#{drabble}

[cisse-writes]

our lord and saviors @indiewritesxoxo, @yenayaps, and @madamechrissy gifted us with animal!sukuna and objectification!sukuna (no one but me is calling it that, i just thought it was funny) which i have been obsessed with (it gives me soo much serotonin) and i’ve been inspired by them to write my own EXCEPT I NEED TO FINISH MY BACKROOMS PORNO FIRST soooo…

heres a little headcanon as i think about it:

painting!sukuna who you bought at an estate auction. a slightly grotesque portraiture of eyeballs you are sure is just a customized halloween decoration from joanns r.i.p.

painting!sukuna who feels right at home on your wall next to other morbid decorations. the gothic decor really reminded him of the good times in his shrine. he especially like the snake skeleton.

painting!sukuna who watches you never come home with anyone, watching sad television and reading the raunchiest books, but you seem happy. the little vibrator you call “toji” makes you very happy.

painting!sukuna who falls off the wall for no goddamn reason all the time. (there is a reason and that is that its time for his show on tv but you haven’t turned it on)

painting!sukuna who one day throws himself too hard, breaking the seal that kept him locked away

painting!sukuna who looks for the goddamn remote when it comes time for his show but can’t find the remote and for once in your life, your not locked away in your room.

painting!sukuna who tears your place apart looking for the remote only to miss his show. and now he’s pissed.

and you come home from a crazy long shift to find your house destroyed, a hulking naked 6’5 man with a huge cock on your couch, and your… panty drawer strangely empty.

oh, you’re in trouble.

[musingsofheaven]

Omg I’d die if you wrote something on Joel miller x younger bratty reader who he think sis a bad influence on Ellie!! Then they end up fucking really rough and angry but it’s so filthy and delicious?!?! Maybe he’s choking her to keep her quiet but she also wants to ride him and not give in!!! Like I love the switch up

RAISED WRONG.

summary: You’re younger, loud-mouthed, and definitely a bad influence on Ellie. Joel knows it. Won’t stop showing off, getting under his skin, acting like you’ve got nothing to lose. Then he drags you into the dark and finally does what he’s been dying to shuts you up with his hands and fucks you until you so deep.

pairings: joel miller x afab bratty!reader

warnings: 9k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. age gap. rough sex. choking kink. manhandling. degradation kink. oral fixation. tit play / nipple play. breeding kink. smoking. read & consume responsibly.

note: first time writing joel hehe… i stayed up all night like a little vamp <3 like actually 2am to 8am. i don’t know what happened but it felt important. i’m really sleepy now and kind of stupid about it and now i’m so tired i could cry 🧍‍♀️ reblog or like if u did !! follow + send an ask if u want more (but i write so slow bc i have 1 braincell and it’s scared of me sorryyy) ok love u byeeee uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 🫀 (As of 11 am on my time i noticed the fic was cut (the first half) so i edited it again and pasted it… i am sorry!)

They see you before you see them.

You’re half-crouched in a blown-out gas station, dragging one boot behind you as you sift through a collapsed aisle, rifling through broken shelves like you’re expecting a candy bar to fall into your hand. You’re just looking for something edible. Or shiny. Or stupid enough to add to your collection.

You don’t even clock the footsteps at first-maybe you do, but you’ve gotten good at ignoring shit. A click, a shuffle, the low weight of suspicion pressing into your spine. You only look up when a voice barks behind you, rough and already tired: “Turn around. Real slow.”

You sigh like someone just asked you to do something boring. Then you roll your eyes, glance back just enough for the smirk to rise.

“You lost or somethin’?”

The man doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t say anything either. Salt-and-pepper beard, jaw locked tight like he’s halfway to shooting. The kid next to him squints at you.

“She doesn’t look infected,” the girl says.

You raise your brows at that, scoffing as you turn, hands half-raised.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Where’s your group?” the man asks, voice sharp.

“Not here,” you reply, flat.

“That’s not an answer.”

You sigh again, this time more annoyed. “I came from that way,” you say, nodding vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s gone now. Fireflies, Fedra, raiders-take your fuckin’ pick.”

The woman beside him stiffens. “You see who did it?”

You snort. “Do I look like I stuck around to get names?”

The girl tugs on his arm. “Let her come. If she turns, I’ll stab her first.”

You laugh-sharp, surprised. “You’re fun.” She’s easy. You clock that immediately. Could probably talk her into anything.

“I’m right here,” the man mutters like it’s personal.

You take a slow step forward. He doesn’t flinch, but his jaw ticks hard.

“I’m not sick.” You lift your shirt just enough to show skin-clean, unbitten. “You can check. Or shoot me. Your call, old man.”

He glares.

The girl grins. “She could be useful.”

“She’s gonna be a pain in my ass.”

“Same thing,” you say, already walking like it’s settled.

You fall into step somewhere in the middle-not in front, not behind. Just out of reach. Feels like they’re circling you, but what can you do?

You walk for hours before the man-Joel, you overheard-finally says what’s clearly been stuck in his throat:

“You were with them?”

You glance sideways. “With whom?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

You smirk. “I’m not playing.”

He chews on the silence. Doesn’t push. Not yet.

Ellie-she never stops talking. She keeps throwing you glances, like she’s still figuring out what kind of weird you are. At one point, she asks if you’ve ever stayed in a hotel like the one you just passed.

“Does sleeping under one count?” you ask. “With a hole in the roof?”

She snorts. “You’re weird.”

“You’re loud.”

Joel clears his throat behind you. You grin.

That night, you crash in a half-flooded warehouse. Tess posts up by the doors. Joel plants himself between you and Ellie, arms crossed like a bouncer who never clocks out.

“You don’t trust me,” you say eventually.

“I don’t know you.”

Fair enough. You don’t trust him either. That’s just how it is out here-everyone’s a threat until they’re not.

“You could ask better questions.”

He doesn’t look at you. “You ever kill a man?”

You smile in the dark. “That’s the first thing you wanna know?”

Silence.

You shift slightly, one arm folded behind your head. “Do you think anyone out here hasn’t?”

Another pause. The air gets heavier.

“I didn’t shoot first,” you add. “Not the first time.”

He doesn’t respond. You can feel his eyes though-tracking, imagining, dissecting. The kind of man who chews on suspicion like it feeds him.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” he asks, finally.

“Boyfriend,” you lie.

“Dead now?”

You grin up at the ceiling. “Aren’t they all?”

He doesn’t say anything else. And you fall asleep with that little echo in your head-you want people to think you’re dangerous. Not a warning. A memory.

The days start blurring after that. Joel watches you like you’re a bomb no one bothered to defuse. Like you might sprout claws or snap someone’s neck just to prove a point. Ellie’s warmer-she shares a busted pack of crackers with you that Joel clearly gave her, even if she pretends it was her idea. You blow a gum bubble in her face and she nearly chokes laughing. Joel glares.

You sneak into a warehouse on a dare and come back with rusted junk and a chain of dog tags you tuck into your shirt like they matter. Ellie finds fuckass nail polish in a med kit and paints your nails at camp. Joel mutters something under his breath about softness and being a bad influence.

“You’re just pissed ‘cause you forgot how to have fun.”

He storms off. You don’t know if it hit a nerve. You hope it did.

The next day, you teach Ellie how to flip her knife. How to spot tripwires. How to curse in a language she doesn’t know. She says it to Joel and he looks like he aged ten years in one second.

That night, you sneak her a cigarette. Okay. Maybe that one’s on you. She gags, calls it gross, then takes another drag just to prove she’s cool. You tell her she’s not. She flips you off.

Then Joel comes stomping back from patrol-and freezes the second he sees smoke curling from her lips. “You wanna tell me what the fuck this is?”

Ellie drops the cigarette like it’s radioactive.

You don’t even blink. Blow the last of the smoke toward the trees. “It was one drag.”

“She’s a teen.”

“And? You think the apocalypse waits for birthdays?”

He steps toward you, slow and sharp. Each step feels like a warning.

“You’re a bad fuckin’ influence.”

You smile. All teeth. Like you’re proud of it.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re around to balance me out.”

He finds you ten minutes later, footsteps heavy, pissed off. Doesn’t say a word at first-just stares at you, jaw tight, like he still hasn’t decided whether to drag you back inside or leave you there to rot.

“Y’know,” he mutters finally, voice low like gravel, “you act like you wanna get left.”

You don’t look at him. Just tap the ash off your cigarette and watch it drift. “And you act like you still wear a badge.”

He scoffs. Doesn’t move. Just leans against the opposite wall with that arms-crossed stance like he’s about to book you for resisting arrest.

“You keep pushin’ her like that, she’s gonna get cocky. Gonna get hurt.”

“She’s smart,” you snap back, too fast, too sharp. “She’s not gonna break just ‘cause I taught her how to hold a knife.”

“She’s a kid.”

“She’s surviving.”

He glares. “You think you’re funny.”

You drag slowly. Blow smoke right past him into the dark. “No,” you say. “I think you’re scared.”

That shuts him up.

For a second, it’s just the buzz of bugs and the soft hiss of your cigarette burning down. You catch it, though-the way his jaw ticks. Like you hit something that shouldn’t be touched. Like fear’s the only thing he hasn’t figured out how to bury.

“Finish your smoke,” he says finally. “You’re takin’ second watch.”

Then he turns and disappears through the window again like you’re not worth the rest of the argument.

You wait until the cherry burns too close to your fingers. Let it sear, just a little. Something to bite down on.

When you crawl back inside, Ellie’s curled up against Tess, dead asleep. Joel’s posted by the door, arms folded, head tilted like maybe he’s dozing. He’s not.

You sit by the window. Pretend to keep watch. Try not to count the seconds.

Then you get bored.

His bag’s right there, half-zipped, practically asking for it. Sloppy.

You inch closer. Quiet as a shadow. Fingers ghost over the zipper, slow and deliberate. You feel it first-canvas, frayed at the edges. A roll of gauze. A folded-up map. Then something else. Thin. Glossy. Familiar weight. A photo. You start to pull.

And then, too fast, his hand clamps around your wrist like a trap snapping shut.

Your breath catches. Not from the pain, but from the heat of him suddenly there-his body close, his voice like a cut.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

You don’t answer. Don’t move.

“Get up.”

Still frozen.

“Now.”

He doesn’t yank you or shout. He doesn’t have to. He knows he can't-not when people are sleeping and he doesn’t want to waste any energy on it. He just moves you, dragging you by the arm through the far doorway into the next room-what used to be an office, maybe, or a supply closet. But it looks fucked up now. The door creaks closed behind you. He presses you back against it, not rough, but firm. Angry. His jaw locked so tight it looks like it hurts. “You goin’ through my shit now?” he mutters. “You that fuckin’ stupid?”

Your lips part, words half-formed, but he leans in close before you can say a thing. It's making you feel claustrophobic, a little, because he's so close you can smell the smoke still clinging to your shirt, the sweat on his collar.

“You don’t touch my things,” he started. “You don’t go near that bag. You don’t-fuckin’... poke around like you're some kind of thief or a fucking spy.”

You stare up at him, eyes sharp despite the dark. You almost melt by his voice but you're more stubborn than him so you reason out. “You were asleep.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He’s still holding your wrist. His thumb presses into the bone just enough to remind you who’s stronger. Like he's trying to make a fucking point.

Too bad you're younger and more smug and have that false confidence in you. You smile, breathless. “Little jumpy for someone with nothing to hide.”

He lets go of you like it burns. Then steps back. Runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s biting back every word he wants to scream. Like he wants to throw shit. When he turns back, the look in his eyes is wildfire barely leashed.

“You try that shit again,” he mutters, voice low and trembling with restraint, “and I swear to god, I’ll leave you behind.”

You just look at him. Head tilted to the side. That same bored, half-lidded stare that’s been pissing him off since the day he met you. And it’s not that you don’t take it seriously. It’s that he can’t tell if you do or not. If you’re bluffing. If you’re always bluffing. You don’t respond like he’s the one wasting time.

Joel steps closer. His boots scrape against broken tile and dirt and something in him snaps. Not loudly-nothing about this is loud. He looks at you in the eye. It’s something small, tight, and final. He's like trying to see something through it. A pressure point breaking. “You’re like a fuckin’ splinter,” he says, slow and seething. “Can’t pull you out. Can’t ignore you. Just-there. Every goddamn second. Buried so deep it’s driving me insane.”

You raise your brows, you hum like you acknowledge it but fear not, you are mocking the shit out of him. Still no smile, not this time. “So yank me out, old man. Or stop whining.”

Swear to god, he almost did something just because of that filthy mouth of yours. There’s something wild in his eyes now, something unspoken and filthy and so close to the edge it hums in the silence. One wrong move and he’s either going to drag you outside and leave you in the dirt or maybe finally pull the trigger.

But he slams his hand against the wall beside your head instead. Just once. Flat-palmed. Not like he's planning to punch it or you. Looks like he's trying to ground himself. It makes the drywall crack and rain dust down your shoulder, but you don’t flinch.

His face is close. His voice is rougher now, lower, cracked and hushed but absolutely fucking furious. “You think you’re tough. Think you’re smart. You don’t even know what you’re playing at.”

You lean in just slightly. Mouth near his ear. You almost want to lick it up just to push him more but you didn't, instead you say, “You’re the one playing.”

His hand closes around your throat. Not hard. Not fully. Not in the way he's going to kill you. Just there-pressing. Cautionary. Not enough to choke, but enough to warn. And fuck if your breath doesn’t hitch anyway. Not out of fear. Something hotter. Lower. He sees it. Feels it. That pulse kicking under his palm.

And you-so smug, so sick in the head, so you-you grin. Just a little. Like a fucking sick fuck. Like you are enjoying it. Just to piss him off more. Or maybe you really like it. Maybe.

Joel swears under his breath. It’s not anger anymore-it’s wrecked. Like he knows better but he’s already lost. “You wanna push me?” he asks. “Wanna see how far?”

You nod once. Calculated but teasing him. “Been trying. Is it working?”

His grip tightens. Your head hits the wall behind you-lightly, but it jolts. You smile again like you are just rage baiting him because you know he will it up. And then his mouth is right there, hovering, like he could bite or kiss or breathe fire. You don’t move. You don’t blink.

And then-nothing. He yanks his hand away. It almost makes you protest and whine. He turns. Paces once, twice, jaw clenched so hard it looks painful. His back’s to you now, like he can’t even look at you without-“Get some rest,” he says through his teeth. “Before I do something fucking stupid.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stare at the tight set of his shoulders, the twitch in his jaw, the way his fists flex like he’s picturing your throat in his palms. And then softly, you mutter, “You already do.”

That lands. His head tilts-not enough to look at you, just enough to make you feel it. The crack in his control. The split is right down the middle. But he's curious what you’re going to say.

“Taking me with you? Stupid,” you go on, voice lazy, thick with sleep and smoke. “Letting me stay? Again, stupid. Letting me close? Real fuckin’ stupid.” You take a step forward, slow as anything. “But you haven’t stopped me, have you? Haven’t thrown me out. Haven’t told me to go.”

He doesn’t move.

“Almost like you want me here,” you say, mouth twitching. You lick your lips and chuckle.

That’s when he turns. And it’s slow, heavy, deliberate. Like every inch of movement is a loaded threat. His eyes meet yours, hot and blazing. He doesn’t look tired anymore-he looks starving. “I should knock your teeth in,” he says.

You grin. “You’d miss ‘em.”

His hand fists your collar and yanks you forward so hard your back slams the wall, breath catching in your throat. You feel it made you out of character for a second. His thigh wedges between yours, keeping you pinned like he wants to hurt you with it. “Say another word,” he growls, “and I’ll make you swallow it.”

You exhale like a moan, all wide-eyed and wicked. Like the little brat you are, you say, “Please.”

His mouth crashes into yours, rough and clumsy and furious. You kiss him back like you’re trying to win. Hopefully him, but you already know that you already won him. He groans. You drag your nails down his side. You made sure your nails go dug and make him feel those little moon shapes. He hisses and bites your lip. He palms the back of your neck, presses his forehead to yours like he wants to drive you through the wall. You rock your hips against him, just enough to test the waters and he grabs your jaw so hard it aches.

“Keep quiet,” he mutters. “Or I’ll shut you up myself.”

You giggle. “Try me.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move for a second, either. Just there and holding you. Just stares at you like he’s trying to see past your skin, past the grin curling your mouth, past every smartass thing you’ve said since the moment he met you. And then he does something worse than yelling. Something quieter.

He presses more, but it’s all weight and intention, jaw set tight, hands flexing like he’s deciding whether to grab you or walk away again. His hands are back on your throat before you can blink. Not tight, just like a moment ago. Not yet. Just resting there, rough palm to your pulse point, like he's about to tweak. “Still feel like giggling?” he says low, thumb brushing your jaw.

You grin wider. Because, of course, you do. You just have to keep running your mouth. “Yeah,” you whisper. “You gonna do something about it, or just keep standing there like you’re scared of me?”

He exhales through his nose. Frustrated. Starving. Like he hates that you’re getting to him again. Like he's been trying to control himself since the moment he saw you. Then his grip tightens- just enough to shut you up like he promised, just enough to feel the way your breath skips under his fingers.

His other hand catches your hip, walks you back from the wall close to the door till your ass hits the edge of the half-collapsed table behind you. It creaks under your weight, but he doesn’t let go.

You’re both quiet now. Breathing hard. Heat knotting thick between your bodies like it’s been waiting. Like it's boiling and ready to put in a coffee.

“You always this much of a pain in the ass?” he growls. His hand drops from your throat only to catch the flannel tied loose around your waist, yanking it like it personally offended him. Like he hates this little flannel always covering your waist or arms, depending on your mood. “What is this, huh?” he mutters, twisting the fabric in his fist like it’s just another excuse to keep you close. “Somethin’ to hide behind? Or you just like dressing like trouble?”

You smirk, lips swollen, eyes heavy. “Maybe I just like being grabbed.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts coming out of him. And then he pulls- hard enough to undo the knot and let the shirt fall open. He stared for a moment to see your body. The shape. His hands remain skimming your hips where your shorts ride up high, rough fingers brushing the waistband like he’s debating how far he’s willing to go. Spoiler: too far. Way too fucking far.

“You don’t listen,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he’s trying to justify the way his mouth finds your neck again, his hand already sliding low. Jesus, you can see the way he tried to control himself. To don't do shit, but you just keep pushing him.

You gasp, grip curling in the fabric of his shirt as your back hits the table harder this time. “You want me to stop?” you whisper, teeth grazing his ear, giving it a peck.

He chuckles darkly, low and bitter and close. Before his hand slips beneath your shirt slowly, unforgiving. Rough palm skimming over your ribs like he’s checking for something- damage, weakness, regret- but all he finds is heat.

You arch into it, just a little, just enough to be obvious, and the growl he lets out sounds like it got dragged out of his chest by force. So you tilt your head, mouth brushing his jaw. “What’s the matter?” you murmur, syrup-sweet and smug. “Been a long time, old man?” You almost laugh when you say that because you feel like it's accurate.

His hand freezes. Just for a second. Then he laughs- cold and low and not nice at all. “You got a death wish,” he says, dragging his fingers higher, over your bare stomach, up under your bra. Just staying there for a moment to see your reaction. “Or you think this is how you stay useful.”

You hum. “Is it working?”

He answers by biting the side of your neck. Hard. Just shy of bruising. He doesn't even care if it will mark. If people will see. If it will have an implication or a blunt message.

Your jacket’s still on, bunched around your shoulders, half-pinned beneath you. His other hand shoves it up roughly, exposing the top that’s clinging damp to your skin. You see him staring, especially at your chest, and smirking.

You make a soft, teasing noise- half moan, half mockery. “You gonna say thank you after?” you whisper, breath hitching as his thumb grazes your nipple through the fabric which made you hold your breath. “Or you just gonna grunt and roll off?” But he doesn’t answer. He just pushes your thighs apart like he’s done talking. You laugh, breathless. “No, please? No foreplay?”

His hands grip your hips like he’s about to rip you down the middle. “You want me to beg?” As if he's seriously going to consider it, going to beg for you.

You open your mouth- don’t even get the smartass comeback out before he lifts you. Hands under your thighs, dragging you up from the table. You gasp, startled. Arms clinging to his shoulders, legs locking around his waist on instinct. Like it's on the default settings.

And then he drops- not hard, not rough, just fast. He carries you down to the floor like he’s wrestled with the idea for too long and finally gave in. Like you weigh nothing. Like he doesn’t give a shit who hears anymore. Like he doesn't even give a shit if this will bring you to death. But he just settles between your legs, knees pressed into cold tile, your body open for him and still so fucking clothed.

Your jacket’s still on. Shirt too. So he shoves it up- not gently. Rucks the fabric under your arms, hand dragging up your stomach before he slips his fingers under the bra and pops it loose. You both know you can't not really hot naked in this fucked up building. The cups of your bra fall forward. Your nipples catch the cold air, already reacting and sensitive.

He groans. Low. Gutted. Like he’s actually mad it looks that good. Like it's the best feature on you. Like he's so fucking turned on. (He is, you can feel his hard on through his pants because he's so close to you.) Then his mouth is on you- hot and punishing. He sucks hard, open-mouthed and desperate, tongue dragging over one nipple, tongue swirling to it while his thumb teases the other. His stubble burns. You arch into it, gasping, and that only makes him rougher.

His hand moves to your shorts. Not yanked- unfastened. Careful, but still not slow. He undoes the button, lowers the zipper slowly like he wants to hear every inch of it give. Then he grabs both the denim and your panties and pulls, drags them in one go, halfway down your thighs with one bruising tug that knocks the breath out of you.

You feel the air hit between your legs. Feel him pause. He pulls back just long enough to look. Still can't get off from the way your chest look, eyes locked to yours- like he wants to see the second you realize how fucked you are. Then his hand is on his belt. Unbuckling fast. Jeans shoved down just enough to free himself, nothing more. Just his cock standing tall and proud.

He doesn’t even take them off. He just gets his hand under your thigh again, pushes your knee up, and presses into you. Guiding himself where he wants it. It's slow, thick, and unrelenting when he's testing it outside of your hole. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t speak. Just shoves in one sharp, angry thrust that knocks the wind out of you when he finds the right moment to do so.

Your back arches clean off the floor. Almost freezes when you take him whole. Your body is adjusting to him. Your jacket twisted beneath you, thighs spread wide under the weight of him. You cry out before you can stop it, your hand flying up to grab at his shirt, and your hand holds it tightly.

He can't really blame you for reacting that way. He knows people aren't really active in doing this kind of activity considering what's happening around the world. He can even feel it. You're tight. God. “Shh,” he growls, already driving into you again, harder this time. “You wanna wake ‘em up?”

You bite your lip. Shakes your head. Try not to scream. He’s not giving you time, not giving you anything but the full, merciless length of him, over and over like he wants it to hurt. And it does. You feel it everywhere. Your spine, your ribs, and your jaw are from clenching so hard. “F-fuck,” you gasp. “This you bein’ careful? D-damn you.”

He slams deeper. Doesn’t answer. Making you feel more of him.

Your nails scrape down his stomach- just under his shirt, not gently- and he snaps. You just need to feel him. One hand flies to your throat, not choking hard, just enough to still you. Just enough to own you. “You keep runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth,” he mutters, “I’ll shut it for you.”

You giggle- wrecked and breathless, because even now you want to push him. You don't even know why it made you giggle, maybe it's the fact that he's hot? God. Maybe because you're just sick and enjoying it.

So he does squeeze a little harder. Makes your head spin just enough. Keeps fucking you through it, rough and fast and filthy like he’s mad he likes it this much. Like every thrust is another reason he should’ve left you behind. And god, you love it. You’re still half-dressed, your bra pushed up, shirt bunched at your collarbones, jacket riding your arms. You look like a fucking slut at this moment, the kind the looking for a quick fuck. While he got his jeans shoved down just enough and he doesn’t care about the rest- just fists the fabric of your shirt and keeps going, fucking you into the cold floor like it owes him something.

“You- fuck- you’re not gonna last,” you rasp, choking on your own grin. “Been too long for you, huh?” You tease him. You know that it's been too long. For you too. That's why it's making things better. You're tighter. He's eager. What a good combo. Surely it will be more enjoyable for him.

He growls- low in his chest, animal and mean- and suddenly his mouth is on you again, teeth dragging along the underside of your breast like it pisses him off how good you taste. He doesn’t ease up either- still thrusting, still punishing, grinding into you like it’s the last fuck he’ll ever get and he wants it etched into your bones.

His tongue flicks over your nipple, wet and hot, then he sucks hard- mouth working like he’s angry about it. Like he's getting something that's not there. Like he wants to ruin the way it makes you gasp. One hand braces beside your head again, the other gripping your hip, dragging you back into every brutal thrust. “You’re so fuckin’ stubborn,” he mutters against your skin. “Drives me goddamn insane.”

You laugh, breath hitching when he bites- hard enough to leave the shape of his teeth. “Yeah? Then shoot me, old man.”

He lifts his head, stares down at you, jaw clenched and eyes wild. The sweat on his brow is starting to drip. You’re both half-undressed, panting like animals, his hand tightening on your hip hard enough to bruise. “You think I won’t?” he grits out. “You make me wanna do all kinds of stupid shit.” Then he fucks into you even rougher. Like punishment. Like proof.

You moan- loud this time- and he slaps his palm over your mouth without thinking, silencing you with a glare. “Keep quiet,” he said. But you’re smiling under it. Smiling like you won. And he knows it. So he keeps going. Fucks you through the smile. Through the hand over your mouth. Through the anger in both your bodies like it’s all either of you has left.

Your teeth sink into his palm- hard. Not enough to break skin, but close. He jerks like he’s been shot, hips stuttering just enough to loosen his grip. You take your chance. Wrists snap up. Knees shift. And then with a grunt and a twist of your hips, you push him off, flipping him onto his back so fast it knocks the breath out of both of you. You have the strength to do it after all those survival skills you have.

He grunts as his spine hits the cracked floorboards, hands already catching your hips out of instinct- just as his cock slips free, thick and wet and twitching between you. “Jesus Christ,” he snarls, already half-rising like he’s gonna pin you again.

But you’re faster. You straddle him before he can do shit, jacket still on, tits out, sweat slick between your ribs. You drop your weight down just enough to let your slick cunt press against his length- not taking him in, not yet. Just grinding your slit to him slow, lazy, torturous, your ruined shorts halfway down your thighs. “Aw, what’s wrong?” you murmur, mocking sweetness. “Thought you said I was gonna make you do something stupid.”

He grabs your waist like he’s going to break it. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t buck up. Just breathes- harsh and heavy, nostrils flaring, eyes locked on yours like he’s never hated anyone more in his life. Or wanted them this much. “You like bein’ a brat, huh?” he growls.

You rock your hips once. Just enough to drag your slick over his tip. Enough to feel him twitching. A whimper escapes him before he can swallow it. “Not a brat,” you whisper, grinning now. “Just figured you needed help finishing the job, old man.”

That does it. In one breathless move, he raises your hips before lining himself to you and he yanks you down, sheathing himself deep again- all the way, no warning, no grace. You gasp, head thrown back, spine bowing as he fills you. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, hands bruising on your hips. “And ride me.”

You brace your hands on his chest- hot and hard and heaving- and start moving. Slow. Torturous. Rolling your hips like it’s a fucking lap dance, like you’re not even really doing it for him. Just chasing your orgasm, dragging your wet cunt along his cock until he’s twitching inside you again, jaw clenched so tight it could crack.

He doesn’t speak. Not at first. Just watches you with that blown-out, murderous glare like he wants to kill you for making it feel this good. And that’s when you really start to talk. “Y’know,” you murmur, voice syrup-sweet, “I think you were full of shit. Back there. When you said you’d leave me behind.”

His hands tighten. Fingers digging into the soft of your waist like he’s warning you. But you just ride slower, deeper, grinding your clit against the base of him until your lashes flutter. He's so deep, you might think he's kissing your inside with his tip.

“I think you like the trouble,” you whisper, grinning now. “You like the mouth. The attitude. The fact I don’t listen.” You lean in, press your palms to the floor beside his head, and fuck down just right- his head thumps the wall behind him.

“I think you wake up pissed every morning ‘cause I’m still around. But you don’t send me away.” Your breath ghosts over his cheek. “You let me talk to her. You let me sit at your fire. You watch me all the fucking time.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just pants, breath flaring hot against your throat as his hands start to move again- one trailing up your side, the other gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you,” you laugh, breath catching as you rock your hips a little faster. “Face it, Joel. You’re gone. You’re fucking- ”

His hand clamps over your mouth again. Not rough this time. Just firm. Possessive. His other hand snakes into your hair, pulling your head back so you have to look him in the eyes. “Don’t say another word,” he growls. “Or I swear- ”

Your teeth graze his palm again. Not biting this time- just testing. You're licking it like you're making out with him while you're grinding and looking at his eyes.

He shudders. Then thrusts up into you hard enough to split you open again, growling through his teeth like he hates you for every word you’ve ever said.

Your tongue darts out, slow, shameless, as you lick a stripe across the center of his palm.

His whole body jerks. So you do it again. Sloppier this time, your eyes locked on his like you know exactly what you’re doing. You press few pecks before licking again. Like you want to see how much filth he can take before it breaks him. You drag your tongue up to the base of his fingers, then you move your hand from his palm and close your lips around two of them and suck. Like you're showing him how you'll suck him off. You licks the tip of his fingers before circling your tongue on it.

He groans- low and guttural, almost like pain- and drives up into you harder, faster, both hands flying to your hips now like he’s done letting you have any control at all.

“Jesus- fuckin’- Christ,” he grits, his thrusts turning brutal. “You’re- fuckin’- insane.”

You laugh, or try to, but it gets knocked right out of you with the next thrust. He’s fucking you now like it’s punishment, like it’s the only way to shut you up, to get even for every time you ran your mouth or disobeyed or looked him in the eye like he wasn’t the one holding the goddamn gun.

“Can’t stand you,” he snarls, but it’s hoarse, ruined. His eyes flick to your tits bouncing with every snap of his hips, to your mouth slick with spit and spitfire, to the soft bite-marks he left on your throat. “Goddamn- you feel like this?”

You moan into his shoulder, teeth sinking into the fabric of his shirt, barely able to breathe with the way he’s slamming up into you now, fucking through the grind of your hips until all you can do is take it. And you do. You take it like a fucking champ.

He palms your ass, pulls you down as he thrusts up, deeper than before, cruel and so fucking good it aches. “You think you can mouth off like that and still get away with it?” he growls into your neck. “Still ride me like you own it?”

Your voice is a whimper now, breaking under the rhythm. “M-maybe.” You whimpers and blush like his words make you feel shy.

“Yeah?” he spits, grabbing your throat- not choking, just holding. Just enough to make your eyes widen. “Then let’s see how long you last.” His hips don’t stop- not even for a second. He keeps fucking up into you from below, relentless, brutal, like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out. Maybe you like it. Maybe you feel something you shouldn't. Belonging. Claim. Butterflies. But his hand- his other hand- slides between your bodies, palm dragging up your belly until it finds your chest.

You gasp.

He grins. Mean. Doesn’t break pace. Just squeezes- rough, greedy- thumb swiping over your nipple like he wants to feel how raw it gets. You’re still in your shirt, still in your bra, both shoved up and out of the way, and he palms your tit like it’s something he earned. Like he’s entitled to it now. “Fuckin’ knew you’d feel good,” he mutters, voice dark and ragged. “Knew you’d break like this.”

You shudder, hips twitching from the overstimulation, but he grabs you- keeps you flush against his chest, keeps you there. He rolls your nipple between his fingers just as he thrusts up again, and the sound you make is more than a moan- it’s wrecked, wrecking, the kind of noise that feels dangerous to let slip. He likes that.

You can feel it in the way his mouth drags hot and heavy over your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin like he might bite again if you don’t behave. But he doesn’t stop touching you, doesn’t stop fucking into you, chest to chest like he wants to melt you down into him. You feel it first in his hands- tightening on your hips like he’s about to do something reckless. And he does.

He stops. Just for a second. Just long enough to let you feel it- his cock twitching inside you, your muscles clenching down in anticipation. He lets you sit there, suspended in heat and want, then thrusts up once- deep and sharp. Another, harder. And one more, just to watch your mouth fall open, your body jolt helplessly against him. “You think you’re in charge?” he breathes, smirking now. “Cute.”

And then he moves. Fast, brutal, smooth- his grip shifts, his weight rolls, and suddenly you’re on your back. Your shoulders hit the floor, thighs still wrapped around him, and he doesn’t waste a second. Slides right back into you, rough and steady, fucking you like he’s reclaiming something that was never yours to take. “Thought you had me, didn’t you?” he mutters, panting against your throat. “Fuckin’ brat.”

And then he’s pressing into you, hand splayed on your stomach like he wants to feel how deep he is. On the other hand, curling under your knee, pushing it higher to fold you open for him- give him more room to ruin you with every relentless, punishing thrust. He’s pounding into you now, no rhythm- just force. Like he’s trying to fuck the attitude out of you, like it’s the only language he knows. Like every thrust is another shut the fuck up he didn’t say out loud.

You whimper. Moan. Claw at his back like you’re trying to hold yourself together. And still- your mouth runs. “F-fuck- this is why you’re so uptight?” you gasp, voice cracking as he grinds in deeper, your words hitching on every thrust. “Could’ve just- ngh- jerked off like a normal person, Joel- ”

He grabs your thigh and slams into you hard enough to knock the breath out of you. “That's what you want?” he snarls, voice hot and fraying against your cheek. “Want me to shut you up with something down your throat next time?”

You shudder. Cry out. Legs jerking around his waist, holding him in without thinking. But you’re still grinning. Lip split. Teeth glinting. All nerve. “Y-you say that like- fuck- like there’s gonna be a next time.” That gets him. He groans, low and guttural, almost helpless, because you’re squeezing around him now- tight and soaked and fucking taunting him.

You’re breathless. Back arching off the floor. Body bouncing with every thrust- and still, somehow, your mouth won’t quit. “Y-you like this, huh?” you pant, half-laughing, half-moaning. “All that talk and you still can’t stop fucking me- ” Joel growls- deep and vicious- and his hand flies to your throat. Not choking. Just holding, just enough to pin you there, make you look at him.

“You don’t know when to stop,” he mutters, breath ragged. “Goddamn mouth on you…”

His hips grind in deeper, harder, meaner because he's most likely talking about himself when he said you don't know how fo stop. His other hand cups your chest, thumb dragging roughly over your nipple, and you gasp, arching up into it like you can’t help it.

But then you laugh again- wrecked and gleeful and cruel. “This is why you’re mad all the time?” you whisper. “Cause no one lets you fuck the fight outta them?”

That nearly breaks him. His jaw clenches. His thrusts stutter- hips grinding deep, punishing. And when you tilt your chin up like a dare, voice trembling but still sharp, he snaps. “God, you’re a fucking brat,” he growls.

Then he grabs your tits- both, rough and greedy, thumbs flicking over your nipples until your back bows clean off the floor. He pinches- hard- and watches your mouth drop open on a sound you try to swallow. “Uh-uh,” he mutters, dragging one palm up to your throat again, not squeezing, just holding- steady pressure that makes everything tighter, makes you throb. “No shutting up now. You wanted to talk? Talk.”

You whimper. One of those high, broken ones you didn’t mean to let out. He rolls your nipple between two fingers and fucks up into you again- slow this time, deep, cock dragging right over that spot that makes your thighs twitch. You gasp like it’s your first breath in minutes. “Thought so,” he says, low and mean and fucked-out. “All that mouth and now you can’t even finish a sentence.”

You’re blinking up at him, wrecked and twitching, your hands scrabbling uselessly at his wrists, not to stop him- just to touch something. His hands are everywhere- tits, throat, waist, like he can’t pick which part of you he needs to ruin more.

He leans in. Breath hot against your ear. “Look at you,” he mutters. “Fucked dumb already and I’m not even close.”

Then he thrusts, hard- one palm sliding back down to your chest, thumb circling one swollen nipple again just to watch your face twist. You bite your lip. You try so hard to be quiet. But it slips out anyway. The broken, breathy, please- like your body said it before your brain could.

And Joel just grins. Dark and awful and proud. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until his thumb brushes over your nipple again- slow this time, like he’s testing you, watching the way your hips buck just from that. “Sensitive, huh?” he mutters, dragging the pad of his finger over it again. “Figures. Got a mouth like yours, gotta be soft somewhere.”

Your lip trembles. You shake your head, try to glare- but it’s ruined by the way your breath hitches when he pinches.

He watches your reaction, eyes flicking down to your chest like he can’t help it, like it’s the only thing in the room worth looking at. His cock still deep inside you, barely moving, like he’s savoring the way you pulse around him every time he tweaks one of those pretty nipples.

“God, look at ‘em,” he breathes, thumb dragging across again. “Bouncing every time I move. Can’t even touch you without you fuckin’ whimpering.” You grit your teeth. Bite your lip. Anything not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. So he pulls back. Slams in again. You sob. Just a little. “Yeah,” he grits. “Thought so. Not so smart now, huh?” He leans down- licks a stripe up your chest, then bites one nipple, hard enough to make you cry out, back arching straight into his mouth.

Your hands fly to his hair- grabbing, tugging, anything to ground yourself.

Your legs are trembling now, wrapped tight around his hips, your body working against you. You’re close. You can feel it.

And he knows. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, mouth still wet against your skin. “These tits… Christ. Could spend all night right here- just keep you pinned and pretty like this.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. “Joel- ”

His mouth is still on you- sloppy, greedy, obsessed. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your tits with his tongue, dragging it in circles around your nipple until you’re twitching beneath him. His teeth graze again. Bite. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel it. “Fuck,” he mutters, low and guttural, more to himself than you. “Soft little thing. Gonna ruin me.”

You whimper when he licks a stripe back up your breast, mouth settling over your nipple again like he can’t stop. His hand squeezes the other one, big palm rough over your skin, like he wants to know how heavy it feels, how full. “Gonna get even bigger, ain’t they?” he grits, voice hot against your chest. “One day. Round and heavy. Shit- dripping.”

Your whole body jolts. “W-what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps sucking, deeper this time- harder- like he’s trying to coax something from you that’s not even there. Like it’s the end of the world and you’re his only vice left. “Bet you’d be so fuckin’ full,” he breathes, half-mad. “God, just the thought- ”

You whine. Head lolling back. Your thighs twitch, clenching around him without meaning to. “You like that?” he growls, rolling your nipple between two fingers while his cock grinds in deep. “Bet you’d keep me fed, huh? Tits all swollen, dripping warm down my fuckin’ throat…”

Your stomach flips. Heat rolls through your gut like molten honey. “Joel- shit- ”

“Yeah,” he rasps, finally dragging his mouth off your chest just to look at you- really look. “Wanna see you like that. All used up. Full for me. My girl.” You shiver. Clench down on him so tight his jaw locks.

And then he’s slamming back into you like he wants to fuck that whole idea into existence. Anchoring himself, as if he lets go, you’ll disappear. And he can’t have that. Not now. Not when you’re beneath him like this, fucked open and whimpering, tits flushed from his mouth, body made to take him. “Shit- gonna fill you up,” he rasps, voice shredded with heat. “Fuckin’- gonna take it, huh? Gonna keep it?”

You choke on your moan. He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t even give you time to think. Just keeps rutting into you, filthy and deep, his hips snapping like it’s instinct.

“You don’t even fuckin’ know,” he mutters- half-laugh, half-growl- as he presses you down harder into the floor. “You mouth off and push and act like you don’t need anyone, but this-this is what you’re made for.”

You whimper- legs twitching, heels digging into his back. He grabs your thigh again, pins it open, and spreads you wider.

“Bet you’d be perfect with my kid in you,” he grits. “Fuckin’ perfect. Swollen and sore and full- mine.” Your mouth falls open. No sound comes out just air, broken and helpless, because you feel it now. His weight of him. The size. The claim.

“You feel that?” he pants, grinding in deep, hips flush with yours. “That’s what you get for runnin’ your mouth. You want me this bad? You take it. You fuckin’ take all of it.”

You’re close. So close it aches. But he doesn’t let you tip over. Not yet.

His mouth returns to your chest, tongue dragging across your nipple like he owns it. He groans like a man half-feral. “Gonna watch ‘em get big. Heavy. Gonna fuck you slow when you’re full. Keep you wet all the time so it’s easy to slip in again.”

“Joel- p-please- ”

“Yeah, baby.” His voice is a growl, all pride and possession. “Gonna breed you right. Gonna fill you ‘til it sticks.” And then he fucks up hard, deep enough to bruise, and you break- eyes rolling back, body pulsing around him like your cunt knows exactly what he’s giving it.

He grits out a breath, baring his teeth like he’s proud of what he’s done to you. Like this is what he’s been waiting for. You twitch under him, clinging, whining, and he just smirks. “Yeah,” he mutters against your jaw, voice shredded and dark, “this is how you like it, huh? Can’t even fuck you unless everyone’s asleep- unless it’s fuckin’ nighttime and no one’s watching.”

You whimper, half-gone, still gasping as he grinds in slow, brutal, mean. He chuckles- mean. “Guess that’s when you’re the most behaved, huh? Quiet and needy. All that mouth, but only when the sun’s out.”

You bite your lip. He presses deeper. “Gonna start fuckin’ you every night. Every fuckin’ night I get to watch. When they’re sleepin’. When you’re already soft and tired and so fuckin’ wet for me you can’t talk back.” He drags his palm down your stomach- grips your thigh again, fingers bruising. “Bet you’ll start begging for it. Pretend like you hate it, but you’ll be waiting. Stayin’ up late just to get ruined.”

You’re shaking. Boneless. Fucked half-dumb. But your voice still works- barely. “Y-you always this chatty… after rawdogging someone into the floor?”

Joel just growls- laughs sharp through his teeth- and fucks into you again like punishment. He fucks into you harder- mean now, chest heaving, voice cracked open with heat. “Fuckin’ made for this,” he hisses. “Smart mouth, dumb fuckin’ body.”

You try to answer but can’t- you’re too full, too fucked out, just clinging to his shoulders while your back scrapes against the dirty floor. And he loves that. Loves that you’re quiet now. “So much attitude,” he pants, thrusts getting shorter, sharper, messier. “And for what? Huh? You talk all that shit, and here you are- takin’ me so deep I could fuckin’ mark your stomach.”

He palms it, broad hand splayed low over your belly, like he’s imagining it- imagining leaving something in you. “Bet you’d like that. Keepin’ it in all night. Walkin’ around full of it like it means somethin’.” You whimper. He grunts. “I’ll do it,” he breathes. “Next fuckin’ time. Not pullin’ out. Gonna leave it in make you sleep with it.”

Your body jerks under his, legs locking around his hips, and that does it- he snarls, pulls out fast, and fists himself hard, just once, twice, until he’s spilling across your stomach in hot, messy streaks.

He pants above you, jaw clenched, chest rising like he could still keep going if he wanted to. His cum drips down your skin, sticky and hot, glinting in the low light. And still- still- his voice doesn’t soften. “Next time,” he mutters darkly, thumb dragging through the mess on your belly, smearing it slowly. “You’re gonna keep it.”

You’re still panting when he touches your stomach- fingers dragging through the mess he left there like it means something. Like it should’ve gone deeper. He stares at it for a beat, jaw tight. Then wraps his hand around his cock again, still half-hard and twitching, and starts stroking- slow, rough pulls, using his own cum as slick.

You can feel him watching you. Watching the way you’re still shaking, legs parted, flushed and ruined, and not even trying to hide how much you want more. “Would’ve bred you if I fuckin’ could,” he mutters, voice low and bitter. “Would’ve filled you up for real.”

He sounds angry about it. Not at you- at himself. Like it kills him that he can’t. That's all he can do is make it look like it. And then he’s pushing back in. One filthy, forceful thrust- shoving all that comes back inside you like he’s trying to fake what he can’t have. Like he needs it to look real. Feel real.

You gasp, eyes going wide, body jolting under him. He groans into your neck, hips grinding with each deep, punishing thrust. “You feel that?” he breathes. “Messy and full- like you should’ve been. Like I should’ve done it.”

You whimper. Moan. Your whole body pulses like it believes him. But he just fucks you through it- slower now, meaner, desperate in a different way. Like he’s chasing the illusion of something permanent. Something that might’ve belonged to him, in another life.

You’re both still catching your breath. His cock’s still half-hard inside you, your thighs still trembling, your shirt pushed up and bra hanging off one arm like a war trophy. There’s sweat on your stomach, spit on your tits, and his come smeared in a messy stripe just under your navel like a goddamn signature.

And yet somehow- your brain resurfaces just enough to deliver one extremely cursed, extremely rational thought. “…We should probably find condoms,” you mumble.

Joel lifts his head- barely. Just enough to narrow his eyes at you like you’re the crazy one in this scenario, not the man who just rage-fucked you raw in a building full of sleeping people.

“I mean it,” you say, breath hitching when he shifts slightly, cock twitching inside you. “Like- I don’t think I’m trying to be someone’s mom in the apocalypse.”

He blinks at you. Still panting. Still buried inside. You keep going, because you’re annoying. Because you’re you.

“Couldn’t even get prenatal vitamins. Just a can of expired shits.”

“I’m serious,” you whisper, brushing your fingers through the come on your belly like you’re testing the viscosity of regret. “Next run- we’re raiding the pharmacy.”

Joel drags a hand down his face, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You tilt your head. “What? You don’t wanna be a daddy again?”

His only response is a grunt- and then he pulls out with a groan, wiping his hand roughly down your stomach like he’s trying to erase the evidence, except all it does is smear it worse. You sigh.

You both lie there for a second. Staring at the ceiling. Panting. Degrading in silence.

Then, finally, Joel mutters: “…We’ll look for condoms.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[rori-is-writing]

Overstuffed

A The Pitt Reader X Drabble.

Explicit | Dr. Robby x Fem!Reader | 117 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: Robby wants to live inside you. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Cockwarming, Female Reader

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

[ I couldn't help it. Cockwarming is my siren song. 😮‍💨 ]

He liked to fuck you like he was trying to make room for himself—slot himself inside as if he never planned to leave. Sometimes he’d just stay there, not moving, not groping, just cradle your back to his chest and hum softly into your hair. 

“I needed this,” he’d moan, cock stuffed so deep in your cunt you swore you could feel him in your chest. “I always need this.” 

And who were you to deny him? 

“Take it,” you’d tell him breathlessly, squirming and rocking to relieve that desperate ache inside of you. “Please. Take it all. I want you to.”

You feel him smile into the skin of your neck. 

“Oh I intend to.” 

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[soulsforsales]

I was just thinking about how much I love fanarts that show the Batkids as real people and not some model kids. I love it when artists draw them realistically.

I love fanarts that draw Tim with huge eye bags, sunken cheeks and hair so long he has to tie them back bcs he's, in fact, going to look like a very, very tired high schooler and not a handsome young man with Korean glass skin.

I love it when they draw Jason with scars. SCARS. SCARS. SCARS. Everywhere. Maybe add a lazy eye, maybe his upper lip pulling up with (yet another) old scar, a crooked nose where a punch didn't sit right, a cut on his eyebrow bcs his body tells stories of his survival and he's still so fucking beautiful, not despite his scars, but because of them.

I love it when Damian is drawn with a scowl but also chubby cheeks and long lashes bcs he is, after all, a kid who takes after his mother. I mean, only Dick looking like a gorgeous glam boy is acceptable bcs he is supposed to be exactly that. But he's also realistic in the way he breaks, picks himself up, and loves and fights anyway.

I mean, let them be more human. Let them be real people who have survived things, and fought wars they carry on their bodies and in their minds, who are more than just icons or aesthetic-heavy beings.

I fucking love it when they make them imperfect!!!!!

[kiplex]

You really do think Caleb was a dog in his past life.

Here you are, on your bed dying from the most excruciating period cramps you think you've ever had in your entire life and Caleb has his head on your uterus.

It's honestly your fault for saying the hot water bottle wasn't hot enough, and… probably yelling at him too in the process. He panicked, you could see the gears turn in his head before he made you lay down on the bed and then planted his head on your stomach. “There!” He said triumphantly, if he had a tail you're sure he'd be wagging it, he looks so stupidly proud of himself as he nuzzles into lower abdomen. “You always say ‘I'm so insufferably hot’ when we cuddle at night, so I'm your hot water bottle now.”

You sigh and Caleb's head rises and falls with your breath, you can't be mad at him, not when he's giving you those big puppy dog eyes. “If it gets uncomfortable, I'm banishing you to the couch." You mumble, relenting finally. Caleb's eyes light up and he nods into your stomach. "I'll be gentle, I promise.” Your hand runs through his hair as he places a kiss on your tummy letting out a boyish giggle. He's far too pleased with himself. You can practically hear his phantom tail smacking against the bed from how happy he was to be helping, and being this close to you.

...

Yeah you're sure Caleb was a dog in a past life.

[crispy-bonnie]

thinking about date everything characters (a harem maybe?) with a lover who's paranoid at night.

open curtains, unlocked doors, the general looming fear that someone might be watching, that type of thing. not bad security, just anxiety.

daisuke would help to double check that all the windows and the doors are locked, having a checklist at the ready just for them.

dorian and wyndolyn not only affirm they are locked, but make sure they are shut and locked tight. if it means bringing a bit more security to the house, then both are more than willing.

curt & rod make sure that all the curtains are closed and that nobody can peek inside without meeting the guarded gazes of curt & rod.

chance helps to distract from the fear by running through some adventures, mateo ensuring max comfort whilst chance is narrative his stories.

after being tuckered out, betty and mateo ensure warmth and comfort whilst being tucked into bed. lyric may pop by to read a couple stories in order to ease nerves.

[totallynotashieldagent]

what if... what if jason goes to help zatana with something and is hit with a spell where he's a kid again. scared, alone, confused but he knows you're safe and that's it. he doesn't know you, he doesn't know bruce or anyone in the manor but still, the giant man who was your boyfriend is now a child and hugging at your leg because bruce is too tall and that's scary-

he keeps asking for his mom and saying he's worried because 5 year old jason knows sometimes his mom goes to sleep for very long and sometimes he has to clean her up.

he's happy his dad isn't around though but he's also confused why he doesn't have any booboos.

he's got all the manners a good kid does. alfred keeps wiping his tears as jason says please and thank you and feels shy about asking for seconds.

damian is having a crisis because jason was his big brother when he was with the league. he was the ruthless man who killed without a thought and now he's a small defenceless child. so he opts to be his guardian. little 14 year old damian is ready to throw hands or stab anyone who looks at baby jason wrong.

bruce is sobbing because that's his baby. that's the age he never saw jason in and somehow he's even smaller than anyone ever imagined.

dick wants to hold him for as long as possible until he squirms and leaves his arm

jason isn't a fan of tim though. somethign about smelling yuckie. it's just coffee but it hurts tim much more than he thought it could. he stops drinking until jason sits with him for at least one afternoon.

his own current clothes are humongus on him but he sticks to your leg so you take him home with you. he still likes his side of bed though. you give him milk and read him a story and everyone else goes to get dr fate or constantine to fix this-

the spell is ready but bruce just wants one selfish thing. he hugs jason as tightly as possible. kisses all over his small face and tells him a thousand times that he loves him and that he's sorry for the life he has ahead-

everyone figures that jason wont remember anything when he's turned back to normal and jason pretends so as well.

but he's glad that everyone in his life loves him as much as humanly possible and that he doesn't have to doubt him.

and maybe- just maybe- he may have whispered an i love you back to bruce too

[notrustfratedjin]

UUUUGGGGHHHH I NEED ONE OF THESE RIGHT NOW 😭

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ keep it on the low !!

ᝰ.ᐟ if there's one thing every celebrity needs to master, it's the art of the soft launch. building up the anticipation by teasing your fans, leaving little easter eggs that only the two of you could possibly pick up on, playing coy whenever questioned about your relationship status... looks like you and him could write the how-to guide on this art form. alternatively: a headcanon post on how the two of you soft launch your relationship. ( sfw + fem!reader )

features osamu miya, kiyoomi sakusa, wakatoshi ushijima, tobio kageyama, tooru oikawa author's notes blue lock version!

౨ৎ OSAMU MIYA. you are: a famous influencer notorious for being bad at cooking. you could burn water at this point. it's okay, though, because at least your makeup tutorials and your day-in-the-life vlogs are always entertaining and fun. you always joke that you feel bad for your future husband, convinced that a life of takeout and restaurants is the only sustenance your future family is going to know. you posted: a tiktok of a man cooking in a kitchen that isn't the familiar one your fans have seen from your vlogs. he's wearing a black apron, a black t-shirt that hugs his biceps, and the veins in his forearms pop out as he quickly dices the vegetables on the cutting board. you don't show his face, but you do caption the video when he tells me it's okay i can't cook <3. suspiciously enough, the owner of onigiri miya has his own tiktok page where he posts cooking videos, and his kitchen looks exactly like the one you're recording in. matter of fact... osamu miya always wears that plain apron, too...

"thank you for the meal!" your feet don't hit the ground when you're sitting on this stool, and you're literally kicking your feet as you stare down gleefully at the plate of food he's prepared for you. the meal is great, and for dessert, you decide to read the flood of comments tagging miyaosamuofficial on your latest video. you won't confirm or deny, but when osamu convinces you to stay the night, you know that you'll be more than happy to share a when he cooks you breakfast <3 video next.

౨ৎ KIYOOMI SAKUSA. you are: a cheeky pop princess. with your promiscuous persona, your flirty songs laced with sexual jokes, and your minidresses that you flounce around in while on stage, you're the girlie that has parents gasping when they take their daughters to one of your shows. while there's been speculation that you're already in a relationship, since clearly there has to be someone inspiring all these ovulation songs, you've never confirmed anything. you performed: a special dance routine at your latest concert. while you normally wear extremely bright colored bodysuits or pastel babydolls, tonight you're dressed in a sparkly black and gold getup. all your male dancers are wearing fitted black shirts with three golden scratches down the back, and you make a show of grinding against one of the dancers, running your nails against his back. you're staring into the crowd, smiling cheekily. that same night, grainy footage is captured of kiyoomi sakusa standing in the crowd, watching the whole show. the mask he's wearing covers his facial expression, but he barely blinks throughout the entire show, as if he doesn't want to miss anything.

"and there's a special guest here tonight." your chest is rising and falling from how out of breath you are after an hour and a half of nonstop singing and dancing. this is your ending speech for the concert, and the crowd is going insane. "i really hope he enjoyed tonight's show as much as i know all of you did. the love songs... they all are about him." the screams from your fans are deafening, and kiyoomi's glad that his mask covers the blush that creeps on his face as he hears your confession.

౨ৎ WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA. you are: literally ushijima's wife. you're a fairly private person to begin with, and it's not like you two have been married for long. you've been engaged for nearly a year, and you do attend most of his games, but ushijima specifically requests that the suite you watch him from doesn't get filmed. he wants to protect your privacy as much as possible, until you're okay with being shown to the public. he posted: a picture of you smiling on christmas day as you open up a gift from your husband. the boulder on your finger can be seen from a mile away, and as dorky as ever, ushi captions the photo with a happy wife happy life 👍🏻

"what does this mean?" ushijima shows you his phone screen, and you squint at it before laughing. one of the tweets tagging ushi reads leave it to ushijimawakatoshi to fucking hard launch his wife one random xmas morning. "it means you posted about our relationship out of the blue. usually people soft launch before they confirm anything." "soft launch?" his eyebrows furrow adorably as he tries to piece together what you just told him. "like, if you were to soft launch us, you would post a picture that maybe doesn't show my face but people might infer that you're in a relationship based off the photo you took." "that's dumb." he says, in his familiar ushijima cadence that had you falling for him. "i'd never take a photo of you without showing your face. why would i want to hide you?"

౨ৎ TOBIO KAGEYAMA. you are: japan's favorite nepo-baby model. with a face card like yours (and connections from your parents), it's no wonder why you're gracing every billboard in the city, and you're the spokesperson of a premier skincare brand. your fame gets you international publicity, and you're selected for the latest skims campaign. with an entire country in love with you, it might be a hard pill to swallow for your intense fanboys when they find out you're in love with japan's best setter. he posted: so many reposts of your campaigns. tobio still wants to support you, even if he knows that you two can't go public with your relationship just yet. he's actually branded (and sometimes mocked) as one of your biggest fanboys, and it doesn't help that during your skims campaign, he reposted every single ad featuring you.

"tobio, baby, you're so sweet, but you don't have to repost every ad." you tell your boyfriend, watching as clicks repost to yet another one of your photoshoots. "but i want to." he says. you kiss his cheek happily. "and that's exactly why i stayed back and did some extra photos on the skims set, just for you. these are pictures you might not want to repost, though." tobio isn't sure whether his eyes should stay glued to the personal photoshoot you did just for him, or to the real life you who's ready to show him what the set looks like in person.

౨ৎ TOORU OIKAWA. you are: currently visiting your beloved boyfriend in argentina. people know that you two are together, even though neither of you have confirmed it explicitly. it's pretty obvious, though, considering you're constantly seen with him, and he talks about how lucky he is that his girl is his number one supporter. someone posted: a viral video of a toned man wearing aqua blue swim shorts taking pictures of a beautiful girl laying down on a beach towel. not only are the two of you so hot that you look fresh out of a perfume ad, but to have a boyfriend so devoted to getting your best angles? iconic, truly. fans don't even realize that it's you and oikawa until someone points it out.

"tooru, are you taking multiple photos or just one?" you try not to move your lips too much when you speak, uncertain of when he's going to snap a pic. "you trained me well." tooru whines. "obviously, i'm taking several at once." "and make sure the lighting is good!" you remind him. "it doesn't matter how i take the photos, baby. you're still going to look good in them, regardless." "aw... are you sweet talking me because some of the pictures are blurry?" when your boyfriend starts showering you with more compliments, you know the pics are definitely not going to be instagram-worthy. he's lucky he's so cute.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 18

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Steve doesn’t stop. Your head lolls and your hands explore his chest. You moan like a wild animal as he pumps into you. Beneath the pleasure, there’s a dull pain. You’re going to feel this for a while. 

You arch your back, pushing your heels into the floor as you latch onto his head. His hair falls forward and tickles your face as he bows to nibble your neck. He grunts and groans, biting until you squeal. 

He slips his hand beneath your back and drags it down. He scoops your ass off the floor and sinks deeper into you. You gasp. How much further can he go? 

You dig your nails into his scalp. He pinches your skin between his teeth. You puff shallowly as you push your chest up and yank at his thick hair. He sucks on your flesh until it throbs, his fingers curling under the curve of your ass. 

You slap your other hand down on the floor and drone. His thrusts are long but deliberate. He breath dampens the fabric of your dress. You writhe and push your fingertips into the floor. 

He reaches over blindly, not breaking his pace, and grabs your hand. He guides it behind him and down to his ass. Your fingers brush against his pants as his rhythm picks up. His skin is warm against your palm. The heat between you swirls through your veins and prickles up your back. 

His pelvis rubs against yours. The friction burns. You mewl and squirm as you feel bubbling just beneath the surface. 

“St-Steve--” 

He fucks you harder as you babble his name. You squeal and thrash your legs. Your toes curl and your calves strain. Oh... it’s happening again. 

You cum with a fluttery moan. You spasm and shake around him but he doesn’t relent. His incessant invasion has you weak and willow. 

He growls against the crook of your shoulder and brings his arm higher, hooking it under you. He lifts you as he raises himself to his knees. He moves you in his lap, pushing his hand in front of you to toy with your clit. You whine again. 

You hand your head back as his lips once more dance over your neck. He bounces you on him, his fingertip flicking until you’re a quivering mess. Your delight smears across his pelvis and stains the open front of his pants. 

Your eyes feel loose and your brain is speckly. You blink and heave, your chest is heavy. Oh, oh, no. As another orgasm swells in you, so does a wave of dizziness. Your body slackens at once and you hang limply in Steve’s embrace as your eyelids droop. 

You wake as if you’ve only blinked. The only things that changes is your position. You’re back on the floor. Steve’s hands are on your thighs as your legs extend up his torso. The loose tails of his shirt flap with his frantic tempo. He kneads your flesh and snarls. 

You brace the floor as his pelvis claps against your ass. He bites his lip and his eyes meet yours. He smirks and rams into you harder. 

“You’re back, sweetheart,” he rasps. 

You murmur dumbly as you tongue sticks. You lift your head, pushing yourself up on your elbows, and look down at yourself. You feel him stretching you. It’s even more intense as you watch his veiny length dip in and out. You squeak. 

“Oh, Ste--” 

The world flickers again. As you wade up from another fog, he looms over you, bending your legs to their limit as he cradles your head in his hands. He rocks into you, brushing his nose against yours as he laughs. 

“Alright, baby, I’ll let you rest...” he purrs through scratchy breaths. “Almost... almost...” he puffs and rests his forehead against yours. 

He ruts into you, slamming down so hard your ass bounces against the floor. He stretches his thumb to the corner of your mouth and shoves it inside. You bite down as his strength reverberates through your bones. 

“God--damn!” He rams into you several times before slowing. The gush squelches around him as his hips roll. He lets your legs splay around him and falls limp onto you. “You still awake?” 

“Barely,” you answer. 

He chuckles and pets your cheek. He pushes into you until you wince. You clasp onto his thick arm and he rumbles. 

“Think we understand each other now, huh?” 

You nod. You can’t speak. You understand exactly what he wants now but you’re not too sure about giving it to him. 

🌼

“Ow, ow, ow,” you waddle with your thighs apart across the bedroom. 

You woke up disoriented. Again. You’re not sure if it’s whatever’s been going on with you or that glimmer of disbelief that lingers, but you just can’t remember how you got back there. All you know, is that you have to pee. Now. 

You get to the bathroom door, cupping your cunt, skirt pushed up, and wiggle the handle. It’s locked. You don’t think, you just hammer on the wood. 

“Please, open up! I gotta--” 

The door opens from the other side. Oh shoot! This has to be a nightmare! And you really have to pee. You can’t go in bed. You have to wake up. Wake up and you can go. Wake up and there won’t be a stranger staring back at you. 

“Ahh! Who are you?” You exclaim and back up, wobbly on your feet. Wake up, wake up, wake up. 

The man tilts his head and snorts. You stare at him and slowly your mouth falls open. Staunch jaw, clean shave, freshly trimmed hair... how can it be him? 

“Steve?” You gasp. 

He laughs. “Really?” 

“I...” his voice is jarring coming out of that face. He doesn’t look that different but different enough. No beard, short hair. It’s just not right. 

“Oh, I feel weird,” you say. 

“Don’t pass out,” he warns. 

You pout. “Steve, I... I need to go.” 

“It’s a bit late--”  

“No, I mean I need to use the—the bathroom.” 

“Oh,” he steps out, his arms and chest flexing beneath his white tank top, “all yours, sweetheart.” 

“Uh, sure,” you hobble forward, hissing as your thighs brush together. 

“Figure this’ll take care of the rug burn,” he drawls. You stop short in the doorway and look back. He rubs his bare cheeks and winks. “You keep walking around like that, and people might think I’m knocking you around.” 

You frown and quickly turn away. Your cheeks are on fire but more importantly, your bladder is going to burst. You swing the door shut and race forward. You can figure out what the heck you’re going to do once you can think straight. 

[musingsofheaven]

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[cherrykpawp]

Heat // Ch 10.5

Rating: Explicit, Mature (M)

Pairings: Mingi x reader

This chapter includes: hybrids, Afab!reader, reader-centric, smut, fluff, Calico hybrid!reader, Husky hybrid!Mingi, switch!reader, switch!Mingi, Ruts (Mingi), cunnilingus (f receiving), nipple play, unprotected sex (WRAP IT!), begging, pet names (Princess, Baby), praise kinks, dirty talk, possessiveness, submission, hair pulling, squirt, swearing, biting, love bites, eye contact, scent kink (Mingi), size kink, face sitting, pictures, video recording, somnophilia (consent given i.e chapter 8), 69

Taglist: @m-flowerjunnie-oa, @mrsminseochoi, @strawwff, @sunlight120902, @awkward-fucking-thing, @menialmoonchild, @jjongsho, @chanscase143, @lililiarina, @babyquokkasworld, @rileylovescats

WC: 6.5k

MDNI!!

Today was a lazy day for you—the first in a while. Since the moment you woke up, you’ve been in your room, mindlessly scrolling through YouTube. For some reason, your bed felt extra comfortable, the air was a bit chilly, and the warmth of your blanket didn’t want to let you go. But like any normal person, after hours of lounging in bed, you started to get hungry. You checked the time on your phone and realized it was already 2 p.m., and you hadn’t properly started your day. All you had done since waking up was shower, brush your teeth, and then lie back down.

You left your phone on the bed, yawning as you padded down the hallway and the stairs leading to the living room. San was on the floor, completely absorbed in a game playing on the TV. Not wanting to disturb him—especially since you were feeling a bit starved and craving a hot meal—you shuffled your way to the kitchen, your tail wrapped around your waist for warmth. You scanned the fridge for a snack while mentally planning a lunch that both you and the boys would enjoy.

Yunho had restocked your favorite fruits when he went grocery shopping the other day, but you noticed an unexpected addition—strawberries. You hadn’t seen those in a while. Now you could add some variety to your usual mix.

Gathering some pineapple, melon, grapes, and now strawberries, you brought them over to the counter to make a small fruit salad. As you began preparing the fruit, a list of lunch ideas ran through your head—you were thinking about what everyone liked and didn’t like. Since strawberries weren’t in season, you cut into one to check its ripeness. To your surprise, it was incredibly sweet.

Maybe you’ll share with them.

You must’ve been so deep in thought that you didn’t notice Mingi leaning against the kitchen doorway, quietly watching you go about your day. He had been there since the moment you opened the fridge, gathering your fruit. To him, Yunho’s oversized shirt looked perfect on you, the way it fell just below the hem of your shorts. But it was your scent that really stopped all the gears in his head—he ached to be nestled against your scent gland.

When you finally noticed him, you startled slightly, not expecting anyone to be there. He was wearing his glasses today—probably not in the mood for contacts. A black tank top and gray sweatpants hung comfortably on him, his ears perked high atop his head while his tail swayed steadily behind him.

“Afternoon, Mingi,” you greeted him warmly, continuing to slice strawberries and drop them into the bowl beside you. The taller male mumbled a soft “afternoon” in return, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Did you just wake up?” you asked.

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No… I’ve been up for a while now.” His voice had dropped a few octaves, sounding deeper—more baritone than usual.

“Strawberries, huh?”

“I know, they’re so sweet. Do you want one?” You held one out to him, but Mingi shook his head, declining the offer. You simply shrugged and placed it into the bowl instead.

He shuffled behind you, towering over you as he rested his palms on either side of you on the counter.

“Comfortable?” you asked, a smile tugging at your lips. You adored his clinginess. You cuddled with San often because of naps, but the time you spent with Mingi was just as comforting. Even without sleeping, his presence—and the steady rhythm of his heart—always soothed you.

“Mhm,” he hummed, leaning in to breathe in your scent. The need to be close to you clawed at his chest.

It was quiet for a while, the only sounds being the soft chopping of fruit and San’s faint groan of frustration from the living room as he lost his game. Mingi rested his chin on your shoulder, finally settling into the spot he’d wanted to be all along. It didn’t take you long to notice how hot he felt—his body practically burning through your shirt.

You stopped cutting the fruit, reaching behind you with your free hand to feel his face and neck. “You’re burning up,” you murmured, startled by the heat radiating off him.

Mingi chuckled softly, though he probably shouldn’t have been trying to be witty at a time like this. “I know,” he said, gripping the counter a little tighter as he leaned more of his weight into you.

“Are you in rut?” you whispered, your voice low so no one else would hear.

You felt him nod against your shoulder, his forehead settling into the crook of your neck. “I meant to tell you,” he mumbled, closing his eyes, “but I kept forgetting.” He let out a soft breath. “I was wondering… if you’d help me.”

“You know I would,” you reassured him without a trace of hesitation. “Let’s go.”

But Mingi didn’t move. Instead, he pressed himself closer to you against the counter. “Can I scent you? Just for a minute?”

You tilted your head to the side, offering more of yourself to him. You couldn’t see it, but his eyes had fluttered shut, lost in a quiet trance. Gently, he moved your hair aside to expose your scent gland, his other hand gripping the counter for control.

You couldn’t focus on cutting fruit anymore—your priority had shifted completely to helping Mingi through his rut. Still, despite knowing it would be better to head to his room, you let him linger, soaking in your pheromones for a little longer.

“Do you need me now?” You checked in with him after standing there quietly for about two minutes.

You felt him shrug against you, “If you’re hungry, I can wait…” his words trailing off, a hint of a whine escaped his lips involuntarily. “However… I don’t mind staying here, close to your scent.”

Mingi’s eyes slowly opened when he felt your tail press against the tent in his pants behind you. Your back was turned to him, and the subtle way you teased him without outright acting on it made him grip the counter even tighter. You could see his fingertips turn white from the effort to hold himself back. He pressed against your backside and tail, slowly grinding into you. Then he began kissing your scent gland, his hands roaming freely over your body.

Keeping your voice low, you spoke in a hushed voice. “Mingi, wait.”

The husky hybrid stopped moving. Instead, he pushed your fruits, bowl, and utensils further down the counter. Then he spun you around to face him, lifting you by your hips and settling you onto the counter so that you were eye-level with him. Mingi positioned himself between your legs, resting on his palms just inches away from your face, listening intently to whatever you had to say next.

“We—aren’t you hungry?”

Mingi nodded, his eyes flicking from your eyes to your lips. Then he leaned in for a long, passionate kiss, gently pressing you back against the cupboard. Your hands instinctively went to his shoulders, letting him take the lead. Your tongues brushed against each other, drawing a soft whine from Mingi. Kissing was one of your favorite ways to show affection and express your feelings. But you pulled away first, making him chase your lips desperately.

“Do you want some fruit before we start?”

Mingi shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “After tasting the sweetest strawberry there is, everything else tastes sour in comparison.”

His words made you flush, and you cupped your cheek with your hand.

“O-okay,” you stammered, suddenly feeling warm all over.

Seizing the moment, Mingi lifted your shirt and tucked his head beneath the stretchy fabric. You couldn’t see his face except through the collar of your shirt, but you could tell he was still scenting you, nuzzling his face into your torso.

“What are you doing?” you asked, though he didn’t answer, adjusting his face against your neck.

You let him, running your hands down his back to comfort the whining hybrid. Everyone acts differently during their ruts or heats—maybe he was just quieter during his. Mingi’s ears twitched with every touch, and he sighed softly into your skin.

“Why aren’t you wearing a bra?” Mingi asked from beneath your shirt.

“Because I didn’t feel like wearing one,” you answered honestly. “Why are you under my shirt like this?”

“Scenting. Comfortable,” Mingi mumbled plainly into your neck, accidentally bumping himself against your legs. Even the smallest bit of friction felt amazing. “Easier, too.”

“Mingi, get out of my shirt,” you giggled at his adorable antics. He obeyed, though you could tell he was desperate to get back under already. You gently removed his glasses from his face, setting them on the counter. “At least take these off—you’re going to break them like that.”

Without a word, Mingi lifted your shirt back up, exposing your bare chest to him. He didn’t hesitate to kiss the valley of your breasts, attaching his mouth to your pert bud. You had to stifle a moan, shying away from him as he made out with your nipple. Your hunger for food vanished for now, consumed by something else entirely.

“Let’s go to your room,” you bit down on a moan, feeling him switch nipples. He didn’t budge, as if your words didn’t register. “Mingi, San’s in the other room, and I think Yunho’s here.”

“So?” he shrugged, hiking your shirt up higher on your chest.

“So,” you lightly slapped his chest. “Have some decorum. Let’s go to your room.”

“They’re going to hear us anyway.”

“Mingi.” You said sternly, and his ears instantly went into airplane mode at the tone of your voice.

Mingi lowered your shirt, scooping you up off the counter and into his arms. You hadn’t expected to be carried, but you held onto him tightly, assuming he was taking you to his room. Instead, he veered up the stairs, heading toward your room as San slowly slipped out of sight in the living room.

“Your room is…” you started, but there was no point in stopping him now—he was already halfway up the staircase.

“Want to be surrounded by you,” he murmured, referring to your room filled with your pheromones, eager to drown in your scent.

Mingi plopped you down onto your bed, hovering above your sprawled-out form before diving in to kiss you passionately, now with a hint of hunger. His rut had officially taken hold—he was all over you, driven by instinct and desire. He pushed your shirt up again, cycling between kissing your lips, playing with your nipples, or planting random pecks across any exposed skin. Occasionally, his teeth would graze against your scent gland, sending shivers through you.

When he went for it again, your fingers threaded into his hair, holding him in place.

“You can bite,” you murmured, placing a soft kiss on his temple. “But… can I bite you too?”

“Please,” Mingi whined, licking at your gland in anticipation.

The very tips of his faint canines scratched your skin, searching carefully for the right place to bite. As he lingered there, looking for the perfect spot, you pulled the collar of his shirt to the side, preparing to bite his gland—until you felt his teeth sink into your skin first. Your body melted beneath him, more pliant, obedient, and aching with need. A soft mewl escaped your lips as you stroked the back of his head, comforting him through it. Eventually, he released your neck, pressing gentle kisses over the tender spot to soothe it.

You eased his collar out of the way, spotting his scent gland. Without hesitation, you closed your eyes and bit down.

His pheromones—Egyptian musk and cocoa butter—bled onto your tongue, warm and ghostly, though no blood was drawn. ’So this is why he enjoys it so much’, you thought. The flavor of his scent was rich and grounding, now you didn’t want to let go. But when you heard him whine softly, you eased off, licking the mark you’d left behind.

Now, both of you were fully submerged in that sub headspace, overwhelmed by a need that went deeper than instinct.

“Do me a favor,” Mingi murmured between a long, heated kiss, his lips leaving yours with a tug on your lower lip. He pushed your shirt back up over your chest, then guided on of your hands there. “Hold this.”

You obeyed, casually pinning the fabric above your chest. Your hips moved by themselves, trying to entice him—which was his plan.

He was hungry for something else now. And that something just so happened to be you.

Slipping his fingers beneath the band of your shorts, Mingi tugged them down your legs and tossed them aside onto the bed. You were still wearing your panties, though they were soaked through with your arousal. He began tracing slow, deliberate shapes over your clit through the thin fabric, watching how you reacted. The light pressure had you naturally spreading your legs wider for him, fingers curling tightly into the bunched-up shirt you held above your chest.

Satisfied with your reaction, he proceeded to remove your soaked panties, revealing your slicked pussy in all its glory. Mingi wasted no time; he had a mission, pinning your thighs against your abdomen.

His entire tongue covered your cunt, licking long stripes from bottom up. Mingi swiped his wet muscle across your heat, making smacking noises with his lips. You let out a shaky, echoed exhale, curling your toes as he closed his eyes and ate you out. Mingi could spend the entire day giving you head if it just meant tasting you completely. Ever since San shared his first lap of your essence during your heat, he’s been addicted. Just being enveloped by your pheromones had him folding.

You didn’t want him to remove his lips from you; the way he was eating you out had your hips following wherever they went. Whenever he ate you out, it felt like he was making out with you, his tongue trying to taste every inch of you. With his eyes closed and his attention focused on pleasing you, you felt the urge to take a picture to save this moment for later.

You reached for your phone, gasping as he licked up to your clit several more times. Biting down on your bottom lip, you switched to the camera app, focusing it on him. The stimulation made your hands shaky, and you struggled to press the photo button. When you finally took the shot, you captured a picture of him in the middle of dragging his tongue slowly along your slick pussy.

Except your ringer was off.

Mingi’s ears turned toward the source of the noise, pulling him out of his trance. When his eyes landed on you, you were scrambling to turn your ringer on, not even sure how to do it.

“S-sorry. You just looked… so— I wanted…” Your words jumbled together as you saw Mingi reach for your phone.

He switched to a different setting in the camera app, changing to video mode, and pressed record before handing it back to you.

“Hold it up,” he muttered, adjusting your angle before retreating to his original position between your legs.

Looking at your phone, you saw his eyes burning through the camera lens, almost like he was staring right at you through it. He spread your folds with his fingers, pressing the tip of his tongue against your clit. God, you didn’t know whether to keep your eyes on the phone or him directly; either way, his gaze was dark and intimidating. You moaned and moaned until your throat grew sore. Every time a new gush of slick left your core, it was Mingi’s job to lap up every bit.

He gathered some of your slick on his tongue, raising his head to show the camera the string of his saliva connecting from your core to his mouth. You mimicked the way he swallowed your essence, catching the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple.

He only paused briefly, massaging your bundle of nerves with firm, consistent circles as he kissed along the skin of your vulva and lower abdomen. Your hips jerked gently at the tickling sensation of his lips on your hip bone, biting back a mewl.

You pulled him closer with your legs, wanting his mouth back on you. When you waved your cunt in his face, his lips followed like a magnet, pinning your legs harder against your abdomen. He closed his eyes, poking his tongue into your entrance to reach the main source of your arousal. Your grip weakened, dropping your phone on your chest as you could no longer hold it to keep recording. Mingi noticed how you pulled Yunho’s shirt over your face, stuck in a mantra of his name as you moaned.

Pausing one more time, Mingi picked up the phone to see if it was still recording. He flipped the camera, capturing how glistened your cunt was from the mix of his saliva and your slick. His fingers ran up and down your labia, teasing your entrance by nudging the tips of fingers inside. He wanted to finger you, but he also tried to get you off with his tongue. The way you looked made him think that maybe he should just stick to eating you out. When he panned the camera up to you, from his point of view, you looked wrecked. With your eyes gleaming against the lens, you pleaded for Mingi to touch you, to finish you off because you were so close.

Mingi turned the camera back toward himself, settled comfortably between your legs again, and dove his tongue back into you. You reminded yourself that this was his rut, and that he should be the one receiving the attention right now, but the way his mouth worked against your cunt had your thoughts short-circuiting. You didn’t want him to hurt, yet you also didn’t want him to stop. Mingi himself was enjoying you far too much.

You reached for his hair, tugging on it as your toes curled. “Mingi, baby, can I cum?” you whined, feeling him growl against your cunt.

He wasn’t slowing down in the slightest, still firmly grasping the phone to record his tongue working on you. He mumbled words of approval, bringing you closer with little suckles to your clit. Once he heard your octaves rising, he dropped the phone on the bed, closing your thighs around his head as he felt your arousal drench the sheets below him.

You struggled to catch your breath, covering your face with your shirt as Mingi drank you. You felt his tongue lick up from your inner thighs to your labia, making sure to gather every drop. He showed no intention of stopping anytime soon. The way his tongue teased you felt deliberate, squeezing your thighs tighter against his head.

“M-Mingi, what about you— woah!” You were interrupted as he rolled onto his back, now suddenly on top of him.

You hovered over his face, your pussy just a few centimeters away from his mouth. He wrapped his arms around your legs, trying to pull you down, but you resisted.

“Sit down, princess,” Mingi instructed, his eyes laser-focused on your glistening cunt hovering over him, trapped in a trance.

You pushed against him, settling on his chest as he met your gaze. His hands ran along your thighs, his pupils blown wide, staring at you as if he had no thoughts other than how to please you.

“I don’t want to suffocate you.” Mingi shook his head, trying to pull you closer. “Won’t it hurt?”

Mingi’s irises appeared completely black, consumed by lust and the taste of you.

“It won’t, please,” he coaxed. You hesitated—not only because you didn’t want to smother him but also because he was ignoring his rut entirely.

“…Teach me,” you said. If you were going to do this, you at least wanted to do it safely.

Mingi bit his bottom lip, nodding. “Like you’re riding, I’ll take care of the work.”

Hesitant, you hovered over his lips again, watching as he wrapped his arms around your thighs with need. You only lowered yourself slightly, supporting your weight with your knees.

Mingi growled softly. ”Fully,” he instructed, squeezing your skin.

Deciding to give him what he wanted, you settled your full weight onto his face, glancing down to see his eyes closed once more. Immediately, his tongue delved back into you, forcing you to brace yourself against the headboard in front of you.

“Oh… Oh…” All your concerns slipped from your mind.

Your hips moved on their own, still careful not to suffocate him. Just as he said—he would do the work. You’ve never sat on anyone’s face before, and honestly, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t tried it sooner. Mingi’s arms tightened around your thighs as his tongue explored your slick walls, his lips making slurping, wet noises against your core.

Before you, Mingi’s cock stood painfully hard, fully erect beneath his gray sweats. Of course, his rut was affecting him, but the thought of you cumming from giving San oral during your heat had him wondering if he could achieve that same thing himself.

A thick, dark gray patch had formed at the top of his sweats, precum steadily leaking down his length. He couldn’t fuck you without first satisfying his craving. Every wave of your slick made him twitch, bringing him to the edge of his release—only for it to melt away.

He couldn’t lie—he wanted you wrapped around him so badly, to the point he was fucking the air. Every time your breath hitched, or you let out a high-pitched whine, lifting your while riding his tongue, he mimicked you, bucking into nothing. He felt your tail brush under his shirt, dragging lightly across his chest while your hands stayed busy. One hand fisted a handful of Mingi’s hair as you rolled your hips, while the other cupped your full breast, fondling it. You massaged the hardened bud between your index and middle fingers, shuddering when Mingi’s nose bumped against your clit. He hadn’t meant to do it, but he noticed the way you jolted every time it happened.

You felt like you were drifting, blissfully lost in the moment, but you knew Mingi still needed to be taken care of.

“Mingi, baby, wait,” you whined, pulling him from his haze of desire. “Let me help you.”

He licked his lips and nodded, releasing your thighs so you could adjust. Your legs felt like jelly, but you managed to turn around and straddle his chest, now facing his lower half. You moved your tail out of the way and glanced back at him. Mingi looked utterly enraptured, and he barely did anything to satisfy his rut.

He really must love how you taste.

“Are you ready?” You rubbed his arms, giving him a moment to breathe—considering he’d tried to suffocate himself.

If he felt like you weren’t fully sitting on him, he’d pull you closer and closer.

“Yes, Princess,” he said, sticking his tongue out for you as you settled back onto his face. Using his hand, he spread your thighs wide, his fingers parting your folds as he picked up where he left off.

He continued his assault on your core as if nothing had happened, with the same vigor and precision. Your hands rested on his ribs, balancing yourself as your legs trembled around him.

As you tried to steady yourself, you were faced with a massive tent in his pants, and your jaw dropped. He mentioned his size once, after your heat, but it hadn’t come up since. Considering he helped you during your heat, you know you could take him, it’s just the initial surprise of seeing it.

“Mingi, you’re… huge,” you moaned breathlessly. It wasn’t meant to be said aloud, but Mingi heard it anyway. He chuckled beneath you, planting a soft peck on your clit.

“And it seems like you like it,” he said matter-of-factly, chuckling as he continued eating you out.

You pushed down his sweats and briefs, slowly revealing his length and girth. You drooled at the sight, and when it slapped his abdomen with a heavy thud, a gasp escaped your lips.

Leaning forward to hold it, you could feel the weight his length carried. Just touching it after ignoring it all this time made Mingi shiver, causing him to lose focus. The dark patch on his sweatpants confirmed he was dripping with precum. The glossy sheen of his tip made it look so pretty—the way it glittered as it trailed down his length, accentuating the protruding veins.

Wrapping your fingers around his tip, your hands were immediately coated with his essence. You gave Mingi a few experimental strokes, noticing how your fingers barely touched. He had stopped moving, instead focusing on your hand and how soft it was

Although you’d love to give him a hand job, you also craved to taste him. He tried to act nonchalant, but even you could tell you affected him deeply.

You kissed along the side of his length, tonguing a bit of his precum as you worked around him. You tasted the faint, perfumed scent of his pheromones on your tongue, coating the rest of your taste buds. Trailing back up to his tip, you opened your mouth, dripping some drool for an easier glide before taking him in, bobbing your head slowly.

Realistically, you knew you couldn’t take him into your mouth, but you wanted to try and see how much you could manage.

Mingi had to stop again, pressing his head against your plush pillows, indulging in the warmth of your mouth. Whatever you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you stroked with your hand, going as far down his length as you could. He felt so heavy on your tongue and deep in the back of your throat, reminding yourself to keep your breathing steady. You were confident you’d never had anyone this big in your mouth before—it turned you on profoundly.

His warm breath fanned against your core as he let out a deep, long string of moans. The satisfaction of his cock essentially fucking your throat had you quivering above him. Maybe you did like oral just as much as Mingi did.

His ears turned inward, recognizing when you were approaching your orgasm by your muffled pitch. He attached himself back to your core, sucking harshly on your clit, emitting obscene noises against you. Without warning, you came for the second time today. He was truly amazed by your love for oral.

Mingi slapped the fullness of your ass, smoothing out the searing pain as he massaged it.

You popped off his length to catch your breath, feeling so spent already when you'd barely started—meanwhile, Mingi's stamina and energy seemed undying.

Coming to your senses, you took him back into your mouth and tried to sink further down his length. He bucked into your mouth at the warm, tight envelope, occupied with lapping up your essence. Changing up the pace, your left hand went lower to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. Mingi tore his lips from you and cursed, hissing slightly.

“Don't stop, Princess.” His hands slid up your back from underneath, pulling your body closer to his lower half.

He was unaware of his actions; with one foot propped on the bed, he mindlessly thrust into your mouth. You closed your eyes and relaxed your jaw for him as saliva dribbled down his length. Curses, babbles, and muted moans bounced around the room, every audible reaction from Mingi shot straight to your cunt, clenching around nothing. The only way he became aware of what he was doing was when your tail accidentally brushed against his face, swaying in visible enjoyment.

He pulled out of your mouth, managing his breathing. “Fuck, I got ahead of myself-— oh...”

You took it upon yourself to sink back down, tapping his thighs to encourage him to continue.

Your face was flushed with desire, enamored by him.

Mingi got the message, gently easing back into his rhythm. With your taste lingering on his lips and the way you took his length so well, he inched closer to his orgasm. Your tongue felt his veins pulse as he twitched inside your mouth. He was extremely close.

Shortly after, Mingi came, stilling his hips as his hot essence shot down your throat. You moaned at the taste of his cocoa butter pheromones embedded in his cum, swallowing around his cock. His guttural groans vibrated against your labia, teasing you unintentionally. It was Mingi's turn to feel like a noodle; his arms dropped to the bed as his body gave out beneath you. He may have cum once, but it was a long, hard high that had been building since before he saw you in the kitchen.

You let go of his cock with a pop, kitten-licking the residual cum that lingered on his tip at the last moment. Panting, you swung your leg over his face, kneeling beside him on the bed. His chest heaved as he calmed down, still lost in his subspace. He licked his lips, missing the taste of you already, as if you weren't right next to him. Mingi's body buzzed, too heavy to move right now. His cock was spent, even if it still rested hard on his thigh, waiting.

Your hand cupped his cheek, turning his face toward you. His eyes appeared dark like the abyss, with only two stars lighting up the darkness; he was absolutely intoxicated.

“Do you need a minute?” you asked, rubbing his chest for comfort.

Mingi nodded, almost pleading with his eyes. You couldn't help but giggle at his tender face, peppering kisses all over it while he lazily kicked the rest of his sweats off.

Mingi insisted on eating you out for two more rounds, promising that you'd rest soon. He was determined to cum just from that.

But with you riding his face and ultimately reaching your high twice, he had gotten so drunk off you that he accidentally knocked out.

You were worried at first, thinking he had finally suffocated himself. But when you noticed his steady breathing as he slept, you lightly slapped his arm for getting carried away.

Without waking him, you tiptoed out of the room to the bathroom, mainly to wipe yourself down and grab a warm wash cloth. You'd never been in this position before, so the moment felt endearing to you. When you re-entered the room, he laid in the exact same position you'd left him. Both of you were halfway clothed, but at least Yunho's shirt concealed most of you. You locked the door before returning to your spot on the bed, hovering over the sleeping hybrid.

You gently wiped his face with the wash cloth, shaking your head at his silly ways of trying to prove himself to impress you. Before examining the rest of him, you made sure to wipe his entire face and neck, removing any uncomfortable layer of sweat. Once the top part was done, you reached down to clean his length and the surrounding skin. He sighed softly in his sleep from your touch but didn't stir awake. When you felt everything was clean to your satisfaction, you placed the rag in the laundry bin.

The last thing you remember was crawling into bed with Mingi, pulling the blanket over both of you to cuddle him. You threw your leg over his, your face nuzzled into his chest. He still felt hot from his rut, so you didn't know how soon the next wave would hit until he let you know. His arm suddenly came down to hold you closer; it seemed automatic, since he usually clutches something when he sleeps—whether it's you or a pillow. You closed your eyes, eventually dozing off to the steady sound of his heartbeat.

~~

Mingi was in a dilemma; his next wave hit, but you were asleep. He sat between your legs, stroking your soft thighs while struggling to hold back the urge to touch himself. He had been whining softly, hoping you'd hear him, but you didn't even react. A sharp pang struck his abdomen, causing his body to lurch forward slightly.

“Princess~” he called out softly, but a whimper drowned out his whisper.

He remembered you mentioning that you liked waking up to sex, which was a surprise to him. The inner dialogue running through his mind was hesitant—he didn't want you to misread the situation. But he bit the bullet, convinced you wouldn't have said it for no reason.

Your pheromones drew him in; just being in a room that smelled only like you was enough to drive him mad. And seeing you lying there, his love bites scattered over your skin, only fueled his lust.

Mingi leaned down to kiss your neck and your scent gland nearby. His hands snaked slowly up your body, sliding your shirt over your chest, occupying himself in the meantime.

The nap you took felt like only five minutes, but your body felt so heavy. You hovered between sleep and waking, eyes still closed, trying to steal a few more moments of rest. One minute you were sleeping soundly and uninterrupted, the next you felt something tickling you. It might have been your imagination, but something definitely felt heavy on you

Then you felt feathery kisses on your neck and down your chest.

Mingi's lips wrapped around your nipple, just like earlier in the kitchen, causing your eyes to flutter open. You softly moaned when his teeth tugged gently on your nipple before he released it, finishing with a light peck. Mingi bit his bottom lip, his gaze raking over your eyes and body.

“Mingi…” you called his name sleepily, running your fingers through his hair.

“You're awake,” he murmured, bending down to press chaste kisses on your shoulder. “Slept well?”

You nodded. Sleep always beckoned you, but so did the man before you.

“Your phone was recording the whole time,” he whispered in your ear, kissing behind it. The phone was propped up on your nightstand, its screen facing and recording both of you. “I wondered if you'd want to save this for later. It's on your phone anyway, you could always delete it. Just thought l'd add to your growing collection of pictures and videos”

You couldn't lie; the idea of rewatching you and Mingi, imagining what he was doing to you on days when you felt needy, really aroused you.

He shifted slightly in front of you, and you gasped without warning. Your hand flew to your mouth as you finally took in the position you were in. Mingi had your right leg draped over his own, his cock nestled about halfway inside you, its thickness stretching you out deliciously.

This was the source of the heavy feeling—Mingi was fucking you in your sleep.

"Fuck, baby," he hissed, stilling your hips. "I just started. I tried to wake you up, but when I pushed in..." Mingi trailed off, struggling to hold back. "You're just so tight, Princess."

You began mewling, contracting around him. What a beautiful way to wake up.

He lifted your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as he pulled out slightly, then slid deeper inside you. You held your breath, gripping the sheets as you watched where you two connected. He fit snugly against your walls, filling you completely. Your hand pressed lightly against his lower stomach, hissing as each glide of his length made you whimper.

Mingi took his time, slowly fucking you halfway until you adjusted, then sliding more of himself in with each thrust. The wanton moans escaping you sent pulses straight to his cock, especially as you looked so pliant beneath him. Whenever you needed him to slow down, you pressed your fingertips against his abdomen. He always waited for your signal, occupying himself by kneading your thighs.

When you tried to pull him closer with your other leg, wanting him deeper, he stopped you.

"Can't hurt yourself again," Mingi stated firmly. He didn't want a repeat of what had happened during your heat.

"More," you begged, gripping his bicep.

Mingi huffed softly, biting back his groans. "You want more?"

He looked deeply into your eyes, reading the way your mouth hung open, nodding wordlessly at him.

"Can you take all of me?" He already knew the answer; he'd seen you take him incredibly well.

Once you confirmed it was alright for him to continue, Mingi nearly filled you to the brim. His rut urged him to hurry and fuck you senseless, but he knew better than that. He was the biggest you'd ever had; he knew it, yet he'd barely done anything, and you were already begging for more.

You needed all of him. And he yearned for all of you.

"Fully," you repeated his words back to him, chewing your bottom lip.

Mingi adjusted your right leg over his left shoulder, pushing the rest of his length deeper into you. You dragged out a moan, muffling it by burying your face into the pillow beneath your head. Mingi winced at the ache of his rut, digging his fingers into your skin as he thrust long, slow, languid strokes inside your slick cunt.

He easily brushed along your G-spot, each thrust hitting your cervix. He admired how your pussy gripped his length, swallowing him whole with every motion. You couldn't help but glance at your phone, still recording. Seeing the reflection of Mingi thrusting deep into you as you lay on your side only turned you on more. Your hand reached for his shirt, tugging him closer. He thought you wanted to kiss him, so he closed his eyes, leaning in to meet your lips—-but instead, you bit down on his scent gland again.

Mingi's deep, throaty groans turned into needy whines and whimpers, fucking into you with newfound desperation.

"I'm not delicate anymore," you whispered after kissing his scent gland. His mind felt light and empty, like he was on cloud nine, but he registered every word

"While you were sleeping," he huffed, sucking in a breath as he reached for something by your head, "I thought we could use this again."

"Please," you breathed. The immediate hum of the buzzing was music to your ears as you wrapped your tail around his arm while he lowered the wand where you craved it most.

Mingi held your vibrating wand in his hand, and you suddenly remembered how the two of you had shared it during your heat. The idea utterly enthralled you, it would help both of you release the tension building in your bodies.

Today was going to be a very long day.

[elysiality]

sixteen carriages plays every time I remember Shauna shipman isn’t real, That’s how bad it hurts. Anyways!

can we get a Drabble based off climax by usher(glorious ahh song, give it a listen)?

-🐰

climax. ᥫ᭡ shauna shipman.

a/n · wellll my requests are closed, but it’s a short drabble so…. :3

꒰ ꒱ CW . yellowjackets typical antics. canon compliant. angst, because it’s the only thing I know how to write. infidelity but it’s on Jeff so who cares. suggestive. post-rescue. slight spoilers for s3. (๑⃙⃘´༥`๑⃙⃘) 1k words. no beta, we die like half the cast.

There was a reason you and Shauna had earned the title ‘Fire and Ice’ before the plane went down. Jackie was gentle rain, extinguishing the inferno that burned in Shauna, melting the ice around what you proclaimed was a heart of stone. The mediator, the martyr, the pariah in some ways garnering resentment from both of you for being so….pure. Innocuous, for lack of a better word.

She didn’t have the burning rage that Shauna had, she didn’t have your frigid demeanour. Her death was preventable and yet you didn’t raise a finger to stop it. If there was anyone who could’ve, it was you. But you didn’t. You brushed it off as a tiny fork in the road that didn’t concern you, didn’t need your involvement. You weren’t the peacemaker and you certainly weren’t the peacekeeper.

The only person to stand up to Shauna, to dump ice water on her flaming head, to match her fight head on and knock her off her high horse of misery and self-pity. It’s what made your love tick— the messy, fervid struggle for control that was more a tug-of-war game between children vying for each other’s attention.

When Shauna rose to power, you were right there— her consecrated consort, the cool one in the face of adversity who managed to somehow talk her down from the murderous rampage she had flown into after finding out about Natalie’s successful operation to call for help.

The attraction between you was stormy, tiptoeing the line of being a danger to both of you. Canines drawing blood, rough nails that had been pared off with a knife coated with the essence of others, digging into scarred skin, hands that touched you like sickles, kisses saccharine enough to rot the harvest.

Now here you lay, Shauna’s head a weight on your stomach where the shirt you stripped off her back has risen up, sprawled out in a tangle of limbs on your childhood bed, passing a blunt back and forth, the scent of hunger and smoke tangling with the innocence of a room that was no longer yours— the picture of domestic indolence. Nobody could tell what had happened to you, what you had been through, if they didn’t look into your eyes, where the light had long since drained.

But then again, you’ve always been a savant at pretending everything’s fine, haven’t you?

“You seem pretty morose for a blushing bride-to-be.”, you comment dryly, your voice holding a serrated edge that sharpens against Shauna’s ears, sharp as the knife she held so treasured out there.

She lifts her head up at you, the same eyes that burned with wildfire once now dimmed down to an insipid black. “You know I have no choice.” She’s searching for pity. Hard luck that she’s forgotten who she’s talking to.

The response comes just as she expects it. “Yeah? I don’t seem to remember you having any such qualms when you were fucking your dead best friend’s boyfriend— willingly, might I add.” Cold air, potent and heavy, stinging her flushed cheeks like it had slinked in through a cracked window.

“Point taken.” Her head droops back onto your lap, groaning. There’s some malaise in the atmosphere now, lingering resentment and angst that won’t fade. There had been a choice to make. It was either you played perfect housewife with Jeff or she did. Mrs. Taylor was insistent on it. And you made Shauna take the fall, of course. Not your crime, not your time.

You take another lazed hit of your joint, rustling her tousled hair affectionately. She jolts up, her ironically frigid hand grabbing yours, a juxtaposition to the warmness of your palm. Ah. There’s that fire you’ve missed. She has an idea. A lurid one, judging by the twitch of her lips. You eye her, leery.

“We could run away.” The cadence of her voice is urgent, breathless— like she’s running to catch a leaving train. You stare at her dourly, and then sigh, exhuming smoke fumes right into her face. She doesn’t so much as flinch as you put it out in your makeshift ashtray.

“Us? Run away together? We’d kill each other before we make it past the edge of town.” You huff, squeezing her cheeks between the pads of your rough fingers— gentle, but stern. A warning. To stop dreaming of what can never happen.

Her nails, no longer jagged as you remember them to be, dig into your thighs, leaving crescent shaped marks that you have no doubt will be covered up by the garishly extravagant maid of honour dress tomorrow. “If you die on me”, she grits out, her voice grating, “I’ll eat your heart.”

It takes a bit of time for you to snap out of your stupor. You sort through the hash in your mind, searching for the appropriate response to what you know is a serious declaration.

“If you die”, you say just as somberly, like you’re attending a funeral, “I won’t write you a eulogy.”

She gives you a once over before letting out a snicker that soon turns into raucous peals of laughter from both of you. You’re just kids here, not the monsters forced to grow up, not the beasts that have been tamed after so long of being rabid.

Shauna’s head goes lax on your lap, melting into your thighs with that devil-may-care attitude you know so well. “We wouldn’t even make it past the gates of the venue, huh?”

“Nope.” You say in a cheerfully chipper voice that does nothing to hide your rancour. “Mrs. Taylor would probably come for us with a gun, locked and loaded.” You clear your throat and assume a falsetto, scrunching up your face.

“And where do you missies think you’re going?” you mimic in what could not be a more terrible impression of a doddery old lady, but is rewarded by the unladylike snort that emits from the dark head on your lap.

You sink back into your low spirits as fast as you emerged. Your hands card through the dark locks that can never truly be washed free of the blood, the scent of woods and bitterness of starvation.

“You’re going to be a married woman tomorrow, Shauna.” your heart is loaded down by the weight of that information. That you’ll be there, in a dress that isn’t white, standing not opposite to Shauna on the aisle, but next to her as she promises her heart to another, expected not to projectile vomit all of duck egg white satin curtains (meticulously hand picked, of course). The girl who’s always been yours.

It’s imperative and it’s inexorable. Nothing you do would stop it. Your fate’s been set in stone since you let her into your heart, since you let her burn off the stalagmites guarding your love. You feel strangely jilted, even if you were never together.

There’s, of course, the unspoken that she’s technically already his. The douche had been too eager, probably more so for the gratuity money than actually for her, and had signed the papers as soon as the word ‘yes’ shaped in her mouth. But that thought rankles you far worse than the others.

“And I’m leaving after the wedding.” you continue, desultory, forcing her chin up to look at you, really look for what may very well be the last time. “I have to let you go.”

How anticlimactic. The souls that were so tangled with each other that their strings were knotted into loops, have now been separated by the looming scenario of her, living a woefully boring life with a milquetoast man and you, off with the wind, letting life do whatever it wishes to you.

No more emotionally charged arguments, no more surreptitious make-up visits, no more of that familiar dance that’s been yours for longer than you can remember. Really, you could almost cry like a child, a lover seeing their darling off at a train station for a sabbatical. Only, this one’s permanent. And she was never yours, not really.

Shauna ensconces you in her arms, hands gripping onto the shirt that still smells like her, looking up at you with eyes you could paint in your sleep. She’ll always be your fire, the heat that scorches your welcoming arms. “Then stay with me. Just for tonight. One last time.”

You can give her that. The final climax of a ‘love story’ (if you could even call it that) that was always hurtling towards an unhappy ending at breakneck speed.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

TAGLIST. @f4riedimples , @scatorcciosbabe

[hellinistical]

fem! reader x rafayel. royal! au. sea horror! au. heavy angst. minor and major character death. slow burn. romance. fluff. explicit smut. trauma. religious themes. gore; hinted torture, cannibalism, decapitation, self-cannibalism. violence. wc: 4.8k

masterlist | playlist | taglist | prev. | next.

a/n: now that lemurian rafayel is out (I GOT HIM SUCKAS) and i was basically right...about a lot...especially stuff for this story...i hope yall enjoy! Thanks for the patience and for reading! Also, we hit 600!! how cool is that?!

VIII: CAPITOL, NOT CAPITAL

The siren winced. The gills along his neck flexed uselessly, aching with every breath. Each gust of salty wind that slipped through the seams of the ship was a cruel tease—mocking his body with what it craved but couldn’t reach. The burning was constant now, a low simmering pain that curled deep into his muscles.

The fin on his tail throbbed with a pulsing sting, swollen and darkening at the edges where the harpoon had torn through. Infection had surely begun its slow crawl. He didn’t bother looking at it; he could feel the damage well enough. What was once a perfect crescent of shimmering membrane now hung in ragged tatters.

With a sharp inhale through his mouth—lungs again, still unfamiliar and too dry—he sat up straighter. His back cracked from disuse. The air didn’t hurt as much anymore. His lungs had adjusted quicker than he liked. That was unsettling.

His hair, long and tangled with brine and debris, clung to his face in heavy strands. He pushed it away with a trembling hand, his fingers twitching with restraint. The sharp tips of his nails clicked against his teeth as he bit them down—he didn’t want to, but it was a habit borne of pain and worry. The act calmed him, somehow. Or maybe it just made him feel something he could control.

The room stank of mildew and old metal. It was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood or the distant thud of boots above. He closed his eyes and listened—counted every step, every sound, every wave that splashed against the hull. A rot wafted through the wood, moist and appalling—sharp enough to sting the nostrils. It crawled down into the brig like a warning. The scent was too fresh, too wet, not like the usual staleness of brine and old blood. The men upstairs had likely exposed a new hunt. Something freshly dead. Or dying.

The boards above groaned under hurried boots, followed by the drag of something heavy. He could hear the muffled grunts, the slosh of water spilling from some overturned basin, and then—laughter. Harsh and breathless. Unsettling.

He didn’t move. Just opened his eyes slowly, slits narrowing, and let the rot settle in his lungs like smoke. There was death above. He could taste it. And though his own wounds throbbed and his body screamed from confinement, a darker thought rippled under his skin—

The deck above lay swathed in darkness and fog, the sea groaning at its side. Before them, the crew hauled a heavy shape from the black water into the lantern’s trembling light. At first it looked like driftwood entwined with seaweed; then a murmur rippled through the sailors as the outline resolved into something horrifyingly human. 

The body hit the deck with a heavy thump, soaked limbs slapping the planks like dead fish. A few of the crew barely looked up. They'd seen worse—dragging things from the water was part of the job, and dead girls weren’t as rare as anyone liked to pretend.

"Another one," grunted Ryder, stepping aside so the water pooling from her hair wouldn’t soak into his boots. "Guess she didn’t make the cut."

“Drowned or thrown?” Kieran asked as he leaned over the rail and peered at the pale form. He didn’t sound particularly concerned, just mildly curious. His arms were crossed, one foot tapping against a coil of rope.

“Both,” muttered Marlon. “Smell that? That’s rot mixed with regret, that is.”

Luke crouched near the body and inspected her without flinching. “She’s fresher than the last one,” he said, poking gently at the bruised side. His finger brushed over a massive bite mark—deep, curved, too wide for any ordinary animal. “See that? Took a chunk outta her ribs. Shit’s jagged. Ain’t no clean kill.”

"Shuveyr's teeth," muttered one of the younger sailors, nudging the jaw shut with his boot. “She got torn. Whatever it was went through her like she was nothing but seaweed.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Kieran said with a yawn. “There’s worse down there. At least this one still has her face.”

“She’s still wearing one of those offering dresses,” Luke pointed out, squinting. The lace was stiff with salt, its edges tangled in seaweed, pearls clinging to the tatters like barnacles. “Fancy stitching, see? That’s government work. She was meant to be seen when she went in.”

“Guess someone saw her alright,” Kieran muttered, glancing at the bite wound again. “But not in the way they intended.”

The crew chuckled dryly. Gallows humor had long since become survival.

“Should we toss her?” Ryder asked, already wiping his hands off on a rag. “Or hang her up till port?”

“Keep her till we dock,” Luke said, standing. “If she’s from a noble house, there might be a bounty. They like to know how their daughters died—keeps ‘em paying for protection.”

“Gods,” Kieran muttered, cracking his neck. “Imagine paying coin just to hear your girl got shredded like crab meat.”

“Better than not knowing,” Luke replied flatly.

One of the older men whistled low, shaking his head as he began dragging a tarp over her. “Still. No screamers. That’s what’s strange to me. Always figured the sea’d at least let ‘em beg before it takes 'em.”

"Not if they go unconscious first," another offered. "Or if it’s quick."

Luke raised a brow. “That bite doesn’t look quick.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Kieran agreed. “But maybe she was lucky. Maybe she was already gone.”

They all stood in silence for a beat, the tarp settling over the girl like a shroud. Somewhere below, the captured siren thrashed faintly in his chains, as if he sensed the dead nearby.

Luke stretched, adjusting his gloves. “All right, enough of that. Let’s get back to work. If there’s one, there’s bound to be more.”

“Great,” Ryder groaned. “Can’t wait to meet her sisters.”

The sailors grunted as they hoisted the soaked bundle over their shoulders, a limp shape wrapped in half-frozen nets and trailing seaweed like funeral ribbons. Her limbs flopped, ungraceful and stiff. They didn’t flinch, didn’t even wrinkle their noses—too many years of hauling worse things from the ocean had long since hardened their stomachs.

“She’s fresh-ish,” one of them muttered, boots clunking against the wooden stairs as they descended below deck. “Goddess only knows how she floated back up.”

Another snorted. “Floatin’? Looks more like she walked up herself. Still got meat on her bones.”

“Thought yall thought it was old.”

“Who the hell knows? The sea ages everything.”

Kieran leaned over the rail above, eyeing the body with casual detachment. “What’s the damage?”

“Aside from the rot? Left thigh,” said the first man. “Bit clean through. Somethin’ big. Shark, maybe.”

The men didn’t lower her gently—they threw her. Her body hit the floor with a wet thud, the side of her shoulder crashing against the iron bars of the siren’s cage with a hollow clang.

The siren flinched. His eyes snapped down.

Her skin was pale—too pale—bloated in places, peeling in others, and her hair, once brown or red, floated like ribbons of dried seaweed. The wound on her thigh was jagged, half-healed then re-opened, tendons exposed beneath grey flesh. The nets still tangled around her middle had barnacles growing on them. 

He knew this pet. 

He’d eaten that thigh. 

His jaw clenched as the scent hit him—sharp, mineral-rich, copper laced with salt and decay. His stomach cramped. His nostrils flared. His mouth watered.

One hand slid through the bars before he realized what he was doing. He tore a strip from her arm. Just a shred—skin, fat, muscle—still cold. It melted on his tongue like old memory.

But then—he stopped.

The piece fell from his hand, wet and soft as it hit the floor. He shook his head hard, breath stuttering.

No.

Not like this. Not like a beast, cornered and pathetic.

One of the sailors above leaned over the railing with a smirk, watching the siren slink back into the corner like a dog caught stealing.

“Go’on and take a lil snack, fishie,” he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. A few of the other men chuckled, their boots thudding lazily against the planks.

“Ain’t like you didn’t already start,” another chimed in, jabbing his elbow into his mate’s side. “Did ya want us to warm her up for you too?”

The siren didn’t move. He just stared back—eyes slitted, glowing faintly in the dim light, unblinking. His lips were parted slightly, breath slow and ragged. He could still taste her. The copper tang clung to the back of his throat like rust.

Luke descended halfway down the stairs, wiping his hands on his coat. “He’s not touching the rest,” he noted aloud. “Either he’s full, or he’s got a conscience. Don’t know which is funnier.” Kieran leaned lazily on the post beside him. “What’s it matter? It’s not like we’re gonna actually feed it one of the poor girls on purpose.”

That earned a louder laugh, but the siren didn’t flinch at the joke. Instead, he dragged his nails down the wooden wall behind him with a slow, splintering scrape. The sound cut through the room like a warning—low, guttural. Animal.

The laughter died down.

“Yeah,” Luke muttered, backing up the stairs again. “I’ll be upstairs. Let me know if he starts trying to chew through the bars.”

Kieran lingered a second longer, eyes flicking between the dead girl and the siren. Then he shrugged, and followed.

The body lay still, unmoving, her one half-torn eye catching the flicker of a lantern.

The siren stared at it.

He hadn’t eaten her. 

But Gods above, did he want to.

***

Inside the dark, stuffy carriage, the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and impatience. The windows had been shuttered since they passed through the city gates, blocking out the daylight and whatever bustling grandeur New Anbusas had to offer. The girls sat shoulder to shoulder, the clatter of the wheels against cobblestone making conversation awkward and broken.

“You’d think for such a special delivery, they’d let us breathe,” You muttered, adjusting the fabric of your dress, which had twisted and bunched during the ride. “I’m sweating through silk.”

“They probably don’t want the commoners seeing us,” Harlow replied, voice flat. “Would ruin the illusion. ‘Look at these poor, sticky sacrifices wearing yesterday’s makeup.’”

“I still smell like road piss,” another girl added bitterly. “They made us piss in buckets.”

A light round of tired snickering went around, though it was more from exhaustion than humor.

Lindsey sniffled loudly. Again. “Oh for—what is it now?” You snapped, fed up. “I just… don’t like small spaces…” Lindsey murmured. “And it smells weird.” “It smells like you,” Harlow muttered.

It’s quiet for a moment. Lindsey shifts, adjusting her dress. “Ya know, ever since we past the last stop, my stomach’s been feelin’ funny.”

Groaning, you pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?” 

Lindsey shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “No! I mean—I don’t think so. It’s not like sick-sick. Just… weird. Like something’s twisting.”

“Well, maybe your nerves finally caught up to your appetite,” Harlow drawled. “Or maybe it’s guilt from eating your rations and mine.” “I offered to trade!” Lindsey defended weakly.

You still don’t bother to hide your glare.  “You also cried when I didn’t accept the trade.”

The carriage rattled over another rough patch of street, jostling them all. Outside, horns still echoed in intervals—welcoming trumpets meant to sound grand, but only added to the tension pulsing in the girls’ ears. "Honestly though, Lindsey, what did your family do back in Linkon?" You asked, nudging the quiet with something simple. "I know my gran had a farm, Harlow’s folks had a bakery—pretty sure Theresa’s got..."

"My dad’s a cobbler," Theresa piped up from across the carriage without looking up. She was halfway through braiding her own hair to kill the time. “Right,” You nod, looking back at Lindsey. “So…what do your folks do?”

The question hung in the air longer than expected. Lindsey blinked, her brows twitching as if the words had landed heavier than they should’ve. She scratched her arm absentmindedly. “My family?”

“Yeah,” You said, tone still teasing but softer now, gentled by the shift she felt in Lindsey’s posture. “The people who made you, fed you, scolded you. What do they do for coin?”

Lindsey hesitated, eyes on her lap. Her voice came quieter this time. “My mum worked in the dye house. She did colors for cloth. Mostly saffron and plum when the pigments were cheap enough. She always came home with stained fingers, even when she washed 'em three times.”

There was something in her voice that sounded like pride, but also something older. Threadbare.

"And your dad?" Harlow asked gently. Not poking—just asking. Lindsey’s hand curled tighter around the edge of her dress. “He’s gone. Left when I was five or six. Don't really remember him.”

The wood of the carriage creaked beneath them, and no one spoke right away. Outside, hooves clacked over uneven stone, muffled by the thick velvet covering the windows. Just movement, just darkness, just the smell of sweat and dust and perfume from the soaps they'd been scrubbed with earlier that week.

“Oh...uh..sorry.” Lindsey shook her head, eyes still low. “No, it’s okay. We managed. My older brothers helped when they were around, but conscription took 'em. It's been me and my mum for a while.”

“...Makes sense,” Harlow offered. “About why you... eat fast, sometimes. You’re used to guarding your plate, yeah?” Lindsey let out a weak laugh. “Okay, that’s fair.” Theresa perked up from the corner. “You’re not the only one. I watched you scarf three rolls earlier, Harlow. What’s your excuse?” Harlow blinked at her. Then, in a flat, unbothered tone, she replied, “I was hungry.” There was a pause. “…Fair,” Theresa admitted. “I had to beat Lindsey to it,” Harlow muttered, arms crossed. “She looked like she was eyein’ my last one.” A heavy bang bang bang rattled the wooden wall of the carriage, jolting half the girls out of their slouched positions. Someone even let out a soft yelp—probably Lindsey. The muffled voice of a guard followed immediately after. “Settle down in there! You’re almost to the castle—start acting like it!”

Letting out an exhausted sigh. You lean back against the carriage wall, eyes rolling skyward. “Stars above, it’s not like we’re dancing on the roof- what exactly are we doing that’s so offensive? Talking?”

“They’ll probably line us up and judge who looks the most obedient,” Theresa added with a scoff, tugging her sleeves down over her hands. “It’s like a parade of prized hens.” Lindsey, sitting closest to the window flap, had gone stiff—spine straight, hands neatly clasped in her lap like she was preparing for a sermon. “Do you think they can hear everything we say?” she asked quietly. “No?” it comes out flatly. “They’re not eavesdropping demons. And if they are, then let them be horrified.”

Another knock—quieter this time—landed against the wood. “Sit up. Fix your hair. Make yourselves presentable.”

The carriage creaked as the wheels hit a patch of uneven cobblestone, jostling them again. Outside, they could hear faint horns in the distance—signals of arrival, no doubt—along with the sound of footsteps and distant market chatter bleeding into the capital’s heart.

You don’t answer. Already glancing towards the covered window again, your fingers twitch. You hated not being able to see where they were going—hated even more that, after everything, you were still being taken somewhere you didn’t choose. The carriages finally groaned to a halt, their wheels catching against the mountain stone like bones snapping into place. Dust hung in the air like incense, trailing behind the convoy as horns echoed through the capital city of New Anbusas once again—not as greeting, but as proclamation.

The Collection was complete. 

Somewhere far beyond the thick velvet curtains that wrapped around each carriage window, crowds cheered—or perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps it was just the nobles applauding from their balconies above, performative and shallow, wine sloshing in their cups as they clapped with the tempo of tradition. Either way, the girls couldn’t see them. Not yet. Not ever, really.

The doors of the lead carriage creaked open. Metal steps were brought down with a heavy clang, and the guards’ voices were curt. “On your feet. Let’s keep it tidy.”

Inside, the girls stretched and shifted, wincing from stiff limbs and aching spines. They blinked as light filtered in—but not sunlight. They had emerged into a cloistered walkway, enclosed on all sides. The structure was made of draped silk and narrow wood-beamed canopies, ornately painted and well-oiled to gleam under the lanterns that hung from every beam. Heavy purple-and-gold cloth flanked the path, hanging like regal theater curtains, ensuring no one could see in—or out. The air was perfumed, dense with the cloying scent of rose water, sandalwood, and something strangely metallic underneath it all. 

“What’s with the drapes?” one of the girls murmured. “It’s so the people don’t see us,” Harlow said, her voice softer than usual. “Or maybe so we don’t see them.” You tilt your head. “Seems a little excessive.”

They stepped forward slowly, the polished marble floor beneath them cool as it soaked through their worn soles. The guards on either side of the procession wore pristine white uniforms with crimson sashes, gold-threaded epaulettes shining in the low lantern glow. They never made eye contact. They never answered questions. They never had to. Their job wasn’t to protect the girls—only to guide them, like livestock through a velvet-covered chute. As they moved forward, the procession took on a slow, ritualistic pace. Every ten steps, a bell chimed softly from some unseen hand. Every twenty, priests standing behind grilles of golden lattice whispered chants in low, sonorous voices. 

"In service to the Brother, we give. In honor of the Crown, we preserve. In light of the Sea, we endure."

They passed under towering archways, through flower-strewn corridors that smelled of crushed lilies and drying blood. Far above them—hidden behind carved balconies and stained glass windows—the nobles watched. Women in layered lace dresses held parasols as they tilted their heads, examining the procession like they might a tray of sweets. Lords leaned against balustrades, laughing behind gloved hands, wagering in whispers which girl would go where, and what family would bid highest. None of them saw individuals. They saw investments. Legacies. Insurance policies. 

Even higher still, mounted into the mountainside, loomed the castle itself.

It was not a thing of gentle beauty. It was monumental—gothic in the purest sense. The towers spiraled like spears meant to pierce heaven, and the central spire rose from the mountain like it had erupted from it in a moment of divine fury. The walls were layered in obsidian stone veined with silver and carved with centuries of reliefs—saints, sinners, warriors, martyrs. All kneeling to the same divine figure again: Creceter, the Brother.

The stained-glass windows stretched impossibly tall, like cathedral organs turned into light. Each one depicted a myth: Creceter calming the sea with his voice; Creceter splitting the earth with a raised hand; Creceter blessing the first king of Chronosia. The colors bled red and violet and sharp cerulean into the stone below, casting the girls in divine light as they passed beneath. 

Still they walked.

The path narrowed near the castle gates, funneling them closer together. Their arms brushed. Their dresses tangled. The walkway became a throat, swallowing them into the mountain’s belly. 

The massive doors stood already open—not swung, but recessed into the stone. Carved in deep relief, the doors displayed Creceter once again, arms outstretched. Welcoming. Beckoning. But his smile was wrong, almost mocking. His eyes were made of opal, glinting even in the dim light.

Once inside, the temperature dropped. The light dimmed. Everything smelled of old stone and colder power.

None of the girls could see the clerics who knelt in hidden alcoves, tallying names. None of them saw the hidden scribes with ink-stained fingers noting height, hair color, and lineage. None of them heard the doors slowly grind shut behind them, locking out the last trace of the outside world. 

“This way, ladies. Single file,” came the sharp command.

The voice belonged to an older woman standing just past the threshold of the castle, where the covered walkway funneled the girls inward like livestock into a chute. She was dressed plainly—dull grey skirts, heavy wool, with the kind of apron that had seen decades of spilled ink and salt. Her silver hair was pinned tightly into a no-nonsense knot, and her face was lined with the weary permanence of someone who had done this job too many times to count.

What caught most of the girls’ attention, however, was the cane.

It wasn’t decorative.

It was thick. Heavy. Iron-tipped. And the way the woman gripped it—knuckles white and poised near her hip—made it very clear that hesitation or disobedience would be met with more than just a scolding. “Move along. You can cry later, and don’t think I won’t know if you're sniffling just to get attention.” She turned briskly, cane tapping the stone with each purposeful step. “Some of you may think you’re clever. Some of you might be. I don’t care. You belong to the castle now. That means you belong to me until you’re told otherwise.”

Exchanging a look with Harlow, her brows raised. 

“Charming.” The old maid stopped mid-step and turned, sharp eyes like chipped flint.

“Who said that?”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought.” She tapped the cane once—crack—on the floor. “Line up. Shoulders back. We are not animals. We are not peasants.” 

A sharp thud cracked through the echoing marble hall. One of the girls—skinny, nervous, and near the back—had caught the edge of her boot on the hem of her dress and gone sprawling face-first onto the polished stone. Her palms slapped the floor hard, a dull grunt of embarrassment escaping her.

The line paused. Harlow glanced over her shoulder. You don’t bother hiding your wince. The old maid stopped walking and pivoted slowly, like a storm turning direction.

Her cane struck the floor once. Click.

“You,” she snapped. “Up.”

The girl scrambled awkwardly, brushing her skirts and avoiding every gaze but the one boring into her from the front. The maid didn’t shout. She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t need to.

“What are you? A fawn with broken legs? A sack of flour tied too loosely?” Her voice was cold. “If you fall again, you’ll walk the rest barefoot, girl. Understand?” “Yes, ma’am,” the girl mumbled.

The maid’s eyes narrowed. “Speak like you’ve got a spine.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

"Without the attitude," the old maid said coolly, her expression unchanging, but her eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

The girl who had tripped flinched, stiff as a board now. Her cheeks flushed with heat, and her lips trembled before she forced out a softer, more respectful: “...yes, ma’am.”

The maid gave a slow nod, not of approval, but acknowledgment. A warning delivered. No further lashes needed—yet.

The procession continued under the covered walkway, every heelstep echoing louder than before, as if the castle itself listened for weakness.

*** Everything gleamed. The halls were hewn into the mountain itself, marble veined with gold and violet streaks climbing the walls like frozen lightning. Above them, stained glass windows refracted the filtered sun into dappled patterns of Creceter, The Brother, his many arms raised in triumph or burden, depending on how one looked. The windows sang in silence—beauty laced with restraint. This place was not meant to comfort. It was meant to awe.

“Eyes forward, backs straight,” snapped the maid, her voice a precise thing, clipped with nobility and age. She stood barely five feet, draped in a deep plum gown with an apron stark as judgment, a rust-red cane tapping a steady rhythm against the tile. Her name, they were told, was Madame Corritha. No one dared shorten it.

Madame Corritha did not smile. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked carved, her every gesture calculated for efficiency. Her cane was not for walking—it was an extension of her will.

The line of girls wound through corridors flanked with silver inlays and muted frescoes of long-dead royals in ceremonial garb. Though each corner they turned looked finer than the last, there was an oppressive sameness to it all—intentional, confusing, controlling. None of them could’ve found their way out if they tried.

Eventually, they were herded into a high-vaulted chamber of pale pink stone and pearlescent light. Steam rose gently from basins of warm, herbal water. Attendants in gray uniforms appeared without a word, guiding each girl toward a basin or stool.

“You will be washed. Stripped of filth, common perfume, and attitude,” Madame Corritha announced, pacing in front of them with sharp eyes. “Then, you will be dressed. Do not mistake ceremony for kindness. This is not for you. This is for the ones who will look at you.”

Murmurs passed between the girls.

The sharp crack of Madame Corritha’s cane striking the stone floor echoed through the chamber like a warning shot.

Once.

Twice.

“Strip yourselves, ladies!” Her voice was neither cruel nor kind—it was simply final, imperious in a way that could not be argued with. She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t have to.

The girls hesitated—just for a heartbeat. Their eyes darted to one another, waiting for someone else to move first. Then, quietly, deliberately, fingers went to laces, to buttons, to hems.

The linen wraps fell to the floor like wilted petals.

The room was silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet bubbling of the herbal basins. Steam clung to the air, curling around their skin as they stood exposed, pale and flushed and humiliated under the vaulted ceiling.

Madame Corritha’s eyes swept over them like a blade, pausing on each girl only long enough to judge. She took note of every scar, every bruise, every sunburned shoulder and farmer’s tan. The scars didn’t bother her. It was the posture that did.

“Back straight, head high. You are not children. You are selections. And selections are not bashful.”

She tapped her cane once, and the attendants moved forward like clockwork.

Hands began scrubbing—not gently. Warm water sluiced over skin. Oils were poured, rosemary and bergamot pressed into flesh as if scent could wash away history. Brushes scraped scalps. Fingernails were cleaned. Elbows were scoured.

One girl—Theresa, maybe—quietly turned her face to the side, a single tear slipping out as her hair was combed too roughly. Madame Corritha did not acknowledge it. The maid working on you was older, with knotted fingers and a scowl so deep it looked like that was just how her skull was set. Her hands were rough and calloused, her grip like iron as she guided Inyx to sit on the low wooden stool beside the basin. The herbal steam swirled up around them, thick with lavender, citrus peel, and something sharp—rosemary, maybe, or sage. She clucked her tongue as she inspected your legs and arms.

“Someone had shaved you?” Her voice was gravel—flat and unimpressed. “My mother,” you answered, barely above a whisper. The woman snorted, grabbing a cloth and scrubbing one of your arms with such force it made your shoulder jolt. “Hmph. Left half the job undone, by the looks of it. Too many patches.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. 

The maid didn’t stop. She scrubbed your knees, your calves, lifting one leg and holding it up, almost exposing yourself even more. The cloth turned a pale brown as it soaked up dust and whatever oils your mother had rubbed in earlier. Her movements weren’t cruel exactly—just indifferent. Efficient. She had done this a hundred times. A thousand. She didn’t care who the girl was—only that she came out clean and uniform.

"Farmer's daughter, aren't you?" the woman asked, dipping the cloth again. "Yes." The maid sniffed. "Callused hands. Crooked pinky. Always the farmer girls."

She rubbed harder at a freckle on your shoulder, as if it might come off. 

The maid’s hands were clinical, practiced—unapologetically thorough. She’d done this before, far too many times, and to her, you were just another body in a long line of girls being cleaned, prodded, polished.

“Your breasts seem all right, I suppose,” the older woman muttered, lifting and appraising with a cold detachment. “I always get the farmer girls. I know these things. The nipples, however, will need to be stained. They’re not pink enough for the match-maker’s liking.”

Your jaw tightened, but you said nothing. You felt stripped of more than just your clothes—your  skin prickled with a quiet humiliation, but you kept your eyes on the far wall, willing herself to stay still. There was no lewdness in the woman’s touch, but it was still invasive. Still wrong.

“You’ve got good hips, too,” the woman added, moving down to inspect the angles of her waist and thighs. “You’ll catch some eyes, don’t you worry.”

Her words were meant to reassure, but they landed heavy and sour.

copyright © 2025 Hellinistical all rights reserved. no part of this story may be reposted, edited, or reproduced without the author’s permission.

[driedposies]

everyone shall take this fic as a warning. angst is my favourite thing to read. so i must punish the world by writing it too.

I'm so cold, let me in your window

Summary: You've always been sick. Your sisters hoped that becoming Made would cure you. Azriel believes you to be his punishment from the Mother.

Warnings: ANGST with no comfort, talks of illness & all its graphic details, character death.

Song inspiration: "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush & "This Night Has Opened My Eyes" by The Smiths

Word Count: 4.7k

Notes: I think I died writing this. The constant rain has put me in a mood. (and, yes, i did reference throne of glass)

The Town House stood like a brooding poem, its marble façade streaked with the memory of a hundred rains. Ivy clung to the walls, shivering in the wind, while the iron railings curled like sleeping serpents along the steps. The day was a sullen bruise, clouds pressing low, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and distant thunder.

Inside, the rooms were hushed and dim, shadows pooling in the corners, velvet curtains drawn back just enough to let the grey light seep in. On the second floor, in a chamber papered with faded violets, a young fae woman perched on the window seat, her knees drawn up beneath a quilt of moss green and silver threads. Her hair was knotted over her shoulders, catching the faintest glimmer from the world outside.

You watched the rain with wide eyes—eyes that held the memory of wild woods and sunlit glades, though they were rimmed with weariness. The glass was cool beneath her fingertips, trembling faintly from the drumming of the storm. Each drop traced a silvery path down the pane, racing its fellows, blurring the view of the garden below.

Lightning flickered, painting your features in fleeting gold. For a moment, your pointed ears and the faint shimmer of your skin seemed to glow with an inner light, a reminder of the magic that lingered, though your body felt heavy as rain-soaked branches. You breathed in the petrichor, longing for the taste of wind and wildflowers, for the freedom of running beneath open skies.

Beyond the closed doors of the room named yours, you could hear the quiet murmuring of your youngest sister. Feyre was once again conversing with Madja about remedies and teas to soothe your muscle aches and dry cough that had suddenly started to produce bloody mucus.

The wisps of darkness that lingered between your cotton handkerchief and lace collar told you Azriel was close by.

"I thought you said becoming Made would strengthen her body." Nesta was beyond the door now; a rare visit from her, especially now she had training and a fae man to keep her company. Not that you could be upset with her.

Nesta looked at you with those mourning grey eyes she had whenever she looked upon your Mother's grave.

Madja was letting out another heavy sigh—a sound she made when she saw no improvements. "It was an assumption; a sound judgement. Fae rarely get sick," Madja was repeating herself. "But no one knows the Cauldron's will and what gifts it shall extend. She was sick before she was Changed."

“So there is nothing that can be done to cure her?” Nesta was getting angry again, something Cassian was yet to crack through. 

“We’ve exhausted all known solutions. Priestesses have poured over every healing book and tome, and all of our contacts throughout Pyrthian have sent their theses and support,” Madja’s voice lowered, a courtesy meant for you. No one wished to utter or imply death in your presence. “All I can do now is keep her comfortable. Temper her fevers and chills, reduce the pains in her head, and keep her from developing pneumonia.”

There was a long silence that followed, grave and solemn. Your teeth began to gnaw at the peeling skin atop your bottom lip. You had already been instructed to apply one of the many balms when sores began to form, but the tin was all too far away for your aching knees. 

The conversation you weren’t meant to hear was making you anxious, and you needed something to fidget with. You used to pick at your fingernails—now wrapped after an episode of delirium, when your hands felt like a foreign appendage. 

“I’ll continue the search through the Day Court Libraries.” Azriel. No one dares remind him that the library had already been scoured through. 

Something moves within your throat, clawing for release. A handkerchief appears with a shadow in your palm as you start to cough up the fluid dripping down towards your lungs. Those behind the door scatter, conversation ending the moment they’re confronted with your awareness. 

As you pull the slip of cotton from your mouth, darkness swirled to mask the splotches of blood. A small forewarning to the one that remained. 

The door creaked—a soft, doleful sound—as Azriel entered. Shadows pooled around his boots like liquid obsidian, curling upward to cling to the hem of his leather tunic. His presence filled the room, a paradox of gentle enormity. Tall and broad-shouldered, with hands that could cradle a sparrow or shatter bone, he carried a tray steadied in his grip; a porcelain teapot painted with forget-me-nots, a cup of honeyed tea, and a small glass vial of iridescent medicine that shimmered like trapped starlight. 

He was nothing but Azriel to her; the terrifying Illyrian Shadowsigner reputation he carried was otherworldly to the reality in this closed chamber. Although you’d taken to calling him my shadow in your weaker moments, when fever made your tongue loosen—a fragment from an old folklore tale your Father told you before bed. 

Azriel paused just inside the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. You hadn’t turned from the window. Your silhouette—frail yet regal, like a birch sapling bent by wind—seemed to merge with the fogged glass. The sight pierced him, as it always did. His shadows stirred, restless, mirroring the ache in his chest. He called your name, a rumble softened by habit. 

His voice didn’t startle you anymore. Something ancient that strung you two together made you aware of him long before he spoke. Still, you waited a breath before turning, your lips curving into a smile you knew didn’t reach your eyes. 

“You’re late,” you teased, your voice a rasp. The cough had been worse today; you knew Azriel heard it through the walls at dawn, a hacking, wet sound that left you gasping.

Azriel set the tray on the walnut side table, its legs carved into strings of ivy. “The rain delayed the herbalist’s delivery. The roads are rivers.” Shadows still lingered at his wrists, tendrils retreating as he lifted the teapot. Steam spiralled upward, carrying the scent of ginger and thyme.

“Liar.” You tilted your head, hair slipping over your shoulder. “You stopped to argue with the baker again. The plums in the tarts weren’t ripe enough.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. You knew him too well. Months of shared silence, of glances held too long, had made you a cartographer of his habits. Azriel poured the tea, the liquid amber-gold in the gloom. “They weren’t ripe. You deserve better than a sour treat.”

“I deserve a swig of that sweet faewine and a gallop through boundless highlands,” you muttered, but accepted the cup, your fingers brushing his. A spark leapt between you—the soulbond’s relentless pull—and you flinched, nearly spilling the tea.

Azriel caught the cup, steadying it with a calloused hand beneath yours. He was close—almost too close—enough to wrap the scent of cedar and smoke around your mind. Your breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, you feared what he thought. You likely smelled of fever-sweat and familiar copper. 

His shadows writhed, seemingly wishing to curl around you, to seep into your lungs and scour the sickness from your blood. But this illness was a tricksy thing, resistant to fae magic and remedies. This plague had claws.    

“Drink,” Azriel ordered, softer than he intended.

You obeyed, wincing as the hot liquid slid down your raw throat. The medicine came next—a bitter draft you’d affectionately called star-sludge—and he watched your throat move as you swallowed, his own jaw tightening. When you finished, you pressed the vial back into his palm, your touch lingering.

“Tell me about the storm,” you asked suddenly, nodding toward the window. Rain lashed the glass now, blurring the world into a watercolour of greys and greens and browns.

Azriel sank into the armchair beside you, its upholstery worn velvet the colour of dried blood. “What’s to tell? It’s angry. Relentless. It’ll likely flood the garden by nightfall.”

“No.” You turned back to the window, your profile sharp against the gloom. “Tell it properly. Make it a story.”

Azriel stilled. You’d asked this of him often lately, as if his words could anchor you to the world. A memoir of his life, a tale in unknown lands, a favoured memory of his found family. He closed his eyes as shadows thickened around you, and the room seemed to sigh, the air growing heavy with the scent of ozone.

“The storm isn’t just rain,” Azriel began, voice low. “It’s the sky grieving. It weeps for the sun it hasn’t seen in days, for the swallows trapped in their nests. Each drop is a lament. Listen—” a rumble of thunder shook the walls, timed as if he’d commanded it “—that’s the thunder-drummers, pacing the clouds. Their beats shake the roots of the mountains. And the lightning?” He opened his eyes. A flash outside turned you into a gilded statue. “That’s the Queen of her Empire of Storms, cracking her whip to herd the winds.”

Your laugh was a fragile thing. “You’ve missed your calling. You should’ve been a bard, not a Spymaster,” you affirm softly, eyes wrinkling at the corners.  

The barb landed, though you hadn’t meant it to. Azriel looked away, scarred fingers digging into the arms of the chair. Spymaster. Shadowsinger. Assassin. Is that all you saw? A Night Court mercenary, not a male who’d burn cities to ash if it meant buying you one more breath?

You felt the shift in him. The bond throbbed, a second heartbeat. “Azriel, I—.”

A coughing fit seized you. It wracked your body, violent, your shoulders shaking as you doubled over. Azriel was there in an instant, one arm bracing your back, the other pressing a handkerchief to your lips. When the fit subsided, the cloth came away speckled with more blood. 

The silence that was always calm felt heavier than ever. 

Then, a whisper. “Don’t look at me like that,” you plead, unable to meet Azriel’s honeyed brown eyes. 

“Like what?” Azriel’s voice was gravel.

“Like I’m already a memory.”

Mist clung to the city of Velaris. Dawn’s pale fingers crept over the horizon, brushing the world with trembling gold, cracking through the dreary clouds. 

You’re at the window again, nursing ginger and lemongrass tea splashed with honey. It’s one of the very few things you can keep down now. It was as if your body was rejecting anything that gave you life—solid foods, medicine, pain relievers. 

There was a shadow brushing your knuckles, and you knew Azriel was hovering near. He watched you with worry etched in every line of his face, but you caught his gaze and smiled—a bright, reckless thing that belonged to another season.

“Let’s go outside,” you said, lighting your voice as if it were any other morning. “I want to feel the sun.”

Azriel hesitated. He saw the pallor beneath your skin, the way your breath caught, the faint shimmer of sweat along your brow. But your eyes—unyielding eyes—dared him to deny you. 

You rose, slow and careful, refusing his offered arm at first. You straightened your back, drawing yourself up with all the dignity you could muster, though your limbs quivered with the effort. Only when your knees threatened to buckle did you accept his support, your fingers cool in his rigid, callused palm.

“No further than the garden,” Azriel murmured as he wrapped a cotton shawl around your shoulders, leaving no room for argument.

Shadow leaked from every nook hidden in your room, smothering you both until you no longer were within the Town House. Stepping into the garden, the world awakened. Birds trilled in the branches, and the wind danced through the grass. You closed your eyes, lifting your face to the sun, letting the warmth paint your cheeks with fleeting colour. 

You moved among the wildflowers, trailing your fingers through the bluebells and foxglove, your laughter rising—soft, but real. For a moment, you felt like yourself again, warm and untouchable. You knelt to pluck a daisy, but the motion left you close to breathless, and Azriel could only watch how your shoulders shook as you steadied yourself.

Still, you pressed on, weaving a crown of petals, your hands deft despite their trembling. You placed it upon your head with a flourish, grinning up at him. “See? I am not so fragile.” 

Azriel knelt beside you, watching the sunlight flicker across your face, the shadows beneath your eyes deepening. “You are the bravest thing I have ever known,” he whispered, voice thick.

You laughed, the sound bright but edged with defiance. “I will not be a ghost in my own life, Azriel. Not yet.”

Azriel guided you through willows, curtain vines shaking at every breeze. You paused often, leaning on his arm, but you hid your pain behind stories and memories from a time before you were ill. The moment you stumbled, Azriel retreated to a stone bench, setting you down with all the patience in his bones. 

You wouldn’t allow yourself to be saddened over your weakening body, tiring over a mere walk through a garden. Azriel settles beside you, and for a peaceful moment, fears and worries evade you. 

For a time, you both listened to the chorus of crickets and the soft rustle of leaves above. Azriel’s hand found yours, your fingers entwined, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your knuckles. He turned towards the sky, watching the clouds shy from the sun, but your gaze was turned inward, your mind wandering places he could not follow.

At length, you spoke, your voice a fragile thing, barely more than a sigh. “Azriel?”

He turned to you, his expression open, forebearing.

You hesitated, your lips trembling with the weight of your question. “Do you think… do you think my sisters will lead happy lives, once I’m gone?”

The question hung between you, delicate and devastating. Azriel felt it settle in his chest, a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples of sorrow through his soul. He looked at you, at the way your spirit seemed to flicker and flare even as your body waned.

Azriel didn’t speak for a long, weighted pause. He was choosing his words with care. “I think your sisters will grieve. They will weep for you, and the world will feel emptier. You have given them so much—your laughter, your courage, your wildness. Those gifts will live on in them,” he answered. “But in time, the ache will soften.”

“I want so much for them,” You whispered. “I don’t want them to feel the weight of my absence.” 

Azriel’s hand squeezes yours. “They will carry you with them, always. You are not a shadow. You are the sunlight that lingers after the storm.”

You smiled, small and trembling. “Promise me you’ll look after them,” you urge, putting a considerable effort into returning his squeeze. 

“I promise.” Azriel nodded, his throat tight with emotion. 

Azriel was then looking away, hiding the strain in his jaw, the darkness in his whiskey eyes. 

The Town House was silent but for the soft crackle of the hearth, its embers painting the walls with restless shadows. Night pressed against the windows, thick and velvet, the stars hidden behind a shroud of cloud. Azriel sat hunched in the old armchair, a half-empty bottle of amber liquor cradled in his hand, his gaze fixed on the flames as if he could divine answers in their dance.

He was still in his leathers, the wings at his back limp and heavy, slumped without their usual pride. The glass in his other hand trembled slightly, though his face was carved from stone. In the firelight, the hollows beneath his eyes were deep, and the haunted set of his mouth spoke of sleepless nights and wounds that would not close.

A door creaked softly. A presence, familiar as the darkness itself, slipped into the room—tall, regal, crowned by Night. Rhysand paused in the doorway, his violet eyes taking in the scene with a quiet, aching understanding.

Rhys did not announce himself. Instead, he crossed the room with measured steps, the silence between them thick with unspoken sympathy. He poured himself a drink, the liquid glinting gold, and settled into the chair across from Azriel. 

For a long moment, neither spoke. The fire snapped, sending sparks spiralling up the chimney, and somewhere in the distance, the wind sighed against the eaves.

“You’ll burn a hole through my floorboards if you keep staring like that.” At last, Rhysand broke the silence, his voice low and gentle. 

Azriel’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes. He took a slow sip, the liquor burning a path down his throat, and set the glass down with a soft clink.

Rhys watched him, his gaze steady. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he murmurs, tone full of an understanding Azriel was not able to accept. 

Azriel’s jaw clenched. He looked away, the firelight gilding the tears he would not let fall. “She’s slipping through my fingers, Rhys. No matter what I do. No matter how hard I try.” Azriel swallows thick. “I don’t have High Lords imparting their gifts or a Cauldron to turn to.”

The words were bitter, full of envy. Full of misplaced anger. Rhys knew that feeling all too well, enough to withhold a cold retort. 

Instead, Rhysand’s expression softened, grief flickering in his eyes. “I know,” he says, the bond shared with Feyre was enough to keep him awake. 

Azriel’s voice was raw, scraped bare. “It feels like punishment. Like the gods are mocking me. A mate I can never truly love—not as I should. Not with all of me. She’s fading, and I’m helpless.”

Rhysand set his glass aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The Mother can be cruel, brother. She gives us miracles and then takes them away. But this,” he gestured to the bottle, to the shadows clinging to Azriel’s shoulders like a cloak, “this isn’t your fault. Nor hers.”

Azriel’s wings shifted. “I keep thinking—if I’d been better. Deserving. That my existence wasn’t a curse on others—”

Rhysand cut him off, gentle but firm. “You care for her. And that is all any of us can do,” he states, firm, not allowing Azriel to spiral further. 

The firelight flickered, casting their faces in gold and shadow. Azriel’s hand tightened around the glass. “She asked me if her sisters would be happy when she’s gone. She worries about being a burden. Even now, she thinks only of others.”

“She is lucky to have you. And you, her. Even if it is only for a little while.” Rhys’ eyes glistened, the pain of his own losses echoing in the space between them.

Azriel closed his eyes, the weight of grief pressing down like a mountain. “It isn’t enough,” he whispers to the quiet room. 

“I know,” Rhys murmurs, unable to say anything more. Unable to find something to ease the ache deep in his brother’s heart. 

Not even the shadows on the walls could reach Azriel now. 

It was an afternoon, the clouds and rain fogging up the windows into a mellow grey, when you felt your chest collapse into itself. Like the weight of the world had implanted itself upon you in one battering swing. 

Azriel was already with you, like he always was, calling for Madja, Feyre, Rhys, anyone that could hear. Every sound felt like it was made behind a closed stone door, warbled, dreamlike. You were too focused on trying to breathe through the phlegm clogging your throat and lungs, sticking the flesh together until there wasn’t a passageway to be used. 

Cold towels were placed against your forehead and chest, hot skin trembling in protest. For such heat your body seemed to be making, you felt so awfully cold. 

It was darker when you came to, candles now lit, filling your chambers with lavender and thyme. The rain continued to tap against the window, a relentless, mournful rhythm that filled the dimly lit room.

Azriel was still at your side, thumbing hair from your damp cheeks, tucking the strands behind your ear. Despite the soul-sinking realisation that you may not live to see the next sunrise, you’re consumed by the impotent longing for the male who hasn’t left you. Jealous, knowing you’ll never love him in the way other women surely have in the past. 

“I’m sorry,” Azriel whispers, and you can feel the breath of his fist against your cheekbone. “There is nothing else left to do,” he adds, choking, pressing his palm over his mouth as if it would stop the terror and sorrow from pouring out of him. 

You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how to comfort someone when the cause of their anguish was made by your own hand. 

Azriel sinks into himself, grabbing one of your clammy hands, squeezing harder than he intends. Your fingers were too numb for you to notice. 

“You don’t like the quiet,” Azriel murmurs, a frantic sound. “I’ll talk to you, even when you can’t hear me. I won’t allow you to grow lonely.”

You try to smile, the corners of your lips perking up just a fraction. Azriel notices—he always does, nothing ever slips him—and he returns one in kind. Softer, something to hide the tears clumping his lashes together. 

“One day, I’ll be wrapped in the same soil that’ll hold you, and we’ll never be alone,” Azriel promises like a confessional, a blood oath. 

For a fleeting moment, the fear dissipates like mist in the wind. You’re imagining the warm earth taking you in, cradling your body in wait for the male that held your heart in a gold string to follow. 

You felt yourself slipping, the room growing dimmer, the world softer. The rain grew louder, a crescendo that matched the pounding of your heart. Then, as if the world itself held its breath, everything stilled. The pain eased, replaced by a gentle weightlessness. You exhaled, a final, shuddering sigh, and the storm outside seemed to pause in reverence.

In that quiet, you drifted—beyond the rain, beyond the sorrow—toward a place where the sickness could not follow.

The earth shuddered at your departure.

[rotting-decepticon]

predaking

slightly suggestive (not comfortable with writing smut yet), obsessive/yandere themes, predaking is feral.

imagine you’re just some poor random autobot/decepticon. you’re nothing too special, just a regular soldier/medic, and all the sudden you have an encounter with their large dragon. you’re terrified of course, but yourbest to fight back, but now you’re in an even WORSE situation, because now this giant beast is obsessed with you. why? you have no clue. you’re not someone like starscream or soundwave, or even knockout (as a decepticon), and you’re definitely no ratchet, arcee, or bulkhead (as an autobot). so why?

well, because you were kind to it. even after you defeated him, you still were kind enough to patch him up so he wouldn’t bleed out. you didn’t treat him like a mindless beast, you treated him like a normal bot.

which was why you were in your current position, the beast looming over you as it gently held you down, holding the back of your armor in its teeth as it shifted, trying to find a good position so it could mount you properly. he had to show you he was a good mate, after all!