#weak thoughts. feeble mind.

[tommyinnit3]

Life is great. Life is fucking Great. I mean. How how great is being trapped in a prison, being killed in revived over and Over again, being possessed by a FUCKING EGG, and. It having a god on your tail that wants to split your soul in two??? How absolutely awesome is that????

I would kill myself but I would just be revived.

[err0r-t4ken]

Not if it's cannon.

Hey chat, do we think death is the only way out of this?

[yeyinde]

the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.  Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever. 

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs)

Ooman — human

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

lore:

comics, novels. divine wisdom.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on. 

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach. 

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code. 

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back. 

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine). 

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon. 

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered. 

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows. 

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy. 

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest. 

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course. 

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself. 

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo. 

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning. 

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws. 

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough. 

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access. 

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor. 

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came. 

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you. 

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun. 

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks. 

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey. 

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter. 

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course. 

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect. 

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted. 

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something. 

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani. 

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol. 

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless. 

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence. 

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat. 

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable. 

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet. 

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery. 

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy. 

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. 

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones. 

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again. 

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue. 

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian. 

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will. 

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape. 

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar. 

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck. 

The comparison makes you sick. 

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it. 

Hate how much you don't hate it. 

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast. 

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth. 

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form. 

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus. 

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall. 

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones. 

He's watching you. Always. 

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire. 

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve. 

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed. 

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do. 

And so, you don't. 

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory. 

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute. 

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets. 

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone. 

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar. 

Dark, like him. 

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him. 

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much. 

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs? 

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour. 

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you. 

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way. 

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt. 

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you. 

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing. 

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin. 

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart. 

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks. 

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest. 

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions. 

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow. 

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place. 

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin. 

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight. 

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water. 

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it? 

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest. 

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty. 

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest. 

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying. 

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics. 

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger. 

Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

This, though. 

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill. 

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy. 

But he didn't. 

Doesn't. 

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat. 

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward. 

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh. 

It's primal, this fear. Animal. 

But in the end, he doesn't kill you. 

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear. 

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to. 

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him. 

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk. 

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died. 

Should have, maybe. 

(is that a plea? an orison? 

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out. 

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just. 

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark. 

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it. 

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well. 

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over. 

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all. 

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites. 

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape. 

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers. 

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all. 

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary. 

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope. 

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks. 

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning. 

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless. 

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity. 

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing: 

he should have been back by now. 

And it—

It does something to you. 

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective. 

Because the reality is this: 

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates. 

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead. 

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about. 

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all. 

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white. 

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him. 

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm. 

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold. 

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch. 

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern. 

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh. 

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief. 

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands. 

The skull of a queen. 

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition. 

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound. 

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess. 

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb. 

Until—

It does. 

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory. 

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache. 

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall. 

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop. 

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face. 

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse. 

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue. 

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory. 

A queen is no easy feat, after all. 

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests. 

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep. 

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands. 

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch. 

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur. 

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind. 

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you. 

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air. 

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing. 

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window. 

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach. 

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette. 

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock. 

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign. 

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying. 

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.  

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee. 

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire. 

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him. 

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit. 

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual. 

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes. 

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word. 

He wants you. You. 

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate. 

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate. 

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice. 

Dark is a beastly thing up close. 

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. 

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it. 

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah. 

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles. 

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go. 

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so. 

He spoke. 

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt. 

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists. 

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance. 

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh. 

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly. 

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost. 

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute. 

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs. 

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission. 

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away. 

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you. 

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his. 

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured. 

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage. 

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching. 

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you. 

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust. 

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely. 

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on. 

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you. 

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels. 

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth. 

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so. 

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you. 

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock. 

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable. 

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him. 

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you. 

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock. 

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore. 

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else. 

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough. 

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is. 

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out. 

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain. 

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body. 

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb. 

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick. 

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before. 

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before. 

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel. 

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat. 

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk. 

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you. 

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous. 

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit. 

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release. 

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal. 

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes. 

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you. 

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads. 

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip. 

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight. 

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling. 

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have. 

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background. 

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat. 

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship. 

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion. 

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly. 

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma. 

You breathe it in. Breathe him in. 

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps. 

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you. 

And yet. 

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him. 

That alone, you think, is enough. 

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all? 

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep. 

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt. 

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue. 

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you. 

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom. 

Ensnared. 

[morikosa]

REMORSE

SUMMARY: He doesn't realize how valuable you are until he loses you.

Things could have been different. If he had stayed home, you would still be alive. You would still be alive…

''My love… p-please don’t go''

Gojo froze in his tracks, feeling your delicate arms wrap around his waist from behind. Despite himself, a small flicker of surprise coursed through him, momentarily halting his steps towards the door. Your trembling voice reached his ears, filled with desperation and a plea for him to stay.

"I-I will prepare a dinner for you, my love… p-please don’t go,” you whispered, your lips pressing softly against his back in a tender kiss.

For a brief moment, the gentle touch and your plea tugged at a minuscule fragment of buried empathy within him. However, he quickly squashed that flicker of compassion.

He twisted his body to face you, his expression turning cold and unyielding once again under his blindfold. He roughly pushed your arms away from his waist, forcing you to release her grip on him. The action was swift and unforgiving.

“Your feeble attempts to keep me won’t work, y/n.” he spat, his voice laced with cruel indifference. “I have no use for your pitiful displays of affection. I am leaving.”

He turned away from you, resolute in his decision. He regretted his words at the moment he saw the pain and sadness in your eyes. But he couldn’t show it, he couldn’t show any sign of weakness.

After all, he was the strongest

With a last glance, he walked towards the door and left you. As he crossed the threshold, his heart remained hardened, untouched by the anguish he left behind. 

...

He was a terrible husband. He didn’t pay any attention to you. But he wanted to change that, so he bought you a bouquet to make it up to you, and today he was going to take you out to dinner. He was going to fix everything, you were going to be happy together.

“My sweet wifey~, I thought we could have dinner today, husband and wife–”

Upon entering the house, Gojo was met with an eerie silence that sent a chill down his spine. The door wide open, the lights on – everything seemed off. As he stepped further inside, his heart raced, confusion clouding his thoughts. The scent of carnage enveloped him, the heavy air thick with tension.

Then he found you.

Lying lifeless on the floor, your limbs twitching slightly as the waning moments of your life escaped from you. Blood pooled beneath you, the crimson liquid staining the once pristine floors with its haunting presence. A profound sorrow washed over him, accompanied by a wave of guilt – a bitter taste in his mouth.

The flowers he had intended to apologize with dropped from his grasp, the vibrant colors now tainted by the horrifying scene unfolding before his eyes. He watched in horror as you struggled for your last breaths, your fragile body betrayed by the curse that sought to end her life.

The irreversibility of the situation dawned on him at that moment - her fate was already sealed, your time running thin. Tears welled up in his eyes as realizations flooded his mind; regrets of his callous behavior, anger, and neglect came racing back and consumed his conscience.

If only he had stayed... if only he had paid attention.

Gojo fell to his knees beside you, reaching out tentatively to steady her limp form. “Y/N. Stay with me,” he pleaded, a foreign word in his vocabulary. “Please, don’t go.” His tears fell in torrents, landing beside hers on the muddied ground.

“Who. Who did this to you-”

His hands shook as he cradled you close, your warm breath steadily fading in his embrace. The pain of losing you was like a dagger piercing his heart, a relentless torture he could never escape.

What was the point? What was the point of being the strongest if he couldn’t even protect his wife?

At present

Gojo stands before your grave, a solemn figure with his head bowed low. The air holds a heavy silence, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze caresses the surrounding trees. The weight of his loss rests heavily upon his shoulders, his heart burdened with a mix of grief and regret.

“Hey, it’s me again,” he murmurs, his voice choked with emotion as he addresses the earth beneath him. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I wanted to let you know… I’m doing my best, even though it feels impossible without you here.”

His fingers trace the engraved letters of your name on the tombstone, his touch both reverent and pained. Memories of your time together flood his mind, each a bittersweet reminder of what he had lost. The weight of his remorse for not cherishing those moments to their fullest becomes evident in how his shoulders slump and his breath hitches.

“I miss you, more than words can express,” he admits, his voice breaking with raw vulnerability. “I wish I had realized sooner what you truly meant to me. I wish I had been a better husband and person for you… worthy of the love you had for me.”

His grip tightens on the flowers he brought, his knuckles turning white. He places them gently upon your grave, his gaze lingering upon the fading petals.

Tears glisten in his mismatched eyes, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “I love you, and I always will. I’m sorry I realized this so late. Wherever you are, I hope you’ve found peace. And just know… you’ll forever have a place in my heart.”

With a final, lingering look at your tombstone, he puts the bouquet on your tombstone and turns away.

He will live a lifetime with the pain of ruining the perfect future he could have had with you.

[yzzyhee]

looking out for you — psh

bf!sunghoon x gf!reader

warnings: established relationship, reader is sick, medicines (?), hoon calls reader pretty, low cases work, not proofread & if more lmk !!!

wc: 926ish?

synopsis: even when sick, you have to make sure you get your cuddles later

a/n: im sick. i need sunghoon to take care of me. that’s it. feedbacks are appreciated:( not mean ones though i can take constructive criticism but u can be nice about it lol xoxo

“c’mon, yn. i’m not playing, take your medicine,” sunghoon urges, his voice softened by a mixture of concern and frustration.

you burrow deeper under the blankets, a feeble attempt to shield yourself from the world, and more specifically, from sunghoon’s persistence. you’ve been sick before, countless times in fact, due to your not-so-strong immune system. to you, this feels no different from all those other times — a minor inconvenience that would pass with time. however, sunghoon sees things differently.

the moment you didn’t show up to his hockey practice, something you do religiously, sunghoon knew something was amiss. you had never missed a practice, not even when you had exams or pressing assignments. so, when the practice ended and there was still no sign of you, he didn’t waste a second as he drove over to your apartment, his mind racing with possibilities and heart pounding with worry.

when he let himself into your place, his concerns were confirmed. there you were, curled up in your bed, your face flushed with fever, shivering slightly despite the layers of blankets piled on top of you. his heart ached at the sight, and he immediately set into action.

he made his way to your bathroom, rummaging through the cabinets until he found a towel. after running it under cold water, he wrung it out and gently placed it on your forehead, hoping to cool you down. the feeling of the cold fabric against your hot skin made you stir, but you didn’t wake up. he watched you with a pained expression, wishing he could take away your discomfort, wishing you had called him earlier.

now, with the medicine in hand, sunghoon is trying his best to coax you out from under the covers. his hand rests on the blanket that was wrapped tightly around you, as if it could protect you from more than just the chill in the air.

“yn, please,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “i’m looking out for you, please, i just want you to feel better.”

you peek out from under the blanket, your eyes meeting his. the worry etched into his face makes your heart clench. you know he only wants to help, but the thought of swallowing the bitter medicine makes you grimace.

“ i don’t like the taste,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and weak.

sunghoon let out a soft chuckle, though it was tinged with sadness. “i know, pretty, i know. but it’ll help, i promise.”

he kneels down beside your bed, his hand reaching out to brush a few strands of hair away from your face. his touch is gentle, almost as if he was afraid of hurting you, and you couldn’t help but lean into it. the warmth of his hand was comforting, grounding you in a way that made you feel safe despite how awful you felt.

“you’re burning up, yn,” he says softly. “I’m really worried about you.”

you could see the concern in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down slightly. it makes you feel guilty for making him worry so much. you know he was right, that you had to take the medicine, but the stubborn part of you didn’t want to give in so easily.

sunghoon’s thumb traced small circles on your cheek, his eyes never leaving yours. “do it for me, please? just this once?”

you sigh, feeling a little more willing to give in, but you can’t resist asking, “promise me cuddles later? once i’m feeling better… i don’t want you getting sick as well.”

sunghoon expression softens even more, if that’s possible and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “i promise,” he says, his voice tender. “as soon as you’re better, i’ll cuddle you all you want.”

you sigh, finally relenting as you reach out a hand from under the blanket, allowing him to place the medicine in your palm. he hands you a glass of water, watching carefully as you swallow the pill with a wince.

“there,” he said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

you shake your head slightly, the medicine already beginning to settle in your stomach. you still feel awful, but knowing that sunghoon is here, taking care of you and promised you cuddles later, made it a little more bearable.

he tucks you back into bed, making sure the blankets are snug around you. as he sits beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair, you can feel the warmth of his care wrapping around you like another layer of blankets. even in your feverish state, you know you’re in the good hands of your boyfriend.

“get some rest,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you let out a small giggle and look up at him, “you should change your career, doctor park… on second thought, maybe not.. it’d mean others can see how sweet you are and trick you into giving them cuddles.”

sunghoon smiles softly and meets your gaze. he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead and whispers “these cuddles are reserved only for you.”

you feel your heart flutter and smile faintly, your eyes already beginning to close again. as sleep pulls you under, the last thing you feel is sunghoon’s gentle kiss on your forehead, and the reassurance that when you wake up, he’ll still be right there, ready to hold you close—just as he promised.

[redvexillum]

Hot damn, I can't believe it took me this long to finally get around to answering this ask. I would like to dedicate this story to @todash-darkness and Ms. 🍑. Thank you for being my friends and always cheering me on even when I get whiny and say "writing too hard!"

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, rough s♡x, possessive!alastor, alastor is bad at feelings, dual pov, reader is a sweetheart, established relationship, alastor is allergic to feelings, rough ♡ral s♡x, finger♡ng, miscommunication, one sided (alastor) denial of feelings

In the vast, unfathomable uncertainties of Hell, Alastor’s mind was a sanctum guarded by his own design, his kingdom of carefully orchestrated chaos. He adored unpredictability, yes – but only when it danced to his tune, his rhythm, his control. Anything else, anything beyond his boundaries, was sacrilege.  

There was no greater agony, no venom deeper, than the sensation of his world teetering beyond his grasp. His order, his routine ...demolishing right before his eyes.  

One such certainty he held with unwavering conviction was this: your soul belonged to him, irrevocably. He had claimed you in ways that transcended mere words. Every part of you – your thoughts, your desires, your body, and even the delicate cadence of your laugh – was woven into his web, bound and stitched to his very being.  

So why, then, were you here, laughing with that cur, the very embodiment of mediocrity beside you? Why did the melodic lilt of your voice drift toward that miserable fool’s ears instead of his? The sight of you smiling at such filth was an affront to everything he held sacred, and yet you persisted. You continued to share laughter with that loser, indulging his vapid words, his feeble presence.  

From his seat on the single couch, Alastor’s grin cleaved his face, a mask of delight that undercut the roiling fury within. Around him, other souls babbled, meaningless, and insipid, but he paid them no heed. His gaze was fixed solely on you – typically nestled by his side, hanging on his every word as if he held the keys to your reality.  

You, who would meet his stories with wide-eyed fascination, as if his very words spun magic into existence. You, who would follow him, entranced, into his realm.  

But now, now...his hand dug into the flesh of the couch, claws piercing through its plush surface as he fought to restrain himself, to keep from dragging you to his side where you belonged. In his mind, he could feel the invisible chains around your neck, the ones you had so naively accepted, binding you to him to the moment you surrendered your soul – for a little of wretched Hellmutts, no less.  

You were naive. Weak. Ridiculously innocent.  

But you were his.  

His eyes tracked every move you made, his gaze darkening with each soft smile that graced your lips for someone else, each glimmer in your eye cast in that foul creature’s direction. And then – then that trash, that waste of a soul, had the audacity to touch your shoulder.  

Alastor’s heart stilled, a visceral freeze rippling through him as he watched your fingers lift, as if in slow motion, to meet that filthy hand.  

And within him, something snapped. 

An uncontrollable twitch seized his left eye, a slight tremor echoed in the clench of his jaw. Rage coursed through him, an intense, molten fury tightening every muscle until he vibrated with it. A violent energy was held back only by a grin that split his face, frozen, even as his eyes bore into you, unblinking.  

Come to me, he thought, his voice a dark whisper in his mind, willing you to hear, to obey, Come here, darling. Come... 

Yet, you didn’t hear him. Not a single glance in his direction, as if the tether binding you to him had snapped. You, with those disgustingly bright eyes, filled to the brim with such boundless, grating cheer – those eyes that never strayed from his, were now fixed on someone else. They were facing the wrong way.  

The ownership he held over you was absolute, and he was certain there was nothing of value in this world next to your name – nothing but your soul. And that? Well, that belonged to him. You were his in every sense, a fact as unshakeable as death itself.  

The thought simmered, rolling over in his mind like a storm. He’d planned to speak with you tonight, to remind you of the boundaries that came with selling your soul to him. A gentle “discussion” about your arrangement, perhaps a reminder of the dangers of your reckless naivety, especially around others’ wandering intentions. After all, what did you understand of the hunger that prowled in the depths of Hell? 

But then you laughed. That joyous sound, brimming with warmth and energy – the very light he’d basked in so possessively – spilled from you for someone else. In that instant, something dark clawed up from within him, overriding every fragment of patience he thought he’d possessed.  

The lights flickered; sinners looked up and whispered, confused, looking up as the room dipped into pitch-black darkness. And in that instant, Alastor’s hand seized you, pulling you into the shadows before anyone would notice.  

The darkness folded around him, dragging you both from their prying eyes, and when he materialized in his room, any pretense of control shattered entirely.  

You’d been talking to a gentleman about butcher shops in Cannibal Town, a respectable topic considering he was a proud consumer of sinner flesh. Though you yourself didn’t indulge, you knew Alastor had a certain...fondness for the taste. This stranger, to his credit, offered genuine recommendations – shops known for prime, fresh meat. You listened attentively, committing every word to memory, already imagining the gleam in Alastor’s eyes when you surprised him with a choice cut of fresh deer sinner’s flesh.  

The best part? Each piece came with the sinner’s full consent. Nothing could be more natural, organic, and you supposed, humane in a macabre way, than that.  

Your smile grew brighter as you pictured his reaction, and out of courtesy, you kept the conversation flowing. After all, Alastor had always instilled in you the importance of politeness, of maintaining grace, especially in the realms of Hell. When the man touched your shoulder and praised your kindness, you felt a warmth spread through you. Kindness was a rarity down here, and it was refreshing to be in the company of someone who appreciated it without ulterior motives.  

But then the lights flickered, and instantly, the room plunged into darkness. Panic flared, voices rising in confusion, and before you could fully process what was happening, a cold hand clamped around your wrist. A sensation, chilling and immediate, enveloped you, and the world melted away.  

When you blinked, you were in Alastor’s room.  

The sudden brightness left you blinking against the light, your vision adjusting. But when you finally looked up, you were met with a sight that sent a shiver down your spine.  

Alastor stood there; his eyes ablaze with a crimson fury that bordered on madness. His grin stretched wider than you’d ever seen, jagged and vicious, as if it had been carved from his very rage. His gaze cut through you like a knife, every muscle in his frame taut with anger. Twin streams of red trickled from the corners of his mouth, and in that silence, you could swear you heard the crackling of something deep within him breaking.  

Before you could even form the words to ask why he seemed so upset, Alastor summoned the soul chain. A sickly green chain flickered into existence, snaking around his wrist, and in the next, you felt a sudden, brutal tug around your neck. Your teeth gritted at the sharp pull, and he yanked you forward until you were barely an inch away from him, his nose almost brushing yours as he bent down to meet your gaze.  

The dial in his chest swung wildly, ticking back and forth like a metronome set to a frenzied beat.  

“Uhm, Alast-” you started, confusion clouding your mind. You knew he was eccentric, yes, prone to outbursts and fits of emotion, but they always carried some purpose, a hidden logic that only he could fully understand.  

“Who do you belong to?” he demanded, his voice frigid and sharp. The chain clinked as he pulled you even closer, the heat of his body blazing through the air between you.  

“Y-you,” you stammered, searching his eyes, your hand trembling as you gently touched his sleeve. “It’s you.” 

For a fleeting second, your answer seemed to calm the storm raging in his gaze, his crimson eyes softening back to their usual dark slits. “That’s right,” he whispered, his voice low and deceptively soft. “You belong to me.” His hand slid to your waist, his fingers digging in possessively. “And yet,” his voice dropped to a hiss, “you had the gall to let another sinner touch you.” 

A wave of bewilderment washed over you, leaving you scrambling to make sense of his anger. Physical contact was far from uncommon in the hotel – just yesterday, Angel Dust had clapped you on the back after you told him a joke. Surely, Alastor wouldn’t be so enraged over something so trivial? 

But Alastor pressed himself against you, his body taut and seething with an intensity that left you breathless. “My, my,” he murmured, voice pitched with a mocking chill, “thinking about that wretched sinner already? Right here, in my presence?” 

“That’s not-” you started to protest, realizing with a sinking dread that you’d indeed just thought of Angel Dust. But surely, that alone wouldn’t justify this terrifying fury, this raw possessiveness radiating from Alastor? 

He let out a bark of laughter, sharp and scathing, before pressing his forehead to yours, his lips grazing dangerously close to your own. “I own your soul, darling,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous, velvety edge. You felt his claws inching up your skirt, his fingers scraping against your bare thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “I don’t share what is rightfully mine.” 

Unexpectedly, his mouth crashed onto yours, urgent and bruising, teeth grazing with a hunger so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs. You whimpered against him as his sharp tooth nicked your lower lip, the sting mingling with the taste of blood as his hot tongue lapped over the wound, a low groan reverberating from his chest.  

When he finally pulled back, his lips stained crimson with your blood, he gripped the front of your dress, his eyes blazing. “Who do you belong to?” he demanded again, his tone laced with desperation, as if even your words might not be enough to satisfy him.  

“You. It’s always you, Alastor,” you whispered, your hands gently cupping his face, placing a soft, tender kiss on his lips – a striking contrast to the bruising passion he’d unleashed moments before. “The contract says forever, remember?” You tried a slight, playful grin, but his gaze held none of his usual amusement, his eyes fixated on yours with an almost haunted intensity.  

“The contract,” he repeated slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on your dress. “Yes...that’s right.” His hands trembled for a fleeting moment before he forced them behind his back, his posture rigid. “I own your soul,” he said, voice hollow, “your servitude, I suppose.” 

It was as if he were no longer fully present with you, his gaze dark and distant, a hint of revelation in his eyes that seemed to tear him apart even as he chased it. You could see it, how this realization – this twisted revelation – pained him, even though he seemed oblivious to its source.  

You’d been here before, watched him spiral from bursts of passion to bitterness and then back to his lonely solitude. So, as always, you took that first step forward, drawing closer until your arms circled his waist. You smiled up at him, that bright, open smile he so often brushed off with sharp words, though you knew it softened him beneath the mask.  

He stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, a breath escaping as he murmured, “My, you're suddenly so clingy.” But you caught the waver in his voice, hiding behind his usual teasing edge.  

“Because it’s you,” you replied simply, hands trailing up his back until they slid into his hair, guiding him down to meet you. “Besides, you haven’t kicked me to the curb yet, Alastor.” You giggled, only for the sound to be cut off as his lips claimed yours.  

His movement slowed, each kiss lingering, his fingers finding the front of your shirt, hesitating there. “I don’t share,” he murmured against your mouth, his claws grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “This chain,” he whispered, tracing it with reverence, “it binds you to me. I own you.” With each word, he deftly unbuttoned your dress, his gaze smouldering as the fabric fell open.  

“I know,” you answered softly, sinking beneath him as he lowered you to the hard floor, his arms and legs caging you in. “I haven’t forgotten,” you murmured, your fingers trailing down the front of his red-pinstriped suit, savouring the rough texture beneath your touch.  

He stiffened, a flash of raw anger crossing his features. “Then why,” he snarled, his voice dripping with possessiveness, “why let that waste of breath near you? Why laugh, why smile, why seek his company when I was right there?” His words tumbled out, unbidden, raw and unrestrained.  

At that moment, as his heated words filled the space between you, you caught a flicker of shame and horror in his eyes, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal this part of himself. But before he could pull away, you wrapped your arms around his neck, anchoring him to you.  

“No one touches me like you do,” you whispered, pressing soft kisses along his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, until you kissed him fully. And I don’t think anyone else can make me smile until my cheeks hurt.” You laughed softly, fingers combing through his hair, each touch soft and grounding.  

His response was immediate, his lips pressed against yours, his hips grinding against you with desperate fervour. His soft groans mixed with your sighs, and he gently took your wrists, guiding your hands back to the front of his pants. His lips never left yours, his hands tracing a slow, searing path as you undid his pants, feeling the heated weight of him pressing against your stomach as you freed him.  

“Darling,” he hissed as our fingers wrapped around him, stroking from his tip down the length of his hardened cock, slow and tantalizing. The fire in his eyes darkened, his pupils widening to pools of obsidian as he shuddered beneath your touch. “How should I make you remember,” he murmured, voice a low growl, “that you belong to me always?” 

His lips traced down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt to your waist with a deliberate slowness that made you ache. “Perhaps,” he breathed, his fingers pressing against the damp cloth covering you, feeling your desire seeping through, “I’ll make your body remember.”  

Without hesitation, he tore your underwear away, his fingers grazing the slick curve of your inner thighs, drawing a gasp from you as his touch lingered there. “Enough times,” he muttered, his voice thick with want, “That you never forget who I am to you.” 

Two fingers slipped inside, filling you in one firm stroke. The sensation sent a sharp tremor through you, and your breath hitched as your walls clenched around him. “Alastor...” His name fell from your lips in a shiver, and his eyes darkened at the sound, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  

“Shh, darling,” he cooed, his voice a velvet command. His fingers moved slowly, plunging into you with an unhurried intensity, dragging your slice over every sensitive spot before plunging them back in. His head dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing over your skin as he pumped his fingers, his own arousal pressing hot and hard against your thigh. “Tonight, I’ll make certain you’ll never consider anyone else.” 

Pleasure flooded through you, erasing everything except the feel of him, each pump of his fingers building heat within you. You wanted to tell him he was always in your mind, to confess that you’d never once thought of leaving his side. But words tangled and dissolved into moans, as if even trying to say them would break the spell.  

Things like, I like you.

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

A gasp tore from you as his mouth latched onto your breast, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak as he hummed in satisfaction, the wet sound of his fingers moving within you intensifying with each movement. You arched against him, hips moving of their own accord, desperate for more, clinging to every sensation.  

And just as you teetered on the edge, his fingers slipped free, leaving you throbbing, gasping from the loss of him. He rose above you, his cock fully erect, tip glistening. He lifted his fingers, coated in your desire, to his face, watching with fascination as he pressed them together. A glistening thread stretching between them before he spread too far apart, breaking it with a hungry grin.  

Then, without looking away, he brought them to his lips, sucking each finger clean with slow, deliberate motions, a satisfied groan slipping from his throat as he tasted you.  

“Who do you belong to, darling?” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded as he gazed down at you. His hands moved to pin your wrists above your head, pressing his hips forward, his cock nudging against your slick entrance, sending a shiver of pure heat coursing through you.  

Your breath caught as he began to push in, the head of him stretching you with a slow, delicious pressure. Instinctively, you tried to shift your hips, to take him deeper, but his grip tightened, keeping you firmly in place. “Say it,” he whispered, his voice edged with a fierce tenderness, his eyes locked onto yours, demanding.  

“You,” you whimpered, voice trembling, and Alastor rewarded you by sliding himself just a bit deeper, the stretch trying to accommodate him making you gasp.  

“That’s right,” he crooned, his grin sharp, eyes narrowed to slivers of wicked delight. “Tell me,” he murmured, his lips brushing hot against your ear, the words like fire igniting every nerve, “tell me how much you want me. Go on.” 

When you hesitated, struggling for breath, he drew his hips back, leaving you painfully empty. Every nerve in your body was alight, humming, craving more. Embarrassment coloured your cheeks, but the heat, the need, drove the words from you. “Please,” you whispered, voice soft and fragile, “please Alastor, I-I want you.” Your eyes closed, the vulnerability tightening in your chest, sending waves of desire flooding your veins.  

The moment the words escaped your lips, Alastor surged forward, filling you to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, a shuddering groan escaping him. His length throbbed inside, stretching and filling you perfectly, leaving you breathless as he began a steady rhythm, each thrust pulling a whimper from your lips.  

“That’s right,” he rasped, finally finding his pace as he withdrew and slammed back into you, your breasts bouncing with every relentless stroke. “Say you want me,” he breathed, his voice rough, almost breaking, with the intensity of his need.  

One hand pinned your wrists above your head, firm and unyielding, while the other squeezed your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, sending electric shocks of pleasure through you. His hips moved in a hypnotic rhythm, the wet, smacking sound of skin on skin mingling with the sharp cries and moans filling the air. Each one tore through you as you clung to him, helpless against the power of his thrusts.  

“I want you,” you cried, voice trembling, head tilted back, your body limp and yielding beneath his strength. Every nerve was alive with a searing stretch, his cock grinding into your most sensitive spot as he drove deeper, forcing pleasure to crest higher and higher. His name fell from your lips in broken cries, each syllable dripping with the intensity of your desire.  

With a raw groan, Alastor shifted, grasping your hips firmly as he rose onto his knees, lifting you with him. Your body arched upward, shoulders and head the only parts still anchored to the floor as he drove into you harder, faster, every thrust meeting no resistance. He slammed his hips against yours, the force of it stealing your breath, pushing you to the brink, an overwhelming spike of pleasure building with every powerful relentless motion.  

Your lips parted, gasping, as his grunts filled your ears, his low, primal sounds mixing with the wet, sinful noises of your bodies colliding. The world around you faded to nothing but the feeling of him, the ecstasy of his touch, and the unstoppable climb toward a blinding, shattering release.  

His eyes locked on the place where your bodies joined, a hunger darkening his gaze as he thrust into you, each movement hitting that perfect spot, dragging every pulse of pleasure from deep within you. Your stomach tightened, thighs shaking, and as he drove in again, the pressure burst.  

You came with a shattering cry, your fingers scraping at the wooden floor, desperate for anything to hold as your walls clenched around him, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing through you.  

He pulled out suddenly, letting your body drop as he rose to his knees, his cock slick and throbbing against your parted lips. His hand wrapped around his length, pumping himself with frenzied strokes as he looked down, his gaze fierce and covetous.  

“I should mark you,” he rasped, his voice thick with need, his cock grazing your lips as he leaned forward. “Make sure my colour stains that smile.” His grin was wild as his hand moved faster, his muscles tense, his breaths shallow and ragged.  

You lifted your head, mouth open to take him in, your lips wrapping around the tip as your tongue swirled, savouring the mingling taste of him and your own desire. A moan tore from him, and he let his head drop back, his hands cradling the sides of your head, guiding himself deeper as his hips moved in slow, deliberate thrusts. His length stretched your lips as he pressed to the back of your throat, the guttural sound of his groans and the slick noises filling the air.  

Your own moans vibrated around him, spurring him on. His hips moved faster, his hands clinging tighter as his moans grew sharper, each thrust sending him closer. With one last hard thrust, he shuddered, and the first hot pulse of his release spilled down your throat. He withdrew, letting the rest spill over your lips, dripping down your chin in thick streams as he marked you. His eyes locked on your face, a wild satisfaction softening his gaze as he watched.  

The warmth of his release lingered on your skin, drying as your breaths filled the space between you. Your tongue darted out, tasting the lingering saltiness on your lips, and he groaned, his cock twitching in his hand as he watched, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.  

As if coming back to himself, he gently cupped your face, wiping his release from your skin with his sleeve, his expression caught between wonder and something deeper. His touch was unexpectedly soft, eyes holding a vulnerability he rarely let surface, the unspoken question hanging between you as his gaze searched yours.  

“We could be more,” you whispered, heart pounding as his fingers tilled on your skin, “if you want, Alastor.” 

His movements halted, his gaze slowly focusing on yours, a flicker of confusion slipping beneath his usual veneer of confidence. “I already own your soul,” he murmured, his voice edged with something darker, guarded. “There is nothing more you could give me.” His words were resolute, as if trying to cling onto their simplicity, yet the way his brows furrowed, and his head tilted betrayed a hesitation – a lack of understanding for the weight of what you meant.  

For all his power, Alastor had taken your heart without ever offering his own in return. The notion of “more” was something he danced around, something he coveted without daring to hold. He wanted you fiercely, hungrily even, but in ways he could still control – never in ways that would strip him bare and vulnerable.  

You placed a gentle hand on his thigh, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. With a soft sigh, you felt the truth of it settle heavy between you; until he could meet you on level ground, until he was ready to open himself as wholly as he demanded of you, this fragile back-and-forth was all you’d have. This quiet ache, this unspoken ache, would remain hidden, cloaked in omissions and denials.  

It wasn’t entirely his fault, either, this painful standoff. After all, there were things you held back too – things that lingered on the edge of every kiss, every touch, words that clung desperately to the walls of your heart, refusing to release themselves. The word that waited to change everything.  

Things like, I like you. 

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

I love you.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[ohimsummer]

AMENDS

— minors dni, bully! stsg x afab! reader, oral [ f. receiving ], edging, dubcon, dacryphylia, püssy slaps, hair pulling, pet names (good girl, pretty girl, princess)

"let us know when you're ready to apologize, pretty."

a thick cloud of fog smothers your thoughts. geto's words sound so quiet—miles away.

it seems like forever and a day has passed. his large hands trace the curved arch of your back before coming to rest on the globes of your raised ass, presented to him like a feast.

you jolt. a feeble whimper spills from your lips as geto gives a sudden, harsh slap to your pussy. "are you listening?"

he is satisfied with the weak nod of your head, giving a low hum before his tongue dives back into your folds. a tremble runs throughout your body, the ache in your legs getting worse with every clench and tense of muscle.

"you're so stubborn.", satoru huffs, thumbing away a fat tear from your lash line before continuing to toy with a strand of your hair. your head rests heavy in his lap, cheek smushed against his thigh. "all you had to do was wear the co–, uh, necklace."

the stutter doesn’t even take note in your mind. the mention of that damned necklace triggers the memory of how this all started: over the 'gift' gojo tried to bestow upon you, something in which you vehemently declined. especially at his request that you wear it beneath your turtleneck.

it wasn't even so much a necklace as much as it was an obvious collar—a thin piece of leather, pink in color and embedded with silver studs. it connected in the center by a piece of metal curled into the shape of a heart; a similar tag swayed loosely by a silver ring. engraved on either side were their names: suguru and satoru, though gojo was crystal clear in specifying that the side with his name on it was the front.

your eyes are attracted to movement in your peripherals. satoru twirls the collar around his index finger, still ranting on and on about how he spent so much on this special gift for ‘his girl’, and you wouldn't even show gratitude in a simple thank you, let alone the appreciation to wear it at least once.

he shifts slightly and the tent in his pants, inches from your face, rubs against your nose. you remember trying to suck him off at some point, as that’s how he usually preferred your apologies, but no. geto was insistent that gojo be more strict with you, easily swaying his best friend by calling him a softie for you. and now you're stuck, told to actually use your words for once ‘like a good girl’.

what little focus you had is gradually ripped away as geto pushes you closer and closer to another orgasm. he thumbs over your clit, pinching the nub between his fingers for some added suffering, thrusting his tongue inside you to lap up any juices and slick leaking from your hole. you’ve devolved into a sweaty, panting mess within minutes. geto moans against your cunt like a slut, like you’re the best thing he’s ever had. at least one of you is truly enjoying yourself.

it doesn’t take long before you get that familiar, tightening feeling in your stomach. it’s a rubber band being yanked on both ends, about to snap clean in two at any moment. your pussy flutters sporadically around his tongue as you’re forced to the brink. yet another orgasm right at the cliff, overdue to tip over the edge, when-

geto pulls away. he tugs lightly at your clit with his teeth when he does, relishing in your broken whimper. this is making you sick—so sick you’re truly about to break.

gojo’s conversation with himself is interrupted by your tug on his sleeve. casting you a mildly interested glance, his frown deepens, a display of clear disapproval. he sighs in an annoyed, dramatic fashion before tugging you up by the hair to look him in the eyes.

“what do you want?”, he says rather rudely. “told ya not to talk to me anymore unless it's to say you’re sorry.”

you blink, dazed, mouth falling slack but no words yet coming out. shaky hands paw helplessly at his chest as the words drag through your head, barely registering. satoru just stares at you. he thinks you look dumb, but you deserve to after hurting his poor feelings.

“ ‘’m…sorry…”, you barely whimper, quiet and pathetic.

satoru just rolls his eyes. “oh, come on. first, you break my heart and humiliate me and now this half-assed apology? do it properly, at least!”

your vision is hazy, but it doesn’t matter. the two sets of eyes digging into you leave a fiery trail of goosebumps on your skin. geto has finally stopped his insanity-inducing punishment; gojo’s tight fist in your hair tugs at the roots, burning your scalp.

“i sai–, i said—,” you stutter, seeing double, “—i’m sorry for not appreciating your gift, satoru.”

“mm.”, he hums, and you can see the whites of his teeth as two of him grins, proud of finally having gotten his way. “and?”

the thoughts rattle around in your mind. eyelids droop to darken your view before you add on, “and i–, i would be honored to wear it.”

gojo eases his grip to let your head flop back onto his lap. “see, atta girl! was that so hard?"

geto grabs you by the shoulders and hair, far more gently, holding your exhausted body upright as gojo unclasps the collar.

he tugs down the hem of your shirt, excitedly wrapping the leather around your neck. “see, i don’t know why you had to go making this difficult!”

and gojo snaps it on with a ‘click!’, leaning back to admire his handiwork. you feel yourself being tilted further back as geto angles your body to get a good luck at their new claim over you.

“what a pretty girl.”, he murmurs and kisses your cheek, reaching to toy with the tag dangling from your neck.

your head lolls as you’re manhandled into another position. geto’s blurry form is now in front of you, so it’s gojo’s warm chest that you’re sprawled back on, and his long legs that your knees are hooked over.

“since you’re bein’ so good for us now,” gojo whispers into your ear, “i’ll give you a treat, yeah? since we've made amends."

something thick and hot glides over your pussy, up and down, rubbing over your twitching clit. gojo grunts beneath you, shuffles a bit. he rubs his large hands over your inner thighs, grinding his cock between the slick lips of your cunt. he layers kisses up your neck, onto your cheek, ending the trail at your temple, and then reaches down to line himself up with your spasming hole.

geto looms over you to sandwich you between them. he digs two fingers into your cheeks, pulling you into a sloppy kiss where he nips at your lips and sucks on your tongue, spit drooling from the corners of your mouth.

“see how nice we are when you behave?”, he mumbles against your kiss-swollen lips. “tell satoru you’re sorry again.”

the wind is squeezed from your lungs as gojo sinks his full length into you. your words are cut off completely, and geto grins as you arch into him. gojo's tip pokes at your cervix, his balls kissing your ass.

“i’m sorry.”, you whine again.

both men chuckle. satoru kisses your wet cheek again. “it’s okay, princess, i forgive you.”

🎀: @sbgg @paradiseoflosers @deepenthevoid @bubblez-blop @luvvmae @risuola @bunnymacaron @hehehehesthings @starlightanyaaa @higurumapet @suguwuuu @lemonintrovert01 @c3nti-pede @krraayy @notdwenby @beomluvrr @mochacafee @sherb3t @hobarihope @suguwuu @v1xenluna @n3ptoonie @halparkebitch @getos-sugarbby @im-just-here-doing-nothing @gegeeeeeeeeeeex @squishies0102 @mochi-islive @kkncc @mxsocool @mrs-nicoleee @lovesickliyue @astrasworldsblog @euphoriagrae @foreshadowing-forsaken-fuck @euniciane @xocherishxo @sugojosgf @gyaruismind @marichat0n @ichikanu @mikeysflag @xinfvl @sugu-love @b-b-b-my-b-f-f @idkluvv @h-4-bib @starsharkz @sataraxia @apatauaia @savethegoddamturtles @wirelazeee @lcvelina @incognito-veritas @blindbabycadder

[awearywritersworld]

the man who embraced wickedness and the woman he used to know

sukuna x reader summary: sukuna is reunited with the only person who ever showed him kindness w/c: 1.25k tags/warnings: heian era!sukuna. angst to fluff. fem!reader. me trying my best to channel an 1800s romance novelist a/n: part 2 to the boy spurned as evil and the girl of his youth. i am once again asking that people check out the artwork by @demonzaemon that inspired these two fics. they also made some artwork inspired by part one, which makes me scream and cry and yell bc it's so wonderful. masterlist

it isn't until nearly two decades after your last encounter that sukuna finally musters the courage to return to the riverside. as he listens to the rush of the water, he hates the way it makes him feel— like the scared, powerless boy he once was.

he won't get too close. instead he stands at the edge of the forest, as if he can hide from his past among the trees.

he decides he must be dreaming when he spots a woman approaching the river, because even though he can see little more than her silhouette, he has no doubt that it's you.

he'd know you anywhere, in this life and the next.

he has no idea how long he stands watching you before he finally gathers the nerve to take a step in your direction.

you look over your shoulder and meet his eye once he's only a few yards away.

the expression that crosses your features is not unlike the one you wore when you first saw him— an earnest sort of wonder.

"it's you," you state as if you've been waiting on him to appear.

"you... remember me?"

"how could i forget?"

you approach him without fear or apprehension, and having you so close after all this time makes his heart race uncomfortably in his chest.

"are you well?" he questions, his eyes trailing down your body before flicking back up to yours. "you look it."

a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, your gaze falling to the ground bashfully. you rock on the heels of your feet before answering.

"i am well enough... and what of you?"

he's not sure that he's being entirely truthful when he replies, "i can say the same, i suppose."

"it pleases me to hear that you have not been suffering all this time. i must admit, i find that my thoughts still wander to you with remarkable frequency."

you laugh lightly at your own confession, fearing he may regard you as strange for it. on the other hand, he's thinking about how the sound of your laughter is the most beautiful thing he's heard since... well, since he last heard it.

"it is not rare for you to occupy the space of my own mind," he returns honestly.

you grab one of his hands, turning his palm up and running your thumb over the faint scar you find there. he hates the way it makes your face fall.

"i am sorry about that night, for what my father did to you. it was my fault for falling asleep—"

"don't," he stops you. "the fault lies only with me. i shouldn't have let him steal you away. i shouldn't have been so utterly weak—"

it's your turn to interrupt him and you press the pads of your fingers to his mouth to keep him from saying anything more.

"that is the farthest thing from the truth. you didn't deserve that. you deserved not one bit of the cruelty the village mercilessly showed you. you were only a boy, sukuna."

when your fingers fall from his lips, he doesn't try to speak. he doesn't trust that his voice won't betray him.

he can't remember the last time he heard his name spoken so familiarly, so warmly. it makes his throat feel tight.

the silence gives you an opportunity to take in the ways in which he's changed over the years.

his kimono and haori are pristine, a far cry from the rags he used to wear.

his frame is more than double the size of your own, and you know he's no longer living on scraps.

he stands tall, his posture straight and self assured, not that of someone who is feeble and frightened.

but you're not referring to any of those things when you point out, "you're different now."

and of course you're right, he just doesn't know how to tell you that the boy you used to spend your days with is gone. that the blood on his hands is no longer his own. that the person standing before you is nothing more than the monster the villagers always claimed him to be.

so he just nods in agreement and your eyes sparkle as you regard him with curiosity.

"i loved you, you know," you tell him sincerely.

your confession is painful to hear, because it reminds him of everything he lost that night.

"i could love you now, too." you reach up and caress his cheek, trying desperately to read the expression he's wearing. "if you'll let me."

for a moment, you think he might agree to your offer, but your hope is short lived.

"this... this was a mistake."

he turns to leave, intending to retreat to the shadows of the forest, but a small hand wraps around his wrist.

"no." your tone is forceful.

if only you knew what happens to most people who dare speak that word in his presence.

he doesn't say anything, so you add, "the only mistake you've made is waiting so long to come back to me."

he's surprised upon seeing the frustrated tears that well up in your eyes.

"we are but strangers to one another." his reminder stings and it shows plainly on your face. "and that is for the best, i assure you. you don't want to know me— to know the things i've done."

"i care not what you've done!" your voice is so loud, it sends a flock of birds fleeing from a nearby tree. "i care not what horrors loneliness may have driven you toward, because when we belonged to one another you were good. you were kind. you were—"

"stop." each of your words is like a knife in his chest, and his voice cracks from the ache of it.

"i will not! if your only intention was to reject me, why come here at all?"

"i don't know—"

"precisely! you want me, just as i want you. my devotion is yours, sukuna! there is no reason for you to reject that which i willingly give—"

"enough!" he barks at you, grabbing you roughly by the shoulders. you don't shy away from him, even in spite of the way his fingers dig into your flesh and his nose flares angrily.

"you believe that because you showed me a sliver of kindness when we were children that i should throw myself at your feet? your devotion means nothing to me! it does little more than inspire my disgust!"

the words taste like poison on his tongue, but he needs you to believe them.

he needs to believe them himself.

he pushes you away, and while it's not harshly enough to send your body flying to the grass, it does make you stumble backwards.

ire burns in your eyes and he thinks he's succeeded in his endeavor, but once he turns to leave, you're grabbing his wrist again and launching yourself against him.

your hands find his face and you pull his lips to yours despairingly. your bodies move together as if you've spent a lifetime in one another's arms.

then, he's pulling away from you. he's calling you a pathetic fool. he's looking at you with animosity.

but just as quickly, his lips find yours again and he grabs at the fabric of your kimono in an attempt to bring your body closer to his own.

you swear his hands tremble as they find a home on the curve of your hips.

once your lips part, he holds your gaze for what feels like an eternity.

resignation seems to dance across his features, but there's something else there too. desire? hope? longing?

you really can't say for certain.

"i am yours, and you are mine."

you're not sure if it's a question or a statement, so you offer him a slight nod of your head. "today and always."

[fyodior]

I NEED YOU!

✩ pairing: alpha!fyodor x omega!reader

✩ cw: omegaverse, reader in heat, knotting, brief somno, piv missionary sex, mention of pups, mention of morning after pills. just kind of a quick fuck dsfklds 18+ minors DNI !!

✩ notes: breedtober fic 3!! so sorry for the delay!

want more of breedtober?

“F-Fyodor,” you whine, grabbing at his arm weakly. “Fedya, baby, please.”

The feeble attempt to wake your peacefully sleeping lover is about as successful as you thought it would be – completely futile. Well, if you were in a state of normal thought.

You yourself had just awoken only minutes before, clothes and sheets drenched in sweat as your skin burned, and your entire body shook as all of your nerve endings felt like they were on fire. It all could’ve been chalked up to a virus, as you did suspect a fever, but only one thing could be the culprit responsible for the all-too-familiar ache between your legs, paired with your clouded headspace.

You were in heat.

It was a whole month too early – it shouldn’t be happening, but it was. And there was no denying it – not when you reached down between your legs and your fingers returned soaked in slick and juices, and you found yourself groaning for more.

Heat affected and clouded your mind pretty badly – it wasn’t uncommon for you to not remember much of anything from a cycle, and that seemed to be the case now. You could barely tell your left from your right, but the one thing you did know above all else, was that you needed to get fucked, and now.

Despite your weakness and lack of coordination, you still found yourself climbing on top of your sleeping lover and tugging down his boxers before grinding against his soft cock. Still thinking it was worth a shot, you tried to slide it inside you for some relief as your oozing cunt ached, but it just wasn’t working. Spitting into your palm, your hands and thighs shake as you start to jack Fyodor off in hopes of getting him hard enough to fuck yourself on him.

And that’s what he woke up to – you straddling him, pumping and sucking on his soft cock as it slowly grew. And though your movements were erratic and not the most pleasurable, Fyodor’s body began to respond. By the time the man was fully awake, you were lining yourself up and trying to sink down onto him, but your aim just wasn’t good enough.

“Darling, what are you doing?” Fyodor asks, grabbing your waist to stabilize you before sitting up. “What’s wrong?” His eyes went wide as you started to break down.

“I’m in heat, Fedya,” you sobbed, falling against him.

“Wh-what?” he stammers, his fatigued brain trying to recall the date. “I thought it wasn’t due for another month.” Though the sickeningly sweet scent coming from you that filled his nostrils confirmed you were telling the truth.

“I don’t know,” you cried.

“It’s okay, my love,” he soothes, pulling you close to his chest and rocking you. “You’ll be okay. I’m here. What can I do to help?” His accent is thick, evidence of his exhaustion.

Your answer is immediate. “Please fuck me!”

The crude words briefly stun Fyodor, but he just nods before kissing your cheek. He is half-hard anyway.

Laying you gently on your back, your lover’s touch is soft as he hovers over you, spreading your legs apart. Normally he fingers you or pleasures you with his tongue before fucking you, but your whines and cries are shrill to his tired ears, and you are most certainly wet enough for it.

With his lips pressed to yours, Fyodor spreads your legs and lines himself up, groaning as he sinks his cock into your throbbing pussy.

“Going to take good care of you, my love,” he mutters into your ear, accent thick. You just nod mewl in response.

He begins to roll his hips against yours as you attach yourself to him, circling your arms around his neck and damn near howling as he bottoms out.

“Fedya!” you cry out, toes curling and spreading your legs even wider. “More, faster, please.”

“So, so needy, aren’t we?” he chuckles. And yes – you are. So fucking needy.

Fyodor gives you what you need, quickly building up a rhythm. The squelching sounds of sex and skin-on-skin fill the bedroom alongside both of your breathy moans.

He knows that when you’re in heat, your breasts tend to become really sore as well, so he takes the liberty of catching your nipple in his mouth, sucking on the sensitive bud and massaging the other breast with his hand in rhythm with his thrusts. You only howl and groan more at the welcome stimulation, whining his name over and over like a spell. The bed creaks and shakes with how hard he fucks you, now invested in chasing his own high.

“Please knot me, Fyodor, please,” you cry. “Need your pups.”

“Okay, baby, okay,” he’s soothing again after releasing your nipple from his mouth, petting your hair and kissing you.

It’s not long before he gives you what you desperately need. Alpha’s knots typically don’t swell during sex, but they can if their omega is in heat – and you were releasing more than enough pheromones to alert Fyodor’s body of that.

As he nears his high, the base of his cock swells, trapping him inside you before he’s spilling all of into you with a deep throaty groan. The two of you weren’t ready for pups yet, but it’s fine – you have a bathroom drawer of heat supplies well-stocked with morning after pills.

Though his knot wouldn’t be deflated enough to pull out for at least another twenty minutes you had already passed out, so Fyodor very gently maneuvered the two of you so that you were laying on top of him, allowing you to lay against his chest and for him to return to a sleeping position while he remained inside your tight cunt. You likely would need him again soon, anyway.

“Thank you, my sweet, sweet Fedya,” you mumble against his chest.

“You’re welcome, darling,” he smiles, kissing the top of your forehead. “Get some rest. We’ll need it.”

[tommyinnit3]

Listen to Tommy?

Or

Listen to Tommy?

[err0r-t4ken]

Dream shook his head, staring ahead at the ground. There was irritation bubbling in the back of his throat.

"He fucking owes me a favor. He owes me a shit ton of favors. I want out. Right the fuck now. You don't know what it's like. I- I don't even know how long it's been. They took my fucking clock for 'bad behavior' whatever that even means!"

He shot a glare over to the camera that was off still.

"They just want to control me. They want- they just want me to suffer. That's it."

Wilbur stood on the floating pad that leads to Dream's little cube, a bright smile on his lips as he's brought over to visit with his 'savior'. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, and he's combed his hair back into a ponytail. He'd been patted down multiple times for anything regarding arson or explosives, but he had managed to convince Sam to let him bring in some fruit. A small handkerchief was stuffed into his back pocket with berries. He stepped off the platform once it reached the other side, and sighed happily. Waiting now for the lava to lower.

(Don't feel pressured to respond if you're busy or anything, just thought I'd get this typed up and sent. [: )

Dream had been fairly sure that this incoming visitor had been Quackity it was due time and frankly he'd gotten used to bad news when the lava opened. He stepped back from the guard when instructed and focused on a point far beyond the lava. However the good news was it wasn't Quackity. It was Wilbur.

That was truly exciting. He couldn't remember the last time the two of them had properly talked. He honestly had to keep himself from running up to the gate to talk to the man immediately as the platform began to make its way across the lava.

[aluciahaz]

Sub Adam smut pleasepleasepleaspelalslePLEASEPLEASE i NEED that dickhead to be put in his place I am BEGGING (fem reader<3)

my favorite genre is putting adam in his place 🤝 also how do writers make text yellow on mobile all i could find was orange 💀

know your place

— adam x f!reader

—includes : pegging, crying, begging, bondage, edging, bottom!adam, dom!fem reader

he’s pathetic.

adam, the first man, seemed more like an annoying bird than an angel as he kept boasting about his status and yapping about his dumb stories. how could someone so renowned as him be such a brat?

it was clear he needed some training.

and if no one was going to teach him on how to shut up, you’ll do it yourself.

“mfph—! mmmh!”

adam’s incomprehensible whines sounded better than any foolish joke he’d try and tell you.

his mouth was covered, his hands were bound, and his eyes were blinded with the fabric ripped off of his ostentatious clothes.

the tears stemming from his woeful desperation soaked into the makeshift blindfold, but still streamed down his face like a weak river. the way his mouth quivered around the spit-covered cloth was so pathetic that it was almost endearing.

almost.

if only he wasn’t such a dick all the time, maybe you’d have some more empathy.

his body is trembles as he arches his back again, a loud cry leaving his restrained mouth once more as you drive your strap inside of him, constantly hitting the spot that made him feel like he was in heaven. or well, another heaven.

the vibrator on his tip certainly was helping him feel like he was ascending too.

although, unfortunately for him, the cock ring stopped him from truly meeting god. or maybe lucifer, considering how sinful this all was.

his wings would flail beneath him like a caught dove, flapping and batting against the soft bedsheets every time he got close.

which of course, you’d follow it up by slowing down both the vibrator and your hips.

it made him wail every time, slamming the back of his head down onto the pillow as he begged for you to let him come.

but how would you know? you couldn’t hear any words coming from his mouth.

“i didn’t quite catch that, what did you say?”

“mphf—mm!! mh—hm—hmm!”

he couldn’t speak even if he didn’t have the fabric between his lips. his mind was thoroughly melted, swirling with only thoughts of you and the pleasure he was experiencing. there was no way he could possibly be coherent.

the night keeps going like this. adam, the self-proclaimed best playboy around heaven, getting absolutely ruined by a woman. his weary moans and frail keens fell onto deaf ears. his begging, simply incomprehensible as you show him how weak he was under your touch. he doesn’t know how long it’s been, but surely too long!

too bad you don’t think so.

later, you finally pull off the makeshift gag after what you deem is enough time for him to remember that he’s just a feeble man when it comes to you. that you were the one who truly had the power around here.

“PLEASE! please—please please oh, fuck please—!” his voice would fray as it got higher, drool slipping down his bottom lip as he pleaded.

“please what?”

“plea—please…ha, lemme cum—ngh!” he grits his teeth as you thrust particularly roughly, raising the speed of the vibrator as you do so. it drives him insane, your cruelty.

“no.”

you could only describe his sound as a guttural scream, crying for you, his true goddess, to let him cum. it reeks of desperation, his writhing, his now jumbled mess of begging, his now breaking spirit.

he’s yours, yours, yours.

he doesn’t even realize he’s saying it out loud.

“i’m sorry—i’m sorryi’msorryi’msorry—PLEASE!” he whines, hoping that you’d take mercy on someone like him.

and finally, you do.

you were a kind angel after all, unlike him.

you rip the blindfold off of him, welcomed with his perfectly debauched face before lifting his legs over your shoulders—he really was flexible!—and taking the cock ring off, reveling in his beautifully demolished state.

“what do you say?”

“THANK YOU! thankyouthankyooou—fuckfuck FUCK!” he sucked in a breath before a long drawn out cry tumbles past his cracking lips, and for once, you like what’s coming out of his mouth.

with your word, adam finds his release, falling from his already corrupted grace. his eyes roll back like he’s died once more, his body, once so animated and jumpy, now stiff for a brief second as he rides his high.

you grab his chin, forcing him to look at you with that glazed over look in his eyes. you don’t even know if he can see you, but the action alone made him groan weakly in response.

“know your place.” you say, releasing his chin.

adam, once so full of himself, nods in agreement, sniffling as he tries to stop his crying.

a lesson well done, you think.

sorry if the words get repetitive ive been having headaches the past few days 😭 ill pull out my thinking cap soon

tags— @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

[bokutoko]

7/11

character: atsumu miya (timeskip!atsumu)

word count: 1026

warnings: cursing (a couple times, not too explicit), angsty-ish to fluff?

content: atsumu saves the day with a free slurpee to ease your heartbreak

Lying in bed with tears staining your pillow, you ignored the plethora of texts from your now ex-boyfriend, who you found kissing another girl behind a building at your university. The only text you’d sent him said, “We’re done. Enjoy that new girl, asshole.” You sounded like a badass, sure, but there you were afterwards, crying alone in your room.

Your roommates periodically checked on you with water and a snack, but otherwise, they gave you your space for a few hours. You just felt so embarrassed, so betrayed. Your mind was a whirlwind of negativities, constantly reminding you of how worthless you were.

There was a knock on your door, but you had no energy to get up. Instead, you called out a meek, “Come in,” then winced at your own voice. The feeling of being so vulnerable and sounding so weak made you nauseous. 

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Atsumu greeted as he opened the door, using the same comforting name he always gave you when he knew you were upset. Your body immediately relaxed at his appearance. “Ya doin’ okay?”

You sniffled, meeting his gaze—it was strangely softer than what you were used to from him.  

“What’re you doing here, Tsumu?” You’d texted him on the walk back after catching your ex, but you didn’t bother checking your phone once you returned to your apartment. He crouched down to the edge of your bed, staying eye level with you, and you sniffled again. “You’re supposed to be in practice right now.”

“I know, but you’re here hurtin’ right now. Can’t leave ya all alone in yer thoughts now, can I?” He answered with a teasing smile, his hand brushing along your arm—an action that always helped calm you down.

You took a couple deep breaths. “I’m fine,” you tried to assert, but the crack in your voice betrayed you. Atsumu’s hand wandered upwards, where he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. 

“Ya don’t have ta lie ta me. Ya suck at it anyway,” he chided, seeing straight through your bullshit. As always. 

Instead of laughing, your lip quivered, tears welling up in your eyes once again. “I just feel so stupid.” You bit your bottom lip in a feeble attempt to keep yourself from bursting into tears again. 

“Yer not stupid. Far from it, for yer information.” He argued, pulling you in for a hug. Your arms wrapped around his chest, breathing in the warm scent of his cologne, as you cried into his shoulder, surely leaving stains on his shirt. Atsumu quietly shushed you and rubbed gentle circles into your back, contrary to his typical bone-crushing hugs. 

“That asshole’s not worth yer tears, ya know.” 

You mumbled a muffled, “I know,” into his shoulder, attempting to slow your hiccups into deeper breaths. 

“C’mon, lemme see that pretty face,” Atsumu cooed playfully, pulling you back from the hug. He took in your appearance: your red, slightly puffy eyes, your clammy, tear-stained face, your swollen bottom lip.

You laughed, and Atsumu thought he could sing after hearing a hint of happiness from you. “I probably look horrible.”

He chuckled, “A bit.”

You elbowed him in response, eliciting a stifled groan from Atsumu, and he quickly changed the subject. “Ya know what today is?”

You checked your phone: July 11. You looked back, meeting his bright eyes and signature smirk.

“Ya wanna get a free slurpee?” 

—

As you both sat outside the 7-Eleven, you were wrapped in Atsumu’s MSBY jacket due to the summer’s chilly night breeze and your frozen drink. He willingly reluctantly gave it up, scolding you with, “Ya should’ve brought yer own damn jacket.” However, he couldn’t hide his reddening cheeks at the sight of you in his clothes. 

With the scent of cinnamon—the scent of Atsumu—flooding your senses, a quiet sigh escaped your lips, your body relaxing once again in his presence. 

Atsumu’s lips quickly turned blue from his slurpee, which led you in a fit of giggles after he winced from a brain freeze. 

“Don’t laugh! I hope ya get one too!”

There was soon a peaceful silence between you two for a little while, just sitting together on the curb, watching the moon as you drank your slushees. But there was something slowly eating you away in your mind, feeling weighed down by newfound insecurities. 

“Is there something wrong with me, Tsumu?”

Atsumu’s head snapped toward you, his brown eyes meeting your glassy ones. His face pursed, looking genuinely offended. “‘Course not. There’s never been anythin’ wrong with ya,” he lectured, and you cut your eyes at him in disbelief.

“That’s not what you told me back in high school. You called me a weirdo back then.”

“Ya were—” he answered, and you feigned a pout, “—But I meant it affectionately.”

He noticed your skeptical look and he sighed, continuing, “Ya know what I mean, though. Yer funny, yer kind, yer real pretty, and yer so damn smart. Any guy would lucky ta be with ya. There, does that make ya feel better?”

You smiled to yourself, your face feeling warm from the onslaught of compliments. You scooted closer to Atsumu and hugged his arm, leaning into him. “Thanks, Tsumu. Maybe one day someone’ll see all that.” You turned away, looking to the sky to admire the stars, all while Atsumu was looking down, admiring you.

Ever since the both of you were in high school, you had this borderlining unrealistic expectation of love, where you wished for a Prince Charming to come in and sweep you off your feet, so you could live out your own happily ever after. 

And Atsumu knew he was not royalty in any sense of the word, so he was alright with being your knight in shining armor—to comfort you, to make you laugh, and to help you pick up your broken pieces. All in hopes that you might one day notice him, that you’d decide you no longer wanted a prince, but a knight instead. 

But until then, he’d settle with sipping on convenience store slurpees at midnight with you, making you smile and laugh in any way he knew how. 

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[seishihoe]

ZzzZzzzzzzzZz - falling asleep during the act feat. my JJK faves.

- headcanons feat. gojo, geto, nanami, mahito & choso x fem!reader

**MINORS DNI: 18+ INTERACTIONS ONLY - you will be blocked**

c/w: SMUT, (consensual) somnophilia (duh), dubcon/passing out (mahito/geto), ROUGH SEX (mahito; he comes with his own warning tbh), praise, pet names, oral (f!receiving), penetration, multiple orgasms/implied overstimulation, squirting, tiny bit of daddy kink (gojo), cream pie, mating press

a/n: BACK FROM THE DEAD! some headcanons i wrote a lil rushed but starting to branch out into jjk so watch this space for more! beta read and with approval by the loml @tkagayamass

gojo “my girl getting sleepy?” his voice murmurs in your ear as all you can manage back is a feeble nod. what you don't expect is for him to pick up the pace, hips hammering faster against you as he’s determined to feel you clench around him again. yes, with gojo, it can last hours. who can blame you for beginning to drift off? now on your sides, your back clasped to his chest as he ruts up into you. “don’t have to do anything princess”. exhausted, spent and ruined long ago, he finally notices you beginning to reach your limit. he may fuck like a blue-eyed demon but gojo’s not cruel….. just determined. all that repeats in his mind is “one more.” it’s the soft kiss he plants on your cheek that makes you melt in his arms and you will yourself to stay awake at the sound of the next words out of his mouth.

“just know you can give daddy one more.”

that’ll do it. geto geto always enjoys caging you in against the bed with his big frame, his intimidating figure assuring him that you're not going anywhere anytime soon... as well as allowing him to intently watch all exquisite faces you make on the end of his cock. “t-too much,” you manage to whimper out, only to be met with a chiding huff of a laugh. too easy.

he licks a stripe up your neck as you whimper again, a dizzying arousing purr of “so weak” as he pushes your legs to your chest; the small spot of mercy you thought he had reserved for you gone. your next orgasm has you screaming out, gushing around his thick cock so hard it makes him proud. your vision blurs as your finally black out, surrendering completely to him.

you don’t know how long it takes to him to finish this time. only waking up again to his head nestled between your thighs; cleaning you up in his favourite way

nanami nanami more than anyone understands a long, hard day. he’s more than happy to indulge in whatever will make you feel better - bonus if that involves using himself to see out the rest of the stress still lingering from a dismal day of work. 

when you're in bed with nanami, nothing else in the world matters. only you. his attention to your body, facial expression, the sounds that leave your drooling mouth is unparalleled; he’s focused only on you. so when he notices the way your eyelids droop, his thrusts falter, a gentle palm cupping your cheek as he muses over you. “my love, you’ve had enough for now.”

he pulls out of you gently, shushing as you let out soft whines of protest. watching him paint his seed all over the folds of your pussy is the last image before you finally drift off to a peaceful slumber. mahito we all know that ever since mahito learned what sex is (i blame geto) it quickly became his most favourite game with his favourite human. another way to experiment…

he loves it. it reminds him of what you truly are - just a fragile, little human. his plaything. pushing your limits in most delicious ways until your legs shake and your pussy gushes gorgeously all over him and the sheets. his only goal pure pleasure and leaving you a complete wreck. he doesn’t care if it hurts, if it’s too much or especially if you’re completely exhausted.

honestly? it really isn’t that unusual for any intimate moment ending in you passing out with mahito. your pleads of “enough” fall on deaf ears, giggling as he forces your head further into the bed, propping your ass up further for him to take you. “but doesn’t it just feel so good?” and it does. so you give in every time, falling limp against the sheets, letting mahito have his fun.

sometimes shoots his load on your face when you’re asleep

choso oh sweet, soft, pussy-whipped choso. no matter how late it is, I truly believe this man can’t sleep without at least tasting you. choso kamo practically gasps with with each roll of his tongue against your clit, completely entranced by your taste. every suck, flick and lick is laced with love. the problem is, he just doesn’t know when to stop. spurred on by incessant need to have you come undone again and again. your whines raising an octave higher and higher after the third, fourth, FIFTH orgasm. after a while he notices the way your eyes begin to flutter shut softly, exhaustion taking over. 

“sleep away, angel.” he murmurs gently from between your legs, “just let me make you feel good, yeah?”

and so with a shaky, shy nod - you let him. relaxed into the sheets, closing your eyes as you let choso enjoy himself. waking up over and over from your hazy slumber to the achingly sweet rush of another and another and ANOTHER orgasm. sometimes it's like you don't even wake up, just an endless stream of semi-conscious pleasure as this man drinks in your essence like he's dying of thirst.

don’t worry, he’ll always clean up and make sure you’re all tucked in once he finally gives himself a break. can you tell he's my favourite?

✨ tell me your favourite, feedback/reblogs/asks v appreciated :} ✨

!! DO NOT REPOST!!

[mydearviolet]

'am i making you feel sick...?'

gregory violet x gn! reader

general notes: wrote this on a whim, it's barely edited/proofread (whoops) so my apologies for any errors. post weston expulsion gregory. semi-angst? not really? also incredibly loosely based on strangers by ethel cain

a dreary summer had already made itself known at this point. with a constant drizzle of rain alongside an uncharacteristically harsh heat, it seemed as though the london fog would never dissipate. you could barely make out the street lamps as your carriage navigated the obscured driveway of the violet estate.

‘it is no wonder you were never fond of that harsh sun, my violet.’  you offered gregory a gentle smile. ‘this weather is far more comforting.’

no response. not even an acknowledgement of your presence. this wasn’t uncommon— since his premature departure from weston college, days would pass without even a glance in your direction. 

‘…ah, well,’ you paused. ‘say, that music hall has been under construction for quite some time, has it not?’ despite faltering just slightly, your smile persisted. a way to maintain normalcy, you thought. 

his gaze shifted toward you this time. a twitch of his eyebrow and a narrowing of his eyes signalled you had peaked his interest. there was an intent behind his stare, yet it was not something you could quite discern. he really was like a brick wall at times. 

‘i have no interest in such things.’ gregory’s voice was quiet as his fingertips began brushing along the hem of his hood. porcelain skin juxtaposed the dark fabric and blue veins brushed along his arms like stems of ivy. furrowing your eyebrows, you couldn’t help but offer your hand to him, only to be met with a flinch in the opposite direction. 

strange. to hold any part of you grounded gregory unlike anything else. not even his artistic expression could hold a candle to how you made him feel. despite everything, you nod your head in quick understanding and shift your attention to the landscape outside the window. it was a shame the road was so unstable; each time your shoulder brushed against his, you could hear his breath hitch. 

gregory’s weak hands were visibly trembling, despite his feeble attempts to suppress them. 

‘gregory… my dear, was there anything you wished to talk about? nothing is too great a burden for me.’ your demeanour softened. he didn’t take too well to others prodding him for information, yet with you… it was always something he didn’t mind. however, what you didn’t expect was for him to do nothing but grit his teeth in response.

had you struck a nerve?

your gaze shifted toward the window, yet gregory insisted on staring right through you. he took in one long breath, then finally spoke. 

‘am i making you feel sick…?’

you swallowed the lump in your throat, unable to disguise your shock. it wasn’t like him to be so resolute. despite his insistence otherwise, he was still plagued by the murder of derrick arden. his hands were cursed to hold the blood of others, from now until the day he died. perhaps, if he was profoundly unlucky, he would have the privilege of turning a blind eye to his sins.

‘oh, my darling… not at all. not at all.’ you spoke breathlessly. no words could convey the tragedy of his circumstances, but it seemed gregory preferred it that way. peering to your left, your heart ached to see his eyes glossy with tears. 

gregory moved his hand gently towards yours, his fragile fingers intertwining alongside your own. his skin was so cold, almost lifeless. yet when you took your free hand to cup the side of his cheek, it was unmistakeable how much of your warmth enveloped him. his eyes fluttered shut, a breathy sigh escaping his lips.

just as you had earlier, you smiled gently. 'my violet, just know that i love you.'

[shinobushaori]

Hi! Can you write smut for shinobu? Reader is trying to get her attention while she works, and shinobu is angry and stressed, so reader simply helps her out from under her desk? A more dominant leading reader please, there's not nearly enough bottom shinobu. Thank you😁

A/N: Thank you for your request! I mixed it with this other request bc it's quite similar >:3

I definitely had fun with this and although it's only my second attempt on writing smut, I hope it's to your liking! Enjoy!

RELAX

- kochou shinobu x f! reader

warnings: NSFW, cunnilingus, fingering, dirty talk

word count: 1.9K

18+ minors dni

"Damn it.."

Kochou Shinobu clenches her jaw.

It has been approximately 10 hours since she locked herself in the confines of her office. The endless concoctions of wisteria and other unnamed floral were becoming less of a comforting scent and more of a bothersome thing, seemingly mocking her of her incapabilities.

Despite the numerous mixtures she had meticulously prepared, none of them exceeded her expectations. Each blend was too weak, and simply feeble. Hitting a bit closer to home, she might add.

With a sigh, she yet again, crosses another numbered list.

This is getting frustrating, her chest tightens while she sank deeper in thought. Her hand trembled, begging to rest, much to her already struggling dismay but she stayed firm. This next one will do. She straightens herself and clothes, before fetching another set of equipment.

A knock momentarily diverts her attention from her scribbled notes.

Shinobu decidedly ignored it as she has already established with the girls that urgent matters will either be delivered through her personal crow or with an ear-splitting scream. A bit overdramatic on her part but it did its purpose to not disturb her in the middle of her experiments.

Alas, the figure behind the closed door must be quite the stubborn fool as the knocks came constant and unwavering.

"Shino, I know you can hear me! Can I come in?"

Ah, it's her stubborn fool.

Shinobu audibly sighs, her grip on the pen tightens but she quickly composed herself. As much as she longed for comfort from you, her current distressed state wasn't the right time.

Forcing herself to respond, she pulled out her chirpy tone. "I'm afraid not, beloved! That is, if you want your face to be blown off by something, then be my guest."

It went silent for a minute and Shinobu exhales. Good, she thought as she continued on writing before hissing when the concoction was a failure yet again.

Her body trembled uncomfortably, the urge to flip her table was getting harder to resist but before she could do anything, a pair of hands plants itself on her shoulders, rubbing her tension away and briefly distracting her.

Seeing you hovering above her, she couldn't stop herself from scowling. "[Name]-"

"Shh.. let me help you, okay? You're as stiff as a statue! Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Shinobu stares at your frowning expression before shrugging your touch away. She fools herself for a bit that she doesn't miss your warmth and busy herself by cleaning up after the previous mixture.

"[Name], please escort yourself out. I'll be there with you after I'm satisfied with my work, okay?"

You frown deeper, watching as she walked around the space. "It's been hours, Shinobu! Did you even eat at all today?" Shinobu didn't respond, choosing the out of sight out of mind mentality and fully ignores you standing in the middle of the room.

"Shinobu!"

You stare, utterly exasperated of her act of disregarding your presence. Shinobu simply takes a seat on her work table, her back facing you.

You furrow your brows, fuming. Walking around to face her, setting yourself on the small space between the wall and table. The said table being the barrier that seperates you and Shinobu.

The Hashira, who remained unyielding, continued to ignore you even when you slammed your hands on her desk. The only thing close to a response was the small twitch of her tightly sealed frowning lips.

"Shinobu, you've been overworking yourself! You need to take a break and relax!"

You huff out, she sat motionless as your movement caused the table to shake before proceeding on writing when it went still. Your heart races, you've seen just how much of a stubborn person Shinobu is but this is just in a wholenother level.

"Are you really gonna keep on ignoring me?"

Silence.

Fine, is that how she wants to play? You grit your teeth, you'll make her relax. To the point she'll be practically begging for it.

Shinobu, who was so immersed in her work, suddenly noticed that you weren't standing in front of her anymore. Albeit, confused, she didn't bother thinking more of it.

Well, not until a pair of arms kept her still on her seat.

"[N-Name]!?" She gasped and looked down to see you kneeling under the table, your fingers roughly gripping both her thighs still.

A smirk stretched your lips, you looked up at her innocently, battling your pretty long eyelashes. "Have I finally gotten your attention, beloved?" Shinobu flushed, the heat on her stomach seemingly creeping up her nape and face. Her brows furrows, glaring at you.

"Yes, you did. Now get off." She grits through her teeth.

Unfortunately true to her words earlier, you're her stubborn fool.

You ignored her words just as she was ignoring yours and leaned closer towards the space between her thighs.

Shinobu feels her heart strings tug and she tries stopping you, "W-What are you doing!?"

You scoff, glaring at her with a cocky smile. "You're not listening to me, so I'll make you. Yeah?" You lazily reply, easily prying her hand away with your own while the other remaining one managed to keep the woman in place.

Shinobu feels the sudden wetness on her core hearing your words.

"[Name]-"

"Say red if you wanna stop, yellow to slow down." You cut her off, your fingers singlehandedly undoing her belt while Shinobu feels a shiver up her spine.

You momentarily stopped your movements to look at her. Seeing no response from her you smirk widely, chuckling to yourself while dropping her pants down. The unmistakable aroma of her slick immediately excites you.

"See? You do want me to eat you out so bad, after all. Finally stopped being a stubborn fuck?" You licked your lips when she jolted at your fingers ghostly brushing her inner thigh.

Shinobu huffs, glaring at you when you slowed down. "Just go on with it already."

She let out a muffled wince when your fingers gripped her porcelain flesh tightly, causing a delicious reddened ring to form.

You hum, "You're not the one in charge here, baby." Purring, you plant small kisses on her skin. Smiling when she trembled as a wet patch began to form on her panties.

"Continue writing."

Shinobu flinches, purple tinted eyes widening towards your direction. "What!? Stop being ridiculous-"

She bit her lips to suppress a moan when you took a rough bite of her thigh, lidded eyes boring holes through her head.

"Pick up the pen."

She gulped, blinking to clear up her dizzy sight as she did what she was told. Picking up the previous discarded pen.

You purred, "Such a good girl.." Shinobu releases out a shaky breath, she could vividly feel your fingers trailing around her thighs despite being out of sight.

"Since you were so keen on ignoring me earlier.." Shinobu gasped, her hand covering her mouth when she feels your palm roughly rubbing against her cunt.

You smile when the wetness of her slick fully spreads on the undergarment and on your palm.

"Let's test that ability of yours, shall we? Write."

The throb began to be unbearable as Shinobu pants onto her hand, legs threateningly about to rub itself against the other if not for your head that acted as a barrier. She hears you giggle.

"[N-Name]!"

She hissed, burying her head between her fingers as you fully disregard her undergarment, your warm breath hitting her bare pussy.

You take her two thighs and place them each on your shoulders, teasingly leaving trails of kisses and simply chuckling when Shinobu takes a sharp breath.

"What did I just tell you, silly? Write."

With no words left to say, Shinobu gripped the pen as it hovered over the paper. Her mind was too fuzzy and too distracted by how your fingers spread her lips, another digit gathering her slick.

"..ngh!"

Your thumb harshly presses against her reddened clit. "Write, baby." Your throat grumbles, head leaning towards her pussy.

"Or I won't give you what you want at all."

Shinobu gulps yet again, she absolutely detested this side of yours and yet her melting pussy said otherwise. After a second or two, the sound of a pen writing becomes audible and you smile, delighted at her cooperative behavior, giving her cunt a short kiss. 

The woman didn't even know what she was writing, her hand simply wrote gibberish. All she could focus on is your finger that slowly entered her hole.

Her breathing becomes heavy, hand tightly fisting the tablecloth becoming white as you slowly teased her gaping hole.

"[N-Name]..!"

"Oh?" You smirk, adding another finger. Shinobu tenses her bottom half more and you laugh out loud feeling the weight of it.

"I thought you wanted to ignore me?"

The Hashira gasped as you now fucked her cunt with three fingers in a frustratingly slow pace.

"Now you want my attention so bad? Why don't you beg for it, baby?"

You fasten your thrusting digits and almost immediately, the tablecloth that her hand was latching on was replaced by your head. "[Name]..!" She gasped out when you twisted your fingers, greedily pushing into her sinful cunt.

"Fuck, I-"

Shinobu throws her head back, jaw clenching as her tight spongy walls gripped around your fingers.

You could recognize she was close, you feel how she hurriedly hugged your head in place, her trembling limbs and her moans becoming more vocal as she spoke out your name in such a pretty way that you can feel your own pussy tighten and melt.

In the last possible second, you immediately stopped your movements causing Shinobu to instantly pull your hair, making you face her, the sharp pain on your scalp effectively making you wetter.

You relish in her frustration, how her brows were deeply furrowed, her pink lips in a frown and her purple eyes, normally big and confident, now currently lidded and full of desires. You wanted to ruin her more, a thought you immediately waved away. She's so pretty like this, you'd rather not.

And as she opened her pretty mouth to speak. You changed her complaints to a wail as you lapped her pussy, tongue laid flat to give it a long lick.

"[N- ngh! [Name]..!"

Your tongue slithers inside her cunt, humming as you fully tasted her savoring arousal. You feel her immediately tightening on your tongue and you couldn't help but moan.

Shinobu grips your hair, biting back her moans as she feels your lips greedily lapping hers. She whimpered when you easily inserted two fingers inside of her, twisting and pushing into her greedy hole until you found the right spot.

"D-Dont stop!"

Shinobu scowls and you chuckle, you were planning to but you couldn't stress her out more, can you?

Her hips buckled and grinded eagerly, yearning for her release and you knew she came when her thighs tightly settled itself around your head, mouth moaning out a breathless mantra of your name as a warm arousal dripped down your chin.

You allowed her to fully ride out her high and as she fully relaxed her seat, you emerged from your face from below the table with a grin. Shinobu gives you a dull glare, one that induced a laugh from you.

You take her by the cheeks and hover above her drowsy state, "Did I make you relax, my beloved?"

She closed her eyes and sighs, not responding but instead pulled you in a kiss. Lips locked onto each other. She purred tasting herself, who knew a healthy diet would be so useful?

When the kiss breaks, you place your forehead into hers, both of you panting.

"..shall we go into our room?"