#a better mouse ( visage. )

[cambion-companion]

A Marriage Contract

Eyo...I had an idea LOL what a world!

The scenario of Raphael x reader (gn) being forced into some sort of marriage agreement has been bugging me ALL day! Hopefully some of you lovely folks are as depraved as I am and enjoy this!

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”  

You were sitting opposite Raphael, the firelight flickering orange across his scarlet visage. You watched with bemused interest as, with a black quill, he scratched ink across a sheaf of yellowed parchment.

The cambion took little heed to your agitated words. His posture was relaxed, one long leg stretched out between your own, his tail tapping idly against your thigh where it rested.

“Raphael.”  You leaned forward, catching a glimpse of the words he now wrote in that elegant script of his. “…Hey, I did not agree to doing that every day with you.”

A peeved hiss escaped Raphael’s sharp teeth as he removed quill from paper and sat back, his yellow eyes finally moving to your tense face. “This arrangement is at the behest of one I cannot yet deny.” His long fingers drummed a pattern against the cherrywood table. “Don’t complain too much, pet.  I may begin to think you’re getting cold feet.”

“Not in this sweltering house.”  You quipped back.  Then you pointed again to the sentence he’d scrawled detailing what lurid acts he expected from you. “I will not be doing that.”

“Might I remind you, this is a contract of marriage.”  

“Believe me, I am well aware.”

“You would receive such pleasures in kind.”

This gave you pause, your brow arched in disbelief. “From you?”

Raphael chuckled dryly. “Yes, from me.  Master of the House, your doting husband.”

Your skin prickled. “There’d better be a clause in there for an annulment once all this is over.”

“It’s possible for such a loophole to be penned in.”  Raphael tilted his horned head diplomatically, though his eyes remained hard. “For you to take advantage of should the fires burn too hot.  However, you will always be mine.”

“How romantic.”  You deadpanned.

“I certainly try.”  Raphael rolled his broad shoulders and stretched his neck side to side.  “Now, shall I rescind these latest conditions or are you now more amenable?”

You hesitated, scooting your chair closer so you could better read the script without getting a crick in your neck. “Hmm…yes, alright. You can get rid of the ‘submits to my will in all infernal matters’ bit.”

With a smooth motion Raphael struck a line through the offending words. “Would ‘heeds my counsel in all the doings of my domain’ better suit your tender palate?”

“Rewording the same sentiment isn’t going to get passed me, love.”  You kissed his cheek, teasing.

Sharp claws pierced the flesh of your jaw as, quick as a viper, Raphael grabbed your face with one hand and held you very still.  His face turned and your noses brushed. You felt his warm breath and his hot skin.

The air between the two of you grew tense, riddled with the frustration at your situation and the desire you’d had for one another since meeting. The lust to dominate and own from him and your need to be wanted and no longer alone.

“This marriage contract is forever binding, little mouse. Much more so than those fragile slips of paper from your insipid mortal world. There is not a clause in your wildest imaginings that will free you from me once you sign yourself over.”

You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks, his strong hand still holding your head firmly. “We have little choice.”

Raphael’s grip tightened and he brought his lips against yours, just enough to leave you craving more. “What a quaint notion, to believe I have no power to deny or evade.”

He did not elaborate, but his message was clear.  Raphael wanted this. The thought didn’t leave you feeling warm and fuzzy.

There was an evident dynamic here that you didn’t have the capacity to fully understand.  It gave you a sense of dread yet sent a thrill through your body.

You gave Raphael a smile bordering on playful. “Your signature mysterious and vaguely threatening answers won’t exactly breed a relationship of trust.”

“You and I have very different concepts of what a marriage should look like.”  Raphael released your jaw and took both your hands, pulling you with one strong movement onto his lap.  His tail wrapped around your waist, securing you against him. “Speaking of ‘breeding’, I have an excellent idea.”

Your retort was silenced as a long tongue and sharp teeth claimed your mouth and drank down your following noises.

[tinycoded360]

Firefighter part 2

Here it is! I hope you all enjoy! Tag list of those I thought would like to be tagged; if you don't want to be, just let me know, and I won't do it again. @voraciousvore @gtzel @empressxmachina

Lucy’s tiny hands trembled as she gripped the metal bars of her enclosure, her breaths shallow and uneven. She let out a huff of frustration, her eyes scanning the rodent cage that Mike had so thoughtlessly placed her in. It was no larger than a shoebox to someone of normal size, but to Lucy, it was a prison. A latched gate at the front of the cage meant to keep unwanted critters out—or, in her case, trapped.

The thick latch barely budged under her four-inch frame. She gritted her teeth, throwing her whole weight against the unyielding barrier. "Come on, come on," she grunted through clenched jaws.

With a cry of frustration, Lucy collapsed backward, wincing as her shoulder slammed against the hard floor. A dull ache radiated down her arm now. "Useless," she muttered, glaring up at the door that towered above her. She wouldn't be getting out tonight. Exhaustion crept over her as she curled up in the corner, shivering against the cold that permeated the cage.

Lucy awoke early the next morning, her back sore and muscles stiff from a night spent on the hard cage floor. She paced the confines of her tiny prison, trying to psych herself up.

"You can do this," she muttered under her breath. "Don't let him intimidate you just because he's huge."

She steeled herself, ready to give Mike a piece of her mind when he showed up. She would not be cowed or treated like a pet!

But all of Lucy's courage evaporated when the giant lumbered into the kitchen, still half-asleep and scratching his messy hair. He was just so massive compared to her four-inch frame, like a lumbering bear next to a mouse.

"Morning already?" Mike yawned loudly, oblivious to the storm brewing inside the tiny girl.

As he set about making his coffee. She stood motionless, watching Mike drop heavily into a chair, his presence dominating the small space. He wrapped his hands around the steaming mug and brought it to his lips, his gaze settling on the cage – on her.

"Damn, what's this?" Mike's voice rumbled through the room as his brow furrowed, noticing the mottled bruise coloring her shoulder.

The room seemed to lurch as Mike's hand reached towards her, the cage door swinging open with ease under his touch. "How did you even get hurt?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern and confusion.

Panic surged through Lucy as his fingers, thick as tree trunks compared to her fragile form, enclosed around her, lifting her from the cage. The world tilted, and suddenly, she was airborne, face-to-face with the giant who held her fate between his fingertips.

"Mi-Mike..." Her protest died in her throat, swallowed by the overwhelming fear of being so completely at his mercy.

Lucy's tiny body trembled as she was suspended before Mike's massive visage. His eyes were bigger than her whole head, and they studied her intently. She flinched as one thick finger gently probed her bruised arm.

"Looks like you're more breakable than I thought," Mike muttered, almost to himself. "We'll get you a proper setup soon."

The condescension in his tone was the last straw. Lucy's fear gave way to a fiery surge of defiance. "Oh, geez, don't bother, that cage right there was a five-star experience!" she spat out, each word laced with scorn. "I was cold, the floor was hard and there was nowhere to take a whiz!"

Mike's eyes widened slightly, taken aback by her outburst. He exhaled slowly, the warm puff of his breath washing over her like a polluted breeze.

"I'm sorry, that was thoughtless of me," he said gently. "After breakfast, we'll go to the pet store. You can pick out something better."

"You think I want another cage?" Lucy yelled, incensed. "I don't need a cage at all! I'm not a pet!"

Mike's expression turned somber, a shadow of doubt passing over his features. "I'm just doing what's best for you! I don't think you'll be safe if you free roam." He looked away, troubled by the situation, by her resistance, or perhaps by his own doubts about what he was doing.

Lucy's tiny chest heaved with each breath, her voice escalating to a piercing pitch that belied her minuscule stature. "No, no, no, look—I've survived 20 years without you in my life; I don't want to be locked up!"

Mike's jaw clenched, his eyes a stormy sea of frustration as they bore down into Lucy's defiant gaze. "You're being ungrateful about this; I saved your life!" His voice rumbled like distant thunder, his irritation clear, yet his ears seemed deaf to the desperate plea in her tone.

"Saving me doesn't mean you own me," Lucy shot back.

Mike's brow furrowed, a silent admission that her words struck deeper than expected. But then Mike's expression hardened, the lines of his face setting like concrete as he towered above her. "I'm done with this conversation," he declared, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument. Without waiting for her reply, he deposited her into the pocket of his boxer shorts.

"Hey!" she protested, the fabric walls of her new prison muffling her outcry. She pushed against the cotton expanse.

Ignoring her, Mike strode across the kitchen, the motion causing Lucy to sway precariously. The scent of his soap mixed with the smell of that was undeniably Mike clung to the material.

The sizzle of bacon meeting the hot pan reached Lucy's ears, followed by the crackle of eggs as they were added to the mix.

"Keep it together, Lucy," she whispered, drawing a slow, steadying breath. Her fingers, nimble and practiced, grasped the hunting knife handle strapped to her thigh.

She inserted the blade into the cotton with surgical precision, feeling the resistance before it gave way, thread by thread. Sawing gently, she carved an escape route, mindful of Mike’s movements as he turned from the stove to retrieve something from the fridge.

The hole grew wider, a window to freedom. And then, with the grace of an acrobat, she eased herself through the gap, dangling momentarily. Her legs swung free, searching for purchase in the air.

"Here goes nothing." With a gulp, she released her hold on the torn fabric, plummeting downward in a controlled fall.

The ground rushed up to meet her, but she rolled with the impact, muscles absorbing the shock. Her triumph was short-lived; the bellow from above signaled that Mike had caught a glimpse of her daring descent.

"Lucy!" His voice boomed, laden with betrayal and concern.

She didn't hesitate, darting across the tiled floor with the speed that only desperate adrenaline could fuel. Mike's shadow loomed, his hands like clumsy cranes swooping down to snatch her back.

"Damn it, Lucy, stop!"

Her world narrowed to the safe wedge of darkness between the counter and fridge. She slipped into the crevice just as his fingers grazed her back.

"Please, come out. We can talk about this!"

Lucy pressed herself further into the shadows. She was no pet, no doll to be tucked away in a grown man's pocket.

"Talk? Like you listened before?" Her voice was a defiant hiss, a serpent ready to strike. "I'm not coming out."

"Lucy, I just want to—"

"Save it!"

Mike sighed heavily, "Fine, Lucy," he muttered, though his voice boomed like distant thunder. "Stay there if you want."

It wasn't until the front door closed with a finality that echoed through the empty space that she dared to move.

Creeping out from her sanctuary, Lucy's gaze landed on the plate left on the floor. It was a feast by any borrower's standards, piled high with bacon and eggs, steam still curling up from the freshly cooked meal. Her stomach growled.

"Thinks he can bribe me with breakfast," she scoffed quietly, eyes narrowing as she approached the offering with suspicion etched into her features.

Yet, as she poked at the eggs, she found no sign of tampering. Just the rich aroma of yolk and the savory tang of bacon.

"Ugh, damn it," she grumbled, giving in to her hunger. Biting into the bacon, the crunch was satisfyingly loud in her ears. Next, she tore off a piece of egg with her hands.

With her belly full, Lucy pondered her next move. Part of her wanted to flee this place and never look back. But the indignity of how Mike had treated her still burned. She wouldn't let him get away with it that easily.

No, she would stay right here, in the walls and crevices of Mike's home. She'd show him just how capable she was of caring for herself. And maybe she'd play a trick or two just to teach him a lesson about caging up borrowers.

Lucy smiled to herself. This could be fun. With that, she slipped into a nearby vent, ready to begin her new life of borrowing and pranking. Mike had no idea what was coming.

Sneaking through the vents and walls, Lucy scoped out the perfect spots to set up her new home. She located places to store food, make a cozy sleeping area, and peek into the rooms without being seen.

As she explored, Lucy daydreamed about the mischief she could cause. Filling Mike's shoes with thumbtacks would serve him right for trying to lock her up.

Lucy knew she'd have to be careful, though. Mike was aware of her presence now. He would likely set traps or try to catch her if given the chance. But Lucy was confident in her abilities. After all, she had survived on her own much longer than this giant had even known she existed.

Setting up shop here would let her prove she didn't need Mike's "help." And it would be satisfying to show him just how capable she was. With a determined grin, Lucy began making this place her new home. She was ready for this fun challenge of outsmarting the human at his own game.

Author: I imagine this turns into a friendlier version of Tom and Jerry. Lucy pulls pranks on Mike and avoids capture, and Mike tries to capture her safely. Eventually, as time passes, they become friends. Mike sees that he didn't treat her right to begin with. He feels bad, so he starts to leave peace offerings to her.

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

¤~°Testify°~¤

-

《Chapter 7 Based》

_

You felt like shit.

You swallow your cries, wallowing outside of Ramshackle. The floorboard creaking under you as your knees buckle underneath your weight. Dropping un-gracefully on the steps of your dorm.

Gazing up at the dotted sky, you swore you saw green lighting near by.

Playing it off as your imagination, you focused on the sky.

Each little light, you trace them in your mind to make a shape. You laughed at a few images you made. One being a rose, the other a octopus with glasses.

The last one however, made you want to vomit and cry at the same time.

What you saw in the stars was Yuu, smiling brightly with you and the first year squad. With poor, sweet Grim swiping at Ace's air while Yuu trying to stop him.

Looking away, you let your fingers tap on the wood of the stairs. Creating a small rhythm to pass the time and hopefully forget what happened between you and Yuu.

"Children of.."

Quickly gazing up at the new voice. You find yourself staring at the bright emerald eyes of Malleus Draconia.

A soft green glow illuminated his visage. His lips pulled into a frown while his head had a small tilt. He was curious, from what you could tell.

Most of the time, it was Yuu and you.

Sometimes you and him, where'd you wait impatiently and smother him in laughter and shy affectionate touches. (Hugs and hand holding.)

So, in his many years of living, it suprised him. To see someone like you, "down in the dumps", as Lilia says.

"(Y/N), what is the matter?"

The dark fae questioned, slowly sitting down beside you, wanting you to understand you better. His firefly protectors buzzing about right next to you.

"Malleus... Have you ever felt as if.. No, have you.. Ahhhhhgg!"

You scream, pulling at your hair frustratingly.

With widen eyes Malleus pulls your hands away from your scalp.

"(Y/N), your acting differently today. What is the matter?"

He stated calmly, with hints of authority in his voice. His hands squeezing your own in mid-air. You let out a shaky breath, trying to pull yourself together before the wall that was holding in your tears broke.

"I'm.. I'm scared. Okay..?"

"Of?" Malleus asked gently, lowering your hands on your lap as he traced small soothing circles on your palms. A technique you had shown him many nights before.

"Losing.. I'm scared of losing Yuu, my friends, you.."

You say quietly, your hands becoming clammy and jittery by the minute.

"Yuu.. Yuu thinks that this talking mouse in the mirror of Ramshackle is gonna take us home.. But what if.."

"If..?"

"What if that isn't our home, what if Yuu only finds a way home and I can't? Or if there home doesn't exist?! I don't think Yuu should take a risk like that! I don't think I... Could take a risk like that."

You croak out, grasping his shirt collar without a ounce of fear. Hoping for a answer, a sentence, a word, something to calm your racing heart!

Malleus only sighs, caressing your hair carefully as your fingers lose their grip. Your body becoming lax in his hold. Mind fuzzy and mushy as the sound of sweet humming filled your head.

Tears roll down your face as they make contact with Malleus bright green uniform.

With little strength your foggy mind had left. You remember what happened between you and Yuu.

-

"(Y/N), this could be our chance!" Yuu exclaimed excitedly, "if Micky knows where our home is, we can-!"

"-Yuu, what if he's wrong?"

Yuu stops prancing around the parlor room, staring at you.

"What do you mean? He can't be-"

"Yuu, you can't just trust, this-this mouse? What happens if he's lying to you. You can't take that chance!"

"I have to, I need to find a way back home! I need to remember who I am!" Yuu yelled.

"Aren't you willing to take that chance? I thought you would of all people would understand!"

"I.. I..Can't." You whimper, your head overwriting your heart.

"I'm not just gonna stand by and trust some stranger that says he knows how to get home. And it's stupid that you do!" You shout, gasping after as you cover your mouth.

Shocked at a teary-eyed Yuu, shaking in place as they lower their eyes to the floor.

Yuu doesn't say anymore, running out of Ramshackle quickly, shutting the wood door hard after.

"I'm sorry.."

-

《Let these thorns ensnare your heart until you can fully be mine.》

-

[Chapter seven here we come... Comments, hearts, reblogs and asks are welcomed! Enjoy!]

[seraphimaa]

Baptised and Born Anew

Raphael x Tav/Reader Haarlep is there too! But nobody ever lets him have any fun

Tav has committed the ultimate sin in Raphael’s eyes. She has betrayed his trust. He will do what he needs to forgive her.

Warnings: gore, eye gore, torture, non con, this is gross, death, resurrection, sadism, sucky sucky, Raphael does love you in his own demented way if that makes it better, far too much religious symbolism and in all the worst ways, authors religious trauma is showing, DDDNE

She couldn’t breathe. She was sinking. Perhaps she was willing to let go then. God above, everything ached. Memories fleeted at the edges of her mind. The Hammer. Hope. Raphael. Was this death? It was actually kind of peaceful. She was so close to Him now, so close to His sweet salvation. She felt number than she had a moment ago. Was this His mercy? Was it His hand reaching for her from above?

Something snatched her hair and the momentary peace is shattered as she was wrenched, spluttering above the surface.

“YOU RAT!”

She was a room, wet and shivering. In a pool? Raphael’s pool. In his house. She was there. And that’s where he was too. Tav had seen anger in many forms, seen the rage of many men at their end, but this…This was ineffable. His face was twisted past what she imagined it could be. He stood waist deep in the water, panting and seething and whatever he roared next was muffled as he plunged her back below the surface, hard. She would have been unconscious after her head clattered against the tiling, if it weren’t for the constant, cool healing seeping into the pores of her skin. After what felt like an eternity, he wrenched her up again. Her nose was twisted at an angle and she had a few less teeth than she should have. She barely had time to gasp a breath before he sent her under.

She didn’t know how long he kept at it. He’d set a furious pace, slamming her head under and out of the water again and again. Between the furious splashing and her own choking and gasping she could hear that he was hadn’t stopped his passionate sermon.

Up.

“HOW DARE-“

Under.

Up.

“AFTER EVERYTH-“

Under.

Up.

“WISH TOU WERE DEA-“

Under.

Up.

“DEGENERATE REPROBA-“

Under.

Up.

“YOUR PURGATORY-“

Under.

Up.

“FOREVERMORE-“

Under.

The thought that this was how she would go - lungs bursting, and the inertia oh his movements she tipped her into insanity and she emptied her stomach of its bile. The hand left her head and she pushed off of the bottom of the pool and surged for the lip, scrambling onto the marble. She rolled into her back, panting and delirious. Maybe if she ran for the balcony she could end it quickly. She would take the grace of purgatory, anything but this. She steeled herself, ready to take this one last shot at mercy and snapped her eyes open only to shriek in horror.

Raphael’s face was but an inch from hers, wearing an insidious, by playful, smile. It was sinister and the sudden 180 had her head spinning.She wished she could have sunk down and be swallowed by the floor helping to trap her.

“Oh. hello again, little mouse.” The purring cadence let her answer her first question. “It seems you’ve been all but caught in a pair of very big bad claws. How very sad.” He could at least pretend to look sincere, tail wagging with excitement and beady eyes glowing with mischief in the dark. “You have managed to make the master unusually…irate. I think now would be a good time to remind you that I made you such a generous offer before. One, I believe, you may soon regret declining. Was it worth it, mouse? Was your faith worth all that pleasure you denied yourself? Wounded yourself with? I could smell your suffering.” But if this was Haarlep, there’s where was…

She shrieked again as Haarlep was yanked away and her view was replaced by Raphael’s dark visage. The shadows and wrinkles cast his face demonically in the soft glow. He’d stripped off his soggy clothes and she could see every muscle in his body was pulled taught and quivering, like a tight strung bow - he was ready to snap. He tackled her as she lunged to the open fluttering curtains and threw himself on top, shuffling his knees until all she could see was him. A clawed hard snatched for her face, gouging deep into her cheek as she threw her head wildly to either side, braying in terror. He wrestled her with ease and pried her jaw open so wide that her bones creaked in protest.

“I’m warning you right now, you vile beast. If you bite me, I’ll remove your remaining teeth one by one.” All at once her mouth was filled with his fat member, the shock of it almost flipping her tongue backwards. Even soft, it filled her throat and blocked off her air. Little ridges and texturing scraped at her mouth as he forced it into her gasping mouth.

He let out a puff as he began to harden.

“You know what you are, Tav?” She doesn’t. She doesn’t know anything.

“You are a Judas.”

She gagged as his cock kept growing inside of her. She really did regret it. Every movement from the incubus would have been designed to bring her pleasure and disarm any uncertainty, filling her with the sweet lies of love and worship. This was not that. This was penance. He was going to make this as unpleasant as he could, she knew it. Her throat burned raw as he thrust deep and methodical into her, his cock slippery with the drooling blood that filled her mouth and puddled the floor.

“A Brutus.”

Her eyes blinked back to the balcony and she shuddered prone as she met glowing cat irises in the dark, to her side. Haarlep was bent to the floor, ass up and tail flickering. He looked agitated.

“Master, can I come play too?” His whining was ignored by the fiend. “Master, please? I helped you catch this one.” Raphael sneered even deeper and pinched fingers over her nostrils, causing her to thrash like a fish under his weight as he bottomed out in her wrenched, vile mouth. “If I can’t join can I at least hold her for you, master? I’m hungry.” The cambion hissed and took a moment to collect himself, less even more of his toys end up broken tonight.

“Harlot. If I hear one more sound from you before this night is through, I swear I will personally drag you down to the deepest layers of the Abyss and shove you back under whatever cursed rock you sprouted legs and crawled up from under. Am I making myself perfectly clear.” By the time his focus returned to the cretin, she had turned blue, eyes streaming and snot smeared down her chin.

Vile. Disgusting.

He let go of her airway and rose to his feet. A few kicks and he had rolled her back into the crystalline water.

“You, Tav, my dear. You are a little fucking ephialtes.” She’s pulled up and hard against his naked body, as he crouched over her like a predator. “The snake that collapses the empire.” He hissed like a snake into her ear.

“I tried to be so kind. I tried to give you everything but, you, my sweet, are so cruel. A beast of burden who can only reach salvation through a God of the same nature. If my generosity won’t cure you of your moral folly perhaps my cruelty will be more convincing.”

He’s pushed her down to kneel in the water, kneeling with her like a holy man.

“I will cleave your soul from body until I have purified it of your putrid sin. As many times as it takes. I have to forgive you, Tav. I must. By my hand your eyes will see anew. You mind will be reformed. You will come back to me pure. You will step into my kingdom in a state befitting my forgiveness. By my unholy baptism, you will be reborn.”

His cock bobbed in front of her trembling lips and he wrapped his claws around her head and drove his hips forward. She filled her lungs as quickly as she could, but it stuttered in her chest then left in her a shriek as it veered up and sank deep into the socket of her eye. He hissed as the pupil popped and squelched around his tip. The girl stiffened like a cadaver under him, her face hung slack at the mercy of shock. He took advantage of her dissociative compliance and thrust deeper into the resisting flesh, feeling the delicate bone of her socket snap and pop to accommodate him.

With each determined thrust, he carved a sheath for himself into the alien flesh of her brain. The temple that housed her, defiled and smited. His phallus carving away the spoiled meat that festered deep in her liar’s chair. She babbled and slurred incoherently under him, almost like a prayer. When he bludgeoned his way into the bone cradle at the seat of her skull, she jerked once then slackened in his grip. Not slowing his pace, he leaned and dunked her fully into the water, watching it bloom like cherry wine. It rushed to fill the sunken gape, and with each thrust of his hips, more of the water, healing and holy, took hold and grew her anew around him. He cock became sheathed in new flesh, pure and untouched. He ruined that too. He wasn’t done yet. Her lips moved in murmur against his watery thighs, tickling the flesh. He cared not for her gurgling and ranting.

It burned. It seared, then she didn’t felt anything at all - other than cold. She was freezing. She blinked around the room, her one working eye capturing only blurred smears of red and blue and then, all it once it snapped to black. She wasn’t sure is she was howling and keening like a dog or if her ears were just ringing. The dull thud thud thud of her heart was the only thing she could understand in the chaos.

The water bathing her soaked the edges of the incomprehensible agony enough for her to experience it fully. She kept repeating the only words she could find.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

She doesn’t know why or for who. Everything was ringing, and bells, and electricity, and ice and strange grunting animals then nothing. All at once like the rush of a cataclysmic orgasm, everything stops and nothing had ever felt so good. This was her rapture.

He shuddered, grunting as he emptied himself deep into the cavern of her skull. He dropped her into the pool and collapsed back with a mighty splash. He sucked in breaths like he was drowning with her, bobbing face down in that murky drink too. Her curls danced and swam around her, circling her christened skull like a halo. Lumps of her pale heathen flesh bobbed like petals. His sacrament was complete.

“Are you finished? Can I have a turn now? You didn’t even use the good holes.” With a snap of his fingers, the harlot was banished.

He waded through the water towards her, much like he had before. His face, however, was filled this time with nothing but rapt reverence. She would awaken soon and he wanted to be ready.

His queen, most sacred, willing to live and die for her sins - for him. She will live again in his kingdom come. With her holy spirit she will bring life to son, just as she had brought life to father before. Never to stray from his path. His holiest of vessels.

A/N: you did it! Yippee! I honestly can’t apologise enough for this degenerate filth but maybe you’re just as fucked as me if you made it this far lol. I want to write a long fic but thought I’d test my hand at some short snippets of scenes I envision in it. Idk what it is about Raphael that sets my religious trauma snarling and feral.

Almost entirely inspired by the lyrics to Raphael by CocoRosie.

“Raphael you know just how

To take me in the swimming pool

Like a child being baptised.

Beneath the starry skies

Drowning in your watery thighs

Don’t speak I can hear you.

Don’t speak I can hear you.”

[wiinestories]

@wrathfulmercy answered:

A bright and mischievous smirk appeared on his lips while he leaned forward on the counter of the bar so she would hear him better. “Only if it is worth it.” And he knew it was worth it cause Rick had noticed her badge from miles ago. It could never harm to have more allies on the other side of law especially if they were as gorgeous as her and might be able to fight his demons of solitude at night. At least for a while.

With a wink he pulled back again and reached for his bourbon and take another sip while the blue eyes never left hers that reflected the dimmed bar lights so beautifully in this moment. “But don’t worry, I won’t bother you any further if it is your wish to be left alone.” Carelessly he slipped from his bar stool to stand with his back to her, but his head turnt over his shoulder to send her another playful smile. Yeah, he knew the the cat and mouse game they were playing here all to well and maybe he even enjoyed it a little too much. “If you desire some company or saving though at any time, just let me know. There are dangerous people out here sometimes.” And he could be the most dangerous in the room without her knowledge.

There was an undeniable allure about this man that compelled Ava to delve deeper into his mysterious persona. While for many, crossing the friendly barrier with someone associated with law enforcement posed a risky venture, others expressed a disdainful attitude toward them. Yet, Ava found herself drawn to him, intrigued by the enigma he presented. The man possessed a soft, innocent visage that defied the stereotype of a criminal. His gentle features contradicted any notion of wrongdoing. Appearances could easily deceive, however, and that was a phrase that was attached to anyone within the force. The badge didn't seem to scare away this man, though, which was what left the blonde intrigued. Gaze slightly narrowed at the answer he provided, ignoring the coffee she had ordered to lean back against her seat.

Her body shifted gracefully on the seat, her full attention now focused entirely on him. He had undoubtedly captured her interest, particularly with the captivating smile that adorned his features. "Wait," Ava requested, interrupting him shortly after he subtly extended his invitation for company. "You haven't told me your name. It's common courtesy to give it." That last line was let out playfully while she got up from her seat.

"I'm Officer Ava Deschamps." She introduced herself, a smile gracing her lips as she studied the man, her eyes resembling pools of ocean. "What do you mean about dangerous people? Is there something I should be aware of?" Despite the casual tone of their interaction, her professional instincts remained keen, her badge a constant reminder of her duty to gather any pertinent information that could aid her in her job.

[kriz-fics]

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Twelve: Blood and Knights

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 8.5K

CW: Graphic violence, YN being horny (not graphic, unfortunately. Not yet, at least ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) )

Tut-tut, it looks like rain.

The fact of which does not please the more uppity lords, Eren observes, eyes flickering from one delicate man to the next and trying not to let his disdain bleed into his features. That little mouse of a man, Anton Taran, looks as skittish as the pest he resembles; the Procurator’s small watery eyes dart to the sky above and back to the orating king, hands behind his back and bouncing ever so lightly on his heels, eager to scamper into his nice and dry hole before the sky breaks. Proctor Nick is little better standing next to him. The slight curl of his lip and the way those deep-set eyes sweep out across the grounds and into the gray above gives away his sentiments about the weather. Near the center of the line of councilmen Willy Tybur stands beside Lord Grisha, mouth set in a thin line as he looks upon the proceedings with his best approximation of the courtier’s hollow face stamped upon his highbred visage. Like his fellows, he is showing undue interest in the ether and their environs. It cannot have been any plainer that these men are in a tizzy to make an end of things quickly.

It is not as if they don’t have a bloody canopy above their feeble heads. Even the king and his son seem made of sterner stuff. The Prince of Crownglen Urklyn Reiss is standing upon the covered stage at the center of the newly rebuilt village, grave and regal, as his father Rod Reiss I holds forth at the front of the platform. The royal pair does not give two shits about the weather, which is more than can be said for their prickly underlings. 

What is a little rain upon their noble bodies? It is only water.

Eren shifts a little in his place within the squires’ row, the weight of plate and mail upon his person a familiar load, comforting even. He and his peers are standing below the stage to the right, close enough at hand to their masters should they have the unfortunate need to be squired for that day. The masters, barring the Lord Commander, are standing below the stage to the front, a forbidding barrier between the highborn and the low.

The royal pair, the Conclave, the lords Skaryn and Halkin, and the guards -  the Royal Guard among them - are the only ones of the court in attendance at the royal pardon. The rest of the nobility are at Merrydell, awaiting their coming so they may feast and celebrate the end of the Northern Matter beneath the Skaryns’ roof in the company of those who have been pardoned.

Mossreach is unrecognizable from the desolation it had been half a year ago. The burnt-out husks and the dead buried beneath snow and crows have been cleared away. Banners of a dozen colors flutter everywhere, green and red, maroon and white, purple, purple most of all from the royal standards flying the royal sigil: the head of the Founding Titan, with its purple eyes large and haunting and flaring, upon a purple field. The cottages that litter the sward are freshly-thatched and new-made, the land green and lush and unburnt. Even its people have been restored.

The king’s speech washes over Eren, something about the Mother’s mercy and the Father’s forgiveness and what other diplomatic tripe his Heralds have taught him to say to appease his malcontent masses.

Which is all well and good, for these ones. The cleared-away dead will beg to differ, their living kin more so. But as they have been banished to their true homes in the Midlands, they can hardly raise a hue and cry. Not that they truly can. Whatever hues and cries they may have raised have fallen on deaf ears, as the grievances of their northern foemen had fallen on deaf ears at the start of all of this.

And thus do the tables turn. So much for the Father’s justice. Rows of northmen face the platform, eyes trained on their king. Some are tall, some are short, some young, some old, some slight and some stout, yet somehow, they all look the same in Eren��s eyes. It is the hardness in their bearing, the hardness of the North, the same hardness he sees in Robert the Lawyer, who is standing beside the Crown Prince with that proud mien blazing like his red robes. Even their elderly, their women, and their children have traces of it, Eren can see as he watches them stand at the fringes of it all, every bit as stony as their men. Hard lands breed a hard folk. 

Admiration rises in him, despite all. They may have escaped justice for the lives they took so savagely yet there is something laudable about the way they fought for what is theirs by rights. Had the crown set out to crush them at the very onset of their offensive, Eren knows they would be hard-pressed to smash them down. They are the sort of foe he can enjoy pushing against, a foe strong of will and might.

Willy Tybur turns his head a fraction, to look towards the bordering woods for the hundredth time. Eren follows his gaze and looks upon the fount of his greatest shame. He feels his insides shrivel up at the memory but forces himself to hold and keep his eyes fixed on the green. 

Half a year gone and still it will not leave him no matter how much he thinks he has put it behind him. He wonders if he will ever truly be free of it and feels cold. The prospect of carrying that weight for the rest of his life is not an appealing one. I’ll rid myself of it for good and all no matter what it takes. He will know when to stop moving when needs must. Redemption is not beyond him yet.

A shadow stirs within the trees. Eren narrows his eyes, squinting at the treeline. Shades? But shades shine silver…

Ping!

The sky breaks at last, and Eren inwardly scowls as the fat droplets batter his helm, filling his ears to bursting with the endless clangor of ringing steel. He will be deaf by day’s end, like as not, with a splitting headache to boot. He would have removed the helm yet etiquette demands it stays on. This is not the first he’s worn steel in such weather yet he always removes the headpiece when not in active combat; he’d rather suffer the torrent full-on than go mad from that metallic racket.

Dusk seems to fall early today and the loud crashing of the rain upon them all only adds to the din inside his head. The world shrinks to his helm. Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping. So when the men come boiling out of the woods, their war cries one with the storm, Eren can only stare, uncomprehending.

Screams join the discordant symphony, and then madness besets them all.

Bodies are flying everywhere, men, women, and children all a-flutter like a flock of startled pigeons in some park, seeking to evade the oncoming attackers. They need not have bothered with that very convincing display; the raiders give them no more heed than Eren would an ant beneath his feet and flow right through them as water flows through rock.

Battle is joined moments later and there is no more thought, only the ancient animal wisdom of the flesh that tells him to move.

To be still is to die.

And he is moving, running, running toward his master with his sword in hand. A man looms out of the wet like a leviathan from the deep but Eren bulls forward with nary a pause. The outlaw bellows and swings down his hammer; Eren dodges aside, and his blade punches through leather, steel, and flesh. He pulls his sword free, feeling the steel scrape bone, and is moving once more before the corpse can hit the ground. He dispatches a second and a third man in like manner, and at last he is beside his master, guarding his back as a good squire should.

There is no end to them, these leviathans from the deep. Hardly has he cut down one than another will take his place, and the world tapers down to action and reaction, kill or be killed.

It is sometime later - a minute, an hour, a day - when Eren realizes his master is nowhere to be found. The tide of battle has parted them and there are only enemies. He hacks down across the face of a northman hard, and his head dissolves into bits of brain and bone and blood. Another falls beneath his steel, blood spurting from his open throat. And still they come, again and again and again, until somehow they are not.

The brief respite allows Eren time to take stock of his surroundings properly. He has been driven back to the canopied platform where the king had made his speech. He sweeps his gaze around, hardly sparing the scattered corpses around him a second thought, and watches the chaos of battling men amidst falling rain. He is utterly confounded by it all. They laid down their arms and swore never to take them up again. A faint whimper resounds from somewhere close by, and he turns, eyes widening in shock at the sight of the king huddling beneath the covered stage. Why is he still here? Where are the guards? Eren runs to him at once.

“Your Majesty, you have to get out of here!” he calls over the pouring rain and heaves at the royal arm to get him moving. The king looks up at him with terror in his wide blue eyes, but recognition soon follows and he is moving, meek and unresisting as the son of his Magister guides him away from the horror and the savagery.

They have hardly gone a couple of yards when something rams into them, knocking the king and squire off their feet and sending them sprawling in the mud. Eren rolls onto his back, stunned, the taste of rain and mud heavy on his tongue. The force of the charge had wrenched his sword from his hand and sent his helm flying off his head, though he is hardly given time to mourn the loss.

A man is atop him all of a sudden and silver steel gleams bright and deadly at him out of the murky gloom. There is no time for thought or fear. Eren grabs his foeman’s arm with both hands as it falls toward his face, and their lethal struggle commences. The man claws uselessly at one of his gloved hands, trying to pry his fingers open, but Eren holds on the tighter and pushes, straining with gritted teeth. The blade is all he can see, it is the only thing that exists in the world, the blade and its tip sharp as any needle, any razor… and it is coming ever closer no matter how much he pushes, closer and closer to the center of his forehead…

The northman pulls back an arm, his hand closing into a fist. Eren sees and catches the blow one-handed but near pays for it with an eye. The enemy’s blade slips and slices him clean just above his eyebrow, and the left half of his world goes black as blood drips down his eye. 

There is no pain yet the sensation of steel cutting his flesh sends a shock of clarity through him as though he has been doused with ice-cold water. He manages to get a leg beneath the man’s ribs and knees, hard. That shock of clarity lends strength to his limbs, and the outlaw is tossed aside, wheezing. 

Eren does not wait for him to recover. He scrabbles, half-blind, in the mud for his sword, feels relief - sweet, blessed relief - course through him as his fingers brush against something hard and metallic. Footsteps splash behind him and he does not pause to think. He strikes, his sword swinging out in a perfect arc, and his foeman falls back into the mud to rise no more. Eren leaves him there, with half his entrails spilling out onto the watery ground, to search for his king.

He finds him where he first saw him, beneath the wooden scaffolding of the stage. They had not gone very far before the dead man accosted them. “Your Majesty, it’s all right, I can keep you safe,” Eren avows, reaching for his liege. The smell of fear bears toward him and it smells of piss, faint and dampened by the rain yet wholly recognizable, as the king holds onto him with surprising strength. Eren pays it no heed. Piss, shit, blood, and sweat, the soldier learns to tolerate all, even the foulest of stenches. It is the stink of battle, and delicate men with delicate noses do not long survive in the field. The king is well within his rights to piss in terror. 

His Majesty and his acting guard once again make for safer ground, though where that is Eren does not know. Still the rain pours down in ceaseless buckets, and it welds his left eye close. There is as yet no pain but he knows that is not a good thing; he is not even sure the bleeding has stopped entirely. They have to get to safety and soon. For loathe though he is to admit it, something deep, deep down inside him recognizes that he is in no good state to be fighting much longer, with half his vision compromised such as it is. The king will not be harmed under his watch, gods help him.

Men dart around them, friend and foe both, their footsteps churning the red-brown mud into a frothing boil. Eren surveys the gray village as best he can with only one eye, looking for the royal congregation, or better yet a temple so they may claim the right of sanctuary…

The gods are with him, and he almost sinks to his knees in relief at the sight of a temple at the borders of the village - ruined, crumbled, blackened with fire but still a temple, and still well-placed to grant them safety by all the laws of the land.

Pain, red pain erupts up his right arm, and he drops his sword to the muddy ground. An arrow, he thinks with mild surprise as he stares down at the shaft protruding from his armored limb. It had punched through the plate as though it is nothing more than silk. Now where had he seen that before? And since when did they start using arrows? He does not have the chance to ruminate.

An outlaw is before him and his liege once more, axe raised to cleave one or the both of them in two. They are endless and everywhere, these outlaws, like fucking roaches. Distantly, Eren hears what sounds like the king bleat out, “Oh, gods be good,” as Eren shoves his royal person behind him to protect him, uselessly, with his body.

A foot of red-tipped steel bursts from the northman’s mouth like some grotesque tongue. His eyes widen and turn glassy in quick succession, and the axe tumbles from his hands. His pointed tongue retreats from his bloodied maw and his corpse falls to reveal Sir Levi Ackerman. The cycle of relief giving way to tension and back again is turning Eren’s head around, yet he is pleased to see his master all the same.

Sir Levi’s eyes flash from his face toward his injured arm and his mouth tightens. “Get the king to the temple, most of our men have taken sanctuary there. Me and the rest will throw the outlaws back. Go!”

For one mad moment, Eren wants to argue. He can still fight, still hold his own, yet the way his master’s eyes blaze up at him gives him pause. His arm is worse than useless now and better still he is half-blind, he will only get in the way. And he has the king to protect, a king who is in very real peril of being savaged if he insists on continuing the way he is now. His pigheadedness will spill royal blood in his hands, a much more dire consequence than a Lord Commander’s missing arm.

The king will not be harmed under his watch. 

Eren swallows, bites his tongue, and nods jerkily. He stirs the petrified king onward, favoring his right arm, and lets the others put the outlaws to flight.

“Any luck with Halkin and Skaryn?”

His sire sighs, unendingly weary. “I hardly think this is the right time and place to speak of politics.”

But, Father, the weather and my happy domestic affairs hardly make for scintillating conversation. Zeke turns away from the dark world outside the wrought iron window to glance at Lord Grisha in his seat beside the canopied bed. “Well, since we’ve thoroughly exhausted the topic of our dear youngest here, we had as well talk about matters of import.”

Their dear youngest is lying upon his chartered bed, soused in poppy and utterly dead to the world. Yet he lives to see another day, thank the gods, Zeke thinks, watching his little brother sleep and recover his strength. His fever has broken at last, a very promising sign, assures Healer Dmitriy. The youngest Jaeger is well past danger now, and his wounds are healing cleanly.

There had been a scare of festering and the possible loss of a limb yet the Healers worked their craft and they moved beyond that. Fresh poulticed bandages bind Eren’s arm and cover the left side of his brow, the fall of dark hair over his face stark against the white linen. He looks younger, as innocent as he is like to get at this age, more the boy of six of Zeke’s youth and less the young man of sixteen he has quickly grown to be.

In the end, only the scars should remain. And his knighthood. Scars and near-death for that honor, that is how you come into it. Eren will be well-compensated for his leal service.

He is luckier than some, to be sure. Good men were lost that day. “Any word yet on the new Guardsmen?” Zeke persists when his father keeps his peace. Most times silence comes easy between them; sometimes, Zeke even preferrs it so, yet silence of late is an uncomfortable thing. He has somehow tied it to Eren’s state. If they keep quiet, then surely Eren will weaken and pass away into the Fields. His brother must hear their voices, if only so he can have an anchor to the living. Zeke does not know why he insists when Eren is finally out of the weeds. But it is true what they say about habits.

The quiet snaps and pops of the fire are the only things to be heard as Grisha stares at him a moment through his lenses. The light of the flickering hearthflames reflects off the fine Rhoseine glass, only to give way to the green pools beneath. Eren has inherited those eyes, the Jaeger eyes. Zeke is a Fritz through and through, blue and gold and fair. And yet they insist he is his father in gold.

“Some candidates have been chosen,” Lord Grisha says at length. “The squires of two fallen, Bertolt Hoover and Conrad Springer. They are set to replace their former masters. No word yet for the other two replacements but some names have been put forward.”

“Our younger Eren would have jumped at the chance.” Zeke gazes down fondly at his sleeping brother once more. “I’ve always wondered what made him change his mind.”

His father chuckles, a rare sound these days. “I was surprised he reconsidered at all, not that it was such a terrible thing. There are other ways to win honor for himself and his House. Left him open to the marriage market, at least.”

Speak of the marriage market… His little lady will want to know she can visit him at last. Zeke had caught the poor thing hovering around thereabouts near every day since they brought Eren in. It will enliven the lad to see his betrothed. They seem to be sweeter on each other at present, Zeke is pleased to see.

“As to Skaryn and Halkin…” Lord Grisha sighs and rubs his eyes beneath his spectacles. “I’ll continue to lobby for their families. If execution is in the fates of Valko Skaryn and Yuri Halkin, then so be it, but to extend that punishment to their whole lines?” He rubs at his temples, his horror at the thought well and truly palpable. “To their wives and children and brothers and cousins… it is too much. Too much. I cannot let that stand.”

His Majesty had been sore wroth when he had recovered from the terror of his ordeal. The lords Skaryn and Halkin were arrested, accused of treason and attempted regicide. Both have been attainted, stripped of all lands, titles, and incomes, and sentenced to death by beheading. But that is not to be enough for the king. In his wrath, Rod Reiss has declared, in no uncertain terms, his desire to see both men’s lines ended. Every man, woman, and child who bear the name of Skaryn and Halkin shall be expunged. Even those merely married to the name found no mercy. Rod Reiss wants them gone, gone.

Zheletov, too, felt the flames of royal fury. Hundreds of Zhelevic were arrested, those outlaws who did not manage to flee further North. All have been sentenced to hang. Rumor has it that the king means to hang their families as well, to teach the North a sharp lesson in slaughter. Robert of Feyhill, the head of the northern faction and the mind behind all, is to be hanged, drawn, and quartered - a fate reserved for the vilest of traitors. A charge he still vehemently denies even at the rack.

What should have been a moment of festive reconciliation became naught but dross. The court is silent, reeling in the enormity of it all.

“Eren saved his life, he should grant me a boon, at least,” Lord Grisha murmurs, more to himself than to his eldest, who stares at him then at his brother, who lays oblivious to his burgeoning role as leverage and potential savior of the lines of Skaryn and Halkin.

Zeke supposes it is only fitting for his knightly brother. What are knights for but for the saving of innocent lives?

“His fever broke last night, my lady, you can see him at last.”

You have never heard anything sweeter.

“Oh, thank the gods.” You smooth down your crimson dress, making sure all is in order. He has not laid eyes on you for four days, you had best be presentable. And pretty, you must be pretty, a girlish voice whispers, which you hastily tamp down. As if he’ll care overmuch about such matters, not after his ordeal. A silver shield burnished to a mirror sheen is hanging from the wall opposite you. Surreptitiously, you brush back a stray lock that has escaped from your braids. All in order, you think, pleased, as you stare at your somewhat distorted reflection. Some effort will not be amiss, surely.

Healer Dmitriy knocks upon the wooden door to announce himself before opening it and entering. Aly the Cat slips inside at once; distantly, you hear your betrothed utter a pleased exclamation of the creature’s name. You feel your heart thrum faster. Your fingers twine themselves around each other against your fluttering tummy. He sounds well. That is good. 

“My lord, the Lady Rhyzkova is without and wishes to see you,” you hear the young priest say, his voice partly muffled by the half-closed door. The note of excitement in Eren’s voice as he bids the Healer to let you in makes you smile.

It is comfortably warm inside the chamber. A fire crackles merrily in the stone hearth before the canopied bed, inadvisable for a southron summer but perfectly acceptable for a northern one. Two bone-white velvet armchairs are arrayed before the fireplace. A table laden with what looks like the tools of the Healers’ trade - physic, rolls of bandages, and herbs of the medicinal sort - is sitting between the loungers. The brown linen curtains of the tall wrought iron windows are pulled back, illuminating the room with pale, watery sunshine and giving the place an airy countenance.

A green smell, the smell of herbs and plant life, pervades all. You find yourself breathing in deeply as you enter, your first few footsteps tapping lightly on the polished marble floor, yet all vanish as you lay eyes upon your wounded knight. The white hangings on his bed are tied back, revealing his form. He is sitting up, at least, with a wide grin on his bandaged face, his left eye swollen half-shut beneath the poultice. You would not have known he was ailing and lifeless for the better part of four days by his demeanor. Ginger Aly is curled up on his blanketed lap, eyes closed contently as Eren runs languid fingers over his short fur.

Your knight is awake, and smiling at you, and so wonderfully alive.

“How are you feeling?” you murmur as you sit on his bed by his legs. A flash of dark blue cloth sweeps by from the corner of your vision, but you do not pay it heed. Eren and his well-being come first.

He opens his mouth to answer but frowns almost at once. You mirror his expression and are about to ask what is wrong when he speaks. “Everything’s fine, Healer Dima, you may leave us.”

The straw-haired Healer in question freezes in the act of settling himself down upon one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. Nerves and uncertainty play across his thin features for half a heartbeat before he reaches some sort of resolution and sits down determinedly. “Oh, no, please do not mind me. Someone must needs stay to keep an eye on… your health. Just because your fever has broken doesn’t mean you’re not susceptible to a relapse.”

“Oh, in that case, your presence is a much welcome one indeed, Healer,” you say rapidly, as Eren makes to say something, something undoubtedly rude to judge by the look on his face. He curls his lip at your interruption but subsides once you shake your head at him a little. Let him be.

Healer Dmitriy smiles, relieved. “Very good, my lady. See, you’ll hardly notice I’m here.” He reaches into one voluminous dark blue sleeve and pulls out a small book - a missal of The Light of the Creed, the new faith’s holiest text, you see, catching a glimpse of the twelve-rayed sun of the Creed on the book’s black leather cover. The priest opens the primer and promptly vanishes within its pages.

Of course a godly, dutiful man like him will insist on playing governess, you realize belatedly. It had not occurred to you until you saw him glance from you to Eren with an expression of abject worry. He can hardly leave a young maid alone with a half-naked young man in his chambers.

For the young man is very much half-naked. You feel your mouth go dry as the realization hits you hard. You cannot understand how that detail eluded you. “I see you’ve made a new friend,” you gesture at little Aly on Eren’s lap, a ditch effort to distract yourself, and fail miserably. That only brings further attention to his hard, incredibly ridged stomach. Oh, gods above.

Eren stares down fondly at the cat, oblivious to your ogling. “We only properly met this morning but we’re fast friends now,” he laughs as the ginger tom rises and stretches, then proceeds to rub up against his Healer’s charge, purring loudly. Never have you wanted to trade places with a cat so badly in your entire life.

Suddenly, looking your betrothed in the eye becomes an endeavor of utmost difficulty, not when you want to look elsewhere. You have seen your fair share of half-naked men. Comely men and homely ones, paragons as sculpted as statues and pigs shuffling along like sacks of suet, you have seen them all. You never lack for those in summery Vascalin, where the sight of them is so common as to be unremarkable. But a half-naked Eren is a veritable god to their mere mortal flesh.

You peer up at him from beneath your lashes as Aly occupies his attention for the nonce. He is beautifully well-made. You have always suspected it to be so; some of his tunics show off his shape well, and he oft wears his daily linens with the laces undone, allowing one to get a glimpse of an expansive, defined chest. To see all of that bared before you to prove the truth of your fancies is astounding.

His shoulders, broad and striking, lead down to strong, sinewy arms. The bandage wrapped around the right limb flaunts the roundness of the muscle and stands stark against his tanned skin. A tiny cluster of leech marks speckles the skin beneath his dressings yet they do nothing to diminish the smooth perfection of his limb. His chest is as wide and well-muscled; verily, his torso is a vision, each muscle as sharply etched as though he is cut from stone.

Some other girl is giggling madly deep down inside. You feel like a bitch in heat. The thought near makes the mad laughter bubble up your throat but you quell it quickly. And then you make the singular error of allowing your eyes to follow the sloping trail of chiseled muscle beneath the blankets and almost choke on air. The expected sight of the waist of his pants is nowhere in evidence.

Gods be good, is he naked under there?! 

You squirm and press your legs together on your seat. You cannot have asked for better fodder for your fantasies. Suddenly, you can hear him, hear the deep, sultry cadence of his voice asking you if you will let him sate his lusts with you, feel the hard, chiseled torso press close against you as he leaned down to kiss you… Poxy Duty had robbed you of that kiss. More’s the pity. You wonder what it will feel like, to be trapped beneath that god-like body as freed of clothing as he is now, feel his heat and his skin bound you as you lay below him helpless but to take his lust and his amorous attentions…

Gods help you, lass, the lad is injured and just escaped death by the skin of his teeth. It does not do to entertain such unbecoming ideas. You’re worse than a dockside slut, you admonish yourself as heat courses through your whole body at the turn of your thoughts. There are better things to occupy yourself with than his magnificent body. His health is what matters most.

“Hey.”

You start at the sound of his voice and do not immediately meet his gaze. You hope to all the gods, both old and new, that your face is not a mirror of your desire. That is a discussion that can keep; your priestly governess will be shocked to his soul should he have the slightest inkling of what had flounced through your head these past few moments.

“Hey,” Eren says again, reaching out to lay a hand on your forearm. The touch comes lightly, so very lightly, yet the way it burns is anything but. You meet his eyes at last. “Are you all right? You look strange.” His concerned frown gives way to a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, see, healthy as a horse.” He wrinkles his nose at the idiom, making you giggle. “I’m well past danger now. The wound’s not going to fester, there’s no poison in my blood, I’m fine and whole. You don’t need to worry so much.”

“Thank the gods,” you breathe, instantly snatching at that sentiment. It is not as if you aren’t worried about him, but best have him construe your conflicted expression as concern instead of lust. This is not the time for lust. “Speak of the gods,” you smile down at Aly, who has padded over to you, seeking affection, “you are blessed indeed. Lady Alyrya has been with you this whole time.” Cats are sacred to the Gardener, but none more so than the ginger tabby.

“It’s a nice thought, that-”

“Oh!”

There is a great tug, and your hand flies to your chest as the laces of your bodice come undone. It will seem that Aly is feeling a little too neglected. Or desirous of yarn. You hold the tom fast as you unhook his claws from the crimson cords, your face smarting a little in mortification.

“Oh, dear.” Healer Dmitriy flaps over to the bed, the tips of his prominent ears pink. “A thousand pardons, my lady, it seems he’s in his excitable mood again. I’ll see him out.” He scoops his ginger attendant into his arms and bustles away, threatening the cat with a salmon-less dinner as he does so.

You sigh and tighten your laces once more. Aly had not pulled down far enough for your breasts to spill out from your bodice, thankfully, but that was a near thing. You are more comfortable baring skin than most women north of the Greatshield are, being from the sweltering South, yet you draw the line at exposure in front of two men. Well, perhaps one of them can get a pass. You bite the inside of your lip as you fumble briefly and have to redo the knot all over again.

“You know what they say about certain animals being able to channel people’s wills?” Eren lifts his gaze from your chest to your face. His eyes have darkened a little. Your fingers tighten on your cords. “Nobody can say for sure if that still holds true but it’s an interesting thought.” His legs shift beneath the blankets.

The return of the Healer saves you from having to form a reply. He gives you an apologetic smile and another apology before returning to his seat and his book once more.

“Your hair’s grown longer,” you remark arbitrarily, not quite knowing what to say to your betrothed’s earlier statement. Besides… Your face tingles a little. With the way he looked at you then, you cannot guarantee that your conversation won’t lead to… bawdier pastures. You had never truly touched upon the subject before but something about his demeanor then gives you pause. Best to nip that in the bud. Your governess will not stand for anything remotely suggestive. He will throw you out and forbid you from seeing Eren again for the rest of his confinement, and you cannot have that.

Eren tugs at the ends of his hair, looking at it thoughtfully. “Do you think I should cut it? I haven’t been up to calling on the barber lately…”

“It’s your hair, you’re free to do as you like.” You give him a small smile. “I like it, though. It makes you look-” comelier, “-older, more mature.”

He settles back into his pillows, appearing gratified. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll keep it as it is for the time being.” He gazes at you for a good long while, before his concern reduces his smile into something softer. “You look tired.”

The chuckle that escapes you echoes the sentiment, as though his bringing attention to the fact has drawn four days’ worth of weariness out. You rub a finger at the skin beneath your eye. “Between you and Father and this whole affair, I have been getting no lick of sleep.” You cannot count the hours you had spent in Merrydell’s sanctum, praying and praying and praying for him and your lord father, beseeching the old gods to bless and keep them. You had even visited the nearest temple of the Gardener to offer incense, a candle, and yet more prayers for your betrothed. He belongs to the Creed, perhaps his Lady will be better inclined to protect him should the old gods dismiss your pleas.

Lady Alyrya heard them, at any rate, her and the old gods. Father’s fever was only the chills brought on by the rains and not from a corrupted wound; he had taken a glancing blow from an outlaw’s knife but managed to come out of that debacle otherwise unscathed. He was right as rain after a day or so.

Eren had given you more grief. What time you had outside of prayer was spent hovering anxiously outside these very chambers, hoping you could visit him or at least learn of his condition. Still, you will visit the sanctum and the temple tonight, to give thanks to the gods for granting him further life.

“Ask Healer Dima to give you essence of valerian, it helps a lot,” Eren urges, fretful. He can be a rather fretful character, you have come to find. It only makes him sweeter in your eyes.

“I will at that. Although I’ll be sleeping more soundly tonight regardless.” Because you’re awake and all right and alive. A bowl of apples is sitting upon his bedside dresser. His mother’s key lays beside it, nestled amidst the coils of its leather cord. “Are you hungry?” you ask, gesturing at the fruit.

“Will you feed me if I am? I can barely lift my arm for the pain.” Eren blinks at you all innocent-like. The teasing tilt to his lips ruins the effect, however. From the distance comes the tiniest of coughs.

Your own mouth twitches up in amusement. “If you wish it.”

“I do wish it,” he says firmly, sitting up straight again. “I’m hungry, so hungry, famished, starving-”

“All right, your hunger has been well and truly noted.” You reach for an apple and the paring knife and proceed to cut the fruit. Needlessly, you know. He is not so injured that he cannot feed himself (despite his claims to the contrary). In this, you indulge him. The patient must have his way until he recovers.

A cough resounds from the distance once more, louder this time, as you reach forward to put a slice of apple in your betrothed’s waiting mouth. You both freeze and glance over at the Healer, who is staring at you beadily from above his holy missal. A prick of annoyance simmers within you, but you flash him a placating smile as you move to put more distance between you and Eren. You slip the piece of fruit into your betrothed’s mouth, careful not to let your fingers brush against his lips, those luscious, alluring, enticing lips…

You bite back a giggle as he chews the morsel, looking distinctly bad-tempered. Your fingertips still tingle from the warmth of his breath. “I see you still haven’t put on your mother’s key,” you observe, eyeing the forenamed pendant on the bedside table. His betrothal necklace looks rather lonely without its staunch companion around his neck.

His bad-tempered expression deepens. “He’s a priest, he’s as superstitious as they come. His precious sensibilities won’t stand for blasphemy.” Scorn drips from his voice as he says the word, further amusing you. “You’ll make a better Healer,” he adds, his expression softening as he gleams at you. “You don’t nag as much.”

That is an interesting thought, that. The past few days certainly lent further fodder to your long-held fancies of being a Healer. It is a flimsy whim, a glib thought born from a night of girlish diversion when asked that absurdly preposterous question: what would you be had you not been born into nobility? Your fledgling pastime in the gardens led you to answer as you had.

But perhaps that fledgling can grow into something more. Seeing people you care for hurt and ailing woke something in you, the desire to ease their pain if only but a little. You hope Healer Darya is willing to take on a new apprentice this autumn.

“Does it hurt so much?”

Eren chews on his apple, looking artless and very much innocent in truth. He does not stay so for long, though (not that you expect him to, the cheeky sod). “I already told you, didn’t I? I wouldn’t ask you to feed me if it didn’t hurt like blazes.” Something in your expression sobers him, and the smile he flashes you is gentle, tender. “I’m a little sore, but nothing you need concern yourself about too much.” He reaches out to take your free hand in his, lightly caressing your skin with his thumb. “And you have been, haven’t you? So concerned that you lost sleep over me, of all people.” He seems to move farther away, going somewhere beyond this room and beyond you.

You pull away from his hold to cup his face in your hand, as though in doing so you can keep him bound to yourself. You touch him as softly as you can yet still he flinches as your palm presses against the injured side of his face. That spasm of pain makes you pull back but he reaches up quickly to keep your hand on him, smiling up at you reassuringly as he does so. The green sparkling at you beneath his poulticed eyebrow is as vibrant as its twin, swollen and puffy though the skin around it is. He is still so beautiful, your battered knight. So beautiful, and warm, and alive.

The loud clearing of a holy throat reminds you of decency and decorum, and you make to pull away from your betrothed once more. He is not having it, though. His grip on your hand tightens, and his face darkens like thunder. “Bloody prissy priests… As if a simple touch to the face equates to… what exactly? A hot little romp?” His laugh comes out exuding derision and mockery. “I didn’t throw you down on the bed and have my way with you, did I? With the way he’s looking at us, you’d think he caught us fucking,” he grouses, in a voice pitched low so only you would hear him.

A lump rises inside your throat that almost chokes you. You cough to rid yourself of it. How he can say such things so baldly confounds you. “That’s… probably what he's thinking. I suppose he’s here to try and preserve my honor. For all he knows, you could be some sort of perverted lech,” you say, in what you hope is an offhand way.

That puts a thoughtful look on Eren’s face. Suddenly, the darkness in his eyes holds a very different sort of sentiment. He glances at you from beneath his lashes before looking down at his lap. Your fingers twitch a little against his face as he continues to keep your hand captive. Heat once again simmers beneath your skin to match the heat you had caught in his gaze before he averted his eyes. In a quiet voice, he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “He’s not far off, then.”

Your heart almost stops at that. “Pardon?”

He lifts his eyes back to yours and blinks slowly. “Have I not been preserving your honor for the better part of a year already? He has nothing to worry about.” One corner of his mouth kinks up roguishly. “Unless my lady does not care for such things. I’d gladly play the perverted lech if you’d let me.”

Gods save me.

Eren’s smile widens as though he has heard you and he releases your hand, allowing you to pick up the paring knife from where it is sitting on your lap. You take a brief recess to settle yourself and cut another wedge off the rapidly browning apple in your grip. Your hand does not shake, to your credit.

“Good apple, that,” Eren notes conversationally, as though he had not been speaking of perversion and fornication mere moments ago.

“The Skaryns brought in a good harvest.” The discomposure leaves you at once as the name of that doomed family leaves your lips. You stare down at the halved fruit in your hand. A good harvest. And their last. Everything seems to dim then, as though a pall has settled upon the world. The Skaryn pall. It is a cruel edict. Your knight had saved the author of that cruel edict. And that is why you can now call him that. Your knight. “You will be a Sir in truth now.”

“I will be, huh…” Eren looks pleased, excited at the thought. As well he might. It is all he ever wanted and lived for, the culmination of years of training and service.

“What’s his name, your squire?” you query as you feed him another slice. The next slice you eat yourself. It is as good as he claims, browned though it is now; the juice is sweet, refreshing on your tongue.

His eyes widen as he munches his own mouthful, as though he has forgotten that knights need squires to squire for them. “Falco Grice.” He swallows. “I have a squire.” The wonder in his face and voice makes you smile. “How do I go about being a master, though?” He screws up his face in thought, then puffs out his chest. “Falco, muck out the stables. I want to be able to eat off the ground once you’re done,” he says in his best approximation of Sir Levi’s flat tone.

There is a pause as the both of you stare at each other silently before descending into fits of giggles. For a while, you cannot stop. He is strong and thriving, and he is to be a knight at long last. Everything seems good in the world again, and the fate of doomed families fades into the ether. But as the light of day gives way to the gloom of night, his cheer slowly gives way to something more staid, dour, even mournful. Eren looks down at his hands, pensive. “Do I even deserve that honor, though? After…”

Sir Erwin’s lost arm hangs heavy between you. Half a year gone and still it haunts him. His gloom seeps into you like some illness, only to feed your determination to see him rise above his guilt and shame. 

“You do,” you state firmly. You will not brook arguments on this matter. “You saved His Majesty, the king’s life, that’s not a small thing. And you learned, didn’t you? You didn’t get those injuries by running pell-mell into danger, did you?” As he shakes his head no, you go on, “Then let it go. Onward and upward and no looking back. It does you no good to dwell on such things. It’ll only eat you up inside.”

“Did I even learn, though? Because I thought about it. Running pell-mell into danger.” He picks at the skin on his forefinger, hunched over and reeking of shame.

Your heart goes out to him, your earnest betrothed. He is a young man, near grown, and yet in many ways he is a boy still. “The only thing that matters is that you didn’t act on it.” You brandish a slice of apple at him. “Sweet to banish the bitter.”

A weight seems to lift off his shoulders as he accepts your proffered piece into his mouth. “You always know what to say.” He gazes at you, soft, contemplative, considering. “And you have to know what to say. In that there is no choice, not for you, my Lady of Rhyzkov.”

You cut yourself a wedge and help yourself to your own sweet. There is nothing to add to the truth that you have always known.

“I grew up wanting to be a Royal Guardsman.”

As most boys do, noble or common.

“But then I served one of them.” Wryness taints Eren’s tone as he continues, “I saw him- them dog every step of this one man every day of their lives and realized that… wasn’t for me. Knights are for serving, yes, but I want the freedom to choose my own liege. If I am to spend a lifetime in thrall to one, I want it to be by my own will and not because tradition says I must.”

And to be a Royal Guardsman is to serve the blood royal for life. “But you didn’t choose me.” As either liege or bride.

Eren looks at you then and subjects you to a long and intense stare. “No, I didn’t.” This intensity is different, something you cannot quite place. 

He is such a forceful personality, you reflect as you hold his deep green gaze. Deep enough to drown in. And you are and will continue to do so, you know now, for the rest of your life. But there is joy in trying to keep up with him, something exhilarating about navigating his tides. He is quite unlike anyone you have ever met, and it intrigues you.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t serve you gladly, willingly, and with everything I have.”

Embers of green fire begin to flare up at you and you avert your eyes lest you be burned. His tides you can navigate. You cannot say the same for his flames. “I look forward to your investiture.” You cut the last bit of apple in half.

The reminder of his investiture banks his flames near instantly. “It seems… inappropriate to have it after the executions.”

So his father has told him all. A certain chill appears to cloak you in its folds. It is almost enough for you to wish for his fires back. “The court needs something to celebrate after such unpleasantness.”

“Unpleasantness…” Eren frowns down at the white linen sheets draped over his lap. “The northmen deserve their sentence for that treachery, but to eradicate whole bloodlines strikes me as being too much. Little Yakob Halkin could hardly conspire against the king. Six-year-olds care more for toys than treason.”

You have never thought to see the end of a line, much less two, in your lifetime. But that is the way of the lords. You yourself are descended from the Shrike, Queen Yelena Rhyzkova, the fourth to bear that name and title, who had rid the world of the Moldovans thousands and thousands of years ago. If your royal forebear had any compunctions about killing the children of her enemies in her bid for power, no one will know now. She had taken her sensibilities with her to the grave.

“The commons will go the way of their masters, if the talk is true.” You hand Eren his last morsel and bite into your own.

Eren eats his apple and reclines back on his pillows. “It’s only talk. He will get his blood price and be paid twice over with highborn blood. He’ll leave the innocent commons alone. They’re not worth that much, at the end of the day.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter  

---

A/N:

Horny YN is horny. But, really, who can blame her? Have you seen the guy?

Knight!Eren is here at last, hurrah for him. But the Northern Matter has turned into... another matter entirely.

This’ll be the last update for this year, so it’s my Christmas posting for you, my readers, who I am very thankful to have! I’m glad to be able to share my brainchild to the world and I thank you so much for reading! Always, always <3

This may be my last TSL update but not my last post for the year... at least it depends on how fast I can get around to it. But I’m planning on dabbling in the modern AU and posting a smutty one-shot that will just not leave my brain and so I have no choice but to write it. Hopefully I can get it done before the year ends, if not... I can hail the New Year with good sexy smutty goodness.

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu​​ @lukepattersin​ @aki-and-saltfish​​

[kinetic-elaboration]

October 13: What Happened in the Cemetery

Loooool anyway, I was working (painstakingly!) on my Troped Horror Exchange fic and then I wrote this bit of Utter Nonsense. I don't... I don't know, I literally wrote it in less than 20 minutes with no pre-planning at all.

I think it's in the same universe as Sail Away With Someone's Daughter but honestly... up to you. Whatever.

Murphy, Miller, Raven, and Kane, very minor Murven, ~800 words

For the prompt: "Until you tell me exactly what happened here, we’re not leaving this cemetery" from this list of Autumn/Halloween prompts.

*

“Until you tell me exactly what happened here, we’re not leaving this cemetery.”

Murphy looks to his right, to Miller, then to his left toward Raven. They each meet his eye, and dammit he's wishing they hadn't, because now the three of them look some inept teenage conspiracy.

"Well you see, Mr. Kane--" he starts, in his best check-out-how-innocent-I-am voice. Because he is who he is, it comes out more like a deadpan, sarcastic drawl. Did he have any backup plan for the inevitability that he would get caught, by Mayoral candidate Marcus Kane, in the Arcadia Cemetery at 11:30 PM on Halloween night, in any state, let alone this particular state?

No. Obviously not.

His hands are covered in charcoal and there's a collection of stolen items on the grave of a poor woman who died in 1932.

He catches sight of the chalky black film on his own palms, and belatedly, uselessly, hides them behind his back. He can practically hear the cartoon-whoosh and see the little drawn-in curls of wind, like he's in a wacky old-school Mickey Mouse short or something, the gesture is so stupidly obvious and quick.

Mr. Kane glances down, and, even later to the party than he is, Miller shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and Raven crosses her arms against her chest.

"Just a prank--" Miller says, into that drawn out blank space Murphy left for him, when his own frantic brainstorm of lies got caught in his throat, and unfortunately Raven hits the same beat as well.

Her answer is: "Fame and fortune."

They're giving future-Mayor-of-Arcadia Marcus Kane whiplash. His eyes narrow. He lets his gaze jump from one guilty wide-eyed face to the next.

A better question might be why he's traipsing through the cemetery at near midnight on the spookiest night of the year, Murphy thinks, but Kane's the one asking the questions here, young man.

"A prank for fame and fortune," he repeats, slowly. All the skepticism in the world in his voice.

"For the band," Murphy clarifies. "Fame and fortune for the band. It's a… magic spell sort of thing."

"We got it off the Internet," Raven adds.

About-to-win-by-a-landslide practically-Mayor Kane glances at the stolen goods again: some gold jewelry all tangled up with itself and a postcard of the Eiffel Tower, torn at the edge.

"Maybe you could come to one of our shows sometime," Miller says. The silence is so heavy with confusion, or maybe it's dread, or just awkwardness, and there's a crow or something cawing in one of the bare-limbed trees, it's like he's gotta say something or someone will just combust. Murphy shifts his weight between his feet and listens to the leaves crunching beneath his combat boots.

"Then you'll see why we need the…" Raven gestures, then immediately remembers her hands, and hides them again in the pockets of her patched-up jeans. Murphy fucking loves those jeans. He'd like them better on his floor etc., etc., but Raven always fobs him off with talk of band-cest and other excuses. Then she flirts with him at practice so sometimes the signals are a little mixed.

Murphy forces himself to stop staring at her profile out of the corner of his eyes, tilts his head back to catch De Facto Mayor Kane's eye, and asks, "Do you like punk rock, Sir?"

He looks like he wants to scream.

Instead, he passes his hand over his face, heavy and exhausted--if this were that cartoon again, he'd drag his whole visage down as if his skin had the elasticity of a rubber band--then shakes his head, like he's bringing all the blood back to it. "Just get out," he says.

"Sorry, Sir?" Murphy asks, all innocence.

"I said, clean this stuff up and get out," Kane repeats. "And don't let me find you here again."

Miller salutes, and Murphy answers, "You got it, Sir."

On the way out, Raven puts her hand in his back pocket and he tells himself maybe the Internet was right about something--maybe there is magic out here and maybe all the fame and money in the world are coming for them next.

[broken-faucet-of-feelings]

alien

30/04/24

i was born

without a face.

my earliest memory

is of a bright

snow-blind light

silhouetting the heads

and hands of doctors

who rubbed their eyes

in shock

when they laid eyes

on my blank

canvas visage,

unpainted.

the kids on the playground

did not understand.

i’d watch as the

colour drained

from their

freckled cheeks.

sometimes they

would cry.

their pointed fingers

felt like needles

in my skin,

taking away

parts of me

to study

and mangle

and maim.

they made me

into an alien

who could never

go home.

i didn’t know what i was,

but i wasn’t like them.

i gathered that

their two extra eyes

could see colours

i was blind to.

their odd, puffy lips

spoke in tongues

that i could

never decipher.

their wrinkled noses

and furrowed brows

sent messages

soaring over

my empty head,

and it was as though

i belonged on

the outside.

when i got older,

i learned how to paint.

i drew big doe eyes

over rose-dusted cheeks

and bright cherry

lips that glisten

like a teardrop.

i learned

what it means

to be ugly.

i learned that ugly

means you’re

worthless,

and being

worthless

is a hell of a lot

worse than being

nothing,

like before.

even things i used to dream about

are categorized into good and bad.

eyes,

the mirrors

to the soul,

portals to

a person’s

inner world,

can be the

wrong shape.

even noses,

formerly thought

to be a tool,

can be too big

too long

too round

too sharp.

smiles,

which i naïvely

assumed to be

expressions of joy,

can be the wrong colour

or the wrong size

or too, what was it?

“a-symmetrical”?

whatever that is,

it’s bad,

and we’re supposed

to feel

bad about it.

and now that i have eyes,

i can see how people stare.

it isn’t like before.

they’re not frightened.

they’re hungry.

i see saliva

pouring down their chins

when i hurry past.

i never used to hurry

when i was the monster.

now, i see them

everywhere.

they stand just

out of reach

of the street lamp glow,

red eyes boring into

every inch of me.

the same eyes that

looked on in horror

when i was young

have reduced me

to a scared

little mouse

in the woods.

i learned fear.

in between every stretch of darkness,

i found warmth under a streetlight.

not every gaze

felt like the end

of a hunters knife.

sometimes, i’d meet someone

and it felt like

they couldn’t even see

the paint on my face.

they just saw me,

and they wanted to know

who i was

even though i wasn’t

like them.

i learned love.

sometimes,

i could even see paint

on other people’s faces.

brush strokes

in their eyes,

a smudge

on their brow.

i knew better

than to point it out.

when i met you,

i thought you could see me.

but i made myself

extra beautiful,

just in case.

when we were together,

i was not

an alien.

i was something

created especially

for you,

and i prayed

that you’d love it.

i’d always hated

being a guinea pig,

but i loved you so much

that you could

dissect me

all you wanted

and i wouldn’t

even care

if you put all

the pieces back

when you finished.

you were going your way,

and i was going home.

i’m not surprised

you didn’t see me,

since you were

on the phone.

i started to ease up,

you released the clutch,

and the big doe eyes

i painted for you

lit up like the moon.

i froze in place

to bask in the warmth

of your headlights

on my face.

i thought you were

driving towards me,

but instead,

you ran me through.

my destruction

was as important to you

as all the other

carcasses on the freeway.

and i almost trusted you enough

to let you know the truth.

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

The dungeon was dark. It always was, really, but today it seemed particularly so.

Heavy footsteps descended down the passage, more than usual, and he rolled his eyes. One of those days, then; they would be using him as an example for the newest knights (that was what they said, anyway; they all knew it was just an excuse to use him as a punching bag).

He grinned as they entered, lips cracking. "All these guests? Just for me?"

The dungeon was dark. It always was, really, but today it seemed particularly so.

Heavy footsteps descended down the passage, more than usual, and he rolled his eyes. One of those days, then; they would be using him as an example for the newest knights (that was what they said, anyway; they all knew it was just an excuse to use him as a punching bag).

He grinned as they entered, lips cracking. "All these guests? Just for me?"

One of the senior knights, Rona, grabbed him by the collar (an impressive feat, considering how ragged it was). "Shut your mouth, you bastard."

"My parents were happily married, actually. I'm afraid I can't say the same for yours… How is your mother doing these days, by the way? I hope she doesn't miss me too much." It was better to just get them angry from the start– they'd play with him like a cat would a mouse if he didn't.

He punched him in the gut. Link wheezed, doubling over as much as the chains would let him.

"Have you gotten weaker?" He asked, struggling to catch his breath. "Perhaps I could give you some training ti–"

A kick to his leg, the one that they had broken and had never healed properly, and he strangled a scream.

Rona cracked his knuckles, and grabbed him by the hair, forcing Link to meet his gaze. Oh, this would be a long day indeed.

---------

They came again the next day.

"What?" Rona mocked when Link didn't look up. "Run out of quippy remarks?"

"Oh, no. I was just wondering why you cur– apologies, blessed me with your ugly mu– beautiful visage two days in a row." And really, he had been– but the bruises on his throat also made speech difficult.

"Lord Dagianis is dead. I thought I would make sure our new recruits knew what would happen if they tried to act up."

It was a blatant lie– the only people there were ones who had been knights for years.

He laughed breathily. "I see the head bastard's actions have finally caught up with him. It's a shame I couldn't have seen it."

"You'll shut up, now."

He smiled at him pleasantly, as if they weren't discussing the death of a man. "Make me."

An ugly grin spread across his face. "With pleasure."

----------

Link let out a gasp of relief, breathing heavily. The shackles dug into his wrists, exacerbating the pain of his shoulder. He was fairly sure it had only been dislocated, but through the haze of pain it was hard to tell. He cautiously tried to move it, and, oh yes, it was very much dislocated.

He took a deep breath, and slammed his shoulder back against the wall. He screamed, the sound echoing through the stone corridors. When the pain receded enough for him to think properly, he cautiously tested it again. The pain was still there, but at least there was a chance of it healing properly.

What would Orville think if he could see him now? Would he be sympathetic? Disgusted by the sight of Link covered in his own blood?

It didn't matter; four years he had been locked up, and that was more than enough for him to move on.

Our wedding would have been beautiful. He thought, somewhat deliriously (he was probably a bit concussed). He could almost hear his voice now, calling his name.

His eyes snapped open; no, that was far too real, for there he was, kneeling in front of him.

"Link!" Orville said desperately, shaking him lightly.

"Orville…" He said softly, voice rasping painfully. "You shouldn't be here."

"Where's that goddamn key?" He snapped, pulling at Link's shackles.

Someone behind him handed it over, and he jammed it into the locks, sending painful shocks through his wrists. He collapsed forward onto Orville as the last shackle opened, barely able to stand.

"Get a healer." Orville demanded, checking him over frantically.

"I'm fine." He said, and hissed as Orville's hands passed over his ribs.

He laughed wetly, covering his face with a hand. "Imprisoned for four years and you're fine. I shouldn't have expected anything different."

"That's… my ring, isn't it?" He asked, staring at his hand.

"What? Of course it is."

(He said it so simply, as if the realization that Orville had given up on him hadn’t haunted Link for years.)

"They're taking too long. You need to get to a healer." He scooped Link up into a bridal carry as if he weighed nothing (which he probably did), careful not to jostle him too much.

"I'm fine." He insisted, but rested his head against Orville's shoulder.

"I heard you screaming, Link." His voice softened. "Do you know how terrifying that was? I was so close to getting you back, and I thought that I had lost you again. Please, don't pretend you aren't injured."

"I'm always injured." For some reason, that wasn't reassuring as he thought it would be. Perhaps his concussion was worse than he thought.

“Who did this to you?”

“Ah, Rona and a few of Dagianas’s other favorites. They were… quite upset at his death.”

“I should’ve tried harder to get you out.” Orville said, avoiding his eyes.

“And end up in the cell next door over? No, I think not. I would rather you be happy without me.”

“I can’t be happy without you, don’t you understand? These last four years… they’ve been hard.” They passed into the brighter light of the castle, and he passed an eye over him, scrutinizing his appearance. “My dear, sweet Link… what have they done to you?”

“You don’t want to know.” He said quietly. “Believe me, please. You don’t.”

He gazed at him for a few moments with an unreadable expression. “Nothing I see will make me love you less.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about… some of what they did to me was horrible, and you shouldn’t have to see it.”

“I want to see it; I swore an oath, and that doesn’t just mean the pretty things.”

“We aren’t actually married.” He mumbled into his shoulder, the only protest he could give. “You haven’t sworn anything.”

“Since when have you cared for what the law says?”

He laughed softly. “You have me there, I suppose.”

“I’ll have you everywhere, if you’ll allow it.”

“In public, Orville, really? Children could hear.”

“Oh, you know that’s not what I meant.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Did I?”

He snorted, and glared down at him in mock annoyance. “I had forgotten how bad your jokes were.”

“You know you love them.”

“Yes.” He said, sobering. “I do.”

He swallowed thickly. “Orville, I–”

“This is it.” He said, and kicked at the door until one of the healer’s assistants opened it. “Get the healer, now.”

Her eyes widened, and she scurried away to the back room.

“We can talk later.” Orville set him on one of the beds and bent down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’m going to have… words with Rona.”

“Orville, wait!” He called after him, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows.

------

Later that night, Orville returned, bruises on his knuckles and a cut on his cheek.

“What did you do?” Link asked as he took a seat at his bedside.

“Nothing he didn’t deserve.” He said, and took Link’s hands in his own, kissing the scars over his wrists.

“I can’t argue with that, I suppose.”

His gaze swept across his torso, inspecting the bandages. His eyes widened as he caught sight of something by his hip. "What is that?" He whispered, horrified.

Link glanced down. 'TRAITOR' had been carved into his side in thin letters; that was probably what he meant. He thought that might have been from the early days of his imprisonment– he had known they were doing something with a knife, but he had never been able to see what until now. “Ah, that’s– well. I’m sure you can see.”

“I should’ve done more.” He released Link’s hands, and pressed his palms to his eyes. “Four years, Link– look what they’ve done, what they’ve taken from you.”

He reached out with a wince and pulled his hands down. “We’re still here; they haven’t taken that.”

@febuwhump

[reduce-reuse-recycle]

MORE TWST! RuPaul's Drag Race AU -- headcannons

Doesn't it look fancier when I add the exclamation? Gotta work on that tittle still

I want to set the rules for this AU, talking about magic and characters I'd make queens and charas I won't

Magic

Magic exists as in twst, I want to keep it as close as canon possible on this part. The capability to which the contestants can use magic entirely depends on the challenge: To win some challenges you don't need any magic really, beacuse not every queen is required to have magic to be a queen.

However, drag race test the possible talents a queen must have to be a good entertainer, but doesn't mean everyone has to be good at everything. I think it can be more of a skill, like sewing or singing, but having a magic prowess sort of challenge sounds very fun.

"Every queen will try and makeup as many pit crew as they can in thirty seconds" as a mini challenge, obviously you do better with magic etc etc, something like this. In a season with more magic-using queens, this'll be more prevalent maybe.

(The pit crew being mostly beast men sounds so funny to me so I'll make it a thing)

Queens and non-queens

In my first post I mentioned that I didn't think Vil would be a queen because he's a celebrity in canon already, and I'd put socialites in the same category, royalty won't be included because you don't necessarily have to be known(??) I mean, a lot of people know them, but they're not really percieved as such in game, by npcs or other main characters, Malleus is just spooky for example.

Following this spaghetti logic, the following charas I don't see as queens, apart from the teachers because that's a whole other thing:

Vil – celebrity

Neige – celebrity

Kalim – socialite (money)

Idia – socialite (money)

Lilia – he is already very busy being the in-universe Lady Bunny and having three kids

Ace – I don't like him so I know nothing about him on purpose, if someone wants to make him a drag persona, go ahead

Epel – not his vibe, I don't think Epel would like to be a drag queen, he is already quite close-minded (and as much as it pains me, I don't think Epel can be queer canonically but I love him)

Judges

Crowley definetly is the RuPaul of the whole thing, the face, the comedy and the dust. Just adding his personal "I am very kind" here and there, as something he's kown for.

NOW, Divus is definetly Michelle Visage and I won't change my mind nor I will elaborate, it just,,, match made in heaven.

For other judges, we can make up some celebs to be guests in the episodes,, "Famous comedian Juan Mouse is here. Hi Juan" fun. Of course, Vil and Neige would be invited, Kalim too. Idia would accept to be a guest too because his bro is there and he is very loving and proud.

Carson and Ross can be also made up because they judge comedy, fashion and... whatever Ross does, but Mozus can fill the position too if needed, I don't see Vargas or Sam in the panel, but they can be too, one of them at least.

And yeah that's all my mind can produce with a sick brain, I'll continue my brainrot while watching season 5, I don't watch seasons in order www

[theemptyislost]

Haunt Me

Haunt me Chapter 1 - Because I am bored and I rarely post full chapters here.

Ao3 Link

Pairings: Haarlep/F!Tav/Raphael

Summary:

Haarlep heard Tav's cries echo in the Abyss and Raphael has come to collect her. In the end, Tav is not sure which devil is crueler; but she knows now which devils make her feel safe.

“We will take better care of you, sweet little mouse.” Their – Raphael’s hand – moved from its perch along the dip of her hip, pet across her womb and then up between the valley of her breasts to gently curl around the base of her throat. “I will never let either of them squash that delicious potential.”

Rating: 18+ | Explicit - Heed the rating and tags

TW: Past Abuse / Implied torture - Torture | Smut | Scars & Branding | Possessive Behavior | Explicit Sexual Content | PTSD

“And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair – that’s when you’ll come knocking on my door.”

― Raphael, Baldur's Gate 3

Tav lay tucked in decadent sheets. Curled around a perfectly fluffed long pillow. Head cradled at one end while her arms gripped the soft object to her chest like a lifeline.

Awareness trickled through her subconscious. The tender tickle along her outer thigh and hip caused goosebumps to tighten her skin. The repetitive caress of blunt nails and soft fingertips coaxed her from the nightmare that tormented her only moments prior.

The affectionate petting pulled her from the darkness of a despair that had yet to fade. The taste of it lingered like an old wound – scabbed over yet never healing. Her past mistakes were a stain that she would never be rid of. Her choices would haunt her for eternities to come.

As the echoes of her dream faded, Tav became aware of her body.

The heaviness in her limbs, the burn along her eyelids, the phantom feeling of soreness between her thighs – the barely distinguishable trace of sulfur in the air.

She groaned groggily, clutching the pillow tighter to her chest; wanting nothing more than to sink back into the calm that now settled through her mind.

Tav felt so…secure – protected, was the closest word she could think of.

She could not remember the last time she had not woken up to the sticky feeling of blood drying on her neck or the suffocatingly familiar hold of Astarion. The endless turbulent days and nights of his attentions as he sought to reform her to her previous state of complacency – almost destroyed her beyond repair.

Guilt still held firm, tainting the comfort that her newly obtained freedom should bring.

If one could call her arrangement freedom.

“Has our little thief woken from her slumber?” A familiar soft voice – her voice – breathed.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than pet me?” Tav rasped back. Sleep addled mind causing her filter to slip. Her brain pulled itself back to the present away from those past memories and regrets. Her centuries with Astarion warped her concept of time. He was both a distant visage and a vivid experience. However, that could still be the effects of their bond bleeding through whatever potions Raphael was constantly feeding her.

Tav was no longer at Astarion’s Palace; she was hidden away.

Tucked in another realm, safe in the House of Hope – or as safe as one could be surrounded by Devils.

“Naughty mouse.” Haarlep reprimanded, voice still hushed.  “You would do best to remember how to address your masters.” Fingers still traced patterns along her side leaving a tingle of magic in their wake. “I can still be cruel if need be.”

Tav realized Haarlep was tracing the scars left by Astarion. She chose to remain silent, let the incubus continue to follow the curving lines and sharp edges of the two spells carved into her skin. The second addition had long since healed over, less visible than the first, but shimmered like tattoos of celestial light when touched.

Tav did not understand Haarlep’s obsession with the old wounds. Raphael had been livid when he saw the damage. His reaction stirred an odd sense of comfort in her. Relieved by the simple fact that Raphael was not the one to plant the seed of complete ownership of her soul in Astarion’s mind.

Haarlep’s form shifted behind her.

The familiar tingle at the tips of her own fingers, phantom sensations that mirrored Haarlep’s, faded. Her own familiar hand grew larger, and the breasts against her back melted away into the hard muscular chest of Raphael.

Tav tensed for a brief moment before her body relaxed.

“There we are.” Haarlep murmured as they felt her lean into them. Then sighed, more a conversation with themselves than her, “We still have work to do. That insolent whelp doesn’t know how to properly take care of his toys.” A large hand tucked a loose wave behind her ear before resting against her waist. “You should have stayed with me.” Their deep voice muffled against her hair.

Tav remembered Haarlep’s offer when she snuck into Raphael’s domain to steal the Orphic Hammer.

She hated the grip her old master held over her, even now – the guilt that came with finally escaping consumed her at times. Her attachments to the Ascendant Vampire still held her in a chokehold. She was now sure it was a combination of the memory of what once was, mixed with the lingering effects of his compulsion. Further solidified by their bond, that prevented the haunting attachment from fading in full.

There was another unsettling suspicion that maybe it was Astarion’s will alone; even after all this time. His obsession potentially running deeper than Tav thought possible. Her new train of thought caused her breasts to hitch in an unnecessary breath.

Maybe he was –

As if sensing her thoughts, Haarlep ran their lips over Tav’s collar. Kissed the twin scars that marred her delicate neck. Horns pressed against her temple as they nuzzled their head against hers – a distraction.

She was with them now. Her two unlikely saviors that appeared when she was at her lowest.

“We will take better care of you, sweet little mouse.” Their – Raphael’s hand – moved from its perch along the dip of her hip, pet across her womb and then up between the valley of her breasts to gently curl around the base of her throat. “I will never let either of them squash that delicious potential.” Their last promise held a possessiveness the curled around Tav like a warm blanket. Secured her away in the mutual understanding that Haarlep ran their dynamic behind the scenes. They would be there to mend her wounds both physical and emotional as they have proven so far.  

They taught her that actions spoke more than words ever could.

Haarlep’s embrace danced along the edge of sexual without tipping the scale. Their main focus – as it had been – was familiarity; intimacy and trust.

Haarlep was working to drag her from the depths of the broken house she built around herself. With a practiced hand, soft caresses and meticulous care they carefully lured her from the ocean of her anguish.

Tav sealed her new contract with Raphael in sin when he whisked her away from her prison. Astarion foiled her attempt to summon Bhaal– the ritual ruined, and no Gods came to her rescue; no one responded to her desperate pleas.

Just when Tav was ready to give up – a devil responded instead.  

His was the first face other than her master’s that she had seen in – she could not recall. Tav was so starved of everything at that point, pleading constantly for any deity to answer her prayers, that she would have agreed to anything he asked.

Tav had been too desperate, could still not recall the exact stipulations of their current contract; but remembered giving herself over to him without a second thought then and there on the cell floor.

After Raphael secured her contract he vanished the chains from Tav’s raw ankle, slipped his arms under her shoulder and knees and hefted her up against his chest. Tav could only vaguely remember the taste of sulfur and burn of ash against her eyes as Raphael ripped the portal in the dank air and took her away.  

Astarion’s prized possession – stolen in the night.

Oh, how he must have raged.

Haarlep’s thumb brushed affectionately over her clavicle. The habit became a subconscious action when they felt her mind wander. The familiar touch acted as a shield intended to keep her anguish at bay.

Tav hummed to let Haarlep know she was fine. Her hand released its clutch on her pillow to rest against the forearm nestled between her breasts. Her fingers still tingled with their previous shared touch; she almost missed the intoxicating duality of Haarlep holding her while wearing her form.

She felt everything Haarlep felt. The sensation brought a selfishly narcissistic sense of comfort and in that moment Tav understood why Raphael transformed and glamoured Haarlep in his image.

Tav allowed the tension in her muscles to bleed away until she was lax in Haarlep’s embrace. Tucked into a cocoon of serenity as her mind wondered.

Later that night, after they thoroughly ravished her, she slipped in and out of conscious. Their coupling had been too much; she had been weaker than she looked.  Even so, Tav still recalled their hushed conversation vividly.

“She is too far gone.” Haarlep growled loud enough for Raphael to hear during her first night in their care.  “Our lost little dove won’t be any fun if we break what’s left of her.” The incubus’ fingers brushed the damp strands of hair from her temple with careful affection after Raphael set her on his bed. They huffed in false annoyance at her lack of response. Hips swayed with no regards to their nude state as they sauntered over to snag the long robe draped over the chaise lounge. Haarlep turned around, the degrading comment weaponized at the tip of their tongue turned to ash.

Haarlep’s sudden silence drew Raphael’s attention. Eyes falling to his concubine, as he took a sip of mulled wine from his cup.

The incubus took in the ragged state of their eagerly anticipated playmate. The haughty expression faded from their face to one of unfettered disbelief. Glamoured eyes traced over the scene displayed before them.

The velvet comforter clung to the thin material of Tav’s dress, causing it to bunch around her upper thighs.

Tav barely noticed; vision already blackened around the edges from the exertion on her body. A sheen of perspiration glittered on her skin. Limbs numb and tingling from the hellish euphoria of the combined attentions of both Raphael and Haarlep.

“Astarion did this to her?” Haarlep whistled low. All lighthearted sultry banter gone as their gaze fixated on her scars. “And you did not notice?” It was a bold question on Haarlep’s part; given neither thought to peel the erotic dress from her body before they shared her.

The consuming need to indulge clouded their usually high perception.

Raphael’s form turned as rigid as the statues carved in his likeness. Golden gaze flew over the markings; recognized parts of the scars. His features twisted in contempt, and he snarled his response to Haarlep in their shared infernal tongue.

Tav was still unsure if he switched languages for her benefit. For something to cause that type of visceral reaction in the cambion – whatever Astarion had done to her must have truly been blasphemous.

Raphael moved towards her slowly after their discovery; as if she were a caged animal – she was. The mattress dipped under the weight of him. His large hand reached out to touch her.

Tav’s flinch had been out of habit; completely unintentional. A traumatic reaction in response to years of Astarion’s depraved love.

Her immediate reaction was enough for Raphael to pause. His features distorted uncharacteristically with pity before falling stony and cold.

His hand cupped her face anyway. His grip firm and unyielding; meant to secure her attention and ground her through her haze. The unbearable warmth of him seeped through the chill of her skin.

“There was no decorum in these slights against you, little mouse.” His deep timber resonated through Tav’s as he spoke. “This damage is worse than I realized.” He released her chin, took a lingering look at the carvings decorating her side and shifted her dress down to hide them from view. “I will get my contract’s worth from you…and more I am afraid.” His eyes met Haarlep’s. “When we break her, we will not do so with such reckless disregard – Heal her.” Raphael stood from the bed and strode nude to his armoire to dress. “We can show restraint until she is ready – a small gift, in honor of our history.”

“It would be my pleasure, Master.” Haarlep said airily. “After all –“ His voice morphed into the familiar timbre of Tav’s own. “A dove with –“

“ – clipped wings is no fun at all.” Haarlep whispered the familiar words against her; pulling her from her musing. “Come now, pet.” They rolled Tav under them. Settled themselves comfortably between her parted thighs. Hips pressed flush against her core. Their golden gaze locked with her still red ones.

The new position made Tav hyper aware of the warmth pressed against her. Their hardened length brushed against her clit as she bent a knee causing the material of her nightgown to slide down her thigh making more room for the incubus’s hips. She could feel Haarlep’s muscles flex against her as they maintained their affectionate control.

They would never force her hand. Refused to push for anything further unless Tav was the one to initiate.

It was…sweet.

Tav knew their softness would not last forever, could still feel the phantom sensations of Raphael using Haarlep in her image. Remembered the sinful pleasure she endured her first night.

It was a reprieve she would have never been granted under the care of her previous master.

She was grateful.

Tav’s gaze traced down the contours of Haarlep’s glamoured face. Her hand rose up to follow the same trail her eyes took. Fingers brushed over sharp cheek bones and a strong jawline. Shakily traced down their throat. Red eyes fell to the pulse at their jugular – entranced by the gentle flutter of blood beneath their skin.

Her senses started to heighten, eyes dilated, and her throat became parched.

She forewent food for sleep.

Now the hunger was setting in.

Haarlep noticed her gaze; saw a thirst similar to theirs flicker in the depths of her eyes. They understood Tav’s need.

The pull of a vampire’s hunger was similar to that of their kind.

Incubi, succubi and vampires.

Blood and sex.

Kindred in a distant sense of the word.

With a deep chuckle they gripped Tav’s waist and rolled again. This time landing with their back against the pillows. Haarlep rearranged their favored playmate until she straddled their lap while they reclined against the plush headboard. The golden devil’s head cast above them reflected the glow of the fireplace onto Tav’s pale skin.

“Is my little dove hungry?” Haarlep’s voice hit a sultry note. Fed their own sensuality into the question. Sought to tease and pull forth other carnal desires from their pet.

Tav swallowed, head dipped in a small nod, shoved the unusual embarrassment of the admission away. She was no blushing virgin by any means – but this admission held a weight to it.

There was an electric anticipation in the air as Haarlep read her cues.

Slowly, tediously, Haarlep drew forth slivers of her old self. Dredged them from the depths of her agony and forced life back into her piece by piece.

The connection she felt to Haarlep was not one she could have ever anticipated. Their bargained tryst had been pushed to the back of her mind, only coming to light in snippets of bliss or phantom fingers that dug into her flesh during the more painful sessions; when Astarion forgot his strength.

A kindness she did not recognized at the time.

Haarlep’s hand came up to brush over Tav’s shoulders. Fingers hooked under the straps of her sheer nightgown and let the fabric drift down to her waist. Golden eyes darkened as the material slid away to reveal the soft skin below. Breasts now on display, legs parted and straddling their lap. Their tongue dipped out to lick their lips at the scene.

Haarlep moved, seemed to engulf her even though she was the one atop them. They leaned forward, closed the distance and thread their fingers in Tav’s luscious waves.

All Tav knew in that moment was those blazing gold irises, familiar heady scent distinctly belonging to Haarlep and the hellish warmth of their lips; barely grazing her own. The tempting brush of petal soft lips against her own slightly chapped ones acted as a ghost of a kiss intended to tempt – leaving its victim yearning for more.

“You know the rules, pet.” Haarlep purred; pausing until they saw clarity in Tav’s eyes. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Yes.” Tav stated, eyes locked back on the gentle thrum of blood flowing beneath Haarlep’s crimson skin.

“Tut-tut, little thief. Look at me.” Their voice rough with amusement. They got the answer they craved, but they wanted her explicit, enthusiastic, consent.

If not, they would end this now. Have a servant fetch another less enticing vial of their blood for her to drink from. They could not afford any further setbacks.

Tav forced her eyes to lock with gold, momentarily taken aback. Both shocked and relieved by the lack of glowing crimson.

“If we do this – Raphael will know – and he will come.” Haarlep’s fingers cradled her chin as his other hand pressed against her solar plexus. The warmth of a foreign emotion filled her deadened heart. It was love – pure and untainted by sorrow. Their tenderly spun lie of true love filled the empty bits of her soul; a different form of compulsion meant to ease the tension from her body but not cloud her mind. “You have traded one master for two far crueler ones.” Their voice was rough with restrained excitement.

Haarlep closed their eyes as if to collect themselves.

When they opened again there was a look of amity there that shook Tav to her core. Only now did it  occur to her that Haarlep was also bound to Raphael as much as she had been bound to Astarion. Both of them enslaved to power hungry masters…and for a moment, she doubted herself.

Was the devil she knew a better choice?

“Little thief.” Haarlep drew her attention back to them. “If you do this – there is no going back.” A red thumb traced her bottom lip. “You will be relinquishing your soul to us.” Another peculiar look of affection passed through Haarlep’s eyes. “You will suffer; beautifully.” Golden eyes shuttered as if savoring the image. Then snapped open with a newfound intensity. “We will break you into pretty little pieces – but we will not leave you for ruin…to rot in a carcass of what once was.” Their nose brushed Tav’s with practiced affection. “We take care of our toys, little dove, and I promise you. You will quiver in pleasure as we ravish you while piecing you back together.”

The depraved visual caused Tav’s thighs to clench against the corded muscle of Haarlep’s. A new wave of needy fire burned through her veins and settled in her core.

“I am ready.” Tav reaffirmed. “I want this.” The twinge in her heart at her betrayal of Astarion did not hold the same sway it once had. She was surprisingly at ease with falling into the incubus’ fiendish embrace.

She was aware of how Raphael was; narcissistic and selfish, always taking and rarely giving. Knew in contrast, Haarlep was ravenous and would give endlessly – thrilled by the pleasurable suffering it brought. Tav had no doubt there would be times when she regretted her choice; but during her stay a House of Hope they had shown her more care than Astarion had in centuries.

“Oh, sweet little dove – I knew you would be a tasty steal when I heard your cries echoing in the Abyss.” Haarlep’s eyes darkened with arousal. Heat curled through Tav in response and her fangs cut into her lip. “Let’s give our beloved Raphael something to rage over.” Haarlep’s hands slid up Tav’s thighs, bunching the sheer material around her waist and dipped below. Fiery fingers grazed her clit and parted her folds to find her ready and wanting.

Haarlep groaned in delight. Horns clanked against the golden buttons sewn into the velvet headboard. They lifted Tav’s hips as if she weighed nothing and settled her over the tip of their – Raphael’s – rigid length.

Tav’s hands fell to their chest to support herself, allowed her weight to assist Haarlep’s entry. She gasped as their thickness parted her folds; the intrusion made easier by how damned wet she was. Her knees slid along the sheets and her core fluttered exquisitely when they bottomed out. The stretch of Raphael’s cock still required getting use to – textured and devilish as it was – his girth was more than she had been accustomed to.

Haarlep’s fingers flexed along Tav’s hips. She could feel their thighs tense and muscles strain from the effort to prevent them from bucking up into her.

A dark thrill curled up her spine at the heady feel of being the cause of such a reaction.

“Go-od, girl.” Haarlep’s head titled back in ecstasy as they groaned. One hand had found its way to fist in her hair while the other held firm on her hip. Tav rocked forward experimentally and jolted as a fresh wave of rapture coursed through her stagnate veins.

Haarlep’s hips thrust against her. They hissed something in infernal before guiding Tav to their neck.

“No need to be gentle, sweetling – we won’t.”

Tav’s fangs pieced Haarlep’s jugular. The heady combination of fiendish blood laced with magic and Haarlep’s thick cock buried in her cunt was an experience she would never forget. The icing on the cake was the knowledge that Raphael would be experiencing every sinful thrust and touch through phantom sensations miles away.

For once, Tav felt powerful.

Haarlep gripped her to them. Arms tightening like bands of steal around her form, sharp devilish teeth nipping at her neck as they started a slow leisurely pace while she fed.  They bid their time; taking the care to build her up in preparation for when their master would come storming through the doors.

Raphael choked on his wine.

His fingers gripped the stem of the expensive gold goblet tightly. Golden eyes closed to hide his look of surprise from his host.

He could feel his little drow’s cunt flutter around his cock; had felt the cold pinch of fangs piercing his flesh soothed by the heady roll of arousal that followed a vampiric bite.

The muscles along Raphael’s jaw flexed. He would have to take a firm hand to both his pets when he got home.

Haarlep knew what his errands entailed today; been given an explicit set of rules to follow should anything change.

A wicked excitement coursed through him.

His little mouse had come out of her hibernation. He was only passingly concerned that by sharing her with Haarlep so soon, they had done further damage.

He should have realized when she easily caved to the contract he drew up. The agreement was, after all, entirely in his favor; the poor thing.

At the time, he was too overcome with a heady sense of triumph, knowing that he finally held the little hero trapped in his claws.

It had been centuries since he took another to his bed.

The exoticism and thrill lit his lust aflame only to be squandered by wrath when Haarlep noticed the extent of the damage Astarion dealt to her before he had.

His little mouse had not even made a peep of discomfort or discontent – she let them have their wicked way with her until they had their fill for the moment.  

It was a slip in judgement that Raphael would not allow to happen again – and now that his little mouse was finally ready to play – He swallowed down the feral train of thought.

The clearing of a throat broke his reverie.

“Is the wine not to your liking?” The arrogant tone of his host chimed from across the cluttered table.

A wicked smirk played at the corner of Raphael’s lips.

He thrilled at the new turn his meeting had taken.

Raphael tipped his goblet in toast to the vampire across the table. Completely uncaring of the slanted glare Astarion shot in his direction. “I find your tastes to be quite…delicious, Astarion.”

[cybernexus]

it’s not perfect but I present to you: Aihren drawn in a western animation style!

[10millionyearsdungeon]

Reminiscence - Second Tempo

A/N: So! Second Tempo is a continuation of the First Tempo posted here. Just like the last, it’s part of the Haikyuu! HQ Server Collab; check out the rest of the work on the flaming smut pile.  ===================================================

“Oi, it’s Ukai. Leave a message.” “Oh, Keishin…” Your body writhed against your fingers, phone pressed against your ear as another gasping moan ripped through you. The pads of your fingertips glided over your sensitive nub effortlessly as you grinned into the phone balanced between your shoulder and your ear. The game of cat and mouse had been going on for well over six months between yourself and Keishin; the ceaseless war of attrition had the teams and your students wondering who would break first. An international volleyball conference had you and the Karasuno girls’ team pulled away from Miyagi, from the handsome coach with those sharp, leering eyes.

“I know you’re away for training camp with the team…But I need you, Keishin.” Lust coated every syllable, each word dripping with desire as your fingers teased over your nipples and dripping folds. Another lascivious moan echoed into the receiver as you slipped a single dainty finger into your twitching hole. “I can’t seem to keep my hands off of myself…god, I wish it was your fingers slipping inside this tight, needy hole…” Sprawled out on your hotel room bed fresh from a shower, your wet hair plastered itself against your neck as you continued to rock into your own hand. 

He invaded your thoughts; like intrusive kudzu he wrapped himself around your senses even halfway across the world. Did he know how you had ruined two pairs of panties at the last voicemail he sent you before the girls’ last match that day? Did he realize how desperate you were to be home? Could he hear it in your voice? 

“Keishin,” you whined out, fingertip just brushing your g-spot. With a soft growl, you snatched your phone from your ear and put the device on speaker so you could angle yourself to reach deeper. With your body able to contort a little easier, the phone rested next to your flushing face against the pillowcase. Your body jolted into waves of pleasure as your legs tensed into your stroking. “Fuck, I can’t wait to come home, oh fuck, oh fuck, Keishin…”

The familiar stars dotted your vision as you bucked into your hand, clit rubbing fitfully into the meat of your delicate palm. You could almost see the flash of bleached-blond hair, the tanned skin stretched across those long, toned forearms. Painfully arching your wrist to drive your curling fingers into that familiar, soft spot you clenched tightly around your thin digits. You couldn’t fight the orgasm that threatened to overtake you quicker than anticipated. “Oh, fuck, Kei…Keishin!” Your words were gasping, breathless sounds, the same sounds he took pride in drawing out of you. 

“It should be your cock I’m cumming on. Why isn’t it your cock, Keishin? Fuck, I…” Another cry left you trembling as you came around your fingers. The ecstacy you felt solo was a pale shade of what you had grown used to with the snarky coach. You whimpered into the phone and shifted the sheets around you, arms hopelessly searching for him in the stark white abyss of your hollow afterglow. 

“I can’t wait to see you, Keishin…Until then,” you closed and hung up the phone. A small grin bloomed over your features as you came down from your brief high. The back and forth of phone tag and stolen video chats for the past week made you long for the thug-faced twenty-something coach fiercer than you could imagine. For the moment, the extra pillows in your bed would have to suffice as a sub-par substitute before you could nuzzle into the warmth and inhale the smoke and sweat from his skin again.

~

It was a long day of drills and penalties for the Karasuno Boys’ Volleyball Club at the joint training camp with Fukurodani and Nekoma. The boys continued to run themselves full tort against the other two teams, trying to refine and rebuild their skills on the court. Keishin found himself getting frustrated with the lack of progress the team was making, even considering the upperclassmen were bordering on complacency. Daichi assured him they were trying their best and maybe it was time for their coach to take a break. 

He ambled from the gym with a lazy kind of grace and fumbled for his cigarettes and phone from his pockets. His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the voicemail notification he saw across the screen. The tiniest of cocky grins stretched his mouth into a crooked curve as his thumb hovered over the play button. “Damn, must’ve just missed her,” he sighed, pressing play and holding the phone to his ear. The second your moan, your deliciously sinful voice graced his ears his face heated up and his ears flushed a deep red. Your voice went straight to the growing tent in his sweats, an ache he would be sure you repay you for in kind when you returned. The wailing fit on the other end was audible to passers by as the flustered coach turned the volume down with thick, numb thumbs. A dark-haired Fukurodani student passed by, green eyes narrowed at the coach’s flustered appearance and wordlessly made his way into the gym, no doubt to start another four-on-four match with the boys of Karasuno. At the end of your message, Keishin leaned into the brick of the gym and finally lit his cigarette. He took a long drag, longer than he would have normally if it wasn’t for your scintillating voicemail. Once his heart slowed, his thumbs furiously typed out a reply. K- You could have warned me, little girl. Y- And ruin the surprise? You liked it. :)

K- Time and place. Y- Is that all you have to say? :( This different timezone stuff is the worst, Keishin.

K- That’s something we can agree on. It’s just another day, right? Y- I’ll be home the day after tomorrow. Closing ceremonies run until tomorrow afternoon, but flight leaves a day after. K- Text me next time, little girl. And tell the girls to kick ass during their last exhibition match. Y- Does it make you mad that my team’s doing better than yours, Mr. Big Bad Daddy Crow? >:D

K- Just wait, little girl. You haven’t earned your wings yet. We’ll see how much fight you have in you with my hand around that pretty neck of yours and your lips wrapped around my cock. 

He chuckled darkly at the thought of your ruined face, chest heaving, gasping for oxygen as he held your lips against the hilt of his cock. He knew you well enough to know that your face would be about thirty shades redder than his was listening to your siren song after reading his message. God, you were never more beautiful to him than when you were sobbing out for release, begging for him to make you his. Fewer things kept him warmer at night when his wide palm wrapped around his cock than thoughts of you with that lewd, haunting passion playing in your eyes. When you didn’t reply, he shook his blond head and snuffed out his smoldering cigarette filter against the wall. Of course you’d have your fingers stuffing your cunt; it couldn’t compare to his touch. He adjusted his headband deftly and pocketed his phone again, only glancing down at his cock, half-mast for a moment before another distraction pulled him away from his thoughts. Two days were going to feel like an eternity. At least he had your voice in his pocket. 

~

You yawned as your girls took the court in their last match against the American team. The manager eyed you suspiciously as you blearily watched the game unfold. “Long night, Coach?” You nodded and hummed, rubbing your eyes. The boy stood a whole head taller than you, appraising your drowsy visage. “Must be hard being away from home.” “Mmmhm. It’s easy to miss home from so far away.” “I’m sure Coach Ukai feels the same way, Y/n.” “Toshi!” Your tone was scandalized in your chiding as the younger boy stifled a chuckle. “We should be focusing on the girls. How do you think they’ll do today?” He smiled, pride swelling as he watched his team warm up. “It’s been a long week.” “They’re tired, but they’ll push through. We’ve taken the W with less in the tank before.” It was your turn to feel proud of your girls. It was true– their rise to the top, for the acknowledgement that came with the invite to a tourney on the international stage was huge, even if it was just an exhibition tourney. There was something about the game that kept you grounded despite the tumultuous turns of your life. It brought you back to those long-thought forgotten memories, brought you closer to your high-school crush. Part of you was glad you took on coaching the counterpoint to the boys’ club; it brought meaning to your career to that point. “Michimiya! Remember, it’s supposed to be fun!” you called out to your team captain, Toshi nodding in agreement solemnly from the sidelines. Aihara, your ace nodded and gave a quick thumbs up before the ball went into play. Before the other team had a chance to receive the serve, your attention was pulled from the court to the vibrating phone in your tracksuit pocket. You had half a mind to silence it, leave it ignored and let it go to voicemail. Your attention should have been on your team, your girls, but… You pulled the phone from your pocket and bit your lip at the sight of his name reading across the screen. You excused yourself from the sidelines and made your way to the hallway leading to the locker room, bringing the device to your ear. “You were gonna keep me waiting, little girl? That’s no way to earn your wings,” his voice rasped out between hurried pants. “Oh, fuck…” Heat crept up your neck from your neat, white tracksuit jacket. Suddenly, everything was too hot. You worried your lip between your teeth and fought back a whimper as Keishin growled in your ear. You did some quick maths in your dazed state and gasped into your phone. “You should be asleep, Keishin! It’s nearly two in the morning…” “Couldn’t sleep, not when I had to get you back, naughty little girl. Did it feel good cumming on those fingers without me? Did it satisfy you knowing you were cumming without my permission? Was it worth it?” “I…” “Answer me, little girl,” he continued to groan, the sound of skin gliding across skin caressing your eardrums between his moans. You could practically feel his smug expression over the phone. The sinful breath on your ear had you wishing you could be there to watch, to touch him and run your fingers through his hair as he worked his cock in that large hand he loved to wrap around your blushing throat. “I’m waiting,” he teased. “It can’t compare,” you whispered, striding with hurried steps into the locker room. His voice frayed at the edges and had you practically dripping down your thighs under your track pants. The power his voice had over your body was undeniable. “I couldn’t help myself. I…” “Aw, poor little bird. At least you’re honest.” You tried to swallow around the lump in your throat at the nickname, but struggled. Mouth dry and thighs coated in your slick, you struggled to find your way back to reason, to the here and now. Half a world away, you sunk to the locker room bench and let out a shuddering sigh at the sound of the other coach’s debauched moans. He was close, that much you could tell. How long had he been stroking that thick cock? Was he imagining your lips cradling his glans, your saliva dripping down his balls? Could he see you dragging his head along your lips and your eyes peering up at him through a fringe of dark lashes? How many times did he listen to your voicemail before he thought to call you and dish out a dose of your own medicine? “Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me like I need you, little girl.” “I…I want you,” you whimpered, balancing your phone between your shoulder and your ear. You fumbled with your track pants and slid them hastily to your knees, your practiced fingers rubbing yourself through your soaked cotton panties. “Oh, Keishin, I need you.” You bit back a soft moan, still tender from your activities from the night prior. “That’s it, little bird. Don’t stifle yourself. Let me hear you. Where did that gorgeous voice go?” “I…Keishin, I’m at the tournament,” you gasped, that sensitive nub twitching with arousal under your busy fingertips. He let out a surprised grunt and you swore you could feel him double over on himself. “Fuck…fuck, Y/n, I never took you to be such an exhibitionist. My little bird’s getting brave on me, huh?” The sound of the door to the locker room opening made you freeze for a second before shuffling your pants back up your thighs. “Coach? Coach, are you okay? The other team’s called a time-out. Did you want to do a swap?” Toshi’s earnest voice echoed in the otherwise empty room as you struggled to get the words out without sounding like you were another second away from moaning like a porn star for the man on the other side of your call. “Answer him, little bird. Don’t stop touching that clit for me. Let’s see you earn those wings…” “Ah…yeah, have Watabe swap in. I…I need a minute. Must have been something I ate this morning.” Keishin grinned on the other end, still stroking himself languidly as he listened to you lie through your teeth to your team manager. When you heard him retreat back into the gym, you let out a shuddering sigh, your legs trembling around your hand. “Such a good little bird. I’m close. You gonna come with me?” You nodded as if he could see you, still focused on the sounds coming from your phone. His breath hitched as he choked on his moans, movement stilling on his end of the phone call. You gasped in tandem, fingertips slipping inside your waiting heat. He must have known you were close based on your breathing alone. He let you continue until he howled out his release, leaving you breathless at how completely beautiful he could sound coming undone at the thought of you. “Please, please, Keishin,” you huffed out, sweat trickled down your neck as you ground yourself into your fingers, stretching against your slick, velveteen walls. “Stop.” “But-” “I said stop, Y/n.” “But…but Keishin…” “Naughty little girls don’t get to cum when they’re bad. Mm, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck, Y/n,” he teased again before hanging up. You sat in silence, frustrated and slick with your own fluids. Aggravated, you pulled your pants up the rest of the way and stripped off your jacket. Approaching the sink, you patted cool water against your burning skin and stared yourself down in the mirror. So it was another challenge he wanted? You had him eating crow out of your beautifully manicured hands before and you could do it again. Your team wouldn’t be the only ones getting a win. A plan came together, neatly, quickly despite the lingering haze of lust. Spite and frustration cut through your need like a white hot razor, and all you could fixate on was the thrill of victory both on and off the court. “Setters aren’t the only big brains on the court,” you mused to yourself as you reappeared on the court, hands buried deeply into your pockets. Toshi cast a sidelong glance in your direction, subtly taking in the hard set of your jaw and the color rising in your cheeks as you stared down the opposing team’s coach from across the gym. You grit your teeth, eyes dark with determination. If he wasn’t mistaken, he almost thought you were taking this game more seriously than just a simple exhibition match. Regardless of the reason, the team manager found himself grateful he wasn’t the object of your ire. “Hit it ‘til it breaks, Sasaki!!” Your yell rattled the team manager as it echoed through the gym over the roar of the crowd. The puddle in your panties only fueled your frustration the longer you dwelled on Keishin’s denial. You wanted to breathe smoke, to destroy something beautiful just to prove you could. “Stupid, big-brain setter,” you growled under your breath as your team took another point from the Americans. “Coach, why do I get the feeling you aren’t talking about the other team?” “C’mon, girls, you’re better conditioned than that!! Go for the kill!!” “Yeah, you’re definitely not talking about the other team.” The conference couldn’t be done soon enough, and the next two days were going to feel like the longest of their lives. ~ Few things in life brought Keishin Ukai more solace than quiet mornings over a cup of coffee. The only thing that could have made it better was your groggy face smiling sleepily across the table at him. Sunlight bled through the kitchen blinds, staining everything in garish gold and yellow in the pale light. Hair loose, he carded his long fingers through his bedhead with casual grace and absently scrolled through his phone as the coffee continued to brew. It would be just a few hours before you would be home; he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t excited for your return. In the safety of his home, he could let some of that boyish glee bleed out as he searched through your old photos. As if he could forget your face, the sway of those devastating hips, or the way you’d catch your lower lip between your teeth when you were flustered. As much as he owned you, the power you held over him and his emotions was undeniable. From the moment you stepped foot on his court he was your willing captive. He set his phone aside to pour himself his first of what would be many cups of coffee. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the heady aroma, dark and bitter before it hit his tongue. Relaxing in his seat a little more, he sighed through his nose. The chiming of a text alert pulled him from his brief reprieve. Y- Good morning, Daddy Crow :D! We’ll be home in a few hours. I can’t wait to see you. Keishin chuckled into his steaming mug and took a long sip. Wryly amused and even a little annoyed by your pet name for him, he typed out his reply unhurried. K- We’ll see how tired you are when you get back. Ten hours and change is a long time to spend in the air.

Y- Don’t remind me. No idea what I’m going to do to stay occupied. 

K- I can think of a few distractions. 

He waited, watching the ellipsis flicker over the text banner for your reply, his heart rate picking up in anticipation. What fresh hell awaited him when you finally hit send? Vaguely he had an idea of how badly you wanted to get back at him for leaving you hanging during his last call, but you were too sweet, far too forgiving to want revenge. Y- I’m sure you can. What do you have lined up for today?

K- Not a thing. Just waiting on you. It wasn’t like you to not take his bait; he could practically feel the ice from your reply. Was it the distance? You were only gone for a week, but was it enough time for your relationship to cool? “Shit,” he muttered, rolling a cigarette between his fingers as he reread your reply another six times. “Guess she is mad…” He mused and fussed over your text before lighting the paper tip and taking a careless drag. The blue-gray haze hung around his kitchen like a comforting veil. He waited another moment before he saw you typing another response. He tore his gaze away from the device to ash his cigarette in an empty beer bottle he had sitting on the kitchen table; when he returned to it, the sight that met him had him melting in his chair. Your delicate frame was seated on a sea of white, the barest hint of emerald lace curling in elegant patterns along the swell of your ass. Hair pulled to one side in effortless waves of jet, your bare back was on full display, tantalizing him with the gentle curve of your spine and adorable dimples framing your tailbone. Your face in profile, he could see the faint rose dusting your cheeks and nose, the dreamy sparkle playing in your eyes as you held your breasts away from view. He knew that far-away gaze all too well– it played behind your eyes when you would look at him, when you would think about his strong hands exploring your body. His eyes lingered on the definition of your thighs, all the while longing he could feel them squeezing his head as you trembled into his waiting mouth. It wasn’t the lewdest photo he’d ever seen, but it hit differently when it was you. His mouth went dry and he felt himself get lost in every detail, as if he could memorize every scar, every freckle if he stared long enough. Y- Enjoy your distraction, Keishin.

When did you find the time to take photos? Was that the only one? Questions raced through his mind as he lingered on the picture, fingertip tracing along the swell of your hips. God, he was such a sucker for those wide hips and built thighs. He might have admired your drive and ability to keep up and run drills with your team, but he really wanted to see just how far he could push you until you broke.

“It’s just ten more hours. I can hold out for ten hours.” ~ Six months together and it took a week apart for him to salivate over the smell of your perfume. All the distance, despite the frequent calls and text messages, only intensified his undeniable thirst. You were his meet-cute, the high school crush who got away. There would always be that part of him that wondered how he got so lucky crossing your path not once but twice in his lifetime. If he were a betting man, he’d probably put more stock in fate or soulmates after meeting you, but it wasn’t his style to be so sentimental. Travel always took a lot out of you. Keishin caught you yawning on your way from the baggage claim, only aware enough to know where to step without tripping. Grinning like a fiend, he took his moment and pulled you into an empty lounge. Startled, you swung your first and jerked out of his hold, only stopping your thrashing when you caught the bemused twenty-something rubbing his stubbled jaw. “Fucking hell, is that anyway to say hello, little girl?” “Oh my god, Keishin!” Your hands flew to his face and he could have died a happy man on the spot. “I’m so sorry! You can’t just do that!” Your chest tightened at the rumbling chuckle that reverberated under your fingertips. “Keishin,” you sighed, holding his stubbled face in your thin hands. Studying the sharp planes of his face, your eyes practically sparkled with delight. He was here, real under your palms flashing that same cocksure grin that had you flustered since you first stepped up to challenge him on the court. “You gonna keep staring at me or what, little bird? C’mon, let’s ge-!” Rising to your toes, you pulled him to your lips and left him struggling to catch his breath, your perfume lingering after you withdrew and bounced away, tugging him along from the airport lobby. Head swimming, he followed, allowing you to lead him around until you remembered who drove and the simple fact that you had no idea where the car was. It was easy to forget you were an accomplished adult when you let your excitement take the wheel, but it brought Keishin closer to what might have been before you disappeared when you were still children. He never got the chance to watch you play back then, a regret he tucked away with the first night you murmured his name in your sleep. His single-minded ambition kept him from really seizing the chance to get to know you as a person instead of an idea back then. Packed away in his well-loved sedan, you couldn’t help but fidget in the passenger seat, anxiously bouncing your foot below the dash. Unfazed, he reached over and placed a hand on your knee, halting the bouncing movement with a stern glance. Color bloomed in your cheeks at the gesture, body relaxing just enough under the warmth of his palm. Braver still, he slowly ran his fingertips along the line of your thigh, stopping just below the clothed apex of your leg. Keishin never took his eyes off the road, but he knew just where to brush to make your blood sing. He followed your movements, subtly tracking your reactions to his innocent caressing. 

“Don’t get shy on me now, little bird.” 

The bait was set, almost painfully obvious as you continued to squirm into his waiting palm. “I’m not shy. I’m..”

“You’re what? Use your words,” he smirked, dragging his knuckles against your sex. The motion was so casual you might have applauded him for his audacity if it hadn’t been a week since you felt him touch you. Muddled between your jet lag and the growing haze of lust ensnaring your senses, you fumbled over your words and whimpered something about thinking about how much you missed him. “That’s what I thought.” Whether it was the nonchalance or the gentle pressure he exerted on your core, you felt yourself slip closer into that familiar euphoric headspace. It was almost embarrassing how wrapped around his finger he had you; it wouldn’t be long before he’d have you wrapped around him literally as well. 

~

You wanted to scream, to gnash your teeth and beat something to a bloody pulp. At least you could take out your frustrations on the court. The girls took the day to strength train in the school’s weight room, leaving you to your own devices in the second gym. You could see his almost-apologetic face, the slight upturn of his lips when he sent you to work with a chaste peck on your hair. 

“I just couldn’t bear to wake you…”

“Tch, likely story. Stupid, big-brain setter!” You hissed through your teeth and imagined it was his disembodied head you were spiking over the net with a satisfying crack. Your attentive team manager threw another ball and watched as you continued to fume. 

“Are you trying to pop a ball, sensei?" 

"Less talk, more throw, Toshi.” He shook his head and tossed another ball, only for you to bounce it off the floor twice to center yourself before your inevitable spike. Unsatisfied, you shook your ponytail and jogged to the opposite end of the gym to practice your jump serve. Toshi watched on, hanging his head as you sent another ball flying in his direction. “Jesus Christ, Himewari!” he screeched, ducking out of the way. You huffed in irritation, barely registering the clattering of gym doors opening. The ball rested daintily in your hand, your eyes narrowed with the smooth rubber leaving your palm before the inevitable punch. Keishin knew better than to leave the safety of the annex when you were serving, but he could watch you soar forever. Leaned against the cool wall, his headband gently digging into his scalp with his blond head resting into the drywall, he couldn’t help the crinkle of his eyes when your hand finally connected with the abused ball. Sweat glistened like diamond dust on your skin, the crop top you wore doing nothing to temper his wandering gaze. As you hung in the air, he hummed to himself, remembering Shimizu’s words when he first saw you serve. “You really do have wings, little bird…” When you landed and reached for another ball he made his presence known, his footsteps falling faintly over your light panting. This was how he liked you best, dark hair mussed and sweat dripping down the valley of your breasts. It was almost a shame, he thought to himself, that he wasn’t the one making you such a mess. He stopped just a few feet behind you only to catch the tail end of your cursing his name for leaving you high and dry on your return. As if sensing the change in the atmosphere, like catching the faint scent of ozone on the wind before a squall, Toshi took his leave and escaped into the weight room, leaving you alone with the other coach. Caught mid-approach, Keishin wrapped his arms around your smaller frame and buried his nose into your ponytail. You froze at the sudden intrusion of your personal space and the ball fell from your waiting palm, its fall echoing through the empty gym. “Thought I’d find you here,” he purred. Hackles raised, you pushed away from him and made a dash for your club jacket. Keishin used his height and longer legs to his advantage and followed close behind. If it was a chase you wanted, he’d give it to you. He let you sprint to the locker room, hand resting on the handle before he turned you by the shoulders and caged you against the wall between his arms. Looming over you, he smirked and licked his lips at the deepening flush creeping down your neck and across your collarbones. He smelled like tobacco and neroli, his cologne making your head spin. The smoke lingering on his breath had your thoughts racing– you were in high school again, fantasizing about being trapped in those arms with those sharp eyes drinking your timid expression so patiently. “What’s the matter, little girl?” he started smugly. His pupils dilated, leaning his head in to bear down on you further. “Can’t rise to the challenge? Where’d all that fight go?” Keishin licked his teeth and breathed into your ear. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you,” he teased, running his nose along your hairline. Your breath hitched; how did he always know how to make you feel so small? The thought incited more anger, more fuel to the fire burning in your belly as you jerked your ear away from his hot breath. “No, you don’t get to do that. I’m not going to let you win that easily, Keishin.” Your voice was low, almost dangerous. The animosity was one-sided, and the other coach snickered at your new-found boldness. “I don’t think you get it, little bird,” he growled, wrapping a firm hand around your thin neck. “I’ve already won.” Swallowing hard, you worried your lower lip between your teeth, his favorite tell, and stared him in the eye. The predatory gleam made you weak in the knees– he knew it. He could feel you falter under his capable palm as he gave your neck a gentle squeeze. Keishin loved seeing you like this– wrestling between reason and your desires, pinned beneath him with that fire burning behind your eyes as if to remind him that you only permitted his control because you knew how completely yours he really was. The nip of his teeth on your earlobe sent you reeling, swooning into his stubbled cheek. “Please,” you whispered. “Not here.” “No? You sure?” As if to capitalize on your wavering resolve, he raised a knee to rest just between your thighs, a silent dare to test him and see just how far he’d make you go. Instinctively, you ground your pelvis against his knee and shuddered at the delicious pressure on your core. He grinned against your cheek. “Because I think this is exactly where you want it.” Hips rocking, your anger slowly melted away as he continued to tease you, still pinning you to the door by the throat. “I think you like the idea of almost getting caught, little bird.” Your whimpers doused kerosine on the slow burning embers he stoked with his teasing. “Keishin,” you gasped, his free hand trailing down your sticky body to pull your hip hard into his waiting erection, grip hard enough you were sure you’d have bruises by the time he was done. “We don’t-” “Guess I’ll just have to cum inside you then.” Your thighs squeezed around his knee, cunt fluttering at the thought of your combined spend trickling down your thighs on the walk home. His grin was sinful, eyes sharp and hungry as you melted into his knee. He could feel your slick soaking through your shorts, the sensation earning a groan you just barely made out. “Mark you as my little crow inside and out,” he purred, long fingers feathering along the waistband of your shorts. “Yeah, I think you like that idea.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” You caught his gaze through your dark lashes, leaning into his hand and waiting hips as if to lay your own bait. Your own hands caught in his hair and pulled his headband down. How you loved running your fingers through those blond waves; you rolled your hips and gave his hair an experimental tug, earning a low groan in return. He surged forward and captured your lips, a fight for dominance to the end. Tongue tracing hungrily along the curl of your lips, he softened his hold on your neck and pulled you closer. Hand on your nape, he let out a hiss when you bit him, a flash of blood lingering on your lip in return with a satisfied grin. “Oh, cocky now?” Keishin gave your shorts a shove over your generous hips. Anxiety and excitement bubbled in your chest as you squirmed against him. He was still hard muscle and sinew despite years away from the court, more than enough to handle you at your worst. “Let’s see you be cocky now, little bird.” His fingers glided along your sopping cunt, earning a sharp moan at the sudden brush along your neglected clit. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Fuck,” he breathed, too enraptured by your responsive body. “Keishin, please,” you whimpered, clutching his shoulders as his deft fingers continued to tap and rub slow, agonizing circles around your glistening clit. “Please, please fill me…” “How quickly your resolve falls apart, my little crow,” he purred into your hair, fingers now sliding into your drooling pussy. You bit back another moan, head arching back into the door as Keishin scissored his fingers against your already fluttering walls. “You’re fucking drenched.” “Please, please…I need you. I need to feel you, Keishin.” Legs trembling, you rocked into his hand, keening at the pressure his hardened fingertips exerted on your g-spot. Even accidentally, he had a way of luring out the most beautifully debauched moans from you. He continued to work you open, trying to make up for a week without laying claim to you in the span of minutes. Keishin growled low, feeling himself get lost in your whining, in the warm squeeze of your welcoming cunt around his fingers, in how completely devoted he was to hearing you moan his name like that one more time. You heard the zip after you felt the lonesome ache of loss, only to be filled again to the hilt with a gasping cry. Keishin grit his teeth and leaned into your writhing frame, bracing himself against the door as you squeezed his cock from head to hilt like a velvet vice. “W-wrap your leg around my hip,” he ordered shakily, peering at you through a curtain of soft gold. You did as instructed and felt him wrap his arm around your back, pulling you closer as he rocked into your heat with a moan of his own. “So fucking tight, Y/n…” Stars faded throughout your vision and left you feeling dazed. “So good,” he moaned, resting his forehead against yours to glance down where your bodies connected. You balanced on your toes, meeting his thrusts with your own. “Keishin,” you cried in return, arching your back off the locker room door as your first climax claimed you. Keishin grit his teeth and fucked you through the first of many, angling his hips to drive his cock deeper still, earning a harsh shriek. “Keishin, don’t stop!” “Wasn’t planning on it,” he groaned, bottoming out with a stutter. “It’s like you were made for me.” You let out another cry, clinging to the coach as tears pricked your eyes. He rutted against your cervix with a pained grin, knowing the longer he pressured against that button the sooner you’d be begging to be filled and defiled. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he sighed, slowing as your walls clenched around his cock with the advent of another orgasm. You trembled helplessly against him, body practically weightless in his arms as he continued to prolong your pleasure if only to draw out his own. When you came down, you brushed your nose along his and gazed at him through half-lidded eyes. Toes curling in your trainers at the devastating sight in front of you, you gave another keening cry and buried your face into his shoulder. “Y’know, for someone so worried about being caught you sure are loud.” He grinned into your hair and hammered his hips into yours, earning another loud wail in protest and in pleasure. Your nails caught the tanned skin of his back, a vicious trail of red left in their wake as he brought you to another peak. “That’s three…” You bucked against him, fitfully chasing again after that same high only his cock could bring you. His name a prayer on your lips, he allowed you to take because you gave him so much in return. Every moan, every gush of your juices around his cock he took and devoured, knowing you wouldn’t be afraid to earn his end in return. “I can feel you twitching, Keishin. You’re close, Daddy Crow.” His hips stuttered as you whispered the pet name into his ear, holding you tightly as he bottomed out in your spasming cunt. “Hard not to when you’re fucking milking me.” He’d never admit it, but he would stay buried inside you forever if you’d let him. Only the unsynchronized whisper of your breathing and the slick slap of skin on skin surrounded the two of you in the empty gym. Entangled with the other coach in the darkened hallway, you found his lips to muffle another moan when your attention was pulled away from your bliss by the slamming of the gym doors. 

"Coach Himewari! We’re getting ready to go!” It was Michimiya your team captain. Her footfalls echoed softly, rubber tapping against the laminated wood. She paused for a moment when you didn’t answer. Keishin grinning sadistically against your lips, he held your hips flush against his, grinding his cock into that spot that frayed the edges of your vision and made your quiver around his girth. “Hm, I guess she already left…” the team captain mused before shuffling closer to the locker room door, only to quickly turn away at the opening of the door. 

“Come on, Yui! Let’s just go! Toshi can catch us up later.” Grateful for Aihara pulling her friend’s focus, you bit down on your lip to keep quiet. Keishin redoubled his efforts, dragging his teeth along the hollow of your neck. Even muffled your moans were music to his degenerate ears. You stiffened against him with the sinking of his teeth into your neck, a stifled cry and final squeeze signaling your end. Keishin wasn’t too far behind, growling into your salt-slicked skin. The heavy doors clattered shut as he moaned out his release, the heat building in your core as he spasmed into your waiting womb. 

“Fuck me, Keishin…” you breathed, half chuckling half panting. He held against you, comfortable in your combined heat as he peppered soothing kisses along your neck and into your hairline. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you like almost getting caught.”

He hissed, slowly withdrawing from your core and watched as his cum slowly started trickling from your pulsating hole down your sturdy thighs. He tucked himself back into his jeans and watched you languish against the wall for a moment, playful grin lighting his face. Deftly he collected the escaping seed and shoved it back into your abused cunt, earning a pained whimper before he pulled your panties and shorts back up to keep the rest from spilling. “Don’t waste it, little crow.” He wiggled his fingers along your lips and you greedily sucked them clean with wide, innocent eyes. Your combined taste coated your tongue, sweet and bitter all at once. “That’s my good girl,” he crooned, planting a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. 

Your anger evaporated, you slumped against him, head resting comfortably into his chest. “I��m ready for a nap, daddy crow…” you whined. Blond hair slicked with swear, he carded those long fingers through and hoisted you up onto his shoulder, carrying you out of the gym with your mess ruining your panties and shorts. 

“Oh no you don’t. As soon as we get home you’re making up for every voicemail and tantrum, Y/n.” It was going to be a long night. 

[insomniasymphony]

Obsessive Pariston Hill x Female Reader

Constellation: Obsessive Pariston Hill x Female Reader Words I got: → Beguiling → Lust → Trapped Rating: Explicit Warning: Leaves the reader thirsty!

                          ►► Trap a mouse with a piece of cheese.                                       Trap a rat with anything else.                                              See the difference.                                    The mouse will lose its freedom.                                   And the rat will be the reason. ◄◄

Your footsteps echo on the tiles that adorn the hallway of the Hunter Association's third floor, letting no one escape. Not even Netero manages to scurry silently from door to door, although he is a master at scaring the shit out of others when boredom gets the better of him. You, as a simple Hunter under Cheadle's command in the virus department, have even less chance of getting away unheard.

But that doesn't matter.

You want Pariston to hear you coming. You want him to know you're on your way to him, to arrive on time. He hates it when you don't stick to the given times he carefully picks out for you and he hates it even more when you show up stressed and in work clothes. Most of all because, although he would never admit it, he doesn't think much of Cheadle. She's always nagging at him, always finding fault with his behaviour and is often far too unfriendly in her demeanour towards him.

You don't know how often she has asked you how you put up with him. The fact is, however, that she has no idea of Pariston. Yes, he is a man of entertainment, but that doesn't necessarily make him bad.

The thought makes you smile. Everything today is all right. You have made yourself pretty for him. A lightly falling summer dress, although it is already autumn. But he should see that you spare no effort, even if you rarely wear things like this, maybe not even at all. Sometimes you don't really know, because it's too much to search through all your memories for the right scenes, and at the end of the day it has no value at all. The dress fits, the high heels are bearable even though not comfortable, and you took the liberty of leaving work an hour early to completely detach your head from work. There's nothing else he can find fault with.

“Hey!” someone else's voice snaps you out of your thoughts as you stop and look around. It's only when you cast a glance over your shoulder that you notice the man rushing in your direction, waving. “Stop right there!”

It takes a moment, but in the end it's not hard to categorise Ging's drained, listless visage.

"What is it?" You don't want to talk to him, but he seems to want something important from you, so you put your hands on your hips and raise your brows waiting. It takes him a moment to get to you, propping himself up on his legs to take a breath.

“Since when did this building have so many fucking stairs?” He straightens again, stretching his back through, then looks at you almost thoughtfully. “Are you on your way to Pariston?”

“Maybe.”

“Good. Can you tell him-”

“Absolutely not!” Refusing, you cross your arms in front of your chest and shake your head. “You can handle your business on your own. Stop always trying to put your responsibilities on others.”

His expression grows more unpleasant with each word. He doesn't like the idea of doing his own things. At least not if they exhaust him or are sheer exhausting. That Ging and Pariston aren't necessarily friends moves the circumstances towards “exhausting”.

“Please!” He folds his hands in front of his face, while the wry grin seems almost cute, but you don't have time for his theatrics.

“No.” It's your last word before you turn stiffly, leaving Ging behind, who makes a few more starts to speak but can't find the right conviction for you. This man is worth only a shake of the head that accompanies you until you arrive at the door to Pariston's office.

You knock twice on the wood before you hear a sweet “come in” and actually enter. It looks the same as always, the same tidiness, the same smell that clings to Pariston – a mixture of honey and roses.

He has found his place on the large, u-shaped sofa, whose black leather shines as if it were new. The glass table in front of it is furnished with ashtrays and a shoe box. It seems as if the last meeting was with complete strangers.

The glass counter two steps from the sofa, on which dozens of bottles of alcohol can be found behind a serving surface, also seems to have been used once or twice. Someone has opened the Scotch and you know that Pariston prefers red wine in every way.

“You're late.” There is no lovely greeting or compliment waiting for you on his lips. In the first place, there's a slight sound of disappointment as he looks at you with that smile that seems to hold a thousand secrets.

“Sorry.” You don't know how much time has passed, but it's clear you're a bit late. “I had a little exchange with Ging.”

“Did you?” His enthusiasm seems to sink even further and you don't know what he's thinking as he rises from his seat and scrutinises you with those staring brown eyes. “What was it about?”

“He wanted me to tell you something.” Without further ado, you wave it off. “He was so desperate it was almost sweet.”

A man like Ging shouldn't act like that, you're sure of it, but something else seems to be at the forefront of Pariston's mind.

“You seem to have enjoyed the chat if it made you forget the time and pay so much attention to him.”

“As I said, he stopped me. It was only brief.” You wave it off, wanting to give Pariston a smile, but the expression on his face has given way to a rigid facade that makes your heart beat faster in a hurry, while the goosebumps on your body send a shiver down your spine. He is displeased. With you.

Defensively, you raise your hands, placating because you don't want to spend your time together arguing, even if Pariston has only ever reprimanded you until now. “There was really nothing to it, and I'm sorry I'm late again.”

His lids lower a little before his expression brightens abruptly once more and he raises a finger like a suggestion. “Then let's play a game.”

“A game?” you ask in disbelief, unable to follow his sudden change of mood.

Pariston, on the other hand, positively beams as he gestures for you to sit on the free area of the glass counter, with bottles still waiting for greedy throats in the background. Brows raised, you comply with his request, push yourself up onto the counter and find a halfway comfortable seat. Your partner, on the other hand, reaches for the shoebox still lying on the table and carries it over to you.

“We need to make some preparations,” he explains as he sets the package down next to you and a moment later unabashedly slips both his hands under your dress. The first moment you can't help but suck in the air sharply. In the next he has already grabbed the waistband of your panties and slips them over your legs in a controlled movement without you being able to stop him.

“What are you doing?!” You press your legs together uneasily as Pariston lets the slip disappear into his trouser pocket, because he can't stand mess. Then he reaches for the lid of the box, avoiding an answer because he probably thinks you're smart enough to come up with one yourself. And it doesn't seem so hard when you discover the two vibrators, nicely placed on velvet, inside the box.

He knew you were talking to Ging. And he prepared himself.

Instantly, realisation shoots across your face, making your cheeks sensibly hot to the point of burning, while your thighs appear warm and sweaty, even though nothing has happened.

“P-Pariston... What are you doing?” you ask again, your gaze averted from the items and fixed firmly on your counterpart, who meets you with a level of implicitness that is frightening.

“I told you already. We're playing a game.”

You open your mouth to protest, but don't get a chance to say anything as Pariston grabs your thighs and spreads them with force. You struggle, resisting his hold, but he is stronger than you and you know that there is not much point in defying him. He is terrifyingly dominant and you know that if you don't play his game, he will lock you in that room until you give in. He's never done any of this before, but he's mentioned it casually a few times, almost as if he's making a joke. One that you want to believe him. In those seconds you are trapped, locked like a mouse in a cage, specially chosen by Pariston Hill.

So you spread your legs, place your feet on the edge of the countertop and watch as Pariston reaches for the first vibrator. The tip of the device finds a place at the entrance to your vagina, splits the labia and penetrates slightly where nothing but dry flesh awaits. It makes you swallow tensely, press your lips together and wait. A fact that doesn't escape Pariston either, so he withdraws the vibrator.

“Take care of it, will you?” He looks at you, still with a smile on his lips that defies interpretation, but there is something mean about his look that makes the situation even more awkward than it is. You feel like crying. It seems like he is making fun of you, like little boys do to little girls in pre-school. It's not pleasant, but you also have no choice but to let the shame wash over you and feel listlessly for your clit with shaky fingers.

“You'll never get anywhere if you start like this.”

“You don't say,” you hiss back peevishly. A moment in which you come towards him far too briskly, so that Pariston suddenly leans towards you and in the same moment inserts two fingers without restraint. He pushes them into you as if they belong right there and you can't deny that it hurts. But his rough, firm movements also trigger a tingling sensation that you can't resist. His scent seems to beguile your senses and the Nen that emanates from his irritable manner literally sucks you in.

“P-Pariston...” Your voice falters into a unsteady gasp as he suddenly withdraws his fingers and inspects them. They are wet – just a little, but it seems to be enough for him for the next few steps.

Again he puts the vibrator in place, this time pressing it mercilessly into you, making you hold your breath in unpleasant torment until it's far enough in and Pariston lets go. Only for a brief moment before he reaches for the second, which is by far smaller than the first – perhaps two fingers wide. A small toy for which he takes the time to open thick liquor. You watch it while the silicone seems to move inside you, feasting on your lust that is slowly waking up. Carefully he puts the vibrator into the dark fluid, stirs it two or three times and takes it out again, this time covered in alcohol.

And he hardly hesitates to give it a place.

Before you can even prepare yourself, Pariston forces you into a semi-lying position to get better access to your ass. His intense gaze reveals pleasure in what he is doing, interest that reaches far enough to enjoy it all in silence. The squeak that escapes you in terror almost makes your heart jump out of your chest before he inserts the second vibrator anally.

This time it doesn't hurt, but feels uncomfortable on every level, so you can feel the vibrator slowly sliding out between your legs. An act that Pariston notices and corrects with a single movement, pressing it into you again until the silicone is back in place and you start gasping for air.

Pariston doesn't care too much about your well-being, you know that. He loves to ruin things he likes. That's what makes him. And yet you can't hate him for it.

“The rules are very simple,” he then starts. “I'm going to ask you a few questions. If you manage to answer three of them correctly, you win. However, if you lose one of my little toys in the process, you lose. Simple, isn't it?”

“What happens if I lose?” You are forced to look at him between your spread legs, lying exposed in front of him as if you want nothing more.

“It's a secret. You're welcome to try and guess.”

It could be anything, really. You don't even know where to start if you actually wanted to try.

“And if I win?”

“You get whatever you want.”

His words sound tempting, but you know better. Pariston is a gambler. He doesn't care about the outcome because he gets what he wants in the end anyway. It's simple and yet there's nothing you can do but play along.

“Understood.”

“Very well.” He looks visibly pleased as he takes a distance and settles down on the sofa, right on the seat opposite you so that he has your vagina right in view. “What is the exact PH value of distilled water?”

His question hits you like a bolt of lightning. He asks you chemical questions, something he thinks you know something about because you are sometimes in contact with this subject. But you have no idea, try to think about it and still come to no conclusion, so only a panicked “no idea” escapes you.

“What a pity. How about this? What is the characteristic of the fungus Cryptococcus Neoformans?”

It's not reprehensible, but the answer triggers something in you that is almost overwhelming in this absurd situation. The tingling in your abdomen has still not subsided and you can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. Not least because you know that Pariston is inspecting you closely down there and because it is as embarrassing as it is arousing to give him such a defenceless look between your legs.

“I-it can convert radioactive ra-radiation into chemical e-energy,” you finally bring to your lips as the vibrator in your vagina slowly slips and seems to graze the one in your ass. It slides out bit by bit and you can't stop it.

“I wonder... What genetic condition is caused by the dysfunction of the 13th chromosome?” Pariston doesn't falter, just carries on. But you don't get around to answering. Instead you press your legs together, a moment too late to hold the toy between your legs. It crashes to the floor, heavy, before it brings an icy silence and you dare to reach for the other to pull it out – followed by the arousing sensation that spreads for a single moment.

Only then do you dare to sit up. Part of you immediately wants to shove in his face that his game is idiotic and that you won't accept defeat, but Pariston is already standing in front of you and the mocking smile on his lips is missing.

“Imagine if Ging had seen how pathetically you were doing in this game.” His voice expresses honest dismay. “I'm sure he'd be disappointed that you have so little to offer. One of the reasons why no one but me will ever be interested in you in the long run. I'm the only one for you.” He moves closer to you, letting his breath brush over your skin. “I appreciate that weakness.” Then he breathes a gentle, promising kiss on your cheek, leaving you in wonder. You want him, here and now, want him to have you and show you what he does to naughty girls. But instead he sits down on the sofa again, gesturing curtly at the things lying on the floor. “Do me a favour and clean that up.”

“Is this my punishment?” Your bewilderment rises. Frustration germinates on one side, shame on the other because you actually didn't last long. Somehow you wanted to win the game and at the same time he mocks your performance. He goes far enough to insinuate that you aren't good enough for others. And at the same time he marks you. He's confusing, but he becomes clearer as you pick up the first vibrator and turn the wet silicone in your hands.

“What are you thinking?” He gallantly crosses his legs and folds his hands in front of his knees. “I told you it would be a surprise.”

“And when are you going to surprise me?”

“Who knows?” He smiles again, but this time in a way that freezes your marrow. He will surprise you, surely. Because he loves to make sure you face him with a certain aversion. And he'll probably put you on display. That also means he might make a fool of you in front of everyone, maybe in front of Ging, while you sit wide-legged on a table in front of them, begging to be penetrated.

The wetness between your legs intensifies, gnawing painfully through your bones. And you don't know when Pariston will take advantage of that feeling. You only know that you belong to him, and that you must listen when he asks something of you. With more attention than you've ever paid before.

[Picture is from a card trading game] [You have a request for a Hunter x Hunter One Shot? Check things up!]

[howlingday]

jaune D&D au) dwarf nora, goblin neo, and halfling ruby get into an argument over who's the hottest short stack. poor paladin jaune is caught in the cross fire and made to decide. dang it! he specifically asked his goddess (pyrhha goddess of victory and just war) NOT to give him a harem

You Must Be This Tall To Answer

"My Lady, Pyrrha Victoria, I beseech thee!"

Jaune cried out to the heavens. The clouds parted at time stilled, a golden light shining through, blocked only by the heavenly visage of a maiden in battle armor. Her armor and shield were a shining bronze with only a few scuffs marring them. Her hair was a blazing red, alive like fire as it glowed beckoningly upon her champion. Her eyes were a glistening emerald green, with promise of victory growing with every moment they gazed upon him.

She parted her lips and spoke in a heavenly voice. Any lesser man unworthy of her would falter at the words she spoke next.

"Sup, Jaune?"

"I need your help, Pyrrha." Jaune fell to his knees. "I don't know what to do."

"Oh, and what might this be in reference to?"

"Didn't you see it? I thought you were omniscient."

"I was in the bath."

"That doesn't explain-"

"Jaune," the Paladin straightened, "what's the problem?"

Jaune took a deep breath before explaining. "We were on our way to stop the Crimson Bull from attacking a human settlement nearby, but all of a sudden, the girls started fighting one night!"

"Any reason why?"

"I don't know!" Jaune answered, arms extended above his head. "I went to bed one night, and the next morning, they're stand-offish with each other, and now they're asking me about who's better of them.

"Better as in how?"

"Something about being a shortstack?"

"I can't imagine."

Last night, Jaune had slipped into his tent for bed. Shortly after, Ruby tip-toed to his tent, taking advantage of her light halfling steps. Her red cape billowed in the soft night breeze.

She was caught off-guard, however, as Neo yanked her by her hair and tossed her away, a common tactic in goblin mating battles. Her scarred throat seemed to glow in the firelight.

Neo approached with her knife, but was tossed away from the tent with ease by Nora's dwarven strength. She chuckled as she stroked her beard, sneering at the goblin.

It was at this point that the three noticed each other's attire. Ruby was in a nightgown with beautiful rose-embroidery along the hem. Neo was more risque with a revealing blouse and skirt reserved for brothels. Nora decided to the hells with subtlety and stood naked and proud in front of the tent.

"Now, where the fuck do you think you two are going?"

Neo silently growled at the dwarf.

Ruby stood up and pointed. "I'm going to check on Jaune! He's been having nightmares, so I'm going to see if I can help!"

"Ha!" Nora waved a hand in front of her. "I don't remember our fearless leader mentioning a thing about nightmares once. Don't forget, I've been in the party longer than the both of you!"

"Yeah, well, I knew him a lot longer than you!" Ruby defended. "I just needed to help my sister."

"More like you needed your sister's help!" Nora guffawed at the red halfling. She then shot a fist to her left, forcing Neo to jump away. "And don't think you can slip past me with your shadow step, soft-bumps!" Neo glares at the girl. "You may not have been in the party long, but that doesn't mean I don't know who you are. Now, both of you kindly," Nora scooped up some dirt and rubbed it into her palms before spitting into them as well. She slapped her chest and bellowed, "Back the fuck off!"

"I just don't know what to do, Pyrrha." Jaune looked to the sky above as he laid back.

"Well, it's as I always say, Jaune," her champion joined her as she reminded him, "a party needs a strong pillar in fertile ground to rise to bliss."

"I know, I know, but what does that even mean?!" Jaune sat up. "I'm not a carpenter, or a farmer, or a philosopher! What am I supposed to do?"

Pyrrha shrugged. "I'm sorry, Jaune, but I must go. The others are calling me."

"What others?!" Jaune jumped up to the fading goddess, "You always pull this crap! You give some fake wisdom and bail on me!"

"May you forever walk in fall's grace."

"Get back here and help me!" Jaune threw up a gesture. "Fuck you, you red-haired bitch!"

"Well, isn't that a prayer if ever I heard one?" Jaune spun in place, meeting the grinning dwarf, the silently snickering goblin, and the blushing halfling. Nora groomed her beard with a smile. "Maybe I should be a champion, too? Sounds like a fun goddess to serve."

"She really isn't." Jaune sighed. "So, are we ready to go?"

"Just as soon as you answer our question." Jaune groaned. "What? You think getting alone time with your goddess gets you a free pass?" Neo and Ruby shook their heads. "In case you forgot, I'll ask again. Of the three of us, who is the best shortstack?"

"I mean, can't I say all of you?"

"Oh, sure you can!" Jaune relaxed at this. "Just like you can say we're all the strongest, the fastest, and the leader of this party!" Jaune's relaxation quickly shifted to exhaustion. "C'mon! You can't expect a halfling to be cuter than me!"

"I mean, why not?" Ruby perked up at his answer. "She's fast, and light. She reminds me of a bunny rabbit. Or maybe a mouse, since she squeaks like one when she's nervous." Ruby did just that as she hid behind her cape, blushing.

"Okay, she's cute," Nora admitted, "but she cannot be sexy. Nobody wants a mouse in their sheets, and especially not a toad." She shot a glare at Neo, who silently snarled at Nora.

"Actually," the spotlight was on Jaune once more, "I kind of think Neo is sexy. I don't mind her bumps, and the way she slips into tight spaces is pretty hot." Neo smiled, then stuck her tongue out at Nora.

"Well, she may not be hard on the eyes for you, but she can't compare to the raw sexual energy a full-figured woman like myself!" Nora posed erotically. "Wouldn't you agree, oh fearless leader?"

"But you aren't sexy, Nora." Ruby and Neo covered their mouths to hold their laughs. Nora cracked her neck and her knuckles as she approached Jaune, who stammered. "W-What I mean, uh, is that you're not sexy, but, uh, beautiful!" Jaune covered his face. When no beatings came, he uncovered his face and saw the Blushing dwarf make a gesture to continue. "Well, uh, you always have something to say, and I really admire that confidence. I mean, you're the first in every fight, the last one standing, and you know what to say to lift my spirits up when I'm down. I mean, in my mind, you're what I always imagined my wife would be like, Nora."

Nora pushed past him, holding her sack close over her shoulder. "We wasted enough time. Let's go." As she pushed forward, the party behind her, she did her best to hide the blush in her beard.

Ruby ran up to Jaune's side. She fidgeted with her fingers as she spoke. "Um, you don't think I'm sexy?"

"I mean, in your own way, but-" Jaune was caught in a trap. There was no way for him to get out.

"So, you wouldn't want a mouse in your sheets?" Ruby asked. Taking the line offered, he climbed out of the web, chuckling as he answered.

"I'm not exactly against it."

[seraphiism]

hello sweetie! i hope you're doing well. those prompts are absolutely gorgeous and so is your writing (yes i am repeating myself. so what. let's give back to caesar what belongs to caesar, yes?)

how about the one and only gojo and ' the world's a beast of a burden / you've been holding on a long time '

(yes i am soft. please. he's making me soft.)

the mourning tree / gojo satoru ( jujutsu kaisen ) ( the world's a beast of a burden you've been holding on a long time. ) a/n: prompt post ( x ). lyrics from florence + the machine - what the water gave me. spoilers ( ? ) if you haven't read the manga

& what is grief made of / but weakness and the remnants of sin god has carved from the hollows of the soul? ( BUT WHAT IF THERE IS NEITHER WEAKNESS NOR SIN IN THE MARROW OF YOUR BONES? what then? do you find another way to grieve? or do you suffer in silence, counting the days until your conscience gnaws at you and destroys you from the inside out? )

gojo satoru has lost someone important ( and maybe he did far long ago, and maybe he did not want to acknowledge it ). death is too common a thing in this life of humans and curses-- always has been, always will be. you think it gets easier; sometimes it feels like it, but there's always something / somewhere / someone that makes you feel like you have experienced that first loss all over again.

and for satoru, it is the death of geto suguru that brings on a wave of nostalgia and terror and numbness all at once.

he says little after. doesn't act very different, not at all, and you think that frightens you. ever since you have known him, you've yet to see him express much aside from mischief and the occasional serious moment.

the question you think to ask is: are you okay?

the question you want to ask is: when will the world and all its horrors rip you apart? when it does, will i know? how can you keep going on like this, knowing you have killed him?

the words that wedge themselves from your throat are: "can i hold you, satoru?"

in this game of cat and mouse, you both find that there are greater meanings in fewer words. he looks at you, and for a split second, you sense a hiraeth that sinks into blue hues ( and it'll drown and drown, never to resurface, because that's how it's always been with him ). but his visage quickly twists into one of amusement-- a grin, a weak yet dramatic gasp, and a closed distance as he allows you to wrap your arms around his form.

"you missed me that much?" he murmurs, "can't stay away from me any longer than that?"

you expect nothing less.

he will never grieve. he won't. he won't let himself. you understand that. you cannot make him. but it's the way he masks his sorrow that wounds you so deeply; you wonder what you would see if he allowed you to hold his heart. would it be okay? would it be slowly decaying, waiting at death's door?

you are crying now and he knows why. he hugs you a little tighter as a means of acknowledgement, but says nothing more. doesn't bring up yet another tragedy that has dug itself into his existence, doesn't bring up what he's gone through or what he's lost.

"you're so stupid." you choke out, and it's most certainly not the best thing to say at the moment, but your emotions run rampant and you have too little courage or energy to speak of everything you wish to truly say. "you scare me so much."

you expect him to make another snarky comment, something along the lines of dramatic romanticism, but he doesn't.

"sorry." the apology comes out flatter than either of you expect, but his grip does not loosen. "you're wasting your time worrying about me, you know?"

you know he's right, know that it's better to detach yourself from others when they could be dead in the next moment. but the heart is a fragile thing, your humanity too strong to even indulge in the thought of ignoring his well-being.

your silence is too long for his comfort.

"i'm still here." gojo says. "i'm okay."

you almost laugh. when has he ever been one to say such things for the sake of another?

"you don't have to be okay, satoru."

a tension in his body and a bitterness in your throat. you wait and you wait and you wait for some silly comment, some excuse, but satoru tires of the false fronts and resigns himself to the quiet.

( and so you remain together, holding each other for as long as time needs, for as long as healing needs. )