Rose

Heaven, do you want me? Is Heaven just in my mind?

[atxchiphxbix]

happy birthday @cjafjatkstke !! this is just a little drabble I whipped up for you hopefully u enjoy 💜

“You’re being oddly nice to me today,” you mumble to the man shadowed away in the corner of your room.

The man, your lover, broody and scouring, only glares at you. It’s an affectionate glare he gives you, or tolerant at most. From all your time with Dion, you’ve learned every twitch of his brow and angle of his frown to tell when he’s truly upset.

“Nice?” He echoes. “I act the same as always.”

“Liar,” you lilt, “you took me out today and let me buy whatever I wanted without question. How is that anything in the norm for you?”

“Perhaps I have tired of your whining and decided that the most efficient way to shut you up is to buy it for you.” He says dully. Deflecting. Affection hidden under insults. Typical Dion.

You only huff, crossing your arms. “So I whine and you let me buy it?”

Dion shoots you a glare at that, permanent frown deepening into something only you could find adorable. Annoyed. But you’ve never cared much about how annoyed he gets with you. Instead, your grin widens and you cross the room to perch onto his lap.

If he was so annoyed, he’d have pushed you off. But, instinctively, his hands migrate to settle on your hips, tugging you closer before drifting down to skim the tops of your thighs.

“Am I wrong?” You blink innocently.

His answer comes as a flexing of his hand on your thigh, “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Playing innocent, minx.”

At that, you only bark out a laugh, your hand coming down on his skin in a playful slap.

“Maybe if you say the special words, I’ll stop annoying you.”

Silence follows after and all Dion does is look you, unamused. His eyes never leave yours. Deep, piercing pools of crimson that swallow you whole. It’s easy to get lost in him. He’s getting good at that—distracting you of the sort.

Slowly, your own hands creep up his body, fiddling with the raven strands of his hair that curls at the nape of his neck. He leans into the touch like moth to a flame.

“Come on, Dion…”

Fuck.

And Dion thinks, maybe, he treats you a little too well. You don’t fear him enough like everyone else, it makes him want to fix that, but the thought of your fear directed towards him makes something curl viciously in his gut. He hates the idea.

The thought that someday he may lose whatever good descended upon his sinful, battle-hardened life. Dion knows, more than anyone, that the good things in his life don’t last. Not with him, but with you, he wants to savor it all a little more before it may slip away.

So he sighs, a long and deep exhale of resignation. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face to his with utmost certainty that you’ll hear his words as blunt and stoic as they come out.

“Happy birthday.”

A pause trails behind the two words. For once, you’re not quite sure what to say. You can only smile, take his hand in yours, and curl yourself into his body as if the closeness can let him feel the joy in your heart.

“And?” You whisper against the fine line of his jaw.

Another exhale from Dion, but he gives in quicker this time. Turning his head to your temple and pressing his lips there, something akin to a kiss. Almost as devastatingly gentle as the next words he murmurs to you.

“And… I love you.”

happy birthday my dion obsessed pookie pie 🎉🎉🥳🥳

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Tw: slight blood

The commission:

"... Did I just... Get bitten..?"

Beware of walking alone in the night, even in your own home.

The artist: Alupin's Vgen

[blowy-kiss]

I'm just in SHOCK 🦋

The novel arrived a day earlier, and it's awfully beautiful!

Besides, the postcards are of such high quality, and there is not a single dent on the cover - just a DELIGHT!

Tomorrow, I feel like I'm going to enjoy reading on my day off.

[atxchiphxbix]

this is so short but ig ill put some cw: brat taming (sort of?), but there’s literally no penetration, kissing, dion puts his thumb in your mouth, he also spits in your mouth, slight slight dacryphilia (its obligation atp), and choking

@cjafjatkstke it’s not full smut but it’s… something. ill expand on it more one day

“Hurry.” Dion utters lowly, his foot tapping impatiently at the doorway of your shared bedroom.

“No.”

“What.”

“I said, no.” You shoot back again, throwing him a glare over your shoulder. “Let me take my time, you foul man.”

For a moment, silence lingers, and Dion stares at you, his gaze unmoving and unwavering in the presence of your fussiness. You can feel the heaviness of his eyes burning into your back but you don’t dare to meet his eyes through the mirror of your vanity, focusing instead on dabbing products onto your cheeks.

“You’re being difficult.” Dion says bluntly, more of an observation than anything else.

Dion Agriche has never been adept at reading emotions. The array of feelings that the human mind is capable of is a foreign notion to him, one that that he has only started introducing himself to with his time alongside you, but anger and irritation… those are emotions he has both felt and been on the receiving end of. Those feelings are ones he can process and conclude that you are feeling right now.

Why you’re feeling upset, he isn’t sure. Nor does Dion particularly care. He only cares that you’re giving him attitude when he has done nothing to you.

And normally, Dion would resort to actions to fix someone. If it were anyone else, that is. But with you, he tries words first.

“What’s wrong with you?” He says bluntly and monotonously, annoyance carrying on the undertone of his voice.

You catch the tone immediately and it only puts you further on edge, shoulder tense and raised when you bite your answer out. “Nothing.”

“Tell me,” he tries again.

“It’s nothing!” You exclaim, twisting around to glare at him. “Leave me alone and let me get ready!”

The outburst makes him pause, watching you carefully. You’re like a cat with your hackles raised, poised to swat at him if he pushes further. This is normally when he would drop the conversation and leave you to steep in your wallowing anger because Dion Agriche is above petty arguments and you may be his lover but his time is valuable. And yet, he doesn’t.

Instead, Dion stares. He stares so intensely that you falter a bit before you huff, turning back to your mirror, but it doesn’t do anything to pillow his watchful eyes.

“You really won’t tell me?”

You meet his eyes through your mirror, scoffing. “There’s nothing to tell you.”

Silence follows after that. It’s broken with a quiet sigh from Dion.

“Action then.” You hear him murmur lowly.

And then he’s pushing off the doorway, stalking his way toward you with long, steady strides until he’s right behind you. His presence is heavier now, eyes looming and flickering with something dangerous even though you don’t look at him.

“Keep speaking like that,” he starts, dangerously low, offering the slightest mercy despite his hand that’s begun to crawl across the plane of your back, settling on the nape of your neck like a scruffed kitten, “and you’ll see what happens when you receive my ire.”

The brevity in his words makes you pause, just for a beat. It’s merciful that he gives warning, you should take it, after all, what follows is far from reward.

But against better judgement, you don’t. Instead, you glower at him, gritting your words out through clenched teeth. “I’ve given you my answer and it won’t change.”

Fine.

In a beat, a flutter of your heart, Dion swivels your chair around, slamming his hands on either side of you. The sound it makes echoes throughout the room and masks your surprised gasp that escapes when you see his gaze.

Dion’s irises seep with restrained frustration and the cracking of your vanity beneath his hand registers faintly in your ears—you’re glad it’s not you under his hold.

From the close distance, Dion watches as your expression flickers. From confusion and surprise and then right back to the anger that got you into this position. You really never do learn and Dion is no gentle teacher.

You’re the first to snap, “What the hell are you doing!”

“You’ve been like this since I’ve gotten home,” A large hand of his comes to cuff around your neck, thumb swiping your lipstick across your bottom lip, smudging the color across your skin. You scowl deeply, brows furrowing, but you don’t move, “Did you really think I’d tolerate you forever? You’re asking to be punished.”

Again, you speak. A tremble wavering in your voice this time. “Punish? I didn’t even do any—”

Dion shoves a thumb into your mouth, pressing onto the slimy muscle of your tongue. The sudden weight of his salty skin makes you gag slightly, a protesting noise escaping you, muffled around his digit.

He leans in then, locking eyes with yours. You flinch but still you glare, unbreaking. Makes him huff. “You still don’t learn, do you?”

Moving his thumb, he hooks it into the side of your cheek, feeling around the supple tissue before dragging you closer to him. With that thumb, he feels around your mouth with the confidence of a man who knows his dog won’t bite the hand that feeds it. He lets the salty pad of his finger feel over the grooves of your upper molars before moving to your bottom jaw, sliding over slicked pearly whites. Pressing it one last time on your tongue before taking his hand out. You drool slightly. He doesn’t bother to wipe it.

His other hand glides across the familiar territory of your body, feeling up your tits, pinching and prodding to have you squirm before it settles on the delicate flesh of your neck.

He squeezes there. Not enough to hurt, just enough to warn. Enough for you to tense, anticipate, wait.

“Behave.” Is all Dion orders before he clashes with mouth against yours.

A kiss is what it would be called if it was merciful. This is conquering—and yet, it is the only thing he can give to you without you taking some deep and twisted pleasure in it. The cold, iron bite of his touch as he devours you, like he’s ingesting your anger, whatever’s left of it, and taking it for himself to distort into something else—it’ll come back to bite you worse than he does now.

Dion runs his tongue along the seam of your lips and his teeth close roughly around your bottom lip when you don’t open fast enough for his liking. Of course, you still insist on not behaving. Only you can earn his ire like this. His thumbs, now both pressed against the delicate veins of your jugular, wrenches your mouth to open for him then, he takes the opportunity like a vulture to carcass.

His tongue tangles with yours and your mind swims. His saliva dribbles down the side of your mouths, intoxicating, hot. Everything feels intoxicating and hot. The pressure of thumbs on your blood flow makes you throb, vision swirling around the edges, flickering with light tears, and you stutter in your reciprocation.

It could be the kiss, maybe the full pressure weighing on your delicate veins, or perhaps it’s just Dion. But you feel then that you want to give in. Hand over the unknown weight on your chest that’s making you so snappy, throw everything his way, and let him set your path straight.

You know he could do it. And you know Dion could to it well.

Dion feels when you finally relent. It’s when a whimper escapes you and you fall lax in his arms like all the fight has drained out of you from a little kissing. If only you could see yourself now—eyes bleary and glossed over with tears, drool oozing from your lips, and makeup utterly ruined. It makes his cock stirs to life in his slacks.

If only you behaved, he thinks, loosening the pressure of his hand.

You blink up at him, almost innocently now. He looks down at you, unamused.

His thumb travels again, hooking into your cheek, prying your mouth open once more.

For a moment, you two simply share the air. You breathe in the heat of his mouth and he inhales the breathless heaves of yours.

And then, his tongue passes from his lips, glossy and collected with his saliva. Silence hangs. Spit collects, gathering down the wet muscle until it beads at the tip, webbing down in a single, clear rivulet, and onto your waiting tongue.

Warm. Wet. The only reward you’d get for the rest of the night.

“Swallow,” Dion orders, patting your cheek lightly.

And, for the first time that night, you listen.

“Good girl.”

I wrote this in like 30 minutes and it’s not proofread so yolo ig

[atxchiphxbix]

WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING

synopsis: Dion is hungry and he is tempted, but patient. Desire pools hot, your scent invades, and his instincts call for a hunt. It’s unfortunate for you that Dion is, in fact, quite the hunter.

Content. mdni afab + f! reader, modern au (they work in the office and dion is the ceo’s son) + hybrid au, dion is a wolf hybrid, reader is a sheep hybrid, slight dubcon bc it’s dion, and a little bit of stalking, dacryphilia (obvi it’s dion), biting, fingering (f! receiving), oral (f! receiving), vaginal penetration, knotting, breeding, reader gets harassed in one scene but not by dion, no aftercare bc it’s dion.

a/n: for the enablers @snailsgoingdowntown and @cjafjatkstke

Dion Agriche thinks you're an odd little thing the first time he sees you.

A sheep hybrid—all fluff and sweet-scented—who had just been hired into his father's company. A company that consists mainly of predator hybrids, that is. It's an unexpected thing that registers in the back of his mind, but he doesn't think much of it.

At least, he doesn't think he thinks much of it. But as the days pass by, he finds himself memorizing your schedule, the coworkers you stay around, and begins frequenting the places you usually are, from the break rooms to the canteen, just to occasionally catch your figure throughout the building. To catch your smell, specifically. It's a soft fragrance, much different from the heavy stench of the other predators, easy on his sensitive nose as it begins to linger in the elevators, wafting by him when you pass with arms full of files, constantly running to and fro like a scurried mess.

And somehow, between those days, Dion doesn't mind looking forward to work.

— — —

His routine of seeing you here and there stops one day when he makes his way past an empty meeting room, sensitive nose catching a whiff of your scent and… another, stronger, fouler one. It puts him on edge immediately. Not because it's a new scent around you—and he knows who you typically hang around—but because your smell is… different. Not soft or soothing like it normally is, but sour and sharp. Like something or someone has tainted your mood and twisted it foully.

"Come on… I don't bite, y'know." Dion's ears pick up the voice through the door, unfamiliar and unwelcome as they continue, "Pretty lambs like you need a big, strong predator like me to protect you, don't you think? Just a small date, that's all 'm askin' for."

The words, said too arrogantly and teasingly, make his ears pin back in displeasure, and he can't help the emotions stirring alive in his chest. It's odd, really; he's never felt like this before. This sudden, strong, and instant hate for someone he doesn't even know. Yet, distantly, it feels like something tugging at his mind—a faraway cry to possessive instinct he's left behind long ago.

But then he hears your voice, quivering and feeble, but trying so hard to be stern. And for a second, he wishes he were the one to make you feel that way—the one to make you feel a myriad of emotions far beyond what he should.

"I don't want to," you say, barely audible, "I already said no."

The coyote hybrid in front of you sneers in his response, and Dion can practically hear it. His hand twitches at his side, itching to do something dangerous.

"You're a stubborn one, aren't you? Seems like you don't know what's good for you." The hybrid's voice is grating now, stripped clear of its arrogance and teasing. It makes your stomach twist with fear, whirling into knots as you avert your gaze, looking for a way out, anything but the man in front of you. "Look at me, dumb lamb." He spits, hand darting out to yank roughly at your ear. "Stupid thing."

The sharp pain makes you bleat out a distressed sound, eyes shutting, and the next scene is a rapid blur. You barely register the door lurching open, a low and foreign snarl echoing in the room before the coyote hybrid is ripped off you with a sickening punch, the sound of cracking bones reaching your ears before your assaulter tumbles over in a mess of spewing blood and hurling rapid-fire curses at the interrupter.

It surprises you, makes you flinch and crumple against the wall, but with the weight pining you gone, it also feels like you can breathe again. But you dare to open your eyes, and who you find isn't who you expect; either way, you know well who he is.

"M-Mr. Agriche." You tremble out, your words sighed out in relief. "Thank—"

"Quiet." The command cuts sharply through your words, ironing not only you, but the other person in the room into silence. Only, Dion doesn't turn to look at you; he doesn't even acknowledge your presence. Instead, he keeps his cold glare on the coyote hybrid writhing on the floor, and he looks almost… amused. Like a predator toying with its prey—and in this situation, Dion is very clearly the hunter.

But then his sharp eyes turn from the coyote to you, and it suddenly feels like you're the hunted—shone in the spotlight when he steps closer, long legs eating up the space between you two just a few strides. He comes up right in front of you, bearing you beneath his gaze, and you have to crane your head all the way up to make eye contact, a difficult task with the brevity of his oppressive atmosphere that doesn't wane the tension.

You're unsure of what to do. Does he expect you to leave? Does he want you to apologize? Each option you come up with feels wrong in the moment, and all you can do is shuffle awkwardly, flitting your eyes to and from the crumpled body to the large torso taking up your vision. Somehow, you've found yourself between a rock and a hard place.

You try again, "Sir—"

"Come." Is all Dion says before turning on his heel and walking out of the room.

"Wait— but…" Once again, you're taken aback. With an exasperated sigh, you glance over at the other man, who clutches his bleeding nose and jaw; you're almost sure it's broken, but you can't find any sympathy in yourself before looking at Dion's fading form. A thought goes through your mind, stay with the man crumpled in pain or go with Dion.

You follow him.

Your shorter strides aren't nearly large enough to keep up with his brisk pace, but you manage to reach the elevator with him before it shuts, locking you in the metal box with your boss's son with a quiet thud.

Tempered silence follows, and it gives you the time to really look at Dion. This is the first time you've seen him so close, and his description matches everything you've heard about him. A perfect mirror of his father with sleek black hair, sharp ears protruding, and keen red eyes that seem to hold an abyss. Tall, intimidating, and stoic.

But his scent is different from everyone else you work with. Dion's scent is overwhelming, almost invading, but it doesn't throw you off kilter. It's musky and heady, envelopes you fully, and… comforting. Or maybe it's the events of today that make you desperate for any solace as you slump against the cool steel.

"M-Mr. Agriche…" You croak out, words cracking, glued to your throat. You're not even sure what to say; it just feels like you need to bridge across the canyon of silence or you'll break.

But that title makes something in his chest twist horribly; he decides immediately that he hates hearing you say it.

"Dion." He says instead.

You blink in surprise, ears twitching like you heard him wrong. "Huh?"

He stares blankly at you, leaning casually against the wall. "Call me Dion."

"Then… Mr. Dion—"

"Dion." His voice is firmer, more of an order than anything else.

It catches you off guard, makes you blink owlishly before you mumble, trying the name on your tongue, "Dion…"

You say it so softly, a delicate whisper of his name, that Dion underestimates the effect it has on him. It shouldn't have any effect, really. But there's something about the tender, hesitant way it rolls of your tongue, paired with the residual fear and anxiety in your normally clean fragrance, that makes it tick something off in his brain. It gnaws at him—dangerous, he thinks.

"Dion." You mumble once more, and he replies with a monotonous hum that blends with the elevator's whirring.

Now, when it's quiet and the adrenaline has seeped out of your body, do you finally realize what happened. The coyote hybrid, the potential harm you could've been in, and where it's brought you now. It feels like everything crashes down all at once, blundering you beneath its weight in suffocating exhaustion.

You try, you really do try, to bite back the tears. But they're upon you and rolling down your cheeks in rivulets before you can escape the stress. It’s a dooming kind of feeling that seizes your heart, and you feel pathetic—you feel more like prey than human as you cry and cry and cry in front of the predator who watches you intently. And you can’t help it when you cry out his name, apologizing even though there’s nothing to apologize for. For prey like you, it’s instinct—a merciless kind that’s never left you.

However, Dion doesn’t say anything as you shed your tears and say your words—they fall on deaf ears anyway. Since all he can seem to focus on is the way the dim elevator lights illuminate the fallen orbs of your sorrow, how each tear slips from the corners of your eyes before it rolls down the apples of your cheeks, and then drips tantalizingly down your chin—it’s a seductive movement that captivates him impossibly and makes the air thicker in his lungs.

He etches the way your cheeks wet and lashes clump into his mind, plump lips moving in mindless words he couldn’t care less about, and the desire that rears its head is so sudden that it puzzles him, though it doesn’t show on his features. For one, Dion has never been a creature to be controlled by instinct—the idea of giving in to such temptation is a foreign idea to him.

But now, in this metal box and you merely an arm's reach away, crying a sweet, prey-like symphony that threatens the tether of his sanity, Dion can’t help the biting allure in his mind. You smell good, and you look even better as the drying streaks of tears begin to settle on your cheeks. His hands flex at his side, the tips of his fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and touch you before he curls them tight, blunt nails digging into the flesh of his palm. It does nothing to sate the sudden emptiness settling in his stomach.

'Is this… hunger?' It’s different, he’s aware. Feels like it stems from the hollows of his ribs instead of the pit of his stomach, causes blood to rush through his ears, and all he can think about is how you would taste on his tongue or the texture of your flesh squashed between his teeth—saliva builds in his mouth. It is a far different kind of hunger than he has ever experienced, but it is hunger nonetheless—a powerful little parasite that eats away at him and curls intoxicating heat in his gut.

And Dion has never felt so gluttonous.

Instinct guides his bones to reach out for you, claws bared, and the looming shadow reminds you of moments prior—you flinch. It makes him stop. You flinch. Just centimeters from his hand like a mouse beneath a cat, and the shiver that rolls through him like a thundering storm is nothing short of unnatural—or perhaps, it is the most natural thing that has come to him.

“I-I’m sorry,” you sniffle out, backed against the wall, “I didn’t mean to—mmph!”

One large hand of Dion’s swipes unceremoniously across your face, collecting tears, smearing them across your cheeks in one smooth motion before he settles on the space between your collar and jaw. The touch is heavy-handed as expected, but not violent like the coyote, and it easily blankets your neck. His fingers measure the motion of your rabbiting pulse. For a second, he thinks about squeezing.

Thinks about it.

Instead, he settles on words, speaks in a hushed tone that he isn’t so accustomed to using. But it feels right to lull and lure a lamb like you. “Why are you crying?”

The question registers, barely. You mostly focus just on his cold touch; it anchors you, brings you back to now as you sniffle the rest of your tears away.

“I… I’m just overwhelmed.”

Dion tilts his head, and you miss the mirth in his eyes. “You cry when you’re overwhelmed, then?”

It’s blunt, blatantly so. You've never been asked that, makes you waver in your response. “Yeah… I guess I do.”

Noted.

He hums once more, pressing his thumb against your wet cheek. Your muscle divots beneath the light pressure,, shadows falling over your skin, and the hunger sinks its teeth into his belly. What a morsel you’ve made yourself into. What sheepish expression you show to a wolf.

The elevator dings the next moment. It snaps both of you back to reality.

“Oh, uh…” You stammer over yourself, threading your fingers together as you step out of the elevator into the empty lobby. Dion follows.

And for a few long seconds, Dion stares at you. Takes in the way your lashes quiver and lets your scent conquer his space. Meek, soothing, sweet. A stark contrast from the sourness earlier—you’re comfortable with him. The thought is… absurd.

“Thank you.” Is what you settle on, shuffling in place. Tears have dried on your face, and you’re sure you look like a mess in front of him—more of a meek lamb than ever.

Dion doesn’t respond. Silence follows. Awkwardness ensues. Then again, anything is better than what you went through today.

“Well, I’ll get going first then.” And with a tilt of your head, you’re turning away on your heels.

Again, there’s no response from him as he watches you go—only the weight of what's transpired and the planted seed of instinct. But there’s reluctance tugging at him when your figure disappears behind revolving doors.

You leave him alone in the pristine lobby, and he turns his attention to his hand. Phantom warmth lingers; it tickles the lines of his palm, still damp from your tears. And after thoughts tread into his mind, Dion brings his thumb to his mouth and runs it over his tongue.

Salty, saccharine. Scantly, it sates his hunger. Dion Agriche has never been this glutinous.

His meal has run, and he has allowed it. Dion is a man who gets what he wants; now, the primal hum in his body calls for the chase.

———

The next day, you find out that the coyote hybrid has disappeared. You assume he was fired, and you don’t think much of it. No one in the company thinks much of it.

Dion notices that you grow closer to him after the incident, finds out different things that he already knew about you, too.

Sometimes, you’ll buy donuts for your floor, and you’ll bring him a few despite the fact that he works levels much above yours. You begin to brew him coffee in the morning, wave politely in that quiet way you always do, and smile when he passes in the halls—he wants to bite it off your lips, inhale you deep and slow.

Do you not know that he is wolf and you are sheep? Do you not notice the ways his crimson eyes drink you in wholly? Do you not know that it is his innate response to reach out and claw into your flesh, have your bones crack beneath his teeth as you gasp and wither, all while he feasts upon you?

Do you accept his presence because he happened upon you and the coyote? Is he your savior? Or are you simply so naive that you turn a blind eye?

It would appear so to him, because, months later, you invite the wolf into your humble apartment one evening. You let him in with a wide spread of your lips and gentle acceptance—so trusting, so tempting.

“Please don’t mind the mess, I wasn’t really expecting guests, but I can’t just let you go in the storm after you dropped me off.” A little laugh leaves your lips, cutting through whatever tension simmers. You’re good at that, Dion thinks, relieving tension and garnering sympathy. He has none for you, though—he’s hungry after all. Has been for months now.

He notes how at ease you seem, moving with fluidity in the comfort of your home. Your pheromones are gentle, belies how calm you are as the particles curl around him. But crossing the threshold of your doorway is a different experience in itself. It’s warm, like you. And your scent—god, your damn smell. Assaults him tenfold when he steps in, writhes into his senses without mercy, and conquers the unraveling space between his humanity and instinct to devour.

And you’ve just invited him into your den—wolf to sheep.

You make your way into the kitchen, gesturing to the couch, “Have a seat. Are you thirsty or hungry? Make yourself comfortable."

“I’m fine.” Dion considers telling you that he is hungry—famished, truly. And that you look like a delectable little luxury, so giving and tender. Perfectly at home while the wolf settles into your space.

And you can feel his gaze as you fumble around in the kitchen.

Dion apparently takes well to your space, fills up the cozy scene unnaturally. He scopes out the living space, the slight angles your furniture takes, and his scent meshes with you while he finds your figure.

You feel it immediately. Heavy and intense, tracking your every move carefully like a poised predator. But where fear should be, you find none. After all, you’ve grown closer to him after the incident with the coyote hybrid. You think it’s for the better. Others at the office think it’s for the worse. You think they're silly for judging Dion so quickly.

He’s not that bad.

And you do like him, sort of. Dion is easy on the eyes and much different from other predators. He doesn’t snarl or glare at you, nor does he give you a hard time. He isn’t like his loud and boisterous brothers, always making a fuss around the building. Dion simply… watches, tracks, and observes. He’s patient.

It doesn’t cross your mind that that, in itself, may make him the most dangerous of all. That, possibly, he's more in touch with the wolfish parts of him than not.

So you don’t expect anything when you settle beside him on the couch, pushing over a warm cup of tea. It goes untouched, unlooked. His attention focuses solely on your form. And then Dion's suddenly invading your space, pressing close against you, cornering you against the armrest of your couch.

“D-Dion? What-what are you doing?” Your voice stutters into a quiet whisper of surprise. Dion thinks you still sound as innocent as ever, even when your eyes widen like trapped prey. In this case, you are.

A trapped sheep with a starving wolf. You’ve pulled the last thread of his restraint loose. Running and running and running, smelling like sin and temptation—Dion won't hold back anymore.

“Do you really not know?” His voice is low, dangerous. Unfamiliar. And it sends a trembling fear down your spine; he smells it. Sweeter than anything he’s smelt before. “Are you that naive? A sheep and a wolf, what else would happen when you let me into your home?"

It’s then that you realize that you’re a fool. Dumb little lamb. You should have stayed with a herd, safety within numbers, but you’ve invited the big bad wolf into your house and now reaping the consequences.

Maybe, deep down, you've always known the truth. Still, you clung to hope, to the idea that the rumors and instincts might be wrong, or that you were different, protected by kindness or gratitude. Perhaps it's easier to ignore the danger that stands before you, to brush off the sharpness in his gaze and the way his presence makes you tremble. Or maybe, despite every warning, you simply wanted to believe in something softer—even if it meant pretending not to see the wolf for what he is.

“Dion,” your voice cracks hopelessly, heart rabbiting furiously, “we-we can talk about this!”

The wolf only tilts his head, peering down at you. You see your reflection in his blank eyes, and it dawns upon you like a sick joke. Have you seen it all wrong this entire time? Is it because you've never done this with anyone that you've been so blind? The desire is gutted clean open now, greed and gluttony simmering in his abyssal irises—it really is so clear. So deep and profound—it makes your stomach twist over itself. Yet, the fear swimming through your body now is different from the fear months ago with the other man.

But Dion sighs, watching you carefully in that way he always seems to do well. You're so small against him, tiny and soft—he’s always liked that about you. You smell nice too, ripe with fear. Are you that afraid? He feels a mirthful smile tug at his lips, and he mumbles, “I want to eat you.”

Your expression contorts, he analyzes it carefully. Observes how it goes from fear to surprise, then back. But your body betrays you, he can smell it; even if he couldn't, the dusking warmth of your cheeks tells him all he needs to know. For a second, he wonders if you'll run, or thrash, push back against the couch and scream even though you won't get anywhere. But you know better, turning your meek gaze down and fumbling with your fingers while you rattle your mind with a response. You find none.

You don't know what response you could possibly give him. Dion is wolf and you are sheep. He is effortlessly stronger, faster, better. And it's difficult to think when he's pressed so close. The scent of him makes your mind swim. It’s suffocating—thick, rich metallic odor and something sterile but musky clouding your mind as you breathe him in. It brings you back all to those months ago. And yet, wetness grows between your legs, the tacky stickiness building heat through your body.

You really have been so blind—to both him and yourself.

"Should I?" He continues lowly, raising himself above you. His hand comes to splay over your vulnerable belly, feeling up the soft flesh before traveling southward. You're sensitive, he can tell. Twitching here and there, but you don't deny him of it. You should—you know you should kick and scratch and fight. But your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and no protest leaves you. It almost pleases him. Maybe deep down, you know it is your fate to be consumed by a monster like him. And then his fingers are suddenly pressing against your sensitive heat, searing you alive with his predatory gaze. "Should I eat you… here?"

Your little whimper, whether a plea to stop or an urge for more, is his answer. The small sound makes his ears swivel, standing at attention like the tightness in his pants. It's a quiet cry that makes him preen with mirth, patting your cheeks lightly with a condescending smile. You realize that you've never seen Dion smile before—such a sight makes you feel like your fate is truly sealed. Even worse when he presses your thighs against his hips, the action makes your pencil skirt ride up, and you feel the raging heat of his clothed cock kiss the soaked fabric of your panties.

This is reward of patience, months upon months of stalking his prey has brought him his trophy. And he intends to savor it thoroughly.

Dion begins with your neck. Noses at it, gorging himself on your scent, and his sleek, black ears swivel to the drumming of your pulse. Do all prey tremble this violently, he wonders. The way you shiver is addicting, gnaws at his insatiable appetite. And the desire flares again, hotter than ever, with the need to gut and devour you down to bone. He needs to taste you.

So he laves his long tongue along the salty expanse of your neck, letting your pulse dance on his salivating muscle, a groan tearing through him at the first taste. It's just a sample of what he'll wrench out from you. But it makes you whine, bleat out a pathetic cry, and breathes life into the animal in him. You taste just as he's always imagined—candied, honeyed with fear, ripe for the taking.

And there's so much more to uncover.

A ghost of a touch grazes you, followed by a light nick into your flesh when Dion hastily slides a sharp claw along the front of your shirt. The pain makes you yelp, fabric parting for him easily, and bares your tits to his hungry watch. For a moment, Dion just stares. Looks down at the way your chest heaves and how little slits of red carve onto your skin, following down where his claw pricks down your body. He rumbles a moan at the sight.

Warm, large palms come to cover where the cups were, dragging against the shallow cuts, and you bleat weakly at the pain that trails after. He's heavy-handed when he fondles your tits in his hands—it's what you expect, but it doesn't stop the way your nipples harden, rubbing deliciously against his skin as his wet muscle runs over the sensitive peaks.

You’ve never felt sensation like this before—a mix of want and anxiety as the predator tastes you—so you squirm helplessly beneath him. The motion drags your clothed cunt along his cock, spreading your wetness over the seam of his pants. Even through the fabric, warmth bleeds through, and he can’t help but buck into you, driving your hips to meet his humps. Your fingers bury into his coarse hair, drawing a low growl from Dion that rumbles through your breast, vibrating into your heart.

Instinct wars with rationality. The ever-looming knowledge that you shouldn’t be doing this, especially not with a wolf that came onto you so unexpectedly and roughly, despite the fact that you invited him into your home. Because you don't want this, you shouldn't.

But when the attention of Dion’s mouth leaves your breast, redirected between your legs instead, all that notion flies out the window along with the will to fight back. Dion has won; he has brought the lamb to the slaughter, and now the instinct to mate and breed wires itself where reason should exist.

His head disappears beneath your skirt, and then you feel dull pain branded into your inner thigh that makes you squeal and gasp his name when he prints more into tender flesh. A brandish ache blooms between your thighs when he swipes his tongue over the canvas of red and purple.

"Hu-hurts!" You cry weakly, tugging at his hair. "It hurts!"

"Keep saying that, but you're soaked. Is prey like you meant to be so desperate?" Dion mumbles against your inner thigh, lips curling.

For a moment, he pulls back, bunching your skirt around your hips so he can see his handiwork. Your skin blooms with indents of his canine teeth, hues of bruises blooms where his lips had been—the sight makes his mouth dry. Then, he presses his nose against your clothed cunt next and simply breathes deep against your core.

Your scent is numbingly strong, he simply can't get enough of it. He can practically taste you, drools over your already sopping panties as your legs sling over his shoulders, palms trembling where they’re holding onto your thighs as he draws in the smell of you here. Moaning softly, he nudges deeper, pressing his mouth into the swollen nub of your clit. It makes you twitch, in turn, making him growl, ears pinning flat against his head.

Under his claw, your panties fall apart just as easily as your shirt. And at the glimpse of your bare, glistening cunt, Dion pounces on you immediately.

"Fuck…" Dion laps at your cunt with starving ache. No technique to his devouring—nothing but instinctual, animalistic hunger. Nose stimulating and brushing your clit with every wet lick of his flat tongue, from your clenching hole to your pulsing clit, swallowing down as much of your slick as possible. He's completely voracious, lost in your taste.

Dion is no stranger to delicacies, but he finds that the meal in front of him is perhaps the finest luxury of all—a culmination of his patience and skill as a hunter.

Your nectar simmers on his tongue, better than anything he could have imagined, makes his knot ache with need to breed and claim. Little moans of ecstasy sear into his sensitive ears, he etches the chords into memory, every pitch that changes with the whirls of his tongue swirling around your clit. Prodding and testing without mind to the mess of you dripping down his chin. He feasts like a starved wolf.

And you push back on it, desperate ruts against the plane of his tongue, dragging over your clit and diving into your twitching hole. Your fingers tunnel into his hair, tugging or pulling, you can't quite tell. But the syrupy warmth pooling in your belly distracts you from it all. Twists and curls a throbbing knot in your stomach, for a second, you think you want nothing more than a knot filling you up, pumping you full. This euphoric ache is akin to the orgasms you give yourself during your lonely heats.

No, it's stronger. More sensitive, as if pleasure sparks a burning fire, eating you alive.

Your thighs tremble around Dion, threatening to clamp around his head, but it takes little strength to force you open. It's as though he can feel your climbing orgasm through your taste. Savors the way heat builds and builds and builds before he's pressing a finger into you. One, then two, gliding them in with ease and a filthy slosh.

"F-fuck," you cry, blinking back tears, “Dion, fuck—"

The blunt pressure makes you cum at once, creeping on you until your body bursts with tension, throwing your head back while torrents of ecstasy ripple aggressively through you.

You sob. You sob and thrash, and Dion pins you down through it all, unrelenting with his fingers as he fucks you into another orgasm, more sensitive than the last. Feels like he won't stop at all because he's a starved wolf—he'll lick everything off your bones, and only lets up when he's satisfied, and you're limp from the onslaught of overstimulation.

This is how he first begins.

The reprieve when he pulls away is a welcome one. The sight when he comes face to face with you is not.

Dion’s lower face is smeared with your essence, sticky and tacky against his skin. Like blood coats his chin, sinking into his pores, but he pays no mind as he swipes his tongue along his lips, collecting the last bits of you down his throat. It might as well have been your blood—it's equally as tender. And filling, certainly. But Dion is a large wolf with an appetite to match.

You’re certainly a sight like this, Dion thinks when he takes in your ruined form. Ravaged and slaughtered, it's how he's wanted to see you from the start.

He's almost endeared by your tears, leaning in to nuzzle his slicked face against your cheeks. "Overwhelmed?" He whispers, laving his tongue along the salty trail, "Will you apologize like you always do?"

He wants to hear you say it. It's so prey-like, sends a thrill down his bones every time he hears the little words fall from your lips. Before, he didn't care much for your useless apologies, but it's different now. A meek little thing, always begging for mercy you won't receive, groveling for a chance because it's all you can do. It's all a lamb like you can afford in the jaws of a wolf.

And he smiles when you sniffle, your voice a quiet mumble. "I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry for crying, 'm sorry for doing this to y-you—"

Your apologies continue profusely until Dion tires of it, humming monotonously before he tugs you onto your belly.

His heat is upon your back, melting against your skin that, briefly, you don't grasp the searing, girthy pressure sliding against your slick pussy as he mounts you. But then you feel the weight of his shaft, squished between folds of your cunt, the heft as it stretches but doesn’t penetrate. Before you think twice, knees bracket your thighs, large hands pinning your hips in place while he ruts his cock to soak himself, muted groans rumbling from the wolf.

“You’re drenched.” He comments, and it makes you burn. You can hear the way your body sobs for him, for anything to fill you up now. It’s innate, instinctively crying to be bred, even by Dion. “I’m sure you could take my knot now.”

The words don’t register as heat pierces you. Blinding. Jolting. Painful—the fat press of his cock pushes into your cunt.

Dion, as he is with many things, sets a brutal pace. Fucks you in hard, heavy thrusts—conquers your body effortlessly as you pant and moan, drugged on instinct, mind syrupy and feverish with the lust that culls any over thought.

The sound of it is lewd. Makes heat thrum between the two of you when your couch squeaks and scrapes against the flooring in protest, and the sound where the two of you are joined is filth—animalistic ritual erased of whatever shred of humanity is left. Sloppy and dripping, his cock forcing slick from your sex with every snap of his hip.

He groans from above you, too. Barely heard over the slap of skin. Guttural, heady, and throaty things that rasp out with every squelch, growls rumbling deep from his chest, and the only thought that flares through Dion’s mind is to breed. Breed and pump you full of his knot.

The thought of it hurls you to the edge.

"O-oh… Dion, f-fuck—"

This time, it hurts. Feels like death casted upon you. So pleasurably tender, ruining that spot that makes you cry out for denied mercy. You’ve never taken cock before, never been so thoroughly gorged on until you’re nothing but desolated bones and blood, voided open for Dion to feast.

He takes it eagerly. Folds himself over your form, turns your chin to him, and laps into your mouth. It's less of a kiss and more of tasting your mutilation. His tongue crowds against yours, curves over your flat molars, and his canines press roughly on your lips with the same weight and intention of his hips. As ready as he is to press his knot into you.

And it's a simple thing to Dion—this pleasure, this instinct that he lets overcome him. It's instinct that guides him to fuck you through your orgasm, cunt pressed warm around him. He wonders if it's instinct for you to give in so easily, allow yourself to be festered upon and devoured because, at the end of it all, it’s baser need that overpowers human rationality.

He's no better than you in that matter. Letting the squeeze of your pussy milk his cock until he lurches into you, cock spitting cum deep into your womb. Even through that, he doesn't falter.

"F-fuck—" Dion huffs into the slope of your shoulder, lost in the void of his mind, and then he’s shoving you down so hard you can barely breathe. Stamps his hips against yours, hands on your waist, keeping you pinned as he buries himself even deeper.

Ribbons of cum pools so intimately within you, thick and gooey, squelching with every grind he forces in. And with it, you clamp around him like a trap to prey, a hunger that needs to be satiated too.

But it's the sudden throbbing pressure at the base of his cock that fills and swells so thickly that has you gasping, choking on tears, mind blanking at the unnatural fill expanding tight in your cunt. It stretches you far beyond what you should take. It hurts. More than when you took his cock for the first time. More than anything else pulsing through your body. You sob more, clawing at the couch for the effort to run from the stretch, but with his hands locked on your waist, there's nothing you can do but breathe heavy, groaning through the strain as he knots himself deep in you. Locking himself in as he cums in heavy ropes of sticky spend deep into your sex.

You whimper against the cushions, dazed, when his knot seems to expand even more; the squelch of your filled cunt is evidence of it. Little pulses of your sex around his knot like it tries to push out the intrusion.

You’re gone deep to instinct, like this. Blood too thick and hot in your veins to battle with any other thoughts. All there is is you and him. Your bodies gliding in the void, breathing rushed and fast, and dizzy to the pleasure taking to your mind.

“Dion,” You plead again, throaty and wrecked. The sound goes through his system, sends blood rushing to his cock where it twitches inside you.

"It's not wise," Dion rumbles low against you, hardly breathless, "To leave a wolf hungry."

A feeling comes over Dion then. The same empty feeling in his stomach that he's always had with you. The hunger in his stomach is still gnawing. Dion still feels like he’s starving, a bottomless pit in his body that wants you all. Even doing this is only a halfway relief to his urge. His voracity is as inhuman as the rest of him.

He continues to want more.

More of you—touch, flesh, bone. Something to fill the hollow in his stomach, to stick between the crevices of his teeth and fill him up so this biting hunger simmers away.

His lips ghost across the slope of your shoulder again, lips pressed against the rapid pulse. Your blood must be rushing, he thinks, crimson that swims, pumping through your heart and throughout your body. Sticky and tacky with the taste that'll certainly linger on his tongue.

Maybe it'll be enough.

Pinned beneath him, unaware of his thoughts, you shudder with every lingering jerk of his hips. And the distance between you disappears in a breath as his mouth finds your neck, deceptively sympathetic—mapping, searching, tracking the delicate veins of red and blue for the best place to fill his mouth with the break of your skin. It's instinct to go for the neck at this point.

“Dion—”

He bites.

You wail.

Warm, syrupy iron floods his mouth at once. Oozes onto his tongue in heavy gushes while teeth are still clamped over the juncture of your neck and shoulder. And he holds you there by his fangs as your body locks up, bright pain igniting in your body like wildfire, and then you quake as if your body had been doused with ice water, voice caught in a choke until you go boneless against him, faintly aware of the twitching in his rousing cock.

Your mind swims in endorphins from the throbbing on your neck. Pain hasn’t faded. In fact, it feels brighter. The excruciation—dizzying, blinding, and tender—sparks again when his lips close around the wound, suckling gently as trying to savor every drop escaping you, staining his pearly whites a deep red.

"Please, no... no more..." You gasp, hoarse through tears.

"Stay like this then," Dion murmurs to your bloodied shoulder. You couldn't move if you tried anyway, pinned and knotted beneath him with no escape.

Still, you don't understand. You can't. This must be what it feels like, you wonder, to be defeated and drowned and killed. That alone might've been better than having pleasure and innocence wrenched out of you. Deceived and effortlessly caught.

From behind you, Dion watches, smiles, and tilts your head so he's able to look at you properly. Your cheeks are puffy, eyes red with stray tears. This look best suits you, he thinks.

Then, alongside a quiet murmur of something indiscernible, he bends down and presses his lips to yours, sharing your blood between tongues—devastatingly gentle.

With the kiss, his appetite is sated.

idk I’m embarrassed bc this took me ridiculously long to write do not perceive me but ty for reading

[iluvvinnyhongx]

Art dump

[cjafjatkstke]

[atxchiphxbix]

KISS OF DEATH

synopsis: Dion Agriche is a dangerous man with a penchant for death. You, are the captain of the knights, who just so happens to court death that comes in the form of Dion Agriche.

Content. mdni afab + f! reader, there's a fighting scene that shows that i cannot write fighting scenes, fingering (f! receiving), slight dacryphilia bc it's dion, choking, biting vaginal penetration, oral (m! receiving), deepthroating/facefucking, slight bloodplay (?) talks abt death and killing, degradation, masochism and sadism, they are both freaks you have been warned

a/n: welp it is here... my extensive rambling of nonsense and freakiness... dion has drained my creativity but ig I love him 😒

The air grows heavier as soon as you step into the proximity of his wing. The one place where nobody dares to linger for too long, the large northern expanse of the estate that belongs solely to the Black Agriche’s heir—Dion Agriche.

The forest sways with the breeze. Gnarly branches twist into one another, a natural embrace—leaves and bark caress each other, carrying the light scent of iron and death. Like its master, the area is quiet. His mere presence irons everything into silence, even when he is nowhere to be found.

White moonlight shimmers above you, the unblinking eye following your every movement as you make your way through the forest, fiddling with the hilt of a small dagger in its holster. Your fingers trace the crimson handle, feeling over familiar curves and grooves whittled by a master of craft—a gift from Dion, who left it pierced into your oaken desk this morning when you were off with your knights. It’s a silent request for your presence when eyes are shut, and ears are closed off—away from the chaos of the world.

It’s a request that you find yourself following every time. Because as much as Dion is powerful and dangerous, he is unmistakably magnetic. A black hole that you find yourself warped into, stuck in his gravitating orbit. Or, maybe living in the Agriche's estate has caused you to become as insane as they are; maybe the chaos is what irrevocably attracts you to him.

There is no one in their right mind who would actively seek out the heir, and yet…

You find him exactly where you expect: in the middle of the small training ground, illuminated by silver moonlight, blanketing him in soft white. It shines over his tall figure clad in that ridiculous sleeveless turtleneck, broad shoulders relaxed, and ebony strands falling over crimson irises, casting him in spectral lambency.

Dion Agriche, despite all his actions and words, is ethereal. Pale as a corpse, breathtaking as the moon, and hauntingly beautiful.

You have told him of this before. In jest, you’ve told him that under his hard exterior and enigmatic features, he is quite the beauty. And if he smiled more, he could attract more suitors than all the Agriche’s brothels combined. To which he had replied in his unamused and monotonous tone, “Keep your thoughts to yourself since they serve no purpose.”

You take another step closer to the arena, to him. Your steps quiet, lingering in the shadows while you fish his blade from its holster. Under the archway of the arena, he cleans his sword in quiet precision, with gentle care for the blade like a lover. Ironic, you muse to yourself, that he would be so endearing to the very object he uses to cleave life from death. But if Dion notices you, he makes no move to show it.

So, you make the first move.

With the tip of his dagger perched between your fingers, you draw your arm back and throw. The blade flies from your hands, hurling towards Dion’s head with alarming precision, slicing through the air for a target you know it will miss.

And, like routine, clockwork, Dion pivots his head at the last second and the steel is sent past his cheek, barely brushing along the strands of his hair in a deadly caress before it slams straight into the concrete wall behind him, lodging deep into the material with a harsh ‘thwang!’

“Brazen.” You hear him utter as he stands to his full height.

“Am I?” You smile, now laxly standing at the opposite end of the arena as Dion takes his position at the other. His sword is drawn in his hand, the sharp tip scraped in the dirt behind him. The cool metal gleams, and you can already imagine it pricking into your skin—anticipation crawls in you. Finally, his eyes meet yours, glinting darkly with that expression that always makes your breath hitch, blood pumping faster, harder. The utter zeal makes you lightheaded in the best way. “I was just being kind by returning your dagger, Young Master.”

His eye twitches at the title; you don’t miss it. He hates when it comes from your lips, and he knows you do it on purpose. You’re well aware that nothing good comes out of riling him up, and yet, you make it your goal every time you two meet. He’s starting to believe that you like that thrill of his vexation—it’s something he’ll never understand. Rather, something he isn’t used to and something he finds himself wanting more of.

You’re an enigma to Dion. Where everyone seems to fear or avoid him, you stand tall and confident. You don’t hate him, not like Roxana or Jeremy does. But you’re professional in the presence of others, surprisingly competent as the captain of the knights, and eloquent when you wish to be. To others, you don’t cry, you don’t whine, and you’re certainly not weak. He finds himself constantly torn between irritation at your veneer and the undeniable need to decipher you—break down everything he’s ever known about you and crush that annoying interest in the void of his chest.

The sharp sound of your blade out of its sheath echoes through the area like a verdict, and brings him back to the moment, back to you in your loose shirt and trousers, gleaming blade in hand, and a coy smile on your lips. That same smile that makes something stir in his chest—your smile pisses him off. Always there, like you know something he doesn’t.

And maybe you do know something he doesn’t, that’s why you’re so confident with your master’s favored son. That’s why you’re so eager to exchange blows with him, swinging your sword up in an elegant arc that he parries easily with his own.

Sparks fly at the contact between both the steel and the two of you. You don’t have to hold back with Dion. Neither does he.

The space between you both closes at alarming speed when Dion lunges first this time, sword barred and poised for a swift strike. The glint of a sudden blade at your face makes your heart race when you dodge at the last second. Over the years, you’ve learned that fighting with Dion is never offensive, always defensive. He’s fast, strikes hard, and strikes ruthlessly in heavy, weighted arcs of his sword, aiming for every little fracture in your stance.

And it’s everything to you. Makes you feverish with manic adrenaline thrumming through you. It has hot blood rushing into your ears, body working overtime to keep up with him. Dion makes you work. Has you moving in ways no one else does.

The two of you exchange devastating blows, carving through the air with perfect form. Steel on steel. The crunch of stone below. Casted shadows beneath the moonlight, pushing and pulling in tensioned motions. You’ve fought so many times with Dion that you know where he will strike, how he will strike, and the very way he will do it. You’ve etched the heat of his body pressed against yours every time your blades meet in mutilation. And you take it all in as you two spar—a dance that is as carnal as it is intimate.

He knows you just as well. You fight like you act. Brutal one moment, sharp-edged and swift the next. Evading and dodging while narrowing down the fragments in his defense. It’s unpredictable in a way that brings him an exhilarating thrill. One he doesn’t get even with his own flesh and blood, you make his heart race beyond what he’s used to—fighting Dion itself is already quite a feat. To keep up? An accolade deserving of the highest praise.

But no matter how skilled you are, Dion is stronger and faster.

In a fraction of a millisecond, a brief misstep on your part is your end as you try to flip your sword—he lunges forth, swiping his blade along the edge of yours before flipping the steel out of your hand, sending it flying away from where you are.

And he doesn’t stop, just pounces at you again without missing a beat.

You’re wide open to his sword that whooshes at you, and with no choice but to dodge, you dip below the swing, arching your arm to land a punch on his torso, just below his ribs.

The blow never makes it. His hand lunges for you before you can process the speed, and in an instant, his strong fingers clasp tightly around your neck like a collar—too tightly.

The pressure of his fingers digging into your pulse makes you choke and gasp, your lungs crippling with the fleeing air. You don’t think he’ll kill you—you think. Hell, if he does, you'll haunt him for life. Still, the instinct to fight back has you digging your nails into his wrist like it’ll help. It doesn’t. If anything, he tightens his grip so that his blunt nails dig crescents into your flesh, staring down hard at you with those unfeeling crimson irises.

"Fu-fuck," you grit between ragged gasps. The single, large hand of Dion's encases your neck fully, sweet pressure on your rabbiting pulse. His silhouette blurs in your eyes, tears beading at the corner, dripping down like liquid moonlight.

The singular teardrop is one that Dion catches instantly; his eyes follow how it drips from the edge of your eyes, trailing down your cheeks before sliding tantalizingly down your chin. Ha, so you can make an expression like that. Not so invincible when he has your life in his hand. It's an amusing thought, an even better sight to see you breaking like this.

For a second, he considers killing you. If he gripped any harder, would you go purple, gasp his name, maybe kick or scream hoarsely before you slump lifelessly forward? He would be able to see the light dim from your eyes, have the fight drain from your body. In fact, it's better because it's you. You, who is always so persistent but strong, alive with a heart that flutters helplessly. The sight of his father's favorite knight, all dew-eyed and defeated at his hand—it makes him smile.

"Should I kill you here?" He muses softly, voice carrying out across the arena. His eyes glint dangerously, lips curled into something devilishly handsome. "It'd make quite the spectacle."

Like the threat of his promise, he digs his fingers in just a little more into your tender flesh. The pain makes you hiss, and against all better judgment, it also blooms twisted pleasure in your gut. It's so wrong. Makes you feel half delirious and wholly insane. You blame it all on the lack of air and delicious fuzziness that borders the edges of your mind.

"Ke-keep squeezing me like that," you wheeze out, huffing out a croaked laugh, eyes fluttering shut as another wave of tears slips free, "and I'll start thinking you want more than to kill-kill me."

That, somehow, loosens his grip, and Dion's smile drains off his face instantly at your words. You're granted bountiful inhales of oxygen into your lungs when he releases you, shoving you back a few feet with mild displeasure marring his grim features. The rough handling makes you stumble, bent over as you feel around your bruised neck.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He spits before he walks steadily to your crouched form, his hands shoot out to weave through the tendrils of your hair before he forces your face towards him, glaring down at you with what you recognize as displeasure. No matter how many times he finds you in this position, he can't believe how shameless you are. "I really should just kill you."

You only give a lopsided grin, your words hoarse. "Don't act like that. You enjoy it.” Your eyes drop down his body, grin widening when you see the tent settling in his pants. "Clearly."

Dion's eyes darken further, scoffing as he pushes you down onto your knees. Practically, he drags you to his feet, and you go along willingly, pressing your face into the thick bulge. "You speak too much, put your mouth to work."

You barely manage a noise of muffled protest into the fabric. His heat seeps through, and his scent invades your every pore, a metallic musk that you've come to associate with him. Nuzzling into tantalizing hardness, you let your tongue loll from your mouth, drooling and salivating until his breeches grow darker with every wet lap. He prefers you like this, you know he does—for once, you decide that you’ll indulge in him.

Peering at him from below the curtain of your lashes, a teasing smile shapes your lips at his expression—pinched brows and lip tucked into his teeth while he tugs at your hair insistently. It’s been weeks since you last saw him in a position like this. You’re crazy enough to admit that you’ve missed it. It’s almost cute.

That is, until he shoves his pants down enough for his cock to bob free. It slaps against his toned stomach, oozing creamy ribbons of pre down the length, coating the pulsing veins that wrap around the thick girth. It looks like it hurts—and it’s thrilling to think that you’re the cause of it, some mangled sense of pride and success welling in the cavity of your chest when you consider that you may be the only person to hurt Dion like this.

He may have bested you in combat, but you’re positive you can best him in matters of flesh and passion.

"Look at this," you coo against his shaft that lies across your cheeks, “and to have the audacity to act like you didn't enjoy it."

He doesn’t get a chance to snap back when your tongue laves over the head of his cock, a low grunt escaping him instead. But never one to back down, Dion presses his hand into the back of your head, threading into the strands before bottoming in one, smooth thrust. It has your nose crushing against his pelvis, the tip of his cock kissing the back of your throat in a way that makes your eyes water—fuck him, you think, feeling drool already slide from the corners and down your chin, an ache settling in your stretched maw.

The throbbing in your jaw makes you wet, a tacky stickiness building in the fabric of your panties. You feel all the heat in your body crawl down to your cunt, and it feels mocking to yourself. Shouldn't you feel shame? Perhaps a little guilt? Anything but the gratifying thrill of being used so thoroughly?

You don't dwell on it. Not when Dion's here with you. Instead, you focus on the way his shaft punishes the warmth of your mouth, and let your hands escape under the waistbands of your panties. Your folds are already dripping, hot and slick, and a moan erupts unabashedly when you circle your clit. A prurient squelch echoes with the sound of your gags when you sink a finger into your cunt, sparks of pleasure shooting through you, a gasp gurgled around his dick.

And he looks pleased from above you. Too pleased and much too beautiful, haloed by the moon.

"Can't fight, can't keep your mouth shut, can’t behave either. All you’re good for is sucking cock, isn’t it?” It’s traitorous what the words do to your body, but all you can concentrate on is rubbing your fingers against that spot you can’t quite reach, and the way his eyes pierce through you when he looks down, nimble fingers swiping at the few rivulets from your eyes. The tears make his cock pulse and twitch; you feel it on your tongue. Freak, you think.

The thought doesn't stay in your head for long when he moves again, fucking roughly into the tightness of your raw, moaning throat. It's infuriating how he's come to almost look forward to your maddening presence, makes him want to break and ruin you. But you'd like that, and it somehow takes all the joy out.

Just like how you're enjoying the way he humps into your sloppy mouth. The tip of his cock makes you gag and choke, thick webs of spittle lacing lips to his shaft as he groans from above you. It feels filthy, feels like everything you want from him. And, for a second, he glances down, cursing internally when he finds you blinking up at him with clumped lashes, cheeks full, absolutely triumphant—that dumb expression he hates.

"Fuck," he growls lowly, grabbing fistfuls of your hair to keep you in place. His thrusts turn vicious, hips snapping harder, forcing himself deeper until your throat convulses around him, gagging in wet and desperate gasps. He’s not sure if it’s rage or arousal burning in his veins, maybe the way you blink so sinfully innocent, or even how you suck sloppily, but it makes white pulse at the corners of his vision, a tight coil growing in his gut that he can’t hold back.

The force of his climax tears through him with surprising brevity. Harder than it should be, than it usually is. Maybe the time apart dealt more damage to him than he thought. Or, maybe, you pissed him off more today, that lick of irritation fueling the spurts of ecstasy that splatter onto your tongue. Either way, the orgasm rattles through his heavy frame as his fingers twist into your hair for structure, pinning you to the bone of his pelvis with each thick glob of semen shot into your waiting mouth, groaning out the strangled syllables of your name.

You sputter out a gorged moan, choking on the musky load, but he doesn’t pull away, rolling his hips deeper in expectant grinds, forcing you to gulp down every torrent of warm, salty bitterness. It all floods your tongue, and instinctively, you want to gag, force out the heavy appendage that wrecks and milks your throat for all its worth. But you don't—it'd be losing, and you won't lose.

Coughs wrack through you when he finally withdraws, filthy threads of spit and cum chaining your swollen lips to him. Through the tears and dizziness fogging your mind, you make the effort to gaze up at him. Above you, Dion’s silhouette blots out the night stars, half draped in darkness and moonlight, with vermilion bearing your soul void to the world of the dead and dying. You live for it—this gnarled, twisting emotion he wrenches out of you.

But even through all this, you keep that stupidly pleased glint in your eyes. And he knows what you're going to say even before you say it.

"Still planning on acting like you don't enjoy me like this?" You murmur against his skin, kissing your way back up his body. Your lips prickle his skin, making it twitch beneath your mouth, and he can feel the palpable warmth of your lips sinking through his clothing—somehow devastatingly gentle and sensuously reverent all at once.

How you manage to make him feel this way, he doubts he’ll ever know.

"Keep talking, it gives me more reason to shut you up." He scowls before his hand shoots out faster than you can blink, yanking you up with brutal force.

He drags you closer until your mouths collide, tongue carving the joint of your lips open to ravage you wholly. To call it kissing would be far-fetched. This is nothing but a carnal clash of teeth and tongue, the raging need of conquest and cold bite of lust.

Dion's canines roll over the flesh of your bottom lip, biting down hard enough to draw the metallic taste of blood that floods between your locked mouths. The pointed pain splinters off into pleasuring pulses, your lips throbbing with the ache.

“Fuck, ouch,” you hiss, grinning through it all. Your tongue runs over the shallow wound, gathering red on it before tugging him back into you eagerly.

You smear red on his mouth with your tongue, an artist’s stroke of life on his pale lips. Running your tongue over his lower lip, mixing saliva and blood together into a cauldron of desperate breaths. His body on yours is intoxicating. Always feels like a fever dream when your fingertips slide beneath his shirt, mapping out the familiar ridges and veins of his scorching body—Dion typically runs cold, he’s only this warm when with you, and the knowledge has you burning with ecstasy.

And you feel it. The sprinting pulse of his tongue slotting along yours with the way he kisses you like he’s devouring you, wants to consume you whole. Bones and breath all.

You want it, too. The need to selfishly extricate every unadulterated deviant of his truest form, rip apart the battle-hardened layers until you earn a glimpse of his purest self. You want to devour and strip him of it all, even as he does it to you in return. And so, in mindless self-indulgence, you’re quick to sink your teeth into his lips, breaching tender muscle until you're pulling blood from the puncture.

The iron taste swirls immediately with your own blood spewing from your wound, and if Dion even feels the sting, he hides it well. The only indication he gives is the flicker of something in his abyssal eyes as he presses his tongue deeper into your mouth with renewed passion, licking over the crevices of your teeth, lips carving through yours as he pushes you down onto the field.

The granite is brash against the fabric of your garment when he comes to loom over your laid-out form. He's large against you, makes you feel like small prey, and a rare, but welcome, moment of vulnerability when he gets you like this—gaze colder than the night wind that whips around your bodies as he hooks your legs over the expanse of his toned thighs. And every time, you hope he desolates you further.

He feasts you in slowly. From the frigid breath that fills your lungs to the way the oxygen is exhaled from your wounded lips. The moon bathes you in its argent light, illuminating the blur of lilac and indigo that festers on your neck in contrast so stark to your coy demeanor that it could reel his mind. The sight makes something contort in his chest—it's akin to bitter vitriol, maybe malice, or perhaps the unknown of what you'll do. Even so, he doesn't waste any time in latching his hands onto you, burrowing the tips of his fingers as he swipes your pants down, exposing you to him.

Immediately, his burning gaze lands on the soaked fabric of your panties, drenched with your arousal. And the view makes the cruel smile tug at his lips—just as he expected, once again, there’s the lingering annoyance at how difficult you are to break, and yet, also amusement that you get off so easily with scraps of attention. You’re so obedient when you wish to be, but feisty at other times—he’s not sure what to make of you. To Dion, there are some days when it feels like you’re a dog waiting for a wishbone. Only a woman like you would thrive off his threats. “What’s this?” He whispers, sliding a finger through the sticky mess. His digits press lightly into the fabric, teasing your clit lightly, “You’re filthy.”

“Who would’ve thought,” Dion continues lowly, eyes caught when he finds your entrance fluttering and slick for him, “that the captain of the knights is nothing but a common whore.” You don’t bother with an answer, too focused on the way your arousal coats his digit completely, and it doesn’t take much coaxing to get a single finger into you, sliding into your silky pussy until he’s knuckle deep and pumping another one in soon after.

His fingers fill you up completely, sliding effortlessly into your gummy walls, catching heat and wetness down his wrist in lewd strands. Your cunt milks his fingers eagerly, the muscles mouthing when the tips of his lithe fingers find the textured, spongy spot that makes you keen. Dion reaches it so effortlessly when you can’t, and he watches you get wanton like this, every time and without fail, letting out weak, wounded mewls. He hates it, but the sound lances straight to his cock. This sight of you brings him to his last straw.

Before you know it, the sensation is stripped away from you completely. The fullness lost with pleasure that dwindles away, leaving behind an unfulfilled ache settling in your gut. It makes you cry out, hips jerking into the air like it'll bring you the release that teeters on the edge, just a breath away from crashing over.

You don't get to voice the complaint before he hooks your leg over his shoulder, nudging the sticky, blunt head of his cock along the petals of your pussy, running your swollen clit along the pulsing veins that swirl under his cock—the feeling makes both of you hiss, shared sighs exhaled in misty puffs. His dick is hot against you, causing you to get even wetter, a little more desperate to be filled and used.

"Dion, hurry u—ah!"

The sharp stretch is impossible to escape when he splits you open, not that Dion lets you avoid it anyway, as he stuffs the full length of his dick into you in a singular roll of his hips. The pain joins it, an ache that makes your head swim, and you feel greedy for him. You gasp as your pussy flutters around the thick intrusion, a moan caught tight in your throat when he sets a brutal pace, fucking mercilessly in and out of you in hurried, hasty snaps. And you can already feel yourself becoming light-headed with pleasure.

"'S-s big…" The words leave your lips in a gasp, swallowed in his mouth.

He only smiles at your stumbling words, eyes gleaming with mirth when he sees your features glazed over dumbly, "It fits, you'll make it fit."

And you do, rather, he does.

The heat—raw and astir—pulses between your feverish bodies, and Dion fucks you like he fights. Brutal and merciless, fucks you like he tries to kill you. You know his body well in this way, too. Not just in combat but through this vicious intimacy that sears you alive.

He carves you open with his cock rather than swords, makes you breathless with every move, each thrust punching air from your lungs. And it feels constricting, like being forced into a cage that is nothing but a dangerous game of domination—yet here you are, drunk on the conquest, rolling your hips to swallow him just a little deeper, falling further into the blissful void.

The desperate, little movement attracts his eye, focused on the way you pump yourself to meet his thrusts. He feels the way your cunt twitches for release, stretched wide, and you’re so wet that every thrust squelches loudly. Each salacious sound makes him want to tear more from you, wrench out everything that you have until you lay bare and exposed—wants to give it all and then tear it away. Maybe it'll finally hurt you. He wants it to cut deep wounds, wants it to ruin and unravel you.

"Take it—fucking take it," Dion groans out in a low and raspy tremor, leaning over and folding you in on yourself. Somehow, he reaches deeper like this, drags his cock through your velvety walls as he mounts you. Feels like he butchers you from the inside out with bestial need. And it’s even more feral when his hand finds the column of your neck once more, fingers printing red into the bruises like a collar.

He could kill you. He's very much capable of doing that, and his family wouldn't even bat an eye; no one would, not in this estate. But even with the looming threat of death, your life in the scarred claws of the reaper—you've never felt more alive than when with Dion. It makes your heart race, masochistic delight searing through every synapse.

The fingers digging into your frantic pulse make you ache, thin line between pain and pleasure blurring deliciously when he draws his hips out before bullying himself back into your warmth. The tip of his cock kisses insistently at your cervix in deep, grinding thrusts pressing against that patch of nerves that has you seeing stars. You're painfully full of him—and still, you can't help but want more.

Dion doesn't hesitate to give it to you either. No matter how much you irritate him and grate on every nerve, you're the only one who can really take him. In that way, he tolerates you. He bottoms out again. Angling the blunt head of his cock against that spot you’re always unable to reach on your own, drags the length of himself roughly, and you clench around him in response. Groans and slams his length deep to hear your pussy cry and whine, reluctant to let him go.

"D-Dion," Your voice is unrecognizable to yourself, nails digging into the bone of his wrist, "Fu-fuck, harder, 'm close, s-so close."

"Are you?" His hands drop to your hips in a bruising hold, bringing you down to meet every thrust. “Come then, be a slut and come over my cock.”

You clench at the words, and it undoes you completely. Pain melting into agony, a white-hot ecstasy as your cunt molds around him, fluttering as your orgasm whirls you into euphoric chaos. And it feels like you cum without end, pleasure threading itself into your nerves, draining the will from your body.

Dion is right there along the edge with you. You feel his cock pulse, and he tenses as the force of his pleasure crashes over him. His teeth sunken into the curve between your neck and shoulder, hips stuttering with a lethal curse of your name as warm ropes of release surge into you. It's hot, searing—feels like it brands you as his from the inside out as it fills you up. In a way, it does. He's taken every secret and unearthed crevice and made it his because Dion is the only one who can possibly handle this unadulterated want festering in you.

He takes, and you let him. Just takes and takes and takes with blazing voracity until he's stripped you of flesh and breath. This desire and want make you both so human, you think. How odd, to exist and do this with Dion—you’ve never felt more alive.

Your ears ring and white flashes between your lids, your body trembling as the remnants of your climaxes drown your other senses. The world goes dead around you, and the only flicker of life is the warm body over yours. Dion's breath is a gentle caress against your ear, his heart humming in a quiet cadence against you. Being held like this, it's almost intimate, like you don't know where you end and he begins.

You sigh, threading your fingers into his ebony locks. "Dion—"

He cuts you off instantly, a sharp "quiet" leaving his lips. It's not unkind how he says it. Just blunt and precise—so very Dion.

But it makes you laugh softly, tugging his chin closer to bring your lips together. Your breaths are hot against one another as you exchange them between every passing of your mouths, but the feel is familiar amongst the ache that invades you. Willingly, he slots his soft tongue against yours, swallowing down your taste, and kissing languidly despite the brutal evidence of him on and in your body.

This kiss is different, he notes. In this movement of mouth to mouth, you kiss him like you’re telling him a sinful confession, and you expect him to take it. And, like always, he does. When it comes to you, all Dion does is take, because even through all the irritation and insolence you give him, Dion knows your body better than anyone else—in this way, he wants it to be only he who understands you. If you insist on arousing his ire, then this lust and side of you should only be seen by him.

The world breathes life again when he pulls away from the kiss and out of you. The loss is immediate, makes you whine when you feel his seed pool out in thick globs down your ruined thighs. You look like a mess, but this sight is the one Dion prefers anyway, running a hand across the bruising band around your neck, and he smiles when you hiss.

"Is this a laughing matter?" You question accusingly, managing a playful glare when Dion fixes himself up. "What do I tell my knights when they see their captain looking like a mauled animal?"

Like every other time, he doesn't look amused at your jests or sarcasm. His hair is mussed, and the flush is still latched to his skin, making him look even prettier beneath the moon. "Tell them the truth—you were defeated by me, that is what happened, after all." He mumbles noncommittally. Honestly, he wouldn’t care if you told the knights; in the end, he’s the only one who will have you. But the thought of others imagining you in that way makes a green monster purr in his chest. "Or tell them you got attacked by a beast."

"'Attacked by a beast?'" You muse, "That's not too far from the truth."

There's that distant flicker of irritation raising its wretched head once more, and Dion only scoffs as he looks down at your crumpled form. For a moment, he takes you in. Flushed, blissed out, messy—still mouthy. Despite the handling, you seem like a woman well-taken care of with plenty of energy left over. And, just for a moment, he considers ruining you again.

"And will you tell them that you enjoyed being attacked by such a beast?" Dion's voice grows low, and he strides towards you, capturing your wrist in his hand while bringing you closer. Your lips brush once more, irises peering deep into the void of yours. "Tell them how that beast ravaged you until you were reduced to nothing but a mess."

He speaks in that dangerous, steady tremor that makes your legs weak, desire rising through your veins once more. It's utterly unfair how he has you ensnared; who can possibly blame you for being unable to resist?

You can’t get away. It's a lesson never learned. "If the evidence on my body didn't speak for itself, I would say the beast didn't do such an adequate job."

Vixen, he thinks. Dion knows your familiar dance, the curve of your smile, and the tantalizing hitch in your breath. This turmoil in his chest is something far more dangerous than anything he's ever encountered.

Take him though, as he has taken you, for he is as much wrapped up in the gossamer of you as you are in his.

With you, he's never had to hold back.

"Then it seems this night is far from over."

idk how i feel abt this one :l but ty for reading!

[snailsgoingdowntown]

The "I'm slowly forgetting your face" meme/trend but it's Dion with Achille

[cjafjatkstke]

Achille mentioned ig😃

[lxdymoon0357]

yandere dion agriche with a lapileon reader

(Warnings: not as yandere. Blood harvest, starvation, blackmailing, threatening with knife..but everything is pretty tamed. Yandere themes. Thank you all for reading!!)

© Writing belongs to me, Lxdymoon0357. Do not plagiarize, but reblogging, liking and commenting is deeply appreciated.

Yandere!Dion Agriche X Lapileon! Reader HCs

𖤝 The black Agriche and Lapileon, it was a mix found only on high end banquets and gossip session and rumoured downslides between the commoners. Dion either met you at a banquet or you two were engaged, like in any other idea. it's the easiest to digest.

𖤝 Nonetheless, Lant obviously blackmails the lapileons upon learning of your blood and in return, they promise alliance through marriage. Of-course, Dion takes over THAT, being the next possible head and marries you. He personally chooses you too.

𖤝 Marriage occurs quickly. Of-course, if you're expressive, he'll be all the more interested in you. It's how his obsession starts and fosters. The more you 'care', the more you love, etc. The more he finds himself in love with you. This sometimes includes not wearing revealing clothes, in case your blood somehow reaches him.

𖤝 Of-course the family will harvest your blood, he's not going to out right stop his father from harvesting your poisonous blood. But, he'll clearly step in when you start to look or feel weak. He'll hold your hand, comfort you in your own ways. Maybe even lick away any tears. He is more or less passive to the way you're treated, but still stands up to a boundary he sets up.

𖤝 Of-course, they keep the alliance of black Agriches and Lapileons thanks to you. In a way, your family is stuck with Agriches, doing stuff for them, but they will never know your blood is harvested forcefully as an undetectable poison.

𖤝 Often times he gets you perhaps gifts to match your stark blood-red eyes, often to see reactions. He doesn't know, but more than Roxanna, he likes seeing your emotions, of-course. His chaos ensues in more than one direction; threatening with a knife to see maybe fear or tears, maybe helplessness..occasionally gifts or something to see the happiness in you.

𖤝 Sometimes he simply lays there, watching you and occasionally, comparing both of your ruby-red eyes. More often than not, he likes seeing you happy as opposed to seeing you cry. He doesn't know why, he doesn't care when Roxanna smiles, he's always keen on seeing her cry. But he can't stand you crying because of pain of because of him.

𖤝 Tries to sometimes gets you clothes, but you always have to remind him to get you covering clothes, from head to toe for safety for people you, somehow, came to care about in this god-forsaken broken household. The very few interactions you see on the daily basis since he doesn't let you out for longer than necessary.

𖤝 If you tried to escape, well..you won't get TOO FAR for he catches you again and locks you up for days on end without food and just a bowl of water. Maybe even allow for more blood to be harvested, as long as he gets an apology, a sincere one. Then he lets you go, even if it's been just a second. He's just a bit too soft for you, it's out of character.

𖤝 Often times, he brings you brooches, earrings or necklaces —matching ones with him too — and they're always embedded with red stones or gemstones or red pearls. Not to mention one bracelet made of red shell chips since he says they remind him of your eyes. Your eyes are bloody and so are his, and that connects you both deeper than you realise.

[manitswarm]

[manitswarm]

[cjafjatkstke]

Ain't no way😭

[cjafjatkstke]

WAIT WIAT WAIT ROXANA ARTIST POSTED NEW ART?!

@orngbananaa @snailsgoingdowntown @ddivilove @dion-s-lawyer

[gigglingfingers]

Main

Accounts

Wattpad and AO3: foggymind1 Quotev: Kaida7707 Tumblr (here :D): gigglingfingers Any of my works anywhere else is NOT me. Don’t read it there, just read it for free in these places.

Swept Up Winds || Ninjago x Reader

You do not remember. Whenever you look, it is an empty space that stares back. Wu knows something, he knows what is covered by the silence but refuses to tell you in his wisdom. But you are not worried. This absence does less to tie you with anxiety and more to allow you to live freely without any cares or worries, following whichever wayward path you want until a hint points you in a direction. The ninja are here, too, but when they step towards you, they risk becoming just as lost as you.

Edited: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 Mostly edited: 26 27

Morning Star, Whom Do You guide? || Dion Agriche x Reader x Jeremy Agriche

Your mother has died, your father is growing weary. The scales of the Tariq clan are yours to take, but your hands are too smooth to wield them dependably.

Edited: 1 2 3 4 5 Mostly edited: 6 7 8

Note: my stories will have a chapter that ends with [#/#] most of the time. those are my editor counts. [# of edited chapters/total chapters that should be edited]. It comes up every five chapters for each story.

[niyoriix]

Dion Agriche x Fem!reader Headcannons

𓏵 One question. WHY?? WHY HIM?? Out of all the nobles you decide to hook up with you choose him? Awful taste really. I'm kidding...maybe? Anyway..

If you're a very reactive person I think he'd like you very much,If you're not annoying him that is. Dion's incredibly obsessed with Roxanna for the fact that she has emotions and can feel things, so pretty much he'll be pretty obsessed with you + if you try to teach him how to feel and have emotions.

𓏵 honestly wouldn't be surprised if your related in some way. You know the agriche bloodline is FULL of incest and that garbage..🤮

let's imagine your not related and instead are from a very high ranking noble! Maybe a daughter of a duke or a daughter of an emperor! Anything but being related to one another 👍👍

𓏵 I'd say he's pretty clingy, always nearby, always watching your every move. For safety reasons of course. He'd probably like it if you were clingy as well. But Sadly you both don't get to be with each other often, due to Dion getting missions from his father. But Dion tries to at least-?

𓏵 Since your the wife of the future head of the family(For now..) I think Dion would only want one child, maybe 2? only if you ask tho. If you both had 2 girls I doubt Dion would care. He has a ton of powerful sisters, so if they can become that great, then his daughters can as well. 2 Sons would be nice as well, I honestly don't think he cares for gender when it comes to his kids.

𓏵 Moving onnnnn

Dion's siblings would most likely be harassing you(Carefully...) although you may be Dion's wife that doesn't exempt you from bullying. Although it's not THAT often, Roxanna will most likely step in if you're close. Also Dion would maybe help, he kinda likes seeing you in despair or begging for his help so it's 50/50😓

This is sort of an old post that I'm posting rn soz lol

[atxchiphxbix]

TEARDROP ON THE FIRE

synopsis: As an Agriche maid, it's a responsibility and expectation to follow and serve your master, even if that means indulging in the desires and whims of Dion Agriche.

Content. mdni afab + f! reader, master and maid relationship so power imbalance, ngl dubcon if you squint but only bcs it's dion, fingering (f! receiving), edging, overstimulation, dacryphilia (duh it's dion), pussy slapping, choking but it’s like one sentence, vaginal penetration, oral (m! receiving), deepthroating/facefucking, dion bites you and then licks your blood, reader is a little iffy abt dion bcs it's dion, no aftercare bcs dion is dion.

a/n: this is me going back to my roots for the small dion community since i never got over him, and he's the toxic ex i run back to. dw dion i love you though. i tried to do him justice.

Dion Agriche is a kind master.

Somewhat.

Dion Agriche is a kind master when he's not present. It's in your fortune that the coveted son you are assigned to is usually sent away on missions by his father; being Dion's maid is easy when your master, known for being ruthless and bloodthirsty, isn't home for weeks at a time.

It's no secret that Dion's family is, well, insane. The Agriches aren't exactly known for their hospitality or kindness, and it's a trait that Dion has taken in, raised in such an environment, with even harsher rules as the favored son. No warmth or kindness from the man you serve.

To you, Dion is the same way. Cold, ruthless, a predator to prey.

Which is why you don't even quite remember why exactly your little physical relationship with your master came to be. For months, you served as Dion’s maid (who knows why you were even assigned to him), mostly cleaning around the estate because he was never home to even tend to or go through the familiar routine of tidying up his untouched room. But you never would’ve expected Dion to take a sudden interest (if you could even call it that, for interest is far too kind a word) in you that particular day he came home months ago.

Perhaps it was because he came back from a longer mission or because Dion is your master who had the sudden realization that he could torment you all he wanted and you could never retaliate lest you meet your death (probably by his hand), but you distinctly recall that day, a few months ago, greeting him properly and primly as you always had.

Back then, months ago, his hair had grown longer, and his eyes somehow even deader than before, stared down hard at you, an insignificant little thing in his eyes, before he simply walked past you. Typical behavior for the man, as you have come to learn.

That day, diligently, you trailed after him to his room to prepare his bath as you had always done. And somehow, that very same day, you found yourself sat on your master's cock. His cold hands latching to your waist in an iron grip, bouncing your pliable body on top of him, and filling you up full. Hot, thick cock drilling into your gooey walls and your nails raked down his skin, red welts carved in its wake against pale skin.

You remember that evening clearly, since after that, Dion just... left you alone, returning to the normal relationship between master and servant. As if he wasn’t bucking his hips up to meet yours, sloshing water around in his ridiculously large tub, as if his hands didn’t leave bruises on your hips that stained for days, or that he didn’t shoot loads of his sticky cum over your stomach before looking at you expectantly to wash him off.

That day was months ago, and since then, you've found yourself tangled up in the devil's web that comes in the form of Dion Agriche too many times for it to be a fluke or a dream (rather a nightmare) like you once thought it was.

Somehow, your coupling almost becomes routine when he comes home. Undressing him while tension crackles through the dead air, a bath, in that very same tub months before, where your hands explore his scarred skin—feathery, light, almost too delicate to be considered a wash, yet too meek to push further—and then his bold look up and down your body when you dry him off in his room.

A look not even like property, but like a slab of prime meat, searing you alive with a smoldering gaze that injects hot and reluctant shocks of arousal and fear through your veins.

And now, you find yourself in the same position when he has, once again, returned from a successful mission.

Like every other evening, you cleanse the young lord of the iron scent that always seemed to cling to him, toweling him dry before robing him in dark silk as you attempt your best to shrivel into nothing beneath his scorching glare, looking away only to meet his pale and hardened torso that you’ve become quite acquainted with, scarred after years in battle. In his presence, your senses know only him.

“Bed.” He utters, raspy voice cleaving through the tension. Well, adding to it, really.

Like routine, your footsteps are silent as you step away from him. Slow. Steady. Calculated. The air in the chilly room seems to heat and shift with every step that you force yourself to haul, taking utmost care not to trip or stumble. Even with the small distance between your two bodies, Dion’s eyes carefully track your movements, deliberately picking you apart piece by piece as he follows you to the silken bed you made just earlier that morning.

He makes it hard to breathe. Hard to stand still and relax as he presses up behind you, towering over your rigid frame. His breath beats hotly against the helix of your sensitive ear, and it makes you want to turn away. Rough hands easily find the curve of your stiff torso, trailing up and up until his large hands are cupping your breasts through your uniform, lithe and familiar fingers tweaking your nipples through the fabric, pulling and teasing whilst his crimson eyes stare intently down at your contorting features.

Dion Agriche has long decided that he likes watching you squirm.

Like a patient hunter, he enjoys watching your expression warp with the different pressures and textures of his hands. What touches will make you want to buckle and fold? Which sensations he dances onto your flesh will have pearly tears welling up in those eyes of yours until you let them fall? Dion wants to see it all, play the role of some twisted and magnificent conductor that can maestro the symphonies of your body and hear what sounds you can sing.

Now, you wouldn’t say you particularly like Dion Agriche. No, anyone in their right mind with any sense would keep far away from the Agriche lineage, polluted blood and pure venom in their souls, haunted by the dreadful actions of their forefathers and their present misdeeds. You only comply with the pleasure his body provides because he is your master—a collar on your honor and name, a shadow that gropes your future like a toy. You’ve fallen far too deep in his netting to leave now.

So no, you do not like Dion Agriche. Therefore, you should not like how he makes you feel. Which comes to your misfortune, the small, numbingly irritating fact that you do like how he makes you feel.

Some cruel and visceral part of you likes his touch.

The way his rough and calloused hands that've reaped souls glide over your skin, because no matter how high and mighty he reigns, the favored son and sword of his father, Dion Agriche chooses you.

Out of any servant in the estate, any noble or civilian, Dion chooses you to sear his touch into. It’s you he brands and touches. And in a ruthless world that you've been fighting in for the entirety of your seemingly insignificant existence, it makes you feel good. It makes you feel wanted by the untouchable man, riddled in blood and fury, and it numbs you to the reality of life.

While Dion is your collar, he is also your escape.

So, you let him slide his hands around your body, slowly popping the buttons of your dress off. Each button undone is like a sentence, a verdict hanging heavy on the weight of your soul. The articles of clothing slip flimsily off, bare skin exposed to the cold temperature. First, your shoulders, further down to your torso, until your dress bleeds into a pool of black and white at your feet, clad in nothing but undergarments that serve no purpose in hiding you from Dion’s gaze.

The moment is quiet and mechanical. It’s always quiet. You, too wary of making any sudden movements, like any breath too loud or shuddery, will morph you into more of a target than you already are. A mixture of heady fear and arousal settles in your veins because while you may not be pleased that it is Dion who makes you burst with euphoria, you cannot deny his attractiveness, nor can you deny how he makes you feel. And Dion, well, is always quiet.

He's quiet even as he motions you down on his soft sheets with surprising gentleness, the very ones you made this morning before he came back from his mission. It crinkles under your combined weights, his arm coming up beside your head, enclosing you within his presence while he peers down at you, his potent gaze running down your body in a way that makes goosebumps dance along your exposed skin, arousal simmering within your body, settling into the rushing web of blue and red underneath your skin.

His toned torso looms over you as he moves silently, too silently, sitting on his heels as his hands round the tops of your thighs and down under, hooking your legs atop his lap. Though his body is cold, his touch burns, and it makes you gasp, a sound that has his crimson eyes meeting yours. His robe has practically fallen from his body at this point, hanging precariously, one shoulder already exposed to the cold air’s touch whilst the other slipped dangerously yet covered him decently—a mock to your nude state. Tendrils of ebony hair curled lightly downwards with gravity’s embrace, catching the glints of moonlight.

You’ve seen him like this plenty of times, more than you would have liked. Some nights it would be in the bath, his skin glistening with rivulets of water that slither down every scar on his built body while he took you fiercely until the water ran cold and mixed with your tears. Or like now, towering over your supine form, red eyes gleaming with something you can’t pinpoint on his features as his hands meet your skin, calloused touches that slip you completely out of your undergarments.

Either way, it makes searing shocks of concentrated heat melt into your traitorous body like silky nectar.

In this way, Dion finds himself almost amused. Almost. It's a twisted satisfaction that finds gnawing within his chest whenever he has you in this vulnerable position, propped under him and so hesitant to move. He's not sure if you're even aware that you act this way. First, shy. Then, writhing, moaning, and crying from his touch. And while those reactions come as a familiar stranger from others, he finds it subtly different when he wrenches it out of your body.

He's had people quiver before him many times: his own family, his targets, monsters, and humans alike. But it's a distinct pleasure with you. He doesn't dwell on it. Dion Agriche never dwells on anything; he wants it, he takes it. The same way he takes you, because he wants you. He discovers some mangled beast in him when tears bead at your eyes, finds his lips curling upwards when those pearly tears of pained pleasure fall down ruddy cheeks.

"You've done this quite a lot," his voice breaks through your senses in a stoic murmur, "Yet, you quiver every time."

His words pull a grimace from you, shame oozing from every one of your pores when you look away.

His touch traverses down the planes of your body, cold hands slipping into the wet fabric of your panties, pulling the clothing off before his hardened glare finds your spread cunt. Soft, soaked, silky with arousal. You’re perched so meekly on his lap, legs stretched out and face flushed with that coyly shy expression he just can’t put a finger on. The contrast presents itself starkly, registering briefly in his mind. You, with your legs splayed on his in a lewdish manner, yet your expressions quiver and shake, unable to even look at him.

Not that he cares much. It's better for him, really. Makes it more enjoyable to see you lose yourself when buried in your contorted emotions wiggling inside you.

Dion lets his thumb glide along your slit, dragging his calloused digit slowly through, taking in the way your slick gathers on the finger, catching on your achy clit before he presses down, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves just to see how your back domes off his sheets. With his other hand, his lithe fingers tweak your nipple harshly, such contrasting pleasure has you crying out a meek noise—half mewl and half gasp.

The quiet sound sends a tremble of delight over his body, and it triggers him to repeat the action again and again. It pleases him immensely when you respond, gasping like a frail doe, eyes squinting shut when his thumb rolls your sensitive clit.

One body, writhing in the moonlight. Another, gazing down with such intensity, crimson eyes burning into squirming flesh.

His thumb eventually drops from your raw clit, earning a soft cry from you that trails into a desperate gasp as his middle finger prods at your tight heat, breaching the resistance. Slow. Slow. Slow. Almost gentle, even though it’s anything but. Slow enough that you can feel every thick inch that invades your sensitive walls, stretching you full. Slow enough so Dion can etch every contortion of your face into his memory.

He goes steadily, almost gently. Not for you, but for him. Gods, it almost makes you wish he’d go faster, just to get it over with, maybe it wouldn’t make you feel so good. But it does, it feels so horrendously good.

Your pussy is so wet for him. Silky and soft like you’ll melt in the watchful moonlight, ice under the blazing sun, he finds that he wants to grope and squeeze and knead your body until you’re disintegrated into nothing but a mess of tears and soft cries. Within his chest, a black pit of nothingness, he likes feeling you like this, molding you from the inside out. Vocal cords tightened with his title hung on your lips as he adds in yet another finger. Too full.

Just earlier, you were so hesitant to even look at him, tense like a doe caught in headlights. Now, you’re twitching with every smooth pump of his thick fingers in your gummy walls, thumb back on your sticky clit as he intently watches you convulse under his touch.

Your cries and moans fill the air, thighs threatening to shut around his hands, back arching off the bed; into his hand, away from his hand—you can’t even tell anymore. Anything to stop the overwhelming pleasure that suspends you in the hazy mist of want and need. God, it’s just too much. It’s too much, too fast, too stimulating, and you can’t do anything but take it. His fingers are long and thick, filling you up so well. Cunt weeping in obscene squelches every time his digits go in knuckles deep, erotic webs of slick cling to the heel of his palm as it meets your clit in wet plaps.

"You're crying," Dion states with the slightest curl of his lips, his words barely audible over the filthy sound of flesh on flesh. "You're crying, but you’re enjoying it. Enjoying it so much that you’re about to cum, no?”

An enigma, Dion thinks. He knows you’re feeling good, really good. With the slick dripping down his wrist and the tips of his digits repeatedly kissing that spongy spot in you that makes you keen, he knows well what he’s doing. Velvety walls flutter sensitively around his fingers; he knows you’re close. Mouth open in pleasured cries, body tensing and twitching under his onslaught of pleasure, it’s like you’re trying to run away, yet your own hips pump sloppily over his fingers. And your tears… pretty rivulets of ecstasy slipping down ruddy cheeks.

It makes his cock hard, bobbing free against his toned stomach, leaking. More. He wants more from you.

His fingers curl just right, pressing against that sensitive spot in your pussy. It hurls you towards your orgasm, pressure building and coiling deep in your lower organs. Dion’s digits thread you right on the precipice of delight that simmers in your rushing veins. You're close. So, so devastatingly close with your features scrunched, droplets of pleasure dripping from your pretty eyes and onto the pillow, his title falling from your lips in hoarse, broken pants.

Until you’re not.

His hand suddenly retreats from your core with a sob from you. The loss of the satiety sensation of his fingers leaves behind an agonizing emptiness that futility claws your orgasm back. It tears a cry from your throat, barely recognizable to even yourself. You're left pathetically yearning, aching for more, and you’ve been mercilessly cut from the mesh of pleasure by a man with too much power over you, extinguishing the flames of ecstasy rushing in your ears.

"M-my lord...” You hear yourself whimper out, hips jerking in retaliation of the sudden denial, thighs attempting to flutter shut around his hand (though you don't prevail). "Please... Why?"

Amidst your helpless babbles, you brave a look at the man whose palm your pleasure resides in.

And illuminated by the aching gleam of the silver, watchful moon, crimson eyes shining with what you can only identify as amusement, he answers with a smile. Dion Agriche’s lips curl into a damned smile, blessed by divine sin incarnated into whatever soul harbors his body.

Bastard. The thought runs briefly through your mind at his expression. Beautiful bastard.

"You give reactions such as these," he muses quietly, swiping a wet thumb past the rivulet of pleasure slipping from your lachrymose eyes, thumb no doubt slick with your arousal, "it puts me in a good mood."

His words do nothing to soothe the raging plea in your body. As if such condescending speech could comfort something so cruelly stolen.

You can only haphazardly imagine what goes through his mind, how you must look to him. You feel ruined, and you’re sure you must look it too. Clit throbbing, pussy clenching around the gaping emptiness of your core, and the orgasm that was so close, slipping away. Your cheeks feel wet, whether with sweat or tears, you can't tell.

What you don't expect, though, is for Dion to lean in, pushing even deeper into your space, his tongue simultaneously darting out to lave at the streaks of salty tears, adding to the dampness pooled on the apples of your cheeks. It’s sudden. Hot and warm and smooth is the sensation of Dion’s tongue on the corners of your eyes, how they mop up the wetness of pleasure and frustration like he isn’t the one inflicting such onto you.

And it’d be almost comforting, almost gentle. Almost. If he weren’t doing it for himself. Cleaning you up only to ruin you again.

Dion’s smile remains on his lips as his middle finger taps gently against your honeyed folds, eliciting a light whine from your lips, swollen from your own incisors. His large hands easily part your cunt once more, index finger tapping lightly against your clit, feeling the little pulse in your hypersensitive bundle of nerves respond to him. His eyes never leave your face. Ever watchful, ever overbearing. Just the slightest touch and he can tell how your climax trembles through your bones again, rising steadily through frayed nerves.

Your pulse races under his palm. So alive, so very alive with a heartbeat that jumps and quivers in time with the jerk of your desperate hips, eagerly meeting his fingers that dance along your clit. Open-mouthed moans that trail into a surprised gasp when he suddenly delivers consecutive smacks on the soaking folds of your sex.

A sharp yelp leaves your lips at the stinging contact, simmering into pleasure when the sensation seeps deep into your pounding veins. Despite your whimpering cries, Dion doesn't let up. He spanks your pussy again, once, twice, a third time for good measure as you sob. Tears stream down your face, merging into fat globs and flowing in heavy currents, distorting your vision while you tuck your head away into his ruined pillows (you’ll have to wash them tomorrow). From the overwhelming sensations, the denial, Dion’s piercing gaze and amused smile… it all hurls your traitorous body back to the precipice of pleasure.

“Please…” You sob, “Please, please, please… give it to me, please.”

Mind muddled into a tensed pool of desire and need, body taut with the promise of release, you barely make out the widening of Dion’s smile. Only his presence invades your muddled perception of the world, narrowed down to only him, a hot overindulgence of a man enjoying your misery. You feel his slick tongue sliding up your cheeks, hand wrapping around your throat with the lightest squeeze to make your whimper dwindle in hoarse, broken whines. Thankfully, he doesn't stop.

It’s one sloppy slap to your raw clit that sends you hurling over the edge. The impact makes the tight knot in your belly coil and crease over itself, winding tight until your body quakes and folds with exaltation. Helplessly, you wither away from Dion’s touch, scampering to the pillow to bury yourself from the euphoria, which he, surprisingly, lets you do with a riveted grin. The intense climax blurs with what you think registers as over-sensitive pain, crawling in a haze of ecstasy and into the void of hot shocks of pleasure which linger through frazzled neurons.

Your limbs fall lax as the seconds, or minutes, or hours pass by; honestly, you can't even tell. Time seems to stand frozen as your body recovers as best as it can, but it's Dion nudging your legs apart once more that brings you back to reality.

“Wa-wait, my lord—”

“Don’t.” His cold voice suddenly slices off your sentence, no words for anything else. “We both know what you want, and we know how this ends. No need to delay.”

His quip words are sharp, rendering you hushed as he makes himself at home between your thighs once more. His hands find your knees, and there’s a quick passing thought pressing into your head to instinctively squirm away despite knowing it’ll do nothing. You fight the urge, choosing to lie compliant as he opens your legs, encasing himself between the empty space, and allowing the cool air to kiss the dripping folds of your pussy as well as the drying tears on your cheeks.

Your eyes follow his other hand, watching it wander down his body until his lithe fingers fold around the thick girth of his cock. You've seen it before, had it inside you on multiple occasions, but, as always, there's a biting anxiety eating at your mind. Just the sheer size and look makes you think it’ll break you. It’s heavy in his hand and dribbling more beads of pre that roll down the course of veins along the underside with every slow drag of his large palm.

“Stay still.” He murmurs, hands in an iron grip on your hips as he pulls you closer.

Your breath hitches when his leaky tip notches against the rim of your entrance.

He doesn't give you time to process the swiftness of his movements, pulling your legs over his shoulder, and swaying his length into your heat in a single snap of his hips. The sudden stretch makes you hiss and squirm, nails digging into the poor pillow's flesh as your velvety walls part way for the burning intrusion, body coiling up as he sinks his cock all the way down to the hilt.

"Oh, fuck..." You moan out loud, sounds of pleasure when the blunt crown of Dion's cock kisses that sweet spot inside you, flickers of white bursting behind your watery lids because you swear, you swear he tries to fuck a hole through you. All of a sudden, it's like your last orgasm comes creeping back through hypersensitive nerves and blends into an intoxicating puddle of lust, festering in your blood.

The full feeling of him sits deep in the well of your gut, earning a myriad of whines and pitiful babbles from you into the sizzling air. It's not the first time you've taken him in so deeply, hell, you've had him stretching the flesh of your mouth too, but he makes sure the sting of his bulging veins squishing into your cunt is one you never grow used to. His hips sit snug against your thigh's underside, balls resting on the curve of your ass. Filthy slick mixing with filthy slick, a low, raspy groan crawling from the depths of his throat when he looks down at the mixture of expressions flitting over your face, and he feels something deep unfurl and condense tight in his gut.

His hips begin moving before you can fully adjust, pushing somehow deeper before swiftly pulling back with a smooth sway of his hips, barely pulling out before he plunges right back in. The large bed underneath you two groans in protest, falling in time with every lunge of his cock as he fucks brutally into your sopping sex, intent on pulling out more tears, more cries, more of anything he can carve out. Skin on skin colliding in loud slaps of wet flesh that reverberate throughout the chambers, melding incomprehensibly with the loud moans and sobs of your own voice. Dion Agriches fucks mean.

"Look at you." He groans out, his low voice barely audible over the obscene sounds of your bodies mingling passionately. "You're crying again, for what?”

Just to prove a point, his hand snakes between your two bodies, swiping a finger over your sensitive clit, relishing in the way your stuffed pussy flutters in reply, and your eyes squeeze out more tears. How could he stop when you give him such responses? He's had many people cry before him—from pain, for mercy, love. But none quite so as you, who always seems to cry so pitifully when he hooks your legs over his shoulders, digits digging deep into the plush flesh of your thighs, mounting himself above your body and stuffing you so deeply that you can feel him fucking the air out of your lungs.

Gazing up at him from below, through teary eyes, Dion is… certainly a sight. Sweaty and flushed, the lightest pink on his pale skin.

For a man used to long endurance and stamina, he pants softly into the air, beads of sweat building on his dark, furrowed brows. Quiet and heavy groans fly from his throat to blend with the cacophony of wetness and heated pleasure. Ruby red eyes keep trained on your pinched features as he releases your straining legs from their throne atop his shoulders, letting you drop the aching muscles to his waist, where you curl your legs instinctively, pulling him impossibly closer.

Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of your pussy, coating his thick cock as he bends himself over your body. One strong arm serves as a pedestal beside your head to support him while he covers your sweaty torso with his, leaning down to run his hot tongue over the bands of briny tears. The proximity makes it so you feel his feverish body, though, he doesn’t touch you, only his slimy, scorching muscle licks up the pillar of your slickened neck that tears trickle down, tasting the evidence of pleasure whilst you turn and twist away from him, body wrecked with fiendish bliss.

And Dion doesn’t really care. Doesn’t really care that you seem so keen on trying to act like he isn’t the one making you feel good. Doesn’t really care that you try to squirm away, even though your body betrays you with fervid hips bucking to meet his and tears that sprout from euphoria blooming in your brain. It only makes him harder, makes him fuck you faster into the mattress until he can feel the familiar flutter of your walls mouthing and milking at his shaft. You’re close, really close.

His cock just feels so thick and filling in your walls, lewd and obscene and hot. God, you’re close, so close. So close and you can only hope he doesn’t deny you of it. Warm tears and syrupy thighs meeting sweaty flesh in loud, resonating claps of detached passion. You’re close, you want to come, bad. You need to come, desperately.

“Dion, please! I need it, don’t stop! Please, gods, please don’t stop!” You wail out, not caring any about propriety or titles at the moment of tipping release. Your nails carve into the muscle of his built forearm, drawing blood that neither you nor he seems to care about, both chasing after the rapid unraveling in your organs.

A sharp pain in your neck is what sends you over the edge. The piercing of his canines through the tender skin of your throat, pointed pain dissipating into bliss, and the roll of his tongue collecting orbs of your life’s essence make you shake. It’s all too much upon the onslaught of your body, and you come with a shuddering cry of his name. The pleasure ripples and expands across your body, the light flaring behind shut lids and the sound spewing forth, dunking your senses in an ocean of ecstasy.

In the midst of rolling waves of euphoria, you hear what sounds like Dion’s voice, muffled like cotton pushed into your ears. For a moment, you see Dion, smiling like the goddamned devil. You feel him still pistoning into you, the sudden overwhelming and prickly sense of over-sensitivity seizing your body when you realize he isn’t stopping. Determined to reach his own end and perhaps end you in the process.

Dion's rocking maintains its pace, pushing deep into you without slowing down. Your attempts to squirm and crawl and retreat from the overstimulation are pathetic, only causing the intensity to escalate as you catch a breathless whisper of what sounds like Dion’s remark about your pitiful sniffling. Pleasure seeps and swirls with the biting, sensitive ache of your spent body, voice hitched, caught in your throat and gasping out at the overtake of that delicious pressure. Caught in the torrent of his punishing hips, you can only sob his name and take what your uncaring master so generously gives.

In the overwhelming barrage of sensory overload, you cry out Dion’s name, mingling with whimpers and moans that are sure to leave your throat sore tomorrow. Unfazed by the flurry and babbling of your noises and sensitivity, Dion profusely continues with his deep strokes, sprinting for his own climax. His powerful strokes make you tremble furiously underneath him, silver drops of liquid pleasure and sensitivity slipping from your eyes and onto his pillows.

It’s not enough, not enough for him.

And in a single motion of his hips, Dion pulls out, leaving you gasping for air from the sudden loss of fullness. But you don’t have time to even think about the aching emptiness as his hand finds the nape of your neck, practically scruffing you and pulling your trembling, limp body onto your hands and knees, ultimately coming face to face with his raging cock. Still hard. Still aching. Still throbbing.

The man doesn’t think twice before pushing the head of his member past the barrier of your lips, groaning lowly when he slides into your warm cheeks, moist and slick, molding your throat to the ridges of his dick.

You taste yourself on his shaft, your arousal, your cum, and his all swirling together in the tightness of your throat, stretched wide to fit him all the way down to the thick base. His hand buries into the tendrils of your hair, pushing you down until your nose smushes against his pelvis and the blunt head of his cock tingles against the back of your throat. Too big, too wide for your poor mouth, that it makes you want to gag, choke at the sudden intrusion, despite having been in this position before. Though you try to accommodate its thick girth, letting your jaw fall slack as much as possible, there’s a familiar ache that forms when he begins to move, humping his hips against your slobbering mouth, thick webs of spittle connecting him to your swollen lips.

He pounds away at your raw, moaning throat, hot groans escaping him as fucks and fucks and fucks, sharp snaps of his hips like he’s fucking your pussy. For a moment, Dion turns his ruby gaze downward, cursing under his breath at the sight of your sloppy maw stretched wide and tears dripping down your stuffed cheeks, escaping down to the pillar of your bitten neck. Mouth full of cock and eyes full of tears; Dion doesn’t keep pets, but for a moment, he might just consider it now.

And Dion never loses control. But as the corners of his vision pulse a static white while he ruts into your mouth, he finds that his hips buck uncontrollably, veins pulsing frenziedly against the slope of your tongue, each sway of his hips pumping liquid bliss through his limbs as he chases to unfurl the tight gnarl sitting in the pit of his stomach.

You feel it before you can rationalize it (if you could rationalize anything now). Thick and hot torrent of salty bitterness floods your throat, gooey ropes of cum sliding down your esophagus that makes your watery eyes squeeze shut, trying your best to breathe through your nose while your master’s hand collars you down to the base of his throbbing length. You want to gag, to cough up at the globs of semen and the pulsing veins that match the cadence in his heart, thumping on your wet muscle (much too slow, almost inhuman, for someone who was panting and shooting ribbons of semen down your throat, but it’s Dion, so you don’t question).

His voice is strangled from above you, a series of curses leaving as the last few spasms of bliss tear through him, and it feels as if the moment stretches out indefinitely, his body winded like a taut string and heaving, release seemingly endless, shuddering gasps rattling his ribcage.

He keeps you against his cock for a few seconds longer, just watching you from above. It’s always his preferred sight of you, even more than when he has you bent over yourself or crying from his touch. He observes you intently, vermillion eyes trained on your mouth and clumped lashes before he speaks, voice raw and strained.

“Look at me.”

You do.

You look up at him through blurry eyes, making out his tall figure and familiar crimson irises, light-headed, half from exhaustion and half from a lack of oxygen. Your sore throat milks his cock as a reflex of trying to force out the thick appendage in vain before he finally, finally releases you with a slick ‘pop’, granting sweet permission to pull your mouth off, salacious strings of saliva, cum, and everything else still attaching your lips to the shaft.

Your lungs expand in your ribs, intaking heaps of needed oxygen, eyes fluttering shut as your hands wipe the mix of slimy liquid off your mouth. It’s sore, everything is sore and wet and sticky. Your body trembles, jaw aching, and cunt spent. The sensation of his rough thumb swiping the last stray ribbons of tears down your cheek is felt before he backs off completely, letting you sit back limply on his bed.

Dion spares you a final look beneath the sweaty mop of raven hair, deep pools of crimson blood bear into you, another devilishly stoic yet ethereal smile of condescending amusement, akin to a predator full from prey, standing to reach for his discarded robe and speaking as he slips it on like he hadn’t just fucked you within an inch of your life.

“Draw another bath.” He murmurs, walking away into the deeper shadows of his chambers.

Indeed, you think, tuckered and shriveled on his bed, your eyes trailing after his blurry figure, Dion Agriche is a cruel master.

this was meant to be 1k... turned into 6k