#*shaking its art in my teeth like a dog* (affectionate)

[bunnybeandraws]

You know, I've realized that part of the reason I get so much writing inspiration from @crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington comics is because the way it writes the characters just... Scratches my brain in a way I really like. :3

It's the smell of freshly cooked eggs that wakes Leon that morning, and he rolls out of his bed (which was little more than an air mattress set up on the floor with a few spare blankets thrown on top) with a groan.

He'd have a quick shot to wake up the rest of the way, but he's sure Ethan would disapprove, especially this early in the morning before he's even had breakfast…

Oh, right… It'd probably be a good idea to check up on that, see how Ethan's doing.

Walking into the small kitchen of the even smaller apartment, the thing that surprises Leon most aren't the dark circles under Ethan's eyes from lack of sleep, or the way he just stares blankly at the eggs sizzling away on the pan. No, it's something else…

"Are you… Cooking breakfast with a blanket on?"

"It's cold." Ethan snaps, shooting Leon a quick glare from the corner of his eye that's definitely less intimidating than intended simply due to his softer face. "You got a problem?"

"No no. Just might be a fire hazard is all." Leon says, propping his hand on his hip as he gestures with his other hand to the thermostat on the wall.

"Thermostat also says it's, like, 75 degrees. And that's enough to make me wanna change into shorts."

Leon hears a soft click from the stove, indicating that Ethan's turned the heat off so as to not burn the eggs, and he can't help but wonder if his tiredness comes from baby things, or nightmares.

Both are plausible.

"Do you get cold easily?" Leon asks, unable to stop the question from slipping past his tongue. Not that Ethan holds it against him as he extends his hand to Leon, the one a Lycan had taken a chunk out of.

"I guess ever since Dulvey I've run a bit colder…" He murmurs, and as Leon takes his hand, 'a bit' might've been an understatement. Ethan's skin is freezing, like he's been sat in front of the AC or out in the cold for hours on end.

"I think it's because I died back there, and I-" Ethan pauses as he pulls his hand away from Leon, his eyes very quickly growing glassy. "And I'm technically a corpse. Haha, hah…"

Despite the soft smile and the forced laughter, Ethan swiftly devolves into sobs and hiccups, hands covering his face like he's disgusted by his own appearance, desperately begging Leon not to look at him.

Leon, for a moment at least, just kind of stands there, unsure of what to do. He's never been the comforting type, especially not in recent years, so all he can really do is watch Ethan break down, the blanket falling from his shoulders as he shakes.

Almost hesitantly, he reaches out to awkwardly pat his shoulder, glancing away until he's suddenly pulled into a desperate hug, Ethan burying his face in his shoulder.

'He's freezing!' Leon thinks to himself as he returns the embrace, one hand cradling the back of Ethan's head for support and the other simply resting on his back. 'Maybe I should hold him for just a bit longer… To warm him up…'

…Breakfast can wait, Leon decides… Ethan needs him more, and he won't let go until even the softest of hiccups has faded from his tongue.

[robinaa]

I want to take your art between my teeth and shake it like a dog with its prey (affectionate)

this is a blanket permission for anyone to print off my art and rip it to shreds with their teeth or eat it

[lemontwst]

Consider this: Vil, Jamil, Ruggie and Sebek getting third prostrate milked to an inch of its life (they’re screaming and moaning, tearful eyes and a splotchy face with their tounge sticking out and their limbs twitching madly. Bonus points if the cum is collected into a cup and the boys drink it)

after careful deliberation, the council has decided that you, anon, are the person with the biggest brain on this planet. we pray your days are lustful and your boys dumb subby sluts. also i hope you don’t mind that i improvised a bit with the cum eating stuff, i didn’t want to make these too samey!

content warnings: degradation, cum eating, mindbreak, b/dsm, (light) asphyxiation.

𝓥𝓲𝓵 𝓢𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓮𝓷𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓽

There is something almost primordial about your desire to break Vil into tiny, useless pieces. Maybe it’s the fact that perfection is his entire raison d'être, the only thought that bounces around in that little empty head of his 24/7.

The feeling of sadistic satisfaction that courses through your veins when you take the queen down is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. After hours of torrid overstimulation you seem to have achieved your goal, because right now, your Vil looks like a common whore. His hair is falling out of his pins, a messy curtain of gold framing his sweaty top-model features. Mascara runs down his face, his eyeshadow is completely ruined, and yet he still manages to look so unbelievably hot, chest pressed against the floor and ass up and at your mercy.

“You sound like such a slut when you moan, Vil.” He lets out a long, wanton whine when you pull back the dildo you’ve been using to torment his asshole. The repeated stretching feels so delicious, his hole is hot and dripping with his own cum, a gift left behind by your cruel fingers a few minutes before. Back arched in a submissive arch, Vil’s tongue sticks out and traces his moist lips as he imagines licking your fingers clean, the filthy image makes his dripping cock throb and ache for your touch, but that’s not how you want to play today.

No, you want to make him come over and over again with his ass and his ass alone. You want to milk him dry, to hear him cry and beg for a release you’re not sure you’re in the mood to grant him.

“Just...like...that......” Vil meowls, his fingers helplessly grasping at the cold floor, looking for something, anything to latch onto. When he doesn’t find it, he hastily moves his hands to his ass, grabs the firm flesh so tight it curves between his fingers and spreads his butt cheeks, still managing to look as graceful as a swan despite the fact that he’s inviting you to plow him harder, “More...more...! Make a mess of my insides!” His hips shake like crazy every time you thrust the dildo deep inside his ass, his precum keeps flowing out of his dick like a broken dam, pooling under him in a disgusting display. It’s reaching places that my fingers can’t! This is the first time I’ve been touched there, the first time that my prostate got pounded like this!~

...Yeah, you’re done with this. Vil lets out a disappointed cry as you take out the dildo in a swift, rough movement. His wide eyes find yours and you’ve never seen him look so upset, “Wha-- why? I was so clo--ugyah!!” He squeals when you spank his ass hard. Unperturbed, you do it again and the sound resonates through the empty room alongside Vil’s piggy noises. The lewd body in front of you shakes and then goes painfully still. C-coming! Vil twitches, tears running down his face as he feels his cum dripping out of his twitching cock in thick, shameful globs.

Then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut off, he slumps to the floor, panting and shaking with a stunned expression on his face. He yelps when you spank him again, his mind racing as he tries to come up with the right thing to say.

“Sho...rry.......I’m shorry......!” He whines, sounding nothing like the stubborn, untouchable queen you know. “Please...forgive me...master....” Vil sighs, giving you a long, adoring look from beneath his long, fluttering lashes.

“I’m not sure you deserve it.” You speak plainly, holding back a smirk as Vil freezes up. Your boyfriend looks at you like you just slapped him and well, technically you did, but he was enjoying it. Now he just looks...terrified, miserable like you’ve never seen him.

“Still, while you were squirming and crying like it’s mating season, I got you a little present. If you’ll accept it, I’ll forgive you for being so brazen.” Without looking away from his confused face, you slide the small chalice that had been hiding under his dick this entire time in front of him. It’s a beautiful piece you got from the headmaster for Christmas, a golden cup with the rim decorated with rubies. Like the Holy Grail, except this is a cup of sin filled to the brim with Vil’s cum.

“......Eh.....eh........eeh....?” He mutters dumbly, trembling from the overstimulation that still wrecks him from head to toe, “Tha-that’s my...mine...?” His empty eyes focus on the chalice, “Are you going to...make me drink that...?”

“Do you want it?” You raise an amused eyebrow.

Of course not! That’s disgusting! It looks like condensed milk, that you would dare show him such a perverted thing is.......it’s.......his...... like thick cream...the proof of your love for him, and his love for you... hot and sticky, going down his throat-- Vil pants like he just ran a marathon, his dignity beaten, bruised and forgotten, and eagerly nods his head, his empty eyes never leaving the chalice.

"I asked you a question, you dumb bitch."

Immediately snapping back to attention at the sound of your cold voice, Vil looks up at you and smiles sultrily through the drool and the tears, wiggling his ass as if to tempt you, "Yes, please master ♡ aaah~" he opens his pink mouth and sticks out his tongue, looking more like a dog than a man.

You bring the chalice to his lips and smile when Vil doesn’t even flinch. The smell is so pungent, but he doesn't seem to notice as he gulps down mouthful after mouthful of sperm.

The realization that he’s doing something so fucked up with you makes his cock throb once again. How many times can a man come in one day? Vil shakes and struggles to keep himself propped up on his elbows, his head shuts down and he swallows another mouthful of cum. A dry orgasm. Sweat runs down his shoulders and back and he gleefully looks up at you. His fingers twitch, tears spill from his eyes, the thought of being fucked by you until he dies burns every one of his synapses and he sighs, disappointed that nothing came out. Ah...I cant drink like this.

𝓢𝓮𝓫𝓮𝓴 𝓩𝓲𝓰𝓿𝓸𝓵𝓽

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. You watch with mild interest as Sebek’s big frame convulses in his bondage, droplets of sweat running down his face and chest in wet little trails that make you want to lick him all over. ...Or fan him a bit with one of his notebooks, seeing as he looks like he might be on the verge of a heatstroke.

Your shibari technique has become quite refined, if you do say so yourself! Sebek can do nothing but jerk and squirm against the red rope that wraps around his body like a work of art, stuck on his knees in front of you with his hands tied firmly behind his back and his engorged dick bobbing up and down every time he convulses. The rope has worked some beautiful scarlet lines all over his pale skin. You can already tell he’ll make sure his clothes will cover them up properly, but the both of you will know that the harsh rope burns are there, and Sebek will go hard every time the friction against his shirt makes the pain flare up. It will be just another one of your dirty little secrets.

“Ah--! (y/n)-sama…hm!!” You mercifully lower the vibration of the toy stuck in his ass, giving him a few seconds to collect his thoughts (which are very few and far between). Then, just as he opens his mouth to beg for mercy, you flick the remote to the highest setting all in one go. Sebek screams and convulses once again, his face a sloppy mess as he’s brought violently to his climax, “I can’t...move….ah…now I’m...ah!”

But the satisfaction doesn’t come and Sebek is in shambles, tears falling down his cheeks in big, pathetic drops. The cock ring at the base of his member strains against the flow of blood trapped desperately in his shaft, his dick standing taller and harder than you’ve ever seen it. But you don’t remove the cock ring. You just stare at him with a sadistic twinkle in your eyes.

“Aaaah (y/n)-sama…!! this is too much...kuh--?!” Sebek jolts, eyes wide as he grits his teeth. Again?! His stupid moans fill the room, a concert of long and shaky ‘aaaahs’ and ‘ooohs’ as he sticks out his tongue and drools all over himself, “Ah! I’m going to cum!” He’s nothing short of delirious as an unsatisfying climax hits him again. his entire body tenses up only for a wave of desperation to come crashing into him as his cum remains cruelly trapped inside his dick. Won’t come out won’t come out won’t come out! He sobs, giving you a pleading look from under his wet lashes, “(y/n)-sama...there is sho much of you i-inside m-my head!” He’s not making sense anymore. Sebek vaguely recognizes this, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing he wants right now is to cum his brains out here on his knees in front of you.

“Aww, you’re so cute.” You lower the intensity of the vibrator and reach out to gently pat his head. Sebek immediately nuzzles into your hand, like a big, affectionate dog. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll make you come right away.” You wipe a tear away with your thumb and almost burst out laughing at the look of immense relief that immediately crosses his face. 

“Aah...! Thank you very much! Thank you very--” Sebek’s voice dies in his throat as he watches you get up and walk away, exiting the room without looking back. For a brief, heartbreaking moment he thinks you're going to leave him there. Panic settles in his stomach the more you linger, so far away from him, too far away from him… 

But then you come back, casually tossing the jacket of his school uniform in front of him and Sebek exhales a loud sigh of relief. He doesn’t get it.

“I’m turning it up again, Sebek.” You wave the vibrator’s remote in front of his face and he gulps nervously, but still gives you an eager nod of his head. Despite the warning, he’s not prepared for how terribly you tease him in the moments that follow. His voice comes out louder and louder as you turn the vibration up and down, up and down. The uneven rhythm makes Sebek see stars, his shoulders lock up painfully, his mind spirals down a filthy, lusty hole as he calls out your name like he’s praying. He’s so close. And when he does cum, he lets out the loudest scream yet, jerking forward so violently you worry for a second he might lose his balance and hit his forehead against the ground.

He doesn’t. His torso jerks forward and his head hangs heavy, his disheveled hair dripping with sweat and obscuring his eyes as he recoils from his earth shattering orgasm. Sebek blinks in and out of consciousness, barely registering the feeling of his cum leaking out of his dick in long spurts. Still coming out… he licks his salty lips, amazed by how much cum you can pull out of him.

That’s when he sees it, at the corner of his hazy vision. His semen splattered all over his uniform. All over his Diasomnia. Sebek takes long, heavy breaths, feeling something in his mind dissolve. Something important, like a part of him.

“Sebek, you’re so dirty.” You smile sweetly at him, like an angel he thinks, even as you bring the dirty jacket up to his face, right under his nose. “Clean it up.”

He slowly tilts his head up, his body is so tired it feels like he’s drowning in quicksand, then he sticks his tongue out and methodically wipes the semen off the fabric, looking up at you from time to time to see if he’s pleasing you. The tip of his tongue tastes like something bitter mixed with fabric freshener. His hot breaths puff up as soon as they come out of his mouth and he can feel himself getting hard again. As his thoughts turn to lascivious little scenarios of you making him climax over and over again, he obediently licks his cum off of something that was important to him once. Oh well. It’s not you, so he can’t really bring himself to care.

𝓡𝓾𝓰𝓰𝓲𝓮 𝓑𝓾𝓬𝓬𝓱𝓲

Ruggie couldn’t stand your fingers inside him at first. He would get so nervous, trying to deflect every time you brought up wanting to play with his ass, like it was this sort of disgraceful thing he didn’t even want to think about. It’s not like he was afraid of letting you have his way with him (he sure enjoyed it when you rode him into unconsciousness), it’s just that… he was already so scrawny, he didn’t want you thinking he was some sort of pathetic, needy loser, no matter how much he loved to let you take control.

...But that feels like such a long time ago. He was a total moron.

Ruggie lets out a quiet moan and bites his index finger, his heart beating like a war drum against his ribcage as your slick fingers stretch his asshole. Fuck, this is the best, he raises his back in a pretty arch, licking his lips as you scissor him gently. You pump two fingers in and out of him, stretching him nice and slow and Ruggie responds to your playful ministrations by thrusting his hips into your hand, his mouth falling open and his tail trembling slightly under him. He makes the most beautiful face, cloud-colored eyes glossy and unfocused, his tiny fangs barely visible behind his parted lips, then you suddenly push against his prostate and he throws his head back, drool dripping down the corner of his lips.

The squelching sounds of your lubed fingers sliding in and out of his asshole almost make him cum on the spot. “(y/n)...” He pants and squirms in front of you, his hips going numb as your fingers pick up the pace. “Use my ass every day~” He thrusts back into your fingers without shame, his cock bouncing with every shake of his vulgar hips, “Stretch my asshole every day and make me remember that it’s yours...” Ruggie spreads his legs wider, making an obscene M shape as he leaks precum all over himself.

“You’re such a good boy…” You coo down at him, deceivingly tender as your fingers pick up the pace and mercilessly tease his prostate. Your boyfriend grits his teeth and twitches wildly at the sudden, relentless stimulation, back arching off the bed as the ache in his dick becomes unbearable. You don’t even need to touch it before he explodes, climaxing purely from having you play with his slutty asshole.

The sheets are a mess, soaked in his sweat. Ruggie falls back into the bed and stares up at the ceiling, the erotic smile you gave him as you watched him cum swimming in front of his eyes like a filthy movie on loop. You tap his cheek and he immediately gives you his full attention. You’re the best, he gives you a dopey smirk as he takes your fingers into his mouth, happily sucking on your fingertips as his eyes slowly go down the length of your body, So sexy.

“My lovely baby… you’re hungry, aren’t you?” You give his dick a few pumps and he shivers, muttering something about being ‘still sensitive’, then you bring your dirty hand up to his lips.

Ruggie blinks owlishly at you, looking at your fingers with a tired yet curious expression. His eyes go from your fingers to your face then back down again. You-- you want me to…? His head still feels like mush because of you, his thoughts are all jumbled and sluggish. He lacks the energy to make any coherent decisions at the moment, so he does the only thing he can do. He dazedly opens his mouth and gasps when you shove your fingers inside. The bitter taste hits him immediately and he recoils, but your hand mercilessly follows. 

Drool drips down your fingers as he whines, his dick getting hard again as you start fucking his mouth with cum coated fingers. Whimpering in the back of his throat, Ruggie surrenders to his libido and swirls his tongue around your fingers, spreading his cum all over the walls of his hot mouth.

You move to pull your fingers away and he chases, sucking on your skin like a baby and giving your fingers little love bites. “Ah!...No…” He cries when you finally pull away, a thick string of saliva and semen connecting his lips and your fingers, “(y/n)....oh fuck, there’s no way I ain’t gonna get hooked on this…” His tail swishes excitedly against the bed as he watches you scoop up more of his cum. 

This time he opens wide before you even have time to raise your hand, his eager face dripping with all sorts of fluids. So hungry...

𝓙𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵 𝓥𝓲𝓹𝓮𝓻

It says a lot.about the kind of conqueror you are, when you've managed to tease Jamil into obedience. 

He looked so uncomfortable in this position at first, the embarrassed scowl on his face as he glared at you from over his shoulder only making the curve of his back and his vulnerable ass look that much more adorable.

Wrists bound tightly under the wooden seesaw, Jamil is forced to lean his chest on the plank for support as his naked lower half is left standing, legs spread and ass in the air, completely vulnerable. You knew your boyfriend was athletic, but you're still impressed he's managed to stand in that position for so long without his legs giving out. Especially considering how badly his legs are shaking.

All of him is shaking, really. His shoulders, his hips, his leaking cock, there is not a centimetre on his body that's not trembling like a leaf. The three vibrators you stuffed in his ass have finally destroyed his composure after hours of sexual torture. What...is...this...! The repeated orgasms are wrecking his body and with the way he's crying and moaning like a wanton bitch you think his brain might be fried too. Ho-how…? I've become...a weird person...

The vibrators all work at a different speeds to keep your precious Jamil on his toes. You've kept them from falling out of his ass by blocking his hole with tape. It looks like a cute little button, and you sometimes push on it and make Jamil cry out in pure bliss. The pressure against his prostate is too much. Toomuchtoomuchtoomuch! Jamil sticks his tongue out and goes cross eyed, desperately pushing back with his ass as he greedily tries to scrape for more stimulation. His poor, abused dick throbs cutely, but nothing comes out. Still, Jamil feels so amazing he thinks he might pass out. He pants and rests his head on the plank, sweat and drool darkening the wood under him, So good…

He barely registers it when you move in front of him, hypnotized by the quiet buzzing of the vibrators stuck in his ass.

“Are you having fun, Jamil?” You tap his forehead and he slowly moves his clouded eyes to look up at you. “I have a present for you, you know! It’s your reward for accepting all my love like a good boy.”

You suddenly place something in front of him and Jamil stops thinking entirely. What...is that…? He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything anymore, every cell in his body is screaming at him to look away but he just can’t, like he’s swallowed poison and is now completely paralyzed. He raises his head and the smell of sex hits him right in the face.

The sight of his favorite snapback filled with cum lights his body up again, Jamil shivers and lets out a string of soft, quiet gasps as he comes all over himself, I’ve been filling this up...all this time… “Aah...haha…” his eyelids slide halfway shut. The dark blush that paints the bridge of his nose and the sweat that drips off his chin make him look so indecent you almost feel like taking a picture.

Slowly, like he's pretending to be conflicted, Jamil lowers his head and sticks his tongue out, gasping when he laps up the first little mouthful of cum. “Ah…” It tastes horrible, how do you always swallow when he comes into your mouth...? Jamil takes another lick, and another, “Ah...ah…” it’s so sticky and unpleasant when it goes down his throat. The vibrators in his ass feel oddly comforting now, tears start running down his face and his mind goes blank. It’s delicious. 

“Ha…...haa....agh--!” He splutters when your hand slams his face down into the hat, eyes going wide as his chin splashes ungraciously into the pool of cum. He coughs and struggles but you keep him pinned down, forcing him to gulp in large mouthfuls of semen. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he struggles to breathe. His cum is everywhere-- in his nostrils, on his cheeks, it sticks to the roof of his mouth and down the walls of his throat, Jamil keeps on choking and spluttering, and just as he feels his consciousness drift away, you forceful pull his head up by his braids. 

He coughs violently, barely registering the pain in his scalp, his blood pumping with adrenaline. He looks more unfocused than ever, eyes like dark glass and strings of warm cum covering his pretty face, the white of his semen striking against his tan skin.  

You give him a fond look and lightly shake that head of his you just fucked stupid, "Was it really good, baby?"

Jamil chuckles softly, he sluggishly moves to lean closer to you, but his bound wrists stop him from going far. God, he really wants to touch you. "Really good, master…"

[tothemeadow]

Kinktober day 6 scenario for 6 eyed daddy Kokushibou? :) gender neutral or fem reader, your choice 💕

Day 6: angry/hate fucking / hair pulling / biting

warnings: NSFW, scratching, possessive/jealous behaviors, semi-public sex, creampie

words: 1,451

(a/n): art is not mine

Kokushibou’s always been the jealous type.

His icy, stoic expression usually says the opposite, and his mysterious personality often leads others to believe all the wrong things about him. Nothing can bother him. Nobody can affect him. He simply follows Muzan’s orders and acts as the perfect guard dog.

Oh, but how wrong they are.

He’s never liked the relationships you have with the other demons. Dare he say it, but it’s almost like you’ve made friends. In this world, being a demon and being friendly with others simply does not work out. If you’re friendly with others, you die. That’s just the way it works.

He’s never liked the way Douma practically hangs from you whenever you two are together, his arms around your waist and his face buried in the crook of your neck. You constantly roll your eyes, yes, but Kokushibou can tell that you’re secretly thriving at all the attention. Even Akaza has taken a liking towards you, and that in itself says a lot.

He knows he’s acting obsessive. Selfish. After all, the only thing he wants is to rip you away from the others and have you all to himself. He hasn’t felt this strongly for anyone in years. It’s a miracle he even knows what affectionate feelings are anymore. He guesses new tricks can be taught to old dogs after all. It’s only slightly ridiculous, falling for someone like you, but he doesn’t mind it as much as he should. You’re colleagues, nothing more. But he craves for something more.

The jealousy worsens whenever Muzan is around. Even his lord’s eyes linger on your form, a spark of interest glistening in his blood colored eyes. It makes Kokushibou sick to the stomach.

Maybe he should count his blessings. You talk to him, much like you talk to the others, but you’re typically a lot less hostile towards him. You catch his eyes across the room, offer him tiny smiles. If he didn’t know better, than he’d think you were still a lowly human. Gentle feelings and being carnivorous beasts do not mix well.

It’s a brightly lit night when his dreams come true.

He should consider himself a pervert with the way he stares at your exposed neck, the little stripe of leg showing through the seam of your yukata. It’s a rare occasion whenever he seeks out your manor, wishing to be in your company. Like Douma, mindless humans do everything at your beck and call. It must be nice to be a bloodthirsty siren, having attention on you always and delectable meals on hand.

“Kokushibou-dono,” you murmur into the night’s wind.

Turning to you, all six of his eyes narrow. Your skin looks absolutely delicious under the moon, the bluish hue doing wonders for the twinkle in your eyes. He’s aware of how tense he is. He doesn’t doubt for a second that you notice it as well.

He doesn’t know who’s the first to make a move. His mind reels to catch up with the fact that your lips are finally against his, your clawed fingers digging into his scalp and yanking at the strands of his hair. He moans throatily at your touch; he’s shameless as he touches your body, his hands slipping your yukata loose. Another moan goes swallowed by you as he realizes your body is completely bare underneath.

You claw at his neck and shoulders, restless in your movements as you practically tear his clothes into pieces. Heavy breaths echo into the night, but neither of you care. You can’t be bothered by the fact that anyone could step outside and see the two of you in such an intimate embrace on the engawa.

Tearing his hair loose from his ponytail, you straddle his lap. Your hands trail down his abdomen, tracing the divots of his abs and the sharp lines of his pectorals. You’re absolutely hot to the touch; Kokushibou’s mind swims, ragged moans leave his lips. He doesn’t remember being this vocal in his entire life. He doesn’t care, though, not when you’re grinding against him like that.

Soon enough, he has you on your back, your legs propped on his shoulders. Throwing your head back, you let out the most sinful moan that’s ever graced his ears. Kokushibou takes the chance to mouth at your neck, his lips and tongue running over your pounding vein. He can’t stop the thoughts from coming; has Douma seen you like this? Akaza? Muzan? He growls at the mere idea of others having you pinned beneath them, kissing your lips, and touching you in the most intimate parts.

His teeth sink into your skin without another thought. You cry out, your back arching into him. Kokushibou’s fingers grip onto your hair, yank your head back to show him more skin. He’s merciless with his markings, each puncture of the skin making blood spurt into his mouth.

His cock dips inside you, causing you to scream at the intrusion. Your velvety walls immediately clench onto him, making him grunt into your neck. You’re so tight. Moaning into your neck, he inches his cock inside you; your walls convulse around him, eagerly suck him in further. Was it the same for when the others fucked you? It had to be the only reason why they were so intrigued by you. Like Kokushibou, they had to be utterly obsessed with you.

A monstrous growl rips itself from his throat as he sets a harsh pace. You have no choice but to take it; you moan like a bitch in heat, the claws of your nails scratching his shoulder blades. Kokushibou fucks into you cruelly, the snap of his hipbones sharp against your thighs.

“Do the others get to see you like this?” Kokushibou snarls. “Do the others get to fuck you like this? Do you moan like a bitch for them, too?”

“It’s funny that you’re jealous,” you huff. You scratch even harder at his skin, drawing blood. “Fuck me like you mean it and maybe I’ll tell you.”

Kokushibou snaps his teeth at you. Redoubling his efforts, he thrusts into you faster, harder. You clench around him, buck your hips in an attempt to match his pace. His hold on you is an iron grip; he refuses to let you slide away from him, even if your back burns from the friction. You’re his for the taking and he’s not letting you get away.

“Fuck, Kokushibou-dono,” you groan. “Your cock – shit – it fucks me so good. More. Give me more.”

Kokushibou fucks into you like a rabid animal. “Scream my name,” he grits. “Let everyone know who you belong to.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes into the night. It’s obscenely loud; for a moment, Kokushibou wonders why nobody has ventured outside to see what all the commotion’s about, but he figures it has something to do with your blood art. You keen and cry out his name; in the moonlight, he can see tears running down your cheeks. Pride swells in his chest, licks at his heart with its flame. He’s the reason behind your blinding pleasure. Nobody else can make you feel this way.

“Kokushibou, Kokushibou,” you chant. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! There, there! Fuck, I’m so close-“

Once more, Kokushibou finds your mouth. The kiss is wild, full of raw passion. Your tongues slide messily against each other, teeth clinking, but you don’t care. It’s so fucking hot and messy and-

With a high-pitched cry, you’re cumming. Your walls squeeze even tighter around him and leave him as a panting mess. Kokushibou fucks you through your orgasm, his fingers violently rubbing your sex.

“Cum in me,” you tell him. “I swear to everything high and mighty, fucking do it.”

You’ve just granted his greatest wish with those words. After a couple of well-aimed thrusts, Kokushibou pushes himself over the edge, a ragged groan breaking from the depths of his chest. Hot fluids fill your insides as his cock twitches inside you. He continues his movements, filling you with his cum and pushing it further in you.

You’re shaking violently by the time he finally pulls out. Your puffy hole leaks with his cum, streams of white traveling down your asscheeks. Kokushibou’s eyes follow the trail and his tongue darts out, sweeping across his lips. Blood and bitemarks cover your neck, all beautifully red and beginning to swell. The both of you know you can seal the marks with ease, but the fact that you choose not to stirs something deep within Kokushibou’s chest.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “You got it? No fucking around with the others.”

You throw him a foxy smile. “Whatever you say, Kokushibou-dono.”

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

Agrotera

     Based off this post . I also started a companion piece to it about Apollo doing music therapy with the girls and his redemption arc for all his problematic rapey actions in the past, so I can post that too if you’re interested. 

     Artemis doesn’t quite remember when Apollo traded his golden bow for something smaller, sleeker, easier to conceal and faster to fire, but she’ll never get used to the gleam of the pistol at his hip, and she’ll never relinquish her prized silver bow. She worked too hard to perfect her skill with it over the long millenia, brought down too many enemies with it, and cried out in a hunter’s triumph when her arrows struck true. She still uses the hand-draw technique like the archers of old, eschews the use of a quiver because they’re clumsy and slow her down when she’s in pursuit. Easier to hold her arrows in the hand that holds the bowstring.

    Archery is an art that’s been lost over time to cheap trick-shots and Hollywood inaccuracies. But she’s a goddess and a huntress, and the tense snap of a bowstring sounds like poetry as she sends an arrow singing through the air. Maybe Apollo’s right and she has a dramatic flair, but she thinks that’s pretty rich coming from the guy who shot plague-arrows into half the Greek army during the final year of the Trojan War. If she ignores the fact that she once ripped a man to shreds with his own hounds, she can believe that Apollo is, in fact, the more dramatic twin.

    The drama queen in question leans against the wrought-iron rail of their third-story apartment’s balcony, pistol gleaming at his hip as he takes another drag from his cigarette. “You can’t save them all, Art,” he tells her on an exhale, and she wrinkles her nose and waves the smoke away. She isn’t worried about the health risks, sometimes even wishes she could die, but the smell is another matter entirely.

    “I could if you helped me,” she tells him, an edge of steel in her voice, and he sighs and rolls his jaw.

    “Fine. The next time you hunt.”

    She’s spent centuries with Apollo and knows when he’s only giving in because he’s tired of arguing, but she’ll take the win because she can’t stand to lose. “You have to take your bow.”

    Apollo looks at her with one perfect eyebrow raised. She nods. “I was going to take it anyway,” he snaps. She doesn’t bother to hide her grin. He stubs his cigarette out against the railing and shoves past her through the sliding glass door, muttering as he stalks down the hallway to his room. They have rooms more as a matter of principle, since neither of them need to sleep. Both of them choose to, sometimes. It breaks up some of the tedium of immortality.

    Artemis takes her twin’s spot at the railing, looks pensively at the sun rising above the city skyline. It seems distant today, the pinks and oranges less vibrant than normal. Apollo does this sometimes to show his annoyance, and still has the nerve to accuse her of being dramatic? He practically invented the concept.

…

    Artemis has always been most comfortable in the dark, but it’s been decades--or has it been centuries?--since the goddess of night skies and deep woods danced in moonlight filtering through leaves. City streets are her haunt now, hunting monsters of a different kind in the glow of street lamps and neon signs that dull the once-magnificent night sky into something mundane.

   She misses the time when mortals thought there was magic in the night and in the forest, when they used to pour unwatered wine and sing hymns to her, full of awe and fear. She was powerful once, adored. She isn’t either of those things anymore, but somehow she feels stronger than ever. More purposeful.

    She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, faintly gleaming silver bow and a pile of pale ash arrows resting on the floor at her feet. “Apollo,” she calls, half-annoyed. “We’re hunting for prey, not lovers.”

    “I can’t find my bow.” His voice carries, muffled, from inside the apartment.

    “It’s in the hall closet, hanging on the wall. Right next to the door.”

    “I’m looking in the hall closet!”

    “Apollo. Your bow is bright gold. It glows, for Christ’s sake,” Artemis mutters. She paces down the hall, about to show Apollo exactly where his bow is, when he emerges from the closet with a triumphant shout.

    “I’ll tell Zeus you said that. Hey, can I borrow some arrows?”

    “Oh my God,” Artemis groans, wondering if he just loves to torture her. “How are you even alive?”

    “Probably because I’m immortal. So, arrows?”

    “Fine. They’re more for show, anyway.” She stoops to scoop up her bow and a handful of arrows, leaving about half for Apollo.

    “For show?” He questions, letting his eyes rove over his twin. She’s dressed all in black: black skinny jeans that hug her athletic legs and a black tank top beneath an unzipped black leather jacket. Her revealed skin is pale and gleams faintly silver, thick black eyeliner ringing her eyes, her lips the color of fresh blood. She reminds him of a panther in the breathless moment before a pounce.

    “Also, you can’t wear that. All black everything.” Artemis glares scornfully at his yellow t-shirt.

    “I don’t own anything black,” Apollo tells her matter-of-factly, smiling at her shocked face. “I’m a sun god, Art, not some weird emo moon goddess.”

    “I wouldn’t say that around Selene.”

    “Selene loves me.”

    “Selene tolerates you,” Artemis informs him, ignoring the offended noise he makes. She decides to let Apollo’s questionable wardrobe choices slide this time. She supposes he looks intimidating enough to accompany her, with his artfully messy hair, bright blue eyes, and the faint golden glow of his skin. At the very least he looks not quite human, and that’s probably the best she’ll get from him. Maybe they can do a good cop, bad cop routine or something. They’ve been doing that for centuries anyway, they’ve pretty much perfected it. She whistles once, a short, sharp burst, and her black-and-tan hound rockets off the couch. She reaches an affectionate hand down to scratch his long velvet ears.

    “Do we have to take him? He’s not, you know, inconspicuous.”

    “Aristo has been with me on every hunt since Pan gave him to me!” Artemis scoffs, more offended than ever. The old satyr gave her six dogs and seven bitches back when the world was still new. She still has the entire pack, but Aristo is the only one who comes into the city with her.

    “Where are the rest?” Apollo asks absently as he locks the door behind him.

    “With Hecate.”

    The twin gods head out into the city, walking down the sidewalk like any ordinary mortals might, and turn toward the college campus. Frat houses are usually a good hunting spot. Artemis pauses to smile up at the moon. Selene has it shining its very brightest for her tonight, a hunter’s moon perfectly round and low in the sky. Aristo trots happily at her side, Apollo has been quiet for probably three whole minutes, and she dares to hope, briefly, that she won’t need to hunt tonight.

    Apollo grins as they turn down a street, following a stream of girls in tight dresses hobbling in too-tall heels, and Artemis smacks his arm hard enough to earn a disgruntled yelp. “You’re disgusting.”

    “I look at guys the same way,” he reminds her with a shrug.

    “That doesn’t make it better,” she snaps, beginning to regret bringing him along, but the thought is interrupted by Aristo whining low and urgent in his throat. He bays, giving voice to his full-throated hunting song, and she follows the hound as he tears across the frat house lawn, partygoers stumbling out of his way. Artemis runs after him like she’s just an ordinary girl chasing her escaped dog.

    Apollo curses behind her as he starts running. Aristo waits for them at the front door of the house, still singing, and his claws leave deep gouges in the dark wood as he paws insistently at the door. Artemis shoves it open and follows him immediately up the stairs. He reaches the landing and skids around a corner, baying as he stops in front of a closed door.

    It’s locked but Artemis kicks it open with a crack of hinges sudden as a lightning strike. What good is a door against a god? She sees the boy first, the harsh moonlight streaming through the open window turning his eyes to black pits and deepening the shadows under his cheekbones. He reminds her for an instant of the type of monster she hunted in days long gone. He’s frozen in place as the door bangs against the wall, so stunned he doesn’t even notice the seventy pound dog hurtling toward him until Aristo hits him like a howling torpedo. His arms windmill as he topples out of sight.

    Artemis walks around the bed, lazy and graceful, following the sound of yelling and growling, of sharp gnashing teeth waiting for her command to sink into frail mortal flesh. She finds Aristo pinning the thrashing boy to the carpeted floor with his front paws on his shoulders. “Call off your dog! Please! Get him off me!” The voice is high and hysterical with mortal fear, and Artemis smiles down at him indulgently.

    “I am Artemis Agrotera, and I will deal with you another time.” She calls Aristo off with a sharp whistle. The boy scrambles to his feet, crashing back to the floor as his shoulder collides with Apollo’s thighs. Apollo reaches down and draws him up by the arm, smiling with a menace that can’t quite match his twin’s.

    “We’ll be seeing you,” he promises silkily, gives the arm a gentle squeeze, and stands aside to let the trembling criminal pass. Artemis sinks down on the edge of the rumpled bed, wipes tears from the girl’s cheeks with her thumb, and drapes her black jacket over the bare, shaking shoulders. The girl sobs and pulls the jacket tighter. Artemis makes a shushing noise in her throat and stands, scooping her up bridal-style like she weighs nothing at all.

    The girl hides her face against the goddess’s chest as they leave the house. Fear and guilt war in her, eating her alive with teeth that slice like knives because she knows what will happen. The police will ask her how much she drank and what she was wearing and if she was flirting with him, if she’d given him any indication that maybe she wanted this. The thought turns her stomach, but they’re outside in the cool night air and the moon is so bright it seems to shine just for her.

    Artemis looks down at the girl in her arms, and her heart breaks into a thousand pieces for the first time that night. “I’m taking you to someone who can help.” The walk back to the apartment building is about ten minutes, but the silence and the shaking girl make it seem like eternities. When they arrive, Artemis fumbles her car keys from the pocket of her black skinny jeans and hits the unlock button. “Do you want to sit in the front with me, or in the back with the dog?”

    The girl’s wide brown eyes flit between Artemis’s perfect moon-pale face and Aristo’s floppy ears and kind brown eyes. “The dog, please.”

    “His name is Aristo.” Artemis says, setting the girl on her feet and opening the back door for her. Aristo leaps in, tail wagging, and the mortal girl slides into the seat beside him. “He loves hugs.”

    “Aristo,” the girl murmurs, burying her face in his neck with a shaky breath.  “My name is Laurel.” Artemis’s stomach clenches. Apollo looks like he might be ill as he climbs into the passenger seat. He knows where the first laurel tree still grows, nearly as old as the surrounding hills.

    Artemis starts the car and within minutes they’re speeding out of the city, turning off the highway onto winding back roads, and she rolls all the windows down to feel the wind in her hair and focuses on that to still the angry shaking of her hands. “Hey Art, does Hecate know we’re coming?” Apollo asks as they turn up the long dirt driveway, past a sign that says Crossroads Farm in fading purple paint.

    “She always knows.”

    Sure enough, the front porch light is on and lights are shining through the front windows. “We’re here,” Artemis announces for Laurel’s benefit as she parks.

    “Where are we?” Laurel’s voice fills with fear. Artemis’s heart shatters into a thousand pieces, for what must be the thousandth time tonight.

    “Crossroads Farm,” Artemis tells her, voice gentler than Apollo’s ever heard it. “You’ll be safe, I promise.”

    “Who are you?” Laurel looks at them with wide, suspicious eyes and hugs hard enough around Aristo’s neck that he whines.

    “Artemis, and this is my brother, Apollo.” Artemis waves her hand vaguely in the direction of her brother’s faintly shining face and ridiculous yellow t-shirt. They aren’t so ancient that their names are completely unfamiliar, because Artemis can see recognition stirring in Laurel’s fearful brown eyes.

    “Like the ancient Greeks?”

    Apollo nods. “Something like that. Come on, you’ll like Hecate.”

    Before Artemis can stop him, he reaches toward Laurel’s hand to guide her up the steps. The mortal recoils from him, and Apollo looks so heartbroken Artemis almost pities him. She reminds herself he doesn’t know any better yet--he’s never spent time with a girl like Laurel before. He doesn’t understand the panic in her veins, the constant nagging fear she’ll carry with her for the rest of her life. He’s never heard a girl wake screaming from a nightmare she can’t stop reliving every time she closes her eyes.

    “Shouldn’t we go to the police station?” Laurel asks, but she follows Artemis up the front porch steps anyway. Apollo walks a respectful distance behind her, half-dejected and half-protective, but completely silent. When Artemis opens the door, Hecate is already sitting at the scrubbed pine table with four steaming mugs of tea, the picture of serenity.

    Hecate was called Iphigenia once, and she was the first mortal Artemis rescued; led to a gleaming sacrificial knife by a man who was supposed to protect her. She understands, in a way Artemis will never be able to, the fear and the guilt and the panic that feels like it can stop your lungs from filling. “Hi,” Hecate says simply, gesturing at the mugs. Laurel takes the empty seat beside her, and Artemis pointedly sits in the chair beside Laurel. Apollo huffs as he takes the seat furthest from her. “It’s herbal tea,” Hecate says, answering the girl’s unspoken question. “It will help you sleep without dreams.”

    Laurel nods, wraps her hands around the warm ceramic mug and inhales deeply. “It smells good.” She hesitates, her eyes dancing over the three deities. “Are--are you really Greek gods?”

    Artemis is proud of Apollo, for once, for the way he doesn’t let his face fall. She knows there’s nothing like a tragedy to unravel a mortal’s world; she’s seen it more times than she cares to remember and yet she can’t forget any of them. If something like this can happen--stories that happen on the evening news, to other people--then stories older than street lamps and cars can happen, too.

    “Yes.” Artemis has found, through trial and error, through centuries, that simplicity works best.

    “Artemis is the protector of young girls,” Apollo says, like that explains everything. “She’s been doing this--geez, for how long, Art?” He’s trying too hard to act casual, but Artemis can see he’s shaken. It takes some getting used to; this is only his first time and she has literal millenia of practice. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself to be patient.

    “Since mortals stopped protecting their own daughters. When police began asking a girl what she was wearing, instead of asking a boy why he felt he had the right to take her sense of safety away.”

    “Right. That long.”

    “I was the first she saved,” Hecate volunteers conversationally. “Back when Troy still stood tall on its hill.”

    “That clears things up,” Apollo mutters, rolling his eyes conspiratorially at Laurel. She rewards him with a tiny smile, and Artemis is half-surprised he doesn’t jump up and dance. He only grins, and she knows he’ll take whatever victory he can get even if it doesn’t feel like enough. A smile from Laurel won’t erase his past mistakes.

    “It should clear things up, you were there,” Artemis reminds him. “You built the walls of Troy with your own hands.”

    “Yeah, look how well that worked out.” Apollo pouts into his tea, unable to let go of that centuries-old sting. “Fucking Eris and her fucking apple.”

    Artemis raises an eyebrow. “That was literally ages ago. We have other problems now.” Apollo follows her gaze as it rests on Laurel, sipping her tea and watching them with open fascination.

    “How is this even my life?” Laurel wonders aloud.

    Apollo shrugs, apparently having recovered from his earlier unease. “You’re just lucky, I guess.” The joke falls flat, he hisses in a breath and scrambles to fix his mistake. “Sorry, Jesus, I’m so sorry.” Tea sloshes over the side of his mug as he sets it down carelessly and reaches across the table for Laurel’s hand. She withdraws it and stares flatly into the contents of her mug.

    Apollo’s face is crestfallen as he looks to Artemis for guidance, and she’s amazed that a god can be so painfully dumb. “Smooth,” she barks, patience momentarily snapped. Aristo rests his head on Laurel’s lap, much more comforting than Apollo could ever be, and she strokes him silently.

    “Laurel,” Apollo begins, but she cuts him off with a shake of the head.

    “It’s fine. Can-can I stay here tonight?” Her eyes are wide and wary as she turns to Hecate.

    “Of course. I’ll show you to your room.” The gentle goddess stands, leading the exhausted mortal down the hallway to the left of the kitchen, through the living room, and toward the bedrooms in the back. They’ve done this too many times since Hecate bought this place a couple decades ago; there’s a dozen bedrooms here reserved for the girls Artemis brings. Sometimes they only stay for one night, sometimes for a week, sometimes they’ll leave and show up again unannounced months later, dark circles under their eyes and a constant tension in their shoulders.

    Hecate never turns them away, only cooks them meals with the vegetables from her garden and gives them tea to help them sleep. They spend their days outside, reading in the sunlight or roaming with Artemis and her dogs, wearing loose chitons and carrying bows. There’s two other girls here besides Laurel; Kate, the girl Artemis helped last night, and Andrea, who showed up here a week ago and cried in Hecate’s arms again.

    “Artemis,” Hecate calls down the hall, interrupting her thoughts, “can Aristo sleep with Laurel tonight?”

    Artemis hates to relinquish her hunting partner, but he looks up at her with soft eyes, and she knows he would rather spend the night cuddling with Laurel than chasing her attacker. “Make sure Pelea has the scent,” she tells the dog. He wags his tail once in agreement and pushes through the doggy door to find Pelea. “He’ll be there soon,” Artemis calls back.

    She and Apollo sit in silence, Apollo fidgeting with his empty mug as Artemis waits for her dogs. They’re only gone for a few minutes, Aristo trotting in with Pelea on his heels. He bumps his snout against his mistress’s hand as he trots by. Pelea rests her head on Artemis’s lap, tail wagging as Artemis scratches her ears.

    A few minutes later Hecate glides into the kitchen on silent feet and sighs as she sits at the head of the table. “She’s settled in with Aristo. When are you guys going?” Artemis ducks her head to look out the window, squints up at the huge, bright hunter’s moon, and looks over at her brother.

    “Ready for part two?”

    “What’s part two?” His voice is apprehensive, and Artemis thinks it’s hilarious. She likes that she can still surprise him even after millenia.

    She smiles wolfishly as she stands and stretches, slow and lazy. “The hunt.”

    “Oh. I was wondering why you went by Agrotera earlier.” It’s an epithet he hadn’t heard her use in at least a few centuries, but it was one of the earliest used to describe her. Artemis Agrotera. Artemis of the Hunt.

    She rolls her eyes so hard, she can practically see the back of her own skull. “Don’t tell me you still go by Phoebus.”

    He shakes his head, looking away. “I stopped using my epithets a long time ago.”

    Artemis steps forward and grips his chin, forcing him to face her. She hates the shame she sees there, but she knows it’s been a long time coming. “Apollo Akesios,” she says softly, firmly. “Averter of evil.” Sometimes even gods need to be reminded who they are.

    “I don’t deserve that one. Maybe I never did.” His voice is low and full of sadness, but Artemis isn’t about to let him get away with wallowing. Self-loathing isn’t becoming for the god of the sun.

    “Then earn it now. I don’t have time for your pity-party, Apollo, I have hunting to do. You can either hang out here and mope over Laurel--and we both know it isn’t really about her, anyway--or you can help me catch the asshole who did this.” She releases his chin; he rubs his jaw ruefully. Her grip had slowly tightened the more worked up she became.

    “Fine, Art, geez. But tomorrow I’m going to Greece.”

    “Tell Daphne if she ever wants to be human again, she has a place here,” Hecate interjects from the table. Apollo waves a hand in acknowledgement, trying to ignore the way his stomach drops at the name. He’s barely finished composing himself by the time Artemis is halfway out the door, and he starts after her with a muttered curse. They slide into her silver car, and he doesn’t have time to buckle his seatbelt before she’s peeling down the driveway.

    “You can help me with this anytime you want, you know,” Artemis tells him, voice raised to be heard over the wind roaring through the windows. She’s tired of seeing her brother so lost, so far removed from the god he once was. They all are, except maybe Hades, because there will always be death. But hunting like this, protecting young girls like she used to, it reminds Artemis of who she is. She wants this feeling for her brother, too, because she loves him dearer than all the world of mortals.

    “I’m not much of a hunter, Art.”

    “No, but you invented medicine. You’re a healer. These girls, they need someone. Hecate does what she can, but sometimes it isn’t enough. Sometimes it takes more than herbal tea and an essential oil diffuser. For some of them, positive energy and sunlight doesn’t cut it. Hecate’s a minor goddess, but you? God of the sun, remember? Inventor of medicine and music and poetry. And Selene, she makes the moon shine brighter for them so they’re never caught out in the dark, but you can teach them to carry sunlight in their hearts again. You don’t have to hunt with me, after tonight. But when you get back from Greece,” she shrugs, “there’s a purpose for you, if you want it.”

    Apollo doesn’t have to answer, because Pelea barks suddenly from the backseat. Artemis barely checks her blind spot as she pulls over, parking so quickly she scrapes her tire against the curb. She jumps out of the car and opens the back door for Pelea. Apollo unfolds himself from his seat and jogs alongside Artemis, following the hound.

    “When did you train your dogs to do this?” He wonders idly, not expecting an answer.

    “A couple hundred years ago, maybe? Around the time Ivar the Boneless invaded Ireland.”

    “That was over a thousand years ago, Art.” He looks at her, bemused, knowing she doesn’t care about the specifics. It’s important to him, though. They’ve never kept secrets from each other, and this stings more than he wants to admit. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

    “You and Hermes sort of disappeared for a century or so, I didn’t want to bother you.” Apollo tries to remember this specific disappearance, thinks maybe it was when he and Hermes hung out with Calypso on her island for a while. It’s nice to leave the world sometimes. Pelea trots easily in front of them, scenting the cool breeze, and the moon is huge and high in the sky. It’s barely past the middle of the night.

    “Where’s she taking us?” Apollo grumbles. Artemis, ever the patient hunter, smiles serenely at him and doesn’t grace him with an answer. Pelea’s tail wags in slow arcs. Artemis knows they’re getting closer but she enjoys the pursuit. She hopes the boy is laying in his bed, unable to sleep, feeling in his cowardly bones that vengeance is coming to him. She wants to hope he feels guilty but knows he probably doesn’t, so the most she ever hopes for is fear.

    Pelea bays, just once, the sound that used to be the death-song of so many stags, and Artemis hopes the boy shivers at the sound. She sees him in the distance, a shadow against the horizon, a dark shape moving between houses. Pelea takes off after him eagerly, Artemis and Apollo hot on her heels. Pelea veers around to cut off his escape as the twins reach him.

    Artemis reaches out, a pale arrow clasped in her hand, and rubs the shining silver point down the length of his spine. “I told you I would find you,” she croons, sing-song as a baying hound.

    He stops dead in his tracks so suddenly that Apollo nearly crashes into him. Artemis strokes the arrow down the boy’s back again. She rubs her hand almost seductively along the back of his neck, leans closer, and whispers in his ear, “Turn around and face me.” She releases her hold, lets the arrowhead drag along his shoulder and chest as he obeys her. She tickles him lightly with the tip, just above the place where his heart beats so hard she can see the pulse throbbing in his neck. “Do you remember my name?”

    He nods frantically, too terrified to speak. A sharp smell reaches her nose, she glances down to the spreading stain on the front of his jeans and clucks disapprovingly. “What was my name, again?” She drags the arrow up to the wildly thudding pulse at the juncture of his chin and neck.

    “Art--Artemis A--Agro….” he trails off, she increases the pressure until he starts bawling. “Agrotera,” he chokes. She nods, pleased, and eases back just a bit.

    “I’m not going to kill you,” she purrs, arrow still pressed against his throat. “This time. A quick death is too merciful for men like you.” She sighs, as if she regrets that. “In Sparta, where they worshipped me centuries ago, they gave all their women small knives. That way, if a man ever tried to force himself upon her, she could slash him across the face and the entire world would know what he did. That was a good time for women, when they didn’t need me to protect them.” She stares him down with eerie, unblinking silver eyes. “Do you know her name? The girl you attacked?”

    He shakes his head, and Artemis gently traces the tip of the arrowhead along his jawline. “Her name is Laurel. She’s twenty years old and has a little brother, and she’s studying biology in college. She wants to be a cancer researcher, and travel the world, and she always loved the night until you made her afraid of it.” Artemis pauses, gives him a soft smile. “So now I want you to be afraid of it, too. I think they had it right in Sparta, all that time ago.”

    Quick as thought, she darts the arrow up and slices along his cheekbone. The slash is clean, surgically precise, and will heal in a narrow, smooth pink scar. It’s high enough up that a beard will never hide it. “That custom is long dead, more’s the pity.” She shrugs, twirls the arrow so that it flashes in the moonlight, and tastes the dark blood on the silver arrowhead with the tip of her tongue. “Coward’s blood, I knew it. No descendent of Sparta.” She brings the arrow up again and runs it down the slope of his nose. “No one will know why there’s a slash on your face except you. Every time you look in the mirror, you’ll remember what you did. That is my first gift to you.”

    She smiles, as if he’s just won the grand prize on a game show. There’s something feral in her eyes, a wildness mortals thought dead long ago. The boy is shaking uncontrollably. A first gift implies a second, and he doesn’t want anything except for this to be a dream. “So my first gift was knowledge, and my second is a promise.” She looks at him like she’s waiting for him to thank her.

    When he’s silent, she shrugs and continues. She inspects the arrow as she speaks, not looking at him. He doesn’t deserve the attention of her gaze. “I promise that I will be watching you until the day you die. I promise that if you ever do this again, if you ever raise your hand to a woman, I will be the last thing you see.”

    She reaches down, scratches Pelea’s ears affectionately. “This is Pelea. The dog I had with me earlier was Aristo. They’ve been alive longer than this country.” She gestures vaguely with the arrow; he instinctively raises his arms to protect his face. Artemis tries to hide the savage pleasure this brings her, but can’t quite keep the triumph from her ice-cold eyes. “They were given to me by Pan, the god of shepherds and wild places. Did you know he invented panic?” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “I perfected it, though.” The moonlight gleams off her perfect white teeth as she smiles.

    “Once they have your scent, they can find you anywhere in the world. There is nowhere you can hide, nowhere my hounds cannot find you.” Her voice is mild, almost pleasant, and it makes the boy sob with a terror that’s older than instinct. Centuries ago, humans feared the gods; that fear is buried just beneath the surface of their conscious minds. It’s nearly effortless for Artemis to awaken it. “Do you understand me, mortal?”      

    He nods rapidly.

    Artemis smiles and steps back. “Good. You may go now.”

    She turns on her heel, crisp as a soldier on parade, and walks gracefully toward the car with Pelea roaming ahead to sniff a tree trunk. Apollo glances at the boy, takes in the abject terror and awe on his face as he watches Artemis walk away, and gives the boy a smile that could be mistaken for friendly before he follows his sister. The walk is quiet, with only the swishing of their feet through dew-damp grass and Pelea’s deep whuffs as she scents the air. Artemis opens the back door and the hound leaps in happily.

    The twins climb into their seats and buckle their seatbelts, and Artemis drives them out of the city back toward Hecate’s farm. “Can’t you take me back to the apartment?” Apollo whines, not sure if he can face those girls when he can still remember Daphne morphing into a laurel tree to escape his touch.

    “I like to be there when they wake up. Someday, you will, too.”

    “After Greece, maybe.”

    “You’ve waited too long to apologize.”

    “I waited too long to learn my mistakes,” Apollo corrects.

    She smiles over at him, full of pride. “I knew you would, though. I hoped it would be centuries ago, but better late than never.” She shrugs, like a few centuries isn’t a big deal when you can never die. “If I’d known hunting was what would make you realize, I would have taken you with me a long time ago.”

    “Art, that was…. He looked at you like they all used to look at us. You were terrifying. I haven’t seen you like that in thousands of years. Agrotera, indeed.”

    She smiles, pleased. “Mortals haven’t changed much, really.” She turns up the long dirt driveway of Crossroads Farm. Hecate left the porch light on for them, but the windows are dark this time. Artemis puts the car in park and kills the engine before she turns in her seat and fixes her bright silver eyes on him. “So will you be here in the morning?”

    She’s really asking if he wants to see Laurel again, and Apollo knows it. And he does want to, but he can’t. Not yet. First he needs to see a different laurel, a tree nearly as old as the hills and twice as wise.

    He shakes his head. “I’ll be in Greece at first light. Tell Laurel,” he blows out a breath between pursed lips. “Tell her I’ll be back by dinner.”

    “I’ll tell her, if she asks,” Artemis promises, knowing she probably won’t. She hopes Apollo doesn’t pick up on that, but his face falls before he can stop it. She’s spent millenia reading his emotions, and her heart breaks into a thousand pieces for what must be the millionth time that night. She draws her twin into a hug. “Good luck, Apollo Akesios.”

    He wraps his arms around her. “I promise I won’t disappear for a century this time. This is my place now, just like yours.” He ends the hug and straightens, brows pinched together in the middle. “Should we end the lease on the apartment?”

    “No. That’s my base of operations in the city. I just let you crash there because you were a broke street musician.”

    Apollo huffs, offended. “Not anymore, though. I’ll see you tomorrow, Art.” He sighs and rolls his jaw. Artemis nods and opens the car door. When she reaches the porch and turns back to the car, the passenger seat is empty. She opens the door and steps into the kitchen. She hangs her gleaming silver bow on the hook by front door and tiptoes down the hallway.

    She peeks into three bedrooms, at the girls finally able to sleep peacefully, snoring hounds curled up at their feet. It’s not adoration like she once had, but it’s still a home, and these healing girls are just as much a family as her band of huntresses ever were. For what must be the first time that night, she thinks her heart might be whole.

[cinebration]

Choose Where (Victor Zsasz x Reader) [Part 3]

Another one! Ahhh! I worry the more I write, the less in character Zsasz is, but…*shrugs*

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11

Tagged: @im-just-one-of-the-avengers, @geeksandfreaks6713, @vaaalexandra​

Warnings: None 

Gif Source: rafikecoyote

Zsasz strode into the office and threw himself into a chair, sighing heavily. You glanced at him without moving your head. Having him in the room made you self-conscious as you worked. You found you couldn’t decipher the numbers as easily as usual.

He sighed again, louder.

“Why aren’t you with Sionis?” you asked.

He rolled his head against the back of the chair to look at you. “He’s with Dinah,” he groused.

“What for?”

“Going over the songs he wants her to sing.”

“And you’re here because…?”

“He sent me away.”

You shook your head. “You’re jealous.”

Zsasz huffed. “I don’t trust her.”

“Neither of you trust any woman,” you muttered.

“I trust you.”

“Only because I’m not a threat to your god.” You kicked yourself inwardly. You really needed to work on your filter. “I doubt Sionis is going to abandon you for Dinah,” you covered.

“That’s not…” He huffed again. “She’s resentful. She doesn’t like working here. That’s a problem.”

“I don’t like working here either.”

Silence.

You dared to look at him. He stared at you with that unwavering gaze of his, his bored agitation replaced with scrutiny. “You hate it here?”

“I enjoy the work,” you answered carefully. “But I don’t like here.”

“What’s wrong with here?”

You glanced around the office, though the gesture was futile. What you hated was Roman stalking the halls, everything his way or death. His taste in art was disturbing. Worst of all, you couldn’t escape it. Any of it.

“I just don’t,” you muttered, turning your attention back to the Excel spreadsheet. “The previous accountant was garbage.”

Zsasz pushed himself out of his chair, slunk over to the desk. You watched him from the corner of your eye. Standing over your shoulder, he leaned forward until his head was level with yours, his eyes on the screen. You could almost feel his stubble tickling your cheek.

“Looks boring,” he said.

“To the untrained eye.”

“My job is more fun.”

“Being a pet sure has its perks, I suppose,” you quipped, unable to stop the words from spilling over your lips.

He laughed. “You’re jealous.”

“Oh sure. I’ve wanted to be a dog my entire life.” You rolled your eyes.

“Most people like dogs,” he argued. The defensive note in his tone amused you.

“Liking dogs and wanting to be one are two different things.”

“All I’m hearing is you don’t like them.”

You leaned back so you could look at him directly. He was close, like an unnecessarily extreme close-up in a movie. The scars on his face revealed their imperfect edges at that proximity, everything HD. One day you would ask about the uniformity of the cuts.

But not today.

“I like a trained, well-behaved dog,” you replied. “Otherwise, I prefer cats.”

His thick black eyebrows arched. “Cats?”

“They’re cleaner. Independent. Low maintenance. And when you earn their love,” you explained, your tone pointed, “they are truly loyal and affectionate. Unlike dogs, who give it away for free to anyone, even people who are bad for them.”

“You’ve got a cat at home, then?”

You shook your head. Of course that’s what he’d take away from your response. “No. I haven’t had one in a long time.”

He shifted then, sitting on the corner of the desk—directly atop the file and papers you had set aside earlier. With a grimace, you yanked them out from under his ass. He grinned, mischief dancing in his eyes. Suppressing a curse, you turned back to the screen.

You read the same number over and over again, hyper aware of Zsasz’s every movement.

“How’s the cut healing?”

“Fine.”

His fingers were at the collar of your shirt before you could stop him. You flinched at the sudden contact, an old reflex. “What’re you doing?”

“Looking.” He frowned. “I won’t bite.” His lips peeled back from his teeth. “Not today, anyway.”

“Will you let me work if I show you?”

“Maybe.”

It was the closest you’d get from him, what with the amusement in his face. Sighing, you tugged down the collar of your shirt.

Zsasz leaned forward, eyeing the wound. His hand reached out again, fingertips brushing your skin. You remained as still as possible. You felt like shivering, though you couldn’t place whether it was a bad or good feeling. Or whether the air conditioner had kicked on and was chilling you again.

“It’ll scar good,” he said, looking up at you with a proud grin.

You let go of the shirt, the fabric slapping Zsasz’s fingers aside. “I’m glad you think so. Now, you said you’d leave.”

He was still leaning forward, crowding your space. An intimidation tactic, you were sure. You met his gaze levelly as it searched your face, lingering a moment on the scar across your temple. His mask of good humor slipped.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever cut that’s still alive,” he murmured.

A chill slithered down your spine. You couldn’t tell if the words were a threat or merely an admission.

The statement hung suspended between the two of you. You tried to find words to break the thick silence, failed to dredge up anything. All you could do was stare into his dark eyes, unwilling to break contact and show weakness.

“Zsasz!”

Zsasz immediately pulled away, on his feet and headed toward the door. The weight on your chest loosened, freeing you to breathe as he answered his master’s summons. He didn’t glance back at you.

Sagging in your chair, you tried to suppress the tremors rolling through you. You couldn’t shake them, not with Zsasz’s statement still repeating in your mind, the tone of his voice.

You’re living on borrowed time, you thought.

Somehow, the thought didn’t strike you as genuine.

[bubmyg]

(mostly) for him - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: lawyer!au, established relationship, fluff, humor, ft independent art contractor taehyung and yeontan (the most important feature)

word count: 2,735

summary: yoongi doesn’t know the first thing about taking care of a dog or taehyung asks you to dog sit yeontan for the weekend.

a/n: this takes place before “for us” (linked on my masterlist) and can be read as a prequel of sorts. “for us” does not need to be read to understand this but it’s nice in context :-)

The extra curt tone of Yoongi’s voice clipped on the end as his headache throbbed just underneath where he rubbed long fingers into the pain and the sound colliding plastic made when he misjudged hanging up the phone elicited another pointed throb to the surface. His second hand joined the first on his neck, threading together as his forehead hit his desk and if he weren’t hyper aware of any and all noises, he would have mistaken the tentative knock on his door for the sound of his skull dully thumping through the desk calendar.

“Uh...hey Mr. Min?”

He couldn’t even muster enough energy for formality, groaning to the dangle of the pink tie you’d secured around his neck that morning, “Yeah, Jeongguk?”

Four days into his internship meant the young intern still had flushed cheeks and magnified doe eyes when he popped into the office and Yoongi theorized they’d never go away, especially not when they only worsened, softening on some sort of edge of concern as he barely cracked the door to his boss slumped over. 

“Uh…” Yoongi threaded his fingers underneath his chin, propping himself up to squint at Jeongguk, the only way to suppress his headache enough to hear whatever he needed, “...there’s a man in the lobby for you and...he has a dog? Is that okay?”

“Did he give you a name?”

Jeongguk’s features squinted, “Uh, T-Taehyung I believe. I tried to tell him to leave the dog but—”

Even his headache wanted to flee at that name and it gave Yoongi the momentary ability to lift his head without wincing. He sighed instead, “He’s an old friend. Send him in. The dog too.”

If an incompetant investigation team paired with a tentative intern Yoongi incorrectly assumed could deal with them couldn’t make him want to rip each of his hairs out by the individual follicles, Kim Taehyung definitely could. 

Specifically when he waltzed through the closed office door without knocking with a frazzled Jeongguk on his heels, only to shut the door in the face of Jeongguk’s apologetic Hey! You were supposed to follow me!, and plop the equivalent to a living pom pom onto his desk. 

The dog seemed to study Yoongi, mirroring the inquisitive squint of the man before he let out a low growl, baring his teeth just long enough to let out the least intimidating yap! Yoongi had ever witnessed. 

Taehyung panicked nonetheless, swiping an arm underneath the dogs middle to drag him against his side like Yoongi had seen him haul blank canvas’ multiple times before. Yoongi passed his analyzing glare from the still vibrating dog to his owner, forcing his eyebrows not to lift into his hairline as he took in the state of his friend. 

Heavy brown jacket draped over his shoulders with his arms not pressed into the sleeves, baggy pants swishing around sandals strapped to his ankles, a white button down half secured across his broad chest, messy brown hair smeared into his eyelashes, and the geometric smile painted to his gums a sharp contrast to the uttered scolds he periodically mouthed in between the dog’s pulsing vibrations. 

A streak of red acrylic paint bubbled on the side of his neck and Yoongi unintentionally zeroed in on it, eyebrows crinkling at that instead of the rest. 

“New project?” Yoongi motioned to the red glob, “I’m still pretty rusty on copyright law so—”

“What?” Taehyung’s smile erased for comical confusion, almost like a cartoon character as he dragged the dog aside carelessly to press the sanction of his index and middle finger into the glob. He inspected it with an almost giddy realization, shaking his head as the smile returned and he wiped the glob across the front buttons of his shirt, “Oh, no. I’m not sure where that’s from.”

How do you not know? “Right…” Yoongi leaned back in his chair, elbow on the arm of the chair to press his cheek into his palm, “Take a seat—” When Taehyung flopped with dog balanced carefully across his thighs, he continued, “—what brings you here?”

“What? I can’t just come to visit an old friend?”

Yoongi shook his head, rutting his chin further into his palm, “No, you’re always welcome here or in my home. I just figured—”

“But I do need something,” Taehyung was still grinning, unapologetic and charming, “...I have an unexpected trip this weekend. I have to go quote some work for a new aviation museum a couple towns over. Will probably take the whole weekend.”

“Need me to get your mail?” Yoongi thought to Taehyung’s mailbox, an oddly charming spiral that curled upward out of the soil like a screw with a tiny, birdhouse like structure balanced on top. 

“Nah, if someone wants to steal and pay my bills for me, they can. The hotel I’m at doesn’t allow dogs, so—” The younger man again hooked an arm underneath the dog, plopping him down on top of the desk. It bared its teeth but didn’t bark and Yoongi held up a silent hand in surrender, “—I need you to watch him for me.”

Yoongi was suddenly pulled from studying the seeming eyebrows embedded into the dog’s fur, ones that were silently judging the gape that suddenly overtook his lips. “You...I...you want me to what?” 

“Dog sit. Come on, it won’t be that bad. Tannie is extremely well behaved.”

On cue, the dog yapped. Louder than before. Twice.

“A-actually,” Yoongi sat a bit straighter in his chair to bullshit properly, “My intern, the one who brought you in. I hear he loves dogs. He lives alone on his campus so like, maybe ask him?—”

Taehyung laughed, “Why would I want a stranger to take care of him? No, it has to be you.”

Yoongi felt his resolve fading the higher Taehyung’s smile dimpled into his cheeks, gaze falling away from his friend to pat affectionately down the dog’s spine. His fluffy tail wagged once then twice, spinning a delighted circle a top the desk to stretch his tongue for Taehyung’s willing hand. 

“You...can’t find anyone else? You’re sure?”

“Nope!”

“I probably need to call—”

“Oh your lovely wife? Tell her hi for me, by the way,” Taehyung seemed to muse mostly to himself as he shifted in his chair, “She’ll love him. I know it. And it’s only for a few days—”

“Only for the weekend?”

“Only for the weekend. Not even forty-eight hours. I’ll be back Sunday before noon.”

“...if you say so—”

Taehyung barely waited another syllable, shooting up from the chair to reach the door in one long stride. “Great! I had your intern go to get something from my car for me so—”

Yoongi started to defend Jeongguk, that he only answered to him and Taehyung didn’t have that kind of authority, when the gangly college student waddled around the corner with a giant blue tub clutched in white knuckles. 

“Is this that tub you wanted, Mr. Kim?”

“Yes, perfect!”

“You can just call him Taehyung, Jeongguk, that’s—”

Jeongguk plopped the plastic to the ground below his feet, long ways across the hall and huffed, dabbing at some of the sweat in his neatly parted fringe while Taehyung beamed. “It should all be in here. Food, some toys, his bed—”

Yoongi eyed the industrial sized bag of food Taehyung dragged out from underneath a labrador sized bed and a squeaky toy shaped like a horse, then eyed the dog on his desk, his long muzzle poked into Yoongi’s pen jar. 

“...you said he’s...a Pomeranian? Right?”

Translation: He won’t sprout into a puffy Great Dane like one of those spongy toy dinosaurs you put into glasses of water overnight, will he?

Yoongi slumped into the seat when the garage door rumbled to a stop, closed and fully enveloping the garage in the eerie light provided by the illuminated timer hanging above the mechanics that opened and closed the technology. His head lulled, eyeing Yeontan where he sat gracefully in the passenger seat, head tilted at a neon orange ladder hanging from a hook on the front wall of the garage. 

He pocketed his keys, fumbling his phone into his pocket as well before dragging the dog underneath his arm like he’d seen Taehyung do without much struggle. 

“This is your first test,” Yoongi told the dog at a grumble as he swung cracking joints out of his SUV, “Actually, our first test. Hope you like Lexus SUV seat reclining, we may be sleeping out here—”

Yoongi tried to twist the door shut without alerting you of his presence but your sweet voice rang down the staircase, “Hi, bub!” and he was already entirely done for seventeen different reasons. 

He adjusted the dog in his grip, peeled his shoes off by the ankle because he figured you scolding him for some buffable scuffs was the least of his worries, and then he called back, an octave lower than normal and unintentionally trembling on the end, “Hey!”

He watched you take the stairs two at a time, concern written all over your features and your fingers struggling at your necklace clasp (He’d have to help you, anyway. He always did) but you paused halfway through your descent and your sentence, changing your inquiry, “Hey, are you okay—wait is that a dog?”

Yoongi presented Yeontan like Simba in the Circle of Life sequence. “Taehyung’s dog,” He corrected, assured more than anything. 

You took the rest of the stairs at a normal speed and then did Yoongi register you only had one half soled sock on too. Cute. “Let me guess,” You were ranting, “He showed up at the office because he panicked about some last minute contracting appointment he had somewhere out of town and needed a sitter and you and your way too big heart was the first person he thought of.”

Yoongi blinked at you as you materialized in front of him, fingers reaching out to scratch at the dog’s ears. “Yes. Actually, that’s exactly what happened.”

“That’s Taehyung for you,” Yoongi read the smile on your features as genuine but he still swayed, uneasy with your lips on his chin, “What’s his name?”

“Yeontan,” Yoongi blinked into the kiss you pressed to his lips and he steadied mostly himself with a hand on your hip, “You’re not mad?”

“No?” You pulled the dog into your arms, letting him lick a stripe to your nose that you giggled into and Yoongi melted even if he’d witnessed the dog take a shit on the newly planted daffodils outside the office without so much as blinking, “I know how Tae is.”

“He’s a good friend he’s just…”

“Taehyung,” You finished for Yoongi, cradling the dog against your chest like a baby, “He’s just Taehyung.”

“Right.”

You considered the dog for another few passing moments, rocking him between the sway on your feet and then you panicked, “Do we need to get him food? I’ll run to the store—”

“No, actually Taehyung brought food with him...like enough for seven of a dog his size. You don’t think he’s punking us and is gonna swap this little guy out for a horse in the middle of the night, do you?...”

“Maybe not a horse—” You said ten hours later at three in the morning with two torn couch cushions and a stained rug and patio, “—but maybe a demon.”

Yoongi was afraid to shift higher on the bed to wrap an arm around your shoulders even if his legs were bare from the covers and he was freezing in fear that he’d wake said demon from his slumber at the foot of the bed. His hair stuck out on one side over his ears, mud crusted underneath his fingernails where he’d tripped in pursuit of the escaped creature down their cul de sac, and nail rips in his favorite university basketball t-shirt. 

“Satan reincarnate,” Yoongi breathed with finality as it raised it’s tiny head and whined. 

“No,” You moved, catching the dog in gentle fingers when he tried to skitter out the cracked door of the bedroom. Your bottom lip pouted, stroking a gentle finger behind the dog’s ear, “He misses Tae…”

Yoongi’s features scrunched, “Who would miss him?”

You settled back into his embrace that he stretched for you, still cradling the dog’s head to your chest, “Shush. Remember that one day conference I attended for work and you called me crying—”

“I wasn’t crying—”

“It’s like that,” You kissed the top of the dog’s trembling head instead of the cheek Yoongi presented for you. “He’s just sad and needs some love, that’s all.”

Yoongi held his neck in an awkward position until you awarded him with a peck on the cheek. “What about me?”

You rolled your eyes, jostling the slumbering creature in your arm to fit your fingers into the soft hairs at Yoongi’s scalp and cooed just to hear him whine, “Oh, come here—”

The dog incident rate skyrocketed at night and then dipped drastically low during the day, a gradual decrease until it met and rested at zero, and Yoongi virtually forgot about Yeontan’s presence for various durations throughout the day. It was his emergence from a shower well into the Saturday evening hours that made it worth it, his heart melting into the stumble of his feet halfway down the staircase when he caught sight of you curled up on the corner of the couch. 

He knew you were awake only by your phone resting in your hand, your other fingers preoccupied with scrunching through Yeontan’s fur, lips puckering to place periodic pecks to the space between his flicking ears. 

Yoongi dropped a knee into the couch, the first step in wrapping his stature around you, arms threading around your tummy to thread at your navel and squeeze, chin dropping to your shoulder. He wasn’t intrigued by the contents on your phone but instead the tiny, slumbering creature with his nose buried between your thighs. He eyed the flex of your fingers, in, out, scratching like you would in his scalp and an endearing sigh relaxed his further into the crook of your neck, lips turning to mouth at the sensitive skin there. 

“Maybe we should get a pet of our own…”

You were careful not to wake the dog as you tossed your phone aside, turning your head to allow him better access to your throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. A dog, specifically.”

“I’d like that.”

“You would?” Yoongi nuzzled the spot underneath your ear, “I haven’t had a dog since I was younger…”

Silently, you shifted, gently placing Yeontan into Yoongi’s lap and he subconsciously picked up where you left off in mindless petting. “Oh yeah?” You curled into his side, tucked into his chest. 

“Yeah. His name was Tubby,” His cheeks heated a bit even without a reaction from you, “You know. Like from the Teletubbies…”

You nudged gentle fingers up underneath Yeontan and the hem of Yoongi’s crewneck, applying gentle, sweeping rubs to his tummy. “That’s cute, Yoons.”

Yoongi grunted in embarrassment, “We could name our dog something different. More refined.” 

“Oh yeah?” You repeated the rhetorical inquiry in the same, hopelessly endeared tone, “Our dog?” 

He hummed a mindless tune for a few moments before the gradual shake of his head grew in volume, “No, nevermind. We couldn’t have a dog, not right now. We’re both too busy. It’s not plausible…”

“I think we could do it.”

“Maybe…” You startled when Yoongi stood, dog in tow as his face scrunched while his spine stretched, “I don’t know. It’d be nice but...yeah. I don’t know.”

You watched Yoongi’s slow waddle away from you, again hopelessly enamored by the dip of his head as he clearly tried to converse with the half asleep puppy until you thought to call, “Hey, where are you going?”

“He needs to go outside one more time before bed!”

You pretended not to hear the high pitched shriek followed by low grumbles and the spray of the hose on the kitchen sink. He returned without the dog, shoulders slumped and a ranting pout screwed to his lips as he muttered something you couldn’t hear. 

“...alright?”

“If we do get a dog, can we train it not to shit right outside the door—”

[honestsycrets]

Irreplaceable PIX: Spoken Words

See my masterlist for the rest of the series.

A/N: When your wives are acting crazy. XD Gif belongs to kimskew. This is the last thing I’m posting tonight, I’m sorry for all the tags. It was requested early.

For all of Ivar worried that you may have injured your womb, the rest of your pregnancy progressed as easily as your first. Perhaps in a way, he was more aggressive about your care after this scare. You expected him to be. But if he was aggressive… it also meant that Kitta was more aggressive as well. Especially when the Queen was rejected from helping you through your labour.

“You don’t want Kitta here?” Ivar’s hand is at your back, rubbing you through another set of contractions. The pain that sears your legs apart was nothing like the anger that built up in your heart over the last few months sharing your life with Kitta. First, she humiliated you. Second, she spilled the secret of your first love. Now you were not even sure if Ivar knew who it was.

“Why would I want her here? She has made a fool of me!” You push down on a contraction.

“She was here last time.” Ivar says. Your heart is closed, knowing Kitta is with Uxi while Ragnhild stays with you. In a way, perhaps you were punishing her. She must have known so as well. That was why she insisted that Ivar could not let you do this. Sorrily for her, he was too weak to do anything with the wrath of Frigg threatening to overcome him.

“The gods know and see how she has changed.” You hiss, back curling upwards. The contractions came closer and closer-- and you knew this is the stage of true labour in which there are no true breaks. All you want is to be able to labour in peace on all fours without Ivar insisting on Kitta being there in the room. Ragnhild is between your legs with an older thrall, learning the fine art of being a midwife. Dropping the issue, Ivar grimaces and sits helpless to change anything. It was better to stay quiet than incite your rage when you were in labour. Any man knew that.

At the end of it all, you gave birth to his second son, a healthy baby boy. He was a hungry thing, bonding to your breast quicker than Uxi had. By no time at all, you were in bed with your husband. Two years was a long time to be without a baby in the home. Or so Ivar thinks when he finally has his son on his tattooed chest, tiny hands on his body. He's never felt broader. The Great Hall is quiet again and with it, the peace of the moment. He looks over to you, clean from your warm bath that scrubbed away the pain of labour.

"He does not look deformed." He lets his hand come to his son's back. By the gods-- the little boy looks like Uxi had during birth. "He's healthy."

"Maybe I am descended from the bride of the Vanir." You snuggle your way closer to him, taking the one hand that is not on your shared child. Ivar affectionately runs his fingers over your knuckles like he so enjoys to do with Kitta.

"Maybe." He agrees.

Little Veifnr is a slight and handsome boy. By now Ivar had learned to shift days, giving you four while Kitta had only three with her husband. Though if you didn’t sleep because of Veifnr, he quickly went back on his word to her to bond with her son. Kitta didn’t understand. Wasn’t that Ragnhild’s use?

Of course things couldn’t stay so perfect for you. From the steps of the throne you watch the Yule log crinkle and pop while Uxi jumps beside it like an eager dog, listening to the oaths of men. Veifnr long since fell fast asleep in a bassinet beside you as you enjoyed the vigil to your ancestral goddess on Mothernight.

“You’re enjoying yourself, my wife?” You glance over to your husband as he leans over his armchair towards you. It has been bizarrely quiet. Kitta, who does not sit in her throne, almost a pleasure that night. You sit on furs slung across the steps by his chair, drinking of the horn he hands to you when you hair his following request.

“Good. Then as the gods have given us another son, I want to take Kitta to see the lights of colours that I’ve heard such things about.” Ivar proposes.

Of course you know what he means. He means the sky that lit up in brilliant greens, heavenly blues and nearly fragrant purples, painting the sky like wisps of the gods chariots. It was rumoured, or so you thought, that Freyja would ride her kittens in the lush green stripes. That was the streak your father always told you about and the one that you eagerly you wanted to see. To see if your mother Freyja really did ride the heavens. But it is Kitta’s moment to be spoiled.

“Ah… then you would like me to care for things?” You suggest.

Ivar brings his horn back from your fingers and presses it up to his cracked lips. “Yes, Princess. I’m sure you’ve done it for Faksi.”

“Of course.” You nod— of course you had. You had done it more than once as he raided frequently. The public of Kattegat seemed to enjoy you enough with the births of Ivar’s sons. It would be fine. You would just be at home like you always were.

“Hvitserk will stay behind to care for a portion of the army.” Ivar leans down, taking your chin in his palm. “So I better not hear that you’ve betrayed me when I come back.” He gives you a clear warning, but to you, it is a message. Ivar doesn’t trust you.

You pull your head free from his palm. “I’m not a loose whore to be sleeping with your brother.”

Kitta comes from the crowd, pushing past the clusters of drab woolen clothes until she finds you both speaking. Ivar drops the conversation quickly-- seeing his jewel coming forward. He reaches for the hand she extends for a kiss, falling into Ivar’s flirtatious tug closer. She drops into her chair almost as if she’s cocky of what she is doing. Your eyes fall away to Veifnr’s bassinet, acting as if you are rocking it.

“Are we going?” She’s almost gleaming in excitement-- and in response, Ivar seems to glow. His skin, cleansed before dinner, brightens.

“I told you I would take you.” For his efforts she gives him a kiss, sliding onto his lap with her slender toes in black laced flats nudging you just slightly to move a step or two lower. You slide closer to Veifnr instead; nudging his little cheeks with your fingers. He’s fast asleep.

“Thank you, (Y/N)!” She says. “I haven’t had him alone in years. It will be perfect for so many years!”

Maybe her words are genuine— but as a woman that never had her husband to herself, you snort. Your teeth knit into their grooves, disrupting an otherwise peaceful moment when you swipe back at Kitta.

”I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a man to myself.” You say.

Kitta’s joyful moment is cut short with her hand in his hair and lips against his. Her momentary smile against his lips quickly turns dark. She pulls away long enough to stare at you– because you’ve just disrupted something beautiful.

But you don’t honestly give a fuck. They would go and have fun, bathe naked together in the rumoured hot springs or lay under the glittering stars at night while you stay nothing more than a mother with Ragnhild. Ivar turns his gaze to you slowly, fiddling with the strings of Kitta’s dress. Here it went again.

“What, are you jealous that you can’t whine your way out of this one?” Kitta snips back, beginning to rise. Ivar pulls her back onto him by her slender hips. Kitta huffs as Ivar combs his hand through her flaxen hair and worships her lips in kisses to keep her tranquil.

“Not at all.” You say and look between to the king and his queen. “I know he feels bad that you are soo alone. So go.”

Dully you raise your hand as if to metaphorically shake her off. Yes, she watches Uxi. In the day she could pretend like the little boy was hers. She would be dragged to see this, that and the other by him. She would feed him foods familiar to her and sing him songs. But at the end of the day? He came to you to sleep because he was your son.

“I think it is that the second wife is jealous of how he spoils me. You get shiny gifts to be shown off as his trophy wife– but I get him to my own to see wonderful things that you will never.” Kitta nudges the silken ties of your back with her foot. Ivar throws his head back, rolling on the axis of his neck until he looks down at you.

“I will take you next time, wherever my princess wants.” Ivar speaks as if you should ignore anything his bitter queen was saying. Before you could really even smile at him, Kitta stands off his lap and ambles around you. She bends in front of you and reaches out to cup your chin.

“Oh, he will… after he takes his Queen. Because his second wife will always be second best.” Those words are the last words you could take and strictly on instinct, you slam your head forward into hers, tumbling her down the steps of the throne room. The room drops its liveliness. The loud cackles die down into nothing more than strangled gasps to the tune of the crackling yule log. Shooting out from the silence though, a dull crack. It was your fist meeting the side of Kitta’s face, yanking your skirts up to straddle her in place. Her legs thrash underneath you and yet-- even the call of ma! ma! Does not shake you.

“(Y/N).” Someone calls out.

You hear your husband falling off of his throne, dragging himself down the steps until he climbs over you like a tree, yanking you back. You knew he was going to so you wound your palms tight around Kitta’s sputtering airways. A hiss tears through your lips as Ivar pulls you by the waist and chest.

“She’s choking her.” Hvitserk comes to Kitta’s side, unpeeling your fingers to the best of his ability. To no avail, Hvitserk uses the assistance of a sharp knife that would slice you just enough to shake you. The shock is enough for Ivar to yank you to the side off of his first wife. As Kitta flings herself into the opposite direction, Uxi breaks from the hold on one of the thralls that watches him to doddle up to his other mother.

“You’re insane!” She coughs and coughs. But you didn’t give a shit anymore, pushing off Ivar’s firm arms.

“What the hell was that?” He ask. You stand, staggering until you gain your balance. Then as you look at Kitta, your eyes narrow. Your breath is uneasy and sharp, rubbing away the blood from one sole punch that hit your lip in the flail.

“May Frigg smite you Kitta… for, for how you treat the woman you claimed to bring in with good heart. I pray that Loki will bring you ill repute and Skadi will give me my revenge, you… you snake!” You spit, the words becoming more venomous than the last. You feel your husband’s eyes wandering up to you in what might have been wonder or horror. Whichever one it was, you aren’t sure, but, you know that the hate you feel right raging in your stomach.

You look up to Ivar and scan him, your tongue against your raw lip. “Look at the woman you’ve made me.” You exhale, shifting around the bassinet as Kitta turns herself to Ivar.

“You aren’t going to let her do that to me!” She yells at Ivar. “Pick one of us! It’s her or I!”

You glance to Ivar as if to ask someone to help– but in his place, Hvitserk jogs forth to help you lift the bassinet. You both lift it high while Ivar turns his eyes away from you, thinking slowly of the words you spoke moments ago.

“(Y/N).” He answers, looking back to Kitta.

“You’re choosing HER!?” His Kitta bellows. Ivar twists on his forearms to drag himself out of the Great Hall.

“If you make me choose!”

“It is funny.” Hvitserk laughs, arm slung over your shoulder as you waved in bed. “She thought she would put you in your place and you put her in hers!”

You quickly escaped the Great Hall hours ago. Ivar and Kitta's screaming back and forth eventually died off. Now Hvitserk finds it all too funny that you had not only cracked Kitta’s head with yours but cursed her with something so dark and heavy. Not that he thought the gods would really do anything about Kitta! While usually you might be straight laced and tense– the booze down your throat for the last few hours left you giggly. Your head rests on his shoulder.

“Only a little.” You slur.

“Only a little, she says.” Hvitserk laughs.

The days that had pass are like this. While Ivar took Kitta out to see those beautiful lights, Hvitserk fills you with booze and you look would both look at the heavens. It’s a good distraction when Hvitserk sleeps in your bed and wakes up to little Uxi climbing over his body. For all that the young boy has seen, he is resilient. It shames you, in some way, to know that Uxi saw you beating his other mother. At this age, you hope he won't remember. Another one of those drunken nights passed when you wake to shouts throughout the Great Hall. There was a great deal of stomping and yelling by Ivar's warriors. You recognize the favourite of his men responding to Ivar's calls. He must have been home from Kitta's wonderful trip. Hvitserk rolls to sit up in the bed, shirt out of sight.

“What are they doing?” Hvitserk pushes his loose hair from his eyes. You consider what might be going on when you heard his booming voice rippling in through the other room– waking both babies at once. You stumble through the darkness looking for a shawl to pull over your naked shoulders, knocking your foot against carved wood.

“(Y/N)!” The King calls again.

You take Veifnr to Ragnhild as Hvitserk lifts Uxi up onto his slender hips. Then as you step out of your chambers, you realize something. It was Kitta’s cool body over a stretcher, contorting painfully as she stares– but does not speak. It is a better look for her.

“What is it?” You come close. Ivar’s hands sweeps over Kitta’s pale cheek.

“You cursed her.” He says. And as you remember it– you did.

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