#wip: enthralled

[transman-badass]

Betrayal

Whump + Cthulhu Mythos - 2.8k words

CW: mild (period typical) transphobia and misogyny, graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, eye horror (not gore), major character death

The men were gaining on them.

Outside thunder roared, but over it, Lazarus Core still heard the footsteps behind them, pounding louder than the rain. His pulse beat against the skin of his throat. Sweat slicked the hand holding his gun. It’d just take one mistake, one little mistake, and he’d be dead, dead, dead. And it wouldn’t be the end of the world, if he died, but the last thing he wanted was to leave Sadie all alone.

He gripped her hand and did not look back.

A sharp turn, a shout from behind. The men pursuing them seemed to have no trouble in the darkness. Lazarus did not look back, he kept running, and Sadie’s fingernails dug into his hands. If they could make it back outside, back to where they’d hidden the car, he could hide Sadie within it, and go back around to find Niel. And if he didn’t come back, well, maybe Niel did. And if Niel didn’t come back either…

Sadie twisted in his grip, grabbed him by the shoulder, jerked him free from his thoughts. Her hand slammed over his mouth, Lazarus blinking, the stack of wooden crates sturdy against his back. He followed her lead, crouching down, holding his breath.

The footsteps grew closer. Closer still. Away, away, mumbling voices silenced by the rain.

Lazarus looked around, squinting in the darkness. There, that door, still cracked open - He tapped her on the shoulder. She jerked her curly haired head towards him. In the darkness, she nodded.

Without a sound, the door opened. Lazarus looked behind them once more before stepping into that new darkness.

Not quite dark for long. A light flashed, Lazarus threw up an arm against it.

“Niel!” Sadie whispered.

Lazarus lowered his arm, the light lowered to the floor. Niel hugged Sadie back, the electric torch almost falling from his hand from the force of it. His smile soothed something in the private eye’s heart, tension falling from Lazarus’ shoulders.

“You sly dog,” Lazarus whispered, stepping up to clasp his friend’s hand. “And here I thought I’d have to track you down.”

Niel grinned, but the tension didn’t fade from around his eyes. He drew in a breath, and then another. Lazarus opened his mouth to speak, but did not have a chance to.

The other man carried a faraway scent of spices and flowers on his clothes. Lazarus breathed in as Niel’s arms wrapped around him in a tight, burdensome hug. Memories, faded like paper in the sun, drifted. Memories of home.

“Niel-” Lazarus pulled away.

“I’m sorry about all this, my friend,” Niel said, gripping Lazarus’s shoulders. “I know you won’t believe it, but I am. I’m so sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Lazarus said. Niel’s grip tightened. “Niel, none of this was your fault. You couldn’t have known O’Tipp would be here.”

Niel looked down, towards the golden pendant around his neck.

“Niel?” Lazarus repeated.

“That’s not it,” Niel said. “Not the thing I know you’ll hate me for.”

“Niel,” Sadie cut in. “What did you do?”

The door swung open. Lazarus turned, and raised a gun he no longer held. Something cold brushed against the back of his head, pressing through his dark red hair against his skull. His heart sank.

A dim lightbulb clicked on, illuminating the empty room. Nathan O’Tipp stood beneath the bare bulb, his smile stretched wide over his handsome face.

“Evening, gentlemen! And you as well, Miss Goode.” He tipped his hat to Sadie.

Sadie backed away, glaring behind her glasses. O’Tipp didn’t seem to notice, stepping towards her. The men behind him, three in all, followed into the room, staring at Lazarus, and his empty hands. They were all at least a head taller than him, maybe more, shoulders broader than his own, bigger, stronger, crueler. And O’Tipp just kept smiling as he took another step towards Sadie. But his eyes, they never looked away from Lazarus.

“Don’t hurt her,” Lazarus said.

O’Tipp laughed.

“Why, who do you think I am?” O’Tipp said. “Wouldn’t that be such a waste of a woman?” His men traded glances. “No, sir, I’m not going to lay a hand on her. I have better things in mind than that.”

Sadie swallowed. O’Tipp’s gloved hand wrapped around her upper arm, and held on tight.

The men said nothing. Lazarus closed his eyes.

“Niel,” Lazarus whispered, “Why?”

Behind him, Niel sighed.

“He’s got Mother,” Niel said.

“And even if I didn’t,” O’Tipp said, “I paid him quite handsomely for his help.”

Lazarus breathed in.

“You were spying on us,” he said at last.

“Don’t know what you expected to happen,” O’Tipp said. “You lead a man desperate for work to my speakeasy, and think he’ll stay on the straight and narrow? In Arkham, of all places?” His voice lowered. “You and I both know who really runs this town, Core. They put whoever they want into that mayor’s seat, but I’m the one who calls the shots around here.”

Niel said nothing.

“And Chambers, he did a damn good job, didn’t he?” O’Tipp said. “Made a best friend out of you, and your lady friend here. Didn’t make you think twice, did he, even though he worked for me, you idiot!” O’Tipp shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course, you’d miss that. You were stupid enough to challenge me, weren’t you?”

With one hand, he gestured to the men. The one in the middle stepped forward. The other two hesitated.

“Mr. O’Tipp-” one of them started.

“It’s fine,” O’Tipp said.

“But you’re sure…” the man said. “I mean. He doesn’t look that much like a man.”

“It’s fine,” O’Tipp said. “It needs to be done. There’s no shoving this one into a brothel, and pretending it’ll all go away. Besides,” he looked into Lazarus’ eyes now. “He hasn’t been a woman for a long time now, has he?”

Lazarus clenched his fists.

There wasn’t anything to say, as the men circled him. Niel stepped back, closer to the far wall, clutching Lazarus’ gun in one hand and the pendant around his neck with the other. His lips moved, mumbling something Lazarus could scarcely catch over the thunder and the rain. Between the moving bodies Sadie stared at him, tears in her eyes.

There was so much to say, and no time at all. Lazarus could only hope she’d understand.

“Hope it doesn’t offend you much to say this,” O’Tipp said, “But you weren’t even the worst of the pests I’ve had to crush. You’re not even the most annoying. Insects like you come and go like the bugs you are. You’re just the latest in a very, very long line.”

Two brutal hands grasped Lazarus by the arms and yanked him back. He grunted, instinct kicking in, but all the struggling in the world wouldn’t get him out of this.

“Rest peacefully, Core - your lady friend is gonna be in better hands than yours ever were.”

One of the men stretched his fingers. Nathan looked towards the man by the wall.

“How about taking the first blow, Chambers?”

Lazarus looked towards the man he called a friend. Niel shook his head. He didn’t meet Lazarus’ eyes. Nathan shrugged.

“Suit yourself, kid.”

The fist burrowed into his cheek. Blood smeared on Lazarus’s tongue. His hat knocked to the ground, exposing his blood red hair. Another fist, the other cheek. His teeth rattled, his mind reeled. Another punch in the same spot, blood bursting from the bruise birthing on his skin.

Fist to the stomach, Lazarus gagged, choked on air. The tears flowed down against his will. One of the men hesitated. The other’s fist kissed his nose. Blood drooled over his lips, his chin. Lazarus gasped for air through his lips, before another blow landed on his mouth.

Sadie screamed his name.

Through the smack of fists on flesh and cartilage, the agony of another punch to the gut, a boot to the foot, a kick to the leg, a slam to the womb, Lazarus heard Niel pray.

Maybe it was his imagination, a hallucination drawn from the depths of his subconscious by pain and the acceptance of approaching death. How would Niel know those prayers from his homeland? But where else Lazarus could have dreamed them from, he couldn’t imagine - he’d only heard them spoken once, back then, as a child. His mind spun through pain, and the prayer, it was all he could focus on.

Sadie wept.

Nathan laughed.

Lazarus took every blow.

His blood coated the men’s hands, smearing on his cheeks, on the dark fabric of his suit. Every punch to the gut sent stars flashing over his vision. Something broke, Lazarus was sure something had broken, the stabbing pain shooting through his body as familiar as the prayers he swore fumbled out around him in Niel’s voice. One of the men spoke, taunting him, but Lazarus couldn’t focus on it. He didn’t hear anything but the blood in his ears, and over it, Niel.

Why Niel? Why not his mother? Why not the woman who actually taught him those prayers?

Was their god still listening?

A kick to the stomach, and the strength in his legs gave out. The man holding him released his arms. Lazarus dropped to the floor, blood and grit digging into his skin. A foot slammed into his back. If he’d had any more air in his lungs, he would’ve screamed. Something kicked his side, someone laughed above him. Shoe polish scent on his nose, residue on his tongue. His vision blurred with blood, tears, pain, acceptance.

Lazarus accepted it. Death did not come as a friend, but like a blanket, warm and soft on his pain-filled body. Every breath hurt, hurt his sides, hurt his chest, hurt his lungs, hurt his nose and mouth and eyes. His fingers twitched, nerves on fire. His body wanted to live. Shit, he did too. But it was all over now. Nothing would save him now.

“I’m going to kill you!” Sadie shouted.

“Course you are, sweetheart,” O’Tipp said. “Chambers, give me the gun.”

Sadie sobbed. Niel said nothing. Footsteps walked away from Lazarus’ fallen body. He set his aching jaw, shifted his arms to push him upright. Death approached, O’Tipp’s familiar steps coming closer, and closer, and closer.

Gloved fingers buried into Lazarus’ hair and pulled. Lazarus didn’t feel the pain this time. His wet eyes met O’Tipp’s. Lazarus exhaled through his broken, bloodsoaked lips.

The cold metal of the gun - Lazarus’ own gun - pressed against the soft underside of his chin. O’Tipp smiled, satisfaction playing on his lips, those eyes.

“Any last words, Lazarus?” O’Tipp said.

Lazarus blinked, swirled his tongue around in his mouth. His eyes narrowed.

The bloody spit hit the mark. Landed right in the bastard’s right eye. O’Tipp reeled, a hideous noise coming from his throat as he gripped his face. His hand covered his eye.

Lazarus smiled.

The fingers of O’Tipp’s hand spread open wide. Veins throbbed within the bloodstained white of O’Tipp’s eye. The iris, so close to Lazarus’s own color, trembled. From within the pinprick pupil, purple tendrils shot out, stretching out, coating the iris as O’Tipp shook. The iris split, another purple iris folding out from the first. And then another. Two more. In a breath the eye was full of them, purple irises, the faded red-white darkening to black. Black like a hollow within the skull, black like the void of space that lingered over the city. Black like something Lazarus had seen before.

O’Tipp blinked, he struggled to breathe. His eye, now solid gold.

O’Tipp blinked, panting slowing down. His eye, returned to gray.

O’Tipp blinked. O’Tipp breathed.

The syndicate’s leader stood, the gun held loose in his hand. He did not look away from Lazarus, not for a moment, his eyes, so human, so perfectly human, locked onto the fallen man. Lazarus met his gaze, his own eyes wide. He’d seen that, and they both knew it.

O’Tipp snapped his arm out, finger on the trigger.

The gunshot echoed. Sadie screamed.

Niel’s body dropped, dead before he ever hit the floor. Sightless eyes met Lazarus’s, blood and worse dragging down from the bullet hole in his forehead.

“You-” O’Tipp said. He trembled, the blood and spit dripped down his handsome face, that handsome face contorting with rage. “I’ll do something special for you after all, Lazarus Core. You think you know what it’s like to suffer now? You think you’re gonna die the hero? I won’t give you that satisfaction. I’ll drag you to somewhere worse than hell, you son of a bitch.”

O’Tipp’s shoulders shook. A laugh broke free from his body.

“I’ll show you the real reason you were born. And you’ll wish every last day of your life, you never crossed paths with me.”

His head snapped towards the men. “Get out. We’re leaving.”

Without looking at either of his enemies, O’Tipp turned on his heel and marched out of the room. The men looked between each other, clothes soaked with blood and fumbled over themselves to follow him.

As the footsteps vanished into the raging storm overhead, Lazarus stared at Niel. His body twitched, nerves still fighting against death, even though it’d long won. He closed his eyes, he breathed through his mouth.

He saw it so clearly. O’Tipp’s eye dividing, folding out into a thousand copies of itself, transforming into something impossible. Something horrible. Something Lazarus knew on sight, just like he’d been told.

You will know the enemy when you see him, someone once said. You will know them because they are not of the King.

“Lazarus!”

He opened his eyes, raised his head.

“Sadie,” he said, and reached his broken hand towards her. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Sadie collapsed by his side, and wept.

The strength came back to his body eventually. With Sadie’s help, Lazarus guided his body back to his feet. O’Tipp should’ve let his men finish the job, but he’d been too eager to do it himself. The beating hurt, would hurt for weeks, but he was alive. Somehow, he was still alive.

“What happened?” Sadie said, as Lazarus limped forward. “Why did he - oh Niel… That piece of-” Her fists clenched so hard, they shook.

Lazarus sighed.

“My own fault,” he said, stepping towards the corpse. “He wasn’t wrong, about me being stupid. Stupidly kind.”

“What are you doing?” Sadie said.

“Saying goodbye,” Lazarus said.

Niel’s body, still warm, the breath still clinging to his lips as Lazarus slid his eyes closed. In the warm spring night, soon the body would be unbearable. Someone would report that gunshot, call the police, send them on the way. By then, he and Sadie would need to be gone. Niel would go to whoever wanted to claim him.

But there was something Lazarus needed to do first.

“Flesh is feeble, soul eternal… Rings of life, they ever circle…”

He’d seen the back of the pendant before, with the lesser Yellow Sign. Maybe, Niel had gone back there, back home, even before tonight. Had to get something like that somewhere, after all.

“Fair is the land where the cloud waves break, the twin suns sinking beneath the lake… Fairer still, our soul’s true fate… ”

It seemed only fair, to mumble the prayer he’d heard in what should’ve been his last moments. He needed to improvise a bit. It’d been a very long time, after all, since he’d learned these words. Since he and his mother walked the streets of their true home.

“No heaven awaits, all screams unheard… to die unheard, your last breath, here with me. Fate returns you, the lost now found… to live forever, called back by the shepard, there with him, in sweetest Carcosa.”

Lazarus breathed. Niel didn’t. And it hurt to acknowledge it, that old longing he’d never chased away. Why couldn’t he go home, too, as Niel did? When he died, he would not return to Carcosa, he knew this. But it ached, to know it. That some things were lost, and would never be found… and some lost things, were lost for a reason.

“Lazarus,” Sadie began, but he shook his head.

“Later,” Lazarus said.

He reached into the inner pocket of Niel’s jacket. Against the fading warmth of Niel’s body, he found the item, and slipped it free. Lazarus smiled, and it hurt. Niel’s little book of friends, all the contacts he had in the city, written down in Niel’s familiar handwriting. This would help them a lot more than it’d help Niel now.

With effort, Lazarus stood. The ground swayed. Sadie’s hand wrapped around his shoulder, and he breathed normal again.

“Let’s go,” Lazarus said. He looked down at the body, one last time. “Goodbye, Niel.”

“Goodbye,” Sadie said. “And good riddance.”

Outside, the rain fell and did not stop until morning.

Tag list, if you expressed interest in reading this, you've been added just for this story:

@real-fragments7 @moonluringfrost @jgmartin @yet-another-heathen

@slenders1ckn3ss @jacquesfindswritingandadvice @redacted-metallum @actualblanketgremlin @higgs-space @phantomnations @mushabumi @assistantdirector--janson @aldhidbah @sabtael @yourheartonfireblog @jade-island-lives @carnocus @cecuesta @darkhorse-javert @comicgoblinart @lizadomuch @minutiaewriter @angelsofprey @izzyspussy @passthebeat-blog-blog @dragonedged-if @andromedaexists @cyanide-latte @lillis-writes @suckerpunchfemale @late-to-the-fandom @eldritch-flower @cljordan-imperium @royal1asset-if @pineywitch @fragrant-stars @mynameis40and4 @starry-voids @wubsbian @divine-anarchy @elbritch-kit @tousled-birdmad-girl @ajdoesthings @pen-for-sword @darkersoul

[kyannnite]

wip but uh. if you told me i’d be drawing love never dies fanart 3 months ago i would not have ever believed you but here we are

[thegreatyin]

what are interactive fiction authors putting in the water to make their arthurian legend games absolutely fire

[strigital]

unfinished quickie of Hal and his archfey girlfriend patron because i will die but not stop doodling at work whenever there's some quiet

[bottomvalerius]

Chamomile tea you say….?

I haven’t even touched act2 and I’m already really Normal about this guy so I wanted to attempt to doodle him lmfao his hair is. So difficult to me. LMFAOO but I will keep trying

[lynpheas]

random flora rarepairs i have solely because i think the characters are hot are flora/darcy and flora/diaspro. i don’t think flora and darcy have notably canonically interacted (mind you i’ve only watched up to season 5 and a couple episodes of wow), but in my season 2 rewatch i was pleased/surprised to see that flora and diaspro HAVE canonically interacted. it’s after diaspro gets kidnapped by the weird orientalist gang and is ranting about sky or something, meanwhile flora and chatta are validating her.

[toiletshit]

I haven't done anything with actual lineart in a while so doing this actually reminded me why I don't

[chikoyama]

[sorchathered]

Got my sights set on you- Jake Seresin x reader

Pairing- Jake “Hangman” Seresin x reader

Warnings-language, drinking, Jake being a massive flirt

A/N- I don’t have much of a summary for this, just clearing out my wips for you all and found this little gem I wrote last summer! Hope you enjoy!

———————————————————————————

If there was one thing you knew about Jake Seresin it was that he was a massive flirt. Men, women, non-binary, didn’t much matter your gender he was a tease and everyone knew it. Lately he’d set his sights on you, and he was relentless. You had to admit you liked the attention, and dropping him down a peg with snappy comments was always entertaining. You enjoyed the banter between the two of you, it had been fun and games until one night you noticed another girl from the bar had seemed to catch his attention, pulling out all the stops for her instead of sitting and chatting you up. It shouldn’t have bothered you, it was just a game right? Neither of you had ever made a move and he had every right to talk to whoever he pleased. Rooster could see through all your bullshit, sidling up next to you as he followed your eyeline to Jake and the brunette that seemed to have him enthralled in conversation.

“So Vixen, when you gonna admit to yourself that this little thing you’ve got going with Hangman is more than a schoolgirl crush?” You glared up at him and opened your mouth to snap at him but it died in your throat when you saw the sympathetic look on his face, you hated that he could see how transparent you were. “It was just a crush, really, I thought I just enjoyed the back and forth but… shit rooster what am I supposed to do here? It’s Hangman we’re talking about, he doesn’t do relationships, and in the end I’ll just get hurt so what’s the point?” You cradled your head in your hands against the bar top as Bradley patted your shoulder. “Kid I hate to be the one to burst your doom bubble but if you gave that man the time of day he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. I've seen him when he’s just looking for a hook up and that’s not what this is with you. He may be chatting that girl up but he won’t take her home, in fact I don’t think he’s taken anyone home in months, most of the time he just moons over you. I bet if you walked over there right now and told him to take you home he’d be putty in your hands, you wield more power than you know honey.”

You rolled your eyes at him, there was no way in hell he was into you like that, but as rooster passed you a shot of tequila you glanced back at Jake and he was looking right at you. Fuck it, you were going for it. Tossing back the shot you squared your shoulders and swayed your hips as you walked towards him, he wasn’t paying a bit of attention to the girl talking his ear off anymore, eyes completely focused on you. “Hey Vix, haven’t seen you all night-“ he said as you pressed yourself between him and the brunette, shock crossing his features as you waved her off.

“Uh we were talking!”

“And now you’re not, see how that works?”

You hit her with an icy glare and blessedly little miss tag chaser seemed to take the hint, off to lick her wounds with god knows who. That wasn’t your business or your problem. Right now you need to keep the momentum going and get your man.

“So a little birdie told me that I should shoot my shot, how about it, Seresin? You talk a big game, wanna take me home?” For once in your life Jake Seresin was at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing like a fish, completely in shock.

“Uh-I- yeah-yeah absolutely. Sweet Jesus darlin’ please don’t fuck with me, I don’t know if my heart can take it.” The cocksure grin is back, but you can tell he���s still unsure, so you slide even closer and press your lips to his. It starts out completely innocent, just reassurance that you are actually into him, but you quickly remember who you’re dealing with and Jake Seresin certainly isn’t all talk, sliding one hand into your hair and the other into the back pocket of your jeans, running his tongue along your lips as you give him entrance, letting him make out with you right here in the middle of the bar, where all your coworkers can see.

You can hear whoops and whistles from your friends and it breaks you both apart, taking in deep breaths between your giggles. “Still up for taking me home?” You whisper as you smooth your hands through his golden hair, and where you expect more sexual innuendo and banter you’re left with something more. He smiles down at you and kisses your nose, the look he’s giving is melting you from the inside out, maybe Rooster was right; maybe this wasn’t just fun and games. “I can definitely take you home sugar, but I don’t want just a hook up from you, I’m thinking tomorrow you let me take you on a real date, you deserve to be treated to all the bells and whistles baby girl.” If you gave him the chance he’d wife you up on the spot if he was honest, but he’d give you some time before he told you all the ideas he had for the future.

You looked a little shell shocked at that, sure he’d been flirty but he’d never once made you think he was interested in more than a night or two.

“I can see the wheels turning in that pretty head y/n, don’t overthink it baby, just let me show you how good I can be.”

And he was, in fact, very good.

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Tagging- @roosterforme @shanimallina87 @jessicab1991 @honeytwrites @heavenssins @dizzybee03 @kissmecaitie @sio-ina-bottle @sunsetsimpsblog @mynameismckenziemae @trickphotography2 @seitmai @callsigns-haze

[prythianpages]

👀

End of the Year WIP ask game, "send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing this year (r.i.p)"

This is an Az one shot inspired by the song Holding Out for a Hero:

A shadow lingered outside the doorway of Nyx’s room, watching you and the Night Court’s heir with an intensity that could only belong to one person.

Azriel.

His eyes were fixed on you as you told Nyx one of your enchanting tales. Nyx loved when you babysat him, knowing he was in for a nice bedtime treat every time. You were a devoted nanny to him and, on the side, delved into the world of writing novels for children. You often used your magic to create vivid illusions in the air, bringing your stories to life with every word. Captivating not only the adorable child in the bed beside you but also the one lingering outside the doorway.

Azriel stood there for a moment, under the pretense of saying goodbye to his nephew. 

Cassian had seen through him and now stood at the bottom of the stairs, rolling his eyes with a knowing smirk while Nesta shoved him –a warning to not say a word. The Night Court’s spymaster was not as slick as he thought. Cassian had caught his lingering stares and flushed cheeks whenever you’d smile at him one too many times. 

It was obvious to him–and anyone, really–that Azriel had a crush on you.

Feyre and Rhysand had already bid their son farewell, as had Cassian and Nesta a couple of minutes ago. Rhysand had important business to attend to in Hewn City that required all of their presences. It would only be for a couple of hours.

Your voice filled the nursery as you continued your bedtime tale. Tonight, it was about a damsel in distress and a brave warrior.  With the movement of your hands, your illusions danced in the air, creating vibrant images of a princess in a tower.

"And so, the princess looked out from her tower with a heart full of longing," you narrated, your tone soft yet enthralling. "There was a labyrinth of evil creatures below her, content to keep her trapped in that tower forever…[insert rest of story here, how she waits for a knight in shining armor…]”

Nyx's eyes widened in awe, completely entranced by your storytelling and the magical images floating before him. He leaned forward, eager to hear more. “He’s gotta be stwong and fast!”

Azriel stepped into the room, and though his presence was usually quiet, Nyx’s head turned toward him. “Uncle Az!” Nyx exclaimed, eyes lighting up. “Like Uncle Az!”

Azriel’s heart swelled at the boy’s excitement, but his eyes remained on you. He gave you a polite nod in greeting, lips turning upwards into a small smile. He stepped forward, kneeling before Nyx’s bed on the side opposite of you.  “Couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite nephew, could I?”

Nyx lets out a delighted squeal and you resist the urge to laugh. He’s Azriel’s only nephew. Nyx then looks at you and then back at Azriel and then finally at you. “Can we make Uncle Az the hero? Pwetty please!”

“Of course,” you smile, heart fluttering as the silhouette of the knight turns into something more akin to Azriel’s. Nyx clapped his hands, delighted by his uncle’s addition to the story.

When your eyes met Azriel, you felt a spark and quickly turned your attention back to your magic. 

[acourtofchaos]

👀👀👀

Aaaa I have just the wip in mind for you... it's from a slightly unhinged mattheo wip (and the song inspo is hypnosis)

He watched you play your little game with the boys who broke girls' hearts like it was a competition, the way you filled yourself up on the vengeance of it all as if to push out the ache of hollowness and sadness that lingered when you went back to keeping everyone at arm’s length at the very end.  

It made him wonder if you craved and buried it to the point of suffocation as he did. 

If you knew how badly all those little pieces of information about you that he unearthed and hoarded like fine jewels only served to draw him in deeper. A moth enthralled to his funeral pyre. 

It made him want you more, and he knew at least some part of you wanted him.

You had looked at him differently than the others since he adjusted his approach. There was a glint of curiosity, a slight gleam of hunger instead of boredom, and a newfound wariness no matter how much you tried to hide it from him. The challenge luring you as it did him.

And mattheo knew you had decided to see it out when the little game you played changed. 

When it became less about punishing him for his degenerate sins against the overly-trusting, the innocent souls he’d stained with the grief of heartache, and more about the addiction to the scorching swell of this thing between you that neither was willing to soothe too soon.

You actively led the chase, denying your own want to uncover the extent of his. 

You wanted him to drown in it, for it to wreck his insides until he bled that hunger you had glimpsed in him all over you. You wanted it to drive him mad, wild enough that he clawed you apart, shoving his hands beyond your ribs and dragging your own hunger out from where it was buried deep within the heart of you with bloody fingertips. 

You welcomed him with open arms to do his worst. 

And he did.  

But still you always remained just slightly out of his grasp, re-packing steel around your bones in defence against his onslaught and leaving him with nothing more than a taunting whisper in his ear of ‘if you want me, Riddle, then all you have to do is admit that I’ve won.’

Because Mattheo stubbornly refused to yield. 

Not to the need that charred his veins and spat fire in his bloodstream.

Nor the dangerous levels of sheer insanity that he felt from always being so fucking close but never quite close enough.

Not to you - he would never bend to you.

Instead, he denied you the way you did him, never willing to admit just how desperately he wanted you. Or how raw the intensity of it was, hot and pulsing with life, like it had warped and grown into its own entity - a wild, caged thing, all needle-sharp nails and snapping jaws that mauled at his insides. Carved them up to blood-soaked ribbons of meat and devoured him piece by piece. 

His pride wouldn’t allow surrender even if he was picked apart and swallowed down until nothing but a husk remained.

And neither would yours. 

[transman-badass]

The cars drove on.

Somebody played the piano off in the distance, some happy melody that didn't match the funeral going on across the street.

Wheels ground against pavement. Nobody looked at him, because there was nothing to see. And even if they did see him, what were they gonna do about it?

The gun, heavy in his hands, his hands so slick with sweat.

The hate in his heart, burning, burning.

The widow across the street, crying into the arms of the man who would be her next husband. A few teenagers, unconnected, uncertain at best. A pastor, reading off the good book in this sweltering heat. And the gun in his hand, and the hate in his heart.

He could not disobey O'Tipp. An order was an order. Bizarre occult magic, something past anything he knew of as human, tied them together. All orders would be followed.

And he tried to rationalize it, sometimes, the blood on his hands. Just another job, right? Just another body. Just another coffin. Just another name in the newspaper.

But it still made him so fucking sick.

The bells sang out.

The cars slowed.

The people in black filtered through the iron gates.

The Harbinger crossed the street, and the gun warmed in his hands.

Tag list, ask to be added or removed:

@slenders1ckn3ss @jacquesfindswritingandadvice @redacted-metallum @actualblanketgremlin @higgs-space @phantomnations @mushabumi @assistantdirector--janson @aldhidbah @sabtael @yourheartonfireblog @jade-island-lives @arsenwormwood @cecuesta @darkhorse-javert @comicgoblinart @lizadomuch @minutiaewriter @angelsofprey @izzyspussy @passthebeat-blog-blog @dragonedged-if @andromedaexists @cyanide-latte @lillis-writes @suckerpunchfemale @late-to-the-fandom

[iron-strangers]

That's my girl!

aka Din watches you fight with the biggest heart eyes in the galaxy as Wildest Dreams (Taylor's Version) plays in the background (a WIP of my 3+1 fic)

gif credit @1038276637

Pairing: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin) x Female Jedi!Reader

Length: 690+ words

Tags: Mand'alor Din Djarin, Swearing, Kid Fic

A/N: Written in Expanding Clan Mudhorn universe. Link to the series on ao3, tumblr

-

“I challenge you for the Mand’alor’s hand in marriage.”

The lively chatters around the market shifts into a quiet whispers when a challenger appears from the crowd. She has her full armor on, holding her blaster up for everyone to see. Shrugging, you took your squirming fourteen-months toddler from his birikad (baby harness) into his buir’s (father’s) arms before walking into the fight. Aranar laughs, clapping his chubby hands and pointing at you. “Bu-ee! Look, momma!”

“Yes, Ar’ika, momma’s gonna kick some s-h-e-b (ass), so we have to stand aside and let her do her thing, okay?” Din sighs, bouncing the boundless energy out of his toddler, getting a ‘Kay! and a grin from his son who’s currently munching happily on his small portion of uj cake, with that sweet tooth no one will ever doubt that he truly his momma’s son. Aranar is getting a lot of ‘copikla’ (cute) from every passer-by, enthralled by his mop of dark curly hair and his adorable toothy smile.

“I accept your challenge,” you smile, turning your saber on. The snap-hiss of lightsaber ignition rips through the air and Aranar whoops. “Bu-ee! Pu-pel!”

“Yes, good job Ar’ika! Momma’s laser sword is purple!”

“How many time should I tell you it’s called lightsaber.” Kryze sighs, holding her head in her hand. She insisted to come during their visit to the newly opened Sundari Market for this exact reason, security of the Ven’alor Mand’alor. “You married a jedi, osik (shit), you have two jet’ika.”

“Osik!” Aranar parrots, laughing without caring how his buir is going through all five stages of grief in three seconds. “Kryze! I swear to the Manda-”

Din is cut-off by the sound of lightsaber hitting beskar. You deflect blaster bolts with the force and hits the challenger on her pauldron. You swipe your saber low, aiming for her leg. She jumps and brings her other hand up, shooting grappling hooks out of her vambrace, straining you. You groan as you fight against the ropes until it budges a little, enough for you to slash it with your saber. You pull on the leftover rope, sending the challenger towards you and you punch her in the middle of the T-Visor of her helmet, sending her to the ground with a loud crack.

“That’s my girl!” Din cheers, earning snickers and adoration from the passer-by. Flustered behind his helmet, he nuzzles Aranar’s soft curls, pointing and narrating the fight to the baby. “That’s your momma, ad’ika. Isn’t she the best? Buir and momma will teach you just how to fight like that when you’re ready, ner ka’ra (my star). You’ll be unstoppable.” Din can't take his eyes off of his riduur (wife). You fight with grace, your steps calculated and you never miss your attack. Every hissing sound of lightsaber meeting beskar only adds to his love and adoration.

She shoots another round of blaster bolts and you deflect them all to the ground with the force, careful not to let stray bullets hit the crowd. You stalk over her, the tip of your saber dragging on the ground. You flick your hand and her blaster flies from her hand, crumpling in the air when you curl your hand into a fist and brings the tip of your saber up to her neck, so close to her pulse point. 

“Yield,” you command. She stutters, forfeiting the fight and scurrying back to the crowd.

“Anyone else want to challenge our clan?” Your question is met by silence and you smile, turning the saber off. Addressing the crowd to go back to their activity as the purple light disappear into the hilt of your lightsaber. 

Aranar lights up when he sees you, making a grabby hand and asking you for uppies. Smiling, you pepper the laughing boy’s cheeks with kisses and lift him up to your shoulder. Din leans his helmeted forehead to yours and leads his family away from the crowd.

“Hey, Kryze made Ar’ika swore back then.”

“By the force- Kryze!” 

Yeah, that’s my girl, Din smiles adoringly behind his helmet, taking your hand and lacing your fingers together before you can go smack some sense into Kryze.

-

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Rating: E

Pairing: Aether/Dew

Tags: forced femming, tit fucking, Aether continuing to be terrible and Dew continuing his Quintosis induced suffering from his power shall overshadow.

Summary: Aether benefits from his massive mistake.

Below or follow the link above for ao3.

A/n: I did NOT mean to make you guys wait a little over a year for this but in my defense. I'm bad at keeping WIPs in order. Sorry.

It's in the early hours when Aether does it. When they're both still out of their mind with need, when the lights in Dew’s eyes swirl up and enthrall Aether with a magic of their own. Dragging him into this accidental spell that's grown so much larger than intended. He's been pawing at Dew’s chest, memorizing the way each pinch, each caress makes him react. What makes him sigh with pleasure and vocalize pain. How much milk is inside, Aether wonders. How long would it take to empty him completely if Aether's mouth pulled at him until nothing was left? How fast would he refill. And other deep philosophical questions when the idea takes him.

And when he has this idea, he can't let it go. When will he ever have this opportunity again? No, they can't go to Omega until he's fulfilled this last, greedy desire. After this, after Aether gets this, they'll fix Dew.

“Would you,” he begins, groping at the mound beneath his palm and Dew sighs. Lets Aether bounce his tit, watch the soft flesh ripple with the motion. “Would you let me-”

He can't say it. Shyness forces his mouth shut and makes him bury his face in the pillow. Dew hums lazily, sated from being forced down on Aether's cock until he shuddered out his orgasm and Aether had pumped one more load into his body. It feels like ages ago, the way Aether's cock is aching and tenting the sheet now. Dew of course, notices and grabs at it with casual ownership. He could lead Aether around the Ministry by that thing and they both know it.

“Tell me…” Dew slurs as he wraps his calloused fingers around the base. The rough bumps are so much more pronounced after a tour and Aether shudders at the way they drag across the silky skin of his shaft as Dew strokes him. Swipes a thumb over the tip as precum burbles up in response. “Tell me what t’do.”

He rolls onto his side, the better to pepper Aether with lazy little kisses as his hand twists on the upstroke and Aether shudders, bucking his hips into it. Dew encourages him, throwing a leg over Aether's waist and scooting closer so Aether can tell Dew’s cock is filling out as well.

“Can I-” Aether hesitates. Dew trails a fingertip down, following a vein and Aether shivers, breaking out in a nervous sweat. “Is it alright if I…put it between them?”

“Put what?” Dew asks and Aether genuinely can't tell if he's teasing or not with the sleepy, vulnerable tone of his voice. The act isn't unfamiliar between them, but it's usually been Aether with Dew’s hot little stiffy pushing frantically between the mounds of his pectorals, splattering pre into the hollow of his throat.

“My…cock.” He clarifies breathing as Dew cups the weight of his balls in his palm, petting his thumb over the seam. “Between your, uh…On your chest.”

He's sure if he says such a vulgar word as tits that it'll break the spell. Remind Dewdrop of just how badly Aether fucked up, bring him to his senses. His tail curls in anticipation of rejection and his breath holds as Dew processes the words. His eyes blink shut as his hand on Aether stills then draws away completely as Dew tucks his limbs against himself, hiding the sight of his naked chest from Aether. He looks upset but Aether knows him too well to drop the subject. Dew knows the words to get him to truly stop and he isn't saying anything.

He wants to be convinced.

“It makes you feel good.” He presses, touching his forehead to Dew’s. Speaks right over Dew’s lips so every word is a soft kiss. “I like watching your face when you do it to me.”

Dew shivers, tucks his face against the pillow and stays silent. Aether takes the time to tenderly comb back strands of hair stuck to his sweat damp forehead. He lets a ribbon twine between his fingers, laying his lips on the shine of it. Dew is shivering now, fine trembles as Aether shifts closer, prods Dew with the firm jut of his cock as he slowly rolls his hips.

“Please-” He murmurs, insistent. He’s not going to go away, no matter how small Dew tries to make himself. “Please Dew, I-...need to see it.”

It’s too easy to sling himself over Dew, caging him in with solid arms and legs to keep him from wiggling away. He looks up at Aether with beautiful red-rimmed eyes and a hitch to his voice when he asks, defeated, “Haven’t you had enough?”

“That’s not possible.” Aether groans, giving in to the urge to touch himself, moaning deep in his throat at the jolt of sensation like he’s been dry for months instead of emptying his balls into Dew since the door shut tight behind them. “Not with you, never enough of you-”

Dew echoes his moan with a thready whimper, dragging Aether in for a filthy kiss; planting his feet to push his hips up so the soft bulge of his own cock rubs sweetly against the strain of Aether’s, slipping around the harder Aether tries to grind and he’s lightheaded in seconds at the feel of it, pre dribbling out to land on Dew’s shaft in a hot smear. Imagines what it would be like for Dew to feel it on his nipples.

He has to, now. Needs it more than he needs air. If Dew is too wary of allowing such things even in the privacy of their room, Aether thinks he might have a solution. Because he’s not backing down, not when the vision has him in such a strong chokehold. He sits up, rolling his neck and breathing out steadily. Dew watches him warily and Aether tries to give him a gentle smile but judging by the sudden shiver, he still looks like a predator on the verge of closing in. So he cups one hand to Dew’s cheek and focuses. He can feel the layers of his magic surrounding this form and he peels back just enough to allow his wings to appear just as they did before; dark and leathery, tipped with wicked looking claws. Large and imposing, giving him the impression of a gargoyle. They don’t see much use outside of stretching them on short flights.

But now…now they have a better purpose. He shuffles on his knees up Dew’s prone body, curling them forward until they hit the bedframe and he can hook his uppermost claw on the wood. The result is a dimly lit cocoon that envelopes Dew in Aether’s scent, hiding him from the even the empty space of the room beyond the bed. There’s nothing here but each other.

“I can feel your heart racing.” Aether says softly, reverently, and Dew’s lips part. He looks so small like this, so vulnerable like this. Aether spreads his fingers so his thumb brushes the corner of Dew’s mouth and it sends the same thrill down his spine to see Dew turn his head to suckle at it like he always does. “You’re going to let me do what I want because you don’t have a choice. Do you?”

“No.” Dew breathes around his finger and Aether feels sick with delight that he’s getting his way. His cock, a heavy weight on Dew’s skinny chest, gives a strong flex and blurts out a hefty spill of pre over his sternum. He can barely contain himself, shifting to settle more comfortably so Dew isn’t wheezing for breath, pawing possessively at his swollen breasts, tugging at the piercings while Dew gasps and winces and lets Aether play nonetheless.

“Perfect.” Aether breathes when he’s got a tit in each hand and can gently push them together to snuggle his thick cock between them. They’re not big enough to completely envelop him and it’s dry for now but it doesn’t matter. He’s got Dew right where he wants him to be and Aether wants to take his time with this. He’s never going to get to do this again after all. In for a penny…

“You’re so warm.” He tells Dew. “Warmer than the girls.” A pointed remark, intended to dig under his skin and make him squirm. It works. Dew inhales sharply and Aether pets one breast reassuringly. “But you like it, don’t you? You’ve always wanted attention here. To be pleasured…”

A soft stroke over a rosy nipple.

“To be hurt.”

A sharp pinch.

And Dew sobs as milk squirts out, spilling down Aether’s knuckles to drip onto the sheets beneath.

“Dew,” Aether groans, sounding like he’d been punched in the gut. He squeezes both simultaneously and is rewarded with streams of milk bubbling up. He adjusts his grip so the flow pools around his cock and while it’s not as slippery as lube, Aether wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Dew’s hands fly to his face as Aether’s hips start to work, gliding through the hot mess between his tits, keeping a firm grip as Dew’s body is rocked with the power of his thrusts. Dew makes small, sharp noises each time he’s forced upwards, like he’s actually getting fucked and it’s intoxicating. Aether slows, mindful of the distance between Dew’s head and the wood of the frame just a few inches away but as soon as he confirms Dew’s not in danger of concussing himself, he looks back down and feels all the blood leave his head in favor of going straight to his cock.

The sight of him, all shiny and going sticky with the vulgar mix of Dew’s milk and his own pre-cum is nearly too much. A vein is throbbing in time to his heartbeat and he swears it’s in sync with Dew’s.

“You’re beautiful,” He pants, moving his hips faster. His fingers move to frame his nipples between his middle and index and for a second he wishes he had his jewelry on so he could see the way the liquid coats the metal but Dew’s piercings will have to be a decent substitute. “Oh Dew, you’re so good- so good for me, you feel so good-”

He’s sweating, sure his face is as red as Dew’s must be under his hands and suddenly he needs to see everything. Every little bit of shame that’s playing out in Dew’s expression and he reluctantly releases his chest to grip Dew’s thin wrists instead, easily pulling them away and exposing the little ghoul’s defeated expression in its full glory. He’s deeply flustered with a haze in his eyes that Aether doesn’t even feel guilty about. He’s too close to cumming and he knows exactly how to make it up to Dewdrop for letting Aether put him through this.

He puts Dew’s hands right over his own tits, makes him hold them into position so Aether can thumb his mouth open, resting the pad of a finger on the point of a canine.

“Look at me.” He says softly and Dew does. They’re both so fucked up. “Stick your tongue out, yeah, just like that. Satanas Dew, you look like such a slut right now.”

He’s uncaring in how he finishes. Rough and fast, with the headboard rattling against the wall. Dew, cradling his breasts to keep Aether’s cock warm, spurting milk out every so often. Keeping his mouth open as Aether pants and groans deep in his chest, feeling his balls draw up and the pleasure tighten in his pelvis. The first and second shot are aimed square at Dew’s chest, landing randomly as Aether drags Dew’s head closer to finish cumming in his hot mouth, Dew mouthing at the tip as easily and naturally as he sucked Aether’s fingers.

“Don’t swallow.” Aether tells him, mouth dry. “I’m not done with you.”

Dew watches with trepidation as Aether repositions himself, stretching out next to him on the bed and bringing him in for a kiss.

“Give it back,” he murmurs before their lips meet. “And I’ll make sure it gets where it belongs."

He cleans his own cum out of Dew’s mouth as they kiss, the salty taste spreading over his tongue. He pulls away too soon, for the both of them judging by Dew’s quiet moan of loss.

“Easy,” he says like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “I’ve got you.”

He moves down. Down past the milk drying on Dew’s soft skin, past the dip of his flat stomach and the tempting trail of hair that leads to his soft, pink cock. He kisses it chastely, careful not to spill his mouthful as he gets his arms around Dew’s slight thighs and hefts them over his shoulders. Tugs him up high as Aether sits on his haunches, spreading Dew’s cheeks to bare his hole. He kisses Dew there, too, and relishes the terrified noise it gets him.

One hand closes over Dew’s little cock, rubbing it in a motion meant to soothe as Aether parts his lips and uses his tongue as a guide to let his cum go exactly where he wanted it to be.

[fayes-fics]

Cravats

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Just kinky, married wall sex.... sorry rubbish summary

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, kink content, slightly rough vaginal sex, wall sex, light bondage, biting, slight breathplay, dirty talk, derogatory term, mention of shibari style bondage and edging. Very unofficial use of cravats.

Word Count: 2.1k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Not what I should be writing (aka Portrait, my other WIPs). I should be ashamed of myself. Don't let me write at 4am. I'm going to hide now and maybe delete this later. I blame this squarely on @eleanor-bradstreet for her cravats post. Sorry <3

“Darling, I'm home early; I was thinking we c…” he screeches to a halt mid-sentence.

Damn.

You have been caught red-handed. You thought he would be out all afternoon promenading with his sister.

“What are you doing?” Benedict asks, puzzlement filling his tone.

You stand in your joint dressing room with one of his cravats looped around your neck, and you are, well, there’s no getting around it, inhaling his scent from it, even sucking on the material. Even you are not sure what compelled you to do such a thing other than you caught a whiff as you went by and, well… couldn’t resist a sniff, even a taste.

“I like the feel of the silk…” your stutter, the sound muffled, knowing you are blushing.

He moves closer. “And is there any reason you are sucking on it, my dear?” he rumbles, gently tugging the end from your mouth, eying the wet patch that blooms darker from your saliva.

“I like your taste,” you mutter quietly, head bowed in shame.

“What was that?” his tease velvety, “speak up, darling.”

You know he is flirting now. You look up to meet his heated gaze and repeat louder. “I like that they taste of you, husband.” 

His eyes dilate rapidly at your statement, and he takes a deep breath.

“I love how utterly feral you are for me,” he snarls. You are hauled against his solid frame, one of his arms banding tight around your waist, the other gathering both ends of the cravat looped around your throat a few times. “Do you know all the ways I could tease you with these?” he rumbles, his voice skittering hot over the skin of your neck.

“Tell me,” you exhale raggedly, thrilled about where this is going.

“I could tie you up in a rainbow, my darling,” his promise so intoxicating, “cover your skin in delicate, intricate silks bound in exotic knots that only I can untie.”

You breathe harder at the very idea.

“Do you know how many cravats I own, darling?”

You glance sideways at the rack but give up at attempting to count them when his warm lips start to suck insistently on the spot right below your ear.

“Fifty-two,” he answers between nips of your skin with his teeth, “one for every week of the year.”

“That’s a lot, husband…,” you rasp, his grip on the cravat at your neck starting to restrict your windpipe just a touch, causing a dangerous slick jolt of arousal down your spine.

He hums in agreement, suddenly releases the cravat, and wrenches your dress off your right shoulder—the room echoing with the sound of a seam ripping under his harsh grip. His mouth lands hot on the skin there, and you shudder as he bites down just a little. Talk about feral.

Wordlessly he rips the rest of your light cotton dress with one fist grab, and it falls to the floor around you. It wasn’t one of your favourites anyway; the animalistic urge it has brought out in him is far more enthralling than your affection for that dress. 

Then his hands are roughly plucking the lace of your stays, your whole body jerking with the motions. All the while, he is staring you down predatory, and you daren’t look away, just hypnotised by his stormy expression. When he is like this occasionally, you are utterly mindless for it, for him, in this crazed state. Your stays hit the floor behind you, and he picks up your now naked body, except his cravat, and propels you against the wall of your dressing room, knocking over an empty hatstand as he does so.

You gasp as it slams to the wood floor, and your back hits the wall. 

“Benedict,” you splutter in surprise at how forceful he is. He’s not hurting you, but he’s not treating you gently.

“Don’t suck on my clothing like a wanton little bitch in heat and not expect me to fuck you,” he intones.

You are shocked at how aroused you get at the derogatory phrase he uses—just a flood between your thighs. Your nipples pebbled hard as they rasp against the slightly scratchy wool of his sharply tailored cropped jacket as his hand reaches between your bodies and roughly unbuttons his britches.

You feel a wave of body heat over the apex of your thighs as he pulls out his cock and swipes its hot sticky tip over your clit. You moan at the sensation, already so pulsing and swollen from his handling of you. He loops your left leg high onto his forearm, a slight burn in your thigh from the stretch, and plunges into your pussy without warning. You cry out at the sheer size and speed of his invasion. Spearing you open.

“Yes, that’s it; scream my name,” he orders through clenched teeth; your most often mild-mannered sweet husband is almost nowhere to be found under this untamed wild man. And hell, if it isn’t everything you want.

He starts a punishing rhythm right away. Just fucking you. Hard. Your hands fly into his hair and fist the luscious mass there. He groans lewdly as you tug on the strands and rake your nails over his scalp, giving almost as good as you are getting. Hungry for him in a way you're not sure polite society would understand. 

You idly wonder how many wives of the Ton get stripped, bitten and fucked against a wall by their husbands on an overcast Tuesday afternoon. You suspect very few. You also suspect fewer would do what you do, pitch forward in his rough, punishing grip and bite his earlobe, gusting encouragements right into his ear, making him stumble in his movement and growl.

You want his handprints on your body, his teeth marks, signs that you are his. And you want to mark him too, leave scratches on his skin, bruises on his neck from sucking so hard. Just possessive, dark things that he brings out in you, things that you never imagined when you married him as a maid, all those months ago. 

You’ll never forget the first time he was like this. You removed your shawl as you sat down in a box to watch the opera, and he saw the mark he had left on the swell of your breast, entirely by accident, in his enthusiasm. He leans over, mumbles an apology, and asks you to conceal it. Instead, you turn your head and whisper you are proud to wear his mark and don’t care who sees it. The surprise and sheer want on his face you will never forget. He made it through half a song before grabbing your hand and pulling you into a stairwell, pushing aside your underwear and taking you right there, lying on the cold stone steps. It was the fastest you had ever orgasmed in your life. And now, you aid and abet him every time he lets out his wild side, wanting nothing more than the full force of his dizzying desire.

His hipbones will undoubtedly leave marks on your inner thighs as he pounds into your body, snapping deep and making you grunt softly with each push. You will probably carry a slight ache tomorrow, and you crave it. A reminder of how much passion you can share.

He pauses his movements, leans to the side and grabs two cravats. Looping them around your wrists a few times and tying a bow as he holds you against the wall up on your tiptoe, him buried deep inside you.

“What are you doing?” you are intrigued why he has stopped to tie pretty colourful knots on your person.

He doesn't answer, but the smirk on his face as he raises your hand high makes you tilt your head up against the wall and watch as he loops the bow he made in the material around a high coat hook there.

Oh.

He does the same with your other arm. Now you are hooked to the wall.

“Green,” you breathe, and his grin is boyish and so breathtakingly handsome.

That is the word he asks you to say when he checks your comfort level with something new. You don’t even wait for him to ask, desperate for him to continue, to start fucking you again. Instead, he curls his spine outwards and sinks down to teeth your nipples. You scream and clench hard on his cock. Which just makes him clamp down harder in surprise - a carnal loop of call and response that makes you burn so hot.

“Fuck me,” you whine, rapping the knuckles of your bound hands against the wall to emphasise your point.

He chuckles richly at your apparent impatience and finally speaks for the first time since he first entered you. 

“The more you make demands, darling wife, the less inclined I am to listen. I’ll just go slower and slower and slower and keep you simmering and trembling for me. Cry pretty tears for me in sheer frustration.”

“Please don't,” you appeal, writhing between him and the wall. He is still fully clothed, just his trousers around his knees, although much of his clothing is dishevelled now by your pawings—something so commanding about him being so fully dressed as you are naked and restrained.

“Then stop making demands,” he murmurs silkily, “or I’ll gag you too.”

Your eyes flash with excitement at the idea, and he chuckles again.

“Maybe not; you would enjoy that far too much, wouldn’t you? Dear god, I am the luckiest man alive,” he breathes and cups your jaw, moving to give you a surprisingly tender kiss.

“Please, Benedict,” you beseech softly over his lips.

“Okay, my darling,” he soothes, flicking a gentle thumb over your nipple and making you whine more.

He begins to move again, building a steady cadence that burns you white-hot. You moan for more, and he obliges, snapping harder into you, precisely what you need. Nudging the hilt of your channel, making you slump into him, putty in his punishing grip on your hipbones, slamming into your body now. You wish you could touch your clit as it pulses hard, pulled taunt by every plunge of his cock. Just needing the tiniest ounce of friction to tip over the edge you are skating.

“Does your little nub want my fingers?” he intuits duskily, and you nod vigorously and bite your lower lip, even as he keeps up those rousing thrusts.

You shout his name and a few expletives as his thumb worms its way between your bodies and unerringly finds where you need him most, pressing forcefully against the swell of your clit, hooking under your clitoral hood, right to the point of most sensation. He flicks his thumb up and down rapidly, and you are hurtled over the precipice, screaming and convulsing, your pussy squeezing so hard he has to push back against your rippling to stay inside you. A sweeping tide of sensation washing out from your core through your whole body, lungs almost burning with heaving breaths, blood pounding all over, your muscles tensing and releasing as you writhe hard, your arms aching from the slight stretch of being almost suspended by them.

Then you hear him roar and stutter in his movements, mouth hot and slack on your cheekbone as he curls inward and pumps his seed deep inside you, groaning and bodily twitching with the sheer force of it. 

After a few moments of panted breaths and little aftershocks wracking his frame, you are still somewhat floating as he unhooks your wrists and brings them back to your sides, rubbing your shoulders gently and kissing your temple sweetly as you recover.

“My love,” he breathes, back to the loving, attentive husband he always is, “are you quite well?”

“Yes, husband,” you reassure, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face into the frills of his shirt that poke out of his waistcoat. “I'm going to drape myself in nothing but your cravats if this is the treat I receive,” you opine drolly as he places your foot back on the floor, slipping out from your body with a muted moan followed by a huff of amusement at your words.

“I look forward to it,” he smiles, kissing you gently on the lips and cheeks, holding your face with loving reverence.

A few weeks later, when you lean over during a dull musical recital and inform him that you are wearing one of his cravats, his brow knits in puzzlement. Until you discreetly guide his hand up under your dress to feel the silk length wrapped around the very top of your thigh, like a thickly looped garter. You don't even reach the stone steps in the quiet stairwell this time. He takes you right against the door outside your box seats where any usher or patron could walk by and see; his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your screams. Apparently, he has lost too many cravats to your gnashing teeth to gag you with the favourite one he wears that night. Pity.

I can't even bring myself to tag this... EDIT: OK I was convinced by some lovely peeps to tag it lol @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory

[symbiotic-slime]

the lore is cooking for this au im afraid, its probably gonna turn into a multi chapter fic

would you guys be interested in venom/the magnus archives crossover fan art