#feathers & threads soaked in red

[cdragons]

Crass Family Moodboards & Headcanons

These are moodboards and headcanons for the Crass Family in my Snowbaird AU story, "Feathers & Threads Soaked in Red." I also plan to make some for the Snow Family and the Covey in District 12. If you are curious after reading these, please visit this page and read the story!

Icarus Magnus Crass - played by Richard Madden

Icarus Magnus Crass is the Head of the House of Crass. He was an only child and had an extremely strict upbringing.

Before his current position as Secretary of Defense, he was the youngest soldier to quickly rise to the rank of General.

Icarus was groomed to be the next president by his father should the elderly President Ravinstill have an "unfortunate" demise

He lived an extremely isolated childhood - his education consisted of private tutors before attending the Academy & University

His only comforts in his childhood were Sephia Rose & his piano

Had a long-term engagement to an obscenely wealthy heiress before he went public of his relationship with Sephia Rose and was sent to the military

When he married Sephia Rose, in his vows he told her: "I was born to love you."

He would often use the secret tunnels to watch Sephia Rose sleep when she first came to the manor - he had never met anyone so different and pretty.

Icarus is someone who had every opportunity to grab power, but he chose happiness. In choosing love, he lived a fulfilling life with a wife who he loved more than anything and was blessed with children he would give his life for in a heartbeat. He is who Snow could have been if Coryo had just been medicated.

Sephia Rose/Kore Hayes - played by Haley Bennett

To the Capitol's Elite, she is Kore Hayes. But to herself and her family, only then can she be Sephia Rose.

She and Icarus have built a life together in the capitol, where she is the mother of three children with all Covey names.

Sephia was very scared of Icarus when they first met as children - she didn't know if she was safe around Capitol children.

But she and him quickly got along after he would show her his piano and even play a song of an old lullaby.

Before she founded her clothing brand "Lis et Rose", she modeled for some of the most exclusive clothing brands in the Capitol and even found ways to model her own clothes.

When Icarus enlisted in the military, she presented offerings in the garden to pray for his protection

During the war, she would write letters to Icarus every day while he was on the war front, and she always place a kiss at the end of each letter.

SHe made sure that he children knew all her Covery's skills, including how to garden and cook.

Sephia Rose lived an incredibly harrowing life. But her resilience for hope had helped her find light in the darkest of tunnels. She never lost touch with her roots and often told her children stories of her childhood. She is grateful every day for the love that blossomed between her and her husband.

Laurus Orion Crass - played by Josha Stradowski

Laurus Orion Crass, or Laurie, is the firstborn to Icarus and Sephia Rose and heir to the Crass House and fortune.

Because of his position, Laurie always had a lot of pressure placed on him due to society's expectations for him to be a military man like his father.

He knows that he is very fortunate to have such incredible role models for parents who only gave him support and love while teaching him how to exercise caution

He was a premature baby by almost 4 weeks and had to be placed in the ICU due to his lungs not being fully developed and still sometimes has asthma attacks

Before his godmother died, he would often play at her office whenever he visited due to his health issues as a baby, and this inspired him to want to become a surgeon.

He learned the piano from his father, and it would serve as a great way for them to bond when he came home from work.

He is very proud of the name his mother gave him - Laurus, which means victory, and Orion was his dad's favorite constellation.

Laurie is not a fan of Casca Highbottom - he noticed at a very young age that the Dean would always stay too close to his mother whenever they came in for parent-teacher meetings.

Laurie Orion is no stranger to the Capitol's dangers and hypocrisies and makes it his personal goal to fulfill his godmother's wish of establishing clinics in the districts before her "death." He may or may not have a crush on a particular girl he met in District 4. He is Sejanus Plinth if the boy had some goddamn impulse control.

Agalia Iris Crass - played by Annalise Basso

Agalia Iris Crass is the second eldest and only daughter of Icarus and Sephia Rose.

Because of how much she looks like her mom, her father had always been very protective over her

Agalia was born right before the war broke out - just enough time for her father to cry at her birth.

Ambition + Moxie - she has dreams of becoming a principal ballet dancer by her early 20s.

Her endless curiosity and good heart remind Sephia Rose of Kaety Amaryllis - Aggie often wishes she could remember her godmother.

Like her brother, she takes a lot of pride in her name - irises symbolize hope and valor, and Agalia means joy.

She first remembered dancing at five when her mother sang Lavender's Blue to her baby brother.

She designed and made all her costumes since her very first recital and even crocheted all her sweaters and cardigans.

Aggie Iris is the kind of girl who will fool you with her sweet smile and pretty eyes only to tear you apart with her spitfire spirit. While she despises the inhumane nature of the Hunger Games, she still has a little bit of anger towards the rebels since they "killed" her godmother. While she doesn't remember what she looks like, she swears that she can hear her voice every time she plays her music box.

Arcturus 'Arthur' Lucus Crass - played by kid on pinterest

Arcturus Lucus Crass, or Arthur, is the second son and youngest child of Icarus and Sephia Rose.

The sweetest kid you will ever meet in the history of the world - he's also the most likely to accidentally wander off (his parents got him a leash)

Nature kid with the greenest thumb - he will spend hours on hours with his mom in the greenhouse

Out of all the kids, his temperament and behavior most resemble their mother.

Every animal will fight to the death to protect this kid - every single one of Dr. Gaul's mutts loves him.

Speaking of animals, he has a penchant for walking in public like any animal from ages 2-6, and the leash only encouraged him.

Fell in love with crocheting when he did it with Aggie and Sephia Rose - now he has a playground equivalent to the black market for his toys.

His name was in dedication to his birthplace - the grove filled with amaryllis flowers in his family's garden his mother made to honor her Lillycat.

Arthur Lucus may be a bit naive, but he is not stupid. He's his parents' son after all, and although he is young he does know that there are people who want to hurt the people he loves. But he has a heart so big he loves the whole world, and he even has a fairy godmother who tries to help him in a distant wood when she can.

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @valeskafics, @aphroditesmoon, @mitsuki91, @tatumrileyslover, @asa-do-your-thing, @arcielee, @agir1ukn0w, @imsofuckingdonewiththisgoddamn, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @musical-theatre-gay

Please like and reblog and/or comment!

[willyoubemycherryy]

Order➬𝑭𝒊𝒛𝒛𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒎𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑱𝒐𝒆 𝑹𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒛

“Well look at you…”

𝑰𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔: 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑, 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏

.

.

☘︎︎.

It would be so cute when it was done. You just had to trust the process.

Sitting in the middle of Joe’s room covered in all kinds of glitter, patches, thread, and other crafty things. You were adding designs to a jacket you recently bought for him because you thought he’d look so good in it….after you gave it some razzle dazzle.

Now in your defense, it wasn’t gonna take long. It wasn’t supposed to. It was just sewing some cute patches on a cute jacket that you got your more than cute boyfriend. But…you’d never been particularly good at sewing or minding the time, so there’s that.

You can only imagine how you look as the door suddenly opens and Joe walks in, freezing as he looks at you. There’s a mess of supplies all around you and you…

You’re so cute, sitting on your knees in patterned stockings wearing one of those mini skirts you love so much, lovely hair pinned up away from your pretty face as your glossy lips move into a pout as you bat your lashes at him, shooing him with a manicured hand and he’s never been more smitten.

“Ugh! Joeee!! Now it won’t be a surprise! Go! Shoo! Off with you!” You yell, trying to be stern even as your cheeks heat under his love struck gaze.

“Well look at you…”

The soft tone of his low voice makes your heart skip a beat as you look down at your unfinished project. You like him too much to even stay frustrated with him.

“It’s for you…but it’s not done yet so you have to wait even though you wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t back so early”, you catch yourself rambling because he’s closer, kneeling down in front of you as he smiles, still looking at you like you were cloud 9 personified.

Honestly, to him, it doesn’t matter that you’re not finished because the fact that you were thinking of him enough to do something for him means more than you’ll ever know. You’re so sweet on him that it makes him melt as he bends down to kiss you tenderly.

“Thank you, you’re a doll. I love it, really.” You flush entirely, down to your toes as you giggle, soaking up his affection.

“Practice ended early so that’s why I’m back early and I’m glad I am. You look even prettier today”, he’s going to give you heart failure if he keeps sweet talking you like this, you whine.

“You’re trouble today and while I very much enjoy it, it’s also distracting so…” Joe laughs because usually it’s you flustering him, not the other way around.

“Are you kicking me out my room, doll?”

Suppressing a smile, you nod.

“Unfortunately, but not for long. You’ll just have to go play or something in the meantime.” The way he quirks his eyebrow as a slow smirk grows on his face makes you rush to correct yourself.

“Not like that!” He bursts into more laughter and you pull him into a kiss to shut him up.

You separate and he puts a hand up in surrender.

“Alright, I’m gone. Be back in 40?” You nod and he gets up to go.

“Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave!” The immediate shade of red on the tips on his ears has you struggling to compose yourself as you laugh, the door swinging shut behind him as his heart beats faster.

Already looking forward to 40 minutes from now.

(Y’all listen to birds of a feather I’m in love)

♡︎ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ, ᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏʟʟᴀʀ😌

[captain-hawks]

Happy Spicy Saturday Dee!!!

Methinks a certain winged hero, the man himself, one Takami Keigo, enjoys the occasional Sexy Phone Call when away on a long mission hehehe 🪽🪽(pretend those are red LMAO and thank you in advance!! 💙💙)

keigo takami x f!reader

c: masturbation, implied p in v

-> spicy sleepover

“So…I liked that dress you were wearing today.”

Keigo Takami may be hundreds of miles away right now, but you can hear the pout in his voice all the same as his feathers rustle noisily on the other end of the phone.

Thumbing at the hem of the soft material sitting gathered along the tops of your thighs as you lie in bed atop the rumpled sheets, you smirk, “I thought you would.”

Admittedly, you did buy the flowy little red dress with every intention of wearing it as a surprise when Keigo arrived home from his mission—he’s a sucker for seeing you in his favorite color, after all. But he’s been away for over a month now, much to your chagrin, so your impatience led you to post a casual photo wearing it instead (knowing just what kind of a response it would pull out of him).

“Did you…take any more pictures?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah?” he asks, voice entering that familiar, husky territory you know all too well. 

“Check your messages.”

You know the exact moment that he clicks the notification, an audible groan punching out of him when he sees the images—

—the fabric of the dress soaked through with water and clinging tightly to your breasts, your hard nipples showing through—

—the straps of the dress lying loose down the sides of your arms, tits spilling out, bottom lip tucked between your teeth—

“Oh fuck, baby,” he exhales, making no effort to hide the distinct sound of his zipper sliding down as he undoubtedly frees his cock from the confines of his pants.

Arousal simmers hot in your gut as you imagine him spread atop his hotel bed, the pupils of his golden eyes blown wide with lust as he tips his head back against the pillow and begins to stroke his erection.

“There’s more.”

The next sound that escapes his lips is a little more feral, caught somewhere between a growl and a whimper when he sees them, and you smile with satisfaction. 

—your ass on full display as you bend over—

—the skirt of the dress rucked up, your legs spread to reveal the slick leaking from your cunt—

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, and you hear him spit into his palm, each heavy stroke of his palm against his cock punctuated with a wet, slippery squelch.

“One more.”

—

Honestly, Keigo’s not sure he can handle any more. 

His cock is painfully hard, flushed red and throbbing, and if the heavy ache of his rapidly tightening balls is anything to go by, he’s worried his cum might end up on the ceiling if he doesn’t snatch the box of tissues on the nightstand in time.

But his finger automatically hits the play button on the video nonetheless, and he fucking chokes as he’s treated to the sight of you teasing your folds with one of his stray feathers, the fluffy red barbs stained dark with your sticky arousal. 

He’s going to fuck you in that dress every night for a week when he gets home.

“This isn’t fair,” he whines, pumping his cock harder in earnest, hips canting upward off of the mattress as he desperately fucks his fist.

Your responding laugh is breathy and innocent, but then you let out a little moan, and he knows you’re touching yourself to the sound of him jerking off.

With each rapid stroke up and down his shaft, he imagines all the ways he’s going to fuck you in that goddamn dress—

—atop the kitchen counter, your hands threaded in his mussed blonde locks, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, his hands shoving up the skirt of the dress and digging into your hips as he buries his cock inside of you—

—his hand clasped over your mouth to muffle your moans as you writhe in his lap on the couch out on your apartment’s balcony, dress fluttering in the warm summer breeze—

—up against the door inside of a restaurant bathroom, his patience drawn thin by the tantalizing swell of your tits across the table all night—

—you on all fours atop the mattress, whining and begging him for more as he pushes up the dress and palms the globes of your ass before burying his face in your cunt—

Keigo comes with a shout, hips stuttering as the pleasure of his climax rolls through his body in a wave of liquid heat, barely grasping a tissue in time to partially catch the flood of cum that sprays from his cock, half of it painting his chest. 

When you’re both sated, breathing heavily in tandem on either side of the phone, he looks at the mess he made and murmurs tiredly, “Send me the link for the dress so I can order you more...can’t promise I’m not going to ruin that one.”

[toshidou]

you are a legend for this, and i think everyone should be personally thanking you for this absolutely massive brained, pussy altering, dick twinging idea.

wc // 1.4k

tags // 18+ ONLY, afab reader (no pronouns mentioned), bottom!Ghost, top!reader, strap on, stomach bulge, overstimulation, crying, no aftercare written but i promise simon gets all the kisses and cuddles needed after <33

Harsh sounds of wet skin slapping obscenely together echoes against the pastel painted walls of your bedroom; the low light of a full moon casting a perfect spotlight on the mattress, highlighting every rippling muscle in the back of the man who lies under you. His fingers are gripping onto loose, scrunched sheets, knuckles white and veins popping, as though his tight hold on sullied bed linen is the last frayed thread keeping his sanity together.

"Fucking shit," parted lips practically whine, shining with drool in the dim light of the darkened sky above, painting a picture you commit to memory for a lonely night where your hand is your only solace.

“Feels good to get fucked, doesn’t it baby?” You croon, fingers caressing the scarred skin of his thighs, so hot to the touch, slick with sweat and lube, “Knew you’d like this, fuckin’ knew you’d be a slut for strap.” You don’t get a verbal response, just deep, intoxicating groans that reverberate through the mattress, positively drunk on power as you watch this military enigma, this well-respected, commanding figure fall apart from under you. Because of you.

You slow your hips, leaning back on your knees just to watch the way silicone so deliciously stretches his pink rim. Hungry eyes observing just how easily it swallows every inch given to it so fucking greedily, still fluttering around the base of your strap, as though all ten inches of thick cock buried within his body wasn’t enough, as if he somehow needs more.

Simon Riley looks nothing less than pornographic when he gets fucked, skin burning red, lips parted in the perfect little ‘o’, hips wantonly canting back against yours because he can think of nothing else but how fucking incredible he feels. And it’s not at all fair, because when he leaves you for weeks on end, all you can think about is this. How taut muscle ripples under your fingertips, so sensitive to every touch against his skin, no matter how feather-light. Haunted by the way his usually baritone growl pitches up, wrecked whines replacing low grunts with every forceful thrust.

“Turn over for me baby, want to see how pretty you look when you cum on my strap.”

Solid fingers unfurl from the sheets, leaving indents in their place as he shakily attempts to turn over, the only aid you offer coming in the form of pulling the silicone cock from his abused hole with a satisfying pop, reveling in his responding disgruntled huff.

His back hits the mattress not long after, built thighs automatically spreading, coaxing you like a siren call as you shuffle ever closer, fingernails dragging from his kneecap to his inner thigh, perfect red marks left in their wake. God, he’s a vision like this. Sultry, lidded eyes stare up at you, pupils engulfing his irises, leaving only vacant black in its place, gazing at you as though you are all he’s ever needed, as though he'd kiss the ground if he knew you'd walked on it. Thick, tattooed arms come to hook under his knees, pulling up until they meet rounded pecks, resting just under perked, dusty nipples. The sight alone has you leaking, your inner thighs soaked with arousal under the thick harness straps, clit throbbing with need, unstimulated and wanting. So desperately wanting. But you hardly feel it, no fingers against your sex could even come close to the feeling of lining up a silicone tip with his presented hole, clenching lewdly around air, beckoning you to fill him to the hilt once again.

Nothing, however, could have prepared you for the sight that awaits you as the strap sinks effortlessly into his hole. Flat, muscled skin gives way to plastic, rising in the perfect imprint of your cock, growing ever larger until hips meet flush against his ass. You can’t take your eyes of it, both hands moving down to push against his distended abdomen, desperate to check if your mind is deceiving you, if your strap is actually moulding his body into a perfect fleshlight, just for you.

“Fuckin’ hell, don’t-,” A hitch in his breath as your fingers curl over the bump, ignoring the harsh twitch of his cock as it bobs above your hand, “Don’t do that, don’t wanna cum yet.”

Molten eyes flick up to meet his head on, a challenge set like steel in your mind as you withdraw your hips, palms still pressing down against his now flat stomach. Chestnut brown hair hits the pillow the second you begin to fuck him with earnest, leaning your weight on your hands just to hear the frenzied curses and pleas that fall from his pretty lips, barely able to see past his chin from where his head is thrown back.

“Who said you were only cumming once tonight, Simon?” Your words punctuated with every sharp smack of hips against his ass and inner thighs, the skin stinging red with every brutal slap. With near perfect timing, Simon’s cries pitch up to a decibel you never thought possible from him, watching with nothing less than unconstrained awe as thick streams of white coat his skin all the way up to his sternum, dripping down onto your hands, his cock twitching helplessly as he comes untouched on your strap.

But you don’t relent, not for a second. Your hips don’t falter, fucking him through his climax until he’s shaking from overstimulation, his spent cock weeping pathetically where it rests on his abdomen, cum coated hands leaving his stomach only to play torturously with the dark red head of his dick.

It takes you a moment to realise, so caught up in his pleasure that you don’t notice his chin tilt down, not until you hear it. A sniffle. One glance is all it takes to see that you’ve reduced Simon to tears, wide yearning eyes shine so perfectly in the moonlight, pretty tear tracks running down red blotched cheeks, streaming down his jugular where they pool in indented collarbones. You’ve never wanted to lick something more in your entire life, knowing without doubt that salted tears would melt to saccharine sugar on your tongue, the taste of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

The sight only spurs you on further, thrusts increasing to a near feverish pace, chasing a high that will never come for you, but you don’t care, nothing else matters in this moment more than the man who lays under you, twitching, squirming, and crying, begging for more, sobbing for less, desperate for you. You can’t choose where to look, given an impossible choice of staring at his wrecked face, or the ever-present bulge that raises at every cant of your hips, eventually settling for the latter, eyes near drilling holes into the imprint of your strap from where it’s buried within him.

Pathetic, whimpered babbles drip from Simon’s lips, his eyes unfocused, blurred by tears and blinded by overwhelming pleasure, unable to do anything but lie there and take it, take everything you’re willing to give him with no complaints, just unconditional obedience. And fuck, does it suit him, he wears submission like he’s made for it, crafted so perfectly to give everything that he is over to your trusted hands. It makes you feel like a God.

It only takes a fingertip, dragged from his balls up to his frenulum before he’s pushed over the edge once again, his red, swollen hole spasming around unyielding plastic, sucking your strap in, forcing you to remain still as weak spurts of cum drips down the bloated skin of his abs, joining dried seed from his previous climax, painting the perfect picture of bliss on his skin.

And whilst Simon lies there, chest heaving and eyes painted with pretty stars formed by unshed tears, you can’t help but lean to the side and grab your phone, capturing the moment with shaking hands.

After all, you’ll need this photo for when Simon is away again, to remind yourself that you are the only person on the face of this Earth to ever have earned his submission. To ever reduce him to a mess of his own release and tears.

And as you throw your phone to the side, lowering your chest to lay flush with his, lips meeting in a soft, adoring kiss, you know he’s all you’ll ever need and so, so much more.

[palyena]

ꉂ WHITE WINGED DOVE | johnny sawyer x reader drabble

summary. a bird with wings doesn’t always want to be free, even if it knows where home is. even when the days go by like a feather on the wind, and they begin to blur.

warning(s). gore, blood, graphic descriptions of violence, kidnapping, cannibalism, stockholm syndrome implied, reader is implied to be religious (rosary), johnny doesn’t talk a lot this is more of a depiction of reader as a character

word count. 1.1k

a/n. first time writing on this blog, hiiii!

There’s a sickening crack – the cold blade slicing through the wrist of what was once a wholly sentient being. Like a fishing line swallowed by a fish, the twine is taught and the barbed hook has sunk into flesh and muscle, blood pooling and floating in the water as a predator catches a scent. No way back. No way forward.

Fingers curl and knuckles crack as the man inflicting this torture tightens his grip on the handle. The sack of bones —and blood and thought— is pulled along with the motion of the forlorn hand that wields the blade. Muscles constricting so tightly that you can nearly hear the creaking of bone.

The girl bound and begging before you, her jaw clenching so tightly, her teeth crack and the white of her eyes burst with red, red, red. Blood vessels flooded with too much as her body can only follow the whim of the hands that hold so much over her head. The will of something other than her nervous system, the impulsion of a horror, or a death worse than at her own hands.

Blood vessels strain as she’s ripped downwards, suspended by barbed wire that cuts up her forearms and leaves valleys of white. This is not right, but there is nothing that can be done. No way she can escape.

No way you can.

The grip on her shoulder tightens, threads of steel creaking as she finally struggles against it. Their barbs digs deeper and she can feel her arteries stay motionless as she flails, as her body thrashes with aching bones and triggered muscles. You can feel them tighten to the point her legs are numb and her fingers curl unnaturally. She might die —she will tonight— there is no escape.

“How’s it feel?” The boy, no man, leans down to get in the girl's face. It’s a sight that makes your insides churn and reef, these violent delights in this basement are nothing more than a violation done by the man you’re bound to since a chance meeting. A hollow face —no more than a mask— devoid of emotion as wide frenzied eyes bore into the eyes of a body that no longer belongs to her own. There’s a sadistic gleam in the pearly top row of teeth that peek out from behind his pink lips.

She can’t speak, nor can she answer. Not when her jaw is held in a gloved iron grip and the pressure building on her teeth releases in a quick shatters. It drips down her chin, rivulets of it soaking the front of her once pristine dress shirt. Shards of them, her teeth, scatter on the floor below her feet.

“No words?” The man’s hands curve, fingers curling into her matted hair. “Lemme help.”

Where would she have been if she hadn’t picked you up on the dirty roadside this morning?

A job interview in the county over? A date with an upstanding man?

Your eyes track from the writhing girl to Johnny. He had been upstanding when you met him. A little rough around the edges and mottled in freckles from the Texan sun. But he had been upstanding. With a beaten up pick-up that had pulled up next to your broke down Chevy. You’d expected some old creep, not a boy your age with the type of charm you’d see on movie star posters. He’d popped your hood and made small chat, asked what model your car was, why such a pretty lady drove such a manly car, where you were from, how you managed to end up on some backwater highway, he’d told you your motor had overheated, asked where you were heading, and why you were, if you’d wanted him to take a proper look, back at his house.

In hindsight, answering all those questions had been something you shouldn’t have done. Let alone saying yes. That one word had led you to an inescapable position in the slaughter shed, his axe poised right at your jugular as he murmured pretty nothings down at your swooned self. You splayed yourself out for the executioner thinking it was genuine care. How wrong you had been.

A year and six months you had been a missing person in Newt. A year and two months you had been an obedient extension of the Family. Nine months you had been both the bait and hook. Eight months you had been a cannibalistic freak, and the worst part? You enjoyed it. You loved the way the blood dripped down your arms as you carved meat from flailing victims. You enjoyed the give of it, the juices. You loved the way you were loved.

Johnny grabs ahold of your wrist, glove slick with blood that clings to your skin and starts drying as soon as his fingers skate up your arm. Something heavy is pressed into your palm and your fingers grip instinctively, curling around the textured handle of the skinner blade Johnny always carries at his hip. You hadn’t noticed it when you’d first met him, hadn’t seen the deadly glint in his eyes or along the blade.

He presses a rough kiss to the curve of your throat, another to your jaw. His bloody hand cradling the side of your face as those eyes bore into yours. Puffs of hot breath blow strands of hair into your face, there’s a stench of death that clings to him that makes your hand shake. Your fingers tighten around the handle to stave it off as you look up at him with all you think you’ve ever felt.

“Youse gonna skin that girl like you did last time, yeah?” It’s throaty, low enough that it feels like a secret between you both. But the girl behind his back jerks, yanking at the barbed wire as if it’ll give. It won’t. You tied it.

His other hand trails up the front of your shirt, blood catching on the pink fabric as his hand finally splays at your collarbone. Gloved fingers hooking beneath the askew chain at your clavicle and dragging it up until a shiny silver metal glints in the lowlights of the basement.

Your rosary, your God. Oh, how long ago you’d since abandoned them.

You nod, a small delicate thing. Prim and proper. Nearly like he’d asked you to cook dinner. He had, this girl was going to be.

“Thatta girl.” Those words stirred something deep in you, a heady type of feeling you once would’ve heaved up at. But now—now— you welcome it like an old friend.

You drag him into a kiss by the hair at the back of his neck, his teeth sink into your lip so harshly, blood pools in your mouths as he moans.

[elegyoftheend]

tw: gore, graphic violence, death, body horror, psychological distress(?). dead dove, do not eat.

Red. It flows like a river, saturating the once pristine white silk with a depth of crimson that seems to have a life of its own. Each thread is now a conduit for anguish, transforming the fabric into a tapestry of sorrow that permeates his very being.

The golden accessories, once adorning him as his people knelt before his divine statue, now lay broken and dull against his fair skin, unblemished other than the stain of crimson which he could not wipe away, by the corruption of chaos surrounding him. Even in his thorned throne, he lies still and beautiful; ethereal even on the verge of death.

Cyan eyes, radiant in sunlight, now bear the weight of dried blood and the droplets of fresh ones that seem never to cease their flow. With each drop that stains his cheeks, leaving a trail of crimson before falling onto the cracks of the marble floor, a macabre symphony echoes through the halls—a melody of death that he was all too familiar with but had never once sung.

Red splatters across the pristine white feathers of his wing, draped over his bloodied corpse. The other torn from his flesh, scorched and broken as it lies to remind him of the desperation of his people, while his feathers, once symbols of grace and beauty, now resemble shredded flesh, tangled in a grotesque dance with blood-soaked strands.

His throat hollowed—both figuratively and literally—a horrifying mess of flesh in place of vocal cords that gifted him a voice unmatched by heaven and earth. The one who sang the most beautiful melodies now lies voiceless, unable to sing his praises to his people; unable to scream in horror at his own fate.

Red, sullied the purity of his soul as they stripped him of his divine title, drawn forcefully from his veins by the very people he swore to protect. Red that covered the hands of those who ripped his wings away from him to fulfill the desires of something much greater than a god—fed with lies that by damning the deity of their nation, they would be saved from the fate that lies ahead for their kind.

Fate is by design, unfortunately, and theirs is to be damned by the color of red that seeped from their veins, drained out of life in a torrent of gore and agony, their bodies strewn across the marble floor like discarded husks, twisted and broken, a curse ignited by the savagery of their deeds.

Oh, how tragic. He could see yet he couldn't move from where they had chained him. He wishes to call for mercy from the greater being that damned him, yet he couldn't even utter his own name. He sits still, burdened by the weight of his kingdom's crumbling walls, surrounded by blood he couldn't distinguish as his or his people's. He could only watch as the sky collapsed into them, burying them under the ruins of the world that had cursed their nation and its god.

It was their own undoing that signed their fate; their palms were riddled with sin and bathed in blood, heads filled with guilt for the fate of their archon and the desperation to save themselves. But there is no way for the children of the wind to be saved, for, right from the beginning, they are damned by Celestia fate to fall with him.

[draphrawrites]

Vigilante DabiHawks AU

Finally posting some of my Twitter threads over here! Hope y'all enjoy 😉

Twitter Threads Pt 1 || Next

Originally posted March 26th, 2021

Okay, new idea. We’ve all seen hero!Hawks and villain!Dabi and vice versa. But imagine them both as vigilantes. Hawks is very much a “I’m faster and more efficient than the heroes” type, whereas Dabi is a “I’m more ruthless against assholes than the heroes are” vigilante.

They both think heroes are overrated, though, and they end up bonding via an accidental assist and street takoyaki. Cue a vigilante team-up that has the villains running scared and the heroes sweating bullets. Really though, it’s just two powerful 20yos cleaning up the city while not-so-subtly showing off to each other 😂

Hello yes, I’m still here for friends to teammates to power couple dynamics 😂

Continued in a separate thread, same day

Some toukei / dabihawks vigilante au thoughts Keigo’s first act of vigilanteism is the same that would have made him a hero in another world.

He saves six people from a four-car pile up, but since no cameras catch it this time, he passes under the radar. Slipping through the cracks, like his feathers slip through locks when starvation becomes imminent. 

He’s not proud of it. Stealing to stay alive. And he vows, as soon as he can stand on his own, he’ll pay society back in spades. 

Five years later, he makes good on his promise by toppling a terrifying drug ring. 

People from all over the city find money repaid that they hadn’t thought about in years, accompanied by a single red feather. Meanwhile, the authorities scratch their heads, wondering where all the drug money went.

Touya’s first vigilante act is somewhat closer to home, and occurs when he meets a man who calls himself Stain. Of all things, they get into an argument. Touya is 12, and still wants his father’s approval more than anything. Stain points out Endeavor’s motives for heroism are rotten at their core. Touya challenges him, quoting stats for Endeavor’s villain capture rate. Stain bites back with Endeavor’s civilian injury rates. It isn’t until Stain offers to show Touya the other side of heroism that the preteen reluctantly agrees, thinking he’ll prove the creepy sword-freak wrong. 

Instead, he’s treated to the aftermath of one of Endeavor’s more violent fights. One that leaves buildings aflame and firefighters struggling to assist. 

Touya watches his old man throw barrage after barrage, and listens as Stain points out how so much of the damage could have been avoided. Shifted angles, less power, planning ahead to herd the villain into a less populated area. Touya listens, and for the first time, he sees his dad for what he truly is: a flawed human. Not the pillar of righteousness he presented to the world. 

It rattles him deeply. But not as much as when he hears a scream from one of the burning buildings. 

His feet move before he can think, and that day he performs his first rescue.

Years later, when Keigo has fought his way up to a sustainable lifestyle that no longer relies on crime, he dedicates himself to helping where he can. Even in small ways. Like when he finds a white-haired fire user getting doused in a back alley, for instance.

“Rain wasn’t on the forecast today!” He calls, yanking the water dude off the ground to hold him at eye level. Fifty feet in the air. 

Keigo recognizes him as a member of a local gang. 

“Oh hey!” He says as the guy thrashes in panic. “How bout you stop trying to drown people and I don’t let my feathers slip up here? That sound okay?” 

The guy nods frantically, and Keigo beams before sending his feathers to drop the guy off on the most inconvenient roof they can find. Following that, he drops to the ground, where the fire user is still spitting up water. 

“Need a hand?” Keigo asks, offering one to the man while taking in his soaked appearance, his white hair, and his bright blue eyes, scrunched up with annoyance. 

“Didn’t need any help,” he grumbles, though he still takes Keigo’s hand and allows himself to be pulled up.

Keigo grins. “In the elemental game of rock, paper, scissors, I’m pretty sure water beats fire.” 

The guy snorts. “And fire beats air,” he returns, eyeing Keigo’s wings. The blond lifts a bushy eyebrow. 

“Not wrong about that. I hate fire quirks, no offense.”

The guy shakes his head, splattering water everywhere. “None taken. Feel the same about guys like that,” he says, nodding in the direction the thug had been whisked away. 

Keigo hums. “Why pick a fight, then? You two know each other?”

The guy eyes him. “I don’t associate with scum like that.” 

My kind of guy, Keigo thinks, grin widening. 

“Ya know, I’d drink to that. Right now, if you’re free?” 

The guy’s eyebrows raise. “You don’t even know my name.” 

Keigo shrugs. “So, what’s your name?”

“... Touya,” the guy - Touya - says. 

Keigo sticks out a hand once more, and Touya takes it with a mix of interest and reluctance. 

“Keigo,” the vigilante offers. “Now how bout that drink?”

Twitter Threads Pt 1 || Next

[hegoeshardasfuck]

Feathers and Thread

wordcount: 0.9K

tags: shibari, bloodletting, knifeplay, consensual but not safe or sane, horn stimulation

synopsis: Schlatt and Phil try two things in bed: blood, and shibari, both of which are new to Schlatt, neither are new to Phil

note: god I fucking love schlattza, it's so aesthetically pleasing to me for some god awful reason. two dilfs getting it on? sign me the fuck up. hope ya'll enjoy and if you did consider dropping a like or checkin the Ao3 port

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48459538

"C'mon idiot," Schlatt urged as he watched Phil tug off his robe.

"Ever heard of patience?" Phil chided in response as he flared out jet black wings, back to his partner. He glanced over his shoulder, "It'd do you some good."

Schlatt rolled his eyes, "Yeah, yeah, just get over here and fuck me."

Phil found himself inching closer to Schlatt a little slower, "So needy," He glided onto the cushions with ease, running a finger across the red rope that held Schlatts body. The twine ran between contours of muscle, framing every inch like one would with a piece of art, "Isn't there a rule about touching master pieces?"

Schlatt whined, "Break the rule, now."

Phil gave a hum of amusement, he trailed a finger across the knots, smirk on his face predatory. He lowered his mouth to Schlatts throat, running sharpened fangs and giving teasing nibbles along the way. From the crux of where neck and shoulder met to the cusp of his jawline small indentations of Phil's fangs lay. The ram shuddered when Phil brought a hand to grasp at a curved horn, digging fingers between grooved enamel.

Phil stretched out his wings again, muscles achingly stiff, in the same way cords held Schlatt on display. Pretty red strands holding wrists together, the same color as the blood that pulsed just under his skin. The blood that was one wound away from spilling out, the warmth that Phil craved to coat his form once more. The wet that often meant violence but could be shed under the light of loyalty and desire. He pushed his nail (sharp like talons), against the underside of Schlatts pectoral, sliding until a waterfall of red gushed forth. Schlatt keened at the unrelenting pressure morphing to a clean slice across his chest, the rope soaked up an uncanny amount.

"So calm," Phil purred, taking a blood slathered hand across the vermilion painted expanse of skin. He rested his hand on Schlatts cock, slowly dragging from the base to the tip, "So perfect."

Schlatt shuddered out a moan, he couldn't help the slight buck into the touch. Phil gladly teased the back of a nail along the underside and it made Schlatt tense entirely, pray for the twitch he couldn't help.

It garnered a hum of laughter from the demigod, "You know I wouldn't kill you Schlatt, don't you?"

Schlatt nodded, "Yeah."

Phil brought a wing prod between Schlatts shoulder blade, forcing him to puff out his chest a bit more. A lithe hand curled around a horn again, squeezing, a throaty groan spilled from Schlatt at the touch. The hand resting on his cock stroked once more, and then again, pre mixed with blood easily. Schlatt tensed as Phil circled a claw at the base of his horn, unfiltered moans bubbled up despite the fear. Phil leaned in once more, mouth dangerously close to Schlatts ear, the ram could hear each breath echoing his own.

"Then how come you're so scared?" The voice is cold compared to the warmth resting heavily between his fingers. The heat on his words and the ardor suddenly on his actions, giving a faint tug to the horn.

"Fuck! Fucking shit," The words tear through Schlatt like a seam ripper, he comes undone at frayed edges like denim, "Phil," There's a catch in his voice. He gives a sharp inhale, "Phil!"

Phil musters a heady laugh at the neediness his partner displays, the lust on his laugh is venomous, "C'mon, cumming so soon?"

Schlatt whines, he squirms in his constraints. The blood soaked rope caresses him just right, shimmering ever so faintly in the low light. His mouth cracks open in a silent moan as Phil brings a hand to caress his horns, arch of a wing forcing his back curved. A sense of lightheadedness floods him as the slits open a little more, more of that delicious crimson seeping out.

"So impatient and for this? I'm disappointed," Phil chided as he gave the final strokes, urging his partner to orgasm through each step of the way.

Schlatt gave a drawn out moan, a high pitched call of Phils name as he climaxed. And the demigod kept up the simple motions across the entire span, red mixed with white into a sickly pink. He brought his hand, slathered in blood and cum past his wrist, to his mouth and licked. Forked tongue sliding between digits and Schlatt watched, tried too at least, he was a bit too lightheaded to fully focus.

"Phil," Schlatt keened, leaning heavily against Phils wing, he retracted it letting Schlatt slump back into the cushions. He absently reached for his mate, "Phil…"

"Yes darling?" Phil asked softly, littering Schlatts form with kisses.

Schlatt groaned, arching into the gentlest touch, "Was I good?"

Phil nodded, "Amazing, I haven't had a chance to make someone bleed in bed for years," He smudged the blood along the wounds.

"Do we have any potions?" Schlatt asked, he gave a weak chuckle, "I think I might die if I just stay like this."

"I already have plenty," Phil said as he opened his inventory and pulled out a potion, he popped the cork and brought the rim to Schlatts lips.

He eagerly drank the liquid, it didn't mend his flesh instantly, but it cleared the fog in his head. He gave a couple bleary blinks, "Phil."

"Yeah darling?" Phil asked gently as he sat down beside Schlatt.

"I love you," Schlatt said, "I know you just cut me open and gave me a handjob but I love you."

Phil gave a soft smile, he leaned down and nuzzled into Schlatt, "I love you too."

Schlatt hummed appreciatively, he motioned vaguely and Phil laid down beside him. He buried his head into the crook of Phils neck, "Can we have pancakes tomorrow."

"Of course dear," Phil said, running a hand through tangled brunette locks.

[cdragons]

Masterlist/Welcome Post

Hello To All! I am very slow updater, but I write for or am willing/open to write for characters for characters of fandoms listed below.

If you have a request, please keep in mind that I am a very slow writer and may not want to accept it or want to write it out. I will have a list of topics/characters I will not write for at a later date. I also will be prioritizing my current works before any requests or asks.

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon Universe

Like a Wave She Broke, But Like the Sea She Persevered

Stannis x Yi Ti! Second Wife w/ eventual Robb Stark x OC (maybe)

House Stark & Spicy Food

Imagine Being Luwin's Apprentice & Childhood Friends with Robb, Jon, and Theon

More Robb, Jon, and Theon with Luwin's Apprentice Headcanons

MCU Eternals

Our Love is Eternal

Persephone!Eternal Reader & Hecate!Eternal Reader

HOTD

Bound by Embroidered Chains - Aemond x Seamstress!OC x Jacaerys Fic

Warmth & Stories - Aemond Targaryen x Wildling!Reader

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

Feathers & Threads Soaked In Red

Saltburn 2023

Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

[my2phetaliaheadcanons]

I am a slut for a yandere x yandere dynamics (cuz let be honest they are hilarious), so how would Yandere!2P!America, Romano, Italy and England react to catching their darling threatening the boys female flirty co-worker because she doesn't appreciate how close and touchy the woman is getting with them?

Her (E/C) eyes narrowed into the thin slits of a prowling cat’s. A hiss trapped behind clenched teeth as (Y/N) hid within the shadow of the white column. (Y/N)’s nails scraped against the marble to keep the blaze of jealousy within its thread-thin barrier.

The reason for the raging inferno bubbling below her skin was only ten feet away.

The man that unknowingly captured her heart was pinned against the wall. The tense smile on his face showed teeth so beautiful that the moon would turn away in shame as a mewling, dog-hearted shrew pushed her round, plastic excuse of a chest into his face.

Ears perking, (Y/N) leaned forward. Slowing her own breath to quiet the furious rush of blood in her ears as she saw neon-painted lips move.

“C’mon. Just one date is all I’m asking for hun.” Purred the mangled stray. Her manicured talons holding his tie between them like a prayer.

Her man chuckled, eyes glancing around the room to avoid looking at the drowned rat. “You know Pracilia,” His hands went up. “I’ve got some work to finish. Maybe some other time.”

Pushing Pracilia away, (Y/N) watched as he walked away. The briefest show of annoyance and disgust crossed his features before he disappeared completely, leaving the wounded bird of paradise to huff.

Pracilia stomped off, ruffling her feathers as she went. Yet, (Y/N) wasn’t satisfied with the events.  

A warning needed to be delivered. Taught with such intensity that even the stupidest of hounds would submit to its directions.

Giggling as the images swirled like crooked paintings, (Y/N) concluded. That she was the only mentor for the job.

America: Whistling, Allen strutted through the office halls. His black office door was locked and with a lunch box on his hip, he was ready to continue his favorite activity.

Finding and following (Y/N).

As Allen viewed the inside of her cubicle, he noted its cold and empty appearance. A frustrated sigh left him as he concluded that she left a while ago.

Returning to the halls, he removed his keys from his pocket and twirled them as he walked down to the dark parking lot. His phone sat in his other hand the app, Find IT, blinking as it calculated her current location.

The blue dot with a white heart dinged as the area changed. It showed the building's blueprint and (Y/N)’s dot was in the basement.

Raising a brow, Allen turned left at the intersection of the hall. Following the white baseboard to the heavy, grey door with red lettering spelling out 'fire escape'.

Allen noted that even in the darkness of the stairwell that there was nothing out of the ordinary. No sense of dread or hesitant shivers caused his spine to shudder until he opened the door to his destination.

The loud, shrill scream of a woman echoed like a banshee’s death cry.

Dropping his belongings, Allen ran. His head swiveled as he searched for (Y/N). Each dark, open, and empty room created a rising panic that tightened his chest and fogged his senses.

Another scream made Allen curse. Swearing to hurt whoever caused (Y/N) harm.

The smell of wet iron led Allen to a splattered, red room.

Inside there were two feminine silhouettes, one pinned to the wall with various shining knives and the other standing there. Soaked in red.

Muscles tensing and goosebumps rising, Allen was ready to dash in. To save his doll and slaughter the attacker.

When the psychotic laughter of the attacker stalled the heavy machinery that was his body. It sounded like the tinkling bells of his doll’s sweet giggles.

He watched as (Y/N) spoke. Venomously telling Pracilia that he belonged to her. She went into great detail about how together they would be, together they would stay.

“And, don’t worry.” (Y/N) smiled, teeth bared like a high school’s Queen Bee staring at her downed rival. “You’ll live, after all, this is only a warning.” Sassily she flipped her hair turning around.

Face to face, she and Allen were. Her mouth now dropped as tears down her red-stained face.

Murmuring his name like a sacred prayer that she was unworthy of speaking, (Y/N) kneeled before Allen. Sticky hands staining his black pants.

“D-don’t hate me.”

Allen licked his lips, smirking deviously at the sight before him.

“Oh, Doll.” He lifted her face, rubbing the blood deeper into her smooth, sweaty skin. “I could never, but for such a crime a punishment is needed.”

England: Oliver hummed almost silently as stared into the amber teacup on his desk. Its steam made his skin feel dewy.

With a gentle puff, he blew on the liquid, watching as it rippled and danced like a small ocean. As the warm liquid settled an image appeared where his reflection once was.

(Y/N)’s visage carried a warm glow as it showed her navigating through the office halls. Her hand flipped an unsheathed Swiss Army knife between her fingertips. The delicate motions were repeating in a pattern. Over the middle finger, down by the pointer and pushed back by the thumb.

He watched with love-glazed eyes as she pushed an office door open. Revealing that harlot, Pracilia taking selfies, her plastic melons pushed up in a weak attempt at a sexy pose.

The wench sat up and sneered before questioning why his Poppet entered into the room. Demanding she be quick before she gets (Y/N) in trouble for ‘acting’ out.

(Y/N)’s response was the click of the lock. Stepping forward, she brandished the gleaming knife.

“Oliver is mine, and it's time that it was made known to all you hussies.”

Pracilia gasped and scrambled. Before she could feebly attempt to flee far from her white desk, (Y/N) pounced. Knocking them both to the floor. Blood dripped like oil from a damaged car as (Y/N) sliced her arms.

As the carnage continued, Oliver’s smile curled like a pleased cat at the sight of his mate protecting her right.

Romano: Music softly hummed as Fabrizio stepped to the beat. The various pins shone from his mouth as he danced around the draped mannequin.

His latest wedding dress design had begun to take shape. The white bodice was form-fitting with lace sleeves that went to the top of the skirt. The skirt was flared out, tulle creating the fullness while keeping it lightweight.

Stepping back, Fabrizio stared at it. There was no doubt in his mind it was gorgeous, but something was missing. Tapping his gloved finger to his hand, Fabrizio’s mind ran through various possibilities.

Huffing through the needles in his teeth, Fabrizio shook his head. Maybe he needed to step away from the project for a bit.

 Like removing a cigarette from his lips, Fabrizio removed each needle and placed them into the model, small beads of blood blooming.

His frown deepened at the sight, and he leaned down to the form’s unmoving dull era. “If you don’t want to be a headless dress form, I suggest you don’t ruin (Y/N)’s potential wedding dress.”

 Glaring harshly into the glazed, tear-filled eyes of the once free girl before leaving the music-filled room.

His steps were quick as he looked for his bride-to-be, for she was the one thing that could soothe his anguished soul.

Yet he as walked into the yellow and white colored cubicle, there was no sign of (Y/N). The only thing that showed she was still in the building was the yellow satchel he had designed for her.

Humming, Fabrizio continued his search. He could not find her in the café or by the bathrooms. Each floor and cubicle he passed was met with a soft sneer as his bambola never showed.

Frustration began to fester under his skin at the lack of spotting his lovely siren. His steps were practically stomping as he raced to the last possible location (Y/N) could be.

The parking garage.

The chill of damp, stale air cooled his sweating skin as he stepped onto the dark tar before him. Cautiously he prowled, looking into various vehicles and between them for any sign of (Y/N).

Loud panting and two sets of racing steps caused him to pause. Eyes locked on to the rapidly moving shadows.

Fabrizio reached into his pocket pulling out a simple knife coated in a thin purple film. Muscles were ready for a fight, when Pracilia’s blood-soaked form rounded the grey column.

The hooker sped toward him, relief in her eyes as she attempted to crash against him. Fabrizio let out a small gag as he dodged the dying dog. Letting her fall to the floor, scraping her knees further.

“Fabrizio, you’ve got to help me!” She grabbed his pants, desperation for life turning her knuckles white. “(Y/N)’s gone crazy! Call 9-1-1 or something!” Her mutterings became sobs as she pushed him to help her hide and escape.

Leg raised, Fabrizio was ready to kick her off and let her rot.

“I ALREADY TOLD YOU HE’S MINE!”

Shocked Fabrizio could only watch as (Y/N) tore Pracilia away like a rabid dog. Standing with her back to him and breathing heavily as though she was the hero of his story.

A knife in her own hand as she began to stalk closer. Rambling about how her filth ruined his precious clothes, that women that didn’t understand commitment would never be good enough for him.

 (Y/N) raised her knife, ready to strike down her rival. When Fabrizio launched his own, sending it right into Pracilia’s heart.

Stunned, (Y/N) snapped back to meet his eyes. Those beautiful eyes were full of the same mania that had long captured him.

“My bambola,” His voice dripped with a sickness worse than love as he got down on one knee. “Will you marry me?”

Italy: Luciano crushed the MS brand cigarette under his boot as he leaned against (Y/N)’s car. His watch read 22:17 causing his brows to furrow. The woman he pined for was never late.

Throwing his weight forward, Luciano fell forward off the car and began to walk into the large, dark, office building from the flickering lights of the parking garage.

“Where is she?” He muttered, thinking about what possibly could keep her. Various scenarios from passing out at her desk to illicit escapades with a lover caused his blood to boil over into a foam within his veins as he stepped into the empty elevator.

His foot rapidly tapped at its sluggish pace. As the number climbed higher, more scenes of her imaginary affair played as a low growl left the fuming Italian mobster.

The light ding that singled his destiny was ignored as he forced the doors to open faster. Prowling down the dark hall like a wolf on the hunt, listening for any noise that could reveal the location of his prey.

A gasp-turned whimper perked the wolf’s ears as he raced toward it. Kicking down the wooden door that blocked his path to claiming his darling.

The sight of Pracilia scrambling against a bloodied window with (Y/N) standing above her was not what he expected to see.

“LUCIANO!!” Pracilia reached for the stunned man, hand shaking from the effort to lift her arm. Pleas to save her escaping her lips like a death row inmate’s last word.

“DON’T TALK TO HIM!” Snapped (Y/N) as she slapped the down woman. “I’ll be just a second Luciano, dear. Just let me finish this.”

Another slice to her arm and Pracilia screamed again. Her eyes flittering as they began to close. The large, wicked smile was the last thing, she saw before giving in to the darkness. Lying limp under (Y/N)'s knees.

Dusting the imaginary dirt from her hands, (Y/N) turned to Luciano. Walking up to the man with hearts in her eyes as she grabbed his jacket collar.

“You,” She paused to look deeply into his soul. “Are coming home with me.”

Chuckling, Luciano threw his head back as it progressed to a madman’s cackle. “No, Tesoro.” He grabbed her wrist in a viperous grip. “You are coming with me.”

Before she could react, Luciano threw her head against the brick wall. Knocking her out completely.

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

Red

for day 15 of @owlcatober, healing, as well as day 27, blood. i took a different angle for mura, using the endless potential of the 'healing spells that channel positive energy hurt dhampirs' lore. self analysis here

warning for graphic descriptions of blood, injury's violence and death, even if it is mostly described in an abstracted and poetic way.

one of muras earlier kills results in her running through the dangerous parts of the city, trying to flee the guilt that plagues her in the form of blood, eventually tripping into a healer, an unfortunate event for both of them.

Cloth irritated the skin on the back of her calves, snapping against the soft skin as she ran through the labyrinthine alleyways of the lower city. 

Damp soaked the little cloth under the rough-spun cloak, the metallic smell something she breathed through her mouth to avoid, lest it overwhelm her.

It had already hardened under her fingernails, red flakes falling to the uneven stones, leaving a trail of guilt that blazed in her mind.

Something wet sliding down her brow and cheek, a welling of red that threatened to blind her.

The same rough cloth slipping down with her cycles of movement and swallowing the wet- just to burst open the wound again. 

Wall of noise meets her ears- eyes open at the many movements, the intricacy of the moving parts. The cloth spares her pain.

Drip goes the red on her brow, shut goes her eye, twist goes her ankle, and down does she go.

Fingertips meet soft cloth, angel feathers to her calluses, and as a hand reaches down, the falling red stains the hem, consuming the pure dress and drowning her world.

Soft murmurings soothe her ears, light shining bright on her, leading her eyes up.

The hood slips to one side as smooth digits cup her jaw, blinding her seeing eye. Light burns through the cloth still, radiance unsmothered by the red crusted rags.

Light burns her, and as it pulses down the arms of her angel, something inside her screams, and the red is diluted with salt.

Pain follows, the light hitting her skin as a supernova, eclipsing her flawed vision, surrounding her in its entirety and then some, with her eye at the center of the exploding body of light.

Red scorches her inside and out, the carrier for the damaging force, paper skin peeling back from the white gleaming shell underneath, ropes of pain withering in violent wails.

Her hands reach up, nails turn claws, biting into the soft flesh that caused her pain, mouth forced open in a desperate wail.

Bruises on cheeks blooming in red again, welling up and bursting forth, exposing the dolls threads, salt entering and stinging the wounds that covered her face, the cracks in the porcelain revealing themselves under the paint.

A look of revulsion turned regret is formed through the snippets of light that enter her eye.

Threads twitch through the pain, claws grow, something molten is cooled with salt and red and pity.

With a final effort, bones snap and snap again and red, red is everywhere, again.

Drowning out the white, again

More white bones, these built for damage, reach towards the collection of ropes and threads and red all hidden under paper, the shell on top thrown back with the force of pain returned.

Red bursts through, a violent flower bloom, its short lived petals wrapping her in warm embrace, its vitality pouring into her, withering her own flowers, red turning into blues and greens and browns and it shrivels back to its proper state, petals hugging the shell and threads, porcelain fixing itself, pouring another layer of paint to hold together the shattered piece

Falling onto the slowly draining warmth, a soft cushion between her and the cold hard stone, red spilling to the crevices between them, red filling her world, filling her up. 

Darkness descends as threads grow slack, the only burning bisecting her face over here eye, the cool darkness spreading through her as her jaw unclenches, something pleasant in her gut calming as footfall avoids her, just a new rock in the stream of moving parts that floods through the lower city, just another drop of red lost in the city.

[fiendish-insanity-in-the-written]

CLOSED STARTER for @champagneandparacosm​

The dim light of scented candles flickered in the dark corners of the room. The flames created a play of shadows on the worn, old crimson velvet of the sofa where the  man with ashy complexion sat. The stale air smelled of sage, the aroma given off by the white melted wax. The moon threw its threads of light through the heavy, dusty green curtains...accusingly illuminated the broad palms smeared with crimson. Glacial orbs watched as Hazael clenched his scarlet fists shakily in despair. The flames didn't need to lick his feet, he was already in the deepest circle of personal hell. Pity, human weakness that the woman with hair colored like crow's feathers skillfully hid. But tonight, compassion enveloped her like the tentacles of Lovecraft's cthulhu.

Weeks passed and she followed him like a shadow. She haunted his thoughts, persistently fighting against his denial that the devil's parasite was living inside him. She thought that this truth would remove the burden from his back, the guilt he had taken on himself, extinguish the horror of the dark intervals in which he is not aware of himself, and the petrifying dream always ended with a horrendous reality where leftovers of someone's suffering are coloring his skin with red of inevitable guilt. The silhouette approached the man with a tortured soul like an apparition, while drops of clear water traveled on the golden skin, washing away the same color that he was disgusted by. 

The virginal white lace hugged around the elegant hourglass figure. "It is beyond you. Beyond your power..beyond your ability to prevent it...beyond your guilt.  " She whispered softly. The hunt was euphoric, for her and the cursed one who shared her demonic nature, who now rested deep in this mortal's chest. Lalya despised the weakness, the nail she had to tear from the boards of her existence, but the shattered glass of his emotions and the sharp shards of his trauma that pierced his uncorrupted heart, shone with an unusual attraction. What it because she renounced the same temptation of her former humanity? Poured her innocence with the oil of sin and threw the torch of contempt, watching the ashes dance in the streets of life in Sodom and Gomorrah.

A damp thigh soaked his pants as she sat too close. "Not your doing. Not your sin. " she repeated the words of compassion, while inky irises watched the sharp lines of his tense jaw. Her breasts heaved beneath a cobweb lace robe that left little to the imagination. The brutality of the one who poisoned this body, and the purity of the true owner awakened in her an inexorable lust that until now she hid, restrained, fed in other places with other people, or closed her eyes and allowed her fingers to touch the places that pulsated with desire. Her skin glistened like bronze under the dimmed light, while soft fingers slid over his knee, brushing over the rough material of tweed trousers. 

The gentle touch was full of strangely sincere support, the promise that her words were sincere. The other hand reached for his chin, slowly and carefully with the tips of her fingers turned his face to look at her. "All the gruesome things of your past left in the dark, were not your sinful deeds. The punishment that you received for it was unjust...wrong..undeserved." Drops of nectar of seductive benevolence slid down her full lips the color of the apple that the snake had once offered to Eve. The palm slid over his cheek, the thumb gently touched the left eyelid, until the fingers were lost in his dark hair, like a comb pushing the sooty hair back, caressing him sweetly and delicately. 

The space between them was consumed by her body as she leaned against him. Elegant leg rose over his knee, momentarily revealing her bare private parts. A hand on his thigh found his, long fingers like cotton cuffs wrapped around his wrist, bringing his fist up to her lips. Pearly whites took the lower lip hostage while the metal smell of blood bit her nostrils. Like a drug addict with an abundance of the desired drug at his fingertips, her senses beat like a drum on the liquid of life that covered his hands. She moved her mouth cautiously to his index finger, dark eyes finding his crystal blue ones.

"You did good. You survived all of these years, remaining untainted, no matter what lives in you. You are..good. " She gasped as she stroked his head again, her tongue trailing lustily along his finger, collecting the red liquid that tasted like summer wine. Layla moaned in pleasure as her black irises peeled away like snake skin, releasing a golden color that betrayed her demonic nature. The taste of life bewitched her, possessed her until she sensually began to gently push his finger knuckle by knuckle deeper in her mouth, soft muscle caressed the callused fingers as she sucked on it.

[ferinehuntress]

◈　 ⇢  @faerunscursed　 ⋯　 blood, blood, gallons of the stuff! ♡ 　　⸻　sender stitches up receiver's wound (isobel/Aylin)

The room in Elfsong had such a subtle sandalwood scent, soothing to the mind as a clatter of iron hit the ground. Flittering wings rustled as she stretched them out, a few feathers floating down to the ground as Aylin tugged wearily at the breastplate on her chest. The light of eventide soaked the room with a dim orange hue mixed with purples and pinks. It would be a weary night for Shar, with the full moon on the rise and the destruction of her conclave. The cloister would no longer exist in Baldur’s Gate, at least for now.

Honey sweet hues of brown and gold glistened in the room, saturated with red velvet blankets and cherry wood post that she dropped down onto. Barely a creak could be heard as Aylin finally relieved herself of the breastplate and removed her gauntlets and dragon scale chain mail. A deep breath filled her with aromatic musky incense, that of sage that gave such a pleasant warmth to the room.

Finally, the last bit of her armor fell to the ground, leaving her in a sweaty white tunic clinging to her skin and some dark black trousers. Her feet were bare as she took another breath, only to lead to an ache in her side. Relief often allow pain to surface and she noticed the dark gray spot on her tunic ripped through. It didn’t even take a few seconds and Isobel had settled next to Aylin. “My healing is spent, but I still have a steady hand,” Isobel responded, and Aylin could only smile down toward her young lover. Blood seeped from her wound but Aylin didn’t seem concerned by the fact, and could only sit there and watched as Isobel prepared for the needle and thread.

“My love, ever the watchful protector,” Aylin opened up her wing and wrapped it around Isobel’s body and silenced her voice as the cleric started to stitch the wound. Silver blood coated her fingers with each needle prick and the pull of thread. Yet, Aylin did not cry out nor ask her to stop; in comparison to the torture she had had before, this pain proved to be child’s play for the aasimar. Steady hands finished the stitching as her shirt lowered down and Isobel cleaned up her little kit. Before she had a chance to move, though, Aylin pulled the tray down and dragged Isobel into her lap. “My darling,” she whispered as she pressed her hand up against her cheek and pulled her into a tender kiss.

“It reminds me of the olden days, when I would return to you after a hard won battle, gloriously beaming in sweat and blood, and you tend to my every wound despite my boisterous words of invulnerability,” Aylin teased but allowed her lips to soften. "Your gentle touch and healing hands have my eternal gratitude. Selune graces me with the most generous of loves.” Her fingers brushed through her silver hair and then leaned forward to kiss her once more.

“My heart yearns for you, my Moon Lily.”

[thedevilsdom]

cw: albedo x dom reader, 'mama' used for reader, no physical features mentioned for reader, food and feeding mention

--

"All you have to do is ask, darling. You know what you want, and I can give it to you, right?" Your fingers trace feather light patterns into the pale skin of Albedo's thigh. The rhythm-less way he jerks himself off is a dead giveaway to how infrequently he indulges himself like this.

"Mama," Precum drips down his hand. You'd been kept busy by the Knights of Favonius recently, and now your poor baby is all pent up. Albedo's lip is caught between his teeth, bitten red.

"Baby, none of that," You press your thumb to his chin, "I don't want you hurting yourself."

His hips twitch up into his hand at that touch. His eyes are all watery and his cheeks are colored like apples. His slender form is stripped down for you to see and feel wherever you want, so your hand settles for stroking across his chest in a soothing manner, feeling the the way his breath stutters in his lungs.

"I need you, Mama," He whimpers while your hand moves down to gently rub the soft swell of his tummy. You'd spent the first bit of your time back with him preparing a nice, warm meal and feeding him. It was usually a sweet act shared between the two of you, but with how long you've been away, he couldn't help the way his body reacted to the closeness.

So now you're here, but he's still too shy to really ask for what he wants. You're just glad that he's not too shy to touch himself for you, as clumsy as he is with it. Your hand finds his chest again, playing with his nipples and pulling such adorable mewls from his lips.

"Please, won't you touch me?" Albedo looks up at you with pleading eyes, "I'm so needy for you, aren't I, Mama? I need you so bad..." His hand is soaked with precum by now.

"Such a sweet baby," You kiss his cheek, "If that's what you want, then..." You hand trails down to his dick, fingers dragging along his length before you wrap around it. He immediately squeaks, reaching out and wrapping his arms around you in a hurried attempt to bring you closer to him.

Whenever you touch him like this it's always the same. He loses control of his body, squirming and bucking his hips, always trying to pull you closer to him, too. He craves your warm body against his, even subconsciously.

His voice is soft normally, and it doesn't really change in the bedroom. Gentle little mewls and moans grace your ears as you slowly stroke him, the copious amounts of pre making the movement slick.

"May I have an orgasm please, Mama?" He whimpers in your ear, forehead pressed to your shoulder and hidden against your neck.

"What a good boy I have, such nice manners," You muse, delighting in the desperate moans that he makes.

"Please!" He's hardly holding back, and the praise isn't helping, but he doesn't want to cum without your permission.

"Of course baby, you deserve it."

You don't get all your words out before he's spilling thick, heavy streaks of cum into your hand. You don't stop rubbing him as he's cumming, his hands scrambling for purchase on your back as his body writhes.

Just as you think his climax is waning and he's about to push you away and tell you to stop stroking his dick, he grips onto you tighter and wails, another orgasm crashing through him, hardly seconds after his previous one.

He shakes against you, cumming even more into your fist before he's done. The instant he's finished, he's curling and hiding against you, tiny little sobs leaving his throat.

"Oh, my darling," You pet the back of his head with your clean hand, "Are you alright?"

He nuzzles against your neck and nods. You chalk it up to him simply having been overwhelmed by the intensity of his climaxes.

"You want me to get you cleaned up, baby?" Your hand threads through his hair, loosing his ponytail and letting his braids come undone. "We can take a nice, warm bubble bath, hm? I bet you haven't had one of those in a little while."

He sniffles and nods before pulling back to look up at you, eyes, cheeks, and nose red.

"Come on love," You help him stand on shaking, unsteady legs, "Let's get you in the tub, then."

[lady-lauren]

The Lion’s Den

Pairing: Zeke Yeager x Reader

Warnings: noncon, forced infidelity, kidnapping, manipulation, creampie, praise with a dash of degradation, tiniest bit of blood, use of daddy, slight mafia/gang au

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: I hate that my first published work on this blog is for Zeke, but he crept into my brain and now here he is. Please heed the warnings, he’s a toxic motherfucker.

“Sir, we have a surprise waiting for you.”

Braun’s voice filters through the cracks of the closed door and makes you squirm.

You’ve already been berating yourself for being so foolish, mumbling curses and soaking the fabric tied between your lips with spit. You knew better than to enter Warrior territory on your own, but you fluffed your own feathers with reminders of “I’m strong, they won’t catch me.”

But they did. Of course they did, with grins and malice and handcuffs that still cut into your skin.

“A surprise? For me?” His voice makes you sick, makes your veins run cold when he opens the door and his glasses catch the light, “Oh you shouldn’t have.”

There’s blood on his cuffs, still ruby red and smearing as he rolls the white sleeves up his forearms.

Zeke Yeager smiles at you. A genuine, ghastly smile, full of teeth and mirth.

“I’ve been dying to taste the Commander’s wife.”

The pride inside of you boils over, makes your shoulders straighten. You think to yourself how most women would’ve cowered away, curled up in the corner of his office and trembled at the thought of their fate in his hands. But you stayed where you’d been plopped onto his desk, legs crossed, fingers fiddling with your binds like your nails could somehow pick locks.

Zeke shuts his door, clicks the deadbolt. Shadows of traitorous gold hair fade away from textured glass windows.

“Well, I suppose there’s no use for games, sweetheart,” he speaks slowly and with purpose, stepping forward to hook a finger under the gag around your cheek, “No use for questions you won’t answer, information you won’t give. Too faithful to your husband’s cause, hm?”

You try to kill him with your glare, try to use the hammering of your heart and the heaving of your breasts as a show of rage instead of fear.

“Nah, no use for games.”

Strong fingers rip the cloth from your mouth and you breathe harder than you expected to, saliva clinging to the threads that fall around your neck. Zeke grips your jaw, moves your face back and forth in examination.

“Doesn’t look like you put up much of a fight. Did you get captured just so you could come see me without guilt?”

Eyes of royal blue stare into your own, unyielding, wrinkled from his perpetual grin.

There’s no point in answering, it just feeds him.

“Oh, come now, don’t be shy. You can tell Daddy your heart’s desires, they’ll be safe with me.”

Retorts roll around in your head, but you smother them away.

“If you’re going to kill me,” you try to shake your head from his grasp to no avail, “I’d prefer you do it swiftly.”

He bursts into laughter, spit and triumph fanning over your face.

“Cute, real cute. If I was going to kill you, I’d make it slow and fun. Fun for me, of course. But no, I dare not. Erwin would literally burn the entire city down, gang lines be damned.”

Lean thighs muscle in between your own, knocking your knees onto his desk as he spreads your legs.

“He’ll do that regardless if you don’t send me home.”

Your husband is always your trump card, always the one thing that keeps men like Zeke Yeager away from you. Erwin has made you untouchable, made you fiercer on battlegrounds than ever before. But he’s not here. He doesn’t know where you are.

Zeke smells of copper and rum, metallic and sweet. His thumb prods at your lower lip, index finger petting at the softness of your jaw.

“Oh, I’m going to send you home, sweetheart. Stuffed with cum and dripping like the little whore you are.”

He swallows you whole, mouth and tongue greedy to pry your lips apart as his hands squeeze your tits. Your wrists struggle against the cuffs behind your back, your thighs attempt to shut but it only brings him closer.

Your teeth encase his tongue, blood seeping into your mouth. But it doesn’t faze him, just makes a chuckle rumble beneath his chest as he pushes against you harder, hungrier. His kiss is wet, methodical, powerful. Your mouth moves against his before you can stop it; you act for survival, perhaps, or maybe he’s already making you numb. All you know is that this feels wrong, like you’ve taken a misstep and landed right into a starving lion’s den, and instead of fear you feel excitement.

“Fuck you taste good, sweet. Does Erwin kiss you like this?”

There’s no time to answer, not with heavy hands pulling at the seams of your dress, the shrill cry of threads echoing against filing cabinets.

“You should’ve known I would find you in my territory,” he slants his mouth against yours again, like he can’t help himself, “your face is too pretty not to recognize.”

He’s right and you hate it.

Palms and nails are rough with your breasts; he gropes you like he owns you.

His forcefulness pushes your weight back onto your bound hands, making you hiss as the metal cuffs dig into your wrists and lower back.

“Let me go.”

“Why? You wanna touch me?”

You stop squirming, taking a moment to breathe and feel the weight of him between your thighs.

You have a choice: fight, or play pretend. Neither is easy, but one could get you back into bed with your husband with less bruises.

“Let me,” you whisper, arching your neck up to look evil in its face, “let me touch you, Zeke.”

There’s a pregnant pause. He’s weighing the options, you can see the scales balancing back and forth in his gaze behind the rims of his glasses.

“This is your opportunity,” you persuade, “don’t you want to feel my touch?”

“Mhm, you drive a hard bargain.” He releases one of your tits so he can fish in his pocket, finding the metal key that Reiner had placed in his willing hand.

Zeke takes the opportunity to suck at your throat as he reaches behind you, wiry beard scratching against your skin alongside his warm tongue.

“Slap me or punch me and I’ll do it twice as hard to you. Capisce?”

You moan when the heavy cuffs fall from your bones, and he takes it as a sign of understanding.

He’s not about to waste his opportunity. Zeke moves quickly, tearing remnants of your dress down your legs, peeling it away from your torso as he shoves you flat onto his desk. You stare up into the fluorescent lights, coming to terms with your situation. A hot mouth trails down your body, fingers pinch at your nipples and at the fat of your hips. He’s telling you something, words of affirmation concerning how much he’s wanted this, how he’s envied seeing you standing next to Erwin all these years. But his words are just sounds.

To play into your charade, your fingers absentmindedly tangle in his hair as he plants open-mouth kisses on your belly. You imagine the strands to be lighter, fingertips even searching for an undercut. He moans differently, though. It’s more sinister, deeper, like a man devouring something he shouldn’t.

You can still taste blood in your mouth.

Your legs spread when he tugs at your panties, your breath hitches when one of his arms curls around your thigh.

“I’m starting to think you did want to get caught, sweetheart. Your pretty little pussy is just weeping for me.”

His index finger swipes between your folds and you whine, eyes closing so hard you see colors.

“Maybe, a-ah—” that finger slips inside of you, long and curling upwards until you moan.

“Oh you’re fucking tight. Must not be getting fucked like you deserve.”

Your nails dig into his scalp when his tongue swirls over your clit, slowly, delicately. He slips lower, your folds curving over the edge of his tongue as he pulls his finger out to press into your hole. He listens to your sounds, how you’re sucking in breaths as his nose brushes up against you as he plunges his tongue several times. In and out, fucking you on his tongue.

He’s savoring you.

His fingers find you again, mouth coming up for air. You can feel him smirk, feel how his cheeks spread by how his beard presses into your thighs

“I hate you,” your voice is weaker.

“Oh I bet you do. Hate how good I make you feel.”

Two fingers plunge into you, faster than you expect so it makes you gasp and arch your back on his desk. He finds a quick rhythm, pumping into you over and over and admiring how your flesh wraps around his digits. The slick sounds make you go numb in your mind even though your nerves are on fire. His thumb circles your clit and you jump, legs shaking.

“Mhm, you’re so sensitive. I like that. You’ll feel so good clenching around my cock.”

He stands, startling you as his free hand wraps around your throat. Your eyes open and it’s just Zeke in your vision, flaxen hair leaning away from his forehead and lips glossy with slick.

“Excited for my cock, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he coaxes, thumb petting your pulse.

“Y-yes,” and it’s not entirely a lie, not with how his fingers are making your stomach tighten and whimpers sound below the hand on your neck. He knows what he’s doing.

He smirks and gives your throat a healthy squeeze before grabbing one of your limp wrists from his desk. He pulls your hand upward, urging your fingers to splay across his face.

“Touch me,” he coos, pressing your fingertips into his beard, your thumb against the corner of his mouth, “tell me you’re mine.”

Your lips part but only moans pour out, his talented fingers strumming you higher and higher toward ecstasy.

You close your eyes and feel his face slip away, feel his weight shift to where he’s back to watch your willing flesh. His tongue replaces his thumb, giving you quick, calculated licks against your clit that make you feel like you’re burning.

“I’ll make you cum, sweetheart,” you feel every syllable against your cunt, “just tell me what I want to hear.”

The pace quickens and it’s maddening. You’re holding back, trying to clench your muscles and refuse him what he wants. It’s too soon, he’s only played with you, barely worked for this. But your body aches, every nerve ending feels like it’s being touched and licked. The pleasure scares you, and that’s what ignites you.

“Fuck! Y-yours, jesusfuckingchrist, yours!”

You picture your husband’s perfect face between your thighs, but all you can feel is a coarse beard and sickening laughter as you come undone.

It’s a quick release, like a match being lit and blown out immediately. The moment your body spasms, Zeke pulls away, just stands back and watches as you gush and groan. Your cunt constricts around nothing, making you wish for long, mean fingers back inside you again.

“Atta girl, look how pretty you are when you cum.”

Shame settles over your body like a cold blanket, makes you shiver and scoot away as he comes closer again.

He’s eyeing his fingers as he steps forward, index and middle fingers pressing against one another a few times so he can watch how your slick clings to his skin. He offers them to you, palm upturned as he brings them to your lips.

Zeke catches the look in your eyes, “ah, ah, no bite.”

And you don’t, you just accept his fingers into your mouth and suck your slick from his skin. He pumps his fingers a few times in your mouth, grinning with ideas as he sees how your lips slide along the length of them.

“I’ve gotta say, sweetheart, I’m impressed by what a good girl you are.”

The words make your chest ache, your mind ringing with Erwin’s voice saying those words of praise in your head. Good girl, he always says. And you’re still good, you’re so good, you’re doing all you can to be good and come home. You’re good. Aren’t you?

Zeke makes quick work of his pants, pressing you back down against his workspace before you can even glimpse what’s about to go inside of you. His lean body towers over your own, his weight propped up on his elbow as he pants and runs the tip of his cock through your wet folds. The sensation makes you jerk, makes you whimper.

“Kiss me,” it’s a soft demand, and you listen, neck tilting back so your mouth can meld against his. This time it’s intoxicating, a slow rhythm of exploration that leaves you lost.

Your scream echoes into the chamber of his mouth when he forces himself inside of you. You take all of him, your body scorched from the stretch. Your mind is immediately sent into a fog, pleasure pulling the wool over your eyes so you can fade out and just feel. His thrusts are hard and fast, hips barreling into you over and over as he searches for his absolution. You feel every thump of his balls against your ass, feel the head of his cock skimming your walls.

But his stupid voice breaks you out of your haze, makes you start thinking and feeling guilty all over again.

“Fuck. I’m not gonna last long in this sweet little body of yours. You feel better than I ever imagined, sweetheart, so tight, so perf—” he starts rambling into your neck, praises you thought you’d only hear from one man at this point in your life.

One of Zeke’s hands cups your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple and making you moan far louder than you expected. He knows how to play you, he knows.

“Call me Daddy,” he groans, hips snapping up into you so hard that your hips hurt.

The consonant dances behind your teeth a few times, never spilling out.

“Say it!”

You cry out as he slams into you deeper, harder, thick cock nestling in just the right places with each plunge.

“D-Daddy! Daddydaddydaddy,” because it feels too good, because you’re going to explode.

“Good girl,” he’s growling, teeth baring down into the side of your neck, “good fucking girl.”

Zeke shoves his tongue into your open mouth as he cums inside you. He groans at the bliss of feeling your pussy suck his cock into your depths, your own shameful orgasm spurting around him. His hands encase your hips, keeping you flush against golden curls so he can pump you full, just like he promised.

You don’t cry. You refuse to cry, that same simmering wrath you felt earlier spreading over your body like a barrier. You go still, jaw clenched as you watch Zeke uncoil himself from you.

He fixes his glasses, tucks himself into his pants, straightens and smoothes his shirt. Then his hands are on you again, his thumb plugging into your abused hole as he laughs at you.

“Well now wasn’t that nice, sweetheart? I’ll send you home with a bow and a thank you note.”

And he does.

[keilemlucent]

a nice break

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~3k

keigo really is just such a good boy for you, isn't he?

warnings: peggings, strap ons, wing kink, praise kink, spit kink, sub hawks, soft hawks, light religious imagery in the literal imagery, aftercare

enjoy some subby hawks pegging ;^))) 

||||||||||||||

Keigo had the prettiest voice.

Fuck whatever ‘bird of prey’ act he put on, the man was a songbird like no other. Perhaps not always, but it wasn’t particularly hard to get him to sing either. Unabashed pleasure would send Keigo into fits of cries and lamentations.

“Oh fuck, please—!” Keigo’s voice broke above you. He was straining so hard to keep any semblance of usual composure despite his wrecked state. It wasn’t like it was doing him much good with how beyond fucked out he was, but you appreciated the effort.

How long had you had him bouncing on your strap? Long enough that he had begged you to let him rest, his wobbly legs growing weak despite their tone and muscle. Yet, not long enough to award him a moment of respite. You had rolled your hips up, jamming your metaphorical thick cock against his prostate as his eyes rolled back in pleasure.

Keigo’s face had grown bright red, freckles dimming with the flush of his cheeks. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, drool escaping from the corners of his lips. He occasionally tried to wipe up the bodily filth on his face, but the action only served to make him even more of a mess. Keigo didn’t mean to, but his subtle, cute actions just debauched him more.

Keigo had a tendency to be a brat. That was just his private personality. Effortlessly laid back charm was a face he wore incredibly well for the public, but in the solace of his penthouse apartment, the man was a raging devil.

He typically took the lead on things. Throwing you up over tables and counters with the help of his wings, fucking you stupid without a second thought.

You loved it. Immensely.

Nothing made you soak yourself more than being on your knees for Keigo just before he would fuck your face in earnest, cooing and praising about how well you took his cock. He loved to see you sloppy for him, demanding and pushing and pulling you whatever way suited his pleasure (and yours as well, of course.)

But you also loved seeing Keigo sloppy. You relished getting to break him down, picking at his crafted facade with personal pleasures you made all for him, and you made sure to tell him so.

Keigo loved to praise you, any time, not just in bed. He’d tell you what a good girl you were while spanking his hand on your backside for the umpteenth time, you teary-eyed and half-sobbing. He’d coo about how beautiful you were while he fucked you into yet another orgasm with his crooked fingers. He’d smooth you over and tell you how proud he was of you, how good you were for him, as you cuddled into each other, fucked out, boneless and brainless. He’d come up behind you while you cooked dinner, kissing at your neck and whispering about how kind of partner you were. He’d grab your hand in public to lay gentle kisses over your knuckles, speaking lowly about how he cherished you and the time you were able to spend together.

It took you a while into your relationship to realize that Keigo also fed off praise. He showered you with love and compliments and craved receiving similar affections.

And, you weren’t one to deny him.

“Come on, Kei’, you can do it, you’re such a good boy,” You crooned, pushing your hips to press the thick dildo deeper in him.

Keigo sputtered, his hands flying to your chest for purchase, lip wobbling. His eyes flicked to meet your own, widened and pleading.

You just smirked.

“Keep going if you want to come.”

He cried out, lowering his head and wiping at the different smears of fluid that wetted his face. Slowly, he raised himself up, thighs trembling with exertion and exhaustion.

You tucked your arms behind your head, truly getting off on the beautiful sight before you.

Keigo looked god-like most of the time, all feathered and blood-colored. He was sculpted like a marble statue; sometimes, you felt unfit of touching him. Yet, you debauching him was one of your favorite acts. Turning Keigo into some defiled deity riding the silicone cock of a mortal, divine, crimson wings a backdrop to ambrosian pleasures that only the two of you knew. Despite how bratty he was, he loved falling apart while you fucked his cute little hole numb.

Keigo rode your cock so well, he knew it, you told him so. Despite how much his body ached and how he was chasing orgasm but never catching it, he tried really, really hard to make you happy. You could see it in the way how each of his actions was followed by an expectant look, delivered to you with puffy, kiss-bruised lips.

Who would’ve thought Hawks was a crybaby when getting fucked so well?

Below him, you smiled, languidly playing with your own sex while drowning in Keigo’s image. Your own slick coated your thighs, wetting your puffy clit as you stroked yourself slowly to Keigo’s display.

His cock was swollen, bright red, and weeping preek. The ring at its base was wet with lube, tightly holding Keigo back from any sort of proper satisfaction. All the while, his cock was so much more sensitive, not to mention how you’d been teasing him for what felt like hours. You wondered if Keigo felt edged or overstimulated. You could only hope that it was both.

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, moaning with Keigo in tandem. He wailed, voice shattering into pleads and begs for “more, please, more!” as you fucked his cock with your hand. He was so slicked and hot, weeping for release in more ways than one.

You removed your fingers from your own sex, frowning.

The slick covered fingers pressed at Keigo’s parted lips. He opened his mouth for you, letting you fuck his mouth with the digits, pressing gently on his tongue and the back of his throat. You felt the vibrations of his suppressed cries so well, it made your cunt ache. 

“Good boys don’t talk with their mouths full, do they?” You taunted, pressing harder and pumping your hand faster around Keigo’s cock.

Keigo screamed against your fingers, sweaty locks falling over his eyes as he shook his head. With all of his hero-refined skills, his thin hips couldn’t figure out how to both fuck down on the strap and fuck into your hand. The infuriating amount of stimulation without a thread of relief made tears leak from Keigo’s eyes anew, running rivers down his cheeks and drip onto your torso.

“Aw, baby, why are you crying?” You loved teasing Keigo like this. He’d never let you do this shit to him unless he was this fucked out. You knew he liked it too, based on how the degradation made his cock throb in your grip.

You squeezed, rubbing a thumb at its leaky head. Keigo sobbed around your fingers, “Pweaze! ”

“Pweaze’? ‘Pweaze’ what, baby? Use your words.” You sneered, watching spittle drip from his mouth onto your lap. To taunt him even more, you pressed your drenched fingers onto the back of his tongue as he tried to speak. Unintelligible, garbled syllables were all he could produce beyond chest sobs.

He just looked at you helplessly, nails digging into your sides.

You relented, removing your fingers and wiping them onto Keigo’s swollen dick, still pumping it slowly.

“Please, let me come, please!” Keigo’s voice curled so well when he begged. You fucked up into him sharply, Keigo’s hands clawing into your ribs as he screamed in white-hot pleasure. His spent thighs trembled around your own, wet with sweat and shaking with exhaustion.

You ran a hand through his hair, feeling the layer of thin sweat and boiling heat. He leaned into your touch immediately, doughy and glassy-eyed.

Keigo was art, sculpted all for you. Any bits of his public, bastardseque persona had been ground away with pleasure and coaxing. He had fallen apart for you, gently pleading for release like it was a hymn to his god.

You crooked a smile.

“I don’t know, baby. Have been good enough to come?” You hummed, grinning smugly as Keigo’s expression fell. His lips moved in horror as he began blubbering, fucking himself again on the strap, harder, faster, and with more vigor than before.

“I have b-been, I’ve been good!” Keigo sobbed, rubbed at his eyes as one of his legs gave out no a particularly rough thrust. Your hand slid up to support the spent muscles, knowing he was beginning to reach his limits.

“Tell me how and you can come, Keigo,” You said his name so sweetly, you felt another flood of pre dribbled sticky from his cock, “Tell me how you’re such a good boy, for me, Keigo.”

He shook his head, breathing harshly, but still managing to fuck himself half-heartedly. He bit his lip as he looked at you with red-rimmed eyes, wings fluttering at his back.

It gave you an idea.

You’d pay for it later, but that was a future problem.

All contact with Keigo’s cock and body went away, holding your hands on your chest, slowly rolling your hips and strap into Keigo’s tight hole.

You stilled for just a moment, drinking him in.

Your hands shot out, just brushing against Keigo’s sides before burying themselves at the tender roots of his wings.

“F-Fuck!” Keigo wailed, bowing his back and falling against your chest, unable to hold himself upright.

You adjusted your legs, allowing yourself to still fuck into Keigo. Even better, this position perfectly allowed you to ram his most sensitive spot, sobs and cries muffled into the skin of your chest. He pawed at one of your tits half-heartedly, but you knew he didn’t really have it in him.

Pleads and cries for mercy spilled from his lips as you massaged at the base of his wings. The downy feathers were petal-soft, all the betters for rubbing deep into as Keigo twitched and wailed.

“Just tell me why you’re a good boy, Keigo, you’re so close,” You encouraged him, shifting so that his head was pressed into your neck. You felt his cock, hard and hot against your stomach. With this position, Keigo could rest his body to some degree. But, it provided an absolutely obscene amount of friction that would be damn-near brutal mentally.

His wings splayed out above the two of you, cocooning you in vibrant reds and scarlets as you thumbed at individual feathers. Keigo finally found his voice as you dragged the strap back from his hole.

“I-I ate your pussy really good,” Keigo’s voice was high, stumbling on his words.

You hummed appreciatively, scrapping your nails down thin bones of his wings. He arched against you, hands flying your hair and pulling. He broke into bawling, tears wetting your neck and the sheets beneath you.

You fucking loved it.

“I l-let you sit on my face, and let you fuck- ME!” Keigo howled as you dug into his feathers, tsking lightly.

“Up, baby. Sit up for me,” You commanded, though softly. Keigo slowly righted himself, shaking like a leaf. You could tell by the way he shifted his hips that he was more than a bit sore and overworked. Not to mention that his cock was turning darker red and bulging hotly by the minute.

“Those are all good things you did, but that’s not why you’re a good boy,” You trailed one of your hands down one of the lovely curves of his lower back, cupping his ass and squeezing.

He sputtered, shaking his head, rubbing at his eyes, “Please, I’m sorry, just let me—”

You’d done this song and dance enough with Keigo to know the way to really get to his cock. After so much mental conditioning and training, parts of him were still left raw. To touch and stroke them just right was an art you had taken upon yourself to master and perfect. You’d do anything for Keigo, anything to help him chase pleasures that could be too fragile or fear-filled to voice.

“Keigo, you’re a good boy because you’re you,” You massaged at his aching, sore parts with warm hands. “You’re such a good boy for me, Kei’. You ride me so well. Can you just a little more?”

If Keigo hadn’t been fully crying, he was now.

He tearfully nodded, bouncing himself on the strap again, sending loud moans far and wide.

You helped him along, rolling your hips, “You’re such a sweet boy, Kei’. You sound so pretty when you wreck yourself for me.”

He keened.

The hand that wasn’t helping to hold him up went to palm at the head of his cock, “You are so sweet and so beautiful when you’re fucked out like this. All stupid for me, right, Kei’?”

You trailed a finger up his shaft as he drooled, eyes struggling to focus, “So good at listening and following my rules. Do you like being a good boy?”

He was fucked too silly to manage anything other than a nod.

“Do you want to come, baby?” You pumped his cock with your slick hand, almost mockingly.

“PLEASE!” Keigo screamed, nails breaking the skin of your breasts, but you could hardly care. His head bent forward as a mix of his tears, snot, and spit dripped between the two of you.

Keigo really did deserve it. You relented.

Your fingers dipped slipped the cock ring off in one motion, grabbing his face by the cheeks with the other hand, “Then, come for me, baby.”

And he did.

Keigo fucked himself down on the strap one final time before screaming in divine rapture.

He collapsed on top of you, crying out and curling into you as his cock sprayed your chests and thighs. Thick spurts of creamy cum dripped between the two of your bodies as Keigo rode out his orgasm, your hand still on his cock, milking him for all he had. Any words he tried to babble out were broken and meaningless, only serving to help Keigo release his pent up need for relief now that it was finally squashed.

You kept your hand wrapped around his cock, rolling your wrist from base to hip as Keigo rattled on top of your own sweaty frame.

He sniffled, pressing into your neck and weakly pushing your hand, “T-too much.”

You released him easily, shushing Keigo when he tried to move or assist you. You carefully slipped from his tight, lube-slicked hole and undid the harness of the strap on. Your own hips ached from exertion, skin bruised by the biting of the straps, but you were sure it was nothing compared to Keigo’s full-body ache. You’d had him every which way throughout the course of the night, you were sure he wouldn’t be standing correctly for a few days. You mentally patted yourself on the back.

You fell back with Keigo, pulling him to your chest. His head fell against you as his wings spread haphazardly and unsupported. For a moment, you worried he’d passed out, but a short groan and gentle squeeze proved you otherwise.

You set upon his trembling form with all the love you could show him.

“Oh, Keigo,” You peppered his forehead and hair with kisses as he hid his face at your sternum. “You did so well, you took me so, so well, baby. I’m so proud of you. I love you so much, 'Kei.”

He nuzzled into you, making small noises with not much sense to them. You gave him a sympathetic smile, rubbing circles into his lower back, “Would you like some water, baby? Or do you want to wait a little longer?”

Keigo shook his head, weakly kissing the top of your breasts, “N-now, please.”

You grabbed a bottle on the nightstand, pre-chilled in preparation for the inevitable outcome. Keigo slowly rose when you offered the bottle to him, hardly going far before downing mo of the liquid in a few gulps. It was obvious he needed it with the harsh flush of his face and the sweat growing cold on his skin.

He passed the bottle back to you, nestling back into you as he did. His wings quivered as they covered your forms, plumage soft and twitching as Keigo sweetly came down from his overstimulation and mushy mental state.

You set upon him with more sweet kisses and enough praise to drown a man with an ego smaller than Keigo’s. It was all gentle, coaxing him from his mental fog with lots of obvious love and attention. Keigo didn’t fall into submissive headspaces easily and that made it all the more imperative to be deliberate and ginger with helping him out.

You started blowing and leaving kisses around his ears, making him jolt and giggle at you. It was something high and airy, a side only you got to see. You loved how it sounded and felt so close to you.

Keigo gently cupped your face, returning your affections, albeit weaker. With his sagging eyelids, he was clearly spent.

“Was all that okay? I know it was intense,” You asked, pressing into Keigo’s gesture. You needed a bit of extra attention too, and Keigo was more than willing to lavish you the best he could in his state.

All gooey himself, Keigo shook his head, wrapping his arms and legs around you in a tight embrace, “Very good. Still kinda fucked out though.”

“I can tell,” You laughed. You kissed into his honeyed hair, tangling your fingers to the scalp to massage and work any tension out of his neck. “Take all the time you need. I’m right here.”

Keigo purred around you, breaths evening out and slowing.

You silently slipped from the bed, running to the bathroom to wet a washcloth to clean him. When you re-entered the dimly lit room, Keigo was sitting up, rubbing at his eyes and finishing his water.

Keigo cracked you a smile, as you came back to kneel on the bed. His voice was hoarse with its prior activities and expletives, “You know, I’m gonna get you back for all of that. Even worse.”

You rolled your eyes, “I look forward to it.”

You pressed a kiss to the corner of Keigo’s mouth, urging him down to the sheets.

He didn’t fight you, but you were sure he would.