#WHAT AN ABSOLUTELY SCATHING BURN

[bangarangdarling]

blame the “hitting on your mom as a punishment” tiktok i just saw that literally blew my brain up. established because they’re disgustingly in love and because i say so

Eddie would normally consider himself pretty immune to the roar of arguing teenagers. Chaos surrounds their little Party. They’re not a quiet bunch when all together. It’s all shoving and yelling, giggling and roughhousing. Carpet-burned battle scars from the floor of Steve’s living room.

Lord knows Eddie himself wasn’t an inside-voice kind of person. He was certainly wont to standing on coffee tables and screeching demands for the remote when it was unjustly stolen away by villainous hands.

Eddie loved these people to death, and they were a lot of fucking fun to hang out with, it’s just this...this was an unreal level of noise. A normal sleepover night turned a little too rowdy, the adolescents celebrating the start of Summer with a bang.

Steve had already asked them to keep it down four times this evening. Nothing seemed to calm them. Not requests. Not threats of being sent home. Usually their Dungeon Master threatening their characters’ souls did the trick, but no go. 

Getting teenagers to listen? A feat more impossible than defeating creatures from an alternate universe. 

Dustin and Erica were in a bitching match about the best D&D class. Lucas and Mike had been fighting over movie choices for the last half hour. Eddie’s money was on the VHS player breaking before that, the constant mishandling and shoving of tapes had the poor thing practically smoking.

Will, ever the diplomat, was trying to be an impartial party when asked his movie opinions. Which, of course, caused more yelling. 

Max and El had been the only ones being semi-quiet, but that quickly ended when they followed through on their surprise attack pillow fight, pummeling the boys senseless and causing the already unbearable volume to kick into overdrive. Eddie could practically feel Steve’s migraine building, even from where the dude had retreated to the kitchen. Dinner had been pizza. Quick. Easy. Clean. Or, it would have been if it hadn’t had been for the food fight. Steve was still in there scrubbing cheese out of his parents’ tiled backsplash. Dishes clattered in the distance when the cacophony hit its crescendo. 

It was the proverbial straw. 

“Alright, that’s it! Hey. Come on, guys. Knock it off,”

Nothing. 

“HEY!”

He maybe overdid it that time, but the absolute ear-splitting boom of a yell he let out stopped the ruckus dead. 

Silence rang for a beat.

Huh. Maybe Eddie should try out incorporating that into his music. He honestly hadn’t known he could get to that range. 

The teenagers in the room stared at him, not cowed in the slightest, but curious enough to know what the hell Eddie’s problem was. Max was the first one to quirk an eyebrow at him.  “Geez, need attention much?” 

Eddie folded his arms to show he meant business. “Steve has asked you guys to tone it down. You’re waking the fucking dead. Why don’t you guys, like, actually go be good human beings and help him clean up your mess you all made in the kitchen, huh?” 

Lucas snorted. “Yeah, okay, mom. Why don’t you go help him, you guys will probably just make out in there, anyway.” 

It was a teasing comment. Meant to jokingly rib before getting back to doing whatever the hell they wanted to do.

But, see. That just gave him an idea. 

Never let it be said Eddie couldn’t be creative with his punishments. He was a DM after all. 

“Alllllllright. New plan. Listen up or suffer, ankle biters,” 

He really didn’t appreciate the snickers that brought about when he was trying to be intimidating. Rude. 

“You going to send us to our room or something? I’m real scared,” Erica’s scathing, dry wit was unparalleled, truly. 

“Nope. Better. It’s a new rule: You little shitheads give me attitude and don’t listen, I hit on your babysitter.”

It was silent for a minute, brains audibly computing that statement and coming up ERROR. Will hesitantly spoke up. 

“Uh, Eddie, I really don’t think that’s--”

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Mike interrupted. “Why would you beating up Steve hurt us? I mean, like, I guess it would emotionally, but that’s fucked up, man.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, still smirking wickedly as his plan solidified.  “Oh, I don’t mean that kind of hitting, young Wheeler. Though, it may yet get physical--Hey, Steve?” He called out. The sink in the kitchen shut off after a second.

“Yeah?” 

“Can you come here?” 

The kids shuffled around on the floor warily as the other man walked into the living room. The energy had obviously shifted, it was probably an odd vibe to walk in to, but Eddie cut Steve off before he could ask any questions.

“You tired?”

“Uh, no. I’m fine--”

“It’s just you just keep on runnin’ through my mind constantly. I figured you’d be exhausted, sweetheart,” Eddie purred, the words cloyingly sweet and full of exaggerated charm. 

There was a countdown, three, two, one...

A collective groan let out. A few uncomfortable laughs.  “Dude, what the hell?” 

“You guys agreed not to be gross in front of us!”

“Oh, my god, can I actually get sick from how cheesy that was?” 

Eddie had to work at keeping in character when his very first line had pulled the intended reaction. He was already reaching forward to curl an arm around Steve, pulling him in in a slow, sultry attempt at being smooth. 

“What? Can’t I be sweet on my guy? You all will understand when you’re in love one day. Right, sugar?” 

Fake gags and retching sounds, too dramatic to be real protests, but still indignant and annoyed. Eddie was pretty sure Dustin slapped a hand over his eyes.

“Uh...yes?” Steve, who had previously looked like a car accident had happened directly in front of him, was catching on to the play. He eyed the disgruntled floor-children with a growing grin and let Eddie snuggle up to him.

God, his baby was so clever. He always knew what Eddie was thinking. 

Too busy having a non-verbal conversation with Steve on how to best annoy the kids, Eddie didn’t see Mike turning his attention back to the tv. He did, however, hear him telling the others to “Just ignore them, they’ll get all gushy and leave us alone.” 

Oh, Michael, Michael. Wrong move. 

“How you doing, babygirl?” Steve flushed, deep and red and--huh. Okay. Revisiting that one in the future. “You good? You need anything? Your head hurting, sweet thing? I can kiss it better,”  Eddie ducked forward to kiss Steve’s cheek. It was chaste, a sweet little thing...that Eddie made infinitely worse by the smacking, obnoxious kissy sounds he emulated there. The chorus of groans and protests started up again. He didn’t even pull his face away to call over to them. 

“I’m sorry, is that attitude? Am I hearing more attitude?”

“Dude, Eddie, noooo!” 

“Jesus, it’s like watching your parents make out, oh my god.” 

“You guys, let’s just go already,” 

“Yeah, I’ll take washing dishes over this,” 

The grossed out teenagers whooshed past them. Grumbling and glaring--except Eleven, who smiled up at them sweetly--leaving Steve and Eddie standing in the living room, still wrapped up together. 

It was too tempting then, with the kids safely out of range, for Eddie to resist the temptation to drop his kisses a little lower down Steve’s neck. To let them get a little less chaste. Just a little.

What can he say? He’s a weak man. 

“That was evil,” Steve hummed. His shoulders dropped, though, relaxing into Eddie’s hold, the closest thing they’ve had to quiet all night settling in. 

“Hey, I accomplished two things. Got them to chill out and I get the perk of feeling you up in the middle of sleepover night. It’s a win-win.” 

A crash and a muffled argument broke out in the kitchen before Steve could respond to that. 

The audible scuffling was cut off by Eddie calling out “Your ass looks great in these jeans tonight, Harrington!” 

The fierce whispers and shushing were enough to get both of the older boys cackling loudly. 

#Listen this is cheesy and poorly written but i HAD to #go find that tik tok because it was hilarious but also radiated love and healthy parenting #they called it 'gentle parenting with malicious intent' looooool #steddie #the party #my brain vomit

[yeyinde]

WICKER PYRE | Dragon!Price x Reader

All things considered, you should have expected it. You know better than to make deals with dragons.

WARNINGS: 18+ | light smut—no descriptions of anatomy used for the reader; possessive undertones; dragon trickery; blink and you'll miss it Celtic Dragon mythology and folklore WORD COUNT: 1,5K NOTES: They tempted me with hellfire and pretty imagery, so. Here we are.

It smells of biochar, pyrolysis. The incendiary heat sparks to life around you; a thick, impenetrable wall of stifling warmth, and you blink through the haze, the heat mirage, that swims in front of your eyes, trying to clear the clouds from your vision. 

It's hot. 

Hellfire. Inferno. Absolute. 

Paradoxically, it edges into dry heat—wildfires: burning forests, charred logs, crumbling charcoal, ashes—but your skin is drenched in sweat; sticky, tacky. Hot springs. Lavascape. 

You're drowning in Phlegethon, hands clawing at molten skin to stay afloat. 

"Shush, shush—"

It's a wheezing rasp. A rumble that rebounds against the carverous, limestone walls and echoes in your ears. The vibrations of it rattle through your chest and dislodge the panic from between your ribs. 

"Easy, now."

Despite the smoked-cured softness of the voice above you, around you, in you, it booms through your marrow; the sudden shift of the plates. A tectonic shockwave that bludgeons into you. 

"Can't—" you start, words a desperate, aching whine. "Can't—John—it's so hot—!"

His answer is a grunt; a rolling, monstrous sound that shivers across your skin. It's easy, with his front pressed against your back, his words hissed into your crown, to forget that he isn't a man. That his body is made of the valleys: carved from chiselled andesite, graphite, and limestone. Coursing through his veins is ichor and brimstone, fed from the burning pyre inside his chest that blooms tuffs of smoke, and reeks of ash. 

He quiets you with another low pur, and feeds the tips of his steel claws into your flesh, anchoring you tight to his body.

And then you hear the fire-painted voice speak from between his nicotine fangs: "I know." 

And you suppose he would. 

Molten blood. Igneous skin. His voice is Pyroclastic: tephra falling from his heaving chest. 

With the exception of his pointed, angular claws, his hands almost look human. Almost. 

But when they grip your hips tight, the skin of his palms feels too thick. Too velveteen. Like the soft underbelly of a reptile.

Those claws hold you steady as he slides the full, burning length of himself into you. The blunt press of his cock splitting you apart, and the rasp of his knuckles, rough with blackened osteoderms protruding from his thick skin, makes you shiver. It feels like sandpaper when it prickles over your flesh. 

You try to gasp but the oxygen in the room is swallowed by the flames. Try to move but his weight on your body is a plutonic ash bed. A prison. 

Jewels and gems nip at your skin when you ramble to find purchase on the treasure trove of his nest, to find something to hold onto while your body is slowly consumed by the unrelenting heat of him stretching you into a shape you do not recognise. 

"Tryna run?" He mocks. "Thought you could handle it, mm? Wasn't that our deal? Do you know what happens to little humans who try to break their promises?"

You want to bite back something scathing, something dripping in venom and cruelty, but the words are ground into peat salt when he presses the full weight of himself onto you, using the momentum to snap his hips harder, faster, than he was before. 

(You swear, swear, you feel the white-hot tip of him digging harshly into your sternum.)

But he's merciful—to a degree—and his hand lifts, drops in front of your nose, claws gleaming in the flames that surround his den, his prison, his home. 

You take in the sight of his heat-scorched skin—a chromosphere of living magma: blistering red dusted with fine ash. It's pretty. Stunning. You're mesmerised by the ripples of fire running in thick rivulets beneath his carbonised pelt, and you know, then, why he's so sought after. Respected. Feared. 

(Who would try and run afoul around a man, a being, a beast, who has hellfire burning in his veins?)

The brief respite splinters when he shifts forward, pushing himself as deep into your body as he can possibly go, and the world around you lists sharply on its axis when he pulses, branding you from the inside out, turning your body into a magma chamber that only fits him—

You can't breathe—haven't been able to since you rocked up to the smouldering cavern on the side of a mountain, and demanded he make a deal with you. It's hard to acclimate to the carbon-rich air that thrums around you like a thick curtain of plasma, threatening to consume you whole. 

"Easy, now, pretty thing," he purrs again and the deep rumble that spills from his expansive chest seems to glue to each bone in your body, reverberating deep within your liquifying marrow.

His elbow falls, chin presses into your crown. He breathes you in, and the world around you shudders, and ripples like the glimmering sea of a heat haze. An optical illusion. A mirage. But one that flexes around you like water; moulding to your body, and filling in all the crevasses and canyons until the plasmic air clings to your skin. 

Smoke billows with his exhale. You scent charred tobacco leaves, brimstone, crushed granite, and burning rock—sharp and acrid. The smell sticks to the back of your throat and colours your lungs in a fine layer of rock dust.

The world around you shakes when he growls into your crown, nose pressed tight to your sweat-slicked skin. 

It feels like an earthquake rattling inside of you, shaking loose the paper-thin threads of sanity that keep you still beneath his bulk.

"Ah, John—"

His forearm slides closer to your gasping mouth, and you scent guncotton on his skin. Thick. Heady. It makes your head swim, and a fever bloom in your veins. 

"There," he huffs into your hair, and the plume of his voice heats the world around you by several degrees. "Now you have something to hold on to, love." 

His voice is pinched with something that sounds mockingly cruel, mordant, but there's a softness in the way he holds you close; a tenderness that biles the roughness of his hands, the sharp drag of his claws against your flesh. 

"Now," he continues, hand tightening on your skin hard enough to bruise your tremulous bones. "Be good, and let me fuck you." 

With that, he snaps forward until he's once buried to the hilt. Fangs prickle across your shoulder blade when he lowers his maw to your skin. Each heavy exhale through his nose leaves a scorching mark over your flesh until it's blistered and raw. 

He sets a brutal pace, and each time he sinks in deep, you feel something inside of you splinter, break. It's unlike anything, anything, you'd ever felt before—a liquid pleasure and pain that melts together into burning heat. It feels like euphoria and punishment in the same breath: an equilibrium of salvation and condemnation.   

Each growl that leaves his heaving chest shakes the cobwebs from between your ribs, and fills them with ash and smoke. It seeps into your bloodstream, poisoning you with each harsh stroke. 

(You forgot that he was poisonous—)

But it's too late. 

Lost in the delirious cloud of heat, ozone, and John, all you can do is wrap your tiny hands around the thick of his forearm, nails barely leaving a mark on his thick pelt, and cling to him as he takes what you offered with greedy claws, and gluttonous eyes, pounding you into his bed of furs, and stolen gems and gold. Treasure toppled to the ceiling of the cavern they warned you to stay away from. The precious clutch of a monster who protects his wares with fire and madness. Raining wrath and fury, white-hot rage and red-hot desperation, down on anyone who dares to get close. 

It's too much, too much, but you knew what you were getting into when you tried to barter with him.

("Let's make a deal—"

And he'd said, "you must be desperate. Don't you know what I am—"

His noctilucent eyes burned in the dark. 

Mocking. Cruel. Hungry.)

All you can do now is hope, somehow, that you make out in a single piece. That all your vibrating atoms stay whole; intact. That you don't lose yourself inside the madness of heat, and burning fire. 

That you'll make it out, alive.

—if, of course, he lets you go—

But those hopes are dashed when his molten tongue flickers out, laving a burning path across your neck. 

"You'll look so good in all my gold," he snarls, a thundershock right into your core. 

And then he sinks his fangs into your neck. 

You should have known from the start when he looked at you with hunger, rapacious greed in his keen, sharp eyes that you were not leaving his den again. 

(The most precious piece in his hoard.)

Your body is a wicker pyre made to be burned. From the charred ashes, something new will rise. A phoenix trapped in the paws of a beast who likes pretty, shiny things, and will never let go. 

(And really, what else did you expect when you decided to tempt a dragon?)

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #i hate tagging stuff #ughhhhhh #dragon!Price #COD Monster AU #john price #captain john price #captain price

[dxckgrxsonx]

I’ll Prove It

Pairing - Jason Todd X (F) Reader Words - 1.7k Warnings - SMUT 18+ - Graphic Sexual Content - Oral Sex (F!Receiving) - Jason Todd would absolutely kiss your pussy before eating you out - He’s a cocky son-of-a-bitch too - Swearing. Notes - hhHHhhh I couldn’t help myself. Jason would be so good at oral, I just know it.

MASTERLIST

**

There’s adrenaline and courage and a burning question in the back of your throat.

The question you want to ask doesn’t come easy. It sticks and bruises at the inside of your mouth, splinters like glass and punctures you straight through the tongue. You think you have one hand locked tight around your own throat to keep you from opening your mouth.

It feels disloyal, maybe even dirty that you want to ask, want to put the words out into the judgemental face of the world. Part of you is prepared to weld your mouth shut, prepared to twist the question into something less revealing, less shameful.

But you need to know.

If you don’t ask now, you worry that you’ll never gain the courage to do it again.

“Jay.” You say, and try to ignore the heat rushing up your neck. “Would you enjoy giving your partner oral?”

His reaction is immediate, and resembles being struck by a live wire.

“Wow. Did they seriously not do it? Not even once?” Jason queries, something unreadable in his voice. His focus darts to the person sitting by the bar, eyes narrowing in scathing judgement.

You don’t know what to do with your hands, “Uh. Not really, no.” You manage to get out, and Jason nearly chokes on a growl. “They said it was too much work, that it takes ages for me to, um...”

You trail off, the words roll around bitterly on the tip of your tongue. You’re not sure if you’re ready to admit that your ex thought you took too long to finish, that they thought that there was something wrong with you and had given up on trying to make you feel good.

You don’t know if you want Jason to know that. It feels almost like betrayal, not only to them, but to yourself.

What if there is something wrong with you?

“Say it.” Jason demands, voice utterly unyielding. He leans in to hear you better and your heart skips when you realise he’s almost looming over you. All quiet dominance and borderline protection. The focus in his eyes would be unnerving if you didn’t know him as well as you do, didn’t know that he’s offended on your behalf. “Come on, darlin’. Say it for me.” 

You swallow, your throat feels like it’s going to close up. You can’t look him in the eye. You still don’t know what to do with your hands, “They said it took too long for me to come, that there was som--that something was wrong with me.”

Jason swears, and you think it sounds more like a snarl than anything else, syllables ground together and gnashed out from between his teeth. You look into his eyes, the vibrant green is mesmerising.

You swear they’re glowing.

And underneath all that beautiful colour, you see something challenging rush in like a storm.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” He finally says, tugging a hand through his hair. Jason throws another furious look towards the bar, quickly coming to a decision in his head. “An’ I’ll fucking prove it.”

**

You can’t look at him.

You’ve got your head tipped back to the ceiling, thoughts fraying at the edges like so much cheap rope. You try to duck your head, try to meet his gaze. But you can’t. Heat splashes over your cheeks and you chew on your bottom lip. It’s goddamn impossible.

Jason presses his palms over your knees, sweeps them back and forth in an act of comfort. There’s a flutter in your chest, almost like there's something alive and kicking behind the cage of your trembling ribs.

Jason pauses. Then says your name, softly, sweetly, like he aches right down to his bones, “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” You reassure immediately, finally dropping your head enough to look him in the eye. “Jay, I want to. Please.”

He presses a kiss to the sensitive skin at the inside of your knee and your fingers shake, throat suddenly thick, “If at any point you want to stop–”

“I’ll tell you.” You interrupt.

Jason exhales, you think it might be in relief. His palms skate up your thighs, nudging the hem of your dress higher and higher until he stops when the fabric just covers your underwear. Stroking the pad of his thumb up and down your slit, Jason sucks in a breath through his teeth when he feels your wetness start to soak through the thin fabric.

“Oh, you poor baby,” He breathes, “Your pretty little cunt really didn’t get much attention, huh? I’ve barely even touched you and you’re soaking through your panties.”

Your head thunks backwards against the mirror. A bathroom isn’t exactly the best place to be. But you think that if Jason Todd offered to eat you out in the middle of a crowded room, there wouldn’t be much protest on your behalf.

He slips the damp fabric down your thighs and tucks it in his back pocket.

“I’m getting those back, right?” You ask, head still resting against the mirror. “I can’t exactly walk out of here with no underwear.”

“Sure you can.” Jason says, and you feel him grin against your inner thigh. “I don’t see a problem with you not getting them back.”

You lean forwards, hunger shredding your insides, “You’re not keeping them.”

Jason growls, eyes flashing up from between your thighs, the green is glowing. His hands shove your knees apart, spreading you open in a way that has you wanting to hide your face. A dark smirk flutters over his face, teeth sinking into his lower lip when he sees the puffy lips of your pussy glistening.

“I’m keeping your underwear, baby. You don’t have a choice. I at least want something to remember this by.” He drawls, voice deep and low and catching on the wicked edge of his Gotham accent. Firmly holding your thighs apart you feel his gaze on your cunt. “Fucking hell, look at you. You’re so wet, sweetheart. I can tell you haven’t had much attention lately.” Jason spreads the lips of your pussy apart and you feel your clit twitch and swell under the attention. “Don’t worry, pretty girl, I’ll show you what you’ve been missing.”

Embarrassment sinks its teeth into your throat.

Cockiness isn’t something you’d usually find attractive. But Jason pulls it off like it’s second nature, like it's something weaved into the very fabric of his being. He glances up at you like he’s better than you, like he already knows that he’s going to ruin you. And unsurprisingly, half of you wants to punch him directly in the face.

But he looks good.

He looks really fucking good.

And when he presses his mouth against your weeping cunt, the urge to fight him flickers and dies.

Jason kisses your pussy, kisses your clit. He moves, presses a light smattering of kisses over your thighs and stomach. His mouth is wet. You’re fidgeting, hips trying to chase after his attention. He moves further away each time, trails his mouth in the opposite direction to where you want him.

Digging your fingers into his shoulders you whine, “Jay, c’mon–please.”

Licking along the crease where the top of your thigh meets your hip Jason hums, thumbs still holding your pussy open. Finally dropping down, he presses his tongue against your leaking hole, collecting your wetness and smearing it up to your swollen clit.

It twitches against his mouth and you gasp when Jason sucks at the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“You’re so sensitive.” He mutters, sucking harder just to yank a jolt out of your body. “Bet I could make you come from just a few little kisses.” The thought of Jason kissing your pussy until you come has your head spinning, has you aching to the point of almost pain. Arousal leaks out of you, “Oh,” Jason smirks, “You like the idea of that, huh?”

Moaning in agreement your hips buck. Jason shifts his grip, uses his incredible strength to hold you still.

Dragging his tongue over your clit he gives it long, flat licks. The pressure has your eyes rolling back, fingers quickly sweeping through Jason’s hair. You never knew it could be like this, that oral could feel so good. He suckles at the little bud and you keen, muscles trembling.

“Shit-fuck-shit.” You gasp, chest heaving. “Jay, you’re s’good.”

Using one hand, Jason dips two fingers into your clenching pussy. Sliding them up to the second knuckle he twists his wrist, drags the pads of his thick fingers against that soft, spongy patch inside you and coos when you whine.

“There you go, baby.” He praises, crooking his fingers and fucking you slowly. “You taste so good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else, your pretty princess cunt is mine now, ain’t no one going to eat you out better than this.”

Grinding against his mouth you mewl, thighs shaking horribly.

Your slick coats his fingers, starts leaking over his palm and down his wrist. Jason moans into your pussy, sucks at your clit until it twitches hard between his lips. Tracing random letters over the swollen, twitching nub he catalogues your reaction to each movement, files it away in his head then pulls it forwards, uses it against you.

He gets you right to the edge with barely any effort at all.

Your head is spinning, you can’t think straight.

Jason sucks hard at your clit, fucks you with his fingers, and your limbs lock up tight. Shaking apart in his hands you choke on a garbled moan, hands grasping at his hair, his shoulders, anything to offer support as your pussy convulses against his wicked mouth.

Working you through your orgasm Jason refuses to let up until you start trying to pull away, start shoving his head in an effort to get him to stop licking and sucking at your sensitive clit. He lets you go, glances up at you, eyes fucking electric.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “Told you, sweetheart. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

**

#jason todd x reader smut #jason todd smut #red hood x reader smut #red hood smut #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #dc fanfic #dc fanfiction #cannot get the thought of Jason kissing ur pussy out of my head #send help man down #ella writes

[astridthevalkyrie]

The heroes have been through shit. They've been brutalized, to put it mildly. All of them have seen better days, and everyone who remains doesn't even get the chance to rest. With all the high security prisons being broken into and chaos littering the streets, healing and relaxing couldn't be farther from their minds.

But you'll be damned if you don't take advantage of every free second Keigo has for you.

And is it childish, to make out with him in an apartment that's messy from all the blankets tossed here and there, your laptop tossed aside on a chair with a half-written but scathing article on Stain's ideology, seated on your boyfriend's lap while he lounges back on the only free space available on your couch?

Yes, yes it is. You can't bring yourself to care.

"Ten more minutes," he mumbles into your mouth, but you bet you can make it eleven. The wet sounds his lips make every time they pull away from yours only to dive back in drive you absolutely insane in the best way.

Because you're trying to be sweet, because you're trying to be mindful, you finally pull away, gazing at him with a soft, appraising look.

Time is precious. You can't have him leave thinking that the only thing you miss about him is how good of a kisser he is.

So you press your lips to his forehead, and Keigo sighs, hands sliding down from your hips to your ass, squeezing to pull you in closer.

"Only ten minutes," you remind him in a whisper, licking your swollen lips before kissing a newly formed bruise on his cheek. You'd told him not to fight up close, to leave that to the pros who aren't trying to literally regrow their limbs. But Keigo's the hero. He's always been the hero, probably always will be. So you just try to keep the chiding to a minimum and focus on bandaging and soothing the injuries he comes home with.

Home. Home is here, you hope. This is where Keigo comes back to, and he's as greedy as you are, stealing moments that could definitely be spent doing other, more productive things. What's love if not an absolute waste of your time?

Your fingers ghost over the scar on his face, the one that starts above his mouth and travels well down to his neck. Keigo grunts as you press a kiss to that part of his skin too.

The two of you haven't discussed it. You didn't have anything to say, and if Keigo needed to confide in you, he would, just like he does with everything else.

And, it seems, this is the moment for it to come up. "Ugly, isn't it?" he jokes, bringing his hand up to slide his fingers against yours, pulling it away from the scar. "No more modeling for me."

A nasty feeling rears in you. It feels like hearing someone else insult him, and the defensive roar in your chest makes you want to fight fiercely, even if he himself is the offending party.

He notices it, your scowl. With a lopsided grin, he asks, "What?"

It's like he doesn't even know. How gorgeous everything about him is, his pupils that expand and slit depending on his mood, the burn marks still scattered on his face, and even his teeth, slightly crooked but white and sharp.

You hold his face in your hands and kiss him again, rough this time. Demanding. Angry.

One of his hands palms the side of your neck, reciprocating the kiss the best he can before pulling away, slightly breathless. "What's—"

"You're the most handsome guy in the world." Your cheeks burn a little saying something so openly, so bluntly. With a groan, you bury your face in his chest to conceal your embarrassed expression. You mean every word you say, but it doesn't mean you have to look him in the eyes for it.

Keigo laughs, actually laughs, mouth on your temple where you can feel his lips curve into a smile. "Glad you think so. I knew you were into the rugged type."

Sure. You appreciate ruggedness. Who doesn't? But you're not letting him escape the point so easily.

"If you wore glasses," you huff, "then I'd be into the nerdy type. And if you wore leather jackets, then I'd be into the biker type." Summoning up your courage, you heft yourself back up, stubbornly glaring into his eyes. "And if you liked straw hats, then I suppose I'd be super into cowboys."

Normally you'd see his feathers fluff up, but in their absence you pay more attention to his face, which freezes at your confession. His pupils dilate and his mouth falls open just slightly, staring at you like he can't fully believe that you're real.

Instead of backing down, you stare back, fists clenched into his shirt. The past few weeks have been so difficult for him, name, actions, secrets and faults exposed to the whole world. No wings. Keigo is changing, you know it. Experiencing a taste of freedom for the first time, as bitter as it may be. He might not be sure if you like this new version, but that's what you're trying to tell him—you like every single version of him, and you're going to prove it whenever you need to.

"Those are," he croaks, but his voice is choked up, "really outdated stereotypes."

"Yeah."

"And I love you." His heart is beating so fast under your touch that it speeds up your own. "Like, really fucking love you."

He meets you, this time, lips crashing onto yours as you kneel down. With a trill, he leans forward, letting you topple onto the couch, luckily not on top of anything but scattered cushions, as his body covers your own and his lips press kiss after kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.

"How much time do we have left now?" you wonder, breath caught in your throat.

"Dunno." He doesn't even bother looking up to check. "Forever, for all I care."

#i loooove writing soft hawks #mha #mha x reader #hawks x reader #keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami #boyfriend keigo #valkyrie stories

[pandorasfavorite]

Saw your post abt being idealess and I am trying to brainstorm for you lol

Okay so first thought, hear me out, a bratty sub dominik x reader (smut ofc) or one where he finds out how much the reader likes him speaking Spanish

Or a story where dom and reader are childhood friends and decide to 🍃 together and one of the confesses (fluff)

I've got a few more ideas but idk if you like these so far or not lol

Love you 💕💕💕

Resuscitate

AN: I love you. I hope you don't mind but I'm going to try and use this opportunity to explore Dominik's point of view. (Please don't kill me, I swear if it is not popular I will never do this again). I just whipped this up yo....kinda impressing myself

Dominik's expectations for tonight were much different than yours. He always felt so drawn to you, and that feeling only grew as you both grew up together. Of course, as children Dominik wasn't in love with you; he didn't even really know what that was. But when he started to understand the concept, it took a short time to find out that's exactly how he felt about you.

For the past few years, Dominik felt absolute calm with you, anytime you made a presence he felt contained, relaxed, and most of all trapped. Trapped by your essence, trapped by the look in your eyes, trapped by the wit in your voice, and his favorite trapped by the way you yelled his name each time you saw him.

"DOMINIK!", you screech and sprint into his arms; acting as if you hadn't seen him in years. Dominik would be taken aback by your excitement to see him, eachtime it happened. And his heart would regularly race, so much so that he once had to step away and remind himself that he was not dying. You gave him a grin and pulled him along with you everywhere you went. Dominik had no complaints when it came to following you, he'd go to the ends of the earth if it meant being by your side.

Now that you both are 25 with too much time on your hands, you took it as your personal responsibility to be the red devil on Dominik's shoulder. He sat with you on the dingy couch you had for years now in the center of your small living room. He felt so comfortable in the familiar area, but sitting next to you with his leg pressed to yours was all he could think about. The moment you both sat down, your mischievous grin rose up and you reached into a drawer and pulled out a tin.

Dominik looked at you with suspicion, but he felt settled being beside you, as you felt being beside him. "What you up to Hermosa?", Dominik asked and moved his head into your space to look at your moving hands. He had been calling you Hermosa from the ripe age of 13, he heard it from his dad at first, and it seemed to apply to you perfectly. You open the tin and pull out the preroll, "Dom it's time", you say like it has been a weight on your chest. "Corazón...", he seems unsure. Dominik has never done this before, and he is 100% positive you have never done it either. He was less worried about the action and more worried about how it would make him act around you.

However, you looked at Dominik with pleading eyes; and without any words, you scathed by and convinced Dominik to smoke with you. "Ok", he drops his protective act and reaches for the lighter also in the tin. If he was going to do this, he would be the first to try it, to warn you, also it seemed more polite to light it for you. If Dominik is anything it is polite. He puts the preroll in his mouth and spares you a quick glance, you smile so cute that he is less nervous to do it. He lights up and takes a deep inhale; a really deep inhale. The smoke hits the back of his throat and the mild burn makes him cough it up.

You smack a hand over your mouth, stifling your laughs as Dominik hacks up a lung. After the initial pain of a gut-wrenching cough, the weed hits instantly. Considering he hasn't done it before it was easy for him to get high. The preroll is dangling from his fingers and you look at him with expectation. He jumps in realization and brings the preroll to your lips for you. You inhale much gentler than Dominik, but the thick smoke hits you just the same. Luckily for you, the coughing fit wasn't nearly as bad as Dominiks.

After another few less apprehensive hits, the high really set in. Dominik's eyes went low and glossy with a light hue of red. His goofy smile instantly graced his features and he turned his head to look at you quickly, though in his point of view, it was like slow motion. When Dominik looked at you his breathing came to a stuttering halt, he felt good; but you looked good. Truly perfect and the low eyes and that pretty smile would've brought him to his knees (if he wasn't on the couch). "How do you feel?", you say and somehow manage to lean closer to him as you speak.

Your words knock Dominik out of a haze and he has to inhale a breath before being able to talk to you. He breathes; his eyes staring into yours without care, he looks you over and answers, "I feel as good as you look". His eyes widen as soon as the words slip from his lips, he is about to speak but your giggle cuts him off. Your cheeks are a light tiny of pink and you put a hand on him as you laugh. If you were to look up 'What does a man in love look like?', a picture of Dominik staring at you with his lips parted in astonishment would pop up.

You sit up and your eyes go comically wide, "I want to do something" you declare and you somehow peel yourself from the couch. Of course Dominik got up just as you had. You both stand and look at each other without a clue of what to do and then you mutter a intrusive thought. "Hm?", Dominik asks you to repeat yourself in a small hum. You look up with those big glossy eyes, and his heart rate seems to beat back to life, "Give me a piggyback ride". Didn't have to tell him twice. He crouches down, "Get on then Hermosa".

You climb on his back and you lay your cheek on his shoulder when he stands up completely. "I like when you call me that", you mumbled against his shoulder, your arms barely hanging onto him. Yet you trust Dominik enough to know he would never let you fall. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much and so largely. He swallows and his mouth has gone dry; sure it was probably from the weed; but in his hazy state Dominik was convinced you have begun to affect him more physically than he anticipated. He walked into the kitchen with you slung on his back and his hands under your thighs keep you on him completely. He whispers that he is going to sit you down on the counter. Afterward, he pours a glass of water for you both to share, handing you the cup to get the first drink.

You moan in contempt as the cool liquid slides down your throat and you feel much better now that your mouth also isn't dry. Dominik eyes shoot to your lips at the sound that came from them. But he shook the thoughts from his head; he will not be that guy. You pull Dominik to you by the collar of his shirt (he curses under his breath at the proximity). "I really want some fucking chocolate", you say with wide eyes that are utmost serious. Dominik's eyebrows pull together in seriousness and he raids the cabinets for you. He finds a candy bar in the bottom cabinets and he pops up when he finds it; he smacks his head "ow". He says under his breath.

You jump off the counter and move to crouch down beside of him, your lips plant on his head before he can anticipate it. "There. Feel better?", you ask and snatch the candy bar from him. Dominik's mouth went dry again; this time, he thought he'd fall from the tingles that shot through his body. He nodded and his glazed-over eyes blinked at you twice. He watches you break off pieces of chocolate, he has the intense urge to pull you into his arms and kiss the chocolate off your lips. He thought, "god I'm in love".

Your head whips to him but Dominik doesn't acknowledge it as he slips a piece of chocolate into his mouth, "This is really good". He talked around the chocolate and then he finally looked up to your surprised look. He looked at you, just nearly as confused.

"Wait what?", you put the chocolate down.

"This chocolate is really good", he says again; rubbing the back of his neck.

"No Dominik what did you say before that- you said that you were..you know". His eyes fly the fuck open and his heart has surely fallen to the pit of his stomach. "What did I say?!", this was his worst fear. You waste no time repeating the words that were now inked into your mind, "You said, god, I'm in love". If his heart was in the pit of his stomach, his lungs were probably in the same spot. His breathing stops and his mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water. Now that you are looking at him, telling you the truth seems so much harder. The way you were staring at him, with a heartbroken look; he couldn't take it. "I'm sorry Corazón, I should've told you sooner", his glazed-over eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips without the intention. "Me?", you asked in utter surprise, he liked you back, after so many years, he was just in love with you as you were with him.

"Who else?", a breathless laugh escaped from my mouth. You gasp at the complete confession, you fall into him heavily; wrapping your arms around him and holding Dominik tight. "Me too", you say into his chest, Dominik heard it and he felt as if he was floating. He pushes you back to see your face but you stay close, "You too?", he asked just to confirm. You nod and tears begin to well in your eyes at the finality and long-awaited desire coming to life. He smiles and breaks into a quick laugh at his luck, he tilts your body down and gives you a long kiss, pulling back to attach to your lips again; over and over again until his lungs recicitate and until his heart gives out.

#dominik mysterio x reader #dominik mysterio fanfiction #dominik mysterio #dominik mysterio x you #dom dom #dominik mysterio fluff #dominik my bbg #wwe #dominik #dominik mysterious #dominik is such a good husband

[rangertessadarling]

I've mentioned this headcanon before, but Will absolutely wrote poetry. A lot of poetry. It started as a coping mechanism, he just really enjoyed putting any dark thoughts or feelings of his in a literary way that made it beautiful. After a while, though he just wrote because he loved writing, he loved the fulfillment it gave him when he turned a depressing thought or a traumatizing experience into a beautiful cadence. Sometimes he would put a melody to it and play them on the mandola for Alyss, love poems, dark poems, poems that didn't even fully make sense to him.

He also wrote several about Halt, and their relationship, although Halt never heard/saw them.

Poetry for Will was a way to put his complicated feelings into words, it was a feeling of closure to have his feelings down on paper.

After Alyss' death, he stopped writing, because he was ashamed of his feelings, and didn't even know how to put them into words, he had never had that issue before, which only served to make the sinking feeling worse.

After the Ruhl incident, and after his emotional blockage was healed, he wrote a poem. It was short, but scathing, and something that Will hoped no one ever read for the sake of his own reputation, they would think he was crazy, or murderous or both. But lets be fair, he kind of was.

He ended up burning that first poem. But he was glad he wrote it.

The rest of his poems were about Alyss. Every. Single. One. Even when he tried to write one about Maddie or about Halt or Pauline, they always drew back to Alyss, she was the denouement of every one of his stories. The resolution he couldn't not write.

Even after Will's own death, when Maddie found all his poetry, the poetry that was written on napkins, the backs of mission reports, stationary, scrap paper. Anything he could find. It was all shoved in a box under the loose wood board in the living room, momentarily forgotten.

But Maddie wouldn't let them be permanently lost to time.

She published them. Not all of them, just the ones that she felt symbolized quite clearly who Will Treaty was, and what he stood for.

Not the intimidating and hard man that some people knew him as through stories of his adventures, but as a man who suffered a great deal of immense transformation throughout his life. He was a clueless curious teenager, a cheeky and astute young man, and a melancholic, yet well-fortified ranger. He was a man who was oftentimes so overwhelmed with his feelings, that he let them spill onto physical paper to arrange them in a way that made sense.

Sometimes they didn't make sense, and Maddie speculated that those arcane poems probably wouldn't ever be interpreted in the way that Will wrote them, but that added to the reflection of who he was.

A man who never quite grew out of the 'feeling too much' stage as a boy.

A man who felt things as a child in a way no one would understand.

A man who never quite grew up.

#ranger's apprentice #rangers apprentice #will treaty #tessa's headcanons #tw ranttttt #Will Treaty character analysis #Will textposts are my favorite things to write I'm ngl #greybeard Halt was also published as it said a great deal about who tf Will Treaty was #someone who didn't give two fucks about authority

[makapatag]

GUBAT BANWA is a SEAsian Fantasy Tactics RPG of Love and Violence coming very soon to Kickstarter!

Below is some tidbits about the great Heavenly Thunderer, the Fulminating One: JAMIYUN KULISA.

Let me tell you what happens at the moment when Lightning and Thunder strike and resound at the same time. It is there where you will find Jamiyun Kulisa, it is there you will find indiscriminate justice, Jamiyun Kulisa’s God-Searing Lightning.

In Gatusanon and Ba-enon Anitu, Jamiyun Kulisa is a great god, one of the greatest ones—many villages and some cities even consider him the Supreme God of Heaven, creator of the earth, one and the same with Siwa and is also the Himaya-Buddha.

He cannot be bound by petty mortal morality: his justice is as absolute as the lightning bolt. The Fulminating One sees all under the sky, for he is the Heavenly Thunder Father. It was he that struck down the undulating dragon Waritra, who threatened to swallow the entirety of heaven whole. It was he that punished the first Man for killing a shark with his lightning bolt. In the islands of Ramasa and more commonly in the cities in the margins of Gatusan’s mandala, he is known as Makapdan Rangit. 

The name Rangit still resounds: it means heaven. In Ramasa, great datu are sometimes given the title of Rangit. There have only been 5 Rangit so far.

Devotees and balyan of Jamiyun Kulisa always carry with them items that have been struck by lightning. These anting are filled with Jamiyun Kulisa’s Merit—wearing them is sure to grant good fortune in every day life. Many Heavenspears and Senapati are devoted to Jamiyun Kulisa or at least know him by name, and remember tenets and teachings from Jamiyun Kulisa’s balyan. 

When Jamiyun Kulisa is channeled by a balyan, the balyan’s trance dance is especially erratic, similar to lightning, and their hair is permanently bleached lightning-white. If in a war, a properly devoted chief balyan who has done the proper rituals can even channel Jamiyun Kulisa’s Scathing Lightning, which bleaches and then annihilates those deemed unworthy by Jamiyun Kulisa’s justice. And it is truly justice, in Gatusan, that Jamiyun Kulisa is a god of. Not law or retribution, but justice.

Spirit houses dedicated to Jamiyun Kulisa very often bring offerings of wine and blood encrusted blades, along with the usual offerings to a spirit house. One thing Jamiyun Kulisa hates when offered to are rare sealife—sharks, deep sea eels, serpents. “THOSE DO NOT BELONG TO HIM,” their balyan once clarified, the smell of charred flesh wafting from their mouths. “THOSE BELONG TO THE SEA, TO HIS RIVAL AND LOVER AND WIFE AND ENEMY.”

Jamiyun Kulisa’s Lover—sometimes his daughter in more northern Gatusanon beliefs—is INDIRA SUGA, the great Mother of Light, the Goddess of the Stars and the Sun, she who lives in every burning candle, in every smokeless flame. In official Kangdayanon tenets, Indira Suga is Jamiyun Kulisa’s primary spouse after having been divorced from the Sea, who is known only as Sri Maguayen.

In the root cities of Apumbukid near Apu Dayawa itself, some believe that Jamiyun Kulisa is the Mad Vanquisher King sent by Raktaparameswara, the Red Supreme Lord, avatar of Batara. This is why he is known as the Thunderbolt, as he arrived in the Footsteps of the Gods from Jamiyun Kulisa’s Arrows (which, he himself caused in a great war against the Baikhan Foundational Goddess). He fought with arrows larger than islands, and he himself was a god amongst men. What else is history made of but gods?

Akai claims a lineage from Jamiyun Kulisa: they say that the great Supreme Lord settled in the Footsteps of the Gods before Jaris Akai arrived, and he subjugated the lands. When Jaris Akai arrived, Jamiyun Kulisa returned to his rightful place in the Lower Skies as a Vassal-Mediator of Baginda Sumongsuklay, granting Jaris Akai the needed knowledge to conquer the Footsteps of the Gods from Siga.

Virbanwan Sampalataya has syncretized Jamiyun Kulisa into another Lightning War God that is a refraction of Makaubos, one of the Almighty Trinity, the Destroyer of All Things. 

#gubat banwa #ttrpg #gamedev #fantasy #filipino #southeast asia

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Show Me How ❞ [part 2]

Deucalion x werewolf!male!reader | nsfw, smut, gore & violence | sub.bttm.reader (AMAB) | wc: 7k | not proofread

warnings: the alpha still haven’t gone through their redemption arc, anal fingering, anal sex, size kink, deucalion transforming into his demon wolf form in the middle of sex, tummy bulge, creampies, biting kink (?)

summary: you were given a task — Deucalion says you're ready despite the doubts the others have. you're determined to show them, show Deucalion, just how good of a puppy you were.

author's note: this is for @malewh0re, ly bestie!! I'm trying to change the POV from you to he/they and YN's so bare with me folks

masterlist; part 1

“It doesn’t make any sense”, she whimpers out. Her grip on his biceps tightens as she glances over her shoulder. The moon was shy tonight — a shame. A horned moon was supposed to decorate the sky; a curve of light from the heavens peeking from behind a dark curtain of night. “What doesn’t make sense?” Amy looks at him incredulously. Legs slow as she pulls her arm away from his grip. He raises his brows in question. She crosses her arms, her lips pinched like she was tasting something sour. “Seriously?” Amy’s tone is nothing short of scathing. “What?” He shrugs, pocketing his hands. 

“No — Are you being serious?” Scoffing, he lifted his shoulders and let his hands fall limply to his side. “Look at your shirt!” and he does. It was soaked in blood, sticky —  mildly uncomfortable —  but it wasn’t as though he was drenched in it. Probably not the best night to have worn a white shirt; was it his fault that the hunter blocked his claws with his neck?  No. Absolutely not. It wasn’t his fault the huner was a blood fountain. (Y/N) considers himself lucky that all he got was the initial spray from the slice and nothing more. Amy was not so lucky. The poor girl had been right behind the man and as he twisted, his arteries aimed right at her.

Was that the reason she was so hysterical? 

“Nothing a cold wash can’t fix”, he assures. Amy grabs a fistful of her brown hair in each hand. “He wasn’t supposed to be there”. He tilted his head as Amy paced. Her already dirty sneakers get muddier with each, pointed, stomp. It’s been raining a lot as of late. With how heavy the clouds look, it seems that tonight won’t be any different. “The hunter?” he pries. Amy is holding herself back from going ‘ uh, duh! ‘ but her eyes still send daggers (Y/N)’s way despite the restrained nodding. The smile on his face belittles her. Gold bleeds into her brown eyes and she snaps her teeth at him.

“Amy”, (Y/N) groans.

“I’m not crazy! It doesn’t make sense!” His hands raise and they settle on her shoulders. Amy shrugs them off. “No! Don’t do that!” “You’re right!” Amy finally pauses, her heart rate slowly mellowing down as she takes a breath. (Y/N) continues; “You’re right, Amy. It doesn’t make sense why he’s here but let’s not pretend he needs any”. She sniffles, brows furrowing as she stutters out a question. “What are you saying, (Y/N)?” “Werewolf hunters kill werewolves,” she looks at the canopy of trees and mutters something under her breath. (YN) spares a glance just to see if the moon is peering down. No luck. There was no time to be disappointed — Amy’s in his face.

“They have a code. They don’t kill shifters just for the hell of it”. She places her hand on his chest and sighs. 

“You’re new to this whole thing but trust me, it really doesn’t make any sense at all. They only hunt those who hunt humans,” as she lifts her head to make sure this goes through his head she freezes.

The corners of his lips struggle to compose themselves from revealing a toothy grin. “You believe that shit?” 

Amy pulls herself away from you as if you burned her. 

“I have to believe in it”. 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s life or death, shithead. It protects our kind from being mindlessly killed”.

She hates this expression on his face. The minute raise of his brow coupled with the upside-down grin. She especially hates how small it makes her feel. 

“You think this is funny? A man died tonight!”

“A hunter died tonight."

Your tone is so sharp Amy flinches. “Yesterday? It was Kevin, the pack emissary. Last week? The Linetti sisters and the month before it was their goddamn parents. Don’t pretend that this piece of shit didn’t deserve this, he was probably the one that killed them”.

“You don’t know that!” 

“And you? You know with absolute certainty that he didn’t kill them? That he just came over to this town, stalked us for the whole day only to corner us because he wanted to talk with your father? Come on, Amy.” Amy crosses her arms. 

“I know they have a code”. She can’t even look at him. Glaring petulantly at the wet leaves like a spoiled child. The huff of disbelief that follows makes her press her lips together. “I may be new to this but I’m not that naive. Wake up, Amy. It’s us or them in their eyes. It always has been. If you’re too blind to see that. . .”

The moonlight on your skin makes your gums itch.

“Are you really fit to lead the pack?” 

Given the state the two of them were in upon returning to the safe house, the pack was up in arms at the news. “You did what!?” 

Victor is a mountain of a man. His brow bone is low and his eyes downturned; He’d look good with a full beard but the man’s shirts are steamed every day. No wrinkle in sight. His shoes shined, his salt and pepper hair trimmed. Even his goddamn cuticles looked tended to. When he’s yelling — like he is now — he resembles more of a man than he pretends to be. The lines across his forehead and the skin that folds over as he furrows his brows make him resemble a wolf with his hackles raised.

“I did what I had to do,” (Y/N) replied.

Whispers spread all around. As he glances at the pack he couldn’t help but scoff. Victor’s voice makes him tear his eyes away from the pitiful sight.

They had the numbers but would not rise to the challenge. Were they really content with that? With an alpha, and their future alpha, who teaches them to tuck their tails in and file their fangs down?

“You put the pack in danger, my daughter in danger! Do you know what this means for us!?” 

“It means we didn’t roll over and show our belly! It means we fought back! They hit us first!”

Victor nearly shakes from fury. (Y/N) swears he can see steam coming out of his ears. Here he was,  the alpha, sweating and screaming at a Beta in front of his dwindling pack. They were huddled in the safe house, underground like naked fucking molerats.

The ones that weren’t here were either buried in the ground already or had chosen to leave the state. 

He could hear how frantic everyone’s heartbeats were. Hell, he could even hear how their eyes kept shifting around and the way they kept craning their necks to stare at the only door in the room as they waited with bated breath for the big bad hunters to slaughter them.

Amy can see it too as she stands on the slightly elevated platform that her father and (Y/N) were on as well. She’s just as pathetic as the rest of them.

Deucalion was right. Those who don’t seize power will always be squashed by those who do. 

Where was their ambition? Their goddamn want for survival? Amy’s eyes meet (Y/N)’s.

“They killed your emissary. Strung his headless body to a tree. They killed your pack members one by one, I didn’t think we were supposed to just let them when they cornered us”. “There’s no proof it was hunters,” more murmurs erupt. Victor’s anger wavers and the scent of uncertainty spreads. Victor squares his shoulders and flashes his red eyes. A last-ditch attempt to quell the rising volume of voices. While Amy keeps on staring, entranced at the darkening bloodstains on (Y/N)'s shirt. She watches as his fingers curl — her hearing muffles as she notices how in control he is.

When (Y/N) had come to their pack, he was charming and sweet. Amy recalled Laurel and Lottie — the Linetti sisters, her childhood friends — teasing her when they caught her laughing too hard at a lame joke he made. He’d told them that he had been bitten. Stumbling back drunk from a college party, tackled to the ground by a Rogue werewolf, and escaping with his life and a bite. The alpha had been responsible enough to come back for him to teach you to control, however, something happened to him. You’d been vague, but Victor told Amy how melancholic his eyes were and left that questioning line.

Now.

Now, his eyes were defiant, not melancholic —  hell, not even regretful. Blood still stains his hands and Amy wonders why hasn’t he scrubbed it off like she had. 

How could he stand it? The remnants of someone’s life decaying on your skin. Death lurking still within your shadow. Her breathing turns shallow and she struggles to get more air into her lungs. With every blink, the faces of her dead packmates flash behind her eyelids like fireworks. Dismembered, hung, bled-out, and grotesquely displayed. All works of hunters, according to (Y/N). Amy remembers how much venom dripped from his words as he spoke of them. She assumed the reason was because they killed his alpha. But then, he was so sweet when she wrapped her arms around him to ease that scent of ire away.

He always had such a faraway look in his eyes whenever hunters were mentioned. She saw the same expression tonight after he had mercilessly torn that man’s throat apart. The hunter, who identified himself with the name Charles, confessed he’d only stopped to ask about Victor. It made her tense, (Y/N) however? The man didn’t even pull out the blade he had hidden on him. Charles didn’t even use threats, raising his hands as a white flag as (Y/N) circled him like a starved dog. 

“You know what I do”, Charles says.

“You know what we are”, (Y/N) replies. 

“Listen, I didn’t come here to hurt you, I heard about the killings —  I’ve only come to help”. Amy chews on her lips. He already knew her father by name, and with how antsy everyone already was bringing this man back seemed unwise. “Bullshit”, (Y/N) growls out. She reaches the back of his shirt yet her fingers only grasp air. The next thing she knew, the hunter spun like a ballerina. His throat erupts blood like a volcano.

“We will not go to war with hunters. We’ve done nothing wrong!” Victor bellows. It silences the initial hubbub. The people still spoke through glances. 

“You’re pathetic”, Amy hears (Y/N) hiss out. She reaches for her father's arm but feels nothing but air as Victor grabs the front of his shirt. Victor’s yell caused an instant panic as chairs clattered to the floor and screams bounced from the walls. Amy stayed frozen with her outstretched hand. 

(Y/N) held Victor by his neck, the veins of his arm bulging with more strength than the average shifter possessed. Victor swipes and claws futilely at his hands. His feet kick as they try to find purchase of the floor. 

Sputtering, gasping, choking. 

“This is your alpha?” his voice silences the room all at once. It commanded with certainty and sharpness. “Pathetic. All of you are, but you especially”. Victor’s veins burst in his eyes as the pressure of (Y/N)’s grip builds. Victor feels his claws tear through his ribcage, acutely aware of his fingers effortlessly traveling through flesh. When his claws reach his racing heart, he swears the movement turns kinder. They still pierce through, however, and the sight was anything but kind.

His pack cries out at the sight of him nearly elbow-deep within their alpha’s chest cavity as (Y/N) holds him up. What brutality. 

Victor sees himself in the boys' eyes. His breath escapes him as he sees the webs of crimson turn blue into red. (Y/N) never break his gaze, allowing him at least that much respect even if he didn’t deserve it. The rush he felt as Victor faded away was indescribable.

Ichor flowed through his body, beginning from the hand that crushed his heart. Deucalion wasn’t kidding when he told him how euphoric it was to take another alpha’s power. 

Amy can’t remember what happens next. 

Everything is a blur.

She doesn’t know why her body is so heavy as she crawls toward her father’s and doesn’t understand how time just decides to slow. Blood splatters on her cheeks, blood of the people who had been by her side throughout her whole life. But Amy doesn’t spare them a glance. Even when her ex-boyfriend, Jake, tries to grab her shoulder to take her to safety, she simply shrugs him off.

When his head rolls in her path? She offers a sob but continues to reach Victor.

As she strokes his hair in her lap she’s reminded of (Y/N)’s random disappearances.

Had they even asked for his alibi the nights their packmates got offed? She can only recall defending him when people muttered about the timing of the killing coincidentally beginning when (Y/N) joined the pack.

Laurel and Lottie had been beheaded the night (Y/N) stood her up for their movie date with her. He told her his alarm didn’t go off, and she forgave him when she was promised a more intimate movie date another night.

Laurel and Lottie were rightfully withdrawn after they found their parent’s headless bodies at home. But they did make a show of pulling Amy away from him. Their eyes were distrustful, and Amy couldn’t understand why they never said anything to her.

Did they think she wouldn’t have listened because she was too in love? Was that why they died? Because she was too blinded by his charming smile and funny jokes?

Sound comes to her all at once. Amy stares at (Y/N) 's back as he crushes Rosa’s head with his hands. The floor can barely be seen with the amount of blood and gore on it. The walls with claw marks and broken chairs tossed around in desperate attempts to fight (Y/N). 

“You’re a monster," Amy whispers. The door has bodies piled against it. She doesn’t know how she isn’t screaming as she recognizes every one of their faces. 

“Nah”. His shirt was soaked through. It was like he was bathed in blood. The lights flicker with each step he makes towards Amy. She can’t move. 

Finally, he crouches in front of her, straddling her father’s chest with no remorse on his face.

“I’m just stronger than you."

Amy can’t stand how cocky his grin is. Those sickening red eyes. “I gave this pack chance after chance to get a backbone to kill those hunters. Prove something to me. Show me you were willing to do whatever it takes to survive,” Amy follows his gaze and does nothing to stop her tears from flowing at the massacre.

“You were the ones that dug your graves before you were dead.” She sobs as he grabs her neck.

“Dad, help me, please! Dad!” You grimace, snorting at her pleading as she shakes Victor's shoulders.

“Jeez, at least die with some dignity”.

The last thing Amy felt before she wilted away were his claws deep within her chest, draining her of everything that made her human. She drops to the ground, her cloudy eyes staring at the ceiling right beside her father. 

Kali furrows her brows as Ennis slides a basket of fries and burger over the desk. The potatoes were seasoned to hell and back with cajun and a little limp but appetizing. The burger partially wrapped in foil, however, was less so. The bread was softening —  Kali’s nose curled at the missing chunk.

“Really?” Kali scoffs. Ennis feigns innocence by cocking a brow, swallowing the bite he took rather obviously. She crinkles her nose and slides the food back. 

“Not interested in eating something you already took a bite out of, babe.”

“C’mon, you gotta eat something. Don’t tell me you’re getting your stomach all up in knots over the puppy’s assignment,” she frowns at Ennis’ cockiness. Kali rolls her eyes and pushes herself to stand and walk away from Ennis. Tensions were already high due to (Y/N)’s radio silence. It was understandable considering how hidden Victor's pack was —  they didn’t grow their numbers by being brash and arrogant — but it could also be due to (Y/N) deciding to leave the pack.

He was new to their world. Sure, he was a rabid killing machine when he shifts —  Ennis AND Kali had to hold him back during his first full moon with them, it was not fun —  but he’s learned to control that now. He’s conscious during shifts and no longer mindlessly rampaging around. What if he ‘ wakes up ‘? 

He’s not valuable anyway, Kali thinks to herself. If anything, perhaps the pack would benefit if (Y/N) did flake out and fail. He was no alpha. Who gives a shit about (Y/N). Still, Kali’s not the kind of woman to just worry over insignificant worms so…perhaps Kali did give a shit about them. It’s been a while since she’s had a Beta around. It was nice to finally be an alpha without having to snap their teeth in retort. 

She refuses to acknowledge that she was growing a soft spot for you.

“Do you always ruminate so loudly, Kali?” Deucalion’s voice made her breath hitch but Kali would swear up-and-down it was just him hearing things. He’s sat in the corner of the den, delicately replacing the tip of his cane in the armchair. “It’s about (Y/N),” Deucalion humms as he twists a new blade into place. He lifts it into the light. It glints mischievously at Kali — acting like it hears her every train of thought.  

“You seem to have a lot of thoughts about our dearest puppy,” he says. Kali crosses her arms, facing Deucalion as she stands across from him. 

“Should I tell Ennis about your crush?” His teasing makes her grit her teeth. “As if, Deuc.” He exhales through his nose and then sets the cane down. Interlacing his fingers, he lifts his head in Kali’s direction. She vents her frustrations. “(Y/N) should be back by now. Unless he got roped into the pack and their ideals or ran away from our cause."

She glances out the window of the penthouse they were renting out. Victor's pack would have turned tail and run if they caught the scent of them — this town was just on the border of comfort but still a great distance away. “Well then, that wouldn’t be very clever of him.”

Kali scoffs at Deucalion’s words.

“Has he ever been known to be clever?” 

At that, Deucalion grins. No, (Y/N) wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed. The sluttiest maybe but Kali didn’t have to hear him talk about that. “He should have reported back days ago.”

A sharp ringing sound cuts the conversation short. Her head spun towards the direction of the phone; it was placed in the kitchen area where Ennis was. He picks up, his voice calming Kali's nerves as he answers curtly.

"Hello?"

"They didn't listen." Deucalion feels rather smug as he turns his attention back towards his cane. Kali blinked in surprise, moving one step forward but pausing — she could hear their conversation just fine from where she was.

"They didn't want to fight. Victor led them to a bunker underground".

"How the hell are you calling then? Did they chase you off?"

"And waste a perfectly good mass grave? No. I killed them. The hunters too." (Y/N) can hear Ennis' smile as he asks him about Victor. "He died first."

Kali can't believe her ears. She feels a sense of pride, a laugh of disbelief escaping her. Deucalion calls for Ennis and tells him to relay to (Y/N) about the next steps of their plan.

(Y/N) offers a smile to the cashier, placing his bag of chips and chocolate down. He greets (Y/N) with familiarity, asking him how his night was going and (Y/N) replies with a toothy smile. "Amy craving snacks again?" (Y/N) chuckles. "Yeah, we're having movie night ya' know, can't have that without something to nibble on".

"Did you get that, (Y/N)?" Ennis asks.

"Yeah, I'll meet you there. See you soon." The cashier snickers as he scans the snacks while (Y/N) pockets the burner phone.

"Was that Amy?" He purses his lips, cocking a brow in an almost grimaced expression. The cashier laughs; "I won't tell her. So, where are you meeting her?"

"I'm meeting him at the fancy hotel." He sputters, ears tinged red as he retracts his hand from the snacks he'd been passing off to (Y/N).

"You're fucking gay?" he says in that tone. (Y/N) could only stare at the fallen bag of chips with a long sigh escaping him. "Oh, come on, Bill, I was really starting to like you." Bill's disgust was so obvious it made his red eyes burn. "What the fuck!?" He trips over his feet at the sight, crawling backward to put as much distance as he can.

(Y/N) glances up at the corner, chuckling in amusement as he wags a finger at the unblinking camera. "You said that was broken, right?" "Dude, I — I didn't mean it that way. I swear! I just —" (Y/N)'s teeth snap together. Bill yelps, covering his head. "Yes! Yes! It's broken!" "Good." (Y/N) slides over the counter, ignoring the frightened screams that Bill makes as his boots land on the other side. (Y/N) reaches towards the box of condoms, swiping a few bottles of lube. He grabs the plastic bag, tossing everything in before patting Bill's head as he steps over him. "Men fuck other men, Bill. Get over it."

The hotel looked regal among the other buildings that surrounded it. With its cool beige colour and velvet red curtains. The glass doors had a doorman who was reserving his toothy smiles for guests as he nodded off from where he was standing. There was the gentlest twinkle of light from the chandelier that hung in the lobby. Whilst the downpour cast everything in blue and greys the hotel's interior was a dream. The doorman choked on a snore, his head lifting as (Y/N) walked in. He belatedly rushed out the greeting — (Y/N) offered a reply but he had more pressing matters at hand. He looked out of place. His hair was wet and the plastic bag he held under his jacket made him look suspicious. This wasn't that kind of hotel. The receptionist gives him their most courteous grin, asking him all the usual questions.

"Uh, yeah, I've got a room reserved under (L/N)".

He declined any help to get to the room and when asked if he needed any help with luggage, he simply glanced around with pursed lips. As he closed the door to the room behind him, he let out an impressive whistle at the size of it. Everything about it screamed luxury — it was no Four Seasons, but for a teeny city like this it was pretty damn impressive. It beats living with a bunch of other people his age in a dorm, that's for sure.

(Y/N) tossed the plastic bags of supplies onto the bed. Then, he shed his jacket, making a trail of clothes all the way to the grand bathroom. Deucalion seemed to be proud of him. The thought alone made shivers of pleasure run down his spine.

He rubbed his skin clean, getting the crusted blood under his nail and then the other crevices it managed to seep into. Then, he prepared the bath, just to try to calm himself down as much as he could.

Spoiler alert; when you're pumped up from absorbing the power from every pack member you killed and are now awaiting your alpha's praise.

It proves to be a challenge.

(Y/N) sighed, tossing his head back as he wrapped his fingers around his shaft, chewing on his lower lip. Another hand slides up to grab a handful of his pecs, squeezing and twisting the pert nipple. His knees spread, soapy water jostling around with each movement.

"Fuck," he hisses. Cock twitching and hips thrusting up within the water as his palm attempts to mimic Deucalion's skill. He would be so cruel, relentlessly toying with the mushroom head of his dick until (Y/N)'s sure he might just go insane. Deucalion would lather it in spit or lube or even his own cum, make it sloppy so he can relish in the squelching and whining (Y/N)'s body makes.

Deucalion would stroke and tug and squeeze but the second he feels (Y/N)'s body tensing, the hitch in his breath, the curl of his toes —

"Mfph." He's nearly curled over on himself in the tub. The mouth hung open and fangs appeared. His blood drips into the water as he holds onto the sides of the clawfoot tub.

His cock protests as it pulses and begs for release.

But (Y/N) knows better than to cum without Deucalion's explicit permission. Those " werewolf " lessons weren't just for his survival — Deucalion had a puppy to tame and he'd squeeze in such lessons whenever he could.

Until he finally understood that his body wasn't his.

This cock, this mouth, these nipples, his ass.

All Deucalion's.

(Y/N) catches his breath. His claws scrape the tub as he gulps down his saliva and his self-control.

Somewhere, on the floor of the room, the burner phone rings, and (Y/N) scrambles to get out of the tub. The wet footprints would be someone else's issue to deal with.

Deucalion's voice makes him freeze and for a moment, (Y/N) wonders if he heard his moaning, if he was in this room already.

"I'll be coming tomorrow night, you can enjoy the hotel, think of it as a part of your reward, (Y/N)."

"Will Kali and Ennis come along?"

He hears Deucalion hum in amusement.

"Do you not want them too?"

"...Not tomorrow night. I want my other rewards as well."

I've spoiled him, Deucalion thinks as he spreads his legs, readjusting his posture as his pants grow tight.

"You sound out of breath." (Y/N) knows what he's asking and steels his voice as he confesses that he had rushed to grab the phone from his discarded pants.

"No other reason?"

"No, sir."

"Hm."

(Y/N) walks back into the bathroom, hoping the sounds of his movement could make it easier to muffle the way his heart — and penis — still hadn't calmed down from his jerk-off session.

"I've been good, sir."

Deucalion knows he has, his precious puppy was such an obedient pet. Pliant and limp — addicted to Deucalion's taste.

But his puppy was grown now. He no longer bore those icy blues; he had the same eyes as alphas and he had earned it. Deucalion could never imagine his (Y/N) disobeying him, digging his heels into the ground as he snarls.

He'd seen it, during their first romp together, but that was different.

He never thought he'd see it again; (Y/N) was lying to him.

Not about the job well done. No, not that. But about being good.

"Prep yourself for me, puppy. When I get there, I want you kneeling on the bed, face down and back arched. Arms behind you."

Deucalion is not disappointed. The door to (Y/N)’s room is unlocked. The receptionist had been kind enough to lead him all the way here, flustered at Deucalion's smooth voice as he told them he was expected.

The door shuts in their face and Deucalion's grin is downright predatory at the whine that he hears.

"Champagne?" Deucalion places his cane down, his jacket being trapped over one of the chairs in the room. He picks up the bottle by its neck, taking a whiff of it. He wipes the condensation on the napkin that came with it.

Every move is a deliberate move to ignore (Y/N).

He’s silently watching Deucalion’s every move. His ass was presented and the arch of his back was boudair photo-worthy. Yet, his lover simply turns his back on him and pours himself a glass of champagne.

“You know we can’t get drunk.”

“It was complimentary.” (Y/N) stretches his fingers. His shoulders are beginning to ache from the lack of support. His knees shift on the bed, and the sound causes Deucalion to chuckle.

“Don’t be impatient —”

“Alpha, please.”

His back stiffens. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t expected (Y/N) to whine that title. Perhaps he’d gotten so used to Kali and Ennis who would rather choke on their own blood before calling him in such a way.

To be fair, any alpha would rather be beaten into submission before they do so.

But his sweet (Y/N) wasn’t just any alpha; he was Deucalion’s.

Wholy, fully, unfoundedly.

“I’ve been good,” he says. “Please, alpha. I need you so badly.”

Deucalion inhales and holds it for a moment. It seemed as though he was attempting to regain his composure and (Y/N) can't even fathom a situation where does. So, he turns his face into the pillows, spreading his knees further; he can feel the lube slide down his perineum and his heavy cock. It stains the sheets below him though that would just be the first few stains.

The hotel was going to need to buy a new bedsheet set by the end of this night.

Even with his vision obscured, (Y/N) can sense Deucalion making his way towards the bed. The fine hairs on his body stand in attention as the coolness of the champagne glass traces the outline of his pose. Deucalion can sense the jitters of gooseflesh spreading. He's awfully silent. Cool like the glassware he holds.

"I paid the bunker a visit," he murmurs. (Y/N) gasps as the liquid is poured onto his back, dripping down the curve of his spine and pooling around his neck. It almost tickles him. Deucalion's warm hands place themselves on the globes of his ass. He spreads them, his hot breath contrasting the champagne that trails down.

"You're a masterpiece, made just for me."

His fists shake as Deucalion's dexterous tongue takes a lick off his twitching hole. Deucalion groans, the taste of (Y/N) coupled with the lube and the champagne — it was heaven.

"My perfect monster, my bloodthirsty pet. You must have been magnificent. Did it feel good, darling?"

He nods, shivering at Deucalion's voice, his mouth, his claws leaving red welts down the sides of his body. The bed dips as Deucalion climbs it, digging his tongue deeper where he knows his boy is aching for him.

"S'good, so so good, alpha." (Y/N) tries to turn his head to catch a glimpse of Deucalion. His shoulder was mainly in the way, if he moved his arms he could probably have an unobscured view.

But he knew better than that.

"I wish you were there. I wish you'd seen me — Mfph!" Deucalion's glasses are askew, sliding down further down his nose. Those bloodshot eyes shone in the dim downlight of the lamps in the room. (Y/N)'s mimics it and his mouth feels entirely too empty.

Deucalion's tongue licks up the trails of champagne. He can taste the body soap you used, and a pleased rumble escapes his throat. Oh, he could just take one big bite out of him. He could taste (Y/N)'s need to please, his want to be filled, to be marked, to be claimed.

"I wanted you to see me, show you that I was so good, sir."

He finds the back of his neck and (Y/N) shudders. His lips trace the pumping pulse. His teeth drag along the vital junction of arteries.

One bite and Deucalion could end his existence.

(Y/N)'s never been so hard in his life.

Breathy moans are Deucalion's prize as he kisses and bites (Y/N)'s skin, leaving indents of his teeth —only sometimes breaking through the skin — and loving bruises.

His puppy's shuffling and shifting grow. Just like his frustrations. He backs up his plush ass onto Deucalion's pant-covered crotch. Then, he grinds and rubs — dirtying the front with lube.

Deucalion grips his hips and (Y/N) is reminded of the first time Deucalion gave him that handjob, that soul-stealing kiss; he thinks it's ironic.

"I thought I was supposed to be rewarded." There was the faintest whisper of a growl that followed his pout.

Ah, there it is.

That hardheadedness that all alphas get. The urge to raise your hackles and lick your teeth at the slightest whiff of displeasure. The urge to protect, to destroy —all that strength you've found yourself with comes with heightened emotions.

"Temper," he reminds with a flash of teeth. Deucalion's chest is pressed to his back; his knees are next to his calves.

"All good things come to those who wait —"

(Y/N)'s fingers curl on the loop of his pants and he tugs. It makes Deucalion lurch forward, bracing himself with his elbows.

"I've waited for weeks, pretending to be someone else and fulfilling your mission. Then, I waited for 24 more hours — I've waited enough."

His scent had more heat now. Much like Kali and Ennis'. A stinging sensation floods his nose. (Y/N)'s anger is simmering beneath his skin. Deucalion finds his indignation nothing shy of disrespect.

It was expected. But somehow, it grinds his gears nonetheless.

"You impatient little whore." Excitement thrums through his veins. (Y/N) turns his face away from Deucalion, hiding that pleased grin that turns into a shocked expression. His fingers are so long as they plunge into him.

"Oh, fuuuck," (Y/N) keens. His mouth hangs open as Deucalion pistons those digits in and out. They seem angry.

Good.

They should be.

Deucalion fucks like a beast when he needs to let off steam.

Exactly what (Y/N) needs to dispel this thrumming energy he has that makes him feel like he's a pin drop away from massacring the whole town.

Deucalion seems determined to punch out those pathetic "uhuhuhs" from (Y/N) with his fingers alone.

Two at first, then three, and when the fourth breaches (Y/N) tries to climb further on the bed. So Deucalion grabs his wrists and holds him there. (Y/N)'s fingers twitch and spasm, desperately grasping at whatever they can as he feels himself get spread by Deucalion.

"Yes, yesyesyes — Alpha, it feels s'good, t'good!"

' Look at him, writhing and moaning. Making sounds that would make a prostitute blush, ' a voice in his head leers.

God, he feels so tight. Gripping onto him like he never wants him to go —like he never wants to be empty anymore. Deucalion can feel something scratch at the surface of his skin. He could visualize the beast with its maw open and hungry.

When he pulls away from (Y/N), the boy drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

His chest heaves, eyes blearily gazing on the nightstand as he tries to make sense of why he is empty.

He doesn't need to wonder for long.

Deucalion is on top of him again, this time with his shirt off and his pants unzipped. His heavy cock grinds between (Y/N)'s ass. The slightest friction against his rim has him mewling.

The teeth of the zipper feel uncomfortable and the material of his pants digs into the backs of his thighs make him squirm — but when Deucalion's cockhead catches?

(Y/N) all but sings for him. There's pressure as Deucalion presses and presses and presses and —

Oh.

(Y/N) melts into the sheets. Deucalion's cock is fat and heavy, skinnier at the tip but thickening out at the base. His tip was a pretty shade of dusty pink and the veins that decorate the sides of it feel so good on his tongue. Deucalion slides in easily, his puppy taking him so smoothly as his velvety walls welcome him.

It takes everything inside of him not to give in. He sheaths himself until his hip is flushed against his plush backside. Despite the whining and desperate grinding, Deucalion simply pushes on his shoulder and presses down.

"I spoil you," Deucalion snarls. "Do you know how lucky you are to be able to act the way you do, demanding rewards as if you're in charge?"

His hips draw back and slam in. It has (Y/N) yelping as his ass jiggling from the force.

"You forget yourself. Every inch of your body is mine." Deucalion's pace is relentless. He pounds into (Y/N) with such power behind his hips it has the headboard banging into the ceiling.

Poor puppy. All he could do was grasp onto the bedsheets, ripping them as he jerked back and forth. His cock rubs on the bed while his rim stretches around Deucalion's cock.

His eyes roll back as he moans wantonly, toes curling and thigh shaking at the feeling of Deucalion taking him.

"Alpha — Mghah! Your cock feels suh-so good, s'fuckin' good," his voice calls for Deucalion's name but, Deucalion feels that beast again.

How dare he? Ordering him around. Stomping his foot on the ground like a petulant brat. Had Deucalion not showered him with enough care and devotion? Had he been inadequate in providing (Y/N) with everything he needed?

Something primal within him felt a need to prove something. To show (Y/N) that no one else could compare to him, the Alphas of Alpha. So his scent of displeasure completely disappears because it isn't fading as quickly as Deucalion would like.

"Hgkh!?"

The cock inside of him swelled.

Like.

Actually swelled.

(Y/N) tries to push himself onto his elbows but the hand on his back grows heavier too and the springs of the mattress creak in protest. There's a ripping sound, not the bedsheets although considering how split open he felt right now, (Y/N)'s sure the sheets could be a culprit.

But no, it isn't that. It's Deucalion's pants.

A grey-blue hand comes into his peripheral and (Y/N) only has a second to comprehend what's happening as it pulls him up so he's flushed against Deucalion's chest.

"Fuck! Fuck! Your cock — It's — Ah!" Deucalion laughs darkly as (Y/N) sobs openly. His tight little hole was being stretched open, it was as if Deucalion's cock had doubled in size and (Y/N) isn't even sure how it hadn't split him into two.

"You wanted your reward so badly," his voice was rougher. It was as if his vocal cords weren't meant for talking in this form. That seemed likely. Deucalion has an arm wrapped around (Y/N)'s neck while the other keeps him steady by holding his hips.

"Wah - What are you — !"

The demon wolf bites into (Y/N)'s shoulder. It makes him open his mouth in a silent scream as his cockhead relentlessly pounds into his prostrate. "Take it then. Take all of it like the greedy little slut you are."

Deucalion laps up the blood and his mouth guards the slowly healing wound, not letting the cool air sting it.

He can tell his puppy isn't there anymore. His head tossed back and eyes screwed shut as his cock spurts rope after rope of cum.

But his alpha wasn't done.

Deucalion stills for a moment, grinding his hips in a way that has (Y/N) breath stuttering.

"Deuc, Deucalion," he gulps as he desperately tries to get air into his lungs.

Then, Deucalion presses onto his stomach and (Y/N) feels his eyes roll back again.

"Oh shit!"

"I'm right there."

He didn't have to tell him; (Y/N) can feel it. Every press down has him seeing white again and Deucalion licks his teeth as his puppy cums again, impressed.

"S'fucking deep." Deucalion groans as (Y/N)'s shaky hands reach back to hold onto his shoulders.

Deucalion feels him tighten around him and he cums with a snarl that has (Y/N) mewling.

Even with his cock plugging up his hole, rivers of cum manage to leak and froth around Deucalion's cock.

"Fuh-fuckkk."

(Y/N) sniffles, feeling so full and satisfied and warm.

His relief is short-lived.

Deucalion's cock hadn't softened at all. He opens his mouth to ask — ask if he could pull out so he could see Deucalion's Demon Wolf form rather than just feel.

But he's pushed into the mattress again, Deucalion's large hand nearly dwarfing his head as he pulls out and thrusts back in with a loud groan.

"I'm not done with you yet, puppy."

Deucalion is diligent as he wipes away any traces of cum on his skin. The sun had risen a couple of hours ago and they finished just shy of it peeking up. (Y/N)'s body was a mess of claw marks, bites, and hickeys. Hand-shaped bruises on his waist, his ass, the back of his thighs; all slowly fading away but Deucalion feels such a deep satisfaction as he traces the scar that he had left on his shoulder.

He sure had done a number on his lover — not unprompted. Deucalion pauses as (Y/N) twitches, curling and twisting under the covers until he's comfortable enough to still.

With the light flooding in, he can make out the silhouette of his precious one. It's shaky and ever-shifting but there...there, he can see him,

The curve of his shoulders, the dip of his back, and those legs he could spend hours worshipping.

Deucalion lets his eyes attempt to make sense of the planes of (Y/N)'s face.

The slope of his forehead, his nose, and kiss-swollen lips...

Deucalion wipes his chest preciously, gazing down at him even with the sunrise view he had mere meters away if he lifted his head.

No. The sun pales in comparison to his (Y/N).

Deucalion presses a kiss to his lips, whispering a confession. "I'll kill anyone who gets in our way, anyone that lays their hands on you will regret the day they were born, (Y/N). What I would do just to see you...you'll never know."

#s3thwrit3sstuff #reader insert #gay reader #male reader #male reader insert #male!reader #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf x yn #teen wolf x you #teen wolf x male reader #deucalion x you #deucalion x yn #deucalion x reader #deucalion x male reader

[tarosucheon]

eleceed guys on: texting their ex

Sucheon will not text under any circumstance. His pride and hurt won't let him, and also probably blocked your contact the moment things went sour. Suppresses everything- out of sight out of mind. He will agonize over it sometimes, like maybe asking why it ended the way it did, or a scathing remark, but in the end, he never will.

Duke? Don't make him laugh. Once you're done, you're done. Contact blocked, messages deleted, and you're all but non-existent in his head. Your house could be burning down, he'd hear there's a hit out for you, he's not texting you.

Jiwoo, the poor thing, is absolutely texting you back. Unless if it ended absolutely horrifically (like trying to murder him), beyond a romantic partner, he'd still want you to be by his side and would go to great lengths to keep it that way. Would be heartbroken if you stopped keeping in touch, actually.

Wooin won't respond at first over text. However, if you keep texting him, he'll eventually show up in person to confront you and talk to you face to face.

Jisuk is fighting literal demons not to text you. He has a whole album on his phone filled with memes and photos he wants to send to you, but he can't because that shit's embarrassing. He does give in pretty quickly though; especially if you text first.

Ian is likely the one to text first. Either does it because he's a.) bored and doing it for the plot or b.) misses you so bad he has no idea what to do with himself. Will text you a lot, but plays the games and responds only after leaving you on delivered for a whole day.

Asher is similar to Ian and Jisuk, but I can see him getting attached pretty easily, and doesn't text you just to fuck around. Misses you and wants to text you back, but his pride and hurt will override everything and likely won't end up texting them back.

Gahin can only last about 24 hours after seeing their ex's text before going ham in the responses. He's sending paragraph after paragraph, fluctuating between cussing them out for fumbling the best option they had, and demanding answers for why it ended the way they did. Very much a stream of consciousness and has shit to say.

#eleceed #asher brian #kang sucheon #yoo jisuk #duke grane #gahin loutrain #jiwoo seo #wooin #ian patrick #eleceed x reader

[kuzusushi]

SWEET NOTHING

happy birthday to the biggest babygirl of genshin. hopefully this wasn't too ooc.

"love..?"

sunlight peered through the window, its bright glare obstructed by the translucent blinds that swayed along with the morning breeze. birds chirped a chipper tune as they flew about, ready to start their day.

yet kunikuzushi finds himself lulled to slumber, yearning for your warmth which had encapsulated his form the night prior, hands sweeping over your side of the bed searching for your form, which had already gone a little cold due to your absence.

rubbing his groggy eyes with a groan, he stretches a bit, swaddling himself with your blanket as he pads over to the kitchen—his little voyage through your tiny cottage in hopes of dragging you back to bed with him.

"love, i'm fucking cold, come back to bed." he whines, wrapping your blanket tighter on his form as he follows the lovely scent of food that wafts from the kitchen. there amidst the chaos of the clinking pots and pans you stand, humming as you dust your hands on your apron, seemingly unaware of your lover's presence.

kunikuzushi couldn't find it in himself to complain—no. not when it feels so domestic and comforting like this. he leans against the doorframe as he watches you in awe, complete adoration swimming in his indigo orbs as he stares, absolutely enamored by you, a small grin settling upon his features.

it's funny really. never in a million years would kunikuzushi have thought that such a day like this would come. in the past, you were at each other's throats, scorching words and scathing gazes burning into one another in hopes of burning one another alive amidst the echoes of your weapons clanking against one another, drawing out a twisted symphony from your battle.

almost like fate was mocking you both, it had decided to bring you both together in more circumstances than one, allowing you both to discover each other's vulnerabilities, characteristics, things you relished—and you both fell for one another. perhaps kunikuzushi would have to thank the stars another time for intertwining you both together.

"kuni? oh! you're awake!" comes your sheepish chuckle, eyes flitting to his adorable form to the surprise you have been working on nervously before meeting his gaze.

"i had planned to surprise you today—you know, since it's your birthday and all..but if you wish to go back to bed then that's fine! i'll just finish this up and-"

"i'm not going back to bed without you," kunikuzushi says flatly, attempting to saunter smoothly to your side (which to you looked like he was waddling due to the blanket that almost swallowed his form) as he gives you a pointed look. "its cold."

despite his sharp tone, his gaze softens as he peers over your shoulder to take a glimpse of what you had been working on the whole morning: tandori chicken, fish with cream sauce and two bowls of steaming rice. he also notices the small pot of tea on the side, the scent of green tea providing a sense of comfort to his senses.

"like what you see?" you tease, setting the plates of food on the table as you gesture for him to have a seat, turning to fetch the two bowls of rice and the pot of tea.

kunikuzushi huffs at that, sitting down as he waits for you to sit down, courteously thanking you for the food as he takes a bit of everything, placing it on your bowl before doing the same for his.

brunch passes by comfortably, filled with lighthearted teasing and occasional snarky comments thrown about—despite such atmosphere, kunikuzushi couldn't help but notice your antsy stance as you both head over to your shared bedroom.

"go on. spit it out. you know nothing good happens when you choose to stay hesitant about something." he states, as he fluffs out your pillows. he hears some shuffling as he chuckles teasingly, "you know, if you wanted to kiss me so bad then-"

his eyes meet your form, so meek and shy as your hands stretch out to hand him a notebook. you look absolutely adorable, and he couldn't help but gaze at you adoringly. snapping out of his trance, he stutters, unsure of what to do with it, hoping for an explanation as he tries to articulate and recompose himself.

"ah- this...i...i just think it's best if you open it yourself, dear." you mumble shyly, handing over your present as you fidget about. kunikuzushi opens it and much to his surprise, every page he flips through are filled with letters addressed to him. some date back to when you first discovered your not-so-secret crush on him, your first kiss and even your first anniversary together as a married couple.

his heart softens at this and without a thought, he captures your lips with his, intertwining your fingers with his as he parts away, placing a small peck on your ring finger.

"thank you, really."

honestly, the years with the lack of companionship left kunikuzushi completely desolate about his birthday, seeing it as a cruel reminder of yet another year of loneliness and anguish—yet he allows himself to become greedy with you.

so kunikuzushi allows himself to chase you lips once more, the sweetness of your lips replacing the bitter feeling he's forced himself to be accustomed to.

birthdays are no longer a painful reminder—rather, they are celebrations of yet another year with his beloved; with you.

#scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche fluff #wanderer fluff #wanderer #genshin x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #goodies୨🍰ɞ﹒₊˚

[rebornologist]

Hello, i love your blog, so happy to see a khr still active~ may I ask for xanxus pomegranate and milk tea? Thanks so much♡

Hii nonny! Thank you for the kind words for me and my (questionably) active blog teehee. Lots of love from me and our favourite man with rabies <3

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ Xanxus ♡ Tea Prompts ✧

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ milk tea; what are their kisses like? ✧

♡ Burning. So full of passion that it almost feels desperate, which is something that he would never ever associate with himself, but there’s a hidden, deep-seated, desperation with this man. Xanxus bears a desperation that stems from lack, loss, abandonment, and emptiness. And that makes his affections so absolutely consuming and overwhelming.

♡ He tastes almost like mala spice, and you feel numbness in your lips as he subjects them to rough, bruising kisses.

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ pomegranate tea; at what point did they know they loved their s/o? ✧

♡ The form of love that comes most naturally to him is respect for his family. He grows to develop his own understanding of what camaraderie means, and what it means for him to stand for the Vongola.

♡ He’s not the romantic type at all. He is weighed down by so much baggage and can’t stand the idea of going through the motions associated with the relationship escalator. Marriage? Oh no, he’s married to his job, married to his ambitions. Kids? He would be a terrible father and he knows that, mind you he literally went through an elaborate scheme to kill his own dad.

♡ Xanxus is an enigma to me because he both seems like he’s against marriage in general, (because his attachment wounds are massive. gaping. cavernous, perhaps.) much less a big grand wedding, but also seems the type to go through with an extremely luxurious Italian wedding as a display of wealth and power. If that's what his partner desires, he might put up with it.. as long as he doesn't actually have to do any proper socializing on his best behavior.

♡ He doesn’t recognize it as love, per se.. but he highly respects his s/o, which is uncharacteristic of him. Love for him is placing weight to their thoughts, seeking them out time and time again when he's tired of everything else, and sleeping particularly well in their presence. He knew that he was absolutely doomed when he took a moment to pause before lashing out at them, because he gave a fuck about how they would take his scathing remarks. It's not a great way to realize how much you care for someone, but good for you, Xan. S/O: 1, Xanxus: 0.

#khr #katekyo hitman reborn #khr headcanons #hitman reborn #khr imagines #xanxus #xanxus x reader #xanxus khr #xanxus varia

[commander-diomika]

Prompted by @razzberrydazz- Lae'zel getting handsy whilst teaching Shadowheart to shoot. A quick cute one from me, about 1200 words, genfic no trigger warnings.

---

“As I said. You would have been far more effective from a distance when we came over the hill and spotted the gnolls.” Lae'zel shoved the bow in Shadowheart’s hands. It was of goblin make, one of the many looted off the corpses in the village.

“And you, vampire. We’re not skulking in the dark after all our enemies anymore. I understand you to be efficient in close quarters but I am not always going to be there to keep our foes from tearing your limb off.” Another bow abruptly thrust into pale hands. Astarion gave a small scoff and held the bow like it was coated in slime.

“Like it or not,” and from the squeeze of her narrow mouth, she was definitely in the “not” category, “we will be fighting as a team from now on. Effective combat is not just about how hard you can swing a crude hunk of metal.” Lae’zel eyed the mace slung at Shadowheart’s hip, and without thinking she fluttered her hand over it protectively. It had served her well so far, but it didn’t take genius acolyte to guess how Lae’zel felt about anything that couldn’t be sharpened to a lethal edge.

“It is simply wise strategy to have a secondary ranged weapon. Even better strategy would be to have you able to hit things with it.”

“What about the others?” Shadowheart asked, not liking the undercurrent of whine in her voice.

“Chk!” Lae'zel spat on the ground to underscore her scorn. “Mages, wizards and adepts need not the military training you do. And I have nothing to teach Karlach that her years in the hells haven’t already taught her. You two, however, are a different story.”

It had been a poor showing that day with the gnolls. A messy, scrappy fight that they’d been lucky to win, even though they’d spotted the creatures on the road well in advance. If it hadn’t been for Lae’zel, stunningly fast, divinely vicious, it may have been that none of them would need to worry about turning into mindflayers after all.

Horses couldn’t drag it out of her, but Lae’zel had been stunning to watch. An absolute maelstrom.

So when Lae’zel dragged Shadowheart and Astarion to a clearing near the camp, training dummies set and waiting, Shadowheart ignored the churn of shame and went.

“Fire upon the dummies. I am unable to train you if I do not first understand what you are capable of.”

Astarion twanged the string of the goblin bow, dubious.

“You first, istik.” Lae'zel jerked her chin at Shadowheart.

Shadowheart set her feet. There was a surge of pride, desire to prove herself to this arrogant gith, but the emotion immediately crashed upon the shore of knowledge. She’d never been a particularly gifted archer. The bow didn’t feel entirely unnatural to her, so she had to suppose she had been trained in the art to some extent, but it didn’t slot into her hands with the same unerring coherence that she felt with mace and shield.

She drew, and fired off the first arrow. It glanced off the side of the dummy, and her face burned. A second shot. This one hit, but the arrow drooped in the straw, having barely found purchase.

She glanced up at Lae’zel, braced for the scathing criticism, but she was merely watching the performance with an electric intensity, as though they were already in battle.

Shadowheart took a breath to steady herself, looking back to the dummy, feeling Lae’zel eyes boring through the back of her head. The shot went wide by at least a foot.

Lae’zel made another of those clicking sounds in her throat, and before Shadowheart could muster a mote of defence for her performance, there was a sinewy grip squeezing her waist. It was like the gith didn’t know how to approach touch with anything but force.

“Like this.” Lae'zel tugged her with implacable hands. “More side-on to your target. I know you are used to hiding behind your shield but think a little first.” The hands moved to her shoulders, and Shadowheart flinched at the feeling of those hands on her bare skin.

“Again.” The arrow landed more surely this time, penetrating at least an inch into the straw. She felt a silly little surge of pride. Since when do you care what this monster thinks of you, girl? A voice sounded inside her mind, the harsh cadence reminding her of Mother.

This time Lae'zel approached from the front, brusquely moving Shadowheart’s hands on the bow. She closed her fingers firmly over Shadowheart’s in the new position, and when those firm hands withdrew, Shadowheart felt hot all over. From shame? From- from being touched?

When last had she been touched? She couldn’t remember. Lae'zel withdrew and took position at Shadowheart’s back, standing so close that her breathing was loud in Shadowheart’s ears

“Again.” Shadowheart listened to that breathing. She closed her hands firmly on the bow, holding the feeling of Lae’zel hands over her own in the sense-memory of her body, and drew.

The arrow missed the target by at least two feet.

The noise that came out of Lae’zel could have punched a hole through Shadowheart’s gut. She crowded in again, yanking hands, twisting Shadowheart’s hips like a doll, then taking a knee and shoving her thighs slightly wider.

Where had all the wind in her lungs gone?

“This is even more disappointing than I was prepared for. You are supposed to be a warrior of some merit-” she stood as she spoke and glanced at Shadowheart’s face.

“What is wrong?” she asked sharply. “Are you unwell? There is a colour to your skin I have not seen before.”

Shadowheart fired off a quick prayer to Lady Shar to wrench the life out of her there and then.

Lae’zel didn’t wait for a reply, merely yanked the bow from her hands. “Go rest a moment.” Shadowheart obeyed. If Lady Shar wasn’t going to kill her, she could at least be out from under those hawk eyes.

“Elf. Take your turn and maybe this afternoon’s work will not have been a complete waste.”

Astarion made a show of stepping up, moving his hands uncertainly up and down the bow, almost fumbling as he nocked. Then, with a sly tightening of his shoulders, he turned to the target, and fired off three quick shots, thwap thwap thwap, neatly clustered on the dummy’s pockmarked face. He turned back to Lae’zel with a swagger.

Instead of the praise that he so clearly angled for, she sighed. “Why did you come out here if you were not in need of my instruction? Why not simply tell me you already knew how to shoot?”

“Oh, you know. I just wanted to see a little more of,” holding a spare arrow, he gestured, pointing first at Lae’zel and then to Shadowheart, where she had taken refuge on a rock, “whatever this is.” He finished with a smirk, drawing the arrow head in a circle encompassing the space between them.

Lae’zel merely frowned as he flourished. When he turned knowing eyes to Shadowheart, she stood up, too fast, and with a quick, “whatwasthatIthinkIheardTavcallingme,” she turned and fled the clearing.

#bg3 #shadowzel #lae'zel #shadowheart #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfic #hank writes #hank plays bg3 #hank talks

[luminnara]

Body Talk | Billy Hargrove x reader NSFW (18+ ONLY)

Request:  can you do a billy x fem!reader fanfic where he helps her with her body image issues? perhaps make it a little spicy?

For @bunnumz​ 

Requests are open! | Commissions are open!

Warnings: body image, fem pronouns/anatomy, nsfw, oral 

Tags:  @smenny @infinitelyforgotten @littlewinter1917 @djiafjaidjcj

Billy was into you from the moment he saw you in the parking lot of Hawkins High. As far as he was concerned, you were a fucking catch, just about as hot as any human being could be. You were exactly his type, down to your style, and he snatched you up as quickly as he could and made you his before some other shitbag guy could. 

That had been months ago. Many months ago. And he still thought you were just as sexy. He loved every inch of you, and he loved enjoying your body whenever he got the chance.

Now, after months of chilly Indiana winter and then spring, it was finally summer, and as Billy was learning, Indiana summers were brutal. He was fine with the hot weather; he has absolutely no reservations when it came to short inseams and no shirts, and he loved strutting around in all his sweaty, shiny glory for you to see. And you did love watching him, because honestly, Billy Hargrove was a fucking catch, and you always felt like he was way outta your league.

You didn’t enjoy the brutal summer as much as he did. You weren’t a fan of revealing clothing, no matter how hot it was and how sweaty you got. Nothing in the world could convince you to let go of your fears and wear the cute crop top or the short shorts, because you hated—absolutely hated—the way you looked. And nothing could convince you otherwise.

Nothing except for Billy Hargrove, maybe.

“Babe. Come on.” He said one day as he lounged on your bed. “Aren’t you fucking boiling in that?”

You glanced away from your reflection to look at him. “I’m fine. Why?”

He frowned around his cigarette. “It’s the middle of summer. You can’t go out in a sweatshirt and jeans.”

“…but I want to…”

“Why?”

The question hit you harder than you’d expected, and for a moment, you just stared at him. Then, you turned back to your mirror and muttered under your breath, “I don’t like summer clothes.”

Billy’s frown only grew deeper. “I noticed that, doll. What’s the deal?”

“…they don’t look good on me.”

“Bullshit.”

His harsh tone surprised you. The words were biting, scathing almost. You turned to look at him again, confused, and saw that he was putting his cigarette out in the ash tray you kept on your side table just for him.

“What’s your problem?” You asked.

“Babe, c’mere.”

“No.” You said haughtily, crossing your arms. “Why do you care what I wear, anyways?”

“Get your ass over here.” He growled, opening his arms and looking at you expectantly.

“…you didn’t answer me.” You grumbled, crawling onto the foot of your bed anyways and making your way up towards him.

His arms immediately locked around you, so quickly and so firmly that you squeaked in surprise. “I’m about to, dumbass.”

“Wh-what?” You asked as he flipped your positions, laying your down on your back as he pressed you against the sheets.

“I tell ya every goddamn day how fucking sexy you are,” he said, hands slipping beneath your sweatshirt and pushing it up. “But you’re so stubborn I guess I gotta show you…”

“What do you mean?” You asked. “I don’t know what you’re—“

He shushed you with a kiss, lips moving against yours in a way that always felt entirely too sweet for his rough attitude. His hands were sweet, too, warm and gentle despite the callouses from working on his car, and soon, he had pulled your hoodie off entirely and you were left in just your bra and jeans.

“You always hide yourself,” he murmured against your lips as his hands roamed down your torso. “I wish you could see how I see you.”

Your face was burning in embarrassment. “I don’t get it…”

“What?” He pulled back slightly, looking down at you with those gorgeous eyes. All of him was gorgeous, every last inch of him, and he was way too hot to be dating someone like you. You never understood why he bothered.

“I don’t get why you like me.” You mumbled, looking away.

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?” He asked. “Hey. Look at me.”

Your eyes reluctantly found his again and you resisted the urge to close them. “Because I’m not…hot. Not like everyone who’s always looking at you when we go out. You could date anybody, Billy, so why—“

“I don’t want to date anybody,” he interrupted. “I just want to date you.”

His words had you at a loss for words, mouth agape as you stared up at him.

“…and I’m gonna show you how fucking sexy I think you are, even if it kills me.”

He pressed another kiss to your lips before pulling back, only to ghost his lips down your neck and clavicle. He left a trail of kisses in his wake, his lips even warmer than his hands had been, only pausing when he expertly unhooked your bra and tossed it away. Then, with your entire chest exposed to him, he slowly made his way down, kissing and sucking on your breasts as he went.

“I fucking love your tits,” he mumbled against your skin before flicking a nipple with his tongue. “You’ve never even noticed, huh doll?”

You whimpered, back arching slightly. His hands were on your hips, squeezing while his thumbs rubbed little circles against your flesh. You loved the feeling, even if you were shy and fighting the urge to curl up into a ball and hide yourself from view.

Billy was determined to make you understand him, though. He knew you well enough to know that he needed to be gentle, to coax that confidence out of you slowly even if he really, really wanted to fucking rail you and have you screaming his name at the top of your lungs. Today was about your confidence. Maybe tomorrow would be about how many times he could make you cum in the back of his car.

“Yeah, your tits are real’ fuckin nice,” he mused, giving your other nipple a slow suck before moving down your stomach. “So’s the rest of you, though.”

You sucked in a breath as his lips brushed over your skin. “You sure?”

He gave you a look. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“…no…”

Because he didn’t. He has his fingers hooked in the waistband of your pants and he was already pulling them down, and he looked like a man on a mission. His eyes were full of a determination to make his point stick, and he didn’t look away from your face even as he yanked your underwear out of the way and dove between your thighs.

You gasped as he let out a satisfied hum. This wasn’t where you had thought your day was headed, but now, with Billy and his tongue absolutely worshipping you, you weren’t about to complain. He was going to stay there as long as he had to and kiss every inch of your body until you started believing what he had to say about you and how fucking hot you were, and he didn’t care how long it took. He had the stamina for it. He could eat you out for hours if he wanted to.

When you came on his mouth, he did his best to drag it out, make it last as long as possible. He kept going, lapping at you even as your thighs trembled and squeezed his head, even as your breath came in huffs and you tugged on his hair. He was still looking up at you, admiring your face, and when he finally pulled away to kiss his way back up, he had so much to tell you.

“See, doll?” He murmured, pressing his lips against a spot near your hip. “You’re fucking perfect. You drive me wild. You get me goin’ and all I wanna do is make you feel so fucking good.”

You were still flushed from your orgasm but you managed to nod, your hands tangling in his curls as he moved his body over yours. “Thank you, Billy…”

“There’s nothing to thank me for, doll. I’m just telling my girl why she’s my fuckin’ girl.”

You bit your lip as you laughed and he chuckled, propping himself up on his elbow as he looked down at you. He really did make you feel a little better, at least for now.

“You really think I can wear…less?” You asked.

“I know it, baby. I wanna show you off.” He grinned. “The whole town’s gotta see how hot you are.”

“Well…can it wait?” You smirked.

That was when Billy noticed that your hand was creeping towards his pants, and his grin just grew hungrier. “What the lady wants, the lady gets.”

“What I want right now is you, Billy Hargrove.” You tugged him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. “I love you.”

He brought a hand up to cradle the side of your head, holding you so gently and so lovingly even as he wedged a knee in between your legs. “I fuckin’ love you, baby.”

#billy hargrove #Billy Hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove imagine #stranger things x reader

[sagau-my-beloved]

More brainrots because your concept has me in a chokehold.

What if it wasn't your touch that your acolytes were addicted to, but your eyes, since eyes are meant to be "the window to the soul"? Like looking into the creators eyes will give you intense emotions, and people can tell when you look at them.

You can then go a few different way with this, like having it be extremely taboo to look upon the creators face without absolute permission, so you can walk across your palace having only your most beloved by your side whilst everyone else addresses your hands and feet.

Alternatively, reader has a blindfold that allows reader to see out, but not anyone else to see in which would look so cool omg, and no-one actually knows what colour your eyes are, and having your most needy venti acolytes beg to see your eyes

NSFW BELOW

Since they feel intense emotions from a look, it stands that you could probably make them org@sm with just your eyes. Commence dom!reader playing a game with their favourite acolytes to keep quiet not make a mess during this very important meeting

tl;dr eyes r cool

-Rapid anon

I'm home I'm home thank god I'm home, Rapid anon you're like the backbone of this blog rn, you and your massive brained takes

It's so funny because all of the characters have such pretty eyes (especially Albedo, I swear I say "your eyes are so pretty" every time I see him, not kidding), so it would be very very difficult for me to not just be constantly making direct eye contact

I think it would already lowkey kind of be a sign of disrespect to look at the creator's face without permission anyway, it's always kind of shown as a sign of respect to look down when in the presence of someone that much higher, but this would increase that like tenfold

But ohhhh imagine that particular feeling can be felt in a more minute way when the creator is just looking at the character, like the character can always tell when they're being looked at because they get a small dose of that feeling even if they're not looking at the creator themself

(now imagine a specific character thinking they're alone and then suddenly shivering as that feeling washes over them, only to instinctually look around and catch the creator's eyes, then of course they're met with both intensely pleasant feelings and horrific regretful blasphemous feelings that they dared even accidentally look at you)

Then only your chosen 'consorts' having the right to actually look above your ankles and wrists, how literally every character would both die and kill for that position

I think the blindfold idea is pretty cool, I would probably opt for more of a veil style myself, but it would allow your dear acolytes to relax slightly, knowing they're not going to accidentally look upon your face, even if their eyes do unconsciously wander

Expanding slightly on the emotions aspect of it, you could literally call your glare scathing, if you glared at someone they would actually feel like they were being burned

I do think all the characters would handle it slightly differently, like your more refined and polite ones would never even insinuate that you have to allow them the honor of looking upon your face, they might even think that you could take it in a way of them questioning your status as the creator (since the eyes and face are one of the most defining features of a person), and most of them would quite literally rather fall on their own blade than ever insinuate something so blasphemous

Then your needy venti ones who want nothing more than to share every aspect of your life, to bask in the honors that few are provided, would actually get on their knees and wholeheartedly beg for it

They want to know every single part of you more thoroughly than anybody else, crave that bragging right of being your most trusted intimate follower, handing over their pride and self respect on a silver platter is nothing compared to the feeling of being the only person in the world to know your eye color, know how the sunshine bounces off them and how they glow in the moonlight

And then the moment that they actually get to bear witness to a testament of your glory, when they, still kneeling, look up with their own eyes to catch yours and practically fall to pieces right then and there

Venti in particular, because I just can't seem to not choose favorites, would compose so many ballads and poems about your gaze alone (then be hated even more by the church for singing even worse blasphemous songs than the ones he composed about himself), it would give him a tactical edge as a bard though, unless you just had a habit of going around showing your eyes to other bards to fuck with him

Now onto the nsfw, as if any of this has been particularly sfw from the get go

It would be such a power move to just occasionally catch eyes with whatever acolytes is lucky enough to be favored by you in the middle of a meeting where literally everyone else is keeping their head bowed the entire time out of a sign of respect

So they just hear said follower stifling whimpers and other various noises of pleasure, and the emotions range from shock and confusion to jealousy and anger over the blatant disrespect of them giving into their more primal urges, which is just the polite way of saying getting off in the middle of a goddamn meeting

But I honestly believe there are certain characters that would actively show off how they're allowed to look at your face and the effect it has on them in public settings, especially formal business public settings, especially especially if they are not even relevant to the formal business aspect of the setting and literally just get to come and sit in because they're basically your glorified pet

It's frankly concerning the number of characters that would be completely "I'm not relevant to this conversation, I have no idea what you guys are talking about, but haha the creator likes me more than you, get fucked"

So you know how the whole "if you break eye contact, I stop" is a relatively known powerplay tactic, yeah this takes that to a whole new level

Ooo oooo, then using it as a punishment

Or more like not using it as a punishment, as in actively denying certain acolytes, who have become very reliant on the feelings your gaze gives, the honor of looking at you, helping to enforce that it is in fact a privilege

One of your followers having to relearn to never look above a certain point, practically on the verge of tears when they accidentally do so, because you're already mad at them and now they're actively, albeit unintentionally, disobeying you—

Good brainrot Rapid anon 10/10

#genshin impact #sagau #genshin venti #genshin x reader #brainrot #yandere genshin au #yandere genshin x reader #so much to expand on #so many good ideas

[feralbutfluffy]

43: Aziraphale

Chapter 43 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

******************************************

He absolutely did not feel prepared for this conversation.

In a detached corner of his mind, he realised he should have anticipated it, should perhaps have been prepared, but he had not, and he was not, and now he was having the interesting experience of floating above himself while also being overwhelmingly aware of the most irrelevant minutiae. Senses were heightened, nerves raw and exposed, everything exaggerated and multiplied and unsustainably intense.

The coarseness of the fabric of his trousers was fine grit sandpaper against his trembling hands. The light streaming in from the window burned through tears that were blurring his vision. 

And Crowley.

Crowley had shifted his body. He had moved away but turned towards him, and Aziraphale knew there was now space between them - was in fact looking straight at the gap an inch or two wide between their knees - but he couldn’t feel it. The space might as well not exist. It was somehow filled by something thick and tangible that bridged the meagre distance between them, connecting them through tension and some barely restrained energy that felt dangerous and terrifying.

Aziraphale could feel Crowley as if his skin was reaching out to touch him.

‘Angel, are you lying to me? Or are you lying to yourself?’

If asked, Aziraphale wasn’t positive he would be fit to name the emotions flashing across his face. He didn’t recognise them. They were wild and uncivil; unfamiliar facets of feelings he usually kept so carefully leashed he barely acknowledged their presence. Now he felt defenseless, as if he were facing an adversary with his throat exposed and vulnerable.

His impulse was to pull away, unsheath claws, and strike; he wanted to make a scathing remark, wanted to say something derisive to regain the advantage. 

But he didn't want Crowley to be an adversary.

He looked at him, his eyes glittering with an intensity he’d only ever seen twice before. Polychromatic pain was painted across his skin, face stained with watercolour splashes of navy, and purple, and burgundy where the bruising was at its worst, with green and yellow softening the edges. On the right side of his face, a vicious line cleaved his eyebrow into two halves and daubed the path of a bloody tear down his cheek.

Aziraphale found himself paralysed. 

His hands were tied. He could not - would not - hurt Crowley with a lie, but the impossibility of honesty was a twisted bit in his mouth, and the cruel, weighted pressure on his tongue rendered him mute.

Crowley expelled a breath in a long, drawn-out hiss, and the grief and frustration in it made Aziraphale flinch.

Crowley’s jaw clenched at the sight. “I suppose that answers that, then.”

A disturbing, biting cold was nipping its way down Aziraphale’s spine. His throat worked to free the words lodged there. It was a unique torment to be in his bookshop, surrounded on all sides by fables and phrases and poetry and prose, only to find himself choking on a single, simple word.

Crowley was turning away from him and the cold was solidifying, cracking him from the inside, expanding into ice.

With great effort, he managed to speak. 

“No.”

Crowley didn’t turn back towards him, but Aziraphale was relieved to notice him watching from the corner of his eye. His throat felt soothed by the single syllable of truth, and it allowed more words to slip out.

“You shouldn’t assume.”

There was a silence while Aziraphale searched for the honesty required to answer Crowley’s question directly. He found it buried deep in his heart; a savage light shining out from between twin bindings of fear and guilt. The idea of setting it free was harrowing.

“Of course I don’t fear you, Crowley.”

“Sure, yeah. Now. I’m asking did you fear me then?” 

What if he said yes?

It would be a lie, a denial, a suit of armour worn smooth through years of use, comfortable, familiar, and efficient at shutting Crowley out. Aziraphale recognised the recurring pattern. It was a bad habit that hurt them both and had always seemed impossible to break.

Crowley’s eyes stared into his, searching for the fettered honesty Aziraphale had concealed for thousands of years.

And what if he said no? 

It would be honest - painfully, brutally honest - and it would be a blindfolded step onto a tightrope strung across a chasm, an action with unknown, unforeseeable consequences.

He ripped his gaze away from the piercing yellow eyes and looked down at his hands. They were still shaking. He stared at them for seconds that might have been years.

“No.” Aziraphale’s voice scraped its way out of a throat tight with emotion. “No, I didn’t fear you.”

There was a moment of profound silence. Aziraphale’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and he was afraid to look up. He couldn’t seem to stop the tremors in his hands. He had chosen. He had turned away from the familiar well-worn path and decided on the road less traveled by, and he didn’t know what lay in store or whether it was safe.

He only knew that he needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

“There was fear - quite an overwhelming amount of it, actually - just not- Not of you. Apparently it’s quite common to fear what you don’t understand, and I-” He pressed his hands together, willing them to be still, but somehow only managing to make it worse. “Well, I didn’t understand, and I was frightened then.” 

The admission sounded small and pitiful. A panicked sound halfway between a laugh and a sob burst out before he could stop it. “I’m still frightened now.”

Aziraphale wanted to look at Crowley. He wanted to sink through the floor. He wanted Crowley to say something. He felt slightly hysterical. He felt sick-

One of Crowley’s hands suddenly appeared in his eyeline, long fingers slowly and deliberately coming to rest on Aziraphale’s hands. The tremors disappeared as if shocked into stillness, and Crowley withdrew his hand.

Aziraphale's head came up. Crowley was watching him, expression unreadable, head tilted to the side as if to better consider Aziraphale’s words.

“What are so frightened of, Aziraphale?” His voice was low, but not soft. The tone was uncharacteristically neutral. “You just beat The Metatron in hand-to-hand combat. You’re the bravest angel I know. You say you’re not afraid of me, and I’m choosing to believe that.” Crowley shrugged. “What else is there?”

“Sin,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley tilted his head the other way, as if Aziraphale had said the word in a pitch only dogs could hear and he was trying to make sense of it.

“Sin. Right. The sin of…?”

“Don’t make me say it!”

Something in Crowley’s demeanour changed. His expression remained impassive, but he turned his body to face Aziraphale more fully. He leaned his shoulder against the back of the sofa, folded his arms across his chest, and stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. 

“You’re really going to have to help me out here. It could be one of any number of sins. You’re being far too vague.”

Aziraphale’s distress lifted just long enough to allow a flicker of annoyance to squeeze through. Was he being wilfully obtuse? A suspicious scan of Crowley’s face found only bland, detached curiosity.

“The sin- The sin of-” He cleared his throat. Tears threatened, and he blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Words were coming easier now, but not that particular word. 

Only one four-letter, single-syllable word, but it carried within it an entire confession.

He couldn't say it. He carried on regardless. “Well, it seems I’ve racked up quite an impressive list of sins in the past few days. The Metatron-” 

“The maniac we just killed for being a deranged lunatic,” Crowley interrupted. 

“... Yes, well, he said I had coveted, and disobeyed, and, and, and been prideful, and-”

“- And then you murdered the bastard, so I suppose you should add ‘killed’ to the list-”

“Crowley it’s not funny! I’ve sinned! ” He felt a tear fall from his eye and watched as it sank into the fabric of his sleeve, a small, dark, perfectly round stain.

A muscle in Crowley’s jaw twitched, but otherwise he was perfectly still. “So... Just to make sure I've got this right: you’ve sinned, and sinned, and sinned again - still here though, still an angel - and now you’re frightened of… more sin,” he said dryly. 

Aziraphale had the distinct impression that he was making rather a mess of everything, and that his attempt at an explanation was in fact driving Crowley away. Another tear dropped onto his sleeve. 

“I wanted you quite, quite-”

Crowley redistributed his weight on the leather cushion, and though he hadn’t changed position Aziraphale knew him well enough to see the tension in his muscles, the almost imperceptible tilt forward; he had gone taut with some restrained energy. Aziraphale swallowed. Hard.

Once more unto the breach.

“I wanted you quite desperately.”

The words fell into the absolute silence like a coin dropping onto a hard surface. 

Aziraphale waited, feeling as if they had cut themselves adrift from an anchor. The words reverberated in his skull, his chest getting tighter and tighter in the continuing quiet. 

Crowley hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even blinked. He was just watching him with unnerving stillness. Aziraphale really wished he would say something.

When he did, it was a question.

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

Crowley leaned forward and shook his head slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“1941!”

“You wanted me -” he sounded strangled, “ - quite desperately in 1941?”

Aziraphale frowned. “You know -”

“I do not know, Aziraphale, that’s a large part of the problem.” Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “I think, I guess, I wish, I hope, but I never actually fucking know .” His voice cracked, and with it his composure. He was breathing hard now, looking at Aziraphale with a raw and savage longing stamped across his features.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He let it out. He took another, and wondered why he felt like he was drowning in the middle of his own bookshop.

He locked eyes with Crowley.

"Well, know it now."

#good omens #ineffable idiots #ineffable #aziraphale x crowley #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #ineffable divorce #aziracrow #crowley and aziraphale #good omens fic #good omens fic request #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #ineffable partners #crowley #azicrow #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable issues #my kingdom for a kiss #brought to you by a tub of nutella eaten with a spoon

[sarioh]

Do you think that Etho is actually afraid of Cleo or that it was a bit? I'm leaning towards a bit and he chose Cleo for it.

i don't think he's scared of her in a traditional pvp sense, but i do think that out of all the players he respects her the most by far. she's not strong but she's arguably the best at playing the social game, which is also etho's playstyle, and it’s why they seem to understand each other really well. she steals and burns people's houses down pretty much every episode but she's so charismatic and so sharp that she always gets away with it and has miraculously made zero enemies in the entire season, while scott is somehow enemies with like half the server at this point LMAO

and like the thing about cleo that's really unique is that she's good at making you feel absolutely awful when you do something wrong. scar and tango are also known for holding grudges, but their grudges are wrathful and loud, whereas with cleo, it's like scathing disapproval and judgement. she makes u feel so utterly guilty and ashamed that nobody wants to cross her, even though she can't actually hurt you--its more of a psychological thing. i mean look what happened to bdubs in session 2 or bigb last season LMAO. i think that's what intimidates etho the most and it's the reason i really can't imagine him ever betraying her

#she was a teacher after all #she can make absolutely anyone fold like a deck of cards #ask #zombiecleo #ethoslab #rio posts #meta