#k bye thanks

[plotsignificanthaircut555]

Anniversary

Kishibe x Reader smut. 18+ only MDNI. AO3

7.5k words

You and Kishibe have been hooking up casually for a long time now. A year, exactly. You don't realize it, but he does. When he invites you over tonight, you start to get the feeling he has something else on his mind.

Content Includes: penetrative sex, oral sex, (he eats it from the back because I said so), uncomfortable conversations about the nature of relationships, choking, smoking, spanking, orgasm denial. it's nasty, hot, and wet idk what else to say. Kishibe may be OOC but i think hes more of a romantic than people think

It started so casually. You had been at the bar, too focused on the book sat open in front of you to see him moving to the seat one away from yours. Not that you would have minded, the reason you had come to the bar to read in the first place was to avoid being bored out of your mind at home. He opened the conversation, asking what you had to drink and if you wanted another. His intentions were clear from the jump, that’s what Kishibe was like: direct. He never seemed to have interest in ambiguous flirting. He spoke to you clearly and asked questions with easy answers. Even answered a few of your own. That night when he invited you to his place after last call. The sex had been excellent; he was focused and skilled, rough and passionate enough to keep you cumming over and over, but it wasn’t intimate, you could both feel the veil between the two of you. You hadn’t expected to see him again when you finally broke out of the post coital haze and back into your jeans and shoes. 

“You don’t have to leave. You can stay the night if you want.” He offered, sitting up against the headboard, a cigarette bouncing lightly between his lips as he spoke. A small burgundy bruise was beginning to form at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, your handiwork, you likely had a few of your own. 

You finished lacing up your final shoe and stood to grab your bag, “That’s okay, I’ve got an early morning. Thanks for this.” You knew it sounded like a cliche, but you really did have an early start to your day. Even as the words exited your kiss bitten lips, you felt the dread of tomorrow’s workload creeping up on you. 

Kishibe left the bed, sheets still rumpled from rolling around together. He stood before you, still naked, and crossed the room to you. You expected he was getting up simply to lock the door behind you after you left. To your surprise, he took your face in his large hands and kissed you. Not the teeth clashing, tongue tangling kiss of before, but a romantic goodnight kiss. 

“Be careful getting home.” He said, still holding your face, he released you and let his arms fall to his sides, “if I see you at the bar again, think I could bring you back here?” 

“I’d like that.” you were still a lot shocked by the kiss.

You left him that night, and found yourself frequenting that bar more and more. He did find you again, and again, and again. You’d drink together, talk for an hour or so before he would invite you to join him back to his place. Eventually you did start to spend the night, but only on nights when your sessions of pleasure had extended later than was safe to walk home. After the fourth or fifth time you had invited him to your apartment, saying your place was actually a lot closer than his (it was barely a four block difference, just in the other direction). He had slept in your bed, or tried to, smoked on your patio, even showered at your place once or twice if he was running late or met you afterwork and was still grimy. 

Kishibe was not your boyfriend. You were not his girlfriend. You didn’t go out together, the only time you could be seen out together was meeting at the bar and sitting side by side before leaving to one of your homes. More and more often you two would cut out the pageantry of meeting elsewhere and meet up directly at the home of whoever made the call. You knew he worked at Public Safety (the uniform and overall demeanor gave him away), and he knew the rough outline of your job. You didn’t have any complaints, you didn’t think he did either. He was a good fuck and a nice man, you got the sense he wasn’t really that nice of a man, but he was always nice to you. Ample orgasms, warm body to sleep next to, good conversationalist, if a bit reserved. You would often go weeks without seeing each other, before he would call you, voice already dripping whiskey through your phone’s receiver. Or you would call, too much on your mind, body begging for the clarity you’d get after the three or four orgasms he would give you. 

So tonight, when he called and asked you to meet him at a hotel, you were surprised. Of course you still agreed, changing quickly into underwear you felt sexier in than your laying around the house set, refreshing your hair, and packing a small overnight bag with a change of clothes and some toiletries.  It wasn’t until you were standing outside the room number he told you over the phone, in a much nicer hotel than you had expected, that the peculiarity of the situation really started to press on you. Suddenly your jeans and sweater felt sloppy, you wondered why he hadn’t just asked you to meet him at his place. One knock was all that was needed for him to swing the door wide, tie already removed, too few buttons undone on his work shirt, jacket missing. It was rare to see him smile, but here he was, scar crinkling and lips wide. You blinked in surprise at his quick welcome. 

“Hey kid,” he said, his smile easing down as he moved to the side allowing you to step into the lavish suite. 

“Hey.” You stepped inside, you didn’t hate the nickname, you were 20 years younger than him (give or take). In fact, something about it ignited a pulse inside of you that you didn’t care to examine that thoroughly. 

The suite was large, a sitting room with a patterned couch and coffee table comprised the main area, a door behind led to the bedroom, you assumed, and the bathroom was by the entrance. Even just on a side peek, you could see a large bathtub inside. The wall furthest from you was mostly glass, which appeared to let out onto a balcony, overlooking the city. Kishibe had drawn the curtains mostly out of the way, dark fabric fluttering in the window from the open sliding door. You’re sure your face betrayed your awe.  

“Don’t get used to this, alright?,” his breath was hot on the back of your ear, head moved right behind you, one of his hands slipped your bag off of your shoulder, “I got an extension on a job, and they put me up in here.” He set your bag down next to the coffee table, you turned to face him, still trepidacious. 

“So you called me?” 

“Yeah. Seemed like a waste to be here all by myself. You like it?” 

You took another look around the suite before nodding. This was by far the nicest hotel you had ever stayed in, used to mid range single rooms and crappy motels. 

“Why me?” You don’t even really know what you meant by the question, if it was only about the hotel, or if maybe this was a large inquiry about the nature of your relationship with him. 

He laughed, “Come on, kid, it’s not a proposal. I just like having you around. That so hard to believe?” 

He pulled a cigarette from his pack, holding it between his lips before gesturing to the patio behind you, “want a smoke?” 

You did. You needed something to ground your swimming head. You stay stiffly on the rattan patio set smoking your cigarette carefully, not wanting any ash to sully the pristine terrace. In juxtaposition Kishibe seemed completely relaxed, long legs stretched out in front of him, leaning against the back of his chair, not caring where his ash may fall. A small ashtray sits on the table between you, the summer night air is thick and sticky, if it weren’t for the soft breeze from being so high up, you would be shedding your top layer already. 

“Relax.” Kishibe exhales the result of a long drag. 

You do. Your shoulders loosen, your spine releases, muscles softening. You take a drag and allow the tobacco and nicotine to soothe your racing thoughts. He looks so good languidly smoking and watching you. He catches you staring and pats his leg, a practiced move you have come to recognize easily. You stand and move to sit on his lap. Immediately he wraps one strong arm around you to support your back. Your own find a home around the back of his neck. His hand moved up and down your back soothingly.

“I didn’t know you were so inflexible.” He teases. 

“Excuse me?” you laugh lightly at him preparing to joke about him knowing how flexible you really could be. 

“Didn’t think a change of scenery would rattle you so much.” his hand on your back sneaks under your top to trace lazy circles on your skin, you feel your body immediately relax under his touch, “You’re never this quiet.” his lips were right against your neck as he spoke, starting to trail hot kisses along the column of your throat. 

You could already feel yourself fighting the urge to rock your hips in his lap, getting wetter from his touches, the buzz in your head of nicotine adding to the haze of pleasure. You moved a hand from his neck down to the front of his shirt, undoing buttons and sliding your hand inside to touch the hair along his chest. His hand on your back traveled down to cup your clothed ass, your head tilted back allowing him better access to your neck and you could no longer keep your hips from rocking against his lap. 

“Guess it was foolish of me to think you’d like something special for our anniversary.” 

Every cell in your body stopped suddenly. Hips stilled, hands immobilized, moans halted despite Kishibe continuing his migration across your throat. You started to push him away, but before you could stand he gripped you tighter. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot.” His tone was joking, no, teasing. Was he fucking with you? 

Mentally you flipped through your calendar, it hadn’t been summer when you met him. It had been spring, right? It was warm, but not so warm, he had had his coat on. But then you remembered, it was summer. Last summer, exactly 365 days since he had taken you home that first time. He was right. You immediately felt guilty for falling short, but did you really need to? Why would he have even remembered a thing like that? What did dates and anniversaries mean when you weren’t together, when the only thing you did was fuck.

Was that all you did? Yes, right? 

So what if he kept a copy of a book you lent him on his bedside table at his place, small scribbles on slips of paper tucked in between the pages? He wasn’t a very sound sleeper anyway, you just assumed he kept it there for a quick way to lull himself back to sleep on rougher nights. Sure you always made sure to grab an extra bottle of his preferred whiskey for your pantry in case he decided to stop by when you were unprepared. But that was just to save yourself or him a last minute trip to the liquor store. That wasn't a relationship, not even close. You hadn't discussed families or dreams or personal histories, at least not a length. The spare clothes you kept at his place were for convenience, you started smoking his brand of cigarettes when you had run out of your own and bummed one off of him, he started making coffee for you himself instead of walking to the convenience store to save money, not to extend his time with you in the mornings.--Oh my God. 

You couldn’t stop yourself, suddenly every behavior became so loaded, carrying so much intimacy where there previously had been none. But there wasn't none, you just hadn’t paid close enough attention. He had never asked you to be his girlfriend, or even on a date. You didn’t even really eat together, sharing a coffee in the morning and drinks at night. Once or twice you had shared dinner or a late night snack, but never beakfast. Your mind raced examining and reexamining how you had gotten to this point with him, and if you were about to ruin it in your obliviousness. 

Whether it was the sound of your pounding heartbeat or the fact that you had gone mute, Kishibe finally removed his lips from you, his dark eyes patiently scanning your face. He brought his cigarette to his lips and puffed, exhaling through the side of his mouth still waiting for a response from you.

“But…we’re not dating.” was all you could manage. 

His head cocked slightly, brows twitching inward, you could tell he was amused by this whole situation-- whereas you were reeling “no we’re not, but it’s nice to celebrate milestones, isn’t it?”

He fished his flask out of his pants pocket, having to lift his hips, you on top of him, to do so. You knew how strong Kishibe was, you were intimately familiar with how easy it was for him to move you, throw you, fold you, however he wanted. Him arching into you brought his groin up to yours, you could feel him starting to get hard underneath his pants, you sitting on his lap often had this effect on him. Once he had retrieved his flask he held it up to you, you unscrewed it for him, allowing him to keep his other arm around your hips, once again starting to move under your shirt tipping his head back to drink. 

“Kishi, we don’t have an anniversary to celebrate. We aren’t together.” You weren't even sure what point you were trying to get across, whether you were trying to offload the guilt you felt for potentially undervaluing something that could mean a lot to him or just trying to remind yourself and him that you two had never had a conversation about the nature of your relationship. 

He was starting to be less amused, “You don’t feel like a year of good sex is worth celebrating? Guess it wasn’t as good as I thought. Although I don’t hear you complain, much.”

He tipped his flask toward you, punctuating his joke. Was he really messing around about this? 

You nearly accepted, desperately wanting the whiskey inside to bring you back to your senses, but you shook your head, opting to press forward through the discomfort, “Of course it's good. But aren't anniversaries for people who ...I don’t know…belong to each other?” 

You were a smart woman, educated, quick, employed well, you were fucking verbose but in this moment you couldnt string an articulate thought together for the life of you. Words felt jumbled, either too heavy for your casual situation or too dismissive of the ounce of vulnerability he was offering you. Did he mean for this to be the next step? Did he want you to be his girlfriend? Did you want that? How much would it really change? Before tonight everything had felt so simple, relationships were complicated and required patience and expectations, something you weren't sure either of you had time for. What if this was how this ended? What if you began to resent each other and you---

Kishibe tapped his fingers on your temple, “Get out of there. Come back.”

That had jostled you out of your spiral and back into your body, he was still so solid underneath you. Your silence does not seem to have scared him away yet. But he looked thoughtful, observant to your fluctuations, he was paying close attention to you, as though reading your thoughts as they were transcribed onto your forehead. He looked so sincere, eyes soft and warm, his usually furrowed and frustrated brows, relaxed.

“Belong to each other, huh? Look kid, I don’t usually keep up with one person this much. And forgive my assumption but, you don’t either. I like the nights we have together, I like the mornings too. You haven't told me about seeing anyone else, I don't mind if you have, but it certainly doesn't feel like you have been.” Even when he was being sincere he was a cheeky shit, “You don’t have to be my girl, if you don’t want to. Probably shouldn't be stuck with an old man like me, anyway. But I haven't just been wasting time with you the past year.”

Your heart surged, you hadn’t even realized it but you felt it too. Each encounter cracked through your barriers more and more. Even as recently as last week he had stayed at your apartment for two hours after waking up sipping coffee on your patio while you did the morning crossword. It was so domestic, you hadn’t clocked it then, as it was part of your routine. But that was exactly it, it was your routine and he had assimilated so seamlessly. How could you have been so blind?

“Kishi…” you brought your hands to the sides of his face, mirroring his first send off to you, “who knew you were such a romantic.” 

His scruff was rough against your palms, and scratched lightly as his smile rose to his cheeks, “Whaddya say? I like belonging to you, you want to belong to me too?” 

You couldn't deny you were nervous about what this establishment could change about your situation, but you want that so desperately. You had been on your own for so long, you couldn't remember the last relationship you had had. You were out of practice, but so was he, maybe you could figure it out together. 

“I guess happy anniversary.” You smiled leaning down to him and pressing your lips together. 

The hand he had kept on your back pulled you close to his chest, his other hand had abandoned his flask and now gripped your thigh. His mouth tasted so familiar, smoke and alcohol with the undernote of his mouthwash. You were so used to his taste, you rarely even noticed anymore, but with the new perspective this conversation had given you, you reacquainted yourself with what you had been taking for granted. Kishibe has always been a good kisser, directing your mouth against his, lips soft and warm, tongue agile and skilled against yours. What you hadn't realized before was that Kishibe may be the best kisser you had ever known. His teeth seemed to disappear, allowing your tongue ample room to explore his mouth. He knew just when to suck lightly on your bottom lip, when to allow you a quick breath while keeping you breathless against him. His hands wandered freely, one now tangling in the hair at the back of your head as the other slid down the back of your pants to grip the flesh of your ass. The feeling of his calloused hands on your body ignited your nervous system, you felt effervescent. Like champagne just before being popped, fizzy and sparkly. You were panting against him now, pulling away to shift your legs to straddle him in his chair which could just barely fit the pair of you. Your hands cupped his face, rounded his neck, mussed though his hair. You wanted to touch every part of him, feel how new he felt in the wake of your shared confession. Your hips rocked together, he was getting hard again, you could feel him right up against your core. You must have been radiating heat, the way he shuttered. 

“If I knew this is how you’d respond, I’d have asked you to be my woman a long time ago.” Kishibe slid his tongue into your mouth again, now running his hands up and down from the small of your back, to the back of your neck. 

His woman, His. When was the last time you had even entertained the idea of belonging to someone. You were filled with excitement, feeling yourself start to drip into your panties at his possessive words. You started to finish your earlier job of unbuttoning his shirt. Kishibe had an incredible body, caveat of age sure, but also for anyone. Strong muscles built over years, decades, of careful cultivation. He wasn't a cut as maybe he once had been, but the muscles in his abdomen were still clearly visible. Scars littered his whole body, obviously the most apparent being the slash from lip to ear you had felt against your own lips many times, but his torso and back resembled a spider's web, pale lines crossing and crisscrossing, so much pain embedded just under his skin. You found your eyes began to sting with unexpected tears as you beheld him. Breaking the kiss and allowing your hands and eyes to scan over the topography of his body. This was from your first time seeing him shirtless, you had observed his scars while laying together in bed, or in the mornings when he hadn’t yet gotten dressed for work. You wondered about each one, what sort of devil (or man) had marred him, leaving him with another etching. 

“Don’t start getting sentimental over me,” Kishibe slid his hands down your waist, once again knowing exactly what you were thinking looking at him, “I’m not gone yet. You can mourn me later.” 

His dark humor usually lightened you, but this one held a specific truth that you had not yet acknowledged. He was a devil hunter, he fought for his own life near daily. You didn’t know a lot about devils or devil hunting, but you knew it was rare for devil hunters to have survived so long without retiring. There was a very real chance that he could die on you, leaving you heartbroken and alone. But you were too far gone now, you didn’t know how this would end either in tragedy and heartbreak or something more hopeful, but you couldn’t control that now. You could only celebrate being here with him now. 

“That’s your big plan, huh? Get me all obsessed with you just so you can leave someone behind to cry at your funeral?”, you wanted to tease him back, meeting him on his own morbid level. 

He sat up pulling your chest flush against his, “Awe, you’d cry for me?”

“You’re sick.” you giggled kissing him again. 

“Mmmmhm” he mumbled against your lips, finally gripping you tightly to him and standing, his inhuman strength making your full form nothing for him to carry easily. 

Kishibe carried you inside, lips still against yours and brought you into the bedroom you had speculated about earlier. “Switch on the wall, hit it for me” he instructed through desperate kisses. 

Your hand flew out quickly groping the wall by the door frame before finding the rocker switch and pushing the top half, illuminating the space. Kishibe always wanted the lights on, wanting to see you come undone underneath him, see your body writhe and flush under his tongue, his fingers, anything. He had to see you to know it was real. He laid you down on the bed, the duvet was plush and sank lightly under you. This really was a nice hotel. The bed was big with a mattress that perfectly combined support with a soft spongy bounce. You moved back toward the center of the bed, enjoying the luxury as Kishibe stood at the foot of the bed, removing his shirt and pants. You shed your own top and wiggled out of your pants, leaving your bra and underwear. Kishibe liked taking them off himself. 

Standing at his full height in front of you, nearly six foot and five inches wearing only his boxers, your heart began to race. The way he looked down at you, with hungry eyes, pupils dilated in lust, lips parted already breathing heavily. He was already leaking against his boxers, a wet spot forming in the dark fabric.

He palmed himself, taking you in, resting on your elbows in barely anything. You had worn his favorite bra of yours, a sheer black underwire unpadded bra, so simple but so classic, he could see your nipples hardening through the material. Your panties matched, barely held together with the thin material, he could tell you had chosen this specifically for him. You had. You knew he liked you in black, and just barely covered. Desperate under his gaze, you moved forward to sit with your knees underneath you. Putting on a little show of crawling toward him, your position on the bed brings you much closer to eye level with him. Locking eyes you moved your hands down the expanse of his shoulders, he was so broad. His muscles twitched under your soft hands, a small groan leaving his lips, Kishibe tended to be quieter than you had expected. Dirty talk was one thing, but allowing himself to moan freely was difficult for him, it felt too vulnerable, too weak somehow. But this was different, things had changed, vulnerability was already present, he had already put himself out there to be rejected and hadn’t been. He felt lighter under your hands, in your gaze. An ever wandering hand of his found its way into your hair, pulling you into another deep kiss. 

“Love that pretty mouth,” he spoke hot against your lips, “show me how talented you are.” 

Your anxiety was shed at his instruction. This was how it had always been with him, he told you just what he wanted and expected you to do the same. Your kisses moved down the his throat, lips becoming raw against the rough texture of his stubble. You liked dragging this part out. Just before giving him what he craved, seeing how far you could push him towards begging. Of course he never did, and likely never would, he was more patient than you and more prideful. But you always tried. You run your tongue down the length of his torso, your own hand replacing his on his clothed erection feeling how swollen and hot he had become. His hand stayed in your hair, gripping the roots tightly as you teased him. Even breaths left him, but the hand betrayed his urgency, he wanted your mouth so badly, he was starting to consider begging when you pressed your face against the precum leaking through the fabric. Hot tongue flopping out to taste him. 

“You’re filthy.” He remarked with a pleased smile coming over him. 

You didn't respond, just nodded, feeling the combination of your saliva and his precum spread over your cheek. Finally you removed his boxers, his painfully hard cock springing free before you. Kishibe is a big man, tall, broad, big hands, big feet, he took up too much room in your bed, he ducked under doorways and struggled to find pants long enough, and his cock was no exception. Around eight inches in length, heavy balls underneath that were more sensitive than he let on, you needed two hands if you wanted to completely encircle his girth. No wonder he was so arrogant. Glistening pleasure leaked from the tip already, goading you to slip your tongue around his head, dipping it into his slit to collect his offering. His taste was as perfect as the rest of him, so unique to him, you could never get enough.  You let a moan loose as you brought him into your mouth, overproducing saliva to give your hand pumping the rest of him more lubrication. Kishibe groaned above you, head tipping back for a moment as he sank into your hot mouth. His hand as the back of your head was encouraging, pushing slightly but allowing you to go at your own pace. Not wanting to miss out on the sight of you sucking him off, he rolled his head to the side, half lidded eyes looking down to watch. You were skilled at pleasuring him with your mouth, moving your hand and mouth in tandem, leaving even an inch untouched. Your tongue swirled around the head, causing him to shudder. You pulled off from him, still working your hand up and down his shaft as you slid under him to tongue at his balls. HIs abdominal muscles jumped at the sensation of your sliding your tongue along the seam before sucking one ball into your mouth and then the other. 

“Fuck girl….” his voice was shakier than it had been before so his words became dirtier and more possessive, him trying to tip the scales back in his favor. You nodded under him, balls still in your mouth before moving back up to take him into your throat.

Having warmed yourself up, you could now take him much deeper into your throat, encasing the whole of his length. Both hands were now at the back of your head as he tugged your hair, pushing you down further. You kept your tongue flat along the underside of his shaft, tightening your throat around him and opening your eyes to meet him. A blush has spread from his neck across his shoulders and chest, he watched you closely, eyebrows pinching together as you gagged on him. Drool pooled and slipped from your lips, his cock leaving little room inside your mouth for anything else, it dripped onto the bed underneath you. Slowly you started to back off of his length, his hands no longer holding you in place. Instead they cupped either side of your face as you found your breath again. Kishibe ran a thumb across your bottom lip, collecting the spit there and spreading it further down your chin, your jaw hinged open following his silent directive. Leaning over you, collecting his own spit and releasing it into your open, waiting mouth, you moaned and swallowed gratefully. 

“Good girl.” He praised you, making your heart shimmer. He pushed your hair out of your face with one hand, stroking your cheek for a moment watching you bask in the golden light of his affection. But he could only be so generous for so long,  “Bend over.”

He joined you on the bed, mattress sinking under the addition of his weight, his hands staying on you however they could. You moved onto your  knees, turning around, shivering as his hand skimmed up the back of your leg. Calloused hands leaving gooseflesh on your soft, pleasure heightened skin. You posed yourself onto your hands and knees, back arching to lift your ass prettily. You always felt so pretty under his touch, no room for insecurity or self doubt when he was spoiling you like this. Kishibe moved behind you, hands moving up your back pushing you down into a deeper arch, face against the bed. Once he had you in his favorite position, he looped his thumbs under the delicate fabric of your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs. You had soaked them so thoroughly you could actually hear it as he pulled them away, pooling them around your knees. Now bare to him, the chill of fresh air hitting your core, you shivered again. One of his long fingers dipped between your folds, sliding up and down, playing with your wetness. 

“I don't even have to stretch you out, do I? She’s already crying for me.” you could hear the wicked smirk on his face without seeing it. 

“Kishi, please…Don’t tease.”You whimpered, pressing the side of your face into the duvet, peeking at him behind your lashes. 

He gave a small slap to your bottom, watching the fat jiggle, “Don’t get bossy, Kid. You know I’ll take good care of you.” His thumbs pulled your lips apart, showing him how wet you were, “You got this wet just from sucking my cock, huh? You really are such a slut.”

Your face burned, embarrassment daring to creep up but being cut short by the feeling of his fat tongue licking you from clit to hole. Your eyes rolled back, a throaty moan leaving your lips at finally being touched by him. He hummed at your taste, dipping his tongue into your hole to pull more from you. One of his hands moved up your back, keeping you pressed against the mattress as he ate messily. Wet slurping and lapping filled your ears, your whimpers and moans filling his. Eating pussy from the back was his favorite, yours too, he was so skilled with his tongue, unafraid to get drenched in your juices. His facial hair scratched your outer labia and the skin of your inner thighs, the light needling only adding to how fucking good it was. He slid his tongue up and down you all the way from the clitoris to your asshole. Convinced you wouldn't move from where he had posed you, his hand left your back and helped to spread you apart for him. He watched you twitch for a moment, both holes clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled by him. If he were a kinder man, he would show mercy and shove two of his thick fingers into your pussy, but he wasn’t a kind man. He loved watching you clench and pant, sweating under the absence of him inside of you. He wanted you whimpering, begging, maybe even crying before he filled you. 

“Kiiiiishiiii baby please…” You mewled out, burying your face into a duvet, muffling the sound of your begging. 

He resumed circling his tongue from your cunt to your ass, one finger circling your clit in time, “You know better than to cover up those pretty sounds. If you want something, ask for it.” 

You huffed out, moving your head from the bedding and back to look at his face buried in you, “Please, baby please fuck me, I need it inside. I need you Kishibe, please.” 

You could feel his lips curl into a smile against your folds, little shit was enjoying this too much. He hummed, vibrations resounding inside of you, “Cum like this, and then you’ll get my cock.”

You whimpered, as good as it was you knew you needed something inside to cum, “But…Ki--”

“I’m not asking.” He slurped loudly against your pussy. 

Of course he was an expert in your body, he knew you needed the joint internal and external stimulation in order to orgasm. He knew he was setting you up to fail, he wanted you to fail. He wanted to hear you completely fucked out, on the precipice of a release that couldnt yet cum when he finally pushed himself inside of you. Further emphasizing that he wouldnt be using his fingers to fuck you, he wrapped his own hand around himself, squeezing tightly. He didn’t want to cum too soon, the way you had sucked him earlier he had nearly spoiled it right then. Any other night he wouldn't have cared and cum right in your mouth, watching you swallow him down like the good girl he had made you into. But tonight he needed to cum inside of you, he ached to feel you spasm around him and milk his dick for everything he had. He carried on eating you out, feeling his regular drunkenness give way to the intoxication pleasuring you. You whimpered under him, rocking your hips back against his ever moving tongue. 

“Kishi ...please I can't…please. Baby please.”You felt tears slipping from your eyes, you wanted to cum so bad, the bastard behind you knew exactly what he was doing.

Raising his head from your pussy, Kishsibe looked at you crying and whimpering for him. Your lips wet and puffy, mirroring the set right in front of him. 

“Oh baby…you givin’ up?” He teased, how he was able to look so smug while literally covered in your juice was beyond you

“Yes fuck I give up, please fuck me please. I need it so bad, I need to cum please.” You didn't care to hide how desperate you were, you worried you might die if he wasn't inside of you in the next few seconds. 

Kishibe gave you one last long lick end to end before straightening up, his lower back aching more than he wanted. Overcome with excitement at the prospect of finally being filled you raised your upper body onto your hands, only to be immediately pushed back down. 

“If you’re able to hold yourself up, maybe I should keep going until you can't.” Kishibe warned. 

A broken cry pushed from your throat. You couldn’t keep going, you couldn’t be held back from your release any longer. Tears flooded down your cheeks and you begged him not to, promising to be good and do whatever he wanted. He had done it, he had completely wrecked you. Leaning over you, cock brushing against your heat so deliciously, Kishibe kissed the side of your face, not stopping himself as his tongue lapped up the salty tears staining your cheeks. Big hands on your back unclasped your bra, sliding it out from under you and groping your chest. 

“There she is” His voice was so hot against your ear, rough and dripping with eroticism, “There’s my girl. And who am I?” 

“Master.”

He gave a smack to your ass, “That's right, baby. Now be good and take Master’s cock all the way. I don’t wanna hear any of that bullshit about it being too much or too big, Okay?” 

You nodded quickly, probably too many times but fuck you could barely think. Another slap to your ass brought you back to attention, “Yes, Master!” 

He hummed with pride. Aligning himself behind you once more, sliding his cock head up and down your slit. Anticipation nearly becoming too much, your whimpers increased before he mercifully slid inside of you. The combination of your natural lubrication and his spit allowed him to ease in with barely any effort, you were still so tight around him. He was so big, it felt like he was splitting you open. A gravelly moan rang out from him, coming directly from his chest as he became fully immersed in you. The force of his thrust rocked your whole body forward. One hand holding you down by the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip. You cried out his title as he pulled back nearly all the way before pushing in again. Finally you felt the white hot coil of orgasm building rapidly in your lower belly. 

“Fuck! Fuck Master, “You wailed, “Yes! I’m so close, Fuck, thank you, master!”

The hand on your neck moved to grip your hair, pulling it back harshly, forcing you to arch all the way back as he continued to bully his cock up inside of you, “You had your chance to cum, already. You’ll wait for me.” 

His voice was so husky against your ear, hair gripped tight in his grasp, you had to focus all your energy on not cumming despite how close his postponing cock was bringing you. Wrenching your head to the side Kishibe kissed you, rough and hot, swallowing down your moans before they could leave you. Your hands struggled to find somewhere to land alternating between gripping his thigh and traveling up to his neck and hair. The upright doggy position allowed him so deep inside of you, his free hand moving over your bouncing breasts and down to press on your lower stomach, feeling himself inside of you. He was so fucking cruel, you cried out, breaking the kiss, head falling back on his shoulder, eyes closed in blinding pleasure. You could still hear him grunting in your ear, his lips needed you and found their next best option, the side of your neck. Knowing exactly what he was doing he pushed harder, his other hand wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him. 

“Stop Kishi, please. It’s too much.” 

His gripped your throat tightly, “I said no fucking whining. Did I already fuck every thought out of your head or can’t you remember?” 

You strained to look at him with pleading eyes choking your words past his grip, “I-I’m sorry, Master”

His hand around your throat had made you tighten around him, he was so close, he had wanted to drag this out more. Wanted to remind you who was in charge. But he felt himself faltering, hips shuddering, balls tightening. Kishibe released your throat allowing you to catch your breath, he stopped holding you upright and you fell forward, falling exactly into your previous position: face against the mattress, hips high, ass out. His grip on your hips was bruising, tomorrow morning he would be tracing those bruises as you stood making coffee in the suite's kitchenette. But right now you were made to take his cock, he could be gentle with you another time, not now.

“Touch yourself, cum.” He commanded having to focus all his energy on keeping his thrusts deep and even. Your hand flew between your legs, circling your achingly sensitive clit. His work earlier had you already twitching. 

He thrusted deep and jagged twice more before he felt your walls tremble around him, the sound Kishibe makes when he cums was almost always uniform, a low howl that erupted from his throat as he pressed right against your cervix. You joined him in his orgasm, the pair of you singing a private duet that only you would ever hear. You could feel his hot cum filling you, your orgasm covered you like being caught in a sudden rainstorm. Drenched in pleasure, your mind existed only for thoughts of him. His lips found your shoulder, still deep inside of you, Kishibe grew softer, both his cock and his treatment. 

“Good girl,” he spoke against your sweat-dampened skin, “did so good, baby.” 

You let out a strangled sound, still barely recovered from your mind melting orgasm. Another whimper left you as he removed himself from inside of you. You stayed on your stomach, but allowed your legs to relax, now laying totally prone. Kishibe moved next to you, catching his breath and allowing the feeling to come back to his lower half. You lay together panting, allowing aftershocks of pleasure to ebb and flow over the next few moments. Turning your face to look at him, you placed a hand on his chest. He took it and pressed the back of your hand to his lips. When you had finally regained your composure, you swatted his chest lightly, truly nothing compared to his brutal treatment. 

“You’re such an asshole.” You chuckled out, you slotted yourself against his side, draping a leg over his. 

“You love when I’m mean,” he rolled his eyes, “I can feel it, so don't try to lie. You get so tight when I push you around.”

He was right, you loved it. You loved-- no. not yet. You couldn't yet say that you loved him, that would be too much. But you knew it, and even if it was just for yourself, for now that was enough. 

“So now that we’re going steady, do I have to take you to breakfast?” he absentmindedly ran his fingers through your hair, dull nails scratching your scalp making you purr. 

“ ‘Going Steady’? Jesus, you are an old man.” You teased him through blushing cheeks. 

You tried to be careful when you poked fun about his age, but you saw the small curve of his lips that let you know you were off the hook this time. He pulled you closer to him, rolling his eyes again. 

“Big talk for someone who begs to cum around this old man’s cock like it's the only words she knows.” he tapped your temple once. 

You leaned up to face him, finally ready to ask him the question that had been burning since you had first arrived in the lavish suite, “Are you really on assignment or did you rent this room yourself?” 

If you didn’t know better you’d think he was blushing. But you do know better. Kishibe rested his head against the pillow and turned his gaze from you to the ceiling, “Maybe I wanted to do something nice for you.” 

You could help smiling widely at him, you had found him out, “I knew it! You are a romantic…awe all this just to ask me to be your giiiiirlfriend?” you elongated the title to see if you really could draw the blush out of him. 

He smacked your ass hard once, “Shut up, I told you not to get used to it! You’re not getting this again if you keep talking like that.” 

You ass still stung a bit from his harsh treatment earlier, so you snuggled back into his neck, kissing underneath one of his ears. His big arms wrapped around your back. Soon you would fall asleep, he would separate from you and go to have another smoke on the patio, tomorrow morning you would wake up together and he would treat you to breakfast. He could already feel your breaths growing relaxed, sleep starting to win you over and although you couldn't see it, he was blushing. 

[soullessjack]

hey so like im glad this is making rounds but i feel like too many ppl r focusing on the dean criticism aspect & not … yk … the ableist infantilization & autonomy stripping of an autistic adult character , but if it helps you care, the dean criticism is a byproduct of that 👍

stealing this from another post but like it’s rlly so fucked up to me that jack in canon is practically begging the people around him to see him as an adult, as a whole person whose choices are his own and who he has sole responsibility for and to just have his autonomy recognized and then the fandom actively strips him of all of that and treats jack like a silly baby who doesn’t know any better so nothing is ever his fault and is only set in front of dean and cas for decoration. woohoo love that for us

[gunsatthaphan]

how it started // how it ended

[hotvintagepoll]

Hello !

Congratulations and thank you for the amazing work you’ve done so far. It’s been so much pain — FUN ! I mean fun. I thought I would never recover from round four after losing Irene Papas and Jean Seberg, but now it’s round five and for the first time I am actually stuck for some of these polls. Bacall / Bailey ????? Lamarr / Kelly ????? I feel like a shepherd being asked by goddesses who is the most beautiful of them. I am thankful to anyone who will send propaganda that might help.

at @hotvintagepoll our one duty is to recreate the mistakes of the golden apple and start the Trojan War all over again

[proxythe]

continue in u

[fireis-catching]

hate when i get all dressed up for work and every client either cancels or no shows me 🙃

[stevens-pastrami-sandwich]

SHRRGFFFF... OUUUUUEUEUUUUUU PROFESSOR BOXLEITNER NOOO DONT CRY WAAHH anyways og under the cut

[ghoulspaw]

*me standing in front of a door, very ominously like 🧍‍♀️* im having ren thoughts

[hplonesomeart]

Guys I’ve been thinking about these two all month…they deserved some more time together and if we don’t get to see that happen canonically then I’ll just need to take matters into my own hands and manifest a universe where they joke around together. This is serious business

Also just felt like this audio matched the dynamic well :))

[unashamedly-enthusiastic]

I only have 5mins to make this post because LOOK AT THIS

I can MUTE and BLOCK all the fun things so I can make myself do work!?!

[slavhew]

hes like a fuckign brain tumor

[syringesyrup]

More tummy worship? Please? 👀

CAN YOU PEOPLE LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

nsfw below cut. Get the fuckoutofmyface. TRANSDEW FOREEVERRRR (like scotland forever).

“You want the last of it?” Swiss asks as he twirls the dying joint in his clawed fingers. It’s ember is dwindling now, almost touching the tips of Swiss’ fingers as he holds it carefully in his claws. Dew hums with a shake of his head as he lays his head on Swiss’ stomach. He hooks a claw under the multi ghoul’s white tank top and folds it up to his chest to expose his warm tummy. He presses his face into it immediately and groans as he breathes in Swiss’ intoxicating scent of ash and whatever that new cologne is. Swiss’ stomach shakes as he laughs, glazed eyes peering down at Dew. Dew only draws his hands up lazily and squeezes Swiss’ stomach, suffocating himself in the pudge of the multi ghoul’s stomach. He tries not to think of the way it slightly folds over Swiss’ waist band now and fails. He breathes heavy onto Swiss’ skin and sighs, turning his head up again to the multi ghoul to try and distract himself from the bizarre thoughts he has about Swiss’ body.

Dew watches through lidded eyes as Swiss inhales sharply, smoke seeping into his parted lips. He tosses the stub of a joint into the ashtray on the nightstand and looks down at Dew, smiling at the red of Dew’s eyes and his sleepy face. “C’mon.” Swiss huffs through smoke, patting rhythmically on Dew’s shoulders as he lays unmoving on Swiss. “You’re breathing all hot on me down there.”

Dew hums against his bare stomach as he exhales a hot breath onto his skin. He’s in the mood as well, as per usual, but is far too comfortable with his face pressed to Swiss’ body. It’s warm and surprisingly soft and he just smells so nice. Dew wishes he could move and get things started, he really does. If Swiss’ tummy didn’t make his brain fog over every time he got his hands on it, they wouldn’t be in this position. Literally and figuratively.

Swiss adjusts his hips under Dew, gliding along the fire ghoul’s chest with a wince. It’s way too easy to get him going when Dew pays attention to his stomach. As if its Dew’s fault that Swiss’ body is impossible to ignore. The soft pudge of his stomach and the handful of raised scars that Dew has left behind with his own teeth many times. He’s glad that they left a mark. Maybe he did it on purpose each and every time.

What really drives Dew up the wall about his multi ghoul’s stomach is the tattoo marked just above Swiss’ waistband. How could he not stare at it? It’s Dew’s fucking name. Dew recalls fucking Swiss within an inch of his life after he got it done, outlining the fresh ink with his own little marks to compliment it. He still couldn’t believe Swiss was crazy enough to do that. He even made a passing comment about getting their favorite water ghoul’s name as a tramp stamp. Dew couldn’t save Swiss from Rain’s bizarre reaction if he tried.

“Helloooo? Earth to Dewdrop?” Swiss asks as he runs a hand through Dew’s pulled back hair, ruffling his bangs. Dew looks up from where his eyes were glued to the ink and squints at Swiss through glazed eyes. Swiss huffs a laugh at him before he leans forward and runs a claw down Dew’s spine, making the ghoul bite his lip and adjust his legs to arch his back. Swiss watches with a hazed smile as Dew lifts his ass in the air before pushing his face back down into Swiss’ exposed tummy.

“You gonna stay like that?” Swiss asks through a smirk. Dew only gives a grunt in response. Swiss sighs before he hooks his claws under his shirt and pulls it off, exposing his chest as well. Dew peeks up at him and stares. He doesn’t know how he’s shocked each time he sees Swiss’ body. His broad chest and wide shoulders and each scar and blemish and his chest hair and his fucking tits-

“Damn, you’re stoned.” Swiss laughs as he watches Dew stare. Dew glares up at him before lowering his face back into Swiss’ tummy, flicking his tail at Swiss. The multi ghoul watches his spiked tail flick with a hum before he lays back, lip pursed in thought. Dew knows that look. It’s when Swiss has something absolutely evil planned that usually leaves Dew wrecked with the best aftercare of his life. It makes him throb and draws a whine out of him. It’s not exactly intentional on his behalf but at least it lets Swiss know that he needs him badly right now.

Of course Swiss knows. When do they not need each other?

Swiss stares down at him with the same evil look and glazed eyes before he tilts his head at Dew with a droop of his ears, innocent and dangerous for Dew. He folds his arms over his chest, blocking the sight before he hums and pouts his lip at Dew.

“Wanna fuck?” Swiss asks, plain and simple. Dew moves his head up and sneers at Swiss.

“How romantic of you.” Dew says with a roll of his eyes. Before he can even shoot another glare at Swiss, he’s pushing Dew’s head back down into his stomach as he yanks his hair. Dew winces loudly and scrambles for a moment before settling. It’s Swiss. He’s safe.

“Do you even deserve it?” Swiss asks with venom dripping from his tongue. Dew moans into the heat of his skin, knees shaking against the mattress as he looks up at Swiss with pathetic eyes. Swiss hums, pleased with his reaction before he releases the grip on his hair and his face softens. He pats Dew’s head with a frown and a shift in his brows.

“Can I try something, baby?” He asks kindly. Dew knows it’s not a front. He switches like this often to make a mush of Dew’s brains when he fucks him. But this is different. It’s genuine and void of any malice. Dew hates that he feels like he has to ask. Why would Dew say so no when Swiss leaves him in the stars with each touch, no matter how devastatingly haunting on his skin or how ironically heavenly it is?

“Yes, please, anything.” Dew shakes, the tips of his claws poking ever so slightly into Swiss’ waist as he stares up at him with blown pupils. Swiss whines at the sight of Dew and his sweet yes before the grip on his hair returns and he’s yanking Dew up into a hard kiss, clanking their teeth together hard enough to make Dew’s lip bleed. And fuck if it doesn’t make Dew’s eyes roll back into his head and thrust his hips hard into Swiss’ own as he kisses him brainless.

Then it’s over. Dew doesn’t even register that his lips aren’t on Swiss’ anymore until the multi ghoul is pushing his face back into his stomach and placing a hand under Dew’s body, making him arch his back again. Dew groans into Swiss’ skin, trailing his hands back up to palm at Swiss’ stomach again as he buries his face into the now healed ink that screams his name.

He feels Swiss’ tail wrap up around his thigh, slipping under his boxers and out again above the waist band. He curls it there, gripping Dew’s boxers with the limb before he drags them down slowly but desperately. Dew moans when the air hits him, cold against his red hot thighs that are already coated with slick. He adjusts his knees, preparing himself for Swiss to slide under him and eat him out like it’s his last meal on Earth.

Swiss’ hands move down to Dew’s head again, grabbing him by his horns and shoving his face lower. Dew feels his heart skip when he breathes in Swiss’ scent, strong and sickening in this area. He desperately grabs at Swiss’ waistband and fuck him for wearing these gray sweatpants again. He hooks a claw under the waistband with his mouth already watering at the thought of having Swiss in his mouth in mere seconds. Maybe Swiss was thinking of something different. He wouldn’t mind having his throat fucked in this position. The weed dried his mouth out anyways.

Before he can even drag Swiss’ pants down an inch, he feels something hot press against his cunt. Dew tries to register it and turn to see but is swallowed whole by the burn in Swiss’ eyes. He’s staring down at Dew, his massive hands still wrapped around the nubs of Dew’s horns. His eyes are burning red, a sign of his fire element raging through his body. Dew stills as he watches the multi ghoul’s face turn in a way he’s never seen before. It’s new and horrifying. Dew can never ever guess his next move.

Swiss leans down ever so slightly, his pupils sharp as he watches Dew. There’s still something pressing against Dew in between his legs. He’s so high he can’t even think of what it could possibly be. Was Swiss’ knee always so warm? He doesn’t get to dwell on it before Swiss grips his horns and bares his fangs, a threatening look on his face as he stares through Dew’s contrasting eyes and opens his lips to speak.

“Stay.”

Dew can’t even say a word as he feels something push inside him, hot and curled and ridged. It slips inside of Dew and there’s something sliding against his clit with it. Dew’s mouth falls open and his head twitches as his mind urges him to bury his face back into Swiss’ skin and scream. He can’t. Swiss is so locked onto him and holding his gaze prisoner in the palm of his hand. All he can do is let out a moan that doesn’t even register in his own ears. Swiss’ pupils go wide as he does it, expanding so far in his eyes that Dew can barely see the red glow of them anymore.

It’s when whatever is inside of Dew digs deeper and opens him up that Dew can’t take it anymore. He tears his hands away from Swiss’ stomach and grabs his arms, clawing at them as he arches back and slams his face down into Swiss’ body, shouting again as he’s filled.

“Swiss!” Dew cries, squirming under his grasp. Swiss moves his hands to Dew’s own, intertwining them and holding them against Swiss’ chest. The multi ghoul’s heart is beating heavy against his chest as he places Dew’s hands there. Dew whines at it, staring up at Swiss’ with his eyes lidded and almost rolled back in his head.

“Wha-“

“Don’t move.” Swiss whines. “Oh, please don’t fucking move. You’re perfect.” Swiss groans as he bucks his hips up and Dew can feel himself gush slick. It drips down his body and begins to pool onto the sheets, soaking them under Dew.

“Wha-what are you-“ Dew tries again before he feels something thrust inside of him, drawing another cry out of Dew. Swiss reaches down and tugs his pants down, freeing himself at last. His cock slaps against Dew’s face, leaking onto his cheek as the fire ghoul winces at the heat of it against his face.

“It’s-oh fuck-“ Swiss gasps when Dew breathes against him, hot breath circling around his cock. “It’s my tail.” Swiss chokes out.

Dew pauses.

What.

“What?” Dew asks, suddenly not as high as he thought he was.

“Well you were waving yours around and I thought ‘Wouldn’t it be funny?’” Swiss cries as Dew moves against him, making his eyes flutter. “But now I’m just fucking realizing how very much connected my nerve endings on my tail are to my dick.”

Did Mountain fucking lace them? There’s no way a simple joint could pull this thought from Swiss’ mind. Swiss did a lot of crazy shit when he was high but this has to take the fucking cake.

“If you don’t fucking touch me I’m going to just fuck your face myself.” Swiss growls through a moan as he pumps his tail inside of Dew. The twin rings pierced through the spade of his tail slide against Dew from the inside, making his knees shake and almost give in. The so called threat of Swiss face fucking him makes his mind go so blank that he forgets to even answer Swiss.

“Dew, baby.” Swiss whines. “C’mon, give me something.”

Dew can’t even think any comprehensive thoughts right now. He can only bury his face into Swiss’ stomach and weakly wrap his hand around his cock, jerking him with a shaky hand. It’s enough for Swiss. He rolls his head back with a loud curse as he grabs at Dew’s horns again and twists his hands around them. Dew moans weakly at the sensation. This weed is kicking his ass right now. He can feel every twist and curl of Swiss’ tail inside of him. Each slide of the twin rings, the ridges where the length of his tail meets the spade, the slide of the rough skin against his clit as his slick leaks down the thing. It’s somehow worse than Swiss’ stupidly useful piercing on his cock.

“Faster, fuck.” Swiss chokes on his own drool. “Faster, Dew.”

Dew tries. He swears he’s trying to give Swiss more relief but his entire body is quaking as he’s rocked forward by the surprising strength of Swiss’ tail inside of him. He lets his hand fall away from Swiss’ cock and rest on his hip, whining as he buries his face back into the comfortable pudge of Swiss’ tummy. He just wants to lay here until he cums or wakes up or sobers up or just dies.

That’s a bit dramatic. But at this point?

“No, baby, no.” Swiss curses. “Mother fucker.”

“I’m sorry, I-I-“ Dew tries to speak as Swiss thrusts faster in him. “I can’t think.” Dew admits shamefully. He’s never been fucked this stupid so fast. Rain has his way of dumbing him down into a puddle in almost record time but this? Dew just can’t even believe it’s real.

“You’re okay.” Swiss reassures. “Fuck, baby, you’re doing so good.” He coos, running his hands down to cup Dew’s tear stained cheeks. Dew doesn’t even remember when he started crying. It’s all a fog.

“Can I fuck your face?” Swiss asks through a gulp. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this.”

Dew whines, gripping Swiss’ wrists and nodding. Swiss brings his head up immediately, grabbing his cock and slapping it against Dew’s lips. Dew opens his mouth weakly, taking Swiss in and stretching out his tongue. He unglamoures it as it slides it, long and forked at the end. Swiss moans low in his throat as Dew wraps his tongue around him and gives him a small but reassuring jerk. He shoves himself inside of Dew’s mouth and back into his throat. Satan bless this little ghoul and his lack of a gag reflex. Who would Swiss be without it?

Dew moans as he tastes Swiss, hot in his throat and surprisingly sweet. Dew thinks of cranberries before Swiss’ hands are grabbing his face again and shoving him down to the base of his cock. Dew’s eyes water for a moment as his nose presses into the tuft of curls swirling at the base. Swiss leans up to get a better angle and Dew almost loses the last bit of his sanity as Swiss’ stomach presses against the base of his nose. He’s not sure Swiss’ even realizes how fucking hot that is.

“So fucking good.” Swiss babbles as he begins to fuck into Dew’s throat at a quick pace to match the one he’s set with his tail. His tail is now wrapped around Dew’s thigh, squeezing as he fucks into him with it. Every slide of it inside of Dew makes him want to scream. The slide of Swiss’ tail against his clit doesn’t do him much good either. The sound of Swiss’ tail pulsing in and out of him is what really does it for Dew. It sounds wet and filthy and Dew can’t wait until Swiss does this again in an angle where Dew can watch it slide in and out of him.

Swiss picks up his thrusts, digging himself deeper inside of Dew’s cunt and his throat. He’s close, Dew can tell. The way his nose scrunches up, his labored breathing, the way his left ear keeps flicking with each strangled moan Dew lets out that vibrates against his cock. And, oh fuck, the way his stomach is flexing as he fights it off.

“Gonna cum.” Swiss warns. Dew whines high in his throat as Swiss thrusts faster inside of his cunt and presses harder against his clit. Dew was ready to cum the moment Swiss was inside of him. He moves his arms back and wraps them around Swiss’ thighs, gripping hard at them as he lets Swiss abuse his mouth.

“Fuck, please say you’re close too.” Swiss hisses as his rhythm goes sloppy and fast. He’s losing his composure, clearly seconds away from shooting down Dew’s throat. Dew moves his own tail up, wrapping it around Swiss’ own and squeezing it. His eyes flicker at Swiss and it’s all the multi ghoul needs.

He yanks Dew down into a final thrust, spilling down his throat as he yells Dew’s name like it’s a sin. It’s scorching hot and startles Dew for a moment before he hollows his cheeks around Swiss, yanking his orgasm out of him and drinking it greedily. When his tail digs just an inch deeper inside of Dew, the fire ghoul yanks himself down onto it and buries his face into Swiss’ stomach with a choked cry as his eyes slam shut. He tightens around Swiss’ tail and gushes around him, spraying his tail and Dew’s thighs with cum as it soaks the mattress.

After a second longer, Dew’s knees give in and he falls stomach first onto the wet mattress. Swiss pulls his face away from his stomach, yanking him up into his arms as his tail slides out of Dew. It makes Dew wince and flail, still so overwhelmed by it all. Swiss is kissing him immediately, gentle and warm with the taste of weed still on his tongue. Dew’s hands land on Swiss’ chest, patting him weakly as he tries to breathe.

“Fuck.” Swiss breathes. “Are you okay, baby?” Swiss asks as he adjusts Dew in his arms, cradling him against his chest. “You did so good.” He praises, running a hand down Dew’s spiked back. “You’re so fucking perfect, Dew.”

“What-“ Dew gulps. “the fuck?”

“Are you okay?” Swiss asks again, nudging his nose into Dew’s neck. “Did I hurt you?”

Dew shakes his head. “What the fuck.” He says again.

Swiss kisses his neck, leaving a small little purple glow that seeps into Dew’s skin. It’s his favorite way of transferring quintessence and healing. With gentle little kisses that warm someone up like hot coco.

“Fine, ‘m fine.” Dew breathes. “I’m okay.”

Swiss nuzzles his neck again, purring loud enough for Dew to feel it. He kisses his skin senselessly, pouring quintessence into him. He grabs one of Dew’s hands and drags it down to his stomach, pressing Dew’s warm palm into his skin.

Dew preens at it, feeling his own purr jump to life as he squeezes Swiss’ tummy. Swiss begins to kitten lick Dew’s face, placing warm kisses against his cheeks. “So sweet.” Swiss hums, kissing the corner of his eye before he rubs their cheeks together with a chuff.

“Stop that.” Dew scolds. Swiss pauses before he pushes Dew back, climbing over him as he presses his head into Dew’s stomach and blows raspberries. Dew shrieks, kicking at him with a laugh as he yanks on Swiss’ horns.

“Swiss!” Dew laughs, breathless again.

[explosioneer]

little freak

[tiredtriedfailures]

omfg in the end of Saiki K Live Action its pretty much implied he was going to let her have the date she worked so hard for because she had solved everything else, then the rival school delinquents attack, etc etc and when he rewinds the time to do it perfectly this time, he catches Teruhashi's coy glance his way and he exasperatedly smiles with affection. thats the only way i can describe that expression literally he looks like hes trying to hold his face in place but the smile is bursting out by force causing the awkwardness. THEY HAD THEIR DATE IN THE LIVE ACTION UNIVERSE

[itslucyhenley]

I watched Meg Ryan’s new movie What Happens Later and I just have mad respect that the absolute queen of rom-coms directed a movie where in the first five minutes one of the characters unplugs a digital sign with a generic ad flashing the words “rom-com” on it and the omniscient airport announcer sounds like 90s trailer voice man. So meta, loved it. I watched it like it was week 15 of a college course on rom-coms where we just watched every classic Meg Ryan performance and then the professor says, now let’s see what america’s sweetheart herself has to say about it all. And we think we’re going to watch a traditional rom-com, a comeback, a triumphant return to a familiar place if you will, but we’re actually watching an existential two-hander stage play about perception and aging and what it means to really be honest with someone else and with yourself. And the songs are familiar 90s songs but they sound wrong because they’re just oddly homogeneous sounding covers of the originals. And the whole thing takes place in this unnamed regional airport during a storm, a liminal space where the foreground and backgrounds are filled with blurry faces and legs walking by in the background until eventually there’s a scene later on where they’re just silhouettes. After the first 10 minutes of the movie the characters only talk to each other and the electronic voices of support kiosks and the omnipotent airport announcer and take phone calls that we can’t hear the other end of and we don’t see the phone screen telling us who is calling. They sit in restaurants with no waitstaff and bars with no bartenders. There’s no sense of direction either you don’t get any sense of the layout of the space they’re occupying and the aerial shot of the airport at various points during the movie looks sharp but the characters are almost always walking in circles. I don’t know man I was riveted, I was stroking my chin in deep thought, I just kept saying “interesting, interesting.”

edit: also I left the dvd menu screen on for like two hours after I finished watching the movie, it just kept playing this absolutely hypnotic 18 seconds of the score over a clip of them dancing in a hallway as seen from the outside looking in through falling snow and there’s a continuity error where David Duchovny’s white shirt alternates between being tucked in and untucked and I didn’t even care. During that actual scene they’re dancing to “Pure” by The Lightning Seeds which is the only not-a-cover song in the movie i think? And at one point Meg Ryan looks up and yells “louder” and the music gets a little louder and I’m sitting on the couch in my living room but I’m trying to figure out where I am actually because I thought I was gonna watch a trope-heavy romcom but I’m sat here typing out this stream-of-consciousness movie analysis on tumblr dotcom.

[mangofresca]

cloudburst

He taps his fingers when he’s bored.

Not that Spain blames him. Not that Spain isn’t also just as bored, dulled, yearning and longing and aching for the willowed shade of broken sunlight through blooming Juniper trees, warmed by humid air and clouds so soft he could pull them from the skies, if only he had the will to lift a hand to them, to try.

His boss will likely scold him for not paying attention, but Spain can’t be bothered today, too unfocused to listen to off-handed bickering made worse through obligation, not when he can still hear the thumping of rain on the roof, pattering against the windows.

Not when he can watch Romano skate his nails against the table, pressing the soft of his fingertips up and down as if he were writing something, composing something, following the tune of a melody only half-constructed and–

Spain sits up a little straighter, squinting.

Romano keeps his eyes half-lidded and hazy, looking for all the world like he is two seconds away from drifting to sleep, but Spain can see the way his fingers move, curled, as if cradling the neck of an invisible guitar, other hand almost imperceptibly pressing down into the table, plucking notes Spain can almost hear being strummed aloud, if only he tried hard enough to listen.

Spain watches, head propped on an arm that fell asleep about half an hour ago, too lost and transfixed on the image of Romano shirking his duties in favor of– of writing, maybe, or composing, creating something Spain is already desperate to hear, to mold into his life in the way he molds everything Romano does, every noise Romano makes.

He’s out of his seat seconds before they’ve officially been dismissed, but Romano doesn’t notice, still in that world of tabletop timbres and notes unwritten, of hands born to cultivate.

“What are you playing?” Spain asks, and he smiles when Romano startles, eyes widening and fingers dropping, forming into fists atop pages with not one word written on them.

Not that Spain blames him. His own are the same, after all.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Romano snaps, cheeks ruddy with caught-out indignation, and Spain knows he was right, that he’d formed himself an audience for a performer who didn’t know he was being watched.

“You were playing something,” he says, beaming when Romano collects his papers with more stumbled force than necessary, always too combative, too cagey with his vulnerabilities.

Romano huffs, says nothing, brushing past Spain with shoulders that are a little too tense for comfort.

Spain follows, whistling, doing his best to find the cadence of whatever rhythm Romano had been tapping against the table.

It takes two months for Romano to bring it up again, and when he does, it’s by dropping down next to Spain in the sand, feet and ankles damp with dusk-sweetened sea foam, hands steady and curled around a guitar he had always insisted he rarely used, that sits too comfortably in his lap to be anything less than adored.

“Don’t say anything,” is all Romano says, and Spain can only bring himself to smile, arms pressed atop his knees as he feels the kiss of broken waves and clumped seaweed against his toes. He’s more than content to wait, would always be content to wait if it meant Romano pressing himself into the space at Spain’s side, frown on his lips like he’s shy, wary.

Romano shoots him a look—I mean it, bastard!—but Spain only rests his chin on his arms, watching with slowly blinking eyes and a smile he is sure is horrifically besotted.

Romano doesn’t look at him when he plays, head tilted down so his hair falls across his forehead, curling around his eyebrows and the rounds of his ears. Spain bites back the urge to brush it away, and when Romano begins to hum, the softest accompaniment to a tune Spain has never heard, Spain can feel his heartbeat in the palms of his hands, in the urge to mold himself against Romano’s back, to be close and close and close.

Still, he does not move, waiting until Romano’s fingers pluck the final string, mumbling hums and soft breaths petering out until the only noise left is the swell of the ocean and the rustle of air through grains of sand and surf.

Spain blinks—once, twice—and Romano clears his throat, forefinger and thumb drawing absentminded patterns across the guitar’s body.

“I wrote it,” he says, voice low, deep, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been working on it for…fuck, I don’t know how long. A while, I guess. Mostly when I mi–”

He flushes pink, voice cutting off in a choke, and Spain sits up immediately, thinks he knows, and his delight is immeasurable, second only to grand, enamored infatuation.

“When you what?” he asks, because how can he not when Romano is looking like that, like he’s already cursing himself for speaking, as if Spain wouldn’t lay himself and his heart and his soul bare just to find the words humanity hasn’t created yet.

“Forget it.” Romano is scowling, bristling in that way he gets when he speaks before thinking, when Spain is close enough to hear him—when he’s paying attention—and Spain couldn’t forget this if he was given a millennium, if he was given an eternity and longer.

“When you what?” he asks again, because he has to, has to, would be a fool not to, would die, maybe, if he doesn’t. “When you…miss me?”

Romano shoots him a look so blistering and venomous that Spain knows he’s right, knows immediately and without question he’s right, and his hand is around Romano’s wrist before Romano even has the chance to stand, to run, because of course he’d run, and Spain can’t bear the weight of solitude right now, anyway.

“You wrote a song for me.”

Romano splutters, snarls. “It is not– I didn’t fucking write it for you!”

Spain could kiss him, wants to, wants to. “I can’t believe you wrote a song for me!”

“Are you even listening to me? I just said I didn’t–”

He’s red, so red, every shade the most beautiful color Spain has ever seen, and he can’t find it within himself to temper the need to touch, to be close and closer still, to kiss, fingers following the curve of ocean-misted waves caught on dark eyelashes, tangling in knots around his knuckles.

“My song,” he insists, lips light as they brush the warm of Romano’s mouth.

“Not what I sai–”

Spain swallows the words he knows are only half-hearted, can feel the truth in the press of the guitar into his sternum, in the hand fisted in his shirt, in the lips humming against his.