#Razor-Sharp Tongue-in-Cheek [Asks]

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Jason deserves to be someone's no. 1 superhero.

(Art by Victioria Palomino)

Red Hood was many things for many people. A criminal, a nuisance, and a threat. Most treated him with disdain, and few tolerated him. But no one claimed to be a fan of him. Not in a sense Superman or Wonder Woman have fans.

You kept your opinion on the man strictly neutral, hoping you'll never find yourself in the same room as him, not out of hatred, but simply a sense of self-preservation.

Until one day, you find yourself unwillingly in the crossfire of Gotham's latest criminal and it's the day you meet your unlikely savior. He's no less imposing or terrifying even as he sets you on the pavement in one of the alleyways.

"I'm not going to bite off your head if that makes you so jumpy."

"Ah! I...uh...sorry. It's just that you're..."

"'S fine, I'm used to that."

At that moment you felt really scummy. There he was risking his life for you and you were acting like has rabies. As you watched him run towards the explosions you promised yourself that you'll thank him properly next time you see him.

That opportunity comes fairly soon. Every day in Gotham is a new threat, this time in the form of sentient crawling vines with razor-sharp thorns. One of them nicks your cheek and others would probably do much worse, but a few well-aimed bullets make them fall limply on the pavement. It's your red-hooded savior and he's sporting several deep gashes as well as a cracked mask.

He barks at you to run so you do, but you linger in the safe distance, hoping to catch one more glimpse of him. When all is said and done, you see a flash of his red hood ducking behind a garbage container. You carefully sidestep the fallen debris and find him sitting on the ground leaning against the wall, clutching his shoulder.

You realize it's not the best time to talk to him, that gets affirmed by the glare he shoots you from underneath the torn hood. The fear makes your heart thump and your tongue gets stuck to the roof of your mouth. Still, you step closer, slowly, ready to back away at any second, as if you're approaching a wild animal backed into a corner, and you might as well.

"Go away." He growls, teeth flashing from the crack in his mask and you visibly shiver. Despite your fear, you crouch right next to him and pull out a couple of bandaids you always have in your mind. With trembling hands, you start to bandage up the feared vigilante. You keep his face for last, just to ignore the intense unflinching stare that's burning into you the whole time.

"The hell are you doing?" He asks, without any bite this time.

You swallow the knot in your throat.

"I...I never got a chance to...thank you." You say, voice getting smaller and smaller with each word.

"Thank me?" He says incredulously.

You meet his gaze for the first time.

"Yes, for saving me."

He lets you finish your work without another word. When you mention the shoulder. He gets up and slams it against the wall, popping the bone back in the socket as you watch in horror. He doesn't even whimper. He thanks you for the bandages and in a moment he's gone again.

Later that night, Jason Todd is lying in bed in his safe base. Staring at the colorful bandaids covering his arm.

Meanwhile, you start to unconsciously pay more attention to this masked vigilante. Whenever you see him in a newspaper, you clip out the part, when you hear his name on TV you pull the volume up. You search his name on the internet, getting what's undoubtedly some really cool shots of him on his motorcycle. Yeah, he's really a badass, the killings and questionable morals notwithstanding.

You're getting more intrigued by the day. Who is he? What made him pick up the guns and the red half-face mask? What's his relation to Batman if he's wearing a version of his symbol on his chest? Does he admire him, or hate him? Is he aware of his reputation? Is he deluded into thinking everything he's doing is ultimately good, or is he brutally self-aware and just doesn't care? His morals are what intrigued you the most. You often wonder if violence is maybe sometimes the answer, considering how many times you and your close ones got hurt or traumatized by Gotham's villains.

You start to wear a black T-shirt with a red bat-like symbol on it. You don't flaunt it, but there is undeniable giddiness when you hold it in your hands, fresh out of transfer press. You had to make it yourself because there's no official Red Hood merch, shame really. Soon a mug and a bracelet follow.

Next time you meet Red Hood, you're the one who saves him. His bike is damaged, and he's running away from cops when you grab him by the hand and pull him to the place you work at. Thankfully, no one of your coworkers is there that day so you don't have to explain to them why there's a masked man armed to teeth in the breakroom. You offer him some tea and biscuits before the coast is clear and he can leave again.

Before he leaves, Red Hood compliments your t-shirt. You look down and realize it's the one you made. You have to duck behind the front desk to hide an explosion of blush on your face, listening to his quiet chuckles. For the rest of the day Red Hood is smiling.

You heard that he is in the neighborhood. You ponder it for a long time before you book it out of the door. When you find him, you stutteringly ask for an autograph. Red Hood stares at you as if you'd gone crazy. He takes the white sharpie and scribbles his name on your back. You take the pen from his limp hand and thank him with a beaming smile. It's then Jason realizes he has a real-life fan.

The next time he sees you, he asks only half-joking if you want to take a photo with him. Your eyes widen at that.

"Y-you're sure?? I don't want to bother..."

"Just look here."

He says as he bends down to put his face next to his. You're too flustered by his proximity to react fast enough as his phone flashes in your eyes. By means unknown to you, the photo is in your phone several hours later. You look like a moron. Wide-eyed, red-faced, and gaping into the camera, but you keep it. It's a selfie with your favorite Gotham knight, after all.

When he saves you this time, he escorts you all the way to the rooftop of your apartment building. Red Hood asks how are you gonna repay him this time. Teasingly backing you up against the wall with one hand pressed to the wall behind you. You're once again reminded how big he is, but this time it does not make you fearful, it makes you flustered. You duck under his arm and tell him to wait. You hand him a plastic container, and he raises a brow at you. You explain to him it's your homemade enchiladas. What you didn't know at the time is that you'll have a hungry vigilante waiting on the rooftop for his next lunch like a stray cat.

With time, the scary vigilante became what you dared to call a friend of yours. You eat together, you talk, sometimes you patch him up and in return, he gives extra care to make your neighborhood safe. You learn a lot about him in several months and yet, you've never seen his face.

It's the end of the year, and you haven't heard from Red Hood for some time. He must be busy. It's not like he owes you anything. He probably has a life outside of vigilante work. Still, you do miss him. You don't hear from him until that fateful fight with Barman. You barely hear the news reporter over the blood rushing in your ears as you watch Red Hood get slammed into through the window of a run-down factory. Without thinking it through, you rush to the location the news reporter mentioned.

You never saw Red Hood so...defeated. He was always so big in your eyes, bigger than life. And now he is slowly bleeding from the neck while shards of glass are littered around him, with Gotham's so-called hero standing over him. You shout you're not exactly sure what, but it makes the Dark Knight freeze. You don't even spare him a glance as you kneel over your hero. His mask is even more cracked than the first time you met him. You can see the black eye and the split lip, but it's the resignation in the healthy eye that makes you unreasonably angry.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!!!"

You shock yourself with the force of that angry roar. Batman takes a step back, arms held up in defeat. Eyes confused, searching but mostly...sad, that surprises you the most. You don't have time to dwell on it as you feel Red behind you trying to get up. Deciding you'll ignore the Bat indefinitely, you support the Hood with your weight. The rest is a blur, police escort you out of the scene, giving you a lecture about civilian safety you barely listen to.

He let him escape. Batman let Red Hood escape the scene. You heard him giving an explanation to the police, lying from under his black mask. You were more perplexed than ever by their relationship.

For the next few days, you barely sleep. Worried sick about Red Hood. He might as well be dead and you wouldn't even know. That thought brings tears to your eyes.

One snowy afternoon, you walk up the stairs from your apartment to the rooftop. You haven't been there for a long time, avoiding that place. Just so you don't have to wait for him, only for him to never come again. When you open the door, you almost pass out. He's there, on your rooftop, flesh and blood. His huge back is facing you, red hood back on.

"Red?" the inaudible croak of his name is carried away by the harsh wind, and yet, he turns around. Only this time he's not wearing a mask. There's a white streak in his hair, a jagged scar runs from his lip all the way to his hairline, and his eyes, unflinching, are fixed on you.

You have never seen such vibrant green.

[hurthermore]

»»------► 𝚁𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 (18+)

Pairing: 𝙰𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚡 𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

Warnings: 𝚂𝚖𝚞𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔, 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚎𝚡, 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚗𝚘

A/N: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 - 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚃.𝚃 𝚜𝚘 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜. 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚗𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚡 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙰𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛. 𝚡𝙳 𝙴𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢!<𝟹

As Alastor threw your body face down against the bed, you squeaked ever so slightly, clawing your freshly manicured nails into the sheets as you looked back at him. It was often you forgot how strong the Radio Demon physically was due to his preference of using his demonic powers, tentacles, or shadows to deal with any situation that needed to be handled; including the sexual intimacy you both shared.

Before you could utter a word, echo his name from your glossed lips, his clawed talons threaded through your hair before gripping along the back of your scalp, only to shove the side of your face into the mattress below you. Leaning his face down to yours, he pressed his lips against the fat of your cheek lovingly. “You asked for this, my dirty little love.” He whispered against your flesh, pressing your face further into the mattress before leaning away.

He was right, you had asked. You had sat in his lap, diverted his attention from his book before whispering into his neck, relaying to him how awful your day was, how stressed you were, and how you had begged him to make you forget about it all, forget about all the distressing situations you had to deal with oh so prettily. 

Initially, you had expected him to just stroke your hair, to place loving kisses all over your face and to hold you close as he spoke words of encouragement to you.

But Alastor, the man who had captured your heart, knew you better than that.

He knew the best course of action for helping you destress was fucking you into the pits of oblivion with a force to be reckoned with.

Letting out a soft cry as Alastors roughed palm hit the rump of your posterior with a sudden harshness, you spoke a single word to him, a word that let him know exactly what mood you were in, what kind of erotically debauched sex you wanted from him; how roughly you desired him to be. “Master,” You had mumbled against the sheets, forcing Alastors movement to halt altogether, his irises locking onto yours in unadulterated lust as you spoke that simple word with absolute want. “I need you.” You pleaded before moving your hips with intention, pressing your clothed ass against your lover’s growing erection.

With a growl on the tip of his tongue, his claws pressed into either side of your posterior, his talons dragging, piercing into your skin as he shredded the fabric of clothing that hid the softness of your flesh to him; hid the glistening of your perfect cunt from his perverted sight. “Stay still and let your master take care of you, little darling.” His voice groaned through clenched, razor sharp teeth. 

You couldn’t help but obey, not as you felt the heaviness of Alastors well girthed and lengthy cock settle harshly against your scratched and spanked ass. He gave you hardly no warning, only another sharp strike against your ass before his flushed red tip intruded the folds of your cunt, forcing your unprepped core open with his veiny length despite how tightly your sex prevented him from slipping in with ease; but that didn’t matter to Alastor.

He would force his way in, whether you were ready or not; just how you liked it.

Rough was all you could perceive as he forced his cock to thrust into you entirely, pushing and bullying against your cervix with his large tip, causing a swell of pain to spike through your nervous system. 

He was relentless, cruelly so as his claws latched into the flesh of your waist, guiding, forcing your body to meet his harsh thrusts that he pummelled into you. Without a whine, you allowed your mind to go blurred as you lost yourself in the brutalisation of your cunt, in the sensations of his heavy balls slapping the flesh of your clit when every insertion, stimulating you in multiple ways as the sound of his body slapping your skin echoed the room. 

His claws pierced into the skin of your ass forcing your body to move along with his thrusts to make them meet him harder, with more impact. ”My perfect little slut, take your masters cock; such a good fucking girl, keep taking me and I’ll reward you, I promise.”

Screaming through your vocal chords in response to his utterly debauched words, your eyes rolled back into the depths of your mind as your lips parted widely. You could barely think, let alone comprehend anything but your master's name, voice and cock as he continued to brutalise your cunt in the best ways possible. 

“That’s it,” His voice rasped in a groan. “Pant like a fucking dog for me, darling.” One of his clawed hands released your posterior, only to latch around the front of your throat before he forced you to bend your spine backwards sharply, allowing him to look at your fucked out face from a better angle. “Fuck, pretty little thing aren’t you? Always looking so fucking perfect.” 

His thrusts became harsher, despite him already going at an excessively rough pace. All you could see was your master’s wicked yellow smile as he allowed his black tongue to roll from the innards of his mouth, his oral appendage swiping along the skin of your cheek, and across the lid of your eye. All you could do was mumble an incoherent mass of swears as his cock continued to bully you.

“You love it don’t you?.” He growled as he forced your back to bend further, making you scream out in slight discomfort. ”Being fucked dumb on your masters cock. Such a little whore, you’re lucky you’re mine, because only I can satisfy you like this, isn’t that right?”

You agreed vigorously, responding without hesitation as your saliva drooled from the corners of your lips, your cunt persevering through the roughness of your master's large, girthed cock. “I love it; love you, only you, master.” You had managed to semi coherently cry out as Alastor’s grip around your throat became tighter, forcing a gasped choke to echo from your larynx. 

“Perfect little slut.” He groaned through clenched teeth, his claws piercing the skin of your throat as his other hand wrapped your hair around his fist, only to pull you further back yet again. 

He was going to break your spine in half if he carried on this assault, you were sure.

“Scream for me, darling. Let me hear my beautiful darling’s voice as she screams my name.” It was a request, a demand you gave in to all too quickly as you allowed a mantra of bloodied screams to sing through the musked air of your shared bedroom. 

Licking his lips, Alastor kissed your temple with such passionate roughness before moving his kiss down to your cheek, forcing you to stay in your uncomfortably awkward position as he continued to fuck himself into you. Resting his cheek against yours, his grip seemed to become more loving as he sighed and groaned into your ear. “I’m going to fuck you til you pass out darling, and even then I won’t stop. You’re mine and you’ll take everything I give you, won’t you? Beautiful little thing.”

Sorry it was short T.T but i hope this suffices for my lack of uploading

[revasserium]

hiii, can I still request a drabble? if yes, I want to ask for prompt 1, vocabulary list: stay with rafayel. bcs I think this boy is definitely a tsundere, will do and say literally anything but the truth that he wants you to stay with him. clingy rafayel is just so cute! thank you, I love your writings by the way ✨

send me one + a character and i'll write u a drabble

24. vocabulary list: stay

rafayel; 2,073 words; fluff, fem!reader, pining, slight!spoilers, no "y/n", teeth rotting fluff

summary: 5 times rafayel asks you to stay + 1 time you do instead

a/n: it's just cuteness u__u

001.

“Stay.”

You are both children, and the summer sea is lapping at your feet. Sand squeezes between your toes and shells glitter like diamonds scattered across your stretch of secret beach. Rafayel’s pinky is hooked through yours. You laugh a laugh that sounds like heartbreak, even though Rafayel is too young to know what heartbreak means —

He wonders, later, if creatures of the sea are both with heartbreak in their bones — because what is heartbreak if not the sea? With the way it sings to an endless sky, the way it cups the world in its palm, the way it loves so helplessly — the beach, the seafarers, the rain — only for its loves to sink into its depths and never rise again.

“I can’t — you know I can’t!” you’re still laughing, digging your toes into the sand, as if this were all just a game.

Rafayel huffs, “I don’t! I don’t know!” and he knows he’s being petulant, being childish. But he figures he still is a child, by the measure of the sea, so he should be allowed at least this.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” you say, you promise, so carelessly, as humans are wont to do.

Rafayel bites his lips, and a part of him knows that you won’t be. Still, he forces a smile, a sigh, and nods.

“Okay then… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

002.

“Stay…” he’s drunk. He can taste it in the weight of the humid air on his tongue. It’s late — the summer moon hanging huge and turgid on the horizon. Even the tide is lazy as it sloshes against the long stretch of shore just outside his window, weighed down by the summertime dreams of long lost loves, the shrapnel bits of broken promises.

You sigh as you look down at him, your eyes bright in the dim lighting of his giant studio.

“I really should be getting back…” you glance at the large clock on the wall, but your eyes flicker back towards him and Rafayel seizes on the chance, pushing himself up and tugging at your sleeve.

“You told me you’d come back and now… you’re leaving again…” he knows he sounds like a petulant child but he feels like a petulant child, the half-bottle of champagne dulling his senses and muffling his usually razor sharp wit.

“I —” a frown creases your forehead as you crouch down beside him, looking over his face, “I said I’d… come back?”

Rafayel sighs again, letting his eyes fall shut, “You don’t even remember…”

He feels the cool of your palm against his cheek and fights down the urge to moan and lean in closer, to press you to him.

“You must really be drunk, huh…” your voice is soft and helpless, but he can hear the hint of your resigned laughter. A moment later, he feels the couch dip as you sit back down, tugging his head into your lap as you run an absent hand through his disheveled hair.

He shakes his head, “Not drunk…”

“Shh… just sleep, okay?” you murmur, pressing your hand to his forehead and smoothing out the tiny frown threatening to crease his brows.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks, even though he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

Your laughter is soft, and maybe even a little sad as you caress his cheek.

“Maybe.”

003.

“Stay… still.” Rafayel has both your wrists pinned above your head, his eyes narrowed as he looks down at you. You tug at this grip, cheeks flushed as you glare up at him.

“Stop! It’s fine —!”

“It is not fine,” he bites out as he reaches down to tug up your shirt. You squirm beneath him, your skin burning hot as his eyes skate down the length of your torso to catch on your lower abdomen, where you can feel the wound you’d gotten during your latest mission splitting open, oozing a steady stream of warm blood onto your freshly laundered sheets.

“This — you —” his eyes are wide as he looks up at you before his gaze is drawn back down. A look of horror seeps into his face as he lets go of your wrists.

“I’m — it’s okay — I’m okay…” you say, wincing as you push yourself into a half-sitting position, him still half-hovering over you with an expression caught between anger, terror, and confusion. You sigh, looking down at the large, rather ungainly gash on your lower abdomen.

It’d hurt like hell, sure, but now, it’s mostly faded to a dull throbbing and the occasional zing of pain that shoots up your spine. Vaguely, you wonder how many stitches it’ll have to be this time.

“Y-you’re…” Rafayel sounds distraught, and even though he glares at you again, you can hear the tremor in his voice.

“I just need some sleep… and tomorrow, I’ll go get it checked out.”

Rafayel slumps sideways onto the bed next to you, an arm thrown over his eyes.

“I’ll come with you.”

“If you want,” you lay back against your pillow, shifting gingerly so as not to agitate the wound even more.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, in the bathroom — but —”

You can only sigh as Rafayel makes his way to the bathroom and comes back a moment later with the first aid kit and a determined frown.

“Now really — stay still.

004.

“Stay close…” Rafayel’s voice is sweet and warm by your ear.

You bite down a rack of shivers a second before he pulls away, laughing at something someone is saying. The bright lights of the exhibition are a bit overwhelming but you’d promised to show up, and so you had.

The dress you’re wearing is a bit tight, but you hitch a smile to your face as a wealthy art collector smarms at Rafayel, waxing poetic about canvases and colors and the sea. You watch with a muted amusement as Rafayel charms the man into a purchase, and then, as soon as he’s got the signed check, sends the babbling socialite on his way before turning back towards you with a soft shudder.

“I think that’s enough networking for one night.”

You blink, blustering as he tugs you off to one side, grabbing two more glasses of champagne as he goes.

“Wh — but — what about the other buyers?”

Rafayel rolls his eyes, “I really only need to make one or two big sales a year, and then the rest —” he flaps his wrist with a painful, marked nonchalance, “that’s all just for clout, anyway.”

You heave a deep sigh, swallowing down a laugh as Rafayel sips at his drink.

“Shouldn’t you at least try to appease some of the other attendees?” you ask, looking around at the various glitterati of Linkon society.

“Nope!” Rafayel sounds too pleased as he grins at you, reaching out to clink his glass against yours, “I don’t really care what most of them think, anyway.”

“Most? So… you do care what some of them think?” you probe, curious now as to who’s opinion Rafayel might put above his own.

Instead, he leans in, pressing in so close that you feel his hot breath against the lobe of your ear, feel the weight of his words ricocheting down your spine —

“No… just the one.” He pulls back and your heart stutters in your chest.

“And… who might that be?” you ask, your voice breathy and thready and just a tiny bit jealous.

Rafayel’s smirk pulls wide, “Oh… a certain Hunter with a mean streak and a weird obsession with claw-machine plushies.

005.

“Stay with me… please…” his voice is hoarse with want, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallow the midnight magic of his eyes.

“Rafayel, you’re burning up!” you press your palm to his forehead and frown, your other hand wrapped around his wrist, his pulse fluttering beneath your grip.

“D-don’t worry — it’s just — it happens ever year —”

“Still! We should go see a doctor —!”

“No! No — no doctors…” his voice is harsh and he pulls you back towards him with such force that the wind is knocked clean from your lungs as you sprawl against his chest, held there by the weight of his arms and the aftershocks of surprise still coursing through you. Vaguely, you note that he’s much stronger than he’s ever let on — less vaguely, you note that his thumbs as pressing into the bare skin of your side as he bites his lips and looks anywhere but at your face.

“Rafayel? Are… are you okay?”

“It’s — I’m fine —” he lets out another ragged breath and you know implicitly that he’s lying.

“You’re not fine — I’m going to grab some ice — o-oh!” you topple backwards as he pulls you back, strong arms encircling your middle as you try too get up and make for the kitchen.

“R-Rafayel?”

He lets out a long breath as he hooks his chin over your shoulder; in your periphery, you can see the dark blush blooming across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, can feel the heat seeping through his thin shirt and yours to your skin. You can smell slightly salty sweetness of his skin as he holds you to him, his eyes closed, lashes almost damnably long in the moonlight as he tugs you back and slumps against the couch.

“I don’t need anything else but you… so… can you just… stay?”

His voice is soft, almost pleading.

You swallow; you nod; you sink into his embrace, wondering briefly if you’d felt something similar to this before. Or perhaps you’d made a promise like this, once upon a time. But the moon is soft and low and heavy on the horizon, and the sea outside is sweet as it shushes against the long stretch of beach, the water casting a myriad of dancing starlight scattering across Rafayel’s studio ceiling.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, leaning back into his embrace.

“Good…” he says, nosing into the soft spot between your neck and shoulders; you shudder as his lips brush against the sensitive skin there, “good,” he says once again before leaning down to press a longing kiss to your shoulder.

006.

“Stay…” you peer blearily up at him through the haze of sleep, all your limbs feeling both heavy and weightless all at once. The events of the night prior flashes behind your eyes and you flush hot at the memory.

Rafayel lets out a soft chuckle, “Oh how the tables have turned.”

“Hm?” you make an uncomprehending noise, frowning slightly as he leans in to press a soft kiss to the back of your hand, still sitting up, the soft white sheets pooling around his middle, the morning sun casting him in a halo of silver and gold.

“Nothing. I’m just gonna go grab some breakfast — I’ll be right back.”

Still, you pout, digging your fingers into his wrist as you shake your head and whine.

“Don’t… don’t leave.”

Rafayel lets out a soft sigh, laughing as he leans back down to kiss your bare shoulder.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen… I won’t go any further than that — I promise, okay?”

You loosen your grip ever so slightly, “Can your promises be trusted?”

He tuts, gently tugging his arm free, “Of course they can — I found you again, didn’t I?”

You hum, burying your face back into the soft linen cover of the pillow as Rafayel gets up to prep breakfast.

He returns less than ten minutes later with a silver tray and a helpless smile as he looks down at your slumbering form, before he leans down to press his lips to yours, curling his fingers into the baby hairs at the nape of your neck and shimmying back under the blankets with you.

He loops his arms around you and smiles to himself as you burrow deeper into his chest, mumbling incoherently.

“Stupid girl… as if I could ever, ever leave you again.”

[zarnzarn]

1/2/3

reverse Odyssey au where polites is still on the ships when Poseidon arrives, and that last bit is enough to push Odysseus to beg him to stop, to spare the men he spent ten long years fighting hard and bitter to save. 593 men is no less amount after all, not for a small island like Ithaca, only three generations old. he'll do anything, anything at all, blind him, torture him, kill him- just let his men go; they were not the ones to blame.

Poseidon considers, staring down at the king with the odd grey eyes that he knew the origin of. Athena would be furious, after all- so why not take away the one thing her favoured pet was known for?

the crew rushes towards their captain, their king, as shouting emerges from the other boats, as he hits the deck convulsing, grasping at his throat. the cries of his men rend the air as his legs melt into oceanspray, remerging as a fish's tail, Odysseus gasping for air wildly, his tongue a mess of mangled flesh on the main deck, unable to talk or breathe.

they have no choice but to pick him up and tip him into the sea, and they watch in horror as he falls beneath the waves and with a flick of the tail, disappears.

six hundred men chase their king down, following the odd silver glint that appears once in a while above the blue water, following the strange cursed monster that Elepnor sees when he falls drunk into the ocean one day. follow him all the way back to Ithaca, where the people gather on the shore to cheer their arrival.

telemachus is all of ten and untameable at the return of his father's ships, running past the guards and the priests to the dock, where the soldiers and heroes are all setting down the ramps, strangely quiet, unsmiling in the face of ten years of gore and bloodshed being done. Penelope catches up to him, laughing as she cranes her head up, scanning the ships to see which one- which one had-

she only has to time to see euroluchus' shame-filled tears and polites guilty devastation, feeling her heart slowly sink to the ground, when there's suddenly a splash and an outburst of screams and propped up on the dock is a man with a fish's tail and familiar curls and razor-sharp teeth and eyes that are solid grey. the soldiers cry out in horror and thunder down the ramps to them as the monster reaches out- and Penelope can't do anything, frozen, as it reaches out and places a webbed hand with deadly claws on her son's cheek, caressing almost; and her breath catches when it looks back up to her, and she knows the face as well as her own, knows the grief and fear and knows it is her husband-

Then the pounding footsteps from the closest ships and the guards behind reach them, and Penelope only has time enough to scream to stay their weapons, already shoving Telemachus behind her and reaching out to shield off any spears or arrows from battle-strung men who'd shoot first and ask questions later-

Instead she only feels the brush of cold skin under his fingertips for the briefest of moments and then she's caught up in a fisher's net, tangled and alone. More nets are thrown, men crying out for their captain with desperation and fear, Polites running straight past her and leaping off the dock to swim after him-

But her husband is a descendant of Hermes, and Odysseus is gone.

Penelope listens to the story that night and does not cry, sitting straight-backed in the face of her family sobbing around her, of the five hundred and ninety-three men staring at her with grief and guilt alike, of being the only widow in the kingdom. Pets Telemachus' wild hair and remembers his father's, and thinks.

"You have told me much," She says finally. "But I'm still to hear a single, solid plan."

The room rustles as all the heads swing to her.

"Plan?" Eurylochus says finally. Anger burns as soon she looks to him, but she pushes it down firmly- rage will not win her anything.

"Yes. A plan," she says, "To bring my husband back home."

Telemachus unfolds at her feet and stares up at her with a hopeful grin, echoed slowly on the faces of the men around the room. Penelope smiles back.

"My husband spent ten years fighting for his people to make it back home," She proclaims. "Let's wait at least that long before we give up on him, yes?"

The answering cheer shakes the walls of the palace and echoes through the streets of Ithaca.

[brotherwtf]

I've been a bit feral lately so have a very intimate clegan shaving drabble.

John had asked Gale a couple of times during the war to help him shave. Usually, back at Thorpe Abbotts, he would make a joke like "your arms don't work, Bucky?" and push him away with the hint of a smile. Every time, Bucky would pout like a kicked puppy, and Gale would only give him and exasperated look in return.

Eventually, he did shave John's face, but that was only while they were in the Stalag together. They were both so broken and exhausted, and John asked in a way that was pleading as opposed to teasing. The entire time, Gale had to control his breathing and try to avoid Johns eyes so as to not completely ravage him in the middle of the washroom.

After the war, John hadn't asked Gale to shave him at all. He barely talked during the mornings, barely could stand looking at the person in the mirror, but still resigned himself to get clean every morning.

Usually, Gale leaves John alone in the mornings, getting ready only after he leaves the restroom so he can have his peace. However, he decided to join him this morning.

He stands by John in silence, but can feel the tenseness of his shoulders as he brushes his teeth next to him. He watches as shaky hands pick up the razor and cream and tentatively apply the cream to his chin and neck. Gale spits out the toothpaste and grabs the washcloth by the sink when he hears John let out a tiny hiss. He whips his head towards him, and sees the tiny pool of red turning the foam pink on his cheek.

John looks over to him then, and Gale takes it as a silent plea for help. He takes the razor from his hands and gestures for John to sit on the edge of the bathtub.

It's a shocking mirror image to what had happened in the Stalag. Except now Gale could touch John however he wanted without fear of others seeing him.

Carefully, he places the razor to John's skin and drags it slightly, hearing the subtle scrape of hair being cut from his face. He puts a hand on the back of John's head, tilting it over so slightly to drag the razor over his jaw. When there's no more cream, he takes his hand and traces the sharp line of it, looking directly into John's eyes as he does so.

John looks at him like a man in worship, eyes slightly lidded and lips parted as Gale caresses him further, grabbing his chin and pulling the razor across it. He snakes his arms around his waist, pulling him closer so that Gale stands between John's open legs. Gale sighs with a hint of a smile quirking his lips up.

Gale removes his hand from John's hair and uses it to cup the shaved cheek, turning his face to work on the other side. When John tries to turn to kiss the palm of his hand, Gale tuts and wags a playful finger in front of him.

"Don't get so eager now, Bucky," He whispers.

John huffs out a laugh, relishing in the soft hand that gently holds his face. Gale tilts his face up, putting a hand around John's neck as he shaves under John's chin. John looks up at him with rapture, taking one of his hands from Gale's waist and holding it around Gale's wrist on his neck.

With one final swipe, Gale flicks the last of the cream onto the bathroom floor, but keeps his hand wrapped gently around John's neck. He squeezes ever so slightly, and John releases a tiny sound from his lips.

"Claiming me as yours, Buck?" John asks teasingly.

Gale leans down and devours John's lips, producing an almost sinful moan and John's grip on his waist gets impossibly tighter. He forces his tongue into an eager mouth, and allows the kiss to get heated. His other hand finds John's hand on his waist and squeezes it.

Gale pulls away and breathes out a laugh when John chases his lips. He takes the hand from John's neck and caresses his cheek again.

"You'll always be mine, Bucky"

[jolapeno]

see me in a vest

cod ghost x f!reader | ghost masterlist

Summary: “You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?” Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk. “Hilarious.”

Warnings: Brief mentions of smut. Mentions of a wound, blood (Ghost's but he's obv fine). Flirting. Feelings. FWB to something - they're a mess, but yeah. And, maybe unedited writing? AN: I don't know if I'm on the Ghost train again, but I'm at the station. Wordcount: 3k (this was meant to be 500 words).

Eye contact is a dangerous, dangerous thing. But lovely. God, so lovely — Hedonist Poet

It’s a sight watching you laugh, how it blooms like wildflowers in a wasteland. Your lips are parting around the sound—neck exposed. He can faintly spot the sight of bruises from when his hand last became your necklace.

He shouldn’t be looking your way. Most definitely not be thinking about how he wishes to press your cheek against the tiles of his shower. Ghost really can’t be considering how to ask you to come to his room tonight.

Even if it’s all he thinks.

His fingers brushing against his thumb, rolling and rolling as he tries not to grind his teeth or glare with any more intention.

All about to move his glare, try to find a spot on the table or the wall, but his eyes latch with yours.

The room silences, pausing. Just the two of you, breathing, living—blinking. Or, it feels like it does. Like some poetic bullshit from some film, a scene he’s sure you’ve tried to explain to him when you’ve attempted to fill the silence.

He thinks you smile. The edges of your lips twist further into your cheeks. But it never quite lands, never sticks.

Ghost shouldn’t be thinking about you. But all he does is think about you.

In another life, where he wasn’t dressed in scars or his belief in happiness and thereafter’s hadn’t been stripped from his remaining soul, Ghost suspects you’d be the one he’d want to keep around.

It’s the only reason he clenches his fist, watching you through the outer rim of his mask’s eye sockets and always watching, never intervening. Not even when soldiers below your rank let their eyes drift to your rear—or worse, from your face to your chest.

He lets them.

Allows them to ogle you because he knows they won’t ever be fortunate to see any more. Not just because he’d have their heads but because you’d turn them inside out before you’d even let them touch you. Plus, you ridicule them enough when you catch them—tongue all poison and razor sharp, a thing not to be messed with, something which barks as bad as it bites.

“You gonna keep lurking in the corner like a ghoul?”

Straightening his spine, he lets his narrowed eyes cut into you. Gliding them up and down your face—from the top of your hairline to your arched brow, to the lips twisted up into a smirk.

“Hilarious.”

Sighing, you roll your lips. “You gonna keep boiling everyone alive with your eyes whenever they talk to me?”

“I’m not.”

“For someone who has likely been required to lie for their work, your pretty awful at it.”

Grinding his teeth, he bites the inside of his cheek. Not wanting to rise, to give in—to fucking begin this tedious game of bickering. Instead, he allows a heavy breath to escape through his nose, long and slow, pushing the fabric out before it clings back to the tip of his nose.

Hoping you hear it, take note of it.

But from how you shift your stance, playing with your water bottle—crunching it in your grip—as you tap your boot against the floor, he doubts you have.

“You think too highly of yourself, princess.”

”Princess, ay?” you grin, far too wickedly to be innocent. “Thought you preferred seeing me in a vest, than a crown.”

Clamping his mouth shut, you take a sip of your water—letting the droplets hang on your lip, only wiping them from your chin at the last moment—a knowing look, all telling and haunted with lust and something else.

“Let’s walk.”

And, somehow, against all better judgement, he follows.

The first time it happened, your eyes had been shimmering. A softness to your features aided by alcohol bought by Price in celebration. It allows him to see his reflection in them—finding he’s all cold eyes. Around that though, he’s confronted with something stitched, carved, into the usually hardened expression he’d come to respect. Then it all shifted. A sound, one that was similar to how droplets of watercolour change a plain piece of paper, fills the air. It spreading shades in front of him that filled the scenery—the one the two of you were admiring as the others continued to be loud inside. Ghost can’t recall what he said, but he remembers what you’d said the moment you’d laughter had died: You’re funny for a skeleton. It was stupid. Foolish. Barely funny—in the grand scheme of things. But then, the building next to them had begun counting down, and you were looking at him—stars shimmering above the tips of the Siberian cypresses. There was just you, and him, and a crack of amber light across crisp, disturbed white snow. “Be rude to not kiss at New Year, wouldn’t it, Ghost?” ”Suppose so.”

You didn’t ask for his jacket immediately.

Even if he’d spotted you fighting off a shiver in your two’s awkward ‘walk’. No, you wait until the two of you are far past your usual building, and even then, you don’t ask. As usual, you pulled—tugged, and practically dragged it down his arms—until he surrendered it.

It was easier to bite back a groan. To look at you. Stick his pupils into your unbothered appearance. Allowing, instead, for his displeasure at your insistent but silent demand to show through his body language.

Not that you fucking care.

Chin all tipped up, meeting his stare boldly. Practically egging him on, pushing him, goading him.

Because you do that well. You like to push—not for a reaction, but to crack him.

Cause a break in him that you can slide through and make yourself at home. Somehow, against his better judgement—and usual practice—he lets you.

Each and every time.

Because even if he’d never admit it, he would—and could—go as far as to say he likes that you’re wrapping his jacket around your arms, head tilting up to look at the sky—observing how the stars are flickering. Because he rather enjoys seeing you coated in something of his.

Not possessively. Not because he needs some unhealthy confirmation that you want to be in something of his over anyone else. But because it's nice. A niceness he won’t ever admit. A confession that’ll never be spilt, not even under the most difficult of tortures. Not even if you sunk down on him, buried him inside you and refused to move until he did.

His resolve was stronger than that, something you’d learnt.

“Love it when the sky is clear,” you mumble.

Blinking, he looks up, realising the night looks so similar to the night in that small Canadian town.

When you’d offered to kiss him over his mask but eventually retrieved his lips—front sitting just under his nose, hands splayed across your lower back, pinning you flush to him. Because if he only had one chance to do it, he was going to milk it. Not that it was ever just that once, hence this—the two of you outside, close to an abandoned barrack under a flurry of stars and a half-gleaming moon.

He’s aware of the parallels.

How you’d been wearing his jacket that night, too. Albeit then because he’d given it to you when you’d come looking for him, rather than yanking it from his arms and burying yourself in it.

Ghost should mind.

Should find the idea unbearable, just like he should find you intolerable.

You sigh, not softly or sweetly, but difficulty and loud. “I don’t belong to you, Ghost.”

Ghost. Not the name you called him a few days ago when his fingers were curled inside you—his breath hot on your throat. Your pulse hammering against his tongue.

In a way, he thinks he should find you annoying, insufferable. Instead, he just finds you’re odd.

Odd in the sense that you stick around—not questioning his mannerisms or demands. That you fight everyone out there when sand tries to find places it shouldn’t, snow makes you shiver and blood stains skin—including him, on occasion.

But, when it’s the two of you, you bend so easily—all submissive, desperate. Mouth wrapping around his fingers, tongue swirling, before he’s so much as touched you.

It is why he snorts—and for a multitude of reasons.

Finger and thumb stroking his bare jaw, letting his eyes cast to the ground before looking in your direction. “Bet if I stick my fingers in your knickers, your cunt will say something different.”

You stare. Blank. Unreadable.

Something which makes his jaw tense, and his spine straighten. Because there aren’t many expressions he finds unbearable about you, except the unreadable one—the one you’re so skilled at pulling out across your face, hiding your thoughts and opinions.

He watches as you unfold your arms, displaying the hardest, squinted stare imaginable as your nose scrunched and your lips thin out. Leaving it there, hanging between the two of you—it not swaying as the seconds tick on, to the point he wonders if you genuinely expect him to be the one that cracks.

Then, you shift. You allow the lightest smirk to spread across your mouth into your perfect, soft, unscarred cheek. “Most likely. But, then again, on a base with a bunch of men, my underwear doesn’t tend to be dry.”

He has no retort, no initial thing to say.

So he says nothing.

Because everything he could say wouldn’t land in jest, would likely have his jacket thrown back in his face. And, the one good thing he has waiting (but not waiting) for him when he comes back—from fuck knows where—would be gone, vanished.

Not that he ever wanted this. Never mind needed it.

“Guessing that wasn’t the answer you wanted, Lieutenant?”

Keeping his mouth clamped, he remains silent. Lets it smother, wrap itself around the two of you and embed itself into the silence. Because no, that wasn’t the fucking answer he wanted.

There hadn’t been a reason as to why he knocked on your door, or why he had stuffed a nicer loo roll under his arm and brought you a bowl of soup. He could ration that you were a good solider, a solid member of his team. A reliable force that would get the job done. Someone who questioned and also obeyed. If needed, he could likely list a bunch more reasons why you were integral to whatever operation he was next sent on. But even he knew that wasn’t why he was outside your door. Why he turned the handle when you coughed and spluttered a weak ‘come in’. Whatever sight he’d expected, wasn’t close to what he saw. Your door closing behind him, your hand trying to cover your chapped lips as you splutter half a lung up, allowing him the chance to take in the rest of you. How your eyes were hollowed out by tiredness, your skin tacky and shining in the low light from a cracked curtain. ”D-did I miss a meeting or ‘sumthing?” Shaking his head, he placed the soup down by your bed—using the bowl to nudge several used tissues from its path, as he manoeuvred the roll from under his arm to hand it to you. Your eyes lighting, ever so slightly, by the softer—more nose-kind tissue. ”Jus’ came to check on you.” Blowing your nose, you offer a half smile. ”Because my aim is better than MacTavish’s?” Smirking, he watches as you shuffle over on your bed—allowing him room, something he takes without thought. In the same way he doesn’t need to think about lifting his mask now, how you’ve seen him—bruised, bloody, broken and so much more. An answer in itself as to why he’s here. One he could say with relative ease if the words would form. Instead, he throws his legs up—feels your eyes take him in as you try to clear your throat. “’cause you’re sick.” ”Oh.” And because I care. The latter not leaving his tongue, never mind his lips. Instead, he slides his arm around you, pulling you to lie in the crook of his arm and chest. Hoping that said enough. Explained it adequately. Incase it didn’t, he offered: ”Brought you soup, too.” ”Tomato?” Snorting, he rolled his eyes. “Chicken.” ”Guess that’ll do.” Your head tilting, staring up at him—and he hoped you couldn’t hear how loud his heart was hammering. Because even if this is what he wanted—to be there for you. To have you curled against him for reasons he couldn’t articulate, he hadn’t expected it. Even less the whispered, simple, ‘thank you, Simon’. Never mind that you barely finish the soup before you’re asleep against him.

Kicking at the ground, it’s a stone which pays the price for your annoyance with him. It rolls off, grating against gravel and grass before it came to a sad stop.

“What I was going to say,” you continue, huffing—in that way you do when you’re interrupted by lesser people and idiotic souls. “I don’t belong to you, but you don’t need to worry about every person who makes me laugh. I’m yours. Have been for a while.

“And before your strategic, get-out-alive brain begins firing on all fucking cylinders, I don’t… don’t need a declaration—didn’t need a menial question being asked to certify it. Don’t need you to tell me shit. I’m just telling you that I don’t—well—fuck around lightly.”

Lifting your arms, gesturing to you in his jacket—his clothing. Face pulling into an expression that makes him feel like he’s got a fucking egg on his face. As though he’s a fool, a fucking imbecile for not seeing what it was in front of him.

Maybe, he is.

Which is why he steps closer. Boots crunching gravel in the quiet, you stare at him—gazing through the cutouts and scorching your glare into him, scratching another line on his soul. Marking him. Like you have been doing since the first time he lost himself in your iris’s as your tongue curled out his name.

“I don’t… I don’t do this with others. What we do—is just what we do, Gh—”

“Simon,” he interrupts.

All sharp, like he’s stabbing you with his name, rather than handing it to you. Even if you’ve called it him before—you never have out here. Outside the confines of four walls, with your skin bare and his mouth latched to some part of your body.

“Jus’ mean, if y’gonna talk to me about it just being you and me, should at least call me my name.”

Slowly, you lower your arms, lips spreading into a line before they slide into a smile. “Simon. I don’t do this with other people.” Your eyes look up as you sigh. “Mainly because I don’t think anyone has a bigger cock than you.”

He brings you flush with him in one tug, watching your lips purse—a smirk attempting to grow behind it.

It’s more a grunt than a murmur how he tells you to ‘behave’, gloved fingers in the loops of your belt—a warped noise from the back of his throat beckoning to come out when your hand presses against his abdomen. Right against the clotted scarring of an old bullet wound—the one you’d pressed your palms into when he’d earned it—vermillion staining, clinging to your fingers and arm. Tears hanging from your lashes that you’d attempted to blink away, staring anywhere but at him.

Don’t die on me, Ghost. We’ve not done the wheelbarrow just yet.

When he’d been stitched and released, he finds your hand always goes there. A place you always seek, always find. You never touch his heart—never the thing that beats. You choose the pain embedded in tissue, the one he wonders if you hope to heal whenever you get the chance to brush your touch against it.

Rising on your toes, you roll your lips, softening your smirk into a smile. “It’s just you.”

“Because of my cock?”

He grips you tightly, not allowing you to descend to flat-footedness or move from being against him.

“Oh, a hundred percent. But you’re also a lot funnier than most people we meet, and I really like a man who makes me laugh.”

He pinches lightly—right on your side as you tip your head. “Y’know, don’t you?”

Ghost watches, waiting. Flicking from one of your eyes to the other.

And then you nod. “I know. Don’t worry, won’t make you tell me that you love my company as much as you do my tits just yet.”

He’s close enough for you to kiss the edge of his chin if he doesn’t move. But he does. Squeezing your hips, dropping his head enough, allowing your mouth to brush over his mask-covered lips.

It's enough for now, as you lower back to the ground. Feeling you turn in his hold—back to his chest and stomach as you wrap his jacket around you tighter.

Because he’ll kiss you better later.

A promise he makes silently, feeling your fingers take his, tugging his arm around you. He doesn’t need to see you to see that you’re smirking.

He can sense it.

AN: huge thank you to G. this wouldn't be possible without you nudging me, and making me accountable. dedicated to @theashfallx because she says she'll devour more of this man if I write it, so i had to finish it for her too.

[k-atsukibakugou]

w/c: 1.8k tw: blood, bloody makeout, don't look at me notes: this is my first time writing toga i want her so bad tagging ml @papersirens <3

too much. too much. too much. too much. too much. too much.

friends, teachers, parents, that's all they'd ever say — every school report, every play date, every fight some variation, always too something.

"himiko," her friends would sniffle, pouting at the edge of the playgrounds, rubbing palms into their watery eyes, tossing himiko's doll at her feet, "mama says you play too rough."

too rough. too rough. too rough. too rough. too rough.

"himiko. let go." older know, she knows to obey, to loosen her grip on her best friends hand, not to argue, not to pout. "you're hurting me."

a painful pang hits her heart as miu's hand slips from her grasp, her hand flopping uselessly to her side; why didn't miu want to hold her hand? keep her close? hold her so hard she won't slip between the gaps?

too hard. too hard. too hard. too hard. too hard.

"himiko," miu's voice is soft, like feathers, like cotton, like her lips.

"please, himiko? i need to practice, yumiko said naruhito is going to ask me out friday." her voice is sweet, like sugar, like peaches, like her tongue.

practice. that's all it was. her first kiss already not really her own, it belonged to naruhito. like miu did.

"toga!" her shout is sharp, like a knife, like a razor, like glass, shattered into tiny shards at her feet.

"why would you do that!" the back of her hand comes away red when she glares at the blonde, himiko's pointed canines grazing against her bottom lip, she just wanted her, wanted her love, wanted all of her.

"you're too rough, boys don't want to kiss like that."

too much. too hard. too rough. too overwhelming. too suffocating. too much.

miu was right. no one wanted to kiss her. no one wanted to walk hand in hand. no one wanted to love her. no one wanted her affection.

"himiko," your voice is soft, like cotton, like feathers. "please, angel."

your voice is different than miu's. lower. hungrier. your grip is bruising, clutching her hips like your life depended on holding her in your hands, painted nails raking over her burning skin beneath the knitted dress.

you're breathless when you say her name, like being in her gravity sucks the oxygen from your lungs, like miu sounded talking about naruhito before she kissed toga.

your lips are less than an inch away from hers, glittering, citrine eyes staring into yours, finding nothing but the same insatiable desperation mirrored from her own; nothing like the eyes that came before you, no apprehension, none of the disappointment, the fear.

you slot between two plush thighs, pushing her dress higher on her hips with your movement, one hand sliding down past her belly button, ghosting over her hips to move to the back of her thighs, squeezing the pillowy fat there hard in your hands, gripping her like you're worried she'll disappear, slipping through your grasp.

"kiss me, please, kiss me."

himiko wants to speak, to wield a sharp tongue before you can cut her with yours, to tell you your affection meant nothing, that she was indifferent, nonchalant, unaffected, just like miu had been. another swift squeeze to her ass has her head falling back onto plush pillows instead, a low, drawn out sigh from her parted lips.

your bed is squishy, like miu's, the scent of clean cotton and your perfume filling her nose, muskier than miu's had been, the scent clouding her mind the more she sunk into the comfortable cushions.

soft.

aren't you worried she'll slice and stab and rip the softness apart? claw and cut and tear through the sweet-smelling fabric until she was surrounded by fragile feathers, floating down around her as she lies in the centre of her destruction?

you can feel her heart pounding in her chest, practically hear it in the silent room (save for your panting as you kiss her cheek and jaw) when her thighs slip apart absentmindedly, the short woven dress sliding higher on her hips at the movement, exposing just a sliver of cotton panties, already wet at the centre.

"you want me to say it again, angel? i'll say it as many times as you want to hear it." you're panting against her skin, smiling lips planting another kiss beneath her jaw, hot breath tickling the hair at the nape of her neck the more you begged. she's certain you can taste her erratic heartbeat when you lick at her pulse point, smell her desperation, her fear. like a fawn cowering beneath a wolf, your canines bearing with every word you spoke, "please, please, please."

sliding one hand up her chest, you rest it on her pulsing ribcage, just beneath her tits, your other travelling lower, easing between her thighs, feeling her heart race the closer you inched up her thigh, closing in towards her cunt.

her pupils have almost swallowed her entire amber iris, full and dark with an insatiable need, thick eyelashes fluttering when the tip of your finger ghosts over the crease of her thigh, only a breath away from her pussy. she jumps, the muscles in her thigh twitching beneath your fingers.

"i-i can't," it's the murmur of a church mouse, of tiny, wild prey, trapped beneath a murderous predator. her voice soft, like your pillows, like your hands.

"can't kiss me?" your voice is light, teasing, drawing another blissed sigh from her when you kiss the column of her throat with a grin, "or don't want to kiss me?"

god, if you knew how much she wants you. if you knew how all-consuming her appetite was. himiko sinks her claws into you, sharp plum nails digging into the meat of your upper arm, tugging you closer, closer, closer, your hips pressed to hers so hard she jerks again, hungrily searching for you. you let her, allow her to pull you where she wants you, to tug you above her, to bruise you. to mark you. have you as her own.

she waits for your yelp, your cry, 'himiko, stop, too much. too hard. too rough.'

she aches for more as she stares up at you, for your touch, your tongue, your lips, your teeth, your fingers. she can't let go of you, sinking her claws deeper into your skin, even as a bruise begins to bloom beneath painted fingertips. she feels her heart might explode beneath your hand, that your fingers will be stained with her desperation for more, her ache to make you hers.

you don't wince. you don't pull away. you don't pout. you don't tell her she's too much. you don't say anything. you only grin, biting your bottom lip before you finally dip your head to meet her lips.

your kiss is nothing like miu's, apprehension replaced with a hunger, a desperation no one's ever felt for himiko before, your tongue searching for hers, not avoiding her kiss. sighing into your lips, her spine arches into you, chest pressing to yours, rib cage to rib cage, your heart pressing to her heart. there's not an atom keeping you apart.

her hand travels down your arm, over your waist, resting on your hip where she pulls you closer again, her hips jumping to meet yours, desperate for any stimulation, for your body heat.

she thinks she hears you mumble again, a breathless plea from your mouth into hers, your sigh breathing life directly into her lungs.

pressing your hips into hers, you take advantage of her soft moan, sliding your tongue into her mouth, tasting her lips, her teeth, sucking her tongue into your own mouth. himiko all but whimpers against you, the sound high, needy.

she is needy, needs your touch, needs you to need her.

too much. too much. too much. too much.

like a mantra, she reminds herself, glass heart fracturing at the idea of your kiss laced with trepidation, of your mind racing with excuses to leave her, of you sniffling when soft skin tears beneath her razor-sharp touch.

a needle-sharp incisor catches on the plump of your bottom lip, blood already pooling to the surface, spilling into her mouth. glimmering golden eyes roll back, you taste so good, breath taking, so fucking addictive. she wants to savour your taste before you pull away, before you tell her she's too much for you, before you storm out and leave her barren of your heat, of your adoration.

"fuck, himiko," you sound… different than miu did. she spoke sharply, angry. you were… hungry, needy, desperate.

your hand slips out from beneath her dress, flying to her jaw to slam your lips into hers again, spreading blood and saliva over your lips and chin as you sloppily kissed her, your metallic tongue tracing over hers. himiko's hands follow, one forming a bruise on your ass, the other tangling at the back of your neck. she can't get close enough to you. tugging you closer, closer, closer, kissing you deeper, deeper, deeper.

her moans sound angelic, even more so when her head falls back, unabashedly loud in her pleasure when you suck on her throat, bringing blood to the surface with your tongue until you sink your teeth into her neck, at the join of her shoulder, her chest, leaving deep, purpling indents in your wake, a memory of you cemented in her epidermis for the days to come.

crimson runs down the centre of your chest, a deep vermillion trail travelling down between your tits, her tongue relentlessly chasing the taste until her face is pressed to your sternum, licking and sucking hungrily at your skin, neither of you caring about the mess of blood and saliva between you. not when her tongue was swirling between your tits, when your fingers are twitching against her plush cunt.

"himiko, himiko, himi-ko," her cat-like eyes are fogged over with lust, staring up at you, no thought in her mind other than the taste of your skin, of your blood, of your lips, teeth, tongue, of you.

blood rushes in her ears, pumping through her arteries and gathering at the base of her throat, spilling from the shallow wound on her chest, smearing between your bodies. himiko's dizzy, her head swimming when you lick at her tongue again, the taste of coppery blood spreading between your mouths; she doesn't know what's yours anymore, your saliva and blood mixing with hers between your mouths, you both becoming one.

her hand settles at your jaw, pulling your gory lips back to hers hungrily, eagerly parting your lips with her tongue, licking at the wound in your lip, your blood-stained teeth. dark red spreads between you both, from your veins to her tongue, from her tongue to your mouth, from your mouth back to hers, a terribly erotic mix of blood and saliva that had her heart racing like it wanted to jump from her rib cage into your hold, for you to hold and kiss like it was her.

"fuck, himiko," you pant, breaking the kiss to press your forehead to hers, planting kisses between every word,, between every breath, leaving pretty red marks along her jaw, "you're perfect."

she's perfect. perfect. perfect. perfect.

© all works belong to @k-atsukibakugou, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[willowser]

touya + eggplant ; 3.2k ੈ‧₊˚ for our meet fruit collab ! ‧₊˚✧ ₊˚

touya's message comes across in the early afternoon, when you know he should be working.

the image that comes to mind is — hilariously sweet: him in ill-fitting trousers and freshly combed hair, leaning too far into some desk as he fiddles with his phone. biting his lip, most likely, running the very tip of his tongue across the hole his piercing left behind; amused.

it'd be even better, you think, if he wasn't sending you three eggplant emojis and nothing else.

it's bold, and startlingly so. enough that your heart rate skyrockets and sweat forms instantly on the back of your neck, in the creases of your palms, as you overanalyze three cartoon vegetables harder than you ever have in your life. you could easily believe he's sending this as a drunken joke, but he's been stone-cold sober since he was released, and if that had changed, even in the slightest, yumi would have told you.

you type out four different variations of the same question — asking what the hell that's supposed to mean — before sending none of them. are you...being a weirdo? eggplant emojis are inherently sexual, right? and maybe touya's been away for a while, but surely he would know that. right? in a single, wordless text, he's managed to make you sixteen again; too young to be crushing on your best friend's older brother.

— though you think of him now as he was only days ago: eyes clear and focused, razor sharp and set on you from across the todoroki living room. the very memory makes your stomach churn, violently; just a kid that should be worrying about their studies, and not about a boy that wouldn't give you the time of day.

before your thoughts can get themselves any more scrambled, another text follows suit:

yumi wants to know if u wanna come for dinner

eggplant, you tell yourself, as in the actual food that people eat. the actual vegetable, and not the dickish inquiry you thought it was. you do your best to ignore the little wave of disappointment that washes over you, and then the following crash once you realize that you wouldn't actually mind if he was asking after what you thought he was asking after; you, carnally.

you collect yourself enough to send him a normal, not weird text in response confirming that you'll be there, and his thumbs up comes across almost instantly. as if he'd been waiting for you.

touya was always in and out of their house when you and fuyumi were in school, but you caught him every now and then when things were good. safe at home, doing his best to hold down a job and stay out of trouble, soaking up a warmth from his family he never got as a kid, when their dad was around. how couldn't you have developed such a crush on him? to see him happy and whole, more dangerous than anyone expected, mysterious in a way that excited your teen heart — and kissing up to his mother at the dinner table?

you're not delusional enough to think he ever noticed you or your big goo-goo eyes, but sometimes he would stick his head into his sister's room, to grin and wiggle his eyebrows at you, before getting pelted in the head with a stuffed animal and chased away. it earned a high-pitched laugh from him, more of a game than anything sincere, but you still thought of him while staring at the ceiling in your own bedroom, wishing.

in all the time he was away — in rehab or jail or who-knows-where — you thought you'd outgrown your juvenile infatuation, but — here you are, still, with fevered cheeks at the very thought of him.

here you are, still, taking care to choose your clothes for dinner, as if it were only going to be you and him. fussing with your hair for far too long, as if he would notice. making little crescents with your nails into your palm outside the door to the todoroki house, as if you haven't been here thousands of times.

you've seen him since he's been home, of course, in the last few months, but there's been this weird aura surrounding you both, worse than it was when you were younger. you're tip-toeing around each other and you both know you're tip-toeing, and he's always wearing his little smug smile and looking too long. it's hard to be around him, really. a little easier to text, but every winky face he sends only winds you up even further.

when the front door swings open, you hold your breath unintentionally, neck straining until you realize —

it's only shouto.

"hi!" you say, trying not to sound as winded as you feel, though shouto — as usual — is unimpressed.

he blinks at you, two-toned, and almost rolls his eyes like the rotten teenager he's capable of being, attitude too much like touya's. there's a little doughy dumpling in his hand and he turns away from you while using it to wave further into the house. "she's in the kitchen."

fuyumi, even though you didn't ask. you follow him in and stick your tongue out at the back of his head, before going off to find your best friend — who is, indeed, in the kitchen, surrounded by bowls and utensils and too many real, actual eggplants.

"what did you do?" you ask upon seeing her treasure trove of purple veggies on the counter. "rob a farmer?"

there's really an absurd amount of them, though she doesn't look up from cutting one into little rangiri pieces. "no, actually, they were on sale at the farmer's market!"

you eye one closest to you before poking at it, oblong in shape and — kind of ugly. it feels odd in your hand when you pick it up, but that's probably because you're hyper-aware of every sound in the background of the house, of the burning embarrassment tucked away in your pocket in the form of touya's three emojis. shamefully, your thoughts take a dark turn, and when fuyumi finally glances up, you toss the vegetable back onto the counter too fast.

she snorts and shakes her head, pushing up her glasses with the back of her hand before pointing at the little steamer basket of dumplings near the stove. "try one! before shouto and natsuo eat them all."

you consider it for a moment before weighing just how much eggplant it seems you're going to consume tonight, and decide to wait until after dinner, if they're still there. along with her veggies, she's got a little tub of red miso out and also some pork frying in a pan, as well as too many bowls in the sink already. though you admire her passion for cooking, you know she'll wait to clean until everything is plated, and no one else will help her, so you take to starting on the dishes instead.

the frown she sends you can be felt, but you've been in this kitchen long enough that you think she should just give it up.

there's such comfort to being in here, with her, maybe because you really have done it so many times by now; the water is warm as it runs over your hands, sending little goosebumps up your arms, and you nod your head absentmindedly to the sound of her knife against the cutting board. you absorb the heat from everywhere quickly, and when you begin to smell the garlic and ginger cooking, you feel like a warm, doughy little dumping yourself.

you get lost in it with her and all the tension from the day melts, dissolves completely when you can lightly hear fuyumi humming over her sizzling pan. she tells you about some other things she bought at the market, gossip about a mutual friend you both have, she asks about the shirt you're wearing and why she's never seen it before, and you're rinsing your hands of dish soap when you hear her squeal—

"ah! get out!"

when you peek over your shoulder, you can see touya there, leaning too far over her own, smiling with full cheeks as he investigates what she's cooking. half of a little dumpling is in his hand and he looks down at it, makes a face before turning it over, and then he places it right back in the steamer.

"ew, gross!" fuyumi nudges him away with her elbow before plucking it right back out, trying to hand it back off to him. "nobody wants your half-eaten food."

and then, much to your horror, right in front of his sister — touya's eyes cut across the kitchen to you. one corner of his mouth quirks up in his little smirk and then you're whipping back around to look down in the sink, despite it being empty. his stare can be felt, too. you wonder if it's a todoroki thing.

"ew," fuyumi mumbles. you feel like you've been caught in some kind of way, though you don't doubt she clocked your affections for her older brother the minute they developed.

it's not something she's ever spoken directly to you about, however, which you're grateful for. you don't know how you would be able to handle that discussion, but she's always made sure to pass off the odd and unprompted little updates about touya over the years.

when he speaks again, it's clear his mouth is full. "shouto said he's not settin' the table."

"okay, then you go do it."

"no," touya snorts, "he's the youngest, that ain't fair."

"and you're the oldest, so you can ask him to do it."

"he doesn't listen to me and you know—"

"alright!" fuyumi sighs, and when you peek back at them, she's shoving her knife into his hands and shaking her head to herself, before stalking out of the kitchen.

you unravel out of your little dumpling warmth immediately, though your goosebumps return in full force. touya grins at you, happily, and tosses the kitchen knife in his hands in a way that looks too proficient, too dangerous for what it is. your teen heart thumps loudly in your ears, charmed and enamored by his tragic mystery.

— and then you take in his still-pristine work outfit, openly, now that he's watching you; slacks a little slouchy on his narrow hips, white shirt buttoned up to his neck. the tattoo there is covered up by bandages on purpose, and though he means to simply hide them from view, it only sharpens all his edges.

the small pink, hello-kitty band-aid on his cheek helps, too, in a cutesy way. makes you all too aware of how much has changed over the years. how much he's changed, all the work he's had to do, the dues he's had to pay. your heart swell stubbornly, seriously, and you try to shake it away.

your voice starts out small, embarrassingly enough. "you look nice in your fancy office clothes."

touya's hand slip into his pocket and he rocks back and forth on his heels once, pleased, before looking down at his loose tie. "think so? you like a white-collar man?"

you look back to the sink, shy. it pulls him in; a moth to the flame of your hesitance, and it's not a moment later that he's leaning up against the counter beside you, watching your heated face carefully. the knife at his side gleams in the kitchen light and — you're not afraid of him, couldn't be, but you wonder if anyone else has ever been.

the truth of what landed him in trouble with the law is unknown to you, the one thing fuyumi never shared, and you can't help but to be curious as to why. you're practically family at this point and it's not as if you could ever look down on them, ever, and while you couldn't possibly understand the horror they went through with their father — you can sympathize with the fact that it wasn't easy. that he left scars they'll always nurse.

touya's always been so out of your reach, despite being just down the hall. blame it on time or the slight age difference or your relationship with his sister; it's hard to hope that he could be here, at your side, truly. finally.

instead of answering, you simply turn so that you're facing him, hip leaned against the counter, and the bright eyes he has on your cheeks are almost impossible to be at the mercy of. even worse when his smile grows, boyish-ly cute.

"what, coming on too strong?" he asks, laughing quietly when you put on a brave face and roll your eyes. "figured the emojis would'a opened the door a little."

your cheeks flame, and you press your hands into them to tide back your smile at how — flirty he is. the step back you take doesn't go unnoticed. "i couldn't even believe what i was seeing when you sent those."

"oh, yeah?" the tone of his voice changes then, shifts a bit lower. if you weren't tracking his eyes as they shift down to your mouth, burning a little brighter, you might've though you'd upset him or said the wrong thing. "what'd you think i meant?"

you glance away from him, directly at the ugly eggplant you'd been fiddling with earlier, and the dark thoughts return. when you don't answer right away, he reaches over to flip on the tap, running the knife blade underneath the stream as you map the wide expanse of his hands, the length of his fingers. small, translucent scars litter his knuckles.

"i don't know," you lie, and then it seems like you have said the wrong thing, this time; touya turns a little, placing all his attention in the dish soap and the sponge you'd left out to dry.

you are sixteen, speechless, nervous by his proximity—

"you seein' anyone right now?"

—but this is not the same boy that left you behind.

you have to laugh in order to keep yourself rooted to your spot, here on earth in the todoroki kitchen, and it brings his attention right back to you. "uh," you say, lamely, "what?"

it makes him laugh, too, all your sputtering. "yeah, c'mon. i mean, i know i'm fucked in the head, but," and then he really laughs, open-mouthed, showing off the piercing still in his tongue. "i'm workin' on it, and stuff. renewed and reformed, or whatever."

"hang on," you shake your head quickly, frowning at him as you replay the words over and over; his self-deprecation is so genuine that you almost missed it. "i don't think you're...fucked in the head."

"well, that makes one of us—"

"no, touya, i'm serious," the step closer you take has him looking away, down into the empty sink; hilariously, a mirror of yourself that you never could have imagined seeing. it does strange things to your heart, your stomach, and your nerves. makes you bolder than you really are. "i've never thought that."

he doesn't say anything for long time, choosing to watch droplets of water as they fall from the faucet. his jaw works in the silence, like he's chewing the inside skin of his cheek, like he's thinking too hard.

and then he says, quietly, "i know." he continues without looking at you, sensing the confusion on your face. "i know you never did, 's'why i couldn't..."

you blink, lost suddenly in the meaning of his words and their whirlwind. you think back to all the times he grinned at you from fuyumi's doorway, how uninterested he seemed in you from across the dinner table, his silence on the rare occasions you were alone together.

you've known touya since you were fourteen and he was fifteen. you remember when their parent's got divorced and when touya got his license and when he got locked up, the first time. you've known him through so many of his bad moments and it never dimmed the little stars you had in your eyes for him, and you once thought that was a bad thing, that it would only lead to heartbreak time and time again from him. you once thought it was something only you and fuyumi knew about.

"i am tryin' now," he continues with a sigh, a little winded. "seriously. got this shitty job and am goin' to my meetings. not as big of a piece of shit." when you start to object, he shakes his head and holds up a hand to stop you from arguing. "i know, i just mean...you wanna white-collar guy, i'm a white-collar guy."

you feel shy again, especially as the high points of his cheek flush pink. boyish-ly cute. "so that's why you sent me three eggplant emojis instead of just asking me to come eat dinner?"

touya snorts. "yeah, like i said, i'm workin' on it."

"no, i..." it feels wrong to admit anything to him like this, so close as his grin grows on his handsome face, dimples showing. you've been thinking about moments like this for years, but now that it's here, you feel a little dizzy, looking into his bright eyes. "i like the eggplant emoji." you step away from him for just a moment, to grab his half-eaten dumpling, and his expression grows serious — a little dark — as you nibble on it. "i like the way you...do things."

his smile grows knife-sharp, something he's too good at wielding. "well, in that case—"

"can i come in yet? our dinner is about to burn."

you both whip around to take in fuyumi, hovering at the edges of the kitchen with her arms crossed. watching on, her cheeks tinged pink, too. you try to step away, embarrassed and caught, but touya only leans in, knocking his hip to yours.

fuyumi rolls her eyes at him, but the small smile she sends you has you wanting to be swallowed up by the floor; this isn't a discussion you've ever had to have with her, but now — it's inevitable.

you suppose you can't complain too much.

"okay, you had your moment, now get out," she sticks her tongue out at touya before shooing him away, making a small noise when he pinches your elbow teasingly. it makes him laugh when she swats at him, and he only holds up his hands and tries to drop all his weight back on her as she steers him out of the kitchen.

you fish the knife out of the sink and return to cutting another eggplant once she's back and stirring in her leeks and little miso mixture. the moment is tense between you to begin with — but then she's humming quietly under her breath and knocking her hip into yours, too, tucking you back into the comfort of this house you've always been in. this family you've always loved.

"you know," she murmurs eventually, rolling her eyes with another smile when you glance up at her face. one of the eggplants is weighed in her hands, and even she frowns down at it, before shaking it at you in a way that makes you both laugh. "he made me buy these, by the way."

—tucking you back into the comfort of this family that has, maybe, always loved you, too.

[anantaru]

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

— ꒰ synopsis ꒱ — you had once sworn to always love the 11th harbinger childe, no matter what circumstances you'd face together, to love and cherish him for all eternity, even the hidden side he couldn‘t hide any longer from you.

— ꒰ word count ꒱ — 2.4k

— ꒰ warnings ꒱ — [ex]plicit, fem! reader, foul legacy! childe, vampire! teeth, tw blood, blood sucking, monster[fu]cking, tw huge size difference, very messy, loads of filth, slight feral childe, cw two cocks, anal, double penetration

a beclouded, overcasting darkness torrents and deluges over your cold, moonless room. it's silent, as if trapped in a frozen lake and you exhale heavily through your nose and feel how your breathing stood motionless, cornered in a room.

"it's terrifying, isn't it?" you hear a whisper, "to see me like that, knowing love won't be enough to look past my situation." and a searing, razor edged bolt plunges over your body, which was only covered in a flimsy shirt, your thighs— quivering, without exaggeration petrified yet not out of fear as one might think.

turns out, what made it so terrifying were his next, chosen words;

"yet i love you."

and they felt as if crafted by the universe itself, meticulously chiseled in an edge of relief when childe, the eleventh harbinger, took a step towards you, until looming over the bed, whispering.

"and you love me, don't you?"

by the nature of what he kept expressing to you, the words he spelled out certainly held graven significance, you remember when childe admitted that he fell in love with you the very first time, remember when he said it out loud, kind, innocent, without any twisted torment.

but ajax wasn‘t himself now, or was he? is this who he really was all along? did you fall in love with .. him?

he was someone else, point blank, something. your find yourself being snapped back into reality when a warm tear crosses your cheeks, framing your face and you ask yourself, why am i crying?

even then, you secretly know the answer, you cannot keep yourself off him, you are desperately in love, you crave him, long for his silhouette and kisses, worship the eleventh harbinger entirely and if need be, undoubtedly you'd look past his true self.

granted, the situation was new, fresh and afloat, ajax never revealed you his true, foul legacy form or rather, what it did to him in the long run, a slow, agonizing death, melting away his lifespan— or how it made him perceive himself and what he became of it— bloodthirsty, uncontrollably raging with hunger, in dire pain.

childe lets himself fuse into the bedsheets at last, crawling into your bed, it's the middle of the night, a spine-chilling hour where he confessed the truth of his nature. notwithstanding the fact that he wanted to see how far he could go now, or if he should leave you out of his life completely.

when he hovered over your body, new courage materialized from the tip of his tongue, "do you want me to leave?" he takes off the giant mask, his skin right underneath growing dimmer, resembling a violet pigmentation, revealing his electro infused eyes, pointy ears, his sharp nails, delicately raising your vibrations with soft touches on your thighs.

you might regret this later on but you do not seem scared of him, somehow turning him speechless by your reaction, "no, please stay."

"you mean it?" he sighs, if that was true, then him being a monster was possibly the lesser of the two dangers. "i do." it's quite important to note that childe could barely fit in your bed, nor could he barely fit in between your legs for that matter, and you notice how energy imbued he actually was, his body twitching as if nervous, violet particles pervading off his skin, making you tremble.

"shh," childe looms his thumb over your bottom lip, "how cute." shaking his head and gazing deeply into your eyes, your face burns and without missing a beat, he slides his other hand under your knee, easing to your thigh and spreading you apart, so he could somewhat fit between your legs more sufficiently.

you were about to open your mouth to say something, but then felt childe's large thumb slip into your mouth, rendering over your warm, wet tongue. he presses down on the wet muscle and groans sharply into his chest when you moan, sealing your lips over the digit when he began to push it in and out of you.

your eyes close, and a smaller bump nestles itself between your legs, you feel it, knowing what it was. childe was hard, words cannot hold up to the warmth flushing your entire body when you flutter your lashes down south, a big tent nudging into your core.

a shiver goes up your spine when he pulls his wet finger out of your mouth, the string of saliva attached and breaking in two, hitting your chin. "let me get rid of this." he points out, accentuating the pain in his pants before he pulls them down, not entirely but so they'd rest right under his now, bare erection, his bulky thighs quilling over the leather material of his pants.

your mouth parts at the obscene sight, a bead of sweat trailing its way between your shoulder blades; not only one, but two fully erected cocks in display for your eyes and childe slowly traces the outline with the pad of a finger, hissing out, you can practically hear him grinning over you, almost discern the lewd dreams that probably played across his mind right this second while he mounted over you, casting a shadow down your figure with such ease.

"we'll start slow." his voice rumbles, "as usual." a smirk swaying from left to right, you feel your limbs sink into the mattress, your head hazy, but when he starts to pleasure himself in front of you, you bite your lip as you watch him, indulge in it, sneaky hand traveling down to take some tension off your stimulated pussy that was dizzily fluttering around nothing.

you whine out when you insert your middle finger into your hole and childe wipes away the bundled up saliva off your lips, taking a hold on your chin and lowering his body, "turn around for me." he whispers, looking down to watch you finger yourself ready for him— as if that would actually make the stretch somewhat easier to go by.

but you do as he commands, long since forgotten about the doubts buried in your mind, flipping yourself over and perking your butt up, so he could have the best view on your holes. he never used your different hole before, but childe wasn't unpracticed in taking the necessary steps in order for it to feel good. to try and test the limits of your body, he tapped your hole with his knuckle, pushing it past the tightness as it went in freely enough, and as he felt you loosen around it, he pushed it in and out, only distantly.

after all, he couldn't finger you properly, his nails were sharp and he'd rather dig them into your hips while he fucks roughly into you.

so before anything, he draws back and childe reached over to your nightstand and grabbed into the small drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube, whatever the case, he knew he was big, far greater than in his usual, human form and didn't want to hurt you while looking like this.

nonetheless, he could barely wait, he can feel his nervous breathing puffing against his sweaty chest while he opened the bottle, gushing a generous amount of the translucent liquid on his palm.

you bite your lip back and hide your face in the pillow when you hear it as you wiggle your toes, pretty much the only part of you that's movable when he forces you to lay still, all his weight on the bed, placed on your hips with nowhere else to go, fuck, you're so wet already it made your blood boil in your veins, you underestimated this thing. it's not even inside of you yet but you want to feel it already. 

ajax spreads the moisture on his upper cock, wrapping his tip and girth with it, "there we go." as he plants one of his large palms against your lower back while the other guided his red, swollen erection towards your holes. his touch, addictive, and faithlessly wet, you felt as if your body was submerged underwater and shoved into itself, but when childe moves his erections against your holes, you whine as to signalize your desperation for him.

slow, gradual enough and bolstered with a deep tempo, your wet, aching pussy stretches around childe's cock, while his other member pokes at your other hole, for one, only leaving the tip in and out, watching your reactions closely. but with more lube, it ultimately had began to work, graciously shaping and forming itself into every fold and crevice of his girth.

before moving, he keeps himself settled, his cocks buzzing against your frayed nerves.

but your walls clung on him ever tight, like a set of skin-forming clothing, hand tailored and fitting like a vice. enveloped by your skin, childe could notice your pulse down there and you cry out his name when he thrusts into you at the same time, wrapping his giant hands around your entire hip area to lift you off the mattress, so he could use you as a cock sleeve, his own, sweet and pretty and wet fucking cock sleeve.

his cocks hit in and out of your holes at the same time, they're warm and splitting you apart, as if having a heart beat on their own which continuously shuddered and rippled around your entire figure, your skin burning from inside out, holes leaking with both childe's pre cum and your gooey slick. but the man sighs, a nagging pain finally lifted off his shoulders as he leans against your back with his entire weight, caging you in between the mattress and his strong, broad chest.

you expand your lungs, drawing in quick, hefty breaths as you moan into the smudged pillow under you, thoroughly messed up with tears of euphoria and your saliva which couldn't stop dribbling down your chin. cross eyed, while fucking yourself back into him, his rhythm was never more than slow and deep, it's perfect and whenever both cocks contracted into you entirely, you felt them press overtly against the gateways of your pleasure spots.

your hold on him was tight, both holes used and prickling with a fire like sensation, sensual drags of his cocks piercing you into oblivion, inflicting bliss on you which you never experienced to that extent. he's ruthless, head thrown back and smacking his hips into you, pheromones and filth invading the humane air of the warm room. it's so filthy, you are, or that's what crossed your mind, but fuck it feels good, more than a little, it's like crossing out every small detail on your to do list, tackling all the small places and filling them to the brim.

swiftly, you move your hand to reach back behind him, locking your digits into his soft locks when childe began to nibble and suck on your neck. at the sensation of his rough, skilled laps of his tongue, you hiss when his sharp, pointy teeth dig into the delicate skin, hard enough to draw out the blood he so desperately craved to taste. in a sense, it's as if it broadened his lifespan, vitalized his endurance and replenished his stamina, "aah—" you cry out into the pillow, almost ashamed by how good it feels, mustering enough strength to grab a fistful of his hair to drag him into you, closer, more sufficient, his hips still working wonders on both entrances.

you're soiling him entirely and you can feel how your gummy slick and his warm, thick cum ooze down your thighs as childe moans into your neck, repeatedly, sucking the warm blood out of you, snapping his cocks in and out and acting feral, your spine arched up, ass perked and lifted so he could pound perfectly and fuck into you.

voiceless cries with a dry throat, inarticulate whispers of his name, your mouth opens and closes soundlessly. you're gone, too gone, hypnotized by the pleasure he was bestowing on you.

this next thrust was especially lucky in your eyes, and you cough up a broken moan when he hits your spots just right. you're rolling your hips back against the intrusion, desperate, full of need, face fallen and a mess. it was hot and wet, you could sense the boiling coil in your stomach, how it wouldn't be long until you'd release around him, and so did childe, feel himself become undone soon.

"just a bit more.." he's breathless, the smacking sounds of your ass against his hips fueling his desire to make you cum together, to have you drenched and filled up with his seed, both holes stuffed full and ready to go for another round, that's a new dream he had been playing in his head on auto repeat right now.

"fuck—" you scream, "fuck, baby! so close—!" and suddenly taste the intrusion in your belly, it's so warm and heavy, spilling, prodding, consuming, mind numbing you, knowing full on well nothing more could ever satisfy you as good as he did. the thick spurts of cum gush into your stomach so heavily it almost hurts, there was so much of it you feared to explode.

yet you come undone the same time as he did, violently arching your back as he wraps his arms around your sticky chest, the brush over your stiff nipples making you whine and tremble. he lifts you off the bed to harshly fuck the last bit into you, he wants you to have it all, until his balls were properly emptied out and dried up, but your holes adequately jammed and crowded.

your used, vibration numbed nerves and muscles come back to life and you collapse back on the bed, you taste salt and sweat on your lips before turning around to face your lover sitting back, barely out of breath, unlike you.

ajax pleasingly hums to himself, "you're mine." pulling himself against you, "you're mine forever." before sealing your bodies as you blink up to him with large, glowing eyes. you try not to notice his smile too much, yet all his reactions weren't a surprise.

in the end, he had won you over, he thinks to himself, kneading the soreness off your body, splashing his large thigh between your wobbly legs, deciding to rub it against your core to catch a reactions, making you realize that he wasn't done yet. 

beyond further questioning, it was the middle of the night.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[eggcompany]

Surely It's Only A Night

Edwin agreed to make the cat king happy. He needed to get back to London and they had one simple rule. No sex. But that feline's got too many words, get's too far in Edwin's head. Oh well, it's only one night.

“I knew you’d come around” The cat king practically purred as he circled Edwin, hand gliding across his shoulders. 

Edwin stood still, hands clasped in front of him. He had to get the bracelet off, he needed to get back to London. He’d come to the act king agreeing upon one thing. 

It wouldn’t be sex. The cat king could touch him as much as he wanted as long as they didn’t have intercourse. And the feline was more than happy with that. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for so long, Edwin” the Cat King whispered against Edwin’s ear as his hands shoved the suit jacket off, letting it thud to the floor. When Edwin had asked to speak, the King brought them to his special spot in the warehouse, with his bed and his candles, and changed into an open black silk robe and pair of silk pajama pants. He thought it was only fair that Edwin shed a few layers.

“Been thinking about how I wanted it. How your lips would feel on mine” he said and leaned up to press their lips together, Edwin gasping slightly and forced himself not to pull back. The cat king was warm and solid like he knew exactly what he was doing. 

It was nice, the warm press, the king’s hands on the sides of his face, the warmth that seemed to radiate off the cat. 

The Cat King sighed and pulled away, sharp smile on his lips, eyes growing round as he leaned in again. This time Edwin felt the slightly rough rub of warm tongue against his lips, pushing against his teeth till he opened his mouth. The cat king hummed happily, pressing their bodies together as their tongues slipped against each other. The cat’s hands moved to be around Edwin’s neck, pulling him down, pulling him closer. The ghost couldn’t help but touch the body that was pressed up against his, hands landing on the cat king’s hips, his strong thick hips. 

As soon as he pulled back Edwin tried to speak, to tell the cat king to just get it over with but he was cut short. 

“Cat Kin-” Edwin tried, breathless from the burning kiss, body feeling strangely heavy, oddly hot. The cat just grabbed his jaw, nails, razor sharp, just barely grazing his skin. 

“Thomas. Say it.” The cat king growled and watched Edwin’s lips. It confused the ghost, his eyebrows drawing together. 

“What? Who’s Thomas?” He asked as the hand on his jaw tightened, nails biting but not quite cutting. 

“My name. Call me Thomas, even if we don’t fuck.” The cat king, Thomas, said quietly, eyes flashing up to look at Edwin’s own. The ghost nodded and swallowed, his throat feeling a bit tight. 

“Thomas, just get it over with.” He said and Thomas rolled his eyes and patted the ghost’s cheek with a smile. 

“No, I want to have some fun. Unwrap my gift.” Thomas said and undid Edwin’s bow tie, flicking it away before working on his shirt buttons, walking them backwards toward the round bed. 

Edwin held onto the cat’s arms, keeping his balance as their lips met again. He was clumsy on his feet, trying to keep their lips together as Thomas unbuttoned his shirt and shoved them both backwards. 

“I think we should be on the same playing field. You can touch me if you want, and I know you want to” Thomas whispered into Edwin’s ear as his hands got the shirt undone and started running up and down the ghost’s sides. 

Edwin gasped, Thomas had rough palms, rough and warm and strong and was touching everywhere. Roaming from low on his stomach up to his chest, fingers rolling over his nipples, back to lightly scratch down his back. It was intoxicating and stimulating like nothing else. 

“I’ve dreamed of your skin against mine. How it would feel in my hands, under my lips.” Thomas said quietly and pushed Edwin to sit down on the bed, climbing into his lap. Edwin was panting, breath coming quickly as Thomas’s hands cradled his jaw bringing them back together for a kiss, tongue swirling into Edwin’s mouth. 

Edwin’s eyes closed, trying to memorize all the input he was getting. The feeling of another man on top of him, the weight and warmth of someone so close to him, the way the cat’s tongue swirled and felt in his own mouth, a strange yet addictive feeling. 

Thomas moved down, lips moving to Edwin’s ear, suckling on lobe for a moment before moving to his jaw to his neck. Hands still feeling up and down the ghost’s body, pressing down onto his lap. 

“So soft, touch me back Edwin. Touch me here” Thomas said and in a puff of smoke his own measly clothes were washed away leaving him in tight black boxer briefs. They were moved on the round bed, Edwin sitting in the center of it, now void of socks and shoes, with Thomas in his lap. 

He grabbed Edwin’s hand and brought it to his chest, guiding it to the side of his pec. 

Edwin let his hand roam the cat king's chest and muscled stomach. His pants were tighter than tight, his head full of shame and lust. He loved knowing what another man felt like, his sturdy and solid body. To know what another man’s…member felt like against his own. A bit. It was through layers of fabric but it was astounding to feel the stiffness against his own. 

“Feels so good Edwin, doesn’t it? When I finally have you, I’ll take my time, lay you down and show you how good I can make you feel…” Thomas said his hands roamed rubbed across Edwin’s chest before he was moving again, a puff of purple and he was sitting behind Edwin on his knees, nude chest to the top of his thighs pressing against Edwin’s back. 

“I’d start with your lips, moving down your body, across your chest, down to bite at your hips, marking you the entire time.” Thomas said as he ran his hands down Edwin’s body. When he reached the ghost’s hips he undid Edwin’s pants, pushing them down a bit. 

Edwin was gasping at the sensations and grabbing onto the bedding. He felt almost dizzy with each filthy word that was spoken against the nape of his neck, the almost ticklish graze of the king’s lips and his hot breath. 

“Then I’d get on my knees, kiss and suck at the soft tender skin of your thighs as my hands slowly traced up and down your cock. It’d be so hard for me, just like right now” Thomas said and couldn’t help the way his hips pressed against Edwin’s back, his hand finally wrapping around Edwin’s hard cock. 

Edwin moaned, hips pitching back, pulling away. But Thomas licked his ear and started an even rhythm stroking him. 

“So hot, so hard, I knew you wanted me. I knew you liked me back. Oh when I get my way… won’t leave bed for weeks” Thomas purred as his own hips followed a more frantic rhythm, rubbing through his own underwear against the ghost’s back. He leaned his chin over Edwin’s shoulder, looking down at the cock in his hand, the body he’d been craving. 

“Thomas this is-“ Edwin gasped out as he started to feel like he would explode. He held on tightly to the bedding, sounds bursting from his mouth without consent. It was allconsuming, like his every sense was changed to focus solely on the pleasure that was rocking through him. 

“Feels good doesn’t it? Wait till I get my mouth on you, I’ll suck it next time, show you what I can do with my tongue, get it down my throat. Fuck, I want it in me.” Thomas purred as his hand glided over Edwin’s cock, hand twisting in the most perfect way with a solid grip and the occasional swipe over the head, taking in the size and girth, mind saving it for later. 

Edwin moaned and turned to try and see the cat, his scruff rough against Edwin’s own soft cheek. Thomas took pity on him and leaned up enough for their lips to meet again, all open mouthed and noisy as the cat’s body never still, his hand speeding up. 

“Oh ah- Thomas!” Edwin cried out when he finally felt his body slip away from him, physical needs overtaking his mind, eyes slamming shut as his mouth hung open. It was a heavy yet lighter than air feeling, something that was shocking and melting his very being. 

“You’d do that for me wouldn’t you? You’d let me have a treat, riding your cock, right? I’d be so good, love getting a nice hot cock inside. We’d break the fucking bed, Edwin. Love it so much, you’d get fucking hooked” Thomas said lowly as his free hand that had been playing with Edwin’s chest wrapped around his own cock. He cherished the feeling of his lover twitching and spilling over his fist, the moans gasping breaths Edwin was taking was enough for the cat to cum, teeth sinking into Edwin’s shoulder. 

It was so much better than Thomas had imagined, so much more intimate. He loved playing with his partners but it was more than that, this wasn’t just one of his fuck pals, this was right and proper Edwin Payne, straight and narrow Edwin. The release was so much stronger, the orgasm longer and more breathtaking, his heart was pounding like it never did. 

“Thomas, let go please.” Edwin asked and gently pulled the cat's hand away from his groin. He leaned back and smiled at the glowy magical feeling that was simmering through him and the loud vibrating purring happening behind him. He felt… brand new. Shiny and far more clear headed than he had felt in weeks. 

“What a mess” Edwin said finally and looked down at himself for only a half second before a puff of smoke and they were cuddling in their underwear on the bed, any dampness washed away without trace. 

Thomas had his head rested on Edwin’s chest, now donned in a soft blue tshirt. His nail traced lines over it without any real pattern. 

“Felt good didn’t it? I told you it would be worth your while.” Thomas said and leaned up on one arm to look down at the content look on Edwin’s face. The ghost rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile on his lips. 

“It was certainly more than I anticipated but not… unwanted.” Edwin said and felt his face turn hot, knowing he couldn’t blush but still feeling embarrassed. Thomas smiled and laughed out before sitting up beside Edwin’s hip, facing him. 

“Yeah I knew you wanted it. I knew! You like me back. Do you want to do anything else? When can we do it again?” Thomas asked with a wide smile, teeth catching the light coming from his neon sign. Edwin took his time looking across the cat’s body, noting every small thing, the few scars that marred him, the fuzzy soft looking hairs on his thighs, the way his underwear hugged his bulge in a way Edwin had never seen before, soft and oddly attractive. 

“It has only sparked more questions in me than anything else.” Edwin said truthfully and reached out to run his fingers down the warm forearm that was holding Thomas up. The cat smiled and leaned down, nosing at Edwin’s cheek, whispering into his ear. 

“What questions? I can show you the answers.” Thomas said quietly, his free hand splaying across Edwin’s chest and sternum, rubbing slowly up and down. Edwin took in a shaky breath as the cat rubbed his face against his own, nose and lips and scruff all tickling and exciting. 

“Is it true? You enjoy… being with men?” Edwin said, embarrassment burning hotly in his chest. He couldn’t help it, the thoughts that were floating around his mind made him feel hungry in a way. And the sharp wide smile Thomas wore didn’t help as he looked down at Edwin’s face. 

“I’m with you right now. But I assume your precious little vocabulary meant do I enjoy getting fucked by men. Am I correct, dear Edwin?” Thomas asked, dirty words flowing easily from his throat. He looked at Edwin’s body, giving Edwin a moment of relief from his gaze. 

“Yes, you are correct.” Edwin answered tightly, he kept his eyes down, not wanting to see the pure glee in the cat’s eyes. 

“Aw Edwin, of course I do. Nothing I love more than being played with, a little rough play, you know. It’s a pleasure that feels good no matter what form it takes. A big solid man holding you face down on the bed, using you however he wants… Sharing a first time with someone special, clumsy and fun… even using toys it feels good, all by yourself alone with your imagination or showing off your skill. I love getting filled Edwin, no matter what.” Thomas said quietly, small smile on his face as his eyes closed, envisioning each scenario with Edwin. It was something he did often, and fondly. 

Edwin listened in rapture till Thomas looked back down at him and the ghost cocked his head to the side, confusion easily readable on his face. 

“What do you mean ‘toys’?” He asked without thinking, needing to know. He wanted to know and for some reason his lips moved on their own, maybe it was the floaty feeling that was still rolling over him. Maybe it was the way the cat’s eyes sparkled happily as a wild smile spread on his face. 

“I’ll show you. I have quite the collection.” Thomas said, moving to the edge of the bed on his hands and knees, back to Edwin. The cat reached down over the side of the bed to the floor, grabbing a small trunk from underneath. 

The position caught Edwin’s eyes, Thomas’s knees were spread as his shoulders dropped low, almost even with them. Edwin almost wanted to reach out to feel how the cat’s skin felt, even over his cherry red underwear. He couldn’t draw his gaze away from the round globes of the other boy’s rear, he’d never seen a man like this, never known how attractive a bulge looked in tight red cotton, especially not from the back. It was something that ramped up that hunger like nothing else. 

Thomas could feel the eyes on him, caressing him, he could feel all of it. He arched his back more than necessary as he let Edwin oogle him for a long moment. He finally sat back up, trunk in hand, he looked over his shoulder, putting on his pretty posture as he knelt on the edge of the bed. 

“I feel I’m being watched. Don’t you want to touch me Edwin? You can. You can grab me, grope me, play with me anyway you want. I know you’re curious, use me to quench that hunger you have.” Thomas said over his shoulder, keeping his back arched putting his ass on display. He flexed, watching Edwin’s eyes travel to each muscle before landing back at the cat’s bottom. The ghost took a big breath, before looking back at Thomas’s face, and his smug grin. 

“What do you have there?” Edwin asked after a thick swallow. He sat up, scooting back so he was sitting against the wall with his legs crossed. Niko had toys, plush creatures and little robotic animals, she had told Edwin about all sorts of toys and games. He was unsure how sex and those went together but he wanted to learn. 

Thomas huffed from being still untouched and turnt kneeling to face Edwin, trunk sitting on the bed between them. With a puff of smoke the lid popped open and the cat’s proud grin grew. 

“These are my toys. Sex toys, of course. I wouldn’t keep my yarn balls in here.” Thomas explained pulling out phallic shapes and setting them where Edwin couldn't see. The ghost’s eyebrows shot up. Sex toys? What made the difference between toys and sex toys? 

When Thomas was content he closed the lid of the trunk and bit his lip, eyes meeting Edwin’s. 

“These go in… any hole works….” The cat purred and set a few much too realistic phalluses onto the lid of the trunk. There were two that had balls and one, much larger than the first two, that was the size of Edwin’s forearm. They were all too realistically flesh colored with veins running down the shafts and deep rose colored tips. 

“Edwin, they aren’t going to hurt you. Don’t look so scared. They’re just plastic. Though these are my favorites they do look a bit… daunting. Don’t they?” Thomas said and picked up the biggest one, stroking as if it was a real cock. Edwin’s eyes were wide as he felt a pattering inside his chest, nervous and embarrassed but… the tightness in his pants was all too telling. Thomas took a second to play with the toy before he was putting them back in the trunk, most of them back in the trunk. The smaller of the three was sat where Edwin couldn’t see it between the cat’s knees and the trunk. 

“Those are not toys.” Edwin finally gasped out and Thomas threw his head back laughing at the ghost’s obviously very shaken up demeanor. 

“You play with them, they are toys. Don’t you know how to play like that? It’s the same if you had a partner. Have to get everything slick and ready, haven’t you ever… tried?” Thomas said and leaned over the trunk, getting in Edwin’s space, one hand holding himself up against the mattress while the other slid over the inside of Edwin’s thigh. 

The ghost shivered, leaning forward just for their faces to be closer. Close enough for the cat to lean in for a kiss, a slow kiss that ended up full of tongue as his hand rubbed up and down the inside of Edwin’s thigh, sliding up just far enough to tease. When they pulled apart, just a breath away, Thomas looked into his eyes. 

Edwin was enraptured by the way Thomas’s eye had grown dark and round, barely any gold left around them. 

“Do you want me to show you?” The cat asked quietly, the words fanning across the ghost’s face. 

Edwin was quick to shake his head but Thomas cupped his jaw and gave him a smile. His confidence was calming as he brought their lips back together. 

“On me, I’ll show you on me. I want it so bad Edwin, it’ll be a nice little show.” Thomas explained, lips tracing from Edwin’s ear to his mouth before sitting back. He waited for an answer, patient and content with looking at his partner. 

“I suppose, if you want, I wouldn’t mind it…” Edwin said and looked to the side away from the cat. Thomas smiled and put the trunk back on the floor and with a puff of smoke, his underwear was discarded and there were a few other items sitting on the bed next to the dildo. 

“Do you like the view? You can kiss me if I stay like this.” Thomas said and raised up on his knees, body on display. Edwin’s mouth hung open as he leaned to be closer. 

Thomas was like nothing he’d ever seen, muscular like a sculpture, skin smooth and soft, thighs fuzzy in a soft way, and cock hard where it leaned against his thigh. He got to look his fill, having only ever seen glaces and the briefest looks at naked men. He’d gotten just a taste but now he had a buffet laid in front of him. He didn’t want to touch the cat though, fearing he would do something untoward. 

“Or…” Thomas hummed and sat down on his knees and ran his hands over himself a few times, putting on a proper show before rolling onto his belly. He put himself in the same position that had Edwin so shaken up in the first place, shoulders to the bed, back arched, knees spread, ass high in the air. He even reached back and using one hand spread himself before drawing his hands back down, letting Edwin have his time. 

Edwin gasped a bit as he felt like the wind leaving him. Seeing Thomas like this with his underwear on was… it was attractive, pretty even, but like this? Nude and on display…. It was dizzyingly arousing, it was tempting and sinful. 

“Do you still want a show, Edwin?” Thomas asked and reached over to grab a small bottle and a wrapper of something. Edwin swallowed and nodded, then realizing with the cat’s face shoved down, he couldn’t really see. 

“Y-yes. Please.” Edwin stuttered, he felt drunk nearly, high on everything happening to him, everything he was seeing for the first time. It was intoxicating. 

“Oh so polite, you can still touch me if you want.” Thomas offered and covered his fingers in lube and reached under himself, finding his hole. It was something easy, something he had done a million times over, but now with Edwin’s gaze heavy on him, it was all the more pleasing. He slipped one finger in and savored the gasp that the ghost let out. 

“Does that really-” Edwin started to ask but was cut off by Thomas humming and huffing out a laugh. 

“Feels kinda weird, to be honest. The lube is usually cold and it’s not filling. But it makes it so it won’t hurt when something substantial goes in. It’s easy for me, I was made to get fucked, Edwin.” Thomas explained as another finger joined the first. They only made him more cock hungry, not enough and his fingers could never quite reach the best parts of himself. He was spurred on when the bed shifted and Edwin moved to kneel behind him, close enough to really see. 

“May I?” Edwin said so quiet regular people would have never heard him. But the cat king did. He heard it in perfect clarity. The cat moaned and nodded, pulling his hand away from himself. 

“Mhm, here put this on your fingers, start with three.” Thomas said with a hurry and shoved the small bottle of lube into the ghost’s hands. He got back in perfect position, back arched deeply with his hands by his face. He could hear Edwin’s brain spinning and whirling, it only took a whine and a little shake of his hips to get the other boy in gear. 

“Three?” Edwin asked shakily as he dripped the slippery clear substance onto his fingers. It was cold and felt odd, he almost wanted to taste it but there were far more pressing matters. He only took a moment to take one big deep breath before he touched Thomas, fingers landing where the cat’s own had just been. 

He pressed in gently, breath catching when his fingers sank into the burning hot clutch of the king’s body. He was astonished as his fingers sank in all the way without much resistance. 

“You were made for this. Amazing” Edwin said quietly as he drew his fingers back out only to press them back in, twisting his wrist and spreading his fingers to see the way Thomas’s hole adapted to it easily. He couldn’t help the grin on his face as his one hand dove in and out of the king, relishing in the impossibly tight warmth there, as his other hand felt up and down those fuzzy soft thighs and ass. He felt the soft give that hid the strong muscles of that round lovely ass. He was in a drunken daze, a sweet stupor. 

Thomas was biting the bedding as his toes curled, his cock was leaking onto the bedding, and his every nerve was on fire. It was so much more than what he was used to. It wasn’t rough or fast or bad, it was exploring and careful yet testing. Edwin had such long fingers, reaching those good spots Thomas never could. He was dying with pleasure, holding out till he was nearest to cumming. He finally released the blanket from between his teeth to push at Edwin’s arm. 

“Enough. Enough, Edwin. Hold on I have to, fuck you’re good at that, gimme a second” Thomas panted out grabbing the dildo and condom packet, keeling back up for a second. His hands were shaking and he was sweating, he was more than aroused or horny or turned on or anything else. He was with Edwin, he was getting played like a banjo by a ghost and he was very very okay with it. Especially when Edwin’s shirtless chest was pressing against his back, then arms wrapped around him, and finally his chin was resting on the king’s shoulder, watching his hands tremble. 

“You’re shaking.” Edwin said quietly, his own hands sliding down the cat’s arms till his hands were on top of Thomas’s. They stayed like that for a long moment, Thomas’s breath coming in short as his head laid back against Edwin. 

“Do you want me to do it?” Edwin asked and Thomas was nodding, handing the latex wrapped toy over to his partner. He got back in position but Edwin’s hands were pushing at his shoulders and hip. 

“Maybe another way, so I can see you better.” Edwin said and Thomas happily rolled onto his back, eye’s finding the ghost’s. Edwin leaned down and kissed him, a slow and tongue filled kiss. Thomas whined and looked down at himself. 

“Fill me up, put it in, Edwin, I need it” Thomas begged and rolled his hips against the bed. The ghost swallowed and nodded. He nodded to himself once more and took a hold on the toy, finding it strange to hold. 

He pressed the head to the king’s wet hole, just barely any pressure at first but when the tip slipped in, Thomas moaned and Edwin pressed it in faster till it sat flush inside. Thomas was moaning, thighs shaking a bit, hands clenching against the bed chest heaving. 

“I’ll go slow” Edwin said, trying to be reassuring but then the cat’s lips were curving up into a dangerous smile. 

“Fuck me, Edwin. Make me cum on that big hard cock.” Thomas purred, spreading his legs further, his hands going to the sides of Edwin’s face, pulling him in for a kiss. The ghost hummed into the kiss but when he pulled back and looked down at the toy in his hands. He didn’t quite know how he was to do it but so far he was doing well, surely Thomas would say something if he didn’t enjoy what they were doing. 

“I like it rough, Edwin” The cat said quietly with a smile, teeth glinting in the neon light. 

“Very well then” Edwin said and pulled the toy out faster than he would have. He watched in amazement as he shoved it back inside, causing the king to moan and his hips to buck. He watched the way Thomas’s body moved and rolled with each thrust of the toy, moans flowing from his lips. The cat made higher and higher noises till Edwin was sure he was going to hurt his vocal chords. 

“Fuck! Oh Edwin, Baby, Come here, come here” Thomas said and reached up pulling Edwin down for an open mouthed kiss. He moaned into it, arms wrapping around the ghost’s shoulders, hands spaying over the cold skin offered to him. When the razor bite of cat claws dug into Edwin’s back he could only freeze and hope Thomas would stop before he really hurt the ghost.

Thomas yelled out, legs tensing up, holding Edwin down as he buried his face in the ghost’s neck. He panted, chest struggling for air, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt so much more than what he usually did. He was floating and drowning, overfed and starved, breathless and gasping. He didn’t feel anything other than the rolling pleasure and thumping of his heart, his eyes opened but unseeing, ears deaf to the world. It was… magic. 

“Please let go, Thomas. Your nails.” Edwin bit out when he couldn’t move without those poison nails moving or digging in. The cat was purring like a motor, vibrating the bed, it was calming. Edwin finally pulled the toy away, rubbing up and down the outside of Thomas’s thigh, trying to get him to come back to his senses. 

“You like it” Thomas finally said dopily and pulled his hands away, waving away the nail marks with a slight sizzle and pop of smoke. 

Edwin took a relieved breath and sat back up on his knees, looking down at the king. He couldn’t quite stop himself from using one finger and tracing through the creamy spend pooling in the dips of the king’s abs. He brought it up to his eyes, feeling the odd slippery texture, almost wanting a taste. 

“If you lick that, I’m actually going to cum again. Are you trying to kill me, Edwin?” Thomas said as he snapped and the cum was vanishing away. Edwin frowned briefly but then looked back at the very disheveled and very nude cat king. He cleared his throat and looked away, face feeling boiling hot. He grabbed the blanket and tried to cover his nude chest as he searched for the shirt he’d pulled off in the heat of the moment. 

“Oh please. After what we just did, you’re still worried about modesty?” Thomas said sarcastically and then with a heavier smoke cloud they were dressed in pajamas. Thomas in a black silken set of shorts and a blouse and Edwin in a traditional striped long sleeve and pants. 

“Stay for the night. Stay for just the night longer, with me, Edwin” Thomas said as he laid down, head on the pillow. He almost looked… coy. Shy. It was something that had Edwin smiling, rolling his eyes. 

“I suppose I can stay here till morning.” Edwin said and happily got under the blankets, joyous when the cat pushed and pulled their bodies so Edwin was pressed against Thomas’s back, cuddled close with a warm welcoming purring body. Thomas dimmed the light till it was a faint glow keeping the room visible. 

It was warm and sweet and Edwin felt as though he could sleep. It was easy to simply turn his head off and enjoy the close company and relaxed feeling still filling his body. He would leave in the morning, as soon as the sun rose. 

“Edwin! Where have you been?!” Charles yelled as he ran up and hugged his confused looking friend. Crystal held her hands out for an answer too. 

“I was only gone for a night, do calm down.” Edwin said, trying to keep an even and unreadable expression on his face. He only hoped the goodbye kiss Thomas had drawn him into was obvious. 

“It’s been two weeks, mate.” Charles said, voice heavy with concern. 

“It’s been what?!” Edwin said, suddenly filled with anger. That cat king had trapped him in that sex nest for how long?

[spctrsgf]

to his office

prompt #351 from @/lyralit: 

“I could kiss you right now.”

“You’re very welcome to do it.”

word count: 3.8k

warnings: spidey!reader (tried to make it gn, lmk if i messed anything up!), language, my shitty spanish, innuendos but no actual sex

a/n: i saw atsv and miguel was SO SCRUMPTIOUS i had to write this

“HOBIE!” You yell at the aforementioned Brit, narrowly missing a chunk of some building that is being thrown at you. “I bloody know!” He yells back, swinging from the building next to you.

You nudge your head to the left as a signal to him, releasing a quick whip of web to maneuver behind a rough, brick building to land on the side of it. Hobie wasn’t too far behind, and Gwen was soon to your left as well. The three of you heave in heavy breaths, synchronous in your silence. The inevitable stomp of the angry anomaly of the week roams in search of the very people next to you as well as yourself. 

“She just does not give up, does she?” Hobie quips, filling the silence.

“Well,” Gwen adds. “We did make her angry.”

“We? You were the one who threw a brick at her, mate.”

“And who’s idea was it to do that?”

“It was a bloody joke!”

“It didn’t sound like it–”

“Okay!” You exclaim, cutting their childish argument in half. “Enough. Back to defeating the Wannabe Crab woman, okay?”

“Right,” Hobie answers, quick to drop his anger like usual. “What’s the plan, boss?”

“We gotta trap him somewhere, but this fucking city is endless. It’ll take forever.”

“I think we gotta get her hands tied,” Pavitr says from above, nearly desticking Gwen from the brick wall in surprise. “That’s where the power is, right?”

“Jeez, Pav,” You yelp, coming down from your initial shock. “We didn’t see ya there.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for scaring you, but seriously. I think we gotta tie her hands!”

“He’s right, that would solve all the cement throwing we got going on.” Hobie agrees, shifting to lean on the windowsill next to him.

You tilt your head. “Do ya think webs’ll be strong enough for that one?”

“Ours? Nah.” 

“True, but Miguel’s would do us a solid right now with all this.” Pav interjects.

“He’s right. We need those ever so strong webs your boyfriend has to do the job.” Gwen nudges you with her shoulder.

Your cheeks flame, and you’re eternally grateful for the silky mask you have on. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Gwen! We’re not– he doesn’t– oh my god,” You pinch the bridge of your nose as best you can through the mask. “Back on topic!”

“Seriously,” Hobie nods. “You should ask the lad to help us out.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

All you get is a shrug from him.

“Or you, Gwen? Or Pav?”

They all give you a look, a look that tells you exactly what they’re thinking.

“No. Oh my god, guys! Seriously? He doesn’t like hearing from me, anyways.”

That’s true, you firmly believe it, and you have ever since you first got to Nueva York. Being the person you are, you originally doted around the idea of talking to him, of engaging in a conversation. But, to be frank, he scared you shitless. He towered over your stature, a whopping 6’9” to your pacifying build. But, somehow you found yourself standing next to a nonchalant Hobie, watching his floating platform float impossibly slow towards the two of you after a mission. 

He’d been… you could tell right away that Miguel wasn’t the type of person to sugar coat nor was he very good at hiding the emotions that flew across his face, because oh my you felt it. You felt the trail of his scarlet gaze as he took in his first impression, you felt the razor sharp cut of disgust, felt the way his tongue ran along his accentuated canines as you rambled through your report. 

He’d dismissed you as quickly as humanly possible, opting to talk to the laid back Brit, the one who didn’t have to clear his voice every few sentences. Maybe it was a force of habit, you’d tried to reason as your head bowed to scurry out of the room. He has been working with Hobie longer, there has to be an ease between them. 

But, as time passed, Miguel remained the same. He tossed you a cold shoulder, and seemed to avoid your presence unless needed. You tried to shrug it off, to pretend like it didn’t hurt you as much as it did, but it was hard to pretend when the sting of rejection slapped as soon as he was brought up. Which actually happened a lot. 

You weren’t sure where Gwen had gotten boyfriend from that. Sure, you thought he was attractive. It was hard not to with his broad shoulders, a stark contrast to his (slutty) waist. There was something about his fangs that intrigued you, it was something you’d never seen before. And it wasn’t just the appearance that did it for you: it was that under all the anger and the rough exterior and the mask was a man, vulnerable and caring and wanting to stop what happened to him from happening to someone else.

He might be blunt and mean and pushy and all those things, but he came from a truly caring place, from a want to help. You could see that shine through in the way Gwen and Hobie and even Lyla talked about him, and you could see that in the mission notes he writes and in the slim amount of time that you were graced with his presence. 

“That’s why.” Gwen’s voice shakes you clear of the memories. 

“Wha?” You blink incredulously at her, like that would somehow shock you into understanding her sentence. 

She shoves your wrist, which hovers in front of you with the button to call Miguel in a booming orange. “Call him.”

You glare at her, but all that earns you is a tilt of the head and a not-so-encouraging punch from Pav. “Fine! Fine.”

You take a deep breath before hitting the call button. It sends off some sort of interdimensional wave towards Nueva York, and you buzz with a different type of frequency, suddenly nervous. The Miguel effect. Your brain blurts. Always nervous. You sigh and remind yourself that there are three other spiderpeople next to you as the call goes through, and Miguel’s face pops up unceremoniously in front of you. 

“What’s wrong?” Are the first words out of his mouth. “Uh, well, you see–” You start, only to be rudely cut off by his attitude. “Get to the point. I don’t have all day.”

The blunt words don’t roll off your back like normal, maybe it was because you could hear the anomaly pound, inching closer. “We need help. We need your webs, they’re stronger and can hold this guy’s claws together. He’s been tearing up the city.”

“You’re supposed to be containing the threat, not me.”

“Miguel, if you don’t get your fucking ass over here right now, all four of us are gonna be dead.”

“Doubt it.” He sounds distracted, like he was observing something else in front of him.

“Seriously? You can’t take two seconDS..!” You cut yourself off to launch off the building as the anomaly slams her fist into the spot you were rested at just a few seconds before. 

You go to follow your partners in chasing the monster away from the buildings, to yell at the stubborn man currently still on call from the watch encircling your wrist, but your spidey senses perk up and then you’re swinging back towards the anomaly. Your eyes train on a woman, not much older than thirty, running for her life from the gnarly creature above her.

You don’t think. Normally, you’re all about thinking and finding the best course of action to try and save everyone, but you don’t now. Not when you’re so short on time, not when that woman could die. You dive, holding your arms out as you beeline to the poor woman. Her face turns from fear to relief when she sees you, reaching out to grab your hand as you scoop your arm around her waist and carry her to the nearest roof.

You’re off before she can say a word, and the glance back you lend her tells you that she knows exactly why you couldn't linger and conveys the thank you she couldn’t say to your face. It fuels you, and you move quickly, pulling the anomaly farther and farther from the people. “Are you a quiet one, huh?” The anomaly’s voice is low and gravelly. “I’m always up for a little banter.” You shoot back, taking a quick left to navigate to where you see your partners waiting, hidden and ready to attack. 

“Alrighty then, let’s banter!”

“Let’s.”

“Are you expecting me to now spew out my whole plan and sob story, cus it ain’t happening.”

You shrugged. “Nah. Most of you don’t anyway.”

“We don’t?”

“No,” You shake your head, coming to a stop. “We usually have you caught by that time.”

Right on cue, Pav, Gwen, and Hobie shoot webs out, attempting to contain the anomaly. You realize, as you're adding your own webs to the mix, that Miguel must’ve hung up the phone during your little fright. “What happened with the boss? We getting that bloody help we need?” Hobie calls out, tightening his grip. “Dunno!” You call back. “Maybe he hung up.”

“Call him back, eh?”

“I- I can’t! This is harder than it looks.”

“We know!” Gwen screeches, voice strained.

“What do we do, guys?” 

“Try and hold on.” Pav’s voice is uncharacteristically dim, lacking its normal cheer.

His tone sinks into your stomach. “What if we don’t–” 

“You will,” Miguel’s voice crackles from your wrist. “I’m here. Where are you?”

“Uh–” You risk a look around as the anomaly struggles with a scream. “Open field. I can see an ocean from here, and there’s mountains to my right. Actually, I think it’s a river– we’re at a bend in it.”

“Got it. I know where you are, I’ll be there in a minute tops. Stay on the phone with me, okay?” 

“Will do.”

“He won’t be here in time.” You look up at the anomaly, her deep green eyes locked unsettlingly with yours. She yanks hard this time, and you see Gwen nearly topple and Hobie’s footing slip slightly, giving her arms more wiggle room. “Yes he will.” Your jaw sets as you shoot another web to wrap around her wrist, yanking her down onto her knees.

“You’ll lose. Wouldn’t that be crazy? Spiderman. Losing.”

“Crazy? Yeah, cus it won’t happen.” Gwen grunts from above, struggling to keep a clean facade.

“I’m almost there, cariño, hold on.”

“I am, we’re fine–”

And then you’re not. Because the anomaly bursts up in a spur of movement, effectively breaking the confinement you four had put on her. She runs forward, taking a straight track for you. You leap up, swinging away as quickly as you can. You pick through the strain on your forearms, through the cloud of fear in your head. You try to stay in the same general area you told him you’d be in, but it’s hard with the anomaly on your heels. 

“Miguel! Help, she’s chasing me, I can only keep her away from me for so long–”

“I know, I know, I’m coming. Hold on.”

But you’re not responding anymore. The anomaly swings a mighty claw straight into your abdomen, effectively sending you into the ground. Pav lets out a scream, sliding to catch you before you can slam into the grass, and Miguel knows something is wrong. You can hear his yells and Pav’s telling you to respond, but the pain in your side is excruciating and your brain feels like mush and your mouth is dry like sandpaper and your vision is tunneling into black and you try to speak but–

…

It’s very dark.

That’s the first thing you notice when you come to. It’s nice. But there’s an off putting feeling about it, like something’s lurking in the dark, and then you’re itching to turn on the lights so you can see something. “You have something covering your eyes, you do realize that.” Miguel’s smooth tone slides in from the left, decorating across the bland abyss.

Ah. So that was the problem.

Your arms feel foreign as you reach up to pull the fabric off your eyes, exposing you to the room you were in, only slightly brighter than before. “Lyla said the mask was supposed to help you heal better,” Miguel starts, and you can’t quite bring yourself to look at the man next to you quite yet. “I listened, she’s better at this than I am.”

“Am I not in the infirmary?” You question, before frowning at the way your voice sounded. You sit up, clearing it a few times.

“You were, but I moved you.” 

“Why?”

“I didn’t want you in there.” He answered bluntly, yet it lacked any substance at all.

“Why?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

You chuckled dryly. “Miguel, you moved me from the fucking infirmary to your office. I think you owe me a damn explanation.”

“No.” He turns away, slinging a web out to launch him onto his floating platform.

“Miguel–” 

“No.” The orange screens encircle him, effectively slamming his hard tone into the flow of conversation that wasn’t really flowing anymore.

You frown, half sat up in the bed that he’d placed you on. You’re frustrated, you don’t understand what’s been going on between you and him. He hated you. You’d previously established that, his vibrant reaction to your question confirmed it. But he saved you. And he moved you into his fucking office. 

Your head swims with this new information, and you flop back down unceremoniously onto the bed. Your head tilts automatically to him again, the fiery red in the bleak, monotone room. His back is to you, and he’s furiously tapping at something on one of his many screens. The boldness of his stature, the way he’s standing is so unwelcoming that you’re now sure he never really wanted you there at all.

You sit up and hop out of the bed as quietly as you can, even though you know he can probably hear you in the silence that enveloped you both. Yet he doesn’t react, he doesn’t turn and yell like you thought he might. He stayed stoically and almost stubbornly facing his screens, so you turn and slip towards the door.

Fucking say something, Miguel.

He doesn’t. You don’t know what you expected anyways. 

So you continue your walk, your path out of noose that the room brought. Yet, steps to the hallway seem harder and harder to make, like the hallway is getting longer or maybe you’re moving a lot slower than you normally do. You move to shoot a web, hoping to gain traction and move somewhat faster, but you can’t quite get your aim right– 

And then your vision is fluctuating and you start to feel unbalanced. You’re not moving. You’re moving your feet, but you’re not going anywhere. Your brain is fuzzy and the ground is getting closer than it normally is- you don’t remember being this short? “Ay, cariño!” Is exclaimed from behind you, and then something’s grabbing onto your back and pulling you back upright.

Miguel has his arm wrapped around your waist as you wobble, guiding you back to the bed and then lifting you up to sit on it. Your hands come up to rub your eyes, trying to get them to refocus. They blur and then unblur, finally resting to take in your wobbly hands, which are held out shakily in front of you. In response, you twist your hands together just enough to feel the pain of it, reminding you that you were in fact awake and aware. 

“Are you okay?” It’s then that you realize that Miguel is still in front of you. He’s got you caged in, blanketing you in his grand shadow. Your neck cranes up to reach his eyes, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t let your eyes linger during their ascent. When you meet the scarlet of his irises, you’re taken aback by the level of concern in them. Like he was actually worried about you. 

“I’m okay,” You respond, tilting your head with a smile. “Don’t worry about it.” He scoffed, but didn’t move away. “I’m not worrying.”

“If there’s one thing you’re bad at, Miguel, it’s lying.”

“I am a great liar.”

“Oh?” 

“Dios mio, cariño, yes.”

“What does that mean, anyway?,” You question, rocking backward to tuck your feet underneath your legs. “I tried to get Lyla to tell me, but she will not let the secret loose.”

He freezes. “Nothing, sorry, slip of the tongue.”

“You do realize I can just search it up, right? Would you rather me find out from the reach of the internet?”

“Not really, what if you just don’t–”

“Miguel.” You rise onto your knees, leveling your gaze with his own and resting a hand on his shoulder. “What is it? It can’t be that bad, it’s not like you’re saying you’re in love with me or something.”

“Well–”

“Right, cus that would be like…” Your words tumble over him, your brain too keen on keeping your feelings, your delusions to yourself. “Te amo? Te quiero? I’m not sure…”

“Either one.”

“Yeah, so it’s not one of those, so what is it?”

He takes a deep breath, looking slightly troubled. His face twists his face up like he’d just bit into a lemon, and then you’re panicking again.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that–”

“It’s a term of endearment,” His voice stops your apologies in their tracks. “It literally means affection, but when you use it as a nickname it’s more like sweetheart or darling. Dear is another way to say it, but you get the point.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, sorry about that–”

“Don’t be,” Your head tilts with his, following the way he turns his gaze away from you in embarrassment. “I like it.”

He meets your eyes again, curiosity and hope strung in his vibrant eyes. “You do?”

“Yeah. The way you say it is so satisfying, if that makes sense.”

“You like when I speak Spanish, huh?”

You nod, and suddenly you’re the one hiding your face from his smirk. 

“Querido, mírame.”

“Miguel–”

“Ahora. I won’t ask again.”

You sigh, glaring at him. “I don’t understand you.”

“That’s okay, you’ll learn,” He leans down and then innnn, so that the two of you are practically nose to nose. “I know you can do it.”

“Do you?” Your brain is screaming at you, making you even more painfully aware of his proximity to your face, yet you somehow manage to clearly deliver the line. 

“Mhm.”

“Well, it’s only cus I’ll have the best teacher. You.” You hit his nose with your finger, catching him off guard.

“I am happy to take that title.” 

“Good.”

He hasn’t moved. Even as the room fades into silence, he hasn’t moved. He’s still so close, like you could lean in, barely four inches, and you’d be kissing him. You can smell him, a tinge of metallic blood yet so earthy and centering. It’s intoxicating: your brain is swimming and you're struggling to keep your head above the water. 

Cariño. Sweetheart. A term of endearment. You still haven’t quite wrapped your head around that, not that you’ve been given much time to mull over it. Was that him telling you that he liked you, more than a friend? Was that a normal thing, using that term? You didn’t know, but you had a feeling that would be the best confession from him you were getting, if he meant it that way at all. You were gonna have to make the leap yourself.

“Everything okay?” His hand lands on your shoulder, a gentle reminder that you’d been staring into nothingness for what must’ve been a painfully long time for him. “Yeah,” You stumble to regain your words. “Sorry, I-” 

“Spaced out.”

“Yeah.”

He nods, smiling just enough so you could see his fangs peek out. You were caught.

“Migu–”

“I could kiss you right now, you know that?”

“Huh?” stumbles stupidly out of your now slack jaw.

“I could kiss you. You’ve been staring at my lips for the past few minutes, mi amor, whether you realize it or not.”

“I have? Oh my god.”

He chases your drifting gaze, just like you did with his. “It was cute.”

“Cute is a word I never thought I’d hear come out of your mouth.”

“Cállete, you hear me? Shut up.” 

You giggle, grabbing his hand and sliding it up to fit comfortably on the back of your neck. “You wanna kiss me, O’hara? You’re very welcome to do it.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Now he’s leaning in, closing in those four painstaking inches to lock lips with you.

And it’s insane. Showstopping. Any kisses you had before then? Not even a fucking kiss. Sure, it was a bit awkward at first– mainly you, you suppose– but it worked itself out. Miguel must’ve really gotten into it, because once you swear he nipped at your bottom lip with those fangs of his, just hard enough to draw blood. Your hands, in the meantime, explored his mass of brown curls, previously smoothed back but released by your fingers.

His own hands nestled themselves in your hair, tugging on it just enough to draw a sigh out of you. He tastes like blood– surely yours– yet ever so homey. You lean into him inadvertently, so content in the moment. The rational part of your brain reminds you that you’d probably suffocate if you kissed him for much longer, but nothing in you cared very much about that fact at all. 

In the end, it’s him who takes a dip for air, who drags your face off of his reluctantly to gasp softly. You do the same, resting your forehead on his toned chest. His hand, still in your hair, guides you gently back up, just so he can absorb your appearance and vice versa. It’s crazy, taking him in like this. He looks so out of control, his hair disheveled and his lips puffy and his cheeks red, releasing air in quick puff puffs. You’re sure you’re not much better looking.

“Out of breath already?” He says, head tilted with a goofy sort of grin adorning his face. “I’m regaining it currently, don’t tease.” You puff back at him, dropping your head back onto his chest.

“Oh, but teasing you is the best part.”

You stab a finger into his side. “Be quiet.”

“If you fare like this, mi alma, you won’t last very long where we’re headed.”

Your head whips up, equal parts confusion and frustration. “First of all, I’m fine. Second of all, what?”

“C’mon.” he pulls you off the bed.

“Are we sure I can even–”

His arm is around your shoulders, hand clamped tightly around it to squeeze you reassuringly. “I got you.”

“Thanks.” Your smile towards him is mushy, but you couldn’t quite find it in yourself to care.

“De nada,” He smiles back, and you mentally note to tease him about his softness later on. “Let’s get all the way to home plate, huh?”

“Let’s.”

feel free to drop by my inbox anytime, everyone, before i run out of ideas

[whorety-k]

Hello! Wanted to say that I really love your work about Konrad. I recently listened to the song Type O Negative - Love You To Death and realized that it would be just perfect for him. I would be glad if you get inspired to write a new post for it (´꒳`)♡

(sound warning) TYPE O NEGATIVE BESTIE?? YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION.

I love this song and you're absolutely right: it's perfect. This is targeting me for being goth (and a Peter Steele appreciator, rest in peace beloved) and I am unable to get it out of my mind, thank you. Type O Negative songs + Konrad Curze and just the natural progression of things. You ripped me right out of another fic like my soul ascending to daemonhood (sorry Fulgrim asker, this is one of my favorite songs).

Please have another really good Konrad song for what I've written! Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge [YouTube] [Spotify]

without further ado, have some horny

Pairing: Konrad Curze x afab!Reader

Song Inspiration: Love You to Death - Type O Negative [YouTube] [Spotify] “I beg to serve / your wish is my law / Now close your eyes and let me love you to death / Shall I prove I mean what I’m saying, begging? / I say the beast inside of me is gonna getcha, getcha, get—”

Warnings: SMUT, porn without plot, dubcon (but not actually, reader is into it), injury, blood kink, descriptions of blood, not quite blood as lube but it’s there, physical restraints (bondage + gagging), we’re visiting an apothecary after this one everybody

Word Count: 666 (well if that's not telling...)

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams

A shudder rips down your spine from the chill of the room, bare nipples perking. He eats up your soft whimpers, digging his sharpened nails into the soft flesh of your hips as if you’d run away at the first chance you could get. The pain sends jolts of electricity down your legs, knees twitching limply from where he has you restrained. Navy blue cordage has your arms trapped helplessly against your sides, wrists bound to your ankles. A claw ghosts down the pretty arch in your back. “Gorgeous little rabbit, you are,” he croons, breath puffing against your ear. You whine, causing the giant to tut at you in mock sympathy.

Konrad’s hot tongue laves desperate laps up and down your thighs— hot, wet, chasing after crimson trails like a man possessed. The intensity of his eyes has you just as pinned as the soft ropes affixing you to yourself. “You were the one that wanted this, my dear,” the Night Haunter taunts, softly shaking his head. You try to choke a response, but your words are lost to limitations of the ball-gag. Curze perks up, eyes alight in false sincerity. “Did you not?” he asks, using a sharp nail to raise your chin. Your eyes fall as they refuse to meet his gaze. Loaded silence passes between the two of you before he roughly grabs your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His voice is tense with disappointment, growling out, “Your body makes for an awful liar. I can smell you, bloody minx.”

A crimson hand traces the heat between your legs, rubbing tantalizing circles around your slit. “All of that effort to garner my favor… why act so ungrateful? Was this not your goal?” Konrad scoffs, sinking a thick finger inside of your wet warmth, “Only a fool shows such kindness without an expectation of repayment.” A second finger slips in beside the first, prodding roughly against your front as they pump in and out of your fluttering core. Stars fill your vision at the rush of adrenaline his ministrations send through your veins, and a muffled cry leaves your lips and your back arches forward against the restraints. You feel more than see the razor edge against your cheek before the gag in your mouth suddenly comes loose, dropping onto your spread lap. “Care to repeat yourself?” your captor inquires, continuing to tease your bud. 

A deep breath fills your lungs for the first time since the Night Haunter had lured you to his quarters. Your eyes rim with tears of overstimulation and delicious pain, thighs and hips aching with still-bleeding wounds. “Please,” you beg through glossy, spit-laden lips, angling your hips forward.

A wicked smile blooms on Konrad’s pale face, a modicum too wide to be ingenuous. He leans forward, whispering, “Good pet, finally being honest with yourself. Let me reward you.” Slick sounds of the Night Haunter working you open echo against the walls of the dark chamber, deadened by the rush of blood in your ears. The coil in your belly begins to wind tighter with each exploratory thrust of his fingers, large palm stimulating your nub. The harsh pleasure causes the tension to snap, and Curze dips his head to place a sloppy kiss to your parted lips, tongue devouring the inside of your mouth and eating up your cries as you clench around his digits. He coasts you through your high, bordering overstimulation before retreating his fingers from you. 

Konrad looks over his work, swiping up another trail of blood with a soiled finger. “Quite the mess,” he teases, dark eyes tracing your heaving form. He raises his hand to his lips and licks off the erotic mixture of blood and desire from his fingers as if it's his final meal, emitting low growls and grunts as commentary on the taste. When he’s finished, the primarch pushes you onto your front, pressing one of his massive hands between your shoulders. 

“One worthy of expanding, certainly.”

[obsidiangravity]

Nikto Gets A Cat

I saw this lovely artwork by @quimera-cami and it possessed me to drop all other WIP to write this.

Summary - Spetsnaz are tasked with guarding a remote location. Can’t ask for a simpler operation really. The only downside for Nikto is having to endure the stifling presence of his teammates. Maintaining what’s left of his sanity in such a tiny house is an exhausting challenge, but at least they all get their own sleeping quarters.

Until Rodion returns from a weekly grocery run with a companion.

Word count - 3.9k

Tags - Fluff, Alcohol, Nikto being nice.

It’s no secret to the closest people in Nikto’s life that he despises cats.

The incessant calls for attention. The hair that seems to overrun everything one owns. Their need to mark and ruin upholstery. His disdain for those common house pets are seen as irrational. Perhaps it's a childhood trauma long forgotten, the unsavoury memories regarding these animals locked away in the dark corners of his mind.

But he disagrees. The extreme hatred is warranted. How could it not? What do they provide other than misery and annoyance. He’s grateful to have been spared the torment of living around one since he joined the military over a decade ago.

So the man is rendered temporarily speechless and imobile when Rodion calls out from behind him on the armchair, “Look at what I found outside the supermarket!” and five kilograms of hissing fluff and fury is dumped on his thighs. 

The feline snarls and bares its teeth at the person that dropped it. Long razor-sharp claws dig into Nikto’s flight suit, poking his skin.

He winces, gaze narrowing at the youngest Russian. “What the fuck is this?”

“Mm, it’s a cat,” Rodion mumbles over a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie as he searches for the TV remote and brushes stray crumbs onto the ground. It makes Nikto’s fingers twitch. “Siberian I think?”

Dmitry looks up from his task of chopping potatoes in the scantily sized kitchen, amusement ghosting the corner of his eyes. “Oh, it could be, but they are usually a little bigger, no?”

The cat, in a blur of unruly fur, launches itself off Nikto's lap, nails screeching and scraping the wooden floorboards as it skitters across like one of those rats caught out in the light in this shithole of a house. In a second, the creature vanishes behind a doorway to a bedroom. The one belonging to Maxim.

Rodion clucks his tongue. “Well, someone tell Maxim he has a new roommate when he’s back from patrol.”

An acidic scowl is hidden behind his balaclava when Nikto notices the strands of hair and filth left on his uniform. “Are you soft in the head? Why did you bring it here?”

“Saw her scavenging in the garbage as I was about to return. I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“Get rid of it, or I will shoot it.” His voice low and coarse. It is the only response Nikto gives before he stands up, readying to leave for a shift change with Maxim.

Nikto returns twelve hours later after a quiet night, slips out of his worn leather boots to find his single bed occupied.

The feline saw fit to curl up on it and rub dirt on his clean white blankets and pillows. Of course it would be in here, his room is the only empty one.

He’s able to get a better look at it as it sleeps. Dust clings to its matted and tangled cream-coloured fur. Its scrawny figure and ribs are barely concealed by its thick coat. Thin, elegant, almost silver whiskers a contrast to the extremely bushy unkempt tail.

Three small lines of scar run from its right cheek to its velvet-like ear. This is no pampered house pet, it may have been once, however those times were long gone.

He lightly shoos the cat away. It startles from peaceful sleep and hisses, tries to gouge his hand with the tiny daggers on its fingertips, but ultimately scampers off and hides under the bed.

Nikto sighs, long and drawn out. Questioning if he should bother using the back of his rifle like a stick to force it out of his room. He reaches for it, then decides it’s not worth potentially hurting himself from an accidental discharge.

He flips the switch off and collapses on the mattress.

~~~

He wakes up before everyone else again, the sun heating his face through the dusty window. Nikto blinks against the early morning rays and stretches his stiff muscles with a content groan. His toes collide with something furry and soft, and that brief moment of peaceful serenity is disrupted by a sharp scratch to his bare calf.

The half asleep man jerks away from the sting — accidently rolling off the bed. A shoulder and knee takes the full brunt of the fall and the greater pain jolts him fully awake, a “Blyat,” escaping his scarred lips.

The feral animal dashes around the small room, emerald eyes wide, fangs showing and claws unsheath. It howls and arches its back as it realises its trapped between the closed door and him.

Nikto scrambles to his feet, swearing a string of colourful curses that echo against the concrete walls. His jaw tightens. He wonders if he can turn the doorknob to kick it outside without being inflicted with any more injuries.

Goosebumps form on his arms when a deep rumble emits from it, as if it’s charging up an attack. He eyes the AK-47 propped against the wall on the other side of the room. Of course the one time he leaves a firearm out of reach is when he needs it most.

Tentatively, he takes a step forward and in a whirlwind, the infernal creature resumes its frantic scrambling.

It throws itself up onto the bed, rumpling the messy sheets further and jumps on his nightstand. In its rampage of destruction, it knocks the full bottle of vodka over.

It shatters loudly on the oak floor. Large and tiny shards of glass scatter in all directions as the liquid seeps through the planks.

Nikto, who is usually able to repress his anger and known for his stoic composure, lets his vision go red and a roar of unrestrained rage erupts.

He will gut this mangy stray then dump its entrails on Rodion for putting him through this. He has done far worse for less.

The bedroom door creaks open and Devil Incarnate finally dashes out.

A dishevelled Maxim peeks his head and a broad shoulder in, sleep clouding his eyes. “Can you not make so much fucking noise this early?” Then his gaze shifts to the spilled alcohol and groans. “You’re not wasting anymore of the vodka again,” he says and slams the door shut with a resounding thud before Nikto could redirect his fury at him.

He is left to simmer in the aftermath and he swears to drag Rodion’s face across the broken glass if that imbecile doesn’t clean this up.

~~~

It seems an illness has overtaken his comrades.

With its fur clean and brushed, they dote on the cat at every chance it decides to show itself. Regal grace that laid beneath the grime is now allowed to shine. It moves with the arrogance that all cats possess as it struts around the house.

“Oh, what a cute kitten.”

“Look at its shiny gemstone eyes! What a pretty girl.”

Running their fingers through the fur as they coo and play with it. All three of them mull over what to name it. As if it’s a newborn baby and they’re first time parents.

“How about Mishka?” Dmitry asks as he strokes its back. “Look at its silky coat! Nikto, you have to feel this.”

Maxim scratches his stubble. “I prefer Nina.”

“Satan,” Nikto offers, gaze not leaving his book.

“It’s a girl,” Rodion’s faraway voice interjects from the bedroom.

“Baba Yaga.”

“Doesn’t really suit her… Princess?” Maxim suggests.

Nikto flicks to the next page. “Gluttony.”

“I think Anastasia fits this beauty.”

“Garbage Eater.”

That night, he pulls the covers over him with the feline nowhere in sight.

But dawn finds that yet again the whiskered intruder found its way onto the bed near his feet.

Less scratching and hissing this time. He’s able to expel it with only an attempted swat at his arm and minimal destruction. No caterwauls of wildness, or pointed teeth and claws tearing at his blankets thankfully.

~~~

They take pictures and record videos of the nuisance doing the most inane drivel and send them to each other, including Nikto. As if he can’t see the damned cat himself. At this rate, they would probably snap an image of its excrements and praise it for defecating outside by the end of the week.

The cat takes the greatest liking to Dmitry. It’s no mystery why. Twirling about his legs for food at all hours of the day that it’s not sleeping.

And the meowing.

It doesn’t shut up. Always whining, always mewling. Like an alarm siren demanding more and more meals.

The short period where it is not doing that, usually when one of the Bale brothers has the little gremlin on their lap, massaging the soft fur around its ears  — it purrs loudly. Impeccably imitating a broken lawnmower.

Nikto has no trouble tolerating most discomforts — the filthiness of a barracks, the lack of sleep during a long operation, numbness from the biting cold of Russian winters. He would endure all of it again over this.

Nobody else seems to be agitated by it. Madness has infected everyone but him. No longer can Nikto read a book or relax with a good bottle of vodka in peace. He enjoyed his lone shifts a little more than the rest of the team before. Solitude is always freeing. 

Now, it’s his only solace for true rest.

His equipment, his bed, the whole house, is filled with stray strands of fur. Irritating his nostrils and ruining his clothes. He briefly considers murdering the cat and the idiot that brought it home when he finds a nonhuman hair in his half eaten soup.

The last straw that solidifies their insanity to him is when the living embodiment of chaos vomits a wet furball on the sofa.

They will throw the cat out now for sure. Nikto has no doubts about it.

Except, that does not happen.

They did not throw the cat out.

They mutter words of comfort and pat it on the back, cleans up the mess and offers it a treat.

Nikto occasionally catches the feline watching him from some dimly lit corner. A spark of intelligence in its big round eyes. As if it secretly taunts him, before prowling away.

The following night, he scours his room, getting on all fours to check under his creaking bed frame. His bloodshot eyes strains against the darkness and finds only dust bunnies. No furry form with a demonic glint in its jade irises. Satisfied, he switches off the light and crawls in, the chill of the night seeps through the small crack in the window.

Yet, come morning, the relentless animal inhabits his sheets, purring with satisfaction.

It amazes him that it is able to burrow up so close as he slept again — with him being none the wiser, considering how much of a light sleeper he is. Nikto makes a mental note to seal the window. Clearly the sliver of opening for fresh air is too much to ask for.

He lets out a bone weary sigh, running a hand over his scarred face and rubs his temple. It can stay for now.

It’s not being overtly infuriating. It barely takes up any space. The man observes its sleek fur shining almost golden in the sunlight. Is it as soft as they all say it is?

He reaches for it, his fingers lightly brushes its tail and it lets out a groan of discontent, hopping off the bed, onto the windowsill. It slinks away, landing on the bushes outside.

Nikto watches the raised fluffy tail disappear past the treeline and he pushes the pane fully shut with a resounding snap for tonight.

“She’s nearly done with her moult,” Dmitry comments as he sweeps the tumbleweeds of fur out the front door. There are clumps of it stuck on foliage, mixing with the twigs and leaves.

It’s visually revolting.

When asked why he doesn't simply throw it in the trash, Dmitry says it makes the birds happy to use it for their nests. 

Birds don’t nest this close to winter, you moron. Nikto would have loved to retort, only, he realises he doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.

The one upside to the neverending mountain of inconveniences is there seems to be a decrease of rat sightings inside. Perhaps, it’s not as lazy as Nikto originally thought.

He scowls at the empty packet of potato chips left by Rodion on the coffee table. The cat is now far from being the most useless individual in the house.

He lies awake in his bed, watching the shadows of the tree branch right outside his window dance on the wall as the wind jostles it. Sleep has trouble taking him like most days.

As he is about to drift into unconsciousness, an ear grating yowl echoes in the living room through the walls, loud enough to wake the dead.

Nikto huffs and rolls onto his stomach.

It continues. The sounds of the kitchen’s trash can being rummaged and the occasional meow of discontent prevents him from dozing off.

He’s determined to ignore it, maybe yell at someone else to feed it but realises it’s probably useless. Dmitry can sleep through a bombing. Maxim is likely comatose from drinking and nothing less than a gunshot will wake him.

He sits up, fingers reaching for his balaclava, fully intending to throw some biscuits in its food bowl so it can leave him alone.

The moment he pries open the door, the feline sprints in and beelines underneath his mattress.

Nikto narrows his eyes, tired brain is slow to process what exactly occurred. A defeated exhale leaves his lips and pushes his door shut, returning to bed.

He has grown to expect the cat to claim the territory beside his left foot and is careful not to nudge it come morning.

~~~

Frantic scratching on worn oak is like fingernails on a chalkboard, agitating Nikto's taut nerves. It wasn't just the sound, but the urgency behind it.

He’s not the only person home, someone else can let it out.

He tries to ignore it and focus on his task. Cleaning firearms is a silent and soothing experience. It helps to clear his mind when he needs it most.

The scraping intensifies.

Nikto unclenches his jaw — gently places down the bolt carrier and oil stained cloth, and stands up.

Boots thudding on the floor as he marches to the source of the noise. 

The cat paws at the front door and wails. Wanting to be let out. It looks at Nikto as he turns the corner. Its face saying, please I need to leave.

I need to leave right now.

He unlatches the steel lock and pulls the door open. The feline hesitates, its miniature nose twitching, testing the cool air and the scents wafting in.

Frosty blue irises flash in anger. “You wanted to leave? Then go!” His free hand gestures to the open space outside.

Seconds stretch into a minute.

It stands there. Peering outside. Then, with a flick of its tail, turns and walks away, returning to its favourite spot on the kitchen counter by the window.

Nikto watches it, a mixture of confusion and realisation settling in his chest. It gives him a side eye that speaks volumes before it lays down and gazes out the glass.

He had served this creature. Catered to her whims. Ungratefulness aside, he feels used.

~~~

Nikto leaves for his shift just like any other night. Familiar weight of his rifle in one hand. Vodka in the other. Stars glittering in the sky.

He settles down at his usual spot in the outpost overlooking the area he’s meant to guard. As he’s about to peel back the fabric of his mask to take a sip, a crunch of dry leaves alerts him to a presence not too far from his left.

Drink forgotten, muscle memory and instincts take over, he raises his gun in the direction of the intruder. Two glowing orbs look back at him, and then an inquisitive meow.

Low and behold, it’s Garbage Eater.

Exasperation washes over him. He lowers his firearm and stares at it.

The cat saunters up to his feet, rubbing its face on his boots.

Nikto silently grieves his allotted hours of privacy robbed away and sits back down. How did it even follow him? He was not as alert as he usually is compared during a mission, but for it to have not been detected since he left the house is a feat.

Surprisingly, it keeps a respectable distance. Choosing to lick its hand an arms length away.

He finally gives in. The Russian reaches out to run a hand over its back. A throaty groan of protest erupts.

Nikto stops. Fair enough. He doesn’t like being touched either.

As the night deepens, he offers little bits of chicken from his food container while they sit in tranquil company together. He will never admit to it if asked, but the presence of decent companionship is something he craves. Dmitry is pleasant and respectful, however he can be a little too worried more often than not. That man is not subtle. Nikto catches every glance of concern, every time his lips pull into a hard line.

Animals don’t do that. They don’t have any questions of his mental state barely held back on the tips of their tongues.

Sometimes when it gets too quiet, his thoughts can be overwhelming. Fragmented memories from his past come slithering back. Lately, he has been unable to keep them at bay.

Every now and then, a new door opens, and he often doesn’t like what comes out of it.

Maybe it senses his mood, or maybe it’s just cold, it inches closer to sit beside him for the remainder of the shift. Its green eyes full of concern.

When they return to the house together, the cat doesn’t have to sneak into his bedroom.

~~~

Tiny gifts in the form of dead rats are deposited in his quarters every so often. He could dispose of it normally, but he throws them into Rodion’s room. It grants Nikto a small bit of satisfaction whenever a screech of disgust sounds throughout the house, usually after that man returns from his shift.

A week passes and Nikto wakes up with a feather duster-like object in his face.

It seems that the cat, perhaps emboldened in the darkness, gained some courage and moved upwards long past midnight. She sneaked up close beside his chest as he was sleeping. Her padded foot, soft and warm, rests against his bicep with an easy pressure, tail tickling his cheeks.

She had stuck to the end of his mattress every day before this.

Her forehead nudges his hand, seeking contact, and she rubs her long whiskers against his open palm.

Sundown arrives sooner, the days grow colder and Nikto quickly discovers she likes to be squashed by his arm.

The cat blinks and carefully leaps over him to situate herself in the small space between him and the wall. She sniffs Nikto’s hand curiously and rubs her cheeks against it before rolling into a ball. He buries his fingers into her soft fur and closes his eyelids.

He knows she only pursues his company for his warmth. He doesn’t mind it. His nail traces patterns in her coat and she stretches languidly. Maybe it's not just her seeking him. Maybe he craves the physical touch too.

It has been too long, he realises, since he has hugged another living thing. To feel the pulsing of a heartbeat against his fingertips. It is not so bad afterall.

The even vibration of her purrs lulls him to a dreamless slumber.

He hears the rhythmic clacking of claws on the hardwood floor before the cat jumps onto the armrest. She puts a gentle paw on Nikto’s forearm and meows.

Nikto hums, the words of his fantasy novel momentarily blurring. “What do you need this time?” he grumbles.

Everyone else left ten minutes ago, a rarity. He has plans to finish this book today.

Unfazed by his hollow annoyance, she steps onto his lap and does a few circles before settling down.

He shifts in his chair, trying to find a position that’s more comfortable for them both. “I’m reading a story, do you want to hear it?”

She looks at him knowingly and yawns. Nikto clears his throat, he begins reading with a soft voice that feels unfamiliar, it has been a long time since he last used this tone.

At some point, her eyes drift close and her breathing deepens, yet he continues.

Nikto couldn't help but see the similarities they share. They both exude an independence born out of necessity. He runs a calloused thumb over her old scars. They’re both survivors. No other person he met has understood it truly. Though with the way she regards him, the reserved man thinks she might.

~~~

Nikto takes the last bottle of Five Lakes on a hunt with him before Maxim could — he can have whatever slop is left.

It’s been years since he had hunted, nevertheless, he still remembers how to track deer and rabbits.

Gloved hand securely clutching the cool glass, he ventures further east.

People argue that vodka isn't for taste. Nikto disagrees. 

He values the smooth, barely detectable flavour, a welcomed change to the generic liquor he usually endured on duty. To him, the subtle burn is appreciated. He doesn’t think his alcoholic comrade can tell the difference.

It’s not that he can’t handle the harsh taste, he would simply rather get drunk with a minimal amount of hangover.

He’s not surprised when he hears the rustle of grass and the well-accustomed to call of his four legged companion behind him after he crouches down to inspect the gnawed on vegetation.

She trots up, her sleek form brushing against his thighs and investigates the leaves, sniffing it with a delicate nose.

“Can you hunt rabbits as well as rats?”

She flicks a ear and chirps in response.

Nikto takes that as a yes.

Undeterred by the distant rumble of thunder above, they proceed further, the sparse canopy offers little protection as tiny droplets soon begin to rain down upon them.

Eventually, the soil grows too damp for her liking and she tries scaling up his leg, tips of her claws latching on to his thigh muscle through the thick fabric.

She advances quickly, her pointed nails has no trouble finding purchase on the straps and gear tied to him. Nikto hisses and grips her to his chest with his forearm before she can make it any higher.

She calms instantly, feeling secured in his solid hold.

The mild drizzle subsides quickly, leaving the forest dripping and smelling of fresh earth. However the once stray Siberian forest cat has no desire to return to the damp ground.

He purses his lips and takes a deep breath. “Fine.”

He can’t use his hunting rifle with one hand and he refuses to let her on his shoulders. Daylight is about to leave anyway. Won’t be a terrible decision to return.

As the sun dips below the horizon, dousing the hills with the warm colour of fire, Nikto observes the sky and settles on the grass, Garbage Eater curling up on his lap in content silence — he thinks that having a pet cat isn’t the worst thing in the world.

[archangeldyke-all]

Have you gotten any of my asks? I've dropped in literally every couple of days to say hey and im not sure if they're going through cause tumblr as a whole has been wonky for me lately. Anywho heyyyyy love you 🩶🩶 miss you sm baby 🥺

Have jasper pics with this lil prompt: reader comes home to sev with a puppy (we do not know where she got it from 😭)

JASPERRRRRRRRRRRRr EVERYBODY LOOK AT BABY JASPERRRRRRRR (i'm sobbing, it's day one of my period and these pictures are making me ugly cry) (also i have not gotten any of your asks until this one! tumblr has been fucking with so many people lately! i've missed u mars i hope ur well <333)

men and minors dni

"what the hell is that?" sevika asks.

you freeze, cringing and cursing under your breath. in your arms, the puppy squirms.

"n-nothing?" you squeak, turning around to face your wife. she's got her reading glasses low on her nose, her book cracked open in her lap. you thought you'd be able to sneak by her without getting caught.

sevika raises an eyebrow at you. "doesn't look like nothin'." she says as the puppy in your arms sticks it's leg out of the bundle of blankets you've wrapped it in.

"i'll give you three hundred dollars if you pretend you didn't see that." you sigh.

sevika snorts, then crawls off the bed, inspecting the puppy in your arms.

it's so tiny. it's paws and ears are two times too big for it's itty bitty body. it's eyes are big and glossy, little teeth razor sharp-- sevika groans as she looks down at the little dog.

"babe." she whines. you huff.

"c'mon, sev, look how cute it is!" you push your arms out, pressing the puppy into her arms. she and the dog squirm and equal amount, both of them resistant to the situation, but then--

then sevika gets her arms around the dog, and it's little tail starts wagging wildly as it sniffs and licks at the new person holding it, and sevika tries her best to cringe as it kisses her cheek, but she can't hold in her little giggle as it starts nibbling at her hair.

"what's wrong with it?" she laughs as it squirms some more, it's tail smacking her forearm repeatedly.

"it likes you." you giggle.

sevika's smile is sweet and innocent, and you realize that she's probably never experienced a dog before-- at least, not one that wasn't chasing her down the street, growling and spitting.

you know you're gonna end up keeping the dog when sevika shifts the puppy into one arm, reaching up to awkwardly bop it on the head repeatedly.

"what are you doing?" you giggle as she gently smacks the puppy's forehead.

"petting it." she says. you snort.

"you ever pet an animal before, sev?" you ask.

she shrugs. "it likes it." she says. well, you can't deny that. the puppy's just happy to be in her arms, its tail still going crazy in her arms as its tongue lolls out of its mouth.

you snort, snow her how to properly pet an animal, and then look up the nearest vet's office to your house.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie

[shibaraki]

TROU NORMAND ┊ BAKUGO KATSUKI

tags: GN reader, fantasy au, bakugo is a dragon shifter, desc. animal kill + blood, reader eats meat, alcohol consumption, fluff, courting behaviour, language barrier, hand feeding, unedited sry

wc: 1.2K

The firepit crackled violently in the distance. Your nose wrinkled at the familiar smell of death carried in with the draft.

“Bakugo?” you called, climbing out from the deeper, cramped section of the cave and heading toward the entrance. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, trinkets tied around each individual spike dangling above. Firelight flickered up the walls and glittered amongst them.

Bakugo has already tucked his wings away and settled into his skin. He is beautiful, as both a dragon and a man. Born into the world wearing a golden crown. He is large, in body and spirit, he is all dense muscle and spitfire, with eyes glowing crimson no matter what form he takes.

You’ve not been with him long but since learned his habits. Bakugo only ever took this form to prepare his kills, to carefully parse through the flesh and pick out the bones with lithe human fingers despite not needing to. You study him from the corner, his form muddied in blood and hunched over spilling viscera lost in concentration, and not for the first time, you think dazedly of the implications of that.

“What’s that?” you ask as you start towards him with a damp cloth.

He growls at your abrupt movement in his periphery, dragging the four legged carcass closer to his half clothed lap. His expression shifts. Every muscle pinched under the command of his instincts. “Oh, now you’re acting like a child,” you tell him, tiptoeing around the thin rivulets leaking into the cracks in the cave floor. His pupils dilate and shrink into thin slits, pulsing almost as you kneel beside him. “I’m not going to steal it. Really. Come here”.

A familiar noise reverberates through the empty space. It is a gentle warning. And yet it is inquisitive. Even like this the dragon deigned to use the human tongue. The odd inflections never quite fit in his mouth. Instead you’d speak while he listened and somehow conversation was hardly ever one sided. Never before had you met a person able to convey so much with the quirk of their brow alone, but Bakugo did exactly that, and often.

“Easy. Not so fearsome when you have food all over your mouth,” you turn his head, fingers splayed along his strong jaw, thumb curled over his chin. Bakugo allows this with a slow blink, another chuffing sound stuttering in his chest that he appears inwardly mortified at.

You take the damp cloth and wipe the drying blood from his cheeks. Fractures form and it flakes away, bit by bit. You repeat the notion until he is clean, and long after, just for the excuse to linger.

“There,” you murmur, satisfied as you sit back on your haunches. Your thumb brushed over his jutted bottom lip, pressing into the seam, seeing a flash of razor sharp teeth. “You needn’t hunt for me too, you know. There is a small town by the mountainside I could visit. I’m well enough now”.

By all rights you should have been torn apart in the unforgiving winter. Your memories of that night are hazy. Buried under sleet and snow, as your body had been when the dragon found you. You recall only the instant he took you delicately into his maw and carried you here, where you subsequently woke hours later, tucked into a soft crevice of his hoard.

Your icy heart thawed at his heavy handed kindness. You never did understand why he saved you, but you were grateful. There was nowhere for a person like you to return. So when he never discarded you, ate you or forced himself upon you, you remained.

Bakugo makes another terrible face. His wet fingers smear red streaks around your wrist and he tugs you to his side with the soft reluctance of someone who wants something but doesn't wish to admit they want it. “Okay, okay. I won’t. This is safer,” you concede, leaning into him. Your head tilts on the slope of his shoulder as the tension dissipates and he begins tending to the meat.

He always feeds you first. You accept the morsels one at a time, held to your lips between his thumb and forefinger, chewing it down to fine paste before swallowing. The staring while you eat no longer unnerve you. You merely try not to smile at how proud he looks after every pleased noise you make.

“This is good,” you say. “Do we have water left?”

You miss him the second he moves away, stretching toward a shallow alcove full of well crafted bottles. Bakugo hoarded the strangest things. Unlike the rest, this one in particular is half full. Definitely not water. Regardless he nudges it into your hand and drapes his arm around your lower back. Intricate designs are carved into the glass. Waves, shells, crudely depicted merfolk. You slowly bring the open top to your mouth, breathing in the sharp scent, and take a sip. It tastes of smokey peat fires, cured skins and winter; harsh against your palate and sawing your throat on the way down.

“Gods, that’s—strong!”

Bakugo’s nostrils flared. He withheld a laugh while you coughed, the neutral facade cracking as you playfully swipe at him. The scales smattered around his temples take on an iridescent blush and he grins handsomely. Heat licks at your face. Desire, longing, knot low in your belly and it aches like hunger. You’re certain Bakugo wouldn’t be tactile if he could help it. Over and over his hands have sought some part of your body, as if guided by afterthought, and every time he has looked at his hands in betrayal.

There’s some sick satisfaction in watching him be at war with himself—and in being the cause of it. You're still unsure whether he regards you as a pet to nurse or a true companion, if the there-and-gone touches over the past few weeks held meaning as they do for you. A selfish part of you doesn’t care what it means to him, so long as he doesn’t stop.

You eat in relative silence, sharing the remaining dregs of the—whatever he’d procured on his travels. Rum, you’d hazard a guess. With your stomach full and your limbs loose you slip from his shoulder into his lap, squirming a little as you get comfortable.

“Hey,” you murmured, turning to squash your cheek against his thick inner thigh. Bakugo peeks down at you, poised to take another sip. Hums as you bring his free hand to your head and he begins to pet you. “You’ve been taking care of me, all this time. Why? Doesn’t it burden you?”

You don’t miss the way Bakugo’s breathing hitches. The hand absently scratching at your scalp stilled for only a moment before resuming. He considers your words as he swigs, swallows, grasping for time to formulate an answer. Then he bends, agile spine curved like a bow to bring your faces closer. His eyes are determined, the hue somehow richer than before, and you shrink back from the warm breath that spills out from parted lips.

“No. Mine,” he rasps, nudging his nose against your cheek and your temple, like a beast might nuzzle the palm of their master. The palm crowning your head slips to firmly grip the back of your neck. “Stay”.

An encompassing feeling swells in your chest. Your throat becomes tight. The entire spectrum of human emotion floods to the very tips of your toes and you wonder if you never starved of touch before this simply because you hadn’t known what it meant to be sated.

You lift your chin to reciprocate. Fingers flex at your nape, wanting to keep you still but ultimately letting you rise. With little knowledge of the significance, you bump your noses together and echo, “Yes. Stay”.

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

I appreciate the way you write for D and Alucard Tepes so much it is unreal! I saw your prompt list and I’d love it if you’d be fine with writing how each or either of them kiss and how they like to be kissed. They both deserve so much good, and when I have the time I’ll come back to check out the rest of your prompt list(s)!!!!

Hello anon 🖐️ It makes me really happy you liked them! I've already wrote this prompt with Alucard, it's right here. As for D, I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you'll like it 😘 They both deserve all the love. My ask box is alway open and I love receiving messages like these. Definitely send some more requests my way, beautiful.

He caught himself staring at your lips more times than he’d like to admit. After meeting, the vampire hunter was privy to emotions that he never felt before. Jealousy, nervousness, lust, longing. He was threading an unknown waters and he didn’t like i tone bit. You were too distracting, yet he can’t bring himself to push you away. You tempt him in all the ways imaginable and the most infuriating thing is you don’t even realize it.

First one to initiate is you, naturally. He’s too…shy. Unsure of what to do and how to do it. You say he spends too much time in his head, contemplating everything for too long. He says that you jump into everything head first and ask questions later. He’s never more grateful for this trait of yours as he is now.

The careful, slow brush of your lips is almost too much to handle.You’re both frozen for a moment, but then thankfully, you tilt your head and press another sweet kiss to his trembling lips, this time you stay there longer. D forces himself to stop thinking and just feel, and do whatever feels right. He kisses you back. Cold, pale lips caressing yours. He tilts his head in opposite direction and his hair cascades down his shoulder like a black curtain. One if his hands finds its way to your face, fingers holding your cheek until they slide to your hair. He listens to the little sound you make in the back of your throat. Warmth spreading from his chest to the rest of his being.

You are the one who always initiates the kiss on the lips. He’s always in awe that you’ll so readily envelop in a kiss mouth that hides a razor sharp fangs. D is always so careful not to point them out. Speaking softly and quietly as to not show them, seeking privacy when feeding, trying his hardest not to by overcome by his beastly instincts. But you, oh you, you were never afraid of them. Nor his red glowing eyes or his inhuman growls and hisses in the face of danger. You press your lips against them, tongue licking into his mouth, searching for them while he tries to fight desperate groan  thrumming in his throat.

While he is hesitant to kiss your mouth, the rest of you is not safe from his adoration. D revels in those heartfelt moment when he reuniets with you. He brings you closer to his chest as he presses a small kiss on your head, inhaling the scent of your hair. The slow, deliberate press of his mouth against your temple when he has to leave to the places you can’t follow. A quiet promise of his return.

The vampire hunter won’t verbally express his desire to be intimate with you. He doesn’t need to. He pours all of his passions into that one kiss on your neck, and just so his intentions are clear he places another one here, and another one. Gently pulling your head to the side to shower the expanse between your ear and shoulder with affection.

He places one secret kiss over your underbelly or the inside of your thigh as one last innocent adoration before diving between your legs and showing your the full expanse of his love for you. Or that kiss on your ankle accompanied by a possessive nip of his fangs as he holds your legs over his head? Don’t worry darling, that’s just little something to remember him by while he’s away…