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sugurouge · 28 days ago

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── in your hand. from my heart. hades! sylus x persephone! female! feader

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, dark contentish, mdni: stalking, kidnapping, aphrodisiacs, dark magic, rituals, marking, loss of virginity, slight corruption, obsession, manhandling, multiple orgasms, pet names, size difference, praise, body worship

♱ word count: 16k

♱ synopsis: You never asked for the shadows to love you but the god who rules them has deemed you his obsession. Sylus watches, yearns, and finally steals what Olympus never deserved to keep. You should hate him. You do. Yet the underworld feels less like a prison, and more like a sanctuary awaiting your claim.

author’s note: I’ve adapted the original Hades and Persephone myth to better suit Sylus’s story and personality. While I’ve strayed from the soulmate bond (since gods don’t have souls) I’ve imagined a sort of darker, ancient thread of fate to connect Sylus and reader

I recommend listening to Even In Arcadia :)

You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told. When everyone else told me i was destined to be a forgotten nymph that nurtured flowers and turn meadows gold, you saw that the ichor that resides in me demanded its own throne. You showed me how a love like ours can turn even the darkest, coldest realm into the happiest of homes.” ― Nikita Gill

Many wars begin with a whisper. The God of the Underworld may have never expected to wage war against himself. They are quiet at first, nothing but sultry temptations dancing at the edge of Sylus's mind, enticing him with promises of you, of fate, of the inevitable. Urging, no, commanding him to take what is his.

Sylus resists. For now.

However, the whispers never cease. They dig their claws deep within his being, weaving their way through his thoughts to haunt him relentlessly until they become a part of him. All sparks kindle new flames, and this obsession sears, cuts, and bleeds into every waking moment, every fevered dream. Always, her . Always, you . The girl embraced by sunlight. The daughter of sky and soil, too radiant to be held by either. She who treads through fields that bow to her, who crafts blossoms with her loving care, who beckons earth to summon spring and chase away the biting cold and darkness of winter.

A pulse of new life, a being of warmth. Your presence bends the very fabric of existence: your laugh causes the trees of Olympus to shudder in delight, and the tunes you hum bring the rivers to still to listen to your beautiful voice. Treasured, you remain untainted by darkness and desire, by everything that clings to Sylus like a second skin.

Though he has cherished you equally from the depths of his realm, the King of the Dead, meant for an existence without everything you embody, has watched your every moment. He knows you do not belong to the Underworld—you do not belong to him—and yet, he wants your divinity to grace his lonesome heart.

Neither reason nor logic may be found behind his obsession. How could something so untouched by shadow, so wholly good, possibly stir the hunger inside him unbearably?

────────── ♱

To your ears, the whispers have always been there. They called for you in the rustling of the olive trees, in the wind slipping through wheat fields. But it is at the end of a long day, in the stillness settling just before dusk, when the whispers' embrace finds you again.

As a child, you mistook them for a fantasy of your lonesome moments, an imaginary friend your mother brushed off. But time removed the layers that painted them an illusion. These are not the voices of imagination. They stir from something older, something waiting to welcome you home. They linger in the shadows, out of reach but ever near, watching you blossom. They are a presence unseen yet felt, accompanied by ruby eyes piercing through the dark.

Two dots, burning like embers, keep you company as you dance through the realms of dreams. Guarding you, cherishing you.

They first caught your attention while hiding in the branches of a forest. You told yourself that the moment had been fleeting, a trick of the light. Yet the sensation of being watched continued to press against your skin and sink into your very bones.

You never mention them, not to your mother, not to the nymphs, never to your father. Not after the debacle upon the confession of the whispers clouding your mind.

Agreed, it was foolish to believe something could possibly lurk in the corners of your world, to imagine that the unseen figure belonged to something more than a waking dream. But the truth had never been so simple: Mephisto has been watching you for years.

A shadow among fruit trees, a winged guardian keeping its master's gaze locked upon you. The crow found a home on your windowsill, in the canopy of trees—wherever you went, he was sure to follow. Each sighting, each fragment of your life gathered in the folds of darkness, only deepened Sylus's craving.

Though he remained in his realm.

After all, the God of the Underworld was not a creature of impulse, no, he was patient, methodical, and ruthless in his desires.

From his throne cradled by obsidian halls, Sylus watched you grow from an innocent flower into something untamed, something the gods of Olympus could never truly fulfil. It was not merely your beauty—yet he would never deny the allure of your glistening skin under the sun, your hair flowing in the air, or the delicate curve of your lips whenever you smiled. But it was the spirit beneath the surface. You were no ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. Not with the fire you carry within.

A fire Sylus longed to set ablaze, longed to hold in his cold, empty hands.

It took Sylus longer than he first anticipated to weave the strands of fate in his favour. His influence may stretch long and deep, seeping into the world above like rotten roots blighting the earth. However, abducting a goddess required planning. But he yearned to see you through his own eyes, to touch you with his own hands, to hear your voice rise in ecstasy and anger.

The golden light of the late afternoon leaves its loving kiss on your skin to craft a creature of warmth as you move through fields of endless gold. You stray far from the others, lost in the simple pleasure of the breeze, of the flowers, and of the rivers greeting you.

The moment is peaceful until it isn't.

Suddenly, the world itself seems to shift as even the wind stills.

A shadow darker than any you have ever witnessed spreads like thunderclouds over the once sun-kissed lands. They chase away the light and its warm hold, replacing it with something cold that wraps around your senses like a viper ready to strike.

A chill chases down your spine while your widened eyes search for the true reason for your distress. It is only upon another turn that you finally see him.

Standing at the edge of the fields, as if undaring to breach the final boundary between your bodies, he watches you. A figure of impressive, near looming height, dressed in flowing black garments with shadows dancing at the edges of the seams. Long hair cascades down his back and frames his shoulders, its silver-tone a stark contrast against the twisted horns curved atop his head to frame a face too sharp, too cruel, too impossibly beautiful. His intense eyes smoulder like burning coals, causing your gaze to drop to the blood-red ruby in his chest.

Neither a fight nor a flight response kicks in as you realise his familiarity. Those eyes—you know them from the darkness of night—remember them staring at you as you caught them from the corners of your eyes.

"You," nothing but a breathless whisper, but oh does it tug on Sylus's heart to finally hear your unfiltered voice—in recognition at that. He ignores the tentative step you take backwards. A part of him perhaps pities you for the freedom you are about to lose.

"You've been watching me," you dare to accuse. While your voice may not shake, the tremble in your hands is as evident as the longing in Sylus's eyes.

But he can't lose his composure just yet. He can't scare away his prey through his own foolish greed. A slow, knowing smirk on his lips is his attempt to act nonchalant.

"Of course."

Revulsion battles with another deeper, more twisted emotion buried in your bones. And finally, finally , your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but upon the first turn of your ankle, a snap of fingertips follows, and darkness shoots out like tendrils all around you. Not to split the earth beneath but to finally bring his world into awaiting arms.

The mist pulls you forward, closer to the being at the edge of the field. Panic claws up your throat, causing your voice to become a broken, raspy screech as you struggle against the pulsing shackles around your figure. "Let me go!" You try to warn him, fighting and clawing at nothing but shadows. But your struggle doesn't hinder Sylus. If anything, your fighting spirit amuses him.

Yes, he seems magnified by the racing rise and fall of your chest, by the widened pupils and blazing anger flashing across your features. "You fight like a young wildcat," he muses in a sultry voice, tilting his head as if admiring you in deep thought. "Claws bared, teeth flashing."

A scoff follows from your lips while you twist and turn with all the strength you can muster up. And still, his expression remains one of idle fascination. As if this, too, was exactly as Sylus had imagined.

"Mhm, you shine brightly, my dear," Sylus teases before one finger curls toward him. It is a simple gesture that sends another wave of black and red force to come crashing around you, steal the breath from your lungs, and cause your fighting spirit to falter in exhaustion.

The world may turn blurry; your knees may give way, but you do not crumple into the ground. Not when strong arms can finally cradle you. Sylus moves fast, almost too eager yet incredibly fluid to catch you. One arm wrapped around your waist is enough to cradle you against him. A gentle, near-ticklish touch glides along the back of your thighs before lifting your feet off the ground.

He carries you like an offering he already claimed. "Hush now," a mumble in a way that could render you willing, that should convince you to find comfort in his arms.

At least to his calculations.

But you do not.

How your body twists in his grasp, how your fists hammer against his chest—it is almost enough to infuriate him. Of course, it does not hurt, not physically, but your vehement rejections land piercing blows to his ego. Part of him believed you would willingly run into his arms and would recognise this connection you share.

Oh, was he wrong.

"Put me down!" Sylus assumes that the command is the first of many to follow in the future.

But he is quick to understand the need to act it off. He has to pretend to be unbothered by your distaste for him. So, after steeling his resolve, crimson eyes glance down to face your glare head-on. Newfound amusement dances across Sylus's features, accompanied by a burning passion whirling through glistening flecks of gold in his gaze. "I would, but I fear you might run."

"I will!" you bite back while struggling harder against the confident hold of your captor. "I will run, and I will never stop!"

Something akin to a purr rumbles inside Sylus's chest. His smile widened, slow and indulgent, at the prospect of a game. "Don't tempt me so…" he mumbles in adoration while leaning in to nudge the tip of his nose against yours.

Fury seems to burn brighter than your fear by now, though it did not change the scene that unfolded.

The fields, the light, the warmth of the sun— everything vanishes into the abyss. Only him, only the darkness, the scent of smoke and myrrh remains as the blackened energy whips around your entangled bodies and pulls you down.

Sylus hides his face in the crook of your neck, and as much as you drown in darkness and despair, does Sylus finally drown in warmth and sweetened notes of fruits and florals.

No matter how much you struggle in his loving hold, ultimately, there is no escaping the force that drags you downward. The sun becomes a distant memory before it is gone entirely. The home you knew and cherished is no longer a place to return to.

────────── ♱

Now everything is new. No, it is not new; it is different. Other . This silence seems suffocating, so unlike the gentle hum of life or the breeze in the leaves, it feels like finality. It presses against your skin like the desperate hands of drowning souls trying to grasp their chance for life anew.

Vast and endless, a silence that does not belong to the living.

"You're awake."

Your breath falters at the commanding voice reverberating inside these grand, dark halls. The only source of light falls from the flickering glow of lanterns filled with ethereal blue fire. The shadows in this realm appear to stretch longer across the polished floors, and at the heart of it all, he sits on a throne made to be feared and cowered before.

The figure that has stolen you from the world above. The God of the Underworld. Known to the mortals as Hades, known among gods as Sylus .

He waits for you with bated breath. Hoping for you to speak, to move, to give him anything he could work with. Perhaps you sense his hidden distress, at least that is what Sylus tells himself, since you finally part your lips.

"Why am I here?" Your voice is hoarse, raw from the screams of your fight.

A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of Sylus's lips while he watches your impatience sprout like weeds. So unlike the gentle goddess, you present yourself to be.

"I concluded it was time for you to come home."

The words slam into you, twisting and turning until anger surges to victory and leads you to stagger to your feet. "This—" You pause right after the first word to allow yourself another glimpse at these forsaken halls. " This is not my home!" There's so much bark for such little bite, you look entirely endearing to Sylus.

So, unsurprisingly, he does not fall for your temper. Instead, he remains unmoving. His lips are sealed, and no arguments follow. He only watches patiently, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out of this tantrum.

It's almost like he already knew the end of your tale.

"Take me back." The demand leaves your lips with a confidence Sylus has not yet seen. Oh , and this look, the determination in your eyes, awakens the desire he tries to keep at bay.

Why not coax the spark into a blaze?

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, followed by a gentle sigh of satisfaction. There is only one word, two syllables, and its meaning is distinctive: "No."

The thundering echo of father's famous rage appears to ring true inside your frame as your fingers curl into fists and the ground of the Underworld starts to shake. Perhaps it already recognises its queen. "You have no right!" Is your angered accusation towards the god who remains unbothered by your distress.

Sylus is indeed unbothered, but for differing reasons than one might suspect. His mind is distracted by how willingly his home, his realm, welcomes you in, bends to you, and kneels at your will.

Shadows darkened his face upon the tilt of his head, and the amusement that once danced across his features vanished in the blink of an eye. When he speaks again, his voice is soft but cuts through the air all the same. "I have every right."

The weight of his words presses down on you, heavy as the walls of this palace. You try to find reason and desperately make sense of the situation you find yourself in. But there is none. Only panic, worry, and fear are your newfound companions through the dark reaches of the Underworld.

Your mother will search for you; the gods above will not stand for this, and there will be consequences.

Yet any possible consequence means little to Sylus.

Eventually, he rises from his throne in a slow and graceful motion, serving as a reminder of his prominence. He is tall, impossibly so, and his form casts a long shadow over you, staging as claws of a predator while they reach for his prey.

You flinch away from the outstretched hand, but something so feeble could never stop a god possessed. Sylus's fingers brush against your cheek—light, worshipping—before he pulls back too soon. Though his eyes, warm and filled with unspoken wishes, remain on you, to study you like the most precious treasure.

His treasure.

"You were always meant to be here," Sylus eventually murmurs, breaking this seemingly still moment between you two. Even if you don't see it yet," he adds, before halting not just his words but also the fingertips that almost brushed against your shoulder. "You are made for me."

With these words, Sylus turns to leave and vanishes into the endless corridors beyond. Though your words of hatred become his companion, they echo off the palace halls.

"I will never belong to you!" A vow, a promise, a warning spoken with conviction.

How much truth rings true may only be deciphered in the future, but Sylus seems already sure of the outcome, judging by the small, knowing smile spreading on his lips after he mumbles, "We shall see," like a secret between himself and the darkness around him.

You stand motionless, every muscle in your body tense, perhaps even trembling, as you remain stubbornly unwilling to accept the cold finality of your circumstances. The grandeur of the palace is impressive, though to you, it feels like a cage. The polished black stone reflects your form in taunting echoes as you wander through forgotten halls and corridors.

Your anger seems to boil like a volcano about to erupt, a force even nature yields beneath. You are a goddess, not a helpless mortal ready to be toyed with. And yet, you were taken, stolen in the bright afternoon sun.

────────── ♱

Time moves strangely here. Day and night have no meaning when neither the sun nor moon chase another across the sky. Instead, you are suspended in the void, accompanied by an ever-burning firelight. You have lost track of how long it has been since he stole you away, but the hunger inside you sharpens with each passing hour.

In silence, you defy Sylus. Sealed lips, empty stomach and eyes filled with hatred render the God of the Underworld near helpless. The plates of ripened fruit and honeyed delicacies tempt yet do not manage to break your will. The air, filled with sweet scents of pomegranates, figs, and golden-crusted bread, is in equal amounts ignored as the goblets of wine.

Hunger gnaws at you; it scratches against the hollow of your stomach, but your resolve is stronger.

Through it all, Sylus watches. He does not force you, does not plead or beg for you to see reason. But he also does not take pity. No, he simply leans against the framed passage to your chamber, muscles bulging from the fold of his arms across his chest.

He only watches.

It is infuriating.

"Refuse me all you want." Sylus's words snap you out of your trance-like state. You haven't even realised his movements, but he sits across from you by now. The ruby on his chest pulses in the dim light as though it has a heartbeat of its own.

He might as well pass a statue, a thing of immortal beauty and cruel stillness, were it not for his eyes—those endless red depths, watching you with emotions akin to something patient and knowing.

"Starving yourself won't help," he continues in an attempt to break your silence. Perhaps you only need a nudge in the right direction? The domineering aura relaxes once Sylus leans back against the cushioned chair, literally opening himself up to you and your scrutinising gaze.

There it is. That familiar glare he has come to appreciate.

His fingertips drum against the chair's armrest, seemingly anticipating whatever you finally offer him.

"I want to go home."

The words surprise him, though do not infuriate. Instead, he appears concerned at your undying defiance. A slow blink follows a momentary freeze of his figure before a lick across his lips wet them. "You are home," Sylus reassures you with a quiet, seemingly compassionate voice.

It further fuels your anger. "This is not my home!" The words bounce off the palace once more, as they have for the past days since Sylus brought you here.

He exhales a puff of air while pinching the bridge of his nose. Silver strands of hair slip forward upon the tilt of his head, accidentally catching the firelight to illuminate the piercing rubies beneath his bangs. "And yet, you were meant to be here. Can't you feel it?"

You can, which is the most terrifying part of all. Something disturbs your peace within whenever Sylus is near you. It should not be there, this pull, this inexplicable gravity that makes it hard to look away. But it is always there, and it only grows stronger with each passing day.

You try to push it off as nothing but the old magic of this place, the way the very walls seem to recognise your presence. But it is not just the Underworld that calls to you.

It is him. And you hate him for it. Even more so hate the realisation of your influence over him: Sylus hesitates on the rare occasions you say his name out loud, as though it carries a power even he does not understand. His gaze always lingers too long; his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He is the God of the dead, ruler of this forsaken realm, feared by all—and yet, you begin to wonder if you are the one meant to rule over him.

While these thoughts may not change your anger, grief, or longing for the world above, they shift something within you.

Until one night, your hunger eventually wins.

Perhaps the servants left the plates out on purpose. The truth may never be revealed, nor is it important in the grander scheme of things. The only thing that mattered now was the intoxicatingly sweet scent of fruits that lingered on throughout your sleepless night. The warning voice inside your mind rings hollow; it pales in comparison to the glistening cuts of fresh harvest tempting your restless figure teetering at the edge of your bed.

You should not.

But your stomach twists, your body weakens, and the scent lures you in to take step after step until you stand in front of the silver platters. Without thinking or comprehending your mistake's finality, your fingers close around a small pomegranate seed, glistening like a drop of blood.

The moment it slides down your throat, the air in the room changes. It is a subtle shift at first, a whisper, then a gust of wind, usually unbeknown to this isolated place.

One pulse is all it takes for Sylus to stand in the archway of your chamber once more, like he has done many times before—watching, waiting. Your breath is unsteady, the weight of your actions sinking into your stomach like lead. And unlike the despair coursing through your body, victory curls Sylus's lips into a small, satisfied smile.

"You understand now, don't you?" His voice is low, almost gentle, perhaps influenced by the horror visible in your helpless gaze. You swallow hard as you try to find your voice, your reason, yourself . But the only possible solution is to blame it all on Sylus.

"What have you done?"

Now you irritate him. His brows crease upon your accusation, though his calm demeanour does not crumble. "What have you done?" he much rather returns the question right back to its sender to watch your defiance finally break.

Trembling hands appear tainted to your blurry gaze as you look down in disbelief. They are clean, but to you, each tip seems stained with the juicy remnants of your sin.

The truth is an unbearable thing.

You cannot leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

Never again.

The realisation crackles like the fireplace, though you have never felt this cold. With slow steps, the distance you so fiercely fought for diminishes until Sylus stands right before you.

This time, you refuse to flinch when his hand reaches for you; his fingers trace the air in between before closing around your wrist. Skin to skin, you realise the chill that clings to his touch, though an unfamiliar fire courses through your veins, a traitorous response you loathe yourself for.

Sylus turns your hand over and lifts it to his lips. The first gentle brush of lips against your palm is enough to send shivers down your spine. It is a kiss as soft as the brush of a feather; however, the warmth of his breath lingers, seeping into your flesh and marking you in ways deeper than any chain could.

"You belong to this realm," he murmurs into your palm, his lips grazing each word into your skin. "And you belong to me."

Irritation in its purest form hardens Sylus's features as you yank your hand from his hold. You should really stop fighting; you should stop despising him. "The damage is already done," he whispers beside your ear, though he does not touch you this time.

You can feel it—this invisible thread that ties you to him, to this place, to the very darkness that seems to sprout within you. "I hate you," you whisper in return.

Momentarily, a flicker of hurt passes through those crimson depths before Sylus takes a step back, and you might even start to regret your declaration until a slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth.

"You say that now," he says softly, "but you have already begun to change."

────────── ♱

His words ring true.

The air in the Underworld is different now. It hums with an energy that wasn't there before, a certain pulse in the walls, the ground, and the air you breathe. You feel it around you; it seeps into your bones and reshapes something deep inside you. It is a dark and restless presence that lingers like the weight of your mistake, like the warmth of his lips against your palm.

There is no time to mourn your fate in silence and isolation, not with Sylus. He comes to you more often now, no longer content to watch from the shadows. His presence is as constant and inevitable as the burning torches that line the palace halls.

Sylus never forces, but he does not relent either. He pushes, always pushing the boundaries you fight so hard to uphold. But his endurance might be one of his most impressive qualities.

The pursuit is a slow, insidious thing that sneaks into your veins like the pomegranate's curse. He touches you more deliberately—a palm at the small of your back as he guides you through the corridors, fingers graze your wrist when you pass him in the grand halls, a featherlight brush of his knuckles along your jaw when you glare at him too fiercely.

It is maddening.

And yet, your pulse races when his lips hover near your ear when his voice spills honeyed words against your skin.

He seeks you out, always, even in your chambers, especially in your chambers, where the air is heavy with your sweetness.

"You are avoiding me," his musing tone catches you off guard. If it weren't for his proximity, for the body looming behind your back, you would whirl around to glare at the uninvited guest. "And you fight so hard," Sylus's breath is warm against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

How his lips yearn to taste you.

It's as though he enjoys your rejections more than an open welcome. You're too adorable this way as if you truly were to believe your acts of defiance could help against fate itself.

"I have no desire to entertain you" is a grumble as you turn further away from Sylus. But for each step you take away from him, Sylus takes two in return.

"That is a lie." His presence presses against your senses, unrelenting in his pursuit. Sylus happily witnesses the goosebumps his touch leaves in its wake with the gentle ghost of his fingertips along your arm. "Your body betrays you so very clearly, my beauty."

Your heart thrums within your chest, so loud it nearly succeeds in drowning out the teasing lilt in his voice—almost, but not quite. Because you're too attuned to him now, too ensnared by the pull of his presence to resist for much longer. Whether caused by fury or the desire to look into crimson eyes, you turn and face Sylus, drawn as if by fate itself to those infernal, beautiful features. "You tore me from everything—my life, my mother. How could I ever—"

Oh, you are ravishing like this, even more so with that sinful glare upon the knowing, near-cheeky smile on Sylus's lips. "Because you are mine." A light touch weaves its way through your fingers, tickling your palm and wrist to brand your skin with his longing.

A nudge from Sylus's free finger tilts your chin up, effortlessly forcing your glare to focus back on his eyes. That little gasp from your lips beckons him to close the scant distance between your mouths. "Hate me, curse me, reject me," Sylus murmurs with a voice as dark as the abyss itself, "it will only deepen my love for you."

The heat in his stare makes your stomach twist in ways you fail to comprehend, in ways you refuse to acknowledge fully. You do not answer, cannot answer, because some terrible, secret part of you shudders in delight at how right his claim feels even as your mind rebels against him.

He is too close to the point that his scent clouds your better judgment while silver hair falls past his shoulders to tickle your skin. Momentarily, you consider running your fingers through the long strands.

Instead, reason calls upon you to press your hands against Sylus's chest to push him away—but he feels so good beneath your touch that you fail to pursue your goal.

And he notices, of course, he does. His muscles give way beneath your palms as Sylus leans in a fragment closer. "You are fighting something inevitable, my love," he whispers against your temple. "Do you not feel it? The pull?"

You do, and you loathe yourself for it.

Long, greedy fingers trail along your collarbone; it's nothing but a ghost of a touch meant to unravel. "I could make this easier for you, little goddess," a gentle murmur of affection, though his voice remains laced with amusement, with something far more wicked. "Or you could keep resisting. Either way, you have me wrapped around your finger."

Despite the raging pulse that betrays your resistance, you snap at the God of the Underworld. Once more, forever more, Sylus's own heart skips a beat at the rejection of his feisty goddess. "I would sooner wither."

The words could have caused him to fall apart in this instance if he had lower self-control.

Perhaps it is this very realisation that causes Sylus to chuckle. Low and deep and true, the sound vibrates against your skin. "Would you?" His lips nearly kiss the shell of your ear. "Tell me, do you truly despise this?"

Worshipping hands slide down your arm; they trace the curve of your wrists and ultimately entwine with your fingers. A moment passes before your hands are lifted to his mouth for Sylus to press kisses across your knuckles.

Only now do you realise the beautiful and heavy set of his lashes and the gentle crease of his brows as if this act alone could convey the undying embers of his love, which burn hotter than his breath against your skin.

The sensation sends a sudden jolt through you, something unfathomable if you remain insistent on denying your own affections. This tender moment ends with a sudden yank to free your hands from his reverent hold, though it does not darken Sylus's mood.

"You are insufferable," you grumble all over again, to which Sylus chuckles. The sound is neither cruel nor mocking. No, it is like the weightless reassurance of a man who knows you will come to him in the end.

────────── ♱

The Underworld is not the lifeless void you once assumed it to be. Its unexpecting offer is more impressive than what you first granted: Through the dark pits of Tartarus, the paradise of Elysium and the barely noticeable meadows of Asphodel flow rivers like silver snakes, their surfaces rippling with unseen currents, only disturbed by Charon transporting souls across the Styx. Shadows curl and move, whispering in the voices of the hopeless and lost. And the sky here? It's not black but a deep, endless twilight speckled with stars that do not belong to the world above.

And rather than simply accepting your fate, you embrace it now.

Your reflection reveals it first. In the land of the dead, you flourish. Your skin shines with renewed energy while a new-found hunger lingers in your eyes, craving more than sustenance. Your gowns are also different now: darker, tighter, more opulent, and made for the station Sylus insists is yours. Jewels glint at your throat, wrists, hair, gifts, all of them, from him .

You tell yourself you wear them only because you have no choice, but deep down, you know better.

The realm accepts you now. It bows to you in small ways—doors open before you touch them, whispers grow soft when you pass. The Underworld does not take just anyone. It takes queens. One queen. His.

Sylus does not bother to hide anymore. He is not just waiting for you to succumb—he is guiding you toward it, coaxing you, moulding you. His every interaction carries intent: every touch is a test, every word a step closer to something inevitable.

One evening, he corners you in the dim glow of the throne room to tease and tempt you until you want to flee. Your steps back ultimately cause you to stagger into his chest through the calculated tug on your wrist. Grasped between his thumb and pointer finger, your face is directed towards his own; your head tipped back for your lips to part invitingly.

"You wear my gifts well," Sylus murmurs the compliment while rendering you defenceless thanks to the simple brush of his thumb against the swell of your lower lip, "they were made for you, and you were made for me," a hushed promise spoken against the shell of his ear.

Shamelessly, his head dips lower, and you feel his nose against your jawline, feel him inhale your floral scent deeply as though attempting to fill his entire being with you before pressing a singular kiss filled with longing against the racing pulse dancing beneath the thin skin of your neck.

"What?" He continues this solitary conversation. "Are you not going to hiss at me?" The quirk of his brow is infuriating—infuriatingly attractive.

"I was not made for you," you force the reply, a sweet attempt to seem as repulsed as before, but the words come weaker than you intend.

At that, Sylus can't help but laugh. The sound is low and rich, and it's exclusively for you.

The grand finale of tonight's pursuit follows in the shape of Sylus's lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but rich enough in intensity to make you wonder what it would feel like if he truly claimed you.

────────── ♱

The arrival of Hermes shatters the fragile dynamic that has begun to blossom from your connection with Sylus.

He appears without warning, a figure of golden light and refined grace, with flaxen hair and eyes of near-luminescent blue. Xavier. His movements are effortless, fluid, a beacon of hope in the heavy stillness of the Underworld. With him, he carries the expectations of Olympus, and for the first time in weeks, you remember what it felt like to breathe in fresh air, to feel the sun's kiss upon your skin.

Yet there is something sharper about him here in this place of no belonging—his smile is edged with mischief, his ivory tunic ripples with divine energy. A calculative gaze flicks to you, then to Sylus, who remains seated on his throne, utterly unbothered by the unwelcome interruption.

The messenger neither bows nor cowers. "Well," Xavier says, his arms moving to cross as he leans against a pillar. "The king of gods has spoken."

Sylus tilts his head at the mention of your father, clearly unimpressed. He eyes the messenger amid his grand hall, mustering the God of trade and luck. "Has he now?" Despite the calm tones in Sylus's voice, there is a dangerous edge lurking beneath its surface. By now, you can tell as much.

Xavier's gaze momentarily returns to you. Emboldened by the solemn vow to bring the harvest goddess's beloved daughter back to the realm of living, he speaks. "Your mother grieves. The earth withers in her sorrow. You are to be returned to Olympus immediately."

Freedom? A return… home?

For a fleeting, breathless moment, the words cause a flutter to take wing inside your chest—like a bird stirring from its slumber after a long night. Hopeful, fragile, aching to believe. But then you notice how Xavier speaks of you. Not to you, no over you.

To be returned, not to return.

You move slowly and find Sylus already watching you. His attention pushes down on you with unspoken words and painful longing while restless fingers drum against the jet-black glass of his throne. Then, without looking away, he plays his final card.

"She has long eaten the fruit of my realm."

Xavier sighs dramatically at the desperate antics from the God of the Underworld. "Yes, yes , and you've tied her to you now. Very clever." He glances at you once more before meeting crimson head-on with cerulean. "But the world above cannot survive without her. You know this."

Sylus lifts a hand, demanding immediate silence from the messenger without another glance in his direction. Rising from his throne, he crosses the chasm between your bodies with purposeful steps until the distance wanes and bends like fate itself. He does not stop until his presence surrounds you and his hot breath ghosts over your lips.

Gentle fingertips find your jaw for a touch equally sinful as tender. Possessive. Worshipful. The pad of Sylus's thumb lingers beneath your chin, tilting your face for him to adore your every angle. "You are mine," he murmurs, low and intoxicating. "Even if I let you go, you will return."

The certainty of his claim causes your heart to falter, and you feel yourself falling apart, unravelling beneath his acts of devotion. You hate him for it. You hate that a part of you knows he is right.

Xavier watches the exchange with an arched brow. "Charming as always" is a mockery of God, who never showed romance to any being prior to you.

Though the words fly past the bubble created by Sylus's longing for you, you're enthralled by the hypnotising allure of tender lips that, once more, press slow kisses onto your hand. "My queen," he speaks the title into your skin as though searing your being with your future power and might.

Eager to escape this scene of lust and devotion, Xavier attempts to break this tension by clearing his throat before speaking: "Then I assume we have reached a compromise."

"A compromise?" Sylus echoes in wonder, though neither of you flees from the ensnaring heat crafted through your eyes as if the very act of looking at another was a ritual in itself.

"You will release her," Xavier declares, the decision carried by the weight of Olympus. Sylus already parts his lips to retort, though the messenger beats him to it. "And she will return to her mother, as the divine law demands. However…” Xavier's gaze moves to you, seemingly softer, mournful almost. "Since she has tasted your realm, she is now tied to it. Therefore, she shall walk between both worlds. She will return to you for half of the year until duty calls for her to step into the light of Olympus for the remaining months."

Sylus's grip tightens on your hand; a faint tremble to his fingers betrays his opulent presence. The smugness he wears like armour fades into a scowl. Turning to Xavier, Sylus pulls you to stand behind him with a possessiveness akin to a dragon threatened to lose his treasure.

His body turns into a shield between you and the final sentence of Olympus.

"She will depart with me today," Xavier continues unconcerned, "And until her eventual, unfortunate return to the Underworld, you shall be tested. Your patience, your virtue, the purity of your devotion to the Goddess of Spring,"

Xavier's conclusion leaves no room for arguments. A flicker close to triumph dances through the messenger's eyes as the God of death and shadows has been brought to his knees, even if only for a season.

"So be it," Sylus murmurs before, all too soon, returning to gaze upon you. As though you are the only vision that matters, the only beauty worth witnessing.

His free hand rises for his fingers to trail along the column of your throat before curling around the back of your neck. However, he would never use force on you. No, instead, Sylus draws close to you, so close his words become a secret between you two. "Enjoy your time above, little one, while I wait for your return to me."

It's a promise, a threat, and a certainty all at once. And truthfully, a part of you already misses him.

────────── ♱

Sylus had never realised how deafening the silence of the Underworld could be. It stretches through the empty halls of his palace and seeps into the very marrow of his existence. Once filled with your anger and fire, the throne room is once more cold. The grand halls echo only with his own footsteps. And even the torches seem to burn a little dimmer.

You are gone, and he hates it. He should not feel like this. He has ruled the Underworld for aeons and has never known loneliness, not in a way that mattered. But now, now he feels it.

You are in the world above, in your mother's arms, beneath the golden touch of the sun. You are in a place where he cannot reach you, and the realisation gnaws at him like a slow, festering wound.

His patience wears thinner than ever thanks to sleepless nights or haunting dreams of nothing and no one but you. Always you. Of your lips parted in anger, in surrender. Of your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He imagines your return and how you will look when you finally stand before him again. Will you be softer? Will your time above have reminded you of all the things you once thought you wanted? Or will you have come to understand the truth? That you belong to him.

He waits and watches once more. Never would Sylus have ever suspected to be forced to witness you again through the crow's eyes, but here he was—dependent on his messenger. Mephisto is his eyes in the upper world, a shadow against the bright skies. The crow perches in high branches, on windowsills, in the eaves of the great temple where Demeter holds you close, whispering reassurances that all will be as it once was.

But it will never be as it once was because you have changed, too.

While at first you revel in your freedom, the world above seems a little too bright, vibrant, and bursting with life in a way the Underworld never could. The fields bloom beneath your mother's touch, and the air is warm, filled with the scent of ripening fruit and fresh earth. You are surrounded by love, by the warmth of familiar arms, and by the laughter of those who missed you.

And yet, on the first night already, you awake to search for something which isn't there. On the second night, you dream of silver hair, hands trailing along your skin, and a voice murmuring your name in the dark. On the third night, you catch sight of a shadow moving along the tree line, and your heart stutters in your chest—not with fear, but recognition at the familiar gleam of red eyes.

Mephisto does not leave, and you do not want him to.

Days pass, then weeks, then months. You fill them with laughter, with long walks through sunlit meadows, with the comfort of your mother's presence. But there is a hollowness inside you now, a quiet, insidious ache that only grows with each passing day. It is not enough, you realise.

None of it is enough. Nothing measures up to the feelings Sylus brought to life within your shell. You are not the same as you were before. Confidence, stubbornness, and greed are qualities you happily embrace by now.

Your mother notices the change. One evening, she catches you staring out at the horizon with distant eyes while watching the setting sun. She sees how your hands trace absent patterns against your skin, as if recalling a touch is no longer there. She does not speak of it, but you can feel her watching, worrying.

When the leaves turn red and yellow, you wake with the remnant taste of pomegranate on your tongue, with an anticipation that brings your heart to pick up its pace at the prospect of returning to him .

────────── ♱

The descent is not the same this time. You are not stolen, not wrenched from the world above in a flurry of fear and resistance. No, this time, you go willingly. Your heart pounds with anticipation as the air around you grows heavier, the sun's warmth fading into the cold embrace of the Underworld's shadows.

And then you see him. He is there already, long awaiting.

His silhouette emerges from the fog like a memory-made flesh, tall, terrible, and heartbreakingly familiar. His eyes devour you. They do not blaze with conquest, though they burn with aching relief, with desire tempered only by the agony of restraint. A god undone by the absence of the one thing he could not command: your return.

"You came back," he says, and it is not a statement of triumph. His voice sounds fragile, relieved. The evidence of a desire stretched too thin over too many empty nights.

All you manage to respond is a quiet "I did," since the weight of this moment, of your joy, presses into your lungs and bones.

Sylus says nothing in return; the longing in his eyes is louder than any verbal confession. He rather steps closer, slowly, carefully, to chase away the forced distance of the past months. He has not changed, not truly. But the sharp edges of his obsession have softened.

He looks at you like you are someone he is afraid to lose, which makes your next step easier as you extend your hand toward him. Without hesitation, he encases your offer in his palm and lifts your hand to his lips, though a deep exhale of relief escapes his lungs long before pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles.

This time, you do not pull away. This time, you let him. This time, you welcome him.

The gates close behind you with a soft sigh, like a breath exhaled after being held for too long. The Underworld waits. Not as a cage this time, not as a prison of shadow and stolen freedom. No—it waits as something altogether different. Your kingdom to rule.

────────── ♱

For the first time, Sylus leads, and you follow. You allow him to bring you to a garden that does not need sunlight to blossom; it's hidden beneath a silken canopy draped in silver threads. It glows from within, lit by fireflies not belonging to the world above. The flower petals here are as dark as night, and their stems shimmer faintly with iridescent dew. They are beautiful in a way that defies logic.

You sit on cushions of satin and velvet, a low table between you, and a feast of things not found in the upper world. Black figs bleeding golden juice. Pomegranate seeds are like rubies scattered on porcelain. Honey-soaked cakes with petals pressed into their tops—slices of moon fruit, with shimmering flesh like opal.

"Does it please you?" Sylus asks, with a voice as gentle as a lover's caress. You glance at the spread and then at the man sitting across from you, his broad frame draped in a tunic of deepest black threaded with the night sky that barely conceals his impressive build, exposing well-defined muscles inked with faint, ancient markings.

Sylus's lips curl into a smile upon the motion of your head, the simple nod rewarding him with a sense of relief. "It's strange. But yes," you admit with a gentle tone.

"One could consider yourself strange in this surrounding, too. And yet—you please me." Sylus's honesty strikes somewhere low in your belly. You should be used to his intensity by now, but thread by thread, it continues to unravel you. He is open with his intent, never hiding it, not the want, worship, or way his eyes trace the line of your throat or the corners of your mouth when you speak.

For a while, you sit in silence. A peaceful quiet, as though both of you are learning how to be something other than what you were. Not captor and captive. Not hunter and prey. Equals, lovers . The final thought may lead your fingers to finally reach for a slice of fig and hold it out to him.

Sylus's gaze flicks to yours, something akin to amusement pooling in those crimson shades as he momentarily hesitates. "You're feeding me now?" Though he regrets the words quicker than he has spoken them once, the sweet reward is being snatched away from Sylus's lips with a huff of mild exasperation over his daring, teasing response.

Mind you, the God of the Underworld is not one to have his treats taken from him. A firm touch around your wrist, a breathed chuckle and a brush of soft lips follow all too soon before Sylus welcomes the fruit from your offering hand.

His actions are deliberate and intimate, causing your breath to catch and your cheeks to grow warm beneath his intense gaze. Through thick lashes, his crimson eyes bask in your reaction, though his mouth remains occupied until a murmur of "Why, aren't you sweet tonight?" falls from glistening lips that seem to beckon you to lean in.

It is only at the last moment that you notice your desire. You catch yourself and pluck one grape off its vine instead of reaching for the God of the Underworld.

However, Sylus takes it from your fingers and presses it to your lips instead. "Your turn," a gentle command and challenge dusted in this low, sultry tone.

Parted lips allow the grape to burst on your tongue—sweet and tart, while Sylus's attention remains on your mouth. He doesn't budge, not when he knows you have grown aware of his stare, not when you chew, not even when you swallow.

"I missed you," he says in a whisper that carries a longing stretched too thin. His expression is nearly vulnerable, tender, and a little insecure, perhaps.

This newfound softness suits him. Leading you to allow your eyes to roam over his sharp features to find further gentle details. From his cupid's bow to the golden flecks in his eyes and the lines on his face when he smiles at you, for you.

"Did you?"

"Every night," Sylus murmurs, possibly a little rueful. "I dreamed of you walking back into my realm, of your voice echoing through my– our halls. I imagined…"

He stops himself at the last moment. A hint of a blush dusts his features, bringing a charm to his looks you would have never granted him before.

"Imagined what?"

The heavy set of his jaw causes his held-back confession to stir worry in your mind; Sylus can tell as much as he takes in the slight crease of your brows. It may be time to jump over his shadow.

His smile returns, though it appears rather self-deprecating this time around while avoiding your gaze.

"You. Smiling at me like you meant it. Touching me because you wanted to," Sylus admits with a purse of his lips, evidently cringing at his confession. This was ill-befitting to the ruler of the Underworld.

Yet, your fingers befit him very well. How they begin to trace the lines of his hand, from the back of his hand to the calloused pads of his fingers? Sylus stills beneath your touch as if afraid a single move might cause you to vanish again.

"And I missed—" he continues but swallows the rest.

You are the one to smile now. You didn't expect to coax so many confessions out of him tonight, though he appears to be in a rambling mood, which makes it impossible not to tease, not to probe and test your luck further.

With a tilt of your head, you let your eyes flick up to his own, a glint of amusement dancing in your gaze. "Tell me."

His eyes dart away almost immediately, lashes fluttering against flushed skin, while Sylus seems to contemplate whether or not he shall make a grander fool of himself. But you seem receptive, accepting of him...

"I missed the sound of your voice even when you cursed me. Especially then."

You smile at that, a real one. "You deserved every word."

"I still do," Sylus replies, unbothered at that and well aware of his own 'shortcomings'.

The conversation finds a tranquil close through shared chuckles and lingering eye contact before the fruits call for attention.

You eat in slow, quiet indulgence. Feeding another slice of moon fruit and seeds of pomegranate accompanied by a brush of his thumb across your lower lip or the hitch in Sylus's breath as your fingers graze his mouth.

The air seems to thicken with something you do not dare to address, a sweetness far beyond the decadence of the fruits.

When juice glistens at the corner of Sylus's mouth, you reach without thinking to wipe it away. The gentle moment deepens once long fingers catch your wrist to press your palm against Sylus's cheek.

He leans into the touch like a man starved of warmth and love, turning his head for his lips to brush against the warm skin of your hand. "I've waited," Sylus murmurs, "I've tried to be good. I did not drag you back, though every shadow begged me to," his words are paused to nip into your palm while amusement dances in his gaze upon your soft sound of surprise. "I wanted to see if you would choose me. Not as your captor—but as your other half."

Your heart stumbles at the confession, and you allow yourself a moment to look at Sylus, really look at him. He is still dangerous, still secure in his power and confidence—but beneath it all, he is trembling.

"For nights, have I imagined this," Sylus continues upon your flustered silence. "This canopy. This moment. You, beside me. Willingly ."

At that, you finally reach out to brush a strand of silver hair from his cheek. Your fingers trail along Sylus's defined jawline, down his throat to witness him swallow before being drawn to the ruby in his chest, where you allow your fingers to rest.

Though the touch lasts briefly before you rise to claim your throne, Sylus watches you unmoving as you settle into his lap. His arms come around you as if instinctually, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your nape.

Surrender. You see it in Sylus's eyes, in his body language. So, you conquer. A touch along his cheek before your fingertips drag from his jawline forward to his chin to pull him in, to make him chase until your lips meet.

Soft. Tentative. A whisper of longing finally answered.

Sylus groans—it's a low, broken sound—and deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. The heat of him surrounds your body; his hunger devours your lips while his hands glide along your waist, over your shoulders and back.

Every touch is a question Sylus does not dare ask aloud.

You answer with your body, tilting your head and opening your mouth, letting him taste the sweetness you've withheld for so long. This ignites the deep pull of your bond, the magnetic ache that has hummed between you from the start. But now, it sings.

It is only once you're breathless that your lips part, though Sylus chases you once more—one more time to kiss you deeply until his confession clings to your skin as his mouth moves down your neck.

"I'm shameless with you," nothing but a hot breath, a roughened rasp. "You've made me something undone."

At first, only silence follows. A silence that seems to weigh down on Sylus's shoulders as he slumps into you, his embrace on you tightening as though he may fear you were to disappear into fine dust.

But then he feels you lean in again and grants you complete control. So you guide his head to tip back while your lips brush along the curve of his throat, the edge of his jaw before your words find their way into his ear. "And I like it."

You kiss him, not on the mouth this time, but under his ear, along the line of his jumping pulse. You mould him with every breath and shift of your body in his lap.

"Is that so?" Sylus asks in quiet, curious amusement while shooting you that confident smirk alongside a quirk to his brow.

He is powerful, yes—but tonight, you are the one who holds him in your palms.

And you know it, you abuse it. Leaning closer, you brush your lips against his again, gentle, faint, teasing as you whisper, "It makes me feel powerful."

Sylus is patient. He waits years to welcome the lost to his realm, watches calmly over the mishaps in the upper world and waits for the cards to play in his favour.

But your teasing? Oh, it all causes Sylus to grow impatient.

He craves the promise of relief from your lips, wanting to taste the sweet haven. The denial is almost too much to bear when you lean back, the disdain manifested with a groan vibrating through Sylus's chest and the flex of his arms around your figure. "You are," he assures you so willingly, "you could command me with a single word."

"Then behave," you whisper before pulling away enough to let Sylus see your smirk and that awful challenge in your eyes.

You didn't expect Sylus to laugh at your little display of power. A sound low and dark, self-indulgent even when he leans in to nuzzle your cheek. "I've been fighting my hardest. You have no idea how much. But you're not making it easy, my little goddess."

To make matters worse, you indulge Sylus by threading your fingers through his long silver strands, scratching past the base of his curled horns to steal a soft grunt as you whisper in his ear: "I'm not trying to."

He hums in delight as though your torture was the purest love of all.

"Good."

The tension snaps at that, causing your lips to seek out another kiss and another until pecks turn to a passionate exchange of breathless sighs and saliva.

You guide Sylus's hands to your waist, your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently as your kisses turn urgent.

Sylus groans—an unguarded sound, shameless and beautiful—and his grip tightens again, grounding himself through you, needing you to anchor him as much as you need to feel him unravel.

You feel the restraint in him teeter on the edge of collapse, but it does not break tonight.

Instead, you curled up against him, your fingers brushing the ruby in his chest as if it were a second heart. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged, but his touch remains gentle, cradling you like something sacred.

You lie together beneath the silken canopy as torchlight flickers against your skin. He tells you of the garden he grew while you were gone. Of the starlight dome he had built to mimic the sky you miss dearly. Of every small hope, he fed his heart in your absence like embers waiting to be fanned.

You listen, and you stay until sleep finds you. Enveloped in Sylus' arms, where you belong.

Home.

────────── ♱

With that, the time has finally come.

Hades has passed his trial from the gods above and earned the right to wed his spring queen. He kneels before you, succumbing to his love and burning desire for the one true love.

A pulse moves through the obsidian caverns, across black rivers and beneath skeletal trees. The dark realm stills in anticipation. Even the air tastes of omen. Stones whisper in a tongue long forgotten by Olympus—born of death, longing, and devotion.

Tonight, the god of the dead weds his queen.

There is no mortal spectacle, no divine applause. The ceremony unfolds deep within Domos Haidou, an ancient grove untouched by time, where even the moon dares not look. Only ghostly embers and violet fireflies shimmer, illuminating the sanctum where the veil between sacred and sinful has worn thin.

Here, beneath a sky of nothing but velvet void, where only the faintest glow from ghostly fireflies and floating embers light the scene, the ritual takes shape.

You are dressed not in fabric but in falling petals—obsidian lilies and pale mourning blooms cascading from your shadow-cloaked figure. The scent is intoxicating. Crushed orchids and roses bleed sweet perfume into the air, mingled with the deep, honeyed pull of burning amber, cracked myrrh, and the lush, ripe promise of pomegranates split open beneath a blade.

Incense swirls in winding tendrils around your ankles, carried by a wind that seems to breathe only for you.

Sylus waits.

He stands at the altar made of stone and root, his tall frame outlined by flickering braziers lit with violet flame. His tunic clings to him, dark as pitch, draped loose over his strong shoulders, revealing the ridged definition of his chest. A crown of black laurel rests upon his silver hair, his curved horns framing the impassive mask of his face—until he sees you.

And then he breathes again.

The firelight deepens the red in his eyes, and his gaze—tender yet hungry—devours the sight of you. Not like prey. Never that. Like devotion, like something sacred, he has been waiting for eternity to touch.

Your steps, unhurried and deliberate, carry all the words your mouth does not say. You are no longer a frightened girl ripped from her world. You are a woman who has tasted the Underworld and claimed it alongside its ruler.

You place your hands in his, and the world shifts.

From a chalice forged from volcanic crystal, you share the ritual drink—a dark elixir of wine and crushed blossoms, thick with enchantment and laced with the bite of something older than lust. It slides down your throat like fire, and immediately, the air changes. It prickles against your skin, magic thickening like fog. Your limbs are warm, your head light, and your breath shallow.

The circle around you ignites. Flame spirals from the ground, blooming outward, as though the Underworld itself recognises this union. Vines coil around the altar, pulsing in rhythm with your breath. The ruby at his chest flares, and a low hum answers from beneath your skin. You are bound now. Not by force nor by fate. By choice.

That choice leads you to step closer while Sylus remains still as a statue. However, his tension is unmistakable. His knuckles are white from holding back, yet his hands do not move without your invitation.

You lift one to your lips, leaving a kiss on his palm. Sylus exhales your name like a prayer, like a curse, as you trail your fingers up his chest, letting your touch linger to tease the dip of his throat and the line of his jaw. You watch how Sylus shudders under the weight of your attention.

The power you feel is intoxicating. You realise now how far you've come.

Once, he ruled the stillness where nothing grows.

Now, you bring the bloom that breaks it.

Your lips brush the corner of Sylus' mouth—not quite a kiss, but the hint of one. In return, he tilts his head, drawn in immediately to chase more, but you retreat with a teasing smile. It wrecks him how helpless he has become, though Sylus can only laugh softly at his misery.

"You've changed," he murmurs, his voice is low and full of awe while his eyes and fingertips adore your beautiful features.

"I had to," your touch leads down his ribs. "To match the man who waited for me."

At that, Sylus sways into you, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. You guide him down onto the silk-lined altar floor, settling in his lap as the folds of your ceremonial robes slip open around your legs. When your lips meet his—tentative at first, a question, a test—he doesn't devour, only responds with slowness.

Then, the kiss deepens and shatters the last barriers of restraints.

His hands explore your waist, back, and hips as if memorising each curve. You feel his strength, not in dominance but in surrender. Sylus lets you set the rhythm and mould him into what you need.

And you do.

Your touches are not hesitant anymore—they command. You tilt his head where you want it, angle his mouth to yours, and drag your teeth along the seam of his lips until he groans, gasping your name like it's his salvation.

And still, he waits because there is no rush to this moment. He has forever with you. But the Underworld grows impatient in the way magic winds around your entwined limbs, tugging, twisting, binding. Your hips roll together in an instinctive rhythm, and the scent of burning flowers and fruit envelops you like a shroud.

You are both drunk—on love, on hunger, on power.

Sylus' mouth finds your throat, your shoulder, your ribs. He speaks your name between kisses like it is the only word he has ever learned. His restraint is thin, stretched taut with every passing breath, and when you push him beyond it when you finally press him down and whisper, "Take me," he falls apart.

The vines around your promised bodies seem to dance in a song older than the gods themselves. The flames bloom higher, flicking beautifully on the crimson depths of Sylus's eyes.

You're magnified by the molten longing pooling inside, entranced and enthralled. You watch the way he looks at you.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak but cannot. Because how does a god, a ruler, a creature of death and punishment, explain what it means to be undone so completely by love?

"My love," you whisper as your fingers guide his palm between your breasts, lower to your belly. The air around you grows heavier as he follows the trail of your skin.

His hand continues downward. Over the rise of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the curve of your hips, until finally, finally , his fingers move between your thighs, cupping your most intimate part with the size of his palm.

When you arch into his hand, and your head falls back, Sylus watches it all with greed and worship. An approving, low rumble tickles your skin upon his discovery. You're wet, throbbing, already so unbearably ready—your arousal a product not just of the intoxicating magic in the air but the weight of everything that has passed between you.

The ache, the longing. The vow that, tonight, you would be his.

He turns you then, gently but without hesitation, lowering your back into the dark grass beneath like a holy offering.

His figure looms over you—broad and protective—as if he wasn't the danger himself. Twisted horns cast long shadows that flicker in the torchlight, while silver hair cascades over broad shoulders like a waterfall spun from moonlight.

The width of Sylus' thighs parts your own effortlessly once he settles. Accompanied by a gentle touch that glides along the sensitive skin of your legs, with fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs, his gestures are worshipful as he stares down at you, naked and glistening with want. Beautiful.

Yet still—he waits.

He does not take.

You're the one to set the tone.

Your hands lead crimson eyes to follow the curves of your body, slow and shameless; you rake your nails down your chest, teasing your nipples until they pebble before dragging your touch lower over your stomach and down to the place that aches for him most. When your fingers dip between your folds, and you moan softly at the contact, you keep your eyes locked on his.

Sylus watches, transfixed and with monumental restraint, as your fingers work your slick folds. A traitorous flush spreads over his neck, across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, that almost makes him look innocent–if it weren't for the lust pooling in his eyes.

How willing you are for your husband.

And then, you reach for his hand. Smaller fingers lace around Sylus' wrist to guide him back to your body until his chest hovers just above yours. He is so close now; his breath mingles with yours, his lips barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes search yours, and what he finds leads Sylus to give in. Soft lips crash against yours in a deep, hungry kiss before his teeth nip at your bottom lip, demanding entrance and surrender.

A warmth spreads over your skin thanks to the heat of Sylus' palms sliding up your body, eager to replace every touch you have left on your figure with his own. He spoils your breasts with attention, kneading the soft mounds and tweaking your nipples until they are hard, aching peaks.

"So soft, so warm and needy…" he murmurs against your breasts before his tongue drags heavy over skin littered with goosebumps. Sylus rocks his hips forward, the hard, thick length of him pressing against your core before staining your skin with more whispers of desire.

"Tell me you want it," he mumbles while the delicious drag of his length would already be enough to make you say yes to all and any of his wishes. But he seems desperate for your consent, for your dependence on him. "Tell me how much you need me, my goddess."

Your thighs twitch from the delicious stimulation Sylus offers, the sounds following seem natural, like a sweet symphony of a tune you've never sung before. "Sylus," you sigh for him, so sweetly, so fragile, as your fingertips trace the ruby in his chest. "I want to be one with you," you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"My love," you search his eyes with an expression so soft and tender that Sylus didn't even dare to dream of before. "Can you help me? Can you guide me? To be all for you, only you forever and always..."

It's incredible how you effortlessly play with Sylus' heartstring—a heart most people deem nonexistent. Yet here you are, toying with the God of the Underworld as though he could never be a real match to you.

This is the power you hold over him, the control you have over the darkness that dwells within. You managed to tame the untamable, to make him kneel at your feet like a loyal hound.

Sylus brings your entwined hands to his lips and presses a lingering kiss, gentle yet filled with devotion, to your knuckles. Crimson eyes remain glued to your own, as though his gaze alone could convey all the feelings he holds dear inside.

"I will guide you, mould you, make your body fit mine like it was crafted for me alone," a whisper breathed along the veins running down your arm, sealed with kisses.

When he finally sheds his tunic, it is a teasing, slow gesture meant to draw your attention to nothing but him. The silver clasps snap open under Sylus's touch, revealing a defined figure made for your exploration. Every line seems to be carved by divine hands.

But it's his length that steals your breath—thick and heavy; it stands proud and pulsing, the flushed tip glistening with need. It intimidates. It arouses. It makes something flutter inside you.

Sylus's pupils dilate as he takes in the sight beneath him: His wife, his goddess, spread wide for him, your stomach stained by his fluids.

"Beautiful creature of sin…" The words escape him in nothing but a whisper while his tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you, creating sounds of desire as he lowers himself again, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Breathe for me," he says, soft and commanding all at once, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Take a deep breath, and let me in. Let me fill you. Stretch you. Make you mine."

And you try. You truly try to obey. But the moment his thick head presses past your entrance, your muscles tense. The shock caused by the unfamiliar stretch steals your breath, and you let out a cry—not of pain, not quite.

With a gentle thrust of his hips, Sylus pushes forward, deeper into your velvety sweetness. He groans deeply, affected by the stretch of your walls when they try to accommodate him. Ah, the feel of you, so hot, so tight, so perfect .

You're so wet; he can't refuse to push in deeper, to conquer places nobody has ever been.

Sylus groans—a sound torn from deep within his chest—as your walls flutter around him, your body drawing him deeper with each slow roll of his hips. Your heat envelops him like velvet soaked in flame, your core yielding and trembling around his cock. The stretch is near unbearable, your breath caught in your throat as your body struggles to adjust to his size.

He is thick, unrelenting, the burn making tears swell at the corners of your eyes, though you never look away from him. His hand braces your hip while the other cups your jaw with infinite care, his thumb sweeping away one of those traitorous tears.

"Wrap your legs around me," he breathes with his eyes locked on yours, hunger and adoration swirling in those crimson depths. "Pull me in deeper, let me feel you clenching around me. Let me fill you like I was made for this."

Your thighs move on instinct, curling around his waist, and he catches them with both hands, holding you steady. When your hips roll—desperate, seeking—you impale yourself further onto his cock, inch by aching inch, until you're gasping from the pressure, the fullness.

"S-Sylus," you sob, your voice trembling at the edge of a moan as he stretches you deeper, wider. Your head tips back into the ground, fingernails clawing at the obsidian cloth beneath you while the tremble of your thighs highlights the effort of holding back the pleasure threatening to consume you.

"Shh, my love," he murmurs in a gentle tone even as sweat beads on his brow from the effort it takes not to move too fast, not to thrust in and claim you all at once. "Breathe through it. You're doing so well. Taking me so deeply, so perfectly."

His lips brush your temple and jaw to soothe the tension wracking your trembling form. He presses his forehead to yours, allowing his breath to mingle with yours as he grounds you, anchors you, and helps you through the storm of sensation.

"How much more?" you gasp, though you do not dare look down—too afraid of the answer.

Sylus huffs a breathless laugh, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief and adoration. "A little," he murmurs, lies, while distracting you by pressing kisses on your cheek. "I'm halfway in."

A sob melts into a moan as his mouth claims yours, a kiss that leaves no space for thoughts. Hungry lips swallow your cries while a domineering tongue explores your mouth with depraved hunger. Large hands never stop moving—stroking your thighs, palming your breasts, coaxing your body to surrender.

"Breathe with me," he pleads against your lips alongside the gentle rocking of his hips in a slow, deep roll, easing in. You feel every stretch, every throb, every heated inch as he fills you further. "Feel how your body welcomes me."

You try—gods, you try—but your breath breaks as his cock finds something inside you that makes you seize, makes your nails dig into his arms, dragging across the tense muscles of his biceps. "N-Not there—Sylus, not there—"

But that's precisely where he presses again, with deliberate force, and the high, breathy sound that escapes you is half protest, half plea.

His mouth trails down your neck, over your collarbone, with his tongue licking away the taste of salt from your tears as he groans against your skin. "There, right there," Sylus retorts with a sudden sharpness, causing his words to cut through your weak protests.

The defiant words are punctuated with a selfish, more brutal thrust of Sylus's hips. The head of his cock kisses your velvet depths as he stills, gently rolling his hips against you to spoil the spot made for you to see stars even in the depths of hell. "That's it. That's your sweet spot, isn't it? The place only I get to touch."

He sets a steady rhythm then—thrusting deeper, grinding his hips in such a way that the head of his cock kisses that spongy spot again and again until your moans become desperate, until you writhe and pant beneath him, your body burning alive with pleasure too immense to hold.

"Let it take you," he urges, his voice low and thick, laced with command and affection. "Don't fight it, my love. Allow yourself to feel; take what you need."

Your fingers scrabble across his body in search of purchase—dragging down his forearms, gripping his shoulders, clutching at his back. You can feel how he stretches you, how you pulse around him, how your arousal coats his length in slick, shameless heat. And yet still, he moves, driving into you with the kind of worship only a god could offer.

"Too much," you whimper, though your hips chase him and reveal the lie all too soon. "So deep, Sylus… you're too deep."

He groans in response, driven to madness by the way you tighten around him, by the way, your body submits and fights all at once. He watches your face, mesmerised by every flicker of pleasure, every helpless twitch of your body.

"Too deep?" Sylus breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and rough, saturated with love and possession. "I'm going to fill you so deeply that you'll forget everything but me."

With that promise, Sylus begins to move harder, faster. His hips snap forward, his cock plunging so deep it feels like he carves himself into you. And all around you, the Underworld responds—flames dancing higher, flowers smelling stronger, vines curling tighter around the altar in a frenzy of magic and bliss.

His moan makes you shiver, the vibration of his voice against your throat paired with the brutal honesty of his rhythm as Sylus continues to thrust into you with devastating precision. The words, the sounds, the act—all of it ensnares you, makes you pulse around his cock in pleasure, your body clinging to him like it's forgotten how to exist without him inside.

He hits that spot again—again—and each time, your body tightens, jerks, your thighs trembling, your lips parting in a choked moan that only serves to spur him on. You scramble across your own body for support, your hands fluttering desperately over your breasts, your stomach, down the slope of your hips and thighs, fingers searching for anything to anchor you as Sylus's hips snap forward relentlessly in their devotion.

Your moans, your cries—praise wrapped in trembling complaint—are music to his ears. And every word, every broken syllable, only serves to make you wetter, to make his cock slide in with less resistance and more heat, slick and obscene.

Sylus can feel everything—your desperation, your pleasure, your helpless submission to the sensations he's pulling from you—and he welcomes it all. He welcomes the pain you mark into his flesh with your nails, the way your pussy clenches as though trying to milk him, your walls fluttering as your orgasm builds. He knows your body is teetering on the brink, stretched and overwhelmed, yet still greedy for more.

"Shh," he murmurs into the shell of your ear, his voice a low, soothing rumble barely disguising his unravelling. "Let it happen, my love. Let it take you. I'll hold you through it—I'll catch you when you fall."

He leans down to let his teeth graze your throat before finding the tender juncture where neck meets shoulder, and he bites—not cruelly, not gently, but with the kind of claiming pressure that leaves no doubt: you are his. The pain sings through you, a sharp counterpoint to the constant, throbbing pleasure.

Your body arches beneath him, shuddering violently as your nerves threaten to fray. At this moment, the only salvation seems to be proximity as your arms wind tight around Sylus's neck to tug him down, clutching him close, your face buried in his skin, your breath hot and gasping against his jaw.

The drag of his cock over your sweet spot makes you cry out, helpless against the sensations that storm through your body. You cling tighter, whimpering, shaking, your sounds muffled against the column of Sylus's throat. You don't even try to speak anymore; you only feel everything he gives you: every thrust, every grind, and every pass of his length as it fills you.

And then, your head falls back into the grass, exposing your throat to him once more, surrendering everything.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the sight. The moment you hiccup out one word: "Faster," in a voice small and desperate, Sylus's control unravels.

He grins—a dark, wicked thing.

"Your wish is my command."

Sylus's hands tighten on your hips, and he fucks you harder. Faster. The rhythm turns punishing, perfect . Each thrust slams into you with wet, smacking force, your breasts bouncing wildly from the force of it, your moans turning ragged and sharp. You think you might scream, might beg, but all you do is fall deeper into the heat, the rhythm, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding.

Sylus's mouth finds your throat again, his tongue dragging up your skin, tasting sweat, tasting tears. His groans echo in your ears, low and hungry.

You feel like you're being devoured—worshipped—and still, you crave more. With your body rising to meet his every thrust now, your walls fluttering around his cock in a rhythm that betrayed your surrender to him, to this act, to the darkness curling around your bodies.

The ritual may have begun with devotion, but now it breathes life due to the pleasure of possession and want.

Sylus watches the hypnotic bounce of your breasts with every impact of his hips, watches the way your body arches and quakes beneath him like it was offering itself to be consumed. Sylus lowers his head, his breath hot and panting as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts, his lips and tongue worshipping your skin.

"You look divine like this," he whispers. The praise is nearly lost beneath the wet sound of skin on skin and your rising cries. "Undone. Broken open by me."

You gasp when his mouth latches onto a hardened nipple. A sharp graze of teeth follows, and his tongue soothes right after. You can feel it building again—not just the orgasm, but something darker. A bloom of divine intoxication takes root in your belly. Sylus finds that spot inside you once more, and the groan he lets out against your skin sends shivers down your spine.

You're slick, swollen, trembling, stretched to the brink and somehow still aching for more. You don't need to beg; Sylus would give you everything. And he was far from finished.

"My goddess," Sylus murmurs with lips wet from your sweat and the salt of your skin. "What a perfect vessel you've become."

As his hips grind into your sweet spot again and again, the coil within you finally snaps with a sound of pleasure torn itself free of your throat. You clench down, pulsing in frantic waves as you come apart—loud, messy, utterly divine.

Sylus exhales a moan as you spasm around him, slick coating his cock whilst your cries melt into broken moans. The magic thickens in the air, the vines twist tighter around the altar, and flowers burst open in wild, fevered bloom. His hold on you becomes unrelenting, grounding you through your climax while Sylus continues to move, each motion pulling you deeper into bliss. You cling to him like your sanity depends on the rhythm of his hips.

And still, he moves inside you.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses hold a kind of hunger that strips the air from your lungs, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he owns the space, tasting every sound you try to make and swallowing them down like they are the only offering he has ever desired.

"Again," he murmurs at your throat, dragging his mouth along the damp curve of your neck. "I want to feel you fall apart once more until your body forgets everything but me."

Sylus is everything now: your altar, your sin, the ruin you've come to love—and you, soft and pliant beneath him, offer yourself with nothing left to hide.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To admire the glow of your skin, the way your chest rises in shaky gasps, the tremble in your hands as you drag them over your own body like you can't quite believe how wrecked you have become, how much Sylus has wrecked you.

"There is nothing more beautiful than this," Sylus says, voice thick with something heavier than pride as his eyes drink you in. "Nothing is more beautiful than you."

Your lashes flutter as your body can no longer keep up with your mind, and though your limbs tremble, you manage to hold his gaze, even as his cock throbs inside you with growing need. The tension in Sylus builds steadily; his body is tense, his jaw locked, his control fraying beneath the weight of how badly he wants to finish inside you—but still, he holds back. Still, he is waiting because he needs more from you first.

"Tell me," he whispers, his lips brushing your cheek, your ear, the line of your throat where your pulse stammers beneath the skin. "Tell me what you want. Speak it, and it's yours. I only exist to please you."

Your vision blurs, your thoughts scattered by the intensity of him, but your hands still find his hair, threading through it as your legs curl around his hips, pulling him closer, offering yourself without shame.

"Show me," you breathe, your voice hoarse, and your mouth barely forms the words. "Teach me what you like."

Sylus stills for a heartbeat, something shifting in his expression into a flash of pure and empty-headed desire.

And then he moves. The shift is fluid, your world tilting as Sylus turns you onto your stomach, one hand guiding your hips back into position as if you were meant to be there, presented like an offering no god would dare refuse.

He watches for only a moment, taking in the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs, the way you present yourself, and then he slides back inside you with one long thrust that punches the air from your lungs, steals the cry from your lips, and buries him in the heat of your body once again.

Sylus breathes your name into the crook of your shoulder as his pace deepens, your cunt clenching around him so tightly his hands have to grip your waist with bruising pressure.

"Yes… just like that," Sylus exhales, his voice rasping against your ear as your walls tighten around him. He leans over you to press himself closer, to reach around your front and embrace your breasts whole. His fingers knead your soft mounds, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you whimper without meaning to.

Each cry feeds his hunger for more of you, for everything and everything. Your effect on him roughens Sylus's voice. "You're so soft... you take me so well..." he murmurs into your hair while he seems to drown in the sensation of your body welcoming him again and again.

You can't reply. You can only gasp and sob as each thrust pushes you deeper into the grass, into the magic wrapping around your body, into the unbearable fullness that makes your thoughts scatter.

"Sylus—, Sylus—" your voice cracks as his name escapes you like it's the only word you remember how to say. And each time you try to repeat it, Sylus pushes in harder, dragging another broken sound from your lips until you fall apart in stuttering cries.

His voice dips, hushed and dangerous by your ear. "That's it… Come again. Let me feel you break for me. Let your body beg—so I can spill inside you like I was meant to."

You shake your head, though it's barely defiance. The pleasure is too close, too sharp, and your sobs spill between whispers of longing and disbelief. "It's too good… I don't want it to stop… I c-can't—"

"All night," Sylus breathes and sinks his teeth into the curve of your neck.

Your entire body seizes as your release washes over you while Sylus's teeth stay anchored, not cruel but claiming, holding you in place as he continues to thrust, to coax every pulse of your climax from you. The dark magic around you grows in its potency and ties you together in blood, lust and devotion.

"Forever," he whispers into your flesh.

While your shoulders slump into the grass, boneless with pleasure, your hips stay high, your walls still fluttering helplessly around him. Sylus towers above you, a monument of muscle and shadow, watching your arousal drip down your thighs, the scent of your union wafts thickly in the air.

"A glutton," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Just like me."

Then, ever so effortlessly, Sylus lifts you. One hand slides between your breasts to press you flush against his chest. Your head tilts back against a firm shoulder with a gasp as his cock pushes deeper from the new angle, the stretch all-consuming.

His lips stretch into a grin against your temple, one hand slipping down to cup your breasts again, to tease your sensitive nipple until you moan, each twitch feeding his delight. "Truly insatiable," he hums in approval.

You clench around him without meaning to. He feels it—the tremble of surrender. The way your body opens for him all over again.

"Tainted skin," Sylus whispers as his lips graze your ear. "Tainted body… all mine."

And then, he slips out, slowly, unbearably so, to leave you gasping as you grow aware of the emptiness inside you. Your body aches from the absence even while Sylus eases you down among the grass as though handling something sacred only he is allowed to touch.

There are no words left in you—only a breathless nod, parted lips, trembling limbs caught beneath the weight of everything he has given and everything he now promises to take. It is not just want. It is far more consuming—need, surrender, devotion in its most unholy, exquisite form.

"Please," you whisper, a word that sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

A goddess's offering to her God, and of course, he answers.

Sylus's hand wraps around the base of his cock as he strokes himself above you, the flushed tip leaking and twitching, swollen with pressure as crimson basks in the view of your awaiting body. Your skin is kissed with sweat, the grass clinging to your curves, the darkness wrapping around you like a blanket.

And then Sylus breaks the heavy silence. The sound brushes against your ear. "Now... I will give you everything."

Fingers trail slowly down the trembling expanse of your thighs, the tips of them sink into their softness as though he means to memorise you by touch alone.

The contrast is stark—your yielding body beneath his strength, held back only by the need that you alone summon from him with every breathless sound you make.

"You offer yourself," Sylus murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked at the edges, the kind of tone that drips not from worship but hunger. "Like a promise whispered where no god dares to listen."

He watches the way your hands lift to your chest, fingers trembling as they trace over the peaks of your breasts, your body bared to him not in submission but in power, in invitation, and he is helpless before it.

His cock twitches in his grasp, flushed and throbbing, veins thick with desire as though every inch of him aches to return to the place he knows belongs to him. Sylus's breath stutters, his eyes hooded, his body tight and straining, forged by a need that only you have ever been capable of drawing forth without lifting a finger.

"Only you," he chokes out, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep and private, "Only you could bring me here. Pull me down. Make me beg. Make me break."

Sylus sinks into you again, his mouth seeking out the marks he left behind along the curve of your shoulder, the vulnerable dip of your throat. His teeth press into the skin not to wound but to keep, to seal, to remind you that you are his. His tongue follows and drags slowly over your heated skin until your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer and dragging him back deeper.

"My beloved," you whisper, your voice thick with amusement and awe as you glance back at him, your eyes catching his like a spark in the dark. Come for me."

The words break him.

"You're a vision," Sylus breathes against your neck. Sylus drives forward with sharp, selfish thrusts, then another, and another still, burying himself to the base with a force that knocks the air from your lungs.

The pleasure ripples through him. It scorches everything he is, everything he was and thought he will ever be as if your body is the vessel he was crafted to spill himself into. His release comes in waves, each thicker and hotter than the last—a vow carved into the softest parts of you.

He cannot be gentle. Not now. Not when your walls clamp around him like they never intend to let him go. His hands are firm on your hips, his teeth press into your shoulder again, and every motion of his body tells you the same thing—you are his. His end, his beginning, his undoing.

Your name slips from his lips, whispered in need for more.

And the Underworld responds.

The altar lights with fire too bright to be natural, and the vines wind around your entangled limbs as if even the ground beneath you seeks to hold you in place.

Voices long dead hum secrets beneath the surface, recognising what has happened for what it is: a binding not made with rings or sweetly spoken promises but with desire and darkness.

Still, Sylus moves. He shifts only slightly; his hips are rocking with slow, shallow thrusts as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm. You feel the heat of his breath, the tremor in his muscles as firm arms curl you into his chest.

Forehead pressed against forehead, you remain as one. He is still inside, thick and full and twitching as if your body is the only place that can hold him now. You feel him leaking from you, slick and warm as it drips down your thighs.

"I am ruined," he whispers into your skin, the words frayed and aching with a breathless chuckle of disbelief. "And I never want to be whole again. Not if it means letting go of this. Of you."

He presses his mouth along your shoulder, jaw, and the corner of your lips as you finally turn into him, and the look on his face is no longer that of a god. There is no king here—only Sylus— yours.

He lowers himself beside you on the shadow-kissed grass, the dark flowers blooming around your tangled limbs as he pulls you into his arms. You remain joined, still one, and then he kisses you softly.

"I won't stop," he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, deep with something he never says aloud. "Even if doomsday arrives outside this sanctuary. Even if the skies burn and the world forgets our names. I will still be yours."

Magic winds around you both like a second skin, soft and warm. It is a promise that will never fade: you are his queen, and he is your King.

And the Underworld will remember the night it bore witness to gods falling not into ruin but into something far more ethereal.

You are lost in the petals that never stop falling, the heat between you, and the spell crafted from skin and union.

And Sylus holds you like the world has narrowed down to this—just you, just now.

You are no longer something stolen, no longer taken from the world above, but something claimed—willingly, completely—and he is yours, now and always, bound to you in a way that even eternity cannot sever.

feedback & reblogs would be deeply appreciated | dividers by @/cafekitsune

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mangostarjam · 1 year ago

Text

knot happening (part two) — bnha, alpha!bakugou katsuki x f!reader, aged up characters, established relationship, a/b/o dynamics, use of "baby", "pipsqueak", "brat", "little shit" as pet names, dubious HR ethics, questionable sex toys, reader wears a skirt at the end, smut, creampies, oral sex, knotting, omegaverse!au for the spring fever collab run by @lorelune ! 10k words lmao

part one

your new company has some interesting policies for employee heat cycles, but your boyfriend and mate has no intention of letting you off easy

It starts with cravings.

All of Bakugou Katsuki's well intentioned efforts to keep you from dying of malnutrition or scurvy fly out the window as you enter your pre-heat. Your Pro Hero boyfriend and mate turns his nose up at the strawberry pocky you crunch on the couch, rolls his eyes at the cherry and dark chocolate chip ice cream you scoop after dinner, and pouts at the mango and sticky rice cups you devour after work.

"It all has fruit in it," you point out. "And besides, you always steal half my daifuku mochi before I can finish it. Complain about that, you thief!"

Katsuki, to his credit, retaliates by making your favorite veggie-laden meals for the cute bentos he puts together for your lunches. You pop open the container and you're greeted by stupidly cute penguins crafted from seaweed and rice, mushrooms and bell peppers nestled next to perfect rolled egg omelettes, carrots cut into little stars and cucumbers that look like clouds.

You take a photo of your lunch and send it to your boyfriend. He texts back "?????" and you frown at your phone.

Katsuki calls a moment later. "Don't tell me you're suddenly allergic to cucumbers."

His voice is rough and low — he must be in the office, if the distant chatter of his fellow heroes is anything to go by — but he's probably turned off into a side hallway because Eijiro's teasing has lately turned into casual remarks about marriage, and… yeah, of course Katsuki's gonna marry you, but he doesn't need his best friend to bring it up every time he's on the phone with you.

"I might be allergic to how cute these are," you say, but there's laughter in your voice and he scrunches his nose, so pleased he can feel the tips of his ears heat up. "How am I supposed to eat this?! This poor rice penguin has never done anything wrong in its life!"

Katsuki snorts quietly into his gloved hand. "D'you want me to make your food look ugly next time?"

You beam down at your bento and kick your feet beneath your desk. "Thanks for making me lunch, loverboy."

"Can't have you dyin' while I'm fuckin' you dumb," Katsuki's already low voice gets lower. The rough timbre of it so intimately in your ear sends a thread of desire straight to your core and you shift uncomfortably, glancing around your office. Luckily, it's empty — everyone's out for lunch because it's such a beautiful spring day, but you forgot to take your allergy medicine and you don't want to tempt disaster. "Leaving you in bed this morning was a crime."

"H-huh?" you set your feet on the ground and sit up a little straighter. "Babe, shut up. What if someone overhears you!"

"Then they'd be too damn close to you and I'll need to punch their lights out," Katsuki states matter of factly.

"So protective," you tease, settling back into your seat. He's trying to rile you up — he knows what his low tone does to you — but you're going to make it through your pre-heat without alerting your company even if it kills you. "I'll see you later, 'kay? Kick some ass, baby."

Your boyfriend mumbles something that sounds suspiciously cheesy before he hangs up, and you eat your lunch with gusto. It's day two of your pre-heat and so far it seems like nobody can tell. Your cravings are easy to pass off as a strong sweet tooth, and Katsuki's patrol schedule has kept him away from picking you up after work. You slapped a pheromone suppressor on your neck this morning and then styled up your business casual outfit with a loose silk scarf, so it should be… fine.

Your phone vibrates with a text and you swipe it open without thinking. The sound that leaves your mouth at the sight that greets you is unholy and you slam your phone facedown on your desk.

What the fuck.

"…You alright there, newbie?" Akane from Sales pauses in the act of draping her jacket over her chair. "Did you get a spam call?"

"Just peachy!" you croak out. You clear your throat as more of your coworkers file back in from their lunch break. "I thought I saw a bug, that's all!"

More like a closeup photo of your boyfriend's bulge in his hero suit, clearly stiff and straining hard against the heat resistant fabric, his easily recognizable gloved hand dangerously close to palming the thick outline —

Akane makes a funny face. "And you smashed it with your phone?"

"It was just instinct," you say sheepishly, "I'm fine with bugs where they belong, and they don't belong on my desk!"

Akane and your other coworkers nod at this and the conversation shifts, so you take advantage of everyone's inattention to pick your phone back up. You do it gingerly, as if there really is a bug squished underneath, but really you're just trying not to accidentally flash Pro Hero Dynamight's crotch shot to the world.

You can see the headlines now:

"Pro Hero Dynamight Ready to Blow!"

"Dynamight Explodes Up to the Top Ten Sexiest Pro Heroes with Infamous Shot!"

"Is the Great Explosion Murder God Packing the Heat?"

Katsuki's PR team would kill you. You quickly slide your phone beneath your desk and swipe away from your texts, breathing a sigh of relief when the (annoyingly tasteful) shot disappears from your screen.

Your phone vibrates with texts the rest of the day. No more photos (you can't tell if you should be grateful or mournful about this) but judging from the text previews you hastily swipe away on your screen, Katsuki's clearly out to get you. He seemed normal this morning — his lips brushed your cheek gently as you drew the blankets up to your chin — so what is his problem?

You finally get a chance to read his texts while waiting for your train at the station. Your eyes widen as you scroll through the messages — they're filled with his typical profanity, but he's practically written an instruction manual on all the ways he's imagined fucking you today. Your hand rises unwittingly to your pheromone suppressor patch. Maybe you should wear it at night, too, so he won't get so worked up? Though you kind of doubt it's working at all, since reading his texts is making you shift where you stand, heat pooling in your core.

The station is crowded with evening commuters — packs of students giggling and chattering among themselves, other tired office workers tapping away at their phones, little kids holding hands so they won't get separated — and nobody is paying you any mind. Maybe your suppressors are working after all? Wait — are they supposed to keep your pre-heat pheromones from leaking out or in?

Your ears perk as the pleasant tone signaling the arrival of your train jingles through the crowd. It's a quick ride three stops down to your apartment, which is one stop away from Katsuki's agency Ground Zero. When the two of you were looking for a place together, Katsuki insisted that it be just outside of his patrol range — close enough for him to get there quickly, but far enough that he would be able to actually relax at home. You can hear the familiar sound of a knife meeting a cutting board while you toe off your shoes in the genkan, lifting your nose to the air as the comforting smell of rice cooking wafts towards you.

"I'm home!" you call out, bypassing the kitchen to strip out of your work clothes. You sigh with relief as you toss your pants into the laundry basket, dragging one of Katsuki's well-worn hoodies over your head and tugging a pair of his workout shorts up your hips. They smell like him — smoky and rich and a little bit sweet — and you burrow into the comfort with a hum of pleasure.

The sizzle and crack of veggies and rice hitting the pan fill the air as you make your way into the kitchen. You follow your nose and ears happily, mouth already watering at the thought of eating more of Katsuki's cooking, but you stop dead at the entrance and make a funny strangled sound.

Asshole. Is he doing this on purpose? He's totally doing this on purpose.

"Welcome home," Katsuki says, rising from a crouch to his full, intimidating height and giving the pan another flick of his wrist. Sometimes you forget how broad your Pro Hero boyfriend is, but it's abundantly clear when he's standing in front of the stove shirtless like some kind of wet dream. He barely gives you a once over, just a casual glance of red that sends heat rushing to your cheeks before he turns his attention back to the stove.

You know — and you know he knows — that certain instincts flare up with your pre-heat. Everyone has different symptoms. The food cravings are one thing, for you, but they're manageable and easy to pass off as unrelated. Wanting to be covered in your mate's scent is another thing entirely, and while it's a relatively common symptom, it never fails to embarrass you, especially because you know how much Katsuki secretly likes it.

"What're you making?" you ask. Katsuki keeps his eyes on his pan, so you take the opportunity to ogle him freely, admiring the strong set of his shoulders and the firm lines of back muscle on full display. Stupid Katsuki with his stupid workouts making him look like a goddamn god. From your position at the kitchen entrance, you're close enough to see the pale scars crisscrossing his skin and the way the edge of his lips lift in a smug, self-satisfied smirk as he catches you checking him out. He's easily the hottest man you've ever seen in your life.

"Chicken fried rice," he says, snapping you out of your blatant stare. "It's almost done."

"You're telling me a chicken fried this rice?" you joke, grinning widely when Katsuki snorts and rolls his eyes at you. "Here, lemme set the table."

The two of you prepare for dinner companionably, though Katsuki definitely hovers more than usual. You can't help but lean back into his firm (and very naked) chest as he stands behind you while you reach up for plates, his hands heavy on your hips to help you balance. He also sets your plate piled high with fried rice next to his own at the table instead of across as usual, and when you make a questioning sound he just arches a brow expectantly.

"What? Sit and eat your fucking vegetables, pipsqueak."

"That's not my question," you giggle, accepting the seat he holds out for you. He spins it sideways easily, so that you're suddenly facing his own chair instead of the table, a casual show of strength that sends a shiver up your spine. Then he sits next to you with a grunt and immediately grabs your bare legs to drape them over his lap, forcing you to cling to his arm in surprise. "What the hell!"

"Shaddup," Katsuki mumbles, keeping a firm grip on your bare legs. "You can eat like this, right?"

You can, though you have to wiggle a bit and hold your plate in your lap. The changed angle gives you a perfect view of your boyfriend's profile, and you look at him for a moment, admiring the cut of his jawline and the slope of his nose.

"Quit starin'," he says. The pale scar along his cheek lifts when he shoots you a smug grin. "Your food's gonna get cold."

"You're the one who made me sit like this," you point out. You scratch at the side of your neck absently, but your nail catches on the suppressant patch and you pause. "Do you know if these patches are to keep the pheromones in or out?"

Katsuki takes a big bite of his fried rice and chews carefully. "Nothing's gonna stop your pre-heat from affectin' you," he says evenly. "And normally it'd keep 'em from leakin' out, but," he takes a deep breath and finally meets your eyes, "I'm your mate, so that shit doesn't work on me."

"Oh." Your voice is small even to your own ears. Katsuki's red hot gaze stays fixed on you for another long, torturous moment before he drags his attention to his food. "Is that why… you sent me a dick pic?"

Katsuki chokes on the spoonful of fried rice he just brought to his lips and his hand comes up to slap against the table. You crack a grin and pick up your own spoon. "That wasn't — wasn't a fuckin' dick pic, you perv."

"Sure looked like it to me," you say cheerfully. The fried rice is delicious and you nearly moan with satisfaction, wiggling in your seat as the flavors burst along your tongue. "It was a photo featuring the area of your body where your dick is at, so obviously, it was a dick pic!"

"Fuck off," he mumbles, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. "How was work? Anybody notice?"

"It was great," you say, "and nah, I don't think anyone noticed. I wore a scarf to hide the patch, y'know. Pretty good, huh?"

"You're a smart one," Katsuki says, and you preen under the praise. "You gonna wear a scarf the rest of the week, then?"

You shrug and wiggle your legs a little just to get Katsuki to clamp down on them with one strong arm. You flex your feet, feeling his thighs tense in turn, and eat another spoonful of dinner. "I don't think I can. It's supposed to get real hot this week and besides, I wanna… wear one of your shirts."

"Hah?" Katsuki nearly drops his spoon. "How're you gonna do that? It'll be too big for you, pipsqueak."

"I'll figure it out. I've done it before!" Your grin turns mischievous. "Want me to model for you after dinner?"

Katsuki shoots you a look. "You tryna get into my pants already, sweetheart? What happened to resisting pre-heat?"

"It's not like we'll be doing anything," you point out. "I have faith in you, babe."

Your boyfriend doesn't answer, but his hand tightens around your thigh, leaving indents in the soft give of your body. The two of you switch to safer topics, like the old ladies who ran into Katsuki on patrol (again) because they wanted to pass on their grandkids' sketches, and your new friends Akane and Shimizu who complimented your scarf. You do the dishes afterwards, but Katsuki stays glued to your back, thick arms wrapped firmly around your waist.

"I think you've got too much faith in me," Katsuki frowns, holding one of his button ups against your frame a bit later. You shed his hoodie and your shirt and bra, tossing them in the direction of the laundry basket and holding your arms out for him to dress you in his shirt. He eyes your chest openly, sending a spark of heat zipping down your spine, but slides the sleeves over your arms and helps you button it up without saying anything else.

His hands are careful as he slides the buttons home. You force yourself to breathe evenly as he crowds into your space, that smoky sweet scent filling your nose as he presses his lips to your temple and noses at your ear. His big hands with all their callouses and scars are gentle as he smooths the fabric over your shoulders, leaving a wave of warmth as he slides them around to your back to tug you closer into his embrace.

You hug him back, resting your palms against his shoulder blades and pressing into the skin there as he shifts. It's quiet as he breathes you in, his chest rising and falling against your own. Distantly you can hear trains rattling on the tracks, teenagers being rowdy in front of the nearby konbini, babies wailing for bedtime several doors down. You close your eyes and listen to Katsuki's heartbeat instead, though a furrow forms between your eyebrows as his heartbeat quickens.

"Are you… good?" you whisper.

"…'m fine."

"Okay… are you having a heart attack?"

"Don't be stupid," Katsuki snorts. "As if I'd get worked up over a lil' huggin'."

"Sure, sure," you grin up at him, smiling wider as his eyes soften at your expression. "It's not like I'm your mate or anything. It's fine if you get worked up, babe — I think you're pretty hot, too."

"Aren't you supposed to be figurin' out tomorrow's outfit?"

You detach yourself from him reluctantly, though he doesn't let you get very far, latching onto your wrist and padding along behind you as you go to peruse the closet. Katsuki pulls you into his chest again as you eye the various options. Despite favoring athletic, technical clothes — fabrics that are easy to move in at a moment's notice — he does own a wide range of clothing thanks to his various sponsorships.

"Does it ever bother you, wearing clothes with these brands associated with them?" you ask, rubbing a silky suit jacket sleeve and peering up at him.

"Nah," Katsuki shrugs. "My team's halfway decent 'bout choosin' who we partner with, so it's not a big deal."

"Should I be less sensitive about my company's branded sex toys?" Your voice is small. You turn back to the clothes so you don't have to look at him, but Katsuki presses a kiss to the back of your hair and huffs.

"If it bothers you, it bothers you," he says gruffly. "We're good, baby. You don't hafta tell your company squat. I'm still your mate no matter what."

You repeat Katsuki's words to yourself the next day, swathed in his button up shirt tucked into a pair of his trousers with the ankles rolled up, as Akane and Shimizu show you the storeroom where they keep the company branded sex toys. Everyone's email notifications had pinged this morning with the news that Kensuke in Accounting would be entering his heat soon, so your two new coworker besties had dragged you along on a mission to prepare his celebratory heat cycle package.

"Wow," you say blankly, "they really are branded."

Shimizu holds up a cock ring with your company's name emblazoned along the side. "When you're in the moment, you really don't notice the name, but I guess it is a little garish, huh?"

"It's just so… big," you say, pulling over another box. "Is the company worried we'll forget who we work for or something?"

"I think they just want to be supportive," Akane laughs, holding up a dildo that wobbles wildly in her hand. "We'll need to have our drinking party at the end of the week, I think. Kensuke-san said he'll bring his mate if it's late enough for her to make it. I guess her alpha senses get really sensitive when he's this close to heat."

"You'll come, won't you?" Shimizu asks you. She works in HR and it shows as she packs up a care basket with ease. "Most people don't bring their mates unless it's their own pre-heat party, but I'm sure everyone would love to meet yours!"

You wrinkle your nose before you can help it. The idea of alcohol and Katsuki and your coworkers sounds like a bad combination, especially when you're desperately trying to hide your own pre-heat symptoms from the company. "He doesn't really drink…"

"There'll be nonalcoholic drinks served too," Akane says. "My mate gets her panties all in a twist when I come home drunk."

"It's alright if you don't want to," Shimizu assures you. "We'll just meet him when it's time for your own pre-heat party!"

You freeze in the act of pulling out a package of anal beads where each bead seems to have one character of your company's name stamped on it, but luckily neither of them seem to notice. "Can you do me a favor, in the spirit of our new friendship?" you ask, "Could you guys please choose the toys with the least amount of branding?"

Akane and Shimizu laugh. "Aye, aye, boss!"

"We should just start prepping yours now," Akane says breezily. "That way we'll be ready when it hits you!"

"We can even give it to you early," Shimizu adds, "and I'll just mark it off in your file. You've got next week off, so maybe you can put it to good use ahead of time."

She winks and you laugh nervously, but thankfully they don't know you well enough yet to pick up on it. "That would be great, actually," you say, fidgeting with a packet of flavored lube. "I'm sure my boyfriend will love that."

There's a knock at the door as the three of you dig into boxes and sort misplaced toys into their proper shelves. Someone you vaguely recognize from the IT department pokes their head in and immediately zeroes in on you. "Ah, sorry to interrupt," they say sheepishly, glancing at the fuzzy handcuffs Shimizu is brandishing, "but it looks like your mate is here, and he says it's important."

You stare at them. "My… mate…?"

"Uh. Yes," they say, "Mr. Dynamight?"

What?

You wave goodbye to Akane and Shimizu and thank the IT person for the notice before speed-walking towards the entrance lobby of your building. The elevators always take too long, so you head for the stairs, even though it'll take you out towards the back end of the building. There's no reason for Katsuki to show up at your workplace, especially not when he should still be on patrol. He hasn't messaged you much today, either, but that's not unusual. Did something happen? Is he hurt?

Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears that you nearly miss the gruff "whoa!" as a densely muscled arm suddenly swings out to snag you by the waist. You're lifted straight off your feet and shoved into a supply closet before you even have a chance to open your mouth and scream, but Katsuki is quick to slap a rough hand over your lips.

"Shh, it's just me, shit, sorry," he grunts, wincing as you bite his hand. "Fuck, your teeth are sharp."

"Katsuki!" You have the presence of mind to keep your voice low as you shout. He must have a reason for ambushing you in the back of your company building, so even if you don't know what's going on, you know better than to risk getting caught. "What are you doing here?"

The closet is dark, though light seeps through the bottom of the door he's shoved you against from the hallway he just caught you in. You can barely make out his deep red eyes with the lighting and his gauntlets and gloves resting on the shelf by his shoulder — everything else is cast in shadows. "I needed to see you."

"… huh?"

"I'm not losing, you got that? I'm just makin' up for yesterday."

"What're you talking ab— hey!" You back up into the door with a thunk as Katsuki leans forward, his thick arms caging you in on either side. "Bakugou Katsuki I swear on your All Might trading cards I'll knee you in the balls if you blow my cover here."

He snorts and ducks his head closer. You can feel the soft puffs of his laughter against your neck as you crane your face away, desperate to maintain the upper hand here even though his proximity is triggering something alarming between your thighs.

"Knew you'd look hot as fuck in my clothes," he mumbles, inhaling sharp along the soft skin of your neck. "You smell so fucking good, too."

"I used a strawberry lip balm today," you breathe, careful to stay pressed back against the door. Katsuki is close enough now that you can feel his chest rumble when he laughs.

He presses his lips to the hammering pulse beneath your jaw. "I'm not gonna blow your fuckin' cover," he says lowly. "I'm just gettin' a little taste."

And then he nips at your skin, mere centimeters away from your scent glands — and you moan.

Loudly.

Desperately.

Fuck him. You're sensitive this far into your pre-heat. Desire thrums through you like a plucked string and you lose your tenuous grasp on your self control. All you can think about is Katsuki, Katsuki, Katsuki as hormones flood your bloodstream and your subdued omega instincts rise to the surface, pheromone suppressor be damned. Your hands are in his hair before you've registered it, yanking him up to kiss you. It's a testament to Katsuki's iron will and his love for you that he lets you drag him into place, though he can't quite kiss you properly because he's smirking too hard. You bite at his lip in retaliation, but that only makes him groan low in his chest and the sound zips straight to your core.

You're so warm. Hot, even, flames of pleasure licking up your spine. You grab onto his shoulders and tremble as he shoves one hard, muscled thigh between your legs, flexing and pressing upwards until your weight rests firmly on top of him. "K-Katsuki…"

"What's the matter, baby?"

"This is so fucking unfair," you whine, tugging at him until he drags you forward by the hips. The friction is delicious and intense, even through your borrowed trousers and the thick fabric of his hero suit, and you can do nothing but hold on for your life as Katsuki guides you into riding his thigh. The easy way his biceps flex and his overwhelming strength turn your mind a little fuzzy. "Why'd you — why're you —"

"Couldn't stop thinkin' about you, brat," Katsuki grunts, pressing his face into the junction between your neck and shoulder. You bare your neck for him instinctively, presenting for him, but he tilts his face up to nip at your ear instead. "Wearin' my clothes and smellin' like me —"

"You're my mate," you gasp out, fisting his hair. "Don't I always smell a little like you?"

Katsuki laughs and stops dragging you along his thigh, shoulders shaking harder when you whimper in protest. You can feel the sharp wave of your impending orgasm recede with every rough chuckle exhaled against your skin. "You want me to keep goin'?"

"You started this, you asshole —"

"Beg for it, then."

Oh. Wait. "Fuck you," you hiss, shoving at him to let you down. He obeys easily, keeping his large hands on your waist to steady you. Desire is still humming hot in your veins, but the cold logic of your brain is working overtime to bring you back down. He's just trying to get you to lose, huh? "Did you come here just to rile me up? What's your problem?"

"Your pre-heat is gettin' to me," Katsuki says, nosing at your temple. Your already flushed body spikes with embarrassment at the tender gesture. "I didn't wanna leave you this mornin', and you were so fuckin' hot yesterday. You sure we can't just kickstart it early?"

"I thought you said you could resist me," you mumble, "what happened to that?"

"I am resistin' you."

You pull away slightly to shoot a pointed look at his body caging you against the door. You get an eyeful of his firm chest and those strong arms you love so much, which doesn't exactly help your predicament, but Katsuki just grins, sharp and beautiful even in the dim light of the closet.

"Baby, if it were up to me, I'd be balls deep in you right now," Katsuki says. Your toes curl in your shoes as you bite back a whine. "But we're tryin' to keep it a secret, yeah?"

This was a mistake. You know — you know your boyfriend has a competitive streak a mile wide, and there's no way he's going to let you walk away from calling him weak for you. Never mind that he's been behaving himself so far — letting you try on his clothes in front of him, sending dirty texts but not acting on any of them — now it seems like he's ready to fight back. Making dinner shirtless last night was definitely a small test for your own self control, but now he's breaking out the big guns by ambushing you at work.

"You're terrible," you breathe, and Katsuki just grins.

"Better get back to work, or your coworkers'll come lookin' for you."

As if your coworkers read his mind, behind you come the distinct sound of clattering footsteps going down the hall. You hear someone beyond the thin barrier of the door you're still pressed against. "Do you think Dynamight will give me his autograph?"

Katsuki meets your glare in the dim light and his grin shifts into a smirk, though his red eyes are unmistakably fond as he regards you. "I'll let you know when the coast is clear."

"You suck. You're evil. They should take away your Pro Hero license."

Your boyfriend laughs quietly and leans forward to brush his lips along your cheek. You tilt your face up into the smoky sweetness of him and manage to kiss the edge of his jaw as he pulls back. He hums with pleasure, but his smirk is still sharp as he eyes you. "Yeah, yeah. You're the one who poked the big bad alpha, you little shit."

Katsuki gets the two of you out of the supply closet and disappears before anyone in your company can corner him for an autograph. You spend a few minutes splashing water on your face in the bathroom, hurriedly trying to cool down as the lingering aftereffects of nearly getting marked race through your bloodstream. Once you deem your reflection (and raging hormones) passable, you head back upstairs and get back to work.

Or at least, you try to get back to work. The stacks of reports are less enticing to you now that you know Katsuki is really trying to get you to beg for him. It all makes sense to you now. The dirty texts and shirtless cooking were testing the waters — his way of seeing how affected you are by him, as if you haven't been mated for years at this point — and now he's ready to leverage your omega biology against you any way that he can. There's no rule saying you can't fuck during your pre-heat, but neither of you have tried thanks to the unspoken agreement that it would make this silly competition less fun.

But you really, really want to fuck him.

"Is everything alright?" Shimizu's voice snaps you out of your vivid fantasies and you blink at your reflection in the dark screen of your monitor. "Your computer's been asleep for ten minutes now. Is your mate okay?"

"O-oh, he's fine," you flush with embarrassment at getting caught slacking. "He just needed to give me something I forgot at home."

"Oh, was that all? That's so nice of him," Shimizu says. "Make sure you ask if he wants to come to the pre-heat drinking party for Kensuke-san."

"Is that really okay?" you ask. "It won't set anything off for Kensuke-san and his mate?"

"Nah. They're bound to be all over each other, anyway. We're all used to it — the drinking party is always more for everyone else to send them off with well wishes," Shimizu explains. "The company picks up the tab, too. It started out as a one-off, and we didn't think the company would keep doing it, but we're all in agreement that if the company is going to pay, then we're going to go out and play."

That… makes sense. Even in a company as supportive as this one, of course it doesn't erase the fact that you're all working under them. "Is that… what happened with the sex toys?"

"Yeah," Shimizu slides into the seat next to yours as she picks up on your interest. "At first, everyone thought it was super cringe and weird, right? Why would we want company branded toys? But it's free stuff, and even if we've got great benefits and paid time off and work isn't unbearable, it's still free stuff. Nobody passes up on the free stuff. We all need to work, so we might as well take advantage of everything the company is willing to give us!"

"And you said you don't really notice the branding…"

"I mean, honestly, you've gone through heats before, haven't you? Are you paying attention to anything besides your mate?"

You snort in agreement. "Back when Katsuki and I were figuring out our mating bond, he triggered my heat on accident and I climbed onto his lap in the middle of an izakaya. He had to help me through it in one of his friends' apartments because it was the closest he could get to a private space nearby."

The two of you ended up buying Denki a whole new mattress and bedding set to replace everything you irreparably messed up that week. His friends were gentle in their good natured ribbing, but you'd unfailingly blush any time you passed by that izakaya, and Katsuki couldn't eat there after patrols anymore without popping a boner.

"That sounds typical," Shimizu says, grinning. "I don't care about mates, myself, but I love hearing about the crazy shenanigans the bond ends up putting you through."

"Is that why there's a company-wide announcement anytime someone is about to enter their heat?" you ask. It's a little risky, bringing it up, but Shimizu is nice and clearly eager to chat on company time. "Most places just mark it as time off."

Shimizu twirls her hair around her finger as she hums in thought. "That started before I joined the company, but I think it's more like… public image? I heard it's the vice president who fully supports heats and likes buying all sorts of new toys for everyone to try out. And if we're celebrating it all so publicly, the president can't protest without looking bad!"

"That's… good," you say. You don't know what else to say to this — but thankfully Shimizu hops out of her seat and waves goodbye cheerily as a chattering group of coworkers enters the room. You try to refocus on your work, but not even a packet of chocolate dipped dried mangoes is enough to help you through more than a few reports.

Hearing about the company policies from a coworker's mouth and seeing everyone chatting excitedly about the end-of-the-week drinking party lifts your spirits. Like you told Katsuki originally, you know you'll get used to the idea of everyone knowing about your upcoming heat. It's just taken some time, and seeing how nobody treats Kensuke from Accounting any differently helps.

Now that you're feeling marginally more comfortable about the whole thing with your company, you feel like you can turn to the real task at hand: teasing your mate and winning this silly game of who can make the other beg for it first.

You skip your stop on the train ride home and hop off at the station closest to Ground Zero. Eijiro was delighted to conspire with you in sending Katsuki back to the agency a little early on his shift and the front desk receptionist lets you into the upper floors with a wide smile. If Katsuki can ambush you at work, it stands to reason that you should return the favor.

You slip into his private office and silently thank Mina for insisting on having strong frosted glass for the windows separating their offices from the cubicles of the sidekicks outside. Katsuki's office is plain overall — there's a large wooden desk with a cushy chair behind it, but otherwise it looks like a normal office space at first glance. As you walk around in it, however, you spot a few All Might collectibles, and there's an omamori hanging off of his desk lamp that you picked up for him at your first shrine visit of the year. He also has a polaroid photo of the two of you — his arm slung around your shoulders as you laughed, his free hand flipping off the camera — washi taped to the bottom of his monitor.

"The fuck're you doin' in here," Katsuki demands, striding into the room and shutting the door behind him with a slam. You jerk up in surprise. He got back a lot sooner than you expected.

"How'd you know I was here?" you ask curiously. Katsuki rolls his eyes as he begins dismantling his hero outfit, the loud clanking and clicking of his gauntlets filling the room as you walk over to help him.

"Smelled you from the station," he says. "As if I'd miss you tryin' to sneak in here."

You grin to yourself, somehow pleased that he sensed you even though he's ruined your chances of surprising him. "I just wanted to help you out," you say, trailing your hands up his arms. Katsuki raises one ash blonde eyebrow, clearly sensing your aim, but he lets you shove his hero mask up into his hair, exposing his forehead.

"Oh yeah?" His gauntlets hit the floor with a thunk and he rips off his gloves, tossing them aside as well. "Help me with what, brat?"

"Just, y'know," you bat your eyelashes up at him just to make him crack a sharp grin, "returning the favor from earlier today."

You kiss him first, a deep, melting kiss that makes your knees go a little weak even though you're the one initiating it. Katsuki's eyes narrow as you sink to your knees, but he doesn't stop you as you palm at his already hard erection through the fabric of his hero suit. "Oi, don't start something if you're not gonna finish it."

"I just want a little taste," you say, grinning as he glares down at you for throwing his words from earlier back at him. You hurry to unbutton and unzip his pants, dragging it down his hips and catching on his thick thighs as his cock springs free. He's leaking at the tip, pearly white and oozing, and he groans when you lick your lips at the sight.

"Fuckin'… don't stare at it."

You tsk. "So impatient." Katsuki threads his fingers through your hair gently as you lean forward to press your tongue against the slit, sliding his cock into your mouth with a wet suck. His hips jerk forward as he grunts, but his hand is endlessly gentle in your hair.

"Motherfu— oh, that's good," he pants, tipping his head back and exposing the strong lines of his throat as he groans. You hollow your cheeks and suck his cock down, settling into a familiar rhythm of bobbing on his dick, sliding your tongue along the underside and teasing at the slit as much as you can. You keep one hand on his thigh for balance and use the other to grab the rest of his length, squeezing in tandem with your bobbing. Wet, slick sounds fill the air as you choke and drool around his cock, and the way he throbs in the heat of your mouth sends a shiver down your spine.

"Sh-shit baby, yeah, just like t-that, fuck," Katsuki moans, his husky voice cracking a little on the words. He tips his head forward to watch the way his cock disappears down your throat, thumbing at your cheek and the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. "You little — you little shit, you're gonna make me fuckin' come —"

You let go of his cock to cup at his balls, hanging heavy at the base of him, fondling them as you suck him deeper into your mouth. The strain on your throat makes you choke around him and he grunts, all of his muscles straining as he struggles not to blow his load. You choke on his cock a few more times, your omega senses singing in your veins with the thrill of pleasuring your mate, but as soon as you feel the telltale signs of his impending orgasm, you pull yourself off of him.

Katsuki nearly knocks you over. "You little — I'm gonna eat you alive you — fuck —"

You suckle at the tip of his cock, smiling up at him as he throbs concerningly in your loose grip. He huffs with the crash of his ruined orgasm and stares down at you in aggravated silence. "You want me to keep going?" you ask innocently, close enough that your lips get smeared with precum and saliva as you talk. Your voice is hoarse. "Just say the magic words, baby."

Your boyfriend seems to realize what you want a few seconds after you speak, as if it takes him a moment for his brain to comprehend full sentences. You peer up at him, blinking slowly, his cock mere centimeters from your lips as his face goes through approximately three different stages of grief.

"You're the worst," Katsuki grumbles, shoving you away and folding himself into a squat. You swipe at your face with the back of your hand, grimacing at the spit as you clean yourself up. He notices, because of course he does, and you watch with interest as Katsuki shoves himself upright to wobble to his desk. He tosses you a few tissues and pulls up his pants and boxers before crouching beside you to help you wipe your face. "The second your heat hits, I'm gonna fuck you so hard you won't be able to feel your legs, you brat."

You suppress a shiver at his words and scratch at your suppressant patch, hidden beneath the high collar of your borrowed shirt. "Don't threaten me with a good time."

Katsuki laughs, a short bark that makes you grin. "I hope you're ready, loser," he says, eyeing your lips. "C'mere and give me a kiss."

You wrinkle your nose. "I have dick breath."

"Like I give a shit, pipsqueak." Katsuki nips at your lip as you smile into the kiss, holding onto his shoulders for balance and sneakily smoothing your hands over the dense muscle there. "What're you smilin' about?"

"Just feeling you up."

"Hah?" He's so pretty when he blushes, pink rising high on his cheekbones and staining the tips of his ears red. You nuzzle into his strong neck, inhaling his comforting smoky sweet scent with a sigh of relief. You can feel your omega instincts settling as his scent envelops you properly. Katsuki seems to feel it, too, nudging into your hair and wrapping strong arms around you to keep you close.

After a moment, your legs start to cramp up from the awkward position, so the two of you clamber back up to your feet. Katsuki keeps a firm grip around your arm as you wiggle the feeling back into your toes, and you take advantage of his support to lean heavily against him. "Hey, Katsuki," you say, peering up at him sideways, "when did you steal my fruit themed washi tape?"

"I didn't steal it," he says. You arch an eyebrow. "I just borrowed it." You blink up at him. "Quit fuckin' starin'. It reminds me of you."

Oh. Your heart does a funny little flutter in your chest, which is a little ridiculous considering how long you've been together and the fact that he's literally your mate, but you let the feeling wash over you anyway and beam up at him. "I love you, too."

Katsuki's expression promptly freezes before he rolls his eyes, but his smile is soft. "Let's go already. It's gettin' late."

He holds your hand on the walk to the train station and acts as your wall against the crush of evening commuters. You're clingy — tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie, slipping your fingers through the belt loops of his pants — but Katsuki indulges you, clearly feeling the effects of your pre-heat just as much as you are.

Dinner is a comfortable, teasing affair. You bury your nose into the strong lines of his back as he cooks, pinching the skin of his stomach whenever he makes a snarky remark. He asks about your day and makes you laugh while recounting one of the old ladies on his patrol route who's taken to giving him pointers about how to make cuter bentos.

"You could learn a thing or two from her," you giggle, breathing in deeply.

"Watch it, brat, or I'm puttin' those rice penguins in jail."

The two of you refrain from riling each other up the rest of the night, sinking into the other aspects of your pre-heat instead. He watches with a wrinkled nose as you down a strawberry sando picked up from the konbini after dinner, but he lets you pat your night cream onto his skin and nuzzles your neck while you're tending to your own nightly skincare routine. Katsuki keeps a heavy arm around your shoulders as you tuck yourself into his side, throwing a leg over his thighs as he settles into bed with you.

This is your favorite part of the day — listening to the steady thump of his heart with his scent all around you, teasing him and feeling the low rumble of his voice as he snarks back, running the pads of your fingers over the scars crossing his chest idly and basking in the safety and security of Bakugou Katsuki being in your arms. It's always nice when you can fall asleep with him, when he isn't holed up in his office poring over mission reports or out on the streets taking down villains. You know he'll never say it out loud, but he always kisses you before leaving for patrol in the early mornings, always tucks the blankets back up to your chin to keep out the pre-dawn chill. He has spans of time where he's out more often than not working on taking down big missions, but he always comes back to you.

And with your heat approaching quickly, he starts pawning off his later patrols in order to pick you up from work. This is something like torture for you, personally, because he always smells so fucking good and looks so hot all rumpled and cozy in his post-work clothes. Katsuki makes a funny sound in the back of his throat when you greet him with a hug, slipping his hands a little lower than normal to squeeze your ass and smirking when you squeak and rip yourself away from him.

Luckily he's agreed to meet you a few blocks away from your company building, so you can escape before any of your coworkers notice the two of you. Katsuki gets handsy the closer you get to your heat, but he doesn't push it any further than blatant groping when you pass by him at home, so you retaliate by feeling him up whenever possible. You have no idea if blue balling him at work earlier in the week put the two of you in a stalemate, but you keep your guard up anyway and play by his unspoken rules to keep it to touching only.

It sucks, though.

Every touch makes you shiver; every graze of his lips makes you warm. You can feel the deep, intrinsic ache of your heat simmering just below the surface, the wellspring of desire thrumming through your veins. You're tense — Akane and Shimizu cajole you into fancy beverage breaks because they think you're stressing out too much about work — but your omega senses quiver like a roiling sea being brought to boil, only partially satiated by Katsuki's frequent touches and attention.

It all comes to a head at Kensuke's pre-heat party. Honestly, you should've begged off, but you didn't want to draw suspicion and everyone kept saying how they wanted to meet your mate. Kensuke himself brings along a Dynamight t-shirt in the hopes of a signature, which is just so cute you can't bring yourself to ditch the party.

"Congrats and good luck with your heat," you beam, toasting with Kensuke and his mate, a very pretty brunette who keeps her hand firmly around Kensuke's arm. She gives you a grin and a wink.

"Thanks," she says, "though we shouldn't need it. Ken-chan and I are old hats at this now."

"Your mate's scent is pretty strong, huh?" Kensuke says, tilting his nose up in spite of the grilled skewers being handed around. "It's almost like you're the one in pre-heat with how overpowering his scent is over yours."

"Haha," you swipe a skewer and pretend to be intensely interested in the slightly charred yakiniku. "You're probably just confusing my scent since you're in pre-heat, Kensuke-san!"

"Hm, I guess so," he says easily. His expression suddenly perks up, but you don't need to turn to see why. Every hair on your body raises as that comforting, overwhelming, smoky sweet scent washes over you. "Oh look! It's really Dynamight!"

Fuck.

You feel his red hot stare burrowing into you, and you know without a doubt that he's caught the way you've tensed up. You can feel your nipples perk against the silk fabric of your shirt, straining through your bra, and your panties get undeniably damp as his gaze drags along your form. You feel warm, warmer than you should be in this partially outdoor izakaya, and the air suddenly feels stifling, like you're swimming in smoke.

Katsuki's hand is heavy on your shoulder. You feel his touch like a brand, searing straight through your meager defenses, a spark that flickers as it drifts down to the well of your desire. You know — you know that once it catches, once it alights — you're both screwed.

"Hey, babe," you chirp, leaning into his arm as if your entire body isn't thrumming with want. "This is Kensuke-san and his mate! He brought one of your shirts — would you pretty please sign it?"

Katsuki's red eyes flash as he nods. To everyone else at the party, he probably looks normal. Just a regular Pro Hero alpha, strong and exuding power, all dense muscle and grace and skill, little sparks flying from his hands as he adds a tiny explosion smudge to the end of his signature on Kensuke's merch shirt. The guest of honor and his mate thank Katsuki profusely, and you take advantage of their distraction to slide away towards the bathrooms inside the izakaya proper.

This isn't good. You need to figure out how to get out without anyone noticing that Katsuki's been eye-fucking you since he got here, and then you need to bolt home so you can collapse into your heat in peace. One more touch from your mate and you'll probably drop right into it, but there's no way Katsuki will be able to keep his hands off you tonight.

You press yourself flat against the concrete wall in the hallway for the bathrooms, heart hammering in your chest. Forget worrying about your company's pre-heat shenanigans — you have a new fear unlocked: going into heat at a party full of coworkers.

"Whoa, hey!" Akane's a little louder than usual, a little wobblier on her feet. "The bathrooms are here, yeah?"

You manage to laugh, though there's a pitch of desperation in it that she thankfully doesn't notice. "Yup, they're right here! I just needed a breather. Hey, what happened to sticking to the nonalcoholic stuff?"

"Aw, yeah, I'm having those next," Akane flaps her hand at you breezily. "I'll sober up before I get home! Don't worry your pretty little head 'bout me! Hey, have I ever told you how nice your skin looks? Like, whoaaa."

This makes you giggle. "Do you need help in the bathroom?"

"Nope!" She shoots you a thumbs up. "See ya soon!"

You watch with amusement as she stumbles into the bathroom, but she doesn't hit anything on her way inside, so you lean back against the wall again and take a deep breath. You're aching — a deep, insistent pulse throbbing between your legs as a rich smoky caramel scent tickles at your instincts. Oh, shit.

You barely manage step away from the wall when suddenly Katsuki's there, looming big and broad and setting off every alarm bell ringing in your head. He eyes you with a flinty glare that's more black than red for a moment before he huffs and grabs your hand.

"Uh —"

"Zip it or I'll fuck you right here," Katsuki grits out. Oh, god. Your panties are sticking to your folds, tacky and damp, and you bite back a whimper as he pulls you along. His hand is warm around yours, and even though he's tugging you towards the back entrance of the izakaya, he never moves too quickly for you to keep up.

The two of you burst out into the back alleyway and Katsuki spares a quick glance around before he's on you.

He keeps a hand on the back of your head as he slams you into the dirty brick wall, shielding you even as he wrenches your waist towards him to grind his incriminatingly hard length against you. He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive, wiping out all coherent thought in your brain as your senses strain towards him. "You're gonna kill me," he grunts. You whimper into the kiss and clutch at his shoulders for dear life as he licks into your mouth, filthy and wet, swallowing down your pitched moans as he rocks his clothed cock against your center.

"What d'you want? Fingers or mouth?"

Your eyelashes flutter open in confusion. Your mind feels hazy, lost in the smoky sweetness of your mate, your focus entirely zeroed in on the throbbing of your pussy as Katsuki swears low beneath the clattering of the izakaya door opening.

"Wh— whoops!" the voice sounds familiar, but you can't quite place it. You blearily try to turn your head towards the sound, but Katsuki anchors you closer to him, covering you with his broad shoulders. "I was just — oh! You two should head home! I'll let everyone know you had an emergency!"

The roar of the crowds inside the izakaya rises in volume again before the door clangs shut. Katsuki picks you up before you can figure out what's happening, a strong hand tucking beneath your thighs as you cling to his neck. "Hold on tight."

"What're you— Katsuki, what the fuck!?" The loud, snapping, popping sound of explosions echo in the night before you're suddenly shooting straight into the sky, air rushing past you like you're flying. You tuck your face into his neck and swallow down an aborted scream, because, well — you are flying, propelled through the city skyline by Katsuki's explosive power.

Your boyfriend laughs. The shaking of his chest is familiar, at least, and you concentrate on that and the strong, sweet scent of his scent gland right beneath your lips. It would be downright disastrous for you to bite him now, while you're soaring through the city leaving fireworks in your wake, but you can't help kissing and sucking at the skin of his neck and shoulder as your body shivers with want.

There's a thud as he lands heavily and then a muttered curse before the tinkle of glass meeting concrete filters into your ears. You take a peek and catch sight of your apartment's balcony curtains fluttering in the wind, but the perspective is all wrong — why're you looking in as if you're —

"Katsuki," you pinch one of his strong shoulders, "did you just break into our apartment?"

"I'll get the glass replaced next week," Katsuki says, stepping inside and kicking off his boots. You're shivering, hot, feverish. He's warm, too — as usual — but sweat beads across his brow and you know you're close. "Bed, now. Or all our neighbors'll hear you screamin' my name."

Katsuki doesn't put you down. He carries you in a princess hold, the hand supporting your back smelling like smoke and soot, and he kicks the bedroom door shut with one socked foot. "Katsuki, Katsuki," he mocks, and suddenly you realize you've been chanting his name, fingers clenching tight to the hairs on the back of his head. "What d'you want, baby? Fingers or mouth?"

"I want you —"

His laugh is rough, a tortured sound spilling from his lips as he drops you on the bed and immediately kneels between your legs. Your breath catches in your throat as he slides your shoes off and tosses them aside. You lean up on your elbows to watch, wide eyed and breathless, as he trails his lips along the bare skin of your calf, hiking your skirt up with every beat of your heart. "I want you, too," he mutters, pupils blown wide with lust, his smirk pressing into your thigh. "But answer the question."

Your body thrums with anticipation. You can feel your heartbeat in your core like a siren song. "Katsuki, please —"

Katsuki snaps. A loud riiip tears through the air as he tosses aside the ruined fabric of your panties and then he's on you, his tongue licking dirty and insistent through your folds. You choke on a moan, hips canting into the air as pleasure sparks in your synapses, chasing the feeling as he eats you out like a man starved.

"Katsuki, Ka— nghh, Katsuki, please —"

Your boyfriend swirls his tongue around your clit and you nearly sob as you clench around nothing, your inner walls spasming with your near orgasm. Your thighs are tense, locked tight around his head. Katsuki doesn't seem to mind, lapping at your slick and groaning into your warmth, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs to hold you down.

Distantly you hear yourself whimpering and whining, but Katsuki continues to torture you, bringing you to the brink and pulling back as soon as you start to spasm. Somewhere in the depths of your mind you know there's a way to get him to — to fuck you properly —

You release the blanket you've been twisting in a death grip and scrabble for the pheromone patch on your neck. It takes a few tries as you pant helplessly, your fingers sliding off your sweaty skin, but as soon as your nail digs under the edge you rip it off and drown.

"Haah, fuck you —"

Katsuki rips himself away from your fluttering pussy with a groan and shoves his pants down awkwardly, the thick fabric catching on his thighs but low enough that his cock springs free. You whine at the sight, reaching for him, and he huffs out a laugh as he clambers over you. "You asked for it," he warns, but his voice cracks as the tip of his cock nudges against your wet folds.

"Oh, god, please please please. In," you grab at his arms and tilt your hips up, "Please get inside me."

"Fucking — hell —" Katsuki groans as he pushes inside, but his self control is at an all time low. He doesn't want to hurt you, but you're so wet and warm and your velvety walls are practically squeezing him in a vice grip.

He shoves every hard inch of his cock into you with a grunt, kissing you hard as you fall off the edge into bliss.

White. Sparks. It takes you a moment to come back to your senses, a moan punching through your chest as Katsuki pants into your neck. "Fuck."

"Yeah?" He rolls his hips and you whine at the sensation of being stuffed full of his cock, wiggling as best as you can beneath him. His skin is sweaty and sticky against yours, and you realize pulled his own shirt off. He's shoved your borrowed shirt up and off so that you're nearly naked, and out of the corner of your eye you spot your bra dangling from the doorknob where he tossed it away.

"Katsuki, c'mon, move," you plead. He digs his elbows into the mattress on either side of your head and rolls his hips again, dragging every rock solid inch of him against your insides. You clench around him, sparks skittering up your veins as he bullies his way back in, and then he's gone.

Katsuki fucks you into the mattress. You can barely string together a sentence, holding onto his arms as he shoves himself deep with every thrust. The overpowering scent of him fills the air along with the smell of sex and sweat and your choked off moans. You cling to him as best as you can, tilting your neck up as an offering as his thrusts get deeper and harder, crying out when he reaches to rest your legs on his shoulders, ankles dangling by his head as the changed angle lets his cock kiss a spot inside you that makes you sob.

"Oh, oh, Katsuki, fuck please I need you I want you please please please —"

"I — I got you," he grunts, "just fucking — hah you've gotta —"

"Oh I'm gonna cum, I'm — Katsuki I'm gonna cum!"

Katsuki growls as you leap off the edge again, pressing a strangely sweet kiss to your lips before leaning down further and licking along the side of your neck. You barely have a moment to register what he's doing before his body locks up and he bites you, marking you as his cock spurts and kicks inside you.

"Oh, fuck —"

The heady rush of pheromones sends you spinning dizzily higher, a pleasure so intense lighting up your nerves you nearly black out. Distantly you can still feel Katsuki cumming, thick ropes of white painting your insides as he rocks his hips in tiny, incessant motions against you. He lets go of your neck with a grunt. And then you feel it.

"Ah. Ah." The swell of his knot is thick and alarming, but you force yourself not to tense as he locks up with you. The overwhelming feeling sends your nerves buzzing and you tilt your head to kiss him, languid and sweet.

"How's it?" he asks, breaking the kiss just to press his sweaty forehead against yours. You meet his deep red eyes and brush a kiss along the pink swell of his cheekbones. "I didn't hurt you?"

"I'm fine," you sigh. Your heart is still thumping like a drum in your chest, but Katsuki is warm and solid and unyielding around and inside you. You're so full. You nuzzle into the neck of your mate. "You're lucky I'm so damn bendy."

The first knot is always the most lucid, the relief of sliding into heat lending clarity to both of your senses before dissolving into a messy, incoherent sex fest. By the end of the cycle you'll have lost track of how many times and how many ways Katsuki takes you — though you know he's fond of the shower and he used to like propping you up against the balcony doors…

"Did you really break the balcony door?" you ask suddenly, disrupting Katsuki's careful kiss to your jaw. Your boyfriend snorts, slowly sliding your legs off his shoulders and wincing lightly as his knot jostles inside you.

"If I had to go through the apartment I would've taken you in the goddamn elevator."

"Oh." You wince as his knot slips slightly. Another thought leaps unbidden to the front of your mind. "Who was that at the izakaya?"

Katsuki shrugs. "Some chick. The one you were helpin' to the bathroom."

Your brain still feels fuzzy with endorphins and the afterglow of white hot pleasure, so it takes you a moment longer to figure out who he's talking about. You groan. "Oh, no… not Akane…"

"She said she'd take care of it," Katsuki assures you, nosing along your neck. "And 'sides, that's not what you should be worried 'bout."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? And what's that?"

The grin Katsuki shoots you is shit-eating and terribly, annoyingly endearing.

"You begged for it first."

A few days later, while Katsuki heats up some premade food so neither of you die of malnutrition, you finally remember to turn on your phone. It pings! with notifications, but one flagged as "important" catches your eye.

Shimizu: Hey friend, hope your heat's going well! I've sent along your company care package to be delivered to your apartment, and once you get back we'll have a post heat drinking party for you! I also sent out your pre-heat company-wide congratulations email a few days ago, but don't worry, I'll send it out earlier next time so we can celebrate you properly!

Katsuki pokes his head into the bedroom at your loud groan, two plates piled high with food balancing on his strong forearms.

"What's the matter, pipsqueak?"

"Did we get a delivery?" you ask. Katsuki sets the plates down on the bed beside you and disappears for a moment, but then you hear a loud bark of laughter and he reappears with a large box. "Oh, no. Don't tell me…"

Katsuki reaches in and whips out a dildo with your company's name stamped along the base. "They found out?"

"I'm gonna die," you say. "I can never face any of them ever again."

"So dramatic," Katsuki snorts, setting the box down. He braces his hands on either side of your thighs as he leans down to kiss you. "Wanna see which one makes you beg hardest?"

"We are not using those toys, Katsuki!"

"We'll see how you feel when I've got you beggin' for me again."

#tw omegaverse #tw a/b/o #cw a/b/o #cw omegaverse #a/b/o dynamics #cw knotting #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #mha x reader #mha x you #bnha writing #mha writing #x reader #at long last! hope you enjoy!#lmk if i need to add any other warnings!#fuji writes!

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belit0 · 2 months ago

Note

Can I ask for another request, I think I may have some Uchiha baby fever lol. They have an adult married daughter who’s having her first baby. Their wife was helping deliver the grand baby. And the Uchiha reacting to meeting their grand baby after the birth, seeing their baby as a mom. Happy sappy fluff. (With Inadra, Madara, and Izuna)

I do have a hard time picturing Izuna in this type of situations without making them bizarre/terrible/funny, but I'll give it my best shot.

Indra

He hadn't sat down once.

Not since the contractions started.

Ivy was inside with her.

She had been from the moment it began—holding her hand, whispering comfort, brushing her sweat-slicked hair back as Ame twisted and sobbed through the pain.

Her screams had nearly ripped him apart.

He had heard them through the door.

They'd told him to wait.

And he had.

For hours.

Pacing.

Breathing through his nose, jaw tight, fingers twitching with every cry. If anything went wrong—if anything touched her, if she so much as bled too much—he would raze the world again.

His old instinct stirred beneath his skin, coiled and ready, the one that made men fear his name.

But this wasn't war. This was—

His daughter.

And she was becoming a mother.

The door finally creaked open. It was Ivy.

She was flushed, eyes damp, but smiling.

–Come in, love.

She didn’t have to ask twice.

He entered slowly.

The room was bathed in golden light.

Warm, soft, the kind that caught in the threads of blankets and in the dark halo of hair fanned out on the pillow.

And there, propped up against soft cushions, her face still damp with tears, lay his daughter.

She looked small.

Not weak—never weak.

But young again.

Like the tiny girl who used to sleep between him and Ivy after nightmares.

Like the one who used to wrap her arms around his neck and cling to him like the world might fall without her hands holding it steady.

And in her arms—quiet now, swaddled tight, mouth still red from crying—

His granddaughter.

Ame looked up when she heard his footsteps, her voice soft and cracked from hours of labor:

–Hi, Dada.

His chest caved in. Dada.

She blinked, and her lower lip trembled—just like it used to when she was five and scraped her knee but tried to be brave about it.

–Do you want to meet her?

He didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Indra only crossed the room and sat beside the bed, and when Ame leaned toward him to place the baby in his arms, his hands trembled. Just once.

So small.

So impossibly new.

A crown of downy hair. Eyelids like rice paper. The lightest breath, tickling the skin of his wrist.

She smelled like milk and warmth and the blood of birth—life, raw and sacred.

He stared.

And stared.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke:

–What’s her name?

Ame smiled, exhausted but lit from within.

–You’ll laugh.

His gaze flicked up, sharp but warm.

–Try me.

–Kaori.– she whispered. –Warm. Peaceful. She… makes the room feel soft. Like Mom's baking. Like spring. It just… felt right.–

His throat locked.

She watched him, waiting for him to scoff, to call it too delicate for an Uchiha.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Indra turned his head just slightly, brushing the lightest kiss against the infant’s forehead, as though afraid to startle her.

–Then let her scent linger long after the rest of us are gone.– he murmured.

Ame reached for his hand. Her fingers curled around his.

–I was so scared.

Indra didn’t answer.

He only held her tighter, her hand, the baby, the moment.

Everything.

Because no one had warned him that watching this—his child with her child—would feel like a quiet death.

A surrender.

A kind of love that hurt so deeply, it left him breathless.

He glanced at Ivy, standing just behind the bed.

She was crying again. Quietly. Smiling.

He’d never loved her more.

Madara

He wasn’t built for small things.

Not for softness.

Not for the tremble in his hands as he stepped into the candle-lit quiet, his wife whispering behind him with flushed cheeks and wide, tired pride.

Their daughter had done well.

She’d held strong.

She had made life.

His little girl had made life.

He stopped at the foot of the bed.

She was half-asleep, hair damp with sweat, the shape of her face different somehow, like love had broken it open and rebuilt her in a single night.

When she looked up and saw him standing there, so still and quiet—

She smiled.

–He has your hair.– she said.

The bundle in her arms wriggled gently. Her wife sat at her side, hands steady, pressing a cool cloth to her temple.

And Madara, uncertain but aching to move, slowly walked closer.

He crouched at the bedside—not because he had to, but because something in him needed to lower himself before this newness, this piece of the world he would now die for.

She looked at him, soft and sure, and offered the baby forward.

He took the child in both arms, cradling him awkwardly, reverently.

He wasn’t a man who cried, not easily.

But when the baby’s eyes fluttered open and he saw the same wild light that once burned in his daughter’s—

His chest shook.

His daughter, strong and silent and glowing with exhaustion, reached up to touch his wrist.

–You okay, Dad?

He swallowed.

Nodded once.

–You made the world better.– he rasped. –You acomplished what I tried.–

And her smile—

It was all the answer he needed.

Izuna

He was the last to enter.

Not because he didn’t care, but because he’d been pacing the hallway, wearing a path in the floor, toying with a kunai like it kept his panic at bay.

His wife had been in and out, updating him with gentle reassurances that the baby was here, healthy, loud, beautiful.

He’d nodded, nodded again, nodded until she grabbed his wrist and tugged him inside herself.

The room was warm and quiet.

His daughter sat propped up with pillows, hair a mess, eyes ringed but glowing.

A laugh escaped her when she saw him—an honest-to-gods laugh.

–You look like you aged twenty years out there.

He snorted.

–I was going to say the same to you.

His wife elbowed him sharply as she passed, but he didn’t stop smiling.

And then he saw the baby.

Small. Swaddled.

Red-faced and furious in her arms, already making fists like she had opinions about the world.

He froze. Eyes wide.

Suddenly not sure if he could even walk closer.

–Dad.– she said softly. –Come meet your granddaughter.–

Something splintered inside him.

He stepped forward, sat at the edge of the bed, and let her hand the baby over.

Tiny. Warm. Loud.

He laughed—laughed, an actual noise—when the baby kicked a foot out of the blanket and it hit his stomach.

–Fiesty.

–Like her grandpa.– his daughter said.

He looked at her. At the baby. At her again.

And slowly, carefully, he leaned forward to kiss her temple.

–I have no idea how to raise a child, Dad.– she whispered.

He smirked.

–Neither did I, but you have us.– Then glanced toward his wife in the corner. -And don't even worry, I'll personally teach this little girl how to prank her mom.–

His daughter grinned, exhausted, triumphant.

And in that moment, the Uchiha house had grown again.

#naruto shippuden #naruto #naruto imagines #uchiha clan #madara uchiha #uchiha madara #uchiha izuna #izuna #madara #izuna uchiha #indra otsutsuki #otsutsuki indra #indra #uchiha ame #uchiha ivy #my ocs #ocs #oc

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ughbrie · 5 months ago

Text

love & deepspace ‧₊˚✩彡

⁀➴ xavier

⁀➴ zayne

⟢ converging threads | angst, fluff & smut | ao3 — part one — part two

“And I know what that loneliness feels like.” His voice was rough, raw. “Because when I had nightmares of his life… he dreamt of mine.” A chill ran through you. “He dreamt of Linkon. Of Akso. Of—” He swallowed hard, his grip on you unyielding. “You.” The word hung between you, heavy and fragile at the same time. “Now, he’s clawing his way into my thoughts, trying to make sense of a life that isn’t his to have.” Zayne’s hands curled into the fabric of your clothes, as if anchoring himself to something tangible. “And every time I look at you—” His voice cracked, his hands shaking as he clutched you. “He’s reaching for you. And I don’t know if it’s me who wants you or if it’s him bleeding through.” (Or… after the events of Chansia City, Zayne had started to avoid you. More than a week later, in the dead of night, he's outside of your door, struggling with his sense of self—blurring between two worlds.)

⟢ across distant nights (dawnbreaker!zayne) | angst & smut | ao3

“You saw me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “At the café?” His gaze darkened, the weight of years—of searching, of longing—settling into his eyes like a storm barely held at bay. “Just for a moment,” he murmured. “A glimpse.” His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, his touch reverent, almost fragile, as if he feared you might vanish beneath his fingertips. “And that was all I needed.” His voice dipped lower, rough with something raw and unspoken. “Do you understand now?” His forehead nearly touched yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Why I can’t let you go?” (Or… in the haze of waking and dreaming, you meet a boy—Dawnbreaker. Over the years, he lingers, growing with you, reaching for you, until the lines between reality and dreams blur beyond return. And when you finally meet Zayne, the man who bears his face but not his memories, you realize the truth: Dawnbreaker is no mere dream, and he is driven by something more than longing—by the fear of being replaced.)

⁀➴ rafayel

⟢ anchored to you | fluff & smut | ao3

You rolled your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.” “Am I?” he mused, his voice lilting, coaxing—so effortlessly familiar. “You wound me, Miss Bodyguard. Here I was, trying to paint a masterpiece, thinking of you after an agonizing week apart, only to check my notifications and find you, in the dead of night no less, liking another man’s post. Truly, a betrayal of the highest order.” “Thomas is your agent.” “Doesn’t change the facts.” You sighed again, but this time, it was laced with amusement. “You know what? I’m coming over.” There was a beat of silence. Then, sharper now— “What?” (Or... at 3:30 AM, Rafayel calls about you liking Thomas’ post. You know him far too well to believe that’s all it is. So you go to him, finding him amidst half-finished paintings and restless emotions, teetering between wanting space and needing you too much.)

⟢ ravaged depths | smut | ao3

You remembered the first Ebb day—how he’d clung to you, delirious, burning up from the inside out. Lemurians didn’t just get fevers. When they went into heat, it was instinct and memory twisted into something raw and feral. He’d held onto you like you were the only tether keeping him grounded. Because you were. You always had been. So when Thomas told you he’d vanished, that chill ran up your spine. You knew what this was. He was probably hiding it. Probably painting himself into madness with those blood-soaked corals he kept sealed in glass like trophies. Maybe he was hurting again. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like that—vulnerable, a god stripped bare.

⁀➴ sylus

⟢ eternal spring | fluff & smut | soon

synopsis soon (Or... a continuation of Sylus' limited 5 star memory: 'Valleydream Bloom'.)

⁀➴ caleb

⟢ tethered | fluff & smut | ao3

“Do you even realize,” he whispered, his voice low and uneven, “what you’re doing to me?” You barely had a chance to respond before he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours with a fervor that left no room for hesitation. The kiss was deeper, more desperate than before, as if he needed it, needed you, to steady the chaos inside him. His fingers tangled in your hair, holding you in place, making escape an impossibility—not that you wanted to. “You don’t get it,” he rasped, his voice breaking as his grip on you tightened. “I'll never let you go. Not again. Not ever. Not after this.” His hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.” (Or... a continuation of Caleb's limited 5 star memory: 'Painful Signal'.)

jujutsu kaisen ꩜ .ᐟ

⁀➴ soon.

harry potter ⭑.ᐟ

⁀➴ soon.

haikyuu! ᝰ.

⁀➴ soon.

avatar ☄︎₊˚⊹

⁀➴ soon.

#ughbrie.mlist #header by me #divider by cafekitsune

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dark-corner-cunning · 8 days ago

Text

The Tale of Old Mother Moss Cap & The Gift of the Green: A Summer Solstice Folktale

Summer Solstice Blessings! This bit of folklore was penned for the Solstice—rooted deep in my own tradition and this long, green-breathed season. But it didn’t just come from the head—it came from the heart. It was stirred to life by my dear witch sister Kay. The way she tends the land like it’s family, how critters come right up to her like she belongs to the woods, and the way she carries that quiet, rooted knowing—that’s the mark of someone touched by Old Mother Moss Cap. Kay’s one of the rare ones born with The Green in her bones.

Long ago, when the world still remembered how to listen, the southern wind would wander up through the hollers ‘round midsummer, warm and thick with the scent of sassafras and honeysuckle. That’s how folks knew Old Mother Moss Cap was wakin’. She comes slow, like a creeping vine, soft-footed and wide-hipped, with moss on her shoulders and green in her breath.

She comes from the Southern Road—that warm, red-dirt path of the year—leading us from the fire of spring into the deep cradle of summer. Her skirts drag the ground, and where she treads, gardens swell, weeds whisper secrets, and the land hums soft with abundance.

Old Mother Moss Cap don’t holler. She don’t strike. She nurtures. She teaches. She is the steady hand, the soft hush, the full belly. And she is the keeper of The Green.

Now, The Green ain’t just leaves and vines—it’s the living breath of nature’s spirit. It’s the life-thread that runs through rain and root, beast and breeze. It’s when the woods are so full you can’t see the sky for leaves. It’s holler medicine and old granny wisdom, animal tracks, birdsong, and the heartbeat of the land.

And in the Dark Corner, they say some are born with the Gift of the Green.

But others? Well… they’re chosen.

Old Mother Moss Cap watches the land, and when she finds someone with a soft step and a deep love for growing things—someone who sings to the soil and speaks kindly to beasts—she may place her blessing upon them. These are the granny and mountain witches, the wise ones, the ones who carry earth under their fingernails and know the language of herbs like it’s stitched into their bones.

They are the ones who can call the animals to come and sit awhile—not out of fear, but trust. The ones who feel storms in their knees, who know which weed soothes a sting and which bark cools a fever. They don’t just plant gardens—they tend souls.

And Old Mother Moss-Cap's greatest gift? She gives them her Green Thumb.

That Green Thumb ain’t just a knack for plants—it’s her mark, a sign that the bearer has been called to serve the land and their kinfolk. These wise ones become keepers of knowledge, medicine-makers, storytellers. They teach how to harvest without harm, how to dry and store for the cold moons ahead, when Old Mother Storm Cap stirs in the mountain fog.

When the Summer Solstice rolls in, and the land is thick with life, folks leave out offerings—bundles of herbs, sweet cornbread, a bit of honey on a stone. And they whisper:

“Old Mother Moss Cap, walk with us. Bless the hands that plant and gather. Let your Green flow through our kin. Teach us to heal, to tend, to remember.”

And when the wind shifts just right, warm and green-scented, they say she answers.

__________________________________________________________

For Those Who Walk the Green Way:

Leave an offering on Summer Solstice: water, herbs, or food from the land.

Speak to your plants like kin. The Green responds to love.

If you dream of moss, hares, or hear your name whispered in the leaves, listen close. You might be chosen.

Those with the Green Thumb are called to serve. Tend the land, share what you know, and walk soft.

Honor the old ways and pass them on. That’s how the Green stays alive.

Blessed be the Solstice and the hands who keep it green.

#witchcraft #witch #traditional witchcraft #witchblr #folk witchcraft #folk magic #appalachian witch #appalachian magic #appalachain folklore #pagan witch #folk witches

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fayes-fics · 2 years ago

Text

Show Me

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Too much Merlot and a challenge neither of you will back down from...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, mutual masturbation, mutual orgasm.

WordCount: 2.4k

Author's Note: Anon request fill from HERE (request: modern Anthony masturbates for reader), with thanks to some lovely mutuals (@colettebronte and @eleanor-bradstreet) who helped me decide for this to be a mutual masturbation fic and the former for beta reading too. Sorry it's taken so long to write this, Nonny, but I hope you enjoy! <3

“Oh, Please. I know everything about you,” you wave a hand dismissively at him, relaxing onto the chaise of your sectional sofa, wine glass in hand, after hosting duties are over.

The dinner party was done long ago, but he’s still here, even after all the other guests have left.

“No, you don’t,” Anthony frowns, swallowing the last dregs of his red wine from the glass.

You snort derisively. “Okay, go on, I dare you, say something that would shock me,” you goad, only half-joking.

He raises an eyebrow at you and puts down his empty glass. Then he leans back and places both elbows on the cushion behind, manspreading with arms and legs.

“I think about you when I masturbate,” he offers casually.

When he utters seven words, your whole world grinds to a halt. That is NOT what you were expecting. For a few seconds, you are stunned into silence, a static buzz in your ears as your brain supplies an enthralling mental slideshow.

“Haha, very funny. No, you don’t,” your retort echoing into your glass once you find your tongue again.

“Oh yes, I bloody do,” he asserts, and as you turn to look at him now, there’s a thread of tension in the air.

You have sparred with this man so much over the years you’re surprised he has any feelings of attraction towards you. Although, if you think about it, somehow, it’s right on brand for him—fighting and fucking somehow being on the same continuum. A sudden acute curiosity about where this might go, not wanting to think too hard about what it could mean.

“Show me.”

It leaves your lips before you can stop yourself—the wine speaking for you. One of his eyebrows raises archily again, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that looks so dangerous.

“You always surprise me. It’s so fucking sexy,” he says low and gravelly.

The spike of euphoria makes every cell of your being fizzle with energy like a storm approaching. To hear him call you sexy is the hottest thing you have ever heard. It makes you bolder.

“Show me,” you repeat, staring him down, the power and crackling potential of this moment enthralling, even if you are almost sure he will back down now.

He licks his lips and then pushes back onto your oversized sofa, settling into the plump cushions. You twist to watch him as he holds your gaze and drops a hand to his fly. The sound of his zip fills the room as much as your slightly laboured breathing does.

Fuck, is he actually going to do this?

Your disbelief is only matched by the rapid beating of your heart. The most vexing, and yes, okay, most attractive man you know is about to masturbate for you. Surely a fever dream.

He flicks the button at the top of his jeans, and you see boxer briefs that are slightly tented and bite your lip. Still, he stares you down as your eyes ping between his face and his lap. Then he pulls down his underwear, and you see his cock spring out, already sizable, half hard and very delicious looking. That theoretical mental slideshow from just moments earlier is nothing compared to the real thing.

He fists himself and stares at you challengingly. Then ever so slowly, as a tease, he raises his hand and then drops it down with a slight curling action, emitting a tiny groan as you watch his cock twitch and come to life in his hand.

“Y/n.”

The way he says it is dark, delicious and pitched so low you throb between your legs, almost painfully, a prickly feeling runs over the base of your scalp—a spike of arousal so rough it catches your breath.

“Anthony…” slips out of your mouth. It’s breathy, and you barely recognise it as your own voice.

“God, say it again, just like that,” he hisses, and you watch his fist flex around his cock.

“Anthony…” you repeat, slower this time, throatier, intentionally pitched to arouse.

He groans, and his hand speeds up. All you can do is watch. Your clit pulsing in sync with your heartbeat, with his motions. Your strongest urge is to strip off your underwear and climb on him before he can come to his senses. But you don’t dare; you just sit there routed to the spot a few feet away, unable to look anywhere but him - at that glorious cock and handsome face.

His tongue peeks out and swipes over his bottom lip, then he groans slightly, fractionally pushing his hips off the sofa.

“Join me,” he dares, his hand speeding up slightly as he hissed through his teeth. “Touch yourself.”

A shiver ripples over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Just the thought of masturbating in front of him while he does the same is enough to make you flood.

You stare briefly into the rich, ruby pool of Merlot in your hand, then tip your head back and down the rest of the glass without thinking, placing the glass aside. Your eyes back on Anthony, delicious cock in hand, stroking gently and staring at you intensely.

“Liquid courage, I like it,” he nods, smirking with a wink that is far too seductive. “Go on, prove me wrong. Show me you’re not the person I think you are.”

You know he’s trying to manipulate you, not at all subtly, with flattery. But you let him.

“What sort of person do you think I am?” you challenge, toying with the hem on your dress, revelling in how his eyes linger on your fingers as you do so.

“Too repressed to do in front of me what I know you would do if I walked out right now,” he goads with an empty threat.

“You’re wrong on both counts,” you counter brazenly, the wine coursing in your bloodstream now, letting your hands slide up your outer thighs, taking your hem with them. “There’s no way you’d walk out of here right now,” you posit with a knowing smirk.

His eyes flash in the low lamp light, his hand still making languid strokes of his cock, as you reach the sides of your underwear and peel them down your legs, angled away slightly so he can't see between your thighs, heart hammering wildly in your chest.

“Oh fuck yes,” he hisses as you pull them from your feet with a flourish and toss them across the room. “Come closer,” he adds velvety, his free hand patting the cushion next to him.

“I'm staying right over here, Bridgerton,” you warn even as you lick your lips unconsciously as a bead of precum forms at his tip, him still pumping himself slow but steady.

It feels too much like jeopardy to be right next to him, uncertain you could stop yourself from doing anything to him, begging him for everything he is willing to give. Desire tugging low in your gut, making you impulsive to do things you could never walk back. The distance between you feels safer.

So instead, you slide your fingers under your dress, heel digging into the plush fabric as you widen your stance, and he growls at the sight. All he can see from his angle is your arm wedged between your legs; that is how you want to keep it. A tease, not letting him see the whole show. But dammit, if you aren't going to give him a spectacle anyway. Arching your back and throwing your head onto the cushion behind, you inhale sharply as your fingertips slide into your folds, temporarily taken aback by just how soaked you already are, your clit swollen and aching. It won't take much.

“How wet are you?” he demands, the tone needy and wrecked already, the hand wrapped around his cock moving faster now.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” you grit out defiantly, the antagonism still broiling under the surface.

“Yes, I fucking would - tell me!” it's impatient, through gritted teeth, and you shoot him a sideways simper.

“Never…” you tease as your fingers slide through the slick, viscous pool. The blistering lingering look you share is anything but animus.

“I can hear it from here,” he growls, and you can't stop the hitch in your breath in response, knowing there is a wet sound as you flick across your clit in a rousing motion.

Your sight is locked onto his hand as he speeds up, squeezing his cock more insistently now, the tip getting pink and slick. It takes every fibre of your being not to slide to your knees before him and lick him clean. Just that thought has you pushing your knees further apart, your other hand reaching inside your neckline to tweak a nipple, pebbled and aching to be touched.

“Fuck, y/n,” Anthony stutters, temporarily stupified by the undulating movement of your body as you bear down on your fingers and pinch the hardened tip of your nipple until you hiss.

“Don't you dare stop,” you warn through gritted teeth as his rhythm falters, transfixed by the sight of you bringing yourself close to the edge.

He snarls at your command and seems to snap back to it, fisting himself even tighter, his hand almost a blur now, huffed, hungry noises escaping his lips as he stares at you, wild-eyed untamed, goading you to break with him.

The room feels too hot, the flush of alcohol coursing through you, the smell of sex in the air as you both push your bodies rapidly towards completion, the texture of the sofa catching the back of your thighs as you squirm on your hand, honeying your fingertips, desperate for him to reach out and demand to suck your fingers clean, to push your legs onto his shoulders and dive face first into your slit.

“Put a finger inside yourself,” he urges, rushed and ragged. “Please,” he amends with a throaty whine.

Unable to stop yourself, not wanting to either, you obey. Sliding your middle finger lower as you keep your index finger circling your clit. The heated, soaked cling makes you hiss in surprise, so on fire for him; you hold his gaze as you push deeper, your mouth opening into a small O at the sensation.

“That's it, fuck, I bet that feels amazing,” he snaps, his tone feral, his eyes just inky pools staring you down.

“Tell me you want to fuck me…”

It takes a split second to realise it was you who said it. Unwilling to back down, meeting Anthony’s stunned, hungry expression head-on, fingers sliding fast over your clit, spiralling so close so soon to something extraordinary.

“I want to fuck you,” he enunciates slowly, dripping with intent, making a low, almost grunting noise with each pull on his delicious cock.

Your responding moan is lewd, and you are uncaring of the noise your body makes as you rapidly fuck your finger into yourself over and over, wishing it was his perfect cock that you stare at now, both openly panting.

“Don't. Fucking. Stop,” it's his turn to say it now, each word a heaved, wrecked sentence.

There is an inevitability to this moment that somehow feels fated, apt, perfect, almost. As if this is the only way the searing tension between you would ever be resolved: a literal release.

“I’m so close,” he grits out, and you nod rapidly to agree, moving your other hand to touch your clit as you now slide two fingers into yourself, rapid, deep, craving release, feeling the telltale fluttering around your fingertips.

With a brief glance up to his handsome face, you watch his plump lips moan your name, long, loud, low. His body going rigged as an arc of cum shoots out of his cock, painting a glistening line over his knuckles and the rug between his splayed feet.

The sight makes you shudder from head to toe and pushes you over the edge, your pussy trapping your fingers in a vice-like grip as your body bows, and you call his name in release, the tension snapping in what feels like every cell of your body. Unable to stop and uncaring to do so, you ride the cresting sensation for what feels like forever and no time at all. You can hear him swearing and barking filthy encouragements, but it's muffled as if through cotton wool, the rush of blood in your ears and the spots dancing before your eyes, screwed tightly shut, all you can concentrate on.

When you sag back into the sofa cushions, utterly spent, letting your fingers slip from your body, mortification starts to creep into your edges. You feel unable to meet his eyes as you primly push down your dress where it had rucked up around your hips, even as you feel your own juices smearing over your skin as you do so.

“Don’t…” it's gruff and beseeching. “Don't you dare regret this. Or feel embarrassed. That was amazing,” he exhales shakily as he rezips his fly, his raw sincerity taking you back slightly, even as you stare at the floor.

“You owe me a new rug…” It's the strangest non sequitur, but it's what your brain has decided to say in response, eyeing the mess he has left.

He barks a laugh so loud you can't help but join in.

“That I do,” he admits, slumping back and turning his head towards you, a softness in his warm brown eyes as you finally pluck up the courage to look at him again.

“I don't regret it,” you admit quietly after a brief silence. “I just can't quite believe we did it…”

“Merlot…” he offers laconically, eyeballing the empty collection of bottles on your kitchen island.

“Definitely,” you giggle.

A grin tugs at his lips. “Got any more?” he inquires.

“One more bottle,” you gesture vaguely towards the wine rack.

He gets up and saunters over, bending to pick it up as you admire the fit of his jeans around his bum. He nods at you to pick up the empty wine glasses and then walks away, gesturing for you to follow.

“Where are we going?” you frown, pushing off the sofa to catch up with him as he wanders down your hallway.

He spins to look at you with an expression so heated you stumble to a halt and almost drop the glasses.

“Don't play coy, you know where,” he rumbles and kicks open your bedroom door with a flick of his foot.

It turns out your encore performance had a different director, but after you come screaming onto his hands and face, you decide it might be worth ordering a wine subscription.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor @hanji-emo-blog @y0ur-favgerman @Huffelpuffforlife @0x1harmonia0x1

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader

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llondonfog · 2 years ago

Text

MILK & HONEY. + dazzling fic art by @suntails <3 (also available on ao3)

“It will be alright, darling boy, I promise— everything will be alright.”

There’s no response, but Lilia doesn’t mind. His son has always been the quiet, thoughtful sort. Humming faint snatches of a lullaby long forgotten, he threads a hand through the boy’s moonlit strands, apathetic to the copper rust smears left behind. The child’s bangs have grown, he notes idly, fussing with the strands that have fallen over the boy’s face. Lilia ought to cut them soon.

“There will be time for that later,” he finishes his thought out loud, bending forward to press his lips benevolently to his son’s cool forehead— a blessing, Lilia thinks privately with a smile, examining the faint crimson outline of his lips against that pale skin. Blood of the father, blood of the son; sacrament and all that.

“But for now, my dear,” he gently strokes the backs of stained claws against the side of his boy’s face, leaving a virginal blush behind on a bloodless cheek. “It is time for you to wake up.”

Silver is five years old and held at knifepoint when he first meets his father.

There is a man holding his small arms behind his back, another grasping at his feet, while a third laughs grimly down at his rapidly watering eyes and traces the blade delicately against his temple.

“You’ve been a burden on our village for far too long, brat,” he sneers while Silver’s rabbit heart beats fast and panicked within his heaving chest. “No mother, no father, cared for out of the kindness of our hearts, and you have the nerve to go about stealing our scraps to feed the animals?”

They’re hungry too! Silver wants to cry out, if opening his mouth wouldn’t drag the blade against his hairline. And they’re his friends, when no one else would be.

The man, unfortunately, is right.

He has no family to speak of; an abandoned babe with odd-colored eyes, silkspun hair, and a debilitating tendency to sleep without cause like the dead themselves that had everyone in the village whispering fearful tales of curses and changelings. It didn’t help that the spring of his arrival had marked the beginning of a painful famine that would relentlessly grip the decaying land, crops failing out of a barren and cracked landscape as rivers began to bleed thin and dry. Changeling or not, it hardly took much time at all for any sympathetic feeling towards the foundling child to metamorphosize into bitter resentment at an extra mouth to feed when their own fevered children were crying out for more. Was it any wonder that he had turned to the few remaining woodland creatures for comfort, saving meager portions of his already miniscule meal to share in gratitude for their simple acceptance and affection?

The man with the knife doesn’t wait for any answering explanation, merely smacks the blade pointedly against his cheek with a cruel, hungry gleam in those dead fish eyes, and the other two holding him still trade malicious grins.

“It’s only fair that you pay for what you stole,” the man continues, almost kind and patient in his rationale— (I didn’t steal! Silver wants to shout, mouth dry and empty with fear. I only ever gave them food from my portion!)— and he hums with a terrifying softness at the way Silver’s frightened gaze tracks the knife’s every teasing glide about his forehead and his limbs tremble in their brutish hold. “Oh, not with your life— not at first, anyways. We’re going to scalp you; I can only imagine the price your pretty hair will fetch when we tell the traders that it's woven out of pure silver. It’s a start for what you owe us all for taking care of your worthless and lazy hide for the past five years, and then—”

He pauses as if for some grand operatic effect, savoring the way the tears helplessly gather and bubble at the edge of Silver’s lashes with a wicked smile.

“Then, we’ll kill you and plate you tonight as dinner. I think there’s enough to go around for the rest of the village, don’t you?”

Two things happen: First, Silver bursts into tears. Second, a dark shape drops from the trees above and latches onto the man’s throat, tearing it open in one fluid movement and soaking the entire scene, Silver included, in a hot spray of blood.

The entire woodland clearing erupts into chaotic, frenzied screaming. The other two men violently shove him forward in a futile attempt to use him as a shield and escape, and he falls numbly to the ground, limbs frozen in place out of dumb shock as shadows leap effortlessly over his head. The knife that had been so sinister just moments ago lies dull and dirtied in the forest floor by the now nearly headless corpse, and in the dim reflection of its blade, Silver can make out the similar gruesome demise of his other captors. The shrieking fearful sounds are silenced just as abruptly as they began; in less than thirty seconds, the forest has returned to its quiet, sedative self, at peace with the justice that has been served.

Who . . ?

Quiet, gentle footsteps sound from behind him, their stride unhurried and at ease as they round his quivering, prostrate frame, and something hysterically yells in his mind that it’s poor manners to not at least look his rescuer in the eyes.

“Hello, child,” the angel (for surely that must be, he fell from the heavens, did he not?) smiles down at him through dripping fangs.

Silver stares up through blood-splattered lashes at his savior and wonders if this is what it’s like to be stricken with love.

The vampire takes him home.

He laughs uproariously when Silver so shyly and seriously wonders aloud if he was truly an angel, with hands as kind and gentle as the spring sun upon the muddy bruises and dried wounds from the knife split across his face.

He laughs at a lot of things that Silver says. It’s uncannily loud and booming for such a small man, but Silver instantly decides that he likes it.

The vampire explains that he is, well, a vampire. He even lets Silver curiously brush tiny fingers over his fangs once they’ve been cleaned of blood and gristle, smiling down at him all the while without a trace of malice that he’s grown so used to seeing.

He tells Silver that his name is Lilia, Lilia Vanrouge. It’s a difficult name, a weighty name for Silver’s tongue to pronounce, but he rolls it softly in his mouth to savor it all the same, marveling at how much it feels like royalty.

Lilia explains to him by the light of the fire that he’s lived for a very long time, that he’s enjoyed a life rich beyond anyone’s comprehension from all of the sights he’s seen and the wonders he’s traveled. But no creature is immortal, not even vampires, as long-lived as they may be— the years are heavier now, they ache and sting at his bones as if he’d soaked them in baptismal water. And in his many travels, he had so happened to stumble upon this empty cottage tucked away and abandoned inside this quiet, peaceful forest—

(“Like me,” Silver whispers solemnly. “Is that so?” says Lilia, summer-cherry eyes brilliant against the flames.)

—and so he had thought, what a nice place to relax and rest his weary soul, a place for him to enjoy a rare moment of serenity before the next grand adventure swept him back out to sea.

“How silly of me at my age to think that I could anticipate the future,” Lilia brushes his hand gently through Silver’s tangled hair, the knots easily coming undone from a mere sweep of his fingertips. Silver can’t quite recall how and when he had made his way onto the vampire’s lap, only that he is leaning his head adoringly against the man’s chest, staring up at him with bated breath.

“I didn’t expect to have to rescue my newest venture!”

There’s no need to discuss it after that: Lilia never asks him to leave, and Silver never thinks to do so.

It’s idyllic. Lilia feeds him, clothes him, lets him play with the forest animals for as long as he wishes. They take care of the little cottage together— Silver discovers a patch of land in the back that at one point might have been a sad attempt at a garden, but under the patient toil of the two of them, burgeons into life with all manner of flowers and vegetables. Lilia teaches him how to darn his socks and how to properly use a whetstone. He tucks Silver into the small bed alongside him and paints visions of faraway worlds upon the thin wooden walls, a better storyteller than any traveling bard that had come to the village before.

When Silver calls him ‘Father’ for the first time, he doesn’t laugh.

In return, Silver doesn’t complain when he helps Lilia mop up any traces of blood from the traveler he’s feasted upon for the night.

His father is not a monster, this Silver knows as truly as the sun travels through the sky. The weary men and women who wander across their little abode are treated with nothing but kindness— a warm seat by the fire, a fresh meal to eat, and a soft place to rest their heads. All that his father asks of them is to spare what little coin and wares that they are able to part with, a strange gleam in his eyes and a sincere smile on his face.

Without fail, the strangers comply. They always do.

And in the morning, if they’re a little more woozy than when they laid down to sleep, Silver reassures them that the small satchel of strong-smelling herbs and wrapped provisions for the road will do them a world of good. Together, father and son stand in the doorway of their humble home, hands raised in gestures of well wishes and farewell, as good hosts ought to do. Their visitors stumble down the chrysanthemum and lycoris-lined pathway back to the welcoming arms of the forest, and Silver flexes his toes in his new shoes while his father indulgently twirls his latest trinket around his fingertips, admiring the glint of it in the pale sunlight.

(“Not all vampires are as kind as I am, child,” his father explains to him as he tucks a sheathed blade into the drawer of their nightstand, under the pressed and faded flowers that Silver had brought for him over time. “There are those who would see longevity as the means to power instead of the humbling blessing that it truly is. There are those who have let their years sour their minds like fermented wine, who have only steeped in cruelty instead of basking in the innocence that still exists in this world. And I would not have you defenseless inside our own home.”

Silver looks at the dull sheen of the knife and thinks back to the cold sting of one flayed against his cheek, and he wonders if those who lurk in the shadows of the night are truly the ones he ought to fear.)

The years pass in this necessary fashion, seasons tumbling and turning over themselves with a prevailing peace that Silver had once believed could only exist in storybooks. He outgrows his sleeves faster than travelers pass by, and it isn’t long before he finds himself a whole head and a half taller than the vampire. His father laughs at his shaggy bangs, proclaiming Silver to be more sheep than boy, and attacks his hair with all the ferocity of a mad barber. The lasting effect leaves something to be desired and Silver could swear that the bluebirds by their window are chortling to themselves instead of singing.

His father ruffles his sharp nails through the butchered mess of Silver’s hair and laughs again, proclaiming them to be matching lopsided twins, and Silver is unable to imagine a moment that he’s ever been happier.

What a shame it is then, that all good things cannot last.

The summer of Silver’s sixteenth year is a cruel, unforgiving one.

The August sun swelters the earth with a breathless heat, insidious like none before. It is relentless in its seething anger to drive the woodland creatures to the deepest burrows in search of shade, the birds to practically droop like molten taffy in their water bowls, and his father to haunt the shadows of their home, face flushed and eyes feverish in a way that no cool rag could soothe.

There could be no greater pain in Silver’s heart than this: the wilt in his father’s proud spine, the light tremors that seize his clever fingertips. He hovers over the vampire like a fretting maid, hands wringing uselessly as nothing short of the obvious will soothe his father’s condition, and travelers have been few and far between. Lilia conjures up smiles for him and swears that he’ll be alright, it’s simply a harsher season than before, and Silver cannot help but get the distinct feeling that he’s being placated. Even worse, it mostly works, the lonely and frightened child from the woods who sleeps deep in his soul comforted by that unsinkable paternal reassurance.

Still, Silver is unable to completely shake the feeling that something is amiss.

Lately, his rest at night has been disturbed. He wakes to the faint sounds of ruptured inhales so very close to his ear, of something in the clear throes of distress, with choked noises of desperately sought after air as if the deprived creature was suffocating. The noises are so frightening, so animalistic in nature that Silver can only think to associate them with his beloved woodland creatures, and yet when he hurries to his bedroom window and peers outside with his heart in his throat to find the poor animal that had been mauled by a predator— there is nothing but the silent gleam of moonlight, shining down upon his deflated flower beds.

His father merely purses his lips in worry when Silver brings these odd instances to him, and wonders aloud if these are queasy dreams brought on by the heat; with little else to explain, Silver’s inclined to believe him.

But these events are pushed out of his mind when salvation finally approaches one late afternoon in the weary figure of a man, clinging to the reins of a stumbling horse, at the end of their pathway.

His father must have sensed the newcomer’s presence too, for Lilia is at the door before Silver can even call for him, ever the gracious host and smiling beatifically at their wayward traveler as if Silver hadn’t needed to shake his shoulders thrice in mounting worry to wake him that very morning. The man eagerly accepts the offer of nightly shelter, passing the reins of his horse to Silver to tie to a post in the welcome shade of a nearby tree, and Silver watches over its broad shoulder as he gently rubs the creature down. His father, ever the effortless conversationalist even at the height of his malady, needs no reins with which to lead the man into the cool, womb-like darkness of their home, and Silver feels a rush of palpable relief at the familiarity of the old song and dance— perhaps at last, his father might finally take a turn for the better.

The next morning, Silver checks on his father first and smiles to see the vampire snoring away in what must have been his first blissful sleep in weeks, bedsheets haphazardly tangled about him in an ocean of white. With practiced motions, he leans down to straighten the blankets fondly around the slumbering figure, only to wrinkle his nose at the sharp scent of iron heavy on his father’s breath. After such a dry spell, the bitter tang scratches at his senses, and he can’t help but take a glance into their tiny living room where their guest yawns and shuffles in his borrowed blankets.

Perhaps a breakfast with a healthy side of dark, leafy greens was in order.

Morning is a quiet and simple affair— his father is sleeping in for once it seems, and Silver makes efficient work out of the early meal for their guest who must have had a rough night of tossing and turning judging by his wrinkled clothes and constant, belly-deep yawns. Silver even offers for the man to stay a while longer if he isn’t fit yet for travel, but their guest insists (rather strongly for his exhausted nature) that he could not impose on their goodwill much longer. With a mental shrug, Silver bows his head and allows the man privacy to retrieve his things, heading outside with the intent to bring the waiting horse to its owner.

Only, the horse is nowhere to be seen.

Silver’s heart falters in his chest, and he turns to their departing guest with a litany of apologies on his lips, for he had been so sure of tying the creature up safely for the night, but the man waves him off with an unsteady hand and a smile that keeps attempting to slip from his face as if greased, proclaiming that he had no need for what had been such an aging beast. He could continue his travels alone, and Silver can only watch and uneasily curl his fingers into his palms as the man cuts a wavering figure back down their pathway despite his bewildered protests.

(“We ought to warn those who stop by that there may be a bear in the woods,” he tells his father later, the vampire having woken long past their traveler’s departure. “The noises I’ve been hearing and now the horse’s disappearance. . . someone could get hurt.”

His father doesn’t seem too concerned with Silver’s hypothesis, and he supposes that’s simply how one behaves after centuries of besting mortality. Still, he resolves to be more cautious in his time spent outdoors.)

The man’s arrival marks a turning point in the summer, the blistering dog days giving way to the cooler promise of autumn. It also marks a turning point in his father’s health, one that Silver is initially so incredibly grateful for as the vampire seems to perk up and become the very picture of rosy, energetic grace. The weakened figure of mere weeks prior haunts the corridors of his mind, and Silver finds himself making excuses as his father welcomes the oddly increasing number of strangers who have found themselves down their homely path with open arms and glittering eyes above a wide, gleaming smile. It had simply been a veritable drought of company, and his father, gregarious as he was, was in his element now, thriving off the attention almost as much as the blood that came with it.

And perhaps that is what itched at his nerves most of all. It was one thing to suddenly play house with the travelers that seemed to constantly appear on their doorstep—

(Silver had questioned them, a discomforting notion to learn that not only had they been told of the cottage’s existence by those who staggered off in the mornings, but almost fervently urged to visit.)

—but never before had he witnessed his father drink in such abandon. With such a slow, but steady, trickle of visitors, his father may have sampled another’s blood once or twice a month at most, always cautious enough to not take too much. His father is not a monster, and his kindness exceeds that of all the humanity that Silver had known in his short life— this he tells himself as he averts his gaze from the still-clotting punctures, glistening and accusatory over rumpled shirts.

His father is not a monster, and he still tells himself this as he stumbles out of his bedroom one cold winter’s night, awoken once more to that strange, garbled collection of sound. His father is not a monster, because it simply could not be his father crouched before him on the floor of their living room, an all too still and silent figure splayed out beneath him like a rag doll. He surely must be dreaming, as those muffled, wet noises pause in their desperate slurping and enlarged fangs draw up and away from a ruined shoulder, dripping in a dark, glutinous substance. His father is not a monster, because the creature hunched in the shadows of a dying fire looks nothing like the angel who had rescued him in the forest all those years ago— whatever this, this thing is, slavering wildly over a face locked in a euphoric death mask, it is not his dearest father.

They behold each other in the scant space of a fragile moment, a bewildered gaze still frozen before the onslaught of horror could possibly sink in opposite that of unmoored feral hunger. Silver thinks back to the knife hidden beneath the drawer of his nightstand, cloaked in dust and dried flowers and the somber protection of a father’s love. He thinks back to the incredible speed that had disposed of the men who had intended to kill him on such a similar frigid night, a speed unmatched to the naked eye.

The vampire utters his name like a prayer, smeared tenderly in lamb’s blood.

His father is not a monster.

Silver opens his arms, and waits for his angel to carry him home.

In response to the delicate graze of his father’s gore-drenched claws against his youthful face, the boy’s eyes flutter open at last. Lilia does not seem to notice the vibrancy that has vanished from them, leaving behind the dull haze of a mist-choked morn where once the dawn light soared; perhaps he simply does not care. “Oh, Silver,” he breathes in reverence, the miraculous wonder of a father witnessing his child’s (re)birth for the first time, and he throws his arms around the boy’s stiff shoulders. There is no response, but that is to be expected when one is missing a greater third of their tattered and torn esophagus, the mutilated remains of which are strewn across the floor or smeared over Lilia’s mouth. “My darling boy, my precious son, how perfect you are at last.”

Silver trembles in his arms like a newborn fawn, and Lilia coos reassurances to him, helps his boy to his feet and steadies his legs as he leads him over to where their meal now lay in a crumpled and tangled heap. It is always cumbersome, the first feeding, and Lilia had no one to guide him through the carnal, mindless greed of his own— no such fate shall befall his son. He will share with him the abundance of milk and honey, lift it to his frozen lips where those new, budding fangs peek innocently above, and watch with boundless pride as new life, a near eternal life, is bestowed upon the one timeless treasure he has coveted in over six hundred stolen centuries.

Later, they will bury the body together, sink the flesh deep within the garden where the others take their rest, a cluster of pearly white bones only disturbed by an odd set of larger, equine-shaped ones. Later still, when a young man approaches their home in the evening gloom to seek shelter on the long, arduous journey to his grandfather, Silver will greet him. He will smile enchantingly over his new high-necked shirt and take his hand, drawing him deep into the clutches of their wonderful little home, deep into the blessed darkness where his father waits. The table will stay barren, the bed unmade— there is no more need for pretense between the two of them. Not now, and not ever.

Lilia can see it all. And with pleasure, he smiles.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst fic #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #diasomnia #twst sebek #sebek zigvolt #happy belated halloween :)#everyone say thank you catriona for bringing my wild visions to life beyond anything i could possibly imagine <3 #lettie writes #art for lettie

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lucygxybaird · 7 months ago

Text

billy x reader - reader turns billy into a vampire

tw: injury, death (i guess??)

Billy has never been the sort of man to count his days — he’s been too busy scraping by, working from dawn til dusk, if not simply trying to survive under a hail of bullets and enmity that sometimes feels unrelenting.

There have been times where he’s felt the whole world is against him, and if his faith in God had been strong enough, he would wonder what exactly he’d done to earn the wrath of the Almighty. Loss, violence and grief have dogged his steps since he was sixteen, but he was able to bear it all, either through sheer stubbornness or his belief that he was doing the right thing.

And then he lost you.

Whatever force that fueled him, whether it’s the soul as his mother would have claimed, or the single-minded fire which separates man from beast, shuddered and died the moment he saw you lying there. So still, your skin waxen and white, your eyes half-hidden behind lowered lashes that didn’t fully conceal your empty gaze. He’d cradled you in his arms for hours — even now, he’s not sure for how long — until Manuela had finally convinced him to let you rest.

And then you came home.

It took weeks, long enough for the winter to begin bleeding into spring. But you returned to him, standing outside his window, your icy fingers caressing his face as you told him you needed to be invited in. He didn’t understand, at first; but when you explained everything, when you told him what you were, he’d felt only a joy so intense that it bordered on pain. It didn’t matter to him what you needed to sustain you, just that you’d returned to him.

He had asked you — or tried to, anyway — if you would change him. He’s desperate to be with you forever, to never risk losing you again, but there’s a whisper of temptation, of yearning for something else. The idea that he never has to fear illness again, that silent specter which has laid waste to so much in his life.

For so long, he’s expected that the thread of his fate will be cut by a bullet, but always — with each sore throat, a sniffle, an ache he can’t quite explain — he wonders if it’s his turn. If he will die, ashen and wracked with coughing, soaked with sweat, cheeks sunken and eyes immense in his face, the way his mother and brother did. If you would have to watch him fade away, dirty snow melting into the soil, just as he had to do.

But if you change him, he’ll be free of both, free from the fear of guns and fever.

Compared to being with you for eternity, the idea pales in comparison, but it’s there.

That night, the night you finally came back, you asked him to think on it. And he has, obsessively, his thoughts turning and churning like a water wheel in a flash flood. His dreams have been full of thirst, of a body so powerful and so altered that it almost seems beyond his control. He wonders if it will hurt, and how badly, if the longer he lives, the more of his human life he’ll forget. Will he lose his mother’s face? His father’s voice? Joe’s smile? Tunstall’s kindnesses?

But — he comes back to this, every time — he’ll have you. The two of you will have each other. Whatever he may lose, whatever he has to sacrifice, it will be worth it.

He’s thought about it, he has. And he knows what he wants. This life, his first life, has been nothing but one trial after another, after another, an endless march through the vale of tears, and none of it was by choice. And, really, the more he considers it, this really isn’t a choice, either.

He will never, never let anything separate the two of you again, certainly not something as prosaic as six feet and a coverlet of dirt.

Your fingers are combing through his hair as he lays with his head pillowed on your chest, body curled to fit against yours. It took him a little while to become used to you as you really are, when you dropped the facade that you were still living. You don’t eat regular food anymore, of course, although sometimes you take a sip of his coffee (it’s hot enough that you can feel it, you say, and bitter enough that you can taste a hint of it on your tongue).

You don’t bother to pump your lungs like a bellows, forcing your chest to rise and fall; sometimes, in fact, your entire body is so still that he feels as though there’s a statue sitting at the kitchen table, or nestled in his arms in bed as you are now. And the only sound of breathing echoing in the room now is his, which means that the silence is only broken up by an occasional sigh, whether it’s the wind or his own murmur.

So when you speak, he can’t help but jump, his body jerking against yours like a wave splashing up against the rocks. Your fingers go still, nestled in his hair.

Despite his hammering heart, Billy smiles when you giggle. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No,” he says. He props himself up on an elbow to look into your face. “I was just…thinkin’, I guess.”

You smile up at him, reaching up a cool hand to lay your palm against his cheek. “I know,” you say. “That’s what I was trying to ask you. I just wanted to know what was on your mind. I could practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

Billy snorts softly. He lays down next to you, putting his hand against yours to keep it against his face. He’s always run warm, and your porcelain touch feels exquisite, soothing as a cool sip of water on a hot day.

“Was there smoke comin’ out of my ears?”

You giggle again. He decided a long time ago that your laugh was just about his favorite sound in the world, but now, after being so sure he would never hear it again, he thinks there’s no way heaven itself could have sweeter music.

“Not quite,” you say, and you resume the soothing stroking motion through his curls. “What were you thinking about?”

“You,” he says. His tone indicates this should be obvious. What else would be be thinking about, ever? “Us. Forever.”

You don’t say anything for what feels like a very long time. He wonders if it seems as long to you, or if even little increments of time don’t mean the same thing to you as they do to him. Years, he can understand. Decades, even. But how does a minute feel? Does it stretch until it’s gossamer-thin, like a spoke of a spiderweb? Or does it condense, until it’s smaller than a grain of sand, so that a countless multitude can be clutched in the palm of a hand?

“Billy, I need you to be sure,” you say finally. “I would never want to deprive you of anything, even if it means—”

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t even speak it. I’m not goin’ anywhere, whether you change me or not.” He sits up, the bedclothes pooling around his waist, and you do the same, hugging your own side of the blanket to your chest.

You smile at him, though it’s more like a weeping willow than anything else, pulled down and giving an air of melancholy. “I love you too much to want anything less than a beautiful life for you,” you say. “I hope it includes me, but—”

“Includes you?”

A part of him knows his mother would be horrified that he keeps interrupting a lady, but he can’t help himself.

“Includes you?” he repeats. “Of course it includes you. You can’t deprive me of anything, because you’re everything to me.” He offers you a have smile, one weighed down at a corner by chagrin. “If you don’t know that, I’ve been doin’ something wrong.”

Your cool fingers fold around his. “I know,” you say. “You’re everything to me, too. And there’s nothing I want more than to be with you through each century to come.”

Billy’s heart trips in his chest, and he wonders if you can hear it. “So…is that a yes?”

There is another moment of silence that stretches between the two of you like a bubble threatening to burst, and then you’re both laughing — nervous, thin laughter at first, which blooms into full belly-laughs. You lean forward and bury your face against his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap.

It’s moments like this where it’s so easy to forget everything. Not just losing you, or learning the truth of who you are, but the world itself. It all falls away, softening, blurring, until it’s just a matter of perspective to convince himself that the two of you are the only two people who exist, who matter. Billy buries his face against your hair, still grinning.

“It sounds like you just proposed to me,” you say, another giggle erupting from your chest.

Your words make him chuckle all over again, because that’s exactly what he was thinking, too, exactly why he’s laughing so hard. It’s only funny because asking you to be his wife — which, by the way, is definitely something he’s considered — seems like a molehill compared to a mountain, when held up next to the idea of altering his very state of being.

Billy sets you back by the shoulders, framing your face between his hands. “Darlin’,” he says, bringing on a fresh shower of giggles. “Will you do me the honor of becomin’ my…?”

He pauses, and whispers, “Is maker a good word?”

“Yes,” you whisper back.

He clears his throat. “Will you do me the honor — stop laughin’ — of becomin’ my maker?”

In the beat of silence between his question and your answer, Billy can feel the mirth melting away, like morning frost on the grass. It was funny, at first, but it really isn’t anymore.

You touch his cheek. “Of course I will,” you say. “If that’s what you want.”

He presses his lips against yours, feeling the sensation of a snowflake alighting on his skin. “It’s the only thing I want,” he says.

You wait until midnight, when the darkness of the night is deep, the air still and soft, and the stars are veiled by silvery-white cloud, so that their distant eyes are covered and it truly is just you and Billy. You sit up in bed, and Billy leans back into your arms, his head nestling on your shoulder. He feels the points of your teeth press against his skin, pausing for a moment more before they break the fragile barrier.

There is a moment of pain, of panic fueled by instinct — prey, realizing a moment too late, that he has been caught — and then his vision starts to blur. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, too loud, too fast, before it reaches such a fever pitch that his chest aches. And then, as darkness encroaches, it begins to slow. Thudthudthud becomes thus-thud-thud, and then thud — thud — thud.

Thud…

He feels you pull away, soothing your tongue over the wound like a mother cat.

Thud…

Your hand cups his jaw, pinching gently at the corners of his mouth to part his lips.

…thud…

He catches the scent of rust, wafting close to his nose.

There is silence for a moment, stretching, growing so heavy that he can feel it like a creature crouching on his ribs.

…thud…

Something presses against his mouth, the rusty smell growing stronger. You pinch at the corners of his mouth again, and without thinking, his tongue comes out and encounters resistance, meeting something solid and cold.

Something — damp and heavy, like the air after a storm. The rust is on his tongue now, coating his lips. His throat works, though he finds it hard to swallow. You coax his head back, and something starts to drip down.

Silence.

…thud…

It feels as though his mind has retreated to a distant corner, curling up on itself, watching from very far away. His mind waits for another thud, but there isn’t one. It waits and waits, but now there is just quiet. Stillness.

This little spark of thought drifts for a while, like a dandelion seed buffeted around on the breeze. Enough of him is left to be aware of you cradling him in your arms, and it’s all he needs to feel safe.

He doesn’t know how long it is before the spark of himself starts to grow brighter, illuminating more around it. He is aware, first, of how still he is, as if he’s bound hand and foot. But when he directs an idea down to his fingers, they move when instructed — if anything, the response is quicker, more fluid, than it was before.

(Which is saying something for the man who is — or was — the fastest draw in the West.)

And then sound begins to return to him, slowly at first, a trickle, and then he realizes he can hear a familiar rustling noise, but it’s too clear for it to be what he thinks it is. It reminds him of a deer stepping gently, carefully, through foliage, but — can he hear all the way to the woods?

Scents hit him next. He really had no idea that everything had its own unique smell. The linen of the sheets is different from the cotton of his shirt, from the flannel of your nightgown, and it’s a world away from the oak of your bed frame and the pine that makes up your cabin. He can smell the ashes of the fire in the stove, and the breeze drifting in through the window carries a veritable feast of aroma.

Grass, trees, the air itself, and most deliciously, a feverish, twitching scent that comes even more strongly when he hears that rustling noise again.

“Billy?”

Your voice is soft, but at the same time the noise is such that it seems to fill his head for a moment. Maybe recalling your own first moments, you wait for a few moments. The sound settles.

You say, “Billy, open your eyes.”

His eyelashes flutter, part. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but it doesn’t matter. The moonlight alone is so bright that he has to squint.

You help him sit up, and he looks at you. His lips part to expel a nonexistent breath at the sight of you. His eyesight, like his other senses, is so much more acute now; you look like an angel, luminous in a fall of silver light spilling through the window.

His thoughts feel scrambled, twisted and flipped around, like someone took his head and shook it. Even his own name, or the events of just hours before, feel remote and strange, but as his eyes latch onto yours, the most important thing he knows comes back to him.

“You’re mine?” he says, and reaches out to touch your cheek.

You smile at him. “I’m yours,” you agree. “And you’re mine.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment or two, and Billy thinks he would be happy sitting here just like this. And then the breeze shifts again, bringing that hot, red scent close to him again.

Fire leaps up in his throat, and it must show in his face, because you smile gently again. “Come with me,” you say, getting to your feet and holding out your hand. “I’ll show you how to hunt.”

His body responds to his desire to get up so fluidly that it feels like he blinks and he’s on his feet. Billy puts his hand in yours, and you lead him outside.

The world is bright and shining, as if you’ve emerged into the belly of a star. Scents, sounds and sensations wash over him in a wave, and he tightens his grip on your hand as though he’s afraid he’ll be swept away. He looks over at you, and you smile.

“Are you ready?” you ask.

For the hunt, he wonders? Or to begin the rest of eternity with you?

Either way, the answer is still the same.

Billy smiles back at you. “Yes.”

#billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #william h bonney fanfiction #tom blyth

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imagines--galore · 1 year ago

Text

||The Thread of Fate|| Part Sixteen

Summary: Soulmate AU. They say the Thread of Fate connects you to your one true love. It may tangle. It may stretch. But it will never break. Wrapped around your little finger it tightens when it feels your soulmate is close and loosens when they are far. And becomes visible with the colors of your soulmate’s Nation when you finally fall in love with them.

Pairing: Zuko x OroraOC (ATLA)

Rating || Genres || Warnings: T+ Romance. Adventure. Allusion to death, but nothing graphic.

Previous Chapters - Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen,

A/N: Thank you for much for all those people who left their remarks for the last chapter. You have no idea how much it means to me!

The bird sat on the window ledge, twittering as it discovered the flowers that were sitting prettily in a vase. It hovered over the biggest one, dipping in it's long beak and drinking from the nectar it found there.

A slight disturbance from beyond the window ledge had the bird flitting about, annoyed at having it's lunch disturbed, before he flew off.

Inside the apartment Zuko groaned as his eyelids flickered. His entire body felt like he'd been kicked around by a Komodo Rhino. And his head, Spirits he felt like his head would split open any moment. His eyes felt too hot for him to open, the act hurting him almost physically.

"You're burning up." He heard his Uncle's voice echo through the darkness. The sound of water dripping reached his ears before something cool was pressed to his forehead. "You have an intense fever. This will help cool you down."

Zuko's only response was a low moan. His throat felt like it was on fire. Despite his entire body protesting, he tried his best to sit up, his arms trembled with effort. "So thirsty." He croaked, his voice weak even to his own ears.

A set of hands pressed against his shoulders, gently pushing him to lie back down. "Orora will be returning with the water soon." He hadn't even finished his sentence when the door slid open and the young waterbender girl walked in, lugging a bucket of water beside her.

"Is he awake?" At the sound of her soft voice, Zuko forced his eyes to open slightly. Despite his blurry sight, he could see as she approached him and was at his side. Placing the bucket of water next to him she tipped some water into a cup using a ladle. He felt her gently hold the back of his head as she brought the cup to his lips. "Here, drink."

As soon as he felt the cool liquid touch his lips, he drank greedily. But it wasn't enough. Pushing aside the now empty cup, he grasped the bucket of water and all but threw the water down his throat. A lot of it trickled down the side and on the mat he was lying on.

"No! Zuko don't!" He wasn't even halfway done when the bucket was snatched from his hands and thrown to the side. Loosing whatever strength he had, he fell back onto the mat.

"You can't drink that fast. Your body is too hot to take in all that cold water." He heard her. Even through the haze of his fever, he could imagine the disapproving look in her eyes. He wanted to answer back, to argue with her, but all that came from his lips was a cough which soon intensified, prompting him to curl into himself and turn to the side.

On either side of him, his Uncle and Soulmate glanced at one another, worry and anxiousness clear in their eyes.

————————–

Stuffing the last of her purchase in her bag, Orora quickly paid the vendor before she began her sprint down the dirt path. The mid-spring sun shone down hot and unrelenting. Sweat lined her forehead as she weaved her way through the slightly crowded streets. With how fast she was running it was no surprise that by the time she reached the apartment there was a stitch at her side and she was panting heavily.

But that didn't stop her from bounding up the stairs and bursting into the apartment. "I got everything Master." She managed to say as she tried to catch her breath. Iroh looked up from where he had been wringing a wet cloth sitting in the middle of the living area. Her frantic blue eyes landed on the figure lying next to him.

"Is he any better?" She asked, her voice soft as she closed the door behind her and placed her bag on the table before coming to sit on Zuko's other side.

Iroh shook his head, even as she reached out to place a gentle hand over his forehead. Orora pursed her lips. "Is the water still cool enough?" She gestured to the small bucket that Iroh was using. Her Master nodded. "It is, though we might need to change it in a little while."

She removed her hand, so that Iroh could replace it with the wet cloth he had been wringing.

Her worried gaze assessed Zuko with the eyes of a Healer.

He was shivering, despite his body being hot to the touch. Sweat lined his forehead and neck, and she was sure it covered his chest as well. Iroh had taken off his shirt a long time ago so he would be more comfortable, and covered hims with a blanket. His breathing was deep and hoarse, as if the very air hurt his throat.

A lump formed in her throat but she quickly pushed it down. This was no time to be distressed. She was a Healer, and she would do her job properly.

"I'll start making some broth and tea." She said, standing up and moving to the table where she began to take out all manners of ingredients. "They had a merchant come in with new stock, so I was able to get fresh ingredients."

Taking out a small white paper packet, she unfolded it to reveal some leaves. "The next time he wakes up, try to get him to take this tea." She said, already bending water into the small teapot and placing it atop the stove. A small clicking sound followed as she used to spark rocks to make a fire. "Its a remedy that is tried and true. We used it up North whenever someone had a high fever." She continued, as she pulled out a jar of honey. "Add some honey to it, and he'll feel much better."

"Orora."

Iroh's voice had her straightening up where she stood in front of the stove. Gulping back her nerves, she turned her head to look at her Master. He smiled at her in a gentle and reassuring manner, though his eyes shone with worry as he glanced at his nephew. "I know you are worried, but he will be fine my dear." He reassured her, seeing the film of unshed tears in her eyes.

"He was in a far worse condition after the Agni Kai with his father." She tried not to flinch at the old man's words, but couldn't help herself. "He pulled through it, and he will pull through this ailment as well."

Heaving a shuddering breath, the young girl closed her eyes briefly to compose herself. She nodded. "I'm sure he will Uncle. After all," Her gaze turned soft as she trained an affectionate smile towards the feverish Prince. "He's much too stubborn to be brought down by a simple fever."

Iroh smiled in approval. It would not do to have Orora feel dismal about Zuko's current state. It was important that she remained optimistic, and not let her worries effect her abilities as a Healer. Iroh knew she would never forgive herself if she did not do her job properly. His young pupil already had a hard life, and a harder one still up ahead, and Iroh did not want her to make it even more difficult by putting herself down.

Fate was a funny thing, he mused. He lost his son, and yet he gained two children of his own. Both of them with a desperation to be loved and accepted.

As he ran the wet cloth over his nephew's forehead once more, Iroh's resolve to be there for his two charges resolved only harder.

He would never abandon either of them if he could help it.

They'd both been disappointed by enough adults in their lives.

————————–

He was dreaming.

It was a dream.

He was the Fire Lord, sitting in the throne room of the Fire Palace, a platoon of soldiers standing at attention in front of him. The fire burning behind him cast an ominous glow about the room, strange shadows flickering and dancing as if to the sound of the flames itself.

There was no scar on his eye.

On each side of him there were pillars, and even as he stared straight ahead, he could see the two dragons circling around them out of the corner of his eyes.

One Red, one Blue.

Even if it was a dream, he could sense their raw power, the heat of the fire they were created from. And yet, he stared straight ahead, not even blinking as the Blue Dragon began to circle around him.

"It's getting late." The Dragon spoke. Zuko recognized his sister's voice. "Are you planning to retire soon, My Lord?"

Zuko stared ahead, undeterred. "I'm not tired."

But the Blue Dragon did not move away. "Relax, Fire Lord Zuko. Just let go. Give in to it. Shut your eyes for a while." The voice continued to whisper, and Zuko could feel his eyes begin to shut as he finally began to give into the exhaustion he felt.

"No, Fire Lord Zuko!" The Red Dragon growled in his Uncle's voice, as it neared him. "Do not listen to the Blue Dragon. You should get out of here right now." The Dragon urged. "Go! Before it's too late!"

But the Blue Dragon was not deterred. "Sleep now, Fire Lord Zuko." It whispered one last time before both Dragons disappeared.

Suddenly, the entire room, along with the soldiers crumble into nothing, leaving Zuko to sit on the Throne where he had been, with nothing surrounding him but utter darkness.

In front of him, twin lights blinked and the Blue Dragon appeared. "Sleep." It growled, slowly nearing him. "Just like Mother!" It opened it's maw, showing row upon row of razor sharp teeth, as it closed in rapidly.

Zuko tried to move out of the way, tried to fight back, but he was frozen in place. All he could do was watch the dragon draw nearer.

But then it disappeared.

And he saw a hooded figure in front of him. "Zuko!"

He recognized his voice. He wanted so badly to call out to her, and say that he was there, but no sound would come out of it.

His mother sounded just as frightened as she looked as she lowered her hood to look at him with helpless eyes.

"Help me!"

He had almost held up his hand to reach out to her, but then the floor opened up beneath him and he fell through, his cries echoing in the unending darkness that surrounded him.

————————–

The tea had steeped enough, so she quickly brought it over to Iroh. Silently, she spooned some honey into a cup, her eyes flitting to Zuko who was starting to stir. Iroh poured the tea.

"You should know that this is not a natural sickness, but that shouldn't stop you from enjoying tea." The Prince sat up, his body still trembling with the effort.

"What's happening?" He asked, his voice sounding just as weak as he looked.

"Your critical decision." Iroh replied. Orora gave him a confused look. "What you did beneath that lake. It was in such conflict with your image of yourself that you are now at war within your own mind and body." He urged Zuko to drink more of the warm liquid Orora had prepared.

"What's that mean?" It seemed even the briefest of conversations was enough to have him coughing. He quickly laid back down, his entire body jolting with every cough.

"You are going through a metamorphosis, my nephew. It will not be a pleasant experience, but when you come out of it, you will be the beautiful prince you were always meant to be."

Wasn't he already beautiful though? Orora wandered, pouring some more tea in case Iroh needed a cup as well. "But Master why now when he helped free Appa? He saved my life at the North Pole, wouldn't that have been against his image as well?" She asked, curiously.

Iroh hummed. "I suspect my dear, that when he saved you he did so unconsciously. He went ahead and did what was instinct for him because you are his soulmate, even though he did not know it at the time."

Adjusting Zuko's blankets the Dragon of the West continued. "When he freed the Bison, it was a conscious effort on his part, which is why his body is warring within itself."

Orora pursed her lips, her blue eyes flitting to look at Zuko's face. He'd drifted back to sleep.

————————–

Another dream.

He was at the North Pole.

He was at the bridge where he had fought Zhao.

The moon was still red where she hung in the sky.

And in front of him, halfway down the bridge stood Zhao.

Holding Orora captive.

With a finger aimed at the side of her head, the tip of it alight with a vicious flame.

"No!" The cry ripped through him from the very depths of his being. He stumbled forward, his arm held out as if to reach Orora. But then he found them being held in place by two armored Fire Nation soldiers. Zhao only smiled cruelly.

"I would do the world a service by getting rid of such watertribe filth." He growled. Zuko's eyes met hers. She stared back at him, blue eyes full utter terror, cheeks stained with the tears that were rapidly falling.

"Zuko." She called out, her entire body seemed to tremble.

His heart stopped.

She sounded scared.

She sounded so scared.

"What would your father say when he finds out your soulmate is nothing but a commoner? A waterbender no less." Zhao sneered, looking at Orora with a disgusted look on his face.

He pressed his finger closer prompting Orora to whimper in fright as the flame burned closer to her skin. "Don't!" Zuko shouted, struggling against his captors. They didn't so much as flinch.

"Better that I take care of her now, then let your father deal with such filth."

So saying, he threw Orora to the side. Zuko saw her hit her head at the edge of the bridge, the skin above her temple splitting open, bright red blood escaping the wound and trickling down her beautiful brown skin. She slumped to the floor, barely conscious.

"Orora!" He struggled again, growling viciously, as she weakly lifted her head to look at him, her blue eyes already lifeless and dull.

"Orora!"

Zhao raised his hand, a bright yellow flame burning wickedly in his palm, ready to strike.

Ready to kill.

————————–

Orora pursed her lips.

"Its been hours. His fever should be coming down now." She hummed, looking at the shivering Prince. Her eyes darted to the small bucket of water that Iroh was still using. She scowled.

"It's not doing enough work." She stated, standing up. Without a backward glance she was out of the apartment, and marching down to the community well. Standing next to it she reached down with her arms, calling to the water that flowed underground and pulled up a huge bubble of water.

Circling her arms in the air in graceful strokes, the determined waterbender slowly made her way back up the stairs. She shifted the shape of the bubble whenever was necessary. Her brow creased in a frown of concentration as she focused on carrying the huge bubble up to the apartment.

Once inside she slowly walked to the washing area behind a decorative screen. Her arms lowered as the bubble of water settled into the large wooden tub. The water lapped gently against the edge before it settled. Without so much as a break in her stride, she quickly walked back to where Iroh was sitting.

Understanding what she was about to do, he had already pulled Zuko up, resting one arm over his shoulder to help his nephew to the tub. Orora took his other arm, trying to be as gentle as possible.

The Prince barely stirred as they half carried, half dragged him to the now full tub. With Orora holding him from under his arms, and with Iroh lifting from his feet, they managed to lower him into the cool water.

"Let me get a pillow for his head." Iroh said, quickly grabbing the pillow Zuko had been using and placing it under his nephew's head where it rested at the edge of the bath tub.

Beside him, Orora took a deep breath.

She raised her arms, palms facing downwards, her fingers relaxed and at level with the bath tub. The water began to glow as she allowed her Healing Abilities to flow through her body, to the tips of her fingers and into the water.

Her arms moved in a constant push and pull motion. The water followed her movement, back and forth along Zuko's feverish body.

Iroh stood beside her, watching on with utter fascination as his pupil concentrated on the task at hand. Never once did she falter in her movements, or lost concentration. The water continued to glow. Iroh wasn't sure how her abilities would heal Zuko since it wasn't a physical ailment he suffered from, but he was not about to stop Orora from trying.

"I shall go and prepare something to eat for both of you." He said, resting a hand on her shoulder. She gave a slight nod of her head in confirmation, her gaze never wavering from the face of the Prince as he continued to breath hoarsely.

————————–

Darkness.

All around him.

Nothing but darkness.

He was ten years old, his face buried in his arms, trying not to cry but failing. Even his firebending wasn't working. He felt weak and useless.

Exactly how his father made him feel.

He looked up, only to see a vision of his father standing above him, ready to strike and burn him.

Azula was born lucky

His father's voice echoed around him, magnified a hundred times over.

You were lucky to be born.

Over and over, the words continued to repeat in his father's hateful tone. There was no stopping it. No getting out of the nightmare. No one was coming to help him.

No one.

Something flickered.

He opened his tear filled eyes.

Blue.

A blue light flickering.

Flickering where the thread was tied around his finger.

His lips parted in surprise as the flicker became a continuous glow and slowly grew in length, snaking away from him and into the darkness.

The voices around him had begun to muffle as he turned his attention to the glowing string.

"Well, are you going to follow it?"

Zuko blinked and he wasn't surrounded by darkness anymore.

He was on a beach, the setting sun casting a warm red glow, bathing the sky in a gorgeous orange hue. The surf lapped gently at his feet, and he could feel the sand between his toes. There was no denying what this location was.

Ember Island, where his family used to come for vacation when they had been significantly happier.

But all of this wasn't what had his heart lurching in his throat.

It was actually the sight of his cousin standing just a few feet in front of him, smiling and very much alive.

Zuko couldn't help himself. He dashed forward, kicking up sand as he went and enveloping Lu Ten in a fierce embrace. The older prince chuckled, returning the hug.

"I've missed you too, Zuko." He spoke, affection coloring his tone as he smiled at him. "You've grown so much." Lu Ten added, stepping back from the hug to look at him properly. "You'll be as tall as I was."

Zuko pulled back only to star at Lu Ten who chuckled. "Yes, I really am gone Zuko, this is just something your mind has come up with."

Finally gaining back the ability to speak, Zuko voiced his thoughts. "I don't understand, what're you doing here?" He asked to which Lu Ten ruffled his hair playfully. "I'm here to guide you back home."

Stepping aside, he pointed to a building a little ways down the beach. Zuko frowned. "But, isn't home the Fire Palace?" He asked. Lu Ten smiled and shook his head.

"You'll know the meaning of the word home on your own Zuko. But for now, follow your string." He nodded towards Zuko's finger which still glowed blue. Raising his hand, Zuko realized the string was actually leading him towards the house.

He glanced at his cousin.

"Aren't you coming with me?"

A sad smile pulled at his cousin's lips as he shook his head. "I'm afraid not. You have to finish your journey on your own Zuko."

Feeling his heart clench, Zuko nodded reluctantly. "Un-Uncle misses you. A lot." The mention of his father, Lu Ten sighed deeply, his own eyes filling with a sorrow that even Zuko felt. "And I miss him. I wish our time wasn't cut short so soon, but fate had other plans." Placing a hand on Zuko's shoulder, Lu Ten continued.

"I am glad he has you Zuko. You are a great comfort to him." Zuko pursed his lips, looking crestfallen. "Can't you come back with me?" It was a childish question he knew, but he couldn't help himself.

Lu Ten shook his head sadly. "You know I cannot. But you can go back. You have to go back." He smiled. "Father can't loose a son a second time."

Trying hard to hold back his tears, to no avail, Zuko hugged his cousin, trying his best to commit his presence and his scent to memory, even if it was a dream. It was a good long while before he unwound his arms from around his cousin, who had been returning the hug with just as much heart and soul. "Be true to yourself Zuko, and always follow your own path." So saying, the former prince of the Fire Nation stepped away. "Take care of him for me little cousin. Now go! There is someone waiting for you!"

One moment he was there, and the next Zuko blinked and Lu Ten was gone.

He allowed himself a few moments to process what had just happened, before he turned his attention to the string that still glowed on his finger. Looking up at the house in the distance, he began to walk towards it.

And though it looked like it was a lot further down the beach, it didn't take him long to reach. As he drew closer, he saw a figure standing at the top of the stairs that led up to the entrance.

A figure dressed in the calm yet beautiful blue of the Water Tribe, with a red sash tied around their waist.

The person turned, and smiled at him.

And Zuko felt the whole world stop.

Orora.

"What took you so long?" She asked, looking so beautiful as she stood there with her hair so much longer then he had ever seen. Her gorgeous brown skin glowed in the setting sun, and her eyes looked like the very light of the stars was dancing in them. Zuko stood at the bottom of the steps, mesmerized by her. Orora held out a hand, the hand that glowed with her own string.

Her glow was red, of course.

"I've been waiting for you." She said, her voice soft, beckoning him to her. Watching her standing there, looking at him with such trust and adoration, her hair swaying gently in the breeze, Zuko didn't hesitate to take the last few steps towards her, his hand held out in front of him.

The moment their hands clasped together, fingers intertwining, he pulled her in for an embrace.

One that had the last remnant of darkness leaving his soul completely.

————————–

She had no idea how long she continued her Healing Session. All she knew was that by the time she was done, his body had stopped shivering and he didn't look as flushed as before. Her arms ached when she finally stopped. Her feet ached from where she had been standing for so long.

Very nearly slumping to the ground, Orora quickly caught herself on the edge of the bath tub. Her Superiors had warned her that using her Healing Abilities for so long would take a toll on her. Tiredness and hunger, two things that could be taken care of easily, but it didn't stop the body from feeling like it had been drained of it's very essence.

Iroh who had just changed Zuko's mat and blanket, patted her shoulder. "That is quite enough, my dear. You go and eat the food I have prepared. I shall finish getting him out and dressing him in dry clothes."

Too tired to even speak let alone argue, Orora shuffled her way out to the living area. There on the table was a bowl of hot soup. Spooning the warm broth into her mouth, one bite after another, she felt the exhaustion she was experiencing begin to settle into her bones. She had over-exerted herself. It would take time for her to recover properly.

It didn't take long for her to finish her meal and chase it down with a cool cup of water. By the time she was done, Iroh had already helped Zuko back on the mat. How he'd been able to lift his nephew was a mystery to Orora, but she couldn't think properly right then.

Instead she stumbled to Zuko's side laying down as she did, her head feeling just as heavy as her body. While Iroh moved to get a blanket and pillow for her as well, Zuko stirred slightly.

"Orora." He called out softly, his voice still hoarse from coughing.

She reached out to gently take his hand in her own. He opened his eyes halfway as he turned his head to look at her laying beside him. With whatever strength he had, he squeezed her hand.

"You're alright." He whispered in that same voice, though relief colored his tone. "You're here."

Orora was too tired to contemplate on what he was saying. Instead, she smiled at him and returned the squeeze with her own.

"I'm here, Zuko." She whispered, and her words seemed to reassure him that she was, indeed, fine. His eyes closed, and he went back to sleep, his breathing easy and no longer labored.

The young waterbender had been too tired to notice just how cool his hand felt as she too drifted off to sleep.

It was how Iroh found them a moment later. Asleep next to each other, holding hands.

The thread between them flickering with color for a good long while.

————————–

Tag List - @wavesofchaos @violet-potter @rennysketch @emma-andrea1 @lovesammikinzz @fuzzyfestcat @msrawog @notsaelty @lust-for-pan @aces-tattooartist @jinxxangel13 @lotr-got @bitterspoons @realrintaro @gatorgirl151 @inutheangel @heartfully10 @lucaaahhh @juniper-july19 @anuttellaa @gfksz @bussyvussy @punksnotdeadbutiam @ablofftoneverland-blog-blog @slut-for-menn @vyliie

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rogueddie · 2 years ago

Text

Steddie Sick Fics

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 😷

Fever

addweetoo

Steve is sick and Robin's out of town. So she calls Eddie to take care of Steve, not knowing that Steve hasn't talked to Eddie since Eddie woke up in the hospital.

Words : 11,359 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

Larkspur and Lily of the Valley

DarkWitchOfErie

Steve has a cough and thinks it's allergies, until a blue petal comes up.

Words : 4,540 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Gently,

TheDeathsWish

In which Eddie wants nothing more than to give Steve the gentle kindness he deserves.

Words : 12,905 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

The Labyrinth

wayfarers0

“I think you’re just not feeling good, kiddo,” she says quietly. “Do you feel nauseous?”

“No. No, I don’t.” fuck, is all he can think; fuck. “No.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Steve told me once you’re not good with that sort of thing.”

“M’not nauseous,” he says, but he has to swallow down saliva as he says this. “I’m just anxious.”

Words : 2,422 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

medicinal

peaktotheocean

“I’ve got a friend who is having a ton of migraine issues," Robin blurted out. Eddie's head rose to look at her. That was a new one. "We heard weed helps. Any truth to it?” She asked hopefully.

Uncle Wayne always used to joke that Eddie was too curious for his own good. Eddie just never thought he'd agree with the assessment while selling weed to Robin Buckley of all people.

Words : 2,233 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

greening out

llovebug

When Eddie accidentally takes too many edibles, he finds himself greening out and wandering the streets of Hawkins. Steve spots him and takes it upon himself to nurse Eddie back to soberness and get him somewhere safe and warm.

Words : 2,702 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Not Rated

AO3 : x

Take Your Silver Spoon, Dig Your Grave

fangirlandtheories

“Shit Harrington,” Eddie smiled, pulling the thread tightly. “Let’s play a game.” Steve rolled his head on his shoulder, looking at him with fever bright eyes. “2 truths and a lie?”

“I sleep with the light on, I haven’t seen my parents in a month, and I like men and women.” Steve watched as Eddie froze in place.

“That’s not cool, Steve.” Eddie continued stitching, a little less gently this time. “Robin said you’re a bit dense, but fucking mocking me af-”

“4 months.” Steve interrupted.

“What?” “It’s been 4 months since the last time I saw them.”

Words : 6,020 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

I’ll be there for you

Battered_child

After the nightmare spring break in which they had gone to fight a monster in the crazy Hellscape version of their hometown, the weeks that followed had been non-stop for Steve.

First there were the hospital visits, though he’s not sure it counts as visiting when one spends more of their time there than away. The first week had been the worst.

After they had dragged Eddie’s lifeless body from the Upside Down, Steve had been so worried that someone would come after him that he’d refused to leave the other boy’s side for the first few days. This of course meant he didn’t get his own injuries seen to, and he then spent his own painful recovery either at Eddie or Max’s bedsides, working, or ferrying kids (and Robin) around town for various reasons.

Words : 6,545 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Can I Still Call?

theswampnugget

Steve doesn't like being taken care of. More specifically, he doesn't like to feel like a burden. He really can't avoid it when a migraine wipes him out in the middle of a shift, and none other than Eddie Munson comes to drag him home.

Words : 4,130 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #fic rec #ficrec

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machiroads · 1 month ago

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Tag Game: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six

Rules: Give us the links to your fics with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the fewest words.

Thank u for the tag @blinkeasy 👑

One - Fic with the most hits: Nine Lives (46,495 hits). This is just a silly silly number but I think big long multichap fics lend well to hit counts so I don't look at this number too closely.

Two - Fic with the second most kudos: Naruhata Noir (358 kudos). Shinsou Shpinoff my beloved 💜

Three - Fic with the third most comments: When the Battle's Lost and Won (84 comment threads). This is equivalent to approximately 17 threads per chapter, on average. GOOD JOB REGULARS 🫡

Lullabies for Insomniacs Top 3 sweep 💛

Four - Fic with the fourth most bookmarks: A Tumultuous Sea, You and Me (89 bookmarks, 50 public). Mer-pirates, my beloved 💙

Five - Fic with the fifth most words: A Tumultuous Sea, You and Me (again) (6,825 words). I honestly forgot it was this long, yknow when you just spit out 7k in a fever dream of a weekend because you got so obsessed with paizawa, haha me neither

Six - Fic with the fewest words: Dwelling Units of the Ancient Gods (2,197 words). I am back on a FE3H kick, so I am including this little drabble written for the Felannie Spring Fling 2022, an incredibly thrown together drabble from my unhinged Land Development AU.

I am going to be lazy about tagging ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

#Machiwrites Bonus Content

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calciumdeficientt · 10 months ago

Note

Cal !! Saw the previous ask about Bryce and I absolutely loved your ideas- do you have anything in mind for Gord dearest?

Please, call me milky!

Anyway …Gorrrrrrrd! Gord was my first love, he was the first NPC i heard speak when i played the game (past this is your school,obvs) and he’s the one that hit me over the head with the autism sledgehammer. i want to scrunch him up and throw him in a wood chipper

GORD VENDOME HCS

He’s the cuntiest bitch on the bullworth academy campus and I’m literally not going to accept any form of argument, he came out of the womb wearing aquaberry. He lives and breathes it, its his lifeblood. He plans his walk around school to and from each class, checking the weather to make sure he if needs to tweak any parts of the route so that’s he has the best chance of getting every student to see how effortless, demure and graceful he is in his choice of fine clothes, jewellery and hair care. No one is fooled by him, they know it takes a hell of a lot of effort.

Gord does a closet reshuffle every 6 months or so, just to make sure all his clothes are on trend and in season. This is standard prep procedure, but what makes Gord’s rearranging so special is that he literally cannot bear to throw anything away. He attaches memories to every stitch of fabric he’s ever put on his body, he’s a work of art and therefore every single outfit he’s ever worn simply has to be memorialised, he can’t throw it all away. His father has dedicated several houses just to the backlog of Gord’s discarded clothing. There’s more than enough in there to fully stock several Aquaberry locations for literal decades.

He gets dreadful hay fever, its actually kind of disgusting to look at him if he hasn’t taken an antihistamine. Luckily very few people have ever seen him like that, he has several boxes on his person at all times during the spring and summer. He just doesnt have the heart to tell Jimmy about his pollen allergy, so when he’s given flowers he has to hold all of his sneezes in. This then makes his eyes water, and therefore makes Jimmy think he’s so overjoyed with the gift that he’s moved to tears. Luckily for gord he keeps several hand stitched silk handkerchiefs on his person at all times, initialled with thread made of spun gold, he’s not some kind of common mutt that uses disposable tissues.

Gord is a rather talented pianist, he was given the choice as a child to either play polo with his father, or take piano lessons. The thought of the latter made him so lightheaded he thought that he was having a heart attack so he chose to play piano instead. His family have a very nice grand piano in their house’s foyer, but a separate, dedicated room for music practice with an equally expensive, but less aesthetically pleasing piano. On special occasions when the Vendomes wanted to show off, they’d plonk Gord in front of the piano and set him loose. It was usually Schubert or Bach to show how deeply cultured their young son was; but in his personal time, Gord found he much preferred to play the works of more modern classical composers, Leonard Cohen was a particular favourite in his early teens. He doesn’t play all that often nowadays, he’s much too busy, but every time he thinks he might be forgetting he’ll spend an hour or so playing through the giant stack of sheet music he’s accumulated over the years.

His cologne is one of a kind, hand mixed by a company in Milan, its tailored to him and only him and was originally a gift for his 10th birthday. It’s more feminine smelling than most colognes but he thinks it makes him stand out more, he’s not a traditionally masculine guy, so he likes that his cologne reflects that. He’s been gifted many other scents, usually from distant relatives or prospective marriage candidates that dont really know him but they’re just not the same.

Actually got bullied so insanely hard for his ears when he was a kid that he refused to leave the house without a hat on. Even when he first came to bullworth kids weren’t the nicest to him. His ears are a big source of insecurity for him and he is in the process of convincing his father to let him get surgery to tuck them in. His satellite dishes are so cute and he should never get rid of them but its not really up to me.

Comforts Pinky when Derby forgets about every single one of their dates, he takes her shopping for whatever she wants, to dinner someplace exclusive (he always makes reservations on days when those two have dates, he just knows Derby will bail), and then back to Harrington house to watch movies. He openly cries at the sad parts of the romcoms they inevitably end up watching, often more so than Pinky.

Holds a fondness for poor people that not even he himself can fully explain. If he had to pinpoint it, its their freedoms. They’re free to be content with nothing, or to work to fix it, they dont start at an advantage in life and therefore get to enjoy the ride a little bit more. Thats his rose tinted view of it anyway, obviously he hasn’t the time to spend creating a nuanced understanding of his infatuation, he just accepts it as part of his psyche and moves on with his own, utterly fabulous life.

#bully cce #bully #bully canis canem edit #bully se #bully rockstar #bully scholarship edition #gord vendome #bully preps #preps bully

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mayonayys · 12 days ago

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latest fanfics opening lines

Rules: Post the first line of your ten seven most recently published fanfics, and then tag ten six other users to do the same!

tagged by @owlpockets. i haven't posted a fic in a long time on my main AO3 so here's me exposing my trashy side pieces

Tagging: @technicolor-rhapsody @pinevvitch @sakuradeservedbetter91 @zombie-honeymoon @princessxgarbage @sheikahwarriork (I'm only tagging a few of you guys tho bc like all my mutuals don't go here anymore :( also I hope you all havent done this already!!TT)

A Single Thread (Dragon Age: The Veilguard, G, 1.7k words, OC )

The streets of Dock Town weren't unfamiliar, but they were never somewhere that Miriam Mercar had ventured without her father's broad back to follow or her brother's playful jabs at her side.

Cold Reunion (Love and Deepspace, T, 1.7k words, MC/Caleb)

Her stomach turned as she tried to process what was happening.

Coming Home (Dragon Age: The Veilguard, G, 2.8k words, OC & Family)

Once familiar buildings towered over Mihren as she made her way down an empty street.

Cracks in the Foundation (Dragon Age: The Veilguard, M, 9.1k words, Lucanis/Rook, Davrin/OC) (literally no ship things have happened yet in this one, nor anything deserving of an M rating...)

The sky was split open, an all too familiar sight for many in Thedas. It was a sight that had plagued Ryatha’s dreams for years, but it was a horror long over and done with—or it was supposed to be.

The Ones We Find Along the Way (My Time at Sandrock, E, 63k words, Logan/FMC) (someone shame me into finishing this please.)

The desert was cold in the mornings, something Constantine had grown used to, and come to relish.

The Princess of Spring and the Cursed Forest (Naruto, T, 4.5k words, Sakura/Sasori) (and this one too...)

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom deep within the desert. It was said to be a kingdom of great beauty—an Oasis amongst the sand. The King of Oasis was said to covet all things beautiful, going so far as to conquer neighboring kingdoms just to take their precious gems and finery for himself.

Steady as a Rock (My Time at Sandrock, E, 3.7k words, Unsuur/FMC) (this one feels like i wrote it in a fever dream bc why did i think i could write smut)

“I’m afraid of heights.” Constantine confessed as she looked over the railing at the tram station.

#tag game #mayo makes things #i did this instead of homework

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whispersleo · 29 days ago

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Please, forgive me - Aren x Oz fic Words: 3,750

Relationships: Rook/Rook (Dragon Age)

Additional Tags: Extremely Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, Mindfuck, Rough Sex, Power Dynamics, "Are They Even Okay?", Psychosexual Horror, Bad Decisions, "This Is Fine" (It's Not), Mutual Non-Con, Mutual Ruination, Toxic Relationship, "Who’s Really in Control Here?", Trans Male Character

Summary: Oz is having a great night—Aren’s high out of his mind, the apartment smells like regret, and it seems that the shadows keep whispering things that almost sound like his name. But hey, at least he gets to watch his usually insufferable roommate unravel into a trembling, begging mess. And if Oz takes a little too much pleasure in teasing him through the hallucinations? Well. Aren should’ve known better than to mix drugs and bad life choices. (Or: The shadows aren’t supposed to laugh. Aren knows this. He knows. But they do anyway, soft, wet giggles from the corners of the room, from under his skin, from the spaces between Oz’s fingers as they press into him. Oz says there’s nothing there. Oz says he’s fine. But Oz is lying. Or maybe Aren is. Or maybe the thing wearing Oz’s smirk isn’t Oz at all. Now he can’t hear Oz. Is Oz here at all? Aren should know this.)

Read here or in AO3!

Note: This fic takes place in the Modern Apartment AU setting made by @dragonagegayz, basically everything's the same but takes place now, in his own words <3 !!!Content Warning: This fic contains extremely dubious consent, bordering on rape from both sides. Their dynamic is toxic as hell, so please tread carefully. Enjoy the mess. Kisses en la cola, Leo <3! P. D: Just gotta say—I’ve been sick for days and on my period (ah, the joys of being a trans man), and for the past three days, I’ve been yo-yoing in and out of full-blown fever delirium. Fantastic for writing, horrendous for editing. I’m shaking like a chihuahua, so if there are any mistakes, please forgive this little mexican man who just wanted to share his fucked up smut before throwing up yet again. The words on the screen are making me dizzy BUT a fanfic writer must persevere. I'm sure I'll be fine after taking more medicine fully prescribed by a licensed physician (me) or I'll resort to stronger measures if necessary (at this point, an exorcism might be in order).

[ I've got demons in my head. ]

Oz’s head was pounding, the flickering glow of the TV casting jagged shadows that twitched when he wasn’t staring directly at them. The living room was a graveyard of empty takeout containers, crushed beer cans, and discarded clothes that reeked of weed, sweat, and something vaguely rotting, like the ghost of last week’s forgotten meals. The mess of two people who couldn't be bothered to clean.

Aren was sprawled on the couch, high as hell, his bright red curls a tangled halo against the stained cushions. The joint between his fingers had burned down to the filter, the ember long dead, but his hand still twitched like he was taking phantom drags. He had left a burn mark on the side of his torso he didn't seem to even feel. His golden eyes were glassy, pupils swallowing the amber whole as they darted across the ceiling—tracking things Oz couldn’t see. Things that weren’t there.

Oz watched him from the armchair he’d dragged in from the curb, its springs digging into his back like teeth. He took a swig of warm beer, grimacing at the stale bite. "You’re being weird," he muttered.

Aren didn’t answer. His breath hitched, his fingers clawing at his sweatpants like they were crawling with spiders. His nails caught on the frayed fabric, pulling threads loose.

Oz rolled his eyes. "The fuck’s wrong with you now?"

Still nothing. Just the too-fast rise and fall of Aren’s chest, his lips moving soundlessly, whispering to the ceiling, to the walls, to the things only he could see. His hands jerked up suddenly, swiping at his arms, his neck, his face.

Oz leaned forward, irritation sparking. "Aren. Look at me."

No response. Just ragged breathing and the wet, sticky sound of nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.

With a scoff, Oz shoved himself up, crossing the cramped space in one stride. He grabbed Aren’s chin, forcing his face toward him, crushing his beard. The qunari’s skin was fever-hot under his fingers, damp with sweat. His breath stuttered, his eyes flickering wildly, like he couldn’t tell if Oz was real or just another hallucination.

"There’s—there’s something—" Aren’s voice was rough, slurred. His hands trembled in the air, grasping at nothing. "Get it off—get it off—"

Oz tightened his grip. "There’s nothing there, dumbass."

Aren flinched, his body jerking like he’d been struck. His nails dug into his own arms hard enough to leave red furrows. "No—no, they’re—they’re crawling—"

Oz watched, something dark curling in his chest. There was something satisfying about this—about seeing Aren, loud, obnoxious, always-smirking Aren, reduced to this: a shaking, broken mess. His lips twitched into a smirk.

"Tell me what you see," he taunted, voice low.

Aren’s breath came in ragged gasps. His gaze darted around the room, unfocused and terrified. "The—the walls—they’re breathing—"

Oz leaned in, his free hand sliding up Aren’s chest, fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone. Even the sprawling tattoo of the Dread Wolf across his chest seemed to ripple under Oz’s touch, the ink twisting like something alive. "And what else?"

Aren shuddered, muscles tensing. "H-hands—claws—in the corners—" His voice cracked. "They’re—they’re laughing—"

"Where?" Oz’s fingers dipped lower, dragging over Aren’s ribs, his stomach. "Here?"

Aren whimpered, his body arching like he’d been burned. His breath was coming too fast now, his chest heaving. "N-no—stop—"

Oz ignored him, pressing his palm flat against Aren’s stomach, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse. "Or here?"

By now, Aren was trembling violently, his whole body shaking. "Please—please, Oz—"

Oz leaned in, his lips brushing Aren’s ear. "Begging already?" he murmured, mocking. "Thought you were tougher than this." Aren’s breath hitched, his fingers digging into the couch hard enough to tear the poor fabric. His eyes were wild, unfocused, his lips parted in a silent plea. Oz smirked. He dragged his fingers up Aren’s throat, tilting his head back. "Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me what the shadows are doing to you."

The redhead’s voice was barely a whisper, his eyes completely black looking at nothing, empty of everything but fear. "They’re—they’re touching me—"

"Like this?" Oz’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing the waistband of Aren’s sweats. Aren choked on a sob, his body arching into the touch despite himself. His skin was on fire, his mind unraveling, torn between the horror of his hallucinations and the cruel pleasure of Oz’s hands. Oz laughed, low and mean. "What, big boy? Scared?"

Aren’s vision blurred. The room spun, the shadows pressing in, the hands, real or not, clawing at him, dragging him under. And through it all, Oz’s touch was the only anchor, the only thing that felt solid in the chaos.

He didn’t know if he wanted to shove him away or pull him closer.

And Oz?

Oz was enjoying every second of it.

The younger man dug his fingers into Aren’s hips and yanked the damn gray sweatpants down in two sharp tugs, tossing them aside. One of the redhead’s socks came off with them, the other still clinging halfway down his foot like it refused to let go. Aren writhed against the couch again, his breath coming in shallow gasps—like the air itself was choking him.

And Oz loved it.

He loved it even more when Aren started hyperventilating like this, gasping like a fish on dry land. Years of chain-smoking and swallowing fire for his circus gigs (or street performances when drug money ran thin) had left his lungs and his throat fucked beyond repair. Now, every ragged breath was a fight. It was thrilling, watching him go weak and dizzy, watching his body betray him—

Oz wet his lips and climbed onto the couch, the old frame groaning under the weight of two full-grown qunari. The springs screamed in protest as Oz straddled Aren’s hips, pinning him deeper into the sweat-stained cushions. Up close, he could see the way Aren’s pupils had swallowed every last fleck of gold in his eyes; black holes sucking in the dim light of their shitty apartment.

Aren’s chest hitched, his ribs expanding like broken bellows beneath Oz’s palms. His skin was slick with even more sweat, the heat radiating off him in waves. Oz could taste the weed and cheap whiskey on his breath, could smell the sharp, metallic tang of fear cutting through the usual stench of drugs and sex.

"Look at you," Oz sneered, dragging a thumbnail down Aren’s sternum hard enough to leave a pink trail. "Big scary fire-eater, shaking apart over nothing." He punctuated the jab by grinding his hips down, relishing the choked noise it punched from Aren’s throat.

Aren’s hands flew up to grip Oz’s wrists, but his fingers trembled, whether from arousal or terror, Oz couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. The redhead’s skin burned fever-hot beneath his touch, twitching like a spooked horse.

"Fu—fuck you," Aren gasped, but the insult lost all its bite when his voice cracked. His hips jerked involuntarily, the red curls between his legs already darkening with slick. Oz could smell him, that familiar cocktail of weed, cheap cologne, and something metallic that always clung to Aren after performances. It was as if all those things had been left out in the sun for too long. That's what Aren smelled like.

Oz leaned down until their noses brushed. "I don’t think you can, but I can try," he murmured, then bit Aren’s lower lip hard enough to taste copper. The redhead whimpered, his legs falling open in a traitorous invitation even as his hands weakly pushed at Oz’s shoulders. The younger qunari laughed against his mouth. "Still fighting? Even like this?" He caught both of Aren’s wrists in one hand and slammed them above his head, his other hand slipping between Aren’s thighs with practiced ease.

Aren arched off the couch with a strangled cry, his thighs clamping around Oz’s hips. "N-no, wait—"

"Wait for what?" Oz dragged a finger through Aren’s slick, making a show of examining the glistening strands. "You’re fucking soaked. Are you going to pee yourself out of fear?" He pressed in with two fingers without warning, curling them just enough to make Aren’s toes curl. "Pathetic."

The redhead’s entire body seized, his back bowing off the couch. His mouth opened in a silent scream, tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief, the ink there twisting. Oz watched, mesmerized, as Aren’s reality splintered between the ghosts in his head and the very real fingers fucking into him. He pressed another finger in with greater difficulty because of how tense the man actually was.

"O-Oz!" Aren gasped, freeing his hands and scrabbling at the younger man’s shoulders. His nails left half-moon indents in the pale skin. "Oz, please—please—"

"Please what?" Oz twisted his fingers, relishing the way Aren’s cunt clenched around him. "You want me to stop?" Another cruel twist. The sound of his hand moving was beyond obscene and loud compared to whatever was playing on the TV in the background. "Or do you want me to ruin you?"

Aren’s answer was a broken moan as his hips stuttered, his body tipping over the edge despite himself. Oz watched him unravel with cold fascination—the way his muscles locked, the way his breath came in punched-out gasps, the way his eyes rolled back as pleasure and terror warred across his face.

When it was over, Aren lay boneless and trembling, his chest heaving, tears running down his cheeks. Oz withdrew his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them carelessly on Aren’s thigh.

"Still seeing shit?" he asked, tilting his head like a curious cat.

Aren blinked up at him, his gaze slowly focusing. The shadows still lurked at the edges of his vision, but they’d receded, pushed back by the white-hot reality of Oz’s hands on him.

"...Fuck you," he muttered, but there was no heat left in it. Just exhaustion. Just surrender. Oz grinned, sharp as a knife wound. Still, he couldn't hide his disappointment, as it was more fun when Aren fought back at him halfway through these episodes.

He was about to get off Aren’s lap when two big arms seized his waist, throwing him back onto the couch with a heavy thud, his head cracking against the armrest. Oz groaned, but Aren—though still breathless—was already leaning over him, his mouth hot against Oz’s neck. One hand found its way between Oz’s thighs, pushing against his own wet cunt in a way that burned. He moaned.

Aren’s fingers dug into Oz’s hips hard enough to bruise, his breath still ragged but his grip steady now, anchored by the heat between Oz’s thighs. The younger qunari gasped as Aren’s calloused thumb dragged right over his clit, rough and unrelenting.

"Thought you were done," Oz taunted, though his voice cracked when Aren bit down on his collarbone. Hard. Oz was sure there was now the mark of his teeth with blood coming out. Those damn yellow stones were as sharp as a shark's.

Aren pulled back just enough to smirk, his gold-flecked eyes still hazy but sharpening at the edges. "You wish I was done." His voice was hoarse, raw from panting, but the mocking lilt was back—that familiar, infuriating cadence that made Oz want to strangle him or ride him, whichever came first. Then Aren’s fingers were moving aside his shorts and inside him, curling just so, and Oz’s snarl melted into a moan.

The redhead laughed, low and throaty, his breath hot against Oz’s jaw. "Look at you," he murmured, twisting his fingers in a way that made Oz’s hips jerk. "Big scary bastard, shaking apart over nothing."

Oz growled and grabbed a fistful of Aren’s curls, yanking his head back. "Shut the fuck—"

His words dissolved into a whine as Aren’s free hand scraped over his ribs and found his throat. The touch burned—too much, not enough—and Oz could feel the tremors in Aren’s fingers, the way his muscles still twitched with leftover adrenaline. Then the pressure tightened. Not playfully. Not like before.

Aren’s grip was sudden, unreadable; his pupils still blown wide, his breath ragged and uneven. His thumb pressed into Oz’s windpipe just enough to make his vision pulse at the edges. Oz went still. For a heartbeat, there was no taunting, no smirk, no familiar heat in Aren’s gaze. Just something hollow and distant, like he wasn’t seeing Oz at all, like he was still trapped in the claws of whatever nightmare had been crawling under his skin.

The air turned sharp in Oz’s lungs. Aren could kill him. Not would. But could. Right now, in this fucked-up, filthy apartment, with the shadows writhing in the corners of his vision and his hands shaking from drugs or hallucinations or whatever the fuck was specially rotting his brain tonight. Aren could decide to. And Oz wouldn’t know until it was too late.

He held his breath. Watched Aren’s face for any flicker of recognition, any sign that he knew whose throat he was squeezing. Aren blinked. His thumb stroked once, slow and deliberate, along the column of Oz’s throat; a caress where there had been a threat. His lips curled into a lazy, familiar smirk, but his eyes were still dark, still off.

"Scared, pretty boy?" he murmured, voice rough.

Oz bared his teeth, but his hips rolled into Aren’s touch, betraying him. "Fuck you," he gasped.

Aren laughed—low, unsteady—and finally let go. Hallucinations or not, the bastard was here now, his focus narrowed to the way Oz writhed beneath him. He leaned down, his lips brushing Oz’s lips. "But you like this, don’t you?" he whispered, his voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Watching me lose my shit. Thinking you’re oh just so in control." He pressed his fingers deeper, his palm circling Oz’s clit with cruel precision. "But look at you now, my pretty boy."

Oz’s vision blurred around the edges. The couch creaked beneath them, the apartment’s usual stench of weed and mildew drowned out by the salt-tang of sweat, the musk of arousal. Aren’s breath hitched, not from fear this time, but from the way Oz’s cunt clenched around his fingers, greedy and desperate. He crooked his fingers again, and Oz came with a choked-off cry, his back arching off the couch. Aren didn’t let up, working him through it until Oz was shuddering, his nails drawing blood from Aren’s arms. Neither of them cared. Aren just smiled at him, his hand moving hard and insistent, rubbing against the clit and inside the pussy in a way that was almost uncomfortable until Oz's hips twitched again, and the young man moaned as more liquid soaked his pussy and Aren's hand, a lot of drops falling onto his shorts, the couch, and sweat running down his thighs.

When it was over, Oz slumped back, his chest heaving. Aren pulled his fingers free with a wet sound, examining them with a raised brow before licking them clean, his eyes never leaving Oz’s face. He seemed to breathe deeply his scent in them, too.

Oz wanted to punch him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to completely ruin him. Instead, he grabbed Aren by the throat and dragged him down, their mouths crashing together in something too vicious to be a kiss. Aren groaned into it, his hands already fumbling for Oz’s waistband again.

The shadows could wait.

He tossed Oz’s shorts aside, along with where his own clothes had been, and forcefully spread his legs, settling between them, his muscular stomach pressing against Oz’s soaked core. His lips moved hungrily over Oz’s, Aren far from his earlier lethargy now—his tongue pushing insistently into the other qunari’s mouth, forcing him to swallow every drop of saliva like water. When they finally broke apart, both their cheeks and beards were glistening. Oz watched through half-lidded eyes, licking his lips to catch the remnants, while Aren allowed it, his hands digging into Oz’s waist with enough force to leave red marks. Then Oz’s mouth trailed down Aren’s neck, lapping up the bitter sweat of fear that still clung to him, replacing it with the taste of the last beer Aren had drunk.

Aren gasped, resting his forehead against Oz’s for a moment, breathing in his scent before moving again. He kissed his way down every scar on Oz’s chest and ribs, then suddenly tightened his arms around Oz’s hips, muscles flexing as he hauled the younger qunari’s body up, forcing him into a vulnerable position. Oz’s head was pinned beneath the armrest of the couch, his broken horns scraping the already worn fabric, his hands gripping Aren’s forearm for balance. He let out a sharp, breathy gasp as Aren’s inhumanly strong arms locked around his waist, one leg bent against the glass window while the other dangled uselessly, Oz’s spine cracking as Aren forced his leg to the side.

"Aren—fuck," Oz choked out, voice strained from the effort of being manhandled. Aren didn’t respond, his mouth too busy between Oz’s thighs. His stomach pressed flush against Oz’s back, knees digging into his ribs.

This had to be revenge. Or punishment. Whichever it was, Oz whimpered as Aren’s lips wrapped around his clit and sucked like a man possessed, his beard rubbing against sensitive folds in a way that sent shocks through Oz’s tensed muscles, chills racing down his spine. He could do nothing but moan and writhe under the relentless sensation, the sheer voracity of being devoured. His eyes rolled back, chest heaving as another orgasm ripped through him.

He heard Aren’s near-manic laugh—the only pause he took—before his lips were back on Oz’s, tongue pressing insistently at his entrance before plunging in, deep and hot. Oz’s hips jerked, his leg thumping uselessly against the glass. He wanted to kick, to fight, but Aren had him locked in place. He could do nothing as the man’s mouth worked him, sucking out every drop, tongue moving in rough, filthy strokes, the slick, obscene sounds filling the apartment.

Oz ended up sobbing, nails clawing into the couch as he cursed Aren—and himself for ever provoking the bastard. His legs trembled when Aren finally released them, and Oz whined at the roughness, the sound falling on deaf ears. His vision was so blurred he couldn’t even make out Aren’s expression—only heard the wet sound of him licking his lips.

He was still catching his breath when Aren manhandled him again, nearly throwing him to the floor. This time, Oz tried to resist, shaking his head and pushing weakly at the qunari.

"Wait, Aren—"

"Wait for what?" Aren growled, forcing Oz onto his knees on the couch. To keep him from rising, he planted himself on one of Oz’s calves. Oz gritted his teeth, biting his lip to stifle a groan at the feeling of Aren’s soaked cunt against his skin, the curls nearly sticky with arousal. The sensation distracted him long enough for Aren to pin his arms uselessly against his body.

"I said no!" Oz tried, though it was futile. "N—mph!" His next protest was smothered as Aren kissed him—or bit him, he couldn’t tell.

"Yeah, yeah," Aren muttered against his mouth, teeth clashing. The kiss tasted like blood. "Scream louder than them." He laughed, the words sending an uncomfortable, near-painful shiver down Oz’s spine. Whatever Aren was seeing—and hearing—hadn’t stopped, apparently.

"Wait—"

Aren’s hand clamped over Oz’s mouth before he could finish. Not gently. Not even impatiently. Like he hadn’t heard him at all. Like Oz’s voice was just another noise in the room, another whisper in the walls.

Oz’s stomach hit the couch, Aren’s weight following, knee pressing into the cushion beside his hip. The leather creaked under them, sticky with sweat. Aren’s other hand—rough, scarred—dragged down Oz’s chest, nails catching on skin just shy of breaking it. Oz gasped into Aren’s palm, the taste of salt and iron blooming where his teeth had split his own lip.

Listen to me. He tried to say it. Tried to bite, to jerk his head away, but Aren’s grip was iron, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black in the flickering TV light.

Listen—

Aren wasn’t listening.

His breath came in ragged bursts, hot against Oz’s cheek, his body shuddering like something alive and feral on top of Oz’s thighs. The wet heat of him—gods, he was dripping, the scent of him thick in the air—pressed against Oz’s leg, and Oz felt the way Aren’s muscles jumped at the contact, the way his hips stuttered like he was fighting not to grind down.

But his eyes—

They weren’t on Oz. They darted past him, over his shoulder, tracking something in the shadows. His fingers tightened reflexively, and Oz choked on a sound, his own pulse hammering in his throat.

"Aren—" Muffled. Useless.

Aren’s thumb swiped over Oz’s clit in a slow, deliberate circle, not teasing, not even for him, just testing, like he was checking the weight of a blade before a fight. Oz’s back arched against him, a whimper tearing from his chest, but Aren didn’t react. Didn’t see it.

His lips moved, soundless words lost under the buzz of the broken overhead light, the distant drip of the bathroom faucet. Then his hand was between Oz’s legs again, fingers working him with brutal efficiency, and Oz couldn’t—couldn’t—

Pleasure coiled, white-hot and searing, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t right, because Aren wasn’t here, wasn’t listening, even as his body moved against Oz’s, even as his breath hitched in time with Oz’s gasps. When the orgasm hit, it was almost violent—Oz’s vision splintered, his thighs clamping around Aren’s wrist, his mouth open in a silent scream. Aren didn’t pause. Didn’t slow. Just kept moving, his own climax shuddering through him in uneven jerks, his forehead dropping to Oz’s shoulder like the weight of his own skull was too much.

For a second—just a second—Oz thought he might say something. Might finally look at him.

Aren pushed himself up, his breath still uneven, his skin gleaming with sweat, and walked away. Oz lay there, trembling, the imprint of Aren’s fingers bruising deep into his hips, in his throat, in his whole body. Everywhere hurt. The TV hummed. The faucet dripped.

And the silence—

The silence was louder than anything.

#oz ingellvar #oc: aren #rook x rook #rook laidir #rook ingellvar #datv rook #rook dav #rook fanfic

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