crossposted on ao3 as "One Face to the Morning" by necromanceress
Summary:
Following his public disgrace at the Ashford tourney, Prince Aerion Targaryen is sent to the Free City of Lys. His father hopes the exile will cool his volatile nature, but Aerion seeks only the restoration of his pride. Still determined to continue his quest to bring the dragons back, he scours the Lysene underworld for the lost secrets of the Old Freehold of the dragon lords.
His obsession leads him to a mysterious figure, a being closer to a living dragon than any of his kin, maybe even as close as he considers himself to be. This realization however, is met with as much resistance as she meets his advances with.
Based on the time of Aerion's exile in Lys that George so nicely left out and that the show therefore won´t touch on either. So this is my take on what happens there and how he somehow returns even more insane.
Because if George won´t write it, I will.
may be ooc but I´m trying okay
Chapter 1 of Bound by Fire
Notes:
This is a kind of x reader story as the character isn't named and won't be described apart from lacking stereotypical Targaryen features, but it can also be a x OC
This is crossposted from ao3 so be prepared for that kind of pacing. (Necromanceress on ao3 btw) Also, the main point of the story is NOT the romance. It is plot heavy and intended as a continuation to his story, therefore keeping an asoiaf-like style. I'm also very focused on keeping it lore-accurate. But in true GoT fashion, you will get your smut scenes, and trust they will be intense. (My likes are invisible for a reason)
This is an introductory chapter, but he'll meet "her" in the next one, so have patience with me.
The salty breeze whipped against the sun-bleached sails as it did against the hair of the prince leaning over the rails. His locks had grown to curl around his ears, framing a face now twisted in irritation as the wind lashed the strands across his eyes, obscuring the distant limestone towers of Lys.
He squinted against the glare, his eyes struggling to accommodate the midday sun that blotted out the city into a white void. The sails the same color, barren of the red dragon on black fabric that would usually decorate the ships of Targaryen royalty.
He had been told to avoid attention, promised an arrival under the safety of dusk, but the Gods had conspired against such caution.
As the ship navigated the breakwater, the city’s tiered architecture first became apparent, like a layered cake of marble towers and hanging gardens. Aerion noted the heavy fortifications, recalling that Lys had a long lasting conflict with Myr, one of the other Free Cities. These walls and the coin used to hire soldiers, as they had none of their own, being the only protection.
As the hull slipped into the shadow of the primary sea-wall, the clean bite of the salt spray vanished. In the sudden, stifling stillness, the air began to change, stagnant scents of the harbor: rotting fish, the sour tang of ordure, and the uncomfortable sweetness of Lysene blossoms, reminded him that he was not here of his own will.
Officially, the voyage was framed as a diplomatic mission, though he knew the pretense for what it was. His father had finally had enough of him, deciding Lys the lovely, this prison of whorehouses and fulsome perfumes, would set him right. Yet he viewed this exile as a respite, since the dragonlords of the Old Freehold had long favored the colony’s temperate climate and fertile groves as a private sanctuary, why should he deny himself its pleasures.
As the gangplank thudded against the stone wharf, he could make out a solitary figure. The man was draped in layers of translucent samite that did little to hide a soft, weak frame. He appeared more a fancy steward than a man of true consequence, offense and disbelief rising in the prince. Nonetheless he clearly awaited Aerion, summoning four slaves, seemingly functioning as guards, to begin the transfer of Aerion’s household effects so that his residence might be prepared in advance. Once the the initial crates had been hauled onto the quay, Aerion made his descent, trailed by the two sworn swords his father would spare him. Though the small escort was a slight to his vanity, he was sure he could handle himself well enough.
Servants swarmed him instantly, offering chilled chalices to slake his thirst and cool his body, while a portable pavilion was hoisted up to shield him from further disturbance by the sun. The steward’s greeting was delivered in a dialect of Valyrian so thickened by Lysene vowels it felt like a deliberate insult to the Prince’s ears. "The City extends its hospitality to the scion of the Dragon," the man announced.
Aerion did not acknowledge the official’s shallow bow. He moved past the reception party with a reflexive lift of his chin, his gaze already fixed on the white steed, that had brought the official here. “I’ll take that,” he said, voice flat, as if he were choosing a cloak. The steward, already red-faced from the heat, turned an even deeper shade of crimson. For a heartbeat he looked ready to protest, then thought better of it and stepped aside, surrendering the reins without a word.
The procession moved away from the docks, a meager column of silver and steel cutting through the vibrant, chaotic heart of Lys. Aerion sat atop the white horse, his frame coiled with irritation. His two knights rode alongside, their armor polished to a mirror finish that seemed to mock the dusty, sun-baked streets crowded by dirtied slaves and peasantry. As the space narrowed, the visual filth of the gutters gave way to a total sensory assault. He was overwhelmed by the odors of roasted meats mingled with the stench of the passing gentry, the mixture making him gag.
The streets were a slow crawl through a sea of silver-haired commoners. Beggars with the hair and eyes of his ancestors sat matted in filth, their gazes hollow. A city of pretenders, and he the only true dragon among them. Yet no one bowed. Every jolt of the horse from the indifferent crowd was another indignity, here he was no prince to be feared, only a political inconvenience to be ignored.
At a particularly narrow pass, a cart suddenly rolled out of one of the side streets, spooking his horse and sending it rearing. Barely maintaining his seat, Aerion forced the beast down, making it bow to his will rather than calming it. He would not tolerate such disrespect.
Fed up, he cracked the heavy pommel of his sword across a lingering passerby. His voice snapped over the street like a whip, silencing the crowd and terrifying servants. As he resumed his journey, the city’s chatter rose to its former level, though the crowd now instinctively parted to accommodate his path.
As the street widened, his knights quickly moved to his flanks to prevent further outbreaks of his temper.
Aerion ignored the servants' fussing, his eyes fixed on the city's upper districts. He noted with a quiet, simmering resentment that they were not heading toward the opulent palaces of the shoreline, but toward the tangled, limestone heart of the city.
They arrived at a manse tucked away in a quiet, shadowed corner of the Trade District.
"Your residence, my Prince," the man announced, bowing low. "The Magister has ensured it is private, as befits a man of your... specialized requirements."
Aerion remained motionless atop his mount for a moment, assessing the cage his father deemed appropriate. He dismounted with fluid grace, one hand still braced against the horse’s flank as he fought to leash his temper. No soaring arches, no Valyrian grandeur. Just olive trees and plain shrubs where he had expected palms and exotic fruit. Without a word, he marched inside. The steward trailed uncertainly behind him, their boots echoing hollowly across the mosaic floors. The main hall was airy and cool, but to Aerion it felt barren — no dragon banners, no tapestries of his House’s glory. Just cold, impersonal Lysene elegance. A stark reminder that here, he was only a guest.
The private chamber was sparse too, the canopy bed was draped in simple linen rather than the heavy, dragon-stitched silks. It reminded him of that damned bed in Ashford he was confined to not three months prior, grey, hollow, and cold. The only indications of his origin were the clothes he brought with him, laid out by the valet in advance. He felt a sharp, fleeting regret for not savoring the two weeks spent in the Red Keep while his grandsire deliberated upon the cruel fate his own father had assigned him, a sentence he was now forced to endure. At the very least, those chambers had been furnished with a bed befitting his blood and signaling some familiarity. Hurt rose in him and quickly turned to anger, as usual.
He began to turn, his jaw set as the steward braced for the inevitable outburst, but his violet eyes caught a glint of something resting upon the dark rosewood table at the center of the solar, hidden at the end of the corridor.
Aerion dismissed the man with a sharp, imperious gesture. He walked to the center of the room, standing beneath a skylight that poured a singular, scorching beam of afternoon sun onto the floor. The rest of the space remained in half-darkened seclusion, but the light fell directly upon the table, illuminating the object as if by design.
An unassuming box stood there, crafted simply, yet from the way it caught the light and the rippling, wave-like pattern adorning it, Aerion knew immediately that it was Valyrian steel.
The muffled clamor of his retinue echoed from the courtyard. They were unloading the rest of his belongings, as he carefully walked over to the heavy wooden door, closing it silently, securing the bolt so as not to be intruded upon. He stilled himself, his fingers tracing the cold, rippled edge of the Valyrian steel box before he dared to lift the lid. Nested within a bed of crimson velvet lay a scaled egg. Its color a shade of green, bright and toxic, contrasting its confinement. Flecks of gold adorned the tip of each scale, reminiscent of wildfire cooling at the edges. The egg was calcified, feeling rough in his hands like the silver-golden one he had brought with him from Summerhall, his most priced posession. Wondering why such a treasure had been so freely given to him, he noticed a small, folded piece of parchment tucked into the velvet. For a moment he questioned whether the egg was just an imitation, but his blood told him otherwise. He slowly set the egg back into its cradle and retrieved the paper. It was heavily scented, the aroma of incense and rare spices clinging to the fibers. He unfolded it to find an invitation.
To His Royal Highness, Aerion of House Targaryen,
The city of Lys is graced by your presence. I trust you find the reception I have provided
sufficient for a prince of your pedigree. It is a rare find, even in our markets, though I am certain you recognize its value far better than the common merchants who previously held it.
A gift of such magnitude is rarely given without intent, which is why I request the honor of your company this evening. Join me for wine and conversation, as I intend to show you the real treasures of Lys and discuss how such a favor might be returned. Your father may have intended this exile as a stagnant punishment, but I believe we can find a more productive way for you to spend your time.
I expect you at my gates by nightfall.
Vaelo Nahas
Aerion huffed at the last line, he was being commanded. "Ridiculous," he muttered, though his eyes drifted back to the green egg resting in the pillar of sunlight. The weight of the gift was undeniable and and the letter’s bluntness had, in truth, piqued his interest. This Nahas clearly possessed a self-assurance that mirrored Aerion’s own, perhaps they would find common ground. At the very least, he was in desperate need of wine and a diversion from the memory of this irritating arrival.
A knock on the door, ripped him out of his recollection of the undignified events of the day.
"My Prince," the valet called through the heavy wood. "Your household effects have been unpacked and your meal is being prepared. Shall I draw your bath before you take your supper?"
"Yes," Aerion answered, his voice regaining its imperious edge. "And prepare my riding leathers and a steed for the evening."
"As you wish," came the muffled reply, the boy already turning to do his bidding.
„And see that my private chambers are draped in proper fabrics. I refuse to spend a single night in that coarse, unrefined mess“ he added, with renewed irritation at the thought.
„Of course, my Prince.“ he stammered, resuming his walk quickly, desperate to avoid further displeasure.
Hearing the fading footsteps, Aerion turned back to the small chest, his fingers grazing the dragon egg's scales one last time before closing the lid and concealing it in darkness again.
Next Chapter-> Blood in the Basin, Fire in the Glass
Post scriptum:
Do you guys put notes at the end here on Tumblr? I hope so because I always have a lot to say. As mentioned, I'm trying to make this somewhat book accurate, which is why he'll slowly turn into his book self. (Longer hair, brighter clothes, and more insane) I hope you're excited and I appreciate feedback as this is my first time posting on Tumblr.🫶
After years of experimenting with your ability to manipulate space—specifically teleportation—you decide it's finally time to test whether you also possess the power to travel through time. The motivation is clear and urgent: escaping a dark era where the Viltrumites rule over Earth.
You activate your powers and suddenly find yourself in an unfamiliar present. Within minutes, the Global Defense Agency locates you, having detected the disruption caused by your arrival.
One question echoes in your mind: did you end up in the right place at the right time?
TW: violence
current word count: 38,627
(English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if you come across any grammatical errors ❤︎)
Sirius gripped the controls of his spaceship as he braced himself. The young hero was out on one of his first solo missions. The Avalonian glared at his enemy in the distant space through his large windshield. "You young fool! You'll never be a true member of the Brigade!" His foe yelled through the communications. Sirius took a deep breath and didn't even speak. The sirens of his ship blaring, most of the systems down. He only had one option. Sirius focused before charging his ship at top speed. His smaller ship tore through the bottom of his enemies. Explosions followed, but his own ship was damaged heavily. Sirius' ship began disintegrating as it fell through the atmosphere of a nearby planet. He braced himself for the inevitable impact, getting in a safety compartment and hoping for the best. The blue alien was knocked out on impact and weakly opened his eyes later. He survived but was now lost, and his leg seemed injured. "Is anyone out there?" Sirius crawled out of his ruined ship as he screamed to hopefully find help.
We get lots of asks for plot heavy fics so we're compiled a list. None of these are an endorsement. They are ones we recommend frequently, and a few older ones that may have been forgotten. HEAs not guaranteed.
Don't worry fans, we've got a PWP tag too for when you just wanna have fun. :)
If you feel as if we forgot a fic, go ahead and Submit one here. - TF Mods
Presented in order of length
The girl with everything and the boy from nothing by bunnystealsyourcarrots
M | Complete | 36k
A Tomione Medieval Au where a lord from nothing and nowhere surrounds the castle of a princess with the intent to take everything from her brick by bloody brick.
Dimmuborgir by NoFootprintsInSand
E | Complete | 93k
He steps straight out of the shadows one late autumn evening, but she is not afraid.
At least not at first.
gloss by peppershark
E | Complete | 93k
"Hermione.” That low, effortless bass thrums in her ear.
Coaxing.
Sweet as novocaine.
“I wanted to explain.”
Her glossy lips peel into a sneer.
“Fuck off.”
A high-school stalker AU set in the 2000s: heavy on possessive!Tom, dark romance
The Anatomy of the Body of God by dillpicklepanic
E | Complete | 125k
Tom didn't ask for another foster daughter. He certainly doesn't have time to be piecing apart her mind, and it's such a pain keeping her sequestered from the press.
But give it a week, and he'll change his mind. He'll realize that it's not the worst thing in the world, having a girl like her around.
In fact, quite the opposite - unfortunately for her.
Peremo by virennia
Not Rated | Complete | 129k
When Hermione gets stuck in the 1950's, she has no choice but to live her life.
And then, she meets Tom.
Well Roared Lion by treeson
M | WIP | 129k
It seemed ironic that the one thing that could ruin the magical world, the defeat of Voldemort, and Hermione Granger's perfectly ordered life was a book. Time-travel fic. Tom/Hermione. DH-compliant.
D'énigmes et Guerre by macsmackeroo
E | Complete | 144k
Tom re-read the letter twice more to make sure he was not hallucinating before refolding it and returning it to it’s envelope.
Strangely, the first emotion he felt was not fury, at the absolute audacity of the woman, but rather, he felt hollow. There wasn’t the longing that he would have once felt as a child, wishing to be adopted, there was just…nothing. He did not feel sadness, anger, joy or even confusion.
It’s 1943, Grindelwald’s war rages on, and Tom Riddle discovers there is more to the Riddle family than he originally anticipated.
Nightmare by provocative_envy
E | Complete | 156k
A broken time turner shouldn't have sent me back so far. It was unprecedented. Stepping on it--smashing it--nothing should have happened. At most, I should have lost a week. At worst, I should have disappeared altogether. I shouldn't have traveled back fifty-two years; half a bloody century.
This should not have happened.
The Prisoner by NerysDax
E | Complete | 180k
Imprisoned, Lord Voldemort is considered a threat of the past. His knowledge is desired by many. Yet, his offer is for one person only: Hermione Weasley-Granger.
Tied for Last by Speechwriter
M | Complete | 244K
Hermione is killed by Voldemort, and is now dead. Well, sort of. Turns out that death is a little more complex than she knew. Ignores epilogue and last 50ish pages of DH.
Shared Flame by LadyMiya
E | Complete | 300k
It all started when two normally clever individuals both had a really lousy day.
Somewhere in Time by SerpentinRed
M | Complete | 342k
Sent back in time by a mysterious person and trapped in the past with a missing Dumbledore and an overbearing, charismatic Dark Lord, they had no idea how much they could dabble with time before the world they had known shattered into pieces.
Serpentine Moves by betagyre
E | Complete | 357k
Medieval Norman Conquest AU.
Fourteen years after eloping with a Muggle, Merope Riddle, of an English wizarding noble family, discovers that she and her son are the last of the line, so she petitions for her title and fiefdom back. Meanwhile Lord and Lady Granger are minor nobility who want their daughter taught magic, but Lord Malfoy, appointed by William the Conqueror to rule English wizards, won’t allow an unattached Muggle-born to study alongside young purebloods at Hogwarts. Merope and the Grangers make common cause and betroth their children, thwarting him for now. But war is coming, and a long, dark path lies ahead.
She Rises by giraffelove92
M | WIP | 359k
He watched as the air around her crackled with her magic, and it was so aggressive, so electrifying, that he wondered how this beautiful creature had ever managed to evade his notice – how he'd so foolishly underestimated her from the start." Darkfic.
Birds of a Feather by babylonsheep
E | Complete | 587k
In 1935, Hermione Granger meets a boy in an orphanage who despises fairy stories, liars, and mediocrity. He offers her a deal of mutual convenience, and soon a tentative friendship forms between them—if Tom would ever lower himself to call anyone a "friend".
But whatever they have, it's something special, and if there's anyone who can appreciate Specialness, it's Tom Riddle.
1930's-40's Childhood Friends AU.
Strange Attractors by Mistakes_and_Experiments
M | WIP | 598k
Unspeakable Granger wakes up with missing memories in Hogwarts...in 1942. Hermione might not remember much, but she knew that even post-Voldemort, there were many wannabe dark lords she and her friends had to fight against. The world wasn't automatically sunshine and roses just because they've defeated Voldemort.
Also, go back? What go back? If she doesn't even know how she got here with all the wounds she had, then there's really no guarantee that a safe way to jump forward exists!
Yet the possibilities that are open to her...
if she could change the wizarding world half a century earlier, maybe they'd be more prepared against dark lords in the future. Perhaps a better world for the friends she'd left. With this in mind, Hermione Curie (Granger) sets out to use her field healer and master arithmancer abilities to the fullest (if she had to invent a couple of things earlier than they actually happened in her old future, so be it). Not to mention that in her very-biased-opinion, the wizarding world needs to be dragged out of its old prejudices, kicking and screaming if necessary. But who is that particular prefect? Her mind itches at seeing him…
Madam Umbridge Home for Wayward Girls by lovelyvillain
E | Complete | 752k
Hermione’s life takes a dark turn after the death of her parents, leaving her at the mercy of a tyrannical Matron. Her new home is more prison than sanctuary, haunted by ghosts bearing terrible, bloody secrets. And though she is surrounded by troubled young women, it is the men in her life who teach her that freedom comes at the greatest price of all.
Victorian AU, Tomione, Dramione, no triad
That's my jam! (Original Fiction Rec because god I miss those)
Those are some of the amazingly free original works that float the internet and left a dent in my soul.
All of those are queer, and I tend to favour intense worldbuilding, complex plots, intricate power dynamics and morally grey characters (possibly over 25).
I love when tropes are taken seriously, and used as allegories to explore real world's complexities.
Most of those are dark, but they do not romanticize the power imbalance and rather explore it unflinchingly, in all its problematic glory. None of those are for minors!
Undesirable by VelvetMace
One of the most entertaining vampire romps I ever read. I love vampire dystopias (obviously) and I just love how this one explores the banality of evil. Great worldbuilding, top notch action, and really in-depht characters.
The Key to Oslov by ColdColdHeart
Fantastic political thriller dystopia in a complex very cold (litterally and practically) world. Very interesting and realistic political game, with long term strategy and vision. Extra long too!
The Viper's Scheme by TheDancingCrow
Demon slave, that might want to murder evilish wizards. I am a sucker for morally grey characters and subtle manipulation. Great worldbuilding to boost!
Game Theory by not_poignant
Started as fanfic, but it is its own thing. Morally grey characters and BDSM faes before SJM threw in her lot. I still listen to the podfic when I need to get lost in somebody's elses kingdom-running problems to not think about mines. The author is also fantastically prolific, and while this one remains my absolute favourite, there is plenty of messed up power relations to explore.
They Shoot Guides by Rough Draft Hero
THE guideverse fic. Wonderful slow burn, and great world building. The power dynamics are perfect. I re-read this once a month since basically 2016. Probably the only fic that ever made sibling incest work for me. Most of the author's work are fire too, but this one has a special piece of my heart (alongside Leviathan to be honest).
For the Crown by GreyWayfarer
Okay, I lied. This one also make sibling incest work for me. It is not my top kink, but I guess I can enjoy it if it is in a salad of super interesting worldbuilding and power play. Here we got a murderous inheritance game (only one prince can inherit the crown - usually the alive one).
Spit Out The Glass by rickets
New entry, needs more love! Also, complete. Red Scare omegaverse with a communist omega and a fascist (?) alpha. Not a romance, and dark af, but great worldbuilding and character work. I am personally partial to union/labour rights as a plotline, so this one hit home hard.
Between Worlds by Velvel
Absolute masterpiece omegaverse in a city lost in deep space. Loved the cultural nuances - the world on the ship is complex, unequal and utterly fascinating. Incomplete, but I mourn it thrice a day.
Special Forces: Soldiers by A. Voinov.
Very, very dark enemies to lovers between a Scottish SAS soldier and a Soviet spetsnaz. Wonderful character work, though, and a staple of the genre. The pdf is free on the author's website (linked here).
Under the Dragon's Claw by gixi_ninja
Imperial China adjacent setting. Formerly highty and mighty aristocrat gets donated as a slave to his former childhood sweetheart, who he previously brutally rejected. Very intereseting setting, and the power dynamic is wonderfully layered.
You have more? Throw them to me!
Most of those are M/M, but I will read anything that it is not fully straight. I am also very open to good het femdom, but I feel it is quite rare.
I will add more when I remember/dig out some jewels.
The thing about Jason is he doesn't need wings to fly. He knows the feeling of being weightless all too well. The feeling of nothing below you, no solid ground, no safety net, just instinct and drive. Bruce may have taught Jason how to grapple between buildings but Jason, he's known how to free fall his whole life. It is part of making robin so easy. He could always take the leap; it was just finding where to land that was the hard part.
But not right now. No, right now all he has is direction.
Story summary -
It’s Halloween and the city is burning. People are dying. And the ghost of memory are more haunting then they’ve ever been. After all there are consequences for declaring someone dead without a body.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Story Title: A Rose in a Gilded Cage | Sukuna x Black/Brown Reader
The Devil Chamber-Worship Pt.7
Your lips stilled around him, and your lashes flickered as you looked up innocently through your long lashes. He quickly loosened his hold on you, and you drew away, his cock popping out of your lips in a wet, lewd pop, flipping your hair over your shoulder.
"Wait—give me a goddamn minute."Sukuna barked.
Your spit clung to your lips—and to his cock—in a wet, gleaming mess. You looked like a whore, and still... so fucking innocent, fuck him if this wasn't the hottest scene. It made him dizzy.
You leaned forward, nuzzling the tip of his cock with your cheek like a spoiled kitten. Your nose bumped the swollen crown before your lips followed—pressing a kiss so soft it was nearly a tease.
Sukuna exhaled sharply. His thighs tensed.
Sukuna rubbed the tip his shaft against your bottom lip, rubbing whatever cum or pre-cum poured from his tip. You kept looking up at him, so innocent and wide eyed, your expression soft and almost lovingly as the tip nudged your mouth.
You stuck your tongue allowing him to rub to back and forth against your soft wet tongue, all the while meeting your lustful gaze with his own intense stare. The sight was so hot. Lapping at his tip like a starving kitten. Fuck, he loved when you were such a dirty little bitch, sucking his cock, licking it, gagging on it so lewdly, he loved this version of you. His Princess really had been made for his own personal use. He smirked. "Look at you...just...fucking made to be mine..." he moaned.
"Mmm," you said, softly but somehow still coy, dragging your finger between his legs and teasing his balls, Dragging a guttural sound from him as you kept teasing—slow, deliberate. "Did you like that?"
"Hn." He hummed, "it's incredible,"
"Then cum. Give it to me," you whispered. "Give me more. I've been a good girl and a good wife for you haven't i?" you asked softly.
There was determination in your gaze as you held his shaft with both hands, "Just a little more. Please, I want it," you pouted.
There was no shame or guilt in your tone as you begged, and when you begged like this, you made Sukuna's heart skip a beat.
You gazed at him intently, your cheeks dusted a sweet shade of pink, your eyes wide, and your lips shining with the residue of his arousal. There was a vulnerable quality to your expression that had nothing to do with physical needs. It was tender, earnest, almost a plea for a different sort of intimacy.
Without a word, you brushed the tip of his cock against your lips, allowing his length to part them slowly, willingly. Your cheeks hollowed as your mouth closed around his girth once again.
For a few moments, he simply stared at you, watching as the most erotic sounds and images burned into his memory. Each pull of your lips, each soft brush of your tongue—his expression grew softer, more reverential, his face a picture of unadulterated pleasure. Your gaze fluttered toward him and a ripple of contentment surged through you. The way he looked at you now, like you were precious...it made your heart swell and ache. He wasn't just looking at you—he was studying you, drinking in every detail before his head lolled slightly against the pillows, his whole body melting into a state of absolute euphoria.
As soon as you met his half-lidded eyes and lustful expression, you knew.
His eyes became heavy lidded, and his face melted into a lazy smile then parted as he let out a shaky sigh. Sukuna felt his blood turn to fire, rushing through his body as the sensations pulsed from within him, a powerful release taking over.
Sukuna growled low. "Look at me, kitten. Let me see those pretty eyes while you suck my fucking cock."
You obeyed instantly—head lifting, mouth still full, wide eyes sparkling as your lashes fluttered up to meet his.
Your tongue was so soft. He was in heaven.
"Fuck, Princess, it feels so damn good. So, so good. Shit," he mumbled incoherently.
"Mhmph" You hummed around his length again and took him in deeper, faster, sucking hard and deep, pushing him toward a new threshold.
He almost lost it.
Fuck. Fuck, not like this.
His hands flexed at his sides, jaw tight, every muscle coiled with restraint. He was trying—gods, he was trying—not to grab you, not to fuck your throat the way his body demanded.
Don't. She's new to this. She's soft. Careful. You don't get to ruin her yet.
But your tongue flicked just right. Your throat fluttered. That helpless little moan—that fucking sound—vibrated up his cock and short-circuited his entire nervous system.
His vision blurred.
You didn't know what you were doing to him .
You weren't ready for that.
You can't—
You sucked deeper.
He twitched. Hard.
Fuck.
He could feel himself slipping, feel that sharp edge of madness rising, demanding, dragging him under.
You were trying to please him.
That's all it is. You were just being good.
But the way you clung to his thighs and took him deeper, messier, hungrier?
It was too much.
No. No—godsdammit—just hold still. Let her go at her own pace. Don't be a fucking animal. You don't have to—
Your lips sealed tighter. Your eyes sparkled.
FUCK.
Without warning, his fingers tangled into your hair—tight, commanding, almost punishing.
"Hold still."
His voice was a snarl—half worship, half threat—and before you could even blink, he slammed his hips forward.
Your eyes flew open. You instinctively tried to pull back—but his grip held you steady.
Your throat stretched wide, your jaw aching as he shoved himself deep in one brutal thrust. Your nose mashed into his pelvis, the scent of him—completely flooding your senses.
And then he began to move.
Not gentle. Not slow.
Harder. Rougher. Relentless.
His hand fisted the back of your head like a handle, and he fucked into your throat like he was claiming it—like your mouth was his, and had always been his.
Wet sounds filled the room. Your throat fluttered as you gagged around him, but Sukuna didn't stop. Didn't let up. The bed creaked under the force of his thrusts, his balls slapping your chin with every snap of his hips.
You clawed at the sheets, your nails dragging as your body rocked with each punishing thrust. You couldn't breathe properly, couldn't think—just squirmed helplessly, writhing against the sheets, trying to take it, to hold on.
Your body jolted with each thrust, hips shifting, back arching, legs twitching as your nerves short-circuited under the intensity. Tears streamed down your cheeks, your thighs pressed together, your cunt throbbing from the sheer filth of it.
"That's it. That's it, kitten—fucking take it. Take all of it. You said you wanted to please me—then fucking prove it."
You tried to swallow around him—desperate to ease the pressure—but it only made him groan louder.
"Mmmgh—fuck," Sukuna growled. "You like that? You like it when I fuck this sweet mouth like it's mine? Hah—it is mine."
Your throat clenched involuntarily, and he shuddered—grinding his hips deeper, fucking your face with brutal rhythm. Like he was punished you for making him feel.
You squirmed again—thighs shaking, hands trembling, your knees sliding across the sheets as your body jerked with every thrust. You weren't trying to pull away. You weren't resisting. You were trying endure him.
Sukuna loved it.
"That's it—fuck, keep fucking squirming, kitten." His voice was hoarse, wrecked. "Gods, it feels so good when your throat tightens like that."
Your body kicked slightly again as he slammed into you—raw, fast, frenzied—and you let out a helpless moan that vibrated around him.
Your hands flew to his thighs, pushing weakly, instinct overriding obedience as your throat stretched impossibly wide.
"Guh—!" The choking sound broke through the rhythm like a crack of thunder—wet, sharp, and raw.
Sukuna's hips faltered. For half a second, he stilled—eyes flicking down.
Your eyes watered, nose pressed to his skin, drool spilling from the corners of your lips—but you didn't pull away.
The only sound louder than your gagging was the desperate, the harsh exhales and wet sniff of your nose dragging in air, trying to breathe around him."
You shook your head, barely, your palms still braced against him—but not shoving. Not anymore. Just... holding on.
His grip tightened, holding your head flush against his pelvis, his cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. He gave you a few quick, shallow thrusts, your nose smashed into his skin. Your vision blurred. Drool spilled from your lips, your chin soaked and trembling.
Your whole body shuddered, a whimper leaking from your throat.
Then—his hips stuttered.
"Take that fucking cock." A long, guttural groan tore from his throat, like it had been punched out of him.
He was buried so deep, he could feel your pulse on his cock.
Your lips were stretched wide, cheeks hollowing around him, drool spilling down your chin like your didn't even care—like you was meant to be used like this.
And your eyes—those fucking eyes—looked up at him all big and wet and obedient, and it made him want to ruin you.
No, worse—
It made him want to keep you.
Don't think about that. Just fuck her. Keep fucking her. Stay in control.
But he wasn't in control.
Not anymore.
Because your throat was fluttering.
And your moans were vibrating.
And every time you gagged and kept going, he felt something snap inside him.
He growled, grinding into you harder. Deeper. Faster.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I can't—
He was trying to slow down. He meant to.
But your body was shaking. Your hands gripped his thighs.
You were taking it. All of it.
Letting him fuck your throat like it belonged to him—and worse?
You seemed to fucking liked it.
He looked down as he fucked into your mouth—slow at first, then harder. Rougher. The wet schlk, schlk, schlk of your lips struggling to keep up with his thrusts.
And gods, the sight of you—
Your swollen lips were stretched wide around him, spit dripping in messy strings from your chin. His cock glistened every time he pulled back, slick and shiny from your mouth. Your eyes were watery, lashes stuck together, and your cheeks flushed deep with effort. You looked wrecked. Used. Gagging. Drooling.
And yet—
Your hands clutched his thighs like he was something holy.
You looked up at him with that soft, open expression—like you weren't choking, like you weren't being fucked raw. You looked up like you were grateful. Like it was a gift.
Sweet. Innocent.
Fucking filthy.
His hips snapped harder, and he groaned—guttural, like he couldn't help himself.
He could feel you trying to breathe through your nose.
Could feel your drool coating his balls.
Could feel your moan when his cock hit the back of your throat.
And godsdammit, it was too much.
Not yet. Don't fucking cum yet. Make it last.
But his hips kept bucking. His hands were fists in your hair.
He was using you like a goddamn toy, and still—
It wasn't enough.
Because you looked too good like this.
Because your throat felt better than any cunt he'd ever been in.
Because you were letting him fall apart—and smiling like she wanted him to.
His balls tightened. His thighs locked.
No. No no no—fuck—
That vibration traveled up his cock and straight to his fucking brain.
Sukuna suddenly pulled back, your lips slipping off his cock with a soaked, choking gasp—drool and spit stringing between you like webbing. You barely had time to inhale.
Then—
Smack.
His cock slapped your cheek—wet, heavy, degrading. Once. Twice. A third time. Your head tilted with the force of it, eyes wide and dazed.
"Open," he growled.
You blinked—hesitated—
He grabbed your face with one hand, forcing your mouth open again.
"I said open, kitten. You don't get to stop. You don't get to breathe until I say."
You barely had time to suck in a breath before he shoved himself back inside, burying his cock to the hilt with one brutal thrust.
Your eyes rolled.
You gagged—choked—but his grip only tightened, both hands now in your hair, holding you flush.
Then, as your throat fluttered helplessly around him—
He pinched your nose shut.
Just for a few seconds.
Long enough for your gag to deepen, your hands to claw at his thighs.
Long enough for your lungs to scream.
His cock throbbed.
"That's it," he rasped. "Fucking choke on it."
Oh spirits—
You couldn't breathe.
His cock was already so deep. Your jaw ached. Your throat was stretched tight, seizing with every punishing thrust—
And now your nose—
Your eyes watered violently, your body convulsing once—but you didn't pull away. You didn't tap out.
Your lungs burned. Your hands gripped his thighs without thinking. Not to stop him. Just to stay steady.
Though your heart hammered against your ribs. A flash of panic bloomed hot behind your eyes, but—
You didn't move. Didn't ruin it. You stayed.
Maybe this was a test.
A claim. A punishment.
An offering.
And you could take it.
You swallowed around him, throat spasming, gagging—but didn't pull away.
Your chest began to burn. Your body twitched—tiny, involuntary. Your thighs squeezed together.
Your ears rang.
Fuck, you can't breathe—
But you stayed still.
You took him. You let him use you—break you—and he could feel it. The surrender. The raw desperation. The way your throat tightened around him every time he pushed deeper.
He let your nose go just as your vision started to swim, letting you gasp through the corners of your mouth while still fully impaled.
He pulled back again—slick and soaked—and stared.
Your chin was glossy with spit, lips trembling, mouth open and raw. Your cheeks flushed, eyes wet, chest heaving as you gasped softly through your nose. And yet—
You looked beautiful.
No, worse.
You looked perfect.
Then he did it.
He dragged his cock across your face.
Slow. Deliberate. Disrespectful.
His flushed tip smeared across your cheek, leaving a hot, slick trail of spit and precum down your skin. He rubbed it along your jaw, over your lips, across your nose, even dragged the underside across your closed eyes.
Marking you.
"You feel that?" he muttered, almost reverent, cock twitching as he rubbed it along your cheek again.
He pressed the tip against your lips, smearing it back and forth like he was painting you with it—lewd and slow, watching the way your swollen mouth trembled under the weight of him.
"That's mine—all of you. My spit. My cum. My cock. My fucking face."
Then he grinned—dark, sharp, primal.
"Say 'thank you,' kitten."
You whispered it. "Thank you." your lips grazing the head of his cock.
He groaned—shuddered—and then slammed himself back in, brutal and deep, your nose mashing into his pelvis with the force of it.
He resumed his pace.
Your throat tightened, and Sukuna's body arched his eyes rolling back. Then it happened—low and rough, a groan that rumbled from his chest and broke open between his lips. A moan. Raw. Guttural. Devastating. It sounded like a man caving in.
He twitched violently in your throat.
"Fucking perfect—fuck—fuck."
His body locked.
"Shit—fuck, I'm—"A strangled sound tore from his throat as his abdomen flexed, chest heaving, and for a split second his whole body stiffened like he was about to snap.
Then—
You blinked as it happened.
A sudden heavy spurt hit the back of your throat—hot, salty, unfamiliar. Your eyes flew open, watering instantly as the taste flooded your mouth.
Another thick burst followed, harder—and your body jerked as you choked around it, throat tightening around his pulsing shaft.
"Fuck...mmmffhh," he grunted, the sound a deep, guttural noise, almost an animalistic roar, his lips drawn back, eyes closed and scrunched.
Fingers tangled in your hair, holding you there. It hurt, but in such a good way.
Followed by another then a viscous, salty flood of seed poured down the back of your throat as he throbbed and pumped into you, a groan echoing throughout the room as his thighs quivered.
He was cumming. Hard.
You gagged once, then forced yourself to still, swallowing every last drop. His cock throbbed against your tongue, and your eyes flicked up just in time to catch his expression—head thrown back, chest heaving, lips parted in pure, broken ecstasy.
You squeezed your eyes shut, cheeks burning, fingers fisting the sheets as your throat worked to take it. You gagged, just once—reflexive, overwhelmed—but you didn't pull away.
He wasn't fucking you anymore. He was tethered to you.
But even through the haze, you stayed there—forcing yourself to hold him, to swallow around the heat flooding your mouth like it meant something. Because it did.
Your cheeks flushed with a deep blush, yet still, you remained obedient, keeping him buried inside your mouth as his cum coated the walls of your throat and swallowing every drop.
You breathe harshly through your nose.
He stayed there, twitching inside your mouth, breathing raggedly, and then—finally—his grip eased.
"Mm, just like that," he moaned as his voice trailed off, his hips falling limp.
Your lips slipped off him with a wet, filthy pop.
You gasped for air, saliva and cum dribbling from your lips, your eyes still watery, throat raw, cheeks burning. You looked ruined with a thin sheen of sweat on your skin.
You tried to hide jaw aches. Your sore neck. How it hurts. Your voice hurt to swallow.
"Holy shit," he managed breathlessly. His brow was shiny with sweat, and his lips parted as he continued to catch his breath.
But when he gaze met yours?
And you weren't crying. Weren't angry.
You just looked... wrecked. And beautiful.
Your lips were red—bruised, swollen, glistening with spit and leftover cum.
A thick white trail dribbled from the corner of your mouth, streaking down your chin, dripped on your breast. You caught it with trembling fingers. Your curls were a mess, your cheeks flushed, lashes damp with tears. You looked up at him with the softest eyes he'd ever seen.
And that was the worst part.
You smiled.
Soft. Shy. A little uncertain. Sweet. Like you were proud of herself. Like you thought you'd done good. Like you wanted to be praised for it.
And fuck him—he almost said it.
He almost called her a good girl again.
But then you coughed.
Not cute. Not coy.
A deep, scratchy, painful sound—like your throat had been shredded raw.
You turned your head to the side and swallowed.
He saw you wince.
Sukuna's eyes were on you—sharp, unreadable.
You turned back to him, unsure for a breath. Then you smiled again.
You locked eyes and blushed deeply, not needing a word for you two to understand how incredible this was, you understood now what you had the ability to do—what power you held.
A dazed, breathless little thing. Half-pride. Half-promise.
And Sukuna? He just stared. Like you'd carved something out of him and he couldn't quite name it yet.
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
You weren't just his kitten anymore. Not a plaything. Not a whore. You were something else. Something he couldn't name.
There was something blissful and quiet about the moment. Your heavy breathing and soft whimpers were the only sounds that pierced the air, a stark contrast to the havoc caused by Sukuna.
You hovered over Sukuna, staring at him with half-lidded eyes. One side of your curls fell over your face and covered it.
You were trying to speak.
And it came out a rasp.
Barely audible.
He'd destroyed your throat.
He knew it the second you tried to say his name and it came out broken—just a breath. A whisper. Like your voice had been fucked right out of you.
He should've stopped.
He knew it was too much.
But he didn't stop. He never fucking stopped.
Because it felt too good.
Because you looked too good like that.
Because you made him feel—
Weak.
You were breathing through your nose. Quietly.
Still obedient. Still soft.
Like you didn't even realize how badly he broke you.
Then your lips parted once more.
"That was... new," you admitted in a barely more than a whisper, through a bit Shredded—raspy. "Tastes... stronger than I thought."
And when he just stared—completely still, jaw tight, cock twitching—you tilted your head, lashes fluttering.
"I guess I did good, right?" You cleared your throat softly.
He twitched again. Then groaned. Loudly.
His cock wasn't hard—but it hadn't gone limp either.
And then—
Tap.
He bounced it gently against your lips, slow and deliberate, letting the flushed head settle there—thick and wet and warm.
You didn't flinch.
You didn't back away.
Your lips just stayed open, glossy and used, letting the weight of him sit there like you knew it belonged.
Tap. Tap.
He let it bounce again, watching it land on your mouth with the softest, filthiest sound. You blinked once, lashes fluttering, but stayed still.
"Hmm," he muttered.
He dragged the tip along your bottom lip—slow, lazy, possessive. Not forcing it back in. Just... admiring the aftermath. Like he wasn't ready to be done.
You blinked up at him, lips still wet, a tiny streak of cum clinging to your cupid's bow. You didn't even notice. Or maybe you did.
Because then—
You gave him a kittenish smile.
Your lashes fluttered. Your lips parted just enough. Not to speak. Just to let the mess glisten.
With one last teasing lick, you carefully took his cock fully into your mouth.
He jerked—shoulders tensing, breath hitching hard.
"Shit—"
You felt him twitch against your tongue, over-sensitive and still throbbing.
"You're still hard," you whispered sweetly, licking up the length, slow and deliberate. "It tastes so good... all for me."
He let out a soft, strangled sound—half moan, half growl—and tipped his head back, jaw clenched tight.
His hips didn't thrust this time. They shuddered.
You pulled back slightly, just in time to catch the second—a smaller squirt that pulsed out with a shameless slowness, thick pearly beads spilling down his shaft, glistening.
Sukuna didn't say a word. Didn't even breathe.
He watched you like a possessed man. No warmth. Just need. You were a luxury he owned—one he'd ruin every night, until your body broke beneath him.
And then—
One last traitorous twitch.
A final bead forced its way out, slow and stubborn, dragging itself from the tip in full view. As if even his cock was too drunk on you to pretend it hadn't happened.
Your lashes fluttered sweetly, lips curling into the faintest smirk as you licked it clean without breaking eye contact—slow, deliberate, unbothered.
"Mmm," you purred sweetly.
Sukuna rolled his eyes backward, his chest heaving as his lungs sought air. The urge to curl his toes had nearly overwhelmed him, and as he continued to struggle to regain a modicum of stability, a shaky smile curled across his lips.
His cock twitched and flexed.
"Good?" You lapped at the droplets clinging to his length as you stared up at him, blue eyes bright and wide, making him shiver, his smile turning into a weak, but pleased, grin.
"Yeah," he gasped hoarsely.
His vision blurred. Your pink tongue peeked out again, brushing his tip teasingly, and you smiled, teeth grazing him as he shuddered again . His body sagged into the mattress, and his back arched.
He wanted to shove you off. He wanted to stay right there.
And the worst part?
You paused and gave a mischievous smirk, licking your swollen lips.
And just like that, your mother's voice came back to you—You were still young, when an older man—draped in furs, heavy with coin, his laugh too loud and his eyes too greedy—strode into the brothel like he owned the world. Your skill as hostess and entertainer had came more naturally. Men often wanted your company. Nothing explicit—though they tried. Most settled for whatever you gave, just because you were beautiful. He tossed a satchel of gold at your mother's feet, promising silk sheets, diamond collars, a life "tamed" under his name. Said he'd keep you "safe". He called you his flower.
Untouched. A prize to be bought.
You said no.
She said hell no.
He came back. Night after night. For months. More gold, more jewels, more promises—marriage, land, protection. Lies disguised as coin. He begged. He threatened. He drank himself to ruin in her brothel, a dog whining for scraps. But your mother never flinched. She poured his wine, smiled, and when he got more aggressive she shut the door in his face.
Her eyes were hard, her voice low, laced with a bitterness.
Powerful men—even broke men—don't want women.
They want symbols.
Men chase power, and that includes the symbolic value of women—not the woman herself.
They want the untouched girl, a fantasy they can touch, the beautiful wife, the trophy queen—because she validates their power.
"Men like him don't want you, Rose," she said,"They want the idea of owning you. That's not love. That's conquest."
They penetrate women and think that makes them powerful.
She leaned closer, her gaze pinning you.
"All men are weak.
The ones who act beastly are weakest.
Really, their pricks are fragile.
But the ones who act the strongest? They're the softest on the inside."
They came to the brothel in armor and silk. They barked orders, snapped fingers, tossed gold at the floor like it made them gods. But when the doors closed—when no one was watching?
They wanted something else entirely.
They wanted to be touched gently. Spoken to sweetly.
Some wanted to be soothed. Spanked. Breastfed. Not in jest—but like it would mend something inside them. They'd lay their heads in women's laps, wanting to be fed. Praised.
They weren't kings anymore. Just boys aching for softness they'd never earned.
Others craved service. Not submission. Service.
They wanted their backs massaged. Their feet washed. Their hair combed slowly, tenderly. To be undressed like you cared. To be looked at like they were more than a sword with legs.
"Make me feel like a man," they'd say. And what they meant was make me feel human.
Some came for praise, not flesh.
"You're so strong."
"You take such good care of everyone."
"You're the only one who can do it, aren't you?"
They'd melt under the words, desperate for validation, for a voice that believed in them without fear or expectation.
The kings, the killers, the men with blood on their hands?
They're the ones who want it the most.
They'll build a kingdom just to fall asleep in the lap of a woman who tells them,
"You've done enough, baby. Let me take care of you now. You're a good man."
Then there were the ones who lingered after—hungry for aftercare they'd never admit to needing. They'd let you pull them into your chest, lay their heads on women belly, run fingers through their hair as they trembled—not from pleasure, but from everything they refused to feel until their cock softened.
Some didn't even want sex. They just wanted to watch you feed them. Look at them like them meant more than their money.
Some men like that didn't want whores.
They wanted second homes.
Women they could save.
Women they thought needed them—
grateful, quiet, easy to impress."
Others wanted to be broken down and then adored—called pathetic with one breath and honey in the next. They needed both: shame and safety. The whip and the kiss.
The brothel girl would call them a mess, then kiss their forehead. And they'd moan for them.
There were even some who fantasized about truly keeping a woman kept. Fed. Warm. Protected. Being the savior.
They'd never say it aloud, but you saw it in their eyes—Breed, they thought. Tame her.
But in the end—
They all wanted something soft then strut away like they conquered an army.
"You know why men truly build empires, sweetheart? Why they break their backs, wear crowns, hoard wealth, start wars? It's not for power. Not really. It's for the chance to lie beside the most beautiful woman in the room—even if only once. A sword may make a king, but a woman makes a kingdom."
She tapped your thigh, hard enough to make you flinch.
"What's between your legs isn't shame. It's leverage. Empire. Bloodline. The kind of power they burn cities for. Men fuck for pleasure yes —but truly they fuck for control. For legacy. So let them think they're in charge. Stroke their ego. Play soft. Sweet. Stupid."
You'd seen it. Learned it. Performed it. Women in your mother's parlor bowed their heads, moaned prettily, whispered "yes, sir" not because they meant it—but because it made men feel loved.
Her voice dropped to a whisper, warm and venomous against your ear.
Still—your mother had never claimed it was the truth of all men—because of men like your father—she said he was one of the good ones. Just the ones who wore crowns, carried weapons, or needed thrones to feel whole. The ones who sought conquest because they feared being seen.
But not every man wanted a puppet.
Some men truly wanted a partner.
Some got hard not from control, but from vulnerability.
Some broke when a woman looked them in the eye and said, "You can kneel here if you want—but only because I let you."
"But when they forget who holds the leash—close your thighs. Nurture their weakness.
Be his strength, his comfort.
Make them beg. Make them starve.
And he'll worship you. Because you don't chain a beast, darling. You make it crawl."
A pause, softer now, sadder.
"Unless he frees himself. Unless he loves you openly, not out of need, but because he chooses to kneel."
Now, years later, you understood, truly understood.
Sukuna—the Fire Prince, war-god incarnate—laid before you, his composure unraveling. His chest heaved, his lips parted, his cock twitched with a hunger he couldn't master. The man who burned kingdoms, who thought he held the world's leash, was trembling under your touch, gutted by the soft sound of your breath.
He thought he owned you.
But you saw it in his eyes—half-lidded and undone. The power wasn't in his fire, his titles, his conquests. It was in you. In the throne between your thighs.
Your mother's words echoed, sharp and true: Let them think they have control. Let them boast, let them believe the world spins because of them.
You smiled, soft as sin, and watched Sukuna melt under your mouth, his pride crumbling like ash.
He didn't hold the leash. It was wrapped around your fingers, and you hadn't even pulled yet.
You didn't chain the beast. You made him kneel.
And in that moment, you knew: the true victory wasn't his surrender. It was the fact that he thought he'd won—until he realized he was already yours.
You coughed again, wincing as the sharp sting tore through your throat.
He wanted to apologize.
He almost did.
But the words wouldn't come. They'd never been part of his vocabulary—
Especially not for this.
Especially not for you.
So instead, he whispered the only thing that felt safe.
A low grunt escaped him as his fingers slid into your hair, stroking gently before giving a possessive tug—just enough to remind you who was still in control.
