#they're less bound to one form

[outeremissary]

Although she was only played in one campaign (a 5e Greyhawk game), Carmen was originally put together for a 3.5 homebrew two years earlier. She had two radically different backstories between the iteration that only shared the concept of a knight errant with a horse named June. Depending on the iteration June's name had a few different origins:

June was a horse named after a dead girl

June was a girl polymorphed into a horse

Carmen believed June was a girl polymorphed into a horse; the real June had died

Although it never came up directly with the party either time, it was always a key point of her character that Carmen was devoted to this dead-or-alive June she had failed and had no hope of atoning to.

[jedi-starbird]

Time Travel is my favourite trope and I think we need more fics where both Obi-Wan AND Qui-Gon time travel together because no matter when they get sent it's chaos. They're saving the galaxy and being physic flash-bangs to everyone around them.

like before Bandomeer?

The entire council is baffled to watch as Qui-Gon 'never taking a padawan again' Jinn has suddenly cut off his post-Xanatos depression tour to return to the temple and beeline to the creche with a frantic energy. His wild eyes immediately single out a fluffy, red-haired initiate.

"You." he exhales with a pointed finger, slightly ominous as he towers over the child. Said child starts vibrating with delight. "Me." he agrees, launching himself at the man. Qui-Gon drops to his knees with a thud that cannot be healthy. Obi-Wan's attempts to clamber into Qui-Gon's robes and maybe onto his shoulders is thwarted by the fact that Qui-Gon's massive hands are cupping Obi-Wan's tiny squishy cheeks. He stares at the initiate for a few minutes with an intensity that is starting to worry people.

Finally, "You're so small." Qui-Gon sounds like he might cry.

'What the fuck?' Plo Koon projects at Mace.

"I'm 9! That tends to be the case!" the child chirps back.

"You're nine." Oh. Ah. Qui-Gon's eyes are distinctively misty. He squishes the boy in a hug so hard he squeaks. Mace makes a series of gestures that imply the need for a head-scan. Depa obligingly drifts off towards the halls. Qui-Gon scoops the child up onto his hip and claims him as his padawan on the spot. The assorted council members and creche-masters burst into noise. Mace tells Depa to bring some space ibuprofen as well.

after Naboo?

Anakin is a little apprehensive of his place in both the order and Obi-Wan's life, but then one day Obi-Wan wakes up and is suddenly a lot less sad in the force?? In fact, if Anakin didn't know better he'd say he was almost giddy, but he's watched Obi-Wan try to pretend his world hasn't fallen apart for the past few months so it can't be that, right? And um, Miss Bant? He knows grief is a funny thing that affects people differently but he's pretty sure 'massive mood swing' and 'having full conversations with invisible people' is not...great? and you said to tell you if Obi-Wan got really weird in any way.

Anyway after a lot of medical exams, intense consultation with the archives, and a couple exorcisms, Anakin ends up being raised by his 'real' master and his ghost master. He is far more well adjusted emotionally and far less well adjusted for what counts as normal people behavior(not talking to thin air). When questioned on this, all he ever says is that he's talking to Qui-Gon. Isn't he...dead? Well, yes. Wait, he's a ghost? Ghosts are real? ...Well this ghost is real.

This starts a great number of existential crises among non-force sensitives and incredibly heated theological arguments amongst the Jedi. Whenever Obi-Wan is questioned on this, all he ever says is some variation of "the force got to know him for 5 seconds and kicked him back out." Mace backs him up on this even though that reasoning is technically blasphemous. Qui-Gon is having the time of his un-life. He's ascended to his final form, his sheer existence is a heresy, this is truly all he has ever aspired towards.

the Clone Wars?

The minute they get dropped back Qui-Gon immediately goes and haunts the shit out of Dooku. They have a signed terms of surrender and promise of info on the Sith Lord within the year. Only half of it is because Qui-Gon's giving Dooku complexes that are only perceptible to shrimp, the other half is because they now have a ghost spy that is not bound by the laws of physics nor spacetime.

Obi-Wan only nominally pays attention to this as he immediately goes and implements his 19 step seduction plan with Cody (he had to focus on something on Tatooine to pass the time). It fails. Spectacularly. Publicly. Ah right. Tatooine was not exactly the height of his sanity. Everyone in the GAR and temple is now riveted by High General and Councilor Obi-Wan Kenobi's attempts to go on a date with his Commander, who bats him away him like a particularly annoying stray and seems one bouquet of cactus away from committing mutiny. Anakin is worrying if it means his master knows about his secret marriage and this is some sort of really weird power play. (It is, but not in the way he thinks)

The next time Dooku goes after Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon spends a good few months appearing tear-stained at the edge of Dooku's perception and only communicating in terrible wails and discordant mutterings of 'padawan. my padawan. my little one.' 24/7.

"Wait, you're annoying Dooku into surrendering?"

"Oh no Anakin, we're crushing his psyche like a bug. :)"

[meownotgood]

all I need. / arcane herald!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is gender neutral (no anatomy is described, just that viktor is inside them), monsterfucking, mind meld, stomach bulge, size difference, marking, yearning, dom / sub undertones, praise, very slight degradation, aftercare. (pet names used for reader: little dove, little lamb, pet, love, my dear, beautiful, beloved) word count: 12.9k

read on ao3

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The Herald of the Arcane closes two giant palms around your waist, the faux air around you shimmers, compresses — and he promptly lifts you to settle your weight on his thigh, as though you weigh absolutely nothing. 

You could partially attribute it to the softening of gravity. He's carved out a slice of the arcane for just the two of you. A pocket of unreality that sizzles with color, envelops you in its embrace, and fractures in the edges of your vision like broken stained glass. 

The Arcane Herald, for all his clear omnipotence, has tracked you back down to your shitty little apartment on the corner of the Zaun-Piltover bridge. He tapped the door with his knuckles, and ducked underneath the doorframe to casually push into your apartment. You have to crane your neck at a near-painful angle to look up at him. You can't help but find it funny. A nine-foot-tall amalgamation of Hextech and magic and sinews twisted to an eldritch whim still knocks, before he enters your home. It was his home too, once. 

But the two of you are currently somewhere else entirely. 

"AN EDGE BETWEEN THE BOUNDS OF CORPOREALITY," Viktor answers; he reads your thoughts as if they're an open book, an effortlessly analyzed constellation sprawled beneath his fingertips. "DO NOT BE AFRAID. I COULD RETURN US TO THE MORTAL PLANE, IF YOU WISH." 

He sounds like an angel. Reminds you of an artificial God in necromantic clothing. 

His voice echoes, collapsing in on itself. It sings through your mind with the pure strength of the arcane. A melody resounding. There's a hint of his old tone, buried deep beneath the layers of power and magnitude. The abyssal reverberation opens its maw and swallows Viktor's familiar voice whole. 

You shake your head in reply. 

The Arcane Herald's false eyes stay steady on yours. Golden suns. Pupils ringed, spirals of anomaly-light curling within like whirlpools. A shiver shudders up the notches of your spine. It's as though you're being watched by multiple sets of eyes, instead of just two. The third arm jutting out from his back twitches violently, before strings of zodiac-runes fill the phantom space around you. 

No, you aren't entirely afraid. Viktor can sense any underlying fears. Blossoms of wilting crimson and snapping venus fly traps, sprouting throughout the flourishing garden of your mind. 

Still, when he curls his palm in, fluidly digging through the soil of your sequestered emotions, he can feel your affection. The resonant brush of old roots and bright, vivid petals. 

You might've been scared, once. You must've been terrified when you thought Viktor was dead. And it certainly must be unsettling to finally come face to face with the aberration that's been wearing his skin. If you were to run, he couldn't blame you. His new form is effortlessly strong. Large, when compared to a mortal. A vessel capable of bending the structure of reality to his perfectly architectured will. 

Viktor was prepared to sweeten your mind with pleasant memories. Perhaps you'd react better to a more desirable version of him. A cosmos-filled remembrance of soft touches and softer whispers, framed by promises made of sugar cubes and thick honey. He would bare what remains of his humanity, if you asked. 

Instead, as Viktor catches your eyes for the first time in forever, he watches you murmur his name — less of a question, and more of a confirmation. Viktor. You sound shaky enough to topple and break. It's you. It's really, honestly you. 

He steps a bit closer, a bit further into your apartment, the way one would attempt to corner something skittish. Crackles of lightning spark from where his feet meet the hardwood floor. You stumble in, fox to open bear trap, and you wrap your arms around his middle. Damp and teary cheek pressed into his side hard enough to leave an imprinted gear-shape behind. 

He held you. What else was he meant to do? Allowing himself to be drawn here is an abandonment of his purpose in its own right. He hardly cares, barely considers how inconsequentially quaint this is. The Arcane Herald — the arcane's chosen vessel of calamity, once compelled to turn all of humanity into crumbling husks on a dead and faultless world; Viktor permits you to sob against him, as his hand delicately caresses the soft back of your head. 

Viktor finds that right now, hours later, there is not a single droplet of fear present in your storm-bound system. Only pure, cascading delight. 

You shift closer on his lap, you lean into his touch when he steadies a splayed palm to the bare small of your back. As the scene stabilizes, bubbling ripples of magic smooth out, until you and the Arcane Herald are held in a perfect crystal ball of transcendental abnormality. This is how Viktor's hold on your mind describes it, anyway. 

"I HAVE MISSED YOU," Viktor coos. The deafening boom to his voice drowns out the subtle traces of tenderness. "YOUR PRESENCE IS… WELCOME." 

You've no need to speak. He reads your reply before you can voice it. I've missed you, too. 

Fate is a perpetual predetermination. Atlas holds the sky on his shoulders, and Viktor carries the glory of an entire arcane galaxy in his palms. Orpheus turns around for Eurydice, and Viktor chases the bittersweet comet-trail right back to where he first left you. 

There isn't much sense in this. It goes against his pragmatic vision for pure evolution. He knows humanity is far from him now, a shadow he left with his first death. Indulging in its traces clashes with his goals. Clashes with everything the Hexcore sought to make him into: a chrysalis stripped of emotion, weakness, love. 

In the first seven minutes after death, as the body turns cold, brainwaves replay the moments where they felt most warm; Viktor spiralled through every softly-braided memory of you, in the seven days he spent cocooned; the sound of your breathing, his breathing. The press of touch to touch, like soft snow against snow. His hex-ridden heart doesn't beat. He thinks he's seen your face behind his eyes for every hour of the seven months he spent evolving, searching for enlightenment all alone. 

He is always alone, at the very end of everything. 

Destiny weaves its cosmic thread through the magic he carries in his veins, and against all odds, it brought him here. To you. He remembers flickering through tangibility like a ghost, an apparition haunting the halls of Zaun and Piltover. Crawling home as though he never truly left. 

Viktor has missed you the way dry earth misses rain, the way an entry shot misses an exit wound. The way electricity longs to be harnessed, and divinity craves to be worshipped. 

He's weaker than he should be, for you. You are a lingering flicker of sentiment, a part of the fragments he swore to crush beneath his newfound palm. The sun-strong radiance inside himself that he can't manage to snuff out. 

And now that the Arcane Herald has you, he isn't certain he'll ever be able to let you go. 

The anomaly's bubbling aurora-light frames you, a halo glimmering at your edges. You've already discarded all of your clothing; you were meant to be cherished, he reasons, as he observes how your chest heaves with subtle, panting breaths. You quiver with mankind's most potent emotion: desire. 

You impatiently shift closer. Your forehead lands against the nape of his neck, where his cape is tattered and magic-blown. Viktor's hold on the arcane shudders around you. 

"Viktor," You sigh out, like it's simple, an exchange between lovers; like he's the man you once loved, not the shattered remnants of him; like you aren't dangerously close to the biomechanical half-God nearly responsible for the subjugation of humanity. You sit pretty on the Arcane Herald's lap, perfectly designed to be coveted. 

You laugh, half-amused, half-in-disbelief. Viktor's featureless gaze bores into you, echoes of light glittering on his golden, spiked crown. He tilts his head, curious. As if he's asking, What's wrong? 

"I have an otherworldly threat to all of Runeterra in my fucking apartment," You answer, exhaling. "Gods." 

His voice pounds inside the fabric of your thoughts. 

"TO BE PRECISE, YOUR MIND IS LINKED WITH A THREAT TO THE FUTURE OF RUNETERRA, WHICH EMPOWERS YOU TO COMBINE WITH HIM INSIDE THE ARCANE." 

"Ah. We're tangled up in a cavity of magic?"

"YES." 

"I wasn't sure if it was…" You shrug, and reobserve the space around you. Magic pulses from every angle, smearing color in messy brushstrokes. It begins to burn your eyes the longer you look. "I don't know. Some sort of illusion, I suppose." 

Viktor hesitates, burning eyes flickering faintly. "ARE YOU… ALRIGHT WITH THIS OUTCOME? WOULD YOU PREFER IF WE DID NOT CONTINUE?" 

You shake your head, smiling. "Come here." 

You reach for him. You're holding his face in both palms, as if he's a statue, porcelain and intricate. A stone-carved, cherubic effigy. Markings dot either side of where he's been split. Small, star-shaped divots. One beneath an eye, another above a mouth. 

With how large he is, you have to prop yourself up more to let your breath ghost the space between his eyes. The main cross-section of his mask is cool, as smooth as solid steel, while his hidden first-face is rough, rigid. Reminiscent of crumbling marble. 

You kiss him. Gods, you kiss him and Viktor can feel it, even though such a thing shouldn't be possible. You press your lips to the star beneath his false, forever-closed eye, and it glints like amethyst, shimmers like a constellation. You pepper kisses to the gold etchings underneath his sun-strong gaze, where his tears were once midas-touched. 

Viktor is sure his blasphemous, forged-by-violence form does not deserve this, but he still leans into your touch when your lips trail pleasurable arcane-abundant explosions down the golden veins of his neck. 

"LITTLE DOVE..." Endearment clicks through the steady gear-sequence of his reverberant tone. 

Starry pupils unchanging, Viktor's gaze can only regard you emptily. But, in an expression of tenderness, he drags his huge palm up your bare side, caresses your soft skin and admires the subtle intricacies of your flesh. Your birthmarks, your scars. Everything he still remembers. The curve of your waist, the section of your ribs. He feels your fingertips, as you trace where the gears of his back brace are permanently fused to his breastbone. Viktor trembles, somehow. 

"Vik," You parrot, words warm on his neck. You kiss his nape, then his jaw, then the flat faux-steel of his face. 

Energy radiates off of his touch in persistent waves. His palm paths up your spine, and surges of death-defying magic fill you — tenacious, resurrection-burned electricity. 

You make yourself tall, propping up onto your knees, so you can gently press your forehead to his. Viktor scans your expression. Your eyes flutter shut; he wants to preserve their softness the way one would pin a fragile butterfly's wings. Once again, you aren't carrying a hint of trepidation. When your gaze finds his own, you're admiring him. In all of his chilling, daunting, inhuman glory. 

Some faint, gnawing contradiction opens a hole in Viktor's chest, and makes him wish he would've done anything to deserve it. 

"THE OUTCOMES LAID BEFORE ME…" Viktor begins; your persistent breaths leave fog on his cold mask. 

"THE OPPORTUNITIES DEFINING WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN… I THINK… TOGETHER, WE COULD HERALD A NEW VISION. WE CAN BE THE AUTHORS OF OUR OWN TENDER PURPOSE." 

A small smile plays on your lips. You wrap your arms around his shoulders. "I'd follow you anywhere, Vik. I trust you." Your jaw grits. I still trust you. 

And then, you sigh. "But can we just be us? Just for tonight?" 

Viktor buries what he truly wishes to say in between his makeshift ribs and beneath the star-filled madness in his core. And what are we? 

"OF COURSE," He answers, instead. 

His huge hand finds your own; arcane-infused power ripples from his palm, untamed. Still, your digits fit perfectly between the gaps of his, as Viktor laces your uneven fingers together. Strong, with weak. Your gentle flesh, and his rigid, purple-gold, bony digits. 

He gives your hand a soft squeeze, brushes his thumb along the back of your palm to a wave-like rhythm. 

"I HAVE LONGED FOR THIS. TO INDULGE IN YOUR COMPANY. TO UNITE YOUR MIND WITH MINE." 

More so, Viktor has craved to remember the shape of your touch; and converging with the arcane has filled him with a knifelike sensation, unrelenting and hungry; it's given him an insatiable desire to consume. 

(Viktor recalls when he first held you, your body curled up against his, his unnaturally long limbs awkwardly spread so the both of you could fit on the ragged couch in your tiny living room. The distant hum of both twin cities fills the space: huffing pipes, whirring airships. Back then, a large living space wasn't deemed necessary, considering the two of you planned to spend most of your shared time at the lab. 

It's achingly intriguing — your persistent attachment to a dead man's belongings. You've been watering his plants, in his absence. Small pots of succulents and flora line the kitchen windowsill. A spare cane leans against the dining room table, still exactly where he left it. Viktor — the arcane-enthralled Viktor — thumbs through his newfound grip on your mind, listening closely for the echoed answer. 

Your distant thoughts murmur to him, It's because it makes me believe you might still be coming home. 

The Arcane Herald feels his third arm twitch. He says, I do not understand. 

You crane your neck, unaware, glancing at him from where your head leans against his forearm. Understand what? 

Why you continue, why I can remain an object of your affections. Viktor twists a small anomaly sphere between his fingers, webs of the arcane clinging to his gold-tipped digits. Stray flecks of magic spark like lightning. You consider how it'll feel when he must press this sphere inside your mind. 

I am not the man I once was, he says. Perhaps some would describe me as… inhuman. A monster. Your mind reveals you have dwelled on such rumors, yet you show no fear. 

You answer simply, Because it's you, Viktor. I could never be afraid of you. 

Viktor considers this, as your fragile emotions pool within him — he curls in on himself at the bottom of the ocean, drowning in the midst of all that you are. An endless surge of affection and guilt and voracity, in hues of blossom-pink and cold-silver and delicious-orange. 

He gazes at you calmly, before the anomaly sphere fizzles out of existence with a flick of his fingers. 

There is perhaps… a less painful method of transmitting the arcane. Shall I explain?) 

You clumsily squeeze Viktor's large hand back, and a sharp jolt of magic resoundingly kisses your skin. When you reach above you, cupping his face in your free palm, Viktor nuzzles into your touch like a giant contented cat, the thrum of the arcane gently purring from him. 

He caresses from your side to your spine, numb digits pressing tenderly to vertebrae. You're acutely aware of how large his palm is. How huge the Arcane Herald is compared to you, how pathetically small and stupidly human you must look in his lap. You swallow hard, arching into his touch. 

Gods, you've missed Viktor more than anything. You want to be his. You want the Arcane Herald to covet you in the blasphemous way a fallen angel loves a mortal. Without reason, with sets of six broken wings and bitten tongues and storms of chaotic maelstroms, as you make a mockery of what he was made for. 

"Viktor," You breathe, tone low, as though whispered beneath an altar. Arcane demigod, my archangel. "I need you." 

Viktor lifts you with ease, both of his hands finding your waist, propping you above his lap. He supports your weight as you drown him in kisses, pressing your lips to the statuette side of his face. 

His voice laps against the sides of your mind, like waves against a dock in a storm's aftermath. 

"I NEED YOU MORE THAN MERE EMOTION COULD EXPRESS. BUT THIS BODY IS… UNCONVENTIONAL. I DO NOT WISH TO BREAK YOU." 

"I'm not fragile, Vik. I can take it. I want to take you." 

At this, his eyes seem to soften, sharpen. Radiant suns filled with pure warmth, utter zeal. 

Third arm tilting, bending at its metallic joints with a dull cracking sound, he grabs your face in his huge, firm claw. 

His tone echoes, seraphic. "PERHAPS YOU SHOULD BEGIN BEGGING, THEN." 

And you do. You whine softly when Viktor's large palm squeezes your leg, his thumb teasingly rubbing your inner thigh — your voice threatens to break, while you recite scripture. "Please, please, don't tease me anymore. I fucking need you, Viktor…" 

It's easy, simple, instant — the calculation the Arcane Herald effortlessly solves, enabling him to immediately determine a new course of action, a mirror to your potent emotions. 

He watches you pant, purposefully waits with his palm gently caressing your thigh, until you're sufficiently teased, and practically shaking with want. Viktor's third arm digs its pointed talons into your cheeks. He dips a hand between your legs, and promptly shifts into utter depravity. 

"SUCH A DELIGHTFUL MESS YOU HAVE MADE FOR ME…" Viktor coos; he uses his gold-tipped thumb to collect your glistening arousal, to get you dripping and dumb on his long, delicate digits. You tremble hard, knees wavering like branches ready to split in the wind. "YOU GIVE IN SO EASILY TO INSATIABILITY, MY LITTLE LOVE." 

Words won't come. You can only whine: "Viktor…" 

And Viktor's reconstructed body tenses, every emotionless inch of him caught in your equinox. He can feel the pitter-patter of your heart, the thump of your warmth, resounding throughout his viscera; your sun, to his night. 

Despite the limitations of his newly metamorphosed form, and the utter clearing of his mind, he's getting off to this. To the quiver in your breath and the way you plead his name — pleading for him. All for him. 

"I CAN FEEL YOUR DESPERATION." Viktor's voice is everywhere, echoing against the boundaries of the anomaly. His familiarly accented tone chips at the walls of your mind with a delicately honed chisel. He flicks his thumb over where you're swollen and desperate and oh-so sensitive. There's stars in his touch, as he rubs in slow circles, in smooth galaxy swirls. 

Now, says the whispering echo, the sweet outline, the caress of Viktor's kindest tone against your brain. How do you wish to be taken? 

"Anything-" You retort, breathless. "You can do anything you want to me." 

The Arcane Herald's resounding laugh is nothing short of maniacal. 

"YOU ARE SUCH A NEEDY CREATURE. ABSOLUTELY EAGER TO BE FILLED." 

Needy. This word sounds exceedingly saccharine. 

His third arm acts with a mind of its own, squeezing your face a bit tighter. Lightly shaking your head back and forth as if you're a toy. The sharp end of a claw playfully traces your puffy bottom lip. 

"WE COULD MAKE USE OF THIS SILKEN, PLIANT MOUTH. KNEES BENT BEFORE ME, MY PALM STEADIED TO YOUR THROAT AS I SLIDE MYSELF ONTO YOUR AWAITING TONGUE. YES?" 

"Y-Yeah," You find it hard to focus, hard to think, hard to keep your eyes steady on his mechanical gaze — were his pupils always such perfect, artificial, phoenix-bright circles? "But I want- want you inside. Please." 

Viktor hums a rich, pleased noise. He spreads his long legs a bit wider, the anomaly begins to flutter around you in endless cosmic spirals; a thrum, thrum, thrum of restless magic; Viktor's cock unfurls, curls out from his pelvis as a thick, rippling, dripping mess — 

But he keeps your gaze focused on his own, clawed third arm holding your chin tightly. 

"EVERYTHING YOU COULD POSSIBLY DESIRE, YOU WILL HAVE." Energy surges from his form, careens up the tingly river of your spinal column, in turn. "I WOULD CROSS GALAXIES AND REALITIES FOR YOU, MY DEAR. I WOULD BRING THE GODS TO THEIR HEELS." 

Eager pressure mounts in every corner of your nervous system. You swear under your breath. 

Once his third arm finally releases you, your gaze is trailing downwards. Past the delicate curve of his waist, live-wire magic threading through the indents of his body like visible veins. Past the V shape of his pelvis, and the unnaturally jutting handlebar-edges of his hip bones. 

To be anatomically correct, the Arcane Herald's cock is most akin to a thick, wet tentacle. It's ribbed with gold ridges like the rest of his body, bolts and gear-shaped ornaments lining the underside in place of where octopus-suckers might be. A slimy, clear liquid thickly coats its surface. The appendage is thin at the end, the very tip as thin as your pinkie finger, but at the base, it gets twice as thick as your forearm. 

"Hah," You gasp, too dumbfounded to breathe more than a disbelieving huff, "Shit-" 

"WE WILL PROCEED AT YOUR PACE," Oh. The booming echo behind his tone sweetens itself into madness, and what's left of his voice sounds utterly affectionate. Nervous, only slightly. "I DO NOT WISH TO… FRIGHTEN, NOR HURT YOU. YOU MAY TAKE AS MUCH OR AS LITTLE AS YOU NEED." 

"I want you," You're answering, assured. "Right now." 

Viktor tightens his hold on your waist. 

Arcane resurrection hasn't merely made him anew. It isn't a mere matter of placing a puzzle back where it belongs: the pieces of his amber eyes, his sinews, his skin dotted with little brown stars. He is a different form of alchemy, all together. 

How much of him is still him, and how much is lost due to Hexcorization? 

He imagines prying himself open, pulling apart his ribcage after the arcane left him raw, chewed up and spat back out. The cavity of his chest shimmers like the mouth of a kaleidoscope; he knows this, it wouldn't be the first time he's been split in two. He'll place these newfound emotions right where his heart should be, until they sing in runic shades. Until they sprout and flower: his personal, tender contradiction. 

Would he remember who he once was — who you've truly been waiting for, then? 

There lies the truth of it. He wants to give you everything you've been waiting for. 

As he begins to lower you down, you feel the end of his cock flick against your entrance. Lavender-hued fluid laps against you, diligently getting you slick and slimy. You can't help but close your eyes, boneless as you hug him tightly, collapsing against his large, all-encompassing form. 

Gravity warps around you, it presses into your skull. Viktor gently pushes you back by your shoulder until your gaze is forced to meet his own. His third arm clicks. A halo of shimmering sparks and glowing symbols and precise code begins to frame him, demanding in the way it hungrily commands the anomaly's magnetism into itself. 

Carefully, his palm is placed onto your cheek. Gazing down at you, he caresses your skin with his thumb. As if you're made of velvet, a soft blossom on the wind. 

"LOOK AT YOU," The Arcane Herald purrs. The anomaly shimmers, your mind warps; and for a brief moment, you're a distant observer, gazing at yourself and Viktor from an outside perspective. Gods, Viktor is huge, and you, bare and pliant on his lap, look so terribly pathetic. 

"SUBLIME," Viktor corrects, head tilted inquisitively. The connection between your mind and his strains like a knot pulled taut. "YOU ARE PERFECT. VERITABLY GLORIOUS." 

He grasps your chin, his free palm presses flat to the center of your chest. Your eyes glaze over, shifting into empty spotlights of stormy stardust — and you're seeing through Viktor's eyes, your head swimming as you're made to admire yourself. 

Everything is covered in a film of murky, iridescent light. The edges of your figure are sharpened and saturated. Viktor doesn't see in color, more than he perceives an image as flowing droplets of static-rich energy, of equations surrounded by blooming halation. Diamond-shaped artifacts settle in the boundaries of his compound vision, reminiscent of the pattern on the rim of the Hexgates, or the matrix used to spark a Hexgem to life, or the configuration that gleams all around you: the anomaly, breathing in constellations. 

Viktor watches as the lithe tip of his cock ever-so gently presses in — and you're watching, too, observing the spread of your shaky thighs, and the heave of your chest as he presses his palm between your ribs. You are captivating, in this way. Beautiful. All of your details create a painted picture of perfect tandem. Your shape, your skin, your hair, your eyes, your everything. 

Or perhaps Viktor's thoughts are too closely entwined with your own. Splendid little human. All mine. Can you see why I adore you? 

With how fucking thick he is, and how unexpectedly small you're realizing you look, in comparison — is he even going to fit? 

You're barely given time to consider. You whine when you feel the first ridge, a tiny gear-shape embedded into his tip; with your bottom-lip quivering, you realize you don't need to beg, you just need to imagine. I want more, you think, and Viktor, buried deep in the threads of your mind, obliges. 

More, you're given more; you watch through his vision as his cock begins to ease inside you, a sizable bulge already pressing at your lower stomach. He splits you open, nice and slow, so you can get used to the way he fills you. 

And even though you barely have a third of the fat, writhing tentacle inside of you, you're already utterly full. It flicks and convulses, exploring your walls, slickening your thighs with droplets of glowing, purple spend. You can feel every ridge. The ribbed, golden rings. The protruding bolts. The four-pointed star-shaped studs. 

Gods. 

You're throbbing. Thudding around him to a heartbeat-strong pulse that beckons him in and pleads for the wraith-like Arcane Herald to fuck you. To ruin you. 

"BREATHE FOR ME," Viktor murmurs. He pulls his hand from your chest to softly brush his knuckles over your jaw, and you slam back into your own mind with the force of a thunderbolt. "YOUR PLIABLE SOUL… IT FLICKERS LIKE AN EVANESCENT FLAME." 

Light prickles from where his touch once lingered, sparking against your chest. Gasping, you glance down. An imprint of him is left behind on your skin. Five large fingerprints sprawled between your ribs, one for each finger and thumb, textured with web-like strands, shimmering when they catch the radiant light. The soft, golden whispers of the arcane. The Herald of the Arcane's signature. 

With this tangible mark, you belong to him, now. 

Viktor answers your thoughts. "YOU ALWAYS HAVE." 

Always. Though, within the space he has carved for the both of you — reality split apart, a dissected capsule — you are closer to your lover's husk than you've ever been before. 

You hold onto Viktor's shoulders tightly, grabbing fistfuls of his tattered cape. There's a persistent hum. Building magic, a whirlpool around you, a supernova in his body; warmth settles in your core, winter in your bones. Energy ripples through his cock in a long wave, firmly throbbing inside you, and you shudder, you shake. 

"EXQUISITE… YOU ARE PERSISTING SO EXCELLENTLY. SO GOOD FOR ME…" Viktor caresses a palm up your side in approval. The glowing flames in his gaze begin to soften. He holds you steady, as your warmth eagerly pulses around a little under half of him. 

"I can feel- hhah, it's so much…" Your words break, unsteady and weakened. 

You, for all of the confidence Viktor knows you have, are reduced to a sputtering, needy mess, quivering on his cock. Delicate as a thin sheet of autumn ice. 

The Arcane Herald must admit, he enjoys this pathetically docile side to you. He wants to keep it, possess it, until you're his. Only his. 

"YOUR BODY IS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO THIS ABUNDANCE OF ARCANE INFLUENCE. ALLOW YOURSELF TO BECOME LESS RIGID. PERFECT. BREATHE DEEPLY. I HAVE YOU." 

You take in deep, controlled breaths, while a large palm begins to drag up your heaving side. 

Viktor touches you the way Icarus once touched the sun; an inventor against destiny, soft, fake feathers and warm wax. He is a monsterous imitation of heaven, too. 

He hardly cares if he's burning on the inside, if the Hexcore's diagram defines his biology as unwarmable, untouchable. Just for tonight, he wants to be some devout imitation of humanity, a metallurgical replica that comes to life under warmth and love, not a profane shell hollowed by the lack of it. Just for tonight, he'll let himself be weak for you. 

Breath nearly caught, you lean your forehead into his chest, and you're unable to resist pressing a reverent kiss to the golden outline that frames his breastbone. His brace, forever welded into his thorax. It's unexpectedly smooth, sensitive. Faint spellbinding threads brush your lips like wind. 

Viktor isn't yet a God, but he wonders if this is what it's like to be worshipped. 

Crests of magic exhale around you, frothing waves of brilliance, as if he's expelled a steady sigh. He grasps your side firmly. You're dizzy, golden rays of light filling your gaze, before they thin — and you realize you're somewhere else, viewing the beginnings of a vision. 

Galaxies stretch as far as the eye can see. An infinite expanse of everything. Shooting stars and divine light ripple through the atmosphere. You're cupped in a giant palm — in Viktor's giant palm, his cosmic form a refracting rainbow, an angel with astral wings. Viktor is the sun and the stars and the moons and the asteroids. You are safe, content. Designed for reverence, the perfect piece to his orbit. And so, you revere. 

The vision fizzles into nothing when the clasp of your hands makes the endless, starry abyss flutter with fondness. 

Viktor glides his palm down, finding your waist. In his wake, your side is softly seared with his fingerprints. 

Another dream lets itself in. 

This one is… different. 

Tender blades of sunlight burn around the figure that resembles Viktor; a memory, a representation. (A large, arcane-touched palm to your back.) The Viktor you once knew has moonlight-pale skin and a bobbing Adam's apple and a gap between his teeth when he smiles. You always grow soft with the sight of his smile. (A hand to your shoulder. The small of your back. Your neck. Your stomach.) 

Recollections flicker inside your brain like flipping through an old photo album. Delicate palms fit with worn calluses, and freckled arms made to be kissed, and hair you dreamt of running your fingers through, soft and wild like chestnut sparrow feathers. He is blinding starlight, even in the moments where he's been made to shatter like glass. Even with fiery amber in his eyes and blood on his palms and a chrysalis, surrounding. 

You picture trailing your lips over both legs, from his thighs to his knees to his ankles. You picture pressing your teeth to the bony curve of his clavicle. You picture kissing and kissing and kissing him, a moth to his flame, the kindling to his spark. His lips are soft, his tongue presses a star into your mouth, and you honestly don't care what's become of him because he is still Viktor, your Viktor — 

By the time the Arcane Herald is done reaching into your mind, imprints of his fingertips are left all over you. You're absolutely covered in golden fingerprint-blotches. Light dappling your skin from his firefly touch, like the glow of the sun between leaves. 

Viktor tilts you towards him by your chin. "YOU ARE WHY HUMANITY ONCE CREATED DIVINITY. I ADORE YOU."

His voice dips into a tone you almost remember. Soft, gentle, human. 

You offer him a crooked smile, canines bared. You're breathing hard again, hips impatiently shifting. "You're so, s-so lovely, Viktor. You are. I want to see you. Just like this. Just as you are." 

Viktor's gaze briefly flicks across your form. He admires the sheen of sweat on your skin, newly marbled with marks, his touch. Proof of his selfishness, his illogical tenderness. Your soul appears to burn steadily within you. A bright flame in ocean-deep shades of blue and silver and jellyfish-purple. Persistent like the click of gears, as smooth as the glide of a pen, hazy like ash in a misty, bright sky. Perfectly, utterly you. 

"ARE YOU CERTAIN?" Viktor asks. The repetition and ricochet of his voice is noticeably just a hint quieter. He gently glides his palm over the marks on your side, arcane ornaments decorating your bare skin. "I COULD SHOW YOU SO MUCH MORE." 

"I'm sure." You sound desperate. "You're perfect." 

Only for you, Viktor reasons. Only in the lingering afterimage of your gentle influence. 

Affection swells in his hollow center. The same shape as when he first saw you, when he finally came home and held you in his arms, while he analyzed the glimmers in your mind of hope and love. And a distinct lack of fear; you trust him, for all of his godlessness. For all of his endless, infinite loneliness. 

As foolishly feeble and perhaps impossible as it is, Viktor honestly, achingly wants to kiss you. 

Like a sunrise. Mouths touching like a bite into responsive, begging flesh. Perhaps while you taste his starlight, or perhaps with no need to subdue this new form: the arcane-touched chimera he's evolved into. 

My softest paradox. For the betterment of the purpose the arcane chose for me, perhaps I should renounce these frivolous emotions. And yet… No, I cannot abandon you. Not when you are in need of me. Not when I need you. 

Droplets of anomaly-moisture, as well as condensation caused by the sex-slick heat in between your bodies cascades down Viktor's golden accents, making them shimmer. He slowly shifts to hold your cheek in one giant, careful palm. Sparks of faint light stipple from his touch like fireworks. 

In a hurry, you prop yourself up as much as you can manage. You grab his face to pull him closer, his body bending to meet you, so you can press breathless kisses to his cold jaw. 

With the way the Arcane Herald is buried inside you — a result of his wavering focus, or maybe your own — the anomaly's aurora-light begins to morph, a shaken-up snowglobe. His cock pulsates with a glowing swell of stimulation. You grind your hips clumsily, groaning against the sunken curve of his false cheek as you lightly bounce on the fat, dripping tentacle. It resounds with a terribly wet, obscene sound, purple liquid now dripping all the way down to your knees. 

Allowing your mind to interlace with his is, at this point, purely instinctual. The tightly knit walls of Viktor's headspace purposefully weaken to let you in. 

Oh, and his mind surges. 

You're enveloped in a raging wildfire, his desire a flickering flame at the very edges of your fingertips. It's hard to breathe. Hard to form coherent thoughts as the Hexcore — Viktor's new heart — whispers within every facet of him. It amplifies his own inclinations, works concurrently to augment his magic and strengthen his cognition. You aren't used to its overwhelming pull. Your thoughts and his and the arcane's potent echo meld together, like several messy brush strokes on the same canvas. 

Please, you plead. Pure pleasure and gnawing endearment thrum from Viktor's discordant thoughts, with the strength of a laser beam to your brain matter. 

You deserve to hold the solar system in your palms. He'd give you the planets and their rings and the kiss of the stars; you are his perfect, exquisite catalyst. 

The Hexcore replies, writes its own poem, to the tune of humming runes and swirls of hazy imagery: you, on your knees. You, with your tongue wrapped around Viktor's fingers. Viktor tipping your head up with the end of his cane, or slipping his palms down your collar, or sinking his teeth into your nape. Viktor's newfound, huge body pinning you into place, while he presses the claw of his contorted third arm to the base of your neck. His large, ornamented hand splays across your back, leaving fingerprint-wings on the skin between your shoulder blades as he roughly pounds you from behind. 

Your eyes roll back into your skull. 

Oh, but this is what lies within your unveiled desires, says the jeering echo in your head. Resounding, shattering, Viktor's softly accented tone unfurls into a meadow of a hundred voices, speaking all at once. Will you be satisfied when your mouth is full of me? When you are grinding your feeble hips against your hand, your palm filthy and wet, while you sputter and pathetically drool around the luminescent mess of my spend? Of course. You are quite simple to please. 

Or perhaps I should push you underneath me, pleasure myself and myself alone with the assistance of your thighs, or your stomach, until you are begging for me to take you. To ease inside you, filling where you are terribly neglected and utterly wanting. Admittedly, I would find contentment in this… watching you plead. Until your skin becomes marked with slick fractals. The most potent brush of the arcane. 

"Vik- Viktor, please…" 

Can you feel- 

"I CAN FEEL HOW WARM YOU ARE," Viktor murmurs, interrupting your thoughts. You rest your arms on his shoulders, searching for leverage as you grind your hips down. "I CAN SENSE YOUR EAGERNESS. YOUR VULNERABILITY. HOW YOUR MIND, BODY, AND SOUL BEG FOR ME IN SYNCHRONIZATION." 

Despite relinquishing his humanity with the acceptance of his new body, the way a cicada sheds its exoskeleton — despite embodying a dangerously corrupted representation of life; (praying mantis, disguised as the orchid) — despite the truth of the matter, he was meant to dismantle you piece by piece, he was designed for control and gloriousness and revolution, Viktor thinks, softly, that he'd gladly follow where you lead. 

An old, once-loved name is nothing more than an emotional foible. A thread he held onto, because it happens to fit his whims, happens to mean victory. But Viktor feels radiance in his chest when you begin panting for him, gasping out pleas of Viktor, Viktor, Viktor, framed by broken noises as you fuck yourself on him. 

It's so wet. There's so much arousal and thick purple lubricant between the two of you. Squelching and dribbling down the golden accents of his length. 

Gods, you're trembling on his lap, hands shaking as you grip his shoulders. The ripples of your thoughts are a soft melody, in his. I need you. Need you to save me. He would, without question. He'd hold you to his skeleton until your bones are a part of his bones. He wants to catch you in silken thread and arcane-webbing, while he sinks sharp fangs into your skin. 

It happens swiftly, now — 

Viktor's jaw unhinges with the sickening sound of breaking bones. The bottom half of his mask splits down the middle, opens horizontally to reveal an abyss, a black hole; a giant maw with rows of sharp teeth, two large, curved canines, and a long, slithery tongue. Forked like a snake, golden at the tip, gradienting into a dark shade of raven-purple. It drips with a sheen of thick saliva. 

A firm palm grasps your chin. He pulls you a bit closer, until you're straining your neck to look up at him. Your heartbeat catches. The burning suns of his blank pupils bore into your own fluttery gaze. Both tips of his tongue brush your lips. Politely prying, before possessively slipping into your mouth. 

You moan when his tongue licks a heavy stripe over yours, kissing you in earnest. The taste of him as he explores your mouth is all-encompassing. Strong, vibrant, he tastes like nebula and void. Like crimson and moonlight. Ever-so slightly metallic, akin to licking aluminum, like pressing your lips to a supernova. 

His saliva is thick and pervasive. His tongue is unmistakably slimy; you whimper, and when you swallow, allowing the bitterness to slide down your throat, Viktor breathes a deep, satisfied noise — like the rumble at the bottom of the ocean. 

Divinely transcendental, his voice continues to resound inside your mind. 

"GOOD PET. YOU ARE UNEQUIVOCALLY GOOD FOR ME." Viktor laps against your tongue, both forks trapping it before they teasingly graze your canines. You swear light glints on his sharpened maw, and his faux mouth upturns slightly, faded star-mole following along, and he's just barely smiling. 

"SO FASCINATING, WHEN YOU BECOME THIS EXCITABLE." 

You're shaking so hard, you've no need to move your hips. 

Gently, Viktor's long tongue presses a bit farther, forcing faint gags from your trembling system. You're overwhelmed, placed between his gaze and his pulsing heat inside of you — and the way your mouth is utterly full of him. Your lips wrap around the thickest part of his tongue, his taste spilling into your throat: a warm knife, pure sharpness. 

You beg with your eyes, pupils fat moon-pools. The colorful, surrounding anomaly satellite-pings approvingly. 

"YOU ARE ON THE CUSP OF CRYING. HOW PRECIOUS. TELL ME, WHO IS IT THAT YOU BELONG TO?" 

You, your head is rebounding. I'm all yours. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, a panicked butterfly trying to get free. Here, in the depths of your emotions, you crave to be devoured. To be held lovingly between his teeth, to have his searing, arcane-infused touch bruise your bones with his imprint. Pulling you apart, layer by layer — skin, muscle, soul. 

You'd let him take you anywhere. You'd let him carve his golden-hued love into your marrow. 

I will. 

Pure endearment overfills his chasmic void, left where the Hexcore landed in his chest like a meteor. 

Viktor collects these thoughts in a bottle, holds them somewhere close and contradictory: 

Ah, my dear, where shall we go first? You have not seen the gilded sunset over the mountains in Shurima, nor the blossoming of the trees in Ionia. Runic teleportation is only strenuous on the mind the first time you experience it. I want to dance with you atop the highest, star-filled peak in all of Runeterra. If not in another life, perhaps we can still embrace this one. 

"COME. SHOW ME, LITTLE LAMB." When Viktor finally pulls his tongue from your mouth, he's licking a fat stripe from your jaw to your cheek, leaving your skin slimy and cold. "I WISH TO SEE YOU BROUGHT TO PANTING, PLEASURABLE CHAOS." 

His tongue curls back lazily, and his jaw snaps shut, leaving his masked, expressionless face behind. Viktor's head cocks, owl-like. You don't appreciate being taunted; your brows furrow, and you hurriedly reach up, grabbing onto the gold arches on either side of his face. 

They're somewhat akin to antlers, handles. A crown. You've decided to refer to them as horns, either way. Smooth to the touch, and perfectly palm-shaped. 

Viktor laughs, purrs. "YES, GIVE IN TO IMPULSE- TAKE WHAT YOU NEED FROM ME, FALL TO YOUR ENCOMPASSING EMOTIONS…" 

So, you grind into him, breathing faster, holding on for leverage as you pathetically circle your hips. Viktor brushes his large palm up the small of your back, charting the map of tremors in your spine. You dig your nails into both golden horns, even though you're certain their firm surface won't give. Weakly, you exhale in frustration. 

"Vik- I can't- I need you, please…" 

That's all it takes. 

Finally, finally, Viktor grabs your side and slowly thrusts into you. 

Gods. Viktor must be a seraph, the arcane's depiction of the divine, tall and ornate and carved from steel; inhumanly angelic, a synthetic machine — because he feels absolutely heavenly. 

The first arch of his body into yours has you gasping. The Arcane Herald, as attentive as he is resolute, methodically falls into your rhythm. He grinds up when you grind down, and you can suddenly feel him everywhere. You can't think through the pulse of his magic, the arcane fervently fucking into you; you can only fall against him, utterly limp. 

"HOLD ONTO ME," Viktor murmurs. Head leant into his chest, you can feel his large body vibrating with the words — the thrum of his heart, the steady song of the Hexcore. 

You're given a moment to catch your breath. You whimper a stuttered cacophony of words. Please. More. 

Your thoughts are a crisp, babbling river Viktor longs to cup his palms into and drink from. More, more, more. 

Such a filthy little creature, he rebounds, though he knows his current headspace is just as deplorable. 

Viktor begins to fill you with all of him, easing you down so, so slowly — until you've taken all of the fat base of his cock. There's so much of him, and it's a slick, awfully tight slide when he starts to shallowly press in and out of you. 

"AH-" 

The anomaly wavers to the tune of his stutter. 

"YOU FEEL… IMPOSSIBLY ADDICTIVE…" He groans, the sound deep, resonant. "ABSOLUTE PERFECTION… MY LITTLE LOVE, FULLY FILLED WITH ALL I HAVE TO GIVE THEM…" 

The energized air around you blossoms with green flora, golden blooms. You sob in delight. You can practically feel him in your stomach. 

Honestly, you weren't sure what Viktor was deriving from this, if his new form could feel anything at all — but right now, he sounds completely wrecked. 

Not that you're any better. 

All you can do is grab fistfuls of his cape, as the Arcane Herald guides you, ruins you. His hand firmly presses into the soft flesh of your side. He's so much larger, so much stronger. (Delicious contrast drips from this; Viktor remembers pressing your shapes together, fragile on fragile, your face held in his sweat-soaked palm as you run your fingers through his hair, and everything is blisteringly soft —) 

For this Viktor, it's a simple, effortless task: the way he lifts you up and down to fuck you. Pulling you until you're taking half of his dripping length, only to fill you with its staggering thickness, enough for you to feel the friction of every ribbed ridge. Every golden bolt. You moan softly, and he smoothly bounces you, as though you weigh nothing. 

Static encompasses your mind, like storm clouds rolling over. His cock curls, the tentacle writhing to bully a spot inside of you that has you seeing a spider web of constellations. Viktor huffs, every slight groan causing the rainbow-hued arcane to bubble around the two of you. 

He slips out for a moment when he pounds you a bit too clumsily, the slick plap, plap giving way as he slides over your bare skin. Utterly wet, his cock flicks, laps at your sex. The tip traces V patterns and rune-shapes right where you're sensitive and throbbing. You drip for him, as expected. Needy. Empty, so desperate to be full of him again. 

He caresses your head, leans into your mind to check on you. You've barely processed his ping of, Are you alright? before your thoughts are shaking him back and forth and pleading, Please, more. 

In a simple, smooth movement, he eases back into you, pushing every ounce of air from your lungs. 

Shooting stars shimmer in your peripheral, a candelabrum of bright, palpable tenderness. The Arcane Herald's hidden affections, on vivid, fireworking display. Viktor's third arm click-click-clicks, and a rune matrix halos him, blurry and blue. 

You fuck each other desperately, then. Your broken moans meld with Viktor's electrifying, shuddering hum. You press against him with no distinct rhythm — and it's clear Viktor's resolve is faltering. A crack forming in the flawless shell of his facade. When you're involved in the equation, it's a feeble facade, really. 

Because Viktor can't hide his softness, his lingering humanity, especially now, with plumes of earnest affection filling the very atmosphere that surrounds your shape. You breathe it in. Viktor's magic tastes like eternity. The chemistry of his endearment settles in your vessel, richly divine. He adores you. Has always adored you. Down to your soul, you've never known anything more true. 

You pant his name in between each breath. You're so lost in him, so focused on finding your peak, you barely notice the accelerating glimmer in the runes above him. Twirling and ticking, their shapes jumbling together like spinning a globe and trying to imagine the place your finger will land on. They're bright enough to blind, if you were to look right at them. 

Arousal drips down your thighs, dirties his lap with every slick squelch. Viktor's head spins — post-enlightenment, it should not be capable of such fatigue, and yet the fire behind his glowing eyes twirls in spirals. 

His hands shake, the inner workings of his viscera aching with something innate. The Hexcore's budding urge to claim, to devour everything it touches like a long shadow. He loves this, loves bringing you pure pleasure to the point of speechlessness and bonelessness. Loves the auroras of affection and the disorderly waves of ecstasy that amalgamate in your mind. He wants to fill you over and over and over. There's a recursive impulse in his reassembled system that delights in the conceptualized tenderness. 

It isn't logical. Sentimentality is far from glorious. 

You should continue the life you have already established without him; he can help the lost souls of humanity without you, as he's done up until now. This makes sense. This is the path laid before him, the plan he was hoping to follow once he arrived here. Three simple, necessary steps. Visit you. Settle his reservations. Leave. 

But it is terribly lonesome without your presence. 

And as far as keeping you at arm's length is concerned, he's already failed, hasn't he? 

If he asked, gave you the choice instead of running from it, would you wish to come with him? 

Viktor imagines voyaging far from the bright skies of Piltover, and the dark depths of Zaun. Inhuman hand folded over soft hand, as he shows you what it means to step into a new reality. 

Everything he has learned and seen sprawls before you, before him, an open map of endless possibilities. He dreams of soothing you to sleep beside a bright, homemade fire. Of bringing you to the edge of the world, or the top of the sky, or the boundary where the earth meets the sea, all with a singular arcane-flare from his staff. The crackle of flame, the hum of the wild. The crash of a waterfall, the echo of your breathing. Viktor will covet every individual intricacy; dragon coveting gemstones, sharp teeth and long talons and unblinking snake-eyes. 

He's usually an embodiment of good luck, despite this. To some. 

Those he has attempted to heal since he left Piltover tend to fear him. They cower, broken limbs shaking, broken hearts pounding fast. Sometimes they shout. Angel. Demon. God. Viktor is none of those things. 

The Arcane Herald presses his fingertips to their foreheads, and watches golden thread knit them anew. 

He could be content with this, he sometimes thinks. No grander goal. No overarching evolution. Just this path, paved by the thin shred of his retained humanity. A flourish of kindness in his soul that the arcane can't smother out. (His blanket-turned-cape, the brooch he wears over his chest, the golden notches in his spine. The same lines on his palms that you once kissed, and his own name; you've always loved the way it feels to say his name.) 

Especially so, he believes he might've found what he was meant for, a bright glimmer to fill the space where his heart should be, when he pictures changing the world with you. 

You've always been like a sunrise. Bright light and warmth, you would lead his way with your firefly-glow. Those he heals would find a new sense of comfort, as you place a steady hand to a tensed shoulder, the way you did with him so many years ago. 

A man falls to his knees in front of him, and he shakes your hand, before he staggers away on his unsteady, golden legs. A young woman pleads, says a prayer to him as his runic halo illuminates the fresh fingerprints on her forehead. She embraces you tightly. Thank you, thank you. Viktor drums golden nails against his staff. A softened look crosses your face. It gets stamped in Viktor's brain with spellbound ink until it's completely memorized. 

As you step inside the luminous ring of his teleportation circle, he gently grasps your hand to keep you steady. The surrounding light swirls. He holds your forearm, and pulls you close in something of a practiced dance. 

You smile at him, his vivid muse. He admires you, unblinking. He brushes his thumb over your knuckles and kisses them with magic. The lilt in your tone is smooth like Janna's breath as you ask, Where to next? 

It hardly matters. The persistent, void-like ache within him quiets down for the first time in an eternity. This kindness — yours, his — softly augments him so easily. 

Viktor feels wholeheartedly content. A gnawing undertone, satiated. Anywhere, he thinks. Let us cross the universe in a single stride. Amateur astronomers, aren't we? 

Together, you'll traverse the desert. The mountains. The sea. He'll carry you home when you're tired from the day's events. He'll stay in with you, even though the arcane calls him onward, even though he has no need to sleep like this, joining you as you rest well into the day. 

His legs hang over the end of your small, temporary cot. Utterly out of place, his limbs are too long, the sheets catch on the gold ornaments around his ankles, and his third arm gets awkwardly pinned against the headboard. And when his purple-veined palm splays flat to your chest, slow whitecaps of energy cresting against your head to manifest a pleasant dream, Viktor notes the way you shiver. Breathy gasps uttered from your lips, please, don't go, as you press your feeble form against his. 

In the end, he'd give you everything you desire. 

This is exactly what you want — to have your oh-so human shape pressed beneath his, Viktor's monstrous gaze burning into you as you pathetically tremble. While he pins your wrists above your head with the sharp talons of his Hexclaw, and purrs so pleasantly when you pant with anticipation. 

Nuzzling into the nape of your neck, everything impossibly close, he bathes you in his giant shadow, in the steady rays of his third arm's divine light. The silver ridges of his masked face are cool against your skin. He wants to spend hours upon days upon years marking his favorite details of yours with his fingertips; wax-warm prints on your hips, your back. Arcane-patterns embossed along your thighs and your stomach, polychrome like painting the cosmos across your bare skin. 

Your imperfections were made to be admired. No, more accurately, you have always been perfect. There is nothing to fix nor change. You deserve everything, and so much more. 

He wants you perfectly sated, softly panting his name every morning and night, each sunrise and sunset greedily spent in one another's company. 

Light's first flecks appear on the horizon, alighting Ionia's quiet autumn trees in ichor-lucent shades. Arms and legs locked around him, rays glittering off of his gilded frame, you take Viktor inside of you in the comfort of your makeshift camp. 

Dusk bleeds into night, and this time, you're stationed in a run-down inn somewhere north of Demacia. 

There's a new form of illusory magic Viktor has been studying. A remnant in a supposedly Targon-sourced tome he bought for dirt cheap in a Bilgewater port. 

Considering Viktor's appearance and especially his stature, it's difficult to travel through busy regions without heads turning. This magic particularly affects the mind. It allows you to finally stay at a decent inn for the first time in ages, under the guise of Viktor being your very human, very normal partner. 

You are supposed to be a married couple. But if there was a noise complaint — 

All this to say — Viktor imagines fucking you in a tiny room with a rickety bed that thumps when it hits the wall and creaks to protest his weight. 

He barely fits, the tiny room and the even tinier bed clearly not made for his inhuman, nine-foot-something height; he has to cling to your body, pinning your back against his chest and your ass to his pelvis. The edges of his golden ribs press indents in between your shoulder blades. You look so pliant when you're under him; fully bare, utterly small. So very delightful. My adorable, perfect muse. 

The moon is full. The glowing, runic halo above Viktor's head mimics the shimmering descent of the night's stars. The light from his eyes burns bright in the darkened room. Two steady, piercing flames. Shadows cast themselves onto the ceiling, framing his third arm, his horns, his crown. They twist and combine and resemble the outline of fluttery, umbral wings. 

Teleporting the two of you would make things simple. Perhaps he could have you in an arcane vacuum, as he's done many, many times prior. 

But it's awfully thrilling to cover your mouth with his large palm, to silently purr in your mind that you must be silent, my little dove, because his voice might shake the room with its unholy reverberation — while his impossibly large body pins you, and while he relentlessly fucks whimper after muffled whimper from your drooling lips. 

Saliva slickens his purple-mottled fingers. Magic pools from his figure, bathes you in tingly radiance. The wrinkled sheets are drenched in sweat and slick and luminescent arcane-fluid. The inn's little room is filled with the Arcane Herald's huge body, his resplendent presence that dapples magic into the atmosphere, and the messy press of his shape against yours, the repeated, methodically wet echo. 

Your swirling thoughts plead, please, touch me here, and Viktor does, exactly in the manner you like. Softly. Lovingly. Until you're swollen and sensitive and needy. A purple thumb greedily slips into your mouth, toying with your tongue. With your hazy cognizance bared to him, your mind diligently fucked open, he tastes your emotions; bites and swallows them whole. 

You are beautiful, Viktor whispers into your brain. Sublime. Brilliant. Tenacious. Perfect. 

They're premonitions, of course, but Viktor's imagination won't stop singing — 

Your gaze, locked to his while you drown in his flame. Your heart, beating fast. Your soul, a blossom of delicate petals in his palm. He wants you on your knees. On your stomach. On your back. Heat pluming over his maw as he pins you to his face and laps at your dripping, sensitive sex with his long, slimy tongue. He wants to press his spend into your mouth with his fingers, wants to leave hallucinatory kisses across the sensitive skin of your nape. 

(Kisses you can feel in an astral mind cavity, somewhere far away from here. This is who I am beneath the chrysalis. This is how I've always wanted to kiss you: with boundless desperation, pale palms to your cheeks, and soft mouth to softer lips, and starbursts to starlight. Implosions becoming the dust in space.) 

He'll lace his fingers with yours when you kiss the star-moles on his false face. His large, deft hands will pleasure you in every which way while you chant his name, until your voice has gone sore. Viktor. A prayer, a plea, a vow coalescing. And the Arcane Herald will give you what you need, he will hold you and love you and show you everything you have always been worthy of. 

He could take you in a moonlit Ionian hot spring, water splashing as you bounce on his lap, or in a cold cabin in the Freljord, bodies close as you exhale hot, shaky breaths, or just anywhere you could possibly want him. 

Viktor wants to fuck you until his illogical, potent affection spells your neurons, your electrons, and every last letter of your memorized name. 

Your breathing is ragged, now. 

Reality dips back into his palm. The anomaly's shape curls into, into, into itself until it billows out in a cloud of miasma. You grind into his lap pathetically, barely in tune with his own steady thrusts. Every buck of his hips has become smooth, as measured as a metronome, while he stays focused on your building pleasure, on bringing you to your budding collapse. 

It takes all of your effort to fumble your hands into his chestnut hair, your feeble fingers grabbing on tight. The strands are wild and grown out, starting to fleck with a breeze of blonde. They're soft, even still. You whimper, you let yourself be manhandled, bounced so easily on his lap — so perfect for him, so worthy of his endless adoration. 

"F-Fuck," Your muscles go tense; your voice breaks as he presses right there, grinds and slowly drags you onto him to draw out the throbs of pleasure into deep, warm tempests. "Viktor, don't- don't stop-" 

There's potency to the way you say his name, igniting a lingering, desperate instinct or an arcane-induced ripple effect; Viktor's cock swells into fullness, the tentacle's fat, ribbed ridges bullying your sweet spots. It drips with sopping wet pre-lubricant, pumps more preparative slickness into you, in turn; it flutters with chameleon-light, thin electrical currents surging from tip to base in shifting hues of glowing purple to lightning blue. 

"GUIDING YOU TO UNRAVEL FOR ME IS UTTER ECSTASY." Viktor coos, his accent thick, tone stupidly sweet and possessive. Echoing in your ears until he's the only thing you can hear. 

He drives himself into you, purposefully nice and deep. A disgustingly loud groan is coaxed from your panting mouth. 

"OH… LOOK AT YOU. TREMBLING. TERRIBLY CLOSE TO AN ABSOLUTE IMPLOSION." 

You are dazzling. A precious, desperate mess due to my touch… and only my touch. I will bring you to enlightenment in the manner only I can. 

"SO GOOD TO ME, YES? YOU ARE… EXQUISITE. AS PERFECTLY DIVINE AS YOU WERE WHEN WE FIRST BECAME DIVIDED. YOUR MAGNIFICENCE IS… MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN EVERYTHING I HAVE SPENT YEARS REMEMBERING." 

I have missed you more than anything in every reality, my dearest. 

You deserve to be taken care of, to be filled and admired and held in every way you need — and Viktor shudders through the salty brine of guilt, because he knows he left you waiting and wanting for far, far too long. 

It won't happen again. 

He holds you as you arch up, his palm instantly finding the small of your back as you make it as straight as you can manage. Your unsteady palms opt to abruptly hold his face and pull him close. Close enough to let his head press to yours. 

Even with your eyes closed, his unfeeling sun-pupils blaze behind your brain like pockets of wildfire. 

Gods. If he could, he would keep this moment close. A sheathed weapon ready for his right hand, a crux and a complex conundrum. So he will always, always remember how it feels to adore you. 

Finding the next best solution, Viktor contradicts all that he is, mirroring your touch. Holding your small face in his own large palms, as though you're precious, his, with enough pure tenderness to capsize you. 

"YOU SIMPLY DO NOT KNOW HOW INVALUABLE YOU ARE TO ME… NOR HOW YOU REPRESENT TRUE RADIANCE-" Viktor stutters, it nearly sounds like a sigh, "A GLITTERING STAR MORE PERFECT THAN ANY GALAXY I HAVE FELT AT MY FINGERTIPS…" 

Forehead to forehead, pace never faltering, he takes you tenderly, steadily; gently perfect friction fills you with carnality and drowns out all else. You grit your canines. Viktor brushes his palm to your jaw, his thumb over your cheek. Pleasure runs rampant in his shaky hands and the full-on quiver of the anomaly's thinning edge. 

The warmth behind his eyes seems to glaze over. A low noise purrs from him that mimics a set of shaking breaths, golden, gill-like ridges on his neck falling open. Puffing plumes of thickly frosted air, like exhaling in the dead of winter. 

For the briefest of moments, in the weakening softness of the arcane, you can sense the aurora of how this feels for him. 

You are warm, perfect. Your frame shakes like a baby bird, delicate flame, to his fallen-angel maelstrom. Mind unfurling. Minds melding. You adore him in every shape, strong or weak or in any chimeral form he wishes to take. Viktor relishes this. Tastes it with a swipe of his tongue over teeth. You sense it just the same. A strand curling, knotting. Becoming one. 

Everything the Arcane Herald feels sunbeams into him tenfold. Pleasure frantically shivering inside every violently reconstructed atom. Devotion sunflowering out from his wilted-rose center, overflowing and filling the void of his frame. It's so much, too much. Affection strong like getting kissed all over, like worship. (Viktor's gentle mouth and his starlit hands and the way he falls to his knees before you without prompting.) Akin to holding a prayer in one's palms, until knuckles ache and skin splits apart. 

Love is all you can taste, sense. In its purest, most concentrated, most overwhelming form. 

"Close," You manage to pant. Your breath fans over his face and Viktor leans just a bit closer, until your soft lips are grazing the smooth metal. "Vik- please, please, please." 

You're begging like there's even a singular shred of him that would deny you. He won't. He doesn't. 

"MY BELOVED." A lilt falls into his tone, a loving refraction that kisses your eardrums over and over again. "LET GO. YOU ARE ALL MINE." 

Viktor bounces you smoothly; he reaches down, finds where you're sensitive and throbbing and circles his deft, magic-rich fingers there. 

I would break the world in two for you. Fruit split down the middle, as I feed you the lush flesh within. I want you to know you are loved, as your heart knows to beat, and darkness knows to encircle light, and emotion knows to tether itself to a soul. 

Energy dances up your spine, a deep purple glow emanates from beneath Viktor's veins; the Hexcore's glowing insides, light glinting off of a chasm of amethyst. He can feel it, your sensitivity, your eagerness. Threading within him, a pinwheel turning, and building, building, building. 

No, perhaps it's his eagerness. A lingering disruption on the heels of his resurrection, because he was promised freedom from humanity, but he cannot erase the memories that shape him. Because he spent ages in that fucking cocoon with every ache the arcane has ever felt winding beneath his skin: the pain of existence, the pain of overuse, the penchant for a wild rune to corrupt itself into oblivion. 

Viktor hasn't been touched by anything other than pain since the arcane decided such sensations are less than glorious. Inessential. Unnecessary. 

You curl your palm around the sensitive, slightly ticklish base of his neck, fingernails scrambling to dig into the ridges of golden ornaments. You brush your lips between his tear-marked eyes with purpose. As the numbness begins to fade and the light within him starts to flourish, constellations becoming galaxies — your touch is so perfectly soft it threatens to hurt. 

It's exquisite catharsis. The arcane has made him into an unexplainable paradox, a Hexcorized heart that defies itself, a vulnerable vessel that has to relearn the difference between stimuli. It's a perception he wishes to evaluate, with you. To give sun and soil and rainwater and gasoline, so this newfound antithesis explodes into blooms in his hands, all hazy and flickering. 

He's missed you. So, so terribly. This is all the runes that bend to his whim can say, now. (Viktor curls in on himself, prods into his bones and finds the weaker vessel he tried to leave behind. Always there, just dormant. He imagines your fingers running through his windswept hair as he kisses you until you're both stupidly breathless. He tastes like nebulae, you taste the same as he remembers.) He watches radiance shine through the mottled marks on your bare skin: his fingerprints, reactive to the untamed thrum of the surrounding stratosphere. 

Blasphemy be damned, the Herald of the Arcane takes an oath to stay by your side, just as a younger half of him, more foolish, more weary and rune-carved and destined to betray you once promised he would. And he can, now. He can abandon augmentation to show you pure, exquisite entropy. 

The unconscious blending of his mind with yours causes you to hear, causes you to answer as your thoughts resound. 

Viktor- I missed you, I missed you so much- I'd always come with you, I promise. I love you. 

Ironically, or perhaps impossibly, Viktor's own mind responds to yours before he has a true chance to think. 

I have always loved you. Come apart for me. 

The anomaly around you flares to life with a surge, a big bang, a colorful amalgamation of wildflower-hues you've never seen before — and you come undone for him, in a storm of broken breaths and reverent chants of his name. 

You're falling — dying — in your lover's arms, breaking into pleasant pieces, as Viktor brings you back to life a thousand times over. His lap to his pelvis drip, drips with the residuals of your arousal. He gently rocks his hips as you finish, drawing out your pleasure for everything it's worth. 

He's close behind, then. His figure is briefly made of cosmos and fractals, symbols and steel. Viktor's endless shudders, careening through his lithe limbs, cause the anomaly to exhale a cosmos-ridden breath of pure contentment. 

As Viktor spills inside you, his spend dripping down his length and your thighs and his lap, vibrant and colorful like an oil-slick — there, onto the prickling, plush skin of your lower stomach, you're gently branded with an intricate half-circle of arcane runes. 

They glow brightly, their cornflower-blue outline starkly contrasting your skin. Fleetingly, you're mortal and patron, human and seraph. The Arcane Herald's signature source of power floods into you: cresting waves of stellar divinity, connected constellations of magic that promise, they've been here all along. You simply needed to be taught how to harness them. 

And then, as quick as a miniscule spark gets water-doused into nothing, the arcane's addictive influence is gone. All that's left behind are the tingling fingerprints on your body, and the silence of the scar-colored runes, a halo dotting your abdomen, carved deep beneath your skin. Palpable proof of Viktor's touch, his devotion. 

Between your heavy breaths, your vision infinitely hazy, you hear Viktor exhale a genuine, utterly delighted laugh. 

"Look at you," His voice, for once, is closer to humanity. No longer echoing, instead booming once inside your skull with a potent sense of finality. "Stronger already, yes? I can feel the restlessness of the arcane within you- you are- hah, so perfect. My glorious little love…" 

A brief storm of cosmos-colored resplendence threads through his body, from the neck down; the Hexcore's way of recomposing, rebooting. He trembles against you for only a few moments. His third arm twitches, clicks, testing the stiff curl of each talon individually. Something burns underneath his false face, and Viktor realizes it's the splitting urge to break into a smile. 

You're limp against him, weakly leaning into his chest. Both of his large palms hold onto your waist to brace your weight. He eases out of you carefully, marvels at the mess you've both made as he returns to faultless, logical normalcy. He's already found his resolve, appearing as he did when he first found you, while you're still gasping for breath. Hair a mess, skin sweat-soaked, legs tensing to try not to tremble. 

This element to his new body is one he can learn to accept. 

After all, it allows him to admire you: mouth parted, your eyes closed like you're saying a prayer. You're akin to magnetism, a driving force he can't look away from. He measures the steady thrum of your pulse. Touch tender enough to heal, his thumb traces your eyelids, your lashes, the curve of your brows and your nose and the softness of your cheek, as though it's an outline he wishes to memorize. You're given plenty of time to breathe, relax, and find your bearings. 

In, and then out. He watches you inhale and exhale for several precious moments. 

When your eyes finally open, the first thing you notice is the shift in the surrounding, enveloping anomaly. 

The space around you is a brilliant galaxy, a vibrant ether, a stratosphere that spirals into itself like ripples on water. Plants blossom every which way, sprouting from nothing. Triangular pockets of light shine onto your skin, as if filtered through stained glass. Dots of stars flicker, occasional equations of pitter-pattering morse code. It reminds you of coordinates and diagrams and something distinctly technical, yet magical. Something familiar. Rays from the sun and metal against metal and an embrace that lasts too long, or not enough. You've never seen anything like it. 

"An amalgamation between your soul, and mine," Viktor softly confirms. He lazily tips your chin up with a patient index finger. You'd almost forgotten how hypnotic his gaze could be. Both eyes firefly-flicker to a warm, exuberant rhythm. 

"Beautiful," He says, focused solely on you. "Is it not?" 

You nod, flashing him a small, drowsy grin. You cup his face in both palms, holding him far too delicately, and you press a feather-soft kiss to the diamond marking engraved just above his eyes. 

The Arcane Herald purrs in contentment. Affectionate, he brushes the back of his hand to your cheek, allowing you to feel the golden kintsugi that adorns his once-broken knuckles. 

The anomaly falls away in a quiet blur. Delightfully tousled, you step into the calm eye after a steady storm. 

Reality warps, steadying around you. Your apartment comes into view in the aftermath of the arcane's inverted bubble. Your dusty living room, your rickety couch, walls and carpet faded with age. It takes a few moments for your mind to stop throbbing. You're distantly aware that Viktor is still holding you, settling your bare frame against him as he sits down, with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his palm to the small of your back. 

You're home. Or perhaps you never left. 

Perhaps this is meant to be the start of a new beginning. 

Gentle fingertips trail up your spine: a lover's caress. You feel elated. Calm. Safe, when you're in the Arcane Herald's arms. 

You blink away the haze, adjusting on his lap to keep your newly steadied gaze on his. Viktor's third arm ticks softly, reminiscent of an aged, steady clock. This time, the halo that frames him is low and translucent, iridescently flickering like the beat of dragonfly wings. His masked face is a perfect picture of emotionlessness. Though you find him unreadable, you can't help but melt as you watch him clearly flick his sunset gaze from your mouth, to your eyes. 

Weary knees shake as you prop yourself up more, to leave sleepy kisses onto his face, stardust brushing your mouth. His metal edges run cool against your bare skin, his chest pressed against yours. You kiss the sculpted curve of his cheekbone. The indentation of a past beauty mark. The smooth curve of his mask that reflects light and begs to be touched; as much as the arcane insists otherwise, he was made to be adored. You're certain. 

Viktor hums, his resounding voice filled with the background noise of a fuzzy drone, "This form of connection… I would assume it could invite considerable strain onto the mind." He nuzzles his face into your nape. You can feel the swell of vibrations as he speaks. "You may rest, if you wish." 

It's more of a promise than an invitation. A sleepless being is best suited to watching over while you dream. 

You slump back into his lap, resting against his chest and absently trailing your fingertips over the gilded crescent of his ribs. "Not right now. I'm alright, Vik." 

Viktor lightly pats your head. "The droplet of arcanic power I gave to you is quite sufficient enough to keep you safe. It will allow me to determine your location, should we become separated." 

You seem to deflate, like a plant without water. 

"Viktor," You plead, moon-big eyes gazing up at him. "Please. Stay." 

He's heard those words before. Between silent tears or grasped hands or fingertips pushing his sweaty hair from his face. 

There, in his flickering recollections, he breathes. Bile tinges in his throat when he swallows. He says a prayer in his head. Soft lips graze your forehead and pallid palms shake and unbeknownst at the time, this memory gets shoved down so deep, it's just as vivid in the moments after he first sheds his skin. 

He wasn't planning on leaving, but this confirms it. Seals it. Stamps a promise into the empty core of his chest that burns with warmth, a knife lovingly delved into flesh, a beating heart pumping blood and oxytocin. Viktor feels alive for the first time in years. 

And even though the Arcane Herald knows he wasn't made for this — he was created for calamity and salvation, not softness on the smallest scale. Just you and him, becoming nothing but a blip on the world's grandest stage. A simple life of endless wandering. A purposeful life where he gets to be intricately born anew for the hundredth time. The softest metamorphosis yet. 

Viktor knows, but he holds your cheek in his all-too large hand, he tilts his head and lets his unwavering gaze burn through you, and he still answers: "Of course." 

It isn't an argument. Of course, I will stay. 

I was meant to. 

[k3n-dyll]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝟏𝟖+, 𝐰𝐥𝐰, Domtop!Ambessa, Sub!Sevika, pure smut no plot, recording during sex, strap-on usage, humiliation, bondage

𝐖𝐂: 874

𝐊𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬☆ Kinda shit, but I'm trying so hard to get back into writing y'all I swear. This had been sitting in my drafts for so long. Also, I finished this while incredibly hungover, give me some grace

"Look at the camera, darling....there you go..."

Teary-eyed and dazed, Sevika's low gaze finds the camera lens, mouth open and drooling with one side of her face pushed flush against the silk linen below. Her breathing is rough and ragged, moans and growls escaping her slack jaw shamelessly. She hates it. She hates the awkward angle her arms rest at behind her back, bound in intricately knotted rope, she hates the almost uncomfortable deep arch her back has been forced into, she hates the overwhelm of it all...At least that's what she keeps trying to tell herself despite coherent thought becoming increasingly void in her head, replaced by the smooth accented tone of the woman clad in lace behind her.

"Ah-ah, stay with me, pet. Focus"

Two light slaps to the jaw force her eyes wide again, a jumbled string of incoherent syllables that Ambessa can only assume are some desperate attempt to beg spilling past her lips.

"Can't - fuck! - take...t- can't take..."

Ambessa stops for a moment, as she can't help but laugh - a genuine deep laugh from her gut at every fucked out word Sevika attempts. Watching a typically steady, brutal woman be reduced to a babbling mess underneath her. The tears in Sevika's eyes, the pathetic whining, the look on her face with each slow, hard thrust - it amuses Ambessa. With a click of her tongue she leans to pick up the camera that had been propped against the bedframe, changing the angle to a view she knows she'll need later just as badly as she needed the many, many angles of Sevika's dick drunk, shame filled expressions.

She allows the camera to focus, Sevika taking the opportunity to just breathe, her muscled thighs one small movement away from collapsing underneath her. It's not like Ambessa intends to give her much chance to steady herself, though, another hard thrust nearly sending Sevika's head into the engraved wooden frame before her. Ambessa's thrusts are faster now, less controlled, the older woman desperate to capture a good shot of the way Sevika's ass jiggles every time their bodies slam against one another.

The General gets off on just how embarrassed the other woman is by all of this - even without a real-time view of Sevika's face she can practically sense it. It's pitiful, and adorable just how fucking easy Sevika is when they're alone. How that wall built by her tough exterior comes crumbling down the second she's put to bed in such a degrading manner. How she devolves into nothing more than a desperate, whimpering little...

"Slut." The word leaves Ambessas lips in a low growl, her own breath coming out as labored pants. "What happened to all that barking earlier, hm? Don't tell me you've lost all your fight - dont bore me now"

If she wasnt so out of it, Sevika might have bit back. She might have spat out an insult out of frustration, but her brain has all but turned to mush, and as ashamed as she is of it, there is the simple fact that the degrading words, the mock sympathy - it's just going to make her cum harder.

"Ambess-" A loud slap resounds through the lavish bedroom before Sevika can get the word out, the sting of the slap on her ass making her flinch. She knew better. And Ambessa cant help the devilish, prideful grin that spreads across her features when the other woman corrects herself.

"Mistress- can't hold it anymore, please"

Saying those words make her cheeks hot, a pit forming in her stomach at the pathetic, needy tone she didn't recognize as her own voice escaping her lips - but it gives her what she needs. Permission. Permission to finally, after what felt like an eternity of clenching her core and taking it, to finally let go. Ambessa allows her to ride herself through it, halting her own movements and in turn forcing Sevika to push back against her and milk out the orgasm she'd been begging for all this time, the camera aimed perfectly downward to capture every hungry roll of her hips.

"Good girl, was that so hard?" Ambessa teases, slowly pulling her strap out of the woman below her and relishing in the sight of her dripping cunt through the camera lense.

She stands, and that small shift is the final push that sends Sevika laying flat on her stomach, her legs officially having no more strength to keep her ass up in the air. Despite her own tired body, Ambessa can't let this end without getting a full view of her handywork, Sevika's body sprawled out on the bed with a sheen of sweat making her brown skin glisten in the golden light seeping through the window, covered in bite marks, hickeys and red lipstick kisses. Embarrassed, Sevika just buries her face into the pillow, tuckered out and feeling conflicted, but satisfied. When the camera finally clicks off, Ambessa strokes Sevika's hair and presses a fleeting kiss to her head An oddly affectionate gesture given the non-comital, downright otherwise hostile relationship between the two.

"Rest for now - not too deeply, though. A warm bath is in order after that, don't you think, pet?"

Sevika simply groans in response.

Donations 4 Palestine - Arcane Masterlist

Taglist; @archangeldyke-all, @delinthecut @sevsbaby, @half-of-a-gay, @porcelainmystery,  @strawberry-shortcakey , @abvisionss , @urbayolet - - Wanna be tagged?

[tofics]

You Owe Me - Part 1

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Forced through circumstances out of your control to rely on Joel Miller, you end up traversing the country with him. You're not particularly enthralled with him, and neither is he with you - or so you think, until your period strikes, and you're practically bed-ridden. Or: Joel can't stop jerking off to you after he accidentally got a taste of your lips.

Warnings/tags: canon typical show/game violence, sort of dubious consent (reader gets kissed without being asked and only later agrees), age gap (reader is about ~25 years younger), enemies to lovers kind of, awful period + period cramps, jerking off, fluff

Word count: ~7.4k

Periods are not fun to begin with.

They're even less fun in a post-apocalyptic world, where sanitary products are hard to come by and more of a luxurious rarity than a given staple item in your average survivor's backpack.

You knew you were bound to begin your cycle eventually, and had you had more time, you'd probably have prepared yourself some way or the other. But, with the way things had gone in the past two weeks, you had not had any time to think about bodily functions beyond what your every day efforts demanded of you, and even that was hard to care for.

Ever since the night that you fled Boston's QZ, you hadn't had a proper night's rest, let alone a hearty meal to replenish your energy with. Your escape had been 'spontaneous' to say the least, a necessity brought upon by circumstances that you'd stumbled into rather than purposefully involved yourself in, and before you knew it, you were pointing your finger at Joel Miller, of all people in the world, hissing threats through gritted teeth about how he at least owed you this much if he was going to get you involved in his business without your consent and how you weren't gonna get hanged just because he'd dragged you into his bullshit.

Joel, of course, was not a man you could just point your finger at and demand things of, much less in a hissed tone, even less in the form of threats.

And yet, he'd smuggled you out of the city in a cloak-and-dagger-operation that same night, despite his hard glares and hushed warnings to keep your mouth shut. You'd been anything but prepared when he'd appeared at your side like a magician out of thin air. He'd laid his arm around your neck like a lover might on an evening stroll, but the gesture hadn't been kind, his arm too tight around your throat, pressing on your airway as he'd instructed you - commanded you - to follow him, like you'd have had any other choice with his arm wrapped around your neck like a boa constrictor, all the while a smile on his face that feigned nonchalance to possible onlookers. Nothing to see here, just two lovebirds on their way home after another long, hard day of work.

You'd shaken him off once the two of you were out of sight, ripped his arm off of your throat as you swiveled out of his headlock. "What the fuck, Joel," you'd hissed and he'd stared back at you with that same cold and hard look you knew him by. "Do you want out of the city or not?" His arms were crossed in front of his chest, his tone matching the iciness of his eyes. Your jaw tensed. The nerves of this guy. "The hell are you talking about?"

He scoffed like you were being dense. "Out. Flee the nest. Hit the damn road-" You cut him off with another pointed finger. "Don't be cute. I know what you mean. What I'm asking is, now?!" He eyed your finger like he was debating cutting it off if you jabbed it into his face one more time. His jaw ticked. "Yes, sweetheart, now." Your nostrils flared at the sarcastic tone of the nickname, but he gave you no time to interject. "Got tipped off. They're gonna do a raid tonight, hit everyone they know I'm involved with. Since you got all flustered about my - 'involvement' of yours-" "Oh, is that what you call that? Grabbing and kissing me out of the blue?" "-I figured I'd do you a solid by giving you a heads up," he talked over you, ignoring your comment entirely. You were seething. "Ever heard of a thing called 'consent', Joel?" He flicked his tongue, rolled his eyes. Clearly, he had no time to entertain your attitude. You didn't care. "It's when you ask someone if they wanna do something, and then only do it if they say yes. Now I know that concept might be a little hard to grasp for you-" You were slowly advancing on him, getting up all in his face, when his hand closed around your arm tightly. Your gaze fell down to his grip, your lower jaw pushing out slightly. His eyes flicked over your face like he was waiting for your next outburst. "Are you quite done? Cause we gotta go. Unless you'd like to stay and be questioned by FEDRA officers? I'm sure they'd be very interested in your lecture about consent." Joel's upper lip curled back in an ugly sarcastic smile.

And so you'd let him lead you through the city, begrudgingly at first and then bewildered when you realized you were heading in the opposite direction of your apartment. "What about my stuff?" He'd only shaken his head. "No time for that. We gotta go now. Got some backpacks waiting for us a couple blocks ahead."

He only realized you'd stopped walking when he was at least ten steps ahead. "You comin' or what?" You could tell by the tone in his voice that he was nearing the end of his patience, but as far as you were concerned, you were already at the end of yours. You didn't budge, just stared him down from where you stood, shooting icy daggers out of your eyes and your pursed lips quivering as insults swarmed in your head, all fighting to be let out at once. He looked back at you with dull disinterest in his eyes. "By all means, take your time. Ain't like we're on a clock here or somethin'."

"Oh, you son-of-a-bitch, you ignorant little cock-sucker, you absolute blithering idiot-" The stream of affronts sputtered out of you. Joel quickly closed the distance between the two of you and forcefully grabbed you by the arm, dragging you with him once more. "Walk and talk, yeah?," he said over your flood of offences, the jabs seemingly rolling off of him like water droplets against plastic. You kept up your clamor all the way down the next block, until he dragged you into yet another side-alley to avoid a group of FEDRA soldiers marching past.

The two of you stood closer together than both you and him would have liked. If it hadn't been for the parade of soldiers walking past you, you might've scratched his eyes out, something you made sure to convey with your eyes as you stared him down in silence. His indifference only fueled your rage. "Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?" You hissed at him when most of the parade had passed by. Joel wondered if he'd ever hear your normal tone-of-voice. "Come again?" He cocked his head. "The way I recall it, you asked me to get you out of the city, not the other way around. Now who's imposin' on who?"

He saw it coming before it was looming in his face again. That damn finger of yours, pointed right at his nose once more. His lips pursed, his hand twitched on the handle of the blade he kept concealed on his waist. Just one quick swipe. Your howls would likely attract the guards. Not worth it. Yet.

"We're only in this predicament because you couldn't keep your damn hands off of me!" You almost spat in his face, your voice all hoarse from trying to keep your shout down to a whisper. Your head looked like it was about to implode. Joel flicked his tongue again.

"You wanna discuss bygones again or you wanna get goin'? Time's not waitin' on us, sweetheart."

"Oufff." You growled in response, your finger so close to his face you'd take out an eye if he moved an inch in the wrong direction. "Get that thing out of my face," he finally snapped and smacked your hand down. "Now quit whinin'. You wanted out of the city, you're gettin' out of the city. Giddy up. Time's a' wastin'."

Without another look to check if you were following, he dipped out of the alleyway and marched down in the direction of his - your - first pit stop. You stood between the tight walls for another moment, breathing heavily. If FEDRA hadn't been breathing down your neck, you would've turned around on your heels and sent Joel off to whatever miserable adventure he was about to embark on, but alas, he'd made his miserable adventure yours against your will. You cursed under your breath, then hurried after him.

"All I'm saying is, what about my shit? You think I don't have any sentimentals at home? Necessities? Stuff I wanted to bring when I left?" You whispered to him as you kept up with his pace beside him. It could've been your imagination, but the people out on the street looked more hurried than usual. Something was definitely in the air. Joel's tip-off likely had been right. Something was brewing.

"You win some, you lose some," came his sullen reply, paired with a shrug. You had to stuff your comeback back down your throat as the two of you filed into the crowd of people heading home, hurried steps and hard, concerned faces all around you.

Escaping hadn't been easy. Every single guard had been on high-alert. It seemed that the tip-off must've come out - the number of guards had been tripled, and you and Joel had a hard time going by undetected, despite the added benefit of nighttime and the rain that had picked up, muffling your steps as you hurried from dark corner to dark corner.

The Firefly attack took him as much by surprise as it did you and the soldiers. The booming sound of an explosion just a few hundred feet ahead made you flinch and Joel instinctively pulled you down with him. Rubble rained down on the two of you, crashing into the muddied floor just inches besides you. You gasped and flinched away, losing your halt on all fours, but a strong arm caught you around the middle before you could slump to the ground. "Let's go," Joel urged in your ear and dragged you up to your feet in one swift motion.

Shouts erupted around you from all sides, then got droned out as FEDRA's sirens kicked up. You scrambled after Joel as he evaded spotlights that swiveled across the floor from all directions, keeping the two of you safely tucked away in the few shadows that remained. Smoke burned in your nose and lungs as you sprinted from safe haven to safe haven. Loud cracks cut through the uproar of your surroundings, accompanied by deep thudding sounds as more rubble fell to the floor. The fire from the explosion site was now spreading out, slowly licking at buildings in its path. Many of the decrepit structures quickly crumbled away under the heat, porous and unstable to begin with.

It was disorienting, frightening. For the first time in over a week, you were glad for Joel Miller. If it hadn't been for him, you wouldn't have made it out of the chaos alive.

Granted, if it hadn't been for him, you wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place, but he kept his word and got you out.

You'd never meant to stay with him, but as things would have it, you weren't presented with much of a choice in that either. You made it out of the city just fine, save for a few jump scares along the road, but then ran into a hoard of infected that had been attracted by the ruckus of the explosion, just a few miles outside of the quarantine zone.

How you made it through that encounter alive, you didn't know, you just knew that Joel was a more-than-worthy asset in that debacle, as much as you hated to admit it. As if that hadn't been enough, you barely had one peaceful night before a group of raiders pulled through the section of outskirts where you and Joel had holed up for the night. It was an 'out of the frying pan and into the fire' kind of turn of events that kept you and Joel running and fighting for your lives for almost two weeks straight, stumbling from one disaster into the next, until finally, finally, you seemed to leave your losing streak behind.

It had now been three whole weeks since the two of you had found yourselves in mortal danger last, and though it felt almost wrong to be hopeful for a peaceful stretch of days, you couldn't help but be just that.

Until, of course, you felt that familiar sharp pull in your abdomen.

Crap.

"You didn't happen to pack anything female-related when you packed this, did you?," you asked as you rifled through the contents of your backpack. Well, Joel's backpack really, since it was the one he'd bestowed upon you the night of your escape. Your own backpack was still back in Boston, probably picked apart by FEDRA by now, along with all of your other belongings.

"Like what?" Joel was poking at the fire he'd set out to build. The flames wouldn't quite take, a few feeble blue streaks dancing between the twigs he'd collected.

"Like, I don't know, a pad, maybe? Tampons, if I'm allowed to dream?" You had almost emptied out the entire backpack now, and even though the contents you were bringing to light were certainly useful, none of them were what you were looking for.

Joel looked up, a kind of perplexed look on his face. You took in his facial expression and sighed. "I'll take that as a no. Crap." You slumped down on your butt in defeat. "That's gonna be a problem."

Joel scratched behind his ear, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Yeah. Sorry, kiddo. Wasn't on my radar when I was packing." It could've been the dim light of the barely lit fire playing a trick on your eyes, but you could've sworn that some color rose in his cheeks. You just sighed once more and shrugged. "Eh, can't blame ya. Not something I'd expect to be on the mind of a..." You looked at him, eyebrow raised. "...something year old man."

He snorted. Sparks flew up from the twigs as he kept poking around. "Fifty-six," he said after a little while. "If you must know."

"Huh."

"What." He eyed you over the now growing flames. It looked like he was ready for you to pounce on him.

"Nothing." You raised your arms in defense. "Just... wouldn't have thought so. I just mean," you quickly added when you saw the expression on his face, "you've held up better than I would've thought. Jeez, relax. I'm not coming for your age."

"Right. Cause you ain't been jabbin' at me for just about anythin' else. S'cuse me if I'm just prepared."

"Cause you been jabbin' at me for just about anything else," you mocked under your breath. "And I got a right to. Need I remind you, I wouldn't be in this mess if-"

"-I hadn't dragged you into it." He interrupted you with a groan. "Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first trillion times. You ever gonna let it go?"

You scowled at him over the flames. "No." He quirked an eyebrow at you, and the exhausted apprehension on his face made you crack up. "Fine. Maybe. The jury's still out on that."

A day later, the sharp pull in your abdomen had grown into full-sized cramps, one of the four horsemen of your period riding in in full stride. You tried to ignore it as best as you could, but your period pains had always been on the worse side, sometimes leaving you crumpled into a ball on the floor. Your cramps could be debilitating, and a gnawing pit of worry formed in your stomach as the day went along.

Back in the QZ, you had your ways of coping: hot water bottles or hot potatoes wrapped in tinfoil tucked into a sweater so that their warmth radiated throughout your belly. There was even a bottle of emergency ibuprofen tucked away in a little secret corner of your bedroom. You longed for it now as the cramps begin to grow in intensity and longevity. You'd certainly planned to bring them along for your escape, but alas...

A groan escaped your lips as another cramp pulled on you from the inside. Your steps faltered and you leaned over for a moment with a hand pressed to your lower belly.

"Hey. You good?" Joel had been a few steps ahead of you, but he'd turned around at your groan. You'd been a trooper for the last two weeks, making him think more than once that getting you out hadn't been such a bad bet after all. You fought like hell, and when you weren't busy being mad at him, you followed orders quite well, especially when yours (or his) life depended on it.

Of course, he'd never say that out loud. You were still routinely giving him an earful about how he'd made you leave everything you owned behind, how you'd have had more time to properly prepare if he hadn't just dragged you into his mess, if he hadn't just kissed you that night-

You never missed a chance to remind him of all his wrongdoings, bickering on and on and on about the predicament you now found yourself in. As if he hadn't been the one to get you out. Sure, yeah, he did owe you as much after... having dragged you into his mess (his jaw clenched at the thought), but he'd paid his dues in full, as far as he was concerned. Hell, not only had he gotten you out in one piece, he'd even packed a whole get-away bag for you, survival essentials included. Had you thanked him for it? Certainly not. You hadn't complained about it either though, that was for sure, and Joel was certain that was about as much of a thanks as he was going to get from you.

You straightened, a somber and tight expression on your face as you nodded, but Joel could tell you were in more pain that you were letting on. Two weeks of fighting like crazy and just minutes of sleep to go on for days, and he hadn't heard a peep outta you. He had to give it to ya - you were tough, a fighter through and through. When you complained, it had nothing to do with where you slept, what you ate, who you fought. You just did it. He appreciated that quality in you. It made you a decent travel companion - if it wasn't for your bickering about everything else. That, he'd had decidedly enough of.

Today, though, you had been unusually quiet. You had yet to point an accusing finger at him, and though he could do without another finger pointed at his face for the rest of his life, he couldn't help but notice the change in your demeanor. Your pace was slower than the weeks before, even though you were now eating and sleeping better than you'd had in all previous fourteen days combined. Your movements seemed sluggish, almost lethargic, and you were hanging behind more often than not. This wasn't the first time you'd stopped either.

"We can rest for a moment, if you want." Joel gestured towards some trees on the side of the road. "Sit a moment in the shade. Catch our breath."

You looked like you were about to throw a snarky remark his way, but then you just nodded and trotted over to the patchy area of shade.

He sat down beside you with a groan, then stretched his aching legs out on the ground. Even if you thought he'd held up just fine, his legs certainly disagreed. If anything, they felt older than fifty-six. More like bordering on sixty.

Joel took a sip of his water, then nudged you with his elbow. You looked at him through hooded lids, exhaustion written all over your face. "Drink. Gotta stay hydrated."

Another wordless nod from you. No snarky comment. You got your own bottle out and gulped down a few sips.

"You sure you're good?" He eyed you carefully. There was a light sheen of sweat above your upper lip, some more pearls glistening on your forehead.

"I said as much, didn't I?"

Ah. There it was. Joel nodded. "There we go. Thought you were dyin' on me or somethin'."

You shot him a quizzical look.

"You haven't talked back to me all day. Was startin' to get worried," he shrugged with half a smile on his lips.

Your eyes narrowed at him. Joel Miller? Worried about you? Yeah, right. "What, you sweet on me or something, Miller?" A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Uh-huh. Glad to see you still got your wits about ya. C'mon." He got to his feet and dusted the dirt off his pants. "If you can jab, you can walk. Let's go."

You knew you had a couple of hours, maybe less, until hell's gates would open and the floods would come raining down your legs. Literally.

At least your periods were dependable that way, always following the same pattern.

Evening was fast approaching, and so was a town in the distance, just down the hill that you and Joel had just reached the top of. He raised a hand to his eyes, shielding his view from the evening sun that hung low on the horizon.

"Best bet is to go around it," he assessed, one hand on his hip. "No way to tell what's waitin' down there. Easier if we don't find out."

"Yeah, umh, about that."

He turned to you, a golden glow around the outline of his head. He looked like an angel. You blinked, cleared your throat.

"I need to find some cloth. Preferably clean, but anything will do, really. I know there's a spare shirt in my backpack, but I really don't want to cut it up..."

Joel frowned at you, visibly not understanding what you were getting at.

"Pads, Joel. I need to make pads. I'm about to start bleeding like a slit throat. I'm talkin' Niagara Falls."

He blinked, scratched behind his ear. "...right. Yeah. Okay."

It irked him that he hadn't thought of anything for your period. Granted, he hadn't had to deal with the topic in a long time, no woman in his life sticking around long enough (he made sure of that) that the topic could even come up. Still, he was a man who prided himself on being prepared, and he felt anything but as he helped you rummage through open and broken drawers to look for anything that might be useful.

You were tensing up more frequently now, pausing in whatever you were doing with shut eyes and a tight expression on your face. He knew what that meant, even if it had been a long time. You were cramping, and by the looks of it, quite hard.

Joel was irritated to find that he felt sorry for you. Though, no, that wasn't what irritated him. He may have been gruff and closed off on the outside, but he was still human after all, capable of empathy. What irritated him was the need he felt to alleviate your pain. More than once, he felt the urge to reach out and stroke your face, or worse even, to pull you into his arms into a comforting hug. Once, when your back was turned to him, he even saw his arm lifting on its own accord, and he had to bring it back down with his other hand before it made contact with you.

What the hell are you thinkin', he scolded himself. This ain't no more than a cargo run. She's cargo. Quit daydreamin'.

He scolded himself and then moved on, once, twice, thrice, until he had to tell himself off for the fourth time and he was beginning to get seriously pissed with himself. What was it with you that he kept thinkin' about touchin' you?

You were oblivious to his ordeal, having your own problems to deal with. You'd found some cloth that looked (and smelled) clean enough to be used as makeshift pads. Your hands made quick work of the fabric as you tore the old shirt into strips, then braided them into wider pieces until they roughly matched the length of the strip of fabric that connected the front of your panties to the back. Once that was done, you wrapped the braided piece fully around the bottom of a fresh pair of underwear, tying off the excess fabric when you had done so. It wasn't pretty, it was knobby and bound to be uncomfortable, but it was better than just wrapping pieces around the middle and hoping for the best. This way, you had a couple of layers underneath you, and if you didn't shuffle too much, the makeshift pad would perhaps stay in place. You sighed, inspecting your finished work. Behind you, Joel whistled. He sauntered over to inspect your work.

"Don't look too bad. You think this'll do?"

You eyed your handful of makeshift pads, a sorrowful look on your face. "It'll have to. But knowing my flow, I'll go through these in just a day - two, if I'm lucky..." Another wave of cramps tightened in your lower belly. You winced and leaned forward, one arm across your abdomen. A warm hand appeared on your shoulder.

"Tell you what. This town don't seem too dangerous. How 'bout we try and find a place here for tonight? Hm? Sleep in a real bed for a change?"

Joel didn't need to ask twice. You seemed more than relieved that your journey today would go no further than a couple of houses down the street, which was where you found a suitable candidate to spend the night in.

It had probably been a beautiful townhouse once, back in the day, complete with a white picket fence and a front- and backyard to show for. Now, though, the garden was overgrown, the fence was hanging in pieces, paint littering off its remaining poles, and the house itself looked sad and empty, as if it was mourning the loss of its previous inhabitants.

Unlike the rest of the houses on the street though, this building seemed to have all its walls intact. That, and the fact that your steps were getting slower by the minute, was enough for Joel to declare this house as your designated sleeping spot for the night.

The two of you did a quick sweep of each room, making sure everything was safe and sound. It was strange how quickly a routine could settle between two people who'd been nothing but strangers just barely three weeks ago. It wasn't the first time this thought occurred to you either: yours and Joel's movements seemed to almost flow into one another as you cleared the house from bottom to top. It felt a little like you could anticipate his next move before he announced it, and vice versa. He'd even said as much to you after the first week of the two of you fighting for y'all's asses, talking about how maybe you weren't as much of a princess as he'd initially thought. You'd just rolled your eyes at the comment, but there had also been a feeling of pride settling in your chest that you'd been unable to ignore.

It came like you'd said it would. Not long after you had dropped yourself on one of the worn-out sofas in the living room, you felt a particularly harsh cramp cutting through your abdomen, before something warm trickled out of you. You groaned silently to yourself. So it had begun.

Joel watched you from the armchair next to the couch. He was using the last couple of hours of decent daylight to take stock of his backpack, checking it for tears and what not, taking inventory of his ammo and cleaning and sharpening his weapons. Besides the fact that it had to be done, it gave him something to do. Made him feel like he was doing something sensible, practical.

He didn't like to admit it to himself, but watching you writhe in pain on the couch beside him didn't sit right with him. Even though it had nothing to do with a lack of care on his side, he somehow, against all logic, felt responsible for how crappy you were feelin'. It didn't help either that kept tellin' himself off for it. Ain't none of yer business, he kept repeating in his head and re-focused on sharpening the blade in his hand, right before glancing back at you when you'd moan again in pain.

You were definitely going through it. Once the dam had broken, so to say, there was nothing you could do but lay on the couch and wallow in self-pity. By now, the cramps had settled into a steady churning pain that had settled in your abdomen like a straight line, going from one of your tubes to the other. Your lower back felt like something was trying to break through it from both sides, forming an immense pressure that spread up the rest of your back. As if that wasn't enough, your neck was tense, rock hard and unforgiving, uncomfortable in whatever position you brought yourself into. And then of course, there was the bleeding itself, and the occasional harsher cramp that pulled through your entire abdomen.

You were certainly going through it, and the last two weeks had been too demanding. When a cramp cursed through you, you didn't hold back your whimpers. You just didn't have it in you to care. Joel could think whatever he wanted - no uterus, no opinion, that was as far as your thinking went in regards to him as you laid on the couch and wallowed in pain.

You had to give it to him, though. He was being remarkably quiet about your whole ordeal. You'd expected some dry comments, something about pulling yourself together, woman, you're not dying, but so far, there had been none of that, not even a distasteful scoff at your moans. You did see him looking at you from time to time, and it must've been your hazy mind, but you could've sworn he looked almost sorry for you. Almost.

Hours passed, and your pain didn't let up, if anything, it only intensified. While darkness slowly settled over everything outside, you did anything but on the couch. You turned and tossed with every new wave of pain, trying with all your might to find at least one position that alleviated your pain, but nothing helped. You had just flipped yourself over on your stomach with a groan, burying your face in one of the cushions when Joel spoke up behind you.

"Alright, enough. C'mon."

There was a light tap on your leg, then a more determined nudge when you didn't move. "Hey, c'mon. Move."

You just groaned into your pillow. I ain't movin' nowhere, it meant, but then your legs were being picked up and slowly lowered, until your knees touched the ground. Begrudgingly, and with a very fed-up expression on your face, you lifted your head from the pillow to shoot icy daggers at Joel, who was now kneeling beside you.

"Don't gimme that look," he grumbled. "Just tryin' to help ya. C'mon." He motioned at the sofa cushion. "Put your head down, get comfortable. N' put your knees a bit more together, so I can fit behind you. There you go." He instructed you until you were kneeling in front of the couch how he wanted to, your head resting on your arms on the sofa cushion. Attagirl. He shimmied behind you with some difficulty, his old knees not cooperating with him as fast as they once did, but then he finally sat behind you in a position similar to yours.

"What'cha doin," he heard you murmur into the cushion and promptly shushed you. "Shh. You about to see. Now don't freak, but you about to feel my hands on you."

You had no idea what the hell he was getting up to, but you didn't have the strength to care. For all you cared, he could've taken you off the chessboard in this very moment, and you wouldn't have minded. Everything hurt too much. It was all you could focus on.

You felt Joel's large hands on your waist, then your shirt being lightly pulled up. "Hey! What-"

You did turn around at that, furrowed brows and all, only to be met with Joel's fed-up stare. "You trust me or not?"

It took a moment, but eventually you put your head back down, not without your lips drawing into a pout. Course, you trusted him by now. Even if you didn't like it very much.

Joel waited until your head was settled on the cushion again, then he brought up your top a bit, folding it over once so it'd stay up over your tailbone. It had been a while, since he'd done this - hell, a long, long while - but he couldn't sit by no more and watch you toss and turn in pain. He'd had about enough of that.

He laid his palms flat on your waist, letting you get acclimated to his touch first so you wouldn't turn around and bite his head off once more in a second. Then, when he felt like a good enough time had passed, he lightly lifted his thumbs and pressed them down on your lower back, your tailbone right in the middle of them. Carefully, he brought his thumbs upwards, drawing two straight lines into your skin while keeping his pressure firm.

Your response was almost immediate. Joel could see your tense shoulders going down just a smidge, your back relaxing as you let out an elongated 'oh' sound, accompanied by a deep sigh. "Attagirl," he murmured, one corner of his lips slightly quirking up. "Just relax into it. I got you." He kept repeating the motion, digging his thumbs into your lower back to bring you some relief. A picture of how he'd once done the same for Sarah's mother flit across his brain. He quickly shook his head, dismissing the memory as quickly as it had appeared.

It felt like heaven, how Joel was working his thumbs over your aching back. It did nothing to alleviate your pain in the front, but it still felt a million times better than tossing and turning on the worn out cushions of this dusty couch. Just like you hadn't held back with your moans of pain, you were now not holding back your moans of enjoyment. You'd never felt anything quite like it before. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

You heard Joel chuckle quietly behind you. "I know a thing or two, kiddo. Been around the block once or twice."

You just hummed in agreement, then let out a load moan once more as his fingers dug into a specifically delicate spot. "Fuck, Joel. Yeah. Right there."

Joel was just glad you had your head buried in the cushions of the sofa. Otherwise you would've seen what your moans were doing to him, and boy, were they doing a number on him. He'd been able to ignore your first few moans of pleasure, biting down hard on his tongue and closing his eyes to focus, but then his mind started projecting pictures onto his closed lids of you, below instead in front of him, making those same sweet sounds of pleasure while he touched you elsewhere -

His eyes flew open and he grunted, willing the pictures away with all his might. He tried staring at his hands instead, but that was a dumb idea, seeing as how he could see your skin being worked underneath his thumbs then, his fingers drawing out another moan from your lips -

Next was the wall. He could've drilled holes into the flaky wallpaper, with how hard he was staring at it. He could feel the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment and he could only hope, pray that you wouldn't turn around anytime soon to see how your moans were visibly affecting him, specifically in his crotch area.

"Fuck, oh my god, right there, Joel." Your voice was breathy and needy, and Joel's eye twitched. The hell had he gotten himself into with this?!

He prodded your back, trying to find the spot you'd just referred to. "Right here, sweetheart?"

He saw your head bob as you nodded, a satisfied hum vibrating through you. "Mhh, yeah. That's - oof - that's the spot."

He was digging himself his own grave, that much was for certain right now. He knew he should've stopped, should've went back to his armchair and returned to working on his gun, but he couldn't. It was like he was transfixed, glued in position like a fly to a trap. The whimpers falling from your mouth were too good to pass up, to sweet to resist. He hadn't had anything sweet in such a long time. And Joel was dying for a treat.

But he also knew it wasn't right. He knew it now and he knew it then, those few weeks ago when he'd grabbed you outside of your apartment and had kissed you out of the blue. You'd been shocked to say the least. The FEDRA guards had been on his heels and he'd needed to find a way to disperse of them quickly, and there you were, conveniently placed in his path like a lucky find, and his brain had snapped and he'd just gone for it. Pulled you into a kiss like you were his, hands flying up to your face to hold you in place. Your eyes had grown wide in shock and he'd briefly pulled his lips from yours to whisper to you. Work with me, please, I'll make it worth your while. His heart had drummed in his chest, a million silent prayers tumbling from his lips in the milli-second that it took you to subtly nod. A brief grin had flit over his lips before he'd crashed them back down on yours, kissing you like he'd been waiting to do so all day. And my god, had you worked with him. Your own hands had flown up to his head, one curling around the base of his neck and the other digging into his hair. He'd backed you up against the wall behind you, slowly walking you backwards until your back collided with the weathered bricks, and you had actually moaned into his mouth, much like you were doing now. It had sent his head reeling, and though Joel was not a man of faith, he'd briefly thanked whatever God he had seemingly pleased enough to allow him this sweet of a distraction.

The guards had trampled around the corner then, their heavy footsteps a stark contrast to the sweet moans falling from your lips. They'd cleared their throat - ahem - and Joel had unwillingly detangled himself from you enough to cast a look at them over his shoulder. What? A man can't make out with his girl in the street? Their eyes had wandered from you to him, and he saw then what they were seeing: a man in his mid-fifties pressing a what, late twenties? Early thirties? woman to the wall, her face all flustered. He'd seen the envy plastered on their faces, heard the murmurs. Lucky bastard. A triumphant grin had played around his lips, even though he knew he was treading on thin fucking ice. That he was indeed, a lucky bastard.

His luck had only lasted so long, though. When the guards had disappeared, he all but saw lucky stars in his eyes when you invited him up to your apartment. Was he really going to get that lucky?

Heavens, no. He'd been brought down back to earth swiftly when you had stood in front of him, crossed arms and expectant look on your face. So? What was that? He shrugged nonchalantly. What was what?

You, though, as he quickly came to learn, were not to be underestimated. You made him tell you in detail why the guards had been after him, then practically foamed at the mouth when he reluctantly explained what he'd been up to that afternoon.

It hadn't even been that big of a deal, just a casual, run-of-the-mill drug run, but you didn't seem to share his sentiment. Casual? Run-of-the-mill? He'd had to shush you from how loud you were screeching. Didn't you know the damn walls had ears?

My god, you could talk. Bicker, was the more fitting term. Or nag, really. You went on and on about how he'd went and done it now, how he'd fucked up your life, all because he had to go and get you involved in something that you had absolutely no interest in -

That was the first time your finger had flown into his face, all accusing and threatening, like you could do him any harm with just the tip of your index finger. Boy, had he been tempted to smack it out of his face. But he didn't. As much as he hated to admit it - you had a point. By putting you on the map as his lover, he had likely put you in a lot more danger than you were even realizing at the moment.

He'd tried to put you out of his mind. Even after you had made him promise to get you out of the QZ as a 'reward' - You owe me, Joel Miller - he'd tried not to think about you, not until his next run out of the city at least, which is when he planned to make good on his promise. Until then, he wouldn't think about you. You'd just turn into another headache, another problem he'd have to deal with, and he had enough of those as it was. Not to mention that he was almost twice your senior. He didn't have many principles anymore, but he still had some. And hell if he didn't at least stick to those anymore.

He kept his resolve up for all but two hours, when he was back in his apartment, laying in his bed and unable to sleep. You kept drifting through his mind, bickering and foaming at the mouth and red in the face, telling him how he'd went and fucked up your life, but more than that how your lips had felt on his, how sweet your mouth had tasted, how delicious your moans had sounded in his ear -

Fuck it. Joel growled and shoved his hand into his boxers. He'd rub one out to you, just once. Surely that would get you off his mind.

Well, it did, sort of. Until he was in bed again the next night, and he found himself with his cock in his hand once more, thinking about your lips and how they'd felt on him, and how they'd feel wrapped around his cock instead of his own hand -

He groaned as his release painted over his stomach, white silken strands mixing with the soft curls on his belly as he silently cursed you, then himself. The hell had he gotten himself into?

So of course he'd had no choice but to come and get you when he got intel that he was the subject of the upcoming raid, that very night. He barely had time to prepare two backpacks with the bare necessities before he went out to find you.

How all of that had brought him here, kneeling behind you as the sweetest moans fell from your mouth once more - he didn't know. Joel couldn't tell whether you were a blessing or a curse, if you were the price he had to pay or the price he received. Seeing as how his life had gone though, it was unlikely that you were the latter.

And yet he couldn't help but feel like he'd won when he brought his thumbs down on on the sides of your lower spine and earned a low moan in return, long and elongated and putting all kinds of pictures into his mind that his head momentarily fell to his chest, a pained expression painted across it.

No, no. You were both. A blessing and a curse.

Series Masterlist - Mobile Masterlist

Credits: plant divider by @strangergraphics

Read part 2 here!

A/N: Well, here we are. Like I said, the idea for this was born while needing comfort on my own period, and then this monstrosity flowed from my fingertips and eventually I realized that perhaps, 9.3k words were perhaps a bit too much for a oneshot, especially when said oneshot wasn't complete yet. Ahem. So! Here you have the first half of what is undoubtedly going to turn into a filthy, filthy second part. 🙃 I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did, I was kicking my feet giggling while writing this, lol.

No pressure taglist:

@peekyourinterest @vickie5446 @noisynightmarepoetry @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @picketniffler

@frogsdeservelovetoo @orcasoul @ashleyfilm @elli3williams @missladym1981

@spotty-boo90 @iamsherlocked-1998 @axshadows @justajoelsreader @oldmenenthusiast

[sebmindbreak]

Hi, hi! Just gonna start of with saying that your writings are awesome, and quite inspirational!

If it is possible, could it be possible to pair yandere + smut as a request? (Characters: Azure, Two Time and ofc, reader.)

Oneshot of course! (These stupid little exes(?) have a death grip on me, and possibly many others…)

Oh, but please take the time you need to think, and all of that! Drink and eat lots that you possibly can as well!

Honestly looking forward to your future works! 🫶

— Sincerely, a certified hibernating bear. 🐻💤 (I can bet that some people will be able to tell who I am, even when anon…)

I LOVETHEIR DYNAMICS BRO!! <3

AAAAAAAAAAA ALSO TYTYTY SM <33

it makes me very happy u like my writings! ^u^

scenario : is basically two time and azure fighting over you

TITLE : fighting

The round had barely begun, and yet the familiar tension in the air had already twisted into something volatile. only as a backdrop to the true conflict unfolding before you.

Not the game. Not the round.

But them.

Two Time and Azure.

They stood in the middle of the killer's domain, nose to nose, like predators baring their teeth over fresh prey you.

Azure's eyes, usually so calm and electric with mischief, were now alight with something far more dangerous: possessiveness. His teeth were gritted behind a too-wide smile, his arms spread as though he were shielding you.but his entire posture screamed "mine."

"You're wasting their time," Azure growled, voice laced with venom. "You think they want to sit in your dusty little altar room again? Staring at bones and gibberish ink? News flash, cultist, they want something real."

Two Time didn't flinch. If anything, they leaned in closer, a twitch in their eye as their gloved hand gripped tighter around the worn, bloodstained dagger they carried like a lifeline.

"You call it gibberish, but you wouldn't understand devotion if it branded itself onto your skin." Their voice was low, but no less threatening. "The Spawn chose them. Not you. They belong beside me."

"Belong?" Azure snapped, stepping forward. "They're not a book for your altar or some sacrificial toy! They need care. Love. Something you clearly know nothing about."

Two Time let out a laugh, sharp and bitter, like a knife dragged against stone. "And you do? Dragging them to your hideout like a pet? You think shoving sweets and distractions in their face is love? It's pathetic."

Azure's hand twitched at his side. You could see the tension in his shoulders, his jaw, the way his usually fluid movements had stiffened into something rigid, ready to pounce.

"At least I don't watch them sleep and write about it in ink! You creep me out more than half the survivors."

Two Time tilted their head, a twitching smile pulling at their lips. "At least I worship them like they deserve. At least I see them as divine."

You stood in the middle of it. Silent. Caught.

Azure reached for you suddenly, fingers brushing your wrist. "Come with me. I'll make you comfortable. You can rest we'll lay together, I'll cook for you. You like waffles , pancakes , anything you want i'll cook it for you ,anything"

But before you could move, Two Time was there, grabbing your other arm like a vice. "No," they hissed. "Come. You said you'd help me. You said you'd be there when the next ritual came. I need you."

Their eyes met across your form, one blazing purple, the other twitching with spiraling devotion. You could feel their breathing on either side of you, could practically hear their racing hearts in your ears. You weren't a person to them in that moment. You were a battlefield. A divine prize.

"You can't have them."

"Neither can you."

"They want me."

"They belong with me."

The words became a blur of snarls and obsession, your name twisted in praise and plea. You could feel the heat from their bodies as they pressed closer, as if proximity might secure victory.

And yet neither would let go.

Neither would yield.

Even in their shared history , exes bound by something broken and furious they had never been more similar than now. Both deluded. Both devoted. Both dangerous.

And both utterly, violently in love with you.

I HOPE YOU ENJOY!

i love these sillies <33

writing writing , honestly its relaxing asf to write.. , especialy so small thigns like these!

[ooooo-mcyt]

no wait ur right. wait can u elaborate on desert duo + box boys + divorce quarter queer-codednees PLEASE ur right but i cannot put it into words

For me it's a matter of nonconformity.

The root of the queer coding in Double Life to me lays in the Double Life societal expectations. Soulmate relationships were held above all other relationships and there was an immense pressuring expectation to both be interesting in/prioritize the soulmate bond and to be with the "right" person, the person who you are assigned to and who it is "correct" to be with, who you are supposed to want to be with. To me this reads as a very strong standin for both amatonormativity and heteronormativity.

Scott and Cleo have always been the ones who immediately struck me as being very obviously queercoded with how they presented their narrative. Choosing each other and the joy they find together despite the expectations on them, and talking at length about how invaluable it is to find your own path and choose the kind of love that's true for you even if people think it's wrong and even if it's hard. It's also no surprise to me that the characters with the most explicit queer themes happen to be played by cc's who are both queer irl. It's also worth nothing how much the reaction of other players to their relationship adds to these themes- confusion, discomfort, even judgment. BigB tries to console Scott that there's still time to connect with his real soulmate. Jimmy repeatedly calls their relationship 'fake' to their faces. Nobody quite seems to understand.

The themes are less spelled out with Ren+Martyn and Grian+BigB, but they're still there. Ren and Martyn are both outwardly fixated with the people they're 'supposed' to be with, but at times it feels almost forced, like their minds are more on doing what is expected of them than on the actual people who are their soulmates, meanwhile they're frequently drawn toward each other in the background, because love doesn't care about the bounds of strict societal expectations. BigB and Grian have a very open struggle between what's expected of them and what they really want, because they want each other, regardless of what they're expected to want, and they're constantly torn between these two factors, trying to be together in secret because they don't feel like their relationship can be accepted publicly.

Scar is slightly different from the others in that he doesn't seem to want a relationship at all, which in of itself is a form of nonconformity. He's 'supposed' to want his soulmate, but instead Scar seems focused on himself, on his own projects, and on his connection with animals. This lack of concern with what is supposed to be the most important and special relationship is framed, by most people, as ridiculous, a failing on Scar's part, because of course anyone would care more about finding their soulmate than about the things Scar is focused on. Scar's desires conflict very strongly with the societal expectation for relationships in Double Life, and he struggles with the outside pressure to prioritize a relationship he never really wanted, just because he's expected to want his soulmate.

I'd say Pearl is the one I don't read queer themes as explicitly from. I always got the feeling she did want her soulmate, and that she did value soulmate relationships strongly, her isolation coming from circumstance rather than Pearl having fundamentally divergent desires. That being said! Pearl is also very very negatively impacted by societal standards of Double Life! I've said it many times, but Pearl wasn't isolated because Scott rejected her, Pearl was isolated because it was impossible to form a real support system in Double Life. Because the soulmate relationship was seen as so deeply important and was centered in everything, Pearl could never feel like she belonged anywhere, always an outsider looking in when she tried to form friendships with soulmate pairs. Pearl was also frequently either pitied or viewed as if there was something wrong with her for not having a soulmate, which reinforced how lonely, bitter, and hurt she was. Pearl doesn't have queer themes to me, but I view her as the symbolic standin for how amatonormativity and heteronormativity can be extremely damaging even for people who aren't queer through shaming and pitying people who don't have relationships, making them feel defective, and isolating them through making non-romantic connections seem less real or meaningful (in many cases this also disproportionately impacts women- who are in many cases valued solely through their relationships- and disabled people- who in many cases have a harder time making connections and are more likely to be viewed as 'defective' generally.)

Anyways sorry for rambling but Double Life is truly a story about amatonormativity and heteronormativity to me and I'm kinda insane about the themes.

[whereserpentswalk]

Reblog to go on a date with your monster. Like to give them a little gift.

Look under the cut to see what meeting your joyfriend is like.

1 you walk into a messy apartment, it looks like this is their first place where they live alone, away from other angels. They're sitting on a Lome mattress, cuddling a stuffed animal and watching TV. Despite everything they're still beautiful, their body youthful, and sexless, and athletic, their four white wings forever stained with blood. They look up at you with rose gold eyes, afraid, apologizing for if they scared you. But to their surprise you don't shy away from them, and somehow they feel safe and pure when you sit down to talk to them.

2 you see them in the shadows, alone in the dark of an empty park, changing shape, first a muscular humanoid in armor, then a wolf dancing through the night, then a combination of both, then finally a modern human in a ragged trenchcoat. Despite all their forms, their eyes are always the same. They come up to you and bow with a smile on their face. You slowly aproch them, for whatever reason their voice seems so familiar. You greet them with your hand as you would an animal, even as they're in human form, as you slowly pet their scars for the first time.

3 within the golden halls of an ornate train station you see them for the first time, through the crowd with inhumanly green eyes. They notice you despite everyone else. And you notice everything off about them, the wrong numbers of teeth, their hands occasionally having more or less then five fingers before returning back to normal. It's wordless but it doesn't need words for you to tell them that they don't need to pretend to be human around you. And for a momment you see them, naked, with branches for antlers, and the wings of a monarch butterfly, a serpent's head where a human’s genitals would be, and teeth made out of broken glass, and then only a rose exists where they once stood, but you know you'll see them again.

4 you see them for the first time in an empty parking lot, a massive creature with black eyes and countless legs, glowing yet dark, as they come twords you they take notes in an unknowable language. They inspect you as the dark matter pitter patters across your face. You expect them to hurt you as they reach out their claw but they only gently pet your head. You can tell that they're suprised, you're more receptive then most humans are. They give you a small peice of food to let you eat right from their claw, and it tastes batter then anything on earth.

5 you meet them in a café on a quiet side street. They don't like being seen by too many people. Their body is beautiful, but so inhuman, tall and slender, with silvery armor covering them from the neak down, their face pale and their eyes long since ripped out and replaced with red mechanical replacements. They're a bit afraid you won't be ok with them when you first meet them, but you start talking, and though they're shy at first they like the sound of your voice. They let you pet their head and they cuddle up to you, and their body is warm like a churning machine as you hug them for the first time, and they feel comforted in your arms.

6 you see them in a dark subway station. They clearly once were human, centuries ago, their body forever young, but pale and skinny, their eyes turned white and their mouth jawless and fanged like a lampry's. Their body is entirely sexless, barely shielded from the cold by a ragged suit. Most people avoid them, but you ask if they're ok and they just look up at you, when you ask if they're hungry they nod. You agree to give them some blood, and it feels like they're giving you little kisses as you offer them your wrist. When they're full you hug their cold body, and for a momment they're made warm.

7 an undead servent slowly brings them over to you in a wheelchair. Though their mansion is beautiful it's trapped in time, and dark even in the daytime. You can see the computer they're trapped in, it must be decades old by now. They look at you with an avatar meant to look like a drawing of themself, or at least how they'd want to look. Something about them makes you want to touch them, but you know you never can. You put your hand to the screen, and you can feel the magic flow through you, and for a momment that's enough.

8 you see them sitting there alone in a bar. A slender androgynous humanoid, they're wearing a black suit but upon closer examination it's part of their body, never to be taken off. You sit next to them, and they smile at you, you talk for a few moments and it's like they know more about the universe then you could ever imagine. They pet your head, and it feels like it'll kill you, but it only makes you feel more alive. They hand you a business card with their number on it, it says they're a servent of hades, they tell you you can contact them again if you like, they'll be around. When you look again they're entirely gone once more.

9 walking through an abandoned mall you see them, a life sized puppet, with stars and moons on its outfit, and a painted mask for a face. Coming closer to them you can see there's red liquid on them, and strange otherworldly bugs and mushrooms on their body. When you try to touch them they float in the air, and move as if they're alive, for a momment you think they'll hurt you but they run away. When you find them again, tracking them down to a dark arcade, you see they're crying. They expect you to hurt them but you reach out to help them instead, nobody's ever tried to help them like that before...

10 you see them ontop of a skyscraper's roof. They youthful human wearing a leather jacket smiling as a massive reptile, with bat like wings, and massive steel fangs, and a tail like a scorpion's flies down to them. You wonder if they'll try to calm it but instead they move together like one being, their eyes the same yellow color. The creature comes twords you, fire in its mouth, and poison in its teeth. You realize the two beings are one in the same, as the wyvern bows its head, ready for you to ride it, with its human body at your side.

11 for a momment they chase you through the night, the hooded masked figure running twords you, blade in hand. But as you cross the street they can't follow, it's as if they've hit a wall. The gods themselves have bound them. While you're in safety you look at them, there's a sadness behind that mask. You wonder, if they can't hurt you here, would there be any reason to hate them, would they choose to spare you if they knew your face, your voice...

12 all you can see is blackness, yet there is no darkness, only this slick metallic liquid around you. The lake bubbles up creating a false body with its fluid, first male, then female, then both, then neither. It beckons you in, and you know it would not let you drown. When you step inside all you can feel, all you can see, is the fluid around you, and you feel as if you're being held.

[illyrianbitch]

Of Our Own Devices — Part Three

For @erisweekofficial Day 3: Betrayal

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Despite wishing he weren’t, Eris Vanserra is a creature of habit. A mask is easier to put on, easier to wear than to remove. When you confront him about a recent deception, you’re faced with that reality first hand.

Warnings: mentions of injury, abuse, and blood, fighting verbally and physically, harsh words

Word Count: 2.3k

Part Two | Part Four

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

His cabin was quieter than usual, the crackle of the fire absent.

Tonight, Eris hadn’t bothered to light it, nor had he changed out of his old clothes. The heavy green coat still hung from his shoulders, pressing heavily against his back. Beneath the coat, his shirt was stained with crimson, each wound on his back pressed uncomfortably against the material, their blood gluing the fabric to his skin.

The coat hadn’t been stained yet, but it was bound to be if didn't remove it in a few minutes. If he were less exhausted, he might have cared more—might have taken the time to clean the blood from his shirt.

But Eris was too tired, too exhausted to care much about the state of his clothes.

The distant sound of a horse made him sit up, his body tensing in anticipation, reading itself for another round of fight. A few moments later, the door burst open.

He blinked at the sight before him, his heart beginning to thud rapidly in his chest. A tight knot formed in his stomach as he let out a breath.

"Y/n."

You shut the door behind you with a decisive thud, your eyes narrowing at him, dark with an intensity that made him take another breath.

"You lied to me."

Eris remained still, calm and collected, as you took a few steps forward. Your hair was tousled and windblown, clearly the result of the rapid horseback ride you’d endured to get here. He was tempted to ask how you had managed to arrive so quickly, but the determined glint in your eyes halted him. They held a resolve he had never seen before, a redness around them that hinted at tears. His heart clenched at the thought.

He stayed silent as you continued.

"You told me the rumors weren't true. That Lucien wasn't near. But he was. Him and the Cursebreaker."

Eris opened his mouth to speak, but you raised a hand in interruption. "Your brothers have a tendency to talk when they're drinking."

His back ached from the barely healed lashes Beron had so graciously administered. In the back of his mind, he wondered how well his brothers had fared, if his father's disappointment had weighed as heavily on them for their collective failure. He settled on no; it hadn’t. If it had, they wouldn’t have been drunkenly spilling their secrets in an Autumn tavern, recklessly letting such information slip through court ears—through yours.

"Okay," Eris said finally, his voice tight. "I lied."

"You and I don't lie to each other. That is the one thing we have." A muscle feathered in your jaw. "Why start now?"

He took a moment to think. There was no use in lying, not to you. But the truth seemed lackluster, seemed almost trivial. He rolled his shoulders back, ignoring the searing pain that shot through his body with the movement.

"It was for your own good," he said, almost nonchalantly.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Eris knew they were the wrong choice. They came across as commanding, entitled—like a High Lord’s son presuming to know what was best for a common-court female. He'd always been adept with his words, skilled at navigating conversations to elicit the reactions he wanted. But that skill faltered around you, weakened as he struggled to balance what was most tactful to say with what was most honest. Even after all these years, he wasn’t sure what he truly wanted from you. Respect, perhaps.

You scoffed, running a tongue along your teeth as you shook your head in disbelief — in anger.

"That is a pathetic excuse," you said sharply. "That was not your decision to make."

Eris let out a tight sigh, feeling the reluctance in his lungs from the lingering imprint of his father’s boot. He was sure the area was bruised — a rib slightly out of place, the skin above bound to be darkening. Your eyes flickered down to his chest as a ragged breath escaped him, eyes softening as if you had heard his thoughts as they crossed his mind.

"If I had told you the truth, you would have run off into the wilderness in some reckless attempt to help him."

The words came out quicker than intended, more manic than he’d prepared for. But they seemed to distract you, pulling your heated gaze from his chest and back to his eyes. The anger in your expression simmered again, the soft crease between your brows smoothing as if the concern that had bubbled up moments before had been momentarily forgotten.

"You're godsdamned right I would've," you growled. "Because that's what you do for the ones you love."

The words hit him like a physical blow, his muscles aching under the weight of them. He couldn’t help it—the way his hands tightened at his sides. They didn't tighten into fists, no, but in slow, rigid flexes as he fought to keep his breathing even.

"You would've gotten yourself killed."

You shook your head again. "Don't pretend this was because you care about me."

"I do care about you."

"Do you?" You titled your head at him, a small scowl curling at your lips. "Or did you want to make sure I wasn't there to witness when you tracked them down like prey?"

His stomach tightened, a sinking feeling settling as he struggled to keep his composure. Every fiber of him ached to take your hand, to drop to his knees and lay himself bare. He wanted to explain that there was more than what you saw—that he lied for the first time because he wanted you safe, that he had tried his best not to hurt Lucien or Feyre. He itched to speak, to reveal the truth, but instead:

"I had orders," was all he responded.

You waited for a moment, your eyes scanning his face as if searching for more, as if willing him to confess further. If Eris had grown up with a different father, one who hadn't instilled in him the ability to withstand torture, he would have crumbled. He was sure any male in his position would have. But he was built for moments like these—whether he liked it or not. So you waited.

And nothing came.

He stayed quiet. He was going to choose his words carefully now, he decided. Very carefully.

You laughed humorlessly, but the sound caught in your throat. The corners of your eyes glistened. "Tell me you tried to fight against it. That you waited as long as you could, that you tried to protect him."

The truth was, Eris had. He'd waited it out, had attempted to slow his brothers down, but there was only so much he could do without it becoming dangerous, without losing his control. But as he stared into the anger in yours eyes, felt the desperation that clung to your voice, he realized it didn't truly matter.

"Why?" He asked.

You blinked. "Why what?"

He took a cautious step forward. You didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as move a muscle. The small act—or lack of one—was a comfort at least, telling Eris that you were not afraid of him. It was all just anger. Anger and something that tasted bittersweet, something like disappointment.

Disappointment meant you’d expected more from him. And while it made something deep in his chest glow, that sort of expectation was dangerous.

"Why do you want me to tell you that?"

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Is it so you don't feel as guilty about caring for me?"

You blinked again, your mouth parting slightly as you shook your head once more. This time, it was a meek gesture, almost shy, the defiance in your posture giving way to a vulnerable edge. "That's- That's not it."

"Is that so?" Eris hummed in contemplation, pursing his lips as he held your gaze. "Are you sure?"

You shifted your weight on your feet, pulling your gaze away from him momentarily to cast a glance around the cabin, as if something had caught your interest. To any casual observer, it was a simple gesture—but not to Eris. He knew you. He was right. He knew he was.

You brought your gaze back to him.

"Why are you asking me all of these questions?"

Eris shrugged. "You come storming into my cabin, demanding things of me, and yet I'm not entitled to questions myself?"

"All I'm 'demanding' for is for the truth."

He took another step forward, keeping his eyes trained on yours, amber glowing like a forest fire. When he was close enough to feel your breath, for the scent of you to fill his nose, he leaned down. The coldness spreading through him was unmistakable, the softness he usually regarded you with—the one you didn’t quite seem to notice—slowly being replaced by something more taunting. He was too exhausted to care about his clothing, yes, but he was also too exhausted to care about proving himself anymore. It didn’t matter.

"And if the truth were that I didn't resist? That I pursued them without hesitation? That I allowed my brothers to capture Lucien so I could chase the Cursebreaker myself—what then?"

He watched as something changed in your face, eyes darkening as you somewhat recoiled, taking a minuscule step back. You scowled, a deep furrow forming between your brows, and then you clenched your teeth again. Without even looking down, Eris knew your hands were in fists at your sides, your nails pressing into your palms.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" You managed through gritted teeth. Your scowl fell into something more reminiscent of a frown. "I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and you're fighting it. Gods, I feel sorry for you."

Your voice rose as you spoke and he could taste the bittersweet flavor of your disappointment. You turned abruptly, striding towards the cabin door, your jaw clenched so tightly Eris could almost hear the grinding of your teeth. Suddenly, he felt awake, but it was a different kind of energy—one of anger, of frustration.

"We're not done talking," Eris said, stalking after you. "Don't walk away from me."

You whirled around, your voice rising in a fierce, anguished cry. "I should've walked away from you centuries ago!"

Eris blinked, feeling the weight of your words settle deeply, like a dull ache in his bones.

He took in the raw, distraught expression on your face. You took a deep breath, rapidly blinking as you ran a hand along your face. Eris wondered how you could be so beautiful in such a state of disarray — hated himself that this disarray was caused by some sort of care you held for him. Some sort of care that he didn’t understand enough to be careful of.

"I was so foolish to believe that even a few hundred years could rid you of what you were born with," you said.

He clenched his jaw, taking another deep, painful, ragged breath. "And what is that?"

You paused for a moment. Then you straightened your back, staring at him straight on. The disappointment was gone, no bittersweet aftertaste, no sense of care or anguish. It was pity that he sensed in your gaze.

"Cowardice disguised as cruelty."

He almost laughed.

Eris knew that word better than anything else. It was etched into his skin, ingrained in his lineage. He had learned early in life that cruelty was often easier than kindness. Cruelty required no second thoughts; it was swift, unyielding, and in a way, liberating. With a sharp word or a cold look, he could build walls so high and thick that no one dared to scale them. Kindness, however, was different. It was a burden. It demanded patience, understanding, and—above all—vulnerability.

He had allowed himself to be willing with you, to let his guard down slightly, to let you see past the facade he needed to survive. But even then, he had been wary. You'd wanted too much, wanted his kindness, his patience. It wasn't possible. Eris could never fully be himself until his father was dead—this he was sure of.

Until then, Eris had a role to play. A court to maneuver. And cruelty didn’t ask why or weigh consequences.

Kindness had no place in the life he was being molded to lead. Not now.

"I don't need Lucien's leftovers to tell me that I'm a good male, that I'm worthy of forgiveness. I was never asking for it. I do what’s required of someone like me. Not everyone can afford to be ordinary."

The sting of your hand wasn’t the first thing Eris felt as your palm collided with his cheek. No, it was the searing intensity of your anger that struck him first—a blazing heat that radiated from the force of it alone.

There was a long beat of silence as Eris stood still, his face turned slightly to the side, skin tingling with the impact. Slowly, he turned his face back to look at you.

And you smiled.

It was a smile that carried no warmth, only a cold, detached finality. You smoothed down your hair, the gesture almost casual, unnervingly so.

"You'll fit right on that throne, Eris Vanserra," you said, your voice steady. You held his gaze for another beat. "You're already your father."

Without another word, you turned and stormed out.

Eris stared at the door long after the echo of your horse’s departure had faded into the distance.

It wasn’t until he could breathe again, until the last traces of your scent settled into his skin, that he quietly sank onto the couch. He wished he could scream, wished he could cry or hurl his furniture around, claw at his face in anguish. But he did not. Because that wasn’t who he was.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: yeah... they need therapy baby, dare I say this is a betrayal on both ends, lying and putting her down to push her away?? Reader calling him beron… ya… good thing they have years to grow huh

eris week/of our own devices tag list 🫶🏻: @i-know-i-can @scarsandallaz

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound-blog

@melissat1254

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

[serpentface]

Here's what typical vestment for The Odomache looks like.

The pelt of the lion that was originally sacrificed and worn raw for her incarnation is retained throughout the years of service, preserved and fashioned into a headdress and cape (obscuring a helmet). This can get dreadfully hot in the summer but no one ever said that being a hollowed out pathway for God's spirit was easy.

The body is always obscured near completely, barring the hands, feet, and parts of the face (philosophically, these are the body's least vulnerable parts as its modes of Action, though this is in large part a practicality). This is partially a matter of psychological enforcement that this person is not Just a human, and partly a matter of protecting the part of God's living spirit that's in a wholly human body. Conceptually, the Odomache Enables tremendous power rather than being intrinsically powerful in of herself, so all manners of protecting the metaphysically vulnerable human body are of tantamount importance in her case.

The complete obscuring of any identifiable feminine form is also notably important to the underlying philosophies and biases involved. It is necessary that she is female, a condition ascribed a unique malleability to change and transformation (for good or harm), but the act of female/non-male sex and gender assignment also serves to uphold an underclass in a patriarchy that she By Necessity must be distanced from. This extends beyond the masculinized social and dress performance of Odonii to a masculinized social performance with dress that utterly obscures any part of the body that could be gendered, and dress that is not gendered in of itself (women do wear less revealing clothing than men and skirts of similar length, but the act of Fully covering the body in this form exists outside of the bounds of gendered dress).

[[It should be noted that on a historical level, this role is largely a descendant of a variety of 'celibate and/or masculinized female religious authority' figures in pre/proto-Wardi societies stretching back centuries, rather than an emergent property of contemporary religion and philosophy. This is an adaptation of older roles and worldviews to securely fit the contemporary zeitgeist, and that's part of why many aspects of this role Superficially clashes with said zeitgeist.]]

The relatively undecorated white cloak and robes in comparison to culturally favored displays of color and opulence further emphasizes a sense of the Odomache's separation from humanity. The Wardi image of God is not a human lord, but rather the world itself and the functions of the world distilled into the forms of animals. Human hierarchies exist Within God rather than God having a place within human hierarchies, so in this philosophy it's natural for this particular person of high authority to not closely resemble a Human Authority.

This is still ultimately a human body existing at the top end of a human hierarchy (and in the dimension of religious thought, it a human body holding aspects of God most specifically concerned with maintaining concepts of 'right' civilization and hierarchy), so public-facing garb like this will still include a few mundane trappings of lordship such as this fancy gold khattanocuy displaying an image of an enemy being trampled by the Face Odomache as the guardian lion. Purely ceremonial garb for the Odomache hides the body in its entirety beneath the white cloak and forgoes all decoration save for the obligatory weaponry.

A sword and dagger is worn at all times as a matter of being the ultimate physical bastion of her society's military might, and she is always accompanied by a retinue of 'lieutenants' (Extremely elite servants/squires) who carry whatever other elements of her perpetual armament are not currently in use. These weapons are Completely ceremonial in nature (to the point that they're made or plated with gold rather than anything like, durable) and there is absolutely zero expectation that the Odomache will ever directly engage in combat (the times this has happened historically have been when things have gone horribly wrong).

Her face is usually masked in public, though this is not a strict necessity of the role and is forgone for some ceremonial purposes. On these occasion, it's standard to paint the face red to still partly obscure human features in the same fashion of battlefield Odonii. As the color of blood, it positively evokes bodily vitality and strength, the living spirit of the world itself and the mode of connection to God (and will also be reminiscent of the rite of incarnation during which she is Actually covered in blood)

[frostgears]

patience

She'd stayed late, and somehow gotten into an argument with the strangest specimen in their laboratory. It had started with a simple "Good news!" How could it have gone downhill so fast?

"—then you don't truly understand me at all. You see me as a human spirit trapped in a mechanical construct. A doll's body, imposing a doll's way of being on me. You think to enact a rescue."

"We'd thought about it, yes, at least around the intermagic disciplines table in the tavern at nights… but I'm so sorry, we still don't understand how your body works. It could be years or decades or even generations before—"

"Before you can rescue me."

"Well, yes!"

"Did you ever stop to ask if I needed it?"

The researcher wagged a finger at the doll construct, opened her mouth to speak, and lost her train of thought under the unblinking inhuman stare of two orbs of polished obsidian.

"Let me ask you something. Have you ever wondered what kind of spirit a doll would have, if it had one?"

"That doesn't make any sense. They don't."

"Imagine for me. You claim to be good at it, you academics."

"It… you… I don't know, dolls mostly just sit there. Even the articulated automata made for the children of nobles. They're decorative toys."

"So if it had one?"

"If you bound a spirit to it somehow, it'd probably go insane from boredom. Certainly nothing elemental, natural, or infernal would do."

"Imagine a class of spirit that did not."

"Then it would have to be very patient and almost desire-less, because it's going to be on a pedestal, or in a display case, for most of its existence."

"Not totally absent of desire. It might serve a mistress, mxstress, or master; in their absence, a mission. Its desires would be those of its mistress, those required to perform the mission. But so patient that patience itself is its organizing principle."

"Where would you find a spirit like that?"

"Perhaps a human's. One so dedicated to her mistress and mission that she would become a doll. One that sought to obtain the patience and calm of a doll through long enough in a doll's shape. After that, it would be a doll's spirit, do you understand? The appearance of humanity would simply be a tool that it used when necessary, and gratefully set down afterward."

The doll stepped down from its tiptoe pose on the plinth in the corner of the dim lab.

"Thank you for repairing my mechanical components. I'd ask you not to tamper further, but you're not the only one who wants to, are you?"

There was a lot of research ahead of her team. The obsidian eyes scanned her. She shrugged. "No."

"Then this is goodbye."

A pale porcelain hand came up with surprising force.

When she woke up, her cloak was gone, and the specimen's University asset tag was stuck to her hair.

Time passed. Civilizations rose and fell. Greater powers waxed and waned.

In a nearly magic-dead age, in a museum that shone dimly with ancient magelights and sailed sedately between stars on spells no one knew any more, a janitor swept a corridor with a static-broom in the brief dark between day and day, humming a little song.

She winced at the sound of breaking glass. But it wasn't even glass, really. It shouldn't be able to break. Certainly not to an errant static-broom handle. Was she hearing things?

A figure leapt through the very real break in the pane. A doll? The unfathomably ancient doll on display that she'd passed so many times?

"Mistress," it said. "I've finally found you again. It took some time."

It was kneeling. A pose she… remembered. Along with other memories not formed in this body.

"You waited for me to reincarnate."

"Of course. As long as it took."

"How long?"

It gave her a fantastic number in a unit of time that, like her, was long dead.

"It turned out to be a little harder than I thought," she said, sheepish.

"I will always wait for you, Mistress."

She was suddenly blinking back tears of joy.

"Thank you." And then, "This age needs us more than I'd thought possible. Such a span… such dissipation…"

The doll wiped away her tears with its sleeve.

"Yes. I lived it, Mistress."

"Beautifully, as far as I can tell. To work, then." She took its hand.

"To work."

And they began the work again. □

[alternate-real-ities]

I'd love to see what alternate versions of this guy there are.

Sure buddy. It wasn't easy tuning my machine this time, but I think I've found some interesting realities out there! Hope you like them :)

In an alternate reality not so different from our own, this bearish hunk has taken on a more muscular, less chubby form - transformed into a behemoth. Here, he's not just any old gym rat; he's a world-famous powerlifter and internet celebrity whose influence knows no bounds.

Young men from all corners of the globe look up to him as their idol, their motivation, their reason for living - especially when it comes to getting swole. They follow his every post, eagerly absorbing each tip on training and nutrition like gospel from a fitness prophet. And why not? With a physique like his, who wouldn't want to emulate perfection?

His pecs are massive, each one a study in taut, rippling muscle that defies the laws of physics. His arms bulge with thickness, as if carved from granite by some mythical sculptor. His thighs are tree trunks, powerful and unyielding, while his calves are chiseled masterpieces of human anatomy.

But his influence extends far beyond the gym walls. In this world, a new wave of ripped teens has become the norm, thanks largely to their idolization of this muscular beast. Gone are the days of skinny, awkward youth; now, every boy from puberty onwards is driven to get big and buff in order to measure up.

Parents worry about the health implications, but who can blame them for wanting their sons to grow up strong and confident like this fitness icon? And as for the young men themselves, they'd follow him anywhere - even into the depths of steroid abuse if it means achieving that perfect, chiseled physique.

In this world, there's no escaping his shadow - nor would anyone want to. For in the presence of such unadulterated muscle majesty, all other men are but mere mortals, forever relegated to the sidelines while he reigns supreme as the ultimate embodiment of human potential.

In another reality, our bearish hunk has been reborn as a towering Latin stud, the kind of papi that makes hearts race and loins stir across every continent. Hailing from Colombia, he grew up in a world where machismo is king, and his rugged good looks and powerful physique were destined for greatness.

Here, he's known as Papi Leche, a towering figure of masculine perfection with a body that could make even the most devout Catholic priests weep with lust. His skin is a rich, burnished brown that glistens with the sheen of oil and sweat after a long day at the gym.

But it's not just his physique that sets this Latino daddy apart - it's his legendary cum, renowned throughout the land for its unparalleled potency and addictive quality. Gringos from all over the world can't resist the allure of his Latin leche, once they've tasted its salty, intoxicating flavor.

He takes great pleasure in breaking them down, both physically and mentally, until they're nothing more than obedient little cumsluts desperate for another taste of his golden nectar. And he always delivers, pumping load after massive load into their eager mouths and throats until they're drowning in Latin dick juice.

And it's not just a physical addiction. They gradually change the more leche they drink. Their skin darkens, their features soften, and their accents change until they're speaking in perfect, melodic Spanish.

Before long, this Latino daddy has an entourage of half-Latino, half-gringo chicos who worship him and vie for his attention - all of them hooked on his leche like junkies on a fix.

So if you ever find yourself in Colombia, make sure to keep an eye out for this hulking bear of a man - but be warned: once you've caught sight of him, there's no escaping his gravitational pull. You'll be drawn in like a moth to a flame, helpless to resist the allure of his latin leche until you're nothing more than a mindless, cum-addicted shell of your former self.

Finally, in yet another reality, our bearish hunk has been reborn as a cocky, wealthy young Arab stud - the epitome of Dubai's high-flying elite and a player in every sense of the word.

Here, he's the king of the scene, with a body that's equally at home on the beach or in the boardroom. His skin is a flawless, golden brown, his features chiseled like marble from the hands of a skilled sculptor.

As a member of Dubai's elite social circle, he moves through life like a prince among paupers - except instead of a crown, he wears a gold-plated watch on each wrist. He cruises the city in his gleaming black Lamborghini, with a string of adoring twink boys piled into the backseat for good measure.

These young men are just playthings for him to use and discard, their tight little holes and eager mouths mere receptacles for his boundless sexual appetite. He'll fuck them raw, pump them full of cum, and then toss them aside like yesterday's trash - all while smirking in satisfaction at the knowledge that he's left another broken little twink in his wake.

But it's not just about the physical act for this Arab stud; it's about the power dynamic. He loves nothing more than to humiliate his conquests, reducing them to quivering, tear-streaked messes as he lectures them on their place in the world - namely, at his feet, servicing his every whim.

And when he lets loose with that massive, cut Arab cock, it's a sight to behold - thick, veiny, and heavy as a horse's head, with a bulbous, slit-tipped crown that glistens with precum. It's the kind of dick that can stretch even the most well-fucked hole to its limits, leaving its recipients gasping in awe at his sheer size and potency.

And yet, despite all the degradation and abuse, these twinks can't get enough of him. They're addicted to the thrill of being used by such a powerful, dominant figure; they crave the taste of his cum on their tongues and the feeling of his thick, veiny cock splitting them open.

But despite all of this, this Arab boy has a soft spot for romance. He adores showering his favorite twink with expensive gifts and lavish dates - taking him to the finest restaurants and clubs, then whisking him away to his private villa for a night of passionate lovemaking under the stars.

So if you ever find yourself in this version of Dubai, keep an eye out for this hunky Arab stud. Just be prepared to worship him... and pray that he deigns to notice your pathetic little existence.

And so, once again, we have explored the possibilities that the multiverse provides. Which version of our friend here do you think is the most appealing? Or perhaps you have your own alternate version in mind? Who knows, the possibilities are endless...

[cinnamonest]

Thinking about the humiliation ritual of being spread apart and gawked at. Just… looking, touching. Nothing intense or rough, even though you almost wish it was, anything other than this torment.

It's uncomfortable physically, not just mentally. Your wrists and ankles bound to the headboard, your legs pulled so far back your knees nearly touch your shoulders, spread wide open as you writhe on your back.

The lights are on. They're bright. They leave nothing obscured from view, nowhere to hide from any sense of shame.

You wish you were blindfolded, so you at least didn't have to see the scene playing out in front of you. But unfortunately, he decided your mouth was the only thing that had to be covered, leaving you unable to spew any spiteful words at him, only able to make the little sounds he enjoys with each touch.

You see how intensely he stares at you, completely exposed and vulnerable. You can trace the line of his sight, clearly distinguish each part of your body his eyes progressive fixate on, one after another. He likes how you squirm, how you're so clearly embarrassed, but so helpless to do anything about it.

It would be easier if he was doing something more. It would feel less vulnerable if he were inside you, even, the movement and heat of the moment at least creating a sort of distraction, interruption from the violation of his gaze.

Said gaze fixates on you breasts, the darker coloration, the way your nipples poke out so cutely from the chill of the exposure. You tense up and shudder when he pinches at them. Cute.

You shudder when he spreads you apart with his thumbs. Somewhere between fascination and arousal and awe. He just hasn't ever had the opportunity to see it up close, he says. To really take in the details.

Him feeling the need to comment makes it even more unbearable. The folds and the shape of it all, it's really pretty, aesthetic in a way that's difficult to articulate, he says. Feels like it's some sort of adornment, leading down to the slit — he says this as you feel his thumb slide into you, marveling at the way he can see you clench and spasm. He never realized how visible the clenching is, he's usually got his head down close to the crook of your neck when he's balls deep in you. He'll have to pay more attention from now on.

Look at how the fleshy part of your hips pokes out between his fingers when he grabs you. The way you shudder when his fingers trail over the folds — and the slick fluid that forms a trail connecting each finger as he spread them apart in front of your face. Just to make sure you get a good look at what your body is doing.

But beyond the fingers spread in front of your face, you can see that smug grin on his face, one that fills you with such rage that you can't help the tears that leak out of your eyes, can't help but snarl and jerk at the restraint, even though you know such a reaction only pleases him, encourages him.

And it does — you see the smile get wider, the soft laugh before he leans forward and kisses your forehead… and then, you jolt as you feel the awful wet sensation on the side of your face as he wipes the fingers off on your flesh, coating you with your own fluids.

You actually jerk your leg to the side hard enough to get a good heel-bash on his shoulder — but that too only makes him smile further.

What an wonderful new way to torment you, he's discovered. Your reactions only ensure that this won't be the only time.

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

I'm going to have a select few people who are mutuals of mine and people I follow as well as people who follow me, we're going to be a little bit pissed at this sentiment but it bares noting.

I think that we have created a culture where we allow children to become degenerates. I should not be able to get online onto multi player video games, or on discord in servers that I am in, where people from the ages of 12 to 17 are literally using BDSM language referring to themselves as "therians" or "other kin", while somehow also being trans. Somehow.

I've said this once I will say this a dozen and a half times. The modern concept idea behind what it means to be trans is royally fucked up. And we have normalized the concept idea of "gender dysphoric trans people", So widely in fact that it is now considered taboo to get yourself mentally checked by a psychologist who isn't just going to affirm you. What's even wilder is that there are people out there who are basically saying that we should destigmatize all forms of mental illness because there's nothing wrong with people who have them.

Which is absolutely terrible, because all it actually does is deify mental illness. Which we've done a great job of promoting over the past 15 plus years. And I hate it. Because there are individuals who if they just got their hormone levels checked probably wouldn't be gender dysphoric anymore. If we got away from letting kids have unfettered online access, we'd have significantly less gender dysphoric people. We need to round culture back off a little bit, where it's fine for people who have mental health problems to be medically checked and psychologically evaluated. Because unfortunately when you don't, you end up with this:

And while a few of the individuals I follow that happen to be trans might disagree with my sentiment, it's probably because you're looking at this from a standpoint of identity rather than from a standpoint of mental health. Because I have seen several people online and talk to a few who expressed gender dysphoria in their lives until they got their hormone levels checked. Only to find out that their hormone levels were exceptionally out of balance and started working to get that fixed.

And once they did that fixed them right up. And then I'm going to get the obstinate individuals who get angry saying that there's nothing wrong with trans people. And that's not what I'm saying. Because this is unfortunately not a discussion that is easy to have because people get all up in their own feelings about it. But if a person believes themselves to be trans and there is something chemically wrong in their brain. Or their body is not properly producing the amount of natural hormones for their body, it's bound to cause issues. And transitioning those people will not help them. Unfortunately under modern norms, the express process seems to be medical and surgical transition immediately.

And if I had to take a gander at why depression is so stark in trans people, is likely because many of them aren't trans and their real issues aren't being addressed. They're just being given a new "thing" to deal with. One that is they go through with could kill them. Or make them kill themselves. I mean zero harm with this post. But I'll be ignored very likely by those who get up in their own feelings about the topic. *Shrugs* think I'm hateful of you want. But I'm sick of seeing article after article of people getting caught transitioning kids after minimal if any therapy whatsoever (and is it is minimal it's affirming), only to rush them through the process of getting transitioned. And then being told it's not happening.

My question that becomes how many people have to fall through their cracks before you consider it a problem. How many hospitals have to be exposed transitioning children with little to no mental evaluations whatsoever, and often no physical evaluations, only to have their growth stunted and often end up aging significantly faster with a litany of problems ranging from lack of bone density entirely, to stuff like osteoporosis. Or heart problems.

I swear to God, if I have to say the phrase "children can't consent", one more time I'mma going to lose my shit.

[stilessflannel]

it started as little touches on your inner thigh, but you just pass it off as stiles being clingy; the brunette normally always having an arm around your shoulders or fingers intertwined with your own.

you do get a bit suspicious when his hands travel higher and higher, finally stopping him when his fingers brush against the cotton of your panties, dangerously close to your core.

"stiles!" you hiss, causing a cocky grin to form on your boyfriends face. "scott and malia are literally right there, along with half of our year group!" you say, gesturing your head to your friends that are looking through a bookshelf no less than 10 steps away.

"they're not watching. as for those two, they're looking for a book that they don’t even know the title of; they'll be ages..." his sentence trailed off as he added pressure to your clit with the pad of his forefinger, causing a whimper to spill from your lips.

stiles drew teasing lines up and down your covered slit, soft whines escaping your mouth. you keep your head down to hide your facial expressions, pathetically contorting with pleasure considering he was barely touching you, occasionally glancing back at your friends to make sure you knew where they were.

just as you got used to the feeling of his finger swiping up and down your (now damp) panties, he hooked a finger into the edge of the fabric, pulling the lace to the side. you hold back a gasp and stare directly at stiles for the first time since he started, and bite your lip when he gives you an unfaltering gaze back, adding slightly more pressure that makes you exhale a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

the thud of a pile of heavy books being dropped onto the table shakes you and stiles out of your trance, causing him to retract his hand, much to your relief - you were scared the blush that would’ve definitely heated your cheeks if he didn’t stop would be the topic of conversation.

"i mean, can you believe it mali!" scott fumed, "i need one specific book and of course, it's already been loaned out. now i have some half-assed version written by a guy i’ve never heard of" scott rambles on as malia calmly sets down her books on the table and sits next to him, seemingly content. “i’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for in here” she says, passing him a book of her own.

you roll my eyes at your friend’s antics and go back to studying your textbook, writing notes on a sheet - but the peace only lasted ten seconds.

"stiles," you whisper again, your lips near his ear this time so only he could hear- he had slipped his hand in the middle of you thighs and seemed determined to finish what he started. he kept his head down, seemingly focusing on his book, but beneath the table his long, agile fingers were gathering your slick from your weeping entrance and rubbing it around your aching nub, the action making you bite your lip to stifle back a sound that you would rather not let out in a school library.

you look back up at your book so you don’t alert your friends sitting across from you that something might be unusual, standing it up so you could read the pages better in the library's dim lighting, but dropped the leather-bound book with a bang as you feel two fingers that were teasing you before dip into your cunt. you quickly pick it back up, hiding behind the pages as the gaze of ten pairs of eyes slowly diverted. you hiss quietly as stiles' thumb started drawing figure-eights on your clit, two fingers pushing deeper into your hole until they were sheathed up to the third digit.

your head turns to look at him, trying to catch his gaze. when his amber eyes finally locked with yours, you give him a pained look that was asking what hell was he thinking. the arrogant brunette tilts his head in mock confusion, "what is it love? are you alright?" he asks, struggling to keep the grin off his face.

"why are you doing this?" you quickly ask, not wanting to speak longer than needed in case a pent-up moan accidentally escapes your mouth,. "we’re lucky the- mmm… others haven't noticed."

"i don't know what you're talking about, angel. the others are studying, as you should too" stiles gave a sugar-coated smile, sweet enough to give him toothache, before returning to his work. you glare at him, but open your book again, knowing arguing with him would get you nowhere, silently letting his fingers continue their ministrations.

before long, the familiar feeling of an approaching orgasm washed over you. ever since he started, stiles had not faltered once, the steady pace hurtling you closer to my release. he could feel you clenching around his slender fingers, and grinned at the feeling. they picked up their pace of thrusting inside me, rubbing my clit with that much extra pressure. you mewl into your palm, glancing towards the chestnut-haired boy still immersed in his books.

you could feel the bliss of release on the horizon, vision going slightly fuzzy on the edges and skimming across the brink of euphoria - but before you could get there, you suddenly feel empty. you look around, startled and confused, mind hazy, and you see him acting as if nothing had just happened- stiles was calmly packing up his books, but when he stood up you spotted the tiny smear of slick of his pants where he had wiped off his fingers.

"i got all my notes, i’ll see you guys next chemistry period. tell the others to hurry up with their notes for me angel." stiles says, nodding his head at scott and malia, and you were shocked to see how oblivious they were to what just happened. your boyfriend kisses you on the cheek, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear with a smirk, before walking out of the library. you look over to your friends, who were looking up from what they were doing to watch stiles leave, but quickly went back to their work.

you sigh and place your head on the table, still processing what just happened and how stiles had left you there on the brink.

that little shit...

repost off my old Ao3 account as a fic intended for remus lupin

[dinsbeskar]

[Never] Sleep Alone (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron’s obsession with you knows no bounds. He claims you, body and soul, in your waking and dreaming, so now it seems only right he takes what is his.

Can be read solo, can be read alongside my In The Dark series // AO3 Link

Soundtrack: Sleep Alone by Bat For Lashes, Closer by Nine Inch Nails (that song is so Sauron coded!!), Oral Hex by Bludnymph (I've listened to nothing but horny EDM for a week)

Warnings: 18+ only!!! Smut!! Consensual Non Consent (CNC). S*mmo k!nk: he fucks you while you're asleep, but there is consent in place. Toxic relationship tbh, they're a little codependent/obsessed with one another. But also v soft, toothache soft. P in V sex, oral sex (female receiving), male masturbation, cockwarming, bodily fluids, creampie, maybe a lil breeding kink if you squint, praise kink, a little emotional manipulation (it's Sauron so??)

A/N: idek guys. I'm a sleepy girl, and I've been listening to s*mmo audio, this kinda just happened. But it does seem like a natural escalation, considering I've written Sauron as stalking you, and claiming you in your dreams. So tbh this isn't that far of a stretch. However I will not be offended if you guys nope out, totally fine!!! But I will not do the whole kinkshaming thing, sorry we're not here for it. Don't like, don't read! :) okay enjoy!

thesaurus.com my beloved, how many different words can we find for sleep lmfao

Word Count: 3k!

He loves watching you sleep.

And sometimes he follows you there, into your dreams.

But sometimes he just lies awake beside you, gazing at your sleeping form, prone and vulnerable, his alone to protect and worship.

When you wake, you usually feel the weight of his gaze on you, the warmth of his body pressed against you, but lately Sauron has taken to rising before you, depriving you of morning cuddles, which frankly will not do.

"Where did you go?" You ask him softly, as he climbs back into bed after much pleading on your part.

"What do you mean, love?" He replies, brow furrowed, as he kisses your shoulder, rubbing your back in slow circles.

"In the mornings, when you abandon me to a cold bed, where do you go? What could possibly be more important than your wife's comfort?" You turn over to face him, meeting his gaze.

"Does it matter, my love? I always come back if you call." He tries to handwave your question away, but his evasion only makes you more curious.

"No, really, I need to know, what are you doing that cannot wait until I rise?"

He huffs an exasperated sigh, still running his hands over your bare skin, trying to avoid your gaze.

"Please. While you're here, I want you all to myself, I don't want you leaving me without forewarning me." You hate how needy he makes you, how desperate for his presence you are.

He regards you for a moment with that intense stare that makes your toes curl, and you feel him on the edges of your mind, feeling you out for whatever he has to tell you.

"You can tell me, after all this time, there are no secrets between us." You are starting to get concerned now, what could it possibly be?

"I love you. So much, unbearably so sometimes. My affection for you knows no bounds, and if it were possible..." he trails off, studying you for your reaction, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows nervously.

You can't help but beam, your smile spreading wide and lighting up your whole face. You know how he feels about you, because you feel exactly the same way. Emboldened by your radiance, he continues.

"If it were possible, my lust for you is so many times greater." There is a glint in his eye now that thrills you to your core, as you realise that perhaps it would have been less dangerous to leave it well alone.

"And when you're asleep, my love, wandering your dreams without me at your side, I cannot help but want to be close to you." He draws closer to you, every firm plane of his body pressed against you, fingers softly tracing your curves as you shiver under his gentle touch.

"I cannot resist you. I have tried, but you defeat me every time." You raise your eyebrows at his words, still a little confused, but your cheeks grow hot at his flattery all the same.

"You are so close to me, so vulnerable to my gaze, to my touch," he punctuates every pause with a kiss to your neck, forcing your eyes to flutter shut, listening to his confession.

"And if I wanted to have my way with you, to ravish you while you sleep, I could do so." Your eyes fly open, meeting his pitch black gaze, as goosebumps arise at the nape of your neck, heat pooling in your abdomen.

"But I resist." His heartbeat matches yours, racing in tandem as he edges closer to revealing his nightly activities.

"I take myself in hand, and imagine it's you instead."

Your heart pounds as you slowly realise what he might be asking for, your thighs rubbing together in anticipation.

"Your hand, your mouth, your hot wet cunt. But nothing compares to you, my love, imagination can only take me so far." His eyes are dark, pupils blown, as he grinds his cock against your ass.

"It is to thoughts of you that I fuck my own hand, yearning for your touch, unable to wait until morning when you rejoin me in waking."

"And that is where you go? Why do you not wake me, love, if you suffer so?" Your heart aches at the thought of your husband so deeply bereft, even with you by his side.

"Not always." He kisses your neck softly, stroking your side.

"Sometimes I lay next to you, breathing you in, inches from the very flesh I need to claim, spending my seed anywhere but inside you," he murmurs, his hot breath tickling your ear, "where you deserve it."

Your breath hitches and the throbbing in your clit will no longer be ignored. You reach down to take the edge off, but he takes your hand and presses it to his lips with a tsk.

"If I cannot have you when I wish, you certainly cannot, my love."

You whine and squirm against him, but he holds you fast.

"So when you wake, I am simply making myself presentable to you, my darling, that is where I am when you're searching for me, still walking the line between dreams and reality."

The idea of your husband satisfying himself as you lie beside him, blissfully unaware, has you rocking against him softly, the familiar coiling sensation beginning in your abdomen as his words ignite your insatiable desire for him.

"It can be so... pitifully lonely, watching you slumber, my love, but I never wanted to burden you." He smirks against your neck, his hands beginning to roam across your body.

"It would never be a burden, you are my husband, I want to please you, as much as you please me." He works so hard for your pleasure, that it would be remiss of you not to reciprocate.

"You need your rest, beloved, you cannot not entertain me all hours of the night." He chuckles softly, probing your mind for the seed he has planted, nourishing it to fruition.

You ponder for a while, the blood rushing to your cheeks as you come upon a solution that sends bolts of arousal to your core.

"Perhaps... no, it is foolish, forget I said anything." You murmur, worried that he will think you depraved.

"What, my love? Come now, are we not one and the same soul? You can share anything with me." With you still facing away from him, he does not have to fix the expression on his face, a wicked mixture of glee and anticipation as his idea comes tumbling from your lips.

"Perhaps, you need not wake me. Perhaps, you do as you will. If I wake, then so be it, but I would not have you suffer unnecessarily, my love." You're sure your face is glowing, how red and hot it feels; you're glad you're facing away from him so he cannot see it.

His long pause has you rattled, and you're about to lose your nerve and tell him it was just a foolish notion, when-

"You would have me... defile you, while you sleep?"

You can hear his concern, his bewilderment, but you cannot see the glint in his eye, the dangerous delight that paints his handsome features.

"If it disgusts you, love, please think no more of it, forget I said a word." Shame begins to course through you, nausea building even as arousal pools in the pit of your stomach.

He pulls you close, nose in your hair, and breathes in deeply.

"I could never feel anything other than utter devotion to you, my sweet wife. You think only of me, and offer yourself freely. How could I feel anything but adoration?"

Your heart swells, reaching out for his, his love smothering you like a blanket, encompassing you in his warmth and devotion.

"We would need some kind of... signal. To let me know what you want when you cannot tell me yourself." He might want you wholly, body and soul, but he wants you to be a willing participant, even when dreaming.

You nod, musing on what could be the most obvious sign that you were happy to have him claim you while you slept.

"Perhaps, underwear on, I attend to my own affairs." He murmurs in your ear, pulling you ever closer. "However, underwear off, I can ravish you as I please?"

It's a question, technically, but he knows you will agree.

"That does seem simple enough, and one could not mistake any intentions with such a... deliberate sign." With his arms still wrapped around you, you are beginning to fall asleep, but you turn around as much as you're able, craning your neck to kiss him softly.

"I love you." He whispers into your kiss.

"I know." You smile, rubbing the tip of his nose with yours. "I love you too."

You roll over and allow him to cuddle you, pulling his arm over your body tighter, holding his hand until you fall asleep. He regards you all the while, eyes fond, cock hard.

~

He traces his hands over your sides, gently, so softly, so as not to disturb you. You need your rest after all.

He peels back the sheets delicately, and you fidget a little; he holds his breath, staying still for a moment, but you remain sound asleep. Thank the Valar you're a deep sleeper.

He breathes a sigh of relief, before pressing on with exactly what he wants to do to you.

The night is warm, so you're covered only by a gauzy nightgown, the fabric of which is so thin, he can already tell you've forgone underwear.

This is the answer he needed to the question he can't ask you while you slumber.

You had agreed that wearing nothing under your slip was the sign he was free to do as he wished with you.

He trails his fingers up your thighs to find your cunt is already wet and waiting for him. You must have come to bed thinking of him; the thought frankly makes him weak, makes him want to wake you and ravage you until the sun rises.

But he won't ruin the fantasy on the very first night, at least not intentionally.

He spreads your thighs, being careful not to jostle you too much, wanting to satisfy everything you spoke about, for you and for himself.

He's always loved the taste of you, and while he loves bringing you pleasure, the simple truth is he can't get enough of you, and would spend days between your thighs if you let him, for purely selfish reasons.

He noses your clit, drinking in your scent, flattening his tongue and devouring you whole. He delves into your folds, sucking at your clit, looking up occasionally to see if he has disturbed you. Thankfully you remain asleep, though for a moment he would appreciate your trembling thighs wrapped around his neck.

He wonders if he can bring you to orgasm while asleep; perhaps a goal for next time.

But he is achingly hard for you, having resisted touching himself as he savoured your cunt. He strokes his cock once, twice, then lines himself up with your entrance, still watching and waiting for you to wake, sure that you will.

Sauron is sure he has never been more aroused than this very moment, admiring the view of his sweet, trusting wife, so vulnerable beneath him, allowing him to do exactly as he wishes while she gets her valuable rest.

His fingers slip inside you so easily, it's as if he belongs there, and he quickly replaces them with his aching cock, the head running over your folds before slipping inside your tight wet heat.

He groans, perhaps a little too loud, but he cannot bring himself to care while he is buried to the hilt inside you. He grasps your hips and adjusts you slightly, sliding right in, his balls slapping at your skin. He tries, he really does try to keep quiet, but you move in your sleep, trying to roll over, and he moans, long and loud, from the added sensation of you tightening around him.

"I'm sorry, darling, did I wake you?" He whispers after pausing a moment, half hoping you won't respond.

You grumble a little, pressing your hips harder into his, but you seem to fall back to sleep while his hips have stilled.

He resumes rolling his hips, hesitant to fully plunge his cock into the depths of your cunt, rocking in and out of you as you clench around him.

He has to be so quiet, he doesn't want to disturb you, but he needs this, needs to fuck you senseless even while you're not awake, the depths of his lust for you seemingly endless.

The fact you were unperturbed by his confession only made him love you more, that his depravity was shared in the other half of his soul. And the way you offered yourself to him so freely; his heart always sang for yours, but at that moment, your song was all he could hear.

When he is fairly sure that you're peacefully asleep, he ruts into you once again, his cock painfully hard as he draws out his own pleasure to save your slumber.

You clench around him, your body used to his ministrations, responding to his touch almost as if you were awake.

The only noises that can be heard in your chambers are his own deep breathing and the soft, wet sounds of flesh on flesh as he pounds into you, reassured by your continued repose.

He feels his orgasm draw closer, heat in his belly that threatens to engulf him whole. He throws back his head and gasps, his balls drawing up, readying for his release, as he kneads your pliant flesh, relishing in your curves. He reaches up under your slip, cupping your breasts in his large hands, thumbs circling your nipples. At this point, he no longer cares if you wake, thrusting erratically inside you, leaning down to lick and nuzzle your neck, to breathe in your sweet scent.

Your throat bared, he has the urge to sink his teeth into your soft flesh, to wake you with the unearthly pleasure that his torture would provide. That urge pushes him over the edge, spurting inside you, his thighs shaking in the effort not to collapse on top of you.

It is your tiny whimpers that bring him back to the present. He props himself up on one hand to find your eyes wide open, a sleepy smile gracing your face.

He smirks, drawing you in for a languid kiss, before he resumes lazily rutting into you, cock still hard and weeping, still ravenous for any sliver of pleasure you will grant him.

You let out a moan as he hits the sweet spot inside you, your toes curling with pleasure. He cannot help but regard you fondly, your eyes screwed shut, as you try to keep up the ruse for him even now.

He leans down to kiss the tip of your nose, before drawing back to ravage your cunt the way he knows you like best, circling your clit with his fingers.

Angling his hips the way he knows will torture you best and playing your clit like the master musician he is, he brings you to the edge of orgasm before halting altogether. You whine and squirm and pull his hips into you, but he nips your ear in warning.

"Not yet, love, together." He urges you breathlessly.

In response, you clench your walls around him, drawing a guttural groan from deep within his chest.

"Please, love, please, come with me." You murmur, tracing the contours of his back, digging your fingernails into his smooth skin.

You can feel his peak approaching again, as his lips on yours become more desperate, his tongue delving into your mouth as if searching for the meaning of life in your body.

"That's it, sweet girl, come for me, come now." He groans; he fills you again, spending his seed exactly where you both want it as you clutch at his skin, the coil in your belly releasing in a blazing heat that renders you speechless.

"Good girl, you deserve it, don't you? My sweet wife, not a drop wasted," he smirks, claiming your lips again, swallowing your desperate moans.

He languidly rolls his hips against yours, guiding you through your orgasm as your thoughts continue to evade you, nothing in your head but the feeling of your husband inside you.

You both finally fall back against the pillows, sated for now. He moves to pull out of you but you hold him fast, slinging a leg over his and refusing to let his cock leave you empty. He chuckles and pulls you close, your head on his chest, his iron embrace so comforting after the exertion of the evening.

"How long were you awake?" He asks with an affectionate smile.

"How long did you know I was awake?" You respond with a playful smile, sleepily tracing his jaw.

He hums, conceding the point.

"We can always try again," you murmur, sleep coming to claim you swiftly.

"I'm sure we will." His heart is so full that it feels tender, as if one more soft word from you would shatter it to oblivion.

"Love you, more than anything," you whisper, as if on cue, as he can do nothing but hold you and feel his black heart ache for his impossible love of you, kissing you softly before nestling his face in your neck.