#have i been ignoring how my hands are scrabbling how tight my muscles are (my shoulders ache)

[hiddenintheveil]

.

[the-iceni-bitch]

Cans I request a very soft but also very dom and kinda soft mean Steve 🥺🥺 who calls you his pretty slut🥴🥴

Pretty Little Slut

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Steve x fem!reader

Summary: Steve doesn’t like the dress you picked out, at all.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (unprotected vaginal sex, mentions of female masturbation, semi-public sex) daddy-dom Steve, SMUT!!!, 18+ ONLY!!!!

A/N: Ooh, this really activated my switch tendencies, I’ve haven’t gotten this subby in a while and after my last fic I’m giving myself whiplash. For some reason, this ask made me think of Winter Soldier Steve. (Also, surprise!!! Maybe I do have a daddy kink?) Thank you so much for the ask @donutloverxo!!!!!

Steve let out a low growl once his eyes found you on the dance floor. You were writhing in between Nat and Maria as you lost yourself in the music. He loved how carefree you looked when you were dancing.

But that fucking dress...

He tried so hard to be more open minded about what women wore these days, but that tiny black satin thing you had on could barely be considered an undergarment back in the 40s.

He stalked towards you, ignoring the conversation that Tony and Sam were trying to involve him in. You didn’t notice as he came to stand behind you, shoving aside some asshole who was trying to make a move on you.

“Fuck, hey baby!” You said as he wrapped his hand around your throat and drew you back against his chest with a yank. “You gonna dance with me?”

“No.” He murmured against the shell of your ear, bringing his other hand to dig into your arm. “We’re leaving.”

You moaned as he pressed you against him, the curve of your ass right up against his growing erection as he pulled you away from the other girls.

“Bye ladies.” You said hoarsely as you let Steve drag you away. They just shook their heads at you and kept dancing.

Steve released your throat but kept his hand wrapped around your arm as he steered you towards the car, his jaw clenched tightly. You watched the tic in his jaw as you followed him, chewing your lip as you considered what might have set him off.

He wrenched the passenger door open and shoved you inside, slamming it closed as you buckled yourself in. Your breath was coming in shallow pants as you watched him circle around the car to the driver’s side, his posture indicating how upset he was.

“Steve...” you said when he finally sat down and started the car.

“Don’t say anything.” He seethed at you, throwing the car into reverse and pulling out. “I can’t believe you went out dressed like this.”

“It’s a dress, Steve.” You said, rubbing your thighs together as you felt yourself getting wet at his tone.

“Barely.” He snorted as he continued driving, refusing to look at you. “Are you even wearing anything under there?”

“I though you liked it when I didn’t wear panties.” You whined, aching to touch yourself as he scolded you.

“When I’m out with you, you stupid slut.” He growled, his grip on the steering wheel tightening painfully. “Not so you can show off my pussy to every asshole in the city.”

“I’m so sorry, daddy.” You moaned in a low voice, your nipples growing hard under the thin silk of your dress. “I’m such a dumb slut, you should never let me go out by myself.”

He threw the car in park when you arrived back at the tower, turning to look at you finally.

“Fuck, look at you.” He said, his eyes softening as he watched you writhe under his gaze, your chest heaving as your fingers clutched the hem of your skirt, aching to touch yourself as your pussy throbbed against the leather seat. “My pretty little slut. Why do you do this to me baby?”

“I’m sorry, daddy, I just want to look pretty for you.” You gasped as he cupped your jaw, his thumb tugging at your bottom lip. “Please daddy, I’m so wet.”

“Yeah baby? You wanna touch that pretty pussy while I watch?” He grinned as you whined at him, nodding your head vigorously. “I shouldn’t let you, you’ve been so bad.”

“No, daddy!” You whimpered pathetically, grabbing his wrist as you nipped at the pad of his thumb.

He ripped his hand out of your grip and gave you a light slap across your cheek, making you gasp as your cunt clenched around nothing before he wrapped his hand around your throat.

“Don’t be a brat now, sweetheart.” He tutted before unbuckling his seat belt and leaning over the console to run his tongue over your cheek in a heavy stripe, making you mewl. “You’re just lucky I’m so soft on you, or I’d edge you all night. Now try not to act like a needy little whore when we’re in the lobby, or I’ll spank you.”

He opened your door for you before moving back to his seat and stepping out of the vehicle. You had to take a few deep breaths to school yourself before you moved to join him, pressing your thighs together to keep your arousal from running down the inside of your legs.

Steve pressed his hand to the small of your back as he guided you to the elevator, his cheek twitching as he did his best to keep himself from fucking you right there in the lobby. He ran his hand over your spine as the two of you waited, making you shiver with anticipation.

The lift finally arrived and he shoved you inside, striding after you with a look of determination that made your knees shake.

“I’m not gonna make it back to the room, baby.” He growled at you as he stepped forward, backing you into the wall as his eyes raked over your body.

You jumped when he punched the emergency brake, bringing the elevator to an abrupt halt. He turned back to you and gripped the straps of your dress and ripped it off you, grinning as you gasped and arched your back towards him.

“Fuck, you’re always so ready for me baby.” He growled into your neck as he slid his hand between your legs. “You gonna be a good girl and take daddy’s cock?”

“Yes daddy, please. I need your cock so bad. Wanna feel every inch of you in my tight little pussy.” You panted as he ran his teeth over your throat while he undid his fly.

“It’s my pussy, pretty girl.” He murmured as he slapped his tip against your clit, making you cry out and grip his shoulders painfully. “And I’m gonna fill her up so good.”

You swallowed a shriek as he shoved his hips forward, impaling you on his hard cock. He lifted you up and wrapped your legs around him as he started thrusting into you.

“You’re gonna be so good and quiet for me aren’t you pretty girl?” He muttered into your collarbone as his fingers dug into your waist painfully. “Don’t want anyone else knowing what a little slut you are.”

“Yes daddy. Just wanna be your good girl.” You panted as he fucked you harder, his cock hitting those spots inside you that no one had ever been able to reach before.

He bent to take your nipple in his mouth and you let out a whine, your fingers scrabbling in his hair as you arched into his face.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so good. This pussy’s so tight and warm. Look at what you do to me.” He said with a grunt as his hips started to stutter, your cunt clenching and fluttering around him as he brought you closer to the edge. “Making me fuck you in an elevator where anyone could catch us.”

The only answer you gave him was a series of soft whimpers as a warm coil started to tighten in your abdomen, making your back arch violently as you neared your release.

“Mmm, daddy I’m gonna cum. Please let me cum daddy.” You panted breathlessly.

“Daddy’s pretty slut wants to cum?” He purred, nipping at the column of your throat. “Go ahead baby, I wanna see that cream all over my cock.”

He pressed his mouth to yours and swallowed your shriek as your body went rigid, your fingers pulling his hair painfully. You sobbed as your muscles spasmed, your cunt strangling Steve’s cock as your release leaked out of you and soaked the front of his pants. Steve growled against your lips as his hips faltered, his cum shooting into you violently and mixing with your own release in a thick creamy mess that coated his cock.

“Fuck me.” He groaned, setting you down gently as he pulled out of you. “You fucking planned this didn’t you?”

You just but your lip and grinned at him, punching the emergency button to restart the lift.

“Dunno what you mean, daddy. I’m just a dumb little slut. Now give me your jacket, I’m not walking back to our apartment naked.”

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[shorkbrian]

Mommy please

My and @seijoh and @confessions-of-a-yandere-freak and @implexedactions were thirsting and I have so many thots to think about KIRISHIMA always and forever I 🥵

This was supposed to be a short thirst but it’s half thirst half drabble im sorry I couldn’t help myself Kirishima’s just too hot to contain.

(NSFW/mommy kink/noncon)

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Big beefy Kiri is so sweet, so kind and polite and the perfect gentleman. Always offers to take you on dates, showers you with flowers and gifts, tries to hold your hand and kiss your knuckles every chance he gets.

Even if you don’t want him to.

He never gives you a chance to tell him no, to ask him to stop, to push him away. Kirishima shows up at your apartment with roses clutched in his hands, a bright smile on his face as soon as you open the door.

You can’t get the words out to ask him to leave, cause he’s crashing into you, shoving the roses into your hands as he kisses you, mouth hot and wet.

Pushes you around, manhandles you like you’re nothing. By the time he lets you break away from the kiss, his hand is down your shorts, knuckles brushing softly over your panties, pressed up against your clit.

You wanna tell him no, tell him to stop and go home and leave you alone, but then he’s kissing you again, sharp teeth nipping at your lip until you open your mouth to let him explore inside, his technique messy but enthusiastic. 

Kirishima is so strong, it’s easy for him to lift you into his arms, asking you sweetly to wrap your legs around his waist while he slowly grinds his clothed bulge in-between your legs, making you gasp at the pang of pleasure that shoots through your stomach on each grind.

And then his mouth is on yours again, and he's stumbling towards your bedroom. The man pauses occasionally to shove your back against a wall to steady you so he can hump against your pussy, both of your clothes beginning to spot with precum and wetness.

There isn’t time to tell him no, his presence is so overwhelming and it’s so hard to catch a breath with him attacking you so lustfully with his lips and hands.

By the time you reach the bedroom, your scrabbling at his arms, half wanting to be let go, half wanting for him to pull you closer.

You know this isn’t right, what he’s doing isn’t right - it never is, hasn’t been from the beginning. There’s no consent on your part, and Kirishima doesn’t care to ask.

His polite and gentlemanly exterior crumbles around you, burned to ashes by lust and desperation. Instead he turns into a demon, grabbing and humping and taking whatever he wants. Problem is, he doesn’t ask if you want it too.

Never gives into your timid requests for him to leave, always brushes it off as you being shy or embarrassed. At least, that’s what you hope. You can’t bear the thought of Kirishima purposefully fucking you knowing that you don’t want him too.

(He knows, and it hurts his heart. But why would he ever stop fucking you when it makes the both of you almost pass out from the pleasure?)

----

“Let me eat you out mommy, please?”

“Kiri I don’t-”

“Don’t be shy, I love you so much. It’ll feel so good, I’ll be so good for you. Please, please let me lick your perfect little pussy.”

He’s already stripping off your shorts, your hands doing nothing to stop him. Kirishima loves sitting you on the edge of the bed, dropping to his knees and throwing your legs over his shoulders before going down on you. 

The man goes on and on about how pretty you are, how sweet you taste, ignoring whispering “stop, please don’t”.

Kirishima does what he wants, and he only wants you.

When he starts licking broad stripes up your cunt, you can’t do anything but shudder and clutch at his hair, try to pull him away, push him back. It feels good, but you don’t want it to.

Kiri always stops when you pull his hair, looking up at you with glittering red eyes as he lips his lips, savoring your taste.  “Oh, sorry mommy, I forgot to put up my hair. Know you like to pull on it when you get too sensitive.”

And it’s tantalizing, watching his muscles flex underneath his shirt while he pulls his long hair into a ponytail before diving back between your legs. You try to clamp them shut, but he just laughs and easily wrenches them open, tells you not to hide from him, let him see your beautiful little body and make you cum until you’re shaking.

He does exactly that, holding onto one of your legs over his shoulder with one hand, the other kneading his cock through his sweats as he excitedly eats you out, licking and slurping and spitting onto your cunt. You’re usually crying at this point, begging him to stop and go home, leave you alone, you don’t want this, but Kiri never listens.

He does like the sound of your begging.

Kirishima makes sure you cum more than once, messily dragging his tongue over your thighs, lapping at your cum like he’s had nothing to drink for a week, a man with an unquenchable thirst. There’s all sorts of sounds, from his feral, unconscious groaning and growling to the slick, squelchy sound of him mouthing feverishly at your clit.

When he finally pulls back, panting and groaning with need, he blinks up at you, a wide smile dancing across his face.

“Thank you mommy, what a treat. You always taste so nice, wish you would let me spend all day in between your thighs. Thank you so much for letting me eat you out, you’re so good to me.”

The way he says it makes you blush - almost as if you had made him beg to eat you out, as if you had wanted him to do so.

You had begged for him to stop.

It’s not like he ever listens.

And then he’s standing up, shucking off his sweats and shirt before grabbing at your own shirt, pulling it off you before you can resist his big hands. You push yourself towards the other side of the bed, legs feeling like jelly from your previous orgasms, and you don’t get far before Kirishima’s dragging you back towards him.

“Don’t worry, I always make you feel good. I would never hurt my sweet girl. I just wanna feel you mommy, see how hard you made me?”

His cock is bobbing against his belly as he moves, precum slicking the length, smearing against his dark happy trail. He’s got a big dick. You always hate this next part.

Kiri likes to manhandle you while he fucks you, likes to feel how little you are compared to how giant he is. Sometimes he’ll pick you up, hold you in the air and bounce you on his cock while he watches your face, occasionally leaning to kiss and mouth at your neck.

Other times he’ll turn you away from him, push you into the bathroom before picking you up into a full-nelson, right in front of the mirror. In that position, both of you can see how his thick cock enters you, how blotchy your face gets with tears, how you’re almost hyperventilating from the stress and trauma of being violated. Kirishima always looks flushed behind you, knitting his brows together while he chases his pleasure, cooing at his “mommy” and how amazing you are.

When he’s feeling particularly playful, he’ll throw you on the bed, lift you into positions where he has full access to your body, play between sticking his cock in your pussy or tracing it around your mouth. He’ll flick his finger over your clit, mush down the little nub with his thick, calloused thumb and torture it until you’re a sobbing mess, crying and begging and pleading for him to stop, or let you cum - you’d take either at this point.

Today he’s feeling gentle, loving; he wants to spoil his mommy and make you feel amazing, 

So Kiri lays down on his back, pulls you over him and spends a few minutes just grinding his cock against you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, pausing to whine and whimper at the delicious friction of your skin against his cock. He wants to cum, but he wants to make his mommy feel good first.

When the big man does lift you onto his cock, it’s hard for him to start out slow. He always tries to give one hundred percent, can’t hold himself back when he sinks into your tight heat.

You’re laying against him, head buried into the juncture between his neck and shoulder as you cry. But Kiri wants to see. So he pushes you up, holds you upright with his big meaty palms before he plants his feet on the bed and fucks into you so fast you almost scream.

Kirishima pounds into you so quickly on his lap that your tits are bouncing, and he’s addicted to the way the flesh moves before his eyes. He loves you, body, mind, soul - everything about you is perfect to him. He wants to be with you, wants to watch you and feel you and fuck you until he dies.

He makes you come again, slamming into your g-spot again and again until you’re clenching around him, bawling your eyes out as pleasure overtakes you. You don’t want this, it isn’t right, he’s a bad man.

Your clenched pussy drives him too close to the edge, and Kirishima is crying out, chanting, begging you to let him cum. 

As if you were in control.

The man isn’t necessarily expecting a response, lost in the fantasy of his beautiful little mommy ordering him to come in her little pink pussy, to clean her up afterwards while she grinds her foot against his softening cock while he licks his cum out of her.

It’s that thought that has him spilling inside you, choking up at the sensation of your warm walls milking out his cum.

You feel so good, he loves you so much.

He knows you don’t love him back, knows you hate what he’s doing to you, hate the pleasure he forces from your body.

But Kirishima can pretend you don’t.

He’ll teach you to love him.

[kiki-shortsnout]

For intimacy prompts: #36 being pushed against a wall for Frostironstrange! 💚❤️💙

I might have cheated a little and made it a door....

***

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion Stephen had much experience with. He’d been top of his field when he’d been a doctor, a pioneer, a trailblazer, he was the one people regarded with envy. Even in his romantic life, jealousy wasn’t an emotion he’d fallen victim to, never having formed a lasting attachment to another person.

He knew the root of the emotion stemmed from a feeling of insecurity, that the best thing he could do was turn his gaze inward and think about his own personal growth, to address his feelings of low self-esteem.

This…didn’t feel like feelings of low self-esteem. It felt like a coiled ball of barbed wire and razor blades sitting in his stomach, strangling the life out of him every time he saw them together.

The words on the page wavered as his eyes went unfocused, his ears straining to hear sounds of them whispering, torturing himself further by hearing fragments of their conversation, his mind filling in the blanks.

Why couldn’t it have been me?

Stephen had fallen in love with Tony first. He’d agonized over that, spent countless nights thinking about the reason why, if the rationale behind his jealousy was born from some adolescent feeling such as, I saw him first so therefore he’s mine, but that wasn’t it.

A bond had formed between them when fighting Thanos, a trust that Stephen seldom found in others. He knew Tony, probably better than anyone else in the world after his little exploration of millions of possible outcomes, but that wasn’t what made him fall in love.

It was the man’s determination, his courage, his sarcasm, all wrapped up in an appealing aesthetic package that was Tony Stark. He had been willing to sacrifice himself for the world, just as Stephen had sacrificed countless lives in the Dark Dimension, and at that moment against Thanos, Stephen knew he’d found someone in this huge, boundless universe who could understand him.

He looked up at that moment, staring at Tony across the gloomy Sanctum library. His legs were folded beneath him on the armchair, his elbow on the desk as he rested his head on it, idly swiping through his Starkpad as he worked.

Stephen hadn’t been able to let him die, had used every possible resource he possessed and those around him to save his life. He hadn’t even known Tony that long, but he had still sobbed alongside Rhodey and Pepper as Tony finally inhaled a lungful of battle charred air after excruciating seconds of being dead.

Sensing Stephen’s stare, Tony glanced up, giving him a gorgeous smile, the type that sent euphoric sensations squirming through his stomach. Ignoring Tony’s mouthed question asking him if he was okay, Stephen turned back to his book.

He’d never understood what it meant to love someone until the moment he’d lost Tony. Despite already witnessing millions of potential lifetimes, ignoring millions more, Stephen still wanted to remain by Tony’s side, as a friend, a lover, whatever capacity he was allowed as long as he could be part of the man’s life.

‘What’s got your attention, Anthony? I’m over here.’

Then Loki had happened.

The trickster had faked his death at Thanos’s hand. Not for his own personal gain this time, it was the only way he could save Thor and Bruce, ensure that Thanos would leave whatever Asgardians he hadn’t slaughtered alone. Stephen had doubted Loki’s intentions were as honorable as that, believe a large part of his actions were to save his own hide, but he wasn’t made of stone, despite how he was perceived, and Thor begging him to help find his brother hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.

It was Tony asking him to help bring Loki home, to give him the second chance they’d all had at some point in their lives, that swayed Stephen into action. The man didn’t even know about his repressed feelings, and even then, he was powerless to Tony’s wishes.

‘Lokes, I can barely concentrate as it is when you’re near me,’ Tony flirted.

He ripped the corner of the page from the tightness of his grip.

Stephen couldn’t actually put a finger on the exact moment where his feelings for the God of Mischief had changed from irritation to begrudging respect.

And then into complex complicated feelings of their own.

But he’d known when Loki’s and Tony’s relationship had changed, had seen the way both of them looked at the other, the swollen lips after they returned from meetings.

‘Stephen? Everything alright?’ Tony asked, destroying the painful recollections, making him look up at them both. They were trying to hide their relationship from him, and he wasn’t sure why.

I’m not important enough to know.

‘Yup,’ Stephen snapped, slamming his book shut and throwing it onto the desk between them.

‘Usually, you only look like that after I have spoken to you,’ Loki teased, placing both hands flat on the desk and leaning forward, goading him. That was their relationship, provoking each other, encouraging character growth through spite and teasing.

Today it felt like salt was scouring the wounds on Stephen’s soul.

He needed to control these feelings, these emotions. He’d already convinced himself that he was content with being Tony’s friend, that whatever stirrings of interest he had towards Loki had to be his libido talking. Tony Stark deserved whatever happiness he could find, and Stephen was the biggest advocate for it.

‘No, you’re not, honey.’

Stephen flinched in his chair as he looked up, Tony directly in front of him, his hand reaching out. The way his eyes had become soft and tender with worry for him made Stephen want to weep, to launch himself forward into his arms and speak his deepest desires.

They already have each other. There isn’t room for you.

He batted Tony’s hand away, ignoring the way the man flinched even as a wash of shamed nausea crept over him.

What are you expecting, Strange? That they’ll include you? That Tony will leave Loki for you? Normal people don’t have two partners.

‘Hey, it’s okay…I didn’t mean to scare you, we can leave if you’ve got things on your mind,’ Tony reassured, taking a step back.

‘Nothing’s on my mind,’ Stephen answered straight away, his voice coming out too loud and panicked. He saw Loki’s eyebrow raise in question, the Asgardian looking between them both, analyzing.

Shit.

‘Stephen, something’s obviously wrong, and I don’t think it’s because you don’t understand…’ Tony paused, tilting his head so he could try and read the title of Stephen’s book. ‘Yeah…I don’t know what you’re reading. Look, if it’s something I did don’t be shy,’ Tony told him with a playful grin, but Stephen knew what was behind it, the insecurity he hid behind those smiles.

‘No! It’s nothing you’ve done,’ Stephen lurched forward to grasp Tony’s elbows before remembering who else was with them. Immediately he let go, shoving his chair back with the force he used to escape. Cursing his treacherous body, his gaze went to Loki who was watching the whole thing unfold with shrewd eyes.

‘Come on, asshole, what is it? I’m not a mind reader you know.’

‘No, but I am. I have a glorious feeling this is going to be fascinating,’ Loki’s silky voice wrapped around them both, his fingers lit up with his magic.

He can’t find out.

‘Leave me alone…’ he spat, his hands readying themselves to create a portal as he leapt to his feet. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Deadly,’ Loki growled, extending his fingers with a snap, his emerald magic twisting forward and nullifying the portal Stephen had been trying to create.

I need to get out of here.

‘What? What’s going on? Loki, stop it don’t-’ Tony yelped as Stephen launched himself into a run, barreling him over in his haste to escape. Loki gave chase, both of them scrabbling against the wooden floor as they sprinted to the door.

Tony can’t know. Neither of them can know.

Stephen ignored Tony’s frantic shouts for them to stop, the burn in his lungs as he ran, the pain in his shoulders as he collided with the bookcases. Books rained down on him, the library around him fading to one, singular point.

Get to the door!

He could hear Loki hot on his heels, felt the tendrils of his magic trying to ensnare him, his snarls of frustration as Stephen ducked and weaved around the bookcases, no finesse to his movements, just a dogged determination to escape the situation.

Crying out in relief when he made it to the door first, he skidded to a halt when the Cloak billowed up, blocking the way, trapping Stephen inside.

‘They can’t find out! Move!’ Stephen hissed at the Cloak.

The Cloak shook its collar, spreading itself out so it appeared huge.

‘Please!’ Stephen pleaded, his voice cracking. ‘I’ll lose them both otherwise!’

‘What the hell is going on? Are we under attack?’ Feet pounded on the floor behind him, the sounds of his suit forming was audible even over Stephen’s pounding heart.

Think. Think!

Reaching forward to rip aside the Cloak, Stephen found himself slammed against the back of the door, a lithe muscled body pressed against him, and a hot mouth sealed over his. Despite wanting to moan into it, the electric current of unbridled lust surging inside of him, he didn’t stop fighting to escape.

He didn’t want to hurt Tony with his lustful feelings and burgeoning affection for his lover, didn’t want to damage their friendship. Then there was Loki, whose tales of cruelty had reached them all. Who knew what he would do to Stephen for coveting his lover? He would desecrate the feelings he held dear, spinning this into a story that they shared with other while in bed, their mocking laughter surrounding them.

‘Desist your struggles, Strange,’ Loki whispered when he stopped, leaving another scorching kiss on his lips as he held him still. ‘Your feelings are making you foolish. You know I cannot read minds, yet you crumbled under your fear and left your true self bare.’

Stephen strained against the hold, his head banging back against the heavy door, nails gripping the wood. Loki didn’t budge, his strength far exceeding Stephen’s, but he moved his hands to his forearms, allowing the blood to flow back into his damaged hands with a pained hiss.

‘Sorry,’ Loki murmured. ‘It is not my intent to-’

‘You already knew I had feelings for him,’ Stephen hissed, looking over Loki’s shoulder, trying to understand what the expression on Tony’s face was, memorizing the detail of him before he’d be no longer allowed to look.

I never wanted this to happen.

‘Yes, but I did not know of your attraction to me. Which makes this conversation so much simpler,’ Loki answered.

‘What conversation?’

‘You are not alone in your feelings, darling,’ Loki called over his shoulder, his sharp green gaze never leaving Stephen’s.

He slumped in Loki’s hold, hanging his head as shame burned his cheeks.

‘You’re not listening to my words, Stephen.’ Loki brought his head down to whisper in his ear, adjusting his grip so Stephen could rest against him, holding him instead of restraining him. Even with all of the panic making him light-headed, his chest flayed open for all to see, Stephen still took the time to breathe in Loki’s scent, the unique alienness of it.

‘Stephen? Is Loki right? Do you…have feelings for me?’ Tony asked, his voice wavering in bewilderment.

Rubbing his head against Loki’s shoulder for a moment, Stephen took a huge, quivering breath before he drew back, trying to find his courage.

‘No, Loki’s voice rumbled through his chest, oscillating through to Stephen’s skin. ‘It isn’t just lust you have for me. You hold feelings for us both.’

‘Stephen?’

‘Yes. God, I’m sorry, I fell for you, months ago, Tony,’ Stephen sighed, not looking at him, staring at the glossy black hair brushing against Loki’s collarbone. ‘I knew you were together, thought I could be happy…No, I wanted to be happy for you-’

Stephen stumbled as Loki vanished from before him, flailing until he was caught by Tony’s smaller frame. He only had a second to figure out what had happened before he was being kissed again, a sharp whipcrack of shock drowning out any thoughts.

He retained enough sense to break apart, his gaze seeking out Loki, fearful of retribution. Loki’s façade cracked at his stare, relaxing into an expression he’d often seen him look at Tony with.

‘You were blinded by what you did not have, saw only what you wanted to see. You never realized that Anthony was watching you too, snatching gazes of you when you were preoccupied with your melancholy.’

Stephen looked down at Tony in his arms, his brown eyes blazing in that look of determination he’d fallen for.

‘Stephen, I…you too? I never thought…you never gave any indication of-’

Stephen silenced the words with a kiss, reaching up to cup Tony’s face with his hand, expressing everything he could through his actions, his longing, his repressed desire, his love. Their tears mingled together, seeping down to their lips, binding their kiss with suffering sweetness.

‘Idiots, the both of you,’ Loki said, wrapping his arms around them. ‘I know this type of relationship might not be considered… acceptable on Midgard, but I believe now that I know of your feelings, it would be wise to explore the possibilities.’

‘This, this isn’t normal though,’ Stephen mumbled against Tony’s lips, lifting his free hand so he could grip hold of Loki.

‘Who cares about normal? I’m Tony Stark, I do what I want,’ Tony asserted, kissing him soundly on the lips, before turning and kissing Loki’s jaw.

‘Ineloquent as always, but I believe this time the sentiment comes across nicely,’ Loki said, eyes closing as he accepted Tony’s bestowed kiss.

‘You both? How long?’

‘Since Thanos-’

‘Since you found me-’

They answered together. It was Loki who blushed though, uncertain how his own declaration would be taken.

‘I’ve known Tony longer, understood and accepted my feelings for him before I found you, but that doesn’t mean what I’m feeling towards you isn’t real, Loki,’ Stephen assured, his confidence growing, the earlier panic and fear dispelled by their touch.

Loki swallowed and nodded once, his grip tightening before he took a step back, gesturing at the Cloak to move aside.

‘I realize we’ve forced this confession from you, and if you would rather take some time to-’

‘Do you want to go on a date?’ Tony interrupted.

‘A date?’ Loki deadpanned.

‘A date? Like drinks? Food? Music? Somewhere we can get to…well not know each other better, but talk. About what this means for us?’ Tony encouraged, his gaze darting between them both.

‘Anthony. I do not think-’

‘A date sounds great,’ Stephen interrupted him this time, pressing his lips together to hide his amusement at Loki’s confusion, reaching down to take both their hands in his.

[spinchip]

I Will Answer to Knife

Word Count: 3600 Pairings: Gen Warnings: Post s11 Ice Chapter. PTSD, mentions of blood/murder, Zane isn’t in a good headspace.

Summary: Zane struggles with weapons he isn’t used to. Zane struggles with what he offers.

Wouldbelove, do not think of me as a whetstone until you hear the whole story: In it, I’m not the hero, but I’m not the villain either so let’s say, in the story, I was human and made of human-things: fear and hands, underbelly and blade.

He overcompensates, loses his balance and skids across the courtyard. His side takes the brunt of it, and if he were human the bruises would be layered one on top of the other, each time he slips imprinted onto his skin in a motley purple-blue-yellow. He’s not human, so all he has to show for his fumbling is radiating pain not unlike cracked ribs, a dirty gi, and tight-lipped irritation that barely masks shame. The impact sends his shuriken out of his hands, arcing in an unrefined fling that has one stuck out of the gate across the yard and the other lying, like him, in the dirt.

He rolls to a stop, flopping back onto the ache of his shoulder blades to stare up at the sky. Without thinking, he balls his hand into a fist and bangs the side of his palm against the edge of the training mat he can reach. Frustration seeps hot across his throat and down his chest, like blood from a fresh wound. He rolls over on his sore side by mistake but doesn’t dare suck in a hissing breath, not with the others watching so closely, gathering his legs underneath him and rising to his feet.

Kai looks sympathetic from his spot on the blue mat that is not big enough to keep his failure contained, the dirt on his gi proof of his mistakes spilling over. The wooden swords in his hands are awkward and out of place, their weight different from his normal weaponry yet even with this disadvantage, he puts Zane down over and over.

Well, Zane does most of the work for him, really.

Lloyd watches with a pinched expression as Zane dusts himself off, his position at the head of the training session a solid presence, “I think that’s enough for today.” He says, and he almost seems apologetic.

“I can go again.” Zane insists, and refuses to stumble as he collects his discarded weapons, wrenching the edge of his blade out of the gate with his dwindling strength.

He’s exhausted. They’ve been running basic drills, ameatuer hour stuff Zane should have been able to do in his sleep- but it’s been years. Decades upon decades stuck on the throne of the Never Realm, and now he’s out of practice and off balance. Nindroids don't have muscle memory, and his regular memory has been shredded enough that things like this didn’t bother to stick. He can’t get through a single move without losing the dexterity that used to come easy and sending himself to the dirt- Lloyd had gone from advanced moves to novice to beginner slowly throughout the day, yet the result was the same: Zane in the dirt of his own accord, aching and weak.

To add insult to injury, Kai is obviously holding back. Jay had been too, yesterday, Nya the day before. In the span of a week he went from the most formidable man in the realm to an uncoordinated child who needed to be treated delicately. He could barely land a hit on the training dummy, and it didn’t even move.

“Maybe you can try your bow again?” Zane can’t meet Kais eyes, the pity he’s trying to mask making his wires curl.

“We saw how well that went.” Jay mutters not uncharitably, another string of disappointments a few days prior where his aim left much to be desired, and quite nearly took his eye when he’d lost his grip.

The others had been training too, but they’d stopped to watch as Lloyd summoned Kai and Zane to spar.

“We need to assess your skills in combat,” Lloyd had said earlier that day, the so we can make up for your shortcomings going unsaid but heavy all the same. Or maybe Zane is the one being uncharitable- but he’s in pain and tired and his mask of calm is harder to keep a grip on now.

And Kai had hesitated on the edge of the mat, holding the steel of his swords, and with his head down had swapped them for wooden fakes. The insult threatened to make Zanes lip curl, but he’d been forced to concede to his foresight when dull wood blades cracked against the side of his thigh and forced him to the ground, in one of the few times Zane had managed to stay on his feet long enough to be taken down by something other than his own shortcomings. He should have been able to dodge.

The shurikens are so small in his hands, and he hasn’t used them in so so long. He's rusty.

“I can go again.” He insists, stepping back onto the mat. In a real battle, he’d be less than useless. They couldn’t protect him, he had to be able to take care of himself. He had to keep going until he could at least survive. He was good at surviving, he’d spent decades hanging on by a thread- countering a wooden sword shouldn't be so difficult compared to parrying the knives from assassins or the swords of dead men walking. He’s weak.

Lloyd gets that look on his face that he only gets when he has to do something he really doesn’t want to do, mostly when he must flex his status on the others when they're being particularly stubborn. It’s a pained stony sort of expression, “That’s enough for today.” he says more firmly, shoulder squaring. He loses the soft edges of the boy he used to be, Master Lloyd filling in the spaces rigid.

Protest raises on his tongue, “The longer I go at the skill level I am at now, the more dangerous it becomes.” fear, frustration, and desperation simmers below the surface, “I am a liability on the field, I cannot stop until I can hold my own.”

“We can continue training tomorrow.” Lloyd says, unyielding. Green eyes trail down to Zanes' sore side, assessing.

He bristles and tries to tamp it down, “You do not need to go easy on me-” he starts.

Lloyd interrupts him, “Yes we do-” frustration cracking the facade of the master, the others looking on in wide eyed worry.

“Lloyd, Zane, enough.” Wu's voice rings out in sharp tones, his presence slamming the lid on the boiling over pot, “I believe I have a suggestion to solve our problem.”

Problem. Zane tries not to let that sting as he spins to face Master Wu.

The man is descending the stairs of the monastery into the courtyard, the others parting like the red sea, his cape trailing on the edge of the steps as he comes down. In his hand is-

Zanes vision tunnels, Lloyd, Kai, the others all fading away as he takes in the smooth metal, leather bound handle, the wicked curved blade- a piece of him howls, jagged and frozen fingers scrabbling at the corners of his mind, the sight of that staff is like going snowblind. All at once he’s standing in the courtyard amongst his friends and the throne room at the same time, realities overlapping in brutal contrast.

His shuriken bounces off his foot and he is thrust back into his body, his hands empty where he’d dropped his weapons in shock. Wu approaches him with the staff and he takes a shaky step backwards, wiping at his mouth with wobbling hands, half expecting to wipe away spit- salivating at just the sight of it. His wrists and fingers ache, begging him to take it in his hands.

Wu disregards his reaction, walking into his space among the group on the mat. He thunks the staff down in front of Zane, the weight of it digging into blue, like it is the answer.

He’s so spooked he doesn’t dare move, looking at it with wide eyes. Now that he’s more present, he realizes it’s nearly identical to the Staff of Forbidden Spinjitzu, except this one is notably missing the scroll that gave it the corruptive power. It’s just a staff, plain and simple.

No one says a word. Zane stares at it, trembling.

Lloyd is quiet, then, “Are you sure that this is a good idea, Master Wu?”

Wu looks sad but he’s trying to mask it, “You are their teacher, Lloyd. When Zane falters, what do you see?”

Zane is listening, sort of. He’s tracing the edge of the blade with his eyes- sharpened to a fine point, clean and perfect. It looks heavy, the whole thing does, he can nearly taste the weight of it on his tongue. He wants to take it so badly it hurts, and in the same breath he wants to cast it off the side of the mountain or freeze it solid and shatter it against the stone under his feet.

“He’s off balance. He’s compensating for a weight that’s not there.” Lloyd looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, “The shuriken are too small.” He admits.

Wu nods to the weapon in his hand, glancing from Lloyd to pin his eyes on Zane, “You’ve had a lifetime of practice with this weapon. You’ve wielded a staff longer than a shuriken or a bow, perhaps it is time to embrace that.”

Zane doesn’t even look at him. He can almost feel the whisper on the back of his mind- it’s not there, the staff is a replica without the extra power, but Zane can imagine it all the same.

He reaches out and takes it.

The feel of it in his palm is like a starburst of agony, an ice burn that jumps up the metal of his forearm and digs into the plane of his chest. Flickers of memories flash in his mind's eyes all like looking through a pane of frosted ice-glass, cold seeping into his skeleton. A memory rises unbidden, a man he did not freeze, who had been close enough to strike with the blade- red red red

He chucks it across the courtyard without thinking, staggering away from it, “I can’t.” he nearly gags, before darting past Wu and Lloyd and narrowly avoiding Coles worried brush of his fingers. He takes the stairs two at a time, throwing open the front door and not bothering to shut it behind him.

He holes himself away in his room, sitting on the floor next to his bed, trying to hold himself together.

Too much too soon, the staff wrenched memories he’d been ignoring and hiding away free.

He doesn’t want to admit it, wants to choke it down and pretend it didn’t happen, but he can’t deny that- even with the pain and shame and bloody wounded guilt overwhelming him- taking that staff had felt like coming home.

Home was supposed to be Ninjago. Somewhere along the way, it became the throne room, too. He’d been split in half, pieces of him trapped in a realm he could never return to. The closest he’d ever get to sating the pervasive homesick itch is to hold a facsimile of his tool of violence.

Perhaps it is time to embrace that Wu had said, holding out the weapon he’d bloodied his hands with.

Evening comes and goes, and he skips dinner again. He’s crawled into bed at some point, staring up at the ceiling, trying hard not to think. He swallows down the threatening urge to crack under it all. In the darkness, he stares at his palms.

Vex is standing at his side, the throne room an open doorway behind them, and the staff is a curling presence he’s never without. It’s hard to think about these memories because he doesn’t form thoughts like he did when he was broken, the memories jagged and warped. Trying to understand is like catching a blade you’ve dropped- a falling knife has no handle. It hurts.

But in this memory he and Vex are walking through the palace hall. Grand windows might as well be painted white with the snow obscuring the now frozen wasteland, but the Emperor had no desire to see the outside world, or anything at all. This is before he had snuffed out the rising rebellions, this is before he’d flexed his power and made the people afraid, this is before they’d even given him the moniker Ice Emperor. He is nameless now, even Vex only calls him by his title. He doesn’t even know he is missing something so vital.

Vex says, “You don’t need to worry about the inconsequential things,” he’s a step behind Zane, and when his emperor slows he can prod him so he keeps moving, “You are an instrument of power, these things are beneath you. I will handle the day-to-day for you, my Emperor.”

The click of his staff ticks across the hall as they walk, “And what am I to handle?”

“Nothing. Simply keep your hold on our eternal winter, and raise your staff when I ask it of you.”

There's a stirring of thought in the empty caverns of his head and not a hint of it is kind, “I am your attack dog, then.”

To his credit, Vex doesn’t falter, “You are my Emperor.” he says immediately, and then- carefully, and almost genuinely curious, “What do you have to offer other than violence?”

Zane lays in bed and stares at the shapes in the dark that might be his hands. Shurikens don’t fit right any more, his arrows shoot askance. If the next threat arises in the morning, what can he do except cost his friends focus?

He is a bleeding wound. They need to treat him gently and delicately- but life is not gentle and delicate, and perhaps it is time to take a knife over a fire and cauterize the injury.

He slips and goes horizontal and his blood spills across the dirt. It’s metaphorical until it’s not and the newest adversary forgoes fake wooden swords for real ones, sharpened blades sinking home. If he were human he would bleed red blood. He’s not human, so it’s oil and coolant and hydraulic fluid seeping into the soil.

He is a liability. Weak-link. He has to learn to fight again. He has to embrace it, even if it feels like frostbite chipping away at him, even if it hurts. Vex had forged him into a knife, forced him into the shape of a blade and sharpened him with blood instead of water, if he can accept these pieces he can make himself useful once more. It was all he had.

He wants to feel strong again.

Morning comes in slanting lights though his window, the blanket is too hot under them. He hadn’t slept enough but he rolls out of bed and changes into a clean gi anyway and trails out of his room. Conversation falls hushed when he comes into the kitchen, and he eats breakfast despite the way his stomach churns- it tastes like it always tastes, bland and unappetizing. The ache in his side had faded over the night, nearly non-existent. He can spar fresh.

“We didn’t think you’d be joining us today.” Nya tries, smiling over her bagel.

He doesn’t shrug, putting his fork down, “I meant what I said. I cannot stop until I can protect myself.”

Nya’s face grows pinched and worried, “You can, though.” She reaches across the table and sets her hand on top of his, and she doesn’t jolt or comment at all about how cold he is, “You can take a break, Zane.”

Wu had called him a problem. Zane knows that’s not what he meant, but it weighs his shoulders like lead, and he doesn’t respond. He stands up and takes his plate to the sink, and her hands falls flat against the table.

The staff is sitting on the porch, leaned up against the wall. He focuses on it the moment they walk outside, and Jay ducks his head nervously- he was probably supposed to put it away so Zane didn’t see it again, but they thought he was going to skip like he had the first few days after he’d come home. Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today.

They do warm-ups, then Lloyd pairs them up for sparring, and his eyes skate over Zane reluctantly until, “Cole… Zane. Come spar.” The others don’t need for Lloyd to supervise them, or the training mat. Zane needs both.

They both go to the weapons and Cole, like Kai yesterday, avoids his hammer. He reaches for the wooden training swords but Zane catches his wrist.

He looks up, startled, “Zane?” He asks, confused.

He manhandles his hand over to the grip of his hammer, “Do not hold back.” He says firmly, and then jogs up the stairs and wraps his fingers around the staff.

Expecting it this time, he compartmentalizes the memories the instant they surface, shoving them back. In the absence of pain there is comfort, the weight so achingly familiar a hole inside of him he didn’t know he had is filled. Like coming home, he’d felt it yesterday. Confidence pours into his system- he knows how to hold this, to swing this, to fight with this. He picks it up and it’s perfectly balanced, a missing limb reattached.

Carrying it down the stairs, he’s aware of their stares.

Kai and Nya break formation, moving back to give Cole and Zane room. Jay follows their lead, and they settle back to watch.

Cole is holding his hammer and his expression is grim, “Are you sure you can handle this?”

He feels like he’s being filled with ice, chill threatening to frost over his eyes. He’s not sure at all, but he says, “Don’t hold back.” Again anyway.

Shurikens are small. To fight, he has to stand back, give space, evade and dodge. Bow and arrows are much the same. They are largely defensive. Before the Never Realm, he was good at defense.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Lloyd says and Zane carefully tunes out the apprehension in his voice.

Now he is more comfortable on the offense.

He moves.

The Ice Emperor rarely fights in close combat- he rarely fights at all, actually. He waves his staff and freezes, he calls ice and allows that to do the work for him, but when he does face off one on one, he does so as brutally efficiently as he can. He is all offense, blow after blow after unrelenting blow- he pours bone-shattering strength into each strike, driving rebellion leaders to their knees, knocking back a town's most elite soldiers, and if they don’t go down on the first hit he wastes no time lashing out again. He rushes his opponent, he overwhelms them, and he offers not a single second of reprieve.

He hauls back, crossing the mat in half a second, and slices through the air in a clean and powerful swing. The crack of his staff against the handle of Cole's hammer sounds like a gunshot with the terrible force behind it, and before Cole can gather his bearing he swings again.

He beats him back faster than he expected- Cole underestimated him, and it cost him precious ground. He tries to put distance between them to get a moment to make his move, but Zane is with him step for step, suffocating any moves before they can breathe.

To fight with his shuriken or his bow is like oil against his water, they don’t mix now that the staff has imprinted itself onto his mind. He cannot reconcile the difference, not yet. He compensates for the weight of the staff, keeps his balance, and advances on his target with brutal efficiency.

He sweeps his leg out while splitting Cole's attention with a strike intended for his side, and Cole goes down with a startled shout. Zane twists the staff so the flat side of the blade is sitting on his chest- the intent is clear, but there’s no danger he’ll accidentally cut him. It’s over in heartbeats, and Cole looks up at him, astonished.

“Holy moly.” Jay breathes.

Zane moves the blade aside, shifting the staff to hold it upright. He glances over at Lloyd, who looks a shade paler than before the fight, whose eyes are a bit too wide. He was the only one who’d seen the Ice Emperor in action, and the last time he’d held the blade against someone's chest it had been him- sharp side down, the intent had been clear then, too. Zane averts his eyes, guilt threatening the progress he’d made even picking the staff up, and focused on holding out a hand so he could bring Cole back to his feet.

Cole winces as he pulls him up, “Zane…” He says, staggering, “That was like nothing I've ever seen from you.” He flexes his fingers, the blows stinging his hands even now.

He doesn’t flinch or shy away from his friends' looks, “It’s how I fought.” He’s hoping he doesn’t have to put any more context to that sentence, he doesn’t want to say the Never Realms name out loud.

“How?” Nya asks, “You left so many openings, how did you win?”

“Overwhelming force.” Zane says.

“The openings mean nothing if I can’t even swing.” Cole shakes his head.

Master Wu smiles from the doorway, “Very impressive, Zane."

The pieces of himself snapped clean down the middle don’t mend, but they aren’t bleeding anymore either. Satisfaction, purpose, strength floods his system. He is not striped with dirt or bruises, he is no longer a failure- he is formidable, dangerous. He can fight, now.

What does he have to offer other than violence?

Zane cannot be the man he was before, but he can be a weapon. He can't remember any other way to be.

The staff sits comforting in his hand.

I like to call myself wound but I will answer to knife.

Underbelly by Nicole Homer

[slasherholic]

MADDIE... DEATHSLINGER GUNPLAY...

OKAY

synopsis: you deepthroat an evil cowboy so he doesn’t blow your brains to smithereens

warnings: dubcon/implied noncon, threats of violence

The Deathslinger x Reader | Gunplay + Blowjob

Just a few more inches. Just a few more inches. Just a few.

You reach out in front of you again, fingers splayed as they meet splintered wood, huffing as you drag yourself another inch across the floor of the Saloon. Your eyes flutter closed as puffs of unsettled dust swirl around your face. A tickle builds in your throat and you can’t stop it—pain screams through your shoulders and swells in your chest as your body seizes with a cough. The warm red seeping from your abdomen glistens like rubies on the floorboards and in the dirt. The smell of your own blood is nauseating.

Reason tells you that in fleeing from him, you are only prolonging your own torture; but your body, stubbornly, refuses to roll over and die. And so you crawl.

You tell yourself things as you crawl. Hopeful things. Maybe if you can just make it around the corner of the bar, or wedge yourself beneath the table, your death will be swift. The Entity will take you in a sharp, sudden pain—impersonal, merciful—and that will be it. You won’t be left with one more nightmare to bear at the campfire. 

Your face pulls into a grimace as your fingers meet wood again. All your muscles flex as you prepare to pull yourself along across the filthy floor, just a few more inches...

...you can’t.

You can’t because your shirt has snagged on a nail jutting out from between old splintered floorboards. Fate has damned you to this spot.

Letting your head thump against the wood, you stare with glassy eyes up at the piano plucking along without a player. Its ghoulish, heavy notes flood the saloon, unnatural in a way that churns your stomach. 

You are already beginning to fade when you hear his boots clacking up the stairs outside the Saloon. Somewhere behind you, rusted double-doors squeal open.

The clacking stops and his shadow engulfs your body. He clicks his tongue dryly. You wince and choke back a sob when his bootheel comes down between your shoulders, digging in deep.

“Reckon it wouldn’t ‘ave been so hard to stay put right where I left you,” Caleb jests, beginning to reload his gun, slow and deliberate. “‘stead of snakin’ around the whole place.”

His voice is gravelly, cruel as a knife. You’ve heard him speak once or twice before but his words are always overshadowed by his other sounds; the explosion of a musket, the whizzing of a deadly bolt tearing through the air—and that dry, mirthless laughter.

You’ve come to accept a harsh truth in the Entity’s realm; some killers carry out their task mechanically, impersonally, as though running on a program. Other killers enjoy watching you bleed and die.

It became apparent very quickly which breed of murderer Caleb was. You carry his vicious laughter in your mind even when you sleep.

When Caleb speaks again, something in his voice tells you he’s talking at you, rather than to you, like a hunter studying a lifeless buck.

“Impressive y’even managed to get as far as ya did, considerin’ how much yer leakin’.”

He prods you suddenly with the bayonet tip of his gun, just beneath your ribs—right where he shot you. You cough hideously, writhing beneath his boot. He presses down harder until you lie still.

“Was proud of that shot.”

Go to hell, you want to spit at him. You might if you were braver. This is not a man whose mercy you want to test. Instead, you pray that when his gloating is finished, he fires that bolt straight through your head.

“But, seein’ as you got some fight still left in you,” The pressure in your back ebbs as Caleb lowers the gun. “How ‘bout an offer.”

You are far too weak to be surprised by his words, far too tired. It is obvious from just his tone that the “offer” is not really an offer. Whatever he has in mind, you are going to participate.

“Now, a man has certain needs, and not all of ‘em he can provide on his lonesome, try as he might.” 

A short, dry chuckle builds in Caleb’s throat. Your world dips in and out of focus, the playerless piano now a hazy blur of black and white. You consider his meaning; certain needs. Alright, you understand. You know what he wants. And you are certainly not above whoring yourself out to a murderer for the promise of an easy death.

“Get up on your knees.” Comes the demand, gruff and sudden, any hint of that false laughter sucked dry in an instant.

“And turn around so I can look atcha.”

You suck a deep breath into your lungs before you comply. You grunt hard as you push yourself up on your knees, shuffling slowly around in a circle until you face him. Tears spring to your eyes. You don’t want to look up at him; you do anyway.

Caleb wears the grin of a fox. His face bears cunning, vulpine features. The brim of his hat dips low over his brow and nearly shades his eyes from view in the dirty light of the saloon—but you can just see them, can just make out their sinister white glow. The effect is utterly inhuman.

And yet, clearly, this man is not without human urges.

You can’t help it when your eyes stray to his groin. His arousal strains his trousers. You want to be sick, but can’t quite muster the strength for it.

“Course, you already know what you’re gonna do, dontcha?” Caleb mutters, seeming to notice where your attention has drifted. Your eyes fall to the floor.

“There’s a clock on the wall over there.” He gestures his gun to the far wall of the saloon.

“Don’t know if it works quite like where I come from—lots o’ things don’t seem to work right in this place, but ain’t none o’ my concern. You got ‘till that little hand strikes three to get me satisfied.”

He settles the spear of his gun against your forehead. The tip digs sharply into your skin, wetting you with fresh blood.

“Else I pull this trigger.”

You see it happening in your mind, so vividly—your skull splitting like an eggshell, your brains spraying out the back, staining the bar behind you with chunks of pink and red. Your vision swims. 

It doesn’t feel like you should be speaking to Caleb. It feels wrong on the most primitive level. You lick your dried lips and force the words out anyway.

“What do I get?” You rasp. “If I do?” 

Caleb stares at you from beneath the brim of his hat, almost caught off guard. Then, something sinister curls across his face.

“What do you get?” He laughs again. It’s not as dry this time—there’s a hint of genuine amusement. “Well, that hatch o’course. I’ll take you straight to it.” Your mouth twists with disbelief. 

Caleb’s hand flies from the barrel of his spear gun, gripping your chin harshly. He tweaks your jaw until you look him in the eye.

“What—think I’m lyin’?”

Your silence speaks a thousand words. The tears tickle as they slip down your cheeks. Of course you don’t believe him; you aren’t stupid.

Caleb shakes his head, rapping your jaw with his index finger.

“I’m a man of my word. But I s’pose you’ll just have to trust me, seein’ as that clock is already tickin’.”

When those words leave his lips, the decision is easy, and you hate yourself for it. You’re going to suck this vile man off like you god damn mean it.

Your fingers tremble violently as you reach forward to scrabble around the leather of his belt. Undoing his pants, you pull the last button so hard that it rips from its fabric, rolling away across the floorboards.

Caleb’s dick is long, the base of it completely unshaven. The flushed head already beads with pearlescent precum—he’s enjoying this.

You turn off your thoughts as you grip his hips. Dipping forward, trying to ignore the barrel of the gun pressed damningly against your forehead, you wrap your lips tight around the tip.

Caleb grunts. He throbs against your tongue, filling you more than you were prepared for. You choke back a tearful gag and begin to suck obediently, bobbing your head back and forth. The man above you lets loose a hard breath. Widening his stands, he slants his hips impatiently forward, pushing more of himself into your mouth. Your eyes begin to water fiercely; the point of the gun against your skull is a dull numb ache now, secondary to the pain of breathlessness. Caleb seizes a fistful of your hair, forcing you to be full of him. Spit begins to drip down your chin. He holds you in place while you choke on his dick.

With a throaty growl, his hold eases. You cough violently as you pull away from his groin. Glistening saliva strings between his shaft and your lips. Taking him in your mouth again, you swallow down his cock until it bulges in your throat. He fists your hair in one hand, muttering curses. 

“Deeper.” He snarls, fingering the trigger of his rifle. You obey. Your chin meets his balls, wet and warm with drool. You bob on him breathlessly. In and out. In and out. If the playerless piano still hammers away, you can’t hear it beyond your own ugly gagging.

Caleb growls suddenly, deep and low in his chest. The fist in your hair snaps painfully shut. Before you realize what is happening, he has taken his release into his own hands, ramming you along his shaft. Your head jerks violently as he fucks your face. Your throat is full of him again and again.

Caleb spits out a sudden hoarse “fuck.” Hotness floods your mouth. He pulls out to gush along your tongue. You gag at his bitter taste.

The man above you pants heavily, head tilted back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling.

“Swallow it.” He hisses, clenching his teeth. “Get it all down.”

Tonguing the head of his penis, you swallow. It nearly comes back up. Caleb looks down at you and the scowl on his face deepens. You realize you’ve missed some—you can still feel a bit of wetness dribbling down the corner of your lip. 

“I said all of it.”

Your tongue flits out obediently, drawing the rest of him into your mouth. The fist in your hair relaxes, and Caleb begins to stroke your head, petting you like some obedient animal. It almost feels good, you think, too tired to take it back.

“Well then,” Caleb begins, sneering. You feel your blood run cold. “Let’s see about that hatch.”

The ropes bite into the flesh of your ankles and wrists and rub your skin raw with every feeble tug. You understand now why they call your current predicament “hogtying”—because with your squirming, your squealing, the way you roll helplessly around on your belly in the dirt, envisioning yourself as a hog is easy. Beneath you, the ground gives another violent quake. It won’t be long now before the Entity claims this place. 

 In the end, Caleb had only been partially lying—he did carry you to the hatch.

 He also tied your limbs, dropped you down like a sack of bricks mere feet away from your last chance at escape, and stomped it abruptly shut.

 With tear-soaked eyes, you watched him saunter away to sink down on the steps of the Saloon, procure a rag from his pocket, and begin to wipe his rifle. He whistles now as he works, looking up at you occasionally from beneath his hat. His vicious grin flashes for just a second whenever your gaze meets.

 You can tell what Caleb is thinking about every time he looks up at your tied, squirming body—that he could take you right now, right in the dirt. Maybe get a quick one in before the Entity claims you. Or maybe hunt you down later and take his time with it. 

Letting your heavy eyelids flutter shut, you hope you hurry up and die already, if only to get the lingering taste of his cum out of your mouth.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

193 for... maybe nanahiko? Really just do whatever ship you feel like :D

193. "Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!" | VestigesTorino [Yes. OT8. The orgies are fantastic, and Torino is Holder bait, 8th and 9th exempt.] | WC: 2,222 of an OFA!VampireCoven!AU except op has taken liberties with worldbuilding.

TW: Blood-drinking. Outrageous flirting. Mildly spicy!

//

“Vampires,” Sorahiko echoes blankly.

He looks from left to right, trying to spot the differences between himself and the six adult men and one adult woman sitting at this round table. Most atypical appearances can be attributed to the strange and wondrous natures of Quirks, so Sorahiko could excuse the fourteen red eyes (every iris the identical shade) as a matter of Quirk heritage. However, none of the Shigarakis resemble the other.

They still might be pulling his leg.

The leader of the household (presumably) leans his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. “Torino-san,” he says in a gentle voice, “we greatly appreciate your timely rescue of our youngest. And believe me when I say I would have preferred you stay ignorant of my coven’s true nature.”

“But the boy wants to be a professional hero,” one of the men interrupts. His arms are crossed, and his hair sticks up in rakish angles. An X-shaped scar has been carved over the bridge of his nose, just missing the eyes.

He sounds dismissive of the kid’s dream.

Fair. When Sorahiko had stepped onto the moonlit scene, the kid was frantically scrabbling at a thick-skinned villain’s hand, trying to save his bag from being rummaged. The villain had planted a knee in the kid’s stomach in an attempt to menace him into silence.

Sorahiko pounced on the villain, called in the location to pick up the too-heavy bastard, and escorted the boy home. He fielded questions about heroics and U.A. High for half an hour before they finally reached the Shigaraki compound.

And now he is here, trapped in a gigantic dining room, being told about vampires.

“We agreed to let him try,” says the singular woman sharply.

“If you three hadn’t filled his head about saving the world,” a man with a spiky ponytail shoots back, “then we wouldn’t have this problem. And you too, Yoichi.”

“Nevertheless,” the leader says. His red eyes gleam in the low light, and Sorahiko feels his skin prickling at the attention.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Ah, who hasn’t heard of the toughest teacher of U.A.?” another man asks, sly and teasing. His voice is soft like the leader’s, but perceptibly younger. His coloring is similar to the woman’s, but he’s lean where she’s muscular. “Yoichi believes we should give you a head’s up. Toshinori is a good child, but even he will slip from time to time, and that will draw undue attention to himself.”

Sorahiko considers these seven faces. Slowly, he says, “You think he’ll be accepted into U.A.”

“Three of us are active pro-heroes, and we’ve been training him when we can,” the woman informs him. “I’d say he’s got a headstart compared to all of your first years.”

“My students have always been terrible. That’s what schooling is for.”

She flashes a smile at him, toothy and amused; his throat works through a sudden dry spell. Belatedly, Sorahiko realizes that every adult in this kitchen is eyeing him with intense interest. Even the ones that haven’t spoken yet.

Yoichi speaks again. “He’s smart, and he’ll be strong. U.A. will accept him. I ask you for your discretion and help, Gran Torino.”

He could refuse, but Sorahiko assumes they’ll simply kill him. Being blackmailed is a low possibility; Sorahiko doesn’t have much to be blackmailed about. And pro-heroes disappear all the time. No one really knows why. Principal Shi might demand an investigation on Gran Torino’s behalf (and possibly at the behest of Recovery Girl, who grudgingly acknowledges Torino’s efforts to raise the survival rate of U.A.’s graduates), but otherwise…

Still. Vampires. Another subset of humanity, among the Quirked and Quirkless. It’s weird enough to be true.

“Is this a verbal agreement?” Sorahiko asks.

A bark of laughter from the square-jawed man in the leather jacket, who leans forward and grins like a shark at Sorahiko. The light glints off the yellow lenses of his goggles, and the play of light and shadow highlights the muscle definition of the man’s shirtless chest. In a rich, low voice, he says, “We’ve got something better. A contract.”

“Using what?” Sorahiko bites back. “Paper and ink?”

“Skin and teeth, teach’.”

“Daigoro’s correct,” says Yoichi mildly, snatching Sorahiko’s attention away. “Torino-san, allow me to introduce my coven. I am Shigaraki Yoichi, second of my line. In the order of which my coven grew: Kenzo, Sanjuro, Hikage, Daigoro, En, Nana, and you’ve met our Toshinori.” As he speaks, he points to each person in turn.

He wonders when the kid got folded into this group. The kid’s affection for his home had been sincere, and he greeted the adults (well, Hikage had only come out of the forested grounds at Daigoro’s call) with merry cheer.

Is Toshinori even a vampire? U.A. conducts its business in the daytime.

Sorahiko nods in acknowledgement and doesn’t offer his full name in return. Instead, he says, “If I accept this contract, will you tell me whatever I want to know? About anything I ask?”

“Even vampires aren’t omniscient,” Yoichi answers.

Rolling his eyes, Sorahiko clarifies, “If the kid’s going to develop vampirism over the course of high school, then I need to know things. Like whether or not he’ll go feral over spilled blood. Or if sunlight’s going to be an issue.”

Yoichi’s smile is kind, and surprisingly not patronizing. “What we can tell, we will. The contract will have a mutual hold on us all.”

“What could break it?”

“A different coven, not that you should seek one out,” says Nana. “Trust us, we’re as nice as you get in the supernatural world.”

Sorahiko does not have many options. He hates the idea of agreeing to this without a safety net or a contingency plan. How can this woman ask him to trust them immediately? He’d have to be a gullible idiot, or a fool in lust, or...

He exhales. Sighing in resignation, Sorahiko tips his head to Yoichi and says, wry, “I accept the contract. Don’t kill me if your kid comes crying home about how mean I am.”

Yoichi shrugs, casual as anything. “Toshinori’s quite brave for his age, and stubborn, too. You’ll have your hands full training him.” He then stands from his chair; in measured, unhesitating steps, Yoichi approaches where Sorahiko sits at the opposite side of the round table. What he orders, Sorahiko complies with. “Take your cape off, Torino-san. Your gloves as well.”

“You may have to unzip the top half of your suit,” advises Hikage. “You won’t want the signatures to overlap.”

“Signatures,” Sorahiko repeats, pausing.

One glove’s already off. The flight suit’s sleeves extend up to his wrists, and they don’t have a lot of give. Similarly, the collar is skin-tight and provides ample coverage.

Daigoro playfully snaps his teeth at Sorahiko, once, twice. He says, “Paper and ink, skin and teeth. You forget already?”

The man barely flinches at the snarl directed his way. Seven pairs of eyes are honing in on the exposed flesh; Sorahiko shoves his self-conscious thoughts away. He focuses on the sheer outrage of being asked to strip by strangers, hissing, “Are you crazy? The kid is upstairs!”

“I’ll make sure he stays in his room,” Nana volunteers. She winks at Sorahiko. “We’ll be quick, Torino-san. You just have to keep quiet.”

“You—!”

She slips from her chair and darts off, exiting the dining room and ascending the stairs, floating off the floor. Sorahiko glares after her but snaps to attention as Yoichi stops by his chair, hip resting against the table, red eyes expectant.

Grudgingly, Sorahiko works off the second glove. As he does, Yoichi continues to lecture.

“The signatures can be made in two ways. A lighter bite will result in less pain, but will fade sooner. And I’d like for this arrangement to stand for several years, Torino-san. A lighter bite necessitates more renewals. Possibly, seven bites every two weeks.”

“And a stronger bite?”

“Seven every month.”

He scowls at the thought. The only silver lining he can see is that his suit will cover the marks, which will save him from his colleagues’ gossiping tongues. “Monthly, then. Are you drinking my blood? I don’t think I’ve got enough to cover seven appetites.”

Yoichi offers him a gentle smile. “A mouthful will suffice.”

Sorahiko works his jaw, and then he reaches backwards for the hidden zipper. It’s incongruously loud in the dining room; Sorahiko feels his face burning as he hurriedly rips his arms free of the sausage casing sleeves, letting the slackening front of the suit crumple to his lap. He hears an appreciative whistle.

“Daigoro, he can give you a run for your money,” Sanjuro jokes.

“He’s softer,” Daigoro deems, and Sorahiko bristles. “Must be the suit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “And proper hydration, asshole.”

“I’m not complaining!”

“At ease,” says Yoichi, calm, and that’s when Nana makes her reappearance. She swings back into the dining room, expression confident and content, until she spies Sorahiko’s half-naked appearance.

“Are we going in order?” she questions Yoichi, even as her eyes are trained on Sorahiko’s.

“That’s how it works, Nana,” Kenzo answers for their leader. “How’s Toshinori?”

“Watching his martial arts dramas. We’re good for like, fifty minutes.”

“You said you’ll be quick,” Sorahiko rasps, and his hands are clenching into fists, anticipatory and anxious. This is all so incredibly weird. “You all need more than five minutes to bite me?”

Yoichi laughs. It’s a bright sound, attractive and human and not at all like something that should be coming out of a self-proclaimed bloodsucker. When Yoichi moves, pushing off the table, Sorahiko nervelessly allows himself to be pinned to the back of his chair. One hand cards through his hair and lightly tugs; the other hand settles at his shoulder and presses it down.

His throat is exposed. Though Yoichi bends close, Sorahiko knows it isn’t the jugular he’s aiming for.

“Torino-san will need a moment to recuperate,” Yoichi whispers, and Sorahiko shivers, swallows past the apprehension, and spends half a second regretting his decision to let this happen. Yoichi adds, “We will not harm you, and you will not harm us. Your help, in exchange for ours. Let it be so.”

Teeth sink into the join of Sorahiko’s neck and shoulder, sharp and surprisingly hot. Sorahiko chokes out a garbled sound and jerks in his seat, until Yoichi’s bite goes deeper, deeper, and then Sorahiko gasps. Adrenaline bursts to life in his system; his Quirk sputters a reflexive Jet through his boots, but Yoichi’s slender frame hides an unseen strength.

He holds Sorahiko down.

He draws blood from the wound. Sorahiko barely feels the drain, fixated he is on the pressure exerted against him. Every single one of them is going to have the capacity to do this. If Yoichi, whose frame is most similar to En’s, can keep Sorahiko from bolting—Sorahiko arches his back, an involuntary moan escaping him.

It feels good. It feels really, really good.

Yoichi hums against his skin, pleased as punch, and his teeth retract. Sorahiko feels the tongue lap over the mark, heavy with spit. As Yoichi rears back, Yoichi rolls his neck lazily, licking his lips like a cat full from its meal.

“The saliva is a coagulant,” he explains idly, watching Sorahiko slump back against the chair, lungs still stuttering. A faint sweat has broken across his forehead, and Sorahiko distantly suspects that he’s going to need all the time he can get before the kid grows bored of his dramas.

“Oh, he already looks wrecked,” En observes. His awed tone elicits a laugh and encouraging clap to his shoulder from Daigoro, the latter of which requires En to brace against.

“You think he’ll last seven bites?”

“To be fair,” Hikage says, “that is a common erogenous zone. We’ll focus on less stimulating areas.”

Sorahiko, somewhat nettled at the implication that he won’t last (and what the hell does that mean? That he’ll back out? Start begging for mercy?) all seven signatures, musters his strength and shoves himself upright. He scoffs exaggeratedly, masking a shaky exhale with it. He challenges the coven, “Do your fucking worst.”

Yoichi blinks. Behind him, Kenzo is leaving his seat and stalking towards Sorahiko’s, red eyes gleaming. Before Kenzo can dive at Sorahiko and probably tear an artery out, Yoichi holds him back with one placating hand.

“Do not,” Yoichi warns. “We’re not trying to induce a thrall, do you all hear me?”

“Yoichi,” says Sanjuro, “if the man gets off, he gets off.”

A sigh leaves Yoichi. “Be that as it may. Please try not to leave him resentful for the months ahead.” He pats Kenzo’s collarbone; Kenzo catches the thin-boned hand and raises it to his lips.

“Understood, Yoichi,” Kenzo murmurs into the knuckles. He lets go, and Yoichi moves aside, now more fond than exasperated. A safety net, maybe.

In any case, Sorahiko gazes up at number two, who studies him back.

“The shoulder?” suggests Sorahiko, half-heartedly offering the right one up to sacrifice.

Kenzo inclines his head. “Just above the bicep will work,” and he goes on to prove his point, keeping Sorahiko locked in position, unable to do anything but wriggle and fail to contain strangled moans.

This is going to be a long hour.

[mandadoration]

before the winter

summary: anon asked: I am LITERALLY BEGGING on my KNEES for a sliver of Din (from that black and white drawing) with a breeding kink. He looks like he fucks wild, like supet dominant, almost primal, but extremely caring. Mando is definitely territorial over his girl. Bitch looks like he invented the breeding kink... I unfortunately cannot help that I am a whore for that man - Fool + anon asked: Could we maybe get some breeding kink din? Claiming his girl in the ultimate way, making her take his seed and punishing her if any falls out. He wants to breed her, wants to fuck himself and his seed so deep she will always be his, telling her dirty things while he does it, how she'll always be his, how she is going to take his cum like a good girl and not waste a single drop

word count: 1, 6222

pairing: clan leader!mandalorian x reader

warnings: smut, breeding kink, mild bondage

a/n: so the context behind the drawing by @magichandthing​ is “what if clan leaders dressed like this” and so uh

I’ve taken some liberties with thinking about if this were the case (i.e. clan leaders =/= covert leaders, but still in high standing? maybe some sort of council?) I’ve also amended the Ways of the Mandalore and Mandalorian culture to try and explain his dress. 

Also kind of expanded on this post?

Read this on AO3

In the turbulent times of today, trying to make sure the Ways of the Mandalore didn’t die out were crucial. Mandalorians were an endangered way of life already, and the current political climate wasn’t the best environment for expanding. Secrecy and discipline were enforced. Mandalorian coverts were hidden with high security and discretion. All members of the covert had to be on the same page at all times to reduce risk. After all, the best way to stop something was to stop it from happening in the first place. All of these preventative measures, but time marches on without a care. A new generation had to be brought up. 

Foundlings were to be revered, but there always seemed to be an undercurrent of tragedy underneath all that. A foundling wasn’t taken in by a clan unless they were all alone, and as death tolls rose, more and more were orphans. There seemed to be an increase of that, it seems. Young children left alone in the cruel world forever torn apart by war. As Imperials do anything and everything to scrabble for power, numbers were growing seemingly by the day as more and more children were taken under wing. They were cared for, and even loved, for a found family was just as important as beskar.

But a child born into a clan was something to be celebrated. 

“Mando--”

Which is why your whimpering voice and the wet sounds of your bodies meeting were echoing around the empty chamber as Mando takes you from behind. 

As a result of circumstance, the Way has amended itself a little, and life became different compared to what it was in the past. It still retained the heart and soul of Mandalore, staying true to the real meaning of what it means to be a Mandalorian, but times have forced change, especially concerning clans. For example, within their home turf, clan leaders forwent the usual pomp of beskar. Of course, anywhere else, and they would proudly show off shining armor and the best gear. The show of bare skin was a testament that they have earned their title through blood and body, a way of showing their status. To have the grace to bare their skin, especially in these dangerous times, was an immense show of power. 

For you, it just means less layers. Less layers meant Mando could sheathe himself into your warm heat faster. Less layers meant it’d be easier and more convienent to fuck a child into you. 

You weren’t a Mandalorian. You weren’t a foundling and you didn’t swear the Creed, but you were unequivocally Mando’s, and you were his to take whenever he felt like it. It’s a high honor to catch the eye of a clan leader, especially one as selective as Mando, and you became a person of intrigue when it was revealed you weren’t bound by the Way. Despite the eyes that follow you and the ever-so fleeting touches from others in the covert, the marks that never failed to show on your throat far above what any collar could hide spoke more than words. 

The last time someone put their hand on you, Mando had no hesitation on showing what happens when someone fucks with something that belonged to him. 

Paz Vizla’s broken arm was a testament to that. 

Mando puts a firm hand on your back and pushes you down, keeping you face down, ass up as his hips snap forward against yours. Each thrust makes you scoot forward the slightest, and punched out moans seem to be the only sound you can make beyond the occasional garbled sound of his name. His grip is bruising on your hips, and he pulls you back to meet him halfway in an effort to increase his pace. Mando’s breathing is labored, a soft groan going through his vocoder every now and then, but he’s rather impassive considered how brutally he was fucking you. 

Mando’s beads and necklaces have long since been discarded, and his pants are only shoved down far enough to reveal his cock. You wish he could pull you flush against his chest, but the horns soldered onto his helmet prevents you from getting too close. You don’t mind, and you mind even less in those rare moments you’re on top, holding on to those horns for stability as you fuck yourself on him. But Mando had descended upon you far too quickly and without any preamble that you had no time to even ask him what was going on. Clothes were taken off, and if too much of a hassle, ripped off, his belt secured around your wrists and shoved to the cold floor of his room. Your hands are bound in front of you with it, the Mudhorn buckle, the symbol of his clan, glinting in the low light of the room. He at least had the sense to lay his cloak underneath you, and the fur trim gave your hands something to grasp at. 

You only feel the slightest bit of guilt when your tears soak the fine fabric. 

Mando moves his hold on your waist to your arms, yanking you back as your back arches and lets Mando somehow sink deeper into you. The moan you let out is filthy, and you think through the haze that you’re being a little too loud, and others were sure to hear. So you bite your lip, teeth tugging on the soft skin as you try to stifle the sounds, only for you to yelp when Mando slaps your ass before he goes back to hold onto your arms.

“Let me hear you, sweet girl,” he breathes. “Don’t hide yourself from me.”

Your shoulders are straining at the joints from the angle you’re held up in, but you’re so close that you ignore it in favor of increasing your moans tenfold as per his request. In turn, a deep, guttural growl emanates from Mando, making you clench around him. 

“Fuck,” he snarls. “My sweet girl, so- so tight, so willing, and all mine.” He punctuates each word with a sharp thrust that makes you shake. Mando slips out of you, chuckling under his breath at the needy whine you give, and flips you over so that you’re on your back. One grabs your bound wrists and pins them above your head, and the other comes down to lead himself back into your blushed hole, the sweet drag of his cock curling your toes and making you see stars. As you stare up at his helmet with glazed-over eyes, you can see how truly debauched you look in the reflection. Hair mussed, face flushed, eyes shining with unshed tears, seemingly frozen in a permanent state of euphoria. That’s what Mando saw when he looked at you.

You wish you could kiss him. 

And that’s another thought that’s fucked out of you as Mando resumes his previous pace. Harsh, unforgiving, and with a clear purpose in mind.

He leans in as close as he can. “Are you going to cum with me?” Mando croons. You nod frantically, half delirious from the rising rush of your orgasm, and give a moan of appreciation when Mando dips his hand down to rub at your clit, matching it in time with each thrust. “Where do you want me cum?” he asks, and it’s a misleading question because you know all he wants to hear is you beg for it. “In your mouth? On your face? Wherever you want, sweet girl, I will do it.” Mando’s voice is so tender and soft, borderline condescending compared to how ruined you feel. He’s close, you can tell, the strong, corded muscles under his skin jumping and straining to maintain an even pace, and he gets awfully wordy when he’s about to cum. 

“In me!” you gasp out, clenching and unclenching your hands, nails digging into your soft palms. You strain against your bonds, wanting so badly to bring him close, to touch him. “Please, fuck, Mando, cum in me!”

“Anything for you,” he grunts, “Anything for my sweet girl,” and with one final swipe at your clit with the rough pad of his gloved thumb, you’re cumming, mouth open in a soundless scream as your eyes roll back into your skull. Mando buries himself to the hilt, moaning through the voice modulator as he releases inside of you, and from how much he absolutely fills you, his hot cum has nowhere to go but out, leaking over his cock and smearing over your thighs. His cloak is definitely stained from that. 

As you start to come out of your haze, whimpering one last time with a hoarse voice as he slips out, the ridge of your entrance catching on his head, you’re glad that your hands are bound because you’re sure you would’ve torn up Mando’s back with your nails. You run your fingers over the crescent marks dug into your palm. 

Maybe he’s into that. You’ll have to ask some other time. 

Your heart rate picks up again when Mando makes a displeased sound, almost disappointed, running a finger over your abused entrance. “That won’t do,” he sighs, and he scoops some of his leaking cum to shove it back inside your hole, not caring when you jolt and sigh with each insistent press of his fingers. 

You give him a breathless, “What?” and Mando just hooks his arms under your legs to bring him flush against his hips again. 

“I said, ‘That won’t do’,” he repeats, slower this time, and your face reddens again when you feel his softened cock twitch against the cleft of your ass. “Because you’re a messy girl, and I’m aiming for a child before winter comes.”

---

Forever Tag: @mabelleen @mando-vibes @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore @lavenderl3mons @jokersdoll​​ @creamysacrilege @blondecity​

Pedro Tag: @mrsparknuts

[tendertenebrosity]

Part 5 of Illiam and Helis’ story. Masterpost is here, previous post is here. 

Taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @doglover82; @top-hat-aye; @burtlederp; @just-a-raccoon-with-wifi    @sleepysnapdragonart

When Helis came around, swimming up slowly from the depths of sleep, it was to discomfort. They were sitting up, their back resting against something hard, wings flopped out to either side and arms held up awkwardly over their head. Their limbs throbbed and ached, and they were both thirsty and very cold.

Still blearily trying to force their eyes open, they went to pull their arms down.

Metal clinked. Their arms pulled up short, against something cold and hard around their wrists.

The surprise of this was enough to get their eyes fully open. They were sitting on the floor, cold, smooth stone underneath them, legs out in front. They blinked at their own clawed feet and their dirty uniform trousers in confusion before lifting their gaze.

They were in a room, low-ceilinged but long, lit by the clear white light of magic rather than torches or lanterns. A fire somewhere was crackling. There were no windows.

Helis could see a door to the left, a set of heavy bookshelves and a scroll rack to their right. They craned their neck and tried, unsuccessfully, to pull their wrists free of whatever was holding them up above their head. They seemed to be sitting with their back against the leg of a solid wooden table that took up a large portion of the centre of the room, their wrists affixed to the edge of the table somehow. Moving made the ache of their wing and shoulder joints worse. Metal clinked again.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Helis jerked, looking around them wildly. Their wings tensed, long white feathers sweeping against the floor.

Illiam de Graer rounded the table, put a tool down on it with a clatter, and looked down at Helis disdainfully. He had removed a layer but otherwise seemed to be in the same clothes as before; black clothing that made him look washed-out and tired in the glow of the magelights. The collar of the shirt was loosened and his sleeves pushed up past his elbows.

He clicked his tongue in exasperation. “Inconvenient,” he said. “You couldn’t have stayed out for another five minutes?”

“Illiam!” Helis gasped.

He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “We have established that you recall my name. Wonderful. At this rate, we might get to talk about something of substance in a mere couple of hours.”

“What did you - what are you doing?” Helis asked, looking around. They pulled at their wrists again. “Where are we? Where’s Reed?”

“Improvisation,” Illiam said. He picked up a sheet of paper from the table and perused it, scratching the side of his face absent-mindedly. He made a face at the faint rasp of stubble. Was it only the light that was making him look tired? “Quiet, now. I’m working, and I don’t need you distracting me. I didn’t even really have time for the trip to Rosdan, let alone this.”

Helis noticed a bandage on his left forearm, awkwardly tied, with a patch of bright red seeping through the material. Had he been injured? While Helis was out? Or had they done that to him? They remembered kicking and scrabbling at him but they hadn’t thought…

Helis fought back the ridiculous, mortified urge to ask after it and apologise. No. No, if I hurt him he deserved it, he grabbed me. And he forced a sleep spell on me!

And he hadn’t answered their question. Any of their questions.

Helis took a deep breath, leaned their head back against the table leg amongst their curls, and tried to think.

They noticed with discomfort that their jacket had been removed, and the arms that stretched above their head were bare. No wonder they were cold. Their wings hurt - the sharp throb of a muscle pulled in Helis’ shoulder, and every joint ached. The feathers were uncomfortably frayed and ruffled, and one primary still dangled sadly from its shred of shaft. That was… bad. A broken feather would stay broken until Helis molted and got a whole new set, which was probably months. It had been a long time since Helis had damaged any major feathers that badly.  

Illiam sighed, and Helis jumped, but he wasn’t even looking at them. He turned and strode back to the table, this time the same side that Helis seemed to be cuffed to. He began to move things around up there, paper rustling and metal clinking.

The room wasn’t quite the same as other mages’ workshops Helis had been in, but that was obviously what it was. The walls and floor were grey stone, and something about the lack of windows and the feel of the roof above them made it feel like they were either underground or deep inside a structure. There were no big stone buildings in the Rosdan forest; the closest villages had been wood, and not large enough.

So obviously while Helis slept - they carefully ignored the panic that began to twist inside their chest - they had been taken quite a long way. How far? Why?

If Helis craned back and rolled their eyes up as far as they could, they thought they could see a faint glint of metal up around their wrists. Silver? Illiam wasn’t paying them any attention. Cautiously, they reached for magic, just to confirm it for themselves. There was nothing there; nothing but fear filled their chest.

Alone, no magic, somewhere very far from where they were supposed to be. Helis took a deep breath.

Calm down. You won’t help things by panicking. There must still be a way to fix this, improve this. Illiam was frightening, familiar but changed, impatient and angry and threatening. But Helis was good at talking to people, good at making people see reason, being nice until they were nice, too. They could do that here, couldn’t they? And he had stepped in between Helis and the Duke. Surely they could work with that.

“Illiam,” Helis said, trying to speak calmly. Their wings trembled. Be quiet, be reasonable, be calm, all people really want is to be listened to and reasoned with. “You, um. You saved me. Thank you.”

The noises of work from the table stopped. Tip their head though they might, Helis couldn’t see Illiam’s face; but his hands seemed to have fallen still. He was silent for a long moment before he spoke. “I suppose you’re welcome,” he said eventually, his voice flat and dull. “You really shouldn’t have come. You can’t say I didn’t warn you what you’d find if you came North.”

Helis fidgeted their claws nervously. “Well, Rosdan is neutral, so it…”

“It’s still the North,” Illiam said. “And I believe the correct phrasing is was. It was neutral - but I expect our forces will have it secured in a week.” There was an abrupt click as he picked up a tool again. “All of which is a moot point to you, as you are currently in Toralda.”

“Wh-!”

“I recall telling you to be quiet.”

Helis took a deep breath of horror, shackles curbing the urge to clap a hand over their mouth. He had taken them across the border?

Helis had lived all their life with stories about how bad things were in Toralda for people like them. That even the commonborn humans were practically prisoners to their lords, and wildborn were little more than property. That nobility did whatever they wanted and neither the church nor the government cared enough to stop them. Stories about terrible things, cruel punishments and harsh abuses that happened over there, over the mountains, a reminder of how lucky their family was, not ever a thing that Helis themself would ever see…

They took a panicked breath, then another, chest heaving underneath their shirt, feeling tight. Tears prickled and burned in their eyes. Why had he done this? This couldn’t be happening! Helis needed to find Reed and get home.

Through the haze of stinging tears, Helis saw movement. They looked up to find Illiam dropping down to his knees beside them, holding something in his hands they couldn’t make out that glinted in the light. His eyes met Helis’ for one instant before shifting away.

Helis sniffled, tried to wipe their face on the fabric of their shoulder. He was very close. They drew their knees up and leaned away as far as the silver cuffs would allow. “W-what…”

“Don’t do that,” he said, sounding distracted. “Hold still.” He reached up, over Helis’ head, with both hands. One took hold of their wrist as if to steady them.

His hand against their skin set panic rising in their chest. The last time he’d told Helis to hold still, it was because he was trying to cast a spell on them.

“No!” Helis jerked their hands, twisted against the table and tried fruitlessly to get their feet under them. “No, wait, what are you - ”

There was sudden, bright pain at their forearm and they shrieked, wings flaring against the table. Their elbow hit the wood with a crack that hurt almost as much as whatever Illiam had just done.

Illiam hissed, gripped their wrist tightly. “Don’t be such a baby, that barely hurt. I should know.”

“Ow! What are you doing?” Helis gasped, craning their head to try and see past him.  Their wing battered weakly at Illiam’s shoulder, and he ignored it. They threw their head back in frustration. “Let go! What are you doing?”

Finally, he released his bruising grip on their arm and sat back. They got a better look at the things he was holding; his belt-knife, and a little glass bulb filled with blood.

Helis choked in horror, going momentarily limp. “Illiam!”

He’d - cut Helis, and collected their blood?

They watched in shocked revulsion as he calmly, methodically set the gruesome things down. He stoppered the bottle, wiped the knife, and picked up a roll of white bandaging material. As if this was a completely normal thing to be doing, and not like a, a scene out of a trashy horror play. Blood magic? Blood magic was a thing that people actually did - that Illiam actually did?

“What the hell is that?” Helis wailed. They dragged in a breath past a throat and nose clogged with tears. “Illiam, what the hell is any of this? What are you doing? Why am I here? Why did you take me to Toralda, I can’t be here! You know why I can’t be here!”

He set the bandage back down, face blank.

Now that the words had started, Helis couldn’t stop them. “You can’t just - you can’t just cut people! What are you doing with my blood?” They shook their hand, making the cuffs clatter above their head. “What’s going on with this, you know I’m not dangerous! You just have silver shackles lying around? You used a sleep spell on me!” Tears ran down their cheeks, unchecked. “I don’t understand what’s going on. You can’t just - ”

“I think you’ll find I can do whatever I like,” Illiam said. His hands curled up into fists on his thighs.

“When I first saw you I thought -” They shook their head, trying to get tears and clinging strands of hair out of their eyes. “I thought you might help me. We used to be friends! I never did anything bad to you! You c-called me… you... ” They gulped in a breath. “And what about Reed? You didn’t let me see where they took him! Where is he? You know perfectly well he’s not a spy, we only came North to get the stone! I told you why we were there! Why didn’t you - ”

Illiam rose to his feet abruptly.

“What, you mean this?” he said.

He strode across the room, his stride short and filled with pent-up energy. He was out of view for a couple of seconds; when he returned he was holding the large chunk of clear stone that Reed had dug out of the riverbank.

He hefted it in one hand. “This is what you came all this way for?” he demanded. “This bauble, this shiny rock? How fucking stupid are you?”

Helis sniffled. “I -”

“No, you shut your mouth!” Illiam shouted, suddenly at the top of his lungs, voice bouncing off the stone walls. He spread his arms wide in a furious, violent gesture. “This war has been building up for the last four years, and you thought you could just flutter on over into contested territory like it was a crossroads marketplace! For this? And now you’re sitting there wailing at me that you ‘can’t’ be here? The fucking gall of you!”

I was doing my job, Helis thought, blinking desperately up at him. Blood trickled and itched as it ran down their arm. You weren’t supposed to be there.

“Well, you can shut up and pay attention, because even as simple-minded as you apparently are, I’m only going to have this conversation once!” He was standing over them, his hair pulling free of its neat tail, eyes bright and blazing with fury. “This? This is Toralda. I can do whatever I want. You are a hundred miles from the border and you are never going to be able to make your way back over it, so you had better start getting used to that fact. You and I are not friends. We are at war and you are my enemy, loath as I am to elevate you with that title!”

“But you -”

He lifted a finger, viciously. “Interrupt me again and you’ll regret it!” he hissed. “From now on, you’ll keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. You live under my sufferance, and you have no idea how lucky you are. You thought I was going to help you? You naive little idiot, I have.”

Helis wrenched their hands against the cuffs. “This is not helping! This is - ”

He moved suddenly, violently; Helis flinched back against the table, but he wasn’t coming for them, he was turning, and lifting up the chunk of raw stone up towards the ceiling. He made a noise, something quiet and inarticulate and enraged.

The stone flew from his hand, hit the opposite wall, and shattered into countless splinters and shards.

The sound of it echoed through the workroom; Illiam turned around.

“Compared to the alternative,” he snarled. He looked down at them, hair falling in his face, breathing a little hard. “It is. You want to know where your friend Reed is? He’s dead. Because that’s what you get in the North when you poke your nose somewhere you shouldn’t, and don’t have anybody sentimental enough to step in and pull your ignorant Southern ass out of the fire.”

A few splinters had landed as far as Helis’ feet. Helis stared up at Illiam.  “No,” they whispered.

Illiam said nothing. His eyes were narrowed as he watched them.

Mindlessly, they pulled their feet up towards them, away from the pieces of conduit stone, glittering sharp and milky-white. They found themselves pleading. “But… but he can’t…”

“He can be, and is,” Illiam said, abruptly. He pushed a falling strand of hair out of his face, irritably.

Reed. Reed is dead. Helis tried to wrap their mind around the thought of it. He was dead. Their friend, who’d kept their spirits up with jokes the whole long journey North, who’d stepped between them and trouble a dozen times, who Helis had set camp, and broken camp, and cooked and slept beside for weeks.

Helis had been sitting here in this workroom trying to talk Illiam around and feeling sorry for themself, and all along Reed had been dead.

Helis stared at the ruin of the stone, spread across the floor in thousands upon thousands of pieces. Conduit stone shattered much more easily with physical force than an overload of magical energy. It was an expensive thing to break in a fit of temper. But we came all this way. Crestmead needed that stone, they wouldn’t have sent us into danger if we didn’t need it. Reed found that stone for us. They opened their mouth, and something like a sob came out.

This wasn’t fair. It was Helis who was supposed to be in danger, Helis whose life wasn’t valuable here. Reed had always thought so - he hadn’t been concerned for his own safety. But here Helis was, being told he was dead like it was an afterthought? Like it didn’t matter enough for them to witness it, or even be told straight away? Like he didn’t matter?

Illiam approached, and Helis cringed away from him as he bent down and reached out.  

“Don’t touch me!” they cried - but then their wrists came away from the table with a clatter. Illiam shoved their hands into their lap, still linked together with silver but no longer tethered up above their head.

Helis immediately threw themselves backwards, away from him, scrabbling and fluttering. They landed on their back with a thump and a surge of pain from their abused wings, under the table.

Illiam hissed in frustration.

“Oh, for - ”

“Don’t touch me-e!” Helis sobbed. They swiped at their face with their bound wrists, shoulders spasming. “Don’t - get away from me! You - you monster, how could you, don’t touch me!”

“Do you want your arm bandaged or not?”

Helis made no attempt to answer, and to their ragged relief, Illiam didn’t attempt to drag them out from under the table. Past their own hitching, sob-choked breaths, Helis heard him mutter something obscene, then stride over to the doorway on the other side of the room. He shouted something, out the door - orders to somebody else.

Helis didn’t care what he said or what was going to happen next. Everything was ruined already, as bad as possible. What did it even matter? They pulled their knees against their chest, pulled a wing over themselves like a patchy white-and-red tent, and cried for Reed.

[shadowywerewolfqueen]

Alpha Fight

This was inspired by @verobatto-angelxhunter most recent artwork. They wanted two Alpha’s fighting so I did my best! Hope you enjoy it darling and thank you for the gorgeous artwork and wonderful inspiration!

The two Alphas stood in the moonlit clearing, staring at one another. They stood motionless, their bodies tight with tension. A large orange-eyed wolf stood to the side, a triumphant smile showing sharp teeth. He tipped his head back and howled, and the sound echoed through the trees.

One of the Alphas, tall with bright green eyes, glanced at the wolf before focusing back on the man in front of him. “Cas, please, don’t do this! Fight Lucifer’s control! I know you can do it!”

Dean winced when a laugh pierced his skull. “Oh, Dean, you really think your pleading words will break the hold I have on Castiel? Your precious mate is mine, and I will watch with glee as he rips your throat out, finally making me the Pack Alpha!”

A growl rumbled from Dean’s chest, and he swung his head to glare at Lucifer, making sure to keep Cas in his peripheral. “I don’t know what spell you have on him, but I will break it! Cas is mine, my mate!” 

A dark chuckle escaped Lucifer. “You think you can break my spell? You, a mere human Alpha with not an ounce of magic running in your veins? Castiel challenged me and lost; what hope do you have of defeating me?”

Dean’s mouth was set in a firm line, refusing to rise to Lucifer’s bait. He focused back on Cas, a whine forming in the back of his throat. Cas was looking at him, and there wasn’t an ounce of recognition in the blue eyes he loved so much. “Cas, please, fight this. Beat him. I know you’re stronger than Lucifer!”

“I grow tired of this.” Lucifer looked at Cas and ordered, “Brother, kill your mate!”

Without hesitation, Cas shifted into a large black wolf and lunged at Dean. Dean threw his body to the side, barely escaping Cas’ vicious teeth. He rolled onto his hands and knees, panting heavily. He looked up and saw Cas charging at him. 

“Dammit,” Dean cursed, shifting into his tan and red wolf. 

In the next instant, Cas was slamming into Dean, his jaws clamping down on whatever he could reach. Dean whimpered when Cas’ teeth ripped into his shoulder, slicing through fur and muscle quickly. Dean grabbed at the back of Cas’ neck, attempting to pull his mate away without hurting him. Cas shook his head, deepening the wound and causing more blood to gush from it. Dean snarled and lurched forward, gasping in pain as more muscle tore.

Dean spun around, afraid to have Cas at his back. He stared at his mate, whose muzzle was covered in blood. “Cas, please, stop this. It’s me; it’s Dean. It’s your mate! Please, Cas, remember me,” Dean begged.

Cas snarled and rushed forward. Dean tried to sidestep him but his leg crumpled beneath him. Cas was on top of him, snapping and growling. Dean, having no choice but to fight back, growled and bit into Cas’ leg. 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said before closing his jaws. He heard a snapping sound, and Cas scurried backward, howling in pain.

Cas stood on three legs, his front right leg hanging uselessly. He was panting heavily, his sides heaving as he struggled to bring oxygen into his lungs. He eyed Dean warily, trying to determine his next move.

“What are you doing? Kill him,” Lucifer shouted.

Immediately, Cas lunged at Dean. He was slower, and Dean was able to avoid his attack. Dean spun around to face his mate but had underestimated how fast Cas could move with his injury. Cas slammed into Dean, sending him sprawling. Before Dean could regain his feet, Cas was on him, his jaws going straight for Dean’s neck.

Dean tried to buck his mate off, but he couldn’t with his injured shoulder. He scrabbled, but his paws did nothing but rake the dirt and grass. Pain raced through his body as Cas chewed into the thick fur of his neck. Dean turned his head and saw Cas’ broken leg. He lashed out with his paw, hitting the broken limb hard.

Cas howled in pain, giving Dean the opening he needed. He lurched forward, ignoring the blood pouring down his back and neck. He got to his feet shakily but was too slow. Cas rammed him, sending him back to the ground. This time, Cas’ jaws locked around the vulnerable underside of Dean’s neck.

Dean stared into the blue eyes he loved so much. “Please, Cas, shake Lucifer off. You’re stronger than him!”

“My brother wishes he was stronger than me,” Lucifer cried. “Now, finish him, brother!”

Dean could feel Cas’ jaws tightening, slowly cutting off his air supply. He tried to break out of Cas’ grasp, but it was futile; he was too weak and Cas’ grip too strong. Black spots appeared at the edge of Dean’s vision, and he knew he only had moments left. His gaze locked with Cas, the blue eyes the last thing he wanted to see. “It’s ok, Cas. I don’t blame you. I love you. Goodbye, honeybee.” Dean’s world went dark.

____________________________________________________________________________

Dean blinked his eyes open, and the first thing he saw was blue. “Hey, honeybee.”

“Oh, Dean,” Cas cried, throwing himself into Dean’s arms. “I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to save you in time!”

Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ sobbing shoulders. “I knew you would beat him. I had all the faith in the world.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Cas mumbled against Dean’s chest. “He was strong, Dean. Far stronger than I realized.”

“Hey, it’s ok; you beat him,” Dean said, running his fingers soothingly through Cas’ black locks. He glanced to the side and noticed a prone body lying in the grass. Dean felt no remorse at seeing Lucifer dead, only wishing he had been the one to kill the bastard. He squeezed Cas, overjoyed to have his mate back in his arms and free of Lucifer’s mind control. “Thank you for healing me.”

Cas pulled back to look at him. “Of course! You were losing so much blood, I was afraid-”

“Cas, stop,” Dean said, cutting his mate off. “You saved me, we’re safe, and we’re free of your crazy brother. That’s all that matters.”

Cas nodded his head, smiling weakly. “You’re right; that is all that matters.”

“Now, let’s go home. You’ve been missing for days, and I’m desperate to have your knot filling my ass.” Dean leaned forward and covered Cas’ mouth with his own. 

As they kissed, their cocks thickened and rubbed against each other. They broke apart, gasping for breath. Cas cupped Dean’s jaw in his hand, his thumb rubbing against the smooth skin. “I love you, Dean.”

“Love you, too, honeybee,” Dean murmured, pecking Cas on the lips again. 

The two men separated and shifted into their wolves. Cas started walking when he was suddenly being shoved to the ground by a tan body. “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be. I already kicked your ass once; you really wanna get beat twice in one day?”

“You just got lucky! I was going easy on you,” Dean said, his voice full of laughter.

“It’s gonna be really embarrassing for you when I tell Sam I beat you twice,” Cas shot back.

Cas shot forward, tackling Dean to the ground. He bared his teeth and growled, but there was no malice behind the sounds. He grabbed the scruff of Dean’s neck and shook his head, playing rather than fighting. Dean bucked him off and shot forward. Cas followed him, not giving Dean a chance to catch his breath. 

Their bodies slammed into each other, and they both went rolling. Cas scrambled to throw his body on top of Dean’s, pinning the larger wolf beneath him. He grabbed the underside of Dean’s neck in his teeth, hard enough to keep Dean from moving but light enough not to break the skin. Dean tried to scratch at Cas’ belly, but the fur was too thick for the nails to do much damage.

“Alright, I surrender,” Dean cried, baring his neck even more to his Alpha mate.

Cas gave a gentle shake of his head before letting Dean’s fur drop from his mouth. He smiled a toothy grin and said, “Told you I was gonna beat you twice. Now, let’s go home so I can enjoy my victory. I’m gonna pound your ass so hard, my love, you will feel it for days.”

Dean licked at Cas’ muzzle. “You promise?”

Cas’ laughter floated through Dean’s head as he backed off his mate. Dean got to his feet and slid his body along Cas’, marking him so all others would know Cas was his. He was a very possessive wolf when he wanted to be.

Cas snapped his jaws. “Quit marking me, you possessive bastard. I thought you wanted sex.”

“Oh, I do!” Dean nuzzled his muzzle against Cas’. “Let’s go home, honeybee.”

Cas nudged Dean’s head with his. “Love you, Alpha.”

“Love you too, Alpha,” Dean said, chuckling softly. He took off into the forest, Cas, close on his heels, the past hour already fading to the back of their minds.

[bowieandqueen11]

I’m An Idiot / Richie Tozier Fluff

Request: Hi! I was wondering if I could have a Richie x reader (18 years old) where he has had a crush on the reader since the whole IT situation but never acted on it until he hears they are moving to go and attend college and it’s a whole sweet thing where he is outside her house practicing what to say and she hears it through her window or something? Idk if that’s clear or not. Thank you! Also I LOVE your writings! Hope you have a wonderful day/night! 💕 

It’s been so long since I’ve written for Richie holy moly but this is so cute!!

Warning, some strong language!

Reblogs and comments much appreciated!

Richie Tozier couldn’t stop hopping.

When he woke up, shoving his duvet on the floor and grabbing the first Hawaiian shirt laying askew on his desk chair, he was shaking. When he shoved Eddie’s face out of the way as he tripped over him on the way to his door, he was trembling, although Eddie only snorted and rolled over in his sleeping bag to go back to snoring. If he knew that he was actually doing this, if Bill knew, although he was still sprawled out and half falling off the beanbag, that he was finally going to muster up the courage to confess to you before you left the Losers, he would never hear the end of it. When he shut the front door, squeezing his lips together so as not to wake his parents, he was beginning to jump from foot to foot.

‘Come on, Tozier, you fought a child eating clown. You’ve got the high score on every game in the Arcade. Heck, you’ve even made Eddie Spaghetti laugh out loud and spit his milkshake all over Ben’s face. You’re hilarious, you’re a fantastic catch-’

Kicking a can off of the road, he sighed to himself as he passed Derry library, his breath fogging up his glasses in the early modern light.

‘Who are you kidding, you’re just a Loser. She’s totally going to reject you. Shit!’

Crunching over the grass by the school, he finally hopes on his breaking down, creaking bike, and fills the empty streets with the sound of his wheels spinning and his heart thumping with each cycle. The dew shines in the first rays of the rising sun, brightening his sneakers with a glint as his tracks leave their own footprints on the grass - the only path to show that had been there.

He didn’t mean to reach you at sunrise, but he had found himself sleepless last night. He had expected you round at the Losers’ sleepover last night, but you had to phone up late and inform him that you had to start packing. Mike had been the one to find him, just leaning his head against the wall with the phone still hanging limply in his hand. He had to place his hands firmly around his shoulders to pull Richie away, leading him back into the others with a tight grip, but Richie was gone, far away, as if he was disappearing in his grip like a ghost. Eddie was about to say something later that night, but the look of fear, and dejection on Richie’s face when he slipped under his covers and just turned his back to the others, made him stop and just settle down in his freshly pressed sleeping bag.

The morning, thankfully, wasn’t as grey, but soothing lavender and brilliant lander started to break out from behind the clouds, merging behind his raven hair into neon pinks and peaches.

Finally arriving at your house, he dumped his bike on your lawn and ran around to face your bedroom. Little did he know, that you were also awake, still thinking about your phone call last night. Placing your hand on your windowsill, you sigh as you just stop for a moment, ignoring the boxes in the corner of your eye and instead just leaning by your net curtains. 

Behind the glass, and the fabric, was the ever changing art of the sky, and the boy you couldn’t see yet below it, who was desperately trying to put into words the ever exploding feelings in his heart. There was such a feeling of nervousness, of joy, of electricity in the air, a sense that secrets were about to be whispered into the transitory and eternal air, changing and constant and not able to be swallowed in again.

Stopping suddenly, you start to hear a squeaking voice warble out from down below.

‘Y/n, these feelings I have for you are embedded in my - come on, are you five, that sounds so dirty. Even when a clown was trying to turn into a werewolf and eat my fear or whatever, or when we went into that crack house, I was never afraid, because you were with me. I’m scared, that if you go, I’ll vanish as well.’

You reach out towards your curtains and draw them aside softly. You have to blink away the sun for a moment as it comes in and bathes through the square of light in bright gold, warming the wood by your toes and bathing your face. You nearly choke with laughter at the sight of Richie Tozier pacing your garden, gesticulating wildly to himself as he swings about. He stops, nearly skidding as he throws his hands down in defeat.

‘We are two halves, but we make a whole- that’s so cheesy, you sound like Benny boy now.’

‘You’re my real family. You’re the only person who really actually gets me and I-I, shit man, you can’t do a Bill now. I love you. It’s just as simple as that. I love you, and I’m terrified. Damn, Trashmouth, that's not half bad.’

He nearly jumps out of his skin when you slide your window open and shout down at him.

‘Trashmouth, are you trying to wake the whole neighbourhood up?’

‘Why the hell are you up? I thought only creeps and nerds were up this early!’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘I thought I’d try out my new material on the best clown I know!’

A muscle twitches involuntarily at the corner of his right eye, his mouth forming a rigid grimace as he looks up at your raised eyebrows and slight smirk.

‘How much, exactly, did you hear of my musing?’

He folds his arms over his Freese’s shirt and flowing Hawaiian as he begins to hop from foot to foot again. Never one to keep still, he tries to keep his mind off your answer as you think above him. He tears his head away from your head, as it pops out the side of the window and dangles down at him like an angel floating in a halo of silver above his head, trying not to focus on the way your words would either see the dawn of his hope, or snap his dreams right in two. 

Instead he nudges his glasses a little higher on his nose, as if the thought the midnight rims should pay attention too - silently focusing together. 

‘If it makes you feel any better, I feel the same way too.’

‘W-what?’

‘Would you just get up here before my parents wake up?’

Richie doesn’t waste any time to grab a hold of the ivy climbing on the crumbling bricks, his feet slipping and sliding to try and keep up with his scrabbling as he tears up the side of your house. He’s so quick, you don’t know where he is until his nose bumps against yours, and he nearly collides straight against your mouth, the only thing barring the two of you being his glasses.

‘What did you just say?’

His expression is uncharacteristically serious, and yours is so bright in response. He wonders if you know how much that drives him crazy, how it makes him want to reach out and feel every curve of your skin, but instead he stays hovering a few inches away from your face, waiting for some miracle that his hearing quite hadn’t caught up with.

‘I said, I love you too, you idiot. What a time to tell me.’

‘Y-you love me?’

‘Would you hurry up and kiss me before you fall? Gosh knows you’ve waited about ten years too long.’

He rolls his eyes in that way he does when he's really happy but feeling too macho to show it, before he slightly wets his lips and lets himself fall forwards into your grasp. He melts into you, clumsily, and a little messily, but he manages to steady himself and reach up to cup your cheeks, lips desperate as they capture yours again and again, warm and tasting slightly like cherry, but so needy for you.

‘You’re right, I am an idiot.’ 

[nevervalentines]

(From the fluff/general list)

“Any RWBY ship! 12 or 13 :)” 

#12 “how did you get in here?”

#13 “for starters, that’s impossible.”

hi!!! thank u!!! I wrote u a lil baby bumbleby high school au, I hope that’s ok!! they’re girlfriends and they are SO annoying

*******

Taiyang has never been very good at dolling out punishments, but when Yang comes home from school dragging her feet for the second week in a row, he really doesn’t have a choice.

She looks miserable, flannel tied loosely around her waist, ponytail messy, sporting a shiner that’s reddened the skin around her right eye, along her cheekbone. Already inflamed, it promises to bruise, and he thinks that should be punishment enough. But.

“They already called, huh?” Yang slumps up the front porch steps. “Would it help if I told you he started it?”

Taiyang rubs at the back of his neck. “Your principal said otherwise.” He cringes, trying to soften the delivery. “Apparently there were witnesses. Something like – your entire gym class?”

“Mercury had it coming.” Yang stops on the top step. Her backpack dangles from one arm, dragging the ground. “Can’t the fact that he clocked me back be enough?” She waves a hand. “I learned my lesson, and all that.”

“Afraid not, baby girl. This is the second time in as many weeks.” He corrals her gently into the house and roots through the freezer, tossing her an icepack while he deliberates. “A grounding is fair, right?” More to himself than anybody. “A week, maybe?”

“Can I still see –”

“No visitors. That means no Blake, too.”

“An entire week!” Yang slams the icepack onto the kitchen counter. The blue liquid sloshes, the plastic pouch threatening to pop. “That’s bullshit.”

“Okay,” he says, exasperated, now. “Room. Now. Don’t let Ruby hear you talking like that.”

The muscles in Yang’s jaw tick, heat rolling off her in waves, but she pinches her mouth tight. If her eyes flash, he doesn’t mention it, just watches her stomp toward the staircase. Hears fading footsteps, the slam of her bedroom door.

When music starts blaring, he allows it, riot grrrl punk pop spitting from around the door frame. He can picture her pouting, touting loud music and bruised knuckles like armor. Figures he’ll let it slide, just until after dinner. A week without Blake might be consequence enough.

**

Yang reclines on rumpled sheets, too pissed to change out of her day clothes, shoes kicked up on her bed, arms behind her head.

A five-day suspension, a week without seeing Blake. It’s a promise of purgatory and, worse, boredom. Her eye throbs, the skin around the socket already softening into a bone deep hum of pain.

Time passes in blurry pigments; she swims in and out of a doze while the day fades into a sticky-blue dusk. She ignores her dad’s calls for dinner, ignores Ruby’s hesitant knock on the door, lets the room darken around her – watches the sky outside ripen and split.

It’s almost summer now, and the box fan churns uselessly at her bedside, the skin of her back is sticky with sweat, the sheets below her cloying and damp. Outside, the streetlights wink on, one by one, and the blurry white noise of the fan is almost enough to mask the scrabbling outside her window. Almost.

When Blake’s head pops over the windowsill, Yang about pisses her pants. Blake grins, her teeth a flash of white in the darkness, ears on a swivel, pressing her face close to the wire mesh of the window screen.

Bleary and half-asleep, with Blake only a silhouette against a rapidly darkening sky, it’s like Yang has conjured her directly out of a dream.  

Blake’s voice is strained, leveraging herself up on her forearms. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” Then. “Let me in, edgelord.”

Yang scrambles out of bed, heart in her throat, fumbles the screen’s latch open, helps Blake haul herself over the sill. Two hands under her arms, she pulls, Blake’s sneakers scraping against the paneled siding of the house.

Blake tumbles inside the bedroom, landing on top of Yang with an oof. She ushers in the sharp smell of fresh cut grass, cool nighttime air, summer-sweet.

“How did you get in here?” Yang sounds a little breathless, even to her own ears, and Blake settles more comfortably on top of her, so pleased with herself that Yang has to actively stop herself from kissing her smug smile away.

“Your window is right above the garage,” Blake says. She shifts her weight, forcing Yang to bow into the close weave of her room’s carpet. “I just had to get up there and,” a vertical shrug, a grin, “it was easy.”

“I’m grounded for a week,” Yang says, a little despairing, mouth tilting into a pout. “My dad says I can’t see you.”

“It’s dark, you can, like, hardly see me anyway,” Blake says. She wriggles on top of her, curls her fingers into the fabric of Yang’s tank top. “You’re kind of sweaty.”

“Did you climb up the side of my house just to insult me?” Yang asks. She feels a surge of affection so strong, she wonders if it might break something inside her, like there’s no more room left in her chest for anything but this: Blake smiling, nuzzling close. Blake’s slight frame settled in the sling of her hips, the too-warm press of the bare skin of her legs against Yang’s, one ankle hooked around her own.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Blake says. She ducks her head, rests her chin on Yang’s chest, looking up at her through her lashes. “And seeing as I found you crying in the dark, I made the right call.”

Yang struggles up onto her arms, dislodging Blake who sits back on her calves, amused.

“I wasn’t crying.” This, almost a yell, before she remembers herself and lowers her voice to a harsh whisper. “I was just upset.”

Sobering, Blake rocks to her feet, reaching down to tangle her hand with Yang’s and pull her to a stand. She pushes her onto the edge of her mattress, touches her cheek, gentle, careful to avoid the bruise.

Yang’s eyes are adjusting now, and she can just make out the soft-round of Blake’s face, the flat glint of her eyes in the dark.

“I know, baby.” Blake’s voice is throaty, a little sweet.

She kneels, unlacing Yang’s converse one by one, tugging them off before kissing her knees, her ankles. Yang says nothing, just watches Blake in a daze, breath hitched high in her throat, a rosy blush mottling the long line of her throat.

“I’m sorry you’re grounded,” Blake says. She pushes Yang to her back and follows, climbing back on top of her. This time, Yang has enough sense to wrap her arms around Blake’s back, tugging her securely against her until they press close, chest to chest.

“I don’t even get why,” Yang says. A pout. “He was talking shit about you, everybody heard it.”

She tilts her face up, hoping for a kiss. Blake retreats, just barely, nudging her nose with her own, instead. When she talks, Yang can feel her breath against her mouth.

“You did punch Mercury in the face, Yang.”

“It was gym class, it was an accident.”

“You guys were – you guys were playing badminton.”

“Mistakes happen.”

“You were opposite sides of the net.”

Yang looks at her sideways, sly. “Like I said.”

“For starters, that’s impossible.” Blake tucks her lips into her mouth, suddenly shy. “But also – thank you.” She leans in, brushes a kiss against Yang’s jaw. “You know I don’t need you to fight my battles –”

She quiets Yang’s immediate noise of agreement with another kiss, this time at the corner of her mouth.

“— but it was really sweet.”

“I missed you,” Yang says, a hint of a whine. She traces a hand down Blake’s back, slips it under the edge of her shirt, strokes a finger along her hip.

“It’s only been five hours, Yang.” Blake’s voice is soft with laughter, almost adoring, and she leans down, offers another kiss, this time to the apple of her cheek. “But maybe the week apart can start tomorrow.”

“Or maybe the day after that,” Yang says. She tilts her head up, splays the flat of her hand against Blake’s back, urging her closer. “He didn’t really specify when.”

“You’re so smart,” Blake whispers.

She eases against her, t-shirts rucking up, pressed breasts-to-belly-to-hip, the oscillation of the fan drowning Blake’s whimper as Yang slips a thigh between her legs and grins, all teeth and flush.

Blake kisses her, full, nudges carefully, lip to lip, until Yang opens her mouth, hands tightening at her back.

“Stay a while,” she says, rolls her tongue into Blake’s mouth, feels Blake’s hand come up to pet, soft, at the skin underneath her eye.

“Just for a minute,” Blake says, then presses back in, a breeze stirring warm air through the open window.

**

It’s mid-morning when Ruby shoves open the bedroom door, Yang and Blake curled close under the sheets, asleep. They jar awake at the noise, Yang’s arm tightening around Blake’s back.

Ruby sticks her face inside, hair tousled with sleep, rubbing her eyes with a fist. Her words crack with a yawn, and she blinks at them slowly.

“Hi, Blake. By the way, Yang, dad says you’re double grounded, but also to let you both know breakfast is ready.”

She closes the door behind her and Blake’s laugh follows her all the way down the stairs.

[starkeristheendgame]

Could you do a fic where Peter ends up using his safeword?🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Of course! Thank you sm for the prompt you sweet little bean ❤️ I’m gonna set this in a sort of grey-area between Homecoming and Infinity War, as a set-up for the use of the safeword. I hope you like it! 

TW: Reference to bodily harm (the building collapse) | PTSD mentions/depictions | Use of a safeword | Brief rough sex description | Panic/Panicking | Mild humiliating/degrading dirty talk.

Stay safe, my lovelies! 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Real good for me - Fuck, yes - Take it, baby”. Tony’s words are growled into his ear, backed by the warmth of his panting skimming the hinge of his jaw as fingers twist in his hair, tugging his head back. The sting is just the right side of painful, forcing him to arch his spine, to push his ass back onto Tony’s thick cock. 

Post-mission fucking has become kind of A Thing these days, ever since Peter nearly got taken out during a mission and Tony had lost his shit, freaking out before pressing Peter down into their bedsheets, driving his cock so deep Peter could almost taste it. 

They haven’t even made it to the bedsheets, this time. They’re not even home. The concrete of the floor scrapes his palms where he scrabbles for purchase, desperate for leverage against the brutal way that Tony fucks into him, like he’s nothing but a tight, hot sleeve for his cock. 

“Still so loose and sloppy, baby. My cock really ruins you, huh? Leaves you open and gaping like you’ll never be tight again” and Peter cries out, because its so fucking good. Good enough that the dust and rubble around them almost doesn’t bother him. He’ll feel gross later, and demand a shower, but right now the thick, hard tip of Tony’s cock is abusing his sweetspot, and his mind is a mantra of fuckyespleaseharderohgod. 

The hand in his hair stops pulling, and presses his face down into the dirt, hard enough that the floor is like sandpaper on his cheek. There’s a chunk of beam keeping his hips up enough for Tony to shift, forcing his legs together so his thighs are squeezed shut, and he’s trapped. 

Peter’s heart ticks up a notch. 

“Bet if I held off even for a day you’d come crawling on your knees, begging for it” Tony rumbled against his neck, teeth skimming the vulnerable skin there as he draped himself over Peter, pinning him down with all of his weight. Still wearing the suit - Its a considerable poundage to bear, Peter’s back and thighs instantly tensing with the strain. 

It would be hot, any other time. In the safety of their own bed, with soft sheets and luxury pillows. Now, its dirt and dust in his nose and the darkness of the crumbled building around them, Tony’s weight squeezing his ribs down around his lugs, trapping his limbs so there’s nothing he can do except lay there. 

Peter sucked in a sharp breath, breaking off into a sobbed gasp as Tony pressed him down harder, trapping his arms underneath his chest as he sank his cock deep into his plaint little body, forcing it to part around him, as deep as it seemed he could go and then even deeper. 

“T-Tony” Peter rasped, whimpering and writhing under the larger man, sucking in heaving breaths as the trembled. Tony cooed at him, pressing his cheek down into the dirt, braced on his forearm as he squeezed Peter down. 

“Fuck, darling. So tight. Like I’ll never get my fucking cock back” Tony snarled at him, words thick-sweet and breaking through the sudden roaring in his ears. Peter twisted and mewled, trying to get his arms out from underneath him, but Tony clicked his tongue chidingly and ground his hips down, shoving Peter back into the dusty concrete. 

“P-Please. I can’t - Its too much, Tony” he rasped, trying to get the right words out between hitching sobs. 

“Aw, poor baby. Still not used to taking it big, huh?” Tony cooed, patronising and full of faux-concern as he rolled his hips, grinding Peter into the dust like he was typing to leave an imprint of him there. Peter wailed and shook his head as much as he was able, ignoring the way that the rubble dug into his soft cheeks and rubbed the skin there raw. 

“N-No. Tony I can’t...I...Ple- Huntsman” he manages on a broken cry, and in a movement too quick for him to even register, the weight lifted off him, gone in a gut-wrenching moment of relief. He was distantly aware of the slow, dragged slide of Tony’s cock pulling out of him, leaving him open and gaping and exposed. 

“Hey, Pete, Peter. Hey, baby. I’m here. Stay with me” Tony breathed, kneeling down in the dirt besides him with his still-hard cock slapping against the pelvis plate of the suit smearing the gold there with cum and lube. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and shifted, squirming in the dust to curl into a ball as he sucked in billowing breaths, trying to calm himself down. 

“I’m sorry” he whimpered, tucking his arms around himself for protection. “I didn’t mean - It was...”. He can’t finish the words, can’t admit that even in the middle of getting dicked down by Tony, the Vulture haunted him. The feeling of his own crushed bones was a ghost he couldn’t shake. 

“Oh, sweetheart. My precious boy. Its okay, you’re okay. You can breathe, in and out, nice and slow. In...Out. Good” Tony’s gentle, low murmuring was easy to latch onto, a strong contender against the hammering of his heart and the roaring of his rushing blood. He felt sick, dizzy, and before he even realised what he was doing, he was reaching out for Tony. 

Warm, flesh fingers curled around his own, holding with careful tenderness. Peter forced his eyes to open a little and noted that the suit had bled away, leaving Tony on his knees in the dirt in the slacks and shirt he’d been wearing before Director Fury had come storming into the Tower. 

“Am I okay to come a little closer?” Tony asked softly, and Peter gave a hitching nod, closing his eyes again as he shook on the floor, trying desperately to shake the feeling of being trapped, crushed. It felt like the slabs of concrete were still there, digging into his fragile skin, grinding his bones together. 

“I’m here, baby. I’m right here” Tony shushed his increasing sobs, thumb gently rubbing the side of Peter’s hand, giving him plenty of space but sitting close enough that Peter could scent his cologne, his sweat from the mission and their fucking. 

There was a scuffle, the sound of a belt, and then Tony was talking again, gently. “Hey, baby. Do you think you can put your head on my leg? The floor is all dusty” Tony soothed, and Peter sniffled but shifted, obligingly lifting his head enough that a thick, strong thigh could take up the space between his scraped cheeks and the dirt. 

“There’s my good sweetheart” Tony praised, still gently rubbing circles along the side of his hand. Peter’s breaths were less laboured now, but he still felt hot and humiliated, embarrassment leaking into the space that the panic left behind. 

“You did so well, darling. I’m so proud of you. You know that, right? My precious little darling. So good for me” Tony hummed, one hand hesitantly settling on his shoulder, featherlight and giving him plenty of time to express that he didn’t want it. He kept his touch light, thumb sweeping gentle arcs across the muscle. 

“I’m okay” he sniffled, opening his eyes. Tony had tucked away his cock and was sat on his ass, body leaned slightly away so he wasn’t looming over Peter, gaze soft and concerned. “I’m sorry. I just - It was the dirt, and I couldn’t move, and it-”

“Hey, baby. You don’t have to tell me, okay? You don’t have to explain it. You did so well, you used your safeword and I’m so proud of you. Take deep breaths, baby. Nice and slow. We can stay here for a while”. Tony’s hand swept a little lower, brushing his hip, and Peter could feel the tickling coolness of nanotech blanketing his bare ass, covering his exposed hole, as light as his touch. 

“How about when we get home, we have a nice, hot bath, hm? Bubbles, that smelly shit you keep bullying me into buying...”

“That you secretly like because you use it when I’m not there and think I don’t notice” Peter responded in a wet mumble, shoulders hitching slightly on a soft giggle. Tony had made a big show of fussing and sneezing and sniffing himself the first time Peter insisted on having a ‘proper’ bath, but the younger boy knew his mentor had secretly grown to adore them. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I still say if I wanted to smell like that, I’d go sit in a florists’ shop for a few hours” Tony shot back, but his voice was light and amused as he continued to pet at Peter, feeling the way the boy’s rabbiting heartbeat began to slow as he calmed. 

“As opposed to smelling like grease and rust?” Peter asked, voice a little rough from his crying. It felt like they’d only been sat here for a few minutes, but when he caught sight of Tony’s watch, he knew it must have been at least half an hour since his freak out. When he shifted, he felt cold and sore, arousal gone and leaving discomfort in its place. 

“You wound me” Tony huffed at him dryly, hand sliding slowly and carefully up into his hair, scrubbing through it gently and using his thumb to sweep aside clumps of dust and rubble. “You feel okay to get up, sweetheart?” He asked after a pause, and Peter nodded, groaning softly as he uncurled, he and Tony using each other to wobble to their feet. 

“I’m -”

“If you say you’re sorry again, I will be forced to do something soppy and over emotive” Tony warned him, and Peter closed his mouth, flushing, before opening it again. 

“Thank you” he said instead, and Tony gave him the most achingly sweet smile. 

“Anything for you, darling” the older man murmured, ducking down to press a sweet, loving, gentle kiss to Peter’s mouth as his fingertips skimmed his hips, dragging the nanotech up and over his body, ready to take them both home. 

[vesperstalksclones]

Cody x Reader

(18+)

Some smutty angsty sexyness that is Cody. My FIRST EVER fic written down properly and posted for the world to see. A story of a gal who was hurt by one man, but will be healed by another.

○○○

"Umf!"

My breath rushed out of my chest as he pushed me down on to the bed. 

He loomed over me, predatory, menacing,... eyes of hard amber perusing my naked flesh, like a great beast considering the first bite of of his meal.

How I wanted him.

Cody.

He prowled up my form, muscles rolling under the bronzed skin. Spreading a scarred paw across my abdomen, he skidded it firmly upwards, the drag of the calloused fingers trailing tingles of delight in their wake. Upon my sternum. Between my breasts. He pressed his weight there upon my collarbone, while the his other hand dragged my knee to the wayside. Spreading my intimacy wide open before him he squirmed his thighs under mine, and flexed his hips outward. The result sent my insides fluttering like a caged bird, as his pelvis pressed forcefully against mine, crushing his solid member against my already eager sex.

My shuddering breath caught in my throat, and instead escaped as a groan so wanton in its tones it could've made his chaste monk of a general go scrambling for a clean pair of trousers.

He grinned, obviously pleased with my reaction.

"Is that so, Ad'ika?" The oppressive hand left my chest and slunk up across my neck. "You want me rough and angry?" 

His lilting baritone voice caressed my ears. Tantalizing is its veiled meaning. 

His hand darted under the nape of my neck, filled itself with my loose tresses, twisted and hauled at me firmly. I couldn't help but obey his touch, my body arching under his.

"I am not a gentle man…"

My hands groped at his skin, searching the sinews of his neck and then the muscles of his shoulders and back, seeking a sturdy hold I could use to pull him closer to me, whimpering all the while with my eagerness. 

Cody took the opportunity to thrust an arm underneath me to maintain the curving slope I had offered him. Dipping his head he tasted my lips, and neck, licking and biting his way southward. 

As I wriggled against him, my heart raced, hammering against my ribs. He was fierce and dangerous and I was utterly at his mercy.

Cody was soldier born and bred. Diplomacy was not his strong suit, and thusly force and violence had been taught to him as the appropriate solution for every situation. It showed through in his attentions.

He was an alpha male. 

Proud. Regal. Dominant. 

He had watched me for so long, perfectly posed during briefings and meetings, so serene and dignified. But his eyes. They would occasionally meet mine across a holo display, and my insides would clench violently. Those golden gems positively dripped with a primal desire, whether to mate or to feed I wasnt ever sure, but he distinctly reminded me of a monstrous lion-cat I had seen caged at the grand zoo on Couresant. The great male had regarded me as a snack, protected by the durasteel bars. Knowing I was beyond his reach, he had silently paced and imagined the taste of my flesh. And thus was the Commander of the 212th. Pacing safely behind his bars of self discipline. 

Wanting.

Hungering. 

It had haunted me until I couldn't function at my duties knowing he was nearby. And then couldn't sleep when the honey eyed fantasies besieged me. And THEN further struggled at work for the exhausted hangover that resulted. Damn him and his fucking beautiful eyes and the fucking cycle of self torment they set in motion.

His mouth had reached my breasts. He paused and buried his face there, rubbing his cheeks in to their fullness and drawing in deeply of my scent, his exhale fanning a hot breeze across the soft skin and tickling at the dusky pebbles waiting there. He  nibbled his way to the treat, groaning with approval. He captured the firmness of my nipple with his teeth, giving a few experimental tugs before pinching hard. I jumped against him and yelped. Cody answered my bucking by grinding himself against me, his rigid cock finding its way between my slick folds and nudging the most delicious friction against the bundle of nerves hidden there.

"Codeeee..." I pleaded for nothing in particular. I watched as he mouthed at my breast, then took as much as he could in to his maw, sucking hard and lathing his tongue against the firm bud as if he sought to erase it from existence.  I gasped out praises as I raked my nails over his scalp and gripped at his thick dark hair. 

His hand crept between us, and he lifted away from my belly, fisting his member. A few eager strokes smeared my wetness along his length and, satisfied with the preparation, he pressed its throbbing head against my entrance. I sucked in a shaky breath as he began to sink in to me, relishing the stretch of my muscles around his thickness. Without warning he slammed against me, burying his entire length inside as his hips met flush with my thighs. I twisted with a shriek of surprise at the sudden invasion, pulling free of his mouth, the cool air causing goosebumps to rise on my wet flesh. 

Without pause, the Commander withdrew and surged in to me again, and again, bracing his arms by my ribs, setting a grueling pace as rough and as angry as he had offered. My fingers kneeded at this forearms, scrabbling for purchase on the satin wrapped stone pillars, mewling and calling to him with every bone shaking thrust. 

"Fucking hell woman!" Cody snarled from his chest, his rasping breath giving his deep voice a gritty edge infused with sticky, heady lust. "I've to fight to get inside you, you're so tight!" The best answer I could manage was strangled croon as I reached for his face.

His big hands snatched my arms away, strong fingers shackeling around my wrists and pinning them beside my head. He dropped his sweat soaked forehead to my shoulder and rammed in to me with every ounce of his body behind it. My muscles clenched at him like a greedy fist and he pushed back against them, uttering a deep animalistic grunt in my ear.

That noise proved my undoing. It ricochetted around in my mind and knocked loose something long ignored. A memory tucked away in the darkest recesses, and for a moment the world warped. Another man was on top of me, pinning my arms, his body heaving against mine. He had pressed his face to my neck, unwilling to look me in the eyes. He made no noise except for his grunts of exertion. And I had silently cried.

Cold fear began to seep through my gut, electric tingles of anxiety spreading out from my navel. 

"Co…. Cody…"

Please, let me see your eyes. I need to know your here with me. His teeth scraped my neck in response.

"Cody…." I pleaded.

Look at me. Answer me. Please… anything! Just chase that fucking image away!

"CODY! CODY STOP!" 

Cody froze, every muscle taunt and straining. His head snapped up, eyes wide. 

"What?! What's… Ad'ika, why do you look at me that way?? Have I hurt you?"

His brow knit with worry. And then, after a moments thought, in to his eyes… those magnificent honey colored pools… seeped horror. He pushed up off of me, shame washing over his features. 

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry cyare! I thought that.. this is … is what… you.." he stammered. He was shaking from head to toe. 

"No Cody! Don't think that!" 

It was what I wanted. He was what I wanted. I had led him to my bed by my own hand. I knew Cody wasn't a cruel man. Tough and hard yes. Severe, sometimes. But abusive? Not for a hot second. I couldn't let him even entertain the thought that he had done wrong by mounting me. He slid further away and I lunged for him, catching his shoulders in a death grip. 

"I got inside my own head for a moment.. And I frightened myself. I just needed to see your face and put it back where it belongs. Please don't think like that..." I pressed my forehead to his, our eyes almost close enough that the lashes could have tangled.

"...ever!" I kissed him gently, very aware that I had frightened him far more than I had myself.

Cody settled on his knees, searching my face. His own was still etched with worry: his forehead wrinkled, contorting the scar that twisted around his left eye. His full lips curved in to frown.

"What are you afraid of, cyar'ika?" He whispered. I lowered my eyes, afraid that he might see the truth festering there. "What's been done to you? Tell me."

I shook my head and wrapped my arms around his neck. Pulling myself against his thick chest, I sighed. 

"I won't tell you, Cody, not right now. Especially not while you are trying to make love to me… and I've emotionally kicked you in the nuts." 

Maybe not ever. I don't want him to know. I dont want whatever he and I might have to be tainted by such a shadow. Especially one that I had thought had been put to bed.

He framed my face with his hands and tilted it to his. 

"What do you need from me?" He whispered softly against me. At least the fear had abated, and now he wore concern, and tenderness. Such a juxtaposition from the man who had raged on top of me only minutes ago. 

"Just talk to me, love. Let me see your face so I can watch you enjoy me." I was relieved that he accepted my silence about the matter.

He regarded me for a moment.

"You still want me to touch you?"

"Umh" I nodded.

"You're not frightened of me?"

"No."

He sighed with relief, pressing a kiss to my forehead, and pulling me in to a tight embrace. He tipped forward with me, supporting some of his weight, but laying most of it on top of me. 

We stayed like that for a while, kissing and whispering about nonsense. I marveled at his heft upon me. It could have been oppressive, but instead I felt safe. Protected. Anchored to something real.

It was when Cody began nuzzling at my neck that I noticed he was hardening against my thigh. Lifting his hips, he made room for his fingers to creep between my legs, praising my softness and promising to thoroughly wear me out. 

He pleaded for my readiness as he caressed my clit, demanding for me to be wet and eager so that his cock wouldn't bruise me.

When his thick fingers delved inside of me, his thick knuckles flexed against my opening, and the rough pads searched for the bit of flesh within me that bit like lightning when caressed properly. 

He watched my face, just like I had asked, admiring every blush and wince as I rolled my hips in time with the rhythm of his hand. 

I begged him to enter me, to thrust deeply and hard enough to split me in two. To mark me, and claim me for himself. 

 Scrambling to his knees, he hauled me up against his chest, palmed my ass with his hands and lifted me above his waist. Positioning me above his twitching member, he lowered me slowly, allowing my body weight to impale me upon his rod. I groaned as his hard flesh parted me, feeling the ridge around his head slip inside, followed by the shaft of his raging erection. He filled me to bursting, connecting us in the most primitive and visceral way. 

"Cyar'ika, that is my cock that sits inside you. You were made perfectly for me," Cody gasped against my mouth. "and I will fill every space within you so that there will never be room for anyone else!"

His arms wrapped around my waist with a steel grip. Arching his back and flexing his hips he raised me off of his lap, and hesitated only a breath before slamming me down, seating himself fully within me. I kissed him again and again until his thrusts became to vigorous to manage. All I could do was simply hang on, and loose myself in the feeling of his hard body. 

"Who fills you, woman?" he growled, "Who will you think about in the night?"

"Ah! Cody!" I sobbed, quickly loosing the ability to form proper thoughts. He growled deep in his chest, rapidly giving in to his hunger, staring in to my eyes as he bared his teeth, unwilling to hide his grunts and groans as he did before. 

My body was becoming frantic, begging for this male to push me over the edge and snap the tight knot that was building below my navel. I felt myself sinking under, drowning in the sensations he was driving between my thighs. 

"I'm close Cody!" 

He fought to keep his eyes focused on mine as he hammered his cock in to me. 

"Come for me, ad'ika!" He roared, half commanding half pleading. He rammed himself in viciously enough to make my head whip back. Liquid gold flooded through my veins as my climax spilled around his member. The edges of my vision darkened and stars exploded in front of my eyes. I had the feeling of falling, of the room spinning around me even as Cody's strong arms held me in place. 

Cody thrust within me again with equal strength. Another. And on the third he dug his fingers in to my hips painfully, an oath to some long forgotten god torn from his lips, snarling like a mating loth-wolf as he emptied himself in to me.

In the shadow of his release, Cody's strength waned. He slowly sunk forward, heaving ragged breaths so hard he almost seemed to be sobbing. I combed gentle fingers through his hair, enjoying the cool kiss of the night air on my skin as it swirled around us, lulling us two poor broken fools in to oblivion.

○○○

We had awoken in the early hours, Cody needing to return to his barracks to prepare for the coming day. He dressed and kissed me sweetly, apologizing for his duties that pulled him away. As the door closed I pressed my face in to the pillows where we had slept. They were spiced with the scent of the Marshall Commander, mingled with the salty aroma of sex. I wished for him to be there when I woke up. That he didn't have to be a soldier. That he didn't have to risk his life in another man's war.

○○○

I became aware of daylight on my eyelids.. My mind was foggy and slow, as if it was trying to swim through mud. There was something going on that was strangely out of place in my comfy bed, and disrupting my slumber. As I crossed the threshold in to wakefulness a moan escaped my throat and my jaw fell open. I tried to make sense of the smartly groomed head nosing between my legs as a tongue firmly scrubbed across my already alert clit. 

"Good morning love…." he emphasized the pet name I had used the night before,, grumbling in to my over eager besh & winking one of those gorgeous golden eyes. "Good news…. I've the day off…" 

~Fin~

[beerecordings]

Memory - Part 3

He shivers on the floor of his cell, curled in on himself, sobbing from the cold.

Frigid air burns down against him like a solstice curse, biting venomously at his bare flesh. He used to say he preferred winter to summer, preferred a nip of cold and deep breaths of clear air as you tug up your scarf and hurry off down the icy pavement to the melting, insufferable, inescapable heat of the summertime, but this?

Hellfire runs cold.

“You look a little frosty there, Oskar.”

Oh, joy. And someone to mock him, too, just to make his life a little more perfect.

“Fuck off,” he croaks, turning around to hide his face from Anti.

“You're having another one of your crybaby days, are you?”

He digs his nails into his shoulders. If he draws some blood out, maybe it will be warm. He can't feel his nose anymore.

“I'm having hypothermia,” Henrik corrects, tears washing down his frozen cheeks. “I will die if you leave me like this.”

“Wouldn't be the worst thing.”

Henrik gives a dry sob, huddling in so tight his head hits his knees, rocking his body against the floor. He needs something to think about, anything to keep his mind off this. Warm coffee the way Marvin makes it, Jameson resting his head between his shoulderblades when he's tired, Jackie's voice, zipping around town on Chase's bike in early August, a nephew and niece set on one thigh each, nice dinners with nice girls, Marvin's cats, his room, his bed, his house, his friends.

He wants to go home.

“How about a blanket?” offers Anti.

“Ha ha,” rasps Henrik, swallowing back a cough.

“I'm serious. Look. Here it is, a nice one!”

“Well, are you planning to give it to me? Huh?”

“Calm down, Franz, of course I am. It just comes at a cost, of course. I can't give you something for nothing.”

Henrik should know better than to look. But he does. And fuck, but it's a beautiful blanket.

Fleece. Storm blue. Big enough to keep a pair of Inuit warm in an icestorm.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” he chants, covering his eyes. “You're mocking me, you're mocking me!”

Anti laughs, throwing the blanket over his shoulder. “You really don't expect anything from me anymore!”

“What? What do you want? Should I beg for you again? Do you get off on that? My other ear, would you like that? My hair, just to make sure I don't have anything at all to keep warm? Blood, you fucking vampire?”

Anti's smile is different today. His tongue flickers out over a twisted grin, one of his canines poking out to gnaw on his lip. His eyes flicker from side to side, assessing, assessing, impatient.

“Nothing so worthless as your little body today, my puppet. Don't you know I'm cold too? Just because I'm immortal doesn't mean I want to be uncomfortable. I will trade you this warmth for some of yours. Something to keep the heart cozy on lonely winter days like this one.”

Henrik's heartbeat rockets and he shoves himself farther away, scraping his back against the wall, gritting his teeth hard in his mouth.

“No,” he snarls, trembling so hard his muscles ache from it. “No, I hated that, having you take something from my head. I still don't know what I’ve up.”

“Pet, it wasn't something important. Just a couple little scenes. You picked them out yourself! And I'll let you pick this one too. Just something small, for a big, gorgeous blanket. For your life, really. I won't give you anything otherwise. And you will freeze, if you don't have it.” He beams with mismatched eyes.

“No,” whispers Henrik, turning away. Block him out. Ignore him. Think of sunlight drifting down through the window in their kitchen, making sure Jackie has enough sunscreen on his neck, his favorite sweater, the dog that lives across the street, Chase's chocolate pumpkin bread fresh out of the oven, a kiss, a hug, mittens and scarves, sleeping wrapped up in blankets on a grand Queen mattress...

“Don't ignore me, you stupid little bitch!” screams Anti, a glitch spasming through his voice and making it ring in a high-pitched whine. Henrik sobs and covers his bleeding ear, curling impossibly tighter. “I'll be back in an hour! And by then you'll be begging to hand over whole meals worth of memories for some fleece on your skin, mark my fucking words!”

Anti is gone.

Henrik is left alone with the cold, gnawing away at him like a toddler given a pig's rib to eat.

-------------------

His hair was warm beneath his fingers.

Henrik pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked up at the picture of the model on the counter in front of him, combing through the downy curls, wetting them straight with a little spray bottle which, before that day, had only ever been used to train Marvin's cats to stop scratching at the curtains. Jameson, eyes closed, relaxed, sat straight and still on his little stool, waiting for him to finish. Henrik snipped, snipped, snipped away at his hair, shorter and shorter, neater and neater.

The door pushed open across the house and he heard Marvin and Chase hollering from the cold, bringing a draft of freezing wind with them as they scampered across the doorstep. Jackie shouted a greeting and Henrik rolled his eyes as the three of them began a yelled conversation from two different sides of the house. Jamie only tittered in reply and Henrik patted his head, trying not to smile.

The heater kicked on and poured warm air down on their heads, ruffling Jameson's new haircut as Henrik finished double-checking the last few strands. He clapped a hand on his little brother's shoulder, humming to himself, and began wiping up stray pieces of brown and teal hair from the sink, leaving Jameson to consider himself in the mirror for a moment.

When he looked back up, Henrik found him smiling.

Something warm as fresh coffee rose up in Henrik's chest. Jameson grinned at him and brushed his hands through his shortened hair, pleased.

“It is very you,” said Henrik, drawing another smile out of him. “A little old-fashioned, but you pull it off.”

“Thanks to you,” answered Jameson's hands.

Henrik grinned and set his chin on top of his head, running his fingers over the side of Jameson's hair. His little brother reached up to find his hands and squeezed the fingers fondly, and for a moment, Henrik let himself rest there with him, soaking in his warmth.

“Th-that,” stammers Henrik, his hands reaching desperately through the frigid bars of his cage, scrabbling for the blanket. “Please. Take that for the blanket. He would not mind. He would not want for me to be frozen to death. Surely. Surely.”

“Sure, yeah, he wouldn't care.” Shaking with anticipation, Anti drops the blanket and leans down to grab Henrik's chin, tilting his head up towards him. His eyes are colder than the concrete, and entering into them is like his head had been put through the ice of a frozen river, but then the moment is gone, and so too is the memory of cutting Jameson's hair, and he is alone with his blanket and his shame, wondering what it was that he surrendered.

----------------

Henrik is awoken two days later by cold iron slamming against the bars of his cage.

“What, what?” he cries, jolting awake and striking his head hard on the top bars. Whimpering, he sinks back in on himself, staring tearfully up at Anti as the pain rocks through his skull.

He expects him to be laughing.

He is not laughing.

Anti's eyes are those of a dog chained away from its meat for too long and his hands tremble minutely, clenching and unclenching around the carved handle of the iron knife. He swallows and glances around the cage, his eyes finally settling back on Henrik's again.

This is not the first time Anti has looked so wild Henrik does not call him human. Shrinking in on himself, Henrik closes his eyes and prays that whatever it is that Anti has devised to entertain himself tonight will not be so horrible.

No, wait – today, not tonight. There's a little light come in Henrik's window still.

“Why are you waking me up so early?” rasps Henrik, by now adjusted completely to his brother's nocturnality. “What's wrong?”

“Shut up,” snaps Anti, drawing away from the cage. “Shut up, just – just – I want more of that. That thing you gave me.”

“The... the memory? From the other day?”

“Yes, you brainless welp, what else could you possibly have to give me? I'm bored out of mind. I'm always – I'm always so bored, you don't understand, it's like nothing ever even – in my head, nothing hurts, nothing aches, nothing – I don't feel – ”

Anti trails off, snarling, tearing at his hair. He grips the knife too tight in his hand.

Henrik watches, picking at a scar on his wrist, trying to think. This is just another puzzle. He's good at puzzles. He can figure it out. Right now, his intuition is telling him the best solution is to keep quiet and let this unfold.

“Give me a memory, Klaus,” Anti entreats him, recovering himself a little, standing up with a coy smile meant to be warm, his voice dripping with sugar. “You'll be a good boy for master, won't you? You'll give your owner a memory like a good little creature.”

Henrik shivers and rubs at his shoulders, curling up in his blanket.

“C-can't give you something for nothing,” he croaks finally, pushing his shattered glasses up on his nose.

Anti lets out a sharp bark of laughter. His eyes are bright. He holds up a finger and then retreats into the hallway, his heavy footsteps stomping away, only to return moments later with his hands full.

Henrik straightens up so fast he nearly strikes his head again, his mouth falling slightly open. He stares between Anti and his reward, trying to figure out if this is a joke or not.

“Tasty, yes? Good for you! You must keep the scurvy away, pet. Yummy, sweet. Good to drink too. Mmh, lecker!”

Henrik's fingers reach out past the bars of his cage, barely skimming the scratchy string that binds together a bulk bag of blood oranges.

“Six whole pounds,” crows Anti, pressing them a little closer, letting Henrik smell the good sweet skin. “I knew you'd love it. When was the last time you had a treat like this? Or anything to eat but yams and canned corn, ha! Come on, so, darling, it's a deal?”

He licks at his lips. Henrik tries not to lick at his own.

“Throw in a couple jugs of water and some protein.” He holds his chin up. “And I'll give you what you want.”

A ripple of glitching runs through Anti's form and he drops the oranges to the ground, stalking off again and coming back with three whole liter-jugs of water and a can of – ugh, canned tuna. It'll have to do.

“Something like last time,” Anti demands, opening the cage door. “But – but – I don't know. Bitter. Everything you give me is so sweet.”

Henrik's mouth twitches grimly as he tugs the oranges towards himself, tearing into the skin with shaking hands and eyes blown wide with the strength of his hunger and craving. He wants to shove his hand inside the orange and lick the juice off like a wild thing, wants to tear the fruit out and fill his mouth until he fucking chokes, and if it kills him, then what a way to go!

No, no! Savor it, Henrik, savor it. Staring down at the little scrap of skin, he reaches slowly up, and places it into his mouth, chewing down on the almost empty, but ever-so-slightly sweet taste of the rind.

“Puppet,” growls Anti, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don't ignore me.”

“Sorry.” Henrik chews down faster on the rind, a cold smile sitting on his cracked lips. “You said something bitter?”

“Yes. Yes.”

He can give him that.

“Well, what did I give you last time?”

Anti shuffles, tilting his head side-to-side. “Well... the point is, I want something... personal. Personal. And I want – I want – ”

He shakes his head and hisses, drawing in close. His fingers curl around the bars of the cage.

“I want something with Jameson. Something personal with Jameson. Like that haircut... him smiling at you. Stroking his hair. Give that to me, but bitter.”

Henrik's blood seems to chill against his bones.

And then he is spitting out the orange rind, shoving the bag back at Anti, and his heart is pulsing to get out of his chest. Revulsion makes him choke and shame makes his vision blur, painful sobbing hiccups interrupting rapid breaths. Anti is shouting, pressing the oranges back towards him, grabbing at his hair and slamming him back against the wall of the cage, but Henrik isn't listening, not now, not anymore.

“You will never see anything of Jameson's friendship!” he shrieks, thrashing against the grip around his throat. “You will never see anything of what it is like to be loved by him! You are nothing! He abhors you! He despises you! He doesn't belong to you and you will never get your hands on him again! Not in reality, not in my head, not on your useless, horrible, god-awful pustule of an existence!”

Anti's anger is a hurricane, enough to lift cars, enough to lift houses, sweeping across whole cities, across whole lands, with a noise like the whipping of a thousand winds. “Don't you say that to me!” howls Anti, striking him, striking him, striking him until his face is one red and purple bruise, until bones poke out from his cheek and neither of his eyes can open. “Stupid fucking brat!”

“I never should have given you anything,” wheezes Henrik, clawing at his hands. “Own my body, huh? Call me your dog? Well, Antisepticeye. You can keep me in a cage all you want – ”

Anti strikes him across the head and makes him reel, but still he is speaking.

“You can beat me within an inch of my life – ”

Or perhaps farther, he almost believes, sucking in a desperate breath.

“But you will never own my mind.”

“Little monster.” The words drip from Anti's mouth like saliva from a lion's. His eyes are pools of pitch and his lips drawn back in a fang-toothed snarl. “Stupid little monster. You really think you can keep anything from me? I will suck every memory, every moment, every fucking feeling out of that little head of yours. I will take Chase, I will take Jameson, I will take Henrik himself. There is nothing – nothing – you can do to stop me. You will never be able to hold on. You will never be able to deny me. Weak, stupid, desperate, ugly little animal.”

“Go fuck yourself,” whispers Henrik, a smile on his relentless mouth. “I will never give you another memory again.”

For a second, Anti's fist draws back yet again, and Henrik braces for a hundredth blow, his mouth tightening in a grimace.

But it never falls.

Anti's voice, when he speaks, has lost most of its vitriol.

“You really are very stupid,” he says softly. “If you think that that is true.”

His weight disappears from Henrik's chest and legs and the door of the cage clicks locked again, leaving Henrik fuzzily clinging to consciousness and alone, without even an orange to comfort him.

“You'll shatter again soon enough,” Anti promises, drawing back. “Whatever happens, you always have days where I find you in so many pieces you would give anything to try and put yourself back together again. But it does not matter. I have other methods I can use, you know. Your brothers are getting sloppy hiding from me, puppet.”

Henrik drags himself back from the brink of darkness, awakened by the words.

“Wh-what?” his aching lips manage.

Anti's laugh titters through the burning light of the afternoon.

“One day, Albert. One day you will not be the only one down here in this basement.”

No. No. Anything but that. He wants to rage at Anti. To get up and swear to him that he will never lay a hand on a single one of his brothers and friends.

But he does not have the strength.

“My name,” he whispers, as the sound of footsteps drifts away. “Is Henrik.”

He faints clean away. When he dreams, it is of clocks and button-ups and soft, downy curls between his fingers.

[shiningstarofwinter]

Mica Whump Wip

Not a finished piece at all but more or less a doodle I’ve been writing for a kiddo of mine who started in a DnD group that went down in glorious flames. XD We tried to take down stuff above our level and mostly died. . . . As you do. Anyways, Mica is my lil healing/tank cleric lady with a small body, and a big heart. Who I like to be mean too . . . YEah. XD This is a bit of a mess as I’ve been writing scene chunks at oDark 30 when my brain wouldn’t be quiet. XD Winged Whumpee, Kobold Whumpee, Captivity, Lady Whumpee TW: Heavily implied drugging, TW: Non sexual noncon touching

Mica was. . . . confused and not at all sure what to think of this current situation. She had been pulled out to heal what if she was making bets had been a raiding party. That was getting to be all too normal, what had followed though had been completely new.   Mica had squirmed, hissing and whistling when after the healing session they had rolled up her tunic and started to unwrap her wings and chest. That her wings and been felt wrapped and mostly ignored both by herself and her captors had until now been one of Mica's biggest comforts.   "Hold still you stupid thing." Was punctuated by being shaken in the hand holding the back of her neck. Mica warbled and slapped at the legs of the woman holding her ineffectively with her tail.   "Don't know why the boss wants to do this anyways but the more you cooperate the sooner I can be finished."   This was not reassuring but Mica mostly settled with making low angry rumbles and panicky flashing of her bioluminesce as the wraps were removed. . . to Mica's astonishment her tunic was rolled back down and the guard put Mica on her feet once again. Mica's rumbling died and the flickering blue glow faded somewhat. Stumbling along with her guard Mica began a confused clicking in the back of her throat.  The guard ignored this subtle question and brought Mica to an open area of the encampment, where there seemed to be a pair of . . . Sandbags? Mica's hands were tethered to the sand bags without protest. "Can you get your wings out of that tunic yourself?" The guard asked and she sounded bored with this whole thing. Mica could normally tuck her wings through the wing holes at the back of the tunic with ease but shuffling the leathery appendages they didn't much want to move.   The guard stepped closer again and to Mica's growing confusion undid the buttons at the small of Mica's back to grab hold of a wing joint. Mica shifted uneasily, not liking the touch at all. It felt wrong at first and than it felt worse as the guard pulled the joint awkwardly up and out from under the cloth. Mica's wing joints were stiff and it hurt for the muscles and membranes to be stretched so. It could have been a lot worse. The flush of warmth and well being that flooded Mica whenever she earned her goddess's favor by casting healing spells had staved off some of the damage to be had from keeping her wings, and for that matter her hands, bound.     Blood rushed into passages kept tight and the tingling pins and needles pain of it was all Mica could think of for a few seconds. By the time she caught up to the sensations the Guardswoman was starting to pull out the wing on the other side. Mica jerked, her free wing twitching and the wing in the woman's hold pulling awkwardly. One of Mica's knees gave out and the pull of her own weight opened up the wing fully. A moment later Mica was dropped to fall forward onto the sand bags. Panting as heavily as she could through the muzzle Mica's wings stayed partially extended, drooping to either side of her heaving chest.   Time passed and Mica felt terribly exposed, flinching at every sound around her as feeling slowly came back into her wings. She kept expecting something horrible to happen. Images of torn membrane and broken bones flashed through her mind.Eventually she scrabbled back to her feet, wincing as her stiff wings protested the movement that ruffled them slightly. She was tethered by a short rope to the sandbags, which were large and heavy enough that Mica falling onto them had apparently not disturbed them at all. Mica could stand comfortably enough, but she doubted the rope was long enough to let her touch the ground, or the bottoms of the sandbags.   Mica glanced around hawkishly and found that there were several people around the open area, including the gal who had hauled her out here. None of them seemed to be paying her a whole lot of attention.The guardswoman was in the shade of a largeish building, she was running the blade of her sword down the surface of a whetstone. The soft hissing woosh of the blade’s passage rhythmic and steady. Mica eyed the guard for several seconds before tugging experimentally on the rope that tied her mitted hands to the sandbags. Nothing shifted, the bags were weighty and didn't budge at all. Mica tried grab the rope with her hands. Fine motor control with the canvas mitts on was impossible but after a few tries she managed a decent hold in the rope and tried to lift the sandbags. Straining she stopped as soon as she could feel the weight shift free of the ground lowering them back down. Not strictly too heavy to lift, but heavy enough to make it not worth the effort, at least not with escape in mind.  Mica was deep in thought when a gust of wind caused her wings to spread of their own accord. They were still stiff even if the tingling of the blood rushing back fully into veins had subsided and the movement hurt. Still it felt good to have them out again even if Mica was still twitchy and waiting for the other boot to drop.       The glowing patterns on her scales subsided as discomfort of her wings eased. The sun was bright out today and the glorious warmth of it across her spread wings dripped syrupy golden calm over Mica's thoughts anytime there was a long enough dip in the noise level around her.Each time the tromp of boots too close roused Mica it was harder to come alert. It had been a long while since she had felt this warm and content. Each time the sound of footsteps would fade and Mica was unable to spot any particular amount of movement in her area. Golden warmth would reclaim her when the area was calm once again. It was odd though, Mica had sun bathed before and this didn't quite seem like sun bathing had previously. The worry quickly sank into the golden tide in her mind and Mica soon found herself humming quietly as her wings ever so slowly stretched and flapped in the warm air like she had seen certain gliding seabirds do back home. A nameless time later Mica was drowsing when she heard the hiss of the whetstone stop. That probably meant something, but the golden warmth kept her from being too concerned about it. Boots headed her way coming closer and closer. There was something about boots, boots were. Not good?. Bad maybe? Mica's crest rose and fell, she folded her wings to her back, settling them, and resetting them again with a sound like ruffled canvas.She shuffled sideways and peered down at her hands in mild confusion when they pulled her to a halt.Mica tugged ineffectively at the ties staring at them in confusion as the bootsteps got louder and closer. Mica's frill wavered up and down, a shaky trill leaving her muzzle. Mica shot a look in the direction of the approaching steps and somewhat clumsily decided that tucking her wings into her tunic was a good idea. The leathery appendages tucked in without much trouble despite the unsteadiness Mica suddenly seemed plagued by.A tall one was coming too close, Mica skittered sideways, or tried to before coming up short when her hands wouldn't move any farther from where they were. Mica wobbled and flared her tail out for balance. Something heavy and warm landed on her shoulder  it helped keep her from tilting any further. Mica listed towards the warmth and found herself leaning against something solid while the weight on her shoulder had left, seemingly to pull at her hands.Being still the warmth enveloped Mica again and she listed until she was leaning against something that was also warm. The little kobold cooed a contented quiet sound.  Mica blinked blearily at the tall one she'd forgotten was there when they spoke, reminding her that the warmth was was leaning against probably wasn't a rock. "You sure are a lot more pleasant like this, no wonder the captain wanted to try it."   Mica's tunic was lifted, she shuffled her wings a little, even through the golden warmth that flowed over her she wasn't sure she liked this idea, and a flicker of panic flared briefly under the sunny syrup, Mica tucked her wings closer still to her back. The tall one didn't directly touch her wings though, just wrapped something around them and her chest. The tunic folded back down and that worry gone Mica drifted again.  Something tugged her forward and Mica followed it willingly enough. It wasn't as warm this way, but the golden warmth did not lift from her mind. Mica had no idea how long they walked but when she bumbled to a stop a hand grabbed the back of her neck and part of her collar bone. Lifting her up, Mica curled like a hatchling, tucking her legs, arms and tail close. A flash of something tried to rise above the golden syrup but whatever it had been it did not make it to the surface.   Another hand held her lower down supporting her hips, and there was a hesitation.   "This is new. . . Never knew you lot did this."  Mica felt that flare again, this time more strongly, this wasn't right, something was wrong. Mica squirmed, lifting her head and bending her neck towards her shoulder. It wasn't much of a wiggle as the flare of wrong sank back where it had come from quickly.  "You settle a lot faster now too." The voice commented.