owlespresso

[owlespresso]

strawberry creme i cant even make up an excuse. tags: male lactation, a/b/o, beta reader, alpha(?) mydei, mydei sits on your lap, coming untouched, objectification

Mydei shifts in your lap. He crushes your thighs, heavy and radiating heat. The skin of his bare abdomen scalds your wandering hands. The firm muscle over his tummy clenches.

You trace his v-lines with your thumbs, feel the way the muscle shifts beneath his skin. It's idle worship, a touch that riddles him with anticipation. He's tense, nerves fraught and frayed. He knows what's coming, but knowing does nothing to settle him down.

"What are you so nervous for?" you fan the flames, perching your chin on the broad of his shoulder. Obscenely broad. You tilt your head to press your lips to his skin, biting into the thick muscle. He exhales heavily.

"I'm not nervous," he retorts through grit teeth, entirely unconvincing. He turns to look at you, column of his throat flexing with a swallow.

There's a fire in his eyes that'll be doused within the next thirty minutes. It's a token struggle that he puts up to feel better about himself. Something about that alpha pride. It's part of why you're so glad to be a beta, free from all the posturing.

"Get to it, already," he breathes. He tries to sound stern, attempting to feel in control of the situation.

Your hands make the slow journey upwards, feeling every dip and groove of his abdomen. Finally, you reach the bounty of his chest. His breathing stutters, tension pulling his posture tight as you cup both breasts.

"Heavier than usual," you remark, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, "You should have come to me earlier, Dei," you brush your cheek against his hot skin, let your tongue rasp over the flesh. He inhales sharply, hands curling into fists at his side.

You mouth at him. A strangled, throaty sound rumbles in his chest. The scent of his lashing pheromones lingers heavy in the air, an intoxicating mix of both alpha and omega scents that would send the head of any non-beta spinning.

"Is my regular participation in this humiliation ritual not enough for you?" he says, sounding stiff. You peer around him. There's already a visible tent in his sweat pants, pulling at the grey fabric. Knowing him, the tip's probably wet. Leaking like a faucet.

"You're so dramatic," you smile. Your touch slips south. Your fingertips draw a light path down his sides, feeling the ridges of his serratus anteriors, the dip of his waist. Following the grooves of his v-lines leads you to the waistband of his pants. His hands clasp onto your wrists, absolutely immovable. "You should take these off," you advise him, tapping the space above his waistband. You lightly push your fingers into the space above his crotch. "'Cause they look really good on you. I'd hate to ruin them."

"I have a washing machine," Mydei informs you dryly. He looks back at you through narrowed eyes, searching, "…I'll take them off, but," he swallows. His pupils are blown wide, honey amber irises pushed into thin rings. "I'm not going to be the only one naked."

You swallow. "Heard."

The shimmy out of your clothes is quick and shameless. You don't really care about looking desperate. Despite how much you tease, Mydei's wish is your command. If he wants your clothes off, they'll come off one way or another. Your obedience merely expedites the process.

The curtains are drawn and the blinds closed. There's no one here but the both of you, the towel on your couch and the faint whirring of the air conditioner. A faint chill sweeps over your bare skin, goosebumps shuddering up your arms and legs. You settle back down just in time to get an easy eyeful of him. His cock is thick and hard against his thigh, flared head flushed pretty pink. It bobs with each, slow step he takes in your direction. Your tongue swipes across your lower lip and he raises a brow. His hand snaps forward, faster than you can follow, and takes you by the jaw. He squeezes lightly, tips of his fingers and his thumb pressing into the fat of your cheeks.

"Pervert," he murmurs, but there's no bite in it. Oddly enough, some of the fight seems to have left him. You tilt your head, let your lips brush against his hot, open palm. A soft, affectionate sound rumbles in his chest.

He moves with the languid ease of a prowling lion, settling on the edge of the couch, his back to your front. He leans up against you, purposefully pushing a portion of his weight onto you. You spread your legs to make room for him, and feel your heart fluter when he settles in without complaint. Utterly and thoroughly domesticated.

You reach a hand around to his front, palm flattening against his sternum. Despite his previous grumbles, he follows your lead. His head winds up settled on your chest, his hair fluttering soft against your skin.

"Comfortable?" you ask, combing your fingers through his hair. He sighs at the touch, going limp atop of you.

"As comfortable as I can be," he replies, sounding much more miserable than he has any right to be. You huff, amused at his pouting, before directing your attention south.

His nipples are fat, swollen probably being a more accurate descriptor. Flushed and dusky, perched atop the plump mounds of his breasts.

You pinch. He makes a choked sound, jolting in your arms. The cut muscle of his abdomen tenses, and one of his hands flies up to cover his mouth. A droplet of liquid—milk, beads at the perked tip of his nipple, and then the other. It's a symptom typical to omegas in heat, much rarer for males—even rarer for O-type alphas, or alphas capable of displaying omega traits. It's the result of a hormonal imbalance or abnormality, a source of shame for many.

But for you? It's perfect. Your fingers press against the ample flesh of his bosom, dimples made against the fat, before taking his buds between your forefinger and thumb to squeeze. You repeat this motion several times, each yielding more droplets, until a steady stream forms. He squirms in your arms as you draw the milk out of him, one spurt of liquid after another. They roll down the fat of his pecs and into the grooves of his abdomen. You settle into a steady rhythm, working him over, feeling each breath as it winds in and out of his weary lungs. His heartbeat is wild beneath your palms. And the way his cock twitches, untouched, doesn't escape your notice.

His cheeks have flushed pink and his eyes are clenched shut. The space between his brows wrinkles up. At his side, his hands ball into fists. As a mere beta, you can only imagine how it must feel. His chest heaves with each panting breath.

"Are you alright?" you ask, a laugh in your voice. You pinch and pull, and are utterly unprepared for the near shout he lets out. And then—oh, he's glaring at you now, even while he's leaking all over your fingers.

"You're the worst," he laments, voice a little reedy.

You press down a little harder in response. A small stream of milk spurts from his left nipple, spraying into the air. So absurdly perfect that you could laugh, but you don't, if only to preserve what little pride he has left to cling to. Giving his left pec a break, you run your hand down to his tummy, stroking the upper part of his abdomen. His milk slicks your palm and your fingers.

"You're doing so well, Mydei," you coo to him, pressing a series of kisses to the top of his head. You pet him like he's a dog. Your nails lightly scrape at his skin and he hisses, arching his back. His breathing becomes harsher. "Do you want to keep going?"

His eyes open to glare at you. "Get it all out," he rasps.

"Your wish is my command," you hum, like you're doing him a favor. You return your attention to his chest tenfold, kneading his breasts and pulling at his nipples. His ragged breaths again become low moans and quiet gasps. His stomach twitches. One of his legs kicks out a little. His skin flushes all the way down to his shoulders, even the tips of his ears becoming a deep pink. The deep crimson lines on his chest flex and tremble.

His eyes shut and his lips are plump and parted. He looks absolutely ruined. You want to dig your claws into him. You want him to squirm and cry, want to sup on each dulcet sound. You want to worship his body with the reverence it deserves, pay blood tribute to each curve and bump.

You pinch, and twist, and sink your canines into the meat of his nape. He moans, loud and wild. His eyes blow wide, spine arching off your lap and into your touch. Ropes of cum spray onto his tummy, white streaking the hot skin. You release the vice grip you have on him, taking in the sight with several, slow blinks.

Huh. He's never done that before.

"Did you just…" you begin, already knowing the answer.

He groans as he comes back to himself, throwing his forearm over his eyes. His chest heaves with heavy pants as he claws to regain his bearings. The air is thick with the scent of him, all alpha musk and omega sweetness rolled into a single, heady combination.

"Don't say anything," he commands through gritted teeth. His arm pulls away and he fixes you with narrowed eyes, a fire in his stern gaze. His bark is worse than his bite.

"I can't believe you're asking me to not compliment my beautiful girlfriend," you lament, reaching down to touch his slick skin. He shudders beneath the touch, flagging cock now limp against his thigh.

"I'm not your girlfriend," he seethes, and pushes off of you. He leans over, snatching up a second, folded towel you placed next to you before you started. An act of magnificent foresight based on several past, very messy experiences. He towels himself off with restrained fury, wincing when the coarse fabric brushes over his (likely incredibly sensitive) buds. For the time being, you elect to remain quiet. This is the part of the routine where he gets fussy and needs some space and quiet.

You're happy to give it to him. And you're such a good sport, that you don't tease when he comes up behind you an hour later, arms curling around you to tug you close to his chest.

[owlespresso]

amphoreus' saga of heroes ✧ cyrene

[owlespresso]

the way my dash just lit up... cyrene like our version of the bat signal

[owlespresso]

CYRENE?!?!?!!??!

[owlespresso]

strawberry creme i cant even make up an excuse. tags: male lactation, a/b/o, beta reader, alpha(?) mydei, mydei sits on your lap, coming untouched, objectification

Mydei shifts in your lap. He crushes your thighs, heavy and radiating heat. The skin of his bare abdomen scalds your wandering hands. The firm muscle over his tummy clenches.

You trace his v-lines with your thumbs, feel the way the muscle shifts beneath his skin. It's idle worship, a touch that riddles him with anticipation. He's tense, nerves fraught and frayed. He knows what's coming, but knowing does nothing to settle him down.

"What are you so nervous for?" you fan the flames, perching your chin on the broad of his shoulder. Obscenely broad. You tilt your head to press your lips to his skin, biting into the thick muscle. He exhales heavily.

"I'm not nervous," he retorts through grit teeth, entirely unconvincing. He turns to look at you, column of his throat flexing with a swallow.

There's a fire in his eyes that'll be doused within the next thirty minutes. It's a token struggle that he puts up to feel better about himself. Something about that alpha pride. It's part of why you're so glad to be a beta, free from all the posturing.

"Get to it, already," he breathes. He tries to sound stern, attempting to feel in control of the situation.

Your hands make the slow journey upwards, feeling every dip and groove of his abdomen. Finally, you reach the bounty of his chest. His breathing stutters, tension pulling his posture tight as you cup both breasts.

"Heavier than usual," you remark, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, "You should have come to me earlier, Dei," you brush your cheek against his hot skin, let your tongue rasp over the flesh. He inhales sharply, hands curling into fists at his side.

You mouth at him. A strangled, throaty sound rumbles in his chest. The scent of his lashing pheromones lingers heavy in the air, an intoxicating mix of both alpha and omega scents that would send the head of any non-beta spinning.

"Is my regular participation in this humiliation ritual not enough for you?" he says, sounding stiff. You peer around him. There's already a visible tent in his sweat pants, pulling at the grey fabric. Knowing him, the tip's probably wet. Leaking like a faucet.

"You're so dramatic," you smile. Your touch slips south. Your fingertips draw a light path down his sides, feeling the ridges of his serratus anteriors, the dip of his waist. Following the grooves of his v-lines leads you to the waistband of his pants. His hands clasp onto your wrists, absolutely immovable. "You should take these off," you advise him, tapping the space above his waistband. You lightly push your fingers into the space above his crotch. "'Cause they look really good on you. I'd hate to ruin them."

"I have a washing machine," Mydei informs you dryly. He looks back at you through narrowed eyes, searching, "…I'll take them off, but," he swallows. His pupils are blown wide, honey amber irises pushed into thin rings. "I'm not going to be the only one naked."

You swallow. "Heard."

The shimmy out of your clothes is quick and shameless. You don't really care about looking desperate. Despite how much you tease, Mydei's wish is your command. If he wants your clothes off, they'll come off one way or another. Your obedience merely expedites the process.

The curtains are drawn and the blinds closed. There's no one here but the both of you, the towel on your couch and the faint whirring of the air conditioner. A faint chill sweeps over your bare skin, goosebumps shuddering up your arms and legs. You settle back down just in time to get an easy eyeful of him. His cock is thick and hard against his thigh, flared head flushed pretty pink. It bobs with each, slow step he takes in your direction. Your tongue swipes across your lower lip and he raises a brow. His hand snaps forward, faster than you can follow, and takes you by the jaw. He squeezes lightly, tips of his fingers and his thumb pressing into the fat of your cheeks.

"Pervert," he murmurs, but there's no bite in it. Oddly enough, some of the fight seems to have left him. You tilt your head, let your lips brush against his hot, open palm. A soft, affectionate sound rumbles in his chest.

He moves with the languid ease of a prowling lion, settling on the edge of the couch, his back to your front. He leans up against you, purposefully pushing a portion of his weight onto you. You spread your legs to make room for him, and feel your heart fluter when he settles in without complaint. Utterly and thoroughly domesticated.

You reach a hand around to his front, palm flattening against his sternum. Despite his previous grumbles, he follows your lead. His head winds up settled on your chest, his hair fluttering soft against your skin.

"Comfortable?" you ask, combing your fingers through his hair. He sighs at the touch, going limp atop of you.

"As comfortable as I can be," he replies, sounding much more miserable than he has any right to be. You huff, amused at his pouting, before directing your attention south.

His nipples are fat, swollen probably being a more accurate descriptor. Flushed and dusky, perched atop the plump mounds of his breasts.

You pinch. He makes a choked sound, jolting in your arms. The cut muscle of his abdomen tenses, and one of his hands flies up to cover his mouth. A droplet of liquid—milk, beads at the perked tip of his nipple, and then the other. It's a symptom typical to omegas in heat, much rarer for males—even rarer for O-type alphas, or alphas capable of displaying omega traits. It's the result of a hormonal imbalance or abnormality, a source of shame for many.

But for you? It's perfect. Your fingers press against the ample flesh of his bosom, dimples made against the fat, before taking his buds between your forefinger and thumb to squeeze. You repeat this motion several times, each yielding more droplets, until a steady stream forms. He squirms in your arms as you draw the milk out of him, one spurt of liquid after another. They roll down the fat of his pecs and into the grooves of his abdomen. You settle into a steady rhythm, working him over, feeling each breath as it winds in and out of his weary lungs. His heartbeat is wild beneath your palms. And the way his cock twitches, untouched, doesn't escape your notice.

His cheeks have flushed pink and his eyes are clenched shut. The space between his brows wrinkles up. At his side, his hands ball into fists. As a mere beta, you can only imagine how it must feel. His chest heaves with each panting breath.

"Are you alright?" you ask, a laugh in your voice. You pinch and pull, and are utterly unprepared for the near shout he lets out. And then—oh, he's glaring at you now, even while he's leaking all over your fingers.

"You're the worst," he laments, voice a little reedy.

You press down a little harder in response. A small stream of milk spurts from his left nipple, spraying into the air. So absurdly perfect that you could laugh, but you don't, if only to preserve what little pride he has left to cling to. Giving his left pec a break, you run your hand down to his tummy, stroking the upper part of his abdomen. His milk slicks your palm and your fingers.

"You're doing so well, Mydei," you coo to him, pressing a series of kisses to the top of his head. You pet him like he's a dog. Your nails lightly scrape at his skin and he hisses, arching his back. His breathing becomes harsher. "Do you want to keep going?"

His eyes open to glare at you. "Get it all out," he rasps.

"Your wish is my command," you hum, like you're doing him a favor. You return your attention to his chest tenfold, kneading his breasts and pulling at his nipples. His ragged breaths again become low moans and quiet gasps. His stomach twitches. One of his legs kicks out a little. His skin flushes all the way down to his shoulders, even the tips of his ears becoming a deep pink. The deep crimson lines on his chest flex and tremble.

His eyes shut and his lips are plump and parted. He looks absolutely ruined. You want to dig your claws into him. You want him to squirm and cry, want to sup on each dulcet sound. You want to worship his body with the reverence it deserves, pay blood tribute to each curve and bump.

You pinch, and twist, and sink your canines into the meat of his nape. He moans, loud and wild. His eyes blow wide, spine arching off your lap and into your touch. Ropes of cum spray onto his tummy, white streaking the hot skin. You release the vice grip you have on him, taking in the sight with several, slow blinks.

Huh. He's never done that before.

"Did you just…" you begin, already knowing the answer.

He groans as he comes back to himself, throwing his forearm over his eyes. His chest heaves with heavy pants as he claws to regain his bearings. The air is thick with the scent of him, all alpha musk and omega sweetness rolled into a single, heady combination.

"Don't say anything," he commands through gritted teeth. His arm pulls away and he fixes you with narrowed eyes, a fire in his stern gaze. His bark is worse than his bite.

"I can't believe you're asking me to not compliment my beautiful girlfriend," you lament, reaching down to touch his slick skin. He shudders beneath the touch, flagging cock now limp against his thigh.

"I'm not your girlfriend," he seethes, and pushes off of you. He leans over, snatching up a second, folded towel you placed next to you before you started. An act of magnificent foresight based on several past, very messy experiences. He towels himself off with restrained fury, wincing when the coarse fabric brushes over his (likely incredibly sensitive) buds. For the time being, you elect to remain quiet. This is the part of the routine where he gets fussy and needs some space and quiet.

You're happy to give it to him. And you're such a good sport, that you don't tease when he comes up behind you an hour later, arms curling around you to tug you close to his chest.

[owlespresso]

do i even ask anyone to beta the mydei hentai fic. like what do i even do with it.

[owlespresso]

[owlespresso]

— KILLSHOT ⟢

it all started because of that damn tongue piercing.

★ featuring; boothill x f!reader

★ word count; 3k words

★ tags; modern au, piercer/tattoo artist!boothill, resolved sexual tension, i'm being so serious this is literally just porn without plot, SMUT (MDNI)

★ notes; this was written back in june and i'm really not sure why i haven't posted it here for the rest of the world to see JSDFHDKFG forgive me for my late contributions to boothill nation </3 i am one of the biggest cyborg fuckers on the grid i am just Not Very Talkative about it . PLEASE BELIEVE ME (crying)

READ ON AO3

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

★ SMUT TAGS; semi-public sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f&m receiving), boothill is the aeon of dirty talk in my book sorry in advance (#FuckSynesthesiaBeacons),

Deadeye Ink always smells like antiseptic and vinyl, sharp and clean beneath the lazy drift of clove smoke and whatever cheap cologne Boothill wears. The place is dim, soaked in deep reds and purples, glowing under a neon sign that buzzes faintly above the front desk.

You hadn’t planned on coming in tonight.

It started with a boring evening, a drink, maybe two, scrolling through your camera roll until a half-formed idea lit up behind your ribs like a cigarette spark: a navel piercing could be hot.

You didn’t think you’d actually go through with it. But now you’re here, and Boothill’s the one setting up the tray.

He doesn’t greet you with anything as pedestrian as hello. Just a smirk. That lazy, coyote grin you’ve seen him flash at half the neighborhood—though never quite the same way he flashes it at you.

“You back for a tattoo, sweet thing?” he asks, glancing up from where he’s snapping on gloves. “Or just couldn’t get enough of my charm?”

You try to laugh, but your voice catches.

“Nope. I want a piercing.”

He pauses, raising one brow, slow like the sun coming up on a bad idea.

“Yeah?” Boothill drawls, voice just this side of rough. “What kind?”

You point to your stomach. “Navel.”

The grin spreads.

You want to blame the heat rising to your face on the way he’s looking at you, but that’d be a lie. The tension’s been there for months now. Ever since the first time you caught sight of that tongue piercing when he said something low and wicked during your septum consult. You didn’t plan on imagining what it’d feel like on your skin. You definitely didn’t plan on imagining his fingers tugging at your waistband like he is now.

But the thought planted itself in your head like a splinter, sharp and unshakable.

“You sure?” he asks, stepping between your knees as you sit back in the chair. “Ain’t the worst spot, but it can get a bit tender while it’s healin’.”

“I can handle it,” you say.

Boothill’s gaze drags over you like he’s reading something just beneath your skin. You try not to shift under it; try not to react when he leans down to mark the dot just below your navel with gloved fingers.

The coolness of the alcohol swab hits first. Then the heat of his breath, close but not touching.

“You’re real worked up, sugar,” he says, almost casually. “Relax. Makes it easier.”

But it’s not the piercing that has you tense.

It’s the way his voice roughens when he says relax. The flicker of metal between his lips when he runs his tongue over the ring there, absent-minded, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Most of all, it’s the way your thighs shift, subtle but not subtle enough, and how his eyes dart down for just a second. 

That’s when you know he’s clocked you.

The look Boothill gives you next isn’t playful anymore. The smirk’s still there, but it’s different now—sharper, slower, like he already knows exactly what you want and how you want it.

“Bedroom eyes already, sweetheart?” he teases. “I haven’t even pierced you yet.”

You blink as a flare of heat scorches through your face, down your neck before settling over your sternum.

“I didn’t...” 

Your voice fails you because he was right. Because you looked at him like you wanted to climb into his lap and find out if that damn tongue piercing feels as good as you imagine.

Boothill chuckles, his sharp gaze returning to your stomach. “Don’t worry, darlin’. I don’t mind.”

You don’t breathe again until the clamp snaps around your skin. It’s cold, a quick contrast to the heat rolling off him.

“This might sting,” he murmurs, leaning in. “But you already know that, don’t ya?”

You would tell yourself that you only shivered because of the AC in his studio. But the two of you are well aware that the timbre of his voice is doing unholy things to your body. 

And when the needle goes through—sharp, fast, and clean—it’s not the pain that makes you gasp.

It’s how Boothill exhales afterward, hot against your skin, and the way his eyes stay locked on your face as he clips the pretty piece of jewelry you picked out in place.

“You did good,” he says, voice low and smug. “Took it real nice.”

You can’t answer. Your heart’s somewhere in your throat. You’re still catching your breath when he stands upright, dragging off his gloves with a snap that makes you flinch, just slightly. Boothill tosses them into the bin and leans back against the edge of the counter, arms folding across his chest.

That damn tongue ring glints again when he speaks.

“Y’know,” he says, tilting his head, “most folks don’t look like they’re picturing head when I pierce ‘em.”

You freeze.

He grins wider. “But you? You’ve been eyein’ my mouth since I walked in, sugar.”

Your stomach flips—one part adrenaline, two parts need—and you sit up straighter on the chair, yanking your shirt down with more force than necessary. “I wasn’t—”

He cuts you off with a quiet laugh, all gravel and confidence. “Sure you weren’t.”

Then he’s walking closer, slow like he’s giving you time to back away.

But you don’t.

Boothill comes to a stop between your knees again, palms bracing the armrests of the chair, and you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. “You got a real expressive face, sweetheart. Not really good at hidin’ things.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you start, but again, it dies in your throat. Because he’s right. And the worst part is… you don’t want to hide it.

That smirk curves again, and his eyes dip to your lips.

“You wanna know what this piercing feels like,” he murmurs. “Don’t you.”

It’s not a question.

And yet you nod.

Something shifts behind his gaze—less amusement now, more heat. 

“Then c’mere.”

You don’t think. You simply lean forward, closing the inch of space between you like your body’s been waiting for this cue since the moment you walked through the door. His mouth finds yours without hesitation—claiming rather than kissing, tongue sliding past your lips with that cool flick of metal that makes you whimper.

That goddamn ring glides against your own tongue and oh, it was so much worse than you imagined. Worse, meaning better. Worse, meaning your knees have gone weak and your hands clawed into his shirt without thinking.

He groans when you do, one hand slipping to your jaw to hold you still while he deepens it, rolling the stud against your tongue like he’s showing off.

And god, it works.

Everything about the kiss is dizzying. The pressure, the heat, the deliberate tease of that ring as he strokes it slow over your inner lip, over your teeth, over everything. He’s methodical with it, like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how sensitive you are.

“You feel that?” he murmurs when he pulls back, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth.

You nod again, dazed.

“That’s not even half of what I can do with it,” he chuckles.

You don’t have to say anything. He already sees it in your face. Boothill’s hand drops from your jaw to your thigh, squeezing once, hard enough to make you gasp. 

In a flash, he strolls toward the front, boots heavy against the studio floor. He flips the lock with a firm click, then pulls the blinds half-down, muting the neon buzz outside to something softer, more intimate and unmistakably private.

Part of you insists you should say something. Draw a line while you still can. Because… yeah, Boothill is sin in denim and leather, but this? This wasn’t supposed to go further than that reckless kiss—and you’re not sure you can handle what might come after.

Your breath hitches. Your heartbeat’s in your ears. Then his voice cuts through the spiral like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“Aren’t you thinkin’ a little too hard about this, darlin’?”

Boothill’s already kneeling in front of you, settling between your legs like it’s his rightful place in the world. One hand rests on your knee, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin. That crooked smile he gives you should come with a warning label.

And when he tilts his head, eyes catching yours like a hook? You know you’re not walking away from this unscathed.

“You’re not gonna run off on me now, are ya?” he asks, voice soft but amused.

You meet his eyes. That flicker of heat in them has turned molten. He sees right through you; sees the curiosity, the craving. Maybe even the months of wanting you didn’t know you were stockpiling until now.

“No,” you whisper.

The smirk that curves across his face is diabolical.

“Atta girl.”

You’re still seated on the edge of the chair when Boothill draws even closer. Close enough that his hands come to your thighs. He squeezes once, rough and grounding, before dipping his head to your stomach, inspecting the fresh piercing.

“Real pretty,” he says, voice husky. “But I think you’ll look even better with my mouth lower than this.”

Your breath skips.

He kisses around your piercing, teasing, warm, lips soft where his fingers were firm. Then he drops to his knees and slides your shorts down in one smooth motion, dragging his palms along your thighs like he’s tasting you through his hands.

You barely register how fast he gets your panties off, how the chair angles, how his hands hook behind your knees to pull you forward—because then that tongue ring is doing exactly what you’d imagined.

No.

It’s better.

He licks a stripe up your center. Tongue slow and deliberate, the ball of his piercing dragging behind like punctuation. He makes sure to let the cool press of metal graze your clit, quick and precise. It sends sparks up your spine, your hips jerking despite yourself. His hands tighten around your thighs, holding you steady.

“Shit,” you gasp, and it doubles as an implicit plea.

But Boothill doesn’t stop.

In fact, he doubles down the effort in getting you off.

He slurps at your cunt like he’s mapping you out, slow and rhythmic, until your legs start trembling and one hand flies to the back of his head, fingers twisting in his hair. He groans when you pull, like he likes it, and fuck—

That stud presses exactly where you need it, again and again, until your head drops back with a moan you’re half-ashamed to hear from your own mouth.

“That’s it, sugar,” he mutters, voice hot and thick and perfect. “Give me every damn sound you got.”

And you do.

Because there’s no world where you could hold back from him now—not when his tongue moves like that, not when that metal glints with every pass, not when he looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the world that’s ever tasted this good.

He grins into you. You can tell by the way it changes the angle of everything. By the sinful roll of his tongue.

You come with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, and he groans as you do, mouth locked on you like he needs it—your taste, your noises, the way you fall apart for him. When the tremors stop and you slump back, ruined and panting, he pulls back slowly and licks his lips. That tongue ring flashes in the low light. 

Slowly, Boothill kisses your inner thigh. Then your hip. Then up, past your fresh piercing, stopping just above your belly button.

You blink down at him. He grins wickedly, chin still shining with your slick.

“Told ya,” he says, voice rough, breath hot against your skin. “Ain’t just for decoration.”

You’re coming down from the high. Skin flushed, pulse still rabbit-quick in your throat. Your thighs ache from how hard you clamped around his shoulders, but you’re not done.

Not even close.

You shift forward on the chair and Boothill raises an eyebrow.

“What’s that look for?” he asks, low and amused.

But you don’t answer. 

Instead, you slide off the seat, bare knees meeting the cold shop floor, and he stills.

“…Well, shit.”

The smirk on his face doesn’t fall, but something in his expression flickers. You trail your fingers up the firm plane of his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his jeans. He watches you, head tilted just slightly, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

You pop the button. He doesn’t stop you. 

“I thought you were shy,” he murmurs, the sound catching in his throat when your palm brushes the growing bulge in his jeans.

You look up at him from under your lashes. “It’s okay to be wrong sometimes.”

“Yeah?” His voice is rough now, lower, like gravel and sin. 

You pull him free, fingers curling around the weight of him. He’s hot, already hard, and when you lean in to lick the bead of precum from the tip, his hand fists in your hair without thought.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

You start slow. You want him to feel it. Want to watch the way his cock twitches when your tongue circles the head, when you take him deeper with a little more pressure. His hips stutter forward when you hollow your cheeks and let him glide past your lips, and you feel him fight the urge to push deeper. Still trying to let you lead.

But he’s losing control. Fast.

And you love it.

You moan around him, just enough to let the vibration carry. He groans, low and fractured, and when your hand joins your mouth, twisting slow at the base while you suck, his voice drops into a full, wrecked growl.

“Goddamn… look at you,” he pants.

You glance up—his hand still gripping your hair, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. His favorite regular, on her knees for him in his studio, still flushed from the orgasm he gave her, now sucking him off like it’s all she’s thought about for weeks.

Hell, maybe it has been.

“You really gonna make me lose it this fast?” he mutters, teeth gritted.

You don’t stop. If anything, you go harder, deeper. 

A curse punches out of him. One hand hits the back of the chair for balance as he arches forward, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and dazed. His cock is impossibly hard in your mouth and each pass only brings him closer to the edge. 

When Boothill breaks, his hips jerk into a standstill—breath caught in a broken moan. You take everything he gives you. The salty sweet taste of his release spurts into the back of your throat, and you practically whimper at the sensation. 

When it’s over, he looks down at you like you’ve just ruined him. You swallow, slow and deliberate, and wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand just to make sure he sees.

Boothill stares, chest heaving, completely wrecked.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sugar.”

He’s still catching his breath when he reaches down to pull you up, mouth already seeking yours again. His tongue ring clicks against your teeth, a sudden jolt of sensation that makes your stomach clench. You can feel him getting hard again, grinding lazily against your bare thigh, the friction sharp and steady.

When Boothill pulls back, his voice is edged with desire.

“You good?” he murmurs, his palm sliding over your stomach—close to the fresh piercing but not touching it. He’s awfully thoughtful, even with his cock hard and pressed between you.

You nod, breath hitching. “Yeah. Just… careful with the piercing.”

That grin returns. Lopsided and filthy.

“Oh, trust me, I was already thinkin’ that.”

And before you can ask what he means, he spins you gently around, guiding you to brace your palms on the padded chair. The leather’s cool under your hands, grounding you into the moment. His body slots behind yours, the warmth of his chest a brand against your back.

“This okay?” Boothill asks, voice right at your ear, one hand sliding down to stroke between your thighs, knuckles brushing sensitive skin.

“Yes,” you breathe, and then again, firmer. “Fuck, yes.”

He groans like he’s been waiting to hear that for a long time.

You feel the head of his cock nudging against you, lining himself up, letting the tension draw tighter and tighter until you almost beg for it. And when he pushes in—slow, deep, filling you completely—you both gasp.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he grits. “You feel—fuck—tight as hell.”

You grip the chair harder, legs already trembling, back arching just enough to feel him drag against every inch of you. The position’s perfect—deep and unrelenting, and somehow intimate despite the fact that he’s got you bent over a chair in his studio.

Boothill moves with purpose now.

His hands wrap around your hips, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. He pulls almost all the way out, then thrusts back in, harder this time as he shoves a ragged moan from your throat.

The angle doesn’t bother your piercing at all. But it does make you feel every stroke, every aching drag of his thick, throbbing cock inside you, like your body was made for this. For him.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good,” he growls behind you, voice shaking. “Always knew you would.”

His pace turns brutal, almost rhythmic. One hand slips down between your thighs again, fingers circling your clit, making your knees damn near give out. You cry out as your body tightens in on itself, and he hisses through his teeth.

“C’mon, darlin’. Gimme another. Wanna feel your pretty pussy squeeze me fuckin’ dry.”

You don’t even make it to a reply.

You come hard, gasping his name, legs shaking as your orgasm slams through you. He fucks you through it, relentless, watching the way your body spasms under his touch, the way you push back against him like you need more.

And then he’s gone, unraveling right behind you—pulling out just in time to finish with a grunt and a curse, hot and thick against your lower back, his hand still gripping your hip like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

Silence stretches between you both, heavy with breath and heat. After a long moment, Boothill lets out a low, dazed laugh.

“Well, shit,” he says again. “That ain’t what I expected when you walked in tonight.”

You glance over your shoulder, still catching your breath, lips curved despite yourself.

“You complaining?”

He grins, eyes half-lidded, sweat-slicked and just a tad smug.

“Not even a little.”

⟢ end notes: ok now i remember why i haven't posted this here yet: it's because i wanted to do so when i've already written part three (on ao3, only the first two parts are up HAHAHAHA) but i'd like to use these fics as buffers between my mydei and phainon work bc those two men keep oversaturating my masterlist bro.... anyway i hope you enjoyed! this is my most shameless attempt at dirty talk to date, and i still squirm a little whenever i reread this HAHHHH i'll probably post part two after i finish writing part three just to be safe nyehehe

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

[owlespresso]

mizutsune and hunter

Stay together make hunt not difficult^^

commissioned from 秋田树

[owlespresso]

sleepover

|| togame jo x reader || E/18+ || a night at togame's || wc: 1.4 || ao3 ||

Togame isn't your boyfriend— but he sure acts like he is.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: another comm 😎!!!! this is my first wbr fic and togame jo... he is consistently so boyfriend shaped. needs some head pats fr. thank you @ofmermaidstories for betaing this one!!! enjoy this soft one loves!! 💞

CWs: aged up character, suggestive but no smut, friends to lovers, gender neutral afab reader, reader's chest is referred to as breasts

Going over to Togame’s place means one of two things.

One, you fall asleep on his couch after staying up far too late watching the shittiest movie recommendations that you can procure from your favored, obscure online forums or, two, he cooks for you and has you perch in his kitchen to keep him company.

Today, it’s option two.

It’s getting cold, deeper into the year. It’s late enough in the evening that frost has gathered on the corners of the window pane above Togame’s sink. He’s at the stove, poking at some instant yakitori with a great amount of interest.

It’s cute that he cooks for you. It makes your chest feel all tight when you think about it too much. There are plenty of places nearby that make a tasty, greasy midnight meal, but Togame always insists on cooking for you himself. Once, that boy that had gone to Furin, the one with the dangly earrings that hangs around with Sakura, had pointed out that Togame acts more like your girlfriend than your best friend.

(Togame had SO smoothly corrected him— “Like a boyfriend.”)

(You punched Jo so hard on the arm that he was bruised for a week.)

Neither of you mentions it, but you notice Togame rubbing over the yellowing mark on his bicep over that week.

Smug bastard.

And it’s not even an incorrect assessment— Togame does act like your girlfriend. And your boyfriend. Best friend, too. He walks you home from the bar, he goes grocery shopping with you, and cooks you meals. On more than one occasion, he’s squared up to a creep that was eyeing you for a little too long. He holds your hand when you’re crossing a busy street sometimes, too. He’s your one-stop shop for connection, romantic or platonic.

(And, like, sometimes sexual. But, never directly. You touch sometimes— cuddle. To an onlooker, it might look somewhat chaste. You snuggled up to his side with his arm draped around your shoulders. It doesn’t feel that way to you.)

(You’ve only indulged your most honest, filthiest thoughts about Jo while alone in the comfort of your bedroom with your bullet vibrator in your hand.)

It’s hard not to be attracted to him. He has a pretty face despite having broken his nose several times in his youth. His cheeks are still a little round with baby fat that he can’t shake, and his eyes droop in a way that makes him look like a friendly stray dog that you’ve become incredibly endeared to. He’s handsome, he’s nice. The total package. It's hard not to fantasize about him even when you fear how it could disrupt your friendship with him.

(But, you’re also not stupid. Jo looks at you softly, too softly, all the time. He tells you how he talks to his mother about all the time he spends with you. He’s too affectionate with you to just be friendly.)

That evening, you eat at his heated kotatsu while some nonsense reality show plays like static on the television in the corner. Togame makes you laugh just as much as he makes you (playfully) angry. He shows teeth when he smiles, eats his share. He steeples his hands and rests his chin on top of them.

“It’s getting late,” he hums. The moon is up. “I can walk you home.”

You swallow.

“What if,” you pick at your nails under the kotatsu, where he can’t see your nervousness manifest as easily. “I stayed the night. Like a sleepover.”

It’s an imposition, sure. But Togame is keen. There’s an implication there if he chooses to see it.

He cracks a smile.

He sees it perfectly.

...

You’ve always wanted to do this.

Togame has a nice lap. Strong thighs that tense well under the second-hand trousers he likes best. It’s a good size to sit on, you’ve always thought. You’ve fantasized about it.

It’s so, so much better to experience for real.

Playful, teasing, you perch in Togame’s lap while he’s braced against the wall that his bedframe is pushed up against. His hands are running up and down your sides as he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. He’s so good with his mouth— you feel insane. Your hands are buried in his hair, petting through it, tugging at the long bits in the back.

You can feel that he’s hard below you. He’s kind of easy like that, getting turned on from kissing. You know that he has gotten around in the past, he’s experienced, and a little jealous part of you wonders if he gets hard with every person he makes out with.

Togame parts from your lips, his own dragging along your cheek, up to your ear, where he nips.

“So.” He breathes, hot, directly into your ear. You shudder and grab his shoulders for purchase. “Why’d you want to stay the night?”

“Y-You know why.” You can’t help the way your voice trembles.

“I want to hear you say it.” Togame moves lower, kissing your throat, teeth dragging where your skin is the thinnest and most fragile.

“Jo—”

“C’mon,” he teases, hands drifting higher, away from your waist. They ghost over the swell of your breasts. “Be good and tell me why you wanted to end up in my bed. That’s what you want, right?”

You whine; you can’t make yourself fucking speak when he talks to you like this. You try to duck and hide against his neck. He lets you for a moment before cupping your breasts, thumbing over your nipples. You jolt with it, the bubbly pleasure of it making you squirm. You swear you feel his cock twitch.

“I know you’re so good,” Togame coos, gentle, it feels so real and comforting to hear that you feel like you could explode. “Just tell me what you want.”

“You’re being mean.”

Togame coaxes you back, still playing with your breasts like the pleasure of it will wring an answer out of you.

(It will.)

“Maybe a little.” He looks confident, smug, and earnest— concurrently, somehow. He grabs the hem of your top. “I just want to make sure I understand. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

You know he will.

You squirm more. Togame pulls your shirt off. His room isn’t cold, but there’s enough of a chill from his drafty windows that you shudder from it, gooseflesh rising on your arms. He soothes it immediately, big, warm hands running up and down your biceps. He shifts you a little closer, so that you can better soak up the heat that radiates from him.

At the same time, he looks so taken with you.

It’s not just the fact that you’re topless, you know. The expression that he’s wearing is one that he has on a lot around you. It’s soft, a bit awestruck, and deeply affectionate. He’s smitten with you, probably. Whenever he looks at you so adoringly, you don’t know what to do with the feeling that takes up all the room in your chest. It’s your own attraction to him, warm and gooey and a little scary.

“Fuck me.” You swallow. Togame’s cock absolutely twitches under you. “Then, make me breakfast in the morning.”

“The latter is assumed if we’re having a sleepover.” Togame rubs at your sides, cheeky and soft.

“Is the former not?”

Togame pauses.

“It can be,” he says. He really looks at you, more serious than he’s been all evening. “If you want it to be you. If you want us to be like that.”

“Do you?”

Togame runs his tongue over his front teeth and huffs a little laugh. “I’d want to do more than just make you breakfast in the morning, though. I’d put flowers on the table and everything.”

Your breath catches.

“Okay.” You feel giddy, turned all inside out and on. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Using my words against me?”

“Yeah.” No reason to hide. You smile, big and beaming, probably a little more unrestrained than you mean to.

Togame takes it, grabs you by the hips, and slots his lips against yours once more. There’s more vigor to him now, he’s savouring, devouring, both, all at once. There’s so much unspoken in your relationship. It’s a delicate dance, these parts. He’s your best friend and sometimes your boyfriend.

And it feels so, so good when he’s your boyfriend.

​

[owlespresso]

Thank you for the mydei snippet I am absolutely frothing like a feral animal 🙏

I pray for nothing but money for you, fam

I've been yearning for someone to just ruin this man and I can tell you're going to deliver.

i'm putting him through various ecchi/hentai-esque situations all the time in my head and finally they will be chronicled to paper. i fear the world may not be ready. why dont we milk more men in the reader-insert space.

[owlespresso]

1k deep into this mydei breast milk fic.whats going on

[owlespresso]

mydei you can ttrust me with your tits. mydei pleasee

[owlespresso]

USER OWLESPRESSO.... it is i, user kaientai, I DID NOT KNOW YOU WERE ON TUMBLR it's like seeing your favorite coworker at the grocery store 😭 hello!!!!!!!

THAT'S MY FUCKING GOAT KAIENTAI!!!!!

so stoked to see you on this beautiful saturday!!!

[owlespresso]

the only selfship i can really see myself having is lycaon and this is the dynamic with me as the grey text.

[owlespresso]

about to write the most perverted hentai-brained mydei fic. sorry everyone

[owlespresso]

kaioculus: save a bike, ride a biker 🙂‍↕️👍

⤷ t.homa: what time are you two coming back... dinner went cold two hours ago 😔😔😔 ⤷ mydeimos: you're GAMBLING again? ⤷ l1ghter: gambling ❌ bankruptcy speedrun ✅

note: kai + motorcycle bf lighter 🙂‍↕️ we cruise on his bike when sunset hits just beyond the outer ring so we can make out like teenagers at the lovers' lookout. we also head to burnice's for a few drinks after before getting roped into playing poker by big daddy.... my other more responsible blorbos are Not Thrilled in the slightest but this is life in blazewood for you 😔👍 also the last pic is lighter's pov before i hop on his ride LMAO