#quake powers as force powers

[ryder616]

Force powers as Quake Powers:

Because Daisy is strong in the Force, or she would be if these two fictional universes crossed.

Note: Telekinesis, Barrier and Force Jump are neutral powers. Choke, Destruction, Maelstrom and Force Wind are dark side powers. Cleanse mind, Stun, Stasis and Truth-sense are light side powers. So if Daisy was a Force user with this skill set, she would be one who balances the light side and the dark side, without falling to the latter. Perks of originating from a fictional universe that's not quite as Manichean 😉

Telekinesis: Force push, pull, lift. Daisy's vibrokinetic abilities can mimic Force telekinesis, and her vibrational blasts (push) are the most common display of her power. We've never seen her pull things, but she's got lift covered: she's caught and slowed down Rosalind's fall in 3x07 and kept a live nuke suspended in a shock-absorbing bubble (6x09), which can be seen as a mix of lifting and barrier.

Force Barrier: Force users can shield themselves and others, creating a barrier of Force energy. Daisy can do much the same with her powers, as seen against Kora in 7x12

Force Jump: Using the Force to leap far beyond one's natural elevation. Daisy has jumped on top of buildings (3x22, 4x10) and launched herself on moving cars (4x02) using her powers as propellent. In 4x08 she propelled herself hundreds of meters above the skyline to discharge the energy accumulated absorbing a series of earthquakes. She is also capable of propelling herself forward keeping parallel to the ground, thus emulating flight at least for a short time (5x22).

Force Choke: This is a dark side application of telekinesis. Daisy chocked Fitz in 3x18 with her powers when she was hived (Darth Quake 😁) and came close to repeat it against her sister in 7x11.

Force Destruction: this is a massive energy field that can vaporize most anything in its path. The disintegration of the shrikes in 6x09 doesn't quite fit (especially because Mark Kolpak, the vfx supervisor, said she created tiny quakes inside each shrike disintegrating them from the inside out, which sounds much harder than one large disruptive field) but it's the closest. And she did say she can literally turn people into dust, so 🤷‍♀️

Force Maelstrom: this is a combination of force barrier, telekinesis and force lighting. Daisy can't emulate force lighting (imagine the havoc if she synergized her powers with Lincoln's or her sister's 🤩) but could combine the other two in one devastating, simultaneously defensive and offensive, move. Her final burst of energy against Nathaniel Malick in 7x13 may be the closest on-screen example, as she must have also been protecting herself from the incoming explosion. In 2x15, she instinctually projected a shockwave to protect herself against a bullet, destroying a chunk of forest and knocking Calderon and Bobbi several meters backwards.

Force Wind: this power involves manipulating air currents and it's therefore totally up Daisy's alley, who manipulates air molecules regularly for her brand of telekinesis.

Cleanse Mind: this power counteracts mind-altering Force powers. Daisy managed to break free of the technological version, when she bye-byed out of Kasius Sr. mind prison in 5x21 by sheer power of concentration and sass.

Force Stun/Stasis: these powers temporarily mute the senses and the most powerful version (stasis) can induce a near-catatonic state. Daisy has never done anything like it, but, theoretically, she could dampen sounds and alter visual perceptions to cause a state of confusion, or mess with someone's equilibrium and spatial sense by targeting their vestibular system. Possibly something very difficult to pull off without causing permanent damage.

Truth-sense: Jedi can use the force to determine if someone is lying. If Daisy senses heartbeats (and she totally should) she could use that as a lie-detector of sorts, especially in support of a verbal interrogation.

Bonus: one of the abilities in the Jedi Sage's arsenal, one of the advanced classes combat styles for the players characters in the game SW The Old Republic, is called Force Quake and it's an Area of Effect attack that's basically a localized earthquake.

#daisy johnson #agents of shield #agents of s.h.i.e.l.d. #quake powers as force powers #quake powers #force powers #powers #quake

[tteokdoroki]

jock bf yuuji who’s tongue lolls out of his mouth when he feels u cum on his dick and then he ends up cumming when you suck on his tongue as it hangs out of his mouth <3 he’s a big manhandler and so unbelievably strong, has def broken the weak frame of your dorm bed at least once <3 loves sleeping over and then waking up to you in the early morning light, eats you out then has you ride him and you’re both thinking about it for the rest of the day <3 yuuji sends you the riskiest texts too, texts you that he can’t stop thinking about how good you looked when you sucked him off the night before and now you’re distracted in the library <3

ִ ࣪𖤐๋࣭ — JOCK BF!YUUJI ENTRY #6. pleasure prioritised.

about. just some scenarios of an incredibly strong jock boyfriend pleasing his girlfriend in different ways. thank you nonnie for driving me up the wall with this!!! ( 1K )

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact. nsfw, smut, college!au, characters aged up to 20s, creampies, messy makeouts, breaking the bed, strength!kink, unprotected sex, oral sex (f + m!receiving), jock bf!yuuji, weird + fem!reader.

everybody knows that yuuji itadori is strong, he wouldn’t be the star athlete in the soccer team if that wasn’t the case. 

with muscles that ripple when he moves, thick thighs that spread wide and flex on instinct and dark eyes that shine like gold while pulling you in — it’s no wonder why half of the campus wants a piece of him. luckily enough, yuuji itadori only wants to give himself to you.

yuuji only uses the full extent of strength when he devotes his body to pleasing you. when it’s lights out at your dorm go out, and the common spaces are vacant while your roommates party the night away and all that remains is a man who loves his girlfriend with all of his entirety. and a girl who loves him all too much, right back. he pins you to the bed, pelvis to pelvis as yuuji uses all of his might to pound into you.

his thrusts are usually heavy, but thoughtful and with meaning — designed to make you see bright, shining stars behind your eyelids and pull an angels song from between your lips. itadori doesn’t just fuck you —  his sweet girlfriend, his everything, his purpose. he makes love to you, makes the bed rock while his sticky tip stays tacked to your g-spot and safe, comforting brown his eyes stay locked on yours, reminding you of how much you are loved as you tremble and quake beneath him. 

there’s often a dull thump to the wall from where the force of yuuji’s hips drive the headboard into it. only you ever have the power to make your man that feral, have him drooling like a dog with its tongue in the wind whenever he has the chance to sink into your tight heat. it’s the way your snug little pussy ripples around the giant jock’s fat girth, his tummy smooshed up against your puffy clit does nothing to help him either. the more ecstasy he gives you, the more you clench down on your boyfriend and the further his eyes disappear into his skull. 

itadori just loves being inside of you, tucking his thriving dick away inside your velveteen walls, hearing your pussy suction around you and your cheap dorm mattress squeak in harmony with your hiccuped moans. yuuji, yuuji, yuuji. his name on your kiss swollen and tear glossed lips is enough for the pink haired man to break the bed from how hard and deep he thrusts into you. even when it does collapse in on itself, yuuji doesn’t dare stop until you’re cumming in sweet streams around him — painting his toned stomach and washboard abs in your arousal before he fills you up with his own thick white.

he usually cums with his drooling tongue in your mouth and an arm wrapped around your head, keeping you tucked underneath while he grinds his hips through your shared highs. sometimes salacious laments and high-pitched whines manage to slip through the cracks — which mean noise complaints from the Dean of your dorm and a call to maintenance in the morning to fix your destroyed bed (and walls).

mornings are no different (once your bed is fixed), yuuji itadori always fails to keep his hands to himself and if he’s lucky enough to stay the night — he uses those very same greedy and large hands to pleasure you all throughout sunrise. you wake up to find fingers on the swollen little nub tucked between your puffy pussy lips and his eager tongue swiping over the eight of your slit to catch any of your juices before they’re wasted on cheaply made college-friendly sheets. 

it’s a sight to behold, the way you arch your back from the bed and your thighs quiver either side of a head full of bright pink hair that tickles their insides. you can’t help but tug on the soft tufts — dragging yuuji further into your creamy cunt while accidentally kicking plushies galore from their place amongst your pillows and blankets. itadori remains a messy eater, slurping on your succulent folds, running laps over every inch of the heat between your glorious thighs. 

except you don’t get to cum on his mouth or his tongue on mornings like this — instead yuuji likes to really show off his strength. he likes you in his lap and seated on the swell of his fat, oozing girth. he adores plugging you full, watching you writhe above him for something, anything. any type of thrust or friction. yuuji can’t help himself, he’s always dying  to grope the globes of your ass when you’re riding him, using the strength in his arms  to hold over his bright red ans milky tip before pumping himself all the way into you in one calculated thrust upwards. 

both of you cum before either of your alarms go off, messy as always but content. you’re happy with yuuji and he’s always so happy to please you — it’s the least he could do for his precious girl. 

itadori always leaves you with a limp throughout the rest of your day — a comfortable pain in the base of your spine that reminds you of how deep he’d gone. there’s a dampness to your underwear during your classes too, reminding you of how much hot, oozing seed the jock had filled you up with. ‘keep it there,’ the pink haired soccer player tends to ask with those guilt-tripping puppy dog eyes of his. ‘want you walking around with my cum dripping down your thigh, so that everyone knows who you belong to.’

you often wonder what the campus would think if they knew how debauched their star player really was.

they’d have a field day if they saw the texts yuuji sent you while wiping the floor with his teammates during practices. pictures of his erection in the changing room mirrors and maybe some of your pretty face while he had you cumming on just his tip. sometimes paragraphs detailing how he was going to ruin your pussy, make you see god or even reach cloud nine. some tell you how much itadori misses your plush lips wrapped around him as he cums down your throat. 

but no matter what way you look at it, your jock boyfriend yuuji itadori always has your pleasure prioritised at the forefront of his mind. he’d use whatever part of his body, whatever strength he has to keep you satisfied. all alongside his insatiable appetite for you and only you. 

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

#itadori smut #yuuji itadori smut #yuuji itadori x reader #itadori x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk thirsts #jujutsu kaisen thirst #itadori x you #⋆｡°✩ — jock bf!yuuji #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki #✧ ₊˚✉️੭ — new notification #✧ ₊˚💬੭ — unknown messenger #ghostqueues #angelshubnetwork

[yanderenightmare]

TW: NSFW, dubcon/noncon, bondage, ballgag, toys, overstimulation

fem reader

He’s quiet and studious when lining your limbs with fine pink rope – binding them no tighter than necessary. Perhaps a little gleefully – with a small quirk playing on his lips. 

When he was done, his features softened – mellowed out into something very pleased with himself. He’d made a five-point star on your chest with your hands bound neatly in a bow on your back. It was delicate work he’d spent a good quarter hour tying, but none of it showed aside from your balled fists as he’d decided to lay you on the bed stomach-first.

Having fixed your restricted body on the mattress like you were but a toy doll he was going to play with – laying your face softly in the dune of a pillow. Your feet remained standing on the cold floor, legs spread wide with both ankles tied to each bedpost – pussy breathing the air.

You made a small, not entirely committed, attempt to twist free, knowing it was no use – he was very good with knots. Boy Scouts, presumably. He’s always been a little tight-assed.

And a little wolfish – watching you struggle with a hungry stare with an eerie calm befalling him – a type of smile on his face and dullness in his dark eyes that you just can’t quite understand.

All your protests have turned into but sweet sounds egging him on – no struggle, only cute and subdued squirming – allowing him to take his sweet, sweet time with you...

He gave an unrushed sigh, then smoothly brushed his calloused hands up your silky skin with breaths turning thick in his throat. 

“You’re too cute like this.” He whispered ruggedly – followed shortly by open-mouthed kisses – delicately placed on the plump plush of your ass with wetness in their wake. One, two, three, four, then five – slowly and almost innocently pressing them soft and sweet into your skin. 

It all gave you chills.

You listen to him lubing his hands like a ritual before he got down on his knees in front of your exposed cunt, face to face with it, as he gently began rubbing your pussylips – fingers thick and textured, petting the folds until they swelled. 

You left bitemarks in your pink ballgag, cursing yourself for being so sensitive while he cooed at you and slowly skewered one fat digit inside your already-soaked hole. Sinking it in and out at a lazy pace with his face coming to taste your little swollen clitty. Leisurely licking through the pretty lips. Bobbing his jaw with his tongue pushed flat against your entrance – slurping – chin stubble scratchy against the sensitive skin turning puffy. 

Your thighs quaked but were unable to close, forced to stay open, just like he likes – accepting his touch even as it drives you over the edge and makes you buck with want.

“Look at you shake~ so needy for me~” He teased – breaths hot against your core – sinking his teeth into his lips at the sounds of your whimpering. “Don’t worry, baby~ you're in good hands. I'll give you what you want soon; I just need you to cum for me first~”

Everything wept at his touch, tremoring with an effort to hold back but cumming as soon as he decided to curl his finger. 

He hummed at how sweet you tasted then, sucking your hole as it fluttered from the release – while simultaneously slipping a slim toy within you, giving your cunt one last kiss as it trembled post-orgasm. 

He got up from the ground and walked to take a seat in the armchair he’d placed right behind you, waiting until he was comfortable to turn the powerful little thing on.

You tugged at your knots once it began its pace, thrumming your core with vibrations that reached all the way through to your throat – making your breaths come out in shambles.

Soon your throbbing pussy leaked down your thighs. And then he let a whole hour pass. 

Now you were sweaty and shaking, drooling around the gag ball with heavy moans, having turned to weak little whiny sobs instead as you struggled for purchase. Cunt trembling around the buzzer still inside.

He’s still in the chair. Eyes soaked with arousal watching your thighs quake and your ass shake every time you cum. Bump kept painfully hard in his slacks, his only relief in the one hand he had lazily petting it as he gripped the remote so hard in the other his knuckles whitened.

“Don’t worry, Baby. I’m keeping count.” He rasped – lump making his throat tight, watching you pull your restraints. “That was number nine, so you only have one more to go until we get started. This next beat is supposed to be really fast, so I think it’ll be a short and sweet one for yah.”

You whimpered, dreading the change. He turned the wheel with his thumb and watched you jolt. 

It thrummed your entire heated core so fast and so good it didn’t take long before your hips made a buck – cunt squirting again.

“That’s it~ well done, baby. Good job~” He praised, shutting off the toy while sliding down the chair onto his knees. 

He shuffled to you fast, having been eager to pounce for a while.

You felt his warm hands on your calf, untying your feet from the post before moving on to the next. But you knew you weren’t done. Oh-so-far from it, as he reknotted your ankles together – all the while, his mouth was laying wet kisses up the trails on your thighs. 

Two fingers delved inside you and retrieved the buzzer before he pressed his face into your puffy cunt – anchoring your feet to the ground with his hands while he lewdly made out with the mess it had made – licking and slurping it all up with needy groans even while you screamed from the overstimulation.

He was panting when he finally broke off you, standing up with a drunken sway – his meat roaring inside his pants, but still – he exercised restraint. Slowly removing his watch, then his manchets, loosening his tie, buttoning up his shirt, wringing it down his shoulders and arms, and folding it neatly to the side. Then he moved on to unbuckling his belt, popping the button, and zipping the fly down. He let the slacks drop to the floor, bunching around his freshly shined black pointed shoes with a thud.

He hesitated, anxious about the stimuli he was prone to feel – but still, he overcame it – taking his cock out over the band of his boxers without slipping them down. 

He’d made a sticky mess on the dark fabric – wet strings of white clung to him as he lifted it from the bed of precum left there. He cut loose a sigh he’d been keeping, sucking it back through grit teeth – it was almost painful how hard his veins strangled him, aching to feel you and that all too sweet and pretty pussy that just begged for it right there, served up for him on a silver platter.

You jolt when his plush mushroom-tipped head dabbed against your folds. Your insides were still numb from the toy, but everything else just ached for the friction – making tears soak your eyes when it was granted.

He brushed himself up through the lips until his tip caught your weeping entrance – giving it a slow moment, then finally gave into it – sinking inside slow and smooth – happy at the wet but firm ease, where you immediately sucked him into your snug walls with pleasant tremors tingling along his veins – suckling him so sweetly he almost doubled over when bottoming out.

Your thighs shuddered once his plush cockhead nudged against your womb, and you came again. Pulsing on his shaft and panting around your gag, cramping up even tighter than what you were already – throttling his cock like you’d never want him to pull out again.

“So soon?” He smiled, stroking your butt with a softly firm hand. “I’m just barely inside you, sweetheart…” His eyes, heavy-lidded, scanned your pretty body wrapped up in pink bows just like a present, skin glowing with dew as you shook so prettily on his cock nestled inside you. 

He felt the need to say something more, but he never curses when he’s like this. It’s not like those other times he’ll pin your wrists in a mean fist and fuck you hard with beastly growls and grunts – it’s deadly quiet – it’s peaceful. Just your soft croons as you suck on your pink ball accompanied by his mellow moans, hidden just beneath his breath as he lolls into you slowly and steady-paced – eyes busy soaking from the sight of your pussylips glossing his length.

He picked you up after a small while and placed you down in the middle of the bed instead – following with his knees sinking deep into the downy mattress as he softly rocked back and forth into you – purring at the feel of you fluttering on his veins in sweet squelches.

He has you in different intimate positions for hours – most often ones where he can nuzzle your face with his, sucking wet and mellow kisses into your cheek and neck. 

He’ll have one hand squeezing your tit and the other drawing lazy patterns into your sore little clitty until you shake from the rush it gives you – the sounds of timed shlick, shlick, shlicks like music to his ears as you flush his cock with pleasant warmth for the umpteenth time. 

Squeezing him tight, milking him for cum until he finally, finally, finally spills his worth deep inside you with only a content sigh – hugging your roped body softly as he swarms your insides with so much warmth you feel your belly swell from the deposit – only left to moan at the filling feel of it leaking out as he lovingly fucks it back into you.

His cock eventually softens between your thighs and allows the heavy load to seep out onto the bed.

And you fall asleep before he unties you.

BNHA - Bakugou, Deku, Shoto, Shinso, Kirishima

JJK - Sukuna, Nanami, Geto, Gojo, Naoya

HQ - Kuro, Sakusa, Miya twins, Suna, Tendou

DS - Doma

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere smut #yancore #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk smut #bnha smut #yandere bnha #mha smut #my hero smut

[bloodycassian]

Striking a Deal - Reader x Azriel

Reader is a demon, capable of granting information in exchange for things she wants. When Azriel summons her, she may be more than he can handle. 

Warnings - ‘forced’ sex due to circumstance, bondage, unbreakable ties, choking, teasing, orgasm denial, HFO/hands free orgasm, cock milking, squirting, cum paly, g-spot and clitoral stim, fingering, mention of knot (no knotting), hand job, wing play, mention of blood ingestion (not super sexual, not in scene),

As always, skip to ++++++++++ for just the nasty stuff. <3

NSFW 18+ MDNI

Azriel was desperate. Fully, truly desperate for stooping this low. 

Still, he chanted on, plowing through verse after verse of the summoner’s spell.

He had little regret over what he’d done. Scaring away fifteen priestesses hadn’t been hard, but finding the right tome had been. He should have asked for the book first. 

“Of blood, and by this flame I summon you.” He finished, slicing a cut into his wrist deep enough to coat the pile of bones and herbs he’d gathered for this ritual. 

And there was silence. He glanced around, taking in the painted walls of the temple and carved archways. The moon was little more than a sliver, the thing he’d summoned could be anywhere. He scented his own fear and clamped down on it, forcing his mind to ease. 

To fear would be fatal, now. 

“I expected someone more powerful than a shadowsinger.” Her voice was like honey dripping into his ears. His neck went stiff, as if a puppeteer was controlling him. His shadows lashed out into the darkness, quickly finding the owner of the voice and wrapping them - no.. her - in bindings. 

Very much her. Gorgeous proportions and the hair, his mind went foggy with lust. He saw her now that his shadows had pinpointed her, and was wholly overwhelmed with the perfection of her. Something deep inside him rumbled with warning, though. 

This was no witch or sorcerer, not even a Queen. This was something far more powerful and deadly, and he struggled to remember that.

“I may be more powerful than you know.” He said, attempting to put on the saam air of seduction the female radiated. 

She walked through his shadows as if they weren’t even there, and again his mind quaked with unfamiliar fear. 

“What is it such a powerful shadowsinger needs then?” She hummed, bending beside him and plucking a bone from the floor. She stuck out her tongue and lapped at the length of it, staring at Azriel the whole time. His cock surged, and he cleared his throat. 

“I seek a weapon. Something to end a God.” Azriel began, gauging her unimpressed reaction. 

“And?” She prompted, taking another lick of his blood. Goosebumps broke out along his flesh.

“Would you be able to help with something like that?” He his his irritation behind an easy smile, watching her tongue. At least her beauty made up for such informality. 

“I suppose. It depends how much the asker is willing to pay for such a thing.” 

“I have gold.” He supplied, not convince his lowest bid would be enough. Especially not with a demon this peculiar. 

“I do too.” She smiled, and waved a hand. His vision went blurry for a moment, then all around him appeared as if he were in a vault of gold marks, gold pillars, stretching from the floor going up and up into the blackened sky. A hot breath fell on his neck, and when he whipped around, the golden eye of a massive beast greeted him. 

He jumped backwards, knocking his ritual items over, sending them clattering through the temple. He whirled back around, facing the demon he’d brought here. She shrugged, casting the bone aside and approaching him. 

“Show me what you’re really willing to lose, Shadowsinger.” She walked two fingers up his abdomen, to his chest and rested them under his jaw, forcing him to look up. “A weapon that powerful is going to cost more than anything I sense you carry.” 

“What do you want?” He hissed, hating how much her touch turned him on. Her nails scratched down his neck, and it was like a branding iron on his skin. Chills raced along his arms. 

She sighed, admiring the way his throat bobbed, the way the tendons in his neck stuck out when he was so tense. “I’ve been so… lonely, stuck in the Pit by myself.” She pouted, making his cock ache with the suggestion of what she was proposing. “No one summons us anymore. All you fae and mortals trust so much in your common magics and healers. No one is desperate enough to call upon us anymore.” 

He took a steadying breath, his heart hammering in hsi chest. She leaned in, so close to his ear he could feel her hot breath against it. “I want you… to summon me. To bring me back to this planet and allow me to live. Even for the short while before they pull me back. Cast this same ritual, and bring me back.” She took his hand and brought it to her breast, squeezing his fingers tight around it. A groan fell from him, and before he could even think about the implications of striking such a deal, his mouth was on hers. 

The deal had been struck.

++++++++++++++++++++++

The searing burn of his tongue upon yours was so deliciously delightful, so full of need and challenge that you could hardly feel the brand of the deal writing itself on your neck. 

The kiss had sealed the bond, the rest of this would be just for fun. 

“Your weapon-” You say between moans, pulling his tunic off and freeing his muscled body. “Will be found in the deepest lake on the highest peak-” 

He rips your clothes off, tearing and urgent with need. “I didn’t summon you for a riddle.” He growls, dipping his head to catch a nipple between his teeth. A sharp gasp escapes you, and you squeeze his cock in your hand. 

“You didn’t summon me as your whore, either.” You correct, yanking him back by the hair. He bares his teeth, and his shadows wrap around your ankles, thick and cool against your skin. 

“You certainly act like that’s what you’re here for.” He grunts, and those shadows snake farther up your exposed legs until they’re massaging into your thighs. A ripple of want shoots through you at their closeness to your waiting cunt. 

You’re too distracted by his hands and shadows on you to really give him a comeback. Truthfully, his filthy mouth could be saying anything at this moment and you wouldn’t care, not as long as he was touching you. It’d been a century since you’d seen anything other than the black pit of your home, and with such a gorgeous male before you, how could one resist? Your blood had been thrumming with need the second you’d crawled out of your home.

He pulls you forward, onto one of the short steps that leads to the recessed center of the room. “Now, what do I have to do to get you to bring me this weapon?” He rasps against your skin, biting your shoulder as he sat you down on the step. He pulls away, only to start lapping down your body until he is between your thighs, joining his shadows there. 

“You want another deal, Shadowsinger?” You pant, leaning back on the step behind you and spreading your legs wide for him. He groans and the shadows ghost over your folds with teasing, almost-touches.

“Tell me.” He demands, and laps at you with a flattened tongue. “Such a pretty pussy.” He praises. 

Your legs snap together, squeezing his head. “I cannot retrieve it for you, but I can take you to where it is.” You promise, and the half - truth of it feels sour on your tongue. You could retrieve it, but it’d take much more time than you had after you were released from the Pit. 

He hums, seemingly content with the answer as he laps at you. His shadows join, dipping into your pussy and writhing there, fucking you softly but with ferocity. Your breaths are coming in shallow, frantic spurts as you focus on not coming on his face. 

You want his cock for that. 

A lick of your power lashes out, breaking his shadows away and freezing him in place with a leash of your own making. Magic bound, he straightens at your command and the sight of his surprise sets you giggling. 

“You’re eager.” You critique. Sitting up, you take his cock in your hands and admire it, loosening your magic on him when you feel him relax and sigh at your touch. “Much too eager.” You observe the thick rivulets of pre-come dripping from his tip. You dip down and take a taste of him, humming at the sense of it. The salty, needy taste of him. 

You wrap your hand around him and give him a long, slow pump and he shudders. His cock is magnificent. You can barely touch your fingers together around him with his thickness, and the knot at the base of him is hardly formed. Was he one of the fae able to change his cock at will? A ripple of excitement rolls though you at the possibility of it. You stroke him again, and another drop of precome wets his tip and you tap the tip of your finger with it, trailing it over his shaft and up his abdomen until you reach his lips. He takes it eagerly still, enjoying the taste of himself it seems. 

You bind his hands to his sides, and ghost your fingers over his cock. Barely touching him, just as his shadows had teased you. He spits venom, cursing you with each delicate touch. You stroke him hard and through occasionally, but watching him be so needy for the touch is such a turn-on.

Your nails trail from his balls and up his shaft, then you circle the tip of him gently with the pad of your finger, swirling his lubrication there. He’s watching you the entire time, his brows pulled together and his lips a deep shade of red that matches the tip of his cock.

“I am glad that you were the one who’s summoned me.” You hum, getting up and going behind him. Even with him on his knees, he still reaches the height of your breast. He’s huge and lithe in his build, even his wings are a powerful kind. You touch them gently, humming when he hisses curses under his breath. 

That gets your attention.

“Sensitive. Illyrian wings are different than the wings of other winged species, aren’t they?” You question, raking your nails over the arches of them. He cries out, lurching forward but your magic catches him, hauling him back up and in place before he can fold onto the step. 

You kneel behind him, and wrap an arm around to take his cock into your hand again. He shudders and thrusts forward, into your grip. He’s needy and desperate and with you touching his wings he’s going to cum embarrassingly quickly. He hates how much he’s loving this, how the control you have over him is making him so fucking desperate. 

He fucks into your hand, his precome wetting him enough that it heightens the experience further. Your hand is wet and hot and not nearly as good as your mouth had been but it’s better than the teasing touches you’d been giving him earlier, and he’s grateful. His need is rising and his muscles are working, his balls going tight with the need of release. 

Then, you pull away. Your hand is gone and he’s left fucking the air like an animal, and he’s shuddering. “You fucking- bitch..” He grinds out, his abdomen flexing with how close he’d been. His balls tighten and relax, his cock twitching and slapping against his stomach. 

You stand and go back to be in front of him, watching him twitch and writhe uncomfortably. His cock is surging and desperately seeking more stimulation, The angry redness of the tip a delicious strawberry color that makes you salivate. 

You go back to tracing over him, and you can feel his power, his every fiber struggling against your magic. He’s close, so on the edge that you’re sure he’ll break with only a few more strokes. Good. You want him to. You want him to remember the only female who’d bested him at his own desires. You want him to fuck you endlessly, if that is the only time you have on this planet.

His balls are tight and heavy, and when you trace a finger along his ridge he shudders, leaning forward again. You allow it this time, catching his lips with yours and letting your tongue flick over his own. He groans into your mouth and snaps his hips forward when you make a loose fist over his cock. 

His needy cries echo across the temple like a song. 

You tighten your hand, allowing him to fuck into it for a few more strokes before pulling away again. But it’s too late. You pull back and watch as he thrusts into the air, his cock pulsing with his orgasm. He’s snarling and cursing as the pleasure takes him in a violent way. You watch in supreme pleasure as he gets what he finally wants. His cum shoots out and lands on your legs, your belly. The stone floor and steps. His spend is hot and dribbles from his tip when you release his bindings. 

He wavers, and his shadows return slowly. His muscles flex as he leans forward, clearly exhausted with the experience. 

His hands shake when he leans over you, catching your chin in his hand. “You are a horrible little thing.” He curses, then forces his tongue into your mouth.

He forces you back, so you’re arched against the steps, and the fingers of his other hand go between your folds, slickening them before plunging in. The most exquisite burn fills you, and is then eased by his curling fingers. He draws out your wetness, coating your clit with it and rubbing firm circles for a moment before pushing deep back inside of you. 

He uses his entire forearm and wrist while he does it, truly fucking you with his hand. His fingers are thick and they do satiate a part of your own need, but it’s nothing compared to what his cock would be. 

But this part of the game is up to him. You’d had your fun, and now it was his turn. 

His tongue is aggressive in your mouth, fighting your own and showing you exactly what he’d been doing against your pussy before. He pulls away, leaving drool on your chin. His shadows go to your wrists, and you allow them to lock you in place, legs spread wide and wrists bound to the floor. 

This is his turn. If you want him to stay true to his bargain not just for bargaining sake, you’ll let him have his turn. You could use him, sure, - force him in place and take him as you wanted - but where was the fun in that? 

“Azriel-” You pant, and he takes your throat in a hand. Not hard, not dangerous, but certainly a silent command. 

He’s working you deep and swiping against your g-spot with every stroke, and if he doesn’t stop you’re not sure if you’ll be able to either. 

“Making me cum without even letting me really touch you first?” He scolds, punctuating it with his thumb stroking over your clit. Your yes clamp shut, your thighs desperately trying to do the same but his shadows - as weak as they are - won’t allow you to. You moan, the pressure of his hand against your throat a devious thing. 

Your body is betraying you, reaching your high peaks so quickly while he rubs your clit. Your walls squeeze him, wanting more. Needing more than just two fingers. But his thumb is relentless and consistent, you try to fight the building orgasm but it only makes your g-spot more sensitive. 

“Azriel please-” You whine, panting and squirming as much as you can under him. His hand leaves your throat and instead goes to the back of your head, knotting in your hair there. He forces you to watch his hands word, how spread you are for him, the way your wetness shines against this dark skin. He’s humming something in your ear but you can barely hear it over the mounting pleasure, the cascade of twitching need that writhes inside you, begging to be released. A dam too overflowed, your control slips, and slips.

 You push against the heat, the pressure of the orgasm but again, he brushes into that spot inside you and your clit again, and you’re shaking - coming apart in his grasp. Wetness coats him, your own juices flowing out of you in an intense way, splattering against the floor and coating his arm. The wet sounds of his fingers still working you echo against the high ceilings and stone walls. 

You’re shaking, shuddering and breathing hard when he gently removes his fingers then laps at them. 

The sight nearly sends you into another orgasm. 

“Safe to say you’ll be summoned often, little demon.” He says, offering you a finger wet with your own juices. 

You take it greedily, sucking on his finger the same way you wanted to suck his cock.

“Next time I expect you to last longer.” You critique, earning a laugh from him. 

“If I make that promise now, does that mean we get to fuck again and seal that bond?”

#azriel #azriel x reader #reader x azriel #acotar fic #acotar smut #azriel shadowsinger #shadowsinger #azriel fic

[fettuccin-e]

A Kind of Demon

Kinktober Day 3: Monster AU

Tags: Din Djarin x Reader, Incubus!Din Djarin, afab!fem!reader, unprotected piv, Din has a demon dick lol, force sex? yeah pretty much, fingering, overstimulation, making up my own demon lore as I go (w/c: 1.7K)

A/N: SO I have never, ever written something like this so this was way way out of my comfort zone, but I wanted to try it out! I really like incubus!Din, so I might come back to him again, who knows. Din does have like "force powers" in this, but since it's not the Star Wars universe, it's just like demon magic lol. (I am using prompts from this list by flightlessangelwings!)

You should be terrified of the power he has over you. 

You’d hadn’t meant to summon someone like him, something other. He looks vaguely human, or is just human-shaped, but he’s covered in a dark, metallic armor that makes him seem more mythical than man. And the power he exudes cannot be explained as anything other than supernatural. 

He calls himself a Mandalorian, a word that seems made up, not of this world. It’s a type of demon, he tells you, his sentences controlled and short, the type that you’d summoned. A kind of incubus.

“I didn’t summon a fucking demon!” you yell, throwing object after object at him, anything you can find. They bounce off of his dark armor, and he stands stock still, unfeeling and utterly monstrous. He says your name in a way that has your knees buckling on the spot, from fear, of course. 

“I have been summoned to you, whether intentional, or unintentional. Your unconscious needs have brought me to you, and I cannot leave until my duty has been fulfilled.” His voice is clear and deep through the metal helmet shielding his face, and try as you might to peer into the dark visor, all you can see is nothingness.

“What does an incubus even do?” you shout, throwing your hands into the air. He chuckles in a truly demonic way, terrifying and somehow endlessly charming.

“Are you lonely, little one?” he said, stepping forward and looming over you like a fucking predator. You don’t answer, staring straight ahead into his armored chest, lips pursed. Why the fuck would he have to know that? Your, frankly terrible, sex life is none of his business.

His gloved hand reaches forward to nudge your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze, even though you can’t see his eyes.

“All of these needs, trapped in your pretty little head, I can feel them. I can see them. Fantasizing in the dark night after night with your fingers in your pussy, desperate for someone to take care of you. I can see everything you want, and I can do it for you. I can take care of you, little one.” You swallow, harsh and painful, like sandpaper down your throat.

Your pussy soaks through your panties as he murmurs darkly into your ear. “You only need to say yes, girl, and I will make you feel so, so good.”

Your head swims, your knees weak and your body aching as you whisper a yes.

God, you should be terrified. Terrified of the way he takes control so easily. How, with only a touch, he makes your clothes vanish like nothing, leaving you bare to his invisible eyes. You should be scared for your life at the way you can feel his power all around you, touching every inch of your shaking body, pressing you backward to lay on your bed. Instead, your pussy leaks between your quaking thighs. A force, his force, you realize, invisible and yet so solid it might as well be his hands, strokes across your body, against your throbbing clit. A choked moan rips its way out of your throat. 

“That’s right girl, let me take care of you,” he murmurs, looming over you as he steps forward to kneel on the bed. “I can take any form you want, just tell me. Is there someone you desire?”

Oh. You’d hadn’t realized it was an option, for him to take the shape of someone else. He could be anything, you realized, a crush, a celebrity, even yourself. The realization makes you stock still, wracking your brain for someone, anyone. But looking up at him, with his dark visor and broad chest, God, you don’t want him to be anyone else. Just the sheer sight of him has you desperate enough.

“No,” you breathe, a little too eagerly. “No, this- this is fine.”

He pauses. All of him, his chest, his mouth, the force he has enveloping you. You both stare at each other, stock still and silent. And then, he moves. 

He’s got you turned over on your sheets in seconds, your face pressed into the mattress as he hikes your hips up. You clutch desperately at the sheets as he sinks two thick fingers into you, gloriously human but somehow not human at all. There’s no way he could be human when he finds that spot so deep inside, the spot that you can barely reach half the time, immediately.

“Holy- holy fucking shit, oh fuck,” you choke on your moans as he grinds the pads of his fingers into you, sending lightning ricocheting up your spine. Your hips twitch back into his hand without your permission, desperate for the kind of touch you haven’t experienced in so long.

“That’s it, girl, take what you need from me,” he growls, fucking his fingers into you at a pace that is truly obscene. His force surrounds you, a warmth that cannot be explained in earthly terms. It ghosts across your nipples, surrounding them and pulling on them in a way that brings tears to your eyes. It moves down and presses hard on your clit, flicking across it in a way that feels like a fucking tongue. You can’t hold back the way you scream.

He sinks another finger into you, stretching you out more than you have been in months, years. Maybe I have needed this, you think. Maybe I did summon him.

He leans over you, close enough that he is able to murmur directly into your ear, “Think you can take my cock, little one?”

The whine you let out is downright embarrassing. “Please.”

You glance behind yourself, to where the Mandalorian has his thick fingers buried deep in your cunt, to where he’s pulling out his cock with the other hand. That, for the first time, is distinctly inhuman. His cock is huge, so big that you have a brief thought about it splitting you in two, right down the middle. Rigid bumps run down his length, and the tip is thick, leaking, and oh shit, you want him in your mouth, you want him in your pussy, you want him fucking everywhere. 

“Fuck me,” you whine, and the demon chuckles. 

“Do you really think you can take me, girl?” He growls.

“I wanna try, oh please, please, I need it, ah-” he cuts off your whining by ripping his fingers out of you, leaving you empty and gaping. It doesn’t last very long before he notches the head of his cock against your entrance and pushes.

The stretch seems fucking endless. You can only clutch the pillows and sob as he breaks you apart on his thick cock, reaching so deep you swear you can feel him in your fucking lungs. It should hurt, God it should hurt, but his force only makes you relax as he pulls you back onto him. You feel dizzy with it, the way that force keeps licking maddeningly at your clit, pulling at your nipples while the biggest cock you’ve ever had settles deep inside.

You cum. Just from the way he sinks into you, fills you like you’ve always been empty, and you’ve only been missing him all your life. You writhe against the sheets, clutching at your pillow as you convulse around his cock. It’s debilitating, destructive, and all you can think of is how much you need more.

“It’s- oh fuck, it’s- I can’t,” you sob over your words, tears leaking down your cheeks, but you can’t help but press back into his body, trying to get him as deep as possible.

The demon snarls, using a thick hand to reach forward and grab your wrists together, pinning them to the small of your back. He pulls his hips back, slowly, so slow that you can feel every bump drag endlessly over your walls, before he drives back into you so hard the breath is knocked out of your lungs, the tip grinding deep into that spot he’s able to find so easily.

Then, the Mandalorian fucks you. No, fucking is too gentle. There is no earthly term to describe how he destroys you in a way that is so pure, so primal. He holds onto your wrists and drags you back onto his cock with every thrust, keeping you at his mercy while you can only moan and cry as he rips you apart into a million little pieces. You feel like a bitch in heat, getting fucked like that is all you’re meant to do. The demon uses you like a fucking toy, his force sucking at your abused little clit endlessly.

You can hear little grunts escaping his mouth with every thrust, tiny uh, uh, uhs that have your head spinning. You’re pretty sure you’re drooling, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when this man, this demon, is fucking you within an inch of your life, ruining you for anyone, anything else.

Your pussy makes obscene noises around him, echoing throughout the room as your headboard smacks hard against the wall. You can barely even make a noise anymore, overwhelmed sobs forcing their way out of your throat every time he reaches deep, deep into your body. 

“I can feel you clenching for me. Are you going to cum for me again?” He growls. “Go on then, little girl, make a mess of yourself.”

Your mouth opens in a silent scream as you squeeze tight around his cock, your body trembling in his hold. He fucks you through it, prolonging it, and it’s too much, it’s too fucking much. Your vision blurs, your head light and fuzzy, and you can only gasp wetly as the world blinks into darkness.

As your eyes blink open again, you’re warm. Your sheets feel clean, smelling of lavender and chamomile, and your room is blissfully, astonishingly quiet. You sit up in bed, a twinge going through your arms, and you nearly scream as you look across the room to see the Mandalorian standing still in your doorway, unmoving.

“Are you alright, girl?” he says, like he hadn’t just ripped you apart in every way that matters.

“Uh,” you cross your arms over yourself, feeling strangely vulnerable. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

He nods, once. “Good. My duties have been fulfilled.” He doesn’t let you get a word in.

You blink, and the Mandalorian is gone.

#i don't think i'm a monsterfucker just yet #but who knows #i could become one #kinktober 2023 #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #star wars smut #star wars x reader

[pursuitseternal]

“Unmask Me:” 🎭 NSFW Masquerade update for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x f!Reader |E| 4.7K of revealing smut

🎨by @glorious-void 🌹

Summary: Music and masks, dancing and deception. It’s so easy to hide your identity beneath a mask, but for you, as Regent Consort while Lord Astarion is away on his travels, everyone knows you. Everyone wants to be with you, particularly your love and Lord. Once he returns and is unmasked, of course.

CW: Mistaken identities, jealous/aroused Astarion, Dom!Astarion, outdoor sex, playful punishment, spanking, oral sex female receiving, rough fucking and regal engagements afterwards.

Previous ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭🩸🎭

Regent Consort. That is your title, at least until your love’s return. You flounce your ebony skirts, that sultry hint of burgundy beneath a little nod to your beloved vampirism. You adjust the many layers of petticoat that fill out your gown. Alone in the ballroom, you pace by the window. Weeks of Astarion away, and he is due to return any hour now.

You know he will be hungry, he will desire you more than anything. He will be feral, wild. Untameable until he’s drunk his fill of your blood and fucked you enough. If he isn’t exhausted from his travels to the far East… alliances and silks from Cormyr and gems and… it was enough of a burden for him to shoulder. You have been left with enough to handle here in the City, his Right Hand to rule in his place, his Regent Consort on his throne. Your tasks have been ceaseless since he left so many tendays ago: Council meetings and trade deals to twist towards your benefit, not to mention cajoling Duke Wyll Ravengaurd enough—enough for him to remain oblivious to the fact that you and your love had far surpassed any authority he thought he held.

You smirk, gazing out into the night’s sparkling darkness. Of course you decided the best course of action was to stroke your old friend’s ego—and nothing touts a symbol of friendship and your own wealth and power like a good masquerade ball.

Of course, it just happened to fall on the same evening as Lord Astarion’s long-expected return. But your heart leaps in your chest, if it could beat faster, that is. Every detail has been carefully laid, and all with his secret knowledge. He approves of this wholeheartedly, those little flashes of his affection quaking down your bond as Master and Bride keeping him informed. You feel his love, his approval and his hunger. Your bond of heart, mind, and blood is enough only to coax his hasty return just a little faster.

His presence had long disappeared from your mind, leaving you without word, his journeys consuming enough of his power to claim his concentration. And so you wait, on baited breath, for his return. Soon, he had said. Tonight.

At long last, your guests arrive in your wide and sprawling drive, carriage after carriage emptying with elegantly clothed couples and painted faces. A parade of colors and paper and decadence. A night in honor of the Duke, a demonstration of the Vampire Ascendant’s immense affluence. The grandest host on the Sword Coast. The most powerful, handsome being in this whole realm.

Yes, you smile, releasing your folded arms to adjust your own demi-mask, Astarion will revel in the extravagance.

Once he finally fucking arrives, of course.

But you force a smile on your face as your guests parade into your presence, all fanfare and pomp and circumstance as befitting a ball for the Duke… as befitting a party hosted by the Vampire Ascendant and his Consort. Couples sweep into the grandeur, each pair, each guest more sumptuously dressed than the one before. You make your way to the head of the dais, your black Demi-mask in place, but you are certain your own scarlet eyes and your fang-toothed smile will surely make certain not a hand is laid on you.

No mistaken identity as to who you are tonight. You are Regent Consort, the Ascendant’s Lady. You are his.

And if your vampiric qualities aren’t enough to drive away would-be admirers, the decadent, gold and bejeweled crown on your head certainly will. A quaint little symbol of the power you tend in his absence. Your eyes scan mask after mask, even as you stand before his throne. Nodding greetings, formally and cordially welcoming guest after guest.

You scrutinize the most gallant looking, the most ostentatious of males. If he were to disguise himself, to play one of his little games with you… surely he would spare no expense on his costume. Even arriving from his travels… it dawns on you now, looking at this primped and preening man. You know why he has gone as silent as his empty grave on his end of your bond.

He’s planning something. A surprise, a seduction. Something that will surely set your slow, undead heart racing and make your folds drench down your thighs.

Once you unmask him of course. There would be… some clue. He wasn’t that clever, never one for details. He prefers to lure you in with honey-sweet words and a grind of his bulge somewhere on your body. Sensual, sweet thing that he is.

Your gaze has grown distant, your pleasant smile fixed on your painted lips. It’s only once the musicians strike up the music that you slowly return to your surroundings.

And it’s only once the drums begin pounding so loudly it shakes in your rib cage that you notice one male lingering at your feet. Richly brocaded damask, deeper crimson than what runs in one’s veins, his costume is breathtaking. Cut so perfectly around his waist and hips, drawing the eye towards that gusset between his thighs.

You quickly raise your gaze, realizing you are licking your lips as you scan this male’s body.

And you’re met with eyes that are so deep set in his golden Bautta mask, you can’t see the color. But you drink in that intensity. That gilded cover hides every sharp, pale feature, even covering his sly and sultry mouth. But all he needs are his eyes boring into you, already undressing you. It’s… delicious.

He would come in regal colors and damask, in a mask that’s inlaid and filigreed with real gold. That feathered cap on his head is a nice touch to hide his telltale silver tousles, as well. Slowly, this man turns towards you, and you can feel it, the way he is drawn to your power, eager to be your thrall.

He wants you, and you know it must be his plan, a master of stirring your body for him alone even in disguise. Feet treading up a stair or two in your direction, he gives an elegant bow, a swish of his scarlet, silken cape as he extends his gloved hand for yours.

Your feet follow him into the mass of people, the center of the dancing as couples begin to form in patterns and forms. Ready to dance.

He doesn’t need to say a word, only giving a deep, muffled laugh beneath that pointed mask as you sweep with your supernatural grace in his hold. A merry dance, one that weaves you around other couples at a clip, one that makes your own silken, gloved hand pass into the palm of every male on that dance floor. Spin after spin, pass after pass, and your flesh practically ignites with each time you cross with your golden-faced lover.

Your mouth salivates, and you wonder why he hasn’t whisked you away to your chambers.

As the music begins to slow, you feel a pinprick at the back of your neck, even as he… the man with the golden mask… your lover pulls you in one last spin. You see nothing in the crowd, but you feel… something. Something hot and sharp, eyes on you from somewhere in the masses.

Then again, all eyes are on you. You and your Lord do tend to turn every head in the room. And you do so as you pull him through the double glass doors and onto the open aired terrace.

Lit by only the moon and stars, you keep your hands on his arm and his waist, leading him as far as possible from the crowds. You don’t even know if the Duke has arrived, nor do you care. You need sating, need to indulge the tension that has flared between you two in that ancient way you always have.

He stops once you both reach the shadows, arms wrapped around your elegant dark dress, its gauze and crinolines dusky burgundy and black as you practically bleed into the shadows yourself. “My lady,” that voice whispers from behind the mask, muted and strange. A trick of his disguise.

“My lord,” you lilt back, taking a single finger to stroke the bare flesh of his neck where it peeks above the bright collar of his jacket. “I need something from you, ever so badly.”

“Then take it, my lady,” he tilts his head, baring more of his pale skin. Your eyes are wide, ravenous. You haven’t fed from living blood since his departure. For his was the only vintage you drank, the only kind that would fill you. Craning your head, standing on the balls of your toes, you lick your lips, barely restrained enough to take a little bit of time.

Your fangs finally bite, and warm, coppery essence fills your mouth… but only after a few swallows does it hit you.

Smack in the face.

Blood strange on the tongue.

And then you feel someone drawing closer behind you, soft footfalls that make your stomach flutter, your bond snapping taught. He’s here at last.

And this man beneath your mouth isn’t him…

“Darling, I’m hurt,” you hear Astarion’s voice, perfectly clear, breath brushing down your shoulders and back, “I thought we had something special…”

You round so quickly, spitting out the stranger's blood from your mouth in utter disgust.

He’s there.

Astarion.

You curse yourself. You should have known… how did you not? He was perfect in his disguise, he was…. Your rogue. Just as he was on those nights in the camp… simple and elegant and mouthwatering. A familiar frilled shirt, ruffles of embroidered silk framing his pale and perfect chest… tightly cinched breeches that hug his every sinew and line of his thighs and bulge. A mask, black as night, gilded with embellishments shaped like the rays of the sun—a little nod to his Ascendant power.

His greatest disguise as the Vampire Ascendant— the Rogue he once was.

But it’s his lips pressed in a hardened smile, his eyes practically glowing with power, swirling with the concoction of jealousy and arousal that makes you tremble before him. Both emotions strike you in your belly, launched at you, a blade from his mind thrust into yours.

You let out a whimper, your mouth fluttering at the sight of him, your elegant rogue, your vampire lover and lord and husband and master. “Astarion,” you gasp, feeling the man’s mortal blood seeping down your lower lip. Gaping in horror at what you have done.

“Tch,” he sucks his teeth, keeping his distance, totally giving no heed to the man who staggers a bit behind you. “Well, darling, it seems you have found your entertainment for the evening already. A pity I wasn’t more forward… more aggressive to catch your… hungering attentions.”

You feel it… knowing he feels it too. Your belly aches to begin feeding once more. “No, no…” you protest, drawing a step closer, wiping your bloodied chin on the back of your sable silken glove.

“Really, my Consort, who am I to deny you your hunger?” he’s hissing. Defensive. Eyes heavily lidded, jaw tweaking as he watches you unravel before him.

“Hungry? Yes,” you pant, a feral need unlocking inside you to be so close to your love, your maker, and yet kept at arm's length. “For you, my love. I thought he was you, Astarion.”

He sniffs, derision seething in that one breath. Disdain turns playfully at his lips and darkens his crimson eyes. “I forget sometimes how new to your vampirism you are, darling,” he chides, none too gently. “You have no idea the pull you have on others… the natural way your charms will command the weakest minds to bend their necks for your teeth. No matter what ignorant fools they are, trying to take what’s mine.”

And with that, he snaps. Uncontrolled aggression embodied, a growl in his throat, Astarion flies at the poor male. His bare hand locks around the other’s bleeding neck. “Get out of my sight, out of my palace… out of my city, if you wish to survive this night, you fool.” His voice is death itself, bone chilling and sharp. And the man waits not one second more before fleeing into the night, back through the crowds.

Turning back to face you ever so slowly, he pulls off his mask, fingers tugging swiftly at the black silken ribbon behind his head. You see it in his face, the darkening of jealousy… but also the arousal in the way his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate so wide. “Well, my treasure, I’ll admit… power never looked so good on another… on anyone that wasn’t me.”

You force yourself to inhale, lungs shaking as you try to breathe. “You’re not… mad?”

“Darling, I am furious,” he hisses, closing in on you swiftly, clenching his grip hard around your throat. “You’ve done remarkably well in my absence in most ways, such a lavish soirée, even I am impressed. But,” he thrust his smirking, snarling face into yours until your noses brush, “you clearly need a swift reminding, darling, of just what you’ve been missing… of what parts of me you’ve missed.”

Grabbing at your hand, he thrusts your palm against his cock, so hard and hot through the well-oiled, skin-tight leather.

“Just like old times,” you rasp under his clutches.

“Tut, tut,” he chides you, all honey in his venom. “Nostalgia for your vampire rogue isn’t going to work on me…”

“Well,” you smirk, rubbing your hand up and down against his twitching erection, “something has…”

His lips crush yours, certainly ruining what was left of your lip paints, licking off the remnant of that poor fool’s blood from your chin, your fangs. And most assuredly, making your lips swell and bruise as he works ravenously in his kiss. He keeps your palm pressed hard on that aching rise between his legs, slow little rolls of his hips against the pressure.

“Watching you touch another… dancing with another… watching your eyes batting at him…” He breaks from his words to dart his tongue inside your mouth, licking again and again until he’s replaced all traces of that offender’s blood with only the flavor of him. “Watching you beckon him into the privacy of your presence… your lips on his skin…” His body seizes, that blend of jealousy and arousal crashing into you again four-fold. “I’ve never wanted to kill and fuck more than I do right now…”

You watch his pale chest heaving, watching every one of his veins beat with his ascendant heart, perfectly perched under his beautiful skin. Head cocking, he grips the ruffled collar of his silken shirt, tugging it wide.

Licking your lips, you feel his command: If you’re starving, daring, then feed.

You don’t need him to offer again, don’t need any other influence on your mind. Your stomach assumes control. Crown tilting askew from the pile of curls atop your head, you bite his warm and tender flesh.

And you bite hard.

Lewd, loud, trembling as if you just came… you moan right under his ear. Your mouthful of his rich, powerful blood almost spills over your lips, but you don’t dare let a drop be wasted. His hand presses harshly against the back of your neck, your curls and pins tugging at your scalp with the force. But you don’t care. Not as one hand grips into his arm to hold him steady, your other bracing on the other side of his neck to feel that raging pulse under your touch. There is nothing now that matters more than his ascendant blood on your tongue and his warm flesh beneath your lips.

“Careful, darling…” he speaks, vibrations from his silken voice shaking your lips. “I can’t be too bloodless to finish satisfying our hunger. Bad form to have the Ascendant unconscious at his own gala.”

One last, long drink and you pull off the wounds from your fangs with a pop. “Yes, my lord, how else do you think I hunger?”

Oh, he catches you by your neck once more, more playfully this time, long fingers wrapping up around your jaw. “What a stupid question for one as clever as you, my pet. You’re going to take my cock so nicely, another nice warm welcome that I know you’re craving too, darling. But first, you’ll pay nicely for your charming little transgression.” He pulls you further from the chaos and din inside your palace, deeper into the shadows. You can smell the gardens below you, the heady scent of blossoms in the air, lilacs and roses and lilies, just over the waist high wall.

And it’s over that wall you feel him spin you, laying you out carefully over its wide edge.

“Bad girl, my consort,” he leans over, his body crushing you from behind slightly to rasp right behind your ear. “Though, it was rather… intoxicating… to watch those lips redden with another’s blood… to scent your arousal so potently at the mere thought of my return. I shall be lenient, my love.”

“You liked it, didn’t you?” you jeer sweetly, a little roll of your ass against where he presses you down into the stone. “Of course, I only indulged thinking it was you playing some cheeky little game…”

He sinks his fangs into your neck, making a sharp cry pierce your words and stutter your voice.

“… should have known your games are much more fun,” you manage to add as he sucks from your veins. One hand grips behind where your crown perches, yanking at the roots of your hair and tugging your neck to a wider angle. And then he drinks quickly and deeply.

“What am I if not fun, hmm?” he purrs beneath your ear, one hand clasped around your wrist, the other begins to lift the pile of your skirts, tulle and silks and crinoline piling high on your back until you feel the night air on the back of your thighs.

Until you feel the breeze on your ass as he slips your undergarments to your knees.

“Feel free to scream, my pet. There is no one out here but us creatures of the night now….”

Smack.

His palm lands sharply on your bare cheek. A gentle rub follows the pain, fingers angling their dexterous touch slightly between your pressed thighs.

Smack.

Harder this time, fully on the other side, he spanks you. And while you grunt, muffled into your bent arms beneath your head, Astarion groans.

Loudly. Full throated.

His hand massages that freshly reddening ass this time. You feel his body bracing along your side, spank after spank making you shake with pain, only to be brush away quickly with his tender touch.

It’s maddening, making your core heat even more than before. Your hips wiggle under his fingers, hoping he might accidentally slip one or two between your folds.

But nothing Astarion does with his skilled hands is accidental or blunt— refined, precise. Perfect. “Feeling sufficiently contrite?” he purrs, moving behind you. One single hand splays on your lower back, the leather of his breeches presses behind you, almost like skin against your bare flesh.

“Yes, sorry,” you mumble into the gauzy sleeve of your dress as you bury your face.

His touch slips just a little between your cheek, your arousal running down your thigh as he spreads you just a little. “What was that, darling? You have been awfully quiet in your penance, you know…”

A single finger, nail first, creeps to where you clit lies. “Yes…. S- sorry,” you groan, lifting your head, turning just enough to see where he crouches behind you. He looks delicious in the moonlight, if you didn’t feel your bond, know your body teemed with undead power, he would look as he did all those nights on the road. That same devious smirk, same glinting, feral gaze that wants to eat you right up….

Say no more… he purrs into your mind, a delicate brush of his power making you shake. Reading your thoughts as you gaze at him.

He slaps your thighs apart, burying his face between them to do just that.

Eat you right up.

That thick tongue of his sweeps from your clit to the end of your seam.

“Scream for me,” he bids you. Your back arches, your head lifting, like a wolf in heat, you howl. Your voice ricochets off the garden wall, followed by another whimpering sound as he keeps that mouth of his sucking on your clit. Fingers spread you wider, thrusting your body back and forth as his tongue slides into your channel, his breath hot each time he breaks to swallow you down. That bliss begins to swell, relief from longing for his body for so long finally within your reach.

Until he stops. And you pant and growl in frustration as that precious wave of orgasm washes out of your reach.

One last, long sweep of his tongue, and he moves out from under you. His hands squeeze hard into your ass, marking your pale, cold flesh with his nails, just a bit. Just enough for him to know you’ll sit with hidden discomfort for the rest of the night.

“You’ve earned my forgiveness, my lovely consort,” he raps, leaning over you, crushing you to kiss against that sensitive spot behind your ear. “And I’ve been wanting to this since the moment I left your bed, my pet…”

Recognition spikes up your spine, you know that warm, blunted head that slowly begins to enter you. Contented. Happy. You sigh and arch to look back, unable to see anything below his chest beyond that ridiculous pile of your skirts over your back. His gaze is fixed on your thighs, watching your folds swallow him up, the little tip of his tongue licking the corner of his mouth.

Sweat gathers under your mask, and you know your tints and kohl and paints are wrecked by now. But you don’t care. No one would notice under your demi-mask. And it was so worth it, to feel him buried deep inside you again.

That paradox of pressure and relief. To be so full and so happy again. A belly sated by his blood, a cunt brimming with his cock. Your delicate fingers grip into the edge of the balustrade, bracing yourself to ride his thrusts. The soft whines of music a merry tempo, one he almost seems to match as he fucks you. You groan, knowing it’s just a taste of the rest of your night, knowing that once your guests have basked in your presence for long enough, you’ll steal away, spending the rest of the night in each other’s arms.

For now he ruts into you, no holding back, no mercy or tenderness now. Just that blind drive to finally join with you after so long apart. If you close your eyes, you might as well be in some clearing near the Emerald Grove, addicted to giving one another your bodies. His sweet words in your ear, little grunts as he fucks with each snap of his hips.

Same cock… same arrogance… same moonlight-bathed faces twisted in pleasure as he takes you from behind. Even the scent of blossoms in your nose… truly just like when you knew nothing more than his charm and his vampirism. And didn’t you come to love all he was… all he became… the same and yet now so much more to you.

“I missed you…” you whisper into his mind, feeling how his body has wound tight through your bond, sensing his cock’s throb, his sensation of how good it feels inside you flooding your own body.

“I know,” he replies, a growl inside your ear, a caress of fangs in your mind. He chuckles into your thoughts, until his laughter turns into real breathless pants as that tension in his body claims its release. He slams into you, once… twice… until all you feel is the twitching head of his cock emptying inside. Leaning over your once more, Astarion places a kiss into your neck one more time. “I missed you too, my love…” he whispers for your ear alone. “Never again, my treasure. It was too long… too many horridly boring, ugly people. Why waste my time with riff raff when I could have just brought you with me.”

“At least you know better now,” you simper, moaning as he pulls from inside you, those skirts brushing over the raw, tender skin of your ass. You hiss, straightening.

“As do you, my naughty consort….” He’s already slipped himself back in his breeches. Bringing you in for a devouring kiss by grabbing your reddened and punished ass. Yelping, you kiss him back, feeling his wicked smirk against your lips. Pain shoots up your spine as he crushes the hard fabrics of your skits against your flesh… nevermind that your undergarments are abandoned on the ground now…You shrug, let them be.

You have no need for them, now that he’s returned.

He pulls you by your hand back towards the gala, retrieving his mask from the terrace, quickly replacing it on his handsome face.

You smile, shaking your head at his antics, his games… his rakish, seductive smirk. Licking your thumb, you clean the lingering streaks of your blood and cum from his chin. “There now, you look presentable, my Lord,” you speak in dulcet tones, regal and refined. “The Vampire Ascendant ready for his festivities, no longer unmasked like some feral, rutting monster.” You wink, a sly smile at him.

Hand braced at the back of your neck, he crushes you once more to his mouth, one more kiss, one more cleaning lick of his own tongue on your lips and chin. “And you, a radiant Regent Consort,” he grins, hands quickly, assuredly straightening your mask and crown. As you turn to enter, he whispers against your temple one more time. “Let’s turn some heads, shall we?” He offers you his arm, a gentlemanly bow at the waist, as if he hadn’t just been ramming into you on the terrace moments ago.

You flash him a smile, head held up high, as you enter the crowd and din and lights. They part like water before you, heads bowing… even the stony-gazed face of Wyll, new Duke Ravenguard, tips slightly in deference. He knows your power, cautious to upend the delicate balance you and he have established.

But Astarion… Lord Astarion… he carries you right past the Duke’s contingent, right up the dais stairs until he’s stopped before your thrones. He stops short, says nothing but a wave to the music to continue the festivities.

They promptly obey, and he sits in his throne… and before you can sidle over to yours, he wraps an arm about your waist and settles you on his lap.

You hiss, the bone of his thigh pressing hard on his bruises and bite marks that riddle your rear.

“Something the matter, my lady?” Wyll’s formal tone hasn’t changed a bit since your days on the road.

You glance up, smiling and demure. He’s grinning politely back, concern in his stone eye. Always that suspicion underlying his gaze, that mistrust of your new… vampirism. You widen your grin and give a little bubbly laugh. Assuaging the monster hunter. “Just so pleased to have Astarion back from his travels. I’ve felt so… empty… without him.” You hide the double entendre with a regal simper and a pat on his chest.

“Not too exhausted to enjoy your evening, I hope,” Wyll asks, pausing a bit too long until he adds, “my Lord?”

“Nothing I can’t manage to savor in spite of it, Wyll,” he jerked his head with a smile, shifting you higher up on his lap, dragging those raw marks to center over his still softening cock. “Now, enjoy your festivities, old friend….” He drags his fangs over the shell of your ear sucking it between his lips, a display of his desire for all to see. “We know we will.”

🌹 thank you to @glorious-void for the fanart, and to my consort coven: @marimosalad and @brabblesblog

#ascended astarion #lord astarion #vampire ascendant #astarion x female reader #astarion x f!reader #astarion x reader #x reader #reader x astarion #self ship #astarion smut #astarion romance #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 smut #bg3 fic #bg3 #astarion baldurs gate #baldursgate3 #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #baldurs gate smut #baldurs gate 3 #baldur’s gate 3

[lady-exophiliac-musings]

Mr. X

The hardest part of being a monsterfucker, as it turns out, is when you're in a situation in which you want to fuck the monster, but the monster was sent to kill you.

The large, tyrannical, immensely powerful being chasing you at a constant power-walk was drool-worthy, but he'd also taken multiple swings at you, given his orders and all. You've been forced to run at the merest glimpse of him for over an hour, when all you really want to do is shove him down on his back, climb on his dick, and ride him until sunrise.

It put you in the rather annoying position of being wet as hell even as you ran from him.

Lucky for you, it was easy to lose him, and from certain vantage points you got to see exactly how his mind ticked when he didn't have a target to follow.

His intelligence left a lot to be desired, to put it mildly. Without a target, he was reduced to checking in doors and windows, sometimes walking in circles until he could make a decision. And his object permanence was non-existent too, from how he stopped dead whenever he lost sight of whatever it was he was chasing. You can almost see him rebooting whenever it happened.

Which meant, after an hour of this, you were confident you could find a place to hide for a few minutes to rub one out and release this pressure that had built up inside you.

There was no way he'd find you before you were done, and you found him so god-damned attractive it'd left you blue-balled. You needed release.

Damn that sexy trenchcoat-wearing wall of mutant muscle.

By a stroke of luck, you find yourself in a hotel full of rooms in which you can relax on an actual bed to get this done. So you pick one, divest yourself of your bottoms, and lay out on your back to finish yourself off.

You close your eyes, envisioning that sexy beast, and bite your lip as you begin stroking yourself the way you like. Your walls quiver, wanting to be filled, as you work yourself, the pleasure you feel as you finally begin assuaging this pressure a thing of wonder.

It has you shivering and quaking in no time, a clear testament to just how badly that monster of a man had aroused you just by existing where you can't touch him.

What you were unaware of, as you touch yourself, is the fact that you hadn't fully closed the door to this room, and you didn't notice you'd attracted a voyeur.

The object of your masturbatory fantasies was right outside the room, able to see you legs-splayed on the bed as you play with yourself. He nudges the door slightly more open for a better look, his brain jamming with conflicting information.

He'd been ordered to eliminate all "threats", but right then you don't look threatening. You look... something, and it evokes a certain, unfamiliar kind of heat in him as he watches you. It even stirs a particular rhythmic, pulsing movement in his groin, trapped as it is in his trousers.

He struggles to comprehend what's happening as he looks between your rapidly-moving fingers and his own growing erection, attempting to process the surprising desire sparking in him. Eventually he gets the bright idea to tug open his pants to relieve the pressure on his dick, and he cants his head at how thick and hard it'd become.

It doesn't take him long to establish a direct connection between his erection and your open legs. Every time he looks at you, at your parted thighs and beckoning juncture, his cock surges with more blood, more need.

There's not a lot going on in his head, to put it gently, so when he gets even a vague indication of a direction, he follows it. And, after a few minutes of watching you, it clicks in his mind that his cock wants to be inside that wet, glistening opening between your legs.

He strides over to you, then, phallus exposed and so hard it's at an upwards angle. You still don't notice until you suddenly recognize his footfalls approaching you.

You jolt at the sound, terror piercing you at your vulnerable position (alongside a pulse of arousal you could never smother), and you start to scramble up to run -- only for him to catch your knee, tugging you towards the foot of the bed where he now stands.

It takes you a whole second to recognize that he's standing there with a raging hard-on and then another few seconds to make the connection.

Holy shit, had he really come here to fuck you -- fulfilling your raunchiest dreams in the process?

Evidently so, because he starts examining your entrance with his fingers, gently pulling on your skin to open it up to his viewing pleasure.

Your heart skips a beat. But, wet as you are, you really don't think it's a good idea to take a cock his size (not monstrously big for his size, but he himself is monstrously big, so it's still the heftiest thing you've ever had this close to your cunt) without some prep first.

You gesture and ask for patience, scooching closer to sit at the edge of the bed instead. He cants his head at you in total confusion, even as you bring your hands and mouth to his cock and begin wetting it for yourself.

His face remains impassive the entire time you're sucking him off, all the while analyzing his flavor and struggling with your own disbelief at the situation.

This dangerous bastard who'd obviously been trying to kill you earlier now wants to fuck you, is that it? Well, far be it from you to look a gift horse in the cock, and you're fairly certain that you can maybe get away from him after fucking him silly if he suddenly turns homicidal afterwards.

He's hard as actual stone as you work him, and his cock pulses with pleasure the entire time. It's almost funny; the pulses are so strong it physically moves your head each time--

Suddenly he makes a gruff noise and hot cum floods into your mouth, forcing you to release him. You're a little too stunned by the quick orgasm to even move aside as he keeps pumping lance after lance of cum on you, your hands working him as you gaze up at him in a mixture of disbelief and disappointment.

Was that it?!

You'd barely been sucking him for a minute, and now he was painting everything from your hair to your tits in lances of his thick, hot cum. You felt like a glazed donut.

But, to your surprise and delight, he wasn't done. He came, but he was still hard, and you think maybe the hard lines of his face had softened slightly from it.

Before you can say or do anything else, he pushes you back and tugs your legs open for him again. You bluster and stutter as he starts trying to line his cock up to your twat, urging him to go slow for you and taking over the task of getting the head in place.

You'd be lying if you tried to say you weren't already seconds from your own orgasm just anticipating this, your walls quivering with desire for this beast.

It was such a quick transition from him cumming to him trying to enter you that you can feel the heat of his semen on your skin as the head prods your lower lips (not to mention the flood of it on your head and chest), and it makes you shiver.

You almost climax as the head catches on your opening and slips inside, forcing your walls open for the rest of him. Then he begins thrusting, aiming for depth, and there's little you can do to dissuade him; you can't reach his hips with your hands to slow him and he has your legs by the knees, keeping you wide open for him.

But he listens and obeys well, you discover as you breathlessly direct him to be slower and gentler. He's so big and your walls so untrained for something his size that it's a struggle to accept him, and you find yourself airily gasping commands.

He strains you, and yet the pleasure you feel as he gains depth is out of this world. It feels like your walls are threatening to tear with every thrust he gives you, yet the combined pleasure of him slipping in and out of your gushing walls and the sheer knowledge of what's fucking you has your head spinning with ecstasy.

You cum before he's even halfway buried inside you, quivering and moaning on the bed. Your walls spasm and squeeze him inside you as your entire body is flooded with pleasure, basking in how damned good it feels.

Your body rocks with his thrusts for a moment as he keeps going through your orgasm -- then pauses with his own low groan, his cock giving its own pulses inside you. Your own pleasure only spikes higher every time that cock shifts inside you, heat pouring into you, and you realize with another beat of disbelief that he's cumming again.

Inside you.

Holy Hell, your orgasm triggered a second one for him!

That pulls a louder, lewder moan out of you and you wriggle your hips, suddenly wanting him even deeper. He's almost at your cervix already with half his shaft still outside of you, but you want all of him in you, as deep as he can reach.

A glimmer of hope reaches you as you come down from your high, recalling how he came all over your face and remained hard; surely him cumming inside you will have the same results? You don't want this to end yet.

You don't want this to end ever.

To your delight, he seems to have the same idea. It only takes him a moment of his own basking before he begins thrusting again, going at the same speed as before.

Now, though... now you want more. Your walls are more relaxed and wetter than ever thanks to your combined orgasms, so you spur him on with demands of deeper and harder and faster.

You were ready for the beast, now.

He obeys, again, his head canting as he watches you from above. He releases your knees to lean over you on his hands, his hips pumping you in accordance with your demands.

It doesn't take him but a few thrusts to hit your cervix.

And then he keeps going.

Your cunt stretches for him above and beyond what you'd ever thought it could, accepting every thrust of hard-as-iron member. It's so thick -- and, soon, so deep -- that it steals your breath, making you fall totally slack underneath him.

Your eyes roll back and your mouth salivates. You can hear nothing except the creak of the bed, the rustle of his leathers, and your own wheezing moans. You can feel nothing except the rocking of your body, the stretch of your belly, and the raw, overwhelming pleasure that spikes from your cunt to every inch of you with each thrust into you.

Mr. X isn't a romantic lover. He doesn't know what he's doing. He can only obey orders, and right now, you're the only source of them. But he's obviously enjoying himself, his hot cum inside you squelching with his movements and easing his way to full depth inside you.

You keep giving breathless commands as he goes, and soon your desires result in him jackhammering you to a degree you've never had before. You can't even be sure, as he's going at it, that you can survive it, but you're loving how fast and hard he's taking you.

You climax again in short order, once he's up to speed -- which is unfortunate, because the flood of overwhelming pleasure in you renders you unable to move or breathe, let alone speak, and his relentless fucking is entirely too much for you mid-orgasm.

You seize up from your orgasm, spasming, all your muscles clenching and contracting intermittently. Your walls attempt to strangle his pistoning cock, simultaneously trying to force it out of you for a reprieve and pull it wholly inside you and keep it there while you cum on it.

You shatter for him, all of your senses whiting out for a beat. Your ears start ringing, your heart thundering away in your ribs, heat flooding every inch of you from the onslaught of pleasure -- and still he keeps pumping you, keeps fucking you.

You need it to stop, one way or the other, but you can't articulate your need in the midst of your climax.

When your breath finally escapes your burning lungs, it's at a deep, heavy moan the likes of which you've never heard come out of your own throat. Your body is quaking everywhere from the force of your climax and the hard pounding you're receiving, and your walls haven't stopped trying to clamp down on the cock ruining it.

Your first attempts at begging him to stop and give you a moment are fumbling mocks of words, your tongue unable to work right just yet. Your hands clumsily swat at his arms, instinctively trying to find something to grip onto so you can physically stop him.

He does -- finally. He stops, and as your spinning mind slowly begins to settle, you realize why.

You have no idea when this started, but his cock is pulsing inside you again, his heat surging into you in quick, hard jets. You find yourself gasping in time with each one, your mind frantically analyzing his orgasm to ultimately conclude that this started at some point during your orgasm.

It just lasted all the way through it until now, and you recognize the pulses are steadily slowing to nothing.

In a daze, you look down at yourself -- and your jaw would've dropped open, were it not already slack from your intense climax.

You're a mess. Your belly is stretched around him and has obviously been further rounded by the amount of cum he's pumped into you, but your thighs and pelvis are also splattered with it. His clothes also bear lashes of it from your hard fucking, glossy webs of thick cum branching out from around where his cock parted them.

You wheeze a curse, flopping back on the bed, and find yourself staring up at him. Suddenly a shot of panic hits you, recalling that this monster had very much intended to kill you earlier -- but the panic fades as you start to recognize the look on his face.

It's faint, but he looks more curious than anything.

You swallow past the dryness in your throat and murmur, "Truce?"

#nsft #exophilia #spicy #written #naughty #text #imagine #fantasy #mr x #mr x resident evil #smut #smut what plot #tyrant #resident evil #i just wanted to fuck the big man

[radiance1]

A Dp x Dc idea that isn't Danny-centric!? Say it ain't so!

So I think that this'll be a relatively short one but anywho.

Pariah Dark forcing the entirety of Amity Park into the ghost zone did not come without consequences, even with the ghost shield the Fenton's put over the town.

Said consequences come in the form of the entire basically becoming a ghost portal in and of itself. It mostly happened slowly over time, with the town experiencing quakes that spread quakes that lead to the Ghost Zone.

Everyone had to evacuate when it got really bad, well, mostly everyone. You see, Sam didn't want to leave Amity Park at all so he tried to find ways to convince her parents to let her stay even if said city was basically crumbling.

Then she had an idea.

What if she became one of Undergrowths allogenes? (taken from genshin impact)

So she persuaded (read: bullied) Danny into taking her to him so they could make a deal and let her stay in Amity. Undergrowth was surprisingly accommodating to the both of them, what with Danny becoming the new Ghost Prince and Sam already leaving a good impression on him.

He gave her a task, take this seed and place it within the middle of Amity Park and watch over it until it fully grows, then, and only then, will he accept her as one of his allogenes.

So Sam very obviously took said seed, said yes, and went to plant it.

The center of Amity Park was basically a giant ghost portal, it was small, at first. But with each and every quake it expanded and expanded until it couldn't be ignored anymore, so after Danny and Sam got back and went to it, Sam just dropped the seed in the middle of it and watched it sink.

Luckily Overgrowth gave her a proper method she should follow to ensure its growth, at the very least.

It took 4 years for the seed to grow, 4 years of relative isolation for Sam. Danny was usually busy with High Prince duties, what with being summoned and the likes, while Tucker was busy with taking over the outside world.

They still made time for her however.

When it grew Undergrowth gave her praise, not many would willingly keep themselves in isolation to grow an interdimensional seed from the other world. Such, he made do on his promise and gave Sam a portion of his powers, turning her into one of his allogenes.

He did however tell her that she was only Allogene he's ever had in multiple eons. Some of them chose to reenter the reincarnation cycle, while others sacrificed themselves for the greater good and such, some of them among the living are still alive, however, so they should be at least, vaguely aware of her existence.

Sam trained her new powers, familiarizing herself with them until it was as easy as breathing, which took a few months of non-stop training. Thankfully her new stamina is leaps beyond that of her previous human self. Eventually, she was even able to create a few lotus' that acted mostly as transport around the giant ghost portal.

Oh yea, did I mention that the Ghost Portal expanded enough to take over all of Amity Park? Well, a few buildings here and there stilled survived, mostly like small islands but still.

So Sam was living a pretty fine life, all things considered. Her days were very peaceful, tending to a few plants here and there, taking care of the giant tree that sprouted from the seed she grew, training her powers and talking to Danny and Tucker whenever they dropped by.

It was repetitive, but a nice one.

Then her daily cycle was interrupted by people claiming to be the Justice League, and she honestly did not have a clue as to who they are. She didn't really keep up with the news after planting the seed, or the outside world at all for that matter, the only one she regularly kept in contact with was Tucker.

She thought back on, and Tucker did mention them once or twice. Mostly painting them as irritating individuals yet worthy of respect, not that she knew why but she wasn't going to just let them step in here regardless. It's pretty rude to just step into someone's home without permission, no?

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #sam manson #undergrowth #tucker foley #ghost prince danny phantom #the justice league #Sam became one of Undergrowth's Allogenes because she didn't want to leave Amity park #Said city became a few floating mini islands in a ghost portal #Ngl my first thought was to have this idea be something to do with the league of Assassins coming to check out what they believed to be a #Giant Lazarus Pit only to find it wasn't that but a portal to the land of the dead #But I decided not to do that #So have this instead!

[the-scandalorian]

like a moth to the flame, part IV

Pairing: monster!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 11.1k Content Warnings: dark!Din, predatory/obsessive/possessive behavior, body horror/painful physical transformations, injury/gore, blood and hunting and monstery shit, oral (m-receiving), p-in-v Note: Endlessly grateful to both @frannyzooey and @ezrasbirdie for lending me their big beautiful brains xx

DIN Din had woken, disoriented and hurting, that morning after he’d found the Armorer on Glavis.

He came-to curled in the fetal position on the hard metal floor of his tiny compartment on the humming public transport. Before he’d even opened his eyes, he knew his body felt wrong. Uncomfortable and unwieldy, heavy and strange.

When he did open his eyes to the harsh, artificial light, the first thing he noticed was the sharp clarity of his vision. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but it felt like he was looking through one of the strongest filters of his visor. He blinked hard. No change.

He unfolded his arms and studied his hands, splaying too-long fingers, and his thoughts tangled and snagged as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. 

The glint of cruel silver claws. 

In his periphery, he caught the movement of a dark shape over his shoulder.

He tried to scramble away from it. It followed, a shadow.

Wings.

The word felt absurd. But it was…right. Silver that matched the half-moons of those claws, a structure of bone sprouted from both of his shoulder blades, a hooked joint forming the apex of each inky black, bat-like wing. Colossal and dark.

Piece by piece, in a haze of disbelief, he discovered new parts of himself.

The sheer size of this body, the power coiled in his changed muscles. 

He ran a finger along the edge of his teeth, catching the pad on an elongated canine. Blood welled.

The wound on his thigh, where he'd burned himself with the saber the night before, was largely healed. There was only a trace of it, a fading pink scar.

Din stopped there. He couldn’t bring himself to look in a mirror, to see himself like this. He wasn’t ready for it to be real, to know if his face was still his own.

Instead, he picked up his chest plate to start collecting his armor, and his claws bit gently into the perfectly smooth surface. He was stunned.

What scratches beskar?

Beskar.

Of course.

The silver of his claws, of his wing joints was beskar. Virtually indestructible.

Din sank back to the floor and closed his eyes. He sat against the cold metal wall with his clenched fists pressed against his eyelids, the tips of those talons cutting into his palms. He wanted to escape the prison of this body, of this new reality; to wake from this nightmare; to blink himself out of existence altogether. 

He forced himself to slow his breathing, holding it at the top of each inhale, until some of the tension in his chest eased. He let his thoughts go, focused on the cadence of his breath. Preparing himself as he did before a fight.

A slow, creeping sense of relief spread through him gradually, growing so palpable it turned physical. Like a cool wash of water over his aching muscles, a full-body shiver racked him. The tremble and quake of his broad frame was fleeting but intense. A release. His bones shifted in a pinch of discomfort. His mind drifted.

And then, stillness.

He’d opened his eyes minutes later, and his vision was blessedly, beautifully blurred—just barely. As it always was. As it was supposed to be.

Sitting there, staring at his hands and his blunt, human nails, Din might have been able to convince himself he’d imagined all of it. A fever dream. A delusion. An exhaustion-fueled moment of insanity, his mind addled by the fight and the pain and the life-altering dismissal from his covert. 

Except, etched into his chest plate…those damning marks.

A mechanical voice announced the imminent arrival of the transport, interrupting his moment of existential crisis. Tatooine. The local time and weather blared through the speaker.

Tatooine. He couldn’t go back there. Not like this.

He made a choice. He dressed and readied himself, deboarded and found his way to the baggage claim. A droid unlocked his case, and Din methodically reattached each of his weapons. He reached for the dark saber last. The metal hilt felt hot, even through the thick leather of his glove. Nothing else had—not his blaster or his charges. Just the saber, warm under his touch. Warm like something alive. Like something warm-blooded, something with a thrumming pulse. Like something pleased to be back in his grip.

Like it knew.

He clipped it to his belt and let it drop, relieved to not have it in his hand.

Din turned, looking for the closest screen of departures, and scanned the list for the least populated destination.

*** Now, months later, he wakes to a fantasy.

He hadn’t meant to sleep. He didn’t want to risk it, even in the armor—not after he felt his body start to shift under his beskar last night. He didn’t think that was possible. Then he’d sucked your taste off his fingers, and his head had snapped to the side, his spine straightening. He’d felt the pop of vertebra and the sudden tightness of the skin across his back, the warm tension in his muscles straining for the change, but he’d managed to stave it off. 

Just barely.

No, he hadn’t meant to sleep last night, but he had. And he wakes now, well rested, to the feeling of your warm body curled into his side, your head nuzzled into his neck, your breathing slow and deep. Watery morning light, as light as this dark forest ever gets, is visible through the trees outside the window.

He’d tried to move away from you during the night, to give you space, sure that you’d be more comfortable without the hard edges of beskar digging into your soft body, but every time he’d started to extract himself gently, you’d grumbled and tightened your fingers wherever they happened to be—caught in the folds of his duraweave, gripped around armor, tangled with his own. The leg you had hooked over his thigh had tensed too, your foot tucking itself under his other knee. You twined yourself around him, like a tenacious little climbing vine, and refused to let go.  

He likes it. You’re possessive too.

The realization hurts a soft spot under his ribs—you want what he wants. To belong to someone. To claim and be claimed. To know that closeness. Skin-to-skin, joined and sweaty, without all these fucking layers between you. That hopeless, dangerous thing he can never give you.

That thought is unbearable when you’re asleep on his chest, your hand still curled over the top of his chest plate, fingers clinging to the sharp cut of metal. When he can smell the faint tang of your blood as it pumps idly through your veins, detectable even under the layer of your delicate floral scent, even from beneath his helmet.

His mouth waters.

It’s the catalyst that finally gets him moving. He carefully but forcefully unfastens your hand, inches your leg off his, and slips out of bed. You readjust but don’t wake.

As soon as he’s standing, looking down at you, he regrets it. The space between your bodies is intolerable, and he has nothing to do but wait for you to wake. So he waits. He waits, and he seethes.

He thinks about the mistakes he’s made.

*** He’d spent yesterday angry at himself, fuming at his own idiocy. He’d ruminated on how to proceed, how to scare you off again after he’d all but courted you the previous night when he’d given you a com link. Had invited you to use it. Fucking encouraged it. He’d been drunk on you—on your presence, on your forgiveness, on your smile. On the headiness of your scent as you’d stood so close to him outside your house. And it had messed with his fucking head, made him do stupid things. Dangerous things.

He’d worked through the steps of his drills while he thought, slashing the saber through the air as he’d tried to decide what to do. How to retract his offer of the com. He didn’t think he could bring himself to be cruel to you, to reject you outright. He’d imagined your face, imagined the hurt there, and he’d just…known he couldn’t do it. He’d have to leave. He wouldn’t let himself see you again. He'd jam the frequency of the com link. A clean break.

It was the only option.

He’d decided he’d let himself change early then, before the sun had dipped below the green horizon. One last hunt before he found a way off this planet. 

He’d been minutes away from letting himself shift, minutes away from heading out completely uninhibited, when he’d caught your scent. You were close. The timing of it had made him want to break something. That was exactly the problem with all of this: one misstep, one instance of bad timing…and you could end up dead.

Why hadn’t he thought about you finding the bodies? How had that not occurred to him? 

He’d left a perfect trail from your house to his. His animal brain had thought protect and nothing else. He’d gotten sloppy, comfortable. Maybe some part of him had wanted you to find it, to follow.

This was how it would end, then, he’d thought as he waited for you. Not in the easy way he’d planned, not a quiet exit—a coward’s exit. He’d have to face you, to turn you away and tell you he was leaving. 

Then you were in front of him, and all of that was gone—the struggle and the resolve, the determination and decency. He’d fought to get it back for a few minutes, scrabbled against his own desire. Had tried to deny himself—to deny you. It was futile.

You’d asked him if he thought you were weak, if all of this was somehow your fault. And that was it.

He’d refused to punish you for his sins. 

*** And now you’re in his bed. Warm and soft under his comforter, your head pressed into his pillow. A dream. Something he could wake up to tomorrow and the next day, if he wanted. A string of perfect, untouchable days stretching before him like a beckoning temptress.

He can’t let himself think like that.

Your life, he reminds himself. Your life is what matters most. Keeping you here wouldn’t just be selfish, wouldn’t just be a temporary balm, it would be a gamble. Your life pitted against his own self-restraint. Your life pitted against the self-restraint of a monster he doesn’t trust.

If he can just get you out—out of his bed, out of his house, out of his head—he’ll be able to think straight, and then he can go.

He watches you stir, aware suddenly that a fully armored Mandalorian looming over you might not be the most comforting sight for you to wake to. But you crack open sleepy eyes before he can move, and a lazy smile spreads across your face. His heartbeat stumbles.

“Morning,” you yawn, stretching your arms over your head.

“Morning,” he replies, clipped as he tries to expedite this process.

“It’s early,” you muse, your gaze trailing to the window. “I think you should come back to bed.”

Din’s thoughts stall immediately. You look so cozy, so comfortable snuggled in his bed. In his bed.

“Please?”

Din’s helmet follows the path of your hand as it begins to wander: as it slides languidly down the column of your neck, molds over the swell of your breast, lingers along your waist. You know you’ve snared him right away. You always know.

He just stands there, silent and yielding, as you kick the blankets away and shimmy out of your clothes. He wants to tell you to stop, but his mouth isn’t responding to his brain, his jaw dropped open slightly behind the helmet as he surveys the bare lines of your body. He didn’t get to enjoy this yesterday, didn’t get to luxuriate in the view, to drink in every detail. To commit it to memory.

His visor catches where your fingers stroke the curve of your hip.

“I can’t—” he starts.

You slip your hand between your legs, run your fingers through the soft hair there.

He was going to get you out. To regroup. That was his intention.

One of your fingers slips lower, dips into the seam of your sex. His cock responds.

He barely knows his own name, let alone any sense of reason when you’re looking at him like that—touching yourself like that. Begging him to touch you. His nervous system jolts from freeze directly into overdrive, and immediately he can feel himself brushing up against some physical limit, teetering on the edge of his control.

He watches you drop your knees open, and a low, pained sound passes through the modulator when you use two fingers to part yourself, putting yourself on display for him. You roll the pad of one finger over your clit, and your head drops back onto the pillow, your eyes closing in pleasure. Need claws at the inside of him. 

“Stop,” he commands, but there’s no bite in it, his mouth watering at the sight of your stroking fingers.

You smile and widen the spread of your thighs, moving your hand lower.

He tries to sound firm, but his words come out like a plea: “Don’t—”

“I wouldn’t have to touch myself if you’d do it for me.”

You keep your eyes on his visor as you press two fingers inside yourself, frictionless as they sink inside the warm clutch of your body. He’s fixated on the flex of your wrist as you fuck yourself gently—his rapt attention suddenly a shivering, living thing throbbing under his skin. When you ease them out, he can see the shine of your arousal coating your skin up to the knuckle, a clear thread strung between your fingers for a brief moment when you slowly separate them.

“Your fingers feel so much better,” you breathe.

His blood pulses loudly in his ears, a too-slow beat. He knows what you feel like, clenched around his thick fingers—how slick, how hot. He knows what you taste like, licked off his own skin. Din would like to say that some greater primal force takes over, hijacks his body, that the monster in him doesn’t give him a choice, but that would be a lie.

He decides to let go.

Without changing forms, Din silences the part of his mind that’s protesting. He lets the animal of his hindbrain take control, a predator submitting to the call of its prey drive. It feels good to give in—a rush of blissful quiet overtakes him. He looks at you, and it’s simple. He wants you.

Time slows, but his hands move quickly—going to his belt buckle. The weapon-heavy leather thuds when it hits the ground at his feet.

You watch him disarm himself, poised like a willing sacrifice on his bed with your hand caught between your open legs, a naked eagerness on your face that pleases the possessive, hungry thing in his chest. His vision is tinged red, the severed thread of his control a distant memory as he thinks of all the things he wants to do with you.

To you.

He condemned himself to this the moment he let himself touch you. There’s no going back. He’s going to taste your nectar from the source. He’s going to fuck you with his tongue and gently suckle your clit between his lips until you sob. He’s going to eat you out until you come on his face, your hands tangled in his hair.

And then he’s going to do it again.

He tries not to think about how much easier that would be with his other tongue, his tongue when he’s transformed—long and dextrous as it is. He could get so deep inside you like that. Taste you from the inside out.

Later. He appeases himself with the promise of later. The promise of tomorrow and more more more.

His gaze settles on your mouth. There’s something else he wants now.

He approaches the bed and stands at its side, waiting patiently. That desperate sense of urgency drops away, and his shoulders relax. He can decide to have all the time in the world with you if he only lets himself. 

When he hunts, when Din really truly hunts these days, he finds that he likes to draw out the indulgence of it. The tease and the chase. The kick of adrenaline before the slaughter. He understands why a predator plays with its prey before it makes the kill. 

Because it can.

Because it feels good.

You’re expecting him to join you on the bed. He can see it in your expectant gaze.

“You want it so bad?” he asks, dipping his helmet down. “Come here.”

A wicked look flashes across your face at the change in his voice, at the invitation. There’s a beat of anticipation as you decide to play along, and then you crawl to the edge of the bed on your hands and knees. He watches, an imperious tilt to his helmet.

You perch on the edge, looking up. Waiting.

“Go ahead,” he nods. “Take it out.”

Your hands move to the button on his pants, but you don’t pop it open right away. You let your hand mold to the hard bulge there, feeling the heft of him.

He tilts his helmet the other direction, impatient, and you go for the zipper. 

Before you’ve even pulled his cock out, before you’ve even touched him, Din thinks the sensation of your hot breath on the expanse of skin exposed by his open fly might be the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced. 

He rips his gloves off and locks a hand around the nape of your neck. 

He thinks for a fleeting moment how obvious it must be—his obsession with your mouth. The edge of mania he’s shoved toward when you let your tongue drag up his hip bone. That he’d slit his wrists at the altar of your perfect lips if you asked.

Your eyes drag upward slowly as you lick across his skin, gaze catching on the armored lines of his body before it meets his visor. You peer up at him as you inch the fabric of his pants down just far enough. And then your eyes flick down to watch a pearly bead of precum slip down the length of his shaft at your closeness.

“You want it?” he rasps. “Open your mouth.”

He grunts in satisfaction when your lips part immediately. Again when your hand curls around the base of him and your tongue darts out to circle his head, a touch so infuriatingly delicate that it makes him want to hold you down and fuck your throat raw.

He doesn’t, of course. He lets you set the pace even though your teasing lick across the underside of his cock and another over his slit feel as much like torture as they do like pleasure. 

Finally, finally, you take him fully into the heat of your mouth. You start up a steady rhythm, and he’s more than satisfied to let you take the reins. 

You’re less satisfied with that though—you settle a hand over his on your neck and press down, your eyes skirting upward as you nod subtly, your other hand urging his hips forward, urging him to fuck your mouth. 

Use me. 

He wishes you could see his face in this moment, what you do to him. Din’s eyelashes flutter shut at the perfection of your request. But immediately, he snaps them open again, needing to see.

He thrusts forward, and you whine in approval, your fingers tightening on his hip—taking him deep again and again, until he watches a line of saliva slide down your chin. Until your lashes grow wet, eyes watering at the effort of taking him over and over. 

It’s too much. It’s too good. 

The tight, hot constriction of your throat as you swallow around the head of him, the hard suck of your cheeks hollowing out around his shaft. His helmet rocks back, and a growl reverberates through his chest. But he’s not about to let himself come without knowing what it feels like to fuck you.

His hand drops away from the back of your neck; he forces his hips to still. “Enough,” he grits.

When you surge forward again, taking him deep, he closes a hand gently around your throat and eases you backward, off him.

“I said stop.” He thinks the words would be menacing if the fractured restraint in his voice weren’t so apparent. If you couldn’t see the steady leak of precum from his cock, the drizzle of opaque liquid on his dark pants. He’s teetering right on the painful edge of orgasm, and you know it. 

“Need to fuck you,” he says, his hand still settled over your throat.

“Then fuck me,” you reply, your voice hoarse as you shift backward on the bed. 

“You want my fingers first?” he asks, his hand drifting down the inside of your thigh. “You want to cum on my hand again?”

“No,” you say, catching his wrist and pulling him onto the bed, over you. 

“No?” he says. “You want it to hurt?”

“Yes.”

His fingers tighten on your thigh. Too hard. “Turn around.”

You flip over and settle on your knees in front of him, and Din can see how much you enjoyed sucking his cock in the glossy spread of your cunt. 

He catches a drop of your arousal with two caressing fingers. “You want to be fucked hard? Is that what you want, you greedy little thing?”

You press your hips back, rubbing yourself into the cup of his hand. And for a moment, his mind buzzes with blankness—with the thought that he could be tasting you instead of just touching you. He satisfies himself for now by lining up his cock with the soft heat of your pussy, by pressing his sensitive head against your arousal-slick flesh. 

But when you whine and start to shift backward into him, he waits. Savors. “You need my cock that bad, huh?”

“Please, I need it. I want it—”

It’s that thing he fantasizes about—the daydream he strokes himself to in the shower after he hunts, when he’s sticky with blood and the leash on his desire has long been snapped. Your whined plea for him, your need so stark and bright that he couldn’t ever possibly deny you. Your need for him so heightened it threatens to match his for you.

“Take it then,” he pants. “Take what you asked for.”

He sinks his cock into the welcoming heat of your body, pressing slowly against the tight resistance of little preparation—hears the soft, drawn-out oh of your pleasure—and he knows there’s no coming back from this.

*** So he doesn’t fight it. He keeps you.

Days turn into a week. Into two. You bring life and sound to this desolate place—the creak of your steps on the hardwood floor, the sound of your humming, the quiet clanks of your movements around the kitchen in the early morning light. The quiet, steady tick of your heartbeat. All those pretty little noises you make when he has you in his bed—the moans and the whimpers and the pleas. His pillow smells like mellow spring flowers, and there are rose colored skirts and silky blue pajamas in his dresser.

He likes it.

He likes the noise and the tightness of the space and the company.

When he heads outside to chop wood for the fireplace, you follow to watch him roll up the duraweave sleeves of his flight suit and swing the ax—again and again until a thick log splits down the middle with a crack—and the attention pleases him. 

The weeks stack up, and there is a bar of soap speckled with lavender flowers in his shower. There are sweet strawberry preserves lined up in his cupboard, a colorful wool throw blanket tossed over the back of the couch that you insist is a necessity. For sitting in front of the fire, of course. You poke fun at his ascetic choices, at the lack of coziness in his house, but you don’t seem mad at all to be the one to provide it. 

He thinks you know instinctively that home isn’t a place or a concept he’s familiar with. He thinks you love being the one to show him what it could mean. 

He can tell you don’t mind that you have to face opposite directions when you eat. He thinks you like the sound of his voice even more when it’s not passed through the modulator. You draw out every meal with questions. He draws them out with his answers.

He tells you about the little green bounty that changed his life, the soup his mother made for him when he was sick, being adopted by the Mandalorians, the fact that he used to love swimming as a child. That sometimes he thinks about how good it would feel to strip off his armor and swim now. You tell him about your dreams, your childhood, your plans, everything.

When he slips his helmet on again and you turn to face him, he can see that the gulf between what he does tell you and the whole truth is obvious, though.

There is a question—are many questions—swimming in your eyes. The intention to get answers too. He’s not sure which exactly questions they are: Why the armor? The helmet? The Creed? Why this place? Where is he going next? When? What happened to him? What is he? Why the isolation and the fear and the hesitation and mile-high walls and why why why?

What the fuck happened to the wall of the shower?

Valid questions, every one. Many are things he asks himself regularly. All are questions he doesn’t know how to answer without shattering this perfect moment, without ruining the lovely domesticity you’re cultivating together. So when he sees that look and your lips part, Din speaks before you can. He’s not ready, yet, to go there. He reaches for your hand or strokes a gloved finger over your cheek and deflects. 

Just a little longer, he thinks, please. And you’re not fooled—he knows that. You understand the request and allow it for now, and he’ll take what he can.

“You want to learn how to shoot?” he asks instead. 

Your eyes light up.

He helps you pick a blaster from his collection—“How many blasters does one man need, Mando?”—that’s well suited to you, that fits your grip. He sets up targets outside, scattered on trees at varying distances, and stands close behind you, a solid wall against your back. He adjusts your stance and the placement of your hands, letting his touch linger on your waist in a way that makes your heart rate readout on his helmet spike. 

“Are you going to let me focus or not?” you quip, peering at him over your shoulder. “I thought you were trying to teach me something here.”

He raises innocent hands and steps back. “I didn’t realize I was distracting you.”

You smile slyly at him. “Sure.”

He lets himself enjoy it, the ease between you, the way you can read him even through the armor. Standing a short distance behind you, he talks you through the process: how to aim and shoot, how to breathe.

Hand-to-hand, next, he thinks to himself as he watches you practice. Then blades. Tracking.

He’ll teach you anything and everything that will protect you.

For when he’s no longer here to do it for you, he doesn’t let himself think. 

He watches you practice each day, watches you focus on the target, your lip caught between your teeth in concentration, until you nail the bullseye. You run to the tree where the target is hanging—a hole singed through the middle—letting out a triumphant cry, and he follows.

“Look,” you grin, so proud it makes his heart trip. You point at the perfectly placed burn mark. 

“Good,” he praises. “Do it again.” 

You roll your eyes, but you do. You return dutifully to the line he’d drawn in the pine needle strewn ground and shoot until you get the hang of it, until a miss is rare. And then he fucks you up against that tree, your dress bunched up around your hips, the blaster abandoned somewhere by your feet. 

You leave for a day, maybe two, here and there to check on things at home, that little fawn you love. As soon as you’re gone, he spends a couple hours getting as far in the opposite direction as he can, changing, hunting whatever he can find in the shortest time, and then after he’s washed every trace of blood away and donned his armor, he waits for you to come back. He tells himself it’s a perfectly workable arrangement.

It’s fine. It’s safe. Safe enough.

With his attention elsewhere, it takes him a few weeks to notice that those prints, the ones he’d been tracking so obsessively, have started to show up closer to his house, to yours. They mark a quiet, slow encroachment into his territory—inching just barely past that boundary he’d been so careful to hold until recently. Their bravery is returning, their local numbers rebounding, because he hasn’t been pushing them back by culling their pack with regularity.

He makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on things, reassured by the fact that there are miles of buffer between their progress and you. And, more importantly, that more often than not, he’s by your side these days—like the times you ask him to come with you when you leave. He’s not going to say no to you.

Every night, he gets to undress you and pull you into his bed. To touch you and fuck you and make you come. He gets to learn what makes you cry, what makes you scream, what makes you beg.

All in the armor, still. In the beskar prison that keeps you safe from him. That line he manages, somehow, to maintain. The monster in him hasn’t wrested it from him yet, and he clings to that last safety net, that final border between risky and reckless. 

He wonders every day when you’ll hit your threshold. When it’ll all become too much—the secrets and the questions and the armor. Every day you don’t ask or push or leave, he breathes a sigh of relief, knowing full well it just means the next day is more likely. That worry is so dwarfed by the pleasure of having you that he barely notices it, though.

It helps, too, that he’s well rested for the first time in a long time.

Din doesn’t dream when you’re in his bed, isn’t haunted by the nightmares. He slips into sleep, and it doesn’t fight him like it usually does. He sleeps soundly with your warm, soft form tucked against his side, your face pressed into his cowl. Your presence, your touch, your scent—they soothe him.

He’s always known—even before he admitted it to himself—that there would be no halfway with this. No measured approach to having you. And he was right, of course. Here you are, living with him… and happy, he thinks. He doesn’t like to think about what would happen if that changed, if you left. What he'd do. What he'd have to stop himself from doing.

Din loves hard, with teeth, and all of his are sunk deep in you. If he really thinks about it, though, the opposite is true. Yours, sunk deep in him. You have a bone-deep hold on him, a fatal bite that severed something vital upon first contact. If you decided to let go, he’d bleed out.

And he feels lighter than he has in months. Maybe years.

It scares him so much he doesn’t want to think about it.

So he doesn’t.

YOU

It’s not intentional. You don’t sit down together and make a decision, but you don’t want to leave and he doesn’t want you to go. So you just…don’t.

Slowly, with time, your most essential things migrate from your place to his. You bring a bag of clothes here and your favorite blanket another time. Your shampoo comes along with other bathroom essentials, and some kitchen supplies find their way into his drawers and cabinets.

Within a few weeks, you all but live with him.

You know instinctively that the opposite arrangement—staying together at your house—isn’t possible. Whether or not it’s actually necessary, Mando takes his self-imposed exile seriously. It’s another of the many things you don’t push him on.

Yet.

You visit home on a regular basis, of course, to keep an eye on things. Town, too, for supplies. You make the long walk alone—or sometimes together when you can convince him to put off whatever mysterious, imperative thing he has to do when you’re gone, and it feels shorter then. He’s not so hard to persuade.

You check on Luna, who is happy and well fed in the warmth of the barn, kept company by the chickens and the handful of braying goats. 

You find that she’s terrified of other people—or at least of Mando. You’ve never brought anyone else around so it’s hard to know if it’s something about him specifically. Maybe it’s the armor or his size. The first time she sees him, she goes rigid, the picture of freeze, and it takes twenty minutes to calm her down after you nudge Mando back out of the barn and close the door behind him. Even after several visits, she remains wary of him, barely willing to tolerate his presence.

A detail, like so many others, you file away for later.

It's one of many that you don't mention—anything that might prompt impossible conversations. Instead of souring the moment, instead of asking the hundreds of questions that are piling up in your head, you tacitly agree to avoid those things, skirting around any topics that elicit unanswerable questions or suggest an expiration date. Again and again. For weeks.

Then months.

It’s easy enough to rationalize. Might as well make the short time you have together pain free. Only good.

And, fuck, is it good.

You wake in his bed each morning and fall back into it each night. You wait for your lust for him to abate, for the initial need to be sated. Two months in, though, it hasn’t so much as begun to subside. If anything, it’s grown. It’s fed, you think, by the fact that you still don’t get all of him—what you do get just makes you want more. 

You get his hands, his cock, the expanse of his lower abdomen and upper thighs when he unbuckles his belt and fucks you. The sound of his unfiltered voice when you eat together. The sight of his thick, veined forearms when he chops wood. Snatches of golden skin dusted in dark hair.

Never his mouth, his eyes, his chest, the rest of him—his face. His face, that you think you might already love without having ever seen.

The why of it all—of the pace, of his nature—doesn’t feel so urgent any more, now that you’ve had the opportunity to soak him in, in more than just brief interactions. You can sense the why on him when you start to appreciate the weight of his past and his creed. There’s a layer of pain and loss calcified under his armor: you can all but feel it when your fingers work past an edge of beskar. He starts to tell you about it, too; he starts to untangle the complicated knot that is Mando. It’s usually during a meal when you’re faced away from each other and you get to hear his real voice that he starts to open up. You untease his past question by question, answer by answer.

When you do almost slip, almost ask a question that is too present, he helps you put it back. Offers a distraction that you gladly accept. An unspoken agreement of not yet.

He just needs time. You just need more time together.

You try not to think about the fact that you might not have time. No, you package that thought up with that list of forbidden questions, the ones that would threaten to crack the ice you’re standing on together, and tuck them all away. 

You take the things that he does offer, accept his baffling limits. You satisfy yourself with the reminder of progress. If you think back to a few months ago and draw a line from those cordial interactions at the Saturday market to the current reality of living with him—to watching him welcome all the ways you insinuate yourself into his space, to witnessing the way he seems to soften for you—you can’t help but feel hopeful about what the next few months will hold.

*** Winter comes early this year, sneaking in on quiet feet. It descends around you slowly—in brisk mornings and frozen dew drops strung along twigs like pearls—and then it comes all at once in a sudden blanket of white. You wake up to a thick layer of snow on the ground, the tree limbs and roof frosted and glittering.

He teaches you how to protect yourself—how to shoot and fight and track. You think there’s a part of him that’s certain if he only teaches you enough, you’ll always be safe. You can feel it in his palpable sense of relief when you master a new skill. As if he has a mental list of things to impart on you before he runs out of time.

When you’re consistently nailing the center of his targets again and again, Mando outfits you with a blaster of your own, tells you to keep it on you at all times—that it’s yours. That day, he drops to one knee in front of you. 

“Lean,” he says, patting his pauldron.

You listen without really thinking about it, bracing a hand on his shoulder.

“Up,” he says, gesturing to your foot and offering his armored thigh.

You comply, and he slips two loops of leather up your leg, the fabric of your skirt catching on his forearm as he inches them up, until the tips of his fingers brush your inner thigh. A holster. A holster he made for you.

He tightens the straps and then slips the small silver blaster into the leather sheath. 

You graduate to hand-to-hand combat next—well, not so much graduate as add it to the schedule. He’s visibly pleased when he discovers that you already have some skills with a knife, when you know how to disarm him of his vibroblade in certain holds, how to make an attacker bleed freely with one well-placed slash. How to sever a tendon or an artery. But he finds plenty of ways to stump you, ways to overpower you, and you practice those until you know how to get out of them too. 

A few weeks in, you’re more than satisfied with your skill level, ready to move on. Mando, on the other hand, is ever insistent on more. He holds you with your back against his chest, caught and pinned, a purring vibroblade at your throat. 

You’re exhausted, sweaty and sore from breaking out of his grasp again and again. You’re supposed to be doing it once more right now. But you’re limp in his hold.

“Go on,” he grunts.

“I’m actually fine with this,” you decide, letting your weight go even more leaden in his arms.

He scoffs low in his throat. “Is that right.”

“That’s right. I surrender. Do with me what you will.” You drop your head back, looking up at his impassive visor.

He considers. “Anything?”

The word slithers up your spine. “Anything,” you repeat, letting your eyes go heavy-lidded.

He closes the blade and tosses it away, releasing his hold on you. When you lurch forward at the unexpected freedom, your knees buckling slightly, he catches your waist to steady you. 

You spin to face him, pointing a finger at the diamond-like center of his chestplate, staying far enough away that he can’t encircle you in his arms again. “Technically that counts as me getting out of that hold.”

He plants a hand on his hip. “Disagree.”

“Emotional manipulation is a weapon. You’re just mad I’m better at it than you are. Maybe I should give you lessons. You know what, yeah, I think it’s only fair that we also start practicing scenarios where I’m the one in control.”

He cocks his head suggestively. “Are we still talking about training?” 

“Yes.”

He stares at you silently, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. It speaks volumes.

You scoff. “Are you implying that I could never have the upper hand in a fight? That there’s no chance in the galaxy of that ever happening?”

A damning beat of silence and then: “No.”

“You are!”

He gestures at his chest, shrugs. “Beskar.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d just need to catch you at the right moment—sleeping or showering—and take you by surprise. Or have the right weapon. Like poison. I know plenty of plants that would kill you—plenty of plants I could find out here or maybe…yeah…those.” 

You gesture at the row of detonators lined up on the side of his belt as he reattaches it around his middle. He always takes it off before you practice hand-to-hand, along with the vambrace that apparently emits flame.

“Yeah, they’d be effective,” he admits, clipping the buckle together. “The problem is you don’t have any.”

“You don’t like me enough to share your detonators with me?”

“To kill me? No.”

“How about this one?” you ask, reaching toward the mysterious hilt that’s always clipped next to them.

He steps out of reach before you can touch it.

“What is it? Can I see it?”

“I don’t use it,” he says. You know him well enough now to read the lie in his level voice.

“Then why do you always carry it?”

“It’s…a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” you press, curious.

He looks away. “I can’t.”

And you realize it isn’t just stubbornness or stoicism. It’s pain. A bruise he isn’t ready to address, and you’re prodding it.

You wonder how many secrets can simmer between you before they boil over.

“Alright, come on,” you say, grabbing his hand and turning for the house. “I’m starving.”

*** It’s deep winter when Mando starts to take you into the woods, away from his house, to teach you the basics of tracking. Each time, when the forest lightens around you and you can hear the titter of birds overhead, he tells you to pick the tracks of a deer or a fox to follow. It’s easier now that the snow is thick on the ground, a continuous blanket of white.

He instructs you, as he always does, to disregard the larger prints—the clawed ones—that you come upon occasionally. Too often for comfort.

“I’ll take care of those,” he says, unconcerned. 

Each time, you think back to that bloody trail and know he’s more than capable. And then you wonder when he’s away from you long enough to actually do that. 

Never, it turns out.

You’re on the tail of a stag when he holds out an arm unexpectedly, stopping you in your tracks.

“What is it?”

He turns his head slowly, scanning the quiet forest. Listening, waiting. You can’t hear a thing—not a rustle of leaves or whisper of wind. The stag isn’t close.

“They’re coming.”

“The sta—?”

Mando drops his arm and grabs your hand, hauling you back in the direction of home. You follow on instinct when he breaks into a jog with you in tow, heavy boots crunching through the snow. He twitches as he moves; he groans and presses his shoulders back, rolling his neck, his hand too tight around yours.

He’s in pain.

“Mando—” you say, trying to slow him down, to understand.

“Run,” he interrupts, pushing you ahead of him, urging you toward the house. “I can’t stop it."

You halt in front of him, a hand raised to his chest plate. “I can’t— I won’t—”

He growls when you hesitate, the sound not entirely human. His hands are shaking.

“I can help—” you start, not even entirely sure what you’re offering.

“I won’t risk you.”

“But—”

A gloved hand settles over your mouth, the other gripped tightly around your bicep. “We don’t have time for this. I won’t let you—I can’t—just go home and lock the door. And promise me you’ll stay there until I come back.”

He drops his hand and starts stripping off his gloves and vambraces. “What are you—?” The pieces click together belatedly in your head. Those colossal prints, the clawed ones.

They’re coming.

“Promise me,” he says, forcing them into your hands. “Take this too.”

He reaches for his helmet and rips it off his head, pushing it into your arms. Your jaw drops open in surprise. You don’t even have time—or the free hands—to cover your eyes or the sense to shut them tight.

“It’s okay,” he says, responding to the fear in your eyes. “I wanted to—been wanting to.”

You only have a moment to take him in. He’s just as handsome as you imagined—maybe, impossibly, more. His dark hair is wavy and tousled, falling across his forehead. His eyes are brown and wild with fear, his sharp jaw peppered with gray-flecked stubble. His perfect lips are set in a half-smile. He looks a little bashful for a moment, a little boyish as you study him.

He holds your face between his warm hands. “Promise you won’t leave the house until I come back.”

You nod.

“Say it,” he prompts, his dark eyes serious. He knows you didn’t really mean it the first time.

“I won’t leave the house until you come back,” you repeat, a little dazed.

You’re looking into his eyes. Your brain is struggling to process it.

There's fear there that doesn't just belong to the threat to your safety. It's more: the fear of being seen. Wholly.

You’re waiting for more words to come to you—something that will express the feeling that’s blooming in your chest without relying on words it’s too early to say.

“Be careful.” It’s the best you can manage.

He presses his lips to yours in a quick kiss. It’s too fast, not enough. If your arms weren’t full of beskar, you’d grab him to keep him close, to kiss him deeper. Instead, he’s pulling back and turning you on the spot with an iron grip.

“Go.”

He urges you forward with a gentle push, and you break into a jog, glancing over your shoulder as often as possible without running face-first into a tree or slipping in the powdery snow underfoot. He’s stripping off his chest plate, his pauldrons, his thigh guards. Leaving them haphazardly on the forest floor.

The last time you look back, his back is to you, and several pairs of yellow eyes are emerging in the dark spaces between the trees.

One, two, four—too many to count.

You’re tempted to stop. To turn back. To bring him the rest of his beskar. It feels so wrong to leave him out here, alone and unarmored. He’s stripping down from metal to man, and it feels unbearably vulnerable. Maybe you could help—

But just as you’re thinking that, Mando turns his head and bellows, “Go!”

You’re far from him—too far to truly make out the details—but you swear, even across the vast distance, that the whites of his eyes look black.

*** You drop the pile of beskar onto the kitchen table, unholster your blaster, and drag a chair to the window. You study the intricate line work of ice on the frosted pane, tracing cold veins with the pad of your finger. You fidget and shift, but you don’t dare leave your spot.

You stare at the place between the trees where you emerged, straining to hear any sound, knuckles white where they’re wrapped around the edge of your seat.

It’s silent.

Minutes pass like molasses—they stretch and sprawl, leisurely and unhurried, while you wait.

You steal glances at the clock on the wall. You swear it’s been hours since you slid the dead bolt shut behind you, but the clock tells you you’ve been sitting here for eight minutes.

Ten.

Twelve.

Seventeen.

He’s out there, outnumbered and alone.

Fuck it.

You get to your feet.

You wrench open the front door, but before you can break into a run, you catch a subtle movement between the trees. The blaster slips out of your hand. He’s staggering back to you—stripped and injured. His flight suit is unzipped to his waist, the sleeves tied around his hips. One hand is gripping his ribs, the other trapping pieces of his armor against his side. He’s barefoot and limping through the snow.

You run to him.

His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and there’s blood on his face—so much blood—coating his lips, smeared across one flushed cheek. Lines running down his neck. It covers his hands, forearms. It’s splattered across his muscled chest. When his lips part in a pained grimace, you can see the inside of his mouth is bloody too, red lining his white teeth. 

You don’t have time to process it, to think about what it means because he’s hurt.

He must see the terror on your face when you register the state of him because he shakes his head and says, “Not mine. Just this,” jerking his chin down to gesture at his side. 

A row of deep lacerations is seeping blood down his ribs, over his tense fingers and down his stomach, where it’s soaking into the dark fabric bunched at his hips. You shudder at the sight of it—even through his spread fingers, you can see that his flesh is torn open in a way that makes your stomach pitch.

Behind him, there’s a sporadic trail between the trees, red dripped on virgin snow.

You want to hold him, to pull him into your arms, and, most of all, to fix him and put him back together. You start by taking the pile of armor from him and slipping under the arm of his uninjured side, pulling it over your shoulders to support his weight. He accepts the help wordlessly, leaning on you as you stumble forward together.

“They’re gone,” he pants. “Dead. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you scoff. “Are you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He grunts.

You limp the rest of the distance to the house together and pull open the front door, kicking it shut behind you as you help him inside. He reaches behind you to lock it, his shoulders dropping in relief when it clicks.

You drop his beskar on the floor as gently as you can while you’re half holding him up. It clatters.

“We need to get these closed up,” you say, gesturing toward a kitchen chair. “You need bacta. Sit down.”

When he doesn’t move to sit, you look up at his face, and he’s staring at you with an intensity—a soft, quiet intensity of creased brows and bright brown eyes—that takes your breath away. 

“I’m fine,” he protests, gently gripping your shoulders and pushing you back in the direction of the bed instead. He fumbles with the hem of your shirt, trembling fingers slipping under the fabric to caress your skin. “I’ll heal. Just let me touch you.”

His hands are hot on your waist.

"You’re not okay,” you protest, trying and failing to redirect him. “You won’t heal if you bleed out.”

“I just need to hold you.” His words are starting to slur, running together. The blood loss is tipping him into delirium.

“After—just let me—”

He ignores you and curls himself around you, crushing you against his body, a heavy hand holding your head to his chest, the other arm locking yours to your sides.

“Mando, please—I really need to stop the bleeding—”

“Din,” he says, nestling his face against your neck sweetly. His forehead is sweaty and feverish. He brushes gentle lips over your fluttering pulse. “My name is Din.”

You’re speechless.

“I want you to call me that,” he says. “Please.” There’s a heartbreaking vulnerability behind his words, like he’s worried you won’t accept the offering of something so precious.

“Of course. Of course, I will.” His grip slackens, and you wrap your arms around his middle reflexively. The heat of his throbbing wound and the hot slip of blood against your forearm make you recoil.

“Shit—sorry—”

But Din doesn’t react to the pain.

“Din—hey—”

You try to pull back, to extricate yourself from his hold and get a better look at him, but the arms draped over your shoulders go leaden, and he sways on his feet, forcing you backward a couple faltering steps. The backs of your calves hit the bed.

“Din—” You try to steady him, but he’s getting heavier by the second, his weight shifting unexpectedly as he tries to keep his balance, half-conscious and fading.

Your knees threaten to buckle when he grunts and goes completely boneless, slumping against you.

“Fuck—”

You’re just barely able to angle your body so that you can gently—and awkwardly—use his momentum to guide him face-first onto the bed. It’s a miracle you both don’t end up in a crumpled pile on the floor. You hoist his legs up too. It takes all your strength to haul his dead weight over to flip him onto his back so you can access the slashes across his ribs.

Your heart jumps into your throat when you see how rapidly a crimson stain is spreading on the comforter underneath him. You run for the med kit, dumping it on the bed beside his prone form and digging out all the necessities.

He doesn’t flinch when you clean, close, and dress the wounds. Not even when you prick him with a bacta shot. You work as quickly and carefully as you can, keeping tabs on his breathing all the while. Any time you have a free hand, you rest it on his chest, soothed by the shallow but steady rise and fall. 

The whole time, you think about all those questions, those details, those secrets. You turn them over again and again in your head in a feverish loop—all those things you’ve been stacking on top of one another all this time, a teetering pile of essential pieces of him, ready to topple with a gentle nudge. Kept at bay by distractions and diversions and half-truths. All the ways you’ve both been keeping your relationship in stasis to postpone…what? Loss? Something that’s inevitable, something no one can ever truly prevent. It feels undeniable when your hands are covered in his blood. When you almost lost him anyway.

It seems obvious now. Obvious that in the end, it will be more painful to have only stayed in this place with him than to have at least tried to give yourself wholly to whatever this is.

Before you secure the final bandage over the wounds, you check your work once, twice—terrified the simple expansion of his ribcage as he breathes will force them open again. You press edges of the bandage down and watch closely, dreading the red seep of blood on clean white. It doesn’t come. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You clean him up with a moist towel, wiping the blood from his skin, his face, his rumpled hair. 

If he hadn’t chosen to take his helmet off before any of this, you’d feel like you were invading his privacy by being able to see so much of him. It still feels that way, just a little, as you admire the taut lines of his biceps, the broad spread of his shoulders, and thick muscles of his pectorals. As you gently swipe over the soft expanse of his middle, feel the hard abdominals underneath. As you study the slope of his nose and the grays threaded through his stubble, his long eyelashes fanned over his cheeks. The soft pink of his lips. 

You rinse that stained-red towel until the water runs clear, until there’s no trace of blood left on him. 

The bloodied sheets and blanket and pillow underneath him will have to wait; it doesn’t even occur to you to be bothered by them when you climb in next to him, when you sweep his damp hair back off his forehead and press your lips to his warm skin and settle against his non-injured side.

You fall asleep like that, your head on his sternum, the subtle rise and fall sweeter than a lullaby.

*** He’s healed by the morning.

He’s healed.

When you wake after a fitful sleep, you scramble out of bed to pull back his bandages and find that the wounds slashed across his ribs look like they’ve had several weeks to mend, the skin knitted back together seamlessly. You run your fingers gingerly over the tender flesh in wonder, in relief.

Another one of his secrets. Something else to ask.

He rouses at your touch, starting as he blinks open bleary eyes. He must be immediately aware of the absence of his helmet because his whole body tenses as he recoils, his eyes panicked as he tries to decide to attack or to flee, jerking away from your hand on his arm. 

“It’s okay,” you say, holding up your hands in placation. “It’s me, Din. It’s just me. You’re safe—you’re home.”

He calms somewhat as he meets your gaze, as he registers your face and his surroundings, settling his head back against the pillow. The tension in his body remains.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, resisting the urge to reach up and brush his tousled hair off his forehead. Touch, you think, is his to initiate in this moment.

“Fine,” he croaks. He’s visibly uncomfortable like this, still not used to being so unguarded around someone else. Holding eye contact for longer than a moment seems almost unbearable for him, his eyes shifting around the room so they don’t have to stay settled on yours. 

You hand him a glass of water, and he sits up against the headboard to drink it. He winces a little as he maneuvers, his jaw ticking. He’s sore.

“You’re the worst patient, you know,” you gripe, trying to lighten the mood, to give him something to focus on. 

He scoffs, lifting an eyebrow over the rim of the glass.

You give him an unimpressed glare. “I couldn’t take care of you until you fainted from blood loss.”

He has the audacity to shrug a little.

You blow out an exasperated breath, distracted, maybe, by the movement of his throat as he swallows. By every detail of his face that you can’t seem to memorize quickly enough—a privilege you’re more than willing to relinquish if it means easing the tension in his shoulders, the wrinkle of concern etched between his brows.

When he sets the glass down on the bedside table, you retrieve his helmet and offer it to him wordlessly, a show of nonjudgmental understanding, a willingness to back-pedal if that’s what he needs right now. His eyes soften when he takes it.

The urge to say something before he disappears behind beskar jumps up your throat.

“I was scared, so scared,” you admit quietly. “Din, I thought—I thought you…”

He sets his helmet beside him on the bed and jerks his chin. “Come here.”

You make to settle next to him, but he pulls you onto his lap instead, guiding you until you’re straddling his thighs. 

You try to wriggle away. “I’m going to hurt you like this—just let me—”

“Shhh,” he breathes, hands locking down on your hips. “I’m fine, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He hesitates for the briefest moment before he leans forward and presses his mouth to yours.

His lips are soft, tentative. His first, you realize. Of course.

Your mind snags on the way he tends to be in bed—directive, commanding, sure—and holds the two up side by side. This hesitation, the halting press of his lips, has something in your chest going soft. Between your legs going molten.

You cup his jaw and lick into his mouth when his lips part—an it’s okay, I want you to take—and his breath goes ragged against yours. He leans into you, an arm slung low around your back to keep you close as he starts to tip you backward.

“Don’t move,” you say, attempting to ease him back gently.

He ignores the command, responding to your open mouth with the slip of his tongue.

“Or I’ll stop,” you threaten.

He sits back, chastened, a subtle pout to his lower lip. It disappears when you lean back in. 

He makes a low noise of protest when you don’t meet his lips, but it turns into something pleased when you move your attention to his neck. You lick over his thrumming pulse, across the faint saltiness of his flushed skin. Your hands roam the planes of his chest, over his pounding heart, and down the swells of his muscled arms—greedy for so much warm skin, for so much of him you’ve never seen or touched or tasted.

Even with the helmet set beside you, the fear that you’ll have to go back—to concede gained ground—that he’ll revert back to full armor again, rankles at the back of your mind. You dig your nails lightly into his shoulders, and he growls.

You can tell it’s taking all his restraint not to move, to keep totally still aside from his wandering hands. You know he’s hard underneath you, that he’s aching to wrest control from your hands, to put you on your back and fuck you like this, with no layers between you. And he knows you won’t let him when he’s still healing.

You try not to let it escalate, to keep things from getting out of hand. But then his mouth is on yours again, your lip caught gently between his teeth, his hand locked possessively around the nape of your neck, and you can’t help the quiet moan or the subtle grind of your hips in his lap.

Din jerks back, hands braced on your shoulders to keep distance between your bodies, his head tipped back against the headboard and eyes closed as his panted breath gradually slows.

And you know it’s not just the injury. He isn’t humoring you or in too much pain. He’s fighting it—the transformation, the change that keeps him in his beskar. What he wouldn't let you see in the forest.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you say—quiet, serious. 

He pauses, understanding despite the sharp turn. The energy in the room shifts as he waits for you to continue.

“Your…you—?” you stumble over the words, struggling to find the right ones. It comes out badly. “What you…are.”

His eyes are downcast, fixed on the silver shine of his helmet.

He doesn’t ask how. Of course you know—it’s an open secret between you, has been for months.

“I want to see,” you press. An honest plea. “To know. Just let it happen.”

A tight, subtle shake of his head. No.

“Please, Din,” you say, laying a hand on his chest. “Show me.”

He looks away, his eyes full of some unnameable emotion, something soft and fragile, a sharp edge that might be anger. He slips away so easily, even without the helmet.

“Please,” you beg, framing his face with your hands to guide his gaze gently back to yours.

He still won’t meet your eyes.

Suddenly, you know this was a mistake. That this is the thing that’s going to break what’s between you. He’s given you his face, his name—they should be enough. Yet, here you are, pushing him for more. There’s no coming back from it, no swallowing the words, though. You find you don’t want to anymore, even when you can feel him slipping out of your hands.

“It’s not safe,” he says.

“How? It’s you.”

“No,” he says, “it’s not.”

“I don’t understand, Din,” you say, a hint of desperation laced between your words. “And I need to. I need to understand. We can’t avoid it any more—look at what happened. I just—I can’t do this when I know I don’t have all of you. I can’t do this anymore. All these walls, all these secrets between us.”

His head snaps to you, a flicker of panic kindling in his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it, the skirting and avoidance, the game you’ve both been so willing to play. His eyes settle on your joined hands. 

“I want all of you. I need all of you. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice low, and the panic in his eyes is swallowed by a deep, hollow want—a yawning blackness that expands and disappears so quickly you think you must have imagined it. “I do understand that.”

“Then let me see you.”

His brown eyes flick upward to meet yours, and he nods.

#my writing #monster!din #dark!din

[thepeonysbackup]

I need more mindswap fics! Now! Dis shits too good!

Mind!Swapped!Alastor, who....

Pairings: Alastor x Reader

Tags: MDNI, smut plot, dub con!

Word count: 887

Request: Yes/No

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who stirs to the sound of his door being hammered on, who's face peeks over the soft blue sea of fabric to see his door swing open from the comforting space. Who basks in the soft warmth of the light as a shadow hurriedly covered him in darkness, his own smiling face hovering over his body while speaking rapidly, worry noticeable on his brow as the words came in and out of audible, so quick his ears couldn't understand at first in his haze.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who shoots up suddenly after he rolled back over onto his side, his newly felt long strands of hair tickling his nose until he cracked them open once again. Who frantically grabs at himself in a perplexed mental attack of weakness, who jolts when you touch his uncovered feminine flesh and pushes his body off the bed with a girlish scream.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who threatens absolute carnage upon you if you do not keep your mouth shut for the entire day. Who claims he'll tear your soul into bite sized pieces until you can hear not move an inch so he can feast upon your organs to make sure you die again remembering nothing.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who forces you to change his vulgar revealing feminine clothes with his own power, who only allows his shadow to cautiously and accurately switch his attire.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who doesn't leave your side, his brain being fogged by not only the need for his powerful presence to protect him in this weak state, but by the attraction to himself he felt through your body. Who clings to his own arm breathlessly, who gains attention from the others to the change in both of your behaviors.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who cannot rest alone. Who shudders at the thought of being in a restless solitude without his pocketed dimensional room and without his strong present static, who rushes through the halls in your lacey white translucent night clothes to his door to open it… Only to find himself on his armchair by the fire place, his body's clothes disheveled and face stained with a red tint as his clawed hand ruffled lightly within his pants.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who grinds his flat herbivore-like teeth at the wet feeling coating himself between his fair thighs, the womanly throbbing from his dainty petals as he pulls the front of your white camie down to cover himself and the growing wetness that he has little control over. “What do you think your doing?!” His voice would seeth, the threat coming out helplessly as a whine of embarrassment due to your girlish voice being so soft.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who gawks in pure horror at his newly developed position upside down, who writhes with cute little noises of protest as black tendrils loop around his now frail and soft form, his embarrassed tear filled eyes batting its lashes rapidly as he made eye contact with you in his body. Who watches helplessly as your hand untucks himself from his pants at a painfully slow pace, claws raking drawled out strokes across the taut strained skin as it pulsed.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who screams to the holy being who sent him to this foul place for mercy, your lips allowing the words of a subconscious pleading bitch to release as the feeling of his demonic presence rumbled throughout your trembling form in powerful thrusts of his tentacles. Who cursed you for hours before succumbing to your body's desires for his bloodthirsty feral fucking.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who quakes in his eighth orgasm finally hitting the sweetest spot inside you, voice hoarse and desperate for something other then a tentacle inside. “Dearest…” He'd moan to you, your hand still lazily stroking over his half hardened cock before the shadowy appendages pulled him over to you. His ever present smile still boring strain as you made his magic lower your body onto his lap. “Beg some more, it's so fucking hot-” You'd tell him, clawed hand gripping your chin harshly to make him listen. Oh how he trembled.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who cumdrunkenly begs for more of his own seed to fill your tight little holes. Who gurgles hushed moans onto his cock as you facefuck him into the wall, humming hard against his length as it continued to split thick white globs down your pipes until you made him choke. Who reveled in the sound of his voice calling to him, “Such a good girl..” he was for this moment.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who wakes sticky and damp with you on his lap shivering uncontrollably with your thighs locked around his hips. Who's static grows until he feels your cunt tighten around his soft cock, helping it to harden as you blubbered against his chest in pain from the soreness.

Mind!Swapped Alastor, who uses you as nothing but a weak and pathetic little fleshlight for days after your incident. Who punishes you so sweetly that your mind bends into itself and snaps at its base. Who fucks you so good that the only word you remember to say is his name and not a damn thing else. “Oh, don't think that I won't remember this..”

#alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #happy hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #keiks asks #keiks piece #keiks works #keiks creatures of intrigue

[tarantulasnot]

Okay fine I'm a stalker

Like bad.

But whatever a girl can dream.

Sub! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Stalker! Reader smut lolzzz

Dark content! Stalking, exhibitionism, voyeurism, elements of stockholm syndrome, Leon doesn't ask for help cause he's Mr. Independent so his brain messes with him, reader does come in, Ada mentioned if you squint your eyes like 9999.99999%, Leon just doesn't know wtf too do with himself, my crk account got lost so now I'm torturing Leon

©©©

He was a trained military officer, he had survived countless injuries and perilous situations both willing and unwillingly. Of course he knew there was someone there, at all times.

He went to the store? There was someone there, watching him as he made his purchases. Were you that interested in what he was eating for dinner?

Even when he was eating it, he felt it from somewhere outside of his dining room window. It inspired him to stand up and close the blinds, however it was too late and his appetite was ruined.

Over time he felt it more and more as that strange presence seemed to adjust to his schedule, one he wasn't fully aware he had. Like how he always took the same roads to go to his part-time job, never taking a single detour. Or how he stopped at the same gas station every day to get one of three drinks, always settling on the same one every Wednesday. This was something he didn't notice until you made him notice.

Then you started hitting a little too close to home. Or rather, in his own home.

Whoever you were, you were good at what you did. He would come home to his dishes washed, or maybe his clothes. With a couple of things missing of course.

He thought about calling the police, but who was he kidding? He was the police. He can't just hit up his co-workers about something a trained military officer can't do. Well, maybe one. But she wasn't all that helpful. So, he started doing his own little investigating.

However, the paranoia was so relentless. He couldn't dress without thinking you were there, watching him, maybe not even through human eyes. Cameras maybe? The man couldn't even eat without throwing up because of the anxiety you caused him. Constantly forcing him to imagine what you were planning.

How could Leon be reduced to this? He was a man of power, of status... and yet here he was quaking in his boots over some person who he could probably kill in one swift kick to the temple.

But you weren't physical, you weren't tangible. You weren't something he could pin down and fight. Were you even real?

You seemed to notice him looking into it, and that omnipresent energy seemed to sputter at the knowledge. Like usual though, you had accustomed yourself to it. He had accustomed himself to it too. Maybe, the reason why the energy seemed to shift was because he simply was being paranoid. Maybe it was the trauma from always having his life threatened, maybe it was just his memory going bad.

Or maybe, there was someone out there.

Maybe you didn't want to hurt him at all.

You never seemed to do any harm, whoever you were. In fact, you seemed almost helpful sometimes. Even though it was odd that something he'd mutter under his breath, barely audible, would somehow come to reality- it was still free in the end.

So why was he being so serious about this? It was probably no big deal. Maybe he just needed to relieve some stress, clear his head a little.

But what would that make him? Normal for wanting a little bit of self care, but what about the fact he's doing it with his window wide open, facing the woods he feels like someone's in?

Maybe it was something in him that liked this, liked the danger, the anonymity of the eyes. Maybe he dreamt about it one time, the pretty girl he found out was stalking him was maybe a little too pretty. Maybe she was an ideal, maybe he wanted those keen eyes watching him.

As he sat on the edge of his bed, facing the open window, he could practically feel the inquisitive nature about you. He could feel your gaze on him.

His member strained against his pants. He had refrained from touching himself, from doing just about anything because of the extreme obsession going on within him. But you weren't so much of a stranger anymore. At this point, you had been in his home, in his life- you were a part of him he'd struggled to accept.

But he was accepting it. Maybe he even craved it.

You were so normal to him, so comforting, like a last resort. He really had no one else. His blue eyes fluttered shut and his face bloomed red as he slid his fingertips over the ache he'd been denying. Already the pressure made him sigh, his long lashes resting against his cheek as he teased himself.

What was he doing? This was just to prove that there was no-one there, there was nothing to be afraid of, but what if there was?

He gasped as he heard something outside, and he accidentally squeezed himself in surprise. He'd be lying though if his dick didn't twitch. Jesus... maybe he wanted something to be there- someone? Someone just to prove he wasn't going crazy, he wasn't just imagining things. Why couldn't he make up his mind? He kept thinking to himself as his other hand lifted up under his shirt to pull it up a little.

You were loving the display. His eyes weren't fixed on you, they were above you to the treeline you were crouching in front of. You weren't even in a bush, you were just sitting on the ground in a very black outfit in a very dark forest. You weren't sure what he was doing when he sat on the edge of his bed like that. You almost debated the fact he might just call out to you. He had been investigating you, in fact you helped him. You gave him a false lead on some random girl who had no clue who he was.

How clever. He thought it was some silly girl with a strange obsession for him, he would never suspect his coworker.

His coworker, that's why your fingerprints were on his things. You'd redirected him so many times. When you'd come over, he'd stare outside to the treeline, where you weren't, but usually would be.

But now, you were right in front of him, with his big hand lifting up the black fabric of his tank top- gasping and subconsciously rutting into his hand. Ever so cautious, as Leon pretends to be when he's all alone.

In the safety of his own home.

You teased him, shifting just once, just to test his reaction. It's the best decision you've ever made because the sweet little gasp he makes as he suddenly grips himself is priceless. You'd record him if the stupid light attached wouldn't give you away.

However, he's right back at it. This time, he's panting, and his thighs are twitching.

Leon swears he means to have some shame, or maybe he's pretending because he can't seem to rip his pants off fast enough. He grabs the lotion beside him and puts it on his hand. God, the slut even puts on a show. Dragging his calloused hands over his thighs before he reaches his aching base and he gives it a light squeeze, bobbing it in the air. Teasing you.

Or what he believes to be that girl from Kansas. "F-fuck..." After having no contact for so long has him laying on his back now. He pumps himself slowly, small strokes to get him fully hard before he starts to speed up a little bit. The cold air blowing through the window reminds him of how exposed he is right now, and the thought makes his fist move faster. His other hand comes up to swipe his thumb over the tip, forcing a huff from himself. God it feels Soo good- so good!

He hopes someone is watching now, or he did all of this for nothing. All this worrying, all these late nights looking around his room, all this whining against his palm as his hips jump into his own fist. his knees rub together as his back arches. His muscles flex as he furiously strokes himself, his eyes rolling back in his head while he tries not to cry.

He's so humiliated, but it turns him on so fucking much. He wants to be seen, noticed. He loves this-

And you know he does, you know he's in his own little world. Because you're leaning against his house now, just under his windowsill as he cries and whines, too conflicted but so overwhelmed with pleasure. He's so overwhelmed in general.

His knees tap against each other as his hand leaves his lips to accompany his other palm on his member, stroking in two different directions. The squelch fills the air as he becomes louder, heaving and groaning furiously as he gives himself what he's been denying for so long. Yet, you tease him one more time. You make yourself openly known for the first time. You knock on the side of his house.

The sound sends a frigid chill down his spine, but it's replaced by a searing hot heat. Someone was watching him pump himself to the thought of a stalker. But he realized he loved it- he loved everything- it slammed him over the edge and his eyes roll back into his skull. The coil in his stomach bursting into a climax with an intensity he's never felt before. "Oh FUCK!! 'm cummingg!!! I'm cummin- f-fuhuhhhck!" He's sobbing as wave after wave of his orgasm slams into him, his hand is squeezing himself and the sheets for some sort of purchase to cope with the way he's practically screaming. "Ohhhh- mnh! FUCK! can't stohp-!" God, he wails like a fucking bitch. His back is arching off the bed and he explodes into his own hand, he's terrified but fuck, fuck, fuck he's cumming, and he's cumming hard. His cock pulses as the ropes of cum spew out like some dumb teenager. Fuck you're right there- you're watching him- he should be hiding, calling someone-

"Please!" He cries, and you know what he wants.

You both know what he wants, even if he doesn't admit it out loud.

So he closes his eyes, and he hears your footsteps. He's covered in his own cum, he's whining and crying- all he's saying is please over and over again, his body twitching with every footstep. Pleading you to leave him alone? To not look? To touch him? Fuck if he knows, he just wants something from you, but his brain's all fucked up from the months of psychological torment.

You're on your knees now, and he's basically hyperventilating. You take his sensitive shaft into your hand, and you lick the underside. The lotion makes your tongue buzz, but you dont care. Lotion is temporary, having a braindead Leon is forever.

LOL IM THE KING OF UNFINISHED FICS!!!

#sub leon #stockholm syndrome #stockholm syndrome leon #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #stalking #stalker reader #fem reader #psychological torment #rizz takes days to complete #stalker victim leon #dark content #stalker smut #smut

[daisyssousa]

national superhero day 2024 - april 28th favorite superhero - daisy johnson aka quake ♡ 〄 ↳ favorite use of superpowers in every season

01. compassion - before awakening in terrigenesis, compassion was her super power; it's at the core of what makes her a hero 02. creation - showing herself she's capable of more than destruction; "you could be magnificent." 03. fight with hive - using her powers in conjunction with hand-to-hand combat; capable to surviving the encounter with hive when no one else was able to 04. terrigenesis 2.0 - this time it's on her own terms; this time she's gonna bring hydra to its knees 05. graviton fight - becoming so powerful she can blast objects with enough power to leave the atmosphere, overcoming gravity itself; being shown to save the earth rather than becoming it's destroyer 06. shrike - forcing the shrike into a choke point and destroying thousands of them in one go 07. battle in outer space - willing to sacrifice herself to save the world; destroys an entire legion of alien spaceships and manages to survive outer space without protection, a feat that would be instantly lethal for most anyone else

@lgbtqcreators creator bingo - animation

#daisyjohnsonedit #aosedit #marveledit #daisy johnson #chloe bennet #filmtvcentral #femaledaily #dailymarvelwoc #dailymarvelgifs #dailytvwomen #marveldaily #marveledits #briegifs* #agents of shield #flashing tw #national superhero day

[buggy-samaaa]

Caught, part 1

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Word count: 309

Content: NSFW — mdni, gender neutral reader, no y/n, second person POV, voyeurism, anal, masturbation, misuse of devil’s fruit powers

——

Buggy's lips parted, then he moaned quietly, his mouth dropping open and his pale green eyes squeezing shut as he let out an open-mouthed grunt. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple and his teeth clamped onto his bottom lip, trying and failing to suppress a low groan. 

He was laying on his stomach, his hands balled into fists on either side of his head, his ass in the air. He was breathing heavily, and a slow slick sound echoed in his ears as his detached cock pumped in and out of his tight hole. His legs trembled and his toes scrambled for purchase against the sheets as he adjusted his position to raise his ass higher. 

“Ohh, fuck yeah,” he murmured roughly to himself. “Fuuuck…”

Buggy's fists clenched tighter as his eyebrows furrowed upward, his expression one of ecstasy as his eyes opened and rolled back. He choked on another groan as his cock pumped more sharply. He started to arch his hips back each time his cock shot forward. Buggy couldn't hold back his moans any longer – they grew in volume the more quickly he fucked himself until he was letting out high-pitched yelps. 

Buggy started gasping out quick, whining mewls as his cock rammed into his asshole like a piston, his toes curling and his face pressed into his pillow, the bed creaking with the force of it as his legs began to tense and quake. Then, his cock held in place and Buggy went quiet, his head thrown back and his whole body tightening, his mouth open in a silent scream. He filled himself to the brim and collapsed, leaving his cock in place for a moment longer before it pulled itself out and replaced itself back between his legs.

He was so far gone, he didn't even realize the door had opened. 

#buggy x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x you #x reader #opla buggy #one piece smut #buggy smut #my fic

[sinner-sunflower]

A HH Lucifer-centric AU 19/?

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22

Hello!!! How's everyone's weekend?!

I had the most relaxing trip of my life. Me and my best friend went on a picnic and the place was so gorgeous I wish I was rich enough to have that kind of landscaping.

Anyway!

Here's my update. I hope you all enjoy.

As always: likes, reblogs, and ESPECIALLY COMMENTS are so appreciated and it honestly gives me motivation. We're near the end meaning this might end this week :((

Disclaimer: I did get some help with chat gpt for some paragraphs just to get my ideas across and also because English is not my first languagee. I edited them of course myself because u know how automated shit can be.

I'm learning I promise!

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

Every denizen of Hell held their breath in anticipation as each agonizing minute passed without a word from the King. Some feared he had met his demise the moment he entered, leaving them grasping at false hope. The Overlords pondered the same grim possibility but dared not voice it in the presence of higher demons.

Amidst the tension, the task of pacifying Paimon fell upon the Goetias, who found themselves ensnared in his relentless tirade about their illustrious King and their collective duty to fix Hell's problems, a duty he believed lay solely with them, not Lucifer.

The Sins, meanwhile, remained vigilant, their eyes fixated on the entrance through which Lucifer had disappeared, searching for any subtle sign of their brother's fate.

Satan, ever watchful, kept a peripheral eye on Goodie. The Good of Humanity had fallen into an unusual silence since Lucifer embarked on his suicide mission. Unlike the rest, she wore neither worry nor despair on her face, hell, not even of glee; instead, there was a knowing glint in her eyes the Sin of Wrath definitely did not like. He could only hope Lucifer emerges from all of this still himself.

At the very back, Vox stole a glance at his rival, noting the whatever-the-fuck thing he had with the King. He half-expected the radio demon to remain his usual apathetic self. And he was half right. The guy was smiling with no care in the world. Yet, to his surprise, a strained smile is etched the demon's face. It's not as noticeable but if you've been looking at Alastor as closely as Vox had been for the past how many years, it's like a giant pimple you can't ignore. There was a glassy look in his eyes, as if the radio demon is going to-

Vox wonders incredulously if his wiring got fried by that shockwave earlier because there is no fucking way.

The media demon is silently thankful he couldn't finish that thought as they are knocked down once more.

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

It all unfolded in a blink, leaving them no time to respond. The ground quaked with a force that they realized was from the towering tree that's trembling before them. Roots and branches contorted, twisting inwards and outwards like a well-oiled machine, as if the very essence of the tree was tearing itself apart. Red flowers all around withered as the oppressive miasma dispersed. Then, with a thunderous crash, the colossal tree collapsed into a single heap.

The dust clears presenting a lone figure stands in the center of it all.

Belphagor: Lucifer!

There stood the King of Hell, his horns protruding proudly and his corrupted halo casting an ominous black glow. His six wings spread wide, a testament to his power and dominance. It was Lucifer. But... something seemed off.

The Sin of Pride appeared altered. His once pure white attire had transformed into black, adorned with accents of red. His porcelain skin, once flawless, now bore a grayish, melancholic hue. However, the most striking change lay in his hair—it was no longer the radiant gold of angels, but a sinister black with tendrils of creeping red, moving like of the deadly miasma.

Lucifer looked like a shadow of himself.

Before anyone could react, the fallen angel lunged towards Goodie, swiftly pinning her to the ground.

Lucifer: Ẏ̷̨̖̯͎̤͎͖̪̆̀̊͌͑̓̇o̵̻͗̔͊̃͘̚͠ṳ̸͎̍̊͗̌̈ ̵̱͙͇͛͑i̴̳͈̗̺͒̏̃̀̚͝n̸̢̧̖͖͚͉͙̤͇͆̃͛͊̿͛́̚͘s̸͇͚̱͍͈̤̘̒̂̈́̆͗̈̆ͅó̵̇̅́͜l̶͇̝̞̜̰̘͊̒͂̓͝ë̶̮͔̰́̀̑̔̽͊̐n̶̡̧̗̤̘̞̑̇̀t̴͙̲̳̦̦͎͔̠̔ ̵̮̰̞͐̌͌b̸̧͚̾i̴̧̜̪̳̤͔̹͉̦̇͠t̴͖̐̀̾̌̽̎̂̅͜ͅc̵̛̞̳͛̋̆̏͆̏h̷̟̺̬̗͗̉̓̍!̴͉̲̼̪͓̻̪̻̀̊ ̷͇͓̲̬͍̦̙̹͓̔̈́͊̇

Goodie chokes from the stench of hellfire on her skin.

Goodie: I never lied to you, angel. I told you that you were the key.

Lucifer: Y̷̢̘̻̩̲͐͋̐̌́́͝ŏ̴͎̌́u̷̟̯͋ ̶͔̝̘̓̈́̄̈́́̀̐ǵ̸͍͌͝͝á̵̧̫͔̤̘̹̓͗͂v̶̢͕̘̼̦̰̐ẽ̵̝̥͈̝̓͋̌̋͠ ̸̝͙̐̓m̵̩͖͍͒͌͛̔e̸̤̹̻̪͇͔̽̇ ̵̜̬̰̟̖̘͈̐̆̀á̸̻̜̬̫̝͇͚ ̷̢̗̠̮͊ͅf̶̡̩̟͘͝a̵̢͎͆k̷̲̰͓̤̐͌̽͐̿̕͠e̷̛̪̖̅̒̀̓͐͜ͅ ̸̭͙̫̂̚ͅs̴̩̝̺͕̲̯͒e̸̮͍̤̦̯̎̈́̔̌̇͌ä̷̳̖͓̒̕l̶̦̬̙̘̝̉̏̔̈́͆͘͠.̸̨͓͉͒̄̚ ̶͈͆̽̿̋̑̈̕T̶̗̹̱̞̭̩͉̍͆̀̚é̵̹̗͖ļ̶̜̬͍͓̗̿͑̾̋̏̕l̸̛̀̆̓̾ͅ ̷̡̗̼̀̿̓m̸̛̗̞͕̠̟ę̵̬̰̻̮͎̉̓ ̵̥̩̞̮͈͖̅̃̑͜͝ŵ̷͈̥͕̦̘̙̏h̶̝͈̬͖̲̯̝͊̓̕ȳ̴̱̓̄̎͝ ̵̛̣̭̘͔͋̏́̀̋I̵̡̦̬̬̫͓̭͆̍͌͗̍́̀ ̶̛͈͆s̵̛̗͙̙̭h̷̝͌͌͜͝͠ȏ̴̝̹̻͚̾́̃̔͘͝ư̸̮͓̰̖͔̙̇́͊̽̐̔l̶͙̟̙̣̮̱̞̂͌̏͗d̴̢͊͒̉̈ ̸̠̠̮̉̿n̴͚̯̜̫̊ō̴̡͉̪̥̗̹̲̽̄̀̕t̴̢̺̱̊̉̎̕͜͠ ̷̛̹̜̿͝ķ̴̻͚̙͔̈́͊̍í̸̥̼͕̮̾̿͌l̷̢͂̏͆͊̃͠l̷̡̨͎̪̝̖̱̽̽̓͐̀́̈́ ̷͖̿̋͛y̶̻̝̆͂͝ỏ̸̧̹͇̫̀̐̀̍͋̃ų̶̟̩͔͇̝͚̎̈́̑̕͠ ̵͍̃͗͠ẁ̷̝̟̥̰̘͎͒͛́͒h̵̦̜̩̬͋͐̋ė̶̃͜ṙ̸̡̧̟͉̻̬͚̅e̵̤̮̟͌̓ ̴̹͕̮͍̺̲͇̉y̴̨̛̪͛̍̓̏ô̴͔͍͉̅̈́̌u̴̙͖͖͎͐͛̒ ̶̟̙͍̖̭̃̌́l̵̙̽̈́̐͝á̷̡͔̞͈̜͎͒͌̑̐͝y̴̼̹̪̻̒̓̽̀̚?̴̛̻̘͈͍͕̒̃̀̓̏

Goodie: It was not a fake. Without it, you would have perished the moment you set foot in-ah!-side.

Lucifer: H̵̹̩̗̑̎̈́́̕o̷̘͝ẇ̷̢̨̛͇̞̝̦̠̎ ̸̯̹͋̃͑͘͝d̴͉̭̟̫̙̠͂à̶͎̮̝̺̺̥͙̓͛͂̒́ŗ̴̡̺̬̭̝̳̓̈́̑̍͝ĕ̷͓̕ ̸̺͈̖̣̳̃y̴̜̞͆͑̉͠o̴͓͋ủ̸͈͎̳̥͈̞̍̀͜ ̸̥̑͐̇̂̈́̐͝t̶͓͋r̶̼͠ỉ̸͍̻̫̩͍̓͌̍̄͝ċ̷̞̤̭̳̈́̓́̃k̶̖̹͙̋̓̑̀̅̔͊ ̵͙̠̻̜̎ͅt̵̛͇̀̑̀h̴̛̥͉̲̬̰͛̊̀̅͝e̵͇̮̫̟̗̍͊̓ ̶̰͎̟̜̗̈̋͂̓K̶̞͉̰̫̂͂̋͝ͅi̷̯̟̤̽͛̈͑n̵̬͙͑̉̍͊̕͠ģ̸͖͍̪̉͗̂͠ ̷̣̯͖̭̜̀ͅǫ̵̨̣̿̽̑͜f̶͔͖̬͐͌ ̸̼̅̿͒̎́Ḣ̴͎͕̳́ͅe̶̛̞̱̦͈l̴̡̲̯͔̰̱̂̅̀̄̈͗͋l̸͍̩̯̗̏?̴̯̥̭̦͙̃̏!̸̼̹͍͖͒̊̅̊̌̔̍

Goodie: Do not delude yourself. There was no chance that this could have ended differently.

Lucifer was heaving so much that Goodie could sense his energy waning. Seizing the opportunity, she managed to escape his clutches. Despite the danger surrounding her, (such bothersome loyalty) she couldn't resist letting out a chuckle, teasing the angel one last time.

Goodie: I gotta say, angel, I do like your new look. Corruption definitely suits you.

Lucifer: F̸̢̨͔̲͖̖̳͍̑̽͜U̵̼̪̰͈̟̜͙͌́́̅̈́̔C̷̢̯͓̘̬͖̝̎K̶̳̖͓̘̝̗̀̓̈́̾̉̾̾͊͠͝Î̶͇͕͚̪̭̎N̴͉̟͍̻͇̚G̵̠̲̰͈̖̎͂͋̾ ̴̧̥͕̹̭̘̜͍̟̎̂̔͗̋̿̒B̶̢̦̤̥͕͉͋̂͌́́͂̈̔͠I̸̗̭̼͊̐͂̀̈́̐̏̐T̸̠̹͓̮̱̻̹̯͉̦̍̔̽̍̄͌̆C̸͍̩̉̈́̈́̄͒̓͑̾͝ͅḨ̴̦̙͉̫̪̫̇̀̄̈́̋͘!

Lucifer then collapses to his knees, clutching his throat as if he's drowning in searing heat. Confusion and desperation fill his voice as he struggles for breath.

Lucifer: How? *gasp* why? *gasp* -trusted-

There's a flurry of movement around him, voices overlapping and blending into a chaotic white noise. Amidst it all, someone speaks with a commanding tone, their words cutting through the haze.

Alastor: Listen to only me, my dear.

There was a faint humming of music? Was Alastor here?

Alastor: I'm here, my Majesty. Calm yourself. You need not to panic.

He's trying, he really is. But his ears are muddled and he can't understand anything anymore. Everything is happening all at once, leaving him disoriented and terrified.

As consciousness begins to slip through his grasp, the Sin of Pride feels a sense of detachment. A new presence moves in front of him, accompanied by a chorus of apologies that echo faintly in his ears.

A cool sensation brushes against his fevered forehead, offering a brief respite from the overwhelming heat and chaos. And with that fleeting moment of relief, Lucifer succumbs to the darkness.

Roo: How fun~

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

Transformation central! (Transformation central!)

Reformation central! (Reformation central!)

Transmogrification central!

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[shady-tavern]

A Dash of Villainy within a Hero, Part One

Some warning ahead for attempted kidnapping, non-con drug use (not on the main character) and attempted murder, as well as being stuck under a collapsed building in the beginning, please take care of yourselves.

Edit because I'm a forgetful gremlin: This story was inspired by one of the prompts @entrophiceffects sent in. Thank you for that!

***

In all honesty, being stuck under a collapsed building with a villain was rather high on your 'would like to avoid' list, though it was just a tick above 'being stuck under a building alone'. At least you had your mandated mask with you to avoid breathing in anything bad.

Sadly, you weren't stuck with a two-bit villain or a newbie or someone you could have brushed aside. Instead, you were forced to try and keep your distance – as much as the small space allowed – to Madness.

Madness was a very dangerous, very high profile villain. The sort of villain that came with a file big enough to commit murder with. The sort of villain no hero was supposed to take on alone.

You stared at him as he shifted restlessly, the pocket the two of you were in just big enough for him to stand up. Neither of you dared to move much though, and you had to admit you had never seen the villain as tense as he was now.

Madness had never once bothered with a mask or helmet like other villains and heroes. He had always blatantly displayed his face, though no one had been able to find out anything about him either. Not his name or place of birth, not even a damn picture anywhere in any records.

If he ever went shopping he did so without being seen.

His face, right now, was a rigid grimace of badly suppressed fear and you had no idea if he had some sort of claustrophobia or if he was scared of the building collapsing the rest of the way. Which, fair enough.

The only reason you weren't visibly freaking out yourself was that your best friend was right outside. Song was guaranteed to have left to go get help, which meant you just had to avoid doing anything that would disrupt the fragile stillness of the space around you. 

You just had sit tight and wait and not think about the building that could finish collapsing at any moment. Deep down, you hoped it would at least be a fast death.

So you hid your shaking hands by pressing them against your slightly trembling thighs and you forced your breathing to remain slow and steady despite your fearfully pounding heart. The way The Defenders taught all their heroes to handle themselves if they were ever stuck somewhere dangerous and had to wait for help.

It was weird, though. The building would have never crumbled had your fellow hero Quake not misaimed his powers. Which was strange, like all heroes Quake had gotten thoroughly trained by The Defenders to ensure he had his powers perfectly under control. They were meant to rescue civilians after all, not endanger them. Or each other.

That Madness had gotten caught in the line of fire had been...unfortunate, to put it mildly. Or maybe Quake had aimed for him in the first place and had just...what, overlooked you?

You had to admit that you didn't like Quake very much. He was clearly interested in your best bud Song and was trying to flirt with her. Song found him nice enough without being interested in more, but something about him rubbed you the wrong way. 

Or maybe you were just a bit of a jealous twat, since he never wanted you around whenever he talked to your best friend.

"Sit down," you said after watching Madness twitch again. "Take a deep breath."

Madness' gaze snapped to you, sharp and dangerous as always. "What, are you worried I'm going to do something inadvisable?" Ho boy, he was high strung. Not that you could blame him.

The truth was, you didn't really worry about him lashing out. While you had absolutely no defenses against Madness' powers – barely anyone did – you actually had the upper hand in the current situation. 

If Madness made you go, well, mad, you were liable to disrupt the space around you and kill the both of you by making this pocket cave in. You, on the other hand, only needed one touch and he'd be out like a light.

"I'm not worried about you," you said, trying to aim for reassuring and ending up sounding just a little tense and annoyed instead. 

It was hard to sound nice and sweet and calming while being stuck under tones of concrete and steel and glass and wood. Besides, this was a man who had left plenty of your colleagues recovering from severe injuries. You weren't really interested in being nice to him of all people.

Madness raised a brow and studied you for a second, seemingly distracted from his intense tension for a moment. "Curious. I would have thought you heroes would pick fights no matter what. Even when it's ill advised."

You frowned at him. "Says the man who messes with anyone's head." Just this morning, before this entire awful situation, he had brought his powers down on an entire street, causing mindless panic and mayhem among civilians.

"Temporarily," he said with a careless shrug. "Oh, don't look at me like that. It's not like they'll remember the nightmares I put into their heads once they snap out of it."

While that was true, people never remembered why they had screamed their heads off and ran away in a blind panic, they still got hurt. Madness might not break minds, but he certainly caused his fare share of broken bodies. 

It was nothing but dumb luck that people hadn't yet run into traffic in their mad, uncontrollable fear and desperation. Either that or he was calculating enough that the chance of such injury was low. Low but never impossible.

"But people do get hurt," you pointed out. 

Madness smiled and it looked more like a baring of teeth. "Isn't that what heroes are for," he said sarcastically. "Saving all these innocents."

Dark anger sparked to life like the sudden fall of a hammer onto hot iron. It spread sharp and fast and you had always been bad at holding back when someone pissed you off. Song was always the one to either intervene or soften you back down from the jagged edges that rose to coat your tongue whenever you got furious.

"I don't want to always be saving people," you snapped out and for just a brief second Madness looked surprised and taken aback. "I don't want to clean up your messes just because you decided to be an asshole."

"Then why be a hero?" Madness asked, shifting to adjust his stance, the tension in his body ramping up. He was ready for a fight. "If you don't care."

"I do care," you answered with growing anger, words hard and fast, like an animal snapping its teeth. "But don't you dare push the responsibility of your actions onto me." 

You were ready to act yourself, as stupid as it was to fight here, but the anger bit deeper and sharper, spilling out all the words you wished you could say when days were dark and grim. When villains gloated and blamed and gaslit and did anything but take responsibility.

When Song didn't get out of bed, fighting with lingering pain after a villain had shattered both her legs and it had taken both multiple surgeries and heroes with healing powers to get her walking again. When you wanted to shout at people to stop being at each other's throat. To stop making their quarrels your problem by targeting innocents.

A muscle in Madness' jaw ticked and his pale violet eyes became a dark lavender, his power suddenly heavy and cloying in the air. 

"And yet you heroes insist on carrying the world on your shoulders," he sneered, voice growing low with his own anger. "You meddling, self-righteous pricks. Maybe you should have thought about what you are actually capable of before you took up the mantle."

"And you don't get to be a piece of shit and walk away saying 'oh, but I only was shitty because you didn't stop me'." You even ended up doing a mock-low voice as you snarled back at him, your voice coming out with an intensity you had only ever been capable of in emergencies.

Madness lifted his chin, looking ready to throw hands, when there was the grind of concrete and both of you fell silent, nervously watching the ceiling. He coughed as some more dust rained down between the cracks, grimacing at whatever taste was coating his tongue.

You had a spare mask, every hero did, but you didn't particularly want to hand it over. Not to him, not to this asshole. But Song would.

Taking a deep breath that came out more like an aggravated sigh, you grudgingly reached into your back pocket and pulled out the spare mask. 

You knew Song would have offered it to Madness right away, but she was always the better one between the two of you. There was a reason why she was your anchor and lodestone. Your compass when your mind grew dark and your heart wavered. When you felt like you couldn't trust yourself to keep doing the good thing.

When, for once, you wanted to pay back every inch or hurt you and your friend had to endure. When you wanted to take your pound of flesh from the villains, instead of having it ripped from your mind and body by them.

You would never agree with others that being a hero meant sacrificing, meant burdening yourself and living only to rescue and protect others. And you would most certainly never bend and concede to villains.

"Here," you tossed the mask at Madness, who caught it with the sort of startled expression that told you he had expected something dangerous. You didn't bother hiding the way you rolled your eyes. "Now sit down and play tic-tac-toe with me, asshole."

"What." It came out flat, but he did put the mask on and once you folded your legs to sit cross-legged, he ever so slowly did the same.

You drew a little grid into the dust and after an incredulous look, Madness caved. It became obvious very quickly that both of you were competitive assholes and you upgraded from tic-tac-toe to checkers with little pebbles and at last chess.

You were shoddy at chess though and no challenge, so you went back to checkers. You were on your tenth round when there was a rumble in the air. You easily recognized the sort of shift in gravity and density that heralded telekinetic powers and you breathed a sigh of relief. Help had come.

At the same time, there was a dull whirring sound from below. A moment later, the ground shifted beside Madness and very slowly and very carefully, a little robot dug its way out.

"Found you!" the robot exclaimed with a voice you could identify easily enough as Doctor's. Huh, you hadn't known the two villains were allies. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Is that safe?" Madness asked and the robot made a little pffft noise, already burrowing back into the hole. It was frighteningly fast in widening it far enough for a person of Madness' stature to squeeze through like a worm. 

"I'll drag you," the robot said cheerfully, small arms extending to grab Madness around the collar. "Let's go!"

"Bye," Madness managed to say as he was pulled into the hole. Just in time as well, for the rubble shifted, power humming in the air, creating an opening for you to duck through.

You hurriedly left the space behind and the second you emerged from that little pocket, strong arms wound around you, crushing you against a soft chest and tough armor, while big wings wrapped around you.

"Hey, Nightingale," you said quietly into her shoulder, hugging her back just as tightly, breathing a sigh of relief. Your voice came out trembling, "Knew you'd get me out."

"Always," she answered and hid you with her wings until all the repressed fear and worry and tension shivered out of you. Since she didn't usher you into an alley or anything of the sort for privacy, no one was around to ask why the two of you were hugging for such a long time.

When at last you pulled back, she asked, "What happened to Madness? Did he hurt you?"

"No, he got away," you said, which was true enough. You cast her a look that told her you'd tell her everything later and she threw an arm over your shoulders, one of her wings coming up to curl around you. 

Her wings were beautifully big, arching over her head and each one was easily as large as she was. She always kept them tight to her spine when she was walking outside, to avoid the ends trailing in the dirt. That was why the two of you kept your shared apartment very clean so she could relax at home at least. 

She led you out from the rubble sheltered corner and you saw that only one other hero was around. Gravitos, who must have been the one to dig you out. She was on her phone, talking to The Defenders, you'd guess, saying that no one else was in the area and that crews could arrive to clean up and clear the street.

"You good?" she asked and when you nodded, offered a small smile. "I'm glad. Man, but Quake is lucky the building was closed for renovations. Otherwise we'd have a lot of deaths on our hands."

Which would most likely cost Quake his Defender contract and official hero license. You still had no idea if he had planned to hit the building like that, but either way, the way he had used his powers had been negligent at best.

Gravitos accompanied you back to The Defenders headquarter, the large hero hiring company where pretty much everyone was under contract. It was for the best really, the company protected heroes from lawsuits – unless it was proven they acted maliciously – and offered all the gear, gadgets and medical care they needed.

After a quick check-in in the med bay and debrief with your superior, you were ready to get out of costume and go home. Song didn't leave your side, staying close enough that you felt the brush of her wing every so often. It was reassuring and calming. 

If she strayed too far, you suddenly felt the weight of the building around you and you felt fear seize your heart again. You just wanted to go home, where no one would look at you. No one would stare and judge and you could sit outside. Maybe even sleep outside tonight.

"Nightingale!" Quake's voice made the two of you pause and you felt a fissure of irritated tension wrapping around your spine. Quake was friendly and, well, fine, but something about him irked you endlessly. Aside from burying you under ruble, that was.

He offered Song a charming, hopeful smile and while you would never hold her back from a date, she wasn't interested and you hoped he'd get the memo one of these days. Besides, he had once said that he found it weird that you two were such good friends.

'It's almost like you're more than that,' he had once said. As if friendships couldn't be just as meaningful as romantic relationships.

Song was your family and she had been your best friend since her first day in middle school. After moving to the city and being the pretty, tall, winged new girl, she could have had any friend she wanted, but the second she had seen you being bullied, she had taken your side.

You still vividly remembered the large wings, arching to shield you and force your bullies to back up or get whacked in the head, feathers fluffing to make her look even bigger.

No one had ever stood up for you, but here she was, defending you with unyielding ferocity. She had remained at your side afterwards, one wing always slightly extended and for the first time, you didn't have to worry about anyone tossing anything at your back.

And there she had stayed throughout the day and there she had been the next day and before you had known it, you had your first proper friend since kindergarten. Elementary school had been fine, but you hadn't really clicked with any of the kids there and middle school had swiftly become your waking nightmare.

Until Song and her steadfast loyalty and fierce friendship. The two of you had stuck together through anything and everything and you were a package deal. Both of you had made sure to haggle for team contracts when The Defenders had hired you.

Besides, while Song was fast and strong, her true power laid in her voice. She was one of the few who could go up against Madness' abilities, but she needed a little bit of time for her voice to unfold fully. 

Which was where you came in. You were fast and maybe you were a bit vicious and mean when it came to villains. You ensured nothing and no one interrupted her, that she wouldn't have to worry about protecting her own back.

Besides, if people focused on Song, they forgot to focus on you and you had possibly smirked a bit too much when you had taken those folks out. It wasn't your fault they forgot that, while Song could sing an entire street asleep, you needed but a touch to knock people out or leave them unable to fight with your electricity.

One of Song's wings arched to settle around you again as she stared down Quake. "Sorry, Quake, we're on our way out. Besides, I think you owe my friend an apology."

He suddenly looked chagrinned and bashful. "Sorry," he muttered at you. You couldn't help but think that he didn't really mean it. Then again, you were too tired to go and pick a fight, so you just hummed something that could be vaguely interpreted as acceptance.

Quake immediately turned back to Song. "I just wanted to ask if you'd like to meet up later."

So he was finally asking her out directly. It was a surprise that he had waited that long, considering is somewhat brash personality, but maybe he was just a little shy when it came to romance. Or Song intimidated him, she could be just as brash in return after all.

"Sorry, no," Song said, wing settling more firmly around you, surrounding you in warmth and softness and the familiar scent of fresh air and sunshine.

"The weekend, then?" Quake asked hopefully and Song shook her head, not even pretending to think about it. You almost felt bad for him. Almost.

"No, thank you," she said more firmly and you saw his smile flicker, before he shrugged, pretending to be unaffected.

"You know where to find me if you change your mind," he said and quickly stepped back, leaving with a wave.

Song gently pushed you onward with her wing. "I was hoping he'd give up on his own. Come on, let's go home."

Song ordered some takeout on the way home, which arrived a couple of minutes after you finally were back in your cozy apartment. It was bigger than most people would consider necessary for two people, but Song's wings needed space and you didn't want her to feel cramped. 

Besides, a hero's salary at your level was nothing to sneeze at, so you might as well get a place where you both could stretch out and be comfortable.

You spent the evening on the couch with her, sheltered under a big, warm wing and your comfort movies playing on TV one after another.

"Madness was stuck with me," you ended up mumbling as, at last, you felt your exhaustion catch up with you. "He was an asshole."

"No surprise there," Song said and you slumped a bit more against her side, your head on her shoulder. "How did he get out?"

"Doctor came for him," you murmured, eyes falling shut. "Didn't know they got along."

If she answered, you didn't hear her as you swiftly fell asleep. You did have nightmares, but every time you woke up, gasping for air and terrified to see a building crumbled above you with the heavy weight of impending death, there were soft, warm wings. 

You clung to the feathers and slowly calmed back down. Song wasn't holding you, but she was close and snoring softly, both wings wrapped loosely around you. They'd be sore in the morning, but you felt helplessly glad that she was here. Keeping you safe in whatever ways she could.

*.*.*

Quake, while having gotten the message that Song wasn't interested, now seemed intent to at least be Song's friend.

Just hers, though, not yours.

You only realized what Quake was successfully trying to do when you started to back off the moment he showed up, giving them space to chat. It was clear he didn't much like you. Song started to frown a little whenever she noticed you leaving, a wing getting extended as an invitation for you to stay.

Frowning to yourself, you wondered if you were too clingy. It wasn't like you spent every day, all day with Song, but you were a team out in the field, which was perfectly normal. There were other duos or even trios or bigger teams that never switched their members out.

"Hey," Song approached you just as you got ready to clock out and head home a month after the collapsed building incident. "Would you mind waiting? Quake said there is a problem with some of the ceiling panels in the training room. Two fell down and one nearly nailed a training newbie in the head." 

She pointedly flexed her wings. "I'll take a look and check if any others are liable to fall, so the training hall can still be used until someone can come in to fix them."

You would have waited for her any other day, but the two of you were low on groceries and depending on how long this took her, the stores might be closed by the time you went home. "I'll head out first and get our fridge stocked back up," you said. "Anything you want for dinner?"

She perked up at that since she hated cooking, but you loved it. "Anything you want. Your food is amazing." Your friend had let you know more than once that she would fully support you if you wanted to switch careers from heroism to being a chef.

"This shouldn't take me too long, hopefully," she said and with a brush of the tip of her flight feathers against your shoulder, she was gone.

You left swiftly and you were already two streets away from the hero headquarters, when you realized you had left your phone in the locker room. Groaning, you turned around and trudged back towards the building.

Instead of taking the main doors and dealing with people you took a side entrance, swiping your card to be let in. The side entrance was usually reserved for people who wanted to avoid attention, especially paparazzi attention.

Quietly slipping through the hallways, you took some backdoors and an old staircase to avoid running into any of your colleagues. You just wanted to dip in, grab your phone and get out without anyone stopping you along the way.

There were plenty of heroes who didn't hesitate to ask others for help with their paperwork. You could freely admit that most of your colleagues sucked at the whole bureaucracy part of the job. 

There were always a couple of heroes stuck in their offices after hours, despairing over documents. Everyone who was done for the day or, god forbid, was actually good at paperwork, learned to get out of dodge fast.

Your quiet path brought you past the communication room and you tip-toed to avoid distracting the people inside accepting calls and alerting heroes about any disturbances or attacks that needed dealing with.

"Dispatching Quake and Nightingale," you overheard a voice say and you paused. "They are taking care of a minor disturbance."

Your nose wrinkled, feeling sorry for Song. That's what happened to anyone who didn't clock out in time. Though, in all fairness, if there was an emergency or a all-hands-on-deck situation, then everyone was called in, no matter what.

You snuck away, lest these guys noticed you and thought you could be dispatched too. You'd make sure to prepare a big dinner for your friend once she came home. You reached the locker room and got your phone without running into a single soul.

You were sneaking down the hall again to leave when you heard a heavy thump and grunt. One of the doors to a small break room was tossed open a moment later.

"Fuck, didn't know she'd be that heavy," a too familiar voice hissed. Quake. Pausing, you frowned and a bad feeling unfolded its wings in your gut. The same bad feeling that had helped you avoid villain attacks in the past. The sort of sixth sense pretty much every hero developed pretty early on.

Shouldn't Quake be heading out? Furthermore, shouldn't Song be with him?

You ducked closer to the wall, just as Quake stepped through the door backwards – dragging your unconscious friend with him. He was grunting and struggling, a wing catching in the doorframe and your heart leapt into your throat. You were moving without much thought and before he could notice you.

All it took was a charged touch to the back of his neck and he went limp, slumping down silently. You caught him and winced as Song fell from his limp arms.

"What the fuck," you whispered, hoisting him over your shoulder to deposit him off to the side. You were quickly checking Song, finding her breathing and heart rate steady. A glance into the room showed two glasses on a side-table, one empty the other mostly full.

Had...had Quake laced her drink? No, surely not. He was a hero. Then again...being a hero didn't mean people couldn't be massive pieces of shit. There had been scandals in the past, after all.

You heard more steps approach from the old, rarely used staircase and you were about to shout for help, when you heard a voice speak up, "He should have waited until she agreed to let him give her a lift home and he had her in his car. How are we supposed to get her to the underground garage with those fucking wings?"

What the fuck was going on here?

You hoisted Song up and back through the door just in time to close it as people rounded the corner.

"Song? Come on, wake up," you hissed, lightly zapping her, but she didn't react. Shit, she really was drugged.

You stared down at your best friend and realized that you had no way of dragging her away before that door got opened by the people outside. Song was heavy, for one. You only came up to her shoulder and she was muscular from long hours of training and flying and her wings were heavy too. 

Each wing was as big as she was after all, and right now they were slumped, lying half open. Just alone getting her through a door would take minutes.

Of course you had trained until you were strong enough to drag her anywhere in an emergency and you knew how to deal with her wings when they were flopping all over the place, but that didn't mean it was a particularly fast process.

Mind made up, you swiftly laid her down her beside the door and hid on the other side. The door opened, swinging in your direction and you had ducked around it and had gotten your hands on the two newcomers before they could spot you or call out.

They thudded to the ground and you stared down at two people you had never seen before. They were not fellow heroes.

Pulling them fully inside and ducking outside to get Quake, you left them tied up and muzzled. They'd be out for a bit, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Rooting through their pockets, you found no ID, but a general keycard for the Defenders building, along with a phone on Quake.

Pocketing that, you went back to Song, gripping her and dragging her outside. You were covered in sweat by the time you managed to, ever so carefully, pull her down the stairs and past the communication hub.

You got Song all the way outside the building and into an alley unnoticed, panting heavily. Your first instinct was to bring her home, but...what was going on here? What if your home wasn't safe anymore? Hissing a curse, you pulled out the phone you had nicked from Quake and opened it.

The instructions you found on it were chilling.

Quake had tried to kill you when he had collapsed a building onto you. Quake was to isolate Nightingale if he didn't succeed in killing you, drug her and contact this number once she was down for the count. 

Quake had done so, which was when the communication center had gotten the message that they were sent out to deal with a problem. Communications never questioned orders if they came from high up, but only then.

Nightingale was to be handed over and this device destroyed. Quake was to head to the spot where the fake mission was supposed to take place and plant all the necessary evidence, as well as blow enough things sky high, that people believed Nightingale had died. 

That they had run into a new, too powerful villain unexpectedly. 

It was recommended to kill you first if possible, so no one would question the story. So no one would look into it any further.

You stared at the phone in complete and utter disbelief. Your mind was blank and still for a long second, then something ugly and panicked rose. Something angry.

You pulled out your own phone, snapping pictures of the conversation, of the instructions, before closing your fingers around the burner phone and frying it so viciously it started to catch fire. Dropping it to the ground, you hoisted Song up again and started dragging her further.

You could not return home, but that didn't mean there weren't other spots you could hunker down in. You hotwired a car in a camera-free zone two streets from the headquarters and stuffed Song in, wincing at the cramped space for her wings. There was a reason she had never bothered with getting a license.

By the time you had Song safely in a little hiding spot the two of you had scouted out a year ago, you were exhausted and your mind had run over everything at least a million times. You watched her closely for any signs that something would go wrong as she laid on her side, wings a bit awkwardly draped.

Something was going on here. Something big and bad and it itched at you to go back and find out more. To question Quake.

When Song stirred, you felt ready to sag in relief and maybe cry a little, but instead the anger amped up a bit. When her eyes peeled open, you were perhaps crackling a little, so charged with electricity that you didn't dare touch her.

"What?" Song slurred and you leaned into her view, her tense expression immediately easing with visible relief.

"Take it easy," you said when she slowly managed to sit up, shifting her wings and nearly knocking one into you. Then her eyes widened and you saw the moment memory flooded back. Her gaze snapped up to you, alarmed and horrified and confused and you pressed your lips together grimly for a moment.

"I think something very bad is going on, Song."

*.*.*

See, most people probably wouldn't go straight back to The Defenders headquarters, but neither Song or you were normal. No hero was, you had all lost your sense for normal levels of danger long ago.

Song was landing on the roof, gliding down the last bit to make the descend silent and smooth. She knew exactly which part of the roof was a camera dead zone.

"Be careful," she whispered, reluctantly pulling back. Song was great at an amazing number of things and you loved her for that, but her wings were not made for sneaking around. She was just too big. "I'll stay close by, so don't hesitate to jump out of a window if necessary."

In case someone caught you, she didn't say. You squeezed her arms before stepping back and she took flight again, while you zapped the keycard pad at the door, carefully controlled, which caused it to swing open.

You were so glad you had trained and trained a stupid amount of hours to be able to do that.

The good part was, accessing the building from the roof meant you were closest to the offices of the higher ups. And someone there had to be involved, in order to inform communications about sending heroes out without consulting them first.

Imagine your surprise, therefore, when you slipped through the door into an ostentatious hallway and you saw a very familiar person skulking about. You had no idea how Madness of all people had made it into the hero headquarters, but he was either going to be a problem or...perhaps you could work together.

Just this once and no more, he was an asshole after all.

He was distracted enough that you actually managed to sneak up to him and when he did notice, you were close enough to press a hand to his back. A silent warning, to keep his powers well away from you. Considering the way he tensed all of a sudden, his muscles flexing beneath your palm, he got the message.

"Not sounding the alarm, hero?" he sneered down at you and you realized belatedly that the moment you'd open your mouth, he'd know exactly who you were. ...well, you had already dug your grave, hadn't you?

"Tic-tac-toe," you ended up whispering back, watching his eyes widen briefly. "You don't fuck me over, I don't fuck you over, deal?"

He paused, frowning, "Why are you sneaking around in your own place of work?"

You smiled grimly. "I guess that happens when someone tries to kidnap my friend from the inside."

He stilled, his head tipping slightly to the side and it became impossible to read his face. You could only tell he was thinking rapidly from the way his gaze was flickering between your eyes.

"Alright," he conceded and you cautiously, carefully, removed your hand. His eyes remained pale though, which was a relief. Then again, if he made you go mad, he'd just blow his own cover.

"Do you know if anyone's still here?" you asked and he actually stepped aside a bit to let you sidle up beside him. Which was so weird. You knew that sometimes villains and heroes worked together briefly, but you never had.

"No," Madness whispered back. "Everyone's home as far as I know."

"Then why are we whispering?" you asked quietly and he sent you a look like he thought you were daft. You rolled your eyes and straightened from your crouch beside the wall.

You knew where the cameras were in this building, because maybe you had been involved in a little prank war last year and you had memorized all the camera positions for the sole purpose of not getting caught.

Madness seemed to have decided to stick by you, for he followed you when you wove your way through the hallway, ducking into the first office. There were six in total, each double the size of your apartment, which was just ridiculous.

"Ugh, rich people," you found yourself muttering as you beelined for the desk and the computer.

The moment you sat down in the chair, Madness braced one hand on the backrest and leaned over to watch what you were doing. As the computer booted up, you reminded yourself to not be an asshole to the person willing to not rat you out.

"What are you looking for?" you asked as you were logged in. The higher ups had their passwords saved by default, it seemed. Either that or they were just lazy. And a little bit careless. "I'll help you look."

Madness was silent for a long moment, then he answered, "I'm looking for the Phoenix Project."

You had never heard of that, but you were willing to look. You found no information on either the project or Song on this computer, so you moved on to the next office.

You had to try all of the computers, before, on the very last one, you finally found something. There was one mail, exactly. It had been sent around the time Quake had contacted the person on the other end of the burner phone that he had Song drugged and ready for pickup.

And without Madness, you would have never discovered the mail. It was sent to an anonymous person, with only one sentence: 'The Phoenix has gained its wings.' Below it was the same time and place for pickup that had been on Quake's phone.

"Is that all?" Madness asked, still hushed. He sounded less than pleased. "Are you certain?" But his tone of voice said he knew this was it, he had looked over your shoulder the entire time after all.

"I think we may have to talk," you said quietly, mind whirring. There was something going on, something big. You leaned back a bit to look up at him. "What say you to a temporary truce?"

"Why?" Madness asked with an undertone of sharpness. His smile was unfriendly. "I thought you didn't like me."

You smiled back just as sharply and humorlessly. "I don't." Your mock-smile fell away. "But whatever you're looking into, they were trying to kidnap my friend and sell her as dead to the rest of the world. They tried to kill me too, back when that building collapsed, so no one would look for her."

Madness grew serious, the tense antagonism falling away. "And here I thought it was just my pretty head they wanted dead." He tipped his head again, peering down at you, weighing how honest you were. How willing he was to exchange information.

 He stepped back. "Alright. Truce." He then smirked at you. "Let's see if your cute little hero heart can take the truth."

You wondered if it was too late to snap at his throat like an enraged woverine. "We'll see if your lying villain tongue is capable of telling the truth."

His eyes narrowed and you stared back at him, once again in a stalemate where you were close enough to knock him out before he could use his powers. You knew he was the more powerful one between the two of you, normally. That he could leave you a screaming, sobbing mess and you could do nothing about it.

But right now, you had an edge you wouldn't have otherwise.

"We'll just have to see, won't we," Madness muttered back.

The sudden clack of a door opening down the hall and voices filtering in made both of you flinch. You reached out to yank out the power cord of the computer, making it go dark. 

Madness shifted beside you, looking ready to fight. "How do you plan to get us out of here?"

You tipped your head towards the window and smiled. "Afraid of heights?"

"Not in the slightest," he said, stepping back to let you stand up. He didn't look away from you and neither did you take your gaze off of him. "Why?"

You forced yourself to break eye contact and head to the window, yanking it open and hopping up onto the windowsill. You hesitated, then held out your hand.

"Are you willing to trust a hero?"

He stared at your hand, then glanced over his shoulder at the voices coming closer. It was impossible to overhear individual words, but it sounded like an argument. He looked back at you, his face impossible to read.

He didn't answer, just reached out to grasp your hand back. He allowed you to pull him close and it became a very squished situation, with both of you crouching on the windowsill. The ground was very, very far away. He was tense beside you, staring down, while you scanned the sky.

The voices in the hallway grew closer still and his tension ramped up. That was when you spotted Song ever so faintly and jumped, pulling him with you.

To his credit, he did not let go of your hand, not as you fell and not when Song swooped in to catch you, carrying you away into the night.

You were surprised that he had been willing to trust you at all and maybe, grudgingly, you respected him a bit for that. Still, you could admit that holding a villain's hand was definitely a first for you.

And, well. Maybe, just maybe, you weren't going to regret offering him a hand when it was all said and done.

Part Two

*.*.*

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@those-damn-snippets @the-cash-cache @queenofbooknerds @14-lizards-in-a-trenchcoat @fern-writes-whump @bexterbaileyw @setsailforthestars @piperjistic @addrai @catloverlawyer @permanentlydepressedpigeon @tama-on-vetta @marateleam @transparentdiplomantlandgoth @cheesecakev2 @myst3rious-figur3 @warriorofbooks @aprilraine

#my writing #long story short #heroes and villains #pre relationship #superpowers #I hope this story turned out okay! #it was a lot of fun to write #so I hope someone has a lot of fun reading it! #this is a two-part story #we'll see where the road goes with these two #they both think the other is the asshole #song is just a ray of sunshine #ayo fair warning this is long again #but this is me we're talking about #so are any of you really surprised about that

[cassieoz]

Lamps

Zara breathed heavily as the pain grew more intense throughout her entire core. Her feverish body struggled against the powerful waves of her labor. Her huge frame rose and fell as each contraction squeezed its huge occupant downwards. The painful intensity left Zara breathless and sweating profusely.

"Feel the pressure grow! Your womanly needs to deliver the child is growing close. You will soon be able to use all your birthing energy! Breath and hold!"

The Birthing Goddess had returned to Zara's bedside to assist with her second, larger baby. Lamps burnt throughout the birthing chamber to indicate that the labor had commenced. Sounds of heavy panting and deep moaning gradually increased as the mother to be prepared for birth.

Zara clutched the sheets as the Birthing Goddess rubbed her contracting middle as waves of agony throbbed through her. Zara looked up at the canopy of the massive bed. She closed her eyes tightly as she remembered how this baby was conceived.

The raw, untamed passionate that exploded between herself and the Breeding God had been earth shattering. It was the most intense experience of her life. Zara was committed to continue to carry his children. She secretly loved how he showed with unrelenting passion as he had pounded her for hours. Zara had been so willing to be his carrier. Her responses were insanely wild with lust and unbridled intensity.

A sudden, stronger pain remained Zara of her present state and she moaned loud and long, panting frantically and shaking wildly against the dampen sheets. She could feel her time was approaching fast. Zara adjusted herself and looked wild eyed down at the Goddess. She nodded as she continued to massage Zara's laboring body.

"Yes! The time is close. The birthing waves will soon be crashing into you powerfully and relentlessly. You must be prepared to fulfil your role."

Within the next hour, active pushing completely commenced the birther with savage voracity.

Zara moaned deeper as the next approaching peak rose with horrific strength. She breathed harder and louder. She fought against her urge to let go, vibrating wildly against the support of the mattress. Her breathing quicken, moaning louder and longer until the wave crashed with earth quaking force. She cried out! Zara bore down with all her tension exploding through long, straining PUSHING! She growled loudly as she strained harder....this baby was much bigger. It was taking all her focus and stamina to force the child through her birth canal.

"You are doing beautifully. The Breeding God will be so proud of your strength and bravery."

Zara ached her back upwards as more of the painful contraction forced louder moaning and straining. The tension in her face and shaking body reflected the tremendous pressure and excruciating agony of birthing an enormous baby.

"Push it out! Force it through your womanly gateway. Make it come! Let it go and birth the child."

Another harrowing hour brought more painful pushing and howling out in agonising torture. Zara was fighting to crown the humongous head, free from its imprisonment. She gasped for air, panting frantically and straining down until her vision blurred and her body throbbed with suffering and exhaustion.

The flicking movement of light from the lamps suddenly encased a large frame. She weakly felt her body lifted and supported. The crowning bolder suddenly dropped hard against her swollen, throbbing lips. She howled wildly with the new pounding sensation between her thighs.

"Woman, stop fighting the pain. The head is large but must come now! Hold and bear down on it! NOW! PUSH IT FREE!"

Zara lend forward! Loud howling cries echoed around the birther as her child stretched and fully birthed through her red hot folds. Another roaring scream came swiftly, followed by an brutal eruption of fluid and complete release.

The Birthing Godness looked up at Zara, smiling.

"Another strong child! You have amazing strength!"

The Breeding God leant Zara back in his arms and cupped her face in his strong hands. As the child wailed in health, he passionately kissed her, completely consuming her, leaving her breathlessly.

As the kiss slowly ended, he looked into her eyes.

"Thank you woman! More will come! I want more babies! I want more babies with YOU!"

Zara blushed against his heat. Her body vibrated from the birth release as well as the stinging sensations of arousal. She couldn't wait! She was growing more and more in love......

( Sequel to Birthing Temple - Enjoy and comment. Please let me know what you think in the comments. )

#giving birth #labor and delivery #hard birthing