𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄

𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐘

[mrsken]

pretty as a flower

"by plucking her petals, you do not gather the  beauty of the flower..." — Rabindranath Tagore

❀ twenties - dark content friendly

❀ masterlist 

❀ wips

[mrsken]

Four Makes a Family

Chapter Seven

Masterlist

CWS: Mentions of physical child abuse. Past grooming. Mentions of statutory rape. Inappropriate relationship (adult/minor). Underage drug use. Underage drinking. Toxic relationship. Domestic violence. Flashback chapter.

WC: 4.6K

Bro rushes into the kitchen as he fights to put his backpack over his shoulders, struggling like its shrunken three sizes over night. His shoes are still untied, scuffed sneakers squeaking against the shiny, tiled floors over the kitchen. 

He pauses immediately at the sound and winces, his eyes darting to his parents bedroom door. He waits a beat, and when no sound comes from the other side of the door he continues fighting with his bag, finally figuring out what the problem is when his hands slide up and find that the straps have been tightened all the way. He fixes it quickly, the bag finally settling over his shoulders and laying against his back, and pulls a banana free from the bunch laying on the counter. 

He glances at the time displayed on the microwave, peeling the banana open as he does, and strides over to the trashcan to dump the peel in it. With his attention split between the digital clock and his makeshift breakfast, he misses the barstool at the kitchen island that hadn’t been pushed in all the way. The toe of his shoe catches it, and his body falls forward as his hand shoots out to brace his fall. The barstool comes clattering down beside him, the loud noise echoing throughout the house, and he groans as the old springs in his parents bed creak underneath shifting weight. 

“Fuck.”

-

Bro smooths out the wrinkles in his uniform top as he walks down the street, occasionally wincing as he brushes over the sore spot in the center of his chest. His mother had ironed his uniform for him before she had left for work that morning, and he feels a bit bad that the effort had gone to waste because his dad was an angry fuck in the morning—he was always an angry fuck, but doubly so before the hours of seven am. 

He spots a familiar tall body a bit of ways down the street talking with a shorter one, and the two clasp their hands in a handshake, a small baggy passed as they do. The shorter person crosses the street after the transaction, and Bro calls out to the one remaining, a smile spreading across his face as they raise their hand in greeting.

“What’s up, Arkha?” Their hands dap each other up before they fall into step beside each other. Corvus shrugs a shoulder, hand moving to reach for something in the side pocket of his bag. He retrieves a bottle of hand sanitizer and applies a generous amount to his hands. “You know they’re still doing bag checks at the door, right?” He looks over at Bro, head slightly angled down due to his tall height, and Bro internally glowers at the difference in height. 

“My cousin switched over from Prestman so it’s cool. He’s gonna be working the door from now on.” He puts the bottle away, the strong smell of the hand antiseptic fading away until he smells of a mix of laundry detergent and moisturizer. He straightens his already crisp shirt out, flicking away invisible pieces of lint, and Bro tries to smooth his own wrinkled shirt out once again.

“The one with the shit on his teeth? The barnacles?” Corvus huffs out a laugh, his own straight, white teeth flashing, and the two of them round the corner and spot yet another familiar body leaning against a stop sign.

“It’s called Tartar, Bro. And yeah, that's the one. He’s gonna help me push the rest of what I’ve got so I can go to class. My mom has been on me about missing so many days.” 

Corvus would eventually stop selling drugs when his supplier would start cutting fentanyl into the batches, and he’d sell those laced drugs to his classmates and the people in his neighborhood that he had grown up with, which would lead to their deaths if they were lucky. If they weren’t, they’d end up strung out until they eventually OD’d in dirty bathrooms and crack dens, but not before losing themselves first. He’d go on to take school seriously and go off to college to study law, then to graduate school, and then he’d be hired on as a criminal defense lawyer and make The Forbes list. 

Enjin joins the duo, his uniform more wrinkled than Bro’s and no backpack in sight. He’s got a joint tucked behind one ear that’ll more than likely be smoked before they reach the school, and there’s dark bags underneath his eyes that have been there since they first met two years ago when he was placed in the rundown foster home on the rougher end of the city.

“You’re such a fuckin’ mama’s boy, Arkha. You still on breast milk, too?” Bro barks out a laugh when Corvus reaches out to hit Enjin’s shoulder, and then laughs again when Corvus has to pull the hand sanitizer back out and douse his hands in it yet again. Enjin groans, rubbing at the sore spot, and falls into step as well. “You really shouldn’t hit me around Bro, man. You’re gonna give him war flashbacks from his dad or somethin’.” Bro’s laughter stops abruptly, and before he can make Enjin’s other shoulder just as sore, a voice is shouting at them from up the street.

They’ve officially reached the more bougie rows of houses, and sitting on the stoop of a three story home is none other than Gris. He stands up as they near, the phone that he had been typing on pushed down into his pocket. Just as they reach the staircase, the front door to the house opens and his dad comes rushing out, tie undone and briefcase tucked underneath his arm as he takes the stairs two at a time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Gris.” He spares a quick ruffle to his son’s hair as he passes him by, and Bro thinks back to how his own dad had sent him off this morning with a fist to his chest and spittle in his face. “Stay out of trouble – and that goes for all of you. Especially you, Enjin. If I get another call from your caseworker begging for another pro bono because you got into something I’ll wring your neck myself.” 

Enjin rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah, Hank. Don’t act like you don’t love me.” His joint is plucked from behind his ear, and he groans and hangs his head down.

Hank stops in front of Corvus, and like routine he fixes the man’s tie with quick, sure movements. “It’s not an act, you spindly bastard. But this kid,” he juts his chin at Corvus as he heads to his car that’s parked on the street. “Fuckin’ love ‘em. Once I get my firm up off the ground I’ve got a spot for you if you keep your nose clean.” He tosses his briefcase into the passenger’s seat before pushing the door shut. “And you.” He points to Bro. “You know you’re free to come over whenever shit gets dicey. Take advantage.” He gives him a sincere look, and Bro nods as he gives him a grateful, albeit embarrassed, look. “Alright, boys. Stay safe and stay out of jail.” He angles his head up and cups his hands around his mouth as his voice booms down the empty street. “Bye, sweetheart! I love you! Don’t let the milkman in while I’m gone, alright!?”

“So the mailman is free game, then?!” 

The older man laughs as he gets into his car, and Bro watches the mustang peel off down the street. He’s always liked Gris’s dad, his mom too, which wasn’t a surprise. He found that he liked everyone’s dad as long as it wasn’t his own. He spent most of his summers split between their house and his own, something that would stop a year down the line when Hank would come home early from a business trip to find his wife dead in the bedroom and his son comatose, both of them the victims of an act of revenge from a case everyone had told him not to touch. 

Gris would end up hating his dad for a long time because his grief would turn into anger, and it’s easy to throw blame to whoever is closest, and his dad would hate himself until he eventually took his last breath as he succumbed to stage 4 cirrhosis of the liver due to drinking his sorrows away. He’d leave his law firm to his most trusted attorney, and his assets to his son, and he’d be missed by everyone who loved him. 

“Your dad is such a dick, man. He took my joint.”

“Chin up, twiggy. I’m sure you’ll have another by the time lunch comes. Bye, ma! I’m leaving!”

“Okay, love you! Don’t be late!”

The group continues on their way, and soon enough they all come into sight of the school, the last two members of the group, Semiu and Mildretta, joining up with them as they reach the line building outside the entrance. They make conversation, laughing and cursing and drawing the attention of the others around them, and when it’s their turn to have their bags searched and their pockets turned inside out, Corvus’s cousin makes sure to look past the drugs snuggled up against his chemistry textbook and waves their group in.

Before everyone breaks off to go to their classes, Enjin slings his arm around Corvus’s shoulders, ignoring the way he pointedly looks at him and tries to shrug him off. “You got me with a free bag after school?” 

“No.” He finally manages to get Enjin off of him, and Semiu shakes her head before grabbing him by the collar and proceeding to pull him down the hall.

Corvus would give him a free bag like he always did, and a little later down the line he’d unknowingly give him a laced one, and Enjin would find himself a resident of a slew of rehabs paid for by both Corvus and Gris, and occasionally in prison when Corvus wasn’t able to win his case. He’d eventually get clean and use the skills he had learned when he was locked up to work in an autoshop. He’d get chummy with the owner, the older man taking him under his wing, and when he eventually passed on he’d leave the shop to Enjin and he’d take it to new heights and eventually expand the business into other cities and then states.

Mildretta and Gris go off to class together, and when Corvus gets a nod from someone two grades above that slips into the boys bathroom he goes off, too, leaving Bro to head in the opposite direction by himself. 

They’d all meet back up tonight –save for Corvus who had to make up for lost sells due to school, and Semiu and Mildretta due to their dads being hard-asses and keeping them on short leashes– since it was Friday, and that meant his house was the place to go to sneak liquor and smoke outside behind the shed while the adults got drunk off their asses and stopped caring about what the kids were getting up to.

—

“Your mom is so fucking hot, man.” 

Bro can just barely make out the words over the thumping sound of the music, the bass emitting from the speakers seemingly shaking the floor underneath their feet, but when he finally processes it, his face twists into a disgusted frown as he shoots a hand out to smack the back of Enjin’s head.

“Shut the fuck up, gringo.” 

Enjin grins, his eyes not straying from where they watch Bro’s mom who dances in the center of the room, his dad not too far off as he drinks straight from a bottle. His usual frown is gone, instead replaced with a grin, and he laughs at something Marlo, a neighbor from down the street, says. It’s a rare sight, one that he’s never seen directed at himself, and a wave of jealousy briefly flares up at the fact that some guy who practically counts as a stranger gets the best from his father opposed to his own flesh and blood.

Most of the people attending could count as strangers in Bro's book, only a few being vaguely familiar. There’s Lynette, the widow from the apartments three blocks over that his mom met at the hair salon. She’s a sad, reclusive lady so she rarely comes, but he guesses his mom had done some begging to finally get her to show up. Bro steered clear of her, never knowing what to say when she broke into a sad spiel about her late husband. He’d nod and give her sympathetic looks, before guiltily forcing out a few lines of broken English to get her to go and find a more fluent party.

Mr. O from next door was a middle aged Asian man who genuinely didn’t speak a lick of English or Spanish, but a liquor bottle and music transcended language barriers and he found himself at every gathering they hosted. He was nice enough, and he always brought over some kind of dish when he came so he was a party favorite.

There was Dolly, an older white woman who was missing a few teeth but didn’t let it stop her from smiling in your face and telling story after story. There were a few men from his father’s job, along with some of his mother’s coworkers as well. Some people were just randoms from the street that had been drawn in by the music and the open front door, and he even recognized a few super seniors from school with red solo cups in their hands. 

Yet another group comes creeping through the front door, and Bro writes them off as yet another group of stragglers and turns to head over to the unoccupied drink table where Gris currently lingers, but then a brand new face is grabbing his attention and keeping him rooted in his spot. She’s beautiful. And he’s not the only one that thinks so. Multiple heads turn to look as she enters, and Bro tracks her with his eyes as she seemingly floats into his home. 

She nears him, and before he can think of looking away so his gawking isn’t so obvious, she’s meeting his stare and tilting her head at him. She smiles, dimples popping up in her cheeks, and Bro gives her a wave that Enjin will absolutely give him shit for later. 

She opens her mouth to say something, but then Enjin is shouting something about ‘Gris’ and ‘out back’ and dragging him away, leaving Bro to give the woman an apologetic look as the distance between them grows.

—

The door to Bro’s bedroom softly clicks shut behind him, and he immediately heads over to his dresser that’s pushed against the wall, various gaming magazines lazily tossed on top. He tugs open the second drawer on the left, and with a last, cautious glance to his door, he begins to move his clothing aside in search for the reinforced ziploc bag of weed hidden inside. Enjin had managed to smoke all of his own to no one’s surprise, and Bro had resigned to giving up his own when Enjin kept bitching about losing his high.

His shoulders stiffen when his bedroom door suddenly swings open, the squeaky hinges that had ruined his many attempts at sneaking out announcing someone’s arrival, and Bro quickly shoves the ziplock bag of weed back between his clothing before stepping back and taking a seat on his bed in an attempt to look casual.

He wasn’t sure who he had been expecting, but it definitely hadn’t been the girl from earlier. She looks around the room before her eyes finally land on him, and she looks surprised before giving him a smile that makes him give a natural one of his own, his throat suddenly feeling dry. 

“Oh, sorry, I was looking for the bathroom.” She says, and Bro nods, his mind trying and failing to come up with something to say. He’s never been bad with girls, and he’s had a few almost girlfriends before he fucked up and said something to piss them off, but Bro can tell that she’s not like the girls he goes to school with. She doesn’t have the braces, or the pimply faces, or the silly bandz on the wrist that he’s currently trying to yank off of his own wrist before she sees. She’s got makeup and long lashes, sharp cheeks and sharper eyes, tattoos that peek out from the hem of her dress. “Are you Marlene’s son?”

“Huh?” His eyes lift from where they had been unconsciously trying to decipher what her tattoo said, and when her question finally registers in his head he gives a quick nod. “Oh, uh–yeah. I’m Bro.”

“Bro.. Your mom named you that or is it just a nickname?” She slips into his room, casually shutting the door behind herself, and Bro completely forgets that she had originally been looking for the bathroom because holy shit she’s in his room. 

“A-A nickname. I’m named after my dad, but I don’t—people just call me Bro.” 

“That’s cute.” He lets out a nervous laugh, lips rolling into his mouth before he releases them. She looks around his room, lingering on the magazine pages he’s got pinned on the walls featuring a slew of shiny, classic cars. Then she shifts to the shelving, which hosts small replicas of cars that date back as far as the early 1900’s. She reaches out to touch one, and Bro makes a noise of complaint before quickly swallowing it down, but she hears it nonetheless. Her hand pauses before she touches it, head turning over her shoulder to look at him, and she quirks a brow at him. “What, I can’t touch it?”

“No, no, you can. It’s cool.” He says, and he clenches his teeth and presses his lips firmly together as she lets out a chuckle. She picks it up from the shelf and brings it closer to her face, and he’s torn between being happy at the fact that a pretty girl like her is touching his stuff and being annoyed that a pretty girl is touching his stuff. 

He doesn’t have to switch between the two emotions for long before she’s placing the car back down, waltzing over to him, and plopping herself down onto the bed beside him. He stiffens up immediately, even more so than he already was, and his hands move to rest on his thighs, clammy palms subtly wiping themselves dry on the material of his pants. 

She notices his stiff posture and playfully bumps her shoulder against his, her knees turning inward so they brush against his leg. He shifts away without thinking and she notices, shooting him a mock offended look.

“What? You’ve got a girlfriend or something, guapo?” Her smile widens as she says it, and Bro’s skin heats at the compliment. He was used to being complimented, really, but always by his mother or the aunties in his family and the abuelas at church, and the occasional rumor that went around in the school halls about what girl thought he was cute that month. He had never heard it from someone like this.

He glances off to the side, hand idly reaching up to twist at the dark, wavy hair that only just reach the back of his neck, only to immediately drop it back down, muscle memory kicking in as his body remembers all the times his father had swatted his hands to try and break the habit.

“No, not yet, but–I mean I’ve had one. A bunch.” He rushes out in an attempt to save face, voice cracking as he says it, and he clears his throat right after to try and cover it up but she laughs as she notices it anyways. The sound is teasing, similar to how his older cousins laugh and poke at him whenever he tries to insert himself into their dealings, and he grows defensive without meaning to, body tensing and eyes unconsciously going to the shut door of his bedroom.

“Aww, don’t pout. I didn't laugh in a mean way. I just think it’s cute.” Fingers suddenly sift through his hair, and Bro whips his head around to look at her, lips nervously twitching. “You’re almost bigger than your dad but you’re still just a kid.”

“I’m not a kid.” His ‘pout’ turns into a frown as he rushes the words out. He had just turned 15 three months ago, and he had been mistaken for an adult more often than not when he was out in public. His mom sent him to the liquor store four blocks whenever the party ran dry and he never got carded. His father tasked him with buying his cigarettes, and if he was drunk enough he’d pretend not to notice the lack of change and the extra carton in his son’s back pocket. He got stopped on the streets by asshole cops whenever they felt like harassing someone, and he’d have to practically shove his school ID down their throats for them to believe he was still a minor. And she had thought he was older too, initially, hadn’t she? That’s why she was sitting here, smiling and touching him and talking to him. “I’m already in highschool.”

“Yeah?” She giggles, leaning in closer, and he stiffens up and swallows as her chest pushes against his arm. “What are you? A freshman?” He jerkily nods, palms growing sweaty, and his eyes drift over to the door again. 

“A-Are you a senior?” She shakes her head. “You’re in college?” Another shake of her head, and then her hand is on his thigh and Bro jumps in his body as he swallows again, this time harsher.

“I graduated college six years ago.” She squeezes his leg. “That’s why I said you’re just a kid. Compared to me, anyway.” Her hand drifts upward, and Bro watches as it settles over the bulge in his pants and smooths back and forth. His gasp gets caught in his throat, and he has to switch to manual breathing as flaming hot heat settles in his face. The only other time he’s had someone else touch him below the belt, it had been his seventy year old doctor during his yearly physical while his mom stood behind the privacy curtain to make sure he wasn’t a cochino. 

She presses against him harder, and his heart slams against his ribcage, pulse thumping in his ears, and his hands fist the Hulk comforter bunched underneath him. “Mm, or maybe not.” She laughs again, the sound making gooseflesh appear on his arms, and just as she reaches for the button on his pants the doorknob rattles. 

She pulls away from him quickly and rises from the bed, somehow still graceful as she does it, and Bro is still sitting frozen as the door is shoved open to reveal an annoyed Gris, a drunken Enjin hanging off his shoulder. 

“Brooooo, where the fuh–” He wretches, head dipping forward, and Gris makes a disgusted face before shoving the lanky boy forward so he lands on the beanbag in the corner. 

“He found your dad’s moons—” Gris cuts himself off at the sight of the woman still in Bro’s room, and then he looks back to Bro, and then back to her. “He’s actually sober, by the way. He just has low blood sugar right now.” Gris grins, and Bro snaps out of his stupor to snag a pillow from the head of his bed and lay it across his lap.

“Don’t worry, Güerito.” She smiles, and then her gaze swings over to where Bro is still sitting, smile widening when she notices the pillow over his lap. “I won’t tell if you won't." He reaches up for his hair and stops short again, instead settling on picking at a loose thread on his pillowcase. “Text me sometime, Bro.”

His head whips up, eyes shining and cheeks warm. “I-I don’t have your–” She points to his nightstand, and he reaches over and snags his math journal that he had left open. A number is scribbled right underneath Geometry equations, followed by her name written in cursive.

Angel.

When he looks up she’s gone and Gris is standing over him, mouth agape and eyes wide as he slams his hands down on Bro’s shoulders and shakes him.

“Her number? What the fuck? And look at your fucking boner – did y’all fuck?”

“With my pants still on, dumbass?” 

“Brooo.” Gris gives a giddy laugh, the beer he drank earlier making him more animated than he usually is, and Bro can’t help but join in on his laughter. “Did you see her tits?” He makes motions over his shirt to signify breasts, and Bro snorts and raises up to his own feet. The two teens are leveled shoulder to shoulder now, but that will change in the next year when Gris gains six inches over his best friend seemingly overnight. “There’s no way she goes to Westman. She must go to the school over the tracks - Jacobi. They get all the pretty girls.” 

“Nah, she’s not in school.” 

“She dropped out?”

“She graduated already.” Bro walks over to Enjin and kicks the beanbag he’s on to check if he’s still up, and when he doesn’t get a response he squats down and flips him over. “So I guess she’s working now, or something. Did he take something? Enjin. Hey, pendejo.”

“Nah, man, just the weed and that shit your dad keeps under the counter. Sem took his pills before we got here, remember?” Gris walks over next, closing the door as he does, and bends down to give a series of light smacks to Enjin’s cheek. “Hey, En. Corvus is here with his dick out.”

“That’s not gonna work, you—”

“...huh? Arkha?” Enjin comes to life for a second, head managing to lift and eyes staying open long enough to give the room a scan. Once he sees that Corvus is nowhere in sight he passes back out, head flopping down and body going limp. Gris and Bro meet each other's eyes, and the laughter that follows after is loud enough to drown out the music beyond his bedroom door. 

The two of them won’t laugh like that for a long time, and Bro won’t hang out with him or the rest of his friends either. He’ll date Angel and he’ll fall in love, and she’ll tell him that she loves him, too, and he’ll believe her despite all the guys in the videos on her phone. Despite the names she calls him when he makes her mad. Despite the smacks she lands on him. Despite all the lies she told him. Despite the men twice his age that she had instigated fights with in attempts to see if he could protect her when it came down to it. He’ll stay with her until Dear is born, taking everything she dishes out because that’s all he’s ever known, and he’ll even stay when Angel gets pregnant again despite him not having touched her since he held his son for the first time. He’ll only leave when the abuse that had been directed at him attempts to shift towards his son. She’ll threaten to fight for custody, he’ll remind her of the maximum prison time for a person convicted of statutory rape, and he won’t hear from her for months at a time until she wants to parade around as a mother to her friends and family on social media. 

Bro will raise his son with the support of his childhood friends, and he’ll struggle in the beginning, doubly so when Dear is diagnosed with Autism, but he’ll do his best and that’ll be more than enough. And then he’ll meet you, eventually, but that part of his life has yet to be written.

[mrsken]

"I don't mind sharing" but it's, dare I say, Corvus and Enjin.

[mrsken]

Happy to report that I've got 3k words done so far on chapter seven of FMAF after ten million years :)

[isatpanart]

Hi everyone! As you can see, I had to open emergency commissions.

Yesterday I had to hospitalize my guinea pig :( His name is Edgar, and he's very small and sick. Since he's an exotic animal, the care and expenses are much higher ;; (The truth is.. I can't write about all this without crying 🥺)

So, if you'd like to commission either of these two options, I would be incredibly grateful! I'm currently hoping to accept 10 commissions. If the hospitalization and care costs keep rising, I might have to add more:c

If you have any questions, feel free to DM me!

Thank u so much for reading!

[mrsken]

the thought of taking Follo and Gris at the same time

Stop stop stop stop stop 😩😩😩

I have seen the innocent/virgin Follo agenda and while I don't fully subscribe, I can see the appeal, because I like to imagine him as absolutely desperate when it comes to sex. Like just absolutely pathetic. He will quite literally cry and beg if it means he gets to sink into you just a second sooner, and I think this coupled with Gris's meanness and teasing is sooo hot.

Like!!! I can just imagine you and Follo acting like two dogs in heat, his cock hard as a rock and leaking like a broken faucet – and you're in no better shape. Your lips are swollen, nipples raw, hole stretched from countless fingers and tongues, sore spots pulsing all over your body from rough hands and sharp teeth.

You can't recall how many times you've cum, nor how many times Follo has practically sobbed at Gris to just let him fuck you already. Each time he slots his cock up against your entrance, face flushed and eyes glossy, Gris wraps his hand around his length and prevents him from pushing in any further than the tip.

Gris always pushes him off with a mean grin, squishes his cheeks together and kisses him hard before directing him to do the same to you, but this time he sinks in himself, fat and girthy cock stretching you out infinitely better than his fingers ever could.

Follo groans, brows knitted together and eyes locked on the way Gris bottoms out inside you, the rim of your hole gripping him so prettily. He resigns himself to jerking off, slim fingers flying up and down his slick cock, and just when he's about to come Gris stops him yet again.

Before Follo can pull a Jekyll and Hyde and blow a fuse rather than his load, Gris is pulling the smaller man in front of him, his own legs spreading wider to accomodate, and guiding his cock to your stuffed hole. Gris uses his other hand to push his finger in alongside his cock, seemingly making way for Follo, and you gasp and moan and cry as he's guided in.

You stretch and stretch and stretch – body giving way to the both of them, and Follo sags back against Gris's broad chest, lashes fluttering as he spills inside you before he's even fully inside.

[mrsken]

Hellooo love your writing a lot 😭💖, is there gonna be a potential part 2 with Tagah? 👀

No, I don't plan on doing a part two!

[mrsken]

girl we miss you

imu2 </3

You will unfortunately have to miss me some more because I'm getting a second job soon, so what free time I did have is gonna plummet down to zero.

[mrsken]

𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑

cws // fem reader.

Corvus is not a possessive man by choice.

It had taken years for him to finally allow himself the delicacy that is you, deluding himself into believing that he'd be able to step up to the plate of being the man you deserved.

And he tried, everyone with eyes knows that he did everything within his power to do his best.

Any free moment he had he spent at your side. Anything his eyes landed on that he thought you may like ended up in your hands. Everything you asked him to do he did, happily. Whatever you wanted, craved, admired was yours. He was yours - mind, body, and soul ‐ and you were your own.

He didn't dream of possessing you, never having been one to indulge in unnecessary suffering, and even now, as he stands stock still in the market with you a bit of ways away from him talking with an eager man, he still doesn't dream of it.

He had suggested a brief trip out since an unexpected lull had come up in his duties, and you had eagerly agreed, practically bouncing in your spot as you rattled off all the places the both of you could go.

He hadn't reminded you that he had suggested a brief trip, only smiling and nodding along as you excitedly tugged him out of HQ and into a vacant truck. Your first stop had been a small eatery that you adored, and Corvus had settled for a tooth-achingly sweet drink while you had gotten a concoction of confections that the kids back at home would have gone to war over.

You had rambled on and on, and he had soaked it all up, attentively listening while simultaneously winning the game of footsie you had initiated with him underneath the table.

The next location had been a nearby stroll, your hand intertwined with his as you both took in the views of dust-ridden city. Those same streets always seemed gloomy and daunting when he walked them alone, but they had a glowing brightness when he had you pressed against his side and nuzzling against his arm.

Your walk had ended at an impromptu market trip, and while Corvus had been drawn to a pendant that he thought would look enticing hanging from your neck, you had been drawn to a broach that you commented would look nice on him.

The two of you had split for no more than five minutes, but when he had turned to make his way back to you, necklace tucked away in one of the pockets in his jacket, he had seen you locked into a conversation with a man that was awfully close to you.

He's smiling and so are you, but Corvus has analyzed every smile you've ever given out and he sees this one for what is – you're being polite. Your eyes are shifting around, searching for him in the crowd, and the man keeps drawing your attention back to him with his talking.

He can't blame him, it's intoxicating – your attention. Corvus finds himself wanting to get drunk on it every minute of every hour, but that's selfish, possessive, and Corvus is not a possessive man by choice.

Something dark and cold curdles in his stomach regardless.

"...would have kicked myself over it all night if I didn't come say something, but you're absolutely beautiful. Just.. breathtaking."

Someone shoves past him and he doesn't move an inch, steel gray eyes zeroing in on the way your smile turns bashful, one hand raising to nervously push a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Uh, thanks, that's really sweet, but—"

"But? Aw, don't tell me you're in a relationship." He whines like a child—a greedy child who has overstepped, and Corvus moves without his own input. "You'll break my heart."

You laugh and he moves faster.

"I'm sure some other lady would be happy to mend it together."

"But I want you to be the one to me—"

"Darling." Corvus stands behind you like a silhouette, feet bracketing your own, and his face blanks as he stares down at the man in front of you. He has enough self-preservation to forwither, body noticeably flinching back, and Corvus lets a hand snake around your front so he can flatten it over your stomach. "I was looking for you."

Your breath of relief is audible to only him, and he bolsters as you lean back into him. "Sorry, I was talking with... what was your name again?"

The man visibly gulps.

"D-Don't worry about it. I've actually gotta go, so." He makes a speedy exit, and Corvus watches him as he goes, his attention only coming back to you when you let out a disgruntled noise.

"What's the matter?" You tilt your head back to look up at him, and he can't resist pulling his glove off his hand and brushing the tips of his fingers up and down the length of your arm.

"Somebody snagged the broach while that guy was bothering me. Hmph." A pout finds its way to your lips, soft things poking out, and Corvus's body once again acts on its own accord.

His hands find their place on your waist, and with a quick maneuver he spins you around so you're facing him instead. You gasp as the sudden change of position, hands coming up to rest against his chest as you give him a confused look. He doesn't leave you without an answer for long, his head swooping down so he can sweep you up into a kiss.

You can afford one last bewildered look before your eyes are fluttering shut and you're melting against him, and the miniature version of himself that lives at the forefront of his mind offers up that same look because this is not something he indulges in.

He'd never been one for bold, public displays of affections. They were too officializing, too claiming, too possessive, and Corvus wasn't a possessive man by choice. He limited himself to tasteful kisses to the apples of your cheeks, gentle hands on your back to steer you in the correct direction, things that were the complete opposite of how he was actively stealing your breath away.

The ample amount of noise around the both of you dims down to low murmurs and dull thuds, and Corvus momentarily forgets just where the both of you are when he curves his hand around your hip and pulls you closer to him a bit rougher than intended.

You gasp again, testing him, and his tongue tries to venture forward to seek out your own and he manages to quell the desire, momentarily. But shortly after the man's face is flashing in his mind in an unwanted slideshow and then Corvus wonders if he's watching, still thinking he has a chance with you, still thinking that you're not—

That Corvus hasn't given you every part of himself and left with you no choice but to carry him around with you always, broadcasting to the polluted world just who it is that loves you most.

The third missing silver cuff on his ear that's found a new, better home on your own. The yellow stitching woven into the fabric of your uniform. The hair-tie that's reserved for him encircling around your wrist. The bag dangling from your shoulder that had been one of many gifts from him. The spare, white gloves kept safe in said bag because you had insisted so cutely. The marks decorating your skin underneath the clothing you wear. The soreness that you carry in your hips and thighs from spending the night in his bed. The seed that he had left in the gusset of your panties when the two of you got more distracted than intended in one of the many Cleaner's trucks.

No, Corvus isn't a possessive man by choice, but it seems he is one by nature, and he can't truthfully find it in himself to be ashamed, not when it gets him laid in the backseat of the truck with you on top of him.

"Arkha.." Your voice is weak against his shoulder, breathy little pants being forced out of you with each plunge of his fingers into your noisy sex. Your slick is dripping down his wrist, along with the leftover frothy cum you've left on his slender digits, and your hole is sucking him in, pleading for more than it can handle. "Arkha."

"Yes, love?" He murmurs, fingers pushing in deeper, once again seeking out that spot that only he knows of, a secret that he plans on taking to his grave so it never sees the light of day.

"Need it .. need you."

"You have me. Always."

"No," you sob, and he placates you with a curl of his fingers, the pads of them rubbing against a rough patch that has you gushing. "This... I need this." You push your hand down between your bodies, palm rubbing against the bulge there, and his tongue swipes out to wet his lips.

"You can't take it. Not now." You whimper, head lifting from his shoulder so you can settle your teary eyes on his, and he softly kisses the pout on your lips.

"B-But you said it was mine. You said –ohh– you said I could have it when... whenever I wanted. You—Arkha!" He bullies that sensitive spot, lips mouthing at the curve of your chin and venturing downwards. You drop your hips, desperate to take in more of him, and his ears ring at your words.

"It is yours." 'It' throbs in his pants at being claimed. "But I don't want to hurt you. I haven't stretched you out properly." You sob again, this one louder than the last, and Corvus shushes you with a deep kiss, tongue seeking out yours as he brings you to your end for the umpteenth time. You slump against him, spasming around his fingers, and he tugs on your plump, bottom lip before letting it go.

He adds another finger before you can come down from the high he brought you to, fully intending on solving the problem preventing him from burying himself inside of you and letting his nature take over as he leaves you with something you'll carry with you forever.

Goka has suffered from bouts of intense jealousy all throughout his life. It was worse when he was a teenager – he left a trail of blood, sweat and tears in his wake in his vain efforts to catch up with his elder sister, only to be surpassed by his younger brother who had chosen to go down the wrong path.

He woke up before the sun rose to train his body - defense, offense, martial arts, taekwondo, kick boxing, wrestling, he did it all. He trained his endurance and ran for miles, on and on until his throat was raw from his heavy breathing and his lungs felt like they would burst. He practiced his swings on his sword until the calluses on his hands cracked and bled and his arms were too tired to even lift his fork at the dinner table that same night. He built himself into a marksman, hitting targets dead center until he was able to empty a magazine and only have one entry mark on the target.

He was at the top of his class in the training camp, scoring nothing but exemplary marks for his academic studies. He was proficient in all weapons, but had a preference for the handheld, long range kind. There was no one that had bested him in battle, no victories won against him.

He was commended, applauded, awarded, and yet he had been placed as second in command to his sister rather than getting his own squad to lead, and he still heard remnants of admiration and praise in honor of his younger brother who had thrown away the family legacy to join up with a shoddy bunch of nobodies.

It was infuriating.

It made his blood boil and left a copper taste in his mouth.

It soured his meals and put knots in his stomach.

It made him latch onto you that much more.

Despite being inferior to his siblings in every way imaginable, he had managed to delude you into thinking he was someone worth settling down with — you, who were the only remarkable thing that had ever come into his possession. He was painfully nondescript in his own eyes, yet another cog in the Hell Guard to keep things churning how they should, but you turned the mundaneness of his life into something he looked forward to.

He looked forward to the mornings because you were always there, poised by his side and looking as if you were born to constantly test his resilience – it was a test that he failed every morning, and his punishment was a towering caseload that awaited him when he finally managed to wrench himself out of your arms and head out.

He looked forward to the evenings where you'd stop by the Hell Guard's main station with a bento box wrapped in Furoshiki cradled in your arms and a sweet smile on your face. He'd tell you that you shouldn't have bothered bringing him lunch, that you should have done something for yourself instead, and you'd tell him that this was for you, that you had missed him and wanted to see him, and Goka would grunt and snarf the food down while the tips of his ears burned red.

He looked forward to the nights where he'd be greeted at the door with the scent of vanilla and oats, along with your body colliding into his own weary one. There was always a meal waiting, still sizzling on hot plates because you always timed it just perfectly despite his varying schedules. And after the meal there was a quiet, hot bath where you worked hard to rub the knots out of his shoulders and smooth out the furrow in his brows.

What he did not look forward to were the instances such as this one.

"I told you to stop showin' up unannounced like this."

Goka walks behind you, signature frown painted onto his face, and sweeps his eyes back and forth over the bright-eyed recruits lining the field. They look as if they've seen something transcendental, mouths parted and gazes glued to you as if they can't help themselves, and he breathes in deeply through his nose.

"And when have I ever done anything other than what I wanted?" You quip back, head turning over your shoulder to give him a smug look that he finds attractive. He looks at something else instead - your dress. It's a piece you picked up in the city and the bright, colorful fabric lets it be known. It clings to you, thin straps snug against your rounded shoulders. The material stretches over your hips and butt, and he exhales heavily as he watches the plump flesh move with every step you take.

He lengthens his stride, the toes of his shoes just barely missing the backs of your own, until he's acting as a shield from the eyes that dart here and there in an attempt to drink every inch of you in.

"I was tired of being cooped up in the house all day, sooo I figured I'd come and see my husband hard at work." You finally come to a stop at the edge of the training ground, where dirt gives way to a cobbled walking path. "Are those the new guys you were complaining about having to train last week?" You spin around, not the least bit perturbed at his proximity. Instead you peek around his bulk to look at said 'new guys'.

"Yes." He sidesteps so he's blocking your view again, and you turn your head up to give him an annoyed look, but it's quickly washed away as an amused smile curls onto your lips.

"Don't act like you're not happy to see me, Goka. I saw Kyouka on my way in." His mouth twitches. "She already told me all about how you've been going hard on the new recruits because someone was actually on time for once."

"Ain't my fault you always make me late."

"I make you late?" You give him an incredulous look, and he turns his back to you in favor of facing the gawking trainees. The relaxed look on his face vanishes in an instant, features hardening and eyes going flat, and he raises his hand in a silent command. One man from each line joins in the middle as they both take a defensive position, and with another signal they begin circling each other, one waiting for the other to strike. "Last I checked, you're the one who can't keep your hands to yourself. Or your tongue."

He cuts his eyes at you and you laugh, body pressing into his side as you curl your hands around one of his. You turn your smile up at him, and he makes a mental note to visit the family physician so he can be checked for a heart murmur.

They gawk harder.

"Stop pussyfooting and fight." His voice booms throughout the field, and both men shoot forward, fists raised and faces scrunched in anticipation of a hit. Their fists connect with each other's temples, and Goka watches with blatant annoyance as they both collapse down to the dirt. "Pathetic."

"Don't be so mean. They're practically babies – just look at those faces." You coo, thumb swiping along the back of his hand, and Goka rolls his shoulders. The two men are pulled off the field by a few waiting medics, and Goka gives the signal to start the next match. You watch with rapt interest, eyes wide as you take everything in, and when only a single man stands you let out a loud cheer and let go of his hand to give a series of excited claps.

The appendage feels cold despite the dry heat of the air.

"Did you see the way he swept his legs out from under that guy and then slammed him down on the ground like wham!?" Goka regrets teaching them the move. "That was so cool—I've gotta tell him!" You're quick when you're determined, and the hand that reaches out to take yours is met with empty space as you take off towards the trainee.

He stops bitching about the blooming bruises and scrapes on his body when he sees you, instead straightening his spine and meeting your gaze, and Goka's eyes narrow as copper bleeds onto his tastebuds.

You talk animatedly, hands assisting in the conversation, and the trainee's eyes flit between the low cut of your dress and your face.

Goka approaches.

"...show me? I'd kill to see it up close—not literally, of course, don't pull out the cuffs now." A chorus of laughter rings out, and Goka wonders if it's because they believe you're funny or if they believe you'll keep granting them a look at something they don't deserve to see if they do. "So? Can I see?"

"Of course."

Gazes shift from you to Goka, and his leg kicks out quicker than anyone has ever been able to react to. He sweeps the trainee with the wandering eye's legs out from underneath him, and while he's still suspended in the air he grips his throat and speeds up his fall. A cloud of dirt kicks up from where his body was slammed into the ground, and a mute silence falls over the field as Goka wipes his hand off on his pants leg as if to clean it.

"Goka.." You breathe out, eyes looking at the unconscious man sprawled on the ground before slowly raising to meet his own. "Your office. Now."

-

"You're so strong, Goka."

His back collides with the wall as you shove him back, your body pushing into his as your hands work to untuck his uniform top from his utility pants. Your lips kiss against whatever skin they can find, teeth biting down before your hot tongue soothes the sting.

His own hands can't decide where to settle – they switch between gripping your waist, rubbing at your hips, and kneading at the fat of your ass. He had been expecting you to chew him out as you marched him to his office, instead you had jumped him as soon as the lock clicked into place.

"You didn't even try and you did it so easily. Do you know how sexy you looked? I could've fucked you right there." You rip the button on his pants, the small thing skittering across the floor, and he sucks in a sharp breath when you drop down to your knees and yank his pants down with you. "I know it's bad... but I love it when you get jealous."

You nuzzle against the bulge in his boxers, lips mouthing at his tip through the fabric, and pre soaks through the material as his hands fumble for something to gain purchase on. "I wasn't--" He cuts himself off with a groan when you yank down his boxers next, heavy cock bobbing free, and immediately take the leaky tip into your mouth and suckle.

His stomach rolls and tenses, sweat rolling down tense, muscled thighs. Your mouth stretches around the girth of him as you take him deeper, tongue working along the underside of him, and his teeth gnash together when your hand comes up to fondle with his balls.

He goes to speak and finds that he can't, lips moving with nothing coming out, and you decide to speak for him. You pop off his cock, strings of spit connecting the both of you, and your other hand quickly jerks up and down his length, hand twisting on each downward stroke.

"You were and it's okay— it's more than okay. I love it." You stroke him faster, harder, and his knuckles turn white from how hard he grips the shelf of the bookcase to his left. "I'm so wet that it's sticky, Goka." He moans - a guttural, deep sound that makes his throat raw and takes the last bit of breath out of his lungs, and his head knocks back into the wall behind him as you suck him back into your mouth.

You bob and slurp, spit and precum dribbling from the sides of your mouth, and you tighten your hand around his balls as you gag, the head of his cock meeting the back of your throat. He's still not fully in –he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fully fit inside– but it still feels good–amazing–unreal.

The wood of the bookshelf cracks under the strain he's putting in under, and you hum around him, watery eyes blinking up at him. You pull back to lick at him, and his chest tightens as he holds his breath, attention focused on the way your tongue glides up the length of him until you reach his tip. You circle around it, prod at his slit, dip underneath his foreskin and roll your tongue around.

His voice cracks on your name, and you somehow manage to giggle before your lips wrap around his tip and suck. Your grip grows firmer on his balls, unyielding, and he can't begin to control the way his face contorts as he cums. Thick, creamy spurts of cum fill your mouth, and your cheeks puff up as you hold it all in. You stroke him, coaxing the rest out, and when he feels like his legs are going to give out from underneath him you pull off of him and prop your mouth open, awarding him a picture of your mouth filled with his cum before you gulp it down.

You lick your lips after, even sucking off the drop that had landed on your finger, and he fights to catch his breath as you stand back up to your feet, stretch up to press a loud kiss to the underside of his chin and saunter out of his office only to stop in the doorway.

You throw an innocent smile over your shoulder as if his pants and boxers aren't still around his ankles and your stomach isn't full of his seed.

"I left some of those parfaits that you like in the kitchen, by the way. Don't eat too many, either, you know your stomach gets sensitive when you have too much dairy." You give him a wave and blow a kiss. "See ya at home, sexy."

[mrsken]

gris lowkey having a thing for piss but more-so in an omorashi humiliation sort of way. he thinks it’s hot he likes the squirming

cws // fem reader -> reader is a bit tipsy. exhibitionism. piss.

Gris feeding you drinks all night should have been the first sign of how your night was going to go.

Usually, he was always limiting the amount of alcohol you consumed – plucking bottles out of your hands and sipping at your cocktails before handing you a half empty glass. He never liked when you got pissy drunk, especially when he wasn't around to keep an eye on you, so you had expected to get nothing more than a buzz when the both of you had walked into the grungy club behind Enjin, Bro, Follo and Semiu.

You had branched off from him and followed Semiu to the bar, chatting her ear off and pointing out women who looked a bit starved for company. You had ordered a white wine spritzer, something weak and that he wouldn't raise his brow up at, and made your way back to where the guys had acquired a small section. You had slid into your spot beside him, raised your glass up for him to see, and he had ducked his head down so his lips brushed against your ear as he spoke and said: Give me a taste. A 'taste' consisted of him downing the whole thing, and before you could get angry he was calling over a waitress and placing an order for your favorite drink, making sure to tack on a 'don't let her glass get empty' followed with a hefty tip.

You were on your fifth drink now, and your smile had been present ever since the waitress put down your third glass in front of you. Your skin was warm, your vision swam if you turned too quickly, and everything that came out of Bro's mouth was indescribably hilarious.

"You--" You're cut off with a hiccup, and Bro grins at you as you frown as if you're personally offended that your body interrupted you like that. "You're too funny to be single, Santa — can I call you that? I think it's sooo sexy when you say it. Can you say it now?"

The empty seat beside you is occupied once again, and a hand curls around your hip as you're pulled back into a firm body. The scent is familiar, as is the touch, and even with your liquor-addled brain you know it's Gris.

"Say please." He speaks loud enough for you to hear, and you do what he says without a fight.

"Please." Your head tilts to the side, suddenly feeling too heavy to stay upright, and then your body is tilting next and Gris has to pull you upright to keep you from toppling over. You break out into a fit of giggles as you lean forward and brace your hands against the cushion of the booth seat, unintentionally giving Bro an eyeful of cleavage as your breasts practically spill out from the top of your low-cut dress. "Can you please say it for me?"

"Santa." It rolls off his tongue prettily, and you're laughing once again, missing the look the two men share over your head, as well as the way Gris shifts the both of you so you're closer to Bro. When your laughter subsides another drink is pushed in front of you, and you sip it happily, only for your face to screw up when it hits your tongue.

"Water?" You crane your neck back to frown up at Gris, and he clicks his tongue at you and nudges the glass back to your lips.

"Good. You're not too drunk to tell the difference. Drink up." He tips the glass back, and you have no choice but to swallow. He tips it back further, and you splutter, splashes of water spurting out from the sides of your mouth and running down to land between your chest. He pulls it away, and you glare at him as your hand fumbles its way towards the table in search of your actual drink.

"You're cutting me off?" Before he can answer you, an arm is curling around your waist and hoisting you out of your seat and into a lap. You look to Bro, eyes owlishly blinking, and then to Gris who doesn't do anything but spread his arms across the back of the seating, his head rolled back and turned in your direction.

"Here, conejita. You can have mine." Another glass is pushed to your lips, and your eyes flick down to see a dark liquid. Gris smirks, corner of his mouth lifting, and your thighs squeeze together without thinking.

"She's never taken brown before."

"She'll love it." His voice is deep in your ear, and your mouth opens with the help of his coaxing. "Once you go brown." Gris laughs and so does Bro, the joke lost on you, and your throat burns as the brown liquor slides down. You choke and go to turn your head, but Bro gently cups your throat, pointer finger pressed underneath your chin to keep it tilted. "Easy, mami. Nice 'n slow. Don't swallow it too fast, take your time — just like that. Good girl."

His lips brush against the racing pulse in your neck, and you jolt in his lap, earning a chuckle from him as he sets the now empty glass down onto the table. He turns your face to his, and before your sluggish brain can process that he's leaning in, his tongue drags up the side of your mouth before swiping along your bottom lip to collect the remnants of alcohol.

You flinch back entirely too late, face even hotter than before and stomach flipping, and your head turns to look at Gris before he's catching your chin and turning you back. He kisses you full-on, taking advantage of your open mouth to deepen it, and your eyes flutter shut on their own accord as his taste and smell overwhelms your senses.

You can hardly comprehend the turn of events, nor what led up to this, but it feels good—he feels good. You melt into him, forgetting yourself, and your hands curl into soft, curly strands as you moan. You shift your hips, scantily-covered pussy dampening your thin panties, and moan again when he tenses his thigh underneath you and rocks it upwards with the ball of his foot.

"Y'see why I don't let her drink?" Gris voice brings you out of your trance, and your lips detach from Bro's with a wet, smacking sound, your eyes blinking open. "She can't do anything without consultin' her pussy first."

"Nothin' wrong with that." His breath fans across your lips, and a shiver races up your spine as you move your eyes to the side, wet lips turning down into a pout as you meet Gris's gaze. "The ladies know what they want." He leans in to kiss you again, and your hands push at his chest. You only manage to send yourself flailing backwards, Bro unmoving, and your back meets the seat as your head lands on Gris' thigh. You look up at him from the new angle, a shocked laugh slipping out of you, and he cracks a smile at the sound.

"I hafta to tell you something, Gris." Your eyebrows furrow as your teeth worry at your bottom lip. "Bro... he... he kissed me."

He smiles fully now, and your eyes practically sparkle as you take it in, lips parting and heart skipping around in your chest. "He's gonna do it again, too." You finally take note of the breeze brushing against your lips, along with the telltale tickle of hair against your inner thighs, and then a mouth is placing a kiss at where your hidden clit lay. You gasp out a cry, thighs clamping shut around Bro's head just for him to force them back open, his tongue delving through your puffy folds to part them a second later.

Gris leans over you, his hand pressing down on your lower stomach, and you squirm underneath him, slick drooling out of you as Bro sloppily laps away at you. The blasting music drowns out your moans and cries, and their hands keep you from twisting out of their hold each time he latches onto your engorged clit and sucks as if he's trying to pull something out of you.

Gris keeps pressing and kneading, fingers pushing down into the pudge of your stomach and rubbing, coaxing, and through your hazy mind you feel something. Something pressing, something urgent, something that makes sweat pool in your belly button and your mouth open and close on muted words.

You've gotta pee.

You pull on Gris's shirt and he moves back some, hand stilling, and looks down at your teary eyes. "You okay?" Bro pauses mid-lick and your hips unconsciously lift, seeking him out.

"Gotta..." You sniffle. "I-I've gotta pee."

They both resume.

"So do it." He looks away from your face and back down between your legs. "You're so fucking greedy, Bro. You're trying to suck her whole pussy into your mouth."

The need grows and grows, and your warnings and cries fall on deaf ears, your twisting and turning met with squeezes to your hips and thighs and plunges of a thick tongue into your hole and harsh sucks to your clit.

You sob out as the first stream bursts free, Bro not pulling away in time, and your hands fly up to cover your face as the dam holding it all breaks from the pressure. Gris hand leaves your stomach to drop between your legs, fingers quickly flicking back and forth over your sensitive clit, and your scream is muted as you come.

"Fuck, baby, look at you. Fuuuck."

"Look at the mess you made on me, princesa. C'mon, don't be shy now." Bro tugs your hands down and you cry as you take in his appearance. He's soaked head to chest, a fat grin on his lips, and your squeal is silenced when he presses his dirty lips to your own, tongue forcing its way inside and making you taste yourself.

You miss the sound of Enjin entering the room, and pointedly ignore his loud complaint of the cleaning bill 'being a fuckin' bitch' as Bro licks into your mouth and Gris pets at your hair.

[mrsken]

The best feature on this app is, hands down, the block button. There's simply nothing better than clicking on a blog that's very mildly annoyed me for the most asinine thing and being able to wipe their existence from my sight (for the most part).

[mrsken]

Hey twin uh…is four makes a family gonna return? 🧍🏽‍♀️

My interest for anything Gachiakuta is super duper low right now so don't expect anything soon. I'll reread it (FMAF) sometime this week to try and get re-into it, but again, no promises.

[mrsken]

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆

cws // fem reader -> water bender reader. reader is a bit spineless & naive. bullying (present and past tense). violence. genocide (past). murder. slight gore. sexual assault/harassment (not really expanded on/one occurrence). manipulation. stockholm syndrome vibes. breeding. improper use of air bending. inexperienced reader (can be read as a virgin).power imbalances.atla movie spoilers.

wc // 15.5k

an // i tried to do a read through to make sure everything was cohesive, but i've been staring at these words for a full week and desperately need them out of my drafts. hopefully everything meshes together :x

A strong gust of wind sends you stumbling forward, your feet catching on an upturned piece of stone, and a gasp leaves your mouth as you hit the cobbled road hard.

The texts which had been cradled in your arms scatter along the pavement, and you grimace in pain as you feel new bruises begin to blossom on your shins and forearms, the spots which had taken the brunt of the impact.

A gaggle of laughs sound behind you, and you don't bother looking to see who had been the one to play the dirty trick this time, instead focusing on gathering the dropped scrolls and heavy, leather-bound books. The entirety of this new kingdom of air benders had played a hand in your torment, some more than others, and you had learned early on that it was best to keep your head bowed and your eyes downcast when it came to being in any of their presence.

Lord Tagah —a false lord, but a lord nonetheless by title alone— had spared you alone from the water nation (from all nations, to your knowledge), deeming you the most likely to fall in line and submit to your new ruler, and he had been right. You had always been the weakest from your tribe, your renowned skills in healing the only reason why you hadn't blended in with the rest of the nation's people and stayed nondescript. You very rarely spoke up, only ever offering up a few words before going along with whatever it was that was being asked of you.

You had been lucky to be taken under your teacher's wing, an older woman named Otto who gave you more patience and grace than you deserved, rather than someone else who hadn't had your best interests at heart. Your teacher had trained you since you were little, teaching you the arts of healing with water bending, and once your talents surpassed her own, she personally requested that you be trained by Katara herself.

And she had agreed... and she had also unknowingly saved your life and set you up for a life of servitude in the event of her death.

It wasn't right to blame her, it wasn't sensical, but what other choice did you have when the truth was far too shameful? The ugly truth being that you had begged and pleaded for your life to be spared as you saw countless innocent people be executed before you. You had cried and screamed until your throat was raw, bowing at the feet of a man that had personally slain all and everyone that you had ever known. He had destroyed your home, burned your foliage, tainted your waters, snuffed the lives of your friends and the very few you considered family. He had turned the skies dark and emboldened the once powerless to act on their long-stewed hatred.

The Denied had played a large part in extinguishing the other nations, and you had played an even larger part in helping them - lending the fiends your capabilities as you healed life-threatening wounds so they could go on to slaughter people you had once brushed elbows and exchanged pleasantries with.

You were a traitor, leagues worse than the people now in charge, and so you took their abuse in stride, retreating into yourself as you took their insults, their mocking, their blows, their hatred. It was a hellish way to live, but every time you found yourself with the opportunity to end it all and finally be at peace in the land of the damned, you lost your nerve and kept carrying on.

Perhaps this was your people's retribution. Maybe they were watching you from the skies, relishing in the way you suffered – a fate that you had so foolishly begged for.

You gather the last of the scrolls as you stagger to your feet, careful not to let anything fall, and continue on your way to the royal chambers. The path is familiar, one you've come to cherish only because of the lack of air benders waiting about to take their shot at you. The closer Tagah nears, the more they scatter, and more often than not you tend to stay close in an attempt of self preservation.

Of course, you're simply trading one evil for another.

You stop in front of the grand doors, and you don't bother knocking, well aware that Tagah sensed your presence long before you had stepped foot in the newly erected palace. It was unnerving how he always seemed to know where you were at all times, and the thought that you wouldn't ever truly be out of his sight distressed you like no other.

The double doors slowly creak open, and you take a deep, steadying breath before venturing inside.

Situated in the center of the room is a large, stone desk, a slew of papers scattered along the expanse of it. Tagah sits behind it, a pensive look on his face as he looks over the papers – maps, you realize. You're unsure of what it is he's looking for exactly, the man never revealing anything of importance to you. You'd thought he'd had it all. He quite literally had the world at his fingertips. He had created the kingdom he wished for, a nation of nothing but air benders, and a lowly water bender who was quickly losing her value and importance.

With no other nations to wage war against, there were no injuries to heal save for a newly made Airbender still getting the hang of their new powers. Once everyone fully settled into their new roles and mastered their element, what use would you be to anyone? Tagah kept you around because he could use you, but if he could no longer do that, then...

"I've found what you requested, Lord Tagah."

You stay near the door, waiting for his explicit permission to approach him, and you get it in the form of a tug against your dress – a dress that's more suited for a high ranking figure rather than someone of your stature. You take slow steps forward, your steps light and careful, and gently set down the contents in your arms on top of the table.

"Some of the texts are faded. A.. Aang had stated before that a lot of the old documents he found were in disrepair." The utterance of his name brings forth a wave of sadness, and a flash of his smiling face appears before your eyes before you clear it away with a shake of your head. "I brought what I could carry, but I'd have to make a few more trips to get everything."

"I'll have someone else retrieve it. They're more equipped – your water bending proves useless for something like this, and I have no interest in waiting for you to come limping in day after day."

He finally shifts his attention from the map in front of him to you, and you stiffen under his gaze, your hands nervously bunching the skirt of your dress in your palms, unintentionally baring your legs for his gaze.

"I-I'm sorry." You're unsure of what you're apologizing for but you do so anyway.

"That you are." He gives you a slow, long look, and you harshly swallow before averting your eyes. "The bruises on your legs?"

"I-I fell." You offer, and a startled yelp leaves your mouth when something heavy and firm knocks against the center of your back. It sends you reeling forward, and your hands shoot out to brace your fall, only for a rush of air to right you on your feet at the last second.

"Similar to that?"

"...I don't mind it, Lord Tagah. I'm fully aware of my place in your kingd–"

"I mind." Your mouth snaps shut. "Air Nomads are peaceful –" You hold your breath, vivid images of the way him and other air benders had stolen the breath from people's lungs just to turn around and fill them to the point of bursting, or how they had smashed their bodies against boulders and buildings, brought down palaces and crushed the citizens underneath the rubble, flung the children into the water and refused to let them break the surface. "–we do not participate in senseless violence. The sole reason for the cleansing was to ensure that kind of behavior would die with the savages that enacted it against my people."

There's a sinking pit in your stomach that grows in size the louder his voice becomes and the faster his words leave his mouth. You know that tone well - that baritone voice that sinks deeper and deeper into anger as time goes on, his own words driving him to the brink of madness, or perhaps just pulling away the mask that concealed it all along.

"You'll tell me who did this."

You're forcefully yanked forward, your hip painfully digging into the edge of the unmoving desk, and your hands splay across the top of it as you struggle to steady your breaths. "I-I can't recall, Lord Tagah." His face darkens and you scramble, a sense of fear quickly building in your chest. "I-I promise! I didn't look! It's not a big deal, I'm okay–"

Your breath leaves you in an instant, and your hands instinctively fly to your throat as if you can will the air back. Your head immediately begins to pound, and your eyes snap up to Tagah, sheer terror and panic reflected in your gaze while contemplation shines in his own.

Blackness bleeds into the edges of your vision, your head pounding. You still have enough air being supplied to your brain to wonder if this is it - if your time has finally come. You had longed for this moment many, many times -your end- but now that it was staring you in the face, its usual mask of a benevolent ruler askew, you didn't want to embrace it.

You didn't want to die.

You wanted to keep living this pitiful, loathsome life. You wanted to continue to hope for a change of tides even though all the tides had been vanquished — you wanted to keep living in the delusion that things would go back to normal as long as you persevered.

Your lashes flutter once, lids threatening to close, and before the strength can leave your body, a rush of air floods your lungs and gives you some much needed oxygen. You hack and cough, bending at the waist as you use his desk to hold yourself up. Tears race down your hot cheeks, and you can't help the way your body trembles at the realization of how close you had come to death, and the second realization that this surely wouldn't be the last time.

"Abusing the power to airbend is a big deal. My people are still learning how to properly control it, and these falls that you claim aren't a 'big deal' can very much turn into one. Had I not had years of experience, your lungs would have ruptured and burst through your ribcage. Now say if one of the others were to advance from tripping you to pulling something like that – would you still claim it's not a big deal?"

"N-No..." You croak, your gaze refusing to lift higher than your quivering hands. Droplets of salty tears hit the surface of the desk.

"I expect a name by the end of the week."

—

You had been avoiding Tagah in a vain attempt to let the incident that transpired fade from his memory, which was yet another weak delusion of yours considering the man had held onto a five thousand year hatred and wiped every existing tribe.

In your efforts to avoid him, you found yourself wandering the outer ruins of what had previously been Republic City. You weren't allowed any further on your own, and as much as you would have loved to seek the comfort of your tribe's land, it simply wasn't an option.

So, you tried to focus your efforts on clearing away a bit of the rubble and debris of a familiar storefront. It was a bookshop, one that you vividly remember visiting with Otto many, many times. Everytime the two of you had ventured into the city when you were younger, your gaze had been drawn to the colorful covers strategically sitting in the display window. You had never outright asked to go inside and purchase something, but Otto had heard the silent request anyways and urged you to go in and pick which title called out to you most.

The memories bring a bittersweet feeling along with them, and you scrub away the dirt and ash caked onto the shop's signage. The once colorful wording has been dulled by smoke, and a few parts of the wood have been burned away. You summon a bit of water to aid in your cleaning, eyebrows pulled together taut in focus, and a small, miniscule smile curls onto your lips at the slightest reveal of the original color underneath all the grime.

You spend a good chunk of your time scrubbing, switching between drenching the sign in water and using the end of your dress to wipe, and before you know it the sun has changed position in the sky and your hands have begun to cramp.

You sit back on your haunches as you observe the sign. It's clean now, the verbiage clearly able to be seen, and the small smile that crept onto your face slowly turns into a brighter one - a genuine one. You can't remember the last time you've smiled since everything happened. You had thought it not possible anymore, too many negative feelings swirling inside you blocking out the simple action, but you had been wrong.

And how good it felt to be wrong for once.

You position your hands in front of your body as you summon another wave of water, this one larger, and submerge the sign in it as you lift it off of the ground and into the air. You position it over the rubble, and with careful movements you gently begin to lower it atop of the destruction.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?"

The sudden teasing drawl shocks you so bad that you flinch, your concentration breaking as the sign plummets to the ground. Already fragile and now waterlogged, it splinters against the cobble road, rendering your previous efforts useless.

"Water bending in a world of air bending."

Dread licks its way up your spine and grips you in a tight, clammy embrace, and a thin layer of sweat immediately beads at your forehead as you turn to look at the owner of the familiar voice. Chao, one of your most prevalent tormentors ever since being granted the ability to airbend, but his cruel behavior towards you had begun long before that.

You had known him since the both of you were children, meeting him on one of the many trips to Republic City with Otto. He had been the son of a street merchant, and he had been mean even at the young age of five.

Otto frequently ventured to places in the City that you couldn't yet go, and so she'd leave you to your own devices nearby for a short while. It was if Chao had a sixth sense for whenever moments like that occurred, for he'd always turn up with a smarmy grin and balled up fists and leave you with teary eyes bruised skin that you'd assure Otto was a result of playing too rough with the friends you had managed to make.

As you grew older, the juvenile bullying that consisted of childish name-calling, hair pulling, and blows that hurt more emotionally than physically turned into something crueler - something more direct and intentional.

Your insecurities had been targeted -weak, meek, loser, pushover- and the yanks on your hair and fists on your cheeks had been traded in for hands squeezing at your neck, flipping up your skirts and squeezing at the parts of you that distressed you the most.

You learned quickly to stay away from Chao, but it had proved hard after everything transpired. His cruelty and willingness to extinguish any and everyone from the other tribes and nations had placed him amongst Tagah's most coveted, which granted him the right to be and do whatever he pleased.

"You know it's forbidden to use those stupid fucking party tricks if you're not healing someone."

You flounder, mouth opening and closing as you struggle to come up with something to say. It hadn't been expressly forbidden, especially not by Tagah, but you had been not so gently encouraged to limit your bending to healing purposes only by the other nomads.

Chao heaves a sigh as he shakes his head, and you flinch as he moves his arms, but he simply crosses them over his chest, a smirk forming on his mouth at your reaction.

"I'll have to report to Lord Tagah that you're practicing your waterbending skills in an attempt to overthrow."

You find your words quickly.

"T-That's not true! I was just – I would never!" You scramble to your feet, a clear expression of pleading overtaking your features. "I just wanted to fix the sign. You saw me. You know—"

"Only thing I saw was a piece of shit waterbender practicing her attacks." His grin widens and your heart pounds in your chest, your eyes stinging as you conjure up the endless possibilities of what Tagah would do to you if Chao told him this.

It was a lie –of course it was– but you doubted that he would care. You had already been proving unuseful in your sole purpose, more often than not, not seeing a single person in need of healing for weeks at a time.

You had tried to be of use in other ways – cleaning around the palace, salvaging what you could of the various documentations throughout history so Tagah could go over the events that transpired while he was sealed away, taking on any and every errand that you could, and of course not causing any trouble.

He would kill you.

You were certain of it.

"But," he starts, and the dread embraces you a bit tighter. It's suffocating. "If you showed me something else, I might just forget about what I saw before." His meaning would be clear even if not for the way he leers at your body, and the tears that had been building in your eyes finally fall down your cheeks.

Air Nomads are peaceful.

"I... please... I don't want to."

We do not participate in senseless violence.

"And when have I ever given a shit what you wanted?"

—

Your body feels heavy as you trudge up the steps to the palace, and you can't remember how many times you've stopped already to take a rest. Each step is draining, each breath taxing, and you want to close your eyes for a bit but you know that you can't.

You've made up your mind, and you think if you wait any longer you'll lose your nerve and retreat to your own room instead to lick over your wounds.

The door to the entrance feels impossibly heavy, and your muddied boots slide against the ground they're planted on as you push and shove to no avail. Your lips tremble as you push harder, trying to summon what strength you have, and you believe you’ve done it when the door finally gives, but the gentle sway of your tattered dress against your thighs tells you otherwise.

The door opens with ease and you enter, your footsteps echoing in the empty halls as you take your familiar route. Forward until the end of the hall. Left. Right. Straight. A gust of wind urges you in another direction, a new one, and you follow it.

It leads you down a different set of corridors, these halls just as grandiose as all the others, and you come to a stop in front of the room placed at the end of the hall. You lift your hand to knock only for the door to open before you can, and you step inside, your gaze taking in the new environment.

It's an outdoor garden, one of the largest, well kept you've seen by far. It seems that when the palace had been built, they had worked around a large patch of garden to preserve it. There's a host of plants and flowers growing all around, some planted in pots while others sprout from the dirt, but the main attraction is the towering bonsai tree that stands tall in the middle of it all.

It's where you find Tagah, the man standing at the foot of the tree. Quiet whooshes of air fill the silence as he trims the tree, short branches and leaves falling as a result. Before they hit the dirt, he sweeps them up and deposits them in a whisker basket a bit of ways off.

You quietly step further inside the room, your head swiveling around as you take everything in. It's beautiful, the scenery a stark contrast to the destruction outside in the city, and you pull in a sharp breath when you notice the pink blossoms sprouting from the soil.

It's a flower native to your land, and an overwhelming feeling of being homesick washes over you as you drift forward until you can lean forward and take in its scent.

Memories of the foggy swamp you had grown up in flood your mind, and it's a welcome reprieve from the memories from moments ago. You reach out to touch the flower, only to catch yourself at the last second. You bring your hand back down to your side before turning to face Tagah, and you tense when you see his gaze is already on you.

He takes in your rumpled appearance; the dress that's been torn at the bottom, the length that had once reached your ankles now brushing against the middle of your thighs. The welts that litter your skin in various places from sharp nails scratching against you. Your disheveled hair that had been tangled by an angry fist. The swell of your cheek, the result from when you had been unrelenting in giving anything more than a 'look'.

The door slams shut behind you and you nearly jump out of your skin, your arms crossing over yourself.

"Their name."

You hesitate, more for the reason of not wanting to dirty your tongue than anything else.

Tagah must mistake it for you preparing to lie, and instead of his usual way of forcing you to him, he comes to you. He stops directly in front of you, head angled down and face contorted into a fierce glare, and your mouth dries at the sight.

He's imposing, both in stature and aura, and for a brief moment you're not sure if you feel fear or admiration.

"If you think I have any qualms about forcing it out of you then think again."

"Chao." You nearly choke on it as you spit it out. "It was Chao." His eyes bore into your own, and you wonder if he thinks that you're lying. "I'm not lying. I promise. He.. he..." Your throat closes up around the words, and if you hadn't sobbed all the way over, you're sure you'd be crying yet again.

For a brief second you think Tagah has once again stolen your breath, air refusing to pass the blockage in your throat, and your hands press against your chest as you wheeze. You quickly find that your lack of sufficient oxygen is your own doing, and you give him an alarmed look as you make a choking sound.

"Calm yourself."

His voice is smooth, much like the breeze that wafts over you, and you find it to be grounding. You try to do as he said and calm yourself, but it's easier said than done, and you only manage to make yourself lightheaded. You wobble on your feet, and before you can make a conscious effort to lower yourself onto the floor, your body is falling forward to knock against Tagah's chest.

He doesn't move at the added weight - unrelenting - and the earthy scent of him cocoons around you, the comforting aroma being what finally gets your lungs filling with air once again.

He doesn't hold you, but he doesn't push you away either, and you find yourself stuck in your position, torn between wanting to rip yourself away from him and wanting to stay close in case that feeling overtakes you again.

Tagah decides for you.

"I'll deal with him." You have an idea of what that will entail, but you can't find it in yourself to feel any pity for him, and you wonder if the cruelty of this new age has begun to warp you.

His hands move to grab you by your arms, the same hands that had enacted violence that had once seemed inconceivable to you, but he stops short. He pushes you aside with a breeze instead, and you don't fight against it, instead moving with it, as you had learned to do so long ago unless you wanted to end up face down on the floor.

You end up on a stone bench, the seat underneath you warm due to the humid atmosphere in the garden.

When you lift your head Tagah is gone and the door is now open, and you take that to mean it's fine for you to leave. Hopefully.

You take another look around the room, your eyes flitting up to look at the expanse of sky above the garden, and you breathe in deep as you savor the few moments of peace you're sure you won't come by any time soon. You're not exactly sure what Tagah will do to Chao, but you do know that whatever happens, the fault will of course fall onto you, and in turn...

You push those thoughts away, instead turning your attention to the flowers once again, and years of being submerged in the depths of the swamp has made you attuned to most plant wildlife. There hasn't been any rain for quite some time, and while you can tell that the plants and flowers have been watered by hand, it hasn't nearly been enough to fully enrich the soil and roots.

Some of these plants thrive best with constant rainfall, or near-constant, and the current geography of this land doesn't permit such weather. When your home had gone through a month-long drought, your people had used their water-bending to tend to the plants themselves, drenching the flora in large gushes of water.

The plants here desperately need that same treatment.

You hesitate, pads of your fingers nervously rubbing together, but your mind is quickly made up when you spot a plant from the marshes of your home looking lackluster. You stand to your feet, and with one last nervous glance to the door, you summon a large pool of water and direct it to the plants. You repeat the process a few more times, making sure to imbue the water with the needed nutrients, and check all the other plants that need a little help before repeating the process. By the time you're finished, the greenery looks rejuvenated - as if a second life has been breathed into it, and you feel a small sense of accomplishment as you finally retreat from the room and back to your own room.

It's stationed on the upper floors of the palace, only one below Tagah's own quarters. A room in the palace is reserved for the most capable and trusted in Tagah's circle, a place that you're sorely out of place in, but you had been forced into one as well so a close eye could be kept on you. You had no intention whatsoever of doing anything to put your life at stake, nor did you have the strength and skills to do more than flood a few of the lower floors and cause a bit of structural damage, but they kept a watchful eye on you nonetheless, and you couldn't complain too much.

Due to the close proximity to Tagah, the violent behavior towards you was nonexistent in the palace, save for a dirty look or a slight shoulder bump when you passed them in the halls. It was leagues better than what you went through outside these fortified walls, what you had gone through not too long ago, and you slip inside your room and close the door, your body finally relaxing as it leans against the oak wood.

And only then do you finally manage to conjure up a new wave of tears.

—

The days following the incident, as you dubbed it, were.. calmer than you expected. Truthfully, you had been anticipating an angry mob to be waiting at your door when you woke up the next morning, but there had been no one. You had been greeted with an empty, quiet hall – a quiet palace.

The usual chatter and bustle that could always be heard was nowhere to be found. People would gather in the common areas to converse and have a drink or two, leaving the heavier drinking to outside the palace, but you hadn't seen a single glass left for you to clean, or even a plate or utensils from a meal.

It was almost as if everyone had evacuated overnight and left you by yourself, and that thought was a bit... terrifying. Strangely. You should have been elated at the fact that they had seemingly vanished into thin air, but it was unnerving instead. Your footsteps had sounded too loud, your breaths even louder, and you had tried your best to busy yourself with self designated tasks.

The first day you had focused on tidying the palace - you dusted shelves and chandeliers, swept the floors, scrubbed the walls, cleaned the laundry and put it in their respective places, gathered the fruits and vegetables from the food garden. Anything that you could think to do, you did, and by the time night came you were too exhausted to think much about the silence around you.

The next few days, however, allowed you plenty of time to think.

By the fourth day, you had still yet to see anyone, not even Tagah himself. You used to not be able to go a single day without seeing him, the man always having some task for you to complete – whether that was healing someone who had gotten injured during training (something that had started happening less and less) or running an errand that would have taken him no longer than an hour, but took you the entire day to finish.

Not yet ready to venture outside the castle to confirm your far-fetched theory that you had been left to rot all in your lonesome, you slowly ascended the stairs leading to the top floor. The floor that Tagah resided on. You had spent the entirety of the morning building up the courage to go up, nervously pacing at the bottom for an embarrassingly long amount of time, and your driving point had been your fear of being forced to be alone with your thoughts for a second longer.

The top floor looks identical to all the others, nothing different about the decor compared to the other parts of the palace, but you feel as if you've stepped foot on a foreign land nonetheless. You've never been up here before, Tagah restricting everyone from this area, and you have a fleeting thought to turn tail and run before you fully submerge yourself into the piping hot water.

You almost do, your foot pausing mid-step, but you force yourself to go forward, your hands anxiously holding onto the skirt of your dress. By the time you reach Tagah's door your heart is pounding in your ears and your hands are clammy, you briefly wonder if you've accidentally summoned a bit of water instead of just sweat.

"L-Lor... Lord Ta-Tagah?" Your voice comes out meek, and you attempt to speak a bit louder when you realize you can barely hear yourself. "Lord Tagah?" You give a weak knock, your knuckles rapping against the wood, and you snatch your hand back immediately after. There's no indication that anyone is inside his room and heard you, but you wait a while anyways, even knocking again and giving another call of his name.

Nothing.

You sigh, shoulders drooping and head dropping until your chin meets your sternum. You drag yourself back downstairs, passing your floor to instead go to the first one. The door leading outside looms in front of you, and you stare at it as you stand rooted before it, willing someone, anyone, to come barging in. You wouldn't even mind if the door hit you, you'd welcome it—you might even thank them, if only for the fact it meant you weren't alone.

You stand there until your feet and calves ache, your body growing weary from standing in the same spot for hours on end. Your throat is parched, and you could easily summon a bit of water but choose not to. Instead, you reach out and brace your hand against the door. Please be there. Someone.

You push it open, expecting a bright beam of sunlight to assault your vision, but you're instead met with strong, circling winds. They circle around you —the entire palace— and stretch up into the skies. You can't see through the winds, only being able to make out gray spirals, and your heart lurches up in your throat when you realize that you're in the middle of a tornado.

A... tornado.

That explains the calmness.

An incredulous laugh bubbles out of you, your eyes wide as they take in your surroundings, and it grows in intensity the more you look. A tornado. They've left you to die in the center of a tornado. They've left you, abandoned you, after you betrayed everyone you knew, after you had watched your friends, neighbors, mentors refuse to bend to their will and be cut down as a result while you had chosen this.

They were laughing at you, you were sure of it, and if you focused hard enough they could probably be heard laughing from the veil separating the living from the dead.

You laugh with them, your cheeks hurting from the intensity of your smile, and you wonder if you've finally lost your mind. You raise your arms, hands outstretched to the sky, and a strong wave of light-headedness suddenly hits you stronger than winds acting as your prison. You stumble to the side, dizzy, and your eyes squeeze shut before your body can slam into the pavement, quietly bracing.

But the impact never comes.

Your eyes blink open only to immediately shut again at the sudden onslaught of the sun, and you lift a hand to block it out as you hesitantly open them again. There's a thick, hard arm hooked around your upper back and keeping you suspended in the floor, your body leaned back, and you move your hand out of the way to lock eyes with—

"Lord Tagah!"

You act before you can think, your body moving to slam into his chest. Your arms wrap around as much of his as they can, and you let out a relieved sob as you fist the material of his robe in your palms. "I-I thought you were gone! I thought it was just me." You cling to him, his past transgressions the furthest thing from your mind. All you care about is that you're not alone.

His hands come up to rest on your arms, almost hesitantly, and that gentle touch, the only gentle one you've ever received from a man, is enough to make tears spring to your eyes and cause your bottom lip to tremble, but you hold it at bay.

"I was rehabilitating the nomads, but it took longer than expected. I didn't realize so many had strayed from the right path." Rehabilitating. You suddenly take note of the moistness of his clothing and the stickiness of his chest, and you slowly pull your head back, your eyes zeroing in on the blood caked onto his skin. "You should have spoken up sooner rather than allowing things to get out of hand. Do you know how many people I had to cull to teach them a fucking lesson?"

His grip on your arms tightens slightly , and your own hands leave his clothing as you hold them out to look at them as well. Your palms are stained red.

"Oh." You turn your head up to look at him. "...are you hurt?" You coat your hand in water before scanning it over his body, checking him for any injuries. You try your best to ignore the stench of copper –you should be used to it by now, after all– and focus on him. You sense a minor injury on his abdomen, and you automatically push his robe aside to reveal the sculpted abs underneath, a dark, mottled bruise in the center.

You press your palm to his skin, his skin hot despite the cooling water, and only when you feel him tense underneath your touch do you realize the casual manner in which you just touched him. You blanche, your eyes slowly scanning upwards to his face, and they quickly drop back down when you see he's already staring at you.

He hasn't said anything, so you don't either, instead turning your attention around you while you wait for his injury to be healed. The tornado that had once seemed never-ending has now dispersed, leaving you with the view of...

Your head snaps back forward, wide eyes focused on the bloodied skin of his chest – blood which is none of his own. The moans and groans of pain finally reach you, and you realize that he had kept you ignoring inside a soundless storm while he seemingly raged a war outside.

There's bodies everywhere, some alive, others not, some intact and others.. strewn about. Blood paints the ground, and viscera hangs from building structures like decorations.

"That's enough - save your strength." His hand closes around yours, and you flinch, shoulders nearly touching your ears. "You've got a lot of new patients." The hand that isn't holding yours smooths up your arm, the action oddly... comforting, before gripping at the back of your neck. He tilts your head up, and you take in a shaky breath. "Heal the ones you think should be allowed to live, just enough so they don't pass from their injuries. Let the others die."

Just as he had done in the garden, Tagah turns you away from him and pushes you forward with a gust of wind, and you don't have to look back to know that he's gone. Your hands ball into fists in an effort to stop them from trembling, and you steel yourself as best you can as you look at the carnage he had left behind.

Was this a result solely from what had been done to you?

Tagah had spoken about air nomads being peaceful, but that clearly hadn't been the case when they massacred everyone save for you. They could be violent — they were violent, scarily so. They were mean, crass, controlling, vulgar. So why would the mistreatment of you lead to something like this? Why would he care?

You hesitantly approach the nearest person, your stomach threatening to empty its contents as you take in their lack of a head. Their body moves, fingers twitching and arms spasming as if searching for their missing body part, and you stumble away from them and to the next person.

Did he care? About you? Or was he simply, as he said, rehabilitating his nation's people? Was he truly trying to go back to the way things were? Before violence and murder and cruelty had been introduced to his homeland?

You drop to your knees and look over the unfamiliar woman in front of you. Blood leaks out of the corners of her mouth, her eyes weakly pleading with you to save her, and coolness envelopes your hands as you guide them to the hole in her chest.

If that was the reason, why did he feel the need to shield you from what was happening just outside the palace? Why would he spare you the gory details? Had he taken note of how you hadn't eaten or slept for days after seeing the slaughtering of your tribe? Of how you, even now, woke up screaming in the dead of night as you pleaded for people who were long gone?

Did he... care?

Once the woman is no longer a breath away from dying you move onto the next, not really focusing on Tagah's words of 'healing the ones you think should be allowed to live', but rather healing everyone you come across. It's not your right to decide who should live or die, so you expend yourself as you try to heal as fast as you can.

You feel yourself growing weaker with every person saved. Your head is pounding and you feel like you could collapse at any second, but you go on anyways, practically having to drag yourself as you go. You heal punctured lungs, ruptured stomachs, fractured skulls. You cauterize amputated limbs with scalding water. You offer cool sips of water for cases of severe hydration. The bottoms of your shoes are slick with blood, and you've slipped and fallen to the ground more times than you can remember, your clothing and skin getting dirty in the process. The stench of blood and the beginnings of decaying bodies sits heavy in the air, and you breathe through your mouth in an effort to ignore it.

You look around you, searching for anyone else not yet past the point of saving, and spot a single body sprawled near the fountain, the once clear water now tainted with human entrails.

You drop down beside them, knees slamming against stone, and go to scan their body when you suddenly freeze, a painfully familiar pair of hate-filled eyes clashing with your own. Your hands freeze over their chest, and you feel your own tighten as a shiver races down your spine and the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end.

"Chao.." You breathe out, and he snarls at you when he hears it. His face is nearly unrecognizable - deep gashes mar his skin, some diagonal, others horizontal, many criss-crossing over the once freckled flesh. Blood oozes out, the cuts opening and spreading as he spits curses out at you, and you feel queasy as you see one cut go deep enough to see into his mouth from the side of his cheek.

"—ucking fault! You bitch." His teeth are stained red and he's popped a few blood vessels in his eyes, and you see two bloodied stumps from where his hands used to be, the same hands that had caused you so much pain over the years. "You cunt! You goddamn, worthless piece of shit!" He takes a swing at you and you fall back on your butt, weakly scrambling back as fear threatens to overtake you. He's angry – oh, he's so angry, he's going to...

You look him over once again and take note that he's missing his feet as well. "Heal me! Do it now!" He crawls towards you, a trail of blood following, and you blink in slow realization. Let the others die. Before he can reach you, you stand to your feet, and for the first time ever you don't tremble in front of him.

"No." Your voice cracks as you say it, but you said it. It's the first time you've ever told someone no and it feels good, it feels amazing. "No. No. No! I don't want to!" You scream it as loud as you can, making up for all the years that you had said yes, that you had let people twist your arm and agree to their requests, that you had done something you didn't want to do. "I don't have to... I don't have to do anything you say anymore. Lord Tagah... Lord Tagah said this was my choice."

He keeps screaming and cursing, albeit weaker and quieter than before, and you take slow steps backwards, ignoring the pulling feeling inside of you. Otto and Katara had instilled in you the moral that killing, even indirectly, was wrong. You were supposed to save people, heal their injuries and nurse them back to health with a smile, even if they took their frustrations about being injured out on you or squeezed and pinched parts of you that they shouldn't have.

Leaving Chao to die goes against everything that you had ever been taught, but maybe you hadn't been taught right. Maybe... maybe Tagah was right. Maybe they had been wrong -guilty and not absconded from the crimes of their ancestors- and maybe he was fixing those wrongs. And if he had kept you alive all this time and given you the choice to decide on whether to be the savior or the reaper, maybe that meant he believed you were right as well.

Something plants itself inside your chest, roots taking up residence in your heart, and you turn on your heel and run towards the palace. Your feet occasionally slide from underneath you, but before you hit the ground you're lifted by an invisible force each time and given a gentle push forward.

You race through the open doors, and before you can decide on a path to go down, you spot Tagah standing in the center of the entry hall. His hands are clasped behind his back, a look of patience on his face, and your pace slows as you walk until you come to a stop in front of him. Your chest rises and falls with your hurried breaths, and you go to speak only for him to beat you to it.

"You did good." He doesn't smile as he says it, but his brown eyes look kind, nothing like what you've just left behind to die a slow death. "Better than I thought you would."

The thing in your chest blossoms, a baby bud sprouting.

"You should feel good knowing that you had a hand in shaping the future of our nation."

The bud skips a few life cycles and grows into something mature, sure, overwhelming.

"Let's clean you up."

He holds his hand out for you, waiting, and you hold your breath as you reach out and take it. Your hand fits into his almost as if it never had any other purpose than to hold his, and he turns forward and leads you to the winding staircase. You realize this is the first time he's ever directly touched you, and a juvenile, fluttery feeling floats around in your stomach as you spin that thought around in your head. You watch his back as he guides you somewhere, your thoughts too jumbled together for you to concentrate on exactly where he's taking you.

You don't have to begin to wonder about it, the both of you finally coming to a stop, and you realize he's led you to the bath house. Steam hangs in the air, the hot water in the large bath the cause, along with the scent of herbs and flowers. You've tended to the cleaning of the bath house, but you yourself have never used it, choosing to bathe in the privacy of your own bathroom instead.

Did he plan on bathing with you?

The prospect makes a bundle of nerves settle in your stomach, and when Tagah lets go of your hand it quickly finds your dirtied dress and picks at a loose piece of stitching. He turns to face you, and you breathe in through your nose, lips pressed together tight as you give a shaky smile.

He looks you up and down, gaze staying longer on your hand that tries its best to pick a hole in your dress, before his eyes meet yours again.

"I went ahead and placed a few rejuvenating herbs and potions into the water to replenish your energy." You give a jerky nod and a low 'thank you'. "Don't bother looking for me when you're done. Rest instead."

He steps around you, and you blankly stare at the spot he was just in before you whirl around. For once, he's still in sight, and you call out to him. "Are you not... are we not.. ?" You let the question hang in the air, and his shoulders square as he comes to a stop.

"I doubt I'd be able to stop at simply washing you, and being as though you currently look like a terrified kitten moth, it's best we don't test my restraint. I'll bathe alone."

And with that he leaves, the doors to the room closing behind him, and the flower in your chest turns into an invasive species, sprouting all over and showing no signs of dying off.

—

When you woke up the next day you felt wholly rejuvenated. There was no soreness in your muscles, nor the usual groggy feeling that always lingers whenever you've pushed yourself past your limits. You climbed out of bed with an eagerness you hadn't had since you were a child waking up to go and play in the marshes, and had taken your time getting ready, a stark contrast to the cursory way in which you had done so all the previous days.

You had made your way down to the kitchen, feeling better knowing that bodies now occupied the rooms –bodies that still hated you, but bodies nonetheless– and cooked a breakfast that would hopefully satisfy everyone's specific palates. You made a wide variety of dishes to choose from, taking account of Tagah's vegetarian diet and his apparent knack for sweets in the morning.

You had never been much of a baker, but you had tried your best to fold the dough right and keep the jam filled centers from overflowing too much. It looked messy, nothing like the pastries you had seen displayed in the shop windows from a time that seemed so long ago, but you hoped he'd enjoy it nonetheless.

As you finish setting the last plate at the table the first person enters, and you give them a quick once over before bowing your head. You had made enough to feed everyone in the palace, but truthfully, you hadn't expected anyone to actually come down, but rather demand that you bring it up to their rooms. Their injuries had been dire, and you had listened when Tagah told you to heal them only enough to keep them from dying. Everyone that you healed should be in bed resting, definitely not moving about so soon.

The person that had come down is a younger man, his face littered with bruises as he keeps his arm tucked against his chest in a makeshift sling. You couldn't tell for sure, but you believe he had been limping as well. You want to tell him that he'll only make the injury worse by walking on it, but the last time you had tried to give one of the new nomads advice you had wound up icing a swollen cheek, so you simply offer a polite smile in his direction and move off to the side.

A few more people enter, each one earning more concerned looks from a medical standpoint than the last, and you've found yourself inching further and further towards the exit in the back of the room. No one has been outwardly hostile to you yet, not even a carefully timed glare, and you'd rather not give them a chance to.

You had intended to wait for Tagah, a large, foolish part of you wanting to know if he liked what you made. You had even planned to serve his food to him, something you had seen done many times during mealtimes back in your tribe. Of course, that was usually the wife and mother of the house serving her husband, but it should be fine if you were to do it for Tagah—Lord Tagah. He was the ruler of this new world, and considering that you did the majority of the upkeep of the palace and prepared the meals, it only made sense that you served him his meals as well. There were no hidden meanings behind the action, and you certainly weren't influenced by the new, foreign feeling that had overcome you overnight.

Deciding that you'd just have to leave it up to your imagination, you slip out of the doorway to make your escape, only to collide with a firm body. You stumble back, an apology on your tongue, but the words die when you look into a familiar pair of brown eyes.

"Where are you running off to now?"

"I-I.. No—Good morning, my lord." You breathe out, fingers meeting fabric. "How is your abdomen? Do you have any discomfort? I can—"

"Answer my question." The usual irritation that resides in his voice when he speaks to you is less, a good sign. You hadn't been too sure about how he'd react to you considering... I doubt I'd be able to stop at simply washing you, and being as though you currently look like a terrified kitten moth, it's best we don't test my restraint. Oh, what had he meant by that? You know, of course you know, but that would mean that he found you—

"I was going to go and prep the infirmary. I'm sure everyone will need a checkup soon, and the amount of broken bones not properly set and in makeshift slings is worrying." More worrying than it should be, considering many of the people in there had disrespected you to your face on more than one occasion.

"That can wait. You'll sit and eat first."

The thought of sitting with everyone and eating dampens your mood immediately, and you begin to shake your head only to stop when he gives you a look that leaves no room for refusing. The little bit of give he had permitted you last night seems to have run out, so you let him lead you back into the dining hall, a warm, large hand on your back and urging you forward.

He guides you to the table holding the food, and you can't help but notice how no one at the dining table speaks. All that's heard is the scrape of forks against plates, coupled with the occasional hitch of breath or painful exhale when someone moves in a way that exacerbates their wounds. This silence seems odd even with Tagah being present, but you can't imagine they'd have too much to say considering what he had done to them.

Your gaze strays to him as you grab a plate, your mind once again venturing to the reveal of events from yesterday. You're sure he had done what he had for his own reasons, but there was still a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that was adamant he had done it partly because of you.

A silly thought, surely, but you couldn't shake it no matter how hard you tried.

You place a few different items on your plate, watching what Tagah grabs for himself out of the corner of your eye. The corner of your mouth twitches upward when you notice he reaches for the jam-filled tarts. Once you've gotten what you believe you can stomach, you stand idly by the table, trepidation curling around your ankles like weights and keeping you shackled to your spot.

You really, really don't want to sit with the others, and you're sure that they feel the same despite their usual lack of vitriol towards you. You're used to eating in the kitchen after everyone else had finished with their own meals, quickly scarfing down your food so you can immediately clean your dishes and retreat back to your room or do whatever it was that Tagah had tasked you with on that specific day.

Tagah moves to the head of the table, and before you can force your legs to cooperate and follow along, you're nudged forward and forced to begin walking lest you end up faceplanting. He takes his seat, and you don't have to wonder where you're supposed to deposit yourself, for the second seat at the head of the table is pulled out for you and he gives you an expectant look.

You hesitantly sit, the chair feeling unwelcoming, and the small appetite that you had mere moments ago has up and waltzed away. The same could be said for the people around you, the telltale sounds of people eating coming to a halt, and you glance up to see everyone with their heads bowed to their plates as if they're scared to look up any further, and the position is grossly identical to the one you had found yourself in everyday for the past year.

It feels surreal to be sitting here, a place you never longed to be, but you can't say that you hate it.

From the corner of your eye you see Tagah raise the brown pastry to his mouth, and you turn as he sinks his teeth into it, the dough giving underneath the pressure and flaking. Red jam coats his lips, his tongue swiping out to clean them, and he swallows before immediately going in for another bite.

No, you don't hate it at all.

—

The next few weeks are filled with medical check-ups, although not actual healing. Tagah ordered you not to do anything more than change bandages and offer a bit of medical advice, stating that they would heal on their own time rather than with your aid.

You had expected to feel the brunt of their misguided anger, and had even doubled up on your clothing in an attempt to soften the blows, but they hadn't done more than acknowledge you with a nod of their head in a general greeting before sitting down on an empty bed.

You would have passed out from the shock of it if you didn't think they'd take the chance to smother you with a pillow while you were out.

None of them had sneered at you, or turned their nose up, or touched you in any way whatsoever. They didn't pretend as if you didn't exist, and a few had even thanked you before they left the infirmary. If not for the multiple times you had pinched yourself to prove you were conscious and alert, you would have assumed you were in a dream far kinder than you deserved.

If that hadn't been shocking enough on its own, the casual manner in which Tagah now spoke to you in sure was. It had begun when he called for you to join him in the garden – he had asked exactly what you had done to the plants to make them look so full of life, and that had spiraled into you telling him about your experience with the fauna of all the lands, more specifically in your homeland. You told him bits of your childhood, how you spent all your free time tending to the plants and playing with the animals lurking around whenever you weren't training. Of how your days were spent with your nose in a book or following after the doctors in the hospital as part of your training – all the children in your tribe were trained in the art of healing, most only learning the basics if they didn't prove to be too promising, but a select few being placed under the guidance of a skilled master. That's how you had come to be with Otto, an elder who had a hand in training Katara of all people, the greatest healer ever born.

Tagah seemed interested in learning more about you and your tribe, and it felt strangely healing to talk about what was no more, even if it was to the man that had made that so. Any questions he asked you answered, hesitantly at first before you grew more comfortable and started offering up more and more. You had never spoken to anyone in depth about anything other than Otto, and for the past year you hadn't really spoken at all, and you found that you missed it.

He didn't speak much about himself, occasionally mentioning a previous Avatar that he had known and lived alongside – Sonam. When he spoke about her, his tone switched between being filled with scorn and admiration. It was clear that they had a somewhat complicated relationship, and for reasons unknown to you, you felt oddly glad that she wasn't around anymore.

The both of you were currently sitting in the garden once again, cups of tea placed in front of the both of you along with a small platter of sweets, more-so for Tagah than for yourself. You're speaking about the time you had nearly drowned yourself when you attempted to alleviate your own headache – you had been no older than six and thought you could get rid of it by summoning a ball of water around your head, and then had panicked once you realized it not only made you feel worse, but also cut off your breathing. In your panicked state you had conveniently forgotten how to dispel your ability, and had run around the village with your arms flailing until someone had stepped in.

"It was humiliating." You take a dejected sip of your tea, the liquid long since having cooled in your cup, and wrinkle your nose at the coldness of it. "I wish I could say that was the first and last time I did something as dumb as that, but that'd be a lie."

Tagah exhales a breath of air that sounds mildly amused, and suddenly you're glad for the coldness of the tea to combat the warmth in your face. "Well, it's paid off. Water benders were renowned healers even in my time, but the feats I've seen you accomplish rivals their exploits by far."

You preen at the praise, thumbs rubbing against your cup, and cross your ankles as you fight away a twitching smile. "Thank you for saying that, my lord."

"Tagah is fine."

He steadies with you his stare, his eyes piercing, and you can't help but ask the question that's been swirling around in your head night after night.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" It reminds you of the way livestock are catered to the day before they're butchered and skinned, but you can't for the life of you figure out what Tagah is prepping you for. You don't take him for the kind of man to sweeten your murder, nor one to particularly care about the life of someone who isn't an Airbender. By his words, you're the enemy, and while you had heard of the saying to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, you considered this to be a bit too pally.

"You prefer the former?" He quirks an eyebrow and you quickly shake your head.

"I–no, but, it's just .. I'm not sure what I did to warrant it." You break eye contact to instead take in the intricate floral designs on the cup in your hands.

"I gave you multiple opportunities to betray me and my people, from allowing you to prepare our meals to letting you sleep under the same roof as us, and yet you never tried even after I personally saw to the deaths of those who raised you and didn't lift a hand to stop the abuse you went through afterwards. You've proven to be more in-line with the nomad teachings than the ones I've made air benders — you're trustworthy, capable, and more than deserving to be the one to help me usher in a new wave of nomads."

You suck in a quiet breath, your head jerking up as confusion swims in your gaze.

"But you.. everyone is dead."

There's a heaviness to his gaze that hadn't been present before, and your hands move from your cup to your lap where they clasp together. You're not naive enough to not know the meaning behind the gaze, but what you don't know is why your skin doesn't crawl compared to how it would when you received that same look in the past. Instead, your skin heats and tingles, your body sweltering underneath the thin layer of clothing you wear.

A cooling breeze circles around your ankle, slowly creeping upward, and you unconsciously shift, a strangled gasp leaving your mouth when something firm and fleeting presses up against the junction between your thighs.

"L-Lord Tagah?"

"I told you that just Tagah was fine." He takes another sip of his tea, and the force between your legs grows more firmer, more insistent, and your hands move to grip the edges of your seat. Your thighs move to close, just for them to be forced further apart, and your back arches forward and a breathy, trembling sound slips past your lips as a pressure begins to build in your stomach.

"Tagah." You keen, your underwear growing damp from his ministrations, and your toes curl in your shoes as slowly blink. You feel drunk, intoxicated, and your skin burns as if you've just taken your first sip of the night. "Something ... something's happening." Your brows furrow, hips gyrating in your seat, and your head lolls back as there's an almost weightless swipe that travels up your wet folds before rolling against the hidden bundle of nerves.

"Something? You've never had an orgasm before?"

"Nuh... No, I–oh!"

Your body feels hot all over, the cool air caressing against your skin doing nothing to combat the heat, and a sound in a pitch you never knew yourself capable of making bursts free from your throat. A firm touch closes around your breasts; squeezing and kneading. Your nipples pebble at the manipulation, standing out taut against the fabric of your top, a soft flick against them has another one of those pitiful noises filling the room.

"Then let this be the first of many."

Every part of you receives some form of stimulation, and you quickly find that you don't know how to react to any of it – your body switches to autopilot, refusing to listen to any of the commands that you give it. Your hips chase against the phantom touches being directed between them, bottom lifting off of the seat in the seeking of something you've yet to experience. Your hands glow with your element, and the puddle that's formed underneath you in your seat grows cold and numbing. Your mouth hangs open as a chorus of sighs, moans and gasps flow out.

Tagah watches you throughout, his face unreadable as he sits across from you with a pastry in hand. His composure only serves to drive you more mad than you already are, and you try to reel yourself in – attempt to overcome the sensations crashing against you, but it proves impossible.

It comes to a loud, trembling end when a vacuum-like force suctions around your sensitive nub. A gush of fluids leaves you, a choked cry of his name on your lips, and black creeps into the edges of your vision as you race to catch your breath. Your chest heaves, heart slamming against your ribcage, and you blink away the darkness concealing Tagah's face to reveal an expression that you can't describe as anything other than smug and satisfied.

"Take as much time as you need to think over what I said." He slowly raises from his seat, his eyes dropping to the liquid dripping from the sides of your chair, and you quickly duck your head down in horror, thighs snapping shut as a different kind of heat envelopes you. "And if you need another trial of what it'll entail, you know where my room is."

—

It's been six days since what happened in the gardens, five nights since you've had a restful sleep, and not a moment since you haven't been subjected to Tagah's whims.

Ever since he had brought you to a peak you had never reached, he had been incredibly open about his desires for you that you had once thought didn't even exist. It's dizzying - this shift from treating you like a bothersome gnat, to building a relationship akin to friendship, to finally...this.

You hold your breath as you spot Tagah in the halls. He's engaged in a conversation with someone reminiscent of an advisor, his back to you. You try to pass quietly, making yourself smaller, and you think you're in the clear when you manage to slip by them without a lull happening in the conversation. The breath you had been holding leaves you in a whoosh, only to immediately be sucked back in when an upwards breeze suddenly flips your skirt up.

You rush to lower it, your head whipping around to stare at the culprit who looks as if he hasn't moved a muscle, and the tips of your ears burn as you face forward and hurry down the halls.

Occurrences like that have been happening daily –multiple times a day– and it's left you with a raging inferno in your lower belly each time. It seems a bit juvenile for a lord to do, even more so with someone like you, but you can't bring yourself to feel any negative feelings towards it.

His words from that day have stayed at the forefront of your mind –more than deserving to be the one to help me usher in a new wave of nomads– and it never fails to make you glow from your toes to your head. Bearing a lord's children — a conqueror's children, a man who had proved himself to be the most capable, the strongest, the man who had killed the avatar and his constituents, the man who had snatched the lives away from people you had once loved and cherished.. the man who had freed you from your lifelong tormentor, the man who had praised your strengths and called you trustworthy, dependable, deserving.

The man who set your heart ablaze, made your hands moist with nerves, made your breath quicken and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The man who plagued your dreams at night and made you shoot up in your bed with his name on your tongue. The man who ruled over you, commanded you, desired you.

And you desired him.

You press cool hands to hot cheeks as you round the corner, your back meeting the wall as you press yourself against it in an effort to balance yourself. You feel unsteady on your feet, as if you're walking on a cloud rather than the floor which houses your bedroom, and you take a grounding breath as your eyes slip closed.

You take slow, deep breaths to calm yourself, and when you deem yourself stable enough to continue on you open your eyes.

You yelp at Tagah's sudden appearance in front of you, your head jerking back and unintentionally slamming into the wall with a dull thud. His hand comes up to cradle the back of it, fingers gently massaging the ache away, and he tuts down at you as he moves in closer.

"Jumpy little thing."

The toes of his shoes meet your own, and you flatten yourself fully against the wall in a poor effort to keep a semblance of distance between the two of you. Your pulse quickens, breaths grow shallow, and you're forced to look up into his face when he gives a soft tug on your hair, silently demanding that you lift your head.

"Do you have any idea of the scent you leave behind?" He breathes in deep as he says it, and you let out a small, shaky breath as he presses his front to your own. Your stomach turns and flips, hands awkwardly poised at your sides, and a wetness that always plagues you after Tagah's presence settles in your underwear.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"The wind—" a breeze flows past as he says it and swishes your dress against your legs. "—carries the smell of your arousal. Everyone in this palace can smell the moment you start to drip."

"Wha– I don't—I'm not—" His nose brushes against your own, breath fanning against your lips, and your words catch in your throat.

"You test my restraint every minute of every fucking day. Do you know how hard it is to keep from splitting you open on my cock every time you waltz by reeking of a woman begging to be fucked?"

"Tagah!" You exclaim, eyes widening and thighs pressing together to try and quell the building ache. You've never heard him speak like this –or anyone for that matter– and the crudeness of his words elicit a wanton response in you.

He says your name in kind, the sound a gravelly growl, and then his lips are pushing against your own. You freeze, breath stilling and heart coming to a grinding halt. He doesn't give you a chance to process, instead curling an arm around your waist and snatching you against him. You arch into him, head moving back unintentionally and he follows, body hunching over your arm as he runs his tongue along the seam of your lips.

You open, unsure, but it turns out to be the desired response when his tongue surges inside to meet your own. You've never been kissed before – not like this. This feels raw, intimate, far too intimate to be done out in the open, and it makes your head spin.

Tagah pulls his lips back just enough to speak. "Breathe." A breath of air forcefully enters you and you cough, liquid beading at the corners of your eyes as you focus on steadying your breathing. That proves to be easier said than done when he kisses you again, his lips moving expertly against your own. You try to copy his actions, but you can tell you're clumsy – lips stiff, tongue shy, but he kisses you harder anyways, only pulling back to prompt you to breathe in and breathe out.

He kisses you until your lips are plump and swollen, until drool coats your chin and threatens to drip off of it, until your hands are fisted in his robes and your knees are knocking, until your thighs are slick with your essence and your underwear uncomfortably cling to you – only then does he let you go, his body leaving you all at once and throwing you into a state of withdrawal.

"I'll come to your room tonight." You sag against the wall, lidded eyes struggling to focus as you pant. "If you don't want to see me, lock your door. If not, I'll take that to mean you're agreeing to be the mother of my children."

And with that he leaves you.

~

The sun sets quicker than it's ever set, as if it knows what's to come and hurries to shield itself away. You've dusted your room a total of seven times, and shifted your furniture into a new position just to change it right back. You straightened even pictures, tidied your already pristine closet, scrubbed the clean baseboards, wiped down a sparkling toilet and clawfoot bath.

You've done everything you could to dispel the nervous energy circulating inside you, yet as you now glance out the window and see the darkened sky, it comes rushing back into you. You let out a shuddering breath, your hand raising to push curly baby hairs away from your damp forehead.

If you don't want to see me, lock your door.

You had locked it the moment you came stumbling through the door, your pants cold and moist and your breath wheezing out from between clenched teeth. After you had bathed and changed into a clean set of clothes you unlocked it. Then you had tried to read a book to calm your racy thoughts, but your gaze had strayed back to the door and you found yourself locking it once again and so on and so forth. You wouldn't be surprised if you woke up with a stiffness in your wrist tomorrow morning.

The door is currently locked, and you sit on the edge of your bed as you stare at it, your nail picking away at a tender hangnail.

If not, I'll take that to mean you're agreeing to be the mother of my children.

The thought of being a mother had never crossed your mind, and now that it was presented to you... Traditionally speaking, it would be an honor. A lord choosing you to carry his heir was one of the highest honors that could be bestowed upon you – even if you were no more than a decorated concubine. But speaking as you, a woman who never thought she'd find someone willing to court her let alone want to build a family with her –a new era of nomads– it was terrifying.

You were still of sound enough mind to recognize the position that you were in. If you refused, would he even accept that? He was a man that had wiped entire nations off the face of the earth for his goals without so much as a moment's hesitation, so if he desired you, wanted you... wouldn't he have you anyways?

A floorboard creaks just outside your door and you shoot to your feet, your breath coming to a halt as you focus on the mahogany wood as if you can see through it. You imagine Tagah on the other side, all imposing. You imagine the face he'll make when he finds the door locked. You imagine if he'll turn on his heel and retreat back to his room – or perhaps to another woman? The thought makes nausea rock the bile in your stomach as if a storm rages inside of you.

The handle of the door jingles as it's been grabbed, and you wait for the resounding click of the lock to be met by the turn of his hand. You wait for a curse, a yell, a pound on the door, a demand, but instead you're met with the sound of the door creaking open as he looms in the doorway.

You blink.

You had locked it, hadn't you?

"I knew I did right in choosing you."

The door shuts behind him, and you're rooted in your spot as he takes slow steps towards you. Your neck cranes back to look at him, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted in the shock you still feel. "Tagah." Is all that you manage to get out before his mouth covers your own.

Similar to earlier in the hall, the kiss quickly overwhelms you. His hands come up to cup the sides of your neck, thumbs positioned underneath your jaw to keep your head up and tilted at an angle, and your own hands hang onto thick forearms.

When he pulls away you find yourself stretching up on your toes in an attempt to reconnect, and he presses a kiss to your forehead instead, ignoring the dejected noise you let out in response.

"As good as your lips feel, I've been salivating at the thought of tasting the ones below." His hand moves to cup you between your legs as he says it, his palm scorching hot against you despite the layers of fabric separating your skin, and a rush of fluids flow out of you as he applies a bit of pressure. He holds your gaze as he rubs against you, back and forth, and your moans flow freely through no effort of your own.

"T-That feels.. feels good."

"Does it?" You eagerly nod, hands running along his arms. The muscles are defined, hard-earned, and they flex and tense underneath your touch. You travel up to his biceps, taking advantage of your brief lapse of shame and self-consciousness to explore, and he lets you – encourages you. A breeze displaces his robes, the knot keeping the fabric snug around his body loosening, and the material falls to hang from where it's tucked into his pants. His chest and stomach are bare for your viewing, and you run your hands over the tanned skin.

You start at his shoulders, fingertips tracing over the thick, blue lines, and then move to his chest. You poke and prod and test the give, brush your thumbs against flat nipples that pebble under your touch, not missing the way he takes in a breath at the contact. Your fingers slip lower, dragging down the ridges and creases of his stomach, and they pause when he brings his own fingers to the front of your mound and rubs at your aching nub through the cotton of your clothing.

You moan, your feet shuffling as you angle yourself away, the feeling too much at once, and you sigh out when he pulls his hand from between your legs. The reprieve is short, for then he's tugging at your linen pants and pushing them down your legs, your underwear next to follow.

A strong wave of air forces your arms up, then your shirt joins the small pile of clothing on the floor, leaving you to be the completely bare one. Your hands move to cover yourself on instinct, but an invisible force drags your arms back down and keeps them pressed to your sides.

"Don't hide yourself from me." His voice has taken on a rougher edge – deep and gruff, and your skin warms as he rakes his eyes up and down your body. He takes in your breasts that bounce with your stuttered breaths, nipples protruding underneath his heavy gaze, and then down to the softness of your belly, and finally to the bed of curls that reside between your thighs.

He groans at the sight and you leak.

The room spins and you find yourself looking up at the ceiling, something soft and sinking underneath you. Your arms spread out and you deduce that you're on your bed, and when hands close around your ankles and pull you down the bed you deduce that Tagah is at the foot of it. You look at him and he looks between your legs, holding them further apart so he can get a better look.

You yelp, hands moving to cover yourself, but it does no good. He drops to his knees before you can reach down, and then he's pushing his face between your thighs and stilling. His nose presses into your curls, and fire ignites on your skin when you hear him inhale, deep and long.

It's embarrassing, painfully so, and you cringe into your hands, mouth downturning and eyes squeezing shut as he sniffs you like some kind of animal. You wonder if the years he had spent sealed away eroded some of the humanity left in him, leaving him more beast than man - as something that acts on their most primal urges.

You feel two fingers spread you open, parting your hair, and your back involuntarily arches when a cool draft wafts over your wet folds. "Just look at what you had hidden away... beautiful. You don't know the power you hold, girl."

His tongue meets your bud and you transcend. The flat of his tongue is firm, yet soft, and it stiffens as he drags it down your folds until he reaches your entrance. He prods at it and you tense, and noticing it he ventures back up.

He settles your feet on his shoulders, and then his hands are pushing up your stomach, pausing to knead at the pudge located there before continuing on. He stops at your breasts, fingers sinking into the fat of them and molding them to the shape of his palm. He tweaks your nipples just as he flicks your clit and you choke out a whine, toes curling and calves tensing.

It feels as if every nerve in your body is being poked with a hot iron, and the only thing working to combat that scorching heat is the coolness of Tagah's touch - but even that isn't enough. Sweat beads on your skin, your thighs turning slick, and your back wets the bundles of fabric underneath you. His tongue leaves your sex to lap at the liquid rolling down your skin, and a humiliatingly loud cry leaves your kiss-swollen lips as he sinks his teeth into the plush of your inner thigh.

He moves back to tongue at your nub, a wave of slick flowing out of you, and you gasp when a thick finger is pushing it back inside. He works his digit in – one knuckle then two until it's buried inside and your hands are fisted in your hair and garbled pleas are fighting their way out of your throat.

"Relax. Let me stretch you out." He murmurs against your skin, the vibrations causing you to clench around his finger, and his grunt is cut off as he closes his mouth around your twitching pearl and sucks. Your body moves on pure instinct; hands tangling in your hair further, hips bucking, heels of your feet switching between digging into the hard muscles of Tagah's upper back to bring him closer to pushing against his shoulders to get him off of you. It's not enough and then it's too much. You want more and when you get it you want less, but once Tagah has worked you up to three fingers he doesn't give you less, no.

He thrusts them into you, scissors them apart and rubs them against your walls, crooks them up as he seems to search for something. What it is he's after you don't know, but you know he's found it when your body seizes up and something unforgiving and forceful rips out of you.

You soak his hand, body twitching and eyes leaking, and he detaches his mouth from your sex with a suctioned pop, fingers still pumping into you.

"Tagah.. Tagah, Tagah, oh Tagah!" He silences you with a kiss, wet lips sliding against your own, and he tastes tangy. He licks into your mouth and you copy him. He sucks on your lips and you copy that, too. And when he pulls his fingers free and guides something bigger, firmer, hotter to your entrance you spread your thighs and welcome him in with a keen of his name.

The stretch is nothing like his fingers, and you nearly regret inviting him in so eagerly, but then he's pushing his hand down between your bodies and drawing circles into that sensitive, tender thing and it's bearable again—it's good, again.

Tagah is saying something but you can't focus on it, not when he notches his length into you bit by bit, spreading you open more and more — impossibly wide. Your thighs knock against his sides, nails biting into his inked shoulders, and his braid tickles against your cheek as he moves.

Each move of his hips makes the bed move, and the headboard knocking against the wall in rhythmic thuds. Your hole is loud and wet, squelching with every shift, and it makes your ears burn and your heart hammer against your chest.

"Ah-ah-ah," you pant out, glossed over eyes blinking up to meet Tagah's. His eyebrows are pinched together in a look of concentration, the muscles in his jaw ticking, and his nostrils flare as he breathes out through them. "G-good .. feels good. Right here." You snake a hand down your throat and lay it against your stomach, and a whining moan leaves you when he rocks into you harder. "And here." Your hand slips down further to join his, and hot tears race down to disappear into your hairline as you try and fail to reel in your noises.

His eyes flit between yours and you wonder what he sees: Was it devotion, pure and true? Adoration, bountiful and endless? Reverence regardless of the past? Fear peaking out from just underneath?

Whatever he sees makes him push in deep, his head dropping to the mattress beside your head, and something thick and hot fills you in long, drawn out spurts. You turn and place kisses along his sweaty undercut, hesitant at the intimate display despite your previous actions, and he twitches inside of you, still hard and burning.

He lifts his head after a moment, and your mouths seek each other out on reflex. His hands smooth over your skin, hands kneading at your hips and waist, and he pulls his length out of you and grips your waist. He offers you one last suckle to your bottom lip before he flips you onto your belly, his legs bracketing your own as he settles over you.

He's wet and warm against your butt, and then he's pressing against your used hole and surging inside for the second time. It's easier than the first time, his length sliding in effortlessly, and his finish is pushed out of you and forced to drip down onto the bedding underneath you.

Your head lifts and he forces it back down, his fingers interlocking behind it as he uses his weight to still you. You moan at the feeling, the sick realization that you don't mind a man overpowering you when it's like this –when it's with him– as much as you thought you did.

The heat from his body pressed against yours is sweltering, and sweat rolls off your body and further soaks the bedding underneath the both of you. His weight is crushing, overwhelming, but you don't fight against him – your body lays limp underneath him, a cacophony of cries and moans muffling into the mattress as he drives his hips into yours, his pelvis mashing against the fat of your behind with each slow, deliberate thrust forward.

He pulls out until only the tip of him remains, your walls clenching and squeezing at nothing, a silent plea maybe, and he answers it as he surges forward. You part for him with ease, a grotesque squelch emanating from between your legs, and you sob as the length of him seems to go on and on and on. It feels as if he's in your belly, as if he's carving out a spot just for him –for his seed– and you leak around the girth of him.

"There you go. You're taking it well, girl." His hands tighten on your hair, his grip tight, almost punishing, and your toes curl at the treatment. "All those earlier tears and fears, and look at you now. Look at how you suck me in so beautifully." His hands leave from where they had interlocked behind your head, his chest lifting from your back, and place themselves on your cheeks. He parts them, and you burn hotter as he groans at whatever sight he sees.

You're sure it's a mess, a mix of his pre-cum and your fluids that he's stirred around and made frothy, and you ruin it further as a new, ample amount of wetness gushes out when he pulls his hips back. It's warm as it drools out of you and cools as it coats your inner thighs, and you shiver from the change in temperature.

"You were made to take me."

You fully bury your face into the sheets, your hips unconsciously chasing that full feeling. His tip nudges at your rim, circles around it and dips in only to immediately retreat. You keen, tears dripping, and he splays a hand across the center of your back.

"You want it?" He rasps and you cry out in confirmation, head weakly nodded, and he pins you with that single hand, his other keeping your cheek spread so you're bared to him. "Then you'll have me." He snaps his hips forward, his length burying itself in to the hilt, and there's a small beat where both of you still, savoring the feel of it all once again. "I'll give you me until you can't take it anymore—until your belly is full of my seed and this sweet cunt is dripping with it."

That's the only warning you get before he takes on a quick, brutal pace, his hips snapping forward as he drives in deep on every single thrust. You have nothing to compare this feeling to, but you know this is the best you've ever felt – and you think, as terrible as it sounds, that everything that's happened has all been worth it to experience this. To experience the feel of Tagah's hands and mouth on your body, the feel of his manhood plunging inside you, the sound of his pleasure growled into your ear, the look of his flushed, sweat-slicked skin rubbing against your own as he chases after a future that you desperately want to give him.

Yes, you want to give him children. As many as he wants. As long as it feels this good every time, as long as he keeps grunting those sweet words into your ear and touching you with his strong, non-harming hands then you'd do whatever he said. Whether it was nursing his babies or leaving someone to die a slow, painful death you'd do it all.

[mrsken]

Everytime I go through the gachiakuta tag I see the same blogs again and again. I need a cigarette.

[mrsken]

gokas a total munch and he takes it SO serious. his face comes up disgustingly soaked

Mmm, I wrote this and it's kinda in the same vein :D mind the tags!

[mrsken]

10k words in on a tagah fic instead of working on my many, many other gachia wips what is my problem

[mrsken]

doing the lord’s work by @ me to that tamsy fanart 🫡 another tamsy piece to the goon collection

Goon collection? 😲 Sweet heavens, Taro. Have some shame!