cxrpusvile - Tumblr blog

[cxrpusvile]

The sight of the other has his eyes lighting up as he straightens mouth forming a wide grin. "Odin! Was wonderin' if ya forgot 'bout Ol' Merle. Missed ya, ya growly prick."

"Forget about ya? Impossible t'forget ya are, wee shite." It's all in good humor, a rare grin forming on Odin himself as he strides over to scoop Merle up in a bear hug. There's a slight danger of suffocation, but nothing Dixon can't handle, Odin's sure.

"Who've ya been off harrassin', eh? Heard rumors ye've been givin' that cocky cunt Negan a run for his money, stealin' his precious bat and swingin' those big brass balls of yers around."

[cxrpusvile]

When birdie is fresh out of the shower, so you gotta smooch.

   oh look, another WIP of my boys.

@cxrpusvile

[cxrpusvile]

CLOSED @bloodiedgauntlet

It was not often that Oliver chose to leave the comfortable familiarity of his bookshop and the city surrounding it. Despite the filth and the noise it was a place he was accustomed to, his haunts well mapped, his victims well hidden. His days were things of routine, as fastidious as himself. Everything was in it’s place. Every drop of blood sterilized into oblivion. He preferred it. 

His once yearly exodus was part of that routine. He considered it a reset. A thing to keep him from becoming too cocky, too overconfident in his day to day. Oliver preferred to pack two suitcases - one for his white shirts and dark slacks, and one for his tools. He did not trust the people of the forest not to discover his cabin by the lake and take his things. His knives were expensive and well cared for, they were not meant to be handled by hillbillies and dirty fingered teenagers. The suitcases went into the back of a dark blue Jeep, it’s oil and sparkplugs all fresh and new. Oliver did not appreciate the dirt and grime that came with dealing an engine, it was better if everything was working smoothly before the trip. 

As expected, everything went as smoothly as Oliver had come to expect. He made a brief stop in the town of Ely - disgusting place - for gasoline and some supplies before continuing on into the wilderness. Of course, there was no one worth his time in the town, but Oliver did not allow himself to become discouraged. He chose to travel during this time of the year for a reason - the hunters would be out in full force, tramping around in the snowy woods as they drank too much beer and bragged about their kills. 

Oliver rather liked the braggarts. They broke the best, some of them desperately holding on to their egos for far longer than they should as Oliver slowly brought them ever closer to the absolute peak of perfection. It pleased him especially to think of the ones sunk down into the black depths of the lake outside of his cabin, their bones systematically broken and crushed after death to disguise what sort of animal they came from. One day, perhaps, he would discover someone capable of attaining the lofty heights Oliver pursued, and live through the experience. It was not something he expected - simply a consideration, a light fantasy to occupy his mind as he followed the winding road through the ancient forest. 

Snow crunched under the tires of the Jeep and once Oliver had to stop to attach the snow chains. Merely part of the process. He didn’t bother with a jacket, the thrill of things yet to come was more than enough to distract him from the sharp chill on the air. Oliver didn’t hold any love for wildlife - he thought animals as filthy and disgusting things, but there was something in particular about taking an armed man and making him disappear forever. Something special not found in the city with it’s paved streets and skyscrapers. 

It would be dark by the time he reached the cabin by the lake and the secrets it held. The hunt would begin in the morning, unless a campfire could be spied nearby. Or - perhaps - there would be someone already waiting in the cabin for him.  The law dictated that residences must remain unlocked in the event of someone becoming lost and needing shelter. 

In the fading light, Oliver smiled. A cold, soulless smile. 

[cxrpusvile]

“Oh aye? Ya still got enough tea, dove?” 

Odin asked, slowly kissing his way around the arching shell of Simon’s ear. He liked making sure his dove was well stocked in damn near everything he could possibly desire, Odin saw it as part of being a provider and protector. After everything that Simon had been through he was especially deserving of it, in Odin’s mind. That tall cunt couldn’t swing it, so he would. 

He lifted a hand, threading heavy fingers into Simon’s unruly hair and massaging gently at his scalp as he tipped his head to kiss the hollow at the base of his throat, along the fine lines of his collarbone, up again to the sweeping curve of his jaw. 

“An’ books? Got enough of those?” Odin rumbled, he’d been browsing through a Kuma-Sutra type book himself, some of the positions seemed outright impossible but there was more than a few things he intended to try. He’d never felt much of a need to experiment before Simon, the usual line up got the job done well enough. But Simon, his dove, was different. Special. And in dire need of having his mind blown on a regular basis, in Odin’s opinion. 

[cxrpusvile]

@irritableteadrinker (Cont.)

“Oh aye, dove. Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

Simon was so easy to scoop up, Odin gathering the man into his arms and holding him close against his chest before dropping heavily into the seat his lover had just been occupying. He rumbled, low, nuzzling against Simon’s neck and kissing him slow, working his way up as if he couldn’t stand to not taste every available inch of skin. He kept Simon close, pressing a kiss to each cheek, each eye, the tip of his nose, and at last, his lips. He could taste the tea that Simon preferred to drink, perhaps masking the faint smoky tang of liquor. Not that he cared, his dove could drink whatever the hell he wanted.

“What is that, Earl Grey?” Odin asked, a heavy hand stroking up and down Simon’s side as he continued his parade of kisses - Simon’s chin and forehead and that soft, secret spot behind his ear. He could spend all day just kissing the man all over, from head to toe and back again. Simon was his dove - and the best thing that’d ever happened to him. Odin intended to savor every moment he possibly could.

[cxrpusvile]

I’M BACK

SENDING ASKS 

CHECKING OLD THREADS

[cxrpusvile]

(x)

[cxrpusvile]

unrxlypirxte​:

Her eyes widened when their lips connected, a sizeable delay between when he began and when she returned the gesture. It wasn’t for a lack of enthusiasm, oh no. It was due to shock, as if fathoming the possibility of this was impossible. If this was another dream, then fuck it. She didn’t want to wake up.

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Groan, soft, escaped her at his clothed touch; resting into the mattress, hand left his side to instead grasp the side of his neck. Thumb gently caressed the skin, stilling only as she felt her vest rise. Heart rate exceeded baseline tenfold, panic setting in at the thought of him seeing her shirtless. The scars, the marks, the fresh bruises. In her mind, she wasn’t beautiful. That was grounds for rejection.

“Vaas,” A breathy reply, breath briefly hitching at the feeling of his thumb. ’ hermosa ’ - her heart fluttered, it jumped and sang. “Fuck-”

Head tilted, allowing him free access of her neck. To mark and bruise as he saw fit, a moan escaping her as he found the perfect spot of skin to leave red. Deciding to help rather than just lay there like an inexperienced schoolgirl, she shifted to slide her vest off and toss it aside. With a single hand, she undid her bra expertly, allowing that to be flung across the room carelessly. Deep breaths, Beth. He’s seen some shit, you bare chested is nothing.

A hand found the back of his neck, her head tipping back at the sensations coming too quickly. Hips bucked as he found her clit, eyes squeezing shut as she gave a shaky exhale. After a few moments of bitten back groans and moans, she reached down with a shaking hand to undo the straps of her thigh sheath, allowing the leather and weapon to clatter to the floor. With the loss of weight, she found it easier to spread her legs for him.

“Thank you,” Breathed before she moaned softly, something akin to a laugh escaping her, “Let me be a good girl and help you,” A request moreso than anything, politeness. She had no qualms staying as she was, his hand down her pants, mouth attacking pert nipples. A memory she’d not likely forget in her lifetime.

Truth be told, despite her valiant attempts, moans were escaping. Needy. Desperate. Barely beginning and she was already fit to burst.

Vaas can feel his obsession brewing, intense and savage within his chest. He had been with women before but it was never like this. The scent of her arousal is intoxicating, the heat of her skin, the way she moves under him, aching for more. It was not the shit that it was with the others were it was pretend, leaving him feeling unsatisfied and agitated. This was his hermosa. This was what he wanted. What he needed to feel. 

Vaas pulls dirty fingers away from her, ripping and pulling at her cargos to yank them away from slim hips and bare her entirely. His teeth find her ribcage, biting and scraping there, sucking marks as he wrestles with her pants until they are somewhere around her knees. Good fuckin’ enough for him, Vaas does not find himself giving much of a shit about all of that now so long as he can get what he want. He’s growling, low in his throat as he sucks and bites down the soft slope of her belly. scrappy beard rubbing, his handling is rough, pulling legs up to shove his head her milky thighs. His mohawk is in disarray now, half crushed and wild as he buries his face in her pussy. 

Better than fucking cocaine - his tongue is as aggressive as his kisses, pushing into her when he’s not sucking as her clit, hands running up her light frame to cup at her breasts. He wants her to grab his fucking mohawk and fuck his face but he is barely coming up to breath, her juices running down his chin as he sucks and licks; kneading at her tits, rough thumbs rubbing and pinching at her erect nipples. Nothing could stop him from this now, he was going to make Beth his. She was going to be his fucking Queen.

[cxrpusvile]

undefined

[cxrpusvile]

Amiga (cont.) @unrxlypirxte

Vaas did not feel like talking now. He talked all fucking day and now that shit was done. Now he wanted to feel the woman in his arms. Forget all the rest. She came fucking willingly too, like this was want she wanted from him as much as he wanted it from her. To be fucking felt, yeah? To be fucking known. She’s a fucking hot amiga, her lips are parted and Vaas catches the slightest peek of her pink tongue. Part of him is wondering just what the fuck he has been waiting for all this time. The fucking moon to change or some shit? Fuck that. 

Vaas kisses her and it isn’t a gentle thing, tongue pressing in to explore her mouth, arms wrapping around her. She is not going fucking anywhere now, one hand cupping a breast through her shirt and squeezing - not too fucking hard, he doesn’t want to crush her tit and ruin this mood happening between them. Vaas wants more, he wants all of her, and he wants these fucking clothes off of them.  Kissing her and pulling her back against the bed, that hand leaving her breast again to drag up the lower edge of her shirt. His rough fingers slide up her soft belly to grasp again, one dirty thumb rubbing over her nipple until it hardens to a point. 

“Hermosa.” 

Vaas’ voice is low, rough, breaking from her mouth to devour her neck, teeth catching the delicate, tanned skin there, sucking reddish marks as he drags her shirt up higher, leaving that task to run his palm back down again, tugging open the button of her cargoes, pulling down the zipper. He wants to feel the heat between her legs, lost to the obsession of the taste of her skin. 

Vaas presses the flat of his tongue over her nipple as his fingers shove past panties, groping for the damp heat of her pussy. He shudders when he finds it, groaning low as he rubs his fingers over her outer lips, pressing deeper to find her clit and stroke there, teeth grazing her nipple before he attacks her other breast with the same aggression. 

“Hermosa...hermosa you have the best fucking tits...”

[cxrpusvile]

{{For @cxrpusvile ‘s Negan}}

[cxrpusvile]

{{For @cxrpusvile ‘s Rick because all the feels.}}

[cxrpusvile]

{{For @cxrpusvile ‘s Odin for reasons that he just wants him to know this.}}

[cxrpusvile]

It starts with him crawling into Negan's personal space, which still a new thing. Even newer is a quiet, unexpected nudge to Negan's arm. Then a gentle headbutt to a shoulder, and as if to test himself, he lingers and soaks up the bit of warmth he feels until he wants more. Fingers soon grip at a sleeve, pulling on leather as he turns his gaze upwards. Pale eyes pleading for what he struggles to verbalize, lips parted anyways for a low noise, almost a whine. Touch me. Lips press together, his brow slightly pinched. Please. He shifts even closer, fingers slowly, unsurely drag inward to Negan's chest. Hold me.

It’s never been like this before. Every movement measured, every gesture watched, studied for what emotion reflects on the man’s face. Every quiet line, every tick of the lips is watched, studied as closely. His puppy’s eyes tell the most, how they become hard and shine or glassy and vacant or warm and soft. Now they’re warm and soft as Negan looks down at him, not a grin on his face but a smile. Something gentle. Something warm. Something far more sweet and delicate than anyone outside this room has ever seen before. 

Negan opens his arms, tugging the edges of his jacket to open it wider. Inviting his puppy in, if that’s what he really wants. This man isn’t like anyone else. Every touch is special - with his puppy it’s not because the man feels the need to suck up. Not because he fears him. But because he wants to. Because he’s chose it for reasons unspoken, things unsaid. It’s heady and terrifying all at once and at first Negan wasn’t sure how to handle it. 

Now he does. Give him a choice. Move slow. Let him choose his desires and let him go when it becomes too much. Ask, never demand. Show him he’s in control, show him that he’s safe.

“C’mon in, puppy. Lots of room in this jacket for you.”

[cxrpusvile]

you were burned, you were about to burn, you're still on fire

Rick x Negan, Old Gods Verse

@mercyprevaild

[cxrpusvile]

1396​:

The world truly had capitulated over the years with the illusion that there were such things as the notion of a godless world. Genbu chuckled, a stride beneath his bare feet, a million miles.

Sutra, hymn, chant, prayer — beads upon beads rolling between thumb and index have grown softer, quieter, but this world is not godless. Far from it. Churning and humming low mechanically within brick walls singing the jingles of CONTACTLESS PAYMENT ACCEPTED and WOULD YOU LIKE TO SET AN AUTO-DEBIT? and INSUFFICIENT FUNDS were the new all-seeing, all-controlling ones, eyes a thousand glares beneath lamp posts, within the bowels of scuffed shopping malls, mounted on doors.

As he walked across the seas, through villages and towns, languidly listening to the droning murmur of life and death; Genbu heard the song too. So sweet was the call, so old was the song. It was metal against stone, a hundred cries and hoof-beat clamour against mud and stone. He fought wars too, once. It was a different scene, but what is war but the stench of crimson and sweat beneath leather and rusting iron? Neighs of horses and roar of the chieftain, war anywhere strum the same chord, beat the same drums, cry the same tears.

He opened his eyes, gold specks of dying stars flitting. The scent of pine here was pleasant, green needles and the rot of an old forest. He paced gently through the brushes, feeling leaves, grass and thorns brush against his wintry skin. How beautiful, bones and steel, eaten by time.

It was a sliver of iron, or all that was left beaten and scorched by nature. But it had tasted blood and sweat in an age long forgotten. That alone gave it a formless spirit, the same one who called out so sweetly to the gods of war — not him, personally — begging for a release.

There he saw what he thought was no longer. At least, for these lands whose new gods were digits across glass.

“Apologies,” Genbu announced his presence, winter-clear, plum blossoms and incense. “I meant no disrespect, encroaching your land unannounced.”

A bow.

“It pleaded,” He continued, standing up straight once more. “I assume to you. I cannot resist my own curiosity. How time flies. Mankind fight like these no more.”

Negan held it, the sword that had cried out. It’s blade no longer shown, it’s edge no longer sharp, pitted and ruined by the ever onward passage of time. It’s life still burned within it, uncaring how the leather wrappings on it’s hilt were decay away to crumbling scraps. Mindless how it’s edge would never drag the blood from an enemy of it’s knight. Had it’s keeper fallen in battle, or had it been abandoned, forgotten as the army moved ever onwards? Negan dragged his thumb over the rot eating away at it, his skin coming away red for it, flakes of history clinging there. 

“It’s my land. Not anymore.” He had not turned to regard the newcomer, as much as he felt the presence of him. There was that thrum coming from him, too, the feel of thousands of battles stretching across thousands of years, a million men fallen under the desires of those deemed more powerful than them. For a moment he could taste the wine mixed with honey and spice, he could smell the ox roasting on the spit and hear the roar and laughter of men enjoying the excess that came with the spoils of war. It was gone again as quickly as it had come, nothing left but this rusting steel, thrown out of the ground by the frost and dashed against the rock by some passing animal. 

Negan lays the sword on that rock, crouching down to brush the damp leaves away from the rich black soil and run his fingers through it. There was more under there, resting in the earth. He sighed, low, standing up to regard the other man. His gaze is tired, saddened. 

“Impossible to ignore a cry like that.” Negan commented, gaze dragging back to the strange God. He did not think he had faced this one in battle - at least not that his memories recalled in this strange age. “Sad. Hopeful. Poor thing’ll never taste blood again.”

A low sigh and Negan turns, striding closer to the God, extending one hand in offering. Thing he had picked up from the mortals who no longer pounded their chests or saluted. 

“Negan. What might you be called?”

[cxrpusvile]

mercyprevaild​:

Turns out, it’s not just a leader at the front of all those armed men and women, but a goddamn showman. While the tension remains, keeping every muscle tight, his snarl gradually fades as the scene unfolds, his hawk like gaze remaining honed on the wildly expressive man. There’s confusion in bloodshot blue eyes as they follow the swing and motion of that bat that seems to be just an extension of the man who wields it. Briefly, he lingers on who must be the second in command, but his attention reverts right back to the leader as he head tilts with his growing confusion. He’s sending them away? All of them?

It has to be a trap. It has to be. He sends them away, his weapon too. And when he turns back to approach him, it suddenly takes all his will to stand his ground. His throat bobs with a dry swallow, eyes darting with every expressive gesture that follows the man’s words, chest riding and falling faster with his breathing. Cocking his head, there’s a subtle shake as if he can’t believe what he’s being told. Forgive and forget? These men, his men met a brutal end by his blood stained hands but he isn’t mad about it? He doesn’t, he can’t believe him for a second, but the man just keeps on, following it up with a proposal. The sanctuary. People, food, a place to belong. Something he’s heard before.

But unlike before, it’s just one man without a weapon. A bizarre man who had put some strange faith in him, despite the carnage and the state of him. Standing there with his hands empty and a generous proposal and he might have even considered it until he reaches out towards him.

Give me that axe.

In an instant, wild eyes flash fierce and from between bared teeth he growls. Like a dog defending it’s territory, an animal backed into a corner. His feet shift, putting another half a foot of distance between them as he snatches up his pack from the ground.

The last time someone demanded something from him, he hadn’t had a chance and he had lost so much more than his things, his weapons and food and supplies. They took all he had. His belongings, his body, his voice. His sanity and with it, his humanity. There was nothing left of him, so his material possessions, however few he had, were everything.

“Hey, hey now, calm down, I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

Negan’s hands raise again, palms out, trying to soothe the wild man, wanting to coax him into calmness again. It’s going to be a fuckin’ hot day and Negan can feel the sweat tickling down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. All he’d have to do really is have this man followed until he collapsed from exhaustion or dehydration or hunger or all three. Didn’t really matter what the cause was, but Negan wanted it to happen this way. Number one thing was building that trust from the start, setting a precedent that could be followed and expected in the future. 

“Now I’m sure you can understand that maybe my people are a little upset about you killing those assholes over there.” Negan jerks a thumb as the dismembered bodies, already starting to attract flies. “Now I’m not asking you to give me that axe forever, okay? I’ll give you my word on that and I am a man of my word. Soon as you’re safe, you know, away from everyone else, I’ll give it back. But just so we don’t go scaring people, alright? Bet it’s real hard for you to trust anyone, and the only thing I’m asking is that you give the people a chance to trust you.”

Negan held out a hand again, watching the lone stranger close, careful, judging his body language, the look in those pretty blue eyes of his. Watching to see if he’s going to bolt, or attack, or maybe accept what he’s being offered. ‘Course he’s hoping for that last one, that the man will see that maybe losing his bloodied weapon for a little while is better than scurrying back off into the woods to die. 

“Got a real nice apartment waiting for you. Hot water, good food. Real bed. Whole nine yards. All you gotta do is give me that axe of yours until we get there. Promise you that.”

Closed Starter @cxrpusvile

He wasn't given a choice. They're dead because of their choices, not because of his. If he had ever had a choice, they wouldn't be dead and dismembered at his feet with the blood still dripping fresh from the tips of his fingers and splattered thick up his forearm. The lines of muscles are rigid and tight from his grip on the hatchet, and it too drips with the blood of three dead men, dead because they wanted to harm him, dead because he had to live. And he is alive. That's all that matters in the end.

The exhaustion is getting to him. The surge of adrenaline isn't enough, it's wearing off too quickly. His heart beats so fast his breaths can't keep up and he thinks to find a place to sit for a while. Then he'll continue on his aimless trek to the north, as if this had never happened. It'll be a vague memory within a few days. He just needs to sit, to eat what little he has left in the pack these men would have taken. It's still clutched by the strap in one of their cold hands. Heel of his boot crushing the wrist of a corpse, he yanks his pack out of that stiff grasp. With a grunt of effort leaving his dry, cracked lips, he stumbles back with his things, one last snarl at the dead men before he turns his back.

He's two steps in the opposite direction that heads back into the woods, when he hears the low, smooth whistle from behind. Freezing to the spot, a chill like ice shoots sharply up his spine, every little hair stands tall at the back of his neck. His heart rate spikes, while his breath seizes in his lungs. Crystal eyes narrow and darken, head twisting to look over his shoulder. His gaze sweeps slowly over more of Them. There's no doubt in his mind that the three corpses belonged to this group, judging by the look of absolute horror and rage on each of their faces. It gives him some sense of satisfaction, that's short lived as his gaze bounces between their faces. How they blend together, look no different than the next.

Except for one. At the front and center, he knows instantly that he's looking at the leader. It's not his height, or the barbed bat that swings then settles on his shoulder, but the way he holds himself. The look in his eyes. The devious curl of his lips. He knows that out of them all, he's the real threat.

His pack hits the ground as he turns, readjusting and tightening his grip on his axe. Brow furrowed deep, his sweat and dirt streaked face twists in a snarl to hide the fear pumping through his veins. He knows he's out numbered, that it's stupid to stay and fight when he's running on empty. For once, the choice is his and still, he thinks he'll choose to kill them all. Even if there's a better chance for him to survive if he flees now, he can't find it in himself. Though not one of them has made a move, he can see that they want to, the way they shift and twitch, eager to put him down the same way he had put down their friends. But they won't, because the leader hasn't given the order, and so he waits and he watches the man who holds the power.