#However it does mean. The demons are back

[ange11icyuri]

PICK A PILE

Which KPOP demon hunter character are you? Based on the pile you chose! ( what information does spirit have for you?)

Scroll for results!!

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𝙋𝙄𝙇𝙀 𝙊𝙉𝙀 ✧ —

ZOEY

If you picked the first pile, then your character is Zoey! For the people who chose this character , spirit has seen the fact that you’re holding on really tight to something. It could be maybe your comfort zone, stability, or something else that you’re tightly holding onto because you don’t want to let this go could even be a person or a relationship. Although this energy might cause imbalance in your life because you’re not trying to step out of your comfort zone or trying to do things differently. You’re more so focused on holding onto something which could really disrupt the way that things should flow in your life. Even lately life can feel chaotic in some parts of your life or things might not really feel like they’re supposed to. I feel like some of you are kind of losing Hope as well or maybe even doubting yourselves. right now I just see that you were kind of disconnected from your purpose or where you’re meant to be in life. I do, however, see a shift because even if you feel like things are going slow or there’s no progress in some parts of your life I do see things slowly starting to get better and progress from there. I do see you also healing or trying to come back from whatever it is that may not have been going good for you. I feel like you’ve just been betrayed or you feel like maybe someone really hurt you and you were trying to come back from that. There is emotional residue that was left from it even though you’ve been slowly healing. I think spirit just really wants you to honor what you lost instead of holding onto tightly to it and try to heal and move on because if it doesn’t fit your purpose or it’s not for you then it’s just something you should have to let go of even if it’s hard to at the moment but just know that things are gonna get better and things are going to progress.

𝙋𝙄𝙇𝙀 𝙏𝙒𝙊 ✧ —

RUMI

If you picked the second Pile, you got rumi! For the people who chose this pile spirit has seen you lacking clarity or just being confused in general lately. Maybe someone wasn’t entirely being honest with you or there was someone who betrayed or lied to you or maybe you’ve even been doubting your own inner voice or have had insecurities with yourself. In this stage, you’re still trying to mourn whatever happened to you. As your mourning though I do see that some kind of change is coming. This time something is finally going to happen in your favor. Meaning you finally have a chance to be happy. Something better is on the way, even if you’re past things and you’re still hurting from, whatever happened within that past. There is going to be a new beginning for you and I feel like it’s going to be emotional as someone who’s been through a lot when you’re finally at that happy stage in your life and things start to feel better. It’s like that final moment for you like finally it’s happening. From before you might’ve been facing conflict with yourself and dealing with your insecurities, but spirit is trying to tell you that if you shift your mindset things are going to get better for you. If you start to be more confident, if you start to manifest to do things to switch up your daily life and not have a negative energy to find more positive energy so that things can get better. In the past, it definitely felt like you had to fight to be heard or even fight for love or fight for the things you wanted in your life. If a person is really meant for you, you shouldn’t really have to fight for anything. It should come to you, which is exactly why we should shift our mental energy. To know that better things can come to us without us having to fight for it. You just need to find that spark the spark that gets you up and moving again and feeling confident. So try to switch it up and do things that you like things that make you happy and make you feel confident don’t be around people or things that drains your energy or harms you. It’ll never allow you to shift your energy and your mindset. But if you’re around people that hype you up or people that are going to be supportive and there for you that that’s when you can finally change and shift your mindset, but you also have to know it starts with you and loving yourself and being more confident from within. So get out of that head and start trying to feel confident again and find that spark and that’s when things are gonna get better when you shift your mindset.

𝙋𝙄𝙇𝙀 𝙏𝙃𝙍𝙀𝙀 ✧ —

MIRA

If you picked the third pile, you got Mira! For the ones who chose this pile, spirits can see you’ve been through some kind of conflict lately. There were words exchanged that left tension or even regret. Someone may have tried to win in this situation. Spirits want you to know that now is your time to shine. Now you can step into your confidence because clearly that person didn’t win. You are being reminded that you are strong and capable. People wouldn’t expect this from you, as you seem as someone who is soft hearted or maybe people don’t take you seriously sometimes. You don’t need to prove you’re worth you just need to be confident and own it. Whoever thinks they’re better than you, or tried to win. They’re not the winner in this situation. You’re the one with the power, don’t let anyone else control you. There has been a deep sense of restlessness maybe some overthinking, but now it’s time to wake up. You may be clinging to an old way of seeing things, or hoping something will fix itself without action. Spirit says the insight you’ve been waiting for is already within you — you just have to move. The Lovers reversed shows that there may have been a breakup, separation, or a disconnect — not just with others, but even with yourself. You may feel like you’re not aligned with the people around you, or like your heart is at war with your mind. A decision needs to be made, but not from fear — from clarity and truth.

[chaosherald]

Word With Friends

(Started by @hedwigoprah, hosted by @notyourmamasdeerbat. Thank you @jukkaricity for the tag! No pressure tags for @davrinsleftpectoral @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @dags-over-caravans @kabsey)

The word this week is "Balter" -to dance or tread clumsily, without particular grace or skill.

(You guys. You guys. I have things I'm supposed to be doing. Work for a summer class. Packing for vacation. The next part of the serial for tomorrow. But noooo - Lucanis and Rook and pre-relationship 'what are feelings?' nonsense demanded 2k words so here we are 😂 Some of my favorite lines/moments I've written in while though so, can't be too mad.

Lucanis is exhausted. Spite is a music lover. Feelings are felt but damned if the parties involved can make any sense of them.)

Lucanis jerked awake, fighting through the weighty haze of fatigue and clinging to the startled panicked potential of losing control to stay that way. The candles didn’t look any different. Spite - at least, the projection of the demon he was currently seeing - was by the warded pantry door, ear pressed against the wood and seemingly ignoring his missed chance to take over. Music, a lute or something similar, sounded from the dining hall, faltering and restarting and faltering again before being replaced by the murmur of voices.

The demon turned to glare at Lucanis. “Why does the sound break? Fix it.”

Pulling himself to his feet, Lucanis didn’t answer the thing in his head. He did however move towards the door. Whatever had Spite’s interest was outside their room, but so was the coffee and with the way he was feeling right now, he desperately needed more coffee.

Opening the door, Spite metaphorically right on his heels, Lucanis took stock of the space. Rook was perched on the table, an elven lute resting in her lap. Davrin was leaning over the narrow top of the instrument, several of his woodworking tools spread out on the table. He appeared to be attempting some kind of repair. Bellara leaned over Davrin’s shoulder, holding a mage light in her hand, presumably to illuminate whatever Davrin was working on. Harding sat in one of the chairs nearby, fletching supplies currently being ignored in favor of also watching whatever was happening with the others.

“I’m going to be sad if this doesn’t work, Rook,” Harding was saying. “You made us drag that thing all around Thedas and it managed to stay in one piece. For it to die now…”

“It’s mostly fine,” Rook answered, though Lucanis could hear the tension in her voice as he grabbed his coffee beans from the shelf. She didn’t really mean what she was saying. “It's just the one tuning peg. If Davrin can keep it from slipping…”

“It’ll be a temporary fix, Rook. If it works,” Davrin said.

“Oh, it will work, I’m mostly sure about that,” Bellara said. “But yeah, probably not going to hold forever.”

Spite mentally prodded Lucanis. “Rook made the sound. Tell her to make it again.”

Trying to focus on weighing out his beans, Lucanis shook his head slightly. 

Rook glanced over her shoulder, smiling when she caught his eye. She tried not to make it obvious that she was scanning the area around him. She couldn’t see or hear Spite, but she could sense him.

Spite knew that too. He walked through the table until he was practically nose to nose with Rook. “Tell. Her.”

Rook closed her eyes, tilting her head down, probably still trying to make sense of whatever she sensed from Spite. “I hope we weren’t being too noisy out here.”

It took Lucanis a moment to realize she was talking to him. “No, it's fine.”

“Spite is right here, isn’t he? Does he want something?”

Lucanis sighed, pointedly not looking at the demon's smug expression painted on the copy of his face. “He is curious about the music.”

“Well,” Davrin said, stepping back and eyeing Rook’s instrument. “He might be in luck.”

Harding gasped. “You fixed it?”

Bellara grinned. “We did! Hopefully. Rook, play something! We need to test it!”

Rook was fiddling with the small circular pieces of wood sticking out of the narrow top, checking the sound each string made. She seemed pleased by whatever Davrin and Bellara had done. “Any requests? Though remember I’m kind of awful at this.”

Davrin chuckled. “Right. One of the few things you brought with you when you left Nevarra and you’re ‘kind of awful?’” Davrin glanced at Bellara, then looked back at Rook. “Know any Dalish songs?”

“No,” Rook deadpanned. “The vallaslin came with the ears.” She started playing. 

The tune was upbeat, catchy. There was something different about the melody, something about how the pitches were ordered that set it apart from the music he had grown up with, but the sense of movement and dance came through clearly. Lucanis found himself nodding to the beat as he finished brewing his coffee. Spite was entranced, circling around Rook and staring at her fingers as they moved on the strings.

Bellara was dancing. Formulaic and graceful, clearly something she had some practice with. She tried to get Davrin to join her, but he shook his head and backed away, putting a chair between him and her. 

Undeterred, Bellara laughed and pulled Harding to her feet. The Scout was enthusiastic, but not skilled, baltering around as she tried to copy Bellara’s steps.

Lucanis sipped his coffee, leaning against the counter and stifling a yawn. At least the demon was occupied. And while Rook clearly wasn’t a professional musician, she wasn’t bad. The music was nice, the company not unwelcome, and if he made another cup or several maybe he would make it through the night without risking Spite taking over.

The song ended and Harding requested a Ferelden tavern song. She sang loudly while Rook played, Bellara joining her on the refrain.

Lucanis let his eyes close, focusing on the warmth and smell of his drink. Maker, he was tired. 

The tavern song ended. Lucanis half listened as Davrin asked Harding about the song. Something about the innuendo in the verses.

He could hear Rook plucking quietly at the strings, but in a listless, indistinct manner. He could also sense Spite starting to get agitated. Gripping his cup a little tighter, Lucanis opened his eyes and saw the demon glaring at him. He considered asking Rook to keep playing. Mortifying as it would be to impose, it would be well worth it to gain a few more moments of peace. However, before he mustered the energy to ask, Rook started a new song of her own volition.

And - oh. He knew this one. Every child in Antiva knew this one. A lament, about a love lost at sea, the kind of thing that Trovatori brought out when they wanted their audience nostalgic and teary-eyed.

Then Rook started singing and Lucanis forgot to breathe.

Her voice was lovely. Her Antivan was rough, but she could sing absolute nonsense and Lucanis was pretty sure he would still be content to listen. More than content to listen.

Spite had darted back over to Rook, but was watching Lucanis intently. Lucanis ignored him and his coffee. He was definitely staring, but everyone else was focused on Rook and Rook was focused on her song. Spite was the only one in a position to notice and trying to hide from Spite was futile anyway, so he allowed himself the indulgence.

It occurred to him that she had probably chosen this song for his benefit. A Dalish dance for the elves, the Ferelden song for the scout, and now an Antivan lament for him. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

The song circled to a close and it felt like a loss. Rook wasn't looking at him, smiling wryly at the floor, like she was embarrassed. “I hope I didn't botch too many of the words.”

He should say something reassuring, but Spite was at his shoulder now, doing the incorporeal equivalent of breathing down his neck and he wasn’t sure what to say.

Bellara sighed. “Oh, that one was really pretty.”

“Antivan, right?” asked Harding, looking over at Lucanis. “What's it about?”

Spite hissed in his ear. “She sang. For you. I want a song.”

Lucanis resisted putting his head in his hands or taking a swing at the demon. That would just be embarrassing for both of them. He forced himself to answer. “The singer is negotiating with the sea to bring their lover home,” he said. “I'll give you my silks. I'll give you my gold. I'll give you my jewels. The sea refuses, says I have already taken your heart, there is nothing of greater worth you can offer.”

“Oh, that’s really sad,” Bellara said.

“Very Antivan though,” said Davrin. “Everything is a business transaction.”

Spite was still carrying on, pushing for control, his voice in Lucanis’ ear and head. “Tell her. She has to sing for me too. I want to touch the sounds. They vibrate in ratios. I want to hear more of them.”

Lucanis snapped. “Enough, Spite.”

Rook was looking at him now, embarrassment replaced with concern. “What is Spite doing?”

Shouting in his ear, is what he was doing. “Spite liked that one,” Lucanis said instead.

Rook didn’t look less concerned. “Lucanis…”

His first instinct was to deflect. He was fine. He would deal with it. But his coffee was rapidly cooling and his temper was frayed and lying to Rook seemed a poor way to thank her for singing something from home. “He would like to hear more. And to touch the strings, I think. He says it is his turn for a song.”

Rook smiled slowly, tilting her head to the side. “That’s only fair. Hey, Spite? I will make you a deal.”

Spite was practically buzzing, wholly focused on Rook. The others were also watching, with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion on their faces.

“Let Lucanis sleep tonight and I’ll stay up and play for you. Or you can touch the strings on the lute. Whichever you’d like.”

Spite pushed to the front, speaking with Lucanis’ voice. “And sing. We have. A deal.”

“Yes, just - quietly. So Lucanis can actually sleep.”

Davrin spoke up. “Rook, are you sure about this?”

Rook carefully put her instrument down and slid off the table, stretching her arms over her head. “Wisps and spirits were my primary audience in the Necropolis. Though.” She turned to look at Lucanis. “Are you alright with it? I should have asked first, but - “

“But you look awful and you need to sleep,” Harding said. Bellara nodded in agreement, shrugging apologetically.

Lucanis looked at what was left in the cup. Spite was quiet, finally. Giving him space so he could do his part to facilitate his deal with Rook. “You shouldn’t have to lose sleep over this.”

“I don’t mind.”

Lucanis walked over to the washbasin and emptied the rest of his drink. She was probably telling the truth, though she should mind. Part of him minded. He wasn’t sure if he was disgruntled over the negotiations happening without his input, upset that he would be inconveniencing Rook, or unhappy that Spite would be spending time with her while he was unconscious. All of the above, probably.

He was too tired to try and make sense of it or fight against it.

And he trusted Rook, in spite of the voice in his head that sounded like Caterina warning him not to. Something else he didn't have the energy to think too hard on right now. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch, out here,” he said. That seemed safe enough. It meant Davrin or someone else could keep an eye on things and Rook wouldn't be locked up in his room with a demon.

Rook nodded, picking up her lute and moving towards the plush chairs against the wall. “I'll stay close. And make sure Spite doesn't wander off.”

“He won't. He accepted your deal. He’ll honor it.”

It was awkward, publicly putting himself to bed in the dining room, so his sort of client sort of friend could serenade the demon trapped in his skin. Lucanis made minimal concessions to comfort, taking off his boots and jewelry and most of his daggers, leaving the rest of his clothing untouched. No one was paying him any particular mind which made it slightly easier. Harding was quietly showing Bellara how she fletched her arrows while Bellara made excited suggestions for mostly explosive enhancements to the projectiles. Davrin excused himself to check on Assan, but made a point of letting Rook know he'd be back.

And Rook seemed distant. Far away. Curled up in the armchair, tapping a rhythm on the side of her lute, and staring at nothing in particular.

Once he was settled, he found himself speaking before he had fully processed his intentions. “Rook.”

She looked over at him. 

He wanted to tell her she didn't have to do this. Spite would be a nightmare, but that was nothing new. He wanted to ask what she was thinking, when her eyes looked at nothing and she shrank into herself. He wanted to tell her how much he enjoyed the song she had played for him.

He was also getting very good at disappointing himself. “You…if you need a luthier, to fix your instrument or make you a new one, there are some excellent options in Treviso.”

Rook let out a small, breathy laugh. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Closing his eyes, he grimaced to himself. No, he was better than that. “Earlier, the song you sang? It was beautifully done.”

Rook didn't say anything right away, though he heard her shift on the chair. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. “I wasn't joking before, about mostly playing for spirits and wisps. I don't usually play for actual people.”

“You should.”

Rook didn't say anything else, but she started playing again, singing softly. Another song from Antiva. A long journey. Stars on a dark night. Walking the road towards home.

It didn’t take long for Lucanis to fall asleep.

[anontaku]

dating leviathan headcanons ୨୧

✧ pretty common assumption, but: in the beginning, he needs a lot of verbal and physical reassurance that you actually like him for who he is and don’t have some sort of ulterior motive, such as using him to get to one of his brothers. this doesn’t stem from malicious distrust in you, but rather the belief that others have qualities that are worthy of him being envious over. he is the avatar of envy, after all. considering the fact that one of his ddd lines is “asmo and i are brothers, so who decides that HE should get all the good parts of the gene pool?”, it’s clear he compares himself to other guys and considers himself unattractive. casual reminders that you consider him far more attractive than others mean a lot to him ♡

✧ for people who are comfortable with sleeping with him in his tub-bed: as soon as you’re together, he orders a new, more spacious bathtub from akuzon. mammon attempts to pawn the old one without permission which annoys levi greatly (as always)

✧ for people who would try to convert him into sleeping in their (normal) bed: he begrudgingly obliges after much protest. during the first few days, he tosses and turns in his sleep, not being used to your flat mattress. he gradually accomodates to the new space, but comes up with the idea to purchase aquatic themed decor from akuzon to remind himself of his oceanic room

✧ before you came into the picture, he much preferred talking about himself and his interests over listening to others’. what’s the point of listening to normies anyway? it’s not like they had anything worth listening to. however, with your presence came a fresh new perspective in his formerly solitary life. you became the exception to his habit, with him listening to you talk about all of your interests and heeding all of your quirks intently

✧ he may be a bit shy, but he wants to spoil you as much as any other guy would. he makes it so that the two of you share an akuzon account and occasionally checks the Recently Viewed/Favorited sections to see what sort of things you’d like

✧ if you like a particular anime or manga, he’d remember to keep track of any updates about it, as well as merchandise releases, the same way he does his own favorite anime

✧ he would hesitatingly ask if you just so happened to kind of want to go to an anime convention with him in couple’s cosplay.. and be elated when you agree. he’d feel ecstatic showing you off on his arm in front of his fellow otaku

✧ the two of you enjoy getting back at mammon, mainly when he's indebted to levi or has stolen one of his items yet again

✧ he loves spamming you with texts about different topics, posts he thinks you’d like, etc, in his free time while the two of you are away from one another. the needy demon he is, he’s fortunately grown from being all “i need you to respond URGENTLY” to being comfortable with distracting himself whilst awaiting your response, knowing that you’d reply when you’re able to. his heart skips a beat whenever he hears his text tone, expecting it to be you, and he rushes to check his ddd.

✧ he would get a nosebleed from the sight of you cosplaying ruri-chan (or literally any of his waifus tbh)

✧ he made his ddd and pc wallpapers a collage of photos that you’ve taken together

✧ he begged you to show him around the places you know within the human world in order to experience the otaku culture up there for real, and obviously you would happily oblige

[lonelydarknessblog]

Lore: Dominant Wolves and Created Wolves

Hello Pack lovelies,

Firstly, I watched K Pop Demon Hunters and loved it! But one of the songs also gave me a story for Seungmin! I hope to write it soon! Meanwhile, here is the sacred text on Dominants and Created.

D O M I N A N T S

🐾Werewolves who are born with the genes are known as Dominants. Offspring of werewolf x werewolf couples. They tend to be stronger and faster, with their senses more attuned. This is because they didn’t have to learn to train those parts. 

🐾Dominants are the only weres who risk ferality. Again, this is because they are born with the wolf, which makes the wolf gene equally in control of the body as the human gene. (Note: In a created werewolf, though the werewolf gene is stronger than the human gene, it is still considered an intruder gene and creates an internal war. Consequently, a created wolf does not go feral but begins self destructing. More information in Created Wolves section).

🐾Dominant wolves can shift, but very few can shift completely. A wolf who is capable of a complete shift is usually revered, not only because shifting is very painful, but because shifting back from a wolf requires the human instinct to be more powerful than the wolf’s. Anyone who is able to do this is considered divinely blessed.

🐾In the Eastern Hemisphere, the only recorded full shifter is Bangchan, but there is speculation, since no one has seen his wolf. The only reason there is speculation is because of the mark left from when he turned Felix. Felix has a scar shaped like a wolf maw on his shoulder. 

🐾The regular dominant werewolves can do partial shifts. This means that their hands and legs morph into paws, and eyes turn yellow. In more extreme shifts, triggered by rage or angst, the nose and ears may morph too. Claws extend and fur pushes through the skin during partial shifts. Bones morph but don’t break. Shifts are painful, but the pain is often overridden by the emotion causing the shift. After a shift, the body is extremely sore, specially around the joints and shifted body parts.

🐾The three leadership roles of a pack, the alpha, beta and the guardian, are always held by dominant wolves. These positions cannot be held by created wolves.

🐾Dominant wolves tend to find mates who exhibit dominance as well. It might not be in the nature of their birth, but their mates dominate in various ways, like intellect, speed, strategy, etc. 

C R E A T E D

🐾Created wolves are made when the saliva of an alpha dominant enters the blood stream of a race whose genes are weaker than the werewolf gene. The DNA in the saliva of the alpha dominant enters the cells of the other race and begins to combine with the original DNA and re-code parts of it. However, this will not work with races whose genetics are as strong or stronger than wolves. Of the discovered races, vampires, and dark and light fae are the only ones who can resist the DNA shift. 

🐾The process of Creation is long. The rewriting of the DNA takes a few hours, and then the changes caused by the rewriting begin to take place in the body. Think of it like a virus attack. The body tries to reject it at first, and in the process, it weakens. Then the DNA recoding takes place. The body simultaneously begins to show the phenotype of the rewriting. Eyes change colour, nails turn into claws and back into nails. Fur pushes through skin and then retracts. Often, the code rewrites and rewrites again, which shows up as different colour fur, or canines growing and then falling out. The process takes around two weeks and is more painful the older the Created is.

🐾Once the process of creation is complete, the Created can no longer shift. After the process, they have werewolf cells, but these do not manifest in the physical appearance. They instead present as sharper senses. 

🐾While extreme emotions or reactions cannot directly trigger a feral state in a Created wolf, what it does is aggravates the werewolf cells in the body. This consequently makes the human cells attack it to protect the rest of the body. In most cases, the fight between the human cells and aggravated werewolf cells leads to the body killing itself from the inside. Created wolves don’t become feral because their bodies cannot get to that stage.

🐾Created wolves cannot become alphas, betas or guardians. Their instincts are not considered strong enough for them to hold pack leadership roles.

🐾Created wolves mostly find their soulmates in other created wolves. This is because the bond is determined by the Moon, and the blessings of the Moon only fall when the wolf is born or created. 

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I hope you found knowledge during your time with the sacred texts! With this knowledge, if you have questions, if you have prompts, if you want to see more werewolf SKZ, please send me asks! They are open!

Taglist: @stxysakura

[rookamell]

WIP Wednesday!!

Tagged by the ever incredible @flowersforthemachines who continues to make me cry thank you

I've been writing out of order because I have brain worms so here is something that won't see the light of day for months still.

Lucanis looked up so quickly from the map he and Davrin had been studying, he almost hurt his neck.

“What do you have?” Davrin asked, rushing over to Neve and the necromancer, both standing next to the strange spirit the Seeker had brought with her.

“It’s… weak here,” Emmrich’s hands waved through the air in front of him, a grey-green light appearing in the room.

“Fabric fear frays,” Cole said dreamily, “Forms in the Fade. She’s close.”

And despite himself, Lucanis felt his chest ache at those words.

She’s close.

Which meant… she was alive? She was really alive.

He didn’t know what to feel, or what to do or what to think, but Spite thought for the both of them.

“Rook,” the demon said with his mouth, using his legs to walk toward the others. “Rook is close?”

He did not resist, however. The small, fragile flame she had started in his heart, that he had thought snuffed when she vanished, had started burning again.

By the blood of the Maker, it hurt.

“Rook is close, Spite,” Emmrich said, “I can open the way into the Fade, to where we could reach her, but I can’t…”

“Can’t what, Emmrich?” Neve asked, her voice echoing the franticness of Lucanis’s thoughts. He’d never heard her so unbalanced.

“There is something blocking the way to her,” Emmrich said, and his voice strained slightly as the light grew.

“Well then what are we waiting for?” Taash growled. “Let’s go in there and get her.”

“Can we do that?” Neve asked, turning to Cole, and Lucanis held his breath. If there was a chance, even a small chance that he could get her back, he’d jump into the Fade head first.

“I can… find her,” Cole said, slowly. “I can show the way, but not break the bars.”

“So that’s a yes?” Davrin asked.

“Close,” Cole said, but it was good enough for Lucanis. It was good enough for Spite.

“Then let us go,” he said, impatiently. “Open the tear, Emmrich.”

“Hold on,” Neve said, and Lucanis almost growled at her. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. ‘Bars’? What does that mean?”

“Who cares?” Davrin said, at the same moment Lucanis said, “Rook needs us.”

The two men looked at each other, and shared a nod. It was not an apology, but an acknowledgement. A shared thought that they would both do anything to get her back.

“Bars,” Cole said. “A cage built for gods. Searching, wanting, hurting, alone.”

Alone.

The word clanged through him.

“Open it,” Lucanis and Spite growled together, and Emmrich did not hesitate before waving his hands, a crack opening in the air in front of them, blinding green-grey light shining from the other side.

Lucanis stepped through, knife and sword in hand, and Davrin stepped through behind him, the others following.

Soft tags for @corvus-frugilegus @epiphany-jones @rookinthecrownest @seaglassmelody @serensama and as always anyone who wnats to use me as a tag to share!

[kampazoid12]

more people should think and talk abt rivalz code geass I think.

[travalerray]

what if I wrote a TMA AU. What then

[tired-biscuit]

No joy in giving if you’re never pleased

pairing: rengoku kyojuro/fem!reader

premise: When a certain Hashira proposes to marry you for the sake of conforming to social norms, you find yourself in a spot where you’re unable to refuse the offer. Despite your initial agreement on keeping the union strictly professional, however, his accidental exposure to an incredibly potent form of aphrodisiac causes well-hidden feelings to quickly rise to the surface in a single night.

cw: 18+ MDNI, canon divergence - HE LIVES!!!, arranged marriage, s pollen, loss of virginity (he loses his v-card, not you), creampie x2 (double delight, lol), brief mention of domestic violence from reader’s previous marriage.

wc: 7.3k

———

Rengoku Kyojuro had never planned on getting married. It’s not like the thought didn’t cross his mind occasionally, but how could he, with the life he’s chosen to lead? 

Despite the tendency of coming across as a bit daft because of his rather eccentric nature, Kyojuro is far from stupid. He’s well aware that if a marriage were to successfully prosper, it requires a number of things; one of them being stability. Stability that is, for the most part, expected to be constant. 

So with this very important fact taken into account, how on earth is he, the Flame Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps, expected to provide stability for his partner? Constant stability, at that?

After all, missions often keep him away from home for long periods of time. If it’s not the missions, then it’s certainly the endless training sessions that cause for an incredibly busy schedule. And what about the apprentices that have yet to show up on his doorstep?

At this point, the only time he ever slows down is when he needs to recover and gather his strength back after a particularly nasty fight. And even then, when he’s got nothing else to do but spend his days resting in bed and tending to his injuries, he’s usually completely elsewhere with his thoughts, already strategizing on how to further hone his already sharp skills in order to avoid causing more harm.

However, being the Flame Hashira comes second to being an obedient son. So when his father presses on the matter by the time Kyojuro turns 27 years old, he once again does what is expected of him and dutifully finds himself a wife.

The arranged marriage ends up becoming just that – arranged. It’s a spring wedding: beautiful and sudden just like the season it’s been placed into. You lay eyes on each other only once before the knot is tied, and then you’re whisked away to house Rengoku. 

You’re both in dire need of it, though. Him, because his father demands it, and you, because you’re a widow who’d just recently buried her now-late husband, but who remains to be too young and heirless to be able to safely cling to that title. 

Unlike your first husband, however, Kyojuro treats you exceptionally well. While he may not be present most of the time, leaving you to tend to your shared home more or less on your own terms, he always, always makes sure to treat you with respect. He speaks kindly to you each time your paths do end up crossing, encourages you to spend time with his equally as kind-hearted younger brother Senjuro, and enthusiastically compliments your cooking whenever he gets the chance to eat it.

He’s also never raised his hand against you – a habit your previous husband had often acted upon and that had left you with plenty of scars even long after the ones on your skin had healed and faded away. No, instead, Kyojuro doesn’t touch you at all. 

And by that, it truly means not at all.

You may sleep in the same bed on the nights when he’s around, but it’s like a chasm stretches itself between you and your husband the second you clamber underneath the covers together. It’s not emotional distance, per se – your personalities seem to be getting along just fine, at least from what you’ve gathered so far – so you suspect that it must be a different kind of issue that’s stopping him from consummating the marriage.

When asked, even whilst becoming a bit flustered, he’d openly admitted that he expects nothing from you concerning the matter. That he never really gave much thought about fathering children, since they could easily be seen as a weakness by his enemies and thus potentially used against him, as morbid as that sounds. 

But even with your initial wariness and doubt after the conversation, he’s since made it clear time and time again that he’s perfectly content with keeping your marriage purely platonic, exactly like he’d said. The union keeps both sides of your families happy, while still allowing you the safety and freedom you’ve always desired as a woman. And as for him, the ability to continue his work uninterrupted is seen as only a plus in his eyes.

Some would call his reasonings selfish, but you’ve long since learned that your husband is anything but that. Everything he does, he does for others. Having a wife is already risky enough as a swordsman, and yet he has still chosen to obey orders and take you in, even going as far as to teach you some of the more basic self defense maneuvers for some peace of mind.

Besides, during the first couple of months, the entire thing had sounded like a dream. Having a husband in an arranged marriage who willingly provides, treats you like an equal, and is generally fond of you without the more forceful, unpleasant aspects around it; could you ask for anything more?

Well, yes. You suppose you could. But wait! It’s not that you aren’t appreciative of the things he gives you – in fact, you’ll be forever grateful for them, storing and cherishing them for the rest of your life – it’s more so… about the things he doesn’t.

Because while he may hold lovely conversations with you no matter the time of day, and while he may smile brightly each time you welcome him back home in the courtyard, the crown of his head bathed in sunlight, no matter what kind of ploy you attempt, Kyojuro just doesn’t seem to be picking up on the fact that you don’t see this marriage as strictly transactional anymore.

Over the last year, feelings for the golden-eyed Hashira have blossomed inside your heart. You’ve tried not to succumb to them, heeding his wishes, but have still ended up catching yourself buzzing with pleasant nervousness when in his presence more than a handful of times now. To make matters even worse, you even have trouble falling asleep next to him in bed because of how fast your heartbeat begins to race the moment he enters the room – a treacherous heartbeat which you have no doubt he can hear.

Alas, nothing seems to sway him. The closest you’ve ever gotten is on a couple of occasions when he’d come home bearing wounds that weren’t so severe that they needed to be looked over by Shinobu, but nevertheless required to be tended to. He’d tried to reassure you countless of times that he could handle them on his own just fine when you’d stepped in to help, but you’d stubbornly insisted every single time without fail.

“Of what use am I as a wife if I can’t even patch up my own husband?” you’d said one time, carefully reaching for his arm. The blood had mostly dried up by then, already beginning to flake. “Just let me help you, Kyojuro. I promise it’s no trouble. It’s what life partners are meant for.”

Kyojuro, surprisingly, had kept silent after that, for once allowing you fully to continue your ministrations. Still covered in grime and watching you with visible uncertainty, he’d caught but didn’t vocally acknowledge the small gasp you let out the second your fingertips had made contact with his alarmingly hot skin, and, by the time you’d bandaged him up, had even hesitantly promised you that he’d take it easy for the next couple of days.

You, on the other hand, were incapable of stopping yourself from thinking about the heat his body emanates from that moment onward. It supposedly reaches its peak only during battle, he’s told you this in order to soothe your worries, but even by the time it winds back down, you still find it dangerous. It’s no wonder he’s so quick to warm the bed the second he lies down, the man is practically a walking, breathing furnace!

And just the thought of that heat engulfing you; wrapping you up in its warm, tender embrace, caressing every inch of you, filling you– Well, perhaps it’s enough to drive any spouse just a little bit mad with yearning.

But what can you possibly do? All he ever does is talk to you. Occasionally, he’ll perhaps slip up and ogle at the exposed side of your neck, or the curve of your lips, but it’s often all so fleeting that you don’t even have time to properly reciprocate. Before you can even begin to wonder if he’s actually capable of lusting after you, he’s already back to his friendly, unsuspecting self.

However, that all changes when he comes home one evening after his training session with a certain Love Hashira. Because that night, you come to learn that the sweet, always vehemently respectful Rengoku Kyojuro who you cherish so dearly, is perfectly capable of lusting after his wife. 

He’s just good at concealing it with politeness.

———

“Kyojuro, is that you?”

Looking into the mirror you’re sitting in front of, you briefly pause combing your hair to smile at the reflection of your husband who now stands leaning against the open doorway of your shared bedroom. The lights in the hallway behind him are off, shrouding it in darkness just like the rest of the house for the night, but the soft glow coming from the couple of candles you’ve lit earlier to aid your routine before bed is just enough to define him.

From what you can gather from a single lookover, he seems to be perfectly fine physically-wise. There are no cuts slashing his smooth skin, and no bruises that paint it painfully violet. No sight of blood, chipped teeth or broken bones either. Actually, the only two things that seem to be in a state of disarray are his clothes and hair. 

He’s missing his signature haori and the top three buttons of the black uniform jacket that he wears underneath are undone, revealing his neck and the edges of his collarbones. As for his hair, you’d best describe it as mussed. Like he’d felt the constant need to run his hands through it multiple times, pushing it away from his face over and over again through the course of the day.

For someone who normally looks well put together, these small but otherwise specific changes in his appearance almost strike you as somewhat indecent. Perhaps it might be a bit of an overreaction from your side, however the entire time you’ve known Kyojuro, you’ve never seen him act sloppy or salacious when it comes to his image.

It causes your stomach to sink.

Surely he wouldn’t…?

No. He most certainly would not. A good husband like Kyojuro would surely never stray towards a ghastly thing such as infidelity, right? He’s one of the most loyal and honest people you’ve ever met. You just can’t even begin to imagine him lying and deceiving you about anything of this sort.

Nevertheless, your voice still proceeds to wobble slightly as you pick up the comb again, worrying thoughts rushing through your mind a mile a minute. “How did your training with Miss Kanroji go?”

“Mm, I’m not quite sure to be honest. It was a bit odd,” Kyojuro mutters as he steps into the room. 

You don’t fail to notice how different he sounds. The tone of his voice is uncharacteristically quiet, almost subdued. It only proceeds to worsen the feeling of dread that’s forming in the pit of your stomach now.

“Odd?” you repeat, carefully following his movements in the mirror. He’s aimed straight towards you. “How so?”

“Well, I gained the upper hand on her while sparring and she panicked and threw some kind of powder that Miss Shinobu is helping her perfect right at my face,” he explains, scratching his cheek. “It’s supposedly perfect for her technique. Small doses can stun and disorient enemies, but apparently she threw so much of it at me that she immediately had to send me home.”

You turn your head to the side in one quick movement, concern for your husband causing your eyes to open wide and diminish your earlier worries. It flusters you so much that you abandon all sense of formality, “Shouldn’t you go see Kocho if that's the case, then? If she’s the one who helped develop this powder, surely she can help!”

His mouth curls into a lazy grin when your gazes connect, a mere shadow of the beaming smile he otherwise tends to give you. He’s positioned himself right behind you now, standing so close that you can feel the heat that his body emanates brushing over your back in steady waves. The thin silken robe you’ve donned can barely be considered a barrier, but despite his warmth, you want to shiver instead.

“I thought the same thing, however Mitsuri had made it abundantly clear that I’d find everything I’d need to get better at home. Multiple times actually,” he says thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, she seemed to be in quite a rush to send me back to you.”

“To me? Really?” you mumble, facing the mirror again. Since he’s standing so close to you now, you can’t see his face in the reflection anymore, but for once that just might be a good thing. The wild infatuation you have with him has turned you incapable of having your thoughts in order if you’re stuck looking at his eyes for too long.

“Oh, yes,” he says, nodding even if you can’t see it. “She kept apologizing profusely, rambling that you’ll help me take care of it. I’m still unsure what she meant by ‘it’ exactly, but either way, I have strong faith that you’ll manage just fine.”

Months ago, the fact that he’s willingly allowing himself to be vulnerable with you, letting you nurse him back to health without any sort of fuss that he can do it himself, would make you soar. Now, however, all you feel is the heavy weight of pressure settling down on your shoulders and chest.

With feelings involved, you’ve begun to greatly fear failure. After all, if you fail, you can’t impress him. And if you can’t impress your husband, then you can’t make him fall in love with you. And if you can’t make him fall in love with you, then–

“Darling,” he drawls all of a sudden, sounding even less like himself now. Less clear. “Do you mind if I comb your hair for you? I’ve always wanted to give it a try.”

“Hm?” You blink, momentarily confused from the way he’s disrupted your train of thought with such an unexpected request. “Oh, I, umm… Well, if you’re feeling well enough, then yes, of course you can. Go ahead.”

You haven’t even noticed how tightly you’ve been gripping the comb until you release your hold on it in order to hand it to him. Your fingers brush against each other with the action, the heat of his skin pouring into yours, making you sit up straighter.

You’re still not used to it. How can you be, when there’s rarely any contact?

“Not to worry, I’ll be gentle,” he says, chuckling quietly as he trails his gaze up and down your stiff posture. The smile is apparent in his voice.

“I know. I’m not worried,” you utter, sheepishly avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. Since your hands are empty now, you clasp them together, settling them on your lap while you wait.

Meanwhile, Kyojuro proceeds to begin combing your hair for you. He’s gentle exactly like he promised you he’d be, taking his time with every knot and tangle that had formed during the day. Silence stretches as he works, but you have trouble noticing it because of how loudly your pulse insists on pounding inside your ears, ringing through your entire head.

He’s touching you. Great heavens above, he’s touching you, and it’s outright nerve-racking. His touch is as light as a feather, but you can still feel him dragging his fingers along the length of your hair. It’s sending tingly sensations all over your scalp, all the way down to your spine.

When he reaches underneath your hair to comb it from the bottom up, his fingers briefly brush the side of your neck. It’s only the merest hint of intimacy, a mere sliver of it, but you can’t help but shiver this time, thighs squeezing together.

He pauses and you stare in the mirror with eyes once again open wide like a fawn’s, only this time it’s yourself that you’re worried about, not him. You can see the reflection of his chest and his shoulders. Both seem to heave with the deep breath he takes now. 

A couple of seconds pass before he sinks the comb into your hair again. Still gentle. “Did you bathe?”

The random question takes you aback a bit. Puzzlement laces your tone because of it as you say, “Yes, I did... A little before you returned home.”

“I see,” he murmurs. His chest expands as he inhales another deep breath. “You smell nice.”

“Ah,” you say, looking down at your lap again. Heat creeps up your face at the compliment, slight relief washing over you. “Thank you.”

“You know,” he says eventually, slowly pushing your hair to one side, making use of having you distracted, “I may not have a sense of smell as keen as the one young Kamado possesses, but I’ve learned that your lovely scent grows stronger if you wear your hair on one side like this.” 

“Really?” Your hands itch with the need to cover your burning face. He’s practically showering you with praise and you haven’t got a single clue on how to respond.

“Really.” He carefully fixes a strand of hair behind the shell of your ear. “It grows so strong, actually, that I just want to… Hm. Want to…”

“Kyojuro!” His name leaves your lips in a shrill squeal when he suddenly leans in and presses his nose into the crook of your neck that he’s exposed. Caught by surprise, you push up from the chair in one hasty movement, spinning to face him.

The sight before you makes your skin pull taut. Your husband stares at you with hooded eyelids and pupils so big and dilated that they’ve nearly swallowed the entirety of his irises. They grow even larger when they fixate on you.

His smile grows, revealing teeth. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

“A little bit,” you admit, soothing yourself.

He’s sweating profusely. You don’t fail to take notice of the obvious sheen of liquid salt that sits on his forehead now, as well as the feverish blush that has overtaken his entire face, neck, and even the tips of his ears.

You frown, taking a step towards him as worry takes over the initial shock for a second time, but he’s quick to raise his hand to stop you. 

“No, it’s better if you stay back for now. I need to think,” he says, voice suddenly profoundly hoarse. Unlike before, his breaths have turned shallow and concerningly fast-paced now, the furrow of his brow prominent. He pants as he bends over, slamming the flat of his palms onto the nearby dresser. “Just-... Let me figure out a way to solve this.”

“Solve what, Kyojuro? What’s gotten into you? Should we go see Kocho?” You say his name again, but this time it comes out as little less than a cry. When you take another step towards him despite him telling you not to, you see how the muscles in his back strain with effort.

You hesitate, weighing your options, but the urge to help your husband is so strong that it prevails in the end. Much to your dismay, however, even with your new goal set in place, you only manage one more step forward before you suddenly find yourself wrapped in a blazing hot embrace, with your back pressing against the dresser – the same dresser he had just been leaning on merely a second ago.

Your body tenses up, clearly startled. This is what it means to experience the strength and speed of a Hashira. The movement, so inhumanly quick that you couldn’t possibly follow it with untrained eyes, had practically swept you off your feet. Your heart pounds inside your chest. Inside your throat, even.

The reason? Instead of slaying you, he’s got his hand on the small of your back, pushing in and arching you in such a way that your bottom halves are basically pressed flush against one another. The other grips the edge of the dresser so harshly that you can hear the wood creaking in protest.

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, only a mere hitch of a breath. The prominent outline in his pants that’s now firmly pressing against your thigh has rendered you speechless. 

He’s aroused. You can tell that even with his clothes getting in the way. So aroused, in fact, that it must be hurting him. And sure enough, when you lift your head to look up at him, the expression on his face can only be described as pained.

His fingers twitch when you make eye contact, slipping lower, down your back. He grabs a fistful of your robe, pulling and straining it tight over your front. Since you’re not wearing anything underneath, your nipples pebble against the silk in response to the rubbing of the fabric.

He involuntarily groans deep from the back of his throat as his pupils dilate even further at the sight; a sound you’ve never heard him make before but have fantasized about hearing on some lonely nights nonetheless. The wood of the dresser that’s behind you struggles to not turn into splinters now. Meanwhile, you struggle to keep yourself from not falling apart just the same.

“Aphrodisiac… A strong one. Need to… let you go,” he croaks out between heavy breaths, jaw flexing as he grits his teeth together. He’s completely stiff and continues to sweat, so much so that there's a droplet cascading down his right temple, gliding along the curve of his handsome face.

You see the effort he’s putting in to keep himself from what you suspect is ravaging you, even if every last cell in his body seems to be screaming at him to do the exact opposite. This thing that he’s experiencing right now – the aftermath of Mitsuri’s new weapon, the aphrodisiac – is cranking up his lust levels to a thousand. It’s no wonder that the Love Hashira had rushed to get him home to his wife as soon as possible the second she’d realised the amount she threw at him.

And who else can he turn to but his wife with this sort of issue?

“You can let me go only if you truly want to, dear. It’s fine, I’m fine,” you find yourself saying, hands trembling as you place them onto his chest. His heartbeat is so fast that you’re worried for his wellbeing. The rush of blood that his heart must be pumping throughout his entire body must be unbearable.

He draws in another breath at the soft coo that’s appeared in your voice, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against your cheek. His exhales fan your skin, creating moisture, sticking you further together. He’s so warm to the touch that you’re beginning to sweat as well.

“Kyojuro.” You reach up to run your fingers through his hair, making him shudder. It’s damp to the touch. “Do you want to let me go? I trust you to be honest with me.”

He stands still for a long moment, just inhaling your scent and keeping you close until he finally makes his decision and slowly shakes his head, rubbing his forehead against your cheek like an affectionate cat would. “No.”

“What do you want, then?” you ask quietly.

“I can’t say,” he whispers. “The things that are running through my head right now… They’re vile. Filthy.”

“I see. Will you let me help? Please,” you utter softly, cautiously reaching down to wrap your fingers around his belt. You tug at the buckle, pulling him forward. He follows obediently, causing your heart to flutter. “Let’s try and find you some release, all right? I’m worried about you.”

“All right,” he says, giving in and hissing lowly through gritted teeth when your fingers delicately trace the protruding bulge in his pants. He’s smart. Deep down, he knows this is the easiest way.

You move your hand away in an instant, but his hips buck forward on their own, pushing further into the already narrow space between you, searching for more friction from your palm. He whines at the foreign way his body reacts now, eyebrows drawing tightly together in embarrassment.

When you look up at him, his face has somehow managed to sear into an even deeper shade of red than before. All he can manage to say to you is a weak, “I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense. I should be the one apologizing,” you say, reaching to untie your robe. You’d ask him to do it, but something tells you that he’d tear it right off of you at this very moment, surely ruining the delicate garment. “You’re in no state to be teased so cruelly right now. It was very foolish of me.”

He parts his lips to say something, but the words fade into nothing from how fast saliva begins to gather inside his mouth as soon as your robe comes undone and reveals the nakedness underneath.

Kyojuro can’t resist ogling openly – it’s his first time seeing a woman completely naked, after all. The curve of your hips, the weight of your breasts, the smooth skin of your stomach, the gentle hairs that gather between your legs... All of it is far too much for him. It’s forcing him to swallow so thickly that it makes his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and yet the drool just keeps on coming.

He hunches his back as he gets ready to pick you up and slam you on top of the dresser to do god knows what, but he stops himself at the very last second. You watch, lips parted, as his hands tremble around you like you’re wrapped in some kind of invisible shield, muscles painfully spasming with the effort. A second groan escapes him, this one brimming with frustration, allowing saliva to dribble down the corner of his mouth.

He’s not an animal, for crying out loud. He’s a man, a husband – a respectable one at that.

So act like one! 

Clinging to his last shred of sanity, he quickly wipes the drool away with the back of his hand, not caring that it’ll surely get into the sleeve of his uniform that way. Even if he usually wears them with pride, he currently holds so much resentment towards the clothes he’s got on his back that it’s making him see red. They’re incredibly stuffy, so he can barely breathe in them, plus they’re also causing him to overheat when he’s already way past burning.

There’s also a third problem with the clothes, however.

They’re keeping him away from you.

Lacking the patience to undo the rest of the buttons on his jacket, he simply rips them apart even as you frantically reach out to stop him from doing so. The crispy white shirt underneath meets a similar fate, causing even smaller buttons to fly everywhere. Something tells you that you’ll both be stumbling upon them for the next year or so. 

Shrugging the now-ruined garments off of his shoulders, Kyojuro at long last exhales a somewhat relieved breath.

This time it’s your turn to unashamedly leer at him. You drag your eyes across the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, across the healed, milky-white scars that cover his body from previous battles. The muscles on his arms, the subtle veins running along his biceps and forearms. His stomach is toned, equipped with a golden trail of hair that disappears below his belt, and his skin is tinted slightly pink at the moment, sweat making it appear dewy there as well. 

He’s beautiful. 

And he’s clearly having a rough time, so you’re quick to take his hand.

“Wait. Before I-” He hesitates, searching for the proper word. “Before I bed you, I just wanted to say that I’ve never done this with anyone before. I’m worried I may not know how to, uh… sate you properly because of it.”

You look up into the flames that dance behind his eyes for a long moment. Even whilst barely keeping it together, he’s still worried about you and your pleasure. It makes you so happy that you can’t help but chuckle.

“Always so formal,” you say, still smiling. “But in all seriousness, I appreciate you telling me and thinking about what I want. Don’t worry, I will do my very best to take good care of you and show you the ropes. We’ll learn the rest as we go. But first things first, let’s try and bring down your temperature back to something a little more… Well, passable.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything as he lets you take his hand again and lead him towards the bed. You turn him so that the back of his knees hit the edge and apply pressure to his shoulders to urge him to sit down. Before you know it, you’re climbing onto his lap, straddling him in such a way that already has him breathing hard through his nose.

You wrap your arms around his neck as you place a kiss onto his forehead, tasting the salt there. Then onto the bridge of his nose. As well as his left cheek and the corner of his mouth. His lips part immediately at that, hands desperately bunching up the covers underneath.

You press your forehead against his. Angle your head slightly to one side so that your noses don’t bump. “Close your eyes.”

As he has done so many times in the past, Kyojuro once again does what he’s told, though this time he does it completely willingly. And almost immediately after he does, he feels it.

The softness of your lips lightly pressing against his own. 

The kiss itself is gentle. Loving. A proper form of affection exchanged between a husband and wife. You guide him, mainly paying attention to his bottom lip, making sure to go slow enough to help him adjust despite the fact that you can tell he wants to go faster. Every so often, you poke the merest hint of your tongue out, testing if he’ll open up to you. He does, of course.

So you venture deeper into his hot mouth. You glide your tongue across his teeth, tangle your fingers into the thick, beautiful mane that is his hair, and you tug at the roots until he’s mindlessly pushing his hips up in response, trying to shove himself into you despite his pants getting in the way. 

You’re well aware that he’s in a hurry, but you can’t help but drag the entire thing out just a little bit. Who knows, this may as well be your only chance to have him like this. So you might as well use it.

“Hold me by my hips, dear,” you mumble, eyeing the thin string of saliva that tears when you dip lower to kiss his neck instead. 

You focus on his Adam’s apple, sucking lightly and surely drawing blood close underneath the skin as you feel his large hands wrap around your hips. Your actions will prove apparent by the time morning comes, but you have a faint inkling that he won’t truly mind. The collar of what is left of his uniform jacket is high anyways.

He sure doesn’t seem to have a problem with it now, as he’s moving you back and forth on his lap, using you to try and get himself off on pure instinct. But even if you’re completely on the same page, the grip he has on you has gotten so tenacious that you have no other choice but to grind against the hard length of him.

“Mind your strength, I’m no Hashira,” you say between deep breaths. His blatant need for you is working you up fast, wetness gathering between your legs, and you don’t need to look down to know that you’ve ruined his pants.

He eases his grip and moans into your mouth when you kiss him again, this time a bit more sloppily than last time. Your bodies work together without you having to plan it, twisting and writhing in unison, maximizing the pleasure you’re both experiencing. 

The hair that frames his face is so damp that it clings to his skin. You push it back and whimper when he presses you down harder, causing the zipper to bump against your most sensitive part.

Hearing it brings his blood to a simmer. He’s so out of it by now that he nearly babbles when he speaks, “You know, I can’t count how many times I’ve thought about making you sound like this over these last couple of months. And now that I’m actually hearing it… Ha-ah… It’s so much better than any of the things I imagined in my head.”

“Oh?” Your heart flutters in your chest once more at his forwardness, goosebumps forming over your skin from the thrill. So it wasn’t all in your head; he’s wanted you, too. “But I thought you said you wanted to keep this union purely platonic.”

“What I want… What I wanted for a long time now,” he says, dragging his fingers up and down your spine and looking you directly in the eyes, truly meaning it, “is to be both inside you and inside your heart. If you’ll have me.”

“Of course I’ll have you,” you whisper, unable to fight back the smile that’s forcing itself onto your lips. “I mean, you’re my husband, for crying out loud! There’s no need to be so poetic about it!”

The rest of his clothes are tossed aside soon after, and you waste no time straddling him again, now that you’re finally skin to skin. Sitting on top of him, you use both hands to stroke the whole length of him, squeezing it with your fists gently after you spit on it so as to not overstimulate him too fast.

Even his cock is beautiful just like the rest of him is. Big and curved slightly to the right, with a tip that flushes a deep pink when the velvety foreskin that surrounds it is pulled back and played with. You’re wet enough to take him, but after coming face to face with his size, something tells you that you’ll need all the extra help you can get.

Meanwhile, Kyojuro watches you through such heavy eyelids that you can’t possibly notice the hearts that have formed in his eyes. He’s still panting, biting his tongue to stop himself from pleading and moaning, but the way he clenches his thighs underneath you, unable to stop the pearl of pre-cum from forming at the slit, tells on his desires in an instant.

“We’ll go easy at first,” you utter, unsure if you’re trying to comfort yourself or him.

“Yes, easy,” he repeats, voice rough. He’d never rush you, but it’s evident that he’ll start bursting at the seams if you don’t sit on it soon.

“All right,” you say, drumming your fingers and lifting your hips just enough to align yourself with him, heart beating so fast that it’s making you a bit lightheaded.

His upper lip trembles as his cockhead grazes and catches against your entrance with the movement. He clings onto you, stiff and as expectant as he is desperate, chanting the word please, please, please over and over again inside his head like it’s a broken record.

Luckily for him, his prayers are answered. Slowly, you begin to lower yourself onto him. Even with his size, it’s pretty easy because of how you help guide him inside. You both let out sighs of relief and pleasure when your pussy hugs the tip of him, and moan by the time it begins to take more; squeezing and accepting the rest of him until he finally sinks into you down to the hilt.

At long last, he’s in, nestled in nice and deep. Throbbing and hot, stretching your walls. Pressed firmly against that soft, tender spot inside you that makes you want to wiggle your hips on top of him because it’s far too much to handle otherwise. The pressure the fullness provides awakens the butterflies inside your stomach and draws them into a frenzy.

“Gods, Kyojuro, my love,” you breathe out, letting your robe slide down to your elbows. It only exposes you further, but you don’t mind. You’re comfortable with him. “I can barely fit you inside me.”

“Hah. Makes you an admirable wife,” he says, chuckling even if his pupils are still blown way out of proportion, signalling that he’s still going through it. “I’m–I’m very grateful for it.”

You giggle at his odd choice of praise, pressing the flat of your palms on his stomach so that you can begin to move. However, the second you do, he’s back to holding you by your hips, trying to keep you in place.

Your gazes connect and he blushes even harder, features contorting. “W-wait, don’t-”

“It’s okay,” you say, continuing nonetheless. He’s gotten so warm inside you that you’re positive he’s on the brink of climaxing. “There’s nothing wrong if you come fast. It’s your first time.”

Kyojuro sucks in a sharp breath, fighting tooth and nail to focus. He’s already sensitive enough as it is, but the aphrodisiac he’s inhaled is only making it ten times worse. The sensations you’re making him feel at this point are causing his brain to short-circuit. Unlike during battle, his thoughts have turned into a pathetic jumble.

He wants to please you, that much he’s sure about, however he’s so out of it that he doesn’t even know where to start. So he lets you take charge, grunting out his approval, listening to the wet, sloppy sounds as you ride him, and by the time you slam your hips down for the fifth time, he closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, and spills everything he’s got, unable to stave off the pleasure any longer.

Your movements stutter when you feel his release begin to fill you steadily, overly warm and most definitely plentiful. You pause midway, causing it to trickle down your thighs, allowing a sticky mess to start forming between you.

“Oh, dear,” you whisper, covering your mouth to suppress a quiet laugh. It’s good-natured and you’re sure he knows it. “We’ll make children like this if you aren’t more careful, you know.”

“Crap,” he mutters, sighing. You can feel him twitch inside you at the idea. When he opens his eyes to look at you again, they’re more mellow than they were before, however they’re still brimming with burning want. “Don’t tempt me.” 

Your eyebrow arches in amusement. You’ve never heard him swear before. Not even when he’d been so tired that he wasn’t watching where he was going and had stubbed his toe once. You’re unsure if you approve of it, but perhaps you’ll let it slide in this particular setting.

But onto more important matters: after taking a moment to breathe, you quickly realise that he’s still completely hard even after coming as strongly as he did. Your best guess is that it’s either because of his unfathomable stamina, or Mitsuri’s little present. Perhaps a mixture of both.

So that must mean that this entire thing is far from over. Tracing your fingers over his happy trail, you lift your hips a little and slide them back down just as gingerly. The seed that he’s spilled inside you just now lubes the movement as you test out the playing field. Somehow, it feels even better than it did before.

His eyelashes flutter as he blinks, zeroing in on the creamy circle that’s gathered at his base now. Once again, a wave of heat flashes over his body, hitting him like the train he’d just barely made it alive from all those years ago. 

“You all right?” you ask, a little breathless now. Your hand reaches between you on instinct, a little moan slipping out the moment it strikes contact exactly where you aimed it.

Kyojuro just nods his head and continues to watch you, studying you carefully and paying attention to the way you rub your fingers and play with yourself. He’s more present in his head now that he’s climaxed, the fog lifting just a bit. It lets him notice that the movement of your hand seems to come naturally to you. 

Is this what you do when he's gone for weeks at a time? Possibly thinking about him and touching yourself between your legs? Arching your back while imagining his hot, calloused hands are pushing you right back down, coaxing you to take more?

The idea excites him, and that excitement urges him to contribute to the pleasure of his spouse. And while he may not be experienced in giving it just yet, he picks up on things impressively fast. Body language, eye contact, he’s able to read what you want. So you’re not even all that surprised when he starts to bend his legs at the knees and then thrusts upward, making you gasp when he suddenly burrows himself even deeper inside of you with the action. 

His cum spurts and dribbles out even more by the time he draws back, but he’s rather quick to push it back in, unable to get enough of how tightly you wrap around him whenever he accidentally hits the spot. So he continues the rhythm, slowly but surely making you start to bounce on his cock; all while trying to rub the same messy little circles over your clit that he’s seen you do. 

He’s able to keep up with you this time.

And he sure as hell keeps up. The heat that he’s unknowingly pouring into the sensitive bundle of nerves is making you tremble. He gently pinches it the exact same way he’s watched you do it, immediately soothing it afterwards with his thumb and by rubbing his other hand up and down your side, sending little jolts of pleasure throughout your entire body.

His gaze is soft. Perhaps even a little expectant. He takes pride in making you feel good. “Like this? Is this how you want it?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” you utter, whimpering. When he smiles, it reminds you of the sun. “You’re perfect.”

Moments flit by, breaths intermingling. You’re unsure how much time has passed, but eventually you begin to squeeze your thighs around him, toes curling, orgasm approaching dangerously close. “D-Don’t stop, okay? I’m close, so don’t change a thing or else it’ll fade away.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says. You throw your head back at this and he feels his heart dance because of it.

With his help, you let yourself go. Fully. Without shame and with zero remorse. And when you finally come for the first time from a man’s touch, no, your husband’s touch, it is so tender and passionate and powerful, that you can’t help but moan his name out in pure bliss and squeeze him so hard that you make him fill you up for a second time, helping him ease his desire even further.

In the end, you spend a small eternity wrapped in each other’s arms. Basking in the afterglow, stealing an occasional kiss, telling each other silly, unimportant things that you’ll think of fondly for years to come.

Only this time, however, your wonderful husband makes sure to touch you everywhere.

[citricacidprince]

Could you draw that "I trust you" scene with Mabel and Stan but with the relativity AU? (The stan twins and pine twins swap ages au)

OF COURSE, I WILL GLADLY DRAW THEM!!! ����💥💥

I’m gonna post a long winded thesis about my thoughts on this AU, my take on the AU, and two additional arts under the cut because ooooh boy it’s a tad bit long lol. Also, please please forgive the formatting, I’m writing this all on the fly and it’s extremely disjointed, sorry- 💥

I know there’s the ‘canon’ Relativity AU designs and character dynamics, however I don’t really like them that much ngl. I feel like it mostly just ends up with ‘Mabel and Dipper get switched with Stan and Ford with no nuances once so ever’ and that BLOWS!!! There’s so much potential there and no one is playing with it!! YOU GUYS DON’T EVEN HAVE MABEL PRETENDING TO BE DIPPER, WHATS THE POINT????

Not only that but I feel like making Dipper and Mabel’s dynamic just Ford and Stan’s when they’re adults is a HUGE simplification of their characters. Like, Mabel and Dipper fight, but they don’t fight like Stan and Ford, they’re not as hard headed and stubborn. Mabel would commit some crimes yes, but I don’t believe she would get into some of the heavy shit Stan had in his past. I refuse to believe Mr. Dipper ‘Undiagnosed Anxiety Disorder’ Pines would fall for Bill’s flattery as easily as Ford did.

The Pines Twins are very different from the Mystery Twins. Mabel and Dipper didn’t grow up with a father constantly comparing the two and pinning them against each other, outright telling one kid they’ll always be a failure while the other is going to have the burden of making their family rich. They never had that tension. They wouldn’t be walking on eggshells around eachother as adults.

I know that makes the concept sound boring to some, ‘Where’s the fun in the AU if you take away the sibling fighting’. You cowards, you can still have it, young Stan and Ford are RIGHT THERE. During the second half of the show when Dipper comes back through the portal, instead of having the older set of twins, something that doesn’t make sense with their characters, have a building tension that’s going to explode soon and keep it between Stan and Ford, don’t take it away from them. If anything, I think taking away the resentment and anger growing between the two and giving it to Mabel and Dipped is a butchering of all the characters.

Sure that means some of the episodes would have to change or be completely erased, but that’s fine!!! Make up some new ones!!! Get silly with it!!!

Mabel and Dipper talk about feelings, Stan and Ford don’t. Mabel and Dipper can’t stay mad at each other, Stan and Ford will try and stay mad for decades because being angry is easier than being upset.

In my idea of this AU that fight at the end of Weirdmageddon HAS to be between Stan and Ford, and Stan HAS to still be the one getting his memories erased.

💥 Post Not-What-He-Seems Relativity AU Rambling Below 💥

Dipper is a paranoid man, fool him once you’re never going to fool him again. He would never in a million years ever work with Bill again. Ford however is an extremely lonely child, both he and his brother are desperate for any type of positive attention. I think Bill would see him as a potential protege, especially since Ford is a ‘freak’ like he is and the kid is extremely smart for his age. He’s malleable, Bill probably thinks he could shape him uo to be the perfect lackey.

Ford, being the lonely kid he is, probably does fall for the praise initially. He craves attention and Bill pushes all the right buttons and says all the right words, tries and gains his trust even if time has proven again and again that he shouldn’t be trusting the demon.

The tension between the Stan Twins would grow after Grunkle Dipper comes back because Ford is upset that Stan didn’t listen to him (even if it was for the best that he did) and that Grunkle Dipper forgave Graunty Mabel so easily because if Ford was in those shoes he wouldn’t have. It grows more and more as Ford becomes distant and Stan tries to connect with his brother to no avail. Which, of course, comes to a boiling point when Ford says he’s going to stay in Gravity Falls and learn under Grunkle Dipper. Stan is rightfully upset. He can’t go back to New Jersey by himself. It’s always just been the two of them, he needed Ford, he couldn’t handle school or their father by himself. He can’t be alone.

Unlike Mabel who just wanted one more day of summer, Stan wishes that he wouldn’t be alone, which indirectly causes Weirdmaggendon.

Stan’s prison bubble would probably be a fake New Jersey-esc town full of a bunch of little Stans running around. Town O’ Stan. A place where no Stan is left behind.

The two don’t even get to have a heart to heart in the prison bubble. Stan was kinda forcibly taken out of the bubble and the tensions between the boys are higher than they’ve ever been.

During the Cipher Wheel fight Stan punches Ford and immediately feels bad when he sees he knocked out his brother’s tooth. He tries to apologize but Ford tackles him before he can, leading to the boys tussling on the floor. The two fight, whining out hurtful words neither of them mean and only stop when Bill shows up and captures them. Graunty Mabel and Grunkle Dipper run off and distract Cipher in hopes that they can keep the attention on themselves long enough that their great nephews could come up with a plan to escape.

The younger twins don’t find a way out and instead, finally, have an actual talk about their feelings, one that definitely ends up in tears as the two talk about the pressure that’s put on them or how worthless they feel. After that the boys get a rush of determination to escape when Stanley has a plan. Ford immediately hates the plan but Stan insists that they do it, in his own words, ‘Let me prove I can do something right for once.’

When Bill comes back and threatens to kill either Mabel or Dipper just for the hell of it, Ford calls out that he’d like to make a deal.

He wants to work with Bill, let Bill into his mind willingly. Bill immediately jumps on that offer. Ford is a promising young kid, perfect henchmaniac potential, not to mention it would absolutely devastate Dipper is his great nephew willingly turned to Bill’s side.

He goes into Ford’s head, revealing Stanley just in time to reveal that he was trapped, panicking as he was erased with a swift left-hook along with a kid who was happy to prove he was good for something after all.

Everyone was devastated after Weirdmaggedon of course, a child had his mind completely wiped. Stanford took it the worst, he just managed to finally break down those words that others built in his head, that he was too good for Stanley or that he didn’t need a knucklehead like him dumbing down his brain, and now his brother was gone. Just like that.

We all know what happens after this, Stan gets his memory back, everyone celebrates and the Stan twins are sent home, promising each other that they’ll never let anyone try and tear them apart ever again. Dipper and Mabel stay at the shack, after all, all they could ever want is there, where else could they possibly go?

Sorry this was… extremely rambly and long, I am extremely tired and can’t think straight I have a bunch more ideas and concepts so if anyone’s desperately wants to hear them just ask I guess, sorry you read this dumb of ass essay haha 💥

[rene-darling]

WHEN- you store things inside your boobies

...very obviously fem reader lmao, you store things in the middle of your chest...

...lyney...xiao...itto...wanderer...

Lyney

You're showing lyney a card trick that learned.

But no matter how much he tries to figure out where you hid the card he just can't get it.

He never usually does this but he's just too curious!!

So he's been asking- no, begging for you to tell him how you did it and where you hid the card!

After much pleading and you repeating "a magician never reveals her secrets" you finally spill.

You tell him to watch carefully and he nods.

His eyes widen and his mouth drops open as he burns red.

You reach down your shirt and pull out a card from in between your boobes

"I- you uh..ah.." he's stuttering, not sure what would be an appropriate response to this.

You just laugh "see, this is why I said you can't do this trick, your tits are too small darlin"

"h-hey- making you blush is my job! Not the other way around!"

he's used to making snarky remarks or dirty jokes he can't believe he fell for this!

Xiao

Xiao recently gifted you some adeptus beads

They were meant to ward away evil spirits and demons and keep you safe when he's not around

However, he's noticed that he can't seem to find you wearing them around your neck, so he decided to ask you about it

"y/n where are you keeping the beads I gave you? I didn't give them to you just for you to leave them somewhere to collect dust."

He huffed offended you wouldn't keep the charm on you.

You already insisted on not calling his name when in trouble so you should at least keep the beads on you!

You just looked at him amused telling him you had them on you but he insisted you showed them to him, so you did.

Pulling down the neckline of your shirt you reached your hand in to grab said beaded necklace.

His mouth dropped once you showed it to him and his face bloomed "i- y-you..you have no respect for the adepti!" he vanished after yelling that likely to hide his blushing face, and his boner

Itto

Recently you've hid one of ittos little purple bugs right before his little match with some kid

He's frantically searching for said bug, insisting that he has to take that one or he won't win! Not that he will either way

"y/nnnnn! Are you sure you haven't seen my little bugger! I really need it!" he's whining like a little baby!

Feeling bad for him you finally relent telling him you might have an idea of where his beetle could be

"REALLYYYY!!! You're the best babe-" you tell him to watch carefully as you pull your shirt down and from in-between your valleys crawled out the purple beetle you had hidden

His mouth dropped his eyes looked like they would pop out of their sockets (imagine gojo when he looked at megumi)

"not fair y/n! Why does the beetle get to stay there and not me!" he's thinking about it being unfair,

Then the next second he wants to see if the beetle would fit in between his tits,

Of course, they do. I mean have you seen his tits? He's very proud of that fact

Wanderer

Nahida recently sent the both of you on an expedition together

He acts like he's not happy but deep down he's happy to be traveling alone with his beloved

Recently you both stopped at a shop to buy something but he had forgotten his mora back at camp.

He looked towards you waiting for you to pay, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at you when you looked at him amused and asked "you sure"

"just pay." well, he insisted, so why would you deny?

As soon as you reached down your shirt his mind short-circuited

You pulled out a mora pouch and handed some mora to the shop keeper like it was nothing and then again stuffed the pouch down your tits.

Grabbing the things you started walking away as wanderer stood there just blushing violently

Looking back you yelled "are you coming or not darling?" he snapped out of it following after you

"did you really have to do that in fucking public?" he huffed in embarrassment, walking back home with a boner is annoying

[nanamiskentos]

MISS POSSESSIVE ⋆˚꩜｡ 五条悟, 鹿紫雲 (GOJO & KASHIMO)

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo’s been acting weird ever since he got unsealed: distant, smug, and just a little too rude about the fact you’ve been spending all your time with Hajime Kashimo. So when he catches you training together and things start heating up…well, you’re about to find out that territorial jujutsu sorcerers make very mean lovers.

FEATURING. Gojo Satoru x Reader x Hajime Kashimo

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, 3sûm, eiffél tower, orál (m), orál (f), dp, jealousy, semi-public séx, bulgés, gettin' pûssydrunk, implied yaoi for those who have the eyes to see, MDNI, post Culling Games, PETTY GOJO, mánhandling, inappropriate uses of jujutsu, possessive séx

WC 𐙚 8.1k

NOTE 𐙚 she's back and she's predictable... (req from @wetwhisper)

The air in the training room is far too thick and syrupy for your tired lungs. The temperature is warm, rising from shared body heat and gulping breaths. It's the kind of atmosphere that sticks to your skin, and makes your hairline damp, your limbs humming from overuse.

You're crouched low on the soft black mats, your strained thighs aching in the soft, linen pants you traded your navy staff robes for. One palm flattened against the ground as you attempt to dodge Kashimo's next hit.

The God of Lightning is as fast as his epithet, enjoying himself far too much, but you've come to learn that Hajime Kashimo is just naturally like that.

Nothing makes that man happier than bruised knuckles, and the sweet ring of victory bells.

"How can it be that you are this tired already?" Kashimo's panting and lurching forward, teal hair plastered to his brow. His sharp, jewel-toned cyan eyes are the exact same shade, and the effect is beautiful in the most disconcerting way.

"You wish." You lunge, twisting in a way that strains a solid third of your body, but Kashimo catches your wrist mid-strike, flipping you with a thud against the cushioned mat. His warm grip is firm, but never bruising.

Always precise, and always hungry.

The sorcerer lands above you, sun-kissed chest heaving, only wearing the ivory bandages wrapped around his torso, and dark martial pants slung low over his toned hips.

You forcefully tear your eyes away from the ripple of his carved abdomen as he cackles at the joy of his own victory. Again.

The next breath you draw is shallow, and you gnaw absently at the inside of your cheek as his knee presses between your thighs, "Dirty move."

"We must all play to win," Kashimo's cyan eyes are half-lidded, and you get the vague sensation that he's all the more pleased with your position pinned under him.

"You're ridiculous."

"Perhaps," Kashimo's pink lips quirk upwards, but he's tilting his head down to brush his mouth just barely against the curve of your jaw, "However, if my actions present an opportunity like this, I would be a fool not to indulge myself."

The training room's door might be closed, but this is still a public space, and you know that you should roll to your side, and shove him off.

But a lecherous demon inside you demands that you should tug your fingers through mussed teal strands, and pull him closer.

Surely, there's enough time for Kashimo to prove he can put his money where his mouth is.

Or rather, he can put his mouth right on your —

Bang!

Your body jerks upright instinctively as the heavy door slams open.

Gojo Satoru. Lacking a shirt, glistening and very much uninvited.

His snowy white hair is messier than usual, as though he's rolled out of bed and forgotten to fix it. But you wager he's been training nearby, judging by the white pants that hug his hips, low and lazy, covering a trail of thin, ivory hair that dusts his groin.

Ugh, the slope of his collarbone to the sharp ridges of his torso is frankly criminal. But his blindfold hangs loose around his neck, and his expression is...unreadable.

You'd wager a month locked inside the bounds of the Prison Realm wasn't exactly a picnic for Gojo, but still, does that really justify him treating you like week-old leftovers ever since he was unsealed?

Your best friend of years, now looking at you as though you personally hand-delivered the keys to his misery.

"Oh. It's you," Gojo intones, blue-eyes rolling skywards at the sight of Kashimo, dulcet voice flat and disdainful, as though offering a greeting offends him.

You think Gojo regards Kashimo the same way that someone may regard a raccoon digging through their trash, vaguely horrified and mostly inconvenienced.

Not that Kashimo notices, or cares. If anything, he always seems amused by Gojo's simmering, unadulterated loathing. Delighted, even.

Yeah, you've yet to figure out why Hajime Kashimo is the way that he is.

You remember a recent memory, perhaps a mere fortnight ago, when Kashimo insisted that the two of you train at the ungodly hour past midnight. So, you had untangled yourself out of soft sheets and trailed behind him down the dim hallway to the final training room.

But Kashimo had barely pushed the slow door open when a violent flash of red came screaming right past your shoulder. Hot, pressurised, and so close it nearly parted the roots of your hair from your scalp.

It had been a Reversal: Red. Casual as a breeze, as powerful as a packed weapon. Just coincidentally brushing past you, and aimed a little too close to Kashimo's face.

But he hadn't flinched, merely angled his staff with mechanical precision, deflecting the attack as though it was a light-hearted routine.

The blast of cursed energy had shattered against the far wall with a sizzle, leaving behind a smouldering scorch mark and the faint scent of fried ozone.

And Gojo? That smug bastard, that grown-ass man, had been inside, rolling his shoulders back as though he were plastered on a calendar shoot. Bare-chested, slow, gleaming with sweat. Thick arms stretched high as though he knew your eyes fell on him.

But when he dropped his hands, his blue eyes cut to you, sparkling with faux innocence, "My bad," your best friend had drawled, voice smooth and laced with the sugar that he was so fond of chewing, "Didn't see you there, man."

Kashimo had grunted at the time, entirely unmoved as he stepped past Gojo without so much an accusatory glance, "It happens."

Apparently, that pissed Gojo off more than a direct insult ever could.

You had watched it all unfold in real time, the petty twitch in Gojo's eyes, the way his jaw clenched as Kashimo breezed past, the medieval sorcerer already distracted and marvelling at the smoking crater in the wall like a museum exhibit.

And then, Gojo had turned that midnight-blue glare on you. As if you had personally redirected the blast. As if it was your fault that Kashimo hadn't been obliterated into magical dust. The sheer audacity.

And yet, you remember that exact moment your brain chose to focus on other matters. Like noticing the more...physical changes in your best friend.

It wasn't really a secret that Gojo had always been built like a demigod on vacation, but now? His time away had resulted in a thicker, sharper frame. All honed muscle and veined forearms, and a lean waist sculpted by aggressive training and solitude.

His training pants had been hanging low on his hips, loose and teasing, just barely clinging to the faint trail of white hair disappearing down his pelvis.

You had snapped your gaze to the far side of the room, pretending that you were admiring the chair where his dark top had been peeled off and discarded.

That petty, duplicitous bitch. He was definitely doing this on purpose.

But Kashimo had already moved on. Entirely unbothered and unperturbed by his near-death experience.

Not because he missed the way you practically gulped when Gojo stretched, but because he's too busy running curious, bandaged fingers alongside the crack in the wall, a neat floor-to-ceiling scar carved courtesy of Gojo's tantrums.

"An excellent technique, I have not seen a hit like that in centuries." Kashimo had whistled low, genuinely impressed. It had been enough for Gojo to throw the two of you a look of sheer disgust, his fingers snagging into his discarded shirt to yank it up, and stalk out of the room.

That brings you to the present. Gojo's still in the doorway, backlit by the warm training hall lights, white hair deliciously damp and tousled. His voice is flat and clipped, eyes like glass and tone like sandpaper as he nods, "Hey."

You blink, a scowl already defensively crossing your features. A pause stretches between the two of you, heavier and far more awkward than it's ever been, as you finally mutter, "...Hi?"

It comes out as more of a question than a greeting. Embarrassing.

Kashimo doesn't move from where he's perched above you, one leg stretched out lazily, and the other bent at the knee, still slotted between your thighs. He has yet to speak, doesn't need to, but a lean arm slips around your shoulders in that casual, infuriatingly confident way.

Not possessive, just visible. Just enough for Gojo to notice, with no Six Eyes necessary. Your best friend's lips are pressed into a thin line, as though he's grinding his teeth on gravel.

"Didn't know the room was booked," Gojo mutters, stepping inside anyway, and shutting the door behind him with an unnecessary click. His arms are crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms bunching, "My bad. Didn't mean to crash your little date night."

You return his unimpressed look, correcting him, "Training."

Gojo hums, the sound is dry and unimpressed, "Sure."

You sigh, gently pushing Kashimo's arm off, and sitting up on your knees. You're certain that sweat clings to your skin, your top is damp and clingy, and hair must be stuck to your cheek.

"What?" You say, flicking your gaze up at him, watching how the warm light reflects the smooth, peach-tone of his cheeks, "Miss me or something?"

It's a teasing comment, like it always has been, but there's a carefulness underneath that disguises hope. The hope for a smirk, the sing-song voice, the snarky comeback that you've been privy to for over a decade.

But Gojo doesn't smile at you, for his eyes are narrowed, and something devastatingly sharp flickers beneath his impossibly long lashes. Rather, he's scoffing, tipping his head, "You wish."

You tilt your chin to mirror him, "Do I?" You look Gojo over, slow and deliberate, from his sweat-damp hair down to the way his pants hang low enough to piss off any patron saints of modesty, "Because you came all this way to interrupt us. And you know these rooms have training schedules right. One even the first years can read. So..."

Your gaze lingers on the sculpted lines of his abdominals, "What? Fresh out of clean uniforms?"

Gojo's arms tense tighter across his broad chest, wide shoulders flaring, "Are you really grillin' me about laundry right now?"

"No," You glance at Kashimo, who doesn't even bother hiding the amused curl shaping his lips, "No. I'm not, I'm – whatever."

Your sentence breaks off, and you realise there's a hot flush of irritation licking at your chest. You just wish that Gojo would just spit out whatever evil demon is bothering him, or either fuck right off.

Kashimo snorts softly, the sound low in his throat, but he doesn't speak. His expression simmers, not mocking, just entertained. Maybe even fascinated.

Gojo says nothing, watching you. Staring, and you do your best not to shiver at the weight of those bright jewel-blue eyes. His step forward stills you, pulse quickening under your skin like the warning crackle before lightning hits.

But the real lightning beside you doesn't seem as concerned.

Kashimo tracks Gojo's approach with the cool interest of a haughty cat watching another enter its territory, not threatened in the least, but ready. He shifts slightly, elbow resting on his knee, and his toned frame draped in lazy tension.

"He's a good sparring partner for you now?" Gojo says, voice as low and smooth as a knife laid flat on the edge of a table, tipped to fall.

You shrug, deliberately loose and saccharine, "He's good, keeps me nimble."

Gojo's sky-blue eyes dip, skimming over your form as though he's committing you to memory. You can see his gaze linger on the strip of skin above your waistband, the sweat slicking your collarbones, "I thought sparring included more of a fight, and less...touching."

"Jealousy? Seriously, Satoru, that's what this is?"

Gojo scowls at you, sharp canines peeking out from glossy lips as he sneers, "Not of him." His reply is immediate, flat as paper and twice as sharp, "I just don't want you gettin' sloppy."

From behind you, Kashimo snickers, the kind that makes heat lick your spine, "She's not sloppy." Teal hair clouds the peripherals of your vision as his hair tickles your cheek, and his fingers drag lazily down your lower back, "She's quite lethal. And very flexible, trust me."

You should have whacked Kashimo upside the head.

Because, bless his heart, truly, but you didn't fancy Gojo deciding to rev up the old Hollow Purple again to try and smite the Edo-period sorcerer.

Gojo's resulting inhale is nearly silent, nearly. But you hear it, and his jaw tics, shoulders squared, and fingers twitching.

You're getting flashbacks to Geto Suguru's dramatic antics, back in your school days when the raven-haired sorcerer would get all huffy and puff up, like a chicken about to fly the coop. The thought of the similarity would have been funny, if it hadn't also been so depressing.

"Something on your mind, Satoru?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate, giving you that bored look. The one that precedes impulsive, poor decisions. The look that usually ends up with someone pinned to a wall, for better or worse.

"I'm just looking out for you," Gojo finally shrugs, as though he's attempting to shake the tension from his shoulders, "I heard all about his...exploits during the Culling Games. Kashimo's not exactly known for playing nice."

Kashimo hums, scraping his cyan hair up into his signature, loose knots, "She does not want nice."

"I know," Gojo's grin is blindingly dangerous, like a blade dressed in lace, "I've known her longer, right? I think I know everything she wants."

You glance between the two sorcerers, Infinity and Lightning, crackling like twin storms on the verge of colliding, and you can feel the heat in your gut bloom, sharp and molten.

Ugh, men. Honestly.

Kashimo breaks the silence, puffing air from his cheeks with the blunt edge of a bomb, as he drawls, "What, you want to hit me or kiss me? Or kiss her?"

Gojo's expression flickers, just for a second as confusion flits across his face, followed by a flush of colour painting his handsome features. White brows knitted together, as his lips rearrange into a defensive scowl.

You pinch the sorcerer beside you, "Hajime –"

Kashimo shrugs, clearly unfazed, "That is clearly what it is, is it not? His intentions have been clear to read since he walked in. What is it, irritated that we have fucked, and you were never invited?"

Gojo's opens his mouth, maw flapping open, probably to say something clever, or cutting, or catastrophically self-destructive. But nothing comes out, just cold static.

You have to hand it to Kashimo. You don't think you've seen Gojo Satoru truly speechless in over ten years. Well, unless you count that disastrous night on the train platform not so long ago, but who's fault was that really?

Kashimo leans in, ghosting the shell of your ear, "I told you so."

Your eyes snap to your best friend, and yeah. There it is, the front of his pants entirely tented, and the implication is loud and clear.

There's no misreading the watercolour blush painting his creamy cheeks as Gojo sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, "Fuck you." Not a hint of denial in the rock-salt rasp of his voice.

"You could only wish," Kashimo snarls, all teeth and challenge, "We are still sparring. Stay and watch if you want. Or jump in, I am not that picky."

Your lungs are still burning when the match ends, and Kashimo has had his fair share of victory. The sorcerer had you pinned, once more. Sweat-drenched, gloating like a feline that had caught something squirmy.

He had leaned down, and murmured something obscene right againt your ear, voice a low purr that made your groin ache. When you had snapped at him to shut up, Kashimo had just licked the salt from your collarbone, "How fiery."

The bastard had wandered off to get water as though he hadn't left you with the urging desire to have your guts rearranged right here, right now. You're still shaking out the leftover adrenaline, hunched with your hands braced on your knees. Your pulse is doing double time in your neck when footsteps thud in your ears.

"Had your fun?" Gojo looks as though he's sucked all the juice dry from an unpleasantly sour lemon.

"Fuck's sake." You're muttering, dragging the back of your wrist against your forehead, "Why do you get off on sneaking up on people like that?"

"This is a training mat, not a door," Gojo says, deadpan.

"Satoru."

The way you say his name, soft and breathy, intimately frustrated, makes something flicker in his vibrant eyes. Something raw and reflexive, like a muscle flinch. He steps closer, you step back.

You don't mean to. It just happens, that instinctive movement, your heart doing triple-axel flips behind your ribs. Anticipation, and some dark thrill you don't fancy naming.

Gojo follows, slow and loose-limbs, like a big cat cornering something warm, and tired and tempting. His hands are in his pockets, and it's taking Olympian-level strength to not flit your gaze downwards.

"What do you want?" You're asking, doing your best to keep your tone breezy, but you don't quite succeed, "Here to give me an impromptu performance review?"

"Didn't think I needed to," Gojo scoffs, voice dipped in cool-lipped sarcasm, "You've been plenty vocal all day."

Your brows knit, "What?"

"I was nearby earlier," Gojo says smoothly, but you can see the twitch in his eyelid, lashes fluttering, "Hard not to hear when someone's moaning like that."

Your mouth opens, tongue sinking like lead. Closes, and opens again. This conversation doesn't seem to be related to sparring anymore. Not technically, not unless training included a little moment a few hours ago when Kashimo had two fingers curled inside you, streaking slick down your thighs, and you had gasped out his name in breathy cries.

Gojo's smile is slow, and sharp. Amused, but you can see the searing, red-hot tips of his ears peeking through mussed white hair, "You know, they say that Kashimo was one of the strongest sorcerers ever." Faux-modesty colouring his voice as he continues, "Well, of that era. Time has moved forward, you know."

"So?"

"So," Gojo wrinkles his nose, voice like honey poured over barbed wire, "Does he fuck you better than he fights you?"

Your back is to the training room wall, cool bricks pressing into your spine. A harsh contrast to how blisteringly hot the rest of your body feels. Your thighs twitch, and you're certain that if you pressed them together, you would feel the slick slide of your arousal pooling between your swollen folds.

"And I just didn't think you were into guys like him," Gojo murmurs, voice low and mildly unimpressed, "Loud. Cocky. I mean, that guy's a walking lightning rod with a complex."

Had you been in a more rational state of mind, you may have commented that Gojo's description was outstandingly self-aware. Instead, your pulse thuds in your ears as you arch a brow, "Didn't know you were takin' notes and watching that close."

"I'm not."

"Really? 'Cause this feels a lot like investigative journalism to me."

Gojo's eyes drop to your mouth, lingering, before flicking back up, "Does he always touch you right? You always make those sweet, little sounds like earlier this afternoon?"

Something dangerous flashes and sits right underneath your tongue, something along the lines of asking why he doesn't touch you and see if he can recreate the same melody.

"If you want to fuck her, just say it," Kashimo drawls from the doorway, sauntering back in with a water bottle in one hand, and a towel slung loose around his neck.

You freeze, feeling the low pulse of sheer want beginning to throb in between your thighs. But Gojo doesn't flinch, jaw stiff enough to grind diamonds down into dust.

Kashimo takes a long swig, shrugging handedly as one would comment on the weather, "It is tragic enough how you brood each time I touch her. We all know what is on your mind."

"I'm not –" Gojo's snapping, but the sharp, protruding tent in his pants speaks volumes for him.

"Who are you fooling?" Kashimo's teal eyes glint, teeth flashing in a lazy grin.

You glance between the two sorcerers, your best friend of years with that unreadable storm in your eyes, and Kashimo, who seems as though he's enjoying Gojo's fury a little too much. Your pulse is in your throat, your thighs tacking together, and the air around you crackles, thick enough to chew.

"Tell you what," Kashimo offers, unravelling the ivory bandages from his forearms, "Since you are so clearly aching for it," his eyes flicking to Gojo, and then you, "And she is all but waiting for one of us to finally pounce, why not have a taste?"

There's heat licking at your ribs, a molten and wicked thing that is curled low in your belly, and it's climbing. Fast. You watch distractedly as the linen wraps fall to the floor.

Your brows shoot up, "Are you –"

"I do not mind sharing," Kashimo says, and beneath his deceptively flat tone, you can sense the gears turning in his head, fuelled by the thrill and excitement, "So long as you can keep pace." Ocean-toned eyes glittering as they slide sideways.

Gojo scoffs, but you can see the dangerously red flush climbing up the back of his neck, tickling the edge of his white undercut, "You think I can't keep up with you?"

Kashimo rolls his eyes as though it's beneath him to answer, "I was not speaking to you, Six Eyes." He's tipping his head towards you, teal strands tangling, "I'm asking her."

Truthfully, you're soaked. Not metaphorically, nor subtly. You're clenching your thighs around nothing. Heartbeat pounding between your legs as if it's desperate for some friction, as heat bleeds through your clothes.

Kashimo's already beside you before you can draw another sharp breath, "Mhm. No answer?" He's humming, as though he already knows. Bandaged fingers drap down your hip, slow and teasing, before hooking into the waistband of your shorts with an easy flick of his agile wrist.

You stifle a sharp gasp as warm fingers slip through swollen, slick folds, and Kashimo snorts, "Dripping through your clothes. All this for us?"

The fabric slides past your thighs, and the cool air licks at your slick skin. It's almost cruel, how exposed you feel, heat pulsing between your legs, chest rising in shallow gasps as Gojo swallows behind you, a large hand coming to rest at your waist.

"I think it's just for me," Gojo purrs, grinding the prominent line of his cock behind you, hard through the thin fabric of his martial pants. His voice is smug, sweetened by the rasp of want, "Pretty sure she's been staring since I walked in."

Kashimo's clicking his tongue, gently mouthing a pink-blooming mark beneath your jaw, "That is because you strut about like a young peacock in the spring."

"I'm twenty-nine, you freak of nature."

"Then cease the preening, and get undressed."

"Now who wants to fuck who?"

"Okay!" You're gasping, flustered, and your voice trembles several octaves higher than usual. You're flushed from neck to navel, your pulse ricocheting through your veins like a cursed technique gone rogue, "You guys can argue later, right?"

They both pause, Gojo's raising a thin brow, amused. And Kashimo tilts his head, as though you're a puzzle he's planning to solve with his mouth.

"Sure, we can take turns," Gojo huffs, and his lips brush your shoulder. Open-mouthed, and hot. And your entire body lights up, glistening strands of arousal tacking between your folds.

Kashimo's hand slips over your chest, and he palms your breast with sheer hunger, tweaking your stiff nipple with practiced cruelty.

"F-fuck," You moan, bucking into Gojo's chest, and the white-haired man growls, a throat-deep snarl that erupts unfettered, "I wanna' touch her first."

Kashimo's responding look is smug, "She has taken me before. I suppose you can taste her first."

Your gasp turns sharp because your best friend is clearly done playing nice, and he's on his knees now, dragging your sodden panties all the way down, admiring the translucent fabric clinging to the shape of your puffy pussy folds. A long finger hooking the wet fabric aside, as his big hands grip your thighs, spreading you open with ferocious purpose.

"Pretty pussy's wet enough to drown in," Gojo murmurs, voice reverent, like he's found some holy grail between your legs, "And you've been letting the little lightning freak do this? Seriously?"

"I thought you did not care," Kashimo drawls, and he's tipping your chin up with two fingers, watching the daze flood your eyes, "And yet here you are, already kneeling."

"That's because I'm gonna' show you how it's actually done," Gojo grins against your inner thigh, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh like a searing brand.

Between Kashimo's fingers digging into your jaw, and Gojo's warm breath fanning your cunt, you can barely think, let alone string together a rational strength. You're split between the searing light of the sun, and the rumbling thunder of a storm, one sorcerer smug as though it's another victory for him, and the other watching you with unbridled devotion.

"Go on, princess," Gojo murmurs, "Say please. Beg real sweet, and I'll eat ya' until you forget his name."

"You want first so bad?" Kashimo muses, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. His skin smells of ozone, and danger, that natural pine-scent you've come to associate with the medieval sorcerer. "Let him warn you up, little dove. We both know how partial he is to using his mouth."

"I will kill you," Gojo mutters, but there's hardly any heat in the threat, not when he's burying his face between your thighs, sending streaks of pleasure prickling through your spine.

Pink tongue licking a thick stripe over your soaked slit, slow and all for show. Then he flattens the glossy muscle over your clit, stamping you with his signature. You can already hear the tacking, sloppy sounds of Gojo quenching his thirst down there, and your knees give out instantly.

"Holy f-fucking –" You're gasping, gripping Kashimo's arm like a lifeline as your legs collapse like noodles. Wet, trembling and fucked-out. And they had barely begun.

Gojo hums smugly into your pussy, and it's obscene, all wet suction and vibrations, complete with practiced flicks of his tongue. Precision, ego and a little cruelty. He's eating you out as though he's attempting to outdo every man who's ever looked at you sideways.

"Still think I'm j-jealous?" Gojo rasps against your clit, lips slick with your shiny arousal, voice vibrating right into your core as you buck your hips against his chin.

"You are the one tongue-deep in her cunt five minutes after saying you would kill me." Kashimo's reply is dry as kindly, but you can hear the barely-grasped restraint shaking underneath, "You tell me."

You can hardly see straight. The world has narrowed down to Gojo's mouth, and Kashimo's hand, which is now stroking your cheek with infuriating calm, elegant thumb tracing your marked jaw as though he needs to ground something precious and his

The very tip of Gojo's nose bumps your clit just right, and you whine, pitchy and utterly wrecked. Hips twitching, thighs trembling as you bury your nails into Kashimo's lean arm, attempting to anchor onto something solid.

"Look at you," Kashimo murmurs, voice dripping with fond amusement, "So sensitive already. Are you going to finish just from his mouth already, little dove?"

"I – fuck, I might –"

"She will," Gojo cuts in, voice wicked and soaked with pride. He licks up into you again, tongue prodding at your pulsing entrance, slower now as he draws a long moan from your throat, "Knew I could always make her sound like t-this, easy."

You choke on a sound that's part moan, part whimper as Kashimo's gaze sharpens, "Not that easy." His breath ghosts your ear, trailing down to your pebbled nipples, "You will still scream for me, right?"

Your whole body must be trembling, caught in the tug-of-war between Gojo's talented, fuckin' mouth, and the sensation of Kashimo running his hands over your chest. You can feel that orgasm coiling low, and hot, and violent.

"You gonna' cum, pretty girl?" Gojo's teasing, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your inner thigh, while the pads of his fingers run tight circles over your swollen, sensitive bud, "Or you wanna' be edged till he starts zappin' sparks everywhere."

Kashimo's grip tightens on your chin, "Let her come."

You don't just fall, you shatter. It's fast, too fast as your thighs clamp around Gojo's head like a vice, a desperate and gasping moan that rips from your throat as an orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. Raw, and shuddering, and shameless.

Gojo doesn't budge, nor does he flinch. He's just grinning into it, as though there's nowhere else he would rather be but your pulsing cunt. When he finally pulls back, after pressing a sticky mwah! to your very core, his face is soaked. Mouth swollen, chin shiny with your gloss, and silver hair in a disarray. He looks as though he just crawled out of paradise, and is considering diving right back in.

"If he wasn't so impatient, I coulda' made you squirt," Gojo huffs, smug as sin, swiping a thumb over his glistening jaw like a badge of honour.

You're barely upright, more puddle than person, when Gojo gently rolls you over, standing behind you and dragging his loose pants down with a practiced tug. You can feel the hot wisp of pre-cum cool against your ass after a heavy slap of his cock makes you jolt.

You draw in a deep breath, attempting to shake the last remnants of your orgasm-dazed haze out of your head, as you peer up at Kashimo. Naked. When the hell did that happen? But judging by the creamy slick already being bumped over his shaft, he's already been more than ready.

His cock is flushed, and proud, all glorious inches curving to the right, and the expression on Kashimo's face is somewhere between reverence and predation, "She's trembling." Brushing a thump along your lower lip, "Broke her already, Six Eyes?"

"Haven't even s-started. Gonna' make her cum again," Gojo grunts, and you can feel the thick, blunt head of his cock snag against your swollen, dripping folds.

Each thick inch is slow, unrelenting as though your gummy walls are memorising vein-ridden moulds of his cock. Each small bump of his cock deeper makes you tremble, back already arching so deliciously as you bite back a loud wail.

"F-fuck, Satoru," Your voice cracks, eyes rolling as your walls stretch and mould around him. Easily the biggest you've ever taken, and he's making every inch count, getting closer to kissin' your cervix.

"Thaaat's it, baby," Gojo pants, teeth skimming your shoulder as white hair clouds the peripherals of your vision, "Gotta' l-love hearing ya' say my name like that."

But when you open your eyes, you don't quite miss the jealous twitch that thunders across Kashimo's fine features. And you know that the God of Lightning is never to be outdone. Teal lashes fluttering as he gently runs a linen-wrapped hand over your face, "Just keep your mouth open, hmm?"

The head of his cock brushing your cheek as you mewl, sharp, from Gojo's harsher thrust. You obey before you even think, lips hungrily parting to flick your tongue over the cherry-red tip.

Kashimo hisses softly, the milky muscles of his thighs twitching, "Sweet tongue," he's murmuring, pushing his cock deeper into your waiting mouth, slow and deliberate, "So eager to serve. Who would not aim to worship you?"

Your mind splinters, for what Kashimo lacks in girth, he makes up for in sheer length, and your knees dig into the soft mat. Gojo's hand is running down your spine, trailing from the nape of your neck to the heart-shaped juncture of your ass, before slamming into you with a rhythm that feels almost mean.

But Kashimo is fucking your mouth with a devastating kind of patience, as though he's savouring every hollowed, sloppy suctioned moan that you let out. It's immensely satisfying how he shivers when you press your tongue right over the long, throbbing vein that runs on the underside of his shaft.

And just like that, you're full. Every inch of you claimed, stretched wide so your slick and saliva begins to pool, stuffed in stereo. Pretty pussy and throat. You can feel your lashes fluttering, as desperate fingers dig half-moons into the muscles of Kashimo's upper thighs.

"Good, fuck – good, wet girl," Gojo groans behind you, hands bruising your hips, but every so often he's gently soothing over your spine with a warm brush, "A pretty damn' good multitasker, hmm? I'm making ya' feelin' good?"

"You are awfully loud for someone who was not even inside her five minutes ago," Kashimo mutters, voice tight with restraint, and sweat sliding down his temple as he slowly draws his gleaming, glistening cock out of your droolin' mouth. Flattening himself underneath you, so he's got the perfect view of you perched over him, right down to where the thick base of Gojo's cock is swallowed up by your folds again and again. The sorcerer hisses as he guides the spurtin' head of his cock back to your soaked, trembling cunt.

You can hear Gojo snicker behind you, and you know if you turned you would see fluttering, pretty lashes and cocky blue eyes as though he isn't currently ploughing balls-deep inside you already, "Didn't need to be," he murmurs, "Didn't take her long at a-all to cum from my mouth."

"I was there, fool."

"Then maybe, ya' shouldn't taken n-notes," Gojo purrs, lips stuttering around a broken moan as he digs his fingers further into your hips. Your upper teeth sink into your lip, half-wrecked and half-feral as Kashimo begins to slide the tip of his aching cock through the mess, teasing at your already-stretched entrance.

"Are you two gonna' fight, or a-actually fuck me?" You're snapping, voice shredded as your breath catches, attempting to breathe through the impossible fullness of Gojo hittin' all the sweet spots inside you, all while Kashimo lines up behind you again.

Gojo groans, admonished, as he tilts his hip to thrust up into you, deep and indulgent, "Not our fault you're so fuckin' addictive, baby."

"Speak for yourself, Six Eyes," Kashimo mutters, and then he pushes in, at the same time. Right next to Gojo's thick shaft pounding into you, right into your already stuffed cunt.

Your forehead, beaded with exertion, drops helplessy onto Gojo's chest as your walls stretch. The intrusion is deliciously unbearable, for both sorcerers are thick, solid and throbbing. And still, your greedy and aching body tries to take it, split right open as your sweet spots sing from the stimulation.

"Holy f-fuck –" you cry, voice cracking as your hips tremble and quiver under Gojo's large, surprisingly gentle hands, "You're both, oh my God –"

"Yes, sweet thing," Kashimo hisses, a sibilant sound that flickers past his lips, as his own hands reach up to anchor themselves in your waist, "Taking all of it s-so well."

You can feel both their cocks, sliding against each other inside you, pressed right in that too-small gummy cavity, kissin' up right against your sweet spot in the most incredible way. Gojo's exhaling a shaky laugh from behind you, smug even as his cock twitches from the extra friction, and you can feel the rough pads of his fingertips shake, "Didn't think you'd be able to us both, baby."

You rock helplessly between them, back beautifully arched, fucked-out moans spilling past kiss-stung lips as they set a steady rhythm that borders on ruthless. Kashimo's hand, elegant and tightly clenched, brushes Gojo's thigh. Barely a gaze, a blink and you'd miss it type of touch. But time hiccups, and you can feel that sudden, sizzling crackle that zips between them like lightning caught in a bottle.

The sensation ricochets through your body, shivering and kissin' along your spine. It's so much more carnal and charged, nearly unbearable. Deep sapphire-blue meets cool, ocean-cyan over your quivering, rocking shoulders, eyes locking like swords.

Kashimo leans in closer, in a way that his carved front presses against your own chest, smooth voice a dangerous purr in your ear, "He feigns disinterest. But he shivers when I touch him."

You know, and Gojo knows too, for you feel his hand tighten on your waist, just a little. There's a filthy echo of skin against skin, strands of slick sticking and unsticking as Gojo pounds into you, more determined than ever to see you fall apart for him.

Kashimo's fingers creep higher now, beautiful hands with small bruises from constant training. But they're moving intentionally now, brazen as his palm slides up your side, overlapping with Gojo's, both their hands pressed possessively to your body, steadying your stuffed form.

If you had been able to create coherent words, you would have comment on the low whine behind your ear, Gojo's muffled moan as he matches his pace to Kashimo's agile hips.

The white-haired sorcerer thrusts up into you, snapping your spine taut as a gasp is punched out of your lungs. His cock is driving into you so, so deep, brushing every sweet spot that you could only ever dream of finding.

"R-right there, Satoru!" You yelp, head falling forward against Kashimo's shoulder, that heady scent of mountain pine and something sweeter, like persimmon, enveloping you once more.

The God of Lightning answers with his own brutal snap of hips, driving forward to bury himself beside Gojo again, twin cocks filling you, stretching you wide while your arousal pools from your puffy lips, providing the slick lubrication needed. The sorcerers move together now, and yet not, not synchronised but racing, as though they're trying to outpace each other with every savage grind into your dripping cunt.

"Close, little dove? I can f-feel how tight you are, like a v-vice," Kashimo huffs, voice heady and low as a glass of smooth wine in the cold December air.

But Gojo's laughing, harsh and knowing, his muscular thighs caging you on either side, as sweat glimmers on his temple and he leaves sweet kisses on the nape of your neck, "Watch this."

A large hand slips between your thighs, and you crane your neck to peer in a haze at the soft dusting of white hair over peachy skin, and then —

Pressure. The pad of his thumb presses against your clit in slow, merciless circles. Too precise, too good that it becomes villainous. Like Gojo's already got a blueprint of your most sensitive spots memorised, and he's weaponising it.

You wail, falling further against Kashimo's sculpted chest, high and frantic gasps leaving your glossy mouth as your thighs twitch, cunt clenchin' tight around both of them.

"Fuckin' cheater," Kashimo groans, hips jolting as the soft thatch of teal curls at the base of his cock droop with the sheer amount of your arousal pooling over his hips at this angle.

"She likes it, don'tcha baby?"

"She likes me more."

"You gonna' cry 'bout it?"

"I will hit you."

"You'd hafta' pull out first."

You can't hold back a snappy, wet shriek. Not a cute gasp, but a full-body, trembling cry, and just like that, both sorcerers finally shut the hell up. Because your orgasm doesn't arrive so much as detonate. It slams you into like a special-grade, no warning nor mercy. Your thighs lock up, trembling as your cunt squeezes tight on both their cocks.

An awed choke echoes behind you as Gojo's jaw goes slack, flush crawling up his chest, "Holy s-shit, she's squeezin' me out –"

Kashimo looks equally affected, the magenta marks beneath his eyes bright as he attempts to keep his moans muffled, but he ends up panting, lips curled as he curses beneath his breath, "Beautiful, wicked thing. I may finish a-already."

"Ya' better not," Gojo growls, still fucking into you like a man possessed, the bulky, mushroom-tip of his shaft pressed right up against your cervix, "I'm not d-done yet." He's flipping you over with ease, that casual display of strength from your best friend that you had never really focused on before. His thrusts are messier now, sloppier and louder.

Gojo's groaning, low and filthy in your ear, beautiful praises barely coherent as he pounds into you, soothing the strained ache in your thighs as he runs his hands over the stung flesh, "So p-perfect, missed ya', right? M-missed everything, baby. Shoulda' done this a looong time ago."

Kashimo kneels beside you, cock still slick from glistening folds, aquamarine eyes molten. His thumb trails down your jaw once more, catching on the plush, gnawed seam of your lips, "Look at you, so lovely splayed out like this. Six Eyes must be doing a good job for that pretty cunt to still be so sensitive."

You mewl, nodding your head as you breathe deeply, attempting to clear some of the haze from your eyes, and Gojo doesn't answer, but his cock twitches inside you, heavy sack smacking against your ass and creating the most filthy mess on the mats.

"Go on, then," Kashimo murmurs, low and electric, "Fuck her full, Gojo, I'll clean her up."

The sound falling from Gojo's lip is closer to a whimper, a desperate high that he's chasing, and it's raw. You're babbling now, hips arching to meet his every thrust as your legs tremble, hands fisting on the mat. Your pussy flutters madly around him, greedy and so insatiable.

"S-Satoru," you sob, tears pricking at your lashes, drooping, Please –, please cum inside, n-need it."

That does it, for his name on your tongue breaks the strongest sorcerer of the modern day. Gojo moans loud and unabashed, ruined as his hips jerk, burying himself deep and spillin' inside you. Thick, and hot and endless, flooding every divot and sticky nook within you. Your pussy pulses around his shaft, every girthy vein to milk each drop of his creamy seed as though it was made for him.

Kashimo doesn't waste a second, the long, sheer length of his flushed cock slipping past your lips, snagging on your cheek and leaving a faint smear as your moan vibrates around him, "Fuck, little dove," he snarls, teal hair falling over his face as he shakes his head, "You sing with your tongue."

You hollow your cheeks, and that's enough to undo the greatest sorcerer of the Edo period. Kashimo loses it, spilling into your mouth, translucent seed like hot salt on your tongue, and his voice cracks as he shudders above you. You're swallowing what you can, and the rest trickles down your chin, sticky and so obscene.

One sorcerer's release leaks out of the swollen, glossy folds of your cunt in lazy drips, trickling down your thighs. And the other's coats your tongue like a second sin. It's a mess, a masterpiece and a miracle.

You're flat on your back now, dazed and twitching, held together by the warm and shuddering weight of two powerful jujutsu sorcerers. Gojo collapses beside you first, chest heaving with a strawberry flush, face pressed to your neck. His hand stays tangled in yours like a lifeline, as though he needs to be touching you.

But Kashimo leans over, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip where his release still glistens, "You made quite the mess," he murmurs, sea-glass eyes ringed by impossibly long lashes.

You huff, and let out a wet giggle, though it's still quite the exertion for your spent body, "You liked it."

Kashimo pauses, and then in a rare, velvet-soft voice, he laughs, fond, and presses a kiss to your mouth as though he's sealing a sacred pact, "I did, little dove."

Gojo's head lifts, white hair plastered to his forehead, blue-eyes heavy with bliss and almost boyish affection. He reaches for your face, and you lean into your best friend's touch, his warm and unhurried fingers that brush a damp strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of tenderness that makes your chest sting.

"You still with us, baby?" Gojo's voice is gravel-laced velvet, playful and hoarse, "Or did we both finally fuck the soul outta' you?"

From the other side, Kashimo grunts, brushing damp strands of ocean-toned hair from his forehead, his voice dry as old parchment, "Oh, so now it is both."

You blink at up them, barely. Your lashes are stuck together, lips slick and bitten-red, and there's a pleasant glow settling between your thighs, though the ache is just as delicious, "Yeah, yeah, Satoru. I'm with you."

Silence settles over the training room like the aftershock of an afternoon storm, heavy, drowsy and gold-lit. You're still impaled on the memory of them, of everything. Their touch lingers in fingerprints across your skin, heavy seed still tacking between your legs. Gojo's bulky thigh is nudged across yours, pressed against Kashimo's, and oddly enough, neither of them seem particularly inclined to move.

"So...," Kashimo lies flat on his back, turquoise eyes locked on the ceiling in a heavy contemplation of the cosmos.

Gojo hums from where he's lazily tracing a finger along the slope of your hip, strands of mussed white hair falling over his forehead, "Hmm?"

"Wouldst thou partake again?"

Gojo turns his head, squinting up at Kashimo, almost as if he's incredulously offended, "Did you seriously just say 'wouldst thou'? Do you remember the dinosaurs?"

"I remember many beast, but your face is far more unpleasant than any I had encountered," Kashimo snaps coolly, before turning his attention back to you, a sculpted hand resting absently on your head, "Little dove?"

Their gazes flick towards you, sprawled out, cheeks pink and glowing, lips parted around breaths that still echo like whimpers. Ruined, radiant and definitely not done.

Gojo leans in closer, brushing a tender kiss to your temple, reverent and sweet, "Baby," he murmurs, and the name sounds so natural falling from his honeyed tongue, "You up for round two?"

"Or three," Kashimo adds helpfully, sitting up so you can admire the faintest streaks of jagged lightning over his smooth, rippling back, "I wish to see him dethroned. Spectacularly."

"Oh my god," Gojo groans, "You're obsessed with me. You wish you could dethrone me."

You shift, stretch slow and syrupy, winching at the ache in your thighs, that kind of soreness that feels like worship, "You boys gonna' kiss each other this time?"

A beat of silence, before predictably and gloriously, all chaos breaks loose in an echoing din.

"I'm not kissin' that Pikachu," Gojo snaps, but that sudden flush sits beautifully high on his sculpted, milky cheekbones.

"Do not call me names I do not understand. And you had your tongue in her half an hour ago, and now you are defensive?" Kashimo retorts, scandalised as his fangs peek from his pink mouth.

"I'm a tag-teamer, man, you just don't get it –"

"Is that an admittance of guilt?"

You sigh, closing your eyes, and you would be lying if there wasn't a faint smile ghosting your lips as you take what little rest you can get before you plan to make them both eat their braggadocio.

[moralityandmusings]

DP x DC: Corner of Shadows

Alfred Pennyworth has been a lot of things in his lifetime: an intelligence agent, a friend, a butler, a pseudo-father, a pseudo-grandfather, a medic, and more. But the one thing that he rarely gets a chance to be is, well... wrong.

He'd noticed things in Gotham seemed quiet lately, though he was superstitious enough not to voice that thought aloud. A quiet Gotham was a plotting Gotham, and he was wary and alert for whatever she was brewing. It was odd though, since Batman and his affiliates had managed to arrest and incarcerate the most destructive of the normal rouges in Arkham. Alfred knew that wasn't a long-term solution, but it would hold them for at least a few months before they inevitably were broken out. Alfred's sense of dread peaked on a Wednesday afternoon in late April. He had been doing his day's tasks, notably at the exact moment he was dusting in Bruce's study, when he felt a chill. Now, Alfred had been the caretaker of Wayne Manor long enough to know it's secrets: what windows were sealed shut and which could sneak open, what rooms and hallways created drafts and where the origins were, and the most likely hiding places for stashes of coffee, weapons, or even people. Bruce's study had never once incited a chill.

Alfred, though, was a professional. So, he didn't even pause in his task. He simply angled himself to reach the next set of shelves and snuck a glance around the room under the guise of reviewing his work.

He noticed it in the far corner of the room.

In his brief glance, the corner appeared darker than normal, as though the shadows had warped themselves out of their normal crevices to conceal something or someone. He considered, for a moment, hitting the panic button tucked away on the shelf behind him. However, he was not one to back down from a skirmish, nor was he incapable of handling one measly threat on his own. No need to concern the family until he knew whatever shadow creature or demon they were dealing with.

It wouldn't be the first time Alfred has faced down a demon. It also wouldn't be the first time he'd come out victorious. "I'd rather hope you were not planning to remain hidden in that corner. If so, I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you." Alfred said, keeping his back to the corner and continuing with his dusting with a purposeful air of nonchalance and passivity.

Even without a straight view of the shadowed corner, Alfred could feel the tension grip the air. "If you are here to steal from Master Bruce or one of his children, I'd kindly suggest that you exit through whatever means you entered. If you intend to harm them, I'd suggest you reconsider unless you plan to challenge me. Contrary to my family's beliefs, blood does not magically disappear out of the carpet, and as I do not know what you are, I'd hate to have to take the time to figure out how to best clean up yours." It was with this thinly veiled threat that Alfred chose to turn around and stare down the corner of the room, hopefully engaging in direct eye contact with whatever creature lurked there, or at least close proximity to it. It was as though the shadows were fighting with themselves. Almost imperceptible to the naked eye, they seemed to elongate and shrink back in rapid succession. It almost appeared that they seemed to be anxious. Then, a voice. It was akin to nails scraping down a chalkboard or the explosion of static through a radio on full volume in close quarters. It was a violent and powerful voice that hinted at fear and destruction. "What makes you so sure you would win?" The shadows seemed to tremble. Alfred smirked.

"I've dealt with many things in my life. Enough to know that demons, wraiths, creatures of the night, and even the most violent humans all have one thing in common: they can still cease." The shadows seemed to tilt. Alfred paused for a second, it almost looked like when a child or dog would tilt it's head in confusion or thought. "Cease." The broken and grating tone suggested that the reply was not a question, more like a thought for itself.

"Life does not always end in death, and death does not always extinguish existence. However, even one that is dead can still cease to exist if given the right... persuasions." Alfred lightly grinned. He knew to an outsider that it would seem vaguely threatening, even if the grin was only created out of his own amusement seeping through. The room was still. The shadows had stopped their rhythmic twisting, finally stationary. However, they were still stretched and warped beyond their usual means. The being was still present, even if it had yet to reveal itself.

It seemed, to Alfred, the creature was thinking, and he, ever the polite host, chose to let it.

After a long, quiet moment, the being spoke again. Only this time, the broken static and sharp noises ceased. Instead, the voice of a teenager, maybe even a child spoke. "What if... What would you say to a being whose existence was a constant fluxuation of life and death? Constantly living and dying and living and dying again and again, a never-ending cycle. How would you handle a being like that?" Alfred paused for a moment. He didn't let his own confusion at the entity show on his face as he realized his assumptions about this being a demon or shadowed creature here to cause harm were wrong. He had a job to do, after all. And even if this was not one of the children he was tasked with helping raise, he would not harm or threaten a child. "I'd invite the being for a cup of tea." "You'd..." There was a long pause, even longer than the standoff from earlier. It seemed Alfred's answer had truly shocked the shadows. "Why?" "Life can be incredibly isolating. Death even more so. I'd dare say, young sir, that if one was constantly walking the veil between both, regardless of if they teeter more towards one way or the other, that the being could, simply put, use an ally." The tension that had begun to stifle the room dissipated almsot immediately. As the shadows started to expand out from the corner, slowly inching their way towards where Alfred stood as though expecting him to move, to strike, Alfred stayed perfectly still and poised. There was no flinching or startling to be perceived. The shadow stretched along the floor until it stopped about half a food from the tip of his left shoe. The shadows slowly, slowly, slowly crept the rest of the way until it barely brushed the top of the well-worn leather shoes. When he didn't react, didn't move away or lash out, then the shadows quickly receded back from whence they came. Then, in the blink of an eye, in the corner sat a boy.

As far as Alfred could see, he was thin, dirty, and the staining on his clothing suggested that he was injured or had been so recently. His pitch black hair was matted and greasy, the bags under his eyes and sunken in face suggested he had been alone, likely hiding, for much too long. His gaze, however, was strong. The direct stare he landed on Alfred suggested that he was being cautious and his tensed posture indicated he would bolt if Alfred handled this incorrectly. So, Alfred leveled his own gaze back, allowing for warmth and care to flood back into his features, casting out the cold and ironed exterior he had thrown on in the face of a potential threat. "So, young sir, would you prefer a black or green tea?"

[foxfeast]

After everything is finally over and he’s happily married to the love of his life, Luo Binghe decides that he really doesn’t want to be the emperor of the demonic realm anymore. It was never his dream, okay?! He was only doing it to show Shizun that he was strong and capable of taking care of him, but now he just really wants to settle down in a cottage with his Shizun and raise chickens and grow a garden! He wants to be a housewife!

Of course, this means that someone else has to become the new emperor, so Luo Binghe goes to Tianlang-jun first to try and give his father his title back.

“Nope,” says Tianlang-jun. He’s never had an interest in ruling the demonic realm, and now that Zhuzhi-lang isn’t here to handle all the serious stuff for him, he has even less of an interest in it. Besides, he’s just gotten married to his Qingyuan, and he’s perfectly content being a pampered and spoiled wife of a Peak Lord! He has all the time in the world to get railed and read bad porn novels! He’s not giving that up for a title he’s never wanted.

Luo Binghe is frustrated, but he can’t say that he doesn’t understand his father’s sentiments, so he goes to Sha Hualing next. On the surface she might not seem like the perfect candidate, but she’s basically been running the demonic realm for Luo Binghe this entire time anyway. Plus, Luo Binghe is certain that Sha Hualing wouldn’t pass up the chance to beat his ass for the title.

“No way,” says Sha Hualing. Sure, it was once her dream to become the empress of the demonic realm, and she often fantasized about beating the shit out of Luo Binghe. However, she’s recently discovered the delight that is Liu Mingyan and now she has no interest in doing something that would take her away from her precious Mingyan. The woman is freakier than she looks, okay?! Sha Hualing is having the time of her life having the world’s kinkiest sex! There are even knives involved!

Luo Binghe can’t say he gets this, but he moves on anyway. There’s only one other person he can ask to take over the mantle, so he goes to Mobei-jun.

“…” says Mobei-jun with a scowl, which is the equivalent of him stamping his foot and shouting ‘NO!’. He’s never been good at ruling—he speaks better with his fists than he does with his words. Besides, after seeing all the bullshit Luo Binghe has had to go through as the emperor, he has no desire to become the emperor anymore. He’s no good at delegating resources or administration at all, and to be honest, he’s really bad at math. That’s why Qinghua handles all his paperwork!

That’s when it clicks in Luo Binghe’s head that the perfect candidate for emperor of the demonic realm has been under his nose this entire time. He summons Tianlang-jun, Sha Hualing, Mobei-jun, and the candidate in question to discuss this.

“I think Shang-shishu should be the emperor,” says Luo Binghe without preamble.

Shang Qinghua nearly faints on the spot. He thinks this is a cruel joke meant to fuck with him—everyone knows hamsters are easily frightened to death, after all!

Yet to Shang Qinghua’s immense horror, he sees the four most powerful people in the world taking this suggestion very seriously.

“I have no objections,” says Tianlang-jun. Of course he wouldn’t! The guy is so placid you could suggest marrying a fish off to a dog and he’d just delightedly agree! All he lives for is chaos and satisfying his own whims—Shang Qinghua would know, he created the guy!

“I agree. Peak Lord Shang is fit for the job,” says Sha Hualing. Shang Qinghua, while flattered by her compliment, trusts her judgement even less than Tianlang-jun’s. He knows that all this saintess cares about is having increasingly alarming sex with her wife. Additionally, she’s always been eager to shirk off the ‘boring’ tasks to other people. How is this any different?!

“Mn,” says Mobei-jun, gazing at Shang Qinghua with a small smile and eyes brimming with so much pride and joy. This is the equivalent of him jumping up and down and going ‘YIPPEE!’. Shang Qinghua can’t believe that his husband is actually supporting this notion, especially since he thought that Mobei-jun would want to keep him working in his palace forever. He seriously can’t believe this turn of events.

Shang Qinghua insists that he can’t be the emperor of the demonic realm—he’s a human, and a Peak Lord, at that! However, the demons in the room are not listening to him. Sha Hualing and Luo Binghe have already moved on to discuss the intricacies and delights of rope bondage, while Mobei-jun and Tianlang-jun have started kicking each other. In a last ditch attempt, Shang Qinghua turns to Shen Qingqiu (who is never away from Luo Binghe, not anymore.)

“Bro, you gotta help me out! Tell them I can’t do it!” Shang Qinghua pleads, clasping his hands together.

Shen Qingqiu just waves his fan and raises an eyebrow at Shang Qinghua. This guy! He’s such a fraud!

“Why not?” Shen Qingqiu asks. “You created this world. You have better knowledge of the demon realm and the tribes, culture, and future problems it’ll face than anyone else. Besides, you’ve practically been running the demon realm behind the scenes this entire time. There’s no one in this world more qualified than you. Why shouldn’t you do it?”

Shang Qinghua is actually kind of touched that Shen Qingqiu—and everyone else present, really—think so highly of him. And, honestly, he loves the politics and culture of the demon realm. He loves the demons that live there. He wrote this world, okay?! He’s allowed to enjoy it! When he first started writing Proud Immortal Demon Way, he was most excited to delve into the demon realm! Plus, Shen Qingqiu has a point, as much as it pains him to admit it. He really has been running the demonic realm in lieu of the actual emperor for quite a while.

Thus, he very reluctantly agrees. Still, he’s quite anxious about being a human running the demonic realm, and he voices these concerns.

“Don’t worry,” says Luo Binghe with a resolute nod. “I’ll handle it.”

Tianlang-jun, Sha Hualing, and Mobei-jun give their respective signs of agreement.

Shang Qinghua doesn’t know why this make him break out into a cold sweat.

This is how Shang Qinghua ends up battling Luo Binghe for twelve hours straight for the title of emperor. He wins not by might or force—Luo Binghe is overwhelmingly powerful, and he’d never throw a fight on purpose. No, Shang Qinghua wins entirely by outsmarting Luo Binghe, who offers his sincere and heartfelt congratulations.

He’s crowned emperor in front of the entire demonic realm. He was incredibly nervous about the reception he’d receive from his new subjects, but they just kinda shrug and go “yeah, okay,” as if it makes perfect sense for a human to be the new demonic emperor. Little does Shang Qinghua know that they’re only okay with it because he’s the one doing it.

There are a few demons who aren’t cool with this, of course, but with four of the strongest demons in the world backing him, there’s really nothing they can do.

In the end, Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe move to the countryside to live out their cottagecore dreams. Tianlang-jun goes back to Yue Qingyuan to become a trophy wife. Sha Hualing and Liu Mingyan release a very questionable novel in celebration.

And Mobei-jun finally gets to see his husband treated with the respect and admiration he deserves, all while getting to live out his fantasies of being Shang Qinghua’s little concubine.

[akuzondotcom]

Obey Me! Brothers Eyes ft; My HCs. More info on My HCs listed below!!

Lucifer:

Lucifer I wanted to look the most Mature and Handsome. I gave him slit eye pupils and ocular scarring on one eye. I imagine he got his cross shaped scar in the war, it being a mark of a curse his Father laid upon him. Because of this curse, which I imagine to be mortality, I made him look slightly sickly, with translucent skin and pallor. I imagine he’s only got a few thousand more years left to live.

Mammon:

Mammon I gave golden freckles and one golden eye. I imagine he got this eye colour from an attempted spell to try and make his eyes turn golden in hue. However because he failed his spell classes, I imagine this failed, giving him heterochromia and 50/50 heterochromia in one eye. Lucifer scolded him for his reckless behaviours. Also I HC him as Aboriginal Australian, has nothing to do with his eyes specifically but I wanted an excuse to say that lol.

Leviathan:

I Imagine Leviathan has the least humanoid Demon form (it being a massive aquatic reptile) as such he struggles to maintain a convincing human form. This shows through with his eyes, them being dark and unblinking. I imagine instead of traditional blinking he has a nicitating membrane that covers his eyes from dirt and debris. He does however require eye drops to moisten his eyes when he’s away from water. I also imagine some of his scale pattern is still visible in his human form, Showing mainly around his eyes, neck, back legs and arms.

Satan:

Satan is the most humanoid of the demon brothers. Having light freckles, regular rounded pupils, and a more youthful appearance then his other brothers. The only sign something is different is the sigil in his eye, a sign of a spell he performed to grant himself more power.

Asmodeus:

(Note I HC Asmo uses any pronouns so I may use she or they when talking about him) Asmo was difficult as I picture her as a shapeshifter, them changing their body suit the trends. However I decided his most common form has rounded feminine features, long spiky lashes, and few demonic features that he deans cute (black sclera, slit pupils, pointed ears and sharp fangs etc). I imagine they wear light makeup, just enough to accentuate her features.

Beelzebub:

Beel has mostly humanoid features, save for his eyes. Instead of having a pupil and iris, he has one large multi compound pupil. Meaning instead of seeing one large image he sees thousands of tiny images, like a fly. Because of this I imagine he’s short sighted, and colour blind. However he is amazing at noticing form movement. Again much like a fly. Also my friend HCs him as a light skin black man so I do as well :).

Belphagor:

Belphie I wanted to make slightly more intimidating. I wanted to make him look gaunt and sickly, experiencing pallor, and with his eyes more deep-set. I also imagine his eyes have a spiral in them, one that if you stare into to long you can’t help but sleep. Also again, same friend HCs him as black so I do as well lol. Shout out to my boy Kris.

The Rest of the Casts eyes are coming soon. But for now we have the brothers!! Lemme know your HCs and who knows maybe I might take them on board lol.

[kiraavi]

banana cream pie

Summary: Joel is heading home after another long haul when he pulls into the travel center for the night. He's been struggling with his attraction to the waitress that works at the diner there, and is tempted to avoid you completely. The promise of coffee and an opportunity to stretch his legs, however, lures him in on a night you just so happen to be working the graveyard shift. CW: smut, pwp, unprotected piv, creampie + related innuendos that may or may not be cringe but I had to commit to the bit, oral f!receiving, a metric fuck ton of dirty talk, implied but unspecified age gap, (Joel is in his 50s, reader's age can really be anywhere from 20s-30s), rough and tough fuckin' with trucker Joel (he's lowkey a bit of a perv), exhibition, dumbification, hairpulling, overstimulation, wee bit of pussy pronoun usage. [No outbreak AU] Note: the demons took over... and I'm gonna be honest, this is 100% pure smut, no additives. It's got the cheesy porno plot and everything. I've been picking away at it for a week, and it's the longest smut I've written thus far!! As always, this was written with my beloved, game Joel (Goel), in mind. Also, reader is written to be plus size/chubby cause I felt like it! Comments, reblogs, and likes are all so incredibly appreciated! I'm always overjoyed to receive feedback. It means a lot to know that people have taken the time to stop by and read my fics. Lot's of love to y'all and happy reading! Word Count: 5.1k Ao3 Link: read here!

For a moment, Joel thinks about retreating into his bunk and winding down for the night, but his eyes dart back to the diner. The welcoming light that pours from the large windows, and the flickering neon open sign. Goddamn does a warm cup of coffee, and the opportunity to stretch his legs after a long drive sound good right about now.

His eyes dart back to the beat up blue hatchback parked around the side. He recognizes it, or rather, he recognizes who it belongs to. He feels like a teenager—you make him feel entirely out of his depth, and he’s not sure why. There’s nothing between you.

You’ve never been anything but friendly and accommodating toward him. You know exactly how he likes his coffee and make for good conversation. The problem lies in what you don’t know—in the moments between a sip of coffee in the diner, and before he passes out in his bunk. The secret between his fist and his cock when all he can think about is you—you in that fucking dress, you with that gorgeous smile, you who treats him with genuine interest. He’s pathetic. As mindless as a moth to a flame. As dumb as a fool to his execution.

When he finally finishes stewing in his guilt, staring blankly at the blinking amber lights of his dashboard, he musters up the courage to leave the comfort of the cab of his truck. He makes the walk across the parking lot a quick one—beneath the light drizzle of rain drops prickling his skin. He forgot his jacket in his truck, but he knows if he returns to his rig now he won’t be able to convince himself to venture back out.

Joel shoulders open the door with a huff as cool air rushes inside with him. The door falls shut and warmth envelops him in its place. He dares a glimpse at his reflection in the smudged glass and cards a hand through his unkempt hair. Turning, he surveys his surroundings for the first time, tamping his boots on the door mat. 

Booths are nestled along one wall, their red pleather upholstery spiderwebbed with fissures that reveal the foam cushioning beneath. Chips and scratches litter the table tops, the varnish worn around the edges where elbows have often come to rest. The checkerboard floor is weathered all the way down the aisle, certain tiles marking the well trodden path. The walls are covered in all sorts of dusty relics; old license plates from various states, road maps, and flags. Posters peel away from the wall at their corners and photographs have yellowed with the years.

He’s certain that this place hasn’t been renovated since its opening. It’s dingy, and unremarkable, and most things here have been wasting away for decades. The diner itself isn’t why he keeps coming back, though. He could just as well head over to the convenience store next door for a quick meal and a drink.

His eyes land on you. You’re standing behind the counter that runs the length of the room, chrome stools with red tops line the other side. You wipe down the surface with a damp rag. The radio crackles, crooning some tune that you’re too busy humming to notice his entrance.

It’s late and the place is empty—as desolated and deserted as the parking lot outside—a far cry from the bustling morning rush on those days when he’s barely able to get a word in while you rush around, topping up coffees or balancing trays of food. But now, you’re lost in your own world, and Joel finds himself hanging onto every second that you’re unaware of his presence because the view is a bit like art; a painting that he wouldn’t mind having hung in his home, or permanently etched into his mind’s eye.

You’re entirely unlike everything else in this tacky, run down diner. You are bright. You radiate warmth. You are something to be admired, cherished, and held dearly, or placed upon some pedestal. And he thinks that he might’ve spent an eternity memorizing every facet of you—every line that makes up your face, every contour that shapes your body—if you didn’t look up just then.

The smile that lights up your face is nothing short of a privilege to witness. He has half a mind to throw a glance behind him because it certainly can’t be for him—he can’t be the reason for something so beautiful. He doesn’t warrant that kind of look, but he’s the only one here and he doesn’t want to make himself look stupid, so he gives a curt nod.

Clearing his throat, he takes a stilted step towards one of the tables before settling into the booth. He watches as you disappear into the kitchen, and return with a coffee pot and mug in your hands. Dutifully, you set the mug in front of him and pour him a cup. The steam curls up into the air and one of his hands wraps around the ceramic mug, feeling its warmth. He glances back at you. You’re still standing there and you look a little antsy. He gets the feeling that he might be your only customer for the night.

“Workin’ the graveyard shift, huh?” He asks, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip. He pulls a bit of a face and sets it back down. The coffee is just okay, always has been, but the coffee isn’t why he keeps coming back. Again, his eyes flit to you.

“Yeah, I needed the extra shift,” you say as you set the coffee pot onto the table before sitting down across from him. He feels your knee brush his beneath the table and his jaw clenches. “And you? Heading home or heading out?”

You lean forward, bracing your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hands, as if preparing yourself to cling to each word he has to say. The angle provides him the perfect vantage point. His eyes naturally snag on the pillowy tops of your breasts and the hidden valley between them. His fist knocks the table as he leans back against the seat, shifting uncomfortably. They look about ready to spill out of that dress with the first two buttons undone. Fuck, had it been unbuttoned when he’d first walked in? Surely.

“Home. Gotta week ‘fore I’m on the road again,” he grumbles, lifting his gaze away from where they definitely shouldn’t be. It means a week before he has a chance at seeing you again. For some reason that thought stirs an ugly feeling within him, twisting and unfolding in the pit of his stomach. The silence stretches between you, and neither of you reach to fill the void. He notices your nails are painted a baby blue to match your dress. Cute. 

The quiet becomes too much and he decides to put an end to it. “What’s the pie of the day this time?” It’s a question that he’s made the habit of asking, but he’s never made the habit of ordering a slice. A little routine between the two of you, and one that instantly has a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You hum as you think it over, making an effort to recall it, and the moment you do, your eyes light up. “It’s banana cream pie.” “Ah? S’it any good?”

“Oh, um, I’ve never tried it before,” you say and your leg jolts against his, your bare skin grazing the denim of his jeans. “Does my opinion matter? Unless you’re actually planning on ordering it this time?”

There’s something about you then—that glint in your eyes, the subtle curve of your smile, the teasing lilt of your voice. You’re adorable. He wants you all to himself. But he can’t have what’s out of reach. He’s struggling to keep up this act around you. The facade that he’s normal about you because he’s anything but normal about you. There’s nothing normal about his feelings for you at all. He is a beast that wants to swallow you whole and you are too naive to see it. Right? He blinks, eyes catching on the low dip of your top again, and then he feels your leg rub up against his once more. The touch feels almost purposeful, but he tries to convince himself otherwise. His imagination, his desire must be conjuring things—gleaning want where there is none. His throat goes dry and he swallows hard. 

“Nah,” his eyes lower to his coffee, still full, but he stands anyway, and you’re standing up with him, looking confused. “I should get goin’, it’s been a long day.”

“Really? Stay and finish your coffee at least, Joel,” you say, stepping closer. He locks up, muscles going rigid. It’s both a curse and a blessing to have shared his name with you last time. The way it floats from your lips, something wispy and reluctant, and in that dulcet tone. It’s euphonic. It does things to him—terrible, awful, thrilling things. 

He swivels around and you’re mere inches from him, peering up at him all doe eyed. He doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with this right now, but you look up at him like that—like a lost puppy trailing after him, and he knows deep down that he never really stood a chance. Not when it comes to you. It’s just been a matter of time—of how long he can manage to convince himself of his own lies and turn the other cheek.

”Did… Did I do something that bothered you?” Your voice wavers. It makes him feel like an ass for ever making you question yourself because there’s not a single thing you’ve done to upset him. The only upsetting thing is the way he feels about you, the way want and desire roil in his gut the moment he so much as sees you, or remembers the fact that you exist. It’s purely impulsive and frustrating, and the most blissful feeling. He never wants to feel this way again and he never wants to stop feeling it simultaneously. Two opposing outlooks at an impasse within him.

“No- No ‘course not,” he says, waving his hand dismissively but you still look so unsure, and his hand lands on your shoulder in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture. His thumb rubs a gentle circle there because he can’t stop himself. “Like I told you, just been a long day.”

You blink, your lip wobbling as you search for your next words. “Oh… it’s just that I was really enjoying your company.”

The last thread of his restraint pulls taut, the flame of tension between you whittling it away, and singeing one tiny, miniscule fibre at a time. You look upon him like he’s something worth a dime—someone of value who merits praise and admiration, but he isn’t. He’s sure that he isn’t anything more than a dumb, pathetic bastard too far ahead of himself to turn back now.

He knows that he’d be a fool to mistake your kindness for interest but, hell, if the way you bat your lashes at him, and worry your bottom lip between your teeth, and sway your hips with every approach isn’t interest, he’s not too sure what is. 

So the thread snaps, giving way to that searing fire and he surges forward, all but stumbling into you. His lips are on yours, clashing with yours—hot and heavy as he licks into your mouth. His breath is hot and laboured, fanning over your face.

You shake in his hold, your hands hovering and unsure of what to do. He pulls away and takes in the sight of you. Flushed and warm with those glossy, wide eyes staring at him in surprise. But you shouldn’t be shocked. You’ve seen this coming, haven’t you?

“You’re just a little fuckin’ tease, ain’t you?” He asks, and you have the audacity to look bewildered, lips parted in a soft exhale. You are good at this innocent act, he’ll give you that. “Knew what you were doin’ the whole damn time, I bet.”

“Yeah, bet you like havin’ that kinda control over a man like me, huh?” He questions, taking a step forward and into you, crowding you against the table. You’re stunned and locked into place, hands falling to grasp the lip of the table. You make no move to push him away. And that’s the confirmation he needs. He’s right. He knows he’s right and it only emboldens him. “Well, are you gonna say somethin’ or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He’s sapped the air right out of your lungs.

“Bullshit, you’ve had me dreamin’ ‘bout this cunt for weeks now,” he scoffs, spinning you around and pressing a hand firm to your back, bending you over the table's edge. He’s got you pinned there.

“Joel…!” You squeak, gasping out.

“Fuck… been achin’ to taste it,” he says as he sinks to his knees behind you, and flips the back of your skirt up. His hands skim up your legs, lingering on the plush of your thighs in gentle up and down motions before grabbing a hold of them and prying them apart. His fingers graze your cotton panties—they’re that same baby blue, he notes. He clicks his tongue when his fingers come away damp. “Yeah, you’ve been drippin’ since I walked through that damn door, haven’t you?”

Your reply comes out as a weak, wavering sound—somewhere between a whimper and a mewl. Not very talkative, huh? There’s none of that denial anymore. No, he’s worked you into submission in a few measly seconds. But this is what you’d wanted. It’s what you’ve been getting at—been wanting some grizzled, old man like him to fuck you until there isn’t a single thought left floating around in that pretty little head of yours. Blissful oblivion.

“You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you, sweet girl?” He asks, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, and dragging the flimsy fabric down your legs. He smacks the side of your thigh when you don’t reply.

“Mhm!” You hum, not so subtly pushing your hips back toward him. Eager little thing. But he’s not one to make things quick. He won’t give you what you want just ‘cause. He’ll relish in it—in the things he can do to you not only with his touch, but the things he can do to you with the absence of it.

“Gotta use your words f’me…” he coos, his thumb pressing into the tender skin where your thigh meets your most intimate place, parting your lips gently. He exhales sharply at the sight—pink and glistening just for him. Precious. “C’mon, be a good girl.”

“Please-! I need you,”  you keen above him, and he can hear the unadulterated desperation dripping from your words. It feeds into him and into his ego—into the beast you’ve created of him.

“Need what? Oughta be specific. ‘M no mind reader,” he murmurs, moving his hand to slide two fingers along your slit as he asks his next question. “D’you need my fingers?”

“My mouth?” Next, Joel leans in close to press a kiss to your inner thigh, just shy of your pulsing heat. He feels your legs quiver at the daring proximity—so achingly close to where you need him and, yet somehow, incredibly far. “Or does this greedy cunt need somethin’ more…?”

He is rock hard in his jeans, uncomfortably so. His erection pushes against his zipper but he ignores it, keeping his sole focus on you—the object of his desire, already weak and warbling from a few infinitesimal touches.

“Uh huh- please, anything…!” You beg so pretty, and how can he deny that? He has you in the palm of his hand, your muddled mind incapable of making a simple decision. You’ve relinquished control and deferred all choice to him. He relishes in it and he takes the responsibility in stride. 

“Poor thing can’t even make a decision for herself,” he says as he draws nearer to lay a kiss over your dripping folds. He flicks his tongue out and his thumbs part you at your seam. You squirm and a moan falls from you. He can’t see your face right now, but Christ, does he wish he could. He’ll just have to settle for his imagination which is something he’s not entirely unfamiliar with.

“That’s okay. You don’t gotta think too hard when I’m here, just have to sit there and take what I give you, right?” He pulls back to whisper, the bridge of his nose ghosting over the sensitive skin. “Just gotta stand there bein’ good and dumb for me…”

Joel doesn’t bother waiting for a response before returning his mouth between your legs. He marks a trail of kisses all the way back to your cunt. And when he tastes you again, he lets out a languid groan, tongue flattening over your clit. He laps and suckles at it, siphoning shuddering moans from your lips. Your hips jolt and he moves higher, prodding at your entrance, flicking his tongue there.

He doesn’t belong here. Nothing he’s ever done renders him deserving of this blessing, but he’ll earn it. You whimper above him—tiny, bitten-off whines tumbling from you over and over as he licks into you, laving over your clit again and again. The sounds are downright obscene, filling the empty room as he feasts on you like it’s his final meal and he’s to die tonight—his last will and testament. His fingers dimple the flesh of your thighs, wrenching you open wider and nudging your entrance again.

You’re close. He can tell in the way your legs begin to tremble and your knees threaten to buckle. His hands lower to brace you, a silent gesture, as if to say ‘I’ve got you.’ And he does. He’s not letting you go until you’ve reached that peak and then some. He returns all his attention to your clit, swirling his tongue and suckling—working you up, up, up and coaxing you over that crest.

“Oh…! Nghh, Joel-!” You wail. Your orgasm is a wavering, jittering thing. He can feel your muscles convulsing against his tongue. He grunts and works you through it, drinking up every last drop. 

It’s too easy to push you down and wind you up. Your body is pliant, willing, and accepting of everything he gives you. Even as it spasms and jerks, a weak sound of protest falling from your lips as he refuses to let up.

This moment, right here in this empty diner, is limbo—a space between two destinations in which time ceases to exist. He can’t get enough of you. He never will. He’s addicted, so he continues to take and take from you. The pleasure he imparts unto you is his own, his cock twitching in his pants.

Joel mouths at your pussy. He does not stop to breathe. He smothers himself in your wet, messy folds, teasing and licking—pushing and pulling. Raising you up and bringing you back down each time he diverts his attention to another sensitive place.

You are a mess. A heap of shaking limbs, sinful sounds, and babbled words—garbled and disjointed pleas. He doesn’t think you realize your own contradictions. A quiet ‘I can’t-’, a stuttered ‘no more’, followed by a ‘please don’t stop!’

He won’t. He will not stop until he’s torn another orgasm from you. He knows that you’re capable—you’ll give him what he wants and comply with his whims because you’re his good girl. You will give him another whether or not it’s dredged from you weeping and tremoring.

And you do. Your body coils like a spring, his hands move to your hips, tugging you closer against his face. One more pass of his tongue and your body unravels, unwinding and releasing all that tension.

“Oh God! Ah- Joel… fuck!” you cry out. When he pulls away, his face is slick with your arousal, droplets clinging to the scruff of his beard. He stands up behind you, his hands coasting up your sides as he does. You’ve gone limp, still folded over the table.

Shucking off his belt, Joel pushes his pants down alongside his boxers, freeing his painfully erect cock. It’s flushed and leaking, aching to be inside you already. He shuffles behind you, guiding his cock between your legs and dragging it over your seam, and slipping it between your pussy lips.

“You let any man have his way with you?” he questions, tapping the bulbous tip against your clit before sliding it back and notching it against your entrance. “D’you spend weeks practically beggin’ for it? Temptin’ any bastard that happens to pass through?”

“No! No, just you, only you.” you say, breath hitching and eyes watering.

“No? Just me? That’s damn right.” He grins and begins to sink inside, drawing a ragged moan from the both of you. Your pussy hugs his cock as it cleaves you open. “This cunt belongs to me.”

He starts off slow, bringing his hands to rest on your waist as he eases in and out of you, feeling your warm, tight walls clutch and flutter around his shaft, seeming to cling and suck him back in each time he pulls out.

“Fuck yes, baby…” he croons, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to set a faster pace. The mug and coffee pot rattle with each thrust that jolts your body against the table. The mug inches closer and closer to the edge. His hips meet your ass, bottoming out with each drive forward. Opening his eyes, his gaze lands on the window in front of you. The two of you look out onto the empty parking lot.

“Would you look at that, darlin’…” he remarks, giving your hip a squeeze to grab your attention and direct it forward. “Anyone could walk on past and see you gettin’ railed… you like that don’t you, though?”

There’s truth to his words. The looming threat doesn’t take away from it. No, your cunt contracts around his shaft, dragging him deeper at the acknowledgement of such an indecent thing. You enjoy the risk—you both delight in it.

To be caught now would be so easy. You’ve been put on display, vulnerable and exposed, beneath the glaring lights reflecting off the glass. Rivulets of rain water slip down the wide, open pane. All it would take is one lone traveler pulling into the parking lot, or the convenience store cashiers switching shifts, and a singular glance in the diner’s direction. 

Just like that, and they would know that you’ve let this man defile you at your place of work. They’d know what a dirty girl you are. But it’s not off-putting in that way that it should be. It’s exhilarating.

“Mhm, you get off on it, filthy girl,” he teases, rolling his hips into you. You’re a wordless, mindless jumble of nothingness beneath him. Completely and utterly drunk on his cock, and unable to string together a single thought, let alone form a coherent sentence. You speak only in helpless mewls and keening moans. His focus is trained on your dazed, dumb expression in the reflection. You look fucking divine.

“Well, go on, look.” He reaches for your hair, tugging it and forcing you to face your mirror image. “Watch me fuck you.”

Joel knows he shouldn’t be so rough with you. You’re fragile and teetering, but he wants you to witness the sight—to face the image of what you’ve been taunting him with for weeks. You’re a work of art. He wants you to know that and remember the reflection in the glass in case this is the last time he bears the privilege of having you in such a manner. 

“Joel, please!” you whine over the wet plap, plap, plap of his thrusts, your hands grappling with the flat table top. He’s not sure what you’re pleading for and he thinks that you might not even know yourself.

He hums, rubbing his hand up along your spine and then back down to the knot of your apron. He tugs it loose, and pulls you upright and against him, tossing the apron aside. Sliding his hands around you he undoes the rest of the buttons of your dress in quick succession until your breasts spill out. 

“My beautiful, fuckin’ perfect girl,” he whispers, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of your neck and then another one as his hands cup your tits, kneading them and feeling the way you shudder against him. 

Joel tips your head back, running his fingers along your jaw in a tender caress. They curl there as he thumbs your bottom lip, prodding and encouraging you to open up before tucking two thick digits inside. Obediently, your mouth closes around them as though it’s a habitual act. He smooths them over your tongue, unable to stifle the strained noise that escapes him.

The silky heat engulfs them and you practically purr, dissolving further into his arms. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a schlick. His hand then slithers down your body and slips between your legs.

He feels the way you’re stretched wide around his girth, wedged open in a way he’s certain you haven’t been before. He continues to rock up into you as he seeks out your swollen clit, fingertips circling the bud in small, vigorous circles. His head drops to your shoulder, feeling that tight, delicious clamp of your pussy. Quiet utterances and muttered curses stashed under his breath flitter over your ear.

“So good… you feel so fuckin’ good, baby…” He drawls, fighting to keep his eyes from clenching shut because he wants to savour this moment and you. Blissed out and empty-headed, taking each inch of him. He adores you—everything about you. Every curve, and dip, and extra bit of plushness.

“You’re so damn perfect,” he moans, his thrusts turning sloppy. If he had the time to dedicate to worshiping every aspect of you he would. He’d spend hours working you through orgasm after orgasm, but you haven’t got the time, and he can feel himself inching closer and closer to his own.

“Shit, I’m close-!” he mumbles, folding you over the table again and following suit. His chest is pressed to your back, and his cock sinks deeper somehow, hips bumping yours against the lip of the table. You slap a hand over your mouth in an effort to suppress your moans.

His arm winds around you, curling beneath your stomach. His hand, large and roughened, fans over the plumpness there—so often hidden by the flared skirt of your dress. He squeezes gently. Groaning, he saws his cock in and out, feeling the unhurried, slick glide as the crown passes over that delicate and sensitive spot inside you. He feels you tense beneath him, another one of your sweet sounds is muffled against your knuckles. His free hand grabs yours and shoves it flat to the table.

“None’a that, darlin’. Lemme hear every damn sound,” he grunts, pressing his palm firmer against your stomach. “Ya feel that? Feel me right fuckin’ here?”

“Yes! Yes, feel you so deep, mmph…!”

“Where do you want it?” he asks, feeling that pressure brim and ache. “Tell me or are you too dumb and drunk on my cock to make up your mind?”

You babble beneath him—a jumbled mess of pleas and yesses, but no definitive answer to the question he has posed. He’s right. You’ve been reduced to a brainless, insatiable, needy thing. Hopelessly keening for more and more even when your body can’t take it.

“It’s alright, baby… I’ll just have to give you a taste of that cream pie you said you’d never tried,” he murmurs, continuing the staggering rhythm of his thrusts.

“Inside’s where ya need it, filling up this greedy cunt, hm?” His voice is hushed, dropping low and husky. The words are like a secret for your ears only. He feels you tense beneath him, a strangled cry is pulled from the depths of you as your walls convulse around his cock. He moans at that sensation. It’s addictive. It’s incredible. You’re writhing and unfurling for him—fracturing into pieces atop quaking legs. “Uh huh, can feel her sucking me in. She’s begging for it, ain’t she?”

“Please, give it to me…” And that’s all the permission he ever needs—that breathless, resigned request.

It’s uncontrollable. The pressure erupts as he bottoms out one last time, nestling deep. His cock swells and twitches, balls drawing tight as relief finally sweeps over him. His hips involuntarily jerk as the first jet spurts inside of you. He sucks in air through his teeth, suddenly feeling deprived of oxygen as his head spins and his mind goes blank. His pelvis spasms, grinding into you. His eyes fall shut and a groan tumbles past his lips. He stays there, shooting warm rope after rope, until he has nothing left to give and then a few moments longer.

When Joel peels himself from you, he slides himself free. Instantly, his eyes catch on your cunt and the way your entrance contracts around nothing. His spend oozes out in what can only be described as an obscene display. 

You lay there panting until you find the will power to stand up and face him. Your legs wobble and you lurch, but he’s there to catch you, propping you up against him. “Easy now,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to brush back a stray hair. 

“Right, sorry,” you say with a giggle, hands braced on his shoulders as you look up at him. You’re damn near delirious. He’s the one who’s brought you to such a state. His stomach churns. His eyes dart between yours and your lips then out the window to his rig in the parking lot. It doesn’t feel right to up and leave, so he makes the decision that he won’t. Not yet.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he murmurs, cupping your face and tilting your chin. You smile up at him. It’s set in stone. He’s set in stone. There’s no pulling him from this moment anytime soon.

“I could go for another cup of coffee,” he says, glancing at the abandoned mug settled right near the edge of the table, its contents now sitting cold, “and I think I’d like to try a slice of that banana cream pie too.”

[tatzelbookwurm]

A Round Door Like a Porthole, Lazarus Green Pt. 1 (you're here) Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Wayne Enterprises didn’t really need a small business specializing in “ecto-weapons” invented by self-purported ghost hunters, but S.T.A.R. Labs tipped Lucius Fox off that Lex Luthor was trying to buy an obscure little company in Illinois, and thwarting Luthor was always worthwhile. Now Tim just had to figure out what to do with all the equipment and the concerningly large arsenal of guns and things that looked like normal household items but seemed to have other, horrific purposes. He would have laughed at the way they slapped “Fenton” in front of every invention name (do ghost hunters really need a Fenton thermos? Won’t a normal thermos keep their coffee hot just as well? Are ghosts like trout, to be caught with a Fenton Ghost Fisher which just looks like a normal fishing rod but glow-in-the-dark. And what the fuck even is a Fenton Peeler!?), but he thought with some chagrin about the batarangs, batmobile, and everything else that had “bat” as a prefix in the batcave. 

However, of all the things Tim hadn’t expected to find when he flew out to do an inventory of assets after they bought the business sight-unseen, a portal generating a Lazarus Pit in gaseous form was probably at the top of his list. He didn’t even know that Lazarus water could change states from a liquid to a gas like that. Maybe there actually was something to the whole ghost thing. He supposed that it made sense for ghosts to exist, after all Deadman was part of Justice League Dark. Speaking of. . . he should see if Bruce could call in someone from JLD to assess things. He was feeling decidedly out of his depth.

John Constantine did not like to consult for mega corporations like Wayne Enterprises, but Batman had specifically requested he go check something out and he figured, where's the harm? 

There. 

There’s the harm. 

It turned out the “thing” he’d been called in to look at is a machine that can tear open a stable portal into the Infinite Realms. That is not something that should be possible. That is not something technology should be capable of achieving. That is definitely not something that should exist. Bloody hell, what had the Bats roped him into!?

This really should have been Zatana’s job. Or Deadman’s. Hell, Raven or Secret would be preferable. Because John would prefer not to be dealing with this. In fact, he would prefer to be back in literal Hell than deal with the crazy shit in the Infinite Realms. Could John handle demons, archangels, and even gods? Yeah. He can bind or exorcize most supernatural threats. Does that mean he relishes the idea of going toe to toe with heavy hitters from the Infinite Realms? Absolutely not. 

Some beings who lived there were just little blob ghosts made from ectoplasm and emotion. Some were the restless undead who could not or would not cross over to their afterlives. And some were the embodiments of concepts like nature, destructive weather, and dreams. He wasn’t sure where Death fit into the Realms, whether she ruled or visited, or if it was actually just an extension of her, but he didn’t really want to find out. There were many things John could defeat. Death wasn’t one of them. And now he was looking at a portal into a realm where the living were not meant to be. 

Danny hadn’t returned to Fenton Works since graduating high school. It turned out that he was less anxious when he was not living with people who fantasized about “tearing him apart molecule by molecule” and thought that discussing their plans to dissect him (although he maintained that it would be a vivisection since he’s only half dead) made for fascinating dinner conversation. Who would have thought that his constant stress, anxiety, and insomnia were caused by environmental factors? He’d been unpacking things with a very nice therapist his sister helped him find, and seen great improvements in his mental health. It really helped that she was dead too, and unlike Spectra she didn’t feed off the misery of her patients.

Danny hadn’t intended to ever return to Fenton Works, but when Jazz told him that Jack and Maddie sold their life's work to Wayne Enterprises and a multibillionaire playboy was about to have unfettered access to the Ghost Zone, he was. . . concerned. To say the least. And that was why he was in the middle of doing some light sabotage when Tim Drake-Wayne and a guy in a trenchcoat who reeked of cigarette smoke entered the basement lab. It’s why he was hiding under the Specter Speeder removing the ecto-engine, and there to overhear the conversation that followed.

“So, am I right in thinking that’s a Lazarus Pit?” Tim asked Constantine.

The older man stared at the portal, then at Tim, then at the portal for an uncomfortably long time. Then he pulled out a flask and drained half its contents before saying, “Yes and no. That is basically the same substance as the pits, but I think that this does something else entirely. It seems like this machine basically functions as a summoning circle, but instead of pulling one entity from one side to the other, this is just an open doorway that is perpetually pulling in anything or anyone who gets within its sphere of influence.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing, John.”

“It’s really not,” 

“So what does that mean, is it like a blown hatch in space causing rapid depressurization?” Tim felt a little ill at the thought. “What is it even pulling into our world?”

“No, no. Nothing so dramatic as that. It’s more like, hm, so the way summoning circles work is they invite or compel a specific entity to manifest, by basically making a one-way magical portal for them. This portal is kinda like an invitational summoning, which entices, but doesn’t force anyone to enter. Usually a summoning will have a purpose though, and the being you summon will be offered a deal. If this is doing what I think it is and pulling citizens of the Infinite Realms through and leaving them on this side without a contract or direction, they’re probably getting pretty frustrated and causing havoc. It’s like offering someone a job in another country so they have to get a visa and uproot everything, only to get off the plane and find an empty office, no housing, and no paycheck.” John lit up a cigarette and took a drag.

Tim wrinkled his nose, but knew from long experience that it wasn’t worth it to argue about American tobacco restrictions in the workplace with Constantine, especially while the man was doing him a favor. Also, the man looked like he really needed either a cigarette or another drink, and he’d prefer second hand smoke to a drunk sorcerer. “So then why hasn’t this town been overrun by these beings from the Infinite Realms?”

“Good question kid, but what I really want to know is how is this portal staying open? Really, how was it opened in the first place is the most pressing issue.” John mused.

Tim had already located the blueprints for the portal while waiting for Constantine, but either the Fentons had intentionally falsified the documents to seem plausible just long enough to make off with the money, or he just didn’t understand enough of the interaction between physics and the occult to comprehend how the portal could possibly function. 

He flipped back through the blueprints while the blond man sat cross legged in front of the swirling green portal and his low, distracted mutterings took on the cadence of a chant. The curl of smoke from his lit cigarette unfurled into some kind of spell array, and began to glow. Huh, maybe Tim shouldn't be too quick to judge him for tobacco misuse. Tim triple checked the flat file for any more information about the portal, and came up empty handed.

John, meanwhile, kept chanting as the magical array grew and spread to encompass the entire entrance to the portal. At last he stopped speaking and stood up, stepping back to double check his work. ���Alright, Drake. You might wanna close your eyes for this one. It’s gonna be bright,” he said, popping his cigarette back between his lips. Then he stepped forward and blew a mouthful of smoke on the center of the array. The smoke caught against the softly glowing lines, pushing them until they floated back and collided with the nebulous green swirls and, despite Tim closing his eyes, flashed so incandescently white he could see them through his eyelids.

“OW! Fuck!!” John clutched his face, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’m doubling my consulting fee,” he grumbled under his breath.

“You alright?” Tim asked, blinking spots out of his vision.

“Yeah, yeah. Just give me a sec.” He too was blinking now. “That was not supposed to be so bright.”

“I’m assuming it worked though.”

“It had bloody well better ’ave worked.” The older man squinted at the slightly dimmer lines which still shone painfully bright against the green. “Oh. Yeah, that worked. Fuck. . .”

“What?” Tim looked on in alarm as Constantine pressed a hand over his mouth. 

“Oh man. What wanker did you say created this portal?”

“Presumably Drs. Madeline and Jack Fenton. Why?” He drew the last syllable out skeptically. 

“Because, they opened this portal with a child sacrifice, and bound his death and all the lost life potential to their bloody machine to create a perpetual gateway to the Infinite Realms.”