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fromduck · 7 months ago

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No Glory

(Yandere Gladiator x Empress Reader x Yandere Emperor)

Summary: There is no glory in seeing your lover in the arms of another.

(Tw: Gore, Violence, Forced Relationship)

A/N: Guess who watched Gladiator II, hehe 🤭

-unedited-

-The Emperor’s wife is an untainted beauty.

-Despite the blood and death on his hands, the Empress remains pure from his sins.

-With soft luscious lips and unblemished skin, kind doe eyes a beautiful color.

-Draped in white robes, with gold accents. White Gold jewelry adorning her frame. Pearls hanging from her ears and entwined in her hair.

-She has a beautiful smile and kind eyes. Willing to choose mercy over shedding blood.

-Unlike her cruel husband who relishes in it.

-Anyone blessed to be within her radius marvel at her presence. Even more so when she smiles. Be careful not to stare too long, the Emperor is always watching.

-The Empress is beauty incarnate a being coveted by all people. Adored by the citizens of Rome and boasted as the most beautiful woman in the world.

-And the Emperor is a lucky man. A lucky man indeed.

-There are whispers of her divinity and where the Empress hails from.

-Some say she was given to Rome to the Emperor as a gift from the Gods.

-Others argue that she herself is a Goddess who willingly married their glorious Emperor.

-None know the Empress’ origins.

-Except for two people.

-The brutal Emperor of Rome.

-And a Gladiator who knows too much for his own good.

-A man who waits for the next fight he’ll be thrown in. Where he’ll be fighting for his life.

-For the delight and entertainment of others.

-His life matters not, it never did.

-Yet, when he wakes up, when he trains for his fights, and when he goes to sleep. He thinks of you. He lives for you.

-He knows the truth.

-You don’t belong to the Empire of Rome. Or that bastard Emperor.

-You belong to him.

-You were his long ago. When he wasn’t a war broken man torn by the cruelty of others.

-In a land far away from Rome, you both once lived together at peace.

-He’d been a gentle man once. Someone who pined after you in your youths, who’d begged your father for your hand, and had cried when he married you.

-He loves you so much.

-He had never been one for religion but if there were any gods out there, he thanked them sincerely for the life they gave him. One with you.

-Then the Romans came. And they took everything.

-They came with a hunger for blood and conquest. Ready to plunder their lands and take over them.

- They killed his family, his friends, people he had known.

-They did it with bloodthirsty grins. And the one who led them was the cruel Roman Emperor who lived for the violence.

-He killed many while on his black stallion. His sword plunging into innocent people.

-Man or woman, the Emperor didn’t care. He demanded blood and blood he would get.

-It was horrifying the strength of the Emperor as he slaughtered those around him.

- Your husband watched as he committed atrocities.

-There was no mistake, with that monster there, his and your home would be overtaken.

-Him taken a slave to fight in the pits of violence at the Colosseum.

-And you made a slave, owned by someone as an object.

-No. he wouldn’t let that happen.

-Now all he had left was you. And he would die before anyone touched you.

-So he prepared his stallion, picked up your precious form and placed you on the horse. You looked at him with worried eyes, tears slipping down your soft cheeks.

-He’d only look at you with loving eyes. Cupping your lovely face in his large hands.

-He remembered your look of worry as you questioned where would you both go. Your sweet gentle eyes pleading as you made him promise to never leave your side.

-He promised that not even death would separate you both.

-Then, he’d been clubbed upside the head. Pushed to the floor as someone began beating him with an inch of his life. He tried to get up but then another one had shown up with club and struck him in the head.

-Both Roman soldiers jeered as they continued their violent onslaught. He’d almost seen double.

-But what stood out to him was your anguished face.

-Your shrill cries of agony rang out through the air as the love of your life was beaten to a a pulp.

-The stallion had jumped, and pushed you off of its massive body.

-You tumbled to the floor, hitting your back violently.

-With no regard for any injury, you’d quickly jumped up and tried to stop the cruel soldiers from killing your love.

-You’d shove at them yelling out for them to stop. Though to no effect as your smaller form was no match for the mighty guards of the Roman Army.

-One of them had only sneered at you before delivering a backhand to your face.

-You fell on your side, your nose bleeding from the impact.

-You quickly got up and clung to a guard’s leg as you begged for them to spare your husband.

-They ignored you and continued their onslaught.

-Until the galloping of hooves.

-There the Emperor was like a sign of death as he rode his gigantic black stallion.

-Blood coated his face and armor. None of it his.

-The war was over, Rome’s victory assured.

-And yet the Emperor was left unsatisfied.

-So he went on the prowl for more victims. All until no one was left.

-He caught sight of his soldiers torturing a large man as his wife begged them to stop.

-Any honorable leader would have stopped his soldiers and given the couple a swift merciful death. No more suffering was needed from a war already won.

-But he was far from honorable.

-As he approached it wasn’t because he wanted to stop the violence.

-He was honed in on the soft crying and pleading of the woman.

-A sound so delightful that he couldn’t help but want to hear more.

-He got off of his mighty horse. His steps confident.

-But as you turned around to face him, he felt his breathe hitch, his steps waver.

-It was as if he was in the presence of Aphrodite herself.

-There you were with tears in your big eyes and blood dripping down your nose.

-Even in filthy peasant clothes, you were the most beautiful being he had ever laid his eyes on.

-He had to had you. And have you he will.

-His eyes narrowed at your injured face. The soldiers most likely the culprit.

- “Stop.” He commands, his word alone enough to halt the violence.

-With a sob you run to your husband as he lay on the floor. You place his head on your lap. Ripping a piece of fabric from your dress, to clean the blood on his face.

-Your poor husband looks at you with swollen eyes, barely focused. Your heart broke further.

-The two soldiers quickly turn around. Sinking onto their knees to properly greet the Emperor of Rome.

“My emperor.” They say in union.

-They cower under the glare of the Emperor.

-“Which one of you hurt the girl?”

-Both soldiers look at each other confused. He wasn’t taking about the sobbing girl behind them, was he? The enemy?

-The Emperor’s glare becomes murderous. He draws his sword from his scabbard. It glints with the blood of his foes. But all know that his sword can just as easily kill who he pleases, friend or foe.

-It was at that moment, both the soldiers knew that whoever was guilty— they would be dead in the next second.

-So, both blamed each other, scrambling to have the Emperor believe them.

-“It was him my emperor, he was the one who hurt the girl—-”

-“Nay my emperor, he lies—”

-Both soldiers plead their innocence. But the Emperor isn’t known for his patience.

-With a brutal slash, he beheads the two soldiers.

-Their heads roll off their bodies.

-A huff of satisfaction leaves the emperor, soldiers who lie are not worthy of his army. He may not be honorable but he has no patience for lying snakes.

-He averts his gaze, to you, only to be met with a puddle of blood. Presumably your husband’s.

-The emperor slowly turns his head to your quiet sobs. Like a predator sniffing out weakness. He sees you dragging the large form of your husband, his arm over your shoulder, his feet dragging against floor.

-You both were trying to escape. Now, that wouldn’t do.

-With large strides, he rips you away from your lover. The man falling gracelessly onto the floor. He tries to pick himself up but his strength is diminished. He could only watch as the Emperor, holds your hands and stares into your beautiful eyes in awe.

-He knows that look. That look of adoration as if in the presence of a goddess.

-Your husband holds the same look for you and now the Emperor does too.

-You try to escape but the Emperor’s grip is painfully tight.

-A whimper escapes your lips as the man gets down on his knees, his head bowed. He mimics the same loyalty his subjects would show him. But he is in the presence of a goddess.

- “The Gods have rewarded me by giving you to me.” He whispers breathlessly. “You are the one they have chosen for me. Rome needs an Empress. And I need a wife.”

-With the hunger of a man starved, he yanks you down to him. Grabbing you by the hair and devouring you into a brutal kiss.

-You cry out into the kiss, looking at your husband pleadingly to save you from the Emperor.

-But your husband is at death’s door, fighting and pleading Hades to not take him. For he couldn’t leave you to such a grim fate.

-The Emperor pulls away, his eyes filled with lust. He’ll have you, but not here in this filth.

-He picks you up a bridal style, taking you to his horse. Taking you to Rome.

-You try to fight him, but he only gives you a scolding glare. As if to say, ‘behave.’

-You cry quietly, looking at your husband’s dying form. The Emperor only sneers at him, spitting on his bloodied face.

-Your husband looks at the Emperor with rage. A rage that makes him shakily get up on his knees.

-Your hands are tied behind the Emperor’s neck, begging him to let you go. A smack to your thigh makes you shut your mouth.

-Once you’re both secured on the horse, the Emperor doesn’t even glance back at him.

-He rides off into the distance, with the blood of his people on his hands and the love of his life in tears.

-Your husband, a broken man, lets out a sorrowful scream. He promptly collapses onto his side, passing out. Pleading with the gods to not take him. He needed to save you.

-Later, he was dragged by his feet. Slave masters had found him. They bet on how much money the large man could make them.

-Him, a none violent man, was put into fighting rings were people placed bets on who would win.

-Your husband, a gentle man was turned into a former shell of himself with each blood shed that coated his hands.

-A man who once held you with tender hands was forced to use them to kill for the entertainment of others.

-He fought weaker men, stronger men, and terrific beasts. All who were in the same position as him. All for the entertainment of others.

-The life he was forced into would have broken others, but not him. Not when he was fueled by an anger. An anger for the Emperor who had taken everything from him.

-The hesitance he once had for killing became nonexistent with each fight. His worth as a slave becoming more and more valuable. And he was taken to more and more valuable places.

-Like a blood thirsty hound, he followed you. He was at the edge of death many times, yet he refused to part from you.

-He followed you to Rome, vengeful and angry. Many times he thought he’d die but once he made it to the grand city, he knew the Gods had given him another chance.

-He needed to be stronger for you. So that he would save you.

-His reputation as a vicious fighter spread throughout Rome. Many eager to see him in the Colosseum.

-And that’s where they took him.

-Now he stands in the arena, his heart beating erratically in his chest. Blood splattered on his face and armor. None of it his.

-There is no glory where he stands while his defeated opponents lay bleeding on the ground.

-There is no glory in the screams and cheers from the crowds. All chanting his name as he stands as the last man standing.

-There is no glory in his victories, where he gets to live another day.

-His eyes shift to where you sit in the grand seats of the Colosseum. You’re beautiful with your silken gown and jewelry. Yet you look at him with such sadness. As if he were another dream out of reach.

-His soft eyes harden when a firm hand grabs your soft one.

-The Emperor brings your hand to his lips, kissing it ardently.

-He doesn’t break eye contact with him as he does this. A clear claim of ownership over you.

-He grits his teeth.

-There is no glory when you’re trapped with that despicable man. There is no glory when you’re not his. There is no glory when the Emperor is still breathing.

-He returns the Emperor’s glare with challenge. Eyes hard with pure hatred and loathing.

-And for that, the Emperor must die.

#tw.yandere #yandere x reader #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator movie #ancient rome #emperor x reader #gladiator x reader #reader insert #reader imagine #x reader #yandere x you #yandere #yandere emperor #tw.gore #tw.violence

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yanderenightmare · 9 months ago

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Aemond Targaryen

♡ TW: arranged marriage, implied incest, HOTD in general

♡ fem reader

Aemond took Vhagar, and you took his eye for it. It became the day your family tore down the middle. Your mother, heir to the throne, retreated with all of you back to Dragonstone, where you’d been hiding for a longer time—once again leaving Kingslanding in the hands of its dying King and the surrounding Greens.

You think it’s all the same, really—you’d rather stay away from that place anyway. Of course, you regret having taken your uncle’s eye. It was, after all, not even your fight—nor was it very ladylike. But you can blame your mother for that. She never taught you temperance—or any manners at all, for that sake. Still, blinding one’s own family isn’t right. And yet, it’s a sin you learn to live with over the years spent removed from its victim.

On Dragonstone, you’re free—on dragonback, for the most part. You’d long left the matters of the court to your brothers. Jace was the one who’d be King after your mother, while Luke would be Lord of Driftmark, and you’d stay here—on Dragonstone. By yourself and to yourself. You’d still have to marry, of course, there’s no way around it—but like your mother, you’d get to choose for yourself. That much, you have no doubt.

If you could, you’d always stay on Dragonstone, isolated from anywhere else, but it seems, once again, Kingslanding calls for your return. The King has taken a turn for the worse, and with it, your mother has grown wary of her claim. And so, the heir to the throne and her family along with her were all to voyage home.

You sigh as you look at the approaching castle. It’s not how you remember it, but whether it’s uglier or smaller or something else entirely isn’t clear to you as you watch from the ship. When all this bickering and uncertainty would end, you couldn't know but hoped it would be soon so that you could return swiftly. In a way and in a thought you would never voice out loud, the King’s death would bring about a much-needed calm in your family. Your mother would take the throne as is her birthright, and all else would be put to rest.

Oddly, no one came to welcome you when you arrived. Even your red Targaryen banners had turned green in your absence, as if the groundskeepers had neglected their duties and let the weeds grow as they pleased. No doubt, it would be yet another troubling topic over dinner.

But not one you’d bother yourself with. You make your way to refamiliarize yourself with the grounds instead—walking down a hundred turning memory lanes in the castle as if trying to find the center of a maze. You remember why you left this place—barren halls, all filled with nothing but the whispers of your hair color not being silver. Such things didn’t reach across the waters—they couldn’t touch you back on Dragonstone. Being back doesn’t feel much like a homecoming at all—more like a return to something foreign—even though that makes little sense.

You tell your assigned kingsguard to escort you to your chambers, but on the way, you hear the chimes of something more compelling. And following it, you find yourself on the balcony of the training arena.

And oh—you hardly recognize him. Tall and lean, all riddled with taut muscles he’s sharpened like the blade held in his grip. His hair is neatly combed, long, and perfectly silver like moonlight off a lake. The only thing disrupting it is the black leather patch covering his eye. And while you watch him swing his sword all so mercilessly but with a certain grace you’ve never before seen, you can't help but imagine you're the straw doll he's practicing on.

His eye meets yours without warning. One moment, he’s focused on his training and the next, he’s zeroed in on you.

You can’t help but flinch, skirting back as if the railing had suddenly burnt you. And then, well, shamefully, you very nearly ran away—skittering back into the maze as though wanting to find someplace to hide.

You want to return to Dragonstone. More than a yearning now, it’s almost a must. You’re nearly fetching your dragon from the pit to leave immediately, but you know that wouldn’t be proper. Your mother would be upset with you, and you’re not one to disappoint her. She has enough worries as is. You wouldn't make yourself one of them. And so you stay.

Your maids bathe you and then help you get dressed. And then you join the rest of your family for supper—dreading the presence you’d felt earlier, knowing he’d be there as well.

You keep your gaze fixed on your meal, and yet you can feel his one-eyed stare from across the dinner table. Neither of you looks anywhere else. And neither of you speak.

Aegon says many things—none of which you hear—though, possibly slights about your origin. It seems he and your brothers are arguing. But it’s nothing new. The King, your grandfather, the poor old man, shares words of family and love to defuse the tension once and for all. But you can’t agree—not when the one-eyed glare feels to lash out at you like the fire of an untamed dragon.

The Queen, of all people, salutes your mother. It seems genuine enough. And still, you don’t feel her sons share in her show of respect.

Jace rises and offers Helena to dance—ever the dutiful son. Luke follows in his lead and offers the same to Rhaena. And then, much to the twist of your own empty stomach—your plate of food untouched—Aegon also rises and takes a drunken step in your direction.

Still, he’s the lesser of two evils around the table. But shortly after taking his second step, he’s beaten to the punch by said greater evil. His hand reaches out, yet you don’t dare acknowledge the offer. Coated in goosebumps, you feel frozen.

“Didn’t you hear the King, dear niece?” he speaks—lowly in a hush. “The family feud has been resolved now. We ought to usher in its newfound peace while it lasts. You and I more than anyone. Take my hand and let us dance atop grievances, dead and buried.”

You recognize the threat in his words. To deny him would mean rejecting said peace. And so, with a deep exhale, you lay your hand in his death grip and follow him to the floor. And now you really feel no different from that battered straw doll in the arena.

“You’ve grown up rather beautifully since last we saw each other,” he says.

You know you ought to utter a thank you, but no words dare escape the choke of your throat as he positions an all but crippling paw on your waist—the other in the air pressed flatly against your own.

“I, on the other hand, am too hideous to look at, it seems,” he adds when you don’t answer. Voice lowering even more so into a brisk whisper that no one but you would be able to hear, “Won’t you face me, dear niece? And gaze upon the atrocity you dealt when we were children.”

Finally, you pick your head up. “I—” You falter just as quickly—his smile catches you completely off guard. Still, your eyes go to the scar escaping his patched eye—deep and unforgiving where you’d ruthlessly slashed your knife. You swallow thickly. “You have my deepest regrets, uncle. There hasn’t been a day I haven’t asked the Gods for forgiveness.”

To that, he laughs. “There’s no need. I long forgave you.”

There’s an utterly misplaced joy in his eye you’ve never before seen. And you’re left wondering if he’s really the same Aemond you remember.

“Not a blade has struck me since,” he says, simpering. “In a way, I ought to thank you for it. It seems it’s given me luck.”

He doesn’t seem grateful, despite his words. Yet, he doesn’t sound spiteful, either. You don’t know what to make of it. If anything, he seems satisfied with something.

“Anyway, it’s not right for a man to bear ill will towards his wife.”

Your brows furrow. And a creeping chill befalls you. Certainly, you heard him wrong, or he misspoke, or you’ve misunderstood something somehow.

“Oh? They haven’t told you?” he asks—his lips curling further at the corners. “Oh, dear niece—why do you think you’re here? Just visiting?” he snickers.

You still don’t understand. Or maybe it’s that you refuse to. Looking at him desperately in wait for him to stop laughing and explain the joke, even if it’s on you.

“The King spoke of peace, but peace, as you must know, isn’t brought about without payment.”

You remain silent. Still waiting to have your doubts eased.

“Oh, do I have to spell it out for you?”

Despite his sigh, he doesn’t look any ounce worth of exasperated—no, rather amused.

“You’re unwed. As am I,” he finally clarifies, and yet it does nothing to dispel your troubled head. “Marriage has always been the Targaryen way. I’m surprised you didn’t know,” he continues unbothered, a certain snideness to his tone, “But then again, you and your kin aren’t very Targaryen at all, are you?”

You don’t humor the insult. After all, you were way more concerned with what he’d said about marriage.

“Don’t worry. It’s not what matters. Not to me, at least,” he says. “I, for one, welcome our union.”

Your feet follow his lead as he dances with you in the palm of his hand.

“It’s rather poetic, isn’t it?” he smiles again. “You took my eye. And so, dear niece, I shall take your hand and everything attached to it.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond x reader #targaryen x reader #yandere aemond targaryen #yandere aemond x reader #hotd smut #hotd #house of the dragon #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere smut #yancore #smut

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bumblesimagines · 1 year ago

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Burning Love

Request: Yes or No

Summary: As the eldest son and heir to the Iron Throne, Prince (Y/N) Targaryen has many responsibilities; most of which his darling sister hopes to share with him one day.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

TW/CW: Targcest/Incest (Full-blooded Brother-Sister), Aemma lives!! and Alicent is not a childbride, mentions of stillbirths and miscarriages (Aemma's pregnancies)

Collecting HOTD oneshots like pokemon cards at this point

~~~

It was known that Targaryens had... questionable traditions. Traditions those with outsider perspective could only force themself to understand.

There was the act of putting a dragon egg in the cradle of a babe and hoping the egg would hatch sometime soon after to ensure the babe was bonded to a loyal protector they'd grow up alongside of; a tradition started by Rhaena Targaryen, eldest daughter of King Aenys I and Queen Alyssa Velaryon. Targaryens were Dragonriders, bonded with the very beasts they used to conquer the lands and pull them all into one kingdom (with the exception of Dorne, of course). They cremated their dead, a custom from Old Valyria, often with the help of a dragon belonging to their closest kin.

And of course, the most infamous and often looked down upon custom, wedding kin to kin. Another custom from Old Valyria that many followers of the Seven turned their cheek upon, for they found the act of wedding siblings to siblings and so forth (apart from cousin to cousin) a sin. Faithful followers could voice their complaints as much as they wished, but Targaryens were kings, queens, princes, and princesses. Nobody could or would stop them from keeping their bloodline pure if they so wished.

Descending from a long, historic, and proud family, Rhaenyra grew up listening and learning the tales of those who'd come before her. Aegon the Conquer and his faithful sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya; the many rebellions and fighting brought on during the lives of King Aenys I and King Maegor the Cruel; The Old King Jaehaerys who'd chosen her father, Viserys, as heir over his own late heir's daughter, Rhaenys; and of course, the histories written during the early stages of her father's reign.

Her beloved older brother had been two when King Jaehaerys named their father heir and three when their father ascended the throne whilst their beautiful mother, Aemma Arryn, carried her in the womb. The fourth person to ever hold little Rhaenyra in their arms had been her brother, closely supervised by their parents and the maester attending the birth, of course. With a healthy son and daughter, Viserys and Aemma hardly needed for more children, but they tried anyway. Their attempts never carried to term, however, and any little ones that did were either stillborn or died mere hours or days after birth.

Still, Rhaenyra never needed for any more siblings. Her brother was enough, in her humble opinion. He cared for her diligently, especially during their younger years when he eagerly wished to play with her, even if it meant the two of them being gently scolded at the end of the day for dirting Rhaenyra's dresses with mud and dirt. (Y/N) treated her as his equal, even showing her how to use a wooden sword when he began his training and helping prepare her for dragon-riding on Syrax. His own mount hardly needed much training in the Dragonpit, for the mighty Vermithor's first rider had been the Old King.

As time passed, the siblings were forced apart more often than Rhaenyra enjoyed. She'd made up her mind long ago that she and (Y/N) would one day be wed, and she'd be his formidable sister-wife. Their parents merely chuckled about it when she'd first told them at the age of seven, her squeaky voice and flushed cheeks only drawing cooing from Aemma and sweet smiles from Viserys. The absence of her brother had been stark, his time taken up by training, studying, and spending time with the Small Council, but Alicent Hightower had quickly taken his spot as Rhaenyra's companion.

However, in due time, (Y/N) became man-grown, and while Rhaenyra quickly followed with her flowering, as heir and prince, (Y/N) became the most eligible bachelor in all of Westeros. It took time for it to become apparent to Rhaenyra but her eyes and ears opened when she heard their parents speaking of it. Many families, highborn and lowborn, offered their daughters through letters or visits to Kings Landing. Lannisters, Baratheons, Starks, Brackens, Blackwoods, Tullys, and plenty more came forth. Even Otto Hightower made a passing comment about wedding Alicent to him. It was infuriating.

"In truth, I do not understand your irritation, Rhaenyra," Alicent spoke gently, her slender fingers working on embroidery. A flower she'd seen in the gardens, or something along those lines. Rhaenyra hadn't truly been paying attention to her dear friend. She'd been too focused on silently fuming at the sight of her brother showing one of the highborn ladies around the Red Keep. Every giggle, every blush, every bat of her eyelashes made Rhaenyra tick. "It's wonderful to watch one's brother fall in love."

"You wouldn't understand, Alicent." Rhaenyra sighed. "It is like the love King Jaeherys and the Good Queen Alysanne had."

Alicent faltered at her words, her head lifting to eye her friend with a small grimace. "You do remember our lessons, correct? King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had to wed in secret, for they knew that not even their mother approved in fear of another uprising from the Faith. Nobody has made a fuss over your parents since they are cousins, but who knows what may happen if you wed (Y/N)."

"(Y/N) is everything King Jaehaerys was, Alicent. He is beloved by the Realm." Rhaenyra reminded her friend with a small smile, pushing herself off the cushioned seats and smoothing her hands over the front of her dress. Her earrings swung slightly when she tilted her head slightly to the side, the ends of them brushing against her shoulders. Her eyes tracked (Y/N) as he lifted the lady's hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles before departing. "He will be a good king, and if I could prove it, I would be a good queen. His queen." Her feet began moving automatically.

"Rhaenyra," The name tumbled out of Alicent's mouth, her hands fumbling with the items in hand. "Where are you going?"

Bunching up the skirt of her dress in her hands, Rhaenyra grinned over her shoulder and chuckled at the concerned look on Alicent's features that only grew at the sight of her mischievous glint. "To speak with my brother!"

With a goal in mind, Rhaenyra entered the castle and followed the distant figure of her brother as he cut down hallways with long strides until he reached his bedchambers. Rhaenyra took a moment to herself to catch her breath and rake her fingers through her long silver locks before she approached the doors and nodded for the guards to open them. She stepped inside, a smile appearing across her lips when (Y/N) turned to look at her.

"My favorite sister," (Y/N) cooed, taking a seat at his desk and unrolling a letter. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes in return, clasping her hands together behind her back and taking small steps toward him. He skimmed the contents of the letter, his face giving away nothing of what it spoke of. "Is there something you require, Nyra, or are you suffering from boredom? I have plenty of lords and ladies who'd be happy to keep you busy."

Rhaenyra scoffed quietly and (Y/N) gave a small grin. "I hear Father is urging you to find a wife."

"The Small Council is urging him to urge me, more like. They believe it is time to begin having children. Seeing as Father and Mother had great difficulty, they wish for me to have an heir by the time I ascend the throne to ensure there won't be issues later on." (Y/N) explained, coiling the letter back up and pulling out a blank paper. He dipped his quill in ink and began writing. "Otto has been... more friendly as of recently. He speaks incredibly highly of Lady Alicent."

"You'd tell me if you were interested in someone, wouldn't you?" Rhaenyra reached over the desk to pluck the quill from his fingers, setting it aside and raising her brows at him. (Y/N) slumped back in his seat and laced his fingers over his midsection, a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes. Rhaenyra rounded the table and without thinking twice, she plopped down on his thigh.

"Nyra,"

"You know as well as I do who you should wed, (Y/N). I know what a good queen should be, and I do not care about status or riches like the families of those ladies do. We have the blood of the dragon in our veins. Nobody would truly understand us." Rhaenyra spoke softly, her bottom lip slightly jutting out as she placed her palm over his cheek. His own hands unlaced, one moving to press against her back.

"The Small Council-"

"Fuck the Small Council." Rhaenyra huffed, earning a quiet chuckle from her brother. "You are the prince, the heir. Whatever it is you choose, they must deal with it. It is their job to counsel, to offer their advice and opinions, not to dictate what you do. We could mount Syrax and Vermithor and fly elsewhere to wed in the customs of Old Valyria."

A gentle sigh escaped (Y/N), and he leaned forward to press a delicate kiss to Rhaenyra's shoulder. The princess relaxed at the action, her hand moving past his cheek to the back of his head. (Y/N)'s lips curled up. "You are insufferable." He told her with a gentle laugh before leaning in to press their mouths together. He drew back too quickly for Rhaenyra's liking. "But a good ruler is a patient one, Nyra. If you wish for us to wed, or to lay together-" He brushed their lips together teasingly. "-you must wait. Father and Mother will be easy to convince."

"Does it matter if we wait?" Rhaenyra tilted her head and batted her lashes coyly, the feigned innocence prompting (Y/N) to roll his eyes. She rose from his lap and dropped her hands to his, tugging on them until he stood up from the chair. She smiled widely, devilishly even, and slung her arms around his shoulders. "We will be wed, regardless. It will not matter."

"I have things I must do, Nyra." (Y/N) gave a heavy sigh and shrugged his shoulders, his hands coming to rest on her waist. "As I said, you must be patient. If you wish to speed things along, you should speak with Mother. She'll always be the key to winning Father over." He told her and planted a kiss on her temple before settling back down on the chair.

"Will we be like that someday?" Rhaenyra asked softly, stepping out of the way so he could resume his letter. She toyed with the rings along her fingers, the thought of becoming one of those couples who genuinely cared for each other bringing a smile to herself. It was a desire all ladies had. While sons could marry whichever woman of age they desired, ladies had to hope the husbands their fathers or elder brothers chose were good men. She'd seen far too many times the faces of girls her age married and chained to men old enough to be their grandfathers.

(Y/N) paused his writing and lifted his head to look at her, offering a reassuring smile. "Someday." He nodded.

"I look forward to it, then."

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dragongirlpoet · 9 months ago

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Dark Signs 2

Pt I I Pt III I Pt IV

Alucard x you

Synopsis: You asked Alucard for a favour. Now you have to be careful what you wished for. "To be born a dhampir is to be born a monster" - Vampire Hunter D

TW: Dark fantasy, horror & gore elements, blood, SMUT (Alucard is feral in this one) Explicit 🔞 I Words: 3.5k

Also to @skychaser777 hope you can sleep after this 😉

The hollow stone walls echoed my shaky breaths, caving them in, the thumping of my heart violent in my ears. My skin was pricked with goosebumps, foreboding dire dwellings.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Absurd question, considering everything was inherently far from right.

There had only been one instance where I felt unsafe with Adrian.

Located in the underbelly of Wallachia was a forgotten catacomb, a labyrinth where the dead and undead alike convened. I had been extracting bile from slaughtered night creatures, told to render powerful salves when mixed with mint, myrrh and…other herbs.

Body sticky with sweat and hands grimy from reaching into revolting guts, I was almost to my fifth vial when a guttural growl stopped me dead in my tracks.

From the marrows of a tunnel, a numbing cold, laced with strangled gnawing, reverberated through the passageways.

Every fibre of my being told me to run, alas I had all but the impudence of a child. Unsheathing my iron dagger, ensorcelled to wound even the most vile, I treaded warily towards my impending doom.

The sight that awaited me was sickening. Crouched over bodies upon bodies of night creatures was a pallid, mangled man? His face was buried in their carcasses, marring at their flesh, lapping at their blood.

Before I could take another breath, the man turned, face smeared with ravaged viscera and foul, curdled blood. He had hair like the purest wisps of wheat and eyes like dark, desecrated graves.

I choked back a gasp.

“You foolish, foolish girl. You are not prepared for the evil that lurks here, feeds here..” his bellow was deafening, diabolical. Blood spilled from his fangs, splaying his torso tainted with innards and rotten flesh.

“Wh..who are…you?” I paced backwards as he stalked towards me.

“You don’t know who I am? Most fascinating…” he offered a smile so sinister, as if he had stumbled upon the most naive of fools he was soon to devour.

“I am the sun…rain…the darkness. I am sin made flesh and I am whom you should most fear. I am Alucard, son of Vlad Dracula Tepes.”

A loud “smash” rattled through the room as I retreated into our wooden dresser, knocking over a prized hourglass Alucard so often used to practise his script. The pair of glowering molten eyes trailed me — never blinking, burning caverns into my soul.

I shifted my gaze downwards to avoid stepping into glass, but that was regrettably the least of my worries. Lifting my stare, those eyes were gone — quick as spectres passing through dimensions.

Our chamber fell into a boundless black, and my human sight could not adjust acutely enough to the darkness. I flailed my arms about willing to grasp onto anything that could give me some bearing. Anxiety crept through me like poison ivy ensnaring a forsaken home.

“Adrian? Stop this please! This isn’t funny.” The volatile rhythm of my heart suddenly became too loud, too unbearable.

No amount of breaths could repress my violent trembling. A faint flicker from the corner caught my eye — Alucard’s heirloom sword. If his magical estoc was there…he is still in the room with me.

The hairs on my arms shot up, little by little.

Out of nowhere, forceful, ice cold hands prised around my throat, yanking me out of my state of terror. From behind, Alucard, voice grave like a thousand infernal souls, growled into my ear,

“Do you understand the gravity of what you’re asking?”

Whether it was fear or the vice-like grip around my neck, I couldn’t speak.

“Answer me.”

He clamped tighter.

”Ye…yesss,” I wasn’t telling a lie.

“Then let’s finish what we started, shall we?”

One minute I was in Alucard’s death grip, the next I was shoved, hard, into the stone wall, my face chafing against the abrasive mortar. I winced at the pain.

“You’re hurting me, Adrian!”

Behind, he tightened his grip on my wrists, binding them into the small of my back.

“Am I? Ohh…but you like danger, don’t you?...His other hand reached down to unfasten his pants, his erect cock sliding out… “You are drawn to the darkness, just as I am.”

He trailed the words up and down my neck, pausing ever so subtly to savour the scent of blood in my veins.

A small bead of sweat started trickling down my face…no, no, it was blood — from my collision with the wall.

Alucard went eerily still again. I felt a shift in his countenance, like a malevolent cloud obliterating sunshine.

He was hungry.

With one knee, he forced my legs apart and hauled my nightdress up, my backside fully exposed. I could feel the tip of his length against my rear — throbbing, impatient. He snaked his hands all over my naked body, grabbing at my breasts, digging into my thighs.

The scent of my blood set his every carnal need aflame.

Adrian had always been prudent — he would excuse himself at the slightest scent of my exposed blood, isolating himself in the castle dungeons for hours, as if he deserved it. Deserved to be punished for his beastly urges, deserved to be condemned for being born a monster.

Every blood-month I had would send him away for days — “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve seen what I become when I feed… I’ll just be hunting, it’d be just a few days, and your cycle would end when I’m back,” he would say with a smile. A sad smile.

And I was utterly tired and heartbroken that my Adrian, so kind and full of love, would admonish himself, rip his spirit to shreds, for a fate that had been unfairly handed to him. I was going to end this, tonight.

Alucard nuzzled his face into my hair, taking in all my smells, heaving. His body was unyielding against mine — elegant marble against bewitching velvet. I could hear his vampiric heartbeat ringing in his ears, drowning out all sense of reason. He was an animal in heat.

“You know I cannot control myself around you. And you know what your blood does to me… Do you know how long I haven’t fed?”

His writhing cock was brandishing my cunt, starving for my hole.

“Do you know I think about what it’s like to have your blood in my veins? How much I want it, need it, desire it.

How much I want my blood in you. And you ask this of me, tonight, when I’m sitting at the precipice of hunger and lust…”

There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Hmmm you don’t know what’s coming for you. Once I do this there’s no turning back.

Do you know how long I’ve been holding out for you? To be better for you. And now you ask this of me…”

At that he yanked at my hair, forcing my head to fall back. The red trace on my cheeks bowed complete to his mercy.

Staring defiantly into his eyes, I said, “Do it, Adrian. I want you to.”

Danger, danger.

A devious smile tugged at his lips. Alucard skimmed my neck with his mouth, bruising it with reckless kisses and parlous nips. He moved precariously to suck at the aquamarine veins running down my breasts, licking slow circles about my nipples. He was a wolf dallying with his food.

A true vampire, hedonistic even in the slightest of pursuits, moving inevitably to the blood trail. He had waited so long for this.

Alucard pushed his lips delicately into my face, afraid of spilling even the smallest of drops. My blood was a sacred river, a bath of worship he would praise forever. Shaking, he ravened the scarlet off my face, sucking at the open cut, willing for more.

He was a mixture of muffled moans and enthralled ecstacy.

It was exhaultant. I adored being able to give Adrian what he most craved.

Drinking in more than necessary, the whites of his eyes were no longer — entire sockets now overtaken with crepuscular crypts darker than the blood moon that hung outside.

Alucard’s cock twitched beneath me, length growing harder and bigger by the second. Grunting, he pumped his sex and slid it against my pussy. I was light-headed with anticipation, but he had merely fondled my folds, prodding at my entrance, testing to see how wet I was.

Perhaps he had been right. Perhaps a dissolute part of me yearned for the darkness, but what I’d wanted most of all was to know that I had years, centuries — immortality, to be with Adrian.

Head over my shoulder with eyes like lacquered obsidians, he interlaced his fingers with mine, bringing them down to press at my clit. Flagging off from my most sensitive spot, he traced them up my body, slowly, torturously.

“I wonder…” fingers caressing my abdomen… “how far up…” I gasped as he adjusted them higher… “my cock will go when I’m deep inside you…” Alas settling on a spot above my navel.

A sacred river spawned between my legs.

Incapable of restraint any longer, I reached back to stroke his shaft, thumb stimulating his tip until his pre-load creamed my fingers. I lathered his fluids, relishing in the feel of his hallowed flesh tethered to my hands.

“Fuuuck.” Alucard bristled against my touch, face buried in my neck. Below, he was thrusting at my entrance, not yet entering, readying me for his carnal devotion.

”Adrian please, I need you. I want you inside…”

His last thread of resolve snapped. He rammed his boner into me from behind, stretching me, engulfing me. My tender walls were a haven to his brutal thrusts, welcoming him in. Cock barely to his hilt, he spread my bottocks apart, plunging his engorged member in.

“Ahh…ahh…” I whimpered, hands braced on the wall.

“How are you still so tight…” he hissed, enraged he couldn’t yet feel all of me.

My fingers weaved into his hair, tugging as I leaned further back into him. This feral urge, I craved it. It was scarce enough to satiate the searing lust in me, so I ground impiously against his length like the unholy girl he wanted me to be.

Tonight, he was to have his way. He was the nefarious overlord and I was but a malleable zealot. My hips were firmly held down by his hands — he wanted to control my rhythm. I was, afterall, his submissive little prey.

Alucard forced his cum-stained fingers into my mouth, swirling them about the insides of my cheeks, wresting in and out of my plush lips. I licked at them greedily, suckling on his taste. He was so deft — hands and length penetrating me in a lyrical sync, sating me above and below.

I gagged when he stuck his fingers further down, my throat wedging tight. Tears rimmed my eyes but I continued hollowing my cheeks, head bobbing. “Such a good girl…” praising as he brushed hair off my face. I was to appear immaculate while being fucked indecent.

Hypnotised by his bulge assaulting my hole, I bit sinfully on his index, tearing his skin. He pulled out from my mouth, eyes transfixed on the blot of blood.

“You’re being a naughty little lamb tonight…” His smile was insidious, like a serpent suffocating its meal.

My vampire smothered his blood over my parted lips. My tongue grazed over it, wiping it clean like I was the one writhing in blood lust. What I did had Alucard under a powerful spell. He plummeted his smug into me, our kisses heedless, crashing into each other in depraved lust.

We sucked and bit them swollen, both of us unrestrained and shameless of our monstrous love. Under, he continued hammering his heat into me, hand pushing my cunt back to swallow more of him.

Alucard was never one to trifle with a perfect opportunity. Hands at his favourite spot, he rubbed his digits forcefully at all the places his cock didn’t already fill. My knees buckled at once from overstimulation.

“Stay.” He landed a firm smack onto my soaking sex… “Still.”

“Or I won’t let you cum.” An order.

He bent me over, my backside raised to allow him easy entry. I compelled my wobbly legs to stand, muscles quivering at my bones.

“Good. Hands on the wall.”

Like his obedient little lamb, I hoisted my arms on the cold stone, squeezing taut around my feral wolf.

I was begging, moaning his name, my being in complete disarray.

Content with how tight I was clenching around his shaft, Alucard drove his erection mercilessly into me, pounding so hard I was lifted off the ground.

I cried out in pleasure and pain. “Adrian! Adrian please…”

“You like it when I’m rough with you, baby? You want me to turn you, and fucking you senseless comes with it,” he spat in between thrusts, dragging hair away from my ears to ascertain I could hear him loud and clear.

I was so deliciously filled my lewdness spilled out onto my legs. Paths of sweet nectar trickled down my trembling thighs, glazing his girth with my wicked desire.

I was so close.

Smelling my arousal and imminent climax, Alucard slammed faster into me, his own pace losing cadence.

We were so close.

He had everything timed perfectly. Just as he had countless times before — night creatures and wild animals — all unsuspecting pawns to his blood thirst. He was adept at hiding his deplorable little secret, but I knew better.

Fangs fully exposed, he grazed them masterfully over my neck, humming at my veins and arteries. Quite like a skilled chef discerning food, he was choosing which would taste most exquisite. My scarlet vessels were pulsing in tempo with my heartbeat — palpitating, quivering, waiting.

“Are you frightened? I can feel your terror in my bones…” villainy laced his snarl like a wolf finally rid of sheep’s clothing.

I had to inhale gulps of air to articulate my words, “No….” But what I said or what I thought mattered no longer. Gone was Adrian — human, moral, benign. A bestial, debased monster, instead, all consumed him.

Soulless eyes searched me once more, as if to forewarn me about my perilous decision, as if the human in him was straining to break free of his chains to stop this atrocity.

There was no turning back now.

I offered my neck to him, reckless, bloodstreams on full display. At last, with Alucard’s throbbing cock still stuffed full inside, I felt the firestorm in my core and the crushing torrent soon overcame me.

My release tonight felt different — cathartic. I was once again the delicate driftwood being dragged underwater — careless, aimless, going where the current took me. My limbs fell limp at my sides, my spirit devoid of vigour. And I knew why.

Alucard’s fangs were buried in my neck, drinking my blood as if a divine offering. When did he bite me? I felt no pain, only a rapture so heavenly I ached for more.

And so drink he did. Rivers of blood coated his lips, crimson tributaries surging down his throat. He sucked and lapped at my vital spark, clawing at my body so arduously as if I was the most cherished jewel of immeasurable value.

Like a vampire deprived of debauchery, he drank me in like sweet sin. He had no beginning and no end. And rightfully so. I was profoundly proud of my Adrian. At long last, he no longer had to be ashamed of who he was. He was liberated. He was free.

My racing heart was now a supine hum. I lay naked — pliant and frozen in his arms. The sleepy swell of the ocean lulled me into the black nothingness. I was rising and falling, so in harmony with the current.

Above, hazy sunbeams fractioned the waves like sparkling diamond necklaces. Beneath, the sombre abyss tugged at my essence, diffusing all manner of light. The ominous depth, though a macabre embrace, was one so full of promise. It was beckoning to me, calling my name — stay, stay, stay…

—

I awoke to a pall of infinite blackness.

I had been dreaming. There were shadows — silhouettes, of people I couldn’t quite make out. They were whispering, a sonnet of hurried voices, as if going somewhere, but nowhere at the same time. Then there was a lambent flame — the colour of pale amber, always in the distance but never near. Always tailing, always watching…

Where was I?

I could see nothing, hear nothing. I shifted slightly, and my shoulders were met by cool textile — silk? As more of my senses reconciled, I felt the mattress below me, a satiny divan not reminiscent of my bed. Muted was the air, hollow was the roof, and

…algid was my skin.

I was in a coffin.

Panic coiled through the ridges of my ribs, puncturing my heart like lethal thorns. I clawed and pounded at the wood…was I buried alive?

Alas, like the caves of hell being vaquished by divine light, the casket slid open, and I clambered onto a sprawling granite floor. I was heaving, frantic to take in air, clamouring at my chest as if ghostly hands were crushing my heart, splintering my valves.

Where was Adrian?

A succession of torches adorned the upper vaults, the mellow ebb of light suddenly becoming glaring to my eyes, as if I had been staring directly at the sun. I could make out the phosphorescent ripples and saffron hues that wreathed the flames.

The air smelled vaguely of mildew and crumbling concrete, while the scampering of rodents in between masonry thundered in my ears. I could hear them squeaking, the sounds of their bones compressing while they squeezed through cracks and crevices.

I could hear their heartbeats — tiny surges of blood in their capillaries.

Such fragile little things, I wonder what they’d feel when they’re crushed by the force of my teeth. If they’d feel pain, if any at all, as I drain them dry…

I was so, so hungry.

My awareness had heightened ten-fold, the anarchy of it all confounding whatever human that was left in me. The sensation of everything all at once was too much to bear and I covered my ears to drown out the distress.

Futile efforts indeed.

“Adrian? Adrian…” My voice hoarse from wheezing.

Was this what he had to endure? Being so akin with the presence of entirety, enough to render one insane. Was this why he had been so loath to turn me?

I hauled myself off the ground, bidding my legs to what looked to be a door. Scarce a blink had passed than I was face to face with a metal threshold — intricate lineations etched faintly onto the frame.

“Willing blood of the Raven Maiden,” — Enochian, words of ancient bygone, but Adrian and I had been avid philologists.

I didn’t concern myself with whether the translation had in fact referred to my blood, but I sank my fangs — a lurid extension — into my wrist and smeared them over the threshold.

The magicked portal transported me to a bed chamber, a former bed chamber, now resembling the crux of a dense forest.

Creepers cleaved through stone, while poison vines slivered across furniture. Rich moss clung to the bed frame, eating away at the tulle canopy, embedding itself into rotted linen.

That chaise…it was ours.

Horror flooded my senses as I glanced furtively around.

Our armoire, our settee, our desk.

Strewn across the floor, some shredded by tree roots dissecting the wooden panelling, lay stacks of disintegrating parchment like remnants of forgotten lore.

Vampiric speed overtaking, my eyes scanned the moth-eaten pages over.

“Come back to me.”

I choked on my tears.

“To be born a dhampir is to be born a monster.”

They fell like glass, shattering on the ink, eroding the paper more.

How long had I been asleep for?

“No, no, no…” I wept into the emptiness, anguish imprisoning my lungs, blocking off air. In spite of being undead, I had a heart, and it bled — it bled crimson, pain and grief. It bled with all the words I wished I could take back.

It bled with all the ache that I might never see Adrian again.

I scoured the castle. Every tower, every room, every dungeon, each a shell of its former mirth. The scenes ran parallel — overgrown foliage, wrecked furnishings, pillars atrophied by decay. Our home had been eaten away by the curse of time. There was no sign of life, no essence of Adrian.

With a threshing hole in my heart, I raced past the lattice of abandon toward the main doors. As the iron portcullis lifted, I recoiled at the hell that awaited me.

There, in the blistering winter, impaled upon rows and rows of stakes, dangled festering corpses of night creatures…and humans.

What have I done?

Pt I I Pt III I Pt IV

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ashveil-archives · 4 days ago

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Lilixia Vex, The Velvet Sin

“Souls are so much sweeter when they moan your name first.”

🍷 Basic Info

Alias: The Velvet Sin, The Queen of Molten Hearts, Mistress of the Lava Veins

Race: Highborn Succubus

Region of Origin: Mol'Keth, a volcanic dominion in the Cradle of Ash

Age: Unaging (appears early 20s, claims she’s 666 — for the aesthetic)

Pronouns: She/Her

Alignment: Chaotic Indulgent

Occupation: Demoness of Desire, Vice-Merchant, Infernal Envoy to Ashveil

🔥 Physical Description

With violet skin, hypnotic green eyes, and curves sculpted by sin itself, Lilixia is the embodiment of indulgence. She drips sensuality from every motion. Her lips promise ruin; her eyes confirm it.

Hair: Voluminous golden-blonde, usually tied high to show off her horns

Eyes: Glowing neon green — capable of mild enthrallment

Horns & Tail: Obsidianslick and always in motion, especially the tail

Outfit: Dominatrix-glam with strategic exposure; black latex, gold heart jewelry, and custom demon-crafted heels

Body Mods: Gold heart earrings, enchanted navel piercing (vibrates with proximity to arousal or sin)

😈 Personality

Outward: Flirtatious, shameless, clever with a silver tongue and velvet voice

Inward: Surprisingly principled — lives by a code of consensual corruption. Loves teasing the divine, hates boredom

NSFW Traits: Dominant-switch, expert seductress, oral fixation, tail play, heat pheromones, aphrodisiac skin oils

SFW Interests: Lava-spring baths, soul-tarot readings, fashion hexes, infernal gossip, flirting for intel, dominating chess

🩸 Lore

Lilixia was born from molten desire during the eruption of the Pyre Spire, the daughter of a fallen goddess and a greater archdemon. Once merely a whisper in the court of sin, she carved her way into power — not through blood, but orgasm and oath.

She is one of the few demon nobility allowed to walk Ashveil freely — technically an ambassador from the Hellbound Realms, but functionally a freelance corruptrix with a flair for drama.

The only rule she breaks more than once is “Don’t seduce divine champions.” And she’s not sorry.

#velvet sin/ic #muse-Lilixia #molten threads/closed starter #lipstick and lava/ask reply #ashveil thirstcore/nsfw #sword and sin/tw

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obscure-imagines · 2 years ago

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what you really want - Mihawk

👹 staring. Dracule Mihawk x afab!Reader

⚔️ preview. Some days you wish he’d settle down, wish he’d just choose an island and stay with you forever, but you know his first love will always be the sea. He’s a pirate, through and through, and you suppose you can’t blame him for that.

tw/cw. unprotected sex, quickie, multiple reader orgasms, big dick Mihawk, begging, dirty talk, breeding kink, fullness kink, slight cum kink, choking, manhandling, roughhousing, using a table hanging from the ceiling as a sex swing, instructed masturbation?, deep penetration, overstimulation crying, hair pulling, etc… I pet names: (hers) darling, good girl. (his) Captain.

🔞 rating. 18+ explicit I SMUT I wc. 3.2k

⚔️ aus. One Piece Live Action, established relationship, pwp, etc…

🎈 mlist + an. It's the way I haven't been active on this blog in 3 years and then this stupid pirate show comes out and now I'm sinning again- I honestly couldn't help myself with this one

You’re in the kitchen rolling out dough when you feel a body press against your back. There’s only one person with the balls to touch you like this. As a girlfriend to one of the seven warlords of the sea, and the greatest swordsman in the entire world, everyone knows your body is off-limits to anyone but Mihawk.

“When did you get in?” you ask, pressing your ass back against him, enjoying the feeling of his breath on your throat.

“Just now.” His hands trace the curves of your hips, and you have to fight the groan that threatens to slip out of your mouth at his touch.

“Did anyone see you?” It’s definitely interesting being a member of the Strawhats while being involved with Mihawk. He’ll show up out of the blue, completely unannounced, and it’s clear to everyone what he’s here for.

You often feel very sinful any time he leaves, when you exit your cabin or the bathroom or wherever he just fucked your brains out, only to find the crew watching you with unreadable expressions.

“Your cook-”

“Sanji,” you interject, doing your best to teach Mihawk the names of your friends in the hopes that he’ll be more sociable with them.

“Sanji,” your boyfriend repeats with a sigh. “I bumped into him on the deck, he said the kitchen is all ours.”

“This should be fun.” You grin, releasing the dough and wiping your flour covered hands on your apron. “I’m guessing you didn’t show up to talk.”

“Definitely not.”

“So the question is…” you grind your ass back against him, “is that a sword in your pants, or are you just happy to see me, Captain?”

He lets out a small laugh, digging his fingers into your hips to pull you flush to his chest. Mihawk is always amused when you refer to him as Captain. It’s always in a sexual capacity, and even though he’s a crewless pirate, the title feels fitting. On top of everything else, the ‘sword in your pants line’ is somewhat comical, as his sword, Yoru, is absolutely unmistakable when pressed against your body.

“I guess I’m just happy to see you,” Mihawk sighs. He’s not the best with praise or dirty talk, preferring a more silent approach, but it’s always rewarding to work admissions of interest out of him.

“So why are we still talking?” you ask.

It’s as easy as anything for him to turn you in his embrace, one hand reaching up to pinch your chin as he presses his lips to yours. Your arms wrap around the back of his neck, and you press your chests together, enjoying the feeling of your breasts against his muscles.

The kiss is almost gentle at first, but it quickly becomes heated, with his tongue dipping into your mouth. You sigh at the feeling. You’ve missed Mihawk. Some days you wish he’d settle down, wish he’d just choose an island and stay with you forever, but you know his first love will always be the sea. He’s a pirate, through and through, and you suppose you can’t blame him for that.

His hands slip down your body, squeezing your breasts, toying with your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt. He pulls away from your mouth, staring down at you with Hawk eyes full of lust. “Turn around, and bend over the table, darling.”

You swallow thickly at the command, grabbing his jaw and pressing one final kiss to his lips before following through. The solid cooking table has more than enough space for you to flatten your chest against it without having to worry about messing up the dough or getting flour on your shirt. In fact, it’s probably one of the sturdiest locations for Mihawk to fuck you from behind.

A soft sigh escapes you as his hand trails down your body, then he’s roughly gripping your trousers, tearing them down until they pool at your feet. He’s discarded your panties as well, and your skin tingles at the cool air that brushes over your hot, exposed core.

You hear Mihawk dealing with his own pants, and you wiggle your ass as an invitation, impatience getting the best of you. It’s been over a week since you’ve seen your boyfriend, over a week since anyone has touched you, or kissed you, or filled you up to the brim until you were crying-

“I missed you,” you tell him, relaxing your cheek against the wood of the table as he rubs his cock through your pussy lips, coating himself in the wetness already beginning to drip out of you.

Mihawk doesn’t return your sentiment, he only lets out a small grunt, grabbing your hip roughly as he begins to push into your core.

There’d been hardly any foreplay, so the stretch of his thick cock against your inner walls has you crying out and grabbing the edge of the table. You kind of like the pain though- being with a warlord of the sea is just like that sometimes. It’s quickies, and roughhousing, gasping into each others mouths and stripping naked the moment you get each other alone.

Your boyfriend can be kind though. He doesn’t push all the way into you, doesnt sink balls deep- he thrusts shallowly, and you can feel his gaze fixed on your tight pussy as you swallow more of him up, inch by inch-

“Fuck,” you groan, clawing at the wood.

“Good, darling?”

“So good,” you whimper, feeling your toes curl when he’s finally pushed all the way inside of you, the tip of his cock just kissing your cervix. “Oh my god, you better fuck me stupid-”

“I intend to,” he promises, grabbing your waist with both hands to keep you presses to the table. His first thrust is rough, making you cry out and wiggle in his grasp. Your hips are pushed uncomfortably against the edge of the table, and as Mihawk finds a fast pace, each rut of his hips sends you forward.

It’s not very painful, although, you might bruise tomorrow. Part of you almost wishes you do. You love reminders of him, marks that make you think of him balls deep in your aching core-

“Captain-” you whimper, panting against the wooden surface of the table as he fucks you harder and harder, making you almost dizzy.

“Let me hear you,” he instructs.

His hand finds the back of your neck only for his fingers to slip around the front of your throat and pull- he makes you arch your back, body contorted for him. The sensation makes you gasp, deep groans escaping you. Each smack of his hips against your ass has whimpers leaving your lips. Your eyes are closed, mind entirely focused on the feeling of his perfect cock filling you up and destroying you for any other man.

“Mi-Mihawk,” you stutter, lower lip warbling with effort, your body nearly overwhelmed already.

“Touch yourself. I want you to cum.”

You swallow thickly while he pulls you up from the table, tightening his grip on your throat and giving you the space to slip your hand down to your pussy while he fucks you in a half standing position. You can feel his breath against the nape of your neck, can hear him panting-

Even small sounds are such a turn on for you. You can’t see his face right now, but it’s sexy to know that he might be as effected as you are by all of this.

Your fingers brush by your clit and you cry out at the sensation, clenching your eyes shut while your pussy throbs around his cock. “Oh my god-”

“That’s it, darling. You’re close.”

You can only nod, applying more pressure to the sensitive bud while he continues fucking you stupid. His grip on your throat doesn’t help the situation- it makes you lightheaded in the best possible way, your stomach muscles tensing as your orgasm builds in the pit of your stomach.

“I’d like to hear you beg for this first one.”

You moan loudly, the throbbing intensifying between your legs. “Please, Captain, please-”

“You can do better than that,” he scoffs, lips finding the side of your throat before his teeth bite at your shoulder.

“I’m so close, please make me cum- only you can make me cum this way, oh my god, your cock- it’s so deep- it’s so good-”

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, and your core clenches unbelievably tight around him- you’re on the edge, but you can’t cum without permission. Mihawk has trained you well, and by the satisfied sound he lets out, you think he knows it.

“Good girl,” he praises, and it goes straight to your pussy, making your legs quake with effort- “Cum.”

It’s the one word you need to fall over the edge, and as your pussy practically explodes with pleasure, you find yourself being pushed down to the table again. Mihawk’s hand leaves your throat, fingers digging into your hips as he fucks you through your orgasm.

You can feel your juices dripping our around his cock, making a mess of your thighs- all you can do is claw at the wooden surface and take what he gives you, cries of ecstasy leaving you uncensored.

He fucks you until you’re shaking, fucks you until your core stops throbbing around his thick length, then he pushes into you completely, holding you flush to his front. “Take a breather, darling,” Mihawk tells you, “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be pleased if I leave you completely broken.”

You can’t believe he’s bringing up Luffy at a time like this- can’t believe he sounds so nonchalant, as if your pussy didn’t just try to milk him for everything he’s worth. Mihawk is just like this, you suppose. He’s always controlled, and it’s one of the sexiest things about him.

“You’re my Captain,” you whisper, heart still thundering in your rib cage. “You can leave me however you want.”

His hand caresses your ass, squeezing the flesh and making you twitch around him.

“Turn around, I want to see your face.” He pulls out of your pussy and you moan at the loss. Your legs are shaky, you can hardly stand as you move to face him, leaning back against the table.

Mihawk is too handsome for his own good. His facial hair is immaculate, and his eyes are bewitching.

He cups your cheek and you lean against his hand, enjoying the soft moment of reprieve before the next round that you know is coming.

“Beautiful,” he tells you, leaning in to kiss you gently.

You reach for his hat, taking it off his head to place on yours, and it makes his lips stop. He pulls away and looks down at you darkly. You can only grin up at him. “Am I still beautiful?” you prompt.

“Always,” Mihawk responds easily, reaching own to cup your ass and lift you off the ground, prompting you to wrap your legs around his strong hips, trousers now discarded on the ground.

Your lips find each other, and you kiss him deeply while he carries you through the kitchen. When you’re set down, you find yourself on top of a wooden table platform hanging from the ceiling on four chains- you’ve never realized before that this is practically a sex swing.

This wooden platform that Zoro laid on while recovering from wounds your boyfriend gave him, is now going to be the very tool used to fuck you absolutely stupid. You’ll never be able to look at it the same way again, and you don’t want to.

Mihawk pulls away from your lips, and you watch him take off his jacket. He places the duster and his beloved sword on the cooking table just behind you, taking the hat off your head to discard it with the rest of his clothes. You take the opportunity to remove your shirt, leaving you completely bare for your boyfriend, whose gaze takes in every inch of your body now that you’re exposed.

“I missed you too,” he says softly, reaching up a hand to grab at your breast, teasing your nipple between two fingers.

You arch your back, legs quivering around his hips from the stimulus as well as his words. “Then fuck me,” you tell him. “Fuck me full of your cum until I’m dripping. Fuck me so deep that I’ll have a part of you with me even after you leave- I want to feel you inside for a week.”

Mihawk gives you baby fever like no other man you’ve ever met, and staring at him now- knowing he’ll leave you soon after this, it makes you even more desparate. You love him more than you’ll ever be able to say- but maybe if you gave him a baby, you’d be able to show him that he’s the only man that will ever have your heart.

You watch his adam’s apple bob with effort, his hands slipping down to your thighs. He massages your skin, pulling you forward, his aching cock teasing between your pussy lips-

“You’ve always had such a dirty mouth, darling,” he tuts.

“You love it,” you insist, leaning back down against the wooden platform. “You love how dirty you make me. Love it when I’m begging for you.”

The tip of his cock pushes into your core and you both let out sounds of pleasure. You’re so wet, it’s the easiest thing for him to sink into you, and the swinging platform allows him to pull you close, only to push you away a little, using the hanging table to his advantage.

With one hand, he can control the table, and with the other, his thumb can find your clit.

Your legs shake around his hips, the sensitive bud is still trying to recover from your first orgasm, and the stimulation isn’t helping.

“Mihawk,” you moan, already feeling desperate again.

“You’re pretty like this, darling,” he tells you. “If you start to beg, I might just give you what you want.”

He’s not applying enough pressure to your clit to make you cum and you both know it. He’s just teasing you, gently rocking you onto his cock while your toes curl and your body nearly shakes. He’s such a fuck, but you love him so much.

“Please, you know what I want,” you whimper. “It’s the same thing I always want.”

“Go on.”

“I want you to fuck me rough. Want you to feel good. Want you to cum deep inside.”

“There’s more too it though. Don’t deny it, darling. I know what you want. What you really want.”

You blink at him in confusion, and he begins to rock into you harder, faster. His thumb applies more pressure to your clit, working it in tight circles that have your pussy clenching tightly around his cock.

“You want me to fuck a baby into you, don’t you?” he asks, although, the question definitely feels rhetorical. “You want me to give you the one thing I’ve never given anyone. You want me to make you mine, completely. To do the one thing that would show everyone who you really belong to.”

“Mihawk-” you whimper, body tingling with overwhelm from his words alone.

“This is why you’re always begging for my cum like a whore in heat, why you always want me to cum inside since the first time we fucked.” Mihawk lets out a small chuckle, grinning. “Bet you thought I had no idea, but trust me darling, I know your games.”

“They’re not games,” you try to insist, but your words are broken and whimpered as he fucks you more intensely, the wooden platform swinging almost aggressively now with each rough thrusts.

“Tell me what you really want.”

You gasp as he pinches your clit between two fingers, your body contorting against the tabletop. Your eyes clench shut and you feel your skin heating with your impending orgasms. “I want you to give me babies!” you admit, feeling a wave of relief to finally say what’s been on your mind for months. “I want to swell with your cum and have your children- I want to be with you forever-”

Mihawk lets out a sound that’s nearly animalistic, and then he’s hauling you off your back, leaning over your body and forcing his lips against yours while your hands grab at his shoulders.

It’s the most intense kiss you’ve ever shared with him, all tongues and growls-

Your pussy throbs around him, and you eat up his sounds, trailing your fingers through his beautiful dark hair and pulling gently-

Mihawk lets out another groan, fingers unrelenting on your clit.

“Please cum for me,” you mumble desperately, the cord in the pit of your stomach pulled achingly tight. “Please, Mihawk, I need it- I’m so close-”

He pulls his lips away from yours, your foreheads touching while he stares deep into your soul. You can feel tears of pleasure already building against your lashline, and the way he’s panting has your stomach twisting into even tighter knots-

Then he’s smashing his lips against yours again, fingers digging into your hip as he pulls you flush to his front, cock burried as deep as it can possibly go inside of you.

You can feel him cumming, and it triggers your own orgasm, which jitters through you like electric ecstasy, making your hair stand on end and your skin tingle. You’re gasping against his lips, enjoying his moans and returning them with sounds of your own.

Your arms are wrapped tightly around him while your pussy milks him for all he’s worth, your tits pressed against his strong chest. His hand moves from between your bodies to flatten against the small of your back, embracing you tightly.

You’ve never felt closer to him in your entire life.

There’s never been a moment like this one.

You can taste the love he has for you on his tongue as it invades your mouth, tracing your lips and teeth-

Even though he’s still inside of you, hips flush to your own, it’s one of the longest orgasms you’ve ever had. There’s nothing like this type of closeness, nothing like being stretched to nearly your breaking point while he fills you completely with his cum, cock so deep you can feel him painting your cervix.

It feels almost like a promise. As if he’s as dedicated to knocking you up as you are. He’s not said it explicitly, but you get the sense that he wouldn’t mind starting a family with you. In fact, he might even enjoy it.

You can imagine him teaching your child to use a sword, can imagine a three year old running around with the tiny little dagger Mihawk wears around his neck-

“I love you,” you whisper, tightening your grip on the warlord.

He lets out a groan. “I love you too.”

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I'm honestly considering doing more One Piece stuff on this blog, but I guess we'll see. My main account right now is kpop blog, which you can find here or @smileysuh

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#mihawk #mihawk smut #dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk smut #one piece #one piece smut #opla #opla smut #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x reader #mihawk x reader smut #dracule mihawk x reader smut #one piece live action #one piece live action smut #opla mihawk #mihawk opla #opla mihawk smut #mihawk opla smut

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reddforalt · 2 months ago

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🐉 Kingu Path 🐉

⚡️⚔️🔥 Moodboard inspired in The Flower from Tiamat’s Fire from the app Romance Club 🔥⚔️⚡️

| @rc-catalog |

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on-leatheredwings · 1 year ago

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False Pretenses (18+)

Yandere ! Damian Wayne x (Fem) Reader

romantic, 18+ > summary: Damian needs an heir someday, and he knows your body can provide that. > tw/cw: stealthing/baby trapping. there is consensual sex under false pretenses, so this could (and should) make this fall under dub- or non-con! there is also a brief mention of somnophilia. Plus, some breeding kink, praise kink. Also some weird thoughts about (cis) women who are fertile being ‘ideal’ and a preference for biological children. Just a warning. > word count: 5088. jesus christ. > [a/n: (smokes a blunt). ] > again 18+ only, damian wayne is 21

So, Damian has a breeding kink.

You sit in bed (his bed), knees to your chest, trying not to smile.

The covers are wrapped around your bare body as you recall the night prior’s events.

Last night was the farthest you two have gone physically. You’ve made out, of course. That was in short order after officially becoming a couple, the both of you starved for the other. You’ve groped each other, both over and under your clothes… You’ve given him a handjob… (To his utter dismay that you’ve brought him to orgasm first rather than the reverse.) And last week, you took him in your mouth for the first time. But yesterday night was the first time you had been on the receiving end.

Now, you are no virgin, but the memory does make you clutch your metaphorical pearls. You didn’t know simple fingering could be so… perverse.

Damian’s two middle fingers are thrusting back and forth into your trembling cunt. Your ears are steaming at the resulting noises filling the air. They’re lewd, and entirely involuntary on your part. Sweat on your temple drips, your torso heaves with shaken breath. Your damp back lies flush against his hard chest, two perfect puzzle pieces. Damien’s chin rests on your shoulder, allowing him to have a beautiful view of the mess you’re making on his slender digits. Viridian eyes have their entire focus on you, utterly fascinated.

The look in them is enough to make you blush, even if two of his fingers weren’t in you right now.

Sinful, reverent whispers into the shell of your ear marvel about how well you’re doing, how prepared you’ll be to take him afterwards. Damian’s free hand rests on your abdomen, pointedly over your womb.

He’ll fill you. Breed you. After all, you can handle that. You were basically made for it. He knows you’d be perfect at it.

Chin resting on the palm of your hand, you come back to the present.

Yeah, that was really turning him on, you mull, with almost academic interest. Your lips curl into a catlike grin. How curious!

Hey, you aren’t judging! You can see the appeal. After all, you hadn’t exactly been complaining last night… just caught off guard.

You sit with your thoughts as Damian washes up in his restroom.

It is in his bedroom you currently lounge, absentmindedly fiddling with satin sheets. His bed is large enough to drown in. His room is a wash of dark emerald greens and deep blues, with golden accents. On a table sits a sheathed sword, its grip a beautiful gold.

Both of you are college students finishing up your last semester. During the school season, Damian stays in his penthouse. Yes, his penthouse. Why he couldn’t just stay at his billionaire father’s mansion, you don’t know. Bird has to leave the nest sometime, you suppose.

Slowly lowering your knees and letting your back hit cool sheets, you lie down. You get lost in the ceiling – a beautiful Arabesque pattern is subtly molded across its expanse. Damian’s culture is so cool. Such was a sentiment you had communicated in such words, and he simply kissed your knuckles with a proud curve of his lips, and thanked you for the compliment. You blush.

Ugh. Damian is so cool.

You start pulling up every uncool thing about him in your mental reservoir. You can’t have him getting a big head, after all. Or rather, can’t have his head getting any bigger.

Hmm… breeding kinkster, breeding kinkster, thy name is Damian Wayne.

You blink dumbly.

Breeding... breeding…

Pregnancy.

Your body stiffens.

Wait. Does this… does that mean something? Is that like. A thing? What people call foreshadowing? You sit up, disturbed.

At that exact moment, Damian saunters out of the washroom. His eyes catch yours immediately, as if drawn by magnetism. He is still shirtless, navy blue sweatpants looking entirely artful on his tall, bronze body. His usual shrewd expression relaxes at the sight of you.

At the sight of him, your heart skips a beat, and not out of admiration for his looks. It was like you had been caught red-handed, speculating things. Sometimes you swear he knows what you’re thinking.

He stalks toward you, eyes loving. He places a kiss on your lips, punctuating it with “Good morning, my love.”

“G-good morning,” you return, painfully aware of your nakedness under his sheets. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He places kisses on your bare shoulder, trailing down until he’s kissing your hand. While normally you’d be melting, you remain stiff.

Damian pecks one last kiss when you blurt, “Do you want kids?”

You inwardly smack your forehead. Well, you weren’t one to shy away from a tough conversation. For better or worse.

Damian stirs, blinking at you.

You continue, trying not to wilt, “Do… Do you want kids? I-is that something you want? Like, someday?”

How the hell did this not come up sooner, you don’t know.

… Well.

Perhaps it hadn’t come up because your relationship was fairly new. You’ve known Damian for five years now. And for the last two, your relationship had been under a taxing, soul-sucking ‘will-they-won’t-they-it’s-complicated’ vague denomination for quite a while. Both of you knew each of you had feelings for the other. But Damian confessing his vigilante secret and his assassin past was quite the double whammy.

Damian was resolute in keeping you and himself safe and alive, but you had to think critically about a future with him. Eventually you said fuck it, throwing caution to the wind because you loved him, and you wanted him. And he, you.

Officially, it’s only been three months of dating – and you both are young. You both are in your last year of college. Talking about kids felt … fast.

Damian remains silent, face tentative. Having been leaning over you, he now sits on his bed, looking thoughtful.

“... Is that something you want?”

You sigh. Of course he’d turn it on you.

“I…” Your throat feels tight. God, why can’t we just enjoy a damn honeymoon phase… “I mean…? I’m… open to it. But yeah, it seems kinda… Like. I don’t know. That’s a lot right now.” Your voice is uncharacteristically small and meek.

You should stop there. Keep it vague. Keep things light. But you know which side of the fence you’re leaning on, and so should he.

“A-and you know– like, you know I didn’t have a good relationship with my mother– I just. Don’t know. If ever. I guess?”

You sit in awkward silence with him. You pray God just decides to smite you where you sit, because Christ. That was horrible.

Things like this could break a relationship, you know. And your chest clenches painfully at the thought of separating from Damian.

Damian takes in your words, nodding. He’s usually so easy to read – you’re well-versed in Wayne-nese by now, having spent a lot of time with him and the rest of his family. But he seems to be withholding his inner thoughts intentionally from you. Your heart sinks.

You nudge him with your feet.

“Damiii. Do you?”

Damian’s eyes glimmer with characteristic haughtiness, instantly making you warm. He crawls forward, hands sinking into the bed by your hips. He nips at your nose before locking lips. It’s a sweet, sweet kiss that’s like candy, until you feel the stroke of his hot tongue. You moan freely, not caring that he’ll likely tease you later for being so easy.

He retreats, licks his lips.

“You fiend,” you blurt. The insult rolls off him.

“What I want is to be with you.” You swallow dryly, heart thumping like a chorus line. You wouldn’t be surprised if Damian could see literal hearts in your eyes.

He puts a hand on your knee, stroking softly. You feel mollified at the action. Damian only did that when everything was alright.

“We’ve got class. If you get dressed fast enough, I’ll buy you that confectionary you’re always wanting.”

You stick out your tongue. “It’s a frappe,” you say, adding before he could say otherwise, “and yes, it is real coffee.”

Back from class, you decided to read on his living room recliner while he drew in his study. Damian indeed sketched, as he did everyday. Unsurprisingly, you were the subject, along with your favorite flowers. But Damian chose his study, rather than drawing you from life, because he also wanted to check if today was the day he thought it was. He opens the drawer of his wooden desk, papers neatly filed. He picks up a sleek black folder that spends most of its time laid in hiding underneath.

…

So, for the record, Damian did not lie.

He merely obfuscated an answer with a truth.

He does want to be with you above anything, and if children were out of the question due to natural causes… sure, he would learn to get over it. His brothers are all adopted and are as legitimate heirs to his father as he. But as it stands, Damian needs an heir someday and he knows your body can provide that.

… A not-insignificant part of him quietly admits that he simply wants his children to be blood-related. He’d never express this to anyone. His brothers are adopted, so how could he? But instilled from infancy into Damian was that he was the result of two genetically perfect individuals.

So why shouldn’t his child be the genetic amalgamation of you and him, both of whom are also two perfect beings? The thought of impregnating you sounds… good. Ideal. Natural, even. Call him a romantic.

When opened, inside the folder is a calendar for the year, with no notes or writing. Some days are blank. Some are highlighted in either red or green.

His eyes skirt down to the current day of the calendar, and Damian's pleased to see it is indeed among a week that's painted in green. Today is within the ideal window leading up to your ovulation.

You've said in passing that your cycle is pleasantly regular and Damian's past investigations have proved this to be true. Not that he asks anymore. He snorts, remembering how last time you looked at him incredulously and asked if he was a Republican, since he was “all up in your womb.”

However, you do keep menstrual products in your bag when he’s predicted it. You also spend quite some time at his place, so he does note when there’s pad wrappers in his bathroom trash bin.

Last year, the day he knew you were the one – his One – he brewed you a tea before bed. Its sedative contents ensured you wouldn't wake, and you were out like a light within minutes. So, Damian pulled off your pants, and collected a specimen from you as you slept. Of course, he did so with sterile, sexless precision – Damian wasn’t a pervert or deviant. He sniffs. He’s better than that. Even if his hands did linger.

Test results proved you were healthy and fertile. He recalls this with pride. As expected, you were perfect in all things. Damian closes the folder and ruminates in his seat.

Damian had assumed so, but now you’ve confirmed with him that you’re unsure about raising children based on your history with your own family. He hears you. As if he doesn’t have his own slew of mommy problems. If you bring it up again, he’ll wave you off. You’ll be an amazing mother. You just need a push, and you’ll be confident soon enough.

His fingers steeple. Hm… There’s the issue of having children before marriage… He doesn’t know how you feel about children outside of wedlock, but it’s not as though you’re very traditional. You don’t seem to have a problem with the fact that’s how he was conceived. It’s not a big concern regardless, because Damian is going to marry you anyway. If it’s an issue, you both could marry in as soon as a month.

It all works out.

It’s perfect, he thinks.

Damian puts up his sketchbook and folder alike, heading to his bedroom to change. It was about time he put his plans into action, and he knows just how to usher it into fruition.

“That doesn’t look like a very satisfying read,” Damian says, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

You don’t look up from your book, your cringing face only deepening.

“Well, that’s because it isn’t. I was lied to! By my favorite Youtuber! By BookTok! And fuck it, by the government–”

"My love."

“You ask for one slow burn rivals-to-lovers and instead you get him fawning over her within three chapters–”

“My love,” he repeats, though amused.

“And let’s not even start about how this prose is abysmal–”

“My love.”

Since it was said oh-so-sweetly, you look up from your book.

Damian is... oh. He's in that outfit he knows you like. The League of Assassins one that's sleeveless, dark, and form fitting with gorgeous gold trim. It turns his body into a marvelous painting of black and gold on the tanned backdrop that is his skin. And you’ve told him so… Except his eyes. His beautiful, intense green eyes. He straightens from how he leans against the wall, stepping closer.

You toss your book, not even watching its trajectory. It takes out a vase on the way down and you still don’t spare it a glance.

"Damian Wayyyyyne," you sing, hopping up to stalk toward your prey. Your hands land on his chest. Hello, tig ol' biddies, you cheer internally. It takes considerable restraint to keep from saying it aloud – you know Damian gets all flustered with his delicate sensibilities. “Why, are you trying to seduce me?”

An elegant, thick brow rises in amusement. Well, that was exceedingly easier than expected.

“That depends entirely on whether it’s working.”

“Oh, it’s working,” you say, running your hands down to his abdomen. His hands rise to capture yours.

“Tt.”

Damian takes steps backward, leading you by the hands into his bedroom. Your leer grows even bigger. Oh, yes. You two lock eyes the whole while until you reach the foot of his bed, merriment and attraction dancing in both pairs.

You push him onto the bed, on all fours above him. You dive down for a deep kiss, tongue eager for a dance. Eventually it’s you who separates to breathe, panting lightly. The sight below you is one for sore eyes, Damian Wayne lying with eyes glazed with lust. He’s acting awfully agreeable, and you can’t say you don’t like it.

“Habibti, I want you.” Damian slides his hand to cup your crotch. You shiver, at his touch and his words.

“And you have me,” you say, voice warm. “Habibti.”

He smirks, probably thinking your accent could use some work.

“It’s Habibi, coming from you.”

You nod shyly, but you can have a lesson later. You’re about to slip off your pants when he brings your hand in between your bodies, placing it on his crotch. You sharply inhale. He’s hard, and straining against sinful, elastic tights.

“... And I mean, I want all of you.”

Your brows rise. So, he wanted to go all the way today? You feel your cheeks and crotch flood with heat. You find it easier to nod your head rapidly, lest you start barking. At your agreement, Damian’s face washes over with anticipation. You’re glad it’s not just you over the moon at the prospect.

You both rip your clothes off manically, laughing and elbows butting into each other’s sides. Damian expertly flips positions, boxing you in with his knees. You exclaim in surprise, a sound that drifts into shaky breaths and mewls of pleasure as he runs his fingers over your breasts, your stomach… He wets his fingers with his mouth before his digits start circling your clitoris.

You inhale sharply, mesmerized by the cyclical motion. Never until Damian has sex felt so flustering. Just watching his administrations was overwhelming, let alone the feeling– Your head reels back from an electric shock of pleasure. You gasp into the air.

"W-wait... wait, you have a condom, right…?" you whisper, though you have half a mind to just go without. You need him.

Damian tensed.

"I... I don't like how it feels." You raise a brow. You've heard condoms can feel like a second skin, especially nowadays. Then again, men were always complaining about them. It's not like you had the necessary equipment to confirm, so hell if you knew how it felt.

You place your hands on his cheeks, and his hands ghost over your wrists. You bite your lip.

"Well… Just this once? And if... it's that important to you, maybe I'll get on birth control–"

His head jerks as if struck, his brows furrowed.

“No.”

You stare, agape. There’s a small pause, both of you staring at the other. Damian’s face looks as though he’s betrayed himself. Your boyfriend didn’t strike you as so… traditionalist, to say the least. Lord knows you wouldn’t be with him if he was… so you will hear him out before nurturing any suspicion.

Sitting up on your forearms, you ask, “... What do you mean ‘no’?”

"I mean… I…” Damian sighs, looking utterly frustrated with himself. “I mean, you don’t need to.”

You blink and raise a brow, unimpressed.

“... Because?”

Damian’s jaw hardens. He grits out, “Because, I'm… sterile."

You flinch, purely from surprise. Damian merely stares, eyes narrowed in what you presume is annoyance at himself.

Uh. Okay, hello brand new information? Why hadn't this come up before? Well, it is pretty sensitive information. And since you hadn’t had penetrative sex yet, why would he have brought it up? And today was the first day you had even thought about kids. It… makes sense.

"Y-you are...?" You settle down, much like a cat whose hair is lowering from standing on end. "Okay… okay...” Damian remains stony, but he cringes at your clear relief.

Mistaking it as embarrassment, you quickly stroke his cheek. “No, baby, I'm sorry about that." You could assume it's quite emasculating. Men and their complexes about performing and wow, suddenly the breeding kink makes sense.

“So, you can’t…” you trail off. Knock me up? remains gracefully unsaid.

Damian nods stiffly. He really does hate lying to you like this. "I've been told it's very... unlikely." In reality, Damian knows his sperm count, and he's verified there should be no issues with reproduction. You both are in peak condition.

Despite the heat raging in your pants and your body begging can we just fuck already, you furrow your brows. All of this sounded fine, but it was still just… you needed specifics. To be safe. After all, there’s no rush, is there? Even if your pulsating cunt would beg to differ, painfully aware that two naked people were in a bed not doing naked-people-things.

"When did you get tested? And w-why? I mean, you're only twenty-one."

He waves his hand, snorting with his typical condescension. "I'm an heir to a dynasty – as soon as I was of age, it behooved us to know."

Us. That’s not a you-and-me “us”. You cringe, thinking about Talia and Ra's Al Ghul making it their business to know Damian's fertility. What an invasion of privacy for him… And no wonder he thought nothing of being in your body’s business as well.

"Well, unlikely is still possible, right?” You fear any surprises. Lord knows it would be just your luck to get fertilized by the un-fertilizable. You point at him. “And we should be using condoms anyway! It's not just pregnancy we should be afraid of."

Damian wants to assure you how insanely low the chances are of an infertile male getting anybody pregnant, and is about to do so, when his eyes narrow.

"Is there a reason we would need to protect against venereal diseases? There are none between the two of us." You flinch at his tone, colored with the acidity of jealousy. Suspicion.

The implication (accusation?) causes you to glare at him.

“...Yeahhh, okay,” you reply coldly. “Moment's ruined.”

You push him off you, but in a panic, he hisses your name. You flinch. At your wary expression, the color drains from his face.

“I… I’m sorry,” he says, brows furrowed and looking utterly ashamed. “I… I’m sorry.” You don’t meet his eyes, simply nodding. He places kisses on your wrist, shoulder, nose. Damian sometimes had his moods, although he was truly confusing you today.

“It’s fine, really,” you reassure. And it’s true, it was mainly the heat of the moment. You were sure Damian could never really scare you.

Your words don’t persuade the shame and fear out of his eyes or lighten the heaviness of his brow. You smile, huffing. Taking his face into your heads, you kiss him chastely on the forehead, nose tip, both cheeks. Until you punctuate the action with a kiss to his lips.

“Damian, really.”

Damian nods stiffly. He’ll never truly forgive himself, but he’s probably okay enough for now.

You shift on the bed, and there’s the telltale sensitivity between your thighs. Damn it. You still want him. You two stare at each other, still very naked and aroused. You turn the idea in your head … He’s sterile, right? And pregnancy is your only reservation.

As if hearing your thoughts, Damian’s face fills with determination.

“... I-it’s–” okay, let’s have sex anyway, you are going to finish.

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts. You blink. He leans toward you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. You’re sure he’s about to kiss you, when he suddenly withdraws.

Your eyes catch the glimmer of some metallic object. He holds a silver square wrapper in between his fingers, likely plucked from beneath his pillow.

You look at him, and he says frankly, “I’ll do anything for you.”

You melt… before grinning, catlike. “My, my. So it seems Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Condoms still prepares a contingency plan. Very Son of Batman of you–”

“Shut it,” he groans, dotting kisses along your neck to make you do just that.

You feel relief flood your bloodstream. Then it is quickly replaced with raging desire. Oh, finally.

“Lay back,” he says, too soft to be an order. You do so without fanfare, a little curious as to why he’s not following you. Then you see him scoot back, feel him hike up your lower half, and you feel a thrill of excitement.

You squeak, feeling your ass leaving the bed entirely. A pillow is quickly placed underneath, and you are feeling quite pampered.

There’s curious licks along your labia, to which you twitch.

Damian finds his way to your clitoris, suckling and stroking heavily with his tongue.

“Hhnngh,” you speak. Keep going. Right there.

“Truly, a poet,” Damian’s voice says, muffled. You bite your lip, unable to retort because it feels too good. Damian is curious, experimenting. You know he’s gamifying this, responding and changing his strategies entirely on what draws the most unintelligible noise out of you. He slips his tongue in, and you grasp at his hair. He responds by pumping it back and forth.

Eventually, you do fear he’ll bring you to orgasm with this alone, when you both have more plans for the evening.

You wipe a layer of sweat from your temple, panting. “I’m ready. I’m ready,” you say, tugging meekly at short black locks.

Damian hums, and the vibration hits you straight in the clit. He sits up on his forearms, lips delightfully messy. His cheeks are ruddy and his brows are pinched with effort, chest heaving for breath. He looks very good like this.

“I’m ready,” you say again. Damian doesn’t need to be told twice. Your head hits the back of the pillow, and you close your eyes as you catch your breath. You hear the rustling and discarding of a condom wrapper. Damian positions himself accordingly, hands sunk into the bed on either side of your waist.

“Ready?” he asks. His eyes hold… shyness, if you can believe it. You stroke his cheek, grinning.

“Always ready for you,” you respond. You make sure to sit up. You want to see.

You watch, fascinated, as the head of Damian’s cock slowly disappears into your body. The consonance between seeing it and feeling it only stokes the fire of your arousal.

You moan openly, the sound making your ears heat. Damian dares to chuckle, and you claw his back in retaliation.

“Oh, shut up, and go deeper,” you breathe, eyes fluttering with pleasure. You didn’t realize how much you missed this. The feeling of being filled, of being full. You didn’t realize you could miss something you never had as well – Damian felt like he belonged in you. You feel every inch of you work to accommodate his sudden presence.

“And how can I deny such a request?” he gasps aloud, voice strained.

You feel more than a little pride that you were among the few who could make Damian bend to your whims with this (or any) level of subservience. The proud, proud Damian Wayne. The same Damian that sinks into you further, into your tight, hot wetness. He finally bottoms out and you exhale.

“You’re… a perfect… fit,” you say, dazed and in between pants.

Little do you know the resulting pang that shoots into his groin at that statement. He grasps you harder, maybe even enough to bruise. He needs you badly. He needs to fill you badly.

Damian leans even more forward, and you squeal. You’re just along for the ride at this point. He does all the necessary machinations to fold you in half, thighs bending back.

"W-wait," you stutter, but it falls on deaf ears.

He’s really stretching the limits of your flexibility here. Before you know it, you’re in a mating press.

“Damian,” you moan, because you’re too overstimulated to say much else.

“You’re perfect,” he says into the shell of your ear. “You can take this. You were made for this.” You nod, slack-jawed. He rocks into you, skin slapping against skin as your pelvises meet. Your eyes flutter and roll back.

“I could spend forever filling you up. I could spend forever watching it spill out of you.”

You close your eyes, cheeks aflame, much too embarrassed by his perverse whispers. You feel … almost ashamed at how much it arouses you. Almost. Majorly, it’s fulfilling a dark fantasy you didn’t know you liked.

“... Come inside me,” you breathe, unable to say anything more. You were embarrassed enough. He was using a condom, it was assumed he would be. But hopefully he’d see you were participating in his little fantasy, that you liked it too…

His thrusts are unyielding, and they only get harder, faster, more desperate as the time passes. Damian finishes with a groan, his abs clenching and flexing with effort.

You welcome it, taking it all because he’s right, you were made for this. In this moment, it’s like you were entirely made for this.

To your surprise, there’s sudden stroking on your throbbing clit, and that brings you to the finish line as well.

Your head jerks back violently, body snapping to attention as you ride the wave of an orgasm. A gasp by your ear. You’re clenching around Damian’s length, wringing him dry.

He collapses, narrowly keeping himself from squashing you flat. The two of you are a tangle of sweaty limbs, chests heaving.

“You’ve got to get out of me sometime,” you tease.

You’ve both been lying like this, too taxed to move for maybe ten minutes now.

“Is that so? Honestly, I could die here without complaint,” Damian says, and you get the feeling he’s dead serious. Nevertheless, he rolls away. He does not let you go far, wrapping his arms around you. You shiver at the feeling of him unsheathing himself, suddenly feeling empty.

… And wet. Wetter than expected.

You keep from flushing. Damn, you were really enamored with him, it seems.

You rub your thighs together, relishing in the feeling. Until you pause.

… No, like, you’re really wet.

You slowly sit up, investigating. To your surprise, you’re leaking… cum. And clearly not just your own. It’s smattered down your thighs, sticky. When you pause and can literally feel the cum drip out of you, you exclaim.

“Fuck… fuck.” You put a hand to your dripping cunt, and are surprised when it indeed comes back wet and pearlescent white. It’s for real.

“What’s wrong?” you hear, but you hardly register it.

You pull at a scrap of wrinkled plastic, pulling it out. The condom is shredded. It broke.

“Damian. It broke.”

You stare at it dumbly. It broke. You feel the onset of fear creep by… it’s held at bay, when you feel Damian hushing you, stroking your shoulders.

Damian holds you, asks why are you worrying…? He told you there’s no way. He can’t, he’s sterile.

You dumbly nod, combating fear by reasoning with yourself. Well… you were about to have sex without it anyway, after all. What does it matter if the condom broke?

You suppose it’s just the shock of a failsafe… well, failing to save you. So why do you feel so disconcerted? What’s this niggling feeling, you wonder. You stare at your inner thighs. His cum paints you like a mark.

“It’s nigh impossible,” Damian states. He’s doing what he does best – nullifying your emotions with facts. He pulls you back into his arms, your back against his chest. “The condom was really for your peace of mind. It’s not like it did anything.”

You don’t speak, simply staring at the condom in your hand. You nod.

“Really, there’s no point in wearing condoms from now on anyway. They break.”

Damian’s fingers trace circles on the bone of your shoulders. “I mean, they’re practically pointless. And either way–”

With his long reach, he grabs his phone off the nightstand. He pulls up an article, illustrating the likelihood of him successfully inseminating you.

“See?” he says. “It’s not a factor.”

Unwilling to let whatever strange funk you’ve entered ruin the afterglow of your orgasm, you nod again. You turn your head halfway, smiling. Of course, without missing a beat, Damian kisses you sweetly.

To hell with the condom. And to hell with getting stuck in your head. Lord knows you overthink everything. It’s as Damian says.

His fingers dance on your abdomen, and it tickles.

It’s impossible.

#yandere damian wayne #yandere batfam #damian wayne x reader #girllllll #i just have to post this already im tired #mine

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animeyanderelover · 9 months ago

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Anon: How would yan chuuya, jouno, light, megumi and gojo react to a darling that just doesn't care that they're yanderes?

I already did a similar concept with Chuuya before but I added him nonetheless because I wrote this with a darling in mind that is even fine with the Yandere killing

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional mindset, clinginess, isolation, murder

Tags: @maggiequinn59 @shumidehiro @leveyani @izanami78 @lovley-valentine7

Darling doesn't care that they are obsessed

Yagami Light

✍️Light takes the information very well, a pleased grin on his lips when he realises that none of the things that he does seem to bother you. It’s a sign of submission from your side, something that could only ever please a man with a god complex like he has. This is how it should be after all. You should know your place and love him utterly and completely for the perfect being that he is. Light has done some terrible things in the name of his proclaimed love for you, things that he believes he has the right to do as no one is allowed to steal the person away from him that he plans to keep by his side after he has become the New God. Stealing what belongs to a deity is nothing short of a sin. A sin that has to be punished with death itself. After having confirmed that his feelings for you haven’t scared you nor have some of the actions that he has committed which you were aware of, Light starts truly testing how far your adoration and your dedication go for him. He reveals his ideologies, his mission, his identity to you as well as the future he plans to have with you all whilst you remain loving and loyal. Oh, you are indeed worthy of ruling this world alongside with him. He chose wisely.

Nakahara Chuuya

🟠Chuuya tends to let his delusional side get the better of him yet upon initial discovery that you truly don’t care about his behavior as long as he keeps on loving you and treating you well, the Executive is a tad bit concerned. Are you sure? You’re really fine with all of this? He’s in the Port Mafia, he’s killed people for you even. It’s just hard to believe that you accept all of it as gracious as you do to the point where Chuuya wonders if you’re trying to trick him. That distrust remains for a while even if you give him no reason to doubt you. Paranoia is rarely soothed by logic after all. Once Chuuya has been convinced that you truly mean it when you say that you don’t care about his obsession he gets undeniably more delusional though. If you don’t mind his obsession after all he can’t possibly be as bad as he thought he was. He starts indulging in his obsession for you more and more as you basically give him a free pass, asks of you to move in with him so that he can protect you better all whilst spoiling the living shit out of you. He doesn’t really have to hold himself back as much anymore which leads the Executive to turn his possessive behavior up quite a bit. You won’t mind after all.

Jouno Saigiku

♦️For Jouno this knowledge is a bit of a double-edged sword. On the one hand you are easier to deal with, don’t throw any tantrums which could get on his nerves and show quite a level of obedience that deeply satisfies his possessive side. The composed sound of your heart doesn’t overwhelm him but sometimes he also finds himself getting bored. Don’t forget that this Hunting Dog is still an utter sadist after all who would love to listen to the melody of your frantic heartbeat once in a while. After all it’s quite unspectacular for you to be so monotonous with your behavior and your acceptance all of the time. As much obedience and acceptance you may give him after all, it is all for naught if Saigiku doesn’t have control over you by having you fear him. Loyalty and love are not enough in his mind, not if there isn’t fear that weights you down and has you carefully thinking about every stupid decision you might make. The sadist inside of him is truly talking out of him with this desire yet Jouno never attempts to restrain his actions. Since you’ve already taken so well to everything that he’s done so far he’s sure you won’t mind learning how to be a bit scared of him~

Fushiguro Megumi

💙Megumi’s silent paranoia has led him to justify his overprotective and somewhat overbearing behavior most of the time yet there is a shred of awareness still left somewhere inside of him. It is this last shred of sanity that is the only thing letting him know that you shouldn’t think this way, that you should be scared of him. Perhaps you’re trying to trick him? Something holds Megumi back from believing you when you first admit it to him, almost accusing you of trying to fool him so that he lets his guard down. The moment you manage to convince him though that you are speaking the truth the last shard of awareness shatters and leaves him thoroughly led by his paranoid and overprotective instincts. Of course he trusts you. It’s everyone else that he doesn’t trust though. So you two better spend time alone with each other where others won’t be able to bother the two of you. When he isn’t with you, try not to leave the house. If you do, please contact him and let him know where you are, what you are doing and when you are back home again. No, he isn’t overbearing and overprotective. He only wants to ensure your safety, wants to know you’re safe.

Gojo Satoru

🩵Gojo totally eats your behavior up as soon as he knows that you really don’t mind his overbearing, clingy and paranoid attitude. This man has no restrains to begin with as he never holds his affection back but everything becomes even more gross for the people forced to watch as soon as you indirectly give him the free pass. The man is thrilled, constantly smothers you in love and presents and he quickly pushes this relationship to move in the direction he wants it to go. You quickly find yourself moving in with him as it takes him little to no time to convince you, you find yourself spending an almost overwhelming amount of time with him as he gets quickly jealous when you pay attention to others as his possessive and needy nature quickly cages you in. You’re compliant, you’re sweet and you love him for the person that he is which only pushes Gojo to cling tigthter and tighter to you. He finds comfort in you, he finds his peace when he’s with you and he only confines his pain and his feelings to you. You know him. You understand him. You love him. For those reasons he will never let you leave him nor will he ever let anyone lay a finger on you.

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tteotlma · 7 months ago

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Edge of Redemption

Logan’s life as a priest is built on a fragile foundation of faith and restraint. But then you appear—his greatest temptation, threatening to tear down everything he’s worked so hard to build. Salvation is within reach, but the closer he gets to you, the more he wonders if it’s worth the cost.

Priest!Logan x Reader (9.1k wc)

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, religious blasphemy/sacrilege, priest/church employee relationship, power dynamics, age gap relationship, light choking/breath play, dubious consent themes, emotional manipulation, religious guilt/shame, light degradation, praise kink, explicit language, sexual tension, touch starvation, passionate/rough sex, semi-public intimacy, forbidden relationship, dom/sub themes, emotional vulnerability, morality crisis, internal conflict, power imbalance dynamics, religious conflict, mild degradation through religious themes, consensual acts with power dynamics, office/workplace setting intimacy a/n: this was supposed to be 1k words... and so many tags bc honestly i felt so... religiously guilty LOL but this concept has been on my mind FOREVER. Not beta'd so probs lots of mistakes/repetition. I wanted to do smth different so...

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11/24/24

Logan thought the church would cleanse him, that its walls would shelter him from the shadows he’d carried so long–but some sins were too hard to let go. The echoes of his past clung to him like a second skin, unyielding, no matter how many prayers he muttered or candles he lit. Every sermon, every hymn, every whispered confession felt like an act of penance, but the peace he sought remained just out of reach.

He had learned to take refuge in the routines, in the rhythm of prayer and scripture, as if repetition alone could dull the ache in his soul. The children’s laughter from the Sunday school classes brought moments of light, though even that felt like a reminder of all he’d never have—a life untainted by regret.

Then you arrived.

A disruption he hadn’t anticipated, your presence was unassuming yet magnetic, your voice soft but firm as you led the children from their classroom to their parents. It was the first time in a long time Logan had noticed something—someone—beyond the weight of his own guilt. He told himself it was nothing. She was a teacher, a kind soul, and he was a man who had no right to be drawn to kindness.

But kindness, he found, had a way of reaching the places he had worked so hard to lock away.

The first time you approached him, it was to ask about the church’s history. A notebook held close to your chest, a warm and unassuming smile. “Father Logan, I was hoping you could help me with something.”

He hesitated, his pulse quickening despite himself. “Of course. What do you need?”

You stepped closer, your presence filling the small space between the both of you. “The children were asking about the stained-glass windows—the stories they tell. I wanted to be sure I got it right before the next class.”

Logan glanced at the nearest window, its depiction of Saint Michael vivid in the afternoon light. He cleared his throat, forcing his focus to the question. “Saint Michael, the archangel,” he began, keeping his voice steady. “A symbol of divine protection. The sword he carries is meant to…” His voice faltered as you tilted your head, watching him with quiet attentiveness.

“Meant to what?” you asked softly.

“To strike down the forces of evil,” he finished, though the words felt hollow in his mouth.

The conversation stayed with him long after you left, your notebook tucked under your arm and your footsteps fading into the quiet of the church. Logan stayed behind, lingering by the window watching your shadow disappear around the corner.

———

This Sunday’s rain had come out of nowhere, a sudden deluge that hammered against the stained-glass windows and turned the world outside into a blur. Logan had stayed late, as he often did, finding solace in the quiet of the empty church. The flickering candlelight and the rhythm of the storm outside gave him a sense of calm he rarely found anywhere else.

He was about to extinguish the last of the candles when a faint noise caught his attention—a soft rustling sound coming from the far corner of the sanctuary. His brow furrowed as he moved toward the noise, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor.

And then he saw you.

You were seated near the back of the church, a book in hand and papers spread out beside you. Your damp cardigan draped over the seat beside you. Your hair was slightly disheveled, as you indulged in your book, oblivious to his presence.

“What are you doing here so late?” Logan’s voice broke the silence, low and steady but laced with curiosity. “Church let out hours ago.”

You startled, your bookmark slipping from your fingers as you looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Father Logan! I—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He crossed his arms, his gaze softening as he took in your flustered expression. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You smiled sheepishly, closing the book in your hands. You gestured to the papers beside you, “I was trying to get a head start on next week’s lesson. The storm caught me off guard, and I figured I’d wait it out here instead of getting soaked.”

Logan let out a soft sigh, shaking his head. “You know, most people would’ve taken the storm as a sign to go home.”

“Most people don’t have twenty kids asking them questions I don’t have answers to,” you countered, your smile growing as you tucked your bookmark between random pages. “Besides, it’s kind of nice here at night. Quiet. Peaceful.”

He leaned against the nearest pew, watching as you carefully toyed with the edges of the book. “It’s not safe for you to be out this late, especially with the weather like this.”

“I’ll be fine,” you said lightly, though the way you avoided his gaze told him you weren’t entirely convinced.

Logan frowned, the protective instinct he tried so hard to suppress flaring to life. “At least let me walk you to your car when the rain lets up. I don’t want you getting caught out there alone.”

“It’s okay F-father, I’m not one for driving in the rain anyway.” You turned to look up at him, already finding him staring down at you.

Logan didn’t look away, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. The way you said Father, like it was unfamiliar on your tongue, made something in him stir—a dangerous sometthing he had no business feeling. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the present.

“You’re planning to wait out the storm here, then?” he asked, his voice lower, quieter.

You gave a small shrug, your gaze dropping back to the notebook in your lap. “If that’s okay. It sounds like it might be letting up soon,” Lie. “It won’t be long if that’s okay.” You hug yourself and it’s then that Logan realizes your arms are bare, save for the thin straps holding your top up.

Logan’s gaze followed your hands as you hugged yourself, the thin fabric of your top stretching over your arms. His eyes lingered, just for a moment too long, before he registered the goosebumps that had begun to rise on your skin. The soft glow of the candlelight flickered across your bare arms, highlighting the subtle tremor in your posture that unbeknownst to him had nothing to do with the storm.

He cursed under his breath, shifting uncomfortably where he stood. There was a small pang of guilt in his chest—this wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to notice. He wasn’t supposed to care.

But he did.

Logan cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual. “You’re cold,” he stated, though it wasn’t really a question. It was a simple observation, but it hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken implications. His gaze flicked to the heavy downpour outside the stained glass windows, and then back to you, looking small and vulnerable in the dim light of the church.

You gave a sheepish shrug, clearly not wanting to admit it. “I’m fine. Really.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, the protective instinct kicking in before he could stop it. “No, you’re not,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

He took a few steps toward you, his eyes scanning the room before settling on the door to his office. “I’ve got some coffee in my office. It’s warm, and it’ll help.”

Before you could protest, he was already moving toward the office, and without thinking, he added, “Come on. It’s not safe to stay out here for too long.”

You followed without much hesitation, the soft patter of the rain accompanying your steps as you entered his small, dimly lit office. The door clicked shut behind you, and the air inside was warmer, filled with the faint smell of coffee beans and old books.

Logan’s office was sparse but functional, with a small desk cluttered with papers, and a bookshelf lined with books, most of them theological texts, some old, some well-worn. It felt like a space where things—both literal and emotional—were tucked away, just as he liked it. But tonight, with you standing just a few feet away, the room felt different.

He motioned to the plush velvet chair in the corner of his office, his back turned as he prepared the coffee. “Have a seat,” he said, his voice softer now, but still edged with that familiar tension. "I’ll make it quick."

You settled into the chair, and Logan noticed how you kept your arms tightly crossed over your chest. His gaze flickered over to the window, the rain still relentless outside, though now it felt like a distant background to the simmering awareness between you two.

The sound of the coffee pot bubbling was the only noise for a few moments, and Logan’s mind wandered against his will. He tried not to let his thoughts drift to the way you had looked at him earlier, the softness in your eyes that made him forget himself for a second. The way your voice had caught when you said Father, the hesitation he’d caught there. It was the smallest thing, but it gnawed at him.

He cleared his throat and handed you the mug, the warmth of it radiating through his hand as he held it out to you. “Here.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his briefly, and for the briefest of moments, Logan felt something pulse beneath his skin—a flicker of heat that wasn’t just from the coffee.

“Thank you,” you said softly, lifting the mug to your lips. The warmth seemed to bring some color back to your face, and you looked up at him again. “I didn’t expect to be stuck here this late.”

He nodded, his arms crossed over his chest now, posture tense, as if trying to keep himself contained. “I know. But the storm…” He trailed off, his gaze flickering back to the window yet again, though he wasn’t really looking at it anymore.

You took a sip of the coffee, the warmth spreading through your chest, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the slight tension that had settled between you. “I should’ve left earlier, but I didn’t want to risk driving in this. And I wanted to get ahead…” You trailed off, your voice suddenly quieter, almost apologetic.

Logan's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze flickering from the window back to you. He noticed the way you hesitated, the subtle shift in your posture as if you were choosing your words carefully. The air between you two felt heavier now, a quiet pulse of unspoken things that neither of you were acknowledging outright.

“You wanted to get ahead?” Logan asked, his voice low but gentle, as if he were trying to coax you into sharing.

You nodded, your eyes not meeting his as you took another sip of coffee. “Yeah. For next week. I’ve got so much to prepare for with the kids, and I didn’t want to fall behind. They deserve more than half-effort.” You paused, a flicker of self-doubt crossing your features before you continued, “And, well, during the week... I’m usually too busy.”

Logan didn’t know why, but hearing you speak so earnestly, so committed to your work, made something stir in him. He’d seen a lot of people come and go in this church, but there was something about you that made him feel like he was seeing the world through a new lens. Something soft, something untainted.

"That's admirable," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You care a lot about them."

Your eyes met his at that, and for a brief moment, there was something like understanding shared between you two. A connection neither of you had planned on, but one that was impossible to ignore.

The quiet was starting to feel uncomfortable now, like something was building, and neither of you knew exactly how to handle it. Logan, never one to let things fester too long, cleared his throat again, stepping away from his desk to give you a little space.

“Father Logan,” you asked, staring at the pattern on your silk skirt, your voice soft but with a trace of curiosity, “I was wondering… when we speak of sin and redemption, how do we know when we’ve truly atoned? Is there a moment when the weight finally lifts, or is it something we just carry forever?”

Logan blinked, the question taking him by surprise. He had expected something simpler—maybe a question about the liturgy, or the history of a saint—but this was different. It was deep, personal, something that touched the core of who he was.

He stood still for a moment, unsure how to answer. There were words, sure, but they all felt empty, hollow. Redemption wasn’t something you could define so easily, not when you were so steeped in your own sins.

But before he could find a way to respond, you continued.

“I’ve always wondered about it,” you said, your tone almost hesitant, as if you were unsure if you should ask at all. “Do you ever feel like it’s impossible? Like no matter how hard you try, you can’t truly be... free?”

The question hung in the air between you, thick and heavy. It felt like you were both asking something deeper than what had been spoken.

Logan’s gaze softened, but he didn’t know how to answer yet. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and turned toward the stack of books near the desk.

“Well,” he began, “I don’t know if there’s a clear answer to that. But… maybe there’s something in one of the texts that could give a little more insight.”

He moved toward the pile of books atop the bookshelf beside you, where his most worn ones were stacked. “Just give me a second,” he muttered, crouching down to search through the shelf.

As Logan knelt beside you, his focus shifted to finding the right book, his hand brushing against the spines of the leather-bound volumes. There was something in the way you watched him, quiet and patient, that made the simple act of reaching for a book feel far more intimate than it had any right to.

Finally, he pulled one free, and with a quiet sigh, he straightened his back, holding the thick tome carefully in his hands.

“The answer may be in here,” Logan said, turning back toward you.

Logan shifted the heavy book in his hands, glancing at the faint text on the cover. The storm outside had cast the room in shadows, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside the rain-streaked window. He let out a soft sigh, realizing he couldn’t read a word.

“It’s too dark,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to the small lamp perched on the side table next to the chair you were sitting in. His brow furrowed slightly as he assessed the space.

Without thinking too much about it, Logan leaned forward, the weight of his body shifting slightly closer to yours.

“I’ll turn this on,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.

He reached across you, his chest brushing lightly against your knees where they were flush against the velvet cushion. The nearness made your breath hitch, and you froze, your eyes flickering to his face as he leaned in further.

Logan was suddenly hyperaware of how close he was to you—closer than he’d been to anyone in years. The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the rain lingered in the air between you, soft and utterly disarming. He could hear your shallow breath, could feel the heat radiating off your skin as his fingers found the switch on the lamp.

The quiet click of the lamp filled the silence, and a soft, warm light illuminated the room. Logan didn’t pull back right away. His hand lingered on the lamp’s base for a second too long, his head tilted slightly toward you but he still didn’t dare make eye contact, your faces just inches apart now.

When he finally shifted, his gaze flickered down, catching the way your lips parted as if you were about to say something. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t bring himself to step away as quickly as he should have.

The air felt heavier now, charged with something neither of you could name. His throat tightened as he swallowed hard, his pulse drumming in his ears. The coffee mug in your hands suddenly felt scorching, but you clutched it tighter, hoping the pain could anchor you to reality.

“Sorry,” Logan murmured, his voice rough as he pulled back slightly, though not enough to fully retreat. His knees remained firmly planted beside your chair, and the way his presence loomed made it impossible to look anywhere but at him.

The soft glow of the lamp cast shadows across his sharp features, making his eyes seem darker, more intense, as they searched yours for something he didn’t dare to name.

He cleared his throat and let out a shaky breath and, without meaning to, his voice dipped lower. “Freedom… it's a tricky thing,” he murmured. “We all want it, think we can earn it. But sometimes, it feels like we're just running in circles. We try to shake the past, but it stays with us—like a shadow that never fades.”

Heat crawled down your neck as his eyes searched yours, searching for some understanding, as if the weight of his words could somehow make it easier to admit the truth.

“You ask if it’s impossible,” Logan continued, his voice quieter now, the storm outside still raging. “The thing is… it's not about whether it's impossible. It's about the fact that sometimes, we crave the things that keep us trapped. We want freedom, but part of us still holds on to the chains we know.”

His gaze finally dropped to the book in his hand, fingers tightening around the leather binding. “The hardest struggle isn’t denying what we know is wrong. It’s living with the knowledge that sometimes, what we crave most feels impossibly, painfully right. And that’s the test. Can we break free from that?”

There was a long pause, the room thick with the weight of his words. Logan turned the book in his hands slightly, his eyes lingering on the pages but his mind clearly elsewhere. The connection between the two of you now felt more palpable than ever. There was a shift in the air—a change, as if the weight of his words had unlocked something in you.

You held your breath, unsure if you should speak, but the tension in the room was almost unbearable. His gaze was so intense, like he was waiting for something, and in that moment, you realized you were, too.

"Sometimes," you began, your voice quiet but steady, "it feels like the harder we try to let go, the more we get pulled in. Like we're just meant to repeat the same cycle."

Logan’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, his gaze flicking to yours for the briefest of moments. His lips parted as if he was about to speak, but he held back.

It was strange, almost like he didn’t want to say anything that would break the fragile balance that had settled between you both. And yet, there was something about your words—their softness, the unspoken meaning behind them—that seemed to strike him more than you anticipated.

You shifted in your seat slightly, aware of how close he’s been, the air between you thick with unspoken understanding.

"It’s like we're doomed to always want what we shouldn’t," you continued, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice tinged with an emotion you hadn’t fully grasped. "Maybe that’s the only thing that’s really free... the craving."

Logan's jaw tightened slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, but his expression betrayed nothing. He took in your words, his gaze unwavering, but for the first time since you’d started speaking, something flickered behind his eyes—something raw, something just as vulnerable as your admission.

You hadn’t meant it like that. You hadn’t meant to give voice to that desire, to hint at something deeper. But Logan... Logan heard it.

And when he opened his mouth, the words came out more hoarse than he intended.

"You’re right," he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "Craving’s the only thing that feels like freedom sometimes... but it's also the thing that keeps us from it." He paused, eyes lingering on yours with a sharpness that made your heart skip a beat. “And maybe that’s where we get stuck.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the low hum of the storm outside and the sound of your breath mingling in the charged space. It was as if everything hung on the edge of his next words, like both of you were waiting to see what would break the stillness.

You couldn’t look away. Not now. Not when the air between you was so thick with the things you hadn’t dared to say.

There was a softness in his gaze now, something like an invitation—something you couldn’t quite place, but it made your pulse quicken all the same.

For a second, it felt like the space between you had narrowed to nothing, the tension unspoken but alive, and then Logan’s voice broke through again, quieter than before.

“Sometimes it’s not about breaking free,” he murmured, his lips close enough for you to feel the heat in his words. “Sometimes it’s about giving in. To what we crave, what we need.”

You swallowed, your breath coming faster now, realizing just how close he was—how close you were to crossing a line neither of you had dared to touch. And when you met his gaze again, there was a question there. A challenge, almost, like he was daring you to acknowledge it.

You shifted in your seat a smidge, knees brushing against his chest again. Logan looks down at your fingers pinching the fabric of your skirt between your fingers. You lean in close.

“Tell me father, do you think the sweetest part of surrender is giving in, or the release that follows?”

You could hear Logan's jaw clench as you leaned back to look him in the eyes.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the storm outside a distant roar compared to the thunderous pulse of tension between you. Logan’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something predatory flashing across his face before his expression smoothed into something unreadable. His hand, still gripping the book, trembled slightly as if he was barely keeping himself in check.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, the weight of your words hanging in the air like a challenge. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the space between you now almost unbearable. His gaze lingered on your lips, then your eyes, before returning to the fabric of your skirt, where your fingers still toyed with the fabric.

His voice, when it came, was rough, almost a whisper. "It’s the release that makes everything make sense," he murmured, his gaze piercing as he leaned just a fraction closer, his breath ghosting across your skin. "But the act of giving in... that’s where we find out just how far we’re willing to go."

Your heart hammered in your chest, and despite the intensity, there was something in his words, in the way he spoke them, that felt like an invitation—like the first step toward something neither of you could take back. Logan’s eyes locked with yours again, this time with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"You want to know what’s sweetest, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice lowering to a gravelly growl, his hand finally moving from the book to rest just a breath away from your skin. "It’s the release... but only after you’ve let go completely. That’s when it’s real."

You barely had time to register his words before Logan's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your throat with a force that made your pulse spike. It was a gentle pressure, but it was enough to send a jolt of heat through your body, your breath hitching as his lips crashed against yours in a kiss that was anything but soft.

His lips were frantic, almost demanding as he lapped at the inside of your mouth, as though he could taste the tension between you both and needed to consume it, to devour it whole. The pressure on your throat was intoxicating, just enough to make everything else fade into the background—just the weight of his hand, the heat of his mouth on yours, the way your body instinctively leaned into him, unable to resist.

You couldn’t help but whine when he deepened the kiss, his thumb brushing over your pulse, sending electric shivers down your spine. The world outside, the storm, the heavy air—everything else seemed to dissolve, leaving only the rawness of the moment, the undeniable connection that had built between you both.

Logan pulled back, his breath heavy, but his hands didn’t leave you completely. His fingers grazed your throat before sliding to your cheek, his touch softer now, almost apologetic. His gaze flickered for a moment, conflicted, before he let out a low, frustrated exhale discarding the book.

"Shit, sorry," he muttered, his voice rough, the usual controlled demeanor slipping. "I don’t usually—"

He trailed off, his words fading as if he was still trying to make sense of the rush of emotion that had overtaken him. For a heartbeat, you thought he might pull away entirely, the weight of his apology making him retreat. But before you could second-guess, you grabbed onto the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

Logan didn’t resist. Instead, his lips hovered near your ear, his breath warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

"I’ve wanted you," he admitted in a low whisper, the rawness of his voice making your heart race. "Since the moment I saw you, I’ve wanted nothing more than to have you." His now empty hand lightly ghosted your calf, running the back of his finger up and down your smooth skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"But the church... it’s taught me something, hasn’t it?" he continued, his voice lowering almost to a murmur, as if he was wrestling with a deeper truth. "It’s not just about following every rule or duty.” His finger trailed higher, his thumb caressing your knee, then teasing the sensitive skin where your leg bent.

“There’s a passage in Ecclesiastes that says, ‘To everything, there is a season.’” He spoke with a quiet intensity, his words lingering in the air like a weight neither of you could ignore. “Sometimes, you don’t wait for permission. If something’s right in front of you, you don’t hesitate—you take it. You don’t wait for the world to tell you when the time is right.”

His fingers pressed deeper into your skin, the subtle pressure sending a rush of heat through you. Then, his palm splayed across your thigh, squeezing the tender meat with a possessiveness that left no room for doubt. The touch was slow, deliberate, as though he was marking his territory, claiming what had always been his. The air between you both thickened, each word and touch drawing you closer to the point of no return.

He pressed his lips to your neck, his breath hot against your skin, the words heavy with the weight of his need. "And right now," he murmured, his fingers curling into your skin, tightening as though he couldn't hold back any longer, "I’m done waiting."

With that, his grip on your thigh tightened, drawing a soft whine from your lips. The hand that had been caressing your cheek slid to the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he pulled you into another heated kiss. Your fingers instinctively clenched tighter around the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, as though the space between you was too much to bear.

Once he felt you leaning into the kiss, his hand then trailed a slow, deliberate path down your body, grazing your curves until it reached your ankle. Then, just as slowly, it traveled back up the unoccupied side of your body, his touch sending waves of heat through you as his fingers slid beneath the thin fabric of your skirt.

One of your hands came to rest on his, the warmth of his palm searing your skin as he kneaded the soft flesh of your thigh. You let out a breathy sigh, and he responded with a low, gravelly groan, the sound vibrating against your lips.

Your fingernails grazed the nape of his neck, drawing him closer as you leaned back into the seat. He followed without hesitation, his weight pressing against you, grounding you, yet setting your pulse racing. Instinctively, your legs shifted, parting to let him settle between them, the growing heat between you thick with tension that begged for release.

His hands gave your thighs a final, firm squeeze, sending a shiver rippling through you before they began their slow descent down your legs to your ankle. His thumbs hooked under the edge of your skirt, the fabric gathering in his hands as he teased it higher, exposing more of your skin inch by inch. For a fleeting moment, his lips left yours, leaving you gasping softly at the sudden loss of contact, your body craving the return of his warmth.

Logan’s gaze fell to your lips, now swollen and parted, his own hovering close as though he couldn’t bear to pull away completely. He leaned in again, capturing your bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle nip, tugging just enough to send a jolt of heat coursing through you. When he finally eased back, his eyes dropped lower, dark with a hunger that made your breath hitch. His chest rose and fell heavier now, his focus riveted to your legs as they shifted, parting wider in silent invitation.

Your body acted on instinct, your knees lifting to bracket his hips, pulling him closer as his hands found the heat of your thighs. His fingers slid beneath the soft skin, pushing your skirt higher with deliberate, torturous slowness. When the edge of the fabric reached just shy of exposing your underwear, he stopped, his grip tightening on your thighs as though anchoring himself. His gaze flicked back to yours, the weight of his restraint palpable, even as his dark eyes betrayed just how close he was to losing it entirely.

His voice came out rough, low, barely more than a whisper, his hand faltering for a moment as the fabric inched higher.

"You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me. This... I shouldn’t even be thinkin’ about it, let alone..."

His words trailed off as your underwear came into view, the soft lace hugging your curves in a way that made his breath stutter. He let out a low, guttural noise, his fingers flexing against your thighs.

"Christ, sweetheart... you’re gonna ruin me."

His hands moved with purpose now, sliding higher until they engulfed the swell of your ass, his palms kneading the soft flesh as though he could no longer help himself. With a single, deliberate push, he bunched the fabric of your skirt around your waist, his thumbs brushing down to press against the delicate bows resting on your hips.

His thumbs were toying with the fragile bows at your hips, brushing against the lace that barely concealed you. Your breath hitched, and you swore you felt him tremble against you, the tension in his body wound so tightly it was as if he might snap at any moment.

Logan let out a shaky breath, one hand sliding up your back pushing the fabric of your top exposing a small sliver of your back, kneading your flesh with both hands like he was memorizing every inch. "I swore I wouldn’t... I told myself I’d keep my hands off you," he admitted, his tone strained, like he was confessing a sin. "But everytime you walk in here lookin’ like that, sittin’ there all sweet... and then this—"

His thumb scraped the lace, grazing your skin so lightly it was almost unbearable. A moan catches in your throat, his jaw clenching, as he let out a frustrated growl, his hand gripping the meat of your thigh like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"This is wrong," he muttered, though his actions betrayed his words as he pushed you upward towards him, until his lips found the curve of your jaw, trailing fire down to your throat. "But, God help me, I don’t think I care anymore."

You whimpered softly as his teeth scraped against your pulse, his hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin as his fingers explored, teasing along the edge of your underwear.

"I should stop," Logan said, his voice rough and filled with conflict, even as his hand tightened on your hip. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and clouded with want. "Tell me to stop. Tell me to walk away, and I’ll do it."

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, your hands shakily slid up to cradle his face, your thumbs brushing over his rough stubble as you pulled him in close, pausing just before your lips touched. Barely brushing together, you breathed in each other’s air, trying to catch your breath but only becoming dizzier. “F-father, please,” you murmured against his lips, the words barely audible but carrying all the certainty he needed.

Logan’s eyes darkened even further, and he swallowed hard, his breath shaky as his hands came up to cup your face. “Who am I to deny help to someone in need?” he murmured, almost to himself, as if trying to convince himself this was justified. “It’s my duty, isn’t it? To guide... to offer support... even when it’s hard.” He pulls you closer to his hips.

You nodded more enthusiastically than you intended, your body shivering with anticipation. Your lower stomach burned with arousal, the need to feel him building with each second. The cold air of the office contrasted with the slick warmth between your legs, a sensation that desperately needed to be satiated.

The shift in your posture, the way your body responded to him, was all the confirmation he needed. His gaze flicked between your lips and your eyes, his jaw tightening as he leaned in to capture your lips yet again in another heated kiss.

He nipped and licked at your lips, the soft pressure of his teeth sending a jolt of heat straight through you. His breath mingled with yours, slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring the moment, tasting the very air between you. Then, with a groan, his tongue traced the edge of your bottom lip before slipping inside, exploring the warmth of your mouth.

Your body responded instinctively, lips parting to welcome him, your tongue meeting his in a slow, teasing dance. Every movement was deliberate, an exploration, a taste, and yet it felt like he was trying to draw you deeper into him with each brush of his tongue against yours. The warmth of his mouth, the way he gently pulled you closer, ignited a desperate ache between your thighs.

You whimpered softly as his hand slid down your back, fingers splayed to press you further into him. His hips pressed into yours, hard and unmistakable, the evidence of his desire undeniable. You felt the heat of his body, the burn of his touch, every nerve on edge, every inch of your skin on fire.

His kiss deepened, more urgent now, as if the need to consume you, to claim you, was taking over. He tilted your head just slightly, deepening the angle, and his tongue moved more aggressively, exploring with a hunger that matched the pounding of your heart. Every time he pulled back, the slight break in the kiss only heightened your yearning, the cool air rushing in before his lips found yours again, harder, more demanding.

With a small groan, Logan pulled away and it was then you realized he had unzipped his pants and set his cock free, painfully strained as it lightly grazed the inside of your thigh. Each time he huffed a heavy breath you could feel the heat emanating from his cock atop your soaked folds.

You began squirming beneath him, the anticipation becoming unbearable. You tried to lift your hips, desperate to meet him, to feel some kind of relief, but his grip on your knees was unyielding, anchoring you in place. Small whines escaped your throat, breathless and needy, as you wriggled beneath him, trying to close your legs, raise your hips, anything to alleviate the ache.

“S-sweetheart—” His voice faltered, thick with restraint, and your movements came to a sudden halt. You froze, looking up at him through hazy, half-lidded eyes, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You were intoxicated, drowning in the heat between you, his presence suffocating in the best possible way.

His hands tightened around your knees, his fingers digging into your skin as if trying to hold himself together, to maintain some semblance of control. His eyes flicked down to where your body was reacting to him, your legs attempting to press tightly together, your hips still instinctively shifting. His gaze darkened, swallowing thickly as his breath hitched.

"God help me," Logan muttered under his breath, as if asking for forgiveness, but his voice was raw with something far less holy. “Fuuuck–” He breathed out when he finally allowed himself to touch you.

Years of only having his hand as company, mixed with months of pining after you made him feel more adolescent as he had hoped. His body lurched violently forward as one hand grasped at the armrest and the other at your groin, as he slid his thick cock against your silk covered folds, the fabric immediately glossing over with your slick. His hips picked up their pace, almost involuntarily with how wet the both of you were, he was desperate for friction.

You throw your head back in frustration, the mix of need and restraint between the two of you creating an almost unbearable tension. Your movements become more erratic as you try to help, attempting to rock your hips against him, but the uncoordinated motions from both of you do little to satisfy the ache in your stomach. The lack of control between you only intensifies the frustration, the heat building without any relief.

Logan’s breath hitches, his jaw clenching as he watches your desperate movements. A shameful growl rumbles in his chest, and without warning, his hand on the armrest moves to your throat. His thumb presses against the side of your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath his touch, while his fingers tighten around your neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to still you.

The pressure on your throat forces your movements to slow, your breath coming out in shaky gasps as his grip reminds you of his dominance. His hooded and hazy eyes darken, filled with an intense mixture of restraint and something far more primal.

“Stay still sweetheart,” His chest heaves. “I promise, I’ll give you everything you want.” The hand not on your throat moves between your legs and pushes his cock down against your drenched pussy. Your thighs spread impossibly further as the pressure on your clit increases. Small moans leave your lips each time the tip of Logan’s cock halts beneath the swell of your clit each thrust harder than before.

It isn’t until he fists the base of his shaft, where he lines the drooling tip of his cock with your seemingly tight entrance through the flooded fabric of your panties. It’s obvious he enjoys teasing you, and restraining himself. He slowly pushed his hips forward, guiding the head of his dick past your entrance watching as his precum beads against the pink fabric the deeper he buried.

You threw your head back in both frustration and ecstasy. Relishing in the way his thick head stretched your pulsing entrance. A loud moan ripping its way through your throat but stopping short when Logan’s hand clenched tighter around your neck.

He let out a feral grunt, as he tried to sink further into your tight hole not yet able to bury himself completely.

"God, sweetheart... you feel so damn good, like I’m finally touching heaven." He pulls his hips back, his breath ragged. "But I can’t... I can't let myself get lost in this. You deserve better than... than whatever this is."

Despite being pinned against the seat by his grip on your throat, your heart races with the fear that he might pull away. Your hand reaches out, grabbing for the arm that’s keeping you still, your fingers scrambling desperately for purchase. The other moves to grasp his shirt, fingertips tugging at the fabric as if you could pull him back, keep him close.

"Please," you gasp, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it. "D-don’t pull away." Your body arches instinctively, aching for more of the pleasure he’s been withholding—the sensation just barely within your grasp. Logan doesn’t say anything in response, his eyes heavy and focused as he watches you squirm beneath him, his silence more consuming than any words could be.

The hand around your throat loosens, his fingers shifting to the back of your neck, and in that instant, the air between you changes. His touch softens briefly, but then his eyes darken again, a storm of desire and restraint fighting for dominance. He leans in closer, and you don’t hesitate—you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him in as your hips lift to meet him, desperate for more, for release. Your lips part as small cries escape, mingling with needy whispers for him.

"How can I say no when this angel sent from heaven begs me so nicely?" Logan’s voice is thick with disbelief, as though he’s trying to convince himself that this isn’t happening. His lips press against your neck, nipping and kissing, while his hips grind against yours—slow and purposeful. But there’s an edge to his movements now, a crack in his control.

Suddenly, the tension breaks.

"Fuck it," Logan growls, the words a harsh release of everything he’s been holding back. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you to him with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. "I can’t hold back, sweetheart." His voice is low, gravelly, as his hips slam forward, no longer restrained, no longer holding back.

“Oh,” You gasp as his hips drive in and out of you."M-more–" The cry tears from your throat as you clutch at his back. He finally gave in, but it wasn't enough. His grunts in your ear and stuttering hips tell you he needs more too.

"P-please father L-Logan," you whisper, overwhelmed by sensation, hands desperately searching for anchor. Your fingers tangle in his hair.

He's lost in you now, consumed by your body beneath his, the taste of your skin, the sound of your breath. There's no more hesitation or restraint. Logan surrenders to his primal need for you, every shred of self-control abandoned. When his lips crash onto yours, it's fierce—pure, raw desire with no trace of softness.

You whine into his mouth and he eats every sound like it’s his last meal. He grabs you at the bend of your knee, holding your leg up as he uses his other hand to hold your thighs open as he rams into harder. The fabric of your soaked panties pulling taut against your entrance each time he thrust back into your heat.

“More, more–” You cried out, when he gave one particularly hard thrust and rather than burrowing himself deep inside you, to both your dismay he instead rubbed against your folds. You sobbed in frustration.

“P-please,” you plead, your voice trembling as you pull his head against your chest, desperation lacing every syllable. “I’m a good girl, Father Logan, I-I…” Your words falter as tears begin to spill from the corners of your eyes, slipping down your flushed cheeks.

Logan pulls away and freezes at the sight, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he can’t look away from the way you’ve unraveled beneath him—the way your body trembles, how your tears glisten in the dim light, and the broken pleas falling from your lips. His chest tightens with a dangerous mix of pride and guilt, the weight of what he’s done settling heavily on him.

"Aw, sweetheart..." he murmurs, his voice softer now, the rough edges dulled by an unfamiliar tenderness. He tilts his head, pressing his lips to your damp cheek, tasting the salt of your tears as he whispers, "Don't cry." His thumb gently brushes away a tear. "I've got you now. I'm sorry for makin' you wait so long."

His lips move to yours, soft and deliberate, a kiss that holds both apology and promise. As he adjusts, his hands steady themselves, sliding to your hips. His fingers find the edge of your underwear, and with a careful, almost reverent touch, he moves the fabric aside.

Without breaking the kiss he guides his throbbing cock to your entrance, and his hips twitch forward. You cry out, but his tongue muffles your sounds. He grabs the tops of your thighs, gripping them hard enough to know marks will be there tomorrow.

“Oh, God.” He comes to his full height when he pulls you to the edge of the seat, his hips make sharp contact with the back of your thighs and Logan pulls you impossibly close.

“Hnn…ah!” You mewled, your body constricted, overwhelmed with the new sensation of being filled to the brim. “Father…” You reached between your legs to try and push him back but he grabs your wrists, holding your palms flush against the heat of his happy trail. Your fingers clench, yanking at the hair between your fingers, and he lets out a low chuckle. His hips jerk.

“I was tryna take this slow, sweetheart.” He tries to bury himself deeper, and you moan at the delicious pain of being stretched.

“Ahh…” He lets out a devious chuckle as he feels you throb around him. “But now that you’re squeezing me so tight, princess, I don’t think I can.” He snaps his hips forward, and a breathy sigh of pleasure escapes his lips as his tip hits the pulsing wall of your arousal.

A cry rips from your throat as he pulls back from the hilt, his movements slow and deliberate, dragging against every sensitive inch of you. The emptiness is brief but unbearable, a plea spilling from your lips before he slams back into you, harder this time, his rhythm becoming punishingly deliberate.

"You’re somethin’ sacred," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his hands trembling as they grip you tighter, holding you as if you might slip away. "And me? I’m a man still chained to the things I’ve done. I don’t know why God would give me you... not when I ain’t even begun to earn forgiveness."

His words hang heavy in the air, a confession borne of guilt and reverence as his thrusts grow deeper, more desperate. It’s as though he’s pouring all his contradictions—his desire, his regret, his unworthiness—into every movement, every touch.

“Yet here you are,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing against your neck between ragged breaths. “Like a gift I don’t deserve, like somethin’ holy, and I…”

Between your moans, your hand wriggles free from his grasp, trembling fingers reaching up to press gently over his mouth. His words falter as his eyes meet yours, dark and brimming with emotion.

“Don’t,” you whisper, your voice shaky but firm. “Don’t overthink it. Just… just feel me.” You arch your back and thrust your hips to meet his movements, a quiet gasp slipping from your lips at the raw intensity of the connection between you.

His breath hitches against your palm, the tension in his body melting as if your words have unraveled something deep inside him. Slowly, his lips part, and he kisses the tips of your fingers reverently, like an unspoken promise—a vow to let go, to give in.

His grip on your hips tightens, his pace quickening as he loses himself in you completely, every thrust a declaration of everything he’s too afraid to say aloud. His lips trail down the curve of your wrist, his body trembling as you murmur mantras.

“Yes, yes, yes–” Each cry ripped from your throat, every time his cock stuffed you full. “Oh God, yes.” You yelled, as his pace became violent.

Logan’s pace grows more frantic, each thrust a calculated mix of dominance and desperation. His breath is heavy, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the space between you, your cries echoing through the room.

But as your body trembles beneath him, he suddenly slows, pulling back just enough to make you gasp. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense. “I’m not close to God,” he growls, his voice rough with lust and something else—something conflicted. “Never have been. I don’t deserve a fucking angel like you… but damn if I’m not enjoying every moment of this.”

A twisted smirk curls on his lips as he watches your expression shift, the heat of his touch still burning against your skin. “Say it. Say ‘Father Logan,’” he demands, his hands gripping you harder. “Tell me you can feel the guilt, the sin in every fucking inch of me. Say it.”

You moan softly as his grip tightens, your body arching beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the heat between you intensifies. Despite the sinful nature of his words, the way his voice trembles with need makes your breath catch in your throat.

“I– Father Logan,” you gasp, the words slipping from your lips in a mixture of pleasure and desperation, the name falling so easily from your mouth, like it’s the only thing that feels right in that moment.

Logan’s smirk deepens, but there's a trace of something more in his eyes—something raw and uncontrollable. He presses in harder, his pace picking up again, each thrust making you cry out as he fills you completely. His lips brush against your ear, and he lets out a low, satisfied chuckle.

“Damn right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “You’ve got no idea how much I love hearing that. It makes this… all of it feel real.” He leans down to kiss you roughly, his hands pushing you further into the mattress as he continues his relentless rhythm. "I’m so fucking far from anything holy, but you make me feel... like maybe I can be something good for you. Just for you."

The tension builds again, making every thrust deeper, harder, a wild mix of passion and pain as he drives you both toward something inevitable. He holds you close, his breath hot against your skin, his name—a prayer and a sin—escaping from your lips with each frantic cry.

“Come on princess, I know you’re burning up down here.” His heavy hand presses down on your stomach, and you sob. He was nowhere near wrong, waves of heat ran from the tips of your toes, to the center of your core.

“I know you’re close ‘cause I’m close.” He holds your hips as he comes back up to his full height, lifting you with him as he rests his knee on the edge of the seat. The new position allows him to somehow hit deeper at a different angle and that’s all it takes to make your vision fade, and see white light.

Your body shakes violently as the coils in your stomach finally unravel, a string of curses leave your lips, as your hips jerk violently. Logan still chasing his release.

“Oh fuck,” Logan chokes out in a low, gravelly tone, his voice rough with need. His hands grip your hips tighter, his pace never slowing, even as you tremble beneath him.

He pants, his words barely coherent as his thrusts become more urgent. “You’re like a fucking blessing I don’t deserve, but I can’t stop, can’t pull away—" He groans as he feels you pulse around him, coming down from your high. "God, you’re like heaven wrapped in skin.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He continues to pound into you, the newly released heat rebuilding the more Logan drove into you.

“F-father, I’m gonna– I can’t–” Tears spill from your eyes again, but this time Logan doesn’t wipe them away.

“Shh, you’re such a good girl,” His hands wrap around your throat as ripples of pleasure pinch at his nerves, “A goddamn angel.” And he squeezes his hands, hips coming to a halt as his cock pulses inside of you.

As he fills you with thick and heavy strings of his load, another orgasm splits your mind in half and your mind goes blank as you cry out for Logan.

“Ah, fuuck…” He sighs as he hesitantly pulls out. You whimper as he watches you clench around nothing. He picks you up with no problem at all and he switches positions, having you sit on his lap.

You can feel slick dripping from your abused cunt, and you attempt to move worried about ruining the man’s pants.

"Let go," he breathes, keeping you firmly in his lap despite your squirming. His fingers dig into your hips possessively. "Want to feel what I've done to you." You whimper as he captures your lips in a deep kiss, still oversensitive from before. His hands roam your body with renewed hunger, like he can't get enough. Your body trembles as his fingers trace your spine, stopping to knead your ass.

"Heaven sent," he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss to admire the marks he's left. When you try to look away, shy under his heated gaze, he gently turns your face back to his. "Look at me, angel." His eyes hold yours, dark with lingering desire and something deeper. His thumb brushes your cheek tenderly, a stark contrast to his earlier roughness. You both know this moment has changed everything between you, crossing a line that can't be uncrossed. But as he pulls you closer, neither of you can bring yourselves to regret it.

a/n: pls support by reblogging.

#wolverine #hugh jackman #logan howlett #deadpool and wolverine #logan x reader #logan fic #logan fanfic #logan smut #logan wolverine #logan x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #logan james howlett #logan x y/n

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wordsbymae · 1 year ago

Text

Saviour Complex- goddess!Reader x Warrior

Plot: Reader is a young goddess, still yet to come into her full power. The patron goddess of innocence and compassion, she resides deep within the forest, caring for any lost souls who come her way. Destruction finds its way to her lands, as the Emperor's men flood the forest, tasked with cutting down anyone who refuses to denounce their heathen ways. One warrior finds the reader's temple, and tasks himself with 'saving' the reader from herself.

TW: Loosely based on posiden and medusa, which if you know is a trigger warning all on its on, SA, Implied non/con, talks of religion and religious genocide. Neither the warrior's or reader's religions (so to speak) are actual practised or once practiced religions. They are completely made up. Sexual talk. This fic is from the warrior's point of view so very much misogynistic, ignorant, and him being a dick. Also breeding is mentioned (a few times, opps) I see the warrior as Pedro Pascal as Pero Trovar

Notes: This was meant to be priestess reader but I liked this idea better. Enjoy!

He would hardly call the temple before him a temple. It was nothing more than some stones and arches pilled together, hidden under the canopy of a great oak. It was not as old as the other temples he and his comrades had pulled down. The other's, older and more grand than the one in front of him, were infested by savage heathens. They had been dozens of them milling around the great stone pillars. Some leaving tokens of good faith, other's seeming to be in constant service to their wild gods.

This land he found himself in was not under the watchful gaze of the Eye. Nor were they subjects of the Emperor. Instead they worshipped petty gods and goddesses, born from mortal parent's, given gifts of power from Mother Wild. The gifts given depended on their actions as growing gods. Raised as mortals until their 20th nameday, when Mother Wild gives them her final gift, immortality. At least, immortality to a point.

They age as mortals do, but the hands of time pass ever slowly by. As they watch their family and friends grow grey and old, only days have the wild gods aged. It is said that they can one day grow old, grey and tired, succumbing to death as all living things do. But none had ever yet to reach such an age. Gods were able to be killed but it took strength and numbers to do so, and the sword of Caleen, the first wild god ever born. Caleen's own blood had been mixed with the metal, creating a sword capable of penetrating through the gifts given to them. The sword, gifted to him by the Emperor, lay dormant in its sheath by the warrior's side. It was the only method known to truly kill a wild god.

Until then, the only way to defeat a god without the sword was to force them to act in a way that went against their patronage. Salios, once god of law and order, had his gifts ripped from him by Mother Wild, when he unjustly killed an innocent man. Without his gifts, age and sickness came for him thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of years before he should have perished as a god. Yet such an act had not occurred for hundreds of years, least of all forced by human hand. So these wild gods reigned over their forgotten wood, almighty in power and reverence.

It was heresy.

These 'almighty' beings were nothing but demons, given unholy power by the forces of darkness. Born human, yet corrupted by power. It was unnatural, it was all that went against the teachings of the Eye. Humans were sinful creatures, and the more power one had, the more corrupted they became.

The warrior grimaced as he walked up to the temple. A stupid move if he was being honest. He was here alone after being separated from his battalion. But he needed a place to shelter the coming storm, the air thick with the scent of rain. He would rather face a barbarian than freeze in the wilderness. The temple seemed to be empty, no worshippers leaving offers or priests caring after the god. It was quiet and lonesome. Yet strangely welcoming. He could feel warmth emerging from inside the temple, the scent of delicate florals dancing through the air.

He hesitated at the threshold of the temple, it was clean and well looked after. The walls were lined with soft candlelight, and murals of prancing deer and maidens dancing through the woods. A statue of a woman stood silent in the middle, bathed in dark sunlight by a round hole in the roof. The statue was covered in crowns of flowers. Some placed on her bowed head, others hooked onto her arms as they reach outwards, palms facing towards the sky. Gifts of pearls, lilies and feathers of pure white were placed delicately at the foot of the statue.

He did not care to learn these savage gods names. There were hundreds of them, some more powerful than others. Some given patronage over small, worthless things. He had laughed for hours when he discovered that there was a patron god of footprints. Whoever this temple was erected for, was loved yes, but not revered.

The warrior walks deeper into the temple, becoming enveloped in a sense of peace and compassion at the care given to this little goddess. He grunts in frustration, these stupid gods and their stupid 'gifts'. When he and his brothers in arms desecrated the patron god of fear's temple, the battle was nearly lost as they nearly fell to the wild gods powers. Fear racing through their ranks. Just being in the presence of a god was enough for their powers to linger in the air, effecting a mortal humans thoughts and feelings.

This little goddess must still be here.

Rain began to fall from the heavens, it came down with a fury. Yet, the rain that fell through the hole came down in fat, gentle drops upon the statue of the goddess. Water drippled down her stone face, the warrior had to admit this little goddess was quite the beauty. If her statue was anything to go by. He walks deeper into the sanctuary, closer towards the statue. He stops just in front of her image, breathing in deeper at what he can only imagine is her scent, sweet yet comforting, there was an earthiness to it too. He reaches out to caress the stone cheek of his little goddess. What a pretty thing she was.

He kneels to take in the sight of the gifts offered to her. There were the pearls, feathers and lilies he had seen before. But now he could see spools of white wool, wrapped in ribbon, and carvings of hearts, flowers and dozens of names circling the statue.

Lightly touching the most prominent of the carved names, he allowed himself a grin. He had found the wild goddess of innocence and compassion.

He had found you.

You were the youngest of the gods, only decades since you were gifted your immortality. Yet, you had quickly become beloved by your worshippers. The patron goddess of innocence and compassion, you resided deep within the forgotten woods, caring for the animals of the forest and any travellers who crossed your path. It is said that only those in needing of help or guidance, and children looking for a home could find you. The delicate smell of flowers leading the way to your temple. The names carved upon the stone at your feet were those you had cared for over the years. Travellers lost and afraid. Children without parents or care. Women hiding from vengeful men. And men scarred by life itself. All found their way to you, to your compassionate and pure hands.

You were the last of the major gods that the warrior and his men were yet to find. Your brothers and sisters before you had fallen. Some had run like cowards leaving their temples, and their followers, to burn into the night. Others, slaughtered by his hand. Time may only harm the wild gods so much, but Caleen's sword is a deadlier foe than time itself. It filled him with joy remembering plunging Caleen's own sword into the first wild god's heart. He was the first of the wild gods and as such he was the first to fall.

The warrior stood to his full height quickly as soft footsteps made their way through the temple. They came to a stop, the owner hidden by darkness still.

Outside the storm raged on.

"That you little goddess?" the warrior jested, hand coming to rest lazily on his sword's pummel. He stepped around the statue, giving a slight kick at a doll that was laid carefully at its feet.

The sound of hesitant shuffling could be heard. His little goddess was nervous.

"May I see your face, dear one? I have come a long, long way to find you. I wish not to leave this place without seeing your face, it would break this poor soldiers heart" he pouted in fake hurt, creeping towards you as a wolf moves closer to its prey.

"Who are you?" you ask, voice calm and strong. Yet, he could sense fear in your words.

"Just a poor soldier, a lost traveller if you will. Seeking the care and compassion of your grace" he answers, bowing slightly. He toys with his pummel, he had a feeling he would not need to draw it this day.

"Are you hurt?" you plead, taking a closer step towards him, your sense of empathy and compassion shinning through.

The warrior saw his chance, and he was going to take it.

"Not physically your grace, but I have not yet broken my fast or had a drop of water in days." he furrows his brow, grimacing and holding his stomach with his free hand.

"Oh! Your poor thing!" you exclaim, rushing forward to meet him. Once in the light, the warrior damned the creator of the sculpture for failing to capture your beauty. The statue was nothing in comparison to you. Your hair was thick and healthy, framing your face perfectly. Your skin soft and supple. Lips dewy and oh so kissable.

Your were the most beautiful woman he had seen in his entire life.

And here you were, all his for the taking. You were dressed as a goddess deemed fit, perfectly tailored and fetchingly so. But all he could think about was ripping it from you in a daze of lust. You rushed up to him and guided him deeper into your temple. He only realised that the temple was much larger than it seemed when he was outside. These wild gods and their tricks. You cooed to him the entire time. Stating there would be a warm bath and fresh fruit and clear spring water for him in his room. You hadn't even noticed his weapon, or if you had, you truly were the patron god of innocence.

He allowed you to fuss over him. Allowed you to lead him deeper into your temple, until you reached an open court yard, filled with plants of all colours and sizes, soft grass below his feet. At one end a statue of Mother Wild stood, vines and flowers blooming across her figure. In the centre of it was a beautiful flowering tree, more gifts had been left here to.

He stopped you from leading him further on, his eyes set on this tree. There was magic in its very fibre, unnatural power. He could feel it.

"Everything ok soldier?" you try, hand coming to rest on his back. He flinches at the contact, it was so soft and kind. No one had touched him with such care before.

"What is this tree?" he turns to you.

"Oh! Its a magnolia tree" you grin

"No, I know that, why is it here, and why.." he stops himself, he was going to ask you why he felt power radiating from it. "why are there gifts at its base."

You give him a soft smile, gently grabbing his hand you lead you to its base. You softly bring yourself and him to the ground. White flowers fell softly to the ground. You reached a hand out to touch the bark, closing your eyes, before reopening them to look at the warrior.

"Here, give me your hand"

Without thought he places his hand in yours.

What wicked spell have you put him under.

And why does he not care to know.

With your gentle touch on his, the warrior felt heat rise deep inside him. You placed his hand on the bark, yours overlapping his.

"Do you feel it?" you whisper, voice soft and kind.

Of course he could feel it. Pure innocence, unbridled compassion and love.

He hated it.

"This tree is an extension of myself. The day I was born, when my parent's realised who and what I was, they planted this tree. They understood that they and all those who I love would grow old, die and leave me alone. This was their way of giving me a companion. The day I received my gifts and my patronage was the day I laid my parents to rest under this tree's shadow."

He watches in silence as tears well up in your eyes.

"I hadn't even turned four and ten springs yet, when...when they attacked. They were raiders from the south. Brutes, really. My parent's told me to flee, but there were younger children, pregnant women and injured men who couldn't flee, or didn't know where to flee to. So while the warriors in my village tried the best they could to defend us. I went back and forth between this tree and the village, carrying, dragging and leading all those I could to the safety of the great oak that shadows my temple. When I went back the last time, there was nothing left. Our warriors were slain and my parents...."

You break off, tears trickling down. He feels the sudden urge to wipe them from your cheek. He lets himself have the honour of doing so, and your let yourself have the pleasure of him touching you.

"Anyway, there wasn't much else I could do, so I brought them here, buried them, and cared for the survivors the best I could. It was then I was given my gifts, for my compassion for my people and my innocence in the face of death, I was given my patronage. We rebuilt our village, and life was good. But the years after I was given my final gift, were... difficult to say the least. Watching my friends grow old, have families of their own. Then watching their children age and grow grey. I... it was difficult."

You give him a pointed stare, now turning your back onto the tree and rested upon it. He removes his hand from the bark, mirroring your actions.

"Can I tell you a secret?" you plea, eyes big and soft.

"Of course my little goddess, I will take it to my grave." he sternly replies, practically giving you his oath as a holy warrior of the Eye. You thought he was joking, jesting with you after such an emotional story. You gave him a giggle and playfully smacked his chest.

"No need for that, but thank you." you trail off, thoughts of long ago in mind. He nudges you softly, eager to learn your secret.

You look back up and him and sigh, turning off into space.

"Sometimes, when I have no one to look after, and its been months, sometimes years, even, since someone has walked through my temple's door. I wish I wasn't born a goddess. I wish I could grow old, fall in love, marry, have children of my own." you look down, playing with your hands.

The warrior was troubled, yet excitement grew. You could be saved. You wished to be without the corruption of the dark forces that ran through your very being.

"But you could start a family. I have heard tales of demigods"

"Yes, but I can't" you stress turning to him. "I am the goddess of innocence, not just compassion. To bare a child would mean I am no longer innocent, therefore my powers would be stripped from me. I would be mortal again."

You huff in frustration. Even if you were able to have a child, it would still grow old, and you would be left to bury another one of your kin below your beloved tree.

The warrior was delighted. Overjoyed, perfectly happy with this news. Some gods had gifts that were hard to strip from them. How do you make the god of footprints go against footprints? Cut off their feet? Unless....

No he's getting distracted. Here he was being given his own gift, from his god. The Eye was testing him, for sure. Allow a wild goddess to continue her wicked magic, or save the mortal within. You already told him you wished to be free of your curse, the burden placed on you the moment you were born. All he had to do was take your maidenhead. Put his seed in your womb and watch it grow. And what a fine mother you would be. You had spent decades being a mother to hundreds, so what more a burden would a few of your own be. In fact he was sure your would revile in it.

You were practically begging him to fill you with his seed, with those big, soft eyes and those curves that screamed at him to take you. He was without a wife, he would have to break you in for sure. You were a wild one of course. But with a few whelps to look after and one surely in your belly, how much could you defy him?

His cock began to stir. His eyes laden with lust. You look up at him once more, brow furrowing at his darkened eyes.

"Is everything okay soldier?" you sweetly ask, actually concerned for his wellbeing.

"Let me give you the life you want, little heathen" he begs, pushing you down onto the soft grass below the tree.

"What? No! Get off!" you plead, pushing against him. He tightens his grip on your wrists.

"Give me the honour of cleansing you of your dark powers, instead allow me to gift you the honour of carrying my seed." He growls, coming down to give you a lust filled kiss.

You bite his tongue with a vengeance, the taste of blood trickles onto your tongue.

"Mother!" you scream, turning onto your belly. Reaching for the silent statue of Mother Wild. She sat impartial, watching silent and cold. You begin to sob, as the warrior pulls your hips and ass into his crotch.

"Shh, shh little goddess, it will all be over soon. You shall be my sweet wife and you shall grow fat with my child." he comforts, his words tasting like iron on your lips.

"No!" you cry, elbowing him in the nose. You get up to run, straight towards Mother Wild, you drop in front of her and beg for her help.

"Help me Mother Wild. Please!"

You were only gifted the power of healing and other small gifts that now seem useless. What could were they against a man like this? The warrior gets up with blood streaming down his chin.

"My! The little heathen has some bite, huh" he sneers, pulling his sword from its sheath. You turn to look at him in fear, surely that was not what you think it is.

"Recognise this? I drove it through your first wild gods heart, and many more of your brother and sisters since then. I wish not to harm you little goddess, but if you do not renounce your claim to your wicked birth right, then I will be forced to kill you." He almost grins at the sight of you kneeling and afraid.

'That's it heathen, fear me, fear the holy Eye.'

You turn to Mother Wild once more, pleading and begging for protection.

Nothing happens.

You sob as you are ripped from your place by the statue and dragged back to the ground under your tree. You are pushed onto the soft grass, for a moment you forget what is happening, and you are young again, watching the sky through the leaves of your tree. Your parents are still alive, you had yet to be given your gifts, and you can kid yourself into thinking life will be like this forever. You are broken from your daze as Caleen's sword is plunged into the soft dirt by your head, and you are quickly reminded what madness you found yourself in. You stare up at the warrior in front of you, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. He kneels down onto you. His blood drools out of his mouth, dripping down his chin. His eyes are filled with lust and pride.

What an evil, wicked man.

You choke back a sob in fear of what is to happen next.

"My dear one, do not cry for the life you are renouncing, cry with joy for the life we are to create." He shushes you gently, a rough hand caressing your tear stained cheeks.

"What poetry is this, that you should lose your gift of innocence the very place it was given"

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere drabble #yandere prompts #yandere x female reader #yandere male x reader #oc yandere #warrior yandere #breeding tw #tw sa #fem!reader #soldier yandere

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