owlespresso

[owlespresso]

I wouldn't say Kaiser wants to be your dad but he does refuse to let you go out if its cold and you're not wearing a jacket he considers appropriate

[owlespresso]

kaiser hours AGAIN

[owlespresso]

Note: No idea what compelled me. Posting this since the inspiration left my brain months ago and I'm tired of seeing it rot in wip hell.

Tags: Dottore x amab reader, mild blood, mild gore, suggestive, power imbalance, reader Does Not know science stuff, 1k

"And what did you do this time?" The Doctor sounded far from amused, the sharp edge to his question almost making you regret seeking out the harbinger in the first place.

Sheepishly, you clutched your shoulder, biting back the urge to wince, "just a small accident during a spar," your smile faltered when the point of his mask, and most likely his gaze as well, snapped from the body in front of him to you, "and I didn't want to bother the infirmary…"

Metal clattering cut your explanation short as The Doctor haphazardly discarded tools you didn't know the names of, knowing only to fear them when wielded by his hand.

With a flick of his wrist as permission, you advanced further inside, the white light reflected in all his equipment making the experience far more painful on the eyes than marching through Snezhnaya's snowclad paths at noon.

"Yet you thought it fitting to disturb me," he scolded, easily pushing you down into a chair despite your larger build. Where he hid his strength, you truly hadn't the imagination to fathom.

An apology had barely made it to the tip of your tongue when your abs clenched to instead force a pained groan into the silence, bony fingers pressing into the cut just below your shoulder. The Doctor merely chuckled as he inspected his now bloodied fingers - how you wished to see the look in his eyes accompanying that satisfied smile - but was swift to move on, never one for wasting time. There was no reason to protest when he wiped it off in your uniform, nor did you so much as flinch when scissors cut through the fabric as though nothing but air.

Relief stemmed the tide of pain flowing through your veins when The Doctor discarded his mask on the vivisection table nearby, a brief flicker of worry making you frown. The dark bags beneath Dottore's eyes appeared far more prominent, his countenance almost ghastly despite the certainty with which he pulled antiseptic and gauze from a cabinet.

"Next time you're stupid enough to let yourself get injured, go to the infirmary as you're supposed to," he sounded far less hostile but just as strict, carmine eyes focused on removing any scraps of fabric and other visible contaminants from the cut.

You couldn't help but let your eyes flutter closed, too caught up in the feeling of his hand splayed out on your pectoral. Even so, his words confounded you enough to carefully question them. "You've never protested before, I thought you enjoyed my company?"

A huff of laughter left his cracked lips, a slight flush creeping up your cheeks at the realization that your assumptions about the relation between the two of you might very well be far removed from reality. "Of course I've fixed you up when the cause has been your voluntary participation in experiments, I wouldn't risk breaking a valued asset."

Dottore stepped closer, one leg forcing your knees apart, the difference in size making it difficult to keep your breath from hitching. How many times had you wanted to confirm that your hands could easily reach around one of his thighs? Still, the excitement did little to quell the dismay settling like a thick fog around your mind.

"Foolish boy," he chided, the back of his hand lightly tapping your cheek, "if I did not tolerate your company, I would have thrown you out long ago. Now, lift your arm so I can wrap it."

The carefully disguised fondness, one you'd spent months learning to recognize, brought much needed reassurance. As did the whispered praise when you immediately complied with his request.

As the minutes passed, your body temperature plummeted drastically in the frigid air, aided by the thin sheen of sweat that had covered your body when you'd first entered. With your hairs standing on end, every brush of Dottore's fingertips sent an additional shiver down your spine.

It was to be expected. And it was more than worth the discomfort to have your only source of heat be the hands that had gone from tying off the gauze to feel along your taut muscle for any sign of tension. It was something you'd grown used to, every test you volunteered for began with a thorough examination to confirm your health.

What wasn't to be expected was the sudden weight as the Second Harbinger lowered himself onto your lap. His expression gave away no hint of whatever reasons he had for straddling you, the action making heat stir in your gut despite your better judgement. The laboratory was painfully empty this time of day, only serving to heighten your fear that he might somehow hear your rapidly increasing pulse.

Everything but his stubbled chin, crooked nose, and deeply attentive eyes held your focus. Such as the… microscopes? situated in one corner of the room, crates of unidentifiable contents stacked precariously beside the table. And all the jars of pickled horrors lining shelves from floor to ceiling. Once, you'd found the atmosphere comfortable enough to jokingly ask how badly one would have to mess up a mission to end up in pieces on his shelves.

'It has nothing to do with failure, not necessarily, but I do keep things one way or another if I find them useful.'

His words had sent a shiver down your spine then just as it did now, your mind slowly catching up to how your gaze had wandered right back to Dottore's hint of a smile. Following his line of sight, a desire for the ground to open up and swallow you whole filled every fiber of your being. There, between your bodies, was the shameful evidence of the affection and desire that had festered in your body for months.

"Ah, as I hypothesized," Dottore chuckled, letting a single fingertip run along your clothed bulge, "your curiosity extends to more than just my research, does it not?"

The question had you swallowing hard, fighting the urge to chase what little friction his touch had provided. The Doctor had never favored the pitiful and pathetic. You could only hope he didn't consider it a sign of weakness how heat inevitably creeping along your skin, its rapid expansion aided by the thumb tugging at your bottom lip.

Already, your trousers had become uncomfortably tight, every muscle taut with desire to writhe and squirm. "No-.. Well, yes, but I-" a hiss cut off your attempt at a poor excuse. White-hot pleasure momentarily blinded you as the Harbinger pressed his palm harder against your length.

Masterlist

[owlespresso]

wrapped in the velvet of your body, lycaon feels as if in a dream tags: noncon with a twist, crying, shame

You're warm and alive in his palms. Your spine arches off the mattress like a live wire, your hips cradled in his hands.

Angry, red crescents carve into your side as he pulls you down the bed. Your legs hang over the edge.

"Lycaon–" you hiccup, voice a small and reedy thing. His head is shoved into the crook of your neck. His tongue rasps greedily over your skin, takes in the salted taste of your sweat. You sound afraid–weepy. Despite himself, he moans. Your fingers curl into the fine fur that coats his broad shoulders, as though scrambling for purchase, before giving up and falling back onto the sheets.

He hunches over you, presses you into the blankets. Your blankets, he realizes belatedly, coated in your scent.

The tip of his cock kisses your folds. You're sopping wet. He can smell the sweetness of your pleasure, slick running down the seam of you and onto the blankets.

He's pulled it from you with clever fingers on your clit, wrestled you down onto the downy sheets for your own good, unwound the tight coil of your body with heavy, heady touches. You've been so tense, lately. If he'd allowed you to keep on that current course, you would have worked yourself to exhaustion–or worse. It's the least you deserve. And who else could be more qualified to administer the medication than him, someone who cherishes and loves you so very much?

"Lycaon," you try again. His teeth hook into the crook of your neck. He savors the give of your skin against his mouth. He feels most unlike himself. Like this, he surrounds you entirely. His cock head drags up the length of your swollen folds, gathers your wetness at his tip.

He dips a hand down, presses the pad of his thumb to your clit. Your hips jolt again, startled and rabbit-like. Your thighs try and clench shut, but it's a fruitless effort. You only succeed in trapping him further against your body. His cock breaches your entrance, tip popping inside.

Your walls are molten silk. It's an instant squeeze, clenching him in a vice-grip. Your pulse thrums in his ears, panic seizing you, making you somehow tighter.

"Lycaon," you whimper, "Lycaon, 's too big–"

He should reassure you, he thinks. But his lips refuse to part around the words. All he does is drive his hips forward, cock sinking inside you. The push is aided by slow half-thrusts, painstaking strokes that bring him deeper and deeper. Tears run down your cheeks, face contorted with pleasure, eyes glazed and unseeing. Your hands fist the sheets tight, body shaking as you struggle to take him.

And oh, you're doing so well. He wants to coo at you, to tell you this himself, but he can't quite form the words. Something twists at the back of his mind, a feeling of bitter wrongness clawing at the back of his throat.

But you're so warm and so, so wet. Gushing for him, already. The bothersome thoughts vanish with another roll of his hips. He pulls you into him a little more with each one, until he's bottomed out with a deep sigh. For a blind, manic moment, he thinks it's the most complete he's ever felt.

His hips pull back, out of your stretched pussy until only the head remains inside–and then forward. He sets a fast, brutal rhythm. Uncouth. Certainly ill-fitting for your first time together, he realizes with some indigence. Surely, he should slow down, at least long enough to praise you–but he doesn't. His body moves independently of his thoughts, continuing to plow you into the mattress.

Schlick, schlick, schlick–

The lewd, wet sounds of your coupling join the cacophony of your moans and cries. Your back arches off the cream-colored bedspread, sheets rumpled where you've grabbed them. You're a vision, sweat-slicked and haloed by golden lamplight, your skin radiating with heat. He grips you a little harder, and marvels at the way your flesh dimples under his fingertips. So yielding and delicate.

"Stop, stop–" you sob, you weep. A fresh wave of arousal shoots straight to his cock. He's horrified. It's a shock of cold water after a lash of flame. He feels like a spectator in his own body as he fucks you harder, drives you further up the mattress with each weighty thrust. The sounds of your sex, broad hips slapping into the fat of your ass, fills the small bedroom. He takes in your terror, inhales it with his nose against your skin.

He likes this. He likes this. He likes this so much, more than he has any right too.

That's his last thought before his eyes snap wide open. His ceiling stares straight back at him. It's still dark outside, and he's alone. His bed looks like a tornado's combed through it, sheets twisted and pillows tossed. He swallows.

Nothing but a dream. A devious vision conjured from the depths of his mind, where his most depraved desires linger. A nightmare.

And yet, you felt so real beneath his palms. So solid. And the pitch of your voice, when you pleaded him to stop–

His cock twitches in his pants, hard and leaking. His pajamas are uncomfortably wet. He feels like a fumbling, hormonal schoolboy. His eyes screw shut, the space between his eyes pinched between two fingers. He feels… sick. Sick that he, even unconsciously, would ever even think of–

He cuts off that train of thought immediately. For the sake of his own sanity, he banishes all thought of you from his overwrought mind. Then, he reaches over the edge of the bed for his prosthetics.

He imagines he won't be getting anymore sleep, tonight.

[owlespresso]

I love crystal stores sm. Why did they have this and what is in it

[owlespresso]

flash comms (1k for $18)

Hey! I’m in need of some extra cash, so I’m offering 1.5 word comms for $18. If you’re interested, DM me. Payments will be through paypal.

Fandoms: Fire Emblem (Fates, Awakening, Three Houses), Honkai Star Rail, Genshin Impact, Twisted Wonderland, Final Fantasy 14, 15, 16 & 7 (+ Crisis Core), RWBY, Fields of Mistria, others (just ask if you want something not listed here!)

What I will Write: NSFW, dark content, dubcon, noncon, yandere, femdom, maledom, reader-inserts, canon/canon pairings, most kinks tbh just ask What I won’t write: Anything to do with human waste, bestiality, necrophilia, snuff, OCs

[owlespresso]

wrapped in the velvet of your body, lycaon feels as if in a dream tags: noncon with a twist, crying, shame

You're warm and alive in his palms. Your spine arches off the mattress like a live wire, your hips cradled in his hands.

Angry, red crescents carve into your side as he pulls you down the bed. Your legs hang over the edge.

"Lycaon–" you hiccup, voice a small and reedy thing. His head is shoved into the crook of your neck. His tongue rasps greedily over your skin, takes in the salted taste of your sweat. You sound afraid–weepy. Despite himself, he moans. Your fingers curl into the fine fur that coats his broad shoulders, as though scrambling for purchase, before giving up and falling back onto the sheets.

He hunches over you, presses you into the blankets. Your blankets, he realizes belatedly, coated in your scent.

The tip of his cock kisses your folds. You're sopping wet. He can smell the sweetness of your pleasure, slick running down the seam of you and onto the blankets.

He's pulled it from you with clever fingers on your clit, wrestled you down onto the downy sheets for your own good, unwound the tight coil of your body with heavy, heady touches. You've been so tense, lately. If he'd allowed you to keep on that current course, you would have worked yourself to exhaustion–or worse. It's the least you deserve. And who else could be more qualified to administer the medication than him, someone who cherishes and loves you so very much?

"Lycaon," you try again. His teeth hook into the crook of your neck. He savors the give of your skin against his mouth. He feels most unlike himself. Like this, he surrounds you entirely. His cock head drags up the length of your swollen folds, gathers your wetness at his tip.

He dips a hand down, presses the pad of his thumb to your clit. Your hips jolt again, startled and rabbit-like. Your thighs try and clench shut, but it's a fruitless effort. You only succeed in trapping him further against your body. His cock breaches your entrance, tip popping inside.

Your walls are molten silk. It's an instant squeeze, clenching him in a vice-grip. Your pulse thrums in his ears, panic seizing you, making you somehow tighter.

"Lycaon," you whimper, "Lycaon, 's too big–"

He should reassure you, he thinks. But his lips refuse to part around the words. All he does is drive his hips forward, cock sinking inside you. The push is aided by slow half-thrusts, painstaking strokes that bring him deeper and deeper. Tears run down your cheeks, face contorted with pleasure, eyes glazed and unseeing. Your hands fist the sheets tight, body shaking as you struggle to take him.

And oh, you're doing so well. He wants to coo at you, to tell you this himself, but he can't quite form the words. Something twists at the back of his mind, a feeling of bitter wrongness clawing at the back of his throat.

But you're so warm and so, so wet. Gushing for him, already. The bothersome thoughts vanish with another roll of his hips. He pulls you into him a little more with each one, until he's bottomed out with a deep sigh. For a blind, manic moment, he thinks it's the most complete he's ever felt.

His hips pull back, out of your stretched pussy until only the head remains inside–and then forward. He sets a fast, brutal rhythm. Uncouth. Certainly ill-fitting for your first time together, he realizes with some indigence. Surely, he should slow down, at least long enough to praise you–but he doesn't. His body moves independently of his thoughts, continuing to plow you into the mattress.

Schlick, schlick, schlick–

The lewd, wet sounds of your coupling join the cacophony of your moans and cries. Your back arches off the cream-colored bedspread, sheets rumpled where you've grabbed them. You're a vision, sweat-slicked and haloed by golden lamplight, your skin radiating with heat. He grips you a little harder, and marvels at the way your flesh dimples under his fingertips. So yielding and delicate.

"Stop, stop–" you sob, you weep. A fresh wave of arousal shoots straight to his cock. He's horrified. It's a shock of cold water after a lash of flame. He feels like a spectator in his own body as he fucks you harder, drives you further up the mattress with each weighty thrust. The sounds of your sex, broad hips slapping into the fat of your ass, fills the small bedroom. He takes in your terror, inhales it with his nose against your skin.

He likes this. He likes this. He likes this so much, more than he has any right too.

That's his last thought before his eyes snap wide open. His ceiling stares straight back at him. It's still dark outside, and he's alone. His bed looks like a tornado's combed through it, sheets twisted and pillows tossed. He swallows.

Nothing but a dream. A devious vision conjured from the depths of his mind, where his most depraved desires linger. A nightmare.

And yet, you felt so real beneath his palms. So solid. And the pitch of your voice, when you pleaded him to stop–

His cock twitches in his pants, hard and leaking. His pajamas are uncomfortably wet. He feels like a fumbling, hormonal schoolboy. His eyes screw shut, the space between his eyes pinched between two fingers. He feels… sick. Sick that he, even unconsciously, would ever even think of–

He cuts off that train of thought immediately. For the sake of his own sanity, he banishes all thought of you from his overwrought mind. Then, he reaches over the edge of the bed for his prosthetics.

He imagines he won't be getting anymore sleep, tonight.

[owlespresso]

rejoice! for lycaon smut will soon be upon ye

[owlespresso]

I’m obsessed with the way men talk…. Why yes, that was rather cool

[owlespresso]

ideal dynamic is falling into a weird, undefined poly relationship with jude and ellis. jude knows there's a dangerous mission later today and as capable as you might be, he really doesn't want you risking your life by accompanying them. he also knows you'll put up a fuss and doesn't feel like arguing about it, so he orders ellis to give you a few extra orgasms right after you wake up, so you'll fall back asleep easy, letting them slip out unaccompanied...

[owlespresso]

HAHAHAHA got it! i'll be reading whatever u put out in the future btw 🫶

THANK YOU :3 I'm going to do my best to keep posting consistently... the semester has started but we stay silly... a thousand heart emojis for u

[owlespresso]

okiii im gonna write something for lycaon. ive had an idea buzzing at the back of my mind for months now...

[owlespresso]

LOOK AT IT.

[owlespresso]

love love love the way you write for leander! do u ever consider writing for mhin too?

THANK YOUUU I'm so glad you think so! praying that my characterization holds up once we get the chapter 1/rest of the game released.

As for writing Mhin, I don't think so?? I'll be fully honest, I'm not usually into uhh tsundere(?) characters like that. like i love mhin. their character design is gorgeous and theyre just as fascinating at the others but leander and ais just speak to my pussy more BWAHAH

[owlespresso]

ais number 1 most likely to pick you up and throw you into the water if you go to the beach or lake with him (as long as he knows you can swim). you are getting splashed and if you try to swim away he's wrapping his big hand around your ankle to tug you back. pulling you into his wet chest and dripping water all over you.

[owlespresso]

ffxiv environmental and architectural design my beloved

[owlespresso]

drunken phantasmagoria i wwas overtaken by something. tags: drunk phainon, groping, phainon has nipple piercings + a nipple chain, reader is implied to have a softer/chubbier build

The afterglow of the night tails you well to your way home. The clinking of glasses and the electric thrumming of deep bass still rings in your ears as you fish in your pockets. Your shaking hands fumble with the lock of the apartment, grumbling a curse. Your voice is thick in your throat, a stiff line of heat pressed up against your back.

Phainon's all built muscle and warm sighs. His broad arms wrap around your waist. Hot lips brush against the nape of your neck, absentmindedly mouthing at your skin. His hands roam. Fingers splay wide across your stomach, squeezing the tender flesh he finds there. A shiver rolls down your spine.

"You're not helping," you mutter. He sways at your back. The only sign he heard you is a low, affirmative hum. He palms your belly, fingers sinking into the fat. It's–bizarre. No one's really paid much attention to that part of you, before, but Phainon seems thoroughly fascinated with the sharp contrast in your frames.

"I'm seeing double right now, so I'd probably just get in the way," Phainon chuckles softly. Both of his hands sit at your waist, cupping your stomach. Heat crawls up your spine and colors your cheeks. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears, your arousal pumping between your thighs. He rubs his cheek into the top of your head and sighs again.

The door swings open. Your living room is cozy and dimly lit. You made sure to leave at least one of the lamps on before you left, so you wouldn't be stumbling around in the dark upon your return. You stumble forward, kicking your sneakers off and making a beeline for the couch. Phainon dogs at your heels, stride-for-stride, refusing to part with you even for risk of tripping.

You collapse onto the corner of the sectional, and Phainon follows you without second thought. The cushionry bounces against the sudden weight, a few of the pillows knocked onto the carpet. He plops against your side, tossing an arm over your stomach to yank you close.

"Did you have fun?" Phainon asks. His face nestles into your chest from the side, chin perched on the soft fat of your breast. He inhales audibly, taking a deep drag of your scent.

"Mm, yeah," you mumble in agreement. You turn your tired eyes to look down at him. One of your hands reaches up. You map the broad planes of his back with lazy fingers, tracing the dips and contours of the packed muscle. "And you?"

"It was nice to see everyone, but I have a feeling that I'll regret the drinking contest come tomorrow morning," Phainon sighs. You slip your hand beneath his shirt through the loose collar.

You draw yourself up onto your knees. Phainon doesn't chase. He looks up at you through pale lashes, eyelids hanging low. His tongue rasps over his parted bottom lip. Too tipsy, too hazy to really move.

You move down the couch, slithering between his legs, nudging them further open. He spreads easy for you, a slow smile unfurling at the corners of his lips.

"You're so drunk," you observe dispassionately. You grasp the hem of his shirt and urge it upwards. His abdomen twitches and clenches, unbidden. Muscle shifts beneath pale skin. You idly admire the etched lines of his strong stomach, the well-placed fat of his pecs, the hard peaks of his rosy nipples.

The silver of his piercings gleam under the warm lamp light. A chain, smooth and thin as silk, stretches between the little rings, dotted with rhinestones and shiny babbles. Gorgeous against the flushed surface of his skin. Awed, you watch the slow rise and fall of his chest with silent, sharp focus.

"You look at me like you want to eat me," he hums. He stretches his arms above his head. The jagged lines of his serratus anteriors bulge shift beneath his skin, pulled upwards by the motion. The chain jingles quietly as its dragged upwards. He puts on a show for you, as best as can. Shows off his underbelly like a dog eager for scritches. You're almost ashamed of how easily he gets you. Hook, line and sinker. Your hands are on him before you can even pay it a second thought.

"I'd swallow you whole, if I could," you confess quietly.

A shiver rolls through his spine as you pet him. The tips of your fingers trace the space beneath those plush pecs. Your thumbs toy with the silvery rings and he sighs, the sound more charged this time. Breathy and tremulous. His legs curl around you, clothed calves nudging your back against his crotch. A tent in his trousers rubs against your clothed core and you hum in consideration. Do you fuck him like this, while he's dazed and sloppy for it?

You lower your mouth to his peaked, right nipple, lavishing his areola with the tip of your tongue. He sighs, and whimpers. His big hands grasp blindly for you, curling in your hair (yet not pulling) and over your back.

An utterance of your name, so high it could almost be a whine, makes the choice for you.