#i was permitted to touch the belly

[brytnoter]

saw nelly today

[seresinhangmanjake]

Overprotective

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Atreides!reader

Summary: Your son is due to be born any day now and Feyd is very protective. He kills anyone who so much as lays a finger on you, but it’s gotten out of control. 

Notes: this was an anon request. same Feyd x reader from The Harkonnen’s Sweet Thing and The Harkonnen’s Claim. *can be read alone*

Warnings: mention of murder and pregnancy. 

Words: 1100

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

“You’re mad,” Feyd says, his smile dropping at the sight of your frown. Your arms are crossed over your swollen belly as you lean back against the headboard of your bed. He closes the door behind him. “Why are you mad?”

You roll your eyes. He knows exactly why you’re mad. By your count, you’ve been pissed at him twenty-three times in the past month and a half and you don’t care for your widely-known highly-intelligent husband playing naive. “Don’t act like you don’t know. We only ever fight about one thing, Feyd. One.” 

Feyd sighs and steps closer to the mattress, but when you put your hand up, he stops in his tracks. Your throat strains as you swallow your grin. You still get little flutters in your belly when he demonstrates how you have that kind of power over him, but you cannot let him see the satisfaction on your face now. If he sees you smile, he will smile, which means you will have lost because he’ll know he’s won, and when he wins he gets turned on, so then you’ll get turned on, and then you’ll end up fucking. But you cannot be fucking right now. He needs to learn a lesson. His hard dick in his wife’s warm pussy will not achieve any lesson-learning. If anything, it will encourage his bad behavior. 

“You killed another one,” you tell him, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed; though that’s far from surprising.

Feyd crosses his arms over his broad chest. “He touched you.”

“I tripped.”

“And then he touched you.”

“He caught me.”

“So you agree,” Feyd says with a sharp nod. “I’m glad we are on the same page.”

Your huff descends into a groan as the heels of your palms press against your closed eyelids. “Your wife—your heavily pregnant wife—would’ve fallen on her ass if he hadn’t.”

“He shouldn’t have let you trip in the first place,” Feyd tells you. “He was meant to ensure you have a clear and safe walking path.”

Your lips part, mouth opening and closing and opening again as you search for a response. However, you end up with the same one you always do: “You are unbelievable,” you reply, shaking your head. “Twenty-three servants, Feyd! It has surpassed extremes! You killed one for brushing my hair–”

“Touching—and she was pulling on it too hard.”

“You killed one for helping me dress in the morning when you had already been called away for a meeting.”

“I prefer you naked anyway,” he says, shrugging, a smug grin stretching across his face. “Naked and in this bed.”

You raise a brow. “And the one who helped me sit down so I could watch you in the arena?”

“Ah, that one—” Feyd waves his finger as he clicks his tongue “—that one thought I wouldn’t notice because you were so high up in the stands. I don’t like sneaky people,” he reminds you, though you’re plenty aware of how he handles deception and trickery. “You should have told me you planned to attend and I would’ve helped you well before it started.”

Ignoring his point, you retort, “You cannot keep killing everyone.”

Feyd groans. “My love, you’re in too delicate a state,” he says. “I gathered all of them together not two months ago and explicitly forbade them from laying a finger on you. It is not my fault if they break the rules. And what sort of Baron am I if I do not enforce punishment?”

You hum in dissatisfaction. “You do understand you put me and your child in more danger by not permitting their assistance?”

Immediately, his brow pinches. His head turns to look away from you and when his jaw clenches, you realize the weight of your mistake. A sickening feeling settles in your gut. Your face falls from frustration into total devastation. “Oh God, Feyd…”

“I do not put you in danger,” he says, and it’s so shockingly meek that your heart cracks right down the middle. Not once in almost two years have you heard that tone leave his mouth, and you think maybe his eyes have become glassy, but you’re praying it’s a trick of the low lighting in your bedroom. Feyd has never cried in front of you, if he's ever cried at all, and you hope you didn’t just unfairly yank that vulnerability out of him. 

“I’m so sorry. That isn't what I meant,” you whisper, sinking into your shame. You know it’s such a sensitive topic for him and you spoke without thinking. You reach your hand toward him. “Come here….please.”

Feyd stares at you for a long moment, but then he sighs through his nose and walks over to sit at your side atop the mattress. No tears—your breath shudders in relief. One hand grasps his and your lips brush his knuckles. The other cups his cheek as you guide his forehead to rest on yours. 

“You protect me,” you swear to him. “No one could ever keep me safe the way you do, and I know that's all you want, but our son is coming soon. We will need help. I can’t birth this baby without a doctor and that doctor will have to touch me. Me and our son.”

The heat of Feyd's heavy breath warms your face. You wait for his response but he doesn’t have one, and instead, he shifts to lie down. You adjust your body until you’re flat on the mattress beside him. “Sometimes,” he starts as he rubs his palm over your stomach, “I have dreams about the three of us living elsewhere. Everyone is forced to leave us alone and all we have to care about is each other and our child.”

Feyd kisses your exposed shoulder, and in that moment, you’re reminded of how different he has become. He’s transformed from someone whose sole ambition was to be the Baron—a man driven to control this planet and have the people of Giedi Prime bow to him; a man who sought destruction and pain and power—to a man who secretly craves a bit of peace for his family. Though no one other than yourself sees this side of him, it’s hard to watch him tackle that burden, especially when you know you’re the responsible party. 

“What have I done to you, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen?” you mutter as you press your lips to his forehead. 

He chuckles lowly and hugs you into his body. “You turned me soft.”

“You kill servants without batting an eye.”

“Fine,” he relents. “As soft as I’m capable of being.”

[zenlesszonezero]

You feelin' fired up now? Make way for the undefeated Champion! Welcome to New Eridu!— PS5™/iOS/Android/PC | Version 1.3 "Virtual Revenge" of Zenless Zone Zero, HoYoverse's urban fantasy ARPG, is out now

[spitgobbler]

BunnyOwner!Leon <3

just a bunch of blurbs and thoughts I’ve had about Leon owning a bunny hybrid hehe also my first work on here :)

pairing: fem reader x leon kennedy

tags: bunny hybrid, heat, oral sex, p in v, praise, mention of belly bulge, creampie, breeding

Owner!Leon who’s seen so much shit and decides to go down to the centre and adopt a hybrid companion so he isn’t as lonely. looking at all the cute hybrids from puppies to cats but then he stops at one particular kennel.

Owner!Leon who can’t stop looking at your long floppy bunny ears that he’s already wanting to touch with his warm calloused hands, and your pretty little cotton tail that twitches once you notice him.

Owner!Leon who approaches carefully, being mindful of your bunny nature as he gets to know you a bit more. as soon as you permit him to pet your fluffy ears he thinks to himself how petting and playing with them would be a perfect way to wind down after a long day of work.

Owner!Leon who signs the adoption papers after getting to know your sweet and gentle nature over the course of the week, it’s just what he needed in his cold and dark line of work.

and he enjoys coming home to a no longer empty house, you laying across his lap while he pets your floppy ears and unwinds with you. feeding you strawberries as a snack before a proper dinner while he listens to you chat about your day and what you did while he was gone.

Owner!Leon who glances at your lips and the way you lick the sweet red juice from the strawberries off of them, he feels the urge to kiss them. but he doesn’t. he’s your owner and he shouldn’t do that sort of thing with his precious lil bunny girl.

Owner!Leon who feel conflicted when he comes home one day and his bunny is in heat, humping her pillow desperately as she whimpers for desperate release. his cock stirring in his trousers as he tries to remember what the centre advised him to do when this happens but it’s hard to think with the way his eyes watch your fluffy bun ears flop with each hump of your hips. he just wants to tug them, just a little.

“bun, are you okay?” leon asks, sliding his boots off and moving to your side. “you look- let me call the centre and ask them how to help.”

you whine for him, “o-owner, no. my heat, need you.”

Owner!Leon who swallows thickly at the way your needy voice expresses your desire for him while you rub your messy cunt against your pillow. his dick hardening in his trousers as he wants to help but a part of him is hesitant. you were his slice of paradise, would doing this change things?

“baby, i think the center gave you some toys for your heat, let me go find them.” he murmurs before caressing your floppy ears. “i shouldn’t.”

“no! need owner to breed me,” you plead, eyes glazed over with need.

Owner!Leon who groans at your words, your pretty voice and words tying a knot of arousal in his abdomen. he can’t help but pick you up in his strong arms and laying you down onto his bed.

Owner!Leon who spreads your smooth thighs out for him, his tongue lapping at your weeping cunt and teasing your folds with a hum. your pretty pussy so sweet for him that he palms himself for even a sliver of relief.

Owner!Leon who lets you take what you want, what you need. letting you grip his locks and grind against his face, his nose nudging against your clit, making you sing so lewdly for him.

“that’s it, pretty girl.” he murmurs, his tongue guiding you through your orgasm while he holds your hips down. “so good for me, bunny.”

“m’coming! o-oh!” you moan and try bucking against his face as your eyes roll, gushing all over your generous owner’s face as he drinks it up with a low moan of his own. “thank you, thank you owner,”

he presses kisses to your folds before pulling away and caging your form underneath his, capturing your lips that he’s been dying for in a hot, heavy kiss. you moan as you taste yourself on him, gripping his strong shoulders as you soak in all the love and pleasure your owner is giving you.

Owner!Leon who listens to your pleas for more, teasing your messy slit with the tip of his fat cock before sliding in with a heavy groan from the squeeze. his brows furrowing from the pleasurable fit before thrusting his hips into you slowly before picking up to a toe curling pace.

“feels good owner,” you mewl out, writhing underneath him. “so deep, s’good.”

he caressed your face with one of his hands as he pumped into you over and over. “uh huh, anything for my pretty bunny, mm, fuck.”

Owner!Leon who flips you over and fucks you so good into the mattress. his hands tugging your floppy bunny ears as he thrusts harder and deeper into your needy little cunt from behind, making you clench the sheets and moan. groaning at the tight grip of your sloppy bunny pussy, his hands occasionally moving from your ears to your round lil cotton tail and teasing the base.

Owner!Leon who might as well also be a bunny hybrid with the way he spills his milky cum so many times into you till it’s giving you the cutest little bulge in your tummy. breeding you over and over, he rocks his fat tip into your sweet spot till your heat is over and you’re both spent. no matter how tired he was, he would be a bad owner if he didn’t help his precious bunny through her heat, wouldn’t he?

[sandsorghum]

Clouds & Curtains

husband!Nanami x wife!reader

wc. 1.3k

summary. Perhaps Nanami's approach to...rousing you in the mornings has changed over the years.

tags. Established relationship, Domestic bliss | Romance | Smut | Body (& Soul)Worship | Mentions of Nanami wanting to be a father

a/n: Super soft, super indulgent piece. Have your cake and eat it nanami girlies. Sometimes i just need to write him a love letter ok

Prologue

Back when you'd just begun to be intimate with each other, Nanami tended to be a little embarrassed about his subconscious (but hardly subtle) desires for you. He would rather suffer his internal, infernal dilemma than disrupt your rest. But he couldn't quite control his urges, squirming between decency and depravity, not when you'd rub up against him, so innocuous and merciless.

It was a hard habit to shake; how Nanami felt he ought to earn your every quiver against him, every whimper, however much he yearned to feel you tremble at his moans at any given moment. It was codified in him, there was a time and a place and patterns to follow, before he could permit himself the pursuit of your shared pleasures.

Of course, you'd unveil him in the evenings, the privilege of your touch stripping bare the prerogatives of his flesh. You unraveled him, his reticence, his reasoning, his very capacity for speech, by braiding your breath and fingers with his, in the friction-begetting-friction tangle of your lips and limbs together.

Yet he still thinks of these mornings, that find the two of you entwined, as an undeserved luxury. So Nanami would do his best instead to focus on your face, how sweet your peaceful expression was. It would be wicked of him not to cherish this, he'd chastise himself for wanting more, for wanting to drown in your adoring gaze, for wanting to return it with his own hungry one, body and spirit beggared by the night, by the hours not spent beheld by you.

Nanami assumed the beauty and tenderness of your countenance would quell, or could sate his appetites, would tame the primal stirrings in his belly. But nothing could be further from the truth, in fact they had the opposite, compounding effect; a lump in his throat would rise, and his desperation would thicken till he could only helplessly rut his hips against you.

And then your eyelids would flutter open, and in the crease of your knowing smile, all his definitions, his distinctions, all that distance between need and greed would collapse with a single kiss.

Years later, and your husband is so absolutely shameless about his...early head starts to the day. He pulls you into him, snug against the cleft of your ass cheeks, content to let your scent and radiance seep through the thin fabric and warm him in a way the sun, in its reluctance behind the clouds and curtains, can never hope to.

He stares at the petulance drooping off the petals of your lips, rose bud coiled tight before daybreak can coax it to unfurl for strobes of gold. Nanami is a patient man, too patient you've often thought, yet you feel his phantom touch, a tender sweep of your mouth, a zephyr whispering in the wings, billowing brocade and swelling muslin, ghost pulling you through the gauze of sleep.

You shift against Nanami to hear him sigh your name, soft and distant, thick with slumber and affection and it's this which rouses you more, not merely his growing rigidity pressed to the curves of you. Although, it helps, feeling every inch of his hunger like this, in a slow swirl and pinch at your waist, the gentlest rocking as your breasts are cradled in his palms, familiar persuasion pebbling your areola. You know he dreams of them swollen with milk, that all your memories of his teeth are girded by the desire for them to be suckled by the most innocent of mouths, baring only gums and tiny wails. Your nubs stiffen and a small smile stretches across your face at the thought that with his wish to grow a family fulfilled, he might find also a small regret, of his monopoly of your mounds contested by another, to whom he owes the genesis of your body's generosity, that sweet fullness dribbling, stolen, into your husband's mouth, enticing in its envy.

This prospect of hypocrisy is to be savoured for another day, far down the road. This morning brings neither hesitation nor urgency, all syrupy light and his maple gaze, the languor of his limbs splayed around you to be treasured just as much as the gradual grind of his cock. There's a certain smugness in its slowness, as with the self-assuredness of his thumb circling a bare sliver of your skin.

A familiar motion that stirs a memory, fuchsia-tinted for the both of you. You remember your then boyfriend stammering and scarlet-tipped, matched to the rosy tips of his ears, excuses lost in the shuffle of sheets and stutter of hips.

"I-it's just-just the t-temp-ah-temperatuur," he'd slurred, the excuse as thin and transparent as the sticky film he laved across your throat, dangerously growing gossamer and feebler with every twitch and each strong buck against your body.

"Mmhmm," you'd hum, carnal ache turning you conciliatory. Such complacency. You had been the one to smirk back then, canines gleaming coy, as you offered ruin in the guise of reprieve.

"Want me to warm you up, darling?" Hands already reaching for him, mind already marveling before your fingers could be reacquainted with their hubris, his girth.

"P-please, anythin-nghing" he'd panted, all wide-eyed desperation to be devoured, sweet thing.

You'd been such a fool.

To not know not greed was a two-way street, this ravenous osmosis, this vicious ouroborous.

You think perhaps, in fact, you got the worse end of the deal, trembling against your spouse now, thighs clamped together.

"My dear," Nanami hums, a teasing timbre dripping honey as he sinks his fingers in, "always so ready for me."

You squirm, eyes screwed shut and fisting the sheets, trying to grasp the pale image of the boy who'd once writhed and blushed beneath you, a spectre all but vanquished. You miss him, sometimes.

You arch your back into Nanami, the way you know he's addicted to, just to hear him groan your name, ragged with the dregs of self-restraint or slumber, you're not sure which, but it's a close enough echo to send pleasure juddering through you, the recollection churning hot in your gut, of when he was wrapped around your finger, instead of your cunt around his.

"Sweetheart."

The tenderness of his tone pries your lids open. He doesn't have to ask, doesn't have to say anything but he does, because he knows you are too stubborn to ask for what you need to hear.

"My love."

He claims your gasp, in the crush and curl of his mouth, in the crook of his fingers.

"My girl."

Another smattering of kisses, chasing the flutters of your belly down, down, down to your creases weeping nectar. He licks a whine from you, pitching high into the air, his husky moan vibrating within you.

"My wife."

You feel the hot gust of Nanami's breath over your clit, as he pauses.

"My wife."

There's a reverence as he repeats himself, pathetic attempts to vanquish his disbelief, wonder glistening in his gold-flecked irises, staring at you in awe, searching for proof this isn't some frenzied fever dream of his.Of course, he finds it in your own unwavering eyes.

You've been such a fool.

There, in the locked gaze your shared history glimmers, that shy boy paralyzed by his worship of you, prostrate as the man before your parted legs now, offering his soul, his past, his future.

You reach for him, and he surges upwards. The collision is wave returning and rising from oceans, over and over, is starburst, is incandescence, is the fission of atoms never, ever meant to be split.

It burns away all notions of him as your acolyte or priest, any concept of deity and devotee.

"My life," he breathes into you, and you feel the throb in your ribs, the furnace of his lungs.

"My life," you repeat to your husband.

Adam. Prometheus. Kento.

This morning and many after, he lavishes you with irreverence, a ravishing of irrelevance; his goddess, his woman, his joy -all that matters is that you are his and he is yours; Together, you forge a paradise that exists for as long as the melding of your souls persist, boundless as horizons and sure as sunrises.

@houseofsolisoccasum

[bloodygnqv]

Oh Say Can You See

John Price x fem reader

cw: smut!! minors dni!, size difference (reader is described as small but dw there’s no infantilization), uuuh i think that’s it??

A/N: fuck the national anthem it’s a lana song. it’s been a while since i’ve written smut hope you enjoy anyway bless you all xx 🙏🏻

“Are you okay, love?” John asks you from where you’re laying on your side.

He’s all warmth and comfort, musk and tobacco and leather, a stark contrast between the feminine fruits and spring flowers and candy you enjoy wearing.

His voice is a quiet rumble, the crackle of a fireplace, the roar of an engine, the step on snow.

“Mhm, yeah,” you reply, sleepy and pliant, “Just really missed you.”

John lays on his side as well, cuddling you from behind. He’s always been the bigger spoon, arms and hands so large, so strong he can fully wrap them around your waist, cup your breasts in his palms, keep you to himself. His greed for you and your affection lodges in his throat.

You can feel him hardening against your back, and you stifle a small smile. “Go ahead, John, I’ve been waiting all day,” you whisper, your own desire sparkling in your belly, black milk and rose red and the veil of longing.

“God, you’re soaking. That needy pussy just needs some attention, huh?” His fingers slide against your slit gently as you whimper an affirmative and lift your leg a bit to give him access.

“I can take you, John, really, you can just slide in,” you mumble, stroking at his thigh greedily.

“Are you sure, sweetheart? You’re so small and I haven’t prepped you, you know it might hurt…”

Concern laces his voice like poison ivy. It almost makes you melt — he’s always been like this from the moment you two got together, soft care and love so strong it almost suffocates you.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I played with myself earlier..”

“Okay then,” he permits. He taps the head of his dick over your pussy, still not going in, syrupy whines escaping your throat.

And then his cock notches at your leaky entrance, slowly going in, and every little nag and annoying pesky thought hide somewhere in the back of your head.

“Oh,” you gasp and look down to where you two are connected.

John isn’t very long, but he’s thick, thick enough that you feel the stretch every single time you have sex. He carves out a place for himself in you, Galatea and Pygmalion, gentle marble across your legs (his large hands completely envelop the expanse of your thighs, leaving galaxy marks in his wake).

“Yeah,” John breathes, heavy, grunting out a response, “That’s it. Almost there, love, you can take it. Shit, you’re tight…”

You mewl, hands scraping for purchase against the duvet as he runs his fingers through your hair, his beard tickling your neck, whispering cotton candy filth in your ear. You know he’s already pushed in as you feel his heavy balls snug against your ass.

“There you go. Feels good, eh?”

“It does,” you whimper. There’s the slightest touch of too much, tiniest specks of pain, but they’re quickly chased away by the time John starts thrusting lazily. You’re not gonna last long, and if John’s satisfied grunts are anything to go by, he isn’t, either.

You grab his thick arm from where it’s perched over the gentle curve of your waist, delicate wrist teasing the underside of his palm and intertwining your fingers.

You’ve never felt more at home. You’re exactly where you need and want to be, ballad-like moans and late comfortable nights, devoted eyes and lust as a virtue. John’s filling you up just right, quenching the thirst that has simmered in you all day, pushing you off the edge.

John’s other hand reaches around and starts playing with your clit, just enough pressure in circles to bring you over the edge. He always goes the extra mile when it comes to expressing his love through pleasure, making your legs shake, newborn fawn, you are, seeing constellations and new planets beneath your eyelids.

“I’m gonna cum,” you murmur.

“Go ahead, baby. I missed you so, so much, my beautiful girl,” John rasps, peppering small kisses on the canvas of your neck.

There it is — the explosion of feeling and love and pleasure in your tummy, crawling down your legs and up your arms, making you moan and fist the sheet under your body.

Your orgasm pushes John to the edge, and you can feel his spend spilling in the crevice of your cunt, loud groans echoing in the corners of your ears, arms tightening around your small frame. That’s his favorite place to cum in, warm velvet around him, all that love that burns like a motor in his skin.

John pulls out slowly and lovingly cleans you up as your consciousness slips away from you. It’s been a long, long day, and the great sex is but your favorite way to release tension and put you in that space between wake and sleep.

The afterglow sneaks its way in your vein as you lay across John’s thick, hairy chest and close your eyes. This is your favorite time of day, all warm and snug and happy.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

His caress always feels like a blanket, a balm to soothe your wounds, a hazy morning dream you don’t want to wake up. It makes you all the more grateful, lying with the man you love in a space you two made.

[itwdoris]

LOVE UR WORK

I HOPE U DO KENTO + PISS STUFF

THANK U FOR YOUR SERVICE XD 😳😳

oh nanami who always seems so perfect, such a gentleman, that he can hardly keep his dick in his pants just imagining you pissing in his mouth.

he wanted it because he couldn't get you out of his head you doing the same thing last night, when you two drank a bit too much after your date and went to the bedroom.

seeing your swollen lips kissing the head of his hard throbbing cock, even if he had warned you many times; "please, my dear, i need to go-" and yet you kept going until he pissed in your mouth.

and oh, it was on his mind all day...

"wait a minute, i need to go to the bathroom." you said quietly, taking his arms off you, trying getting up from the sofa. but his hand stoped you.

"pee on me." and it came out of his mouth before he could even think straight. his ears burning.

you swallowed an embarrassed moan, your face turning red at the knowledge that he probably remembered some things, standing in front of him as if frozen.

nanami had already said, so there was no turning back, taking a deep breath and looking right into your eyes, gently pulling you closer; "do it in my mouth."

so you nodded, perhaps a little more excited than you should be.

"permit me." he said as he kissed the tip of your belly, carefully pulling down your pants and sighing loudly when he noticed your panties with a wet spot.

he thought about fitting in his mouth on you, but it would be too uncomfortable.

then nanami gently led you to the sofa, watching you with a red face as he knelt down right in front of you, swallowing dryly as you touched your knees and slowly pulled them apart, exposing you to him.

he approached slowly, slipping his hands under your thighs to hold you in place, fitting his mouth perfectly on your pussy. you moaned quietly, trying to concentrate, dripping and dripping until finally doing it.

filling his mouth with your piss, seeing your face relieved, listening to you, he moaned against your folds, drinking it all in. his cock almost exploding inside his pants, oh.

he wanted it.

you felt him pulling you closer by your thighs, so held his hair, moaning for him, feeling him sucking every drop as he noticed the flow diminishing, separating his mouth from you and breathing in gasps.

he licked you like he was starving, sucking and cleaning everything, he licked his lips and wiped his chin with his hand, swallowing, looking at your pussy right there for him, only for him.

dirty thoughts invaded nanami's head, making him blush to his ears again, sighing at the thought of so many wet things.

"could we do this more often?"

waa sorry, know it's short and rushed, but didn't know how to do it with him so i used the first idea i had, hope it's readable at least! also >< thank you! <3 <3

[sky-kiss]

A/N: Apparently, there's been a lot of soft!Raphael lately. Allow me to rectify that. Ascended Fiend!Raphael and Haarlep hunt you in the dark. Hiding sin under the gif.

Fiend!R x GN!Reader, H x GN!Reader: Full Dark, No Stars 18 +

The world is absolute blackness. 

Not grayscale, not outlines, just shadow, magically dense. You hold your hand in front of your face; the heat is there, your other senses struggling to compensate for the sudden lack of vision, but everything else is gone. You're left to swallow, arms held before you, fumbling in the dark. 

Something shifts on your right. Only one footstep, as if they want you to hear. Infernal heat registers at your back, hands carding over your hips. Then it's gone. You're left rounding on nothing, breathing hard. 

Time lost so much of its meaning in the dark. You could have been minutes or hours. You know that your feet are sore. There's a dull ache in your feet from padding across the flagstones, an ache in your right arm after Haarlep wrenched you too harshly to the side. And the burn everywhere else from Raphael's insistent touch. 

They're hunting you. 

You shiver, scanning the blackness as if it will help. Both devils are unnaturally quiet. The ascended fiend's prodigious size does not slow it down. It moves with liquid grace, sinuous, on all fours rather than its typical upright posture. The sight makes something clench in your belly, fear finding its mate in arousal. It's Raphael stripped down to his basest essence, feral, infernal, and hungering. 

"Tsk-tsk, little mouse," Haarlep calls. They're somewhere on your left, closer than you'd expect. Something passes in front of you, and you stumble. A hand fists in your hair, yanking to keep you upright. Pain blossoms across your scalp, muted when they tip your head back. You open your mouth to respond, and the fiend takes full advantage, tongue pushing into your mouth. They nip your chin, chuckling, and then push you away. "You're slow, far too slow for a mouse. I'm disappointed." 

You keep very silent, very still, trying to orient yourself. 

Haarleep behind you, tail curling around your thigh. The tip strokes between your legs, pressing, prodding. Their voice dips to little more than a growl. "But, ah, I suppose you have other problems? And sweet Haarlep is the least of them." They jerk you back against their chest, arms a vice across your torso. Haarlep's nose tweaks against your cheek, the caress gentle. It contrasts the rasp of their voice, the erection digging insistently against your ass. "I am not in the habit of being ignored, pet. Just this once…I shall permit it." He groans, rutting against you. "Alas, our time is short. The Master comes. And he is so…" licking your cheek, licking into your mouth again. The sweetness of their saliva overcomes your better senses. "...hungry."

You feel Raphael's heat, a portent of things to come. He could be anywhere in the dark, but he's near, crouched low. You imagine him slinking through the darkness, tail cutting slow arches through the air, claws digging at the stone. 

Haarlep hums, giving you a playful pat on the stomach. "Be good for him, yes? He's waited so patiently. And we both know…the fiend has so little patience."

Their weight is gone again. You take three steps forward; the heat steadily mounts. Raphael howls in the dark. Close, how the hells can he be so close? You haven't heard a damn thing. 

And then there's teeth at your shoulder. Hot breath on your neck. A long tongue teasing the column of your throat. You inhale a stuttering breath, careful to stay very still. The fiend growls, pleased with itself as it scents the air. His senses are much sharper. Raphael hears the thundering of blood in your veins, your heartbeat. Smells your arousal. 

You muster up whatever courage you have left to run. 

You don't make it far. Not even a step. Raphael shrieks, the sound higher than you would have expected, clearly delighted. A hand curls around your midsection, stopping you cold. The claws bite against your skin but don't cut. Even in this form, he knows not to break you. He'll only bend. You squirm as it drags you nearer, bracketing you as it lays you on the cold stone. Its tongue is back on your skin, dragging down your stomach to your sex. 

It borders on too hot, but the wet heat and the pressure are too good to ignore. Raphael laps at you, tip prodding at your hole, pressing, pressure, until it can finally push inside. You're left to pant, thrashing under the weight of its hand as it settles over your chest, caging you.

The hunt is over. Raphael intends to feast.

[miasmaghoul]

miasma what r ur swiss tummy thoughts 🎤

syringe how DARE u make me consider the swummy when i have SO MANY KINKTOBER PROMPTS LEFT >:(

sigh.

anyway. i think swiss gains a little weight between tours and as such two ghouls in particular are even more obsessed with him than usual.

(contains: body worship, marking, tit sucking, some light scent kink, sloppy kissing, drool, teasing, and swiss being the desperate one for a change. at least a little)

His rusty purr echoes off his bedroom walls, his fingers drag through two heads of soft hair, and Swiss thinks this is as close to bliss as a guy can get.

Aeon had slithered up to Swiss' side right after lunch and hooked their elbows together, wrangling him back to the dorms with warm lips pressed to Swiss' ear. He hadn't complained; there were a few empty hours to spare until evening practice, he could allow their new addition to distract him for a bit.

Finding Dew waiting for them in the center of his bed, joint already lit, had been a surprise of the loveliest variety.

Swiss doesn't know how long it's been since they finished it off, but it's been long enough for Dew and Aeon to get wonderfully handsy. They'd fallen back against the headboard on Dew's last exhale, the little ghoul pinned to Swiss' right side and Aeon attached to his left. Heavy arms slung around their shoulders while Dew nuzzled his chest and Aeon shoved his nose into Swiss' throat.

This isn't the first time they've captured him like this over the past couple of weeks, and Swiss is sure it won't be the last. There are still nine days until the next tour picks up, and at this point it's harder to keep them off of him than on him.

It always starts with them touching over his shirt, long fingers dimpling the places where the fabric has gone taut. Drawn tighter after months of indulging in food, drink, and abject laziness when permitted. It happens to all of them, a few pounds added when they aren't able to sweating it off on stage. Even Dew has the most delightful little belly roll and love handles now, along with a bit more touchable puffiness in his chest. It'll all burn off once things pick up again, so none of the ghouls find themselves bothered when they all go a little soft(er) around the edges.

Least of all Swiss. He owns the tightest shirts for a reason.

Not that his shirts last very long when they do this. This afternoon was no different, Swiss' tee tossed to the floor the moment Aeon started to drool onto it. Their hands were on him immediately then; Dew grabbed a handful of his now-softer chest while he buried his face in Swiss' armpit, and Aeon had been quick to to sink his fingers into his stomach while he latched on to Swiss' collarbone. Both of then making the happiest little trilling sounds at the feel of his pudge giving beneath their skilled hands, sounds that made Swiss feel just a little higher.

Now, a truly unknown amount of time later, they've both migrated south. Dew's still pressed close, a skinny leg wrapped around Swiss' knee. He can feel the little ghoul's warmth through both of their pants, and there's sure to be a wet spot in Dew's jeans whenever he chooses to shred them. Dew's mouth is warmer, though, busy sucking the latest of many marks just below his navel. They overlap with the last round of still-healing bruises spotting Swiss' torso, a purpled mosaic of adoration.

Swiss sighs, rakes his claws over the little ghoul's scalp, and Dew looks up at him with the glassiest eyes. His lips swollen, flushed from so long spent worshipping every inch of Swiss he could reach. Spit slick as Swiss' own skin.

"Your eyes are red," he purrs, grinning with barely-open eyes. He cups Dew's cheek, no longer quite so hollow, and drags his thumb over his lower lip. "Almost as red as this pretty mouth."

Those lovely lips curl into the laziest smile when Swiss slips his thumb between them. The little ghoul gives it a lazy suck that has Swiss groaning, throbbing in his too-tight jeans. A pulse so intense that he's sure Aeon must feel it too, and the little whimper that floats up from his chest only confirms his suspicions.

Aeon's been straddling his other leg for a while now, making an absolute mess of his bare chest. Mouthing at his tits wet and sloppy, saliva catching in his thatch of chest hair with every pass of his tongue. Aeon's paid special attention to his nipples too, of course. Gotten them all puffed up and so dark with sharp but gentle teeth. He has one hand stuck up Dew's shirt, the other firmly planted on the side of Swiss' belly that Dew can't quite reach. Kneading away with abandon and entirely lost in his own little world.

Swiss drags his claws down the curved length of Aeon's spine, and the sound he makes has Swiss' eyelids drooping even further.

The other ghoul's lithe body is bent in a way that has his thigh slotted right up against Swiss' bulge. Not with enough pressure for him to get anything out of it, but it means they're close enough that Swiss can feel Aeon twitch against his hip too. Aeon gasps against his skin when Swiss grabs a handful of his ass, but flat out growls when he encourages Aeon to rut against him. Swiss chuckles, raises an eyebrow.

"Wazzat for, kitten?" He's can't keep the humor from his voice, impossible when Aeon sounds about as threatening as your average bowl of oatmeal. "Y'think I can look and not wanna touch?"

Swiss flexes his thigh, pushes it up into Aeon's obvious arousal, and earns a much more appropriate whine for his trouble. Aeon looks up at him, mouth hanging open, cheeks darkened and eyes barely focused. There's a string of saliva connecting his plush power lip with Swiss' nipple, and Swiss would break it with his tongue if he could reach.

"Didn't say that," Aeon slurs, pushing himself upright and pulling his hand from Dew's warm little tummy. The smaller ghoul makes a displeased sound around Swiss' thumb, but it's quashed quickly when Aeon scratches at the space between his horns. "Jus' not in a rush, is all. You're not gonna squishy forever. Wanna enjoy it."

Swiss tips his head and watches him for a long moment. Watches Aeon stretch both arms over his head, exposing a delicious stripe of his own flat stomach. He and Aurora haven't been around long enough to be affected by The Gluttony, but Swiss knows it'll happen soon enough. A few months touring and they'll come back with all sorts of new, voracious appetites in dire need of sating.

Swiss can't fucking wait.

He hisses when fangs sink into his thumb, pulling it from Dew's mouth with a soft pop. He frowns down at the little ghoul, but can't keep up the scowl for long. Not when Dew's scooting down to nose at his happy trail.

"You went away," he admonishes, kissing the button of Swiss' jeans. Chin hovering over straining denim. Dew's heavy eyes flash with something playful. "Jus' 'cause we're takin' our time," he murmurs, grinding slow against Swiss' leg, "doesn't mean you get t' think about other shit."

Swiss huffs through his nose, but offers a slightly sheepish smile. He reaches down, traces the shell of Dew's pointed ear with one fingers. The little ghoul chirrups, leans into the touch, and Swiss' other hand lands on Aeon's thigh. Strokes lean muscle, wishing it was skin beneath his palm. But hey, if they're in no rush then neither is he.

"Sorry Sparky, jus' got distracted for a second," he says with a wink. "'M all yours, I promise."

A bony hand sinks into his curls, and Swiss finds his gaze being redirected. Finds Aeon looking down at him with his head tilted, black and white waves falling over his forehead. There's something fascinating in his swirling lavender eyes, something Swiss knows he should recognize, but can't quite place. Something so similar to the brazen need in Dew's eyes, yet entirely different.

"Ours," Aeon corrects, voice firm. "You're ours."

Oh, that's what it is.

Possession.

Swiss' tongue feels suddenly too thick, too cumbersome. Impossible to form an intelligent response when his mouth is so dry. When had it gotten so dry? He has no idea. Still, he tries. Manages to make a dull gurgling sound while he soaks a stain into his boxers. Fuck he's so hard.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the darkness in Aeon's eyes vanishes. He's loose once more, hazy, rolling his hips just enough for Swiss to feel the swollen ridge of his cock against his thigh. Then he's leaning down, and Swiss finds himself being kissed with the sort of slowness usually reserved for third dates and drive-in movies. Deep and with what most would consider too much tongue, but they both know that's just how Swiss likes it.

Warm hands squeeze his stomach, and Swiss manages to crack one eye open. Angles his head so he can peer down at Dew. Swiss smiles into the kiss at the sight of him, wide-eyed with his lips caught between his fangs. Groping his stomach like it's his job and not so subtly humping Swiss' leg while he devours the sight before him. A delicious sight, one made all the better when he sees Dew's hand creep up his thigh. Over his hip.

Swiss groans deep and pained when Dew finally, blessedly, cups the dull ache between his legs. Molds his fingers to the obvious swell of Swiss' cock and gives it a nice little rub. It's hardly anything, but it sends his head spinning anyway.

Or maybe that's Aeon stealing the air from his lungs. Hard to say.

Either way, Swiss is beyond dizzy when Aeon chooses to relent. Gulps for breath, licks his lips to drink down every sweet drop of saliva coating them. Aeon huffs out a soft laugh, rubbing their noses together and bumping horns.

Aeon licks a stripe up his cheek, Swiss moans, and Dew purrs when his cock kicks hard.

"Gonna let us play again now?"

Swiss is pretty sure he'd give up nuclear launch codes if it meant they would keep touching him like this. The fervent nod he offers Aeon only supports that.

"S'much as you want, baby," he sighs, hands roving restlessly over Aeon's shirt. Swiss' eyewhen Dew pops his button and starts to tug down his zipper. "Fuck, much as you both want."

Aeon kisses his temple, hums against thin skin, and then he's slinking his way down Swiss' body. Dragging his hands from Swiss' broad shoulders, over his pecs, down his tummy. Poking and prodding at his softest spots with the worst kind of smile on his face. He joins Dew in short order, bumps their horns together, and then they're kissing each other all slow and gross and unholy fuck does Swiss ache.

Aeon's hand joins Dew's at his zipper, both of their free hands occupied with massaging his stomach. Dew's the one to reach into his boxers once the last tooth separates, and Swiss doesn't even try to hide his groan of relief when the little ghoul pulls him out at last.

"Fuuuuuuck," he breathes, pure relief and red-hot tension threaded into the word in equal measure. It feels like he could cum in half a second, and yet somehow like his orgasm is a million miles away at the same time. A confusing ball of tangled need stuck low in his pelvis.

Then Aeon reaches in to cup his balls, and Swiss sees pretty purple spots.

"Heavy," Aeon coos, palming his sack and breaking the kiss just to flash Swiss a little fang. Dew takes it upon himself to nuzzle the base of his cock, to breathe in deep, and Swiss swears he feels the little ghoul get even wetter.

"Full," he rumbles, reaching out to rest a hand on the backs of each of their necks. Just to hold, a little something to keep him grounded. "Gonna empty 'em for me?"

Both ghouls snicker - never a good sign - and Dew lets his cock slide from his loose grip. Lets it fall against Swiss' pudge with a slap that's much louder than it should be, all things considered. Swiss shivers when he watches it spit fluid into his belly hair, and shudders when the pair of them dip down to lick up every drop. His dick jumps, hits Dew's cheek, and Aeon licks that spot up too.

Then they're kissing again, swapping spit that must carry the salty tang of his pre, and Swiss can only think of one thing.

"Will you...kiss it?" He swallows hard, warmth blooming through his pelvis when they part. When they gaze at him with lazy deviance. "Together?"

The noisy purrs Swiss gets in response make his toes curl.

[withleeknow]

to build a home.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff; lowercase intended, a tiny bit suggestive, unedited bc i'm me word count: 0.5k note: my first skz/minho fic !! i haven't written fluff in forever and i have never written for anyone beside bts so i am so embarrassed rn lmao 😭 but anyways here's a babie drabble to test the waters ~

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

home isn’t always a place. sometimes, home is a person.

you don’t want to call someone your home, because people can change and people can leave you behind.

if it were up to you, you would never make a home out of him. but you had no say in it. you couldn’t control the fact that he would come into your life and get under your skin, almost like he was always meant to be with you. like it was all cosmic realignment how he would make you feel the most loved that you have ever felted in your whole life. like the universe decided to go easy on you for once, like it said “this one’s for you.”

because you can’t deny that there’s a kind of celestial warmth in the way his arms wrap around you and hold you in his embrace on winter nights, and summer nights, and every other night in between. he stays cuddled up with you until the sun comes up and paints the entire sky with the most beautiful splashes of pinks and purples and golds. and when you try to quietly slip away from him to start your morning, he would tighten his arms around your frame, a harmless frown pressed against your neck where his face is hidden.

“minho, i have to get ready,” you’d say , chuckling lightly as you do, your fingers threading through his fluffy hair.

to which he’d reply, sleepily, stubbornly, “just ten more minutes.”

you can’t deny that there’s heaven in how he kisses you, with his hands delicately holding your face, with all the love he has to offer. you aren’t religious, but you could make a religion out of the feeling you get when he showers you with devotion through his kisses. the tingle that simmers in your belly, the warmth that slowly spreads all over your ribcage as you get lost in your overflowing adoration for him. you’d gladly fall to your knees to worship that feeling forever.

you’d giggle when his hands sneak off elsewhere - rewarding you with a touch that can’t possibly be considered innocent - and he’d whine adorably, because even a split second away from your lips seems to last a lifetime.

“love you,” you’d appease him, watching as a blush would creep up from his neck until it adorns his cheeks with the prettiest and rosiest flush.

“love you too.”

you can’t deny the wonderful magic that is his mere presence - your best friend, the light of your life, the one you love the most. you don’t know how he does it, how he manages to make your world infinitely beautiful just by existing in it. your minho, your only love. he holds up the sun and he hangs the moon, he’s everything that matters to you.

you used to push back, used to resist this utterly obvious fact, but there’s no use in trying to refute it anymore. he’s your home. the greatest comfort you have, the safest place you’ve ever known.

and you hope he always will be.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 28.10.2023]

[regency-monster-love]

Part 7 of Colin and Susannah | Master post

Male werewolf x female human | Regency era | NSFW: hand jobs, semi-public sex (not caught), references to knotting, references to biting (vague)

Colin and Susannah's wedding date was fast approaching, and there was an important matter for them to discuss before then. Colin had gotten his pack's assistance once again to distract her parents and let him steal her away for a few minutes of privacy to talk. They were sitting together in the same study where he had proposed, the door closed.

He picked up his fiancé's hand. “You have heard me say that we are mates. Do you know what that entails?” he asked carefully.

She gazed into his golden eyes. They always seemed to have a faint glow to them, but at times their light burned with more intensity, as they were now. It always set off a fluttery sort of warmth within her when his eyes looked like this. She swallowed. “Well. I know it's a sort of bond that some werewolves share with their spouses, but not all.”

He nodded. “That's right. The bond can only form if both parties feel love for each other.”

She smiled softly. “Like you and I.”

His eyes warmed with his own smile. “Yes, butterfly.” 

“Even if only one of us is a werewolf?”

“Even so.” He paused. “But love is not enough. There is something else that must occur to fully bond a pair as mates.”

Her brows lifted, curious and waiting for him to tell her. He shifted slightly closer to her on the settee.

“The soul connection of a mated pair must be expressed as a bodily connection as well,” he said slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on her face for her reaction. “They—we—would need to lie together as a husband and wife do, and we would need to bite each other. And I would be in my wolf form while this occurs.”

Her eyebrows had climbed even higher. “Oh. I see,” was all she said.

He smelt no fear coming off her, but could not read her expression. “Would you…permit that?”

“I think I…would like it,” she admitted.

The werewolf felt a rush of relief—and then the scent of her desire hit him. She truly would like it—the thought alone was arousing her! The knowledge of that aroused him as well, and he pressed himself even closer to her. “Do you know how we will lie together? What I will do to you?”

His voice had become hoarser, his gaze more piercing, and both somehow contributed to the increasing agitation she felt in the pit of her belly. “I know the generalities, at least for humans,” she said, and was surprised to hear that her own voice sounded more hoarse as well.

“It is not very different for werewolves.” He pressed his hand onto a bulge at the front of his trousers. “This part of me will fit into your body—”

“Here.” She finished his sentence and pressed her hand between her own legs, grown bold by his words, his voice, and that alluring fire in his eyes. A jolt of pleasure met the touch of her hand, and she wriggled her hips in an unconscious effort to induce even more.

He groaned watching her. “Yes, in your quim. I'll stick my cock in your quim.”

His vulgar bluntness increased her desire further. “Oh Colin,” she whimpered.

He threw his arms around her shoulders to pull her close. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, and he dropped his head to angle his mouth against hers and kiss his mate for the first time in his life.

The sensation of the kiss enlivened him. It was like the feeling of transforming on a full moon, a feeling of release and rightness, of becoming something closer to whole. His instincts told him what else to do to truly become whole—mount her, knot her, bite her—but for now, this was already so much more alive than he'd ever felt before.

Susannah was perhaps even more overwhelmed than he, for just a minute ago she had never kissed anyone, and now she was feeling her mate's tongue sweeping against hers, his large hands running over her back and arms, his thigh pressed against her's, all of it unfamiliar and stunning.

Colin's kisses drifted lower, and when he reached the spot where her neck met her shoulder, her breath caught at the burst of pleasure his lips set off there. “This is where I will bite you,” Colin rasped against her skin, mouthing at the sensitive spot with just the faintest scrape of his wicked teeth. She gasped and twisted in his arms, mindlessly torn between wanting to get away from the overwhelming pleasure and wanting more of it.

“I can smell your desire. You're wet,” Colin said in a dark tone that seemed to rumble down her spine to settle between her hips with a pulsing heat that obliterated any mortification she might have felt from his words. Perhaps the mating bond was making her mad as well, but if it was, she did not care.

“Yes. Please,” she pleaded, knowing she needed something more or she should burst.

“You need never beg for me, darling mate,” he purred, and tugged up one side of her skirts, before his hand disappeared underneath.

He found where she was wet, swirling his fingertips through it, making her moan at the riotous sensations it set off in her body. One of his fingers dipped, feeling as though it was starting to sink into her, but he went no further, merely held it at her entrance while his thumb flicked against the sensitive bud at the top of her slit, making her throb with want.

“There is one more thing I will do to seal our mating bond,” he murmured in her ear. “I will spill my seed in your cunt, then knot you to lock it inside.”

“Knot me?” she hiccuped, nearly at her peak already from his decadent caresses and lewd language.

“A bulge at the base of my cock. Can I show you?”

“Yes, show me,” she pleaded.

He groaned in approval at her eagerness and quickly freed his cock from his trousers, watching Susannah's eyes widen as she stared down at it, and breathing in the scent of her arousal that had surged. But a hint of fear prickled at the edges of it now as well. “It's too big, isn’t it?” she asked.

“No, butterfly,” he cooed, caressing her folds soothingly. “You're my mate, built to take me.” No need to tell her that it would be even larger when he was a wolf. His hand cupped his knot, which also wasn’t at its full size; that wouldn’t happen until it was inside her. “You'll be able to take my knot as well. I'll fill you perfectly, mate.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Please.” Her touch was tentative at first, but he showed her how to pump him, restoring her eager lust, and soon both of them were feverishly stroking each other while they kissed deeply once more. Colin could scarcely believe how good Susannah's warm, wet cunt felt on his fingers, and imagined how much better it was going to be to sink his cock into that same slick heat. It made his knot throb and swell just to think of it.

“We will be so close when we are knotted, Susannah,” he panted. “It will tie our bodies together for some time. Can you imagine that? Having me joined with you, unable to separate, fully being one?”

“Yes,” she moaned, squeezing his cock tighter in her fist, “I want that!”

“Soon, butterfly. Soon I'll mate you the way you need.” He mouthed at that spot on her neck again, relishing the way it made her shudder and gush onto his hand. “You need me, don't you, little mate? Need this cock inside you, need my teeth in your flesh?”

“Oh God, Colin, yes, yes!” she sobbed. “Need your cock and your bite!”

“Oh fuck,” he growled. It took all his restraint not to pull her onto his cock this instant. It was aching to be buried in her, red and angry and throbbing with primal need.

He plunged a finger inside her instead, making her cry out, before she bit down on her lip and darted her widened eyes toward the door. But even though there was an undercurrent of fear in her scent at that moment, the spice of her arousal had thickened to an even greater degree.

Colin pumped his finger in and out of her cunt and gave her a wicked smile. “It excites you, the possibility that we will be caught doing this.”

She only whimpered in response. What was wrong with her, that something so perverse and dangerous should excite her? But she could not deny that it did, most ardently. That thrill, combined with the movements of Colin's clever fingers on and in her, were rushing her towards a shining precipice of ecstasy, and then suddenly, something burst inside her and she soared over that peak, clutching tight to Colin as she fell through the air as though weightless. She had no idea if she made any sound, because Colin’s mouth was on hers again, his tongue undulating like the waves in her cunt.

Her climax was intoxicating to him. He wanted to drink up her pleasure, swallow every wanton cry she made into his own throat to relish, let her scent seep in and saturate every cell of his body so it would become a part of him. Her hands still moved against him, one rubbing his knot while the other tugged on his shaft, the rhythm faltering and jerky now, but the touch still heated, and before he could warn her, his own climax ripped into him. He moaned into her mouth as his seed barreled up his cock and shot from its tip, covering his human’s sweet little hands in its creamy whiteness.

They slumped against each other, panting for a few moments while they recovered. Colin huffed out a short laughing sort of breath. “This was not my intention in getting you alone, I assure you,” he told her.

She smiled. “I would not blame you if it was, for it was most agreeable.” Then she flushed, suddenly conscious of how improper this all had been, especially for her. “You do not think less of me when I say I enjoyed it, do you?”

“Of course not! I am delighted to know that my mate enjoys my touch.” He stroked his wet fingers over the inside of her thigh, making her shiver, then withdrew his hand. “I am already desirous of giving you even more of it. But we have been away too long as it is. Your parents will notice you are gone.”

They quickly cleaned up as best they could, then Colin sent Susannah out ahead of them, to not arouse suspicion by returning together. He did not tell her that it was only her parents’ suspicion they could avoid, because every werewolf out there would smell what they had done together. He did not want to embarrass her with that knowledge.

When he returned to the drawing room by himself, a couple minutes after Susannah, she was speaking to her parents as if nothing had happened, and did not even look at him. But his packmates shot him secret smirks thanks to the story that his scent, and hers, clearly told them. He didn't mind it. He was proud to have Susannah's scent clinging to him, and his on her, telling everyone that she was claimed, that she was his mate.

Or, at least, very nearly so. Mount her, knot her, bite her. Then she would fully be his. At last.

~ 🐺🎩 ~

End of part 7 of Colin and Susannah

Read all of my Regency monster ficlets and snippets at the tag #my writing.

[gravehags]

can't find you in the dark

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x f!Reader (Curator!Reader)

Rating: Mature

Tags: brief Dracopia, both cardinal copia AND reader being awkward little fucking nerds, horror movie discussion, sexy dreams

Words: 1,758

Summary: You've been working at the abbey for three months and there's just something special about the Cardinal. Your subconscious agrees.

a/n: Silly little fic that lets me air out some Dracopia energy while also getting Copia to talk about horror movies. It's my hc that he was practically raised by old horror films from the 50s and 60s on late night tv and he has a special fondness for them. I mean, who else did he learn how to groom his mustache from if not the man, the myth, the legend Vincent Price?

divider by @gothdaddyissues!

There was little you loved more than chilly October nights, and your time at the abbey only solidified this. Every night before bed you would open the two leaded glass windows in your room, their diamond panes glittering in the low light from your bedside lamp. You slept best like this, surrounded by cool, fresh air bundled contentedly under your plush duvet.

You’re restless tonight however. Something is amiss.

When you turn over from your side to your back, you see why.

Sitting in partial darkness in the cozy chair of your reading nook is a figure cloaked in shadows. You should feel frightened - should scream for help in the presence of the intruder but something within you tells you one thing.

You know this man.

He leans forward and when you finally glimpse his face, a wave of relief washes over you.

“Cardinal,” you breathe, hand over your heart. “What…what are you doing in here?”

“I had to see you, cara,” he whispers hoarsely, standing as you blush at the nickname. His garb is different from the usual red or black cassock you’ve seen him in - a simple stylized suit - and there is no excess fabric to mask anything. Particularly what is happening at the juncture of his thighs.

You know you’re ogling him as he advances upon your bed but the tight black suit and unusual short bat-like cloak he wears around his shoulders is intriguing, to say the least.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

You’re fully sat up against the pillows now, hands in your lap when he sits down next to you on the bed.

“Sì,” he murmurs, “dolcezza will you permit me?”

Your heart flutters once more at the endearment he’s never bestowed upon you before tonight. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into but you give your breathless answer anyway.

“Anything.”

You gasp as he turns to fully face you, and you jump when he places a gloved hand on your belly. His body slides closer even as his hand slides further upwards, pushing you flat against the bed until he is cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your nightgown. You’ve forgotten how to breathe as he caresses you, teasing your nipple into hardness. He moves his face close to yours - so close - and you’re enveloped in the scent of his cologne.

“I need you,” he breathes into your neck. “Please let me. Per favore, permettimi di averti.”

Bringing your hand up to the side of his face, you cup his cheek, thumb running along his neatly trimmed sideburn. He looks desperate, hungry even and so you nod, still unsure of his intentions. Copia lets out a shuddering breath before leaning back down into your neck, lips touching your pulse point. With his hand still resting on your breast, he licks at the skin there, causing you to sigh, before sinking his teeth into the supple skin. You start and begin to panic, but he’s holding you so tenderly, fingers toying with your nipple as he begins to hungrily suck. The pain is gone soon enough and is replaced by the most heady feeling of pleasure. His moans echo in your ears and your hips buck upwards, desperate for friction, all the while he drinks from you. And drinks. Each graze of his sharp teeth and swipe of his tongue against your skin makes you gasp and writhe, cunt throbbing. He doesn’t slow his actions, but you’re content to lay there in his grasp as he drains you of life. Your eyes slip into blackness for a moment before–

Before the blaring of your phone alarm.

God fucking dammit.

You haul yourself out of bed and move through your morning routine as if puppeteered by some higher force - putting no real thought into your actions as you get ready for the day. You’re so consumed by your dream still that you bump into someone in the hallway.

Someone very familiar.

“Signorina! Ah, mi dispiace, I did not see you there.”

His voice finally seems to be the thing that snaps you out of your reverie, and you shake your head.

“Oh, no Cardinal, it's my fault. Head too full, you know?”

He nods and gestures with his head to the towering stack of books balanced in his arms, obscuring his face with only his black biretta peeking out.

“Eh, shall we continue our research from yesterday on that sculpture? In my office?”

Your heart skips a beat at the suggestion of being alone with him and if your response is a tad too eager, he doesn’t notice. Now walking by his side down the hall, you reach for a few of the books from his stack to lighten his load. When you see his face for the first time since your dream last night - handsome and freckled - your face heats up and you quickly look away before he can register the deep flush. You’ve only known him for three months of your life but you’ve come to learn that there is something so very special about him. Maybe someday you’ll tell him he’s the only person who has made the abbey feel like home.

The books are heavy and old, and you’re thankful when the two of you finally reach Copia’s door. Usually he would come to your office adjacent to the library for this kind of research, but you were thankful for his invitation today. As Copia finagles the door handle and swings it open, you’re reminded of why you love this room so much. You’d only been in it a handful of times, brief moments at that, but there is something incredibly charming about it. Bookcases line every bare inch of wall, stuffed to the brim with tomes on everything from Satanic scripture to Catholic iconography. You greatly appreciate the diversity of his collection and for a while now have been working up the courage to ask to borrow some texts. At the center of the room sits his desk - a commanding mahogany thing - with one high-backed chair behind it and one in front. Light filters in from the leaded glass windows alongside one corner of the room, bouncing shadows upwards onto the intricate coffered ceilings. The room suits him incredibly well, and immediately sets you at ease with its warmth.

“Are you going to stand in the doorway all day, signorina?” he teases lightly, setting his stack down on top of his paper-strewn desk before removing his biretta. You loved that silly little hat.

“Yeah, yeah sorry I, uh, didn’t sleep well last night.”

Setting his biretta down on his desk he shuffles over to you, brows knit in concern.

“Are you unwell?” he asks, hesitantly reaching his gloved hands out to you. By the time you’ve worked up the courage to take them in yours, he’s pulling away and you’re kicking yourself.

“No, no. Just…had a weird dream.” You fall silent for a moment as you walk over and take the chair opposite him. “You were in it.”

You’re blurting it out before you can control yourself and immediately swearing loudly and profusely in your head.

He sits down behind his desk and you notice that the tips of his ears are red.

Huh. Cute.

“Yeah uh,” you clear your throat, tapping your fingers against your thigh, “you were a vampire.”

It sounds so stupid right now as it exits your mouth but his head cocks to the side in interest.

“Oh? Un vampiro…was I very dashing?”

The tension you’re feeling is broken by the goofy roguish grin he wears and the way he runs his hand over his silver threaded brown hair. 

“Very. You had a cape and everything.”

His grin becomes wider. “You know as a child, I watched many old horror movies. I wanted to be Dracula but ah…was never quite smooth enough, hmm?”

“Hmm instead you’ve turned into Vincent Price, which one can argue is far more attractive. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Bela Lugosi but there’s just something about Vincent.”

What the actual fuck is wrong with you today and the way you’re running your mouth? You’re about to blurt out an apology, an explanation, anything when he smooths his leather clad fingers over his mustache, cheeks aflame.

“Eh, you…you think so?”

Double or nothing. “Absolutely.”

“Bella signorina,” he murmurs, avoiding your gaze. “You are far too kind to this old cardinal.”

You think back to your dream, the way his hand cradled your breast as he lapped at your neck. The way your cunt positively ached even after you woke up. You swallow thickly.

“Have you ever, uh. Have you ever seen Nosferatu?”

“Which one?” he replies without skipping a beat. “Murnau or Herzog?”

Now that gives you butterflies in your stomach and makes the edges of your lips curl.

“Both, but for these purposes Herzog. That movie has such a dreamlike quality to it. Kinski portrays him with such sadness. Anyway, that’s the kind of vampire you were like in my dream.”

You pull a large book from the stack on the desk and begin busying yourself with note taking while he processes what you just said.

“Herzog’s Nosferatu is eh…far more erotic. Wouldn’t you agree?”

All the color drains from your face and your hand stills mid-page turn. When you finally work up the courage to respond, your voice is hoarse.

“Y-yes. Uh yeah most definitely.”

“Particularly the way he feeds on Lucy, sì? Caressing her, intimately exploring her.”

His head is cocked and he’s not looking at you, clearly lost in his own thoughts about the film. That’s the only reason you know he’s not tormenting you on purpose with this line of questioning and observation. His hand is under his chin, elbow propped on the desk. The morning light casts shadows on his dramatic profile, illuminating the freckles dusted over his cheekbones and you have to pinch yourself from sighing at the sight.

“Ah, anyway!” he announces suddenly, slapping the leather clad palms of his hands on the surface of his desk. “We have much work to do, signorina. Perhaps if you’ll join me for lunch, we could eh. Continue our conversation? About horror movies, that is.” Now he’s the one blushing, hands fidgeting with the corners of his biretta as he casts you a shy glance.

Wow, you think to yourself, he sure is something.

“Definitely,” you say with an encouraging smile. “It’s a date.”

Your wording makes him choke inelegantly on his own spit as you smile beatifically at him.

Lovely.

[sillyromance]

I feel you heart pounding heavily against your ribs as you lie in my arms, looking me right in the eyes. My stomach rumbles beside you, politely announcing of its emptiness, but don't get tricked. It's almost painful, evil sensation which clenched my insides firmly like vice, turning them inside out while they are struggling with hunger. However, I just smile. You're here not to satisfy me, but yourself. You're small, and sad, and scared. That's OK. There is no shame in that...

I bring you up closer to my face - your skin gets pale as instinctive fear kicks in your veins. I don't hurry; your tiny palms run over my cheeks and lips; I force back the wish to taste your adorable little fingers - they have such a good smell... I ask if you still want me to send you there. After a moment, you nod, still worried but sure about your decision. I smile gently and rub your head in attempt to comfort you, although I know it's not enough. I'm a switch after all; no need to tell me how hard it is to go through this for the first time.

Finally, I open my mouth wide and lift you up to put your feet right on my awaiting tongue. The flavour is... Beautiful; I can't help but exhale with pleasure savouring your skinny, cool ankles. Meanwhile, you're trembling. God, I feel so pity for you! My mind is spinning of misunderstanding, trying to process this controversial information of joy and grief combined together. Regardless, it doesn't take long for me to focus. I lock my attentive gaze on your figure; icy sweat covers your hot, pulsing neck, you're staring down at me with mix of doubt and terror. However, you don't ask me to stop. I play with your legs a little bit more, giving you a chance to get used to the situation, then go for the next level, pushing you in just slightly and making you knees disappear in my maw. You gasp as my teeth accidentally touch your vulnerable skin; I rapidly part them to ease the tension. Your toes wiggle in my pharynx, I have to grant you a pleading look to say it disturbs me, so you hold still. I feel bad for making barriers everywhere for you; I'm aware of horror growing in your chest with every passing moment, but it will be better for both of us if you don't squirm. I promise, I won't hurt you. It'll be over soon.

Well, the point of no return is near. I push you just a bit deeper, like this... Yeah. Now I can catch your limbs with my throat muscles. My grip weakens; I swallow. You faintly shriek. I fondle your back, relaxing your body which has suddenly become hard and solid like a rock, being paralysed with shock. I wait; after some seconds your powerless hand pat on my upper lip, permitting me to continue. Oh, you can't imagine how difficult it is to breathe in this position, to hold my instincts sleeping while even so miserable part of you has been already embraced by my throat... No. Don't think about it. It's fine. I swallow once more, your hips and belly entering my esophagus. My neck pleasantly stretches; my mouth shamelessly waters as I get more of your spicy taste, invisible molecules bursting soundlessly on the surface of my craving tongue. You sense this and shiver, your poor clothes getting instantly soaked in my sticky saliva. But I won't make you uncomfortable for long; glancing at your pretty muzzle one last time, I title my head back and let you simply slide inside, contracting my throat again, tracing you slowly passing every centimetre of it: down, down, down...

At last, I can gift my chest with fresh air. You slipped inside so smoothly that it startles me...

My waist is heavy; cute little lumps are walking around underneath my clothes. You're in my stomach now.

The organ whines with pleasure as abundant meal comes in. You are moving around, trying to find a suitable position in the limited space. I sigh, forgetting about the pangs of starvation at last - the fact I haven't eaten since morning to do this to you is nothing comparing to the heavenly sensation of you being inside my core. Now I'm shaking too. It's impossible to stay straight; I lie down cautiously, putting my hands on the expanded middle, tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

You. Are. In. There.

I devoured an alive person. It's so good that it hurts...

You are still nervous; I murmur kind, calming words and caress you within my full belly gurgling gladly at your presence. It's safe within me. I won't digest you. Just look around and see that there is no acid to burn you. You won't get suffocated 'cause you're breathing with me. I won't jostle you with harsh movements. I won't laugh at your helplessness. I'm here to hold you, to listen to your cries, to fight your demons with you side by side.

It's so good that you hear me and settle in. Your warm weight feels unreal and... Perfect. I don't let my arms go away from my abdomen, making them cover the bulge you have created as if I have committed a crime which I should hide now.

You don't need to feel anxious anymore. I have you.

I love you.

[hellokirian]

Guests

"Why would anyone pass up an opportunity to travel with the city! It's much faster than sea routes. And yet I almost had to drag you here." "You keep forgetting that the cost of staying here is quite high." "By your standards," the man with a prominent belly sipped his drink, eyeing the rich color of the wine. Blood of the Fathers. He had to know how they made this wine. It was the same fruit his company sold, yet the product was so different. Translucent, yet rich in both color and taste. "By our standards. You're the one paying for my trip as well. Though I'd agree that traveling within the city is much safer than by the sea." The rough man tightened his grip around the hilt of his dagger. Old habits die hard. "But the city is buzzing with tension. You should agree with that at least, Imar." "Bah, of course! The entire region fell. Be glad we got the traveling bracelets before it happened." Suni rolled his sleeve and looked at the bracelet. Compared to his onyx skin, its silver rim looked almost as if it emitted a soft light.

Someone touched his shoulder. He stood up quickly, his hand on his dagger, unsheathing it just a little. "You, both. Show me your traveling permit."

A man in expensive clothes approached, looking every bit like a noble ready for court. Imar didn’t flinch as the man asked for their traveling permits, while Suni’s hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his dagger. Imar calmly rolled up his sleeve and revealed the silver bracelet around his arm. Suni glanced at Imar, then back at the man, and did the same.

The well-dressed man raised his sword in its sheath, and Suni’s muscles tensed. But the man gently tapped Suni's bracelet with the tip of the hilt. A strange chime rang out. He did the same with Imar's bracelet. The sound was identical. "Have a pleasant stay, oh guests of Immortalis." The man touched his forehead with his fist and left.

"Was that a local noble?" Suni was still watching the man leave, gripping the dagger under his wide belt. "No, Suni, that is just a local guard. Lowest rank, I think. Patrol duty is pretty boring, so they like to pick on foreigners." "Lowest? He’s dressed better than you!" Suni exclaimed, his eyes following the man as he sat back down, shaking his head in disbelief.

The day was nice—warm, with a pleasant breeze—but there weren’t many people in this small… what did they call it? Tavern? No, they called it something else. Wineyard?

"Even local beggars are dressed better than me, Suni." Imar looked at his escort with mild disdain. He definitely needed better manners, but Suni was the best guard he could afford. "Please go talk with the owner of this establishment and ask if he will sell me several bottles of this wine. Be nice to him." Suni nodded and left.

I need to know how they make such clear wine, Imar thought. Their cheapest is better than our best. But then again, the city of Immortalis is rarely generous with its secrets. He sipped the cheapest wine once again, marvelling at the taste. I haven’t drunk anything better before.

----

Story by: me (worldbuilding for a game in development)

Art by: https://www.artstation.com/sylvain_aublin that helped with early art for the game

[irenadel]

Pygmalion.

Chapter 4. She rose to his requirement, dropped the playthings of her life.

This chapter gutted me so once more, no beta we die like suicidal teenagers, set after the fateful murder/suicide of “The Only Man In The Sky" The slow burn up and turned the fuck on. We have smut, I repeat we have smut. It's not the smut we need maybe, but it's the smut I deserve. Homelander still needs a friend tho.

Chapter 1. That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain Chapter 2. We sat grown quiet at the name of love Chapter 3. He touched me, so I live to know that such a day, permitted so

He knew you could feel your phone vibrating (the newest, most expensive thing you owned since a harried Vought assistant had delivered it to your door), both because he could hear your heart speeding up in anticipation and because, through the flimsy barrier of your store’s concrete roof and thin ceiling tiles, he could see your hand fly to your back pocket. He was also able to catch a glimpse of the brief pull of your exasperated smile.

He needs you to stop fucking smiling and hurry it up, he thinks almost fondly.

Unfortunately, that quick grin costs you. Whatever goddamn idiot you are trying to service seems to think you are laughing at him (you should, he thinks, rolling his eyes, bored already) and that sets your customer off. And for a second, Homelander is almost pleased by that cocksucker screaming at you. It serves you right. Because you’ve been WASTING your time (his time) and kindness (HIS kindness, HIS rightful property) on the fucking undeserving mud. He’s had to hear you speak to this pathetic, daft old man in the same cheerful, soothing voice you use for HIM. You’ve been smiling at this idiot with that stupid, sickly-sweet (wonderful) smile of yours (his! his by right!) and he, for one, is fucking fed up with it.

It catches him off-guard when you start to cry. The anger comes first, surprising in its suddenness because he’s become so unused to anger when you’re around. But goddamn it, you cry so easily! It’s frankly embarrassing. He feels it hot and indignant and nauseous in the pit of his belly, like he imagines being sick must be like. Cannot decide who this anger is for: you, your stupid job or that idiot trying to apologize. He wants to break something about this, he is going to BREAK that asshole as soon as you stop your sniveling—

“Hey!” Your manager (insignificant, pathetic and completely outside of Homelander’s scope of possibilities) steps in between you and the half-irate, half-apologetic customer (“I was just telling her I didn’t need a fucking online profile! She doesn’t have to get so fucking worked up!”). His authority is immediate and definite and Homelander feels the alien white-hot burn of envy. “You can leave, sir. Customers who speak like that to my people are not welcome here. Goodbye.”

He hugs you and calls you something in Spanish that makes Homelander bristle in outrage. Sends you to your overdue lunch and you are so pathetically grateful it makes him ill.

It’s not right. It is, in fact, obscenely wrong. He feels strangely and absurdly robbed and considers flying off to leave you fending for yourself. It would serve you right if he did. You would have certainly earned it, missy—

Except you don’t quite make it to the roof. You stop on the last couple of stairs, settle your stupid little packed lunch and sit down, face hiding between your knees. You don’t cry anymore, Homelander would have known if you did, you just take deep, gulping breaths… 

He feels stupid for a moment… Then he decides he’ll be damned if he lets you rob him of your tears as you had robbed him of your gratitude.

He breaks the roof’s lock and crushes its alarm mechanism before you have time to even turn his way, let alone protest, and takes advantage of your shock (seriously misplaced, you should know better by now) to sweep his cape out of the way and settle theatrically by your side.

“So… what’s for lunch?” He tries, offering you his best camera-worthy grin and you take the bait for a second before bursting into tears again. You’re such a pain, Homelander thinks, pleased as you, at long last, fall into his arms and let him be your hero. What would you do without him?

Probably bore someone else with your little complaints.

It turns out that what’s for lunch is leftover Thai from Lumlum on 49th between 9th and 10th for him and a salad with shredded chicken and (in his opinion) an excess of bell peppers for you. Homelander is equal parts annoyed and flattered by the leftovers, carefully curated from your dinner last night with the only one among your pathetic friends who can actually afford to eat out. It’s not too spicy, I could stand it and I’m shit at spicy curries, you tell him confidently and he relents solely because he enjoys your endless attempts to get him to eat new things.

You’re still weepy, but Homelander is pleased to see that the city sun, his own marvelous self, and the well-worn routine of your lunch hour has finally made you relax enough to fill the empty spaces with your chatter.

You’ve been doing this since you started going back to work full time at the end of your semester. You bring enough lunch for two and he, Homelander, lets you bask in his presence for one glorious hour of your ordinary life. He sees it as a sort of charity work, given how much it perks you up, no doubt massively improving your day.

Sometimes you talk. Well, most of the time. You talk a lot. It was… unsettling, the way you would get him to spill whatever it was that bothered him. He would start with complaints about Ashley and the incompetent board at Vought and then he would be telling you about Stan Edgar, or god forbid, Vogelbaum. (Or at least a version of Vogelbaum… one you could understand.)

You always had something interesting to say.

“… I get it… sometimes you wish they’d done something that left scars then you’d feel like it was real. Like it counted.”

And then he’d be paralyzed with sympathy and longing. Like he’d almost reached something, some important bit of understanding that had eluded him. Like there was a physical thing between you, tying the two of you together. You’d have found a better way to say it.

Today, you sounded more tired than outraged. He did not like the defeat in your voice.

“… it’s not that I want it to stop… it’s just that it grinds you down, and I don’t know if it’ll ever get better… if it’ll ever stop being so hard and I’m so sick of trying.”

Something like alarm bells pulse through his veins and in a panic-stricken moment he grabs for your wrists (leaving bruises you will later ignore, because by now you have ignored every other warning sign), holds you away from him like you could burn him (hurt him, by means he has only just begun to understand). You don’t seem to grasp the depths of it, just a bare glimpse of the animal fear that had gripped him for a second, and try, immediately, to diffuse it as best as you can.

“Jesus don’t look at me like that, I don’t mean that, I mean… you know?” But there’s that tired look of defeat on you again, like even complaining takes too much effort, as you gesture at your own body (soft, so soft and comfortable in his arms he suddenly wishes he’d had thought to hold you again instead). “Eat right, exercise, work, study, don’t forget to create shit to stay sane… And it feels like none of it truly matters. Like I’m fighting all the time, just fighting against the weight of my own unimportance… my deep, profound smallness… ideas like everyone else, dreams like everyone else, nothing new, nothing relevant… just waves and waves of remembering how fucking unremarkable I truly am…”

He finds it so surprising he laughs at you. Doesn’t even let you process the hurt before he’s barreling on.

“You’re such a silly goose! Of course you feel like that!” And he’s become so used to the comfort of your understanding and lack of judgment that he doesn’t even think to cushion the blow. “You’re all just so insignificant. Just mud really. It’s so hard to find any of you that matter.”

And he’s not looking at your face, because he’s too busy looking at his hands on your arms and wondering how the soft give of your flesh would feel without his gloves. He’s not thinking of your face, or the bitter grimace of betrayal in it, and that is what saves you both, that there is no premeditation to what he says to you next. It comes out raw and true.

“But you matter. You matter to me. That makes you more important than anyone else.”

***

“Please tell me that you’re fucking him,” your roommate says wheeling her chair into the elevator, finally, at long last repaired and miraculously functional for the last couple of weeks. Management seemed to have gotten competent at something. “Sex makes it normal. Sex is nuts and still pretty dumb but understandable at least!”

You walk in behind her and spend the rest of the way to your apartment trying to explain how it isn’t like that with you and Homelander. You’re friends. You have lunch together every day because it’s nice. You talk about your life and his idiot politics because it’s fun to rile him up. You’ve shown him your drawings cause he asked (cause he’s the first guy in a long time who has shown any interest in them, watched you watercolor intently while he rambles on about himself and whatever petty drama is going on in the Seven, winced when you use too much pigment and clicked his tongue in surprise when you recover by using tissue paper, like it’s a soccer match or something).

Not like that at all… but somehow so much better.

You throw your stuff on your ratty old couch and turn on American Hero both because your roommate likes it and because if you don’t, Homelander will be sulking about it the whole week. God knows how long you spent coaching his atrocious Spanish accent and you intend to spend even more time making fun of his bad attempt to welcome Supersonic into the Seven. (Try not to think about his promise to you. Try not to make it personal and sappy and meaningful that his stupid Mexican ass in his stupid Puerto Rican costume got chosen.)

“God, wish they’d let Queen Maeve host American Hero at some point. She’d be killer at it… You know,” your roommate says from the kitchen while she’s making popcorn. “Sex would be better than you being friendzoned by fucking Homelander.”

“That’s not what—”

“Oh come on! Even you’ve got to be wondering when he’s officially gonna ask you out!”

You say nothing because you’ve got nothing to say. Because you’ve wondered about it and you hate that you have. And you also know how unfair it is. Because his ex-girlfriend (the fucking nazi) just killed herself a few weeks ago. And he was here having a panic attack about it. Because you’re not sure you want it yourself. He still scares you sometimes and you don’t know if that’s the kind of thing you could live with. He’s hurt you before… it gets easy to forget but somehow you haven’t quite managed to. Sometimes he will tell you something that makes you google whether you’re a mandatory reporter in the state of New York. Sometimes he will tell you something that makes your heart ache for him, your alarm bell blair, makes you want to ask him are you happy? Do you want to live like this? You don’t have to… But that’s not the sort of thing a girl who just met him can ask. Especially a girl who is still unsure of what you are to each other or whether she can be anything to him at all.

After all, watching Starlight on TV, blonde and perfect, you wonder how she can stand the terror of being looked at all the time. And that’s what him asking you out would mean. Being looked at all the goddamn time. And no matter how much weight you lose or how many times you go to work or university in roller skates instead of taking the bus, how many YWCA yoga classes you take… you know you’re not the kind of girl people like to look at all the time. Beautiful, angry men who fall out of the sky don’t date frizzy-haired, over-educated, pudgy nobodies. And if they do, people tend not to like it.

Still, he said you mattered. He said it with no hesitation. He meant it.

“I think… we’re taking it slow,” you admit to your roommate and to yourself as you take the bowl of popcorn from her. She looks surprised for a second and then smiles at you and you find yourself smiling back as you settle down to watch the end.

“I get it but,” she says in mock exasperation. “It’s glacial and I want my Queen Maeve VIP passes now.”

You both burst out laughing so hard that you almost miss it. His shit-eating grin that you can never admit you love so much. His dumb red gloved hand that you’ve held in your own before, sneaking around Starlight’s shoulder. She’s my girl now. Come again, you want to ask. Because you don’t quite understand. Because you must have heard wrong. Can’t keep it a secret anymore.

In love.

Your roommate stares at you and it’s not the almost immediate fury and shout of fucking Homelight my ass! that gets you. It’s not the immediate speculation from the voice over, or Homelander kissing Starlight on the lips while your roommate screams motherfucker! at the screen. All of that you could have withstood, maybe not with grace or civility but at least without falling apart. But it’s that brief yet still too long moment of utter pity on your roommate’s face when she looks at you, that makes you stand up without a word and lock yourself in your room, while she knocks on your door and says things you don’t understand about you being a thousand times better than him. Being well rid of him. Fuck him. You’ll be fine

I used to think love could give me significance, back when I dated, you had told him once and he had made a face like he’d swallowed a lemon and told you unequivocally, what bullshit that was. Love does nothing. Love fixes nothing. You either matter or you don’t. You’re important or you’re a nobody.

And yet, it seemed just a few short days ago he’d said you mattered. Homelander had looked directly at you, no trace of guile in his stupid face, just fond exasperation. As if you had been silly to ask, silly to doubt it for a second. You matter to me.

Not enough. Apparently not enough.

***

He should’ve known it from the very first shitty excuse. He’d been focusing on the important things, hadn’t had time for whatever fucking bullshit had made you start acting so weird. He just didn’t have any time for this. He’d needed you there for him through this difficult time and suddenly you were…

Gone. Unavailable. Busy.

First it had been ridiculous errands that couldn’t have been important in any way. He’d gotten Ashley to install fucking washing machines in your building and left a Vought credit card with you in spite of your fucking tiresome protests because he was sick of you being at the goddamn library consulting books you could just fucking buy, wasting your time talking to god knows who, stupid excuses like you were drawing at the library with friends. Who fucking goes to the library to draw? (And who the fuck would go hang out with friends when they had Homelander as an option?)

Then, it was missing lunch at work. Lots of customers. Something about summer and people having more time to browse while shopping and needing to make more sales because you were saving up for the semester.

He’d put his foot down with that. He’d fucking had enough. Because you’d said it without looking at him, your pulse racing, your palms sweating and he had known, known instantly that you were lying. Like everyone lied to him. Struggled to hide the hurt it caused him and cornered you in the back of the store instead, slammed his hand right besides your face making the concrete crack and told you (because he could, because he should, because what he had said to Starlight had been true, if all he could have from you was fear then fear it would be) that you could figure it out with that fucking asshole manager of yours or he would figure it out for you.

And his stomach burned when he’d seen you fight to hold back tears while you nodded stupidly at him. Because you hadn’t held back tears in front of him in ages. Because he’d suddenly wanted to grab you and shake you until you’d cry and let him hold you through it the way it was supposed to work.

You never missed lunch again.

And suddenly it’s not enough. Because you’re not there. You look out into the sky when you should be looking at him. You sound distracted and irritable when you should be fucking glad. You were always so fucking glad to see him. And he wants to toss you aside, fine by him if you want to be like this. You can rot for all he cares.

Except your silences taste like tears. Like the moist, fragile quality of your brown eyes looking at him when you think he doesn’t notice. It’s nothing like the acrid taste of Madelyn’s nervous deception, or the adrenaline spiked rush of Stormfront’s passionate delusions. It’s sharp and bitter and full of sleepless nights.

He knows because he’s gone to your room when you are not there. To catch the smell of the sour-sweet cortisol of your insomnia. Had considered breaking your things in a rage, uprooting your plants, throwing your books into the harbor. (Can’t bring himself to lay hands on you again and this would be the next best thing) But all he manages is to lose himself in the telltale aroma of salt on your pillows. Where you’d laid together. Where you’d said he was your hero. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with you. Suspects it’s these friends you keep having to see, their offensive scent all over your unmade bed. Confusing and alien, too many fucking people in your life that have no business taking up what should be HIS time. Sometimes your goddamn roommate, sometimes some unknown man, or a girl, caked cheap makeup and peroxide and hair spray. Not your smell, oatmeal soap and clean sweat…

He burrows into the pillows and thinks of tearing your sheets to pieces. Would serve you right. He should incinerate the whole bed and everything in it and—

Oh. Oh.

He pushes himself off the bed like it burns him, because he hadn’t expected this, has no framework to place it in. It doesn’t belong here, with you. Because underneath all the extraneous scents, and the other more familiar ones, the dust, the damp earth of your plants and the parchmenty sharpness of your books, there’s the thick, tangy smell of your sex. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. I mean you’re a red-blooded Ame— woman. It’s only natural you should— He shifts uncomfortably on your bed, over-conscious of the knowledge that you’d rubbed one out in the same bed where you sometimes lay down to watch a movie (one of his movies) with him.

He doesn’t move towards it, not really. Just lays back down on your bed and breathes deeply. He tries to think of nothing, indulging in not even the slightest movement. Almost smiles before the intrusion of the sudden, furious thought that your fun might have been not entirely solitary makes him clench his fists so hard the leather of his gloves creaks ominously. You fucking invite so many fucking assholes to this bed it might be hiding in the smell of one of them. (It would explain it, would clear up everything, a reason for your distance that would be simple to fix) He should put a stop to it. No more friends. No more library. No more conversational French meetups. No more Central Park or roller skating to occupy your time. Just your job. Just the important part. Just him.

And he is suddenly, surprisingly, furiously hard, still breathing deeply of you. Cheap shampoo, corner-store deodorant, cotton panties and thick, potent female arousal… but no bitter scent of male cum anywhere in the cacophony of your bed’s smells.

Not yet anyway.

You must have been thinking about him when you did this. Of course. Of course. Your crush was painfully transparent, even if he hadn’t had the telltale spike of your heartbeat every time you saw him. So stupid of you. So silly and earnest, to want the impossible fantasy of your hero. He was almost sorry for you, because it must have been so difficult to see him day in and day out, not knowing what to say or do, wanting him…

And he finds himself facedown on your unmade bed, hands grabbing handfuls of your sheets, because it’s either that or touch himself, and he will be damned if he capitulates in this, like he’s done with everything else around you. He’s so hard it hurts. Erection sandwiched painfully between his body and the soft give of your mattress. A sudden, crystal clear image pops up in his head: your soft, thick thighs and one of your sweet little hands between them. And he’s grinding against the bed, almost without meaning too, almost without permission from his brain, because his face is shoved against what had been the wet spot of your bed and he holds his jaw shut so tightly it’s nearly painful, lest he be tempted to sneak a taste.

The smell is enough, more than enough, as he lets his hips go, imagining you whispering Homelander, Homelander against your bed. You’d sob like he’d heard you sob before, maybe cry a little, but happily this time. Ecstatic transported like that day at the lake. You, soaked in his arms, soaked in more ways than one, smiling at him.

He’s cumming, long and drawn out, with each snap of his hips against your mattress, pounding against it, eyes scrunched shut as if in pain, barely a gasp behind clenched teeth, erection pressed so hard against the bed it almost hurts. He’ll think about it later. It’s enough for the moment, enough to dissipate it all.

He very nearly forgives you.

He’s still laying on your bed when you come back home, still breathing heavily, head blissfully blank, the squelching mess of his own cum inside his suit making him feel so dirty and ashamed he’s already beginning to sport a brand new stiffy. He should’ve heard you come in all the way from the elevator landing. He had, if he was honest with himself. But had also found himself stuck in defiant paralysis, half of him ready to bolt, half of him willing to be caught sprawled on your bed, hand shoved down his pants, just to make you responsible for whatever this was. There was something terribly appealing about you, inattentive, absentee traitor that you were, having to get home and watch him jerk off where you had. Not being able to look away. Not being able to lie about it. Not being able to leave him.

But he does neither.

And when he hears you open your bedroom’s door and call to someone behind you “I’ll be right there! Let me just leave my things!” he is immediately overcome by a raging irritation that does nothing to alleviate the embarrassment of his still lingering arousal. Some fucking library you had to go to! The fucking sort of library that answers “Sure!” in a sweet baritone…

Two things register first. You’re wearing the Homelander branded varsity jacket he got you and your hair is green. Not even fucking blue or red, fucking deep emerald green, clashing gloriously with the colors on your jacket, freshly dyed apparently, lovingly curled for once instead of your usual frizzy mess. He hates it on sight. Hates it because you did not consult him on it. Because you hadn’t thought about him at all when deciding to do something so stupid looking. You had probably been thinking about whoever was on the other side of your ratty, disgusting apartment. Oh he’s going to let him and you know. Oh you’ve gotten yourself in so much trouble…

Except you also look so miserable and exhausted he could swear you’re about to drop.

“… hey,” you say uncertainly. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

He doesn’t want to think of this, of the fluttering of your tired pulse, and the dryness of your tightly-held lips. He refuses to feel sorry for you. You should be the one begging his forgiveness.

“Weeeell,” he barrels on with a strained, too-wide smile. “You did fucking tell me to drop whenever. Maybe you shoulda thought to put a schedule to that, huh? Maybe when you’re not entertaining. Who’s your fucking friend?”

He hates that you step back. He hates that you don’t even look scared, not really. He smells the tears before they drop from your eyes, before you hang your head in unbearable pain, holding your own sweet arms to your stomach like that can keep your insides from spilling out.

“I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. Please leave.”

And that does hit him like a gut punch, like the physical blow he has never experienced. He reaches for the comforting rage and finds nothing but gaping emptiness. Because nothing you say or do ever sounds right to him. You never give him the right cue cards, the well known scripts… you never let him do what he knows. Homelander may have expected rejection but not this open, wounded mourning. Not you grabbing hold of a wall to lower yourself on the floor while you can’t stop looking at him like he’s the one that has dismissed you. Like you can’t stand to tear your eyes off him now that he’s here.

Fuck you. And your easy tears. And that look of betrayal that should have belonged to him.

“You? YOU?! You can’t do THIS anymore?! And what is THIS exactly, missy? Huh? What kind of fucking performing monkey do you think I am to you? Think that you can have me here whenever you want and out the door when it’s not to your fucking convenience? Oh no, no you don’t. You don’t get to tell me when to fucking go–”

And it takes the bottom out from under him when you choke back “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Because your pulse is racing and you are afraid. He can see it in the tension of your shoulders and every time you flinch when he shouts. But when you bury your face in your hands, it’s more of those awful, gulping tears and more I’m sorries that he somehow believes you mean.

“I can’t be your friend anymore. I just can’t.”

He had not known this would hurt as it did. He thought he’d known the worst of it when Ryan had walked away from him. When Stormfront had left him when he most needed her. When Madelyn had lied to him. He didn’t know how the truth could hurt so much worse. The truth that all the others had neglected to speak to him, at least you have the guts to say it to his face. He’d always thought he’d have enough pride to face it head on, hadn’t known he would have to bite back bile and the thin, reedy pleading boy he somehow still harbored inside him. Please. I’ll be better. I’ll be good. Please don’t do this.

“I can’t stand it…” You get formal when you’re in pain, like you forget the casual ease of your adopted language and country. Like you want as much distance between the two of you. “I can’t stand looking at you. I’ve tried… I’ve tried so hard…”

And he’s the one who can’t look at you, nauseous and adrift, hands almost curling into fists, almost reaching for your shoulders so he can shake some sense into you, so he can tear you in two before he lets you keep hurting him like this. And he does, he does grab a handful of each fleshy shoulder, fights his own grimace of pain and the part of himself that has every right to demand he bang your head against your bedroom wall until you’ll stop talking, stop leaving, just stop.

You don’t know. He wants so badly to tell you, to show you how close to destruction you are, how little you matter, how easy you would be to snuff out. But whatever it is that is going through your silly little head, it makes you reach back to him, touch his face once and then recoil like he could burn you (he can and he will), like he disgusts you, like he—

“I can’t stand having to look at you and not have you. Please leave. I can’t be your friend when I feel like this about you.”

[after-witch]

Good as Gold [Yandere Dragon x Reader]

Title: Good as Gold [Yandere Dragon x Reader]

Synopsis: You’re his treasure, like anything else. 

Word Count: 1000ish

Notes: yandere, objectification, kidnapped reader, mentions of implied sex

The room, despite its glow from the mountains of hoarded treasure--blood colored jewels and creamy pearls and mountains of gold, all twinkling in the candlelight--is cold. 

This doesn't surprise you. The room is always cold, when he is away.  Without the warmth of his enormous body, without the fire always burning deep in his belly, it can never quite get comfortable for you.

You often wonder if it’s intentional, this cold. To make you eager for his return. Or is it, like so many things, simply his inability to notice or care about how the world differs for you, his fragile little human? 

Of course, if he left you dressed in something more than a flimsy gown, made from gauzy fabric better suited to fairies, you might be less chilly. But you had no say in that--what you wore. Or what you ate, or what you did, or where you went.

You were no longer a complete person, after all, but a prize. A treasure. Another trinket added to his collection, like his precious diamond necklaces or perhaps, more aptly, the occasional animal he permitted to live. A rare bird with feathers that looked like sparkling silver, kept in a black cage that allowed for a becoming contrast with the bird’s natural colors.

At least you had freedom that the bird did not. You could walk around. Chained, yes, but still. You hummed and twirled your ankle, and the melodic sound of the pure gold chain attached to it was as familiar as your own breath. It was only your ankle that was chained now. 

Before, it had been both wrists, both legs--even your neck. As the years passed, most of these were removed. The chain on your ankle is impossibly long, and you can go almost to the end of the massive treasure room, as long as he hasn’t wound it tighter in response to any perceived disobedience. But you were still chained, always. Around your ankle, when he was in a good mood. Around your neck, when he wasn't. Or when he was feeling particularly possessive, regardless of your behavior and the temperament he found himself in. You preferred it when he was content for you to merely exist in the same space as him. For when he got into those moods, red-hot and enamored with nothing but making sure every single piece of treasure was accounted for (you most of all) it tended to end with you, sore and spent, weak and wishing you were a golden statue he admired and not a being of flesh and blood. -- "Darling, precious, irreplaceable... have I told you that you are all these things and more to me?"  His voice is low and rumbling, the words themselves feeling like they were carved from a mountain. A long, crooked claw traces its way across your shoulder. It slices through the fabric like water, leaving it draping down your shoulder. "Yes, always." You regard the torn fabric with a small frown. "I never tire of hearing it. But would you mind not destroying my clothes?" He huffs, nostrils glowing red, and you raise your eyebrows to him. "For they were a gift from you, and so, I hate to see them destroyed." He laughs, and his laugh fills the room, large and loud and old. His laugh has the aches of a thousand years in it, and you wouldn't doubt that his age might very well be close to that number. You remember when you doubted dragons existed at all. They were rumors, legends, things the village feared, but which had not touched your life or your mother's or your grandmother's. Her mother, your grand-mama told you once, swore she saw a dragon snatch up a man and gobble him right up in thin air. But her grand-mama said lots of things. It doesn't matter now. Because you know that dragons are real. That the stories of their massive hoards of treasure are no exaggeration. And that they, if your dragon master is anything to go from, love to keep people just as much as any gold coin. If the person is just right. Like you. "I have a thousand dresses you may wear instead of that slip," he says, though his eyes roam the way the dress hugs your body, the slightly sheer fabric that lives little to his expansive imagination. "If it rips, I shall give you another one. Will that please you?" His claw traces along your chin. It could cut to the bone in seconds. Instead, it gently raises your chin until you're looking at him. "If it pleases you," you tell him, sweet as any marigold, "then it pleases me." Another laugh, this one ending in something akin to a croon. "You really are a treasure. Perfect manners. Perfect mouth. There is no woman in the kingdom like you, nor the world. You may have my word on it.” You shrug, lightly, smiling. 

His words recall a memory, one of the few he does not share with you. Once, while exploring a new area of his hoard while he slept, you found a skeleton. It was small-framed. A woman, from the clothes. It wasn't in a heap of bones like the treasure-seekers and dragon-hunters and glory-hounds who died at your dragon's claws or in some cases, his fire.

Instead, the skeleton was laid out neatly, inside a jewel-encrusted box. Some fabric still clung to the bones, though most of it had rotted away. you found the skeleton and... said nothing. did nothing. You were afraid to ask. No, that wasn't it. You were afraid to know who it was, and what that meant. You brush away the memory, for your own sanity's sake. "I missed you while you were away," you tell him, leaning your head into the rigid claw. "Please tell me you won't leave for that long again. It's difficult without you here." "Cold, you mean?" He asks, humor in his tone, but something else underneath. For all the dragon's size and strength, he was terribly lonely and terribly afraid of coming up wanting in your eyes. It was almost pitiful. Almost. You hum, half-affirming. But you know better than to leave his vulnerability open, like an untreated wound. That never ended well. "Of course it's cold. But it's empty, too." "Empty!" He says, scoffing. He gestures his head around the room. When he breathes out through his nostrils, the air warms it like a stove fire in the kitchens back home. "My mountain is filled with treasure, is it not?” Your hands, small and delicate compared to everything that he is, reach out towards him. He acquiesces, slowly, and lets you stroke the side of his face. The scales are rough and prickly as you pet him, loving, soothing. "What do I care for the gold coins or jewels? They cannot talk to me, or sing to me, or ask me about my day." The dragon snorts, pleased, and the tension in your stomach releases into slow warmth. "What did I tell you? Irreplaceable treasure... that's what you are." The gold chain on your ankle clinks as you climb up on a pile of blankets and beds, designed to give him easier access to your person.

He presses his snout, slightly damp, against your body.

“You are worth more than anything else in this room,” he says, and his voice has taken on something soft and wistful now. “I swear it.” 

“So you say,” you reply, as lightly as you can.

But your mind returns to the skeleton in the box, and her rotting gown, and her empty eye sockets.

[slamdunk-headcanons]

Oooh something warm with cuddling hcs for Ryota, Sawakita and sakuragi the America group lol

To warm your day, sweetie! Thank you so much for the request! I feel like putting this one in a marriage context bc I'm into some marriage and family hcs

Miyagi Ryota

Him being the big spoon to make you feel safe;

Him being the small spoon only after marriage because he won't have to control himself;

Likes to lay down in a way he can smell your hair;

I can super imagine him after you two are married and you're pregnant, him being the big spoon and caressing your belly while talking to you and the kid, the plans for their childhood playing basketball with mom and dad;

Loves to sleep like this during winter;

Love tickles attacks or tickles wars between you two!

Sakuragi Hanamichi

Looooves to cuddle!

Cuddling with you is heaven, but he really struggles to do it. I think he'll only feel 100% safe when you two are finally married because Sakuragi has such a pure heart and doesn't want to have a dirty look over you.

Cuddling is really intimate, so it really messes up with his mind and body and he has hard time controling his thoughts and impulses.

So when he's finally comfortable, he would love to hold you tight while being the big spoon

But his heaven is when you are the big spoon. He loves to feel your legs around him like a koala and, you know, the rest...

One of his favorite Sunday moments is taking a nap with you like cuddling

Sawakita Eiji

Big spoon and touches you only asking your permition and makes only things that make you feel comfortable

Neck kisses (small and quick pecks);

He likes to make you laugh putting his legs and arms around you and lifting you up to change the side you are lying down.

You try to do the same and he laughs so hard when you just can't even make him move;

Tickles attack!

When he notices you are down or anxious, he just silently pulls you for a cuddle when you two go to bed. He kisses your head, silently saying he's there for you;