#v: Quake on the run

[pikkish]

Running through Dimension of the Machine again and noticing not for the first time that one of the runes has already been gotten for you, and that there’s a dead Operation Counterstrike marine by the deactivated slipgate. Were they the one who brought the rune back? Who were they, who was almost as determined as Ranger? How long ago was it that they conquered one of the six dimensions, and how long have they laid there, dead, before Ranger arrived in the Machine? Is it only coincidence that they were there first, or was it that Ranger was only intentionally drawn into the Machine once its first choice of champion had failed?

What’s their story? Did Ranger know them? Were they one of the Conterstrike operatives first deployed in the initial Quake incident? Were they fighting just as long as Ranger, only to die in the Machine just before he got there? Or were they sent out later, when Ranger never made it back home?

I doubt we’ll ever get that story, but I am still going nuts thinking about it.

[screampied]

࣪₊ 𐙚 YOU SAY IT'S BIG BUT U TAKE IT ?! ★

gojo, nanami, toji, sukuna, geto. you come home struck by a love curse and need their help on "recovering" from the after effects. (anon req)

𐚁̸ wc. 3.8k

𐚁̸ warnings. fem! reader, feral reader, love pollen/curse, unprotected, sukuna has two dicks, dirty talk, p in v, oral (f + m receiving), squırting, biting, spanks, dumbification, overstim, brēeding, premature ejaculatıon, mdni.

☆ SUKUNA RYŌMEN

“wha— you’re clingier than usual,” the curse grumbles as you burst through the door. you’re panting steadily. he was almost shirtless with his usual kimono that’s exposing his abs. rickety arms of yours wrap around his waist before you drop right down onto your knees. with a raised eyebrow, he huffs. “eh. should i even ask.”

“no,” you reply within a second. your voice inwas nothing but a pure trembly tune. your body . . it felt hot all over, some stupid pollen or whatever it was was responsible for your feral state. you were even smelling the definition of the word too. you were grateful he didn’t ask, alas instead—he crosses all of his arms before glancing down at you. pawing at his boxers to fall down, it comes down slowly. the wait was killing you as you glance at his huge hardened bulge preparing to be exposed. oh, you’re already drooling. you needed sukuna so bad, your thighs were already quaking. the air surrounding you both suddenly felt scorching and the minuscule goosebumps that reside amongst your skin felt even hotter. “i- i need a taste, ‘kuna. please.”

he hums in amusement. “oh? don’t let me stop you then, horny girl,” and an oversized hand grips onto the crown of your head. with a nod, he views as your eyes light up at the now hefty sight of his two flashy dicks. with a groan—he shudders once he gapes at your tongue and how it licks against the one near the front. “mhm, you little . . minx. good, take it then. enjoy your precious meal.”

sukuna’s in love with your mouth—with your tongue, you’re so sloppy and you just can’t help it.

running your sweet tongue along both areas of his dicks—every part, the base, the length, and even the sensitive frenulum—he groans loudly. it’s an almost roar that echoes through his chambers. both of his dicks which were visibly stacked amongst each other. one was in front while the other was in back. each were the same amounts of thick and broad. thickset and fucking heavy, you bob your head down against the first one until he shoots raw into your mouth within just a few minutes. “fuck, easy, e-easy,” he stammers, feeling you snake a hand against his neglected cock to stroke it, fondling with his heavyset balls.

hearing sukuna stutter does something to you. you couldn’t exactly describe it, but you wanted to hear more of it. his head tilts back slightly as his lips purse, preparing to click his tongue. “ugh, can’t handle you when you suck that good,” and he grabs you by the hair, making you return his lascivious gaze. “look at you. jus’ a cock drunken mess. got m-me,” and he deeply exhales. sukuna chokes on his own words, barely even able to finish his sentence.

you took so much out of him in such little time. truth be told, maybe this love curse whatever it was, was a good thing. spit races down both sides of your mouth as you happily keep his shaft warm into your tight throat. his cum was a lot, a bittery taste of his own lingers on your tongue before he cock taps against the roof of your mouth. if it wasn’t for you doing a simple trick with your fingers, you’d have gag. you wanted more, lathering your tongue against his tip with no shame—you then reach a hand down to play with your pulsing clit.

“mphm.” you mumble inaudibly, feeling him start to push your head further down. a chaffing smile goes against your mouth and he scoffs. you’re making him feel things. things he didn’t even know he could feel. sukuna’s cold heart significantly flutters at the sight of you. it flutters simply at how good you make him feel. it’s a feeling he didn’t want to stop. at least not yet.

“god, ‘m gonna cum again,” he inhales before exhaling lowly. as he does so, his chest collapses back in from his sigh before he’s now facefucking you. the curse’s thigh taps and clenches, muscles creating a flexion within the nerves stored inside before he sees you drooling for more. as the bobbing of your head’s tempo increases, he groans before making you stare dead into his eyes with a simple grip. “nasty girl. comin’ home just to slobber on my dick, look at that f-face, fuuuuck,” and the moment you end up making him cum for about the umpteenth time of the night, he’s embarrassed. face flushed, you’re switching between his dicks to give them both equal amounts of love before he moves you off from sucking him. “brat,” he glares, grabbing your chin as a few sloshing spurts of cum pour down your chin. sukuna then leans in to kiss you, his tongue tweaks against your lips and he tastes own arousal with no shame at all. shame never exists for a man like him—a cursed being like him. you moan, feeling a fang of his gently bite into your bottom lip before he pulls away. in a low, shaky tone, he grumbles. “wipe that smile off your face, woman. this isn’t o-over.”

☆ NANAMI KENTO

“my love?” nanami hoarsely pulls down the newspaper he was reading from his face. the glimmer of the g-shock he wore that wraps around his wrist ricochets against the chandelier hanging above the two of you. eyeing you closely, he leans back against his wooden rocking chair. “how was work? your boss take it easy on you today?”

“kento,” you breathe, getting right on his lap. you’re met with those same gentle fawn irises that’s captured your heart within an instant. a hand of his gently strokes against your waist before he watches you speak in such a needy way. “touch me— please, i want you so bad.”

nanami chortles lowly. “aw, i want you too honey.”

“no . . like, i want you,” and he sees how you’re glancing back at him with feral, blown pupils. nanami could tell how needy you were just from your tone and body language alone. he could never say no to you, his beloved wife. nanami knew you, and most importantly, he knew every inch of your body like the back of his hand . .

the moment he’s got you laid on your back, everything’s lost. it’s as if time comes to an abrupt stop. the moment you feel his thick cock ease it’s way into your cunt, you immensely swallow him whole. “so warm ‘n snug,” he whispers, bringing his lips toward your face to pepper various kisses against your skin. he’s so gentle with you, he always was. he cups your chin before giving you a deep kiss to distract you from the brief tang of you clamping onto him. “how . . do you feel? is this okay—?”

his low voice was so smooth—leisurely, he’s rocking his hips against you before he playfully nibbles near your chin. a hand of his intertwined with your fingers as he waits for your sweet response. “i- i feel hot,” you moan, throwing your arms around him. “more please, ‘ken. makes me throb when you touch me.”

nanami chuckles, a quick piston of his hips and your legs wrap around his slim waist. his cologne swarms around your nostrils before you whine again. you sound so pretty—melodious, each moan that escapes out of you sounds like a harmony within each lewdly musical moment that passes. “so the curse makes you more sensitive for me?” he coos against your neck, another free hand of his rubbing against your tummy. you’re just laid back, taking every appetizing inch of him and your eyes roll and roll to the very backs of your cranium. “my sweet girl,” and his voice—you could get off to it, you were already profusely pulsing from his deeply through strokes regardless. “i’ll touch every inch of this perfect body if it ‘cures’ you, mhm.”

his touch makes you more sensitive though. nanami was sensual, taking his time with you. his pace was not to fast or too slow. just right . .

his fat cock slowly jackhammers itself into you, irregular breaths sounding more and more jagged. as he’s talking you through it against the shell of your ear, you dig your fingertips into his back. as you run a hand down, you feel a tiny mole print against his skin. “kento, r- right there, riiiight there,” and you’re keeping the entirety of his waist hostage with your ankles. “cum in me, your cum’s gonna save me i think . . s-so, please.”

“you say such silly things sometimes, my sweet,” he whispers against your neck, giving it a long suck. you moan from his tongue flicking against the new mark he created before he’s quickening his hips just a tad bit. the bed creaks and sings, it’s as if it’s making a new mixtape with its noises. “but alright, if my baby wants me to fill her up so she can feel better, i’ll do that,” and before he shoots into you—he grabs your chin. “ah, but look at me though,” and he’s panting heavily, sepia-colored strands sticking against the sheet of sweat that goes against his forehead. “look at me. look into my eyes, wifey,” and he sneaks a kiss onto your trembling lips. thrusting into you at brimming speed, he groans. “atta girl, there she is,” he purrs at you, a thumb brushing against your quivering bottom lip. he looked at you as if he loved you, nanami was sweet but a secret filthy man at heart. only for you though. “wanna see that pretty face. think ‘m gonna give you a baby or two while ‘m at it, my love. f-fuck.”

☆ GOJO SATORU

“girl—could be a little nicer y’know,” gojo grumbles as you lightly flick him against his back onto the plump mattress. you were always no match for his unprovoked sass. with a teasing pout, he’s staring right back up at you as you straddle his chin. grabbing a fistful of his hair, you inch your pooling warm entrance against his face. “how do you even get struck by a ‘love’ curse anyway? thought that only happens in fan fiction, heh.”

“just shut up,” you moan, hovering over your boyfriend’s face. he was so pretty — just gawking at him alone had you going more feral. gojo’s eyes, they were always so ethereal looking. a bright blueish cerulean—almost a viridescent green with how it reflects against the bedroom light. “f-fuck, i want you to taste it so bad, ‘toru. want you.”

with an impish smile, he slides the side of your panties aside. “soooo, what are ya waitin’ for? let me eat this ‘curse’ out of you, angel.”

and the moment you plant your sopping wet cunt against his face, he’s ultimately determined to do so. gojo was a messy eater. it was really no denying it. you’re swiping your slick heat against his nose like a credit card and he eats it up everytime. drool pours from the corners of his mouth as he’s gripping your thighs with both hands. doughy padded thumbs of his pierce into your skin as you’re rutting against his face in rapturing pleasure. “like that baby, f-fuck.”

“go on—praise me some more,” he giggles, warm breath fanning against your entrance. your stomach caves and seizes in and out as you’re still moving all around. it doesn’t take long before your legs start to quaver. “call me a good boy, yeah.”

as much as you wanted to eye roll in the most dramatic way, you couldn’t.

you’ve got a firm grip into his white, snowy strands before giving it a solid yank. “g- good boy, ‘s good for me, ‘toru. think your tongue is working,” and your voice was so soft, its delivery was almost a mere whisper. gojo’s sucking against your clit, casually making out with it in such a sloppy way that’s he’s imitating a french kiss. you continuously pulse into his mouth, feeling him breath through his nose before he spanks your sensitive entrance. as he does such a thing, a splash of your own arousal goes onto his face. teasingly, he sticks out his tongue to lick it clean. “f-fuck.” you whine, and he starts to feel himself get hard. not from you calling him a good boy, but the view itself.

the view of you, riding his face, straddling him in such a sexy way makes him feel a raging hard on in his boxers.

oh, the way you were maintaining such eye contact.

so sensual, you use his face for your own pleasure, hearing your heartbeat arise at a more quick through your ears. the sharp edges of gojo’s teeth nibble playfully against your thighs before you whimper once he prods a lengthy finger inside. he’s located your g-spot just like that, immediately moaning aloud before his digit curls up into your gummy walls. “fuck, you’re so hot when you pull my hair, ‘s no fair,” and as you’re whimpering loudly, chewing on the skin of your arm—you end up finishing after a while.

the moment you do, you end up squirting a bit. it comes out in a tiny trickle—gojo’s face lights up as you’re struggling to keep your thighs open for him but he spreads them further apart for you anyway. “shit,” he exhales with a cunning grin, that smug expression you oh so desperately wanted to wipe off. “i didn’t know my girl was a squirter. maybe you should get struck by that love curse again,” and he licks against your pussy for a final time before spanking your folds. “let’s do that again. wanna get you real soaked tonight. i always like my girls messy.”

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

“no way you woke me up just so i could fuck you.” toji deadpans, bringing a hand towards the hair that sticks against his chest, scratching it for four long seconds. two arched brows of his curl into a furrow before he grunts. “i was havin’ a good ass dream too.”

“toji i’m gonna die,” you protest, tugging at his boxers. “i searched up the symptoms a- and it said that if i don’t do anything um— sexual related, ‘m gonna die within four hours.”

“oh boo,” he rolls his eyes, and you moan once you feel the roughness of his palm squeeze against your ass. toji pulls you close to him, so close that you could feel the heat of his body radiate against your own. so close that you could smell his natural manly scent. the strong manly musk, his scent alone had you throbbing right inside of your laced little panties. in a groggy voice, toji leans in to suck against your neck, earning out a mewling whimper from you. “fine, but don’t be surprised if i don’t let ya cum. my dream was really fuckin’ good.”

knowing toji—he was probably dreaming about being a millionaire, but anyway . .

he happily helps with your little issue by fucking you thoroughly into the sheets. harp hips of his penetrate into you again and again. you whine, bratty cacophonous whimpers spew out of your lips as you cling onto the milky, pale sheets. it’s probably been hours, the entire room has a candied aroma of pure desire and intimacy. toji groans as your cunt clamps against him tightly. two scarred hands of grab ahold of your waist before pressing it deeper against him. “mhm, ‘s it workin’ baby? needed a good fuck, baby?”

“y- yes,” you moan, strands of hair almost blinding your eyesight by how it continues to get in your face from the quick paced movement. skin against skin—skin tight. everything felt heavenly. toji’s husky pitched groans only makes you throb even more before he leans right up closer against your ass. “harder, fuck me, ‘toji. pleaseplease. make me cum.”

with his own heavy huffs of breath escaping, he gets all the way up close before raising a foot to press down against your head.

a shrieking gasp comes out of you at the angle. he’s buried so deep now that your pussy stings and smacks from his sack. his hefty sack that hangs. kissing his teeth, toji rolls his eyes back from how good you squeeze around him before groaning once more. “goddamn, y’er a little slut. wakin’ me up for dick, ‘oughta edge the shit out of ya,” and he grabs a nice amount of your hair, making you raise up. the soft, delicate wool of his sock still glides against your skin and you moan from his rude, overzealous tempo. “yeah? should the baby girl cum, or nah. personally, i‘d say no. you were bein’ a brat. 'love curse' my ass.”

you try to sit up but he only pushes you back down, your face smushed against your fluffed out pillow.

“nuh uh, sit the fuck back down,” he snarls, swatting a soft palm against your ass. you’re so close—you moan again as he deepens his hits. his rhythm that was once so decent was now sloppy and merciless. toji’s fat mushroom tip thwacks and thwacks against your clit so much that you could feel it’s delicious curve. it’s a tickling sensation if anything—but the last thing you were doing was laughing. as he tightens his grip a bit, resuming to rock his hips into you, he purrs against your ear in a throaty chuckle. “heh, oh so you can’t speak now? thought ya wanted me to go harder?”

“i- i do,” you try to explain, but it only forms into a sweet meaningless babble. “fuuuuck, ‘s good but take your foot off me, toji. your sock is um.. wet.”

“your sock is um wet,” he mocks you before lowering his foot. you cringe as he pitches his voice—you don’t even sound like that. as he’s still having you arched over, watching as you then hide your face into the crook of your elbow. with a final smack against your ass, he pulls out before letting off an offended, tch. “ungrateful ass.”

☆ GETO SUGURU

“rough day?” geto slyly smiles, watching you struggle to walk into his room. he locks his phone to get a good look at you. you’re heaving insane amounts of breaths, pant after pant squeezing out of your full lungs as if you’d just got down with a marathon. “aw, let me guess. that love curse again? baby, you really gotta stop gettin’ yourself in these positions. it’s silly.”

“suguru,” you whine, collapsing right into his lap. the way you flop onto him was so cute—you’re met with a smug grin and dark, inky eyes that’s taking in all of your features. always so pretty. he smells so good, it’s driving you crazy. “wanna ride you.”

“you always ride me,” he strokes your chin, staring into your eyes lovingly. his hair was pinned into a unkempt yet attractive ponytail. geto gingerly wraps a hand around your throat before whispering against your lips. “so it is that lust curse again, isn’t it? careful. startin’ to think you’re doing this on purpose just to ride me, pretty girl.”

it works every time though—because within minutes later, you’re riding geto on the plump sofa. he was trying to multitask, trying to send an important email but your hips always snapped him back to reality. eventually, his phone slips out of his hand. geto groans at the way your rhythm’s got him in such a chokehold. you’re unhinged, playing with your tits right in front of him that he can’t help but feel against your soft mounds himself.

“s-shit,” he hisses, your body forever an image embedded in his mind that he couldn’t erase. your pussy squelches against his cock and you feel him reach such deep angles all at once. his girth was enough to make your mouth salivate with slippery saliva. mouthwatering, the upward curve of geto’s dick has you going stupid, you’re whining constantly before you lightly shove him back against the cushioned furniture. “slow down, you’re gonna make me c-cum quick, baby, goddamn.”

perhaps your hips alone were the enemy all along, you’re barely giving him a chance to breathe and it turns him onever more. how feral you were—he could see how blown and needy your pupils were. as you wrap your arms around him, still jerking your hips forward, you pull him into a deep, passionate kiss. geto groans right into your mouth, it’s guttural. playfully, you twirl a finger around his hair as you’re fucking him. geto’s hand placement was against your hips, long pretty lashes fluttering every few seconds before he gasps. “baby,” he huffs, a slippery strand of spit leaving your lips as he tugs away. with half-lidded eyes and a flushed face, he moans again, yet this time it’s louder, a bit more pitchy. “i’m gonna c- cum, shit your hips is gonna kill me.“

“don’t waste it p- please,” you plead into his ear, the soft breaths of your voice that exit from your throat makes his dick twitch inside you. you’re still grinding against him, the tempo was so speedy that it gives geto whiplash. he was truly witnessing his life flash before his eyes—all thanks to your precious pussy, featuring your crazed hips. he hardly doesn’t know where to roam his hands—but they remain glued to your waist, attempting to guide you closer. “inside, sugu. spill it ‘n me, make a mess.”

groaning—his head tosses itself back in rapture as he falls into his lewd, anticipated embrace. he’s feeling hot and warm just like you. the warmth your pussy provided him makes him bite his lip.

“fuck, fuck, f-fuuuuck,” he swears once you suddenly pick your hips back up. after a few seconds once you gradually slow down—he’s shooting a warm load of cum into you. so gooey, it fills you to the brim and you slow down finally, still swaying against him to make sure it’s fully plugged full. it pours into you all at once, a whopping amount of seed that’s so much that it oozes between the crevices of your thighs. you rode geto so good that he doesn’t even notice the sofa had ended up collapsing. the sound was short and concise—he’s moaning once you wrap a hand around his throat, feeling the vibrations of his grunts go against your fingertips. “phew,” he swallows, still dumping a good amount of ropy amounts inside before he goes limp against the couch. geto still has your hips in place before he’s gasping for short collected breaths. with glossy eyes, he notices your needy smug grin, not showing one ounce of fatigue. “again, huh? fuck, let me catch my breath first baby, you’re fuckin’ dangerous.”

[wonderlilane]

running hsr simulated universe is really grinding my balls lately bc preservation is the only path i can survive long enough with to get 1k fragments but it's like. besties babygirls WHERE is your dps!! 🥲

[meownotgood]

as above, so below. / death sworn!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, reader uses gender neutral pronouns (but is referred to as 'farmgirl' once), mild violence / death, occult themes, blasphemy, power imbalance, size difference, fingering, riding, consensual mind control, mild painplay (viktor brands a sigil onto reader), praise kink, too much plot and feelings, death sworn viktor is hot and this is my explanation. happy halloween! word count: 16.5k

read on ao3

════════════════════

I felt it again. Weight at my shoulder, honed talons digging in. The same pitch black feathers fluttered at the fickle edge of my vision. A hand tightened onto my neck, onto my soul, measuring each foolishly clumsy beat of my heart. As the invocation lost strength, so too did the raven evanesce. 

I am getting closer. Death is taunting me, stringing me along with His cold palm outstretched — because He knows, to any end, I will follow. 

The candle wax from the sigil burned my palm quite deeply. I'll search for some cloth bandages to wrap it in, lest the villagers see the marks and begin their endless chatter. Hopefully the farmgirl will not be too concerned. I must continue to exercise caution; I cannot afford any crucial mistakes, not when I am so close to unveiling the truth. 

They will all understand, in time. Death, under no circumstance should you doubt my steadfast faith. My fealty will guide me, and if it does not, I will gladly become acquainted with the cold jaws of the underworld. 

— V. October 29, 1618. 

— 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

The simple persistence of your pounding heart is not-so-simple when the air is thick with smoke, when the sky is dark and knotted with storm clouds, and when each heavy, quickened step slams your boots into the earth firmer than before. Running. You have to keep running, faster and further than those who might still be chasing you. 

Sticks and fallen autumn leaves crunch under your feet like the breaking of bones. Your legs ache. Your necklace sways with your steps: thin twine with a small skull fastened on the end, tied deftly between the eye sockets. It thuds against your chest, rivaling every pound of your heart. Thunder booms overhead, the weight of it shuddering through you, promising a bleaker fate. The air runs crisp with coming rainwater. 

You nearly trip over a large fallen log, stopping, gasping, as you hurriedly lift your cape to jump over. Shouts ring out from behind you; This way, in the forest! 

Your jaw tightens. You take the opportunity to discard your lantern, tossing it as hard and as far as you can into the bushes. You stumble into a run again, leaving the light behind. The light of the dull, contained flame, the distant lights of the town, and the threatening flickers of the fading lit torches. 

You are going to die. 

It's contradictory for you, really. For ages, amidst your journaling and your research and your rituals, Death never once scared you. No, it enamored you. 

Where others saw a cruel end, a violent finality, you saw a chance, a hope. A moth emerging from a delicate cocoon; a new form of beginning. Your town would never accept anything they deemed as heresy, but you knew Death was meant to be revered. The Gods of the living quake at the sound of His name, merely because they know they cannot fight. They'll never be strong enough to stop the fate that will one day befall each and every one of them. 

Those Gods no longer watch over you. Their favor was lost the moment Death opened His arms to usher you in. 

You want to curse yourself for acting so foolishly. You shouldn't be afraid. This was the fate you wanted, the fate you accepted. It just wasn't supposed to happen now. Not now, not to you, not to him. 

And there is a very, very strong difference between admiring, between watching the maw of a flytrap open to sever the heads of whoever steps close, and finding yourself waltzing into the snare. 

The thick forest thins into a clearing, adorned with large, ominous structures encased in shadow — and your vision blurs, your ankle catching on a twisted bundle of roots. Thorns scrape your skin. You're just barely able to catch yourself with your hands as you fall, but damp dirt still cakes onto your palms and your knees. You brush some on your cheek, when you clumsily wipe your tears with your knuckle. 

Wind whistles in your ears playfully, mockingly. It led you here, despite knowing you hadn't intended to come back. Of course, this wouldn't be your first visit to the gallows today. The soldiers following at your heels must've been hoping they'd drag you here themselves.

You push yourself back up onto unsteady feet. Reaching up, you pull your hood back over your head, and desperately try to regain your lost breath. Puffs of frigid, wispy air spill from your mouth with each heavy exhale. Your cheeks and your fingertips are freezing. The forest shakes, trees rustling all around you. The gallows are quiet, aside from the creak of old wood, and the sway and subsequent thump of hanging rope. For the first time in ages, you are alone. Really, truly alone. Perhaps the guards have finally lost you. 

This moment of respite does nothing but remind you of everything you've been running from. As the trees rustle and the stormy sky bellows, your feverish mind can't help but repaint the picture you saw here at sundown, just a few hours prior. 

Deep shadows cut into the spaces between the crowds of people. The gallows were frantic. Your clasped hands shook in front of you, your face obscured by the shape of your hood. Rays of dying light framed the display: shades of blood red, vivid orange. Your heart shook your ribs, your vision spun. Your ears rang sharply as the people yelled and chanted. Yet, you refused to look away, as frightened as you were, even as they brought him to the stage. 

You won't turn away, not from this. Not when your throat ached from the sharpness of blood and bile, the executioners cutting through his shackles and shoving him forwards. Even though it was foolish, even though it went against what he told you, your feet stayed rooted to the ground, unable to move if they wanted to. 

You prayed for the first time in years — to the Gods, to Death, to anyone. It didn't matter who, because none of them listened. So you watched, useless and wide-eyed as the guards secured the noose to the structure. As a priest chanted some speech about witchcraft and the Gods and the occult. As his breath caught, his gaze dulled, sparks left him like doused flames and then- and you… 

And you were powerless, as you were from the start, as you always have been. 

Your heart twists: a weak, wilted rose, pathetically curling in on itself. Gently, you reach into the pocket on your cape. Your fingertips feel the crisp, folded edges of the note Viktor left you. It's still there, thankfully. You'd hoped you wouldn't lose it in the chase.

You've no need to read it for another countless time. You can recall what it said by memory. 

It's done. I have tried, but I cannot fight this. 

Swirly, cursive letters filled the small scrap of torn parchment, forming hauntingly familiar handwriting, etched in blood red ink. They blended into scattered, barely-readable puddles, where your tears had already fallen to fill the page. Don't follow… they will search… find you again… I promise. 

I promise. You would never doubt his words, you never have. But it's difficult, it's painful. How are you supposed to believe him, when you already watched him die? 

With a shudder and another meager breath, your legs buckle. You fall to the ground, landing on your knees in a weak, futile heap. Your heart pounds, splintering from within your chest — like clusters of quartz and sharp shards of stained glass. 

None of this feels real. You touch your fingertips to your pinched temple, your mind whirling and pounding with nightmarish intensity. Viktor should be here. He still has so much to accomplish, this wasn't supposed to happen when you aren't ready to lose him. Gods. You miss him so, so much. 

Viktor is — was — your closest friend, your partner and your backbone. You wouldn't doubt if his name was etched into each notch of your spine. Honestly, you would've followed him anywhere, with bloodied hands, or with a bleeding heart. 

You were a farmer. A peasant, tilling the fields in your uncle's farm with pennies as payment. Your parents left nothing for you after they died, no bequests or last wishes, so you accepted the offer your relatives had left you — a free place of residence, in exchange for helping on their farm. 

It was a good deal. Your only deal. But it was plain. It was monotonous. You hated how each day felt the same, blending together until all of it was useless, unimportant, and easily forgotten. You wanted to do more, be more. Constantly, you longed for a day when your uncle would quit scolding you, when your illusory chains weren't so tight, when everyone in your town would stop spouting the same useless drivel, and finally open their eyes to the truth right in front of them. 

Viktor put a blissful end to your cycle of tedium. 

He came to your village from a country you hadn't yet heard of. You learned from the townspeople's gossip that he was an inventor, and a renowned alchemist in his youth. Although his studies are mostly kept private, as of late. A councilman had died not too long ago, falling ill out of nowhere, just for his body to mysteriously go missing. Viktor had come to your little town to go through with his own investigations. 

Once he was finished, it was onto the next village, to follow the thread of unexplained deaths that continued to lead him from region to region. You were the one who convinced him to stay. 

Viktor was intelligent. Far too clever for his own good, really. He was handsome. Captivating. Tousled strands of dark hair framed sharp features, tired eyes, and pretty, perfectly-placed moles. Pale skin accentuated crisp blue veins, rivers of cobalt that ran through his thin arms and delicate hands. Intricate rings with various symbols carved into their shape adorned each of his fingers. 

The first time you met, your gaze darted everywhere, unsure of which detail to focus on. You noticed the cane he kept at his side, the wooden handle carved into the elaborate shape of a raven's skull. His palm ran cold when he shook your hand. And when he spoke, introducing himself in a polite tone, his words fluttered through you like butterfly wings — carrying the lilt of an unfamiliar, smooth, intoxicating accent. 

To say you were smitten was an understatement. 

It was a bit foolish, in hindsight. Your farm work grew neglected, as you spent less time at home, and more days with Viktor. 

Far before you met him, to ease the monotony that riddled your day to day life, you spent a lot of time reading. You studied anything and everything you could find. You searched for solace in the journals about Death that you'd steal from the library, because neither the librarians nor your family approved of you reading them. 

Viktor was studying the same thing, examining Death's grand designs on his own time. Missing bodies, the phenomenon of fallen soldiers rising from the dead, tales of people who'd almost died and claimed they'd caught a glimpse of the underworld — all of it had to mean something. Occurrences like this are far from mere coincidences. 

You thought so too. From then on, you just… clicked. Each fragile moment felt important, every conversation with Viktor felt effortless, it felt freeing. Finally, you had someone who understood you, after ages of detachment, years of speaking to yourself in a journal because no-one cared to listen. 

Viktor read through each and every page of your notes, praising your findings. He excitedly murmured that yes, you've made so much progress, you should be proud. And this is precisely what he needs to take the next step in his research. If your notes were combined with his, surely the both of you could reach a breakthrough. 

And so, you were friends. Partners, even. You admired him, respected him. The both of you were close in age, and it was easy to bond over your shared ideals. Especially when the two of you trusted no-one more than each other. 

You worked together, furthering your research in secret, working on inventions as a front, while performing seances to try to speak with Death yourselves. 

Viktor drowned himself in his work, far more than you could. To a dangerous degree, sometimes. He believed in multiple planes of existence, that the end was merely a beginning. Now, it would seem like Death held more untamed power than he initially thought. Death is planning something, perhaps hoping to gather more followers, or to overthrow the Gods of the living. 

Those who did not worship Him would soon learn to kneel. This was the future Viktor truly sought. 

An end that planned to devour. A glorious future that flipped life on its head, blessing His followers with touches of soft rot and violent warmth. None of it scared him, so it didn't scare you. You trusted Viktor, and wherever he led you, you were prepared to follow. 

He knew his research was forbidden. Those in the village could never know the truth of what he was studying, and he intended to keep it concealed until the time was right. The strange happenings that had been occurring throughout the town already had people on edge. Any death-worshippers or cultists or witches, whatever the council wants to call them, will be dealt with as soon as they're discovered. 

Mercy wouldn't be afforded. Still, it was a risk he was willing to take. 

You both thought you covered your tracks well. Viktor never told anyone what he was studying — not a soul besides you. 

Perhaps it was because the inventions he made would've changed the lives of the less fortunate. The council are as selfish as they are precautious. Perhaps they were suspicious of him from the moment he came here, and if you hadn't convinced him to stay all those years ago, he'd still be alive now. 

Your heart aches, killing you from the inside before anyone else could do it for you. Blades of grass tickle your knees, sharp wind brushes your skin with all the gentleness of a cut from a knife. The trees whisper to the darkened sky, which answers with murmurs of loud, rolling thunder. Faint droplets of rain begin to patter onto your shoulders. Your bones run cold with a deep, freezing chill. 

By the time you arrived at his study, there was nothing that could be done. The door was busted open, his belongings scattered and toppled. There was no trace of him, nothing but the note he left for you, tucked into a stack of journals on the desk you once shared. 

Shakily, you breathe a slow, uncertain sigh, and you reach up to absently clutch your necklace. It does little to calm your budding nerves. You run your thumb over the notches in the bone, the surface damp with small raindrops: a raven's skull. The necklace was a gift, mimicking the motif that once adorned his cane. A present from Viktor to thank you for all you achieved together. 

So we match, he mentioned, placing the necklace into your palms, just barely brushing your skin with his fingertips. 

Where will you go now? You can't return home, your relatives surely know the guards are after you, and they won't hesitate to turn you in. Viktor hid your involvement as much as he could, but even if the guards only planned to question you, one look through his notes and journals and you would be finished. You can't take that risk. 

You heard that when he was captured, he never denied any of the claims they tossed at him. They were the fools, and they will burn for it, they will die for their single-minded beliefs. Death holds no mercy for those who dare to defy Him. 

But would Death allow a merciful end for his most devoted followers? A small part of you, battered and bruised, foolishly hopes so. 

Wind whips around you, and raindrops pelt your back and your skin. The sky splits with a fervent crash of lightning; your shoulders tense, as you fight the sharp, rabbit-quick beating of your heart. It thumps in your own ears, just as loud as the rock of the trees and the hammering of the rain. You can't stay like this. You have to keep moving, have to keep breathing. 

Once again, it isn't easy. You attempt to rise to your feet, but your legs tremor, unsure if they can carry you any further. 

Your mind wraps around to the same thoughts over and over again. To the gallows, to the pain in your chest, to Viktor. A sinking sensation fills your stomach, a mantra that repeats with the whisper of the wind: you aren't meant to be here. It digs underneath your skin, pleading a command to run, to get out as quickly as you can and not stop until you are far, far, far gone. 

You almost manage to move. You stare down at your knees, blinking, fighting against your misty vision. Your grip tightens on your necklace until your knuckles are aching. The storm echoes around you, tugging at the trees, howling through the gallows. Rain drips down your face to blend with your tears, mercilessly hitting your back to throb against your spine. 

If you were to get up, it would hardly matter. This is it. You have nothing left to return to. No-one left to fight for. You failed him, just as you failed all you believed in. Darkness seeps in, and the moon shimmers, as its crescent dips into the highest point in the sky. 

Perhaps all you can do is wait for the night to take you. 

Though, the darkness does not. Instead, it sparks. 

With your head tilted down, your gaze focused on the ground, you watch the rustle of the earth underneath you. Faint flickers of blue fire start as patient wisps. Curling at your fingertips, hardly allowing themselves to be noticed. Then, all at once, they begin to feed on the thin blades of grass, surging into flames that seek to swallow everything in their path. 

You hurriedly stumble back. You support your weight on your palms, before the fire can reach your knees. The gallows are scorching before you, all of their glory engulfed in a sea of deep blue flame. It defies reason, the sight has your heart lodging into your throat until it's practically choking you; the flames refuse to falter under the rain, causing the wood to creak and decay. 

Ash crumbles down and coats the dirt. A wooden beam at the top of the structure comes crashing down, hitting the ground with a deafeningly loud crack that rivals the resounding boom of thunder. 

Fire, there's so much fire, it's all you can see, all you can breathe in. The wind tosses your fluttering hood from your head. Blue flames ripple at the edges of your vision, reminding you of burning parchment. 

You can't move. There's nothing you can do but watch, listening to the pound of your own heartbeat as the flames continue to surge. Oh, you were wrong, so wrong. Your end was never meant to come at the hands of some insignificant soldiers. Right here, right now is where you'll finally crumble. 

Death has come to take you for himself. Fitting, for the two of you to die here together. 

As the gallows crumble, at the center of the clearing, a sigil inscribes itself into the dirt. It burns in the same shade of deep blue, scrawling a few feet in front of you to a careful, intricate pace. 

It starts at the outer edge, forming a circle encased by runes. They bear resemblance to runes you've studied, but none of them are decipherable. The mark shines brighter when it completes, forming a triangle at its center: the symbol for life at its apex, the symbol for death at its side, and a final, skull-shaped symbol carving into the last point. 

An inferno manifests from the symbol. Thunder splits the sky, the tempest tugs at your clothes and toys with your necklace — but the fire changes, the flames form a shape. A staff rises from the ground, lit by a radiant, glowing crystal, grasped by a large, armored hand. 

Blue smoke wisps ominously from the newly-summoned figure — A man? Is it even a person, could it be Death itself? The occult books you've studied told you that if one were ever to look upon Death, their heart would instantly cease to beat. But yours is still pounding, still knocking at your ribs and making your blood race. 

The sigil calms, giving off a dull glow underneath his boots. His figure is framed with a crimson hooded cape, much like yours. Bulky pillars of armor rest on his shoulders. An eye with a sharp, slit pupil curves from a line of smoke impaled into his back. It flickers over you, regarding you with something all-knowing. 

Surely he stands several feet taller than you, and from this position — you're cowering on the ground, your knees folded like a skittish baby deer's, your eyes wide and your breath catching — he practically towers over you. His staff hums from the weight of what must be unfathomably powerful magic. Panic laces through you, your lungs aching, your throat dry. But your head also spins with intrigue, with eagerness. 

Your research was founded upon hoping an event like this would happen to you. And here it is, a true being of Death, formed right before your eyes. Watching you, sparing you. 

So why, why are you still alive? 

The figure's head tilts. Raindrops, fewer in number, patter onto his head and tap against his armored shoulders. He's clearly gazing down at you. You aren't met with a face, nor with anything human. Instead, you're forced to stare into the intimidating outline of a glowing, skull-shaped mask. 

"I believe," His fingers drum against the length of his staff, and his voice echoes through your mind, drowning out the raging storm, converging with your own racing thoughts, "I urged you not to follow me." 

You freeze. Everything stops, until the skip of your heart in your chest is all you can hear. Your veins run as cold as an icy, frozen river. 

Oh. That's Viktor's voice. 

— 

Time seems to ebb away much faster when you know it has afforded you boundless infinity. 

For six months, I have been Death's herald, and with each passing day, I have felt the veiled web of power within me fester. I do not regret my decision. Flesh was nothing more than a weakness to be shed. But it is gradually growing impossible to tell where Death ends, and I begin. 

Vitality. Depravity. Desire. Every sensation burns within the fire that replaced my heart, forceful and inescapable. 

A part of me does fear the way Death has begun to evolve my mind and my vessel, but I believe my partner understands what I have become. Foolish as they are. 

My previous theories will need to be amended. The mind, the soul, and the body are separate, as well as equal. It is in the palms of another where the pieces that remain of you can truly coalesce. 

— V. Unknown Date, 1619. 

—

The solemn throne room, which once brimmed with beauty and life, now settles under the thick weight of darkness and demise, falling silent in the wake of your destruction. 

Large quartz archways crumble slightly, chunks blown off from powerful, laser-focused blasts of dark magic. Tall, warm columns of stained glass shine in every muted color, reflecting the bright light of the full moon. Grandiose statues and tattered flags line a pathway to a curving staircase, which leads to a noble, black-marble throne. 

Empty suits of armor litter almost every inch of the floor, to the point where you have to delicately step over them to reach the very center of the room. Steel swords and bows remain close by. And on the outer edge of the throne room, cowering in a corner, lies the charred remains of the king's robes, and his chipped, glittering crown. Death has claimed their bodies, along with their souls. The fate they befell here is hardly the worst in store for them. 

You gaze up, examining the intricate paintings laid onto the ceiling. They depict multiple figures. You recognize angels, with muted colors, harps, and fluttery dove wings. At the outer edge, there is the moon and stars, with a metaphorical illustration of Death — a satyr with six arms and four horns, shielding himself from the light. 

Amusing, to think that a handful of angels and a meager army of soldiers could stop what Death planned for them. For you and Viktor, the task was trivial. 

The knights will make strong servants. Lord Death will use them well, to build His steadily growing army. The king, on the other hand, will likely be punished — for ever believing he could escape his own grim fate. 

"Magnificent." A familiar voice lilts into your ears, thick with a smooth accent, echoing through your mind like the ripple of a rock thrown into water. "But of course, our purpose is not yet complete." 

You glance back towards him as Viktor admires the sea of destruction, a low wisp of flame idly twisting around his fingertips, before he casts it away with a flick of his index. The edge of his cape is slightly torn, singed from the aftermath of powerful flames. His staff glows gently, likely regaining the power it expended. 

This new form of his is… imposing. If you were someone who stood in his way, and if you weren't already used to this, the sight of him alone would make you fear for your life. He is tall — large enough that the top of your head barely reaches his chest, and your neck must crane to look up at him properly. And he is strong; his body is constructed from blue smoke and figments of dark magic itself, rendering him immortal, and near impossible to touch. 

Nearly. 

Viktor hums, and the threatening, armored eye that floats above his shoulder flickers, surveying the scene with quiet intensity. Death's Eye, the token that provides him with a great portion of power, and watches over while the both of you carry out Death's bidding. 

"I trust you are pleased with this outcome," Viktor murmurs, his tone cold and practical. "We will travel north next, as you demanded, and continue with further vanquishment. You will be informed when we reach our next target. Until then, Glory to the Underworld."

You nod, slightly nervous, bowing your head and neatly placing your arms behind your back as the eye flickers over you, next. "Yes- Glory to the Underworld." 

Seemingly satisfied, the eye shifts. Smoke dissipates from the line connecting it between Viktor's shoulders. Then, Viktor snaps his fingers, and the eye disappears without a trace. 

"There." Viktor turns towards you, and your gaze is met by his skull-shaped mask: fit with intricate engravings and two small divots, not-quite-eyes lit by twin flames. "We are alone." 

Fear does not course through you, even if it should. Instead, a small smile forms on your lips, pleased and eager, almost smug. As soft as it was on the day you met him. 

Once again, as if you had never once lost each other, Viktor is your ally, your partner. Your closest confidant — and yet, everything has changed. There are some things Death can take, but regardless of His strength and omnipresence, can never return. 

Viktor's form no longer resembles who he once was. The details you'd memorized have been cast aside in favor of a stronger, more formidable chassis. A means to an end, Viktor explained. The body matters less than the mind, and so it only made sense to destroy and rebuild it. This is only fitting, for one of Death's chosen Sworn. 

His voice is the same as you remember, when it lilts smoothly through your system. He still has the same sharp intelligence you once might've found yourself falling for. His memories, thoughts, and ideals are intact. Viktor was quick to reassure you of this, reminding you of the secrets only he would know. Your research would've told you to be wary, your notes reminding you that Death is greedy, and does not give up a soul once He has caged it. 

At some point, you stopped listening to those notions. It matters little to you. Viktor is yours again, until the earth crumbles, until the sky and sun burn out — and really, your meager, loving heart couldn't ask for anything else. 

Death is not an unjust sovereign. And so, in Viktor's own words, when he first reached the underworld, he was offered a choice. 

He was promised a chance at resurrection: a reward for his undying loyalty. But in exchange for power, your research partner would need to swear much, much more. 

He would be given power beyond anything he could dream of, a new body, a chance at revenge. All he must do is agree to complete His bidding, working as Death's right hand. Death would instruct Viktor with building an army, with reaping souls to fuel the underworld's lifeblood. Anyone who stood in the way of His vision must fall. Or, he could refuse, and instead embody what remained of his lost soul, as it gradually withered away into dust. 

It was a simple choice, really. Now, those who opposed Viktor's vision will not just bow to Death. They will also bow to him. 

From there, it would've ended rather simply. Viktor would have taken up Death's mantle, and you- You would be left to time, most likely. Another forgotten soul, drowning amongst the endless sea. 

But Viktor made you a promise, and it was one he did not intend to forget. 

The deal he proposed with Death came with one stipulation. His partner — you — would be spared, and if Death willed it, put to use. You are mortal, sure, but you were as dedicated and talented as he once was. With the assistance of a small fraction of power, you could become a worthy disciple. 

You would have nothing to fear, not ever again, Viktor promised. As long as you knelt close to his heel. 

And so, on that fateful, stormy night, you took Viktor's hand when it was offered to you, and became a fellow servant of the end. You left your town behind — all of them, everyone who had once forsaken you. Your village and the townspeople and your farm, deeply drowned in a sea of blue, fierce flame. 

There was nothing left for you, nothing but this. Besides, you had no doubts. For Death, for Viktor, you would do anything. If Viktor asked you to burn the world to the ground, you would swear to leave it in nothing but ashes. 

Your gaze flickers up from your feet, your thoughts roused as Viktor motions for you to follow with a subtle crook of his finger. And as though you would follow him anywhere, you trail behind with quick, eager steps. 

He leads you over the discarded bodies of the soldiers, guiding you to climb the room's centerpiece: its winding staircase. The long, laced edges of your dress brush your ankles when you carefully grasp and lift it, trying your best not to trip. Viktor leans his weight on his staff, uses it to walk, which is hardly needed, but it's still second nature. 

Your hands clasp in front of you, your dress gently swaying. You watch him set the staff aside, before he takes his rightful seat at the throne. 

He looks like he belongs in a throne, to you. 

For a moment, you fiddle with your thumbs. You glance away, looking at the discarded remnants of the old throne room. 

"That almost seemed too simple," You muse, brows furrowed together slightly. "Will all of humanity be this weak?" 

Viktor leans back. He rests his elbows on the arms of the marble throne, his large legs spread while he clasps his hands together: one armored, almost mechanical. The other delicate, with thin fingers and wispy edges. Soft plumes of mist spill from the gaps between his mask and his tattered hood. 

"Mortals are weak by nature," He explains, assured as ever. His voice echoes, syllables resounding against one another, and his fingers gently tap his own knuckles. "They blind themselves, and then ramble about the truth, without realizing they are still pulling wool over their own eyes. You know this." 

"I do," You murmur, breath catching at the sight of him. Your spine still tingles from the thrill of your victory. "We've seen it countless times." 

"Those men were especially amusing to destroy." Viktor huffs, something between a chuckle and a sigh, and large puffs of cerulean smoke billow from the gaps between his mask. "Men like that impudent king are not even worth the mana. He believed himself to be some form of prophet, only to begin begging to his worthless God once he knew he'd been surpassed." 

Then, Viktor laughs, low and maniacal, as his thighs part more to let him lean back even further. "Pathetic, was it not?" 

With his entire army felled, the king pleaded for someone to save him. Sweat beaded at his forehead, and his panicked eyes shimmered with a spectral glow, reflected in the light of Viktor's staff, pointed right towards him. The Gods did not intervene, like the king swore they would. Death did not lose, like his legion of false mages once prophesied. 

Rather, Viktor merely chuckled, and said nothing, before a single focused thread of magic reduced the man at his feet to dust and bone. 

Your spine shudders sharply. Anticipation settles onto your back, pooling within your core, hot as cinders. 

Thinking to yourself, you allow your gaze to travel across the throne. Old banners, lined with gold thread and embroidered with royal symbols drape beside the tall walls of stained glass. Intricate shapes are carved into the throne's smooth marble. A sun and moon, a cross of swords, and an ouroboros-like depiction of a wolf, and a lamb. 

"He was the same as every king and sovereign we have faced." You take a step forwards, your shoes clicking against the smooth stone floor. "Weak. Witless. Disappointing." 

Viktor watches silently as you approach; your fingertips trace the arm of the throne for a moment, studying the detailed runic engravings. Your gaze glimmers, jeweled and lovely, glittering across him — like prey, teasing the jaws of a predator. A smile crosses your features, one that radiates control. 

"They pretend they are capable of holding the world in their hands-" 

Your voice is kept low; with a palm on his shoulder giving you leverage, you slide into his lap, settling onto his firm thighs — spread as wide as the square throne will allow. 

You're barely whispering, now: "Even though they're toppled as easily as the rest." 

Your body is much, much smaller than his, but sitting in his lap nearly puts you at equal height. Your palms gently brush over the cold pillars of armor on his shoulders. You let your hand press to his chest, tangible and icy. Smoke wisps around your hand — hungry, possessive — as though it seeks to swallow you in. His head tilts, invisible gaze seemingly following your movements, regarding you with a lack of emotion you can't place. 

It would be impossible to tell what he's thinking by sight alone. The Viktor you remember would glance away, or perhaps let his brows furrow. He might coax you with nervous touches, or persuade you to move with careful, logical arguments. 

But this Viktor, frigid and magic-bound, a vessel for ruination — he stays silent, and leans back to offer you more room, his steel-clad hand grasping your side. His touch is as natural as it is unnatural. The clawed fingers of his gauntlet briefly press into your skin through your dress' fabric. His hand settles just above your waist, as though it were meant to be there, with all the familiar gentleness of an angel's winged embrace. 

Your heart stirs, pounding quickly as your body acts before you can think, pliantly leaning into his touch. Your throat feels tense, your skin warm, a newfound taste on your tongue fierce like sweet ichor. For you, it isn't enough. 

So, you press closer. Your long dress drapes over his thighs, smooth black satin against armor and miasma. Your fingertips find the rough edge of his mask, and they trace it with delicate intensity. Viktor's only reaction is to let his large hand travel down, his palm encompassing and squeezing your waist. This time, with a practiced, careful, knowing touch. 

Viktor is the most intelligent, perceptive man you have ever known. And he knows you, enough to make you certain he realizes precisely what you're playing at. 

Your dances always begin like this. You can't help but let a smirk pull at your parted lips. 

"Tell me," You're murmuring, slowly leaning in. Deep blue smoke begins to wisp around your figure, brushing against everything it can touch, but you hardly seem to mind. "Is there anyone who could possibly stand against us? Anyone worthy enough to threaten you- to defy Death's most loyal harbinger?" 

Viktor pauses for a moment, before speaking. 

"Humanity adapts when threatened. There are people to the north, who have begun to use tomes to teach themselves how to wield magic." 

You scoff, "Powerful magic?" 

"No. Not when compared to what we possess." Viktor's masked gaze regards you emptily, as you draw shapes with your fingertips onto the intricate curvature of his shoulders. "They may be difficult, but they will not be impossible. In the end, they'll be slaughtered like the rest. No soul is capable of succeeding against our absolution." 

"Viktor," You coo his name like a nightingale, "Won't Death be proud of us?" 

Of us. The both of you have come so far, from the foolish, loathed scholars you once were. Wouldn't the younger versions of yourselves be proud of how far you've come, of the power the two of you have gained? Or would they despise this, would they cling onto humanity the way you and Viktor have failed to? 

"He will be satisfied," A drag of his hand, gripping and guiding your waist, rocks you much closer to him. "Once the task he sent me to complete is fully accomplished." 

You sigh; his voice blends through you. Burning like light, syllables thick and reverberant. Gods, you can barely focus on his words anymore. 

Leaning forward, unable to stop yourself, your lips press teasing, idle kisses to the firm side of his mask, to fill the empty space left when he quiets once more. With another kiss, brutally warm, you're curling your fingertips into the ice-cold smoke that would be his face, you're gripping the underside of his mask tight. 

Frigidness bites at your fingers. His mask feels rough against your lips. You place playful imprints of promises you wanted to keep, of touches you wanted to inflict before there was this. 

When your lips could have pressed to soft pale skin and star-placed moles. When tender kisses could have led to firm touches, and hands toying where they shouldn't belong. Warm bodies pressing together with the warmth of liquid gold, like they are each other's vice. A time where the vision you had for the future and your studies and the frailty of life mattered less than each other, and — 

Viktor stirs. His free hand glides over the small of your back, making you arch and curve into him, but his armored palm grasps your face, roughly dragging it back. The smirk that beams across your face is wild. 

"Viktor-"

"Stay still." 

His echoing voice is firm — Your breath catches, but you oblige. 

"Dove." He tsks when you're silent, half-amused, faux-annoyed. The familiar pet name makes your heart twist and flutter. "Are you sure you want to do this here? You cannot wait?" 

You breathe a light laugh, your cheeks slightly sore from his stiff, squeezing touch. Gaze flickering, eyes slightly rolling, you hum, "Don't we deserve a reward? To- I don't know, to celebrate our victory?" 

"We?" Viktor chuckles darkly. His hand shifts, armor cold on your skin as he grips the back of your neck like you're a scruffed kitten. "You wish to be rewarded." 

Your head spins. Your whole body shudders, rich with a clear lack of restraint. The difference in power between you is staggering. 

Beneath his fingertips, you can feel the thrum of magic, necromantic and heady, pulsing at your throat. It courses through your mind with strength that aims to conquer. This sort of magic puts the fear of Death way deep in your stomach. Threads of soft smoke flush over your skin. Your veins tingle. The power you were gifted is not like this, not this forceful, not so carnivorous. 

And yet, even as everything within you shudders, instinctually flinching at the violent weight of rot against your skin, all you can believe is that he deserves to own this power. Viktor should satisfy himself with more, with as much as he desires. The two of you have fought for it, and now, you should get to enjoy it. 

For a moment, you think he has you pinned. But your beloved partner blesses you with mercy. 

"We won," He purrs; and there's such delicious contrast, between the mercilessness Death's closest apostle — Viktor, your Viktor — shows your adversaries, and the patience, the earnestness he extends towards you. 

"Those who dared to oppose us are dead. You did excellently, you are growing stronger. You were very, very good. Is this what you wanted to hear?" 

Viktor speaks close to you, allowing you to feel a frigid brush of smoke fanning out over your skin. His voice resounds through your mind and your eardrums. Your hands threaten to shake, each of his words carved especially for you. Only for you. 

"Yes- Vik," Your breath stutters, flowers in your throat budding with hunger, "Please." 

If he was capable, Viktor would certainly be smirking. A confident, assured grin, like the kind he'd flash after his intricate notes resulted in a successful hypothesis. Your heart pounds loud in your ears, his fingers idly curving over your neck, igniting a famine in your chest. Perhaps he knows more than he's letting on. Perhaps he's realized how terribly you've needed this. 

"Coy, aren't you? Asking so nicely." Viktor guides his opposite, magic-worn palm down your back, tracing where the ridges of your spine would sit. 

Your eyelids flutter, and you're sure it doesn't go unnoticed. You force yourself to breathe deeply, your lungs filled with the warm scent of him: of flame, and ash. 

"When we were Death's mere students, you were often receptive to positive feedback." He continues; his hand maneuvers, pressing his index finger underneath your chin to direct it. "But you were never this insatiable." 

The encompassing lilt to his tone tells you it isn't an insult. No, it sounds like raw, fierce fascination. 

"There wasn't time, we came so close to our goals and- and it just wasn't-" You cut yourself off with a quiet, barely-there gasp when Viktor's hand begins to carefully trail over your neck. Gentle at first, until you're reaching up, placing your much smaller palm over his own, guiding him to squeeze. 

"I just missed you." 

"I never left your side," Viktor counters, matching your gluttony when his thumb swipes over your pulse, the sharp, clawed digit grazing your skin. "I suppose this is what you missed." 

His touch? His voice? The threads of magic that form his figure brushing against your flesh, the divine press of your weak, mortal shape to his? 

Either way, he's right. 

Your blood pumps pleasantly, every facet of your willing gaze focused on him; on the magic swirling through his body, on his death-shaped mask as Viktor's vessel silently examines you. Vision blurring, you relax, allowing your veins to tingle and your head to go hazy. Your arms fall limp, and into his lap. 

The feeling of his hand around your neck makes you shudder with risk. It reminds you of the warmth that courses through your body in the heat of battle, of the delight when you're in the eye of an ongoing conquest. Of the dumb thrills that came when you were young and stupid, when you pushed the boundaries of your research, performing messy seances, unafraid to put your lives on the line. 

Now, all of your life belongs solely to him. 

Yes, you missed this. You missed Vik so badly when you thought you lost him — and oh, having him now makes you feel like you could do anything. You could rule together, if that's what he wanted. Viktor could destroy everything, and you would still follow at his side. An endless, fervent part of you wants to be powerless, because Viktor's hands wouldn't falter if they held your life. They wouldn't hesitate to press against you, with all of the pressure and heat of the sun. Or, they would bend you into submission, until you'd no longer have the need to think. 

Trust and desire make two halves of one whole — your desire speaks in echoes of his name, in every shape. And your trust burns like a suffocating flame in your chest, begging to be made his. 

"You're quivering," Viktor notes, although his touch doesn't waver, doesn't loosen. "Tell me what you are wanting. Your lips can still form words, use them." 

"Need you," You're sputtering, the lightest smile pulling at your cheeks, a playful contrast to the sternness in his tone. Finally, you take a nice deep breath, as his grip moves down the column of your throat to rest over the apex of your chest. "I want you, Vik- right here. Or would you prefer me to beg?" 

Your palms shift up to grip his shoulders again — your gaze on his, pleading, heavy. Your body presses closer, ever-so slightly. It's enough to force Viktor to take a low, deep breath. One that forms smoke, defies reason, choking him with desperation and destruction. With a potency that aims to devour. 

Viktor isn't the man you remember, you knew this when you first swore to join his cause. You would never forsake him, even if Death took him to heights you could not reach. Even if Death sought to become him, in a sickeningly beautiful way, in a way that warrants forbidden deals and dark magic and shallow graves. 

Gods, you would have done it all over again. 

You would've made the same mistakes, walked the same doomed path if it meant he would still return to you, just like this. Stronger. With ambition. Without the need for the pain or the hesitation that came with his previous body and past life. 

You've always found Death to be beautiful. Gentle like the slow wilt of deep petals, resolute like the soft cradling of a final embrace. When your village left you forsaken, the demise you glorified rose to save you. Viktor saved you. Death should be taken with palms outstretched. With an obedient body, ready to be reshaped. With a willing soul, with reverence, with worship — and this is exactly what you need, what you've sought to do. 

Death has always been a knife at your back, Viktor just knows how to guide the blade and twist it deeper. 

"Groveling is unbecoming. Exceptionally so, for the partner of Death's herald." Viktor's voice briefly wavers as he expends something of a sigh. "And it would hardly be necessary. I am already aching to take you." 

You grin, clearly pleased. Your fingertips trace up, gliding over the jagged curves of the armor on his chest. "Eager? Thought I was the insatiable one." 

Viktor, unshaken and controlled, avoids your question entirely. He holds your chin with his unarmored hand. His fingers are delicate, their edges foggy with faint smoke. 

His voice is a low rumble, resounding through every edge of your mind. 

"Do you trust me?" 

Yes, of course I trust you. You've spoken and penned and drowned in those words, countless times before. The relationship you once shared, whatever it meant, was built on trust. The two of you need nothing but your faith and one another. You trust Viktor's ideals. His judgment. His touch. You've never trusted anyone more. 

For Death, you would offer your life, you would embrace every sin, if it meant you'd be offered a knife to save you from the dark. For Viktor, you would become the knife, fighting for his heartbeat over your own, condemning the world and every soul on its surface if he told you it needed to be done. 

And for both, tied together, dangerously one, you'd gladly plunge the dagger of trust into your own chest. 

"I do," You nod shallowly, your gaze unwavering. "Don't hold back. Want you to be rough." 

Thin, glowing flames meet your eyes from beneath Viktor's mask. Carefully, he presses the thick, ice-cold end of his thumb to your pouty bottom lip, foreign sensations sending sparks through you like dying stars. 

Viktor taps your lip gently. "Open your mouth." 

If this was a dance, a carefully performed pirouette at the center of the dimly lit throne room, like countless royals have likely done before you, this would be the moment where you would have been held, and dipped down. Spun in front of everyone, with nothing to be done but brace onto his shoulder, hold on tightly, and follow. The rhythm would heighten, and you'd be left entirely at his mercy. 

Following his instruction, your lips part gently, slowly. Your eyes flicker across his face, never leaving where you're imagining his own gaze to be. His thumb eases in, and just barely presses against the end of your tongue. 

The first thing you taste is smoke. Ashen and ghostly, rich and familiar. It's like breathing air for the very first time. Magic thrums from the fuzzy edges that form his shape; tasteless, but strong, thudding through you like the weight of a panging heartbeat, melting into your veins like dark, lush blood. You swear your senses are washed out in crimson, as he waits for you to lick a thick, hot stripe onto the end of his thumb. Your gaze goes soft and eager then, silently pleading for more. 

To your brief disappointment, he drags his thumb from your mouth, unaffected when you whine. Then, to your delight, Viktor offers you his index, his middle, and his ring. He presses all three fingers to your lips, where you gladly accept, allowing him to shove them into your throat. 

"There," He murmurs, the slightest hint of satisfaction heavy on his tone. Cold, his fingers are cold against your teeth and your tongue when you struggle to suck on them. "You have such a precious, pliant mouth." 

Your only response is a muffled, pathetic hum. One hand finds his wrist, the other settles weakly onto his shoulder. He knows there's no way for you to reply, no option for a rebuttal to form when your pretty mouth is stuffed full. And with more strings of carefully constructed praises, he takes full advantage. 

"You are terribly obedient. Every command, stage by stage, piece by piece, you follow without strife." 

Viktor's fingers press in a bit deeper, making you grip his wrist much tighter. Tears bud at your lashes, your breath sharpens as you fail to stifle a whimper. 

"When Death instructs you to kill, you rend the flesh of whomever He chooses. When I compel you to heel, you settle at my feet." 

At his feet, near his side, in his lap, wherever Viktor wants you — because you are so, remarkably good. 

When you moan softly, threatening to choke, your thighs shifting in a pitiful attempt to rub them together, he drags his fingers back to give you a chance to breathe; a small act of kindness. Your breath catches, heavy and forceful. Your lips glisten with shiny drool. Slowly, once you're ready, he pushes them back in, and settles into a deep, steady pace, languidly fucking your mouth with his fingers. 

You're sure you'll never reach heaven. Not after everything you've done and sworn to do. But as your eyelids flutter, and your legs grow weak, your mouth sufficiently used, you swear this is the closest you'll get. 

"Death does not regret His choice to select you," Viktor assures, cold and composed. "He knows you are His perfect, loyal little disciple. He will be pleased with what you have done here, as am I." 

His fingers are pulled from your mouth slowly, offering you time to gasp and adjust. He holds your chin, taps his fingers against your cheek to make your skin slick with your own spit. A damp, desperate mess still wets your face, and he quickly brushes away the tears that still cling to your lashes with his thumb. Your heart tremors, the gesture all too tender. 

"Vik," You sputter, "Touch me." 

Now, it's his turn to listen. 

Viktor leans back against the throne, getting comfortable. Your grip steadies on his broad shoulders to keep yourself still, your fingers digging into the strong, bone-like frame of his armor. 

A hand finds your waist, trailing down. He pushes up the end of your dress, allowing his touch to carefully brush your thigh. Mere fingertips trace your soft skin; cold as ice, thrumming with magic that ricochets through you like lightning. He finds the blade you routinely keep strapped to your leg. His palm grazes the leather sleeve, and examines the labyrinth of engravings carved into the hilt. 

It's slow, teasing. Effortlessly calculated. Your dress bunches around your hips. Then, once you're drawn to panting breaths and shuddering sighs, he reaches up. With delicate motions, so gentle they contradict his very existence, he pulls at the strings of your corset, helping to untie them until it is loose. 

Your heart shakes your chest. Each light, purposeful touch of his hand against your spine has you reeling. Removing your dress is a swift process, from there. 

It unties as simply as the corset. You rush to pull the smooth satin from your limbs, and adjust to let it fall to the stone floor in a heap. 

Almost fully bare, you settle back into his lap, the cool air of the empty room brushing your skin. Pitch black armor frames his thighs, rough against your own graceful legs. The crow-skull necklace you keep close to your heart sways, tapping against your chest when you shift to get comfortable. Viktor presses a palm to the small of your back to ease you into position — spectral and hazy, settling against smooth, perfect skin. 

Low light envelops you, filtered through stained glass. It frames every curve, each of your blemishes and marks. Your whole figure shakes, forced on instinct to arch into his body, then his touch. Viktor's palm trails from your side to your waist, gentle, tenderly analytical. 

"Look at you," He murmurs, "You are a pleasure to admire." 

Everything within you melts, your body hazy and warm. His hand slowly trails your back, and your clenched jaw finally relaxes. 

"Viktor…" Your gaze is sparkly, you're clearly high on his words. "I asked you to be rough, remember?" 

Gentle fingers tap your skin, the way they would tap against his cane or his desk when he's lost in thought, but he continues with a non-response: "Come here." 

A palm squeezes your waist, guiding you forwards. Your arms wrap around him as you prop yourself up on his lap, knees splayed out over his large thighs. Your lungs practically ache with the weight of the heavy breaths you take in. 

His fingertips trace fiery touches onto your inner thigh. Knowing touches, because he expects the way you whine. He holds you tightly to keep you still once your legs struggle to hold your weight. You swallow, your veins set alight with a violent sense of need. 

"Patience. We can work our way up," He decides; his voice ripples within you deeply, rich with his accent, rumbling with an unearthly echo. Like a hand at your ankle, dragging you down into dark, murky, endless water. 

And you let him take you. 

You stay still as his hand moves, like a tamed pet, until his palm is brushing your stomach, making the knot in your core wind itself even tighter. Until practiced fingertips are gliding beneath the hem of your lace underwear, pressing between your weak legs, finding your waiting, needy entrance — 

Viktor scoffs. He lets go of a dark, deliberate chuckle, one that makes vapor billow from his figure. "But it would seem you do not need it. You are filthy." 

Your forehead falls, leaning against his own — against his mask — and you grip onto his shoulders, tight enough to make your knuckles ache. Wisps of magic brush your face, swirling around you, delighting in your exhilaration. And you are, you're a mess, your arousal wet and dripping as it gets his fingers slick; his middle and ring, this time. 

Despite his instruction, Viktor makes it so difficult to be patient. It takes everything in you not to press against him. Not to feed into your gnawing desperation, bucking your hips into his fingers and grinding on them until they're truly soaked. 

"I- Please-" You choke, barely able to breathe, "Want more…" 

"Is that so? You're in need of more?" Viktor parrots, only slightly mocking with his tone. "Selfish indulgence is rather effective at making mortals forget their place." 

Before your lips can even stumble out a yes, please, his fingers are altering their approach. Slick and determined, they find your swollen clit, flicking over it precisely; he's so close, it's so much. Your body aches, filled so thickly with desire it nearly hurts. Ecstasy licks at your bones, ravenous and all-consuming. 

When you jolt, stuttering through a moan, Viktor's free palm holds your shoulder to steady you. Your hands find the hood of his cloak and grip it tight. They ball up the crimson fabric, long nails digging in. 

Slow, easy circles onto your sensitive clit are all you're given. His palm begins to trace down once you're steady, exploring your collarbones. Brushing further still, to briefly fiddle with the necklace he gave you. 

The twine sits around your neck loosely, partially frayed. The skull has grown worn, faint notches now present on its surface. It's a soft, persistent reminder. You feel it tap against you when he lets it go, only for his large palm to splay itself over your chest, armor cool against your skin. 

You gasp, sounding overly shaky. "Vik-"

"Your poor heart is pounding," He interrupts, hand measuring each tender beat. Quickened and needy, as your heart thuds in your eardrums. "Letting go would prove so simple. So gratifying. You want your mind to be blank, so you might let yourself act on nothing but dumb desire. As all pathetic humans do." 

It would be easy — grinding against his cold, magic-woven fingers. Giving in to the throbbing, enthralling sensations while you pleaded for him to offer you more, to show you mercy. Clearly, Viktor has you exactly where he wants you. 

"If you must be reminded," Viktor continues; his newfound rhythm is practically merciless, his touch teasing your clit until you whine, just to drift to your entrance — warm and wet and waiting, but he doesn't press in. You aren't given what you want. Instead, he observes you silently, perhaps content to watch you struggle. He allows you to shudder, to whimper, your back arching as sparks weigh heavy in the curves of your spine. 

"You are in no position to make demands." 

"I'm not demanding," You gasp out, heavy sighs following the syllables. A faint and eager smile pulls at your cheeks. You know it's a game you'll lose, but it's exciting to play, all the same. "I'm begging." 

Viktor hesitates, savoring those words. The laugh that lilts into your ears is downright maniacal. 

"Tch, greedy thing," He scoffs. His fingertips press into your sweet, sensitive clit firmly, with all of the practiced precision you've been craving. "And here I thought you might finally be taught some restraint. You won't be satisfied until I fill you." 

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait. 

Viktor shifts, dragging you a bit closer on his lap, running his middle digit over your entrance until you're a shivering, fragile mess. Like porcelain, you could break at any moment — but the press of his finger inside you, filling you, finally giving you a hint of blissful reprieve, feels as though you're being placed back together. 

Pleasure rolls over your body like a wave, crashing, drowning. His touch is cool, laced with dark matter. Pulsing with a strong thrum of energy that you can feel so intensely when he's inside you. Strands upon surges of Death's magic, within you, becoming part of you. Eating away at what remains of your soul until you are pierced, much like a rabbit struck with an arrow — delightedly, brutally his. Your vision goes fuzzy once his finger starts to pump. In and then out, to a slow pace, enveloping you in crests of white foam. 

"Viktor…" You murmur his name, broken and weak, and he drinks it in like fine wine; swallows it whole, reduces it to cinders. "Oh- Feels s-so fucking good-" 

You're quivering, from just one finger. Two would likely force you to break. 

"Foolish little lamb." Viktor delights in your subsequent shudder. Always so responsive to his voice, as if he'd given you a command. "Toying with Death, giving themselves, their body, their life. Their unshakable devotion." 

Still, Viktor drags the digit from you; your body falls into him, limp and small. You lean your head against his form, struggling to catch your breath. And at last, he gives you two — his middle, his ring, pressing inside you, filling you deliciously. 

"Death is- oh, fuck…" Your voice tremors, desperate, lovely-toned. Your cheek presses into his chest, wisps of magic pouring over your skin. "Death is my great savior, worthy of- hah- violent worship…" 

His fingers curl. They nudge your velvet walls, pressing a perfect tender spot within you, divine enough to make you wish this moment would last an eternity. "But I'm yours, Vik," You stammer, "Only yours." 

Flames flicker in your core, devouring you in their wildfire — and Viktor sighs, exhaling some soft, dreamy sound. He doesn't relent. He fucks you on his fingers until you're dripping onto him, to the echo of sloppy, wet squelches, your whines and each sinful noise reverberating through the large throne room. 

Your eyes flutter closed. You try to focus on the searing pleasure, getting lost in his touch, in the familiarity of him. Fleetingly, you imagine his face, whatever you still remember of it. His thick brows would be pinched, lips twitched up into a confident smirk. Honeyed eyes washed over with lust, while strands of his hair form a mess in his face, soft when your fingers run through. 

"Vik-" You tense, whining weakly. "I'm close…" 

The hand that reaches for you is ice cold. Gentle, at first, when smoke-filled fingers thread through your hair. Then, deliciously rough when they grab, dragging you back to make you face him. Viktor's expression can no longer waver. There are no eyes for you to stare into — and nothing to sate you, but the fire-filled depths of Death's herald, the end's abyss. 

And oh, how that excites you. 

"Do not let go," Viktor commands, although he punctuates it with a practiced caress of his fingers against your sweet spot. "I know you are capable." 

"No, no…" You're sobbing; you try to shake your head, but he keeps your face in a tight hold. "I can't- no, please, please…" 

You know Viktor, and even though you can't see the glint in his gaze, you can feel each determined press, pumping to a pace that has you throbbing. Gods, his stupidly delicate hands, his long fingers, somehow feeling even longer when they're filling you down to his knuckles. Your heart pounds, forcing your ribs to ache. You grind your teeth together, your jaw relaxing slightly when his thumb traces your shaky bottom lip. 

Viktor has you on the edge of shattering — but you will break when he demands it, or you will not break at all. 

"Missed you, f-fuck, oh, Vik-" Melting, you're going to melt as you stammer on, searching for some sort of foothold, anything to grasp onto. You shut your eyes tight enough to paint spots in the darkness of your vision. "Wanted this for so long, and when you were gone, when I tho-thought I lost you…" 

Another press, another persuasion; his fingers sheathe inside you until you're stretched around their thickness, a shuddery moan punched from your lungs. They crook and spread experimentally; he isn't even trying to make you cum, and yet it still feels so, so good. His free palm drifts down, and he lightly holds your neck, grounding you. 

"You will not lose me. We are destined to bring humanity to its knees, you and I." Viktor taps your neck, feeling your pulse — blissful, mortal, a sensation he's long since lost. "Fools will attempt to stand in our way, but they will be smothered in the ashes of their forebears. We will have what remains of mankind at our feet." 

"Yes, yes-" You can barely discern what it is you're begging for. His touch, his voice, perhaps for your release. Anything coherent dissolves in your mouth, until you're spitting up scattered petals of moans and whines — "V-Viktor, please…"

"Shh. We will not become severed, dove. Not ever again," Viktor hums, his tone rumbling through you, fiercely euphoric. "As I was dying, left to crumble in the underworld, I only thought of crawling my way back to you." 

Viktor made you a promise. For you, any will would be done. 

For you, the weight of Death and the wrath of the Gods would be worth it. All of this would mean something, something more than power. More than the gnawing ache to forget himself. 

When you were human, every moment meant so much. You had the nerve to put your lives on the line, but neither of you had the guts to admit this temporary life was much sweeter spent beside one another. The accidental touches, the brushes of hands, the glances that lingered. Days spent talking to each other through research notes, colliding with the nights you spent alone, counting and categorizing stars — it must've been important enough to hold onto. Soft words led to softer touches, and the need to just be close. At one point, you would have done anything to feel this, to feel him. 

And you're there, you're right there. 

Pleasure buds within you — a sea of stars, on the edge of imploding. But Viktor is always several steps ahead. 

The precipice you've been craving doesn't reach you, because instead, his fingers are carefully easing from your aching cunt, leaving you to throb around nothing. Your head instantly spins in endless circles. Everything is hazy, to the point where you can't decide where your ecstasy begins or ends, or heightens or fades; all you know is it wasn't enough. You almost cum, empty and teased, just from the fading stimulation mixed with the lack of it. 

But almost isn't what you need. 

You're given several moments to breathe. When you finally raise your head from his chest, his palm slipping from your neck to leave it bare, you're met with the same blank, Death-shaped visage. The only sign of a crack in Viktor's composure is the soft smoke that pours from the gaps in his mask, curling around your figure in spirals. 

"Breathe," Viktor instructs. His palm searches for your back, caressing gently, cooling your heated skin. "How do you feel?"

"Good." Your lungs are aching. Your voice is weak, shaking more than intended when it leaves your lungs. But even more palpable in your veins than the desire, is your warm, steadfast trust. "I can keep going." 

"Is this how you want me? Resting in my lap? Or perhaps on your knees?" 

"Like this," You murmur, certain of yourself. "I need you, all of you." 

All of him, and all of Death. Every fragment of his present and future, and the pact he forged to bind them. Whatever Viktor has become, you will embrace it. You'll let it haunt you, let it own you. 

Your partner cups your face in a frigid, ghostly palm, his touch light, barely tangible. Cold like frozen water and stagnant skin. You give in, allowing your expression to soften. 

Countless souls have been felled this way, by his hands, every adversary made to tremble at his feet. This is what he was made for. What he fought and studied and died for. To destroy. And you still lean into his touch, as though it aims to save you. 

From then on, you're hurrying, desperate, lifting your weakened legs to shrug off your underwear and toss it aside. Viktor brushes his thumb over your cheek once more before he lets go. He rolls his shoulders back lazily, while your hands move — a palm pressed to his chest, to his side, anywhere you can still touch. Another hand eagerly removing his loosely-fastened armor, before tugging at his loincloth to reveal his lap. 

You swallow so hard your eardrums crackle. You should be used to the sight of him — fat, dripping, incandescent. His cock radiates in shades of azure, definite and physical when you drag the pad of your finger from base to tip, despite the wisps of phantom flame that ripple over your hand like clouds. It has your heart lodging in your throat, pounding hard. 

You place both hands on his shoulders and lift, to which he grazes your waist with his palm, carefully helping you find your position. Not grabbing, not pulling. You can dictate the pace, he silently offers. So, you take your time, breathing first, waiting for your gaze to refocus and steady. The difference in size in between you is already making your head fucking whirl. 

Viktor was always tall, but his current form is formidable, bulky. In his lap like this, with his large hand dwarfing your waist, you must look small. You could easily be broken, pressed into any position. Could be held, or lifted, or shoved down while you're fucked. So weak and mortal and useless, when compared to his massive frame. So desperate, tossing your morality aside, so you can melt at the hands of a revenant, one of Death's all-powerful Sworn. 

And yet, it's his gentleness that truly kills you. 

Shifting, you lean into him on shuddery legs, trusting him to hold your weight. You move, until the tip of his cock can brush your entrance, soft like a kiss. You're already throbbing, already needy. The breath you suck in through half-gritted teeth is sharp enough to slice your lungs. 

"Pretty little dove. I have you," Viktor coos, his voice echoing through your mind like a shout into a wishing well. "There is no obligation to push your limits. We have infinite time." 

You nod. But you want to push them. 

You reach for his palm, pulling it from your waist to guide it up, up. It glides over your stomach, feels the space between your ribs, and settles against the very center of your chest when you press it there. His fingers are cool, still slick with your arousal. 

"Viktor…" You take a nice, deep breath. One he can feel, from the movement of your lungs to the skip of your heartbeat. 

Deathly familiar, you know exactly what you want, exactly what you're asking for. Perfectly in sync, indulging in the same sin, biting into the same piercing sweetness of the apple — this is where your dance completes. 

Your breath hitches as you finally sink down onto him; the thick head of his cock stretches you first, getting you used to the ache. It grants you a thick sense of pleasure, after you were deprived of what you truly needed. And you need to feel more. 

You hold onto him tighter, nails digging into his armor, while you ease down enough to take half of him. And oh, you're so full. Sufficiently stretched, throbbing around his thickness so eagerly, perfect for him and his shape. Magic thrums from Viktor's palm. The slightest tremor is present in his fingers as he leans back into the throne, breathing something of a pleasured sigh. Onto your chest, onto your skin like a brand, with your necklace pushed aside, he wills a symbol to inscribe. 

It burns into your skin with waves of rich, delightful pain. A circular shape is formed first, branching into the middle: a triangle, a skull over your heart, a seven-pointed star. 

Your mind goes woozy. You glance down, unsure if you want to watch the mark as it comes into shape, beneath Viktor's practiced fingertips, or if your gaze should stay stuck on the weak blue glow bulging your stomach, Viktor's length nestled half-way inside you. 

The mark completes, and you're no longer given a choice. 

Energy surges through you instantly, claiming every inch of your mind that it can. Intense, alive, and effervescent, the sigil starts strong, before the magic tapers out into a weak lull, like a storm fading into faint drops of rain. You drown, before you're able to breathe. Death magic carries sensations you're acquainted with, but it's entirely different to have it used on you. The force of its manipulation is directly controlled by the wielder, and Viktor has specifically chosen to apply little pressure. 

It feels like him. Thrums with pulses of him, flooding your chest with repetitions of his name, enveloping you just as intensely as the feeling of him inside you. Dark energy laces through your system. You are one, on this plane and the next, for a moment. The symbol scorches deep into your skin, proving you are his. Your head is woozy, your sensations heightened. 

You could break away, could fight the weak threads of baleful power that threaten to wrap around your neck. But with a deep, dizzy breath, you decide to let yourself succumb. 

Holding onto him weakly, your eyes roll back before they flutter closed. Pleasure runs rampant in your blood; you can only act on instinct. Every sensation blurs and melds, cold against warm, his body joined with yours — but your warmth is winning. Heat wraps around you, tightens on your limbs and spills into your organs. When your body becomes flush with his, filling you with all of him, you feel full, feel him throb inside you, like a heartbeat's substitute. 

Viktor trails his fingertips over the intricate angles of the scar, perfectly placed on your pretty skin, all-consuming. 

"You are-" He shudders, "Exquisite." 

He fills you so, so good. 

You can feel so much of him, pressed within you deeply. Fuck, he's so deep you feel like you can taste him, so big it has your lungs barely functioning. 

His name is in your heart, surrounding you like an embrace — in your veins like a sickness. The tender, bright, tangible version of him works into your every breath, some form of lingering energy, reminding you of the soft touches you always wanted. Soft skin, firm bone, a warm soul. But the power he's been given, the power he has over you lacks gentleness. It prods into your edges, blood-soaked and destructive. 

The swollen head of him nudges your sweet spot with every slight shift. To the point where you wouldn't have to move, you could just grind oh-so gently, and still find a smooth, soft release. Your mind is reeling, far too dizzy. 

"Eyes open." 

Viktor grasps your face, and you feel your veins surge. The mark on your chest glows, resonating with strength, with the instruction you've been given. It coaxes you. Persuades you in his voice to listen — your eyes will open for him. And they do. 

"Perfect," He praises. Your limbs tremor slightly, your lips parted as you gasp, eyelids drooping. He admires the lust in your gaze, pupils blown like new moons. "Very, very good." 

And the weight of his control forces itself into your mind without doubt, has you believing and telling yourself you are perfect, you are pliant, you are good. 

With the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, you can barely find your focus. Everything in you is strung tight, entranced and desperate. You're so weak, and it's so intense; you'd do anything to feel him thrust into you once, to hear the way he'd purr and scoff when you would fall apart just from that. 

Your eyes flutter, but your gaze doesn't move. It can't, not when you're allowing yourself to be swallowed by the sigil. Giving permission to have your throat caught in Death's — in Viktor's — sharpened jaws. You feel his palm move before you see it, his fingertips roaming every inch of you like it's something he owns, leaving trails of breathy smoke in his wake. 

Clearly, Viktor's composure is just fine. Even when you're tight around him like the world's sweetest vice, even when pleasure has returned within him to an unfathomable intensity, he has no need to waver. But you? 

As strong and as towering as a herald of Death could possibly be, and as weak and human as you are, you weren't built to take this much. 

Viktor believes differently. 

"Gods, you're fucking warm," He murmurs. There's an edge to his tone, from the echo of his words to the thickness of his accent that makes his voice sound terribly, brokenly human. "You were made for this. For me." 

His palm brushes over you softly, down your chest and to your waist, gripping there to steady your figure. You breathe in deeply, and Viktor caresses your skin with his thumb, in an attempt to ease your obvious tension. The sigil thrums, weakens. Loosens its hold to offer you a chance to escape. A chance you refuse to take. 

"Are you overwhelmed?" Viktor reasons; softness spills into you, so lovesick you'd almost forgotten what it could feel like. It is your softness, it has your name on it. "Or have we not yet found the limit of your resolve?" 

You shudder. "Not- ah-" It's hard to form words, when you're weak and cock-drunk and stuffed full of him, "I can- I can take it, want more, Vik…" 

"Excellent." Viktor leans back, settling comfortably into the throne. Flames flicker from beneath his mask, and you imagine how his gaze might drink you in. Admiring your small form as your chest gently heaves, like prey, when compared to him. Like a delicate little rabbit. "Take it, then. Take what you need from me." 

You've no need to hesitate. 

You start with slow grinds, your hands steadying on his broad shoulders, your weight braced against him. Your movements are faint. You keep him buried inside you down to the hilt, your arousal a glossy, wet mess on the base of his cock — but even so, every rock and pulse and spark of pleasure is relentless. 

The strength of the rune in your chest swallows you and you let it, allowing its influence to make you selfish; Viktor's heart tells you to take what is yours, to not stop. You listen. You circle your hips, and breathe a pathetic whine as his length learns every inch of you, while he watches you grind on him — like the pathetic thing you are. 

It's addictive, to watch you use him. Viktor grips your waist hard, tight enough to leave indentations of his touch, to hide the shudder in his fingertips. You're fluttering around him, and he doesn't even have to touch you. 

But when he does, trailing his hand up to your side and over your stomach, with all of the softness of someone who knows you, who has already long since memorized your shape — you sob, your bottom lip quivering. You are Death's perfect servant, Viktor's muse, delicate for him, only for him. 

"Viktor…" You're cooing, your voice breaking with another soft roll of your hips; are you the only one left who still remembers that name? "Want to- wanna kiss you…" 

He isn't sure if it's an empty plea, but still, Viktor presses his thumb to your mouth. Your lips are deathly soft, your breath foggy against him as you pant and breathe him in.

You litter the pad of his thumb with kiss after kiss. Your gaze is heavy, your tongue is wet and warm. His thumb smears your own saliva over your kiss-swollen lips. This tenderness is a form of devotion he isn't meant to feel, but you make it oh-so effortless. 

His palm drifts down to hold your chin. Your breath fans over the expanse of his mask, your bodies close. The mark hums, asking for entry. 

As you grind against him, slow and steady to tease the edge of your release, you wait for it to unfold you. Like a flower, like hands gently brushing your pages. Easily molded, your mind opens to him, desperation and all. He feels the same pleasure as you, a mosaic of sparks and perfect warmth bridging from your body to his. He drowns in your thoughts, as vividly as if he were dreaming them. 

He syncs with the pound of your heart, sees thin limbs entangled, touches pressed to pallid skin and pretty moles. His own reflection was almost something he'd forgotten. Your spine curls, and a soft whine is pulled from your mouth to vibrate against his thumb. You shift, taking half of him inside you, before you sink back down to fuck yourself on him. Pure, raw bliss drips through you like honey. 

And your thoughts reconvene. You imagine his touch, on your cheek, on your neck, on your thighs. The power that answers to him shudders within you in turn, as strong as the rot you can feel when you touch him; the end's form of devotion. 

You picture the throne room. The soldiers, easily felled. The king, humiliated. A soft touch, as you wiped the blood that still clung to his hands: crimson like roses. A firm, desperate jolt as you recall the way Viktor's adversaries would fight, would plead, would demonstrate how weak and pathetic they are, before Viktor effortlessly disposed of them all. 

Oh. You are sweet. 

Viktor laughs. He grasps your face, tilts it towards him. 

"I see nothing has changed since the day we met," He coos, sounding almost adoring, "You are still reckless. Ambitious. Obsessive." 

You gasp; tugging at your chest, you can feel every pull of the sigil, every press and caress of his phantom shape to your thoughts. You steady your palms on his chest as you lift, then grind, bouncing yourself on his lap, your soft skin rhythmically colliding with his firm armor. 

"Yes- hah, Vik-" Your throat is tight, your hands shake and grip him as hard as you can manage. "Love watching you win." 

The thought of it all, the thrill of the triumph, the devotion that comes with Death's praises and sacrificing souls — 

"Did it excite you?" Viktor trails his palm down your neck, fingertips searching for your quickened pulse. "Witnessing an army of fools perish, as Death claimed their pitiful souls? Watching me crush them?" 

It enamored you. 

From the moment you met him, you knew Viktor was right. All of this power finally at his fingertips, Death noticing his vision and granting him a rightful place at his side — it was only a matter of time. This is what you have always wanted, for Viktor to win. 

Perhaps you are his only remaining tie to humanity. Perhaps you, as a mortal, are no better than the rest. You'd submit if he asked you to, you'd give yourself to him, worship him. Just as the countless souls he's reaped have done before you. 

"Death will- He will be fed-" You're stuttering; your breath is sharp, beads of sweat forming to drip down your skin. "I'd never forsake Him, for- for as long as I live…" 

You grind against Viktor hard, desperate, collapsing, growing soft like a rose unfurling in sunlight. Leaning against his chest, you can only rely on clumsy bucks of your hips as you splinter, as you threaten to break, every tight thread within you inches away from being untied. 

"They'll all p-pay… they'll all fall at your feet… kiss the ground you walk on, fucking- beg for mercy…" Your voice is weak, and you're close, so close. "Please please please…" 

Viktor presses his cold palm to your chest, to the mark, forcing it to thrum with more strength than ever. Controlling, instructing, gripping your heart in two hands. His voice resounds through your mind with the weight of a knife to your chest. 

Fall apart for me. 

And you fall — fast, hard, instantly. 

The carnal force of the command, the surging fire of the spell that binds you, all of it pales in comparison to your blistering, syrup-rich high. 

Every edge to your precipice is forceful. You sigh through broken moans, grinding against him desperately to ride out each wave, gushing and fluttering around him. Your muscles tense in turn, before they fall limp. Strings of half-moans and bitten swears leave your lips, so slurred they could be mistaken for incantations. 

Your breathing becomes slow, hazy. You lean your arms on his shoulders, your head on his chest; his body, your anchor. Even in the wake of your high, you're still fluttering around his length, warm and twitching and needy. 

"Look at you." Viktor's voice takes several moments to register, and it takes you even longer to finally lift your head. You grow lost in the smoke that surrounds you, the coolness of his figure brushing over your skin, as soft as a breath. 

"You are stunning," He decides. His head tilts slightly to examine you, his index finding its place underneath your delicate chin. "Dangerously so." 

You whine weakly. Your thoughts are becoming dangerous. Despite still attempting to catch your breath, your gaze stays locked on where his would be, and you circle your hips on his still-hard cock — a silent plea for more. Aftershocks of pleasure ripple through your system. Your thighs are weak, shaking. They're barely able to hold your weight, and Viktor thankfully braces his armored hand on your side, clawed fingers digging in sharply. 

"Though, I believe we have reached a misunderstanding." Viktor caresses the mark on your chest, examining each individual scar, carved in his image. "Your fealty is exceptionally admirable. But you do not belong to Death. Every inch of you is mine." 

Those words sink into your stomach like a stone thrown into water. Your mind, your body, your end would be at his hand, you're sure of it. You could never ask for any other fate. 

He tightens his hand on your waist, and he takes back control. 

If it's more you want, more is what he's going to give. 

Viktor has every right to call you ambitious, but the word is certainly more suited for him. He was always driven, drowning himself in his studies, no matter the risk. Researching life's great departure was a talent for him, but he didn't achieve it overnight. He does not let obstacles stand in his way. There is nothing he can't surpass, no-one who could best him, no soul that could sway him from his conviction. Death admired that about him, as do you. 

There is something to Viktor that needs to improve, that longs to put adversaries in their place, that is always searching for a way to be better, to do better. To push limits, wherever they might stand. 

And the way Viktor fucks you drips with nothing short of ambition. 

There's nothing for you to do but hold onto him tight, as he drags you up and down on his cock with relative ease. Your voice splinters, your breathing rough and forceful. Every thrust bullies your sweet, oversensitive cunt, to the point where you are limp and weightless, entirely at his mercy. If you weren't used to your partner's tenacity, if you didn't know Viktor, you might've whimpered, might've pleaded through the overstimulated sparks in your core that you can't cum again. 

If only. 

Countless sensations envelop you; the frigid chill of his body, the warmth of your skin, the fluttering of your walls around him, used and still-desperate. You cover your mouth with your palm, although it does little to stifle your noise. Nor does it quiet the echoing in your ears, reverberated each time he eases deep inside you — slick, wet, filthy. 

It hardly matters to you how wrong it is to fuck him here. This throne room was once sacred, torn paintings and burnt flags and stained glass pictures surrounding you, depicting holy symbols. Meant to imply the Gods of the living are watching over. 

Part of you hopes they'd turn their divine gazes away from this, so they wouldn't see you falling apart. So they couldn't judge the way you envelop every inch of one another, your breath hot and your thighs spread as you give yourself to Death's all-powerful herald, taking all of him in turn. 

Viktor chuckles, a laugh that still shakes him for several moments afterwards. Twin flames watch as you bounce for him, your chest expanding and contracting, hair a mess in your face, eyes glossy like a doll's. 

"Ha… That stupid, useless, insignificant king," Viktor's tone sharpens, as though his teeth are gritting. A firm thrust into you makes you whine and arch further into him. "Do you think he's watching, gazing at us from his dark prison in the depths of the underworld, as we make a mockery of his throne? As we fuck each other like animals, after easily felling his entire squadron, with hardly even a lifted finger?" 

You can't help but sob. 

"Don't st-stop," You're hardly able to reply, hardly able to form words, let alone coherent thoughts. Not when Viktor is fucking up into you to his own brutal, steady pace, complying with your words before he's even heard them — not stopping, leaving you barely any room to breathe. 

"Please," You plead, "Viktor…" 

"Yes, tell them who you belong to." His voice pounds into your mind, with the force of a hammer and a nail, rich and commanding, terribly familiar. "Tell Lord Death and the Gods of the living exactly who is destined to rule over them all." 

Sparks surge up your spine with a vengeance nearly as strong as his own. 

"You, Viktor," You're begging, sobbing. Your words are thick with devotion, like they're words of worship, as if they could be prayers. "I'm yours… yours, yours, yours…" 

You hardly expect the full-body shiver that courses through him, putting his frame off-kilter, briefly bringing clumsiness to his pace. Your forehead leans against his chest, your spine arches. Your hands shakily glide over the tangible parts of his figure. His palm finds the curve of your waist that just begs to be held, gripping you tight. With composure. 

"If I could kiss you," Fuck, his voice is soft, reminiscent of a past life; his hips roll into you and you can no longer breathe, can't even think. "I would let my mouth memorize yours." Viktor presses his cold, smoke-ridden fingertips into your side — "I would want us to devour one another, until we are part of the same flame. I-" A sigh, a resounding whine from your own lips, "I could long for centuries to feel you beneath my ribs, like a second soul." 

Your heart pounds, shaking your chest, getting stuck in your throat. 

He's never considered returning to a human vessel, it'd have too many limitations, but when he looks at you, he wants nothing more than to touch you. To feel you without layers of finality in between, to dig his fingertips into your ribs and feel your heart beating, to burn himself on you like you're a pyre. Such desires are useless, distracting, human. And yet, and yet — 

"Vik-" You manage, "Harder." 

You want him harder, rougher, more. Your thighs ache, but you try to rock your body against his in feverish unison, meeting each press inside you with your own grind into him. 

With a broken moan, your eyes flutter shut. You are perfect, so otherworldly, so beautiful when you're at his mercy. Each soft stretch of what remains of him echoes with your name, consumes him and begs to take you, to claim you, to ruin you. Viktor groans, puffs of smoke expelling from beneath his cloak to settle on your skin, thick and humid. 

You take all of him, until you're full, until your bodies are one; the tremor to your thighs and the break of your voice tells him you're almost there. 

"Close," You pant, "Gonna cum for you-" 

"Beg for it." Viktor's words slur slightly, but they're tender, they're assured. They're desperate. "Tell me how much you need me." 

Oh, and you don't even need to be commanded. 

"Need you, Vik, need you so much-" You meet where his gaze would be with wide, doe-eyes, with fluttery lashes and faint tear drops. "Need you more than Death, need you more than breathing-" 

The room teeters around you, everything dizzy, your limbs weak. You only need a little more, one more spark, one last wave. Another grind of your hips to his, another press of his cock right where you need him, more friction and pressure lacing together until they're left to build, and build. 

"Viktor… Viktor, I'm-" 

You beg his name, chanting it like it's precious. Breathing it like a prayer, pleading to him like he is divine. Broken sighs and gasps hammer at your lungs. The world could burn out, could turn to ash in his wake, and this, and he would be all that matters. 

Flickering, his flame heart stirs; possessiveness takes over, as strong as teeth at his neck. For once, his soul — or the lack thereof — shines. He finds your cheek, holds it carefully, brushes his thumb over your skin with enough tenderness to make you ache. You are his, only his. 

Neither Viktor nor yourself can ever truly die, bound to servitude by the pact made to save you. So this, tender and hungry, is how you will reach the end. 

You blend into one another with fuzzy edges and tender grinds and soft gasps — becoming two halves of one whole. Heaven and the underworld, darkness and light, perfect reflections. Entwined divinely, with beautiful finality. 

Your body shudders, heat lacing through your every crevice. In the moment where you cum together, you can't feel anything but the pulse of him within you, can't see anything but hazy lines and smoke. Blue wisps surrounding you, within you. The azure glow in your stomach burns bright, before it gradually lessens. 

Breathing hard, you lean against him. Small against his shape, blissfully weak. Viktor doesn't attempt to move you, but he carefully works his hand in between you. His palm glides over your chest, presses to the center. The magic dampens, leaving your veins, and loosening its grip on your heart. Only the mark is left behind, his cool touch helping to alleviate the pain. 

"Little lamb…That's enough." Viktor's voice sounds sore, almost, not exactly human but reminiscent of the rough sharpness of wind. He trails his fingertips over the scar on your skin as he comes back to himself, before drifting down to hold your waist. "You've done so well." 

It takes you a few minutes longer to fully catch your breath, and even so, your heart pounds quickly and softly. You lift, and he helps you pull yourself off of him, adjusts so you can find a more comfortable position on his lap. Your arms find his shoulders, embracing him in something of a hug. Leaning into his much larger body, you let his touch and the mist envelop you like a grave. 

"You should rest," Viktor reasons, "Today was extensive. If you stay awake any longer, I'll be carrying you tomorrow." 

The throne room is empty and quiet. You grumble, but you don't protest when he grasps your face and lifts it to look at you. 

Your cheek leans into his touch, your eyelids heavy. "We're going north, right? Gods, it's gonna be cold." 

"Oh, you'll be fine. I'm sure you still remember how to conjure a flame." 

His hand slips from your cheek, and you grasp it carefully, placing a faint kiss onto his knuckle; still shaped like you remember. 

"Will you rest with me?" 

This form does not require rest, or sleep. Really, it wasn't meant to indulge in anything mortal. Perhaps it would be against Death's wishes to do so. Viktor's research once determined that a form like this would be detached from reality. Conjurations of Death do not have souls; they trade them, in exchange for a better body. They lack empathy, emotion, understanding. The basis of Death's strength sacrifices everything in exchange for irreversibility. Nothing else should matter. But — 

"Yes," Viktor answers, "Of course." 

— 

Death's opposition dwindles. 

It is uninteresting, truly. The earth is becoming barren, as more and more souls convene with his army in the underworld. Death has shown me visions. He is planning to soon take full control of this plane, to come with soldiers and deathriders to claim the last of the mortals. 

I believe our approach should be grander. This abundance of souls could be used as more than mere meat puppets. Death might disagree. But power, not the strength you gained on a whim, but the leverage you have grasped for yourself is a fierce, funny thing. 

My partner is one step ahead, because they already understand this concept. I have watched the darkness in their gaze grow, day by day. Yet, their light never falters, when they are looking at me. I am grateful to have them at my side. 

Our last adversary was difficult, but they felled them all on their own. They were the one to plunge their dagger into the fool's heart, returning his soul to the ground.

More will follow. Perhaps mortals. Perhaps Death's army. It matters not. Not to us. 

For dust they are, and to dust, they all shall return. 

— V. Unknown Date, 1619. 

[josephquinnswhore]

pleasure me pink - joel miller x female reader

Summary: Joel finds a sex toy you’d been hiding from him.

Word Count: 2.3k

Content Warning: (no apocalypse) dom! Joel, mentions of sexting, use of vibrator, p in v, unprotected sex, cream pie, overstimulation, squirting, humiliation, bondage (using a belt), swearing. Established relationship, a little bit of insecure Joel, use of nicknames (baby, angel, ma’am, sweetheart, slut.)

Note: holy fuckkkkk I would die lol can this pls happen to me. @cool-iguana

You see her, in all her glory; the bright pink bulbous head staring at you through your half-full of cotton and lace pantie drawer. Biting your lip, you half-heartedly throw a few pairs of panties over it, trying to cover it up.

You’d contemplated telling Joel; but there were too many what ifs.

What if he got mad? Annoyed? Insecure? The last one she couldn’t bare the thought. So she’d just.. kept it a secret. Not that there was anything wrong with masterbation, you’d felt more inclined to feel guilty about hiding it from Joel.

“Baby, did ya hear me? Said we’re late, c’mon get dressed ‘fore I change my mind and strip you bare and take you here.” Your legs quake at his offer, growling voice half warning; half promise.

You let a soft groan leave your lips. You and Joel had promised your parents you’d come to theirs for dinner tonight, it had been a long few weeks coming, you couldn’t just.. not show up. It would break your mommas heart.

“Just gotta brush my teeth. Two minutes, promise!” You plead and Joel raises a brow in doubt.

“Baby..” He warns.

“Two minutes Joel!” You promise, making quick work to the bathroom before brushing your teeth.

Joel had rolled his eyes and grunted as he waited in the bedroom, wondering what had your attention so intently that you hadn’t heard him calling out; till the third time he addressed you.

Quietly, he pulls out the draws, grimacing when one draw squeaks open. To his luck, the tap was running, an annoying habit of yours he seemed to be ever grateful for in that moment.

Next draw; nothing. He grunts, feeling frustrated. Why couldn’t he find anything—he was so sure that there was something.

He opens the top draw with a feeling of irritation. Why did it take you so fucking long to brush your teeth—

Oh shit.

He blinked heavily as his eyes took in the sight before him, he wanted to pinch himself to see if it was actually real.

He stares at it; the bright pink vibrator half hidden by your skimpy lace underwear, staring back at him. Daring him to touch it, to question her.

But then she would know I went through her shit. Said the tiny voice in the back of his head, that made him scared to react in that moment.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts as you turn the water off, he quietly shuts the heavy chestnut oak drawer and steps a foot away, sitting on the end of your bed, having a playfully annoyed look on his face.

“See? Two minutes.” You grin at him, hand outstretched as if to congratulate yourself. “By the way, your shirts inside out.. doofus.”

Joel didn’t actually know how long you took. He could’ve spent half an hour rummaging through your draw standing there shocked and he wouldn’t have realised.

Instead he taps his watch, a coy smile on his lips as he stands. “Only just made it. Pushin’ my damn buttons already.” He groans as he notices his shirt, pulling it over his head as he stands to fix it.

“Yeah yeah, hurry up now, we’re gonna be late.” You quip. Joel could scoff, seeing as how you’re the reason they’re nearly twenty minutes late to leave the house already.

“Yes, ma’am.” This time his shirt is on the right way before he leaves the house.

As much as you loved your mother, her house smelt stale and her cooking was always bland or over cooked. The fact alone made it difficult to show enthusiasm to being out of bed-away from your home.

The other factor was Joel’s hand had never left your body since you’d left the house. He’d always loved touching you.. anywhere his hands could manage.. but this? This was odd.

“Here hon. We forgot to give it to you last time you visited. I hope you like it.” A bright pink scarf, one you’d likely never use, one that would serve its life decorating the back of your cupboard.

Not that you were ungrateful of such a gift.. but your mother had just taken up crocheting.. and you’ve got dozens of identical ones in matching colours. The pink just seems.. a bit out there.

“I think that colour suits ya nicely darlin’. Gonna look so pretty ‘round that pretty face of yours.” Joels hand finds your inner thigh, the size of his hand meant he could grip underneath your thigh. Fingertips drawing shapes on your skin, the action had you reeling.

Fuck, not here.

You clench your thighs together to try and stop Joel’s movements, he only smirks and looks at your mother who pats his shoulder.

“I hope she’s treating you right Joel, if she’s not send her my way and I’ll make sure that changes.” Your mom had joked playfully, ruffling your hair a little, as if you were a teenager and not a grown adult.

“She treats me well, ma’am. Sometimes she could use a little opening up. But she’s perfect.” Joel’s praise goes straight to your cunt, already slick and puffed lips sliding against your dampened underwear as if they could provide some friction.

You’re too frazzled to say anything, staying out of the conversation as Joel and your mother converse. He keeps his hand on your thigh, occasionally slipping up past the hem of your dress, thumb grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Close.. too close, but also not close enough.

Your fingers pick at the wool of the scarf, trying to ground yourself in the focus of rubbing your fingertips against the softness of the pink fabric.

Every molecule in your body wants to tear Joel away from this conversation, say your farewells and take Joel in the car, have his thick fingers inside you to relieve some of the pain building in your stomach. But you’re stuck here listening to them yabber on about something you don’t understand.

It’s clear Joel’s punishing you.. but for what?

The car ride was uncomfortably silent, Joel had turned the radio down—you watch the digits found down to zero and beg for them to come back.

Minutes without sound, only the revving engine of Joel’s pickup fills your senses, the noise was overbearing and it almost causes sensory overload.

“Joel—“ You cant finish a thought, nor form one. Because he holds his hand up to silence you.

“No talking. This car ride is to be silent if you want me to fucking touch you when we get home. Do you understand that?” His voice is low, a dangerous growl in which you took seriously.

So you nod. That was not good enough for Joel.

“Speak. Yes or no.” You wanted to argue, fight back. Now was not the time.

“Yes Joel. I understand.” He grunts in response to your hushed reply.

You didn’t dare speak a word as you entered the house, not even as Joel slightly pushed you up the stairs, where your punishment? Reward? Awaits you.

“On the bed. Now.” You obey, your body lies on the bed, looking up at the ceiling as you wait for Joel to climb over you, speak to you. Anything.

You hear ruffling, but don’t dare to look, the familiar sound of your draw opening had your heart ramming so hard against your chest it felt dizzying. Your pantry draw, the vibrator.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck..

He pulls it out, inspecting it before sitting in between her legs, device in hand. It’s tiny in comparison and he wonders if it actually feels good—compared to him or at all.

“What’s this angel? Don’t fuckin’ lie to me either.” Your body involuntary trembles at how calm, yet threatening Joel could sound.

“Vibrator..” You mumble, eyes scanning the room for something to gain your attention away from Joel.

His large hand grips your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. He looks curious—unimpressed. “No, you look at me when you’re speakin’ to me.”

You have no choice but to look at him.

“I know what it is, what I don’t understand is why you have it.” His eyes scan your own, looking for any indication of reason. “Thought you said I was all you’d need. You lyin’ to me angel?” He said mockingly, urging a reaction from her.

You shake your head frantically—the humiliation of the situation was unnerving. “No, no it’s not like that.. I only use it when you’re gone days at a time for work.”

He grunts at her. “So those texts an’ videos I send ain’t enough no more? Gotta defile yourself with a toy like a slut?”

“They are enough, they are.. you are. Sometimes I just need more than my fingers.” You whine, Joel doesn’t see any dishonesty.

He decides on your reward, humiliation.

He tosses to toy at her, it lands right next to her hand.

“Show me how you use it.” You hesitate, wondering if it’s a challenge—a trick.

“Now.” Joel demands, his hands making quick work to roll the fabric of your dress up above your hips. He lets out a filthy groan when he comes face level with your soaked panties.

“Made a fuckin’ mess of yourself already, dirty girl.” He mutters, mainly to himself. A part of him is relieved that he was the one that did this to you.. not that toy.

You feel your face warm as Joel watches you, his thick fingers curling around your panties before he tears them off you, throwing them onto the floor behind him.

Under Joel’s watchful gaze, you hesitantly turn on the pink wand, positioning the rounded head of the toy at your clit, the low buzzing of the toy on your favourite setting had your hips bucking and a soft moan escaping your lips.

Joel wants to hate it, how good it’s making you feel. Practically replacing him in its minimal efforts to make you feel good.

You work the toy around your clit, the sensitive bundle working up the coil in your stomach already, the pleasure from it has you unable to form a single thought. The only thing on your mind was you wanting to cum.

You’re a whimpering mess, hair is messy and starting to form small knots from your head withering on the pillow. Hips bucking every few seconds as the vibrator hits the spot that makes your toes curl, giving Joel the show of a lifetime.

He hates the way you’re moaning. He hates the way you look so fucking beautiful with your face scrunched up. He hates the way his cock is so fucking hard he can’t bare to not be inside you anymore.

Fuck the punishment, he decided finally. He needs to be inside you. To prove his worth to you.. that he’s better.

Joel strips his jeans off, he wraps his belt around your hands that holds the vibrator in place, keeping it attached to your clit. You look up at him in surprise and groan, legs trembling around him as he positions himself in between your hips.

His thick cock is weeping with precum. The sight of your glistening pussy only entices him more. He runs a thumb down your slit, gathering the juices and he groans. “Jesus Christ.”

Without warning he rams the thick head into you, the jolt of pain and pleasure has your eyes clenched shut and mouth wide open as you scream his name.

“Joel.. fuck. Joel!” In reply to your breathy voice screaming his name, his hands lift your legs and place your feet over his shoulders. His strong arms come down beside your head and he rails into you.

Hips slamming into yours as his thick head comes to the hilt inside of you, roughly nudging your cervix. The combination of his thick cock filling you, ramming your g-spot and the vibrator forced onto your clit has you reeling—you feel dizzy and you can barely hear Joel moaning.

“Fucking—hell this pussy feels so fuckin’ good baby what — what the fuck.. did you.. you just squirted all over my cock.” Joel’s voice barely registers in your head, until you hear what he says next.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum already.. fuck.” The droplets of sweat built up on his forehead drop onto your own. Animalistic grunts leave his lips and it pushes you to the edge.

Your orgasm that was tethered finally snaps, unable to hide the fact that you’d squirted for the first time ever, your legs shake around Joel’s head as they tighten around him, your cunt clenches Joel so perfectly he erupts inside of you, thick warm ropes of his cum fill you, overflowing out of your hole as he twitches and pulses inside of you.

Joel stays there for a moment and you’re trying to push him off—the vibrator still held onto your clit with the belt that had tied your hands, Joel weakly unties the belt and wipes the stray tears that had fallen down your cheek.

“You okay sweetheart?” His voice is breathy, but those deep brown eyes are full of concern.

You nod your head, a tired “mmhmm.” Is all you can muster right now, the sound of blood rushing through your body and ears ringing as you try to ride out the overstimulation of your climax.

He holds the toy in his hands, looking at you with a devilish grin, sitting it on the nightstand. “I think I might like this thing after all.”

You groan and roll into his chest, facing each other on your sides in your bed—full of each others specimen and bedsheets contaminated. That could wait for the moment.

Joel kisses the top of your head and nuzzles into your hair. “Dunno what I was so worried about.” He confesses to himself, admiring you as you feel sleepiness overcome your senses, you manage a small smile at Joel’s confession.

Joel knew now without a doubt in his mind he wasn’t competing with the toy. He was working with it, and he is good enough.

[writingjourney]

Better Than Your Hands | Terzo x f!Reader

You try not to wake your Papa when you come home but he's ever so perceptive as to what you're up to.

Content: 1.1k words, f!reader, smut (mild dom!terzo, caught masturbating, biting, teasing, p in v, light manhandling, unprotected, coming inside) 18+, MDNI

In a shocking twist of events I wrote my first Terzo smut, more as a practice than to share it but I was convinced by my friends. This is for @leezlelatch ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link

The room is draped in deep shadows. A sliver of pale moonlight falls onto the sleeping man’s face, bare and soft without the edges of his paints, framed by his unkempt raven hair with silver streaks. He looks so peaceful like this, the reading glasses and his book safely resting on the nightstand. He sleeps in the same pose as always – on his back with one hand spread in the direction of your pillow. Only tonight his arms have nothing to curl around. 

For a moment you wish you would have come home earlier to see him reading. To have him read to you in Italian like most nights with your head on his pillowy chest. You have settled into a slower life these days and yet it is rare to see him so utterly relaxed. You’ve been wanting him all day, needing him, craving him, but you cannot bring yourself to wake him up so selfishly. 

Instead you tiptoe to the bathroom, tiptoe to your closet to find one of his shirts and then tiptoe over to your bed. You’re tired when you soundlessly slip beneath the blankets, exhausted after working so late tonight. You could fall asleep instantly, follow him into this peaceful state, if it weren’t for the persistent throbbing between your thighs.

You roll to your side, facing away from the sleeping man next to you. Your hand slides down your body, no time for gentle caresses as you shove it underneath the waistband of your panties. A soft sigh leaves your lips when you feel the wetness between your legs and you run your fingers through your folds, teasing your clit with every motion. As the friction finally provides some relief, your head falls back into the pillow. You start to rub slow but intense circles, heat slowly spreading in your body. It’s quick and messy but you think you can–

The mattress dips beneath you, a silent, unexpected quake that brings you to a stop as you try to make out any sounds that indicate whether he woke up or not. Before you can turn around a hand much broader than your own slides between your legs, cupping your own, and the strong forearm it’s attached to keeps you still.

“What do you think you are doing here, bella?” he purrs.

You shift uncomfortably, your cheeks heating up. “You were asleep when I got home.”

“Amore, you know you can always wake your Papa when you need him, eh?”

His second arm snakes underneath your body like a serpent, a firm hand spreading over your belly before he pulls you across the mattress and flush against him. One knee pushes between your legs until his thigh is pressed tightly against your wet cunt.

“Do you think I could ever be too tired to fuck you?” he asks. 

Encased by his warm body with his voice deep and his breath hot against your ear the only sound you can produce is a moan. Terzo pulls at your panties, pushing them down to your knees until he can line himself up from behind. His cock is already hard, like the mere sight of you pleasing yourself was enough to have him ready for you.

“Oh amore, not even the most vicious storm could keep me from you.” He pushes inside with a grunt, the tip of his cock sliding along your inner walls just so. “N-not even the most biblical of catastrophes.” Another inch, a slow, shallow roll of his hips. “No flood, no thunder, n-no hurricane.” He pulls back, then fills you up with one sharp thrust. “Not even Death himself.”

You keen, uselessly grabbing at the sheets. Terzo’s hand shoots up to grab your chin, angling it towards his mouth.

“Do you understand?” 

You nod as best as you can. His fingers dig into your jaw a little more tightly to keep it still. Words. “Yes, Papa.”

A soft kiss to your cheek. “Brava ragazza. Now I will show you what you almost missed.”

He rolls his hips again, letting go of your head to grab your thigh and use it for leverage. His pace picks up as he begins to fuck you, deep and precise thrusts that fill your whole body with pleasure. His own grunts echo in the quiet around you, intermingling with your desperate moans and whimpers.

“Did you think of me all day, bella?” he teases, slowing down as he rubs his nose along your shoulders. “Were you so desperate to have me that you couldn’t go to sleep without touching that sweet little pussy?”

You nod desperately, so fast your head bumps against his jaw.

“Words,” Terzo warns. “Tell your Papa how much you wanted him.”

“I wanted you all day,” you admit, squirming in his hold. “Thought about you in every meeting, even the one with Sister.”

You can feel him grinning against your shoulder blade before he gently bites the tender skin above. Still, he isn’t moving any faster, only gives you these slow, languid thrusts that drive you wild. Impatiently, you push back against him, fucking yourself against his cock, and his initial moan quickly turns into a distorted growl. His fingers dig into the soft meat of your hips before he loses his patience. With one swift roll he has you on your belly, teeth still stuck in your shoulder as he drives himself into you from behind again and again. Your cries are muffled by the pillow and the new angle brings you close to the edge within seconds. You can feel him so deep inside of you, his whole body weighing you down until all you can focus on is the heat in your lower belly. 

Terzo pushes his hand back between your bodies, leaning heavily on his other arm, and he hardly grazes your clit before you spasm around him. He groans when he feels you tightening, the orgasm a heavy crash of pleasure and relief. Terzo’s rhythm falters when he follows you, rolling his hips a few more times until he curses under his breath and eventually stills. His hair falls into his face until you can feel it tickling the skin of your neck and shoulder, all while his cock empties inside of you.

With two more lazy thrusts he prolongs both of your pleasure, fucking his come deeper into you while your body goes limp underneath him. He inhales sharply, humming against your ear before he pulls you both back onto your sides. His lips leave a soft trail of kisses over the bite on your shoulder, then up your neck until he can reach your jaw.

“Better than your hands, amore, hm?” he teases as his arms wrap tightly around you again.

You lean into his embrace, content and happy. “So much better.”

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Crimson Ties✨

Vampire! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Masterlist Part 2

A/N: I was listening to “I’m Not A Vampire (Revamped)” by Falling In Reverse, and this angsty one shot just slipped inside the keyboard. I love love love writing in Joel’s POV, especially when it is filled with angst 🩵

Summary: Joel was a creature of the night, a monster who begged to be released from his curse. He wasn’t a good man, didn’t think he deserved anything that shined light on his dark soul. But there was you, the girl he so desperately wanted to stick around, if only for one more night.

“And whiskey seems to be my holy water. And mothers better lock your doors, and hide your daughters. ‘Cause I'm insane, I can feel it in my bones.Coursing through my veins. When did I become so cold? For goodness sakes, where is my self control?If home is where my heart is then my heart has lost all hope.”

-“I’m Not a Vampire” by Falling In Reverse

Word Count: 3.6k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only MDNI)

Tags: Angst, fic in Joel’s POV, mentions of blood, mentions of murder, feelings, pining, smut, oral receiving (female), unprotected p in v, creampie, vampire! Joel, outbreak AU

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

  Another night of lying on the cold floor, another full bottle of amber whiskey chugged and thrown to the ground, glass littering the dirt covered wood, blood staining the blue flannel that’s wrapped around his tired body. He’s worn out, exhausted from the endless feedings, the mind numbing displeasure of having to drink the blood of the living again and again and again. 

   Wild animals could only tie him over for so long, humans were the only things that remotely silenced his cravings. But you. Well, you’d be the only thing that kept the unrelenting hunger from ever dissolving from his dead body. 

   You. The woman he could never truly have. You were a fragile particle of sunlight in his midnight clouded black nights. You were… exquisite, something he never should’ve lured into his lonely, monstrous life. 

   How many times has he had you? Over a dozen, each time risking your life with how dangerously delicious your blood smelled to him when you writhed beneath his naked body, the silhouette of your sensuous curves and delicate skin glowing under the moonlit skies. 

   He always came so close to nipping at your neck, biting into your sweet flesh each time his fingers were curled up into the soft walls of your dripping core, your melodic moans filling the room with every stroke of his thick cock inside you, each quake you gave from him running the blood soaked lips down your soft skin, begging to be let in, to taste the perfect rush of blood that coursed through your supple breasts. 

   It’d take just one bite and he’d be gone, not able to detach himself from your glistening skin, getting blood drunk off your crimson red life beneath your muscles. He can see it now, ripping the flesh from your perfect neck, nails digging into the meat of your skin, so fucking gone that he’d turn into the blood thirsty monster that he was, that he is. 

   Maybe he should end it, drive a wooden stake through his own non-beating heart, stop the endless cycle of whatever the two of you keep doing with each other. 

   He wants to end it, needs to keep you away, but he can’t. He has no strength, no ounce of restraint from you. So he lures you back into his king sized bed that’s donned in crimson red velvet sheets, the one where he fucks you relentlessly until you have nothing left to give but your own shaking breath that blows down the dip of his neck night after night. 

   He holds you tight in his arms, watching you slip from his grasp while you fall asleep on his broad chest, soft breaths breathing in and out after he takes control of your whole body against the damp sheets that are filled with the smell of you. 

   He almost can’t stand it. The smell of your rose scented hair, the feel of your buttery soft skin against his jagged nails, the taste of your sweet, drenched pussy as his tongue parts your folds and laps up the sticky slick that he gets so drunk off. The taste burns against his tongue, even hours after he’s finished, making his cravings deepen with every flick and taste of you on his lips. 

   He fights the monster that begs to be released when he’s clawing at your back, his sharp fangs hidden from view when his lips glide down your neck, sucking the taste of your syrupy skin, drowning in the smell of your rosemary perfume, fighting himself to not sink his sharp incisors deep into your jugular veins. 

   He distracts himself when he’s slotting his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your pretty little moans that slip out of you each time he thrusts his cock deeper and deeper into your core, eliciting the most insatiable moans that he will never tire of hearing. He feeds into your desires, caging you against his broad chest, flexed arms hugging your body, making you cum time and time again until he’s right on the edge himself, throwing back his tousled curled head, extracting his fangs as the blood rushes through his cock, threading his eyebrows together in a tight line until he’s calling your name and spilling warm ropes of cum deep inside you, claiming you as his own.

   He always feels the guilt after watching you sleep in his arms night after bloody night, his eyes never leaving your pretty face, his hand stroking light circles into your delicate skin. He hates it, hates having to leave you before the sun rises. All so he can go hide in the dark shadows where the blazing sun won’t burn him alive.

   He fights himself day after day, tormenting his mind from holding back what he really wants to say to you. He wants to tell you. God, he wants to. The way he never stops thinking about you, the way your hand fits perfectly into his calloused palm, the way he can’t ever shake the way you feel beneath his skin, the way he loves the way your eyes sparkle in the moonlight as the white curtains blow against your flawless face. The way he…. loves you, even though he shouldn’t because he’s a monster. A fucking blood sucking demon that should be dragged to hell where he belongs. At least there you wouldn’t be able to reach him, even though it kills him to think about losing you.

   He sits in a heap on the cold floor, clawing at the fraying wallpaper, tears staining his eyes as the crimson blood soaks through his blue flannel. He couldn’t hold it any longer, his thirst for blood. He had to feed. Another deer wouldn’t do. He smelled the stench of fresh blood and pulsing veins in the forest, attacked with his sharp fangs before they even knew what hit them. He didn’t stop. Not when they screamed, not when they fought with white knuckles and strained cries that were silenced by the weight of his fangs that were sunk deep in the unknown stranger in the middle of the night. 

   He sucked them dry, hollowing out their bleeding body while he bathed in the delectable crimson that stained his clothes dark red. He didn’t care at the moment, was too drunk on the blood to even realize what he did, until it was too late. 

   When he was finished feasting he stumbled back, wiping his bloody mouth on the back of his hand, dark eyes growing wide with every step taken after breaking the spell of the hunger that drove him to this. He gasped at the sight, violent red staining the dirt crimson, mind twisting into sheer horror from what he did. This wasn’t the first time, wasn’t even the second time, but it never got easier to realize just how monstrous he had become over the years. 

   He ran all the way back to his empty home, tears spilling down his dark eyes, muffled cries for help fleeting from his lips, but who exactly was listening? He was alone, forgotten, a broken monster that sunk his sharp incisors into the world, spilling bloodshed all around whatever he touched. That’s why he was so afraid for you, his perfect girl, the one he could never truly make his. He was afraid, so scared of hurting you one of these nights. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, but that didn’t mean accidents couldn’t happen. He’d surely kill himself before he killed you, though. Not his precious rose, your soft petals cushioning the blow of his fucked up life. You were never supposed to enter into his life, but you did. And god, he loved you so fucking much that it hurt. 

   The smell of fresh blood is everywhere, covering his flannel, his hands, his chin, even the tips of his grey threaded dark locks. His body shakes beneath him, anger and turmoil crashing over his system until he buries his face into the corner of the wall and hides his hideous face from the world. He’s a monster, nothing more and nothing less, only a mere speck of dust in the corner of the room that begs to be taken away from the darkness that encapsulates him.

   His blood stained lips quiver, thinking that could’ve been you in the forest. He could’ve fucking ripped your throat apart until you were nothing but a ghost left in the dirt, fangs tearing you apart until your gorgeous eyes shined no more.

   He claws at the wall, warm tears pricking the backs of his eyes as he bares his teeth, body clinging against the wall until he feels like he could split it in two. His body is so cold, lifeless, haunted by the cries of fallen victims and innocent bloodshed spilled. He should get up, run far away, somewhere you’ll never find him again. But that might kill him more than anything, leaving you without one last goodbye. 

   He clenches his jaw and lets a fresh tear slide against the side of his dark beard, body barely holding on to life while he clings to the memory of your sunlit face, your pure essence, your soft, lilty voice that haunts his sleepless nights. He’s so in love with you that it physically hurts, but he could never tell you. Never bear to burden you with those words, those goddamned three words that haunt him day after day. 

   He’s just a worthless, blood shedding monster, but you’re the only one that knows how to tame the fangs. The only one that can remotely cure him of the sickness that invades his eternal body. You were pure sunlight, and he couldn’t even begin to describe how much you meant to him. His sunflower in the bed of nightshade that made up his body. You were eternal sunlight, so how could he turn away from that?

   He gets lost in his thoughts, doesn’t even notice the creaking footsteps against the hardwood floor until he hears the whisper of your shaking breath. 

   “Joel?” you call, voice quaking against the sight of the blood doused flannel. 

   He freezes, not daring to turn around when he’s a mess on the floor, eyes averted from your wandering gaze. “Go away,” he shivers, his voice rugged and broken, just like his tired body is from the loss of the life he stole.

   “Joel,” you try again, taking one timid step in his direction.

   He clenches his jaw, his fingers digging into the crimson stains in his dark jeans as he fights another sharp response. “I said go away.”

   He smells the fear on you when you see the dark red stains that coat the front of his flannel, cringes at the repulsing feelings that must be flying through your head right now. You’ve never seen him like this, right after a fresh attack, the blood clinging to ever fiber of his clothes. It kills him, it fucking kills him. 

   “No,” you whisper, taking another slow step in his direction, your breath faltering with every motion you take.

   He cringes with every step you take, having you so close in such a vulnerable state. He can’t fucking take it.

   He shouldn’t have ever pulled you into the reins of his hands, should never have lured you into his bed chambers. You’re too good, too delicate, too soft. One taste, that’s all it took to keep you coming back for more. It was almost resentful how he was so selfish to keep you, even though he never intended to. You were too special, a rare rose in a sea of thorns that made up his life, but you stayed. You stayed. And he’ll never understand why a rare flower like you would stay for him. A monster that only shreds and devours pretty flowers. 

   “Why won’t you ever fuckin’ listen? Jus’… go.” His voice is defeated, gravelly tone breaking on the last syllable as he hangs his head low, across the stained shirt that reminds him of what he did. 

   “Because. I… I don’t want to leave,” you mutter, your voice catching on your shuttering lips. “You need me. You need…”

   He growls in your direction, turning his body so you can see just what kind of monster he really is, scowling your way as his eyes darken to black pits. “This is what you need?! A killer of the night? Look at me, I’m a goddamned monster! I KILLED someone tonight, I MURDERED ‘em in cold blood because I couldn’t control myself!” 

   You look taken aback, eyes wide and teary as he snarls up at you, demanding with his big teeth that you turn and leave, run away so you won’t have to look at the blood that covers him and marks him a murderer.

   You just stand there unmoving, waiting for god knows what. And that makes him angry, so fucking angry that you won’t listen to a goddamn thing he says. “Well! What’re you standin’ there for? I said LEAVE!” His words come out pained, tears licking the corners of his saddened eyes while you just stand there speechless staring at the man that could never keep you safe, not really. 

   “Joel,” you whisper, words failing you as a tear streaks down your crimson cheeks. It makes him cover his head, hide his face from the girl he can’t stand to show himself to at this moment in time. He’s broken, so fucking broken, and not even you could take away every sliver of pain he’s felt in all his worthless years. He regrets ever bringing you here, drawing you in till you didn’t want to leave. 

   “Jus’… stop. I’m not good for you, I never was. I’m jus’ a monster. A goddamned bloodsucking vampire. Now jus’ go. Please…” he begs, hiding his face in the shadows while you stand there in a puddle of sorrow. 

   You inch closer, tip-toeing the floorboards until you’re crouched down beside him, pulling on his blood stained flannel, begging him to just look at you. “Joel, please. Look at me.”

   He shakes his messy mane, trying to pull himself away, but you thread your fingers through his greying scruff and turn his head towards you. He fights your touch, finally giving up when your soft fingers dig into his soiled shirt, one hand delicately skimming the side of his jaw, your thumb rubbing off the blood that stains along his tainted lips. 

   He watches you quietly brush away a teardrop that escapes his watery eyes, mesmerized by how soft you are with him, even in the rough shape he is, after he just murdered someone in cold blood. 

   He can’t take it, the guilt that eats him alive. So he breaks, shedding another tear while you so gracefully wipe it away with the flick of your finger. “I killed someone tonight, I did that. I…”

   You silence him, quietly shushing him while he bites back another whimper. “It was an accident, only an accident,” you reply softly, no taste of bitterness or fear in your voice, only something that’s so you. Soft, you’re so soft, so lovely, something that he never deserved. Not after all he’s done, after all he’s killed.

   He tries to pull away, tries anything to get you to pry your fingers from his button-up, but you don’t. You just stay right there, coiled around him while you smooth a tousled lock of hair back in place, eyes never leaving his.

   “I’m a monster. I watched them die, I didn’t stop, I didn’t have the will to. I jus’ drained them. And that could’ve been you. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if…”

   “Shhh,” you say soothingly, fingers dancing down his greying scruff, glistening eyes reflecting that he’s okay. He’s home, safe in the shadows, safe with you. “It wasn’t me, Joel. It was just an accident. You didn’t mean it. It’s alright now. I’m here.”

   Something in your soft words soothes him like a distant lullaby, calming his fears, but eliciting more tears from his wide eyes, staring at the girl that started a fire in his dead heart long ago, revealing a way to get his heart pumping just by looking at your beautiful smile, your kind soul, your very essence.

   Something breaks in him when you flick your eyes over his bloody clothes and don’t even cringe, only giving him those soft puppy eyes that he can never say no to. He crumbles into your arms, pulling you flush against his chest as he cries into the crook of your neck. He feels your fingers comb through his hair, the other clinging to your back as it draws lazy circles up and down his spine. 

   He can’t hold it in any longer. It slips from his tongue, an elation of words that he never thought he’d ever say again. “I love you…”

   You sigh into his broad chest, lips brushing against the fading material as you muster up the words you too had been holding back. “I love you too, Joel Miller. I have for quite some time…”

   He brings his head up and cups the sides of your face, his dark eyes brightening by the swell of your teary eyes, your sweet smile curling up towards him, pure love screaming from the pits of your beautiful irises. He wastes no time and crashes his lips down on yours, fusing his lips to yours like a sworn oath. You melt into his chest, circling your arms around his neck while you slot your lips and allow him to enter. He licks slowly into your mouth, tongue finding yours while they dance together in unison, bodies entwining until you're pressed beneath him on the sheets, completely naked while you toss and turn in the massive bed. 

   He marks his way down your body, caressing your supple breasts, splaying your legs open for him to lick and suck you dry, tongue pressing meticulous circles over your aching clit until he gets you right where he needs you to be. You spill, covering his tongue in your sticky slick while he laps you up and drinks you down feverishly. He drowns in your sweet taste, swears nothing has ever tasted better than being between your legs. He could make you cum all night long, hearing your pretty moans fill his ears while he takes it all from you, leaving you with pure ecstasy running through your sweet veins. 

   When he’s finished tasting you he takes you slow, sliding his cock between your slick folds while he gently bottoms out inside of you. He takes his time and rocks back and forth, swallowing your moans as he kisses you deeply, sensually. He doesn’t stop either, not even when you’re right at your next release.

   “Joel,” you moan, body writhing beneath him while your walls squeeze his thick length, causing him to groan over you.

   “Attagirl. That’s it, my love. Takin’ me so fuckin’ good,” he praises while he ruts deeper inside you, chasing his own release which doesn’t take him long. He throws his head back, knits his eyebrows together and calls your name, spilling his hot cum inside you just how you like it.

   He slips out of you, crashing down on the opposite side of the bed while he pulls you into his chest, kissing the top of your head softly while his fingers trace circles over the back of your shoulder soothingly.

   He’s quiet for a minute, reminiscing on everything that happened tonight. The way you chose to stay. For him, you did it all for him. 

   He whispers, a ghost of a breath lingering over the shell of your ear. “You stayed… you weren’t afraid?” he asks nervously, biting his bottom lip while he waits for you to answer. 

   You nuzzle deeper into the side of his neck and murmur sweet words against his jawline. “No, Joel. I was only afraid of losing you. I was never afraid of you. Not even when you showed me your fangs. I guess I just saw past all that. I saw a man that was dying to be seen, to be heard, to be known. You were so… lonely. And I just couldn’t bear to leave you alone. You’re not a monster to me, Joel. You’re the man I fell in love with. You’re mine. Just as I am yours,” you whisper, settling closer into the side of his chest.

   “Mine…” he repeats breathlessly, eyes locked on the beauty that never ran away. You’re his. His.

   “Mhm. Yours…”

    A few seconds later you’re out cold, face nuzzled into the scruff of his beard, one arm slung around his broad chest. He lies there staring at you, running his calloused fingers up and down your back, gently carding them through your beautiful locks. He stares wide-eyed, a tear falling from the side of his eye as he looks at the beauty that saved him from slipping away into the shadows forever.

   He’s got you, forever, as long as you’ll stay with him. He hopes it’ll be for eternity.

   All he’s ever wanted was someone to stay by choice, all these years waiting for nothing to happen. But then there was you. You who chose to stay. You stayed, and that’s all he ever wanted. 

   You. The love of his life that chose him when no one else would’ve. Love. He’s so in love. Maybe he’s not all teeth and darkness anymore, maybe he’s more. You made him more. The moonlight that lights the way out of the darkness forever. His guiding light home.

Tagging some mutuals 🩵 @msjarvis @alltheirdamn @mountainsandmayhem @sawymredfox @littlevenicebitch69

@yxtkiwiyxt @magpiepills @jasminedragoon @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape

@survivingandenduring

[lovemybluebully]

All Hail Queen Bea!

Based off of this Anon note. 😄

https://www.tumblr.com/lovemybluebully/765290767074951168/i-feel-that-even-if-logan-doesnt-admit-through?source=share

Super short little fluff-filled tickle fic that I just threw together really quick. lol Enjoy!

"Deadpool and Wolverine"-verse

Word Count: 609

"Staahahahaap! Wade pleheeheeheeease!" Logan begged through his wheezing laughter as Wade delivered the umpteenth raspberry to his quaking belly.

"So we're in agreeance then? Dorothy is definitively the best Golden Girl?" Wade paused with his face still hovering close above his roommate's most ticklish spot as Logan looked over at him with sparkling but pleading eyes and panted out his reply.

"B-But I haven't....even watched.....a whole episode yEHEHeHeheHEHET!!" Wolverine screeched, going totally wild once Wade began nibbling on his lower belly while making extra effort to target his unbearably sensitive V-line, "OKAAHAHAAAAY!! OKAAHAHAHAHAHAAYAAHAHAHAAHAA!!"

Wade kept it up for another minute while simultaneously reaching in with both hands to bury fingers into his squirming sides and make sure his point got across. Once Logan was reduced to nothing but a satisfying squealing wreck, he finally ceased the playful torture and sat up.

"Don't you ever disrespect Bea Arthur in my prescence again, you insolent cretin. We don't take kindly to that around here," he smirked and wiggled a few fingers under Logan's chin, getting some more giggles out of him before his hand was weakly smacked away.

"Heeheheehe.....Fuckin' geez.....All I said....was that Betty White.....seems like a pretty cool lady," Logan gulped for air while not making any attempt to get up from where Wade had pinned him on the couch.

They didn't have "The Golden Girls" tv show in Logan's universe and Wade was more than happy to have an excuse to run a marathon of all seven seasons.

"And of course she is! But as you have just learned, you just don't speak out against the Queen Bea like that," Wade smiled, secretly knowing that wasn't exactly a punishment for Logan, as he settled back into the couch and un-paused the television to resume the first episode.

In a tired, giggle-induced daze Logan somewhat sat up to lean against Wade and allowed his now relaxed eyes to shut. The merc just chuckled as he began softly running fingers through Logan's wild hair, noticing how much fuller it had grown-in ever since the feral mutant came to live in his universe.

"All tuckered out, huh? Don't worry, after you wake up I'll fill you in on everything that happens."

There were some quiet giggles bubbling out as Logan could still feel the phantom tickles all over his upper body with them even causing him to squirm slightly to Wade's delight.

"Still feeling tickly? That's how you know I'm a pro. Don't mess with me, these hands are deadly weapons. Well....technically you don't have to mess with me to get it. You spent a lot of years without smiling, Peanut, and I promise those days are long over. And if I have to tickle you to death every day just to see it then so be it."

Wade then shivered with excitement as he began to feel vibrations emanating from the Wolverine, though he held back from commenting on it. Only when Logan was truly at-ease and happy did this purring from deep within him manage to surface itself.

"Thank you...," Logan muttered softly and Wade almost melted on the spot from the indescribable joy he felt at hearing him say that. He looked down, wanting to question him about it, but Logan had already fallen asleep as he lightly snored against him.

Wade's smile widened, knowing that his friend had truly meant it. That admission along with how little Logan had fought it during and how relaxed he had become afterwards confirmed what Wade already knew; Logan liked being tickled.

"Any time, big guy," he replied and continued to gently massage his scalp, pushing Logan further into his blissful slumber.

[komitomi]

Could I request Sae having bath sex with his s/o?

Man's just had a long day. Of course, his darling wife is worried and just wants to spoil him.

She cooks him a filling dinner and runs him a warm bath complete with bath bombs and flower petals.

But, just as they're relaxing. S/O feels Sae's hands grope her on all sides. Teasing and rubbing every part of her body until she feels tingly. All of a sudden, Sae pushes her against the tub (gently) and starts eating her out.

Oh, but he's not done. As she feels her legs quake, Sae inserts his cock into her pussy and starts moving at animalistic thrusts.

MHMMM YESSS <3 THIS IS SO GOOD ANON.

Itoshi sae x afab!f!reader

MDNI, NSFW CONTENT: p in v, bathtub sex, oral (f.receiving), sae pull out game strong, teasing, use of good girl (once), this is kind of short :( + not proofread, also my first time writing bathsex !

this also took WEEK to write, not cause it is long or anything but just cause I got so busy irl 😭, sorry for the wait anon! <3

WC: ??

You were in the kitchen preparing for dinner, cutting vegetables when you heard the front door open and close followed with a sound of baggage being dropped and a long sigh, it was sae, and from the sound of it, he seemed extremely tired.

He enters the living room and immediately crashes into the couch, groaning in pleasure when his back hits the soft cushioning as he dozes off, you were going to ask how his day was but you see his tired form and conclude that it was probably very rough.

Wasting no time, you immediately sped your pace and added the vegetables into the soup, while that was cooking, you chopped up some cucumbers into pieces and added seasoning, And set up the empty dishes on the table.

You added the cucumbers into the small bowl, you heard the ding of the rice cooker indicating that it was finished cooking, you took a frying pan and added oil and let it heat up before adding the meat to the pan, the sizzling noise was so satisfying.

Sae woke up from his light nap when the aroma of food filled his nose, he took a big whiff taking in the amazing smell, he made his way tiredly to the kitchen and saw you placing down the dishes, you looked up at him and smiled.

“I was going to wake you up just now.” you said and he returned you a small smile before he made his way to the table and looked at the dishes you made before he gave you a kiss on the cheek and sat down.

“Thank you for the food, love.” he says and signals you to sit and eat with him, which you follow.

You both have a very long conversation about how his day went, he told you he had a long day and it was exhausting and apologized for not greeting you when he came home, which he usually does, but you told him it was nothing to worry about, it was small moments like this which makes his heart fill with content, just eating a fulfilling meal with his wife and talking while doing so.

You cleaned up the table, picking the used dishes and placing them in the sink, sae was on his phone while you were preparing a bath, lighting up scented candles, adding a bathbomb into it before finishing it up with rose petals.

You called sae over and he put his phone down before he followed where your voice was coming from, he was slightly shocked at your act of kindness but you just gave him a smile.

“Wanna hop in with me?” you say with a smirk which makes him nod eagerly, you chuckle before saying “Well, let's wash up first then.”

You undo your clothes and he does the same, taking in the sight of your body, you unhook the detachable shower head before spraying water all over your body along with his, you decide to tease him by spraying it right into his face which he fights back by grabbing the shower head and turning it towards your face.

You gasp and he giggles slightly at your reaction, he loves doing fun childish stuff with you, just enjoying yourselves without a care of the world, being lost in the moment of your playfulness.

Finally, you were done washing up, sae hopped in the bathtub and settled down in a comfortable position, he throws his head back in pleasure as he relaxes in the water, it eased his muscle ache and was so therapeutic, you followed along him and settled in between his legs, you rested your back against his chest.

Both of you stayed like that for a while, relaxing and enjoying the moment until you felt sae's hands travel the outline of your waist before stopping at your breasts, you watched as he gave them a light squeeze making you gasp.

One of his hands trailed down while the other remained on your breast, rubbing and pinching your nipples, the other hand slowly made its way towards your thigh before settling on your inner thigh, he rubbed slow circles, teasing you as you watched his hand so close yet so far from your cunt.

Butterflies erupted in your stomach as sae left a trail of kisses down your neck to your shoulder while his both hands toyed with your body parts, making you feel tingly and whiny.

His hand suddenly presses against your clit which makes you gasp as he rubs circles onto it, you're disappointed when he retreats his hand back but surprised when you feel yourself being pushed against the bathtub, with sae now in front of you.

You look up at him in anticipation, he kisses you on the mouth before leaving kisses down your neck and grinding himself against you, he pulls back and grips your thighs and lifts your hips up just enough for your pussy to be slightly out of water.

He leans back before wrapping his arms around your thighs to keep them apart and kisses your core which makes you tense, he gives your pussy one long lick making you gasp and throw your head back against the bathtub.

His tongue swirls against your clit, nipping on it time to time, your hands fly to grip his hair and grind yourself against him, he then inserts one of his fingers into your hole, “f-fuck! Sae!” you moan out.

“Hm? Do you not like this?” he asks teasingly as he continues to eat you out, while he pumps his finger in and out of you, “I- I like it- b-but fuck! 'ts too much!” you say between your moans as you feel your high approaching, you hear him chuckle against you as he curls his fingers inside your, hitting at gspot.

You arch your back as you feel the overwhelming rush of pleasure coarse through your body, coming undone on his fingers as he brings his face to lick you clean.

He pulls away and watches your chest heave up and down, your eyelids slightly open as you breathe heavily, trying to register your high, he let goes of your thigh and pushes your hips back in the water before lining his cock against your entrance.

He slowly slides it in, throwing his head back as he grips the top edges of the bathtub where your head was resting, with a low groan. You too mimic his movements. He doesn't give you time to adjust and moves at a rapid pace, you grip on his arms tightly and look up at him, he leans down you catch your lips in his as he continues his thrusts.

“o-oh God! You feel so fucking good.” he utters as he pulls away from your lips, “So good for me.. Taking in my cock like a good girl!” he praises you, making you blush, “Thanks for everything earlier babe.” he leans again to kiss you, appreciating you.

His rhythmic thrusts slowly become more sloppy and you know he's near his limit, so you help him by grinding against him which makes him let out a guttural moan.

You were also near your orgasm as you feel him hitting all the right spots making you whine against him which makes him even more feral than he already was, with a few more harsh thrusts against your cunt, you finally cum, alongside with him.

He quickly pulls out and pumps his cock with his hand to aid him through finish, his white cum spurts out into the water as few drops of it land on your waist.

The sight was immediately making him hard once again, but he knew more than to push his limits or yours.

He quickly repositions both of you guys into the original position with your back pressed against his chest and his face rests in your neck, staying in each other's embrace for a while.

[raitonsfw]

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: | 1 | The deep dark of your cavern didn't diminish the glow of Muzan's reddened eyes as they peered at yours– tentacles expelling out towards your own and suddenly, you didn't want him to leave you ever again. | 2 | Not to touch... as you bowed down with your head resting against the floor, you begged for Muzan's cock– only to be given it and more; a slicked encounter with his shapeshifting.

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, he's called the title lord muzan... | 1 | cecaelia!reader, fem!reader, tentacles, handjob, blowjob, head pushing, breast play, pining, alludes to casual fucking, muzan shapeshifting (he sprouts tentacles out of his back that have mouth suctions with teeth on them) | 2 | dom!muzan, gn!reader, male!muzan & female!muzan (he switches his sex halfway through, pronouns still stay the same though), mentions of being used and being a fucktoy, begging & pleading, worship, face fucking, face riding, dirty talk, praises, rule #1- don't touch lord muzan.

a/n: | 1 | i do hope this is up to cecaelia!reader standards! i did some research to adhere to the accuracy of anatomy but i fear it wasn't enough. | 2 | hehe i kept repeating in my head 'boy pussy' while writing this for some reason? i wonder why... v-day list | m.list

thirst count: 1

divider credit: @hitobaby & @firefly-graphics

| 1 |

“What do we have here?” The cave was dark, no light penetrating it towards the edge of it and you cowered within the spaces beneath the wall of the water. Who was in your domain, seeking solitude? No one knew about this place other than one person, so that must mean–

“I can sense you, Y/N.” He said, his voice low– teasing you out of your hiding place. You peeked your head out abruptly to see Muzan, tall of stature and you sighed as you heaved yourself up on the rock of the hole. 

“Don’t go scaring me like that.” You huffed out, sinking your tentacles down into the water again pitifully. “I couldn’t recognize your voice. Is that a new form, Lord Muzan?”

“Yes, and?” Muzan’s eyes pierced yours, lustrous and rimmed with crimson– it made your quake in fear and in anticipation. He’d visit you for a few things naturally, talks of the Twelve Kizuki running rampant and other idiocies of his life but the one thing he always craved was you. And as you watched him transform– expel his arms out to counter your own tentacles– you knew you were in for a treat.

“Did you miss me?” He smirked sharply, his whips forming against the flesh of his skin and you felt heat rush through each and every one one of yours. God, it’s been a while hasn’t it? 

“What do you think?” You pouted, one of your tentacles circling his ankle. You pulled him closer to the edge of the water cave, insisting he sit as another slipped into his pants. “Don’t wanna waste any time– before you leave me again.” 

“I’m not done the transformation yet, Y/N.” Muzan groaned as you wrapped around his cock, sprouting three more whips from his back. One instantly wrapped around your neck, the teeth grazing your collarbone and you let out a quiet sob of relief as it sucked marks into your skin. As he sat down against the edge, the water lapping up towards the front of his trousers, you smiled at him with a mischievous glint. 

You made it a point to delicately slide your tentacle up his cock, careful not to go too far as his own trailed down your own body. Fire fueled within your core as he let out another quiet moan, his eyes breaking off of yours and fluttering shut. You could feel his tentacles on you spasm lightly as you pumped him slowly, leaning in towards to cleave off some of his clothing. 

But you were met with a sharp tongue. “Not today, it’s just a quick visit.” 

You sighed to yourself, your tentacles pulling from him as you dove back into the water. Instead, you took to his legs, wading in front of them and you pulled out his cock to sink your mouth onto it. Two of your tentacles wrapped around his thighs, spreading them apart so you can lean in easier and he looked so good like that– so pliant underneath your suctions as you licked up the underside of his cock. 

A shaky groan fell from his lips, his tentacles shooting down towards your shoulders and you whimpered around him as they roamed over your chest. They squeezed around your breasts rather harshly as his cock twitched in your mouth, his hand threading through your hair. 

“C’mon, I know you can do better than that…” You heard him from above you and he pushed you down roughly, his tentacles suctioning against your nipples and you whined again– pleasure welding up your spine and you opened your throat a little to take him as deep as he wanted. 

He came down your throat with a shudder, all of his tentacles latching onto you with a heavy gasp. When you pulled off, they were gone and he was starting to withdraw from the edge of the stone. 

“Leaving so soon?” You pouted, but his eyes flashed towards yours with menace but a small ‘thank you’ etched his lips. You weren’t sure if he said it outloud for your entire vision was clouded with the pure lust he instilled in you.

| 2 |

“You want me? Get on the floor and beg.” Muzan’s voice dripped like red wine, straight down your throat and your own voice went dry; you were barely able to nod as you dropped to your knees and mewled at his feet. Your hands nearly caressed the ends of his trousers, reveling in the way his foot kicked out towards you, signifying you to heed– not to touch.

“Lord Muzan…please–”

“Head too.” He tutted, his finger pointing downwards and you struggled to put two and two together as your head bowed down near your hands on the floor. 

“P-Please… need you so bad, can’t stop thinking about you fucking me– about you using me.. I–” You blurted out, a soft cry evading your voice as you spit out the words. You felt Muzan’s eyes boring into the back of your skull and you hoped your begs were deemed worthy.

You felt him stand up in front of you and you felt like you wanted to cower in your skin, the domineering presence holding you hostage as a soft command fell from his lips, “Look up for me.” 

As you glanced up, you were met with his cock. And God, did your mouth water… Just the sheer size of it made you drool as he lightly pressed it against your cheek when you sat up in front of him. You wanted so desperately for him to just shove it in and take what he wanted from you– the longing ache for him capturing you whole as you waited for his next command. 

“Go on. I’m allowing you.” Muzan said, guiding his cock inside your mouth and you sunk down greedily. Immediately lapping your tongue around it, you hollowed your cheeks and then stilled on him. Looking up at him through your eyelashes, you waited yet again. You didn’t want to push too far, it was only his will and his only– you were nothing but a fucktoy at the moment. 

“Ah yes, so pretty for me.” He cooed, albeit fakely as his talons for nails practically clawed within your hair– against your scalp, earning a wanton moan from you. He snapped his hips against your mouth, a deep groan drawing from him as his cock dragged along your tongue. You dared not to grab at his waist for leverage, instead keeping your hands against your lap as he fucked your mouth harshly. You felt the spit gathering against the corners of your lips, all over his cock and you closed your eyes in bliss. 

Muzan lazily spun his words now, drunk off of your lush mouth. “Obedient today, are we?” 

You could tell he was nearing his orgasm and you eagerly waited for his cum– the near golden seed that made your head spin with lust. But before you knew what was happening,  you were flung off of him onto your back.

You tried to get up from the floor, your elbows coming to rest against it but warmth covered your mouth and it took you a minute to register that Muzan had sat himself against you. Only it wasn’t his dick that pressed against your lips, but his cunt and everything came together within a second. 

He fucking switched to his female form.

Your hair had been grasped within the confines of his palm as he started to roll his hips against your mouth and you darted your tongue out to lick at his clit. You stared up at him, his kimono falling against his tiny shoulders and you couldn’t keep your eyes off his breasts bouncing within the fabric– his head thrown back in pure pleasure with moans leaking out from his reddened lips. 

Muzan tasted sweet against your tongue, his entrance nearly squeezing the life out of it as he came from your laving. You couldn’t help but savor each and every drop as it painted you preciously, sitting heavily on the base of your tongue and you licked him clean. You could feel his pants wracking his body above you and you swore to yourself again– not to touch.

Touching him got you punished and you wanted more treats like this.

[moodywyrm]

i can’t get this out of my head ,,, imagine ur riding abby’s strap and u take her hand and press it to ur tummy to feel the bulge ,, u tell her how deep she is and how good she feels inside you 😵‍💫 she would literally go feral and start whimpering jesus christ

im gonna have a fucking conniption nonnie do u think im some sort of slut? bc you'd be fuckign right oh my goodoododoarhoivhoievhjo

we're bringing back the 6 1/2 inch girthy sparkly baby blue strap. bc thats what this is for. abby is splayed out on her back, hair loose and on the bed, scratch marks running down her chest from her pretty tits to the muscle v of her hips, where your hands placed for leverage as you drag yourself up and down her cock. ur dripping all over her, the wetness of ur cunt leaking under the harness and oh god oh fuck abby can't tell if that's her wetness or yours, but she fucking loves it either way. you look like a goddess on top of her, sweaty and glistening in the low light, eyes locked onto hers as you try desperately to maintain eye contact.

she can feel you slowing down, thighs quaking from both exhaustion and pleasure until you let out the prettiest little whine and sit onto her strap all the way and start grinding. this is what really fucking gets her, bc not only can she see ur tits bouncing with how hard your grinding, but it's forcing the harness to grind against her, the friction on her clit combined with all the wetness taking her dizzy.

u break eye contact for just a second, looking at ur tummy and the moan you let out when you see the bulge of the strap is borderline pornographic. it's not much, but you can see the wiggle of the strap every time you grind down onto it, and it's sending you to your orgasm faster than you'd like to admit. so you grab one of abby's big hands that had been on ur waist, and u let it drag across ur tummy until it's at the bulge.

abby's eyes widen when she feels it, whimpering out a little “oh my god” at the feel of her fucking you so deep it shows, but she lets out the prettiest fucking moan when u take her hand and push down, pressing the strap even deeper and forcing it against that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you that makes you wail and choke out a 'fuck, abby'.

she feels you falter on top of her before grinding even harder, fucking her with all you've got, and she takes the hint, sitting up and pulling you against her with her other arm while she puts more pressure on your lower tummy, keeping the strap so fucking deep your jaw drops and ur eyes roll back, the intensity of it all, combined with just how fucking debauched abby looks – hair messy n loose, lips bruised, cheeks flushed to all hell, sweat dripping down her body, across her tits and down her tummy, and her pretty, pretty words of 'fucking hell baby, taking me so deep, gonna cum for me pretty girl? gonna make urself cum on my cock?' – making you break. you arch your back and wail, clenching and leaking around the pretty blue silicone, leaving a ring of creamy white cum to leak down onto abby's thighs, and grinding so hard it pushes abby over the edge, her pussy clenching against the harness and her clit throbbing so hard she whimpers. she presses her forehead to urs as she's cumming, the eye contact making it feel like an eternity before either of you can catch your breath.

ur still grinding, softly, trying to ease yourself down when abby takes her hand off ur tummy bringing it up to hold her chin gently as she presses a kiss to ur bottom lip and then one to ur cheek, tucking her head into ur neck and flopping back onto the bed with you pressed against her. u moan n giggle, the strap jostling inside you as you slowly pull off of it, laying back down on abby n pressing slow, lazy kisses to her neck before making ur way up to her face. she hums, accepting ur kisses before looking at u n going "god, you're so fucking good at that baby, my sweet girl" n pulling u in for more kisses.

I need her so bad u don't understand.

[obsolescent]

Kinktober - Day One

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x GN!Reader

Prompt: Playing with hair

Author’s Note: My first time participating in Kinktober! I’m following a certain list but I’m allowing a randomizer to select the prompt for each day. I’ll compile all these under one list for easy finding, too. I hope you enjoy! Sorry I'm technically posting this on day two, gonna skip some days.

Content Warnings: Reader has longer hair for this one due to the prompt, Cis Leon, no gendered language for reader, blowjob, P in V sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praising, sex toys, very sweet, very sensual.

Kinktober Masterlist

The clink of ice hitting the side of Leon’s glass is the only sound that’s heard through the bedroom. Taking a sip of the whiskey, he sighs as his other hand runs through your hair. His fingers move through the strands, lightly tugging along the way. Gathering your hair, he wraps it around his hand before letting it drop. You hum, the sound sending waves of pleasure through him. He lets his head drop against the back of the armchair, moaning softly. 

Your undulating motions against his cock are slow, savoring the way he feels in your mouth, the taste of him. You’re relaxed in between his legs, one of your hands rubbing his thigh while the other is between your own legs, rubbing slow circles against your clit. “S’good to me,” you hear him breathe out, his hand never stopping its journey through your strands, lightly scratching your scalp along the way.

You feel his thighs start the quake under your touch, signifying he’s close. “B-baby, m’close,” he whines. You smile against him, ministrations ceasing. You lean back and take in his tousled look. Soft blond locks sticking to his skin from sweat, shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled, dress pants and briefs down at his ankles. Lidded blue eyes gaze down at you, Leon taking in your own disheveled appearance. Your own shirt unbuttoned, bottoms tossed aside, underwear pulled down to your bent knees, thighs soaked. 

Setting down his glass, he murmurs, “Fuck, you’re stunning.” Now leaning over you, keeping a firm grasp on your hair. He pulls you up by the back of your head into a fervid kiss, tasting himself. He pulls away with a moan, standing up. He discards the rest of his clothing before offering his hand to you, helping you off the carpet. Leading you to the bed, Leon lays down and pulls you on top of him. You settle in place, your core grinding against him, wetting his cock with your slick.

Chest to chest, lips to lips, his hand begins wandering in your hair again, firm grip secure in your locks. There’s no rush, movements drawn out and soft, sounds of pleasure spilling for each of your mouths, both bathing in the glory of each other. Leon’s cock catches on your entrance every so often, almost slipping inside to instead glide over your bud, sending a rush of pleasure through you during each pass. Leon shifts his hips, his cock now prodding at your entrance. There’s slight resistance before it glides in, fully seated on him.

You both moan out simultaneously when he slips inside you, filling you up fully. One hand on your head, the other secured around your lower back. Fingers sinking firmly into your skin, Leon’s thrusts are deep and slow, hips rolling while his grasp keeps you in place. “Feel perfect, made for me,” He whispers in your ear, his maunder starting. Your hand ventures downward, circling yourself once more. Leon hums, “Let me,” his hand on your back leaving to reach over towards the night stand, in a fluid motion grabbing the vibrator and bringing it between your bodies. Turning it on to its lowest setting, he places it, the toy being held in place between you two. You gasp, the soft vibrations mixed with the leisure motions of Leon’s hips slowly building you up to an intense orgasm. 

He feels your pussy beginning to grip him tighter, nearing your end. “Getting close, baby?” He asks, kissing your temple. “P-please, may I cum?” You beg, your thighs quivering. He lets out a breathy chuckle before answering, “So good, asking f’permission. You can cum, honey.” A few more drags of his cock against your walls has you spilling over the brim into rapture. Each push of his dick into your clenching heat creates more of a mess between you, your orgasm prolonged. 

Crying out his name, chanting “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” you grip at his forearms as he continues, eyes rolling back into your head. His own noises picking up, your release sending him careening into his own bliss. Whimpering out your name, he clutches your hair tighter, releasing inside you. You both lay in your shared euphoria, the glow of it warming your skin. He slides out, cum pouring out and dripping onto the bed.

Leon rolls over onto his side, bringing you with him. Grabbing tissues, he wipes up his essence, all the while leaving kisses across your skin. “Absolutely divine,” he whispers against you, running his hands down your body. You beam at him, pushing his hair back and cupping his face. Embracing you, Leon kisses your forehead, not once does his hand leave your hair.

[jokerislandgirl32]

Ziolet Songs: Day Eleven

Day 11: Can’t Help Falling in Love

Wise men say Only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you Shall I stay? Would it be a sin If I can't help falling in love with you?

Like a river flows Surely to the sea Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be

Take my hand Take my whole life, too For I can't help falling in love with you

Five days late, but here we are! I promise I will post all 31 songs in celebration of Zach and Violet’s 10 year wedding anniversary this month, but I will be extending it out into November since I’ve gotten behind.

For now I leave you with this song! For Violet this song is representative of her devotion to Zach. Even when she realized he was in another relationship she did not give up on her hope of one day being with him. She knew “some things are meant to be,” and she prayed that would be true for them.

Below you can find a fanfic excerpt I posted on tumblr a few years ago that many of you have not seen! I am reposting it here! Please note the excerpt contains mentions of a panic attack and angsty feelings.

“Heellllooooo, Violet? Special delivery for my dearest cousin, it’s your latest edition of the ‘stalking my crush gazette!’” My cousin Paige happily announced as she bounced into the house with a newspaper and magazine in hand. 

“Can you please stop it,” I groaned in embarrassment. 

Paige winked at me, “when you ask him out, I will! I’m ready to be your matron of honor, you know.”

“You know I can’t do that…and you just got married, do you really want to endure another wedding?” I murmured. 

“Well it’s obvious he’s not going to do it, and if he did he’d run away afterwards….I really thought you were the only one who did that, but he’s just as bad as you are, you truly are meant for each other. And absolutely, love is in the air, let’s just go crazy and have you and mom get married to your true loves this year too!” 

I snorted and rolled my eyes as Paige took a seat on a barstool beside me at the kitchen counter. She flipped through a popular celebrity magazine, and I scanned the paper I especially ordered from Massachusetts to keep up on the happenings of Varmitech Industries, and by extension Zach. 

After a few minutes of us silently reading, Paige let out a quiet gasp, I looked to her and saw her snap the magazine shut and move it away from my line of sight at an alarming rate. She looked at me with a pained expression. 

“What’s wrong,” I joked, “it looks like you’ve seen a ghost? Did your favorite boy band break up or something?” 

“No, it’s not that, it’s ummm, it’s nothing…” she spoke with an anxious tone to her voice, and she looked away from me. 

I felt my heart rate accelerate, I knew Paige, something was wrong…she was hiding something, “Paige, come on, you can tell me, what’s going on, it can’t be that bad…”

She opened the magazine to the page she’d tried to hide from me, and she pointed at it as a tear silently rolled down her cheek, “he’s with someone….”

My heart dropped into my stomach as I chanced a look at the page she was pointing to, there was a picture of Zach, and a headline that read, “CEO of Varmitech Industries Has Mystery Lover.”

My mouth dropped open in shock, and I stood up quickly, knocking the barstool over in my wake. I grasped my V butterfly necklace as the breath I did not know I’d been holding left my mouth in a strangled sob. I backed away from Paige and the counter, and I began to hyperventilate. I covered my mouth with my hands to hold back my sobs when the tears began streaming down my face. 

My quaking knees gave way, and I fell to the floor, succumbing to a full blown panic attack. Paige wrapped her arms around me, pulling me against her, trying her best to calm me. All I could think was what an idiot I’d been, I’d fallen in love with someone who belonged to someone else. Someone who would never be mine…no matter how much I wanted him to be mine. 

VvvvvvvVvvvvvV

I walked by the ocean that evening fingering the butterfly necklace Zach had given me only a couple months before on the night he kissed me, the night I thought he’d fallen in love with me. I quietly sang the lyrics to “Can’t Help Falling In Love:”

“Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be…

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help falling in love with you…”

I let out a growl of frustration, and I unhooked the necklace, preparing to throw it into the ocean. Before I could do it, I reached up to wipe the tears from my eyes and saw that a small, perfectly shaped red and black scallop seashell had washed ashore by my feet. 

I picked it up and ran my thumb over the surface of the shell, and I took a deep breath before I pocketed it. The shell had Zach’s colors…that had to mean something…I refastened the necklace, and whispered, “‘some things are meant to be…’”

[saradika]

— WASTELAND, BABY

v. you are unbreaking, though quaking

[masterlist] | [part iv]

boba fett x f!reader

rated E - 4.2k

tags: fallout au, post-apocalyptic, canon-typical themes, mentions of violence & wounds, guns & weapon training, flirting during said training, mild body horror (descriptions of Fennec’s injury and modifications)

The meeting of a new friend, a very interesting lesson, and an afternoon spent lending a hand.

It's not long before you're taking Boba up on his offer.

A chance meeting in the marketplace - a dip of your head from across an aisle as you pass by. He's deep in conversation with a shop owner, a glint from the sun catching on the dark visor as his head tilts in your direction.

All it takes is two beckoning fingers for you to abandon your plans, veering off the path to wait quizzically next to him. Wondering if he had some task for you, something you needed to run to the Mandalorian, or Fennec.

"I was going to see her." He tells you, cryptically - as the conversation quickly wraps up, "I was hoping to run into you. Would you like to come?"

Your brain trips helplessly over his words - a little jolt as you remember, “Oh! Yes, please.”

With a nod, you're following after him. Back through the streets, though you circle around the tall set of stairs to an entrance in the back.

Entering the Palace at the ground level - winding your way inside an refurbished underground parking garage, until you're arriving at a set of metal double-doors, tightly bolted shut.

Boba pauses then, as you hover at his shoulder.

Removing his helmet to clip it to his belt, his gaze shifting your way. Thinking for a moment, before he retrieves a bundle of cloth from the bag that hangs from a shoulder - passing it to you.

You frown, as it unfolds. A soft and worn black shirt - long sleeves and fraying at the edges.

"Put this on. I thought perhaps, if your smell was familiar, she might be more comfortable." He explains.

Understanding dawns, and you resist the urge to bring the shirt - his shirt - to your nose and inhale.

"Of course." You murmur - slipping it over your head, pushing the sleeves up your arms.

"You ready?" He asks, and you just miss the slow sweep of his eyes as you tuck the edge of the shirt into the waistband of your trousers.

The nerves are still rattling around in your chest, but you nod, "Yes."

He unlocks the doors with a key from one of his pouches, a press of a bare thumb to the pad bolted on the wall. The doors are thick - grinding and loud as they open inwards, gradually letting in light.

Walking in confidently, as you trail just behind. Shoulders hunched, your heartbeat skyrocketing as you see the swish of something large and shadowed. A skittering of stones and sand shifting with the weight of a heavy foot.

One step, and then another. The arc of light from the opened door spilling out, slowly revealing the creature as she moves closer. A rumble of a deep growl that has your chest pressing into his arm, the sound of a nose snuffling.

The growl pitches up, and then it's moving. Covering the ground faster than you thought possible, as your fingers dig into the canvas covering his bicep.

Your breath catches in your throat as it lopes forward on four legs. Thrusting itself into that light - and all you can see is the snarl of sharp teeth, curling horns, it's gray, leathery skin.

You can't help it - your head presses into his shoulder as your eyes shut. Reading about them wasn't the same as seeing. Even though time has passed in the now, there were just some things your mind hasn't managed to wrap around.

Like 9-foot tall beasts that could almost swallow you whole.

Hot breath washes over you, an inhale as she sniffs both you and Boba. He coos at her, his body shifting as his other arm raises, stroking the bridge of her nose.

Your eyes peek open, then. Seeing the way her eyes shut, the low rumble as she pushes into his touch. They way he smiles like a proud father has your grip loosing, and then he's curling an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him.

"Muchi, I've brought a friend today." His voice is low and soothing, "She wanted to meet you."

His head tilts towards you, taking on a quieter tone, "Are you doing alright?"

Heat rises in your neck, curling up to your cheeks as you squeak, "Just fine."

He laughs, that grip around you tightening. The touch on her nose changes to a scratching at her jaw, as she rumbles again.

"You’re a good girl. Aren't you?"

You never thought you'd be jealous of a deathclaw, but his praise does something to you. Suddenly aware of how he's holding you, how your hand splays across the armor covering his chest.

It takes all your strength to drag your eyes away from him. Up to her, to actually take her in under the flickering bulb above.

She's fascinating, something like awe settling over you now - like the time you had seen the life-like model of a tyrannosaurus rex at the museum. Marveling over her size, even as she crouches to lower her head to his level.

A shift of her feet brings you down to her claws - each one long, deadly sharp.

Still an apex predator, even here.

"Would you like to touch her?" He asks, and your eyes are widening.

"Do you think she will let me?"

"She will." His head cocks to the side, "Do you trust me?"

You do. You nod.

Boba's hand takes yours, mapping your fingers. Carefully and slowly bring it up to her muzzle, patting your fingers against her cheek - just under a bright, golden eye.

Muchi makes another noise at that. It sounds almost happy, and you find yourself smiling. Fingers gently petting the rough skin, her eyes shutting in what you think is contentedness.

Your opinion of her swift rises.

"She's beautiful." You breathe, your smile widening, "Is she... is she happy, here?"

The room extends into darkness. Transformed from a storage space for machinery into something akin to outside. Large boulders, a scattering of small shrubs.

When you look at him, he's always watching you. A flicker of his expression as he masks the hint of tenderness, but it still lingers with his smile.

"She is. They prefer darkness and quiet for their nests." He explains, "Sometimes at night I take her out to roam. She takes direction well enough."

The arm stays carefully wrapped around you. Keeping you close, selfishly, protectively. Only stepping away from when she becomes restless, a swishing of her tail as she noses at his bag - smelling the food tucked inside.

Chasing after the pieces he throws, as his rumbling laugh brightens the space.

Yours, soon joining.

Time ticks away - and when you finally leave, you don't think to offer to give his shirt back.

And he doesn't ask, either.

Your days in Mos Espa continue to pass - each one bleeding into the next. You have been feeling a little more grounded each day, getting used to the routines.

More familiar faces, acquaintances that inch into something more.

You learn the Mandalorian's name. Din. It's gifted to you close to two months after that first walk around the city. Fennec's odd jobs often included ones for him - collecting and pieces that he could use on his own Power Armor set. Trading for fusion cores to power it.

Part of you wondered whether he just grew tired of you calling him Mando all the time, thought he was called that often enough. But eventually, you decided that maybe - just maybe, you were friends.

Perhaps because you bring him snacks, or because you ask him about his foundling. He's opened up a little, since the beginning - sentences growing longer. You can recognize the tilt of his helmet to mean one thing, now. The cock of his hip as he leans, as another.

You pick up things about Fennec, as well.

Right now, you're tying not to look at her hands too often, where they drift to press against her abdomen. The way she seems distracted, her answers coming a little more slowly.

Lingering, after you had dropped off what she had asked for - a small crate of copper, from Goodneighbor - to repair the generators that went down during the last big storm. The first of the shipments exchanged with the new supply line, their courier meeting you just outside Mos Espa.

It had been strange to step outside, through the line of barbed wire and tall, stone walls. Not that you couldn't see it from the windows of the Palace, but just the vastness sprawling in front of you - a reminder that you don't know what the world looks like, anymore.

Eventually, you can't help but ask.

"Are you alright?"

Her face is a swirl of emotions - the briefest flicker of appreciation. Quickly covered with annoyance, not wanting to be fussed over.

Not her style.

"I will be, later." She brushes the question off, but it's half-hearted. A glance outside, checking the angle of the sun for time, as she hands you a stained slip of paper, "I have one last thing. Can you give this to Din? He has something for me, and you're supposed to start training with him."

"Training?" You frown.

"Yes, training." Her smile is small, the slightest curve of your lips, "We all know you don't know how to use that."

The toe of her boot extends, to the holster around your waist. Where the gun from the farmhouse remains, never removed.

You don't even know if it's loaded - you just know that the safety is on, and it's stayed that way. More to blend in, than anything else.

"I think I've been managing okay," You hedge, resisting the urge to fidget with the brass buckle at your waist.

"Mm, well this comes from the boss," Her grin turns sharp, "So you'll have to take it up with him."

Your stomach flips at the reference. It had been hard not to think about him - the night he came to your room. His questions, something about them feeling more pointed than just merely "checking in".

Daydreaming about that stolen moment of time, tucked against him when you had met Muchi. Your brain twisting the moment late at night - making you unsure whether that touch - his shirt - had just been his attempt at comfort and safety, or whether it had something more.

The occasional run-ins after had left you feeling the same. Leaving you wondering if his gaze really did seem more intense, lately. If he had been closing the polite gap that most people held, standing a little closer than you remember he did before.

Each time, you decide that it's just your imagination.

Wishful thinking.

Fennec mistakes your silence for sullenness, her tone softening.

"I think it would be good for you. To know you can defend yourself, if you ever need to."

She's right - you still have dreams about the farmhouse. Waking up with a gasp, brow dotted with sweat. So different than the old dreams - those slow loops you had been stuck in, day after day.

Year after year, more like.

So, you find yourself agreeing - trotting off to the edge of town. Where the group of houses break apart and then fade, where the cobblestone turns to dirt roads. Off to find Din, or so you've been told.

You find him, the sun glinting off the shining silver of his armor. A row of crates lines up to make a barrier, a handful of younglings in the mid to late teens taking turns at the makeshift range, under closer supervision.

A wash of emotions come over you - a sadness that those at such a young an age are learning this. Unable to help the small smile at the way they turn their heads for approval as they hit a target - looking for Din. His soft "good job, kid" that leaves them beaming.

A curl of embarrassment - at having to practice with them, worrying you'll make a fool of yourself.

He sees you coming, a tilt to his head and his hip as he keeps watch. Taking the paper, reading it quickly before tucking it into his bags.

"Was wondering when you'd be sent my way." Din greets you, helmet tilting down as his gloves ghost over the guns resting on the makeshift table. Halting on a long rifle, before passing it over to you.

It's heavy and solid in your arms, as he walks you to the end. Fishing a few bullets out the pouches at his waist, carefully conserved. Scarce in the Wasteland - a reminder to take this seriously.

"This is uh-, a lot bigger than I was expecting," You trail behind him, as he guides you down to the end of the range.

Showing you the basics - where the safety is, how to hold it in your arms, nudging your feet into position.

Your first shot going so far wide that it disappears into the Wasteland. Fingers fumbling as you copy how he ejected the old casing, replacing it with a new one.

Wanting desperately to do well, but it’s hard with him standing at your shoulder. Silent as a statute, but it doesn’t make you feel any less pathetic.

The next round goes just as poorly.

“I’m making you nervous.” He observes, stepping back. Placing a few more bullets on the barrier, “Take some time, get comfortable with the weight, and try again.”

You can breathe again, when he leaves. Hoisting it back into place, peering down the sights.

Barely grazing the upper right corner of the target, but at least you’re hitting something now.

When you look up again, there’s no glint of silver. Replaced with a swatch of green instead, your eyes drawn so easily to it as Boba moves down the line, as Din had.

The younglings settle, with their new teacher. The idle teasing and chatter disappearing as they begin to concentrate.

Rewarded with solemn nods of his head, that they eagerly soak up. Advice taken with wide eyes, their attention transfixed as he crouches - pointing down at the targets.

A clap on the shoulder as their stance is adjusted, something murmured that makes them beam.

When he finally reaches you, you’re realizing you’re been staring this whole time - the rifle dipping down towards the ground, brushing against the grass.

There’s the quirk of his lips as his eyes meet yours, as you smile at him in greeting. But then he’s gesturing with two fingers that point towards you, then flick towards the target.

“Show me.”

Your smile fades, already anticipating missing. Taking your time to line everything up like you did the last time.

The careful pull of a finger, followed by the loud bang - a wince as the stock kicks back against your shoulder.

A mark appears, a clean hole showing just outside the largest red ring.

Your grin appearing again, as his head tilts.

“Not bad,” He says, as he steps closer, “A lucky shot, but you made it.”

Your eyebrows raise, “Lucky?”

“I could see you flinch from here,” His arms cross, as he leans on the barrier. “You closed your eyes, anticipating the recoil.”

You hadn’t even realized you had. Firing was part you disliked the most - the rumble in your hands, the thud of pressure against your shoulder.

“And you’re twisting too much. Here.”

His hands are at your elbows, as he steps behind you. Tucking them closer to you, then gently adjusting your fingers.

So close that it’s hard to concentrate fully, your attention split as his armor presses against your back. Wanting him to stay like that - mourning when he takes a step back to give you room.

“Again.”

You fire. This time it’s lower, closer. The impact not as harsh - and he’s there again, stepping into your space as you both look down to see you’ve hit the third ring from the center.

“I hit it!” You exclaim - missing his smile, as you point excitedly.

“You did.” He nods with approval, “Good girl.”

And god, it’s so different when it’s directed at you.

Before, it had felt like a little jolt to your brain, as silly as that was. Now, goosebumps threaten to prickle down your arms, in spite of the heat. A little hitch of your breath as your heart pounds.

There’s a tug, as he takes the rifle from you. A ghost of his fingers against your hip, the thigh. The sound of a button snapping as he works your pistol from holster, pressing it into your hands, instead.

“Now, this one.”

You look down at it as the flutters in your belly start to wane - your companion from the beginning. One that you know nothing about.

“This one?” You echo.

It’s so much lighter. Stocky, a short barrel and a thick handle - heavy in your hand.

“This is what you’re carrying. You should learn to know it.” He advises, as you look down.

“I don’t even know if it works.” You admit, “I just took it, like you told me to.”

Before you can blink he’s plucking it from your open palm. A quick inspection before his arm extends - the briefest moment before he’s putting a hole through the dead center.

It sends a different kind of thrill through you. Something breathless as you remember just how skilled he is, how this is nothing.

Your eyes are wide as he presses it back into your hands. Fingers lingering, his chest so close to yours as he leans - as all you’re able to do is blink dumbly up at him.

Din appears at his shoulder then, and your eyes drop - stepping back, as you nudge the safety on. Cheeks warming at getting caught, though you remind yourself that there was nothing to catch - he was just helping you.

He passes a small, golden cylinder to Boba, "Just came in, had to go pick it up. Thank you for keeping an eye on things."

"Think nothing of it," The cell is turned around in his hands, checking either side for wear or damage, "She's not happy, we've cut it too close."

There's a sigh, Din folding his arms as you reholster your pistol.

His voice low, not wanting to be overheard, "My contact said there's some Gunners making trouble. Out towards that settlement to the east. They didn't want to move the product until I sent an armed escort.”

A look passes between them, before Boba turns his attention to you, "Do me a favor, sen’ika. Take this to Fennec, she’s in her quarters."

You take the cell from him automatically, a quick look thrown his way for confirmation. Never once have you been in Fennec’s room - she was too private of a person.

But he’s already turned back to Din, and by now you’re used to such a dismissal. Not taking offense - actually appreciating the interruption because it meant that you could breath again.

Trying not to think too much about how his arms fit around you - the “good girl” he had murmured. Curling sweetly on his tongue and making something in your lower belly ache.

The door is shut when you arrive, as you knock on the wooden door. Her room was on the second floor, down the wing from where you’ve heard Boba’s is.

Trying not to think about that, as well - as you wait for her answer. Her voice sounding weaker than usual, as you enter - having to use your shoulder to nudge the heavy door open.

“Was hoping he’d send you,” Fennec grimaces, half-slumped on a couch, tucked off to the side.

The small gun in her hand clattering to the table as you cross the room quickly, lowering to your knees in front of her.

“Stars, are you okay?” The worry is back in full force, catching the sweat on her brow, her pinched expression.

“Yes,” She huffs, her grin grim, “Well, fine enough.”

Growing serious for a moment, “I need you to help me with something, bluebird.”

“Anything.”

There’s a twitch to her lips, at how quickly and genuinely you answer, “Usually Boba does this. But I think you’ll be better suited.”

Her eyes drop to your hands, where they press into the worn fabric of the couch.

Another long moment, and for some reason - you think she might be nervous. Which is laughable, considering everything you know about the assassin.

Never seeming afraid or ruffled by anything.

It makes you want to comfort her. Your voice going low and soothing, like it had years ago - helping your family with their scrapes and bruises, “What can I do?”

“Easier to show you, I think.”

Her eyes flick up to yours, before she pushes herself up to a seated position. Fingers hovering at the dark, thick band at her waist - before she’s tugging it back.

You’re unable to help the small gasp.

Where soft skin should be, there’s a cavern. Filled with bundles of wires and tubes, metal replacing flesh.

“Who did this to you?” You breathe, looking up at her.

Where’s she’s watching, the apprehension more evident. But at your question it eases - a small, rueful smile replacing it.

“Boba did.”

Your heart plummets, fingers curling into fists.

“Easy, bluebird.” She soothes - though you still can’t draw your eyes away, “He saved me.”

That catches your attention, gaze finally lifting to yours.

“I was shot and left to die.” Fennec tells you - her words automatic, practiced. Softening, just a bit, “Boba found me in the Wastelands, and fixed me. Some things had to be replaced, but it was a while ago.”

A pause, as she reiterates, “I’m fine.”

You settle then, the fear and distress easing. Risking another quick glance down, and then away - not wanting to stare.

Realizing your tight grip on the fusion cell, holding it out to her.

“Does this… go in there?” You ask meekly, not sure how else to word it.

She laughs at that - a sigh, as if she’s been holding her breath, “Smart girl.”

Taking it from you, angling some wires out of the way - to where to can see another cell fitted against the metal side.

“The one I have is low. Almost out. It powers a lot of the pieces in here. If it runs out, it will be very painful.” She lets the words hang.

You’re sure it would be more than that. She’s been moving slowly all day, the discomfort evident in her typically-easy tone. One last question works it’s way into your mind.

“Will it hurt you?”

Her jaw grits, “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” You shift on your knees, focusing on the fitted cell - holding out your hand for the new one.

It’s cool in your grip. You can do this - you’ve gotten good at tinkering since you’ve woken up. Just don’t think about this cell powering the stomach of your boss and friend.

A moment, as you take a breath.

“You can do this.” She tells you.

You nod, “You can, too.”

Trying not to think too deeply about it - about fucking it up - as you reach in. Fingers brushing the curved edge of the cell before they wrap around, gently tugging.

There's sharp hiss of breath through clenched teeth, her body tensing as you tug it free. As the small green bulb attached to the casing dims down to nothing.

Quickly and carefully, you fit the new piece in, nudging it until it clicks back into place.

Both of you taking a breath then, relieved. The cover fitting back into place, as you move to sit on the other edge of the couch instead.

"Fuck, that’s better." She sighs, rubbing at her abdomen. Some of the color coming back into her cheeks, her expression less pained.

But there's something that settles in your heart after - a small ache.

"Fennec." You ask, as her head turns your way, "Were you worried to tell me? About your-"

You search for the words, "…cybernetics?"

She sighs then, easing back against the couch a little more, "Yes, and no. It's not easy, being part synth. There's a lot of distrust in the world, now. Especially if you are... different."

You nod slowly, an edge to your words, "Unfortunately, that sort of thinking isn’t new."

"Then I'm sure you can understand where I was coming from." Fennec answers grimly.

Another silence settling for a moment. Giving you a moment to take in her room - the table just off to the side. The wide bed, set in the middle of the connection room.

Bits of her collections scattered throughout the rooms, her rifle sitting on a long worktable next to the tall windows.

You've come a long way, since you first arrived.

"Well, anytime you need help - you're welcome to my nimble fingers," You smile, holding them up, wiggling them towards her.

She scoffs, hiding the bit of smile. Pushing up then, as you follow. Taking her lead, knowing that if you were in her place, you'd want to rest.

Her voice, halting your steps in the doorway.

"Glad you stuck around, kid."

It's kind, genuine. The unspoken understood - and not just for this. A small offering, something that is not extended often.

The gesture tugs at you.

Making you think about your time here. About Din - his gruff kindness - slowly coaxed out his shell.

The way Boba had looked at you, those weeks before - eyes intense, as if trying to read your mind. The almost vulnerable way he had asked if you were going to leave.

How you hadn't wanted to. Not at all.

You smile.

"I am, too."

sen'ika - little bird

ahh more 👀 feelings 👀 this week (with more to come!) thank you for reading 💚 part v will be out thursday, the 6th! and if you’d like to get tagged, please fill out the series taglist here!

(0-pressure tags 💕: @spaceydragons, @luladoll, @obiknights, @wingofshadow, @bobathirstaccount, @reluctant-mandalore, @ohheyitsokay, @floral-force, @valentine-tx, @ri-a-rose, @dreamlandcreations, @vellichormybeloved, @writeforfandoms, @winchestershiresauce, @monada43, @rescuethewretched, @thegalaxys-edge, @honeydjarin, @ray-rook, @dumfanting, @bedky, @thirsty-boba-fett-posts, @dukeoftheblackstar)

[dairy-farmer]

No thoughts head empty just Tim who goes to summer camp when he's 11-soon-to-be-12 years old and discovering the wonders of sex

It starts with some of the older camp boys, who get everyone together to measure their dicks, only to find out Tim has a sweet little pussy. They make fun of him for it at first but Tim isn't shy in showing it off, and so they all decide to start mutually masterbation in front of each other. It's going great until one of the boys asks Tim if he can taste him, and then it's all downhill for him

The preteen isn't particularly good at eating him out, but the few times he manages to make Tim's legs and hips quake in pleasure are enough to get the younger boy hooked

He desperately wants more of something, tho he isn't sure what at first until a different boy offers him a few fingers to stuff in his pussy. Once those are in, Tim is a mess. He cums eventually but still wants more, and this is when one of the older boys, 15/16 years old, steps up with his cock wrapped in a condom and proceeds to fuck into Tim, who is a sobbing mess. He's cock hungry from that moment on, nearly insatiable. He takes all of his fellow campers that night, and when they run out of condoms with only two kids left, he doesn't care

He rides them without protection and let's them cum inside, and wow was that ever a mistake, bc now Tim can't imagine EVER using condoms, not when being cum inside of felt so much better!

Over the next couple of weeks tho he manages to wipe his fellow campers out, so he seeks out some of the counselors, finds 3 of the 8 there at camp to fuck him, tho one insisted on - and followed through with - pulling out. He's only able to get a weekend of that before the counselors all decide to deny Tim bc they don't want to risk their jobs for a little slut who can't close his legs

Tim pouts and stomps into the woods, getting mildly lost. But it's fine, bc he stumbles upon a group of campers, 10 or so men in total, and after blinking himself back into awareness when he realized what opportunity has arisen, he spends the rest of the day and night and most of the next morning getting railed by this group of strangers, all of them cumming deep inside of Tim, who begs for it every time

He does ofc leave camp in early August with everyone else, and when his parents go back to Gotham to visit him, he is clearly pregnant. His parents are livid and Tim pretends to be meek and shy, so sorry for getting pregnant but not knowing any better! He tells them that he stayed inside the entire time, so no one has seen his frankly obscene baby bump, and his parents are glad. They make arrangements immediately to find a discreet way to spirit the baby away once they're born, and while Tim is saddened by this, he's also relieved he got away with being a slut

(and he does, until in his seventh month his mother tells him that if he gets pregnant again, he will have to deal with the consequences of being a mother and raising his baby. They won't get him a nanny or a wet nurse or anything, all the responsibility will fall on Tim. She thinks this will be sufficient birth control for him but it has the opposite effect on Tim, who is desperate to get pregnant again after he gives birth. He had so many wet dreams about being heavily pregnant and surrounded by a gaggle of small children, and he is determined for that to be his reality)

(he doesn't expect his dad to have caught on and proposition him with something akin to "if you let me be the one to fuck you pregnant, we can hide the pregnancy and pass the baby off as your little sibling to the public. Ofc you'll still be raising them, but we're less likely to get looked at twice by anyone" and Tim immediately agrees bc 1. He wants to be pregnant again right now immediately, four weeks postpartum be damned, and 2. The idea of making himself a mommy again AND a big brother all in one go sounds amazing to him. He gets pregnant with his sibling v quickly)

They end up passing all of Tim's first few babies off as his younger siblings until they can't anymore, and by then Tim is older and it's much less taboo for him to be publicly pregnant, so when his sixth baby is born and impossible to pass off as a Drake for whatever reason, they let the public catch on to the fact that Tim Drake is a single teen mother at only 18 years old (with no idea that this is his sixth pregnancy and he's technically been a teen mom since before he was even a teen at all). It gets a little harder when he just /keeps getting knocked up/ and there's never a baby daddy around, so word gets out that he's a slut and, well... Considering he has six babies and he only knows who fathered them for sure bc his dad insisted on knocking him up once, calling him a slut isn't too far off

But it's fine. Tim LOVES this life, and all of his babies, and fucking as many strangers as his little pussy can take, and getting knocked up with all the cum his womb can hold

(maybe Bruce Wayne figures out what his slutty little neighbor is up to, but instead of doing anything to intervene, he just offers to help watch Tim's many, many "siblings" and children, and when he finally has a shot to fuck the slut himself, he's determined to give Tim his next baby bump)

😍😍😍😍😍😍 yesssssssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! tim going to summercamp and coming back knocked up because he found out how good it feels to have boys put their boy parts into his little hole. his dad striking a deal to exclusive and unrestricted access to his slut son's hole because him and janet haven't fucked in ages and tim is sweet, tight, and desperate for any cock to fill his starved baby making hole. maybe jack isn't the best or most attentive father to all of the children tim gives birth to. fatherhood was never really his thing but tim's a good enough parent to more than makeup for it so he decides to stick to the part he really likes about it all. the babymaking.

janet was disgruntled at first, disgusted at jack even for being so weak that he's easily seduced by their underaged child. she forces jack to stay in gotham and maintain the ruse of both of them being in the city while she continues on their travels. turns out janet LOVES traveling alone and jack is more than okay to stay in gotham so long as he's able to have regular sex with tim. of course that means that MANY drakes are born and jack will admit that when a business partner or colleague points out his rather large family and comments on him being a family man well...it makes him puff up in pride. people look at him with a different kind of respect and reverence when they talk about how...prolific he is in children. even wayne points it out with an odd look and that makes jack a little cockier because they've all heard the rumors about wayne's...virility given that he has only adopted children but not one born child despite his philandering.

turns out jack likes being a "family man". then tim is 18 and freshly pregnant with another of jack's children because jack stopped pretending he wasn't fucking tim with the intent of getting him pregnant around the time the second compliment rolled in.

tim's reputation takes a bit of a hit for being a 'teen mother'. janet ends up passing away of a stroke while on a dig and so jack has to quietly deal with that and return to working full time because his business partner has passed away. tim has been in charge of nearly all the childrearing since jack first got him pregnant but wrestling five children with a sixth on the way in a penthouse is...difficult. he and janet had agreed to the deal that they wouldn't hire help for tim because he couldn't keep his slutty legs closed but...well jack's not heartless and he doesn't want to be needlessly cruel to the mother of his children after all. (and perhaps if the drakes were a more less known and low key family maybe jack would've even married tim and made all their children a smidge more legitimate). jack finds a house in a quieter neighborhood one with a nice big yard, plenty of trees, a babbling little brook, and a little lake with nippy fish. he moves out his little family and tells tim about the changes and how he won't be as available to plug his little hole for him but to rest assured that jack would continue giving him what he needed while he dealt with everyone treating him like a widow.

tim takes to the neighborhood well. he even befriends the neighbor which turns out to be wayne who is apparently experiencing empty nest syndrome given that his latest child has just gone off to college.

jack figures it isn't a big deal if wayne wants to play nanny to his children and hangout with his eldest who has been more or less ostracized by high society for his unfortunate teen pregnancy (the "first" of many many more). jack must've taken janet for granted because all of a sudden he's swamped with an overwhelmingly large amount of work. most nights he returns to his home too exhausted to fuck his eager son. more than once jack wakes up in the middle of the night to tim bouncing and rutting on his cock, desperate to satiate his hungry little cunt. tim's tits are already milk swollen and his abdomen has begun to show with the latest of jack's brood.

but jack is so tired that he grouches and tells tim to get off, that he's too tired for this and tim just whimpers and whispers about how he'll be really quick-

and jack lays there, unenthusiastic as tim bounces harder and faster.

jack's craving for sleep overcomes his lust and he ends up pushing tim away and making him go sleep in one of the children's rooms.

tim is upset with him the next morning but unlike his mother he still serves jack breakfast and kisses him goodbye at the door. jack sips a freshly brewed coffee in the car and smacks his lips with a bit of surprise that he doesn't taste rat-poison. a part of jack feels bad and resolves to try and finish his work early. he'll drive home and call tim to the car to fuck him, just like they did when he was a teenager and the house was getting redecorated and janet had told them both to leave and find something to do for a few hours.

but jack doesn't. he finished late as always and only has enough energy to eat and collapse into bed again. he wakes up once to tim sucking his cock, trying to get him aroused, but jack shoos him away.

tim stops trying after awhile and jack keeps making promises. occasionally tim comes to visit him at work once the school year starts and their children are away at daycare or school. jack fucks him in his office and caresses the rounded bump holding his child. but that's all for the extent of their sex life. tim gets too far along for the commute.

the baby is born and jack is satisfied to see its another boy. tim is always the horniest post partum, jack is certain he'll wake up any day to tim roughly riding him and more than willing to pin down his wrists until he gets his fill. only it doesn't happen.

jack gets a few days off and tries to start up with tim only to get sidelined in favor of tim taking their children to play at the wayne's. apparently wayne had a playground installed on his grounds when his children were younger and now regularly invites tim and his children over.

a few times jack gets a chance to fuck tim. while he's doing laundry, early in the morning when he's not running late and can bend tim over the kitchen counter.

before long tim is pregnant again much to his happiness. but this also means tim's insatiable spirit is satisfied for a little while longer.

jack is back to being a corporate slave and nine months later a sweet baby is born but with...oddly bluer eyes than his sibling and jet black hair. jack and tim's children are a mix of hazel and blue eyed children with chestnut to black hair- a healthy mix of their parent's. tim's latest baby though is...different and jack can't tell what it is about them.

their eyes are blue but...a slightly off shade, and the dark hair is deeper than any one in the family's but...that's genetics for you.

tim is nursing their newborn when wayne sheepishly knocks on the hospital room door. he's holding a large gift basket packed to the brim with all sorts of baby needs. toys, nappies, binkies, fancy baby bottles, clothing, and blankets. tim seems excited to see wayne, happily inviting him in and shifting to show him the baby quietly suckling on his tit.

wayne looks fascinated, eyes wide and so still that he hardly looked like he was breathing.

when the baby is finished, pulling off with a quiet, gummy mewl tim lovingly cradled them, completely uncaring of his exposed tits as wayne quietly placed the gift basket on the hospital floor and settled into a nearby chair to stare at the newborn.

for some reason jack feels like he's...intruding. like he's witnessing a private moment even though wayne is the intruder.

the feeling doesn't last long because jack gets another call and holds back a groan when he realizes the company wants him to start up on business trips again. that overseas negotiations aren't going as well and they need him to show up and do some strong-arming.

jack's limited time is about to get even more limited.

at the very least jack knows that tim will be kept out of trouble and occupied by their children. but just to be sure he'll have to knock tim up again so his legs stay shut for nine more months. he can't have any bastards running about.

but with jack away...well wayne has been looking for something to occupy his time so maybe he wont be too opposed to keep an eye on jack's wayward teenager.

just until he gets back of course.

[scarlet-shakedown]

Midnight Suns - Chapter 2

Summary: The Devil gives Johnny his first bounty, but it gets complicated.

TW: Language & Dark Themes

I don’t remember much. It hurt so bad at first but then it was the best feeling I’d ever felt. I was riding. Riding faster than I ever had before. I let him take over and it was like I was free; unchained.

I had to go somewhere. I had this overwhelming feeling like I was late. I pulled myself away from the mirror I had locked my gaze into and stumbled out the front door. I was late and I had to fucking hurry. I hobbled onto the seat of my motorcycle and met my warm bones to its cold handlebars. I felt every rumble that quaked from the bike as if the very soul I sold resided within its engine. I sped out of my driveway and onto the road, shooting straight for the highway. Nothing was going to get in my way and I was determined to arrive on time.

I pushed through the road, blurring my vision from how fast I flew down it. I was going faster and faster and I wasn’t planning on slowing down. I continued along the highway until I saw a man in the middle of the street dressed head to toe in a fancy black suit. He held a marble cane in his hand raised above his feet. As I continued to barrel forward, he calmly loosened his grip, sending the cane to thud against the ground. And with that sudden motion, my motorcycle halted abruptly, sending me flying off it and landing face first in front of him. I stood up quickly and dusted myself off. I instantly recognized the man stood in front of me. I’d managed to forget somehow. Maybe he made me forget.

I met my gaze with his and growled in a deep, gravely voice, “You.. did this to me.”

A beast wearing the flesh of man; the Devil stood before me.

“No, Johnny!” He chuckled. “You did this.”

“You told me.. I could save him.” I hissed regretfully.

“Well unfortunately, I can only save people who want to be saved. Your brother was basically asking to die with those street races.”

I was overwhelmed with anger. I wanted to hurt him worse than he hurt me but I couldn’t move; he wouldn’t let me.

He grinned then blurted his speech, “Now Johnny, if we’re done with this meaningless conversation, I’ve got a job for you. Not a big one! We can call it baby’s first bounty. There’s a werewolf out tonight, but if you look to sky, you’ll see it’s not a full moon. That isn’t supposed to happen. I want you to get on that bike of yours, and go put that mutt down.”

And so I got back on my motorcycle and did just that. I wanted to fight back and tell him to screw himself, but something deep down told me it would be pointless.

After a bit of looking for the monster, I found it scurrying into the woods. I veered off the road and sped right next to the werewolf I was looking for. He was running; it looked like he was running from something before I found him. I jumped from my bike and tackled the beast to the dirt. It looked docile, and wasn’t trying to scratch me or escape, but I had a job to do. I raised my fist, smoldering with heat, ready to end the beast. The creature looked scared, but the empathy I felt quickly vanished. I arched my arm back, ready to plunge my fist into the beast’s heart, when a chunk of metal hit the back of my head, allowing the creature to move to safety.

I looked behind me and saw a man dressed in finely tailored white suit.

“Ooh Lord.” He quickly muttered under his breath.

I was filled with an anger, a deep rooted, ancient rage that was not my own. “Are you God?” I sputtered the words the spirit in me wanted to say.

He quipped back quickly, “Umm.. no, mate. I’m Steven.. w-with a V.”

I quickly looked at the werewolf cowering nearby, with the spirit still speaking through me, “Why do you protect it?”

The spirit wanted me to attack. It felt the presence of souls unjustly ended from within Steven. I tried to fight back but it quickly overpowered me. I lunged towards him.

“Marc, Marc! Do something!” Steven shouted as I leapt forward.

Right before I was able to grab him, he threw a right hook, perfectly landing across my face. I fell to the floor almost immediately after.

I looked at him standing above me, his posture different than before. He muttered to himself, “Jesus.”

Before I blacked out, the spirit spoke one more time, “He’s… won’t… save you.” Then everything went dark.