#i can draw ichor??? no way??

[biblicalvampireemmy]

We need more art of Ody, coconut Eury and Pancake Polites 😔

THEY GOIN BACK HOME!!!

@gooseagain8, i think i understand where your getting at abt the ichor sure, mine isnt as good but its so fun lol

(im pretty sure i tagged the right person...)

(btw this is right after 600 strike if that wasn't clear enough)

[myballsitchaurghouchie]

If you fart in his realm do you think it has a reverb to it

Lyrics from Emperor's New Clothes - Panic! At The Disco

[Image Description in Alt Text and under the cut]

ID: A digital drawing of The One Who Waits from the video game Cult Of The Lamb. He is shown rising from the bottom with his hand extended towards the Red Crown which floats at the center top of the image. Throughout the drawing is text saying "The crown so close I can taste it". The One Who Waits has shackles around his wrists and various chains coming from him, as well as one chain attached to his throat. They are all covered in black ichor. His robes are flowing to the bottom in a way that fills the space, and they have red and golden accents. There is also ichor on his clothes and wrists, mainly around where the shackles lay. The background is the same red as The One Who Waits's eyes, and it fades slightly into a white at the top.

[undyingdecay]

ik damn well that bob would lose it if he went to nurse and found that his sweetheart actually produced milk for him - you can end up lactating just from consistent breast stimulation alone and he clearly has made a routine of it. He wouldn't know what to do with himself, poor guy

oh, he like actually loses it.

the first time it happens, you’re both in the usual position—your back half-curled against his chest, the morning light slicing lazily through the blinds, his mouth hot and reverent over your breast like it’s the only prayer he knows how to recite. there’s alwys a rhythm to him. suckle, breathe, moan, repeat. but this time—

this time, you feel a warm trickle. sticky. wet. a strange pressure releases with a faint squirt, and bob’s throat works around it with a startled grunt. he stills. both of you do.

your eyes widen. “wait—” you try to sit up, scrambling to process it, to look down, but bob’s arm snakes around your waist with strength you’v never felt from him before—more sentry than man—and he hauls you back down into the mattress like you’re his sun-warmed anchor.

“don’t go,” he rasps, already descending again. “don’t—please. it’s real, i didn’t make it up—oh god, it’s real.”

and then he’s latched again—louder now, messier. greedy. your breast is being suckled with a pressure that’s bordering on frantic, his lips slippery with fresh milk that leaks faster the more he draws. he’s moaning into your skin, and when he pulls off to gasp for air, there’s a dribble down his chin and he’s sniffling through it, crying.

“thank you. thank you—so much,” he hiccups, milk bubbling on his lips. his nose is pink and leaking like he’s caught in the middle of some personal spiritual awakening. “you’re giving it to me. you made this—for me?” his voice breaks, a thick sound that vibrates against your sternum. “i didn’t think i’d ever—i didn’t think anybody ever would…”

he drinks so fast he chokes, jerking off with a wet cough, milk splattering across his chin and your chest. he gasps through the hiccups, refusing to stop, like he’s afraid it might go away if he pauses.

he won’t let you out of bed that morning. not even for water. he holds you pinned beneath him, body curled like a worshipper at some living altar, lips pressed to your leaking breast, occasionally switching sides to nurse the other, milk collecting in the corners of his mouth. at one point, delirious and trembling, he sobs while drinking—full-body shakes as he tries to mutter out “i love you” between swallows, voice so thick with milk it’s barely a sound.

you’d think it might taper off. that it’d be a one-time thing. (a lie, denial is the first stage after all)

but not even a week later, he shows up with a breast pump in a glossy cardboard box. still shrink-wrapped. his ears are red.

“i thought it might help,” he says, too quickly. “you said your chest hurt yesterday. that it was too full.” he doesn’t meet your eyes when he adds, “i looked it up. you can save it in bags. we can refrigerate it. maybe freeze some. i’ll get a cooler. i can label them—dates, quantities. i’ll drink it all. promise.”

you don’t even get a word in before he’s pushing you down onto the couch, straddling your hips with reverent weight, hands already working over your sore breasts. his thumbs are warm, callused, and the way he massages you feels like he’s trying to coax divinity from your skin.

he moans low when the milk starts leaking, even before the pump is clipped on. “god, it’s already coming. you’re so full for me. fuck, i can see it.” the letdown is messy, splattering over his fingers. he smears it across your nipple with a thumb, staring like it’s some kind of divine ichor. “it’s beautiful, you don’t even know.”

he kisses you between every pump whirr, but never stops watching your chest. when the bags begin to fill with cloudy white, he exhales like he’s watching a miracle.

by the end of the week, he’s built a little stash in the fridge. carefully labeled freezer bags, double-sealed and dated in his loopy handwriting. he’s so serious about it, you catch him checking the temperature twice a day. once, you find him with the fridge door open just staring at them, one hand flat against the crisper drawer like he’s in church.

and then there’s the doctor visit.

you try to be vague. you try. you mention something about induced lactation. about hormonal fluctuation and stimulation. you don’t even bring up the words milk stash or nipple worship, but your doctor’s eyes narrow like she knows.

“have you had a baby recently?” she asks, confused.

you shake your head.

she glances down at the chart. then up at you. then down again. she clears her throat.

“well,” she says tightly. “that… can happen. in rare cases. with persistent… stimulation.” a beat. “be mindful of mastitis.”

meanwhile bob’s in the waiting room, probably scrolling through reviews for breastmilk storage kits and wondering if he can find tiny glass jars instead—“so it feels more special.”

he’s gone full collector. archivist of your milk. he drinks some every day and stores the rest with obsessive care, quietly losing his mind in the most sincere, devotional way possible.

you swear he gets glowy after drinking it.

and the worst part?

you don't think you mind it.

(me next bob!!!)

[frostyresolve]

my muse, my canvas ꒰ ᝬ mydei ⸝⸝ phainon

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧

his body speaks of war; the embodiment of calamity, bound to bring strife wherever he goes. this time, the beast within him is tame, eyes locked onto you as the paintbrush dances across his arm and covers the blood-lined ink on his flesh. whenever he’s with you, the hand that holds his spear trades it for the comfort of your palm.

“i think pink looks good on you, MYDEIMOS.” you muse with a small hum, dipping the end of your brush into pots of paint. the colours mix into mesmerising swirls on your palette before they kiss his skin. your brushstrokes are refined and smooth, dancing across his arm. he doesn’t push you away, his eyes fixated on the look of pure focus on your face. the way a stray lock of hair has blows in the wind gently, getting in the way of your vision.

he lets out a grunt of acknowledgement at your comment, his left hand clenching, the metal of his glove clinking softly as he restrains himself from touching you.

the paint is cool on his body, quelling the flame that burns in the crevice of his chest into a crackle. he merely grunts his striking amber eyes like sharp crystal softening for just a moment. if not for the point on his back that would leave him vulnerable, you’d be his only weakness.

“there, how’s that?” you purse your lips, humming in satisfaction as your eyes rove his arm to admire your handiwork. the light blush of peonies winding across his muscles biceps like a winding river proving to be a good combination against his toned skin. somehow, this fearsome prince has been reduced to something much softer than a warrior, he is your lover.

the edges of his lips quirk slightly in amusement at your expectant expression, your eyes twinkling with hope that MYDEI doesn’t dare diminish. “not bad.” is his reply, his light ‘hmph’ of approval causing you to reveal your smile that outshone the sparkle of ambrosia. “great! now turn around, so i can do your back.”

only to you would the great lion, who reared back his head in a fearsome roar of a battle cry, bow in your presence.

══════════════════

he is many things. a nameless hero, the deliverer, a chrysos heir, your beloved. he fidgets, blue cerulean eyes swimming with fond amusement as you wiggle your paint-caked hands in front of his face. when you said you’d like him to be a part of your next self-proclaimed masterpiece, PHAINON expected to be your muse, not your own personal canvas.

“yellow, you’re a yellow person.” you nod your head firmly; he tries to suppress the swell of emotions in his chest at your words. you probably didn’t realise the depth of your words, the subtle meaning hidden in that comment.

your yellow person, your saviour, your twin flame, your hero, the sun that revolves around your planet.

he shivers, your fingers drawing swirls on his nose, covering every inch of him you could touch with light. they massage his skin, almost as if you were slathering him with ichor before he’d leave for the battlefield. only this time, he doesn’t feel the same sense of duty at the sensation of you painting on his skin, the weight of the world on his shoulders vanishes as your hand traces down his face.

“so focused. i’m honoured to be in the presence of such a dedicated artist. and what’s this particular piece called, exactly?” his words are teasing, light-hearted, and smooth as they roll off his tongue.

“my sunshine, or is that too cliché? i think my hero, is too predictable. how about, my love?”

his composure cracks, bursting out into laughter as you ramble. paint staining you as hands cup your cheeks and tug at clothing without your realisation. a mess of colour and dripping in sunlight, now you’re yellow too, his yellow.

what PHAINON does know is that he’s probably never washing his face again, even if it means being teased by the others over the yellow hearts and swirls decorating his cheeks.

© FROSTYRESOLVE 2025. DO NOT PLAGIARISE, REUPLOAD OR FEED MY WORKS INTO AI

[milksuu]

ᴀ ʀᴜʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱʜ & ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ───── ♛ | 𝗣𝗧.𝗢1

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, implied kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, mention of blood/violence, mention of death

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

A gleam of orange blazed in the bleakness of night.

You watched from your hilltop window—the thatched roofs off the eastern slopes of Berk twisting and writhing in flames. Even from a distance, you heard the breaking moans of ceilings, the cracks and bends of collapsing wooden structures, and the piercing wails of scales met with sharp edges of iron. Despite The Red Death’s fall, dragon raids still plagued the lands.

Perhaps it was all a sign of retribution. 

You were told to stay within the safe confines of your home. Your father hadn’t wanted to risk your life, considering how precious you’d become. The next Seer in line after Gothi, gifted with spiritual wisdom, healing, and authority of officiating the next chief.

But the price to pay had been steep. 

The house was dark, not even the smallest candle lit. Nothing that would draw a glimmer of attention to the home. A creak ached the roof above, and you flitted your nose up to the rafters, drawing lines across the ceiling. Nothing but your shallow breaths filled the silent dark. 

The hearth then erupted with flame and spark, jolting you from back to neck bone. Had you any voice, a strangled scream would’ve ripped from your throat. Twisting, you had almost forgotten to breathe. A figure shrouded in shadow and leather stood beside the crackling firewood. Light and dark danced in an undulating battle across the strangers’ features.

Revealing a horrifying familiarity.

“Hope you don’t mind if I warm this place up a bit.” That voice, boy-ish in tone, lacked any hint of innocence or niceties. He stretched a gloved hand towards the licking flames, doing nothing to warm the ice coating his insides. “Couldn’t help but notice you looked a little cold and...alone.”

A snap of wood made you flinch; addressing him with quivering lips and dilated eyes. Your long-lost greeting didn’t forebode well.

Every piece of leather tightened around his body as he shifted. Turning to ensnare you within his talon like stare. When embers casted a sheen across his face, you braced against the sight. Soft features long since abandoned, reforged into a visage of cold iron. Carved and littered with scars and nicks across his furrowed brows, cheeks, and clenched jaw line.

“Well, this is kind of embarrassing. Wait, no. That’s not the word I was looking for. More like—disappointing. That sounds like a better fit. For you and everyone else here.” Hiccup stalked forward, a contraption of metal clanking and scratching against the splintering floors. Each step clanged through you, until he stood one heartbeat away. “After all these years, I’d thought you’d have a bit more to say. And you want to know something else? Every night, I dreamed about how this conversation would go. Just like how I dreamed things could be better than what they were. Funny how you can plan for things to go a certain way, but then…”

He pressed his hands at each side of your head, the glass window behind begging to crack from the pressure. His scent permeated, forcing you to swallow. Once smelling of spring honey and rolling glades, now sundered to singe your senses like bone ash and lightning storms. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s a little different.” He placed a calloused finger into the dip of your clavicle. He dug and dug until your pained gasp fell deaf to his ears. Tilting his head, he curled the lip of his mouth. “So, just like Gothi, you gave up your voice. Good—great, actually. This works out better for me.” 

The smile that crept over his lips never made it up to his eyes. Not like before. Those vibrant meadows sullied into a sickly, muddled green. Thick and ichorous, and dared you stare long enough, you could never trudge your way out. Afraid of being stuck within them, your hand slipped silently into the pocket of your dress, where your fingers brushed against the hilt of a dagger. 

You drew it a mere inch before his hand captured yours, twisting until he pried it into his possession.

“Come on. We both know you were never good at fighting.” He chuckled, wagging the sharpest point between your trembling eyes. “I’ll admit it. I wasn’t either back then. That’s something we had in common…until I had to be. Guess that didn’t work out in anyone’s favor on this wet piece of rock. Now, did it?”

Your vision blurred. Screams of the village roared in your ears. Screeches of dragons pierced through the air, engulfed in smoke and fire. Having consumed so much in its wake, you felt the heat of chaos leech into the glass. Searing your back pressed against it.

“Woah. Hey, don’t cry. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He swept a rough thumb over a fallen tear stain. “Not all of them will die tonight. I mean, just think about it for a second. Can’t be chief and rule over a bunch of burnt corpses. How counterintuitive would that be?” 

“As for you though…” he continued, and your heart stalled as he traced the cold metal down your flush cheek and neck, pausing just above your breastbone. “I’m only standing here, watching everything and everyone turn to ash around us, all because of you. And don't tell me you don't remember. When you mended my leg. Somehow kept me from bleeding out. Just before the entire village abandoned me.” His clouded eyes narrowed down. “Including you.”

Releasing you from his pinning weight, your legs wobbled. As if he hadn’t just snatched your foothold underneath. Terror kept your feet webbed in place, watching as he twirled your dagger in his fingers like a child's play thing. Crouching near the fire, he mindlessly poked and prodded at the stoking wood. He picked away a scrap of charred chipping, before plunging the blade into the flank of the burning log. You gazed at him, chest tight, aching. How he hadn’t flinched when the fire slicked around his hand like oil.

He dragged the smoldering stump from the hearth, creating a scorched line. When the licks of fire seeped into the house floors, he rose, one vertebra at a time. 

“If I’m being honest, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

He unhooked a masked contraption from his belt buckle and tightened it over his face. The eye sockets were of yellow stained sea glass, and the mouth of it appeared like a muzzle of iron teeth.

“Leave something already weak, then crippled to survive on its own. Gambling on the high-stakes of death. So sure of the outcome, no one bothered to turn over a shoulder.” Hellfire rose and swelled in the reflection of his mask. “Maybe they should’ve.” 

The rapid hunger of the hearth fire blazed and curled across the floor of the home. Heat lapped towards your skin, drawing out sweat from your pores. Dense smoke began filling the wooden death chamber. You inhaled the black snowflakes, searing your lungs once they melted inside you. You slapped a hard hand over your mouth, coughing and shuddering against it. A pang of panic willed your body to move. You attempted to open the window behind you, but to your horror, it had been welded to the frame. 

Your eyes watered, hugging the wall as you traced it to the door. When the handle clattered against your pulls and tugs, a ghostly laugh floated around you. The metal was bolted shut from the outside. A bout of nausea cramped your stomach. Fear darted your eyes toward the stairs, where the flames hadn’t yet reached—but soon. Perhaps the window of your room hadn’t been tampered with. 

You darted towards the steps, and before you could place one foot up, a black beast stalked from the darkness of the second floor.

The floating embers danced hauntingly over the onyx scales, and gashes rippled in the firelight. Revealing wounds healed twice, perhaps three times over. That body of night perfectly reflected it's master’s outward appearance.

And as you drowned in those feral slits of pure abandon, it was apparent they also shared the same broken, unmendable soul. 

“Oh. You remember Toothless, don’t you?” Your face paled, backing slowly as the Nightfury slithered down the steps like black ink. A predatory growl rumbled above the snapping and collapsing wood around you. Hiccup sauntered to the dragon’s side, patting the thick of his neck, pulsing with power. Another laugh at your expense. “Looks like he remembers you.”

You fought the claw of unconsciousness raking over every part of you. Choking, straining against your hand pathetically covering your mouth.

“Since you did me a favor back then, I’m going to give you one last chance to make it up to me.” The mask muffled his voice, but the wickedness screamed, rattling your veins. “You can either choose to stay here and burn with the rest of Berk or…” he lifted a hand, hardly an invitation, but a devilish bargain. “You can choose me.”

In the thick of your pounding head and chest, you considered burning to death was the wiser option of the two. All that he was—what he’d inevitably become—held no promise of a life worth degrading yourself for. Nothing about you would be spared. And it wouldn’t be long till you dropped on hands and knees, begging for him to take your life. To end his drawn out game of torture. One he’d carefully crafted for years and years. 

Just for you, only for you.  

Still, you clung to life. A measly mortal thread. Your shaking hand lifted, painfully reaching for his fingertips. One step forward, and the world spun in wisps of red and black. Your lungs and heart throbbed, practically seizing. A calculated arm caught you, cradling you wholly, close as any lover would. 

“Good choice.” 

You heard the waning words of approval, and through the fading light of your vision, something fastened over your face. Your last conscious breath had been clean, airy—a pleasant contrast to the toxic fumes. 

Then, nothing.

part one | part two

[awaywiththefaeries120408]

Oh, obviously,” Reyna said. “Without you, I doubt Percy could find his way out of a paper bag.” “True,” Annabeth agreed.

I was thinking about this quote earlier, and now I present to you, a list (taken from my memory, so some examples may be missing) of everything Percy managed to achieve either without Annabeth in the picture or with very minimal involvement from her:

Fighting a fury (Alecto), and killing her

Fighting the Minotaur, and killing him

Resisting Clarisse’s bullying

Managed to pull off a difficult sword manoeuvre (according to Luke) on his first try (granted he did douse himself with water, but that was before Percy knew of his parentage)

Fighting against around 6 Ares campers whilst Annabeth stood there and watched

Fought a Chimera

Was the one to realise something was wrong at the Lotus Hotel and Casino and broke Annabeth out of her delusions

Dealt with Procrustes

Bribed Charon to take them into the Underworld

Possibly a questionable one, but I would say coming up with the plan to distract Cerberus. If you agree that the plan was basically ‘distract Cerberus with playtime’, (which Grover credits Percy with), the issue was not the plan but the items involved. Since if it was Annabeth’s plan originally why wouldn’t she just use the red ball straight away?

Fights Ares and draws first blood (or ichor, in the case of Ares)

In the fight against the Laistrogynians, Annabeth doesn’t show up until almost the end. Tyson does most of the work, why isn’t Tyson gettting credit, Reyna? 😡

Saves Annabeth from the Sirens

Alongside Tyson, fights Polyphemus

Is the one to give the Fleece to Clarisse, meaning Luke can’t get his hands on it. Annabeth calls him insane for doing this and says he’s ‘too nice’ and acts as though Percy is mad for trusting Clarisse to get back to camp.

Proves Chiron’s innocence and gets rid of Tantalus.

Fights and comes up with the strategy for defeating the Nemean Lion, with the help of Thalia, Zoe, Bianca, and Grover

Comes up with the strategy for beating Talos

Figures out how to escape the Spartoi at Hoover Dam

Captures Nereus

Works to convince Thalia that Zeus does care about her and not to sacrifice the Ophiotaurus

Fights Atlas

Holds up the sky

Deals with Geryon, first by cleaning the stables and then by killing him

Defeats his brother Antaeus (I will acknowledge that Annabeth tells him about Antaeus’s parentage though)

Eventually figures out that they need a clear-sighted mortal to navigate the Labyrinth (and a reminder that Annabeth admitted she had no idea what she was doing)

The entirety of the Stolen Chariot

The entirety of The Sword of Hades

Explodes Kronos’s ship with Beckendorf (the reason it didn’t go well is because of the spy, not because Annabeth was out of the picture)

Fights Kronos

Fights Hades and his army

Deals with the Hudson and the East, and by extension the monsters crossing the rivers

Fights the Minotaur (again)

Fights Kronos (again)

Deals with the Clazmonian Sow

Fights Hyperion with the help of the satyrs and nature spirits

Convinces Poseidon to come and help with Typhon

Continuously kills Stheno and Euryale

Manages to trick both Phineas and Gaea

Kills Polybotes with the help of Terminus

Defeats an entire cohort of Roman ghosts on his own

Becomes Praetor of New Rome

Causes a massive storm with Jason

Fights Otis and Ephialtes with the help of Jason and Bacchus

Comes up with the strategy (on the spot) for defeating Chrysaor

Defeats Akhlys on his own

Is at least part of the reason why Bob is in Tartarus to help them (the rest of the credit goes to Nico)

There’s probably a load more I’m missing, but that’s all I can remember up to the end of House of Hades. Is there a reason why Annabeth doesn’t bother to correct Reyna?

[chimielie]

yeah, you might want me to drop dead (but i don't even care)

summary: Atsumu x F!Reader. atsumu would categorize your relationship like this: he thinks you're hot when you're angry. you would categorize your relationship with atsumu like this: he had woken up one day and decided to drive you out of your fucking mind insane. 

word count: 2k

cw: miya atsumu's degradation kink (it's still sfw he's just not subtle), suggestive at the end

a/n: another resurrected fic from the drafts. walk him like a dog, bitch, walk him like a dog

Miya Atsumu was a player known for his thirst for blood. Like his brother, who termed the all-consuming need to dominate their opponent hunger, he relished in complete fucking annihilation. He was hardly soft off the court, too: few of his peers could withstand his cutting humor, his teammates couldn’t understand how he hadn’t scared off his fan club, and he had crushed a few hearts beneath his heel in his time.

He’d met his match in the natural enemy of heartbreakers: his university’s resident maneater.

“Hey!” Atsumu calls your name, lengthening his stride to catch up to you. You grimace—he can barely see your side profile now, but oh, you’re slowing down so he can catch up. Unusually considerate.

Oh, no, there’s just a clog in the artery of the crowded hallway, halting your escape.

“Hi,” he sing-songs, stretching the word out several extra syllables. 

“Good morning, Atsumu,” you say tightly, drawing up your shoulders so your arm won’t brush his bicep in the limited space. “I was hoping you’d died, since you weren’t in lecture this morning. Better yet, maybe someone buried you alive last night and you hadn’t dug your way out yet.”

“You went with the option that doesn’t kill me! You care,” he says happily, and takes a moment to bask in it. “I was actually at a volleyball game, you should come to one sometime, I’m pretty good at it—”

“I’d rather walk in traffic, ‘Tsumu,” you shoot him a wide smile that makes his knees feel weak and wobbly and shove your way straight through the crowd of people, leaving only an uncaring ‘Scuse me! in your wake. 

A lot of people would categorize your relationship with Atsumu as complicated. Atsumu is not one of those people.

Atsumu would categorize your relationship like this: many moons ago, you and he had been in a few of the same classes and shared some mutual friends—mere acquaintances. He hadn’t known you very well. In fact, he’d thought you were cute, which he now knows you aren’t. A few minor catastrophes he wasn’t privy to later, you had come to verbal blows with some loser in the middle of the quad. You’d later found it rather embarrassing. Watching you eviscerate him, though, Atsumu had experienced a fear like never before. If he was bloodthirsty, you bathed in ichor. 

He would always remember the look on your face as you dealt the final blow and turned away, walking with a straight back right toward him.

Atsumu, who had never seen anything quite like the look of controlled rage on your face as you took that man apart. Who wasn’t sure why the sound of you doing your damnedest to instigate a fight made him shiver despite being all too warm inside. Who was looking up at you from his seat like a puppy, desperate to see you don your war paint again.

You walked past him, because of course you did. You weren’t pulled by the same magnetic force he was, focused on him like he was suddenly fixated on you. You were barely acquainted with him and obviously going to your friends for moral support and ice cream and whatever it was people did after one of them basically tarred and feathered someone in the town square. He was merely a bystander along the path you strode.

Of course, the very action of totally ignoring his existence cinched it: he was hooked.

You would categorize your relationship with Atsumu like this: he had woken up one day and decided to drive you out of your fucking mind insane. 

You’d tried to ignore him. He was persistent, though, and he just pushed and pushed and pushed until he crossed the line. It was exhausting.

Except that you kind of loved fighting with him.

You couldn’t help the adrenaline rush it gave you, the way he seemed to light a fire inside you no one else could and keep it burning hot. It was almost like a release to debate him, the way some people boxed or listened to heavy metal to destress. The feeling of victory never failed to put a sparkle in your eye and a cocky smirk on your lips; sometimes, you felt like he was stepping back and letting you win.

This continued in perfectly pleasant vicious and sometimes bloody antagonism for the course of forever until a few months ago, when Atsumu had begun the new and inimitable torture of flirting with you. It was horrible and it was weird and you had no idea what kind of mind game he was playing, but you certainly intended to find out. 

Atsumu, for his part, had recently realized that he likes it when you smile so much more than when you scowl. He likes it when you flutter your lashes instead of staring flatly into his soul, hoping to yank it out and set it aflame. He likes it when you say nice things to him, which has only happened once, but was very nearly a second sexual awakening and thus monumental.

He does not like it when other men flirt with you.

“Your pencil is broken,” Osamu notes, glancing down at his brother’s clenched fist. “You’ll get splinters.”

“What? Oh,” says Atsumu distractedly. “Yeah, I’ll do it later.”

Your laugh rings across the library, the warm glow of a fireplace instead of the burning fires of hell you share with Atsumu. His grip slackens, and his twin takes the opportunity to prise the pulverized writing utensil out of his hand. This kindness goes unnoticed as the guy, that’s how Atsumu’s thinking the word in his mind, low and mocking, guy, says something to you that makes him instinctively kick Osamu in the shin.

“Ow! Douchebag!”

“Sorry, reflex,” Atsumu apologizes.

“Do you want to go with me?” Asks the dickhead you’re talking to.

“To ice cream? Sure,” you reply, and you don’t even sound like you’re being sarcastic. What the fuck? There’s a long pause while the jagoff scuffs his shoe against the floor, a red flush coming over his face while you stare slightly past him with your trademark stare. But your lips are slightly turned up.

The expression haunts Atsumu on his walk back. Your smile was so pretty, sweet and soft. You never smile at him except mockingly. 

“At the risk of sounding like I care,” Suna says. “Are you okay?” 

“If I killed someone, would you help me get rid of the body?” Atsumu says, staring straight ahead.

“No,” Osamu says, “he’s finding out about human emotions and he’s coping very badly.”

Atsumu is ignoring you. As quickly as his interest (his desire to piss you off) had flared up, it had disappeared seemingly overnight, which was fine for you. It was great! You had booted the most annoying man in the world out of your life and replaced him with a perfectly nice guy. Your life was coming up roses.

Except it was driving you insane. You had your phone out, held an inch below your desk, leaving the perfectly nice guy (what was his name? You hadn’t saved it in your contacts and you weren’t sure why) on read as you stared across the room at the faux-blond.

He was chattering to another boy who looked bemused and patient; probably another volleyball player. You were half-convinced this was part two of his ploy to get under your skin; he was playing the unpredictable game.

As you try to bore a hole in his brain with your eyes, you see him glance back at you for a second, just a second, and that’s it. You slam your palms down on the desk, shooting up from your seat, trying not to make eye contact when a few other students turn and look at you because of the noise. He still won’t look directly at you as you make your way to his seat.

“I just remembered I have to leave,” says Atsumu’s friend—Aran, not that you care what his friends are called—picking up his bag. “I have to go be anywhere else right now.”

“What,” Atsumu whines as he books it away from the two of you. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah,” you snap, folding your arms in front of your chest. You’re not sure why you’re so angry, just at the look of his melting chocolate eyes and hunched shoulders and pouty lips. Ugh. He’s the worst. “You’re avoiding me. Why.” The question sounds more like a sentence or maybe a threat.

“I’m not doing that,” he defends weakly. “Maybe I just got tired of looking at your face.”

“My face is fucking precious, okay,” you argue, “you should want to look at it all the time. Idiot. What’s wrong with you?”

“I do—I mean, what? What’s wrong with you?” He returns, and there’s the familiar snap and sting that you like so much. “You don’t even like it when I talk to you—”

“I don’t!”

“So why are you mad now that I’m not?”

“Because—” You struggle for reasoning. You can’t find it. Something strange and huge is crawling its way up your throat.

“Because, uh, um,” he mocks you, and you almost sock him. “Make up your mind! I was trying to be nice to you, even though it’s fucking boring!”

“I don’t want you to be nice to me!” You shout, and then curl over, your face nearly in his lap as almost everyone else in the room turns to look at you. One of the library workers shushes you loudly. “It’s—you’re right, it is boring. Everything else is fucking boring. I like it when you bother me, ‘Tsumu, okay?”

“Okay,” Atsumu says, eyes widening, leaning away from you as you seem nearly on the verge of manic combustion in front of you. “Then—I’ll keep doing it?”

“Will you?” You sit up straight and look him squarely in the eye. He gulps, unsure what he’s being asked. Something is fluttering in his stomach, but he’s hesitant to trust it.

“Yeah,” he breathes, and it feels like so much more than a confession.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you say, in the same deceptively soft tone. “Can I kiss you?”

“Not if I kiss you—” You grab his face before he can finish talking and smash your lips onto his, first hard and like you’re trying to bully your way into his mouth, then a little sweeter, a little more tender. “First?”

“I win,” you say smugly as he tries to remember how to breathe.

“Please leave,” says the librarian. 

You live alone, which is amazing, because if Atsumu were to see his brother or teammates right now he might commit felony battery. In your apartment, which is full of trinkets Atsumu wants to examine but can’t because he’s very busy staring at you, you shove him onto the couch and sit on him. Sort of like you’re wrestling, but not at all.

“If we’re goin’ out,” he says, “we are going out, right?”

“Yes, ‘Tsumu,” you say, and your smile is as bright as the stars. He clears his throat and prays his voice doesn’t crack.

“Good. Uh, if we’re goin’ out, does that mean you have to start bein’ nice to me?” 

“I’ll be nicer to you,” you promise.

“Oh.” His tone is almost disappointed. 

“Or,” you lean down, and he almost chokes on his own inhale. “I can date you and be mean to you at the same time,” you say into his reddening ear, your breath hot and your smiling lips barely, just barely brushing his skin. Atsumu makes a squeaking noise that can barely be understood. “What was that?”

“Yes, please,” he says fervently.

You bite his earlobe teasingly, and he finds that really nice, actually. The nicest.

[darqx]

[It's going down] I'm yelling timber

Several doodles in this one!

❗️For commonly asked qs please see my BTD FAQ

Everything is similar but she wears a dress version.

Yes (after becoming a Royal) but it's more of a "formaility" as he hasn't had any reason to use it yet. There's a lot of gaps since he relies more on mobility than brute force, and he can also rapidly fill in any areas with harder ichor if need be.

He used to work for the previous King as a Collector.

I think it depends, since he's a Royal now they tend to use some variation of their demon signs as an official "signature" so it might look like the first pic. His prior signature might look something like the second (fancy cursive).

Base: [x]

Rire's ichor tentacles are directly controlled by his consciousness/sub-consciousness so yes technically they could do such things XD But that is something that would have happened more when he was a child/learning how to use the ichor powers - he has such fine control now that the likelihood of it happening anymore is negligible.

...you could kiss them if you want I suppose, he does have some feeling through them lol.

I once described Rire's ichor as existing but not existing at the same time (ah, dichotomy haha). Basically if the ichor is not connected to the manifestation point on Rire's back all trace of it will eventually disappear. So that's handy in more ways then one :d

This post goes into more detail about the ichor consistencies:

Rire was born 973 years ago and was primarily raised by his mother after both his father and then later his stepfather died when he was a child/teen.

He would raise a child similarly to how he was raised. 🤔 YMMV whether this would be considered good parenting but he does have affection towards his own parents so there's that.

Well i did draw the baby!BTD in that same picture so...however i drew them as lol XD; Thanks muchly and keep at it!

Yes the years are the same. As stated in my BTD FAQ "I don’t know if you could classify what he feels as “love” in the same definition we are used to…" :d

Short answer: no.

Long answer: if you consider real world biology it would be like this

SOME species of demons are close enough to humans that they could reproduce with them. If the offspring is viable it's usually infertile like a liger (cross between a lion and a tiger) or a mule, though sometimes/rarely it could result in fertile offspring.

This works similarly between different demon species (different ones are more compatible with certain species compared to others etc), though the likelihood of fertile offspring is greater. Also depending on the species some genes are way more dominant so a child might end up basically being more or less one species type.

[An excerpt from a World War letter. Several similar letters have been documented from both Allies and Central/Axis Powers]

My dearest, I witnessed the most peculiar scene several days ago. Honestly I am not sure if it actually happened or if my mind was playing tricks on me. I was on my evening sentry duty over No Man's land when I saw him - a man, standing alone in the fog past the razor wire and amongst those poor souls neither side had managed to retrieve. Dearest, I swear that man had not been there a second ago! At first I thought this was enemy activity, but his uniform was clearly not German and neither was it one of ours - maybe the oddness is what stayed my tongue at the time. Out of a morbid curiosity I watched as he crouched near several bodies for a long moment - perhaps to pay his respects? - before walking off and disappearing out of sight. I am honestly surprised no one had shot at him! The next day there was a large shout as a grievously injured Johnson - whom was lost in No Man's Land after a failed trench raid - was suddenly within reaching distance just over our trench walls! It was a miracle! He was delirious and had no idea how he had made it back by himself, but mentioned a "General" who had offered help in his lowest moment. Clearly he was unwell as there were no Generals around...but dearest...I can't help but wonder --

[Johnson would survive his injuries and go on to become a well decorated soldier before returning home a hero. He would die 10 years later from "idiopathic anaphylaxis" with an odd look of fear on his face.]

I'm not sure why some of you think this but to put it as clearly as I can (since this is not the first time I've been asked this):

Cain is not my character.

I would hope that you guys understand that just because someone doesnt seem to be on the internet anymore it doesnt mean their character is suddenly an adoptable/up for grabs???

No - I have enough of my own characs I dont need to actually steal someone else's. (Also see above answer)

IMO in any universe Rire and Cain are like oil and water. So, i would say yes there is a way that they could get together but it would probably involve kidnapping and criminal confinement on one of their behalfs :d

I never read Warrior Cats so I have no particular thoughts about this lol.

Demon!Strade is a Gatoverse creation XD; - meaning Gato created him and so it has no correlation with my demon types. He would probably be like a level 4 or 5 maybe (aside from being LARGE, idk about his other power sets lol) and a clear case of needing an exorcism :d

Both of them are naturally charismatic (though, Demon!Rire can dial his up to noticeably unnatural levels). Human!Rire can be considered more manipulative and subtle than the demon version since in his 'verse "real world" consequences are actually things he has to consider. He is also a bit less interested in mind games than Demon!Rire.

-...gestures at humans, which he prefers to mess with for the sheer variety of reactions-

That is not part of his skill set, no :d Also much in the same way that animals with sharp teeth don't willy nilly bite their tongues off, demons with sharp teeth are like...used to having/biologically designed to have sharp teeth.

THANKING YOU \o/

It wouldn't lol. Also if i saw Rire IRL i would immediately pretend to have NOT seen him because that would mean that I've somehow had a hand in creating a tulpa.

[ashpaw-is-alone]

What is ichor?

Ichor is basically Lavenderstar’s blood. Their body isnt made up of ichor, they are just covered in it. So if you wanted to pet Lavenderstar, you could. But your hand would end up wet and gross with blood. The ichor seeps out of the wounds Lavenderstar received in the fire. Usually these would be healed by dying and going to the Astral Planes (Starclan) but the bitterness Lavenderstar has from their clan basically being extinguished has corrupted their spirit. Technically I should be drawing Lavenderstar dripping with goopy ichor all the time, but I don’t because I’m lazy.

How does ichor work?

For Lavenderstar to infect and control other spirits with ichor, they need to be close to them. If Lavenderstar leaves, so to will the ichor from the infected’s body. I didn’t make it very obvious, but in the most recent ask Weedtail’s infection was slowly going away. You can see this in that their purple pupils are fading. I should have made it more obvious, but I didn’t for drama.

Lavenderstar can control how quickly the ichor infects someone. All Lavenderstar has to do is be near them. Their own ichor can leave seep off their body and onto their victim. This difference in timing can be seen in Moon 6 and Into the Pool. In Moon 6 Lavenderstar infects Rimebat quickly, not giving him enough time to properly warn Ashsight. This is takes 4 panels, so pretty standard for Lavenderstar’s speed.

Meanwhile, in Into the Pool, Lavenderstar’s infection of Weedtail is much slower so that she has a chance to speak. It takes 7 panels to get a little under halfway to complete control. This is very slow for Lavenderstar.

However, shortly after this the ichor starts going away. Ichor is controled by Lavenderstar, but that doesn’t mean their emotions don’t get in the way of it. Weedtail’s words were throwing them off, so their control weakens significantly.

If enraged enough, infection can only take a second. This is demonstrated in the last part of Into the Pool where Weedtail is instantly infected by an enraged Lavenderstar.

The grasp Lavenderstar has on their victims wavers depending on their emotions. If they’re feeling a strong emotion, it weakens the ichor’s effects. The exception is rage, which gives Lavenderstar strength. The entire reason their spirit is like that is because of the rage and bitterness they feel at their clan’s death, to the point they let it consume them whole.

On the topic of Into the Pool, the red scribbles present are also ichor, just a thinner, foamier type. This ichor - which I will now dub scribble ichor - is a lot hotter than normal ichor hench why it is bubbly. This heat is generated by Lavenderstar being enraged as well as their spirit’s form morphing which also gives off heat.

How does being infected by ichor affect the victim?

Any sort of freewill and emotions the victims have are taken away by Lavenderstar. Their spirit becomes apart of theirs, and therefore is controlled by them. This means Lavenderstar can make them do as they like, for example making Cougarshade pin down Ashsight in Moon 6. This also means Lavenderstar can see from their eyes, though this makes their spirit vulnerable to attack. Even though a part of the victim’s consciousness is taken by Lavenderstar, they can still think and feel whatever is happening to their spirit. This includes pain.

Lavenderstar has made Weedtail an exception to this (until recently) because they trusted her the most out of their clanmates. This is why one of her eyes were normal and she could show emotion in Moon 6 whilst the other victims couldn’t.

That’s all you really need to know about ichor right now! I hope this clears some stuff up because it’d be really hard to try and “tell” this in the story.

[alexanderlightweight]

Happy Wednesday, I've been sick all week so here's hoping your week has been better than mine (though food poisoning probably isnt any better)

I went to a pet expo last week and was surrounded by so many good doggos, and I remembered you had a vs where magnus and Alec adopt a cat and dog, would you be interested in adding anything to that vs? Sfw/nsfw

Thanks

i've also been sick so I feel that I and truly hope you are better and got over it quickly because it's the worse. also brain fog when sick makes it harder to get better because i'm like 'hydration? whose she? the cup is too heavy to lift'.

the food poisoning last week was on top of being sick so I kind of just, gave up on half that day lol

omg did you get to pet many of the good doggos? or wave at them? or give treats? I don't know I just hope they all had a good time! and that you did too

yes here we go, this was the last part and the first part on ao3

i hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

-

Magnus is sipping tiredly at his drink, mask firmly in place and smirk on his lips when a bouncer approaches him.

It’s an older employee, one who looks at Magnus just as warily as he does the direction he comes from. Which means that he’s one of the ones who knows just enough to know nothing.

“There’s a shadowhunter here, to see you.”

Magnus blinks at that, because if Alexander is resorting to such dramatics then it better not be because he’s brought home yet another demonic pet.  One he conveniently can’t take with him to the damned Institute. 

Magnus hardly minds more reasons for Alexander to come by, except when those reasons take up the majority of Alexander’s time and energy and thoughts.

Sometimes it feels like there’s hardly room for Magnus — melodramatic to be sure but he deserves it. Especially on the mornings where he wakes up with fur in his face instead of Alexander.

“Have him come in then.” Magnus can draw the veils to ensure Alexander isn’t recognized.

“He’s not really.” The fae hesitates.  Actually hesitates and then adds, “I think it would cause something of a panic, if he came in looking like he does.” The way he looks at Magnus insinuates he also thinks that Magnus will cause something of a panic, when he sees the shadowhunter.

Magnus checks his phone as he walks, heart in his mouth because either Alexander’s brought home something a little more dangerous than usual, or something is wrong.

Or worse, both.

It’s the ichor he smells first but it’s the blood he sees.

It coats Alexander like a second skin, so that even his coat and pants gleam with coagulated and drying blood.

Magnus bites back bile as one step turns into a portal just so he gets to Alexander a few seconds sooner, hands reaching out to vanish the layers of blood. Helpless to wonder how to fix this.

“Most of it is not mine.” Is Alexander’s rather helpless deflection. It’s a relief to hear even if panic still throws Magnus’ heart relentlessly against his ribcage.  The exhausted look in Alexander’s eyes makes it clear he knows he’s failing to truly distract Magnus.

“Most of it.” Magnus scoffs, magic already burning away the last layer before he can sterilize Alexander, disappearing his jacket so Magnus can better see the damage.

Magnus blinks in the dimlight of the alley, at the fact that Alexander’s shirt is shredded, skin peeking through in a pattern that looks distinctly ominous.

He forms a portal on instinct and Alexander’s eyes go wide and his voice turns alarmed.

“Magnus we can't—”

The alarms of his wards go off as Magnus forcibly portals them through, ignoring how his head rings with warnings before they’re sealed off. 

This is an isolated enough room that he can make sure nothing gets in or out without his permission. The most important part is getting Alexander somewhere safe enough that Magnus can strip him.

Sure enough, when Magnus gets Alexander’s shirt off, he sees his fears confirmed.

Alexander’s chest is decorated with bruises and cuts but the worst are four puncture wounds around his heart, as if something tried to reach for it and rip it out.

“You aren’t even supposed to be on patrol! You’re supposed to be on a delegation mission. Turning your nose up at fancy cocktails and coming home to complain about how many people tried to small talk with you!”

Magnus really hopes his voice doesn’t crack out loud like his heart cracks in his chest.

The problem with secrets is that things like this happen, Alexander wounded without his knowledge.

“Magnus, Magnus—” Alexander’s fingers are firm and strong and he’s pulling Magnus against him, ignoring that it no doubt aggravates his own damned wounds. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I came back to you. Straight back to you. I didn’t even stop at the infirmary—”

Magnus makes a noise of protest because that’s not what his instructions mean and Alexander knows that.

“I promise I had other reasons. I didn’t stop at the infirmary also because they won’t be able to help without calling the Silent Brother’s for an antidote.”

“Are you poisoned?” Magnus summons half his apothecary and his book of demonic venoms. 

“Just a little.”

“Just a little!” Magnus resists the urge to throw his book at the wall, or worse, Alexander.  Maybe it would knock some knowledge into his pretty head about priorities. 

Though knowing Alexander, he wouldn’t even dodge and just let it hit him.  Magnus gives his lover a look of pure, adoring loathing. Alexander’s lack of self-awareness really is going to give Magnus a conniption one of these days.  

It’s going to turn his hair truly white, rather than just the streak that’s been growing since they started dating... and the second one that started growing in their second year.

Truly, as dashing as it looks and Alexander’s very obvious interest in it, Magnus is more concerned by the ramifications of it.

How is he supposed to live every day knowing Alexander is somewhere out there being reckless with Magnus’ heart?

Though, to be fair Alexander has been purposefully going less and less into the field.  Magnus eyes him suspiciously even as the diagnostic magic finishes and he summons a potion. Thrusting it to Alexander with a look that just begs his darling to protest.

Thankfully, Alexander drinks it without comment or complaint.

“What did you bring back?”

Alec’s back stiffens, the bare muscles contracting but there is reason why Alexander protested going home and a reason why Magnus wards went off and he had to redirect them to this room.

“Alexander. Did you hide a demonic creature in your pants?”

Magnus snaps them away, ready to do a great many things to protect Alexander only to stop, aghast at what he sees.

There, coiled around Alexander’s thigh and rumbling as if asleep, is a small feathered snake.  It’s difficult to know which species it is exactly, if it will grow wings and talons or stay a snake but it’s a rare and obscenely powerful kind of creature.

Worse, it’s adorable.  

Soft blue-grey feathers like stormclouds and green scales and it has long whiskers like silk and a ruffled tail that twitches as it wuffles.

Curse Alexander for knowing that Magnus is weak to reptiles.

Magnus can’t help the little coo he lets out, or the wiggling of his fingers and the spreading of his magic. This is definitely not a creature Alexander can take to the Institute; even if allowed.

Creatures like this aren’t demons but demonic in nature and are often used in rituals or potion crafting, which is a waste and a pity.  Magnus grins as the creature wakes and untangles from Alexander’s thigh and flies over to him, pooling into his offered hands like a puddle of magic.

“You really do have the strangest of luck, my love.”

Alexander looks relieved, more than anything and Magnus wonders if he’d brought it with him hopeful, but still expecting a fight.

“It helped save me, in a way.  If anything it saved me from more blood loss.”

“Oh, do tell?” Magnus can’t do anything about the wounds until the poison is dealt with which can take a few hours.  Thankfully, the bleeding has slowed enough that after Alexander showers, Magnus can dress the wounds with balms and that will be enough until he’s asleep.

“It punched through the heart and spine of the demon trying to tear out my heart. It would have taken me at least ten more seconds to get an arrow deep enough into its brain to kill it. Not enough to kill me, but definitely enough that I’d need runes and at least a day of recovery.”

Magnus is very grateful indeed and even if he hadn’t liked the little creature, he would have let it stay. 

For it had performed a very worthy deed.

And while Alexander won’t need a day of recovery, he’ll need several hours and some food Magnus thinks, eyeing Alexander’s body with concern.  His muscles are far more pronounced than they should be and Magnus summons a flask of water directly to Alexander’s hands.

“Did you forget your canteen? What even happened, did you get dragged out on a hunt?” 

“No, the delegation was attacked and it was before the dinner portion of it.  We’re still not sure if it was planned or accidental but a rift formed in the garden and half of the delegation fell in. Most fought to hold the demons back and a few ran for aid.” The way Alexander says it makes it clear that while some fell in, he most likely jumped in.

Despite how he feels about it, Magnus knows that was probably the best course of action. Closing a rift from the inside is hard, but it’s better than hopelessly fighting an ever increasing swarm coming from it.

“So you didn’t have anything besides your formal attire.”

Alexander gives him a faux snotty look, eyes bright with humor as his face twists into what Magnus knows is an impression of some pretentious hunter.

“I’d have thought as a High Warlock, that you’d know, shadowhunters only wear their best hunting gear and weapons to these kinds of events.  Things like canteens and protective gear aren’t worn, but it’s probably the most heavily armed and armoured you’ll see a group of nephilim outside a battlefield.”

As interesting as that is — and it is interesting, Magnus will simply think about it later — it’s mostly just a relief to know Alexander was well prepared for battle at least.

Alexander breaks character with a soft cough and rubs at his chest sheepishly, standing there in just his boxers and boots and Magnus really wonders how on earth he ever found this man.

It’s ridiculous to consider how much Magnus loves him and that if it hadn’t been for an accident, Magnus might have missed out on so much joy.

“I think you should name this one too.” Alexander is still smiling and he’s ridiculously cheerful for someone who nearly died and then brought home a pet knowing his boyfriend might be displeased.

Magnus thinks he falls in love a little more, though he’s not sure how that’s possible at this point.  Of course Alexander would be happy simply because Magnus and the little creature that saved his life are getting along.  

He’s utterly ridiculous like that.

“Even though it saved your life?” Personally Magnus thinks such a feat deserves a worthy name but also Alexander is the one saved by it.

“This is the first time you’ve actually been excited about something I’ve brought home, Magnus.” Alexander smiles at him softly, “and more important than saving my life, it made me able to come home to you. So yes, you should name it.”

Magnus is touched despite himself but also he knows what he wants to name it. 

“Yudha,” he calls it and lets magic settle into its bones.

Named creatures become more powerful. It’s a face written into existence and Alexander knows it as well, it’s part of why Magnus is so exasperated with his lover. Bringing home already powerful creatures and giving them even more power that requires more time spent with them.

However, Yudha, the little warrior that appeared to help Alexander in battle, helps Magnus better understand what Alexander feels.

“Medicated baths for you both.” Magnus decides because a shower might be too harsh for Alexander’s wound and this room has a full bathroom for a reason. “I’ll set the sink up for Yudha, and then I’ll join you in the bath.”

Mostly because he wants to be able to hold Alexander’s head above the water if his darling falls asleep. An unfortunate possibility, but not an unwarranted one with the way exhaustion is stark on Alexander’s face.

Magnus doesn’t think Alexander will be able to eat until he’s slept, but it’s more important that he drinks. The canteen he’s sipping from is bottomless, which means that Magnus can at least be assured he won’t run out.  Even if Magnus needs to remind him to drink when he forgets.

-

AN:

I want it clear magnus adores alec he’s also just like... how the fuck did i get so lucky but also what is wrong with you?? Which is — i think — very fucking valid when you consider that alec is like, more worried about magnus not liking the new pet he brought home more than his bleeding chest. Or the fact that he was like ‘hi magnus ignore the blood soooo....’

Like, really poor magnus okay. This guy is really going through it. He’s about to show up at the institute with three demonic animals and go ‘hello darling, our children won’t settle without goodnight kisses from you,’ 

And like, fuck secrecy he knows damn well that Alec would happily just be like, ‘oh i’m sorry. I forgot to kiss them goodnight before I left’. And they both know damn well that alec not only kissed them goodnight but gave them extra kisses because he was leaving early. And then goes and smooches all of them, including magnus 

Yeah unfortunately the political climate isn’t quite there yet but magnus is about to make some waves so it gets there. Because this whole secret relationship thing is very stressful when your boyfriend has the worst luck possible and likes to jump into rifts.

[moomie-mooger]

Part 2 of sharing my writing <3 I drew you guys another image to go along with it :3c

This is where you get to see one of my many interpretations of Glisten because he’s infested my mind so badly.

Also sorry that my style is not consistent when I draw him LOL

Writing under the cut <3

[ Glisten was snapped out of his thoughts, his head raised quickly at the sound of the machine being completed. Suddenly a thick heavy liquid fell over his legs, the consistency feeling close to slime. “Ugh- not Finn!” He complained to himself as he struggled to pull his feet from the ground. The real Finn was already tiring to deal with, mostly from his constant pun making, but the Twisted one was significantly worse. Glisten hated the feeling of ichor pooling around his legs and rendering him near immobile for a while. Slowly parting from the machine he went off to find the next one, though before that he decided to look around the floor for some items since he had none on hand at the moment and figured this could leave him in a dangerous position if he ever finds himself in one. As he would have it luck would be on his side as he rounded a corner and spotted a white cased medkit sitting idly on the floor, pristine and practically calling his name. The mirror let out a delighted hum that sounded similar to a shimmer as he skipped over to the ultra rare item, bending down and picking it up, though not before taking a few quick seconds to see if anyone was looking.

‘I can already hear their voices.’ He thought to himself looking over the kit. ‘ “Glisten! You shouldn’t take the medkit for yourself, Cosmo needs them more!!” “Save heals for Cosmo!!” “Just let Cosmo heal you.” Cosmo this, Cosmo that— how about Cosmo gets better at evading Twisteds. Have they ever thought about that? It’s getting a little out of hand..’ I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the thought, waving my hand to clear away the imaginative arguments in my head. ‘I’ve never really voiced it— mostly from being outnumbered— but I thought it was utterly ridiculous that ALL the healer Toons were entitled to EVERY healing item on the floor, how do they not see how crazy that is?? I understand they can heal us, I really do, but I feel as though other Toons can take a bandage or two if they really need it… that way Cosmo or Ginger wouldn’t have to waste one of their hearts on us!’ Glisten never got hurt much on runs anyway, something he made a point of doing himself. Surly taking just oooooone medkit couldn’t hurt… just this once..

Well he would have if it weren’t for the sudden tap on his shoulder. Glisten jolted where he stood and whipped his head around to see Rodger with the usual glint of curiosity in his eye.

“Rodger!-” He shouted before cringing at the loudness of his voice, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls.

“Greetings Gl-“

“You startled me! I thought you were a twisted, say something next time!” The mirror huffed before letting out a quiet ‘sheesh’ as Rodger tapped his chin. “My apologies, I just wanted to check up on you, keeping well I hope?”

“Cmon, I make this whole thing look easy!”

If you blinked you wouldn’t have noticed the subtle head tilt from Rodger as he took a brief moment to look over the mirror “…Right, you know I saw you almost walk into a wall earlier?”

“Tch.. You’re seeing things.”

“I have a keen eye, remember that Glisten.”

“Mhm… I’ve told you I’m alright.”

There was a pause between the two before Rodger had shifted his gaze to the item the mirror held.

“Oh you found a medkit? That’s great! Cosmo could really use one actually. He’s been on one heart for a while now.” …Oh right.. Cosmo’s on one heart. He could feel his previous joy in finding the medkit sink as he looked down at him.

“Oh…! Right right of course! We wouldn’t want our primary healer to be felled down here!” Irritation flared in his chest again as his grip on the medkit tightened slightly, he really didn’t want to give it up but he knew better. If he didn’t he’d probably look bad and then cause some kind of scene trying to defend himself.. then everyone would know something is wrong which would only further sully Glisten’s already bad mood. “Where is that cake-roll anyway?” He asked innocently, swallowing any backhanded comments he may have thought of. “I believe he’s—“

-SHINK-

“… At the broken elevator.” In the far off distance a few screams and muffled -dings!- could be heard. Glisten cringed inwardly at the sound of someone taking damage, more reason why Cosmo would need it more than him. Before he knew it Rodger took the kit from him hands and pardoned himself as he hurried his way towards the endangered group. ]

[mer-acle]

Snippet: Slipping Through My Fingers

Playtime (Pt. 5)

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Olympus. Athena, Ares and Hera are walking toward the healing temple. Ares is filled with anxious energy, always staying close to Athena as if he's afraid she might fall.

Athena: Ares, you can relax. It's not a serious injury.

Ares: You don't know that!

Athena: I have been in plenty of fights, I do know that.

Ares, after a moment of hesitation: You mad at me?

Athena: What? No, of course not. It was an accident.

Ares: No, but I should have-

Athena: Ares, I am the adult, the mistake was mine for playing a dangerous game with you. It is important you learn to be careful with your strength, and you will, but I'm not mad at you. I would never be mad at you for hurting me on accident, no matter how bad it is.

Hera is walking a few steps behind, watching her children intently. She can hear the tension in Athena's voice, something just underneath the surface that she will not let out. Ares sniffles a little.

Ares: Promise?

Athena, nodding: Promise.

Ares' little face lightens up a little.

They reach the healing temple and are approached by a healer, a young nymph named Iola, who bows in reverence.

Hera: They've had a little accident in a game. Please take a look at her.

Iola: Yes, my queen. Lady Athena?

Athena nods silently. Ares looks at her, fidgeting with his fingers.

Ares: Can I stay, Th- Athena, please?

Athena freezes, hesitating. Hera is standing, but watching her carefully as if she's ready to intervene. Athena opens her mouth as if to refuse, but then-

Lake Tritonis, decades earlier. In the infirmary, Athena is sitting on a low bed as a healer stitches a gash on her arm. Pallas is sitting with her, her head buried against Athena's shoulder so she doesn't have to look at the sewing, her arms wrapped around her friend. She winces more than Athena does.

Athena: Pall, you don't have to stay here.

Pallas: I put you in here, of course I wanna stay. It makes me feel better.

Cut. Back in the present. Athena breathes out.

Athena: Fine.

She doesn't meet Hera's gaze as if her expression would reveal what she thought of, reveal the vulnerability she just felt. Hera doesn't say anything about the distant look Athena had for a split second.

Hera: I'll be outside. She ruffles Ares' hair Take good care of your sister, dear.

Ares nods eagerly. Athena clenches her jaw. Iola waves them over to a narrow bed, her posture filled with quiet tension. Everyone on Olympus knows that the princess is closed off, learned to sew her own wounds to avoid exactly this, never takes off her armor in public, and yet, there Iola is, having to treat her on orders of the god queen and not knowing how it will go.

Iola: Lady Athena?

Athena, breathing out: You need me to take the armor off, I presume.

Iola nods.

Iola: Apologies, mylady, it is the only way I can assess the damage.

Athena frowns, catching both the unease and the edges of the healer's thoughts.

Athena, more softly: At ease. I have no qualm with you. Just tell me what's required.

Ares sits next to her on the bed, watching. He is too young to fully understand the delicacy of the hierarchy on Olympus. Athena grimaces when she lifts her arms to open the straps of her armor.

Ares: I can help you-

Athena: I am handling myself just fine, Ares.

She sets down the leather vest and nods at the healer in silent permission to proceed. Her blue chiton shows clearly where Ares' claws got her, ichor staining the fabric from her shoulder almost to her waist. Ares draws in a shaky breath, pulling up his legs to his chin.

Iola: May I-

Athena: I can take care of the graze on my own. The rib is what my st- the queen would like to have looked at.

Iola: Of course, milady.

Ares: But Athena... it looks pretty- pretty bad...

Athena: It isn't. I bet it won't even need stitches. I can dab some vinegar on it myself.

Ares: But Mom said-

Athena breathes out, frustrated.

Athena, to Iola: Start with the rib, please.

Iola nods, moving carefully as she touches her palm to Athena's side. The glow coming from her is faint, not healing, mainly detection. Athena stiffens, but stays still until Iola moves up a little, then she winces.

Athena: There. And a little higher as well.

Iola feels out the area where it hurts.

Iola: Those would be two broken ribs on your side, milady. The swelling is fortunately pretty mild and I cannot detect any internal injuries that resulted from it. It should heal back together in a few weeks with some rest. I will give you an ointment that will help cool the area and reduce the swelling, apply three times a day. It would be advisable not to wear metal armor until it is healed.

Athena: Thank you. To Ares See, not that serious.

Ares still looks unhappy. He has his thumb near his mouth, holding back from sucking on it, but clearly wanting to. Athena breathes out softly.

Athena, to Iola: By all means, take a look at the graze too.

She pulls her chiton aside just enough to reveal the first two or so inches of the wound. It is bleeding , but only sluggishly. Ares still tenses.

Iola: If you prefer, you can check if this is its deepest point yourself rather than me doing so, milady.

Athena nods in appreciation and takes a brief look at the rest of the wound.

Athena: Yeah, it doesn't get deeper, it feathers out.

Iola: I thought so. In that case, there are no stitches necessary. It is about to stop bleeding. Would you like me to give you a bandage and vinegar to treat it in private?

Athena: I have supplies myself, but thank you.

She covers the would with her chiton again. Iola nods.

Iola: Good. Disinfecting is particularly important to avoid infection for a wound like this. If any complications arise from it or the ribs, please reach out to us. Otherwise, three weeks from now would be a good point to check for progress.

Athena: I feel like someone will hold me to that.

Ares: I will make sure you don't forget.

Athena: As I was saying. To Iola Thank you for your help.

Iola, bowing low: Of course, Lady Athena.

Outside, the siblings meet back up with Hera.

Hera: Did the healer clear you to leave?

Athena: If she hadn't, Ares would not let me walk out. I've been asked not to strain my ribs for a few weeks and do some general wound care, nothing more. It is not serious.

For a moment, Hera looks as if she wants to say some more, but she stops herself.

Hera: I'm glad to hear. In that case, you should probably head inside and rest.

Athena sighs.

Athena: That seems reasonable.

Hera lifts Ares into her arms.

Hera: Alright, big boy, we'll let your sister have some time to rest now. To Athena If anything's wrong, please get back to the healer immediately.

Athena is silent for a moment, torn between being abrasive for the sake of it or conceding.

Athena: I will.

She turns and walks away. Ares slings his arms around his mother.

Ares: Will she be okay, Mom?

Hera is looking at Athena wistfully, with some quiet concern. She holds Ares tightly, protectively. Safely.

Hera: Yes, dear, she'll be okay.

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Part 1| Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |Part 5

@sarnai4 hehehe

[sydnieminty]

Ares, the god of war 🩸

Also including an Aphrodite ref sheet that I've had 90% finished for like the last 8 months but hadn't bothered to finish until just recently lol

Anyways buckle up because I'm about to start YAPPIN

I wasn't sure how this was gonna go at first because I don't have a lot of experience with designing male characters and it's not something I typically enjoy but I really like how he turned out and I really enjoyed the process. I was like wait this is fun actually, it's different than what I usually draw.

I've been wanting to do something with Ares for a long time because I think he's really slept on in the Greek mythology community. I think Ares and Aphrodite probably have the healthiest relationship in Greek mythology and I've always found it interesting that the ancient Greeks paired Love with War

I've seen people talk shit about Aphrodite like "oh she cheats on her husband, that's so shitty" like,, you mean the husband she was forced to marry? Ok... But on that note I think Aphrodite and Hephaestus's marriage is interesting and it is something I plan on doing something with. Hephaestus is another one of the few seemingly upstanding men in Greek mythology so I feel like he treats Aphrodite with respect and they find love between each other after some time, in their own way.

Something I always think about is Ares is such a good dad?? He's often depicted in statues with Eros and in war is almost always accompanied by Deimos and Phobos. like yes, spend quality time with your children, so cute <3 Also he supports his Amazon daughters. He unalives a man who assaulted his daughter and it pisses off Poseidon so bad that they INVENT court to put him on trial just for Ares to go "Yeah I did it, and I'd fuckin do it again" and gets acquitted

Back to my Ares design. I thought it would be interesting if his scars were transient, as in not really permanent scars but more like very slowly healing wounds filling with ichor. The only way he can scar permanently is if the injury is inflicted on him by another immortal...

Stole the glowy hair from Disney's Hercules because that shit is peak character design

I was not going to draw any helmets at first because... I didn't want to lol but I read that he like almost always had his helmet. Like he's showing up to fancy dinners carrying his helmet. So I was like okay fine have your emotional support helmet lol

His spear is a gift from Aphrodite, it has a little heart design engraved into it <3 I find Warlike Aphrodite VERY interesting and I like to imagine her having a surprisingly strong affinity for conflict

Personality wise, Ares tries to put up a tough guy "whatever. I don't care act" but he is actually very much a people pleaser and has a distinct desire to be accepted. He is keenly aware that he is not well liked among the gods nor the mortals. He is not the beloved, wise, tactical Athena. He is Bloodlust and Carnage, he is the ugliest sides of war. To most mortals he is a god to appease, not worship.

He loves his mother, and he is her favorite child. He has spent his life defending her, even as a child and even against his father. He is not well liked by his father, but this is typical of Zeus, who is paranoid that one of his sons will eventually continue the family's proclivity for patricide.

Anyways thank you for reading my essay. I will be making more Aphrodite/Ares content very soon. I hope you enjoy

[11queensupreme11]

Let's say in an alternate universe, Percy, due to the Bifrost and Kronos is sent a few thousand years in the past before canon for due to still having the curse of Achilles, crash-lands in the past, right into Shiva’s palace unharmed and confused but tries to be polite, unknowingly charming Shiva and his wives despite being wary of her aura, which feels a lot like Poseidon's. Though Percy doesn't fully understand what kind of gods they are, she adopts a sweet, innocent “uwu” behavior, which draws them in even more. They briefly consider sending her back to Poseidon but ultimately decide to keep her for themselves, as their feelings grow stronger. Percy, oblivious, doesn’t catch on until they outright tell her how they feel.Years later, Percy becomes Shiva’s fourth wife, living in a mostly polyamorous relationship with Shiva and his three wives despite the fact that Shiva and his wives are huge yanderes of her. At some loint she ascends to godhood, she becomes a goddess of many things, including humanity, and gods from all over are drawn to her. Shiva and his wives constantly fend off suitors, though Percy’s obliviousness only adds to the chaos. Poseidon who finds out about Percy after she marries Shiva is not happy about it, asume in this au he is a platonic yandere, was not thrilled about Shiva being her husband due to not meeting his standards of perfection that and he just hated his personality but despite that he ends up caring for Percy and keeps an eye on her nonetheless.Then, during Ragnarok, the gods vote to destroy humanity, and Shiva, to Percy’s shock, votes in favor of it. Percy finds out, probably through Brunhilde, and confronts Shiva, accusing him of betrayal. This sparks a huge argument and leaves Percy heartbroken. She leaves the palace, swearing to fight for humanity. Shiva’s wives try to stop her. Durga takes a harsh approach, reminding Percy that she belongs to them not humanity, while Kali and Parvati are gentler, reminding Percy of the love they share and the happy memories they had together even pointing out that even if Shiva voted no it wouldn't change anything. Despite their words softening her, Percy stays determined.Meanwhile, the gods scramble to find someone who can defeat Percy. Most refuse because they either like or love her or fear Shiva and Poseidon. The only one crazy enough to fight her is Loki how do you think things go from here

lmao i love reading time travel/isekai fics where percy gets yoinked somewhere by kronos cuz that sort of start-up genuinely makes the most sense for how the poor kid would get in the general setting in the first place 😂😂

and omggggggggg you have no IDEA how much i thirst at thought of SHIVAAAAAA 😫 i would love a shiva x percy (what would their ship name be? shercy??? but then we'd have to add the wives, and the name combo would be too long.... indian ocean???? LMAO 😭)

"while Kali and Parvati are gentler, reminding Percy of the love they share and the happy memories they had together even pointing out that even if Shiva voted no it wouldn't change anything" OH THAT'D BE A BIG MISTAKE FOR KALI AND PARVATI TO SAY TBH

cuz yeah it's true that their votes wouldn't have changed anything, but it's the fact that they voted YES in the first place!!!!!! she is a mortal!!!! she's half-human! she was raised amongst them and loves and cares for them! the trio know that and yet STILL voted for their destruction!!!! it's the realization that they hate such a big part of her that hurts 💔💔💔

as for loki vs percy, ohhhhh this would actually be SO perfect if loki loved her here too lmao. why, you ask??? because lets say in this au percy also discovers the ichor/ambrosia thing and uses that in her fight. LOKI WOULD GET SO HORNY THE SECOND SHE STARTS DRINKING AND EATING FROM HIM 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 HE WOULD LITERALLY LOSE THE FIGHT FROM HORNY-NESS ALONE

so percy wins, and so does loki in a way, but now he's got shiva, kali, durga, parvati, AND the greek pantheon on him cuz everyone DEFINITELY saw how down bad he was, the tournament is LIVE after all 😭😭

[bits-and-babs]

𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 – 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

↳ summary: Miguel, believing he understands the extent of his mutation, takes a bite. Only- you don't react the way he expects. At all.

↳ pairing: Miguel O'Hara x f!Reader

↳ content [4.2k]: 18+ MDNI. SMUT, literally 4k words of porn without plot with a little extra at the end. Miguel's venom is sex pollen (therefore DUB-CON by default), biting, blood drinking (I know he’s not a vampire, I don’t care), oral (f receiving), fingering, use of name mami because I am disgusting, unprotected p in v sex. Not proof read, possibly OOC, I haven't seen ITSV, I was forced to write this against my will (jk) ((but not really)).

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Crimson burns itself into your retinas as Miguel steps into your line of sight, and the spider-skull hybrid symbol emblazoned across his vast chest swallows your vision. Brown locks of hair drape across his forehead, over his lashes, and frames the intense scarlet gaze he levels you with. Staring up at the impossibly tall man through your heavy lids, you catch the tick in his jaw, the muscle twitching when he reaches towards your neck and traces his fingertip across the length of your jugular vein with a delicate touch. It tickles, skittering across your goosepimpled skin above your bludgeoning pulse.

"Shut it," he speaks flatly, the quiet lilt of his tone amplified by the silence in the room. Your heart thuds painfully hard against your ribs at the sound of his voice, your toes curling when Miguel settles his thumb and forefinger under the curve of your jaw. His palm stretches the length of your throat, fingers splayed across your neck. You can feel the knuckles of his pinky dig into your collarbone, a reminder of just how massive the wingspan of his hand is. 

"I- I didn't-" you fumble, the words dissipating when you see the fleshy pink of Miguel's tongue drag over the enamel daggers that protrude from his lips. The slight squeeze of his hand across your throat impedes any attempts to regain your train of thought, blood rushing to your head as he applies pressure to the vital blood flow to your brain. 

"I can hear you," he insists, a snarl curling his lips as bitter irritation flashes across his face, burning in the carmine of his irises, "Can hear what you're thinking."

Heat floods your cheeks, prickling warmth proliferating and creeping down your throat. Miguel seems anguished by the sensation of your heart palpitations pounding against the fissures of his palm, his thick, dark brows pinching together as he wets his full lips with the flat of his tongue. 

"Stay still," he urges you, a twinge of something that sounded as though he was pleading sparking through your nervous system. Crushing your eyelids closed, red and navy rotate in kaleidoscopic swirls in your vision as you feel Miguel's hair brush against the curve of your cheek. You whimper softly and flinch at the sensation of the tip of his nose skirting the angle of your neck. You hear him inhale, drawing the intoxicating scent of you into his lungs before letting out a groan, the exhale fanning across your skin. 

"Just a taste," he husks, mindless as he squeezes your neck harder. The pad of Miguel's thumb probes your thrumming pulse, and he moans loudly when he feels your heart lurch at the soft drag of his fangs against your throat. 

"Miguel-" you choke out, his feral grip tightening at the sound of your voice. 

"Fuck," he whispers, whimpers, slowly sinking the point of his fangs into the delicate flesh across the nape of your neck. You cry out, the pain of the punctures pinching sharply, and bury your nails into the expansive muscle of his bicep. Miguel's chest heaves dramatically, brushing your arm with each shuddering inhale as your blood seeps across his tongue. 

It's an odd sensation, the suction of his lips as he draws your ichor into his mouth, but it simmers deep and low in your abdomen, the weird feeling made worse by the vibration of his delighted moan. The gulping sounds his throat made echo in your ears, and you can almost imagine the flutter of his thick lashes as he lathes his tongue over the puncture wounds. 

Miguel inhales deeply as though he's chugged a pint of water, his lips barely departing from your weeping wound as he mumbles to himself repeatedly; just a taste, just a taste–

His wanton tone dries your mouth, your head throbbing with a mind-numbing migraine as you feel the muscles in your body tense. Coated in blood, Miguel chases the blood that had settled into the cracks of his lips with his tongue and savours the last morsels he can find.  

You could cry. Could burst into tears on the spot because Miguel looks gorgeous. He always did, always made your stomach flip when he entered the room and cast his brooding gaze over you, but you felt breathless as you gazed at him now, weightless. 

Fuck, he's so beautiful. His rich, dark features all fight for your attention; the arc of his cheekbones, long lashes dipped low as he takes you in and the way his obscenely large muscles ripple as he leans back to look you in the eyes. 

Blinking slowly, you whine when Miguel leans back into your throat for another taste. Something warm pools in the depths of your stomach when his tongue drags over the chords of your neck. Fuck- are you turned on right now?!

"Hng-Hot," you mumble in embarrassment, feeling a prickling warmth creep over your body. The damp sensation of perspiration clings to your forehead, moistening your hairline as Miguel pulls away from your throat to look you in the eye with a hmm?

"Hot," you repeat, the simmering sensation rapidly roiling to a scalding temperature. "'S too hot, Miguel–"

The fabric of your clothes clings to your back, your fingers itching to rip the material from your body. Miguel looks perplexed by your sudden lack of composure, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion as his eyes flick between your own. 

"Your pupils," he assesses, tone clinical as he reaches to take your chin into his hand once more, "They're dilated– you look sick."

The instant his fingertips brush the skin of your cheeks, you flinch from the scorching sensation that sparks beneath his touch. You pinch your eyelids together, letting out a sob of his name as you frantically attempt to push him away. 

"Miguel, no!" Your voice strains, pleading that Miguel stays away from you despite the evident worry that curls his fingers into tight fists. Fuck, why are you thinking of jumping his bones? It's desperate, a carnal need to rip that stupid fucking fancy lycra suit from his enormous, sexy muscles. You could grind your hips across those abs, ease the sudden pulse in your clit-

You wheeze, the stifling temperature causing your body to shift to autopilot as you pinch the hem of your shirt between your trembling fingers. "Hurts–"

"I cannot help if you push me awa-" Miguel's vexed attempt to reprimand your childish behaviour does little to knock you back to your senses, your eyes dragging the length of his ridiculously formed body with a searing desperation that stops him in his tracks. "What are you doing?"

"Hot, it's too fucking hot, Migu– Shut up–" you beg him for silence, his voice only worsening the frantic, irregular thrum of your heart. It's fruitless, though, because the flitting of his eyes across your body is enough to arc the arousal that blooms through you. 

Concern finally begins to worm its way into Miguel's body language, his hands searching over the messy countertops. He clears his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. 

"Blood sample," he speaks with that air of finality he always led with, "I will take a blood sample. You may be having a reaction to somethi-"

Shame does little to reason with your wandering hands, yanking your t-shirt over your head as he speaks. You're following what he says, but your mind lags behind like a faulty video-call signal. Blood sample, mhm-hmm, yeah, god, you wanna fuck him so bad– reaction?

When you finally pull your head from the neckline of your t-shirt, you find Miguel rooted in place. A needle rests in his loose grip, and he holds it aloft as if ready to take the sample from your arm– but it appears his plan is obliterated as his eyes zero in on your tits, his usually stoic expression rendered astonished by the view in front of him.

"... It's the venom," he rasps, slowly, achingly slowly, dragging his eyes back to your face, "You're reacting to the venom." 

Perhaps it should be a relief that Miguel is a genius and that he'd managed to deduce the reason for your severe discomfort reasonably quickly, or maybe you should feel more concerned that you're experiencing a severe reaction to a venom that he held in his fucking teeth, but the sheer desperation to ease the arousal pooling between your thighs overtook any and all fear. Instead, you frenziedly shove your hand down the waistband of your jeans... Right in front of Miguel. 

"Aye- easy, easy–" he attempts to placate you, but once again, he finds himself lost for words as he watches you flop back into your desk chair, head lolled back and thighs spread wide as you undeniably rub at your clit beneath the denim of your jeans. 

"Ahaaa-" you wail, tears welling in your eyes and slipping down your temples as you rock your hips up to meet the friction of your fingertips, "S'not enough, Miguel- it's not enou- it hurts." 

It's disgusting; the wet squelch of your fingers entering your cunt practically bouncing off the walls. An anguished groan rattles in your chest as you cum. The sensation is as though your orgasm has been spoilt, the ecstasy that accompanied a climax instead curdling into a painful need for more. Slick weeps into the crotch of your panties and jeans, and you rip your hand from your jeans to tear the whole stupid item of clothing over your hips as they arch off the seat. 

"Cariño," you hear Miguel's soft voice urge you to look at him, and your vision blurs as you glance up with tear-soaked eyelashes. You sob when your eyes finally focus, observing the blackness of Miguel's eyes as he watches you get off. The wet sounds get louder, more hurried as you frantically rub your clit at the sight of him, the sound of his voice.

"I can help you," he promises, voice firm. The declaration pulls another devastatingly cruel orgasm from you, your back arching off the seat as if attempting to escape the brutally painful orgasm that does nothing to satiate the toxins Miguel had accidentally inserted into your bloodstream. 

"Yes," you pant loudly, tears streaming down your face as you nod your head wildly in agreement. The ethics of this agreement, sex with him, are lost on you at this moment, far too occupied with the notion of stopping the debilitating clench of your cunt and nerve-searing heat beneath your skin. 

Miguel says nothing as he strides forward, crossing the line of demarcation you had drawn between the two of you effortlessly with his broad stride. His hands immediately find the waistband of your jeans, where they settle just above your knees, and shucks them from your legs as you continue to appeal for mercy. 

"Please," you beg, grasping the arms of the office chair so hard that they threaten to splinter between your fingers. Miguel simply scowls at you from his position between your thighs, kneeling down on the floor and peeling back your drenched panties to gain access to your dripping, fluttering cunt. "Please, Migu-ughhh!" 

Miguel leads with his tongue, pulling the entire length across your engorged clit so slowly that your toes cramp when they curl. You sob loudly, fat tears streaking down your cheeks and throat as you rock your hips up against his face. It's rough and messy, and your clit bumps his nose each time you thrust upwards despite the vice-like grip that Miguel holds on your thighs. 

"Oh my god-" you keen, your fingers grasping onto the hair at the crown of his head to brace against the onslaught of pleasure that drenches you, "Oh fu-fuhuck- don'tcumdon'tcum-" you ramble, eyes rolling back into your skull as the tip of his tongue draws lazy circles around your clit.

"F-Fuck- fuck me-" you wheeze, expelling all the oxygen from your lungs when his fingers prod at the slick entrance of your pussy. 

"Shut up," he rasps, slowly sinking the first two joints of his index finger into your wet heat. He watches your hips raise, thighs spreading wide as you wordlessly whine. "Do not speak."

It's cruel, but there's no malice to his words because he shifts his wrist slightly and sinks the entire length of his index finger into you. You rock forwards to meet it, feeling yourself clench around the intrusion. Miguel can feel it too, you're sure of it, because he lets out a devastatingly sexy hum before dropping his head down to tongue your clit again. 

You try; you truly do, but the mixture of Miguel's tongue on your clit and his fingertip just barely missing a calamitous spot inside you launches the words from your throat before you can stop them. 

"F-Please-" you gasp, "Please let me taste you. Ohh- please don't stop- j-just put it in my mouth, I wanna feel the stretch of it in my thro–" 

"Quiet," Miguel snaps, his voice strained as he pulls back from your clit but hastens his finger's movements. It's there- it's right fucking there, that spot inside you that you know will eviscerate every atom in your body. Your head falls back again, your spine lifting from the chair as you brace against the rising threat of your orgasm. 

"I'm- Oh fuck, I-aham gonna cum-" you sob towards the ceiling, rocking your hips down and taking his maddeningly long digit even deeper. Miguel hums in acknowledgement, resting his still tongue on your clit for you to fuck yourself on. The barbarically wet sound of you sinking onto the length of his finger reaches your ears and–

Sudden, painful bliss bursts through you, a garbled slur of Miguel's name tearing through your throat as static rings in your ears. You feel yourself clench and flutter around his fingers, Miguel's tongue lapping at your pulsing clit and hurling you even further into the rapture that streams through your body. 

Your thighs tremble on either side of his head, knees draped over his robust shoulders. Miguel groans softly and licks and sucks on the mess you've made, slick smeared all over his mouth, chin and nose. You can barely move, your muscles screaming in exhaustion, but-

"M-Miguel-" you whine, shaking your head with tears in your eyes, "M-more, I need more-" 

"Dios mío, mami," he groans into your cunt, and you see white. His oddly affectionate name for you resets your orgasm, and you're teetering over it again. Your feet brace against his back, pushing your heels into the thick, chorded muscles to pull him impossibly closer to your pussy. It's as though your hips have a mind of their own, grinding feverishly against Miguel's pretty nose. 

Through the blur of your ecstasy, you see Miguel's brows lift in surprise in a wordless question of 'already?' It's all you need, euphoria smashing through every nerve ending and setting them ablaze. It soaks his face even more, you feel it gush, and Miguel rumbles with the most delectable groan. At the peak of your orgasm, he inserts a second finger. It brushes against that mind-bending spot inside you that makes your body writhe when the ridges of his fingertips tease the neglected pleasure centre. 

Strands of your hair cling to your sweat-damp face, dried tear tracks wetted again by the flow of more of the salty liquid from your eyes. You look absolutely wrecked; you feel it. So why did your clit still pulse with need when Miguel withdrew his cum-soaked face? 

"God, I wanna fuck you so bad," you ramble, voice stripped hoarse by your constant barrage of whines and moans. 

Glancing down, you note the tight pinch of Miguel's eyebrows. He's straining against the skin-tight material of the suit, the thin canvas clinging to his body so well that you see the lurch of his cock as he licks your cum from his lips. "We should do this all the time-"

Miguel rudely interrupts you, using his godlike strength to effortlessly hoist you from that stupid office chair. He doesn't bother taking you somewhere comfortable, your panting breaths and writhing hips evidence you wouldn't last the thirty-second walk to the sofa. Instead, he drapes you over his workbench, discarding the invaluable equipment over the table's edge and spreading your thighs wide. 

"Never again," Miguel insists, but he'd already revealed his weak constitution at the beginning of the ludicrous mess. Just a taste, he'd said, before leaning in for more of your blood. That same lack of self-discipline infects him now; you can see it in his eyes as he strips himself of the ridiculous spider suit and presses his cock against your fluttering cunt. 

You can feel it, the size of the bulbous head that sweeps through your slick folds. It brushes over your clit, the velvety skin rendering you helpless to the heavenly pleasure that bursts through you. But-

"It's not- it's not gonna go in-" you whimper softly, stretching your arms out to push his hips away desperately. "Oh god, Miguel- I can't take that-"

"You will," he nods firmly with a jut of his chin. He's determined; his eyes alight when you writhe beneath him. It's so loud, the sound of your leaking cunt soaking the underside of his cock in your slick. "You're drenching me, Cariño; you can take it."

Miguel notches at your entrance for emphasis, lightly pushing against where your flesh gives way to his adamant intrusion. The smooth, rounded head threatens to sink inside of you, stretch you impossibly wide. "Dios-" Miguel grunts, bowing his head low. His shoulders tremble, hips frozen in place as he takes deep, shuddering breaths. Wha-

"What's wrong?" You stiffen at the worrying body language he's displaying. Had you done something wrong? Did he not want to go through with it now-?

Another quivering exhale expels from Miguel's lungs, his huge hands gripping onto your hips as though they were the only thing preventing him from plunging from the side of a New York skyscraper. It's bruising you, ten sharp points jabbing into your skin, but the pain encourages the pleasure. It's too much. 

"So fucking tight," Miguel wheezes, rocking his hips forward slightly. He's met with resistance despite how your head hangs from the edge of the desk, wailing a mixture of profanities and his name at the ceiling. "It's too fucking tight, mami; you gotta relax-"

"Miguel!" You sob in anguish, tears sliding from the corners of your eyes settle in the hair at your temples. "It hurts- I need it so bad, c-can't wait- just fucki-" 

A snarl rips up Miguel's throat, using his grip on your flesh to pull your hips back onto his as he plunges forward. You see his nostrils flare, the flash of his fangs before the white-hot bliss rocks through you, his cock slipping past your walls and burying itself to the hilt in one heavy push. 

Your sharp inhale stretches the mass of your lungs as your fingers dig into the tanned skin of his forearms. Pain stabs through your abdomen, and the sudden thrust ripples pain through your expression before the excruciating arc of bliss surges when you feel the head of his cock nudge against your cervix. 

"Holy shit-" you squeak out, nails stabbing bloody crescent moons into the rippling muscles you hold onto, "I can-ahan't! Fuck, Miguel, you- hgnnnn fuck!"

It's as though Miguel loses control of his hips. He begins to ram into you, his flesh slapping against your own and echoing and ricocheting off the walls. Damp sweat already clings to his body from the exertion, each harsh slam into you pushing your trembling body up the length of his desk. 

"Hah," he gasps out when you involuntarily squeeze around the girth of his cock, Miguel's eyes snapping to your own in a frenzy, "So tight for me, Cariño. This little cunt's so greedy for me." 

The pistoning of his throbbing cock into your sickeningly wet pussy has your mind spinning, the velvet of his voice numbing your mind like some kind of neurotoxin. You're drenching the both of you, the thighs you'd locked around his waist slipping down his hips as you struggle to brace against the onslaught of your arousal. 

"M-Miguel-!" You croak, voice wrecked. 

His dark eyebrows pinch together as he continues his devastating pace. "So fucking greedy. Always looking at me with those eyes. You think I don't- fuck- don't hear your dirty thoughts about me?" 

Whining loudly, the embarrassment does little to quell the rising orgasm that prickles the edges of your body. It feels enormous, threatens to tear your body apart at the seams and stitch you back together all wrong. Like you'd never feel complete again without the delicious stretch of Miguel's cock.

"I can feel it," Miguel murmurs, voice uncharacteristically soft despite the way he's brutalising your cunt, "Can you? I can feel you squeezing me- fuck, you're so fucking wet, mami-"

"S-Shut up–" you hiccup, voice sounding distant to your own ears. It feels like your nails have burrowed down to the calcium of Miguel's radius and ulna, your grip vice-like as you steel against the terrifying sensation of a universe-altering orgasm quickly approaching. 

Miguel's neck flexes, veins bulging against his bronzed skin as the swell threatens to take over. 

"Come on. Ah, fuck- fuck, you're gonna cum again. Come on," he urges you, dark eyes flitting over you as Miguel reaches to push the pad of his thumb against your clit. 

It barely brushes the fraught nerves before ecstasy settles between each of your vertebrae. Your pussy flares, gripping onto the throbbing thickness of him. Shaking violently, your thighs squeeze Miguel's waist as everything tightens, pulses, spasms. Anguished, pained wails pour from your lips in a deluge, jaw slack, debilitating ecstasy rendering you utterly helpless to the instinctual motions of your body. You're rocking up against him while simultaneously attempting to escape the sensation. 

A rumble vibrates through Miguel's chest as he dips his head low, sweat-drenched ebony strands of his hair falling in his eyes as he focuses on how you tighten around him. 

"Oh fuck, yes," Miguel's voice pierces through your mind-numbing bliss, all lilted and pitchy, "That's it, mami, that's what I need- th-that- oh fuck–"

It's a heavenly sight, the way his body flexes and ripples above you as he buries his cock into you, down to the hilt. Miguel's dark, gorgeous eyes roll back in his head, eyelashes fluttering as his orgasm is pulled from him. You feel the hot, thick spurts of cum paint your walls as he empties his load over and over and over. You're exhausted, powerless to do anything other than bathe in the sensation of your cunt convulsing around Miguel's throbbing cock. 

A heavy exhale fans across your face as Miguel's hands settle on either side of your head, the two of you fighting to draw oxygen into your burning lungs. The blazing need that had charred your abdomen ebbs into smothered embers, and you peer up at Miguel with a mindless, dazed expression. 

He doesn't move, his softening cock still buried in your cunt as his hands tighten into fists beside your ears. Miguel opens his eyes, a heavy glare aiming at the corner of the room, at nothing in particular, as he attempts to come down from whatever height you'd thrown him to. 

"That-... That's not what's supposed to happen."

☆☆☆

Bright, florescent lights beat down on you in the doctor's office, and you squint against their intrusion in your eyes but also the dull, painful throb of your brutalised cunt. You should be curled up in bed, mortified by the mindblowing sex you'd just had with Miguel and drafting up a text message to tell him you will never be seeing him again due to the ruinous humiliation you felt every time you recalled the stupid shit you'd said. 

Instead, you were simmering in that very same awkwardness, but with Miguel settled back in the seat beside you. He's wallowing in his own form of abashed grief as he awaits the results of your blood tests from the man in the white coat across the table from you. 

"Aha, here we go!" The indecently cheery doctor cuts through the tense, funeral-like atmosphere that had settled between the both of you. The mouse in his hand clicks as he sorts through the file, reading it through. "They've just come in now." 

"Is it anything I should be worried about?" Miguel speaks before you can draw breath, and you don't fail to note the word I. Why is he worried?!

"No, not at all," the doctor smiles, glancing between the two of you as he taps the computer screen with his finger. You can feel Miguel settle, the tense energy that had been drawing his shoulders up tight seeming to dissipate with the threat of danger ruled out. 

... What? 

"Elevated heart rate, the sweats, shivers, flushed skin, pain," the doctor reads through your list of symptoms that Miguel had given before you'd even stepped into the doctor's office. Conveniently, he'd left out the more obvious traits that had taken precedence over the milder afflictions. "While these are all very scary, it's not much to worry about."

"So then, what happened?" Your voice is a mumble, hoarse from the strain of your activities with Miguel.

The doctor smiles, a shrug lifting his shoulders to evidence his lack of concern. "Says here you just have an allergy to spider bites."

Miguel, usually stoic and indecipherable, sinks into his seat with an expression that bleeds mortification.

... Oh. 

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[catscidr]

dottore lowkey teaches u how to dissect a dead body to preserve and sell study the organs but make it romantic and weird and im tired cw; gn!reader, descriptions of blood and organs, tension, confession? sorta

His hand is atop your dominant one while your fingers hold onto your scalpel tightly, making sure your grip is steady and precise. Slowly drawing incision after incision, you watch blood seep out of the cuts you make. The flow of it is so slow and serene it nearly brings you peace, as you observe it slide across the corpse’s skin silently.

(plus, you’re doing a decent job cutting it up since there are no surprise blood geysers, so the slow trickle of blood almost counts as a reward for your good work.)

It trickles down the dips and indents of the body, leaving a faint trail of crimson down, down, down until it reaches the cold vivisection table. You watch it form a small pool of ichor, and only when Dottore hums a soft, low 'focus' do your eyes snap back to the cadaver’s torso, where your blade rests.

After you lift the scalpel away from the skin, he slides a swift hand beneath the cut to push the flesh and sinew aside, bearing organs to the cold air of the operation room.

Watching him work so fast and casually after taking the time to teach you how to do something as simple as cutting skin makes your body run warmer than it should when faced with such a gruesome sight. His bloodied hands gently pry the scalpel from your hands, and you do nothing but observe as he works.

Slicing, pulling, prodding, tearing. You subconsciously lean over further, eyes focused on the way his hands and fingers pry apart the deceased’s organs from one another. If you didn’t have a problem disrespecting the dead, you would say that the Harbinger was doing so almost elegantly.

The previously empty metal platter fills with what looks like bloody chunks of meat as Dottore places each organ in it one by one, hollowing out the upper body. The incision might have been a pinch too small, you think, because you notice some streaks of blood that had already oxidized on the bare skin of his forearms from where he had to reach under the skin to take… whatever it was he grabbed.

You weren’t really paying attention to the organs anymore.

You’re pulled out of your musings when Dottore snaps his fingers to grab your attention. Looking up at him for the first time in what felt like hours, you spot a twinkle of amusement in his carmine gaze.

“Apologies, but I’ve called your name twice and you didn’t react. Is something on your mind?” You blink, swallowing down the embarrassment from catching you red-handed, daydreaming about him—not that he knows that’s what you were thinking about, anyways.

...well, maybe he does.

“No, sir. I was just studying your, um... technique," you cough. "Did you need me to do something?” You feel sweat bead at your temple, nervous that he could somehow see your thoughts.

He nods, the corners of his lips curling up into the faintest smile. “Yes, actually.” Turning his back to you, he shields your sight from the carcass on the table. “Hold your hands out, palms facing up and close your eyes.”

Setting hesitancy aside you follow his instructions, keeping your eyes firmly shut. Now unable to rely on your sight, your ears pick up on the tiniest of noises; you hear the sound of a particularly obscene squelch, followed by a quiet, seemingly irritated hum.

You hear the sound of clothes shuffling mixed with a similarly grotesque, squelch-y noise; as soon as the room fills with silence again, warmth spreads across your palms. You bite back the urge to open your eyes to take a peek. Dottore watches your face carefully, examining every twitch and shiver of your skin with rapt attention.

"You can look now," he hums, a smile hiding beneath his tone.

...Your eyelids suddenly feel super glued shut. Pushing through the nerves, you crack your eyes open, gaze immediately focusing on Dottore's face. He scoffs, amused at your sudden demure change in demeanor and glances down at your hands in silent encouragement.

Slowly peering down, your eyes widen as you gawk at the fresh, large organ in your hands, staining your disposable azure gloves a deep scarlet. You're almost unsure of what you're even looking at—all previous anatomical knowledge having flown right out of the window the second your eyes fell on the wet, goopy mess in your hands.

There are no arteries jutting out from the organ, so a heart is out of the question; it was too big to be one, anyways. It can't be the pancreas either, so maybe a stomach? Or—

"Good thing this isn't an evaluation, huh?" Your gaze snaps upwards to the sound of the Harbinger's mocking but light tone, shoulders squaring in pathetic defense. "You're putting me on the spot," you huff indignantly.

(Thank the Archons the only light in the room was the obnoxious overhead light above the table so the fine changes of your features can go unnoticed.)

Taking a step forward, Dottore swiftly invades your personal space as he brings his hands up to cup your own, not unlike how he held your hands a while ago to guide them. He looks down, and your gaze follow his, hand in hand.

You imagine a pulse. Blood flowing through, hundreds, billions, trillions of cells traversing lobes and segments—imagine that it's part your own body in the palm of your hands, held together by the man before you.

(The horrible, irredeemable man before you. Standing, observing, waiting oh so patiently. And he would wait an eternity if need be, for you have been safe from his hand the moment he shared a part of his humanity with you.)

Ridding your throat of the lump that had formed, you crack a nervous smile. "Is this supposed to be a test, or are you trying to be romantic?"

Returning a ghost of a smile, Dottore raises a brow. "Do you really think this is how I flirt?" he asks with uncharacteristic softness. Bloody, gloved fingers trace mindless patterns along your hand, and goosebumps bloom beneath your skin.

"The liver is often thought of as the source of one's passion," he murmurs. "It is also said to be the seat of life and the soul. While I can't prove nor disprove these claims using scientific research, I have come to understand why people view it as such."

Your hands feel slimy even with the latex barrier between your skin and the large liver in your palms, but with this discomfort comes elation.

"It only took me losing my own to comprehend," he continues quietly. You feel his breath grazing your forehead—it makes you itch and burn with the urge to look up, but you abstain yourself.

Dottore's hands slide up, cupping the sides of the organ, containing it solely to your hold. Long ago had his sights left the mound to gaze at your features. Looking at you wasn't all that dissimilar, after all.

(Thinking hard on his words, you want to ask him to teach you how to give him a liver of your own, next time.)