#shoutout to the enablers

[heich0e]

prime alpha!tobio and his beta assistant—who's lived an easy, comfortable life free from the shackles and rigid hierarchical expectations of a secondary gender—who falls unexpectedly ill despite being in good health, with no known cause.

you're bed-ridden in your illness, unable to perform your usual duties—it's the first time in the year you've been working for him that you've missed a single day, and yet you're absent for almost a week. your symptoms include a low-grade fever, a strange abdominal discomfort, and just a lingering feeling that sits under your skin like something is wrong.

you visit the doctor who runs a series of tests, and though nothing comes back conclusively, the doctor sits you down and asks you some questions about your daily life. maybe it's stress, maybe an allergy, maybe some environmental factor has brought this mysterious illness on. but when your physician hears about your work, her expression changes. she consults the test results again, eyes scanning over the reports raptly. her final remark (and the pamphlets she sends you home with) all point to one thing.

tobio stares down at the piece of paper you've placed before him with a pensive, irritated furrow upon his brow.

"what's this?" he asks, his cold gaze lifting towards you.

you have your head lowered in a bow—the lines of your body rigid and uncomfortable as you stoop in deference.

"my resignation," you say, your voice thick but surprisingly meek.

"why?" tobio asks, something flaring in the centre of his chest. it burns like anger, but there's something more there too. something primal and animalistic that tells him, goads him, to fight.

you still don't lift your head. "i'm sorry."

that's not an answer, you both know it, and before tobio knows what he's doing, he's already crossed the room and snatched your wrist up in his hand. when your eyes meet his in surprise, there are tears in them. from this close (the closest he's ever been to you, he thinks) there's no mistaking the way they shimmer upon your lash line—how they well up the longer you look at him.

you're trembling, your knees wobbling underneath you, and tobio worries for a moment that you might buckle in onto yourself.

"i can't," you warble, "you—you're making my body weird," you say, lifting your hand up to your face and clamping it over your mouth and nose. tobio pauses, realizing that he's been polluting the air around both of you with pheromones ever since you placed the letter of resignation upon the table before him.

but you've never been susceptible to that before.

he processes this slowly while you tremble, his hand still tightly wrapped around your wrist.

his eyes widen.

saliva floods his mouth.

there's no way he can accept your resignation now.

[ghostclowning]

based off these

[mortalfortaxpurposes]

pete + making patrick laugh

patrick + making pete laugh inspired by this sources: x x x x x x x

[tapewires]

More human Kabbu. Leif is there too ig

[pencilofawesomeness]

It's Team Erza’s turn for the Friendship Sleep Pile

Whoever laid down first is a mystery. Lucy's bed probably shouldn't be this large, but that's the magic of friendship.

[honey-dont]

so give my best to the 99

[30403099]

favorite genre of image is just some guy standing there

[delulluart]

Terzo for the Suspenders Series

[dmsr-art]

what if god and his lyctors were catgirls

[popodoki]

Late night snack, anyone? (it's 11pm here in Belgium ok)

NSFW Catwin ficlet, again x

content description under read more

Mutual masturbation.

Anything Edwin does, the Cat King will copy. Including the unraveling

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He keeps his eyes on the Cat King. The Cat King keeps his eyes on him. 

Edwin has lost all track of time. Abnormal for him; it's been trained into him, decades past, to always keep a firm grasp on how much time is passing. If not for the evening sunlight, spilling shades of orange across the floor, he wouldn't know if it were night or day. The Cat King could have had him here for hours, holding him prisoner, with symbolic force. 

There's a little part of his mind telling him he shouldn't be here, shouldn't feel so damnably captivated, but he cuts it off cold. His instincts are hard won, usually correct, but the way those slitted golden eyes look at him, there is far too much potential for him to back away now. The other man is utterly calm, sitting so very still, eyes taking Edwin in like he's memorising every line in his skin. A transient calm, something deadly behind it, the smug serenity of a predator with a full belly. Edwin can already feel sharp teeth bursting through his skin. 

He's so aroused he thinks he might be shaking. 

Edwin opens his mouth to speak. 

The Cat King cocks his head to one side, just slightly. Raises his eyebrows, just slightly. 

Edwin closes his mouth. 

He can't move; he's too aroused, out of control of himself. He can't move; the Cat King would let him. He can't move; if he does, this might stop. He holds himself still. 

“Good boy.” The Cat King says, a husky hint of sound, riding out on a pleased purr. His lips shift, and Edwin wonders if it counts for a smile or a smirk, but before he can decide, the other leans back, raises his legs, and shifts further back on the decadently covered bed. He raises an eyebrow, lightly. 

Edwin takes off his gloves, his coat. His hands hesitate, fingers stilling on each end of his bowtie.  

The Cat King lies on the bed, clad only in olive-green silk pants, a matching robe. Edwin’s eyes catch on the gold necklaces around his neck, following as the other hooks his fingers and slowly tug, tugs them past and over his head. The chains shimmer in the evening light, before they’re cast aside in a graceless arc off the bed. Edwin loosens his bowtie. The stripe of fabric flutters to the floor. The Cat King’s slitted eyes don’t follow. When Edwin’s fingers, with slight persistent tremor, reach the last of his shirt’s buttons, he lets the two sides hang open, a mirror to the Cat King’s open robe.  

The newly bared expanse of creamy skin only emphasizes the erection tenting Edwin’s trousers.  

On the bed, the Cat King shifts, knees spreading, splaying, displaying, catching and guiding Edwin’s eyes to the other’s own half-hard cock trapped beneath the silk. Hands kept neatly by his sides, in a mirror of Edwin’s own clenched fists hovering uncertainly next to his hips, the Cat King pushes his hips down into the soft bedding, rolling in a practiced wave. At the raise of those eyebrows, his knees’ answering tremble, Edwin’s fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers.  

Edwin knows the Cat King is attractive. It’s rather hard to miss, really. But this feels different, seeing him, bared piece by piece, at Edwin’s pace, is doing things to Edwin. Two sets of trousers meet the floor. Edwin’s mouth waters at the sight of tanned skin on display for him, because of him. Edwin’s shirt gets shrugged brusquely off his shoulders, to a soft huff of laughter from the naked man on the bed. 

Edwin’s mind drifts, the moment his fingers trace down his own neck, the safe touch, the mere promise of what’s to come, already has him reaching the hazy quiet he normally has to chase. He’s unaware that he’s closed his eyes, not until a deep low rumble from the bed has him blinking. The Cat King’s chest isn’t nearly as sensitive as his own, but oh, his own chest. Two sets of hips jerk into the air, as Edwin’s fingers trade their soft ministrations for a sharp pinch. Edwin gasps soundlessly at the sting, the Cat King moans loudly at the sight of Edwin losing himself to his pleasure. From beneath the Cat King’s fingers, Edwin spots the glint of steel, the little bars of his piercings tugged and twisted, in time with Edwin’s own nipples. His cock throbs, imagining how much it would hurt, could hurt, if he- 

Edwin’s right hand shoots down, clenching in a punishing grip around the base of his cock. On the bed, the Cat King groans. Before the other can replicate the sudden move, Edwin strides forward. From his new position, perched on his knees above and bracketing the Cat King’s lower legs, Edwin takes a few deep breaths, smiling with open lips as the Cat King’s hands hover over Edwin’s thighs for only a second or two before he lifts them to instead grab fistfuls of the soft bedding next to his head. “Good boy.”  

It’s definitely a bit too soon, but Edwin relishes the sting, as his finger pushes in. Edwin glances down, sees the trail of precum dripping from the Cat King’s cock down to the bed. The Cat King’s fingers are slightly wider than his own, thicker, so Edwin tells himself it’s only better, if he drags two fingers from base to tip, gathering up the slick, before sinking the two digits all the way inside himself. He can’t tell if the cut off hiss from the body below him was a result of the slightly wider intrusion, or the touch of Edwin’s fingers on that dripping cock. With a bit more concentration, Edwin curls his fingers, hits his prostate dead on. 

Edwin’s free hand wraps fingers around a slick hot cock, moaning when the Cat King mirrors his action, a warm calloused palm sliding through the pre-cum dripping from Edwin’s slit. They’re far from in sync, but their focus is shared as they chase a common goal. It doesn’t take long after that. The air fills with articulated pleasure and hedonism, until Edwin makes a cracked, high-pitched sound, almost like a scream, and sees white, for a split second. When his vision swims back into focus, the Cat King is leaning over him, concern and self-satisfaction warring for dominance in his expression. Edwin uses the grip he somehow has on the other’s hair, to yank him down into a messy kiss.  

“Was it everything you wanted, and more?” The Cat King teases as soon as his lips are free.  

Edwin hums in thought. “And more? Perhaps, next time,” he leans a little forward and says, as commanding and seductive as he can, “I want you to ask for it.” 

[moebianking]

We need to see Zonic and Scourge cuddling

the eeper

[tunastime]

On Life Series Season 4

for those of you who voted for jimmy and tango: this is for you.

also known as: I have very complex thoughts about rancher reunion for season 4 and monolith is a group of known enablers. 

(1545 words)

It’s the end of the world. Or, at least, it feels like it.

The grass is green and the sky is orange and red and Jimmy Solidarity is alone. He’s standing, half-stilted, leaning hard against the weight of the sword in his hands. It’s stone, just like the building. The rough cobbles form a tower. A defense. It’s all he’s got, here, in another death game. He’s got that, and another chance to die for nothing.

He tries to breathe normally, like he’s taught himself to keep level headed. It’s not doing much, considering that Jimmy feels something odd and aching boiling over in his chest. He feels like an unwatched pot, tipping over his lid, and his arms shake with it. It’s a feeling that pools in his wrists and the back of his knees, sharp and prickly. He can taste something vile in the back of his mouth. Words, laughter, bile. He isn’t sure.

It’s darkening. His building is on fire.

“Jimmy!”

It’s a voice he’s memorized. Gravel on the low notes. Whispers in the middle. Footsteps in the dirt. He thinks there might be blood under his nails, but he thinks it might also be soil, because nothing smells like blood and nothing about him stings. The voice that cuts through the dusk is too familiar, too safe. He staggers.

Jimmy’s house isn’t on fire, he is. He feels it coiling in his chest, licking at the inside of his lungs, hot, too hot, or maybe not hot enough. If he breathes out he fears it might be smoke. His hands are shaking. He swallows. He can’t make his lungs inflate.

Part of him thinks he deserves this, to know he’s mocked from the start, because he can remember the words about his house, about the rumors around him, he can remember the anger boiling up to an overflow. His house is burning. He made it out of stone this time. That wouldn’t burn, he thought. But his hands are hot. There were words he said, isn’t there? Things that punched out of him as soon as he saw a familiar face that had to crane to meet his eye again. What was it that he said, when he ran into Scar first? Joel? When they told him good luck both times? Was it something cruel to match the curling in his chest? Was it the brief glee on Joel’s face, knowing he got under his skin, that made him snap back? Who else was there?

There are other words being said to him.

What happened back there? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Someone said you nearly punched Joel? And Scar? Jimmy—

Feet on the grass. He’s not there though, on that hillside with Joel, not anymore. He’s staring wide-eyed into bright red eyes, arms stretched out, a perspective that forces him to look at only him, at Tango in front of him. 

It’s Tango, terrified. It’s Tango, and Jimmy can swear he can feel Tango’s heart thudding away helplessly in his own chest. It’s Tango, and for a moment he feels like his hands are burning and that the noise is deafening around him. 

Except there is no noise. He fights to get forward, lands himself into Tango’s shoulder, hears the audible thud and oof as he does, as Tango digs his heels into the earth and refuses to be pushed aside. Tango pushes him back, trying to hold him steady.

“Jimmy—that wasn’t—this isn’t you,” Tango says, and his voice borders on confusion, on despair. Jimmy makes a noise somewhere half in his chest in response. “Snap out of it.”

“He’s just—he—he’s—” Jimmy struggles for a moment, squirming against the arm that holds his elbow. He didn’t see Joel like Tango did, scared and alone. He was the sneer over a wall Joel built. He was feeling himself picked up by the scruff, unable to fight back. He was watching a town crumble and it wasn’t even his fault. He was bleeding out on a bridge and someone was laughing. It’s gloating, it’s—someone is laughing and it isn’t Tango and it isn’t him. 

Jimmy struggles. Why is Tango stopping him? Isn’t this what he should be doing? Standing up for himself? Jimmy deflates. Wouldn’t Tango be proud of him? Isn’t this what he wants? Every nerve in his body feels like it’s lit up, hair standing on end. Something watches (it isn’t Tango, and it isn’t him.)

“This isn’t you,” Tango manages. 

Jimmy feels himself pushed back, but the hands are firm on his shoulders as his arms start to ache. His shoulder feels aflame where Tango holds it, warmth spreading from one point of contact through his muscles. He’s looking at Tango now, just for a fraction of a second before looking away, not able to hold his eye. His vision isn’t clear. It goes fuzzy around the edges, unfocused like he might be drifting off into space. He’s seeing bright red eyes under the brim of a hat. He’s seeing blue flames across the way. There’s someone in the pocket of his side and he is safe. 

He takes what feels like the first breath of air in a long minute and his mouth doesn’t taste like smoke. He feels a hand peel from his shoulder, something that slides up to his face. It cradles his jaw in one warm palm, then two, fingers curling around the shell of his ears. He blinks, even has his vision blurs completely. The back of his throat burns. He feels like his nose is pinched shut. He swallows, and it takes everything in him to focus on the warmth of the hands over his cheeks.

“Jimmy, look at me. Look at me,” Tango’s voice tugs at him, firm. He lets his eyes drift back to a face that he knows. Tango’s eyes are wide, eyebrows upturned, lips in a fine line. He’s swaying, maybe not on purpose. He’s shivering, maybe not on purpose. The sky was never burning, it was just red. Jimmy feels his weight start to drop. It’s Tango. It’s Tango.

“It’s me, it’s Tango, your rancher,” he watches the wisp of a smile form on Tango’s face, through the wobble in his voice. He inhales sharply. “Remember?”

Cows! a voice calls from the doorway as Jimmy tries to circumnavigate the small herd chewing at the bundle of hay in his hand, on the sleeve of his shirt. This was many months ago. This was the first instance. There comes a day where Jimmy will sit a little too close and Tango will decide to slot himself in the curve of his arm at night and soon enough one bed was enough space and too much all at once. Hands fitting hands. Arms fitting around shoulders. We’ll rebuild, his voice says, to wipe the look of desolation from his rancher’s face as they stand in the broken husk of a house. It was never the home, anyway, was it? It was the people inside.

Something in Jimmy’s chest twists the strings of his heart in a knot. He sees Tango expression wavers as he shuts his eyes, swaying forward. He only manages a breath before it breaks.

Jimmy collapses into his arms and the smell of burnt matches is like coming home.

Tango sags with him, sinking them to the ground. Jimmy presses his face into the side of his neck, and safe, held close, he cries. It’s a horrible sound, one that pulls from him brokenly as he buries himself in Tango’s arms. He chokes on the sob.

“It’s empty,” he says, and the words are haunting and choked into his shoulder. Tango holds to the back of his neck, to the base of his spine, even as Jimmy’s hands tangle uselessly in his sweater. It’s all Jimmy can manage. He repeats it in the inhale that he takes: It’s empty. I’m alone.

Tumble Town is empty, and he knows it’s his fault.

Or maybe it isn't. Because what else could he have done, except convince them to stay? What could’ve been done that hadn’t been already, that he hadn’t already tried? What could he have done that would’ve made any difference, anyway, besides leaving himself?

Jimmy cries. Tango’s hands run up the base of his spine. They pull Jimmy to him, holding him close, holding him tight. Tango’s voice is a barely audible thing, through the gasps for air, between the calculated inhales and exhales Tango tries to have him copy. He repeats it like a mantra, pressed into the side of his head, into his hairline: “You’re not alone, I’m here.”

I’m here now and I won’t leave. Your home won’t be empty and your hearth won’t be cold. Your arms won’t be empty and your chest won’t be cold. I’m here.

Tango holds him in the grass and the dirt. Even when the sky is no longer pink and orange, even when the stars have started to peek out in the blue that blends with the fringes of sunset.

If only by one person, he is loved. 

Jimmy breathes.

[archnemossis]

more swocket

[mortalfortaxpurposes]

patrick + making pete laugh

pete + making patrick laugh sources: x x x x x x x

[20s-turtle-posting]

u thought i was a one trick pony THINK AGAIN i can and will slap this rabbit with any of the turtles goodnght I'll be back again in a moon when my tendonitis stops being a bitch

[dunkalfredo]

You turn to him, sat by your side, and raise a brow. When you meet their eye, however, and see it dilated, glancing between your face and just below, at your neck, and notice the way their body trembles ever-so-slightly, you know exactly what they’re asking.

Or: Siffrin drinks Isabeau's blood, and Isabeau has a great time about it.

(au where siffrin is a vampire and isabeau is a Vampire Liker. post-canon. nothing but silly gay (and a bit steamy) sifabeau hijinks)