#HIS FUCKING DIRTY BEAK

[orsanedraws]

pov: you're a tiny bowl of water

[monstersflashlight]

Hello ! How are you ?

I have a little request here. I'm curious if you have any ideas or prompts about an owl, harpy bf monster with their human s/o ? The harpy bf is a cute nerdy guy and the human s/o is whatever you can imagine.

Have a nice day !

Hi there! Sorry I didn't answer this sooner, I loooooove harpies. I had to look up what an owl harpy is but daaaang that's cute as fuck! Hope this little txt is worth the wait! <3

Owl-harpy boyfriend who stalks your hope from a near tree. He saw you passing by one day and was mesmerized by your beauty. He keeps looking at you as you sleep and thinks how good it would be to be closer to you. He ends up buying the house next door, too shy to say anything until one day the fence between your houses collapses. He introduces himself then, promising he will fix it.

By the time the fence is fixed and your backyards don't meet, you want to push it down again just to see him working on it over and over. He looks magnificient with his wings, talons and cute little beak. You are mesmerized by his form and beauty, and maybe you spend more time than not sleeping at night just so you can see him a bit more each day. Your sleep schedule completely fucked up because you have a big BIG crush on the owl-harpy next door.

After the fence incident, you start flirting with him, bringing your best puns, but it's not working. After a couple weeks flirting with him and him being completely obvious about it, you break down and ask him on a date. He stutters and says yes, making you coo at him as he blushes in the most amazing shade of soft brown. You aren't sure what he eats, but he offers to prepare dinner at his place. The moment you step into his house and see the big comfy nest in the middle of the living room, you want to kiss him senseless. So you do. At first is a bit weird with his beak and all, but you make do. You make out messily on the nest and against the wall and against the kitchen counter... You are thirsty and hungry for each other and it's the best feeling in the world.

When you are intimate for the first time, you are surpised to see his cockpocket. He's shy about it, but when you tease it with your fingers and his cock comes out all sticky and warm... you are sold. The fact that you aren't the only one wet when you get to it is as arousing as nothing else was before. You love how wet he gets, how desperate when you play with his slit and stop his cock from coming out compltely, playing with his tip still inside of him. It drives him insane, it makes him beg and squirm and his wings get all fluttery behind his body. And when he finally fucks you, he's so wet that it goes in without any problems, so nice and slow and dirty... You love all of it. Having sex with an harpy is the best experience of your life.

It's not until months later when he confesses that he bought the house just to be near you, you think it's weird as fuck, but what else isn't about him? He's so quirky and weird and you fucking love every part of it. Of him. And when he confesses that he's in love with you, you go down on him for so long that he screams so loud because of oversensitivity that your neighbor two houses down calls the police.

[elitekook]

late

•pairing: jungkook x f!reader

•warings: smut, cursing, reader has big breasts, make out, fingering, face slapping(once), dirty talk, degradation (uses of slut and whore), rough sex, anal play(very brief), unprotected sex(be safe pls) basically porn with no plot

•word count: 930 (not reviewed obviously)

"jungkook we need to go...fuck!" is all you can say before you feel a pair of hands groping your ass and then slaps being delivered against your skin.

"We have time before we go." jungkook says, sucking the skin on your neck. "hold your legs up, quick".

You can't say no to him. Not when you're already dripping, the unbearable throbbing in your clitnot letting you think straight. Lying right in the center of the bed means you can hold your legs close to your chest, just the way he likes it.

"So fucking desperate" jungkook groans as he watches your pussy tighten around nothingness "fuck, still tight after taking my cock" you moan his name when he starts pumping his long fingers hitting places only he could

jungkook enjoys it as much as you do, the feel of your pussy squeezing his fingers sends ripples of arousal straight to his cock still trapped in his clothes. "touch your clit for me while I suck your tits"

The clothes you were wearing now were a complete mess, jungkook does not stop pulling the mini shirt you are wearing revealing the full breasts you have, beaks raised with so much pleasure.

"Please I need more" the hand sliding circles over your clit and the feel of the hot tongue on your chest is all it takes to bring you to the brink of an orgasm.

But that's not what you want. You want his dick.

"More? what do you want, hm?" jungkook who releases your chest with a pop, a thread of saliva connecting the two and replacing your hand with his stimulating your clit. "want my cock in your little pussy, like a desperate slut?"

The only thing you can do is moan, hips thrusting towards jungkook like an invitation and the hand that used to give him pleasure is in your face in a slap that makes your head turn to the side. "I asked what you want or I won't give you anything, babe."

"I want your cock here" you guide jungkook's hand until it's over your pussy again. "ruin me, jungkook. Do whatever you want to me"

jungkook is quick to pull you over and place you face down on the bed, head on the mattress and butt in the air. You can't help but shiver when you feel jungkook's dick slide through your folds, the wet sound filling the room.

The tip sliding along the entire length, rubbing your overstimulated clit again, pre cum being spread making jungkook moan at the sight.

"kook…hurry up" you wiggle your hips to get what you want but all you get is slaps on your thigh, and fuck, it feels so good.

"we're doing this on my time" jungkook says, voice low and husky. You can feel the tip of him teasing your entrance "the tightest pussy" jungkook's husky voice hitting you right in the core, the dick sliding until it's fully inside you and the feeling of being filled until you feel full satisfying every expectations.

jungkook's hands walking around your body landing on top of your breasts, pulls and squeezes that are given the right way. The tip of his dick hitting your g-spot directly as the strokes become faster and deeper.

"having fun squeezing my cock all over like a whore?" he whispers in your ear sucking the skin on your neck then the grip on your waist leaving marks and the thrusts becoming more intense. "you feel so fucking good"

you grip the bed sheets tightly, the hardness of your movements making the bed creak. You feel a pair of hands on your ass, pulling the bands apart, m but what takes you by surprise is the pressure on your back entrance.

Jungkook's thumb wet with your moisture, circling the puckered spot. "we should try next time

"focus on now " you say impatiently, desperate to come.

"so needy" jungkook pulls your body until his chest is glued to your back. One arm circling his waist, the other your jaw until your mouth is glued to his.The kiss is a mess, rushed and rough. "My good girl" he says, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth. He pulls away and releases your lip with a 'snap'.

jungkook now guides both hands on your hips, firming, the movements faster and faster and you calling his name. No, you're screaming the name of the only person who makes you feel this way.

Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook

Hips in sync with his movements, the slick wetness between her thighs allowing him to slide in easily. Your pussy tightening around him and the familiar knot in your stomach makes you roll your eyes. "you cumming, babe?"

"m-make me cum, kook" is all you can get out, sobs and loud moans being all you can get out. He's basically fucking you dumb, making messes all over the bed just the way you both like it.

You two came together, you feeling spasms and squeezing his length, and he who even after coming still kept some slow movements spreading his seed and making your legs trembling.

jungkook lets out a deep sigh, chest red and heaving, head resting on your shoulder. "are you alright?"

"mmn, tired" you say, voice totally hoarse and jungkook can't help but laugh.

"Our friends will understand if we don't go, so I can take care of my pretty girl".

you feel your stomach churning, wondering where you got yourself when you decided to give in to jungkook's wishes.

And the worst, you like it.

A lot.

• this is an original work by @elitekook, please do not copy, translate or anything like that :)

[jolalibrary]

7. honey cream

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.9k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. frankie being a good dad. bad tool names. anxious!reader. an: can i just say a massive thank you to all those who show up EVERY SINGLE WEEK. i adore you so much. thank you. if you're new to the ride, also welcome. even if i loved this story so much, i never expected people to love it even half as much as me, never mind the love i keep getting. so thank you.

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Nice forearm in your story.

Thanks, It’s this guy I met in a hardware store? We’ve been kind of seeing one another.

Oh, tell him he has a nice watch.

I’ve been told to tell you that you have a nice watch.

You’re hilarious.

I try to be.

You can say no to this, but do you want me to call you later?

That’ll be nice. I’ll be working late so I'll take a break when you do.

Tomorrow, I just need to grab some bits from the store and then I’ll be with you.

Are you sure you want to spend your day off helping me paint?

I was promised to see you in overalls, so yes.

They’re nice, but please lower your expectations.

I bet they look great on your ass.

Everything looks great on my ass.

Including my hand.

Yes, specifically when you slipped your fingers in my jeans pocket on the way to brunch.

I can’t wait to see you.

Drive safely, Butterscotch.

“I feel bad that your day off is spent painting.”

Flicking the lid off with a screwdriver, Frankie just smiles—eyes looking up at you from under his cap.

When he looks at you, you might as well be a fly irresistibly drawn to the brilliance of it, captivated by it.

He’d come in clothes that were long since paint-splattered. A set, you assume, he wears most times—an over-washed and over-loved flannel over a greying white tee, and a pair of cargos that have more pockets than you know what they could be used for.

It had been more natural when he’d arrived this time. A sweet kiss at the door, a long hug where he walks you in and his heel kicks your door shut. A muttering of 'you smell nice', into your neck—grinning over his shoulder because you’d sprayed far too much of your perfume.

“Don’t—I want to be here.”

“I think I’ll likely apologise another three times, at least, before we’re done.”

Standing, wearing a slightly twinged expression on his face, he steps over the clean trays and folded step ladders. His hand rises, turning the beak of his cap around, before he’s in front of you, staring at you before he kisses you.

Kisses you like he wishes to rid you of your worries and make your guilt wash away. Like he wants to empty your mind of things you’ve once been told, make you forget them, purge them. Fuck, his mouth almost does.

“So, rule of thumb—ceiling, walls and then kickboards, window sills.”

“Did you… Did you really just finish kissing me and immediately talk about painting?”

Grinning, he chuckles, bending down to grab a paintbrush. “Did you want me to linger on why you feel bad, or are you ready to get your hands dirty?"

You hesitate for a moment before taking the brush, fingers brushing over his. “I guess I’ll get dirty, since it’s with you.”

He seems to swallow, gaze holding yours as a soft smile tries to tug at his lips before flattening out to a line. Then, you just watch as he pours the off-white paint into the trays—its thick, glooping contents filling it quicker than you’d banked on, but he took it perfectly in his stride.

The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, forearms flexing as he tilts the larger tub until he appears content with the measurement in the tray.

You know a thumb covered in paint shouldn’t cause your throat to dry, but it does. Your mind thinking up all the places he can leave a stamp of it, a trail of it, turn you into a map showing where he’s been—over a thigh, collarbone, your —

“Race you to the end of the wall?”

Blinking, finding him already readying his roller on the blank, sun-stained wall.

Before you can respond, he's off. The roller glides smoothly across the wall, leaving a trail of fresh paint in its wake. You laugh, shaking your head at his competitive spirit before joining him, your own brush meeting the wall—cutting in.

In time, the room fills with the rhythmic sound of brushes against the wall, the occasional laughter, and gentle conversations. The room transformed over the hours, looking fresher, already a thousand times better than it had this morning with the patches off filled in holes and cracks.

Taking the brush from your hands, you step back to the middle, looking around, not initially aware of how he’s looking at you. Not until you spot a satisfied smile and a glint in his eye.

“We did good, didn't we?”

You shrug. “Think you could do better—put your back really into rolling next time.”

Shaking his head, he throws your brush into the used tray before he’s grasping, tugging, your body connecting with his in an oomph—his reflexes quicker, arms longer than you’d expected—as laughter escapes out as you slide your hand around the back of his neck.

“Thank you. For helping me.”

“Sure,” he whispers, cheek close to yours, fingers on your hip. “Have I told you how good you look in your overalls?”

Rolling your lips, you slowly turn in his hold—all set to turn his cap for him again. To whisper to him that they’re easy to remove too, that he could slide his fingers up, even slant your mouth back over his again.

But you hear his stomach. It rumbles—practically thunderous.

“I haven’t even offered you food,” you confess, words laced with guilt. “I should make you food.”

“You don’t have to…”

Fingers entwining with his, you pull him—finding him happily following, even as he mumbles about cleaning up, that the paint will dry in the tray. You don’t loosen your hold until the two of you are in the kitchen, a hand needed to open the fridge, both required to pull out some ingredients.

“You cooking for me?”

“I’m going to try, if that’s okay?”

He leans against the counter, watching you with a soft smile.

“I'd love that, baby,” he says, the affection in his voice making your heart flutter like it keeps doing.

Before you’ve even sliced the first vegetable, Frankie excuses himself—a kiss to your cheek, all domestic, normal. It not feeling weird even as he goes back to the “project room” and you hear him tidying.

Because it’s not odd in the slightest him being here.

A thing you turn over as you continue to prepare ingredients, cutting and marinating. By the time he’s returned, sporting an amused smile on his face, you’re about to begin frying things.

“Can I do anything?”

Shaking your head, you glance at him over your shoulder, finding he’s taken up his earlier spot. “Just keep me company.”

And he does. Asking you things, questions—some about your childhood, your family, friends. Every word spoken, he hangs onto. Staring like he’s making notes in his head, committing them to memory, somewhere inside that beautiful, amazing mind of his.

“Should I get used to you cooking if I come round and help you with your project?” he teases, taking a water from the fridge like you’d instructed.

“You better not get used to it,” you retort, throwing a small piece of bell pepper at him playfully. He ducks, laughing. “I batch cook most of the time—easier when you eat for one.”

His eyes follow as you move around the kitchen with a fondness in his eyes, you focusing on not burning anything. Stomach knotting itself when it comes to dishing it up, placing it down, and watching him slide into the stool.

When he takes the first bite, you swear you are frozen—unable to move, or think. Eyes just focused on his, watching, waiting, until you breathe a sigh of relief at the way his eyes light up. “This is really good, baby.”

You can't help but feel a little proud. “Thank you.”

He raises his water in a toast. “To more cooking then,” he proposes, and you laugh, agreeing wholeheartedly.

As you stick your own fork in, it's easy to find comfort in the shared silence, a contentment you continue to be amazed at. The atmosphere all at ease. There's no need for words as you both eat, side-by-side, a relatively normal thing for most, but not for you.

But, none of it feels weird, awkward. It never has—even if part of you continues to wait for it. If anything, it continues to be comfortable, right.

Even as the food effortlessly vanishes off both of your plates, it's not until you've reached your fill that you clear your throat.

“So, how often do you have Luca?”

Chewing his food, he puts down the remainder—wiping his fingers on the napkin. “It’s a weird rota. But it works? I’ll have him in the week for two nights and then overnight on a Saturday one week and then one night in the week the following and then Friday to Sunday, and then I’ll have him for three nights in the week the following. Sometimes, extra if I have time off or I want to take him to see family.”

Nodding, you take a sip of your drink.

“Does that… bother you?”

“No! No, of course not,” you grin. “He’s the most important, in all of this. It was just curiosity, I couldn’t… I couldn’t work out the pattern.”

Chewing his cheek he smiles. “You trying to work out when I’m free?”

Shrugging, you look away, aware of the heat warming your cheeks. “Well, someone did post about brunch on their Stories…”

“I remember someone else posting my forearm on theirs.”

Smiling, you plate your cutlery down. “It’s a very nice forearm.”

Shoulder nudging you, Frankie chuckles—cutlery lined up on his plate, your hand moving to take it. Sliding around the kitchen as he begins debating what part of him will appear next, a thigh, an ankle.

“I can include all of you next time, if you like?” Hand testing the hot, soapy water filling the bowl.

“Yeah?”

Licking your lips, you smile. “I don’t cook for anyone, Morales.”

Shifting to meet your gaze, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Is that right, Rainy? I must be pretty special then.”

“You have no idea,” you reply, your voice a mere whisper but the words carry an immense weight, one you suspect has snuck out, and embedded itself into him.

You're quick to turn your back to him, hide the heat and shyness, as you carefully rinse off the dishes. Only hearing the stool shift at the last moment, the sound of his sock-covered feet padding around until he's standing behind you.

His presence is unmistakable, more so when he places his hands on your hips. “I think I'm beginning to,” he murmurs into your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

You turn to face him, the plates forgotten in the sink. Looking up into his eyes, seeing a reflection of things fluttering in them.

“You better,” you say, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek, “because I'm not planning on posting anyone else’s arm for a while.”

His grin widens at your words, his hands pulling you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. "Good, because I don't plan on trying brunch with anyone else."

And as he leans down to kiss you, he pauses, mouth hovering over yours. “Speaking of…”

Narrowing your eyes, you retract your head, soap suds sliding off your wrists.

“My friends… they want to meet you.”

His words catch you off guard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Meet...me?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

As soon as he confirms with a simple nod, you feel a tightness in your chest. An explosion in your mind. A vortex of thoughts, all overwhelming, non-stop.

Each second you try to breathe, the knot in your chest tightens, sitting, carving a bigger hole where your happiness had just been—

“Yes,” he confirms, his hands soothingly rubbing circles on your hips as though noticing your sudden tension. “I think, maybe, I’ve talked about you too much?”

Running your teeth over your lip, you feel a piece of skin. One sticking up, not as smooth as the rest. Lip balm would solve it, fix it—but you pick at it anyway, pick, pick, pick—

Running your teeth over your lip, you notice a stray piece of skin, protruding slightly, disrupting the otherwise smooth surface. Lip balm would fix it, effortlessly smooth it out—but despite knowing this, you find yourself unable to resist the urge to pick at it. Listening to him as he explains, hearing names, a day suggested. As you compulsively pick, pick, pick—

Until he says your name.

Soft. Gentle. So cautiously spoken it makes your heart do a double take as you taste copper on your tongue.

“Are you sure? I mean, I want to. I just… don’t want to intrude or anything,” you reply, and you know it’s left your mouth shaky, bathed in nerves.

Attempting to shake the suds from your hands, hoping to fling off the worries with it, you find yourself unable to meet his gaze. Mind a flurry, a snowstorm of ifs, buts and maybes.

Because meeting his friends is a significant step—a thing you’re happy about, pleased he feels the same way. Yet, you're also terrified.

Digging your hip into the counter because of it, rooting yourself as you flex your fingers.

“Hey.” His fingers gently lift your chin, forcing you to look up at him; eyes full of warmth and reassurance. "You wouldn't be intruding, baby. They're… they’re like my family and… I want them to meet the person I can’t stop thinking about.”

Shoulders sliding down from your ears, you move to rest your hands on his waist. “You really talk about me that much?”

Scrunching his nose, he smiles. “A bit.”

“Okay,” you agree, your voice sounding more confident than you feel. “I'll meet your friends.”

“Great,” he grins, his relief evident. He pulls you close, hugging you tightly. “Benny—the one who fights—that's who we'll be supporting.”

“When?”

He frowns, but vanishes it away as though realising you hadn't been listening. “Not this weekend, but next. They’re going to love you, I promise.”

“I hope so,” you whisper into his chest, your heart rate trying its best to slow down.

I need you to tell me what I need to do with the office room, if your friends happen to not like me. They’re going to like you. But if they don’t. Rainy, they will. Introducing you is more so they don’t think I’ve made you up. You have a habit of making up people? No. But apparently, the way I talk about you makes it seem like you’re made up. Why? Because you’re perfect. I am not. You are, but let’s have that battle another day. What are you worried about?

It sits there, in your fingers. The answer to his question.

Foot kicking out at your kitchen island, laptop light illuminating your face as you roll your tongue over your lips.

Foot kicking out nervously at the kitchen island, the harsh glow of the laptop casting an eerie light across your face, you roll your tongue over your lips.

A nervous tic. One you find yourself repeating—letting it trace over the same path again and again, desperately seeking a sense of calm that seems perpetually out of reach.

The question doing its rounds, spinning and swirling: What are you worried about? What are you worried about?

Like a bell has been wrung, it blares out. The answer.

It vibrates through your bones and comes back to you in an echo. Almost a chorus: That I’m not good enough.

A thing you’ve done well to ignore, to stuff down. But now, it's crawling up out of its boxes, the tape having barely kept it down, flapping about in the whirlwind of worries in your head.

As your phone screen dims, memories flood, recalling the evidence. The words flung at you, feelings you’ve wrestled with in bathrooms at loud parties and brutal quiet nights; arguments in places that don’t feel like home and tears against brick walls that cut shoulders.

Unlocking your phone, you tighten your jaw because he's not like them. He's good, kind. A sudden unwillingness to bend to insecurity roaring inside of you as you list every good thing about him; not willing to let a good thing be ruined by things that could never happen.

Sliding your fingers over the screen, you type words that seem easier, less difficult to confess:

Living up to the stories you’ve said. No stories, just a mention of your name and apparently a smile they’ve not seen in a while.

With a mouth-closed grin, you purse your lips.

Reading over the message again and again as your teeth sneak out to bite your lip, thumbs darting out over the phone’s keyboard.

Would it be okay to pick you up? You want to pick me up? I do. Yeah, sure. I was going to offer to pick you up. I think I’d like to pick you up, and if I don’t make a fool out of myself, would you like to stay over? I’ll pack your robe.

As soon as he throws his bag into the backseat and slips into your car, you feel at ease.

The drive over to grab him had been a combination of whispered mutterings about how it was going to be fine and a mind full of all the ways it wouldn’t be.

It’s further helped when his lips press to your cheek, allowing hands to loosen on the steering wheel, and when that low voice sweeps over you as he greets you—as other words hang there unspoken.

You almost say it on sight, I've missed you.

Because you have. A week and a half of messages and phone calls sufficing, but you’ve missed his presence, his face, the chance to brush your fingers over his cheek.

“You look nice.”

Eyes widening, he stares down at himself, palms brushing out over his thighs. “Me?”

“No, the ghost you brought with you—of course, you.”

Snorting, he fastens his seatbelt. “Says you, hermosa.”

“Smooth talker.”

The drive to the fight continues with similar, gentle teasing, all comfortable conversation filling the vehicle. He begins to fill you in on the new developments in the saga of Luca’s newfound love for blanket forts rendering the living room a disaster and you about the sign-off on the work you'd been worked up over.

As you navigate the roads, excitedly sharing about how you've picked a wallpaper you like, Frankie's warm hand finds a home on your thigh, his thumb idly tracing patterns over the fabric of your jeans as he continues talking.

No smirk, nothing. Just the usual smile, as if he'd done this before.

Yet, he hasn't. Unfamiliar sensations surge through your body, catching you off guard, body all ill-prepared for the way it warms you. It almost urges you to shuffle in your seat so his hand rises north; Electricity crackles along your veins, accompanied by a tightening in your abdomen that refuses to dissipate. And, it only worsens when he coughs and his hand grips you a little tighter.

As more of the cityscape flits past your windows, you steal glances at Frankie. His profile illuminated intermittently by the passing street lights, shadows highlighting the rugged contours of his face.

By the time you're pulling into the parking lot, you wish the drive had been longer. Momentarily, you press your thighs together, for reprieve. Only doing so when his hand moves to open the door, the liveliness and music spilling out onto the sidewalk as he comes around the vehicle to take your hand.

“So, where will your friends be?”

Frankie tightens his hand on yours, leading you, holding the door open. “They’ll be in the locker room. Will is Ben’s non-official trainer.”

Nodding, you smile, letting him lead until the two of you come to a stop at the bar—him asking you what you’d like, giving you a look that says please don’t fight me as he takes out his wallet.

“You not needed there?” Shaking his head, ordering drinks as he faces his head forward but his eyes slide down to you. “And what are you, what's your role?”

“His other non-official, less present trainer.”

“You slacker.”

Shrugging, he shakes his head, paying for the drinks. “I know, so much free time to do it too.”

Grinning, you follow him to a spot out of the line, sliding your arm around his back, curling into him—the ice cubes in your plastic cup colliding in the fizziness of your drink.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Because you missed me?”

His mouth opens, parts—the tip of his tongue peeking out as you feel his chest expand before relaxing. “Yeah. Nine days was too long.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you slide your hand under his jacket, it taking a moment, more awkward than full of ease before you can fan your fingers out against him.

“Technically, it was five—if you count me half-waving to you when I came in to get a screwy.”

Almost spluttering as he takes a sip, he clears his throat, staring down. “You can’t call it a screwy?”

Narrowing your eyes, smirking away. “And why not, Morales?”

“Because suena mal... dirty,” he argues, trying to suppress a laugh.

Your eyebrow raises in question, but before you can retort, his lips are on yours, effectively silencing you. The place around you is all of a sudden silent, muted—as if no one else is around at all. The ring, the lights, and all of the people blurring into nothing, not as your fingers tease over his chin, as your mouth reminds itself what his feels like.

Pulling back, mouth hovering close to his. “So, what do I need to know about your friends? Outside of the obvious.”

The obvious is that they all served together. Frankie had explained it one night as you cooked for yourself, him on a shelf—face filling the screen as you sliced and brewed on the stove.

It was clinically given, top-level you'd been sure. Just the need to know—the need to understand.

“Well, Ben is loud—but he’s gentle. Will is a bit protective, especially since we've all been through a lot together," he begins, rubbing his thumb along the back of your hand. “But they're good people. They're upfront and honest.”

“Does Harold like them?”

Tutting, he pauses as he lifts the plastic cup to his lips. “The only person Harry likes is you. And his own family.”

“I’ll be sure to drop that in conversation then. Show them I’m one stamp approved already.”

Tilting your chin up, he licks his lips—slowly, intently. “You have nothing to worry about, alright?” You nod, trying to take in his words. “I mean it.”

“Okay.”

Kissing the top of your head, Frankie keeps his arm around you. Even when Benny's name is shouted and the crowd goes wild.

I think they like me.

Are you texting me from the bathroom?

Maybe. But, I think it’s going well.

Baby, are you peeing and texting me?

No! I dried my hands and then messaged you.

So you’re leaning against a dirty wall texting me.

Are you grinning like an idiot at your phone?

Don’t answer I can see it.

Shut up.

If that’s the grin you wear when I message you, no wonder they wanted to meet me.

Basta!

You're cute when you're flustered. Can see the red climbing up your neck from here.

Come back and keep me company.

Grin a bit more and I might.

Rainy.

Fuck you're handsome, Butterscotch.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

an: while the meeting happens off-paper (haha wanted to say off-screen) all meetings won't appear like this 👀. we knew they'd love her, and in time we'll see how much. also, her texting him in the bathroom may be my fave thing she's done off her own accord (i am merely just a body and fingers when rainy begins talking to me)

[blitzwhore]

Wear Your Pride

Stolitz | 7.9k | Explicit 🔞 | Smut, fluff, humor, teasing, clothed sex, sex in the van, Stolas has a cloaca, imp anatomy, dirty talk (see more tags on AO3)

Thanks @stolitzsings for the beta help and encouragement! ❤️

Excerpt:

Showing up at the Imp City Pride Parade naked as the day he was born had seemed like a great idea when he left the house. It was his one chance to be overtly sexual and obnoxious around his friends and coworkers without getting scolded for it. After all, Pride was the event where being a freaky pervert, even by Hell’s standards, was something to be celebrated.

The moment Stolas arrived, though, Blitzø knew he was fucked.

The fishnet shirt that left nothing to the imagination. The matching earring, hair dye and eye shadow. The grabbable choker. Those fucking shorts. Christ. And Blitzø thought his ’outfit’ had been sexual. He had nothing on Stolas’ slutty-ass look. The man was literally sex on legs.

He was going to spend the whole parade hard as a rock, wasn’t he?

“Blitzø!” Stolas smiled when he saw him, trotting elegantly towards the van with those deliciously long legs of his. Via, who was by Stolas’ side, rolled her eyes at her dad’s earnest excitement and joined Loona a bit farther down the street. “Oh, I’m so delighted to be here—I’ve never attended a pride parade before!”

Blitzø leaned on the window frame and gave Stolas a look.

“Well, for a newbie, you sure know how to dress for the occasion.” He didn’t bother hiding his hunger as he gave Stolas’ body an appreciative look, his gaze lingering on those shorts that hugged his thighs beautifully. “It should be illegal to go outside looking so fuckable, you know.”

“Oh?” Stolas bent down so they were face to face. He looked so smug, the fucking flirt. “Like what you see, then, darling?”

“Maybe I do,” Blitzø said, leaning back on his seat for Stolas to appreciate his looks as well.

As expected, Stolas’ eyes widened at the sight of his naked body.

“Hmm. Likewise, I must say,” he replied, touching Blitzø’s chest right by the pan flag. He ran the tip of a long finger down Blitzø’s side all the way to his waist, making him shiver.

“Yeah?” Blitz buried his hand in Stolas’ chest feathers and, looking Stolas in the eye, trailed it up to hook one finger around his collar and pull him closer. Stolas hooted, and his feathers puffed up with delight as a flustered blush spread over his pretty face. “Bet you’ll like it even more when I spend this whole parade hard as a fucking rock because of you, you slutty, slutty bird,” he murmured, lowering his voice in that way that never failed to make Stolas shiver.

Stolas giggled, a tiny out-of-breath sound that traveled right down to Blitzø’s cock. “I’m sure I will enjoy that indeed,” he purred, leaning so far into the van that his beak practically brushed against Blitzø’s cheek.

Blitzø nipped playfully at Stolas’ neck. “Better stay close to the window to block the view,” he said lowly. “Unless you want everyone to see what you do to me, babe.”

Read the rest on AO3!

[khonshus-stardust]

HEAR ME OUT

It’s just you in your room and Khonshu shows up and pent up and wants to do something now. But is also upset (for whatever reason) so he makes you finger your self on your bed and just watches you while rubbing himself through his lines and talks you through it, then after your first 0rgasm he’s just suddenly right in front of you and begins too overstimulate you by fingering you and degrading you for listening to him so easily and calling you his dirty little bug🫶🤭

Take It

Pairing: Khonshu x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, dirty talking, fingering, overstimulating, name calling (dirty little bug, slut, etc.)

Word Count: 2735

Summary: In a fit of rage, the god appears in your room while you're in the middle of reading. Used to this behavior, you don't act different until he orders you to strip. He's tense and needs release.

Author Note: I sent a screenshot of this to my bestie. The two of us were freaking out because this is fucking gold! Thank you for being my first ask on this blog! I'm glad to see you return as well

Masterlist

Ao3

Air swirled harshly around your lax form reading on the bed. After the countless times the god has appeared in your room time and time again, you’ve grown accustomed to this. Your eyes don’t leave the entertaining pages before you.

A cold hand encases your bare ankle and yanked you closer to the foot of your bed. The yelp that left your lips couldn’t be helped. Your eyes snapped to the imposing ancient Egyptian god that stood your room. A glare was easily set on his tattered form. “What is wrong with you?” you snarked before shaking your head. “Don’t answer that. I know: it’s a lot.”

His grasp let go of your ankle. Khonshu, known for being the god of the moon, towered in over your form. Despite having no muscles and only cloth to make up his frame, he held himself tensely. His hands were balled into fists at his sides; shoulders slightly bunched up; and he just stood there, looking at you. As if one more wrong thing could send him into a frenzy.

It was a sight you were familiar with. Dealing with Khonshu was a full-time job that was unpaid.

Despite having a hate-love relationship with the dead bird god, that didn’t stop you from being concerned about him. The book in hand was marked then set to the side, on the nearby nightstand. You go to sit up on your knees when the god finally spoke up.

“Don’t move,” Khonshu barked, body growing even tenser. You turned your head to the side and looked at him suspiciously. The god took a step back and rested a hand on the end board of your bed. The walls of your room not tall enough to allow him full freedom to stand tall.

The metal creaked precariously under his massive, lithe hands. “Strip.” Your head jolted yet your thighs clenched together.

“Excuse me?” you sputtered with your lips parting afterwards. His hand tightened again. Khonshu took a step forward to further crowd into your space. His long beak surging passed any boundaries. The soulless, empty sockets of the skull of his head bore holes into your head.

“I said strip,” he growled, voice ringing in your head. The lump in your throat was hard to swallow. Your tongue darted out and coated your dry lips. “Don’t make me say it again.” Your whole body shuttered.

Timidly, you reached for the hem of your shirt before finding somewhere else to look at. The fabric was pulled over your head and tossed to the side.

Khonshu hummed. “Don’t stop.” Like the good follower of the moon god you are, you listened to his demands. The rest of your clothing is pulled off and thrown off to the side of the bed. He observed the entire time, enjoying the exposed skin you relented to him.

This wasn’t the first time you’ve been naked before the god. Like mentioned before, you had a love-hate relationship with him. Both sides of the coin included letting him use you for his own pleasure. A life you enjoyed with little complaint.

“Scoot back, up against the headboard, little bug,” he ordered and stepped back, hand leaving the end board. Timidly, you followed the instructions and used the pillows as a comfortable rest and barrier from the cool material. Throughout the times you’ve done this with him, you kept your legs closed with anxiety driving you. His never-ending gaze caused your heart to flutter like the wings of a bird.

The god himself sat himself down in the only chair in your bedroom, legs spread wide. His imposing frame purposefully taking in all the space it could.

One of his legs was jutting out while the other was bent at the knee. An elbow was perched on the armrest at an acute angle, wrist hanging loosely. His other arm hung loosely off the other armrest, palm touching his thigh. A relaxed form for the god who looked ready to tear into something less than two minutes ago.

His long beak tilted up and slightly to the side to show off his nonexistent throat. “Look at you,” he mused. If his face wasn’t stagnant, you believed a carefree smirk would be etched into his features. With his arm jutting into the air, he lazily wiggled his pointer finger side to side at you. “Open those legs for me.”

You bite at your bottom lip then let your legs spread open. “A sight for sore eyes,” Khonshu groaned and shifted his hips. You sucked in a quick breath at the sight and had to stop yourself from mewling at the move.

But the god noticed the way your empty pussy clenched and chuckled lowly. His voice continuously swirling inside of your head. “Touch your clit, little one.” This side of Khonshu wasn’t what you were used to but fuck, you felt your body heat up at it.

One of your hands drifted between your spread legs and pressed against your clit. It throbbed against your fingertips. You leaned your head back and started to softly rub circles.

“Did I say move?” Khonshu growled and leaned forward in his seat. You whined and gave the god a frown, hand stilling. “Pout all you want, slut. Only I get to tell you what to do.” The god scoffed and returned his relaxed posture from before.

With that same finger pointing in your general direction, he used two to show a spreading movement. “Spread more. I want to see every little flutter, every little throb.” You huffed but listened to him, letting your legs open further for his gaze.

A cool breeze drifted over your exposed moist labia. You shuttered, thighs tensing. “Poor thing, already getting wet all because of my words. Isn’t that right, little bug?” All you could do was nod softly. He dipped his massive skull. “Now, you may play with your clit. Go slowly, light pressure.”

Now with permission, you started an even pace. Your walls constructed for a moment at the new source of pleasure. You groaned and rested your head back against the headboard. It offered relief to the building lust in the pit of your stomach.

You knew what to do. The movements familiar and memory this long into your life. The way you flicked your wrist into perfect motion, albeit slower than you would like.

More of your arousal began shine in the low light of the room at the beginning of your entrance. “Stop.” In the haze of your pleasure, you didn’t realize he had even said anything to you the first time. “I said stop!” You jolted and removed your hand unwillingly with a mewl. Your clit flutter, demanding for you return to your former movements.

Slightly dazed, you eyed the god still in his chair, position barely even changed. The hand on his thigh had slide up further to rest close to where his thighs meets his waist. “With one finger, push into that tight little cunt,” he instructed.

Happily, you followed through with just your middle finger entering you. The simply yet obscene noise had you whining, but you knew it wouldn’t be enough. The god had ruined you since the first time he drove into you. You looked at him with sweet doe-eyes and silently pleaded for more.

“Hm, look how good you take it,” he groaned. His hand slid up only a couple more inches and cupped a lump under the wrappings that covered his form. It took you longer than you would have admitted to realize he was palming himself. Your walls pulsed around the finger buried into your soaked cunt. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

All you could offer was a mewl. The god tsked. “Use your thumb to rub at your clit and curl your middle finger. Find your g-spot.”

Instantly, you listened, desperate for whatever he allowed. Your finger curled deep inside of you and easily found that spongy spot. A shock of pleasure was sent up your spine to dwell in the pit of stomach. “Oh, fuck,” you moaned and used your thumb to draw tight circles around your engorged clit. It pulsed against your thumbpad.

Your jaw dropped with airily, breathless pants and whines. Clear, stick arousal freely drips from your slightly filled entrance and rolls down the swell of your ass cheeks before soaking into the bedsheets. Your other hand trembled on the mattress, gripping the blankets tightly.

Involuntarily, you couldn’t control your hips squirming, trying to add fuel to the growing embers. “Stay still, don’t move your hips,” Khonshu growled, voice huskier than before. You reopened your eyes and find the god rubbing at his clothed cock. It strained for release. You could imagine the feel of it. The head popping past your labia and stretching your walls to accommodate him all over again. The way the tip slammed against your cervix at each hard thrust, trying to fight every inch inside your smaller body.

The hand on the bed slapped against your mouth, sealing the whimpers beginning to spill freely from your loose lips. You locked your teeth down on a knuckle as the pleasure began to build further in the pits of stomach.

“Let me hear you. Don’t you dare hide anything from me, little bug!” the god snarled and was on the verge of leaping from his seat to tear your hand from your mouth. His free palm slammed against the armrest, balled into a fist. He continued to rub himself harder, using the heel of his hand.

Your unfocused eyes found the empty, dark sockets of his. The knuckle fell away to rest on your thigh. Khonshu growled and grabbed the end of the armrest righter. “Don’t stop. Keep going. Just like that. Look at all that mess. So messy,” he rambled and stayed leaning forward, ready to leap to action.

A strewn of whines and mewl filled the rooms vacant air as you grew closer, velvet walls tightening around your single finger. “Feels-“ he groans “-good doesn’t it?” Your toes begin to curl, legs growing taunt. “I want to see you, watch you come just at the sound of my voice, little one.” You do your best to keep your eyes on the tense god before you. Anything to please him.

“You going to come, sweet little mortal?” his voice echoes inside of your head, bouncing off of the walls. You rapidly nodded your head and couldn’t help but fasten your fingers, needing quicker movements. He doesn’t stop you, watching as your head pitched back with a cry of his name.

The soft, ribbed walls of your pussy constricted around your finger, locking down on the intrusion. They begin to flutter, like bird wings.  You rubbed fiercely at that spongy spot just shy of your entrance, inside of you.

As the crescendo helped drag your mind back to the depths of your body, you felt large, lithe hands wrapped around your wrist. Your digit was pulled free, only connected with a clear strong of your slick for a moment before it was laid to rest at your side. A whine pulled free from your throat, eyes flickering open. You gasped at the imposing form of Khonshu kneeling on the bed, between your spread legs. “Khonshu?” you whispered his name after moments ago screaming it to his fellow gods.

He didn’t answer and cupped your sex, easily dwarfing it in his palm. Still in the downfall of your orgasm, you yelped but jerked your hips up to gain friction. His other hand entered your vision and took hold of your hip, now pinned to the mattress.

Two fingers prodded at your dripping folds before pushing in. Your head smacked against the headboard but the pain was brushed to the side. The digits press against your cervix before they were pulled out enough to touch at your G-spot only an inch or two passed your labia.

Pleasure filled your veins, turning your mind slowly into slush at the sudden stimulation. You were still trying to reel yourself in from the last orgasm. “You’re so wet, little bug. All just from me telling you to fuck yourself with your fingers. Such a dirty little bug listening to their god,” he purred inside of your mind. His voice velvet in the depths of your brain.

The hand that had brought you to your first orgasm shakily wrapped around his thin wrist for support. Khonshu continued to fuck you with two of his fingers, stretching you more than what any of your own digits could. “You take my fingers so well. I’ve ruined you for any mortal. You’re all mine, little mortal. All mine to ruin and dirty.” Your cunt fluttered again. “Such a dirty little bug liking me destroying you.”

You panted and tried to thrust your hips up for more, anything to drag his fingers deeper into you. “Please, Khon. More, more,” you pleaded the god of the moon, eyes hazing over, pupils blown wide. None of the iris able to peek through in the low light.

Khonshu chuckled, vibrating your mind. “Such a slut, begging for more.” This own thumb covered the entirety of your engorged clit and pressed against the sensitive nub. You gasped and shuttered at the tingling feeling overestimating your nerves. Your hand tightened. Khonshu scoffed. “You asked for it. Now, you’re going to take what I give.”

Once more, you clenched down on him. He gave a particular hard thrust of his digits into you g-spot that had trying to lift off of the bed. He just laughed then started to rub circles on clit.

The texture of the cloth that encased his body dragged across the sensitive flesh of your nub. You whined and attempted to pull at his wrist. But the god was situated where he wanted to be.

He continued onward and picked up a pace that had you squirming wildly underneath him. It was to the point he used his own legs to pin down yours to control your lower half. “You’re going to take what I give,” he reiterated.

The overstimulation created arcs of electricity across your skin, making your entire body not only feel alive but on fire. One of your hands clawed and fisted the bedsheets, desperate for purchase the closer you got to exploding.

Your nerves had been burned, filled with too much energy than they could handle. Like the pleasure, you consumed the pain all the same, wanting more. “Dirty little bug, letting a god ruin them, fucking them with his fingers.”

White blinded you as you screamed out a pathetic cry and arched your back. Khonshu did not stop. He used his fingers to draw your orgasm out as long as possible. Your nerves were lit on fire, burning fiercely just under your skin. They were being rubbed raw, bare for him to play with as he pleases. Your screams began to turn into whimpers and mewls. You fell flat back to the bed in heap of mush and ecstasy.

Khonshu finally relented when your body gave its last shuttered. His thin digits were pulled free from the depths of you used cunt. You twitched one more time. He held up his hand and spread his two fingers apart. They were connected at the tips by a clear, sticky string of your slick. “One of these days, I’ll take a mortal form so I can taste your sweet essence,” he muttered more to himself than the room.

Tiredly, you huffed through your nose and looked at him, eyes still dazed over. Khonshu leaned over and cupped your cheek in his clean hand. “You did so well for me, my little dirty bug,” he whispered and pressed the tip of his beak to your forehead. You smiled weakly at him.

“Are you going to tell me what had you in a tissy when you arrived?” you asked him in a soft voice and nuzzled into his palm. The god shook his head.

“Nothing you need to worry that pretty little head over. God issues,” he stated then reached over, pulling a towel hanging from end board of the bed. The god carefully used it to clean off the inside of your thighs and his fingers. He pecked your forehead again. “Till we meet again, my dear mortal.” Then, in rush of wind, the god was gone from sight.

[izzabela]

i beg thee… more cod stuff.. specifically kyle gaz garrick hitting it from the back.. or the front.. or the side..

PLEASE WOMEAS EOKEAS ELEMA SE PLEASE

Acrobat - Gaz x f!reader

in which Gaz is quite flexible

a/n: i was so convinced lewis hamilton was his CGI face...

ship[s]: kyle "gaz" garrick x fem!reader

warning(s): MDNI- graphic descriptions of sex, mirror fucking, spanking, little dirty talk, multiple positions, semi-aerial fucking, bondage, fluff in the beginning, oh gaz...

You really wish you could shut up sometimes.

Birds chirp the loudest in the morning, but where nature seeks reprimand with apex predators and hunters, your punishment is a man named Kyle fucking Garrick.

"You've quite the bend, soldier," you teased him that morning. "Back's killin' me now..."

And when Gaz replied with a sickeningly sweet "I can help"? You should've realized you stepped in a bear trap.

It started with the yoga lessons. He brought you to the studio he frequents whenever on a day off or leave, a pretty nice studio on the busy streets of London. It wasn't all that bad either, especially with how slow Gaz was going with you.

Despite him being in the hardest difficulty of this yoga studio, he took the time to join the beginner classes with you. He made sure to push your limits when he saw you were about to master a skill, or he helped you out with some poses with kind, yet firm, pointers and demonstration.

And when you didn't have time to go out? He was your personal yoga instructor.

Back arched beyond human flexibility, Gaz kisses the tip of his head to your cervix, bruising it over and over again with how deep he's punching in. Between the perverted slapping of his thighs on the fat of your bum, to the little hiccups of your broken sobs, and the hoarse moaning from your pretty little beak... it was music to Kyle's ears.

"Aw, bird," he coos as he squeezes the supple fat of your ass, "Downward doggy shouldn't be so hard to do..."

You felt like a dumb dog, falling victim to a trappers cruel antics. You couldn't respond to him, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the rhythmic pounding of his hips into your ass made you drool and moan for more.

"Got me a dumb mutt..." he spanks your ass again, and again, and again.

And you couldn't be mad at him, because the yoga lessons were really helping! If you had a pretty pence for every time you felt the aches of night time acrobatics leave, you'd be a fucking millionaire. But flexibility lessons didn't stop there.

Gaz took you to a silks studio next. A graduate from the basics of flexibility and mobility, you were moving on to the next parts of Gaz's torture.

It's hard for you to imagine a man to do silks, it's even harder when a man of Gaz's stature and history does silks. Then again, Gaz has always been somewhat lean compared to his comrades. Yes, he still has meaty and round bulbed flesh he calls "muscles", but he was rather lean, a little smaller, and moved a little quicker than the others.

When seeing Gaz lift himself effortlessly on the fabric, wrapping himself up in different patterns and movements, falling- practically floating- gracefully from the ceiling to the ground- you wanted to be that man.

Unfortunately, it would take a lot more for you to be at his level. For now, you stuck with twirls, core-stimulating moves, and full-body poses using all of the fabric. And just like the yoga studio, Gaz would always help you out.

Even at home! Gaz sets up a mirror, takes out his silks from the closet, and unhooks the hanging light from the hook in the ceiling (since when was that there?). Making sure the rope is tight up top, you begin to practice your moves learned from the studio.

Although, "practice" should've had fine print with Gaz. The minute you get into position in the silks, belly facing up, you're stuck (fucking wonderful). Spread like a flayed fish (or a Michelin-starred meal), Gaz takes this opportunity to rip your leggings off, one hand on your back while the other gripping your ass.

You're trying to wriggle out of the silks, but a quick pinch and the vibrations of his "tsk tsk tsk", you're stuck for real. Reluctantly accepting (embracing, he'd argue), Gaz lapped your juices up like a starving animal. Ravished on your folds, digging his tongue inside of you while he moves his hand from your arse to your clit. Pinching, lightly pulling, rubbing- the sensation from his talented tongue and his fingers made you cum not once... not twice...

three times before he gently caught you from the air. Carrying you to the bed to be cleaned up by him and the same hands that made you peak so many times.

And as much as you wanted to be angry with him, the knots that disappeared from your back told you to sit down.

You stopped talking back when Gaz took you to a pilates class. There's no shock anymore, just pure and unbridled confusion watching Gaz not break a damn sweat while on that whole... thingy-majigger... in the most uncomfortable positions.

You try your damn-dest too, but you haven't been in a gym proper since grade school- and since when did these gyms have these fancy workout machines?

Still, Gaz helps you out like the rotten peach he is. Holding your hands when you're visibly shaking on the platform. Hand pressed on the small of your back as his other hand is resting on your tummy.

And speaking of your tummy, Gaz is pressing on the lower part of your belly as he pistons right in your gummy walls. So tight and wet, and the fact you're squeezing with his mating press is making him go insane.

While his hand is there, the other holds your leg up and out, like one of those pilates poses. Though, you're on the bed- still, it doesn't take away from the stimulation of your cunt being abused, and your core burning from holding position.

"K-kyl- Ga-" you stutter the multiple identities this man has, and he chuckles at your indecisiveness.

"Hold fo' a bi' longer..." he grits out, hips slamming into your tight cunt as your core twists and you climax. Doesn't matter though, not when Gaz hasn't reached his limit.

"A bi' longer dove... c'mon, fo' me," he tries to hide the slight falter in his voice, but it's no use as you squeezes again (despite the overstim of your cunt).

After this, you don't whine or complain since the aches have disappeared completely. He really is an acrobat, flexible fucker.

And as all great acrobats do, they can't go without practice- and thank goodness you're up to the task now.

=====================

guys i just had the fattest meal and i'm about to clock out for the night (i live in the US)

see yall in the next fic!

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Rumor Has It

Author's note: More of Imhoden in Husbandry

Summary: Imhoden sulks at Janus for an unfair punishment he got when he squabbled with some renegade Space Wolves.

Warning: None? Let me know if I need to add anything. 

Past =-= Next

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

One of the things that Imohoden had been warned about - was Chaos, with a capital C, at least on Ancient Terra. Slowly he’d been told about the Fall of the Legions, at least half of them. How the fighting had spread to becoming a full fledged civil war.

It had been surprising, yet not entirely so- that things had exploded so spectacularly, especially with hindsight-and with what his brothers, those who had survived The Deal and The Dusting (whatever the fuck that is) how things had been driven to that path.

Some of his brothers encouraged him to Join Chaos, others informed him that it was better to not doom and damn himself with such a thing. The Bonds- and how they affected things is terribly fascinating and he’s on one of the many research teams, as well as being Bonded himself, it helps with assessing how things are going and what, carefully, gently, the limits of certain kinds of Bonds are.

Imhoden is working on some paperwork, which ugh, is so fucking boring, yet is also incredibly important. He’d rather be researching and writing about interesting things. Not this sort of petty grox-shite.

He doesn’t realize how fierce his scowl is until he hears a familiar- yet not voice call out to him. “Oh dear- someone’s sour. What’s wrong Odie?”

Imhoden turns to look over and up at Janus, the sharp and angry features on his face lightening and brightening up when he recognizes Janus. His brother has changed- so Much, has lived so long, but there are still some recognizable parts of his brother’s soul and magic that makes it easier for him to recognize him.

His brother has been heavily twisted and mutated by the Chaos Deity of Change, trickery, and schemes. Janus is very bird-like in his movements and habits, as well as in looks. He’s got a flexible (disturbingly) flexible beak and has some feathers that twirl in dizzying patterns along his armor.

“I’m being punished with menial paperwork,” Imhoden complains dramatically.

“Why do you say that brother?” Janus asks, tilting his head, and with a teasing chuckle that sounds like a bird song, “And what did you do to deserve punishment.”

“Those fucking barbarian wolves deserved it,” Imhoden spat out, angrily, “Those fucking Space Wolf renegades were howling and jabbering about. Demanding help with one of their Number suddenly getting a bonded, but they didn’t know if it was one of three humans they semi-kidnapped.”

“Space wolves are barbarian bastards, yes,” Janus agrees with a whistle his hands, which have bird-like talons flex.

“I was, unfortunately,” Imhoden says unhappily, “The poor Psyker within grabbing range to assess them.”

“And?” Janus prompted gamely.

“The fuckers too offense to the fact that I’m a Son of Magnus,” Imhoden said, “And we got into a bit of a fight- the fuckers had me out numbered.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Janus says sympathetically as he eyes his brother for injuries- Space wolves could fight very dirty at times.

“The fight was stopped by Apothecary Hura,” Imhoden says with a grimace and a shudder. He’d met that particularly… twisted Chaos Space Marine before.

“Ah- and as punishment he sent you to do paperwork,” Janus says with a nod, “yes- Apothecary Hura is… Intimidating, and clever.”

“It was that or apologize to the Space Wolves,” Imhoden says, “And I was not going to apologize to those fuckers.”

“Hura’s great at picking horrible punishments that stick with a person.” Janus says with a grimace, “without going too far, so you can’t complain to the Base Commander for a different sentence. Especially since they could make you do some even worse grox-shit.”

“Yes!” Imhoden says, throwing his hands up in the air as he leans back in the chair.

“At least, it’s not worse.” Janus points out.

“... Yeah.” Imhoden says, “I think they pissed Apothecary Hura or his puppy of a not-apprentice Cedric though.”

“Why do you think that?” Janus asks.

“Hura inflicted a harsher punishment on them than he did for me.” Imhoden says smugly, “Or they are known Trouble Makers who get worse punishments from the get-go. Serves them right, either way.”

[zeroducks-2]

The kid was just too damned slippery. Slade feinted left and struck right, hooked his leg, and at long fucking last brought him down to the dirty rooftop. He dropped his full weight across the kid's hips to keep him there and punched him in the face hard enough to snap his head back.

Beneath his domino mask, Nightwing snarled, blood on his teeth. He tried to bring one of his electrified escrima sticks up, but Slade snapped the side of his hand into the kid's wrist first, knocking it away.

He raised his fist again, then stopped mid-strike as he noticed what was happening off to the side. "Daemon," Slade said, and again, "Daemon." And, finally, "Musty!"

"You know I hate it when you call me that," Xiao Mei said, her little stoat body stretched out on her back beneath Nightwing's own daemon, like a reverse of their human counterparts.

"It's your own fault for making me call you," Slade told her testily.

The codename, a holdover from his early days as Deathstroke, didn't matter as much anymore with his identity more or less public under a thin veneer of plausible deniability. Still, it was the principle of the thing.

Xiao Mei turned her head and shot him a baleful look, but didn't otherwise move. She remained belly-up, Nightwing's bird daemon continuing to groom her with gentle nips of its beak. In the weird, floaty apparatus it wore, it was hard to tell exactly what type of bird it was, which was the idea. Dick Grayson held his own secret identity close to his chest and couldn't very well run around with the melanistic barn owl usually found perched on the shoulder of his civilian self.

Beneath Slade, Nightwing frowned. "X-Wing," he groaned, which was very much not the owl's real name. "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning," Raji said shortly. "Her fur was all out of place." "Ok, I can see that, but usually when I'm fighting, you, y'know..." Nightwing trailed off, gestured vaguely. "You, uh, also fight?" Raji fluffed her feathers. "You can do as you like," she said. "I, however, am catching up with my friend."

The 'friend' stretched out further and made a happy sound. Slade would have to have a talk with her later. He looked to her, to the owl, and finally back at the vigilante still trapped under his body.

"X-Wing?" Slade repeated. "Like Star Wars?"

Nightwing's head turned towards him. "You know Star Wars?"

"I watched Star Wars before you were born, kid," Slade told him, affronted.

A shrug against the roof, and Nightwing conceded, "Point." He wriggled a little. "Are we still fighting?"

"No," Slade stood, offering a hand up. "I think the moment's been lost."

found this in my inbox ♥ love it. I planned to write a small continuation and never got around to do it, but it deserved to be put out there cause it's so good.

[firawren]

Anna/Kristoff | rated E | 3,276 words

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Humor, Fluff and Smut, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Sex, Couch Sex, Dirty Talk, Anna has a filthy mouth, Established Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Charades

Summary:

What if Elsa hadn't heard the voice and gotten weird during charades in Frozen 2?

Kristoff tries to propose to Anna right after the game of charades, but he's not able to get the words to come out right. So he resorts to a bit of impromptu charades to ask the big question. Anna says yes, of course—and then is so excited that she uses charades herself to make a suggestion of what they should do together next. The clues are: two words, first word sounds like “pets,” second word sounds like “duck.”

Written for Frozen Smut Week 2024, @kristanna-days

Read on AO3 or start with the excerpt below:

He and Anna were no strangers to each other’s bodies. They’d been a couple for three years now, and though Kristoff would have waited until they were married to do anything sexual, Anna didn’t have that kind of patience. He’d been terrified, at first, that he was going to get caught fooling around with the princess and get banished or something, but everyone in the castle seemed to turn a blind eye to the hints of their physical relationship. Even Elsa, apart from one extremely mortifying conversation about the importance of preventing pregnancy before one was married, was willfully blind to the whole thing.

So Kristoff didn’t feel bad about squeezing Anna’s butt and grinding back against her as they continued to make out in a castle sitting room. All the servants knew to knock by now.

But then Anna suddenly broke away from him and pushed herself out of his arms. He assumed she wanted to take this to his bedroom, but instead she held up two fingers and gave him a coy smile. “Two?” he said. “Two what?”

She raised her eyebrows at him and jerked her two fingers in the air for emphasis. “Oh, are you doing charades now?” he asked. She nodded. “That’s cute, but I liked kissing you bet—” He cut himself off when she gave him a stern look and stuck her other hand on her hip, still holding up two fingers. 

He sighed with an exasperated but fond smile. “Okay, fine. Two words,” he said. She held up one finger. “First word.” Cupped her ear. “Sounds like.” She bent down and made a petting motion, like she was stroking a dog or cat. “Petting?” She held her hands close together. “Pet!” She linked her little fingers together, the sign for plural. “Pets!” Her face lit up and she tapped her nose while pointing at him.

“Okay, sounds like ‘pets.’ Bets? Debts? Let’s?” She nodded happily and tapped her nose again. “First word is ‘let’s.’”

Anna held up two fingers. “Second word,” Kristoff said. She cupped her ear. “Sounds like.” She put her hand up to her mouth and nose, pointing her fingers outward, and opened and closed her fingers against her thumb. “Um, beak,” Kristoff guessed. She started waddling around the room. “No, bird! Duck!” She nodded vigorously and cupped her ear again.

“Sounds like ‘duck.’ Buck? Stuck?” She planted her hand on her hip again and tilted her head at him, an exasperated look on her face. “Okay, okay, two words, so the phrase is ‘let’s…fuck’?”

“Yes!” Anna exclaimed with a triumphant smile.

Kristoff laughed at how ridiculous it was to mime that instead of just saying it, and yet how cute and fun and Anna it was, too. He stepped toward her and grabbed her butt again to pull her back against him. “Yes, let’s stop playing charades, and let’s fuck.”

Read "Two words, sounds like 'pets duck'" on AO3

[desceros]

Leon blepping at you after... all of that... is just alslajbfjskaajkzj

He's gonna wash u and pamper u and then manhandle you so he gets a soak and practically floods the floor from displacing so much water. The feed u and cuddle for sleep.

And in the morning. Makes sweet, sweet, (2x sweet, nauseatingly so), gentle love till you gotta take another nap.

leo is the aftercare king in every iteration you can’t change my mind. also he fucks you dirty bc it feels amazing and you like it that way, but secretly he prefers the times it’s the other secret thing (not fucking, but the other thing, the two-word thing that makes his beak wrinkle in distaste to think about later when he’s hanging out on a random fire escape, grossed out at how sappy he is about it, chin propped up on his elbow so his hand can hide the way his mouth mirrors the jagged butterflies in his stomach)

[sucker4sixx]

Raising hell

Pt.6

Plot: lap dances and secrets..

Warnings: none?

“Oh fuck! I thought i heard a broad in here!” Tommy smiles wide, nikkis face chalk white behind your one that displays a similar ‘no getting away with this now’ look. “Man you moan like a bitch” he laughs and points to nikki who grabs him and drags him in, urging you out and slamming the door.

You barley sleep that night but wake up to a loud knock at your door once again, you get up and open it to see stu your manager. You expect to be told that he heard of you and nikkis little rendezvous the night before but he smiles “morning.. your little ‘display’ with nikki has done this tour and out marketing amazing, we are speaking to nikki separately and we are just asking if you would start making it regular.. you know. Pull him out and give him a lap dance or whatever.” You think for a few seconds and shrug, rubbing your face to wake yourself up “yeah.. i dont mind” stu grins and places his hand on your shoulder “you made the right decision” without another word the pudgy man twaddles to nikkis hotel room to ask him the same question, you quickly hide away, too ashamed to see his face.

You arrive at the arena, making your way to your dressing room to do your makeup and hair. 10 minutes into doing your face the door knocks “come in?” The door swings open and nikki walks inside with a bag of chips, making himself quite comfy on the shitty couch that sat at the wall. “Yes?” You ask him and he swallows “just wanted to hide from tommy, hes been making very loud comments about last night” you roll your eyes and put down your foundation brush “why hasnt he told anyone? Did you pay him?” Nikki chuckles and throws the scrunched up empty packet of chips at the wall “nope, but i know he cant keep his beak shut so.. times ticking hun”. “Nikki i dont want people to know, id rather die” he sits up “well.. double suicide? We can choke eachother out it at the same time” you shake your head, making your way over to sit beside him. “Now thats just stupid, your stronger.. youd kill me before you even loose your breath” you trail your hand down his muscular arm.

“So what do you think of what stu asked you?” He smirks, watching your hand wander on his arm “i said yes.. of course, free lap dance every night? I mean cmon now” his grin turns wolfish “your such a sleaze” you move in and kiss him softly, his head moving into yours. He nibbles on your bottom lip before moving back “cmon beautiful you know you love it” you shake your head and move back to the vanity to do your makeup “dont call me that.. its too relationshipie” he laughs and stands up “well.. i gotta go get my gear on.. i got some blow if your wanting some before the show?” You grin up at him “perfect..” nikki leans down and kisses you quick before leaving.

The crüe play first and you watch from the side, finding your heart warming to nikki, he really does put on a show. After, he struts off all sweaty and confident and it makes you clench your legs. “You watched the whole show?” He makes his way over to you “n-no?” You giggle “dont do that.. its too relationshipie” he pokes fun at you, smirking.

You get on stage and at the end of the set the crowd chant “snake-eyed love” over and over. the song where you give nikki the lap dance. “okay okay!” You laugh into the mic “now.. i got a special friend who would love to play” you say, the crowd going wild “oh nikki! Nikki baby!” You laugh into the mic, nikki appearing from the side like a dog who just heard their name, the road crew setting up a chair centre stage. “Now..’i think nikkis been quite a good boy, he deserves a treat doesn’t he?” The crowd cheer loudly as you lead nikki to the chair. You lower yourself to his lap and sit, talking to the crowd as nikki nibbles at your neck, his large fingers digging into your hips. “Hit it!” You shout, the band starting the dirty, sleazy bass line, your hips slowly winding onto nikkis as you sing.

Nikkis grips your hips possessively, trying not to wind up of you as you dance on him. It gets to the solo and you park yourself right on his erection, grinding more rough as he moans into your ear, his hips meeting yours halfway as the crowd go insane. You move your head to the side to glance at your manager who stands grinning wide, knowing hes getting more money from this but you glance round to your band and they clearly arent happy with relating your best song to mötley crüe.

After the sets done your drummer, mel, pulls you into her dressing room “youve been fucking nikki?!” She growls “mel, w-what are you talking about?” She rolls her eyes “dont play dumb, me and tommy talk and he talks.. alot.” You sigh and know theres no way out of this “i just dont get it! You know how much we hate him! Hes a total womanizer and he doesnt care about your feelings, he just wants to fuck!” You stand up straighter, trying to stand above her “nikki is NOT like that! He is sweet and understanding and kind!” “You are embarrassing yourself! Are you a fucking idiot?!” Mel laughs angrily “maybe i am an idiot but maybe im also an adult, who can make her own decisions.” You storm out, bumping into nikkis chest.

“Quick, lets go, everybody knows” nikki says with a frustrated look, grabbing your wrist and dragging you out the stadium, both of you still in your stage costumes and makeup, jumping straight into a cab.

[p0rchc0ll4ps3]

la revacholiére I AM THE CITY

a fragment of the world spirit, the genius loci of revachol YOU ARE THE FUTURE

wanted to do a kim pinup and it became religious in nature as is natural to happen. something about revealing himself to harry and being comfortable with that and harry seeing him as what he is: revachol, the city that loves him. so i put the flag of revachol behind kim, with it's seal cut out bc that's the flag of revolution, and thru the hole, the bay of revachol and one of those revachol sunsets

flag btw^ black for capitalism and new money, gold for kingdom and old money (it's actual metallic shiny / glittery / shimmery fabric), blue is the moralism / moralintern that binds them. lion symbol of suzerainty, skua original symbol of revachol that's been on the very very first flag before the kingdom (truly symbolizes the colonialism). the red arc is from the suzerainty's flag where it has the 6 suns, and then the islands are all the nations of the coaliton maybe? i don't remember actually. skua has the moralintern forget-me-not in it's beak. i think actually there would be the symbol of the coalition (5 black bars with a gold square between them) in the middle there instead of the islands but eh.

also my kim becomes leader of the revolution agenda. and it's like yeah. you're fucking the guy who keeps up such a strong, closed-off front, who is basically revachol's last hope (well, the leader of the people who are the last hope because he doesn't do it alone), but because you are his partner in everything, you are the one privileged to see his real self, mask off entirely

and why not harry well because harry's arc is to choose himself. to stop trying to sacrifice himself for everything. to let go of trying to be the savior, to choose to work on himself instead of the city. whereas kim's arc is choosing to pursue his dreams, choosing to make a difference, choosing to lead instead of choosing himself and choosing a comfortable, safe life as he's been choosing for the past twenty years

harry has spent his whole life chasing dragons, choosing to save everyone but himself. now it's time to save himself

kim has spent his whole life hiding away, choosing only to save himself. now it's time for him to slay dragons. you know????

also i love drawing pinups so much bc i love just. adding so much man details. i really want to draw some nudes and do scar mapping bc i wish i was more consistent with the scars bw the men drawings. incredibly important to me that kim is wrinkly btw. imagine also he smells of pine sap and all of that. also a nitpick but he wouldn't touch himself with his gloves on coz well he doesn't want to get them dirty, but it's just required to draw him with them. also also his necklace is too long and i wish his hand weren't covering it but it's the orthodox cross. he never takes it off. and yes idgaf i like kim with diamond glasses, idc what the art says, i like it when he has some little spark of something very very slightly personality. like yes he goes to work and goes into work mode and all of that, but like. he's just a little bit budging and choosing things for himself. idc. OH re scars i read some fic somewhere that kim's scars are different from the other officers bc he's got a lot of shit from knife fights bc he worked juvie, so less gunshots and other shit and more getting shanked and stabbed

anyways, if you got thru this, thanks for reading the secret lore!!!

[x-heesy]

𝙼𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚊𝚛 2006 🦁

Paid a fee door let me in free

Some of us pro and don't need id

I speak and birds open up they beak

Fly fly from inside slow motion speed

Loop senses drop your britches and work

Herc power struck down a jerky nurse

Phony medical robe surely came from home

Pull the knot out stoked tag t'the mack en vogue

Que modela Coachella when the tunes released

Planetary domination hardly get to sleep

Marley weekend freak, smoke a blunt and eat

Pancake dirty date kirbey lane on e

Honey claws got the psalms for the junky church

Runny gaws hitting pause so your body don't hurt

I think I'm finally perched on a tree to desert

The underground coma sound bullshit that's the worst

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

Shoot a lot of lip get split like Gemini

Two hemispheres two mind one pan fry

My business truncate nemesis

Now future's free of skirmishes

Deep fucking d cup tournaments

Slow busting thrusting murderous

Nightlife want me back by nine

Finish up exchange and ride

Put a lot into coup de etat none of this is new to me

Fuckers thought they'd play the part super Clarke change the scene

Likely dream cept for the part pertaining to the talent

Them motherfucking money-suckers chop 'em into salad

Ceiling w/a pillow watching the prophecy drop

Somehow feeling halfway guilty sleeping the sympathy off

Pray for anarchist law blind mischivalrous pigs

You can't cuff up my wrist if you can't find it

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

Digital animals freaky folks

Belly covered up t-shirt red tiger

Drool down the lip striped saber-toothed slimmer

Dribble spit tip scale dirty dogma

Puppy love blocked shaka twa ménage

Ninja, ninja, vanish m.o. creep

Naughty fucking freaks and busting techniques

East west battle best turn your bones to ashes

Send 'em to the kin w/ the symbol on the package

Grow the fascination larger than it ever was

Walls kicked over Berlin snap cameras

Gallagher Petey G sledgehammer family

Dabble w/ insanity granted me the amnesty

I learned my lesson messing up my life is not the way to wreck it check the sm58

Replace the vibe behind your face piece

Bass beats your basics plus me it's the combination

Known to defeat the beast and his gatekeeper

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

D d d d d d d d d digital animal freaking folks

𝙳𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝙰𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚢 𝙷𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜 💚🩵

[pebblysand]

You are so generous and you shall preserve everyone’s morale at this difficult time. Mia POV of literally ANYTHING, please and thank you, but if Mia’s voice is too difficult or otherwise not desired, Ginny or Hermione, essentially same prompt. You know where to find me if you’d like something more specific. 💕

❤️ for you and for @frizzyfoureyes who requested "Mia in Paris, pretty please?" also sorry this is more than three sentences, it's basically a scene out of the Mia fic i will never write.

.

we only said goodbye with words (i died a hundred times)

.

christopher found her, that summer.

she was always told wizarding owls were clever, clever enough to find the addresses of people you didn't even know - he found her in the scorching parisian heat after she'd let him out before boarding the train, thought border control was unlikely to let an owl through. 'you'll find me, won't you?' she asked, and felt stupid, talking to a bird like people don't even talk to their dogs, but she was trying to hold back tears and wondering what if she lost him. what if it was her fault? would he be able to find his way back?

'it's okay,' she said, 'don't be scared.'

(stupid, fucking talking to herself.)

he took a couple of days. she doesn't think she slept. there were too many things to do, anyway. unpacking and buying food and mapping out her new commute. the streets of paris were littered with dog shit back then, and screaming kids on micro scooters, racing through the luco. the fourth, straight from saint-sulpice to réaumur-sebastopol.

she heard a soft knock in the evening, the tapping of a beak against the window of her sixth-floor chambre de bonne on rue du cherche-midi; it's so small she has to drape a sheet of plastic over her bed when she showers so that splashes don't wet the covers. christopher's feathers were all ruffled and dirty but he bumped his little head against her arm as soon as she let him in and asked for biscuits - she gave him treats and cried and said: 'i'm sorry.'

things got better. he still barely goes outside - very much not a hunter - but he sleeps while she is at work and greets her in the evenings, flying to stand on top of her shoulder. it makes working twelve-hour days sowing pearls more bearable. sometimes, she goes for walks to clear her head in the night and he follows her; she sees him in the trees, like he's checking she's alright from up above. he nibbles at her fingers when she lies on her bed, drawing, or, whenever he wants attention.

it's september now, but the air is still hot; she's with her friend, bastien, sharing saucisson and cheese and bottle of cheap wine, the window open to let the air in. the sun is setting; she is sitting on her bed and bastien is yawning on the one chair she owns, backed against the wall, his long legs extended and crossed at the ankles on the tiled floors. her friends think it's quirky she has an owl, but bastien asked how she got it. he is the other intern at gaultier, started the same time she did. they tried to pit them against each other, but it didn't work.

his dad is english. he talks with his hands and she's never seen him dressed in anything that didn't contain sequins. sometimes, she convinces herself he can see into her soul. they've been best friends ever since they met, and she's never met anyone like him. like they have entire conversations in just a few words, like it's easy to just sit here in silence and not try so hard, for once. he likes to tell her about the boys he sees and she likes to listen. it feels easy.

christopher nibbles at the phalange of her index finger and she thinks about him, though. not about bastien or his lovers. not about christopher either.

and: 'what was his name?' her best friend asks, once.

she toys with the wine in her hand. a film of red liquid against the glass. she shakes her head. bastien rolls his eyes.

he is out for blood on this one. she made sure he would be. presented the story like she was in a sort-of relationship with this boy who broke her heart and dumped her after sex and punched her father in the face. it's not a lie and she hasn't spoken to her father in months.

'god, you won't even tell me his name! was he famous?'

'yeah.'

bastien laughs.

the thing is: sometimes, she's wondered if bastien asking how she got the owls wasn't also his way of telling her he knew about owls, without actually telling her he knew about owls. she wonders if there are people-who-keep-owls in france (didn't she meet that bloke at the pub who said his wife was french, once?), wonders if maybe she should have pushed it. but, she is slightly drunk, now, and it matters less, and it is a million degrees under the slated paris rooftops, there are little lights in the sky outside and she is tired and slightly sad again.

she could tell bastien his name and see. she could also go back to england and sell her story to a lot of papers for a lot of money and probably get him into a lot of trouble for telling her about owls in the first place. yet, she shakes her head and keeps him close to her chest, protected, and she isn't sure why. she wants him to stay hers, like that. her secret of sorts. and she wonders if he thinks of her as often as she thinks of him and comes to the conclusion he probably doesn't.

christopher nibbles again. she gives him a bit of bread and lets him burrow against her chest, sitting in her lap. 'he wasn't all bad, you know? he gave me the owl.'

bastien's gaze narrows. 'right, yeah.'

he did a lot more than that, a lot more that she'll never tell anyone. when bastien asks if she still loves him, she's not even sure what to say. that part of her probably always will. that it's okay. that she tried so hard to hate him and it didn't work, so now, she just holds chris close and lets it come, lets it pass, and maybe one day, she won't think about it as much. she doesn't even want to hate him.

'he made me realise i wasn't alone,' she says, then. 'that was a good thing.’

and, bastien smiles, shakes his head. 'you're not, babe.'

[burning-fcols]

Travis can't help it. He doesn't like what he's seeing & why should he? Anthony was practically hanging all over that cat looking guy! Drooling by the looks of it! It stirs something ugly in the pit of his stomach & a growl bubbles from the back of his throat. Yes, Angel is a porn star, yes he was bound to flirt. But to where he could see it? When it wasn't even for work? That guy looked like he was getting genuine flirts & that alone wasn't fucking fair! After all he cared for Anthony. Was even going so far as to having his back during a tough work day & this was what he got to see in turn? Hands are clenched into tight fists as he waits until the other guy left the scene before striding up to Angel, looking clearly torn between angry & just disappointed. "You've got some fucking nerve. Who is he, huh?" ( uh-oh :'3 -sends another jelly bean- ) - ✧ ˖ ˙ 「 @Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴᴀʙʟᴇᴍᴜꜱᴇꜱ 」 ˙ ˖ ✧

「 ☆ 」 Ever since that first after-work conversation with Travis— a genuine, surprisingly non-creepy one —things have been changing between them. Not intentionally; Angel is smart enough not to seek a listening ear from the guy whose life mission is to get back in the porn star’s pants. That’s just asking for obnoxious attempts at manipulation. But Travis is a persistent sort. Only lately, his relentlessness has reared its head in ways that DON’T make Angel want to rip out the other’s feathers. Who would have thought Travis could be kinda sweet when not drooling all over the place? In a way that, reluctant as Angel is to fully believe it, doesn’t seem fake.

Still laced with selfish intent ( as things always are ) but— crazy as it sounds —it feels more like he’s being romanced than seduced. As if the crazy avian thinks he has a shot at MORE than another fuck. As if Angel could ever be allowed to pursue more, even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. He can’t. Not letting himself entertain such stupid hypotheticals, Angel had tried to leave such troubles BEHIND him along with the work day. But apparently, he wouldn't be allowed even that reprieve.

Startling at the unexpected newcomer, Angel abruptly stops before he can follow Husk through the doors of the hotel. Having ran into the bartender taking a breather outside�� needing to get away from whatever bat-shittery was going on in the lobby —Angel hadn't wasted the opportunity for good-natured flirting banter. Hoping to distract himself from the headache of a Director he THOUGHT he left behind and fervently trying to ignore how his actions felt more playful than serious. How interacting with Husk ( despite being a comfort ) didn't elicit the same... confusing tightness in Angel's chest. One would think that'd be a good thing.

It's not.

Tensing, he rolls his eyes with a mutter of ❝ Stai scherzando, cazzo. ❞ before sharply turning on his heel to face Travis. Speaking louder so the other can hear, fur bristles as he emits an indignant scoff and dryly retorts, ❝ Oh— I've got some fuckin' nerve? Big talk comin' from th' STALKA' on my fuckin' doorstep. ❞ Fists clenched at his sides, one arm dramatically sweeps across himself as if motioning in the direction of the V Tower, ❝ What, suffocatin' me durin' work ain't good enough fer ya anymore? You gotta stick yer beak inta my business here 'cause I won't let ya stick yer dick inta my ass THERE? ❞

Bitterly barking out a laugh, Angel crosses his arms and questions through a sardonic smile, ❝ Or are ya here on ❛ official bus'ness ❜ ? Hmm? Y'doin' th' Vees dirty work like a loyal li'l bitch? Did one of THEM send ya here ta ruin my fuckin' night. ❞ Frankly, he doubts it. If Valentino wanted something, his phone would be blowing up. Vox likely would have sent one of his other assistants. Someone less liable to get distracted from the task at hand... and Velvette isn't the type to work through people who aren't directly under HER influence. But Angel spats out the accusation regardless, hoping to remind Travis exactly WHAT connects them.

They both happen to belong to the same shitty group of people. Nothing more.

He purposely ignores the question about Husk— he's not about to throw around specific names to someone with a jealous demeanor and access to Valentino —hoping to throw Travis off-balance enough for him to neglect to realize he didn't actually get an answer. 「 ☆ 」