#HES NOT BRUTISH ENOUGH

[mermmarie]

I already feel conflicted about my Top 3 Raph's choices... 💀

THERE ARE SO MANY GOOD RAPH'S LMAO!! 😭

[homunculus-argument]

Okay but consider:

A male character who is cocky and nonchalant, a flippant chaotic neutral bastard, who never really starts beef with anyone but if someone else starts it first, he will not hesitate to go all out balls deep into making sure he'll finish it. Tricksy, clever and charismatic, treating every conflict as a fun rivalry even if the enemy he's faced with is literally just flat-out trying to fucking kill him. While personally never killing an opponent - he's clever enough to evade them in a way that leaves himself unharmed, and the antagonist frustrated and humiliated and looking stupid the whole time they're doing it.

Depicted as somewhat slim and lanky, distinctly male but not in a brutish, hypermasculine way. Not exactly coded genderfluid but jumps at every opportunity to cross dress just for the fun of it, in a campy and flamboyant way, which by all rational sense shouldn't be attractive but somehow the man manages to make himself fuckable with the way he walks in heels. Not romantically or sexually attracted to men, but can, will, and has seduced men just to fuck with their heads. Has broken hearts this way.

So what I'm saying here is that if he was depicted as human, Tumblr would 100% be horny for Bugs Bunny.

[monstersflashlight]

Commission for @ilove-hatethecw

A/N: Thank you so much for commissioning! Means a lot and this was such a sweet story to write. Hope you like it! <3

Request: An orc x human, where the reader is a human princess who married the orc in an arranged political marriage. The orc is rather distant because he believes that the reader wouldn’t want him romantically or physically because he’s so large and thinks that she finds him brutish. But she actually is really really attracted to him. Maybe add some breeding and size kink in there.

The princess desire

Orc x fem!reader || size kink, breeding, really fluffy (but filthy)

When the senate told your dad you were to marry the orc king for political reasons, you were resigned. Not ready to marry yet, enjoying your freedom way too much for a marriage with an unknown orc. But a part of you, the part that awoke at night when you were alone with your thoughts and fantasies… that part was more than happy.

As an avid romance reader, you were more than familiar with orc romances. You knew of them, but had never seen one in person. But good goddess did you want to. You had a thousand of fantasies involving orcs, and knowing you were to marry to one? That was more than enough to make you shake with anticipation.

You saw him before he saw you, big and beefy and completely and utterly hot. He filled all your fantasies and a bit more, you didn’t know how good he could look, how attracted you’d really feel to your husband to be until that moment. And your needy clit made you very aware of your husband. But when the reality of marriage came to be, you weren’t expecting it.

It wasn’t reciprocal. Your husband didn’t touch you, you talked a lot after the wedding. You shared meals and conversations, and you became really good friends, but he didn’t seek you out… sexually. He didn’t sleep with you. He didn’t want you as his wife… And that hurt. That hurt a whole lot. But after the sadness, the anger arose.

You were having a nice tea and biscuits when you broke down and asked: “Why wouldn’t you fuck me? It’s because I’m human?” You tried not to sound self-conscious, but you failed, a spark of hurt still shining through your anger.

He bit on the pastries he was eating, coughing as he let out a choked: “What?” He looked dumbfounded, like he wasn’t expecting that from you.

“You don’t like humans? You don’t find me attractive?” You pressed, tears filling your eyes as you tried to stop them from falling down your face.

You didn’t want to be pushy, but you really needed to know if your husband didn’t like you at all in that way. You knew it was a political affair, but you wanted more. You liked him, you liked him a whole lot… You loved him. And you wanted him to want you back, in every way it mattered.

He looked so confused that in any other circumstances you would have found him adorable. “What?! No. Yes,” he stuttered, looking at you like deer caught in headlights. “Yes, I find you very attractive,” he finally confessed, his face deep green as he blushed.

You tried to make it make sense in your brain, not understanding why he hadn’t acted on that then. “Then why aren’t we fucking like rabbits?” You asked, confusion bleeding into your tone.

“What? I- I thought you didn’t want that. I thought… I though you didn’t like me that way. You… You are cute and little and human and… I’m harsh and rough and brutish, too big for you. Too ugly.” Your heart broke a tiny bit at his words, suddenly understanding that the problem was never you. He was insecure and you didn’t realize soon enough.

Your protective instincts arose instantly. “Who said that?”

“I- Nobody.” His insecurities were more clear than ever.

You softened your tone to ask him: “Then why would you think that?”

“I don’t know… You are just so pretty and so great and I love you so much.” He realized a second too late what he just said, covering his mouth and his tusks with a big hand, his eyes as big as plates as he looked at you waiting for a reaction.

Your brain was short-circuiting at his words, not fully believing him. “You love me?” You asked, insecurity showing more than you’d like.

He thought about it for a couple seconds, your heart racing as fast as it could. “I do,” he finally answered, making the butterflies in your stomach go wild.

“Great. Because I love you, too,” you confessed back, surprising both of you. You weren’t planning on telling him like that, but it was out in the world now. And then everything was clear, and you needed one thing more than you needed air. “Now, are you going to fuck me or what?” You have enough time to pull your dress over your head before he’s over you, grabbing you by the waist and throwing you over his shoulder.

He walked to your room in long strides as you groped his ass, and he grunted. “You are playing with fire, little bride.” You did it again, smacking his hard ass as seeing it jiggle as you giggled.

“I want to get burned,” you teased him in return as you got closer to your room.

He threw you over the bed and undressed as you bounced up and down the mattress. He unwrapped his body like it was the best gift of your life and you licked your lips as he approached you like you were nothing more than prey to him. Your pussy getting instantly wet.

You licked your lips again, checking him out completely, his dick hard and huge hanging between his legs like an offering for you. “Fuck me, husband.”

He crawled over your body like he was savoring every second of it, his nostrils flaring as he smelled your desire in the air, groaning. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” He asked, his face dark green and his tusks gleaming under the sun coming from the window.

You reached down and jerked his dark green dick. “I have an idea.” You chuckled, his dick twitched in your hands as he grunted, kissing down your neck.

He ravished your boobs as you groaned, his tusks feeling dangerous against your tender skin, making everything more intense. He traveled down your body, kissing and licking your skin as he told you how pretty you were, how soft and wonderful. How much he wanted to be buried inside of you until you were leaking cum, a blabbering mess under him.

When he reached your pussy, you groaned as his tusks framed your pussy and his tongue found your clit. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he found the points that made you squirm and cry out fast as lightning. He ate you out like the best meal he had, grunting and caressing as his hands found your ass and pulled you to him, trying to get as much as you as possible. It was like being consumed in the best possible way.

You were so focused on the pleasure he was giving you that your orgasm caught you off guard, screaming his name as he drank out of you.

When you returned to your body, he was over you, his big body pressing down on you like a warm blanket, his dick asking for permission right at your entrance. “Are you ready, bride?”

“Fuck me like you mean it, orc.” Your last word was just a way to remind him you knew who he was, what he was, and it still turned you on incredibly. Turned you on so much that when he pressed against you, his dick slipped inside almost instantly. You both groaned at the intrusion, so good, so big, so wonderful.

He started at a slow pace, rocking his hips against you, but it soon wasn’t enough. You kept asking him to go faster, harder, and when he looked at you worryingly, you couldn’t do anything else but to kiss him until he forgot about his insecurities. You kissed him to consume him, to convince him you were in love with every part of him, orcish features and all.

He let go of his inhibitions little by little, going faster and harder until he set a punishing pace that made you see starts as he grunted against your parted mouth.

“I’m gonna breed you. I’m gonna fill you so much and so deep you would be feeling me for hours,” his words sounded like a promise and it made you shake under him, your body convulsing as you came around his shaft.

You cried out his name as your release made him lose himself in you, pumping you full of cum as he reached for your mouth once again, kissing you so passionately you felt your heart getting bigger because of how much you loved him.

You broke the kiss to whisper against his lips: “I love you, my orc husband.” He smiled down at you, his face dark green with the prettiest blush.

“I love you, my human bride,” he answered, kissing you again.

Reminder that you can commission me (info here) or suscribe to my Patreon (info here). And that my second account is @whiskis

[seelestia]

✧ the gambler and his knight.

aventurine can't stand having his outfit exposed to the elements nor to the rude hands of clients that won't cooperate – luckily for him, he has you to take care of it all. { aventurine with a bodyguard!reader. }

⎯ fluff & angst. 2.9k wc. headcanons w/ some written scenes. the plot is vv subtle but it's there a.k.a aventurine simps for you (jokingly) but you both end up catching feelings (not jokingly). mentions of violence, death & russian roulette. pre-penacony timeline. a self-indulgent piece to celebrate this blog's 2nd anniv! ★

★ 〜 masterlist.

© seelestia on tumblr, june 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

aventurine who graciously welcomes you under his employment with a game. just a little something to ease your nerves and get you used to his ways. you look at him with such incredulity as if he just fell and hit his head silly. he pays no mind to this – finds it to be amusing a great deal, actually. keep it up, newcomer!

“heads or tails?” he asks, flipping a coin in the air and catching it seamlessly. a routine for him, you would've figured from the sight. “that's. . . an odd way of saying hello,” you point out but your tone bears no hint of protest. he notices that.

“i've heard that one before,” aventurine tilts his head with a smile, nonchalant. “so what's your guess?”

“tails,” you reply without any delay. it's a mindless answer; getting it wrong this way would prove to bear less disappointment compared to putting actual thought in it. “heads for me then,” he whistles.

aventurine opens his palm. it's heads. you frown as if to suspect foul play—but you don't because you know about his notoriously good luck—and your new boss chuckles, almost placatingly.

“looks like i win,” he grins without a care in the world at all. “aren't you starving? let's fetch ourselves a meal, friend.”

a loss rewarded with a prize? you blink. with grace so in contrast to the whiplash you feel, aventurine walks past you with a trail of expensive perfume in his wake. obviously, he expects you to follow and you do after a moment's reluctance.

(this guy is more confusing than the stellaron.)

aventurine who grows quite fond of seeing you acquiesce to his wishes, whether serious or trivial. could you ward off those reporters? could you pour him a drink? could you play a game of poker with him? could you join him for lunch? you're always so professional that he starts to find some mirth in pushing your buttons (never too much). unlucky for you, he does it to be affectionate and lucky for him, you always say yes even if you roll your eyes every single time.

aventurine who trusts you with his credit card. . . to a worrying degree. when asked if he's sure about this, he just waves it off and says it'll be safer in your hands. seriously, this card has been in your possession longer than it's ever been in his. sometimes, he does ask for it back – only to drop some 200k credits to your account. “a tip for doing a good job,” he'd wink casually while you're flabbergasted beyond belief.

aventurine who finds it extremely attractive whenever you step in to protect him from harm. dealing with uncooperative clients is a day in his life, yet some are so brutish they resort to getting physical – but he has you to make sure their hands stay off him. a gun in his direction? knocked off before the trigger even has a chance to get pulled. reaching out to grab him by the collar? they're already on the ground, your foot threateningly pressed on their back as a warning. what a dashing sight – and thanks to you, his pristine outfit has been saved more times than he could count at this point.

aventurine who likes to call you his “knight in shining armor” teasingly. awh, you don't like it? he thinks you're more than deserving of that title with the way you always swoop in to get him out of trouble. if the thousands of credits he gives you aren't enough yet, won't a cute title suffice? “it sounds corny,” you tell him with a grimace—and maybe, yes—but he just chirps coyly, “dunno. i think it's fitting.”

aventurine who makes it his responsibility to check on you after a rough mission. credits are no problem, he'd even reserve the most expensive private doctor in the cosmos if that means you'll recover faster. sadly, he has little to no medical skills – so the most he can offer you is bandages. sure, you can take a bullet to the stomach and handle a punch or two, that's your job, but what about tiny scratches? . . .don't tell him you're about to reject his kind offer.

“what's your favorite color?” he queries, somewhat out of the blue considering the situation where he is helping you tend to a minor cut on your finger. you raise an eyebrow, “why do you wanna know?” as he gently plasters a plain-colored bandage on your skin (which he's only been granted permission to after minutes of begging you to let him do it).

“for the bandages,” aventurine answers. he finds no need to hide his intentions as he runs a thumb over the bandage, softly as to not hurt you, to keep its position secure. “so that the next time you ask, i'll have some in your favorite color for sure.”

“how. . . thoughtful of you,” you snort, amused.

(briefly, he resists the urge to ask if he can place a kiss on your cut for 'luck'. but if he does, you might have his head. so, he'll try another time.)

aventurine who slowly begins to find a sense of comfort in your company. maybe, it's the way you scoff at his quips with a smile or the way you always tell him to be careful. maybe, it's the way you take him seriously or the way you stay by his side—is your job description the only reason why?—or maybe, he's just pathetic and reeks of so much loneliness you feel sympathetic. he can't tell, but he hopes the luxuries he has can persuade you to stay just a little longer. even if you don't actually care. (you do.)

aventurine who notices how anxiety brims in your gaze when you watch him gamble at the table – with a sum too high to be considered sane and sometimes, his own life. he can see it all; how your hands shake as if you want to reach out, how your lips tremble as if you want to tell him to stop. but this is what he's made for, is it not? he'll survive one way or another. . . until fate decides the bill for all his past good fortune is finally due. and when the time comes, he'll be ready for it. (will you?)

a game of russian roulette.

it always starts with thrills only to end with carnage spilled all over the table. luck is the only thing worth praying for at that point and oh, is luck not the dearest friend aventurine ever had? hence the reason why he always agrees, not with a yes but with a “why not?”.

you're there as his protector yet, utterly condemned to the role of a witness as soon as aventurine nods along to that darned game. panic rushes through your veins as the gun is passed around so relaxedly, so easily with laughter all around. aventurine's next in line, you realize grimly. the next decision that comes after is spontaneous, so different from your usual calculated nature – you drag him out of the casino in a frenzy before the weapon even lands in his hand. in your head, there is no other thought louder than: he could've died.

“a shame i didn't get to the fun part,” you hear him hum from behind you, too disturbingly calm for your liking. the bustling noises inside the establishment have all but faded into the background. “that was close, hm?” he laughs, a sound you would've found endearing if this was another occasion. any occasion that doesn't involve teetering dangerously on the precipice of death.

you stop in your tracks and aventurine, behind you, naturally follows. your silence is something he first takes note of and the way your hand shakes as it holds his is the second. you still haven't let go. what's going through your mind? he calls out your name softly, perplexed at your lack of explanation.

“. . .why did you say yes?” you respond with a bitter question. “you could've died. you almost died,” you try to hold back a shout – yet, your words are spat in such a fusillade he feels a seed of guilt starting to bloom inside his lifeless heart. he discards it in favor of putting on a frivolous smile.

“oh, relax,” he lets out a chuckle, one that sounds so ignorant of the taut tension in the air. “it's just some russian roulette. why so serious?” he shrugs as if to physically brush off any seriousness clinging to his figure. his remark gives off the assumption that every single hint of your worry has flown over his head.

“it is serious. . .” you bite your bottom lip. he sneers in return, “yeah? since when?” as if to challenge you to give an actual answer. his life is full of risks, to say otherwise would be a lie. “you're sweet for worrying but you don't actually care about me that much, do you?” he snickers to himself. like the thought of your caring about him can't possibly be true, like it's all just a terrible joke.

but he's the only one laughing.

aventurine falls quiet and finally, genuinely meets your gaze for the first time that night. he doesn't like what he sees. your lips are downturned, unamused and saddened—you do care, a realization that has been left unsaid—and all remainders of levity in him are replaced by immediate dread. it only now registers that the anger, concern, frustration on your face is for him; they're the unavoidable consequences from caring about him.

(his eyes widen. no, no, no.)

“c'mon, you—” he covers it up with a carefree smile, as feigned as it came. he shoves his hand in one of his pockets. it's shaking. “. . .worry too much. you've seen me play a handful of games before. i've never lost a wager, remember?”

you don't look convinced at all. in fact, you look as if you've arrived at the brink of seething. “and if you do? for once in your life, you lose?” you prod him for more. for something, for anything – perhaps, for a promise that he won't do it again.

(but you know aventurine, you know there would be no such promise.)

“then i lose,” he says, final and resigned. “there's really nothing else to it,” he tries to offer you another smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “hey. at least, you'll be there to witness my spectacular fall, right? it'll be a show to remember.”

he nearly doesn't manage to keep up the façade. it's already as precarious as it can be. you don't reply to him this time – instead, you let go of his hand to wipe at your cheeks. his gaze trails after your fingers and it freezes upon seeing the pearly tears falling free from your eyes.

aventurine has never seen you cry before. you're always so stone-faced, so hard to break that he recalls almost cheering when he heard you laugh for the first time. that was when you finally won a round of poker against him. a pity, he would've reminisced about the memory more. . . if only the matter of losing and winning a game isn't as serious as it is now.

“don't say that,” you mutter, harshly wiping away at the incessant tears pouring from your eyes more than you'd ever allow them to. some make their way into your mouth, they taste just as bitter as your current frustration. does he truly value his life so little? you can't fathom it, you can't fathom him at all.

but there is one thing you were certain of, at the very least: “you hired me to protect you,” you shake your head unrelentingly, “so i'll do it. until you throw me away, i won't let you die.”

you've stopped crying then. aventurine feels remorse; the tears that you shed because of him are starting to dry. the selfish part of him wants to reach out and brush them away with his thumb – but would you let him? would this lead you further down the rabbit hole that is him? in the end, he decides against it.

“. . .i'm sorry,” he sighs instead, raking a hand through his messy blond hair. whatever it is he is apologizing for, he doesn't have a clue either. he lets his eyes slip shut. he can't bear to look at you, can't bear to look at his pitiful reflection in your eyes.

(he's not worth caring about, can't you see? he dances hand in hand with death – there is no need to subject yourself to being a spectator.)

the two of you then part ways that night with shallow pleasantries on your tongues. no inside jokes, no evident yearning for the other to stay, no more than an awkward exchange of “i'll see you tomorrow.”

on his way 'home', regret and relief clash to form something inexplicably hollow inside kakavasha's chest. he wanted to wipe away your tears—what a regret—but if he did, they would've burned on his skin and became another mark to haunt him—what a relief he didn't. and frankly, if destiny is about to reap his debt, he'd rather go with no regrets at all.

whether those regrets include you? he doesn't have an answer just yet.

(the name at the bottom of his contract with fate is signed as kakavasha. but you wouldn't recognize that name. not as him, at least.)

aventurine whose eyes can't flutter close at night ever since thoughts of you fill his mind more than they already do before. you care for him, you want him to live—all his fault, he allowed himself to get too close—but these realizations are rooted in too deep and refuse to leave. what to do, what to do, what to do?

it isn't supposed to turn out like this.

what he and you have is meant to be transactional; he'd be spared from unnecessary scuffles and you'd be compensated with monetary payment. he means to keep it superficially fun; for him to tease you with jests—so you'd stay and save him from the deafening silence in his head—and for you to dismiss him with that adorably annoyed look on your face. just some silly banter, that's it.

so then, since when are there rounds of poker where he'd coo over your frown when you lost? or the sound of your lecturing after he secretly got you a high-end item? or meals shared together where you'd bicker over the bill? or bandages in your favorite color kept inside his bedside table? since when do you start to care? . . .since when does he start to care?

think of something else.

kakavasha tosses and turns in his bed, but the soft pillows and blanket do nothing to quell these bothers of his. are feelings always this complicated? he places a hand over his eyes, tired and exhausted, and stares at the ceiling as if it could provide him with an answer.

but there's no use.

in a moment void of logical thinking, he reaches for his phone and hovers a finger over your name in his contacts. he is usually good friends with bad ideas – but not this time, he sets his phone down and lets out a frustrated sigh that only his expensive pillows are there to hear.

(for gaiathra's sake, he hasn't even told you his real name yet.)

aventurine who becomes awfully distant the next time he sees you. you accompany him to meetings with clients per usual, but it's different. . . he talks to you succinctly, not verbosely with that trademark grin of his. his face is bereft of the things you grow to like seeing on him. a sincere smile instead of one just for show, for example. but even that's difficult to ask for since he only speaks to fill the silence with empty chatter. he doesn't look you in the eyes either; you feel a pang of hurt, you've always loved his eyes.

aventurine who discards all thoughts of you as soon as he steps inside pier point to be assigned a project. a conclave between the stonehearts is a matter of top confidentiality and you, dutifully, are ordered to wait for him outside the office. though, he'll admit; your absence by his side actually does leave a gaping void—such hypocrisy, really—but at least, those pesky voices in his head know how to shut up when it comes to work.

“penacony. . . is diamond finally ready to do something about it?”

aventurine rests his left hand on the small of his back, fiddling with the clubs-shaped detailing on the fabric there. it looks like an act of idleness from afar, but anyone observant enough would know it's a way to subdue whatever nerves he wishes to hide.

he waits for the person in front of him, gazing at the purplish-red sky of pier point at sunset, to speak. for their next words shall mark the start of his next journey in fate's course.

aventurine who hesitates to let you come to penacony with him at first. but it'd be poor reasoning not to, since some might have a bone to pick with him as the corporation's representative. . . and he knows you'll protest to come with anyway. fine then, situationship discomfiture be damned – not even a second after he steps out of the meeting, his neon eyes finally meet yours. “so, how does a trip to penacony sound?” he announces with a confident smile. you blink, noticing how his lips are wobbling at the sides. you don't say no, however. (if only the two of you know what sort of ride you're getting yourselves into.)

— thanks for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. why don't we all sob over this man like it's a cryfest ♡

[koenigami]

not sure if you allow it, but how does wriothesly react when the reader uses their safe word during an intense session?

tags : fem!reader, smut, crying, use of safeword, aftercare, comfort, +18

It's hot in the room, the constant gurgling of the pipes reminding you that WRIOTHESLEY must have turned up the heating higher than usual. Then why is your body shivering, with goosebumps all over your skin? You can't see him, can't hear him because he has barely talked to you ever since he's returned from his office. Yet you feel his large, intimidating form loom over your body from behind. You can't speak, can barely breathe with his constricting hand around your throat that somehow seems to get tighter by every passing second.

He's immune to your whimpers, to the tears rolling down your cheeks. With each forceful thrust of his, you hear the bed creak and feel your knees get weaker, your body loosing strength until you're nothing but a limp toy for him. You want to get up, push him away, but the grip his other hand has on your wrists while holding them behind your back- He's just too strong.

That's when even the last ounce of pleasure leaves your body and you're left with nothing but dread and panic. "Red, p-please." you barely recognise your own voice, hoarse and frightened. "No more, please, red."

The pressure on your windpipes is gone instantly. You realise it, not by the oxygen that is easier entering your airways, no, because you still feel like you're suffocating. You realise it because his warmth is as well gone in an instant. W-Where did he go?

Rough hands are all over your body, yet they treat you with so much care, helping you turn and lie on your back, soothing down your thighs. One of them at last settles on your cheek, the pad of his thumb caressing it and wiping the tears away. "Y/n? Sweetheart, you with me?"

You sniffle and press the heels of your palms against your eyes, your chest shaking with more sobs that won't stop racking your body. "I'm sorry, 'm so sorry. I-I don't even know-"

"No, no, don't apologise. There's nothing to be sorry for." Your brain still feels foggy as you finally look over at Wriothesley who's crouching beside the bed, giving you enough space to breathe yet still having his hands all over you, not wanting to let you go. Nonetheless, you're able to notice the tension in his posture, in his facial expressions. "Just try to relax, alright? You're okay now." his hand shifts to your hair, fingers combing through the messy strands until they settle on your scalp, soothingly massaging you there. "You did good. It was too much, wasn't it?"

"Couldn't breathe." you whisper and realise that you feel so small in his presence, but not in an inferior way. Wriothesley may look all brutish and intimidating with a strength that could crush any allegedly impenetrable door in the fortress, but you're well aware that he would never use that strength against people that he cares about. "And, uhm-"

Piercing blue eyes watch as you nervously fiddle with the blanket that he has covered you with. But the little peck he gives you on your shoulder tells you that he wants to let you have a breather and take as much time as you need to sort your thoughts. "You seemed a-angry. You were so quiet and, I don't know. It was..."

"Scary?" he finishes for you, a gentle and reassuring smile plastered on his face that alleviates the pressure on your chest.

"Yeah."

Silence invades the bedroom for a short moment, making you forget that you're miles beneath the water surface, that the room which you share with him belongs to a prison, that a few moments prior your body has been in a fight-or-flight mode. The silence reminds you that you're safe and that all of this, all of him, is home. "Will you come back to bed? And hold me?"

Wriothesley's eyes soften at your request and the timid sound of your voice. "Of course, my love." His knees pop when he eventually gets up, pressing a fleeting kiss on your temple before he picks his pants up from the floor and puts them on. Despite the previous events, you can't help but feel a light heat creep up your neck when you get a sight of his naked buttocks.

"Careful with those wandering eyes. I might think you want to continue where we left off." Wriothesley chuckles when you pull the blanket over your head, a futile attempt to hide your embarrassed expression.

"Come here." the mattress dips beside you and you let him tug the blanket off your head. The warmth and smell of his make you sigh in contentment once he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. "I'm the one who should apologise. I was not aware of how much I was hurting you."

The teasing smirk and brief leisurely attitude are gone, replaced by a seriousness that you usually only get to see when he's handling work related matters. He kisses your face again and again, further silent apologies that he hopes will lessen the pain inside your chest. And his. "I was a little irritated, yes, but that had nothing to do with you. Some inmates got their hands on a few bottles of wine." he explains. "Those drunkards started spewing lots of nonsense when I confronted them about it."

What did they say?" you inquire quietly, your eyes slowly but surely feeling heavier. With a palm against his naked chest, you notice the rapid heartbeat but decide to not give it any mind, since Wriothesley's tender strokes along your back are truly not making it easy for you to stay awake and think straight.

He stops his movements for a short moment, clenching and unclenching his fist as his eyes trail over the red, irritated skin of his knuckles.

"Your grace has turned quite soft." "Your little mouse must be doing a great job in bed, huh?" "Why don't you lend her to us? I'm sure we could teach her a thing or two?"

"Nothing you should worry your head about." his voice is merely a whisper as his lips move against your forehead before he buries his nose in your hair and resumes to trace more soothing shapes on your lower back.

a/n : thank you for your patience, dear anon! hope you'll see this since your request has been sitting for a while in my inbox-

[katskitoshi]

"A FAVOR FOR A FAVOR," with GENSHIN IMPACT.

synopsis: he helps you with something and it's only fair you pay him back, right? (mondstadt vers.) (liyue vers.) (inazuma part one vers.)

characters: dom! aether, venti, albedo, diluc, and keaya x gn! sub! reader

includes: (nsfw themes) aether's a menace, sweat kink, darcyphillia, rough sex, cumming inside, venti's a menace, fucking in a cathedral, wall sex, clothed sex, size kink, albedo's a menace, spanking, hot/cold play, orgasm denial, fingering, thigh grinding, outdoor sex, diluc's a menace, mister kink, begging kink, slapping, spit kink, deepthroating, blowjob, lmk if i missed smthg.

aether, the outlander.

aether is always doing favors for people, but when it's with you, it's never a chore. you needed help clearing out a domain, and you offered to do something to compensate him sometime. and now that he's finally alone with you, he gets the chance to finally use that favor you owe him.

-- "fuck, you're so hot, [name]." he smiles as his delicate, yet scarred, fingers trace across your tear-covered face. he lays above you, sitting on your torso, pinning your hands down as he admires your beauty. even through through pain and battle, you manage to stay as perfect as ever.

aether was thanked profusely for helping you with this domain, and the challenge was a little hard, resulting in a bit of ripped clothing and a bunch of sweat dripping down your body, while he was only left with a major problem in his pants.

and he just couldn't resist himself. plus, you owed him a favor after all. and you both wanted it, so what's the harm?

his smile is almost maniacal as he drags his tongue across your tears and sweat dripping down your face. the tears from the minutes of torment on your delicate nipples and hole. "you're disgusting aether," you gag despite being turned on. "yes, but you love it, darling."

he had to be quick to fuck you, because you automatically get kicked out the domain after 16 minutes. around 6 minutes have passed already, leaving 10 more minutes of torture to continue.

aether leans down and licks your lips, the salty taste of tears and sweat coming onto your own tastebuds. the kiss is quick, rushed, but still desperate. he finally gets off your stomach, "on all fours." he demands.

this commanding voice he has turns you on to unimaginable extents, and you do as he says. after all, the clock is running and the both of you've still yet to cum.

he pulls his pants down just enough to spring in growing cock out. it leaks milky white precum, and it looks a flushed red, just like his face. you're already prepped, his torture on your hole proof enough. he lines himself up and thrusts in quickly, the strength of it propelling you forwards.

your face smushed into the hard domain floors, and your hips were harshly grabbed by the blonde fucking you. "a-aether slow down!" you wail, using one hand to try to push his hips back, but it's far from enough to stop his brutish thrusts against you.

"can't, darling. there's only --fuck-- 4 minutes left and we have to cum and collect our rewards, remember?" he uses this as an excuse to fuck you harder, his nails digging into your hips and pulling you further back into him. his thrust get faster somehow, and you're used like a fucktoy in his hands.

"aether, i-i think i'm c-cumingg~!" you wail, feeling the high of orgasm quickly approaching. aether can tell, he's about too to, and he only thrusts faster to make the approaching high all the more satisfying. "fuck! me too!"

with a particularly deep thrust, spurts of aether's hot load paint your insides white.

you and aether both moan loudly, the sound echoing throughout the domain. you collapse on the domain floor, aether's cum dripping out of you.

you both pant. he slaps your ass, "get your clothes on and lets get our rewards and i'll take you back to mondstadt so we can finish, 'kay?" you nod, tears still slipping from your eyes. he helps you up, your legs still wobbly from your endeavors.

wait- it finally hit you. he said he can finish when he gets back, right? here, he was bound to 16 minutes, who knows what he can do with endless time on his hands? well, i guess you'll have to be the lucky traveler to find out.

venti, the windborne "bard".

you needed help with getting atop a mountain, and venti was conveniently there for you to make a little wind rift to boost you up. it was a favor, one you'd have to soon repay. although he could have used the nice view of your ass as a reward, he needed something more.

-- "v-venti! you're gonna get us caught!" you quietly wail as he fingers you faster inside a closet at the church of favonius. a service in worship to lord barbatos was going on not too far away, the same lord barbatos who was toying with you.

venti curls his fingers in a particular way that has you release a high pitched moan, quickly covering your mouth in embarrassment. he chuckles, thrusting even faster and curling his fingers even deeper into the spot that makes your vision white.

"for someone so scared of being caught," he places a kiss on your neck, licking the area over, "you sure do make a lot of noise. but let's see how loud you can get, yeah?"

your mind regrets even allowing him to get as far as leading you away from the church but your body is happy it made the decision of letting him drag you away from a holy service in order to make some unholy deeds happen. in most situations, it's mind over body. but for venti, your body's desire outweighs whatever logical thoughts you had.

he removes his fingers and licks them clean, much to your disappointment, resulting in a whine, "don't worry, [name]. this will be much better than what my fingers can do." he chuckles again, removing his pants and jerking his cock to full size. your eyes widen in surprise as you notice his large size despite his small stature.

"venti, there's no way that can fit. you aren't seriously gonna put it in me, right? venti? venti-" you panicked at first, scared of his initial size. he was huge! but you stopped panicking when he finally thrusted inside, stretching you open.

he ignores your concerns, only focused on the feeling of your wrapped around his cock. "you're so cute windblume~ remember, i'm doing this because you owe me a favor. consider this my compensation for helping you that day! plus, i'm sure that even if you hadn't owed me this we still would have found ourselves doing this at some point."

a high moan escapes you lips as you claw at venti's back, careful not to rip his delicate clothing. he continues to thrust into until he's balls deep inside you. pulling out until only the tip is in, he thrusts into hard, fast, and deep. you shake in his arms, quietly moaning out his name in hopes he'd slow down. but there's a slim chance he'll do it.

after all, he's the god of freedom in his own church and you're a consenting traveler who's willing to be a god's plaything.

albedo, the kreideprinz.

albedo has always been one for "if you give, you take." he's a generous soul, but he still must be repaid if he does you a favor. and since he gave you warmth in the freezing cold of dragonspine, it's only right that he takes something in return, correct? and who knows, maybe what he takes could benefit the both of you on this cold dragonspine night.

-- "tell me dear, are you feeling warmer now?" albedo breathes down your neck, one hand toying with your hard nipples and the other using two fingers to loosen you for his cock. you could feel his hard on against your ass, and it felt big.

in his camp, you could feel the warmth of a nearby fire which warmed you up instantly, but it suddenly felt too hot. "i feel too hot, 'bedo." you whine as you feel him pull your nipple a bit too hard.

he chuckles, "you told me you wanted to be warmer, so i made you warmer." he pulls your face close to his, kissing you and only adding to the heat forming between your legs

after striking a nerve deep inside you with his fingers, you moaned out loudly, almost shamelessly arching your back against him. "'bedo, too hot! i think i'm gonna cum!" you start grinding against his fingers and back onto his clothed dick.

"you are? really?" he questions condescendingly. you throw your head back further onto his shoulder as he speeds up his fingers. "cumming! i'm cumming!" and right before you cum onto albedo's pretty fingers, he pulls out, forcing you to not reach your orgasm.

the tears stream down your face switch from pleasure to pain. "albedo, please! wh-why'd you pull out?" you whine, grinding against him in hopes of received some sort of pleasuring friction.

albedo doesn't like this. he removes his hand from you nipple has it join his wet fingers on your hips to stop you from grinding. "i had to pull out because you said you were too hot. i would hate to make you too hot, dear."

you don't even think about what you're doing, only wanting to reach the high that was taken away from you. you try to pry off albedo's hands off your hips, pulling and hitting him. "'bedo, please! just keep fingering me! i'll suck you off afterwards or let you fuck me however you want, just continue please!" despite your fruitless efforts, you continue to try and grind against him.

he stares at you coldly, almost as harsh as the frozen winds that got you in this situation. "that's not very nice, now is it, dear?" he pushes you off him and pats his lap. shit. you just got yourself in more trouble than a single orgasm was worth.

you bend over his lap, mentally preparing yourself for whats to come. "m'sorry 'bedo," he shushes you in return, sliding is cold pointer finger drown your back and onto your ass. he rubs it gently, almost like he wasn't about to ruin you. he gives one harsh smack, demanding you count. and you do, until he reaches 12 and he starts to the knead the sore skin of your ass.

"archons, you're pathetic. i can feel you even through my pants. remember, if give you something, i will take in return. so i'll give you this punishment and i'll take you as i please. it's stupid how you think you have a say in this matter, dear."

diluc, the darkside of dawn.

diluc was a fair man. willing to help to an extent even with nothing in return. but when it came to sweet little you, in need of saving from some hilichurls, he was willing to help in a heartbeat without even needing compensation. but when you offer to do as he pleases, he was more than willing to lose his fairness all in the favor of finally taking you.

-- "m-mister diluc! what if someone from the adventurer's guild sees us? we're in public!" diluc only shushes you with a slow but desperate kiss. it leaves you wanting more, and you only wonder if it's your fault for offering to pay him back in such an unholy way. especially in the middle of windrise when you were supposed to be on a picnic? how shameful.

you whine into his kiss, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling him closer to your lips. diluc only thrusts deeper inside you, kissing you more desperately as you moan into his lips.

he loves this feeling. you being putting in his hands. he loves the control, -- the kind, fair man he's painted himself as is starting fade away as he feels you clench around him, moan into his lips, and pull him closer like a lover.

he relishes in your warm embrace, finally pulling away from your lips to kiss at your pebbled nipples. you moan- a sweet, yet loud out escaping from your lips. he kisses your nipples, licking across your chest before he works his way to your neck to leave hickies.

"thank you, thank you thank you, thank you, thank you!" you babble mindlessly, removing your hands from his hair and to the blanket underneath you, gripping it tightly.

he goes back to your lips, kissing you deeply as he keeps his steady pace of thrusting into you. the kiss is short, and he pulls away to ask you a question. "what are you thanking me for?" he asks. tears stream down your face.

yes, you're greatly indebted to diluc for saving you but you're already sore and you've barely been fucked. "i-" he slaps you across your face, annoyed with your stalling.

"remember, [name]. you're the one who wanted to pay me back. can you not handle your own decision?"

kaeya, the calvary captain.

kaeya isn't really one to help someone out unless it's commanded of him. but for you, his darling subordinate, he'll do anything. but you just can't get something for nothing while dealing with him. with his help clearing out some of your paperwork, you now owe him, and he's sure to not let your forget.

-- "poor slut can't take anymore?" he taunts. you're on your knees in front of your boss sucking him off like some common whore. you're not, you're only giving him whats due. with kaeya, there's not even a point in trying to change his mind. if he wants his cock down your throat, he'll get his cock down your throat.

but luckily you're more willing, and he'll only push you down further on his surprisingly huge dick. "just like that, slut." he groans, leaning his head back with a groan and pushing your head down further. "juustt like that."

you choke on his cock, the spit and precum being barely enough lubrication to make his cock slide easily in your throat. tears stream down your face and kaeya's eye meet yours. he only smiles, pushing your head down slightly further as a tease.

it felt good, the burn of the throat feeling like nothing compared to the satisfaction of pleasing your boss. the more you gag, the more your throat clenches around him, and you can tell kaeya's absolutely losing it.

he moves your head up and down his cock swiftly, pulling you off suddenly and jerking his cock to his release. and when it finally came, warm spurts of white cum ended up all over your face. he pants heavily and looks down at his creation.

before him kneels a desperate, panting, cum-covered slut for him and him alone to use. he uses him thumb to smear some cum over your lips and force you to taste it. the salty taste makes you gag, but it still tastes good. "open." and you open your mouth obediently. he spits in your mouth, "swallow." and you do obediently.

kaeya chuckles at your ruined face and he can only think ow much he can ruin your body. you're still in his debt, afterall.

"now that i've ruined your pretty little mouth, how about i ruin something else?"

(liyue vers.) (inazuma part one vers.)

[hedgehog-moss]

Look, friends.

Do you think this is a post about my adorable baby succulents? No. Look harder.

It's about the GIANT HOLE IN MY FENCE that I had to patch up with cardboard.

I can't blame Pampérigouste for this one; the brutish nature of the damage is not consistent with her usual modus operandi. Pampe outsmarts locks like Arsène Lupin; she doesn't charge at fences like a bull who saw a red cloth. This is Pampe Pondering A Fence Problem:

No, the damage to my fence looked a lot more mindless this time. Boorish. Boar-ish. I'm blaming a boar. A deer would have destroyed the whole thing rather than just the lower half. Note that there is not a single tuft of llama wool on the damaged wire mesh.

(Note no.2: the boar's smile was originally meant to be a tusk but it really just looks like a sardonic smile)

I brought some chicken wire to patch up the hole—but there wasn't enough of it. Then it started raining and I felt persecuted and decided to just cover the hole with cardboard and go have my morning coffee and get back to this later.

This is not an Innocent Pampe post; there is no such thing. My temporary cardboard solution lasted 8 to 10 minutes. I'm not sure exactly when she got out, but by the time I went back outside to repair the fence there was a Pampe-shaped hole in the cardboard.

(Not really; she just kind of lifted or ate a corner then wormed her way through the very small opening. I think.) (See, this is how you recognise a Pampe escape: you're not entirely clear on what went down, you just know there was a llama inside and now there is a llama outside.)

It was still raining and I didn't feel like going after her, plus it felt pointless to bring her back in her pasture before the fence was repaired, so I went in the barn to look for my tools and rummage through leftover pieces of previously-destroyed fences, hoping to find something the right size.

Then I heard Pampelune's hyena shriek, aka the llama alarm call. It was followed by:

horrified chicken screams and frantic feather noises; the soundtrack of a violent fox attack

infuriated barking from Pandolf

very loud panicked braying from Pirlouit

basically, chaos.

I ran outside just in time to see Pampe emerging from the woods at a full gallop, pursued by a bear. I didn't immediately identify the animal that was chasing her as the giant dog that he was, because he was running with a weird gait, with his legs going everywhere like he was frolicking at top speed (I now know that this dog is a puppy that has learnt to run just a few months ago, but that didn't occur to me at the time because this puppy is the size of a calf.)

Pampe was running towards the cardboard through which she had escaped and she managed to squeeze through her small corner hole again (I assume—there were trees blocking my line of sight and I only saw her again once she was in the pasture, running for her life along with the other 2 llamas + donkey.) Meanwhile, the dog didn't see the corner hole and tried to power through the cardboard much like a boar, or was carried away by his momentum and didn't brake in time; I don't know. In any case, when I reached him, he was stuck.

My large piece of cardboard was tied to the fence posts and still holding strong, but the middle was a bit soggy with rain and not too solid, so the dog's head went right through it. The rest of his body didn't.

He could have probably finished breaking the cardboard quite easily, but for some reason he instantly gave up. On life. By the time I got there the dog was half-in and half-out of the pasture and he looked defeated. Which made my piece of cardboard look like a mediaeval beheading apparatus with just a hole for the head.

I went to lock an angry Pandolf in the barn and checked on the chickens along the way (ruffled & offended but fine); I was hoping the dog would figure out how to extricate his head from the cardboard in the meantime. He did not. I tried to call him in a friendly tone (from behind) to encourage him to free his head by stepping back, but the concept of taking a couple of steps backwards in order to extract his head from the hole might as well have been advanced engineering. He clearly had no idea where his head was, where his body was, how to make the two a coherent whole again, and he started whining pitifully.

I untied the rope I had used to attach the cardboard to the fence posts, then wriggled the piece of cardboard a bit to try and free the dog's head. The dog was alarmed by the wriggling and took several steps back—but I didn't manage to hold on to the cardboard so it just moved with the dog. He clumsily ran away, taking the cardboard with him, wearing it around his neck like the world's largest cone of shame.

He immediately got stuck between two trees.

I was starting to find the situation hilarious, but the poor dog did not—he lay down and started making sad broken noises like a malfunctioning dog-robot. He didn't look very threatening but he was still a very big (and stressed) dog so I felt a bit wary of touching his head to help him, and decided to run home to get a box cutter. I figured I could easily rid him of most of the cardboard and leave him with just a soggy cardboard collar that would soon fall apart. I heard my landline phone ringing from afar and ran faster, and it was one of my nearest neighbours, the retired lady who lives on the plateau.

"I've been trying to reach you!! I saw your llama in my garden earlier, I was going to give her a little treat—" (she loves Pampe, for some reason) "—but then my dog saw her too."

I know this woman's dog—he's a tiny thing with fragile nerves who thinks the whole world is out to get him, so I asked anxiously, "Did Pampe scare your dog?" and she said "Oh no! Domino is here with me; but I have a new dog. His name is Texas."

I thought of the gigantic puppy currently sobbing in my woods, held prisoner by two trees, a self-inflicted cone of shame and his total lack of reasoning skills.

"Yes", I said. "I've met Texas."

The old lady asked worriedly if he'd scared Pampe ("Il est un peu zinzin" she said—he's a bit crazy. "I wanted to call him Rex, but then I met him and thought—Texas!!") I told her I was pleased with her dog for scaring Pampe, because she needs to learn that her pasture is her only hope for safety in this cold uncaring world and as soon as she steps out of it she returns to her lowly status as a prey animal. Then I ended the phone call because I was worried both about Texas and about the large hole in my fence. Thankfully all my animals were still terrified and hiding far, far away from Texas.

Texas actually managed to free himself before I attempted to cut the cardboard, but he still thought of me as his saviour and was very happy to follow me through the woods back to his owner's place. Before we left I propped up the cardboard against the damaged fence, and despite the hole in the middle no llamas escaped in my absence; I think the whole area still smelled like Texas and fear.

I'll admit I was initially tempted to leave Texas with his head stuck in the cardboard in a more permanent capacity in order to patch the hole in my fence with this amazing anti-Pampe Cerberus. Like this

(I know this artistic rendering makes my llamas look like frightened carrots and my donkey like a bunny but I will not be taking constructive criticism at this time)

[fairysluna]

Canon era Cregan Stark + being a softie with his Targ wife in the Godswood, just him and her playing in the snow type vibes

-🦊

how i looove cregan x targ!reader, so im just gonna add this little drabble to my among wolves and dragons series, though it can obviously be read as a standalone!! thank you foxy for this cute request!! ily🤍

tags — just fluff and domestic cregan for my cregan girlies out there.

Your hysterical laugh would make his heart burst with joy — contagious enough to make him giggle like a boy as he chased you down the Godswood. You heard his fastened breathing and the cracking of the leaves behind you, knowing he was about to catch you; you tried to run faster, but your long dress and heavy fur coat made it impossible for you to move quickly through the sticks and snow. It was no surprise when your husband finally put his arms around your waist, holding you against his chest as he let out some breathy chuckles against the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Got you,” he whispered in your ear, causing shivers all over your body. You shrink in your position, his breathing tickling you and making you giggle. “Got to pay me now, right?” he mentioned before turning your body around in order to face you. Involuntarily, you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, standing on your tiptoes to get closer to him. He closed his eyes and pouted his lips, asking you for a simple kiss. You contemplated his beauty for a second, using your fingertips to trace his manly features before you cupped his face — his stubble brushing against your palm as you motioned him down, closer to you.

You brushed your nose against his, humming when his grip around your body tightened; his touch so possessive, yet so gentle. His furrowed eyebrows relaxed as his expression softened, quickly turning into a puddle between your arms. He leaned forward, blindly and instinctively searching for your lips. He was growing impatient, but complying to his wishes was not in your plans.

Before touching his lips with yours, you took him by surprise and pushed him into the soft, cold snow. You attempted to run away from there, thinking that your silly game would continue; however, before you stepped any further, you heard Cregan starting to groan almost as if he was in pain. Your eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and guilt as you quickly reached his side again, kneeling and trying to see where he was hurting. His name became almost a chant from your lips as you desperately tried to see what was wrong, until he suddenly trapped you with his big arms once again and pressed you down the snow.

You squealed, hearing him laughing victorious. “You're such a fool! You scared me!” You tried to push him in the chest but his large hands grabbed yours and placed them above your head. He then leans towards you with that smug grin that would make your knees weak, and he kissed you so fervently that a soft moan left your lips. His touch was possessive, a bit rough and brutish, but it did not fail to make you see stars behind your eyelids. You sighed enamored once he pulled back.

“I'm just claiming my price, my love,” he softly said, giving soft kisses all over your face as you tried your hardest to look mad.

“I shall feed you to my dragon if you do this to me again!” you threatened, receiving a low chuckle from him.

“I'll take the risk.”

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[fawnhunter]

benjicot blackwood aka. mr attitude adjustment.

(a drabble about what benji is like when he reaches his limit with his pretty little wife.)

angry sex with benjicot. idk i just think he's the creator of the attitude adjustment. he married you because you were the love of his life, and also because when ever he showed his true brutish blackwood nature you would look at him with shining stars in your eyes. it also means that bcus he married a woman of fire and blood, he must also expect for her to argue like what she's made of. the argument between you two get hot, almost excitingly so. its almost like whatever you give to him he can give it right back to you ten fold. on some days its like his attitude is truly worse than yours. on the dl he loves the fact that you feel comfortable enough to really argue with him, to not back down submissively as he steps into ur space. He is truly lucky to not have married a "yes woman" who would gladly look him in his face and tell him when he was wrong. but sometimes.. instead of indulging in the arguing, he just wanted to fuck the attitude right out of you. [smutty below the cut]

god you were already so close to his face, on ur tippy toes, looking up and yelling at him like he wasn't as much of a lord like you were a princess. like he couldn't just bend you over the nearest flat surface and take you the way he wanted to. like he couldn't back you into the nearest wall with just his body pushing into you alone, pressing your body into the wall until to get the hint and start to pipe down and hear him out. or maybe he's feeling truly fed up with you, trying to stay calm in the face of his love for as long as he can before he's sweeping you off ur feet and up over his shoulder. continuing to argue while thrown over his shoulder bcus you know it'll just make it that much worse [better] for you.

walking through the halls of his family home, one he now has total control over, with his pretty little wife who just doesn't know when to stop. striding inside of your shared chambers and tossing on top of the bed, staring down at you with low eyes, the kind you see from him when you just know you're in trouble. slowly undoing the ties of his tunic while staring down at you, slapping ur hand away when you reach for ur own laces, as it starts to set in just how much trouble ur in.

now excuse me while i project for a moment but i think angry sex with him would maybe be the best dick of your life. I think any other time he would treat you like the treasure you are, fucking you tenderly but with passion. But now, when all he sees is red, his only goal is to make you fell so much pleasure you forget what upset you in the first place. his body is hot and pressed tight against yours, his warm breath huffing in ur ear and against ur neck. Lowly mummering taunts in ur ear as the tip of his cock slowly reaches places you rarely feel with him.

"where did your fight go my lady? what happened to the ferocious woman who was yelling in my face not but an hour ago? there's no way its the same woman who's under me now, about to be fucked full of my blackwood seed? could it?"

sigh... i need a little bit of hate sex in my life that would fix everything i think

hi!! requests are currently open for HOTD

[n1ght0f-nyx]

Woven bonds

You've been sold to an orc by your father, and have now been shutting yourself in, laying in bed and hardly eating, pert'ah wants that to change. warnings/tags- bedrotting hints, arranged marrige but pertah loves you so thats nice, i love my ocs i wanna eat them, pert'ah speaks with semi-broken english

word count- 698

The wooden door of Pert'ah's hut creaked shut as he stepped inside, his heavy boots brushing against the woven rugs scattered on the floor. The interior of the hut was small but tidy, with simple furniture and shelves adorned with the intricate tapestries and sculptures he had crafted over the years. The air smelled of pine and earth, a scent that was both comforting and foreign.

You, however, lay motionless on the straw bed, back turned to him. For days, you had barely moved from that spot. You refused to eat the meals he prepared, refused to speak, refused to even acknowledge him. It was your silent protest—your way of fighting back against this life you had never asked for.

Pert'ah stood near the door for a moment, watching you in the dim light. His brow furrowed in concern as he set down the woven basket he had carried from the nearby river. His broad shoulders tensed as he approached the bed quietly, careful not to startle you.

"[Name]," he said softly, his voice deep and gravelly but holding an unfamiliar tenderness. "You no eat again… you need food."

You didn't respond. Your mind buzzed with anger and sorrow. This was your life now—sold to an orc by your own father to secure peace with a clan your people had always looked down upon. You had been reduced to nothing more than a bargaining chip, and it hurt. The idea of even speaking to Pert'ah felt like giving in.

Pert'ah sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed with a heaviness that made the frame creak. He didn’t touch you, knowing you wouldn’t welcome it. Instead, he glanced at the clay plate he had left beside the bed the day before—untouched, the stew inside long since cold.

"I make for you. I try make what you like," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not same as your kind, I know… but I try."

He shifted, staring down at his hands—rough, scarred, and calloused from years of weaving and shaping clay. He didn’t understand human customs, not completely. But he understood enough to know you were suffering, and that made him suffer too.

"I know you no want this. I no want hurt you," Pert'ah continued. "I not like other orcs. I make art… make beauty, no war. But I… I want you be happy, even here. I want to try… if you try too."

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, fighting the well of emotions building inside you. His words, though broken, were sincere. He was nothing like the cruel, brutish orcs you had been raised to fear. He was gentle, soft-spoken. But it didn’t change the fact that you were trapped.

"Please, [Name]," he said after a moment, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper. "I know I am… orc. I know you see me and think less. But I see you, and I see… everything. You are strong, kind… beautiful. You no have to love me. I no ask that. But… please, live. I no want you suffer. I will give you what I can, always."

His words hit you harder than you expected, the vulnerability in them gnawing at your resolve. The anger in your chest burned, but so did the guilt. Pert'ah wasn’t the enemy. He had never asked for this either.

Still, you said nothing. You weren’t ready. Not yet.

Pert'ah stood after a few minutes of silence, his movements slow and deliberate. "I leave food here, if you want later," he said, placing a fresh bowl of soup on the small table beside the bed. "I go work now. But… I always here. If you need."

With that, he turned and walked out of the hut, leaving the door open just a crack to let in the cool breeze.

You lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the simple wooden ceiling, the weight of his words pressing down on you. Slowly, your gaze drifted to the bowl of soup beside the bed. It smelled of unfamiliar herbs, but something about it was comforting. Hesitantly, you sat up, the blanket slipping from your shoulders.

at least you knew you weren't alone

[moonstruckme]

for thawing out, i see how you've already characterized the reader as kind of the calm, even keeled one of the group and i would LOVE to just see her stand up for herself and absolutely blow up after getting pushed too far by the boys (a little mean of me to want her to go through that but-) but yes i love me a good out of character moment that kind of make the characters be like "oh shit maybe we shouldn't be acting this way-" love you babe 🫶

Hi lovely, idk if this is exactly what you had in mind but thanks sm for requesting! Love you <3

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

cw: modern au, chronic pain, implied past abuse, hurt no comfort (for some)

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 2.9k words

When Remus arrives at your apartment the next morning, Sirius is already standing at the front door. His arms are crossed over his chest as he glowers in Remus’ direction, but it’s difficult to find him very intimidating when his nose is pink from the cold. 

“Oh,” he says, feeling awkward. “Hello.” 

“Hi,” Sirius replies drily. “What are you doing here?” 

Remus shrugs. Fine. If Sirius wants to be a prick (and what else is new), he can do that too. “I didn’t think you’d come. Have you knocked already?” 

“Of course I knocked,” he all but sneers. “Why would you assume I wasn’t going to be here? I said I would be.” 

“I honestly didn’t expect you’d be able to drag yourself out of bed.” 

Sirius looks ready to make a retort, but your door opens. You look surprised to see both boys on your doorstep, your smile tentative. Remus still doesn’t understand how you can do that at such an early hour. 

“Hi,” you say. Then you turn to Sirius, grin widening as you pinch the frozen tip of his nose fondly. “You made it.” 

“Obviously I made it!” The other boy’s voice takes on a wounded tone, and Remus has to tuck a smile into his scarf. Sirius must suspect, because his gaze narrows.

“How did you get this address?” he asks Remus. 

Remus feels his brow crinkle. It’s not as if he’s the one you’re in danger of. 

“He texted me last night, and I gave it to him,” you answer for him. “I sort of assumed you’d oversleep.” 

Sirius makes an indignant scoffing noise, but he appears to have nothing more to say. He seems in especially brutish form today. You’re as unphased by his moods as usual, hooking your arm through his. 

“I’m sorry to get you both up so early, but I suppose two guard dogs are even better than one.” You squeeze Sirius’ bicep affectionately, and the look you send Remus is pure sweetness. “It’s really nice of you both to come.” 

Something warm and fond blooms in Remus’ chest. Sirius mutters some disgruntled sort of assent. 

You grin. “And now, we can all buy our own drinks!” 

“Oh, fuck this then,” Sirius’ irritating pugnacious tone is back, though now it’s at least partly for show. “I didn’t realize that was part of the deal. I want out.” 

You only make an amused pffting sound, pulling him playfully against your side. 

Remus falls back to let the two of you walk alongside each other on the sidewalk. It’s odd and occasionally entertaining to watch you, so entirely familiar and at ease with each other. It’s the sort of relationship Remus hasn’t had in years, and he’s beginning to question whether he ever had a bond quite as close as yours. It’s obvious even from the outside that the pair of you know each other inside and out, and that you love each other just as deeply. But Sirius’ love is another thing entirely; the way he looks at you is almost too painful to witness. 

Remus doesn’t understand why Sirius hasn’t pursued you. He certainly prefers it this way; it makes his job considerably easier with things platonic and professional between the pair of you, but it just doesn’t add up. Sirius strikes him as the sort of cocksure prat who goes for what he wants, every time. He’s certainly arrogant enough to be sure he’ll get it, and admittedly, with his looks and devil-may-care attitude, there aren’t many people Remus can see turning him down. (They definitely should, but they likely wouldn’t.) Perhaps, after knowing him so long and working with him so closely, you’re simply too smart to get entangled with the likes of Sirius Black. 

You do eventually look back to call Remus up to join the two of you. Sirius looks irked at this, and Remus wishes he could say he was more mature, but he goes in large part because of it. You loop your other arm through his and make sure to include him in your conversation the rest of the way to the rink. 

The morning’s practice goes by with much of the same forced camaraderie. You’re friendly and receptive, Sirius is loud and irksome, but overall Remus is pleased with how things are going. You’re improving every day, to a degree Remus can’t help but admire. He can easily see you perfecting this routine by the Olympics in less than a month, which certainly defies his expectations from when he first started coaching you. Sirius is the same as always; he’s not as consistent or as controlled as Remus would like, but he doesn’t seem inclined to change and his form is (though Remus wouldn’t admit it aloud even at knifepoint) truly beautiful to watch. 

By the end, he has only one thing to say. 

“I think we need to up the ante.” 

You look up from where you’re putting on your skate guards, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“You’re going to perfect this routine.” Remus can say that with confidence now. A nice little bonus is the way your face lights with bashful pride when he does. “You’ll get plenty of execution points from that, but if you want to really compete it wouldn’t hurt to add a higher difficulty move.” 

Sirius looks up, his gaze watchful. 

“What did you have in mind?” you ask.

“A death spiral,” says Remus. “We could fit it in during the lower-level sequence towards the end. You should be ending with more of a crescendo anyway.” 

You’re nodding. “An outside death spiral?” 

“And backwards, if you’re up for it.” 

“No way.” Sirius’ skates are already in his bag. You look over at him, bemused, but he’s looking at Remus. “You can’t fuck with the program this late. It’s only a couple of weeks before we leave.” 

Reluctantly, Remus turns to face him. His eyes are like a brewing storm. “And would you like to medal whilst you’re there?” 

“We don’t need this to medal.” 

“You don’t know what the competition will be like. You need to bring everything you can to the routine.” 

Sirius kisses his teeth. He stands, looking at Remus with barely repressed malice. “A backwards outside death spiral isn’t something you can just toss in at the last minute. We’re only just starting to manage what we have in the routine already! It’s too risky.” 

Remus fights the urge to roll his eyes. Sirius isn’t subtle; it’s clear what this is really about. “She’s going to be fine,” he says firmly, refusing to back down when the other boy's eyes narrow. “She’s perfectly capable of deciding for herself whether she wants to do this, and your feelings cannot be the deciding factor here. The death spiral is a staple of pair routines. You have to take some risks if you want to compete at this level.” 

“Oh, do you?” Sirius’ laugh is cold and dead. “Is that what you did? If it’s so fucking easy, why don’t we get out there so you can show us how it’s done?” He juts his chin towards the ice, jaw set and eyes blazing. “You can let us see how great it works out to take risks.” 

Remus doesn’t even feel the ache in his hip as he takes two quick steps towards Sirius, towering over the other boy with his blood pounding in his ears. Sirius is forced to look up, but he turns his chin up defiantly. His face hardens as he takes in a short, quick breath. 

You cram yourself between them. 

It’s like snapping back into his body. Remus stumbles back, his hip screaming at the hurried motion. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron, collapsing backwards onto the bench while you put yourself in front of Sirius like a human shield. Your expression is wrathful. 

“Do not do that,” you growl. You reach behind you, taking Sirius’ forearm in your grasp as though to keep him from moving. “God, why do you both have to be such dickheads to each other? We’re done here.” 

You march straight past Remus, dragging Sirius along on your other side like a dog on a leash. He looks about as shell-shocked as Remus feels. Your outburst knocked him flat on his ass, literally. It’s not that Remus didn’t think you were capable of yelling; he suspected you had fangs, but the venom came as a surprise. 

He winces when the door bangs shut behind you. They probably deserve that. He doesn’t envy Sirius, who’s likely to get a lengthy lecture from you on the walk home, but Remus does realize this could mean him losing his job. Trading petty remarks with Sirius had almost begun to feel like part of his role, but he’d never expected to make you so furious. He doesn’t know what it will mean for him that he has. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

During the entirety of Remus’ long, steamy shower, he cannot stop thinking of the look on Sirius’ face. The way his eyes had almost changed color, going from a murky gray to blue like the hottest part of a flame. He’d looked almost pleading, for half a second after Remus first brought up the death spiral, before his face hardened back into harsh stoniness. He keeps fixating on that look, that second where the dynamic between them seemed on the brink of shifting before it didn’t. But maybe it never could have. Maybe Remus imagined the whole thing; it was only half a second, anyway. 

Regardless, he feels stupid for stooping to Sirius’ level. He’s better than that, he hopes, but in the last few weeks he’s let the other boy bring out the worst in him. He decides that if you don’t fire him, he’s going to try harder to be above it. If Sirius wants to trade insults like a child, Remus can treat him like a child; with patience and a repertoire of aloof platitudes, but he won’t engage with him anymore. 

He’s put on a pair of pajama pants and is moving the waistband to hold a pack of frozen peas to his hip when there’s a knock on his door. He leans back to peer through the window, and there you are, blowing into your hands and shivering on his doorstep. 

Remus groans as he gets up. He was really hoping to have at least one night of relaxation before having to have this conversation. 

You must stop rubbing your hands together when you hear him opening the door. “Hi,” you say. 

“Hi,” Remus replies, amused despite himself. They’re having one of those odd nights where snow falls but doesn’t stick, except to you apparently. Little white flakes are tangled in your hair and dusted across your shoulders. Remus can see some between your eyelashes when you blink. You’re stiff as a board, but there’s no hiding the tiny waves of trembles that shake your frame. 

“I hope it’s okay that I didn’t call first.” Your voice is teetering on the brink of a chitter.

“Yeah, it’s alright.” Remus really shouldn’t feel so warm towards you when you’re likely here to fire (or at the very least, berate) him, but you do look terribly cold. “Would you like to come in?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” You step inside so fast he hardly has time to make room for you, and the sleeve of your coat brushes against his bare chest, making him shiver. Remus realizes then that he’s not wearing a shirt, but he decides not to care; it is his house (or his rental, at least), and you’re the one who showed up unannounced. He’s entitled to be as underdressed as he likes. 

This small bit of indignance, though founded entirely from a battle within himself, reminds Remus to be miffed with you. 

“If you’re going to ask me to apologize to Sirius,” he says, going to the kitchen to put the kettle on (he may be miffed, but he is still Welsh), “you can save it. I have no intention of getting into a row like that with him again, but I was not the one who was being unreasonable.” 

You rub your lips together, nodding. “Yeah, I agree. You shouldn’t apologize to him.” 

Remus feels his eyebrows draw together. “Okay…good. Because I’m not planning on it,” he says, just to be sure you understand. “He was completely out of line.” 

You nod again. “He was.” 

Remus finds his eyes straying to the door while he mulls over whether he’s feeling impolite enough to ask the next logical question. Then what are you doing here?

You take in a breath, letting it whoosh out of you. “I came because I want to apologize.” 

It’s impossible to keep the surprise off his face. “You?” 

“Yeah.” You rock a bit on your feet, and Remus realizes you’re still wearing your coat. Either you don’t plan to stay long, or you’re too anxious to take it off without an invitation. “I’m sorry I shouted at you earlier. It was really harsh—I mean, I was right, but I didn’t need to be cruel about it.” You glance to the side, a bit of bashfulness softening your voice. “I also shouldn’t have called you a dickhead.” 

A little chuckle escapes him. “We were being dickheads.” 

“You were,” you agree, “but I still shouldn’t have said it. I don’t want to be like that. I’m sorry, and I hope you still want to stay with us.” 

You look back at him, your expression intentionally firm but your eyes beseeching, and some part of Remus melts. He and Sirius get into fights all the time—loud ones, with shouting and name calling and absolutely no holds barred—but you snap at them once, and here you are. Having walked here by yourself in the cold because you feel bad about it. 

“Let me get your coat,” he offers.

You take your tea to the couch, where you curl up automatically on the side opposite Remus’, pulling your legs in so he can pass between you and the coffee table. Remus picks his peas back up as he sits carefully, stifling a groan. It’s a bit embarrassing to ice his hip in front of you, but the pain has become too much to ignore. 

You wince as you watch him settle them underneath his waistband. “Is that because of me?” 

He can’t very well tell you the truth when you sound so guilty. “No,” he says. “I have to do this a lot.” That part’s not a lie. 

You nod, still looking sorry. Remus is grateful when you move on quickly. 

“Just so you know,” you say, “Sirius probably won’t apologize to you either.” 

Remus almost snorts. “Yeah, I wasn’t anticipating he would.” 

You smile ruefully. “I know he probably feels bad about saying what he did—he knows he had no right—but he just gets so caught up in anger sometimes. If it helps at all, today was just an especially hard day for him. He’s always…extra on edge around this time of year. You learn not to take the things he says personally.” 

Remus studies you through narrowed eyes. He blows steam off his tea. “Does he do that to you often?” 

You shake your head. “I don’t typically goad him,” you say with no small amount of humor. Or pointedness. 

He lifts a brow. He’s already told you he won’t be apologizing for giving as good as he gets. 

You sigh, your expression going somber. “Listen, I know Sirius can get really—” you shake your head again, blowing out a breath “—really quite hot headed, but you can’t get in his face like that. His life has—well, it’s not my place to tell you about what his life has been, but even when he says things like that, you can’t act all threatening just because you’re having a spat, okay?” 

Remus feels his brow wrinkle. “Threatening?” 

Your face softens. “You looked like you were about to hit him,” you say gently. 

Something inside Remus gutters. “I did?” 

You nod, looking almost apologetic. He feels nauseous. 

“I didn’t…” 

“I don’t think you would have,” you clarify. “I’m not saying I thought you were going to hit him, I just know how Sirius works. And from his perspective, I know how it looked. You can’t do that to him.” 

“I don’t want to do that to anyone.” Remus sounds injured even to his own ears, and so he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to shut out the pained pinch of your mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he says after a few moments. “I really had no idea that’s how it looked. I think I got too caught up in being angry about what he said, but it won’t happen again.” 

“I know.” Your voice is gentle. You set a hand on his knee, tentative but there. “I didn’t come here to make you feel bad. It’s okay, just…now you know. For next time.” Remus opens his eyes again, and you smile wryly. “You can shout at him all you want. Don’t let him dish it out without making him take it, but just stay away from physical stuff like that, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Remus agrees hoarsely. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t sweat it.” You give his knee a friendly pat, leaning back against the couch cushions and sipping your tea. 

Again, Remus marvels at you. Sirius fights for you every day, whether you ask him to or not, loud and bold and relentless in his devotion to you. He wonders if Sirius knows that even when he doesn’t ask, in your own way, you go to bat for him too.

[killakalx]

17+ content, blank blogs dnf

gunplay, bit of a gory description, hate sex, degradation, brat taming, throat fuck, ruined orgasm, arkham knight gear stays on, reader is a vigilante. a/n at the end :p

the arkham knight’s watched you long enough to know how you operate; your favorite moves, how you approach the enemy, how you talk to the enemy. you’re reckless and actively searching for a thrill out in gotham. and in turn, he gets his fun in tearing you down. the tone you tend to take with him is testy more often than not, and he waits until he’s got one thread of patience before he disarms you of your boldness. then he continues. on from the shield to the armor, then digging into bare skin just to fuck with you. to humble and embarrass you.

“you think you’re so cute,” he mutters with an agitation about him, gothamite accent still coming out thick through the voice modulator. “you like this shit? me fucking you ‘til this pussy’s all sore?” the look on your face is helpless, tears swelling in your lashes and gasping at the bruising grip on your hips. he’s burying his cock to the hilt and pulling your little sense of decency out with it each thrust, and still, you’ve got the nerve to test just how quickly he’ll break you with a little more incentive.

“I think-“ you start, though you’re temporarily interrupted by your own moan. “I think you like this.” your hand clutches onto any part of his gear when he responds with a harsher fucking, legs trembling and still trying to shit talk him. “just a fucking brute looking for an- mm- an outlet.” the deep laugh that comes from the depths of his throat is threatening, accompanied by a grip on your hair that yanks your head forward.

“look at that,” he orders, chin forced against your chest and making your throat tighten as you mewl. “look who’s leaking all over my cock like a cheap whore instead of patrolling and say that shit again.” and because you like this little game, you do. it’s an attempt to psychoanalyze him, to get in touch with his own self loathing and provoke something deadly.

“always so angry,” you whisper, “don’t know anything other than that.” your words start slurring together, but the somehow condescending tone is still there to tick him off more. now his pace picks up and a gloved hand rudely gropes your chest, almost like a handle as he pistons into you. even through pathetic whimpers, you manage, “I bet this bloodthirsty act is-“

“all you do is bark, huh.”

in a matter of seconds, the brutish tendencies spill. your body’s slammed into the mattress and your head jerks, light stinging in the back of your head suggesting that you’ve hit the headboard. and with the cool steel he’s slipped down your throat, you’re reminded that the blood thirst is a bit more than an act. he does it as if he’s throwing you a bone, pacifying you, the rowdy little thing that just wants something to chew on. it makes you choke with wide eyes, barrel of the gun shoved into your mouth until you feel his finger on the trigger brush your chin.

“i’d shut that damned mouth,” the arkham knight warns, “y’can’t council me with a bullet in your neck, doc.” he’s stopped fucking you to let the silence after a bone chilling realization disturb you, but your body betrays you- you can’t help how you tighten around his cock at the position you’ve put yourself in. it takes everything not to move your hips as you pant over your ruined orgasm, the tingly feeling you get from fucking your boss’s first priority target behind his back. it’s teetering away and replaced with repulsive guilt, but only for a mere moment.

“you’re a fucking joke,” he chastises, “think about it- if I pull off that bloodthirsty act… all it takes is a bang, then you’ll be drownin’ in my color.” he speaks with desire, as if he looks forward to it. the drag he adds to the ‘bang’ is complemented with a rigid scratch in your throat as he pushes it further down, just to hear the sorry gasp of fear you give him. “that turning you on?”

it is. desperately, in fact. such a crude and gory picture’s been painted in your mind, yet he makes it sound so poetic and unique to himself. the imagination can be terribly vivid; so much as a flinch of his finger and the sheets are dowsed in your blood—no, like he said, his color—while you choke on the metallic taste similar to the one sheathed between your lips now. less vividly, but real, you see him, clad in chest plates and thick cargo material, nothing but a digital glitch from the helmet while he’s got you speared on his cock and gagging on his handgun.

“ngh-“ you sputter, spit dribbling around the metal as your dilated pupils are met with a blank red stare. what was intended to be a no is presented as a yes, cunt twitching when he fucks the pistol into your mouth. much to your dismay, he likes the look on your face, and the gun slides out of your mouth after he leaves your pussy aching without an orgasm. deciding against words, you whine, limp on the mattress and easily dragged to the floor on your knees.

he’s yanked on the cute little ponytail you only wear for nightly duties, making you pout. it hurts- but there’s no point in saying that. he knows. that’s the idea; letting you know that you’ve yet to deal with anything near his full potential of brute strength because this is his bare fucking minimum. “I was gonna do this first,” the agitated grin in his voice is evident, smacking the head of his cock on your tongue as your mouth hands agape. “but I thought I was being nice by fucking everything outta that pretty little head.” you’d had half a mind to start sucking at the tip, but he beats you to it by shoving your head down, groaning as you gag against his happy trail. “hell, I’m still being nice- I bet this dick feels way better than a bullet.”

your hands search for abandon before weakly hooking onto his thigh straps, bracing yourself for what anyone could piece together as pleasurable torture. your pretty lashes flutter through your cowl, stained with dark eye make-up and tears. “y’look a lot more pathetic like this, doll- who knew that was possible, huh?” the arkham knight has you utterly broken, and he feels you’re no where near humbled yet. ❧

a/n ;; woahhhh porn w/ plot who cheered??? this is kinda piggybacking off of this anon I received referring to my first fic for the arkham knight, shout out to that nonnie :). as always rbs and commentary are appreciated, i hope this was up to par, ty for reading <3

[nocturnalcharm]

You’re My Slut (Wolverine x Fem!Reader Drabble)

𐙚 prompt: logan is a kinky bastard. 𐙚 cw: porn without plot, smut, name calling (slut, princess), spanking, orgasm denial, degradation 𐙚 a/n: thanks for the req! <33 not proofread soz for any mistakes

18+ blog!! you are responsible for your own media consumption. if any of the above makes you uncomfortable, do not proceed.

His thrusts into your body were unlike anything you’d felt before— so fast you couldn’t think straight; so brutish. His hips were unwavering.

“L-Lo— Please—” He already knew what you wanted.

“No. You’re not gonna cum for me till I tell you to. Got it, princess?” He growled in your ear.

You just groaned in response, unable to speak. You didn’t want him to stop, but if he didn’t, you were definitely going to cum soon…

He could tell how close you were, so he pulled out, and flipped you over on your stomach. He grabbed a pillow and slid it under you, propping you up so his cock could fuck you at just the right angle.

He forced his way back inside you, continuing his rapid pace, just like before.

“Lo—”

He slapped your ass so hard, a red handprint was certainly going to appear soon.

“Yeah, princess? That feel good? My cock fillin’ you up?”

“Mhm!” You moaned, and he spanked you again.

“Use your words.” His voice was gruff, full of arousal.

“S-so good! Feels so good, Lo!” You nearly screamed, not caring if anyone could hear you.

“Such a good slut for me, huh? Tell me you're my slut.” His raspy groans of pleasure sounded so good in your ears.

“I-I’m your slut.”

“Louder!” He demanded.

“I’m your slut, Lo!”

“Fuck. You’re close, huh princess? Cum for me.” He grasped your hips, pounding into you even more fervently than before, making you see stars.

After a few more seconds, you could feel your orgasm building up. Before you could speak, Logan said, “M’gonna cum, too.”

“Cum inside me, please! Need your cum.”

You feel his dick start to twitch as he fills you up, continuing to fuck you as he empties himself. Feeling is hot seed inside of you was enough to push you over the edge. You clawed at the bed while your orgasm ripped through you.

“Fuck,” He pants breathlessly, “I love you.”

[pin-k-ink]

prey // hoshina soshiro

tw ⇢ dub-con, possessive!hoshina, mutual masturbation, fingering, implied masturbation (male), breeding kink, hoshina has a shit ton of fantasies about you, unprotected sex, squirting, voyeurism

wc ⇢ 3.7k

From the very start, you stuck out like a sore thumb in the Defense Force - a delicate little lamb stumbling into the wolves' den. Hoshina noticed everything about you that screamed "doesn't belong". The timid way your trembling hands could barely keep a grip on the standard-issued sidearm. How you were always the last one struggling to pick yourself up off the dirt after drills, clothes disheveled and cheeks flushed.

He knew the only reason you got admitted was because of his glowing personal recommendation to Ashiro. "Yeah, the kid's greener than spring grass, but c'mon - ya know we need a pretty young thing around to inspire the new recruits' efforts, if ya know what I mean," Hoshina had said with a shameless grin, openly ogling your picture right there in Ashiro's office.

What he didn't let on was the real reason he'd stuck his neck out for you. From the moment those big, innocent eyes met his heated stare during your entry tests, Hoshina felt an overwhelming fascination take root deep in his core. An utterly primal, possessive instinct bleeding through about wanting to claim you, corrupt you, make you his in every salacious way.

Of course, you never seemed to notice the molten heat blazing in Hoshina’s eyes as they raked over your form hungrily. You were too busy trying not to drop your rifle or stumble through the drills. It just made you even more irresistible in his mind - this fragile, clueless gem in desperate need of his skilled hands to mold and defile you.

So Hoshina took his role as your personal instructor very seriously during those "private lessons" he insisted on. During these sessions when he would "help" adjust your stance, he imagined bending you over right there and taking you from behind until you sobbed his name. Just picturing your pretty pink lips falling open in a shocked little 'o' as he claimed you roughly was enough to make his pants feel unbearably tight.

"That's it, beautiful," he'd rasp in your ear, feeling you shudder at the rough timbre. "Don't ya feel safer wrapped in my arms like this?"

The way you shivered at the endearment and instinctively pressed back against his chest nearly shattered Hoshina’s restraint. He had to bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper to keep from grinding against your pert little ass with a deep, possessive growl. From rutting against you like an animal in heat until you were a writhing, whimpering mess begging for his cock.

On missions, Hoshina positioned you as far from danger as possible not just to protect you - but to prevent anyone else from catching even a glimpse of the obscenely filthy thoughts devouring his mind. Just the idea of you, his sacrosanct prize, being leered at by those other brutish soldiers made his blood boil in a possessive frenzy. No, you were meant for his eyes only, a pure virgin just begging to be defiled and debased into his personal cocksleeve.

He just liked the thought of you waiting obediently on the sidelines, perfect and untouched, until he could return and use that lush, biteable mouth for more devious purposes. You existed only to be guarded, pampered, and most importantly, thoroughly ruined by his thick cock splitting you open over and over until you were bred full of his seed.

In his most depraved dreams, Hoshina saw himself pinning your nude form beneath him on the very training mats meant for conditioning. Having you splayed and whimpering for him to defile every intimate crevice, then dressing your pliant, ruined body in nothing but one of his shirts before parading you through headquarters. Letting everyone know just whom you belonged to with your swollen lips and tell-tale waddle as evidence of his ownership.

Hoshina had to actively force himself not to stare too hard whenever you shifted or bent over around him, biting his tongue until he tasted copper to keep from growling outright at those teasing glimpses of lace or bare skin. It was torture having his wet dream made flesh within arm's reach daily yet still so untouchable and forbidden.

Mealtimes were always a special kind of torture for Hoshina. He would observe you from across the hall, seemingly indifferent, while in reality he was devouring every tantalizing detail. The way your tongue peeked out to chase a stray crumb across those plump, glistening lips. How you would unconsciously suckle the tip between your teeth while studying reports, utterly unaware of how it made his cock throb heavily imagining that lush mouth stuffed full of his girth. More than once, Hoshina had to abruptly excuse himself before ripping his pants open and fisting his crudely aching erection right there like some baseless animal.

But the worst for his tenuous restraint were the nights he patrolled the residential halls. Hoshina always made sure to pass by your quarters, ears straining for any tiny sound that might indicate you were awake. Or better yet, touching yourself with those delicate fingers he constantly fantasized about replacing with his stiff, calloused digits. Working you open for his thick cock to breed you properly like the innocent little fuckpet you were always meant to be for him.

On those nights when your muffled whimpers or gasps did reach his ears, it took every ounce of Hoshina’s willpower not to simply break down the door and barge in. To finally claim what he'd been lusting over and fantasizing about for so long - bending you over your tiny bunk and rutting into you until the only sounds were your shrill cries and the obscene squelch of his cock slamming against your ripened cunt.

At least, that was the routine Hoshina had grown accustomed to - right up until the night his darkest cravings nearly consumed him whole. He was passing your door during his rounds when the unmistakable cry of unrestrained hopelessness pierced straight through the bulkhead and into his core. A delirious sob of pure, untamed desperation in your voice that could only indicate one thing...

You weren’t able to get yourself off.

Hoshina didn't even realize he had frozen in place, painfully hard erection tenting his uniform as needy little pants and moans assaulted his senses in a torrent of aural obscenity. In an instant, scorching images detonated in Hoshina’s brain - you splayed out wanton, small fingers desperately working into your creamy cunt as you mewled his name, trying to chase your own pleasure because you knew nothing else would sate you now. That single revelation crashed over him like a breaking dam, his military conditioning fracturing as those pornographic little gasps and whines drove him into a frenzy...

Then, before any rational thought could intervene, Hoshina was already shoving open the door, eyes blown wide and fixated on your nude form. You were spread-eagled on the bed, fingers furiously stroking between your thighs as a thin sheen of sweat made your skin glow in the low light. Your hair was mussed, your pupils dilated, and those soft lips were parted in a wordless cry as your head thrashed back and forth.

But what really caught his attention was the obscene amount of slick that soaked your inner thighs and dripped onto the sheets. You were utterly drenched, and from the look of it, had been at it for a while judging by the frustrated tears trickling down your face.

It took you a while to notice his presence, but once you did, your fingers immediately stilled and those gorgeous eyes snapped to his. They were wide and fearful, the look of a frightened rabbit pinned in a snare. You couldn't possibly understand the sheer extent of his need, his primal urge to own and possess you, but there was no way he’d rush in and risk scaring you off now.

"Vice-Captain! W-What are you doing here?" You stammered, hastily tugging the thin sheets around your nude form. It was such a pointless gesture, given how much of your body had been exposed to his gaze. Still, your shy modesty only served to inflame Hoshina’s desire further.

"Just makin' my rounds," he answered, his voice an unintentional growl as his cock pulsed hotly against his uniform. "And heard someone having trouble sleepin', so I thought I'd offer some assistance."

He could practically hear the hammering of your pulse as he closed the door behind him and stalked towards the bunk, the air thick and heavy with his carnal intent. You shrank back against the headboard, and Hoshina couldn't help but admire the sight of your body trembling before him like a helpless prey animal.

"I-I don't know what you mean, Vice-Captain," you tried to protest, but the blush staining your cheeks and the way your thighs rubbed together in a vain attempt to alleviate the pressure betrayed your arousal. You knew exactly what he meant, and it made Hoshina’s cock throb harder, leaking a wet spot onto his uniform pants.

"Oh? But it's my job to ensure every recruit's needs are taken care of," he purred, looming closer and enjoying the way you quivered under his gaze. "Especially one as pretty and helpless as you."

Hoshina relished the sharp gasp that escaped your lips as he pried the covers away, exposing your bare, quivering form. "Tell me, sweetheart," he murmured, tracing his calloused fingertips along your jawline. "Have ya been havin' bad dreams? Yer soaked through. I'm sure it must have felt awful tryin' to handle it yerself."

Your only response was a choked whimper as Hoshina’s thumb stroked over the seam of your lips. "It's alright. I’ll teach you how to properly satisfy yourself," he crooned, pressing the digit past your plush lips until you obediently began sucking, eyes glassy and unfocused.

"That's a good girl. Ya want my help, don't ya?"

Hoshina was met with a tiny, frantic nod as his thumb popped free. A low groan ripped through his throat when he saw the line of saliva connecting his thumb to your swollen lips, a perfect little preview of what was to come.

"Spread those legs for me, princess," he ordered, not bothering to hide the ravenous lust dripping from his tone. "Let me see just how much of a mess ya made."

Hoshina had no patience left to wait for you, roughly gripping your thighs and prying them apart, groaning at the sight. Your pussy was slick with need, the lips puffy and flushed as it pulsed, hungry for attention.

He couldn't help but tease his fingers over the swollen folds, and you gasped, hips bucking up against his touch.

In an instant, your hand shot out to grasp his forearm, a tiny moan leaving your lips as his rough skin brushed over your sensitive cunt. "I-I wanna do it myself," you murmured, but Hoshina couldn't suppress a derisive chuckle at your words.

"Very well then, sweetheart? Show me how well you can use these little fingers," he teased, guiding your hand between your thighs until your fingertips were pressing lightly against your soaked slit. "Go on. Open yerself up."

You swallowed nervously, slowly parting your folds with your delicate digits, revealing the dripping hole to his burning gaze. The sight alone was enough to make his cock leak obscenely into his uniform. He wanted nothing more than to pin your pliant, trembling body down and thrust into you relentlessly, filling you up with his cum until it dripped from your abused pussy.

But no, he should savor every second of this, wait and see how far he could push your limits until you were utterly undone.

"Don't be shy," Hoshina cooed, his hand wrapping around your smaller wrist to guide one of your digits into the tight hole. "Be a good girl and show me how deep you can take it."

He groaned at the lewd squelch of your finger slipping into the silky, tight heat of your pussy, his cock throbbing in anticipation. You were so wet and tight around just a single digit, he couldn't imagine how heavenly your cunt would feel wrapped around his cock, sucking him in.

"Put another one in," he ordered, and you obeyed without a second thought, moaning as a second finger joined the first, your walls squeezing around the intrusion. Hoshina’s other hand dipped down to palm his aching erection through his pants, a low hiss escaping him at the slight relief.

"Now curl yer fingers a bit and see if ya can find yer sweet spot," he murmured, his gaze rapt and hungry as he watched your fingers disappear into your tight hole, slick and sticky with arousal.

"I... I can't!" you whimpered, frustration evident in your tone. Hoshina’s mouth stretched into a feral grin at the desperate pitch.

"Of course ya can, princess," he purred, reaching out to wrap his larger hand around your wrist, guiding your motions. He slowly pumped your fingers in and out, making sure you could feel every ridge and crevice along the soft walls. "Here, let me show ya..."

You moaned brokenly, arching your back off the bed and pushing against his hand as he made you curl your fingers, the rough pads brushing over the spongy, hidden spot that had you keening.

"V-Vice-Captain! Ah!" you cried, writhing under his firm grip as he began thrusting your fingers in and out faster, hitting that same spot every time. Your legs thrashed on the bed, heels digging into the sheets.

"Right there, huh? I bet it feels good to have yer fingers inside ya," Hoshina growled, watching you buck and gasp under his touch, your fingers fucking in and out of your dripping cunt. He was so close to claiming you, just a bit more and he could finally bury himself into that perfect, virgin pussy.

To stave off his mounting desperation, Hoshina reached down to unzip his pants, sighing in relief as his cock sprang free. He hissed at the first brush of his calloused hand along his weeping shaft, precum oozing from the swollen tip. He could easily imagine it was your tiny, wet hand wrapped around his girth, stroking him with clumsy enthusiasm.

"V-Vice-Captain..." Your breathless, high-pitched plea shattered his control, and before Hoshina could stop himself, he was leaning over and yanking your fingers out, his thick digits immediately taking their place. He snarled at the velvety heat clamping around his fingers, the obscenely wet sound as he pistoned his fingers into you mercilessly.

"Holy shit, sweetheart. Yer so fuckin' tight," Hoshina panted, his eyes glued to where his fingers were pumping into you. Your pussy was dripping, coating his digits with thick, pearlescent slick that dribbled down your inner thighs and onto the bed. "I bet my cock would fit so nicely in here."

Your breathy moans were punctuated with little "ah"s and gasps as Hoshina’s fingers worked deeper into your needy cunt. You were so lost in the sensation of being filled, his fingers stroking the soft walls, rubbing over the most sensitive areas and making you shudder and arch your back off the mattress.

"Please..." you whimpered, grinding yourself against his fingers. "More."

"Oh? Does my baby girl want more?" Hoshina growled, and you nodded desperately, unable to string together a proper response as he began to scissor his fingers apart, stretching your dripping walls. You cried out at the sudden burning sensation, hands clawing at the sheets.

"So tight," he rasped, his other hand fisting around his leaking shaft, stroking from root to tip as he imagined how those velvety walls would feel wrapped around his girth. You looked so pretty and helpless spread beneath him, legs splayed open and shaking with need as his thick digits continued their assault on your soaked cunt.

Fuck, he can’t take it anymore.

"Hold still, sweetheart," he crooned, his voice hoarse with lust as he climbed onto the bed, his large form eclipsing yours as he hovered above you. While you were distracted by his fingers, Hoshina used his other hand to tear off his belt and shimmy his pants down his thighs. He let out a satisfied groan as his cock bobbed free, hung and heavy between his legs, the swollen tip an angry shade of red.

The sudden feeling of his thick fingers withdrawing from your cunt made you cry out, a disappointed whine escaping your lips as your walls clamped around nothing. You weren’t given a chance to miss the sensation, though, because as soon as Hoshina was finished kicking his pants off, his cock was already pushing against your soaked slit, the thick head slipping in easily.

"V-Vice-Captain," you whined, trying to pull away from the sudden intrusion, but his iron grip on your hips kept you in place. Hoshina growled and yanked you towards him, his hips snapping forward as his cock forced its way past your fluttering walls. He felt the way your body seized up, the walls clamping around him tightly as he sheathed himself into you fully, your pliant body pinned under him.

"F-Fuck," he panted, his fingers gripping your hips tight enough to leave bruises as he bottomed out. He could feel every inch of your soft walls gripping his length, pulsing and rippling around his cock, and it was absolute torture not to fuck into you mercilessly right then.

"Ah, ah, it's too much!" You cried, clawing at the sheets as you tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong. Tears were welling up in your eyes, and Hoshina couldn't help but think how absolutely adorable and fucked out you looked with his cock buried inside you.

"Just breathe, sweetheart. Breathe and relax," he rasped, forcing himself to keep his hips still while your body adjusted to his size. Your walls were squeezing him so tight, he could feel every pulse and shudder as they rippled around his girth.

"It hurts," you sobbed, trembling as you tried to catch your breath, tears trickling down your cheeks. Hoshina’s hand reached up to gently brush the hair out of your face, his calloused fingertips lingering along the curve of your cheek.

"Shh, I know, baby. I know. But yer bein' such a good girl f'me, aren't ya?"

He cooed soft praises and encouragement into your ear, stroking your hair as his other hand traced patterns on your hip, soothing the tense muscles. He thrust his hips shallowly, his cock sliding in and out of you as you gradually relaxed, the pain morphing into pleasure.

"That's it. So good," he groaned, feeling your walls relax and flutter around him, allowing him to bury his cock in you even deeper. He couldn't hold back anymore, the desire to pound you into the mattress overriding his concern for your wellbeing.

"You feel so fuckin' good, sweetheart. So hot and tight for me," Hoshina snarled, his hands gripping your hips tight as he slammed his hips against yours, his thick shaft bottoming out inside you. You moaned at the lewd squelch of slick dripping down onto the bed, your walls fluttering around him as his cock rubbed against the most sensitive spots.

"Mmm, that's a good girl," he praised, watching the way your tits bounced and jiggled as he thrust into you, his balls slapping against your ass. The sight of your pliant, ruined body beneath him only fueled his depraved fantasies, his mind filled with a torrent of vulgar thoughts.

Hoshina had imagined you like this countless times, and seeing you so utterly debauched and pliant beneath him was beyond anything he'd ever dreamed. He wanted to fuck you until your body was imprinted with the shape of his cock, wanted to see how many loads he could pump into your perfect, tight pussy. Wanted to see you full and bred, your stomach bloated with his seed.

"Ah, a-ah, Vice-Captain, please!" you sobbed, the pain long gone and replaced with sheer bliss as his cock hit all the right places. His balls were slapping against your ass as his thick shaft speared into you, the lewd squelch of each thrust sending tingles of pleasure down your spine.

Hoshina didn't respond, too lost in his own pleasure as his cock slid in and out of your cunt. It was hot and tight, the perfect sleeve for his thick shaft, and he could feel the tell-tale sign of his orgasm building. He wanted to see you stuffed full of his cum, watch it drip out of your used cunt.

He growled and picked up the pace, his cock pistoning in and out of you rapidly, the air filled with the sounds of your moans and skin slapping against skin. Your hands scrambled to grasp at something, anything, and finally settled on gripping the sheets as his cock drove into you relentlessly.

It wasn’t long before you felt your walls start to flutter around him, the coil in your belly tightening until it finally snapped. Your entire body went taut, back arching off the bed as the orgasm crashed over you. Hot, fragrant liquid gushed out of your hole, drenching Hoshina’s thighs and the sheets beneath.

"Oh fuck, that's it, baby. Squirt all over my cock," he groaned, his fingers gripping your hips tighter as he fucked you through your climax, the hot spray of your juices coating his cock. He couldn't hold back any longer, and with one final, brutal thrust, his cock throbbed and spilled inside you. Thick ropes of cum coated your walls, filling you up completely as he bottomed out.

He shuddered, his cock twitching as it emptied the last of his load into your soaked pussy, a low moan rumbling in his chest. It felt like heaven being buried inside you, his cum dripping down his balls. You whimpered and clenched around him, milking his cock, and he could feel your pussy clenching and sucking around him, hungry for more.

When he finally pulled out, you whimpered at the loss, his thick cum leaking out of your abused hole. You looked absolutely debauched, and he couldn't resist leaning down to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth and tangling with yours.

"Mm, ya did so good, sweetheart. Feel better now?"

You nodded weakly, your eyes drooping with exhaustion. He could see the tiredness on your face, the way your eyes were starting to close as your body sank into the bed, spent and used.

He chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him. He could feel your breath against his skin, the steady rise and fall of your chest as you slowly drifted off.

"Sweet dreams, baby."

[duck-a-doodle]

COD Headcanons: Soft Intimacy

SFW thoughts on what would unravel the COD boys. This is my first post for this fandom, and my entry point to it was the MWII campaign and a few comics, so it might be slightly OOC. In the meantime, I will keep doing research and I hope this brings you joy! :-) -CH

Masterlist 7/14/2024

Simon "Ghost" Riley silently relishes light scratches. The kind that runs slowly, gently down the scalp or round the ears, feathering across his scapula over the thin fabric of his shirt and the underside of his arms. He shudders at getting his spine or ribs traced, head spinning at the idea of fingers so tender taking long, tantalising hours to outline all of himself, the electrifying comfort flickering his heavy eyelids. Heavy as he is, the man is quick to persuade that you rest your weight upon him during such domestic ministrations; he curses, however, at your much more compelling affections, falling prey to the charms of your worship. Slowly, but surely, he leans forth — first dropping his head to your shoulder while languid nails crawl down his cheek, then falling to his hands and soon, his elbows — gliding his head down your collarbone and onto your beating chest, where he recognises that you are most ardently obsessed of him as he is of you. “Obsessed” is much too simple a word  and “reverent”, too large an understatement. His skin is yours, his mind is yours, his breath, his tongue, and every crevice of himself he can count; a gift and homage to your hands, his temple. As he finally sinks all of himself into you with a groan and a sigh, he gingerly lifts his heavy hands, resting them warmly by your sides and over your ribs, in hopes to return all your love with the altogether humble gesture. On days which he stubbornly wishes to do the same for you, he mimics the way you touch him, in every precise manner and every exact order, seeking nooks and crannies that warm your skin or hitch your breath. He will weakly protest, however, moments which your hands reach too close to him outside of these intimate instances, causing light, inadvertent whimpers from the back of his throat.

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Captain John Price likes using his hands for carrying. “Brutish” is an adjective familiar and frequent to his bear paws, trained to caress cold, carbons steel and paint itself in red, smelling only of matches and rust.  The warmest things his hands have known are the arms and backs of his fallen men and the barrel of his heartless iron, the touch of it comparable to a Londoner’s December. You, in place of the metal, you, strong yet brittle and you, lighter to him than a C4, grenade or flashbang, are his respite, reprising over the smoke of his numerous deployments, where his hands took more than they gave. He cannot help the pliant hips and waist that fit his palms seamlessly, more harmless than the many miry grounds he trekked before — a kind, relenting texture which spoil his weathered, calloused digits with the knowledge that they are utterly malleable to you, benign to you, void of all menace. Coarse fingers drag and curl your silhouette as your mass rests weightlessly on his arms and shoulders, yielding to his calculated strength. That he can evoke a laugh or an exclamation of surprise is a source of endless pride; a gentle nudge that the Captain John Price can tickle fancy by exercising a fraction of his brawn on something worldly. He could lift your groceries, the couch, your books — but  he likes to sweep off your feet the most. Trailing your thighs, calves, the small of your back are the hands that seek reminder of his humanity, tendons and phalanges flexing with every curve it meets, venerating eyes never leaving yours which watch his display of muscle with great wonder. For you, he would carry the world. Thus, in his words, “my back is strong enough to carry both our weights for a lifetime, if you’d let me.”

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John "Soap" McTavish has developed a habit of pawing. The abundance (if not exclusive presence) of tough military equipment, smoking alloys and dogged combat routines necessitated his use of hard, impenetrable gloves. Its rugged, protective textile has unwittingly sensitised his hands to various surfaces, including bare skin. He hesitated to touch you, timorous from his own want, curiosity and the unknown. Gone are his inhibitions when graced with your guiding hands, easing the earth-riddled cowhide off his palms. Aimless hands follow your lead, pressing into you over his Henley you borrowed. Finding purchase upon your stomach, he gradually grows accustomed to the fondness of your abdomen, shortly braving his way to your chest with sturdy yet clumsy paws. A current crackles down his body as he toys with the ripples of fabric adorned by your skin, indulgence rapidly surging from his fingers to his giddy head — he is soon to be all over you, his newfound contentment switching into overdrive. Respiration turning laboured, those once shy hands grow ravenous and wayward, roaming under the influence of his enthusiasm; every sharp inhale and strained noise he extorts from you only serves to encourage him further, inciting cheeky gropes at your sides, inner thighs and behind. What would eventually drive his mind over the edge, when you finally decide he is too much, is your folding a very surprised McTavish down onto the couch over you, keeping his head to your tummy and his hands tucked to your sides, imploring him to behave himself. Chiding him to act proper was an error on your behalf; his demeanour shifts, mischief clear in his eyes as he unabashedly explores all of you, pawing at you with every naughty intent fathomable.

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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is crazy about being sat on. By no means a foolhardy nor gormless soldier, he holds himself to high decorum with immense discipline, ever an air of diplomacy about his person. None would have imagined that a simple act as sitting on his lap would send him reeling, rendered silent for fear of speaking with neither form nor cohesion. He turns light-headed watching your thighs pool like molten lava, quads sweltering from mere contact, let alone the pleasurable tension of your weight balancing precariously off his trembling knees. Worried that his legs would tire, you made to rise, wanting to relieve him of your own gravity but you were firmly held in place; two large, veined hands anchor you resolutely onto unmoving thighs, and any attempts of persuasion, made in the interest of his own comfort, faced flat rebuffal. Gratitude towards Lady Luck nearly spills from his lips, numb with inadvertence, as you nestle your heft upon him, for want of better comfort. You mistaking his lap for an empty stool was akin to setting his legs on fire, but to make yourself comfortable against him? For a man who prided himself for his class and propriety, he quickly found himself immensely burdened with sin, and subtlety became a language long forgotten. Had he any sense left in him that was not knocked out of the ballpark by your charming self, he would not be finding himself gently playing with the hem of your shirt, folding funny shapes with the fabric between his clammy fingers. Savoury dreams of you enticed him, swimming behind his glossy eyes that are unresponsive to the lights that danced across his features. Oh, you were so much trouble to him, colouring him brazen and so very warm. He loves it, however, and you will soon find what a fiend and a devil you can be when you later use this against the soldier's poor heart.

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Alejandro Vargas will die for your scent. Tantamount to a hound, no vaquero could catch the winds of change for miles around the way he could. The smell of burning tyres against the asphalt of the streets, the oils and perfumes of the same shop houses, the settling dust of his own base, and the routine spritz of air freshener that now smelled of lemon instead of mint ever since the new hire came on duty. Where Alejandro worked, the bittersweetness of gunpowder that sweeps his olfactory is his peace, and the constant heatwave that boils a Proust phenomenon out of the hanger persists in the back of his senses, subtle yet certain. No delicate change challenged his sharpness. He has a full bible to list it all, memorised from the front to back — and though he may not be religious, he is a madly devoted man. A hypervigilance that cannot be removed must find a reprieve, and only a single odour, long seared into his mind, pulls at him not first from the mind but from the heart. You, who smelled of his blankets, you, whose shampoo and T-shirt he recognised not from the brand but from its lingering aroma, and you, who could never surprise him with your presence because the scent of you would enter the room before his name falls from your lips, and before his eyes could reach yours. You remain the only person who turned his head with such impassioned and obsessed vigour, and he knew he was done for ever since. He would press his nose deep into your cheek, your neck, or the back of your nape and find himself at home as he stood in a room full of coldhearted artillery. No proper explanation was ever given when you find a shirt or two missing over the months of his deployment, but secretly, you had always known. And like the cheek you are to his mischief, you bask in the darker colour of his cheeks when you find that mysterious missing shirt hidden in the pile of laundry from his deployment.

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Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra likes soft whispers. Such light, airy and vertiginous words that kiss the shell of his ears — they would rob the man of his joints. Everyday exchanges of each other’s day ground him and ruin him, discernible only by both your ears. While he lends his body to the field, bloody and savage, in his heart there stands a single white flag signed in your name, by his hand; in a head overrun with sounds of distorted infrared voices, caterpillar tracks crushing against gravel and of heartless iron shells dropping at two hundred rounds per minute, your quiet words remain. A man of few words must have so much thought that weighs on his tongue, until it becomes too heavy to express. Surely, you must be a godsend. The way you effortlessly loosen the words from his hardened teeth, clenched too tightly still lest a bullet comes to bite, pulls shivers from his lips and down his watery lashes. Something about your bottom lip renders him helpless, and he finds that he must rest his thumb on your lower lip to lessen the giddiness that threatens to beat his heart out of his flaming chest. Permanently latched onto the rich timber of your voice was a man desperate to preserve you, so much that he keeps all your voicemails to him and labels them by the topic, just so he can find exactly when he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it. Moments of quietude in his bunk led one thought to the next, and he often ended the day with your voice embracing the deepest parts of his soul through an old, wired earpiece, wondering if you knew what gravity you had upon him. Perhaps you do know, he believed decidedly — because when he played a new recording you sent him during his deployment, his fingers violently mashed the volume-down button of his device at your rather unique choice of words, spoken at a careless whisper. You knew he had listened to it, as the first thing he did when he returned was to hold you in your place, and return all the salacious whispers he received right back to the bane of his heart. Ten-fold.

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König has an obsession with trapping. Hugs come rare to a man of his nature; imposing, wild and unacclimated to the civilised world. When arms do find their way around him, his own snakes around them, encircling the sensation, holding it close and praying that it seeps into his skin, permeating his senses to remain seared in his remembrance. Yet, more than once, he finds the same arms, over and over, routine the way the birds must sing and the poets must write. Always your arms, by his initiative. Greed will be his downfall and he knows, and he gladly embraces his defeat, relenting to your winsome self without remorse. Never would he deem himself a small man, albeit despite the notion, he shrinks; younger and younger he becomes with you, compressed to his front as much as your skins would let, as much as his strength allows without colouring your flesh a bluish-purple, until he is but a boy cradling his most dear Bärchen, unwilling to let go. He watches with blooming gratification, the exhale that falls from your lips as you press together, eyes drooping from the pleasant pressure that grounds you to earth, all because it is he who holds you. He drinks the sight and lets the view inebriate his already intoxicated mind. On the occasion when he becomes the bear-trapped, he will amuse himself with your too-small arms that fail to close around him, and will quickly turn the tables, subjecting you to his drunken coos with an onslaught of “mein Schatz”es, “Schnuckiputzi”s and “liebling”s. Greed will be his downfall, but you must be his renaissance.

P.S.: Can you tell that I read Pride & Prejudice before writing the TF141's and König's parts? I can. :'-)

[johnbrand]

Yusuf Says

When Raymond and I had decided to pause take a break so I could reorganize my life a bit, I had thought that him moving in with his coworker Yusuf was a smart play. My lovable white twink of a partner had nothing in common with the brutish Arab whose scattered English revolved around soccer scores and picking up girls. Raymond and I had even lightheartedly joked that he would pick up a thing or two from Yusuf by the time he came back, somehow be influenced by the overwhelming persona. I would have never expected for that comment to become more than just something to laugh about.

Three months, that was how long we had planned for our separation to be. I had so much on my plate with work and family that I needed time alone to figure everything out. Yusuf had been more than welcoming to Raymond, poking fun at the fact that the two would become “closer than boyfriends” by the time my lover returned back to me. He had even promised to take him out on “dates”, taking over my role as I got knocked back like a divorced dad who only got to see his son on weekends. It was hard, but Raymond and I both knew it was for the best.

The first time I got to visit Raymond at Yusuf’s apartment, I was greeted by the immediate blast of pure masculine stench at the door. It was a combination of used gym clothes, foul-smelling shoes, and strong body odor all fruitlessly covered up with some cheap body spray. I commented on it immediately after hugging my boyfriend, although he noted he did not smell anything. “Yusuf says men should show off their body odor,” Raymond shrugged. “Men should stink and let their pheromones flow naturally.”

This “Yusuf says” statement became a recurring phrase in all of our conversations. Whenever I brought something new up, Raymond would respond with what Yusuf had to say about it. “Yusuf says that men should be muscular, helps us secure our place in society,” “Yusuf says men should spend more time worrying about sports than literature, as it helps relate better to other men.” I should have been worried by my boyfriend’s newfound obsession with Yusuf, but I knew the Arab was not his type. Raymond liked guys that looked like me: hairless, a little twunky, but just barely large enough to make it evident who was topping.

Over the first month, I did not notice many changes about Raymond, but some things did point themselves out as odd. The first time I discovered body hair on my boyfriend I was shocked. “What?” Raymond had asked innocently. “Yusuf says that growing out your hair is natural, it displays masculinity.” I had had no comment to that, surveying the black fur that had begun to coat my boyfriend’s arms, legs, and chest. I had not even known Raymond's body hair was black, as he was a natural blond. 

It was not long until the muscles came too, although I knew that had been coming from the get-go. Yusuf had promised to take him to the gym frequently, and the results were beginning to show–just faster than I had expected. Structured biceps, rippling abs, thick thighs. But eventually when I had met Raymond at the door and his eyeline was above mine, that was when I had started to ask questions. “Yusuf says a grand height is expected of men.” He then swaggered over to the couch, opening up his longer legs before stating “Yusuf says men need to be above 187 centimeters.”

I had not known Raymond easily understood the metric code (as most Americans did not), but I quickly learned there was a lot that I did not know about my boyfriend. When I had tried to gift Raymond new shoes, I had been scolded that they were too small for his big, meaty EU Size 46 feet. When I had politely advised him to be more vigilant about sunscreen, he had rebuked that his olive tan skin was natural. And at one point, I had even accidentally referred to him by the wrong name. “It’s Rahim,” he corrected, his response deep and accented. Of course, all of these responses were followed by some iteration of “...that’s what Yusuf says.”

Finally, the three months came to an end, but by that point it was obvious that Rahim and I’s relationship had too. Rahim wanted to live with someone more masculine, more alpha, more like him. “More Yusuf,” Rahim had dumbly concluded, scratching at his thick, black beard. I could only sigh with disappointment, trying my best not to bone up over the half-naked, manspreading Arab god displaying his glory before me.

I should have known nothing would have ever happened between Rahim and I. As Yusuf had said through Rahim, “Real men like to conquer pussy and continue the traditions that have protected them for so long.” If the state of affairs in the apartment had not been enough of a clue, then Rahim’s constant back-and-forth pit-scratching and finger-sniffing should have been enough to cement his heterosexuality. Bummed, I stood up to leave, but Rahim quickly protested.

“Where you going, bro?” he asked.

“Home,” I replied, lifeless. “We have nothing in common.”

Rahim frowned, “But we do! Are you not a man?”

I paused, watching as Rahim got up and lifted his arm over my head. My eyes widened in fear as I was brought into a damp, musky pit.

“After all, Yusuf says men should show off their body odor.”