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yanderenightmare · 9 months ago

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Gojo Satoru

TW: yandere, breakup, depression, schemes, manipulation, office au for some reason

can be read as a standalone, but also in compliment to this part 1

fem reader

It’s a funny thing. You’re not really his type.

You dress right for the office—long pencil skirts and buttoned-up shirts—librarian hairstyles and modest makeup. Nothing brazen or flashy or anything at all that garners much attention.

And it’s not like you flirt with him or anything. No, you’re perfectly friendly—funny at times, and nice—covering for him when he runs late, bringing candy for you to share, dishing the new office gossip.

Yeah, you’re his coworker. His work-buddy. Desk-mate. And you don’t try to be anything more—never one to over-share or pry into his personal matters. Your relationship is professional. Nothing more and nothing less.

But it’s only natural, though, right? For a guy to fantasize about a girl when he sees her as often as he sees you—sitting right next to each other during full office hours, bringing each other coffee and lunch, and talking shit about the boss together. It would be strange not to—to imagine what you’d look like on your back or on your knees, what you sound like, what kind of face you make. And your preferences—if you would make him wear a condom or let him cum inside. If you like it rough or would rather, he lay belly up and let you take charge.

Your face is the one constant thing in his life—of course, he thinks about you as often as he does, in more ways than he'd like.

The thoughts don't concern him much in the beginning. It’s just one of those things the mind humors without your consent—it doesn’t mean anything. And it doesn’t matter much, even if it does. You’d never do any of those things with him anyway—you’re too vanilla, and he’s too much of a player. And besides, you already have a boyfriend.

And it’s not like he doesn’t have girlfriends, too—of course, he does—a new one every other week or so. So it’s not like he’s lonely or in any dire need of you.

No, Gojo doesn’t need you. He could have anyone else, and you’re already taken. No, he doesn't need you...

Oh, but he wants you.

It becomes one of those things he can’t ignore whether he wants to or not. Fuck, you’re making his bachelor life feel boring. He could be in bed with a model—sounds of her pleasure filling the room, and all he’d be able to think about is you and what type of coffee he should bring you in the morning.

You’re ruining his style.

He doesn’t know if it’s a tactic to flush you out of his head or a vie to pique your interest or maybe just to spite you for making his life a living hell—but he starts bringing his personal life to work. And by personal life, he means his sexual conquests.

You don’t say much of anything at first. You compliment him on how pretty his girlfriend is, only to be confused once a different girl comes by the next day. You say even less about it, then.

When the third girl comes, you try and make a joke—it’s obvious you feel uncomfortable. But he isn’t sure it’s the reaction he wants. In a way, it seems almost as if you feel sorry for him, which only serves to make him feel even worse.

It’s when your boyfriend comes during your break to take you out to lunch that he feels absolutely worthless. You have this smile on your face he’s never seen before—this glow about you.

Gojo realizes he’s never made any girl look like that, even while making them cum and scream his name. This look is something pure.

It makes him want to strangle your boyfriend to death right in front of you. He can barely muster a smile when you apologize for leaving him to lunch alone.

But in your absence, he musters up a new plan.

Men are fickle things, especially men like your boyfriend—men who’ve been in the same relationship for so long that they’ve all but forgotten the beast within—a dormant beast that's now starved eager to jump at anything that bears its neck.

It’s all too easy. He doesn’t even need to pay the girl to help, she does it all just to please him. Girls are quite disgusting, too, once he comes to think about it—lecherous beings who’ll do anything he says if he promises them he'll stay. He can’t believe he’s had so many of them in his bed—it makes his skin crawl with mites.

You’re nothing like them. You’re genuine. There’s a substance to you—something those whores lack. No, he couldn’t approach you like he would them. You’d only take him for the predator he was. No, for a girl like you to like a guy like him, he’d need to go to insidious means.

The girl approaches your boyfriend on his command—flirts him up, flusters him, makes him dumb—makes him reckless enough to think he can get away with it. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her is probably what he’s thinking as he goes home with a slut that looks nothing like his loving girlfriend.

Oh, but you will know if Gojo wills it. He’s got the pictures to prove all the depraved things your boyfriend got up to behind your back, and he’ll just as easily show them to you.

But no, that won’t break you. Funny enough, if he were to tell you your boyfriend was cheating on you, the heartbreak would be clouded by rage, and you’d break up with him and get back to work. But if you were the one to get dumped. Yes, your poor heart would fall apart and right into his arms. Yes, for a girl like you to want a guy like him, he'd have to make you just as pathetic and desperate.

And so, through his pawn, he blackmails your crappy long-standing boyfriend into breaking up with you with the threat of showing you all the lewd pictures of him getting nasty with a skank in a shoddy motel room.

And it works like a charm.

Your boyfriend does his bidding, and you break.

And the heartache is so palpable it leaves you sick and bedridden. You don’t show up for work for days.

And though it hurts not to see you, Gojo sits well at his desk with a smile on his face, knowing everything is going perfectly according to plan.

Yes, he’ll be a rebound at first, a mistake you make in a drunken sorrow—but soon... you’ll be the cutest office couple in the entire building. He'll make sure of it.

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

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r0-boat · 10 months ago

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Sitri NSFW alphabet would be nice, can I ask for one, please 🥺?

Sitri NSFW ALPHABET HCS

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Sitri is so soft when it comes to aftercare, You could practically see hearts and his eyes when he holds you close and kisses you. He asks you It was good or if he was to rougher, or if you would like him to be rougher. Whispering Sweet nothings and about how perfect you are. After sex he always wants to be close to you to hear your heart beats slowly thrum until he falls asleep. Any wounds he may have given you he will be the first to patch up He wants you to know that as much as he'll hurt you consensually, he will care for and pamper.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part are his arms. And his chest. Always trying to puff out his chest to you like a peacock always wanting to show off He wants you to find him physically attractive.

His favorite body part on you are your thighs He likes the way they sway when you walk He likes how plumb and squeezable they are, please strangle him with your thighs And don't let go until he could hear your heart beat through them

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Seeing his cum on you drives him a new level of crazy. He's a possessive boi and he wants his mark on you. There's nothing like seeing you're out of breath fucked out body smeared with his cum.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He likes you a little too much... Any item you discard He keeps it somewhere hidden, anything you give him will be framed and kept in perfect condition as you gave it to him. He has never done this to anyone not even solomon.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Enough experience to know what he is doing. He is not shy at all about sex but he considers sex to be an act between a person he loves the most. He's so excited to have you underneath him He loses himself in pleasure.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Mercenary. He wants to be able to have access to you whether it's to press his head against your chest or see all the faces you make when you squirm and pleasure.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Most the time he is very serious but sometimes He will just start randomly attacking you with kisses or just start tickling you something that will raise your heart rate so he could listen.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Very well groomed sometimes shaved. He takes very good care of himself He wants to always be ready for you.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Before he succumbs to wild pleasure fucking you like an animal He is actually very gentle, and loving. He likes to take his time with you gently exploring you with his fingertips and hands murmuring about how irresistible your body is to him. Worshiping you until he can no longer take it and he needs you now.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Even though he feels the need to often when his dirty thoughts drift toward you he does not want to touch himself. He wants to save himself for you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Marking whether it be biting or scratching mostly on himself, This body is yours please mark him! However he does has thoughts about marking you with his teeth or claws He doesn't want to hurt you but... If you ever ask him to bite you or scratch you you will get a unreadable reaction before he asks "are you sure?"before going into mark everywhere all over your body.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He prefers the safety and privacy of your bedroom but he won't be opposed if you wanted to do it in his office.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You. Everything and all that you are. However when he gets jealous or possessiveness starts to flare up inside him He becomes a whole new level of horny.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He might like biting or scratching you but anything else when it comes to hurting you is a flat out now especially drawing blood He will never bite you hard enough to draw blood.

Giving. He is a giver he wants to hear you scream have your fingers raked in his hair pulling on his scalp thrusting your hips deeper. And he doesn't mind when you do the same.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and Central at first but later becomes erratic fast and rough.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Doesn't mind them but doesn't prefer them. When he has you he wants you all to himself. He doesn't like that his time is being cut so short by something else.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

When it's something with a risk he will almost never take it but good Lord you will turn him on so much if you're the one who initiates. The first time you sucked him off in his office he was addicted. Now every time you come in he freezes up and rubs his thighs together in anticipation. You broke him.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Demons can usually go forever. Sitri is no exception. He may not look like it but he's actually on the higher side of stamina. He will go forever.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Yes, he wants to be the one to use toys on you. And he wants you to use toys on him. And he wants to watch you use toys.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Sitri as much as he loves you adores you and worships you there are times that you need to face punishment for actions you cause. Then what better way than to tease you till you are a whimpering sobbing mess.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's not too loud but he's not quiet either. He tries to stiple the sounds of his voice so he can listen to yours and the sound of your heart.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He wants to fuck you in front of Minhyeok. God he hates him He thought he hated him because of his jealousy but now it's a new another level of hate after that Halloween bullcrap. He wants him to see you fall apart on his cock and make sure that Minhyeok knows that he'll be nothing more than a childhood friend.

Extra: I always see Sitri on the yandere side a little bit.

Normal girth, big cock he's quite the grower.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High higher than most demons He just doesn't show it He takes pride that he is the devil of self-control.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Nope. Even after he drains his balls inside you He has enough stamina to let you sleep pull the covers over you and go finish with work. When you wake up you'll have some nice hot tea and something to eat all prepare to by him.

#smut #whb sitri #whb x reader #whb smut #wihib #wihib x reader #what in hell is bad #what in “hell” is bad?#wihib sitri #whb sitri x reader

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saltandfire-blog · 2 months ago

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Pre-Dance Married Lucemond Post-Storm’s End WIP

Tag warnings for limb amputations and physical domestic fighting

Aemond tried not to scrunch his nose at the thick, stagnant smell of sickness that festered from behind the room doors the guards pushed open at his arrival. The nettles, sourleaf, and vinegar poultices the maesters regularly blended were malodorous, and the smoke of burning bay leaves cloistering. Laying on the bed that hadn’t been Aemond’s in some time now, Lucerys did not so much as twitch in acknowledgment at his entrance. With his head turned away, the other man continued to stare out the room’s windows while Aemond set down the plate he brought and pulled out the chair he had taken to sitting in for endless hours out of his days lately.

Without any greeting to one another, Aemond set his spine against the back of the seat and folded his leg over the other

“I’ve brought wintercakes,” he said as his fingers rested along the armrest of the chair and tried not to clench the wood too tightly, “A merchant from Norvos was selling them by the King's Gate this afternoon.”

Still Lucerys did not react except to blink. Ironically, Aemond was in some way grateful the man could not reach the window he stared out from or would fear he might jump through it. Yet, despite his fears, they did not need to bind him to the bed.

Luke’s broken body was a shackle enough.

“They’ve always been your favorite,” he pressed, his voice soft and hardly stronger than a whisper. “I’ve never known you to miss them this time of year.”

The corner of his mouth quivered, remembering a time he kissed Lucerys and tasted the cherries and pine nuts he enjoyed washing down with a chilled cup of nahsa. When he enjoyed strange and sweet tasting things.

When Luke’s head didn’t lift from the pillow, Aemond hesitantly leaned closer. Once, he was a boy who preferred to hold out a sword so no one else could know he was too frightened to reach out and touch whoever he longed to be close to. Now, his sword was forgotten and Aemond did not know where to place his hands, but restraining himself was the hardest thing he’s ever done.

Well, perhaps a close second behind other things.

“You did not eat this morning. Or the whole day before.”

At ten and nine, Lucerys stretched and filled out from the scrawny, wide eyed adolescent Aemond had seen when Rhaenyra and her whole litter came before the entire court to contest Vaemond’s petition for High Tide. One look at how treeish and broad shouldered her second son had grown and anyone would agree it was laughable Rhaenyra ever tried to say anyone else could have fathered her bastards but Ser Harwin Breakbones. Yet, that did not mean Lucerys Velaryon wasn’t fair. Aemond confessed, as idiotic as his half-sister had to be, he could see the appeal. Though now, the heir to Driftmark was but a pale, thin husk of the young man he had once been. With permanent shadows beneath his eyes, the freckled tan Aemond used to admire in the sun had turned a ghostly pallor while his face was beginning to look stretched too tightly around sunken cheeks. Luke’s eyes that were always so dark they could be mistaken as black if you never saw them in bright sunlight now appeared dull and unseeing, even as Aemond lightly rested his hand over his skeletal thin wrist.

“You cannot starve yourself, Lucerys.”

They had only just started to get him to take regular meals. After Luke awoke from their fight above Shipbreaker Bay, he refused food for days to the point Aemond could count every rib beneath the bandages they wrapped him in, and when Aemond could not convince him to eat on his own the Lord Hand had stepped in. If it were possible, Lucerys now held an even greater grudge every time he was pressed to eat. Aemond knew it had been necessary to save Lucerys from himself, even if the memory of holding him down while the maesters force-fed him was painful. Nothing devastated and strangled Aemond's heart more than the realization Lucerys desired death. When he wept and sobbed as his mouth was forced open and his body held down, Aemond did not meet anyone else's eyes when he took Lucerys into his arms when it was over.

“Hen lantoti ānogar. Va sȳndroti vāedroma,” he whispered into dark curls, repeating his vows. “Nyke aōha's se ao issi ñuhon.”

Blood of two, joined as one. I am your's and you are mine.

“Kostilus, gaomagon daor issa qrīdrūdan.”

Aemond traced his hand down the wrist he held and tried to grasp the fingers that laid limp at Luke's side. They did not squeeze back.

Please, do not abandon me.

“Your brother is reported to have returned to Dragonstone,” he continued, trying to coax out something that resembled the Lucerys he once knew, “It seems he's been rather successful rallying the North and Lady Jayne to your mother's cause.”

Aemond never feared a blade after Luke's, but he was weak to stand against the call of his family. When they spilt each other's blood for the second time in their lives, he had thought it enough. When he slit his palm and allowed Lucerys to carve open his lip, they promised each other it was their last payment in blood to one another for every hurt they'd ever laid on each other.

He thought they would have more time.

But when Aemond's father closed his eyes for the last time and his mother beckoned him home, he could not ignore when the new Dowager Queen sent Helaena to collect him from Pentos. Even after Lucerys begged him to stay, promised to forgo all titles and inheritance if they flew further east, Aemond could not follow him. He could not abandon his family to the slaughter he knew they would face without him after hearing his mother and grandfather crowned his brother King.

And apparently, neither could Lucerys. His husband would not fly back with Aemond to the Red Keep, but he did not remain in Pentos either.

“Luke…”

Aemond traced Luke's palm, his calloused fingers featherlight across the only freshly healed scar. Lucerys pulled his hand from Aemond's hold and slid it back to his side.

Even now he still found it difficult to look at the other half of him. The side Aemond could not bring himself to sit on.

“That's good.”

Flicking his gaze up in surprise, Aemond drew closer to hear Luke's small, rasped reply. Watching him swallow thickly, Aemond reached for a cup from the tray he'd brought but Luke wouldn't turn to take it.

“At least my mother has one useful son to her.”

After Storm's End, it had been difficult to look at Luke. When Otto and Alicent were determined to use him to broker a marriage pact, Aemond had been unable to say he was already married. Luke had steamrolled it all of course, as he so often did for what he wanted, and while Aemond had been weak to deny him he knew his mother would recognize none of it, Valyrian ceremony performed or not. And a part of Aemond also always knew they were only living a fantasy, actually thinking they could fly off as two men and be wed, no matter how much Lucerys insisted they were dragons and had every right to do so.

So when the gods sought to be cruel, it was Aemond's own husband Rhaenyra sent to treat with Lord Borros.

Aemond had never shirked from an opponent in his life, but it had been incredibly difficult to face Luke's very visible wrath from across the Round Hall. He had prepared to reason that it would only be in name, an exchange of hands for an army. And they had always anticipated their hands would be forced one day.

He had just thought he'd have more time.

“I am not free to marry,” Lucerys had told Lord Borros as he stared daggers across the room, almost more penetrating than Aemond had ever been cut with before.

After the scene they caused, the unsubtle argument between the two in front of Baratheon's whole court, the hands Borros dismissed as empty had smashed into Aemond's face as fists when he caught him outside in the storm. Aemond would drop dead before he would ever admit aloud Lucerys was taller, and had once been stronger, but that didn't mean Aemond had not managed to get in licks of his own when his patience finally snapped after Luke took another purposeful swing at him. You're a godsdamn coward, the man had roared into the wind as Aemond held him back by the shoulders and retaliated by returning his fist into the other man's cheek when he would not yield.

He was not proud at just how severely their fight had escalated as they beat the hell out of each other in the rain before more guards came to separate them. The bruises that blotted across both their faces could not be blamed on their dragons.

Though Aemond's black eye and Luke's busted upper lip had healed by now, what remained were the consequences of their furor and fiery passions.

Luke’s hair had hung soaked and stuck to his freckled cheeks while they panted against the stinging rainfall, blood diluting as it dribbled from his lip down his already wet face. Aemond had seethed that Lucerys actually punched him – and had the fucking audacity to aim right at the eye he wounded before. The only thing that kept him from doubling over from such immobilizing pain had been the outrage that pulsed through his entire body as profoundly as the throbbing socket around the sapphire. But the scorn and betrayal from Luke's glare restrained him back more than the castle guards holding them apart and dealt a much sharper blow from across the courtyard than his fists ever could against Aemond's face.

So when his husband jumped atop his dragon and flew from him in the storm, Aemond had of course chased after him.

“You can still be useful to her,” he insisted, “I know you cannot write to her, but I could transcribe in your own words – ”

“I will not urge my mother to lay down her arms for me.”

Finally, Lucerys turned his cheek from the pillow to look at him. Aemond thought his eye stung at what little worth Lucerys now held for himself, regarding his captivity a failure to his mother and had already turned his cheek to all threats if he did not cooperate. Not even their family’s Valyrian steel dagger could persuade him when Aegon held it against his throat before Aemond came in to yank his brother off.

Years ago, Lucerys had once whispered when it was just the two of them, if he could give up his own eye to take back everything that happened that night in Driftmark, he would do it unhesitatingly for his forgiveness. Aemond thought them easy words to say, but now he empathized and understood regret could not be expressed so easily or eloquently. Now, Aemond took more from Lucerys than he had ever intended, and if he could fly Vhagar to the heavens and ask the gods to turn back the hands of time, he'd give up everything of himself in return.

That night above Shipbreaker’s Bay, as they flew through the storm screaming curses and hurling insults at one another over the wind, they did not anticipated their passions to influence their bonded mounts as much as it had. When Lucerys would not land or listen, Vhagar had snapped out in Aemond's vehemence, her claws reaching for him to stop. Aemond saw when Arrax turned from the chase to defend his rider from their pursuer, and when he heard Luke’s attempts to command his dragon fail, so did Aemond’s.

Lucerys and Arrax had always had one of the closest bonds Aemond had ever seen from any of them. The youngest of their line to hatch an egg from their cradle, Lucerys and his dragon grew up together. Aemond still faintly has memories of a babe with tufts of dark hair, wriggling on a blanket in the gardens with Rhaenyra and the pup dragon they always had to uncurl from around his cradlemate to ever seperate them. So when Arrax turned to face the jaws that had been chasing them and hurled his flames at Vhagar’s eyes, they shouldnt have been so shocked. As the war dragon she was, Vhagar rose to meet the strike against them but no matter how loud Aemond called to her she did not hear him. He had absolutely no control of the beast he sat atop and could only watch with his arms outstretched as she dove up from beneath the clouds and clamped her jaws around the much smaller dragon. After she devoured Arrax in only a few effortless bites, all he could do was watch what little was left fall. Aemond urged Vhagar to dive when it seemed the blinders of outrage were pulled back enough to finally hear him and was able to catch the pieces in time before they all hit the water.

There had been so much blood and torn parts, he had panicked and could think of nothing else to do but race home to bring what was left of Lucerys, commanding Orwyle to save him. He had thought Luke dead before they even made it to King's Landing. And perhaps he very well should be. That was what Lucerys had shouted at him, anyways, when he finally awoke enough to comprehend just what he’d lost.

Aemond reached out again and would not allow Luke to pull his hand away this time. His only hand.

“You remain stubborn and prideful at the cost of our families’ lives. If not for the sake of your mother or your brothers, will you not persuade Rhaenyra to bend her knee for the sake of us?”

“Us?” Luke took a breath of air, rasped and shuttering. A hideous attempt at a laugh that trembled more like a sob. “You have already forsaken us when you chose to fly back for this war.”

“I'm afraid I'm not as strong as you,” Aemond whispered, his mouth twitching, yearning for some reaction, something that showed him Lucerys in all his broken parts, was still there.

But Luke only stared, his chest’s rise and fall the only thing that assured Aemond he was still a living being. They had already yelled and screamed and clawed at one another about their positions. Aemond supposed, he did not have the strength to battle anymore either.

“You were right.”

Aemond could see the moisture begin to collect behind Luke's eyes before he blinked and a lone tear trickled down his face. When Aemond reached out to catch it, his heart stuttered and his stomach fell when Lucery flinched from his hand.

“You always are.” Luke turned to blink up at the canopy and a wet, shuttered laugh escaped him. The first emotion Aemond had seen from him that day but didn't know if this reaction disturbed him more than his silence.

“There can be no us.”

There was a time Aemond had tried to convince Luke this was true after it was already too late. Had said those very same words. Though he did not anticipate they would be so razor-sharp and did not realize how strong Lucerys really was to endure such a rake across his heart. Yet he had never given up on them before.

Not until now.

“There can,” Aemond whispered, his voice threatening to break and bordering on pleading, “If – if you would be patient with me – if you helped me – we can still have each other.”

Lucerys tilted his head back to him and sniffed, the humorless smile across his face dimming. Whatever had come over him seemed to fade back again as numbness took over, as Luke so often let it. He shook his head and turned back to the window.

“You cannot break your oath to my mother without breaking the one you've made to me.”

Silence hung between them as Aemond clenched his jaw at the bedside of his husband that could no longer stand to even look at him.

“Your mother can keep Dragonstone, and Jacaerys after her,” he urged, “When all may settle and Aegon gains Rhaenyra’s full submission, we can leave together — “”

“Aemond,” Luke stopped him but continued to stare out the room’s window. It was weak and hollow and it dug a hole out of Aemond’s chest. “You’ve promised me this before.”

“Aegon will not always need me here. In time, we can fly wherever we want to go.”

He did not need to be holding Luke to feel him stiffen. While Aemond’s hands were that of a swordsman, hard and calloused, Luke’s were rough and scratched as a sailor’s. He leaned down and brushed his lips against the knuckles when he felt them tremble.

After Aemond brought him to the Keep, Lucerys did not awake for days. Orwyle confessed he had lost more blood than any man should and was astounded he had even survived the first night. The small council anticipated Lucerys would never wake and already began to prepare how they should relay to Rhaenyra the news her son was dead. So when Luke finally blinked open his eyes almost four days later, they had all heaved sighs of relief — somewhat.

Because even though Lucerys lived, Rhaenyra would not have her second-born returned whole. When Lucerys awoke to practically half his body ripped away from him, he had stared down at the leg that was gone past his midthigh and the missing arm up to his elbow in paralyzed shock. It wasn’t until he put together what else that meant did he entirely fall apart when he asked for Arrax.

“I am a cripple. And you are a fool to think I’ll ever ride in a saddle again.”

Only once did Luke ride behind him on Vhagar to see what it was like, and despite Aemond's reservations and protests, had dragged him atop Arrax’s saddle, too. They both agreed they preferred their own dragons and never did it again. Aemond expected he would never be able to convince Lucerys to ride with him again.

“Then we will sail.”

Luke’s chest rose higher as he sighed against his pillows. “Enough. Please.”

When he exhaled, his body shook and Aemond suspected such a thing was probably painful. “I have no wish to be placated by you.”

At first, there had been endless tears and sobbing when Lucerys was told about his dragon. He had not wished to be comforted, and despite his injuries had held up his arm for Aemond to keep away. It wasn't until anger joined his husband's despair did he really begin to worry. Not but two days after it seemed Lucerys would actually survive his wounds, the guards had to be called to restrain him when Luke began to repetatively slam his injured arm so hard against the wood frame of his bed so many times Orwyle had to sedate him to restitch and stabilize the rest he now fractured.

You should have let me fall, he had wept viciously, I’d rather be dead than this.

After most of the initial anger had burned out, there was nothing but silence from him and the ashes of the man Lucerys had once been. Aemond could hardly get Luke to look at him and was even rarer to hear him speak. Before, it was Aemond who dwelled in turmoil quietly. Whether it was about the conflict inside himself, when his mother's gods condemned his affections and named his love buggery, or the weight of everything expected of him, and it was Luke who would hold him. If ever he sensed Aemond's unrest, he would take Aemond into his arms like he was no heavier than a child and could shush any grumblings from him just by combing his fingers through his hair. Aemond would turn his head and could only bury his face into the man holding him when he was too abashed to admit such a thing truly comforted him. In that moment, there was nothing he longed for more and would curl himself into Luke's lap if could.

Instead, Aemond bent his head and rested it against the hip that wasn't torn open from his dragon's teeth. His hand tentatively touched Luke's fingertips, willing him to reach back out for him.

“I cannot bring back your dragon Lucerys, or everything else that I have taken from you,” Aemond breathed into the blanket over his body, “But our future together does not have to be entirely lost.”

There was a long silence between them, and it stretched on for the rest of the night. Aemond remained at his husband's side, even after the sun set and stopped shining through the drapes Aemond eventually closed. Luke would not speak to him the rest of the night, and Aemond had to turn away and wipe the moisture that escaped from beneath his patch when he refused to look at him again and went another day without eating.

#lucemond #wip #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen #lucerys velaryon

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fxndxm-axg · 2 months ago

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Low honor Arthur HCs? I know he's a big softy but I have needs😭

ִֶָ 𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

LOW HONOR Arthur Morgan NSFW Headcanon’s

(GN!POV)

Sorry I haven’t posted in awhile, I’m depressed in uni so I hardly have motivation to do anything. But I wanted to write this for you tho ‘cuz you asked so nicely! ^o^ Sorry if these are rather uninspired, I’m not so fond of LH!Arthur but I did my best with characterizing him in bed, as I have many knickpicks with how the fandom does w/ LH in general, especially in smut. So, here’s my take on it >:)

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

Is much more susceptible to his succumbing to his lust. Whereas Mid-HH!Arthur would practice celibacy unless falling in love once more, LH!Arthur pents up his desires and frustrations so much that, if given the chance, he would buy a prostitute to scratch his itch. In these cases, sex would only be used as such; to get off and (de)spoil himself, reclaiming a bit of agency for himself that he seldom has in his regular life.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

Impersonal sex positions are a must. Doggy style, reverse cowgirl/boy, prone bone, anything to not hold eye contact with his lover of the night. Not because he doesn’t want to, absolutely not. Arthur thinks they’re absolutely beautiful, the act of sex itself being as well. But if his guard is let down so much to even allow himself to indulge in such an experience with someone, regardless of if he’s paying them or not- it’s a dangerous game for Arthur. The way his lover surrenders under him, the symphony of whimpers and moans leaving them, and their eagerness of pleasing him back would make Arthur fall for them instantly. The eye contact just being the thing to fortify his impromptu crush further. So, to prevent this for both parties… Face down, ass up, preferably.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

Much filthier, and crasser in his dirty talk. Though it’s 1899, LH!Arthur is much less keen to be gentlemanly if it’s to no benefit to him or his time, and that extends to the bedroom. Proclamations of wanting to claim, to take his lover (“I’m gonna take ‘ya, use ‘ya up ’til ‘ya can’t fathom bein’ fucked by anyone else …”) seep easily from his lips. And once he does, his cock sinking into their hole with a strangled moan, Arthur spews a litany of borderline aggressive (“Gonna fuck this little hole ’til you’re beggin’ for mercy,”) borderline body-horror (“Gonna split ‘ya open on my cock,”) levels of promises of the things he wants to do to his lover. He hardly means any of it, though. He’s gentlemanly enough to not put his lover through sexual torture…

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get a little rough, intentionally or not. He’s much less cognitive of his strength, quick to use it to get his way as it’s been proven to be efficient to him all his life. This manifests during sex in a few ways, like his grip around his lovers hip being a bit too hard, his nails pressing welts into their delicate skin, holding them down against the mattress as he just keeps slamming his cock into them over and over again. His force is unknown to him, not until a cry of pain, or a plea for him to stop or slow down reaches his ears. It takes Arthur out of his state immediately, having to swallow down his annoyance to mutter out half-assed apologies, wanting to move on and get back into the blissful state of pleasure that was interrupted. He pretends to not feel guilt, but it sure lingers, permeating the rest of the sexual experience as he’s forced to face his violent nature during the last act a man would.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

There would be occasions where the weight of the gang, the weight of the world on his shoulders would be too much for Arthur. He can only bottle things up for so long. If he crossed paths with a lover, and they were just so sweet, so persistent in their pleas of letting them take care of him, Arthur couldn’t help but indulge. Or, if a lover so outdo’s his own need for dominance, especially using their physicality to get him to submit… He would without much more of a fight. In fact, LH!Arthur is quicker, almost more eager to submit, if given the chance. He wouldn’t mind being tied to the bed, once the embarrassment wears off, that is, simply panting and moaning out as his lover teased his cock, nipples, asshole, whatever. Arthur would never admit it, but being made to whine and plea for his pleasure, being faced with his own cruelty he does upon others both in his everyday and in bed (smacking, insults, what have you), it’s cathartic. A congenial experience that makes him feel that less bad about what he does to others, at least in the bedroom.

I hope this was a somewhat nuanced take on LH!Arthur. I think he’s so misunderstood (not in an apologist sorta way) in this characterization of him, and I hope to have done it some justice regarding the rather lewd subject matter.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 nsft #low honor arthur morgan #rdr2 headcanons #asks #arthur morgan nsft #headcanons

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faolonfiendrender · 3 months ago

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One thing I have to say, even in war form, I get the real sense that Matilda is basically just taking the most direct path to her goal. Sure, it’s violent and shocking, and git lost an arm, but she had the opportunity to go for throats and guts several times and she didn’t. It’s not unreasonable that she could have killed and wounded far more people than she did without really trying. She was in control and working towards her goal more than anything else, and maybe was less violent than taking the quickest path would have been.

The one thing that doesn’t fit is taking out Fatigue, beyond that, I’m not sure if I’d say she was trying to limit casualties, but she did seem to be avoiding starting a war. My best guess is either Fatigue was a secondary objective because he is a werewolf expert, or Fatigue caught on to her or she thought he did, and she went war form there because she couldn’t get him alone to strangle him in Glabro form.

And then there’s her initial, fairly nonviolent extraction attempts. She basically tried to get out without openly attacking anyone, with everything pegged on the potential ghoul(which still is a problem btw). If things had gone off without a hitch, the Arcanum wouldn’t even have known there was a werewolf there.

All of this leads me to believe that she was at least trying to play it smart and avoid an outright war with the arcanum. Whether this is because she didn’t really see them as enemies to kill, just generally prefers not to resort to violence even if she is objectively very good at it, or because she recognized that the Arcanum can likely get some violent men specialized at killing garou after her pack with short notice, I don’t know.

#hunter the parenting #hunter the parenting spoilers

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sulumuns-dootah · 1 year ago

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NSFW Alphabet - Leviathan

༺☆༻

A/N: Sorry this took a long time. Been a busy and chaotic past month, but I'm working on things so hopefully they'll be ready to post soon. Also, Levi isn't exactly my favorite so I had hard time analyzing and accounting for all the lore we have so far.

⟡ Masterlist ⟡

‎‧₊˚✧ 18+ Minors Do Not Interact‎ ✧˚₊‧

༺☆༻

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

If you had an intense encounter, you'd both need it, which is why he calls for his servants to come and care for the both of you. Otherwise, he doesn't mind to do some extra steps to get you comfortable.

༺☆༻

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Our nice piece of ass loves your neck. The loyalty noose would look amazing around it. Or maybe his hands?

༺☆༻

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

I'd say his cum tastes like caviar. He's technically a fish too, after all. Definitely the king whose cum I'd enjoy the least. It's also not as opaque, but with a slight shimmer.

༺☆༻

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

While he's having some me-time, sometimes he puts on a noose around his neck and orders himself to hang.

༺☆༻

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

With how rarely he trusts anyone, I'd say he barely has any. He gets the gist, knows many positions, but hasn't tried out most of them.

༺☆༻

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Any position, really. As long as you're strangling him hard enough, he doesn't care.

༺☆༻

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? Etc.)

No jokes here. In fact, no jokes ever. Besides like some special circumstances.

༺☆༻

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? Etc.)

Perfectly silky smooth like the rest of him. There's no room for imperfection.

༺☆༻

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

If he's bedding you, you're already doing something right. I imagine him being super vulnerable figuratively as well as literally with the strangling and all.

༺☆༻

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

His main source of getting off. He can't even remember the last time he's slept with someone. Once you're in the picture, however, that immediately changes and his hands focus onto you.

༺☆༻

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Beside the obvious breath control and getting beat up, he also strikes me as the type that would be into voyeurism as in getting watched fucking someone.

༺☆༻

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Public places are out of the question. The safety of his castle is the only place where he allows himself to get loose.

༺☆༻

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Jealousy, of course. But also public humiliation as long as he sees you as more than just his subject.

༺☆༻

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Share a partner. He'd get too jealous and possessive. Unless, of course, you tie him up as a punishment. HE would actually enjoy that.

༺☆༻

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Force him to go down on you and you'll have one of the best orgasms ever. In giving-head-contest he'd come close second (only beaten by the pussy devourer fly boy). While giving him head, he'd get super whiny and needy. Tease him and he'll lose his mind.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? Etc.)

There's two ways Levi can go. Either he's downright lovemaking with you or the bedroom is a whole ass battlefield.

༺☆༻

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Actually, thinking about the location again... I wanted to say that why have quickies when you're at his castle and have all the time in the world, but thinking about it, If the need arises and you're not in his chambers, he would definitely use his coffin to have a quickie with his partner.

༺☆༻

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? Etc.)

Depending on the risk. He wouldn't mind seeing how long you can hang from the noose, but wouldn't try and introduce lovecraftian horrors in the bedroom.

༺☆༻

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Leviathan's energy is stored in that juicy ass of his and boy, can he go for long time. The thing is, that he will, however, start complaining that he's tired and that you have to do the rest yourself.

༺☆༻

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Levi doesn't really strike me as the type to use toys. His imagination is enough for him. In my mind he's more old fashioned and all these different toys are just a riffraff for him. (Meaning he's too shy to buy some and would be afraid to get caught using them.)

༺☆༻

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh this man *italian hand motion* loves to tease, but the moment you tease back you have no time to react before you're hanging from the ceiling.

༺☆༻

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Whimpers. This man whimpers and it's the best thing you've ever heard (besides Beel's purring). How loud, depends on the situation. If you're on the bottom, some might escape him. But if you're on top, oh boy, all the demons in the surrounding chambers know.

༺☆༻

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Actually, not a hc, but more of an analysis of his H scene that I really want to talk about? Okay, so Levi makes it really obvious that he wants to be beaten and straight up just abused. This just screams to me a trauma response, which is extremely sad to me. The amount of abuse he had to endure to the point where his mind equates it to pleasure just so he doesn't go bonkers?

༺☆༻

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Once again, if you have the Erolabs version, you're lucky to see his sausage in the game itself. I personally agree with the ingame depiction of Levi's dick (unlike certain pierced someone's).

༺☆༻

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Actually, piggybacking off the wild card analysis, I think Levi can go anytime all the time. One of trauma responses tends to be hypersexuality (but I'm not a professional psychologist, so don't take my word for it). We even know about it from the Halloween event where Minhyeok says that Levi looks like he's in the mood despite fighting off angels.

༺☆༻

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not really a sleep I'd say, but he wouldn't mind snuggling up after some exhausting workout. Just don't get too used to it since he's too busy.

#what in hell is bad #what in “hell” is bad?#whb leviathan #whb smut

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veraarora · 23 days ago

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The line I fall for

Previous: Prologue

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Chapter 1

Five Hargreeves woke up early as usual. The cold air of his bedroom hit him in the face as soon as he swept out of the warm covers. The outside world was still dark and quiet, exactly as he preferred it. The streets had been covered in snow for the past few weeks, and that made the self-convincing to leave his house really hard, at least harder than usual.

He made his usual expensive black coffee — one of the few luxuries in his apartment. He had the money, sure, but never felt the need to spend it. This place didn’t feel like home anyway. If anything ever did, it was probably that little apocalyptic nest back in the day.

So why bother?

A few good suits, some alcohol, caffeine — that was enough.

Five combed his hair and brushed his teeth, taking a few lazy steps to his kitchen, browsing through some documents on his table.

He still hated being powerless.

Four years, and he hadn’t gotten used to it.

For the first few months, before his brain finally made some sense of it, he tried to automatically blink at least two times a day. It was the same as walking or breathing to him, and now it was gone.

He told everyone it’s fine, that he’s over it… he had enough time to get over it, didn’t he?

And sure, his siblings had moved on. So why couldn’t he?

Maybe they never needed their powers the way he did. He wasn’t useless without them — but with them, he was the best. And he knew it.

Still, there was nothing he could do. He’d tried everything.

So now, all that was left was learning how to live without them.

Living his life unfortunately meant maniacally researching anything about the Commission and their suspected ongoing existence. He knew he was right, he felt it, and maybe he was going crazy, but sometimes he felt like his powers weren’t entirely gone either.

Five didn’t tell that to any of his siblings. They would obviously accuse him of being out of his mind, and they wouldn’t be too far from the truth.

Later that day — it was Thursday — he had to meet up with his siblings due to their so-called family meetings. Let’s just say he didn’t even bother to argue with them and just sucked it up.

The meetings usually took place at Diego and Lila’s house. Today was no different. On the way, he stopped for some snacks to give to his nephew and nieces. He parked his black sedan in his brother’s driveway and took a few breaths before getting out of the car. He did so after a few more breaths, and he was immediately attacked by Klaus’s energetic greetings.

“Well hello, Cinco. I actually thought you wouldn’t show up anymore after your previous outburst with our sweet sister-in-law,” Klaus said while giggling between his words. Five struggled a bit to get him out of his personal space and frowned, not saying a word as he smoothed his shirt.

“What’s up with you?” Klaus said after noticing that Five was a bit more strange and grumpy than usual.

“Nothing,” Five said coldly and just knocked on the door. The door opened, and at first, it didn’t seem like anyone was behind it — until he looked down. The little girl in the yellow dress looked up at him as he picked her up.

“Where’s your dad, Coco?” Five said as he walked indoors, Klaus behind him.

She just signaled that she didn’t know and leaned into Five’s shoulder. Diego was sitting in the kitchen, and Five handed him Coco.

“You should teach your kids not to open the door. What if I was a killer?”

“You are a killer, bro.” Five cringed over himself a bit, but it was true.

“Yeah.” He sat and breathed out. “Where’s Lila?”

“You missed me that much? I bet our little fight got your dick hard.” She walked out of the kitchen.

“You wish, Lila.” This woman really got on his fucking nerves. God. He was already standing up, his blood boiling. Diego shoved him down before he managed to strangle her to death.

“Stop this, both of you. No one here is interested in this.” Diego looked at both of them, and Lila murmured something to herself.

Five sat back down, frowning at his brother’s wife once more.

The rest of his siblings arrived eventually, but he didn’t even know when. He felt stuck in his own mind. Something was about to happen real soon — he felt it.

He felt Diego’s sight on him. “What?”

“I don’t know, bro, but you’ve been chewing on that bread for the past five minutes.”

“Yeah, I’ve been savoring the taste of the dry carbs.”

“Can we not do this? It’s one dinner. One.”

“He’s brooding again. What paranoid conspiracy theory will it be this time? Is the moon gonna crash into us again?” Lila chuckled, stuffing herself with pie as one of her kids crawled next to her.

Five sighed and looked up at the ceiling while sipping on the disgusting cup of coffee. He then decided it would be better to just shut up for the rest of the dinner.

A couple of hours later, when he intended to sincerely leave without any of his siblings giving him the same old lecture for the fifth time, a hand stopped him by touching his shoulder. He turned to see Diego standing behind him with some stupid-ass look on his face that signaled he wouldn’t like this conversation.

“I meant what I said, Five.” Diego leaned on the door frame. The house was already quiet, and the only sounds were the TV and his wife and kids’ voices as she dragged them into the bathroom.

“Me too. I’m fine, seriously. You don’t have to worry,” Five nervously mumbled.

“Maybe it’s time to let it go, Five. Just try it.” Five already opened his mouth to protest, but Diego didn’t let him.

“Shh. Just think about it, Five. You can be happy. I know it.”

Five swallowed hard and nodded. Diego gave him a side hug before he closed the door and left Five alone in the cold night — just with his own thoughts.

Notes:

This is my first fanfiction ever, so I hope it’s readable! English isn’t my first language, but I spent a ridiculous amount of time editing — so everything should be right. If you spot any mistakes, don’t hesitate to let me know.

Thank you for stumbling across this. xoxo

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Chapter 2

#five hargreeves x oc #five x reader #five hargreeves #five hargreaves x reader #fanfic #the umbrella academy #number five #no y/n

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descendantsramblings · 8 months ago

Note

Hello! Could I request a story about descendants 3 Hades x fem!reader? Preferably if the reader is hurt physically, and a hurt/comfort main theme? Thank you💕

Honestly, D3 Hades is so likable to me, I love Hades. I really wished D4 had used him more (or even that D3 had used him more. He's so interesting and at least in D4 he feels sorta dumbed down to just "dude in leather jacket" which is lame)

Let Me See

Hades x Villain Reader

Pronouns Used: she/her/hers

Summary: Her need to be independent keeps leading Hades' wife to getting in fights, she really got herself into it this time

Warnings: Injury and blood, Reader and Uliana have unexplained issues with each other, crying, hurt/comfort nonsense except they argue as a form of affection, Death mention, pet names as insults + insults as pet names, minor swearing

Word Count: 2.2K

(Y/n) and Uliana never got along well in high school. It didn’t take a genius to know that Uliana only let her stick around back then because of Hades. The sea witch would never willingly let a god- especially the god of the underworld- slip out of her grip over something as petty as disliking some girl. She was better than that, smarter than that. So despite the obvious tension between them as teens, the girls were always around each other. And you hear the stories of kids who didn’t get along in high school that find their way into a fond friendship in their adult years, but those two would never be that. She understood that now. Stories like that came from changed levels of maturity, something that didn’t always come to those on the Isle. From the blood dripping from her nose and arm to the welts in the shape of suction cups on her cheek, (Y/n) had learned that maturity had not come to Uliana. Why had she even gone over there? She should have known the weaker sea witch would still be doing foolish things to even seem partially as nasty as her older sister. Especially now that Hook had sold his precious Jolly Roger to her niece; anyone knew that Uli would’ve seen that as a form of betrayal. It was like the last ties of high school affections had finally been cut, nothing to protect her from the compensating aggression of Uliana now.

As she quietly makes her way into the lair, holding her breath in hopes of Hades being asleep. She didn’t want to deal with whatever “I told you so” statements the man would have if he saw the state she was in. He told her not to go see the sea witch, “nothing good can come from visiting a girl who hated you in highschool”. She hated that he was right, he was always right. It was exhausting, she just wanted to prove him wrong once. She makes her way to the bathroom, nearly making it without incident. Of course though, it was only nearly, Zeus must have cursed her luck when they sent her to this god forsaken island. The cut on her arm gets caught on the ragged edge of the door’s strike plate, eliciting a loud string of swears to fly from her mouth as the skin of her arm gets tugged to the side. Her hand flies to her mouth, the motion hitting her swelling cheek and already injured nose, tears welling in her eyes. She was not winning today, with Uliana or herself it seems.

If the loud swearing didn’t already have Hades on his feet, the strangled sob that followed it would have; the god flying from his recliner to the source of the noise as if his life depended on it. When he rounds the corner his eyes lock on (Y/n), taking in her hunched over posture. His wife is white knuckling the counter, staring down at the stained bowl of the sink while her shoulders shake with what he’s almost positive are silent sobs. It takes everything in him to be quiet, waiting to gauge how she was planning to react. He slinks into the bathroom, closing the door and leaning on it. His arms cross over his chest, knee bending to prop his leg up against the hollow wood as he stands there, watching, waiting. She’d noticed him, Hades knew she did. Shoulders stilling with a shaky breath as she reaches up to wipe her eyes, the motion making her let out a pained whimper.

“Give me your worst,” despite mumbling it she knows that he hears her. “You think you can handle the worst of two real villains back to back, Princess?” Hades doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s rolling her eyes, some part of him can just feel it. The idea makes him smile softly, eyes casting up and down her body. “Uliana is not a real villain, don’t stroke her fragile little ego like that. She’s just a brat with anger issues. That’s all she’s ever been.” He chuckles, using his leg to push himself off the wall and over to her, hands finding their foundation on her shoulders. “You know, that’s tough talk coming from you, Princess. Maybe that’s how she got you in this little situation.” He presses a kiss to the back of her head, waiting for her to look up to him so he can kiss her properly. Hades knew better than to rush the woman though, she would surely reject the touch if it wasn’t her decision. She hated being told what to do in any sense, even if it was just him tilting her head towards him. Everything she did had to come from her own ideas. If pressed, he’d admit it was part of the reason he fell for her. In a vague attempt at sounding put together she lets out a cheap scoff, “I’m not crying over some sea witch, I just ended my affair, idiot.” It’s followed by a broken laugh, and though she doesn’t look up to him, she leans further into his touch. “Oh yeah? Who was my unlucky competition? Gaston? Hook? Jafar perhaps? Oh I know, that little snake finally got his hands on you, he wanted you so bad in school.” He’s laughing, rubbing his hands up and down her arms as speaks, the tone far too light for her to think he took her joke as anything but. “Maleficent, obviously. It was always her,” she mumbles, hissing as his hand unknowingly brushes the cut on her forearm. The man snatches his hand away from her, looking down to see the slick blood covering his fingers. The bubbling joke he had about how they had the same taste dies as he sees it. Who did Uliana think she was? If she thought she could hurt his woman like that she had another thing coming.

“What did she do to you?” There’s a fire behind it and his wife knows that if the barrier didn’t prevent it his head would be bursting into vibrant flames. She tries not to think about how much she misses the sight of it. “Nothing big, I can handle it. I just need the first aid kit, and some ice. You think you could go get me something cold?” He hums, pressing a kiss to one of her shoulders, “I’ll be right back with it. I moved the first aid kit to the bottom drawer.” She nods, leaning down to open the drawer once she hears the door close behind him. The old red plastic lost its shine a long time ago, potentially before they even got it. Not that it mattered, it still worked, she kept it stocked well enough. When you’re known for stupid things you have to be prepared for stupid prizes, don’t you? It opens with a satisfying click, the lid clattering against the counter noisily. She rustles through it one handed as she searches for her butterfly bandages to close her arm up. The boxes had broken at some point, leaving different sizes all over the container. Or someone had emptied them in the box, seems like something Celia could’ve done if Hades pissed her off. The idea made the woman giggle, imagining the little girl standing in her bathroom tearing apart boxes with that grumpy little pout on her face. She’d have to ask her about it the next time the kid came by. If not her, probably her stepson, Hadie and his dad always had to have something to argue about.

“What’s got you giggling?” He’s holding one of those old ice packs they got right after getting back together, one the baby ones she’d snagged for a much younger Mal and Hadie. Smiling at his wife as she shuffles through the box in front of her. “Someone spilt all the band-aids in here. Which would be a lot funnier if I wasn’t looking for those little butterfly ones that hold things closed.” He hums, putting the boo boo ice in her hand and taking the box from her. “Let me see.” She holds the cold gel pack to her welts, hissing at the sensation as she forces herself to lean into it. “I bet this was Hadie,” he grumbles, sifting through and throwing the tiny bandages into his other hand’s palm. “I thought Celia did it,” she mumbles, watching his hands intently, “You did piss her off something fierce last week.” Another chuckle falls from his lips, placing the tiny bandages and a large wrap bandage on the counter. “You need to hop on this counter and let me see what we’re working with.” She scoffs, popping her hip against his, “Who said this was a two person job?” The man tilts her head to him, taking in the swollen cheek and dried blood with a scowl. “I said. You don’t get to ‘strong independent woman’ this, you’re hurt, I’m helping. Now hop on the counter yourself or I’m putting you on it.”

She plants her feet, tilting her head as if to challenge the man. “I don’t need help. Didn’t need help getting hurt, don’t need help cleaning myself up.” His brow raises, stepping closer to her and dipping his head down so their noses touch, “You’ve done enough fighting today, haven’t you? And it looks like you lost to me, get on that counter.” “You haven’t seen the other guy,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest on instinct. A hiss follows directly after, the raw skin on her left arm slipping over her vest’s zipper in a way that felt like it was chewing the wound. “Uh huh,” he grabs her hand, pulling her injured arm to him. It wasn’t anywhere that he had to worry about. No major vessels in the way, the skin simply oozing blood instead of spurting it. That’s good, he was worried after he saw it on his own skin.

She doesn’t fight it when his hands wrap around her hips, lifting her like she weighed nothing and setting her on the bathroom counter. “I am making sushi out of that fool.” He doesn’t intend for her to hear him but the giggle she lets out is comforting all the same. “And you have got to stop doing the opposite of what you think I want you to do just because you don’t want to listen to anyone else. You can’t keep doing shit like this, (Y/n). I’m going to end up losing you.” It makes the air around them heavy, Hades turning to the linen closet to grab a wash rag. She opens her mouth to respond, just to realize she didn’t have anything of substance to say. What could she say? You’re going to lose me anyway if we’re stuck here? He was immortal and she wasn’t. No way he didn’t lose her. You got me back the last time? Something told her that he wouldn’t like her reminding him she left him seventeen years ago. And she didn’t like the idea of being reminded that she’d get to go to the underworld before he’d ever be able to go back, separated for so long her soul might forget him. Instead she sighs, eyes locked on Hades’ every minor movement. He runs water over the rag and when it touches the aggravated skin on her arm; she nearly moans at the contact. The chill of it was so comforting, the gentle strokes he’s using keeping the normally exfoliating fabric as nothing more than a tickle against her skin. Tongue slightly poked out as he pulls the skin closer together, eyes cutting up to her every now and then to insure that he wasn’t hurting her. “Hold that.” She follows the order, too tired -or perhaps too relieved by his help- to argue. He places the little butterfly bandaids over the opened flesh in sets of two, six of the little things covering the cut total, before grabbing the wrap bandage from beside her. “That wasn’t as bad as I thought,” he mumbles, wrapping the gauze-like material around her, “Not too tight?” She shakes her head, “It’s fine.”

With her arm handled he turns to her face, touching her chin ever so slightly to turn her head from side to side. “I hated when she’d accidentally hit me with those slimey things back in highschool, can’t imagine how it felt to be hit with one on purpose.” She hums, watching him lift the now bloodied rag again. “Sucked.” He rolls his eyes, “Yeah? I bet it did, Princess.” The rag comes up to her nose, wiping blood away from her top lip. “At least it’s not broken, just bled a little.” She nods, nothing left to say as he raises the ice pack to her cheek again. “You’re definitely going to have some bruises on that cheek though. Lucky for you, I still think you’re hot when you’re all beat up.” Her eyes roll but there’s an adoring glow to her face that he doesn’t miss. “You have got to take care of yourself, (Y/n). I can’t lose you to something as silly as some fool’s attitude.” His face is soft, eyes locked on her as his hands settle on her thighs. She knows what to say this time though, leaning forward to press a quick peck to his lips that only hurts her a little bit. “I love you. Like, really really love you.” He hums, pulling her closer to him from her little perch on the counter. “I love you, idiot.”

#descendants #descendants imagines #descendants x reader #descendants fanfiction #descendants 3 #hades descendants #hades x reader

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jazzyblusnowflake · 1 year ago

Note

I saw your post about your Nuzi headcanons and I have to say THEY ARE ADORABLE!

But it got me thinking, do you have any Vuzi headcanons?

I don't why but I've become obsessed with them in the past while and I wanted to know if you had any ideas for them since you made that incredible Vuzi comic a while back.

oh jeesums, i didn't really expect people to like my HCs enough for it to get over a hundred likes 😭😭😭💕

but yesss id love to take a swing at writing down my subconsciously decided vuzi headcanons too XD so lessee-

Some Vuzi Headcanons i got òvó:

[once again only the drone version ones and as sfw as i can manage lmao sorry asddjfkdfl-]

This version being for AFTER everything is over with and V is ALIVE //or I'm going for Liam's neck personally//- but whether she's with N too or not is for your own interpretation, cuz for ME personally she gets with Uzi AFTER N and Uzi were already a thing together-

Starting a bit similar to the previous HCs, unlike with N, Uzi and V looooooooooooove calling eachother names- ranging from pet names to petty insults, they very hardly call each other their actual names lmao; and Uzi is probably the ONLY person that could get to call V pet names or flirt with her and get away unscathed- V has very little tolerance for anyone else. when actually trying to be intimate or flirty- Uzi loves calling V "Kitty" [cliche i know] and its one of the more acceptable pet names that V allows, but sometimes Uzi goes for pet names to actually make V blush and feel flustered, and those are usually from Uzis more compassionate side since V is allergic to romance apparently 🙄. calling V things like "my pretty", "gorgeous", "you wild thing"- drives V up the wall and she's stuck between wanting to bite Uzi's face off or rip her own off- and likewise when V wants to fluster Uzi she has her own range of heat fueled pet names like "baby bat/batsy", "cutie", "my little snacc"- and overall their job is to try and drive eachother insane lmao. less romantic names on both their sides would be=> [Uzi]: fatty, insufferable nutcase, dumb boob// [V]: shorty, edgy toaster, lil freakshow- and etc etc. TLDR: names.... they call eachother alot of names. that's it lmao.

They have a more avoidant relationship, where N and Uzi would seek comfort in one another, Uzi and V realize when the other isn't feeling well they need space to let off steam and trust one another enough that the other will come to them when they are ready. this isn't the most perfect way to deal with things given they are usually on a time crunch and need to get over their traumas quickly, but in the end they both know they are there for eachother when it matters the most.

teasing.... they do alot of that- although one would argue that V is the only one winning here 😭. V would not let the subject of Uzi being short go- if there's any moment that she could make the joke, she will not let the opportunity pass- anything relating to flustering or embarrassing Uzi absolutely goes- its not uncommon for N to walk in on the two fighting while V is just laughing and cooing at the other that she's just a cute lil baby while Uzi is trying her best to strangle the other without actually harming her. but then Uzi says that V is just a big dumb boob cuz that's all she could see from her pov and N is desperately trying to keep himself from laughing in the background-

V loves picking up Uzi.... that's it... she would never admit it out loud, but holding Uzi up, whether on her back or holding her from the front and feeling Uzi cling to her for support gives her immense internal joy, even if she doesn't show it in her expression. she often prefers picking Uzi up when they make out and this works in both their favors too cuz Uzi loves being taller lmao.

V wouldn't admit it but she is terrified of Uzi getting angry. like actually, genuinely, furiously LIVID level of angry Uzi is enough to make V curl her tail between her legs and just step away slowly. and Uzi.... when Uzi is mad, she talks sickeningly sweet to V. that's how V knows its time to fucking RUN or PERISH.

V is a lot more traumatized than N from Cyn's influence. during her comatosed state she can still vividly remember all the things Cyn had done to her in her mindspace, the same way N got to see all of his own mangled bodies in his own headspace, but unlike N she remembered all of it, hence why she turned into a neurological murder bot. So while she is with the others shes often scared opening up emotionally, and to fix this Uzi tries to force her for some cuddle times. don't get me wrong sometimes both N and Uzi have to literally WRESTLE V til she no longer has energy to fight back just to drag her in the cuddle pile. she usually doesn't talk much and even more rarely breaks down into crying but she's secretly grateful of having Uzi to sometimes force her into things she should do more often in order to heal, and one of those is learning to trust again.

V and Uzi have sparring sessions every now and then- tho sometimes V fights dirty- if you catch my drift lmao- and Uzi is weak for that shit, sadly 😔 Uzi finds herself contemplating her life choices when V is constantly giving her new kinks to consider smhhhh. it doesnt help that V doesnt treat Uzi as weak or breakable, she goes all out and Uzi is thankful to her about it. tho N would not touch this particular catfight between two wild ladies with a 100ft pole- [which would probably be the distance he's standing and watching from...just in case...]

funny enough most of their arguments end with makeout sessions. N cant tell if this is their way of flirting from the start or their way of making up after a fight....

V is secretly protective of Uzi, not interfering when Uzi is dealing with someone but standing a few steps behind her, brandishing her claws just in case, to send an obvious message.

V is absolutely rough when trying to be intimate. Uzi needs lots of energy to heal from bite marks but they always make sure the other is comfortable about it. but when Uzi is soft and gentle with her and focuses on being reassuring and loving towards her, V's a flustered incoherent mess-

despite being the more avoidant one, V is usually the one who initiates any intimacy- [mostly because Uzi is too short or busy or embarrassed to do so 🙄] and when she gets needy, Uzi feels internally giddy as though a cat has chosen her or something-

Uzi likes to ask V sometimes of any HAPPY memories she had back at the mansion.

OKAY- damn that was LOOOOOONG- hope these are good enough- i had a lot of fun writing them :D

once again, left out any nsfw hcs 😇 enjoy the dumpster fire lesbiams-

i also tried my best to leave out the N x Uzi x V headcanons so it would seem more specifically for Vuzi :"3

#murder drones #uzi doorman #serial designation v #serial designation n #vuzi #nuziv #vuzin #violetviolence #violentbitingbiscuits #snowballflo #snow rambles #took 3 hours this time #i love writing but DAMN it takes so much time smhhh

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bardic-inspo · 6 months ago

Text

aeterna nostalgia

chapter two: crimes of passion

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter One |🩸Chapter Three

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire.

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Astarion determines what spell struck his consort.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“‘I truly loved her,’ the vampire admitted quietly, pain showing on its normally stoic face…But then it seemed to rally its strength, and its chill gaze nailed me to my chair.

‘I misjudged her totally,’ the vampire continued, its voice now virtually emotionless. ‘...And do you know? I think the pain I felt was greater than hers.’”

-Van Richten's Guide to Vampires

“W-who are you?” Naomi stammers.

She lies stiff as a corpse in his Astarion’s arms. Mindlessly, his fingers stroke her bloodied hair from her face. His brow knits in disbelief. “What did you just say?”

Fear floods her wide eyes. Astarion feels it wrapped tight as a noose around his neck. It seeps into the straining threads of their bond, starting a slow drip of his own trepidation.

His spawn, Emilia, staggers into the throne room, chest heaving. “Master -- the spell, it--”

“Which spell?” He says, his tone cutting. “What was that? What did the wretch do to her?”

His burning stare shifts to the culprit in question. Or rather, what’s left of them. Sand spills from the sleeves of the crumpled, lifeless robe. It’s all that remains of the wizard who cast ill will upon his consort.

Rage scorches Astarion’s stomach, flaring with his nostrils. They sting with the acrid stench of ash and stale magic. Pieces of parchment smolder nearby -- bits of the spell scroll. Under his eye, Emilia stoops to salvage them, snuffing the flames with the heel of her shoe.

Instinct tells him his other spawn still lives. He’s acutely aware of Zylar’s unconscious shape sprawled in his periphery. A cursory glance at the human shows no wounds, and no sign of a weapon drawn. It makes Astarion’s lip curl with disdain. Did the Fist lift even a finger to defend his mistress?

What answers might Astarion find, prying the nails free of those same fingers?

“What did you do to me, vampire?!” Naomi spits.

Astarion’s stomach plummets, dropping with his dumbfounded gaze. His consort glares back at him, defiant, her own fangs bared. A cold, strangled laugh bursts from Astarion’s lips. “What an utterly ludicrous thing to say!”

“What I meant to say before, Master,” Emilia interjects hesitantly, “is that she may not be herself. I’ll need a few moments to work out the specific spell. But that kind of magic isn’t meant to harm anyone physically. It was meant to ail her mind.”

Astarion’s laugh twists into a simmering snarl. The elf flinches, but says nothing further as she kneels nearby, stretches out her hands, and begins the incantation for identify. Her dark hair shifts to hide her expression, but Astarion’s sure he sees her trembling. No matter. There’s only one other person in this room who does matter.

“My poor, poor consort,” he hums, soft and cloying, mulling over the stricken state of her mind.

His own thoughts snag on the thorn-sharp fear turning their link into a prickling, untenable tether. Tenderly, he reaches out to graze her consciousness the same way he might tuck her hair behind her ear. But the surface of her thoughts is scalding. He bites back a hiss, recoiling from the connection.

They’ve had ill feelings before. They’ve shared rage, aired grievances, vented disappointments. All of it dissolves in the balm of their bond. Through it, he feeds her consolation. Comfort. And in the same manner, she soothes the fleeting but many frustrations of the most powerful vampire the world has ever known.

At times, she’s been reluctant. At others, he’s been stubborn. But sooner or later, with or without coaxing, they both succumb to the salve that is each other.

Coaxing it is, then. Her mind hurts. Astarion can feel the throb of the pain echo back inside his own skull. His presence in hers must feel like pressing into the wound. If only she could grit her teeth past the ache long enough to feel the healing he could bring.

Be brave for me, darling. He thrusts the thought towards her, a sweat sprouting on his brow with the effort. It bobs back against his will, repelled towards him as the like ends of magnets would be.

Naomi’s eyes flit to the wizard, narrowing, before boring into his again.

“Don’t you fret,” he coos, a tight smile upon his face. “We’ll have you sorted in--”

BANG.

Thunder drums against his heart, bounding erratically against his ribs, cracking against the back of his head. The noise and pain of it is brief, but the shock sticks like a knife. The whole room shudders with the impact, gritty trails of debris pattering down the sides of the wide pillars.

Incredulous, Astarion cranes his neck upwards, peering down his own heaving chest and splayed legs. Naomi’s palm is still outstretched, still pulsing with the booming magic that sent him reeling. Her jaw sets with steely determination. His hangs slack as he blinks back at her.

“Darling,” he huffs, propping himself upright, “There’s no need for--”

The air warps before his eyes. Reedy noise bursts in his ears before it’s swallowed by a swelling, resounding--

BANG.

The nearest pillar splits in the center, marble breaking as easy as tree bark. The crack races from the floor to the ceiling. A looming shadow falls across his face. Astarion rolls from it. Stone slams the throne room floor like an angry fist. The pillar shatters to rubble before his eyes.

“Oh, gods below!” He snaps, scrambling to his feet. He dusts his trousers off irritably.

What the fuck is she even casting with, anyways?

Ah. He catches the glint of it, on the ground, strewn among the rock: the little gilded harmonica, set with onyx inlay, glittering with diamonds. A trinket some might call priceless. Something small and subtle enough, she could keep it on her person always. He’d given it to her so she could always have the full might of her magic within reach at a moment’s notice.

She must’ve dropped it when she released the spell. She must’ve been staggered by her own strength. Astarion clicks his tongue. Poor, poor Naomi.

Her eyes meet his, and then dart to the harmonica. She lunges. He’s faster. If he didn’t feel so deeply for her plight, he might’ve relished her helpless gasp. Her implement crunches to pieces beneath his heel.

“Don’t you worry, dear,” he sneers. “You’ll have another. Once you’ve come to your senses.”

Naomi recoils, glassy-eyed, sniffling. Astarion sighs tightly, averting his gaze. Still, the sound of her crying needles him relentlessly. Emilia ogles them both, her mouth agape, and her hands far too still for casting.

“What spell is this?!” He demands. “Dominate monster?”

He’s seen such spells turn friends into foes before. He’s used similar tricks to turn a fight in his favor. Something caused Naomi to cast harm his way. Her mind must be ill, indeed. She’d never do something so stupid, otherwise.

The notion stokes the building ire in his belly. Someone meant to play a trick on him. Someone meant to kill his consort in the process. More the fool them. He would never harm a hair on her head.

“By your bond, she’s immune to anyone’s will but yours,” Emilia says gravely. “It’s not a domination spell.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!” Naomi sputters.

Astarion speaks past her. “What spell is it, then?!”

Emilia blanches. “I-I don’t know yet master, I--”

“Then stop gawking and finish what you started!”

Metal scrapes over stone. Astarion’s attention jerks towards the snapping fireplace. A pitying smile lifts his lips.

He moves in a blur and arrives before Naomi can brandish the iron stoker she snatched. For a moment, his fingers close, warm around her cold ones. At once, her grip retracts, the flickering flames dancings in her glare.

He cocks his head. “And what do you think you’ll do with that, hm?”

Her throat bobs. Astarion tenses, watching her lips quiver. But no song spills out, and no spell with it. Instead, she darts towards the open doors.

It’s no matter at all to reach them first. The doors close with a thud like distant thunder. A loose piece of marble drops from the ceiling in its wake, crashing among the other rubble. Naomi flinches with the impact. As he nears her, she flees again. This time, she scurries towards the credenza in the curtained alcove, seizing a bronze candelabra in a vice grip and wielding it in front of her.

“Cute,” he trills. She glowers under the praise.

Astarion follows at a slow stroll, hands behind his back as he takes long, wandering steps after her. Naomi’s chest heaves with every click of his heel against the marble. He imagines if she still had a heartbeat, it would match his movements like a metronome.

She’s a sight to see, even in this state. She’d gotten dressed, sometime between when he left her at the piano, and when he found her in distress. It’s a shame, really; now, her dress is in a state, too.

Her black skirt hangs in tatters, the golden hem torn. Blood dries in inky trails down her face, marring the freckles that powder her lilac skin, smearing over the trio of birds tattooed on her left cheek. Ragged waves of white spill free from her braided bun. Her eyes sear like red coals, her pearly fangs bared. In the same room where she slayed a man only hours before, she’s reduced to a bristling, angry alley cat.

It’s the sort of caricature the cattle think of when they picture a vampire’s bride: a pretty, promising thing, plucked from the vine of life, sullied with violence, and enslaved to indelible hunger.

Sand pops beneath his shoes. Astarion comes to an abrupt halt, still several feet away from his bride. He peers down at where he stepped, gaze skimming the glittering flecks dotting the floor. There’s another small pile of sand just a few steps away, far from where the wizard disintegrated.

Did you fight back, my darling? Astarion’s throat thickens. If she did, she still failed.

“Who are you?” She barks again, her throat hoarse. “What do you want with me?!”

Astarion turns towards her slowly, a sudden weight in his jaw, his feet anchored in place. Their bond is a knotted bramble in his chest. Her questions, her distance, her bewilderment -- it all sinks in like thorns.

“Master -- Master!” Emilia shouts.

“Yes?” He says sluggishly, as if surfacing from a deep dream.

“It’s her memory. They’ve modified her memory!”

“I can see that now. How long does it last?”

“Until it’s dispelled. But--”

“Do it now,” he snarls. He can’t suppress his own shudder at the sound, not when it makes Naomi shiver before his eyes.

“I-I can’t! I’ve already tried, the spell is too strong!”

“Try again!”

“You’re not casting anything,” Naomi shouts, voice wavering. “Not until you tell me what’s happening!”

“Of course, my love,” his voice melts at once, his hands open at his sides. Astarion dares a step towards her, and then another. Naomi tracks him warily, as any prey would a predator.

They can’t take her. Not from him. All else is immaterial. Temporary. Her wishes will be sated, her memories restored. But she herself can never be stolen from her sire.

She can never not know of him!

Astarion grits his teeth and braves the bond again. He speaks aloud as if it’s a spell. An incantation that will make way for him in her head, and wake remembrance in her heart.

“Naomi, my dearest one, it’s all right. You’ve been hurt. But you’re home. And I’m here. I’ll see to you. Just as I always do.”

Like a moth to a flame, she’s drawn to the sound of her own name in his mouth. Her shoulders ease by only an inch. An inch is all he needs; he can turn to mist at a moment’s notice, and slip between the slightest gap. In his mind, he does so now, seeping harmlessly through the prickle of her unease, stroking petal-soft through her thoughts, and filling them with words of soothing.

In the flesh, he stands before her, riding through the ache that comes with the sight of her tears. She blinks back at him, quivering. That simply won’t do. He reaches out a tentative hand towards her cheek.

When they touch at last, he thinks of the melody she played for him just this morning. The smooth crest of the piano, silky like the feel of her skin beneath his. The song poured through her fingertips effortlessly. Just like the effortless, instinctual comfort of his caress.

Her music is a thread; he lets it weave from his memories through her mind, reeling them together again. Naomi can tame raw magic into songs with her hands, her mouth. Astarion knows only one instrument. She can make the sweetest sounds from just the barest brush of his lips to her ear. But the one he lets filter through her mind now is the soft, contented hum that lives in her head when her hand is in his. When they’re together. Home.

Happy.

He lets the bliss swirl within him, flowing over so it can fill her, too. He’s so taken by the tide of it, he nearly misses the flash before his eyes.

Dread presses down on him on all sides, sharp and sudden like discordant keys. Her mind tears free of his. The music cuts. Astarion drifts, breathless, weightless, shapeless.

Mist.

He materializes again, his hand withdrawn to the fresh, hairline slice across his own cheek. A single drop of blood gleams from his finger when he pulls it away. He turns it over, studying the little ruby bead in disbelief.

The candelabra clangs at Naomi’s feet. She’s traded it for his own dagger, stolen from his side as he provided comfort at hers. It’s the same twined blade he’d taken from his own sire: Rhapsody.

“MASTER!” Emilia cries.

Astarion’s head jerks up in time to see the flare of Emilia’s firebolt ripping towards Naomi. Orange light bathes her skin. He smells it as it singes, even before the impact.

He can feel it scald, as if his own insides are aflame.

“NO!” He roars, lunging towards Emilia. “You vile little--”

A dash of silver whips through the fire like rogue lightning.

Emilia gags, staggering backward with the dagger’s impact. Blood spurts from her throat in a feeble fountain. Her knees buckle, and then she wilts over, choking as Astarion watches.

Knife-throwing was never Naomi’s forte. Stealing them was. And stabbing with them, sure. But not throwing. He taught her that trick. Before Astarion, she could hardly hit a tree from mere feet away with a thrown blade. Before him, she never would’ve lodged Rhapsody directly into the heart of a vampire spawn at such distance and disadvantage.

He made her swifter. Sharper. Stronger. And set her above all others he made after her.

He turns towards his panting, panicked bride. Naomi scrambles backwards frantically, seizing the candelabra again in a white-knuckled fist. Her eyes are mirrors of terror.

He can tell from the look of her, she didn’t know. Didn’t think. It was instinct. She doesn’t remember learning, but her body does. Some locked door, in the back of her mind, houses all the violence she has at her fingertips.

Behind him, Emilia dies a quick death, if a lonely one. He’s certain when it happens, in the same way he knows Zylar yet lives. The master she reaches for saves no sympathy for her.

And even for Naomi, he’s reaching his limits. It takes a concentrated effort to force his tone steady.

“I rather wish you hadn’t done that, dear,” Astarion bites out.

Naomi clutches her cheek with a muted whimper, the steam still furling through her fingers from the burn.

His eyes widen, the leash on his rage loosening. “You’re hurt!”

He can’t have that. He won’t have that. He has minimal magic in his arsenal, now that his wizard lies slain by his lover. Which means, for the moment, whatever meddling happened to her memory will remain.

Even if Zylar were to suddenly wake, perhaps Naomi would simply slay him, too. Perhaps Zylar would be stupid enough to harm her as Emilia had, from some misguided, masochistic instinct to play as Astarion’s protector. The thought alone makes his stomach roil.

What a waste.

Already, Naomi strings a breathless song beneath her lips, one he hasn’t heard her murmur since their days on the road with tadpoles in tow. She’s not as strong of a caster without her instrument implements, but she’ll fight until she can’t. He knows this. He knows that steely, stubborn glint in her eye.

She’ll kill his other spawn, his servants, whoever tries to stop her. She can’t kill Astarion. She’ll hurt herself trying. More than she’s already hurt.

He can’t have that.

Astarion takes a step towards her, heartbeat slamming his ribs hard enough to crack a mere mortal’s. He never told her he could do this. He tried to bury it somewhere she’d never see, but Naomi always had a talent for resurrection.

Relentlessly, she warmed every cobwebbed and shadowed recess of his mind. Woke his secrets out of the soil, and kept them as her own. He didn’t want her to know he could. Didn’t want her to know he’d never do it.

If you have to, I’ll understand, she’d said one day, unprompted. I trust you.

He’ll never forget it. They laid sprawled in the gardens, twined in each other, like the ivy wrapped so tightly on the trellises. Astarion with his fingers wound in her hair, Naomi plucking a rose free of its petals, one by one.

I had to, he’ll say, someday, perhaps in just a short few, when this temporary mess is all over. You were hurt. You would’ve hurt yourself. I wouldn’t have it. I’d never hurt you. I lov--

His mouth opens, closes, and opens once more. He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Naomi…”

He hates that he sounds like a fragile spawn again. Something small and sniveling. He hates the word he says instead of the three that dance along the tip of his tongue. He’s rarely said what he longs to aloud. She’s always known it anyway, as well as the back of her hand.

But now, she stares at him scared, as if he’s a stranger. As if he’s a mere monster. As if she isn’t one, too.

There’s only one word for it.

“...Stop.”

She does at once.

He expected to see the compulsion ripple through her, to hear her gasp before his command took hold, or see the realization snap through her eyes. He doesn’t. His will is instant. The only gasp he hears is his own ragged burst of breath.

The lesser spawn always chafe under his orders. A wince. A hiss. An eye roll. A token display of defiance before total acquiescence.

Not her. Naomi trusts him. Perhaps that trust still lives in her bones like marrow, even as her mind is void of it. She is a stunning statue at the heart of their throne room, blood and rubble and destruction strewn around her. If it weren’t for the fear frozen in her eyes, skewering him like shards of ice, she’d be perfect.

Astarion stumbles towards her, his forehead coming to rest against her unmoving brow. This time, the chill of her touch offers him no comfort. Instead, he feels the threads of his thoughts slipping, like the weight of her hand leaving his to hang empty.

The bond doesn’t feel like brambles any longer. At least the sting was a feeling. Instead, it dangles loose within him, over a plummet of unknown, unfathomable depths.

“Rest, my sweet,” he whispers. His voice cracks like glass through the middle. “This will all be over soon. Everything will be as it was. You’ll see.”

Naomi’s eyes flutter shut as her body drops slack into his waiting arms. The candelabra slides from her limp grip and clatters against the marble. Abruptly, the room is quiet. A grave silence takes his hall. For a few moments, he simply stares at the woman dangling in his grasp. As if, any moment now, she’ll wake as easily as she fell into trance, and pull him from this nightmare, too.

Footsteps barrel down the corridor towards the throne room. The sound shatters that last, fragile hope he clung to. By the time Claude arrives on the threshold, panting with a sweat upon his brow, Astarion feels about ready to break the gnome in front of him just as viciously.

“My Lord,” Claude spews breathlessly, “the patriars, they-- oh, oh my. Emilia! And the mistress! Is she--?”

“She’ll be fine!” Astarion screeches.

Movement catches his eye -- not Claude cowering, as he should, but Zylar, finally stirring in his periphery. Rage rips through him anew. Astarion rounds on the dazed spawn without hesitation.

“Get. Up.”

Zylar lurches upright like a puppet on a string. For an instant, his head lolls back before it jerks forward with a sickening pop. His eyes are heavy with sleep, unfocused even as the rest of his body reacts, at once, to Astarion’s orders.

Astarion doesn’t hesitate to deliver the next one.

“Go to the overlook. Lock yourself in. Throw the key into the pit.”

Like the shock of cold water, the command rouses Zylar into wide-eyed panic.

“Master--wait -- no! Not that place! I didn’t--”

Astarion’s eyes narrow to slits.

Zylar squirms and sputters and writhes. Suddenly, he straightens, as if he traded his spine for a steel rod. He marches forward, militaristic, and leaves the room without further protest.

“And you,” Astarion sighs, eyes flitting to the gnome ogling him from the doorway. “Go dig yourself a grave.”

He doesn’t bother compelling Claude; the man has always chased this carrot of his own volition. There’s no doubt in Astarion’s mind Claude will remain a weak, insufferable little cretin so long as he survives.

But he’ll be a loyal one. And loyalty is something Astarion is suddenly short of.

The day has left Astarion with an ill consort. A dead spawn. Another that’s ineffective at best, traitorous at worst. And a room full of fucking patriars to coddle. He’ll have to return to them soon. He scowls as he peers down at the blood flecking his fine shoes. He’ll need to clean himself up, first.

He steps over Emilia’s seeping corpse, climbs to his own throne, and deposits Naomi there with the utmost care. He lets her head lie against the armrest, legs dangling over the other, while her own seat remains vacant as it always is. As he draws back, Astarion stifles the foreign urge to rub the strange, permeating pain throbbing through his temples. The past hour has been one headache upon another. On a normal day, Claude would be one of them.

It hasn’t been a normal day.

The gnome practically wriggles with glee. “M-Master, you m-mean--?”

“If I didn’t,” Astarion sneers, “I wouldn’t have said it.”

“Thank you, Master! Thank yo-- I-- oh!”

Astarion heard the old crone coming far sooner than Claude did. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Later, he could come up with some excuse the other patriars would believe as to why she left their meeting early.

Thessa Gray was the only one of them that had the gall to demand explanation when Astarion left them so suddenly. The tiefling’s carmine complexion is grayed with age. On a normal day, she’d be too old, too ornery for Astarion to even consider, and nevermind the complications that come with making spawn out of such a notable matriarch right under Duke Ravengard’s nose.

But she’s a sorcerer of some renown. Emilia couldn’t dispel the ill effect on Naomi’s memory. Perhaps Thessa Gray can.

Whatever the tiefling expected to find when she followed him, it wasn’t this.

“What in the hells happened here?!” Thessa gasps, a hand flying across her heart.

Astarion can hear it hammering out its last beats at breakneck speed.

“Claude,” Astarion says, wetting his lips. “Dig two graves, won’t you?”

A/N: Naomi is really out of commission for five seconds and Astarion immediately starts turning the town. 🤭

The first bit of this fic focuses more heavily on Astarion POV by virtue of Naomi having A Time, but we will be getting into her POV next chapter. I don’t know if it will end up as an even split or not, but the POV frequencies will fluctuate with the plot.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did. 💜

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

#astarion #astarion ancunin #ascended astarion #tavstarion #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #bg3 #naomi tavriel #my writing #bg3 fanfic #vampire lord astarion #dark consort #aeterna nostalgia

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triassictriserratops · 1 year ago

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okay, so DARK !HijackedPeeta idea/writing prompt for anyone who wants it:

(this is VERY loosely inspired by a twisted idea of The Little Mermaid, so if you want to add those fairy tale elements - have at!)

when Peeta strangles Katniss he manages to permanently (or semi-permanently based on your preference) damage her trachea/larynx, thereby damaging her vocal chords.

Katniss loses her ability to speak. Snow has now used Peeta as a tool to "silence The Mockingjay"

THINGS THAT COULD HAPPEN AS A RESULT:

1.) Katniss grappling with the loss of her voice and her ability to sing. Something she connects to better times with her father.

2.) Katniss needing to learn a whole new form of communication (likely through bonding with Pollux, who although different in circumstance, obviously, can empathize and wants to help her.)

3.) Plutarch tasking Beetee with taking voice clips of Katniss and creating an AI voice that can say anything he wants it to say. (To the horror of Katniss, her family, and Haymitch)

4.) As Peeta is able to recover from the hijacking, the knowledge of what his hands did will destroy him.

5.) As he watches that video of Katniss singing The Hanging Tree (and he flashes back to her father singing it) it will work as a kind of siren song. He's drawn to it. Drawn to her voice. But Katniss can't sing anymore due to his actions. And he has to grapple with that and what he took from the world and from her.

6.) They find ways back to each other. Where he was initially drawn to her voice from the young age of 5, without the "siren song" he finds himself constantly drawn to her in other ways.

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #the hunger games #thg fic #thg series #thg fanfiction #writing prompt #the hunger games writing prompt #thg writing prompt #hijacked peeta #hunger games fic #hunger games fanfiction

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writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 2 years ago

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Character: Indiana Jones

Warnings/Important info: Fem reader, implied English or at least has been to Oxford University. Angsty, miscommunication.

Notes: I watched Indiana Jones the other day and obviously my first crush never leaves because young Harrison Ford as an archaeologist adventurer is just *chefs kisses*

It's bizarre really, potentially concerning, worrying to a degree, that after 5 years you know the back of his head from a glance. Suffice to say you try not to draw attention to yourself when you recognise who stands mere meters away from you talking to two of his students about antiquarianism.

Maybe you should have expected it, after all Henry Jones seemed to have a way of haunting you. Maybe you should have been prepared to see him, despite assuming that the United States was so vast that your move from the University of Oxford to Marshall College as a newly qualified Doctor of History would certainly not guarantee seeing him. Perhaps, it was the Moirai, the fates, trying to test your resolve or simply coincidence.

But, after five years without a single letter, a single telephone call or telegram, you certainly weren't keen to stick around and have a conversation with the man. Besides, you had lectures to teach, students to help, papers to grade (okay, maybe not the last one considering it was in fact the very first day of the academic year).

It is with a sharp back peddle that has you careering into a pair of students behind you with a clipped apology that you make your daring escape and it is a surprised call of your given name that has you freezing, turning about face and responding with a strangled "It's actually Dr. Y/L/N now."

"What? I'm not allowed to call you by your name anymore? Guess you've already recinded the right to call you Honey Bee too." There are students stopping to watch, what feels like the entire student body eager to watch the new History professor and the most loved Archaeology professor at each other's throats. A mystery arising from their familiarity and a curiosity at what history lay between the two. You certainly weren't eager to put on a show.

With a flick of the wrist you smooth down your skirt, turning on your heels and walk away calling out to him, "It was a pleasure to see you again, Dr Jones." It leaves Indiana gaping in the centre of the quad, watching the sway of your hips and the click of your shoes on the pavement as you leave him behind.

You choose to ignore the bubble of anxiety it puts in the pit of your stomach all day. Your lectures help to distract you at least somewhat from the reality that your former...you're not even sure what to call him...something, is present and working at the same university as you and you briefly wonder if it isn't too late to go back to your job at Oxford. You're sure Professor Haylett would let you come back, you might need to grovel a bit but...perhaps that was preferable to the potential mess that was being in close proximity to Henry again.

The last time you'd see each other, he'd been a 27 year old Archaeology professor. Young, dashing, charming, with every student at the University of London eager to please him and hoping the American would give them extra attention. You had been a 23 year old History PhD student, one of the few women allowed to do so, after much hard graft and determination. You had refused to let anything or anyone distract you from your studies, from your goal...and then you'd been told that he could help you with your PhD, that he had some specific knowledge on the Battle of Syracuse that you could use and...you'd found yourself suitably distracted. You would be being bitter and unfair if you didn't admit that in the year you'd known him he'd helped you with your thesis immensely...but he'd also put your reptuation at risk, broken your heart and made promises that he never would fulfil. Your mother was right...romance was certainly a tricky business.

You're so frazzled at the end of the day that you don't even recognise that your office has the lights on, if you had, you would have stopped before entering, instead you bulldozer your way in and stumble at the sight of him sat in a chair waiting paitently as if he wasn't phased one bit by your reappearance in his life.

"So, Honey Bee, you gonna tell me why I get such a frosty reception?"

"Yo-The absolute...I cannot...ugh!" You find yourself unable to stutter out a complete sentence as you slam the door shut, it reverberating on its hinges. "You have some nerve, Henry Jones! As if you don't bloody know!" You storm around him, putting the hard wood desk between the two of you and shuffling papers to keep from looking at him knowing he'd melt your anger in a second just with a smile.

He always had the most ridiculous ability to placate you and you wanted to feel angry today, not soothed like a skittish horse or malcontent cat.

"Sweetheart, if I knew I wouldn't have asked!" It's the silky smoothness giving away to frustration that causes you to look up, your bottom lip shuddering under the weight of the sadness that sits in your chest, old feelings that you thought you'd processed and put to bed coming to the surface.

"You promised..." He's silent, confusion deepening as you take a deep breath and begin to pace back and forth behind your desk, agitation growing with each movement. "You promised to write me, to call or send a telegram and you never did. I...I waited to hear from you and I heard nothing. So I am dreadfully sorry, Henry, if I do not feel particularly like pleasentries or intimiate nicknames in front of an entire cohort of students! I have had to earn my place and I am still fighting for respect and no man, one who doesn't even honor his promises, is going to ruin this for me!"

You are breathing heavily, body warm, shoulders rising and falling with every agitated movement of your lungs as he looks down at his lap. Silence falls between you for so long that you turn to look out the window of your office, at the street lamps with their warm glow, the last few students wandering across campus as evening sets in.

"I did...I wrote you." His voice is low, quiet, the sort of quiet that Henry Jones never was, so quiet in fact that you turn to check he actually spoke.

"I wrote every day for three months...half of it was stupid, five lines about my day or a single sentence to say hello. I wrote for three months, sweetheart."

"Three months?"

"Three."

"But, I never...how...if you wrote for three months then how on earth did I not receive a single one!" You're unsure if you believe him, at the same time you never knew Henry to be a liar and it...it boggles your mind. There's an impending sense of your world teetering on it's axis, emotional whiplash as you feel a soaring sense of hope, yet a feeling of disbelief, fear, all rolled into one.

"I don't know, honey, but I wrote for three months to 21 Hanover Street and you never wrote me back so I assumed...I assumed you'd moved on, found yourself a nice, sensible husband and gotten married!" There's an anger that you'd never noticed til now, a sense that he'd been hurt to, that he'd felt like you'd abandoned him. So far removed from the debonair, rakish persona he so often displayed.

"21 Hanover Street? You wrote to 21 Hanover Street?"

"Yes, goddamn it!"

"Henry...I lived at 12 Hanover Street."

"What?"

"I lived at number 12, one two, not two one. 12!" It is so absolutely absurd that you can't help but start laugh rather hysterically. That you felt abanonded all these years, angry, resentful, heartbroken and he'd simply gotten the wrong house number, a stupid, ridiculous mistake that had broken your heart into pieces, only to reforge it again.

"You're telling me that for three months I was writing to the wrong address...?" Henry is out of his chair, rounding the table and closing the distance between you so fast that it makes your head spin...or perhaps that is the effect of the emotional journey you're currently experiencing.

"I'm afraid so..."

"Goddamn it...well, shit, honey..." There's a pregnant pause as your eyes scan his profile, the frustrated set of his brow, the clench of his jaw, the familiar bend of his nose. He's not changed, not really. He's older, more lines around his eyes than last you remember, and a few more grey hairs, but then you're older too. Your first grey hairs finally settling in, the soft baby fat of your face having melted away somewhat over the years. But, he's still Henry and you're still the busy Honey Bee he used to chase around the library to the chagrin of the librarian. Things haven't really changed, you realise. With the removal of the one point of hurt between you, you can acknowledge that you still love him without the weight of anger or heartbreak pushing it down.

"Henry?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Kiss me." It makes you laugh against his mouth how quickly he follows your request, the scrape of his stubble against your skin an old, familiar sensation that you'd all but forgot. It was like coming home, so familiar that it sent a sharp stabbing sense of yearning into your chest even as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you to him.

The woodsy smell of his cologne surrounds you, the familiar tweed of his suit jacket scratches your arms, the soft strands of his hair through your fingers, the press of his nose against your cheek. It's like there hasn't been five years since you last kissed, like you hadn't been so angry with him up until five minutes ago that it hurt.

God, and to think, you'd nearly gone your entire life thinking he'd never cared. All because he'd mixed up two simple numbers.

#indiana jones x reader #indiana jones #indiana jones/reader #drabble #reader insert #readerinsert

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bullet-prooflove · 2 years ago

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Pictures of You - Roy Kent x Reader

Tagging: @elizabeththebat @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @@anyamcdonald @taytaylala12 @daydreamgoddess14 @amieinghigh @littleesilvia @blackleatherjacketz @xphantomphanphanaticx @its-a-show-stoppin-number @st4rgirliesstuff @secretsquirrelinc @meg-ro @xoxabs88xox @midnightmagpiemama

Roy’s in the locker room when Trent approaches him. He’s listening to a conversation between Issac and Colin with his arms crossed over his chest, when he catches the expression on the other man’s face. He knows that somethings wrong, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach. When Trent tilts his head towards the empty manager’s office, Roy follows without hesitation.

At first, he thinks it’s something to do with one of the lads, a story that’s about to break, a leak about Colin’s private life. A surge of protectiveness rushes through him, if that’s the case, he’s going to hunt down the piece of shit that told the press and strangle them with his bare hands.

It’s only when Trent shows him the image on his phone that Roy understands the magnitude of the situation. His mouth goes dry, he rubs his palm across his stubble as he surveys the headline.

Kent’s Kinky Caster.

The picture that accompanies it is one that he’s never seen before. Your hair is longer, it falls across your shoulders as you bite your lower lip. Your thumb is drawing down the strap of the midnight-blue corset that you’re wearing. It accentuates your curves, pushing up your breasts.

You look fucking fantastic but it’s not you, he knows that you prefer lace and silk. Materials that cling or drape, that don’t dig in or contort your shape. He prefers you comfortable when you’re with him, not trussed up in something that’s going to leave marks across your skin.

“They must have hacked your phone.” Trent summarises as he takes back the device and slips it into his pocket.

“Not mine.” Roy says gruffly as he drops into Beard’s vacant seat. “I’ve never seen that picture before, the shit she sends me…” Roy trails off before he meets Trent’s gaze. “It’s classy, nothing like that.”

Trent bows his head in understanding. The picture that’s been delivered to the papers is one of a woman who’s trying so hard to be something else, for someone else. You’ve come a long way since then. He should know, he’s been your friend and confident for a few of years by now. The two of you had worked together for The Independent once upon a time. You’d been an investigative reporter before moving onto the podcasting world, and a damn good one at that.

The two of you still caught up every couple of weeks for drinks. He was one of the first people to know about your blossoming relationship with Roy Kent. You had no idea who he was initially, and Trent had found that endearing.

He suspects that the photograph has come from your ex-Martin. Trent knows that he will claim that his phone had been hacked but realistically no one hacks the phone of a Booker Prize Winner. Nobody cares who they’re sleeping with.

Trent recalls he’d made a nuisance of himself in the aftermath of the breakup. Turning up at your house all hours of the day and night until you’d sought a restraining order. After that he would bad mouth you to anyone that would listen, which is why Roy had headbutted him last month at a Save the Polar Bears event. Trent had gifted him an expensive bottle of Scotch with a card that read “Because you did what I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.”

“I’ve put a few messages out to my contacts.” Trent informs Roy, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against Beard’s desk. “I should hear back from them soon.”

“I did this.” Roy tells the other man as he rubs his hands over his face in exasperation. “It’s because I headbutted him at the fucking Panda thing isn’t it?”

“Polar bears.” Trent corrects before sighing. “I think you give yourself too much credit. Martin’s had a bee in his bonnet because SHE left him.”

“Yea.” Roy snarls, his dark eyes practically glowing with rage. “Because she walked in on him fucking a Page Three model in her bed, if it was me, I would have painted the room with his innards.”

It’s a vivid image, Trent has to give him that.

“He doesn’t like that she’s happier than him, more successful. The fact she’s with someone who actually cares about her, who gives her what he couldn’t.” Trent says taking off his glasses and gesturing with them as he speaks. “Being the type of man that he is, it probably sent him off the deep end.”

“That doesn’t excuse this type of shit.” Roy snaps, sagging back into the chair in frustration. He’s helpless right now, utterly fucking helpless and he hates it. The story is already out there. Every fucking pervert on the internet is probably wanking off to that picture of you and you have no fucking idea because you’re on a flight home from Ireland. He knows this is going to devastate you and he can’t stand the thought of it.

He looks up at Trent, his expression one of anguish.

“This is going to kill her.”

Love Roy? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Want more Roy? Check out his Masterlist!

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#roy kent x you #roy kent x reader #roy kent #ted lasso

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gamerwoman3d · 2 years ago

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◜ mk1 men using their powers in the bedroom part 1 of ?◞

▸ includes: reptile [mk1 versions] ◂

If you ask Syzoth whether or not Zaterrans are sexual creatures, he will answer that yes, it takes two Zaterrans in order to reproduce. But if you ask him whether he himself has an interest in sex, he would reply with a smile, saying "Pay me, and I might answer you."

[Spicy/Explicit after the cut 🔞]

The answer is that with very few exceptions, he views sex as an opportunity to perform. And he views performance as a way to earn money. You'd certainly not have been the first creature to pay for his honest answer, and you likely will not be the last.

People have paid good money to have Syzoth's freakish powers used for their pleasure. If you want to know details of his encounters with clients, he's happy to share, for the cost of a few koin. The higher the payout, the hotter the tea.

"Or perhaps you would rather we show, not tell," he might say while reaching out an empty palm as an offer to accept payment.

For pay, he will show you his body. His human body, nude, with elegant tattoos that tort and stretch with his movements, is an alluring sight to most. He has never been picky about the shape of his paying clients: all humans seem equally adorable and strange to him, while money makes anyone alluring in his eyes. He would waste no time in giving you whatever you desire from his body. In fact, his professional experience with pleasing others makes it highly likely that he can guess what you want and how deeply you desire it just from the skipping beat of your heart.

He cannot hear your heartbeat from a distance, but its imperceptible rhythm gently rattles the floor beneath his feet, and as his body evolved to detect such vibrations from the earth in order to hunt prey, he will know when the heart's rhythm changes. His eyes would take a slow tour of your body, and when he looked at the parts of you that you're most excited for him to play with, your heart would speed up naturally. The second he figures out what your heart truly desires, it is yours.

At first, he uses his tongue mostly for talking. He tells about past patron's kinks, such as the one who liked him to ride them reverse cowgirl style in his human form, only to strangle them with his tail during climax. Or the one that preferred to be pinned face down and very lightly scratched with razor sharp talons all down their back. He might tell cautionary tales of the ones that begged him to use his tongue on their genitals, not realizing that removing it can feel like tearing duct tape from the skin without the appropriate lubricants. Syzoth has an ulterior motive - while telling his stories, he's sensing your temperature. He knows when you're aroused because no matter what you have between your legs, it will emit heat.

He may move his face closer, hinting and teasing that he could go down. The tips of his forked tongue might flicker in the air just between your thighs, fanning the air towards his nostrils so he can better smell and taste the heat that rises from your body.

If you become a beggar in these moments, the same as many other patrons have done, he will insist that he's first allowed to test his tongue against less sensitive parts of your body. If you can tolerate the feel on your chest, perhaps you might enjoy the things you've proposed he do to your most sensitive spots.

He would eject his tongue to catch your nipple, then pull the tender tissue up as his face is drawn down to your chest by the tension in his tongue. He would suckle and mouth at this spot for a while, feeling your heartbeat rattle throughout his entire skull. He's gentle when he comes up for air, but it does indeed feel like ripping a bandaid off. He's only chosen this moment to risk causing you pain because he believes you're too aroused to care about or even feel pain.

He would tell you that for his most requested trick, he requires a funhouse mirror - the kind that makes everything seem bigger. He has no hesitation in telling you that he had one while in the circus, and that he'd put it behind him before fucking certain patrons. He'd hold them in a very specific way that would force them to look at their own reflection... *through* his invisible chest, angled so they could practically see inside themselves as he worked them open with the invisible phallic objects of their choice. For some, fingers sufficed. For most, seeing his cock disappearing inside them over and over again was the pinnacle of pleasure. Still others preferred invisible toys, or the tongue, or even something more creative.

His favorite thing is the look on a patron's face when he's suddenly visible again. By the time he drops the invisibility, both he and his patrons are fuckdrunk and often have cute, dumbfounded expressions on their faces. Syzoth knows his open mouthed grin is cuter when his face flushes at the brink of his orgasm. He knows he's as adorable as he is silly looking when he's slackjawed, panting, and pressing the tips of his tongue weirdly to the roof of his mouth.

He's still performing, and would work you until you get what you paid for.

The final upsell he pitches to his wealthiest clients is a territorial marking - a visible acid brand. At his most extreme, and reserved only for the healthiest, wealthiest patrons, he has, as a service, permanently branded the bodies of his highest paying clients. Even Outworld royalty can be found with his mark - the scars of a human-sized bite wound, carved deeper by the use of a strange acid. The meaning of these brands are clear to the others that share in his profession- "This one pays the most, and both he and his wallet are mine. Touch my man or my money and you will suffer my bite." A less drastic, less permanent brand might be the reddened imprint of a forked tongue, which lets the competition know that "we are just starting out and testing the waters - try me again later to see if I stuck around, or if I've healed and moved on."

He readily admits that just as many patrons refuse the branding service as there are patrons who find it of interest. As long as you are satisfied, Syzoth has no preference for which acts you chose to pay him to perform upon you.

[End for now]

For Part 2 - subzero - click here

Also thanks to @visionsofmagic for inspiring this writing with a similar set of imagines at https://www.tumblr.com/visionsofmagic/729107508174651392/mk1-men-using-their-powers-while-fcking-you?source=share

[Need more MK1 smut? Check the pin 📌]

#mortal kombat #mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #mk reptile #reptile mk #mortal kombat fanfiction #mortal kombat imagine #syzoth

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