#a starved man cannot control his hunger | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

screamingcrows · 5 months ago

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Start Carvin' Darlin' - Dottore x f!reader

Note: I've never suffered this much anguish just to make a single bad pun. I do want to write their first encounter buuut we'll see if it ever happens. Bear with me, I know it makes little sense. By all that is important- please heed the tags.

~7k words

Tags: dead dove do not eat, nsfw, dark content, fem!reader, cannibalism adjacent thoughts, manipulation, coercion, noncon, drugging, medical malpractice, power imbalance, age gap, somnophilia, sexualised dissection, fingering, needles, blood, gore, dacryphilia?, drowning, no aftercare, thoughts of death, thoughts of murder, brief choking, no pleasure for reader, Il Dottore centric MINORS DNI - I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH

There were few things, and even fewer people, Dottore would consider faithful companions. The world had made clear that nothing could be trusted and any gesture of kindness was bound to come at a price. The rest were blind to their perils. After all, so long as it was woven tight enough, even a tapestry of lies would be beautiful.

Hunger was different in that regard. Its claws had always nestled deep within his flesh, ripping through muscle and sinew to carve out a space for itself. He'd known every flavor it had to offer, from light tingles creeping down his spine to the dagger that had been lodged and twisted between his ribs, unbearable when he'd dragged himself through the scorching dunes that refused to be a home.

His eyes flickered to the scalpel held loosely in his gloved hand, the light reflected in the metal devoid of warmth. There was no real reason to wear them, the broken husk atop his table served no threat, and contamination from himself was a wholly irrelevant concern to the present analysis.

Force of habit was what he reasoned, the motion of putting them on coming almost as naturally as shushing the commotion in his, their, mind. There had been quite enough of that lately, only worsened by his own souring mood. Cutting the link off for the day would be best for them all.

That torment and the hunger accompanying it was but a faint memory now. Much more vivid were the tendrils that had coiled around his gut so long ago and punctured the fragile organ, leaving holes that would never be filled no matter the knowledge he devoured.

Every form of craving was a base need that Dottore had long since catalogued and archived in the back of his mind, giving him control whenever they surfaced. Desires were a potent tool when wielded right, something to use and then push away, a drive he'd discovered far more difficult to replicate mechanically.

What good was fear of decay to something that had never truly been alive?

It wasn't before you entered his life that Dottore understood what it meant to be truly starved. Four weeks. That was how long you'd been gone, a speck of dust compared to his solitary existence. It would likely be another two before you returned. Living as a famished man had been all too easy before the taste of sunsettia lingered on his tongue in the dead of night, the sweet fragrance in the air cloying despite every window letting in the frigid Snezhnayan air.

Ichor poured forth from the incision, rich in color as it stained everything in its path. Light reflected across the surface of the syrupy liquid, creating millions of constellations one second and replacing them the next. How would it feel on his tongue? Look running down your throat? It enveloped his fingers in a welcoming embrace, spilling over the edges as it made way for curious probing.

Crimson eyes refocused under the mask, shattered remnants of crystalline mimicry laying separated from the sharp casing. Rarely did a delusion crack. Even in death, the poor thing still clutched it with fervor. Each delusion was a testament to progress, every shard a strict reminder to never grow complacent. In time, he'd examine the shards for impurities, but for now, the cold flesh bearing the consequences was his priority.

Selfishness ingrained after hatred burning too brightly, his recklessness had long since settled into carefully calculated moves. Still, the temptation of your flesh had been too much. By no means were he a weak man, yet the promise of warmth in the otherwise cold halls had caught him unaware.

It's lungs were expanding almost desperately to accommodate the growing pressure of death upon the air. That was another faithful companion, silent and ever watchful, no doubt waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. The ashen skin was beautiful and had he known no better, it would've seemed obvious to write off the limbs as carved from stone. But there was no reasonable way to make that assumption, not with how the remaining muscle still moved under his touch. How it stretched when tugged. As tenderly as a lover, the sharp metal severed a piece to call it's own.

It hung from his palm, no longer part of anything that could have held importance, the tempting pink that was so familiar tainted by a vulgar discoloration, no doubt caused by the elemental energies it had been forced to absorb.

It bordered on obsession with how his thoughts would always circle back to you. He'd seen that color in the bruises he left on your body, in the plums you so enjoyed, pearly whites ripping through the skin and piercing the soft flesh underneath. You were always messy, with juices running down your chin while you perched so prettily on the cold metal tables of his workshop, nodding along to anything that left his lips. His eyes focused on a single drop running down his arm, deceptively anonymous in origin if seen in isolation, it might be a believable substitute for licking sweet nectar from your lips. He wondered if you were still as sweet as your favorite fruit. If it would sate the longing that gnawed at his insides the same as your presence did.

"Lord Harbinger? I- please excuse my intrusion, I'd been led to believe you weren't otherwise occupied."

You'd come to him as a wide eyed recruit, having had the misfortune of being made a cog in their machine. Such had become the fate of most, ironic that all they would see accomplished in their lifetime was trading who held the reins of their suffering. His wooden doors had creaked on their hinges as you tried to be discreet, trembling and clumsy with the salute, clearly still trying to come to terms with this new fate. You were everything he'd despised; weak, helpless, naïve, and so willing to throw yourself at whatever would have you and keep you safe. It fed something selfish.

"I am always busy. Quit wasting my time and state your purpose."

"I'm supposed to report for a health examination before they finalize the recruitment…"

Under normal circumstances, he'd have punished a disturbance like that, especially when paired with such ignorance. A medical exam. That was what you inquired about, and while he knew it to be true that every acquired asset must be examined, it was laughable that you'd fallen victim to some superiors directing you to his space.

Dottore had been in a good mood, finding himself willing to entertain the misunderstanding, if nothing else, it had provided a good distraction from the failures that had haunted him. Not even an hour after you'd left had he requested your transfer to his command, deeming you suitable for a few impending projects.

There was nothing sentimental left in him, all that had been forsaken, turned to dust when he broke himself into pieces. That was the truth as he willed it.

Another chunk of red left the body on his table, nimble fingers peeling back a layer of epithelia to trace the vessels that permeated it. They too had been contaminated, their walls glittering preciously in the sharp light. Steady hands held a syringe filled with water, letting it perfuse the artery before he gingerly collected it. A sample of blood for purification would be necessary as well. A pity the body had been left long enough that tracking the spread of energy would be useless through the crimson liquid, tissue damage would be the most reliant evidence.

Nothing remained of his past self, the parts that still clung to a desire for belonging, not satisfied by only the unity of ambition. It had been your eyes that revived it, looking upon him as if he held the sun in his palm and brought forth the dawn. As if he held all the secrets that would bring salvation.

Undoubtedly, you were one of the healthiest subjects to find themselves on his tables. And that was the justification he'd used that first time his hands had roamed the expanse of your skin, checking for any deformities and writing down scribbles on a sheet of parchment. It was both to placate your nervous mind, betrayed by the wobble in your lips and fidgeting hands, and to record your initial state, in case an opportunity to bring you back regularly and monitor any changes presented itself.

His fingers pushed inside, pliant flesh parting around his digits and swallowing them whole. It was a mesmerizing sight, his free hand twitching briefly before mindlessly wandering to unclasp his mask, as if the removal of it somehow made the wetness now coating his fingers glisten all the more. A shuddering breath passed his lips, forced out by the growing pressure in his chest as he remained unable to pry away his eyes. How utterly beautiful a sight it was. Unable to hold back, his fingers spread out to better stretch the opening, viscous liquid slowly oozing out as he engaged his other hand.

"a-ah I don't think that-"

"Good, keep it that way, there's no need for you to think. The more you squirm around, the longer this will take. Although, from the sounds you're making, it almost seems as though you are enjoying yourself?"

"No I'm.. Hurts.."

"Relax for me then."

Dottore had wondered since that day whether you were truly that clueless, or if you'd excuse yourself with the anxiety he'd seen choke your thoughts so often since. While he could grant you the benefit of doubt concerning the implications of his title, surely you'd know that a Harbinger had far more important obligations?

Entertaining whims had a habit of bringing more trouble than the brief euphoria indulgence could ever warrant. That had been his first mistake pertaining to you.

A flick of his wrist and the liver was easily removed, threads of adipose tissue clinging to the engorged mass as if unity would somehow save it. How tragically still it all was, the clockwork driving it forward had long since ceased operating, leaving only obsolete parts in the wake. The liver had been discolored, electro particles having seeped into the matter, it was made even more noticeable by the crisp white fabric it came to lay on. One of the segments could prepare biopsies from it, check if the energies had disrupted or otherwise changed the structures.

They already had an understanding of elemental overloading in organic matter, but it was a rare chance to observe internal damages caused by high loads over a short time rather than the prolonged use cases of their regular agents. Dottore had come to understand that no matter his insistence and want for knowledge, the soldiers wouldn't carry their dead with them, and he hardly had time to waste collecting material himself, no version of him did. Not with how close they were to their objective.

You had understood his desires and promised to try. The distaste had been palpable in the slight twitch of your eyes and wrinkled nose. It was the desire to try that fed his hunger. The silent promise of wanting not to understand, for how could you ever, but believing when he said the benefits were worth the hassle.

That he was worth the hassle.

Ah, how lovely you were. Keening moans and gasps of his name feeding into his budding obsession. The sounds had been enough to distract him from the churning feeling in his gut, barely able to handle how warm your insides had been, how tightly you squeezed his fingers. The feeling reminded him of reaching into a bed of roses, thorns puncturing his being and forcing his breath heavier.

It had been nothing but slow, languid movements, meant to explore and not fulfil, the sweet pleas that left your lips were simply a tacked on bonus. Dottore could only hope that you were left aching and wanting far more than him and that you hadn't seen how his cock had strained against the front of his pants, throbbing in tandem with your mewls. It was unbefitting.

"Two doors down the hall, on your right. You should fix your attire, it wouldn't do for a recruit to look as disheveled as that on their first day."

"I will, Lord Harbinger, and thank you… Did you fill out a form or something I should bring?"

"Consider this a preliminary inspection, the actual one will be done by a physician two doors down the hall."

How unfortunate that those The Mayor promised a better future were also the ones who would never see it come to fruition. They gave their lives, some more willingly than others, for a reward they could never reap. It had already caused a disease to run through Snezhnaya's people, unrest and distrust filling the veins of their nation instead of the wealth and prosperity they'd been assured would come. Dottore had found it most useful in handling you, a little taste of false certainty accompanied by the promise of power to protect yourself. Your gaze had rested upon him with nothing but devotion.

Another chunk left the body on his table, almost tossed aside without the faintest hint of grandeur, the heart was of no use to them This was far from his preferred medium, more durable constructions would always be at the forefront of his interest, yet there was still appreciation behind his mask at the delicacy. It had stopped the moment a flash of electro singed the nerves. He briefly wondered how its now blighted lifeblood would feel atop his tongue, would it prickle? Burn the roof of his mouth?

How he longed to taste yours again, feeling the tension in his jaw at the memory of biting a little too hard, that's what he'd called it anyway, an accident. In truth, he would not hesitate to drain your blood in seconds, the thought of your reliance on something apart from him made a feeling better left unidentified carve a path through his lungs, leaving the structures to collapse without air.

Every time his hands had touched you, tears had been rolling down your cheeks. How long before you learned that compliance was the logical path, that he wanted to gag every time his hands were forced to harm you?

Threats of missions far above your qualifications kept you in line for the most part, pliant enough that the restraints kept for livelier subjects rarely saw use.

Despite his best efforts to keep everything under wraps, Tartaglia had grinned brightly, not a care in the world when he'd approached, having the gall to simply barge in, to inquire about what promising new people he'd taken on. 'It had barely been a week' was what he argued, commenting how surely you must be something special to rouse The Doctor's interest so. Any reaction to his taunts would simply play into the ginger's hands, a game he was always surprised the young man knew how to play.

Something wet slid down his wrist, immediately drawing his attention back as he pulled his hands from the bloody mess. His lips curved downward, observing exactly where the edge of his glove had been pushed down, leaving the marred skin beneath vulnerable. With a huff, Dottore stepped away and discarded the gloves, letting cool water rinse away the icky feeling now writhing under his skin.

"Come now, Doc, why won't you let me have a friendly spar with you newest acquisition? It's so rare for you to take a special interest in anyone, surely you can understand why I'm curious?"

"That is exactly why. She shows promise, and I cannot have you breaking her prematurely."

"That's a promise then! When the time is right!"

"Get out, Tartaglia."

"I heard she's been coming in for regular 'inspections', you have to admit, that sounds a little unsavory. Does she actually think you're a real physician? Oh I know, tell her you studied medi-sin."

"That was an order. Out, now."

The water in Snezhnaya had an edge to it, as if pieces of glass were contained within. It left one feeling raw and aching despite no physical proof persisting. If it did, his hands would've been torn open days ago. There had been too many small mishaps lately, too many times he'd needed to cleanse himself after his mind had wandered. Despite how clearly the words echoed in his mind, no part of him would admit to their truth.

You'd done this to him. You'd instilled in him a weakness, a beast that wouldn't let him rest when you were gone.

A soft knock followed by the click of a lock behind him cleared his head in a flash, clean gloves swiftly tugged into place with newfound anticipation bubbling under his ribs. None of his segments knocked. No one else had a key. His body remained still, awaiting an announcement from the intruder, willing patience to persist even if the idea of feeling your skin under his uncovered palm was clawing at his muscles to move them.

"Doctor, I don't feel so good," weak and pitiful was the voice that reached his ears, it should've made him recoil.

Instead, Dottore found himself struggling to keep his movements languid, the image of a predator barely conserved in the slow turn of his head. He had no doubt you'd be scared if you could see how his eyes lingered upon your silhouette.

"You're making a bad habit of returning in a state of disrepair, there is only so much I can do to keep you patched together. Disrobe while I clear a table."

It would be a shame to discard the rest of the opened body already, there were still so many secrets to be pried from its cold grasp. Perhaps he could get you to-

No.

You would adamantly refuse, already he could sense the unease rolling off of you in waves at the putrid stench of death. Instead, the remains were wrapped tightly and brought to an adjacent room, the air misty from the cryo applicator installed inside, ensuring it could rest unaffected by decay while he tended the living.

A chuckle passed his lips upon seeing the way you were eyeing the metal surface as if it'd dissolve skin and bone. The sound alone was enough to stir your body, movements stiff as you sat on the edge. Such obedience was an admirable trait, one that would make the investment well worth it when he would one day enhance your form. He would. That's what he had to tell himself, even if the thought of peeling back your skin and rewiring everything inside was tied so intimately with an odd sense of loss.

"Finally…" his words had no real bite, only mild impatience.

Still, you hid yourself from his gaze, shoulders slumped and arms wrapped around your chest. As if he hadn't seen it all already. Dottore let himself take a moment to simply rake his eyes down the shapes constituting your body, careful to let none of the flames eating away at his insides show. Would you be able to discern it in his eyes should he discard the mask? Light fingers traced down the mock beak, briefly contemplating if he should let you try, it would be nothing but torture no matter what.

Being able to put a monstrous form to everything you'd heard about him, everything he'd done to you, it coiled in the pit of his stomach and upheaved anything on its way. He would never admit to being afraid, but the thought of being regarded with repulsion by you sent a shiver down his spine.

The injuries you'd sustained were minor, shallow and located at safe distances from anything vital. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to play a little, the table had already been cleared and he might as well take the break. Lips set in a scowl, his hands found your shoulders and pushed you back, already relishing in how perfectly the curvature fit against him, how little resistance there was in the movement. Made for him. That's what he would make of you. Scarlet lines had been drawn along your skin, urging his fingers to trail along the wetness.

"Do explain what, precisely, led to you looking like this," he kept his voice frigid for now, knowing how much more responsive the thought of having upset him made you.

"We were on our way back from taking care of-"

"I'm aware of your assignment, do not forget who signs off on your outings, give me the specifics."

A curious finger brushed over your hardened nipple, hearing the words catching in your throat.

"Treasure hoarders. I failed to block a strike and-" your body tensed as it wrung out the words.

"You failed to block a strike from such vermin?" He tutted, hand squeezing a little tighter around the soft flesh of your chest, seeing it spill out between his fingers, "That hardly warrants returning all cut and bruised, clearly, you lack the perseverance I thought I'd observed in you. Soon enough, you'll be nothing but nutrients for the wayside flora, is that what you'd like?"

Dottore wanted to laugh at your pitiful expression, a kicked puppy laying at his feet and wordlessly pleading for forgiveness, unknowing that it had already been granted. It was deliberate that you were never sent away far or for long, but there was no reason for you to know. Fear fostered obedience and your obedience was always pleasant, speeding up the process of cleaning the wounds you'd sustained with minimal squirming.

That didn't mean one hand wasn't constantly splayed over your sternum, pressing down to keep your body pinned. Already, a faint buzz was crawling along his bloodstream, months of conditioning catching up in the most frustrating manner as the front of his pants tightened. He had to swallow hard, forcing his fingers to relax before he left bruises. How would it look, he mused, if his nails could dig into your flesh? At the mere thought of those red crescent, a wave of heat washed over his body, accompanied by images of what other marks he could leave upon the canvas of your body.

Could he replicate and improve how pliant your thighs were under his grasp, would new vocal cords make sweeter sounds, added nerve endings would no doubt make for interesting results, if your muscles were synthetic the force they could exert would be greater meaning-

Not yet.

Dottore willed his focus to return, threading a needle as his disinterested voice rang out in the otherwise silent room.

"Do I need to strap you down?"

There was no need to look, knowing you were already oh so bravely shaking your head. An amused smile graced his lips upon seeing your teeth sink into the dirty uniform. Such foresight deserved praise, a small nod of his head accompanied by a finger rubbing along your collarbone in an almost soothing motion.

Having done it countless times before, the needle went effortlessly through your skin, thread pulling the flesh tightly together whenever he tugged. A hand kept returning to your no doubt soft locks of hair, carding through it and pushing back the urge to give a tug. The few tears that had fallen were swiftly brushed away by his fingers, the taste almost cloying upon his tongue.

Dottore sighed softly, tapping your side to get your attention back to the present, seeing your glassy eyes and the small shivers that ran down your body. He could already smell your arousal in the air, the scent growing in strength every time your hips shifted.

"That's it for now," his hand skimmed along your bare stomach, ending atop your sternum and keeping you down, "however, some of the lacerations appear to be in early stages of infection."

How he'd missed the little hitch of your breath, the stutter of your heart underneath his hand. Unceremoniously, Dottore put more weight into the hand, feeling your pulse echo throughout his own body and letting every beat slowly fill the gaping pit beneath his ribs with hollow promises.

There was no infection, of course, but he needed something to placate you before an injection. And the sedative would be invaluable. After weeks of being famished, there was no guarantee your comfort would be at the front of his mind, and it was so much more pleasant when you didn't struggle. Last time had bitterly taught him as much.

"But you can make me okay, right?" There was a sweet tremble to your voice, always so scared of death.

"The mere question is an insult to my abilities," he practically purred, excitement bubbling as his chosen objective for the day moved closer, "it'll just be a little prick and then you're safe. Now, sit up for me."

He'd already turned around, hands aching to return as he rummaged through a few drawers, eventually pulling out both a vial and syringe. Your body came into view reflected in the clear liquid, barely having sat up and already exploring the stitches.

All it for your eyes to lock on the syringe was two taps to the glass, unease so plainly written across your face while he pressed the plunger to clear excess air trapped inside.

His hand encircled your arm, tugging upwards and tutting at the grime that clung to you. With the syringe between his teeth, he wiped the area down, satisfaction flooding his system when goosebumps spread. It had been so long since he'd had you properly.

"There. Now, you need to stay here a little so I can ensure that there are no immediate adverse effects. The blanket is in the usual spot."

It would have been far more practical for you to put the uniform back on, but Dottore trusted that you'd follow his directions regardless and without fuss. When he caught the rattling of metal buckles, he wanted to laugh at your naivety, were you truly not accustomed enough by now to know what he wanted?

"I said; the blanket is in its usual spot," the icy sneer left his lips without a second thought, and oh how beautiful your widening eyes were.

"Well, I know, but it was just-" your voice was already a pitch higher, the irrational fear further irking him.

"Should I consider this insubordination?"

Already, Dottore had crossed the distance and wrapped a large hand around your jaw. It was no secret what happened to cross subordinates. He was well aware that your little slip hardly warranted this reaction, but it was difficult to hold back when the urge to sink his nails into your skin screamed and begged, fighting to drown out every other thought.

"N-no, please…"

It would be all too easy to squeeze a little tighter, hear the crack of your mandible as it would threaten to give out. His fingers stretched to move further up, pressing against the condylar processes, feeling around the joint as images of you with your jaw agape crashed over him.

Dottore knew how little force it took to break. And how a replacement could be crafted and implanted in less than a day, stronger and sturdier than what occupied the space now.

"Remember your place, and be thankful I don't leave you to wilt," the words were spat out with more disdain than anticipated, his fingers giving a last wanton squeeze before releasing your jaw.

With a small scoff, Dottore returned to one of the workbenches that lined the walls, feigning disinterest as his hands automatically began tinkering with the closest contraption, barely willing to divide enough attention to ensure it wasn't something that required further protective equipment for handling. Of course you'd know there were proper medics within the ranks, the most accessible ones located a few rooms away, but they couldn't offer what he did, and the reassurance that you always came back for him to lick your wounds with his barbed tongue, it was enough to pacify any frustrations with your brief moments of hesitation.

Five minutes of pretending to be distracted and Dottore found himself a little impatient.

Ten minutes and it had built to irritation, glassware scraping along the surfaces as he pushed it around, mindlessly 'reorganizing'.

By fifteen something would have been thrown were he a lesser being.

Sweet relief came at the quiet sound of your voice shattering the thick air, the words slurred as if you couldn't quite make out the correct shapes with your lips.

"Am I s'posed to feel tired?"

A small chuckle wormed it's way from his lungs, nonchalance fully restored now that he could turn to gaze upon your slumped body, fingers tightly clutching the fuzzy blanket that enveloped you in a flimsy haven.

"You've just returned after weeks in the field, having sustained injuries and all," Dottore spoke calmly, betraying none of his greed as he gestured to the trace remnants of blood on the table, "it is no wonder that exhaustion would begin to take hold now that you are safe."

The question was plainly written in your eyes, making Dottore incline his head in silent motion to continue, preemptively stepping closer to catch what would no doubt be a whisper.

"Should I go back to the barracks?"

"Would you prefer to go?"

You wouldn't be given the opportunity to go, of course not, but there was no need to be forceful when he could already see how valiantly you fought to keep your eyes open, how your body seemed drawn downwards. It couldn't be more than a few minutes now.

Irritation briefly sparked in Dottore's chest at the little shake of your head, it would've been far more fulfilling to hear you say it.

No attempt was made to make your way through the laboratory to reach the modest cot that stood tucked away in a corner, crates of supplies and projects on hold usually hiding it from view. How ethereal you looked, head lolled to the side and the blanket slowly slipping from your shoulders as a false slumber curled its gnarled limbs around you.

Whatever conclusions you mind would reach were of little consequence, the sedative would take care of that, countless tests indicating that it always left the recipient's memory riddled with inconsistencies, making it easy to dismiss any unpleasantries as imagined.

Dreams.

The risks associated with using the modified Akasha were still too great, even if the possibility of directly rewriting the barrier between truth and fantasy was a tempting one. This way would be more satisfying in the end, having had to put in a little work and flex muscles that had been allowed to atrophy since his days in The Akademiya.

Dottore showed extra care when he hoisted up your unconscious form, grip unyielding as he closed his eyes to revel in the weight against him. In a past that mattered little, others had sworn the ego he carried around was inflated enough to see him ascend in any way but the desired, perhaps this would've been enough of a tether to their reality. For this alone would he allow himself to be held down.

Perhaps things could have been different had that lone island in the sky not decided for his fate to be nothing but misery. Thus logic dictated that you too would be lost. A soft tremor reminded his fingers to relax, gently stroking over the crescents they'd left.

Your breath warmed him far more than it had any right to, coaxing forth memories of a soft summer breeze, rose petals velvety between his fingers as they were plucked from their stem and plummeted to their inevitable demise. And an inviting sound, bubbly and sweet that had, for just a night, filled his veins with the toxin your presence had reignited.

Having you clean would be preferable. The emergency shower would hardly be sufficient, not with how the filth seemed to have embedded itself in your skin. With you unconscious, there was no reason to school his expression, the notion only serving to exacerbate the scowl his face set in.

A soak would be easiest.

There was nothing pompous about the washroom attached to his quarters, and a pang of regret had the idea of bringing you to The Regrator's briefly surfacing. The sentiment didn't linger, an unwillingness to be indebted quickly reigning in the myriad of thoughts cluttering his mind in much the same way towels and clothes were currently strewn around the room.

It made a pretty picture, your body curled up against the side of the tub, a few rays of pale light slithering through the lone window to caress your face. A feeling that had never quite been within his grasp lingered in the rays of light, coaxing something painfully unfamiliar to tug at his shriveled heart.

Just a little longer before the tingling in his fingertips would be sated.

Quick work was made of disrobing himself, a watchful eye making sure your head remained above water. Dottore let a weary sigh hang in the otherwise empty silence, hating the hesitation that riddled his movements as his clothes fell to the floor. There was no reason to be reserved about the results of a life lived, the chances of you regaining consciousness would remain negligible for a while.

Finally settling with your weight in his lap was undoubtedly the closest to rapture Dottore had found himself. Arms securely around your midsection, your back flush against his heaving chest, had every uncertainty draining into the water.

Dutifully, one hand tore itself from your form to reach for a clean cloth, struggling for a moment before muscle memory took over, fingertips gracing the fabric without the need to tear his eyes from your parted lips. It was nothing short of tranquil, letting the cloth scrub away the remnants of your excursion with meticulous care.

Dottore saw how your skin turned red from the continued friction and consciously ignored it, some small voice wanting to rub it off completely and leave you a blank canvas.

He looked instead at his reflection in the water, vermillion stare drawn to its counterpart, noting briefly how it wasn't nearly as comfortable as being under your gaze.

At least his subconscious mind had the decency to have left the few areas he'd stitched together alone, not that they mattered in any practical sense, but you'd be distraught if they were gone when you woke. With time, would you be as broken as him?

Only once you'd been scrubbed clean were thoughts of his own desires acknowledged, cock throbbing against your back as soon as attention was diverted to the feeling. A small hiss mingled with the steam from the water, Dottore easily repositioning you to let his length slide between your thighs.

Already, satisfaction rumbled in his chest, vision engulfed by white for a moment upon repeating the soft motion of his hips. Your thighs easily gave way when tugged apart, body every bit as pliant as previously. Having made peace with his impatience long before, his lips were immediately descended upon the crook of your neck, stifling the groans that spilled forth as he aligned himself.

The water provided additional friction, a slight burn dancing against his sensitive tip upon breaching your tight entrance. Soap met his tongue, disgustingly sterile as it danced along his taste buds, only spurring him on to mouth at you with renewed vigor, desperate to taste the sweetness he knew lay buried underneath.

His hips snapped up as the familiar taste invaded his senses, eyes rolling back at the pleasure of being buried to the hilt. Had his faith been intact, a prayer to the archons for your silence would have tumbled from his lips. Warm droplets carved out paths alongside old scars, gathering at his chin before being caught in the soft locks of your hair. Dottore felt his skin crawl as traces of a pained howl bubbled in his throat, body trembling in time with every squeeze of your insides.

If time would remain forever frozen as the land just outside the walls perhaps everything would be more bearable then. Would it banish both the threat of separation and the burden of remaining what he'd made of himself in spite of reality?

Another sound crawled from his lungs, foreign and intrusive when it met his ears, wanton in a way that caused nothing but dissonance. Dottore curled his body around you, panting heavily against the nape of your neck as he sought out some form of relief, his muscles straining with the increased pace.

Stagnating would be of no use, pleasure was fleeting, worthless without contrast.

Dottore felt euphoria flood his system, spine tingling mercilessly as his sharp teeth tore into the pliant flesh beneath. It was a thoughtless action, driven only by the need to claim and consume, satisfying the desperate desire to be whole. Water sloshed against the edges with every rut of his hips, driving himself deeper into the warmth you so selflessly provided.

How much time had passed felt secondary, the only thing truly worth attention being the rapid tightening in his abdomen, pleasure steadily building with every movement. Seeking more, Dottore found his hands had moved down to grasp the curve of your hip, easily hoisting you up to twist your body around.

With a ferocity that should by all means have been concerning, his lips sought a home against yours, relishing in how they had already parted for him. A hand in your hair was all that was needed to stabilize your head enough that he could delude himself into thinking you awake.

That the little puffs of air that passed into his waiting jaws were instead keens and broken moans spilling forth. His tongue pushed into the waiting heat, wanting if he could to explore deeper, have your throat squeeze around his tongue as your body did his cock. Before he could hesitate, the curve of your nape rested in his calloused palm, the appendage twitching with budding excitement.

A light press was all his mind would allow, knowing all too well how little it would take to snap such a precious thing. As intoxicating as holding the fate of another in his hands were, this was wrong, without reason.

It was the way your thighs quivered around his hips that brought order to all those thoughts, tugging your head away for a breath of fresh air to stifle his burning lungs. Only a single breath afforded, diving back in for more as all else lost meaning. He needed more, needed to hear you beg him, needed your hands to tug at his hair, needed-

Water splashed over the edges as he pushed forward, hands grasping for the back of your knees to push them against your chest. His chest heaved at the sight underneath him, growling like a wounded animal as he reaped what he'd cultivated, one hand keeping a leg pinned while the other covered your nose and mouth.

He was so close.

Close enough that every clench of your slick heat choked his thoughts. Close enough that he threw back his head, willing the image of your eyes briefly opening from his mind, focusing instead on the water soothing his burning skin as he gave a last few thrusts, cursing as the thread snapped and released washed over him.

It would've been no surprise if the tub had cracked from the force, even less if you had cracked, his body still shaking from the force of his release, milky white leaking out into the water and dispersing. Your body was swiftly pulled above the surface as Dottore sat back, once more cradling your head to his chest, trying to ignore the emptiness that wanted to force itself along the clarity that came in the wake of euphoria.

He laid your no doubt exhausted frame onto the cot, hastily tossing the grey blanket over your form. The harsh light of the laboratory did little to hide the marks that littered your body, blooming purple along your thighs, fierce red at your shoulders, already tempting him to reach out and touch again. It was a matter of creating distance, unwilling to let attachment fester and consume more, already now the gnawing had returned, weaker than before but far from sated.

By all means, he should've swung the door shut with more force, knowing at the back of his mind that the lock never clicked. It did nothing to stop his body from collapsing onto his unmade bed, pushing at the covers before crawling further up. He didn't find himself opposed to having you drape yourself against his body, rest in his arms.

Would you seek him out by yourself once the sedative wore off?

Would that finally stave off his hunger?

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fumifooms · 5 months ago

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The ultimate dogboy in Dunmeshi to me isn’t Laios, Lycion or even Kuro. It’s Mickbell.

Little dog man’s never had enough. Little dog man has someone in his hands already but it’s not all that he’s wanted and craved. He’s hungered for so long and now he doesn’t know what can quench it. When you’ve been hungry, once you have something it’s hard to not binge eat it because you never know when you’ll lose it. He wants more from them, more of them, more to chew, more safely locked within his teeth, more to taste on his tongue. Hungry greedy unkempt misbehaved. I think he loves like a dog I think he slobbers and digs his teeth in because he doesn’t want to let his bone go and he’s hungry and starved.

And he’s not like Laios he’s not like Kuro he’s not like Lycion, calling him a dog in any way would be the greatest offense to him but also it’s true. Sorry. Dogboy against your consent. You better be ready to unpack a lot of stuff you don’t like hearing about yourself!!!! The unwilling dogboy analogies are the most interesting ones get out Laios and Lycion. Mick doesn’t want to be a dog, it’s dehumanizing, demeaning, but he is, he loves like a dog.

Feeling dehumanized and demeaned by loving so much, by being walked on a leash by your feelings until your body acts on instinct like it’s primal and animalistic, for feelings you cannot control, and you’re drooling you’re drooling you’re clawing teeth snapping but you’re on hands and knees begging for scraps and treats. Just a dog picking up crumbs of a fine meal from where it’s dropped on the floor, affection from coerced hands, peanuts of self-esteem from judging others, anything to soothe while surviving.

It will come back by Hozier save me. "I love like a dog" and everyone is unhappy about this, it’s too much for everyone involved, 10/10. Dunmeshi animalistic metaphors you never miss. Stray dog mick. If I don’t use a dog motif in my mick fics it’s not me someone is impersonating me

This was my train of thought for the mickbell & kuro web weaving i made a while ago I guess. Dog imagery mickbell you will always get to me…

Little dog man wants a white picket fence family and house, somewhere someone to belong to :( Okay that’s more Kuro actually, happy to just have his little kennel day after day just following his owner, shackling yourself for the love. Ough.

Mickbell, my ultimate dogboy... He plays the part so well (derogatory)

Coughing blood

#My famous dogboy spiel everyone on discord has heard me give by now #The operas i could sing on this #I need to throw hammers at him but I also need to put him in a blanket burrito and make hot cocoa for him.#It’s ok Rin will do the former Kuro will do the latter. Perfect household ecosystem #Fumi rambles #Mickbell tomas #spreading my dogboy mick propaganda #Very defensive mick fans or mick haters please don’t start shit this post isn’t for you. Don’t like don’t read make your own content #Ok this is still pretty laios as well #i turn cruel when i am empty. if i cannot be loved then i must be fed #Angst & quotes #Mick & kuro analysis coming one day i swear #Little dog man has someone already but it isn’t enough… he has everything from them but it isn’t enough… he wants more more more #Barks and snarls #Crumbs to soothe the hunger pangs…. Feeling ill over him

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okkotsuus · 2 years ago

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wrapped around your finger (michael k.) !

features: michael k.

contents: suggestive. kissing. making out. public making out. kaiser is indecent. i hate him. alcohol is mentioned. club setting. very descriptive. 1.6k words.

for my kaiser kisser babe @daiseukiis

kaiser’s mad, you can see it in the ticks his jaw makes about every three seconds. not to mention his clenched fists or the darkening in his ocean eyes. regardless of how he looks, you can just feel that he’s mad.

his eyes track across the man’s face that has been eyeing you up since the moment that you stepped into the bar, he wants to memorize the bastard he’s going to ruin. he’s not violent, per se. but the thought of slamming his face into the bar has crossed his mind a bit too many times to be considered normal.

he just can’t help it. sweet thing like you, shit, he’d stare too. but he’s with you, so ogling you up is like an act of disobedience. an act of disobedience to their kaiser, their emperor.

you can feel the rage that courses so widely in his veins, you can feel it in the bruising grip he has on your thigh. you can’t help the excitement that coils in your stomach. maybe it was the lighting or the strawberry daiquiri you just finished, but the way his adam’s apple bobbed with every enraged swallow was becoming more and more appealing.

the booming music around you begins to fade out as all of your senses begin to dedicate to him. in a sort of halo of lights around him, he is the center of your vision. you cannot see anything or anyone else, but you don’t need to. his skin glows under the faint colored light like some sort of silk.

his gaze flickers to you for a moment, catching you in your awestruck daze. it gives him the biggest ego boost to see you like this: pupils were blown and your mouth hanging open just from looking at him. he can’t help but want to show off for the audience that had been unintentionally generated.

his fingers trace shapes into the skin of your thigh, leaving a flurry of goosebumps in their wake. your body responds naturally to him, he knows it like he knows nothing else. he knows everything that has you curling further into his side, wanting to be ever closer to him.

lips drag up the side of your neck in a blazing trail, everything feels hot, maybe it wasn’t just the drink. his tongue drags across your lips almost obsessively before he sinks to mold his lips to yours. it’s messy, mashing of teeth and tongues, but it’s so beautiful. he relishes in the shuddering of your form against his, the hurried pants that escape into the brief spaces you part for. he loves the way you sound when you chase him as you pull away.

he loves the desperation he draws out of you with just one kiss. just one touch. just one look.

kaiser knows the power he holds over you, he abuses it every chance he gets. but he also knows the power you hold over him.

thinking he’s in control until you whine out some unintelligible affection and he’s on his knees again doing whatever you want. he thinks he has you wrapped around his finger until he’s under your thumb with a single look from those sparkly eyes. that’s why it’s giving him all the more ego boost to have you keening so debaucherously into his mouth in the middle of a club. in the middle of a club with a pair of eyes on you.

kaiser stares at the guy who was checking you out, he maintains eye contact as his lips slide against yours, spit dribbling down your chin. his hand briefly leaves your neck to flip the guy off, his gaze turning to daggers. it works and he’s gone, but kaiser hasn’t had enough of you yet. hands glide up and down your sides, his lips growing more and more fervent against yours. he’s like a man who had been starved and is finally allowed his first meal. he swallows every whine and whimper that glides from your chest as if they are the finest delicacy. he takes you in all you are, and he savors it so thoroughly.

he loves you in a way that he has loved nothing or no one before. he hungers for you, he misses you, he likes you; everything about you. not in some shallow sense of the word love, he does not just like you. you are his endgame and no one will ever be able to fulfill him as you can, this he knows. he knows that he is yours just as much if not more than you are his.

that thought itself drove him into an hungered frenzy: you are his. all his. no one else’s. now he really can’t help it. he can’t be blamed. you’ve been asking for it by being so damn sweet and perfect for him. so pliable and lovable. he can’t help but take advantage like the wolfish man that he is. you should’ve known better if you didn’t want this.

that bruising grip comes back against your hips as he holds you in place, using his weight to push you against the plush leather seats you sit on. when he hears your flustered mutter he just

kisses you harder, kisses you speechless, kisses you breathless.

kaiser needs you, in every sense of the word. he needs you in its purest ways and he needs you

in its most scandalous of meanings. he needs you.

his body craves for you as he feels shivers run up the base of his spine all the way to his neck. pulses of heat emanate from the core of his body as they creep further and further, like roots burrowing into his entire being. the aching desire festers in him like some sort of parasite as it consumes his waking mind, each thought trailing back to you somehow.

for the first time, kaiser is truly grasping just how truly in love with you he is. how easily you have him at your beck and call.

what was once rage pulsing through his veins turns to something more, something hotter that burns with a brighter, more persevering flame. it coils in him like a snake waiting to strike, biding its time until the time is just right.

kaiser pulls away from you, panting like a dog under the scorching sun. his eyes are glazed with want, it oozes out of his pores. his lips are swollen and bruised, coated in a sparkling sheen, cheeks are flushed a bright, rosy pink. his chest falls and rises heavily as he stares you down.

you know you aren’t much better right now. eyes blown as soft pants fall from your parted lips, blooming an even more intense color than before. your skin shines in a thin layer of sticky sweat. all you can hear is the rapid thrumming of your heart against your chest. you can’t feel the finger-shaped bruises that stir under the skin of your thighs.

his eyes flutter as he leans forwards, falling right back towards your lips: towards you.

when he’s but a hair’s breadth away, his eyes are fluttering shut, anticipating a kiss.

“beg.” his eyes snap open as he looks at you with the briefest shock, it all is replaced by a smirk with a less appropriate thought behind it. his hands grip tighter against your hips as he pulls you flush against his front. chest to chest and nose to nose he stares you down.

“oh sweet thing, you’re mistaken…” his eyes dip to your lips briefly, before flicking right back to shoot his piercing cerulean gaze at you.

his lips ghost over the shell of your ear as he leans forwards, the way his breath fans over the side of your neck sends excited shivers down your spine. he gives your hips one final squeeze, fingers digging into you in a way that you know will leave those possessive bruises he loves.

finally, he speaks, lips brushing against your ear with every word. “you’ll be the one begging by the end of this.”

his fingers dance dangerously on top of your thigh, slowly creeping further and further to somewhere that you didn’t think even he would dare in public. heat creeps up the back of your neck as he inches further and further.

a finger tilts your chin up to meet a wolfish grin as he speculates you, eyes tracing every contour and highlight of your face under the dim-colored lighting in the club. his lips are right against yours as he talks, brushing against yours in a way so tantalizing you feel yourself fold.

“what’re you thinkin’ of? you dirty, dirty thing…” his words drawl out in a sickly-sweet, honeyed tone. his eyes are hypnotic as you feel yourself falling under the spell that is michael kaiser, hands grabbing at his shirt to try to steady yourself somehow.

he presses the faintest kiss to your lips and cackles as you lean forwards to chase him, deviously staring down at you. his fingers dance against your skin, tempting but never satisfying. they’re addicting… no, he’s addicting. he knows what he’s doing.

kaiser really had you wrapped tight around his finger too.

okkotsuus 23

#bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock #blue lock x reader #michael kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #kaiser #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #kaiser x you #bllk x you #blue lock x you #bllk kaiser #blue lock kaiser #i luv you koca i promise #koca babe

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evita-shelby · 6 months ago

Text

Strawberries and Cream

I have been visited by the smut fairy and this is pure filth

No minors 🔞

Cw: mentions of past substance and alcohol abuse, some truama, unhealthy coping mechanisms, inappropriate use of strawberries, outdoor sex, cunnilingus, p and v sex, cum eating, food play(i think?)

Gif by @violaobanion

Inspired by this post by @zablife

Jack x eva taglist: @justrainandcoffee @thegreatdragonfruta @emotionalcadaver

1916

Instead of her aunt in Mexico City, it had been decided that Eva must be sent to her Uncle in New York.

At 20 years old she is a wanted terrorist in two countries, but one is willing to forget all she did against them in exchange for money.

The witch has not been the same since the last of her siblings died. She began to hate wearing color, developed an unhealthy attachment to Francisco’s fiancée and coped with her terrible luck with booze and drugs.

She was clean now, only did those last three things recreationally, but black has become her favorite color.

It is out of place here in a brunch hosted by her aunt for a business associate and his stepson.

Kennedy and his 22-year-old stepson were from South Boston, involved in some illicit businesses with her uncles while swimming in riches thanks to the legal ones.

Kennedy was upper class, a failed politician who controlled his party like a modern Kingmaker and would leave it all to the young man devouring a strawberry like she knows he’d devour her pussy.

He is not what they call lace-curtain Irish like the man seated beside him. John ‘Jack’ Nelson had grown up poor, born to a widow and a man plagued with visions of his own death, he knew hunger, cold and that sometimes what you must do is take the weapon in your hands and make sure you don’t miss.

She wants him.

But she cannot let him know that yet. No, right now, she is to make him feel like he’s losing his shot as he ignores the men talking business and her aunt asking him about his studies in Harvard.

The witch wants nothing more than to put his skills to the test.

Once the men leave to resume business, Eva puts her scheme into motion.

Sunbathing in gardens away from prying eyes and where he will come to in his boredom. He may be the heir to Patrick’s fortune, but he is still not privy to all the older man’s secrets. He said he’d go on a walk in hopes of finding her and find her he shall.

Her aunt is away taking care of something or the other with her younger children, Eva’s eschewed the corslet under her dress because the infinite number of hooks are not sexy and she is sure her lace panties are soaked by now.

She lays on the picnic blanket, a naughty book in her hand and the other brings the juicy red strawberries she eats and discards with a performance whores would envy. The witch hates being wasteful and the stickiness of the stems and juice on her bare thighs, her chin and even the perfectly calculated line from her bottom lip to the valley of her unrestrained tits would invite bugs sooner than later, but it’s worth it.

Jack grins when she spreads herself to show him the promised land. Her invitation couldn’t be any clearer and the rising star of Boston is joining her on the blanket faster than mercury.

“So wasteful, some people are starving and you’re here leaving them half-eaten.” He plucked a half-eaten strawberry from her thigh and finished it as he knelt between her legs.

“I recall you leaving a few half-eaten earlier.” The witch tossed her book aside and pulled the burly man by his shirt up to her face.

He tasted of whiskey and cigar smoke and strawberries as he took the hint and began to kiss her like there’s no tomorrow. Jack followed that trail of juice down her chin, her neck and pulled the top of her sundress to reveal her tits.

Jack buried his face into her breasts and wasted no time in leaving a love bite on the underside of her breast. He’ll leave her covered in hard to explain marks by the time he leaves.

“Bet your pussy tastes like strawberries, doll.” One hand bunched up her skirt and the other kneads the breast he hadn’t been servicing with his proud mouth.

“Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Nelson?” the witch ran her hand through his now disheveled hair as he went lower and lower until he reached his goal. She doesn’t mean to pull his hair when he kissed and bit her inner thigh as he set down to business, but the groan vibrating through her cunt has her pull harder to make him do it again.

She wants him. Not just for today, she wants him to be hers forever.

If anyone heard or saw this, they’d be forced to marry to cover up the scandal.

And yet the sounds he has her make, the vulgar sound of him eating her out spurs him on. Eva can bet he’s hard as oak underneath those trousers of his.

As the witch cries out louder and louder as he goes deeper with his fingers and tongue making her buck against his face, she knows she can live with that.

The gangster doesn’t stop finger fucking her even after he’s lapped up all of her cum, no, he wants more just as badly as she does.

Jack kisses her, savors the taste of her pussy along with her like the gentleman his stepfather wants him to be.

“I think, “ Eva’s barely recovered the ability to say more than his name and with a smirk she tells him exactly what she wants from him. “ I think I prefer strawberries with cream.”

“Your wish is my command, Mrs. Nelson.” If they’re already going to end up doing the time might as well do the crime.

The witch leans back on her elbows and enjoys the show as he undid the buttons on her trousers and sprung free from its confines. It’s hard, already sporting some pre-cum at the head and ,if Jack hadn’t prepared her, the witch would say it looked like it would hurt.

“I want them to hear in their office how good I fuck you, how much of a whore you are for daddy. Ignoring me all morning and now they’ll see how you’re begging me to fill you up with a bastard.” His words contrast how he takes his caution to keep from hurting her, she knows it won’t take long for him to jackhammer into her and have her forget who she is.

“Is that a threat, daddy.” She used to find that type of sexual play odd and strange, but it spurs him on to hear her call him that. And who knows, Eva may end up making him a real daddy after this.

That thing of his doesn’t look like it’s capable of missing it’s mark.

“Not a threat, doll, a promise.” He punctuates his words by throwing her leg still sticky with strawberry juice over his shoulder and making her see stars with this new angle.

Jack could ask her to kill the president with a shoestring and she’d agree if he kept hitting that sweet spot inside her while playing with her clit.

They are sticky with sweat and strawberries when he comes with her name in his demonic mouth. A harsh kiss as he settles beside her and the hand on her clit leaving it to grab one of the remaining strawberries in the porcelain bowl and rubbing the fruit where his creamy seed spills from inside her.

They laugh in between kisses and she greedily consumes the cum covered fruit with a moan.

She wants to do this every day for the rest of her life, and she tells him so as they lay there fucked out and as good as married.

“Give me a second and I’ll make sure they have no choice but to get us hitched.” Jack pulled her to her side and chased the taste of his own cum as a prelude for what was to come.

Its to no one’s surprise that Miss Eva Smith is pregnant when she walks down the aisle wearing white like a virgin.

#jack nelson #jack x eva #national anthem fic #like an american #jack nelson smut #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders smut

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chris-continues · 2 years ago

Note

Maybe another idea if u would like :P

What if Vash or Nai get into a big fight and is loosing a dangerous amount blood, maybe the reader could offer help?

What if Nai turned feral because he hasn't been drinking enough blood because of how much he hates wolfwoods blood?

OH HO HO FERAL NAI HHEEHEHEEH U KNOW ME SO WELLLL LUNE MWAHAHAHAHAH

ahem.

*straightens out papers* shall we begin?

Suggestive?? But not really- Nai is hot and cold (when is he not tbh) pining (do we know if it’s mutual? OOoOo) (the header is lowk satire but also not)

TW: blood, biting (although that’s expected so)

TAGS: @lune010 @vashfantasy @coffinbeananteiku

“You, with your kind words and wonderful laugh, and Nai hates, loathes you even. Do you taste as sweet as you act?”

Nai hated having no sense of control.

Control was what he craved, every second of the day. The hedges in front of the manor were to be trimmed in this exact manner, the books organized in their usual fashion, and his collar straightened out just the way he liked.

His urges, feeding- that was one thing he could not control.

While Vash found it plenty fine to feed from an undertaker such as the human he’d welcomed into their home once a week to feed, Nai turned up his nose plenty times at said offering. It wasn’t like anyone was clamoring for him anyway- all of said visitors only came for Vash’s company, bright smiles and joyous laughs. He was so pathetic in that way, pleasing them as if his company wasn’t enough.

Hmph.

Well, aside from their usual visits, now he had you. You resided in the castle amongst them, entertaining Vash with your feeble presence and conversation- tending and assisting wherever and looking into the library whenever.

How did you plan to pay them back? You couldn’t just live here for free. You cleaning up every now and then didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, as servants tended to such matters all the time, clamoring to his feet as head of household.

The minute Vash had offered some of Nicholas’ blood to him, he adamantly refused. The man reeked of cigarette smoke and musk from outside, and the scowl he’d been giving him was returned in full.

His hunger continued to grow.

Vash could tell- the chew of his lip constantly, his slight jumpiness to his straight dazed state on occasion- he was losing control.

Slipping.

Vash truly believes his cravat being tucked slightly to his dislike would drive Nai wild, minuscule irks seeming to irritate him to no end, even more so than before.

And that’s where you come in.

Sweet and attentive, truly just wanting to help- he hopes Nai has taken more of a liking to you than Nico. Would you be preferable to him? He truly doesn’t know, but he’s hoping for the best. Seeing his brother starve before him isn’t something he finds enjoyable, worrying him greatly into the hours of day and night.

When Vash proposes the idea, a hand gesturing to you in a flourish (as if marketing a new product), Knives’ eyebrows furrow further in rejection of the idea.

“Absolutely not.”

Depending on you? A human? Knives’ supply of blood began to run low awhile ago, the dwindling amount that had gone to 0 fluid ounces a known fact that he had tried to lock away in the recesses of his mind- as he did with every other issue.

“They just want to help, and you do need the blood.. it’s either them or Nico, Nai.” Vash’s voice is patient, as it always is, but he can detect a hint of pleading.

And he supposes you’re a bit less insufferable than Nicholas, and your neck is exposed revealing any moles or freckles or-

No. No. He cannot accept. No.

The smell of you is intoxicating. The way you saunter from one room to the next, cheeky comments and, god.

Vash doesn’t comment on his refusal over the next few days. But by god does he note the antsy habits of Nai starting to kick in. Drumming his fingers against the hard cover of a book or his mahogany desk in the study, his study, where you sat now with one of his books.

“I apologize- Vash handed it to me as a recommendation.” Which you’d found strange, considering he wasn’t one for literature, unlike Nai, who found comfort in the world of reading often.

His face was unreadable. Eyes set on the book in your hands, forearms resting on it as it lay on your lap, silence thick and swimming in the room.

“Uh, here you go..?” You stood up, chair moving back as you rested the book onto his desk. Your wrist was so close, he could grab it and take a bite if he really wanted to. Your outstretched wrist was practically dangling before him, and before you knew it a large hand clasped around your wrist and tugged you closer, your hip bumping into the front of his desk as he brought your pulse point to his lips.

The thrumming of it was routine, he noted silently, flow of blood felt against his lips as he takes it in, snowy eyelashes fluttering closed in temporary relief. From your point of view? He was absolutely ethereal, comparable to a seraph with his angelic appearance. He’d always been painstakingly beautiful, and unbelievably cold, but for some reason his touch felt.. warm. Well, as warm as he could be.

“…May I?” His eyes open in questioning up at you, and despite the fact you’re towering over him as of currently (as he’s still seated in his plush armchair), he still exudes some sort of power.

At least he’s trying to.

“May you what? Hold my wrist?” A breathy chuckle escapes you, a huff leaving his lips. You can feel it on your skin.

He speaks as if he’s exposing some inside joke you should’ve gotten by now, “Feed from you.” His voice is uncharacteristically small to its usual commanding tone- it’s quite the change of pace, adding onto the surprise striking you. He doesn’t miss how you swallow thickly, he can hear it. Doesn’t miss how your heart picks up, he can feel it,

He doesn’t miss how you nod, hesitance evident in your mannerisms yet he pauses once more, “Pull up your chair. It’s better when you sit.” He instructs curtly.

Had he fed from many people before? Vash never disclosed such details with you, but the thought still crosses your mind as you sit back in your chair, scooting it closed until your knees bump into the wood and your elbows rest comfortably on the surface of his desk. His fingers clasp around your wrist again, lips meeting with an unexpected tenderness as he.. kissed your pulse point.

The rhythm of it is almost soothing, the motion almost too sweet. Maybe he’s being considerate for once and preparing you for the pain, you think, as he checks for your reaction once more. Pecks meet your wrist once more, your palm grazing his cheek as he wonders what you’d taste like.

And he was just beginning to satiate that need as his fangs dug into your skin, the initial bruising soreness nothing as painful as you’d imagined. In fact, you’d studied from the books in the castle’s library that high class vampires had the ability to calm who they fed from, injecting some sort of substance to momentarily comfort their prey.

Although strangely, you didn’t feel like prey. Rather, he worshipped you in some strange way, even with him continuing to suck greedily on your arm, you could feel the blood leaving you but the needy grip on your wrist was telling.

He needed this.

His other hand came up to grip your arm, holding you still. As if you’d pull away. It didn’t truly hurt besides the starting sting of the bite, which had faded into a dull ache by now. His thumb was against the back of your hand, stroking the skin. Perhaps it was in hopes to coax more blood out of you? Or maybe do you wouldn’t attempt to struggle, to writhe in pain and try to hide away? There was the idea he was being loving, but that most definitely wasn’t true. Not with him. He clearly held a distinct bitterness for most, and that included you. Sadly.

But as he pulled away, slight daze in his gaze as he looked up before you… with his lips stained cherry, tongue laving at the wound in hopes to get one last taste- the sight alone caused your breath to hitch in your throat. An understandable reaction, you’d say.

He forced himself away, curling back into himself and laying in his armchair. “..you’re free to go now.”

“Ah. Yeah.” You respond curtly, having no true idea on what to say.

The minute the door to his study closed shut behind your person, his eyes closed as his hand covered his brow bone, tongue running against his teeth and lips to taste the remnants of you.

You were a nuisance, remaining in his study and conscience even when you weren’t truly present.

The next time hunger strikes him, it’s around a week later.

Vampires are supposed to feed multiple times per week to sustain themselves- how Nai had managed to curve that hunger for so long was either through status or sheer willpower and determination.

Hunger hides for nobody though, as one night you find neat stationary underneath your chamber door. A black wax seal is pressed into the parchment, the initials, K.M. , in rich lettering engraved into what must be a seal stamp in one of his fine desk drawers. The parchment is thick and rich beneath your fingers- even his letters were extravagant, his neat handwriting detailing:

Arrive at my study tonight, 6:45 o’clock.

-Knives

How informative of him. No hi, hello, or perhaps even a basic explanation as to why, but Knives was above the formality of a simple greeting, pfft. With a roll of your eyes, you focus on the letter once more. Hm. His signature was rather elegant, swooping K ending with a sleek S.

It suited him.

Being punctual was something Knives appreciated, your timid form knocking at the double doors of his study, knuckles hesitantly knocking.

“Come in.” He sounded almost.. bored, (although that was far from the truth), fang prickling his tongue in preparation for what was to come. His trenchcoat and outerwear had been hung neatly on the coat rack beside his desk, cravat a bit looser around his neck as if he had been trying to destress.

You seated yourself before him like last time.

“..any reason why you requested my presence?”

It had occurred to you a long time ago Knives loathed explaining himself or his behaviors, believing he could go about as he pleased. To an extent? That was true. But he couldn’t just summon you and not have any sound reason.

His eyes darted to the side before settling onto you once more, eyeing you wearily. “..your blood.” He muttered, hand crossing over his chest and sighing.

…you waited for further elaboration, but clearly none was to come.

“You.. you need to feed again?”

“Yes, I need to feed again.” He exhaled in exasperation, “Is your offer still on the table?” It was amusing how depraved he must be, and it entertained you until at the end of his retort you caught a glimpse of his fangs peeking from his lips once more. He was clearly annoyed with you, but something else seemed to irk him moreso than his usual pissy self.

It was probably just the hunger talking.

Scooting your chair forward, you allowed your knees to bump the front of his desk once more, extending a hand silently in waiting.

“Close your eyes,” he muttered, moving his lips to your skin. His breath cascaded upon you, leaving you to quietly savor and relish in each ministration. Do vampires have the ability to do such magic? To entrance whoever they feed upon? If they do, Knives’ surely must be strong.

He’s a high class vampire, one of his kind, so it truly only makes sense.

Your eyes flutter closed at his command, awaiting a bite that doesn’t come. Instead, he continues to kiss your wrist once again.

But he doesn’t stop.

Plush lips laying chaste kiss upon kiss up your forearm, hand holding your wrist before moving to encapsulate your smaller fingers in his as he twirls..

Closer to you now. His footsteps are practically silent, as terrifying as that may be it only thrills you. His palm on your shoulder is the first solid touch you feel aside from his hand holding yours, breath shaky as he takes you in.

His nose nudges your jaw, free hand laid upon your collarbone. Each sensation astounds you, coalescing and building upon one another and leaving your mind in a heavy fog alike to the smog surrounding the manor.

Hands cool against your quickening heartbeat, he barely has the patience to feel it with his hands, then lips, then his fangs.

His proximity is intoxicating. Almost pressed against you, he can hear and feel your chest below his hands as your breath hitches from his teeth digging into you. You flood his senses like no other, it’s a nuisance, truly, and this is the only way he can subdue it.

With his fangs hitched into your neck and him relishing in the slight gasp you give, pulse quickening with a silent hum of his lips.

A depraved, guttural groan leaves him as he holds you by the junction between your shoulders and clavicle. Thoughts of you have been running rampant in his mind for what feels like an eternity, painstakingly on loop in his mind constantly- with you holding him closer, as if you.. enjoy this.

That thought alone twists something within him as he forces himself to pull away, a few stray drops of blood dripping down his chin and dirtying his cravat.

“You.. you are dismissed.” He cooly disgregards you-

You and the split crack in his composure you cause in your wake, as he loosens his cravat around his neck once more, desire thickening. It’s soon to become palpable, as your presence in the castle is more apparent.

#yes it’s mutual #mutual pining #vampire au #vampire knives #knives millions #millions knives #millions knives x reader #knives x reader #knives x you #millions knives x you #Trigun #tristamp #Trigun stampede #Chris writes #drabble #fanfic #knives millions x reader

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internetskiff · 1 year ago

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The parallels in Ultrakill between Life and the Afterlife, man.. The Machines aren't unlike Hell Itself. Both are beings of insatiable hunger. Both experience unending boredom. Both yearn for violence as a relief from it all, and both spread their influence like a cancer upon everything. Perhaps this is why Hell almost seems to welcome machines deeper into itself. Not only are they entertaining - their cruelty inspires it, or whoever carves the demons that are at it's disposal. Both were created by the hands of another, a once superior being they have surpassed and outlived. Perhaps it sees them as kindred. Sees them as something symbiotic, both alike in purpose - to enact violence on those trapped within itself. Both could stand eternal together - after all, plenty of blood to go around, plenty of meat for the grinder, no? Does it realize they'll just keep feeding until there's nothing left? Does it think it can stop them? Does it want to be wiped clean? If it hungers, is it afraid to die? The machines certainly are. This whole crusade is about delaying the inevitable. As long as there is a Machine left standing in Hell, it is fated to run dry. All that would be left is an empty carcass filled with nothing but monuments to cruelty, frozen in time forever with no audience left to appraise them.

Angels, meanwhile, are not so different from humanity in their ways. From what little we know of them, they, too, are full of arrogance and hubris just like humanity, that built the machine that devoured it's creator and went on to devour itself. Hell seems to be the cause of Heaven's fracture. It is the root of the Father's guilt. It's creation set His eventual disappearance in motion. It snuffed the fire out, directly or indirectly. And without guidance, Heaven split and began to consume itself in cruel war. The only thing that kept Heaven from sharing Earth's fate is the Council, that took advantage of the chaos and swiftly took control and unified the Angels once again. But that doesn't mean they put a stop to Heaven's cruelty - in fact, I'd argue they only stoked the flame, kept those beneath them complacent through fear. But at least Heaven regained structure, though it seems like it's a mere shell of what it used to be. The Father is gone. They follow an echo, a memory - or perhaps simply a lie. Still, it's a necessary lie, no? An almost noble one? It's not, of course, at most it's a lesser evil compared to the inferno of warfare, but is there really any other alternative? When Gabriel slaughtered them and showed the rest of Heaven their weakness, did he really do what was right? Heaven had no hand to guide them anymore. It was severed. All that's left is a bloodied stump. How long will it take before the rot spreads, before Heaven erupts into warfare once more? Gabriel can't stop it - he'll be dead soon. If he - one of the most respected and revered angels in the highest ranks - cannot stop the chaos, who can? There's no one left. No one will trust the empty promises of order ever again, seeing how easy it is to destroy.

The world will eat itself out of existence. This is the only way it should end. There is no other way it could end. It's all too far gone. What would be left would either starve and join it's brethren in stillness, or eviscerate itself in one final act of violence. No final words. No concluding statement. No point. Perfect closure.

#ultrakill #ultrakill spoilers #ultrakill hell #ultrakill heaven #machines #ultrakill gabriel #ultrakill council #gabriel #rambling #ultrakill violence spoilers

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the-elusive-libbin · 1 year ago

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What are your stuffing headcanons for Gale and Astarion?

Oooooo~ I love that you’re asking for these lads :D thank you! There was another anon ask for Astarion canons, so I’ll do both here for you.

CW: Stuffing, hunger, PTSD mention, Astarion backstory mention

*****************************************************************************************************************************

So Gale first:

Gale loves a good, nutritious, filling meal as much as the next person. Especially after a long day researching. He’s a dab hand at cooking himself, but nothing beats the dishes his mother used to make. On occasion, she still invites him over to her cottage to make meals for him, and sends ingredients to his tower. His mother doesn’t like the tower, it’s too large and dusty! She wishes for him to come and visit more often.

His favourite thing to do after a big meal, is throw on some comfier clothes, grab a book and snuggle up with Tara by a warm fire. When happy, his belly lets out soft, soothing gurgles and groans, as it digests its contents. Much to the wizard’s embarrassment, his stomach’s gurgling has put Tara soundly to sleep on multiple occasions.

The wizard tries not to overindulge, but when he does, he feels heavy and bloated, but in a good, yet sluggish way. He’s fine with overeating to an extent, but should someone point it out, he’d flush red and stutter over his words. He’s never at a loss for words, but Gale would certainly stumble whilst trying to explain away his swollen, groaning middle.

No one has ever touched Gale’s belly button, aside from once, when Astarion accidentally tickled it whilst in mock flirtation. It is sensitive. Gale had jumped, accidentally let out a moan, began to burn red from nose to ears, and then briskly walked back to his tent. It is Something Astarion holds against him to this day.

If his partner had a belly kink, namely stuffing, and the two of you were alone, he’d allow you to feed him and rub his belly. I imagine he’d be quite good at flirting whilst doing it too. The man is a smooth talker, and his words would be chosen carefully with each sentence.

I canon that he often uses mage hand to rub his own belly when no one is looking, pretending it belongs to some forgotten love or new lover~

Astarion next:

So, Astarion is a little more difficult, being a vampire. I mean all he can really ingest is blood and wine. I’m thinking he can probably swallow normal things easily enough, but these things settle awkwardly in his stomach, making it ache with nausea.

The problem is that he’s hungry a lot (as per my previous hunger canons) due to the lack of things to eat. But if he were to catch a boar or a bear, that empty aching in his tummy would be sated for a good while. He can’t control himself when he sees one and his hunger is ravenous.

He goes into a sort of frenzy. Fighting the creature, biting onto them, sucking their blood and draining it down into his filling belly. After a minute or two, his belly is bushing his clothes out and he knows he is full…..but he cannot stop! It’s delicious! And he’s so empty! And he doesn’t know when his next meal will be! And who knows when he’ll be locked away for another however many years, starved and tortured, with only the taste of decaying ray in his tongue. And then the ptsd and the fear takes his mind for a minute. Then he’s back. And the creature before him lays drained. Astarion gasps, his stomach almost pulling him to the ground. Full, bloated! He’s huge! Bigger than he feels he’s ever been. Can he even stand? Yet, the pain in his swollen middle is warm, safe and inviting. He will not starve. The vampire covers a hand to his face, eyes shining with the glow of realisation, and he laughs. Long and loud into the night. When he returns to camp, Astarion’s head is swimming - He is blood drunk.

So happy is he to have a full, stuffed belly, that he almost dances back to camp (as well as he can,) showing the newly amassed belly off to everyone who will deign to lend an ear. He may have to hunt his own prey most of the time, but surely this is true freedom.

Though he won’t admit it, Astarion is disappointed that Gale has foul tasting poison for blood, he longed to be full of his warmth. He also won’t admit that Halsin was the first person to ever give him a belly rub, (even though it was initially unwanted by the vampire,) and he thoroughly enjoyed his big, warm hands caressing his pale, bloated belly. He longs for him to do it again, but if Halsin ever offered, Astarion would scoff and call him a name.

The vampire doesn’t know it yet, but when he finally gets to drink his fill of his partner’s blood, without hurting/killing them, it would be the best feeling he has ever felt.

Astarion has soft digestion and a slow metabolism, so he can get by on little, but it would take a while to digest a whole lot of blood in one sitting. He’s never really understood how it works. Yes, he’s a vampire, and yes, he’s been one for around 200 years…..but how the hells should he know why an undead creature’s stomach can still digest food, whilst his heart ceases its beating? His full tummy sings ‘happily’ when it’s stuffed up, almost like a lullaby.

I was tempted to upload my hunger/stuffing Astarion drawings to here, but it would probably just get flagged X,D so I’ll link from my Twitter instead.

#belly kink #stomach #stuffing #stuffing canons #A/starion #B/g3 #G/ale #hunger #bloated belly #B/g3canons

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fearhims3lf · 1 year ago

Text

TIMING: A few weeks ago

PARTIES: @amonstrousdream @fearhims3lf

SUMMARY: Leila finds out who the mare was that haunted Cass.

WARNINGS: None

The Abstract was the place mares wandered next to beings of ethereal quality, picking out meals through glimpses into the physical realm. Mateo had never ventured much farther than that, knowing and respecting there are some boundaries that cannot be crossed and should not be tested. Besides, his hunger was in need of sating and that was his first priority.

“Hmm…” Mateo rocked back and forth on his feet, shaking his head at the brief glimpses of a potential meal. Not enough ingredients, he thought. He wanted more. “Maybe the next one,” Mateo muttered to himself, eyes still stuck to the preview as he began to move on. He bumped into a stranger, almost irritated until he caught a glimpse of how pretty she was. “Oh damn–my bad, ma.” Shuffling to the side, he smiled, tilting his head curiously. “Never seen you here before. Who are you?”

The Astral was one of the few places where Leila really did feel like a ghost. Mares were nothing but whisps of shadow flitting from place to place, following the sugary scent of dreams wherever it led them. For a long time, she had never really paid attention to the place. By the time she had become ethereal and gone hunting for a meal, she was absolutely starving. Metzli had put a stop to that. Nightmares had become more of a regular thing- a necessary evil in order to keep surviving. Without the blindness that came with hunger, she could meander freely and see more than just her next meal.

Which was important. Especially now that Cass was being tormented by someone. Now, the astral was a place where she stood vigil as well. Leila could still remember the nights of terror that slowly drained the life from her, and she wouldn’t let that happen to their kid… Well, no, not theirs… She and Metzli were just looking out for and taking care of the girl. But she wouldn’t let anyone else hurt her. Neither of them would.

She was trying not to let the intoxicating smell of dreams drag her away from her post. But little by little, she strayed, dreamy eyed and lost in the astral. Until someone bumped into her and sent her mind reeling back to attention. A man. A mare. And friendly, surprisingly… Leila stared for a moment, surprise making itself evident on her face. She’d never encountered another mare in the Astral before… “Sorry, it was my fault. I should have watched where I was going… I’ve never seen anyone else in here before. My name’s Leila.”

“Nah, fam. You’re good.” Giving his best charming smile, Mateo looked Leila up and down, pocketing his hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mateo.” His eyes wandered to the ethereal space around them, and he shrugged. Leila wasn’t the first person he’d run into.

Hell, Inge was the first to stumble into him his first week in Wicked’s Rest, though he wasn’t even sure she resided in the town. She very well could be in a neighboring town, or even state, but only time would tell. Mateo was on a subtle search, waiting for her familiar face to pop up. Until then, all he could do was be on the lookout.

“Wait.” Mateo took a step back, surprised. “You really never seen anyone else? Shit, you’re probably the second homie I’ve run into since I moved to town.”

Fam. A younger mare by the sound of it. But it did beg the question of if mares were, in fact, some strange family by way of the dust that ran through their veins. Leila hadn’t ever had cause to question it- but now, after meeting several of her own kind in the span of what felt like a blink in her life, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Er- no… not until coming to Wicked’s Rest, at least. And in the Astral, not once, not ever.” Her fingers wound and pulled themselves together, a modicum of control that brought her a little peace. If her fate was out of her control, at least she had control over herself. Who she was, how and when she fed, how she acted… it was a fight against being what she had become. And Leila was determined to win.

She’s never been caller homie before… a first. “Maybe Wicked’s Rest is a hotspot for people like us…” Her voice was nothing more than a murmur as she contemplated it. But the clouds of her own thoughts vanished and bright red twinkled back at bright red. “It’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

“You ever just chill in here? It’s peaceful as hell. My brother taught me how nice it is.” Mateo smiled fondly, reminiscing silently for a moment before returning his attention to Leila. She looked uncomfortable, in a way. If her hands were any indication, at least. It was similar to what Mateo did to calm down. Wringing his hands together felt as close to a relaxing massage as he could get at any random time.

Mateo breathed, tapping his chin as he began to peruse again. He waved Leila to follow, welcoming her to join in on a meal. He’d done it before with his brother and figured it was the friendly mare thing to do, especially in a place like Wicked’s Rest. Or a hot spot, as Leila called it. “Yeah, might be a beacon. Been having fun honestly.”

Humming to himself, Mateo spotted a familiar cave, looking a bit miffed. “There’s so many people to feed from. Like this chica.” He jutted his thumb toward a sleeping Cass. It wasn’t possible for another visit thanks to whoever helped her mare-proof the place. Assholes. Mateo rolled his eyes, “She’s got real problems. Kinda sad I only got to visit once.”

The man spoke and left her with a million more questions. Who willingly spent time in the astral? The idea of being surrounded by dreams at all times felt overwhelming. Leila had only just gotten a handle on spending more time in that strange place between dreams and waking. But what puzzled her more was a brother. Had a nightmare fed upon two people, gorging itself on every terror it could before two hearts stopped beating in the same home? Or was it a title of affection- another mare, made family by experience rather than blood…

She followed after him, whoever he was, curiosity taking over all logical thinking. That was, until the cave came into view, and the gentle whisper of a dream tugged at her- a terrible invitation. One she could ignore now, thankfully. Besides, even if she were starving, the cave was safe from the likes of her. Safe from him, too…

Or so she had thought.

Leila froze in place while the other mare spoke, red eyes rolling casually as he spoke about Cass like she was nothing. Like the pain he’d left her with, the terror and hurt he’d instilled in that poor girl was nothing. In another situation, she might have spoken rationally. Another time and place, another dreamer in another bed. But something snapped. His words were a match that unwittingly set a blaze.

“You…”

Without a thought in her head, Leila lunged at the stranger. Not Cass, he’d hurt her Cass, Metzli’s Cass… Not again, though.

“Me?” Mateo quirked a brow, confused as to why there was a burning ire in her expression. She had seemed so innocent and sweet before, the energy changing in an instant. “Whatchu mean, fa—” There was no time to finish his sentence, his body being sent to the ground by Leila tackling him.

“Yo, ma, what the hell is your problem?” Leila was quickly shoved away effortlessly. She practically weighed nothing, standing at what, five feet? Mateo towered op ver her, at the very least. “If you wanna cut of a meal, all you gotta do is ask, but right now it’s a firm no.” He scowled at Leila, standing back up and dusting himself off.

“Besides, like I said, the little puta made it impossible to get into her crib.”

Leila was not an angry person. In life and in most of her death, it took a lot to get anything more than a bit of frustration out of her. But as she knocked Mateo to the ground, all she felt was rage. He hurt Cass. It was the only thought she could wrap her head around. He hurt Cass. The dreams that she fed on, that they fed on, the nightmares they created hurt people, whether or not they meant to.

He shoved her aside as if she were nothing, sending Leila scrambling to get to her feet. In that moment, Leila didn’t notice how much taller the other mare was. She didn’t care that he was stronger. Her hands were balled up in fists as she marched right back up into Mateo’s face. “What’s my problem?” The words came out of her mouth like a snarl, eyes flashing like some wild thing. “I don’t want a cut of your meal, Salopard-”

While she was by no means an expert in swearing in spanish, Leila knew what puta meant. Without another thought, she took a swing at him, her fist colliding with his jaw. “That girl is my family!” Her voice was hoarse with rage. “You want to call someone a puta? Mírame, connard. I have to protect her from meeting the same fucking fate I did! You want a meal, go find some asshole. But don’t you dare try to feed on her ever again.”

Oh shit, this lady was mad. Now, Mateo had seen his fair share of angry women in his lifetime, most of them having charged out of room after messing up a bed, but never had a mare attacked him for doing what he was made to do. Mateo supposed it made sense. If it were his kid, or really, anyone in his family, fists would start flying immediately. That’s just what you did for your family. So when Leila’s fist made contact with his face, Mateo couldn’t help but feel impressed as his back hit the floor.

“Damn, ma. That was a nice punch.” He rubbed at his jaw, face contorted with pain. When Leila began to make her speech though, Mateo rolled his eyes and began to stand up. If she was going to punch again, he’d be ready. “Look, how was I supposed to know she was your kid? I eat where I eat and don’t ask questions. Everyone gets nightmares, ma. It ain’t my fault hers were particularly tasty.” He hissed, crossing his arms and backing away in preparation for Leila to retaliate. And to leave, but he wanted to see how she reacted first. After that, Mateo was positive that he’d need to make a run for it before things got worse. Not like it’d be right to kill Leila for protecting her kid. Plus, she was pretty hot when she was angry.

Maybe he could…no, no. Bad idea.

She’s never been a violent person. She’d lived in fear of such harm coming to her. But Leila’s unlife was so very different from the life she’s lived two hundred years prior. Survival had become something to fight for. There was a difference, however, in fighting for herself to live and fighting to protect a loved one. She would hide and starve to save herself. But for her petits? The family that she had found for herself in the strange little town of Wicked’s Rest? She would go down swinging for any of them.

Leila rubbed at her knuckles, the feeling of bone against bone making the mare cringe. His argument was stupid. All nightmares were tasty to them. If there was terror in sleep, it was a meal to them. “I don’t care if she is the only meal left in this town. You do not eat from her. If you know other mares who even think about her, you tell them the same. She is not a meal to be made. She’s protected by me.”

Yeah, it was definitely about time to leave. Shit was getting boring, and as much of an asshole as he’d always been, Mateo knew better than to get between a mama bear and her cub. To both save his ass, and out of general respect. Fact was, Mateo could see Popa in Leila, and that made it harder to instigate her further. There was no fury like a mother’s, and Mateo had always been a mama’s boy.

“Okay, okay, hot-shot.” He tried to keep playing his part, hiding the fact that Leila had indeed won in their little battle of the wits. It had been since the summer of ‘98 since Mateo had lost such a battle, and while he hated losing, he had to admit, Leila was a good opponent and he had a wicked streak. Oh well, he thought. Time to set a new record.

“Guess I’ll just—” In a blink, Mateo disappeared with that grin he loved to tease others with. One that read, I had fun at your expense, with a snide tag of catch ya later!

He was gone in a flash, vanished from the astral. As to whether or not he would listen to Leila’s warning was a mystery to the mare. His attitude was so unbothered. But Cass would not be made a meal of, not on her watch.

And so the mare sat and sat and sat outside of that cave, far into the night as the stars whirled past and the moon turned into day once more.

#wickedswriting #nightmarescapes #writings #salt in the wound #mateo and leila #c: leila

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keyward-aa · 2 years ago

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@adenial : what if hespspspsppss went a little overboard with sapping pothos' aether and came back to his senses while pothos was a panting, probably almost dying, mess? huh?

his gaze, it was the abyss of obsidian and violaceous, barren, unfilled... FAMISHED. lost in an hypnotic rapture, HESPEROS had POTHOS pinned to the wall, black marking adorned the HEMITHEOS's sickening colored skin, the trail of scales and plates would form if he were to fully transformed...

however, he was lost in between control and chaos. a turmoil which was slipping free with every fibers of his being. the aether, once it graced his tongue with its flavor, HESPEROS was lost. he had been starving himself for far too long and thus such action was a dangerous test he had no intention of pursuing.

to feed... it was a concept still all too new to him... and the more he could push his hunger further back into his thoughts, the better he felt... that was until POTHOS gave him a scolding and insisted he fed on upon his aether.

which brought him back slightly when he finally detached his lips from that overbruised neck. the bloody and angry marks of very large fangs were left imprinted to that pale neck. ❝ P—POTHOS... ❞ he called to him softly, his soul seizing into his chest, it burned, it pinched, it hurt. the sight was appalling... that is until he tried to back away and realized to his sickening horror that his claws—no—talons had went through POTHOS's shoulders, holding him through the wall...

❝ no... ❞ choking, he was choking... of his saliva, on this beautiful soul's aether... the blood, it had spattered everywhere. ❝ POTHOS! ❞ he shrieked, the sound was more monster than man. tears, they began to pour down his cheeks. how... why...

too hungry, too brutal, too monstrous─what cannot be controlled must be contained, in PANDÆMONIUM.

❝ oh PHOTOS... what have i done!? I TOLD YOU, DID I NOT!? i belong in chains... like every MONSTERS! don't... don't you see!? ❞

❝ I AM THE MO̬̹̻͇ͅͅN͖̱̺ͬ͑̚S̖̩͈̭̪̲ͬ̑ͯ̊̈̚TE͙̠̞̳̪̬R... ❞

#⛓ 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝙱𝙸𝚃𝙴 ⛓ ; answered #adenial

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minoshkakotoshka · 7 months ago

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Laika

I am dying. It is true, in Moscow we live dying, but this is different. Dying of sadness is a thousand times worse than slowly starving to death because it’s close to impossible to find a scrap to eat in winter. We are scavenging for food when my mother is hit by a truck. Now she lies on the pavement, her eyes glazed with sadness, her life slipping away. The driver doesn’t even glance back after he runs her over. I pull her out of the way, but I cannot take her to the nook where we take shelter from the cold at night. I lick her face. I nudge her with my nose for encouragement. She locks her gaze in mine until her last breath disappears in a curlicue of ice. I howl with despair. Other dogs come to investigate. One of them is my brother. He lies next to me, sad, though not undone like me because he left us sometime ago. At first he doesn’t say anything, but when the cold presses down on us like an icy slab, he pushes me away to take shelter. From a doorway we watch as our mother freezes.

The next morning, she is torn from the street by the machine that scraps ice from the pavement. My heart shatters. I try to throw myself over the remains of the mother who protected me until the day she died, but my brother stops me. Dying in Moscow is easy, he tells me. Here you die every day of hunger, of cold, or cooked in a trash can by the vagrants who die of the same things we do and on top of it kill themselves with alcohol. Only those who are vigilant survive, he reminds me. Despite his warning, my enormous sorrow weighs on me like a shackle and I become clumsy. I am snared by the dog catchers.

From the cage where they lock me, I watch them go after my brother. Fortunately, a heart fat with sadness does not drag him down. He jumps away when they throw the net over him. I am able to breathe again. He runs away as if chased by demos; I know that I will never see him again.

I throw up my guts from bouncing in my cage when the truck lurches at full speed. From the choking smell that permeates the black box where I’m caged, I realize that I am not the only one vomiting fear. The streets of Moscow, where death lurks around every corner, I know well. What terrifies me is not knowing what lies beyond this darkness.

After what seems like an eternity, the truck stops with a scream of brakes. I am bruised from bouncing in the cage, with a heart that wants to flee my throat. The metal curtain that hid the light rises noisily. I flatten myself on the floor wishing to become invisible. A man inspects the cages. The terrified barking of the other dogs is deafening. Stray dogs don’t dare to expect kindness from humans. We are the scum of the animal world, as hated as rats even though we are descendants of the same wolf that domesticated herself out of pity for the naked creatures she found cowering in a cave. Instinct told her that they needed her protection. We haven’t left man’s side ever since.

For some reason unknown to me, my mother’s line ended up on the streets, where we are chased to be put in cages while our captive brothers are bought for thousands of rubles. I don’t understand how captivity and a piece of paper can determine someone’s worth, but this is the way humans have decreed it. They all share the urge to categorize and confine, to control everything by assigning it numbers so that they can know where each thing, each individual, each organism is. Freedom from this—my kind of freedom—is appalling to them. They combat it rabidly.

I wonder what the she-wolf who nursed the twins she found naked in the forest would say now, upon seeing the importance that the descendants of those babies give to the gilded cages they build for themselves or the bills I sometimes see rolling on the streets. When I am indifferent to them because even I can tell they are just pieces of paper, I have seen men fall on their knees to take them. They clutch them adoringly and press them to their lips. More than one has struck me with his boot upon realizing that I am watching, therefore I observe them from afar, still unable to fathom how a scrap of paper can be given so much worth whilst life is so devalued.

The metal curtain is going down again when a sudden command stops its fall. The box is dimly lit, the foul smells in full bloom. I venture a glance. A man is watching me. He instructs someone to take me out of the cage. His name is Oleg Gazenko; he is the man who saves my life to kill me.

The driver brings me to him. Gazenko lifts my lip to see my teeth. Apparently satisfied, he then inspects my ears and my coat. After that, he pats my head. I kiss his hand not knowing that the other one conceals a dagger. I become his faithful friend, I, who has never had a master.

Albina and Mushka, veterans already when I arrive, find my enthusiasm amusing. Those two are true cynics. Gazenko is surprised because I never fight with them and decides that the reason is my phlegmatic character. He does not know that this is the nature of strays. Only those who live dying know what it is to survive by the skin of our teeth.

I am bathed, my nails are clipped, my ears cleaned, my eyes treated with eyedrops. I am dewormed, blood is drawn, my chest is shaved and smeared with iodine. I am connected to devices that measure my blood pressure, my heart rate, my breathing, my bowel movements. After a full battery of tests, I am put in a cage and fed a high nutrition content gel. I throw it up immediately because I am not used to nourishing food.

Gazenko comes to see me. He pats my head and sits down to read. When he catches me looking, he reads aloud. The following week he orders for me to be put in a smaller cage, and still my enthusiasm does not diminish. I sell my life in exchange for two daily meals.

Mushka is the first to travel. When she returns, she is plugged to the machines for a complete checkup. Stress knotted her guts, she shakes with pain. She is purged without result. She is under observation for days but does not improve. Nikita Khrushchev, a blood-thirsty pen pusher turned tyrant, gives order for the Sputnik II to be launched in November to mark the anniversary of the October Revolution. Hard-pressed for time, Gazenko decides it is me who will go. Time is running out; I will take Mushka’s place.

Jealous because it was Stalin who turned Russia into a super power, Khrushchev wants to be great, but his petty bureaucratic heart won’t permit it. Unable to admit his inadequacy, he tyrannizes whomever is subject to him, which is practically all of Russia. He unleashes his wrath against the space scientists because they cannot make the Sputnik return to Earth once it has been launched.

“Ready or not,” Khrushchev decrees, “you will launch the Sputnik.”

The scientists are aware that sending me to outer space will be my death, yet nobody dares contradict the madman; he wants to prove to the Americans that in the space race, Russia has the lead. Albina, Mushka, Strelka, Belka, me, are instruments to magnify his vanity.

Oleg Gazenko and doctor Vladimir Yazdovsky call a press conference to announce the launch of the Sputnik with me in it. The photographers take my picture inside of my simulated interstellar capsule. I wear my Outer Space harness, but it does not impress the photographers. A Pravda reporter decides to slide a fish bowl on my head. They call me Laika when I bark to protest the outrage.

I receive bags full of letters that Gazenko reads to me. Someone answers them and I put my paw print on the page, just as Rin-Tin- Tin did with his film contracts. Gazenko knows that I like to hear him read, but he doesn’t know that I prefer books because almost all the letters say the same thing. When he realizes that I lose interest, he takes a book from a drawer, reads a paragraph, and laughs.

“Listen, Laika,” he tells me using my new name. I bow my head to indicate I am all ears even though the name does not please me. “War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.” Gazenko doubles-over with laughter. “This is how it is in the West.”

In the next bag of letters comes a request for a photo session. After the photo shoot I give interviews to the русские газеты, then I am invited to appear on television. Shortly after that, Khrushchev sends for me.

Gazenko takes advantage of the meeting to remind him of the Sputnik’s problem. He tells him that if I am sent to space as it is, I will not return. From the sudden tick on the tyrants eye, I gather that the only thing that matters to him is that his decrees are obeyed, no matter how deadly they might be. He wants the Sputnik to be launched, and he wants Laika to be in it. He is too busy planning the parade of the Revolution, where he will take center stage, to care whether I make it back or not.

“Have you decided what to do?” the dictator asks when he tires of being photographed with me.

“The amount of oxygen that the Sputnik can carry is limited,” Gazenko explains. “If the Sputnik does not return before the oxygen runs out, the cosmonaut will asphyxiate. It’ll be devastating for the Russian people to know that their space hero died such a cruel death.”

The dictator’s eye redoubles its twitching. “Then the people mustn’t find out.”

“Of course, Mr. Premier,” Gazenko bows to conceal his outrage. “Maybe with you being so wise, you can suggest a more humane alternative?”

“Why not poison the food?” Khrushchev says, checking his watch.

“You’re right, Mr. Premier,” Gazenko says, gripping my leash. “I don’t know why I didn’t think about it.”

Khrushchev pats him on the back in exactly the same manner he patted my head moments before. “I can’t always think for everyone, eh? I’ll give instructions for a signed photograph to be sent to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Premier.”

“That’s an honor I don’t grant to everybody, but I know that you will earn it,” Khrushchev says. He leaves the studio without even glancing at me again. I am already dead to him.

Albina and Mushka conspire to share their food with me. They insist on fattening me up so that I don’t have to eat the capsule’s poisoned rations. They remind me that before wolves self-domesticated, our ancestors survived the glacial cold hibernating like bears. They advise me to cocoon in the capsule once it begins to orbit. It then occurs to me to ask what happens to the dogs that are not taken from the truck.

They are taken to the pound, Mushka tells me because she is the one who has traveled. To be put down. My heart lodges in my throat at the thought of my brother. Now he is young and agile and can evade the nets of the dog catchers and the skewers of the indigent, but what will happen to him when he grows old? Strays are aware that we cannot hope for anything better than the fate we’ve been dealt. Ours is a hard life and we live it as it comes. On the streets we are at the mercy of the elements, of the cars that run us over, of the homeless who eat us, of the master who abandons us because the protection pact sealed inside of a cave thousands of years ago, no longer matters to him.

Roman Centurions trained us as warriors. Our masters dressed us in armor and we marched beside their horses. We have been giving our lives for our masters for thousands of years without a second thought because that is our nature, except it is one thing to give our lives willingly, another for the master we have protected since the beginning of time to rob us of life whenever it suits him.

On 30 October 1957, doctor Yazdovsky takes me to his house. I spend the afternoon playing with his children, surprised, grateful, in love with them, in awe of my own yearning to belong to this family. I let the little ones pet me, I permit them to pull my tail, I run after a stick even though I am a cosmonaut because it feels good to pretend that I am a cherished pet who has a loving family.

When they tire of playing, the children ply me with so much candy, that my stomach aches. As in so many other occasions, I think about my brother, about the pieces of my mother being swept by the wind. I surprise myself wishing I was one of those dogs with a place in the heart of the family and not this mockery of a pet that I am permitted to be for one afternoon. I want this house for myself, this garden, these children. I want to feel their hands stroking my fur, not the hands that shave it before they connect me to a tangle of sensors. I want this life so much, that my insides ache when Yazdovsky takes me back to the lab that night. “I wanted to do something for her, even if it was just a small gesture. The poor thing has so little time left!”

Gazenko does not respond. He locks me in my cage and goes back to his office in worried silence.

The following day, the Izvestia and Pravda photographers show up to document the historical moment. Gazenko supervises my bath, the shaving, the smear of iodine on the raw patches of my skin, then he feeds me. I wear my space harness for the photo session and Gazenko takes me to the Sputnik. I settle in my pod, where the photographers take more photos. Once they leave, Gazenko removes the harness and connects me to the monitors. He caresses my ears without realizing that he smells of sadness and regret. I kiss the murderous hand one last time.

I spend two days locked in the capsule without anything happening, bored, constipated, sleeping all day because there isn’t anything to do. When the device that releases my food doles out my ration, I don’t touch it, as I promised Mushka. The second time I do this, Gazenko comes to investigate. He stays with me until I eat both rations. Because I’m constipated, the double ration gives me gas. Gazenko leaves.

The Sputnik II is finally launched on 3 November. The supersonic speed with which I am catapulted to outer space very nearly kills me. My fur pulls back, my eyes roll in my head, my lips curl away from my teeth. I gasp for air, my ears ring, my teeth chatter. The sudden calm that follows the violent launch takes me by surprise. My ears are ringing still.

I spend the following hours memorizing the sounds of the capsule, the purr of the machines, the wild beating of my heart, until fatigued, I doze.

Upon awakening, I eat my first ration even though I promised not to touch the food. Stress makes me hungry. Within six hours of being in orbit, the capsule begins to overheat. Connected in my pod, I feel that I am cooking alive. I jump with such force, that I disconnect from the devices. I don’t land on the floor. I try to run, but the only thing that I achieve is to spin from one end of the Sputnik to the other without knowing where is up and where is down. I am so scared, that I stop being constipated.

The moment I disconnect myself, Russia stops receiving my vitals. The technical crew thinks I am dead. Energy consumption is reduced to a minimum. This lowers the temperature of the capsule, which is perhaps what saves me from boiling alive in that pot. When the temperature reaches a near freezing point, I manage to descend back into my pod. I roll in my blankets and fall into a comatose sleep.

Every now and then, I rouse. My world is black. Silent now that Russia disconnected everything. Sometimes I see shooting stars pass by or the blue marble that I circle again and again. I feel cold and close my eyes again.

Nikita Khrushchev sends Gazenko an autographed photograph. Bent over with grief, he puts it in the bin. He wants to retire, but the dictator orders him to go on with his work. The Sputnik II continues to orbit Earth. The Russian people continue to believe that I am alive. Personnel at the base declare me dead without knowing that I cling to life. They are ordered not to reveal the truth.

Gazenko begs the engineers not to make the same mistake with Strelka and Belka, who are sent to space in 1960. He urges his team to find a way to make certain the Sputnik III does return.

Upon her return, Strelka mates with a pedigreed dog. One of her puppies is presented to President Kennedy as a gift. The leader of the Western World is resentful because the cosmonaut dogs have Russian names instead of being called Rover or Fido. To add insult to injury, Yuri Gagarin makes his first trip to outer space in the Vostok 1 in 1961. He goes beyond the moon at full speed without thinking about landing to stick a flag there.

When people ask about my fate, Khrushchev announces that the Sputnik II was lost in space. He even manages to squeeze a tear out of his treacherous eye. But I don’t die in the Sputnik six hours after being put in orbit nor am I lost in space as the world is led to believe. I do not suffocate from lack of oxygen. I am not poisoned because after the first ration I don’t touch the food again. Like my ancestors in stressful situations, I fall into deep hibernation. Almost without realizing it, I do 2570 orbits around the Earth before its force of gravity pulls back the Sputnik in April 1958.

Because of the haste with which the launch was planned thanks to the dictator’s wish to be celebrated as a hero, the engineers were not given enough time to find a way to reduce the Sputnik’s friction during reentry. Not until later is it discovered that a hydraulic system is the solution to the problem of atmospheric reentry.

As I promised to Albina and Mushka, I cling to life. I yelp with joy when I feel the pull of gravity, when I see that the Earth’s Orb is no longer a blue marble, but a sphere that looms larger and larger as I approach it.

I am so happy, that I forgive Gazenko. Gladness makes me yearn to kiss his hand again. And if I get a chance, I will sink my teeth into Khrushchev’s. I can’t wait to see Mushka and Albina, to surprise Strelka and Belka, for Yazdovsky to bring me back to his house as he promised his children. I shall run after a ball until I’m so tired that I stumble, I will feel the children’s hands on my fur, I will let them feed me candy until my belly aches, then at night, after the children go to bed, I will curl by Yazdovsky’s feet because my most ardent desire in life is to belong to a family.

The capsule disintegrates upon reentering Earth.

#dogs #cosmonaut #sputnik #laika

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nyoomerr · 8 months ago

Text

in this house we go feral for worm art 10000% of the time and this is no exception, so please accept this small fic drabble inspired by this absolutely insane art 🙏

cw: implied vore -----

When Luo Binghe first meets Shen Yuan, Luo Binghe hasn’t eaten in a month. He isn’t sure how long his body can keep itself alive without eating, but he can’t risk eating the beasts in this part of the Abyss - their flesh is loose and hangs on their bones in a way that speaks of rot and disease. Luo Binghe could survive eating something like that, but it would put him out of commission for a day or so.

Besides, Luo Binghe is used to being hungry. He’s been hungry his whole life, in one way or another. Hunger is proof that Luo Binghe is still alive.

Shen Yuan worries more about Luo Binghe’s hunger than anything else, and more intensely than anyone who has only recently met Luo Binghe ever should. To Shen Yuan, Luo Binghe’s hunger is worse than the burns festering with infection on his feet, worse than the fingers on his left hand that haven’t grown back yet.

“You can’t heal those other things if you’re this hungry,” Shen Yuan stresses. “Please - you need to eat. Let me feed you.”

Luo Binghe can’t afford to trust any part of the Abyss that offers him respite. An oasis of fresh fruits and water will turn out to be an illusionary trap; a demon that offers a meal will just as surely turn out to have poisoned the meat.

Luo Binghe wants to take the poisoned flesh into himself anyway.

Oh, he’s been hungry all his life, but he’s never been hungry like this. It’s never burned him, never made him feel like life might not be worth living if he can’t partake in this meal. Luo Binghe has spent ages with an aching stomach, and has spent years starving for the touch of someone who cares for him, but this -

Luo Binghe has never been hungry for a person before.

“Please,” Shen Yuan says again, looking for all the world to be an innocent and earnest man, worried for his new friend. “Please, let me feed you.”

Shen Yuan cannot be an innocent man. Shen Yuan is a demon native to the Abyss - native to the place that Luo Binghe has been banished to - and so naturally Shen Yuan must be as awful as Luo Binghe himself is.

Even more damning, Shen Yuan has been begging to feed Luo Binghe for over a week, now - for as long as Shen Yuan has known him. Even before Luo Binghe had slain the beast that Shen Yuan had been hiding from, Shen Yuan had started asking if he could feed him. When Luo Binghe had rebuffed the obvious attempt to poison him, Shen Yuan had silently begun following Luo Binghe through the Abyss, chasing Luo Binghe with unasked for advice and superfluous compliments.

A week is not long enough for Luo Binghe to learn to trust someone. It is not long enough for Luo Binghe to think Shen Yuan does not mean to poison him, or lure him into a trap, or strike when he lets his guard down. It isn’t even long enough for Luo Binghe to begin believing that Shen Yuan really means the praise he lavishes on Luo Binghe.

It is enough time for Luo Binghe to become addicted to it anyway.

“Please,” Shen Yuan says, and he says it like a prayer, like Luo Binghe is worth praying for.

Shen Yuan is in front of him on his hands and knees, his head bowed, keeping a respectful distance. His hands are on Luo Binghe anyway: light touches to his cheeks and neck and feet, small pressures resting on his shoulders and his back.

This is the nature of the demon Shen Yuan is: the sort that can multiply.

Shen Yuan’s clones are significantly smaller than he is - only as tall as the length of Shen Yuan’s palm - but Shen Yuan has assured him that they share senses with Shen Yuan’s main body, and that Shen Yuan’s thoughts control their every moment.

They are also the food that Shen Yuan has begged to feed him.

“They’re safe for you to eat,” Shen Yuan insists. “Biologically, I’m not so different from a human, so they should taste the same as one. They may not have so much meat on them, but I can produce enough of them to fill you up anyway.”

One of the small clones tugs at Luo Binghe’s hair lightly. Luo Binghe knows without checking that it was unintentional; the clones seem almost obsessed with wrapping themselves in his hair, leaving small braids everywhere they can reach. Every part of Shen Yuan is obsessed with touching Luo Binghe in a million small and gentle ways.

Even when Luo Binghe is on guard against it, Shen Yuan’s manipulation is devastatingly effective. It’s harder and harder to remember that Shen Yuan cannot be trusted, when Shen Yuan touches him so sweetly.

“Will it hurt you permanently, if I eat them?” Luo Binghe asks.

He knows well enough it will hurt Shen Yuan temporarily. He only wants to know if it can be healed from.

“Not permanently,” Shen Yuan assures him. He looks especially eager at Luo Binghe’s questioning, thrilled that Luo Binghe has not instantly shot him down like he usually does. “I can produce this many of them every few days or so, as long as my main body is not terribly injured. I can keep you fed for as long as you need me.”

Luo Binghe hums, looking down at the tiny clones of Shen Yuan that are tugging at his robes, their small faces crumpled in distaste as they silently tut at the tears in his old disciple robes. There are perhaps ten of them, including the ones he can feel on his shoulders and in his hair. It’s only enough for a few mouthfuls.

Luo Binghe plucks one of them out from where it has climbed into his sleeve. It goes limp in his hand, letting itself be held and moved without resistance. It only looks up at Luo Binghe, smiling with the same dopey grin Shen Yuan’s main body wears when Luo Binghe lets him chatter about the beasts in the Abyss.

Luo Binghe pinches at its body, and its little face turns pink, its smile bashful. There isn’t much fat on it. Ten of these every few days won’t be enough to fill Luo Binghe up.

(Luo Binghe doesn’t think any amount of Shen Yuan could fill him up. He thinks he’ll be hungry for Shen Yuan forever, for as long as Shen Yuan keeps playing at being good and kind and perfect, for as long as Shen Yuan pretends to care for Luo Binghe.)

“Why,” Luo Binghe says, still pinching the small creature in his fingers, “do you want to feed me? Why should I believe your flesh isn’t poisonous to me?”

“Even if it is, would it matter?” Shen Yuan asks. “You’re immune to all poisons. You could start by just eating one if you’re worried; that little won’t be enough to weaken you so much that you couldn’t fight back if I suddenly attacked you.”

Luo Binghe licks his lips. If he gives in to this hunger, he won’t stop at just one. He wants to eat all of Shen Yuan - he wants to absorb Shen Yuan’s flesh into his until Luo Binghe is more Shen Yuan than he is himself. He wants to feed the addiction he has to Shen Yuan’s touch by turning his own touch into Shen Yuan’s.

He almost wishes he weren’t as immune to poisons as Shen Yuan says. He almost wishes to die by consuming Shen Yuan’s flesh.

“Why,” Luo Binghe says again, “do you want to feed me?”

Shen Yuan looks up at Luo Binghe, genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t anyone?”

Luo Binghe shudders. He’s so, so hungry.

“No one has before,” Luo Binghe says.

“Everyone else has been a bitch,” Shen Yuan says, his eyes cold. “They’ll get what they deserve soon.”

Luo Binghe closes his eyes. He can hardly smell Shen Yuan over the sulfuric stench of the Abyss. He brings the small clone he’s holding up to his face, breathing in deeply.

It smells of salt, of sweat. Does Shen Yuan’s main body smell the same? Or would it smell more metallic, tainted with the blood that must surely be spilled when Shen Yuan tears a part of himself off to form a new clone?

“Alright,” Luo Binghe says. “Feed me, then.”

Shen Yuan does. Luo Binghe’s hunger does not abate.

Obsessive Devotion

For @nyoomerr for the SVSSS Gotcha 4 Gaza!! The prompt was "Bingge using Shen Yuan as a chew toy" and I kinda ran with it and went in the extreme direction. Had loads of fun with it :3c They're so normal!! CONTENT WARNING: Blood, Implied vore, Implied cannibalism, Vivid Neons, Eye Strain

#WORM ILY PLEASE HAVE THIS HUMBLE OFFERING #THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR FILLING THIS PROMPT THIS IS SO GOOD #💕💕💕#maybe bingge would get better if he ate shen yuans by the mouthful </3 #fic drabble

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gaysimpsstuff · 4 years ago

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Could I get a Hawks in his rut headcanon?

No problem, Anon! I’m sorry this took so long, I wanted it to be perfect since I really like thinking about Hawks’ avian traits, and I know people really like it too. I hope it’s good!

Hawks Rut Headcannons

Genre: fluff, smut

Type: headcannons (so... many... headcannons)

Warnings: animal traits, Keigo being possessive af, the commission being assholes, sickness, food, breeding kink, lots of horny times

Other: most of this is based off of real research, but some of it also comes from personal preference. @keilemlucent and their fic Best Nest very much inspired many other headcannons, check them outI They’re one of my favorite creators, and the linked fanfic is one of my favorites! Hope it’s okay I tagged you here lmao

NSFW Taglist: @smolchildfangirl @combat-wombatus @mandalorian-baby-bird @waffleareniceandfluffy (Lemme know if you wanna be added to or removed from the Taglist)

Remember to check if requests are open before sending in a request. This was made while requests were still open.

Pre-Rut Behaviors

Grooming and Preening

Before his rut, Keigo starts to feel dirty. He just seems to accumulate more dust and dirt during hero work than usual. He’ll come back home grumbling about blood in his hair and little bits of concrete in/on his skin.

He will insist you clean him off. So you get to brush his hair, put creams on his face, and wash him off in the shower.

Finally, there’s the preening. If he lets you preen his wings, then you know he’s in it for life. He loves and trusts you with everything he has.

Expect him to press his nose against yours a lot.

Possessiveness and Protection

You’ll notice he gets more clingy, more possessive of you. He gets really controlling in the days leading up to his rut, so you’ll be annoyed a l o t.

Just text all your friends and family that you’ve been swamped at work, it’d be a little weird to say “hey guys, sorry I can’t hang out, my boyfriend’s horomones are crazy right now and he gets really insecure if I so much as exist near anyone but him.”

You would come home from work and he’s already on you, sniffing your body to see who you’ve been around, and to see if any of them were attracted to you at all.

If he had any kind of sneaking suspicion that anyone posed a threat, he’s literally laying on you and rolling on top of you to try and get his scent on you. Even if no one will smell it except him, he’s gonna do it.

He’s so protective of you, and if something tiny hurts you or makes you upset...

He.

Is.

Angry.

Someone was rude to you? He’s screaming at them.

Someone tries to hurt or touch you? You’ve got to hold him back to stop him from ripping that person apart limb from limb.

All that x100 when he’s approaching his rut.

One person accidentally bumps into you? He takes it as passive aggressiveness even if they’re very apologetic about it.

You stub your toe on a table? He’s smashed the table and burnt it then thrown the ashes in the ocean.

If you’re sad about something he can’t beat up, he feels horrible. He’s not the best at comforting people, so he’s just grabbing onto you and not letting go, telling you how much he loves and cares for you, and just how amazing you make his life feel.

If you don’t give him enough attention, he gets really huffy, and it gets worse leading up to his rut.

You lifted your hands from his head to reach for your buzzing phone? He’s already whining and pouting and begging you to give him more head-pats again.

Nesting

He’ll leave hints asking for you to make a nest, usually saying things like “Our bed needs some changing, don’t you think?” “Don’t you wish our space was more personalized?”

If you don’t get the hint, he’ll be very sad, and he thinks you’re rejecting him. So you’d better be good at reading into things and realizing he’s approaching mating season and wants you to build a nest.

He comes home one day and sees you piled blankets, pillows, and dirty clothes in the living room, sprayed with his cologne and you’re cologne and/or perfume. He pulls you into his arms and spins around with you, giggling and laughing.

He’s so happy you made a nest for the two of you.

He starts putting pretty shiny things he likes around the nest. Your toothbrush went missing and you found it in the mountain that was your nest.

Once, you were in desperate need of a clean shirt, and the only clean shirt you could find was in the nest. So you picked it up to put it on, and two seconds later, Keigo was in front of you, hands in your shirt, staring at you with such a fierce intensity, you felt almost like a villain.

He was very mad at you for taking things from your shared nest.

He leaves feathers all around the penthouse, but they’re all piled mostly around the nest, they’re for your protection so don’t try and throw them away.

Noises

He also gets really noisy, so he’ll be ‘singing’ and squawking and cooing constantly. He feels really bad about it so he might get you some noise-blocking headphones for when he’s screeching into the sky in the dead of night about how “THIS IS MY FUCKING TERRITORY Y’ALL MOTHERFUCKERS STAY AWAYYYY!”

You really think bird’s springtime songs are about love? Nah he’s mostly screaming about how he’s gonna fuck his partner and how the neighborhood practically belongs to him.

Someone called the police once, tired of all the shouting, but the officers backed off when they saw who was doing all the shouting. Most of your neighbors are used to the screaming during early spring.

Rut End-game

On the third and second to last day before his rut, he gets a sudden burst of energy and an increased appetite. He refuses to eat anything unless you’ve made it though, so let’s best hope you can cook at least a little.

When he was younger, his hungry times before his rut were spent either eating anything and everything he can get his hands on. The commission broke that behavior very quickly though, so he’d starve himself before his rut, which would result in him getting very sick from a lack of energy and sustenance. That plus the extreme arousal was a recipe for pain and suffering.

So when you noticed he suddenly stopped eating, you insisted on making food for him, telling him that you wouldn’t let him go hungry ever. That was the first rut in years that didn’t feel like torture.

You’re cooking almost all the time, and he’s constantly eating everything you give him, running around from room to room while he waits for his next meal. He’s basically a hobbit.

In the last day or two before his rut, he suddenly has no energy, and starts getting hot and cold flashes. He’s sniffling, curled up in your shared nest, dirty tissues surrounding him. He comes in and out of consciosness, and when he’s awake, he’s whining and complaining about exhaustion and aches.

Physical Changes

Most of these happen in the last few days leading up to his rut, so it’ll be very sudden. These physical changes is what causes the extreme hunger and sickness.

His feathers darken several shades, and they become super sensitive. They also seem to grow in size, so when you cuddle, you’re smothered by them more than usual.

He also gains an extra couple inches in height, so expect some teasing now that he’s just that little bit taller. His hair also gets thicker and stronger, that’s so you can pull on it when he fucks you.

His nails get longer and darker, and they’re impossible to file or cut. So when he holds you and touches you, he often scratches you on accident. He’s really apologetic about it, but honestly you could totally paint his nails and pretend they’re acrylics if you’re into that.

His teeth get sharper, and he starts biting you just for fun. Bites your finger, hand, wrist, neck, even your nose. He underestimated just how strong his teeth are, and he made you bleed first time he bit you.

His whole body is very sensitive, so head-pats, back rubs, wings, and even his touching his feet can get him to the verge of cumming.

his tongue is longer, and it’s a whole lot stronger. He could probably carry a full plastic water bottle with his tongue (which isn’t a lot, but for a tongue it’s very much a lot).

His voice drops a whole octave and a half- mans is sounding almost like Corpse now. Maybe Markiplier? Anyways, if you’ve got a voice kink, you’re in luck

His dick changes too, it gets bigger, and he grows a lump at the base of it, between his shaft and balls. His balls get smaller until they’re barely noticable beneath what he calls him ‘knot.’

His eyes become sharper too, so don’t try and hide anything from him.

Rut (MAJOR NSFW)

Everyone already knows Keigo has a breeding kink, but he hasn’t brought it up with you until now. It just kind of- happens. As he’s drilling into you, he suddenly starts blabbering about fucking a kid into you, and how hot you’d look all round with his kids. Might be a little weird for those of you who physically cannot give birth to children (my lovely AMABS and infertile AFABS).

He can’t control it, so it’s especially weird if you don’t even want kids. If you can get pregnant, you’d better double check that you’re taking your birth control. And get to know some good clinics just in case.

However, if you do want kids, if you want to start a biological family woth Keigo, fuck. You will not be able to handle his happiness and horniness in that moment when you beg him to get you pregnant.

He is going to mark you up. Hickies, bruises, hand prints, bite marks, plus his scent. He needs everyone to know that you are his. He wants to claim you, make sure you know you belong to him. No one else can have you but him.

Halfway through your fuckfest, he starts making animalistic noises. He’s growling, roaring, whining, chirping, etc. This is around the time when he stops thinking about you, so he’ll really rough you up during this phase.

This man was a virgin before you, so this is also the first rut he’s ever going to have with another person, so he’ll hold himself back a lot. He needs you to reassure him at every step, tell him how good you feel, how you want him to fuck you, how not only are you okay with him going all out, you want him too.

Did he just cum? You think you’re finished? HA! No way in fucking hell is he finished after one, two, five, ten... so many rounds. He just keeps going and going and going and how the fuck is he still hard? He cums so fucking quickly, so much, and then keeps going.

When he finally does go soft, his whole personality changes. it’s like he didn’t just fuck you stupid. He immediately goes into ‘protect’ mode, which includes cuddles, him spoon-feeding you, petting you like a dog, and singing to you.

He puts the nest near a window so he can keep an eye out for possible threats. Just like “gotta keep mate safe. Is that the mailman? NO FUCK NO GET OUT OF HEREEEE!”

One moment, he’s fucking you, and the next he’s leaning halfway out the window, screaming at some poor dude walking his dog. Remember, he’s still naked. You learned your lesson after that and kept the windows locked, and warned the neighbors to stay out of sight of the window, at least for the time being.

You’re going to feel very dirty, because he does not want you cleaning off the sweat, cum, and tears from your body. He likes that you smell like him, and you washing it off makes him feel rejected.

He’s going to break a lot of things, so move pictures and vases into another room and lock the fuck out of that room. Or else he will break all of it.

He thinks any clothes you’re wearing are mocking him, so wear clothes you hate when his rut starts, then get used to being naked for a couple days.

Oh yeah, his whole rut lasts one to five days. He’s fucking you for about three days on average.

He fucks you until you faint, and then keeps going until he’s out of ‘fuck’ mode and into ‘protect’ mode. A few times, he fucked you unconscious in the middle of the afternoon and then kept fucking you until the sun rose.

Yeah, he’s got that much energy.

Don’t worry, during the whole time, he lets out pheromones with a strong vanilla-chocolaty scent that keeps your body and mind relaxed.

There’ve been times when he’s just fucking into you and your water bottle is just out of reach.

During his rut, he has no shame. Let’s hope your walls are soundproofed, or else your neighbors will all know how he fucks you.

He will not restrain you or hurt you in any way during his rut. So no degredation, no collars or chains, the only thing keeping you in the nest is his weight on top of you.

He gets upset if you try to touch yourself, things it’s you trying to tell him that he’s not satisfying you enough.

He wants you to cum as many times as him, which is difficult because of his increased sensitivity, so he’s using every skill he knows to get you cumming again and again and again.

Most of the time, he’s going hard, rough, and spilling absolute filth from his cock and mouth, but in the last few hours of his rut, he suddenly gets emotional.

He’s rocking up against you, holding you close to his body and blabbering about you

How much he loves you

How good you make him feel

How he wouldn’t want anyone else by his side for his rut

How you’re his mate for life

How he’ll protect you and keep you safe.

Please be gentle with him, he’s very vulnerable near the end of his rut, and he’ll cry very easily.

When he’s nearing his last load, he makes out with you sloppily, trying to talk as he shoves his tongue down your throat.

He finishes off by pushing his knot all the way inside you, and stays there for an hour.

This is the softest moment, and he’s covering your body in kisses.

His knot pushes these small eggs inside you, and you have the lovely job of pushing them all out the next day.

Post Rut

When his knot deflates, he finally pulls out and starts cleaning you off.

He’ll carry you around and finally gives you a bath, constantly making sure you’re okay.

He’ll give you lots of massages and he’ll cook for you. He’s constantly thanking you for helping him, telling you he didn’t deserve it.

Just kiss him on the cheek, tell him you had fun, and that you love him so very very much.

He needs the most reassurance now than ever before.

He’s also very tired, so you’ll be taking care of each other.

Then his ‘post-rut’ resets, and he sleeps for hours.

Then he gets super hungry, and the two of you make huge meals and just kinda binge eat for a day or two.

Then his physical changes go back to normal, and you have a happy lil bird boy who simps for you so hard

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autisticandroids · 3 years ago

Text

so i've been thinking about this post. and the points at which i agree and disagree with it. jesus christ this is like three thousand words.

i think that the basic premise, that cas has a martyr complex about self-denial, is very insightful. the issue is i don't think that's true at the point where the timelines diverge.

Cas IS selfless and altruistic in a lot of ways, don’t get me wrong, but I think that he’s got a streak of narcissism in him, the kind that people who deeply hate themselves have. He’s not getting validation from anyone else, so he may as well give it to himself, but the way he does that is, again, couched in self-hatred. He’s prideful of his own failures and congratulates himself for being humble about it. I fucked up but I did it for the greater good, I love but am not loved, etc etc. It’s a pitiable position, but it’s a principled and noble one, which is how Cas styles himself. I think it’s also a way for him to contend with how little he’s allowed to indulge in his own desire for pleasure. He’s just too good of a guy to put that on anyone (read: Dean) so he settles for crumbs.

like this is an incredibly insightful analysis of late seasons cas. late seasons cas is the glutton who starves himself believing that it's a noble thing to do. but this is something that he learns. and it's something that he learns after 5x04.

so, first, i want to say something: i don't think it's correct to say that the cas of seasons four and five is repressed. i think it's more accurate to say he is naive. he doesn't really know what is available to him to want, nor does he really know what it's like to want. he doesn't know enough about desire to repress his desires.

my evidence of that is... well, the first, strongest evidence would be my bloody valentine. like the basic thesis of my bloody valentine is that sam represents moderation on the scale of desire vs. repression, while cas and dean represent the extremes. sam struggles with his desire as a normal person would, while dean is so cut off from his desire that even famine cannot draw it out of him, and cas immediately succumbs the moment temptation appears. in fact, this is both of their undoing: cas is so hedonistic that in the extreme area of famine's effect, he cares only to satisfy his own hunger, and other goals become unimportant to him; in the same circumstance, dean can't bring himself to care enough to fight for his own life. put a pin in this. sam saves them because sam is the happy medium: able to access his own desires, but also able to control them.

i also think the way cas acts physically in seasons four through six is great evidence for this. i'm gonna pick one specific example, which is i think probably the clearest example of what i'm talking about: cas and meg in the ring of holy fire in abandon all hope. in that scene, cas catches meg in a bear hug when she stumbles, which is entirely due to expediency, but then she squirms in his arms and smirks in a way which undeniably adds sexual implications to the pose, and while his grip on her loosens (to the point where she could break away if she wanted), he doesn't let go. the whole scene is done with their faces about six inches apart, within easy kissing distance. cas doesn't really seem aware of the undertones at first, but once meg puts them there, he rather enthusiastically picks up what she is putting down, and he remains in the sensual position with her rather than stepping away and maintaining a bubble. he also reads as too naive to be bluffing, it comes off as genuine interest. there's lots of little moments like this in the early seasons, but the ones that come to mind are, first and foremost, unnecessarily shoving dean into a wall and touching him in lucifer rising, and then also shoving crowley into a wall in the man who would be king (and other times during that episode where he got up in crowley's bubble), the infamous "personal space" scene in free to be you and me, kissing meg in caged heat, and the alley scene in point of no return. all of these are moments when cas physically enacts a kind of eroticism which reads to me as similar to the raw meat in my bloody valentine: a kind of representation of amorphous desire which cas himself doesn't quite comprehend, and perhaps doesn't even really have a form yet. cas has never wanted in this way before, why should he know what it is that he's feeling?

the only episode that really goes against this proposition is free to be you and me, an episode which i loathe (or at least, i loathe the parts of it which relate to cas and sex). i think that cas is wildly out of character both in that he is mocked and dehumanized, and in that he is portrayed as significantly more aware of social conventions around sexuality than he should be based on the rest of his characterization. i think that, in terms of analyzing cas, free to be you and me, or at least the parts in and around the brothel scene, should be tossed out the window, because free to be you and me has almost nothing to do with cas: it's about dean. it's about dean's loneliness, and how he needs someone to replace sam. the cas characterization in free to be you and me exists to give dean his perfect fantasy: a perfect little brother who needs dean to care for him and get him girls and hang out with him and is both totally dependent and totally obedient. and also adorable! there's a reason that free to be you and me and sex and violence have almost the exact same plot (down to the brothel/strip club): cas is functionally filling the role of the siren for dean. if cas followed his usual characterization, dean wouldn't be able to bounce off him so easily, because he would be questioning dean, and piercing through dean's bullshit with his candid naivete. so in order for dean do get his perfect backdrop, cas has to be ooc.

i think that repression (and the kind of narcissistic self-denial @seasontwelvedean is pointing out) is something cas learns over the course of the series, but i don't think he's started learning it in 5x04. i don't really think it's a... controlling force in his personality until post-godstiel. like, post-godstiel is when cas learns to really hate himself, to fear his own ability to make choices, and when he learns a lot of his most maladaptive behaviors.

but at the same time, i would be lying if i said i thought cas was entirely unrepressed before meet the new boss. there are people who read watching dean rake leaves as the same kind of naive expression of formless desire that i discussed earlier with the wall shove in lucifer rising, but i'm not one of them. overall, season six is a season where cas is clearly denying himself a great deal: in the man who would be king (and implicitly in previous episodes, see caged heat "much of the time, i'd rather be here"), he over and over denies himself the comfort and counsel of his friends, not because he thinks there would be danger in telling them, but because he doesn't want to bother them and wishes to take the burden on himself instead.

so, he does know to repress his desires in season six, at least to a certain extent. obviously he's still unknowingly expressing them or simply failing to repress them all over the place (mostly in caged heat and the man who would be king), because repression of his own desires isn't his most deeply held conviction yet, but at least the idea of doing so has made it into his head. so. when did he learn this?

my proposal is: my bloody valentine. i have discussed before how my bloody valentine is in some ways meet the new boss in microcosm. it's a story in which castiel's overwhelming desire and hedonistic tendencies cause him to fail. he doesn't fail because he gives his all and it's simply not enough, he fails because of a fundamental defect of his character. this is the first really big mistake he makes. like, ever. cas tends to fuck up in one of two ways: first, he is torn by his divided loyalties. this is basically a constant feature of his character. first between dean/the winchesters and heaven, then between dean/the winchesters and the other angels (over and over and over again), and then finally, between dean/the winchesters and jack. it's something that's a pretty constant feature of his character. but it's tragic, and cas sees it as tragic. second, he makes bad choices of his own volition, because he's kind of inexperienced at this whole free will thing. he doesn't feel the same kind of guilt and shame over divided loyalties as he does over the mistakes which come from his own choices. while letting sam out of the panic room (and surrounding events) were mistakes for cas, and he was tortured by guilt at the time, they were primarily an issue of divided loyalty, and that was something he rectified by throwing in his lot with the winchesters. it wasn't him fucking up of his own free will. my bloody valentine is the first time he does that of any real consequence (it isn't exactly his fault that sam has to re-demon blood-detox after saving him and dean, but sam did have to save them with his powers, which is reason enough to blame himself and for dean to blame him). and, if his behavior in the final scene is anything to go by, that failure is something he's deeply ashamed of.

add that to the whole wild end of s5/beginning of s6 accidental arc which kind of implies that dean tosses cas by the wayside because he realizes that cas wants him, (or at least, cas could reasonably interpret dean's actions that way), and you have a fairly potent recipe for cas learning to control his desires.

(there's even more of this in season six, by the by).

if anything i would propose that cas' arc wrt repression in seasons five, six, and seven goes something like this: cas learns that indulging his own desires has negative consequences, and that dean will like him less if he wants things, so, at least partly in the hope of gaining dean's approval, he begins to deny himself. when dean betrays him, cas first tries to tempt dean back into a positive relationship, and then when that fails, gets angry and, among other things, casts off the small emotional repression that dean taught him and fully indulges himself in anything he can get his hands on. this, of course, ruins everything, and he lives the rest of his life shrouded by guilt. but there's nothing he can really meaningfully learn from it (because it wasn't really the logical result of his decisions, more a string of bad luck and diaboli ex machina, plus happening to be in the right place at the right time as angelkind was ready to destroy itself). so what cas does learn is that... wanting things is bad and indulging himself is evil. and that's where he's at for really the rest of the series. that's where his self-denying martyr complex comes from.

but the thing is... endverse cas isn't like that. if you believe that 5x04 really does depict an alternate timeline, then it split off before cas could learn any of this. and it looks like he didn't. one notable thing about endverse cas is that he's bitter. he feels like he's been screwed. he doesn't blame himself for where he's ended up, he blames the universe, and he's pissed about it. he laughs in dean's face when dean says "strap on your angel wings," and he bitches about how he "used to belong to a much better club." that takes a lot of self-possession, self-possession that canonverse cas doesn't ever have post-godstiel. endverse cas isn't poisoned by self-hatred the way canonverse cas is, or at least, not nearly as flashily.

i also think that, despite how dean perceives it, endverse cas' emotional ruin has very little to do with dean, except insofar as dean convinced him to fall in the first place. while it sucks that cas is in love with dean and dean can't give cas anything back, that's just one awful aspect among many of living through an apocalypse (while human and cut off from his brothers and sisters). and it's really different from canonverse. in canonverse, cas believes that he can't ever get anything back from dean because he's not good enough to deserve it. the whole situation is an ouroboros of guilt, martyrdom, and self-image issues. he believes that dean can never love him, because he is unlovable due to his crimes and the defects in his character. in endverse, sam's yes broke dean completely, and everyone knows this. cas certainly knows this. endverse dean is incapable of loving endverse cas because endverse dean is incapable of loving anyone but the ghost of sam, and cas is aware of this. if free to be you and me is anything to go on, it's reasonable to believe that until things got really bad, or perhaps even until sam said yes, cas and dean had a fairly positive relationship. endverse cas has had dean's love, and he only lost it because dean himself was destroyed. like, even though their relationship is clearly a shell of what it once was, cas seems to be the only one who feels comfortable questioning or talking back to dean, and is clearly the one closest to him. and given how he reacts to dean cheating on risa, as well as, you know, the general aggressive queercoding of the episode, i think it's reasonable to maybe even suppose that they are or were at some point sleeping together. cas has had dean. cas' biggest problem is not that he cannot have dean, but that his life is awful in other ways. and he does not blame himself for that.

so, essentially, i don't believe that endverse cas is or was ever affected by the kind of self-denying martyrdom impulse that the original post picks at.

i also have some slight disagreements with the distinction the post draws between how dean and cas engage with pleasure:

So to start, I think one of the most important internal motivations for Cas is hedonism. He is curious and pleasure-seeking (those two things are heavily linked), and generally wants to feel good. I think people tend to read Dean as a hedonist, but I don’t actually think that’s the case - he substitutes short term pleasure for long term happiness, and pleasure functions as an easy form of comfort for him, but the thing he wants is happiness and comfort, not pleasure directly. But with Cas I think he just enjoys feeling pleasure in all kinds of forms and is actively curious about it.

i think this is again, overall true. but i think in the specific case of endverse cas, he is in fact pulling a dean and substituting short term pleasure for long term happiness. like, yes, he does enjoy sex and drugs, but he is primarily it seems using them as a means of escape from the unbearable reality of the apocalypse. cas is genuinely hedonistic, but he is also deeply avoidant, and will do anything he can to escape from reality if he can't handle it. like, this is why i always draw a connection between honey cas and endverse cas: they are manifestations of the same impulse. endverse cas can't handle the hopelessness of the apocalypse, so he escapes through extreme hedonism and mind-altering substances. honey cas can't handle the guilt of godstiel, so he escapes through disconnecting from reality (not exactly intentionally, but it's a psychological defense mechanism, he is still escaping). they're two sides of the same coin. and both of them are perfectly happy to die, because death is another kind of escape.

#spn #suicide tw #<- i guess

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