#noncon elements

[boolger]

Don’t question Valeria

MDNI.

Tags: Valeria Garza x f!reader, sugar dating, sugarmommy, toxic relationship, fear of being killed, mommy kink (mami) nsfw, not a lot of smut but still, naked, implied violence, threats, threats of non-con sex, slight breeding kink, dark!valeria, some sort of AU idk.

AN; pretend all conversations are in Spanish. Yall deserve better than me just throwing it through the google translator, bc it would be a mess. Anyways, this is something I threw together today, it’s not edited , so apologies if there are any mistakes.

Her gaze felt heavy; it made your body feel heated, your limbs slow and submissive, as you crawled towards her on hands and knees. The invisible leash that pulled you towards her felt unbreakable, as if stopping wasn’t an option. It wasn’t, not really.

Not with Valeria. Never with Valeria.

Despite everything happening, every tragedy and tough moment that painted your life, you liked being alive.

Valeria made you feel alive but she could also, very easily, kill you. She had offered you the option once or twice, offered to kill you; you had declined both times, had never taken it seriously… but sometimes you wondered if she had meant it. If she would simply kill you, if you requested her to.

She was without a doubt, the most intense sugar mommy you had ever had.

You settled in front of her, the marble floor cold beneath your naked body, kneeling with your hands on your thighs - daring to lean forward to nuzzle against her knee. Unable to look away from her, the older woman letting out a dark, perhaps demeaning, chuckle. She looked like a queen in the armchair. Then one of her hands slid down to touch your bottom lip, caressing it for a moment and you once again dared to do something without permission. Your tongue slowly licked the finger, Valeria allowing you to do so. Your eyes became half hooded when you tasted her skin, the tobacco and gunpowder grim on your tongue, yet you couldn’t help yourself, leaning forward a little, licking a little more.

“Poor cariño,” she taunted, “so needy for me.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, licking her finger a couple of times more, looking up at her through your lashes, just to check if she was still looking, before adding a small “always, mami.”

Valeria clicked with her tongue a couple of times, moving her hand so she could push her pointer and middle finger into your mouth, a pleased moan leaving you.

Every time she scared you just a tiny bit, you told yourself it would be the last time - yet, all Valeria had to do was to make the tiniest motion towards you and you would come crawling. As if you were sick, infected deep into your bones and unable to survive - as if she was your cure, the only one who could heal you even if you felt worse than before, afterwards.

She owned you, despite how you denied it, how you refused to acknowledge it being the case. You were human, nothing less than her. Moments like this you weren’t sure whether she considered you a human or a pet though.

You were hers. If you didn’t want to, you would have to move; escape the town or settle in another corner of it, keep a low profile and stop sugar dating all together. Because if she found out you had moved on? The punishment would be swift. Painful. Not that you dated other than her right now - her command had been quite clear. Don’t do that. You will regret it.

Not too long after her warning, you had dared to ask one of her men if she had others than you, as to say, other sugar babies. Curiosity, you told yourself, nothing else. Alejandro had laughed with such delight, that it had made your toes curl and shame rush your stomach. Less than a day later, Valeria had asked you to come see her in her office - and the moment you had locked eyes with her, you knew Alejandro had told on you. She taunted you, yet somehow still made you wet, made you bend over, fucked you dumb as she crooned about you being jealous.

She had nobody else. Not after meeting you. But your lesson was learned. Don’t question Valeria’s loyalty… and don’t ask Alejandro about these things, ask Rodolfo.

Valeria pushed her fingers deeper in, catching you off guard and making you gag for a moment, your fingers instinctively moving to grab onto her wrist to get her hand out - she tutted at you.

“Get out of your head, kitten,” she mused, forcing her hand even deeper, your jaw almost unable to open that much, tears collecting in your eyes, small choking sounds leaving you and even though you knew she wouldn’t like it, you tugged at her wrist, “you’re no fun, when you’re caught in your mind.”

Finally she pulled back, hand covered in spit, your hands immediately leaving her wrist. She dried her hand off on your cheeks and you let her without any trouble, looking up at her as you tried not to cough.

“Do I bore you, cariño?”

“No, mami,” you almost spoke so quickly the words tumbled over each other, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Valeria let out a hum, looking down at you for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then she moved, her high heel nudging your legs apart a little and you complied immediately, spreading them more. Her foot slid in between your bare legs, front of the shoe then pressing against your pussy lips. Pressure, barely there, but it felt overwhelming and you wondered if there would be a wet spot on her expensive shoe when she pulled back.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” She asked then, leaning backwards, nudging her foot a little more up, watching you.

You should probably lie. Then again, lying to Valeria had never ended well.

“Job interview,” you whispered, looking away, unable to meet her eyes, looking down at the thin tights that covered her skin, knowing they could break with a tug of your teeth, “I’m going to a job interview, mami.”

She let out a huff. You felt smaller than before. Valeria didn’t like the idea of you getting a job. You doubted she would like the idea of you even considering leaving her. No, Valeria would prefer for you to be home, waiting for her to call or text.

“I’m sorry, mami,” you managed, trying to not cry again, “I just —“

“You don’t shouldn’t work, kitty,” it was a recurring reminder, “you don’t need to.”

“But I wanna do something,” you muttered, leaning forward to rest your cheek against her leg, “you don’t always have time for me.”

You dared to look up, only to immediately look away from Valeria’s amused face, toes curling.

“Look at me, pet.” Despite your slight fear, her voice was entrancing, it was loving and lustful, tipping her shoe a little more up against your cunt, “look at me, cariño.”

You did. For a moment, you wondered if Valeria was genuinely in love with you, her face so soft and the smile seeming genuine, her black hair framing her face, lips pursed a little.

“Feeling left out, pretty girl?” She asked, and oh, there the taunting tone was, “maybe I should keep you in the corner of my office - tied down, with a fucking machine constantly fucking you, eh?”

A small whimper left you and though you shook your head, Valeria merely continued.

“- or, maybe I should get Alejandro or Rodolfo to knock you up, cariño, maybe both of them. Then you could be busy with our kids.”

“No-no, Valeria, I don—“

She grabbed onto your neck so suddenly that it made you cry out of fear, eyes widening, raising on your knees as she pulled you up a little. She could easily choke you out or throw you down against the cold marble floor.

“You’re gonna cancel the job interview, aren’t you?”

You nodded, feeling the hand tighten so breathing became a little harder, so you added a hurried, “yes - yes, mami!”

Valeria smiled, but didn’t let go.

“And then you’re gonna stop looking for jobs. You’re gonna stay at my place tonight. Got it, little girl?”

“Ye-yes, Mami.”

She let out a hum. Then she let you go, pulling back her shoe, raising it to press against your chest, pushing you gently backwards. You crawled backwards a little, whining from being pushed away. From being denied her touch. That wasn’t why you were here, you didn’t want to upset her.

“I’m sorry, Mami,” you said, just for good measure.

Valeria hummed, crossing her legs.

“Get dressed. I have to make some calls - maybe one of Price’s boys would be open to breeding you, hm? I’ll get Alejandro to pick you up and bring you to my place. You’ll relax there till I get back, got it, cariño?”

You weren’t sure if it was the horror going through your body or the marble floor that made you feel cold. You couldn’t make yourself speak, your mind wasn’t working, couldn’t make any sound escape. So you nodded instead.

Valeria grinned as she got up from the armchair, moving towards her desk, mostly likely pleased with the lack of fight from you - and possibly with how scared you probably looked.

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 3: Breaking isn't weakness, It's the climax.

They know everything now—your fantasies, your shame, the twisted stories you whispered in the dark. You thought you'd be humiliated. Maybe punished. But all they do is wait. Watch. Want.

WordCount: 2,030 words

⚠️ Content Warning for Chapter 3: Breaking Isn’t Weakness, It’s the Climax

This chapter contains emotionally intense themes including: Psychological distress and crying, Power imbalance, Implied dubcon elements, Possessiveness and jealousy between characters, Consent-focused dialogue and pacing, Emotional vulnerability, grounding touch, and affectionate dominance.

No explicit sexual content, but highly suggestive, with physical intimacy, aggressive tension, and a strong focus on the reader's agency and emotional state.

Reader discretion advised.

If you're not ready for three emotionally complex fictional men to kneel, growl, and beg for your boundaries, maybe sit this one out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You go still.

Not calm. Not composed. Just—broken. The human mind can only take so much heat before it warps, before it melts into something pliant, raw, real. And you’ve been pressed—eyes, hands, voices, truths you should’ve never admitted, fantasies you were never supposed to voice out loud.

And now?

They know everything.

And it’s too much.

Your body trembles, knees pulled to your chest, your face buried in them, hiding from the storm you summoned. Tears finally come—hot, helpless, humiliating.

You hear Scaramouche sigh, dramatically. “Oh look. The goddess bleeds.”

“You’re not helping,” John snaps, low and gruff, but not unkind. He kneels next to you—combat-trained, precise—but something soft slips in. His voice lowers. “Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Shinsou doesn’t move. But he doesn’t need to.

His voice threads into your thoughts like smoke.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close but not touching. “It’s alright.”

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” you whisper, voice shredded with shame. “I didn’t mean for anyone to ever—I was alone. It was just pretend. Just—mine.”

“And now it’s ours,” Scaramouche says, prowling behind you like a stormcloud in boots. “You don’t get to erase us. You birthed this. You thought we wouldn’t notice how filthy you really are?”

You curl tighter.

Walker lays a hand on your back. Big. Heavy. Warm. “You’re not disgusting.”

“You’re obsessed,” Shinsou says—quiet, steady. “That’s different. People write stories about us every day. But you… you imagined hard enough to rip the fabric of reality. You think that’s pathetic?”

You don’t respond.

Scaramouche crouches behind you, his breath against your neck. “No, baby. That’s power. That’s magic. And now you’re ashamed of it?”

He laughs.

“Fucking tragic.”

John squeezes your shoulder—not hard. Just a grounding weight.

“You think you’re weak for crying?” he murmurs. “You think it doesn’t turn us the fuck on knowing you were thinking about us this hard? Enough to manifest us here? You wanted something. Maybe not this exactly—but we’re here now. We’re not leaving.”

You lift your face—wet, trembling, vulnerable to the bone.

Shinsou is crouched in front of you, hands in his hoodie pockets, those violet eyes locked to yours.

“You’re allowed to break,” he says. “But don’t hide it.”

Scaramouche hooks a finger under your chin again, rougher now. “You gonna cry for us, sweetheart? Beg? Let us rewrite the stories in your head the way they should’ve gone?”

Walker's eyes darken. “You wanted us.”

“And now,” Shinsou whispers, “you’ve got us.”

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John’s breath is ragged—controlled, but only barely. You can see it now, beneath that tactical chill, that iron-spined discipline: the ache. The need. And he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

You’re trembling in front of him, shattered glass in human form, and instead of stepping away, he steps in.

Close.

He crouches again—no weapons, no mask, just those sharp blue eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to this reality.

His hand brushes your cheek.

It’s so gentle, you think maybe you imagined it. But it’s real. He’s real.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, like it’s just for you. Not sweet. Solid. Like steel wrapped in velvet.

You nod—small, hesitant.

His thumb catches a tear—and lingers at the corner of your mouth, like he’s deciding if he wants to taste it.

“You still scared?”

You nod again.

But your lips part. Just enough. Just barely.

He watches that like it’s a command. Or an invitation.

Then, slow as sin, he leans in. Closer. Inches. Until his breath ghosts over your lips.

“This is what you wanted,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked on your mouth like they're his lifeline.

“Isn’t it?”

You can’t lie. Not now. Not with your pulse drumming so hard it echoes in your teeth.

“Yes,” you whisper.

So he kisses you.

Soft. Barely there. His lips graze yours like a promise, a tease, a slow pull on a thread wrapped around your spine. It’s not hungry yet. It’s reverent. Like he’s tasting something holy. Something he’s not supposed to have.

But that’s the problem.

He always takes what he’s not supposed to have.

Not like Scaramouche. Not cruel. Not like Shinsou—who makes silence feel like surrender. John’s kiss is steady. Like falling into something you already swore to never survive.

Your hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer without even meaning to. Your mouth opens under his without hesitation now, and John—John—groans. Low. Deep. Like a man breaking rank. Losing protocol. He cups the back of your head and drags you in harder.

You should pull away. Should say something. But all you can do is open your mouth and take it.

The kiss deepens. No longer patient. Tongue sliding against yours, wet, hot, real. His other hand clamps onto your hip, steadying you like you might drift away if he doesn’t anchor you.

You moan into his mouth, helpless.

And that’s when you feel Scaramouche behind you. Still watching. Still smirking. One hand now casually curling around your shoulder.

“Look at you,” he drawls. “All broken and begging, and it only took a little attention from your favorite action figure.”

Walker doesn’t stop kissing you.

Doesn’t flinch.

His teeth scrape your lower lip, claiming you right there with the heat of a man who’s been trained to destroy—and now he’s using it to devour.

And Shinsou?

Still crouched in front of you.

Eyes hooded. Breathing slower. One hand between his thighs, barely gripping the fabric, just enough to betray how hard he’s getting watching you fold.

"You gonna let all three of us in?" he murmurs. "One kiss from him and you're already falling apart... what happens when we stop holding back?"

You try to catch your breath—but you don’t get far.

Scaramouche hasn’t moved, but you feel him.

The heat coming off him is different now. Not amused. Not playful.

You blink up at John, still breathless—and that’s when it happens.

The shift.

A sound. A scoff. Sharp enough to cut through the haze.

Scaramouche’s smirk dies on his lips.

He was fine when it was teasing. When it was power-play. When it was you blushing and stammering under three sets of eyes. That was fun. That was his game.

But now?

Now you’re kissing John like he’s the only one who exists. Like he’s your oxygen. Your gravity. Like he’s the answer to every unspoken prayer your body’s ever made. Your fingers are in John’s hair now, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and Scaramouche sees red.

Pure, petty, murderous red.

“Wow,” he sneers, venom curling off every syllable like smoke off a firecracker. “So all it takes is one kiss and you forget I even exist? Thought I was the one who lit the fuse in your filthy little mind.”

John finally pulls back—just enough to suck in breath, eyes still locked on yours, hand still tangled in your hair. He doesn’t look at Scaramouche.

That’s what really sets him off.

“Hey,” Scaramouche snaps, stepping around, boots striking hard against the floor. “You think this is a John fantasy now? No. No, sweetheart, I was the one you imagined doing unspeakable things to you behind closed doors. I was the one with the lightning in your veins. And now you’re melting into this walking brick of moral ambiguity like I wasn’t just about to bend you over your own kitchen counter?”

Walker still doesn’t look at him. He just tilts your chin up with two fingers, forces your eyes back to his.

“Don’t listen to him,” he murmurs. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad he’s not first.”

That earns a bitter little laugh from Scaramouche.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he snarls. “You think this is about order? It’s about claiming.”

Then he’s on you.

Fast.

He grabs your jaw—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tilt your face toward him, just enough to make you see the frustration burning in those stormy, violet-blue eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

You do.

He doesn’t kiss you—not right away. He breathes against your lips, just barely brushing, torturing you with that tension he’s so good at. Then he pulls back a fraction and smirks.

“No. Not yet. You want it? You earn it. Beg me. Say my name.”

Walker’s hand tightens on your hip.

“Back off, punk,” he growls. “She’s not some chew toy.”

Scaramouche grins wider. “No, you’re just pissed she likes my attitude.”

“Boys…” Shinsou finally speaks, voice like silk and smoke from the shadows, still seated, still watching with those hungry eyes. “…why don’t you let her decide?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glued to you like a slow, steady spell.

“She’s the one who summoned us. She’s the reason we’re all here. She broke the rules. Let her break one more.”

And oh yes she will.

They’re waiting.

All three. Staring. Tense.

Oh, that look in your eyes—like prey with a pulse just shy of panic, trembling but curious, soaked in tension. You lean back, hands behind you fumbling, until your thighs bump the edge of the sofa, and down you go. Slow. Not graceful. More like collapsing. A mess of nerves and heat and what the fuck is happening.

And still—still—you watch them all.

Scaramouche freezes mid-prowl, eyes sharp, mouth open like he had one more vicious quip loaded and ready. But something shifts in him when he sees your chest rise too fast, your hands clutch the edge of a cushion, your pupils flick toward him and stay there.

Fear.

Real, raw, unfiltered fear.

Not the kind he can tease. Not the kind anyone laughs about.

The other kind.

And it hits him harder than a thunderclap.

He straightens. Just a bit. That cocky posture eases—his shoulders drop a few centimeters, his smirk falters, just long enough to show something else behind it. Something he rarely lets surface: uncertainty.

“Hey…” he says, and his voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s lower. Smoother. Quieter. “...You’re really afraid of me?”

You say nothing. Can’t even look at him directly.

That silence cuts deeper than any insult ever could.

“Shit.”

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, pacing now—but it's different. It’s not for show. He’s thinking. Crashing. Fighting the instinct to lash out, to make it worse.

Then… he drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No leering.

Just him, eye-level with you, hands resting on his thighs.

“Look, I…” He breathes out, glances to the side, then back to you. “I come on strong. Too strong. I know that. I just—when I got dropped into this world, into you, it felt like… like I was supposed to fight for space. And I thought… if I pushed you, I’d get closer.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he says, softer this time. “Not really. You just… looked like you could take it.”

He glances away again.

“…Guess I was wrong.”

Behind him, Shinsou is watching all of it like a scientist in a lab, one hand pressed to his mouth. Not judging. Just processing.

“Scaramouche,” he says quietly, “that’s the most emotionally intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Shut up.”

But there’s no venom in it.

Then—a weight beside you. Not too close. Just close enough.

John. Calm. Steady. The gravity in your solar system.

His arm brushes yours on the cushion.

“You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

Shinsou shifts now, slow, deliberate. He doesn’t approach—just stands, taking a few steps, stopping when you glance up. He meets your gaze with nothing in his face but openness. Calm. Curious. Like he’s trying to see you, not pressure you.

And then he says, “What do you need from us right now?”

The room stills.

Even Scaramouche looks up at that.

Because that’s the moment you realize—despite the chaos, despite the heat, despite the overwhelming presence of these three impossible men

————————

They’re all waiting on you.

Your fear matters.

Your pace matters.

You could whisper a word and John would hold you like glass. Scaramouche would back off. Shinsou would read your silence like scripture.

But…

You could also whisper another word—and all three would devour you.

[4barbatos]

❝ good girl syndrome ❞

✦ pairing: albedo x fem!reader

✦ rating: explicit [18+]

✦ word count: 1.8k .ᐟ

✦ summary:

he breaks you down piece by piece, wrapping control in tenderness. you don’t know where pain ends and his love begins — only that resisting him makes him want you more.

✦ content warning:

dubcon, manipulative dynamics, reader is mentally ill, reader is in a foggy/dazed state, soft coercion, gaslighting, medication tampering (implication of non-consensual drug use), emotional dependency, psychological control, power imbalance, praise kink (“good girl”), possessiveness, nonverbal hesitation, consent confusion, somno-adjacent behavior (not explicitly asleep but mentally checked out), fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, aftercare with ulterior motives, albedo is not safe™

✦ author’s note:

wrote this for my wife @vvallent1ne :3

this is my very first smut (and honestly kinda my first fic ever). i’ve always been more of a reader than a writer, but after years of devouring other people’s work (lol), i wanted to try writing something myself 🥹

constructive criticism is super welcome — just please be nice, i’m fragile 😭💗

you wake up drenched, sheets clinging to your hips — twisted, damp, uncomfortably warm. sweat cools slow at the nape of your neck, sticky and thick, mixing with the haze of dreams you can’t quite hold onto. everything aches — like your body’s been moving without you, like your mind got left behind. your head feels foggy. heavy. like it’s been held underwater too long.

you try to move but the stiffness in your muscles reminds you how little sleep you really got.

this isn’t new. the nights have been like this lately — hazy, broken, your thoughts slipping away just as you reach for them. you never know if you took your meds before bed, or if you just forgot entirely. sometimes it’s hard to keep track of the days, the hours, yourself.

albedo has been there, always hovering somewhere near the edges of your fractured mornings. not just a friend, not quite something else, but something you don’t fully understand — someone who knows the parts of you that you try to hide even from yourself.

he’s not what you’d call gentle — more like pressure that never lets up. but he’s always there. steady hands, steady voice, steady ruin.

this morning is no different.

“morning” he says, his voice low, almost soft, but there’s an edge beneath it — a quiet warning hidden behind the tenderness.

his eyes catch the empty pill bottle on the bedside table without needing to ask, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

he slides onto the bed beside you, his fingers threading through your damp hair, tugging your face toward him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his breath is warm on your skin, and his gaze burns with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

“you’re restless again” he murmurs, voice smooth like silk. “you don’t have to fight it. i’ll keep you steady.”

his hand slides down your ribs, settling possessively on your hip. you want to pull away—but your body won’t let you.

you don’t want to.

the haze clouds your mind — confusion folding into something darker, something sharper and far more dangerous.

he leans down, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ear, whispering, “i’m the only one who knows what you need.”

his fingers tighten slightly, claiming you like a secret.

you taste the salt of your own fear, mingled with something electric that leaves you trembling.

because you don’t remember the last time you said no.

his hand slips beneath the waistband of your clothes, fingers ghosting over the heated skin beneath. your breath catches — shallow, quick — your body responding before your mind can catch up, every nerve alive despite the fog clouding your thoughts. the pill bottle lies forgotten now — empty, just like everything else he’s taken from you.

he leans down, lips trailing along your jaw, a whisper against your skin. “you don’t have to hide from me.”

your body trembles, the haze swirling around your thoughts as his fingers press lower, tracing the delicate curve of your hip, sliding beneath the fabric. your breath hitches, a knot of want and hesitation tightening in your stomach.

you try to pull away, the last flickers of resistance burning like flames. but his touch is steady, insistent.

before you can find the words, his fingers part you gently, exploring with slow, deliberate pressure.

his fingers don’t stop. one slips inside you, slow and probing, and despite the fog curling in your brain, your body tightens around him — a reflex you don’t control. you try to pull away, a soft whimper escaping your lips. “albedo… please…”

his fingers don’t stop.

one pushes deeper, slow and careful, dragging along your walls in a way that makes your thighs twitch and your breath stutter. the resistance in your voice melts into something breathy, pleading — but not for him to stop.

“albedo… i don’t…” you try again, weak, words tangled in your throat.

he kisses the corner of your mouth, hand still working between your legs, fingers moving in a rhythm that makes it impossible to think straight. “you’re doing so well” he whispers. “your body always knows what it needs, even if your mind tries to resist it.”

he curls his fingers just right and your hips jerk before you can stop yourself. shame floods your chest.

“you don’t have to be scared” he murmurs, voice sweet and cruel all at once. “i’ll be gentle. i always am, aren’t i?”

you barely have the strength to nod.

the moment you do, he withdraws his hand — wet with you, glistening in the low light — and licks his fingers clean like he’s tasting something he made himself. like he’s savoring it. savoring you.

you blink up at him, dazed, and he’s already pushing your legs apart again, slow and reverent.

“good” he murmurs, unbuckling his belt, voice turning velvet. “let me give you more. let me make you feel full.”

you whimper, legs instinctively trying to close, but his hands hold you open with quiet, terrifying patience.

“you can take it” he says, lining himself up, cock brushing hot and heavy against your slick entrance. “you always do.”

before you can form a protest, he pushes in — slow, steady, relentless.

you gasp — he’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. your body betrays you, slick and ready in ways your mind hasn’t caught up with.

albedo moans softly at the feeling, burying himself deeper. “so tight” he breathes, like it’s a gift. “so perfect like this… molded to me.”

he bottoms out with a final roll of his hips, stealing the air from your lungs. you shake beneath him, too full, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to move.

his lips brush your temple. “that’s it. just like that. don’t fight it.”

and you don’t.

you can’t.

you press your palms weakly against his chest, barely a push, the last thread of protest in your body.

“albedo, stop…” you breathe, voice strained, watery, caught somewhere between fear and guilt. “this isn’t… it doesn’t feel right.”

he freezes for just a heartbeat. his expression barely shifts, but something flickers in his eyes — not guilt. not remorse.

control.

his hands slide to your waist, stroking softly, grounding you as he stays buried deep inside. he leans in close, forehead pressing to yours like a lover, lips ghosting over your skin with a tenderness that twists your chest into aching knots.

“you’re confused” he whispers, soothing, like he’s rocking you through a nightmare. “it’s just the meds, the exhaustion… you always get like this when you forget how much you need me.”

you shake your head, barely. “but i didn’t — i didn’t say yes—”

he hushes you, thumb brushing your cheek. “you didn’t say no, either. and your body… sweetheart, look at how you’re clinging to me.”

shame blooms hot and heavy in your chest. your walls flutter around him with every tiny shift, holding him in like you don’t want to let go. your thighs tremble, slick and open. even now, even through the panic, part of you aches for more.

he smiles — a soft, cruel curl of lips.

“there you are” he breathes, rocking his hips once, gentle but firm, and you gasp, back arching as he grinds against that sweet spot inside you. “you’re okay. i’m here. i’m the only one who’s ever taken care of you like this, remember?”

“good girl” he murmurs low, lips brushing your skin, voice thick with something possessive and proud. “you’re doing so well for me.”

you want to argue, scream, claw your way out — but his hands are warm, his voice soft, and your mind is a fogged-up mirror where your own thoughts can’t find their reflection.

“you don’t have to think anymore” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “i’ll do that for you.”

he starts moving again — slow and deep — like he’s sinking his name into you, like he’s making sure you never forget who you belong to.

and all you can do is cry his name.

his pace never falters. he fucks you like it’s a ritual, like every thrust rewires something inside you, slow enough to draw out the torment, deep enough to touch where you can’t reach. your nails drag across his back — not in pleasure, not quite in protest — just a helpless twitch, the last echo of whatever will you had left.

your climax hits like a betrayal. it takes you by surprise, your body clenching around him with a broken sob, muscles locking and trembling. he shushes you through it, praises you. tells you how proud he is. how sweet you feel when you give in.

he follows just after, burying himself as deep as he can, groaning low in your ear as he fills you, thick and warm and overwhelming. it’s too much — spilling out of you, seeping into the sheets, into the part of you that still remembers shame.

you don’t remember how long it lasts — how long he holds you down, whispering soft praises between thrusts, how long your body trembles beneath him until the air tastes like salt and heat and nothing else.

when it’s over, your limbs feel like lead. too heavy to move. your eyes sting. your throat is sore from whatever half-formed protests you made before your voice gave out.

he kisses your cheek, your temple, your jaw — treating you like something sacred he just finished breaking.

you’re still full of him when he pulls out, slow and careful, holding your hips still as your body twitches from oversensitivity. his cock slips free with a quiet wet sound, and you flinch.

he hushes you like a lullaby.

“shhh. it’s alright now” albedo murmurs, already reaching for a cloth to wipe between your legs, movements disturbingly gentle. “i know it was a little too much. you always get overwhelmed when you don’t take the right dosage.”

you blink at the ceiling, dazed. “i didn’t forget” you whisper, paper-thin.

he pauses — just a second too long — then smiles. “mm. must’ve mixed the bottles again. it’s okay. that’s why i keep track for you, remember?”

he moves your hair out of your face, fingers slow and careful, like he’s tidying up something he owns. “you’re so good for me. you did so well. you let me help you.”

his words are warm, loving even, but they feel like cotton stuffed in your mouth — suffocating in their softness.

you try to sit up, but your muscles give out. he presses you back down gently.

“don’t strain yourself” he says, adjusting the blanket over your bare skin. “you need rest.”

your hands tremble. “i didn’t want that.”

he stills.

for a moment, the air turns colder. sharper.

then he smiles again — softer this time — like he’s sorry for you, not for what he did.

“i know” he says, brushing his fingers down your cheek. “that’s why i had to do it. you weren’t thinking clearly. i had to help.”

you want to scream.

but you’re so tired.

so fucking tired.

he kisses your forehead like a reward.

and when he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your half-numb body close, you let him.

because your mind can’t fight.

and your heart’s already forgotten what safety feels like.

“sleep” he murmurs, holding you close. “i’ll be here when you wake up. i always am.”

and he is.

every time.

[omegalawliet]

I forgot I had a screenshot of this fic lord

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 2: Fiction Breaks Reality

You never meant for them to know. You didn’t write it down. You didn’t summon them. But fiction doesn’t stay buried—not when it starts to breathe. And now they’re reading you like a confession you never meant to sign.

WordCount: 1,050 words

Content Warning:

This chapter contains themes of psychological manipulation, non-consensual mind control, violation of privacy (phone access), and strong power imbalance. Mentions of explicit material, fantasizing, and emotional exposure. Reader discretion is advised.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You break.

Right there. On the floor. Breath hitching. Tears prick at the edges of your eyes, but they don’t fall—too stunned, too frayed to cry. You start laughing—dry, short, sharp. Not happy. Not sane.

Scaramouche blinks. “What the fuck is so funny?”

You stare at him. At all of them. Three nightmares. Three obsessions. John with that no-nonsense command presence you used to rewind scenes for.

Shinsou with the sleepy-eyed cool you memorized lines from. Scaramouche—the arrogant, reckless bastard you used to argue with in your head while grinding levels, always picking his voice lines over the others.

And now they’re all here.

In flesh. In breath. In blood.

You can smell them. And they smell exquisite.

“No no no no,” you mutter, shoulders shaking. You lean back until your head knocks the wall, hard. “You’re not real. You’re not. I made you up.”

They freeze.

“I didn’t make you up, I mean—fuck—you’re characters. John, you’re from a movie. Marvel. You work for S.H.I.E.L.D., or Hydra, depending on the timeline—I don’t know anymore—you shoot people and brood a lot and do that thing with your jaw when you’re trying not to care.”

He stiffens. Just slightly. Like you’d struck something under the surface.

“And you—Scaramouche—you’re from a fucking video game. Genshin. A playable boss. I watched you monologue while I dodged your attacks. I hated you. I loved you. I spent weeks farming for you and now you’re in my living room insulting me like I glitched you in on purpose—”

His face is blank. Pale. That venomous arrogance muted by something colder: disbelief.

“Shinsou,” you breathe, eyes flicking to the last of them, “you’re an anime character. Class 1-C. Quirk: brainwashing. You’re supposed to be a student. You drink vending machine coffee and fight robots and train to be a hero. You’re not supposed to be here. None of you are.”

Silence.

Scaramouche speaks first. “You’re delusional.”

“No—no, you don’t get it,” your voice rises, hysterical. “I know everything about you. I know your voices, your stories, your birthdays—your trauma arcs! I read fanfiction about you. I—Oh God—I have screenshots. You’re not real. You can’t be. You're—you're supposed to stay on the screen, not—”

John crosses the space in two strides. Grabs your wrist. His grip is firm and present.

“Does this feel fictional?” he growls.

You whimper. He lets go—barely.

Shinsou leans in, voice low. “What else do you know, then? What happens next in our stories?”

“I don’t—” you choke, “—I don’t know anymore. You’re not following the script. This isn't part of anything I've read.”

Scaramouche stares at you, unnerved now. “You said you read fanfiction.”

You freeze.

All three of them, watching.

John tilts his head slowly. “What kind of fanfiction?”

Your mouth dries.

Shinsou’s smile is small. Too small.

“You wrote it, didn’t you?”

And now you’ve really done it.

You gave them the keys.

To the real you.

They don’t need to interrogate you anymore. They just need to read.

Scaramouche grins, slow and menacing. “Let’s dig through that brain of yours, sweetheart. Find out exactly what you thought we’d do to you when no one else was watching.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“...Please. I didn’t have to write anything. All I had to do was imagine it,” you say, weakly.

Oh, you shouldn't have said that.

The air changes—thickens, slow and cloying, like honey turned sour.

Each pair of eyes darkens—different shades of hunger.

Scaramouche moves first. He laughs—not that manic villain laugh.

No, this one’s soft. Disbelieving. Delighted. He drops into a crouch again, face inches from yours, nose wrinkled in something like perverse joy.

“You imagined it,” he repeats, voice dropping, curling around the syllables like silk over a blade. “That’s all it took?”

Walker’s jaw tightens.

Shinsou just blinks, slowly. He doesn’t need to say anything yet—he’s memorizing you now. Every twitch, every breath, like he's building your mind in reverse.

Scaramouche’s gloved fingers brush your temple. Light. Teasing.

“No fanfic. No scribbled journals. You just thought about us. All those nights, huh? Lights off, maybe under the covers... You thought about my voice in your ear.” His hand lowers, and hovers over your chest without touching. “Thought about how I’d sound—how I’d feel—if I really showed up. Didn't you?”

Your breath catches. You don't answer. You don’t have to.

“God, you’re sick,” he whispers, and his grin says he loves it.

John shifts. Slowly. Walks over to the shelf, eyes scanning.

He picks something up. Your phone. Flips it in his hand.

“You didn’t write it,” he says, flatly. “But it’s in there, isn’t it? Search history. Bookmarks. Probably some very curated tags.”

Your heart plummets.

He turns the screen to you. “Password.”

Heat flushes down your neck like nausea. Your palms go cold. You clamp your lips shut.

Don't say anything. Don’t give them more.

You don’t answer.

“Fine,” Shinsou says softly. “Let me try.”

He crouches too—this calm little storm across from the chaos that is Scaramouche—and says it gently:

“Tell me your password.”

You try to resist. God, you try—but your mouth moves before your brain can stop it, and the numbers fall out like confession.

John taps it in. Unlocks the screen.

They’re in.

He scrolls. Clicks. You watch his eyes track. One slow eyebrow rises.

Shinsou’s head tilts. “Damn. You weren’t kidding.”

And then Scaramouche just howls—full-on cackling, because Walker has clearly hit gold. Your history. Your saved posts. All those mental scenarios? Apparently not so untraceable after all.

“Oh, this is rich,” Scaramouche purrs—and suddenly he’s in your lap, straddling you, eclipsing the light. His hand grabs your jaw, not hard but firm—claiming your attention like he owns it.

“You fantasized us into existence. And now we’re here. I should call you ‘creator’—but I think pet fits better.”

“Stop—” you whisper, voice cracking.

“Why?” Shinsou asks, genuine. “You wanted this.”

“No I didn’t!”

“You didn’t?” Johns’s voice cuts in, hard. “You really expect us to believe that? When every click, every scroll, every filthy little thought left a breadcrumb trail straight to this exact moment?”

You can’t speak. Your body’s too hot, too frozen.

You were just walking home.

And now they know what lives in your head.

Scaramouche leans in, mouth against your ear. “Guess it’s time you learned what your imagination really summoned.”

[dragongirl642]

Wrote some doppelganger Francis Mosses x reader fanfic over on ao3. It's nsfw smut...shameless smut with a yandere reader.

Remember to check the tags and read at your own risk.

[ravenvsfox]

my mom lost track of a fic when ao3 went down yesterday and asked for my help finding it, and it ended up being this 200k wip where the tags are all like #whump #psychological torture #gore #heavy angst

being a pathetic tortured man enjoyer is my birthright 😔 🙏🏻

[heesimp]

couldn’t resist expanding upon this. rn sunghoon is fucking his girlfriend in order to successfully convince her to have a threesome as an excuse to have sex with reader

[stormyoceans]

why did you hate the top form manga? i haven't read it (yet?)

WELL. the manga is very.. old school yaoi, if that makes sense

this means that it’s still very anchored to the original tropes of the genre (for example, it has a very marked and stereotypical seme/uke dynamic), which i wouldn’t necessarily mind if it wasn’t for the glaringly lack of consent. i read the manga years ago, so my memories of it are pretty vague, but im fairly confident when i say that consent has left the building and is nowhere to be found in it

like if im not mistaken the manga opens up with the beginning of episode 4, when akin (i can’t remember the original japanese names, sorry ;;;;;;) wakes up after getting drunk and assumes that jin wants to blackmail him with the videos he took, so akin tells jin that he would do anything for those videos to get deleted. and, well. let’s just say that in the manga jin doesn’t ask akin for a hug. he also doesn’t accept no for an answer. SO...............

and you might think, okay! but MAYBE. maybe!!!!!! it gets better after that!!!!!! but no, nope, it’s just. more of that in different forms, and it only gets worse when other characters are introduced

and you know, when i was younger my tolerance threshold for sexual harassment and assault disguised as eroticism in yaoi was actually higher, but by the time i read this i was well into my 20s and it only made me deeply uncomfortable ;;;;;;;

the good news is that the show changed this up completely!!!!!!!!! consent came back to save us!!!!!!!!! which is why i actually enjoyed the first four episodes a lot!!!!!!!!! i just hope the show will keep up the good work and won't get haunted by the ghosts of noncon past

[evilwriter37]

6

I'm so sorry for this disconcerting fic.

Rated: mature

Warnings: rape/noncon elements

Relationships: Dagur/Hiccup

Word Count: 1,161

Summary: Dagur has Hiccup captured, and he wants him to do the thing he's been dying waiting for: kiss his boots.

[thousandyearphantombunker]

these are just my opinions. I'm not saying we have to get rid of these tropes. I just personally hate them

Tropes I hate: 'bi woman leaves man for a woman because her ex was abusive' she could've just left her ex because they were incompatible. She doesn't need her ex to be abusive in order to get into a relationship with a woman. It has weird implications. Biphobic misandrist misogynistic because honestly misandry and misogyny are two sides of the same shitty coin when it comes to this shit (a lot of misogyny comes from misandry in works like these for some reason) fun fact about bisexuals- they like both genders and don't need a tragic backstory to explain why they aren't with a dude- their sexuality is fluid naturally- this cliche tends to imply the only reason why bisexual characters identify as bi is because of trauma which oof.

Hallmark movie BS- cheating is gross. I don't care that he's your goddamned soulmate break up with boyfriend properly.

'disabled character has a special power that basically negates their disability' or 'inorder for this disabled person to have worth they must have a useful power or skill' or 'severely disabled person is a prop and only exists to be an nuisance or inspiration porn' let your blind character be blind. Let your character who has a chronic illness have symptoms of illness- outside of the ableism wtf was the point of making them disabled? For the aesthetics? Just let disabled characters be disabled. Disabled people should not have to justify existing- a disabled person's worth shouldn't be tied to a special ability that makes them useful or whatever. Disabled people do not exist to serve as inspiration to everyone. It's always 'actually that mentally impaired person is super smart and therefore they're actually worthy of respect- okay but what if they did have a low IQ? Do you still respect them? I do but I know a lot of you don't.

'hes hot so he gets a pass on being a possessive creep' no he doesn't it's gross. Tell me the truth- would you still find it hot if someone who looked like Danny devito was being possessive of you?

'its okay when a man rapes another man because it's gay and sexy' I shouldn't have to explain this one. Rape is evil- yes even if it's a sexy man doing it to another sexy man.

No more depicting racist/homophobic characters as caricatures of Appalachian rednecks or developmentally disabled people or people born of incest. It's classist ableist and perpetuates gross stigmas against these groups of people. Seriously you'll claim to be anti classism and ableism but you depict the people you don't like with those stigmatized developmental disorders or low IQs and you assume coming from poorer rural areas are automatically racist? Go fuck yourself if you write this shit. People who have low IQs aren't morally inferior to you, people who live in poor areas and possibly have worse education than you aren't morally inferior to you. Your not fighting anti intellectualism your not fighting media illiteracy your not fighting racism or homophobia- your being an asshole. People who are born out of incest are human too, stop acting like the way these people where fucking born makes them deficient. Also stop equating deformities with being evil while your at it

[cottoncandythunderhead]

someone made a whole long post abt why saiteru has more noncon potential than saiura which is very funny to me bc teruhashi has never actually tried to do anything nonconsensual to saiki while aiura has literally attempted to sexually assault him and does not look for consent b4 assuming it on many canon occasions, but its cute that ur so obsessed with being anti-saiteru and anti-teruhashi that u had to conjure up invisible reasons y teruhashis POTENTIAL actions r worse than aiuras CANON actions and thats y saiura is somehow better.... lol!

[quarterqueens]

vaguely trying to put together a list of ~darkfic that does not involve noncon/dubcon or kink so. if anyone has any recs. perhaps lmk.

[deadworld-protagonist]

>[With a softly huffed sigh, Bartholomew decides to return to his own little subspace, the one so graciously given to him by Rexer.]

>[He'd made a new friend, that's nice to know. It brings him a bit of comfort that there are people who want him, want to be close to him and talk to him. He's a social creature after all.]

>[Tendrils from the shadowy floor trail behind him, following like a horde of snakes, all there to tend to his few whims here...]

>[Except... they're not.]

"...oaAH-!"

>[Five or six of the dark masses wrap around Bartholomew's legs, tripping him.]

>[He yelps with fright and attempts to pull his legs free, claws trying to tear through the material.]

>[What is this?]

>[What's happening??]

>[The tendrils should be under his control!! He tries to command them as he would his own form, but they do not listen, only tightening and pulling him backward, toward a slowly growing mass, which grows many eyes.]

>[Eyes that glow red.]

"Oh Bartholomew.."

>[Panic. Fear. All he can feel is fear as he haplessly tries to claw at the ground, at anything to save himself. His body melts down into the shapeless form, but is swiftly plucked up and returned to normal against his will. It can control his powers..]

>[Tendrils wrap around his arms, his legs, tightly holding him in all places, making squirming entirely pointless.]

"Ngh-gck.. wh-what are you- LET ME GO!!"

>[Bartholomew shouts out at the dark figure, who approaches with a disturbing grin on it's face.]

"Oh you poor thing..."

"Look at what he had done to you... made you into some mindless lap dog... I hadn't seen you in so long... It hurts.."

>[The figure's hand reaches up to caress Bartholomew's face, and he winces, trying to get away.]

"Nm.. n-no-NO!! REXER- REXER HELP, PLEASE-!!"

"PLEAS-mmph!!"

>[It clicks it's tongue, muffling poor Bartholomew's cries with a tendril around his face. He tries to bite it, but it only fills his mouth with the dark substance, making it harder to resist against it.]

"He's not coming to help you. Why would he, Bart? Was he not the same man who killed you? Killed us?"

>[He doesn't know what it's talking about, only able to desperately shake his head, dark tears welling up in his eyes.]

"Why are you so scared anyway...? Had he broken you more than I thought? You can tell me, you know..."

>[The tendril in his mouth slips away, and Bartholomew writhes, growling at the stranger.]

"Who are you!? What are you saying!!?? Rexer hasn't done anything to me, you sick fuc-"

>[Muffled once again.]

>[The other can only shake it's head, sighing deeply.]

"Looks like it is worse... don't worry, I'll fix you."

>[Bartholomew can only stare in horror as the tendrils undo the buttons of his shirt, exposing him to the stranger, who slowly takes a more humanlike form. At least vaguely.]

>[Pale skin, just like his, several eyes over the side of his face opposite to Bartholomew's, all resting within the section of his face which has withered away into the dark material Bartholomew knows himself to be made of.]

>[No.. no, it can't be... It's him. Bartholomew had only known him to be dead. Gone forever, just like the rest of his life. Just another aspect of his suffering before.]

>[He's changed too. Just like Bart.]

>[He's a monster.]

>[A grin crosses his face at the sight of Bartholomew's exposed skin, and he traces his fingers over it, watching as the muscles jump instinctively under his touch.]

>[And suddenly, without notice, there's searing pain. The man has claws, sharp ones too, which slice deep inside Bartholomew's abdomen, deep purple blood oozing from the wound as it's torn into, deeper, deeper, until he's split wide open, his body's attempts at replicating human organs put on display as they sag and droop out of the hole.]

>[And there it is, inside him. Similar to a heart, but deep red, sitting in the center of his chest, still. Cold. Unbeating.]

>[The other sighs softly, reaching his hand inside and touching the strange organ. Bart hisses in pain and tries to struggle, but cannot, as the tendrils tighten around him, restricting his movement even further]

"How sad... you'd neglected my little gift to you? And I thought you cared more than this..."

"You're lucky I'm able to fix this, Barthie.. who knows what you would have done without it, or how worse things could have gotten for you..."

>[Bartholomew has no idea what it is. But he doesn't like it. Weak sobs are his last resort, though they're no defense, only there to show how scared, hurt, worried he is. He doesn't want this, he didn't ask for this.]

>[When the strange man sees this, he stands up straight, face to face with Bartholomew. The tendril is pulled out of his mouth again, and a gentle kiss is delivered to his lips.]

"Wh-why are you doing this..."

"Shhh... it's okay. I'm not trying to hurt you... I want to help you.. I'm here to make everything better, like I had last time... don't you remember?"

>[Bartholomew chokes out another sob and shakes his head, trying to move away from the other, who holds his head and kisses his forehead, petting him gently.]

"...That's alright... you will remember, Bartholomew. I promise... and it will all be worth it."

>[He returns to his position, staring at the organ in his hand. His eyes glow a deep red, and he leans in closer, opening his mouth and allowing a glowing mass of silvery mist rise out, only to be absorbed into the seedlike object in his hold. It too begins to glow, and through the veins which are all throughout Bartholomew's body, it begins to pump.. something into him.]

>[It's gradual, but Bartholomew notices. A calm is spreading over him. And however much he tries to resist it, he cannot.]

>[But... why would he?]

>[It's comfortable, and makes him feel safe.]

>[Slowly, he feels a presence in his mind. A welcome one. One which comes with comfortable memories. Ones that he could never imagine wanting to forget. His life. His love.]

>[It all feels so real.]

"...Belial...?"

>[Bartholomew murmurs.]

"Mhm?"

"I... I missed you..."

[armandshoe]

hannigram shippers who are also antis will never not be funny to me. like babe...your ship is toxic and problematic maybe don't police others

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Hallowtober 2024 Day 6

Drastic Measures

Summary: Set in a Modern AU, Sci-fi AU. Mind Full AU. Valka still intends on continuing her research, but in the face of failure, she takes a drastic and most horrible measure while Hiccup sleeps.

Warnings: Rape/non-con elements, Parent/child incest

Rating: Mature

Dead Dove: No

Words: 806

Prompts: Body Control

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Valka

Pairing: /

Author's Notes: Got caught by the good ol' Covid and needed about a week before I could get back to writing whump and posting fics. Pretty much slept most of the time, honestly. Not entirely back yet, but I'm getting there. :) Watched the entirety of Miraculous Ladybug in the meantime.

Now, on with the fic. Valka has found another way to get that "Greatest Mother Of The Year" Award!

Enjoy!

-XOXOX-

When another attempt fails, Valka can’t help the cry of outrage, she can’t help but throw stuff around. A vase shatters to the floor, papers fly everywhere, she breaks the screen of the tv. Unlike her son’s one room on the base, her living suite is far from empty or impersonal.

Now panting and standing in the middle of her living room, she palms her forehead and tries to think. Even when he’s not awake, Hiccup is being a pain.

They took samples of him. Blood, hair, spit, even a couple of eggs. He’s 20, he can miss a few. It all had to be his, because every single treatment of gene manipulation he went through remains in his system, it’s forever a part of him and any children he may have. Why start over completely, if they could simply have him as a clean slate?

Down in the lab of their research facility, they tried to remake him, clone him. He’d been rather useful until his nurture took over, Valka blames his father for making him such a pain, for making him so soft! If he’d been raised by her from the start, he would’ve realized the truth already; That human beings are cruel and only dragons are truly worthy of the world. That is another reason why they had to start all over again.

But so far, their attempts have been for naught.

The incubator she bought with some of the last of their funds aren’t working as they should. They would get a viable embryo, but it would survive for only a couple of hours, a day at most. Today, another one has failed her and it’s almost like Hiccup continues to cause trouble even when he physically can’t.

With a sigh, Valka lets her pacing lead her to the dinner table and she leans on it. At this rate, she’s going to be forced to wake him from his coma and that is the last thing she wants to do. He’s already draining her resources enough as it is. All the supplements and medications it takes to keep him alive, to keep his body from shutting down, it’s maddening.

Turning, she’s about to make the decision to drop by the research lab when turning brings her attention to a series of photographs.

Most of them are dragons, there is a rather large one of just Cloudjumper. There is also one of the Stormcutter and her when she’s pregnant.

And that’s when the solution to all her problems dawns on her.

She can’t carry, Hiccup was her first and her last, she made sure of that with the help of the Wingmaidens. Besides, it would be incestuous and the child would be born wrong. But who on these grounds is a drain on their resources and has a womb he’s not presently using? Perhaps, he can still be of use.

With a new idea forming, Valka leaves her living suite and searches for Atali. Without a doubt, she must be at the Razorwhip nest.

And this attempt, she’ll do herself.

-XOXOX-

Valka has gotten used to Hiccup’s silence. Listening to his endless talking as a teenager was exhausting, but when the ability to speak verbally was silenced and their communication was kept entirely through the mental link as it should be things were peaceful.

And sure, Hiccup gave her trouble. He fraternized with the Defenders, stole medication for that Astrid girl, made a big deal about a human male dying, broke that same girl out and convinced a Wingmaiden to betray her divine destiny. And to put the cherry on that cake of betrayal, he then tried to take his own life, almost wasting millions worth of scientific endeavors and progress.

Now, things are back to being peaceful.

He’s still in that hospital bed, still in a coma with no drugs keeping him in this state. It’s all the hardware in his brain. There’s an IV drip providing him with hydration and the ability to give him whatever medication he needs, a feeding tube with food. Still, he’s wasting away. Losing weight, muscles atrophying. Valka pities him, it didn’t have to come to this, but he forced her hand. She simply cannot trust him.

Footsteps strut down the hallway. Nobody comes down here, so Valka is suspicious. But when a Wingmaiden shows herself dressed in the medical bay’s uniform, a white pants and shirt, Valka knows it’s someone with something important to say.

“Ma’am, the test results,” Maggie tells her and hands the papers to her. Despite her lack of an official medical background, Valka takes a look while Maggie moves on. She reads the results and a smile spreads on her lips.

These irregular elevations in his blood can mean only one thing.

A pregnancy.

And unlike the machines, he’ll carry full term.