It’s inevitable, Dunk knows. Being an alpha comes with predatory instincts. There will always be a primal rage to hunt down his omega-mate all while tearing down threats with his bare teeth. So he holds on to the belief that he is human first, a man before anything else, and an alpha second.
A true alpha never loses himself. Remember that.
But that was before Aerion Targaryen.
You know what they say about virgins? They’re a freak of nature, possessive and dangerous, with thoughts that even the most experienced would hesitate to have. And Dunk is a young, virgin alpha who tries to hide his growing obsession with one omega who doesn’t even know he exists at all.
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I loveee when Derek is unapologetically a wolf in fics. Like he is part of human society he can play human but he just isn't. And I love when Stiles has a moment of realization of that. That he is talking to someone who never had been and will never be human.
Derek is a born werewolf he never had been anything else. I love it when he is described as too still and focused. How no one knows why he is so unsettling to be around. And Derek who always needs to hide from humans now can be himself with one? It gives me so many thoughts. Does he forget to explain things that for him is obvious? Does he teach Stiles about his culture and instincts? Does he feel joy that a human is safe to be a werewolf around? That this time is true and he won't regret showing himself like he did with Kat- sorry
title: burial flowers blooming. (james potter x regulus black)
Synopsis:
Beads of sweat clung to his furrowed brow, glistening in translucent candle-lines under the soft glow of the moonlight. Regulus' reflection stared back at him, revealing his frail eyes, sunken and ringed with ashen shadows. His dry lips were coated with crimson threads, connecting his mouth to the porcelain of the sink. He washed his face, wiped himself dry, all the while watching the black-red petals turn chrysanthemum white. He could do it, he thought, he could clean himself once more, as he had grown accustomed to doing.
But then he coughed again, thunder reaping in his veins, exploding in his chest, rendering him breathless. Unable to stand any longer, he felt the sharp pain of the tiled floor against his knees as he slumped down. Bearing the weight of a lifetime grudge, his body crumpled, sinking like a drowning man—the love between brothers no more as rays of burial flowers bloom inside him.
( Or Regulus Black finds himself loving his brother so intensely that when his brother departs from him, he unknowingly plants a seed of grudge, and it continues to grow upon knowing James Potter is the reason why. )
Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hanahaki Disease, Abusive Black Family (Harry Potter), Abusive Parents, Extremely Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Unhealthy Relationships. Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Incest. Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Betrayal, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Gaslighting, Dark, Corporal Punishment. Child Abuse, Slow Burn, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Blood and Violence, Regulus Black-centric, Regulus Black Deserves Better, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Additional Warnings In Author's Note.
chapter I: somewhere only we know (teaser)
"Why can’t we stay here instead, uncle?" Sirius questioned, fidgeting with a small rock before throwing it on the distant fields. The scrunches of their leather shoes brushed against tiny rocks and trimmed grass, the pathway clearing to cobblestone.
His uncle turned around, a pause in his step, his shadow casting a shade on his brother. Uncle Alphard opened his mouth, the stubble in his jaw making him look older than he is. Then he closed them and breathed another sigh. "Both your parents will be here at six, Sirius."
"Oh."
Chapter 1 on archiveofourown.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“They.. they were throwing things… rocks and filth, eggs… I tried to tell them, I had no bread to give them. A man tried to pull me from the saddle. The Hound killed him, I think… his arm…” Her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth. “He cut off his arm.”
Clegane lifted her to the ground. His white cloak was torn and stained, and blood seeped through a jagged tear in his left sleeve. “The little bird’s bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage and see to that cut.”
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Y'all are getting a twofer this weekend. I'm supposed to be writing the next Gravity Well chapter but when have I ever been able to wrangle my impulses?
Not that this is in any way related to the 3quelfic, but I wanted to brainstorm sleeping quarters on a heavily modified Auzituck gunship and then got lost in the sauce in my newer CSP brushes. This is all in service of future fic illustrations, don't judge me.
May or may not work on a third sketch based on a pre-ANH meet-cute before the weekend is over. I hope not. I really need to write.
Violent Cravings
(Canis Forge; a darker part of their history involved their tendencies to eat other robots/metallic-forms, hence the iconic teeth & fangs)
Synopsis: He comes in like a hurricane, destroying the path he took with each step of his wake. There was the fury of his sword, the scowl on his scarred face, the unrelenting strength of his arms, and the roughness of his war-worn hands. You were simply the wind vane to his winds. Wherever he goes, you never fail to face him in all his barbaric glory. You were drawn to him as the whispers of the winds caressed your skin. For he— a savage, a savior, had yet to destroy what's left in the foundation of your vane.
This will just be a teaser, the first chapter is already uploaded to my AO3 account, the link is at the end. Enjoy! Reblogs are very much appreciated.
Two years had passed since the last time you had seen him. Two longing years since a coin had flipped, and there he stood in the center, as you orbited around him, spinning, circling until the coin tipped over, fallen flat. A far, dormant distance left with the unmoving wind.
You watched him walk towards you with a scowl on his face, your discomfort growing with each stride he took. For a brute, he was awfully silent, there were no excessive sounds, not a tweak of wood or even a light-feather of a footfall on the way he moved even with his blatant show of displeasure thinning like a red thread ready to snap.
Ignorance was the key to flee from his radar, to get out of his rage unscathed. That or distance, but then again, there was no other way to get distant from him, not when both of you are a bit incapacitated, and Kocho insisted to heal both of you. You had these strategies to get out of his way whenever he had a bout of angry bursts, wreaking havoc, or just plainly needing to let other people have a difficult time. You were just about to go silent when he suddenly broke you of your reverie with a china simultaneously falling and cracking, a vase shattered near your head.
“What kind of demon slayer who’s not aware of their surroundings?”
You nearly balked at his outrageousness, disbelief showing with how you licked your bottom lip before showing gritted teeth. He was your superior, but you were far from the life where you had warranted those people to bring you down. But then again, ignorance is the means to get out of his rage unscathed when it comes to people like him. And yet you can’t help but whisper, just a tight exhale, barely there, and too small of a tone.
“What's your problem?”
With that unconscious move, you have realized your error and it was too late to change it when you felt his unrelenting eyes on your shaken frame. “What did you just say, pipsqueak?”
You didn’t even know where your courageousness was rooted. But there was a part of you that wanted to peek, to discover another crack inside the wall and look inside. With that thought alone, you sucked in your cherry bottom lip and faced him.
“I-I said what’s your problem?” you held your chin up, your eyes meeting his. Annoyance flaring in his nostrils, a ticking muscle in his jaw. “You're not the only one who had suffered from all this. You’re insufferable! The least you could do is to—”
“Is to what?” Unexpectedly, he was right in front of you, cramming your personal space. A smidgen expanse of air that you share every breath you take in lined with how his chest heaved up and down.
“Tell me, woman...” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice reverberating directly to your belly, tiny back of your hairs standing. “What do I have to do, huh?”
You chose to remain silent. You refused to look at him, to get caught up with the near oblivion of his eyes, how the blackness of his pupil expanded, his breath turning ragged, his too big of hand on the curve of your waist.
“Tch! This mission doesn't need for a child like you to meddle around. You don't deserve to have that sword if you are as spineless as to speak of what you want.”
“I am not spineless.”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at that, contemplating whether to let you finish and see the embarrassment flooding your whole physique or just punch his way out of this.
You wanted to scream at him, to make him listen. You wanted to open your mouth, spit the words of what you had been through, to bring out the tempestuous storm brewing inside your chest. But you didn’t, you stood there as composed as you were earlier and stood straight, chin lifted, your eyes against his.
“I may not be a Hashira. But I am as much of a demon slayer as you are.”
Silence had befallen between the both of you, it settled in the small room and waited for each to break. The Wind Hashira have yet to move, but you watched his gaze slowly travel from where your toes are curled in your socks, the light tremor in your thighs, the bone-white knuckles stretching in your fists, to your saliva-coated lips, your eyes wide and blown. A short puff of a breath, the subtle little groan in his throat.
Then his lips were on yours that made you whimper. His tongue, a force to get reckoned with, had licked its way through your lips, twirling and licking, and just making you utterly boneless and helpless. You couldn’t match the entirety of his pace, but you tried to return the same vigor, the same energy he had extorted. Both of your hands were trapped gripping the already open uniform in his chest.
You were lost deep within the kiss that the hand traveling down your spine had roughly grabbed your ass that jolted you away from him. A whimper escaped you when his other hand remained on your nape, a vice grip that was borderline excruciating, locking you in place. The kiss was broken but his hands remained in your body, gripping, and groping, and trapping you in his embrace.
There was the rhythm of his heart, the rapid tugs of his lips straight to your core. He leaned down, his slick tongue sliding on the shell of your ear, making you sagged in his arms, his weight supporting yours. Then he whispered, a tone so deep that your cunt tightened involuntarily to nothing.
“You think you can take me?”
“I—” Oh, god. You breathed out, without hesitation, stared at his gaze, your hands brushed to his chest, fingering the skin with your nails. “I can take all of you.”
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Summary: “You only think that a person like me is beautiful because I have deceived you. Did you know that I have broken all Five Precepts countless times? But Gyomei-san, if it meant that you could live, die, and be reborn peacefully—then I would break them all again for you.”
Content Notes: 13k+ words. Genres are angst and Inosuke cameos. Warnings for mentions of trafficking, canon-typical violence, religious themes, and weird pacing. The reader is Chinese and this fic is at its core about a Chinese person finding a home in Japan at the turn of the twentieth century, so there are some political themes as well.
Cultural notes: Shixiong = senior martial brother. “Martial siblings” are people training in the same sect; they are not necessarily blood-related.
The five precepts of Buddhism, described briefly:
You meet Himejima Gyomei after one hundred and eight days of travel.
Over the past several months, you have crossed the East Sea and traversed the land to the Rokko mountain range. Far from home and out of coin, and stuck in a land that is often feels hostile, you had first resorted to a frugal life, trying to discipline yourself with the morals and conviction of your upbringing:
No lying.
No cheating.
No stealing.
Then, somewhere along the line, you’d been led astray.
But you decide to straighten yourself out tonight. As the sun goes down, you switch your kimono for your traditional dress—something you feel comfortable in, something that will allow you freedom and warmth as you move into the woods. Intending to find a place to settle down and rest, you move through the encroaching darkness with purpose. Despite the growing pains in your stomach and the worn ache of your bones, you stay vigilant, a hand on the hilt of your sheathed blade.
The bandaged scars on your face and neck sting as you remember: you must always be alert.
Eventually, as you hike the mountain trails, you are hit by the scent of wisteria and smoke.
It comes from a modest little temple. Buddhist, by the looks of it, a quaint one-story structure. An open door invites you to worship at its shrine, bright with candles, flowers, and incense. You take off your shoes, check your person to ensure that your skin is covered, and come to sit before the standing, golden statue, tucking your feet beneath you.
I don’t know how asceticism worked out for you, you think silently, gazing at the floor. So far, this has been a shit life.
A pause.
Ah fuck, I shouldn’t think these things before the Buddha’s image!
You bow your head low, and pray properly for the first time in one hundred and eight days.
When you straighten your back, there is someone else in the room: strikingly tall; slender in build; eyes that are unsettling and perhaps a little sad. Under his pearly gaze, you feel caught red-handed: you have not brought any offerings, yet you are kneeling before the Buddha. You are sure that he would understand, emanate the sort of compassion that the monastics back home always do, but you still feel embarrassed.
He is the first to bow his head and raise one of his hands, and hastily, you return the motion. You want to greet him, but find yourself stopping—you realize that you have no idea how to address a monk or priest politely in this country. Simply ‘Monk’, perhaps? Or ‘Venerable Sir’?
…you definitely don’t know how to say ‘Venerable Sir’ in Japanese.
But I should say something soon…
The man saves you, however, by introducing himself as Himejima Gyomei.
You hesitate. For the past one hundred and eight days, you have been lying to people about your name, but it feels wrong to do that while sitting in the same room as the statue of Amitabha Buddha.
“It is an honor to meet you, Himejima-san,” you reply after a bit. “I am just a cultivator passing through these mountains. I saw this place and thought to pray.”
He nods. “I welcome you to this temple and our home, then, Cultivator.”
“Are you the monk caring for this temple?” you ask.
Synopsis: He comes in like a hurricane, destroying the path he took with each step of his wake. There was the fury of his sword, the scowl on his scarred face, the unrelenting strength of his arms, and the roughness of his war-worn hands. You were simply the wind vane to his winds. Wherever he goes, you never fail to face him in all his barbaric glory. You were drawn to him as the whispers of the winds caressed your skin. For he— a savage, a savior, had yet to destroy what's left in the foundation of your vane.
This will just be a teaser, the first chapter is already uploaded to my AO3 account, the link is at the end. Enjoy! Reblogs are very much appreciated.
Two years had passed since the last time you had seen him. Two longing years since a coin had flipped, and there he stood in the center, as you orbited around him, spinning, circling until the coin tipped over, fallen flat. A far, dormant distance left with the unmoving wind.
You watched him walk towards you with a scowl on his face, your discomfort growing with each stride he took. For a brute, he was awfully silent, there were no excessive sounds, not a tweak of wood or even a light-feather of a footfall on the way he moved even with his blatant show of displeasure thinning like a red thread ready to snap.
Ignorance was the key to flee from his radar, to get out of his rage unscathed. That or distance, but then again, there was no other way to get distant from him, not when both of you are a bit incapacitated, and Kocho insisted to heal both of you. You had these strategies to get out of his way whenever he had a bout of angry bursts, wreaking havoc, or just plainly needing to let other people have a difficult time. You were just about to go silent when he suddenly broke you of your reverie with a china simultaneously falling and cracking, a vase shattered near your head.
“What kind of demon slayer who’s not aware of their surroundings?”
You nearly balked at his outrageousness, disbelief showing with how you licked your bottom lip before showing gritted teeth. He was your superior, but you were far from the life where you had warranted those people to bring you down. But then again, ignorance is the means to get out of his rage unscathed when it comes to people like him. And yet you can’t help but whisper, just a tight exhale, barely there, and too small of a tone.
“What's your problem?”
With that unconscious move, you have realized your error and it was too late to change it when you felt his unrelenting eyes on your shaken frame. “What did you just say, pipsqueak?”
You didn’t even know where your courageousness was rooted. But there was a part of you that wanted to peek, to discover another crack inside the wall and look inside. With that thought alone, you sucked in your cherry bottom lip and faced him.
“I-I said what’s your problem?” you held your chin up, your eyes meeting his. Annoyance flaring in his nostrils, a ticking muscle in his jaw. “You're not the only one who had suffered from all this. You’re insufferable! The least you could do is to—”
“Is to what?” Unexpectedly, he was right in front of you, cramming your personal space. A smidgen expanse of air that you share every breath you take in lined with how his chest heaved up and down.
“Tell me, woman...” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice reverberating directly to your belly, tiny back of your hairs standing. “What do I have to do, huh?”
You chose to remain silent. You refused to look at him, to get caught up with the near oblivion of his eyes, how the blackness of his pupil expanded, his breath turning ragged, his too big of hand on the curve of your waist.
“Tch! This mission doesn't need for a child like you to meddle around. You don't deserve to have that sword if you are as spineless as to speak of what you want.”
“I am not spineless.”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at that, contemplating whether to let you finish and see the embarrassment flooding your whole physique or just punch his way out of this.
You wanted to scream at him, to make him listen. You wanted to open your mouth, spit the words of what you had been through, to bring out the tempestuous storm brewing inside your chest. But you didn’t, you stood there as composed as you were earlier and stood straight, chin lifted, your eyes against his.
“I may not be a Hashira. But I am as much of a demon slayer as you are.”
Silence had befallen between the both of you, it settled in the small room and waited for each to break. The Wind Hashira have yet to move, but you watched his gaze slowly travel from where your toes are curled in your socks, the light tremor in your thighs, the bone-white knuckles stretching in your fists, to your saliva-coated lips, your eyes wide and blown. A short puff of a breath, the subtle little groan in his throat.
Then his lips were on yours that made you whimper. His tongue, a force to get reckoned with, had licked its way through your lips, twirling and licking, and just making you utterly boneless and helpless. You couldn’t match the entirety of his pace, but you tried to return the same vigor, the same energy he had extorted. Both of your hands were trapped gripping the already open uniform in his chest.
You were lost deep within the kiss that the hand traveling down your spine had roughly grabbed your ass that jolted you away from him. A whimper escaped you when his other hand remained on your nape, a vice grip that was borderline excruciating, locking you in place. The kiss was broken but his hands remained in your body, gripping, and groping, and trapping you in his embrace.
There was the rhythm of his heart, the rapid tugs of his lips straight to your core. He leaned down, his slick tongue sliding on the shell of your ear, making you sagged in his arms, his weight supporting yours. Then he whispered, a tone so deep that your cunt tightened involuntarily to nothing.
“You think you can take me?”
“I—” Oh, god. You breathed out, without hesitation, stared at his gaze, your hands brushed to his chest, fingering the skin with your nails. “I can take all of you.”
It seems that you like to write things with dark themes, but what would you think if you received a request with something "softer"?
Of course! I don't usually write fluff, domestic, or like contemporary stuff but I am willing to explore. Do forgive me for my late reply, there's a lot going on and I just want to bang my head on the wall. Happy New Year!
( Also, I just posted a "fluff" of Gojo x Makima, if you're interested, this is the link! )
https://archiveofourown.org/works/32657656/chapters/90164086
I'll be on a hiatus for a week. It's our finals. Do forgive me for the inactivity but I want to reassure all those who've requested that I'll be writing after this hell of a week. Thank you for your patience. College is just shit.
I just wanna be Makima's dog so I'll just bark and simp.
In case I request something related to a Ship (example: Gojo x Makima), what details would I have to specify in the request?
Other than the characters, you have to specify the prompt (is it set in the anime or an au), nsfw or not, and if it's headcanons or a one-shot.
For example:
“can I request for headcanons of yandere! kyojuro x reader, modern AU! where kyojuro is a sugar daddy who got obsessed with his sugar baby. ”
Or you can follow this format:
Headcanon or one-shot, characters (x reader or not), prompt/ kink.
You can send me kink, or whatever dark sin is in your head and I'll weave it with words. Just speciy the kinks you have and the main idea of what I'll be writing. I hope I answered your question. 🌹💕
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
prompt： you asked Makima to put her hands on your neck and choke you.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDAINTY AND LITHE fingertips had brushed against the soft skin of your pristine neck. It was a mere feather-light touch that reverberated down through your spine. The little hairs in the back of your neck stood up with just a touch, it was petal-like and a bit cruel. Manicured and well-groomed nails were shades darker against your unmarred flesh. Like velvet, there was a taint of crimson on your cheeks that were all flushed, and a side bitten inside by teeth.
Makima can hear every breaths you take, each inhale getting heavier compared to the last. You were bare from the aesthetic filters that you usually wore to work, a professional look that complemented well with your uniform as a devil hunter. Not only that, but you were also healed from the scars thanks to your master's abilities. Those scars were reminders of death, of blood— of devils roaming around the vicinity of the realm of the living. And yet you were healed by one, promises of an easy life were just a finger away from her palm.
You were an investment, a pet that have yet to be properly trained, a dog that desired to be leashed by her chains. And you, an art of hatred turned pleasure, were truly a mesmerizing sight to behold. Makima was willing to play along with your wishes, giving you a taste of heaven then introducing you to a whole new world of pain. She just had to see you break slowly, savoring every whimpers and cries, before taking everything you had, everything you hold dear.
“Is this truly what you desire?” Her question sounded genuine, her voice like silk against the deafening silence of the night. She stood there before you, her black blazer resting on the executive leathered chair behind. Her neatly pressed white undershirt was similar to a wraith, shadow-bounded against the glows of the city lights.
“What do you want, pet. Is it my hands on your neck?”
You nodded with eagerness and Makima had to stifle a laugh with your action. Her fingers travelled from your neck, gently massaging the muscles that made you arched forward, your body shifted closer towards her legs.
Now, her hand grasped your jaw, a finger prodding to your saliva-coated lips, prying it open with a gentle force, then spreading the slick wetness of your tongue to your lips. She watched the slick pooled in your mouth, dribbling slowly until droplets stained the lush beige carpet.
“I need words, pet.” She abruptly removed her hand from your face, walking towards her desk to retrieve a single Marlboro stick from her coat.
She can hear you swallowing, your nerves stimulated with the anticipation. With a flick of orange-bright fire, she took a breath of smoke along with your answer.
“Yes, please.” She raised an eyebrow at ypur response.
“Yes, please what?”
“I want master's hand wrapped around my neck!” You almost cried out. The frustration of your voice rolled in waves. Makima set her golden eyes upon your kneeling figure, a tight-lipped smile carved in the ends of her lips.
Her gaze was half-lidded, enjoyment dancing around the black circular ringlets of her eyes. She was contemplating whether to satiate your desire of pain or leave you hanging for good.
A fully bloomed rose would be a great emulation of your current circumstance. Whenever an avaricious individual plucked the flower out of its root, beguiled by the petals that curve along the edges, the consciousness of pain (blood dripping, pin-pricked by helpless thorns) will become primary.
After all, pain is always secondary when it comes to man's greed. Fear is born when they neglect the thought of having consequences from their actions. That's the beauty of conquering, the art of manipulation. And there was something with the way you pursed your lips, eyes all watery and wide, and your hands twitching to hold her, to plead, to beg more. To make her give in and just do it.
But most humans feel entitled to things they want, it's a subconscious apparition that set primal instincts of being alive— becoming of man in the name of sin and survival. Greed and lust were the two factors that Makima wanted to overcome, she was fortunate enough that she was a devil. Thus, when she retracted her hand from your neck, her nonchalant smile stayed the same while her eyes flaunted mirth.
And you remained silent, still on your knees, purple blemishes gradually coloring where the the carpeted floor meet your body.
At that moment, she took another puff of the half-finished cigarette and blown the smoke straight up to your whimpering face.
“We don't get to have what we want, sweetie.”ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ『 🥀：◜CSM◞：ㅤ起死回生｡』
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⁰⁰¹ㅤDRABBLE! NSFW! . . .
Feel free to send a request regarding Makima x reader drabbles. I don't have any specific rules when it comes to writing Makima.
