fingertip  out  of  sheer  fascination.  they’re  all  so  different,  equally  beautiful,  of  course,  but  each  seems  to  have  a  unique  soul.  this  is  how  he  knows  this  girl  has  more  talent  in  her  pinky  than  most  people  do  in  their  whole  bodies.  “my  ma  taught  me  how  to  sew,  but  that’s  about  all  i  know  ‘bout  handiwork.  this  is  something…  i’ve  never  seen  anything  like  this  before,”  he  admits,  his  heart  soaring  when  she  slips  a  bunch  of  bracelets  into  his  dirty  palms  and  lets  him  touch  them  even  though  he  hasn’t  yet  washed  his  hands.  he’s  gentle  and  careful,  as  though  they  were  made  of  glass  and  could  shatter  at  any  minute.  he’s  particularly  fond  of  the  white  one,  with  blue  and  purple  flowers.  “this  one  matches  your  skirt  and  blouse,”  he  observes,  setting  her  precious  possessions  down  on  the  bed  where  they’ll  be  safe.  what  happens  next  takes  him  by  surprise,  his  blue  eyes  widening  and  his  chest  expanding  so  impossibly.  will  she  make  one  just  for  him?  he  holds  his  breath  as  she  measures  his  wrist,  as  though  not  to  distract  her,  but  also  because  he’s  still  very  much  in  disbelief.  this  must  be  a  dream.  “i  —  i  like  green,”  he  stutters,  the  rolls  suddenly  forgotten.  a  shiver  races  up  his  spine  when  her  delicate  fingertips  touch  his  skin,  her  hands  so  much  smaller  than  his.  “and…  blue.  green  and  blue.”  like  his  shirt  and  her  skirt.  “do  you  think  these  will  look  good  together?  what  are  yours  favorite  colors?”

kiss him? eyes became alert, resembling a startled fawn with cheeks burning redder. for a second lucy gray began to stammer, "no, i- i definitely wouldn't do that." she's never kissed a boy awake, let alone one that was asleep and vulnerable. that wouldn't seem right and for what reason? he didn't even know her. "just some petroleum to moisturize." brunette reassured once more, "speakin' of... i might need to rub a little more of that on the spots on your hands i noticed were burn. but you'll need a bath for that." they'll have to wait for the preacher to leave to migrate him to the bathroom, he should be leaving soon. "that's good, i'm glad it's working. the sun can do a lot of damage to your skin if you don't have anything to protect it with." she's big on taking care of hers, her mama taught her that your skin is too important not to be taking good care of it. "why thank you." a happy smile curled her lips upwards, "i think she's right." lucy gray sweetly agrees, thinking his mother must be completely right about him being a good listener. she could tell it just from what she's observed about him so far. "well, i was just sayin' how i like to bird watch. birds interest me and i adore their little songs they love to sing, especially in the mornin's." it was another cute thing about him, she noticed. how he seemed interested in what she had to say. she thought all men were just like the only one she's ever known, the one who's supposed to listen to her the most but couldn't be bothered to hear what she has to say. billy seemed special already, something completely unexpected in just the same way he had shown up here.

"no, there's plenty more in the kitchen. those are all for you, you need 'em most right now. you don't need to apologize." gently, she shook her head. that seemed silly when he was in need of all the food he could get. they didn't have plenty of just rolls too, but plenty of food in her garden. they wouldn't be starvin' any time soon– unlike too many days growing up. "i ate a small plate earlier, right before you got here. i'll get another one soon." she reassured, not telling him how she was nervous about making too many trips outside this room. "oh, i just keep 'em. it's just somethin' fun to do, like i said. but that's real sweet of you. it starts with string first, i measure how long i need it with my wrist then i start piecing together the beads into different patterns. sometimes i won't use beads, sometimes i'll make braided bracelets. to do that, i just find me several different colors of string and start braidin' them together in a box." lucy gray explains, letting him hold the ones she's already made as she slips them into his palm then turning back to her bed to gather the basket before slipping into the floor to sit next to him. "just like this." she's showing him, wrapping string around his wrist to measure it then cutting it with scissors. places those back down in the basket and fingers begin to pick and choose what colors of bead she'll sit in her lap. "what's your favorite color or colors, billy?"

[honey-lemonz]

Kokushibou [Satisfied smut]

Xmale reader

3rd

Warning! Sexual Content!

Includes: stress sex, fight then fuck, koku being a bratty bottom, biting,blowjob, marking, multiple orgasms ,multiple rounds, over stimulation,  dirty talk, fighting during sex, degradation (heavly). Hiding, slapping, spitng, and a spite fuck. Goodness..Enjoy!

Kokushibou pushed the archer against the wall as both were fighting.

For almost 7 hours.

(M/n) or the archer was happily living on his land and was fine but. The dam fake Samurai had other plans to upset that. Like attacking him. Gods they hated each other..

To the point it was not comical.. no no.

Sexual almost.

Two strong men grunting and groaning, one with blood all over him..for being the one with more hits. Sweat on their bodies and one with his hair arrayed. Kokushibou was losing it.

Internally and externally.

Internally he could not understand why he was feeling slightly aroused in battle, especially with this fucker. The archer demon named Yasumebu (M/n). A demon he hates because he reminds him of his late twin.

Someone who is superior and most likely would be superior to him.

He felt his cock trying to poke in his hakama pants. His kimono was sticking to the sides on his body as he was forced on to the ground. Yasumebe was about to prepare an arrow until..

Kokushibou moved his leg to reveal he was aroused but no on purpose or on invitation. But (m/n) was the only other demon around who could have done this to him. To him it was weird. He froze the arrow and squinted at the Samurai.

He but his foot on Kokushibou's growing hard on and moved it without any sign of being gently. 

Kokushibou groaned and hissed at him. About half of his eyes, the three on the left pinched shut. It was not out of pain but only pleasure. This made Yasumebe..disgusted to say the least.

But also he wanted to kill the upper rank for what he had done...but torture is always a better cause.

"Look at you..you pervert. Getting aroused with me in a fight you picked..how promiscuous..really are that much of a bastard you need a dick in you to make you feel whole?"

He moved his foot more vigorously, it made the upper rank squeak but not moan. No! He will never get any sign of pleasure from him. "I-I am not, aany an c-can get aroused. Never for oor from you-"

"Oh cut the bullshit you bastard. You attack me in my home and demand I die so you an be the best? Or is it jealousy? Jealous of me to the point you want me to fuck you? Make you a proud man with my cock stuffed into all your slutty holes?"

Kokushibou's six eyes widen. He dropped his sword from the feeling. What feeling is this? He asked himself. Demons cannot blush or anything but he could feel his ears burn and his cock ache and throb.

He hated him to the point it turned him on? Is that possible? No.

He hated Yoriichi but they were brothers and that is just wrong...but this dam archer..

Before he realized his mistake of thinking to deep, he got an arrow into his wrist and an arrow shot his sword far away from him.

"Well took you too long to answer the question so it is a yes, isn't it? Gods, I hate you but I always give whores like you a chance. By now you'd probably be satisfied sucking a cock and dying. The great upper rank one? Such a fucking slut.."

The arrow glued his wrist together so he could not move em, he could make another sword but he had to concentrate to do that.  He needed his full energy to do it but his energy was focused on..him..the archer and how he needed t̶o̶ ̶k̶i̶l̶l̶ him.

The archer pulled Kokushibou by his hair next to a stool, he was gracious or caring about it.  He hated him and as did he.

But goodness did he remember how they fought. How strong he looked and how much strength it goes into an arrow. Not that he thought the sport was worth this time, oh never. But him...it made his condition worse. His cock was probably leaking streams of precum.

"Must you fight, I am helping you. Trust me I do not want a whore like you anyways, a good one can shut up and take it..you..most likely are a brat or bitch about it.."

Kokushibou hearing this moved his combined wrist up to scratch the shit out of his arms like a fucking cat.

"Goodness if you want to mark me already! Dam, such a needy bastard...beat how many times you sucked your masters cock all these years...most likely didn't make you choke or gag for the hell of it..but now worries like defeat and death.."

He brought his up to his face. Both were around the same height, so it worked. But Kokushibou was now on a bedding and he was looking up at him. So he felt smaller. He hated it. But it aroused him.

Hate what pleasures you. But between you and I..is not the first he gotten aroused at the thought..

"I make sure to be the one to make it your first.. now if you bite he I cut you cock off too. Got it?"

Hell to Yasumebe it was an excuse to just make him feel a better or worse pain.

"Tsk, as ever I would do as you ask yo-"

He got fucking bitched slapped in the face. "Now I'm going to say this again. You were the one who got to be a perv right? You can suck your masters cock for all of eternity then you can suck a real mans one and not a cowards. Something you need to do. Bite me and you can burn in the sun with my cum all over and inside you. Now be a good brat and suck."

He stood above him with a tight grip on his head and hair. (M/n)'s own cock was out and the marvel it was had the upper rank's mouth salivating.

He just stared at it, like it was something new to him. "What you never seen another mans dick before? Always ready to ride and suck one for you life, so be the slutty brat you are and do what you know best. Go one you need help is my cock to big for your mouth? The one you use to pledge and talk shit? "

In his head he muttered, probably eat it too.

Kokushibou opened his mouth to rebuttal..dumb move. A thick and long length was shoved down deep into his throat. Making his gag on spit and the length. H opened his lower eyes to see not even all of it was in his mouth. The hell?

(M/n) hissed and moved his hips back and forth, he was fucking his face. "Good little slut, do what you know best bastard. Then maybe I can fuck your other hole, maybe even be nice and let you cum.:

Kokushibou groaned on his cock and moved tied wrist to get a grip and move on his own accord, but no avail. His own cock was in need of help. His mind was erasing with how much pleasure would come if he would get fucked like a whore.

Which he is.

His tongue lapped at the lip and it moved in and out his throat. He was pumping his cock with his hands at the same momentum. So feverish and so tempting, it make slick warm between his thighs. His ass flexed at the homewreacking feeling.

His large cock pushing in and out of his made him close two sets of his eyes and let where his true ones stay open. (M/n) hissed and pushed his head all the way to the hilt of his cock and made his stay there. Groaning as Kokushibou's mouth filled with an ocean of cum he swallowed.

The taste wasn't as bad as he imagined. His cock spurted some ropes of cum but he knew with how his luck was playing it would not be the first time tonight. He was allowed to breathe and swallow the rest. 

(M/n) looked down at him, his eyes were glossy and he was gasping for air.."Goodness you really are that bad.."

Kokushibou didn't care about his pride or his will, or even the envy. He felt hatred and pleasure. He needed to feel more, it was so addicting. It was like a slow burn he loved. The fire in the pit of his stomach burned for more. To be full , imagining that amount of cum stuffing his tight entrance or making his abdomen bulge..

To be breeded like a mating whore for him..

(M/n) pushed the Samurai to the side of the bedding and for him to be on his front. Ass up, he pulled the rest of his clothing off him. He would often scratch him or put marks he knew he could heal over..if he was concentrated enough.

His plump ass had goosebumps as his breath glazed across it. No kissing rather biting. He bite down on his ass. "For such a plump ass, you and kiss a lot of it aye? Sluts like you can be so troublesome but in the end.."

H sat up and got close to Kokushibou's ear. He moved his already messy and disheveled hair. His lapped his ear lobe and bite down to make it bleed.

"All of you are just bratty whores who need to be taught their place..." Two fingers were pushed into his slicked up entrance and they clung onto (M/n)'s fingers like glue. Kokushibou moaned out curses as he slumped down. He turned his head to the side to he the rest of his.

It felt too dam good. His fingers were so close to his prostate and so close to making his mind wipe to pure ecstasy and pleasure, even if he wasn't at it already. He moaned out without a care in the world. Asking no begging for more. It made (m/n) want to torture him more..

They did hate each other, but to one it was just funny.

"M-more, please fuck me more gods..please..fu-fu~ck.." he cursed as he spread his legs wider to make his fingers go deeper to touch or even at least brush his prostate.

His eyes were closed except the true ones, the only one he could keep open. Upper rank one was glossy and also looked like a bunch of whores eyes. He bucked his hips when his own forgotten and needy cock was slowly getting pumped.

"Wait- WAI- no ahh~" As soon as he pumped his length and pushed deeper into his hole, feeling for his prostate. He came again onto the bedding. He gasped loudly and slumped over. Kokushibou's cock twitched but was still erect.

"Well, what was it you were saying bastard? Or were you too busy cumming like a little whore to even finish? Hmm well it guess my cock can satisfy your perverted self, disgusting."

He spat on his gasping hole and moved his fingers out. The amount of slick or cum on his fingers made him laugh at the pathetic state of the upper rank. "Wow, such a slut for all this? Wonder how easy it is to break your ass and see you go silly."

He yanked almost his hips back up to his waist, Kokushibou swallowed thickly at what was about to happen. (M/n) stroke himself and placed the tip of his cock on Kokushibou's gaping whole.

"One more thing pervert.."

He leaned forward to upper rank one, Kokushibou felt his chilling breath on his ear. All his eyes widen as his cock slowly pushed into him. 

He whispered:

"I win slut.."

He slammed his cock into him, pushing harshly onto his prostate and making the upper rank yelp and moan loudly. He almost screamed, (M/n) gave him no time to adjust. Rather he fucked him ruthlessly. He used his hair and yanked it, making him look at the ceiling and also to feel himself hit deeper and deeper.

Kokusibou was babbling about more and more. Or how he hated him. Just either 'fuck me' or 'i hate you'. The archer demon did not care. He was a slutty pervert who got what he wanted. A good cock with a good fuck.

"Such a tight- little slutty whole..gods, im going to loosen it up for you and make sure no one couuld fuck you like I- ah~could..you'd like that Kokushibou? To be a slut and ask others to fill you with their cocks like I do?"

He thrusted faster and harder, Kokushibo's prostate was abused and he felt himself cum again and again. Due to his unlimited stamina and would be fine. But he was feeling drained, he felt so fucking stupid. He was getting fucked stupid even more.

(M/n) hissed when Kokushibou tightened around him, he groaned and growled as he shot thick ropes of cum into his ass. Filling him over his opacity and making his abdomen stretch to accommodate to the amount. 

All his eyes, closed with tear stains. Kokushibo's head was let go and he fell straight into the bedding. (M/n) looked at him and didn't bat an eye to spit on his face. His lower half was with filled with cum or covered in it. He cleaned himself and took his arrow out of his wrist and gathered the rest.

He looked one more time at the upper rank. The most feared of them all, looking like a slut in heat. He pulled the hair that would have been a neat pony tail but now is just out and disheveled. He made him look him in his eye.

"See now upper rank? Such a pathetic fighter and warrior, you did do one thing. Your were a decent fuck, not the best but decent." he patted his head and walked out the destroyed house.

Soon it was lit on fire. To destroy what ever was left.

Kokushibou luckily got away and out of the suns fury. But he did hate the archer demon with all he had, and envy him so much. But fuck... he sighed as he stroked his cock from the memory.

"He was right.."

His licked away the cum from his ass as he pulled away his fingers and from his hand. His cock throbbed at the dull feeling. The lackluster feeling inside him only his enemy gave him.

"I am such a whore for yasumebe.."